War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3) (2 page)

A mile away as the crow flies from where Symon and Karryl were enjoying their cup of tea by the fireside, the palace guard were about halfway through their patrol of the precincts. Occasionally they stopped to stamp cold feet, and breathe on numb fingers. The night was sparsely blessed by the light of a new moon, and frost glittered on every surface. Two of the guard, Colm and Merthyn, had just arrived within sight of the tower which had been Symon’s home for as long as anyone could remember. Now it stood empty, Symon and Karryl having moved some five years ago to more spacious accommodation in a wing of the palace.

Taking advantage of the lee of the tall hedge bordering one side of the parade ground, the two guards were sharing a flask of warming herbal draught made up for them by a sympathetic palace herbalist. Before Colm could take the flask from Merthyn for a second swig he hissed a curse, his hand flying to the hilt of his short-sword. Re-corking the flask and pushing it back inside his greatcoat, Merthyn followed Colm’s gaze. He promptly echoed his curse. On the top floor of the tower, a bright green-hued light burned steadily, its glow turning the frosted ground below to a sheet of emeralds.

Colm slipped his sword from its scabbard and turned to Merthyn. “Daily orders didn’t say anything about anybody living up there again did they?”

Merthyn shook his head. “Not that I saw. Best go and have a look.”

Swords drawn, the two guards moved stealthily along the perimeter path towards the old building. In the shelter of the darkened porch, Colm placed a restraining hand on Merthyn’s arm. Colm edged forward, motioning for Merthyn to keep a lookout and remain by the door. Grasping the latch he applied gentle pressure. To his consternation it gave easily and the door swung silently open into blackness. Standing motionless while his eyes grew accustomed to the deeper darkness, he listened for any sound. All was quiet. The whole place seemed to be holding its breath.

Caution guiding his steps, he ventured forward into the small downstairs room, confidence building as he began to make out the shape of the banister disappearing upwards into the gloom. He inched towards it. A long, low creaking sound broke the black silence and he stopped, hardly daring to breathe. A bright shaft of light split the darkness above him, pooling on the landing of the dog-legged staircase. With one tentative foot on the lowest tread, he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and with slow measured steps made his way up towards to the landing. Without any warning the shaft of light widened, washing round the upper walls and spilling down the stairs. Caught in the glare, Colm realised he could go neither forward nor back without avoiding detection by who or what-ever was in the upper room.

Shielding his eyes with his free hand he tip-toed to the banister and peered over. He gave a silent prayer of thanks as he saw Merthyn standing just a few steps below. The prayer died in his heart as he turned his head to follow the direction of Merthyn’s horrified gaze. Framed by the doorway, a ghastly figure stood silhouetted against the light. Glowing with a green unnatural fire, diabolically slanted eyes glared down at the young guard. High above its shoulders the creature raised broad threatening wings, the ominous rustle of black feathers tearing the heavy silence to shreds. Caught in the grip of horrified fascination, Colm stood and stared. Then his rigorous training took over.

He snapped a command at Merthyn. “Get back and raise the alarm!”

The hilt of his sword gripped in both hands, he leapt two at a time up the second flight of wooden stairs, dust motes swirling into the musty air as he made to close with the alien intruder. The figure glided backwards into the room and the door slammed shut. Unable to arrest his momentum, Colm hurtled into the heavy iron-studded wooden barrier and crashed to the floor. Angry and frustrated, he pushed himself up until he was kneeling in front of the unyielding door.

He began hammering on it with his fist. “In the name of the King, open this door.”

His arm was instantly held fast against the timber. At the same moment all feeling drained away from his sword arm leaving it hanging limp and useless. Knuckles dragging in the dust of the floor Colm knelt in the darkness, his insides churning as he attempted to break away from the force which held him. His mind still working, but powerless to move or speak, he felt the creeping chill of fear eating into him, visions of all kinds of unspeakable horrors crowding his consciousness. Unable to scream, and held captive in a dark cavern of terror and mental anguish, Colm was hurtling towards the limit of his endurance.

