1.
Marchand Hall: S’ria’s Day-room.
She was not beautiful, the Princess S'ria Berh Ria. Not at all beautiful, thought Durnold. He studied her surreptitiously as she stood by the window, reading. Her mouth was too wide, her lips too narrow, her eyes (an unremarkable muddy brown) set too close together, the characteristic Berh nose too thin for her face. Her skin was pale, and perhaps a little blotchy - it did not take the summer sun well. Nor did she possess a womanly figure - it was all lines and angles instead of soft round curves.
Her one outstanding feature was her hair: unbound now, it flowed flame red to her waist, golden highlights shining out where sunlight touched it.
Durnold, who had known many beautiful women in his time, could not take his eyes from her. "She is ugly." he thought to himself "Or at the least, she is plain. How is it that I love her?"
And that was the first time he had realised that he did love her: confused, dismayed and thrilled, he said nothing as she finished reading and turned to face them. E'sre was as silent and impassive as ever, waiting dutifully for her Princess's word: so it was Alardon who spoke.
"The King summons you to return, does he not?" It was not really a question.
S'ria smiled, and Durnold was thrilled again by the transformation it wrought in her - as he ever was: it was part of why he loved her, that such a plain and ordinary face could be so wondrously changed by such a simple action.
"He does! Or at least, the Lord Chamberlain does so, in the Kings name." Her smile faded to a pensive frown: Durnold let out a breath that he had not been aware of holding. "And what significance does that hold, do you suppose?" she continued.
"Well, we must consider that, of course." Alardon replied. "But first, let us gather the facts. On what pretext are you summoned?"
The frown deepened. "There's to be a wedding, it seems. Sir E'trada Nove Duri, Lord Ennerford, is to marry Sh'enna Merdi Dura at the turn of the month. And the lady has most especially requested the King that I be present, due to the great friendship we had in the past. But I cannot recall her at all!" The Princess shook her head in puzzlement. "I know I have not been to court in six years, but I would not have thought to have forgotten any 'great friendship'! E'sre - can you recall the name?"
E'sre Kora Vari took her time with the answer, thinking back over her vast knowledge of the court and it's attendants. "There was a Sh'enna Merdi with whom you used to play, when you were six or seven: but her family was Jhanra, not Dura."
"Two steps of promotion in rank is not unusual for those families in favour at court." Alardon observed. "And it seems that the Lady can claim some acquaintance with you, however remotely. Not that I think for a moment that this is her idea alone. No, the King has decided to bring you back - this is merely a convenient pretext. And all will recognise it as such, of course: but it serves to disguise His Majesty's true intentions."
"But why?" S'ria burst out. "After all this time - why now?"
Alardon combed his beard and nodded. "That is, of course, the important question. Why do you think?" S'ria hesitated, frowning, and Alardon prompted her further. "Think as I have taught you, my princess. What comes first to mind - and what follows on from that?"
" ' Start with the simple and obvious' as you tell me?" S'ria smiled again. "Very well then - if my father calls me back it is because he has a use for me." She frowned. "It would be nice to think that he has need of me, or that he misses me - but no, he has a use for me."
"Which is?" Alardon asked.
"Marriage." answered S'ria flatly, and Durnold felt the words like a blow to the gut. "It can be naught else." the Princess continued. "I was sent away because I was approaching marriageable age: the factions were manoeuvring, seeking to play me on their gaming boards. It did not suit father just then, so I was packed up and sent off to this distant part of the Kingdom. Now, it seems, things have changed."
"What?" Prompted Alardon.
"My brother died." said S'ria softly. She had not been close to L'har, but she had been saddened by his death, hurt that she was not allowed to attend his funeral. The Crown Prince had shown a casual affection for her: distant and offhand as it was, it was the closest to family love that she had received.
"But that was over a year ago!" E’sre burst out. "How is that relevant to this summons?"
"There are tensions at court." said Alardon.
"There are always tensions at court!" Uncharacteristically, E’sre snapped at Alardon, which indicated something of the shock she felt at this sudden summons. The dignified calm which she had maintained through a thousand domestic crisis, great and small, was shaken - which Durnold felt as something of a shock himself. It served to bring him out of his own reverie: with an effort he put aside his confused tangle of emotions and concentrated on the issue at hand.
"There must be something special in these particular tensions, then." He observed cautiously. "What of it, Alardon? You still hear things that we do not - what have you heard of this matter?"
“Little enough, in truth.” The sage admitted. “I have a few friends in Temple and College who send me what news they hear - but it is often little more than gossip.”
“Gossip must suffice then, till we have better.” S’ria observed.
“As you say, my lady.” Alardon paused, considering. “L’har’s passing has thrown things into confusion. While he was DhornRi, there was no question regarding the succession: but now there are two claimants.”
Durnold frowned. “How so? K’marra is DhornRi now, is he not?”
“He has indeed taken the style and rank of Crown Prince.” Alardon agreed. “But B’haranith is also a prince, and older than K’marra.”
“The Bastard?” exclaimed E’sre. “How can he have a claim? I know that the Ri took his mother to wife - but not until your mother died, my lady.”
“Not, in fact, until L’har died.” S’ria put in. “But now that Mayarra is Ria, B’haranith is presumably legitimate - if only in retrospect. It’s strong enough to make a claim on: But I doubt that K’marra will see it so!”
Alardon nodded. “Just so. Your royal brother would yield his claim to no one - least of all B’haranith.”
“They never got on, even as children.” E’sre agreed.
“Does the Ri not have a say in this?” asked Durnold.
“He does. If he wishes to. And thus far, he has not.” Alardon frowned, tugging on his beard. “There are those who say that he no longer has the, ah,…”
“Strength?” suggested S’ria. “They think that my royal father is losing his grip?”
Alardon shook his head. “No one would use those words, my lady. Not at court. M’nar BerhRi has the love and respect of his people… But it has been whispered that the loss of L’har was a greater blow than was realised, and his decision to marry Mayarra was, ah, unwise. The uncertainty over the succession, and the fact that he has done nothing to clarify matters…”
"We’re not at court now, Alardon.” S’ria said firmly. “Nor do you have to watch your words with me, you know that. Let’s speak clearly. They think that my father no longer able to control the court, and it is only the fear of what he was keeps the wolves at bay.”
“It would be useful to practice circumspection, my Lady – especially as we will soon be back at court, it seems. But in any case, there is yet more to the matter.”
“Then please say it openly. While we still can!”
Alardon bowed politely. “He may be playing a deeper game – allowing this situation to develop in order to flush out enemies. Some may see opportunities here, especially if they believe that the Ri is no longer as strong as he was. It will be of interest to see who supports K’marra, who supports B’haranith – and who supports neither.”
“And he calls me back to stir the pot even more!” S’ria mused. “Perhaps some will see me as a third alternative. Not K’marra, not B’haranith. Who will I flush out, I wonder?” She thought for a moment. “But I’m sure that my brother and half-brother will also see opportunities here. If they can enlist me to their cause, they will be so much the stronger.”
Alardon nodded. “If you were to be married off to one of their supporters, it would benefit them greatly. The promise of your hand would be valuable coin!”
“And what will the Ri do about that?” E’sre snapped. “I cannot think that he will let his only unwed daughter be married off without his approval!”
“Just so.” Agreed Alardon. “And there lies the heart of it. If he approves a marriage into one faction or another, he thereby supports one or other of his sons. Or if the marriage happens without his approval….”
“Then he truly has lost control” S’ria shook her head. “But I cannot believe that.”Durnold nodded agreement. It was impossible to imagine that a man like M’nar could lose power in any way. For 40 years he had dominated the court, the country and all the neighbouring lands with an unmatchable combination of strength and cunning. Galadra without M’nar could hardly be contemplated.
“This will prove the truth of it.” Alardon said quietly. “Which makes me wonder if it is indeed the Ri who is behind this summoning. It is possible that some faction has contrived this invitation for just such a purpose.”
“Who would dare?” asked E’sre. “If you are summoned without your fathers consent, my lady…”
“It is just one possibility to consider.” S’ria studied the message again. “And tell me, Alardon - what part will College and Temple play in this.”
Durnold raised his eyebrows. “Why should either College or Temple have any involvement?”
Alardon chuckled. “Believe me, Durnold, in the capital, College and Temple are always involved in everything - even if it is only to see that the other gains no advantage! And my lady has asked a good question. But all I can say is that K’marra is not known as a friend to the Temple. He shows but the minimum piety that his station requires - yet he values the College for the weapons that the Engineers can build him.”
“Then B’haranith has the Temple with him?” asked S’ria.
“Perhaps. On the face of it, it would seem likely.” The sage shook his head. “But B’haranith is, or was, a bastard. The Temple never approved of M’nar keeping a mistress, still less that he married her and acknowledged her son. Where they stand I could not say at present - perhaps they’re not sure themselves. But they will certainly oppose the College.”
“Politics is not my game!” Durnold observed ruefully. “How many other factions are there to contend with?”
E’sre, S’ria and Alardon all laughed.
