by Anthony Ryan
“It won’t be enough. You know the enemies she has ranged against her. Mortally wounded or not, dead or not, they cannot allow the legend of the Anointed Lady to prosper.” Wilhum grasped my forearm, his grip and features hard with insistence. “She’ll need us. To guard her legacy if not her life. Promise me, Scribe, you’ll not abandon her.”
I wondered why he set so much store in the oath of a low-born outlaw, but the fierceness of his demand bespoke a genuine regard, or at least a recognition of my usefulness in fraught circumstances.
“I’ve been a constant thief,” I told him. “A frequent liar, an occasional fraud and, according to need or rage, a murderer. But—” I tugged my arm free of his grip “—I’ve never yet abandoned a friend.” I gave him a thin, lopsided smile, my bruises aching with it. “I have so few, you see? So it rarely becomes an issue.”
Our arrival at Farinsahl was greeted with weather of an appropriately miserable cast. The port, never an especially picturesque sight, huddled under low clouds of grey and black that spilled recurrent showers on the maze of narrow streets. Evadine, thanks to calm seas and Delric’s assiduous care, still drew breath, albeit in shallow, painful groans. She had regained consciousness a few times during the voyage but only briefly. Swain, Wilhum and I took turns to sit with her when Delric was forced to sleep and it had been my misfortune to witness her first awakening.
I had expected bafflement or pain to be the principal expression to colour her face if she ever awoke, but instead I found myself regarding the dark, glowering visage of an enraged soul.
“I…” she gasped at me, teeth bared as her hands balled into fists. “I… told you… to leave!”
Although she had disconcerted me on many occasions, this was the first time I truly feared her. Mortally stricken, weak and barely able to draw breath, still the depth of resentment and anger in her gaze contrived to stir much the same fear Deckin once had. Her eyes, now somehow rendered as black as the legends would later claim, fixed on mine with unblinking, implacable accusation. The sense of being seen as a traitor after having saved her life for the second time stoked enough anger to banish my fear.
“We couldn’t,” I told her, my tone harsher than one might typically adopt when addressing a dying woman. “If your visions tell you so much, I would have thought they’d have told you that too.”
Her eyes dulled then, showing a small measure of contrition, but mostly just weary regret. “They showed me…” she murmured, head lolling on her pillow as unconsciousness reasserted its grip “… what would happen… if you failed… to… let me die.”
We were met at the end of the long jetty that dominates Farinsahl harbour by a small and somewhat bemused delegation of local officials. The only personage of note was the lord of exchange, his status as de facto overseer of this town arising from the fact that he was an appointed Crown agent and therefore beholden to the king rather than Duke Elbyn. He was, in truth, little more than a glorified tax farmer, but such men can rise high in busy ports if they keep their graft small and ensure the king gets his due.
Swain instructed Wilhum to take care of the necessary formalities, reckoning that his noble tones would suit the occasion better. The lord of exchange, a man of advanced years but undiminished faculties, reacted to the news of Olversahl’s seizure with unconcealed shock. His concern for our wounded captain was less notable, but he did undertake to summon the most able among the local healers. Evadine was duly carried off to his house while Covenant Company were permitted to billet in the dockside sheds normally given over to the wool trade but now standing empty.
“Messengers will be sent to the king and the duke forthwith,” the lord of exchange advised Wilhum in ominous tones. “Know, young sir, that I expect a Crown delegation will arrive as soon as they are able. When they do, prepare yourself and your fellows to provide a full and unexpurgated account of this calamity.”
The fact that he made no mention of Evadine providing such an account said much for what he thought of her chances. It did, however, rouse Wilhum to an unwise pitch of anger. “This company answers only to its captain, my lord,” he replied, the words spoken with precise terseness any noble would surely take as an insult. “She answers only to the Martyrs and the Seraphile.”
I saw recognition in the old tax farmer’s gaze as he bridled. He knew Wilhum’s story and was no doubt about to voice a rebuke and an insult that would escalate this confrontation to unnecessary heights. Stepping between them, I bowed low and spoke in the most obsequious tones I could summon.
