A Matter of Honor

A Matter of Honor
by John Whitehouse

Tarmerius heard a rapping on the door, loud and insistent. The priest paused in the act of dipping his quill and looked up from some half-finished writing. The sound continued. With an irritated sigh, Tarmerius laid down his pen, rose from the table and moved across the room. In his early sixties, he was tall and slim with a bush of white hair. A small beard framed his mouth and came to a point, like a lance, beneath his chin.

He opened the door to find Jakon standing there. The boy, now in his thirteenth spring, was panting for breath. Anxiety pinched his features. “I was sent to fetch you,” he said. “Please, come quickly.”

Tarmerius opened his mouth to speak, but Jakon was already racing back to the village. The priest frowned, wondering what could be the matter. Was Karrin about to give birth? Had Alvaric succumbed to the fever? Tarmerius gave a shrug and stepped out into the fading light of the evening. His long white robe fluttered in the wind as he made his way along the dirt track.
As he came to the village he saw people hurrying to the beach, urged on by a couple of Jakons’ friends who were speaking anxiously and pointing out to sea. Other villagers were rousing their neighbors from their homes.

A sudden chill came over Tarmerius. Tharn was similar to other small settlements scattered along the southern coast of Garrahar, a huddle of thatched huts clustered about a small stone building which served as a shrine to Syvian, goddess of the sea. Such places lived in constant fear of attack from pirates and the like, and memories of the previous autumn, when the villagers had beaten off one such raid, were still fresh. Tarmerius recalled how he and Alain had personally accounted for a handful of buccaneers. Was the village again under threat?

The priest saw Jakon beckoning to him and followed the boy down to the shingle. Tarmerius had taken his first crunching steps upon it when he froze. A ship, similar in size to a man-of-war, was heading toward land, the wind swelling its golden sails. The vessel was literally flying though the air, a dozen feet or so above the waves, and was travelling at considerable speed.

“It’s witchcraft,” said Jakon. “But who could it be? And what do they want?”

Tarmerius made no reply. He continued to gaze at the ship as it grew larger, eyes widening as he noted the large crest emblazoned on the foremost sail: a scarlet hawk on a black field.

His bowels turned to ice. So Darakon had discovered his whereabouts, after all these years. Fear slithered like a serpent inside Tarmerius’ stomach. His first instinct was to flee to the hills but he knew Darakon would find him wherever he went. He thought of Alain and mouthed a silent prayer to the gods. Then he turned and walked back to his house, his expression grim and somber. Jakon called after him but the priest seemed not to hear.

By now the entire population of Tharn - some two hundred men, women and children - were gathered on the beach. Their anxious mutterings increased as the ship came ever nearer. As the vessel drew in to shore it slowed its speed and lowered itself to the water. The villagers drew back as it beached on the shingle. Rope ladders were slung over the sides and the people watched as the occupants began to clamber out.

Then the screaming began.

* * *

Alain had spent the day herding sheep in the hills overlooking Tharn and was returning home under a darkening sky. In his eighteenth year, he was broad-shouldered and handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes. He wore a fringed buckskin jerkin, dark leggings and calf-length boots, and carried a bow. He often took the weapon with him into the fields where he’d practice his aim on tree trunks, and on rabbits which he’d cook and eat. An arrow bag was slung over his shoulder.

He was cresting a rise when he heard shouts and screams coming from the direction of the village. Alain ran down the hill, through a field thick with cowslips and daisies, and came to a hazel copse from where a path sloped down to the settlement. He froze in horror. The scene before him was something beyond his wildest nightmares. The village was being raped and plundered, not by men, but by a swarm of hideous dwarf-like creatures. Around four feet in height, their heads were hairless domes, the skin yellow, not unlike the color of cheese. A pig-like snout sat between eyes like dark holes and a mouth lined with sharp teeth, while their hands and feet terminated in claw-like talons. They wore garments made from animal hides and their weapons varied, some of the creatures brandishing swords and spears, others axes and wooden clubs.

Alain gazed in disbelief at the carnage and mayhem. Bodies, mostly men of the village, littered the streets. Women wailed; dogs barked; children howled, the sounds mingling in a ghastly symphony. The flimsy wooden doors of the huts had been broken down and the interiors ransacked. Tharn was a poor sort of place and there wasn’t much in the way of riches, but there were plenty of other things, such as smoked hams, cheeses, butter churns, yards of cloth, as well as swords and daggers. They were humble enough in themselves, but the creatures obviously considered them valuable enough to take back home, and they were busy loading their spoils onto the ship.

And then, in the midst of it all, Alain’s gaze fell upon an imposing figure, a man dressed in black who was striding through the village. Aged around forty, he was tall and lean with dark hair and narrow features, a thin high-bridged nose giving him a hawk-like aspect. One of the creatures ran up and spoke to the man, and it was evident he was in command of them. The two figures made their way to the shrine, where they halted and gazed about.

It was then that a wave of black anger swept over Alain. Laying his arrow bag on the ground, he set about stringing the bow. The wind rasped through the trees and Alain realized that, although the evening was cool, his mouth was dry, his forehead wet. Taking a white-fledged arrow, he nocked it to the bow and drew back the cord until it was beside his right ear. The man was partially obscured by the shrine but the creature was standing to one side, his back to Alain, presenting a clear shot. Heart thudding, Alain took aim.

And then he loosed.

The arrow leaped from the string, sinking from the hill to strike its target hard and deep between the shoulders. The creature pitched forward and Alain whooped in triumph. As the man moved toward his fallen companion Alain loosed off another shaft, only to see it thud into the ground a couple of feet short. He was reaching for another arrow but the man was already running toward the beach.

Alain ran down the slope and raced through the village. At the edge of the shingle he halted, eyes wide in astonishment. The occupants of the ship were all aboard and the vessel was rising into the air. The man was standing in the prow, chanting strange, mystical words and waving his hands this way and that.

The ship moved out to sea where it picked up speed. Alain watched as it flew further and further away, shrinking until it was no more than a speck on the horizon. Then he made his way back through the stinking, bloody village. His pace quickened as he came to the dirt track and he ran along it to the large timber house he shared with his father.

Alain’s worst fears were confirmed as he stepped over the threshold. Tarmerius was slumped against a wall, eyes closed, face unnaturally pale. His sword lay close at hand. The bottom of his robe was stained red, and as Alain knelt beside him he saw blood seeping from a wound in his stomach.

Tarmerius opened his eyes. “Alain! You’re safe! Oh, may the gods be praised.” His voice was ragged and hoarse. “Don’t worry, I haven’t told him about you. But you must flee, in case he returns.”

“The man’s gone, Father, along with the creatures. Was that ... Darakon?”

Tarmerius nodded, then grimaced as a bolt of pain tore up from his belly. Fresh blood puddled in his lap. Alain felt tears pricking his eyes, a lump rising in his throat. He was glad his mother was no longer alive to witness this, the fever which had taken her the previous winter proving a blessing in disguise.

