Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer

By A.C. Hutchinson

A DARK FANTASY ADVENTURE BEGINS . . .

When Cassandra Delamare, a young woman capable of giving birth to a wizard, is taken during the night by those working for an evil tyrant, a rescue attempt begins. But as Cassandra, the so-called wizard bearer, is taken further from home, a deeper plot unfolds, connecting people from across the land of Elt. From magical wizards to a long-forgotten witch, warring kings to a common whore, a despairing queen to a lowly servant girl, the ripples of the wizard bearer's taking are felt far and wide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.C. Hutchinson
• Release date: Feb 23, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370133338

A.C. Hutchinson

A.C. Hutchinson is a British novelist and short story author of horror, fantasy and supernatural thrillers. In the past he has worked as a freelance music journalist and has also written for the local press. Since the late nineties his services have been employed by the publishing industry in such sectors as sport and entertainment. He is also a keen rock music fan and has played guitar in various local bands.Born in Kingston-upon-Hull in the county of East Yorkshire, he moved to North Lincolnshire in 2011 to be with his then future wife, Lindsay. He has four children and two stepchildren.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Cassandra Delamare awoke with a start. Lying still she clutched her blankets tightly to her chest, as if she were hugging a doll, and listened. Her skin broke out in goose pimples and her stomach stirred with a sickness. There was someone in her bedchamber, she knew. The window is open too, she thought. She could feel an icy blast of winter air caressing the back of her neck. Pretend you're asleep, she told herself. Catch the intruder off guard.

She listened carefully. There was shouting and the clashing of swords in the courtyard below her window. What is happening? Fear gripped her, but she refused to panic. The sound of shuffling feet made her still her breathing. Her eyes searched the bedchamber, which was lit only by the cold light of the moon. But the intruder was behind her, she realised.

She reached into the gloom, patting the bedside table, feeling for the candle she knew was there. But before she could touch it, a hand clasped across her mouth. The voice of a man, his accent blunt, spoke into her left ear: Make a sound and I'll snap your neck.

The man pulled her off the bed backwards. Her bottom hit the stone floor, sending a painful shock up her spine. Despite the man's earlier warning, she tried to scream, but his hand was clasped so tightly across her mouth all she achieved was a muffled cry. With one arm around her waist, the man lifted her like a child and walked towards the window. Cassandra felt very much like a little girl at that moment, despite being sixteen and a woman grown. She kicked the air, feeling powerless to do anything more.

She quelled her fear then and dared to bite down on the man's fingers. He let go of her mouth, but only briefly. When he returned his hand he gripped her tighter, squeezing her cheeks. Why has no one come to help me? she thought.

As the man lifted her onto the window ledge she caught her first glimpse of him. He was far from good-looking, with a hook nose and dark, dirty, shoulder-length hair. When he told her to stop fighting against him she noticed his blackened teeth and a missing tooth along his top jaw.

Bye-bye, missy, the man said, before pushing her hard in the chest.

She grabbed at the stone wall around the window, her fingernails scraping against it like a blade on a whetstone. Then she was falling. The white nightdress she wore ballooned. She expected to hit the cobbled yard below, a place she had walked so many times during less sinister daylight hours. Perhaps it’ll shatter my skull, she had time to think. But instead, she landed on something soft. It still forced the air from her lungs, though. She lay there for a moment wondering what had happened.

The dry smell of summer – a distant memory in this hard winter – filled her nostrils. She realised she had fallen onto a pile of hay.

She looked up into the night sky where stars twinkled unconcerned for her. Then the shape of the man from her bedchamber filled her vision as he jumped from the window above. He landed beside her. She attempted to scramble to her feet, but the man was upon her, grabbing her wrists and holding them to the hay while sitting on her midriff.

"Move. Move! the man shouted to someone other than her. There was a jolt and then they were moving. She was lying in a horse-drawn wain, she realised. Come on, come on," the man shouted, this time looking to the place they were leaving behind.

Other men jumped onto the wain. I'm being taken by Volk's men. They'll take me to Wyke and I'll never see Kingstown again.

She glimpsed guards running after her, but the wain was moving too fast. It wasn't long before the guards were eaten up by the darkness.

