For a moment the man was too afraid to move. Then he rushed to the door, dropping his sword to scrabble at the knob with sweaty hands.
Tyrellan turned and walked up the stairs.
Arriving on the first level, he rapped on the closest door. No one answered. The whole tavern would have heard the fight and be lying low.
‘If I have to break down this door,’ called Tyrellan, ‘you will not live to regret it!’
‘What do you want?’ came a quaking voice.
‘Does Heron still live in this tavern?’
A sense of self-preservation in the unseen occupant kicked in quickly. ‘On the next level. Second door on the left.’
Tyrellan gave the door a sharp kick to scare the coward inside, then continued up the next flight of stairs. In a silent hallway he found Heron’s door unlocked. On pushing it open, his nostrils were assailed by the stench of liquor, vomit and sweat.
Apparently Heron had heard none of the ruckus downstairs. The crone lay face down and passed out on her filthy bed, an unlabelled bottle of black liquid still clutched in her spidery hand. Her hair was a tangle of damp grey strands sprayed over her bare back, and a wooden bucket of congealing sick lay on the floor beside her.
Tyrellan scowled. He went to her cupboard, found a sack, and bundled her clothes into it. There was no jewellery, nor anything else of value – she must have sold it all. He reached down to shake her shoulder.
‘Get up, old mage,’ he said.
She groaned, but gave no further response.
He rolled her over and propped her up, wrapped a cloak around her naked torso, ignoring her feeble protestations. Then he hoisted her up and over his shoulder – she was light, the pasty old stick – and bent his knees to pick up the sack. Finally he turned and walked from the room with the unconscious mage dribbling down his back.
Eleven
A Hero Returns
The throne Borgordusmae had a great gold triangle as its back, almost twenty paces tall and wider at the top. It caught the sun and shone it over the court, the level of its brightness dependent on the mood of the Throne himself. Once, when Naphur had been in a great rage, Borgordusmae had shone with a brilliance that had never been forgotten – especially by the treacherous man quailing at his feet.
Today, though the sun was blazing in the sky, Borgordusmae merely glowed warmly. Naphur sat as relaxed as possible, listening to the Citizen Prime for Kadass going on about some new lake he wanted to build. His muscular body only just fitted into the seat. He often wondered why whichever ancient magic bugger it was who’d created the damn thing had given it such a towering back, such huge armrests and sides, and yet such a constrictive seat. Addle-brained wizards, he thought. No grasp of the important things. A cushion would have been nice too.
When a messenger came running, interrupting the Citizen Prime with her surprising news, Borgordusmae flashed brilliantly. ‘What did you say?’ asked the Throne, leaning forward intently.
‘The news, my lord,’ the messenger said, ‘is that Corlas Corinas, long-missing commander of the Shining Mines –’
‘Yes, yes, I know who Corlas Corinas is,’ Naphur said, waving impatiently.
‘– has this very afternoon walked back into the barracks as though he never left, and is down there right now talking to the gerent.’
‘Well, get him up here talking to the Throne!’ roared Naphur.
‘Yes, lord!’
The messenger scuttled off down the red carpet, which ran from Borgordusmae’s dais to a sunken stairwell at the opposite end of the roof. The Throne sat back as excited conversation broke out amongst the court. He put a hand to the Auriel, a habit of his when he was thinking. Many speculated that touching the sacred crown brought Naphur closer to Arkus, but in fact Naphur had always put a hand to his forehead when he was thinking and the Auriel merely got in the way.
He stood abruptly and walked from the throne. The court paid no attention, as Naphur never remained seated for long. As he moved towards the edge of the roof, only two pairs of eyes followed him. One pair belonged to Baygis Naphur, the Throne’s only son. Baygis was eighteen. He had none of his father’s build, but instead had a lithe, slender grace and a mischievously handsome face. His hair was a short and spiky brown, he wore an earring in one ear and the yellow robes of an apprentice mage. With his talent for magic, all Baygis’s teachers agreed that the cloth would not remain that colour for long. Baygis caught Fahren watching the Throne too, and arched an eyebrow at the old mage. Silently the two made their way after their lord, to the edge of the roof where no wall or railing ran.
‘I didn’t expect I’d be granted a moment to think,’ grumbled Naphur.
‘You have been granted something better,’ said Fahren, winking at Baygis. ‘Counsel.’
‘Pfah!’ said Naphur, crossing his hairy arms. ‘I don’t know what makes you two believe you deserve such input. Especially you, young man!’ He aimed his broad chin at Baygis. ‘The Throneship has survived long without your invaluable advice.’
Baygis shot Naphur an exaggerated look of surprise, then proceeded to bow far too low. ‘My lord Throne,’ he said, the smile on his face sounding in his voice, ‘it is only because I recognise my own inexperience that I am here. I simply wish to learn something of rule from watching you. If I offer my own views, it is simply to test them against one who is wiser and older. Much older.’
Naphur stared bristling at his son’s exposed back, then at Fahren who was wrestling a smile without much success.
‘Stop it!’ he said.
‘Stop what?’ asked Baygis, rising with such a look of sincerity that it almost made Naphur grin. He squashed the impulse by spinning away from his son, red cloak swirling behind him, to stare out over the land.
‘I really am interested in this fellow Corlas who vexes you so,’ said Baygis.
‘ You vex me!’ said Naphur. ‘I was nowhere near this vexed before!’ He rammed his hands down onto his hips and snorted loudly through his nose. ‘And you, Fahren, stop strangling that laugh in your throat and pop it out before your heart collapses, you old bastard!’
Fahren hooted with laughter.
‘Clowns for counsellors!’ muttered Naphur. Then he glanced at their faces and couldn’t help but laugh as well.
Those closest in the court turned curiously at the sound and saw the three most powerful men in Kainordas laughing together as they looked out over the realm. Somehow, they felt safer for it.
‘Corlas was an excellent soldier,’ said Naphur, now speaking seriously. ‘He was already a cerepan when I first met him at the Autumn Games. I fought him there, actually, and we talked on a couple of occasions. I liked the man.’
‘Did he beat you?’
‘What?
‘When you fought him.’
‘Shush, Baygis. I thought you wanted to hear this.’ Naphur scratched at the hair that crawled up the back of his neck. ‘Anyway, he was promoted to commander and posted down to the Shining Mines, where men of his quality are always needed. The reports I had of him were good. The gerent down there was most impressed.’ Naphur flexed his jaw. ‘Then came the unexpected attack from Battu. It wasn’t his full force, but it should have been enough to take the fort. It seemed inevitable that the Mines would fall. Then Corlas convinced the troops – against the gerent’s orders, I might add – to leave the fort and take the battle out to Battu’s army. The move, being thoroughly unconventional, saved the Mines. They say Corlas sat astride his war horse carving a path of death wherever he went, so charged with battle frenzy that none could touch him. He wounded the very Shadowdreamer himself.
‘After the shadow receded, Corlas was found unconscious on the field, a wound on him to kill a lesser man. Instead he lived, and was taken from the fort into Erling’s Vale where the best healers are. The reports I had were that he recovered slowly but surely …and then, after he’d almost fully healed, he disappeared. At first I thought he must have grown tired of sitting around mending, as many good soldiers do, and had simply granted himself permission to return to his post …but weeks went by, and it became clear that he’d really disappeared. I sent soldiers to search the land between Erling’s Vale and the Mines, but they found nothing. Opinions formed about what had happened, but we never had any real information. Many thought the Shadowdreamer had managed to find Corlas and mete out revenge. Others believed that Corlas had deserted. All I know – I hate losing a Corlas.’