Darkburn Book 4: The Haunt of Ternss by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 37

After he had galloped away from the fires and the darkburn writhing on the beach, Rothir wondered if he was doing the right thing. Should he have abandoned his fellow Riders, leaving them to face that monster? His heart constricted as he thought of what might be happening behind him.

There had been no opportunity to consult Huldarion. Yet surely his chieftain would agree that their Kelvhan allies needed to be warned. Even if the main army was not at immediate risk, the Kelvhan commander Rhadlun and his men were currently imperilled; to say nothing of Gaelera – and if the Kelvhans were not informed, they would demand to know why not.

Even so, his heart misgave him. And it was heavy riding on these wetlands despite their flatness. He had reached the Red Roads now, and was some distance from the sea; the splash of Narba’s hooves replaced the roar and hush of waves. The walk along the beach came to his mind – a brief, still idyll, a point of peace on that slow shining shore; a moment outside normal time, such as can never last.

Here too it was peaceful but in a different way. The standing stones in their long lines proclaimed their rule, but as stones only, with no echo of lingering humanity. The land seemed animated rather by the silky streams, the air tumultuous with birds – high clouds of them wheeling, calling. Rothir, as he slowed his panting horse, felt alone in a way he seldom did. He had never suffered loneliness on his long travels, no matter how solitary, till now.

I should like some company, he thought. He bent to pat Narba’s neck and murmur reassurance to himself as much as to his horse. When he looked back up, he saw the path ahead was not empty after all.

But that was not an army there, behind the standing stones. It was a troop, no more than thirty men, whom he recognised as Kelvhan soldiers in their distinctive gear; so he steered Narba towards them.

Two horsemen came cantering to meet him, swords upraised. At closer quarters the swords were lowered and the men dipped their heads respectfully.

“My Lord of the Vonn. A felicitous encounter. Our greetings to you and to your kin.”

“Who leads you?” asked Rothir, with no time for such niceties.

“We accompany his most glorious Highness, the Lord Faldron, High Prince and Royal Heir of Kelvha and its dominions.”

“Take me to him.” What was Faldron doing here, alone? – Well, not exactly alone, but separate from his army. It was unexpected. Even bizarre.

The prince’s company, as he approached, made an attractive picture, with the red leather and gold braid of the horses’ gear reflected in the meandering waters. Rothir felt drab as he rode up to the Prince, who, surrounded by his men and clad in a crimson velvet cloak, stood gazing up towards the nearest stone.

Faldron turned to greet him. “Captain Rothir, I believe. How goes it? Have you killed any more tigers lately?”

“My Lord,” said Rothir, dismounting and making a perfunctory bow, “I bring troubling news from our camp further west. May I ask, where is the main body of your army?”

“Behind us,” said Faldron, waving an airy arm at the distant haze east of the Red Roads. Rothir saw no trace of any army. “I had a mind to view this place close up. Most wild and strange, is it not? Yet I have a liking for these primitive structures.”

“But the rest of your men?”

Faldron gave a shrug. “There was no need for all the train to follow me. An unnecessary upheaval, Nerogun thought, although Jeveran did not agree. Mind you, Nerogun is not really much of an adventurer, is he? And Shargun, too – a lazy man. I have no great opinion of his enterprise or his abilities. I think I shall have him replaced when this campaign is over.”

Rothir was taken aback. He found this frankness alarming, although the men around the prince appeared unmoved. Perhaps they were accustomed to such comments; which in itself would be equally alarming. He glanced round at them briefly, assessing them. Only some half dozen had the appearance of warriors. Most looked like elegant courtiers. What had Nerogun been thinking of?

“I am glad you have a retinue with you.”

“Jeveran insisted on it,” said the prince.

“Indeed, there may be dangers lurking.”

“Not here, though,” said Faldron. “We can see for miles. I perceive no dangers.”

“None the less–”

“I am no child,” said Faldron, although to Rothir’s mind that was exactly what he was. But there was a cold edge in the prince’s voice. “What is this troubling news you bear?”

Rothir bowed again, more deeply this time. “I spoke through concern for your Highness, not through any disrespect. And my concern has foundation. I bring word of a gigantic darkburn, which emerged from the sea in the shape of a massive serpent. It destroyed some of our tents and attacked the building in which many of our Riders were camping, along with the detachment of your own men. The Lady Gaelera was also sleeping nearby.”

“Nerogun’s men. Nerogun’s daughter,” said the prince with casual hauteur.

“I hope and trust that they all remain safe,” said Rothir; “for I left them still fighting the darkburn, when I rode here to warn you.” He felt his warning was inadequate. It did not make the impact that he had expected. But how else could he say it? “In truth, my Lord–”

“A giant serpent,” said the prince. “That would be a thing worth seeing, would it not, Dughin?”

