by Anthony Ryan
Their leader was a tall woman with blonde hair that deepened to gold in the fading light. It snaked in a long braid from the centre of her otherwise bald scalp, the shaved pate covered in a dense tattoo of runic lettering. She and Deckin stood at much the same height and I took note of the fact that they both inclined their heads at the same time.
“You aged quickly,” the woman observed with a grin. “Grey in your beard, I see.”
“A little.” Deckin gave her a grin of his own. “Whereas, Shilva, you seem to have gotten younger.”
“Oh, piss off.” She laughed and they both moved into a tight embrace. “Missed you, you old rogue!” she told him, moving back to grasp a hand to his neck, their foreheads touching. “Turns out Father was wrong. You did last more than a summer on your own.”
“He was nearly right. Came close to losing my head the first week, never mind the summer. Come on.” He put an arm around her shoulders and guided her towards the glade. “Got hogs roasting and ale in need of drinking.”
As might be expected when the worst scum of an entire duchy are gathered together and provided with copious food and liquor, the night proved to be a raucous affair. My carefully prepared feast disappeared in a brief and gluttonous frenzy. All was gobbled down without, I must say, much in the way of appreciation or the basic courtesy of a thank you. My subtly crafted flavours were smothered in a tide of ale and brandy that soon had many a voice raised in song. The handful of musicians among us brought out flutes and mandolins to add to the half-melodious din and soon a dance of sorts began to unfold in the arena. There was plenty of jostling but no brawling, the rule of the glade and the threat of Deckin’s disfavour sufficing to ensure old vendettas were set aside, at least for this one night.
Having kept back a good portion of my most carefully prepared pork stew, I took a bowl and went in search of Gerthe, hoping her strict adherence to commerce had been eased by the flow of drink. Such hopes were alas dashed when I saw her disappearing into the gloom beyond the glade with two tattooed ruffians from the Sakhel clan. From her loud giggles I discerned that she had in fact set business aside tonight, just not to my benefit.
I consoled myself by eating the stew and downing a cup of brandy, my gaze roving the various female guests in search of a likely prospect. The only one to return my gaze was a thin-faced girl nestled among the ranks of Erchel’s kin. I began to formulate some stratagem for extracting her from their suspicious huddle when Deckin’s voice rang out, loud and strong.
“Do you like this feast, my friends?!”
The music and song faded, replaced by an appreciative cheer from the assembled villainy.
“Are your bellies full?” Deckin asked, teeth bared in jocular humour, drawing forth another louder cheer. “Do your spirits lift with this ale I have provided? Are your hearts lightened?”
More cheers, goblets and tankards raised high, the tumult of gratitude dying to abrupt silence with Deckin’s face darkened to a snarl.
“You’re all a bunch of witless cunts!”
His gaze roved over the suddenly blank or baffled faces, mouth twisting in a sneer of harsh judgement. I noted that only Shilva Sakhel seemed unsurprised by this abrupt shift in mood, hiding a smile as she lowered her face to her tankard. I had heard Deckin speak of her on occasion, usually in gruff but respectful terms, and now understood their association to be far deeper and longer than previously suspected. She, like me, knew the furious diatribe we were about to receive was all theatre, a carefully prepared performance geared towards a specific outcome.
“How easy it would be to have killed you all this night,” Deckin growled. “I could’ve slit the throat of every fucking one of you. Slipped hemlock into the liquor you’ve dulled your senses with and you’d never even have tasted it, you utter fools. You think you’re safe here in this place?” He swept his hand around at the tiered steps of this ancient ruin. “This is just a pile of old stones. You think this forest is our protection? You’re wrong. It’s our prison. The old duke rolled the dice on treachery and died for it. The new duke is the king’s creature and you can wager your soul the first thing Tomas will order his creature to do is deal, finally and for ever, with us.”