He noticed his father had stopped breathing. He shook him gently, but to no avail.

Rising to his feet, Alain went out of the house and made his way to the shrine. As he stepped inside he saw the place was in disarray. The wooden benches had been upended and the silver plates and candlesticks were missing from the altar. The statue of Syvian – a stone figure ten feet high - was unharmed, however. Alain knelt before it. “Oh, Syvian,” he began. “Please receive my father’s soul and grant him everlasting rest in Paradise. You know that the honor of my tribe, and of my family, demands that I do my utmost to slay the one who killed him, even at the cost of my own life. Please give me the strength and courage to do what I ... have ... to...”

Then the dam broke. Alain wept like a child and it was as if his very soul was being purged.

When he rose to his feet his knees were stiff and aching. The moon was up, stars pricking out, as he went back to the house. He needed help in seeking out Darakon and expected to find it in Pelador, his father’s land of origin. He bundled together a change of clothes, along with some bread and cheese, and removed a small bag of coins from its hiding place beneath the floor. Reaching into a cupboard, he took out his sword which he kept in a worn leather scabbard. Then he crossed the yard to the stable and saddled the horse.

Soon afterward Alain rode away from Tharn, heading for the port of Gethun. The following day he sold the horse and booked a passage to Pelador.

* * *

Born and raised in the land of Pelador, Tarmerius had been the family priest to the House of Asparac. Although he was a friend to the old Count – a man called Joreb - he never liked the son, Darakon. It transpired there was a talent for magic in the family which had lain hidden for generations. Somehow Darakon had discovered it and was taking an interest in dark magic, which alarmed Tarmerius. Joreb died while Darakon was still a young man and, being the only son, he inherited the title.

During one of his visits to the castle, Tarmerius was invited to dine with the young Count. Not wishing to cause offence, he agreed. During the course of the evening Darakon imbibed a large amount of wine and, his tongue loosened, told Tarmerius how he was gathering various disaffected nobles in a plot to seize the throne.

Tarmerius, being a decent, honorable man – as well as a loyal subject of King Antonius – was horrified. Seeking help, he went to a friend of his, a merchant named Toroc. The man’s wife -Elesa - was a sorceress who’d served several minor nobles. With the help of her magic, the three companions were able to warn Antonius of the threat to his kingdom. Gathering his forces, the King was able to crush the plot, although Darakon managed to escape, fleeing into exile.

Knowing Darakon would not rest until he’d exacted vengeance, Tarmerius fled Pelador, intending to go far away. Before his departure, Elesa gave him a ring which had the power to ward off scrying, to prevent Darakon tracking him down. Tarmerius had finally settled in the land of Garrahar where he’d met and married Alain’s mother. Alain himself had been raised speaking both their tongues.

Yet his fathers’ schemes had come to naught, Alain reflected sadly. Somehow Darakon had found him and exacted his revenge. Yet Alain’s soul also lusted for vengeance. That he might lose his life in the consummation of that vengeance made no difference. And he hoped Elesa, with her knowledge of magic, could help in his quest.

The voyage to Pelador took almost three months, and it was mid-afternoon when the ship docked at the coastal port of Sydri, the last known home of Toroc and his wife. A number of inns were scattered around the waterfront and Alain began calling at them, asking the owners if they knew the merchant. He struck lucky at one called the Jolly Fiddler, where the innkeeper had been a friend of Toroc’s. It transpired that both Toroc and Elesa had died from the blood plague which had struck the previous winter, although they were survived by their daughter, Janna.

“She’s a Baroness, you know,” the innkeeper told him. “Married some nobleman, only he was killed a couple of years back.” Since the death of her parents she’d divided her time between her husband’s estate and the house in Sydri, where she was presently staying. Deciding he had nothing to lose by going to see her, Alain asked the innkeeper for directions.

He found the Street of the Willows without difficulty. Located in the most prosperous area of Sydri, it was a wide thoroughfare lined with large stone houses surrounded by high walls. The house he sought stood at the end. A tall wooden gate was set into the wall and beside this a hand bell hung on a chain. Alain rang the bell and waited. Several moments passed. Then he heard footsteps, followed by the sound of a bolt being drawn back. With a creak, the gate opened inward.

Standing before him, wearing a long blue dress, was a woman of striking beauty.

“Are you the daughter of Toroc the merchant?” Alain asked. The woman nodded. She was tall and slender and looked to be in her late twenties. A flowing mane of black hair framed her finely-chiseled features. Alain introduced himself. “My father was a friend of your parents,” he began, but Janna broke in.

“I know. I’ve been expecting you”

Alain gaped at her in bewilderment. “Expecting me! But how?”

“Do not be alarmed,” said Janna. “I will explain everything.” She beckoned and stood aside as Alain stepped through the gate. Bolting it again, she led him across a courtyard to the house, where she opened a heavy wooden door and ushered him into a large kitchen. Seating herself at a table, she invited Alain to sit opposite and pushed across a bowl containing pieces of fruit. “Please, help yourself.”

Alain laid his bundle on the floor and sat down. He plucked an apple from the bowl and bit into it. “How did you know I was coming?” he asked.

Janna poured him a goblet of wine. “My mother told me.”

Alain nearly choked. “Your mother! But I was told both your parents were dead.”

“Her spirit appeared to me,” said Janna. “She told me about the raid on your village, how the purpose behind it was the slaying of your father.”

“Those creatures - what are they?”

“Scarags,” said Janna. “Their race dwells mostly to the north of Irdustan. These days the Count makes his living from piracy, aided by a band of the creatures. They are fascinated by his magic and obey him without question. He finds them more reliable than humans.” She paused. “My mother also told me you wish to slay him.”

Alain took a draught of wine and nodded.

Janna’s expression was grim. “Alain, this is madness. Even if you were to get close enough, the Count is an expert swordsman, not to mention a master of dark magic. You would never succeed.”

“Then I’ll die trying,” said Alain. “It’s a matter of honor.”

Janna gave a tight, bitter smile. “Ah, honor. I see. Forgive me, it’s just that I have seen too many duels fought in the name of honor. Roald, my husband, was killed in one. What price honor afterwards? Can it keep the widows warm at night? Is it a comfort to the children left without a father?”

Alain was at a loss for words. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’m sorry about your husband,” he said at length. “But I have made a sacred vow. Nothing and no-one will detract me from it.”

He reached for some dried figs, drank more wine. “What puzzles me is how Darakon found out where my father was. The ring your mother gave him was supposed to prevent that happening.”

Janna nodded sadly. “Even though it took twenty years, the Count eventually found a way to break its power. He went to great lengths, delving into forbidden books and musty scrolls, even consorting with sorcerers from the Dark Kingdoms. He really hated your father.”

She fixed Alain with a hard, appraising stare. “You’re determined to go through with this, aren’t you?” Alain nodded. Janna gave a sigh. “Very well. Since I have inherited my mother’s talents, I will use my magic to aid you. By means of a scrying spell, I have discovered where Darakon is hiding out. It is a small island in the southern ocean, previously uninhabited.”