Abruptly the images torturing his mind ceased. Even then, there was no release. A voice uttering an unintelligible language hissed and resonated inside his head, yet the tones of evil were unmistakeable. Like a vampire sucking blood, the being within the room drained Colm of his courage and fighting spirit, leaving in its place an overwhelming desire to simply run until he could run no more. The force which held him suddenly released its grip. No longer restrained, Colm struggled to his feet. Half running, half falling, he careered down the stairs and stumbled across the lower room to burst out through the door into a head-long collision with Merthyn. Together the pair crashed to the icy flagstones and lay trembling, overwhelmed by fear. With a thundering finality the door slammed behind them. Afraid to move, the two guards remained on the ground until they were certain the threat had passed. Only then did they scramble to their feet. Clinging desperately to each other they shook uncontrollably with cold and dread, staring at the closed door’s studded timber in numb disbelief.

Not having been subjected to such an intensity of terror as his comrade, Merthyn was quickest to pull himself together. Sheathing his sword, he gathered up Colm’s from where it lay on the frozen ground. With an encouraging and supportive arm round his fellow guard’s shoulder he guided him to a point some distance away. When they turned and looked up at the tower, all was in darkness.

Still trembling violently, Colm looked at Merthyn. “Wh…wh…why didn’t you run for help?”

Stunned, his fellow guard shook his head in disbelief. “I couldn’t! As soon as I got outside something threw me to the ground. I’d only just found my feet when you slammed into me.”

The two guards looked wordlessly at each other. Each with their own private thoughts they made their way unsteadily back to the guard-room to report to the Captain of the Guard.

The interior of the guardroom was warm and fuggy, the heat from the pot-bellied stove in the middle of the large room sending swirls of blue pipe-smoke drifting up into the high rafters. Colm and Merthyn had just flopped down onto one of the hard wooden benches when the door flew open again, admitting sharp blast of freezing air and Vintar, the Guard Captain.

He strode over to the two on the bench, fixing them both with a flinty stare. “What’s this then you two? Too cold outside for you is it? I suppose you do realise that you’re only halfway through your duty, or perhaps you’re just angling for a punishment stint in those nice warm kitchens?”

Unable to utter a word, Colm slumped further down on the bench, his eyes vacant as he stared at the wall. A fit of uncontrolled trembling racked his body and his head lolled. Merthyn pushed himself to his feet and tried to present at least some semblance of soldierly bearing to his captain.

He failed miserably. “I’m…ah…that is we…we’re very sorry Captain, but to put it mildly we’ve had a spot of bother. I think Colm here is in a pretty bad way. There’s no blood or wounds or anything and there wasn’t any fighting, well, not like your normal fighting if you see what I mean, but…”

Vintar held up a hand to check the increasingly hysterical outflow. “Hold on soldier. I’m going to have to send out a patrol to cover your duty. I know that area isn’t used much these days, but it still has to be guarded. Wait here.”

Before Merthyn could offer any further explanation, Vintar had given a shake to one of the runners dozing on a stool by the stove. “Run over to the barracks and send Private Rowan and Corporal Pinch over here, ready for guard duty.”

As the runner dashed out into the freezing night, Vintar poured two mugs of a hot brew simmering gently in a large pot on top of the stove. No longer able to curb their curiosity, the small group of off-duty soldiers relaxing in the warm comfort of the guardroom came to stand round Colm and Merthyn. Offering words of encouragement, their voices betrayed an underlying tension. The recent grelfon incident just outside the village of Mudlin was still fresh in their minds, even though for the most part they now made light of it. As Colm now appeared to be completely detached from his surroundings, Vintar pulled up the stool recently vacated by the runner and settled himself in front of Merthyn.

He handed him one of the hot drinks. “Right, soldier. Tell me the whole story from the beginning and be quick about it, because it looks as if young Colm here is in need of the healer.”

Having great difficulty in believing what had happened, Merthyn sipped gratefully at the hot drink. After a couple of false starts, he eventually managed to relate events, giving Vintar a reasonably clear picture of what had transpired.

