Mordraud, Book One (26 page)

Mordraud
was frightened of arcane resonances, not purely through his superstitious nature but also because it was Dunwich’s specialisation. He’d never thought Gwern might be interested in chanting.

“
Sernio could teach you a few tricks. Wouldn’t that be enough for you?!”

“
But the power of chanting’s much more than that! Sernio’s no expert but he’s always saying he thinks I’d have a gift for it because I’ve got a good memory and I pick things up fast... I’d love to study, but there aren’t the right schools here in Eld...”

Mor
draud could feel Gwern was on the verge of asking for something. A rare occurrence.

“
Sernio says he knows this guy in Cambria, the grandson of a chanter who died when he was a boy. Very famous and highly respected. He was acquainted with the son at the time, and more recently has gotten to know the grandson too.”

“
I don’t see what you’re getting at,” said Mordraud.

“
I got sidetracked. Anyway, this man drops in on Sernio now and then, to buy a few novels. He lives alone in an old tower, between Eld and Inen. Six or seven days south-east of here. He comes from a family of chanters. His grandfather was renowned in Cambria, while his father opted to make a name for himself in Calhann. He’s called Saiden. Sernio says he’d like to introduce me.”

“
Gwern, cut to the point, please! Tell me what your idea is... I’ll have to get back to work soon.”

“
Well, Sernio would like to ask him to teach me to chant. But...”

“
But what?!”

“
It costs a lot,” confessed Gwern, resignedly. “It would cost a packet to learn with a personal tutor. It’s usually the children in wealthy families who study under him, the talented ones at least, the best... It’s not the sort of stuff for folk like us.

“
Are you sure?”

“
That’s what he told me. Saiden’s hinted occasionally at the work he did, when he lived in Calhann. He taught chanting. He must have told Sernio what he earned back then.”

Troubled by Gwern
’s disappointment, for a moment Mordraud set aside the idea that chanting could be dangerous. It wasn’t right that his brother should resign himself to always being a skivvy in a flea-ridden tavern. If he had the brains for studying, then he should study.

“
What does it cost?”

“
Well, actually... two thousand gold Florins. That’s what Sernio reckons. It could cost more. That’s how much money you and I could earn in a lifetime – perhaps we won’t even reach that amount.”

Mordraud made a quick calculation. Gwern was
wrong: it wasn’t such a huge sum. But it was many years’ savings. However, if he managed to make a career for himself in the army, he’d just need to get his hands on a war trophy or two, a convoy, or a nice stash of swords good enough to sell. Two thousand gold Florins was do-able.

“
Don’t give up on it, Gwern. I promise I’ll do all I can to send you to this... what did you say his name was?!”

“
Saiden... But I didn’t come here to ask you for money. I wanted to tell you about it. He’ll introduce me for free, of course... I just fancied talking about what could happen...” Gwern was dreadfully upset. Mordraud tweeked his cheek and gave him a playful kick in the shins.

“
Don’t be a sniveller. If you’re so smart, you have to study. And if I don’t take care of it, who will? But make sure you don’t get up to any tricks, okay?”

Gwern nodded, smiling.

“Give me a couple of years, little brother, and you’ll see. I’ll find the money, and I’ll also find you a nice letter of recommendation, written by Eldain in person! Trust me!”

“
Thanks, Mordraud!” cried Gwern, hugging him with emotion.

“
Thanks...”

***

“Bring me one of the prisoners.”

“
Which one, sir?”

“
The one with the most quick-witted expression.”

Dunwich went into his tent and let his blood-smeared black cloak fall to the ground.
‘This damned armour weighs like shackles,’ he mused as he unfastened the buckles on the broad black steel breastplate. He’d have fought much better without, but Asaeld’s instructions were clear: he had to be a good example to his men. Strike the right fear into the enemy.

‘
The terrifying Imperial Lances! Bah...’

The battle had been brief and bloody. The Empire wanted, at all costs, to redraw certain boundaries that had been pushed back, before the next winter came, and it had managed it, at least for a few days. But it would have gone very differently if the Lances hadn
’t taken part.

‘
Loralon’s a fool. Those boys don’t even know how to handle a sword, and they have to go into combat against a bunch of veteran rebels who’ve been defending the front for years... They were being eaten alive.’

He had to admit that Eldain
’s men were made of quite different stuff from Cambria’s feeble citizens. Rough people, with skin as hard as steel. He’d seen one or two who hadn’t closed their eyes when the arrows began pelting down – not even when they were skewered by them.

“
My first battle,” he murmured, looking at his blister-marred right hand.

“
I should be euphoric... We won...”

He
’d gripped the hilt too tightly. Some of the chants got tangled before exploding because he’d lost his concentration. The bass row of the choir – the one supposed to be the platform to the whole harmonic framework – had dropped disgracefully by a quarter-tone. They’d all marked out the syllables worse than during rehearsals. His sword had slipped to the ground and he’d had to retrieve it afterwards.

“
It was nothing special.”

The tent opened and one of his men hurled a young man in front of him, with his hands chained behind his back. One of the few rebels who hadn
’t made it to the undergrowth. ‘The real strength of Eldain’s men... resides in their desire to struggle for a shared ideal,’ he reflected, staring at the prisoner.

“
Leave us alone.”

“
But... my orders are to never let him out of my sight...” attempted the soldier, faint-heartedly.

“
I give the orders. Now go, or do you want me to ask Asaeld’s opinion on your lack of discipline?!”

The guard vanished in an instant.

Dunwich sat down on a wooden log and positioned another for his new guest.

