Enchanter: Book Two of the Axis Trilogy

Belial was looking for a suitable site to base Axis’ rebel army. On farewelling Axis at the Icescarp Alps he had thought to move down to Smyrton with its extensive grain fields. But Sigholt was far more defensible and had better facilities for training and barracking troops. And the daily company of the stolid villagers of Smyrton held little appeal for Belial – not to mention that his army now supported a cause which their beloved Seneschal found heretical.

Had Sigholt been destroyed by the advancing Skraelings who even now lurked in its cellars? Was there a contingent of Borneheld’s command there who would resist their arrival? Too many unknowns – and Belial did not like unknowns. He chewed his cold-chapped lip and cursed when it cracked and split in the bitter wind.

So now here he sat, anxiously awaiting the return of Arne and his men, the bulk of his army lying half a league behind, as anxious as Belial was. All wanted to find somewhere to dig in for the inevitable attack from the Skraelings and to shelter from this cursed weather that roiled down from the north. If nothing else, the worsening weather conditions – not as bad as they had endured in Gorkenfort, but still abnormal for this part of Ichtar – told Belial that Gorgrael’s influence was finally spreading south after the fall of Gorkenfort.

And with the wind and ice would come the Skraelings.

Belial shifted in his saddle. Five days was plenty of time for Arne to ride to Sigholt, scout the garrison from a safe distance, and return. If they weren’t back by this evening then Belial would be forced to admit that something was wrong. He hunkered down a little further in his saddle, pulling the hood of his cloak far over his face in an effort to keep the freezing wind out.

They waited.

At dusk Belial finally stirred and turned to Magariz, the man only a dark shape in the deepening twilight.

“My friend,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from the cold. “We have waited long enough. Tomorrow we will break camp, turn for Smyrton, and take our chances with homespun village life.”

Magariz kneed Belaguez closer. “Yes. Only adversity could have kept Arne from returning by now.”

“Only adversity or a good meal,” a dour voice interrupted from behind them. Belial and Magariz both swore in surprise and swung their horses about. Only a few paces behind them stood Arne, his face no more cheerful or less austere than it normally was. He was alone, but looked fit and uninjured.

“Arne, how did you –” Belial began.

“Your men?” Magariz barked. “Where are they?”

Arne chewed on a piece of dry grass, then abruptly spat it out. “At Sigholt, my Lord.”

“Prisoners?”

Arne actually laughed. “In a manner of speaking. They are trapped before a roaring fire, hearing tales of adventure from an arthritic old cook and a genial pig-herder as they sip good dark ale. They were too comfortable to move, so I returned on my own.”

As Magariz took a deep breath and fought to keep from swearing at the man’s misplaced sense of humour, Belial slid from his horse and stepped closer to Arne. “What did you find, Arne? What?”

“Sigholt is ours once we overcome the resident force,” Arne said. “An old retired cook and a pig-herder. There is no-one else. None of Borneheld’s men. Not even a Skraeling. They reached Hsingard and destroyed it, but according to the pig-herder, they have not approached Sigholt.”

“Why?” Belial asked Arne. “Why has Sigholt been left untouched? Surely it is too important for Gorgrael to leave it alone?” After the events of the past few months, Belial no longer believed much in good news or good luck.

“The pig-herder said the Skraelings did not like Sigholt.” Arne paused, debating whether to continue.

“Speak up, man!” Belial snapped.

“I have seen this pig-herder before,” Arne said finally. “Outside the Silent Woman Woods. He had his pigs there.”

Belial frowned. This pig-herder had been outside the Silent Woman Woods – two hundred leagues to the south? It seemed a lifetime ago since they’d camped at the Silent Woman Woods. Then Axis had simply been the BattleAxe of the Seneschal and Belial his second-in-command. No-one knew then what they were riding into. “What is his involvement in this, Arne? Do you know?”

“He is involved, Commander. I know not how.” Again Arne paused. “But I trust him. And he seems eager that you move this rag-tag army to Sigholt. He says he has a job for some strong backs.”

Belial frowned. These were strange words for a pig-herder. He looked at Magariz. “My friend. What do you think?”

“I am surprised,” said Magariz, “that Sigholt should be sitting there waiting for us as eager and as open as an Ysbadd whore – and I wonder if it has as many traps. I say we should approach … carefully. Why has Gorgrael not attacked?”

“Jack said he could answer that when you arrived,” Arne replied, giving Belial and Magariz the pig-herder’s name. “He said to remind you that Sigholt was where Axis was conceived, and,” Arne hesitated, “that Sigholt was an Icarii stronghold long before the Acharites and the pox-cursed Dukes of Ichtar made it their home. He said Sigholt has some secrets that you could make good use of.”

“A most unusual pig-herder, Belial,” Magariz murmured. “Either a friend or a cunningly laid trap for us.”

Belial considered a moment. “Then we will break camp in the morning and ride west to Sigholt. But we ride carefully.”

Arne spat on the ground. “If you had been an enemy, the first you would have known of my approach was the feel of my blade in your neck. Perhaps it is as well you only have a cook and a pig-herder to battle with at Sigholt.”

Belial grimaced and swung onto his horse. Arne was right. He should have been more careful.

Three days later Belial sat Belaguez a half-league from Sigholt. Approaching him was an open- and genial-faced middle-aged man in peasant garb. Dark blond hair flopped untidily over his forehead and he carried a heavy staff with a curiously worked metal head. At his heels trotted a number of well-fed pigs, grunting and rolling cheerfully as they picked their way across the stony ground.

Belial had ridden out alone, leaving Magariz and the three thousand some one hundred paces behind him.

He risked taking his eyes off the approach of the pig-herder to glance at Sigholt itself, standing stark but peaceful in the cold morning air. If there were troops waiting to surprise him, then they were hidden well.

“Peace, Belial,” said the pig-herder and stopped a few paces from him. “Sigholt is yours. Use it.”

“Jack,” Belial said by way of brief greeting. “I hope you mean that. Why should I trust you?”

Jack smiled. “You have known my friends well, Belial. Through them, I know you.”

“Your friends?”

“Ogden and Veremund. My friends and my companions.”

Belial’s mouth dropped open. “You’re one of the … ?”

“My task is to serve the Prophecy, Belial TrueHeart, as yours is to serve Axis.” His eyes suddenly glowed a vivid emerald.

“You’re a Sentinel!” Belial gasped, his shock making Belaguez sidestep nervously.

“Then trust me,” Jack said, as the light died in his eyes.

Belial still hesitated. “Jack. I come from Gorkenfort. I have had enough of sieges at the mercy of the Skraelings. What chance is there that once I have this army settled into Sigholt the Skraelings will lay siege to us? I have no wish to endure another Gorkenfort.”

“I understand your concern,” Jack replied. “But there are good reasons why the Skraelings would hesitate to come within leagues of Sigholt. They have destroyed Hsingard, which is not a great distance from here. Do you not think that if they destroyed Hsingard they would have destroyed Sigholt if not for very good reasons?”

“Such as?”

“Come inside, Belial, and bring your army. It is a long story.”

6 (#ulink_7929dfa2-5db3-5316-a6f4-0f17b75c4352)

New Responsibilities, Old Friends (#ulink_7929dfa2-5db3-5316-a6f4-0f17b75c4352)

Axis stood at the open window and watched two Wings of the Strike Force wheel and somersault through the sky in a dazzling but utterly useless display of grace and fluidity.

He sighed and turned into the spacious meeting chamber. Soft light shone from concealed ceiling lamps on a massive round table of highly polished dark-green stone that dominated the room. The mottoes of the various Crests were carved in elegant gilded Icarii script into the walls above pennants and standards.