We'll never make it through the gatehouse, she reassured herself. Guards will stop us and I'll be rescued.

But no one challenged them. The arched gateway obstructed her view of the night sky and then they were in the streets of Kingstown heading for the city wall. The main gate will be shut, though. But she was disappointed again. The wain sailed under the archway on its rickety wheels and then they were out of the city. As clouds misted the moon, the darkness was real, the type of darkness she had only heard about in stories, the type of darkness nightmares were made of.

CHAPTER 1

Stetland Rouger had been dreaming when the rider from Kingstown found him. Twisted nightmares full of pain and humiliation had haunted his nights since two months past. The subject of the dreams was not him, of that he was sure, although he had borne the physical pain of each and every 'mare since the night they'd begun. Of late they'd become ever more vivid.

The young guard who had woken him, dressed in the green of Kingstown, was insistent they made for the city straight away. It's of the utmost importance, the guard had said. The king has requested your presence.

They set off on horseback as the sky to the east suggested dawn with an array of pinks and oranges. A cold wind blew too. Stetland knew from the sight of the clouds that brooded around the distant Mount Airy that snow might fall by the time this day was through.

It was an hour's ride north to Kingstown. By the time they saw the city the sky was full of colour and birds delivered their pitch-perfect morning chorus from nearby trees.

Stetland pulled up his horse to take in the view. Even after all the years that had passed and the countless times he'd walked under the portcullis, he still marvelled at the size of the city. Its high walls stretched from left to right as far as the eye could see. Beyond it, tops of buildings competed for space. From the jumble of rooftops rose the skyline's centrepiece: the castle. Its four turrets reached into the early morning sky as if they were making a grab for the wispy clouds above. To the right of the turrets rose the tower. It reminded Stetland of a lighthouse he'd once seen by the sea. It was taller than any other building in the city and had a pointy roof, like a hat. Set in its walls were two square windows. He'd been inside the tower countless times and knew the windows followed the spiral staircase within. Beyond the skyline of the city stood the flag-topped masts of galleys anchored in the harbour.

Why have you stopped? the Kingstown guard said from atop his horse.

Just taking in the view, Stetland said. It's been a while. Almost a year!

The guard nodded. His horse was restless. Shall we go? he said. Stetland sensed the guard was restless too.

Before Stetland could reply a voice spoke within his head, but he could not understand what it was saying. He put his fingers to his temples and closed his eyes tightly – not to listen, but because it was painful. The voice was like fingernails clawing at his brain.

Stetland? Are you all right? said the Kingstown guard.

As quickly as it had arrived, the voice left his head. He knew it would return, though, perhaps later, in his dreams.

Yes, Stetland said. I'm fine. Let's go.

Stetland kicked his heels into his horse.

They rode through the arched gateway and into the city streets. The place was not like he remembered it. Weeds grew in abundance from between cobbles. Buildings were in disrepair. A painfully thin boy wearing tattered clothes sat cross-legged on the pavement with a hat in his lap. A single piece of silver glinted within it. Stetland pulled his horse to a halt.

Stetland? the guard said, impatiently. We do not have time for this.

Stetland ignored the guard and walked his horse to the boy.

When was the last time you ate, young man? Stetland said down to the boy.

Two days past, mister, the boy said in reply. His face was grubby, his once-blonde hair dirty, long and matted.

And what did you eat?

The boy looked from left to right as if he didn't want anyone to hear. I found bones, mister. People throw em out sometimes. But don't tell, I'm not supposed to go through folk's rubbish, mister. I'd be thrown in the cells under the tower for it, and there's no food there, either. Just bad men wanting to do bad things to you.

Stetland reached into his tunic and found two coins. He threw them into the boy's upended hat.

The boy looked at the silver in awe, his face beaming.

Thanks, mister. He got to his feet, closed his hat around the coins, and ran down a nearby alleyway.

Can we go now? the guard said.

Stetland got his horse moving and followed the guard through the narrow streets, which steadily rose towards the castle. People going about their daily business stopped and stared. Most knew who he was, he suspected.

When they arrived at the castle they passed through the gate and into a courtyard. Stetland dismounted. A stable boy took his horse. Sir John Bretel, the head of the king's guard and a formidable knight, skipped down the castle's steps. Stetland shook his outstretched hand.

