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THE FARAWAY CROWN
by

J.R. RAIN &

H.P. MALLORY
Here to There #2
Other Books by J.R. Rain
VAMPIRE FOR HIRE
Moon Dance
Vampire Moon
American Vampire
Moon Child
Christmas Moon (novella)
Vampire Dawn
Vampire Games
Moon Island
Moon River
Vampire Sun
Moon Dragon
Moon Shadow
Vampire Fire
Midnight Moon
Moon Angel
Vampire Sire
Moon Master
Dead Moon
Lost Moon
Vampire Destiny
Infinite Moon
Vampire Empress
Moon Elder
Wicked Moon
Winter Moon
Moon Blade (coming soon)

SAMANTHA MOON ADVENTURES

Banshee Moon
Moon Monster
Moon Ripper
 Witch Moon
Moon Goddess
Moon Blaze
Golem Moon
Moon Maidens

SAMANTHA MOON CASE FILES

Moon Bayou
Blood Moon
Parallel Moon

SAMANTHA MOON ORIGINS

New Moon Rising
Moon Mourning
Haunted Moon
 Other Books by H.P. Mallory
Paranormal Women’s Fiction Series:
Haven Hollow
Midlife Mermaid
Midlife Spirits

Paranormal Shifter Series:

Wolves of Valhalla
Arctic Wolves

Paranormal Romance Series:

Underworld
Lily Harper
Dulcie O’Neil
Lucy Westenra

Paranormal Adventure Series:

Dungeon Raider
Chasing Demons

Detective SciFi Romance Series:

The Alaskan Detective

Academy Romance Series:

Ever Dark Academy

Reverse Harem Series: (Writing as Plum

Pascal)
Happily Never After
My Five Kings
 The Faraway Crown
Published by Rain Press
Copyright © 2022 by J.R. Rain & H.P. Mallory
All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook
may not be re-sold. 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

Reading Sample: Lone Wolf

About J.R. Rain
About H.P. Mallory
 The Faraway Crown

Chapter One
Elle

The sounds of the fight reached us, carried on the breeze as we

ran as fast as we could through the night.
Well… I ran as fast as I could, anyway.
I had a hunch my rescuer (a handsome stranger whose name I
still didn’t know) could run faster. He seemed in excellent shape, but
was slowed by the fact that he was dragging me behind him like an
anchor.
Truth be told, I was not much into physical exertion.
Whenever I felt the need to exercise, I usually waited until the
feeling passed.
That said, it was quite eye-opening how fast one could run when
there was a battle behind oneself, complete with enemies giving
chase with swords and spears. There was a part of me that wished
to stop and tell my newly found enemies that all this was a
misunderstanding—that I simply wasn’t the woman they thought I
was. But, alas, that would not have been true. The truth was that I
wasn’t who I thought I was, something I still didn’t fully understand.
As we ran, I still found time to feel guilty. Why? Because we had
come here on my insistence to rescue my beloved Simon. Now I
didn’t know where Simon was (he’d escaped, I’d seen that much)
and now, I was leaving behind the people who’d helped me. One of
them was my dearest friend, Sasha, who I had known for years.
Until a few days ago, I hadn’t realized she was an eighty-four-year-
old Elf warrior. That just goes to show you think you know someone
when you really don’t!
The other two friends I’d left behind were Doyle, a drunken
womanizer who was an expert with a sword, and Rackham, who
came from a race of cat people called ‘Felines’ and looked like he
was half lion, himself. Sasha, Doyle and Rackham were helping me
because—something else I’d only just learnt—I was the heir in exile
to a fantastic world called the Second Land. Being heir to this world
also made me a target. Now, all sorts of questionable people were
after me, including an evil sorcerer called Carl the Gray who had first
hypnotized Simon and forced him to bring me to Carl.
I did not know what had become of Simon, but I hoped he was
safe.
All in all, it had been a very odd week, and I was quite tired of it.
Actually, I was exhausted, in general, and running down a wooded
hill, pursued by armed men was exhausting me even further.
“Still with me?”
My heroic stranger looked back at me, and I nodded. It didn’t
seem fair that I was gasping for breath while he seemed barely
affected by our absurd pace. Of course, he had quite a muscled
body, though his muscles weren’t of the bulbous, round sort you see
on the strong man at the circus. These muscles were longer—as if
you took the strong man and set him down in a body lengthening
device and then stretched him.
I often wondered whether body lengthening devices were real
things or simply fabricated from my imagination. And, if they weren’t
real, I imagined I should invent one for I was quite certain short
people would be pleased to know they could add a few inches to
their stature. When I did eventually invent such a marvel of science,
I would call it: Elle’s Elongator.
At the bottom of the hill, the trees petered out, and we skidded
to a halt. My athletic and virile savior looked left and right and then
back up the hill.
“I think they’re still after us. This way!”
He appeared to know where he was going, and I was too
breathless to voice an opposing opinion. Thus, I allowed myself to
be dragged through the woods once more as we took off again. Had
my legs a mouth of their own, they would have complained this was
more running than I’d done in the entirety of my life before this.
Still, I couldn’t help noticing that, if I had my bearings right, this was
not the way back to the city of Wayfare, which was supposed to be
our destination. Sasha had also planned a rallying point where we
would meet if we became separated, on another hillside not far from
where we currently were. I didn’t think we were heading for that
location either, but I was fairly certain my dapper protector didn’t
know about Sasha’s rally point.
Perhaps I should have said something about it, but he seemed to
know where he was going (I was a total stranger to these parts) and
I didn’t imagine I possessed enough air in my lungs to speak, owing
to the fact that we were traveling at such a furious pace. So I simply
continued to follow as best I could.
My impressive guardian led us cross country, clearly anxious to
put a bit of geography between us and our pursuers, as well as
distance. The landscape was certainly a good one for anyone trying
to lose themselves, as it buckled and undulated, rocky outcrops
splitting the soil; crazy angled trees, sprouting in tightly knitted
groups. We tumbled over a ridge and skidded down into a shallow
stream.
“This way!”
My noble emancipator seemed very sure of himself, which was
good. When one was in the process of being chased, one certainly
wanted someone confident leading the way. I imagined were I
leading the way, I would have stopped to dither and worry at every
crossroads and we would have been swiftly caught.
For a while, we splashed through the stream. I stepped on a wet
rock, my foot slipping under me so I would have ended up on my
quite shapely rear if my suave guardian hadn’t caught me.
“Alright?”
I nodded. He had rescued me yet again.
He dragged me up and out of the stream, crawling energetically
up the mossy bank and tugging me up after him as if I weighed no
more than a butterfly. And while I am certainly lithe and in
possession of a figure which would be the envy of most women, I
still weigh more than an insect! Still running, we wound a path
through the trees until I managed to pull the dashing conservator to
a stop.
“What is it?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice. His
eyes held a healthy dose of hero in them, I decided at that moment.
“We need to stop a minute,” I gasped.
 “Why?”
“Because my legs have gone on strike, my heart is going to
explode and I have such little air left in my lungs, I feel as if I might
perspire right here.”
He looked quite surprised, well… as far as I could tell in the
moonlight that penetrated the canopy of branches above us. Clearly,
he was not accustomed to traveling with ladies and their fragile
bodies.
He frowned but then sighed, as if he were in resignation about
my sex and our inability to keep up. It wasn’t my fault he was such a
rock-hard, solid and virile example of a man who could blaze through
a forest and not feel tired in the least.
“Rest for a bit.” If he was irritated by my lack of stamina, he did
not show it.
I sank against the grass with my back to a lichen-covered tree
trunk while the stately liberator remained standing, alert to any
noises in the woods around us.
He looked down at me and gave me a roguish smile—and I
imagined he was most likely a pirate at some point in his career.
Perhaps he had been a marauder and was now making amends for
that life, by rescuing beautiful maidens and then running them to
near death. The expression in his eyes told me the marauder was
within him still and now as he stole gazes at my panting bosom, I
imagined he wanted to thrust himself into my nether bits.
And that thought made me blush in a way that someone in a
committed and loving relationship definitely should not.
“I’m Patch, by the way. Who are you?”
Patch? Hmm, it wasn’t the name I expected. It reminded me of
torn breeches, not heroic daredevils who risked their very lives for
the ladies they loved… or for the ladies they would soon realize they
loved.
“Elle.” I held up my hand, expecting him to kiss it, but he took it
and shook it in a very formal way. And that was when I realized this
Patch didn’t appear to know who I was. “You saved my life and, yet,
you didn’t even know who I am?”
 The romantic pirate gave an embarrassed shrug. “You seemed to
be in trouble.”
“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”
He nodded. “Your friend is an amazing fighter.”
He meant Sasha, I was fairly sure. Of course, Doyle was quite
capable with a sword or firearm, as well. Yet, I couldn’t imagine he
was referring to Doyle. It seemed most men didn’t care for the
dandy. “She is.”
“If you don’t mind me saying; you’re not.”
I colored, though I wasn’t certain why. I found it odd that he
should imagine I would be a good fighter, considering I was a well-
bred lady. “Of course I’m not!” I was starting to get my breath back
now.
“So, what were you doing in a fight?”
“Hmm… well, that’s quite a long…”
Before I could finish the sentence, Pirate Patch stiffened and put
a finger to his lips. In the next instant he grabbed my hand, pulling
me to my feet with an easy strength and, most unfortunately, we
were running again.
The rest had been nice, but stopping and starting again just
made my legs hurt even worse—truly, they were growing quite
cross. My muscles had mistakenly assumed this relentless pace was
over and they had no interest in being coaxed back into activity. It
should have been a relief when we came to a sudden stop, but…
“I think they’re ahead of us and behind us,” breathed the pirate
captain, his face etched with worry. I was fairly sure his feral
instincts were still telling him to have his evil way with me. Good
thing he was in repentance.
“I might have gotten turned around,” he continued, looking back
the way we’d just come. Then he looked at me again—yes, there
was certainly something swashbuckling about him. “My apologies,
but I’ve got absolutely no idea where we are.”
It probably should have been worrying to learn that my paladin
was as lost as I was and that all his ‘This way’s and bravura
confidence had just been for show, but I found it oddly attractive.
He had stepped in as the white knight when one was needed and
hadn’t allowed his unpreparedness to get in the way. One had to
admire a man like that, no?
“Quick—down here!” Patch, the vanquisher, pulled me down into
a grotto, formed where the roots of an upturned tree had been
grown over with ivy.
We huddled together in the darkness, my heart pounding in my
chest.
“You’re of the first land?” Maybe it was just to calm me that
Patch spoke, but it actually worked.
“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “You too?” Hmm, perhaps he
wasn’t a privateer after all? Last I knew, the pirates of the wild seas
had been things of legend for quite some time. I couldn’t help my
disappointment. “So you’re… not a buccaneer?”
“A what?” He seemed genuinely baffled.
“A privateer, pillager, despoiler…”
“No.”
“Then… a plunderer, by chance?”
He shook his head.
“A raider or freebooter? Perhaps a looter?”
“I’m none of those things,” he answered with a boyish smile.
“Oh,” I said on a sigh.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not… disa… ah, you must be a brigadier then?”
He laughed. “Nope. I’m just… Patch.” Then he took a breath.
“And now a question for you.”
“Oh?” I asked, sitting up straight as I wondered if he would ask
me if I were a magical being—perhaps a fairy or a merlady.
“What in the hell is going on in this place?”
 Chapter Two
Elle

