Gaes of the Red Witch: Akurite Empire, #4

The world Mr Jones has created is more than equal to any of the masters of the genre... and I would include Tolkien in that number.

A. Marlowe, author Blue Diamonds & other novels

The right of Samuel Z Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

Cover Illustration Design By Tom Millyard

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information retrieval system without the prior permission of the publisher, in writing.

PoD Edition 2012.

ISBN: 978-147643-6951

The Lord Protector

GAES OF THE RED WITCH

by

Samuel Z Jones

Copyright Samuel Z Jones 2012

Cover Art by Tom Millyard

PoD Edition

PROLOGUE

Fire burned on the mountaintop, arising from the great bonfire of the knights’ encampment and from the golden-feathered cloak about the shoulders of Sabra Daishen. Dawn was approaching, and after the long night of festivities atop the lonely crag, the time of departure had arrived.

Sabra stood to face her comrades, the six who would ride with her ranged around her and those who had come only to hear her last commands gathered in a loose crowd, Sir Taran Denebar foremost among them.

In the firelight, Sabra's crimson armour shone like burnished gold. She put her helmet on, but did not lower the visor.

She was barely in her mid-twenties, but there was no youth left in her eyes. When she spoke, the voice of the Daishen, the ancient spirit of the Order of One, echoed from within her mail; the light of the Daishen's indwelling was in her green eyes and the spirit's voice resonant with power. 

Hear now the wisdom of great Sir Kirin, that he could not reveal to us, for we would have argued against him then...

Denebar barely heard the Daishen's parting words; the sound of rushing waters was in his ears as he contemplated the task she had privily laid before him; to take her place, and rebuild the nations laid waste by over two decades of war. Sabra's eyes seemed to regard him alone, though she spoke to the entire gathered company that had come with her so far.

When Denebar met her eyes, it was if he looked up from the icy plain while she still stood upon the mountaintop; there was distance in her gaze, the vastness of an inner vision that encompassed the horizons of the human soul.

She mounted her wyvern and the six knights who would go with her followed suite. There were no more words; with a down-gust of wind from their leathern wings, the seven wyverns took flight and headed north across the mountains towards the distant lands of the Psarrion foe.

Denebar stood like a statue and watched them go, wishing he could be amongst them but knowing that to him had fallen the task of no lesser honour or hardship. Sabra was a beacon of golden fire against the sky, until the rising sun lightened the dark and she was lost to view. Denebar stood looking north long after she had disappeared; if he had been alone, he would have wept.

Behind him waited eight knights and the others who had come to see Sabra and her companions off; the knights Sir Xaphan, Gedis Jarobane, Riel Saur, Morael of Silverlode, Kian Bey, Barton Vick and Falamark, while nearby stood the master swordsman Sir Karel Tate, his woman Ava and Sir Vick's wife Kelisa.

Ava drew her cloak tight about her otherwise bare shoulders, dressed inadequately in a suede halter-neck and matching jodhpurs and boots. Kelisa too was shivering in the wind, her cloak insufficient to stop goose-bumps rising on her tattooed skin. Both women were very beautiful, Ava blond and Kelisa raven-haired.

There was a long silence punctuated only by the wind on the high crag where they stood.

Then Sir Kian Bey said, Bugger being left behind; I'm off to Psarrion.

Among the six chosen to go with Sabra was Kian's closest friend, Sir Tolan; the two men, both hard-bitten veterans, had hugged before Tolan's departure.

Kian was a scarred man, big even among the heavily-built knights, a renowned warrior even in that band of heroes; a rumble of agreement followed his remark. Denebar said nothing. Barton Vick, a huge man with a mane of black hair and matching full beard, remained silent, looking across the group at his wife. Kelisa avoided his gaze; they were still newly-wed.

We should think about this, Vick said at last, stalling the knights as they moved to mount their wyverns.

I'm a fighting man, Kian Bey replied. I think with my sword, and it doesn't like to be kept idle.

If we overtake the Daishen too soon, she may simply send us back, Vick observed, and Kian scowled.