Thanks for coming at such short notice, Sir John said. He was a thin man, but broad in the shoulders. A thick moustache was spread over his top lip.

The young guard was lucky to find me. Stetland liked to be inconspicuous. So, tell me, Sir John, what trouble does King Bahlinger find himself in?

The head of the king's guard rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. None of his own doing, you'll be surprised to learn. Not this time.

"That does surprise me."

They walked through the castle gardens, barren in their winter suspension, and climbed the steps into the castle proper. They found King Bahlinger in the Great Hall, seated on his throne in front of a large window that stretched from floor to ceiling. Next to him, the queen's smaller throne sat empty.

The Dark Rider himself, King Bahlinger said, his voice echoing around the vast room. Come, come, he beckoned.

I'll leave you both to talk, Sir John said, bowing before leaving the room.

Stetland walked towards the king. A fire roared in a hearth to his left.

I was starting to think that you wouldn't come, the king said. His voice was as loud as his gut was large.

Stetland held out his hand; the king shook it with vigour. Bahlinger's fat fingers were decorated with rings, each carrying large jewels of varying colours.

It's been a while, Your Majesty, Stetland said.

A year, maybe longer.

Stetland had grown up with the king, like a brother. He wasn't part of the lineage, though. He had been an orphan child, found at the castle gates one morning when he was just a few days old. It was presumed he was the son of a whore. Bahlinger's father, King Leofric, had taken him in. Stetland had lived in the castle as Bahlinger's equal, until Leofric had died and Bahlinger took the throne. Then came that day nineteen years ago . . .

What can I do for you, Sire?

I have some disturbing news, Stetland. There was trouble last night. Volk's men broke into the castle.

Stetland adjusted his stance, suddenly uneasy. Never had an enemy set foot in the castle, invited or otherwise.

Were there casualties? Stetland asked.

A few, yes. But most disturbingly, and I can hardly bring myself to say it . . . Bahlinger looked to the floor. His broad face appeared pallid, stressed. Stetland hadn't noticed when he entered the room, but the king looked old. His beard, long and wiry, had in the time he'd been away turned from sooty black to the colour of dirty snow. The wizard bearer has been taken, Stetland, from her bedchamber, while she slept.

Stetland found himself lost for words. How could something so precious be stolen with such ease?

How? Stetland said, finally. How could this happen?

King Bahlinger sighed. The gatekeepers were nowhere to be seen. I expect that they were paid handsomely before they fled. They're probably hiding in some brothel in The Warrens as we speak. The Warrens was a place of sin and debauchery, a small town to the north full of brothels and taverns and a seemingly endless line of men with coin in their pockets and mischief in their eyes. The guards on the city wall and the castle wall were not so fortunate. They were found with their throats slit. As for the wizard bearer, she was taken through her bedchamber window. My guards tell me they left in a horse-drawn wain. The king scoffed. How could we not stop a horse pulling a sodding wain?

What time did this happen?

Just before dawn.

Stetland put a hand to his chin and rubbed his stubble. They must've had help from inside the castle.

Do you not think I know this? the king snapped. I'll interview the staff later. If we've got a rat, I'll find it.

So what have you done? Have you sent men after her?

I sent two riders to track her. I sent them with birds too, but I've heard nothing since. Two? Only two? Don't look at me like that, Stetland. Look . . . the king looked over Stetland's shoulder and then beckoned him closer. Stetland leaned in. I'm a little short on soldiers. I'm fighting a war on too many fronts. That's why I sent for you. They'll take her to High Hunsley first, to rest. I don't doubt that. Lord Merek is Volk's puppet, I hear. If I send an army Merek won't let my men into the city. You, however, will be welcomed with open arms.

Not if Volk has got to him.

Lord Merek was otherwise known as King Merek, following High Hunsley's declaration of independence some nineteen years past. King Bahlinger, who ruled the entire kingdom of Elt, did not recognise the declaration.

Cassandra, the wizard bearer, is she of age?

The king nodded, sombrely. She is due to be married on the morrow, after which the courtship will take place. She's sixteen, younger than most bearers that came before her, but her coming of age is welcome, nonetheless.

