The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin (12 page)

She hobbled
over to the fire and took off a pot of water, tested its
temperature with her finger and nodded in satisfaction. Returning
to Sabre's side, she knelt creakily, dipped a clean rag in it and
washed off the blood.

"You mean he is
an idiot, like Bern?" Tassin queried.

"Aye, poor
Bern, 'e never stood a chance," Mother Amy chatted as she worked.
"'Is mother died birthing 'im. She were but a child 'erself, only
twelve years old or thereabouts. Some loutish drover must 'ave got
her in the bushes. Anyways, she's dead, but the babe's still alive,
so I get a big knife and cut her open. 'E were blue when I pulled
'im out, but 'e lived. Only he's touched in the 'ead because of it,
ye see."

Tassin stared
at the crone, whose wizened hands slid over Sabre's chest. "What do
you mean, the brow band is magic?"

Mother Amy
nodded, concentrating on her work. "Aye, it's magic all right. A
right queer sort, but bad magic."

"What does it
do? Why is it bad?"

"As to that I
don't rightly know, but it's bad because it's fixed to 'im, see? He
can't take it off, an' that's bad."

The old woman
tugged at an arrow shaft, and, finding it firm, grunted and picked
up a slender knife. Tassin noticed that none of the shafts
protruded at right angles to Sabre's skin. It was as if they had
been deflected somehow, but then, she recalled, the archers had
been on either side of him. Sickened, she turned away as the woman
cut and tugged until the barbed head came free, then flung it into
the fire in a gesture of anger.

Tassin huddled
beside the fire while Mother Amy removed the rest of the arrows,
tired and hungry. She joined Bern in his vacant-eyed fire-staring,
finding the mindlessness comforting. Mother Amy hummed is a
tuneless, annoying whine, and several times Tassin opened her mouth
to tell the crone to shut up, but stifled the impulse with an
effort. Her stomach rumbled, and she glanced around to see if the
old woman had finished. Surely Bern should be starting to make the
supper by now? Bern, however, was absent-minded in a literal
manner. She jumped as Mother Amy spoke.

"Well, now,
lass, unless yer fixin' to live on air, you'd best fetch us some
water in that there pot and put it on the fire."

"Me?" Tassin
squeaked. "What about Bern?"

The idiot
looked up and smiled at the sound of his name. Mother Amy shook her
head and clicked her tongue. She sewed the skin of Sabre's thigh
wound together as if it was torn cloth, and the sight sickened
Tassin.

"Bern will peel
the potatoes, that's 'is job. You fetch the water an' put in the
onions and such. I'm busy."

Bern nodded and
rose to fetch a bowl and several potatoes, which he peeled with
intense concentration, tongue protruding. Tassin glared at the
crone, then stomped out with the pot, making as much noise as
possible. By the time she had put the pot on the fire and added the
onions as instructed, Mother Amy was finished. Sabre lay on his
back, his skin innocent of blood, but smeared and daubed with a
vile-looking greyish paste. Tassin knelt beside him as Mother Amy
went to make dinner. The brow band's crystals remained dead and
black, and his skin was pale between the collection of bruises and
the paste that was smeared on it. He looked dead, his breathing so
slow that she could hardly make out the rise and fall of his chest.
She frowned, worried. The brow band had not been dark since she had
opened the casket.

Casting a
furtive glance at Mother Amy, Tassin shook his shoulder and
whispered, "Sabre! Sabre, wake up."

"Leave the lad
alone, young lady," Mother Amy said from the fireside. "'E's not
dead, nor will 'e die unless you shake 'im to death. When the
body's healed, then we'll worry about the thing on 'is head."

"I just wanted
to see if he was all right."

"'E's as right
as 'e can be, considerin'." The old woman chopped vegetables into
the bubbling pot. "'E's lost enough blood to fill a bucket, he 'as,
an' that's why he ain't sittin' here helpin' me with the cooking.
Tomorrow Bern'll go into the village an' get me a bucket of ox
blood, an' we'll get that into him. Blood for blood, I always
says."

Tassin
grimaced. "What you said about there being nothing in his mind is
what worries me."

"Aye." The
crone nodded. "It be worryin' me too. 'Course, I've seen people
like that afore now. Old Geffo, now, he were one. Fell off the cow
byre, he did, banged 'is 'ead real good, 'ad a lump the size of a
korron egg on it. Weren't nothin' in his 'ead neither when I saw
'im. 'E lay there like a log for nigh on two weeks."

