by Anthony Ryan
“He’s a bad man,” Ayin told me, her blood-smeared features drawn in a frown that was more annoyed than angry. Something dark and wet dripped red as she held it up, tilting her head at a curious angle. It was then that I noticed the discarded basket at her feet before my eyes tracked to the small, crescent-bladed sickle she held in her other hand, the steel gleaming where it wasn’t slick with blood. “Ma told me how to treat bad men.”
A thin, shrill cry sounded to my right and I whirled, knife at the ready, finding Erchel in the corner. His features were bleached white in shock and pain, feet scrabbling on the floor while his hands clutched at the dark stain between his legs. The sounds emanating from his gaping mouth were rapidly losing their shrill, breathless quality and would soon build to a full-throated scream.
I hurried to grab hold of the dislodged but mostly still intact door, using it to seal the entrance as best I could before scrambling to Erchel’s side and clamping my hand over his mouth, leaving his nose clear.
“He said there were fox cubs here,” Ayin went on, her voice a light, breezy contrast to the hard grunts I caged in Erchel’s mouth. “Said he thought their ma had gone off and left them and maybe I could be their ma. Little bundles of red fur, he said.” A sulky note crept into her voice then. “That wasn’t true. He’s a bad man.”
“Yes, Ayin,” I agreed, putting a knee on Erchel’s chest as he tried to rise. He was filled with the strength of a terrorised soul and it wasn’t easy to force him down, but so much blood lost so quickly inevitably overcame his panic. “A bad man he is.”
I continued to restrain Erchel, my hand smothering his cries until I felt him sag, looking down to see the red stain spreading across the dusty floor. Seeing his eyes begin to dim, I shifted my grip to his jaw and shook it, causing them to flare in mingled pain and, I saw with a small chime of satisfaction, recognition.
“You can put that down now,” I told Ayin, nodding to the dripping item she continued to examine with guileless scrutiny. All of a sudden, her presence in Callintor made a great deal more sense.
“Just one quick cut.” Blood spattered my face as she flicked the sickle she held, her gaze still rapt by her gory prize. “And bad men stop being bad men, just like Ma said.”
“Clearly a woman of wisdom and insight,” I grunted as Erchel gave a final convulsive heave beneath me before subsiding with a muffled, despairing sob.
The sound brought a small frown of distress to Ayin’s brow, her lips curling in vague disgust. “It’s getting dark now,” she said, casting the dripping object away to land in the corner with a wet thud. “Ascendant Kolaus gets awful tetchy if I’m not there to sweep the dais before supplications.”
“Best if you go, then. Ayin,” I added, as she retrieved her basket and started towards the door. “There’s a trough at the end of the lane. Make sure you wash up well and good, and change your clothes before you go to the shrine. Ascendant Kolaus will get even tetchier if you turn up looking like that, won’t he?”
I thought of warning her to keep silent about this incident but doubted she would take any heed. She plainly saw no crime in this, nor, most likely, in any other similar incidents in her past, so why keep it secret? I took some solace in the general lack of interest in her conversation among our fellow seekers. Even so she was sure to smilingly blurt it out to a custodian or cleric at some point.
I watched Ayin’s gaze darken as she surveyed the blood staining her arms and ankle-length robe of coarse wool. “Bad man made me dirty,” she said, sticking her tongue out at Erchel before hefting the door aside and making her exit.
“That’s the problem with cats, Erchel,” I said, finally removing my hand from his mouth. “They have claws.” He tried to shout as I rose to replace the door but it emerged as just a long, whining groan.
I sank to my haunches in front of him, keeping clear of the expanding blood. His eyes slipped continually from mine to the knife I still held in my hand.
“Oh, don’t worry about this,” I said, wrapping the small blade in cloth before consigning it to a hidden pocket sewn into the folds of my sackcloth jerkin. “Don’t really need it now, do I?” I gave a meaningful glance at his hands trembling amid the blood pooled in his lap.
“There’s…” he began, voice a thin, reedy croak that choked into a hiss of pain before he tried again. “There’s healers here…”
I stared into his eyes, seeing a desperate plea. “Yes, there are. Did they have healers at Moss Mill too? I didn’t wait around long enough to find out.”
