‘By Magnian law, he owns it,’ she said to Elana. ‘Still, I’ve certainly spent more time there than him. Our father was a nobleman with lands all over Magnia once. But Beckford is all that’s left of them.’
‘What happened?’ asked the priestess.
Belwynn sighed. She looked at Soren, who shrugged his acceptance.
‘Our mother was killed when we were ten. A raid from North Magnia on one of our houses. My father was away, fighting in the war.’
Belwynn’s voice faltered a little. She still got emotional telling the story.
‘The village had already been raided once, and my mother went back to help the people. She’d brought them seeds, animals, and equipment so they could start up again and feed themselves. But the raiders came back. They killed everyone, took everything and left. They could have got a ransom for my mother. My father would have paid anything, but they just killed her. He never recovered. When the war ended he just drank. He got into debt and sold off half his lands and kept on drinking. He died five years after our mother. We sold off the rest of his lands to pay off his debts, but he had more debts than he did property by then. Prince Edric had to help us. He was our uncle, you see. He let us keep Beckford. So, anyway, that’s our home now, I guess. I lived there for a year. Soren’s never been back. Not much of a home, really.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Elana. ‘It must have been difficult for you to lose your parents like that.’
‘It was, I guess. But we weren’t alone. We’ve always had each other.’
Gyrmund and Clarin came to join them.
‘Well,’ Belwynn said, deciding to change the subject, ‘things are likely to heat up tomorrow, especially if we’re heading for the Wilderness. Gyrmund, I don’t imagine that everyone here is entirely familiar with it. Perhaps you should tell us what we’re letting ourselves in for.’
‘The Wilderness is dense. If that is where the Brasingians have gone, we’ll have to leave our horses behind at some point. There are tracks, but unless you know what you’re looking for, it’s easy to get lost. Then you’ve got the inhabitants. There are the vossi, primitive but potentially very aggressive. If they think we’re a threat to their territory, they will come after us and they won’t give up until we’re all dead. There are humans living there as well, but not in big numbers and unlikely to take us on, especially if your friends arrive. Outlaws are able to make a life for themselves on the edges of the forest. If you want to survive in there, you’ve got to be fit, quick, and silent.’
‘What do the vossi look like?’ asked Elana.
‘About five feet tall. Their skin is brown and hard, tough like leather. They’re fast and persistent. Hopefully we won’t meet any of them at all, but...’ Gyrmund let his sentence hang there, emphasising that, once they entered the Wilderness, the course of events would be out of their control.
‘Sounds fun,’ suggested Clarin.
It didn’t look like anyone agreed with the big warrior, but equally no-one looked like they wanted to argue the point.
‘Well,’ said Soren, ‘we’d better try to get some rest. Might be the last night we get a peaceful sleep for some time.’
‘I’ll take first watch tonight,’ added Clarin. ‘Always pays to play safe. Now, come on, Gyrmund, are you gonna get this fire lit? I’m starving.’
It had been a mild summer’s night, and Belwynn hadn’t been asked to keep watch, but she still felt as though she hadn’t slept. Gyrmund got them all up at a ridiculously early hour and got them moving again at the crack of dawn, despite Belwynn’s complaints that they had to wait for Herin and the others anyway. Soren left a written message for Herin under a rock at the camp site, explaining the route they were likely to take. Clarin shook his head at the scrawly lines he left on the paper, as if the purpose of reading and writing was beyond him, which perhaps it was.
Clarin’s alternative form of communication was to cut a slash into the bark of the tree they had slept under. To Belwynn, this could have meant anything or nothing, but the big man nodded to himself with satisfaction, as if he had solved some weighty problem.
They rode all morning, eating while on the move, stopping once only for a toilet break. The roads of Magnia became tracks on which they had to ride single file. The Magnian villages which they had passed so regularly yesterday became less frequent as the rich farmland increasingly gave way to woodland. Settlements became smaller, isolated hamlets which had been cut out of the forest, or the odd wooden shack that blended into the trees from which it had been built. The people here were warier, alarmed at a second group of riders passing through so soon after the Brasingian soldiers. But they were communicative enough to say in which direction they had gone, and that was all that mattered.
