A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (22 page)

When Corlin woke, there was no sign of the dog. Their night had been spent on a bed of winter-brown bracken under the lee of an ancient wall, once the gable end of a shepherd’s cottage, a remnant of the old days when wolves still roamed and flocks were constantly guarded. His new canine companion, who Corlin had quickly discovered answered quite readily to ‘Dog’, had not taken much persuading to curl up against the minstrel’s back. Appreciative of the extra warmth and perceived security that this closeness provided, Corlin soon fell asleep. Curiously fragmented and jumbled dreams acted out their bizarre scenes in his subconscious mind, but otherwise he slept undisturbed until first light.

Resigned to the possibility that the hound had made its way back to the late charcoal-burner’s hut, he readied himself and Megan for the day’s journey. The enthusiasm he had felt about having Dog’s company, if only until he reached the mountains, had faded as quickly as the sunrise, now obscured by a bank of fast moving sullen grey cloud. With the last of the woodlands behind him and the steep and arduous climb up to the moors barely begun, it was near mid-day when the first large cold raindrops launched their assault. Feeling thoroughly miserable, he urged Megan on up the long incline, his head bowed against the driving rain, his hat brim pulled low to shield his eyes.

The open moor offered no shelter; no rocky outcrop, nor even a stunted thorn tree loomed out of the grey murk to offer a few moments of scant relief from the torrential downpour. His hands stuffed deep in his coat pockets, he let Megan make her own way through the knee-high carpets of winter heather, now already fading to a dull greyish purple, complementing the depressing hues of the leaden rain-filled skies. He rode for hours; the only sounds he heard were the whistle of sudden gusts which blew into his face, Megan’s hooves swishing through the heather, and the occasional rumble of distant thunder. Sunk deep in a quagmire of half-formed plans and speculative thoughts, it took a few minutes for his brain to register that the rain was easing and a band of brightness had appeared at the edge of the clouds. Inside half an hour, the sun had broken through and a glorious sunset was promising to crown the day.

Corlin’s relief was short-lived. Now the haze had given way to clear rain-washed air, he could see for miles around. He stared, but it was not the magnificent view that held his attention. Instead of the mountains being directly ahead, where he expected to see them, they now lay far over to his left. Given free rein Megan had veered to the right during the storm, and was heading with a very determined gait towards a spot about a mile further on, where the ground appeared to dip and fold, before continuing on an upward slope.

Exasperated, Corlin reined in hard, pulled off his hat and slapped it in frustration against the saddlebow. “Gods, Megan! We’re miles off our route!”

Even so, he had always placed a lot of faith in Megan’s horse-sense, and his curiosity was piqued. Jamming his hat back on his head, he stood up in the stirrups and let his gaze travel across to the line where the ground dipped. Not wanting to believe his eyes, he looked away for a moment then looked again.

A tight smile of satisfaction crossed his face as he settled back in the saddle and gave Megan a hefty pat on the side of her neck. “Well done, lovely girl. C’mon, we can be there before the sun’s gone.”

Needing no further prompting, the grey mare broke into a trot, heading straight for the spot where the ridge of a small gable roof was now becoming visible beyond the dip. A few minutes later Corlin reined in at the top of the slope and looked down at the crofter’s tiny cottage, set in a sheltered hollow beside a narrow stream of moorland run-off. The last rays of the setting sun revealed a partly overgrown path leading along the ridge and down into the hollow. In the gathering dusk, Corlin urged Megan forward.

With only yards to go, a thundering crash shook the wooden door in its frame. Startled, Corlin hung on as Megan shied, whinnied and reared, almost throwing him from the saddle. Seconds later another deafening and violent assault from inside the cottage sent long vicious splinters of wood flying through the air, as a foot-wide star-burst of newly shattered wood appeared on the door’s face. Tortured timber creaked and groaned, and during the few moments it took to settle Megan, Corlin thought he could hear deep and heavy breathing. All went quiet.

Curbing his first instinct to put as much distance as he could between himself and whatever furious beast was trying to break through the door, Corlin dismounted and stretched his cold and aching legs. His heart pounding, he felt his way round the outer walls, but there appeared to be no windows that he could peer through.

