by Anthony Ryan
“Alwyn?”
Erchel’s voice returned the focus to my gaze, which inevitably slipped towards Deckin’s bulky form at the head of the column. We had reached the camp now and I watched him wave away the outlaws who came to greet him, instead stomping off to the shelter he shared with Lorine. Instinct told me neither would join us at the communal feast that night, the customary celebration of a successful enterprise. I knew they had much to discuss. I also knew I needed to hear it.
“There’s something I feel you should know, Erchel,” I said, walking off towards my own shelter. “You talk too fucking much.”
CHAPTER TWO
Spillage of blood always made the subsequent celebrations a raucous affair. Deckin took a dim view of persistent drunkenness but usually allowed the ale and brandy to flow following a successful raid. So, once night had fallen and the hog on the spit was roasted to grease-dripping perfection, my bandmates gave vent to their various joys or nurtured grievances. I had come to understand over the years that occasions like these were a necessary aspect of an outlaw’s life, a release of laughter, argument and song fuelled by excess drink and whatever intoxicants we could gather.
I often wonder at my capacity for looking back on this collection of reprobates with such fond nostalgia, and yet as my mind’s eye drifts from one face to another, I find that I do. There was Gerthe, second only to Lorine as the object of my lust, apple cheeks bulging as she smiled and danced, skirts flaring. Joining her in the dance were Justan and Yelk, the forger and the lock-pick, as devoted a pair of lovers as I would ever meet. Old wrinkled Hulbeth, who could appraise the value of gold or silver with just a bite of her yellow teeth and a dab of her tongue, giggling as she shared a pipe with Raith. The Caerith was not given to exuberance but during occasions like this he would at least take on an affable serenity, puffing away on his ornately carved pipe which he was generous enough to share with the outlaws clustered around him. As the night wore on, they would all drift away into whatever oblivion the weed had crafted in their addled minds.
At the edge of the firelight, Baker and Twine, our best bowmen, were engaged in the glowering and shoving that told of an imminent fight. Violence was inevitable among this bunch when drink loosened tongues and memories of slights bubbled up. However, Deckin’s law insisted that all knives and other weapons were to be left in our shelters so severe injuries or killings were rare. Watching the two archers jab fingers into each other’s faces as their voices rose in volume, I judged the resultant exchange of punches would be brief but bruising. They would roll around in an ugly clinch for a time until their fracas became irksome enough for Raith or one of the more feared lieutenants to drag them apart. By morning, Baker and Twine would be friends again, exchanging jokes as they compared bruises.
Watching their escalating argument was a stocky man with a balding pate shaved down to stubble, a dearth of hair he made up for with an extensive beard. Todman stood several rungs higher than I did in the band’s hierarchy, favoured by Deckin for his judicious use of brutality, which made him good in a fight but better when it came time to dole out some punishment. He was a large man, as those charged with enforcement of rules often are, but didn’t quite match the stature of Raith or Deckin. Seeing the keen anticipation in his eyes as Baker and Twine’s shoves became punches, I assumed he was hoping this brawl might turn into murder, thereby raising the prospect of a gruesome execution. It is not always easy to divine the source of the hatred one feels for another, but in Todman’s case I had little difficulty in doing so. Like Erchel, he enjoyed his cruelty too much. But, unlike Erchel, there was a very sharp brain behind those sadistic eyes.
Some instinct must have warned him of my attention, for his gaze snapped to mine and narrowed considerably. It is the nature of hatred to find its mirror in those you hate, and Todman reflected mine with interest. I should have lowered my gaze as I had with Raith, but didn’t. Perhaps the half-cup of brandy I had imbibed made me foolishly brave, but I believe my lack of circumspection had more to do with the growing suspicion, nursed over the preceding few months, that I was capable of killing Todman if it came to it. He had the advantage of strength and size, to be sure, but I was quicker and all it took was one good cut, after all.