Colm’s condition was now deteriorating rapidly, a sheen of perspiration covering his ashen face. Deciding against any further questioning, Vintar quickly organised a stretcher party, instructing them to take Colm to the Infirmary. There, he hoped, Mordas would be able to bring her skills to bear and restore the young soldier to his normal fit and cheerful self. Unable to help himself, Colm allowed strong arms to lift him onto the stretcher, and tuck warm blankets round his cold, limp body. With Merthyn walking rather unsteadily alongside, the party set off, knowing it would not be an easy journey. Colm was no light-weight stripling, the paving was ice-slick under their feet, and the sliver of moon had already set, leaving them with no light. Vintar closed the door behind them, a cold knot beginning to tighten under his ribs as he strode across the empty guardroom and sat down at his desk. He thought for a few moments before opening a drawer and taking out a sheet of parchment and a pen. Dipping the nib in an inkpot, he prepared to write.

The young runner he had despatched to the barracks earlier stumbled through the door, slamming it behind him. “I gave your order to Rowan and Pinch, Sir. Seeing as it was so serious they’ve gone straight over there, and I think the frost’s melting a bit. That’ll make things a tad better won’t it, Sir?”

“Just as well…” growled Vintar, busily writing, the pen making a rodent-like scratching as it moved across the parchment, “…because you’re going back out there just as soon as I’ve finished this.”

The boy edged closer to the pot-bellied stove and its welcoming heat. Vintar looked up. “Don’t get too comfortable lad. I’ve nearly done.”

Having written a few more carefully chosen words, Vintar put down the pen and brought the parchment over to the stove, holding it above the heat to dry the ink. Satisfied it was dry, he folded it carefully. Holding a lighted taper to the end of a stick of green wax, he let it drip onto the open edge of the parchment, making a small green pool. After pressing his military signet into it as a final seal, he slipped it inside a soft leather message packet.

He handed it to the runner. “Here lad. This has to get to Master Symon. It’s urgent. You know the drill. You ensure that it is placed in his hands, then wait in case Master Symon decides to send a reply.”

Grasping the message pouch firmly, the runner disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness, while Vintar sat down again and gathered his thoughts. As he carefully turned over the disquieting events of the night, images of Colm’s white face and Merthyn’s horror-stricken expression loomed large in his mind. Gaining scant comfort from the thought that he had done all he could, he began to busy himself with the orders for the fast approaching new day. New instructions were now required for the guard who would be changing at sunrise. They would, by then, probably be fully aware of what had befallen Colm and Merthyn.

Poring over duty rosters and equipment manifests, Vintar gave some thought to the day ahead. There would be no hours of welcome refreshing sleep, and a jug or two of fine ale at ‘The Unicorn’. There was too much to be done. He intended to take a look at Symon’s tower and the surrounding areas making up the sector which lay at the root of the night’s trouble. Deciding there was no time like the present, he strung the completed orders on a nail in the wall, before reaching for his greatcoat. He was just shrugging it onto his shoulders when the guard-room door burst open, slamming back against the wall with a thunderous crash. A palace runner tumbled breathlessly into the room, bringing with him a minor gale and a frantic swirl of wet, white powder which flurried and drifted before settling against the base of the wall. Vintar stared in disbelief then threw himself across the room, slamming the door against the blizzard eddying inwards. The young runner, a dark-haired wide-eyed youth in his late teens, stood gasping as he brushed snowflakes from his cloak.

He grinned as he shook melted frosty droplets from his hair. “Well, Sir. This is a fine to-do and no mistake! Whatever shall we have next; fire-breathing unicorns? Oh! Sorry Sir.”

The runner threw up a sharp salute. With a wry smile on his campaign-weathered face, Vintar waved him towards the stool by the stove. He took the leather message-tube from the runner’s chilled hand and moving a little distance away, removed the tight-fitting cap from the end of the tube and shook out a small roll of thin parchment. The tube placed to one side, he unrolled the parchment and began to read. His expression gradually changed as he studied the closely written page. He glanced over to where the runner sat hunched in front of the stove, taking note of the symbol on the youth’s dark grey woollen tabard. It depicted a white serpent twined round a green staff. The boy was the physicians’ runner.

Vintar read the parchment twice more before crossing the room and slowly opening the door. The blizzard seemed to have abated as quickly as it had struck, but large snowflakes still drifted silently down, rapidly covering everything with a deep white pall, its cold light reflected malevolently back from a leaden pre-dawn sky. Resisting the temptation to regale the young runner with tales of winter hardships, snow-blocked passes and blizzards that lasted for days, Vintar exchanged the youth’s thin regulation cloak for a warmer dry one, before sending him on his way.