I couldn’t keep my disappointment to myself this time. “I

thought… you were going to ask me something else.”
“Okay, well… how do you like it here?”
Truly, men were simple creatures who did not understand the
complexity of the female mind. I couldn’t fault him for that, though,
I supposed. “Right now, I don’t.”
Patch nodded. “I know what you mean. One minute you’re with
perfectly charming lion people and the next someone throws you in
a cage.”
Lion people? Jigsaw pieces began to fall together in my mind.
“You’re Rackham’s friend?”
“I am. And he was with you?”
“Yes. He came to rescue… you, actually.”
“And you had come to… rescue Simon?”
I nodded and suddenly didn’t really want to discuss Simon. Not
with my warrior defender, at any rate. But, then I thought I should
probably ask after Simon because there was a good percentage of
me that was still concerned. “Was he unharmed?”
“Seemed fine when he ran away,” muttered Patch, shrugging.
Then, apparently thinking better of what he’d just muttered, he
added: “I imagine he didn’t see you.”
“I’m glad he ran,” I said as an image of Joan of Arc landed in my
brain, only she wore my face. “We were trying to save him, not put
him in more danger.”
“So…” it was too dark for me to clearly see Patch’s face, but
there was a tone in his voice that bore thinking about. “… you and
he…?”
Before he could finish the question (if he was actually going to
finish it) we heard a sound and both froze. Through the gaps in the
curtain of vegetation that shrouded us, we could see movement.
“No sign,” said a voice from beyond.
“Come on. They’ll have kept moving.”
 We waited until the sounds of the visitors’ feet had died away.
“We probably should keep moving,” said Patch.
I nodded, although my legs were voting strongly in favor of
staying put.
Privateer Patch now adopted a more sedate pace, probably in
deference to me, so we were able to talk as we went. And, yes, it
might seem odd that I was still referring to him as a pirate, but I
was fairly sure he was one. Yes, he might have denied such claims,
but most pirates don’t want to admit they’re pirates. As rebels, they
usually have rewards on their heads, you know? As soon as my
heart calmed down, my thoughts turned to more important topics.
“What sort of name is Patch?”
He looked at me and smiled. He seemed to do that a lot. “Oh,
it’s short for Patrick.”
Which was short for ‘Pirate Patrick’.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “How did you get here?”
“Well, Sasha brought me to Wayfare and then Carl the Gray
brought me to the Second Land. In a box.”
Patch’s face hardened. “I’ve met him. Well… not met him exactly,
but I was put into a cage on his order, prior to being sacrificed.”
I looked at him for a few seconds as a feeling of fear suddenly
spiraled through me. “Sacrificed? Then are you… a spirit?”
His eyes went wide, and he shook his head. “Sorry, I should
have said ‘in order to be sacrificed’.”
“But you weren’t… sacrificed?”
“No, I’m still quite alive.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I breathed a sigh of relief. I was in no
way mentally prepared to have met a ghost, pirate or not.
I looked at him and nodded. I understood what it felt like to be
boxed. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
I sighed. “It actually may be. I’m the one Carl the Gray’s after…
I’m the one everyone seems to be after.” I sighed again. “It’s as if…
as if I just woke up with the title of ‘most popular woman’.”
Patch nodded. “Yes. I managed to pick up the impression that
you were… someone important when I was listening to Carl’s
conversations. Why are you in such high demand?” Then he seemed
to think better of his statement and softened his tone. “Not that
you’re not worth being in high demand, of course.” He had gone red
and now couldn’t look at me. “Could we just backtrack to when I
asked ‘why?’?”
“It’s unclear,” I replied with a shrug, still beyond relieved to find
he was flesh and blood. “I may be…” Could I tell him? I knew what
Sasha would say, but she wasn’t here and right now Patch was my
only friend. Not only that, but everyone knew it was impossible for
me to keep a secret. I was about to open my mouth and tell him the
truth, but suddenly, he wasn’t listening.
“Did you hear that?”
I had.
We ran.
I wasn’t sure how long we ran this time, headlong and
directionless, but the sun was peeping over the hills when we
emerged from the woodland onto a grassy plain, interspersed with
wild flowers that gave the air a sweet scent.
“I think we lost them,” said Patch finally.
Which was good because I was about ready to lie down and die.
“Sasha told me of a place where we should meet if we became
separated.” I probably should have mentioned it before, but running
had seemed more important at the time. That, and figuring out
whether or not Patch really was a pirate.
“Anything look familiar?” suggested Patch, hopefully.
I shook my head. “Maybe we should just head back to Wayfare.”
Patch nodded. “Which way would that be?”
“Hmm, I don’t know,” I admitted. “But if we find a road then…”
“Then?”
“Wayfare is a pretty large place. All the traders go there.”
“Ah—all roads lead to Wayfare?”
I nodded. “Exactly. It can’t be that hard to find.”
“No.” But Pirate Patch wasn’t smiling and I could guess why. If
Wayfare wouldn’t be that hard to find for us, then it wouldn’t be that
hard for the soldiers of the Bek. I’d been worrying about Sasha,
Doyle and Rackham, but the truth was that the Bek were after me,
not them.
Then another thought occurred to me. “Simon will be headed for
Wayfare.”
It didn’t need saying, but I felt as if I had to say the words to
prove I was still thinking about him. Simon, that is.
Patch nodded. “The cat that let us out of the cage told us to
head there.”
“Then that’s what we should do.” At least on a road, we ought to
be able to hear soldiers coming and could make a dive into the
undergrowth if necessary.
“The road to Wayfare it is,” said Patch with forced cheerfulness.
He looked about himself. “Have you seen a road lately?”
“Not for the last few hours.”
“I think we ran across one. Just before you tripped over the tree
root.”
“Which time?” I had many good points, but grace was not one of
them. Though I was working on it.
“Although it was more a track than a road,” Patch admitted. “But
then, I don’t know what passes for a road here.”
I stood up. “Well, we’re not solving anything by sitting here and
lollygagging, are we? I say we go this way,” I picked a direction at
random, “and keep walking until we hit a road.”
Patch stood up beside me. “I think that’s an excellent plan. Lead
the way.”
That was what I should have been doing all along. If I’d spoken
up last night like the Clan Lady and heir to the Imperial throne that I
was meant to be, then I would have taken charge. But although I
technically was the last surviving member of the Takra family, a
Court Clan, which made me the next ruler of the Second Land, I was
also just Elle—overactive imagination Elle. And while it might be
romantic to be the missing Princess, I still liked being Elle best. Yes,
she was a bit clumsy and did not much like exercise, but such was
who I was.
The sun climbed, dispelling the chill of night into a brisk but
pleasant morning with the feel of spring and the promise of a
glorious day to follow. In other circumstances, walking across the
field of grass and wild flowers alongside my handsome champion
(even one named Patch) might have been a dream, but in the
Second Land there always seemed to be something else at play.
I glanced over at Patch as he strolled beside me, keeping an eye
out for anything that might qualify as a road. Now that the sun was
up, I was able to finally get a good look at him and his clothes
instantly proclaimed him as a lost First Lander like me; hardwearing
trousers and a shirt that probably wanted changing—the robe he
wore over them (a gift from Rackham, I assumed) had been lost in
the night. His shoes were not built for the action they had seen in
the last few days and I wondered how much tread they had left.
As to his physical being, daylight had not made him any less
stately, if anything it had enhanced his natural good looks. In the
moonlight, Patch the Pirate had appeared moodily rugged in a
brooding way, but morning showed a more open countenance; that
rare breed of good-looking man who seemed as if he hid an
adventuring past.
His hair was dark brown; his eyes were chestnut with dark
flecks; he had strong, chiseled features and a small scar on his
jawline (something, no doubt, he had earned with a rapier in some
dramatic battle), and yet the line of his mouth seemed to dispel any
suggestion of hardness. It was one of those mouths that seemed
made to smile; it smiled in repose and the barest twitch of a lip
broadened it. When he grinned, his cheeks dimpled and his chestnut
eyes twinkled. The other thing I noted (merely in passing—I tried
not to stare) was his body, which was hard to miss, packed into his
snug-fitting clothing. As I’d mentioned earlier, his muscles weren’t
designed for show: he had the body of a Greek athlete, and every
move he made seemed to send a ripple of muscle activity across his
torso. I’d never really thought such things were important, but now I
realized just how important they were.
It was then that I wondered where Simon was. And when I
thought of Simon, a ray of guilt shot through me. Not entirely owing
to the fact that I was finding it difficult not to imagine Patch sans
clothing, but Simon’s presence here, the fact that he was now
caught up in this nightmare, was all my fault. Because of me, Carl
the Gray had tracked Simon down, mesmerized him and used him to
lure me. Twice, in fact. Perhaps Simon was still to some extent under
the power of Carl the Gray.
Perhaps that was why Simon had run last night rather than
helping me escape, as Patch had done.
I tried to shake off the thought. I was not comparing these two
men. Maybe Patch was braver that Simon—he was certainly stronger
—but I didn’t love Simon for his bravery. If you compared me to a
woman like Sasha, then I didn’t come out of that comparison well
either (as long as the comparison were limited to physical prowess).
“Halt!”
The voice sounded out of nowhere and made me feel, for a split
second, as if I might soil myself. Luckily, I avoided such a situation.
Out of nowhere, soldiers emerged from the surrounding landscape
as if they had been part of it. But they didn’t look like the soldiers of
the Bek—their insignia were different. Also, they didn’t instantly
jump on me and pin me to the ground. Actually, they seemed more
focused on Patch.
As to my pirate protector, he appeared to have the same thought
pattern as me, because he made no attempt to run.
He raised his hands. “We’re not looking for a fight.”
“No,” sneered the captain of the guards. “But what are you
looking for?”
Patch shrugged and pretended innocence. “Nothing?”
The captain did not see the funny side. “Either you should be
busy working or you are trespassing. What is your home district?”
“The Second Land?” suggested Patch.
The soldier’s spear moved so fast, I barely even saw it and Patch
had no time to react as the butt of the shaft hit him in the face and
he went down to his knees.
“Goodness!” I screamed, my hand going to my mouth.
“On your feet!” the Captain snapped.
Patch weakly managed to force himself back upright.
“You will come with us for trial, under the law of the Boku.”
 As we fell into step, the soldiers flanking us, I wondered if I
would ever get used to this awful world.
 Chapter Three
Kit