Stetland rubbed his chin.

A wizard bearer of age in the hands of Volk doesn't bear thinking about.

"I know. But it's all I have been thinking about."

The wain will slow them down. If I set off now I can catch them by nightfall. Maybe even before they reach High Hunsley. The king nodded. The war is growing dangerous, Bahlinger. More and more are switching allegiance to Volk. His army is vast and growing. Those who don't pledge their allegiance are crushed. There’s cleansing too. And women are being taken as slaves.

The king looked flustered. A discussion for another time, mayhap. Bahlinger waved his hands in the air as if to dismiss talk of Volk. Sir John Bretel has requested he accompany you.

I'll take two soldiers too. Two of your best.

I'll have Sir John choose them. You'll be rewarded for this, Stetland.

It's not riches I seek. The girl is more important than anything you could offer me.

Whatever you wish. Just bring her back safe and well. If Volk were to produce children with her . . .

I know.

Stetland made to leave, but the king spoke again. I have a contingency plan. The wizard bearer's great-uncle Fabian, and her uncle Eaglen, are making their way from their homes in the north and south respectively. They mean to meet on the Great Road east of High Hunsley on the morrow. If something goes wrong – God help us all – and you don't manage to rescue the wizard bearer, then, presuming Volk's men have stayed the night at Lord Merek's pleasure, when they leave on the morrow, the wizards will be waiting for them. Stetland had fought many battles with Fabian at his side. He was pleased to learn of Fabian's involvement. Good luck, my friend.

I’ll send word when we reach High Hunsley.

Stetland said his goodbyes and then made for the stables where he found his horse eating fresh hay. A stable boy was brushing its black coat.

This is a good horse, said the boy. He was about twelve years old, but tall for his age. I want to be a soldier one day and go on adventures.

There's plenty of time for that, Stetland said, patting the solid pack of muscle on the horse's shoulder. The animal whinnied. Enjoy being a boy while you still can.

But the realm needs guards and soldiers.

Seems it's common knowledge. What makes you say that?

There are hardly any guards on the walls these days. Their numbers have been dwindling steadily over the past few months. Stetland stretched his neck to see the city wall over the jumble of rooftops. He could make out one solitary guard slowly making his way along the top of it on sentry duty. The boy followed Stetland's line of sight. "A few weeks ago there were always two guards, walking side by side, not one. The boy continued to pull the brush across the horse's coat as he talked. And a few months ago, they'd have passed other guards walking in the opposite direction. Now that one guard passes no one."

What about elsewhere?

The boy shrugged. Hard to tell, but sometimes there aren't any guards on the gates at all. But I'm just a boy, what do I know.

Stetland placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. It's nothing for you to worry about, but keep this to yourself. People can get frightened easily and we don't want that.

The boy stopped brushing the horse. Not many come back, either.

Come back?

Aye. They go out to war, but not many return. In fact, less and less go out in the first place. I've got an older brother who's seventeen. Sir John Bretel came calling two weeks ago, signed him up.

At seventeen?

Aye.

You can't be a soldier until you're eighteen. That's always been the way in Kingstown.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. That's what happened.

Before Stetland could question the boy further, Sir John appeared in the doorway to the stable dressed smartly in his green king's guard tunic. Behind him were two young soldiers, both clutching wooden shields.

Stetland, Sir John said. I would like you to meet Gabel Giles and Marcus Delorous. They'll be accompanying us.

Stetland stepped closer to Sir John. Keeping his voice low, he said: I told King Bahlinger to ask you to pick two of your best men. These two are but boys.

The two young men looked barely old enough to shave.

They're eighteen, Stetland. Albeit only just.

Stetland stared at Sir John, waiting for an explanation.

Sir John sighed. Look, they need the experience. And I'm low on good men too. How about you give them a chance?

It was Stetland's turn to sigh. All right, but I'll have to keep a close eye on them. We can't afford to mess this one up.

I'll keep my eye on them too.

Behind the two young soldiers, someone was making their way across the courtyard, waving both hands in the air.

Is that Gladden? Stetland said, squinting.

Sir John sighed. I had no intentions of taking the wizard with us.

A wizard could come in handy.

