The Shadow of His Hand: Book One of the Markulian Prophecies

By Benjamin Patterson

For centuries the oft-forgotten Unseen God has seemed distant and uncaring, but when the Realm is threatened by the all-conquering armies from Jerika, an ancient oracle is triggered. Now this foretelling is the only hope of salvation and its fulfilment lies in the trembling hands of a reluctant soldier, a princess and an infant marked by prophecy.

Set in a vivid medieval world, The Shadow of His Hand begins an epic struggle between good and evil, full of danger, romance and despair. Those caught in the grip of destiny will be required to sacrifice all, but even that may not be enough.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Jun 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781925595796

Benjamin Patterson

Benjamin Patterson lives in North Queensland, Australia with his wife and four children. When not writing, working or volunteering he’s battling a life-controlling addiction to sport, an addiction that his poor wife has discovered is easily passed from father to sons.The Shadow of His Hand is Benjamin’s first novel, a story he started telling more than ten years before its publication. He gave up on the book many times – literally every time he went back and read what he had written so far - but after much encouragement from friends and family he finally got it done... and the reviews are rave!

Book preview

Prologue

As the storm pounded the deserted streets of Corozon, the Home City, a widow took shelter underneath a rain-drenched shopfront. A crack of thunder rolled through the alleyway temporarily drowning out the din of raindrops colliding with tiled roofs. About her, streams of muddied water puddled together.

The sun had long since fallen behind the horizon, leaving street lamps to light her journey, and half of those had been extinguished. The rain stung her eyes and the cold clawed its way deep into her baby’s bones. Only fools were out in this weather. Fools, or those with no other option.

She had not meant to leave it this late, but what can you do when stuck in the employ of the meanest old man in the city. With trembling hands she adjusted the little one’s blankets, but her attempts to shelter him from the winds and rain were proving useless.

Damn Pickering and damn this relentless wet season. There was nothing for it now. She must complete her task tonight.

One last pleading look into the heavens. A flash of lightning lit up the empty causeway. ‘Thanks a lot,’ she muttered.

The rain fell even harder as she set out again, baby tucked tight to her chest, weaving her way from store front to store front. Her heart laboured as she scurried across icy cobblestones. They turned her feet blue, but she would not let it end tonight. Her husband had thoughtlessly thrown his life away, and God help her, she would not let her son die without the chance to throw away his too.

She had tried everything short of breaking his legs to stop her Gillsten from leaving, but every time she protested he would embrace her until she hushed. ‘I’m doing this for you. Can’t you see that?’ he would say. Then he would lie and say he would be coming back.

She was too smart to believe him. They never came back, never. Not from war against the bloody Andreans. The idiot probably volunteered for the front line, just to keep her ‘safe’. I am clearly not safe now Gillsten and neither is the son you will never meet.

The wind gusted again, spearing the raindrops into her face. Onward she trudged until through the blur she caught a glimpse of the Great Temple imposing itself over a darkened city street. Relieved, the widow smiled. Despite nature’s best effort to stop them they were going to make it.

The attendants would want to ensure her little boy was healthy before the telling. If her luck changed, they might even provide fresh blankets. She hurried up the temple’s stairs and through the outer court. Relief nourished her as she passed between the ancient doors and into the temple proper.

The meeting room of the Temple of the Unseen God stretched out before her, its hard floor and dull pillars cold and uninviting. The hall possessed all the charm of a graveyard. No wonder no one worships the Unseen God anymore. Maybe I should give up and start worshipping goats, or rainclouds, or rainclouds that look like goats. It would make life much easier. But no, Gillsten had always trusted in Elan. This is what he would have wanted.

The temple servants were up and tending her in an instant. Wordlessly, one youth took the boy from her saturated arms and another ushered her to a pew. There were not enough lamps and candles to make the place warm, but enough to blunt the edge from her chill. She closed her eyes and allowed the light to crawl over her skin as she regained her peace. It helped to imagine the light emanated from the noon-day sun and that her forehead was drenched with sweat, not rainwater, but still she trembled.

During the few moments it took the servants to rewrap her son and notify the seer that a devotee was waiting, she sat in stillness. Her mind wandered, as it always did, back to Gillsten.

