The oil and the sword, p.1
The Oil and the Sword, page 1
Published in the UK in 2022 by Send The Word Publishing
Copyright © R. E. Bussell 2022
R. E. Bussell has asserted their right under
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988,
to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieved system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, scanning, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author and publisher.
This book is a work of fiction, and except in the case of historical or geographical fact, any resemblance to names, place and characters, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Paperback ISBN 978-1739631000
eBook ISBN 978-1739631017
Cover design and typeset by SpiffingCovers
For my family:
Mum and Dad and all those now part of an unseen dimension
And for Tim, Louise, and Faith
I love you
Contents
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
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The robed figure waited a few more seconds before pushing the boat out into the waters of the lake. Jumping effortlessly into it he reached for the oars and began to row towards the land that lay ahead, his movements slow and powerful. It was hard to read the expression on this figure’s face for his eyes stared straight ahead, cold and unblinking from the depths of the hood he wore.
As he reached the edges of the lake the air suddenly lay still. It was as though the whole of Cherith had held its breath and was watching with widened eyes filled with apprehension.
Glancing furtively around him he climbed out from the boat and began to drag it into a dense clump of reeds that lay in bedraggled masses at the edge of the water. As he did this, his left hand caught and tore on an old nail that jutted from the wood of the bow. Cursing, he reached for a rag that lay at the bottom of the craft, holding it tight against the wound to stem the drips of blood, before continuing to pull the boat out of sight. He was just in time. The moon had disentangled itself from the clouds and was now staring down at him.
As he climbed up the pine-covered slopes that lay in front of him, the length of his robe and the graceful strength of his movements made it appear that he was gliding over the pine needles. He had been taught well.
It was a while before the trees became more spread apart and the old, deserted farmhouse and disused well came into view. Walking towards the well, he swung himself over the side and, reaching for the rope that hung into its depths, he lowered himself down. The rope ended a way from the bottom, so he had to drop the last part, but he landed easily with a dull, soft thud. He paused in a crouched position, his fingers against the ground to hold his balance. Confident that he had not been followed, he felt for the opening that led to the tunnel entrance and, on finding it, began to crawl through. It was a narrow passage and he had to shuffle on his elbows and knees half dragging his body along. It seemed like forever in the dark with the damp smell of the earth around him but eventually the passage grew larger and wetter and rockier. He was now able to stand and, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he could see the outline of the cave in which he now stood.
Purposefully, he drew his sword, listening intently but there was no sound. He exited the cave, his features transforming into a different image as he did so. So far all was going according to plan.
In the city of Wynere, the capital of Cherith, Nathan awoke suddenly. He felt afraid and couldn’t think why. Sitting up, he drew his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his clothes, noticing as he did so that his wife was not there with him.
Standing on the landing he listened, but there was no sound. He frowned. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t anything he could physically see; it was a feeling; a sense of loss; of dread. Instincts on high alert, he walked warily down the spiral staircase only to be met halfway by Naomi going up.
‘Can you not sleep either?’ she enquired. She paused as she saw the tension in her husband’s face.
‘Something’s wrong!’ she said it as a statement not a question, her eyes looking intently into his.
‘It’s just a feeling. I’m going to go and look around the city.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No. Stay here. It may be nothing.’
As Nathan exited the house, his hand reached for his sword. It was as his fingers connected with the handle of the weapon that, a memory stirred in the back of his mind of an older man, charging him to keep the flame of Wynere burning. He remembered the gravity of the moment, the eyes of the man boring into his own as the Espionite sword was touched, first to one shoulder and then the other. As he had risen from his kneeling position, officially knighted as a Cherithite warrior, the older man had continued. ‘Remember, were it to ever go out, it will signify the beginning of dark times for Cherith. Promise me, you will keep vigilant.’
Nathan had gripped the older man’s forearm.
‘I promise,’ he had said.
The flame had been heavily guarded ever since, but still Nathan began to run, propelled by a growing feeling of unease. He crossed through the gardens and the courtyard cobbles of the city square and headed straight towards the Tower of the Lighted Flame. A sense of doom gripped his heart as he saw it lying in shadow. Two of the Keepers of the Flame were lying on the ground, blood seeping from sword wounds to the neck and heart. Kneeling beside each in turn, he felt for a pulse, but they were both dead, despite their bodies still being warm to the touch. One man appeared to be clutching something in his fist and upon prising back the fingers Nathan saw a small clasp lying in his palm. He frowned as he realised what it was and, picking it up, he quickly placed it into the pocket of his leather tunic before standing and turning towards the Tower. The door that led to its entrance stood slightly open, swaying gently on its hinges.