The man to whom he spoke grinned, showing all his teeth. “If it exists,” he said. He had fierce eyes beneath dark eyebrows that did not match his yellow hair. Rothir recognised him: the noble who had fought Parthenal in the castle jousts, and had cheated to secure a draw.

“We shall find out,” said Faldron. “We shall go down to the sea.”

“If the darkburn is anywhere close, you would be far better staying away,” said Rothir, dismayed. This was exactly the opposite result to what he had intended. “Believe me, it’s a monstrous beast that burns everything it touches.”

“But we have the stones,” said Faldron. “They will protect us.”

“They had little effect back there amongst the Vonn,” said Rothir grimly. “This creature is too large, I think, to notice them. My Lord, I beg you to return to your main army.”

“Oh, I shall: once I have been down to the shore. It is only a few miles from here, I understand?”

“That is so, sire,” said another of his men, more deferential than Dughin.

“Your Highness! Please send word, at least, to your commanders,” Rothir urged.

“Very well; if that will appease you, I shall send a message.”

Rothir heard this with relief. He was not so relieved when Faldron summoned the two most tough-looking of his men – the two who had ridden over to accost Rothir – to take his message to the army. He would have preferred the ablest warriors to stay with their prince.

Faldron scribbled on a paper and handed it over to one of them, unsealed.

“To whom shall we give it, Sire? The Lord Post-Regent or the Arch-Lord Marshal?”

“Neither. Give it to Commander Jeveran,” replied the prince.

“Sire.” The pair bowed and departed.

“Come, Rothir,” said Faldron. “Let us ride together, to the sea.” He mounted his horse, and without waiting for his companions spurred it on, to canter splashingly through the ruddy shallows. His men hastened to follow, but kept a careful distance.

So did Rothir. He felt that he had hardly discharged his duty as he ought: Faldron did not take the warning seriously. If he saw the darkburn, what might the Prince do? What rash foolhardy action might he take next?

“Sorry, Narba,” he muttered to his horse. “It’s only another few miles. And then we’ll head back to the camp.”

Narba shook his mane and ploughed on through the streams, his hoofbeats spraying Rothir’s face. He tasted the drops: sweet at first, though a mere five minutes later they were salt. Sea birds called and he felt a rush of wings above his head quite separate to the rushing wind of riding.

When he looked up, there was a skimming flock, sharp-winged, flying with such rapid skill! Such arrowed lightness! He wished that he were one of them, free from the cares of this world below. Freed of the necessity to fight and kill… When he looked down again, for an instant he saw beside his path a line of faces, and knew them all for men that he had slain.

He shook away the illusion and hurried after Faldron. Before long the Prince arrived at the final ring of stones where Rothir had stood so recently with Parthenal, contemplating carts. But Faldron did not enter the stone circle. Instead he rode on past it to the shore, with his men in a royally gleaming train behind him. A fine sight, and a pointless one, thought Rothir.

Over the last low rise they went, until Faldron pulled his horse up on a dune. One heedless courtier rode on beyond him, realised his mistake, and retreated quickly.

Faldron gave the man a single, cold-eyed look. Then he gazed out across the waves. “I see no serpent.” He sounded disappointed. Rothir was relieved.

“There is none,” said Dughin.

“Look: there is a bank of cloud, or smoke, there to the west,” one of his retinue put in tentatively.

“I had observed it,” Faldron said. He walked his horse, more slowly, down to the lapping waves. But when his men began to follow he signalled them to keep away. Instead, he beckoned to Rothir to accompany him.

“Still no serpent,” he remarked.

“I think that may be steam,” said Rothir, carefully watching the far bank of cloud, “that marks the presence of the darkburn out to sea.”

“A pity it is not closer,” said the prince. “I have heard tell of enormous sea-serpents in our old legends. There was one called the linwyrm.” His voice held a faint note of longing, and Rothir hastened to disabuse him of any fairy-tale imaginings.

“This one was not like the serpents of our stories; nor, indeed, was it anything like the smaller serpents of real life. It was vast, appalling, with scales burnt black, and although it came out of the sea, it was far hotter than a forge.”

Faldron frowned out at the waves for several minutes. Then he sighed, echoing the wistful murmur at his feet.

“No serpent,” he repeated. “Tell me, Captain Rothir, in whom should I trust?”

“What?”

“In whom should I trust? Nerogun or Shargun? Post-Regent or the Arch-Lord Marshal?”

Rothir was at a loss. Was this a genuine query, or some sort of test?

“Have you reason to distrust either?” he countered.

“Only that they distrust each other,” Faldron said, his voice flat and low. “I need advisors, and those two should both be by my side. But they do not pay enough attention to me.”

“I am sure they–”

“Oh, I don’t require them to bow and scrape. That’s not what I mean. I do require them to treat me as an intelligent adult who will soon be sole ruler of my country. Those two do not know me, and they do not try to.”

