Red Mantle

  Red Mantle

  Third of the Mantle Chronicles

  Gail Merritt

  Copyright © 2020 Gail Merritt

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by: KaeDe Noki, photographs by Brinta L. Bunt and Thomas Mucha @ Shutterstock

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Helen, thank you for your help, including the geology advice.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  I. The Magus

  II. Companions

  III. Boundaries

  IV. The Brigand

  V. Stockade

  VI. Jedran Keep

  VII. Waiting

  VIII. Kor-tnelis

  IX. Kor-erif

  X. Memories

  XI. A Brother

  XII. Waters-Meet Bridge

  XIII. Peleron

  XIV. Kashkie

  XV. Worm and Wonder

  XVI. Dragon Song

  XVII. The Brotherhood

  XVIII. Red Mantle

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  I. The Magus

  The magma swirled and eddied, tumbling over itself, as it rose from the caldera and the land shuddered as it poured from the crumbling rim. It gained momentum, collecting lichen-covered rocks and igniting trees as it passed. Like a tide, it flooded into the ravine, seeking out the canyons and caves, roaring in its fury.

  The shepherd and his flock had left the sheepfold long ago. Now the lava swallowed it as it flowed down the hillside. The fold’s rock walls, once stout against the storm, crackled and trembled, then crumbled and were lost under the golden flood. The fiery river surged onwards, downwards towards the town, consuming everything in its path. Thorn bush, slender cypress, venerable olive became torches to mark the lava’s passing. All that barred its way was a narrow packhorse bridge spanning the ice-melt stream. Here, the lava slowed, hissing fearfully as it tumbled into the water, sending up clouds of steam into the morning air. Some hoped that the glacial water would protect the town, but gradually the lava poured over itself, making its own way across the torrent, until it surrounded the bridge. Then it began to rise, devouring the ancient stones as it went. Upstream, the water level rose and like some magical alliance, water and lava flowed into the deserted town together, under a veil of hot steam.

  Helpless, the townsfolk watched from a safe distance as their homes crumbled and burnt. They cursed the mountain that gave them fertile soil then robbed them of house and hearth. Some wept and vowed to leave that accursed place. Some were too numb to do anything but watch in awe.

  A few saw the solitary figure standing in the deserted market place, arms outstretched as if welcoming the oncoming lava stream. They called to their neighbours and pointed. The madman would surely die. The fiery deluge was about to engulf him. Many closed their eyes, unable to watch such a needless death.

  Then they marveled, for, as they watched, the molten rock became solid and the water sank into the thirsty earth. His task done, the stranger took up his staff and turned away, disappearing among the small alleyways. When they returned to the market place, no trace of him could be found except the imprint of his sandals and a small piece of russet-coloured cloth torn from his cape as he passed too close to a bramble.

  The story would be retold a thousand times beside winter fires until the details were lost and new embellishments added. It would start as gossip and become a legend before the close of six winters. After twenty springs, the power and mystery surrounding the unknown magician had become part of their rich folklore, to be passed on by each successive generation in the land of the Kashkie.

  II. Companions

  I watched the moon slipping behind the branches of the maple tree, a pale, yellow orb reflecting on the smooth, damp bark. On another occasion I might have savoured the beauty of it behind the delicate tracery of the tree but all I could think of was how cold I felt. A thin rivulet of water ran down the trunk, dripped on my makeshift pillow and disappeared in icy snakes through my hair. The rain had stopped but the residue of spent raindrops still gathered in the tree, dripping always downward, down towards my ill-chosen bed. When I could bear the gentle torture no longer, I sat up and shuffled towards the fire. We had a store of kindling, damp now but still able to raise a flame. In a short while, the warmth returned to my bones as I huddled over the hearth like an old soldier.

  The others slept on; their faces clear in the moonlight. Only the fox stirred and peered at me with one eye, through the brush of his tail. My smile was enough to tell him that all was well, and he drew himself tighter into a ball. The King was curled like a small child. How vulnerable he looked, the stray curls of his fair hair damp against his forehead. Occasionally he twitched and I wondered what dreams a young king dreamed. Beside him, the giant, Melik, snored, his hand resting on his broad sword. Across the flames I could see Hodin, wrapped in his heavy cape, the hood pulled over his face. Beside him, Blue Mantle slept on his back, his face pointed to the sky, pale and noble, like a marble statue from the royal crypt. I don’t think I had ever noticed how handsome he was until that moment. His features were fine, high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a meticulously kept beard. It had once been blond, like his hair, but now, also like his hair; it was flecked with autumn silver.

  We were a strange company, five humans and eight beasts, a king, his bodyguard, two Mantles and an apprentice. Our horses, faithful, unquestioning creatures, dozed in the shelter of a lichen-covered boulder. As usual, the fox had his bed beside me, while the eagle roosted somewhere in the tree. Only the wolf was alert. Yared never seemed to sleep. He had kept watch all night, stretched on the flat top of the boulder, his eyes searching the darkness for danger. He had watched me stoke the fire but felt no need to seek its warmth. His thick fur protected him from the coldest night.