“There are many beggared folk among us, my lord. Poor but loyal souls who have forsaken their ancient home to seek the king’s mercy. On their behalf, I beg for shelter and provisions.”
“The king’s mercy is famed,” his lordship said, evidently glad to seize on the chance to display both importance and largesse, a habit to which such men are often prone. “Bring them ashore so that they may know the goodness of King Tomas while I adjourn to gather alms for their succour.”
He gave the most cursory of bows and strode away, barking out instructions to a clerk who hurried in his wake. “Be sure to note every name, and list a full accounting of valuables in their possession…”
“Robbing bastard,” I muttered, knowing that any charity afforded the survivors of Olversahl would likely come at a hefty price.
As befits one who spent much of his days scouring a busy port for every spare coin owed the king, the home of the lord of exchange resembled more a fortress than a house. It had begun life as a gatehouse in the town’s west-facing wall, but successive owners had expanded it to the dimensions of a minor castle, complete with battlements and a defensive ditch. I found it noteworthy that the ditch covered the approaches from the town and didn’t extend beyond the outer walls.
Evadine was placed in a large bedchamber normally given over to visitors of importance who, apparently, once included King Tomas’s famous father during one of his tours of the kingdom. Consequently, his lordship had been permitted to emblazon the chamber wall with a large, garishly coloured rendering of the Algathinet coat of arms. I felt sure Evadine would have preferred to be domiciled in the Shrine to Martyr Ihlander, the largest Covenant structure in the city, but the lord of exchange wouldn’t hear of it. Also, Delric agreed the shrine was far too draughty a place to be conducive to the captain’s recovery.
“Recovery?” I asked him, keeping my voice quiet. I stood at his side in a corner of the room where he busied himself mixing curatives on a small table. Throughout the day the town’s most able healers had all come to peer and prod at Evadine. They formed a parade of mostly aged men and women who all shared the creditable trait of refusing to give false hope to the hopeful. The general consensus was that she might last a week, though one stoop-backed old woman insisted she would endure for two.
“Got the Martyrs’ blessing on her,” she informed us with a confident sniff. “See it plain as day. Ain’t the only one, neither.”
This was certainly true. People had begun to gather the evening after our arrival. At first it was just a score of the port’s most ardent Covenanters, maintaining a silent vigil on the stretch of bare ground beyond the ditch. Come the dawn, they had grown to a hundred souls with more arriving by the hour. I could see them through the half-open shutters on the windows. Some clustered around lay preachers or Supplicants from the shrine, heads bowed as they listened to endlessly recited scripture and murmured their affirmations. Reports had also come of more travelling here from the surrounding villages as word of the Anointed Lady’s return spread, moving faster, it seemed, than a fire through a sun-dried forest.
“‘And though his wounds were grievous and the sand grew dark with his blood, Athil did raise his face to the sky and smile,’” Delric said. It was the only quotation I had heard from his lips, and the most words he had spoken in a single sentence during our acquaintance. I knew this one well, as did every soul with even the most basic education in Covenant lore.
“‘“Why do yo
u smile, teacher?” his followers asked him,’” I said, completing the passage, “‘“for is not death upon you?” “No, my beloved,” he said. “For there is beauty in all life, and life is never lost to a faithful soul, regardless of what wounds may afflict the body.”’”
It was the closest Delric had come to acknowledging Evadine’s impending demise, and I could see from the tension in his jaw how it had cost him.
“What you did after the Traitors’ Field,” he said. He didn’t look at me, his strong hands busy with a mortar and pestle as he concocted another blending of herbs and mysterious powder.
“What of it?” I asked after a careful glance at Ayin. She hadn’t strayed far from Evadine throughout the voyage and now refused to be excluded from the room. When not called upon to change bandages or see to the captain’s bodily needs, Ayin spent her time in agitated pacing or sitting and staring in forlorn desperation at Evadine’s wan features. Still, however preoccupied Ayin might have appeared, who could say what she might hear and blithely gabble out later?