“My apologies.” said the princess, as Durnold turned red. “We forget that you have no experience of court life. And indeed, I have had none these six years: but when I left, even as a child of twelve I knew that politics is the only game at court! And as for other factions… every Lord, every Lady, every rich merchant or victorious warrior is a faction, or part of one, or seeking to become one!”
“Well, then, what are the important ones?” Durnold asked, groping for a sensible question with which to recover his pride.
Alardon answered him. “T’than Shonar Shari is one of the great lords of the court, who as far as I know is not aligned with either of the princes. The military ranks are mostly with the Crown Prince. The Lady of the Islands, O’lihar Narat Shara is powerful, and a great intriguer on matters that give her concern.”
“The Kara family are to be watched as well.” Put in E’sre. “Whatever alliances they have, family is their first concern, always.”
Alardon nodded agreement. “The Remonds as well – and the Varata. They all play devious games.”
Anxious to make a useful contribution, Durnold searched his memory for scraps of information from six years ago. “K’marra may not have all the military on his side. G’han Eartar Shari Har-Acron was no friend of his, as I remember.”
“Ah, yes – the Grand Admiral, as he styled himself.” Mused Alardon. “That annoyed K’marra, I recall. He dislikes the use of An’harran titles, at least by those of the Old Blood. L’har was of a more open frame of mind, and allowed the title: the brothers nearly came to blows over the issue. So G’han Eartar might be one to watch – but you should know that he is now G’han Eartar Li Har-Acron. The elevation occurred shortly after L’har’s sad death, and brought with it not only command of the Fleet, but all the coastal forts and garrisons from the Shamra estuary north. And he no longer uses his An’harran title, I hear.”
“K’marra brought his loyalty?” asked Durnold, incredulous. “G’han Eartar was said to be a man of honour!”
“And still is: please do not forget that, Durnold. It would be most unwise to suggest otherwise at court!”
Durnold frowned at the rebuke, mild though it was, but nodded his agreement.
“It would seem that the court is little changed in six years.” Said E’sre.
“Some of the characters are different, but the plot remains the same.” Alardon agreed. “Or if anything, more complex than ever!”
E’sre sighed. “At one time I missed it all, but I have learned to enjoy the peace of our isolation here. I fear for you, my lady, once more becoming a takarra in the games of the court.”
S’ria had been gazing out of the window: as E’sre finished she turned back to face them all.
“I, too, have enjoyed the peace of this place.” She said softly. “But it is time to return – and I am not sorry of that. I am well prepared and ready for this, I think. But hear me – E’sre, Alardon, Durnold, my loyal servants and companions,” and her voice, though no louder was suddenly as sharp as a blade, “hear me well – I will not be a playing piece on this gaming board. No, my friends – I mean to be a player.”
There was silence as they looked at her. She returned their gaze steadily.
“I am S’ria Berh Ria, a Princess of the Old Blood, of the F’alhanna. I will not be anyone’s playing piece – not my brother’s, not my fathers, not the courts. I will play this game myself. I will play to win.”
2.
Marchand Hall: Durnold’s Chamber.
That night, Durnold sat in his bedchamber, sipping watered wine and trying to order his tangled emotions. With little success. The realisation of his true feelings for S’ria, the summons to court, the prospect of her marriage – the excitement and uncertainty that the future suddenly held, compared with the uneventful certainty of the past years – it had all happened too soon. The turmoil within him was too great to be ignored, yet too chaotic to be dealt with, and the tension showed in a desire for activity. With a snarl of frustration, he slammed down the wine, swept up his sword belt and strode out.
Marchand Hall, the place of S’ria’s six year exile, was no grand house or castle. The Ri had been seeking to lose his daughter in rural obscurity, not to set her up in a miniature court. Still, it was more than large enough for her small retinue. An entire wing had been given over to her guard. The Sergeant-at-Arms and fifty men that Durnold commanded in S’ria’s name had space to spare - two men to a room, the sergeant on his own and their own barracks room besides. It was rare luxury for common men-at-arms, and Durnold wondered how they felt about leaving.
Sergeant Tadant was down in the barracks room, watching an off-duty game of dice. Durnold observed him from the doorway. Six years ago, Tadant had been a hardened veteran, nearly 40 years in arms and looking tough enough for another 40. But six years of easy duty had taken its toll, Durnold observed. The sergeant’s waist was thicker, his hair greyer, and his face redder. “He’s gone soft.” Durnold thought to himself. “They all have. And what about me?”
Tadant looked up, saw Durnold, and walked over, tossing off a casual salute, right fist to left shoulder. Six years ago he had thumped himself so hard that Durnold feared he’d break a finger.
“I’ll do the Posts tonight, Sergeant.”
For a fleeting moment, surprise – and perhaps a little alarm? – showed on the Sergeant’s grizzled features, before a lifetimes discipline asserted itself “Aye, sir.” Tadant nodded.
And what had that look meant? Durnold asked himself. Was it really so rare nowadays that he bestirred himself to inspect the guards at Post? Was there that which Tadant would rather he did not inspect?
The Sergeant interrupted this chain of thought. “Ahem – Sir? Some of the men were wondering…”
Durnold had no doubt that the men had been doing a lot of wondering. The Ri’s summons had not been discussed outside S’ria’s chambers – but the mere fact of a message must have set tongues wagging. It was, after all, the first thing in six years worth discussing.
“Let’s take a walk.” He ordered. Tadant nodded and fell in beside him, as they strolled out of the barracks wing and into the courtyard.
It was a cool night, with a soft drizzle occasionally shining the cobble stones. A few wall mounted braziers provided a fitful light. They walked in silence, as Durnold considered what to say.
In the end, he decided to say everything. He needed to trust Tadant – and in six years had discovered no reason not to.
“The message was from the court. Our Lady is returning to Desten.”
“Ah.” Tadant grunted. “Thought as much. When do we go?”
“Within the week. I’ll be giving orders tomorrow. I’ll want to meet with you and the corporals to go over details later on. You’ll need to assign men to Lady E’sre, for moving the heavier items, and I want a detail to get the wagons out of storage and start preparing them.”
“Aye sir. Ah – there may be problems with some of the men.”
Durnold had expected nothing less. “Such as?”
“We’ve been here long enough, some are well settled. Five’s got married to local girls, others have – well, understandings…”
“They’re oath-given, Tadant. I reminded them of it when they married.”
“Yes, sir. But there didn’t seem much to it then. Well, what I mean is when they hear that we’re leaving…”
“Will they break oath, Sergeant?” Durnold spoke calmly, but icy fingers stroked his spine. If oath-given men started deserting, he would have to order them hunted down and hung. And would the others do that? Or would they break their own oath? He had a sudden vision of S’ria arriving at her fathers gate with only himself and Tadant for an escort.
Tadant took his time answering, which stoked Durnold’s fears. “I don’t think so.” The Sergeant answered at last. “They’re good lads, it’s just that we’ve been here too long.”
Durnold nodded. “I’ll see Lady E’sre about bringing their wives along with us. No doubt there’ll be room for them in the household staff.”
“That will help somewhat.” Tadant agreed. “But Shinsi, Tall Mikkom’s lass – she’s eight months with child…”
“Yes, I’d forgotten.” Durnold cursed to himself. “I need every man, Tadant.” Unspoken was the knowledge they both shared, that to allow one man to relinquish his oath could lead to a flood of others.
“Um - there may be a way, sir. Some of the village lads, they quite like the idea of soldiering. Get away from the farm, and all. We could lose a few, make up the numbers.”
Durnold considered the idea. “Untrained farm boys to guard the Princess?”
“We’ve all got to start somewhere, sir. And there’s some good ‘uns, as I reckon it.
Fit, strong and bright - bright enough to learn, not so bright as to think they don’t have to. I’d keep an eye on ‘em, bring ‘em along fast.”
Raw recruits in place of trained, experienced guardsmen? Or keen young men, eager for adventure, in place of older men with their minds on wife and family, and no enthusiasm for soldiering?
“Very well, Sergeant. Look out some good prospects for us. Perhaps we’ll swap a few of them for Tall Mikkom. But none of the others. Make sure that that’s clear to them all.”
“Aye sir.” Their slow walk round the courtyard had brought them back to the barracks wing. “If there’s nothing else, sir, I believe I’ll turn in early. Seems like we’ll be busy tomorrow. At last!”
Durnold nodded. “How will the rest of them take the news? The ones without wives here?”
“Oh, they’ll grumble about leaving a soft duty like this. Soldiers do grumble, sir. But I reckon they’ll be glad to be on the move again. Bored daft, they’ve been getting.”
“And you?”
“Especially me, sir!” Tadant chuckled. “I was getting afraid that I might die in my bed! Goodnight to you, sir.”
The Sergeant stomped back indoors. Durnold headed for the watchtower, considering the conversation, and finding some encouragement in it. Soft they may be, but with any luck they’d sharpen up now.
Being no true castle, Marchand Hall had no true watchtower: but the small worship-hall attached to the west wing boasted a bell-tower that stood higher than the manor’s roofs, if only by a small margin. Durnold had established the practice of keeping a man on watch up there, with instructions to sound the bell for an alarm if there was cause. In six years the bell had been rung just once, when a sleepy guard had stumbled and grabbed the bell rope to steady himself. Never-the-less, a guard remained at the post, and it was the first place Durnold visited.
