Читать книгу The Portaellen War Chronicles - C.P. Bird - Страница 11

Chapter Four

An urgent and important message had just been delivered to Captain George Corder at the South Western Fortress. Straightaway he recognised the handwriting. Turning it over, he broke, the red, Fantaellen royal seal, before unfolding, the paper and reading its content.

Upon finishing he placed the paper on his desk and dismissed the messenger with his thanks, and a heavy heart.

‘It won’t be long now, before the Blackheart’s attack,’ he said aloud as he stared out of his window, at the thick, bank of swirling fog, that had thus far, shown very little sign of diminishing.

The captain’s thoughts suddenly turned to the previous night. The noise of a great sea battle, going on, behind the curtain of fog, now filled his ears, once more. He and his men, had listened, and feared the worst for their country’s ships and sailors, who would have been, hopelessly outnumbered, if the reports of how many Wulfdaeden ships were ready to engage in battle, were true.

In less than an hour, the cries and the screams of the dying abated, and the straits of the Stoirim Sea, had fallen silent, once more.

Unlike the night before, this one had been quiet, thus far. Captain Corder had spent his time alone, in the officer’s quarters, going through his official correspondence, and the plans for the defence, of their coastline. He had prayed that the fog, would stay, just long enough, for him to do the final checks of his fortress, and ready his men, for the upcoming battle, and the war, that would inevitably follow.

They would be ready. They had to be ready.

There was another knock at his door. It woke him from his thoughts.

‘Enter,’ he calmly, called out.

Captain Corder had asked for his officer’s to present themselves in the officer’s quarters.

‘Gentlemen, please.’

He gestured for a couple of his officers to join him as they entered the room.

They were dressed in their purple battle robes, an officers’ tunic, a gleaming metal breast plate and greaves, to protect their legs. At their side a sword of the finest Fantaellen steel.

‘Excellent,’ remarked the captain. ‘Ready for a fight, then boys?’

‘Yes sir!’ the officers said, in unison. It had been, an immediate, and eager response, which had pleased, their captain.

Within moments, all the officers were present. Small talk was briefly exchanged, as the captain, encouraged his officers to feel at ease.

For a very brief moment he stared at the young men in the room. They looked so smart so young and eager. Yet not one of them had been tested in battle. Their armour had not a single scratch or dent on it. Unlike his armour that hung on an old wooden stand by the door. His sword, that his father had given him, when he became a junior officer, also hung proudly next to it. He hoped that one day, at least one of these young men would stand where he was, talking to his subordinates. Having survived the hordes of Blackhearts now waiting to attack their homeland.

‘I have a message, in my hand for you all.’ Captain Corder held the message aloft, in his hand. ‘In fact, it is a message for all our fellow countrymen, up and down the width and breadth of our coastline, and our fortress’s inland.’ He briefly paused for a moment, before continuing.

‘King Stefan, is dead.’ A stunned silence now existed in the room. ‘He passed away suddenly, in the early hours of this morning. We all know that the Wulfdaeden spies will be working in the shadows. Their joyful message, currently heading to our coasts. Once, their fleets out in the Stoirim Sea, receive the news, the Blackheart devils will attack. Fog or no fog.’

Captain Corder walked from behind his desk and approached his officer’s. He then, began to look every one of them, in the eye. He wanted to stare deep, into their souls.

‘Good,’ he said. For, he had liked, what he had seen. ‘No fear. That is what I need to see. We must be cool, and calm gentlemen. The men will look to us, for leadership and we must deliver.’

As, he walked over to a wooden table, in a corner of the room, he grabbed a candle, and began to unroll a map.

‘We are now at war. Make no mistake. The enemy will attack soon. The Blackheart ships, that sit just beyond the wall of the fog, just shy of the range of our Trebuchet’s, await their signal. We have a limited amount of time before they come. We have gone over our plan of defence, many, many times. We must make the most, of what time we have.’ Captain Corder began to straighten the map out, on the table. ‘Come.’ He beckoned, to his young officer’s.

Swiftly, they joined their captain round the table, before he continued, his briefing, choosing not to miss, a single detail, as he spoke. Such was his meticulous and exhaustive diligence always, to every little action, and possible outcome.

‘That was where, the discarded rowing boat was found, along with our dead sentries. As you can see. It was only, a mile away. Is that their attack point?’

He pointed at one of two coves. Not one officer spoke.

‘Well. It could be here too?’ He pointed, at the other cove. ‘Or both? That would be my guess gentlemen.’

