Dream of Embers Book 1 Page 14

  Chapter 3

  The Savage Art

  Donniker kept a sly watch from the opening of his tent's flap, seeing the figures outside huddled to one of many campfires. In the night shadow they looked almost human, but that was only until they talked in guttural noises, snarling as much as speaking at times. He could understand them and to an extent speak their language, but he was Master over them, and so they obeyed him in plain King’s tongue.

  They were far yet from civilization, and in towns and crowds of people Donniker always warranted odd looks from a passerby. He had a bony face, his straw coloured hair drawn into a ponytail and his skin, especially on the cheeks, was marred by purple blemishes. Onto that a dreadful blow in a fistfight had set his jaw slightly askew, the broken jaw never having healed properly.

  If only that blow had killed him many said, because there was no loss of life within this man. He was outright filled with malice and spite, and in many countries across the world would have hanged for counts of murder, rape and pillaging if they could but catch him. Having survived this long came down to his ability to finding friends and masters as devious as he, and he was well aware of this need.

  Donniker was not frail, but didn’t have the might or skill to hold his own in battle except if he could ambush from behind with a club or dagger. By the company he kept and consequence of his misdeeds he came over a strange fellow, a wanderer to many obscure places, calling himself the Pilgrim. This was long before now, before Donniker ever had any real talent.

  At the time the Pilgrim kept Donniker safe from some other unsavoury types, who hounded him with greater fervour than any other authority had time for. In exchange the only thing Donniker had to keep up with was the Pilgrim's incessant fables and ramblings of deeds Donniker was sure belonged to men already dead. And he would have written off this man's far-fetched tales if not that he insisted on stumbling through the Starwall on the occasion.

  This at least was enough to get Donniker's attention for a while, and so kept the Pilgrim's company. Nobody, not anyone, ever crossed the Starwall with impunity, what less stumbling through it? And yet the man talked of the lands of the east as though he was there just yesterday, when in fact those lands had been lost to the west centuries by now. He found the stranger an unquantifiable source of knowledge and a constant presence of insanity that seemed to leak through the air and touch everything and everyone around him.

  Yet the madness within the man had an alluring quality and Donniker became enthralled by his abilities. Sensing the malice in Donniker the Pilgrim taught him the power of dreams, how to entreat them and through them bind others to his will. It was soon afterwards that the Pilgrim disappeared and Donniker never saw the man again. He often wondered if he had returned from whence he came.

  At first Donniker merely used the newfound gift as a means to mischief and robbery. But the effect of his power was not substantial on humans, and could not be used other than a catalyst to already troubled environments. Stirring up needless fights in taverns quickly grew tedious and was profitless besides.

  Finally he found a race as sinister as he, and vulnerable to his suggestion. He gave the goblins ambition and greed, and fuelled it with a hate for anything besides themselves. He became a talisman to them and they knew better than to cross his command, because traitors were dealt with quickly.

  With the visions and direction he gave them they were no longer a species squabbling over scraps and holes to live in, or who casts a bigger shadow, but rather a formidable band of merciless raiders. Donniker thought his effort spent forging them into such as vain, until, as he had hoped, he was contacted by the kind that would require his service of murder and mayhem. He had a Master once more.

  As for the goblins he made use of their hate as often as he could, and soon he would need that hate for them to marshal into an assault, for they would break apart and flee without it. Cowards, backstabbers and parasites, all of them!

  Donniker grew worried however, that this hate he imparted on these foul creatures would spill over and sully their discretion, ultimately making them turn on him. But Donniker never spent too much time on it, dismissing the worries with thoughts of great payment, and eventually, being rid of goblins forever. When their use is over and I no longer lead them they will hide again in all that is cave and hollow, and starve out like they wretchedly deserve! He thought in amusement.

  His resentment of them was born from fear. He had seen what they were willing to do to each other, some of them even indulging in cannibalism. He suffered no delusion that they wouldn’t tear him apart in a bout of hunger, only to realize afterwards they had fed upon their only hope of rising out of a miserable existence. To say the least he made sure they were well-fed, if only they were well-fed on each other.