“All quiet?” He asked casually as he pulled himself out of the hatchway and onto the open roof.
“Aye, Serg - sorry, sir. All quiet.” Anonymous in the dark, well swathed in a black cloak besides, Durnold never-the-less knew him at once by his voice. “Eyek. Where’s your helm?”
“Just here sir!” Eyek replied, hastily bending and scrabbling on the floor. “I just took it off for a moment sir, to - ah - scratch my head.”
“It was a serious itch that needed you to put it on the floor and use both hands.” Durnold observed dryly. And, he thought, so serious that you couldn’t be bothered to put it on again when you heard me coming up the steps - thinking it was Tadant. Things had indeed become lax, and he would have a word with the sergeant about it – though it may be that the sergeant already knew: it explained his alarm over Durnold’s decision to do the Posts.
Eyek stood nervously turning the helmet over in his hands. “Well, get it on your head, then!” Durnold snapped. “If you’ve quite finished scratching, that is. And is that your spear leaning on the parapet over there? Pick it up, before you knock it over and kill some poor sod below!”
Durnold treated the luckless Eyek to a few remarks about his quality as a soldier and likely fate, before stomping back down the stairs, his optimistic mood shattered. The real problem, he admitted to himself, was not with Eyek, nor even with Tadant, but with himself. He was Commander of the Princess’ Guard. It was he who was ultimately responsible for the men’s preparedness, and he’d clearly failed in that.
“They sent me here because I was a failure.” He muttered to himself. “That’s how they saw it at court. And I’ve proved them right, haven’t I?” Thinking bitter thoughts, he made his way to the main gate.
There were two men on duty there. Durnold was pleasantly surprised to find them awake, alert, fully armed and helmed. It occurred to him that Tadant had had time to send a warning whilst he we was berating Eyek – but he decided to accept it at face value. Eyek was a minor incident, and perhaps not typical.
There were six more men sleeping in the gatehouse, a reserve force in case of any trouble: Durnold satisfied himself with a quick glance, to confirm that there were six snoring bundles within, along with an untidy pile of weapons and armour, and a strong smell of soldiers farts.
Choosing a direction at random, Durnold continued his rounds along the inside of the wall. When they had first arrived here, he had had four men on the gate, another four patrolling the wall in pairs and two more guarding the small gate in the south-west corner. He’d also set the men to building look-out points to see over the wall, to cutting back trees and shrubs to give a good space beyond it, and to enclosing the courtyard and outbuildings with another wall. There had been mutterings at all this work, and one guard had muttered in Durnold’s hearing that the Commander was a “a’feared o’ a cold wind” – a remark that Durnold chose not to take note of, but the guard in question spent the next month mucking out the stables.
That stopped the more obvious mutterings, but Durnold’s defences had never been tested, and over the course of time the regime had become more relaxed. There were now just two men patrolling the wall alone, and one on duty at the small gate.
This far from the hall, with low cloud still blocking off the light of moon or stars, the darkness under the wall was all but impenetrable. Durnold, wondering if he should have brought a lantern, stumbled on something, cursed and was promptly challenged.
“At ease, Garran.” The shadow in front of him paused, then lifted the spearhead, glimmering faintly with reflections from distant torches, away from Durnold’s chest.
“All quiet, sir.”
“Carry on then.”
Garran continued his patrol towards the main gate, and Durnold carried on towards the south-west corner.
After the encouragement offered by Garran and the main gate guard, he was fully prepared to be challenged once more as he approached the small gate. He was therefore doubly annoyed when he reached the gate and found the post deserted. “Another Eyek!” he thought grimly. “But this one not even at his duty!” The guard, whoever it was, would not be let off with a tongue lashing, he resolved.
“Ho, there – guard!” he called softly, not wishing to spread alarm with a shout. There was no response. Moving to the gate, he gave it a push, and it swung gently open.
With a curse, he slipped through the gate, glanced around beyond – but if anything it was even darker this side of the wall. What was up here? Had the man wandered off to the village to see some woman – or had he in truth deserted, not just his post, but his oath and service?
If so, he was not alone in it, Durnold thought. Garran and the other patrolling guard must be aware of it, or they would have given the alarm – or had the man only just left? A patrol from the main gate might yet apprehend him!
Stepping back inside, Durnold pulled the gate shut again, and made to slide the bar across – before a thought struck him, and instead he eased it open once more. It swung easily: and silently.
The gate was not much used. The last time he’d been through it was at least a month past – and it had creaked and squealed like a dying pig. He’d made a note to have it oiled – but had it been done? He bent and sniffed the hinges, reached and touched. A soft, sweet smell rose to his nostrils, and the rusty metal was smooth and slick beneath his fingers. Oiled it had been – but not by his command, he thought, not unless his men had taken to doing such work in the pitch black of night.
Cold apprehension nuzzled at the back of his neck. “Guard?” he whispered, not expecting an answer. Not getting one.
He moved further along the wall, kicking in the shadows until he felt something soft. Bending down, Durnold found sodden wool over damp mail, groping, he touched a cold hand – but was it cold only from the wet night? He explored further, and blindly questing fingers slipped suddenly into a deep, sticky-wet mouth – a mouth wider and deeper than any mouth should be – a mouth below the chin. A mouth that, when he brought his fingers to his nose, reeked of blood.
Stumbling back with a gasp, leaning against the wall, Durnold’s thoughts tumbled wildly. An attack – intruders – the Princess! He had his sword out, was waving it in front of him, half expecting one of the shadows become solid and leap on him. He tried to shout for help, to give alarm, but his throat was too dry, he could only manage to gasp and cough and pant for breath.
“Control yourself, man!” he thought. “You’re the Commander of the Princess’s guard, a knight and a warrior – think!”
He forced himself to relax, to lean against the wall and take deep breaths. There were men within the walls, armed men, and for a certainty the Princess’s life was in danger, he could not afford to panic.
“One man.” He thought to himself. “One man – lightly armed, agile. Other’s helped him over the wall. Not here, further along where it’s lower. Then he crept up on the guard, cut his throat from behind. Poor wretch never even knew he was there. But it couldn’t have been long ago. Garran was coming from here. So – what? Ten minutes at most. And then he oiled the door hinges, so there would be no sound, and let others in. Two? Probably more. Three or four. Well-armed, in armour – not up to climbing walls. No more than that, or they would have left someone to guard the gate, to protect their retreat. So, they cannot have been gone more than five minutes.”
Five minutes, and moving cautiously, in the dark. They might not yet be in the Hall. If they went from the back, through the outbuildings, Eyek would not see them from the tower. The inner wall was unguarded: one man stood duty in the entrance hall.
If he yelled, Durnold would alarm the enemy before his own men were aroused. If he ran for the Hall, he would likely stumble across them in the dark, and be killed as swiftly as the guard. The main gate then!
He turned, then another thought struck him. A quick search of the guard’s body and he had the man’s dagger. He shut the gate, and slid the locking-bar across: hammered the dagger into the jamb, and jerked it sideways with all his strength. It snapped just short of the hilt, which was not what he had intended; but it would suffice.
Then he ran, as fast as he dared in the dark, following the wall because the ground was clearer there. Still faster than was safe, he stumbled, caught himself on the wall, carried on, driven by fear for S’ria, and by a growing anger.
He came to the south-east corner, and carried on towards the gate without a pause. A darker patch of shadow ahead gave a gasp of surprise as Durnold hurtled towards him from the darkness. Knocking aside the clumsily levelled spear, Durnold rushed past the guard, snapping out commands as he went. “Follow me, Garran! Intruders!”
Soft yellow lantern light ahead showed the gate, the two guards leaping up from the bench by the gatehouse, faces a study in amazement as their Commander burst upon them with a naked blade in his hand.
“Stand to arms! We have intruders!” Durnold slammed open the gatehouses door, and began kicking at bunk beds. “To arms! To arms!” He dared not shout, sound would carry, he tried to put urgency in his tone without volume, and found it difficult, as sleep-bemused face peered up at him. “We are attacked! Move yourselves – but quietly! They do not yet know that the alarm is raised!”
“Who..?” mumbled a man, clutching his bedclothes to him as if to protect his honour.
“Intruders! By the small gate – three or four of them, I judge. The guard there is dead, and the Princess is in danger! Hurry yourselves!” Durnold turned to one man who was at least on his feet, and fumbling for clothes. “You – Sembram? Go along the wall to the north. Find the guard there and bring him to the hall through the courtyard. Go quickly but quietly, and beware of ambush!” He turned to the others. “Up with you! Guard this gate!”
Garran stood, panting, in the doorway, with the other two guards peering past him.
“You three – with me!” Durnold pushed passed them and sprinted down the drive towards the Hall. Heavy boots crunching on gravel told him that they were following: it was louder than he would have liked, but there was no more time for stealth, there could be armed men, assassins or kidnappers at S’ria’s door even now. Speed must come foremost.
They burst through the double doors into the Hall. One guard was posted here – easy duty inside the building, and so much coveted: at their entrance he sprang up from his comfortable seat by the fire, still half asleep and panicking. Durnold did not spare the time even to shout an order, but raced on, clattering up the broad stairs beyond.