Captain Corder began, to go through the defensive plan, that had been put into place, for when the attack commenced. Once again, he picked out every detail, to them. Each of his officers, knew the plan inside and out. But still they listened to his every word. They had done military exercise days, where every man was made aware of their role in the defence of the fortress. In theory, they were ready. Ready to defend the south west coast of their homeland.

Fantaellen would soon be under attack. War was indeed imminent.

***

Dazed and with a severe throbbing pain across his skull Normauss suddenly awoke from the darkness that had taken him. As, his senses slowly returned, it felt as if his head would explode. He suddenly realised, that he lay prone on the cold stone floor. He could taste blood and dirt. His skull pounded uncontrollably, and as he lifted his head, he realised, that he could not see properly. Normauss winced, when a red-hot pain, unexpectedly, seared through every fibre, of his body. It took his breath away.

Still, dazed and groggy, Normauss wobbled, then staggered, as he tried, to pull himself up. As a direct consequence, the troll, instantly decided to remain seated, rather than trying to stand up. For now, the effort required, was too great.

Rubbing his head, that felt like a smashed rock, he began to, cautiously look around. Within, the dimly lit room, the troll could make out, blurred shadows, and shapes.

As his sight now gradually returned, Normauss became aware of a cloaked figure, in a corner of the room, hidden by the shadows. The figure seemed to be standing, with their back turned to him. A large hood, over their head.

The cloaked figure turned to face Normauss from the shadows and stepped forward. The troll now realised, how tall, the person or the creature was. He could not make out any facial features apart from two icy blue eyes that stared directly at him.

Normauss’s gaze, quickly became fixed on a poor wretch of a creature that the cloaked figure had hold of. Over its mouth, was a hand. At its neck, a small blade. The troll, instantly gasped when he realised, who it was.

‘Altoa!’ he screamed, as he started to charge towards the cloaked figure, who, on seeing the troll moving at a speed, pulled the blade closer, to the creature’s neck. The creature, immediately winced, as the blade, drew a little blood. This stopped Normauss, dead in his tracks.

The troll now slowly backed away, in a show of retreat, and submission. His hands held out in acceptance.

A stalemate now prevailed. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.

***

Napoleon Victory, the King of Wulfdaeden, and his most trusted General, Cedric Grafton, were marching, down the cold, dark corridors, of the fortress of fear. The general listened intently, as his master, relayed his order’s, spoken with an impetus, and a motivation, born from some information, that he had received, ‘on the wing’, as he called it, just moments ago.

‘Do you think, the poison will have killed him, by now Sire?’ asked General Grafton.

‘Well,’ began Victory, ‘the hawk, that was chosen, to bring back the intelligence, is the fastest of his breed. You are still looking, at several hours though, for the crossing. The bird’s release signals the poison’s administration. He should be dead by now. The signal to the fleet will be actioned soon. I am sure.’

General Grafton, smiled coldly, at his master’s response.

The two men were dressed in their Blackheart armour. At their sides, their sheathed broad swords. Both men, cut a figure of power, as their heavy footstep’s, echoed down the corridor.

Their stride, presently lengthened, as they neared, their destination. They were both desperate, to hear the intelligence gathered, by one of their spy’s.

Napoleon Victory trusted General Grafton, with his life. Together, they had planned and executed the coup, which had seen the whole Blackheart army, turn against its king, resulting in his gruesome death. It was a bloody business, with heavy losses. Both men, had bled for their cause, and they had the scars, to prove it.

General Grafton’s left ear was missing. Taken clean off his head, by a Fantaellen sword. Napoleon Victory had a long scar on his left cheek, from the corner of his left eye, right down to his lower jaw. Skilful surgeons had managed to save his eye, which he wore a patch over, to cover it.

Both men, had other scars, that defined their look, of a fierce and war like warrior. Their hair was shaved to the bone, as a sign of masculinity. Their presence was truly powerful, and nobody, ever challenged their orders.

Victory and his general, suddenly stopped, as they came to, a large wooden door. The two, Blackheart guards at the doorway, immediately snapped to attention. Their acknowledgement, of the presence of their master and the general, was greeted by a nod from General Grafton.

One of the Blackheart knights directly opened the door for them, and the two men, promptly entered the room.

Napoleon Victory smiled coldly, when he saw Normauss, at the other side of the room. He then nodded, at the cloaked figure.

‘You may go now,’ he growled.