Back at the door he nearly jumped out of his skin as a man’s trembling voice called out “Who’s out there? Help! Let us out!”

Shock, surprise and disbelief took turns to batter Corlin’s emotions before he regained control. He stepped closer to the door. “Otty? Is that you? It’s Corlin. What are you doing in there?”

The indignant reply left the minstrel in no doubt. “Don’t ask bloody stupid questions. We’re locked in. Open the blasted door!”

In the rapidly fading light, Corlin was just able to make out three sturdy iron bolts and a thumb-latch. The bolts, spaced equally apart, had been fastened from the outside.

He grasped the finger grip of the top bolt and immediately snatched his hand away. A fierce burning sensation had stabbed through his fingers, leaving his arm aching and nausea gripping his stomach. He cursed silently, took a deep breath and tried the middle bolt. The effect was equally immediate and unpleasant. Trying valiantly to hold on to the contents of his stomach, Corlin took a few more deep breaths, bent down and grasped the bolt at the bottom of the door. Although the response seemed a little milder, the effect was no less disagreeable. Rubbing his painful arm, he turned away from the door and leaned across the saddle while he waited for the nausea to subside.

From inside the cottage Otty yelled “How long are you gonna be?”

Corlin stepped closer, taking care not to touch the door. “I’m not sure. There’s some kind of magic or something on the bolts. I can’t open them. How did you end up in there?”

Otty’s voice told Corlin that the stocky man’s indignation had collapsed into despair. “It was that bastard with the hat-band. He locked me and Egg in here.” His voice rose half an octave. “He left us here to die!” His next words sounded muffled. “And I think you’re right about the magic. I can’t get near the door without feeling sick.”

Corlin’s mind was spinning. “Hang on Otty. I’ll think of something. Egg’s nearly busted a hole in the door. Maybe I can do something to that.” There was no reply.

Deciding he would probably be able to think better with something in his stomach, the minstrel limped back to Megan and began to delve in one of the saddlebags. As his fingers located a well-wrapped and rather squashy package, from the corner of his eye he saw something glowing just below Megan’s shoulder. Leaning forward he watched the gently pulsing glow for a moment or two. He smiled into the darkness, forgetting his intended snack as he silently thanked the magician Cadomar, and unhitched his staff. With the soft blue light reflecting in his eyes, he approached the door.

Uncertain as to what he was supposed to do, he gripped the staff firmly in one hand and tried the top bolt with the other. His fingers tingled, although the sensation seemed weaker but still unpleasant, and the feeling of nausea was almost negligible. Leaning on the staff, Corlin stood and thought for a while, racking his brain as he attempted to figure out how this might work. An idea came to him, and he grimaced at his own slow-wittedness. Raising the staff he touched the ornately carved head with its tiny glowing jewel against the bolt, holding it there for a few seconds. He reached up, gripped the bolt, and with a grunt of satisfaction slid it back. The two remaining bolts were quickly dealt with, and Corlin grasped the thumb-latch.

Not trusting to there being no further nasty surprises inside, Corlin kept a firm hold on his staff as he flung open the door and stepped back. Heavy hooves clattered on stone, and Egg barged past, his bulk almost knocking the minstrel to the ground in his haste to reach open air. Megan whiffled a greeting, her bridle jingling as she shook her head and welcomed their reunion.

Corlin peered round the door-jamb into the reeking darkness. “Otty? You all right?”

His reply was preceded by a disgruntled growl. “Yeah. At least, I will be when I’ve stopped shaking.”

The minstrel turned his head away. “Alright. You come out when you’re ready. We’re only out here.”

The inside of the tiny cottage stank of horse, body odour, manure and piss, and as much as he felt he should go in and say or do something, Corlin stayed outside in the clean air. He stood leaning on his staff and watched the tiny bird’s-eye sized glow of magic slowly fade away. Otty staggered out just as a wash of pale gold touched the edge of the moors far over to the north-east. His face looking drawn and bloodless in the moonlight he shuffled along to Corlin and gripped the minstrel’s forearm.

His words struggled out on a hoarse whisper. “Thanks Corlin. I’ll make it up to you some-time.”