It was not good news. To all intents and purposes Colm appeared to be dead, yet the message written in Mordas’ neat script insisted it was not so. Merthyn on the other hand, was quite wide awake but babbling nonsense, and taking long swipes at unseen things in the air above him. Strongly suspecting that his men had fallen victim to some kind of evil enchantment, Vintar could only hope the king’s two powerful magicians could restore them. They might also provide an explanation of the night’s events. Remembering his earlier decision to visit the scene, Vintar buckled up his great-coat and strode out into the snow-filled dawn. As he headed off to the East side of the palace precincts, his booted feet left dark and wide-spaced hollows in the white depth.

He found Rowan and Pinch, accompanied by a couple of voluntary replacements, walking a standard patrol. Vintar fell in with them, their perambulations carving out a hard-packed icy rut which was being continually covered with fresh snow, making it treacherous underfoot. Their route lay through a large open grassy area, around a sprawling stone-built building off to one side of the palace, and along a stretch of the old perimeter wall, now covered with creepers and concealed by tall, thick evergreen bushes. It was here the two unfortunate soldiers had stopped. On almost the same spot Vintar stood and looked across to the tower, but all was in darkness.

He nodded towards the grey, silent building. “You say you’ve not seen or heard anything?”

Corporal Pinch confirmed his initial report. “No sir. No lights or noises, and the door is quite firmly locked. Whatever happened here is beyond me. The tower seems just like it always has been since the magicians left. We couldn’t even find any footprints, but it had snowed a fair bit by the time we arrived.”

Inclined to accept the report of the guards but also wanting to satisfy his own mind, Vintar took a short cut across the unmarked snow of the parade ground towards the door of the tower, the patrol following in his wake. He grasped the door handle firmly and tried to twist it, but it refused to yield. After taking one last upward glance at the small window above, he told the guards to return to their patrol, and headed back to the warmth of the guardroom. During his absence the stretcher party had returned and made a fresh brew. With just an hour to go before he handed over to Sergeant Darke, Vintar cradled his mug of tea between his palms and tried to concentrate on other things. He found it difficult, his mind constantly wrestling with trying to produce a rational explanation for the night’s events, all to no avail. Finally, he took his pouch of smoking leaf from inside his jacket and filled his pipe, ready for the few moments of contemplation he habitually took before he went off duty. He was about to set a taper to the leaf when the latch clattered. The door was flung open, admitting a miserable grey light and a few stray flakes of snow. The morning guard stamped in and briskly saluted Vintar.

Sergeant Darke blew on his hands and stretched them out towards the stove. “Good morning, sir. We heard there was a bit of an upset during the night.”

The rest of the guard crowded as close as they could around the stove and looked expectantly at their captain. Vintar had been expecting a barrage of questions but the silence hung heavily, as if they were waiting for him to tell what he would in his own words. The salute acknowledged, Vintar gave some consideration to the bowl of his unlit pipe then tucked it in his pocket.

Arms folded he regarded the assembled squad with a steady gaze. “The events that were reported to have occurred during the early hours of this morning are still a matter of conjecture.”

A few of the guards exchanged glances and Vintar heard a whispered “What’s that mean?”

He smiled to himself. Although some of his men were a bit low on candle power, their fitness, physical strength and courage were beyond reproach.

The captain cleared his throat and continued. “As you probably already know, the soldiers involved in the incident were Colm and Merthyn. At present they are both in the Infirmary under the care of physicians. Of the two, Colm’s condition seems to be the more serious. The area where the incident was reported to have taken place has been checked both by a replacement patrol and myself. Nothing untoward was discovered, and so far everything has been quiet, so all we can do now is to wait and keep alert. And I don’t want to hear any gossip or unfounded rumours. Is that understood?”

The men clustered round the stove responded with a feeble chorus of “Yes Sir!”

Vintar gave them a knowing grin. “I’m sure you’ll be able to find something else to talk to the girls about. Now, check daily orders, which you’ll find are a little different to normal, then disperse to your duties.”

As the guardroom gradually emptied, Vintar sat down on the stool by the stove and finally set a taper to his pipe, snatching a few moments of quiet enjoyment as he listened to Sergeant Darke’s parade ground roar fade into the distance.