Blood Of Kings: The Shadow Mage (11 page)

“So, two men dead and in sight of the entire village.” Tomas turned around to see the grey-robed priest standing in the doorway. He sagged against the bench, taking deep breaths as he grimaced in pain.

“I did not start this. This was brought to my door!” Tomas spat bitterly. “Do you think I want this? I was happy here… we were happy…” He trailed off as memories of his life with Aliss tumbled through his mind. “This valley was my home. They’ve taken that from me, they will not take Aliss too!”

“Tomas! Tomas!” Rorbert cried from outside before coming to a sharp halt in the doorway. “Tomas? What have you done?”

Tomas ignored the village elder and returned his attention to the hidden hatch. He knelt down and opened it before hauling out the wooden chest.

“Go,” Brother Joshan said to the village elder, “saddle the soldiers’ horses and pack supplies for a number of days in the saddlebags.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Just do it!” the priest snapped. Rorbert looked to Tomas who nodded slowly. Reluctantly the old man backed away from the workshop.

“You are not coming with me,” Tomas said.

“Ha! Even if I wished to I’m getting far too old for such adventures,” Brother Joshan answered. He walked slowly over and watched as the blacksmith swung open the lid of the chest. “It all ends here,” he said, looking at the contents.

“Yes,” Tomas answered. He fished out a sheathed sword and placed it on the bench, before holding up a dull grey shirt of interlocked metal rings.

“Does it still fit?” the priest asked.

“Aye,” Tomas nodded, “it still fits.”

“Not many men get a second or even a third chance. There will be no turning back from this.” The priest wrapped long, almost skeletal fingers around Tomas’ arm; his grip was like iron. “You made a good life here. You could do the same somewhere else.”

“A life with Aliss,” the blacksmith replied. “It was she who gave me the second chance. I will not abandon her now.”

Joshan released his hold on the younger man, nodding sadly. “Well, it’s probably safe to tell you this now – you were a terrible blacksmith!”

Tomas laughed and then winced as he felt the wound in his shoulder stretch with every movement. Brother Joshan smiled.

“Will you tell Rorbert?”

“The truth? All of it?”

“Aye, he deserves that much,” Tomas replied.

“He will take it hard,” Joshan said. The blacksmith’s head dropped, before he slowly nodded. “Let me take a look at that shoulder before you ruin all my work with that mail shirt.” Tomas stripped off his shirt and sat still while the old priest probed his wound. At first, darts of pain shot through him as prodding fingers pulled and tightened stitches. Then a new sensation trickled into his upper body. He felt a warmth creep through him, easing the pain, giving him back strength.

“Did you not take a vow never to use magic again?” he asked enjoying the relief from pain.

“Aye, well, the king may frown upon the use of magic by his subjects, and the abbot may wonder why a simple monk has much success with fighting infections with poultices and a few wild herbs, but sometimes it is hard to just watch.”

“The king is a hypocrite and a fool,” Tomas declared.

“Such talk will see your head on the executioner’s block,” Brother Joshan tut-tutted. Tomas glanced over his shoulder and out of the open door, to where two of the magistrate’s guards lay dead in the street.

“I think it’s too late to worry about that now.”

The priest chuckled then, as both of them turned at the sound of footsteps. “The All Father watch over and protect you,” the old priest said and made a protective sign on the blacksmith’s forehead.

Rorbert walked cautiously into the workshop. “The horses are ready for you,” he said.

Tomas stood up testing his shoulder by rolling his arm back and forth. He nodded in satisfaction and dressed quickly. As well as the mail shirt in the chest there was a padded leather jerkin to be worn under the mail, a round helm with nose guard, and a dagger with a thick blade housed in a leather sheath. Once dressed, he attached the dagger to his belt and strapped it and the sword around his waist. All the while, Rorbert stood watching in silence, his eyes questioning.

He clasped the village elder on the shoulder as he walked past. “I am sorry, old friend. I think it unlikely we will meet again.”

“I-I don’t understand,” the old soldier stammered.

“Brother Joshan will explain. When you hear the truth, try not to think too hard of me.” Tomas climbed aboard a dapple grey gelding and took the reins of a chestnut mare in his hand—a mount for Aliss. He kicked his heel into the horses flank and left, without a backward glance; the valley and the life of a blacksmith.