The fight had left the camp in a state and I worked with the
other servants and slaves to put things to rights, while soldiers
rushed this way and that, endeavoring to look busy in an attempt to
avoid the fury of their leader.
Carl the Gray was not happy.
He had laid a trap to catch the woman, Elle (though I still had no
idea why) and had instead lost the two prisoners whom he’d used to
bait his trap. Part of his anger was clearly focused on the fact that
he didn’t know how this could have happened—they’d all been
caged. When I dared to look in his direction, I could almost see the
thoughts boiling behind his placid exterior. I had a feeling everyone
was now a suspect. It was definitely not a good time to be a spy in
the retinue of Carl the Gray.
I would need to keep my head down.
Of course I was pleased the prisoners had gotten away (even
though one of them had risked his freedom, and his life, to save the
woman, Elle) and it was always amusing to see the Gray in this sort
of impotent fury, but the news was not all good; Carl the Gray had
taken a prisoner.
That prisoner was being brought before the Gray now.
He was a feline. The leonine Felines who called themselves the
Golden Pride were seldom taken prisoner, preferring death to the
ignominy of capture. They even took their own lives rather than be
taken alive. This one had been knocked out cold during the fight,
otherwise I doubted he would have been taken at all. He didn’t
seem angry or upset to find himself bound and in chains, nor did he
seem afraid as he stood before Carl the Gray now. In fact, his face
betrayed little if any emotion, remaining blank and strong, with the
noble dignity for which the Pride held themselves.
He was, I could not help noticing, extremely handsome. For a
domestic Feline like me, there was always something attractive
about the Golden Pride—it felt as if such a feline was the sort we
were supposed to be; a house cat can dream of being a lion. But
this particular lion had an aura that went beyond the nobility of his
species. Or at least it did to me. It was not just that he was tall,
strong and broad chested, his muscles moving supplely beneath his
sandy fur; his swept back mane gave him a heroic look. His amber
eyes shone with bravery but also intelligence and the set of his
features was…
I realized I was staring.
Regardless, I believed this feline to be the sexiest male I had
ever seen.
“On your knees.” Carl the Gray would take pleasure in humbling
a member of the Pride, who were known to live up to their name.
The lion did not move, not even deigning to meet the stare of
perhaps the most feared man in the Second Land. The Gray gave a
barely perceptible nod to one of the guards and I looked away,
though I could not close my ears to the sounds.
It took six guards to bring the lion to his knees and keep him
there, and even then he strained against them, looking up at Carl
the Gray with stubborn insolence.
“This sort of attitude does not bode well for you,” the Gray
observed. “Your co-operation is required.”
The lion opened his mouth to answer, but the Gray held up a
hand.
“Yes, yes, yes, I know. That co-operation will not be given. I
know the ways of the Pride and I respect them to a point. There’s no
need for any big speeches about how little you’re going to tell me,
no matter what I do to you, etc, etc. You know that I must question
you. I know that you will not answer. You know such will not result
in a stalemate for long and you shall bear the worst of it. I know
you’d prefer we hurt you because the worse you suffer, the better
you will feel about inevitably telling me what I want to know. All very
noble, all very fine. All very dull from my perspective. Let us start
with question one: who are you?”
“Rackham of the Golden Pride.” No member of the Pride shied
away from that question. They were as proud of their names as they
were of their heritage and traditions. ‘Rackham’ I liked the name.
“Son of…”
“I really don’t care.” The Gray cut him off.
“You wanted to know who I am,” the lion spoke without fear. “My
ancestry is who I am. I am son of…”
“And yet I still don’t care. “The Gray interjected again. “I just
wanted to know what to call you. ‘Rackham’ it is.” Then he chuckled
—a dark and menacing sound. “You’re lucky, Rackham, I’m not going
to ask you to tell me the names of your friends because I already
know them. Elle, Sasha and Doyle—son of traitors. And yet, I don’t
fully understand your involvement with them. If you were a different
breed of cat, I would guess mercenary,” Rackham snarled and
strained against the guards holding him, “but I know your kind do
not fight for money. Possibly you were here for the other prisoner?
He was said to be travelling with a lion.” He shook his head. “I don’t
really care. What I do care about, Rackham, is where I can find
those three now. I would add that I have no interest in your human
friend. The reprobate Doyle is free to go, as well. I dislike the elf
exceedingly, but I can be magnanimous; she can go free too. All I
want is the woman, Elle.” When it seemed Rackham would speak,
Carl the Gray didn’t allow him. “I can’t see how you could possibly
have any loyalty to her, so I can’t see any good reason for you not to
tell me where I can find her.” He grew quiet for a second and his
eyes narrowed as he watched the lion. “Yet I sense you are not
going to tell me where she is.”
“I am not.” The lion’s words were solid as rock and still said
without fear, even though he had to know what those words meant.
The Gray nodded, then shook his head. “Baffling.”
“We call it honor,” said Rackham.
The Gray shrugged. “Call it what you like. It’s no less idiotic. I
think you people appreciate situations such as this one because it
gives you a chance to prove how tough you are. How long you can
hold out. Ridiculous. You’ll tell me where they are eventually, but by
then I dare say they’ll have moved on.” He shook his head. “I dislike
torture. It is messy and noisy and very unreliable. People say all
sorts of things when they’re in agony. Fortunately—for me, not you
—I have no need for blunt instruments.”
With the flick of his wrist, the Gray held a hand up before
Rackham’s face. The lion instantly turned away.
“Hold his head,” Carl the Gray snapped, and the guards did as
they were told.
I could see Rackham’s eyes, tightly closed.
“Open your eyes.” The Gray spoke in a low voice, but the tone
seemed to resonate through the earth itself. I imagined anyone in
the area—even those asleep—opened their eyes at the sound of his
words. Rackham did.
Carl the Gray moved his hand from side to side before
Rackham’s face, his big, amber eyes following the Gray’s fingers,
unable to help themselves.
“You see, Rackham,” the Gray continued to talk in that low,
hypnotic voice, “why would I resort to torture when you will tell me
everything I need to know without such barbaric actions? You think
you won’t, that you’re strong, you’ve been telling yourself as much,
that you will close your mind to me. Perhaps you even could have,
Rackham, if you’d known when my mind tricks first started. Ah, yes,
you suppose I’ve just started them, but I started the moment you
were brought before me, and this is only the last step. Your will has
been slowly eroding since I began to speak to you, the doors of your
mind slowly edging ajar, inch by inch, until I can throw them wide
with barely a thought.” He chuckled and it was a menacing sound.
“It is too late to resist. It was too late even before you opened your
eyes. And now you find yourself in my sway. All you can hear is my
voice. It is your master’s voice. Your mind is mine and you will obey
me without question. Won’t you, Rackham?”
“Yes.”
The lion didn’t even hesitate, and my heart bled because I knew
how he’d feel when his mind was his own again. To a member of the
Golden Pride, giving information to an enemy was about as low as
one could sink, and the Pride was expected to endure unimaginable
tortures and never release anything. Rackham had endured nothing.
Carl the Gray was right; he would rather have been tortured.
 “Where can I find the woman, Elle?”
“They are to meet at a rallying point on a hill not far from here. I
do not know the name of it.”
“Describe it to me.” Then Carl the Gray turned to face someone
else. “Captain Locke!”
Rackham gave a rough description that I recognized as Pyke’s
Tump. Locke had been stationed in these parts before and he, too,
recognized the description.
“Take a squad,” instructed the Gray. “I do not care what happens
to the others, but bring me the woman, Elle, alive. You understand?”
The way Carl the Gray looked at Locke suggested a meaning that
went beyond his words. Both men were, I remembered, devotees of
the dark god Seligar, and it was for Seligar that they wished to
obtain Elle, though I did not know why.
“Now, Rackham,” the Gray turned back to the mesmerized lion,
while Locke put his squad together, “you’ve done very well, so far.
How much do you know about the woman, Elle?”
“She is a friend of Sasha, the Elf Warrior. She is important in
some way to the Takra Clan.”
“Important how?” Carl the Gray’s voice was like a knife, inserted
into the cracks of Rackham’s vulnerable mind.
“I do not know.”
“They did not tell you?”
“They said she was important. They said they could not tell me
why.”
“But you still helped them.”
“I had to rescue Patch. I owed him a blood debt.”
Patch. The prisoner who had been caged with Simon. I’d liked
him and was glad he’d gotten away, though his freedom had come
at a cost.
“Can you tell me anything else about how I might find Elle?” the
Gray continued.
“If for any reason they were unable to meet at the rallying point,
they were to reconvene in Wayfare.”
Carl the Gray nodded. He would send a message to my old
master, Ser Argent, the Trader-in-Chief to the Bek, based in Wayfare.
 The lion remained kneeling, his eyes blank and vacant, while
Carl the Gray pondered.
“I think you have told me everything you know that can be of
any use to me. Your people have been an irritation to the Bek for
some time. You have resisted our rule and attempts to root you out
of the mountains have gone badly. I suspect you will be able to give
us invaluable information that will finally allow us to eradicate you
from the land. Removing a species that is an offence to Seligar.
Besides,” he smiled, “allowing you to live may be a greater
punishment to one of your kind, even if you will not be fully aware of
it.” He looked at the guards, who still stood around Rackham. “Lock
him up. He will not give you any trouble. His mind is suppressed,
and he will respond only to me.”
It was a cruel fate for a proud warrior, like the lion. The guards
tugged him to his feet, and he went with them, unresisting, to be
locked in a cage, still in chains. It was a sad sight, but there were
worse things in the process of happening. I badly needed to get a
message back to the Takra council in Wayfare, to tell them as much.
Did they know about Elle?
The problem with being a spy was that you were so cut off from
your own people, you were the last one to learn anything. Of course,
that wasn’t the only problem; the constant fear of being found out,
living in terror of your life and so on—those were probably worse.
My original assignment had been as a spy in the household of
Ser Argent. The fact that Carl the Gray had appropriated me to his
retinue had been a great opportunity—getting a spy close to the
Gray was more than the council could have hoped for. But it had
been so unexpected and had happened so suddenly, neither I nor
they were prepared.
I didn’t have a messenger bird to send back to Wayfare, and if
the council didn’t know where I was, they could not send one to me.
My only hope was the elf, Sasha. Even I had heard of her within the
clan. She had quite a reputation and her family had been pledged to
the Takra for generations. When she’d gotten in touch with me to
help free Simon, I hadn’t hesitated—even though I didn’t know of
his importance at the time. Now it seemed Sasha was the only
member of the Takra who knew accurately where I was. I needed a
bird from her so I could send it back to the council.
Then there was Rackham.
He was not the council’s priority, and he should not have been
mine. He was a casualty of war. Not dead—at least not yet—but a
casualty none the less. The council had no reason to take the risk of
freeing him and no interest in saving the Golden Pride from any
information he might unwittingly pass on. And yet I couldn’t bring
myself to abandon him. If the chance arose to help him, I would
take it. Maybe I would even try to create a chance myself.
I caught his gaze as they closed the door of the cage on him,
locking it securely. He seemed less handsome now. All the fire, the
pride, even the personality, had gone from his eyes. He was just a
shell at the command of Carl the Gray.
I swore to myself that I would not let him remain that way, even
if it meant risking my own safety to do so.
 Chapter Four
Sasha

