Master of the Books Page 9

  In the pale light from the cabin Fergus detected a hint of confusion in his opponent. Damon couldn’t understand how a mere boy had survived his opening onslaught. Still, he didn’t dwell on the matter for long and came at Fergus again, his sword raised. As the giant had done, he used his enormous strength in an effort to knock the sword from Fergus’s hand. Even if he thrust it aside for a moment, that would be enough. A quick slash with the hungry steel and the boy would lie in his own blood, crying for mercy.

  But again Damon found his attack foiled as Fergus manfully defended the massive strike. This time the frustration was plain in his eyes. The boy should be dead. How does he hold out against me?

  Fergus heard Stig’s goading in his ears. ‘Stay on the move, don’t become an easy target, make your man work, tire him out, because a tired opponent makes mistakes.’

  They circled around one another, their heavy breaths adding to the misty solitude of their battleground. Without warning, Damon lunged forward, in a frenzy this time, his fury growing with every slash and thrust that Fergus batted aside. Fergus waited patiently, choosing his moment, and when Damon backed away, panting and cursing, he launched his own attack, first a skilful feint to the left, then the real attack, which broke through Damon’s defence. His blade swept in a deadly arc toward his enemy’s straining neck and only a desperate jump backwards saved him.

  Not entirely though. The slightest quiver along the sword told Fergus he’d caught something and the cry from Damon confirmed it. The man’s free hand slapped instantly to his ear but it wasn’t enough to hide the blood.

  The struggle continued, with Fergus answering every attack Damon threw at him until the man began to tire. The dismay was clear in his grimacing features as he heaved for breath. Tired men make mistakes. Damon launched a reckless swipe at Fergus, who read his foe’s intentions and immediately tried a trick of his own that Stig had taught him. ‘Force your opponent’s weapon down and hold it there with your own,’ he’d advised. ‘Then kick at his wrist until he drops it.’

  This was what Fergus did and, to his amazement, Damon was suddenly defenceless before him. One blow would bring him to his knees. A second would have the head from his shoulders.

  Utter surprise gave way to terror in Damon’s face. ‘No, it can’t be,’ he babbled. He could see his sword abandoned on the ground but knew he would die before he could get halfway towards it.

  The fury of battle was still with Fergus and with barely a pause he raised the enchanted sword above his head, adding his free hand to double the force. Before he could deliver the deadly blow, the door of the cabin burst open and a woman’s body tumbled into the middle of the fighting.

  ‘Stop, don’t hurt him,’ she pleaded, while from inside her sister called, ‘Margaret, get out of the way before you’re killed.’

  Fergus’s advantage was gone. Worse still, Damon immediately grabbed the woman and used her to shield himself from Fergus’s sword.

  The poor thing was startled to find her champion using her to protect himself. ‘What are you doing, your Lordship? Let me go.’ Her outrage turned to terror when Damon took a dagger from his belt and held it to her throat.

  ‘Back away or I’ll kill the Appleyard woman where she stands.’

  Fergus could only obey, for now. ‘You can’t hide behind her forever, Damon. We’re on an island. The only way off for you is to kill me.’

  The look in Damon’s eyes showed his fear. He knew he couldn’t kill Fergus and he would do anything to avoid facing him again, sword against sword.

  It was then that a movement in the fog made them all turn. Bent Dalid shuffled into view.

  ‘Who are you?’ Damon growled.

  ‘I brought your young tormentor through the marshes,’ the wizened man replied calmly. ‘And I’ll take him back the same way, unless you can offer a better price.’

  ‘No!’ Fergus shouted. ‘He stays here. This is a fight to the death.’

  ‘I’ve been watching,’ said Bent Dalid. ‘It’s clear whose death it will be.’ Ignoring Fergus, he called to Damon, ‘Well, my Lord, what is your life worth?’

  ‘Leave the boy, take me instead,’ Damon ordered. ‘I’ll pay you in gold coins.’

  ‘Then bring your purse and I’m at your disposal.’