  His only problem was that his followers were as despised as he himself, and had an even a harder time travelling through any kind of civilization. The journey with the goblins however was always swift as they needed little rest, and could scurry across arduous landscapes as well as mountain goats, and did not shy away from hauling Donniker up the most obscure mountain trails one could imagine.

  There was one mountain range they did not even consider; Dunnoom. Even goblins hasted on by a whip would not climb where ice and snow filled the passes and Dunnoom carried the reputation of being the most treacherous mountain on the face of Angaria.

  They did well to stay clear of the roads where the Highwaymen guarded, who did so on behalf of themselves as much as for the King.

  Not all the roads could be avoided, but then not all the Highwaymen were above corruption, and a good few coins bought the road open for them for a crucial few miles at a time, before they got into the hills again.

  There was a wretched eagle in the sky that often followed them regardless of which road they took, three days straight at one stage. Donniker was highly suspicious of it, and he ordered the goblins to capture the blasted thing, and if it suited them, consume it. Whenever he had such a problem that might require a more delicate touch he turned always to Osdasylin, who was best with devices and traps.

  ‘See it caught. It bodes ill and seems like a spy to me,’ said Donniker.

  ‘Spy?’ queried Osdasylin, the goblin sounding as though he thought the idea ridiculous.

  Donniker balled a fist overhead and the goblin cowered, falling over his own feet. ‘How is it that you question everything? Is nothing I say worth taking without comment!’

  ‘I'm sorry Master, it is how I create, I question...’

  ‘Then save your sorry questions for all else besides me. When I issue a command I expect the deed done no matter how little you think of it!’

  ‘Of course Master.’

  Days later the eagle had still eluded them despite their best efforts. This only fuelled Donniker's suspicions of its nature, and agitated as he was, the goblins always became the object of his wrath. When he beat on them it was expected to be taken without defiance.

  He was troubled, on edge. And that was partly because their perilous road hitherto was only to have them on standby. They were, as his Master said, a contingency, and only needed if all else failed.

  Two goblins suddenly jumped at each other, Donniker flinching behind the tent flap at the sudden movement, as the one quickly pinned the other down. They too are growing more agitated, thought Donniker as he realized they were up in arms because of a silly toy Osdasylin had made to keep them preoccupied. Regardless of our summons, we will need to move soon.

  ‘Be sure you are there before Mallova's height, and be ready to act on a moment's notice,’ the summons had said. And they would be; the payment was enough to settle Donniker's debts and then some. Donniker had watched the white moon closely each night, incrementally growing to a full circle.

  The goblin who came away with the toy stood upright momentarily, growling threateningly at his brothers.

  Standing upright, which goblins rarely ever did, they were a head or two shorter than the av
erage man. Mainly they hunched, or squatted at a standstill, their movements were jerky and they didn’t mind using their arms now and then in a run. Their skins, or hides rather, ranged from grey-green, dull-grey or even a sickly black, like a man taken by frostbite. The brows of their faces were heavy above mean eyes set close to each other, noses hooked and mouths drawn in thin grim lines. Most of them looked malnourished, showing lean muscles and the skin pulled tight across the skulls.

  Their hair stank, and the dark strands as it often were, were oily and unkempt, save maybe for battle were they’d tie it into ponies to avoid nuisance. Hair tied up and weapons drawn they were like rodents in a fight, amassing and overwhelming, offering no fair contest, coming in high and low and in from the sides, not even caring if they stabbed one of their own in the process.

  In daytime the goblins carried heavy packs, not so for provisions, which they could get off the land well enough, but rather carrying the parts of their instruments of war. The dream of biting, clawing and screaming did little to improve civility within their identity – they could never organize into cities or cultures, thought Donniker. Ingenuity in war on their part however was maybe unmatched, crude mostly, but ingenious all the same. The best of their contraptions all had a curious collapsible quality, compact, tough and mobile like the goblins themselves.

  The Wheels of Menace as they were called, were for the moment but lengths and rims of wood and bolts of iron, and rope too, but could be quickly assembled for a siege. There were also dark rubber buttresses and metal spirals which Osdasylin had explained would be crucial to survive the tumble.

