The Grim Wanderer (30 page)

As Logan passed underneath the yards thick outer walls, he glanced up at the raised portcullis. A dozen Defenders came rushing out of a guardhouse to catch a glimpse of Logan. They watched with amazement in their eyes, as Logan walked on into the castle grounds.

Logan’s sharp gaze scythed through the gardens. He heard the twitter of birds in the quiet garden, and could hear the faint rumble of where the two rivers became one, beyond the castle walls. Logan saw colourful flower beds, ornamental shrubs, cut lawns and not a single weed in sight. The land was sculpted so the paths rolled on to areas of stone-paved patios – adorned with benches, and statues from legend – islands of stone amongst a sea of plant life.

Logan saw no one in the landscaped gardens, and he thought that was unusual, until he realised that all the nobles must have be in audience with their king. Logan cut across the gardens, to avoid the crowds and enter The Rock through the back door. A young officer came marching down the path toward Logan, and gave one of the lowest bows Logan had ever seen. Logan observed this Defender’s spotless uniform had a green edge, marking the young man as a lieutenant. He was barely in his twenties and must have been talented to have been promoted so early. Or, he had an important family. By his balanced poise, natural athleticism and straightened bearing, Logan assumed this young lieutenant was a fair swordsman.

‘Your humble servant, my Lord,’ the lieutenant rose up from his bow. Logan saw the reverence in the lieutenant’s eyes. No doubt the young man had grown up on the tales of the Grim Wanderer.

‘Please, follow me,’ the lieutenant said, ‘I am to escort you to King Balthus.’

Logan nodded, remaining silent. Not because he wished to be impolite, but because he knew his silence added to the awe.

The lieutenant took Logan through a gate in the inner wall, with its six gargantuan towers that ringed the keep, and into the courtyard. Logan glimpsed archers in those towers, and he felt vulnerable. Should they wish to shoot him, he was in the open, as a hunted deer in the meadow. The Sodan spread his senses, as his Master had taught him to, and his awareness heightened. Logan was ready to dive and roll aside if he heard the twang of one of those bows, or sensed the movement of an archer’s arm. Perhaps such caution was needless, but vigilance had kept him alive for years.

Logan walked past servants wearing yellow tunics with blue sleeves, grooms in brown shirts and more Defenders, but no nobles. The lieutenant headed across the courtyard, towards a high arched doorway that led into the imposing six-sided keep. Even Logan had to wonder at how those solid walls could soar so high up into the sky. The monumental keep was the tallest thing in the whole of Dolam. Logan had seen every great fortress in Hathlore, and this was one of the most impressive.

On the lieutenant strode, taking the Grim Wanderer into the fortress, past two Defenders on guard. Logan shivered as the air chilled the instant he stepped from the sunlight into the gloom of the castle. Logan was Sodan, and he could sense it was more than a dip in temperature that was sending a shudder down his spine. There was some dark force at work here. Logan no longer walked but prowled along, wary, ready to draw his blade in an instant.

The lieutenant led Logan through a zigzag of stone passageways, until they crossed a grand entry hall, with suits of armour and giant tapestries lining its walls. Logan saw enormous golden chandeliers, hanging down on long chains from the vaulted ceiling. The decoration here was lavish and bright, but the shadow Logan felt in his heart remained.

Logan and his guide walked down an extravagant red carpet through into a regal antechamber, and up to double doors bound in fine red leather. Six Defenders stood armed and on guard, three on each side of the doors. No doubt there were ten times their number waiting close by, who could be summoned in an instant. The six Defenders all gawked as Logan approached them. Two of the Defenders held open the doors, so Logan could enter the throne room.

Logan’s keen gaze took in the entire throne room in one sweep. Long silk drapes, in the colours of Dolam, hung from the high ceiling, and tapestries and pictures decked the stone walls. Light filtered in through stained glass windows, bathing the chamber in varying shades of light. Groups of nobles gathered around the regal chamber, standing on the stone floor and, at the far end, King Balthus sat on a gilded throne. Logan noted that the throne was the only chair in the room. On the King’s right hand side was the Chalice of Grantle, held in a jewel-encrusted silver stand. Six Defenders stood on guard surrounding the heirloom. The Chalice itself was magnificent. Even from across the throne room, Logan could see how it was made of gleaming gold, inset with three sapphires and three yellow diamonds.

