Chapter 19
Ruling Hand
Venger sensed something was wrong the moment he set foot in the dungeons.
It was almost silent, and there was an impression of fear in the air. As it should be, no doubt, but there was a raw edge to the fear, as powerful as hatred itself.
He swept onwards, heading towards his prize, the Young One that he had captured, with a thin smile on his lips. He had it all within his grasp; his ultimate revenge upon his father and the other children was so close. Nothing would stand in his way.
He opened the door of the last room of the dungeons, expecting to see the boy waiting in over-awed dread. But instead he saw the Orc Captain poised to take his prize and taint it.
Fury, the like of which he had never before experienced, rose inside him at the scene. Then the leering Orcs turned in terror to their Master. Even the boy, naked on the floor, looked around at the Arch-Mage, his expression dulled with frightened confusion. Blood trickled from a cut on his forehead down the side of his temple and his cheek, to drip quietly on the floor like the tick of a water-clock.
Venger watched the drops of red liquid fall and spatter on the ground for a few moments, the scene frozen as he stood there: The three Orcs cowering, the boy, and the blood.
How dare they touch his prize! How dare they even think to touch something he had schemed so long to get hold of, something so important to his plans? How dare they? How dare they!
‘M-M-Master…?’
It was the last understandable word the Orc Captain ever said.
Venger flicked his right hand out, dazzling red flame exploding from his fingers and there was an unremitting scream of agony. Venger basked in the sound for a moment.
Then the last vestiges of the cry echoed away, and Venger looked at the two remaining Orcs, standing like terrified ice-statues in their craven positions of submission. Close by, there was barely a wisp of smoke to show where the Captain had been only a few moments before.
The Cavalier was cowering on the ground, his hands covering his ears, and he seemed to be barely able to understand what had just happened. For a few moments longer, everything was still. Then Venger looked down on his prize, seeing the thick red line snaking over his face.
Venger growled, his fury still unsatisfied, and the Arch-Mage reached down and grabbed the boy by the arm, pulling him roughly upright. With the warm flesh crushed and bruised beneath his hand, he could feel the boy’s delicious fear flowing out of every pore; weakened, disorientated and alone.
This was the perfect moment to perform the Ritual for Change. The boy would be unable to refuse anything. His spirit, even his very soul, would be consumed by Venger’s pervasive will.
It was time.
= = =
Sheila pushed back the curtain of the tent, not sure what or who she expected to find.
Inside, the tent was plainly decorated with few pieces of furniture; there was a makeshift table, a chair, and another curtain at the back, presumably hiding somewhere to sleep.
Leaning against the table, at the very centre, in pride of place, was a copper coloured longsword with a bulbous handle. Sheila looked at it, taking another step forward into the tent to see it more clearly.
There seemed to be no one else around, but the sounds from outside filled the tent, making her still feel vulnerable. She waited for a minute, but there was no one, so she moved forward towards the wooden table, still looking at the sword.
It was taller than she’d thought it was from the door, perhaps just more than half her own height. The coppery tinge was marked in the low light of the tent, and the pommel was set with a large yellow gemstone the size of her fist.
Awed as she was, Sheila resisted the urge to touch it. It seemed a powerful weapon and whoever had left it there would not be pleased if she treated it as a toy.
With such a valuable object in the tent, she was surprised that there was no one there on guard.
She crept quietly forward, looking around, seeing more detail in the lovingly fashioned curtains, and the lattice-backed chair.
Then she realised there was a noise like breathing coming from near the back. Her hand went to her Cloak, but she didn’t pull the hood up. Instead she followed the noise, moving round the table, away from the sword and closer to the back. She peeped round the partition curtain with the sudden understanding that whoever lived in this tent was asleep behind it.
Sure enough, there was a man there, resting fully dressed on top of a small bed as if taking a short doze.
And sleeping on the floor near his feet was Uni!
‘Uni!’ Sheila squeaked in joy.
At the sound, the man twitched in his sleep, but the unicorn came awake instantly. She looked up at Sheila but didn’t stand. Sheila rushed forward, keen to pet the unicorn.