Before Corlin could reply, Otty had stumbled to the run-off, crouched at its edge and gulped down two or three cupped handfuls before vigorously splashing more of the icy water over his face and head.

With an exaggerated shudder, he stood up, ran his fingers through his wet hair and grinned at Corlin. “You got anything to eat?”

Unwilling to take the chance that Jacca might have somehow detected that his spells had been broken, Corlin insisted they get well away before stopping to eat. Ahead of them lay miles of open moorland, but as they drew nearer the foothills, the clumps of heather thinned out and the ground became firmer. With Otty riding close beside him Corlin urged them into a ground-eating canter, and before too long the pair were heading towards a single massive outcrop of rock which loomed up ahead.

Sitting in the lee of the rock, the two men concentrated on filling their stomachs. His hunger satisfied, Corlin stood up, tidied the wrappings into the saddlebag and sat down again beside Otty.

Arms folded across his drawn-up knees, he gave the stocky man a sidelong glance. “So, how’d you end up in that place then?”

Otty clenched his fists and his jaw tightened. “To cut a long story short, he gave me something to get rid of the poison from those invisible things, and then he said I was released from that...enchantment...and that he was taking me and Egg somewhere safe.”

Corlin gave a snort of derision, which Otty echoed. “Yeah, but like a daft sod, I believed him. I thought he was going to magic us back to Tallard or somewhere round there. Anyway, when he got us into that cottage he put us both to sleep. We hadn’t been awake long when you turned up.” He looked hard at Corlin and frowned. “How did you find us?”

The minstrel jerked a thumb at Megan. “I didn’t have much to do with it. I think she must have sensed Egg, or both of you, and veered off without me noticing. The weather was pretty foul.”

Not prepared to share his suspicions with Otty, he pushed himself to his feet and stretched. To Corlin this whole incident smelt strongly of double bluff, and convinced him even more of what a thoroughly devious and dangerous character Jacca was.

He reached down and pulled his companion to his feet. “Anyway, I think we’ve given Jacca the slip, for a while at least, so let’s keep going.”

Otty sounded puzzled. “Who’s Jacca?”

Corlin’s economy with the truth verged on parsimonious. “Him with the hatband. Someone I met in Vellethen told me his name.”

To avoid further questions, Corlin prepared to climb into the saddle. Otty gripped his arm. “Wait! I saw something move, over there.”

He pointed to a spot just past where he had tethered Egg, near the end of the rock. Corlin peered into the shadows. A pair of eyes caught the moonlight as one shadow slipped sideways and sank lower.

The minstrel gave a low chuckle, patted Otty’s arm, and stepped forward. “Dog? Where you been?”

The hound padded forward and nuzzled his hand as if seeking some kind of reassurance. The minstrel crouched down and fondled the animal’s floppy ears as he gave Otty a brief version of the story. Somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to Corlin, Dog allowed Otty to briefly stroke his head, before turning and going back to the spot where the two men had first seen him. Lost in the shadows, he returned moments later and, with a thud, dropped something at Corlin’s feet.

The minstrel grinned, bent down and gave Dog a hefty pat on his broad shoulders. “Good boy! Well done! Thank you!”

His tail thrashing back and forth like a whip, dog’s tongue lolled as he basked in the approval and watched Corlin pick up the offering.

Otty stared at it. “What are we going to do with a bloody great Jack-rabbit?”

Corlin grinned again. “Cook it and eat it of course, but not ‘til we’re a long way from here.”

A piece of twine was fished out from one of the many pockets of his coat, and the Jack-rabbit tied head down onto one of the saddle-bags. Meanwhile, Dog and Egg had apparently agreed to tolerate each other, and a few minutes later two riders and a dog were heading for the foothills.

* * *

The next three days proved uneventful, their dwindling rations supplemented by a couple more Jack-rabbits provided by Dog, whose enthusiasm for his new way of life seemed sometimes to border on the ecstatic. They rode in warm spring sunshine, Dog trotting happily along beside them, breaking into his long-legged lope whenever the going allowed them to push Megan and Egg into a trot or a canter. At mid-morning on the fourth day the two men found themselves facing the choice between two clearly defined mountain trails, and the weather was changing.

