The Cyber Chronicles - Book I: Queen of Arlin

Torrian frowned at his advisors, who studied their feet and shifted uneasily. The tense silence in the banquet hall was broken only by the sputtering of torches and the scratching of a dog under the table. Suits of armour stood in the corners, and fading tapestries adorned the walls between coats of arms and battle banners. The wrought-iron chandelier that hung on a stout chain from the open beams cast flickering light on silver cutlery and golden goblets. A fire roared in the vast hearth, warming the room and the three wolfhounds that basked on a bearskin rug in front of it. The hall’s décor, and indeed the rest of the castle, reflected Torrian’s penchant for the trappings of hunting and battle, its walls hung with trophies and weaponry.

  After two days on the dusty road from Olgara and a further week to reach his castle, Torrian’s temper was frayed beyond any foreseeable hope of repair. His ego still smarted from the insults Tassin had rained upon his head and the ease with which she had escaped him. He had summoned the advisors to the banquet hall soon after his arrival, to suffer the brunt of his ire. Torrian presided over a cooling feast, his appetite gone. Only the rich wine in his goblet interested him. The King’s eyes flitted over his elderly counsellors and came to rest on Gearn, who shuffled.

  Torrian growled, “You have failed me, mage. Your wolves failed. Now that accursed man has stolen her away again. He is truly a powerful magician. More powerful than you, I suspect.”

  Gearn’s eyes gleamed. “I could defeat him, Sire, but they will surely die in the Badlands.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. If that man is as great a wizard as he seems, he may well be able to cross the desert and the Death Zone.”

  “What will that avail them? The Queen cannot rule her land from the other side of the desert, Sire. She will return.”

  “Maybe. But I am not a patient man. As long as she is free, I am denied her kingdom and its riches, for which my men have fought and died. I demand a solution to this. I want her back here!”

  “Sire.” Gearn bowed. “I have no other solution to offer. Perhaps you should send more soldiers after her.”

  Torrian snorted. “We all know soldiers cannot defeat that man. He is a mage!” The King leant forward, his eyes narrowing. “No, you will go after them, Gearn. You will defeat him, as you say you can, and bring the Queen back.”

  “Sire, I am honoured that you have such faith in me, but... what if I cannot?”

  “Then you will pay for your failure, I suspect, with your life. You are a great wizard, Gearn. The best in all the kingdoms, am I right? Certainly that is what you have always boasted, so perhaps now is the time to prove it. This may be the challenge for which you have been waiting. I want that girl brought back here, and I have ordered you to perform this task. I do not care how you do it. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Gearn bowed low, his cadaverous face pale. The rest of the advisors had slumped when Torrian had focussed his anger on Gearn, and some of them shot the mage smug looks. They had long resented his high status and privileged position with the King, earned with the unsavoury arts of magic, most of which they thought were trickery. Gearn had not helped matters by being arrogant and rude, which meant that he had no friends amongst the advisors. Torrian dismissed them, and they filed after Gearn, who stalked out with an air of proud determination. Torrian pulled a leg from a roasted fowl and gnawed it, ignoring the whining dogs that watched him with hungry eyes.