Jargo

JARGO

(Book four of The Free Land Chronicles)

YVONNE C. CARSLEY

Jargo

(Book four of The Free Land Chronicles)

Ebook (Smashwords Edition)

Written by Yvonne C. Carsley.

Published by Yvonne Carsley.

Copyright Yvonne C. Carsley 2014. All rights reserved.

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

The big man struggled under the weight of the pack he carried. He had been forced to sell his horse in exchange for much-needed supplies and had been walking for many weeks with barely a pause for rest.

He would have had to give up the horse eventually anyway. Its brand was too easily recognisable and he could not afford to bring further notice to himself. His large stature and flame-red hair made it difficult enough to be unobtrusive and after the first few months of travelling he had taken a knife to his hair, reluctantly and sorrowfully slicing it off inch by inch.

Fifteen years it had taken him to grow it. One hundred and eighty months before it had spread down his back and over his shoulders, flowing like a great lion’s mane. Over five thousand days it had covered his head, keeping off the worst of the chill, travelling with him through some long hard years, collecting the grime and dust of assorted villages, towns and cities. It had been bathed in the sweat and blood of countless battles, and lain strewn across the pillows of the beds of many memorable women: women of low and high birth but always beautiful, intoxicating women. Women of many colours, creeds and races had run their fingers through that hair, marvelling that it was as soft and silky as theirs, and many times he had fallen asleep with his head upon their chests with his hair fanned out across their breasts.

He was a soldier and knew there were times when one had to sacrifice something long held dear but he had had only one vanity – that glorious mane of hair, and it was with a feeling much like pain that he cut and cut and cut, watching the strands tumble to the ground.

He buried them beneath a mound of dirt and rocks then covered his cold head with the hood of his damp, woollen cloak.

He proceeded onwards, rubbing a hand over his face. Forced to cut his hair to disguise his looks he had been obliged to grow his beard out for the same reasons. Up the sides of his face it ran, thick and soft like fur, and from his chin it hung down fully ten inches – a great big bushy bird’s nest stuck to his lower face, all scratchy and horrid. A huge drooping moustache hid his mouth and he rubbed irritably at it, dislodging the crumbs of the previous night’s meagre meal.

He shuddered in disgust as they fell to the ground and were crushed underfoot. He detested facial hair. Everything he consumed became caught in it no matter how carefully he ate, and it concealed his very expressive mouth. What was the good of snarling and growling at people if they could not see his lips, he groused inwardly?

He shifted his pack from one shoulder to the other and cursed loudly as the muscles in his back gave way with a great groan. The pack thudded to the ground, landing heavily into a dirty mud puddle and was instantly soaked. He should not have been surprised. Since the witch had come into his life everything had gone rapidly downhill.

Working alongside the dark warlock had been good for him. He had risen from a lowly foot soldier to a general within a year and had had such plans, but now all that was ruined. Thanks to Leanora’s treachery.

Stupid bloody woman, he muttered. What did she think she was playing at?

He retrieved his pack and carried on walking.

Since leaving Kandar (alright, running away, he muttered inwardly) he had been moving in a south-easterly direction, avoiding populated areas where news of his actions might have reached. He was a wanted man and had learned from a wandering peddler that there was a hefty price on his head. Maranea’s new queen was after his hide for what he had done to her mother, the werewolves were sniffing about after him and though the elves of Erantialle did not seem interested in tracking him down and bringing him to justice their southern cousins were not feeling as magnanimous.

Finlea’s king was seeking him and had sent the Oleassa to hunt him down, and they were accomplished trackers. They had come dangerously close to finding him on at least three occasions and it was only owing to luck he had evaded them thus far, but he could not keep counting on luck. It always ran out, usually when you needed it the most.

He rubbed at his neck as though feeling the keen edge of an elven blade pressing against it. He turned, suddenly fancying he could hear the thunderous roar of elven horses far away in the distance. He gulped and turned, stepping up his pace.

