The Prisoner of Carronne - 22. Chapter 22

-- Chapter Twenty-two --

Jamal set off in search of the grotto, with almost as many thoughts in his head as there were stars in the sky. Deven and Whip had made to follow him, but Luther’s gentle hand on Deven’s shoulder and a quiet suggestion that they give their friend a little time alone, was heeded.

The two lads held back and found a spot near the fire, where they were soon joined by Christos – who was from their own village – and his friend, Drake.

After a short search, with a torch in hand, Jamal found the grotto exactly where he had been told it was, a shadowy recess in the side of the hill near to where the forest began. When he arrived there, however, he found that it was already occupied; the light of several candles illuminating the forms of a man and a boy.

Jamal stopped when he saw them there, and was about to turn and walk away when a voice stopped him.

‘Come,’ the man said. ‘Do not let me scare you off.’

‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’

‘You’re not disturbing us. In fact, I would like the chance to chat.’

‘You know who I am?’ Jamal asked.

‘You are the gatherer of knights,’ the man replied. ‘And you have seen the pebble beach of Shalamar, if I am not mistaken.’

Jamal stepped closer to the candlelight and studied the man and boy for a moment, but said nothing.

‘They call me the Warlock,’ the man continued. ‘I was rescued from . . .’

‘From Castle Carronne,’ Jamal said, while finishing the man’s sentence. He had already heard the news in the short time since his arrival in Highshaw.

He noticed the old man smile in the flickering light, but seeing the dark hollows where his eyes should have been shocked him.

‘So, is it true that you have walked on the beach at Shalamar? It has been many years since I have had that pleasure.’

‘You know it, then?’ Jamal asked.

‘I do,’ the Warlock replied. ‘Shalamar was my home . . . the place of my birth. How I wish that I could one day walk across that beach once more. Could you . . . could you describe it for me, do you think? Tell me what it is like now.’

‘I would be honoured to,’ Jamal answered. ‘But I believe that I can do better than that, my friend,’ as he set his own torch into a metal ring attached to the stone wall.

‘Oh?’ the Warlock answered.

‘I can let you touch it once more,’ Jamal answered, as he reached into the pocket of his pants and retrieved his keepsake from that location – the blue-green stone, that was streaked with white – and then stepped forward to be in front of the Warlock.

As he reached down and took hold of the old man’s hand, he remembered the feeling he’d had on that day when he had walked the beach and collected the stone; the feeling that one day he would need to speak of this place to someone who could not see it. He knew the truth of it lay not in the story alone, but also in how it felt to touch that shore, where the sea remakes the world one small stone at a time. He knew that was what the Warlock needed to hear.

After placing the stone in the old man’s hand and then closing his fingers over it, Jamal then sat down beside him.

‘That is a stone from the pebbled beach,’ Jamal said. ‘It is blue-green in colour, with a streak of white. I picked it up from amongst a million coloured stones of every hue imaginable. I have never seen a sight so beautiful.’

‘Can you describe it to me?’ the old man asked, in a voice so soft that it could barely be heard. He was holding the stone tightly and feeling its energy, in awe that such an item could seem like it was alive, yet knowing that there are things in this world that constantly surprise us and leave us wondering.

‘There is a village, with whitewashed, thatch-roofed homes built of stone, and an inn,’ Jamal began. ‘From there, the land slopes down to the sea. There are birds everywhere, floating on the wind, barely moving, yet somehow staying in the air, and there is a headland at the northern end. Fishing boats rock on the waves in the harbour, waves that roll in without stopping. They wash over these bright stones, moving them, polishing them, then settling them back in place again . . .

‘I walked along that beach, listening to the waves and the squawking birds, feeling the spray of the sea on my skin, and hearing the crunching sound of those glittering stones beneath my boots. In a world where there is such little beauty in these times we live in, I felt blessed to have visited that place, and I can only hope and pray, that one day I will be able to visit it again.’

In his own mind, the Warlock was walking that beach with Jamal, just as he had once done as a child, laughing, and sharing adventures with his friends. How he loved to listen to the waves and the birds, hear the sound of the coloured stones beneath his feet, watch the fishermen at work, and feel the sea spray on his skin.

Somewhat clumsily, the Warlock reached out and found Jamal’s hand, then clasped it in both of his.

‘Hold on to your memories, my young knight, for there may come a time when they are all you have,’ the old man said, while he now held Jamal’s hand in one of his own, and gently stroking the young man’s palm with his other hand.

Jamal glanced up at the Warlock’s boy, who he could see was smiling.

‘I feel that you have much love in your heart . . .’ the Warlock said. ‘Enough perhaps, for two. And you have a long and worthy life ahead of you . . . as a seeker of the truth, an agent of justice, a giver of compassion, and a servant to the downtrodden, the oppressed, the unfortunate and the beggars . . . they will all have a friend in you as you travel these lands with your companions.’