Rising to her feet, Janna faced the wall and muttered a spell. A cloud of dense white smoke appeared, and within the cloud an image formed. Alain saw it was the island Janna had spoken of. Steep cliffs fringed by dense jungle rose sheer from the water, flanking a small cove where Darakon’s ship lay at anchor. Janna waved her hands, muttering more words under her breath, and the image changed to that of a huge stone temple, roughly triangular in shape.

“Whatever race built the temple vanished long ago,” said Janna, “although the structure is remarkably intact. It makes an ideal base.”

Alain frowned. “But how do we get there? No merchant vessels sail to that region.”

“Don’t worry,” said Janna. “Using the correct spell, we can be there in moments.”

“Fine. When do we leave?”

“We’d best wait until tonight. With luck, most of the Scarags will be drunk or asleep. It should make it easier for you.” Janna pointed to the fruit bowl. “When you have finished eating, I will show you to a spare bedroom. You’d better get some rest. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.”

* * *

Darkness had fallen when Janna came to Alain’s room. She bolted the door to prevent any unwanted intrusion by the servants and gave Alain a gentle shake to rouse him from his slumber. As he buckled on his sword, she began muttering a complex incantation, moving her hands through the air. A glowing ring of light appeared. It was around seven feet in diameter, and within it the air shimmered as if distorted by waves of heat. Janna beckoned to Alain. Then she stepped into the ring and vanished.

Alain stood before the glowing circle, hesitating. His stomach tightened. With more than a little trepidation, he stepped into the ring also. A moment later he blinked in amazement. He and Janna were standing in a corridor lit by burning torches fastened to the stonework at intervals. At the end a wide staircase rose into shadowy gloom. Janna waved her hands, causing the circle of light to wink out of existence. She pointed to the steps. “Your destiny waits.”

“Thank you for your help,” said Alain. He drew his sword and set off along the passage. As he climbed the stair, however, doubts began to assail him. Here he was, about to throw his life away, and for what? Then, unbidden, memories of Tharn flooded his mind. He saw again the bodies littering the ground, heard the wailing for the dead, carried on the wind like a ghostly lament. And his misgivings dissipated before a tide of fury which boiled up within him like white hot lava.

At the head of the stair he emerged into another dimly-lit corridor. Somewhere ahead of him he heard a low hum of voices. Alain crept along the passage, halting before a narrow portal. Peering through, he saw a large chamber where the Count, along with a dozen or so Scarags, were gathered. They were drinking from jeweled goblets and eating from silver plates piled high with smoked fish and pieces of fruit. The Scarags lounged on silk cushions while the Count was seated on a carved wooden chair. He wore a cream tunic and dark pantaloons, both of the finest silk, and was exchanging comments with a Scarag next to him.

Alain hesitated. His heart pounded. Steeling himself, he charged into the room.

A hush descended, amazement holding the company frozen for a moment. Facing them like a lion at bay, Alain cried: “Darakon, Count of Asparac! You are responsible for the slaying of my father, a priest named Tarmerius. I come seeking vengeance.”

Darakon gaped at his visitor in astonishment. Then realization dawned. “You insolent young whelp!” he roared. “I’ll have you flayed alive for this. Seize him!”

Alain laughed unpleasantly. “Lo, the Count calls upon his minions to aid him!” His tone was mocking. “Is he a coward? Is he afraid to face me alone in combat, without the use of sorcery?”

All eyes turned toward Darakon, who knew he was honor bound to accept the challenge.

“Very well,” said the Count. “I shall enjoy feeding your body to the fishes. But, tell me, how did you learn of my whereabouts? Are there others with you?”

“I came alone,” Alain lied. “Although I had a little help, from a friend who knows magic.”

Darakon nodded. “I see. Well, then, shall we commence?”

The Count’s sword hissed from its scabbard and, with a pantherish leap, he sprang forward, hacking down with a stroke which Alain only just managed to parry. The Scarags gave back, leaving a clear space in the centre of the room.

The two men began hacking and slashing for all their worth, the clashing clangor of steel ringing throughout the chamber. The adversaries fought without pause for breath. Blades hissed and sang; caught and held; pulled apart; clashed and grated, the men weaving hot sparks around them like fireworks. As Janna had said, Darakon was an expert swordsman, possessing excellent speed and balance, and even though Alain was holding his own it was evident the Count’s superior skill would eventually triumph.

With a sudden movement, Alain flung himself backward. His sword slid from his grasp and clattered to the floor. Clutching his temples, he cried out and sank to his knees, face contorted as if in pain. Darakon stood over him, his expression one of gloating triumph.

What happened next took him completely unawares. In a sudden movement, Alain - now seemingly recovered - snatched up his sword and thrust upward, the blade plunging into Darakon’s chest. The Count stiffened, features frozen in uncomprehending shock. He gave a rasping gurgle, blood gushing from his thin lips. Alain released his grip on the sword and his foe slumped to the floor, a red stain flowering over his cream tunic.

Silence descended. The Scarags stared in shock at the body of the Count. Then their gaze shifted to Alain, dark eyes boring into him. He could feel the creatures’ hostility as if it were a living thing.

Alain placed one foot on Darakon’s body and tugged the sword free. Shaking the red drops from the blade, he backed toward the doorway, the creatures’ gaze following him. He stepped into the corridor. Then, with a swift turn, he tore along the passage as if the hosts of the Netherworld were at his heels.

He hurled himself down the steps and when he reached the bottom Janna was there to meet him. Behind him the Scarags were pouring down the stair, feet slapping on stone. Janna pointed to the bottom step and, murmuring some mystical words, she drew her finger horizontally through the air. A wall of fire sprang up, flames leaping ten and twelve feet high, obscuring the Scarags from view. A flurry of angry yells and curses erupted from the creatures.

“The fire’s an illusion,” said Janna. “But it might deter them long enough for us to get out of here.” Turning her back to the flames, she began incanting the spell which would cause the circle of light to appear.

Tense moments passed. Then one of the Scarags jumped through the wall of fire. Straight away, the flames vanished. Evidently, the creature’s action had broken the spell. Alain glanced over his shoulder and saw Janna vanish into the circle. As the Scarags swarmed toward him he hurled his sword at the nearest one, who was mere feet away. Then he jumped through the glowing ring of light.

* * *

Alain landed on soft springy grass. Behind him the circle of light vanished on Janna’s command. He gazed about. He and Janna were standing in the garden of Janna’s house, under the hard white light of a full moon. Somewhere a fountain tinkled and the air was heavy with the sweet, heady scents of exotic plants.

“Well done,” said Janna. “I gather you were successful in slaying the Count.”

Alain told her how his trickery had fooled Darakon.

“How does it feel?” she asked. “Now your honor has been satisfied.”