Though he worried about the elves, he feared more the vengeance of his own people. Humans could be more vicious than werewolves and as merciless as vampires. If the elves caught him they would likely imprison him, possibly sentence him to death but they would be slow to exact that final punishment. His own people would not be so slow, and they were cruelly inventive when it came to matters of punishment. The decision to put him to death would be made swiftly but the act itself would be a lingering one.

He had seen men die a slow death from blood-loss caused by the amputation of toes and fingers. He had seen men strung upside down from great beams, their feet nailed to the wood with huge metal spikes. Some had been left to starve, others to die of thirst and others died of infections caused by the rusting metal piercing their flesh. He had seen thieves have their hands cut off in front of screaming crowds, seen rapists castrated in town centres and murderers kicked to death by the family of their victim. His people enjoyed vengeance. They made it a sport and it was often the only form of entertainment in some small towns.

He shuddered and sped up again, feeling a dark terror stealing over his thoughts. He had been running for six months. How much longer could he avoid capture? How long would it be before someone recognised him and turned him in for the substantial reward that Queen Farina of Maranea had posted? How long before he ran out of food and starved by the wayside? How long before he froze to death on the road? He was already wet and cold beneath the cloak he wore and had been living on stale bread and the remains of a rabbit killed many days before. The forest creatures were proving strangely hard to catch and kill, and he did not dare eat the nuts and berries scattered on the ground. He was in unfamiliar territory and could not be sure which were safe to eat and which would leave him doubled over and ejecting blood at both ends.

He was ravenous though and it was with a great groan of despair that he trudged on.

It seemed as though fate was conspiring against him. It had taken him far from clean water, and the water-pouch, dangling at his side, was only one quarter full. He needed dry clothing, a comfortable bed and a hot meal to warm his belly but as a fugitive he had few friends at the moment and could not chance finding his way back to his army. They would most probably have disbanded without his leadership and even if they had not he could not trust them. The reward Farina had placed on his head was too high for even the most loyal follower to resist – ludicrously high in his opinion.

All he had done was kill her mother. He had rid the world of a known slut and though her death had led to her husband wasting away and dying within months of her demise Farina had taken his place upon the throne. She had a crown on her head and held sway over a city of thousands. She ought to thank him for elevating her so swiftly. Without his actions she would have been white-haired and wrinkled before she had the chance to sit on the golden throne. Kings and queens often came to power because of the untimely and often bloody deaths of their forebears. It was the way of things but this Queen Farina had vowed to have his head by the time of the next full moon and he had so far evaded capture by her soldiers – by the skin of his teeth and then some – but they were unlikely to give up. No matter how long it took, they would have him.

He had burned their farms, stolen their sphere, killed their queen (and their king in Farina’s opinion) and destroyed their infamous Al’jira warriors. That embarrassment alone was enough to condemn him in their eyes. He could not be permitted to get away with that. Killing their queen was bad enough (an unarmed defenceless woman whose head had not even reached his shoulders) but to kill their most highly regarded warriors was a grave insult. They would find him and when they did he would be killed: slowly, painfully and without mercy.

The high reward ensured that anyone he turned to for help would be tempted beyond their ability to resist. His soldiers, though he had trained some of them from boyhood, would hand him over in a second. He had few real friends, certainly none he would trust with his life, and so he was trudging over miles of dank soggy earth in search of the one person who might not betray him and even she he could not be certain of.

Her feelings for him had never been what he would call tender but there was no one else for him to turn to, and so he moved on, tramping wearily and stamping heavily to shake the chill from his aching bones.

----

Looking down at him from astride their horses, atop a large ragged hill on his western side, two cloaked and hooded men watched his progress. Their unmoving faces and emotionless eyes gave away nothing of what they were feeling and as Mortag disappeared behind a line of trees they moved out after him.

They kept well back. Close enough to just about keep him in their sights but not so close as to reveal their presence. Resting at the side of the taller of the two men was a large broadsword and the hand not holding the reins rested on its hilt. At his back was a large round shield bearing the crest of two eagles locked in combat. Their wings were outstretched, their legs intertwined, their great talons smeared with blood. A gleaming sun rose behind them and turned their feathers to blazing gold.