He paused, turning to beckon Hostler from the crowd. “Many of you know this man,” he said, resting a hand on Hostler’s shoulder. “And you know him as a man who, though he plights his troth with those who live outside the tyranny of the law, never lies. Hostler of the truthful tongue, they call him. Tell them, Truth Tongue, tell them of the captive we took on the King’s Road and what he told us before he perished.”
Hostler, whom I had never once heard referred to as Truth Tongue before now, coughed and raised his eyes to the throng. Usually, when given the rare opportunity to speak to an audience of more than one, his voice was strong, a preacher’s voice, declaiming scripture for as long as you could stand to hear it. Now it was decidedly thinner. Although still loud enough to reach every ear present, to those who knew him, it was the voice of a liar.
“The soldier we took was grievously wounded and soon to depart the world,” he said. “Desperate for a Supplicant to hear his testament, he unburdened his soul to me for he could tell I am a true devotee of the Covenant of Martyrs.” He stopped, just for a second, but I saw how his throat worked to swallow away a sudden dryness. “This man was captain of a company from Cordwain and knew a good deal of the king’s instructions to the new duke. He spoke of a thousand kingsmen and a hundred knights to be spared from the war with the Pretender. ‘They will join with the ducal levies to sweep that cursed forest from end to end,’ he said. ‘Every cur caught will not be spared the noose. If need be, they’ll burn the forest down to the bare earth to find the last one. Come the spring there will be no more outlaws alive to curse the Shavine Marches. The king has commanded it and so shall it be.’” He swallowed again but his features remained the hard, purposeful mask of a truthful man. “That is what I heard from the lips of a dying man with no reason to lie.”
“And this is not all!” Deckin added, and I felt a sudden plummeting in the gut as his hand swung towards me, fingers beckoning. “Some of you know this young rogue, I’m sure.” Laughter greeted me as I rose and moved to his side, forcing a sheepish grin. “The Fox of the Shavine Forest, they call him. He has the keenest eyes and ears in all the duchy and, though he’s a renowned liar—” his hand landed on my shoulder, resting lightly but possessing much the same weight as Lorine’s sovereigns “—he never lies to me, not if he values keeping those keen eyes of his.” More laughter, the hand on my shoulder tightening a fraction. “Tell them, Alwyn.”
I didn’t cough. I didn’t swallow. Instead I put a frown of grim reluctance on my face and raised clear, honest eyes to rapt faces staring in hushed anticipation. “It’s true, all of it,” I said. “Recently I was sent to spy in Ambriside. The soldiers there were full of tales about the rewards they’ve been promised, a silver sovereign for every outlaw’s head they bring in. Some were saying how they were going to make sport with any women they caught before hacking their heads off, the young ’uns too. They laughed about it.”
A slight tightening of Deckin’s fingers told me I’d said enough, perhaps even gilded the lie too much. However, the burgeoning growl of anger from all around indicated it had struck the required note.
“So, you see, my friends.” Deckin’s hand slipped from my shoulder as he stepped away, arms raised in a manner that was both commanding and beseeching. “You see that I did not call you here to plan some grand theft merely to fatten our purses. I called you here so that we may plan for our very survival.”
He let the murmur of angry agreement swirl around for a bit before speaking on, voice harsher now, more demanding. “These woods are ours. By right of any natural law or justice, this forest belongs to us, for we won it, with blood. Now an upstart duke of no family, a mere licker of the king’s arse who’s never once raised a blade in defence of home or family, wants to take it from us. I mean to stop him. I mean
to put an end to the days of skulking and freezing as we run from lesser souls. I mean to defy this king, this Tomas the Good, who all know rightly as Tomas the Pincher, this liar, this thief of all who has mired this land in blood and poverty and still demands loyalty from those he has beggared. He calls for heads, let’s give him some. Let’s give him a hundred. A thousand if need be. As many as it takes to make him see that this forest is not his and never will be. And we’ll start with that arse-licker he’s set against us. Who’s with me?”
The growl became a shout that soon built to a roar, all the thieves, cut-throats, rustlers, cardsharps and whores on their feet and calling out their willing submission to Deckin Scarl’s newborn feud. However, I saw their leaders cheer along with markedly less enthusiasm.