Strive as she might she could not hate him. She detested wars and anyone who got involved in them, and she hated those who could stop them but did not bother, which was anyone with royal blood in her book. So what if people from another country were attacking someone else from some other country because some king called the other king fat, or whatever the reason really was. It mattered not, not to the people of Estethryl.

Soldiers. They were all idiots and deserving of revulsion as well. Naïve fools they were, thinking they were making a difference. Bollocks. They were pawns in the hands of kings, sacrificed when needed and then quickly forgotten. She could not even bring herself to look at them anymore as they marched past in their bright red patriotic garb. They were all dead men walking, off to leave some poor girl without a husband and some child without a father.

Involuntarily, the widow hugged herself. She knew what it was like to grow up without a father, and now her boy would too.

The doors to the priests’ quarters opened, snapping the widow out of her morose contemplations. In walked the seer on watch.

The widow’s blood froze. It was the High Priestess herself. What was she doing here? Surely, on a night like this, a lesser priest would be on duty.

Saphine was known as the most accurate seer in all Estethryl. Everyone knew the stories. She had earned her reputation early on as a novice when she predicted that a prince of Feyton would die of faint-heartedness. That prince died on the spot clutching at his chest.

The talk on the streets was of whether she had simply seen that it would happen, and was the messenger of doom, or whether she had actually made it happen. Was it a revelation or a command she uttered to the prince?

The widow had always hoped it was just a foretelling. It was not proper for someone to have that much power, to be able to kill people using words alone. The other priests were rumoured to keep their distance from Saphine. Who would stand in the way of someone who can pronounce death?

Dressed in her red and white robes of office, Saphine took her place behind the stone altar. She sniffed her crooked nose, accentuating the deep lines beneath her eyes. The dark red hair that touched her shoulders enhanced her ominous look. The servants were taking longer than normal making sure the boy was healthy so she folded her arms and stood in silence.

For someone about to speak the words of the Unseen God, Saphine appeared rather casual. No furrowed brow. No eyes rolled back into her skull, only a sense of impatience upon her countenance. Did she not realise the word she was about to utter would shape this precious little boy’s life? Certainly they would more than any his pathetic mother would utter.

She is probably bored, thought the widow. She had no doubt stood in that very spot countless times this summer alone. Although the prophets served on roster, there were so many babies being born in the Home City these days. One soaked wench and her son arriving late on a storm tossed night would merely have maintained the repetition of the past weeks and months.

The servants finally delivered her boy, naked, to the altar and the widow’s blood raced. He was a resilient lad, like his old man, had his eyes too. She watched him lie peacefully on the blanket, a contrast to the storm outside and the tempest in her heart.

Every mother was fearful of what would be proclaimed over their babe. Six weeks following their birth, every child in Corozon was supposed to find itself in her son’s position, on the altar awaiting the Unseen God’s pronouncement. It was tradition, one that the faithful still followed, but words were powerful, especially the words of God.

She remembered the words of her own tragic telling as recounted by her mother; ‘struggle and pain.’ The Unseen God had created her for struggle and pain. That was it. It was not a virtuous reason to create, more like a fumbling apology. Those powerful words had tormented her more than any others.

Anxiously waiting for the priestess to begin, the widow had to choke back her tears as she thought about the cruel curse God had put on her. Why curse her and not others? What had set others apart in their infant state that had allowed them the prophetic words of victory and success whilst she was humbled and reviled? Why not curse everyone equally and be fair about it? She bitterly recoiled at the fact that only heaven knew the answer, literally. The one consoling thought the Unseen God had offered was that tears would one day give birth to joy, not just for her household, but for many who were afar. Already past her thirtieth summer she was yet to see that joy materialise. She had long given up hope.

The contradictions of her situation were not lost on her. She decried the words of her own telling yet she had desperately fought to bring her son here to the temple in time for his. It was nonsensical behaviour, but she knew deep in her heart that she had to offer this boy to God on the altar. Gillsten would have wanted it, and for some twisted reason she wanted it too.

Could the Unseen God be so cruel as to curse two successive generations or was there a hint of mercy somewhere within Him? She did not know. He was invisible after all, an unseen, unknowable, all-powerful being.

‘His father is dead?’ The high priestess’ curt words caught her off guard.

‘Yes,’ said the widow, but was unsure if the priestess meant it as a question. She could see things. Maybe Elan had told her.