The cloaked figure, side stepped towards the door, whilst still holding the blade, at the throat of his captive. His icy blue eyes stayed fixed on the watching troll, as he slowly made his way, towards the entrance.

Normauss stared, not daring to move, as the cloaked figure left the room, his blade still not moving, from the throat of his terrified captive. The troll’s eyes, followed them, as they left the room, and continued to until the door slammed behind them.

‘That, young Normauss,’ Napoleon Victory started, ‘is a little reminder. We will spill her blood, if we have to, my troll friend. I’m told female trolls, bleed very well.’ A cold, calm and calculated smile, now came over his face, as he waited, for the troll, to react.

Victory suddenly sniggered when he saw Normauss grimace, and then touch, the back of his head.

‘Ah yes. The whack on the head. Well, that was not my doing. My cloaked friend insisted. Sorry about that.’

Victory closed in on the troll. Having chosen, to stand in front of the creature, to intimidate him, with his size and stature, the King of Wulfdaeden, now knelt, in front of Normauss, and stared into his soul.

The troll showed no sign of weakness, his stare unflinching, even though, it felt like his master’s eyes, were going to bore a hole, right through him.

‘I see you Normauss,’ Victory hissed, winking at the troll, and grabbing him by the chin, he pulled him close.

Normauss immediately flinched, at the awful smell, of his master’s rancid breath.

‘Let me down. And she dies.’ Spittle hit Normauss’s face, as Victory said his last few words.

‘Then, I will find the rest of your family and I will massacre them.’

The troll instantly cried out in shock and in pain, when he was suddenly poked, in his left eye, with such force, that his head shot back. Normauss, now lowered his head, and began to rub his eye, as a painful tear, quickly followed.

‘You, I will keep alive, troll. Just.’ Victory’s breathing had increased, and he had become, more excited. ‘Not before taking your eyes. One, at a time.’

Normauss struggled to break free, as Victory now forced open the troll’s mouth.

‘Then, I will take your tongue.’ A wicked, evil smile crept over his master’s face, as he released the troll’s tongue. Normauss choked and spluttered, as he pulled away, in desperation.

‘Finally, I will have you thrown into the deepest, darkest dungeon, to rot. Remember Normauss the troll. You are Mine! I own you!’ The last few words were spoken with such vitriol, that it shook Normauss, to the core.

In an instant, Napoleon Victory’s tone changed, and the wickedness on his face, had suddenly been replaced, with a look of concern.

‘You’re shivering.’ He remarked softly to Normauss, who said nothing.

He just stared. His eyes unflinching and determined, despite the unbearable pain, in his left eye, that was extremely red and weeping uncontrollably.

‘Listen,’ Victory had a gentle hold of the troll’s arm. ‘I do appreciate, what you do for me. For our cause. You have been my eyes and my ears, on the twins. So please. Tell me everything. Since Agent Grimshaw, was persuaded to look after them, on my behalf, have there been, any problems?’

‘No Sire,’ Normauss started, ‘there has been, no enemy activity around the area. It has been very quiet.’

‘Good. That means, that the dying king, or should I say, my hopefully, now deceased brother, seemed to have no idea, of our sister’s betrayal.’ Victory sniggered to himself, once more.

‘That’s good Sire,’ remarked General Grafton.

‘It is General. It is.’ There was a pause, as Napoleon Victory, gathered his thoughts, whilst pacing up and down the room.

Normauss was nervous. He had told, his master the truth. The twins were safe. The troll still felt guilty though. As, if he had lied. He hadn’t. But, the unpredictability of Victory’s moods, made Normauss feel, suddenly vulnerable, and guilty.

‘Anything else to report?’ Victory suddenly asked.

‘No Sire.’

Normauss, now watched nervously, as his master, continued to pace the room. The troll could normally read a situation but this time he was not sure if his master believed him.

The troll’s nervousness, came from a story, that he had made up, to cover his whereabouts, on a mission, a few months ago. He had lied to Victory, and he knew that his master knew. Normauss was sure, that Altoa, had been paraded, in front of him, just moments earlier, as a warning. For it had been his little sister, who he had visited, when he should have been watching the twins. He was willing to bet, that the person in the hood with those blue eyes had followed him and reported back to their master.

The man in the hooded cloak was known as the Assassin. Normauss hated him with a passion. He was sure that the Assassin, felt the same way, about him too. They were rivals. Bitter rivals. They were both, Victory’s best spies. Each working in the shadows to achieve their mission. Normauss had once sworn, to kill him one day. He hoped that day, would come soon. Nobody holds a knife, to his little sister’s throat, and lives. However, that was a mission for another day. Normauss could be patient when he had to be.