Belwynn’s excitement from yesterday had not reappeared today, and she slumped in her saddle, trying to keep her eyes open. No-one else seemed to be in the mood for talking either; Gyrmund was focused on the terrain ahead, and the two priests were trailing behind, their thoughts concealed.
In the end, just to help her stay awake, she asked Clarin to recount one of his war stories. It did little good, since Clarin tended to dwell on marches and formations and long, involved anecdotes about people she’d never met, his voice becoming a background drone which threatened to send her to sleep at least as much as complete silence would have done.
By mid-afternoon they were in the no-man’s land between the state of Magnia and the lawless Wilderness. Officials could draw lines on maps, subdividing the world into neat parcels, but there was no neat border here. This was territory over which Prince Edgar couldn’t offer his protection, and was therefore a land of bandits and outlaws.
Gyrmund had stopped to gather them together.
‘I’ve detoured a bit from the route they took. In the next clearing is effectively the last outpost of civilisation around here: Hallaf’s Home. Hallaf and his extended family are all outlaws, but he can be reasoned with if he can see a profit to be made. This is the last place we can leave the horses in safety, other than just abandoning them in the Wilderness, which is presumably what Salvinus has done.’
Belwynn patted her horse.
‘Well, there’s no way we’re doing that. But won’t that give them an edge in terms of speed?’
‘Not really. Either way, we’re walking from here on in. The Wilderness is rocky and treacherous; a horse will break a leg before too long in there, and that causes unwanted attention.’
‘Let me handle the negotiations,’ said Soren. ‘Clarin, just look scary and don’t speak.’
‘Righto, boss.’
They guided their horses downhill through the trees until they saw the roofs of Hallaf’s Home below them.
As they got closer, Belwynn got a clearer look at the settlement. She had never seen anything quite like it. Each building was constructed from a variety of the timber materials that surrounded them. They had their choice of tree around here: tall, thin birch grew alongside sprawling ash; mighty oaks shared the land with squat maples. In addition, each building had a completely different design. There was a sunken hut with four wings, laid out in the shape of a cross. There was a U-shaped construction with a garden in the open courtyard. A tall, thin building, which from the outside looked as if it must have had at least four storeys, had a spiral staircase on the outside, leading to the roof. At the far end was a huge building which most closely resembled a warehouse and was the size of all the others put together. There were almost a dozen of these oddities in all. It looked to Belwynn like everyone had taken part in a building competition. And that they had all got steaming drunk beforehand.
There was no central courtyard or anywhere to head to, so Gyrmund stopped outside the U-shaped house and dismounted. The others followed suit. Belwynn could see how stiffly Elana moved as she tried to dismount, and she gave her a hand down.
‘Sore legs?’ asked Belwynn.
‘I’ve never ridden so much in my life,’ said Elana.
The priestess rub
bed at her hamstrings and her lower back. She eased up and stretched, visibly looser.
‘Magical powers?’ asked Belwynn.
‘Healing powers.’
Belwynn wasn’t about to be converted by watching someone stretch their back out.
‘Mmm. Excuse me if I’m sceptical.’
She looked around her. Slowly, and silently, the residents of Hallaf’s Home emerged. Some from their homes, some from the forest around them. Adult males for the most part, teenagers through to older men. Many clutched axes, no doubt ready to use them as weapons if necessary, but not in a threatening manner. Not yet, anyway.
A few children came out as well, followed by one older woman with straggly, matted grey hair and eyes that wandered about independently of one another.
The men all had the same kind of look to them, so it was easy to believe they were mostly related in some way. They had big, powerful shoulders, slightly hunched forwards; prominent brows and foreheads, with big bushy beards covering the rest of their faces. No-one in Hallaf’s Home seemed to worry too much about their appearance, with worn and mismatched clothing the norm, where there was any. Most of the men went bare chested; their body hair was apparently all they needed to keep them warm.