‘Slaughtered on the battlefield?’ Saphine stared at her, inviting a response.

The widow tried to reply, but the words were stuck. One tear escaped down her cheek. The moisture in her eyes warned of a dam that could break any moment. She had known for more than nine months this moment had been coming and thought she could maintain her composure, but Saphine’s penetrating gaze was unearthing the hurt of a cursed lifetime hidden behind her eyes. She wished the priestess would hurry up so she could dash back home and wallow alone. Eventually she nodded.

The sound of rain and thunder hung in the air. Saphine suddenly had the look of someone who had much to say but was unsure where to start. She pursed her lips as if she cared for the sopping wench shaking before her, but was unable to soothe the pain.

‘Name?’ Her voice echoed through the chamber.

‘Fr … Fr … Fredrick.’

Saphine offered her that look of sympathy again and the widow realised that the priestess knew her words were going to cut. She braced herself. This was it.

‘Fredrick.’ The name hung in the air.

She wanted to whisk her baby away before the priestess could continue but it was too late. The curse was coming.

‘I am giving him as a promise to his father to stand where he no longer stands. Darkness comes to kill the light, but I shall hide My spark within and at the proper time, see it shine forth. Fredrick’s price will be heavy, but pain is for purpose and many depend on My purpose. Blessed be Fredrick, none shall suspect your greatness. My word is truth and I will see it done.’

The widow wept. The dam had burst and there was no plugging it. She tried to hide her disappointment from the priestess by covering her face but knew it was useless. Her body shook like a wind-blown leaf.

Fredrick, her only son, was doomed to the same pain and struggle that she had suffered. How could God punish her with this? Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she berated herself for daring to bring her son to this place. She should have known he would incur God’s unfeeling wrath. God hated her. He had always hated her, and because of her Fredrick was doomed.

‘Do not travail, young lady.’ The widow jumped. The priestess had bent down and caught her unawares. More and more tears trickled down her face and seeped into her cloak. Under Saphine’s cool gaze again she tried mightily to stop shaking, but could not.

As the priestess picked up Fredrick and wrapped him in a clean, warm blanket, she offered the boy to the widow with a smile and her final words of encouragement. ‘God keeps his promises. The storm has ceased, take your soldier and go home.’

Soldier? Her face crumpled again. The widow hated soldiers.

PART ONE

(18 years later)

Chapter 1

Golden rays of sunshine passed unfiltered through the cloudless expanse above the busy streets of Corozon. Sneaking in through a gap in the timber walls, one of those rays zeroed in on the closed eyes of a sleeping soldier. Though the morning neared its zenith, the offending light was all that lit up the still, musty room. The soldier, weary from a night misspent, reefed a blanket up to shield his eyes, but the damage had been done.

The soldier was awake.

Fredrick groaned. The hole in the wall must have been a recent creation. He had gone to great lengths to ensure his little shack was morning proof. And why would he not? Waking up was a terrible way to start the day. Every sane person knew that. He had plugged every nook, filled every gap and boarded every window, so that nothing, nothing at all, could disturb his precious sleep. Some idiot drunken no-hoper must have knocked a plug loose during the night, stumbling along on their way to nowhere.

As he stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling through bloodshot eyes, he could not shake his annoyance. He contemplated another attempt at sleep, but knew better than to try. Living in a rundown hovel on a busy city street guaranteed one thing; once you were woken, you were awake for good.

The noise of the hustle and bustle of city life was louder than one of the violent thunderstorms that so often batter the Home City. From where he lay, he could identify three different hawkers yelling, at least a score of kids screaming and what sounded like a whole cavalry of horses hauling carriages over the cobblestones. Just an average Estethryn working day really.

When asleep, the noise never disturbed him. He could snore through the loudest calamities. But once woken, there was no chance of reclaiming his dreams.

It sounded odd, but his late mother often quipped that her Fredrick could be taken to hell and back whilst sleeping and be none the wiser. Wake him up in hell though and he would be screaming along with the rest of ‘em. Fredrick had conceded long ago that she was probably right.

He felt like he had woken in hell a number of times, this present moment included. He could not imagine it feeling more awful, or sounding more chaotic than the madness outside. After a few cycles of yawning and staring, yawning and staring, whilst fruitlessly searching his mind for a plausible excuse to avoid his afternoon prison duty, he finally rose and got his day started. The sooner it began, the sooner he could get it finished and be back in bed. Snug. Warm. Safe.

