He had not thought things through properly. Porenutious Windle had left his king in a vulnerable position and he knew it. Exposed. Open to attack. It did not matter that the footsoldiers were out of harm’s way. Nothing mattered but the safety of the king.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ Chamberlain Llyr asked as he leaned across the circular, tiered board and took Windle’s king. He lay the piece on its side, as was the custom at the conclusion of a game of Siege, and sighed, his blue eyes reflecting his disappointment in Windle’s performance. ‘You know Mr Windle, I really miss Mr Melkin. Now there was a man who could play a good game.’
The chubby bureaucrat blushed but in the dim light of the Chamberlain’s ornate sitting room, his embarrassment was not as obvious as it could have been. Windle had just lost his third game in a row and the Chamberlain had made it abundantly clear that he expected better from someone occupying such an important position within his ministry.
‘I apologise that I cannot put up a greater defence,’ Windle said, wringing the folds of his purple robe nervously.
‘Oh pish!’ said the Chamberlain dismissively. ‘If it were just your defence, then we could actually work on something. But it’s not. It’s your offence too. You seem to have no stomach for conflict, Mr Windle. Am I correct?’
‘So it would seem, Your Grace. I wish I could be a more formidable opponent.’
‘So do I, Mr Windle. So do I.’ The Chamberlain leaned forward and looked his advisor in the eye. ‘It does surprise me that someone of your station in life does not possess a more strategic mind. How can you advise me in matters of politics without any appreciation of tactics and strategy?’
‘I can only try my best,’ Windle muttered, his ego slightly battered.
The Chamberlain smiled softly and chuckled to himself. ‘Of course, dear Porenutious. And that’s all I expect from you.’ It was impossible to tell whether this comment was genuine or the most subtle of criticisms.
Although the Chamberlain was not particularly tall, he had undeniable presence. Some observers had commented that his piercing blue eyes were his most powerful political weapon. He rarely blinked and that unnerved some people, especially Windle who could not look at someone for longer than five seconds without getting anxious.
Llyr was a much loved leader, especially by the general public who often found themselves caught up in the stirring rhetoric of his addresses; however those who knew well also knew to fear him. It was not that he was prone to displays of anger or erratic behaviour, as was the case in the previous chamberlain. Llyr was quietly spoken and generally consistent with his mood. But he had a very low tolerance for fools so it had surprised Windle no end that the Chamberlain had persevered with him for so long. As a result, Windle was kept in a constant state of nervousness, keen to please his superior but frequently unable to do so.
It was late, only a few hours before daybreak. Unable to sleep, the Chamberlain had summoned his advisor to his chambers. Llyr usually found a few games of Siege to be relaxing as the strategies of the game were a welcome break from the more intricate subterfuge of world politics. But Windle was such a poor player, the absence of any challenge meant that the game was no more distracting than a sneeze.
A long yawn rolled out of the Chamberlain’s mouth. His sleep over the past few months had become increasingly irregular. This was not surprising. Reports of Ghul incursions and the appearance of monstrous beasts came in almost daily. All over the Myr, people were unsettled, many too scared to venture out at night. The Chamberlain knew that they would turn to him for answers and contrary to what many people believed, he had none to give.
Llyr stood up and walked over to a small, round table by the window where a carafe of expensive wine stood beside an ornate silver goblet. ‘Wine, Mr Windle?’ he offered as he poured himself a drink, seemingly oblivious to the fact there was only one goblet.
‘No thank-you, Your Grace,’ Windle said with a note of sadness in his voice as he enviously watched the Chamberlain lift the goblet to his lips.
‘Have you heard any news of Mr Melkin? Should I have any hope that he may return to me?’
Windle pulled out a satin handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration building up across his broad forehead. He was prone to sweating, even at night. His short, chubby fingers scrunched the handkerchief into a ball and tucked it back up his sleeve. He looked up from his seat and proffered a weak smile. ‘No sir. There has been no sign of him since the incident. I… I do not believe we are likely to see him again. The Ghul were ruthless.’
The Chamberlain swirled the wine around in his goblet as he considered this remark. He lifted his eyes from the purple liquid and stared at his advisor sitting uncomfortably in the chair before him. ‘It is incredible that you were able to escape from their clutches.’
Windle shifted in his chair. The small of his back began to ache. It had ached for months, ever since Caliban’s monster Succellos had rammed her sting into it, but strangely it seemed to flare up whenever he had to lie, which was happening with increasing frequency. It was not that he had any moral compunction against lying – Succellos had stripped him off all moral sensibilities and the determination that accompanies them – but he was not well practised in the art of deceit, despite thirty years in politics. He understood the task Caliban had set for him and it was the only thing he thought about, but he had simply never been good at lying and he felt every time he did so, he was on the verge of being caught.
