Legacy, p.23
Legacy, page 23
‘It’s not all that much doom and gloom,’ Torben said. ‘I value my chances out there with you three more than if I were travelling with an entire army! And back in Karpella, we’ve got the base at Ivy House to work from, and hopefully the Madame managed to gather some intelligence and built some connections for us in our absence.’
‘True enough, but there’s a lot still in our way. It takes years to build the kind of connections we’ll need to slip into the castle … and we need to survive long enough to get back to Ivy House. Who knows what plans have been set against us in our absence?’ Eleusia continued to stare gloomily into the fire.
‘I take it that Björn was not overly happy with your escape from the city?’ Antauros asked.
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Enough of this pessimism! I say we relax a little and enjoy our success. I’ll warrant that it’s a long and uncertain road that we’re trekking, but now that we have the Keystone, we’re a damn sight further along than we once were!’ Gwilym stepped into the middle of the room and unwrapped the Keystone from the concealing fabric, and held it out to the others.
In the warm orange glow of the fire, the runes drifted lazily across the polished surface, as if relaxing in the warmth emanating from the flames.
‘Just think. This bizarre chunk of metal is what will make the four of us richer than our wildest dreams. We’ll be the envy of all but Sarper himself! And, if nothing else, I found something that will help take the edge off a little.’ Tucking the Keystone and its wrapping into a pocket, Gwilym ducked behind a shelf and rolled out a large barrel. ‘I did think to myself that there was a distinct lack of beer in this tavern, but it would seem that this is one barrel that the Lupines didn’t get their hands on. Now, who’d like a drink?’
‘Now, that’s a good idea,’ Antauros said, helping Gwilym heave the barrel onto a chair.
The four bustled around the cramped room, searching shelves for anything they could put to use. Soon, Torben was slicing vegetables into a large pot. Eleusia wrestled with the lid of a barrel of salted beef before allowing Antauros to smash the lid with his war-hammer.
There was a triumphant shout from the other end of the room as Gwilym knocked a dusty tap into the barrel of beer and filled large wooden tankards to the brim.
For what felt like the first time in years, Torben began to feel safe and even happy. The effect from the ale began drifting through his body, spreading warmth from his toes to his fingertips. By the time he dipped a chunk of bread into the steaming broth from the pot, his head was filled with the golden, warming glow of the good life. ‘So,’ he said, a slight slur creeping into his voice. ‘What will you all do with your share of the treasure?’
‘That’s easy.’ Gwilym set his bowl down in front of the fire and leaned towards them. ‘I’d buy myself a ship and hire enough good men to crew her and sail away.’
‘So you’d become a pirate?’ Torben smiled to himself.
‘No, I’d just roam the seas, probably carry out odd jobs, shipping and the like, I guess. I’ve never been the kind of fellow that can stay in one place. Wanderlust will never leave me, I reckon. Being able to set off on the open sea and wake up somewhere completely different every morning would be heaven!’
‘I’m not sure I can imagine anything more disheartening,’ Antauros said. ‘I want to put down roots somewhere, buy land, start a family again. If I could, I’d lay down my arms right now and never take up the mercenary life for the rest of my allotted years.’
‘Why don’t you then?’ Gwilym asked over the rim of his tankard. ‘I’m sure most of the civilised world would breathe a sigh of relief when they found out that you’d laid down your war-hammer and taken up the plough.’
‘Perhaps, but there are too many other people who think they have a score to settle with me,’ Antauros replied. ‘I can only set my weary bones down somewhere and call it home if I can afford to go somewhere isolated, with enough capital to invest in my safety and prosperity. There’s not much chance of that happening on a mercenary’s wage, especially when it isn’t paid half the time.’
‘What about you, Torben?’ Gwilym turned his gaze to the young man, who sat close to the fire, his back against the bed. Eleusia was already curled up on the yellowing mattress, her chest rising up and down in time with slumber-heavy breaths.
