Two local farmers plodded towards her, men she knew slightly. She pulled Justina aside to let them pass. As they drew abreast, they stopped, staring. Torina sat waiting for them to move on, caught in a vague sense of foreboding.
‘Vineda?’ one asked.
The sun was lowering, but there was still enough light to be able to tell who she was. Torina looked into the man’s lined face. ‘What is it?’
‘It is you, Vineda?’ he persisted.
‘Yes.’
‘Why, lass, you’re beautiful. Don’t believe I’ve ever seen you with your hair down.’
Raising her hand, Torina felt damp strands. No kerchief. When did she lose it? It must have been during the ride. Now they had seen her and, if anyone asked about a red-haired woman, they could answer. No use asking them to say nothing. This was news.
‘Thank you,’ she faltered, guiding Justina off the road. ‘I must be going.’ She plunged through the shadows, not looking back.
For years, she had hidden her head. Now, in a moment of carelessness, all that secrecy was undone. It doesn’t matter! After so long, Vesputo, along with everyone else, believes I’m dead.
An ominous cloud followed her. She glanced nervously round, as drops began pelting her bare head. Swift, harsh lightning cut the air. Torina’s dress was soon drenched, while Justina bent to the whipping wind.
When they reached home, there was no solace in being there. As Torina rubbed Justina in the dark stable, everything she saw, all she did, seemed to belong to someone dead.
‘We’ll go away,’ she told her horse. ‘We can’t stay here, between worlds. We’ll go to Desan and live.’
Pushing out of the stall, she staggered to her cabin, hounded by the wailing storm. Inside, she stopped to light a fire, while rain and wind rattled the whole place. When she sank into her chair, her skin burned with fever.
Vesputo was resolved to unleash the Sword of Bellandra at last. Thanks to his careful efforts, the best of the allied forces from Dahmis’ coalition of kings were gathering in one spot, within his domains. Now would be the perfect time to strike, to master them all.
Kareed never used the Sword. He disdained Bellandra’s magic enough to brave it head on, but feared to tangle with the curse.
Kareed’s warning, that the Sword would bring doom to anyone who used it for conquest, had struck Vesputo forcefully when he first heard it, the day they locked the Sword away in the vault. But that one glimpse of the magnificent weapon had been enough to stoke his ambition for almost a decade. History and legend agreed that whoever wielded the Sword became invincible. The thought of the Sword’s curse was losing sway. The beautiful thing had lain untouched all this time. It must not have any power unless held by human hands.
Kareed lacked the courage to take up the Sword and use it. I have the strength. Destiny has delivered this weapon to me.
Vesputo believed the only reason the pacifist fool, King Veldon, had been conquered, was because he never lifted the Sword to defend Bellandra, trusting in its reputation alone to ward off enemies. The Sword was last raised in battle during the time of Veldon’s great-great-grandfather, Landen the First. Ironic that his distant grandson and namesake had been dispossessed before coming of age.
Landen. Every time Vesputo thought of him, it rankled more. The man had been locked in the deepest recesses of the castle, and escaped. The bounty hunter disappeared along with him, and Vesputo still wondered what role the mysterious Corbin played. Was he in league with Landen? It was the only sound explanation. But why would Landen allow himself to be imprisoned, only to vanish? Aside from Vesputo’s ring nothing had been taken except a pair of grey stallions – surely not enough to risk freedom and life for.
Did Landen come out of hiding just to laugh in my face? In his place, I would have killed.
Yes, the time had come. Vesputo’s destiny had arrived. He would take up the Sword, and take his rightful place in history.
Filled with suppressed excitement, Vesputo dismissed his guards and descended the stairs to the secret vault alone. His torch flickered on dim walls. With rising anticipation, he entered the vault.
Thrusting the torch ahead, his first thought was that the pyramid box had been moved: it wasn’t in his line of sight. Hands turning to ice, Vesputo searched the four walls. All he saw were scattered shadows of covered boxes too small to hold the Sword. Fighting panic and rage, he examined the musty room, casting about with the smoking light. Nothing.