Otty pointed to the trail which seemed to lead straight ahead, cutting through the mountain range. “That one looks as if it goes through to the other side.”

Corlin shook his head. “We don’t want to go through, we have to go up. We have to find the Fellgate.”

Otty’s expression was pained. “I know. But if there’s a village on the other side of there, even if it’s a few miles, we can get some food and maybe a decent bed for the night and then come back.”

Corlin looked up at the peaks towering far above them and grimaced, his breath making wisps in the chilling air as he watched the deep purple pillows of snow-clouds swirling over and rolling ominously down the mountainside. “We can’t be sure that there
is
a village, and if there isn’t, then all that time and effort will have been for nothing.” He turned Megan towards the upward trail and called over his shoulder. “The best thing we can do is try and find some shelter.” He pointed upwards. “I don’t fancy being out in the open when that lot drops.”

With Dog lolloping on ahead, they had ridden less than a mile when large snowflakes began their silent tumble. Undisturbed by even the slightest breeze, the white curtain draped itself over riders, horses and rocks, transforming into a sound-deadening blanket as it smothered the mountain trail. Dog turned the potentially hazardous conditions into playtime, snapping at snowflakes and kicking flurries high into the air with his huge paws. In the middle of one scrabbling and pointless hunt for a snowball which Corlin had scraped together and pitched for him, Dog stopped and set an unmoving stance at the rock face to their left, as if pointing at some concealed prey. Realising what the hound had noticed, Corlin’s breath mingled with snowflakes in a deep and thankful sigh of relief. Beckoning an exceedingly grumpy Otty forward, he steered Megan into the cramped shelter of a shallow, almost semi-circular cave, quickly dismounted and eased the mare to one side, making room for Otty and Egg to squeeze in.

Riders, horses and hound stood looking out in morose contemplation of the white and silent fall. Sensing that there was not much likelihood of any movement for a while, Dog had flopped down between Megan’s front legs and lay with his head resting on his outstretched paws.

Otty stamped his chilling feet and rubbed his arms. “We’ll freeze to death in here. This blasted weather could go on for days. We should have gone the other trail.”

A soft voice came from behind them. “Then you would have been in a far worse predicament than you are now.”

The two men slowly turned their heads and looked at each other, their faces etched with matching expressions of alarm and apprehension. Dog stood up and, with tail swinging, ambled towards the rear of the cave.

Using his staff for balance, Corlin turned in the same direction, paused, grinned and reached out to give Otty a prod on the arm. “It’s all right. I think we’re safe.”

Otty’s body relaxed visibly and he turned round. The owner of the voice stepped forward and looked up at Corlin. Deep blue eyes shone from a pale-skinned face framed by dark hair braided into two thick plaits which hung over the front of her shoulders.

Her hip-length cape of feathers rustled softly as she stepped forward. “I am Frain, sister to the leader of this Grollart clan.” She gave Corlin a knowing smile. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Her smile faded, her eyes turning cold as she glanced at Otty. She gestured towards the rear of the cave. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

Obviously accustomed to being obeyed, she stepped through the shimmering portal in the cave’s rear wall and strode off along a dimly lit tunnel. As they left the cave Otty turned round, just in time to see the solid wall of rock reappear behind him, shutting off all view of the bleak scene beyond. The low ceiling of the tunnel made it impossible for them to ride, but within a few minutes, Frain led them into a large circular cavern similar to the one where they had met Browd. As they entered, two fur-clad Grollarts ran forward, grasped the lead reins of the two horses, and led them away through an archway cut into the rock at the left of the cavern.

Against the far wall stood a massive and ornate stepped throne, carved from a single block of black and white striated rock. Frain gestured for the two men to wait, hurried across to the throne and made a sign of respect to the bearded Grollart seated there, before moving to stand at his right.

The Grollart beckoned. “Come forward, Corlin Bentfoot.”

The minstrel was within two paces when the Grollart’s face turned thunderous. He leaned forward, gripping the carved stone arms of his throne.