The view from Pyke’s Tump first thing in the morning was a
pleasant one if you liked landscape. It wasn’t spectacular; the hill
wasn’t tall enough to give you one of those epic panoramas, but it
was charming, revealing the rugged beauty of the countryside
surrounding Wayfare.
But it was an empty view to me, lacking one essential element.
“She’s not coming. She’d be here by now.”
Doyle and I had been waiting for Elle for over two hours and
there was still no sign of her. Elle wasn’t one of nature’s quick
movers. In fact, she somehow managed to be even slower when she
tried to run, because running for Elle involved lots of stopping to
catch her breath and even more stops to complain. Elle was a
walker. But, even so, she should have been here by now.
Pyke’s Tump was near enough to Stackwell that even someone
as unfamiliar with the area as Elle should have been able to find it,
but its summit was also conveniently shrouded with vegetation,
keeping it secluded (unless you climbed to the very top as I had, to
scan the area). It was, therefore, the ideal rallying point. It was also
situated on the way back to Wayfare, and the plan had been to rally
here, then move on quickly to catch up to Simon and Rackham’s
friend (What was his name? Patch?) who had been given nice, clear
instructions to head for the free city.
It was all perfect.
Except that there was no sign of Elle.
“I said she’s not coming,” I repeated, turning back to where my
companion sat, drawing disconsolate patterns in the dirt with the
scabbard of his sword. “Doyle!”
“I heard you,” the swordsman snapped. He was in an irritable
mood, and not just because he was sober; Elle was not the only one
who should have been here and wasn’t.
The plan had been to create a diversion while the spy in Carl the
Gray’s camp released Simon and Patch. That plan had worked pretty
well up to a point. Once they were away, then the rest of us were to
run and reconvene on Pyke’s Tump. Doyle and Rackham had split up
so as to confuse the pursuing soldiers and cause them to run in
different directions. That too had worked. Except that Rackham, like
Elle, had not made it.
The difference was that Carl the Gray seemed to want Elle alive
(though his reasons why remained a mystery to me—the Bek had
good reason to want her dead). Rackham, on the other hand,
wouldn’t stand to be taken alive—the Golden Pride never were. If he
wasn’t here, then the chances were that he was dead.
“He knew the risks,” I said, as kindly as I could, Warrior to
Warrior.
“I shouldn’t have left him,” muttered Doyle.
“That was the plan.”
“And the rest of the plan was followed to the letter, was it?”
He was referring to Elle, who was supposed to run far sooner
than she had. Doyle had a point; if Elle had run when she was
supposed to rather than being dragged off by Rackham’s friend (the
name ‘Patch’ still sounded familiar) then the diversion need not have
lasted so long and perhaps Rackham would have gotten away. Or
perhaps not. Maybe we all would have been killed. You could never
tell how things might have gone. Doyle knew that, but he had also
liked the lion.
“Shouldn’t have left him,” Doyle repeated. “Taking on all those
soldiers single-handed.”
“You took on the same number.”
Doyle gave a casual wave of his hand. “That is, of course,
different.” It was nice to know that even now Doyle could still be
arrogant about his own sword skills—though he did have cause to
be.
I stared out across the landscape again. “Perhaps Rackham’s
friend knew a good place to go to ground.”
“One that Rackham didn’t share with us?” Doyle snorted.
“Rackham said he’d only been here as long as Elle had. And they
came in by boat. He doesn’t know the land any better than Elle
does. If they haven’t been captured, then they’re lost.”
 “They might have headed back to Wayfare,” I judged.
Doyle gave a grunt of acknowledgment.
If they hadn’t been able to find Pyke’s Tump, then Wayfare was
the back-up. That was reasonable. Plus, Simon had been told to
head for Wayfare (a nice big target you couldn’t miss, even if you
were new to the area), and Elle would have been anxious to see
him. For some reason. I’d never understood her love for Simon—she
deserved far better—and his behavior recently had brought up more
questions. He’d been under the influence of Carl the Gray, but still, if
we ever found Simon, there were questions I’d ask him.
“We have to find her,” I said.
“What about Simon?” asked Doyle.
“What about him? He’s going to Wayfare, he’ll be fine. It’s not
him the Bek are after.”
“Elle will want to know why you abandoned him,” mused Doyle.
“I’m not interested in what Elle wants.”
Doyle smirked. “That’s a healthy attitude to have towards your
Clan Lady.”
It was sometimes hard for me to remember that Elle was my
Clan Lady. I’d sworn allegiance to the Takra when I was a child and
Elle was now the last surviving member of that family. But I’d spent
two decades as her bodyguard and the last four years as her friend.
It was hard to recognize her as the person to whom I’d sworn my
life and from whom I was supposed to take orders.
“Elle’s safety comes first. If she’s lost, we need to find her. If
she’s captured we need to rescue her…”
“If she’s dead?” Doyle didn’t look up.
“Then I will avenge her.”
That was the other problem with my relationship with Elle. I had
wept when the Takra Clan was destroyed, but that was nothing to
how I’d feel if my friend was dead. She wasn’t just the Clan Lady of
the Takra; she was Elle, my friend, the closest friend I had in the
world, in fact. Friendship muddies everything, and right now, it was
stopping me from thinking straight. I just wanted to see her safe.
“How do you want to proceed?” asked Doyle.
“You’re still with me?”
 Doyle’s morose expression finally broke into the devil-may-care
smile behind which he hid so much of the tragedy of his life.
“Sasha, as you have pointed out repeatedly, I do owe you. I was
also something of an imbecile earlier, which led to Simon falling into
the hands of the Gray and so to this whole sorry situation. I feel I
owe it to Rackham to spill as much Bek blood as time and my sword
allow. Besides, you are a rare person in my life, one whom I count
as a friend, pure and simple (at least until I can talk you into bed—
and I do believe I’ll manage it one of these days). So, yes, I am still
with you, at least until we come across a large drink or an ample
bosom, at which point I shall be burying myself in either.”
I couldn’t help smiling as Doyle was quite funny. “Next time you
pledge allegiance to the Takra, that’s the speech you should use.”
Doyle shrugged. “With Elle in charge, I just might be tempted to
pledge that allegiance. Presuming they ask me back and pardon my
parents.”
That scar ran deep, I knew.
“They’d be lucky to have you.”
Doyle gave a rueful smile. “So would you, dear Sasha, but you
persist in maintaining this veneer of disinterest. It does neither of us
any good. So what was the plan?”
Frankly, I’d kept the banter going to avoid having to make a
decision about what to do next. Without knowing what had
happened to Elle, I had to make a decision based on guesswork,
knowing if I guessed wrong, we’d be leaving her behind.
“If she’s not here, and she’s free, then she’d have made for
Wayfare and to Tanith’s.”
“Agreed,” nodded Doyle. “Fine looking woman she was too—you
were a fool to let her go.”
“I didn’t let her go.” A plume of hot anger sprang up inside me
as Doyle touched a nerve. Not that he was wrong. “Can we stick to
the point?”
“Of course. We head for Wayfare.”
I paused to take a breath. “No. I’ve got a messenger bird. I can
send a message to Tanith. She’ll let us know if Elle turns up there.
Even Elle couldn’t take more than a day or so to get back to
Wayfare.”
“And in the meantime we…?” asked Doyle, leaving the question
open.
“We need to know if the Gray has taken her.”
Doyle nodded. “If you had two birds, you could message the
spy.”
“And if Elle was here, then I wouldn’t need even one bird. She’s
either lost, captured or on her way to Wayfare. We’ve no good way
of finding out if she’s lost, so we start by eliminating the other
options.”
Doyle nodded. “Sound planning.”
For all his frivolousness, Doyle was a warrior to the core and he
would have told me if he thought the plan was wrong. It was good
to have his seal of approval—I’d been a warrior for many years, but
for the last twenty-two, I’d been a babysitter.
I whistled and the messenger bird flew down from the tree to
perch attentively on my finger, its head cocked to one side, ready to
receive. They really were remarkable things, but I always wondered
how much time had been spent breeding them for intelligence and
memory, versus how much had been spent breeding for plumage,
because that had clearly been another priority.
Doyle watched with an amused smirk as I whistled and clicked
my way through a message.
“And all of those odd sounds you just made actually mean
something?” he asked as the bird flew off in the direction of
Wayfare.
“Of course.”
“How does it know where to go?”
“It has locations memorized. I made sure Tanith’s house was one
of those before we left Wayfare.”
“But,” Doyle pressed, “how did the bird find the spy in the Bek
camp?”
“It flew to the camp then sang its ‘I have a message’ tune until it
got the answering whistle, so it knew who to go to.”
“But the location of the camp wasn’t one it had memorized.”
 “I gave it directions.”
Doyle threw up his hands. “I don’t believe any of it.”
I laughed. “What? You think the messenger bird system is some
elaborate joke at your expense?”
Doyle shrugged. “I sometimes think that about the whole world,
so why not?”
It was always hard to tell if Doyle was being serious or not.
“Come on. We should get moving for the Bek camp. I don’t know
how long they’ll be there for.”
“You don’t want to wait for Elle a bit longer?”
I glared. “Get off your lazy ass, Doyle.”
Doyle sighed as he got to his feet. “A gentleman—even a
gentleman warrior—requires his eight hours every night and I have
not come close to that.”
I shook my head. “You’re a first class swordsman, but I
sometimes wonder how you would cope in an actual war.”
“I would expect it to be fought to my timetable,” Doyle replied.
One of the oddities of Doyle was that although he was of the
warrior class, and had been trained for battle, he’d never actually
fought in one because the clan to which his family was pledged had
been destroyed when he was a child.
Even if the Takra was reborn, there was a question over whether
Doyle would be allowed to fight for them because his family had
been expelled. He could have joined the army of another clan and
they would have been glad to have him, but he’d never done so.
Doyle liked to pretend such was because he was too lazy, and
because war would cut into his busy schedule of sleeping, drinking,
making love to beautiful women and fighting duels with the
husbands, brothers and fathers of the beautiful women he made
love to.
But I suspected his real reason was loyalty.
Though he kept it well hidden, he was still pledged to the Takra
in his heart, even if they didn’t want him and even if he treated the
Clan (or what was left of it) with outward contempt. That was part
of the dichotomous mess that was Doyle.
 His experience of fighting therefore was confined to one on one
or to fighting small groups (when the beautiful woman in question
had more than one brother), and yet I never doubted he would
adapt well to the heat of battle. Doyle was a pure swordsman,
people traveled from across the Second Land to challenge him just
so they could test their own skills against his, and he invariably told
them to fuck off and come back when they had something to fight
about.
Hastily, I dragged my foot over those places where the loose dirt
revealed our footprints. I didn’t know if anyone would come looking
for us, but it was as well to be careful. Suddenly I stiffened.
“What is it?” Doyle noticed something was wrong and was
instantly on the alert.
“Someone’s out there.”
“Elle?”
“I don’t think so.”
Before the final word was even out of my mouth, a soldier in Bek
colors leapt from the undergrowth, thrusting a spear at Doyle. I
barely even saw Doyle’s hand move. It was just a blur from the hilt
of his sword to the sword slashing across the belly of his attacker,
who dropped to the ground.
“You may be right,” acknowledged Doyle, totally calm.
In the next instant, a squad of soldiers burst from the trees that
shrouded the top of the hill. Those trees had been the reason I’d
chosen this place for the rallying point, but as well as hiding us,
they’d also hidden the approach of the Bek soldiers. I cursed myself
for not noticing them sooner—elves have excellent hearing, but
perhaps that was something else I’d let slip in the years I’d spent
watching over Elle rather than honing my battle skills.
I drew one of the swords from my back as four of the men ran
at me, two with spears, one a sword and the other an axe. I parried
the spears, then ran back, jumping onto a rock to get some height,
then leapt back at my attackers, dispatching the axe-wielder in one
blow.
Away to my left, I could hear another fight in progress, but one
good thing about fighting alongside Doyle was that I probably didn’t
have to worry about him—it took a lot to overwhelm him and if he
was overwhelmed, then he had no qualms about running. Unlike
Rackham, Doyle was unencumbered by pride.
Drawing my second sword, I tackled all three men at once—
elves are all ambidextrous, so most carry two weapons as a matter
of course.
The swordsman was little danger, and I easily kept him at bay,
but the two spearmen were more of an issue, able to stab their
weapons at me while I couldn’t get near them, and I found myself
being forced back.
A lucky thrust got past my guard and ripped through my tunic,
barely missing my flesh. Time for drastic action. When the next
spear thrust came, I kicked at his head, knocking the spearman off-
balance and giving me time to grab one of the throwing blades from
the bandolier on my chest and throw it at the other spearman.
It struck him in the throat and he went down, gurgling and
coughing blood. I dived and rolled under a wild slash from the
swordsman and came up next to the remaining spearman. A spear
gives you a huge advantage if you can keep your opponent at bay,
but it’s useless in close-up fighting. I rammed one blade through him
and lashed the other back at the swordsman, who screamed like a
child as I scored a bloody cut across his cheek.
He turned and fled, but I wasn’t letting him get away to go and
tell his master what had happened. I ran after him, drawing another
throwing blade as I went and feeling it in hand, hurled it. The blade
missed (another area where I needed practice), sticking into a tree,
but I was gaining on him as we raced between the trunks.
The man glanced behind to see how close I was, and that
proved to be his last mistake. Running downhill is always a tricky
matter, and looking back as you do it can be fatal. He tripped,
tumbling, skidding, going top over tail and managing in the process
to impale himself on his own sword as neatly as I could have done.
He was dead before he stopped rolling.
I retrieved my throwing blade from the tree trunk and headed
back up.
 Doyle was sitting, waiting for me, cleaning my other blade,
which he’d taken from the dead spearman’s throat and which he
now handed back to me with a grin.
“I forgot what a treat it is to watch you fight,” he said. “I find it
incredibly arousing. I shall need a moment to regain my composure
before we continue.”
I chuckled at him. “I’m old enough to be your grandmother,” I
pointed out—elves age differently to humans.
“Oddly enough, I find that arousing too,” Doyle admitted with a
shrug. “But mostly the desire is simply over watching you fight.
Seeing how you handle your weapon just makes me wish you would
consent to handle my…”
“Doyle!”
“I was going to say ‘weapon’.”
“I am well aware.” Doyle was always full of flirtation, but even
so, his mood seemed more upbeat than before the fight. “Why are
you so happy all of a sudden?”
He grinned again. “You have not yet gleaned the significance of
this attack?”
“Significance?” I frowned, but even as I spoke, it dawned on me
what Doyle meant. “They haven’t captured Elle.”
There was a broad streak of cruelty in Carl the Gray but he was
also an efficient pragmatist. He wanted Elle, and he would not have
sent soldiers after us if he had her—we were of no interest to him
and although he was not above killing for its own sake, he wouldn’t
go out of his way and risk losing men to do it. Elle was either lost or
on her way to Wayfare; neither was ideal, but both were better than
her being the hands of the Bek.
“More than that,” Doyle’s blue eyes seemed to dance. “If they
haven’t got Elle, then how could they have known we were meeting
here? They didn’t follow me and I rather doubt they followed you,
either. There’s only one other person who knew.”
“Rackham is alive.”
He was a captive of the Bek, but he was alive.
 Chapter Five
Patch

I was getting pretty sick of being a prisoner.