Samuel Melkin pulled his snorse to a halt at the top of the hill. In the fading light of day, he could make out a copse of trees to his left and to his dismay from that copse he could hear the sad cries of yaffle-birds heralding the coming of rain.
‘Come on Porenutious!’ he called to his purple-clad colleague whose snorse was slowly making its way up the slope, straining under the prodigious weight of its rider. Windle was clearly not enjoying their ride across the windswept hills of Scoriath. His face conveyed every ounce of discomfort his ample body was feeling. ‘Don’t tell me to hurry up!’ he called back. ‘Tell this damned nag to get a move on!’
Thunder rolled across the Scorian landscape, making the bleak land even bleaker. Melkin frowned. ‘It’s going to rain any moment now,’ he yelled to Windle who was wiping his brow free of sweat despite the cool and overcast conditions. ‘I wanted to set up camp on the Assipattle River before nightfall but –’
‘But what?’ said Windle as his snorse drew up beside Melkin’s.
Melkin didn’t respond. He was looking past Windle, down the hill into the shadowy gully from which they had just emerged.
Windle followed Melkin’s gaze but could see nothing that would hold his attention. ‘What is it?’ he asked, unsettled by the preoccupied stare of his partner.
Melkin shrugged. ‘I thought I saw something move down there.’
Windle rolled his eyes. ‘That’s great Samuel. Here I am, already scared out of my wits in the middle of the wilderness and you’re now seeing things. That really makes me feel safe.’
Melkin gave his head a little shake. ‘Would you prefer that I pretended not to see things?’
‘Perhaps!’ Windle replied a little petulantly.
‘Let’s go,’ Melkin said with a sigh. ‘We’ll camp by that copse of trees. It’s getting dark and it’s’ – a heavy raindrop fell on his bald head, the first of many – ‘raining.’
The pair sat huddled around a small fire, under a thin canopy that did not completely shelter them from the downpour. Melkin had prepared the camp, built the fire and cooked the strips of shelp meat he had brought, but it was Windle who was complaining about the situation they were in. ‘I tell you Samuel, Maeldune Canna is getting far too big for his boots.’
Melkin smiled. It was typical of Windle to use a phrase like too big for his boots. Melkin had known Windle since childhood. For thirty-five years, he had watched Windle living the most pampered of pampered existences, the only child of an overly-protective mother. His speech was always laced with phrases one would expect of someone twice his age.
‘He’s a minister, Porenutious,’ Melkin said as he threw a chunk of steaming shelp into his mouth. ‘He can tell us to do anything he likes.’
Windle frowned, irritated by Melkin’s table manners. Windle liked Melkin, had always liked him, but found his habit of speaking whilst eating to be uncouth in the extreme. ‘I do not agree Samuel. We are no mere bureaucrats. We are advisors to the Chamberlain himself, not messengers!’
‘Minister Canna sees this as a diplomatic mission.’
‘What!’ said Windle indignantly. ‘Travelling all the way to Morae to investigate rumours concerning the Pryderi going missing? Isn’t this a job for a Magistrate? Or for the Cessair Guard? We’ll get ourselves killed out here Samuel.’
Melkin swallowed the last of the meat and wiped his face on his sleeve. He was normally well-mannered, but there was something about Windle that made Samuel Melkin mischievous. His chubby companion was too precious and Melkin knew he would get a reaction to every social indiscretion put before him.
‘Do you have to do that?’ Windle groaned as he pulled a spare handkerchief from his puffy sleeve and handed it to Melkin.
‘Thanks!’ said Melkin. He caught the handkerchief appreciatively, blew his nose upon it and then tossed it back to Windle who jumped back letting the handkerchief fall to the dirt where he would leave it for all eternity.
Windle looked out at the darkness surrounding them. There were no stars in the sky. Occasionally the Myr’s moons tried to break through the rain clouds that bloomed overhead, but they provided no illumination upon the wet, black landscape. ‘This place makes me nervous,’ he remarked.
‘Well I’d rather be here than Camulos,’ Melkin said dryly.
Windle nodded. ‘I heard. Maeldune said the entire country had been wiped out.’
‘That’s not certain. I was told that thousands of Kobolds were unaccounted for.’
‘How can that be? Where would they go?’
‘I don’t know.’ Melkin’s voice was uncharacteristically strained. Windle had always envied his confidence, his ability to meet difficult situations head-on, but the situation in Camulos had rattled him. Melkin had confided in Windle that he was finding it hard to sleep at night. His dreams were frequently stained by the terrible events that had taken place in a country he held dear to his heart. Samuel Melkin was one of the few Myrrans who had visited Camulos and he had nothing but respect for its people.
‘And all those Spriggans slaughtered.’
‘That’s just a rumour, Porenutious. We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Well, where are they? I haven’t seen a Spriggan skyshop for the best part of a year. They’re gone Samuel.’