  Fergus protested loudly but Bent Dalid had already disappeared into the fog. Damon followed him, dragging his unwilling shield. Miss Appleyard sobbed in Damon’s rough grasp. Her sister came out of the house at last, wailing helplessly as she trailed behind Fergus to the shore.

  Bent Dalid was already aboard his craft. This was Fergus’s last chance, but as he tensed every muscle, judging the best moment, Damon shoved Miss Appleyard into the mud in front of him. By the time he had rounded the woman’s body, Bent Dalid had pushed the boat away from the bank. In moments, it had vanished in the mist.

  Fergus hauled Miss Appleyard out of the sticky mud and, with her sister’s help, took her back to the cabin. The terror of what had just taken place confused both women and they remained wary of him. He decided to leave them alone for now and give his explanations when they were calmer.

  He went out into the night to where the fighting had taken place. There was a small, dark pool of blood on the matted grass. What was that at its centre? Fergus examined it more closely and reeled back for a moment. It was part of Damon’s ear, the lobe in fact, severed by the blow that had almost killed him.

  Overcoming his revulsion, Fergus took a rag from his pocket and wrapped the tiny piece of flesh inside. He would bury it with the rest of the man, once he’d found him again.

  FERGUS WOULD HAVE BEEN intrigued to hear the conversation that took place that night in the little boat as Bent Dalid guided it through the Marshes with a skill that only he possessed. Damon kept an anxious watch and jumped at every sound. His expensive coat was ruined by the blood that still dripped from his ravaged ear. The boatman eyed him without sympathy. ‘You let the boy get the better of you.’

  ‘He’s no ordinary boy. He wants my blood and there’s something about the way he fights that disarms me. I don’t understand it. I’ve taken down many a hardened swordsman in battle yet my strength means nothing against him.’

  ‘Magic,’ muttered the boatman.

  Damon raised his head to stare at the figure working away steadily on the pole. ‘Do you think so? Yes, that makes sense, the boy’s brother has powers. I can’t afford to fight him again. You must keep me ahead of him until I can think of what to do.’

  Silence fell between the two men. For Bent Dalid this was a natural state and so was watching and making plans, not all of them to do with the waterways he knew so well. His stooped posture and missing teeth left him an unattractive man, and this suited him for he didn’t seek friends and much preferred that people barely noticed his presence. That way he could hear conversations when the speakers didn’t know he was there and watch the comings and goings of the marsh people without giving himself away.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said softly to Damon. ‘I can keep you hidden among the Marshes for as long as you like, but you can’t spend your life in my punt. I saw the blood lust in that youngster’s face. It looked like revenge to me and that emotion can last a lifetime. He’ll pursue you relentlessly; you won’t be able to rest, you won’t get a single night’s sleep without the fear that he’ll find you and slit your throat before you wake.’

  ‘Do you think I don’t know this!’ Damon growled. ‘I have to find a safe place.’

  ‘Safe place! No place will be entirely safe from that one. What you need is a benefactor, one who can protect you.’

  ‘From magic?’

  ‘The best protection from magic is stronger magic.’

  ‘A sorcerer then. Do you know one who’ll take me in?’

  ‘Perhaps. Like any sensible man, I am the servant of no master yet I give service to many. One who employs me might help you. He’s a powerful man already, and my guess is he’ll soon be more powerful than anyone has imagined. If he f
inds a use for you, that boy won’t harm you.’

  CHAPTER 9

  To Learn the Sorcerer’s Arts

  MARCEL SAT AT HIS desk by the window, reading page after page, hour after hour, until finally he slammed his hand down on the dusty paper. ‘There’s just nothing here to help me,’ he said, venting his frustration to Termagant.

  The cat lifted her head to peer down at the book and replied in words that only he could hear. ‘That’s the same book as yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, The Nature and Magic of Curses. I’ve read it from beginning to end three times since Gammer Bodie told me about Fergus, but it doesn’t say how to break the spell. I thought I was being so clever conjuring that curse, because Fergus would never hurt Father. My father,’ he corrected himself. ‘Now all I’ve done is put him in real danger. Listen to this.