Delric’s hands didn’t cease their labour, the veins standing out in stark relief as they worked the pestle. When he spoke, his voice was soft enough to be part muffled by the grind of stone on stone. “Can it be done again?”
“You know what you ask of me?” I murmured back, deciding not to elaborate with any talk of heathen practices.
The pestle ceased its grind and he turned to me, gaze hard and intent. “I do. So do Sergeant Swain and Lord Wilhum.”
Then we’ll all burn together, I thought, unable to keep a hollow laugh from my lips. “He’s not a lord any longer,” I said, my humour fading quickly in the face of his stony visage. “I don’t know,” I added with a sigh of honest despair. “I would have to find… her. If she can be found.”
“Two weeks is… optimistic.” Delric’s eyes slipped to Evadine, once so vital and tall, now made small by the largeness of the bed she lay in and the encroaching reach of death. “But, not impossible.”
Wherever there’s a muster, there she’ll be. At least according to Sergeant Lebas, who could be lying at the bottom of the Shalewell River for all I knew. It was a thin thread but I had no others to follow. Besides, her final words that night after she healed Brewer afforded some reason to believe that this might not be a hopeless mission, albeit one I didn’t relish. The next service you require of me will entail a far greater debt. Be sure you’re willing to pay it.
“I’ll need a horse,” I said. “And coin. A good deal of coin.”
They all wanted to come with me – Toria, Swain, Wilhum and Brewer. I suspected the entire company would have marched out in search of the Sack Witch had they been asked. All save Ayin, of course, who found the thought of shifting from Evadine’s side unthinkable. I refused them all. Something warned me that seeking out the Caerith woman could only be done alone; the bargain I would need to strike was between the two of us and no other.
Wilhum had used company funds to purchase the swiftest mount he could find, a piebald mare with mercifully kinder manners than Karnic the craven. When I mounted up, Swain handed me a purse bulging with letins and a few silver sovereigns.
“The company payroll,” he said. The fact that he felt no reluctance in placing such a fortune in my hands said a great deal about his current priorities. “Promise more if you have to.”
In truth, I had no great faith that the Sack Witch had any more interest in coin than she had in Wilhum’s armour. But it couldn’t hurt to have funds at hand if need arose.
“Where will you look?” Wilhum asked.
“There’s talk of Duke Elbyn’s sheriff hiring fighters for a sweep of the woods,” I said. “A village ten miles north or so. It’s the only muster of any size I could glean gossip of. A place to start, at least.”
Wilhum forced a smile and slapped a hand to the piebald’s rump. “Ride swiftly, Scribe.”
I had a decent knowledge of the roads around Farinsahl, having done some thieving here years ago. Keeping to the east road, I turned north at the crossroads two miles from the port as it afforded the most direct route to the upper marches. My piebald mare was bred for speed and soon grew fractious at being kept to a mere canter. She spurred happily to a gallop at the first brush of my heels to her flanks, maintaining it for an impressive passage of time until the sky began to dim.
And so, cherished reader, began the fabled, perilous quest of Alwyn Scribe as he went in search of the Sack Witch. Many were the miles he rode through the dark forest. Frequent were the dangers he faced. Mighty were the foes he slew, until, finally, near dead from his travails, he found her. Or, at least that’s the tale many a storyteller will spin you in exchange for a meal and a place by the fire.
The true story is that my quest lasted barely a few hours from the gates of Farinsahl. It would have been prudent to force the mare to a walk then make camp when the night became truly dark. However, I remained a novice rider and, preoccupied with the task of remaining in the saddle, failed to notice the rope stretched across the road until an instant before the mare’s forelegs collided with it.
I heard bones snap as I flew from her back, the mare letting out a shrill whinny of agonised distress. I landed hard, without benefit of the cushioned armour that made such tumbles easier to bear. I had left my armour behind when I’d set out, not without regret for I nurtured a peculiar fondness for the mismatched collection the more I wore it. My regret deepened to despair as I lay stunned on the verge, mouth gaping in an attempt to fill suddenly emptied lungs.
