Riven Calyx: An Escavian Chronicle, #1

By Mark Leon Collins

A wizard must be found!

 

"Game of Thrones meets The Chronicles of Prydain! Riven Calyx gives you an emotional story that you will think back on for days to come!" - Reedsy.

In a world where wizards have been banished by a king seeking peace, three lives are drawn together…and torn apart.

A curse lays over the king and the land, and even over Mordrak who is commissioned to find a wizard.

 

Mordrak fears the only ones who can help are the very ones who caused this curse in the first place.

 

His immediate hope lies with a wizard's apprentice who would rather see him dead.

 

 

"Mark Leon Collins vividly describes the different sceneries and settings, enabling the reader to visualize the story. The characters are exquisite... Riven Calyx is a descriptive book, set in an adventurous world, full of mind games and mystical occurrences..." - Online Book Club.

The first in a library of chronicles set in the world of Escavia, Riven Calyx tells of a fight against evil in the face of deception and darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheep Pen Publishing
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223817024

Book preview

RIVEN CALYX

An Escavian Chronicle

Mark Leon Collins

Copyright ©2021 by Mark Leon Collins. No part of this publication (apart from brief quotes for reviews or criticism) may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, recording, photocopying, or otherwise without the permission of the author and publisher.

Riven Calyx is a work of fiction; names, characters, events, and places within are entirely imaginary and not intended to relate to real-life nations, people (living or dead), or places. Any resemblance to these is entirely coincidental. All Rights Reserved.

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Contents

1.Part One

2.CHAPTER I

3.CHAPTER II

4.CHAPTER III

5.CHAPTER IV

6.CHAPTER V

7.Part Two

8.CHAPTER VI

9.CHAPTER VII

10.CHAPTER VIII

11.CHAPTER IX

12.Part Three

13.CHAPTER X

14.CHAPTER XI

15.CHAPTER XII

16.CHAPTER XIII

17.Part Four

18.CHAPTER XIV

19.CHAPTER XV

20.CHAPTER XVI

21.CHAPTER XVII

22.CHAPTER XVIII

23.CHAPTER XIX

24.CHAPTER XX

25.Part Five

26.CHAPTER XXI

27.CHAPTER XXII

28.CHAPTER XXIII

29.CHAPTER XXIV

30.CHAPTER XXV

31.EPILOGUE

Part One

*

THE HAUNTING

CHAPTER I

No sooner knighted than he was at war, the last three years felt like thirty—or what he imagined thirty would feel like, once he was that old.

Mordrak! Prince Tabor interrupted his thoughts as he stood before Nan-Enn, the last in a series of cities to be attacked by him and his fellow knights. The prince strode towards Mordrak, and with a tweak of his ginger moustache said, Today this citadel is ours for the taking—then we can rest a while. The citizens had declined their chance for quarter now for the third, and last, time. Just think! Nearly all of Escavia is now tamed. The prince’s fair hair was cut just above blue eyes that glittered with the promise of victory. No need to await my brother.

We’ll be assaulting the walls anytime now, then? Mordrak asked, somewhat surprised. We're not awaiting King Tell?

The prince slapped a hand on Mordrak’s broad shoulder. Just await my orders, will you? He straightened his posture and moved on his way.

Mordrak’s eyes narrowed as he considered the consequences of a failed assault against Nan-Enn, or more likely, how Tell would react to his brother snatching his victory from under his feet. Surveying his waiting men-at-arms, jesting and bantering, he wondered if they would care who did what at all after these last two months’ siege.

They have no hope, boasted one of them. Look at that smoke! They're burning their very corpses. With so few living left, Nan-Enn might as well burn down anyway!

Aye, more dead bodies than alive, that’s for sure, replied another. And the stench! He wrinkled his nose. How can you make so light of it?

Mordrak felt a little cheered listening to them. Their morale was high; no one seemed to fear for their own safety or that of any of their fellows. No one seemed to assume that they might not return from battle.