Alain frowned, unsure of what to say. There was no glorious feeling of exhilaration, no sense of triumph, or satisfaction. Instead there was only a hollow emptiness. Janna noted his expression and gave a wry smile. “Revenge not all it’s made out to be, eh? Poor Alain, you’ve much to learn.” She walked over to a stone bench and sat down. A rising wind tugged her black mane. “What will you do now?” she asked.

Alain shrugged. “I really don’t know.” Truth to tell, he didn’t want to think about the future. His quest had succeeded, he was alive and in one piece, and Tharn had been avenged. For now, that was enough.

* * *

John Whitehouse enjoys writing in various genres, including mystery and fantasy. To date several of his stories have appeared in small press and national publications, both in the UK and US, and on the internet.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

ESCAPISM

The Daughter of Pernius

The Daughter of Pernius
by John Whitehouse

The plan was simple enough. Yet the feeling that something would go wrong continued to steal over me, as I practiced my knife-throwing against the trunk of a nearby tree. I was standing on the bank of a river which meandered through a wooded valley, broad and shallow. On the far slopes, the walls of Naashem – the city state where I had lived for most of my fifteen summers – could be seen.

I wondered how the people were faring under Saddara's rule. Niece to King Pernius, who she had driven from the throne several months earlier, she was reputed to be a mistress of dark sorcery. Aided by a bandit leader named Roganar, she had gathered an army of mercenaries, many of whom were cut-throats and outlaws. On the night Naashem had fallen, traitors inside the city had slain the guards and opened the gates, allowing Saddara's forces to swarm through. The King’s soldiers had fought with desperate courage but, outnumbered and caught off-guard, their resistance was futile.

In the chaos and confusion, Pernius had succeeded in escaping, along with his son, Prince Tormas - to whom I was page – and two loyal servants, myself and Gromek, blacksmith to the Palace stables. The King’s daughter - Princess Lyssia - had been captured, however.

Together, the four of us had journeyed south to the land of Turshia, settling in the capital, Kodan.

Then, one day, a wandering merchant caravan had brought a letter, written by Lyssia, in which she pleaded to be rescued. She told how, following her capture, she had been thrown into one of the Palace dungeons, where she had languished for more than a month. Then, in a surprising act of kindness, Saddara had ordered that she be moved to more comfortable surroundings. She was now confined in a villa, situated in a quiet suburb, guarded by two men. She added that she’d written at the urging of a servant girl, who’d offered to smuggle out the letter inside her garments.

The news that the Princess was so lightly guarded had raised our spirits, and together, Pernius and Tormas had devised a plan to steal her away.

On the eve of our departure from Kodan, the Prince had summoned me to his rooms. In his twenty-fifth year, he was of medium height and strong build. A small dark beard adorned his handsome features.

“Gromek and I intend to enter the city disguised as peasants on our way to market,” he told me. “My father regrets he cannot travel with us, but in his current state of health he needs plenty of rest. We’ll wait until nightfall, then overpower the guards. With luck, they’ll be drunk or dozing. With my sister disguised also, we’ll make our way to the Great Temple. From there, a secret tunnel leads out of the city. That’s our means of escape.

“You will accompany us as far as the city, Lokan. It will be your job to guard the animals until our return.”

At first light the following day we set off on the long journey, the spare horses and pack mules loaded with blankets and provisions. Our garments were simple and practical. For my part, I wore a pair of calf-length leather boots which had belonged to my late uncle Siberius; heavy woolen trousers; a leather jerkin over a horsehair tunic; and a cape of heavy dark wool. We had travelled for almost two months, and had entered the valley earlier that day. We had made camp in a cave close to the water’s edge, and the Prince and Gromek had set out to hunt for food.

Sheathing my dagger, I set about the task the Prince had set me, that of gathering firewood. The trees dripped golden leaves onto the woodland floor as I picked up large twigs and broke off low branches. When I had as much as I could carry, I went back to the cave and built a fire, which I lit using flint and steel. There was a chill in the air now evening was drawing on, and I savored the warmth of the flames, which threw a dancing yellow light onto the rough walls.

I heard the Prince yelling my name and, ducking out of the cave, I saw he and Gromek had returned. The blacksmith, a giant of a man whose strength was awesome, was carrying the carcass of a young deer on his massive shoulders. Both men were staring into the darkening sky, their faces grim. Following their gaze, I froze in astonishment. Heading toward us, from the direction of the city, was a large cloud of dense bluish-grey mist. It was travelling at considerable speed and, within the cloud, smoky tendrils swirled and writhed, like serpents participating in a mad frenetic dance.

“It’s Saddara’s doing, I’ll be bound,” said the Prince. “We’d better get out of here.” He told me to retrieve the saddlebags stored in the rear of the cave, while he and Gromek set about saddling the horses, which grazed nearby, along with the mules.

Hurriedly, I scrambled into the cave. When I emerged, I saw the cloud was now directly above us. Coming to a halt, it hovered for a moment. Then, like a bird swooping on prey, it descended, enveloping my companions and I, along with the animals.

I found myself in a blue-grey cocoon. The mist was so thick and heavy that I could barely see an arm’s length in front of me, and there was a thin acrid smell to it. Around me, the smoky tendrils whirled like living things. As I groped forward, stumbling over the uneven ground, my vision began to shift in and out of focus. Dizziness flooded over me, and I felt weak and nauseous. With the strength draining from me, I dropped the bags I was carrying and fell heavily to my knees.

Then my world dissolved into blackness.

* * *

I swam into consciousness to find I was lying on damp straw inside a gloomy interior. Sitting up, I peered around. I was inside a prison cell, two sides of which were solid rock. To my left were two further cells, the three separated from each other by bars running from floor to ceiling. Gromek was in the cell adjacent to mine, while the Prince occupied the other. Before me was the cell door, similarly constructed of full-length bars. In front of the cells ran a narrow passage lit by burning torches, whose sullen glow provided the sole alleviation to the darkness.

“Where are we?” I asked.

It was the Prince who answered. “Inside the Temple. I recognize this as one of the dungeons.”

We heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and a man and woman appeared in the entrance to the passage. The woman - who looked to be in her mid-thirties - was of medium height and slender, with finely sculpted features framed by a mass of dark curls, which foamed down her back. She wore a long gown of turquoise silk, gathered at the waist by a fine golden chain, and a tasteful adornment of jewels. There was no denying she was beautiful. Yet it was a cold, hard sort of beauty, like a summer flower clothed with autumn frost, or the crisp elegance of a fresh snowfall, and her dark eyes, though full of pride and intelligence, gleamed with hidden menace.

The Prince sprang to his feet. “Saddara! I suppose you’ve come to gloat. But how did you know we were coming?”

“You forget my skills in the magic arts, cousin.” She spoke from a wide sensuous mouth, and her voice was sickly sweet, like poisoned honey. “I have placed warding spells around the city. When you came to the river you disturbed one, and I was alerted.”

