The Prisoner of Carronne - 12. Chapter 12

-- Chapter Twelve --

‘Warlock!’ the Dark Lord, Septimus, bellowed from the Great Hall, his voice echoing along the stone corridors. ‘Where in the name of Majid are you, you snivelling maggot? Tell me what is happening!’

Before long the Warlock was brought before Septimus and forced to his knees in front of him. This was becoming a daily occurrence, as the Dark Lord’s impatience grew. All that Willem could ever do was repeat what he had said on each of the previous days, telling his captor the same old story, but with just a few tidbits added, which had been held back from his various dreams, or simply made up, to make it different from the last.

But today would be different. Today the Warlock truly did have something to add to the tale he had been weaving for his master.

‘Well? What news do you have for me today?’ Septimus demanded.

‘The knights are gathering, Sire,’ Willem replied, from where he cowered on the cold stone floor. ‘I saw a huge fire, around which the pitiful remnants of the Order of the Dragon were gathered, making plans to rescue their fellow man.’

‘A rescue, you say? What a bold plan!’ Septimus laughed, the sound of it echoing around the hall. ‘Just what we were hoping for! And from where are they launching this brazen attack?’ added the Dark Lord.

‘From the mountains, my Lord. Those which lie to the north of us, I believe, for I saw snow and bitterness amongst the gathering.’

‘Then it is to the north where we shall lie in wait for them, wouldn’t you agree, Judayah?’ Septimus asked of his traitorous subordinate, who emerged from the shadows only once he had been addressed.

‘With utmost confidence, Sire,’ the former knight of the Order replied.

‘Then let our preparations begin. We shall meet them on the roads, and we shall crush this pitiful revival of the Order of the Dragon before it even begins! And I shall have the revenge I seek, with the blood of Luther of Triellium set to flow across the very lands he has failed to protect!’

The Warlock was quickly dragged away, leaving Septimus and the traitor serving him to discuss their plans, while at the same time Willem couldn’t help but delight in the deception he had created for his master.

*   *   *

The amulet was heavier than Jamal had expected. Not necessarily just by its weight alone, but also by its history, and what that meant.

A small disc of blackened steel etched with the coiled dragon of the Order, its wings curved protectively around a sword, its green stone eyes almost alive. It hung now beneath his tunic, the amulet and chain cool against his chest, where Chandar had placed it with both hands. He wasn’t yet a knight, but that moment, when the old man entrusted him with this sacred item, felt almost as if that knighthood had just been placed in his hands, or at the very least, within reach.

‘This will be proof enough of your purpose,’ Chandar had said to him. He knew that any true knight would answer its call. He just needed to deliver his message to those three knights that had been named.

For now, Jamal rode at the head of their small party, the road pale beneath the hooves of their horses, with only small eddies of dust being raised. Behind him came Whip and Deven, the village lads. They were not soldiers, but chosen for reasons beyond strength. Chosen for the promise they both held within them.

The boy, Whip, rode easily, loose-limbed and bright-eyed, guiding his horse with the kind of unconscious grace that came from growing up half-wild in fields and wind. This was the boy that Luther had described as riding like a willow. He laughed often, even when there was little cause, and quietly sang half-remembered songs under his breath.

Deven, the boy with the harelip, rode more carefully, his posture straight, his attention fixed on the road and the fields or forests beyond it. He spoke little, but when he did, Jamal listened. There was steadiness in him, in the way he checked his tack twice, counted rations without fuss, and watched Whip, his childhood friend, with a quiet, protective patience.

To Jamal, they had been strangers when the three riders had left the village. By the second night, the night soon ahead of them, they would not be.

Making camp beneath a stand of ash trees, while there was still light to spare, horses were tied to a picket line and wood was soon gathered for a fire. They were far enough from the road to offer some protection, and the fire was soon crackling low to keep smoke from betraying them. The night was warm, and the stars were sharp overhead.

Whip sprawled on his back, his hands laced behind his head. Deven had set his saddle against a tree and was being cradled by its shape, while Jamal sat beside the fire, slowly poking at some sticks with another.

‘I’ve never been this far from home,’ Whip said lightly. ‘Feels like the world is much bigger than I was told it would be.’

Deven nodded. ‘Or smaller. Once you’re in it.’

Jamal smiled despite himself, loosening his boots and stretching out by the fire. He had already seen far more of the world than these boys would ever see.

