RANDAL had never thought of himself as paternal. Finding a wife and starting a family had always been something that appealed to other men. It came as a surprise that he then found himself spending longer at the orphanage than he would have previously thought healthy.
The children were receptive, obedient and, after he had evaded their questions about Mistress Goodwife’s fate, completely beholden to his every word. It was a strange power he held over these youngsters. A distant change from the power he usually held over people, which was derived via threats of violence and torture.
Of course it had taken no time to discover his favourites – five of them in all, each gifted in their own unique way. Bertrand’s rumours and Mistress Goodwife’s confirmation of their unique gifts had merely scratched the surface of what these children were capable of, and Randal wasted no time in nurturing their potential.
Hestan was the eldest. His hair was shorn to the scalp – the result of a bout of lice he’d had when younger, but now he kept it that way through preference. He was a quiet boy, as they all were, but there was something unnerving about him. Randal hadn’t been able to put his finger on just what, until the boy had wanted something from one of the other children and been refused it. With a word and a gesture Hestan had compelled the child to give him the small wooden horse he coveted. The incident fascinated Randal so much he had ordered one of his tallymen to bring him every book he could find on the Crown Sorcerers. It was clear Randal had some studying to do.
Lena and Castiel were twins. They spoke to no one but each other, though it was clear they could understand anything asked of them. They walked around, often holding hands, their heads inclined towards one another. Lena was always cold, shivering in her brother’s arms, whereas Castiel could be seen perspiring even when the weather was inclement. The smell from them both was most like rotten turnips, but Randal was willing to put up with that. He hadn’t quite worked out the nature of their gifts but he was more than happy to wait. He was sure patience would be its own reward where these children were concerned.
Little Mabel Fogg’s gifts were the easiest to spot. She often delighted the other children with her ability to arrange stones and toys without touching them. The other children had no idea what horrors they were witnessing – how just being privy to such witchcraft put them in mortal danger. But Randal had taken on responsibility for his wards. As long as they stayed within the temple he would see that no harm came to any of them. They were his now, and he took his duties as their guardian very seriously.
Youngest of those gifted children was Olivar. Little more than an infant, Olivar spoke in religious tenets, relaying his scripture better than any nursery rhyme. As a result he too had been gifted, but it was a blessing he was far too young to control. His childish tantrums manifested in displays of inhuman strength. Accompanied with an infant’s rage it was a truly terrifying display. As a consequence, Randal had ordered the boy locked away. When he understood more, he would be sure to pay special attention to Olivar’s development.
These children were all special in their own way, but for now Randal only needed Hestan. The boy was clever, cunning and, above all, loyal. It was as though he instinctively understood what Randal was trying to achieve, which was a miracle in itself, since Randal wasn’t sure exactly what that was. For now, ridding himself of unnecessary baggage was his first priority.
* * *
‘This is madness,’ Bertrand said.
Randal looked over at him, standing there shitting his trews like an infant.
‘Show some fucking steel for once, will you?’ Randal replied. He looked at Hestan beside him, but if the boy understood the curse word he didn’t respond. ‘Everything will be fine.’
‘Will it?’ Bertrand asked. ‘Because I think it’s highly likely they’ll cut us to bits.’
They were in the relic of an old church, far away from prying eyes. Randal had persuaded Bertrand to summon Duke Gothelm and he needed to conduct the meeting somewhere remote. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
‘If you’ve done as I said there is nothing to worry about.’
‘Of course I’ve fucking done as you said,’ Bertrand snapped.
Of that there was little doubt. If Bertrand was intimidated by Randal and what he could do, then he was downright terrified of the children and their gifts. Bertrand was a coward, but then that had worked out for Randal well enough. Cowards could be trusted as long as they were scared more of you than of anyone else. And Bertrand was more scared of these gifted children than he was of the gods themselves.
The sound of horses’ hooves stomping up the muddy path heralded the truth of Bertrand’s words. Randal felt his heart beat a little faster at the prospect of what was to come.
There were six of them, each wearing a thick riding cloak, but Randal could still spot Gothelm’s bulky frame. When they reached the church the duke threw back his hood, revealing that permanent scowl. His men jumped down from their horses, one of them helping Gothelm heave his ample girth from the saddle.
‘Bertrand?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve made my away across hill and dale in this infernal shit storm, this had better be worth my while.’
Randal walked out into the open air, Hestan close at his side. Gothelm squinted through the drizzle.
‘Weirwulf? What in Osred’s name are you doing here? Where’s Bertrand?’
Randal could hear Bertrand shuffling in the church behind him, but it was obvious he had no intention of showing himself.
‘My lord,’ Randal said. ‘I apologise for the inconvenience, but it was important we meet… in private.’
‘What are you bloody talking about, Randal? What is going on?’
Randal looked down at Hestan, who glanced up with that look of bewildered innocence he always bore.
‘Remember what we talked about,’ Randal said, placing a gentle hand on the stubble of Hestan’s head.
