The Prisoner of Carronne - 19. Chapter 19

-- Chapter Nineteen --

The riders of Septimus fanned out from Castle Carronne, like dark wings across the land; north and south along the coast and the inland trade roads, spreading out into the farmlands, then west toward the Plains of Ashmere and the mountains where nestled the old bastion of Highshaw.

To the east, lay the Dark Sea, which beat endlessly against the rocks. It was monitored for departing or arriving boats, of all sizes.

No path was left unwatched. No traveller passed unchallenged.

Villages woke to the sound of hooves. Doors were opened under threat of steel. Strangers were questioned. Any whisper of rebellion was seized upon and torn apart.

Yet, for all their fury, the riders found nothing. No Prince. No Knights. No street urchins hiding in cupboards. No sign of any of the fugitives who had slipped from the jaws of Carronne.

And so, the hunt widened.

Even though riders had been sent to check on Highshaw – the place that had once been an important site to the Order of the Dragon – there had yet to be any word from them. Both Septimus and Judayah had a feeling that this place would once again prove crucial, and so a company of soldiers was despatched specifically to that location, with orders to arrest anyone found there.

These rebels stood no chance. They would not escape.

*   *   *

Jamal rode at the head of his growing company. Three had become six, which had then become eight, with the addition of two more knights they had met on the trails, and who were answering the call. And still more came.

He had not set out to gather an army. Yet men had joined them all the same.

At crossroads and lonely inns, on forest paths and dusty tracks, they had encountered knights who had long since slipped from the sight of the realm – men thought lost, or dead, or simply forgotten.

The call had reached them. And they had answered.

Having Ansel, Marin and Enoch in their company proved beneficial to Jamal, whose youth and leadership took some by surprise when the amulet was presented to the newcomers. There were no quibbles or challenges however, for leadership, once established, was absolute . . . and with the three original knights offering their support to Jamal, as Chandar’s messenger, their word was final.

And it wasn’t just knights who were answering the call. The sight of a number of knights riding together, when their absence had been conspicuous in recent years, could mean only one thing . . . there was trouble ahead, and if the opponent was destined to be the Dark Lord, then any opportunity to battle him would be worth the effort. And the risk.

Deven and Whip rode alongside their friend, the three of them as inseparable as ever. Where one went, the others followed, which did not go unnoticed.

They rode close, spoke quietly, laughed when the road allowed it. In the long hours between towns, or on private trails, they leaned toward one another in the saddle, hands brushing, shoulders touching – small, unspoken gestures that bound them tighter than any oath.

Marin, Ansel, and Enoch watched them with quiet amusement.

‘You’d think the world was not falling apart,’ Marin muttered once, as the three young men rode ahead, sharing some private joke.

‘Perhaps that is why it still exists,’ replied Ansel. ‘The bonds between men, or even boys, can go a long way towards proving that not all is bad with the world.’

‘If you say so,’ Marin answered.

As if to prove this point, their journey was not entirely without kindness.

Days had passed since they had found Enoch, then one afternoon they came upon a woman struggling with a broken cart upon a narrow track. It stood half off the road, one wheel sunk deep into soft ground, the horse still harnessed and blowing gently, its sides flecked with foam. The woman sat on the cart’s edge, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Though in clear distress, she did not call out as they approached.

Jamal reined in at once. Ansel and Marin both looked to him. The others with them held back.

Jamal felt the familiar pull – the urge to dismount first, to speak, to decide, but instead, he glanced at his friends. Whip met his eyes, uncertain at first. Then Jamal inclined his head, just slightly and nodded.

Whip swallowed and rode ahead, with Deven falling in beside him without being asked.

‘You need some help?’ Whip called, keeping his voice easy.

The woman nodded. ‘Wheel’s cracked. I’ve been here since morning.’

Deven dismounted, crouching to examine the damage. He ran his fingers along the split in the wood, careful, precise.

‘It won’t hold weight like that,’ he said. ‘But we may be able to brace it long enough to allow you to move.’

Whip looked back toward Jamal, then stopped himself.

‘We’ve got some rope,’ Whip said. ‘And some branches may suffice to brace it.’

The woman studied them – really looked – then nodded again. ‘Well, if you think you know what you’re doing.’

Deven’s mouth twitched at that. ‘We’ll manage,’ he replied, while Jamal remained mounted, watching.

He made no correction. He offered no instruction. He felt the moment stretch — uncomfortable, deliberate. Marin shifted, clearly ready to intervene. Ansel said nothing at all.

Deven cut a sturdy forked branch, then after sizing it up against the wheel he trimmed it carefully, before positioning the branch with care.

