by David Wragg
‘Fuck you playing at, wee bear? On with you!’
Chel trudged, lead-legged, shorn of hope. Lemon didn’t know what he did, what had happened that night on the plateau. Spider would take no chances with them this time, that much was certain. There was no way Chel and Lemon could overpower them, especially after the battering they’d taken. Chel ached from cracked face to frozen, exhausted legs, had no weapons to speak of, and barely one good arm. His ankle throbbed where the wolf had snagged it. Regardless, he steeled himself as they approached Spider and the foremost hut. Its doorway was dark, covered by a hanging of thick hide.
Spider grinned, pointed and nasty. ‘There you are. We was getting worried. Now get inside, you arseholes.’
Lemon was already bounding up the steps to the doorway, Tarfel a step behind. Chel couldn’t summon the strength to catch them. He caught Spider’s gaze.
‘You too, rat-bear,’ he said. ‘Catch your death out here.’
He held back the hide as the others entered. Chel felt the eyes of Spider and the Nanaki on him, and fists balled, he dragged himself up the steps to the doorway. Spider was right behind him, his voice low in his ear. ‘Missed you, rat-bear. So glad the wolves didn’t finish you off.’
‘I was supposed to be lucky,’ Chel whispered to himself.
Spider shoved him inside.
FOURTEEN
The air within the hut was warm and close, swirling with steam in the distant, flickering torchlight. Struggling to adjust his eyes and keep up with the others, Chel shouldered aside another thick hide hanging and stumbled into a wide, low space, warmer and brighter than the first, walled with earth-packed tree trunks. At the centre of the building lay a crackling fire-pit, the conical roof above it open to the slate-grey sky. Low tables ringed the fire, and one of them was well attended.
‘You’re late again, Lemon,’ Rennic called from the table. He held a clay cup in his hand and looked as cheerful as Chel had ever seen him. Foss, Whisper and Loveless sat around him. Their expressions blossomed with relief at the sight of the stragglers. ‘I’m going to have to dock your share at this rate. At least now we can start drinking properly.’
‘Stick it up your bollocks, boss,’ Lemon said with a delighted grin, striding over to the table. Tarfel bounded after her, beaming, while Chel dragged himself after them. Relief flooded him, but it didn’t wash away all of the unease. Anxiety lingered like a faithful hound.
He slumped down on the floor beside the others, feeling every jarring impact across his battered body. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said, the fire’s warmth prickling at his frozen fingers. ‘What are we doing here? What’s going on?’
Loveless cocked an eyebrow at him, then slid a clay cup across the table. ‘Shut up and have a drink, cub.’
‘What is it?’
‘Tea.’
Whatever was in the cup made his eyes water and tasted of burning.
‘That is not tea.’
‘They call it god-piss.’ She was smiling, and he smiled back.
‘That’s … a better name for it.’
He managed three more swallows before the warm floor claimed him, and he passed out beside the table on a pile of furs.
***
When he woke, the patch of sky above the fire-pit was black, but if anything the hall was warmer. Joints of meat sizzled on spits over the flames. Nanaki had joined them, sitting at the other tables around the fire, watching them with hard, indifferent eyes. Chel counted maybe a dozen of them, including the bone-woman who’d jabbed her spear at him. Not as many as he’d expected given the size and number of the huts. This couldn’t be all of them. The hall looked like it could seat three times that many and still offer generous elbow-room.
Tarfel lay at his back, snoring gently. Chel envied his peace.
‘Ah, our wolf-slayer is awake!’ Foss’s rich voice greeted him as he sat up with a wince. ‘Lemon claims you fashioned a siege engine from driftwood and crushed a dozen beasts.’
Chel looked at Lemon, who was sniggering behind her hand. Several empty clay cups lay on the table before them. ‘Something like that,’ he said, sliding off his boot to inspect the damage to his ankle. The wolf’s bite hadn’t broken the skin, but he had a sharp pattern of livid indentations as a reminder.
‘God’s balls, boy, but your feet reek.’ Rennic wasn’t looking at him, but the wave of his hand made his meaning clear. ‘Lemon, wash him up.’
Lemon made a ‘why me’ face but slid out from under the table and to her feet. ‘Come on, wee bear. There’s some hot water this way. Hottish, anyway.’