Kian was only the most vocal in the notion of following Sabra despite her command; she had deliberately split the company into two bands, one to take war to the enemy homeland, the other to remain and rebuild. With Vick's reservations, the knights decided to wait a little while and took their wyverns down to the snowy wastes of northern Kellia, near to the ruined fortress of Pen Kellion that had once been the capitol of the fallen nation. Here they made camp and debated what they should do. Kian was adamant that he would head for Psarrion even if he must go alone.

Not a chance, Sir Riel Saur informed him. I'm coming with you.

I'll go, Sir Falamark said, and one by one the rest of the knights put in their swords. Barton Vick was the last, his eyes shifting from his wife to his comrades until Kelisa said, It’s alright, Bart; you can go.

He kissed her, then joined the other six as they made ready to depart.

Only Denebar and Karel Tate took no part in the debate; Tate was new to the company and taciturn in the extreme. Meanwhile, Denebar said nothing to deny his comrades' obvious desire, understanding all too well. They loved Sabra, their champion, standard and messiah. There was not one among them who could defeat her in combat, nor even one who would have tried; she was the Daishen, the First Knight of Kellia, and those who followed her were the last vestige of knighthood that remained. To live and die for her was all they desired, their devotion beyond even her understanding; she thought she was saving their lives by leaving them behind, when in truth she had taken from them any reason to live at all.

Denebar, who knew her best and understood her reasons, took himself away from the group and looked out across the snow, eastwards towards the realms he had been commanded to rebuild. A crunching footstep in the snow alerted him to Karel Tate's approach.

Like all the knights that rode with Sabra, Denebar was a big man, well over six feet tall. Karel Tate was no weakling either; the famed Headsman of Vale, a muscled giant in black plate armour, toting a five-foot greatsword sheathed across his back. Raised in isolation to be the hereditary chief executioner of Kellia, Karel Tate was terse and direct when he spoke at all.

What will you do?

Go on alone, Denebar replied.

Not alone. For once, Tate almost smiled. Am I not also a knight?

It was true; Sabra herself had knighted Tate for his execution of the lately deposed Empress. The Headsman of Vale was a knight like his father before him. Denebar was surprised by an inner swell of emotion. He hid it well, knowing Tate would not be able to respond to any gratitude.

Hearing the first of the knights’ wyverns taking off, Tate turned to watch their departure. Denebar did not, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the bleak panorama of the Kellion tundra. When he was sure they had all gone, he turned and crunched back across the snow to where Kelisa stood.

Are you alright? Denebar asked.

Fine, she lied. Just fine.

Denebar toyed with his moustache, cracking away the ice that had formed there, then said, No, you're not.

No, I'm not. But I will be. Bart will come back; he doesn't mean to leave me. If only one of them comes back, it'll be him.

She had said farewell to enough loved-ones in the past that she had no tears left even for her husband's departure. Denebar could not help then but admire her, a former harem-girl as stoical as any fighting man.

What do we do about Ava? Kelisa asked, to Denebar's surprise.

I rather hoped she'd go with you, he began, but Kelisa laughed.

You couldn't drag her away from Tate, she said, pointing with her chin to where the blond woman was fussing over her hulking lover beside the campfire. If he's coming then so is she, which means we're all together, unless you thought to leave me behind, too. So where are we going, Sir Denebar?

The plan Sabra had laid out to him seemed vague and dreamlike; to reunite the shattered nations, raise up the crumbled cities, and in time resettle the vast wilderness that had once been farmlands and villages. But he had given not a moment's thought to what he would do in the immediate aftermath of Sabra's departure; it had been too horrible to contemplate.

He felt an emptiness inside, wishing that he were only a suit of armour and not a man with a heart that could be broken. A single glance in Sabra's eyes destroyed a man as surely as the stare of a gorgon, turning him not to stone but vivifying his spirit beyond any concern for the flesh. When the Quest began, all who followed Sabra had begun to emulate her powers, requiring less and less sleep until they needed none at all, their needs for food and drink diminishing too, while the light of purpose dawned in their eyes and grew to incandescence. Now that she was gone, Denebar felt mortality re-seat itself in his breast.