S’ria’s chambers were on the first floor, to the right of the staircase: Durnold was half-way up when a shrill scream split the air. He responded with a shout, and reached the top with one fear-driven leap.
The dimly lit passage beyond was all confusion. Durnold saw it all in that one instant, and could forever afterwards recall every detail, almost as if the painted scene hung before him.
A women, long hair and filmy night clothes billowing round her, was lurching forward, falling towards Durnold, hands grasping desperately at the great wound in her stomach, a shrill scream bubbling out of the dark liquid that choked her mouth. Behind her, a tall man, anonymous in full-face helm and dark plate armour raised his sword for a final blow.
Beyond them, a door hung open, another armoured figure stepping from it, the sword in his hand darkened along the blade. And, closer, a third man had raised his foot, paused in the act of kicking open a door to look at Durnold. This man’s visor was open, and Durnold could see his eyes, bright in the shadows.
All this in one frozen moment of time: then the scene dissolved in to a blur of action.
The sword fell, the women – one of S’ria’s maids – crumpled beneath the blow, her scream cut abruptly short. The door crashed open beneath the armoured foot, and the man disappeared into S’ria’s room.
Durnold flung himself in pursuit, sword and dagger out. The two men in the corridor moved to intercept him, leaping over the maid’s body. Durnold was forced to defend himself: catching a blow on his dagger, he struck back, stabbing for the man’s face: the helm turned his blade aside, and he recovered barely in time to parry a strong blow from the third intruder.
Then the guards were with him, spear points thrusting. “Hold them!” He shouted: ducked beneath a spear, and stumbled, crouching, into S’ria’s room.
The room was dimly lit from a night lamp on the wall: steel gleamed as the armoured figure ahead ripped apart the curtains from the Princess’s bed and hacked down at the pillows.
With a wordless cry, Durnold threw himself at the man’s back, striking at his neck – but his blow was parried, the man whirling with remarkable speed for someone in full armour.
Unable to stop, Durnold slammed into the man’s chest. His head struck painfully into a helmets rim, and his face was filled with bushy moustache, hot breath and wide glaring eyes – then the man toppled backwards onto the bed, Durnold on top of him in a grotesque embrace. His dagger scraped off armour as he stabbed, frantically seeking an opening into flesh. The man grunted, then with a roar of anger, thrust Durnold back.
Unbalanced, he staggered two paces backward, nearly fell: his opponent wrenched himself upright, raised his sword and cursed as it tangled in the bed curtains. It was ripped free at once, but the moment was gone: Durnold had his balance and his blade was up.
Outside was noise, clashing steel, shouts and screams and the thundering of feet on the wooden floor. More guards, Durnold realised, roused from the barracks room and leaping at once to their Princess’s defence. And not too late he thought, with sudden hope: the bed was slashed and torn, but there was no bloody stain on the sheets, no hacked corpse laying there.
“Give it up, man!” he gasped. “Surrender yourself!”
His only answer was a snarl, as the armoured man lunged at him.
Durnold gave ground, backing towards the door as he blocked and parried a furious rain of blows. It was strategy, that, to get the man away from the bed, hopefully away from S’ria, and closer to the guards. But it was also hard to do otherwise, the man was powerful, and fast: even with sword and dagger both, Durnold was hard put to keep him at bay. The armour gave the man an advantage also – which should have been somewhat outweighed by Durnold’s greater mobility, but his opponent hardly seemed to notice that he was burdened by heavy plate. Instead, he matched him move for move, blow for blow, and Durnold was no longer retreating for strategy, he was being driven back.
Behind his opponent, beyond the bed, Durnold noticed movement. S’ria emerged from her hiding place – under the bed? – and looked at him, calmly assessing the situation.
He wanted to tell her to get back, to hide – but he dare not draw attention to her. Distracted, he barely parried a vicious cut to his head, and his dagger riposte had no power to it as he lurched, off balance: his opponent knocked it aside with a contemptuous flick of his arm. Another blow was coming, he could see it coming, but he was out of position, couldn’t move fast enough… Durnold saw the triumph in the man’s eyes, as the blade swept in, around and up towards his gut.
A royal chamberpot shattered on the assassin’s helm, scattering porcelain shards and a light golden mist like a halo round him. He shouted, and staggered half a pace forwards: Durnold felt an icy kiss of steel sliding by him, heard the blade thud into wood panelling behind him. The man’s face was, once more, almost in his, dripping piss and red with fury: and now Durnold saw his one brief opportunity. Dropping his sword, he grasped the dagger in both hands and drove it at the glaring eyes.
Beneath the armour plate, muscles convulsed, and the assassin seemed to leap back, sword clattering to the floor as his hands leaped to his face. A gasp of pain and horror burst from his lips as he continued to move backwards, then crashed abruptly to the floor. And lay still, the dagger still firmly held in his right eye socket.
Durnold snatched up his sword, half turned to the door, where sounds of combat still lingered. But his gaze was on S’ria. “My Lady?”
“I’m all right.” She met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. “Go, see to the others. This one is well dealt with!”
Love and relief and admiration mingled in Durnold as he rushed out. “How does she manage to be so calm,” he wondered “with an assassin’s body still cooling in her bedroom?”
He did not see that she sank back on to the bed as soon as his back was turned, shaking and sobbing helplessly.
In the corridor the battle had been ferocious but short. A guard sat against the far wall, white faced and groaning: his arm was laid open to the bone. Another lay further along the corridor, bloody and silent – but still alive, to judge by the frantic work of his companions, two of whom were frantically binding wounds and staunching blood flows.
Others of the guards stood with bare steel in hand, constantly looking about in anticipation of further attack, but their gaze returning always to the two armoured figures sprawled on the floor. The maids body lay in between them. It looked, thought Durnold, almost as if they had died defending her. A pointless irony that seemed to his mind to have far more significance than it should: he recognised the symptoms of battle-shock, the suddenness of the horror in a peaceful place that sent his mind skittering away on irrelevancies.
With an effort he concentrated his thoughts, and called for Tadant: the sergeant answered his call at once, striding up from the end of the corridor with a bloodied sword in hand.
“I think we have them all, sir” he began, but Durnold cut him off. “Six men to the south-west gate. I jammed it shut, but they may go over the wall - one did, to open it. Another squad round the outside, to cut them off - they’ll have horses nearby, perhaps men with them. How many of these in armour have we?”
“These here, and the one in my ladies chamber, who you killed, sir.” It was not a question: Durnold alive meant the other dead. “The Princess - she is safe?”
Durnold nodded. “Aye, safe - no thanks to any of us!” He paused, thinking back. “I thought - three or four in armour, the assassins - these here?”
“I do not think there were others, sir. They came in from the courtyard: your men from the gate kept them from the main stairs, and we came up from the guard room to prevent their retreat. Not that they sought to retreat, or called for quarter - they fought like fury itself, and were they not well outnumbered, might have prevailed.”
Durnold nodded, remembering the strength and speed of his own opponent. “But there was one other - without armour, agile enough climb walls and silent enough to cut throats from behind. More thief than warrior, I’d say - but he’s around, I’m sure of it!”
“That one you’ll find in my chambers!” E'sre Kora Vari strode up the hall, clad in a volumeous flowered night gown, and with grey hair spiking aggressively from beneath her night cap. Even more aggressive was the brass fire-poker she carried threateningly: Durnold thought it looked a little bent.
“I’ll see to him at once, Ma’am.” Barked Tadant, but E’sre forestalled him with a sharp, poker-laden gesture.
“No need Sergeant. I’ve seen to him myself. Caught him a-hunting in my jewellery box, and he had the audacity to wave a knife at me. Ha! I’ve slept with the poker to hand for more years than I remember, as he found to his regret. Well, he’ll have no more regrets.” E’sre paused, looking round her. “But I see we’ve had more than just one little sneak thief visiting tonight - Oh! Mercy on us!” She went pale as her eyes fell on the maid’s body. “My lady!” she cried “S’ria - where..”
“Calm yourself, E’sre.” Said the Princess from the door to her chamber. “I am unharmed, thanks to Durnold!”
“And I am unharmed - thanks to your royal piss-pot.” Durnold put in. “But I fear that others were not so fortunate, my Lady. I have lost men this night, and I - I’m sorry, but your maids…”
She draw a sharp breath as she, too, saw her maid. “Salya! - and Kyris?”
Durnold looked at Tadant, and he shook his head. “Slaughtered in her bed.” He muttered.
“They went first to the larger chamber.” S’ria said quietly. “It was mine, but I thought it better that my maids should share it, and I take the smaller one myself. I thought - I thought to do them a small kindness.”
“Don’t even think of taking any blame to yourself, My Lady.” Said Alardon firmly. Durnold had not even been aware of his arrival, but there he stood, half-dressed and tousle haired, as Durnold had never seen him, but wide awake. “Durnold - when you have the place secured, have these poor girls taken out - place them in the Sanctuary. These other bodies, the assassins - somewhere else, I think, but I will want to look at them before long. Send your wounded to the infirmary, I will attend them. Lady E’sre - set the household to work, if you would. There is a need for some mulled wine, at the least!”