“They are… perhaps... accustomed each to rule alone,” said Rothir cautiously, “in their own spheres.”

“Not quite alone. They’ve been hand in glove, those two. But they have lately fallen out, it seems. Perhaps I should be asking you not which one to trust, but rather which one is the stronger.”

“I know nothing of these matters,” said Rothir. “Are they not fast friends?” That was what he had understood.

“Oh, they’ve always been friends at each others’ throats. One would happily stick a knife in the other if he could do it with more benefit than loss.” Rothir was shocked; yet he guessed that there was likely to be some truth in the words. “Recently, one did,” Faldron went on. “A noble of Nerogun’s family was killed in the Kelvhan markets, by Shargun’s orders.”

“I think I heard something about that. Who was he?”

“A man called Daravun. A decorative nobody. He won’t be missed; but he was Nerogun’s kinsman. It was symbolic.”

“How can you be sure–”

“The knife found in his throat was made by Shargun’s cousin,” murmured Faldron. “All Shargun’s family use those knives. And afterwards, to avenge his death, Nerogun sent an assassin to kill one of Shargun’s clan.”

“What?” Rothir was dismayed not only by this information but by the fact that the High Prince was choosing to confide in him.

“You saw him yourself. In the music hall: the assassin was a low-born serf, disguised as a musician. A poor musician, and not a very competent assassin, but the message was more important than the act. You were there, were you not, when he made the attempt?”

“Yes,” said Rothir, “but I thought the man was aiming to kill Nerogun. I assumed he must be a fanatic – a religious zealot. He cried out the name of Borgun.”

Faldron shook his head. “Camouflage,” he said, “to disguise his real intent. Three of the men standing beside Nerogun at that moment were of Shargun’s family. The castle is full of them. Like a warren full of weasels. One of those men could well have died had not the assassin been slain first.”

Rothir was silent, looking out upon the sea; contemplating the mysteries held within. Mysteries everywhere.

“Your Highness, pardon me,” he said after a few moments, “but how can you know who ordered the assassin to act?” That the assassin had been commanded by some higher force he did not doubt. But he had thought it was simply the imaginary Borgun.

“I have been informed that the slave received his instructions from Nerogun.”

“Informed by whom?”

“By my own servants. A message was found within his quarters,” said the Prince, “which bore the traces of Nerogun’s seal.”

“Another man might use his seal.”

“None ever has before. Do you think he loans it out?”

Again that harsh note in the Prince’s voice. He might be a callow-looking youth encased in velvet, but Rothir suspected that within the courtly casings was a man of steel. No wonder his courtiers were wary of him… Most of them, at any rate.

He looked around. “Was it not that man Dughin who slew the assassin?”

“It was.”

“Whose man is he? Is he one of Shargun’s family?”

“Dughin is his own man,” Faldron answered. “Too proud to serve any master without arguing with him. I would not ask him to be my counsellor. So: whom should I trust? Nerogun or Shargun?”

“You must look to your own judgement in that.”

“My judgement says that Nerogun is the abler man by far; but Shargun has power over the army.”

“And is the army loyal?” Rothir was immediately shocked at himself for asking such a question, and feared it would be taken amiss; but Faldron merely nodded thoughtfully.

“I believe so,” he said. “Mutiny is practically unknown – or was, until that recent incident with Captain Amerrun. Ah, well. Perhaps I should not concern myself over-much. I will soon reach my majority: next year I shall become High King and be rid of the necessity for either man.”

“You will still need advisors, and an army.”

“I shall choose my own leader for the army. Jeveran perhaps, if he acquits himself with honour in this campaign. He does not have high rank, but he seems to manage the army adequately well.”

Rothir, who knew that Huldarion esteemed Commander Jeveran’s abilities, said, “He appears most capable, certainly.”

“As to advice,” said Faldron, “I can take that where I choose. Throw off the shackles of the Post-Regent’s presence. Appoint a new advisor. You, perhaps.”

“Me?” Rothir was taken aback. “No, no, that would not do!”

“You are highly regarded amongst the Vonn.”

“There are many others much worthier than me. Indeed, I see that you are joking.”

For Faldron was smiling. “Perhaps I am. You must admit, however, that to make you my advisor would certainly throw Nerogun off his self-appointed plinth. If not you, perhaps your wizard, then?”

“Leor? He is bound in service to the Lord Huldarion of the Vonn.” Although bound in service made the agreement sound much more formal than it really was.

“Huldarion, now,” said Faldron thoughtfully. “Is he a man I should look to for advice?”

Here Rothir felt himself on safer ground. “I think you could hardly do better. He is both principled and meticulous.”

“Apparently. But is he wise?” asked Faldron, gazing out to sea once more. “This expedition to the wilderness was his idea. Has it been wise?”