Resting at the side of the smaller man was a long thin blade – an elven sword gifted to him in payment of having once saved an elf’s life. So far a single drop of blood had not sullied it and the smaller man secretly prayed it remained this way. Warfare and bloodshed were not to his liking but he was no coward. If called to fight he would, and with all the strength at his disposal. But, unlike many of the men he knew, he did not relish the thought of bathing in the blood of an enemy or parading through the streets with his head on a pole. He relished a quiet life filled with good friendships, lively music and a fine woman at his side.

In a year he would come of age and be eligible for marriage, and his mother had already chosen a wife for him – a beautiful woman with coiling ringlets of blonde hair that fell down her back like a shining stream of gold. He had only seen her once before, three years previously, across a crowded room, and he had never forgotten how the breath had stopped in his throat at the sight of her. Such large dark-blue eyes she had possessed: eyes that had fixed on him across that distance, eyes that had marked him as hers. All the dreams he had had since that day had been of her, and her alone.

Keep your eyes on the path before you, little brother, the taller man murmured without turning in his saddle. The quarry is getting away from us.

Forgive me, the smaller man muttered, feeling his face flush with embarrassment at having been caught daydreaming.

One more year, Caro. Twelve short months, which will pass sooner than you think, and then the woman will be yours to command and then you can indulge your fantasies, but until then I suggest cold showers and meditation.

Yes, Jareth, Caro mumbled, his face burning scarlet now.

The general increases his speed. I think we’ve been detected.

But we rode down-wind and he couldn’t possibly have heard us at this distance, nor seen us. The trees are thick and the light fading.

Jargo has been a soldier for fifteen years, little brother. He has senses we know nothing about. Come. We must ride hard and cut him off before he reaches the river. If he crosses it we’ll lose him.

What does it matter if we do? Why are we wasting our time on him?

You know why.

Blood is thicker than water? Hah! Fifteen years without a word exchanged between them and now she wants to see him. I don’t understand.

When have any of us ever understood her reasons? She does things her own way without offering reasons or explanations–

Or apologies.

Jareth looked sharply at his younger brother. There was bitterness in Caro’s voice he had never heard before and he did not like it. He was the bitter one, the angry one…the vengeful one. Caro was the carefree, happy, forgiving one. He was the one that brought about peace when there were troubles within the family. He was the one that soothed ruffled feathers and eased hurting hearts. It pained him to hear such bad feeling in his brother’s words, but he understood the reason for it.

She made it so hard for them to love her and just when they thought they had managed to she changed things without warning, taking choices out of their hands and forcing them to follow her into frightening and unknown territory. Jareth had long ago learned to accept her ways but Caro was more sensitive than he, and more easily hurt. Jareth clenched his jaw hard. He could forgive her many things, he knew her a little better than most (believed he knew why she did some of the things she did) but he could not forgive her treatment of Caro.

She was never especially cruel (had never risen her hand to him nor shouted) but she treated him with a sharp frostiness that cut deeper than most knives. Their sisters were regarded with indifference. They were fed, clothed and housed but treated like guests rather than relations; handled with politeness but no real feeling. She treated Jareth…fairly was the nicest word he could think of to describe it but Caro was always given short shrift.

He was never quite good enough, never quiet clever enough, never quite fast enough, tall enough or worthy enough.

He tried so hard though. He stayed up late at nights, reading books by candlelight until his eyes burned with the strain. He sweated in the fencing room, learning how to handle every sword placed in his hand until he was more of an expert than those who taught him. Hour after hour the weapons clanged and clattered but though his teachers praised him to the fullest extent all she would ever say was…

He can do better.

It was so hard for him to get even so much as one word of half-hearted encouragement from her lips, and one word would have been enough: a smile, an encouraging nod, one word, one small word of praise was all he needed, but she would not give it.

He’s stopped, Caro uttered, breaking into his brother’s thoughts.

