Jadde - The Fragile Sanctuary (5 page)

‘According to Jadde’s justice I now
sentence the once high-person and favoured one Malkrin Owlear.’  The Fox’s
voice croaked in the charged silence, echoing around the cold stone hall.

Malkrin’s heart pounded even harder as The
Fox began to intone the sentence ritual.

‘You will be banished from this land and will
roam the wilderness to find your lost abilities. Should you not retrieve them,
then in death your spirit will not find its way back through the deadlands.’
The Fox’s stony eyes locked onto Malkrin’s. ‘You have forfeited the right of
partnership with any Seconchane woman and surrendered your safety in our valleys.
Should you regain your highsense you will be retested before being permitted
entry through the stockade. For concealing your highsense loss; and thereby causing
an unnecessary death you are shamed before your deceased parents, your wife and
those companions you have hunted alongside. Therefore the retest will not be
allowed for at least four seasons.

Gasps sounded from the folk behind him.

The Fox’s voice soared above the disbelief.
‘You will be led from Cyprusnia forthwith. May Jadde show mercy on you, for
you will need her aid in the deadlands.’

Malkrin’s mouth felt as dry as old leather.
He just stared as he calmed his heart which felt as if it would burst.

He heard Cabryce from the front of the
peoples benches scream.

‘NO. The verdict is unjust. NO, NO.’

     A rumble of incredulity rose from the
gathering behind Malkrin. A retest had never before been refused until a
certain period had elapsed.

CHAPTER FIVE

H
ow could it have come to this? Nardin
Fleetfoot thought as he stood surveying the Brenna court as if in a dream. He
stared at Malkrin’s shackled legs as his friend was led away by the Brenna
guards. Malkrin was the peoples’ favourite; a hero who was always willing to
help any in need. He was a master at hunting deer and boar. He could stalk, run
down prey then kill with a single arrow or spear then even give his meat share away
to aid deserving folk in plight. He would even help out harvesting their crops
in summer, asking nothing in return. Nardin knew that his friend would have
been just as benevolent without his and Cabryce’s generous allowance from the Brenna.

Wide eyed he watched as Malkrin was led to
the cells beneath the Great Hall. He would be given a meal tomorrow before
being escorted beyond the border. There he would be left to wander the track
into the wild-lands. It was the only route out of the high valleys of Cyprusnia
and led away from their mountain-locked lands to Wolf country with its lawless
brigands and nameless hazards.

How could it have come to this
?

Nardin ran through memories like a
storyteller telling a magical tale to earn a meal. Images of Malkrin as a boy
flowed before him. He used this remembrance as an emotional shield against the
injustice he had just witnessed. It was the same kind of memory pattern that would
come to him unbidden at an old friend’s funeral. 

Young Malkrin had wielded a wooden sword
given to him by his uncle. Then his highsense was recognised.  In Malkrin’s
fourteenth summer the toy had been replaced at the ceremony of Orion by the
sword named Palerin. The weapon had been blessed long ago by the priesthood in
a secret initiation behind their deep walls, perhaps in the hidden void Malkrin
had discovered. It was one of the priesthood’s secrets that Nardin was
determined to find out about. If Jadde had visited the priesthood during the
ceremony perhaps he could find a clue as to how to summon her himself – to aid
Malkrin and the people. It was reputed that the ceremony charged enchanted
swords such as Palerin to seek out and kill the wolf-hooded bandits who
occasionally raided Cyprusnia.

Palerin had been taken from Malkrin when he
was arrested. But the sword was now in Nardin’s home. He had smuggled it from the
priest’s armoury. The holy men would not think to check, an empowered sword had
never before disappeared.

He had yet to be challenged when he
wandered the keep enamoured with false admiration. All he had to do was wear
the same old baggy smock that he wore when smuggling out manuscripts to read at
home under candlelight. It had been that easy, with his access to the
scriptures. It was vital he reunite Malkrin with Palerin to give his friend a
chance of survival out there in the wilderness.

It had been almost two years since Nardin
had integrated himself with the priest-scholars. At first they had been
suspicious of him and demanded he undergo an interview to assess his
suitability and ability to learn. The Abbot had grilled him for two hours but
Nardin had been sufficiently prepared for an interrogation and had passed all
the tests the priesthood could devise. They had given him a young novice priest
called Heln Hollyberry to show him the basics of lettering. The youngster had
sneered when beginning the first lesson. Again Nardin was prepared, knowing of
Hollyberry’s alliance with the upstart Guy Beartooth.