I watched Todman’s features twitch in response to my lack of fear, taking a step forwards and prompting me to rise. As per Deckin’s law, I had no knife, but there was one jabbed into the half-eaten hog on the spit. I knew I could get to it before Todman could get to me. The realisation that I would have to gamble on Deckin forgiving the death of so useful a lieutenant summoned a belated welling of good sense, causing me to grit my teeth and lower my eyes. It was entirely possible that such contrition wouldn’t cool Todman’s ire, however, and I knew my brandy-fuelled pride would likely cost me a beating tonight. Luckily, before Todman could take another step, Twine attempted to gouge out Baker’s eye, the resultant struggle sending them both into the firepit in a blaze of sparks.
Letting out an annoyed curse in the Caerith tongue, Raith got to his feet and pulled the thrashing pair apart. Todman, due to his acknowledged role as enforcer, was obliged to lend a hand, hauling Baker away while Raith wrapped a meaty arm around Twine’s neck. With all eyes now fixed on the unfolding drama, I felt it the most opportune moment to slip away. It wouldn’t do to attract any more of Todman’s notice and I had a mission of my own to pursue.
With the onset of winter, Deckin’s band had taken up residence amid the overgrown ruins found in the darkest heart of the Shavine Forest. They consisted mostly of dislodged stone, sometimes indistinguishable from common boulders in their weathered, moss-covered irregularity. But in a few places distinct form and structure protruded from the tangle of bush, root and branch. This was the principal advantage of camping here when the rain turned chill and the frost began to sparkle in the morning light, for these resolute if stunted walls were easy to convert into shelters and provided many a ready-made store for loot and supplies.
I had heard some in the band opine that the ruins had once comprised a mighty city, raised to greatness only to be cast down amid the fury of the Scourge. If so, I saw little evidence of greatness, or even of civilisation. Surely a mighty city would have had a statue or two, perhaps even some glimmers of ancient treasure among the green and grey jumble. But I saw none. Here and there one could make out the dim, worn indentations that spoke of writing, too faded to fully discern its form and none in this company could have translated it in any case, least of all my own unlettered self.
Naturally, Deckin and Lorine had occupied the largest shelter available, a near-complete chamber of four diminished but thick walls, augmented by a roof crafted from woven branches and piled ferns. It was also positioned in fortuitous proximity to the weathered, moss-covered remnants of a great, tumbled pillar. I assumed it must have been a monument of some kind, standing a hundred feet tall. What or who it commemorated forever an unanswerable mystery. Its segments had only partially shattered when it had fallen. Beneath one of these granite cylinders there lay a small hollow. I had discovered it weeks before when looking for a place to hide my more valuable loot. Stealing within the band was strictly forbidden, but whatever coin or sundry valuables I managed to collect had an irksome tendency to disappear. In truth, this was mostly due to my habit of spending my earnings almost as soon as they fell into my purse, but I was sure a small portion had found its way into the pockets of my untrustworthy bandmates. Closer inspection of my chosen hidey-hole also revealed that it afforded a clear view of the entrance to Deckin and Lorine’s shelter while being close enough to hear near every word they spoke.
“‘… comprising twelve companies in all,’” Lorine was saying in her smooth, flowing tones, eyes closed as she recited the royal message with her typical precision. She and Deckin sat on either side of a blazing fire, he poking at the flames with a blackened branch while she sat in placid recital. “‘Nine of foot and three mounted. Henceforth, our number was counted in excess of three thousand, all
good and dutiful men sworn to Your Highness’s service in sight of Ascendant Durehl Vearist, most senior and revered Covenant Cleric of the Shavine Marches. In addition, our host was supplemented by no fewer than three score men-at-arms formerly in service to the traitor Duke Rouphon Ambris. I am sure Your Highness will be heartened to learn of the faithfulness of these stout-hearted fellows who chose loyalty to king above oaths sworn to a treasonous noble—’”
Lorine fell silent as Deckin interrupted, his voice low but tone harsh. “Faithless bastards smart enough to gauge which way the wind was blowing, more like.” His beard shifted into a chastened grimace as Lorine opened her eyes to afford him a reproachful glare. “Apologies, my love. Please continue.”