We return to where the Quest began, he decided, at last. To Castle Daishen.

CHAPTER ONE

ADVENTURES OF THE PEDLAR EXTRAORDINAIRE

The witch and the pedlar were arguing. What had been a fine day for the wandering salesman had turned irrevocably sour the instant he saw Red Shakasha approaching him along the road. The bright Darician sun turned dim and the spring breeze remembered a snap of winter when the witch stomped to a halt before the pedlar's cart.

See you, McGillycuddy, the sorceress said, jabbing the travelling pedlar in the chest with one long-nailed finger.

And a pleasant afternoon to you too, Shakasha, Ace McGillycuddy began, but here the unbreakable gaes laid upon him long ago came into effect and he was forced to add, although as pleasantly as he could, I had honestly hoped that your shadow would never blight my days again, but fate denies even my smallest ambitions.

Ace McGillycuddy, Pedlar Extraordinaire, was bound by the most fearful enchantments to speak only the truth, and his business suffered as a result. Shakasha cackled, for it was she who had placed the awful hex upon the salesman many centuries ago, cursing him in the same breath to immortality and other things besides.

To any normal eyes, Red Shakasha appeared in the form of an ancient crone, hook nosed, warty, hunch-backed, leaning on a crooked staff and every inch the image of a demented hag. Ace, however, was immune to such glamour and saw Shakasha as she truly was; a tall and handsome woman with straight iron-grey hair that fell to her feet, her red robes belted with a cat-skin girdle from which hung pouches and amulets. At her right hip she wore a long, curved dagger; in her left hand she wielded a crystal staff. Her voice was sharp and cruel in either guise, and she was prone to maniacal laughter.

You've been avoiding me, McGillycuddy.

Shakasha, though I am sure it will pain me greatly to say so, a mere moment in your company is a nightmare I shudder to contemplate. And yet here we are.

One more sarcastic remark, Ace, and it will be your last. Shakasha raised her hand to menace the salesman with an occult gesture.

Back, witch! Ace warned her in turn, and drew from a concealed pocket a vial of blue sand. I've got six more of these; I'm not afraid to use it.

Shakasha threw up her cursing-hand in disgust and turned away. Just as Ace relaxed, the witch spun back to face him.

There's not a trinket in your pockets, on your cart or up your sleeve to contend with me, McGillycuddy! You’re a joke even among hedge-wizards; you're a laughing-stock!

I didn't want to be a wizard, you know, Ace muttered. I'm a simple man, all I ever wanted was to sell shoes. But no; fate had other plans, and along you came, with your size nine feet.

Slanderer! The witch struck the heel of her staff on the earth in outrage, then leant forward to prod Ace in the chest again. You told me you had the best pair of boots in all the land and I answered that if you did, I would make you the most extraordinary salesman ever born. And so you are. But that pair of boots, Ace; that pair of boots fell apart within a month, and you have owed me ever since.

Owed you?! Ace spluttered, but found he could say no more; the gaes silenced his tongue and Shakasha grinned.

You see? Try and have it that your debts to me are paid, go on and say it. You can't. It was a marvellous gift, what I did to you, and the rules require that you pay me in full. And not with boots, either, for I've already got a fine pair.

She lifted the hem of her robe enough to show off her footwear, knee-high boots of dark red suede.

Dyed in the blood of a thousand pilgrims, Shakasha added. I counted every one.

What do you want, Shakasha? Ace asked, his eyes on the floor.

You are summoned, Ace McGillycuddy, to present yourself to the Cabal at the sabbat.

Why do you need me? There was misery in the salesman's voice. You want what's on the cart? Take it. He turned as if to walk away and leave his handcart behind, but went only two paces before he stopped.

You know you can't do that, Shakasha gloated. You'll bring that cart and yourself to the sabbat or by hell you'll wish you'd lived to regret it, you ungrateful little scrote; I'll bottle you like a fine liqueur and savour you on long winter nights. I'll be seeing you, McGillycuddy, one way or another...

