Читать книгу Curse of Kings - Alex Barclay - Страница 10

OME MORNING, THE CRAVEN LODGE WERE STILL sleeping, most of them having made it no further than the dining chairs of the great hall. The inner ward of Castle Derrington was exclusively their domain, the ten men and their one servant, Oland Born. A guarded barbican connected the inner ward to the outer ward, where a staff of forty worked, led in and out strictly at the times they were required to carry out their duties.

One hundred of Villius Ren’s soldiers stood on watch in the outer ward every day, filing in from their garrisons by the ten towers he had commissioned when he took power. He had cobbled together a ragged army of one thousand from all across Envar and the precision of their numbers was because of Villius’ strict belief in the Fortune of Tens.

Good fortune was said to come in tens in Decresian. Ten hills bounded the village, forty silver birch trees bordered its square, ten houses lined each of its fifty cobbled streets. Twenty market stalls crowded Merchants’ Alley, all opening at ten o’clock in the morning and closing at ten o’clock at night. But more important than the superstitious grouping of objects was what someone achieved by their tenth birthday and by every decade thereafter. That was the true meaning of the Fortune of Tens.

King Micah had been born at the turn of a century in the tenth minute of the tenth hour of the tenth day of the tenth month – an unsurmountable Fortune of Tens. In contrast, Villius Ren grabbed wildly at tens, taking them in whatever form he could: his soldiers were all in the last year of their teens, twenties, thirties or forties, men fearful of reaching another decade without having achieved their Fortune of Tens. Villius Ren had been haunted by a similar fear until he overthrew King Micah in his twenty-ninth year.

The ranks that clung to the craven of Castle Derrington stank of ill will, desperation and bitter contest.

Oland walked down the spiral staircase from the library, and across the courtyard into the kitchen. As he reached out for the handle of the back door, he heard a rough choking sound behind him. He jumped. When he turned, he saw Viande curled in the corner, snoring and twitching. Someone had tucked him inside one of the dogs’ blankets. Oland quietly put on his boots then slung his bag over his head, securing the strap across his body. Viande stirred and opened one eye.

“Running from Villius Ren… roxworthy,” he said.

Oland flinched at the insult. Prince Roxleigh was King Micah’s lunatic uncle, sent for his ramblings to an asylum on the eve of his twenty-first birthday. Prince Roxleigh was a tall, skinny man with a long face, a slender neck and light brown hair that sat on his head like tumbleweed. In the sunlight, it shone like a halo. Roxleigh had been a popular prince, happiest in the company of the Derrington villagers, brightening their spirits with his jaunty walk and cheery smile, calling out to them with a sweeping wave of his skinny arm.

Roxleigh’s very best friend was a Derrington man called Rowe, who was as tall as Roxleigh, but moved, as he would himself admit, “with more ballast”. His canted walk was no match for Roxleigh’s loping stride, and he would bound behind him like a giant puppy. Rowe spoke from his warm heart and shining mind, his head swooping down, then up with a flourish at the end of each burst of inspiration. And he had many, as did Roxleigh. Both fiercely intelligent, they were part of a small group of great thinkers who met every month in The Derrington Inn to discuss matters of importance in the Kingdom of Decresian, always with the intention of enhancing the life of its people.

But in the year before he was carried, wailing and flailing, from the castle, something had changed in Prince Roxleigh. Rowe, from whom he had been inseparable, had vanished from Derrington quite suddenly. Roxleigh had begun to pace the dungeon hallways of the arena at night, talking of beasts and monsters, of dark creatures with secret chambers, scribbling his notions on reams of paper that he stacked to the ceiling in the musty cells.

From then until now, if you were called ‘roxley’ or ‘roxling’ or if your actions were deemed ‘roxworthy’, the message was clear: you were as mad as the mad prince that was locked away in the madhouse. Years later, when Roxleigh’s younger brother, Prince Stanislas – King Micah’s father – became King of Decresian, a messenger arrived at the castle to say that Prince Roxleigh did not mind one bit. But everyone agreed: Roxleigh had no mind with which to mind.

Oland left Viande and the sleeping beasts of The Craven Lodge behind. As he walked, he pondered the story of Prince Roxleigh. The year leading up to his descent into madness had been a bleak one for the kingdom, when a bermid-ant plague struck the northern coast. The small black ants moved south, ravaging the land, turning the rich vegetation from vibrant green to barren bronze. No one had ever seen such a beautiful trail of destruction. The bermids poisoned crops and the animals that fed on them. The people of Envar died from eating the produce of the land, the meat of diseased livestock, or they died from eating neither.

Prince Roxleigh’s father, King Seward, a kind, strong leader, vowed to the surrounding territories that he would do everything he could to contain the plague within Decresian’s borders. Yet, despite the best efforts of this honourable king, it was not to be, and the plague spread.

Almost one hundred years had passed since Roxleigh and Rowe had last walked the plague-ravaged ground to the village market, ground that had eventually been restored, only to be ravaged again by neglect. It was as if, from the parapets of Castle Derrington, The Craven Lodge had thrown a grey veil over the whole of Decresian.

Oland had one stall to visit in Merchants’ Alley – that of the butcher, Malachy Graham. It was Oland’s fourth visit that week and it was not just for meat for The Craven Lodge.

“Your leg of lamb,” said Malachy, but, as he reached under the stall, he stopped when a voice rose over the bustle of the market.