“She said you would be too clever for this trick.” A soft laugh somewhere beyond my sight, the voice accented and, despite the intervening years, immediately and dreadfully familiar. “She was wrong.”
I couldn’t see his face as he loomed above, but the shape of him was unmistakable, the shaggy mane of his hair as he leaned closer adding to the impression of a dire spectre summoned from a nightmare.
“Hit a man just a gentle tap and he can still die,” the chainsman said, something small and shiny gleaming in his hand. “And she wants you breathing and whole. So no hitting for you. Cutting comes later…”
Hard fingers gripped my face, a knee pressing into my chest to stop me rising. I got a good look at the shiny thing as the chainsman tipped it, his iron-like fingers forcing my jaw open. It was a small bottle, dripping a thick and foul liquid into my mouth. I was fortunate enough to faint before I tasted the concoction in full, but recalling even that brief tinge still makes me shudder. If death had a taste, that was surely it.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I awoke to the tuneless dirge I recalled from the cart that had carried me to the Pit Mines, quickly coming to the doleful conclusion that the chainsman’s voice hadn’t improved over the years. As my eyes regained focus, the sense of unwelcome familiarity increased at the sight of manacles encasing my wrists. Also, a thick chain encircled my chest and the hard, rough bulk of a tree trunk pressed into my back. A crack of burning wood snapped my gaze to a bulky, fur-clad silhouette crouching at a fire.
His song faded and he straightened a little but didn’t turn. Clearly, he still took great delight in showing his back to his captives. “So, you are awake,” he said with the same accented precision. “You are stronger now. The boy has become a man, eh?” This evidently amused him for he gave one of the shrill, if muted, giggles I remembered so well.
I said nothing, raising my gaze to the sky. It was still dark but the fading moon told me we were nearing the onset of dusk. Lowering my head, I surveyed our surroundings, seeing just an anonymous clearing that could have been anywhere in the Shavine Forest. Despite this, I reasoned it couldn’t be more than a few hours since my capture, putting us only a couple of miles from the road.
“Still much given to calculation, I see.” The chainsman glanced over his shoulder to partially reveal his mottled, flame-marked face, one eye glittering. “It did not help you then. It will not help you now.”
I stared into that eye. The intervening years had g
iven me ample time to ponder this man and, while I would have been a fool not to fear him, the principal emotion that rose in me then was not terror, but hate-filled anger.
“She said you were cursed,” I told him. “She said whatever your heathen ability is, it lies to you, leads you along paths best untravelled—”
He moved with a speed that I would have thought impossible for one of his bulk. The fur-clad silhouette vanishing from the fire in a blur, my words choking off a second later as his hand closed on my throat. My vision dimmed as he leaned closer and I heard a sharp intake of breath above the sudden pounding in my ears.
“The Doenlisch,” he hissed, voice quivering with a mix of hunger and barely suppressed terror. Despite the pain, I felt a perverse sense of triumph mingled with recognition as he spoke these words, the same words he had spoken to Raith before he’d murdered him. It appeared I had at least secured one answer this night, not that it aided me at this juncture.
“I smell her on you.” His hand tightened on my throat. “Is she near? Does she follow you?”
Still my own fear failed to blossom in full and I found the fortitude to afford him a glaring sneer, keeping my jaw firmly closed. The chainsman squeezed tighter still, then stopped, his hand trembling on my neck before he snatched it away.
He muttered something in his own tongue, stepping back, his hands stroking his fur cloak in a way that put me in mind of a child seeking reassurance. His gaze roved the irregular shadows of the surrounding trees, eyes bright in wary expectation.
“Doenlisch,” I rasped after a bout of painful coughing. “I don’t know this word.” Raising my head, I arched an eyebrow at him. “What does it mean?”
He stared back at me, the pale portions of his face standing out stark and near white in the dark. In that moment I saw him not as the spectre drawn from a nightmare. Now he was merely a man rendered pathetic by fears he had nurtured for a very long time. But all moments are fleeting, and so it proved with the chainsman. The flame mask of his face grew dark with rage, his fists bunching. I suspect he would surely have beaten me to death then, had not necessity kept him check.