Sighing, Lorine closed her eyes and resumed her recital. “‘Of the Pretender’s forces, I judge their number at having exceeded over four thousand under arms, with a near equal number of camp followers. Your Highness will know that this is far below the strength heretofore ascribed to the rebel horde, calling into doubt the honesty of those rewarded for intelligence now revealed as erroneous or outright fraudulent. Addended to this missive is a list of those I humbly suggest be subject to arrest and seizure of property for such shameful injury to Your Highness’s trust.
“‘However parlous the enemy’s numbers, had the Pretender succeeded in joining his horde with Duke Rouphon’s companies and levies, numbering well over a thousand, the day may well have gone against us. It is thanks to providence, and mayhap the Martyrs’ favour, that the marching route taken by Duke Rouphon was revealed to us when one of his scouts fell into our hands. Having encamped a scant twelve miles from the Pretender’s assembly, Duke Rouphon was set upon by our full number come the dawn, his forces slain, captured or scattered.’”
Lorine paused then and I saw the working of her throat as she swallowed to wet a nervous tongue. Still, when she spoke on her tone was its usual, measured self. “‘It is also my deepest honour to report that the duke himself is now in the custody of your esteemed champion, Sir Ehlbert Bauldry, having defeated and disarmed the traitor in personal combat.
“‘Once order had been restored to my command, I marched with all speed upon the Pretender’s encampment, inflicting upon him a severe defeat despite the ferocity of his followers’ resistance. I feel it of great significance to report that among the rebel ranks were a number of Ascarlian mercenaries allied with Fjord Geld heretics. The staunchest combat was required to overcome these northern savages, which, to my eternal regret, allowed the Pretender himself to flee along with a retinue numbering perhaps twenty turncoat knights. Your Highness is assured that a rapid pursuit of the rebel leader is under way, and I fully expect to receive word of his capture or just demise within days.
“‘My force is now in possession of Castle Ambris where Your Highness’s messenger will find me. The other party we discussed before my departure from court has been sent for and is expected to arrive shortly. Intelligence gleaned from patrols and paid informants tells of little unrest among churl, artisan or minor noble regarding the duke’s arrest. Nor does there appear to be any widespread sympathy for the Pretender’s cause within this duchy. It is my intention, in compliance with Your Highness’s injunctions, to subject Duke Rouphon to trial forthwith. A list of those captives of noble birth are also addended to this missive. I await your command regarding execution, mercy or ransom of their persons. Captive men-at-arms, levied churls and camp followers have been put to death under my warrant as Crown agent with Extraordinary Dispensation.
“‘I remain, Your Highness, your most faithful and devoted servant, Sir Althus Levalle, Knight Commander of Crown Company.’”
Deckin maintained a mostly unchanging expression as he listened to it all, the only shift in his demeanour coming when Lorine related the fate of the unfortunate Duke Rouphon. The branch in Deckin’s hands creaked then snapped as his meaty hands tightened before casting the remnants into the fire. When she concluded her recitation, he said nothing, letting the silence stretch.
“Althus,” Deckin murmured finally, clasping his hands together. “Makes sense it would be him. He always did like the messier work. A man who takes pleasure in transforming chaos into order.”
“You know the knight commander of Crown Company?” Lorine asked. I noted the pitch of genuine surprise in her voice. Deckin apparently kept secrets from her too.
His beard twitched in faint irritation and he shook his head. “I used to. A story for another night, my love.”
She hid it well, but I could discern the worry that lay beneath Lorine’s next statement, blandly phrased though it was. “I assume the ‘other party’ he refers to is the newly chosen Duke of the Shavine Marches. I wonder who it might be.”
“The list of candidates is short.” Deckin gave a humourless laugh. “Rouphon’s rivals had a tendency towards accidents and unexpected illness.” Another laugh, this one carrying an acidic edge. “He was never a man known for excessive kindness to those who shared his blood.”
“Mayhap his successor will be of a more accommodating nature. A gift of suitable value might at least facilitate opening an avenue of communication. We’ll have to be careful about how we approach him, of course…” Lorine trailed off as Deckin waved a disinterested hand.