The soldiers’ talk was turning to the moment of the imminent assault. Prince Tabor re-emerged from their midst. Two blasts of the horn, he shouted in a deep voice, his tone stern. Signals the first wave of attack. Nevertheless, he paused for a moment, nevertheless, there will be no talk of pillage and rape! Raising his voice above the cries of protest, he continued, The city is to be granted quarter! My brother, King Tell, wants a nation to rule, not a heap of ashes at his feet."

At that, there was a ripple of anxious debate, and a few voices raised again in complaint. One especially pronounced individual called out, We'll end up besieging every city if we’re seen to be soft. No more quick surrenders! We told them we would loot and pillage without a surrender!

They’ll surrender quickly enough once they realise their lack of options. Without allowing further room for discussion, Tabor called out the names of those who would lead the first wave of attack.

Relief swept over Mordrak when his name wasn’t mentioned. He would not be amongst the very first to storm the walls, those who would likely be the first to die. Cowardly? Perhaps. It was not something he would voice; the possibility of death was real, despite his men’s jesting. Some of them were sure to die.

Mordrak called a man over. The individual was dressed in heavy black leather armour and approached without hesitation. Sir Mordrak? he asked.

Stand close please, Fellis. Mordrak looked at his unruly beard before considering the man himself. They had been reasonably well acquainted for the last couple of years. Mordrak's father brought them together at his first battle. Mordrak recalled looking at his eyes for the first time when he sensed Fellis must be trustworthy, as no doubt his father had trusted him with his son. The man never disappointed. He was a commoner, yet fought as well as many a young knight. Father never had the chance to explain much and Fellis himself avoided questions, mystery that he was. It shouldn’t be long before the horns sound.

Fellis nodded and stood at a respectful distance, rubbing imaginary dirt from his seasoned leather armour. Pleased with his own chainmail as Mordrak was, he felt a little naked without his horse. There was no sortie from the city to harry Tell’s army, so there was no real need of a horse. Horses can’t climb ladders, he mused. The occupants of Nan-Enn intended to fight behind their walls.

Then the horn blasted twice, its resonance deep. Before the final note waned, the first wave of assault began. Men pushed siege towers forward over wet grass, which was quickly churned to mud. Other soldiers carried ladders towards the city whilst arrows from both sides of the wall blackened the sullen sky, the sound like the hiss of serpents. Before Mordrak, many of Tell's men were screaming cries of war and victory—and pain, the wounded left in pools of blood and dirt to writhe in agony. There was no noise anywhere like the noise of men fighting for their lives on a battlefield.

Mordrak’s heart pounded as he awaited the call for the next charge. He looked at the rugged Fellis. His face was hard, set in resignation as he watched the first assault gain the walls. At the next sound of the horn, his men charged with curses and threats against the defenders of Nan-Enn. Mordrak roared and ran on across the mud, leading his men to join the battle on the walls.

As they reached the foot of a ladder, Mordrak slapped Fellis upon the shoulder and laughed. Onwards and upwards, eh! The battle surely could not last much longer now that the wall had so easily fallen.

On reaching the parapet, he made a quick survey. As predicted, there were indeed only a few score defenders along the walls that cradled the simple homes and buildings within. Women and children bolstered their numbers. Mordrak felt dismayed. It was not right that these people should fight. His hopes were that flags would soon be raised to show the walls completely captured, yet the few defenders were falling so wastefully, desperate to defend their posts. They gave no indication that any of them would surrender.

Mordrak looked below the battlements as the arrows ceased at last, and he could see isolated melees breaking out. The people of Nan-Enn had even begun to torch their own homes—a proud people indeed. They’re still fighting to destroy their own city. They’ll give nothing away! he shouted to Fellis.

With little to do about the locals burning their own city, Mordrak and Fellis ran on. Mordrak wondered if his men would honour Tabor's command not to pillage and loot since there would be no one native to the city to lay claim to anything anyway. Mordrak quickened his pace along the battlements, where pools of blood and the dead endangered footing. Followed by his henchman, they reached the fight. But three defenders here were overborne by many knights, and Mordrak could not see what use he would be.