“
I won’t tell you anything. You can kill me now if you want, that way you could avoid wasting time,” the young man uttered, with difficulty. His mouth was reduced to a pulp. A punch perhaps, or maybe a kick, or even a clubbing, Dunwich considered. The prisoner had several teeth missing and one eye was dangerously shot with blood and clots.

“
If you co-operate, you might even hope to survive. We don’t kill all prisoners of war – only the hostile ones.”

“
Well, I’m tougher than the rest.” The soldier spat a lump of blood onto the ground within a hair’s breadth of Dunwich’s feet. “Anyway, I know nothing. It’s not me who makes the strategies.”

Dunwich hated this part. He
’d witnessed interrogations by the Imperial Army on various occasions, and he’d always deemed them ineffectual, with their savage violence that was more useful to the torturer’s ego than to the common cause. He felt no joy at tormenting another human being. Especially one whose sole offence was believing in the wrong person, was siding with the wrong faction.

“
I don’t want to convince you by force. You can be as tough as you like...” Dunwich briefly murmured the tune of a chant he was particularly fond of. As soon as he sensed his body was in resonance with his voice, a small ball of white flame sprang forth from his hand. He moved it closer to the captive’s cheek, just enough to let him feel its tremendous heat.

“
Yet we know methods to melt the tongue of even the steeliest man.”

The young soldier turned pale, without taking his eyes off the fire. He remained silent. Dunwich sighed, shaking his head, and edged the burning ball even nearer his skin. The hairs in the man
’s thin beard shrivelled and vanished, giving off a coil of stinking smoke that smelt the same as pigskin scorched on the fire.

“
I know nothing at all. And even if I did...”

“
Yes, I know... you’re a toughie and you wouldn’t tell me.”

The heat twisted the prisoner
’s mouth into an awful sneer. “But what I want to know has nothing to do with the war.”

The young man
’s bewildered eyes inferred to Dunwich that he had his full attention.

“
Have you seen a couple of boys in the fief of Eld: one older and the other just a child, who are always together and come from outside? War orphans, fugitives, something like that... The elder one’s got black hair and green eyes. An intense green, not washed-out. The younger one has light brown hair and is scrawny, sickly-looking. With striking grey eyes.”

“
But... how should I know?”

The flame went up to lap his cheek, burning away the last remaining hairs.
“Okay, stop! Wait!”

“
I’m all ears.”

“
I reckon I’ve seen a young boy, with mousy hair. Short and skinny. At the tavern in Eld. But he didn’t seem particularly ill – where I come from all the kids are scrawny...” The soldier found his courage for a moment, lifting his gaze in challenge, “...thanks to all you and your friggin’ Empire!”

Dunwich didn
’t rise to the provocation. One swift movement and he put out the flames, getting up to leave the tent. He was especially satisfied. He called the guard and gave him orders to take the captive away.

“
Don’t kill him. He behaved with respect, revealing important rebel plans.”

“
Where should we send him, sir? To the iron mines, like the rest?”

The mines, north of Nelaria, were a nasty place, he mused. Too nasty to wish on any enemy, even the worst.

“No, forced labour in the south-east to construct the new road is more appropriate for the likes of him.”

“
That road leading to Calhann’s first allied territories? We don’t usually send young rebels captured in action... only civilian prisoners.”

Dunwich semi-closed his eyes, gl
aring at the insolent guard with all the displeasure he could muster. “Still have this bad habit of contradicting, soldier?!”

“
No...” he replied, raising his hands as if to protect himself from a slap. “No, I didn’t express myself well... I would never dare...”

“
Get a move on, then. Come on! Move it!”

Dunwich su
ppressed an amused chortle as he watched the recruit struggle to pull up the young rebel and drag him away. ‘You’ll never know the favour I’ve dealt you, my lad,’ he thought, wiping his hands on his tunic.

‘
I’ve just saved your life.’

He couldn
’t be sure whether the child at the tavern was Gwern in any case. What little he knew of his youngest brother was a very old memory. He remembered Mordraud much more clearly, but there seemed to be no trace of him. They had to be in Eld – it was the only fortified settlement near their old house. Even if he’d asked the prisoner for more details, how would he have been able to recognise his brother? He was little more than a nipper when he last saw him.

Dunwich went back to sitting on the log, and au
tomatically unscrewed the lid on a tall slim steel bottle embellished with a landscape engraving. A welcome gift from a bored noblewoman in search of romance. He hadn’t even seen her face to face.

‘
Excellent. Rather potent perhaps, but flavoursome. Pity I never dallied with her...’ he reflected, after a delicious long sip.

‘
That lady had good taste in spirits.’

***

Everything was ready for the departure. For the umpteenth time, Mordraud inspected the three carts loaded up with provisions, victuals, furnishings and bedding, counting and checking that everything was in order. He didn’t really need to – Deanna’s domestic staff had done their job impeccably. But he was nervous, uptight and slightly annoyed, and had to find a way to take his mind off things.

He hadn
’t reacted well to the news of the move. He was gradually getting used to life as the masters’ favourite in Adraman’s mansion, and if he was honest, he didn’t really mind the work. The idea of travelling beyond Eld’s safe confines with Deanna, five attendants and a handful of soldiers didn’t appeal at all. How hazardous were the roads? How many days would the journey take? Where would they sleep? He felt burdened with a sticky sense of responsibility, as if Deanna’s safety had been entrusted to him alone. A silly thought. Compared to the guards escorting them, he was practically a wimp. But that certainly didn’t make him any the calmer.