Of course, you never enjoy being incarcerated, you’re not
supposed to, but having escaped less than twenty-four hours ago
(less than twelve? Quite possibly) it was… well, frankly, it was
getting boring. Which I suppose was odd, given that until a few days
ago, I’d never been a prisoner at all (I’d had a brush with the law
when I was in my late teens but that had been a simple case of
mistaken identity). At least when I was a prisoner of the Bek, I’d
been carried—albeit it in a cage—while these soldiers, who
apparently belonged to a clan called the ‘Boku’, expected me to
walk.
On the other hand, the company was quite a bit better.
The walking was harder on Elle than it was on me, but that was
no surprise, as she was of quite a weak constitution. We’d been
running all night (or that was how it felt) and though the exercise
was long, I didn’t think it as difficult as Elle appeared to. Some might
have said that she wasn’t in as good shape when compared to me. I
wouldn’t have said that. I would have said that Elle’s shape was…
well, I was struggling to take my eyes off of it.
Which was problematic because no one wants to be the man
leering at a woman’s body who, when caught, says: ‘Hey, it’s a
compliment’. Everyone hates that type of man and with good reason;
he’s quite the lech. I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with
finding oneself attracted to attractive women, but it’s not the only
reason to like a woman and you simply don’t leer—it’s quite rude.
But Elle… It just felt as if there was nowhere else in the world to
look, because everything else in the world paled in comparison.
I supposed if I’d been an objective observer, I would have
described her height as average, her build as average (if shaped
nicely), her skin pale and her hair golden. Her only really striking
feature (although her hair was quite a vivid gold) was her eyes
which were bright green and flashed vivaciously. Other than that,
she certainly had a pretty face and a nice figure, but I doubted
whether someone would write home about either.
Trouble was, I was apparently not an objective observer, and I
wasn’t sure when or how or why that had happened. The moment
I’d set eyes on her, I’d realized I was looking at the most beautiful
woman in the world. Perhaps that was also owing to her most
peculiar way at looking at the world around her—what Elle saw in
her surroundings and what other people saw in theirs (both
surroundings being the same), would be undeniably described night
and day differently. Elle’s imagination was parallel to none, and I
found myself quite amazed by the thoughts she voiced. It was as
though she were living in some sort of fantasy land and I had to
admit, I was quite enraptured with it.
When I stared at Elle (which I kept doing), I wasn’t leering at a
pretty girl, I was gaping in wonder at a goddess or such was how I
felt. Although, I supposed, to anyone watching, the difference
between leering and ‘gaping in wonder’ is a semantic one,
particularly if one is ‘gaping in wonder’ from the rear.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Elle asked to me in an undertone,
slipping back a bit in the line so she could walk beside me.
“Sure.”
She looked from side to side as though to make sure the guards
flanking us were not listening. “I hate this place.”
I laughed out loud as Elle’s eyes twinkled with her little joke.
“Get back in line.”
The moment was shattered by one of the guards clubbing me
across the back with the shaft of his spear—they liked doing that,
the uptight bastards. Elle hurried back into place in front of me, the
humor of the moment lost in fear.
I wanted more than anything to take that fear from her, to save
her from all of this so she could smile and laugh again. She had a
face built for laughter.
Looking back at my personal history, I was aware I had a habit
of falling in love too often and too fast. I was a romantic. I didn’t
always strike people as such, but it was true. Once I’d courted a girl
for a while, my thoughts immediately turned to picturing a cozy
home, children, growing old together and so on. That was just the
person I was. So it should not have been any real surprise that I was
instantly smitten with Elle; such was my pattern. But, no, I did
believe she was different. I’d probably said that before about Nancy
Newsome, about Jenny Keith and Sarah Court. But this ‘different’
was different to those ‘different’. Elle was special—she truly was
different and her ‘different’ had everything to do with her
spectacular, if a bit out there, way of thinking. Yes, I barely knew
her, so perhaps I was just falling back into old habits, but there was
something about her. I’d never met anyone like her before.
The landscape had changed subtly as we trudged along the road
under guard. The ruggedness of the countryside surrounding
Wayfare on the shores of the Circular Sea started to flatten out into
fields. Those fields were filled with people working; serfs, servants or
slaves—I couldn’t tell. They didn’t look like people with control over
their own destinies. Their clothes were muddy and ragged, they
were thin, and their faces held that blank intensity of people who
were focused on the job in front of them because thinking about
anything else was just depressing.
“Did you run away from one of these farms?” asked one of the
soldiers.
“No,” I replied.
“Are you certain?” he replied.
I glared at him. “Isn’t there a war on? Haven’t you got anything
better to do than escort two people who were just out for a walk?”
That got me another thud across my back. So far I did not like
the Boku.
“The Boku are independent,” the captain of the soldiers said
proudly. “Let the other clans throw their lives away. Our people live
in peace. We give thanks for a Clan Lord who does not seek power,
but who works tirelessly to maintain the peaceful existence we enjoy
here. Maintained by everyone knowing their place.”
I looked out into the fields again. The people there certainly
knew their places, but it was hard to imagine any of them giving
thanks for it. On the bright side, the Bek had been hunting Elle, and
it seemed as if she might be safe from them here. Although in this
context, ‘safe’ might mean ‘enslaved’.
“If you do not know our ways, then you are not under the Boku,”
the captain went on. “What were you doing on our land?”
“We got lost,” said Elle.
“Unfortunate,” said the captain, in a tone of voice that did not
give me much hope of freedom.
“Any chance you’re going to take us to the border and let us go
—now that you know we only trespassed by accident?”
The captain smirked as though my question were a ludicrous
one, and perhaps it was. “When a child’s ball lands on your property,
do you return it to the child?”
“Well…” I felt like there was only one answer. “Yes.”
“No!” the captain snapped. “You keep it, you imbecile!”
“Jeez,” Elle started, but I shook my head at her as if to say not
to encourage the man’s wrath.
He didn’t notice and continued.
“The child will be beaten for losing its ball and thus learns a
valuable lesson. That is how Boku men are made.”
“Well, then I am honestly happy that neither of us is in
possession of a ball,” Elle said, nose in the air.
Worried she might draw the captain’s anger, I cleared my throat
and spoke up. “That is quite the valuable lesson.”
My opinion of the Boku was not improving.
After an hour’s walk, we saw a city ahead of us, emerging from
the pastoral landscape from behind the sloping rise of a lazy hillock.
“Behold,” the captain said—he was a man who seemed to enjoy
talking as if he were performing in a bad stage melodrama, “the city
of Brayce, capital of the district and power seat of the Boku Clan.”
“Very nice,” said Elle.
“Nice?” the captain clearly felt this to be an understatement.
“Very nice,” Elle pointed out.
And it was.
Brayce seemed to shine in the sunlight, its brilliant, white
buildings gleaming. It looked… wealthy. I couldn’t help wondering at
the disparity between the city before me and the peasants whom
we’d seen earlier. Every civilization has its haves and its have-nots,
but Brayce seemed to have drawn a very definite line between them,
and that line seemed to be the walls of its capital.
It took us another half hour to walk to Brayce, the city growing
clearer all the time. The road we were on joined with other roads,
uniting into one massive thoroughfare leading to and through the
vast gate set into the encircling wall of the city.
Other soldiers marched alongside us—some of them had
prisoners too; carts and wagons loaded with merchandise trundled
by; horses, donkeys and oxen; wealthy merchants, noble warriors,
and dirt poor peasants. It seemed as if the whole world was beating
a path either to Brayce or away from it.
“Brayce is a thriving capital,” the captain said with pride. “It is
here that you will be tried for your crimes.”
I wanted to ask what our ‘crimes’ were, but I wasn’t sure it
mattered and I didn’t much want to get hit again. Better to keep my
mouth shut and look for a chance to escape—though I could not see
one presenting itself. I tried to get a look at Elle’s face, to gauge
how she was doing, but she had been made to walk in front of me
so I could only guess. My guess was that she was as worried as I
was as we passed through the huge gates into the city itself.
From a distance, Brayce looked like a gleaming jewel set into the
landscape. Up close, it was a city of contrasts. There was certainly
money here; there were fabulous mansions, built of polished marble;
an epic temple with a mosaic frontage depicting some religious
scene on a massive scale; galleries, restaurants and theaters.
There was also grinding poverty. Side by side with the affluence,
were people begging in the street, their bones showing through their
skin. The temple backed onto a slum filled with people living in
cheek by jowl shanties, considering themselves lucky they at least
had a roof over their heads.
Of course, it was easy for an outsider to judge—it wasn’t as if
there weren’t cities back home where the gap between richest and
poorest was at least as wide.
“Sergeant of the Guard!” The captain called out.
 A rotund soldier came out of the building beside which we’d
stopped, eating a chicken leg and managing to get some of it in his
mouth. “What?”
“Prisoners,” the captain said. “Lock them up for trespassing and
send them to the market tomorrow.”
“Market?!” Elle looked up sharply.
“There is always a need for labor in a proud and prospering
district like Boku,” said the captain. “In a backward district, you
might be imprisoned or executed. We believe work is the humane
way to rehabilitate criminals.”
Being amongst the Boku was like getting a brief history of
tyranny.
The sergeant looked at us. “The man looks good for field work.”
“He talks too much,” said the captain. Perhaps on that point he
was correct.
The sergeant shrugged. “He’ll learn. Or he won’t. Either way, he
will be silent.” His piggy eyes rested on Elle and roved over her with
an appraising gaze that made the blood pound in my ears. “Not bad.
Might even make a decent courtesan when she’s cleaned up.”
“A courtesan!” she nearly shrieked and stepped forward. “I will
have you know I am a lady!”
The sergeant chuckled. “And fiery. I’d quite enjoy taking her
down a peg or two.”
That shut her up.
I lunged for him. Which was stupid, of course—my hands were
tied, there was a rope around my neck and I was surrounded by
guards who instantly yanked me back and proceeded to clobber me
to my knees while Elle cried for them to stop—it was nice that she
cared.
“Stop, stop!” the sergeant bellowed. “Don’t damage the
merchandise. A strong one like him is worth a bit and a broken limb
will knock fifty percent off his price.”
I struggled back to my feet, licking the blood off my lip.
“Are you alright?” whispered Elle.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for… you know.”
 I half-smiled. Even in our current situation, getting her gratitude
felt good.
“Right,” the sergeant hitched up his belt, which was doing its
best to keep his gut under control. “Let’s get some details—buyers
like to know details. Where are you from?”
“The First Land.”
I said it because: a) it was true, b)because anything else I said
would mean nothing to them, and c) because it felt like the cocky
answer. I certainly never would have anticipated the response.
“The First Land?”
“Impossible!”
“Liars.”
“Look at their clothing.”
All the soldiers and guards standing around us took a
simultaneous step back, as if the whole world had breathed in. They
were looking at us with quite different expressions now, but I
couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing.
The captain dismounted from his horse and strode up to me. He
started to make a grab for my throat, but stopped himself, holding
back, unsure of what he was supposed to do.
“You are telling me you’re from the First Land?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“We both are,” added Elle. She had no more idea if this would
make things better, but it didn’t feel as if things could get much
worse.
The captain’s eyes shifted from one to the other of us. “How do
we know you’re telling the truth? Prove it to me.”
I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “What do you think we’ve got?
A First Land stamp?”
But Elle’s eyes had widened. “Untie my hands.”
Again, the captain looked unsure of himself, but nodded at one
of his guards who came forward with a knife to slice through the
rope that held Elle’s hands behind her back.
“Keep a close eye on them,” the captain instructed his men as
Elle rubbed her raw wrists. “Now, prove your story.”
 Elle reached into her pocket and a gasp of astonishment went
around the growing group of spectators, interspersed with whispers
of ‘The First Land!’, ‘I have heard tell of such things!’, ‘Magic of the
First Landers!’.
It was a pocket watch. It didn’t appear to be in working order,
but it had to have been unlike anything they had here because they
all appeared to be quite perplexed by it. It was a legitimate First
Land item, and it seemed to be all the proof these people needed.
“It is true,” declared the captain. “They are indeed of the First
Land.”
It was nice they believed us, but now we were going to find out
what that meant.
 Chapter Six
Kit