He pushed the horses as fast as he dared without killing them, they would be little use to him if they came up lame on the journey, or collapsed from exhaustion, even so, he fought hard the feelings of frustration threatening to overwhelm him. He knew he was at least two days ride from Flagston. Tomas could picture the magistrate’s keep at the heart of the busy market town, where he lived and dispensed justice for the region. Although he was answerable to his lord, and he to the king, in the Valley and surrounding lands, the magistrate was the ultimate power, he who could condemn a man, or woman to death, empowered to dispense the king’s justice and collect taxes due to the duke.

There would be a trial, Tomas thought as he stared into his small campfire. Dry wood cracked as orange flames swayed in a hypnotic dance before him. There was still time. He reflected on his life in the Valley with Aliss—a town blacksmith—an honest trade, it had been his father’s and his father’s before him. Tomas, too, had been marked to carry on the line, but in his youth, he had not the patience for hard graft which offered little return. Although he learned how to beat metal into a new shape, to create and give it life, at his father’s shoulder, his head was full of dreams of adventure and lofty ideas beyond his station. “Can we make a sword, Father?” he asked once.

“This is not the king’s armoury, boy. Horseshoes and broken wheels is our trade. Nails and scythes put bread on our table, not idle dreams of young boys.”

Funny how things work out,
he thought as he closed his eyes. An image of Aliss appeared before him, as she always did before he slept. She was smiling at him, her golden curls framing a soft face. “Beautiful,” he whispered in his sleep.

When he woke in the morning she was there again, only this time her face was creased in terror as she pleaded for his help. He relived her molestation, at the hands of the magistrate and his guards, powerless to intervene. His eyes snapped open as rage boiled inside him. He had not slaved at his father’s forge, he had chosen a different path, learned a new set of skills, skills with which to better himself, to raise his station in life. Yet, he had returned to the forge and his own workshop. Where was he when he could have used those skills to defend his woman? To protect the life he shared with her? He was not there. He jumped up, cursed as he kicked earth over the smouldering fire.

Before the sun had risen and the air still held the cold bite of night, he was mounted and on his way.

A day and a half further in the saddle, through well-worn forest trails and over churned up, cultivated land, the grey walls of the town shimmered beneath a low lying sun. The bite of autumn was in the air, turning the forest into a dazzling display of orange and brown beneath a vibrant blue sky. Ahead of him a small convoy of wooden carts bounced along a crooked, uneven road, pulled by wretched looking, half-starved horses. Small children clung to the sides with grim determination to avoid being flung overboard, while their older siblings walked alongside with their parents and other relatives. Tomas pulled up alongside the first cart.

“Is it a market day today?” he asked.

The driver regarded him coldly, hawked and spat. “Every day is a market day in Flagston, but that’s not why we’re headed there, if that’s your reason for asking.”

“How so?” Tomas felt a cold feeling of dread pool in the pit of his stomach.

“Magistrate’s burnin’ a witch today. Whole town and folk from all over the countryside’ll be there to witness that. Might be we’ve missed it already on account of us havin’ wheel trouble along the road.”

Tomas turned away from the gap-toothed grin and kicked his horse on.

The closer to the town he got the more the traffic increased. He ignored shouts of protest and waved fists as he bludgeoned his way through the crowds, using the weight of the horse if needed. The gates of the walled town hung open, allowing in a steady stream of would-be voyeurs as well as farmers and traders with goods to sell. A small group of guards slouched lazily against the wall, paying scant attention to the growing crowd filing into the town.

Once inside the gates, the stench and sounds of humanity, living tightly packed, washed over him. So many people in one place with buildings leaning one on top of another, and all around, the outer wall looming, made Tomas dizzy. It had been a long time since he lived among so many people. By now he was forced to dismount lest he attract the attention of curious guards. He led both horses in the direction of the swelling crowd, borne along a sea of grinning and excited townsfolk.