‘And what of you, Jamal?’ Deven asked. ‘Is the world as big as they say?’

He simply smiled at his companions, then nodded.

‘It is far bigger than any of us can possibly imagine,’ he said to them. ‘I have seen much, during my travels with Luther. But he tells me I have seen but a fraction of what there is to see.’

The two lads looked at him in awe, but as they began to share bread and dried meat between them, and passed the skin of water, then wine, Jamal shared some of the stories of his life with the knight and the lands he had seen.

As the night settled in, and fatigue softened their edges, laughter came more easily to the three. Then later, when the fire burned down to embers, they all lay close for warmth. Whip pressed his body against Jamal’s back, without even thinking, his breathing slow and even and a hand resting on the hip of the slightly older lad. Deven lay on Jamal’s other side, rigid at first, with his back against the front of Jamal, before then gradually relaxing.

Limbs touched and entwined. Bodies rested against each other in a way that Jamal was familiar with, yet nothing was said.

Any awkwardness that had existed when they had first set out had now disappeared, and trust was beginning to settle between them, like an old blanket; comforting and soft.

In the dark, Jamal thought again of the amulet at his chest, and for the first time wondered whether the Order truly understood the weight of the mission with which he had been entrusted.

*   *   *

A bank of weather lay heavily upon the sea; beyond it the eastern light ran to the colour of rusted steel as the day stretched long, while to the west, from where they had come, the mountains were shrouded in mist. And to the north, a land of fire and ice where the Mountains of Sinaiffe could be found, the colour of the sky was turning an ominous shade.

Even so, Luther could feel the soul of the nearby city. The heaviness of it all hung ominously over all that surrounded the bleak walls.

He and Dart had had parted company with Drake earlier that day, with the arrangement made for them to take the path for the bald hill, upon reaching the cairn. Once the balance of their band of men had gathered there, they would rest the following day, then get a message to Drake inside the city, to say they were ready to meet at the underground entrance upon sundown.

As they rode the path that led from the cairn, they saw nobody. No riders came to meet them and for a few moments Luther began to fear the worst – that his companions had been discovered – but presently, while riding through a thicket of pines, Luther caught the smell of a campfire announcing the presence of others. They rode quietly through the timber, stopping often to listen for any sign, until finally they heard voices that were familiar, mixed with the quiet tones of others.

When they found them, they stopped amidst some trees and watched for a few moments, finding Garrett and the others sitting around the small fire and talking quietly.

Luther glanced at Dart and raised a finger to his lips, to indicate that they needed to remain silent, with Dart flashing a smile in return. But in the end, it was the horses that gave away their presence, with Dart’s own mount being the first to snicker towards its friends, all of whom replied.

While his companions stood, Garrett called out, without even turning to look, ‘Come, my friends and warm yourself by our fire, as meagre as it is!’

Luther dug his heels into the ribs of his mount, and presently emerged from the scrub, with Dart following, as two boys rushed forward to take their mounts and care for them.

‘You took your sweet time,’ Garrett remarked.

‘Ours was the longest route,’ Luther replied.

‘And the city boy?’

‘He left us this morning to ride ahead,’ Luther replied, as he glanced around at the dozen or so faces who were all staring his way. ‘Are we ready for the morrow?’

‘Yes, Sire,’ one of the men replied. He was a solid-looking man, dressed in the clothes of a workman and leaning on a wooden staff. ‘When the boy makes contact with those inside, they shall dispatch word to us.’

‘And what of the Dark Lord and his henchmen? Is there any word of their movements?’

‘It is curious, Sire. A column of men, with the Dark Lord reported to be amongst them,’ another man replied, ‘left the city this very afternoon. To what purpose, we are unsure.’

‘And in which direction were they travelling?’

‘To the north, Sire.’

‘Most fortuitous, wouldn’t you say?’ suggested Garrett.

‘Fortuitous? I’m not so certain. It may appear that luck is on our side, but I would suggest that we need to have them watched,’ Luther replied. ‘Perhaps the Warlock has offered him a vision of our approach?’

‘But you have come from the south, Sire. Why would the column break for the north if the Warlock had seen you coming from the opposite direction?’

‘Why indeed?’ replied Luther. ‘Can we have a rider dispatched to observe them, then return post-haste should they turn around?’