He wobbled on his feet, then splashed his short brown crop and washed his hands and face in the bucket of tepid water he kept by his bed. Bending down closer, he lapped up some of the water and swished it around in his mouth. It helped to get rid of that pasty, dry taste. As he spat it back out, the thought occurred to him that he probably should have drunk some of the water before using it to wash. But when you have just woken, common sense has to fight its way through a swirl of grogginess before it can be acknowledged, and that invariably happens a shanty too late.

The crack in his makeshift wall flayed his bed with yellow light. He itched to fix it, quick, but he could ill afford to miss another turn on watch or the captain was likely to dismiss him. The angle of the sunlight suggested it was close to midday. If he skipped breakfast, again, and fought his way through the crowds, he would probably, with a bit of luck, only be a few hairs late.

Cherry would serve him a delightful lecture filled with curses and threats, but that would be the end of it. The captain was full of idle threats. Fredrick thought him a miserable leader. Not one of the men respected him. He was a highborn. They were all the same.

His uniform lay where he had left it the night before, wrinkled and unwashed. He scrambled into the breeches and crimson coat then swung open his creaky bedroom door. Up three steps and left down a short hallway brought him to the kitchens where Sully, the widowed proprietor of the Ramshackle Inn, was bent over a bucket of dishes.

The heavyset lady rolled her weathered eyes at the sight of her lodger’s weary figure. ‘Look who’s surfaced.’

Fredrick ignored the jibe. ‘Have you seen my brown shirt?’

Sully had it in her hands before he had finished the question. ‘You mean this tattered old thing? It’s not dry yet, but I’m sure there’s no convincing you not to wear it.’

Fredrick caught it and slipped it over his uniform, disregarding its dampness. ‘People see a soldier’s uniform and they expect things from them.’ The last thing he needed today was to be hassled by every citizen with a problem that needed fixing. ‘Besides, you’ve heard the rumours floating around of skirmishes in the borderlands. Everyone wants the latest gossip, as if I’m privy to news that they aren’t.’

Sully stood up straight and rested her ageing back. Her straw-coloured hair fell down her back, unbrushed as always. ‘You can’t blame them. They say this Jerikan army stretches back as far as the eye can see. We’re all a bit jumpy.’

Fredrick stifled a moan. Rumours these days. There was not a fighting force in the world that could be half that large. ‘I wouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

‘I just hate to see you so ashamed to display that uniform. Your mother was so proud to see you wear it.’

‘That’s not how I remember it,’ he said as he squeezed the moisture from his sleeves.

His face took a serious set. Pondering the life of his late mother always did that. Ever since he could remember, she had struggled with ill health, the result of a ‘curse’ from the Unseen God in her opinion. Right to the day she died, he was never able to say no to her, conceding most of his pay for her ‘medical expenses,’ which usually consisted of rum, rum and more rum. He would never forget that it was Sully who had eagerly supplied that rum. Between the alcohol and rent, the greedy landlord had helped herself to almost his entire wage for the last three years.

He breathed a heavy sigh. It had been three years since he had joined the Guard. Time flies.

‘I know you miss her. We all do,’ Sully postured, her eyes soaked with sympathy.

Fredrick did not buy it. He bit down on the sharp retort burning the end of his tongue. Instead of aggravating an old sore, he took a deep breath. The truth was he did not miss his mother either. He had forgone much in tending to her suffocating needs. He could still see her in his mind’s eye, sickeningly thin, surviving on nothing but rum and water, in a constant state of inebriation. Every single night he had received a drawled lecture on the cruelties of God and the curse He puts on random, innocent victims, ‘just ‘cause He can.’

Yet it was his cynical mother, oddly enough, who had told him that God wanted him to be a soldier, like his father had been. He still did not understand it. Why would she care what God wanted for his life if she hated the deity so much? But then she was a tangle of contradictions.

Sully stepped closer. ‘I can still see a hint of your red uniform underneath your collar.’ The innkeeper fussed with his shirt until she was happy with it. ‘There you go.’

Fredrick nodded his thanks.