Marchand Hall: S’ria’s Day-room.
She was not beautiful, the Princess S'ria Berh Ria. Not at all beautiful, thought Durnold. He studied her surreptitiously as she stood by the window, reading. Her mouth was too wide, her lips too narrow, her eyes (an unremarkable muddy brown) set too close together, the characteristic Berh nose too thin for her face. Her skin was pale, and perhaps a little blotchy - it did not take the summer sun well. Nor did she possess a womanly figure - it was all lines and angles instead of soft round curves.
Her one outstanding feature was her hair: unbound now, it flowed flame red to her waist, golden highlights shining out where sunlight touched it.
Durnold, who had known many beautiful women in his time, could not take his eyes from her. "She is ugly." he thought to himself "Or at the least, she is plain. How is it that I love her?"
And that was the first time he had realised that he did love her: confused, dismayed and thrilled, he said nothing as she finished reading and turned to face them. E'sre was as silent and impassive as ever, waiting dutifully for her Princess's word: so it was Alardon who spoke.
"The King summons you to return, does he not?" It was not really a question.
S'ria smiled, and Durnold was thrilled again by the transformation it wrought in her - as he ever was: it was part of why he loved her, that such a plain and ordinary face could be so wondrously changed by such a simple action.
"He does! Or at least, the Lord Chamberlain does so, in the Kings name." Her smile faded to a pensive frown: Durnold let out a breath that he had not been aware of holding. "And what significance does that hold, do you suppose?" she continued.
"Well, we must consider that, of course." Alardon replied. "But first, let us gather the facts. On what pretext are you summoned?"
The frown deepened. "There's to be a wedding, it seems. Sir E'trada Nove Duri, Lord Ennerford, is to marry Sh'enna Merdi Dura at the turn of the month. And the lady has most especially requested the King that I be present, due to the great friendship we had in the past. But I cannot recall her at all!" The Princess shook her head in puzzlement. "I know I have not been to court in six years, but I would not have thought to have forgotten any 'great friendship'! E'sre - can you recall the name?"
E'sre Kora Vari took her time with the answer, thinking back over her vast knowledge of the court and it's attendants. "There was a Sh'enna Merdi with whom you used to play, when you were six or seven: but her family was Jhanra, not Dura."
"Two steps of promotion in rank is not unusual for those families in favour at court." Alardon observed. "And it seems that the Lady can claim some acquaintance with you, however remotely. Not that I think for a moment that this is her idea alone. No, the King has decided to bring you back - this is merely a convenient pretext. And all will recognise it as such, of course: but it serves to disguise His Majesty's true intentions."
"But why?" S'ria burst out. "After all this time - why now?"
Alardon combed his beard and nodded. "That is, of course, the important question. Why do you think?" S'ria hesitated, frowning, and Alardon prompted her further. "Think as I have taught you, my princess. What comes first to mind - and what follows on from that?"
" ' Start with the simple and obvious' as you tell me?" S'ria smiled again. "Very well then - if my father calls me back it is because he has a use for me." She frowned. "It would be nice to think that he has need of me, or that he misses me - but no, he has a use for me."
"Which is?" Alardon asked.
"Marriage." answered S'ria flatly, and Durnold felt the words like a blow to the gut. "It can be naught else." the Princess continued. "I was sent away because I was approaching marriageable age: the factions were manoeuvring, seeking to play me on their gaming boards. It did not suit father just then, so I was packed up and sent off to this distant part of the Kingdom. Now, it seems, things have changed."
"What?" Prompted Alardon.
"My brother died." said S'ria softly. She had not been close to L'har, but she had been saddened by his death, hurt that she was not allowed to attend his funeral. The Crown Prince had shown a casual affection for her: distant and offhand as it was, it was the closest to family love that she had received.
"But that was over a year ago!" E’sre burst out. "How is that relevant to this summons?"
"There are tensions at court." said Alardon.
"There are always tensions at court!" Uncharacteristically, E’sre snapped at Alardon, which indicated something of the shock she felt at this sudden summons. The dignified calm which she had maintained through a thousand domestic crisis, great and small, was shaken - which Durnold felt as something of a shock himself. It served to bring him out of his own reverie: with an effort he put aside his confused tangle of emotions and concentrated on the issue at hand.
"There must be something special in these particular tensions, then." He observed cautiously. "What of it, Alardon? You still hear things that we do not - what have you heard of this matter?"
“Little enough, in truth.” The sage admitted. “I have a few friends in Temple and College who send me what news they hear - but it is often little more than gossip.”
“Gossip must suffice then, till we have better.” S’ria observed.
“As you say, my lady.” Alardon paused, considering. “L’har’s passing has thrown things into confusion. While he was DhornRi, there was no question regarding the succession: but now there are two claimants.”
Durnold frowned. “How so? K’marra is DhornRi now, is he not?”
“He has indeed taken the style and rank of Crown Prince.” Alardon agreed. “But B’haranith is also a prince, and older than K’marra.”
“The Bastard?” exclaimed E’sre. “How can he have a claim? I know that the Ri took his mother to wife - but not until your mother died, my lady.”
“Not, in fact, until L’har died.” S’ria put in. “But now that Mayarra is Ria, B’haranith is presumably legitimate - if only in retrospect. It’s strong enough to make a claim on: But I doubt that K’marra will see it so!”
Alardon nodded. “Just so. Your royal brother would yield his claim to no one - least of all B’haranith.”
“They never got on, even as children.” E’sre agreed.
“Does the Ri not have a say in this?” asked Durnold.
“He does. If he wishes to. And thus far, he has not.” Alardon frowned, tugging on his beard. “There are those who say that he no longer has the, ah,…”
“Strength?” suggested S’ria. “They think that my royal father is losing his grip?”
Alardon shook his head. “No one would use those words, my lady. Not at court. M’nar BerhRi has the love and respect of his people… But it has been whispered that the loss of L’har was a greater blow than was realised, and his decision to marry Mayarra was, ah, unwise. The uncertainty over the succession, and the fact that he has done nothing to clarify matters…”
"We’re not at court now, Alardon.” S’ria said firmly. “Nor do you have to watch your words with me, you know that. Let’s speak clearly. They think that my father no longer able to control the court, and it is only the fear of what he was keeps the wolves at bay.”
“It would be useful to practice circumspection, my Lady – especially as we will soon be back at court, it seems. But in any case, there is yet more to the matter.”
“Then please say it openly. While we still can!”
Alardon bowed politely. “He may be playing a deeper game – allowing this situation to develop in order to flush out enemies. Some may see opportunities here, especially if they believe that the Ri is no longer as strong as he was. It will be of interest to see who supports K’marra, who supports B’haranith – and who supports neither.”
“And he calls me back to stir the pot even more!” S’ria mused. “Perhaps some will see me as a third alternative. Not K’marra, not B’haranith. Who will I flush out, I wonder?” She thought for a moment. “But I’m sure that my brother and half-brother will also see opportunities here. If they can enlist me to their cause, they will be so much the stronger.”
Alardon nodded. “If you were to be married off to one of their supporters, it would benefit them greatly. The promise of your hand would be valuable coin!”
“And what will the Ri do about that?” E’sre snapped. “I cannot think that he will let his only unwed daughter be married off without his approval!”
“Just so.” Agreed Alardon. “And there lies the heart of it. If he approves a marriage into one faction or another, he thereby supports one or other of his sons. Or if the marriage happens without his approval….”
“Then he truly has lost control” S’ria shook her head. “But I cannot believe that.”Durnold nodded agreement. It was impossible to imagine that a man like M’nar could lose power in any way. For 40 years he had dominated the court, the country and all the neighbouring lands with an unmatchable combination of strength and cunning. Galadra without M’nar could hardly be contemplated.
“This will prove the truth of it.” Alardon said quietly. “Which makes me wonder if it is indeed the Ri who is behind this summoning. It is possible that some faction has contrived this invitation for just such a purpose.”
“Who would dare?” asked E’sre. “If you are summoned without your fathers consent, my lady…”
“It is just one possibility to consider.” S’ria studied the message again. “And tell me, Alardon - what part will College and Temple play in this.”
Durnold raised his eyebrows. “Why should either College or Temple have any involvement?”
Alardon chuckled. “Believe me, Durnold, in the capital, College and Temple are always involved in everything - even if it is only to see that the other gains no advantage! And my lady has asked a good question. But all I can say is that K’marra is not known as a friend to the Temple. He shows but the minimum piety that his station requires - yet he values the College for the weapons that the Engineers can build him.”
“Then B’haranith has the Temple with him?” asked S’ria.
“Perhaps. On the face of it, it would seem likely.” The sage shook his head. “But B’haranith is, or was, a bastard. The Temple never approved of M’nar keeping a mistress, still less that he married her and acknowledged her son. Where they stand I could not say at present - perhaps they’re not sure themselves. But they will certainly oppose the College.”
“Politics is not my game!” Durnold observed ruefully. “How many other factions are there to contend with?”
E’sre, S’ria and Alardon all laughed.
