Light Of Loreandril (26 page)

His confidence growing, he strolled back into the market place to browse casually again, careful to avoid the stalls he had already visited. There were four different clothing vendors, all busy enough for him to linger unnoticed. After deciding which one to visit first he ambled over to it in an aimless fashion, trying not to draw attention to himself.

It was a good stall, filled with a variety of winter clothing, ideal for both himself and Gomel. As the owner was busy helping several demanding customers choose their fabrics he had the perfect opportunity to plunder two waistcoats and a pair of thick woollen breaches long enough for even his thin, gangly legs. Before the owner could notice anything missing, the young clansman casually sauntered away, heading for a second clothing stall. Again, he began by browsing, acting as if he were an innocent customer.

“Can I help you, young sir?” A man’s hand clapped on his shoulder. Cradon turned round, his stomach turning somersaults, expecting to be confronted by a guard. Much to his relief it was just the owner’s assistant, a tall young man in rough orange leggings and gaudy yellow jerkin.

“No, No! I’m fine thank you! Just looking!” he babbled, trying not sound flustered.

“Perhaps something for the winter nights out on the grasslands?” persisted the salesman, holding out two ugly brown woollen jumpers as a suggestion.

“No! They are very nice, but I am not really looking to buy today!” There was an awkward moment between them, but Cradon thanked him again and left as quickly as he could. He turned round to make sure the salesman was not following him, and watched as the young man was speaking to the stall-holder, who seemed very interested and anxious about what he was being told. He patted the boy on the back, and beckoned to a nearby guard.

To stay any longer would have been foolishness, it was time to leave. Clearly his behaviour was beginning to raise suspicion.

“Hey, you, boy! Stop right where you are!” There came a gruffly loud shout from the other side of the market.

He turned, and saw a guard definitely pointing at him. Panic rising in his chest he noticed several other guards advancing. Seeing a possible exit, Cradon ducked down below the head height of the crowd and began pushing his way through, gruffly mumbling words of apology as he went. The guards could no longer see him, and scattered in all directions to search the market. Knowing he would easily stand out with his bright red hair, Cradon pulled up the hood on his new cloak and carried on running. He weaved through the few streets there were and eventually found himself on the main road out of town. Running as fast as he could, the Hundlinger headed down the road, the shouts of the guards still pursuing him.

As he ran passed the horse-training paddock he noticed the white mare now standing calmly, tied to the outer fence. Without thinking, knowing this could be his only escape, he climbed over the fence. The horse whinnied, but did not back away. Cradon was surprised, he had expected some kind of resistance from her. As he came closer, he had a strange feeling that he had seen her before.

Untying her reins he sprang up into the saddle, still clutching his loot. The mare did not buck or rear, but instead stood patiently, twitching her ears, as if he had ridden her countless times before. Cradon gave her a quick gentle kick, and she leaped forward, taking the fence in one quick bound. The guards were nearly upon him, but glancing behind they began to disappear into the distance as the mare began to stretch her legs in a full gallop. It could not have been a more perfect escape.

Cradon found Gomel easily, even though he and Danfur were hiding in the tall grass. He merely followed the thin plume of pipe smoke. Gomel was startled by Cradon’s sudden return, but more so by the fact he was riding a horse.

“Well, that money certainly went a long way!” jested Gomel as Cradon dismounted and handed him the full saddlebags.

Cradon smiled awkwardly, still shaking with adrenaline. “I took what I could!” he blushed, feeling the guilt of what he had done, dropping the saddlebag at Gomel’s feet. “I am fairly sure they will come looking for me though!”

Gomel did not need an explanation. It was obvious what the boy had done. “Don’t you mean, looking for the horse?”

Cradon nodded, patting the white mare on the neck as she stood patiently, snapping at the tall lush grass about her feet. “She’s definitely a prized horse!”

 “O yes. She was trained by an elf!”

“What?” Cradon spun round in surprise.

“This is Sonda, Nymril’s horse! I assumed that was why you took her.” Gomel came forward to stroke the mare. She lowered her head and nuzzled him, recognising him immediately.