‘Hold it there,’ Whip said quietly, before he began to work the ropes with confidence, born of years of farm knots, his hands quick and sure. Before long the brace was secured, and they were ready to test it.

‘Can you try to lead the horse forward,’ Whip asked Deven, who quickly went to the horse’s head and took hold of the reins. Making a clicking sound he urged the horse forward, and though the animal tried, the cart remained stuck in the soft going.

‘Some help wouldn’t be rejected,’ Deven called out to their companions. Some of the men chuckled, but still dismounted and offered their shoulders.

Once again Deven clicked up the horse, while at the same time the men leaned into the cart and provided some extra pounds. The wheel groaned but turned, and held, and presently the cart was soon moving forward.

Jamal felt his shoulders ease and let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding inside.

The woman thanked them with tears in her eyes, before continuing on her way.

As they rode on, Ansel shook his head.

‘Knights of the realm,’ he said dryly. ‘Reduced to cartwrights.’

Jamal only smiled.

‘We are yet to bear such title, Sire. But even if we were to have such an honour, if we cannot help our people,’ he said, ‘then what are we fighting for?’

None argued, but Jamal’s point had been noted by all.

That night, as they made camp, Whip approached Jamal, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘You knew we could handle it,’ he said. Not a question.

‘I hoped,’ Jamal replied. ‘And I trusted.’

Whip grinned, something brighter and steadier than before. Deven stood nearby, listening.

Later, when the fire burned low, Jamal watched the two lads move with new ease among the knights – not deferential, not bold, but more certain of their place.

He understood then that stepping back was not abandonment, but trust. It was invitation. And they had answered it, without question.

And when he joined them later, a short distance from the others – to offer them all some small level of privacy – taking his place between them as had become their custom, they thanked him for it.

*   *   *

The camp at Highshaw seemed like old times for Luther and Raemande; the camaraderie amongst the knights, with the newcomers included as well, was as familiar as always. Following their being greeted by Chandar, there were familiar faces to also catch up with, faces emerging from the crowds, some of which hadn’t been seen in years.

But then there were faces from more recent times, and when Luther’s gaze unexpectedly settled on the village boy, Christos, he was more than surprised. His first thought was for his stallion, Majid, who the lad was supposed to be caring for, then in the next instant he thought of the boy, Drake, who would certainly be keen to meet up with the boy from the village.

Quickly he looked around for Drake, but he soon discovered that each had already found the other and were now walking towards each other.

‘Is that the lad you mentioned might be waiting for Drake?’ he heard Raemande say beside him.

‘Yes,’ Luther replied. ‘But he is supposed to be caring for my stallion.’

Just at that moment Chandar rejoined them. ‘Ahhh . . . I see our young friends have found each other once more.’

‘So it seems,’ Luther replied.

‘If you are concerned for your horse, you may rest easy. He is here also. The boy would not leave him . . . but the pull of young love . . . that is something that is hard to resist, so he insisted that he come, and brought your stallion also, leading him beside his own mount, all the way from our valley to here. The boy has a gift with these animals, and you can be proud of placing your trust in him . . . though perhaps a few stern words concerning trust and commitment may be in order?’

‘Perhaps you are right, my Lord,’ Luther replied, while offering his Master a slight bow.

With a chuckle, Chandar wandered off in the direction of several other knights, whom Luther had already spoken with, while Luther turned back towards Drake and Christos and started towards them.

‘Christos!’ Luther called, causing the boy to be startled.

‘Sire,’ the boy replied.

Drake stood beside him, smiling sheepishly.

‘I thought you were caring for my horse?’ the knight said, sternly.

‘But I . . . I am, Sire.’

‘What?’

‘He is here, Sire! Chandar suggested I come to Highshaw, and bring him with us,’

‘Oh, he did, did he?’

‘He said that would be what you would want.’

Luther looked across the camp towards Chandar, who he noticed was looking his way and smiling. He couldn’t help but smile back at him, but he did give a shake of the head with it.

‘Well, I guess he was right,’ Luther replied. ‘Now, perhaps before you two lads take your reunion any further you might at least take the time to take me to see my horse. Can you do that?’

‘Of course, Sire. Right away,’ the boy answered, while grabbing Drake’s arm and starting to drag him with him.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Lead the way, my lad,’ Luther commanded, while slapping Christos on the back as he did so.

‘There are corrals, Sire. We made sure Majid got the largest of these,’ the boy excitedly said, as he started to lead Luther and Drake away from the gathering.