Below, Tell's men had pushed on into the streets where Mordrak decided that was where he should be. He saw men run into a building below him, so he leaped down upon the thatched cottage roof, and Fellis followed. Together they cut their way through the roof. As they hacked their way through, an arrow spitting fire fell beside them. Fellis caught it up using his leather gauntlets and threw it to the ground. More fiery darts came, and while Fellis tried quenching the flames, Mordrak hacked desperately at the thatch.

Fellis wasn’t fast enough. Despite the recent wet weather, the thatch began to kindle and a mounting fire soon cut them off from the ramparts. The thatch smoked in foul wreaths which began to choke both men, but finally, Mordrak cut sufficiently to access the loft below.

Once inside, the thatch crackled with fire above them, and smoke seeped into the loft. It was a small cottage. Bearing in mind the unpleasant reception awaiting them, Mordrak moved quickly towards the rickety wooden ladder that led down to the ground floor. They slid down it, and half fell, half threw themselves to meet three defenders ready to confront them—two men and a third who was an ogre. Mordrak faltered before the ogre—he alone would be as much as any man could cope with. This monster was over seven feet tall, with arms the size of Mordrak’s thighs. The ceiling was not high enough to contain him; he looked almost the more formidable being buckled over.

In moments, guarding one another’s backs, Fellis again proved himself to be an excellent swordsman; few others would have been able to stand up to the men despite the poor odds. The burning thatch began to fall from the loft in clumps creating an acrid smell, poisoning the air. Nevertheless, the lightly armoured men were not as well-trained as Fellis. Mordrak was determined to make Fellis give an account for his prowess after the battle. He was not an ordinary man at arms. Two of the men were slain by him, and his success lay in his expertly executed feints.

As Fellis weaved and sliced, he drew the attention of the ogre, which gave Mordrak an opening. Mordrak swung the enemy’s sword aside and sliced back at the ogre, catching him in the chest and wounding him badly. Still, he stood his ground. A lucky strike by the ogre, clumsy though it was, caught Fellis by surprise, and he fell to the floor with a cry.

Panic began to seize Mordrak. Fellis was injured and did not appear to be ready to stand again very soon. Mordrak was barely able to quench his fear as the ogre’s laughter scorned him. He should have called for support before rushing into the cottage. For now, he was cut off. He chanced a glance up towards the loft where the fire was blazing, but there was no help there.

Now the ogre was upon him, smashing his mace down on Mordrak’s shield. He took the blows without moving, though they shook his every nerve. His muscles seemed paralysed by the weight of the ogre thundering down upon him. At last, he stepped backwards, dwarfed, dizzy, nauseated, and more than a little bewildered as to how he had managed to keep hold of his sword. The ogre kicked a chair at him, bashing through his armour and bruising his shins. It nearly knocked him off his feet. The fearful premonition of a slow and frightening death flashed through his mind, but the vision disappeared as he saw Fellis begin to twitch and move. Hope was at hand.

Mordrak leaned forward and lifted his shield to take another blow, and somehow, he kicked the chair back against the ogre.

For a moment, each combatant redressed their balance. Then the ogre threw the table against Mordrak, again forcing him away, and then kicked the chair at him as well. It spun to a stop beneath a section of the ceiling that was beginning to collapse from the fire. The cottage was rapidly becoming more like a furnace, and smoke from the attic filled the room. Sweat prickled from every pore of his bruised, weary body, and he felt as though his strength was sapped away with every drop of perspiration. The air was hard to breathe, and his eyes stung.

Using all his power of will, summoning every fibre of his strength, Mordrak surprised the ogre with the force of his blow. Yet the creature parried with a furious counter-sweep. Mordrak’s arm ought to have been broken by the impact of the strike. He asked himself whether wounding this beast again was even possible without Fellis as a distraction. Then, as he stumbled over the chair, he mustered every thought of confidence: for this ogre, he said to himself, is untrained. This knight, he scolded himself, has trained since boyhood. There was no excuse.