‘At last I’ve found you!’ said Sheila. ‘Oh, Uni!’
‘Meah,’ came the weak reply. She petted the creature, the joy in her heart tempered. The Unicorn was horribly thin and gangly. There was a large, bald patch down one of her sides that looked suspiciously like the mark of a foot. Uni lifted up her head, tipping it slightly to one side, to stare at Sheila with dulled pink eyes.
As Sheila petted her, the unicorn twitched and reared back, sniffing the air then recoiling in a way Sheila had never seen.
‘Uni? What’s wrong?’
Uni stayed back at first, but slowly, she drew closer, as if realising that this really was Sheila. Finally, Uni allowed the Thief close enough to slip her arm round Uni’s neck. She could feel how thin and bony the animal was, and looked again, seeing her ribs clearly down her flanks.
‘Oh, Uni what happened to you?’ she asked, holding Uni’s face in her hands.
‘We do not know,’ said a familiar voice.
Sheila looked round. The man had awoken and had propped himself up on his elbows. He was looking at her with a warm familiar smile on his face and for the second time in as many minutes Sheila’s heart leapt.
‘Lawrence?’
The King’s smile grew, and he nodded.
‘Sheila.’
A moment later, she was in his arms holding the man tightly as if afraid she was just imagining him. Of all the people she expected to meet again in the Realm, King Lawrence of Zinn wasn’t one of them.
He looked different, his beard was gone, his hair cut short. He seemed thinner too, and was wearing only a light tunic and pants, not the full kingly regalia that she always associated him with.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked at last, pulling back so she could look at his face again. ‘What about the army? The Orcs? What’s happening?’
‘There will be time for questions and answers,’ he said. ‘But for now, you must come with us. I cannot allow you to venture back in to the territory of the enemy. We must return to the main column of the Army, and we must report back to the King.’
‘Army?’ asked Sheila. ‘King? But you’re still the King of Zinn, aren’t you?’
Lawrence nodded.
‘I rule the lands of Zinn, but no further. And I do not doubt much has happened to you and your friends, but there is much happening in the Realm as well. There will be war.’
‘War?’ Sheila frowned, and shook her head. ‘But how? Why?’
‘There will be time for questions later, Sheila.’ He took a firm grip on her shoulder, looking down to meet her eyes with a sad expression. ‘And for your own safety, while you are here, you must do as I command.’
Sheila was too surprised at his stern tone to argue. She nodded.
‘Very well,’ Lawrence said, his hands dropping to his side. There was a plaintive bleat from Uni. Immediately, Sheila knelt down once more, petting the Unicorn gently.
‘But Uni?’ she asked. ‘What about her? How did you find her? What’s happened to her?’
‘Her discovery was no more than chance,’ Lawrence said, leaning down to pet the weary looking animal on the head. ‘She was found by one of our scouts, and he brought her back to me. I have kept her safe.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sheila, her voice shaking with emotion. ‘Bobby will be so pleased to know she’s alive.’
Lawrence looked at her, but didn’t ask any questions.
There was the sound of hurrying feet outside and the tent door swished opened. The boy Sheila had helped was there, along with another, taller man who was carrying a sword and shield and dressed in the manner of a Zinn Guard.
‘Captain Muro!’ said Lawrence standing. ‘What news?’
‘My King, the Orcs are close, much, much closer than we thought. Lorne was at their camp and…’ Sheila didn’t hear the rest, as she was suddenly staring at the boy. Lorne? Was that the same Lorne? The hair was shorter, the face seemed more narrow as well. Was that really the same person?
Then he smiled at her, a smile that gave her a sudden and painful reminder of Eric’s disappearance, and she realised he was the same boy.
‘My lady?’ said Lawrence. ‘Do you not agree?’
Sheila realised he’d asked he a question and she had no idea what it was.
‘I know this is not what you were expecting,’ said Lawrence, ‘but we must ride out. Do you understand?’
From his expression, Sheila could tell that this question was only a formality and she suddenly wished she had been paying more attention rather than gawping. She nodded.
‘Very well, Captain,’ said Lawrence. ‘Sound the retreat.’