His eyes closed and a forlorn sigh escaped his lips. The words that followed were choked out between grating rasps as he sought to fill lungs that were rapidly losing the will to maintain their efforts. “Always were a… vindictive fucker… Alwyn.”
I shrugged and grinned. “Can’t argue with you there.” Noting how his twitching had begun to abate, I shuffled closer to deliver a slap to his face, which succeeded in opening his eyes. “I’ve got questions in need of answers, Erchel. Do me the courtesy of not dying just yet.”
A semblance of the old familiar sneer curled his lips as he sighed, “Questions? ’Bout what?”
“All sorts of things. But we’ll start with the obvious. It was Lorine’s scheme, wasn’t it? You carried her message to your uncle and he told the duke’s men to await us at Moss Mill. Right?”
A harsh, coughing sound emerged from his lips and I realised he was attempting to laugh. “You’re not… here… are you, Alwyn?” Another coughing laugh. “Just a… ghost… come to torment me.”
“I’m here, you depraved fuck. Answer my question. Was it Lorine?”
“Lorine…” A parody of a mocking smile passed over his face. “Still pining… for that bitch? Even though you’re… a ghost. We all saw… how you mooned over her. You pitiful… bastard… As if… she ever looked… at you… as more than—” he bared pitted yellow teeth “—a useful… dog.”
“Dog, eh?” I raised an eyebrow. “But at least I’m a dog who’s still got his balls.” My humour evaporated in a sudden swell of rage, my hand clamping onto his throat, squeezing hard. “You know where she is. Tell me.”
He coughed red spit onto my wrist, summoning enough strength to glare as he choked out a response. “If you’re really… here… get me a healer… and I’ll tell you… every fucking thing!”
My anger cooled, perhaps in faint admiration for his fortitude. Dreadful, warped creature that he was, even in the face of death he found the gumption to bargain.
“It’s too late for that,” I said, withdrawing my hand to gesture at the blood that had now spread far enough to reach the far wall. “There’s no stitching this.”
I found it curious that Erchel managed only a meagre response to the certainty of his death, letting out a faint moan and allowing his head to slump to the side. Seeing the light begin to dim from his eyes I tried slapping him again, receiving scant response.
“Let’s say you’re right,” I told him, clenching a fist in the greasy locks of his hair to keep his head from lolling further. “I am a ghost. I died at the Mill. The soldiers slaughtered me and Gerthe before we could even get out of bed. She’s here too. She wants to know why you betrayed us. Don’t die with a burdened soul, Erchel, lest the Malecite claim it. Make testament and find your way to the Portals.”
I had never taken Erchel for a devout character, but some measure of life did return to his features then, for hope will find purchase in even the most wretched heart. “Testament…” he whispered. “That’s what you’re… here for?”
“Yes.” I leaned closer, attempting the serene, knowing tones a ghost might possess. “Unburden yourself. Despite it all, we ran together in the forest, like—” I nearly choked on the next word but swallowed hard and forced it out “—like brothers. It will pain me to think of your soul lost to eternal torment. Cleanse it. Tell me, why did you do it?”
His eyebrow gave a very small twitch and his head moved in a fractional shrug. “Treasure… she promised treasure�
�”
“Treasure?” I repeated, baffled. “What treasure?”
“Lachlan’s hoard… She knew where to find it.”
“Really?” I released his hair with a hard shove and shuffled back to wipe the grease from my jerkin. Lachlan’s hoard was an old tale, one that would normally have brought a caustic laugh to my lips. However, proximity to a gelded and dying man will tend to dampen one’s humour.
Lachlan Dreol was one of the legends of the Shavine Forest, having once been what Deckin would later become: a king among outlaws. However, Lachlan harboured no pretensions towards nobility and contented himself by amassing a great pile of loot. Another aspect of his story that distinguished him from Deckin was that he felt no inclination towards sharing a single bean of it. No alms to the poor were ever given out by Lachlan. The story went that his greed eventually drove him to murderously suspicious ways. Enemies, real and imagined, were hunted down and slain as he became ever more obsessed with keeping hold of every bauble he had ever stolen. Eventually, even his own brothers fell victim to a massacre when Lachlan slipped over the edge into outright madness. It was said he hid his great hoard somewhere amid the crags and caves of the western coast and sealed himself away with it, dying among riches as he raved in the darkness.