Still, the danger was great. Cinders from the burning ceiling continued to shower down on him, with the roof sure to collapse at any moment.

The ogre snarled and leaped to one side. Deftly, from on his back upon the floor, Mordrak thrust his sword upwards, catching the ogre in the groin. The creature howled and staggered backwards, giving him the chance to regain his feet. Ignoring the curses and fury of the ogre, Mordrak swept his sword towards the beast, even as he moved for the door—then, seeing his one chance to finish this, Mordrak redirected his strike towards the ogre’s hand and struck it off. The ogre howled, his wail like that of a bull being slaughtered, and blood gushed from the severed limb. Balefully, the ogre looked at his hand, lying in a pool of blood upon the floor.

With his hand gone, the ogre's rugged face turned from a ruddy pink to purple, enraged. Fellis was now crawling unseen behind the ogre, though badly wounded. Reaching as high as he could effectively stab, Fellis thrust his dagger between the ogre’s buttocks reaching into his bowels. The ogre finally fell as Mordrak struck a final blow. Mordrak slashed his sword against the ogre’s throat with relish.

Fellis, come with me. We’re done. The roof will give way any time now! A cot in the loft tipped down on to the floor, dragging burning cinders in its wake. There was nothing about the building now that one could call sturdy. Mordrak then rushed to Fellis to help. With aid, the man rose to his feet, and heavy as he was, Mordrak took most of his weight. Blood had congealed thickly from his wounded chest where Mordrak hoped Fellis had not burst his lungs.

I can hardly breathe! Fellis gasped as he clutched his throat.

It is acrid! We've got to get out of here!

The building groaned as the blaze increased. A rafter fell noisily from the ceiling, crashing onto the floor and sending sparks all over with the impact. Mordrak imagined the building would topple down upon them before they arrived out on the street. His chainmail was quite heated, and he could feel sweat dripping from every pore.

He kicked the door open. Fiery cinders falling from the thatch flickered wildly about, and not from this cottage alone. Much of the city was now ablaze. Mordrak pushed Fellis through the hail of embers.

At one side of the street stood a stone building that Mordrak guessed was a storehouse, free of activity. Otherwise all around were melees; the defenders were being gradually forced back to the centre of the city, but still they would not yield. Looking farther onwards, Mordrak could even see women fighting, their children slaying the wounded on both sides with swords and axes. Mordrak dared not leave Fellis; any of the city folk would surely kill him if they found him, yet Mordrak doubted the man’s chances of survival in any quarter.

A group of little people began jeering as it was clear Mordrak could not fight and support his companion at the same time. They threw stones and large lumps of wood. At their sides were axes. Mordrak knew his only hope lay in seeking shelter within the storehouse. He dragged Fellis towards it, pulling him along as best as he could, aware that he was an easy target.

Fire suddenly ripped through the windows of the storehouse from within. It gave Mordrak no choice but to lay Fellis down there in the street if he was to defend them both. A hail of heavy stones scattered about them from the gang of little folk. Mordrak considered this group of troublemakers. They were dressed in robes, but their voices sounded young. They were probably children, though he hoped they were gnomes, for why would children wear robes? He had never seen a gnome, but talk had them as short folk, probably a little shorter than dwarves.

The debris showered against him, though his helmet protected his head, and he leapt over a thrown plank of wood that had been aimed at his knees.

Now each individual drew their axes. They were close and Mordrak appraised the reality. They were indeed human and not the gnomes he had hoped them to be. Their ages ranged from perhaps eight to fifteen in years of age, and each stood their ground as he towered above them. Their screeching sounded out in high-pitched terror, their words filled with hatred for him. Mordrak did not want to kill them, but he had no choice.