‘Huh, what is it?’ Torben regarded Gwilym with half-closed, bleary eyes. He’d clearly been sleeping, like Eleusia.
‘What would you do with your share?’ Gwilym asked again.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Torben murmured, his head nodding onto his chest.
‘Looks like you won’t be getting much more out of him,’ Antauros chuckled.
‘Aye well, he’s had a hard time of things, the lad has; like as not, this is the safest he’s felt for a long time.’
‘He told me about what happened to his village. It was good of you to help him escape. I’m sure many people in your position would have bolted and left him there to die rather than risk helping another.’
‘Maybe so, maybe so.’
Gwilym and Antauros sat in silence for a while, with only the sound of Torben and Eleusia’s breathing and the crackling fire intruding on the quiet. Every now and again, one of them would take a long draft from their tankard.
‘Now that we have the Keystone and we actually have a shot at pulling this off,’ Gwilym said quietly, ‘I was thinking that perhaps I owe you an apology for certain words and some actions that passed between us.’
‘Like all our interactions, you mean?’
‘Aye well, neither of us have had a particularly kind word to say about each other, have we?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘In my defence,’ Gwilym said with a wry smile, ‘until very recently, I was convinced that you would slaughter the three of us without a second thought. Though I’m glad to say that, so far, I’ve seen little of what people speak about in the stories told about you.’
‘Well, well,’ Antauros smiled broadly. ‘I never thought that I’d hear you, of all people, say something like that. You must be getting soft!’
Indignant, Gwilym opened his mouth to reply to the jest, but before he could say anything, Antauros held out an arm towards the dwarf. ‘Truce?’
‘Truce.’
The minotaur and dwarf grasped forearms—Antauros’ hand practically enveloping Gwilym’s whole arm—and held each other’s grip. As they slipped back into their seats, Gwilym reached over his shoulder and refilled his tankard from the barrel and then took Antauros’ from the floor and topped it up, too.
‘So, how many of the stories are true?’
‘Well, I was where people said I was. Estair, the village was called. But I wasn’t there in the name of duty.’ Antauros took a long swig from his tankard and paused. He was staring deep into the fire; Gwilym could see the flames dance in his deep black eyes. ‘Estair used to be my home. I led a prosperous life there on my few acres with my wife and daughter. I’d never once raised my fists in anger against any creature, and I thought that it would stay that way for the rest of my life.
‘When the war between Aramore and Rahhail broke out, the village thought it was of little concern. Estair lay far to the south of Rahhail’s border with Aramore, and we’d heard that most of the fighting was taking place in the north. Well, one day a small column of troops arrived at the village, not an uncommon occurrence. A large portion of Rahhail’s army had already passed through on their way to reinforce the forces in the north. This time, however, the troops stayed. News had reached them, they said, of a spy tracked to our village, who was passing information to the Aramorians, helping them react to Rahhail’s troop movements.
‘At first, their captain contented himself with searching the village, politely and with little fuss; we were all cooperating. We just wanted them to up and leave as soon as they were satisfied. The longer that they searched without turning up anything, the angrier their captain became.
‘His troops started arresting villagers at random and would question them for hours on end. They took me in one night and kept me for three days with their incessant questioning and accusations—how can we take your word for granted, how do we know you’re not lying to us?
‘Just after they let me go, things became violent. The people they’d been detaining appeared mutilated, half-dead in the streets. Our neighbour had his hands broken, several of his fingers cut off. He had been a carpenter, and a skilled one at that, but the Merchant Prince of Rahhail was overly suspicious and pushed his troops to keep beating us, torturing us.
‘Several nights later the captain received orders from the Merchant Prince himself. Our little village had caused too much trouble, taken too many resources away from the war. If there was still a spy amongst us, then they certainly wouldn’t leave alive, no one would.