The witch's voice echoed strangely; Ace looked around to find himself alone, Shakasha's parting threat still ringing in the air. Wearily, the enchanted salesman took up the weight of his cart again and trudged on along the road.

He was not, he already knew, going to attend the sabbat meeting of the Cabal. Numerous plans flashed through his mind to escape the witch, even to kill her, but Ace was under no illusions which of them was more powerful. The vial of blue powder had given her pause, but even that could be little more than a hindrance and no great threat to Red Shakasha, immortal Blood Witch of Kephilkazpa.

Ace McGillycuddy had no such grand titles, self-assumed or otherwise. His only magic lay in his pedlar's cart, which Shakasha had cursed on the day of their first chance meeting. The cart had been then and remained now piled with items, which Ace was required by gaes to sell while being forbidden from accepting coin. This meant that he could only exchange goods and services in trade, making it nigh hopeless that he might ever dispose of every last item and so be free.

Among the many things loaded on the cart was a large iron-bound chest, which contained a flight of stairs leading to a matching chest elsewhere, but Ace did not long consider the prospect of disappearing that way; the witch would find him if he fled, of that he was sure. The only answer would be to kill her, but Ace could no more murder Shakasha by stealth than he could in an open confrontation; he was simply not a man of violence, physical or magical. He had walked for several hours, mulling it all over, before the answer occurred.

With the bounce restored to his step, Ace set down the handles of his cart and rummaged through his wares.

The mini-menagerie, six vials of coloured sand neatly packed in a purpose-made box, he put carefully aside, knowing he would need it soon enough.

The object Ace really wanted was small and had worked its way down to the bottom of the cart; he had to virtually unpack the whole stall before he found it. Under the box of stairs, a small sheathed dagger, a gigantic pair of trousers, a hat that Ace had retained from an unwise highwayman, three small iron boxes with barred grates on their locked doors, a polished wooden cudgel and many other things besides, Ace's hand at last discovered a glass bottle containing a model tavern.

He held the ornament up to the light, marvelling at the detail, and then looked around for somewhere convenient to smash it. Nowhere immediately presented itself, and Ace hesitated, aware he was certainly about to open a whole new can of worms. Eventually, he put the bottle down on the verge beside the road and broke it with the cudgel.

There was a pop, quite unlike the sound of breaking glass, and Ace found himself transported from the sunny open road to the dark interior of a roadside inn. He was not alone, but those already in the room were far more surprised than he and broke into a baffled chorus:

Did you see that? Just stepped out of nowhere...

Hell, I saw that, but did you see that?

I did see that, but I don't believe it!

Hello! Ace grinned at the landlord, the barmaid and the three customers at the bar, then waved at the other two drinkers sitting in a back corner and the second barmaid who stood by their table.

All eight people were still gaping at Ace McGillycuddy, who had simply stepped out of the air cart and all, or so it seemed to them. Ace had been momentarily almost as confused as they were, but had some idea of what he had done and so recovered quickly. He had expected the inn to spring into existence in front of him, and then to enter through the door in the traditional manner, thus sparing the inhabitants any undue shock. Instead, the inn had popped up around him and the Pedlar Extraordinaire was forced to make explanations.

His grin turned sheepish as he approached the bar. The landlord eyed him warily.

A pint of ale, please, Ace said, and waited.

After a long pause in which he did not move an inch, the landlord asked, Where did you just spring from?

Outside. Do you know where you are?

I'm in my pub, the landlord replied. The Speckled Egg, finest pub in Kellia.

Daricia, Ace corrected him. The finest pub in Daricia.

Are you drunk, mate?

Not yet, how about that ale? When the landlord still did not move, Ace said, Have a look outside.

I don't have time for this; if you want a drink, pay up.

I would, but I am bound by fearsome oaths never to touch currency. What else might you take in trade?

No money, no beer.

Ace made deep thought, then produced from his cart a necklace of solid gold encrusted with rubies. The landlord gaped. I can't change that.