“My apologies.” said the princess, as Durnold turned red. “We forget that you have no experience of court life. And indeed, I have had none these six years: but when I left, even as a child of twelve I knew that politics is the only game at court! And as for other factions… every Lord, every Lady, every rich merchant or victorious warrior is a faction, or part of one, or seeking to become one!”
“Well, then, what are the important ones?” Durnold asked, groping for a sensible question with which to recover his pride.
Alardon answered him. “T’than Shonar Shari is one of the great lords of the court, who as far as I know is not aligned with either of the princes. The military ranks are mostly with the Crown Prince. The Lady of the Islands, O’lihar Narat Shara is powerful, and a great intriguer on matters that give her concern.”
“The Kara family are to be watched as well.” Put in E’sre. “Whatever alliances they have, family is their first concern, always.”
Alardon nodded agreement. “The Remonds as well – and the Varata. They all play devious games.”
Anxious to make a useful contribution, Durnold searched his memory for scraps of information from six years ago. “K’marra may not have all the military on his side. G’han Eartar Shari Har-Acron was no friend of his, as I remember.”
“Ah, yes – the Grand Admiral, as he styled himself.” Mused Alardon. “That annoyed K’marra, I recall. He dislikes the use of An’harran titles, at least by those of the Old Blood. L’har was of a more open frame of mind, and allowed the title: the brothers nearly came to blows over the issue. So G’han Eartar might be one to watch – but you should know that he is now G’han Eartar Li Har-Acron. The elevation occurred shortly after L’har’s sad death, and brought with it not only command of the Fleet, but all the coastal forts and garrisons from the Shamra estuary north. And he no longer uses his An’harran title, I hear.”
“K’marra brought his loyalty?” asked Durnold, incredulous. “G’han Eartar was said to be a man of honour!”
“And still is: please do not forget that, Durnold. It would be most unwise to suggest otherwise at court!”
Durnold frowned at the rebuke, mild though it was, but nodded his agreement.
“It would seem that the court is little changed in six years.” Said E’sre.
“Some of the characters are different, but the plot remains the same.” Alardon agreed. “Or if anything, more complex than ever!”
E’sre sighed. “At one time I missed it all, but I have learned to enjoy the peace of our isolation here. I fear for you, my lady, once more becoming a takarra in the games of the court.”
S’ria had been gazing out of the window: as E’sre finished she turned back to face them all.
“I, too, have enjoyed the peace of this place.” She said softly. “But it is time to return – and I am not sorry of that. I am well prepared and ready for this, I think. But hear me – E’sre, Alardon, Durnold, my loyal servants and companions,” and her voice, though no louder was suddenly as sharp as a blade, “hear me well – I will not be a playing piece on this gaming board. No, my friends – I mean to be a player.”
There was silence as they looked at her. She returned their gaze steadily.
“I am S’ria Berh Ria, a Princess of the Old Blood, of the F’alhanna. I will not be anyone’s playing piece – not my brother’s, not my fathers, not the courts. I will play this game myself. I will play to win.”
2.
Marchand Hall: Durnold’s Chamber.
That night, Durnold sat in his bedchamber, sipping watered wine and trying to order his tangled emotions. With little success. The realisation of his true feelings for S’ria, the summons to court, the prospect of her marriage – the excitement and uncertainty that the future suddenly held, compared with the uneventful certainty of the past years – it had all happened too soon. The turmoil within him was too great to be ignored, yet too chaotic to be dealt with, and the tension showed in a desire for activity. With a snarl of frustration, he slammed down the wine, swept up his sword belt and strode out.
Marchand Hall, the place of S’ria’s six year exile, was no grand house or castle. The Ri had been seeking to lose his daughter in rural obscurity, not to set her up in a miniature court. Still, it was more than large enough for her small retinue. An entire wing had been given over to her guard. The Sergeant-at-Arms and fifty men that Durnold commanded in S’ria’s name had space to spare - two men to a room, the sergeant on his own and their own barracks room besides. It was rare luxury for common men-at-arms, and Durnold wondered how they felt about leaving.
Sergeant Tadant was down in the barracks room, watching an off-duty game of dice. Durnold observed him from the doorway. Six years ago, Tadant had been a hardened veteran, nearly 40 years in arms and looking tough enough for another 40. But six years of easy duty had taken its toll, Durnold observed. The sergeant’s waist was thicker, his hair greyer, and his face redder. “He’s gone soft.” Durnold thought to himself. “They all have. And what about me?”
Tadant looked up, saw Durnold, and walked over, tossing off a casual salute, right fist to left shoulder. Six years ago he had thumped himself so hard that Durnold feared he’d break a finger.
“I’ll do the Posts tonight, Sergeant.”
For a fleeting moment, surprise – and perhaps a little alarm? – showed on the Sergeant’s grizzled features, before a lifetimes discipline asserted itself “Aye, sir.” Tadant nodded.
And what had that look meant? Durnold asked himself. Was it really so rare nowadays that he bestirred himself to inspect the guards at Post? Was there that which Tadant would rather he did not inspect?
The Sergeant interrupted this chain of thought. “Ahem – Sir? Some of the men were wondering…”
Durnold had no doubt that the men had been doing a lot of wondering. The Ri’s summons had not been discussed outside S’ria’s chambers – but the mere fact of a message must have set tongues wagging. It was, after all, the first thing in six years worth discussing.
“Let’s take a walk.” He ordered. Tadant nodded and fell in beside him, as they strolled out of the barracks wing and into the courtyard.
It was a cool night, with a soft drizzle occasionally shining the cobble stones. A few wall mounted braziers provided a fitful light. They walked in silence, as Durnold considered what to say.
In the end, he decided to say everything. He needed to trust Tadant – and in six years had discovered no reason not to.
“The message was from the court. Our Lady is returning to Desten.”
“Ah.” Tadant grunted. “Thought as much. When do we go?”
“Within the week. I’ll be giving orders tomorrow. I’ll want to meet with you and the corporals to go over details later on. You’ll need to assign men to Lady E’sre, for moving the heavier items, and I want a detail to get the wagons out of storage and start preparing them.”
“Aye sir. Ah – there may be problems with some of the men.”
Durnold had expected nothing less. “Such as?”
“We’ve been here long enough, some are well settled. Five’s got married to local girls, others have – well, understandings…”
“They’re oath-given, Tadant. I reminded them of it when they married.”
“Yes, sir. But there didn’t seem much to it then. Well, what I mean is when they hear that we’re leaving…”
“Will they break oath, Sergeant?” Durnold spoke calmly, but icy fingers stroked his spine. If oath-given men started deserting, he would have to order them hunted down and hung. And would the others do that? Or would they break their own oath? He had a sudden vision of S’ria arriving at her fathers gate with only himself and Tadant for an escort.
Tadant took his time answering, which stoked Durnold’s fears. “I don’t think so.” The Sergeant answered at last. “They’re good lads, it’s just that we’ve been here too long.”
Durnold nodded. “I’ll see Lady E’sre about bringing their wives along with us. No doubt there’ll be room for them in the household staff.”
“That will help somewhat.” Tadant agreed. “But Shinsi, Tall Mikkom’s lass – she’s eight months with child…”
“Yes, I’d forgotten.” Durnold cursed to himself. “I need every man, Tadant.” Unspoken was the knowledge they both shared, that to allow one man to relinquish his oath could lead to a flood of others.
“Um - there may be a way, sir. Some of the village lads, they quite like the idea of soldiering. Get away from the farm, and all. We could lose a few, make up the numbers.”
Durnold considered the idea. “Untrained farm boys to guard the Princess?”
“We’ve all got to start somewhere, sir. And there’s some good ‘uns, as I reckon it.
Fit, strong and bright - bright enough to learn, not so bright as to think they don’t have to. I’d keep an eye on ‘em, bring ‘em along fast.”
Raw recruits in place of trained, experienced guardsmen? Or keen young men, eager for adventure, in place of older men with their minds on wife and family, and no enthusiasm for soldiering?
“Very well, Sergeant. Look out some good prospects for us. Perhaps we’ll swap a few of them for Tall Mikkom. But none of the others. Make sure that that’s clear to them all.”
“Aye sir.” Their slow walk round the courtyard had brought them back to the barracks wing. “If there’s nothing else, sir, I believe I’ll turn in early. Seems like we’ll be busy tomorrow. At last!”
Durnold nodded. “How will the rest of them take the news? The ones without wives here?”
“Oh, they’ll grumble about leaving a soft duty like this. Soldiers do grumble, sir. But I reckon they’ll be glad to be on the move again. Bored daft, they’ve been getting.”
“And you?”
“Especially me, sir!” Tadant chuckled. “I was getting afraid that I might die in my bed! Goodnight to you, sir.”
The Sergeant stomped back indoors. Durnold headed for the watchtower, considering the conversation, and finding some encouragement in it. Soft they may be, but with any luck they’d sharpen up now.
Being no true castle, Marchand Hall had no true watchtower: but the small worship-hall attached to the west wing boasted a bell-tower that stood higher than the manor’s roofs, if only by a small margin. Durnold had established the practice of keeping a man on watch up there, with instructions to sound the bell for an alarm if there was cause. In six years the bell had been rung just once, when a sleepy guard had stumbled and grabbed the bell rope to steady himself. Never-the-less, a guard remained at the post, and it was the first place Durnold visited.