His voice was harsh, his tone laced with contempt. “Otty Stockman, go back, take the hound with you and wait by the entrance. My business is with Corlin Bentfoot.”

Corlin was stunned. In the time he had known Otty he had never thought to discover his family name, and Otty had never volunteered it. He wasn’t even sure if the name Otty wasn’t short for something else. Taking his weight on his good leg, Corlin leaned heavily on his staff. The cold had already crept into the bones of his bent and twisted foot, and he felt thankful that the temperature in this cavern was at least bearable, if not exactly warm.

The bearded Grollart folded his thick-fingered hands. “I am Crang, chieftain of the mountain clan of the Grollart tribe.”

Corlin gave a respectful nod. “Well met, Crang.”

The chieftain raised one of a pair of extremely bushy eyebrows which crouched above his eyes like two large and ferocious hairy caterpillars. “Whether ‘tis indeed ‘well met’ remains to be seen.” He glanced past Corlin towards the entrance. “It is most unfortunate and decidedly inconvenient that you still have Otty with you. Why is that?”

Corlin gave him an abbreviated version of how he found Otty in the cottage. He decided not to tell Crang that they knew the true identity of the person responsible, simply referring to him as a man with a braided leather hat-band. Crang nodded, as though satisfied.

His deep blue eyes shining, he smiled up at Corlin. “And the hound? How did you come by him?”

Corlin returned the smile. “I found him wandering the moors, or rather, he found me. We got on from the start, and he’s very good at catching Jack-rabbits.”

Crang let that pass, although Corlin could tell that the chieftain had seen through his little white lie. He beckoned the minstrel to come closer, until they were almost touching.

The Grollart spoke in that low murmur which carries less than a whisper. “In order to continue your quest, you must prove that you have come here by the planned route, and not simply arrived here by chance.”

Corlin stared, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. His jaw tight, he almost snarled at Crang. “Planned! This quest wasn’t planned! It was forced on me by an evil-minded lord. It’s the only way I can free my brother from slavery!”

The Grollart chieftain touched Corlin’s arm. “Calm yourself. The day was bound to come when it was necessary for someone to try and retrieve the object of your quest. It could have been anybody, for any reason. It just so happens, it was you. Now, do you have the proof?”

Deflated and not wholly convinced, Corlin fumbled about in the deep inside pocket of his coat. He drew out the token Browd had given him and placed it in Crang’s open palm. The Grollart studied it for a long moment before dropping it into a leather pouch at his belt.

He turned and nodded to Frain, who handed him a similar pouch which he immediately passed to Corlin. “You may need this, but bear in mind that it only works when the sun is shining. Now, after you have refreshed yourself, you and your hound are free to go. Otty Stockman will remain here as our guest until such time as we hear of the success, or otherwise, of your quest.”

Relieved that he was to be allowed to continue, and alone, Corlin’s mouth gave a wry twist as he slipped the gift into his inside pocket. “He won’t like that.”

Crang gave a snort of derision. “Too bad. We’ll knock him on the head if we have to, but he
will
remain as our guest.”

Corlin frowned. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary; but tell me something. Why is everybody trying to keep us apart, when he’s been tasked with staying with me?”

Crang leaned back, folded his hands across his chest and held Corlin’s gaze. His deep voice flowed into the minstrel’s brain, but the only movement of his lips was a secretive smile. Taken aback by this weird experience, Corlin gripped his staff with both hands as he concentrated on the words and images which the Grollart chieftain was pouring into his mind. His head suddenly felt hollow, and he knew that Crang had finished. He also knew that the Grollart’s assessment of the situation, and of those involved, made perfect sense. Even so, there were still some gaping holes which Corlin suspected would not be mended until his quest was fulfilled.

Something nudged his good leg, and he looked down to see Dog gazing up at him, his tongue lolling and tail waving in his eagerness to be off. Corlin knew then, that the interview was over. He turned, looked at Otty, and raised a hand in a farewell gesture before making the sign for good luck. Otty tried to struggle out of the firm grip of the two Grollarts holding him by his forearms, desperation contorting his chubby face as he yelled at Corlin. “Whatever he told you, it’s all lies! You have to take me with you! It’s not what you think!”