It had to be there. Setting the torch in a sconce on the wall, he uncovered each box in the dank space. There were few, and he was soon done. The Sword of Bellandra was gone. All that was left to him was dust. Sitting on a mouldering wooden case, he beat his fist into his palm.
How? Vesputo wasn’t superstitious, had always felt master of his fate. It never occurred to him to explain this disappearance as a conspiracy of magic. No, this was the work of a human being.
Who?
He sat fingering his ring of keys, counting them over till he touched the one to this vault.
Only the king has this key.
Suddenly, he was gripping the engraved metal so hard it cut him. Blood dripped on the floor and he never noticed.
He remembered how he got back his missing keys. A group of frightened young soldiers had approached him in a body, each too afraid to get near him alone. They swore the king’s keys were found on the courtyard steps, the morning of Landen’s disappearance.
Landen. The keys. He locked his cell again when he left, so people would think Bellandran magic spirited him away, but I know he had the keys. That would explain his coming. That would account for him putting himself in my power. To gain the Sword of Bellandra.
Vesputo grasped the torch again, holding it close to the floor. His own footprints were clear, trampling the dirt. Everywhere else, the floor had been swept, showing no trace of trespassers.
They were here. I know it. Landen and Corbin. But if he took it, why hasn’t he used it? And how did he know where to find it? The greatest secret in my kingdom. I’ve told no one, no one at all. Kareed must have revealed the place to someone else.
Who?
Was it Torina again? Had she discovered where Landen had gone? Seen the Sword in that stone of hers, and told him where it was?
However it happened, the Sword was gone, and with it Vesputo’s cherished plans to master the allied armies immediately. Without the legendary weapon, only a fool would try an attack now; he’d be outnumbered and outfought. And Vesputo had never been a fool: no, he would simply have to bide his time a while longer.
The angry king arranged his face for public scrutiny and left the vault. He would never tell what he knew about the Sword of Bellandra. Let it remain as it had been, a mystery enhancing his power.
If Landen has it, I’ll find a way to take it back.
Above ground, Vesputo strode through the halls, wishing he could find some object to vent his fury on.
Beron came running to meet him, waving letters. ‘My lord!’
Vesputo longed to kick the man, as he would an annoying hound. ‘What is it?’
Beron looked right and left. ‘Private, sir.’
They went to the council room. Beron handed him two messages. Vesputo read them, then sat back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, feet up. He let Beron wait a few minutes, till he could sense the man’s overbearing agitation.
‘She is found.’
‘The pr—’
‘Yes. Just across the mountains in Desante. Both messages agree. A quiet, sheltered country village.’ Vesputo spoke with clipped satisfaction.
‘Why did no one tell us before, sir?’ Beron’s eyebrows met in a single line.
‘She always kept her hair hidden, until now. She must believe she’s out of danger.’
Vesputo closed his eyes and let this news spread like balm over the wound of the Sword’s loss.
‘Shall I ride for Desante, sir?’ Beron was like an attack dog straining at the leash.
&
nbsp; Vesputo smiled. ‘Not yet, Captain. You’re needed here now, until the war is finished. I want that crystal, and I want that woman, but I want them in my own time and way.’
Beron’s forehead furrowed with the effort to understand. ‘How’s that, sir?’
‘The allied kings know Dahmis consults a seer. Through him, she’s helped many of them. Now that she’s refusing to work with the high king, it will be easy to spread rumours that she’s turned against him. Then, when allied lives are lost at Sliviite hands, the fortuneteller can be blamed. We’ll sow the story among the common soldiers that Dahmis’ seer has given information to the Sliviites. You can help me in this, Captain.’
Torina would serve Vesputo without ever knowing it. The only hitch in his plans to collaborate with the Sliviite lords involved the possibility of suspicion landing on him. No one must guess it was Vesputo who told the Sliviites which bay would be least protected. Torina’s abilities with the crystal made her a believable target for the rage and grief that would follow the allied defeat. I want her to be anathema, respected by no one.
