The Quickening Read online

  Dedication

  For my good friend Diane Rogers,

  who in sharing her fascinating experience with a ‘seer’

  unwittingly prompted this tale

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Praise

  Map

  PROLOGUE

  HE KNEW THE INJURY would be fatal. Accepted it at the very moment he caught the sword’s menacing glint as it slashed down.

  Fergys Thirsk, favourite son of Morgravia, began the last part of his journey towards death as a grey dawn sluggishly stretched itself across the winter sky. He faced his end with the same grace and courage he had called upon for all of his life as General of the Legion.

  It had been the King’s idea to attack the Briavellians gathered on an opposite hillside under the cloak of night. To Fergys it had seemed somehow ignoble to interrupt the traditional night’s peace in which men sat quietly around small fires, some singing, others deep in thought as to whether they might live through another day of battle. But the King had fixed his mind on this bold plan to take his enemy by surprise on a night where dark, brooding clouds eliminated the moonlight. The River Tague, which bisected the realms of Morgravia and Briavel from the mountains in the north to their midlands, had already run red with the blood of both armies earlier that day and Fergys had been reluctant to put the men to the sword again so soon. But his sovereign had persisted and Thirsk had accepted the challenge. There had been no sense of foreboding as he carried out his monarch’s wishes and led the attack. He simply did not like the plan. Fergys was a man of honour and tradition. War had a code which he preferred to observe rather than flout.

  Nevertheless he had fought ferociously — he knew no other way — but had been disturbed when Magnus, his friend and King, going directly against his wishes, had joined the fray. Without further thought Fergys had planted his feet and grimly despatched three Briavellians before he was able to make a move towards protecting his sovereign.

  ‘The white cloak’s suitably inconspicuous,’ he had yelled sarcastically above the din towards his oldest, dearest friend.

  Magnus had had the audacity to wink at him. ‘Got to let Valor know I was here when his army was beaten into submission.’

  It was a reckless act and more dangerous than the King could ever have suspected. They were fighting on Briavel’s side of the river and once the element of surprise had passed, both armies had got down to the business of slaughtering one another. Valor’s men were no cowards and had worked with a new-found passion to repel Morgravia.

  Fergys had noticed Briavel’s standard — signalling that Valor too was in the thick of the fighting — and remembered now, as lifegiving blood leaked from him, how he had feared for both Kings. With Briavel having the advantage of higher ground, Fergys had made the decision to pull back. His army had already inflicted a terrible price on its enemy; no need for either of these sovereigns to die, he recalled thinking. He knew by daybreak and the inevitable clash that would come later that day, that Morgravia would overcome its enemy once again. So he had given the order and his men had obeyed immediately.

  All except one.

  And it was that one man whom Fergys Thirsk had sworn to protect. The one he would give his life for.

  As with the Thirsk Generals who had gone before him, Fergys had lived long so the only regret which surfaced as the killing blow came was his absence from the family he loved. Fergys was not at all used to losing but it seemed Shar had asked more of him on this occasion; his god had asked for his life and he had given what had been requested without hesitation. He had fought so many battles and rarely returned with more than surface wounds, such was the fighting prowess and tenacity of the man.

  And this battle had looked to be no exception until he had seen the danger, heard the man’s battle cry and deliberately stepped in front of that slashing sword. Up to that fateful moment only a thin line of dried blood across one cheek marked the closest a blade had come to threatening him. Duty, however, came first. Fergys had not even paused to consider the implication of pushing aside King Magnus, knowing he would have no time to block the inevitable blow. The only obstacle between the King’s survival and certain death was Fergys’s own fragile body, which he offered up gladly. The blade struck, fate guiding it ingeniously beneath the breastplate armour.

  He did no more than wince at the sucking wound in his abdomen, too intent was he on despatching the Briavellian and ensuring the life of his King. Only then did Fergys Thirsk fall, not yet dead but the longest journey of all commenced.

  As they had hurried him from the battleground and back over the Tague, he was still calling orders to his captains. Once he had heard the full retreat sounded, he lay back on the canvas which would bear him back to Morgravia’s camp. This journey seemed endless and he now used the time to reflect on his life.

  There was little to complain about.

  He was loved. That in itself should be enough for any man, he reasoned but then there was so much more. He commanded respect wherever he went — had earned it too — and he had walked shoulder to shoulder with a King whom he called friend. More than friend … blood brother.

  That brother now walked in shock by his side, giving orders, fussing for his care, whispering to himself that it was all his fault; his stupidity and recklessness had seen the great General felled. It was all pointless. Fergys tried to tell the man this but there was insufficient strength in his voice to speak above the din of the retreat. If he could have he would have hushed his blood brother and reminded him that Shar’s Gatherers had spoken and whether any of them liked it or not he must now answer that call. No regrets. Duty done.

