The Swordmaster, page 26
He whispered weakly: ‘Where is Karek?’
The death-marked man had few words left and had therefore come straight to the point.
‘Outside on the pier. He is distracting the sentries.’
‘The boy? How? Can he do that?’
‘He has managed it – with the assistance of all the Toladarian seagulls.’
A weak smile crossed the chalk-white wrinkles. ‘I have to talk to him.’
She cut the fetters on his feet. ‘I will get him and come back immediately.’
Out on deck, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The seagulls were not only flying around Karek, but they were also attacking the mercenaries to deadly effect. They sailed down with the wind, whooshed at speed past the men, hacking at their victims’ heads as they did so. Bloodied faces, whirling feathers, panic-stricken screams filled the dock. One mercenary artistically smote a seagull that was in mid-flight. The animal exploded in a flying ball of feathers, blood and body parts. This was merely a lucky stroke, however, for the other men waving their weapons helplessly around them in the air.
The deck seemed deserted, though there was shouting and knocking coming from the hold. She swept an attacking seagull away with her arm and made her way to the pier. She felt a peculiar warmth, which seemed strangely familiar to her. Like rays of evening sunshine – but it couldn’t be coming from there, the golden orb having long since descended beyond the horizon.
Karek’s two friends were using their swords to fend off two mercenaries. She saw immediately that she had no need to be concerned for the bigger of the two cadets – the other, however, seemed to be in trouble. A stab between the shoulder blades of his opponent seemed to help. Stunned, the man collapsed. The second opponent was caught by a deadly thrust that split him from his shoulder to his chest. Some of the mercenaries fled towards the city, others leaped in panic into the water, their hands on their faces as they tried to protect their eyes. Most of the mercenaries’ horses had bolted, which only increased the chaos. But the end of the battle was nigh. The ship was theirs again.
The seagulls, too, seemed to have noticed, for they had calmed down and were now beginning to fly their separate ways in the late evening sky. The boy never ceased to amaze her – however had he managed it?
She beckoned Karek to come to her. ‘We must go to Garemalan. It is urgent. He is dying.’
Karek’s face was a picture of shock and pain. He nodded and waved his two comrades towards them. The little chap suddenly appeared too. His trousers were wet, and he was holding a bandage around his left hand.
Soon, Karek and his four comrades were in the cabin, as was Captain Stramig. They had freed the crew and captain of the ‘East Wind’ from the hold, along with the inconspicuous cadet, who went by the name of Eduk. The mercenaries had considered him to be harmless and of little use, locking him away with the seamen, completely forgetting that they had been ordered to bring all of the boys to their commander. Following his release, Eduk had embraced each of his friends, one by one. The five really did seem to be sworn brothers.
It was crowded and sticky in the cabin and it stank terribly of death. Her sensitive nose rebelled, but she stayed and watched as Karek knelt down beside the old warrior.
‘Karek,’ whispered Garemalan. ‘Good that you are all still alive.’
‘Forand, you mustn’t…go. We need you.’ Karek’s voice was trembling with pain and despair.
‘My time has come. I have had a long life. Listen closely now. This applies to you all: No time to die, for you are the hand.’
‘Which hand?’
‘The five of you. Brawl, Impy, Eduk, Blinn and you.’ He paused, exhausted. ‘So it must be – the thought struck me when Impy lost his little finger. The swordmaster’s hand.’
Karek didn’t seem to know how to react.
The old warrior looked past the prince.
‘Brawl. My sword. For you, Brawl. You have earned it…because of your fight against Dragan on the training ground.’
Karek had never seen Brawl like this before. The lad would rather rip out his eyes than cry, but they were shining with tears as he sobbed bitterly.
‘Karek, take the little box. Its contents will bring you luck – I…sense it.’ He summoned his strength. ‘Men, it is…high time I found my peace. For you, this still applies…no time to die. Is…that clear?’
Then Garemalan looked at her with milky eyes, the bloody stump of one arm shook – as though he were trying to beckon her towards him.
‘Thank you for…attempting to save me. I…misjudged you.’
She shrugged her shoulders. She was well used to being misjudged – in every way. Before she had a chance to deliberate, the words slipped out: ‘What about Sara?’
For a moment, the old warrior’s features seemed reinvigorated. He did not seem surprised by the question, nor that it had come from her lips, for he whispered: ‘Tell her that I wanted to come to her, that I ask for her forgiveness. Give her…’ He touched his neck. She approached him and knelt down. For the second time that day, her eyebrows rose. Both of them. This old fool was still wearing the necklace with the medallion, only now it didn’t have the letters MAKS, but the name SARA.
‘I will give her the chain.’ She had decided at that moment to do it – not for his sake, but because she was still in Sara’s debt.
‘And look…after the boys. They are…not yet…’
She’d really had enough by now. She didn’t like the living telling her what to do, let alone the as-good-as-gone.
‘I cannot promise that.’
The old warrior never heard her answer. Krosann had just lost its Grand Swordmaster. Garemalan the jade warrior was dead.
She closed the old warrior’s eyes. Then she stood up and looked at the others.