She gestured toward her companion. Around the same age, he was tall and muscular, with rugged features topped by a square-cut mane of fair hair. His garments were made of leather and a sword hung at his waist.

“Let me introduce you. You’ve heard of the famous Roganar, although I don’t believe you’ve actually met. Well, this is he. Thanks to him, I now have what is rightfully mine.”

The Prince gave a sigh. “Oh, Saddara. The people didn’t want you as Queen, but you could never accept it. My father’s rule has been wise and tolerant. Naashem has grown and prospered.”

Saddara moved to stand in front of the Prince’s cell, facing him. “The throne was bought with the blood of my own father.” Her voice trembled with an anger she could barely contain. “I know what happened during the battle with the Zoramian forces, how Pernius hired an assassin to slay his elder brother, making it appear he’d been killed by the enemy. It was Jamilla who told me. Using ancient arts, she discovered the truth of the matter.”

“And you believe that old crone? She’s lying to you, Saddara. She’s using you for her own ends.”

Saddara ignored him. “My spies in Kodan tell me Pernius has been busy these past months, forming alliances, trying to raise an army against me. A pity that all his schemes will avail him naught. As he will discover tonight.”

The Prince’s face darkened. ”What do you mean?”

Saddara gave him a look which could almost have been pity. “Oh, my dear cousin, don’t you see? The whole thing was a trap. The servant girl, the one who smuggled out the letter – she was in my employ. I knew you’d try to rescue your sister sooner or later, it was simply a matter of waiting.

“The assassin is in place, cousin. When I inform him of your capture, he will move against Pernius. When you and your sister are also taken care of, there will be no-one left to challenge me. I failed before because I was young and foolish. I will not make the same mistakes again.”

The Prince stared at her with incredulity. Then he uttered an inhuman cry. “You filthy treacherous witch!” he screamed. “May you burn in a thousand hells for this.” He gripped the bars of the cell door and shook them with uncontrollable fury. He howled like an animal.

Gromek spoke. “What are you going to do with us?” he asked.

“I intend to sacrifice you all to Mytak,” came the reply. “In return for his continued blessings on the city. Along with the Princess Lyssia, of course, who is being prepared for the ritual as we speak. Meanwhile, I will see that you are fed and watered. After all, I’m not a barbarian.”

She beckoned to Roganar, and together they strode from the dungeon.

An icy wave of dread surged over me, but I forced myself to remain calm. If a way out of this existed, I had to find it. And soon.

* * *

As I pondered our predicament, I thought about my uncle Siberius. He had been involved with the criminal underworld and, on one occasion, had succeeded in escaping from prison. He had recounted the tale to me on more than one occasion, and as I recalled it, an idea formed in my mind. Thanking the gods he’d bequeathed me his boots, I tugged at the heel of the right one, the bottom coming away to reveal a small hidden compartment. From this I extracted a metal disc, the width of a medium-sized coin, whose edges had been sharpened. Fitting the heel back together, I glanced at my companions. They were each lost in their own thoughts, the Prince’s expression one of haunted despair. Stepping up to the bars, I called to Gromek in a low voice, and beckoned him over. In the same hushed tones, I told him of my plan, and he nodded in understanding. Then I sat down and waited.

Presently, I heard the clump of booted feet, and a man – one of the Temple guards – came into the dungeon. Strips of gold-plated metal adorned his garments, which were of dyed-black leather, and a long curved sword hung at his waist. He carried a silver tray laden with wooden bowls, containing stale-looking bread and water.

My stomach tightened with apprehension as I rose to my feet. I pointed to the contents of the tray. “I don’t want any of that,” I said to the man. “What about some fruit? And some wine to wash it down?”

The guard threw me a contemptuous sneer.

“I can pay for it. With gold.” I pointed to my tunic. “In here. There’s a bag of coins.”

The man scrutinized me for a moment, trying to decide if this was some sort of trick. Then he gave a shrug. “Alright. Stand back from the door.”

Putting down the tray, he drew his sword and there was a dull clunk as he unlocked the cell. I stood facing the adjacent cell as the guard swung open the door and stepped through. He held out his free hand. “Come on, then. Hand it over.”

With a sudden movement, I flung the metal disc at his face, the sharpened edge slicing open his cheek. Startled, the man staggered backward, and in that moment I sprang at him, dashing the sword from his grasp. The force of my lunge was sufficient to send him crashing against the bars, and as we grappled, Gromek sprang to his feet. Reaching through the bars, he grabbed the guard’s head, twisting it until a crack was heard. As the man slumped to the floor, I snatched the keys and began to free my companions.

“Well done,” said the Prince, as he stepped out of the cell. He grabbed the sword belonging to the guard. “We must try to save my sister,” and he hurried from the dungeon.

Gromek and I followed him up a narrow winding stair, at the head of which stood a heavy wooden door. Pulling it open a fraction, the Prince peered through. Then he beckoned, and we stepped out into a deserted corridor. Warily, we proceeded along the dimly-lit passage, and were almost at the end when we heard footsteps approaching. A moment later, a guard emerged from around a corner, coming face to face with us. As the man froze in astonishment, Gromek charged forward like a maddened bull, driving him against a wall. Seizing the guard’s head, he smashed it savagely against the stonework, and the man went limp. Gromek seized his sword.

“Pray we’re not too late,” said the Prince, and he led the way deeper into the Temple.

We halted before an arched portal. Peering cautiously through, we saw a large circular chamber illumined by a smoky glow. On the far side stood a ten foot high statue of the god Mytak, a vulture-headed figure with a lizard-like body and multiple wings and arms. Beside this stood an altar, draped with a white cloth, on which the ceremonial dagger lay. Saddara and Roganar were there, along with two acolytes, shaven-headed young men wearing long scarlet robes. The latter flanked Princess Lyssia, who’d been dressed in a long pale garment for the occasion. Her flowing red hair was confined by a narrow golden band around her temples, and her pretty features were contorted with weeping.

Facing the wall, Saddara muttered a spell. A section of the stonework began to glow, and the image of a man appeared. The hood of a black cloak partially obscured his sharp angular features. Saddara spoke to him. “The Prince is safely under lock and key. Is everything ready?”

The man nodded. “Tonight, when Pernius retires to his rooms, I will strike. Without his son to guard him, my task will be much easier.”

“Excellent. Do not fail me.”

The Prince snarled. Glancing at him, I saw the skin of his face was stretched taut with hate. His teeth were bared and his eyes blazed with vengeful fire. Telling me to keep lookout, he beckoned to Gromek and the two men strode into the chamber.

As the occupants froze in astonishment, the blacksmith sprang toward the acolytes. Yelling with fear, they ran for the doorway on the far side of the chamber, as Roganar's sword hissed from its scabbard. With a roar, Gromek leaped to meet him, and the clashing clangor of steel rang out as the adversaries engaged in mortal combat.