‘It will be done, Sire,’ the man with the staff replied, then snapping his fingers and pointing to one of the boys. ‘Do as the knight asked,’ he commanded, ‘and return at the first sign of any change in their plans.’

‘Of course, Rupert,’ the boy replied, before turning and heading for the horses.

‘And what of our camp while we are inside?’ asked Garrett.

‘Our boys will tend the horses while you are in the city, hidden just outside the walls. They will have them ready for you to depart for Highshaw, just as soon as you have the prisoner and have the need to depart.’

‘And will a horse be available for him also?’

‘Of course, Sire.’

Mugs of warm liquid were thrust into the hands of Luther and Dart, and they moved closer to the fire, finding large stones on which to sit and study the men and boys around them. The fate of more than just this handful of men were resting on this mismatched rabble; it was also the fate of the kingdom, if the words on the winds were to be believed.

Luther looked over the fire and caught the gaze of Garrett.

‘So, they were expecting us, perhaps?’ Garrett asked.

‘That seems a reasonable assumption . . . though I am unsure as to why they are travelling to the north,’ Luther replied.

‘If I may, Sire . . .’ the man, Rupert interjected.

‘Speak!’

‘Word from behind the walls has it that the Warlock has been feeding Septimus the details of his visions, but . . .’

‘But what?’ asked Garrett.

‘The Warlock’s boy, Caleb, and the boy from the kitchen, Tobias, are very close. The words whispered between them tell us that not all of which is seen by the Warlock is passed to the Dark Lord.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Garrett.

‘He means, my friend, that the Warlock is smarter than he is being given credit for,’ Luther replied, offering a chuckle as he did so. ‘He must know the identity of the prisoner they are holding . . . and I have a hunch that he may have helped us in our quest.’

‘Sire?’ asked Rupert.

‘If our Prince can be rescued more easily while Septimus is busy elsewhere . . .’

‘Then perhaps the Warlock feels he can be rescued also?’ suggested Garrett. ‘What a prize he would be, if he can truly be trusted.’

‘What a prize, indeed,’ Luther replied, as he stood and walked a few paces away from the fire, scratching the hairs on his chin as he did so, while all eyes followed his movements.

When finally he stopped and turned back to face the gathering, they could see him smiling.

‘Rupert,’ he asked. ‘Do you have another horse to spare?’

‘One can be found, sire.’

‘See to it. If our quest is successful, we may yet take a willing prisoner of our own!’

*   *   *

‘We are to meet by the mill stream at sundown,’ Rupert said. The knights and their companions had rested throughout the day and by mid-afternoon they were preparing to venture closer to the city. ‘The sewer mouth, which empties into an overgrown gully, will have cover in the afternoon shadows. By nightfall we shall be within the walls and under the skirts of the Dark Lord’s residence.’

Luther made a sound that might have been agreement and might have been something else. He put his hand to the neck of the stout beast he would be riding and felt the animal’s heat, taking strength from it. As they broke camp one of the lads pissed on the meagre fire, a poor joke against the falling cold, before tucking away his manhood and grinning at the others. He had noticed Garrett staring at him as he had done so, and the inevitable question was soon on his mind.

Silently they rode through the forest, led by Rupert, until sometime later they dropped down into a deep gully, hidden by forest. Eventually they came to a dark space guarded by leafy saplings, and Rupert reined in his horse, while holding up a hand, signalling for his companions to halt.

‘They will be waiting within,’ Rupert said quietly. ‘There will be boys to handle our horses while we are inside.’

‘We will need for you to remain here, Rupert,’ Luther said. ‘We thank you for everything you have done, but it would do you no good to risk being seen inside with us . . . there could be ramifications for you, or your family, and I do not want that on my conscience.’

The crestfallen look on the local man’s face spoke volumes, but he gave a nod of understanding, before dismounting. Silently, the remaining men and boys did the same, with the boys quickly gathering the reins of the horses and setting up a line to which they would all be tethered.

As Luther and Garrett and their men gathered around, the knight rested a hand on the shoulder of the man who had led them here. ‘The Order thanks you, and your boys,’ Luther solemnly said.

‘Save the thanks for when you rescue our Prince. Only then will our job be done.’

‘As you wish,’ Luther replied. The two men grinned at each other, then with a nod, the knight led his men into the void, brushing past the leafy saplings and hoping that they would not be disappointed by what they find.

