The Pariah

by Anthony Ryan

  We rested only briefly, pausing in the lee of the largest trees just long enough to gulp water and force down a mouthful or two of food. Nothing was said as words would be an indulgence now, but I felt a nagging desire to question Brewer regarding his murder of Hedgeman. The only sentiment we shared was a devotion to Sihlda and with her gone I found his actions hard to fathom, especially since his face betrayed nothing beyond the strain of exertion and the distant gaze that comes from grief.

  I resisted voicing the question throughout the day, following his untiring course along the stream bank. As we ran, I kept one ear cocked for the rhythmic thud of hooves or baying of hounds. I indulged some hope that Lord Eldurm would assume the shaft’s collapse had claimed all the escapees along with several luckless guards but knew such optimism to be dangerous. Agreeable idiot he may have been, but by merely attempting an escape we had besmirched his family honour. No noble, however steeped in hopeless longing for a woman who didn’t give a whit for his existence, could simply accept such an injury. He would at least search for the shaft’s opening and, having found it, discover a corpse with a bolt through the head. His hounds would also be quick in sniffing out a trail leading to the woods. We had at least a three-hour head start by my reckoning, but men on horseback would eat that up fairly soon.

  We allowed ourselves the longest rest upon reaching the ruined mill, an ancient place that must have stood during the days of the first Tri-Reign. Some semblance of its former purpose lingered in the shape of its moss-covered stones, but all that remained of its once mighty wheel was an iron hub rusted to abstraction.

  We secluded ourselves in a nook formed of three stunted walls, Toria collapsing onto all fours as soon as she came to a halt. She quickly retched up the sparse food she had eaten, before slumping onto her back, chest heaving and sweaty face staring up at the sky through the overlapping branches. Speech was beyond her but she did manage to force a scowl when I panted, “Can I have your knife if you die?”

  I tossed my sack to the ground and rested my back against the wall, intending to brace myself against it until my exhaustion faded. My legs, however, had ideas of their own and promptly folded beneath me. I lay stunned and numb by the strain and fear of it all until I recovered enough strength to heave myself into a sitting position.

  Brewer had succeeded in propping himself against the wall without falling over. I sat and watched as bugs swarmed about his sweaty face, marvelling at the fact that he still carried the pickaxe on his back.

  “Why?” I asked him. The question brought focus to his still-distant gaze for a moment, though I couldn’t tell whether it was anger or just grief.

  “Because she told me to,” he said. “When we began her mission my role would be to keep you safe. I didn’t understand her meaning, but she made me promise I would abide, whatever might befall us.”

  “When we get to Callintor,” I said, groaning with the effort of reaching for my sack, “you can forget that promise. Feel at liberty to consider yourself released now, if you like.”

  “It’s not for you to release me.”

  I looked up from rummaging to find his eye still on me, even more focused and set with purpose. “I don’t a need a protector,” I said, which drew a caustic laugh.

  “Truly you were deaf to the Martyr Sihlda’s truths,” Brewer said. “‘Know yourself above all others’, remember? You, Alwyn Scribe, are a man people will always want to kill. I’d have done it myself years ago if she hadn’t forbidden it.”

  “No.” I returned my attention to the sack, extracting the sole apple I had secured for the journey. “You would have tried.”

  The bite I took from the apple was a wonderful thing, flooding my mouth with liquid sweetness. I took another bite and looked to see Toria rising from her slump. “Here,” I said, tossing her the half-eaten fruit. “An empty belly will do you no good today.”

  “Another gift from his lordship?” she asked, eyeing the apple doubtfully before forcing herself to take a bite. Her sagging face and bowed back worried me and her gaze held the dullness that told of a body nearing its limits. She was strong and lithe to be sure, with muscle honed by years of labour, but no one could run for ever.

  “From a guard,” I said. “For writing him a letter to his sweetheart. Eat up and drink well.”

  I hoped this interval might last until evening set in, providing sufficient rest for Toria to complete the final run to Callintor without undue difficulty. Of course, fate is rarely so generous.