‘And you have seen all this?’ Jamal asked, sounding more than just a little surprised.

‘This, and more, my young knight . . . but that may have to wait for another time, I feel, as there is much to be done by the midnight hour. I also feel a presence here that awaits you, and so I shall take my leave.

‘Should you feel the need for further knowledge, I am at your service,’ he added, before standing, and then turning to his boy. ‘Please lead me from this place, Carel, as I am needed elsewhere.’

Jamal watched as the strange couple left the grotto, before remembering then the Warlock’s words about a presence waiting for him. Getting to his feet he looked around him, but found no one. What he did find, however, was a small nook set into the rock wall, within which could be found a white statue – though of whom it might represent, he could not be certain. Before it, there was a small kneeling bench for prayer facing the statue, and so Jamal walked over to it, placing his hand on the high board for a few moments, before then dropping to his knees, and clasping his hands together in front of his face – resting his forehead on his hands and his elbows on the board.

The faint drip of water echoed like a distant whisper, as light from his torch flickered across the damp walls, casting long shadows that danced like restless spirits. He had come here seeking something he could scarcely name – guidance, perhaps, or merely the comfort of knowing he was not entirely alone as he rode toward whatever darkness awaited him. The weight of his fresh knighthood pressed upon his shoulders, feeling heavier than it should, as if he was already wearing the newly-forged armour he had been promised.

Closing his eyes, he drew a slow breath and spoke into the silence, his voice low and earnest.

‘Father . . . Lucius of Jeebath, whom I have never met. If you truly have been watching over me all these years, if it was your hand that steadied mine during the trials, then hear me now. I am knighted at last, as you once were. The road before me is shadowed and uncertain. Evil gathers where good men once held the line and I fear for the future. I fear for those I have come to love. Give me your strength, Father. Give me your wisdom. Let me make you proud, as I have longed to do since the day I first lifted a sword in your name.’

For a long moment, only the soft dripping of water answered him, but then the air grew strangely warm, carrying the faint scent of oiled steel and wood smoke. Lifting his head he looked around him, into the darkness, but there was nothing to be seen, at least until he caught a flicker of movement near the entrance.

Jamal looked, and then looked again, as before his eyes a figure took shape in the shimmering torchlight – not solid flesh, but a luminous silhouette clad in the black tunic with the red cross, the very same tunic he had seen in the Forest of Graysmark, a replica of which he was now also holding.

Lucius of Jeebath appeared much as Jamal had always imagined him: tall and broad-shouldered, his face bearing the same strong jaw and dark eyes that stared back at Jamal from his own reflection. A faint scar traced his left cheek, and his hair was streaked with premature silver, as though the battles he fought had claimed years from him even in death. His expression was stern, yet softened by quiet pride.

The spirit’s voice resonated gently through the grotto, deep and measured, like the tolling of a distant bell. ‘My son . . . Jamal. You have already made me proud – more than you know. I have walked beside you unseen since the day you drew your first breath. It was my hand that turned the blade aside when death reached for you when you were challenged. But strength is not given, my boy – it is forged. You carry my blood, yet the courage that will see you through the trials ahead must be your own. Trust in the knight you have become. Face any dragons, in whatever form they take, not for my name, but for the realm you have sworn to protect. And know this: win or fall, I will be watching still. Go with honour, Jamal. Go with my blessing. I am proud of you, my son.’

The apparition lingered a moment longer, a faint, reassuring smile touching Lucius’ spectral lips, before slowly beginning to fade away. Jamal blinked for a moment, expecting only darkness to be present when he opened his eyes once more, but there, slowly appearing were two figures approaching him.

Knowing that his father was leaving him, he was expecting to feel alone once more, but now, with Deven and Whip approaching, emerging from the darkness in place of his spectral sire, he knew that he would never be alone again.

*   *   *

‘Are you alright?’ Deven asked, as the three of them headed back towards the ruins a short time later.

‘Actually, I think I am,’ Jamal answered. ‘My father appeared to me, and I am at peace.’

‘We are glad,’ Deven answered.

Whip, always the smart mouth added, ‘So now that you’re a high and mighty Knight of the Order, I guess that means you’ll need to get yourself a squire now, does it?’

‘Why?’ asked Jamal.

‘Well, don’t all knights need to have a squire, or page, or whatever they are called?’ Whip answered, while coming to a stop.

The others stopped and turned back to face him.

‘Well?’ asked Whip.

‘Well, I guess that’s what everyone does, but I thought that I already had two . . .’ Jamal replied. ‘Don’t I? Didn’t you hear Chandar say that he thought we made a good team?’