‘Don’t think you can learn a highsense from
the scriptures, ignorant fool.’

‘I never expected the holy word to include
instructions on any such honoured talent Sire,’ he had responded.

 Hollyberry had expected Nardin’s ignorant
and fawning reverence, he had frowned, forced to reassess his student. So
without acknowledging his pupil he had begun chanting the first lesson to
himself. Nardin realised Hollyberry thought it would all be too much for Nardin
and he would give up. He concentrated hard as Hollyberry continued intoning, ignoring
his queries. Eventually Nardin placed his hand over the text forcing Hollyberry
to answer. When he’d repeated this three more times things settled down to a
proper teacher-pupil relationship. Hollyberry answered all Nardin’s questions with
a new respect in his eyes. During that first evening Nardin picked up the basics
of vowels and consonants. The next evening Nardin had progressed to recognising
simple words, the following evening, simple sentences. Within a month Hollyberry
the novice had been replaced by a senior priest.

Sire Steth Harefoot was initially
suspicious after talking to Hollyberry and disbelieving his report of Nardin’s
intelligence. But Nardin had soon smoothed his distrust with quick ability and
respect for the scriptures. Then Sire Harefoot began in earnest to teach Nardin
the intricacies that made up the scriptures.

The first known script had been written by
the ancient High of Priests Berwin Boswater about the Goddess Jadde and her
business with the Seconchane. Nardin read aloud to the priest, running his hesitant
finger along the ancient words.

‘The sorceress Jadde’s expulsion . . . of
the warlike Archgry . . . from the lands of Cyprusnia . . . sig . . . signified
the end of the great slaughter . . . started four generations before by ancient
warlocks. She had come to Cyprusnia from . . . the back of a full moon as it
slid down the . . . heavens toward the mountains. The roar and flaming brightness
of her coming put great fear into the Seconchane, for they feared the . . .
Archgry hordes had forged a mighty weapon to destroy them. But at that time of
the tribes’ greatest need, the sorceress, creator of the . . . Brightwater,
Highnirvana and Seconchane tribes had strolled amongst the doomed Seconchane . .
. and caused them to rise up in one final battle to defeat the dark invaders.’

Then as the strength of the words filled
his mind Nardin had become less hesitant, a great power was revealed to him. He
had removed his finger from the page and sat immersed as he read the mighty
words to Sire Steth.

‘Then she settled the surviving people and
rebuilt their homes. She looked and saw where they fell short.  For the evil crimes
of avarice, theft, murder, adultery and deceit threatened to engulf the
moralities of the tribe. The Seconchane needed firm justice, so she called into
being the Great Hall. Within it she created her Altar of Justice. The great Goddess
endowed it with her divine power to judge crimes and deliver just decisions.

 It was told that she had caused the pink
and blue veins in the marble to turn to pure gold. The altar is an eternal sign
of her power to convert the unconvertible. The scripture she engraved on the
altar sides reveal her wondrous sermon of truth, justice and wisdom.

Here is how she did this.

Jadde raised arms clothed in shimmering
fabric. Lightning came from her staff and caused the stone to stretch, and then
open to receive her magic. Golden light erupted from the staff and the marble
veins split to receive the gold tracery and then settled back onto the mighty
base. Again her lightning hissed, enshrouding the altar as a mother would her
infant. She ran her staff along the altar side to add noble scriptures to the
base with magical fire.  Amber smoke rose from the fissures in the stone, and behold,
her rules were embedded in precious gold for all to see.

The mighty words of her binding laws shone
with enchantment and filled the air with righteousness. She then caused her
staff of power to fly once over the stone and as it did so she muttered an
incantation to seal her magic into the altar. Then she turned, her robes
swirling about her, and strode from the echoing hall. She looked neither back,
to the left nor to the right but ahead, out into the black night. 

Never to be seen again.’

 Nardin stared wide eyed at his tutor. ‘Who
were the Brightwater and Highnirvana tribes?’ He asked Sire Steth.

‘We believe they were tribes that withered
to extinction in the deadlands. It is but one of the scriptures mysteries,
young scholar.’

Nardin was hooked. He marvelled at the
power of the Goddess’s magic and wondered what other mysteries further study
would reveal, and he dared to hope – answered.

Before the first winter was through Nardin
and Sire Steth had formed a close bond forged in mutual love of the ancient
words. The candles had burnt low again one evening when Sire Steth turned to
Nardin with growing respect. ‘Commoner Nardin you have a good eye for learning.
I believe you now when you proclaim your love for Jadde’s scriptures.’