He held out the messages. ‘See to it the spies are paid what was promised.’
King Dahmis looked at Michal in a nearby chair, then past him through the open door.
‘Come, Dahmis. Brooding and pacing won’t give the messengers wings.’
‘I need Vineda,’ Dahmis answered. ‘There are too many bays to guard!’
‘Why doesn’t she help you?’ his friend asked.
‘She broke with me when I signed alliance with Vesputo. It seems she hates that king.’
‘I’m not fond of him myself.’ Michal smiled wryly.
Loud, clattering footsteps approached. The king hurried forward, met by a breathless guard.
‘My lord, a messenger!’ The guard ushered in a mud-spattered man in brown uniform.
‘My lord!’ The messenger was shuddering with fatigue.
Dahmis guided the soldier to a chair and made him sit. ‘Something to drink?’
‘No, sir.’ The man clutched his chest, catching his breath. Mud from his clothes smeared the king’s furniture.
‘Drink!’ Dahmis handed the spent soldier a glass. The man seized it and gulped.
‘Now. The message? Who sent you?’
‘A navy lookout’s message reached Captain Medron. He sent me.’
‘Medron? He is posted at—’
‘Castle Bay, sir.’
‘Castle Bay?’ Dahmis’ knees weakened. ‘Tell me.’
‘The lookout spotted the Sliviite fleet. Unless the wind changes, they’ll land in hordes by morning of the day after tomorrow.’
‘The Sliviites are headed for Castle Bay?’ Dahmis forced himself to understand the soldier’s meaning.
‘Yes, sir. It must be the main attack. There are so many of them!’
‘That bay is small and remote.’ Dahmis reviewed the disposition of his troops. Many at Bellan Bay in Archeld. Others guarding the coasts of northern Glavenrell and Emmendae, where large bays were numerous. Castle Bay was about a day’s ride from Glaven City. It was sparsely populated and little used, being too small to accommodate ships of any size.
‘Aye. Small. They’ll be invading with longboats – won’t be able to bring in the big vessels.’
‘How many ships?’
‘The lookout counted forty, sir.’
‘Forty ships! I’ve been told they can each hold seven hundred men.’
‘Big.’ The man nodded.
‘Almost thirty thousand men! Even if they leave a crew aboard each, we can never hope to match their numbers.’ Dahmis estimated that no matter how fast soldiers marched, less than a thousand men could gather at Castle Bay in a day and a half. He himself had argued with his generals that the rocky peninsula of Glavenrell was the least likely place for an invasion to arrive. The Sliviite vessels would seek large bays, to maximize their cannon power and give them access to land. Or so he’d believed, and so he’d persuaded his generals.
‘Captain Medron’s men?’ the king pressed.
‘Camped just south of the bay, waiting your orders, sir.’
‘How many?’
‘One hundred, sir.’
Dahmis turned to Michal. ‘How can the enemy have chosen Castle Bay? Our forces are weakest there, and furthest from reinforcements. It’s as if they knew.’
His mind roved. Not many had the general positions of all the troops. The kings. The generals. Unthinkable that any of them, with so much to lose, would relay information to the Sliviites. Fields burned in Glavenrell or Desante would mean widespread famine. If anything united them all, it was collective resolve to beat the Sliviites.
‘Sir,’ the soldier threw in. ‘It’s said your fortuneteller turned against you and became informer to the Sliviites.’
Dahmis wheeled on him. ‘Impossible.’
‘I only repeat what I heard,’ the man fumbled.
Images of Vineda spiralled and sparked through the king’s mind. He bent a stern look on the soldier. ‘Do not repeat it again,’ he ordered. ‘Now, tell me, do you know how long it will take for the lookout’s news to reach the other troops?’
‘Nothing will be spared to give them messages, my lord, but all are far away from your peninsula.’
The king moved to the door. ‘Michal, we ride to Castle Bay. Thank you for bringing the news, soldier. When you’re rested, follow. We’ll need every available man.’