Brawl and Karek were stony-faced, the other cadets were crying. The captain looked disinterested – as though nothing had happened.
‘They simply overpowered him by sheer dint of numbers up on the deck and simply…his hands…they…’ The tears tumbled down Eduk’s cheeks.
Karek suddenly felt three years older.
He reached a decision. ‘We shall bring Forand back by ship to Fortress Beachperch and bury him beside his friend and pupil, To Shyr Ban. We cannot continue on our mission without Forand anyway. As much as it pains me, we shall give up our search for the artefact.’
Captain Stramig cleared his throat: ‘Apologies and sorry for your loss. But I, and I alone, command this ship. And for the moment I have other plans.’
‘Oh, never fear, I haven’t forgotten about you, Captain Stramig.’ The prince turned to the captain, his face serious and his voice icy. ‘We are still talking and will examine your role in these events with due diligence.’
Strangely enough, the man did not object – quite the opposite, in fact, for his contrite face suggested that Karek’s words had hit the mark.
The king’s offspring was doing well again, she ascertained approvingly. And for the briefest of moments, she caught herself regretting that their search for the sand timer had come to such an abrupt and sad end.
the great magicus
‘It should never have come to this.’ Sergeant Karson was talking to himself. Since dawn, he had been standing here, outside the fortress and observing the developments with mixed feelings.
Hundreds of soldiers were crossing over the Fortress Beachperch drawbridge and leaving the castle. Captain Bostun was traversing the moat too, along with all of his white recruits.
Rogat had held a passionate speech the previous day. It had been about loyalty and fealty to the crown, but he had only succeeded in persuading some of the soldiers to remain in the fortress. It had been of utmost important to Rogat that no-one should remain behind the walls against their will. He felt that the risk of having soldiers with hostile intentions within the castle was simply too high.
He remembered the very words that Rogat had spoken to the soldiers:
‘For as long as Tedore remains king of Toladar, this fortress will be at his service. The discord among our people pains my heart. To my mind, the quarrel between King Tedore and Duke Schohtar is a considerably greater danger than the supposed threat of the Soradians from the south.
‘Some say it is the Warries against the Peacies. You are free to decide to which faction you wish to belong. I command the Warries to leave this fortress by noon tomorrow. We need no obstructionists in our ranks, but soldiers, in whom I can place my absolute trust. You all know what I stand for. Therefore, make your decision. But before you do so – consider one salient point. Schohtar is the cause of the split between our people. He sows discord. He robs us of our greatest strength. He takes from us the one thing that has made us invincible for so many centuries. One people, one king, one Toladar.’
At that, Rogat had placed his right fist on his chest and scanned the crowd assembled in the bailey. Roughly half of the soldiers imitated his gesture.
That had been yesterday. It seemed to him as if a year had passed since then. Karson rubbed his nose. Too late, Rogat. You dropped me, friend though I was, at the very first opportunity. You cast me aside like a broken shield. Hardly had that old fogey of a swordmaster turned up when you stopped noticing me, stopped consulting me. Garemalan this and Garemalan that – I became unimportant even though you had selected me as your successor. Now Duke Schohtar will promote me and make me lord of the fortress because you have plumped for the wrong side.
Karson began to sweat under his leather helmet in the noon sunshine. Why had he put on his armour anyway? Presumably, because within him beat the heart of a soldier. As a soldier, he was leaving his erstwhile homeland. And as a soldier, he wanted to return to it as the new lord of the fortress.
Captain Bostun and his cadets had reached him by now. Bostun bared his teeth in a threatening smile: ‘Our good sergeant was in a terrible hurry to leave the holy land this morning – and I had always thought that you were Rogat’s righthand man.’
‘Sometimes people are mistaken. I seem to remember you thinking that one particular old codger could hardly raise his sword – let alone fight.’
Bostun did not respond – his hate-filled face said it all, anyway.
Karson knew that he wasn’t going to make any friends this way – but Bostun had never been an ally. He could never befriend such a character – best not to try from the get-go.
But was he any better himself? Had he not betrayed his king, his prince and his erstwhile friend, Rogat? Or had he been left with no choice in this difficult situation?
He thought about Karek, and his anger grew. Ah, yes – that was a nice feeling, becoming angry. It distracted him from the chaos surrounding him. Distracted him from all the things that had entirely slipped from his grasp. This pig of a prince was mainly to blame. How greedily and lustfully he had stared at his little Milafine when he had caught the pair of them alone in the library. His Milafine, the only thing still left to him. He could not allow this priggish boy to take her away from him – even if he was the prince. The pig only wanted to deflower her, for the prince would never marry the daughter of a simple officer. Rogat had mentioned once that the king of Winslorien’s daughter had been promised to Karek from when she was an infant. That was how it worked. And his naïve, innocent little daughter hadn’t the faintest idea. The way she had gazed at Karek – he felt a pang of jealousy. No, it consumed him rather than panged him. The agony took hold of his entire body. He had begotten her, he had raised her, he had taken care of her every wish. He was her hero, her father, proud and infallible, a high-ranking officer in the king’s army. He was consumed with rage. He was afflicted by doubt. And his rage over his damned doubt worsened his mood even further.