  Men were bowing their heads as the stretcher passed by. Fergys wished he could somehow convey his thanks to each. The Legion produced exceptional soldiers; loyal to a man to his command. They had never let him down; never questioned a decision. He spared an anxious thought for how they would accept the new General, yearned for a last opportunity to beg their tolerance. ‘Give the boy a chance,’ he would beseech. ‘He will be all that I am and better still.’ And he knew it to be true.

  He thought of the youngster. Serious, complex, a firm follower of tradition. Tarred by the same brush, as they say, especially in looks. They were plain, stocky, fearless men the Thirsks, and this boy was already shaping to be a natural-born leade
r. The Morgravian Legion followed a curious tradition of handing down leadership from father to son. Fergys wondered if it could last. The lad was so young. Would he have time to sire his own heir to continue the Thirsk tradition or would a new family vie for the right to lead the army? Thirsks had led the Legion through two centuries now. It was an extraordinary history for one family which seemed to breed sons with warrior capabilities, tempered with intelligence. In his heart he knew his son would be the best General ever, for his mother had given him humility to match his courage, and it seemed the boy had inherited her indomitable spirit too.

  The dying man’s bearers were nearing the tent which he knew would be his final resting place. Once he was laid down he would have to concentrate on his King for as long as his heart held out. He wanted time to think about his beautiful wife Helyna of whom so much lived on in their son. Not her looks, mind. Those exquisite features belonged to their daughter alone. Fergys grimaced, not from pain so much as grief. His daughter was so young … too young to lose both parents.

  How would his family manage? Money was no problem. They were the wealthiest of all the nobility, perhaps barring the Donals of Felrawthy, he thought sagely. He would have to rely on Magnus. Knew he could. What his family needed now was time. Time to grow into their new lives. Peace must be achieved with Briavel until the young Thirsk was ready to lead into battle. That peaceful time would have to be bought and he hoped his life would be the raw currency.

  They laid him down. The King had insisted he be settled in the royal tent. Physicians hurried to Thirsk’s side. He ignored their probing, knowing it would ultimately be followed by a shaking of heads and grave glances. Fergys closed his eyes to the sudden frenetic activity and returned to his ponderings.

  The old hate. It all seemed so pointless now. Valor of Briavel was a good King. He had a daughter. Little chance now of a son. Valor had shown no inclination to remarry after the death of his wife; it was rumoured that theirs had been a love gifted from Shar. And he was probably too old now, at seventy, to bother himself with trying to sire a male heir. He too needed peace for Briavel’s Princess to grow up and grow into her role. The wars had been a tradition in a sense. Their forefathers had fought each other when they were little more than feuding families. Initially it had been a case of maintaining the balance of power between two small factions suspicious of one another. But when the two strongest families established their own realms, and kingdoms were born, the battles were fought to increase power, gain more land, greater authority. Over the centuries, neither managed to claim domination over the region and so their animosity degenerated into squabbles over trading rights or merchant routes — any petty excuse, in fact, until by the time Magnus and Valor had inherited their crowns, neither was sure exactly why the two realms hated one another so intently.

  Fergys shook his head. If truth be known, he rather admired Valor, and lamented the fact that the two Kings could not be neighbours in spirit as well as location. United in friendship and mutual respect, the region would be rich beyond dreams and near invincible to any enemy. Now he would never see that dream come to fruition. He sighed.

  ‘Talk to me,’ his King beseeched, voice leaden with guilt.

  ‘Send the physics away, Magnus. We all know it’s done.’

  The King bowed his head in sad acceptance and gave the order.

  All except his friend had now been banished by Thirsk. No emotional farewells would he tolerate from his captains. He could bear neither their sympathy nor their despair. They had filed out in silence, stunned by the notion that their General may not even see this day’s sun fully risen.

  Thirsk asked for the tent flap to be left open so he could see across the moors to the smoke from the distant fires of the Briavellian camp, where soon the sounds of dying men and beasts would be heard again should the battle resume today. In his heart Thirsk knew the two armies were bleeding and wearied; all of the men were now keen to acknowledge the outcome of yet another battle between these ancient enemies and return to their towns and villages. Many would not be going home, of course, and their widows and mothers, sisters and betrothed were mostly from Briavel.

  And yet, as Fergys Thirsk slipped further into death’s cool embrace, most from his side knew it would be later argued in the taverns that it was the great realm of Morgravia which had suffered the stunning loss on this occasion.

