Mordraud, Book One (46 page)

‘
I can’t hear it! What sort of damned...’

The walls released a cascade of spikes that closed like a snare around him. They were m
ade of stone and terracotta slivers – a grotesque fusion of wall shaped to the will of Nidanio’s harmony. Dunwich slipped to the ground. One jagged tip came close to puncturing his throat. Lying on his back, his voice swelled, resounding with fury, and a ball of intense green light, like a small sun, took shape in the air and flew at full speed towards his foe. His own personal variation on the classic blazing resonance. That way the swine wouldn’t be able to copy him and save himself, he thought. Everything grazed by the light blackened and crumbled to the floor. Dunwich rolled onto one side and swiftly hurled himself forwards, following the ball.

Nidanio
was good, but not as good as him. The green light struck him full-on. Dunwich moved his hand to his belt to unsheathe his sword, and only then did he realise he didn’t have it with him. He wasn’t in battle. He’d been in the lounge of his lovely comfortable villa until just a few moments before.

Nidanio
’s plan had backfired on him. He was seared, with greyed sagging skin on his face and eyes that dripped blood, but he was still alive. He mustered a lame chant in a feeble voice. His arm stiffened and flattened. It fluidly mutated into a sword of
hard flesh.
Dunwich tried to halt for a counter-attack, but didn’t succeed in time. He could only dodge the first two thrusts. The grotesque blade of sharpened skin put a deep gash in his arm. Nidanio had regained his confidence, and followed through with a sneer revealing teeth free from those lips corroded by the green light. Dunwich attempted to tackle him with his bare hands, but Nidanio went on whirling his arm furiously.

“
Die, you traitor!” growled Nidanio.

“
You’re the vile traitor!” retorted Dunwich, panting. The stabbing pain was blurring his vision. The flesh rod sank into his thigh. Ghastly pain. And a profoundly revolting sensation.

“
Die, Lance!”

Dunwich
didn’t miss his opening to respond. He slipped behind the chanter’s guard, taking advantage of his fiendish lunge, and gripped his arm like a vice, clamping it with his armpit. He doled out a couple of head butts square on the nose and, as soon as he heard the shoulder give way, struck his opponent on the collar-bone as brutally as he could. The bone crunched and snapped. Nidanio lost his concentration and the arm went back to limp flesh.

“
Why do you want to kill me?!”

“
Filthy... foul... swine...” Nidanio replied, gurgling in blood. The burns had spread to his whole body. Dunwich seized him by the neck and squeezed, poking his fingers under the man’s chin.

“TELL ME!”

“
Vile Lances... Enemies of the people...”

“
WHO ORDERED YOU TO KILL ME?!”

Nidanio
burst out into unrestrained laughter. A reddish glow flashed beneath his skin. A wisp of smoke began rising from his eyes. He was chanting something. But he was getting it wrong on purpose. Suicide, observed Dunwich. Intentionally taking his body into discord. An erroneous resonance like that could have terrifying effects.

“
Damn you!” Dunwich let go of him and disappeared into the ground. Just in time.

“
LONG LIVE THE LOREN FAMILY!” were the last words he heard, before the whole lane was blown away by the explosion.

“
The enemy’s fleeing!”

The whole of the surrounding plain could be surveyed from the side of the hill. The river flowed placidly through the tall yellowed grass, which was marked
here and there with the first white patches of snow. The nights were growing ever colder, the days greyer and shorter. Adraman studied the landscape, sheltering his eyes with his hand. Cambria’s soldiers were retreating in wild chaotic non-formation, driven by his waves of horsemen, who now had control of the battleground. Mordraud helmed them all and yelled as he brandished his sword. Adraman sharpened his eyes: he was, as always, laughing with his face to the skies.

“
That lad’s number will come up sooner or later,” commented Ice, beside him on the gravelly crest of a steep ravine. Adraman said nothing. He was the one who had placed the young man in charge of a small cavalry division, overcoming the reservations of all the veterans outraged by his choice. Two rather arduous months had gone by since the Night of Fire battle. Cambria had kept on hammering the front, without however daring to assault it again with the bulk of its troops. The arrival of winter had also brought the time to teach Mordraud a little responsibility, he mused. And the lad hadn’t fallen short of his expectations.

“
He leads them without ever hanging back from the front ranks. It’s amazing he’s still alive,” continued Ice. “Look how they follow him... He might be mad, but he certainly knows how to handle his men. What is it, the third foray in ten days? It’s as if he’d been their captain for ten years.”