‘Not all of them,’ Melkin corrected Windle quickly. ‘Some traders still live abroad and I heard that Jehenna Canna’s team had found one still alive in the ruins of Sarras.’
‘Poor fellow. Who knows the horrors he has seen?’ said Windle with genuine compassion.
‘If I were you, I’d worry more about myself,’ said a hollow voice out of the darkness.
Melkin and Windle spun around to see the shapes of countless Ghul emerging into the light of the small campfire.
Lucetious sank his teeth into the side of Melkin’s head. After a grotesque flurry of movement, accompanied by Melkin’s howls of agony, the Ghul lieutenant lifted his head to display a bloody ear resting between his jagged teeth. He took the ear and held it up for all to see. For a brief second, he eyed it curiously, licking his thin lips as he did so and for a second, Windle thought he was going to eat it.
But Lucetious was not interested in satiating any hunger he may have felt. He merely wanted his two prisoners to see that he had no qualms about hurting them. He casually threw the ear away and knelt down before the two bound men.
‘Since coming to your world, I have seen many strange things. Clouds. Mountains. Trees. In the still of night, I have watched trees shed their leaves. It is a truly wondrous thing to watch a leaf fall from a branch. There seems no pattern to it, no way of knowing where it will land or which leaf will fall next.’
‘What madness is this? Why do you talk of trees?’ Melkin shouted. Despite the fog of pain that had descended upon him, Melkin could hear Lucetious with his remaining ear.
‘You need to understand this. I have no more concern for your limbs and appendages than I do for this tree. I will strip your bark, pull off your leaves and break your branches without a moment’s hesitation.’ He snapped the branch he was holding for dramatic effect. Whilst Melkin just stared back at the Ghul with undisguised hatred, Porenutious Windle gazed at the broken branch in horror. It was no great leap for the politician to imagine the same thing being done to his own limbs. ‘You will comply with any request we make of you.’
Melkin growled. Windle could see the bestial look in his eyes. Despite being cornered and at the mercy of creatures who had no mercy to give, a spark of defiance still burned deep inside him.
‘For goodness sake Samuel,’ Windle begged his companion, ‘submit to him.’
‘No Porenutious, you can’t just submit to them,’ Melkin shot back. ‘If you give yourself to scum like this, you’ll have nothing left.’
A Ghul female stepped forward, her eyes blazing with malice, her crooked teeth bared. ‘Sir, I don’t believe the tall one is paying attention to you. Perhaps we should break his fingers,’ she suggested.
‘It’s tempting but we don’t have time. Caliban wants these two straight away.’ He casually bent over, picked up a rock and slammed it into Samuel Melkin’s skull, knocking the man into a state of bloody unconsciousness. Windle fainted long before the rock got close to his head.
‘I was lucky, nothing more, Your Grace.’ He slumped forward in his chair and dropped his face in his hands, averting Llyr’s probing eyes. Peering through the gaps in his fingers, Windle concentrated on the sharp patterns in the parquetry covering the chamber floor, hoping his dissimulation was not apparent.
Then, unexpectedly, the Chamberlain was kneeling before him. ‘Mr Windle, I’ll be honest with you. You have not been the same since the Ghul attack. Perhaps this is understandable. You are no warrior – you’re a bureaucrat, softened by years of talking. I realise that the Ghul attack must have scared you out of your wits and you don’t like to talk about it, but our duty is to the people, not to ourselves. We must do what we can to combat this terrible situation we now find ourselves in.’
‘I understand that, Your Grace, but I have nothing to add to what I have already told you. And I have lost a dear friend in Samuel Melkin. Perhaps my only friend. I'm sorry!’ Windle clenched his teeth and tried to produce tears. The effort made his whole body shake. Whilst this was not the result for which he was hoping, it had the desired effect.
‘No, I am sorry, sincerely sorry, Porenutious,’ Llyr said tactfully. ‘You have been through a lot and it is unfair of me to me drag it out further. I won’t question you about it again.’
‘I have tried hard to forget, but the memories of that night just won’t let me go.’ Despite the complete absence of emotion inside, Windle’s voice was thin and tremulous. ‘Horrible memories.’ He sniffed loudly and accentuated this by wiping his bulbous, red nose upon his silk handkerchief. ‘Your Grace, you can’t sleep because of what is to come. I can’t sleep because of what has passed.’
The Chamberlain took hold of one of his advisor’s elbows, helped him out of his chair and tenderly led him to the door. Windle kept his head bowed down.
When they reached the door, the Chamberlain put a hand upon his advisor's shoulder and Windle lifted his head to face him. The Chamberlain’s blue eyes did not burn with the same intensity they had earlier. ‘I have been very selfish, my friend. I won’t take up any more of your time.’