Nardin had grinned, the priest’s eyes had
shown sincerity, and he really did enjoy learning. ‘Of course Sire, knowledge
is what I crave – knowledge of the scriptures bound in my love of the great Goddess.’

‘You are a competent and keen pupil, how
the High of Priests could have been suspicious of you I do not know.’

‘I am glad of your support Sire.’

‘Do not address me as Sire again, a simple
Steth will suffice.’

‘Thank you Steth.’

‘I had been commanded to report on your
progress to the High of Priests after every lesson. Another priest checks your transcriptions.
I think I will recommend ceasing surveillance. You are too willing, and too
useful for the priesthood to continue being suspicious.’ He sighed, ‘if only
you had been born to serve us and not just to hunt and farm, you could have
risen to high rank in time.’

‘It is my life Steth. I must provide for my
wife and children. But I do what I can to learn and elevate myself whenever
possible.’

‘High ideals young friend – I admire you.’

And now back in Jadde’s hall Nardin was
just relieved that only Malkrin had a highsense that could read his thoughts as
he watched his friend led away. It had all been going so well – until Malkrin’s
arrest. Nardin wondered whether he would ever see his friend again.

Malkrin felt the sorrow of his friends, the
triumph of his few enemies, the indifference of the priesthood and the
satisfaction of the Brenna. The warped translation of Jadde’s laws was once
again completed.

 ‘Open the Gates of Justice,’ Bredon the
Fox boomed the ceremonial words to end the trial. Malkrin was led to barred
iron doors by the two guards that had stood either side of him during the trial. 
A Brenna guard swung the doors open. Once out of sight of the people in the
hall the two guards pushed him down the stone steps to his cell. Malkrin’s
manacles and chains rattled in a demons accompaniment as he tottered down the
damp steps lit by flaming torches. The finality of the heavy cell door slamming
cut any lingering murmuring in his highsense.

CHAPTER SIX

M
alkrin felt the cold wind stinging his raw ankles
where the shackles had rubbed. With a limp he trudged along an animal path
meandering along the only route from the mountainous valleys of Cyprusnia. The
frontier sentry posts and the palisade guarding the fertile valleys were over
two days march behind him. Before him stretched the massive cleft called Darent
Pass which wandered between rain-lashed mountain ridges. The wind channelled along
this wide crevice causing him to lean into it to make headway. Coarse switch-grass
amongst the moss covered rocks blew horizontally as he continued to stumble
along the narrow pass. The path led in a day’s travel to the unknown lands and
nameless dangers.

He’d been deposited two days ago by Brenna
warriors commanded by the priest Sire Helm Rantiss. They’d struck the fetters
from his wrists and ankles with a hammer against the nearest rock, jarring his
limbs. The young priest had laughed at the pain caused as the circulation
returned to Malkrin’s hands and feet.

     ‘On your way outcast, and may your
lowsense guard you.’ He’d laughed at his insult, normally only spoken to
murderers and rapists. It was obvious the priest never expected to see him
again.

     ‘I’ll be back for you Rantiss,’
Malkrin had rasped between gritted teeth. He turned his back on his antagonist,
picked up his meagre pack and limped off.

They’d thrown him a battered leather backpack
and an old goatskin coat he’d used to cover a leak in his and Cabryce’s cottage
roof. His baggy leggings were bound around his ankles with leather thongs; he
had been allowed to keep his stout footwear. At least I’ll keep fairly dry, he
thought as he trudged further from all he’d known. Someone had managed to
smuggle some cheese, bread, oatcake and a sharp flint into his pack along with
a leather water container and a fur for sleeping on.

Initially he had felt relieved to put distance
between himself and Priest Rantiss lest he received a spear in the back. He
knew they would probably hide out in rocks near the track, to stop him doubling
back. But Malkrin had no intention of returning – for now. In spite of his
predicament a fierce curiosity had ignited in him. If he was going to starve
out here, he was determined to try to find out what he could of this land
first.

The tall mountains surrounding Cyprusnia
towered behind, to the sides, and above him. The tallest still showing a
topping of winter snow, reminding him of the freezing winter they had all
endured. Drizzle started as he stumbled through shingle on the floor of the
pass. The surface beneath him became slippery and he was forced to concentrate
on each step. He paused to refill his water container from a trickling mountain
stream. The clear water revived him and he walked at a steady rate.