“
For love of the Gods, if we had more lunatics like him!” boomed Berg behind them. “He’s got their respect, and risks his own neck before those of others... I took him with me on a strike five days ago. I had to pull him back to stop him charging at the enemy alone! Adraman, do
you
know what Cambria’s inflicted on him?! We detest the Empire, but him... well, he goes beyond hatred...”

“
No, I’ve no idea. I only know he wanted to fight with us, and that’s all. He was a servant before.”

“
Blimey... and who taught him to use a sword?!”

“
Not me,” replied Adraman, shrugging. “I think he learnt alone.”

“
Hey, look!” cried Ice. They all turned towards the spot he was pointing at. Mordraud had broken away from his platoon to hunt down two enemy cavalrymen. That armour was easily recognisable, even at such a distance. “Lances! Has he gone completely crazy?!”

“
They must be two platoon captains. Look how they’re making for it, the cowards...” chuckled Berg.

“
It’s nothing to laugh about! Those people really know how to chant...”

As if they
’d heard him, the two Lances turned, unleashing from behind them a sea of blinding fire and flames. Adraman held his breath, as if he were in Mordraud’s place. The smoke and glare prevented them all from seeing what was happening.

“
There they are!”

Mordraud
emerged from the heavy reddish cloud.

“
I told you, he’s a mad dog... He’s not afraid of anything! Let’s leave him to snap his Lances in two – that’s what he does best...”

Mordraud
went on galloping behind the two escaping Lances, with his cape lashing in the grips of fire. He reached them in the end, after the chase along the whole of the river’s sandy shore. He skewered the first with his sword, and while the second was pitching a new chant, Mordraud launched himself at the Lance, knocking him off his horse. Adraman saw him wrestle the rider on the ground, overcome him and brutally throttle him. That same typical expression of his was painted on his face.

Joy. Pleasure. Satisfaction.

“If he screws like he kills, then best hide the women...” Berg started. Adraman silenced him with a thunderous glower.

“
This should be the last battle before winter. They say it’s going to snow tonight, and that it won’t stop for days,” the general informed them with a strained and weary voice. “Give orders to demobilise the battalions. We’ll leave just the absolute minimum necessary.”

“
And Mordraud? Is he coming home with us or...?” inquired Ice.

“
He might do for a few days, but after that he’ll be back here, for the cool air,” said Berg “Am I right, Adraman? I need lads like him. It’s my turn to man the garrison this winter.”

“
As you like, Berg,” replied Adraman, with a detectable note of relief in his voice. “It sounds like an excellent idea.”

“
I bet it does...” murmured Ice.

“
What did you say?!”

“
Nothing, nothing...” returned the captain, with a half-smile on his face. “I think it’s exactly the right thing to do.”

***

Gwern was at the inn, like every morning, busy wiping down the tables and benches. The heart of winter had finally come, a little later than usual, and with it the customers too. The cold didn’t normally take long to make itself felt after the Night of Fire, but it had arrived unexpectedly late that year. The tavern was teeming with soldiers each evening, intent on spending every last coin of their pay on beer, wine and braised shin of pork. ‘The great and awful thing about being one of Eldain’s men is you always live with the idea that it could be your very last winter,’ he mused, smiling as he rubbed energetically at a stain that didn’t want to shift. Larois was growing ever weaker, and had now left all the demanding tasks to him, busying herself only in the kitchen. The years had caught up on her all at once. Gwern did what he could to lighten her workload, and now spent little time on what he enjoyed above all things: reading and studying with Sernio. Getting ready for the day he’d go to Saiden’s. Larois was nearly convinced. She didn’t let it show, but he knew she was considering it.

Just as he was repeating
from memory a passage from the last book he’d read – an account of the ancient history of the Inland Sea – Gwern heard the door open behind him. Heavy steps coated in metal.

“
Brother!”

Gwern
spun round, full of joy. He was sure he’d be looking at Mordraud, but the man observing him was like his brother only in the protections he wore.

“
Are you Gwern?”

The
soldier was exceptionally tall and mighty – a giant. His heart stopped, in the agonising wait for the news he’d feared every day since Mordraud had left.

“
Yes, that’s me...” he murmured, shielding his face as if frightened he might be slapped.

“
I’ve come from the front to deliver something, on behalf of your brother.”

The
man groped around in a small pouch hanging from his belt and pulled out a packet, wrapped in a red handkerchief. He held it out to the boy with great respect, accompanied by a slight bow.

“
You must be proud. Mordraud is a friend of mine, and a great combat comrade. We fought together at the Battle of Fire, and it’s only thanks to him that I’m alive today.”

“
What’s your name?” inquired Gwern.

“
Benno. I’m a member of your brother’s regiment. And proud of it.”