Ace shrugged. It’s no real compensation for what I've done to you, I'm afraid. It’s yours, if you'll ply me with a little ale and kindly have one of your staff take a look outside.

The landlord waved distractedly at one of the barmaids to oblige, his attention fixed on the bejewelled necklace.

What is it you think you've done...? he started to ask, only to be interrupted by the terrified scream of the barmaid. She stumbled backwards from the threshold and leant against the bar, too frightened to speak while the customers and the second barmaid crowded around her.

The snow, the girl said, when she could draw breath. It’s gone.

The landlord led the way outside. Ace waited patiently until the screams and swearing died away. Then the landlord came back in, babbling questions and pointing idiotically out the door.

What's going on? Where'd all that grass come from, where'd the village go and what the hell did you do with all the snow?!

It’s broad daylight, one of the customers said, appearing at the landlord's elbow. Wasn’t it dark out, a moment ago?

Ace cringed beneath the barrage of confused voices as the rest of the customers and the barmaid came back in. The two men at the back had sat watching the entire scene, but now left their table and joined the group by the bar.

What's all the noise about? the taller of the pair asked.

They were all Kellions, the trio at the bar heavyset labourers while the two who now approached were tall and lean, dressed in the style of wealthy noblemen and sporting long swords at their belts.

You, in fact this entire establishment, have been transported several hundred miles, Ace explained. Not, I should add, in the blink of an eye, but over a space of many years. You see...

What's he babbling about? the second swordsman asked, and would only be satisfied then by looking out the door for himself. Haroum's frigid left nut, the young man swore, then hustled his older companion to have a look.

How did this happen? The landlord had poured himself a stiff drink. I mean, it’s not normal is it? It's got to be some sort of joke...

Well, yes, but nothing you're likely to laugh off anytime soon, Ace said, trying to sympathise. It’s not entirely my fault; I bought your tavern in a bottle from a pirate who won it in a card-game from a shipmate who had been given it as gift by the wizard who cast the spell in the first place. Although I can't imagine what might provoke someone to bottle a nice place like this.

There was this old feller come in here last night, the landlord muttered. Long cloak, pointy hat, big walking stick, no money. So I threw him out in the rain.

Ah. Ace nodded sagely. Is there any sign of that beer, by the way?

Get the man a beer, Quin, the landlord said, and the blond barmaid moved to oblige.

You said years, the other barmaid whispered. What did you mean?

Well... Ace tore his eyes from the slowly-filling jar of ale beneath the pump. The spring warmth of southerly Daricia was seeping into the room and he was suddenly very thirsty. I've had this place in a bottle on my cart for a good few years now, and as I said, at least three people kept it as an ornament for...

At this point, the shorter of the swordsmen grabbed Ace by the throat.

If this is not a very poor joke, things shall go ill with you hereafter.

Ace tried to pry the man's hand from his neck as he replied, As much as I sympathise, I really will not put up with violence.

Look, leave him alone another minute at least, one of the labourers said. Let's get the full story here. It can't be real anyway, can it? We'll step outside again and it'll all be just right, he's just a hedge-wizard after free drinks, that's what it is.

The taller swordsman gently removed his friend's hand from Ace's collar and stepped between them.

My cousin is merely worried; we had hoped to reach Narillion in time for the winter festival.

Too late for that, I'm afraid, Ace said. And for anything else you might have had planned. Ever. I really am sorry and all, but it’s not me that's done this to you...

You might have opened the bottle sooner, the brunette barmaid said. I've got a little brother to take care of; he's got no one else.

Well if he was in the building at the time...

We live down the street! the girl screamed and threw Ace's beer at him. It was an exceptionally violent reaction from any Kellion girl; the barmaid went white and put her hands to her face in horror at what she had done. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I just...

Ace only sighed and waited for the girl to calm down. I certainly owe you all some recompense for my part, I concede that.

Aye, the shorter, more aggressive swordsman said. If we've missed the festival, I'll beat it out of your hide.

I think not, for the very sorcery I would employ to help you is quite sufficient for my defence, Ace said. The warrior's expression told him the man would not so easily relent; Ace sighed and took from his pocket the vial of blue dust.