  It was just a faint sound carried by the easterly wind and would have been easily missed among rustle and birdsong of the forest, but my outlaw’s ear remained as keen as my eye. Still a good way off, I surmised, cocking an ear to gauge the direction of the distant yipping. But they have our trail.

  “Hounds,” I said, wincing as I dragged myself upright.

  “Can’t hear fuck all,” Toria protested as I reached down to haul her up.

  “Then it’s lucky for you I can, isn’t it? Lose that.” I tugged the sack from her hand and tossed it away. “We can’t stop again.” My concern deepened at what I saw in her face. True exhaustion is a treacherous thing; it lies to its victim, whispers promises it can’t keep, pretends danger doesn’t exist and all will be right with the world if you just lie here one more minute. I could see these notions flitting through Toria’s mind, leading me to an obvious but highly risky course.

  The slap was hard, my hand smacking across her jaw and cheek with sufficient force to bruise the flesh. Her response, however, was gratifyingly swift.

  “Bastard!”

  I dodged the knife before it could open my throat, then sidestepped the next two thrusts she jabbed at my chest.

  “I’ll feed you your own cock, you shit!” She lowered herself into a fighting crouch, knife blade turning this way and that, a standard tactic intended to confuse an opponent. Her face burned red except for the pale mark left by my hand, eyes shining bright with little sign of exhaustion.

  “Kill me later,” I said, taking one last gulp from my water skin before throwing it away. “For now, all we need do is run.”

  We cleared the forest within the hour, pitching headlong into the wheat field beyond. The descending sun painted the swaying crop a reddish gold hue that would have been pleasing to less frantic eyes. Fortunately for us, the wheat was tall and near ready for harvest, meaning we could run at a crouch and perhaps evade the gaze of our pursuers. However, there was no hiding from the noses of their hounds.

  The distant yipping had grown into a recurrent chorus of barks and howls as the day wore on. These, I knew, would be wolfhounds bred specially for the purpose of hunting people rather than game. Such dogs stood tall at the shoulder and one was usually strong enough to bring down a fully grown man. I feared their fangs well enough but feared their masters’ whips and blades more. The dogs would be trained to hold rather than kill us, except through over-enthusiasm. Lord Eldurm, I had little doubt, would want his escaped charges alive. Three corpses would make scant impression on the other inmates at the Pit, so inured were they to the sight of death. But three living souls subjected to prolonged torment before being strung up in front of the gate would provide a long-lasting example.

  Such thoughts kept me running despite the pain that now seemed to throb in every muscle I possessed. It must also have had an equally fortifying effect on Toria for she managed to keep pace with me for much of the run, despite a few stumbles. I had a faint hope her renewed energy wouldn’t transform into retribution when we reached our destination, but that was a worry for another time.

  As before, Brewer led the way, although even he was starting to sag. Inevitably, his fatigued feet happened upon a molehill, sending him into an untidy tumble. “No!” I heard him grunt in furious self-recrimination, using his pickaxe to push himself to his feet. “Do this one thing, you miserable cur!”

  About halfway across the field the strain of the run became so all-consuming that I felt the moment of collapse approaching, the poi
nt at which my body would simply surrender. It would surely have claimed me within seconds if my eyes hadn’t alighted upon the spires. There were four of them, one for each of the Martyr shrines in Callintor, rising above the wheat like dark spearpoints against the reddening evening sky.

  At my side Toria fell again, emitting a piteous groan as she collided with the ground. “Come on!” I looped an arm around her slim waist and dragged her upright, pointing to the spires. “Look! We’re nearly there!”

  Some frenzied dragging and pushing finally brought us clear of the field, the tall wheat parting to reveal Brewer staggering in near exhaustion, feet tripping over the ruts of a cart track. A dozen yards on lay the bank of a narrow but deep river. On the far side rose the wooden walls of the sanctuary city of Callintor. A swift survey of our surroundings revealed that the track we stood on traced the unusually straight course of the river to either side with no sign of a bridge or a gatehouse.

  “Seems we’re a mite off course,” I gasped, allowing Toria to slip from my grip. She slumped to her knees, head thrown back as she dragged air into her lungs.