‘I tried to save my wife, my daughter. Told them to escape through the back of house whilst I held off the troops in our yard. Somehow, a fire was started, either a candle knocked over in the confusion or fire spilled out of the grate … or maybe one of the soldiers started the blaze. I don’t know. All I know is that they made me watch the house burn with my family still inside. Laughed at me and told me that if I’d only given up the spy, this non-existent phantom that they had imagined, then my family wouldn’t be trapped inside that house … the other villagers would still be alive.
‘I don’t really remember what happened next. All I can recall clearly is seeing a veil of red pass over my eyes and the faces of the soldiers I killed that night. When morning broke, I was the only creature left alive in Estair, so I ran.
‘Whenever I came across a group of Rahhail’s soldiers, I threw myself at them, hoping that one of them would kill me and reunite me with those I’d lost. As it happened, I managed to make it all the way to the border and joined a group of mercenaries in the employ of the Kingdom of Dazscor and Aramore, people I thought had been my enemies.
‘Rahhail's spy masters and spin-pedlars made out that what happened at Estair had been my doing—that I had slaughtered the villagers whilst their troops had valiantly tried to defend innocent lives. I wasted so much breath trying to convince people otherwise, I gave up. As long as I knew the truth, that could keep me going, so I thought.’
When Antauros finished speaking, Gwilym saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes, reflected by the firelight. Without saying another word, the minotaur stood and lay on the floor, drawing a blanket over himself and turning his back to the room.
Alone by the fire, Gwilym’s eyes began to droop as he pondered what Antauros had said. Outside, the rain drummed against the shutters, but the warmth of the fire slowly but surely lulled him to sleep.
When Torben woke, the fire was burning low in the grate and casting the dimmest of light into the room, barely brightening the dark shadows enveloping the room. He had no idea what time it was, though he reckoned that it was still be night.
A thick silence filled the room, and no sound or light drifted through the cracks in the shuttered window. He rolled his neck, trying to ease the stiffness in his joints. He’d fallen asleep leaning against the hard bedframe and small aches had developed in most of his joints. He sat up and stretched, moving as quietly as he could for fear of waking the others. His back cracked in several places as he extended his spine, the noises as loud as thunderclaps. Settling back against the bed, he tried to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in.
Behind him, Torben could hear Eleusia’s soft restful breathing; from the other side of the room, Antauros’ heavy rumbling breaths sounded like waves lapping the shore. Since he’d fallen asleep, the room had become chilly, even with the heat of their bodies in such a confined space. Clearly, Antauros and Gwilym had forgotten to put more wood on the fire before they’d fallen asleep.
Leaning over quietly, Torben placed a few logs and kindling onto the embers, and prodded the fire back into life. As the flames grew in strength, he leant back again and closed his eyes, turning his head towards the fire, and enjoying the warmth on his face. It would probably be a good long while before he felt this cosy again.
One of the branches popped in the grate, causing Torben’s eyes to open instinctively. The fresh wood smoke made his eyes water and, as he passed a hand across his eyes, he thought he saw something move. He wiped at the moisture in his eyes and scanned the other side of the room, the crackles and pops from the freshly stoked fire covering his movements. All he could see was the sleeping form of Gwilym, his head resting against his chest, rising and falling in time with his breathing.
Torben started to let his eyes close again when he saw movement again, this time more clearly. A figure stood stock still next to Gwilym, drifting in and out of focus in the flickering firelight. A large puff of smoke swirled from the fire and drifted over the figure, defining it for a second before whatever trick was concealing it seemed to pull the shadows back around it.
In that split second, Torben had clearly seen a face, a distinctly wolf-like face with bright orange eyes—staring directly at him. He half-climbed to his feet, reaching for the hilt of his nearby sword. He drew in a quick breath to shout, scream, anything to wake the others, but before he could, the creature’s arm appeared out of thin air, pointing straight at him.
‘Ashak,’ the face hissed.