There was a tension in the air surrounding the Bek camp.

Even though the Imperium himself was currently in his tent, his
presence always stretched further and everyone was aware that this
was a nervous moment. Bags were packed, soldiers were
assembled, and the party was ready to move on, but we were
awaiting the return of the squad under Captain Locke, who had been
sent to capture the woman, Elle, using the information Carl the Gray
had extracted from his Feline prisoner.
I allowed my gaze to go to that prisoner now.
Rackham sat hunched in a cage that was too small for him and
not only that, but it was situated in the hot sun. His face remained
stony and impassive, his thoughts, emotions and even his will still
clamped down by the influence of the Gray.
I stood with the other servants and slaves, waiting to be told
when we were leaving and where to go, ready to spring to attentive
action if anyone gave us an instruction. I say ‘with the other
servants and slaves’ but, in fact, I stood apart. I was the only Feline
in the Gray’s retinue and just because we were all servants together,
didn’t mean there wasn’t room for prejudice. Such prejudice might
also have been a reaction to the fact that the Gray seemed to have
adopted me as his favorite—such was never going to be received
well because I was new to the group, but it was also unwise to
stand too close to a favorite because when they ceased to be
favorite (which was bound to happen at some point), you didn’t
want to get caught in the crossfire.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
The shout came from the periphery of the camp and broke the
tension of the afternoon as we all looked to see what was going on
—it was a relief to have something else to focus on.
Guards had been stationed at the outskirts of the camp to make
sure no one could sneak up on the Gray while he was resting—for all
the other stuff that was going on, this was still a land at war and the
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
um 1250 oder gar um 1300 schon zu weit fortgeschritten. Auch
scheint die Sicherheit der Burg die Befestigung der ganzen Plattform
des Felsens gefordert zu haben. Demnach sind die jetzt bewohnten,
den Burghof im Dreiviertelkreis umgebenden Gebäude wenigstens
zum Teil wohl gleichzeitig mit dem Bergfried und Palas oder nur
wenig später erbaut worden; sie bildeten, untereinander durch
Wehrgänge verbunden, den sogenannten Zwinger. So kann man die
Burg in ihrem heutigen Umfange als ein beinahe gleichzeitig
entstandenes Ganzes auffassen. Einzelne nach Westen zu sich der
Talsohle nähernde Steintürme, von denen noch Trümmer vorhanden
sind, bildeten, durch unterirdische Gänge miteinander und mit der
Burg verbunden, eine Ergänzung dazu, die als Verbindungsglied zu
der im Tale hinführenden Straße oder als Fluchtburg bei Gefahr für
die Einwohner des Dorfes von Wichtigkeit war.
Diese meine Auffassung wird auch durch die nicht eben reichlich
fließenden geschichtlichen Nachrichten über Scharfenstein bestätigt.
Als Gründer und erste Inhaber der Burg müssen nach der
obenerwähnten Angabe des Lehnsbuchs Friedrichs des Strengen
die reichsunmittelbaren Herren von Waldenburg gelten, die seit 1241
auf Wolkenstein bezeugt sind, damals wohl das mächtigste
Dynastengeschlecht der ganzen Gegend; denn sie besaßen in den
Herrschaften Waldenburg, Rabenstein, Scharfenstein und
Wolkenstein ein zusammenhängendes Gebiet, das von den sanften
Hügelketten der mittleren Pleiße und Mulde bis hinauf zum Kamm
des Gebirges (südlich von Wolkenstein) reichte. Daß es noch vor
den Waldenburgern Kaiserliche Vögte von Scharfenstein gegeben
habe, ist eine Vermutung, der jede Grundlage fehlt. Die
Waldenburger verwendeten Scharfenstein, wie eine Urkunde vom 8.
April 1386 (C D S I, B 1, 131 f.) dartut, als Leibgedinge bzw.
Witwensitz für ihre Gattinnen. Darin liegt schon ein Beweis dafür,
daß Scharfenstein damals nicht nur eine kriegerische Wache war –
1389 war Hans von Forchheim »heupmann uff dem Scharfensteyn«
unter Anarg und Heinrich von Waldenburg C D S II, 12, 1 S. 417 –,
sondern auch für eine ritterliche Dame genügendes Quartier bot: die
Dörfer Griesbach, Hopfgarten, Grünau, Groß-Olbersdorf,
Schönbrunn, Falkenbach, Drebach, Herold und Glashütte lieferten
Zinsen und Naturalabgaben. Im fünfzehnten Jahrhundert, als die
Feste Greifenstein, die bis 1429 die Bergorte Thum,
Ehrenfriedersdorf und Geyer beschirmt hatte, von den Hussiten (?)
zerstört war, übernahm Scharfenstein auch die Pflicht, diese
Bergorte zu beschützen und die sich daraus ergebenden Rechte. Es
gewann dadurch solche Bedeutung, daß der Landesherr Kurfürst
Friedrich der Sanftmütige sein Auge darauf warf und, da die
Vermögenslage der Herren von Waldenburg mißlich geworden war,
sie 1439 durch Kauf erwarb, wobei der Münzmeister von Freiberg,
Liborius von Senftleben, dessen Brüder und ein Stephan Glasperg
als Mittelsmänner dienten. Sechs Jahre lang sollte es den Brüdern
Heinrich und Anarg von Waldenburg freistehen, die Güter aus der
Verpfändung einzulösen, aber sie vermochten es nicht. So erscheint
schon 1445 der Kurfürst als Besitzer von Scharfenstein und seinem
Zubehör. Diesem Umstande verdanken wir es, daß wir aus einem
Verzeichnisse der landesherrlichen Einkünfte aus dem Jahre 1445
Wichtiges über die Einkünfte aus der Herrschaft Scharfenstein
erfahren. Dazu gehören, je nach der Ausbeute steigend und fallend,
jährlich zweieinhalb Schock von der Zinnschmelze in
Ehrenfriedersdorf, dreißig Gulden von den Bänken der Schuster in
den obengenannten Bergorten, zwei Schock Krämerzins und
siebzehn Schock Zoll und Geleitsgeld. Dieser letzte Posten zeigt
uns, daß Scharfenstein nicht nur Silber- und Zinnbergwerke zu
beschirmen hatte, sondern auch eine Straße: den richtigen, von
Öderan über Zschopau, Wolkenstein, Chemnitz, Komotau nach Prag
führenden Paß. Übrigens behielt der Kurfürst von dem Scheinkaufe
Senftlebens nur die Anrechte auf die Bergorte Ehrenfriedersdorf und
Geyer, die er zum Amt Wolkenstein schlug, während Thum und
Scharfenstein 1473 in den Händen des Heinrich von Schönberg
waren, der sie mit Schellenberg und Zschopau vom Fürsten zu
Lehen trug. Dieses Verfahren erinnert sehr an das Verhalten der
sächsischen Fürsten beim Bankrott der Herrschaft Bärenstein 1491
(s. Kursächsische Streifzüge V. Bd. S. 314).
Von hier an fließen die urkundlichen Nachrichten in
ununterbrochener Kette bis zur Gegenwart. Denn von 1486 an
besitzen wir die Lehnsbriefe über Scharfenstein und die damit
zusammenhängenden »Confirmationes et Consensus«
(»Bestätigungen und Bewilligungen«) der Landesfürsten in vierzehn,
meist sehr starken Bänden des Hauptstaatsarchivs, alles in allem ein
überaus reiches Material mit vielen Briefen, das den unverdrossenen
Forscher tief in das Innerste der Geschichte des Einsiedelschen
Geschlechtes und der Burg Scharfenstein einführt. Der erste
Lehnsbrief vom Jahre 1486 verleiht »Ern Heinrichen von Starschidel
Rittern und seinen rechten Leibeslehenserben … Sloß
Scharffenstein mit den Mennern dafur gesessen mit aller seiner
Zubehörung … zu rechten Manslehen«. Der für uns wichtigste
Lehnsbrief ist der vom Jahre 1492, durch den Scharfenstein an
Heinrich von Einsiedel übergeht. In ihm sind auch alle die
Vorbesitzer der Burg genannt, die sie nach dem oben besprochenen
Kauf des Landesherrn (1439) zu Lehn getragen haben; dadurch wird
die in der volkstümlichen Literatur über Scharfenstein verbreitete
Legende, die Burg sei schon 1427 in den Besitz der Einsiedel
gekommen, ohne weiteres als falsch erwiesen. Die wertvollsten Teile
dieses Lehnbriefes lauten: »Anno domini etc. 1492 am Donerstage
nach Pauli conversionis (des Paulus Bekehrung) hat mein gnediger
Herr Herzog George von wegen und anstat seiner Gnaden Ern und
Vatern Herzog Albrecht Ern Heinrich vom Einsiedel Rittern und
seinen rechten Leibhslehenerben diese nachgeschriebene Sloß,
Forwergk, Dorffer und Guter, nemlich das Sloß Scharffenstein …
item das Forwerg die Grunaw genant … item das Dorff Alberstorff
(Groß-Olbersdorf), Grunaw, Königswalde, Grisbach, Hopfgarten,
Hornsdorff mit Frone uff etlichen Leuthen und etlichen Leuthen
Fronen Geld, wie ime (ihm) die Er Heinrich Starschedel verkaufft …
und also in aller mase so solch Sloß, Forwerg, Dorffer mit aller irer
Zcugehorunge von den Hochgeborn̄ Fürsten, Herzogen Ernst
Curfürsten seliger Gedechtnus und Herzog Albrecht etc. seiner
Gnaden lieben Herrn Vettern und Vatern an Heinrichen von
Schonberg Amptmann uffm Schellenberg solch Sloß, Forwerg,
Dorffer und Gutter, Friedrich Blancken und forder an Ern Heinrich
Starschedel Ritter und darnach Er Heinrich von Einsiedel Ritter in
Kaufweiß bracht und die alle obgemelt gebraucht, gnossen,
innegehapt und besessen, zu rechten Manlehen gereicht geliehen,
soviel sein Gnaden von Rechtswegen daran zu vorleyhen hat.
Testes (Zeugen sind): Er Hans von Mingwitz, Obermarschalg, Er
Ditterich von Schonberg, Hoffmeister Ritter, Cantzler, Siegmund von
Maltitz. Actum Dreßden Anno etc.«
Im Jahre 1508 muß Heinrich von Einsiedel auf Scharfenstein
verstorben sein; denn am Sonnabend Agathe Virginis 1508 ist ein
neuer Lehnbrief über Scharfenstein für seine Söhne Hugold,
Heinrich, Hildebrand und Heinrich Abraham von Einsiedel in Leipzig
ausgefertigt worden (fol. 9) usw.
 Abb. 3 Galerie im Gesellschaftsflügel
Die Kreuzgewölbe und die spätgotischen Fenster sind alt (Ende
des fünfzehnten Jahrhunderts)
Die Baulichkeiten der Burg waren wohl unter den verschuldeten
Waldenburger Herren, die überdies im Jahre 1479 ausgestorben
waren, und dann unter den wechselnden Besitzern arg
heruntergekommen. Die neuen Herren von Einsiedel ließen zwar die
Ruinen des Bergfrieds und des Palas unergänzt liegen, aber die
wohnlicheren Gebäude um den Hof fingen sie an zu erneuern. Die
spätgotischen Fenster im Gange des Gesellschaftsflügels (s. oben
Seite 317) deuten auf eine Bauzeit am Ende des fünfzehnten
Jahrhunderts (Abb. 3); umfassender waren die Erneuerungen
Heinrichs von Einsiedel um 1533. Diese Jahreszahl trug ein nach
dem Brande entdeckter, durch die Glut gespaltener Kragstein im
ehemaligen Kinderzimmer des Wohnflügels (Abb. 4), während
einzelne Dachziegel in Pfannenform die Jahreszahlen 1538, 1543
zeigten. Der zwischen dem Torhaus und dem Kirchenflügel
langgestreckte Witwenflügel soll nach mündlicher Überlieferung
zuletzt gebaut worden sein. Ist das der Fall, so ist der Witwenflügel,
wie vielleicht auch andere Bauteile der Burg, an die Stelle eines
früheren Wehrgangs getreten; denn die Sicherheit der Burg
erforderte, wie schon oben erwähnt, eine lückenlose Schließung des
Umkreises von der westlichen Wange des Bergfrieds bis zur
östlichen. Im Jahre 1570 hatte Haubold von Einsiedel die Einengung
seiner Befugnisse durch Kurfürst August zu verspüren, indem er
dem Kurfürsten auf den Einsiedelschen Gütern und den Gütern von
dreiundzwanzig Mannen zu Einsiedel, Erfenschlag und Dittersdorf
auf dreißig Jahre die hohe Jagd abtreten mußte. Freilich bekam
Einsiedel dafür alljährlich sechshundert Meißner Gulden Jagdgeld,
zwölf Stück Wild, vier Bachen und vier Frischlinge. Zur Zeit des
Dreißigjährigen Krieges hauste auf dem Scharfenstein Heinrich
Hildebrand von Einsiedel mit seiner Gemahlin Sophie, einer
geborenen von Ponickau aus dem Hause Prietitz. Dieses Paar
erbaute vor dem gotischen Tor der Burg, an dessen Innenwand man
noch die Rillen der Eisenkette sieht, an denen die Zugbrücke auf-
und niederging, am anderen Ende der Brücke ein schönes
Renaissanceportal mit dem Allianzwappen der beiden Familien.
Zweimal wurde die Burg während dieser Zeit erstürmt: 1632 von
Herzog Bernhard von Weimar und 1633 von den Schweden, die die
ganze kaiserliche Besatzung niederhieben und die Leichen in den
Burgbrunnen geworfen haben sollen (s. oben Seite 320).
 Abb. 4 Südgiebel des Wohnflügels
Unter dem Giebel das Speisezimmer mit den Treppen zum
Terrassengarten am Bergfried
Am Ende des siebzehnten Jahrhunderts war der Kurfürstliche
Kammer- und Bergrat Curt Heinrich von Einsiedel Herr auf
Scharfenstein. Gegen Ende des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts hatte hier
vor dem äußeren Tor der Wildschütz Karl Stülpner seinen großen
Tag, als er, nur durch einen Baum gedeckt, die zu seiner Ergreifung
aufgebotenen achtzig Mann des Chemnitzer Regiments samt den
Förstern der Umgegend einen ganzen Tag lang durch seine Büchse
in Schach hielt und dem Oberförster von Geyer und dem
Gerichtsdirektor von Thum, die trotzdem aus dem Schlosse
herausreiten wollten, durch einen wohlgezielten Schuß großen
Schrecken bereitete.
Seitdem ist mehr als ein Jahrhundert vergangen, voll von
deutscher Not und deutscher Größe – die kriegerische Bedeutung
der Burg trat zurück, sie wurde innerhalb einer stark mit Spinnereien
und anderen Fabriken durchsetzten Gegend ein stiller Herrensitz,
ein Zufluchtsort der Romantik; in ihrem Burggarten zu Füßen des
efeubewachsenen Bergfrieds suchte der Wanderer die »blaue
Blume« zu finden, die ihm die Geister der Vergangenheit und den
Sinn des Lebens verständlich machen sollte – aber da kam die
Nacht vom ersten zum zweiten Juni 1921, in der plötzlich der rote
Hahn an den steilen Dächern emporzüngelte. Schauerlich schön
spiegelte sich die rote Glut der Dachsparren und des gewaltigen
Gebälks in der Sommernacht, und das ganze Schloß wäre wohl ein
Raub der Flammen geworden, wenn nicht die Motorspritze der
Patentpapierfabrik im Wilischtal mit ihrer tüchtigen Bemannung
wenigstens das Hauptstück des Kirchenflügels und den ganzen
Witwenflügel gerettet hätte. Dafür ging fast die ganze Habe des
Grafen Einsiedel, der die Burg erst am 19. Dezember 1919
übernommen hatte, und ebenso die seines Gesindes zugrunde. Der
anbrechende Morgen fand im Schloßhof ein ergreifendes Bild.
»Neben dem Rest ihrer Habseligkeiten hockten apathisch mit vom
Weinen geröteten Augen die Dienstboten. Der Schloßherr und die
Schloßherrin, letztere hatte sogar Brandwunden davongetragen, ließ
es sich nicht nehmen, auf der Unglücksstätte auszuharren.
Besonders der Frau Gräfin wandte sich allgemeine Teilnahme zu.
Ihrer Niederkunft entgegensehend, nur notdürftig bekleidet, Speise
und Trank verschmähend, suchte sie noch hie und da helfend
einzugreifen. Ihre Garderobe, ihre Wäsche ist fast völlig dem Feuer
zum Opfer gefallen.« (Zschopauer Wochenblatt vom 4. Juni 1921.)
 Abb. 5 Blick von Osten auf den Wohnflügel,
Gesellschaftsflügel und Bergfried