Hold me back, Belwynn said to Soren, unable to resist. I think I’ve finally found a flock of suitors.
The people of Hallaf’s Home gathered around the house, not too close, saying nothing, neither to Belwynn’s group nor to each other. Perhaps they’re mute, thought Belwynn.
Then the door of the U- shaped house opened, and an elderly man appeared and slowly walked towards them. He was grey and balding on top, with a straggly grey beard. As he approached them, Belwynn saw that he had a patch of raw, red, mottled skin on his face, centred around the left side of his forehead and spreading outwards in an irregular pattern, down to his cheek and the top of his nose. It was an infection of some kind which was eating into the man’s face, stopping the wounds from healing over. And whatever little creatures were doing it, they were really messy eaters.
‘Hallaf,’ said Gyrmund, nodding in greeting. ‘I am Gyrmund. I have visited with you before, you may remember.’
‘Yeffin, reckon y’hav,’ said the old man. His dialect, if that was the issue, made his words virtually unintelligible.
‘This is Soren,’ Gyrmund explained.
‘Greetings, Hallaf,’ Soren began. ‘We are heading into the Wilderness and have come to sell you our six horses. As you can see, they are all healthy and strong.’
Hallaf shuffled over and made a show of inspecting each one, though it was clear as day that they were all fine horses in excellent condition.
‘Yeffin,’ he muttered, presumably in confirmation.
Belwynn raised her eyebrows at Clarin, and he just shrugged back, equally bemused.
‘Here is my offer,’ continued Soren. ‘You will pay us only sixty crowns for the horses—’
‘Yeffin!’ screeched the old woman, shooting one arm up into the air in apparent celebration.
‘But,’ continued Soren, giving the woman a stern look, which made her lower her arm again, ‘you will keep them in as good a condition as you have received them, for half a year. Should we return at any time in that period, we are entitled to buy them back from you, at a total cost of one hundred and eighty crowns. If we do not return before half a year has passed, they are yours to do with as you please. Do you understand my terms?’
‘Aye, yeffin I do,’ said old Hallaf, and he spat onto his palm before holding it out to Soren.
Belwynn could see Soren look from the wet palm to the sticky red face.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ he informed Hallaf. ‘One more thing that you all should know—’ Soren addressed the whole community formally, raising his voice. ‘I am a spell-caster, and I wreak dire vengeance on anyone who doesn’t uphold their side of a bargain.’
Soren held out one hand, concentrating. Hallaf’s people watched.
Then, his hand burst into flame, orange and yellow light flickering. With a twist of his wrist the flame went out. His hand was unharmed.
The old woman let out a blood-curdling scream, while the men who had gathered around took a step or two back, suitably intimidated, it seemed. All except one of the children, who politely clapped.
Gyrmund turned and looked up the hill they had come down.
‘Anyone hear that?’
Belwynn listened. She couldn’t hear anything, and neither could anyone else.
‘Riders,’ he said, sounding sure.
That was enough for Clarin, who drew his sword and moved to face the threat. Gyrmund strung his bow. Hallaf’s people followed suit, handling axes and clubs and looking in that direction.
Then Belwynn heard it—horses coming their way at quite a pace, faster than they had come down. Then they burst into view atop the hill, slowing as their mounts picked their way down through the trees.
‘Herin!’ called Clarin, waving up at his brother.
The old woman gave another blood curdling scream, for no apparent reason.
There were three other riders with him: Kaved and Moneva, their new recruits from Vincente’s town, and a second Krykker. At first, Belwynn assumed it was a friend of Kaved’s—then she recognised him.
‘Is that Rabigar? The smith from Bidcote?’ she asked Soren out loud.
Soren peered up. His eyesight wasn’t as sharp as hers after his years squinting at books in bad light.
‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed as they approached. ‘Looks like he’s brought half his merchandise with him, as well.’
Indeed, Belwynn could see various weapons poking out of their saddlebags. She knew that Herin had a silver tongue, but she was surprised to see he’d persuaded Rabigar to come along. Still, she had little doubt that he was a resourceful man to have along.