Gladden arrived, panting. He looked old for his age, as all wizards did. His shoulder-length hair, previously fair, was streaked with silver and the whiskers about his face were peppered with grey. His twin sister, the wizard bearer they were to rescue, would look younger, Stetland knew. The advantage of being a bearer yet to conceive. Stetland doubted that Gladden would become as powerful as Fabian; the line of wizards was weakening with every generation.

We should get moving, Stetland said. We're wasting precious time.

The stable boy saddled the horses and as the sun crept to its early morning perch in the vivid blue sky, they rode through the city gate and into the lands beyond.

CHAPTER 2

Is this all you've done? said the hulk of a man, hands on hips. You've been out here all morning. He towered over the boy, blocking the winter sunshine.

Christian Santiago had been turning soil all morning. His muscles complained with a dull ache and his hands were raw with burst blisters, the skin underneath red and tender.

The boy looked up at the man and said: It's hard work, sir. And I'm only eleven. There was a frost last night, the earth is hard, and the chain is not long enough for me to reach fresh earth. Christian lifted his left foot and jangled the heavy chain, which was attached to a clasp around his ankle. The man's deep-set eyes followed the snake of metal to its hoop set into a square of stone just a few paces away. Besides, why am I doing this, sir? It's winter. There are no crops to sow.

The man was called Tarquin Gains. He towered over the boy and said: I'll give you hard. He held his hand high, suggesting to Christian that he was about to receive a backhand from his keeper. Christian flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the sting of pain to erupt on his chilblained cheek. But when nothing happened the boy slowly unfurled his face and opened his eyes. Tarquin was looking in the opposite direction, to the dirt track that passed the farmhouse where they lived, as a horse – a shabby looking, unkempt mule – pulling a wain, rumbled by. In the wagoner's seat sat a man with a makeshift metal helm. Sitting in the wain were four men, each wearing tattered, drab-coloured clothes. Three of them also wore helms, each mismatched in design and shape to the other. Lying between them in what looked like a white nightdress was a young woman with dark flowing hair.

Volk's men . . . Christian said with a mixture of awe and dread.

Tarquin reeled back around. As he turned, the stubble-covered fat on his neck rippled like the waves on a stormy sea. Christian thought the whiskers on Tarquin's chin and cheeks looked as sharp as needles.

We're all Volk's sympathizers here, boy, Tarquin yelled. He always shouted, never talked. The king don't care about us no more. Now get back to work before I stick that shovel up your scrawny little arse.

Tarquin turned, pausing to watch the wain disappear over the brow of the hill. He stood there until the sound of the horse's footfalls diminished and then began to trudge across the field towards the house. Christian jammed the shovel back into the hard earth, standing on the shoulder of the blade with his mismatched boots in an attempt to make it go deeper. But the ground was stubborn and the spade's cutting edge failed to penetrate the frozen earth beneath.

Christian felt exhausted. The temptation to collapse and sleep forever was growing greater by the second. As these thoughts smothered his remaining strength, he heard the voice of Patricia Gains calling from the house. Christian looked past Tarquin and saw the slender figure of the kindly woman standing by the side of the cottage. A blue apron with white spots, the one Christian always thought looked like falling snow, was tied around her waist. Christian couldn't remember a time when he'd seen her without it. She reminded him much of his own mother, Natalia, but those memories from six months past were too painful to revisit.

Tarquin was most definitely nothing like Christian's father. From this distance Christian thought his keeper looked like a toy he'd had as a child. A toy his mother had made for him called William Wobble. It had been egg shaped, he remembered, dressed in clothes, with a crudely drawn face above its knitted scarf. The toy was weighted at the base with sand. Christian had been fascinated by it, because if he attempted to push William Wobble over, it righted itself. At the memory, he allowed himself a rare smile.

Patricia was calling them in for dinner.

Seems like you've earned yourself a short reprieve, Tarquin said striding back towards the boy. Don't want you fainting or nothing. His shadow shielded Christian from the little warmth the sun offered.

Christian's stomach rumbled at the thought of food.

Tarquin rummaged in his pocket and produced a small key. He made to kneel, but then straightened again, taking the shovel from the boy's hands. Don't want you hitting me over the head with this while I'm down there unlocking your clasp. Tarquin threw the shovel to one side and then crouched.