The hum of numerous conversations continued, as the nobles turned to cast a critical frown over the new arrival. Logan read the nobles’ thoughts by their eyes. Few knew who he was. Those that recognised him scarcely believed what they were seeing. Most assumed he must be a lord from a faraway land. The Defender lieutenant walked over to a herald, who was garbed in a long blue tabard with the golden chalice on its front.

‘Logan Fornor,’ the herald announced. There was no reaction from the court. ‘The Grim Wanderer,’ the herald added, after being prompted by the lieutenant.

Everyone in the throne room turned wide-eyed to stare at Logan. It was what Logan expected, the same reaction that name had always got. Men respected, even venerated, him. The women admired him, and some of the women even desired him. Logan remembered how people had thought the Grim Wanderer had everything. But he had had nothing. For he had been the loneliest sole in Hathlore, trudging on in misery and sorrow. Revenge his only companion, vengeance his only purpose.

With the nobles whispering amongst themselves, and not taking their eyes off Logan, they parted to clear a path for him to walk to the throne. Logan’s sword drew some wary glances. Logan remembered the ridiculous rumours that said he would kill in a heartbeat, slay anyone that dishonoured him. But – he reminded himself – those tall tales had their uses, especially in a place like this. Logan made sure to prowl, walking in the stances from Lion Stands Proud, as he made his way through the nobles, and bowed to King Balthus.

‘I thought he’d be taller,’ a nobleman murmured to the man next to him.

‘He’s the greatest swordsman in the world,’ another hissed.

‘He’s so handsome,’ one lady whispered to another.

Balthus Dalonvega was a tall muscular man, much bigger than Logan, with short grey hair and green eyes. Logan saw how those eyes were dimmer than they had once been. Not in colour, but they had lost their vigour. Balthus’s face held kingly wisdom now, but Logan saw the turmoil etched into his old friend’s brow. Balthus was only one year younger than Logan, but the years had weighed heavily on him. Balthus had once had a beaming smile that made all the girls swoon, but Logan doubted if he ever smiled anymore.

‘Is he really as dangerous as they say?’ One young noble asked another.

‘I saw him a kill a thousand Krun at The Gate,’ one older noble said respectfully.

‘Don’t let him catch you looking in his eyes,’ a man said fearfully.

The King of Grantle rose from his throne, and the room went quiet. Strangely, Logan realised Balthus was clean shaven, without the Dolami moustache. He wore an extravagant golden crown, beset with yellow diamonds and sapphires. Balthus was draped in layers of yellow and blue silk robes, and covered with a deep green cloak that was lined with white fur. A brilliant silver chain held the cloak on his shoulders. Even Balthus’s brown leather boots were studded with jewels on their turned over tops, and he wore many sparkling rings on his fingers. Logan thought the King of Grantle gave his country the impression of great wealth, sitting wrapped in showy clothes and decked with priceless jewels. Although Balthus hid it well, Logan knew this man, and he was sure this aggrandised appearance was not Balthus’s own choice.

The King bowed to Logan, came forward and proclaimed, ‘Welcome brother,’ as he clasped Logan’s hand, and put an arm on his shoulder.

All over the throne room there were startled gasps and befuddled faces. The King never rose out of the throne for anyone but another king. And it was unheard of for the King to bow to someone!

‘Come, let us talk in private,’ Balthus said loudly, as he showed Logan to a door behind the throne.

The murmur of the nobles was cut out, as Balthus shut the door behind the throne. Without a word, or even a sideways glance, Balthus walked across an extravagant sitting room, expecting Logan to follow him. The Sodan glowered at the Lord of Dolam as he was led up a spiral staircase at the back of the room. Three times the staircase twisted upwards and round, until Balthus showed Logan through a locked door on the stairs, which Balthus was careful to lock behind him after they were through.