The arrivals immediately brought a new energy and volume to Hallaf’s Home.
‘More women!’ exclaimed Kaved as he approached, leering unpleasantly at Belwynn and Elana.
‘I’ve been trying to understand why he thinks anyone would be interested in an ugly, lecherous, foul-smelling Krykker for over a day now, but I’m still none the wiser,’ Moneva said, smoothly sliding from her mount to the ground. ‘No offence, Rabigar.’
Rabigar rolled his eyes, as if he had had enough already. ‘I must be mad to have agreed to this,’ he said, without much humour in his voice.
Unlike Moneva, he struggled to dismount, dropping to the ground with a clank.
Herin was already down, clasping arms with his brother.
‘Did you get my directions?’ Clarin asked.
‘Yes, and each time I saw one, I thought to myself, ‘more pissing about’. I thought you lot would have made better time than this!’
‘Did you get my note?’ asked Soren, looking a bit put out.
‘Erm, yes. I had a read of it while we were following Clarin’s directions.’
Clarin gave a self-satisfied smile.
‘At least we treated our horses well. Look at these poor creatures!’ said Belwynn.
Each of the four horses was in a lather and blowing hard.
‘We’re in a rush, aren’t we?’ demanded Herin. ‘What’s the story here?’
‘I’ve just sold our horses to Hallaf, here,’ explained Soren, gesturing to the old man who was looking on with interest.
‘Ours too!’ Herin said, barging over to Hallaf. ‘How much are we getting?’
‘We want you to buy these at the same price,’ explained Soren. ‘That makes it one hundred crowns for the ten horses.’
‘Nah, nuffin doin’ on that,’ replied Hallaf. ‘Sixty for the ten, it be.’
‘Nuffin!’ shouted the old woman in support.
‘We’re offering ten prime horses for a hundred crowns and he’s saying no!’ demanded Herin. ‘Fine, we’ll leave and take the lot with us.’
Herin made a play of walking off with his horse, which soon changed Hallaf’s mind. The old man was getting a
bargain, and everyone knew it.
‘Eh, eh, not too fast,’ he got out, panicking that he might lose the whole deal. ‘Money’s coming. Hallaf’s good as his word.’
Hallaf went back in to his house and, after some time, re-emerged with a bag of money. When Gyrmund checked it, he was some crowns short of the hundred, and he was sent back in to get the right amount.
‘What in hell are we doing messing about with these inbreds?’ demanded Herin, chafing to get moving. They had all unloaded their packs from the horses and were standing about, ready to go. ‘We’re losing time here!’
‘Shhh!’ hissed Belwynn. She really didn’t want to get into a fight with Hallaf’s sons, who were still standing around, weapons in hand.
Eventually the old man re-emerged and handed over the money.
‘Right, let’s get moving,’ said Herin.
‘One more thing, before we go,’ said Elana.
She approached Hallaf.
‘You have helped us today, Hallaf. The Goddess Madria would bestow a blessing on you, to ease your suffering.’
The priestess reached out to the old man. He took a step back at first but, looking at her curiously, allowed her to place both hands on his face. Belwynn cringed at the thought of touching those weeping injuries.
Elana held her hands in position for some time, and then withdrew them.
There was an obvious visible difference. The redness was gone, as if the infection had been drawn out. The damage to the skin was still visible, but it looked like an old wound that would scar over, and heal.
Elana stepped away.
Hallaf blinked with wide eyes, touching his hands to his face as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. The men of the settlement, presumably many of whom were his sons, walked over to him, equally astounded, peering and prodding at the old man. The old woman tottered over, squinting up at him. She drew in a breath, and Belwynn thought that she was going to let out another scream, but instead a tight breath escaped from her throat and that was it.
‘Thanking you, lady. Thanking you,’ said Hallaf, his voice wavering and tears in his eyes.
It was a moving sight. Toric only knew how much irritation and suffering the man had endured. His family was gathered around him, clearly happy for the father of their community.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 8