Gwern
took the parcel and unfastened the red covering. Inside he found a heavy leather pouch and a letter, written in a lively, spiky – and unmistakable – hand. The soldier stood still, awaiting instructions.

“
He asked me to bring you his greetings. He’s received orders to guard the front, and he’s not sure when he’ll be able to come home.”

Gwern
opened the little packet and tipped out its contents.

A cascade of dazzling gemstones.

Astounded, he squeezed that treasure in his hand and opened the letter.

Dear
Brother,

I
’ve put together all my saving and changed them up for gemstones, as they’re easier to look after and move around. This should be enough for you to start studying under that famous chanter you’re always telling me about. Benno will take you to your new school and will do anything you ask of him. He owes it to me – that great brainless bear! Ask him who broke his nose. Get him to tell you – it’ll make you laugh.

A
fter the Battle of Fire, Eldain declared he’d give a fistful of gold for every Lance slain. He shouldn’t have! If he’s not quick in changing his terms, me and my boys will have emptied his coffers before the end of next year. Adraman lent me a part of this money, but it won’t take me long to pay back.

Grow strong, because
one day, perhaps, I might have to ask you to return the favour.

I won
’t die – I promised you I wouldn’t.

Your loving brother,

Mordraud

“But how did he manage to...”

“
We went to taunt the Empire’s camps when they were least expecting it. It was Mordraud’s idea – to strike even with the harshest snows... No one wanted to do it at first, just us from his unit. But then the gents in the highest places had to change their minds! You should have seen the mayhem we caused! And how many Lances we harvested!” Benno chortled.

“
What... What am I supposed to do?!”

“
Go pack your things. I’m to escort you to the southern front.”

“
Can you wait here? But what will I do? There’s so much I should sort out first...”

“
Yes, sir! Take your time,” Benno bowed down, with a smile. “We can set off tomorrow morning if you like. But no later. Mordraud’s expecting me at the front.”

“
I’ll be as quick as I can,” replied Gwern, running towards the kitchen door.

A dream come true.
Gwern was too confused to realise what was happening. Up until just a few months ago it had seemed impossible he could become Saiden’s pupil, although Sernio had talked of it many a time. Even after they’d introduced him to Larois, he still believed it an unattainable idea. And yet, Mordraud had managed it. Gwern was more excited than he’d ever been, and began thinking about everything he had to do. Pack his things, drop in on the old bookman, perhaps stop off at the market to say goodbye to those women who’d always been kind to him. He felt a little guilty about Larois for an instant, and didn’t know how to tell her he was about to leave. She knew it would happen. She hadn’t yet said she was against it, and it was as if her silence had voiced her assent. Even if she wasn’t well, even if she needed help, she’d give her consent. For his good. It was what he’d always dreamt of. Mordraud was risking his life every day so that Gwern could fulfil it.

Gwern
mustered all his courage and ventured into the living room. He already knew he’d miss her, but he put all his efforts into pushing away the homesickness that was already nudging him to change his mind.

“
Larois... There’s something I have to tell you...”

“
What is it my boy?” she asked, opening her eyes. She was dozing in her armchair. “What’s that doleful face for? Has something happened in the inn? I’m really not capable of giving you a hand with the cleaning today.”

“
No... There’s something I have to tell you...” said Gwern, in a vaguely sad voice.

“
You remember that man Master Saiden...?”

***

“Welcome, all of you.”

Loralon
was seated on his gilt wooden throne in the middle of the ceremony hall. He was endeavouring to match names with the faces of all the soldiers congregated before him, standing to attention. Cambria’s army was an enormous apparatus with complex mechanisms, crammed with divisions, commanders and ranks of often blurred importance. On the one side the bureaucrats who managed the areas behind the lines, the supplies and the wages. On the other, the stud-farm keepers, the stable masters, the horse trainers, the falconers and the master bowyers. Between these hovered a seething mass of squadron captains, lieutenants, corporals, commandos, choir conductors and generals of every type and form.

‘
One for each favour my grandfather had to reward the city’s accursed bloody families for...’ he reflected, annoyed by the hum.

“
Eternal glory to the Empire!” returned the seas of scroungers. “And glory to the Loren family!”

“
Let us declare open the first council meeting of the year.”

The guests sat down in unison in the
spacious purple silk armchairs, and a squadron of attendants immediately began making their way around the hall, serving tasty morsels of crispy game and filling wine goblets. Loralon refused everything except a simple glass of water. His uptight mood had, as ever, placed a clamp of acid on his stomach.

“
Before starting, I would like to thank you all for your presence. You’ve endured long and laboured journeys to reach the capital of our beloved Empire. And I can only praise the Imperial Lances for managing to be here, with all of us.”