“No! But perhaps that’s why she was so good with me. I walked past her on the way in and there were men trying to mount her, but she was putting up a very good fight!”

“I’m not surprised. Elven horses only let those that they or their trainer trust ride them. She must have recognised you. Either way, she certainly will be useful, along with the rest of these things. You have done well, lad!”  He slapped Cradon on the back.

Cradon was starting to feel drained as the adrenaline wore off and was forced to sit on the ground, his head swimming.

“We should leave immediately. Will you be all right to ride?” It was apparent that the boy’s energy had suddenly disappeared.

“I will be fine. You should ride Sonda. I am happy to ride bareback.” Cradon’s eyes were still tightly closed as he tried to steady his head. The drop in adrenaline had made him feel nauseous again. Unable to control himself any more, he vomited.

After washing out his mouth, Cradon staggered to his feet and began sorted the saddlebags and blankets. He hid the Spirit Star away, still wrapped up in its Elven cloth. As usual he had to help Gomel struggle up into the saddle. It always surprised him how heavy this little person was. Together, they then made their way, continuing in a south-easterly direction, taking great care to give the town a wide berth. Khar was still soaring high above as if she were keeping a close eye on them.

They did not stop to make camp until it was late in the night and darkness had long since fallen. Much to Cradon’s relief Gomel did not make him practice sword fighting, but instead allowed him to fall asleep on a full stomach of stolen food.

Damankhur was a three-day journey from Ath’Yarzon and for the entire time the prisoners were forced to remain chained in the prison wagon. They were fed only twice on the journey, and although the bread was stale and the meat nearly rancid, their ravenous bodies were able to stomach it.

Nymril, however, was unable to eat. It was as though the brace around her neck prevented her from swallowing, and with each passing day she faded a little more. The prisoners exchanged barely a word, their thoughts too heavily invested in the despair of their current predicament. The travelling was endlessly monotonous with nothing but the dull, whining trundle of the wheels to remind them of the outside world.

Govan had been joined by two more platoons, which the Rjukhan had sent to ensure the safe arrival of the Empire’s new captives. They were determined not to give this the opportunity to fail.

“I hate this journey!” Tavor moaned.

“Well, you have reason not to this time. For once they will be pleased to see you,” replied Govan. “You’ve done well, brother!” He slapped Tavor jovially on the back, nearly making him stumble on the rough ground.

“Not as well as I would have liked.” He was bitterly disappointed that they were returning without the Spirit Star; that would have been the most honourable gift he could have brought to the Rjukhan. Still, he knew that was not solely his fault and Govan seemed to believe he had done enough to redeem himself.

Nearly twenty years earlier, serving alongside Govan, he had made a fatal error and allowed a traitor of the Empire to escape. The man was a Brathunder, whom Tavor and his platoon had tracked down over months and captured, but he had under-estimated the man’s skills and while under escort the prisoner had escaped. The man disappeared and had not resurfaced since. The Empire had never forgiven Tavor. The Rjukhan seemed to believe he had allowed the escape, sympathising with his fellow clansman. Of course, this had not been the case.

They stripped him of all his honour and officer rank, and after beating him within inches of his life, cast him into the wilderness to die. If he miraculously survived he would remain a traitorous outcast of the Empire.

Govan excelled through the ranks, but despite this did not forget his old companion. Twenty years later when the opportunity arose, he tracked him down and offered him a way to redeem himself.

“You must be pleased to be back. You will be given your rank and honour and together we can continue the Rjukhan’s mission of ridding the Empire of all remaining Elves and followers!” There was a glint in Govan’s eyes. Killing came naturally and he enjoyed it.

 Tavor, however, had spent the past twenty years dwelling on everything he had done. His solitude had awoken something inside of him, perhaps reminding his spirit where its clan’s roots truly lay. He watched the prison wagon trundling along in front and could not ignore the fate of the innocent boy imprisoned inside. “I am looking forward to it, brother!” he lied, faking a smile as he returned the hard slap on the shoulder.