Meanwhile, the Prince was advancing toward Saddara, his sword raised. Backing against the wall, she pointed to him and began to bark out a spell. Racing forward, I grabbed the ceremonial dagger and hurled it at her, the blade thudding into her chest. Saddara stiffened, features frozen in uncomprehending horror. Then she crumpled to the floor.

As Gromek and Roganar continued hacking and slashing for all their worth, Lyssia took a burning torch from the wall and circled around the two men. With a sudden movement, she thrust the firebrand into Roganar’s face. Screaming in agony, he dropped his sword, the weapon clattering to the floor. A moment later, Gromek's blade plunged into his heart.

The Prince stood over Saddara’s body, staring at the hilt of the dagger, around which a red stain was blossoming. “Thank you, Lokan,” he said, as Gromek and Lyssia joined us. “I was so blind with rage I forgot she would seek to use her magic on me.”

The sound of approaching voices made us start.

“The entrance to the tunnel is close by,” said the Prince, and he sprinted for the far doorway, the rest of us close on his heels. He led us along a corridor lined with recessed alcoves, which served as shrines to minor deities. At the end of the passage, he stepped into one of the alcoves and, moving behind the altar, stood facing the rear wall. He began pressing his hands against the stones. “One of them is loose,” he told us. “If I can just locate it ...”

Stepping up to the wall, Lyssia began to help.

Then Gromek gave a cry. Running toward us along the corridor, brandishing their swords, were a half dozen temple guards. Bounding forward, the blacksmith grabbed a four foot high statue from one of the shrines and, with a roar, he hurled it at the guards. The stone figure crashed into the two leading men, dashing them to the ground. Grabbing another statue, he held it above his head, menacingly. The guards drew back, reluctant to advance.

The Prince called to us. “I’ve found it! Come on.”

With a grinding sound, the wall swung inward, and Lyssia and I hurried into the gaping blackness. Glancing back, I saw Gromek fling the statue at the guards before running to join us.
Taking a torch from its bracket, the Prince stepped into the tunnel and threw a lever set into the wall. A flurry of yells and curses erupted from the guards as the stonework swung back into place. Then my companions and I were alone in silent darkness.

As we set off along the tunnel, I spoke to the Prince. “What do you think will happen, Sire, now that Saddara and Roganar are both dead?”

The Prince gave a shrug. “Roganar’s men will choose a new leader, who will sit on the throne which is rightfully mine.” His jaw clenched in anger. “When we return to Kodan, I’ll continue my father’s work. I’ll raise an army and win back the kingdom. And woe betide any who stand in my way.”

* * *

John Whitehouse enjoys writing in various genres, including mystery and fantasy. To date several of his stories have appeared in small press and national publications, both in the UK and US, and on the internet.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?
ESCAPISM

The Curse of Warim-Shek

The Curse of Warim-Shek
by John Whitehouse

Karadas drew his cloak tighter against the chill of the night. “Remind me again why we’re here,” he asked Saram.

His stocky companion chuckled. “Because the Count pays well. It’s more than we’d earn in the King’s army or from being mercenaries.”

Karadas snorted. “Only just.” Strongly built despite his leanness, he was tall with reddish-brown hair, a small neatly-trimmed beard adorning his handsome features. “Why did we bother studying wizardry in the first place? It’s hard to make a decent living from it. We should have chosen something more lucrative.”

“Hey, stop chattering,” I told them. I gazed upward at the high, embrasured walls of the fortress, on which the moon cast a ghostly radiance, straining to listen for the jangling of armor along the battlements which would indicate the passing of the guard. Around us, gusts of wind rasped through the trees.

Saram jerked a thumb at me. “How come a mere stripling like him is in charge of us?” he asked his fellow mage.

“Because the Count says so,” Karadas told him. “He chose him to take charge of his personal guard, on account of his exploits in the war with Zammeria. So what he says, goes.” He turned to me. “Isn’t that right, Captain?”

I nodded. “And don’t you forget it,” although my order, like their teasing, was good natured. At twenty four I was some ten years younger than my companions, the three of us having been hand-picked for this particular mission – to rescue Count Varek’s wife from Rothkar, Duke of Eridon, who was presumably hoping to ransom her, although no demand had yet been received. Karis had been browsing in the market place when, in the bustling crowds, she’d become separated from the men guarding her. Witnesses told how she’d been seized and bundled away by a gang of hooded figures.

At first everyone had assumed them to be organized criminals – after all, kidnapping members of the nobility wasn’t uncommon. Then, a few days after the incident, the Count had summoned me to his private apartments. He told me he’d been sitting alone in his chambers when a section of the wall had begun to glow. A moment later, the image of a tall, shaven-headed man had appeared. He’d told the Count that, until recently, he’d been Rothkar’s mage but , following a disagreement, he was no longer in the Duke’s employ. He’d then revealed Karis’ whereabouts in return for what he hoped would be a substantial reward.

Sending a full contingent of men would have been impractical, since Rothkars’ private forces significantly outnumbered the Counts’ hundred or so men. And the fortress, with its grim, forbidding walls, was well able to withstand a prolonged siege. Instead, the Count had proposed a clandestine operation. Because of my experience of raiding behind enemy lines, I had been chosen to lead it, my comrades picked due to their skills in the magic arts.

“The Count’s a lucky devil,” Saram remarked. “His wife’s one of the most beautiful women in Pelador. And she’s only eighteen. He’s more than twice her age.”

“These nobles are all the same,” said Karadas. “They marry for political reasons, to form alliances and things. Love rarely comes into it. Still, it’s no wonder he wants her back.”

I signaled to my companions. “The guard’s passed by. Come on,” and together we broke from the trees and hurried to the base of the wall. Since Rothkar was presently without a mage, there were no warding spells to warn of our arrival, making our task easier.

The two mages linked arms with me.

“Ready?” asked Karadas. I nodded and, wreathed in magic, they rose into the air, carrying me with them. Drifting over the embrasures, we floated to the ground, landing softly as a leaf carried on a gentle breeze.

Thin clouds drifted across the moon, like veils concealing a woman’s face, as we crept across the courtyard, casting furtive glances at the battlements for any sign of guards. We halted before a heavy wooden door which we found to be locked.

“Allow me,” said Karadas. He waved his hands over the lock, whereupon it changed to a grey mist which swirled and dissipated in the air. With a protesting whine, the door swung open and we stepped through.

We found ourselves in a corridor lit by burning torches fastened at intervals to the walls. It was very quiet, unsurprising given the lateness of the hour. We glided along the passage, our only sound the soft tread of leather on stone, and came to a wide staircase leading upward. We’d begun to ascend when I heard footsteps. Someone was coming down the staircase toward us. I stiffened and whispered to my companions. Moments later two guards emerged from the shadows. At the sight of us they halted in astonishment. As they were reaching for their swords, Saram pointed to the men and a flash of white light engulfed them. They slumped down, unconscious.

Stepping around the still forms, we continued on our way, halting before a door at the head of the stairs. Saram pointed to it. “According to my scrying spell, Karis is behind there,” he told me. Grabbing a torch from its bracket on the wall, he opened the door a fraction and peered into the room beyond. “She’s asleep,” he whispered.