Napoleon Victory stared at the short, stocky creature in front of him. He was carefully thinking about what function the troll could serve him next. The King of Wulfdaeden knew of the reputation of the trolls of the Fantaellen mountains. Their cunning, and their abilities to hide in the shadows made them the best trackers in the World of Portaellen. When in battle they also made a fierce adversary.

Even though the troll looked so vulnerable at this moment Victory could still see a fire in the creature’s deep, dark eyes. That fire was the reason that the troll still served a purpose. Victory just had to make sure that he kept him on his side.

A Blackheart guard entered the room with some new clothes for Normauss. As the troll began to dress, Napoleon Victory passed him a sheathed dagger. On the handle, was a raised emblem, of the Tri lance banner, which the troll rubbed his fingers over, as he unsheathed the weapon.

‘Keep that dagger, hidden on your person’, began Victory. ‘I am sending you to where you can be of the most use to me. I am sending you back home. You will be my eyes and my ears in Fantaellen. You will report to General Grafton, who will join you in Fantaellen, within the next few days, because any hour now, our warships will receive the signal, to attack the Fantaellen coastline. The invasion will then begin.’

Normauss quickly dressed. He had been given a white cotton shirt, a pair of black breeches and a black hooded cloak. He had also attached, his sheathed dagger to his belt. He was ready.

‘You may go now Normauss.’ Victory had now closed in on the troll, once more. ‘I expect you to comply. Remember I hold somebody most precious to you.’

‘I won’t forget,’ snapped the troll, his dark eyes, instantly widening.

‘Good. Control that anger, you have. Use it properly.’ Victory suddenly gestured towards the door. ‘Now go,’ he snarled.

Normauss hurriedly made his way towards the door. As he turned the handle, he briefly glanced back at his master. The look of pure hatred that he gave Victory managed to stop the King of Wulfdaeden’s black heart, for a split second. The ferocious and chilling anger in the troll’s eyes, the catalyst.

Victory, instinctively sneered at Normauss, which was followed, by a look of pure distain for the creature, before nodding his head, in acknowledgement of the look, he had been given. He then turned his back, on the troll.

As Normauss closed the door behind him the troll swore, that he would be back one day to bring his sister home.

With Normauss now gone, General Grafton was quick to voice his concerns to his master, about the troll.

‘I know, you don’t trust the creature, Cedric. But he is ideal for the job. Besides we have him held to ransom now. My hope is that once Fantaellen is on its knees, we can bring the rest of the trolls to heel. Normauss will be our way of doing just that.’

‘I still don’t trust him, Sire.’

‘He will comply,’ came the sharp reply. ‘He has too.’

Napoleon Victory began to speak to his general about something more pressing. The twins were now an important piece in his jigsaw. And, he had a plan.

‘I need you to speak to Wulfrik,’ Victory stated.

‘Yes Sire.’

‘The Fantaellen’s will be looking, to take the twins back to Guinlance to keep them safe. Wulfrik and his Wolfdogs are on standby. They await my orders.’

‘Yes Sire.’

‘Send them with half a dozen of your best men to agent Grimshaw’s home. They must bring the twins back here. Alive.’

‘Yes Sire. I will see to it.’

Napoleon Victory was desperate to be The Sovereign of Portaellen. He also needed heirs. Compliant, true blooded ones. He figured that he could make both twins true Wulfdaeden’s by nurturing their minds, their souls, and most importantly, turning their hearts. Just as he had been. The twins were his hope of continuance. The children of a pure, true blood of the direct descendants of the original Portaellen Sovereign.

Victory’s thoughts suddenly took him back to the throne room at Guinlance Castle. The words of his older twin brother ringing in his ears as he was banished from Fantaellen, forever. For a crime that his brother had said was an unforgivable sin. A sin that only the two brothers and the queen knew of.

Before he dismissed his confidant and general the two men went over all their plans and strategies once again. General Grafton watched as his master and friend became animated as they carefully went over his invasion plans.

Upon, dismissing the general the two men embraced, and shook hands.

‘The invasion needs to be fast and lethal,’ Victory stated. ‘Our enemy will then be brought to their knees.’

General Grafton saw the passion in his master’s eyes as he spoke. His pupil’s widened as he finished, ‘Fantaellen will burn! The blood of its people will fuel the flames.’

General Grafton saluted his master, with a thump of his fist on the breast plate of his armour. Then, turning on his heel’s the general marched out of the room.