‘Yes, my King.’ With a swish of the tent curtain, the Captain was gone.
Lawrence moved to pick up the Unicorn, cradling her in his arms, then he passed her to Sheila. Uni bleated quietly, and Sheila was shocked at how light and frail she seemed. Then Lawrence took the Thief by the arm, guiding her firmly to the door where Lorne still waited in silence.
‘Lorne, I expect you to take care of her. If all else falls, you must be sure to escort her to the army, to the King himself. Do you hear? And no going off on your own?’
Lorne bowed.
‘Yes, my King,’ he said.
Hearing his voice, any doubts that this was the same boy they had befriended a few months ago vanished. Sheila turned back to Lawrence to say goodbye, seeing him reach out and pick up that beautiful sword, a sad, despairing look on her face. The words seemed to catch in the front of her mouth, and she couldn’t say anything at all.
‘Come on, Sheila,’ said Lorne, tugging her sleeve.
She let herself be guided out, still hugging Uni close to her chest, and constantly looking back to Lawrence’s tent.
But around her, the camp was in turmoil, with men moving constantly, and the smell of mud and iron and sweat. Close by, there were the familiar shouts and cries of the Orcs.
Lorne kept pulling Sheila onwards, way from the main part of the camp.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked at last. ‘Lorne?’
He faced her, his face more stern than she could ever have imagined it being.
‘We must do as the King says. We must leave now, before it’s too late.’
Sheila gulped. Too late for what?
= = =
Hank let them stop just a few miles out from the village, in the shade of a great tree. Bobby and Presto rested while he gathered a few nuts and berries for their meager dinner.
Almost as soon as they had stopped, Presto closed his eyes, his face the colour of wet stone. They didn’t set a fire, though the evening was cold, and Hank waited until Bobby had eaten and had fallen into a troubled sleep before forcing Presto awake.
Presto twisted and turned in Hank’s grip, struggling to get away. Then abruptly, his eyes opened wide, and he jerked back, gasping for breath.
‘H-H-Hank…?’
‘Take it easy, Presto.’
‘Hank. It’s you.’
The Ranger nodded slowly, watching the fluctuating expressions on Presto’s face. Now it actually came to the moment, talking to the other boy was the last thing he wanted to do. Then Presto shuddered, as if about to be sick, and Hank moved forward to support him. A moment later, the tenseness passed, and Presto leaned against Hank’s shoulder. The Ranger half expected him to start to cry once more, but instead Presto remained quiet.
During the walk, Hank had thought about how to approach this moment many times, toying with many different opening gambits to broach the subject gently. None of them seemed appropriate anymore.
‘What happened?’ Hank asked. ‘All those days we were apart. You’ve got to tell me what happened to you.’
Presto lifted his head from Hank’s shoulder, but didn’t look at him.
‘I want to tell you,’ Presto murmured, looking to the ground. ‘You’ve got to believe me. But I can’t.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
Presto shook his head, shuddering as he did so.
Then, for the first time that evening, the Magician looked at Hank directly, keeping eye contact in a way that was highly out of character, and that made Hank feel uncomfortable. It was almost as if Presto was trying to look inside him.
Staring back, Hank forced himself not to move. He was not going to look away first. He was not going to back down.
The silence grew between the two boys, and though Hank was struggling to keep his resolve, he could see Presto shaking, small beads of sweat on his forehead and top lip.
Was there some kind of battle raging inside Presto that he couldn’t understand? Why was Presto struggling so much with the question?
‘Please don’t ask me,’ said Presto. ‘Please.’
‘Presto, there’s only three of us left,’ said Hank. It was a low, mean trick to pull in such a situation, but he desperately needed answers. ‘Diana’s gone. Sheila’s vanished. And there’s Eric.’
He put special emphasis on that last word, watching Presto for a reaction. But the Magician just looked blankly at him, his eyes gazed.
‘You don’t understand,’ Presto said.
‘Then help me understand. Tell me. Let me help you.’
A full shudder passed through the Magician.
‘I can’t.’ His voice was no more than a tiny whisper. ‘He won’t let me.’