  I shivered. It would be dawn soon. Telltale clouds sat low on the horizon and there was a strange hush gathering in the land. It was the deep, ancient magic of nature, the stirring that a Green Mantle knows like a favourite melody, the waking of the day.

  I had been Green Mantle for almost three years, but the power that brought me that title had grown in me since birth. It had surfaced with the discovery that I could talk to creatures and know the moods of plants. From this beginning, my skills grew until the drawing forth of flowers from the barren earth or the healing of the land became my appointed tasks. Like all Mantles, I studied as a novice at the Talarin, the powerful College of the Mantles in Vellin, but I had not sought the honour of a Mantle. I was very young. Learning to control my power and my temper were more my concern than where that power would lead me. Fate, without my knowing, had already sealed my destiny. When the old Green Mantle died, the inner council of the Mantles, the Souran, named me as his successor and I took my place among them.

  The King stirred. The wolf and I both turned our attention to him, my dear, handsome Ardin. He had changed since his coronation. He had gained muscle and looked more like a man now than the cheerful boy that I had once adored. I wondered if he saw changes in me.

  ‘Your man-king dreams.’ From his boulder Yared shared his thoughts with me.

  ‘I hope it is a good dream,’ I answered, watching Ardin draw his cloak tighter about his throat. The chill of morning was creeping over our camp. It stung my eyes and I blinked. Somew
here a blackbird was clearing sleep from its throat to usher in the dawn chorus.

  ‘He dreams of you.’ Yared tilted his head. The eagle opened an eye.

  ‘Why should you think that?’ I turned my face to the wolf.

  ‘In the night, he called your name.’

  ‘We are old friends. Perhaps he is dreaming a memory.’ I wanted to dismiss any notion that the wolf held about the King’s feelings for me. He had a wife and no matter what we had once felt for each other, that door was closed forever. Since his coronation I had discovered that the source of my affection for Ardin came from a different place in the heart, but until I had proof I could not speak of it. Wolves have strong but simple codes of conduct and find it hard to understand the subtleties of human relationships. I did not wish him to be distracted and would have said more but he was no longer paying attention to me. The wolf was watching the eagle.

  ‘This sky-hunter is not what it seems.’ Yared arched his neck and bared his teeth but the eagle continued to regard him with a dispassionate eye. ‘It does not behave like a sky-hunter. It speaks too well and eats like a rabbit. I do not trust it, Green Mantle. Send it back.’

  ‘I did not invite it.’ I poked the fire, ignoring the bird as it stretched its great russet wings. I filled the cauldron with water and set it above the flames. ‘It chose to come. I cannot command it, and yet, you may be certain Yared, the bird means us no harm.’

  The wolf was unconvinced, but he was willing to take the word of the Green Mantle and he stretched out once more on the rock. The bird watched him settle then swore a string of oaths that I was thankful Yared could not hear.

  ‘Yared is astute,’ I explained to the bird, ‘all wolves are. You can easily fool humans, but you must take more care when you are with other creatures. They know the ways of the eagle too well.’

  ‘So, what do you suggest I do?’ The deep mellow tones of that familiar voice seeped into my mind like warm, spiced wine. Sometimes feeling the thoughts of other creatures was no more than a whisper but this mind-voice was rich and melodious.

  ‘Try eating a few rabbits,’ I suggested as I took herbs from my pocket and ground them to make a brew. The eagle did not share my joke and flew silently off on business of his own. I watched his great arching wings disappear in the low clouds and then I poured water from the cauldron into my beaker, savouring the aromas of the herbs. Since spending time with the gypsies, I had perfected my own skills at making brews. This was a recipe that I had learnt from Mari, during our stay in the fisherman’s cottage on the edge of the marshes. It brought back many memories of evenings sitting by the fire, listening to the sea wind screaming over the sand dunes and feeling safe and comfortable.

  It brought back memories of times spent walking on the seashore with Mari’s son, Sandor, dodging the waves together. We had written our names in the damp sand and complained when the tide stole them. Thinking of Sandor warmed me more than the brew. I pictured him in his fine uniform, standing at the bow of his ship, a breeze playing in the wayward curl on his forehead. It was a romantic fantasy and far from the truth. In reality, he was supervising the construction of the King’s new fleet at Sarnmouth and like all normal people he would still be in his warm bed at this hour. I kept the image for a moment longer, then banished it to the depths of my brew. Sandor was part of that other life that I had left behind me. My mind needed to remain with the company. The task we had before us would require all our attention.

  Hodin woke with a start and groaned as he felt the stiffness in his back. Since our days together as pupils at the Talarin, he had grown accustomed to the soft life of a minor court functionary. As an advisor and magus to the King of Urvik, he had been called upon to summon the winter snows and ensure fine weather for springtime festivals, he had cured an occasional case of gout and rid the royal kitchens of cockroaches. The life had been pleasant but without challenge, so when the summons came from the Souran, he had raced back to Vellin.