An interesting tale and, like all such legends of lost riches, one I felt could be easily discounted. Yet Erchel and his vile kin had apparently sold Deckin out on the promise of this absurd myth. “Drew you a map, did she?” I asked in disgust.
“It’s real, I swear!” Erchel rasped, shuddering with the effort of speaking. Apparently, he was willing to use up his last reserves of strength to make this testament, ridiculous though it was. “Uncle said so… Family secret, y’see… the Hound’s lair, that’s where to find it…”
Hound? The word chimed with something deep in my memory, words spoken by Deckin years before. Where the Hound lays his head. “What hound?” I said. “What lair?”
“Old story Uncle… used to tell us,” Erchel said in a grating whisper. “‘One day… we’ll find the Hound’s lair. Then… we’ll own the whole fucking… forest…’ Our forebears ran with Lachlan… They just didn’t know where he hid it. But… Deckin did, Deckin found the Hound’s lair… It was how he was going to pay… for his great rebellion. He knew… so did she. Except… when it was all done, she kept it… the secret. Deceitful, murdering bitch.”
I took a calming breath, still unconvinced by talk of treasure, but keen to hear more of Lorine’s deceit. “So,” I said, resuming my ghostly intonation, “she betrayed you, like she betrayed us all?”
Erchel’s lips curled again, the sneer angry now. “Was all fine… and good, for a time. We had the whole forest… to ourselves. Then…” He bared his teeth, trembling with the effort. “She had her pet, the duke, set his trap. Called Uncle… and all our kin, to a meeting. Said she was going to… finally tell us where it was… the hoard.” Erchel’s features slackened again, his head slumping against the wall. His breath came in short gasps now and I could tell he had only moments left. “All a lie…” he murmured. “Must’ve been… a thousand of the fuckers, Alwyn. Duke’s men, Crown soldiers… Had to leave Uncle behind… Had to leave them all behind…”
“Lorine,” I pressed, putting my ear close to Erchel’s lips, fighting the mingled stink of loosened bowels and rancid sweat. “She’s with the duke? She sits at his side?”
Erchel’s mouth twisted into the last smile that would ever appear on his face. “In his… bed. But… he’s more her whore than she… is his…”
His words ended in a sudden convulsion, Erchel doubling over to heave a foul-smelling mess from his guts. The stench of it all was enough to force me to my feet and back away, watching him shudder into death. He had a few more words to gabble out, mostly gibberish laced with fearful profanity and a good deal of pitiful begging. I should have enjoyed watching him suffer his way towards a richly deserved death, but I didn’t. Satisfaction, I realised later, was notably absent from my soul at that point. Watching him twitch and jabber all I felt was mounting disgust and impatience for it to be over.
It was only when he neared the end that I discerned some meaning among the babble, a last sibilant rasp almost too faint to hear. “Deckin… told you… to kill me… Didn’t he, Alwyn? That was… why…”
Then he was done. Staring at his limp, wasted form, besmirched by lashings of blood and filth, my disgust gave way to a blossoming of sorrow, like a small treacherous bird chirping away somewhere deep inside. I crushed it with anger, putting a mask of grim relish on my face even though there was no one to see it. The words that came from my mouth were strained, forced into the angry, mocking jibe this vile sadist and murderer so deserved.
“I bet the pigs choke on your poisonous carcass, you worthless fuck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
She was tall, taller than many men in truth. You will no doubt have heard a great deal about how her skin, as pure white as a marble statue, contrasted with the satin blackness of her hair. Also, you will have heard much of the finely sculpted lines of her face, how the sharpness of her cheekbones was softened by the curve of her jaw and fullness of her lips. But this is all a sop intended to please those who demand aesthetic perfection of their idols. Her hair was a deep shade of brown, but it wasn’t fully black, and her skin was certainly fair but not without colour, especially in times of great emotion when it could resemble heated steel. But, upon my first sight of Evadine Courlain, it was not her undoubted beauty that struck me, but the aura of peerless strength she exuded, and her voice, of course. That most wondrous gift required of all true Martyrs.