‘If soldiering makes you so uncomfortable, why don’t you quit? By the twelve, I don’t know why you enlisted in the first place. There’s plenty of work around for a lad smart as you.’

Fredrick ignored her as he fastened his belt and checked his sword was secure in its scabbard. ‘Maybe I’ll look for it another day, but for now I’ve got to run.’

Happy that his guard uniform was sufficiently concealed, he trotted out through the inn’s back door, ignoring the rumbling of his empty stomach. He was a soldier. Soldiers have to do their duty.

He walked hastily down a series of Corozon’s cobblestoned thoroughfares, bouncing off workers, nudging past shoppers and squeezing in between dozens of overworked horses. The smell of sweat and angst hung thick in the air today. It was a busy day. A lot of visitors were in town. More people was not what the city needed. The sprawling jewel of the realm was already overcrowded.

He took the most direct route to the dungeons, the location of his watch. They were adjacent to the harbour, across from the royal palace. It took him past the Great Temple gates, through various markets and along streets filled with dozens of shops, taverns and multistorey dwellings that rose high on either side.

On any ordinary day, trying to get anywhere fast in the Home City, so called because it was home to the Great Temple of the Unseen God, was an exercise in futility. It would be easier to bottle lightning. Anyone who tried to move faster than the crowd was destined to spend their time bumping and jostling against the masses around them. It was as if everybody in the entire city knew you were in a rush and they all did their little bit to slow you down.

That was the problem when ancient cities became modern ones. People ran out of space. The streets were too narrow, the buildings too small. It did not help that it had been founded on the shore line, squeezed flush against the ocean by mountains and rivers.

The late spring sun was high overhead and the heat it spat down radiated off the hard street floors. He weaved as fast as the crowd would allow him, but before long, beads of perspiration cascaded through his shirts. A less stubborn individual might take his brown shirt off, so as to gain a reprieve from the heat, but Fredrick did not consider it. The sight of his guard uniform might clear him space, but he was loath to bear its responsibility until absolutely necessary. So he fought on.

Seeing the temple always reminded him that he should be more diligent in reading his Canon. Mother had always insisted that he dare not waste his time learning about a cruel, heartless, uncaring God, and he had acquiesced, for peace’s sake. But now she was gone, he could pick up the holy writings at leisure, if he ever remembered to.

He had meant to bring it with him today, but forgot, again. It could have helped stave off the boredom. Criminals were not synonymous with cheerful conversation. They never had a good word to say about anybody, including him, even the ones who swore they were innocent. He blamed his extended periods of time in their company for compounding his darkened moods - though it had done wonders for his vocabulary.

Past several more curving street corners he pressed on, zigzagging his way through an assortment of obstacles. This was the favourite part of his commute. The majestic towers of the palace came into plain view. He gawped at their splendour.

The palace had been home to the sons and daughters of Esten Arvid Mancott for over seven hundred years. For the moment, it was home to High King Eldilin and his sister. Today, brilliant banners bearing the white flame of Estethryl flapped peacefully from several peaks. Those banners were a constant reminder to the people of Estethryl of their proud history and rich blessings. Our borders have not been breached nor our people enslaved since its foundations were laid, was the common boast around town. The other six nations of the realm could not brag likewise, and the Estethryns let them know it too.

Fredrick licked his dry lips. He was so caught up in his daily gawking at the palace that he had not realised he was now stationary. Looking about himself, he noticed that he was not the only one whose progress had been stalled. Hundreds of people elbowed and jostled on the street in front of him. Something ahead stanched the traffic’s flow.

Annoyed, Fredrick jumped up to get a glimpse of what had caused the hold up, but though he was taller than average, too many heads and shoulders blocked his view. Finally, amongst all the expressions of anger and disgust from his fellow Corozonians, he caught the words ‘overturned carriage.’

‘Elan save us,’ he cursed. Depending on who or what was in the carriage it could take an age for the road ahead to clear. It was then that the palace bell rang loudly over the city. It was midday. His shift at the prison had begun.

He cursed again. This time a growl escaped his throat and he threw his head back in resignation. He ran his hand across his brow and used his sleeve to clear the sweat from his face, aware that he looked a picture of frustration. It really was hot today.

Cherry would not be happy, and neither would the man whose duty he was to relieve. That is what galled him the most about being late; letting your fellow soldier down was a terrible sin. He would have to offer restitution, maybe even cover for the man on another shift.