  “The main gate’s this way.” Brewer jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the east. “Just a bit further on…”

  I would learn later that certain breeds of wolfhound are trained to fall silent when approaching their prey. The barks and howls emitted while following a trail are for the benefit of their human masters and abandoned when the prospect of capture looms. The beast that erupted from the wheat to land on Brewer’s back would have matched him in height if stood on its hind legs, the long shaggy body possessing enough weight to bear its bulky victim to the ground in a trice. It coiled its neck and spread its jaws with a snakelike speed and precision, aiming to latch its fangs onto Brewer’s upraised arm.

  I leapt without thinking, sinking my knife into the tendons behind the hound’s jaw, my right arm and legs wrapping around its body to drag it clear as I rolled away. My back connected painfully with the ground, but I maintained my grip with a savage strength born of survival. The hound thrashed at me with desperate ferocity as I drew the knife clear to deliver two more stabs to its neck, hoping to find a decently large vein. I was fortunate in the accuracy of my first blow for the hound’s jaws flapped at me without effect, my knife bringing forth plenty of blood but failing to land a killing blow.

  There was a whoosh of air then the hound stiffened with a whimper before all animation fled its body. Scrambling clear, I watched Brewer plant a foot on the fallen beast’s ribcage and drag the pickaxe’s spike free.

  A rustle of disturbed wheat had him whirling, another hound springing forth in a blur of grey then rearing up with an aggrieved howl as something small but very fast impacted on its eye. A glance to my right revealed Toria fitting another stone to the sling she had taken from Hedgeman’s body. She gave a practised flick of her arm and the second stone flew free, striking the still-confused hound on the rump. It immediately switched attention from Brewer to her, lips quivering around bared fangs as it crouched for a lunge. However, this proved a grave mistake for it gave Brewer enough time to raise his pickaxe and bring the curved blade down on the beast’s neck. Blood jetted as its head fell clear of the body, which twitched and scrabbled in an obscene dance.

  The shrill pealing of a horn drew my gaze to the field, the wheat thrashing as several long shapes loped their way towards us. Beyond them I saw the more worrying sight of fading sunlight gleaming on the armour of a dozen mounted men. Lord Eldurm hadn’t bothered to bring his family banner but I recognised him easily as the tall figure in front. The bared sword in his hand led me to a conclude that recapture and prolonged torture might not be his intent after all.

  “Forget the gate,” I said, getting to my feet and turning back to the river. “We’ll swim for it.”

  I took a firm grip of the sack containing my writing desk, the leather-bound treasures of Sihlda’s testament and the Scroll of Martyr Callin and hurled it with all the energy I could muster. Before plunging into the water, I saw the sack land amid the reeds on the far side of the river. It was a slow-flowing channel, the water foul with scum and the telltale stink of effluent, both human and animal. I barely noticed, churning my way across in a few strokes as the thunder of fast-approaching hooves summoned my last reserves of strength.

  Flopping among the reeds fringing the far bank, I flailed about until I recovered the sack. Crawling free, I struggled to my feet and staggered to the old, mortar-buttressed timbers that formed the walls of Callintor. As I collapsed against the rough barrier, it occurred to me I had no means of attracting the attention of those inside. Sihlda had patiently educated all of us in the correct phrasing to employ when appealing for sanctuary, but what use was it when there was no one to hear it?

  Droplets spattered my face as Brewer stumbled to the wall, sinking down beside me with a great huff of air that told me his strength had finally given out. A mingling of splashes and high-pitched grunts drew my gaze to the river where Toria was dragging herself clear of the water. Once free, she crawled towards us, slumping against me to deliver a feeble slap to my cheek.

  “Paid y’back…” she groaned. “Bastard…”

  The three of us lay there, too spent to move as the dozen armed and armoured men reined their horses to a halt on the other side of the river. A cluster of wolfhounds milled about in confusion, evidently put off by the stink and depth of the water. Another rider, clearly identifiable as the huntsman by his lack of armour and rough leather garb, dismounted and went about gathering his pack. His gaze, reddened with grief and recrimination, shifted constantly between us and the slaughtered corpses of his hounds. However, my principal concern lay with Lord Eldurm rather than his bereft huntsman.