Rather than routing, they jostled together, trying to protect one another and pitifully attempting to scare off the knight. Mordrak wanted to run and pull Fellis in his wake, but it was a useless plan. A braver individual made a grab for his knees, only to suffer a foot kicked in his face. Mordrak hoped basic violence would scare them off, and with his broadsword slashing through the air, it was his final scare tactic.

One of them threw himself in the way and fell to his sword. Mordrak was momentarily confused. Were these children intent on suicide? Another ran behind Mordrak towards Fellis. Seeing the danger, and with a heavy heart, he had to defend the man. Their skills with their axes were feeble against his sword. Mordrak’s heart beat wild as much with sorrow as fury, yet it seemed futile whether he was angry or whether he was sorry. These children wanted to die.

Run! Run! Run! he shouted at them. Why all this waste? But their threats continued, How can I not kill you? They all fell to his sword.

A cry rent the air and the horn resounded; the city had yielded.

Mordrak vomited.

He looked down at the children’s bodies. Had the city yielded moments before, their stories would be quite different. Now all of them were dead. In his heart and mind, he felt his pity for them vanish. He hated them. They had turned him into a killing monster, no more than a brute beast. He looked upon their faces, and his heart burnt. He especially hated the oldest and youngest, these two age groups that had acted as the spurs to the band of brothers: an example to those in-between. How he hated them. He clenched his teeth and cursed a vow to the gods that no song should ever be sung for them. They could have made nobler lives had they waited. Just minutes more ... Had they waited just a few minutes more ... They could have waited. For a second, he wondered why he should start this hatred. He wondered if a sort of madness had crept into his mind.

Behind him, the cottage had collapsed, and he was glad for the same fate for the whole city, that every building the inhabitants had set alight would fall.

He attended to Fellis again and ignored his men herding the remaining prisoners towards the market square. Fellis was unconscious but was at least breathing, albeit fitfully. Mordrak rejoiced that the man might yet live after all. He summoned two squires to carry the knight, and he led them towards the marketplace, supposing medics would be there.

We have won, Mordrak breathed. He dared not consider the cost. He passed over any misgiving he’d ever felt about King Tell’s wars. Praise the gods they were just. Thank all the worlds, one day he might die ... and forget the seven disgusting faces of those youths. Bitter hatred burned within him. If he had looted, he would fire the plunder; he would slay any woman lest he have cause to remember her offspring—and how he would hate her. He wondered if he would ever discover who the mothers of those children were; he would curse them. He would hate every woman here, lest she be one of them. Freya was now a disgusting god in Mordrak’s mind. Freya, the light of youth and fertility. Where was she now? As a glimmer of conscience arose in the back of his mind, he wondered what gave him the right to entertain this bitter hatred towards the Nan-Ennites.

Horns sounded, and cheers cried out for the arrival of King Tell. He had not yet claimed for himself the title of Emperor but rather the throne of a High King.

Gods let his speech be good, Mordrak said under his breath. To date, Tell had proven to be an eloquent speaker.

Mordrak looked forward to meeting his father, who must have arrived with the king by now. They had ridden off to attack a relieving army. Perhaps the kinship would lift him from the gloomy and sullen atmosphere that hung over him. Yet this feeling overrode his prickling conscience—he had never known the likes of it before. Was there something else, here? Was there some sort of warped enchantment that lay over the city which had kept the inhabitants fighting for their own late King?

He sought some herbalists and told them to see to Fellis as a priority.

Do you sense enchantment? he asked them hoping they would not consider his question to be mere superstition, it felt more than that.

We deal in herbs, not mysticism, they replied.

The army of Tell, his soldiers, retainers and followers, had gathered. Perhaps there were thirty citizens and soldiers of Nan-Enn remaining, huddled in a group watched over by pike-men. A few children had also been rounded up. The rest of Tell’s army gathered around the King’s platform, creating a complete circle. The camp followers crowded behind them. Fully armoured knights stood upon the platform with Tell, his standard fluttering noisily above them in the breeze: a white unicorn upon a black background speared a great rampant dragon of gold.