Several of those around him vented their frustrations too. ‘I bet it’s one of those stupid rich hopefuls here for the Selection. They always overload their carriages,’ said a merchant, two men over. His sentiments received grunts of agreement.

Fredrick had forgotten about the Selection. That explained all the extra traffic. He looked behind him. Travellers and their goods were piling up across the street, the log jam becoming more disastrous by the moment. Just when he thought it would have been better to stay in bed, he noticed an opening between two shop walls over to his left. From a distance, he guessed at its width. It might be wide enough for him to scramble through, maybe. From where he was, he could see that the laneway was blocked off by a feeble fence, but that could be easily dislodged. If he followed it down past the shops, it would lead to a back alley and he might be able to skirt the roadblock entirely.

He hesitated. It was easy to get lost traversing the Home City’s infamous back alleys. Corozon was vast yet intricate, and years of experience had taught him that the alleys never led where you thought they would. But hemmed in by the whining crowd as he was, and with the heat raising his ire, he suddenly felt a renewed desperation to get to his shift. It was either that or have his shoes melt on the cobblestones.

He battled his way over to the rickety fence, gently jostling out of his way those that would not budge. To those who scowled, he apologised sincerely. It grained him to have others cursing him, it was not in his nature to be rude or abrasive, but there was nothing for it. It had to be done.

Pausing before the fence, he peered into the dark narrow passageway. He was convinced he would end up getting himself lost, but as he saw it, the path was clear and there was no other option. Besides, he had not irritated all those people behind him for nothing.

One heavy boot applied direct to its centre easily accounted for the flimsy fence. Twenty-nine side steps later and there he was, standing alone in your typical Corozonian side alley. He would have to remember to return and fix that fence after his shift, assuming he ever made it back.

He looked around at the unfamiliar space. As expected, it was a chaotic mess of steps, barrels, washing lines and other discarded stuffs. People used these alleys as garbage dumps mostly. Only the poor and the homeless frequented their confines. The grassless ground was dry and dusty, and something nearby was an affront to his sense of smell - probably whatever the black and white cat was munching on in the corner. There were no people in his way however, and that was the small victory he was hoping for.

He readjusted his collar and headed in the direction he thought should lead him past the overturned carriage. Immediately, he appreciated the cooler air of the shadowed alleyways. Every dozen or so steps a side alley would disappear into the gloom. He took note of each of them, trying to remember something peculiar about each one. If he needed to backtrack he could ill afford to turn down the wrong lane and lose his bearings altogether.

On reaching a larger four-way intersection he looked to his right and thought it might be time to head down the snaking path and re-join the main street. But seeing that these alleys were more or less deserted, and their formation relatively simple, he opted to wait until the next right turn before heading back.

He lifted his foot to continue.

A scream echoed down the alley to his left.

His heart skipped. That was no ordinary scream.

He peered in the direction from which it came. A cold gust of wind blustered into his face. A line of clothes that had been strung up between houses, lifted for a brief moment and he saw what looked like a group of men standing over a woman. Their backs were to him, but he saw the weapons they wielded; long shiny daggers. Those were not children’s toys.

Fredrick froze.

‘Elan, save me.’ He had spent the better part of his youth avoiding trouble. Though he was tall, he was not big. His childhood friends had taunted that he would always win his fights by at least twenty paces, and that was the truth of it. When clever words failed or a big mean friend was nowhere in sight, his skinny little legs were all he could rely on. Why bother to suffer all the bruises and cuts of a fistfight when you could run and live to run another day.

The drying line of clothes fell back down. Fredrick dropped his head and listened. The scream did not repeat. Instead, a pregnant silence hugged the walls. Maybe the girl was not in trouble at all. Maybe he had imagined it.

Yes, that was it, just a big misunderstanding. Those men were probably her family, they were playing a game. He should probably leave them to it.

He turned and lifted his foot again, but the shrill call for help returned. This time it was desperate, ragged. The panicked voice echoed off the walls and drilled deep into his ears.

Blood surging, pulse racing, Fredrick looked down the alley again, but there were too many obstructions. He could not see what was going on.

‘Help, somebody, ple …’ Someone muffled the girl’s cries, but he could still hear her, struggling, kicking.