A great cheer went up as he approached the town square, followed by a high-pitched wail. The screech made both his mind and stomach lurch. “Aliss!” He barged his way through now, shoving any obstacle roughly aside. “Make way! Make way!” Ignoring any protestation, he kicked and prodded a path through the crowd.

More screams sent a ripple of laughter though the crowd drawing shouted insults and taunts. “Burn, witch!”

Tomas’ sword was drawn now as he moved into the square. At the centre was a raised platform, on that platform, tied to a stake and surrounded by a wall of fire, was Aliss. Thick, cloying smoke filled the air. Her agonised screams reverberated around the square.

Tomas shoved his way through, sword in hand, not registering how it was now stained red as spectators failed to move out of his way quick enough. Panic was a trailing snake following where he went as he snarled at people to move and used his naked blade and blacksmith’s strength to clear a path. Suddenly he was in open space. Three guards moved to intercept him. The first put up a hand to stop him. Tomas took his arm off at the elbow. The other two hesitated, expressions of shock creasing their features. Tomas stabbed one in the chest and viciously wrenched his blade free, before swinging it full force into the exposed neck of the third. The guard fell as a geyser of blood sprayed the panicking crowd.

As he mounted the wooden steps of the platform he could feel the ferocious heat pulsating from the fire. His heart wailed a silent scream of ache when he saw his woman at the centre of the inferno, her hair and clothes burnt away, her skin scorched and blistered. He ignored the burning agony of the flames as he beat away the fire with his own bare hands and lifted his woman free.

He carried her down, not knowing if she were alive or dead, barely able to look at her disfigured face, where the skin was black or red-raw. Charred meat sprang to mind, the thought sickening him. A line of guards waited. When he reached the bottom of the steps he gently placed Aliss down. He thought he heard her groan, but couldn’t be sure.
Don’t let her die like this,
he offered a silent prayer to any of the gods who bore witness to such injustice.

He turned to face the guards as one stepped out. “Drop your sword,” he demanded. Cold, hard eyes regarded the blacksmith.

Tomas looked beyond the guards at the devastation he had caused. Small knots of people littered the square, tending to folk he had injured because they would not move out of his way fast enough. The bodies of two guardsmen lay where he had cut them down when the black rage overcame him. A third screamed in agony, calling for the All Father to aid him, as the bloody stump that was once his arm was wrapped in bandages.

“I fear it is too late for that now,” Tomas answered. He met the glare of the guard captain without flinching. “Stand aside or you will all die,” he added coldly.

“Who are you?” the captain asked. Tomas could hear a tremor creeping into the man’s voice.

“I am the terror of the night, he who walks in the darkest places with death as a shadow. I am the force that will not bend nor stop. I feed on fear and pain, my thirst for blood is unquenchable.” Tomas brought his sword up.

“I can’t do that. You have murdered two soldiers, injured a dozen people here. And you are in league with a witch!” The captain’s eyebrows shot up. “I know your face,” he suddenly said.

“I am not the man you think I am,” Tomas replied and then lunged.

The captain’s head spun on his severed neck, before hitting the cobbled ground with a sickening squelch. Two more soldiers dropped, one clutching his belly, the other grabbing at a slash down the front of his chest that ripped open his chainmail armour before rending flesh and bone. The others fled from the whirlwind of death.

Tomas cradled his woman in his arms and rode though the deserted streets of Flagston, the smell of blood and burned flesh lingering in the air.

Djangra Roe: Flagston

D
jangra Roe climbed the steps of the platform, his boots echoing off the wooden planks as he crossed the raised structure. He examined the fire-blackened pole at its centre before turning to look out over the town square. From his lofty perch he could see where the cobbled stones were still stained red in patches. He scratched the grey bristles covering his chin as his gaze wandered across the square, down a street flanked by two-storey dwellings, picturing in his mind the route used by the witch to escape.

Waiting for him at the foot of the steps was the magistrate along with a handful of his guards, and none too pleased to be made to wait on the pleasure of Duke Normand’s mage. He reflected on his parting from his lord. The duke had not wanted him to leave, still living in fear of the dream-witch. Roe had assured him that she had flown far too far to have the power to manipulate his dreams. “I need to find a witch who can follow her trail, otherwise she will haunt you for the rest of your life,” he had explained.