“He had good reasons,” answered Rothir. “We knew this place was formerly a stronghold of the stonemen; the roads away from here will lead to other strongholds.” But he was seized with doubt. In the light of what had happened, had this diversion been unwise?

And his mind lit on something which he had not fully thought through until then. Why had the monstrous darkburn attacked exactly where and when it did? Had Huldarion’s plan to visit the monastery been known beforehand by the enemy?

This thought darkened his consciousness until Faldron gave him a still greater jolt.

“I wish Huldarion well,” the High Prince said musingly, his voice just audible through the sighing waves, “but I do not think he will succeed in winning back Caervonn.”

Rothir, dismayed, did not know what to answer. He tried to put strong disbelief into his response.

“Not succeed? I cannot agree with you, your Highness. Why, what should stop him – especially with the aid of Kelvha? Your army’s might is unsurpassed. Why should Huldarion not regain his throne?”

Faldron looked at him fully now. Such a bland face the prince had. Too unformed as yet to be called fully adult; but the first signs of adulthood were there, in the faint lines on his brow, and the knowing curve of his mouth as he replied. He spoke no longer like the eager, naive prince of old.

“Because Nerogun does not wish it. Nor Shargun either. In that one wish they are united, if in little else.”

Rothir drew in a long breath. “How do you know?” he said, and heard his voice come out husky and appalled.

“I don’t,” said Faldron. “But I know Nerogun and Shargun. Yes, they wish to quell the stonemen. Yes, they wish for freedom from attacks by darkburns. And yes, they are keen to fight on the Vonn’s behalf to enable them to win Caervonn. But then; but after that; think you that they will be content to let Huldarion keep it?”

Rothir was silent, mulling this over. He was horrified; but it was the horror of recognition. There had always been danger in allying themselves with a force so much the greater. Huldarion knew that; for it had been discovered that Nerogun had dealings with Adon. Still, Nerogun was not Kelvha. He did not command the army; and his power would soon be handed over to the Prince.

But now, to have that same prince lay the danger out so bluntly – it awoke in him a coiling fear.

“My Lord,” he said, “You will soon be sole ruler of the Kelvhan Kingdom. What are your desires regarding Caervonn?”

Faldron laughed. “If I wished to take your lands, I would hardly tell you, would I? But I do not wish to. I will have enough, and I would rather have you Vonn as friends and equals than as serfs.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Rothir, although his mouth felt numb.

“Well, first we have to get there,” Faldron said. “A pity that this darkburn is not visible.” He stared out seawards, and then frowned. “Rothir. What is that, out to the east? Is that the serpent?”

Rothir followed his gaze. “There is a movement, certainly,” he said, “but it’s not the serpent unless it’s swum a dozen miles unnoticed. No steam. And I think…”

“I think it is not black,” said Faldron softly, “but I see red.”

“Red flecks. Yes. Could it be boats?”

“Many boats, with sails.”

Rothir peered, trying to make the distant image take a shape. “Red sails. You Kelvhans have no fleet?”

“No. Why would we? We have no coasts within our territory. Could it be men from the southlands?”

“They seldom come here,” Rothir answered. “And those boats are coming round the coastline, not across the sea.”

“Do stonemen have boats? Could it be them?” For the first time, Faldron sounded shaken. Ah, thought Rothir grimly, danger in the abstract is all very well; but at a mere distant glimpse of an unexpected foe, composure leaves you.

He knew this was unfair. He felt shaken himself. But he was aware at once of what needed to be done.

“Stonemen use boats on the Darkburn river,” he said. “So, yes. My Lord, how far are you from your army?”

“Two hours ride perhaps. Less with a swift horse.”

“Then send the man with the swiftest horse,” said Rothir, “to Commander Jeveran. If he catches up the other messengers, so much the better. Tell Jeveran about this fleet, and say that you with your remaining men are on your way back there to join him. Then go inland, and follow the route you took here, with all speed, back to your people.”

Faldron looked at him. “You’re convinced that those are stonemen?”

“We can’t afford to wait and see. If they’re just fishing vessels, no harm is done, and you may blame my over-cautious nature for the alarm. But if they’re stonemen, we need to be prepared for battle. I’ll return to the Vonn immediately. If at all possible, we’ll bring our army back to the Red Roads to meet with yours.”

“I hope it is possible,” Faldron said soberly.

“So do I. You should depart, my Lord, without delay.”

“I will,” said Faldron.

“I bid you farewell,” Rothir said. With a swift salute he wheeled Narba around and began to gallop along the beach, the thudding hooves sending up thick sprays of sand.

Ahead of him the heavy bank of steam still lingered out to sea; but the darkburn no longer occupied his thoughts.

For when he glanced back, the red-marked sails were unmistakeable. The fleet was coming in to shore.