  Hodin had always shown most promise in his understanding of the deep earth and when it was decided to select a pupil-novice for Red Mantle I was delighted to hear his name mentioned. As Green Mantle, and a member of the Souran, I should have taken part in his selection but at the appointed time, I was hidden from the world, in a cave near the town of Wyke, discovering deeper mysteries and wisdom from one of the Oldest Ones. Thus, I have no knowledge of the trials and tests that were imposed upon the candidates but after a celestial month, according to the Talarin tradition, Hodin was chosen. I had once been apprentice to my predecessor and shared Hodin’s delight, although, our two masters could not have been more different.

  My dear Green had been like an ageing uncle, sharing his days with me as we walked through the kingdom together. He taught me the names and ways of the plants and creatures that would one day be under my protection, but he gave me much more than mere knowledge. He taught me compassion.

  Red Mantle, on the other hand, had always seemed cold and dispassionate. For a magus whose dominion encompassed the molten lakes of lava beneath the earth’s crust, he appeared devoid of fire and fury, a cold fish at best. I owe that some of my opinions about him are clouded by his criticism of me, particularly in those early days when he had advocated banishment and worse, as punishment for my childish behaviour. I could never forgive him those harsh words that I overheard each morning when the Souran met. He had continued to be my fiercest critic and even after my elevation to Green Mantle, I felt that he continued to watch for some flaw in my actions that would prove his earlier misgivings. Now he was the cause of my joining these unlikely travelling companions.

  ‘You make excellent Rom brew, Megwin,’ Hodin swallowed greedily and I marveled at his constitution. I could only sip, for the liquid was still hot from the cauldron.

  ‘The Roms have always welcomed Green Mantles. I believe Megwin has already learnt quite a lot from some of them.’ Ardin raised himself up on his elbow. Was there more to his comment than simple observation? He had already mentioned Sandor twice during our journey, firstly when acknowledging his part in the battle against the strange wasting sickness and secondly when boasting about the fine new fleet being raised at Sarnmouth. His face was guileless, and I accepted that his comments held no other meaning. Ardin had always been open and honest with me. It had been part of our tragedy. As he fell in love with his stone princess, he had been far too eager to share his feelings with me, oblivious of my own heartache.

  ‘It will be a good day for travel.’ Blue Mantle helped himself to brew. ‘We should make excellent progress today, my Liege.’

  ‘Let us consult the map.’ Ardin rose and stamped the sleep from his legs. That woke Melik, whose great body lumbered off to collect water. The giant could speak but said very little and was content to keep his own council when we gathered round the campfire each evening and discussed frivolous topics. He would sit a little further off and watch us, occasionally smiling and nodding.

  Blue Mantle spread the map across the face of one of the boulders that littered this broad valley and traced our journey with his finger. We were eighteen days out of Vellin, travelling westward. At first, we had crossed the Meed lands to reach the River Shreur and for a while we followed it up stream. As the land rose, the river divided into smaller streams and we left it, taking the narrow packhorse track through Mungo’s Gap. In the past, travelers had gathered at the Three Crows Inn until there were enough of them to make a party and hire a guide. The hills were crisscrossed by narrow gullies but only two reached the other side and without a guide, strangers might wander up blind canyons or disappear down unmarked potholes without trace. Of course, hiring a guide did not ensure success for there was always Mungo himself.

  According to local legend, Mungo was a brigand, an outlaw, whose thugs ambushed travelers for their goods and left them dead and naked, their weathered bones like signposts marking the roadside. The story was known throughout the Five Kingdoms. As a child, I had heard it from my father’s steward, Ruthin, as he ha
d heard it from his father before him. Mungo’s infamy had outlasted him by several generations but as trade between the Five Kingdoms and the lands beyond the Western Wastes diminished, travelers became scarce. The local guides went back to keeping goats and the Three Crows Inn became a crumbling ruin. We had made our camp in the lee of its one remaining wall, listening to the ghosts of those long-gone traders exchanging their tales of distant markets.

  Yesterday, we had seen no one, as we threaded through the narrow, shadow-filled pass. Above us, the eagle guided our way and by mid-afternoon, the great open valley of the Western Wastes spread before us. Northeastward, the hills marched into the mists of the Central Meeds. Somewhere beyond those peaks were the grey, ice-waters of Lake Trantor and the mountains of the North. Between the Central Meeds and the Grat Hills was where I had grown up, the gentle uplands of the Northern Meeds. I had spent my childhood in the market town of Brak, where my father was Lord of the Gathering. Except, he was not my father.

  To the southeast, the scrubland of the Wastes stretched as far as the eye could see. Eventually, it became desert in the old kingdoms of Bashiria and Mosagin but that was far beyond our gaze. Ahead, westward, the old packhorse track zigzagged down to the plain. Here, the impoverished earth was strewn with boulders and sparse of vegetation. An occasional stand of trees huddled together around some pond or sluggish stream. Thorn bushes marked the crumbling boundaries of ancient fields, but the farms and farmers were long gone. Only the secretive remnants of naturalised barley beneath a protective hawthorn or a defiant, solitary apple tree growing among the boulders hinted at those pastoral times.

  Blue Mantle cleared his throat. ‘Very soon, we will pass the western boundary of Magra, your Majesty. After that, we enter lands without laws and about which we know very little.’