Mordraud, Book One (23 page)

When
Gwern saw the mountains of books piled everywhere, he was left speechless. He’d learnt to read alone – at least that’s what his mother had told him many a time – thanks to the fairytales she’d written for Mordraud and that he used for playing. Eglade’s condition had worsened after his birth, and she hadn’t had the chance to teach him everything she knew. Observing those treasure troves of knowledge, Gwern understood just how much he yearned to study. Like his brother Dunwich had done.

Sernio
had worked in Cambria in his youth, as a librarian at the Arcane. Called up to fight against his will, he’d spent almost a year at the front as a foot-soldier, stealing away to the back ranks every time a battle began. The idea of using a sword trapped inside a casing of armour disgusted him to the point of coaxing him to risk the exemplary punishments doled out to cowards. In fact, he had to endure them a couple of times. Twenty lashes to the chest for fleeing when facing enemy lances. Those torture sessions had indelibly undermined his health, and so he ran away from the army at the first opportunity.

He
’d lived in Cambria for a while, holing himself up in his own house like a mouse, till one night, terrified of the Imperial watchmen, he readied a cart with all the books he possessed and set off, mingling with the many merchants always coming and going in the capital. The choice of the fief of Eld was sort of out of spite for what the Empire had inflicted on him.

After
his first visit, Gwern begged Larois to let him do the deliveries, and the innkeeper agreed without any objection. Her back was glad of it, since it was already strained by the long evenings of work in the tavern. Gwern got to know the old librarian better, until he himself invited the boy to read something together. Sernio socialised with nobody and was on the brink of abject poverty. Gwern always found something to take him. And in exchange, the old man allowed him to borrow the books he wanted, and the boy spent his nights learning them off by heart. When he returned them, he could borrow others. Sernio soon became his best friend – and his only one besides Mordraud.

“
Have you finished
The Story of the Talbiad Islands
? Did you like it?”

“
Yes, I loved it! Pity it was so short.”

“
Huh?!” Sernio chuckled and placed another piece of dried root in the wood burner. “Short?! It’s a nice chunky volume. It usually takes ten days or so to read it all... How long did you take?”

It was a game of theirs
. Gwern lifted his chin proudly and held up some fingers.

“
Three days?! You can’t have!” the old man exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Tell me then, what’s the name of the farrier’s wife who takes care of Tal after he nearly drowned?”

Gwern
pretended to think on it, although the answer was ready on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to give the scene the right rhythm.

“
Hmm... Let’s see... Clara!”

“
Well done!” replied Sernio, snapping his fingers. “It was easy. Now I’ll test you with a hard one! At the start of the story, Tal comes across a headstone that’s different from the others in Calhann’s cemetery. What was unusual about it?”

“
It was made of obsidian, with silver streaking!” replied Gwern. It was one of the parts of the story he enjoyed most.

“
You really are amazing, Gwern!” and Sernio clapped his hands in lengthy applause.

“
I read every night, and in the morning too, if I don’t have to work. Otherwise I wouldn’t know what to do...”

“
Hmm... It’s about your brother, isn’t it? You miss him a great deal, I suppose...”

Gwern
nodded silently. Since Mordraud had been living at Adraman’s house, he was always alone. Before meeting Sernio, he’d never had anyone to talk to. Larois kept him company in the evening while they worked, but she was often busy running the inn during the daytime, and couldn’t always have him hanging around. He seldom played with the other children, because he was frail and often suffered from the attacks whose cause was still unknown.

“
Is his work at Adraman’s going well?” Sernio inquired, putting down the book he’d been reading before his arrival.

“
Yes, he says Deanna has grown fond of him, and they spend most of the day together. They play draughts, they read... To be honest, it’s hard to picture my brother chatting about gossip, but he seems happy there...”

“
And that thing troubling you? Think it really could happen?”

“
It’s still early to say. I hope not.”

Gwern
had feared right from the first that Mordraud had taken the job just to get closer to Adraman, with the worrying aim of joining the army. Larois suspected it, but hoped the company of a girl might mellow his sharp spiky character, as well as his dangerous plans. And then, in the innkeeper’s eye, Mordraud was still very young. There was time for him to change his mind. Yet Gwern knew his brother showed an age that did no justice to his real number of years. His dream of fighting wasn’t a mere romantic infatuation with war. It was something running much deeper.

“
Hmm...” Sernio muttered through his teeth “And you, how are you? You had me alarmed the other day.”

Gwern
had had one of his turns right during his eagerly awaited visit to Sernio’s. A mild fit, one nevertheless strong enough to knock him to the floor. The librarian had been paralysed in fear, unable to react. Luckily, Gwern was used to getting himself through the attacks, and had recovered after a couple of hours of anguish.

“
I’m fine today. Larois made me a herb soup. It’s delicious, and it’s good for you too – at least that’s what she says.”

“
Trust her words. That woman knows certain things,” Sernio reassured him, snapping his fingers. “But now it’s question-time. Ready?”

“
Yep!” Gwern responded, hopping on the chair.

“
Good, let’s get started...”

***

“...And where have you been?!”

Dunwich was moving hastily, head down, along the main corridor in the Lances
’ palace. He’d heard someone shout to him, but he couldn’t allow himself to waste any time. He had to look for information, to pay the right people for the searches he had in mind, and to plan a brief reasoning to back up his proposals at the next strategies meeting. He also had to work out how long he’d been out of town, as he’d lost count of the days on his return journey. His one real concern was to find Mordraud, and he already had a few ideas on where he could be hiding.

“
What do you want? Do we know each other?!”