Does he think to challenge us or does he just want to see who we are? Jareth murmured.

Perhaps we should reveal ourselves. What good is all this skulking about anyway?

It’s wise to study your enemy a while before approaching him.

Do you consider him our enemy?

Remember what he’s done–

What we’ve been told he’s done, Caro corrected. How can we be sure of what’s truth and what isn’t?

You were young when he left. You don’t remember what he was like. He was trouble even then. A man doesn’t change. No matter how much we might wish him to. He may or may not be our enemy. Time will tell. Come. Let us greet him. Jareth spurred his horse on to a gallop and smiled at the thought of what expression would mark the great general’s face when he saw who it was that had come to offer him the hand of help.

----

Jargo had known from the start he was being followed. At first it had just been a vague sensation tickling at the back of his mind: a sensation of eyes crawling over his body, a feeling of being watched and judged by unseen persons. For a moment he had entertained the notion that it was just his imagination running wild. He had been on the run for several long months, moving from place to place, paranoia keeping him awake at nights. Between hunger, thirst, exhaustion and the fact that he was existing mostly on his nerves he suspected everything. Every dark shadow, every leafy tree, every looming rock hid an enemy. Around every corner was an attacker waiting to pounce and drag him to the nearest city to claim the bounty. Every little noise was filled with menace. Every sharp snap of a twig sent him snatching for his dagger (the only weapon he had left after selling off the others). Every flap of a bird’s wing, every snort of a shuffling creature, every sigh of the tired wind caused the hairs on his neck to stand upright and quivering.

Having to be wary of everyone and everything was prompting him to see danger in the most innocent of circumstances and when he had first started to believe he was being tracked, he put it down to his shaky state of mind. But after many hours the feeling grew stronger and he knew it was not imagination.

Someone was definitely following him but why and why did they not approach? If they wanted his head why not attack? The uncertainty gnawed at him, causing his stomach to gurgle unpleasantly and his hands to sweat freely. He wiped them on his already damp tunic and glanced over one shoulder. There was a foul taste in his mouth, the taste of fear, and he detested it. If the stalker wanted to capture or kill him then he rather wished they would just get on with it. Sneaking around behind him was unnerving and frankly cowardly. They must have seen he was devoid of weapons and that he travelled alone. He was vulnerable, easy prey, so why did they wait?

Perhaps they were deliberately trying to frighten him; goad him into some foolish action. Maybe they were driving him into an ambush. Whatever game they were playing he had had enough. If they wanted him they would have to face him, with courage and honour, like real men.

He stopped and turned. He pulled out his dagger and held it loosely in his right hand, which he hid behind his back. Come on! he cried out. Come on then if you dare! I’m not afraid of you!

Then why does your voice tremble so? came a voice from beyond the trees.

I’m not the one sneaking around like a coward, too afraid to face his enemy. I’m not the one hiding behind trees. I’m not the one refusing to reveal myself and my purpose.

And what exactly is your purpose, Jargo; to bring shame upon your family by siding with treacherous witches?

What? he replied in confusion. Who are you? Do I know you?

Not as well as you should.

There was a dull clomping of horses’ hooves and two large grey-coated stallions emerged from out of the shadows. Two cloaked and hooded men sat stiffly on black leather saddles and from the shadows cast by their cowls Jargo felt their eyes staring down at him: judging him, condemning him he felt. He gripped his dagger angrily and took comfort in its cold solidity.

Put it away, Jargo, the taller of the two men said, impatience clear in his tone. We’re not here to harm you.

Then why are you here? Have you come to take me in so that you can claim your reward?

"The price on your head is high and there’s much I could do with that gold, but I have other orders concerning you, General."

He sneered the last word and moved his horse forward before leaping down from the saddle. He moved close to Jargo – so close he could easily have reached out and thrust his sword deep into his chest. He was tempted to do so but he had his orders and would not disobey them.

Someone wishes to see you. You’ll come with us and I give you my word that we’ll not harm you.