Mordrak stood in the crowd and watched, feeling too self-conscious to attempt mounting the stage, but was content to survey Tell's attendants. There was no sign of his father, however, and it occurred to him that Prince Tabor was not there to be seen either. He thought his father had ridden with the king. Now he was distracted as the King began to speak.

King Tell shouted clearly; his voice was strong and easily reached the ears of the people.

For too many generations, he paused as he surveyed the crowd, Escavia has been a land of flowing blood and rebellion. Now Escavia is to be a land of justice the whole world can look to and know is an example of the gods! As I am to rule Escavia by the gods, you shall know that she is to be my feast or my famine, my bride or my whore, depending on how you deserve to be ruled. Escavia shall yield to one High King, and to one High King shall be the throne, and to the one throne, one sceptre shall mark the monarch above the Low Kings of this land. Our lands of Escavia shall be healed like the maiden’s womb. And Escavia, our Escavia, shall be like the breast for babes. Flowing from her brooks shall be living water, upon her plains shall be ears of ripe wheat, and peace shall reign over her hills of grazing cattle. My people—for my people you are from this day forth—I promise you a harvest you shall reap with joy.

There was a roar of approval from Tell's people and a murmur of dissent from the few citizens of Nan-Enn. Tell continued his speech, raising his hands for attention and ignoring derision. "Remember every worthy labourer has sweat upon his brow and chaffed skin upon his hands. Yet by the rewards he reaps, his belly is full, and thoughts of festival fill his dreams during his repose. I promise you peace and prosperity—my protection! Rejoice, for your lives are made anew! If we are not united in vision, there can only be bloodshed and heartbreak.

As a sign of my benevolence, I have granted this city quarter. No further life shall be taken, and freedom is assured to all who want it. A place in my growing army is also offered to any knight here or man-at-arms who feels disposed to serve a King who swears fealty to his people! As King, I serve; I serve the people by my rule! I hold each person with equal regard to one another.

There was much muttering as the few townsfolk had their doubts.

Tell continued, A King must serve his people, and his people must serve their country. In the morning, I shall accept the fealty of all here.

There was silence for a few heartbeats as people were perhaps digesting his words, and then a few hoots of scorn mounted. But Tell had finished, and without further ado, he shook hands with some of his dignitaries, and though some stepped forward from the ranks to receive Tell's blessings, there remained no sign of his father. Then the King gathered some friends and left for their tents. In this city, there were no comfortable quarters. The army cheered and raised their weapons joyfully in the air, drowning out any contempt.

Mordrak stood by. He felt the speech had been inspiring to his people. Tell was considered to be a gifted speaker, and he had held their attention. It was this and Tell's charisma that swayed Mordrak's father to his cause. Now Mordrak looked around for the old man and made his way over to some friends. His father was nowhere to be seen and his heart began to feel heavy. With them was his squire, Tulan, who was not yet mature in years for battle. Tulan’s face fell at the sight of his master, and the rest of his friends also looked awkward.

Mordrak felt grief clutch at his heart. Judging by their faces, he knew father must be dead. Surely he was killed when intercepting the relieving army.

***

His squire Tulan showed complete sympathy for his grievances; Mordrak would come to commend him for his patience that morning. In Mordrak's family pavilion, which felt empty without his father, they had spoken of Mordrak's woes throughout the night.

You will be fine, Sir! It is nothing more than your conscience, and I must say yet again, the children would have killed Fellis without a qualm. Tulan rubbed his face. Brown hair tussled over his broad shoulders. Tulan was in his mid-teens, not ready yet to shave.

I don’t know what to do. Mordrak wrung his hands. Cursed I am. And my father dead. Would he be proud of me for killing the children when I should have tried to frighten them away? Well, I did try to frighten them away. How would my father have judged me? He was otherwise pleased with me. He took my words and listened to me when we were deciding whether to join King Tell or not. But did he dream I would come to this?