The breath that Torben had drawn to speak sailed from his lips and he began to breathe normally, quietly. He tried to move, but his arms and legs were fixed in position, one hand clenching the end of the bed, the fingers of the other hand brushing the sword hilt. In the back of his mind he heard the creature’s word reverberate, felt it twist around his limbs, holding him in place and locking his tongue in position.
The creature moved slowly towards Torben. The shadowy shroud concealing it began to slip away, the spell broken as the creature’s attention fixed on Torben, securing him.
He saw that the creature was distinctly different to a Lupine, but the similarity was still plain to see. The face had a canine-like snout, but the top of its head was crowned with two large ears that twitched and rotated of their own accord as the creature moved, scanning the room for alarming noises. The creature stood much shorter in stature than a Lupine, and would have been little taller in height than Gwilym; its fur was deep orange in hue, like its eyes. The large black cloak it wore rippled around it as it advanced on Torben, revealing a stained, threadbare blue robe beneath, several sizes too large.
‘What have we got here then, my dear? Someone bent on causing trouble, it would seem. Someone who won’t let me complete my work without interruption.’ The creature crooned softly to itself, the voice sounding breathy and hoarse, like that of an extremely old man or woman. As it approached and inspected Torben up and down, the end of its snout brushed his face.
‘I recognise your scent, you and that girl, too watchful, too alert. Stopped me from creeping close you did … from taking what is mine when you first discovered it. It can’t be far away though; I can smell its aura filling this room … smell it on your hands. Where is it?’ Long sinewy hands patted Torben’s torso, reaching inside his pockets and feeling the seams of his clothes.
Torben still couldn’t move, but his leg muscles were burning with pain from being contorted into one position for so long.
‘Where is it?’ the creature growled. ‘Hidden it well, you have? Too well. Everything in this place reeks of it! Too many places to search, too little time.’ The creature ran a hand through the fur on its head, eyes shut, clearly deep in thought.
Now that the creature was so close to him, he could distinctly view white and grey patches and streaks in its fur, and deep wrinkles around its eyes and mouth. As its focus shifted from Torben, he felt the effects of the spell losing its grip. He concentrated every atom of his brain on moving his hand, fighting the restraining force. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his index finger twitch, felt it brush against the leather of his sword grip, but the creature also felt it.
Its eyes snapped open and once more fixed on Torben’s face. Once again, he felt the invisible bonds tighten around him, and the word that the creature had spoken earlier began to grow louder and louder inside his head. ‘Ashak, ashak, ashak.’
‘Yes,’ the creature said, ‘that is the answer. I don’t need to find it myself; you and your friends can give it to me.’
Reaching into the folds of the baggy robe beneath its cloak, the creature drew out a battered quill and a small knife. Deftly, it cut a small incision on the back of its gnarled hand with the knife and squeezed the cut. A small pool of blood oozed from the wound. Taking the quill, the creature gathered a large globule with the nib and whispered to itself. The blood dangling perilously from the quill glowed golden, softly at first, but blazing with intensity with every passing second.
The creature leaned towards Torben and bent over his right arm, which was still frozen and grasping the edge of the bed. Still murmuring the incantation, it used the quill to jab his flesh.
Torben could feel an intense burning sensation as the nib dug into his arm. From the corner of his eye, he saw the creature writing one long word in a language and script he didn’t recognize; the golden light suspended in its blood disappeared into his arm. The burning sensation spread throughout his body as the spell coursed through his bloodstream. He thought his heart was would stop as his chest erupted in pain when the burning streamed through his torso and up to his head. He wanted to scream but, unable to move or speak, he had no way to voice his agony. His eyes blurred, his vision clouded with a golden haze; the spell had reached his head.
Just when Torben thought he’d go mad with pain, a flash of blinding golden light obscured his vision. The other spell that had been holding him in place was broken, and he thudded to the ground.
Eleusia’s eyes snapped open. She had a vague recollection of being woken by an intense flash of light, a loud thud, and a heart-wrenching scream. She bolted upright, her dagger ready in her hand as she realised that she’d not been dreaming.