“Doesn’t matter who it is.” He got to his feet, groaning and rubbing his back. “It’s time, Lorine. Been a good long wait, but now it’s time. With Rouphon about to lose his head, the Pretender’s War raging and trouble brewing in the north, we’ll never get a better chance.”
“The Pretender was just defeated. The war is all but over.”
“So it appears, or at least that’s what Althus would have the king believe. Did you note he failed to give an account of his own losses? Althus is a man of duty above all, but he’s also a fucking liar when it suits him. My guess is that he soundly thrashed the duke’s forces and captured him as he said, largely due to having Sir Ehlbert on his side. He also probably managed to inflict a defeat on the Pretender, but not the great victory he claims. Even if it is true, as long as the Pretender draws breath there’s always a chance he can gather another army. Claiming the throne by dint of royal blood will always hold an allure for the dispossessed or the disgruntled. His rebellion is far from done. When next he raises his standard, it’s likely to be far from the Shavine Marches, meaning Sir Althus and, more importantly, the king’s dread champion will also soon be far away.”
Lorine closed her eyes again, lowering her face. Taking a breath, she spoke words I knew it had taken courage to craft. “The messenger was right, Deckin. Whatever title churl and outlaw might bestow, the fact remains you are not a king.”
“I’ve never deluded myself otherwise, my love.” Deckin’s tone and bearing betrayed no anger as he stepped towards Lorine, large hand cupping her jaw and raising her face until she consented to open her eyes. His next words were spoken with kind solicitation, but also unwavering certainty. “I am, however, determined to be a duke.”
The next morning Deckin had us strike camp and trace a northwards course through the hidden trails known only to poacher and outlaw. As usual, no explanation was given and those who grumbled about their drink-muddled heads and myriad aches were quick to fall silent at the briefest glare from the Outlaw King. We were all expert at reading his changing moods and the band marched under the burden of knowing that one word or glance out of place just now would reap the most severe reprisal.
I volunteered to scout ahead of the band as it wound its way through the green maze of the deep forest. Marching with the others would invariably see me traipsing alongside Erchel and I had currently exhausted my tolerance for his company. It also put me at a decent remove from Todman, which I felt would be a wise precaution for the time being. Deckin’s favour afforded me a few additional words of conversation or praise, but it didn’t provide protection.
There were four of us in the scouting party. Baker and Twine patrolled the flanks with their bows, their argument, of course, now just a dim
memory despite their bruises. In the centre, Hostler, our finest tracker and huntsman, took the lead with me following a dozen paces behind. The rationale for such an arrangement was simple: if an arrow or other missile should come sailing out of the forest and strike the huntsman down, I would be left to raise the alarm.
Although it was rare for sheriff’s men or ducal soldiers to venture into the deep forest, neither was it unheard of. I possessed dark memories of the outcome years before, when the band had happened upon a full company of Duke Rouphon’s household guards. Luckily, the hour had been late and most of us contrived to escape the subsequent chaotic skirmish. I was still a boy then and the memory of sprinting clear of that vicious exchange of arrows and blades, the closest I had been to an actual battle, left a deep impression.
Scanning the trees to either side of Hostler, moving with a steady fluency at odds with his lanky frame, my mind slipped repeatedly to Deckin and Lorine’s conversation the night before. I am determined to be a duke. One of the curses suffered by the intelligent is the power of imagination, for a clever mind will explore the dark possibilities with far more dedication than the bright.
What does he lead us into? was the first question that rose to mind that first day, soon followed by a plague of others. What is he planning? Where are we going? How can he imagine that an outlaw, even an outlaw king, could ever be a duke?
I hadn’t been so foolish as to share what I knew with anyone else, for trust is a luxury young outlaws soon learn to forgo. In other circumstances I would have sought answers from Lorine, having known since our first meeting that she was the only other truly clever soul among this collection of dregs.
Well, here’s a lad with a shrewd look to him. Deckin’s first words to me that day he had found a dirty and bruised boy lying in the woods ten years before.