“I’ll keep watch out here,” I said. “You two go in and fetch her.”

My companions disappeared into the room and I stood, straining into the gloom, senses alert for any sign of movement. Then my companions emerged, Saram carrying Karis over one broad shoulder. In order to extract her with minimum fuss the mage had placed a spell on her so that her sleep would be long and undisturbed, a plan we’d decided on prior to the mission. When she awoke we would, if all went well, be back in the city of Pashad, at the Count’s estate.

We proceeded down the stairs and along the corridor to the door by which we’d entered. A cool breath of night air greeted us as I opened it. Coming from the battlements above, we heard the tramping of feet together with the clinking of armor. With the door slightly ajar, we stood in tense stillness, waiting for the sounds to fade.

I gave a signal and, stepping through, we scurried across the courtyard to the wall. The mages repeated their earlier spell and once again we rose into the air, floating over the battlements. Landing on the other side, we made our way through the trees to the horses which were tethered nearby.

“That was easy,” said Karadas, swinging into the saddle.

“Don’t count your chickens yet,” I told him. “Not until we’re well clear of here.”

“I’ll tell you something,” said Karadas. “For someone who was supposed to be a prisoner, her surroundings were comfortable enough. Luxurious, even. A far cry from the Zammerian prison camps, eh, Saram?”

We set off through the woods, Saram supporting Karis in his arms. The moon continued
its struggle with the clouds as we melted into the night.

* * *

“Amazing,” said Rodric. “Absolutely incredible.” The Count’s nephew continued to gaze in profound admiration at the painting which was laid out on a table in the middle of the room. A broad ribbon of silk, a foot wide and several feet in length, it had once been white but was now ripened with great age to a mellow brown. It depicted a river winding its way among groves of slender trees, through verdant meadows, past forbidding cliffs and round hills, emptying at last into a foam-flecked sea.

“So lifelike,” Rodric went on. “I can almost hear the running water, feel the wind sing among the trees.”

“Would you expect anything less from the great Warim-Shek?” said his uncle. “It is said that his brush was guided by the gods themselves.” In his mid-forties, the Count was tall and of heavy build, a barrel-chested warrior whose large powerful frame was now running to fat. Cold grey eyes, which brooded from beneath craggy brows, were set into hard, rugged features and his sandy colored hair and beard were streaked with grey.

“And this painting is part of a collection?” I said.

Rodric nodded. In his mid-twenties, he bore little resemblance to his uncle, being of medium height and slim build. His eyes were the color of ebony, his handsome features topped by short dark hair. He looked to be well and fully recovered from the fever he’d been in the grip of when I’d set out on my mission.

“Warim-Shek painted a series depicting four forms of water,” he explained, “the others being a spring, a lake and the sea. Before his death he is reputed to have put a curse on them. You see, it was his wish that the paintings be kept together and it is said that catastrophe will befall anyone separating them or parting one from the others.”

The Count smiled. “Men such as we, however, pay no heed to such superstitions. More wine, Tomalin?”

“Thank you,” I said and held out my goblet for him to refill. “You say you bought the painting from a peddler in the market?”

He nodded. “It belonged to Baron Tarmius – it is he who owns the collection.”

“But these works are centuries old,” I said. “They are beyond price. Whoever that peddler was, he must have stolen it.”

“Which has no doubt upset the Baron quite considerably,” said Rodric. “Quite a prize, eh, Uncle? Especially for a lover of the fine arts, like yourself.”

Just then the door opened, admitting a draught which caused the candle flames to shy. Startled shadows leaped up the walls. We turned and saw Karis step into the room, closing the door behind her. She was indeed beautiful, her soft oval features framed by two smooth shining wings of light brown hair. I noticed her eyes were reddened, as if from weeping. Tonight she wore one of her finest gowns, a long scarlet affair trimmed with ermine, on which ornate designs were embroidered in gold.

“Ah, my dear!” said the Count. “You look lovelier than ever. Here,” and he handed her a goblet which he’d earlier filled with wine. Gazing at her, I couldn’t help noticing the timid, almost frightened look in her eyes and I noticed that Rodric had become tense and uncomfortable, avoiding her gaze.

Karis was dressed in her finery for a reason, the same which required us men to wear formal attire. For this was the night when the Duchess of Amorina held her annual ball. It was one of the society events of the year and the Count had invited me along as a token of gratitude for rescuing his wife.

He raised his goblet. “Let us drink to the health of Captain Tomalin,” he said, “ and that of my two mages, by whose courage and daring my wife has been restored to me.” Rodric and Karis joined him in the toast, Karis forcing a thin, weak smile and once again I noted her sad, haunted features.

When we’d drained our goblets the Count ushered us out into the courtyard where, in the grey light of the evening, our carriages awaited. Rodric and myself climbed into one of the coaches, seating ourselves behind the groom who, I noticed, wasn’t one of the Counts’ usual servants. Varek helped his wife into the other carriage. “There is a spot of urgent business which requires my attention,” he told her. “I will be along shortly.”

He signaled for the gates to be opened, the carriages rolled through and we set off along the wide roads leading past the higher estates. Rodric was far from his usual self. I’d expected him to be in high spirits but instead he was sullen and moody, shifting uneasily in his seat.

Presently we drew up to the gate leading into the Duchess’ estate. The groom brought the horses to a halt and spoke to the gatekeeper while I threw a casual glance behind. To my surprise, Karis’ coach was nowhere in sight. I told Rodric.
“They may have a problem,” he said. “Perhaps a wheel’s broken or a horse gone lame. We’ll go back and check, in case they need help.” He told the groom to turn our coach around and we set off back the way we’d come. We passed a number of different carriages, doubtless on their way to the ball, but Karis’ coach was not among them. Finally we arrived back at the Count’s estate where Varek was just starting out. Rodric told him what had happened.

“Perhaps they took a wrong turning and became lost,” I ventured.

The Count shook his head. “The groom knows the way. Like yours, he was hired especially for the occasion.”

“Then there can be only one explanation,” I said. “Once again, Karis has been abducted, presumably by a criminal gang. But what has become of the groom? Unless they’ve taken him also, in order to cover their tracks.”

“There is another possibility,” said the Count. “Baron Tarmius may have learned that his painting is now in my possession, in which case he could have seized Karis in order to ransom her. The price, presumably, will be the picture.”

“In that case there’s no problem,” I said. “Your wife for the painting – a fair exchange, I would have thought.”

“Whoever is responsible, I expect we shall hear from them in due course,” said the Count. “In the meantime all we can do is wait.”

* * *

That night I was shaken from my slumber by Rodric. By the light of the candle which he held I saw he was dressed for some sort of expedition. His cape was slung around his shoulders, his sword hanging from his waist. Under one arm he carried a bundle, wrapped in satin.