The Thessil brothers clapped their hands and exchanged eager grins with their followers but I could tell it was mummery. Erchel’s uncle Drenk was the most effusive, spilling ale as he snarled his agreement along with his wildly celebrating kin, but even his beady, drunken eyes held a glimmer of worry. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, I found Shilva Sakhel’s reaction the most troubling, for she just laughed while her folk whooped and screamed in hungry anticipation. Hers was not the laughter of celebration, more the surprised, hearty peals of one who has heard a new and especially amusing joke.
Deckin’s arm circled my shoulders as the cheering wore on, drawing me into a hug. “Nicely done, lad,” he said quietly, still grinning to the crowd. “You always lie best when you’re put on the spot. Don’t think it needed mention of the young ’uns though.”
“Sorry, Deckin.”
“Oh,” he patted my chest, “no harm done. This lot would eat all the shit I shovel and ask for seconds.” I glanced up to see his gaze darken a fraction as it settled on Shilva, still giving full vent to her mirth. “On the morrow,” he sighed, “comes the hard part.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“This is not an army.” Danick Thessil was the elder of the two brothers and did most of their talking. As I’d suspected, their apparent enthusiasm for Deckin’s scheme had evaporated come the morn and his sibling, Rubin, maintained a stern and mostly silent visage for much of the unfolding conversation. “And these are not soldiers.” Danick gestured towards the glade where smoke rose in thickening clouds as the collection of rogues woke to suffer the effects of the previous night.
Deckin had called these outlaw captains together at a small clearing some distance from the glade. My inclusion in this august assembly had been a surprise. Less so was Deckin’s instruction to stay on the fringe and say nothing unless given leave by him alone. Danick Thessil was the first to offer his shek’s worth of wisdom concerning the proposed enterprise and the expressions worn by others present told of a similar attachment to realism. Drenk Cutter was clearly suffering the effects of too much ale, but a bright glimmer of shrewdness remained in his reddened eyes. Like his nephew, he possessed a sharp instinct for survival, regardless of what passions Deckin might have stirred in his kin. Shilva Sahken wore a half-grin throughout it all which sometimes quirked into a suppressed laugh. Evidently, the amusement born of Deckin’s speech hadn’t faded.
“It’s not yet an army, no,” Deckin conceded. I had often admired his capacity for switching moods as the need arose. The rageful inspiration of the previous night had now been replaced by intent, calm persuasion. “But it will be. All revolts begin with a spark that births a flame. We prey on the nobles and the merchants, not the churls. They know who their true enemies are. How many died last winter because their stores had been raided to fill the king’s taxes? How many face this winter with empty bellies and sickened children?”
“We prey on nobles and merchants because they have money,” Shilva said, her smile still in place. “Churls don’t. Neither do they have weapons, armour or horses. Not that we have much of that either.”
“A scythe or a wood-axe can kill just as well as a sword,” Deckin returned. “And armour is only useful when worn. I do not intend to strike when our enemy is girded for battle.”
“So, we kill this new duke, the churls rise in support and the duchy’s ours, is that it?” Shilva looked as if she were about to start laughing again.
“What alternative do we have?” Deckin nodded to where I loitered, leaning against a tree with what I hoped to be nonchalant confidence. In fact, my head ached from the unwise mixing of ale and brandy and my guts were riven by a persistent, queasy roil that had as much to do with fear as excess. “You heard what the lad said. They will be coming for us, Shilva. Have no doubt of it.”
The blonde woman’s gaze slid towards me, her humour subsiding into narrow scrutiny. I tried to return her stare in full measure, keeping my features blank, but there was a surety to this woman that couldn’t help but provoke a blink or two.
“Would you gull me into a war, old friend?” she asked Deckin, keeping her eyes on me. My stomach chose this inopportune moment to voice a liquid growl while I felt a treacherous trickle of sweat begin to trace its way from my scalp to my forehead.