Windle smiled appreciatively but he did not say anything. He shuffled across the black marble landing, looking as sad and miserable a figure as could be imagined. The Chamberlain, unaccustomed to seeing a grown man reduced to such a state, felt he had to say more. ‘Mr Windle,’ he called across the landing. ‘Is there anything I can do for you? To help you?’
Caliban stood on the rickety pier leaning on his staff. Like so many things in the Endless, the pier had been constructed solely of bone. Below him Porenutious Windle sat quietly in one of the strange boat-creatures the Ghul used to traverse the underground waterways. Lucetious stepped down into the boat and took his place opposite Windle but the bureaucrat did not acknowledge his presence. His eyes were fixed on Caliban who was prescribing the last of his duties.
‘Once you are sure that the Chamberlain will follow the course of action I have outlined, you must retreat to the shadows and await further orders. Carry on with whatever routines you follow, but stay out of the light. Under no circumstances are you to speak to my brother should you encounter him. I have no doubt he will be able to detect Succellos’ touch upon you. You must also stay away from the fisherman Gerriod Blake. He was there when Succellos embraced you. He may recognise you.’
Lucetious raised his hand to speak and Caliban gave his permission to do so. ‘My lord, are we not presented with an opportunity to strike at the heart of the Myr. We could remove the leader of these overworlders in one bloody strike. I suggest Windle kills the Chamberlain in his sleep.’
Windle looked at Lucetious with mild interest. He was neither alarmed nor excited about Lucetious’ recommendation. He heard it, understood it but had no emotional response to it. Succellos had taken from him all emotions, all feelings. She had given the poor man over to Caliban and it was his will that would now be done.
Windle lifted his head to face Caliban and waited for his approval or disapproval of the idea.
It was a good thirty seconds before Caliban responded. Lucetious looked about nervously, aware that the silence did not reflect a happy disposition in his master. He had heard the silence before and it was usually a precursor to a rebuke on his mild days and retribution on others.
‘Lucetious,’ Caliban sighed finally. ‘Lucetious, have you learnt so little in your time with me? Is your capacity for learning so limited that you have been unable to glean from me some sense of strategy?’
Although it was a rhetorical question, Lucetious felt compelled to reply. ‘My lord, I have learnt more from you than I could chronicle.’
‘Then why would you recommend that we kill Tiberius Llyr?’ Caliban scolded. ‘What possible advantage could that give us in the battle ahead? You think like a thug Lucetious, which is to say you do not think at all!’
The lieutenant dropped his head submissively and said, ‘I apologise, Lord Caliban.’
Caliban sneered. ‘Lord Caliban,’ he mimicked. ‘Lord of what? Lord of a race of savages that see the manifestation of true power in the ability to slit a man’s throat. Your willingness to slaughter without cause makes you little more than a henchman, Lucetious. It is not the ability to kill where true power lies Lucetious. It is the ability to manipulate. It is the ability to subvert another to one’s will.’
‘My lord, I spoke foolishly.’
Lucetious’ contrition was not enough to quell the anger that had swelled up on Caliban’s breast. ‘Lucetious, it simply amazes me that you would recommend killing the Chamberlain when we now have one of his advisors as a colleague. One thing we need is more time. Time to find more Cabal. Time to gather and train more Pryderi. Time to position our pieces on the board. I don’t want to slit the Myr’s throat. There is no satisfaction in that. Nothing to gain. You want to stab with the knife. I’d rather twist it. The longer we draw out this campaign of terror, the more it will hurt my brother when he realises it is all for him. Whilst I admit, I have some doubts as to how much influence Mr Windle will be able to cast upon the Chamberlain, I believe if he plays the part we have given him, things will unfold as they should.’
‘Help me?’ Windle asked distractedly.
‘Yes,’ answered the Chamberlain. ‘I feel terrible. I want to do something.’
‘Your Grace, there is something you can do, but not for me. There is something you can do for the people of the Myr.’
‘And what is that?’
‘Stop this madness. Everything Caliban has done has been an overture to war. I have no doubt that he has more Ghul at his command than we could hope to defeat in battle. But there are other ways to defeat an enemy.’
‘Such as?’
‘Assassination squads. If you handpick the squads, you may find it is easier to remove this threat quietly, without the loss of lives that would inevitably follow a full scale war.’
The Chamberlain did not move as he thought about this. Very occasionally Porenutious Windle supplied advice that justified his position. Whilst it would have been easy to go to war and in the short term that may have appeased the people of the Myr, the Chamberlain was also sensitive to the political ramifications of fighting a protracted campaign against the Ghul. Such a war would inevitably lead to casualties in the thousands. And then the people would look to someone upon on to blame all the lost lives. It was not a road upon which he wanted to travel.
‘I think your idea has merit, Mr Windle. Come back inside and we’ll explore it further. Have you given thought to who should be picked for the squads?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ said Windle, as he was led back into the Chamberlain’s sitting room.