The Lance who
’d stopped him unceremoniously was shorter but much stockier than him. A compact bull with a dim-witted face, made vicious by two beady eyes.

‘
Have we stooped so low as to take such louts? No selection?!’

“
Tessaro, second-rank cavalry officer. Personal assistant to Asaeld, the great commander of the Imperial Army. Should I go on?”

“
Listen,
Tessáro
” replied Dunwich, intentionally mispronouncing the stress. “Who gave you permission to speak to me?!”

“
Asaeld in person. He told me to look for you, and he was very angry.”

“
Fine, out of my way then. I was just going to him.”

Tessaro coughed with self-assurance, without changing that malicious smirk that Dunwich would willingly have scraped from his face with a dagger.
“Well then, you’re heading the wrong way. It’s down there.”

Without a word
, Dunwich pulled away the arm Tessaro was squeezing and began walking in the opposite direction. “Bunch of moronic losers...” he whispered in disgust while he searched for the door to the captain’s private study.

Asaeld was waiting for him, seated in his favourite armchair, behind his black wooden desk with gold inlay that was one of the finest pieces in the palace. The room was heavily furnished in the dark tones of ebony, embellished with arabesque decoration in precious metals, from the prized furniture through to the glasses set on the table beside the fireplace. For Dunwich, that blaze of glimmering inlay, foil and ornamentation was pointless, grim and bad taste.
‘The Lances are becoming old maids – far from invincible warriors,’ he mused, chuckling to himself.

“
WHATEVER WERE YOU THINKING?!”

Dunwich closed the door behind him with a tap of his foot.

“What’s the problem, Asaeld? Have we lost a scuffle?”

“
You’re impossible! You’ve been away for twenty days! Do you realise that?” The commander’s face was afire and his knuckles were raw from the constant pounding on the desk.

“
A family matter. All resolved now, so please calm down,” replied Dunwich distractedly.

“
Who do you think you’re talking to?! I’m your commander, for love of the Gods! Show me due respect!”

Dunwich bent down in a formal bow after two curt clips of the heel.

“My family was in serious trouble. I had to find out what was happening, otherwise I’d have lost my concentration entirely,” Dunwich uttered humbly. “I beg your pardon, Commander.”

Asaeld seemed to be on the verge of exploding again, but the abrupt change in Du
nwich’s attitude had disoriented him. He sank back into his chair and tossed a sheet of paper onto the wooden surface: it showed a web of lines in different colours and thicknesses.

“
Have a look at this. I want your opinion by this evening. An attack plan in the Hann Creek area. I’m to present it to the infantry after dinner.”

Dunwich took the drawing without abandoning his stiff bow, looked at it for a moment, then dropped it back on the desk.

“This way we’d have to cover both sides of our ranks. If we were to move the attack near to Hazelnut Hill... do you know where I mean? Well, if we shift south, we can use the hill to cover our left flank.”

“
But that would mean we’d be unable to press them against the Hann River at the point where it widens...” objected Asaeld, carefully observing the sheet.

“
The Hann? It’s too dangerous in that spot. I think we should target the Hann Marshland and its island, capture them and then push into the gorges of the mountains stretching to the east. The watercourses in the south, crossing the rebel territories, are hazardous, because the foe have been navigating them for years, while we’ve only seen them on maps. We should avoid them.”

“
So what movements do you suggest we make?”

Dunwich grabbed a stylus and dipped it in the black ink. A few swift pen-strokes and he
’d set out a diagram for positioning the troops, almost without reflecting. Asaeld studied the results, with no indication of what he was thinking.

It was an excellent plan. Perhaps better than his own.

“I have to think it through. You can go now, and make sure you don’t play any more tricks on me. You have commitments to the Empire. The next time you do something like that...” Asaeld stared at him sternly, “...I’ll post you to clean lavatories at the front.”

“
Certainly, Commander,” Dunwich replied, breaking his bow. “May I go?”

Asaeld nodded and Dunwich left at a brisk pace, not even saluting him.

“I’ve dismissed more respectful men than you, for more futile reasons,” muttered Asaeld to himself. “But they were all a lot less gifted.”

The Lance was still holding the attack plan improvised by Dunwich. He looked at it a moment longer, then scrunched the sheet up into a tiny mangled ball.

Asaeld went back to his paperwork with a half-smile on his face.

***

The bread was warm and fragrant. Mordraud took the loaf and slowly breathed in its smell, closing his eyes to savour that wonderful scent. He picked up a knife, cut four chunky slices, dipped the wooden spoon in the chestnut honey and spread it methodically, loading the bread as thickly as he could. A gentle column of steam rose from the pan simmering on the stove. He took a spatula and scraped off the milk-fat collecting around the edge of the pot.

Breakfast was ready.

Deanna had plummeted into a black mood, succumbing to a venomous depression that no fairytale, no joking and no light-heartedness seemed to alleviate. Adraman hadn’t come home since their violent nocturnal row, and four months had gone by without his news from the front, except for the dispatches on his army’s progress. She often cursed and chuckled in a morbid way, revelling at the idea that her husband was in fact dead, but then she would burst out crying at once and fling herself under the bedcovers, answering to nothing and nobody. Mordraud no longer knew what he could do.

The other servants wouldn
’t help him, tired and fed up as they were of their spoilt whinging mistress’s behaviour. However, he couldn’t see her the way they did. That would have been too easy, and also too much in keeping with his initial plan – to get into Adraman’s good books and find himself a place among the rebels at last. But he purely wasn’t capable of dismissing her as barmy and not caring a damn.