  They will not be ready for it, thought Donniker in delight. Like the goblins, he enjoyed watching things burn, and where they went towns would burn splendidly. The only thing that had been missing from the stocks had been the incendiaries. Donniker still wondered whether letting his supplier live was a mistake.

  A few nights ago a wagon had rode into their clearing. Like snakes from a nest the goblins emerged from their place of rest, so paranoid of pursuers that there was a wall of spears and many drawn bowstrings pending toward the slow and lonely wagon. Donniker himself approached muttering angrily, telling the goblins to stand down as he recognized the apparent intruder.

  ‘You are late,’ he said to the three men on the wagon.

  Only the leader of them spoke, as the other two men looked highly anxious in the presence of goblins.

  ‘The markers you laid out to follow were hard to see. We had to backtrack several times to pick up the trail again.’

  ‘They were intended to be hard to follow; I did not want Highwaymen tracking us down in the dead of the night.’

  ‘Fair enough I guess,’ said the man.

  ‘Is this the full load?’ asked Donniker.

  The man stood aside and made a sweeping gesture to the wagon behind him, ‘Courtesy of House Sannil, may his generosity and affiliation with pirates never be questioned,’ said the man dryly.

  Donniker spat to the side. ‘Be careful where you say such things, men like Sannil and his father do not fall without dragging all those involved into the pits with him.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Come have a look see,’ said the man as though he didn't hear Donniker's warning.

  Donniker followed him around the wagon to the back end and the man lifted the canvas. Many head-sized clay pots were stacked on each other, wax-sealed, some of them oozing the substance they contained from the lids. The smell intrigued Donniker, somehow familiar, but he could not put a name to it. He leaned in closer, but the smuggler pulled him back and shut the canvas with a jerk. ‘Careful with that torch man, one whiff of flame will set these things alight! They won't burst like Gypsy craft, but they will damn well unleash an inferno if you allow it!’

  This was the first indication that this aloof man feared anything and so Donniker took him seriously. ‘Can I count on it as an instrument of siege?’

  ‘I don't know these things as well as the sea folk do, but they are a fair amount stronger than your everyday lantern oil.’

  ‘Then your part is done, be gone from here,’ said Donniker.

  ‘I'm inclined to have something to eat first, is there nothing like a little goblin hospitality? Besides arrows and bolas I mean?’ asked the aloof man, looking over Donniker's shoulder at the campfire, as though expecting to see something being prepared there.

  ‘The only hospitality they will offer you is putting you on the spit and enjoying you as the main course, take your leave and while you do so be thankful that I did not have them tear you apart just to be cautious about it. You have already proven yourself to have a loose mouth on you.’

  The man held up his hand as though in apology. ‘A man can a take hint, and I'll not talk out, this little encounter won't make good pillow talk even if the girl is paid for the night.’

  For a long while after Donniker was tempted to send out a goblin host and kill the suppliers in the dark.

  A figure outside made his way toward the tent, formally ambling to his Master like an overfed duck. Donniker retreated as the biggish goblin entered, this particular one being the chief among them, named Gerfas.

  The goblin-chieftain Gerfas grumbled before uttering, ‘Message has come Master,’ he said, holding out a letter he had already torn open and read, the contents smeared by grimy fingers.

  Bloody beasts, any idea of etiquette is lost on them... At least he can read…

  Even as Donniker read the letter the goblin spoke out of turn, ironically as though thinking Donniker had any trouble reading.

  ‘It says we must come, Attoras must burn!’

  Donniker smiled. Later, wandering outside among the goblins, he was entranced again by the moon, Rodreon, which for the last couple of days displayed a curious quality, shedding its red light on the mists in the hills, the mists so readily changing to suit the red hue of the heavenly body. He took it as an omen of blood and fire, and they would follow it into the west, into the hills, and unleash this moon's prophecy on the heart of the Northlands.

  II

  A few days after the funeral Shala could not help but notice the restoration of Attoras to its bustling self. The sombreness was swept away by the coming of the westerly wind and the streets closest to the northern wall had the clamour again of a bazaar in harvest time.