“I have the painting,” he told me. “Before coming here I stole into the room where it is kept. I was prepared to break into the cupboard containing it but there was no need as my uncle had forgotten to lock it. I intend to go to Baron Tarmius tonight. If my uncles’ suspicions are correct, I will hand over the picture in exchange for Karis.”

“But what’s the hurry?” I asked. “And why all this secrecy? Why don’t you want your uncle to know?”

“Please trust me,” said Rodric. “I wish I could explain but all will become clear in due course, I promise. But I need your help. The Baron’s estate lies across the city from here. To get there, one has to go through some unsavory parts and I don’t fancy making the journey alone. You are a good friend, Tomalin. Will you accompany me, as a favor?”

His tenseness and anxiety were all too apparent and I realized that, whatever was bound up in this matter, it must be of great importance to him.

“Very well,” I said. “But there are a couple of others I’d like to bring along.”

“Who?”

“The mages who assisted in the escape from Rothkar's fortress. They’re completely trustworthy and their skills in magic will be useful if we run into any kind of trouble.”

Soon afterward the four of us were making our way through one of the roughest quarters of the city. As usual, all the Counts” horses had been put into their stables, the doors to which were locked and guarded, so we had no choice but to make the journey on foot. We tramped along dimly-lit streets, deserted save for the occasional sleeping beggar and the odd mangy-looking dog.

“This is a waste of time, if you ask me,” Karadas muttered. “The Countess probably has a lover. She’s run away with him, if the truth be known.”

So far our journey had been without incident. Then, as we rounded a corner, we came face to face with a gang of utter ruffians. They were more than twice our number and the leader, a stocky, bearded man, gave a wicked smile. “Well, well, what have we here?”

As the men reached for their swords, Saram pointed at them and drew his finger horizontally through the air, whereupon a wall of fire sprang up across the narrow street, creating a barrier between us and the gang. Flames leaped ten and twelve feet high, obscuring the men from view.

“Let’s get out of here,” I shouted and we turned and ran.

“The fire’s only an illusion,” Saram explained, “but it might deter them long enough for us to get away.”

“Having to flee from scum like that turns my stomach,” said Rodric. “If we meet any more, I swear they’ll feel the edge of my blade.”

“And you yourself may end up dead,” I told him. “ Sometimes the cowardly option is the sensible one.”

After a distance we paused for rest. Seeing no signs of pursuit, we continued on our way, our senses more alert than ever. We peered into stinking alleys and dingy side streets, tense in expectation of a similar encounter but there was no further trouble.

At length we arrived at the Baron’s estate, halting before large wooden gates which were set into a high stone wall. Rodric gave several raps on them and after a moment a servant opened a small hatch and peered through.

Rodric introduced himself. “I must see the Baron,” he told the man. “ It is a matter of the utmost urgency.”

Opening the gate, the servant admitted us into a garden thick with date palms. Somewhere a fountain tinkled and the air was heavy with the scent of exotic plants. The man led us along stone-flagged paths until we paused outside the house, before a great door banded with bronze.

“It is best I see the Baron alone,” Rodric told me. “One noble to another, you understand?”

I nodded. “We’ll wait here,” and he and the servant disappeared inside.

A short while later, the servant returned. “Which of you is Captain Tomalin?” he asked. I told him. “Please follow me,” he said and, leaving the two mages, I stepped through into a wide corridor. I followed the servant along the passage and up a flight of stairs to a landing. The man opened a door and stood aside as I passed through.

I found myself in a richly appointed bedchamber. In one corner stood a middle-aged man wearing a fine silk robe who I took to be the Baron. Karis lay on the bed and by the sullen glow of the lanterns I saw her skin was very pale. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was hoarse and shallow. Rodric was seated beside the bed, gazing at her with a mixture of relief and deep concern. He turned to me and in that moment I realized. “There was a lover, wasn’t there?” I said. “ It was you.”

Rodric nodded. “Rothkar didn’t kidnap her. She was running away.”

“Go on.”

“About a month ago I visited a seer who told me Karis' life was in danger, that I must get her away from the Count as soon as possible. I realized he must have found out about us. I thought of simply taking Karis and fleeing but I knew my uncle wouldn’t rest until he’d hunted us down. So I contacted Rothkar, who’s a friend of mine. Together we arranged the abduction. I was going to join Karis as soon as I could but, as you know, I was struck down with fever before I could set off. Rothkar had agreed to provide a protective escort until we reached the coast. We planned to buy a passage out of Pelador, get far enough away from my uncle to be safe.”

I pointed to Karis. “What happened?”

It was the Baron who answered. “When we brought her here she was suffering the most terrible convulsions. I sent for my mage who realized she’d been poisoned. Fortunately he was able to save her using his magic arts.”

I saw it all then. Like a smashed vase magically repairing itself, the pieces of the puzzle flung themselves together.

“This is your uncle’s doing,” I told Rodric. “When he discovered the affair he must have watched the two of you together. He bided his time, nursing his hatred and planning his revenge like a work of art. And tonight he set about exacting it. The poison was in the wine he gave her. And the cupboard – your uncle left it unlocked on purpose. He guessed you’d come here tonight with the painting, hoping to buy Karis” freedom so you could run away together. He intended you to find her dead. That would have been his revenge. The question is, how did your uncle know she’d be kidnapped?”

“The Baron didn’t abduct her,” said Rodric. “The groom my uncle hired – he was paid to deliver her.”

“Deliver her? I don’t understand.”

“I first saw Karis in the market place some months ago,” Tarmius explained. “And from that moment I knew I must have her. I offered to buy her from the Count, told him to name his price but he wouldn’t hear of it. Then, a month ago, he changed his mind, decided to sell her to me. The price was the painting. Alas, it was all part of his twisted scheme.”

“So there never was any peddler in the market,” I murmured.

Rodrics' black eyes glittered like jet beads in the lantern glow. “I swear by all the gods my uncle shall pay for trying to take her life. With his own.”

“My honor has also been insulted,” said the Baron. “I will join you in exacting vengeance.”

“You may go, Tomalin,” said Rodric. “Thank you for being such a good friend.”

Soon afterwards I, along with the two mages, were making our way from the Baron’s estate. I told them what had happened. “It seems the curse of Warim-Shek may not be mere superstition, after all,” I said. “Varek and Tarmius meddled with the paintings. Now it seems they will pay the price.”

“The Count must be mad to start a feud like this,” said Karadas. “Where will it end?”

“Blood will be spilt, that’s for certain,” said Saram. “And I don’t intend any of it to be mine.”

“Same here,” said Karadas. “What about you, Captain?”

I gave a shrug. “Whether Varek is mad or not, I have no desire to be caught up in this. I think it’s time we found someone else who can make use of our talents, don’t you?”

The two mages nodded and, smiling, we disappeared into the night.

* * *

John Whitehouse enjoys writing in various genres, including mystery and fantasy. To date several of his stories have appeared in small press and national publications, both in the UK and US, and on the internet.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

ESCAPISM