Die Teilnahme am Verluste der Burg ging weit über Sachsens

Grenzen hinaus, besonders aber regten sich aus den Kreisen des
Heimatschutzes, der sächsischen Denkmalpflege und der
Burgenfreunde hilfsbereite Hände, um dem schwer getroffenen
Besitzer den Wiederaufbau der Burg zu ermöglichen. Trotzdem war
es kein leichter Entschluß, als Graf Alexander von Einsiedel wenige
Tage nach der Katastrophe unter Zurücksetzung aller persönlicher
Bequemlichkeiten und Annehmlichkeiten, die die Errichtung eines
neuzeitlich behaglichen Baues sicherlich geboten hätte, bestimmte,
daß die Burg möglichst genau in derselben Form wiedererstehen
sollte, wie sie den Flammen zum Opfer gefallen war. Im Inneren
mußten natürlich den neuzeitlichen Bedürfnissen Zugeständnisse
gemacht werden. Als Baumeister wurde der Geheime Hofbaurat
Professor Bodo Ebhardt in Berlin-Grunewald, der bekannte
Wiederhersteller deutscher Burgen, gewonnen, doch so, daß das
sächsische Landesamt für Denkmalpflege die aufgestellten Pläne
vor der Ausführung zu prüfen hatte. Am 10. Juni 1921 begannen die
schon wegen des steil abfallenden Geländes sehr schwierigen
Arbeiten des Aufräumens und der Sicherung der Unterbauten. So
war z. B. am Gesellschaftsflügel, wo man schon lange vor dem
Brande die nach außen überhängende Nordwestwand durch eiserne
Zuganker mit Spannschlössern hatte sichern müssen, infolge starker
plötzlicher Abkühlung beim Löschen eine ganze Ecke, ein
Mauerblock von zehn Meter Höhe und zweieinhalb bis drei Meter
Stärke einige Tage nach dem Brande in die Tiefe gestürzt. Hier
mußte eine umfassende Notverankerung angebracht werden, um die
übrige Wand, die nachzustürzen drohte, bis zu ihrer teilweisen
Abtragung und Neubefestigung zu halten. Die Planungen für die
Ergänzung der Unterbauten und den Wiederaufbau der zerstörten
Wohnbauten gingen aus den »Hauptbaustuben« Ebhardts hervor,
der auch persönlich mit dem Vorsitzenden des Landesamts für
Denkmalpflege und dem Landeskonservator Fühlung nahm und
mehrere Tage auf dem Scharfenstein zubrachte. Die örtliche
Bauleitung lag in den Händen des preußischen
Regierungsbaumeisters Kaske, der auch mehrere im Wiederaufbau
von Burgen erfahrene Poliere zur Verfügung hatte. Obwohl ein Teil
der Baukosten durch die Brandversicherung gedeckt war, obwohl
der Staat in der Erwägung, daß es sich bei der Burg Scharfenstein
um einen »dem ganzen Volke wertvollen Besitz« handelte, bei der
Bauholzlieferung einen Preisnachlaß gewährte und obwohl der
Besitzer durch Anspannung seines persönlichen Kredits erhebliche
Mittel aufbrachte, so hat es doch nicht an Zeiten gefehlt, in denen
infolge der immer steigenden Inflation die Fortführung des Baues
unmöglich zu werden schien. Aber mit Hilfe der »Bausteine«, die
andere Burgenbesitzer, einem Aufruf des Landesamts für
Denkmalpflege und des Sächsischen Heimatschutzes folgend, seit
dem Mai 1922 beisteuerten, gelang es doch, das Werk im Jahre
1923 zu vollenden. (Abb. 5.)