He took her extended hand and she pulled him upright. Despite, or perhaps because of, the nap, everything seemed to hurt more than before. His shoulder and cheek were in direct competition to throb the most. At his feet, Tarfel stirred and made to follow them. Rennic’s hand clamped around his shoulder, pinning him to the earth.
‘Not you, princeling. We need to keep you muddy, remember? The Nanaki have a ritual vendetta against the Horvaun, they will kill you on sight. We don’t want that, do we?’
Tarfel shook his head, watery eyes suddenly fearful, and settled back down against the furs. He was shivering, despite the fire’s warmth.
Lemon led Chel toward a wooden trench of water at the hall’s far wall, evidently the source of the steam that had permeated the atmosphere when they’d arrived. Murky lukewarm water lay within, large, fire-baked stones at its bottom. After days of little but half-melted snow as a cleanser, Chel wasn’t complaining.
‘See, they were coming back for us,’ Lemon said, unconcerned by his attention or lack thereof. ‘Nanaki found the others up at the pass, brought them downslope. Happens that friend Spider can pass a smattering of Nanaki lingo, managed to express to them that others in our party were left mountainward. They were on the way back up when we met them on our way down.’
Chel blinked. ‘And they’re friendly?’
She shrugged. ‘Looking traditional thus far, wee bear. Thus far.’
She helped him lever off his filthy clothes and shoulder-strapping, then waved away his feeble, one-armed washing attempts. She sponged his grimy torso and crusted wounds, holding his damaged arm gently out to the side. Chel was suddenly conscious of the intimacy of her actions, and the potential eyes of a dozen Nanaki and Rennic’s crew on them. Lemon seemed indifferent, and he tried to relax, stiffening only when her washcloth rode over his fresher traumas.
Lemon rinsed the cloth, then leaned in close to dab at the dried blood on his face. ‘When we saw the huts,’ she said, her tone conversational but voice low, ‘you got a look in your eye. Like a bunny looking to bolt. Put the wind right up me, you did, wee bear.’ Another rinse, another dab, her face inches from his own. ‘Mind conveying what got you so puffed?’
He said nothing, but she caught his glance. Spider sat at the table’s end, the far side from where Tarfel lay. For that at least, Chel was grateful. Spider looked cheerful and relaxed; Chel was not.
‘Aye, right, I see. Now what’s little old Spider done to you, wee bear?’
Chel averted his eyes, looking down at the pinking scar across his abdomen that Heali had left him. He pursed his lips, winced, then sighed. Lemon was the closest thing he had to a friend in his odd new life. But he had no way of knowing how deep her loyalties to the rest of the company ran.
‘That night in the trapper’s den,’ he said, his voice barely a murmur. ‘The night the Mawn … the Fly died.’ He concentrated on the earth by his feet, the patterns made by the splashes of grimy water. ‘We were out on the plateau, Prince Tarfel and me. Spider was going to take the prince away, leave the rest of you, claim the ransom for himself. The Fly was about to stab me when … when they shot her.’
He met Lemon’s gaze. Her eyes were pale, steady and serious. ‘He told me not to tell anyone. He said he’d kill me.’
She nodded, then made a show of stowing the cloth and cloaking him in a loose hide. ‘That was good advice, wee bear. I’d suggest you stic
k to it.’
He frowned, eyes questioning. ‘But—’
‘Listen, and close. You’re not dead yet, are you? Believe me, if the Spider chose to make you dead, you’d be dead, luck of the sand-flowers or no. At the moment, you’ve given him no reason to doubt you, eh? So keep it that way.’
‘But aren’t you—’
‘Hush it, bearling. No whispered chats, no sidelong looks, you understand. Give him nothing. From now on, you and friend Spider are, well, best of friends.’ She piled his clothes onto his extended arm. ‘Give him nothing. And maybe we’ll both still be breathing come the end of all things.’
With that, she strode away and back to the table. With the greatest effort, Chel wrenched his gaze away from the back of the shaven head that waited there.
***
A little later, cleaner but no less battered, Chel sat back down at the table with Rennic and the Black Hawk Company. He did not look at Spider. Whisper slid a wooden platter of food toward him, some of the roasted meat as well as what he guessed to be lake fish, some kind of root vegetable and local berries. He stared hard at the hunks of roasted meat, then shot Lemon a look.