The boy nodded, taking a step forward as Gothelm advanced.
‘I’m warning you, Weirwulf. If this is some kind of lark I’ll—’
One of Gothelm’s guards pulled a knife and shoved it into the duke’s ribs. Gothelm staggered, unsure of what had just happened, as the armoured knight twisted the blade, grinding the flesh to mincemeat.
Gothelm staggered and fell. One of his other guards shouted in alarm, drawing steel. The one with the knife ran at his fellow and was met with a crashing blow to the skull that floored him.
On the ground, Gothelm was yelling blue murder, hand desperately trying to staunch the gaping wound in his side. As one, every guard had a sword drawn and they went at each other with abandon. One of them screamed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ as he was gutted by someone who had moments ago been a friend and ally. Two others fought viciously, rolling around in the mud, beating one another with mailed fists until their faces were bloody pulp.
Randal watched as they went about it. Men killing one another was nothing new to him but he’d never seen anything so brutal. Not even in the Ramadi fortress of Kessel had the warriors attacked one another with such deadly zeal.
In moments it was over. Four men lay dead. One guard was clawing his way across the ground towards Gothelm, his mouth open in a toothy grin, eyes glazed and focused on the duke.
Randal had seen enough.
He drew his blade and walked through the mud and bodies, planting his sword in the guard’s back and skewering him to the ground. Then he turned to Gothelm.
‘This is you,’ said Gothelm, blood spewing from his mouth, body and hands slick with red as he vainly tried to staunch his wound.
‘Not all me,’ Randal replied. He knelt down beside Gothelm, taking a strange pleasure in watching him die. ‘Just mostly.’
If Gothelm had wanted to spout some last curse he wasn’t able, as his eyes rolled back and he slumped in the mud.
Randal took a step back, glancing to Hestan, who returned the look with no emotion. A spatter of blood had flown in the melee and hit the boy in the face but he hadn’t seemed to notice.
‘Fuck,’ whispered Bertrand, choosing now to finally show himself. ‘Fuck this. Fuck this.’ He stared at the carnage with wide eyes.
‘Keep your wits about you, man. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a dead body before.’
Bertrand looked up at Randal and shook his head.
‘That’s it. I’m out of this. I can’t—’
‘You can and you will,’ Randal replied, holding his gaze, unblinking, unwavering. ‘I need you now more than ever. Gothelm is out of the way. The duchy is left without a duke. Who better than…?’ He smiled at Bertrand as though he’d just offered a casket of gold.
‘But I can’t—’
‘If you say those words to me one more time Hestan will force you to pluck out one of your own eyes and eat it.’
Bertrand looked down at the child as though he were a viper about to strike. He seemed to physically diminish, conceding defeat.
‘So what now?’ he asked.
‘Now we proceed as planned,’ Randal replied. ‘And move on to bigger fish.’
‘You can’t be serious about this.’
Randal let out a sigh as he realised Bertrand still wasn’t able to appreciate the level of ambition at play here.
‘Hestan.’ He looked down at the boy, all innocence. ‘Show Bertrand how serious we are.’
* * *
The weather had brightened. Northold was almost a pleasant place to be when the sun was shining.
Randal and Hestan sat in a garden on the outskirts of the city, away from the shit smell of the streets. The birds tweeted incessantly, the sound of them rising above the distant noise of street traders. Randal could understand their irritation. He was as impatient for this to be done as they were.
At one end of the garden, Bertrand came running. He had become so much more compliant in recent days, but then the eyepatch he now wore over the socket of his right eye served as a constant reminder that obedience was not a choice.
‘She’s coming,’ he said.
Randal raised a smile at Bertrand’s subservient nature. It made a pleasant change from his previous haughty attitude.
Queen Selene’s entrance was heralded by a column of stout bodyguards, armour polished and shining in the sun, halberds pointing proudly to the sky. They formed a rank in front of Randal before making an opening for her to step through.
Randal had to admit, Selene was everything he’d heard of and more. A rare beauty in this grim city. It almost made him wish he more enjoyed the company of the opposite sex, but that had never been Randal’s preference.
She regarded him closely, weighing him up. Bertrand had done a good job of piquing her curiosity and for that Randal could only be grateful.
‘My lady,’ he said, standing and bowing just enough to look respectful, not quite enough to seem fawning.
‘Duke Bertrand tells me you have important business with the crown,’ she replied. ‘I must say, I’ve never seen him quite so animated in his enthusiasm.’
Randal couldn’t stifle a smile at that one.
‘Because he knows the importance of this meeting, my lady,’ he said. Hestan had come to stand at his side now and Randal rested a hand on the boy’s head.
‘And what is so important that you would have us meet in this quiet place and not in the palace?’
‘Well,’ said Randal. ‘I have a proposition… one that could see an end to the War of Three Crowns.’
Selene raised an eyebrow and Randal felt a twitch of excitement.
‘Really?’ she replied. ‘Then you had best tell me all about it.’