I haven't the strength to hit you, even if I dared.

As the clasp came free, Christian looked up at the deep blue sky and quietly thanked the gods. The piece of sharp metal had been digging into the soft skin around his ankle all morning. It was a relief to be rid of it.

Come on, Tarquin yelled. Tarquin took him by the wrist and pulled him across the field. Christian stumbled, struggling to keep up. His boots, two sizes too large, made walking across the mud difficult. Keep up, or I'll beat your backside with that shovel back there.

I'm trying, sir, Christian offered. He knew his voice sounded weak and feeble. To hear himself sound like that filled him with shame.

I bet the Dark Rider is never weak, he thought. I bet the Dark Rider would snap Mr Gains' arm off and then beat him with it.

Come on! Tarquin yelled, yanking the boy harder as if he were a disobedient dog on a leash. Christian lost his footing and went sprawling. Tarquin didn't halt, only continued to stride, dragging the boy behind him by his wrist. Christian scrambled to gain a foothold, to right himself again before the brute pulled his arm right out of its socket or twisted it to deformity. Christian knew that even with a lame arm he would be made to work. There wouldn't be any sympathy offered, just beatings if he failed to perform his chores.

Just as he thought his arm might snap at the elbow, he managed to find his footing. The brute didn't even look back.

When they arrived at the house, a mouth-watering smell drifted from the open door. Soup, he thought. Mrs Gains has made soup. He liked Mrs Gains's soup. He knew that it would be leek, but he let himself be excited by the idea that she might also have added a few cubes of potato. Once she had made such a meal, he remembered. It had filled his stomach to a satisfying swell that made the afternoon work less arduous.

On reaching the door, Tarquin pulled Christian into the house as if they were a couple performing a well-rehearsed dance. But the loving embrace in its finale was sadly missing as Tarquin let go of Christian's wrist sending him lurching unsteadily into the room. He grabbed the back of a wooden chair and only just managed to keep his feet.

The cottage was just a single room, with a wooden staircase leading to two further rooms in the loft space.

Tarquin slammed the door shut and walked to the fireplace where he bent and rubbed his hands, warming them against the flames. Christian fought the wicked temptation to plant his boot in Tarquin's oversized backside. He pictured his keeper running around the room holding his burnt, peeling face. But Christian knew that life-threatening beatings would follow such a show of rebellion.

Sit down, child, Patricia Gains whispered, gently. Tarquin, still hunched by the fire, looked around and scowled. It was obvious to Christian that his keeper didn't like the kindly way in which his wife had spoken.

As inconspicuous as possible, Christian took his place at the table. He wouldn't get his food yet, he knew. Tarquin would have to be fed first, otherwise Patricia would feel his wrath. Christian looked down at the table, avoiding eye contact with them both. It was better that way, he'd learned. His backside still bore the scars from the last time he caught Tarquin's eye.

Eventually, Tarquin came to the table. He sat at the head, like the king he probably thought he was. Patricia placed a bowl of steaming soup on the table in front of her husband. Her hands were shaking, Christian saw. He willed her not to spill it for he knew they'd both get a beating for such carelessness.

Using a large wooden spoon, Tarquin scooped soup and then slurped on it like a farmyard animal.

Christian's stomach rumbled, but he could do nothing but stare at the table and wait patiently. He knew every knot, every blemish, every chip on that wooden top. Every mealtime he would look down on it, longing for a sufficient meal, praying that violence wouldn't end it prematurely.

When Patricia slid a bowl of soup under Christian's nose – just leek, no potato – he resisted the temptation to tuck into it eagerly. Tarquin liked etiquette, even though he showed none of it himself. Christian picked up his spoon. The soup smells so good. His stomach rumbled again. In his peripheral vision he saw Patricia take the seat opposite him at the table. Taking this as his cue, he skimmed his spoon over the soup, getting just a little in its cradle, and then began to sip it.

All was good, until Tarquin finished his soup. I want more, he said. It didn't fill me. A meal for a pauper, that was.

Christian heard Patricia’s spoon clink against the side of her bowl several times, like chattering teeth. He knew what her answer was going to be.

"But