Darkness swallowed the men as they moved deeper inside, and when he stopped, it was Garrett who ran into him, having not been able to see him do so.

‘Ooomph,’ Garrett complained.

‘Shush!’ Luther scolded.

Luther looked back towards the entrance, where he could see darkness quickly descending outside. He hoped that Drake and the urchins that would be their guides would quickly emerge from this inky blackness before them.

‘So, where are they?’ Luther heard Garrett whisper in his ear.

‘They will come.’

*   *   *

The ambush on the road to the birch country came shortly after dawn, just as the three riders struck out from their night camp.

Jamal, who was leading the line, was struck by a blow; from a hefty branch that swung on a rope, knocking him from his horse. Amidst yells and the flash of steel, their world became one of dust and shouts and chaos, but it was over in minutes.

When it cleared, the three lads were on their knees, wrists bound, weapons stripped away, while two men, one old, one young, stood over them – rough, scarred, smelling of old leather and greed – with gap-toothed smiles beaming down on their captives.

‘Lucky day,’ one said, as he slowly turned Jamal’s sword over in his hands. ‘Very lucky indeed.’

Roughly, they were dragged to their feet, before being marched along the road and then down a narrow path through the forest, to a ruined shepherd’s hut, and then locked inside. They were watched only loosely, as the robbers began dividing their meagre spoils, and it was then that Jamal felt it; the sudden, sick absence at his chest.

The amulet.

His breath caught. Without it, his mission was nothing. But worse; the Order’s call could be mocked, ignored, or stolen while in the wrong hands.

Whip saw his face and stilled. ‘What is it?’

‘They have something they must not keep,’ Jamal said quietly.

Deven met his gaze, understanding dawning. He nodded once.

With their hands still tied, and tethered around a post inside the hut, they were limited by what they could do, especially while their attackers were still in the room with them.

Jamal glanced around them, looking for anything that may be of use, but there was little he could see. He knew, however, that he still had an advantage, as their attackers had not claimed every prize that was available to them. He could feel the small stiletto that was still secreted inside the shaft of his boot, which reached almost to his knees.

It was foolish of these robbers not to thoroughly search their victims, he thought.

All they could do now was wait. And prepare.

When the robbers left them, Jamal nudged Whip.

‘I think I can get us out of here,’ he whispered.

‘How so?’ the lad answered.

‘There is a stiletto in the shaft of my boot. If I can raise my leg, I may be able to reach it . . . or one of you may be able to do so.’

‘Then you must try,’ Whip replied.

While leaning his back against the pole and balancing on one leg, Jamal was able to raise his leg, but try as he might, he couldn’t quite get his knee close enough to his hands to be able to reach the top of the boot.

‘It is of no use,’ he said, after several failed attempts, at several different angles.

‘Try leaning forward and swinging your leg back between us,’ Deven suggested.

Jamal was sceptical, but still he tried. On the second attempt, Deven was able to grab Jamal’s ankle and hold his leg off the ground. It was difficult, but with Jamal’s leg nearest to Whip’s hands, after several attempts he managed to slip his fingers between the shaft of the boots and the skin of his companion’s leg.

‘You’re close,’ Jamal said. ‘Just a little further.’

And then they both felt it, as Whip’s fingers touched the top of the hilt. It took a few moments, but eventually he managed to place a finger on either side of the hilt and squeeze them together, then pull the stiletto just a fraction.

‘You’ve got it!’ Jamal exclaimed.

‘It is just a touch. It isn’t in my hand as yet.’

‘But it soon will be,’ Jamal replied. ‘Try again.’

Doing as ordered, Whip tried again. This time, with the knife a little closer to the top of the boot, he was able to find it easier, and the blade slid upwards a little further. Repeating the action several times, it wasn’t long before the hilt appeared and Whip was finally able to withdraw it from Jamal’s boot.

With much relief, Deven released his hold on Jamal’s leg and each of the three breathed a sigh of relief. The stiletto was now held between them, out of sight, and if their captors returned now, they would be none the wiser.

‘Can we cut the ties that bind us?’ asked Deven.

‘I think so,’ answered Whip, who still held the stiletto in his hands. Carefully, he tried to position the steel against the ropes and started see-sawing the blade back and forth. He had no idea which rope he was attacking, but he worked feverishly, and finally received a reward for his efforts, with one of Deven’s hands finally coming free.