Tassin waited
for the rest of the story, but the old woman remained silent. "And
then what happened?"

"Well 'e died
acourse. Body can't live without a mind."

"Is Sabre going
to die?"

Mother Amy
glanced around, her black eyes sparkling. "Nay, lass. Ain't nothin'
wrong with 'is 'ead, except for that there contraption on it. But
there ought to be somethin' going on in it, even so."

"How do you
know that there's nothing in his head?"

"Ah, well, I
just know, see? I know there's plenty in your pretty 'ead. Lots o'
thoughts an' feelings, not all of 'em good, neither." She
chuckled.

Tassin stared
at her, realising that Mother Amy was not merely a medicine woman,
but a witch. Her eyes slid to Sabre, hoping that he would wake
soon, so they could be on their way. Mother Amy chuckled again.
Tassin frowned, wondering if she should just pay the old crone and
go on alone. Her scowl deepened. Without a sword, she would be
helpless if Torrian's men found her, and she had no wish to be
dragged ignominiously to his castle and forced to marry him. Now
she was reliant on the man who lay comatose on the narrow cot, and
that rankled. Somehow, she had to get a sword.

Sabre did not
oblige her by waking that night, and, when they had consumed the
stew with much lip-smacking from Bern, Tassin found that she was
expected to sleep on the floor with the idiot man, who curled up
like a puppy in front of the fire. Mother Amy produced a spare
mattress for herself, and Tassin had to bunk down on the horse
blankets. This she did with much huffing and grunting, which only
evinced a dry chuckle from Mother Amy.

Chapter Six

Torrian eyed
his fellow kings with disgust. Bardok munched on a cold joint of
meat, while Grisson slurped his wine with relish and a benign
smile. Bardok belched and tossed a bone to his wolfhounds, which
sparred over it. Torrian's tent was close and smelly with the
combined odours of dogs, wine, unwashed bodies, food and lamp
smoke. The other two kings relaxed in Torrian's chairs, picking at
the feast he had provided for this meeting. Two bodyguards and a
grey-clad magician stood behind each monarch, arms folded and
expressions aloof. Grisson's mage was a short, portly man with a
florid face, pale blue eyes and a bushy white beard. A fresh-faced
youth with wide brown eyes and curly blond hair stood behind
Bardok. Torrian's temper drew near to breaking point as Grisson
gurgled in his wine cup again, smacking toothless gums.

"Are you both
content to let Queen Tassin slip away then?" he growled.

Bardok wiped
the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. "The girl has
given us all the slip, Torrian, face facts."

Torrian
snorted. "She has not given me the slip yet." He rose and paced.
"If not for the law, which states that no kingdom may conquer
another, I would take her land and she could be damned. But if she
gets away, that cousin of hers will inherit, and her uncle will
stand as regent until he is of age. Unless she returns, of course.
If she marries some barbarian noble, we lose any chance of gaining
her kingdom through marriage."

Bardok shrugged
and burped again. "We know that, but the man she travels with is a
great magician, his spells are formidable. How many men have you
lost already?"

"I have not
counted. Who is he? Not her father's mage, who was barely able to
light a fire. What say you, Gearn?" Torrian swung to face his mage,
a tall, cadaverous fellow with a beaky nose and sunken, intense
green eyes that seemed to glow in their dark sockets.

Gearn bowed. "A
strange magic, Sire, like none I have ever seen before. Blue fire
that burns, and great explosions of thunder. These things I can
make illusions of, but that man makes them real. To defeat him
would be no small feat, I fear."

"So what do we
do?" Torrian demanded, longing to haul Grisson from his wine
cup.

Bardok sighed.
"I, for one, am going home. My dogs miss their kennels and the
hunting, and I miss my soft bed and wenches. Let the foolish girl
go. She will not enjoy a life of anonymity, I will wager, and when
she returns we will be waiting."

"Meanwhile, we
are all out of pocket and our armies are weakened, for nothing. If
she slips through our fingers now we have lost!"

Grisson banged
down his empty cup and refilled it waveringly from the bottle,
getting more on the table than in the cup. His mage stepped forward
to steady his hand. Grisson gave a drunken cackle. "I say, get her
with child! She'll have to marry the father!"

Torrian smiled
at the pleasant vision that this conjured up. "An excellent idea,
Grisson, but we have to catch her first."