Stand back, everyone please, he said, adding to the man who threatened him, Not you, sir; rather, would you be good enough to stay just as you are?

What do you mean to do?

Ace paused in the act of uncorking the vial. That very much depends on you. If you'll be good enough to restrain your understandable temper, I will see what can be done to assist you. Otherwise, it will, as you put it, go ill hereafter.

Siddown, Ren, the swordsman's friend said. If it’s a trick, let it play out.

What if it’s not? Ren replied, his voice betraying the fear beneath his anger.

Have none of you considered, Ace asked of the group at large, that any problems you hitherto had are now over? No more winter, no more debts...

No more horrible wife, one of the labourers said, brightening up.

But see here, the landlord said, we're in Daricia, according to you; what'll happen when the authorities find out?

Nothing, Ace told him, I told these two gentlemen they were too late for the Narillion festival; in truth they are too late for Narillion. The city is gone, Kellia is gone, Silveneir too, both overthrown in the wars that you people have been fortunate enough to miss. Daricia survives, and here it is a new age, or so I have been told, of hope and freedom.

No more debts... the landlord said, very slowly. That means I own the Speckled Egg, it’s my pub through and through...

And so my debt to you in turn is resolved, Ace said happily, gesturing for another beer. Marvellous.

Hang on a minute...

The landlord was interrupted by the blond barmaid suddenly yelping in joy. Hah, that means I don't owe any more money either; I'm free! She did a little dance on the spot until the landlord growled, Oh no you're not; you're bonded, girl, until the end of the contract, which was for five years, besides food and lodging and whatnot...

How long has it been? the girl demanded of Ace. More than five years?

Oh, I should say a good deal longer than that.

The girl danced about again, laughing and making obscene gestures at the landlord. The other barmaid, the one who had thrown beer over Ace, looked deeply dejected.

Hey, what's wrong with you? Ace enquired. I know you'll miss your brother and all, but that can't be helped...

He's the only family I had, I've got nowhere else to go.

Stay here, the landlord said. Since it looks like Quin won't be needing her room anymore.

You're right! Quin yelped. I have to pack, I'm off! So saying, she dashed from the room.

Ace turned to the three labourers and the two swordsmen from the city. Well, that just leaves you lot. If you're in a hurry, I'll see what I have on my cart; otherwise, you'll just have to come with me a little way until I can sort you all out.

No offence, one of the labourers said, but I reckon I could just find a job in these parts and settle right in like nothing's happened. I've got no kids, I hate my wife and it’s much warmer here anyhow. I've always wanted to live in Daricia, but my horrible wife wouldn't let me.

It’s true, he's got a horrible wife, the second labourer said. Foul she is; like the back end of a cow in every regard.

"Steady on; she's my wife. I've spent years learning to appreciate just how horrible that woman is, so I'll say what I like about her. But you..."

I'm not married, the other man admitted, happily. The only decent women in the village are right here in this pub. And he winked at the brunette barmaid; the girl blushed.

The third labourer had been gazing out the window at the sunny pastures outside. I've always hated snow, he said. Since I was little kid; hated it.

As he spoke, there came a huge crash from outside and the light through the windows dimmed; the thick slab of snow on the roof had slipped free and buried one side of the inn. When the noise faded and their eyes adjusted to the new gloom, the inhabitants of the bar found Ace still grinning at them.

If you three gentlemen are of that mind, then I have something to help you, he said, and took from his cart a strange fruit, wrapped in brown paper. The farmhands looked at it dubiously.

This, said Ace, is one of those rare and special fruit from the isle of Far Hrinor. Plant it by running water and I guarantee your first crop will be the end of all your present imagined woes.

A magic fruit? One of the labourers asked, and Ace nodded.

Unless the three of you for any reason cannot abide one another long enough to bring in a single crop, in which case...

No, no, it’s alright...

What if it doesn't work? the second labourer asked.

It will, Ace replied, "for this tree grows so easily and bears such a crop that you will all be rich and lazy men in a very short time, fat and