“All quiet?” He asked casually as he pulled himself out of the hatchway and onto the open roof.
“Aye, Serg - sorry, sir. All quiet.” Anonymous in the dark, well swathed in a black cloak besides, Durnold never-the-less knew him at once by his voice. “Eyek. Where’s your helm?”
“Just here sir!” Eyek replied, hastily bending and scrabbling on the floor. “I just took it off for a moment sir, to - ah - scratch my head.”
“It was a serious itch that needed you to put it on the floor and use both hands.” Durnold observed dryly. And, he thought, so serious that you couldn’t be bothered to put it on again when you heard me coming up the steps - thinking it was Tadant. Things had indeed become lax, and he would have a word with the sergeant about it – though it may be that the sergeant already knew: it explained his alarm over Durnold’s decision to do the Posts.
Eyek stood nervously turning the helmet over in his hands. “Well, get it on your head, then!” Durnold snapped. “If you’ve quite finished scratching, that is. And is that your spear leaning on the parapet over there? Pick it up, before you knock it over and kill some poor sod below!”
Durnold treated the luckless Eyek to a few remarks about his quality as a soldier and likely fate, before stomping back down the stairs, his optimistic mood shattered. The real problem, he admitted to himself, was not with Eyek, nor even with Tadant, but with himself. He was Commander of the Princess’ Guard. It was he who was ultimately responsible for the men’s preparedness, and he’d clearly failed in that.
“They sent me here because I was a failure.” He muttered to himself. “That’s how they saw it at court. And I’ve proved them right, haven’t I?” Thinking bitter thoughts, he made his way to the main gate.
There were two men on duty there. Durnold was pleasantly surprised to find them awake, alert, fully armed and helmed. It occurred to him that Tadant had had time to send a warning whilst he we was berating Eyek – but he decided to accept it at face value. Eyek was a minor incident, and perhaps not typical.
There were six more men sleeping in the gatehouse, a reserve force in case of any trouble: Durnold satisfied himself with a quick glance, to confirm that there were six snoring bundles within, along with an untidy pile of weapons and armour, and a strong smell of soldiers farts.
Choosing a direction at random, Durnold continued his rounds along the inside of the wall. When they had first arrived here, he had had four men on the gate, another four patrolling the wall in pairs and two more guarding the small gate in the south-west corner. He’d also set the men to building look-out points to see over the wall, to cutting back trees and shrubs to give a good space beyond it, and to enclosing the courtyard and outbuildings with another wall. There had been mutterings at all this work, and one guard had muttered in Durnold’s hearing that the Commander was a “a’feared o’ a cold wind” – a remark that Durnold chose not to take note of, but the guard in question spent the next month mucking out the stables.
That stopped the more obvious mutterings, but Durnold’s defences had never been tested, and over the course of time the regime had become more relaxed. There were now just two men patrolling the wall alone, and one on duty at the small gate.
This far from the hall, with low cloud still blocking off the light of moon or stars, the darkness under the wall was all but impenetrable. Durnold, wondering if he should have brought a lantern, stumbled on something, cursed and was promptly challenged.
“At ease, Garran.” The shadow in front of him paused, then lifted the spearhead, glimmering faintly with reflections from distant torches, away from Durnold’s chest.
“All quiet, sir.”
“Carry on then.”
Garran continued his patrol towards the main gate, and Durnold carried on towards the south-west corner.
After the encouragement offered by Garran and the main gate guard, he was fully prepared to be challenged once more as he approached the small gate. He was therefore doubly annoyed when he reached the gate and found the post deserted. “Another Eyek!” he thought grimly. “But this one not even at his duty!” The guard, whoever it was, would not be let off with a tongue lashing, he resolved.
“Ho, there – guard!” he called softly, not wishing to spread alarm with a shout. There was no response. Moving to the gate, he gave it a push, and it swung gently open.
With a curse, he slipped through the gate, glanced around beyond – but if anything it was even darker this side of the wall. What was up here? Had the man wandered off to the village to see some woman – or had he in truth deserted, not just his post, but his oath and service?
If so, he was not alone in it, Durnold thought. Garran and the other patrolling guard must be aware of it, or they would have given the alarm – or had the man only just left? A patrol from the main gate might yet apprehend him!
Stepping back inside, Durnold pulled the gate shut again, and made to slide the bar across – before a thought struck him, and instead he eased it open once more. It swung easily: and silently.
The gate was not much used. The last time he’d been through it was at least a month past – and it had creaked and squealed like a dying pig. He’d made a note to have it oiled – but had it been done? He bent and sniffed the hinges, reached and touched. A soft, sweet smell rose to his nostrils, and the rusty metal was smooth and slick beneath his fingers. Oiled it had been – but not by his command, he thought, not unless his men had taken to doing such work in the pitch black of night.
Cold apprehension nuzzled at the back of his neck. “Guard?” he whispered, not expecting an answer. Not getting one.
He moved further along the wall, kicking in the shadows until he felt something soft. Bending down, Durnold found sodden wool over damp mail, groping, he touched a cold hand – but was it cold only from the wet night? He explored further, and blindly questing fingers slipped suddenly into a deep, sticky-wet mouth – a mouth wider and deeper than any mouth should be – a mouth below the chin. A mouth that, when he brought his fingers to his nose, reeked of blood.
Stumbling back with a gasp, leaning against the wall, Durnold’s thoughts tumbled wildly. An attack – intruders – the Princess! He had his sword out, was waving it in front of him, half expecting one of the shadows become solid and leap on him. He tried to shout for help, to give alarm, but his throat was too dry, he could only manage to gasp and cough and pant for breath.
“Control yourself, man!” he thought. “You’re the Commander of the Princess’s guard, a knight and a warrior – think!”
He forced himself to relax, to lean against the wall and take deep breaths. There were men within the walls, armed men, and for a certainty the Princess’s life was in danger, he could not afford to panic.
“One man.” He thought to himself. “One man – lightly armed, agile. Other’s helped him over the wall. Not here, further along where it’s lower. Then he crept up on the guard, cut his throat from behind. Poor wretch never even knew he was there. But it couldn’t have been long ago. Garran was coming from here. So – what? Ten minutes at most. And then he oiled the door hinges, so there would be no sound, and let others in. Two? Probably more. Three or four. Well-armed, in armour – not up to climbing walls. No more than that, or they would have left someone to guard the gate, to protect their retreat. So, they cannot have been gone more than five minutes.”
Five minutes, and moving cautiously, in the dark. They might not yet be in the Hall. If they went from the back, through the outbuildings, Eyek would not see them from the tower. The inner wall was unguarded: one man stood duty in the entrance hall.
If he yelled, Durnold would alarm the enemy before his own men were aroused. If he ran for the Hall, he would likely stumble across them in the dark, and be killed as swiftly as the guard. The main gate then!
He turned, then another thought struck him. A quick search of the guard’s body and he had the man’s dagger. He shut the gate, and slid the locking-bar across: hammered the dagger into the jamb, and jerked it sideways with all his strength. It snapped just short of the hilt, which was not what he had intended; but it would suffice.
Then he ran, as fast as he dared in the dark, following the wall because the ground was clearer there. Still faster than was safe, he stumbled, caught himself on the wall, carried on, driven by fear for S’ria, and by a growing anger.
He came to the south-east corner, and carried on towards the gate without a pause. A darker patch of shadow ahead gave a gasp of surprise as Durnold hurtled towards him from the darkness. Knocking aside the clumsily levelled spear, Durnold rushed past the guard, snapping out commands as he went. “Follow me, Garran! Intruders!”
Soft yellow lantern light ahead showed the gate, the two guards leaping up from the bench by the gatehouse, faces a study in amazement as their Commander burst upon them with a naked blade in his hand.
“Stand to arms! We have intruders!” Durnold slammed open the gatehouses door, and began kicking at bunk beds. “To arms! To arms!” He dared not shout, sound would carry, he tried to put urgency in his tone without volume, and found it difficult, as sleep-bemused face peered up at him. “We are attacked! Move yourselves – but quietly! They do not yet know that the alarm is raised!”
“Who..?” mumbled a man, clutching his bedclothes to him as if to protect his honour.
“Intruders! By the small gate – three or four of them, I judge. The guard there is dead, and the Princess is in danger! Hurry yourselves!” Durnold turned to one man who was at least on his feet, and fumbling for clothes. “You – Sembram? Go along the wall to the north. Find the guard there and bring him to the hall through the courtyard. Go quickly but quietly, and beware of ambush!” He turned to the others. “Up with you! Guard this gate!”
Garran stood, panting, in the doorway, with the other two guards peering past him.
“You three – with me!” Durnold pushed passed them and sprinted down the drive towards the Hall. Heavy boots crunching on gravel told him that they were following: it was louder than he would have liked, but there was no more time for stealth, there could be armed men, assassins or kidnappers at S’ria’s door even now. Speed must come foremost.
They burst through the double doors into the Hall. One guard was posted here – easy duty inside the building, and so much coveted: at their entrance he sprang up from his comfortable seat by the fire, still half asleep and panicking. Durnold did not spare the time even to shout an order, but raced on, clattering up the broad stairs beyond.