Someone? Who? Tell me! I refuse to move a single step if you don’t tell me who.

Who? Who do you think?

The tall man threw back his hood and Mortag drew a sharp breath at the familiar features that stared back at him. The man’s long red hair mocked his own recently-shaven head and his green eyes bored into him with obvious dislike. The smaller man removed his hood, revealing the same red hair and green eyes. His were filled with disappointment rather than hatred and Jargo found his gaze somehow harder to meet.

Well? Have you nothing to say, brother? Jareth growled. No explanations? No apologies? Well?

Well what?

Your name has been spoken from one end of the country to the other. Every man, woman and child knows you as the thief of life, the betrayer of blood, the butcher of elves and men. By the bright light, Jargo! What did you think you were doing? Had you taken leave of your senses, been corrupted by riches or women, or did you really believe that something good would’ve come from trying to overthrow an entire planet!

You judge me so easily, little brother, yet you know nothing of what I’ve done.

Do you deny that you tried to steal the U’Narai? Do you deny that it was your blade that took the life of Maranea’s queen? Do you deny the massacre at Erantialle?

I deny nothing, but I don’t have to explain anything to you. You’re not my keeper. I don’t have to answer to you or anyone.

"Oh but you will. You will answer to her."

Her? Mortag’s mouth went suddenly dry and he licked his lips nervously. What has she said?

Only that she wishes to talk to you. You’ll come with us now and you will answer to her.

Jareth remounted his horse and turned away. He set off through the trees at a steady walking pace and did not look back to see if the others were following.

Caro rode up to Jargo and held out his hand.

Jargo took it after a moment’s hesitation and climbed up behind his younger brother. Was that really all she had to say? he asked quietly. Was there nothing else?

She said that you were a fool, Caro replied rather reluctantly, but that…

That?

That it was to be expected because…

Because? Caro? Just spit it out.

Because you had too much of father in you.

The brothers were silent after that but Jargo’s mind was far from quiet. What had she meant by that? His father had never been a fool. He had been many things: a soldier, a husband, a father, strong, noble, quietly confident and never afraid of hard work and dirtying his hands. Uncomfortable in noble or royal circles, he had nevertheless managed to converse with all types of people and had been very highly regarded by all who knew him or of him; a strong man but never a cruel man – confident but never arrogant; clever but never condescending. Of all the things he had been a fool was never amongst them. So why would she say that and why now did she want to talk to him? She had never sent for him before. Fifteen years without a word and only now, only now when he was in such trouble, did she consent to spare him a few minutes of her precious time. So many years. Would he still recognise her? Would she know him? What would she say to him and what could he possibly say to her?

CHAPTER TWO

Well? What have you to say to your mother?

Jargo had just turned twelve but it had been far from a great birthday. He had slept late and then missed breakfast because he had been too busy catching up on his chores. He should have been exempt from chores on his birthday but – oh no! – his mother insisted that the pigs be fed before her children and that all the horseshit be shovelled away before anyone was allowed to sit down at the table.

Then, despite his asking nicely, she had denied his request to have the day off school and he had been forced to run all the way there, falling on the way and badly scraping his shin. He had been only five minutes late but Madame Teege had shown not one ounce of mercy, his sniffles and bloody leg not moving her in the slightest, and had given him three whacks across the hand with her sharpest ruler. He had been unable to write after that and been further punished by Madame Cash and Madame Feathers (a delicate name hiding a fierce nature) for producing sloppy work.

If that were not bad enough, at lunch time Jareth spent the entire hour bragging about the extra praise he had received from Madame Pulon, practically rubbing his success in Jargo’s face. He had been hard pressed to keep his cool, his fists itching beneath the table, his jealous hatred burning like acid in his gut. Only the presence of their sister had stilled his anger.

Dana was only seven but she had a way of turning her eyes on Jargo that calmed him, and he could never be jealous of her successes.

When the final bell of the school day rang he rushed out of the place, eager to get home and see what present his father had bought him. He had asked for a sword, one like that his father carried. He did not think it likely