Tulan sighed. Sir Mordrak. You told me you tried. Even children make their own decisions, and they decided to die. Do you think the children would have wept had you died? Gods! Peasants don’t care about the fate of knights! Your father was a man who clearly loved his sons—even your younger brother who you say was ever skulking in the shadows.

They slept a little, and in due course awoke as the sun rose, giving morning light to the clear blue sky.

Tulan said, I see your armour is battle worn. You need replacements. Buckles, belts and straps. You clearly fought bravely and wisely.

Mordrak did not want to wallow in sorrow, and girding his spirit, he rose. I shall come with you.

They sought out the camp followers for the items, but most people were still asleep.

Do you sense something in the air? Mordrak asked Tulan. Something ... I don't know what.

It is probably the smell and the quiet after so long a siege, Sir.

Let us walk through the citadel. Maybe we can lay a wraith to rest, he muttered sardonically.

As they headed to the market square, passing by smoking buildings if they weren't outright burning, Mordrak wondered if they passed the homes of the children he had killed. He wondered why they had been in robes and not dressed in the usual breeches and shirts. There was something amiss in that if nothing else.

They spoke of the things they saw, but they could not shut out the cries of the young children and the squalling of babes that rang across the streets. Most of the buildings were burning rubble.

There they are, Tulan! Do you see? Just like them! Like the ones he had killed. A few children meandered about, their faces set, haggard and weepy, or simply dazed. Just like them, Tulan!

Sir! It is not them, though.

Do you think I am losing my mind? Or is there a presence? Is there actually a strange work going on here? He led Tulan to a weeping child robed in brown, and asked the matter.

My mummy and daddy are dead!

Something stirred in Mordrak’s heart. Someone once said to him that orphans are the true war heroes. When?

They died last night. I was asleep. My mummy and daddy are dead!

***

After a while, a little before Tulan and Mordrak reached the square, a rumour swept through the gathering ranks of the victors that most of the adult Nan-Ennites had taken their own lives during the night. Their children were left orphaned behind them. Mordrak could see the absence of local folk. It looked likely there was more truth to the rumours than Tell’s people wanted to believe.

When finally he arrived, King Tell openly wept at the news of the suicides. His grief was sincere, and his sorrow was almost beyond endurance to those present; they joined him in his lament. Nevertheless, Mordrak found he could not weep; the faces of the seven children spun inside his head. His sleepless night had hardened his heart, however much he felt for the High King. The seven faces that haunted him quenched all pity within his soul. Their faces appeared with every blink of his eyes; added to this, shimmering like a backdrop to the dismal picture, was the ghost of his father scorning him.

Mordrak looked about the grey stone city, sensing only the smell of fire, smoke and the rancid aroma of death. But there was something more. It was not the abandoned architecture of the buildings that had been rich with style, but the beauty to this city that now lay ugly. It was all dismal ... so eerie. Mordrak wondered how or why man was prepared to pay the price of war: the scars, the fears, the tears and the loss. He wondered if this city would ever again bustle with prosperity, or if it was cursed beyond hope.

CHAPTER II

Mordrak sat in the doorway of his colourful tent which displayed his heraldic colours of green, white and red. Knights he knew would stop and share their condolences for his late father. They would say, Your father always swore to die with his arse on the saddle, and die that way he did. Some would add, Your eyes are bloodshot, and you are white as a ghost—you need some sleep!

Finally, his squire returned with parts to repair Mordrak’s armour. Yes, Tulan? he asked with a rasp to his voice.

Sir Mordrak? Are you all right? the squire enquired tentatively. With a nod from Mordrak, he continued, General Ralphs wants to see you.

Oh? Any idea why? The burning storehouse came to mind. Do you suppose I was confused for a looter when I took Fellis near a warehouse?

"If that were so, Sir, surely soldiers would have come to find you? I have been asked to say to you that General Ralphs wants to see you. He has also sent word that he commiserates with you on the death of your father. These days have been terrible