They passed several rows of tents and headed for the ruins, then shortly came to a gap in the ancient walls, which they then passed through. It was here that Luther found a number of rough corrals that had been made using saplings and branches from the nearby forest, and there, standing proudly in the centre corral along one wall, the stallion stood; his ears alert and a breeze lifting his mane.

The horse didn’t see Luther and his companions as they entered the ruins, but then, in an instant he spun around and faced them, snorted, and then whinnied at his master.

A great smile broke over Luther’s face.

‘At least he hasn’t forgotten me,’ he said to his companions.

‘He would never do that, Sire. He was watching the road every day, awaiting your return.’

‘And he gave you no trouble?’

‘None at all, Sire. He was a thorough gentleman.’

‘First time for everything, I guess,’ the knight said, as he reached the corral fence. The horse trotted over, spirited, and stepping high, tossing his head as he came. When he came to a stop in front of Luther, he ended up resting his jaw upon his master’s shoulder, then tilting his head sideways, rubbing it against Luther’s.

‘He . . . he loves you, Sire!’ Drake exclaimed. ‘I’ve never seen a horse so . . . enraptured by an owner.’

‘He’s truly a special one, Drake. Unlike any other horse I’ve ever owned.’

‘He’s unlike any I’ve ever seen, Sire!’

‘Well, if you want to spend the afternoon sitting here watching him, I’m sure he won’t mind. But I suspect that somebody else would like to spend some time watching you. Why don’t the two of you take a walk around the lake . . . there are private places on the far side, if you feel so inclined . . .’

The faces of Drake and Christos both flushed, but it wasn’t very long before they were on their way.

*   *   *

With the return of Prince Raemande, following his rescue, the knights who had gathered were truly keen to hear all of his news. And so, as the sun began to set and the campfires were lit, the gathering around the main fire in the centre of the camp began to swell.

Food was prepared and passed around, and as the gathering settled down it was Chandar who prompted the telling of tales, by asking Luther for his telling of the rescue.

All eyes turned towards the powerful knight, who was seen by many as the next in line to the leadership of the Order, despite his relatively young age. He began to speak; sparing no detail, offering praise where it was due, and warning of what was likely to come.

Sage heads nodded in unison as he spoke, and none more so than that of Chandar, who was taking it all in and devising a path by which they may be able to navigate the future.

When Luther had finished, it was Raemande’s turn to speak. He spoke of how he was captured – tricked into believing that he was about to meet Luther – and then thrown into a prison cart, before being taken to the dreaded prison, Daarkeeth, his people staring at him with blank expressions as he passed them by.

He spoke of the horrors of the prison and the castle dungeon, of the hours of darkness and loneliness he endured, and of the one spark of hope he was given; the infrequent visits from a blind man and a boy, who spoke of a future far brighter than that which he was seeing for himself while incarcerated at the pleasure of the Dark Lord.

At this, the Warlock sat taller, his ears tuned to every word, to every nuance of the Prince’s speech. He knew this man was destined for more than his born station in life – much, much more – even though he was already a Prince, but he also knew that he needed to be cautious with regards to just how much information he handed over. Too much, too soon, may not be a good thing for this cause.

Talk drifted around the campfire, as it always seems to do, with the knights and others present all keen to share their thoughts, their news and adventures. This had always been one of the strengths of the Order; that everyone should feel free to talk their mind, to share their ideas and their fears, and above all, their hopes for what they all knew lay ahead of them.

But what marked this exchange amongst the burning embers in particular, was that it was the first time in many years that so many knights had gathered in one place. Not since the Battle of Jeebath, where the knights had been defeated and the authority of the Dark Lord had been imposed across the lands had there been such a gathering. In the years since that defeat, the surviving knights had scattered upon the winds; some going into hiding, waiting for this very day, when the Order could be restored, while some appeared to be lost altogether. But now, with their numbers growing, and knights seemingly coming back from the dead, there was a new hope – for not only the Order of the Dragon, that was a part of their very soul, but also for the lands themselves, and the restoration of the old realm.

As the conversation flowed, passing from one to the next, with words being taken in by both the young – for many of these knights had their pages and companions with them – and the old, the tales of these men were enlightening. Many nodded as they heard of experiences that they seemed to have shared, with the common factor, for many, being the persecution they had suffered at the hands of the new rulers of the land. It was little wonder that so many had gone into hiding, assuming the identities of common men, as they bided their time, waiting for the call.

When the conversation finally started to wane, it was the knight, Darius, who turned to Chandar, with a twinkle in his eye, who would breathe new life into the evening.

‘I see you are still making sure that you don’t let that sword out of your sight, Sire,’ the knight said to his Master.