Cedric Grafton, General of his master’s Blackheart knights had his orders. As he made his way down the cold dimly lit corridors of the Fortress Of Fear he did so with purpose. The blood raced around his body and his evil; black heart pounded in his chest. Never had he felt so alive.

Time was short. Orders to be given. An enemy to bring to its knees.

***

Henri, the Royal Physician had been summoned to a riverbank a few miles outside of Guinlance Castle. The last daylight hours had faded quickly, and the evening chill had kept him awake. He had only managed a few hours’ sleep since the death of the sovereign. A combination of guilt worries and questions consumed his tired mind.

Henri had been told that a body had been found by a patrol of knight’s returning from the coast, and that he with his medical background would be needed to ascertain what had happened to the victim as foul play was not only suspected but certain.

As he dismounted his steed Henri gently patted the horse’s head before walking the creature towards a tree where he tied the reins around the trunk. He then grabbed his medical bag and accompanied a knight who now directed him towards a small, wooded area.

It was eerily quiet. Just a single hoot from an owl disturbing the gentle sound of the River Leife lapping at the riverbank.

‘One of my men spotted him,’ revealed the knight. ‘We haven’t touched the body. Thought it best that we leave it for you. A couple of us recognise him from the castle. We think he was a servant.’

Henri was suddenly curious. ‘How did your man, spot the body from the track?’

‘Bit of luck sir. A call of nature.’

‘I see,’ replied Henri.

They walked the distance to the site of the body in silence which allowed Henri to survey the surroundings. They appeared to be walking deeper into the trees towards the river when he spotted a clearing and a glimpse of the riverbank.

‘Just over here, sir.’

As they neared the body, Henri noticed that it was lying prone with a large pool of blood that had congealed, around the head.

He knelt next to the body and began to roll it over.

‘Here. Let me help you, sir.’ Offered the knight.

Together, the two men rolled the body over.

Henri instantly recognised the dead man. Somehow, he suppressed the urge to gasp or say anything.

After gathering himself together Henri studied the body with more intent. All the time staring at the lifeless face as he did so.

‘He has an obvious wound to his neck,’ Henri confirmed. ‘A knife wound. A deep cut, from left to right.’

As Henri examined the body further, he found a large amount of blood all over the man’s right hand. In all likelihood the victim’s he concluded. Probably the final act of a dying man trying to hold his neck together. As he wiped away the blood his heart suddenly stopped when he saw the blackened fingertips.

Oh! No!

Henri tried to remain calm and carry on his investigation as the events leading up to the death of King Stefan flashed through his head.

A few feet away he noticed a dagger on the ground most likely the dead man’s as only a very panicked killer would leave their weapon behind Henri deduced.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ enquired the knight who could see that the royal physician was visibly shaken and a little distracted.

‘Yes, I’m fine. The sight of dead bodies still gets to me. Strange isn’t it? My profession and I still can’t get used to seeing one. I will be all right, shortly. It will pass.’

‘No problem, sir. I can give you a few moments.’

The knight had been called over to speak to one of his men. So that now left Henri alone with the body.

Henri continued to examine the corpse. Strangely he noticed that the deceased’s left hand was inside his tunic. As Henri pulled out the hand to examine it he could see a chain entwined within stiffened fingers. The royal physician began slowly prising it from the tightened grasp.

The bloodied chain was a dull silver with a small, engraved pendant that appeared to have a prominent raised symbol on the back of it. Craftily, Henri placed it in his pocket. He did not recognise the symbol, but he knew that it did not belong to the victim.

The victim had been an assassin. A killer with blackened fingertips. The mark of a poisoner. And the probable killer of a king and a sovereign.

Walking away from the body Henri had one question in his head. How did this probable murderer of his sovereign get out of Guinlance Castle when it was supposed to be in lockdown? The victim appeared to have no official paperwork upon his person to allow him to leave the castle. So how did he get out?

It was not long before the royal physician had more questions than answers whirling around his tired mind as he rode his steed back towards Guinlance Castle.

He did, however, now know that King Stefan’s death was definitely not a natural one. He believed that he also knew how and what poison was probably used. Furthermore, in his pocket he had a bloodied chain prised from the fingers of the dead man that had a symbol of some significance of which Henri was not sure of yet. That chain held a possible clue to the identity of the killer.

A killer who was either safely hidden behind the walls of Guinlance Castle or was away in the wind and back in the shadows. Were they friend or foe?

Henri had no clue.