S’ria’s chambers were on the first floor, to the right of the staircase: Durnold was half-way up when a shrill scream split the air. He responded with a shout, and reached the top with one fear-driven leap.
The dimly lit passage beyond was all confusion. Durnold saw it all in that one instant, and could forever afterwards recall every detail, almost as if the painted scene hung before him.
A women, long hair and filmy night clothes billowing round her, was lurching forward, falling towards Durnold, hands grasping desperately at the great wound in her stomach, a shrill scream bubbling out of the dark liquid that choked her mouth. Behind her, a tall man, anonymous in full-face helm and dark plate armour raised his sword for a final blow.
Beyond them, a door hung open, another armoured figure stepping from it, the sword in his hand darkened along the blade. And, closer, a third man had raised his foot, paused in the act of kicking open a door to look at Durnold. This man’s visor was open, and Durnold could see his eyes, bright in the shadows.
All this in one frozen moment of time: then the scene dissolved in to a blur of action.
The sword fell, the women – one of S’ria’s maids – crumpled beneath the blow, her scream cut abruptly short. The door crashed open beneath the armoured foot, and the man disappeared into S’ria’s room.
Durnold flung himself in pursuit, sword and dagger out. The two men in the corridor moved to intercept him, leaping over the maid’s body. Durnold was forced to defend himself: catching a blow on his dagger, he struck back, stabbing for the man’s face: the helm turned his blade aside, and he recovered barely in time to parry a strong blow from the third intruder.
Then the guards were with him, spear points thrusting. “Hold them!” He shouted: ducked beneath a spear, and stumbled, crouching, into S’ria’s room.
The room was dimly lit from a night lamp on the wall: steel gleamed as the armoured figure ahead ripped apart the curtains from the Princess’s bed and hacked down at the pillows.
With a wordless cry, Durnold threw himself at the man’s back, striking at his neck – but his blow was parried, the man whirling with remarkable speed for someone in full armour.
Unable to stop, Durnold slammed into the man’s chest. His head struck painfully into a helmets rim, and his face was filled with bushy moustache, hot breath and wide glaring eyes – then the man toppled backwards onto the bed, Durnold on top of him in a grotesque embrace. His dagger scraped off armour as he stabbed, frantically seeking an opening into flesh. The man grunted, then with a roar of anger, thrust Durnold back.
Unbalanced, he staggered two paces backward, nearly fell: his opponent wrenched himself upright, raised his sword and cursed as it tangled in the bed curtains. It was ripped free at once, but the moment was gone: Durnold had his balance and his blade was up.
Outside was noise, clashing steel, shouts and screams and the thundering of feet on the wooden floor. More guards, Durnold realised, roused from the barracks room and leaping at once to their Princess’s defence. And not too late he thought, with sudden hope: the bed was slashed and torn, but there was no bloody stain on the sheets, no hacked corpse laying there.
“Give it up, man!” he gasped. “Surrender yourself!”
His only answer was a snarl, as the armoured man lunged at him.
Durnold gave ground, backing towards the door as he blocked and parried a furious rain of blows. It was strategy, that, to get the man away from the bed, hopefully away from S’ria, and closer to the guards. But it was also hard to do otherwise, the man was powerful, and fast: even with sword and dagger both, Durnold was hard put to keep him at bay. The armour gave the man an advantage also – which should have been somewhat outweighed by Durnold’s greater mobility, but his opponent hardly seemed to notice that he was burdened by heavy plate. Instead, he matched him move for move, blow for blow, and Durnold was no longer retreating for strategy, he was being driven back.
Behind his opponent, beyond the bed, Durnold noticed movement. S’ria emerged from her hiding place – under the bed? – and looked at him, calmly assessing the situation.
He wanted to tell her to get back, to hide – but he dare not draw attention to her. Distracted, he barely parried a vicious cut to his head, and his dagger riposte had no power to it as he lurched, off balance: his opponent knocked it aside with a contemptuous flick of his arm. Another blow was coming, he could see it coming, but he was out of position, couldn’t move fast enough… Durnold saw the triumph in the man’s eyes, as the blade swept in, around and up towards his gut.
A royal chamberpot shattered on the assassin’s helm, scattering porcelain shards and a light golden mist like a halo round him. He shouted, and staggered half a pace forwards: Durnold felt an icy kiss of steel sliding by him, heard the blade thud into wood panelling behind him. The man’s face was, once more, almost in his, dripping piss and red with fury: and now Durnold saw his one brief opportunity. Dropping his sword, he grasped the dagger in both hands and drove it at the glaring eyes.
Beneath the armour plate, muscles convulsed, and the assassin seemed to leap back, sword clattering to the floor as his hands leaped to his face. A gasp of pain and horror burst from his lips as he continued to move backwards, then crashed abruptly to the floor. And lay still, the dagger still firmly held in his right eye socket.
Durnold snatched up his sword, half turned to the door, where sounds of combat still lingered. But his gaze was on S’ria. “My Lady?”
“I’m all right.” She met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. “Go, see to the others. This one is well dealt with!”
Love and relief and admiration mingled in Durnold as he rushed out. “How does she manage to be so calm,” he wondered “with an assassin’s body still cooling in her bedroom?”
He did not see that she sank back on to the bed as soon as his back was turned, shaking and sobbing helplessly.
In the corridor the battle had been ferocious but short. A guard sat against the far wall, white faced and groaning: his arm was laid open to the bone. Another lay further along the corridor, bloody and silent – but still alive, to judge by the frantic work of his companions, two of whom were frantically binding wounds and staunching blood flows.
Others of the guards stood with bare steel in hand, constantly looking about in anticipation of further attack, but their gaze returning always to the two armoured figures sprawled on the floor. The maids body lay in between them. It looked, thought Durnold, almost as if they had died defending her. A pointless irony that seemed to his mind to have far more significance than it should: he recognised the symptoms of battle-shock, the suddenness of the horror in a peaceful place that sent his mind skittering away on irrelevancies.
With an effort he concentrated his thoughts, and called for Tadant: the sergeant answered his call at once, striding up from the end of the corridor with a bloodied sword in hand.
“I think we have them all, sir” he began, but Durnold cut him off. “Six men to the south-west gate. I jammed it shut, but they may go over the wall - one did, to open it. Another squad round the outside, to cut them off - they’ll have horses nearby, perhaps men with them. How many of these in armour have we?”
“These here, and the one in my ladies chamber, who you killed, sir.” It was not a question: Durnold alive meant the other dead. “The Princess - she is safe?”
Durnold nodded. “Aye, safe - no thanks to any of us!” He paused, thinking back. “I thought - three or four in armour, the assassins - these here?”
“I do not think there were others, sir. They came in from the courtyard: your men from the gate kept them from the main stairs, and we came up from the guard room to prevent their retreat. Not that they sought to retreat, or called for quarter - they fought like fury itself, and were they not well outnumbered, might have prevailed.”
Durnold nodded, remembering the strength and speed of his own opponent. “But there was one other - without armour, agile enough climb walls and silent enough to cut throats from behind. More thief than warrior, I’d say - but he’s around, I’m sure of it!”
“That one you’ll find in my chambers!” E'sre Kora Vari strode up the hall, clad in a volumeous flowered night gown, and with grey hair spiking aggressively from beneath her night cap. Even more aggressive was the brass fire-poker she carried threateningly: Durnold thought it looked a little bent.
“I’ll see to him at once, Ma’am.” Barked Tadant, but E’sre forestalled him with a sharp, poker-laden gesture.
“No need Sergeant. I’ve seen to him myself. Caught him a-hunting in my jewellery box, and he had the audacity to wave a knife at me. Ha! I’ve slept with the poker to hand for more years than I remember, as he found to his regret. Well, he’ll have no more regrets.” E’sre paused, looking round her. “But I see we’ve had more than just one little sneak thief visiting tonight - Oh! Mercy on us!” She went pale as her eyes fell on the maid’s body. “My lady!” she cried “S’ria - where..”
“Calm yourself, E’sre.” Said the Princess from the door to her chamber. “I am unharmed, thanks to Durnold!”
“And I am unharmed - thanks to your royal piss-pot.” Durnold put in. “But I fear that others were not so fortunate, my Lady. I have lost men this night, and I - I’m sorry, but your maids…”
She draw a sharp breath as she, too, saw her maid. “Salya! - and Kyris?”
Durnold looked at Tadant, and he shook his head. “Slaughtered in her bed.” He muttered.
“They went first to the larger chamber.” S’ria said quietly. “It was mine, but I thought it better that my maids should share it, and I take the smaller one myself. I thought - I thought to do them a small kindness.”
“Don’t even think of taking any blame to yourself, My Lady.” Said Alardon firmly. Durnold had not even been aware of his arrival, but there he stood, half-dressed and tousle haired, as Durnold had never seen him, but wide awake. “Durnold - when you have the place secured, have these poor girls taken out - place them in the Sanctuary. These other bodies, the assassins - somewhere else, I think, but I will want to look at them before long. Send your wounded to the infirmary, I will attend them. Lady E’sre - set the household to work, if you would. There is a need for some mulled wine, at the least!”