  ‘A man who invokes this curse will suffer grievously. To begin, his skin will blister with painful sores over every part of his body, even the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands. His head will ache, becoming worse with the passing of each day until clear thought becomes impossible. Should he seek escape in sleep, demons will visit his dreams, bringing visions of torment after death.

  ‘After a month, the teeth will begin to fall from his gums and his tongue will swell inside his mouth. Only watery gruel will be able to pass his lips to keep him alive. By now, the culprit will wish for death. It will not come, not until a year after his heinous crime was committed. He will look forward to that day, and yet death will bring only more torment.

  ‘This is what will happen to Fergus if he kills Damon, no matter how much that man deserves to die, and all because of me. I tell you, Termagant, sometimes I wish I’d never been born with the power of magic in me.’

  Termagant yawned and stood up, stretching her front legs out straight. ‘What about all these other books Lord Alwyn collected?’

  ‘They can’t help. The Great Wizard of Noam himself wrote this one.’

  ‘Then you’d better ask him to break the curse.’

  This idea wasn’t new to Marcel. In the weeks since his return from the tiny cottage hidden in the woods, his dreams had worsened. Each night he heard Lady Clemenza’s voice calling to him, ‘You must stop this injustice.’

  ‘The Great Wizard, Denulde,’ he whispered. ‘Yes, I must go to Noam, but Father won’t let me go unless there’s a good reason. I’ll have to tell him about Fergus.’

  He set out for the Great Hall, wondering how he was going to tell a man that his son wasn’t really his son after all. The interview didn’t start well.

  ‘You look haggard around the eyes, Marcel,’ the king said. ‘Have you been getting enough sleep?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he answered listlessly. He would explain about his dreams when the right moment came, but first he must reveal Gammer Bodie’s secret.

  ‘What have you come to see me about?’

  Marcel took a breath and opened his mouth for the words to flow free, only to close it again with a snap when the high doors of the Great Hall cracked open and the lord chancellor entered without asking permission. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Your Majesty. I have the new list of suitors for the princess. You wanted to see it as soon as possible.’

  Pelham took the list and read down the names. ‘How can I tell which of these young men are trustworthy? Once I could have made them all testify before the Book of Lies and the matter would have been settled.’ He saw his son’s face darken. ‘Don’t be angry, Marcel. The Book of Lies did you great harm, certainly, but when it worked happily under Lord Alwyn’s magic, it was the most valuable thing a king could ever have.’

  He handed the list back to the chancellor. ‘Stay then and we’ll discuss it after Marcel has had his say.’

  When a satisfied smile flickered across the chancellor’s face, Marcel realised that this was exactly what the man had been hoping for. He couldn’t bear to let a single word pass between father and son without knowing what was said. It didn’t matter if Marcel went back to his room, hoping for another chance later; the chancellor would find a way into the conversation. That left Marcel with nothing to say and the silence was becoming uncomfortable. He cast around, desperate for any excuse that would get him to Noam. His eyes fell on the list of names in the chancellor’s hand.

  ‘It’s about Catherine,’ he began, using her proper name to avoid argument. ‘What you said just now is true … it’s hard to know who can be trusted … and … and it’s such an important decision … for the kingdom.’

  He was repeating things that had been said a hundred times and his two-man audience was growing impatient.

  ‘Magic … er … I’ve been trying to use magic to help … in deciding … about Catherine … but I can’t find anything in Lord Alwyn’s books, so I think I should go to Noam to learn more of the sorcerer’s arts.’

  Yes, he’d done it, he’d come up with a reason to visit Noam. He almost punched the air in delight.

  ‘Maybe the Great Wizard can help find the right man for her. I might even learn how to make a new Book of Lies, one that doesn’t become corrupted by the lies on its pages.’