Grisson glared
myopically at Torrian. "Send a dog to catch a dog, I always say, or
is it set a snare to catch a hare? Whatever."

Torrian
frowned. "What do you mean? Send magicians after her?"

Grisson sucked
at his wine, his pinched features growing more florid. "Soldiers
are no good against magic, are they? Sorcery can only be fought
with more sorcery."

Torrian nodded,
turning to Gearn. "You have an excellent point, Grisson. What do
you suggest, mage?"

Gearn's eyes
brightened. "Sire, I have an idea that I have long wished to try,
but it is.... unwholesome."

"What is
it?"

"I could...
enchant some animals, wolves say, and send them to do the job. They
could track the Queen and her magician, then kill the magician. Of
course, men would have to follow them in order to capture the
Queen, but the wolves would be more able to locate and kill the
wizard than men."

Grisson's fat
mage frowned. "How exactly would you enchant these wolves? I have
heard of no such spell."

Gearn smiled.
"It is an old spell, one that is rarely used. It involves using the
souls of men to control the wolves, so they follow the orders given
to them."

Bardok's young
wizard stepped forward. "That is forbidden! The transfer of men's
souls to animals is unethical. Sire, you must forbid this!"

Bardok looked
unhappy. "I do, for what it is worth, but I have no control over
King Torrian, Mull."

Torrian frowned
at Gearn. "I do not like the sound of this, Gearn. What men will
allow their souls to be put into animals?"

"Old men, Sire,
old warriors who lie on their deathbeds, trapped in wasted bodies
that give them nought but pain. They will leap at the chance to run
and hunt again, even as wolves."

Torrian rubbed
his chin. "Yes, I see what you mean. Then I will allow this, if you
can find the warriors to do it."

Gearn bowed and
left with an eager bounce in his stride. Bardok eyed Torrian. "It
will take time to find these old warriors and bring them here.
Tassin will be long gone when you do."

There was a
resounding thud as Grisson keeled over, landing face down in his
plate. His bodyguards hastily righted him, then carried him out at
a gesture from his mage. Torrian turned to Bardok with a smile.

"But with
wolves, my dear Bardok, it will not matter where she goes. They
will find her. It will only need a couple of men to bring her back
once the wolves have disposed of the magician. They can be
disguised as bandits or such, so even if she crosses the mountains,
she will still be vulnerable."

Bardok nodded.
"It is a good plan, though I have not the stomach for it.
Congratulations, Torrian, it seems you will soon have a bride."

Torrian looked
smug. "Even though it sprang from Grisson's wine-soaked mind, my
mage makes it possible and my warriors will perform it. I will have
Arlin."

Tassin lazed in
the apple orchard, enjoying the bright autumn sunshine's warmth. A
week had passed since they had arrived at Mother Amy's hut. Sabre's
wounds healed unusually fast, according to the old witch, yet still
he lay unmoving, the brow band dark. Thankfully, Mother Amy
attended to the unpleasant task of keeping her patient clean and
fed. Bern made daily trips into the village for fresh blood, which
the old woman force fed to Sabre, along with milk and broth. Tassin
longed for him to wake up so they could move on. Mother Amy found
far too many tasks for her to perform. For the moment, she had
given the crone the slip and lounged against a tree, munching an
apple.

A movement
caught her eye, and she peered through the trees. Something moved
there, a glimmer of grey. Tassin watched it, unsure of whether to
hide in case it was Torrian's men, but then she gave a glad
cry.

"Falcon!"

The stallion
threw up his head at the sound of her voice and whinnied a
greeting, trotting to meet her. Sabre's bay mare, still wearing the
tattered remains of a saddle and bridle, followed him. Tassin
stroked his muzzle, and he nudged her, snuffling her ear. A
warhorse such as Falcon was trained to remain with his rider, and
he had followed her trail. He had probably been in the vicinity for
several days, but she had been so busy fetching and carrying for
Mother Amy that she had not noticed him.

Warhorses were
especially bred for their intelligence, loyalty and aggressiveness,
and Falcon was a particularly well bred and highly trained animal.
She recalled the months of bonding she had undergone with him when
he had been a youngster, feeding, riding, training and lavishing
affection upon him every day. It had been worth it, for he was
devoted to her now. Catching the mare, she led them to the paddock
and put them in with the other horses, glad to have her stallion
back. As she removed the mare's saddle and bridle, Mother Amy
appeared beside her, making Tassin jump.