Resolutely, sword in hand, Nathan cautiously climbed the Tower steps, treading over two more dead bodies on the way. Reaching the top, he was greeted by a dense darkness. He already knew that he was too late, that the flame had been extinguished, but he had hoped for a remnant of a spark, something to reignite hope. There was nothing.
He walked towards the central pedestal and knelt on the floor, feeling for the outline of the slab of stone that lay next to it. The darkness in the tower hovered over him. It was like a great weight, a physical pressure that was squeezing the breath from his body. Using his sword, he prised the slab up and then leaned his weight against it to push it away. The sound of stone scraping against stone was loud in the silence and sent a shiver down Nathan’s spine. Hastily, he felt into the hole that the stone had covered, but it was as he had feared. The Oil and the Sword, the two most treasured possessions of Wynere, were gone.
Somewhere, in a place outside of time, Melchi and Japhron looked on with troubled eyes. As the flame of Wynere had gone out they had sensed a rumble from the Underworld as though a great shout had gone up. It was a sound they had not heard in a long time.
CHAPTER ONE
THE ISLAND
An older man dimmed down the lamp and then, with his back tight against the wall, he slightly edged back a corner of the heavy black cloth that covered the window and peered out onto the street. He counted. Six…. Seven…. Ethan had only four more tolls before the city gates were shut and curfew began. The bell rang again, mournful, out of tune, sounding its warning into the night… Eight…. Nine ….
The steady tap of footsteps over the cobbles came as a huge relief to the watching man. He let the curtain drop back into place…. Ten …. The door opened and quietly clicked shut…. Eleven. The clanging ceased although its retreating echo could still be faintly heard reverberating against the city walls.
‘Were you seen?’
‘No,’ Ethan panted, ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
‘You’re getting later each night.’
Ethan leaned back against the door, breathing hard and trembling. He was covered in fine sand and the damp night air surrounding him brought a chill into the room.
‘There’s no sign of him. Nothing! I waited and waited, but nothing.’ The anxiety in his voice was clear.
‘He will come.’ The older man looked at Ethan and saw the doubt in his eyes. Walking over to him, he laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘He will come,’ he reiterated as he looked him in the eye.
‘How can you be so sure?’
The older man looked wistful for a moment as though remembering a long-kept secret. ‘Sometimes, when I shut out all the thoughts that say otherwise, my heart can sense he is not far away.’
Jed listened as the distorted echo of the last toll vanished into silence and was replaced with the barking and whining of dogs and the shouts of the
The Island had once been uninhabited by man. The air had been clear and unpolluted; the fruit had been sweet, the crops bountiful and the flowers had exuded a gentle fragrance that had clung to the entire Island.
But, during the Barlkron Wars, hundreds of years before, it had become the place of exile for all foreigners, those sick or lame, the convicts and the homeless. Anyone weak in body and unable to defend themselves were captured as the Underworld forces attacked and ravaged city after city. Since then, it was as though the whole Island had been poisoned and weakened by the same historic diseases of mind or body that man had brought onto it, and now the land had to be coaxed into yielding anything wholesome. The sweet fragrance that had once permeated the air had been permanently replaced with a putrid smell of damp and rot. High grey walls hemmed them in and the gates leading down to the shores were always shut from midday until early evening and again from eleven at night until dawn.
The people lived by the laws enforced by whichever governor Barlkron inaugurated. On the surface, it appeared an ordered society, but the rules were rigid and controlled and the punishments were harsh. Strong emotions ran in a steady undercurrent, subtle and powerful like the ocean surrounding them.
Many people could no longer imagine what life was like beyond the shores they knew and no one, it seemed, entertained thoughts of escaping for those who had tried were always returned, washed up by the very ocean that they hoped would carry them to freedom.
But there were a few, a remnant of true Cherithite descent, who had been careful to pass on from generation to generation the truths of what had once been known. These few knew of the life that could be theirs; knew the name of the one who could make it possible; looked and waited for the day he would come; and remained in hope that they would be chosen when the time came.
From within his private chambers, Sharaaim, the current governor of the Island, extended his golden staff to the guard who had asked for an audience. The man entered, kissed the ornate wolf’s head that crowned the staff and bowed low.
‘Is the tower nearly finished?’ the governor asked.