  The General looked wearily back at his oldest and closest friend.

  ‘It’s over for them,’ King Magnus of Morgravia finally said.

  Thirsk tried to nod, relieved that Magnus had navigated his way out of the shocked stupor; there were things to be said and little time. ‘But Valor will try to fight on,’ Fergys cautioned. ‘He will want Briavel to salvage some face.’

  The King sighed. ‘And do we allow him to?’

  ‘You always have in the past, your majesty. Pull back our men completely and let him have the news of my injury and subsequent passing,’ his dying companion replied, shivering now from pain cutting through the earlier numbness. ‘It will be a proud moment for them and then we can all go home,’ he added, knowing full well he would go home shrouded in black linens and tied to his horse.

  The battle was won. Morgravia had prevailed as it usually did under General Thirsk. It had not always been so, however. There were centuries previous when Briavel had triumphed. These nations had shared a long and colourful hate.

  ‘I wonder why I give him quarter — a weakness, do you think?’ Magnus pondered.

  Fergys wanted to tell his King that it was not weakness but compassion which saw today’s Morgravia resist the temptation of out-and-out slaughter. That and the fact that Magnus had never had to watch his best friend die before — suddenly the battle had taken second place in the King’s priorities. And if compassion was a weakness, then Fergys loved his King for the contradictions in his character that could see him willingly pass sentence of death on a Morgravian criminal whilst, on the battlefield, sparing the lives of his enemies. It was this enigmatic mix of impulsiveness and honour, stubbornness and flexibility which had drawn Fergys to Magnus from childhood.

  Thirsk noticed his own breathing was becoming shallower. He had witnessed this many times previously on the battlefield as he held the hands of the dying and heard their last laboured words. Now it was his turn. Death was beckoning but it would have to wait just a little while longer.

  There was more to be said even though it hurt so much to talk. ‘If there is weakness in this, then it is shared equally amongst us all,’ Fergys responded. ‘Without it, Briavel and Morgravia would not enjoy this regular opportunity to send their young men thundering on fine steeds across the moors to kill each other.’

  Magnus nodded at the irony of his friend’s sentiments. There had been a Thirsk at the head of the Morgravian army for so many years, all but the historians had stopped counting. The Thirsk line bred exceptional soldiers. It was a gift, people said. But in this particular Thirsk there were other exceptional qualities, such as his respect for the enemy and fairness; his humility, humour and his genuine hate for war.

  Fergys Thirsk never willingly went to battle; he cared too much for the sanctity of peace and the preservation of lives, particularly those of Morgravian men. But history attested to Fergys Thirsk being the most successful of the campaigners to lead Morgravia and not once under his leadership had a battle been lost. He was legend amongst his men. It was a favourite saying of Magnus that if his General told his men to ride off a cliff, they would do so without hesitation.

  Through a haze of pain Thirsk scrutinised the grieving man before him, noticing for the first time how grey his King’s hair had become. Once lustrous, it framed a strong-looking face, a determined jaw and eyes which somehow reflected the man’s extraordinary intelligence. The King’s tall bearing suddenly gave the impression of a vague stoop, as though his big body was getting too heavy for him to carry around. They were getting old.

  The General suddenly rasped a laugh. He would grow no o
lder than this day. The King looked up sharply at the unexpected sound and Fergys shrugged, sending a new wave of agony through his ruptured body.

  ‘We’ve always managed to laugh at most things, Magnus.’

  ‘Not at this, Fergys. Not at this.’ The King sighed again.

  Fergys could hear the pain in that deep breath. They had shared their childhood. Their fathers had raised them to be close but the friendship was not forced. Fergys had worshipped the heir and then the King, and for his part, Magnus considered his General a brother in all but birthright. He loved Fergys fiercely and relied on his counsel, had done so throughout his long and flourishing reign. They were as wise together as they were wily.

  ‘What must I do?’ the King whispered.

  With his last reserves of energy, the soldier squeezed the hand of his King.

  ‘Your majesty, it is my belief that you would no more celebrate the death of King Valor of Briavel than you do mine. Morgravia has nothing to fear from him now for perhaps as much as the next decade — make it so, my King. Call a parley, sire. No more young men need lose their lives today.’

  ‘I want to. I have no desire to prolong this battle, as you well know, and if it had not been for my own stupidity, you wouldn’t —’

  Thirsk interrupted the King’s outpouring of guilt with a spasm of coughing, blood spattering his shirt. It was the ominous sign that death would no longer be patient. The King began to reach for linens but his General pushed the monarch’s fussing hands away, answering his query instead.