“You know me better,” Deckin said. “And I know you’d only ever fight one if there was profit to be had. And there will be. As he tours the duchy, Elbyn carries with him a chest full of gold crown sovereigns to be doled out to his fellow nobles as the king ordains. When we take him it’s yours to split.” He spread his hands to ensure the brothers and Drenk knew they were included in his largesse. “I’ll not take a single coin of it. When it’s done you can join me in securing our future in this duchy or return to your dens with no insult suffered on my part.” He paused to let the bait dangle a little. One-third of a chest crammed with gold crown sovereigns was worth a good deal of risk to any outlaw, for it presented the chance to fulfil the fabled and rarely achieved ambition of us all: comfortable retirement.
“Did your lad see this chest, also?” Shilva enquired, eyes flicking between me and Deckin. For a panicked moment I assumed I would be required to voice another lie, one certain to be detected by this woman’s overly keen insight. Fortunately, Deckin had another tale to tell.
“You imagine I have but one spy?” He arched an eyebrow at Shilva. “I have worked towards this moment for years. There are many in this duchy who owe me far more fealty than they owe a distant king they’ve never seen or a cowardly fop risen to dukedom through mere chance of blood.” His gaze tracked across each of them as he spoke with hard, inarguable authority. “You have my word the gold will be there, and you all know my word is never given lightly and never broken.”
This, at least, was true. As to the rest of it, who can say? My many researches and endless pondering on successive events have unearthed neither confirmation nor denial of the fabled sovereigns supposedly carted about by the newly minted duke. All I can attest to with any certainty is that in this moment, all present, even the clearly dubious Shilva Sahken, believed Deckin Scarl’s unbreakable word.
“Where?” the blonde woman asked after a short, thoughtful interval. “When?”
“Castle Duhbos,” Deckin told her. “Seat of Lord Duhbos, the most famed and respected knight in the Shavine Marches, who also happens to be married to our new duke’s sister. Elbyn will want to secure his support early if he’s to govern this duchy. I doubt Duhbos was pleased with the manner of Duke Rouphon’s demise; they rode together in the Duchy Wars.
“The duke’s retinue has most likely already reached it, but he’ll be obliged to linger until the High Moon feast. Leaving sooner would insult his brother-in-law, who will also be expecting a bundle of expensive gifts.”
“A killing during the High Moon is an ill-starred thing,” Drenk Cutter said in his high, raspy voice. “Said to raise up the Malecite to perform foul deeds upon the earth.” He stared at Deckin for a second before letting out a harsh, barking laugh. “Not that I give a weasel’s cock. For that many sovereigns I’d let the Malecite fuck my grandmother. My folk are with you in this, Deckin. Count on it, but—” his thin face took on a serious aspect “—I’ll need you to forget t
hat favour you asked of me.”
Deckin shrugged and waved a dismissive hand. “Done. But I won’t have your nephew in my band a day longer. You want the little shit alive, you take him and best of luck to you.”
The Thessil brothers exchanged a long glance. Although a few notches higher on the thinking scale than was usual for outlaws, they were still as driven by greed and the desire for a comfortable old age. Also, they probably worried over the reaction of their gangmates should they fail to heed Deckin’s call to arms.
“One-third of the gold,” Danick said, “and we want first pick of the castle armoury.”
“Take it,” Deckin told them before turning to Shilva with an expectant eye. “Your father always dreamed of building his own merchant house in Farinsahl,” he prompted. “With your share you could buy your own fleet.”
“My father had a head full of dreams,” she returned. Her humour had disappeared now and if she still considered this whole notion a joke, it was a poor one. “Dreams are what killed him in the end, for dreams have a tendency to overcome sense.” She sat back, letting out a deep sigh of resignation. “But many of my lot are straining at their leash over your fine words and will surely follow you on their own account, with or without my blessing. I’ll be with you in this, Deckin, but know that I’ll be heading home the moment I have my share.”
“Why, my lady—” Deckin lowered his head in a courteous bow “—I would expect nothing else.”