‘Are you . . . are you sure?’ Deven asked.

‘I have never been more certain of anything, ever!’ Jamal answered. ‘The question is, will you have me?’

Whip let out a loud whoop, and Deven laughed, then the two boys embraced him.

‘Of course!’ they both replied, before they set off once more for the ruins, with a new spring in their step.

They found there were knights still gathered there, talking with Chandar, and with each other, and they quietly joined them in semicircle of men facing Chandar, while the knights were sharing old stories, legends and half-forgotten truths. The tale of Erasmus and the first dragon slain was mentioned. The blending of the Dragonstone into the blade that carried its power; the Sword of Erasmus.

Chandar spoke often. Of kings lost. Of princes hidden. Of councils corrupted. And of Septimus – always there, always waiting, always watching.

‘The Drakarah,’ one of the older knights muttered. The word – one that was new to Jamal – lingered in the air. Some understood it. Some still dared not ask.

But the meaning was clear enough. There was something ancient stirring beneath the surface of the world. Another danger to face. And it wore the shape of a man.

‘And what of the trail to the south?’ one of the knights, whose name was not known to Jamal, asked Chandar. ‘Is it clear and passable for a legion such as this? As I recall, from my last visit here, there was no usable trail.’

‘It is, Sir Brynden. The mountain clans, whose men have been hiding and training these past years – waiting for the time when they would surely be needed – had seen to it that the trail was passable.’

‘And where are they now, my Lord?’

‘Waiting for us,’ Chandar replied, with a wry smile. ‘Outside of this valley. Guarding the south trail for us.’

Sometime near midnight the call went out that riders were approaching and Chandar rose, peering out into the darkness past the campfire, with Luther and Raemande beside him. Presently three riders came into view, and stopped at the edge of the firelight, before dismounting and then dropping to one knee.

‘What say you?’ Chandar asked them.

‘They are gathering, my Lord. They have reached the eastern trail,’ the rider nearest to Jamal replied.

‘And the other trails?’

‘The same on the northern trail, my Lord,’ the next rider answered.

‘And to the west also, my Lord. It seems they have brought a battalion for each trail from Carronne, and moved them to the head of each.’

‘So, they have overlooked the south, just as expected. Judayah the Traitor is far too predictable,’ Raemande added.

‘So it seems,’ replied Chandar. ‘And so, the hour is now at hand, my friends. Are we ready to depart this sanctuary?’

‘We are, my Lord,’ Luther replied. ‘As knights of the Order, we travel light, so let us move! You all know what we must do.’

Luther then turned towards the gathering, while nearby stood Chandar, Raemande and Garrett.

The men waited for his words, and so Luther raised his voice so that all could hear.

‘Men of the realm,’ he called. ‘This is just the beginning. We have not won a victory as yet. We are simply surviving, and should we survive, then greater challenges will face us. This adventure is but one act in a much larger play.’

The knights listened intently.

Luther looked across the gathering, at farmers, knights, rebels, and warriors who had chosen to stand together.

‘There are greater things at stake than simply escaping this valley. We must succeed, so that we can live to fight another day.’

He paused.

‘Prepare yourselves, men . . . for the acts that will surely follow.’

‘Here! Here!’ came the unanimous response.

Luther then turned towards Jamal and motioned for him to join him.

‘Sire?’ Jamal asked.

‘I have a task for you and your companions,’ Luther said. ‘Chandar must be among the first to leave, and you must escort him safely through the south pass.’

‘As you wish, Sire.’

*   *   *

And so, the exodus began; of knights and their supporters, of squires and pages, cooks and tradesmen. Quietly they moved towards the beginning of the trail that would take them to safety, beneath a sliver of moon that barely showed them the way.

With Chandar riding between Jamal and Deven, and Whip following closely behind, they were joined by some of the older knights, whose wise heads would be useful in a pinch. Behind them, the remaining knights organised the departing members of the Order and kept the caravan moving, while a few of the older squires went from campfire to campfire, keeping these burning, to give the impression that the knights were still present.

The trail they rode upon was still narrow and steep in places, but was passable, and they made steady, if quite slow, progress.

Jamal wasn’t sure of the time, it must have been several hours since they had set out, but when he looked back down below them at the valley floor, where campfires still burned, it appeared that there must still be a vast number of knights in residence. He could only hope that Chandar’s ruse would work.

When Chandar came to a stop, he reined his horse in beside him.

‘What is it, my Lord?’

‘Look to the rim of the valley, lad. East, north and west,’ was all the old knight said, and that was all that was needed to be said, for it was unmistakable. There were bright bonfires burning at the start of each trail, and as he examined each one, he could see movement around them.

The forces of Septimus were on the move. Their attack had begun.

To be continued . . .