Chander looked down at the weapon that sat across his lap and smiled.

‘It lives and breathes, and is a part of me,’ the old knight replied. ‘Just as it will be for he who follows in my footsteps after I am gone.’

‘Perhaps these young ones gathered with us, might like to hear its story?’ Darius added, knowing full well that Chandar could never resist telling and retelling the tale of the magical blade.

Looking around at the eager young faces sitting near the fire, Chandar sighed, and then nodded.

‘This weapon, is unlike any weapon you will ever see,’ Chandar began. ‘This is the Sword of Erasmus, and belonged once to the bravest knight to ever live, and the founder of our beloved order.’

‘Why is it so special?’ a dark-haired young page, named Micah, asked.

‘Because this is the first sword to ever slay a dragon,’ Chandar replied.

The ten or so lads sitting with their masters all seemed to gasp at once, when Chandar said this.

‘And have you slain one?’ another fair-haired lad enquired.

‘Not personally, no.’

‘So how do we know they are real?’ Micah asked.

‘Oh, I have seen a few in my time . . . as have others amongst us . . .’

It was then that Prince Raemande stood and opened his shirt, allowing it to drop off one shoulder, then turned so the lads could see the large scar that ran across his back.

‘From a wyvern's talon,’ he stated. ‘Such treacherous beasts they are.’

After Rae buttoned his shirt once more, Chandar continued.

‘Erasmus was the bravest knight who ever lived,’ Chandar said. ‘Many, many years ago, in a far-off land, there was a village, where the villagers were being terrorised by a huge dragon that had strayed from its home in the mountains. Some of them had even tried to scare it away, but they could not scare a beast such as this and were all eaten for their trouble!

‘Then one day, it so happened that the knight Erasmus was passing through, and the villagers pleaded with him to make their village safe once more. Seeing the fear in their eyes, and being the man of honour that he was, he could not refuse such a request, and so he agreed to go forth into the forests to find the dragon and slay it . . . even though he had never done such a deed before this.’

‘And then what?’ asked Micah.

‘Well, at about the same time, a mysterious sorcerer passed through the village and heard what was happening. On the day that Erasmus had said he would go out into the wilds to tackle the dragon, the sorcerer summoned Erasmus to him. It is said that the sorcerer cast a powerful spell over the sword of Erasmus, giving it magical powers, by imbuing it with the mythical Dragonstone. When Erasmus went out into the forests and found the beast, there was a great battle, and he was able to defeat it using only his sword. No other knight before him had ever killed a dragon so large single-handedly, and while many have tried since, few have ever succeeded.’

As Chandar continued, Luther and Rae couldn’t help but smile at the telling of the tale. They had heard it word for word so many times now that they could recite it verbatim. And it had only been a short time ago when Luther had heard Jamal reciting it, almost word for word, for that group of children in the mountains.

‘So, does that mean there are still dragons out there?’ another lad asked.

‘It stands to reason,’ Chandar replied. ‘Yes, there are, child. But mostly these live in a dangerous land far, far away from here.’

‘Mostly? What does that mean?’

‘Well, there are different types of dragons . . . and then there are the Drakarah . . .’

‘The what?’

‘The Drakarah . . . these are an ancient race that some say have long died out, but others say are still around. They come in the form of a man, yet it is believed they can crawl from the skin of a man and emerge as a terrifying, and blood hungry, dragon . . . and then shift back to the form of a man as they please. In their human form, they can be killed just as any other man. In their dragon form, the only thing that will kill them is to remove their head, or use a weapon made from Dragonstone, such as can be found in this very sword.’

At the mention of this, both Rae and Luther looked sharply at each other. This was something they had known of for many years, yet it seemed to have slipped from their consciousness.

Could it be?

It was then that the Warlock cleared his throat, and everyone looked his way, even though he could not see them.

‘They are real, my friends. It is said that once you have smelt the hot breath of such a beast, you shall never forget it.’

There was silence for a few moments, before Luther eventually spoke.

‘And you . . . have you felt the hot breath of such a beast?’ he asked.

‘I have, Sire.’

‘And how recent was this?’

‘It was recently,’ the Warlock answered calmly.

As the gravity of this answer settled on the knights, they heard a fluttering of wings in a nearby tree and looked up into the darkness, thinking they would see the cause of it.

There was nothing to be seen, except a glowing yellow eye staring back at them. Then, the creature gave a distinctive ‘caw-caw’ call, before fluttering its wings and flying off into the night.

The raven was about to announce their presence. It was almost time for the gathering to move.

To be continued . . .