Foss burst out laughing. ‘My friend, don’t tell me the orange one has filled your head with tales of Nanaki cannibalism?’
Chel said nothing, but his cheeks burned as the rest of the table joined in the laughter. From the number of empty cups and jugs, they’d enjoyed as much liquid refreshment as solid while he’d slept and washed. Even Whisper flashed him a grin, although she didn’t appear to be eating.
‘Shepherd’s piss-pot, boy, it’s goat,’ Rennic said, grabbing a chunk from the platter and taking a greasy bite. Still he didn’t look at him, and Chel wondered if he should take offence. His eyes flicked to Spider, then immediately away. Spider’s grin seemed no nastier than usual.
‘Don’t call me boy,’ he said, to himself if no one else, then helped himself to fish and vegetables.
‘Stroke of luck this, right, aye?’ Lemon was saying at the table’s far end. ‘Finding a welcoming Nanaki sept still kicking around this close to winter. Not to mention one of then turning up my pack.’ She patted the returned bundle at her feet.
‘Maybe our bear cub is lucky after all,’ Loveless said. Her speech was slurring, her eyes glassy. ‘Good for bear. Good for us.’
‘Luck or otherwise,’ Rennic said, ‘we can be grateful. We can leave in the morning, get below the snow-line before we meet the others.’
‘Others?’ Chel still had a mouthful of fish. It tasted of nothing.
Rennic turned to him at last. His eyes burned beneath his dark brows, although his gaze was fractured, its focus diluted by booze. ‘We’re to meet reinforcements. Spider sent a runner ahead. We’ll be back on track in a few days.’
A couple of the Nanaki had struck up some music, one strumming a gut-strung instrument of some description, the other tubbing along on a trio of small hide drums. The Nanaki he saw struck Chel as wrong for a family group. Where were the children, or the old people? The youngest members of the sept looked a year or two older than him, the eldest probably the spear-toting woman who now lurked at the back of the hall, watching over them with her flinty glare. Chel suspected she was no older than Rennic. He knew little of Nanaki society, but this lot barely scratched two generations, and seemed too few in number to occupy the complex of huts.
Nodding along to their inexpert rendition, Chel gave a mental shrug. Perhaps they’d sent the young and the old below the snow-line already and were intending to follow once the lake froze. It seemed extreme, but people did extreme things for family, didn’t they?
‘I’m saying it don’t matter how fancy you are, how much gold you got, you can’t escape the Spider.’
Chel’s attention snapped back to the table. Spider had a finger like a knife-blade on the table, gaze intent. For a moment, Chel thought he meant him.
Foss shook his head, lips pursed. ‘What about lords in their castles?’
‘Piece of piss. Up the walls, in through the bedchamber window, gheeeeooooooik.’ Spider drew the finger across his corded throat.
‘Come on, friend. Guards, sheer walls, moats. You can’t lay siege on your own.’
‘Fucker’s got to come outside some time, right?’
Whisper made a series of gestures, and Spider nodded. ‘’Xactly. Bowshot from a rooftop, fuck, use a crossbow if you’re a worthless shit-heap like Lemon—’
‘Hoy, fuck off!’
‘—put some wood and steel in the fucker’s head.’
Foss shook his head again. ‘I’ve seen men travel the road, armoured caravan, bodyguards pressed so close they couldn’t tell one fart from another. You’d have to be hell of a shot to squeeze one through there on a windy day.’
Whisper twiddled her fingers, and Foss nodded. ‘Present company excepted, my friend.’
Spider’s grin was more snarl than smile. ‘Where there’s a will.’ The grin deepened. ‘Plague beggar.’
Lemon blinked. ‘You what?’
‘Find some dying plague fucker, not too far gone o’ course, but riddled with white pox or black. Promise his family coin on the event of his passing – shit, if the mark’s that heavy, there should be plenty to spare. Then, your man shuffles through the crowd, unarmed and non-threatening, like, then coughs his plague guts over the mark. Sure, the guards will get him, but you’ll get your mark. Takes patience, but the deed’s done.’
Foss wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘You don’t strike me as the patient type, Spider.’
‘You’d be surprised by what type I am, fat boy.’