Fredrick felt sick. His empty stomach turned over on itself. As the commotion rattled through his bones he looked down again, as if to inspect himself, measure himself. This was precisely why he wore his brown shirt over the top of his uniform. He did not want to get involved in stuff like this.

People died in situations like this.

Just keep moving, Fredrick, he told himself. She is not your concern. He wanted to step away and run back from where he had come, but something within prevented him. His legs were desperate to run, but something deep in his gut told him that if he did not help this poor girl, he would regret it.

She needed him. He was a soldier. This was his job.

Looking down at his reluctant feet, he inhaled deeply and prepared himself for death, or worse. With a shaking hand he clutched at his sword and drew it from its scabbard. It was an ordinary blade, never before swung in anger. He stared at its edge, trying to summon courage that would release the shackles from his ankles.

The woman shrieked loudly again, her pitch convulsive. This time the terror in her voice snatched at his heart.

A few more heartbeats of indecision … ‘Bugger it.’ She needed help.

He glided down the congested alleyway like he was enacting a dream. The woman’s screams were fading, but he could still feel their distress. They vibrated through his chest. They fuelled his fight.

He ran faster, flicking aside lines of dampened linens that blocked his path. They tugged at his shoulders, tangled his sword, but he fought through, hurried, resolute.

As he neared the screams, it occurred to him that he had no plan, no help and he could not remember the last time he had practised his sword work. All of those were items he would have rectified if given the chance, but it was too late now. It was too late.

He burst through the final line of washing and a sheet wrapped around his face. It blinded him at precisely the wrong moment. Then, like a hammer into an anvil he crashed headlong into the ugliest brute in all the realm. The collision busted the wind from his stomach as both he and his foe collapsed onto the ground, Fredrick sprawled atop the thug’s trunk.

The world wobbled. His vision swam. He knew his head bled, but he could not feel anything else. His bones were numb.

Panic stricken and struggling for air, he searched frantically for his sword. Where had he dropped it? Finally sense returned and he felt the hilt jabbing into his rib cage.

He rolled sideways, onto his back, and looked up at the scene around him. On either side of the alley, two big bearded men each held a girl by the arm, so as to prevent their escape.

Two girls? thought Fredrick. All four stared at him, lying on his back in the dust, wide-eyed and confused. He did not know who had the most dumbfounded look on their face, him or them.

Fredrick followed the gaze of the nearest thug. His sword, there it was, embedded in the torso of a third man - a round, ugly man. His chest did not move. His eyes did not blink. Warm blood circled the wound.

A wave of shock and horror swept across Fredrick’s face. ‘He’s dead.’

One of the brutes tossed his female captive to the ground and started for him. The woman hit the deck hard and banged her head in the dust.

Startled, Fredrick’s body moved without his head’s permission. He rolled across and hove his sword from the dead man’s body, bringing it up just in time to repel the brute’s attack. He slashed back at the fiend, ripping the side of his attacker’s left arm, taking a chunk of flesh with it. The man wheeled back and roared in pain.

Fredrick stood up and staggered back, putting some distance between him and the enemies. The other man was yet to move. He held his prisoner tight, snarling over her shoulder.

Holding the sword threateningly in front of him, Fredrick kept everybody at bay and tried to take stock of the situation. What were they doing out here in a dingy back alley? The men looked like common lowlifes, but the women were not commoners at all. Even with plain cloaks and hoods pulled over their heads their affluence was obvious.

Unfortunately, neither captive looked like much chop in a swordfight. So it was two versus one - one unpractised soldier against two common street thugs. Luckily, his foes did not appear sure of themselves either. The two of them had been startled and their partner in crime was dead. They looked to each other, waiting for someone to make a move. Fredrick prayed their next move would be to up and run. If he had his time over again, he would have removed his brown shirt before charging through those linens. The crimson tones of the guard uniform may have persuaded them to choose flight over fight. But it was too late now.

As they dilly dallied, he thought of how he could turn this situation to his advantage, but already fatigue was clouding his thoughts. He had forgone breakfast, the sun had sapped his strength and the reckless collision his oxygen. Just keeping his sword upright was an effort.