‘Let me have the blade,’ demanded Deven, and having been half-freed, he took the knife from Whip, and was able to quickly cut through the remaining ropes, freeing both of his companions, who vigorously rubbed their wrists to get the circulation moving once more.

‘What next?’ asked Whip, but just then they heard the sound of whistling outside the hut. Their captors were returning.

Jamal dared a glance through the window opening and could see just one of the robbers, the younger one, returning in the late afternoon gloom.

‘Quickly, stand back at the post, as if you are still tied,’ he said to his friends, while quickly taking hold of the blade and standing behind the door.

‘What are you going to do?’ whispered Deven.

‘I don’t know.’

Moments later the door flung open and the two lads looked in that direction. The man stepped into the hut, revealing himself to Jamal, but in that instant, Whip glanced from the man to Jamal and back again, which must have alerted him to something being wrong.

The man spun and faced Jamal, rage in his eyes as he reached for his sword, but the lad reacted with greater speed. In one swift movement he lunged forward, driving the stiletto deep into the front of the man’s throat and twisting it. The feeling of the blade slicing through flesh and hitting something solid – bone perhaps – vibrated through Jamal’s arm as he held the blade in place, while blood gushed out over his hand.

The man grasped the lad’s arm, while a deep, gurgling sound came tumbling from the gaping wound, but when his eyes rolled into the back of his head the robber dropped to his knees, letting go of Jamal as he did so, and then falling to one side onto the earthen floor.

It all happened so fast that Jamal had hardly had the time to react, much less think. Whip bounded forward and kicked the bottom of the door, shutting it, while Jamal just stood there, his mouth agape, still holding the bloody blade in his equally bloody hand and staring at it.

Whip’s hand found the shoulder of Jamal, who slowly turned to face him.

‘You did what needed to be done,’ Whip said.

‘I . . . I know . . .’

‘We must leave this place . . . and quickly,’ Deven suggested.

Jamal’s attention snapped towards Deven. He was squatting down beside the dead man, searching his pockets, having already relieved him of his weapons.

‘We need to retrieve that which was taken from us,’ Jamal said.

‘He doesn’t have the amulet on him,’ Deven said.

‘Then it must be with the other man,’ Whip remarked.

Jamal was moving before either of the other two lads could react. He leaned down and wiped his hand and the blade on the shirt of the dead man, then returned the stiletto to its usual hiding place, before then taking the sword from Deven.

‘Then there is no time to lose,’ Jamal said. ‘Come!’

In the failing dusk, Jamal led his companions from the hut. They found the other robber squatting by a small fire with his back to them.

‘Did you get what you wanted from the flesh of that dark-skinned lad?’ he said, with a laugh, at the approach of footsteps, yet without even having turned around.

‘He proved to be far too much trouble,’ Jamal replied, as he rested the point of the sword at the top of the man’s neck, just below his skull.

For a long moment the older man was silent.

‘Then it appears we underestimated you striplings,’ the robber said, while at the same time, and out of the view of the lads, who were all behind him, he slowly moved a hand beneath the leather vest he wore, finding the hilt of a concealed dagger.

‘It appears you may have,’ Jamal replied. ‘Now, return the amulet, if you please.’

‘Oh, I think not,’ the robber replied, then in one swift motion, and before Jamal had barely had time to react, the man pulled the dagger from beneath his vest, spun and lunged at his young challenger.

There was barely any time to even think. But somehow, Jamal moved, and using his sword, he was able to deflect the path of the dagger just far enough for the attack to miss its target. The clank of steel on steel echoed around them, and then, recovering quickly, Jamal thrust the sword forward.

The blade went in clean, shockingly easy, through leather vest and flesh, and the man fell with a sound Jamal would hear again and again in dreams that would follow.

But for now, there was only silence.

Deven was shaking, staring at Jamal with something like awe and horror entwined. Whip stood pale, blood on his sleeve that was not his own.

Jamal knelt, hands trembling, and retrieved the amulet from the fallen man’s pouch. He pressed it to his forehead once, briefly – a gesture he did not remember learning – then returned it to its rightful place around his neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, not quite knowing to whom he was directing his apology, while Deven placed a hand on his shoulder. Steady. Present. Real.

‘You saved us,’ he said simply.

‘He did only what any knight would do,’ Whip responded. ‘And now, my brothers, we must rid this place of any sign of our passing, and leave it behind.’

To be continued . . .