  Levering back the visor of his helm he revealed the dark, mottled visage of a man beset by the twin torments of rage and betrayal. I had no way of knowing the contents of the letter Sihlda had left him, but the murderous fury I saw in his gaze made it clear they hadn’t been welcome. She told him the truth, I decided with a weary groan, watching the noble flick an impatient hand at one of his men-at-arms. It’s never easy to hear.

  The sight of the primed and loaded crossbow the soldier placed in Lord Eldurm’s hands stirred a faint trill of fear in my drained body. But still, I was unable to do more than twitch as the noble raised the crossbow, settling the butt on his shoulder as he sighted along the stave.

  “At least he’s man enough to do his own killing,” Brewer observed in a listless mutter.

  “He’s not so bad a sort, in truth,” I muttered back.

  “Fuck him in his noble arse,” Toria put in, too exhausted to colour her voice with the usual venom. “Still going to kill us, isn’t he?”

  In fact, Lord Eldurm’s first attempt succeeded only in sending a crossbow bolt into the wall at least a foot above our heads. Watching him furiously demand another from the soldier then climb down from his horse while attempting to reload the weapon stirred me to an unexpected burst of laughter. It was clear he had no notion of how the crossbow worked, tugging ineffectually at the cord instead of turning the windlass. After a bout of fruitless fumbling, he was forced to hand it back to the soldier, snapping at him to hurry up as he wound the handles and drew the cord into the lock. Throughout it all my mirth increased, becoming loud enough to reach across the river.

  His rage stoked to yet greater heights, his lordship snatched the loaded crossbow from the soldier, raising and loosing without pausing to aim. The bolt sank into the ground a clear yard short of us which only made me laugh all the harder.

  “It seems, my lord,” I called to him, finding amusement had enabled me to recover a modicum of strength, “you are as accomplished in archery as you are in love!”

  “Shut your filthy churl’s mouth, Scribe!” he shouted back, voice made shrill by consuming fury. Casting the crossbow aside, he lurched back to his horse, dragging his longsword free of its scabbard. His anger had evidently unseated his reason for he began to wade into the rive
r despite the certainty that his armour would soon see him drown in its shit-clouded depths. His men-at-arms were quick to rush forward and drag him clear, despite his voluble protests, the clanking mass of them all collapsing in a shiny heap as he vainly tried to struggle free.

  This time I laughed so much I discovered it was actually possible to piss oneself in sheer amusement.

  “Stop this disgraceful display at once!”

  The voice came from above, a harsh, grating rasp that nevertheless held sufficient volume and authority to bring an abrupt end to both Lord Eldurm’s struggles and my hilarity. Looking up, I found myself confronted by what I at first took to be the face of an owl peering down at me from atop the wall. Two overlarge eyes blinked above a narrow, pointed chin. I stared in confused silence for a second until the owl’s face shifted and I saw a bony hand holding some form of wooden frame surrounding a pair of thick lenses. The too-large eyes narrowed as their owner focused his gaze on the jumble of armoured men across the river.

  “This is the holiest place in all Albermaine save the Cathedral of Martyr Althinor!” the narrow-faced man stated in his outraged rasp. “How dare you offend its divinity with violence!”

  “I—” Lord Eldurm’s voice faltered as he attempted to disentangle himself from his men-at-arms, finally breaking free after much scraping and grinding of metal. “I am Sir Eldurm Gulatte,” he said, straightening into as dignified a pose as his undimmed anger would allow. “Lord Warden of the King’s Mines. And these wretches—” he pointed a quivering finger at the three miscreants at the base of the wall “—are my prisoners, deserving of immediate execution for escaping lawful servitude—”

  “Ascendant!” I called out, dragging myself upright and staggering away from the wall. “You are an Ascendant here, are you not?”

  I had recognised the man’s rank by virtue of the red trim on the cowl of his habit. Also, I doubted a cleric of lesser rank could summon so commanding a voice. Thanks to Sihlda I knew that four Ascendants were always installed in Callintor, one for each of the shrines.