They walked on down a corridor, through another door into a smaller, but no less grand, sitting room. Logan thought this must have been the King’s private chambers. There were expansive windows, and a balcony outside, overlooking the gardens at the rear of the castle. The opposite wall was dominated by a grand fireplace.

As they entered, King Balthus tossed his crown aside, and carelessly slung his velvet cloak over a sofa. Logan saw Balthus’s mighty longsword, held vertically – pommel up, for ease of drawing – on a simple hardwood stand. Behind the great sword was a painting of the city of Arilon. Around the other walls there were more paintings of fantastic landscapes. Logan realised there was not a single canvas depicting Dolam or Grantle.

‘Please, Logan, sit,’ Balthus gestured to one of the many comfortable Dolami chairs. ‘Away from watchful eyes there is no need for formality.’

Logan defiantly remained standing, ‘That show you put on,
brother
? I did not come here to be used as some political pawn.’

‘Forgive me, Logan,’ Balthus humbly bowed his head, ‘but the kingship of Grantle is weakly held, at best.’

‘That little
performance
will keep your detractors on their toes?’ Logan said coldly.

‘Forgive me, friend,’ Balthus bowed his head again. ‘Too long have I been embroiled with the intricacies of court, when I should’ve been out in the wilderness, fighting by your side. Now you’ve finally come back, it reminds me how much I miss the old days. Remember the adventures we used to have?’

For the first time, Logan heard something positive in Balthus’s voice.

The battles,’ Balthus said wistfully, ‘the death-defying quests, the celebrations and the fame? Everything was so much simpler back then, so much clearer. Has it really been that long? Have times changed so much?’

Logan saw the despair in Balthus’s face, and it saddened him to see his old friend so low.

‘I know I am very different these days.’ Balthus said glumly. ‘But could our days of past glory return to us? Or is that part of me gone forever? Can I go back from the path I have wrongly taken? Be granted forgiveness for mistakes I have made?’

Balthus stared up at a painting above the mantelpiece. To Logan’s surprise, he was in that painting with Balthus. They were both standing beside King Aswan, whom they had both served loyally. The painting was set over twenty years ago, and all three men looked youthful and happy.

‘You always knew this day would come,’ Logan said strongly. ‘When you would assume the kingship that was promised.’

‘Yes, my Captain,’ Balthus touched his right hand to his chest, bowing his head, as he had done so many times before. ‘You always tried to ready me for it... but it was never quite what I wanted.’

Logan heard how Balthus sounded so weary once more.

‘Anyhow, where have you been?’ Balthus perked up a little as he changed the subject. ‘How is it I have not seen or heard of you in years?’

‘The Darkness looms larger with every passing year,’ Logan said solemnly. ‘As always, I strive to stand against it.’

‘Fine then, Logan,’ Balthus said harshly, ‘keep your secrets. No doubt you have your reasons.’

Logan detected the old hint of jealousy in Balthus’s voice, the factor that always lingered on their friendship. For it was Logan who had been King Aswan’s First Sword. Logan who had been Captain of the Lion Guard. Logan, the hero who the men followed and the people loved. Logan had even been first in the affections of Balthus’s own sister.

Logan was reminded of how different he and Balthus were. Logan had always fought for honour and what was right, whilst Balthus fought for glory and renown. Logan well remembered how Balthus, the noble of royal blood, had at first hated taking orders from Logan, a commoner – for in the Lion Guard all men were considered equal, regardless of birthright. Sometimes that old jealousy would flare up but, as always, it faded like the warmth of a winter campfire, swept away on a chill northern wind.

‘Oh!’ Balthus howled. ‘What has this crown done to me? My most trusted friend comes to visit me, and I only have hard words for him! Again, Logan, please forgive me.’

Logan nodded his head, ‘You see this kingship as a burden, not a privilege. But I gaze out over your city, and have never seen it so prosperous, so
alive
.’

Balthus smiled.

‘Our liegelord King Aswan would be proud,’ Logan said.

‘Yes, he would,’ Balthus grinned. ‘What was it he always said to us?’

They both repeated a phrase they had heard countless times before, ‘I rule all these people and have their allegiance, but it is
I
that serves them. For it is my kingly duty to repay their allegiance, by providing them with freedom and justice.’