  ‘You?’ spat the chancellor. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. The journey would be a waste of time, Pelham.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on my son,’ warned the king. ‘He does his best, and he did come up with that curse. It might be just the thing for him to learn from the scholars in Noam.’ Turning to Marcel, the king said, ‘You’ve set yourself quite a challenge and that’s not a bad thing. Yes, Marcel, go to Noam, and create a new Book of Lies if you can. Perhaps then you’ll prove to this rumbling bear that he’s wrong about you.’ He gave Marcel a father’s wink.

  MARCEL RETURNED TO HIS room, elated, and began to pack what he’d need for the journey. Then Nicola arrived.

  ‘How could you do such a thing?’ she threw at him before she’d even cleared the doorway. Words weren’t the only thing she was in the mood to throw. A pot of ink sailed past his head, followed immediately by a book, a full-sized tome torn from the nearest shelf. There was lots of ammunition in the room and she looked determined to use it all.

  ‘How could you turn my future over to a stupid book like this one?’ she roared, heaving another leatherbound missile through the air.

  ‘The Grand Master of Noam will help me,’ Marcel answered weakly.

  ‘Oh great! My husband will be chosen for me by a wrinkly old man.’

  ‘No, Father will choose and the magic will make sure he’s the right choice.’

  ‘I don’t want Father to choose! I don’t want a husband at all, and if I ever do, I’ll choose him for myself!’ she screeched, and this time every living soul in the palace must have heard her and some of its dead deep in their graves as well.

  Marcel couldn’t back down, and he was reluctant to tell her the true purpose behind his mission to the Great Wizard. Fortunately, her own rage drove Nicola from the room before she destroyed the rest of his books, shouting as she went, ‘I won’t let you do it. I’ll find a way to stop you, believe me I will.’

  She hadn’t been gone long when two more visitors appeared in the doorway, neither of them as sharp-tongued or furious but much less welcome.

  ‘May we come in?’ said the chancellor, advancing to the centre of the room without waiting for an answer. ‘Your father asked me to find an escort for you.’ He turned to the young man who had followed him as far as the first bookcase. ‘This is Finton, one of the kingdom’s best young knights. He’ll see you safely to Noam and home again.’

  The knight bowed with just the right balance between homage to a prince and pride in his own accomplishments. He was certainly an impressive sight, taller than the chancellor yet lithe as a colt. His eyes settled on Marcel but not until they had expertly taken in every detail of the room, as though he might one day have to fight a battle in this very space. ‘It will be a pleasure to serve you, Your Highness.’

  Finton. Marcel had already heard the name. Old Belch had mentioned him as a
good horseman who treated his animals well, and then there was the tournament last month when one knight had beaten off all challengers. Only twenty years old, they said, and already a champion, yet there was something else Marcel remembered.

  ‘Sir Finton is your son.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness, and I’m very proud of him,’ said the chancellor, unable to hide a self-satisfied smile.

  Marcel had been outmanoeuvred. Everything he did in Noam would be reported back to the chancellor, but he couldn’t demand a change of escort, not when the young soldier seemed so well suited to the task.

  After they’d left, Marcel continued to collect what he needed to take with him. He picked up the blue book that contained all the magic he’d hoped to master from Lord Alwyn’s books. What good had all that study done him? He’d told his father that the journey to Noam would teach him more of the sorcerer’s arts, but in truth he was going for one reason only: to undo the only powerful sorcery he’d ever attempted, a fearful spell that he couldn’t control. Perhaps he should leave the book behind.

  As he moved to put it back on the shelf the front cover flipped open, revealing the two-lined verse in his own childish handwriting. His eye picked out the second of those lines:

  Not magic but wisdom reveals destiny

  What did the years ahead have in store for him? He was beginning to wonder, and two of those words seemed to match his doubts: ‘Not magic’. Was he destined to be a wizard at all? This journey to Noam would help him answer that question, and since the book had reminded him of this and the weight of it felt good in his hands, he added it to the pile.

  THERE WERE TWO WAYS to reach the coast where the travellers would board a ship for the voyage to Noam. One meant a long ride on horseback; the other a leisurely three days onboard one of the many barges that plied Elster’s largest river.