  The castle itself had hints of its good humour restored. Shala had come upon a member of the guard being bellowed upon by the Marshal Gibbon, chastising him for not holding by the proper dress code. As it would have it, the man failed to wear boots, and it had become a sorry sight seeing him trying to explain that the castle dogs had eaten them.

  At this Gibbon's voice got explosive and the man stuttered stupidly trying to stick to his excuse (It was the guard named Urad, Shala remembered from the other night).

  The Princess was in a position to vouch for the man at least, and did so. Just this morning two of her father's hounds streaked past her, a big leather boot between their jaws. In their wake came running Urad, his bare feet slapping hard on the castle floor, arms pumping at his sides and a face of panicked aggravation driving it all.

  Shala set after the affair. With her father gone those hounds had only time for two people; the one being Lorrie the kennel Master and the other being Shala herself. She had no problem keeping up with Urad (he wasn't very fast despite the effort he put into the chase) but they had no chance of catching up to the dogs even with them playing tug of war with the boot. Coming around the corner they had managed to see the hounds slip into the big ballroom doors.

  Together they followed inside, the biggest room of the castle often a palace of dust because of its neglect, the curtains drawn so that it was cast in darkness. There they had cornered the hounds and while Shala soothed them Urad tentatively freed the boot from their jaws. In the little light available Shala could see the boot was ravaged beyond use and their chase decidedly vain. But the man thanked the Princess heartily all the same, seeming embarrassed that his situation had draw
n her into this.

  So Shala explained this to Gibbon the Marshal and he nodded understandingly. ‘Very good Highness,’ he said, his moustache quivering, ‘be thankful the Princess stood witness for your story, and there is no excuse for allowing the dogs to get to your boots in the first place. Be off with you!’

  With a curt greeting to the Princess, Gibbon was off and Urad scrambled to someplace less troublesome. Left on her own Shala considered what she should've questioned earlier; where was Lorrie the Kennel Master in all of this? Some other castle constituents had taken the dogs away of course, but of Lorrie there had been no mention.

  Barely out of the encounter Kaell the cook caught up to the Princess, and she sighed internally for the inappropriate amount of time he spent following her. Arriving at the same time however was Rolf the Squire and he had thoughts of a similar kind. ‘You stalk the Princess needlessly cook, I'm sure you have other duties to attend to, don't let me have a talk with Master Jalson!’

  Kaell cowered and was off in an instant, like a chastised dog. If only our hounds were as easily scolded. Now Shala was simply annoyed; she'd much rather trade Rolf's company for Kaell's.

  ‘You should let me escort you more often Highness, I will keep these pests away,’ said the Squire.

  ‘I'm sure that you would, but the real pests are those of the court and if I ignore or dismiss their attentions I would be an unfit Queen. Is there something you wanted to say Squire?’

  ‘Yes Highness, I know not if you heard but there was a herald of trumpets... the Lord Patrick of Sannil and his father, they have arrived Highness. I would expect that Your Highness would wish to greet his entourage at the gates.’

  ‘I would not!’ said Shala and Rolf could barely contain his surprise. ‘My father's funeral is over and they were not in attendance. They have no reason to be here!’

  ‘Your Highness, they have travelled a far road, it would be unjust to send them back now,’ said Rolf hesitantly.

  ‘Indeed, but luckily I owe them nothing more than the courtesy of my home. Let Master Dieral attend to them and arrange for them lodging befitting royalty.’

  ‘You will not come out to see them then Highness?’ asked Rolf.

  ‘No, I'm not fit for company as I am now. I spent my morning chasing a pair of dogs and so I'm in need of a very long bath. I expect I won't be done till nightfall.’

  Shala made good on her word and no one outside her chambers saw her again that day. She had that bath she talked about and afterwards she worked on directives that needed her revision and approval, sitting at her desk and studying them privately. Swarztial had been trying to swamp her with pleas of the kingdom and paperwork - now she answered them pre-emptively, and by morn sent them out to court and let them deal with it on their own. She worked well into the night, neglecting to eat, by the end of it looking satisfactorily at the heap of parchments. Standing up she opened the music box on the mantelpiece and climbed into bed.