He looked around and concentrated on his analytical abilities as a field officer. To the west of the fortress stood row upon row of tents. By now, more than twenty thousand soldiers had gathered. A small city had materialised – a logistical masterpiece. Logistics won wars. For an army needed many things to function well: food, tradespeople, medicines, privies, organisation and discipline. Schohtar and his officers provided them in an impressive manner. He tried to calm himself down by assuring himself that he was clearly on the winning side.
Schohtar’s mercenaries must have long since reached Tanderheim and stormed the ship. He knew Stramig, the captain of the ‘East Wind’ well enough to be in no doubt that he would sell his own mother – and indeed his grandmother as an added bonus – in exchange for gold. Hence, he was certain that Stramig had waited long enough in harbour for the troop to arrive. He couldn’t help feeling a twinge of concern for Milafine’s safety – but she would have reached her grandmother’s place hours earlier. And if not, Duke Schohtar had promised him that not a hair of her head would be touched. Those feelings of doubt again, little bites, like a head full of lice. Could he rely on Schohtar? Probably not. He was under no illusions. Once a traitor, always a traitor.
A familiar, yet now a frightening sound woke him from his gloomy thoughts. The drawbridge was slowly rising, the chains clattering and squeaking. That was it. All the Warries had left the fortress. Anyone still behind the walls was now considered the enemy.
It should never have come to this, he thought again, his eyes then spotting a group of riders coming from the west. Duke Schohtar and his retinue. The ineluctable Count Mondek, then Karnifex the torturer, and a most peculiar looking old man.
A short time later they had arrived and were dismounting.
‘Welcome, Sergeant Karson.’ Schohtar looked around, then pointed at him. ‘This man has proven himself to be a true friend and ally in a difficult situation.’
If the duke had instead said: ‘This man has proven himself to be a sleazy traitor and mortal enemy in a difficult situation,’ his tone of voice would have sounded exactly the same.
Karson bowed his head and murmured: ‘My Duke.’
He couldn’t manage anything else.
Schohtar ignored his meagre reply. He seemed in a particularly good mood and wanted to spread the sunshine around.
The duke turned his attention to the peculiar man who had accompanied him. ‘Today, we shall bring the first chapter to an end, Magicus Veneferan.’
Despite his advanced years, the addressee stood with a straight back and proudly raised head.
Karson observed him more closely. Veneferan was wearing a broad cloth cloak, gleaming white, but for the dark grey hem below the knee and above his grey boots. On his head he wore a white hat in the shape of a paper bag. Even more striking than his clothing was his white beard, which grew down almost to his belt.
A magicus then – this was what they called people knowledgeable in sorcerous matters to whom were ascribed superhuman powers. What was he doing by Schohtar’s side?
Veneferan replied in a deep voice: ‘My Duke – your wish is my command.’
Karson grimaced in irritation. What was going on here? Schohtar was giving the impression that his deformed lips were pursing, but otherwise he was stock-still. The men looked at the fortress and waited. The drawbridge reached its highest point. The old fortress rose proudly before them. Walls that had defied thousands of years of winds, of storms and of enemy soldiers. Karson knew better than anyone that Rogat would be able to resist for many months. In the past few weeks, the duke had wisely brought in cartloads and cartloads of provisions so that they could survive a long siege. The few hundred soldiers who had stayed with him were more than enough to thwart any attempt to take the fortress.
What shenanigans did Schohtar have in mind? The sergeant glanced at the dubious magicus again. The man was pulling a staff from his mare’s saddle. It was more than two yards in length and had a white knob on one end. He stepped forward. He slammed the other end of the thick staff onto the ground as though he were about to initiate an earthquake. Nothing of the sort happened – of course.
Four soldiers began to construct a small platform before the drawbridge – far enough away from the fortress so as not to present a target to any archer on the chemin de ronde.
Only now did Karson notice that all the soldiers of the army were on their knees, having positioned themselves in an enormous semicircle around the fortress.
Duke Schohtar nonchalantly ascended the platform.
‘ROGAT!’ he called out in a loud voice. A silence fell over the assembled troops. You could hear a pin drop.
‘ROGAT!’
It took a while for Rogat’s head to appear above the parapet near the western donjon.
‘What do you want, Schohtar?’
‘You and your fortress,’ replied the other.
‘I thought we had discussed all that. You have your soldiers. You have your war. Beachperch, you do not have, and will not have.’
‘Those who are not for me are against me. Ergo, I will destroy you and your unconquerable fortress, Rogat.’
‘That will cost much blood. Toladarian blood. The blood of our own people.’
‘Be assured – this will not happen. And because today is such a pleasant day, and my generosity is so endless, I am offering you one last chance to acquiesce. Lower the drawbridge and come out.’
Sergeant Karson followed the verbal sparring between his old master and his new one with a growing feeling of queasiness in his stomach. He couldn’t help thinking that there was one big loser in this whole affair already – namely, himself. He stopped himself from shouting at Rogat out loud: Come down out of that and don’t be such a stubborn old mule.