He inched back, shifting his focus from one thug to another, waiting for one of them to move. More thoughts fought for his consideration. Why had he never taken his sword work seriously? Those he sparred against often said he possessed real potential. His balance was fair, his reach above average, why had he not bothered to practise those blasted forms? He promised himself that he would rectify that if he survived the next few moments.

One more step back and he was flush against the alley wall. With his retreat blocked, he stood proud and donned a menacing look. It belied the way he felt, but his best play was to bluff them, as if he were eager for the fight to continue. It was the one thought racing through his mind that made any sense.

‘Leave. Or you’re next,’ he said, pointing a shaking finger down at their dead partner. As he spoke, he stared at the lone man present who had not yet felt the sting of his blade.

The thug nodded slowly and lifted his hands from the woman in front of him. Fredrick was about to applaud his decision, but before he could, the woman had been flung into him. He pushed her away just as her captor crash-tackled him to the ground.

Together they wrestled, veins bulging along their arms. Punching, kicking, scratching. With one hand each they clutched Fredrick’s bloodied sword and with the other they shoved and clawed. For a moment Fredrick was on top, and the next, the roles were reversed.

The criminal was stronger, bigger. He pinned Fredrick underneath him and beat at his chest with rock hard knuckles. The thug tried to pry the hilt from Fredrick’s grip, but Fredrick kicked back, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain that blistered up and down his body.

One more thumping pound to the stomach from an angry fist, and the air rushed from Fredrick’s lungs once again. Breathless, he thrashed furiously, trying to push the stronger man off him, but his muscles were weakening. The man sensed his advantage and yanked harder at the sword. Doggedly, Fredrick held on. If he let go, that would be the end.

The brute shifted his knee into Fredrick’s chest and wrapped his fingers tight around Fredrick’s throat. ‘You’re mine now, you little worm. Let go of the sword,’ he said, his greasy tongue poking from the side of his mouth as spoke.

Try as he might, Fredrick could not dislodge the larger man. Defeat was coming.

The two women waited nearby, he could see the hem of their dresses on the edge of his vision. Pretty dresses. Expensive dresses. If the other thug still guarded them, he could not tell.

Sorry, I have failed you. He whispered to the girls in his mind, his oxygen almost depleted.

Whoever you are. Run. Run.

The man above him chuckled as Fredrick floundered. The thug hit him one more time, just for good measure. Fredrick gagged.

The man’s rotted teeth were the last thing he noted as his world faded to black... and he let go of his sword.

Chapter 2

‘Wade ugh’

Fredrick’s head swam. Thoughts swirled like water in a funnel, unable to be caught, unable to be processed. His ears rang, a high pitched sound that cut against his drums.

Somewhere out there, there was a voice. Someone was speaking to him, but he could not make out the words. The buzzing was too loud.

The voice was distant, angelic. ‘Wake up.’

He opened his eyes. The world blurred, edges were indistinct. He blinked repeatedly, but the twirl of colours would not coalesce.

‘Are you alright?’ It was a woman’s voice, he could smell her perfume. It was a bunch of roses dipped in sunshine.

He concentrated hard. Slowly the black blob in front of him morphed into hair and the light brown organised itself into a face. He recognised that face. It was one of the women he had endeavoured to rescue. She leant over him and peered into his eyes. Behind her, alley walls rose high into oblivion.

Fredrick beamed. Despite splashes of concern contorting her facial features this way and that, Fredrick knew that this was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on.

‘Are you alright?’ she said again, a thread of raven hair lining her cheek.

His breath caught in his chest.

‘Can you hear me? I said, are you alright?’

Fredrick frowned. Was he alright? He was unsure. His face numb, he tried to lift his head, but on cue his pain receptors woke. Agony leapt to life throughout his battered body. Muscles and bones that had been beaten cried out in torment, cuts and scrapes stung his knuckles. It felt as if his chest had been stomped on by a herd of wild oxen.

The girl stared at him with compassionate eyes, urging him to answer. Though his head throbbed, his throat burned and his chest ached, he did what any self-respecting young man would do when confronted by a beautiful woman in such a fashion; he lied.

‘I’m fine,’ he whispered.

‘You don’t look fine. What’s your name and rank?’ She must have seen his uniform. ‘Do you know where you are?’

Her dark, unblinking eyes would not let go of his. They gripped his gaze and held it steady. Her genuine worry for him twisted her features, warming his