Abb. 6 Witwenflügel, Torhaus (davor der Burggarten), Bergfried

Nach Westen und Süden zu gelegen
 Daß die erneuerte Burg in ihrer Wirkung vom Tal aus fast ganz der
alten gleicht, wurde schon erwähnt. Aber auch, wenn man sie vom
Burghof oder von der Plattform des Bergfrieds aus betrachtet, oder
wenn man die erneuerten Teile aufmerksam durchwandert, kann
man allen Beteiligten die rückhaltlose Anerkennung nicht versagen,
daß hier ein schwieriges Wiederherstellungswerk in selbstloser
Gesinnung und aus echt geschichtlichem Geiste mit ausdauerndem
Fleiß und vortrefflichem Geschick geleistet worden ist. Natürlich ist
der Neubau kein sklavisches Abbild des alten. (Abb. 6.) Einige
Giebelkonstruktionen und die damit zusammenhängende Gestaltung
des Daches, das beim alten Schloß wie ein schmiegsames Fell in
sich zusammenhängend über alle die verschiedenartigen und
verschiedenhohen Bauglieder gezogen worden war, sind teils in
Rücksicht auf die Witterungseinflüsse und die Feuersicherheit, teils
auch, weil die Kunst der heutigen Zimmerleute nicht mehr der des
sechzehnten Jahrhunderts gleicht, etwas verändert worden. Auch
reichten die vorhandenen Mittel nicht dazu aus, z. B. den im zweiten
Oberstock des Wohnflügels vorhanden gewesenen »Rittersaal mit
den schönen gewundenen Holzsäulen und den geschnitzten
Wappen am unteren Ende der Hängesäulen« zu erneuern, ebenso
mußte die anfangs geplante Wiederherstellung der erst beim Brande
hinter später eingezogenen Decken wieder aufgefundenen schönen
Kassettendecken des sechzehnten Jahrhunderts und der wuchtigen
profilierten Balken der Kosten wegen unterbleiben. Reste dieser
profilierten Balken sind noch jetzt im gotischen Tor zu sehen. Auch
das übrigens sehr schöne Herrenzimmer im halbrunden Turm des
Gesellschaftsflügels ist durch den allzu dünnen und schmucklosen
Ausfall der beiden Deckenbalken in seiner Wirkung geradezu
beeinträchtigt worden. Aber gerade durch diese von der Not
erzwungenen Mängel wird die erneuerte Burg Scharfenstein
zugleich auch ein Denkmal unserer ernsten und schweren Zeit.
Anderseits kann man manche Änderung der inneren Raumverteilung
geradezu für eine Besserung des früheren Zustandes ansehen. So
die bessere Unterbringung der Kinder und ihrer Erzieherin im
Wohnflügel, die Herstellung einer offenen Halle im zweiten
Oberstock des Gesellschaftsflügels und die Schaffung einer
Burgkapelle, die es bisher trotz des »Kirchenflügels« im Schlosse
nicht gab. Zur Burgkapelle (Abb. 7) ist ein sehr schönes, zuletzt als
Speisegewölbe benutztes Gemach im Erdgeschoß des Wohnflügels
rechts von der Haupttreppe umgewandelt worden. Das durch hohe
Stichkappen gegliederte Tonnengewölbe sowie die spätgotischen
Türgewände bedurften keiner Veränderung. In der Mittelachse des
Fensters steht der Taufstein, dem Fenster gegenüber ist ein
schlichter, brauner gotischer Holzaltar errichtet, das Gestühl stammt
aus Schlesien, Grabmäler längst heimgegangener Familienglieder
heben sich von den schlichten, weißen Wänden ab (Abb. 7).
Besonders ergriffen hat mich das von V. Saila in Stuttgart gemalte
Glasfenster: unter dem Kreuz sieben Engelsköpfchen mit den
Anfangsbuchstaben der sieben Kinder, die dem gräflichen Paare bei
der Einrichtung der Kapelle geboren waren. Eins davon, Mechtild, ist
am 30. August 1921, also im Jahre des Brandes zur Welt
gekommen. Im Ganzen sind es drei Knaben und vier Mädchen. An
der dem Eingang gegenüberliegenden Tür steht der Spruch:

Gott legt uns eine Last auf,

Aber er hilft uns auch tragen.
 Abb. 7 Die neue Burgkapelle im Erdgeschoß des Wohnflügels
Das Mauerwerk samt dem spätgotischen Türgewände und dem mit Stichkappen
verzierten Tonnengewölbe ist alt

Später zeigte mir die Frau Gräfin noch die beim Brande
größtenteils gerettete Bibliothek in einem Raume des Torhauses.
Diese Bücherei hat allerdings durch das Feuer eine sehr anziehende
Besonderheit verloren: den schön gebundenen Briefwechsel eines
weltbekannten Liebespaares, eines zu Goethes Zeit am Weimarer
Hofe lebenden Leutnants und Bergrats Johann August von Einsiedel
– sein Bruder war der Weimarische Geheime-Rat und
Oberhofmeister Friedrich Hildebrand von Einsiedel – und der
Freifrau Emilie von Werthern-Beichlingen, die, um mit ihrem
Geliebten entfliehen und eine Afrikareise antreten zu können, ihre
Todesnachricht verbreiten und ein ihr gleichendes Wachsbild
begraben ließ (1784). Andere wertvolle Schriftstücke aus dieser Zeit
und aus dem Weimarer Kreise sind erhalten geblieben; ich sah
Briefe von Wieland, Herder, Knebel, der Gräfin Tina von Brühl,
Dorothea Schlegel u. a. Dann genoß ich die herbstliche Schönheit
des vom Torhaus und Witwenflügel nach Westen zu liegenden
Burggartens (Abb. 8) mit der alten Bastion, die einen herrlichen Blick
ins Tal gewährt und umwanderte, soweit es der noch nicht völlig
beseitigte Bauschutt gestattete, dicht am Mauerwerk hin die West-
und Nordseite der Burg von außen. Dabei sieht man erst, wie
kunstvoll sich hier uraltes Mauerwerk und die neuen Flickarbeiten,
alte Unterbauten und neue Oberbauten einander durchdringen. Als
ich mich danach im Schlosse verabschiedet hatte und die Treppe
des Wohnflügels hinunterstieg, schaute ich, ehe ich in die noch
immer goldene und wärmende Herbstsonne hinaustrat, noch einmal
zur Tür der Burgkapelle hinüber – und gedachte der Kinderschar, die
in diesen Räumen getauft und erzogen, hoffentlich einmal ein
glücklicheres Deutschland sehen wird als das heutige. Aber weder
das heutige noch das künftige Deutschland möge die alten Wurzeln
seiner Kraft und seiner Kultur vergessen.
 Aufnahme von Seidel-Naumann, Zschopau
Abb. 8 Burg Scharfenstein Gesamtansicht von Westen
Anmerkung. Die Quellen zu dieser Arbeit sind außer dem
wiederholten Besuch der Burg Scharfenstein und den Mitteilungen
des Herrn Grafen und der Frau Gräfin von Einsiedel auf Scharfenstein
die Akten des sächsischen Landesamts für Denkmalpflege, die Akten
des ehemaligen Lehnshofes und mehrere den Bergbau im Erzgebirge
betreffende Urkunden des sächsischen Hauptstaatsarchivs. Einzelne
Hinweise verdanke ich der von Prof. Dr. Meiche ebenda angelegten
Kartothek der Örter Sachsens.
 Burgen als Stätten für Volksfeste
Von Otto Eduard Schmidt
Die Burg ist, sprachlich betrachtet, der Ort, wo man sich birgt, wo
man sich vor Feinden geborgen weiß. Und so wichtig und
angesehen war in alten Zeiten die Burg, daß sich auch der
vollberechtigte Einwohner der jüngeren Stadt mit Stolz als einen
Burgmannen (burgensis) = Bürger bezeichnete, weil ihm die Stadt
nicht anders erschien als eine größere Burg, hinter deren festen
Mauern und Toren sich die Einwohner vor aller äußeren Not
geborgen fühlten. In diesem Sinn hat schon König Heinrich I., der
das Sorbenland für die Deutschen zurückeroberte, »Städte« gebaut,
die nichts als größere Burgen waren, in denen die deutschen Bauern
während des Ansturmes der Ungarn mit Weib und Kind ihre Zuflucht
fanden. Aber freilich, als das mittelalterliche Kaisertum in
Römerzügen gegen kaiserfeindliche Päpste und Stadtrepubliken und
in Kreuzzügen gegen die Bekenner des Islam seine besten Kräfte
verbraucht hatte und in Schwäche und Auflösung verfiel, da
entartete, der kaiserlichen Leitung und des kaiserlichen Schutzes
beraubt, vielfach auch das burggesessene Rittertum: aus dem
Schirmer und Beschützer der Wehrlosen wurde hier und da ihr
Bedrücker, und die Burg, die vorher die Zuflucht bedrängter Bauern
und reisender Kaufleute gewesen war, wurde öfters der Ort ihrer
Qual, wo sie beraubt und zerschlagen im Gefängnis schmachteten,
bis ein Lösegeld oder das Dazwischentreten eines Mächtigeren die
Pforten des Kerkers sprengte. Damals sind auch in unserem
Sachsenland von volksfreundlichen Kaisern wie Rudolf von
Habsburg und Karl IV., aber auch von Landesfürsten und
verbündeten Städten Raubburgen in größerer Zahl gebrochen
worden. Ihre malerischen Ruinen grüßen uns aus dem Dunkel des
Waldes und aus schilfbewachsenen Gräben oder von
aussichtsreicher Höhe und steilen Felsklippen.
 Glücklicherweise sind nicht alle Burgen unseres Sachsenlandes
zugrunde gegangen. Die meisten ritterlichen Geschlechter
gewöhnten sich rechtzeitig daran, in friedlicher Arbeit ihre Güter zu
bebauen oder setzten ihre Ehre darein, sich im Staats- und
Heeresdienst die Mittel für ein standesgemäßes Leben zu erwerben
und hielten dabei die von den Ahnen ererbte Burg wie ein liebevoll
gepflegtes Kleinod durch alle Zeitenstürme hindurch in Treue fest.
Bei den furchtbaren Kriegsschicksalen, die unser Sachsen fast in
allen seinen Teilen erduldete und bei der nachfolgenden starken
Industrialisierung des Landes ist es fast ein Wunder, wie viele der
alten Burgen sich mit leidlich heilen Gliedern in die Gegenwart
herübergerettet haben. Solche Burgen, in der Regel Trägerinnen
geheimnisvoller Sage und reichbewegter Geschichte, ragen in
unsere Zeit hinein wie lebendig gebliebene Recken der Vorzeit, zu
denen jedermann mit Liebe und Verehrung aufblickt. Sie sind
alljährlich das Wanderziel für Tausende, und jeder schätzt sich
glücklich, der von ihren inneren Reizen etwas mehr kennenlernen
durfte als die anderen. Die alten Burgen haben in unserer
schnellebigen Zeit die besondere Aufgabe, die alten Erinnerungen
der Landschaft, in der sie erwachsen sind, durch ihre bauliche
Anlage, durch den Eindruck ihrer Innenräume und ihrer
altväterischen Ausstattung viel lebendiger zu erhalten, als es
einzelne etwa in einem Museum aufgestellte Gegenstände
vermöchten. So sind die alten Burgen geeignet, ganze Geschlechter
mit geschichtlichem Sinn zu erfüllen und ihnen die Vergangenheit
näher zu rücken, ohne deren Kenntnis wir die Gegenwart nicht recht
verstehen können. Deshalb entsteht auch für die Besitzer gut
erhaltener Burgen beinahe eine sittliche Verpflichtung, wenigstens
an gewissen Tagen Teile ihrer Burg unter gewissen Bedingungen
den Besuchern zu öffnen. Und es ist erfreulich zu sehen, wie
großzügig und selbstlos manche Burgherren die mit dem Einlaß
Fremder unzweifelhaft verbundenen Unbequemlichkeiten um des
Volksganzenwillen auf sich nehmen.
 Aufnahme von Bertha Zillessen, Bautzen
Abb. 1 Blick von Schloß Ehrenberg an der Zschopau auf die
Burg Kriebstein

Ein weithin leuchtendes Beispiel dieser Gesinnung haben im

letzten Sommer Herr und Frau von Arnim auf Kriebstein gegeben,
indem sie ihre Burg, und zwar nicht nur den Burghof, sondern auch
den größten Teil der Innenräume für ein Volksfest großen Stils
herrichteten und einer nach vielen Hunderten zählenden Menge von
Gästen öffneten. Sechs ländliche Hausfrauenvereine der Umgegend