Dark North

Thirty

The last leg of Trelawna’s journey was the most arduous she had ever known.

They followed a narrow, uneven road, along an undulating spine of rock, on either side of which lay appalling chasms. Strong winds buffeted them; icy rain drenched them. All three — Trelawna, Gerta and their sole escort, Centurion Marius — were weary to the point of collapse. Their horses walked slowly, stumbling constantly. When they finally left the exposed ridge, they entered a deep cleft, a tight passage between sheer granite walls. For several hours they followed this torturous route, passing beneath rusted portcullises which were raised and unguarded.

The journey’s end came as dusk was falling. They left the narrow way and found themselves on the lip of a crevasse, crossed by a wooden drawbridge, on the far side of which an arched, black tunnel led into the belly of a colossal stone fortress. In the middle of the bridge, a figure waited for them. He stood eight feet in height, his gargantuan form draped in crimson robes and cowl. When he glanced up to appraise them, a truly monstrous face was exposed — brutish and bestial, covered with silver-grey fur.

Fingers of ice touched Trelawna’s heart. She still remembered the haunting dream she’d suffered on the night she’d thought Lucan was dying — the pursuit through the thorn-wood by something more terrible than she could ever imagine. The very thing that now seemed to be blocking their path to the castle.

Centurion Marius dismounted and led his animal onto the drawbridge.

“I am Leobert Marius, Centurion Primus of the Fourteenth Legion,” he said. “I come here under license of Tribune Felix Rufio, charged with escorting his bride-to-be and her servant-woman. We have travelled long and hard, and would appreciate admittance.”

The bestial face glowered at him with indifference. Only after an age did the powerful figure turn away and walk towards the entrance passage. Marius indicated the two women should follow. They dismounted and led their animals forward, glancing fearfully into the lightless depths below.

The entrance tunnel was built from bare, echoing rock and black with grime. In the courtyard, more bare brickwork soared on all sides. There were interior windows, but most were arrow-loops. The only light came from a single candle, now carried down a steep stair by a servant dressed in sackcloth. He was hideously disfigured, with a crooked back and lumpen feet, but behind him descended someone who simply had to be Duchess Zalmyra. The noblewoman was tall and swathed tightly in a brown woollen wrap, which left her arms and shoulders bare but accentuated her statuesque proportions. Her slick black hair was braided into a single rope and hung over her left shoulder. Her beauty was intense but severe — the sort men would die for, and in many cases probably had. She approached the new arrivals with a slow, elegant tread, and circled around them. When she finally halted, she touched Trelawna’s hair, which had become stringy and straw-like.

“Well, you’re a pretty enough little thing,” the duchess commented. “You’d fetch a good price in a whorehouse.”

“Fie!” Gerta cried. She’d been quiet and pale in the cheek for the tail-end of the journey, but now her old spirit returned. “This is the Countess of Penharrow! How dare you address her so!”

“This harridan’s tongue offends me,” Zalmyra said to her servant. “Take it from her.”

Urgol grabbed Gerta’s throat in a single paw and lifted from her feet. The maid squawked in terror. Trelawna screamed and tried to intervene, while Marius stood by, helpless. But then another voice was heard.

“Mother… desist!”

Rufio and his last officer had emerged on horseback from the entry passage. Both men and animals looked utterly drained, and were caked with dirt.

Zalmyra raised a hand, and Urgol released Gerta, who collapsed, gagging, into the arms of her mistress. Trelawna was at first too astonished that Rufio was alive to even speak. After lowering Gerta onto her haunches, she hurried over.

“Mother… this is the woman I love,” Rufio stammered. “What’s more, she and her party have come here as our guests.”

“Guests show invitations and bring gifts,” Zalmyra said coldly. “These, I suspect, have brought only trouble.”

“I brought the trouble,” he retorted, taking Trelawna in his arms — as much to support himself as to show affection. “If you want to reckon with someone, reckon with me.”

“Don’t tempt me, Felix,” the duchess said, turning on her heel and leaving the courtyard, Urgol and her candle-bearer trailing after her.

“We rode hard to catch up with you,” Rufio gasped.

“I felt sure you’d be dead,” Trelawna replied, tears glazing her eyes.

“I may as well be.” He extracted himself from her embrace. “It was none of my doing.”

“Does that mean Lucan is alive, too?”

“You sound as if you hope he is,” he said. Trelawna was surprised by that — more so because it was true. If Rufio suspected it, he seemed too exhausted to care. “I can only tell you that he was still alive when I left him.”

He went on to explain about the aerial monstrosity that had attacked mid-way through their duel, and how he had seen it tear at least one of her husband’s followers to bloody rags. But there was no joy in his face as he recalled the horror.

“He gave me a chance… can you believe that?” He chuckled with bewilderment. “Your husband. He bade me pick up my sword after he knocked it from my hand. But I don’t think it was out of kindness. I think he just found it impossible to imagine that a man like me had walked away with his prize possession. At the very least he wanted to see a warrior in me.” Rufio’s face twisted in self-loathing. “I’d rather he’d run me through.”

Trelawna tried to take him in her arms again, but he pushed her off.

“Lucan is an expert fighter,” she said. “That is why Arthur rewards him with lands and titles. There’s no shame in being defeated by him. At least you’re alive…”

“I’ve not been defeated yet!” Rufio snarled. “If Lucan’s still alive, things will only get worse for him the closer he comes to Castello Malconi. Nearly all his men are dead. He himself is a battle-scarred relic. But mother won’t stop there. No-one challenges our family and lives. Which reminds me… keep out of mother’s way. I don’t think she sees any value in our relationship.”

Unsure how she should respond to that, Trelawna tried to take his hand, but he waved her away and strode towards the nearest door. Apparently, he was too tired for further conversation.

“Welcome to your new home,” Gerta said wearily.