“Do not imagine that I come with the offer of reward,” she told the assembled sanctuary seekers of Callintor that fine mid-morning. The sky was a cloudless blue and a welcome breeze banished much of the stink common to all cities but did nothing to diminish her voice. It carried to all ears, ringing clear and true, implacably commanding. It was in many ways the strident mirror of Sihlda’s quiet but addictive solicitation. But, whereas Sihlda had a way of leading you on a path to your own devotion, Evadine thrust open the door and demanded you enter.
“Do not delude yourselves that I offer anything but strife and blood,” she went on. “For that is war and war is what the Martyrs demand of us now.”
The stiff breeze added a pinkness to her cheeks that I found very pleasing. It also banished any doubts that this Evadine was not the recipient of Lord Eldurm’s lovelorn correspondence. Seeing her now, I understood my judgement of him as just a heartsick fool had been overly harsh; he had been captured by a woman who had surely done the same to many others without ever trying.
Evadine Courlain turned slowly to cast her gaze over the crowd entire, the low sun gleaming on the armour she wore. Even my inexpert eye could discern the expensive craftsmanship of it, each plate a perfectly shaped steel leaf. Such a suit would surely be the envy of every knight who clapped eyes upon it, even though it possessed none of the ornamentation, embossed finery or enamelled colour so beloved of many a noble. Her armour was entirely functional, its elegance a result of its precision and the form it had been crafted to protect.
“Although we who hold to the Covenant love peace above all,” she continued, her voice taking on a very slight catch, a rawness that bespoke a soul compelled to regretted but inescapable action. “no soul who follows the Martyrs’ example would ever wish harm upon another, but, brothers and sisters, know that we stand now upon the precipice of destruction. Know that the Pretender and his horde of villains are at our throats and will spare none in their greed and their cruelty. So, if you will not fight to protect the innocents they will slaughter, fight at least to protect the divine Covenant that has sheltered you for so long.”
“As long as we work our arses off in return,” Toria muttered at my side. We stood with Brewer near the front of the crowd, a position chosen as a result of the worries that had beset me throughout the night. I had waited until the sky was fully dark before
dragging Erchel’s corpse from the hut. This necessitated missing evening supplications, but that couldn’t be helped. My absence would be noted and some form of punishment applied, but expulsion was unlikely given my value to the scriptorium.
Conveying Erchel’s half-stiff, half-flaccid vessel to the largest and most populous pig pen required bundling him over a succession of walls, an arduous and odorous business that raised a considerable ruckus among the porcine inhabitants. I dumped Erchel in the lee of a west-facing wall close to the roofed enclosure where the pigs slumbered, knowing the rising sun wouldn’t reveal him until midday. By then, with any luck the always ravenous hogs would have done much to reduce him to just another pile of bones among the scraps. It was a far from thorough job but I had little alternative, there being no axe at hand to render Erchel into more easily concealed portions.
I hadn’t told Brewer or Toria about my adventure, although they read my mood with ease. I sat in brooding, nervous silence throughout the night, thoughts returning continually to Smiling Ayin and the tale that was sure to spill from her heedless mouth. Deckin would have killed her too. A dark thought, but a true one. But then I would have had two bodies to feed to the pigs and even they might not be that hungry.
In the morning the custodians came to hector us all to hear the words of the Lady Evadine Courlain, Communicant Captain of the newly raised Covenant Company. The nature of her mission swiftly became obvious and, perhaps, opportune. So, as she spoke that day I felt no great surge of devotion. Not for the Covenant nor, as you might have expected, for her beauteous and magnetic person. I only half listened, my eyes constantly roving the crowd as I fought the outlaw’s instinct to run from imminent trouble. There was always the possibility that Ayin, loon that she was, had forgotten the previous day’s events. Perhaps it would still be possible to resume my original plan: a quick, efficient looting of the chest in the shrine’s storeroom then a simple walk through the gate and on to pastures new. It is, after all, in the nature of fools to hope.