He had come this far only once before when
chasing a band of wolf-pelted bandits who had attacked the palisade barrier shielding
Cyprusnia. He remembered the cave where they had cornered one of the bandits.  The
man had turned to fight, to give his companions a chance to escape. The wolf-pelt
man’s darting spear had ripped into Kalvin Beaverfoot’s shoulder. Malkrin had
become incensed, his face red with berserk power. He had fought the bandit
alone and had prevailed. Now, he looked to the distant ridge where the bandit’s
companions had turned for a moment. He remembered their shouts of anger knowing
their comrade had just died.

Malkrin had avenged his wounded comrade. He
raised Palerin aloft in a victory salute. Later, calm again, he had regretted
his vengeful temper. It had been wrong to relieve the man of his life, it would
have been better to bind the bandit’s wrists and question him about his life
and brethren. The knowledge would have been useful, and the man could then have
been released. But the Brenna’s code decreed all bandits must be instantly sent
to Jadde and Malkrin had obeyed without thought. They had left the corpse to
the birds.

Malkrin now headed to that same cave for
the night. It would offer respite from the bitter wind whistling down the long
pass. Later as he entered the cave mouth he thought of the bandit with the wolf
skull headdress who gave his life with brave abandon. Malkrin put his hands
together before his face in the ancient gesture of respect a warrior shows for
a fallen foes spirit.

He sat wearily on a rock just within the
entrance and took in his surroundings. He had a good view of the long cleft
between the mountains ending in the cave mouth. No one could creep up on him
unnoticed – at least not in daylight. At night the loose shale would give them
away. Ferns grew in the moisture at the cave entrance, filtering the wind as it
blew at an angle outside. He walked around inside, gathered dry kindling and dead
scrub, and set a fire by sparking his flint. He wished he’d been able to find a
suitable tree to fashion a spear, bow or staff from. All he had found were dead
boughs suitable only for firewood. He surveyed the view again, not many trees
could take hold in this wind tormented region, only gorse and sage scrub.

The cave warmed as the fire took hold. Its
heat accentuated a dank smell of decay from further within the hollow. Instinctive
unease overrode his tiredness. He forced his leaden limbs to check the dark
recesses before collapsing onto a bed of dry ferns covered by his sleeping fur.
He took a large draught from his water container and laughed emptily to himself
as he compared his fern bed to his previous duck feather mattress he shared
with Cabryce.

The comparison fanned his hatred of the Brenna
laws, but strangely not the ruling Brenna themselves. For the first time he
realised they were victims of their own rigid laws. Could tolerance move the
people forward not the solid fist of revenge?

But whatever argument he set up within
himself only returned his thoughts to his Cabryce – so warm and inviting. For
the first time since childhood he felt the pain of a terrible separation and
tears overwhelmed him.

Finally sleep overtook his grief as the
fire died back to dull red warmth.

Later, something awoke his hunters’ highsense.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept as cloud had obscured the moon beyond the
cave entrance. He sat up and wrapped the sleeping fur around his arm – it was
the only protection he had.

A scraping sound came from the front of the
cave. Then a silhouette blocked the grey light filling the cave-mouth. Long
legs and waving tail flowed silently along the entrance. A mouth opened to emit
a hiss of recognition.

Pointed ears, whiskers, slit eyes with
large pupils, two rows of sharp teeth –
a wildcat
.

Its green eyes seemed lit from within and
its white fangs flashed even in the gloom. Malkrin glanced at the glowing fire
embers, judging whether he could reach them before the cat sprung.

He dived and almost reached a glowing stick
as the cat hissed again and leapt. He thrust the fur into its face and grabbed
the end of a stick with his other hand. A claw raked his shoulder. He rammed the
fur into the jaws of the creature. Sharp teeth bit through the fur and another
paw raked his back shredding his tunic and flesh. He fell to the floor with the
cat on top of him raking his legs and biting his shoulder as it searched for
his throat. He brought up the glowing log in a swift thrust to the cat’s face.
The creature hissed and drew back leaving the stench of burnt fur in the air.
Malkrin rose and pressed his attack home, stabbing at the feline monster with
the red-hot stick.

The wildcat slinked warily along the cave
entrance. Both combatants now respecting each other.

The cat sprang again and Malkrin thrust his
arm forward ramming the smoking stick into the creature’s mouth. The weight of
the animal bowled him over backward. He held the sleeping fur over his chest
and received another claw to an arm. He squirmed under the swarming shape and
grasped another ember. This one was partially burnt with a white hot tip. It
scorched his hand and he smelt burning flesh as he rammed it into amber fur.
With a screech the creature disappeared out of the cave, the stick embedded in one
pointed ear. There was the sound of dislodged shale and then silence.