‘And what about,’ Rennic’s voice, heavy with alcohol, carried over the table, ‘if your target never leaves his citadel, uses loyal proxies for field-work, and has a network of spies and informers watching for any hint of plot against him? Not to mention a private army of fanatical foot soldiers, all in the service of our good Shepherd.’
Tarfel’s bloodied brow was creased. ‘You’re talking about Primarch Vassad?’
Rennic swung his glare at the prince. ‘Am I? You tell me, princeling.’
‘Easy,’ Spider said, voice raised and dark eyes fixed on Rennic. ‘Hunt and kill the proxies. Hunt and kill the figureheads. Stick to the shadows. Get something they want. Draw them out. And trust no one.’ He sat back. ‘Every fucker’s got to come out eventually. And when they do, the Spider is ready.’
Loveless was leaning on one hand, eyes half-closed. ‘You do think a lot of yourself, don’t you, Spider?’
‘I’ve brought down fucking kingdoms, me,’ Spider hissed, nostrils flared. ‘You fuckers have no idea who I am. Especially you, Beaky.’ He pushed himself to his feet and strode away.
Loveless chuckled. ‘Now that’s true enough. That terrible prick could be anyone. If that’s all the talking done …’ She moved to stand, one hand on the table to steady herself. ‘It’s time to move on to the entertainment.’
She turned to the two Nanaki working at the instruments, offering a dazzling smile. ‘Boys, got any dancing music?’ They stopped playing and gave her a blank look, unsure but eager. Chel felt his jaw clench when he saw how they looked at her, perhaps seeing his own desires made flesh. She sighed at their incomprehension and turned back to the table.
‘Which of you hapless bastards fancies banging out a tune? I need to dance.’
Foss put up his hands in apology, and Whisper shook her head with a smile. Rennic didn’t even acknowledge the question. ‘More of a percussive specialist, me,’ Lemon said. ‘Not one for plucking.’
Loveless twisted her mouth in mock-disappointment. ‘And I could really use a good plucker.’
Chel clenched his jaw, feeling hot under his damp clothes. Even with two good arms he’d have had nothing musical to offer.
Tarfel coughed, a small sound among the hubbub. ‘I can play,’ he said.
They turned to him, Loveless tilting her head to one side, lips parted in excitement. ‘That right, princeling? You can be my plucker?�
��
Tarfel peered past her, ignoring the pendulous innuendo, to look at the gut-strung flat-box across the Nanaki’s knees. ‘I could have a go. I’ve had a bit of training.’
‘He’s hattended the Hacademy!’ Lemon called, then belched. ‘Pardon.’
Loveless marched to the prince, hauled him upright, then led him across the hall to the musicians. Despite her evident inebriation, she moved with confidence, without lurch or stagger. She pointed at the string-player, then jerked her thumb aside. ‘Move it, handsome.’
Baffled but keen to please, the Nanaki stood and proffered the instrument to Loveless. She stepped aside, and Tarfel emerged from her shadow to take the Nanaki’s place. He sat down cross-legged, settling the instrument across his knees, then ran his finger over the strings. The hall fell silent, as all eyes, Nanaki and other, turned to see what the hooded, blood- and dirt-covered stranger would do.
The exception was Spider, who stood in one corner, bare-armed with his back to the rest of the room, in low conversation with two of the younger Nanaki women. When one turned to see what had drawn her companions’ attention, Spider reached out a hand to her chin and turned her head back toward him. His touch was gentle, but the message was as clear as it was menacing. Chel broke his gaze away before Spider saw him. Lemon’s words loomed large in his mind.
Tarfel struck up, his first tentative plucks becoming a rudimentary melody. It wasn’t one Chel recognized, although its basic tune sounded like a child’s song, or perhaps the under-theme of a church rondel. The prince hit a fair few duff notes as he began, learning the instrument’s tone as he went, matching his expectations to its sound, and without any clear moment of change, he began playing with two hands, plucking with one and strumming with the other. The music changed with his playing, acquiring a texture and pace, its initial melody now sure and strong, played with urgency and variation.
‘I’ll be a feathered shitehawk,’ Lemon said. ‘Yon princey’s a minstrel!’
Rennic glowered. ‘I hate fucking minstrels.’