The convoy had been crossing the plains of Davathon for a day and a half and now they were starting the last leg, the long ascent up the winding road onto the raised plateau of Davathon, upon which the vast fortress of Damankhur lay. It was an arduous trek, made worse by the dry air, which was filled with an acrid, red dust that burnt the throat and lungs as one inhaled. It would be another day’s march before they entered the fortress.

By the time they reached the plateau darkness was starting to fall and they decided to make their final camp, the fortress of Damankhur clearly visible in the distance.  Within the prison wagon the captives listened to the sound of laughter as the soldiers relaxed.  The glow of the camp fire was a mere slit of light upon the rough wooden wall.

The journey resumed early the next morning as the sun was just starting to rise. It began to cast its pale winter light upon the plain, revealing its true barrenness and red, dusty hue. A single road ran straight towards the fortress. The only sign of life was the occasion splash of colour from the blood-red fire ferns and brown creepers with tiny scarlet flowers. The fortress grew in size as they approached, casting a long, oppressing shadow across the plain. It was a dreary, cold place, and the men were pleased to reach the shelter of the fortress at last.

Damankhur was an intricate maze of winding, dimly-lit corridors and spiralling staircases, some leading up to tall towers, others down to the labyrinth of underground tunnels and dungeons.

There were three courtyards, first the main entrance to fortress and the second the training and drill yard for the many troops stationed there. The third courtyard was the execution and punishment arena, which would often become an arena when prisoners were sentenced to death or the council was in need of entertainment.

Steel-faced, heavily-armed guards greeted the convoy. They led the prison wagon through into the third courtyard, which provided the closest access to the dungeons. Tavor and Govan were escorted up to the officers’ quarters, while the rest of the men gladly found their way to the barracks.

Together, Tavor and Govan followed the guard up the narrow, spiral staircase and down several long, gloomy corridors until they reached their designated rooms. Once their escort was satisfied the guests had everything they needed he left them to recuperate, but not before announcing that they were both required to attend the evening meal with the commanding officers and council.

Finding himself hit by a wave of exhaustion, Govan removed his armour and collapsed back on the bed, closing his eyes to sleep. It felt as though he had been out in the wilderness for months. A knock at the door prevented him from drifting off. It was Tavor.

“Why don’t you try and get some rest?” Govan groaned. He did not even bother to open his eyes in the hope his colleague would take the hint and leave.

“I can’t. My mind is too active.” Tavor sat on the window bench and looked out across the darkening plain. “I will be fine once everything is sorted.”

“Once what’s sorted?” replied Govan sleepily, humouring his friend.

“Everything. The council’s decision about me. Whatever they intend to do with the prisoners…..” He paused. “What do you think they will do with the boy?”

“You keep asking that!”  Govan reluctantly sat up, resigned to the fact that Tavor was not in a hurry to leave. “I know you’ve been feeding him. I turned a blind eye, but anyone would think you’ve gone soft during your solitude!” There was a hint of sarcastic venom in his voice.

Tavor stood up, keen to emphasise how strongly he felt. “He’s an innocent caught up in this. There was a time when you would have spared him, rather than take him as a prisoner. Do you remember that part of you, or has it been lost with your honour?”

Govan stood and took a step towards Tavor, his temper starting to rise as he drew his sword slightly. The air was tense between them as they stood face to face. “I advise you to modify your tone,
friend!
”
 
Govan hissed. “You need to remember, the council will ask for my help when passing judgement on you.”

Govan spoke the truth, and Tavor knew it. His fate did partly rest in this man’s hands. Tavor bit is lip, and ignoring Govan’s hand on his sword, left the room.

The group had felt the prison wagon come to a jolting stop, and had listened as they heard the jangling sound of the horses being unhooked. Nechan climbed up onto the bench to peer through the narrow slit to see what was happening. He could just make out the horses being led away, then on the other side he could see what looked like hanging nooses. Quivering with shock, he gasped and fell back.