Malkrin was shaking with spent effort, but
forced himself to calm. Slowly he lifted sticks to rebuild the fire, should the
creature return. With increasing sluggishness he examined his injuries. The
burns were bad and had already started to blister. He could feel warm blood
flowing down his shoulder and back as he removed the rags of his tunic and
ripped the shreds into lengths with his good hand and teeth. Blood seeped
through the cloth as he attempted to staunch it with fumbling fingers.
Eventually he managed to wrap bloodstained strips round his shoulders and chest
and the flow eased. The cave spun around him when he tried to stand on spent
legs. He crawled slowly to the cave mouth.

The sunrise outside matched the colour of
his blood splattered over the cave floor. He squinted, trying to see movement
in the surrounding rocks. All was still, the cat had vanished.

He crawled back inside and watched the fire
die back. Feebly he fed a few thick sticks and twigs into the hot ashes. They
smoked and glowed, flames returned. He placed the ends of straight sticks near
to the flames to harden – useful weapons in case another predator smelt his
blood and came to finish him. He had no cloth left to wrap the deep wounds in
his arm or the blisters on his hand so he trickled water from his container and
drank the remaining drops.

The morning grew bright outside and the
wind diminished. His legs felt numb and useless and he shivered in his rags. Every
time he moved he felt as if his back was being eaten by the cat. He gritted his
teeth and settled back into his bed of ferns digging his fingers into his
palms.

Malkrin woke again as the sun passed midday
height. Weakly he rose onto an elbow and collapsed groaning. He had no strength
to sit, let alone continue his journey so forced down an oatcake and the remnants
of the bread. There was no water left in the container so he crawled to the
back of the cave to look for more along the damp rear wall. Not even a dribble
welcomed him so he crawled around searching. In the furthest recess he found
some saturated moss on a wet rock and sucked as much as he could, then chewed
the moss. Lying against the moist rock, the gloomy surroundings seemed to
obscure with mist. Later he succumbed to feverish dreams of Cabryce and friends
searching and searching and finding only his bleached bones.

It was dark again and he crawled back to
the fire. A few embers remained and he added the last of the kindling, summoned
weak breaths and blew the fire back to life. He groped for dead brush and
sticks and panting like a victim of lung disease pulled the lighter lengths
slowly onto the fire. The blaze warmed him but the effort sent him back into febrile
dreams.

Consciousness returned and the bright moon
swam in an arc before his eyes. Cold numbed his feet then his legs. A
disembodied hand added more sticks to the dying embers. He realised in a
distant way it was his own and sunk back into an exhausting sleep.

Later he awoke suddenly, greeted by the
clatter of shale from slopes outside the cave.

The cat was returning to finish him.

He didn’t care, and slipped into a wonderful
dream of Cabryce spoon-feeding him wine on their luxurious bed.

Light seemed a long way off. From the
darkest recess of the cave he saw a crumpled body below. His mind retreated
further into a dark tunnel leaving the wrecked body beside the glowing fire.

He woke, again with the sound of slipping
shale, closer now. It seemed to echo then fade.

The light faded to a pin-prick and he
retreated further into the tunnel. Instinctively he knew he had to keep the
light focused on the crumpled form.

The light diminished to the merest speck
and frozen blackness swamped him.

Then slowly the light spread and changed to
cloudy daylight and he felt the fern bed return under him. He clawed a hand toward
the glare as Cabryce spooned more wine into his mouth.

It was a good dream. He felt some warmth
return.

He spluttered; feeling liquid dribble from
his mouth. A face that wasn’t Cabryce’s peered down at him. He blinked and
screwed his eyes against the background glare. A young girl was sitting bent
over him. Her long orange-brown hair curled down near to his face forming
curtains that framing her delicate concern. It reminded him of a child he knew,
one of the ordinary folk. With a bone spoon she fed him more refreshing liquid.
Another face swam into view. He definitely recognised that face, he rose onto
his elbows with a painful groan. Halle Fisheye must have sought him, intent on
revenge – he had limped badly ever since Malkrin had allowed the boar to skewer
him.

‘Halle?’ he inquired.

‘Take it easy Sire, you have to recover
strength. We only just found you in time.’

‘Only just?’ he repeated stupidly trying to
focus on what Halle was saying.

‘Only just – before you died; stupid.’ The
girl spoke without malice. Malkrin focused on her, seeing a sunny expression of
concern and relief.