‘It will be completed by the end of the week, my Lord.’
‘And the census?’
The guard stretched out his hand and passed over a scroll of parchment.
‘All recorded here, my Lord.’
Sharaaim unravelled the scroll and scanned his eyes down the list of names. He smiled – a distorted smile due to the slight scar that disfigured the left-hand side of his mouth.
‘Keep a close watch on these people. If my sources are correct Asaph will be arriving any day. Ensure that not one Cherithite knows of his arrival or departure.’
The guard bowed his head, ‘Yes, my Lord.’
Sharaaim dismissed everyone from his presence and sat with his hands curled around a silver goblet which held his favourite wine. He gazed into it and swirled the liquid around so that its crimson colour was caught by the firelight. Images suddenly attacked his mind, reminding him of a similar moment that had happened a long time ago; of another chamber belonging to a higher ruler; of a goblet, similar to this one, but this time filled with the thicker, stickier substance of human blood; The fresh cut on his lip, where he had been hit, had continued to drip as he had lifted the goblet to his mouth and drank. It had taken all his will power to prevent himself from vomiting.
Sharaaim squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to dislodge the foul image from his mind, then, lifting his hand, he drank in one swallow before hurling the empty goblet across the room. It crashed, a heavy, metallic, clanging sound against the studs of the wooden door, assaulting the quietness of the night. Slumping back into his chair, he slowly drew his right thumb across the scar that lay imprinted upon his left palm. A constant reminder that his life was no longer his own.
Stirring from these dark thoughts, he reached towards the floor for a thick bound leather book that contained all the Island records. Turning to one of the more recent entries he began to look down the list of names, comparing it to what had been written on the census. On reaching one name, he stopped, confused. It can’t be!
He looked again at what was written on the parchment he had been handed earlier and then turned back a few pages in the book he was holding, searching for more information on the family name that he had come across.
‘How did this get missed?’ he said out loud, his brow furrowed, but even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer, for it was ancient law that some things must remain veiled until the appointed time for them to be revealed. Clearly, for some reason, this was one of them.
He smiled his crooked smile and, stretching his feet out towards the fire, he began to concoct a plan that could use what he had discovered to his advantage. ‘Barlkron will be pleased,’ he thought.
Ethan lay staring at the ceiling unable to sleep. Thoughts were swirling around his mind, each one taking centre stage before being pushed aside by the next, as though they were children vying for his attention.
“What are you doing wasting your time looking for a man you’ve only ever heard about,” one voice announced to him.
“Asaph is on his way,” another interrupted, its tone gentler than the first, although just as insistent.
“There is no way off this Island,” a third voice roughly sent the previous one tumbling out of the spotlight. “Many have died trying.”
“Even if Asaph does come, why would he choose you,” yet another rudely barged in.
“You have been brought up believing these things. Do not doubt them now,” another softer thought took its place on centre stage.
“How do you know if any of this is true?”
“My heart can sense he is not far away,” his grandpa’s statement came back to mind, temporarily silencing the other voices, but as hard as he tried, Ethan couldn’t sense anything.
He turned over, thumping the cushion several times to try and get more comfortable before pulling his blanket close around his body. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.
Downstairs, Ethan’s grandpa sat staring at the fading embers of the fire.
‘He will come,’ he had said, and he believed it, for there had been an increasing number of dreams among a few of the Cherithite people confirming that this was the case, and, despite the environment he now lived in, he still held great weight by these things. The reminder of his beliefs, instilled in him from another place, another time, tempted his mind to drift back several years, to a life that had been much easier than the one he faced here in this grey and harsh environment. He closed his eyes and indulged himself in remembering.
‘It’s a boy,’ his son had shouted, causing excitement to reverberate throughout the castle. ‘Father, come and see your grandson.’
He remembered being passed a small bundle and, pushing aside the blankets, he had seen a small, red-faced infant, its eyes screwed tightly shut as it cried with indignation at leaving the familiar and safe surroundings of the womb and being thrust into the bright light and unfamiliar sounds of the world.
‘He looks like me does he not?’ his son had said proudly. ‘The future heir to the throne of Jachin.’
He had stared at this new arrival into their lives and smiled at him. The infant had, in that moment, stopped crying and stared straight at him and a sudden rush of love for this tiny being had flooded into the older man’s heart, reminding him of the feeling he had had when his own son had been born. He held the baby tightly to his chest and kissed the silky down on the top of his head, overcome with a fierce sense of protection for this newest member of their household.