“The Great Rains are nigh! The Great Rains are nigh!”

The crowd parted and allowed the shouting man through. He looked to be in his sixties, his hair grey and his face battered by the elements, lined by suffering, sunken by hunger. His pale, doleful eyes were sparking with panic. Between cries, his lips were pursed and trembling. He was dressed in a long, faded blue robe. The ties at the neck hung loose, exposing his bony chest and a scattering of wispy hair. Over his robe, he wore a beautiful, pristine sheepskin. Oland had seen the man before and heard his wild preachings about the impending return of The Great Rains.

“He’s roxley!” laughed the butcher’s young son, sticking his head up from behind the stall.

Malachy laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Daniel, I don’t ever want to hear you say that again,” he said. “Great tragedy lies behind that man’s ramblings, and it is no surprise that his mind broke under the weight of it.”

“But Father! The Great Rains are over!” said Daniel. “Everyone knows that.”

“The Great Rains are nigh!” shouted the rambling man again as he disappeared into the crowd ahead.

Daniel laughed.

Malachy leaned down to him. “Son, some people’s minds travel back to the past and are forever trapped there. We need to care for them, not mock them.” He was wrapping slices of ham as he spoke. He handed the package to his son. “Go after the man, and give him this. His name is Magnus Miller. Call him by his name.”

Daniel was open-mouthed.

“He won’t bite,” said Malachy. He smiled as he turned back to Oland. Then his face darkened. “I wish I could threaten him with no trip to The Games tonight, but who am I to overrule the decrees of The Craven Lodge?”

Oland nodded. He had no desire to go to The Games either, but, as The Craven Lodge’s servant, he had no choice. “I should get back to the castle,” he said.

Malachy lowered his voice. “Before you go, you need to know that there are already whisperings around the village about the final round, Oland. One of the soldiers has been talking…”

Oland raised his eyebrows. “What has he said?”

“Well, what you told me: that instead of King Micah’s final round, Acuity, a test of sharpness of mind, Villius’ final round is to be called Agility and that it’s more about the sharpness of a blade.”

Oland took in a breath. “Has he said any more than that?”

Malachy shook his head. “No, but no one needs a fool soldier to tell them that the final round will be a bloody one. It’s Villius Ren – it will be designed not just to bring a contender the dishonour of defeat, but to bring him the dishonour of a savage and public demise.”

He reached under the stall. “The lamb,” he said. He slid another thick package underneath it as he handed it over. “And the rest…”

“Thank you,” said Oland. He turned to leave, then glanced back. “Do you know anyone competing?”

“Two of my nephews were taken by The Lodge from their homes last night,” said Malachy. “‘To make up numbers’ they were told. A neighbour’s son is competing willingly, believing the promises of land and glory that we both know will never come… no matter how many medals hang from his neck.”

“I wish them well,” said Oland.

Oland hurried back to Castle Derrington, first to the kitchen, then to the dungeons beneath the arena and the same dark hallways the troubled Prince Roxleigh had paced. As Oland passed the cramped cells, lions, tigers and leopards moved towards him, swiping at the bars that had imprisoned them for weeks. Oland’s task was to starve them ahead of the Agility round, when they were to be unleashed for a man-versus-beast battle to satisfy Villius’ bloodlust.

He unwrapped the second package Malachy Graham had given him, revealing the bloody steaks that would quiet the animals’ hunger and tame their angry spirits.

Oland sat in the corner as the animals ate. He was reading a play called The Banon Servant, about a servant boy who bravely faced his master’s taunts. Oland wished he had his courage and was eager to read what became of him. The light in the dungeon suddenly dimmed. Oland pushed the play back into his bag. In the entrance ahead, Villius Ren stood blocking out the sun.

“Get over here,” he roared. As Villius walked down the steps, the light again streamed in. Barely breaking his stride, he slapped Oland across the face.

“You will never run from me again,” said Villius.

Oland nodded.

“Speak!” said Villius. “Find your tongue! There’s nothing more pathetic than a cowering mute.” But he didn’t even wait to hear Oland. “Now, show me the starving monsters you have made me…”

Oland’s heart pounded. Barely half an hour had passed since the animals had eaten their largest meal of the week. They were curled up and resting in the back of their cells. Oland’s hands were still stained with the blood of the meat he had fed them.

Villius Ren walked past the cells, studying each animal. He rattled some of the bars, and got little response.

“They are weak with hunger,” said Oland.

“They should react,” spat Villius.

“There are bars between you,” said Oland. “They know that it’s pointless to attack.”

In a flash, Villius grabbed Oland by the wrists and held up his palms.

“Weak with hunger…” said Villius. As he spoke, each word was lengthened, its delivery darkly mocking. “Yes. That explains why a ravenous beast wouldn’t rush to feast on the blood-stained hands of a foolhardy boy.”

He flung Oland’s hands from his grip. “I’ll have Viande slaughter these worthless beasts… and you will help him.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you nothing to say?”

“I… I’m sorry,” said Oland.

“I… I… I…” spat Villius, pushing his face closer and closer to Oland’s. “Ha! Look at you – you’re paler than Wickham.” If Villius could insult more than one person at a time, it gave him great pleasure.

He spun around and walked away, leaving Oland staring after him, deeply ashamed of the single trickle of cold sweat that ran down his side.