As Dahmis and his friend hurried through the immaculate halls of Glavenrell’s fortress, the king shouted orders, calling for messages to be sent to every corner of the kingdoms, for his remaining guard to ready themselves instantly for a march, for Bellanes to be given the news.
‘Though God knows we’ll need more than the Band of Bellanes to stem this tide,’ he said.
When the high king rode into Medron’s camp, it was early evening and the air was chilly. He ordered the troops to get some rest. Sitting by the fire next to Michal, he listened as Medron told them all he knew. The captain confirmed the Sliviite fleet on the horizon.
Head in hands, the king wondered how the few hundred men he had mustered could hold back thousands. He gazed so deeply into his thoughts he was startled when Bellanes and Andris stepped into the firelight.
‘Bellanes. Good to see you, my friend. And you, Andris.’
Bellanes’ lean face looked as if he’d wrestled for days with a terrible foe. He seemed years older and full of sadness.
‘As you see, Bellanes, your prediction was true. You know the battle we face. How can we surround an army that launches from the sea? The wind has dropped and I believe they’ll land by morning, before more troops can journey here. I fear this night will tell our futures.’
‘The only way is to strike where you aren’t expected,’ Bellanes said.
‘We’re expected to be very much as we are – a small force far from reinforcements, arrayed against the biggest gathering of pirates ever seen.’ The king’s voice was hollow with worry.
‘You must destroy their ships, which hold great numbers of fighters.’ Bellanes spoke heavily.
‘My navy is south. It would take days to reach us and is no match for the Sliviite ships.’
‘Castle Bay is famous for making pitch?’ Bellanes seemed not to hear him.
Dahmis turned in bewilderment to Medron. The captain nodded. ‘The people produce pitch that lights hearths from here to Archeld.’
‘How many men can I have?’ Bellanes asked the king.
‘Perhaps a thousand by morning.’
‘I need thirty-four, to combine with my band. Steady, brave men. Strong swimmers.’
‘When do you need them?’
‘Now.’
Castle Bay fishermen and coal-tar workers were roused and sent scurrying to bring coracles and buckets of oozing pitch. Carpenters donated braces and augers. Women collected paraffin-soaked rags.
During all this bustle, Landen stood alone on a beach by the southern rim of Castle Bay, staring out at the dark wav
ing water.
Father, you taught me that taking a life is an unforgivable offence. I have lived as a warrior, because your peace was sacrificed in a war you couldn’t fight. But until tonight, I’ve never killed. Now I plot against the lives of thousands of men, and my plan is so dangerous it will surely end in the death of many of my friends.
Landen didn’t hear the high king approaching. When Dahmis touched his shoulder, he turned despondently.
‘My friend,’ the king said. ‘You don’t need to go yourself. If you’re killed, there’s no replacement.’
‘There’s no replacement for any of these men,’ Landen answered. ‘And I have no family.’
Dahmis was quiet a moment, and Landen wanted to lean against him. ‘Bellanes,’ the deep tones were softened. ‘It’s still rumoured that you’ve never killed.’
Landen’s chest felt as if it would burst. ‘The rumour is true.’
‘Then let these soldiers undertake your strategy.’
‘I can’t stand by while others take my orders to risk their lives.’
The king put an arm round the young man and steered him to walk along the narrow beach. ‘You never told me who your parents were.’
‘They’re dead,’ Landen mumbled.
Dahmis’ compassionate face soaked up moonlight. ‘But once they lived. Who are you?’
The question seemed taken up by the restless ocean, sent back to Landen in swells of water, rolling towards him from some unknown source beyond the horizon. Who are you? Who are you?
‘I am what you see before you,’ Landen choked out.
The king sighed. ‘Bellanes, those men on board the Sliviite ships – you didn’t make them train for pirates. You never taught them to maim and kill.’
Landen waited for the king to keep speaking. It seemed his life hung there in the path of the moon.
‘We find ourselves at a juncture in history, wishing for peace, headed for war,’ Dahmis went on. ‘If we allow this invasion, our culture will be destroyed. Even if we escape with our lives, many innocent, unarmed people will be hurt or will die.’