‘Then why didn’t you prepare me for that? I could earn nothing here in this keep while the rest of you were out fighting! You have doomed me, damn you!’
Urusander leaned back at his son’s tirade. Then he said, ‘Because, son, for you I wanted something better.’
* * *
Osserc did not even recognize the room he found. It was small, crammed full of rolled-up tapestries from the rooms above. The bare stone floor was littered with moth carcasses and the air was rank with the smell of mould. Locking the door he threw himself down on a musty heap piled up along one wall. Shudders took him as he wept. He hated his weakness: even rage unmanned him. He thought back to Renarr, and saw anew the look in her eyes – which had not been tenderness. It had been pity that he saw. Even now, he suspected, she was spinning the tale to her giggling friends.
He wrapped his arms about his folded-up legs and rested his forehead on his knees, still fighting the tears, but now they marked his shame, his helplessness. His father held to glory as a miser clutched the world’s last coin. There was nothing here for Osserc; nothing for a son chained to childhood.
He would seal me in wax. Place me upon the highest shelf in some dusty room. To lie there, like some preserved memory. My father remembers innocent days and yearns for a return to his own childhood. But as that cannot be, he would make me what he once was, and keep me there: Vatha Urusander before the wars.
I am his nostalgia. I am his selfishness made manifest.
I will leave here. Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon. I will leave and not return. Not return until I am ready, until I have made myself anew. Indeed, Father, I am to inherit nothing from you, nothing at all. Especially not your weakness.
I will set out. Seeking truths. Seeking my place, and when I return I shall blaze with triumph, with power. I shall be a man such as … as Anomander himself. You think me not clever, Father? But I am. You think me unwise? You are to blame for what wisdom I lack, but no matter. I shall find my own wisdom.
I shall leave Kurald Galain.
And ride alone into the world.
To such bold claims, he saw in his mind his father’s face, and that look of disappointment as the old man said, ‘Alone, son? Weren’t you listening? Your fears will run with you, like a pack of wolves howling to bring you down. The only true solitude, to any man, to any woman, to any thinking being, is death.’
‘I know that,’ he whispered in reply, lifting his head and wiping at his cheeks. ‘I know that. Let the wolves close in – I will kill them all, one by one, I will kill them all.’
His head pounded; he was hungry, but all he could manage was to lie down upon the rolls of cloth and close his eyes. Pain had its own teeth, sharp and eager, and they sank deep into him. Bite by bite, they could tear him away – they were welcome to all that was lying here – until nothing was left.
The shell was gone, shattered by an old man who had tried to convince him that a cell was a palace, and imprisonment a gift. Even Hunn Raal had lied to him. Hunn Raal, an object of contempt to the man whose very life he had saved. Was it any wonder the fool drank to excess?
But he’s been very busy, Father. Speaking in your name. That part was easy, since all he had to fill was silence. You do not even know it, but he has your future all mapped out. You’ve surrendered all choice, dear Father.
I am glad you didn’t raise the flag. The Legion is no longer yours, although you do not yet know that, either. It will march in your name, however. That it will do.
Changes are coming, coming to us all.
* * *
Over the next two days Osserc avoided his father, taking his meals in his chambers. He gathered together all that he would need, selecting two swords, including a hundred-year-old Iralltan blade – that forge, rival to the Hust, had been destroyed by the Forulkan, the family slaughtered and the keep fired. The mines had been later taken over in yet another example of Henarald’s acquisitive greed. The weapon had been a gift from Hunn Raal, and it was finely made, bearing an elegance of line that no Hust weapon could match. Osserc had never used it when sparring, although his practice weapon was a perfect match in balance, reach and weight. His other sword was from a secondary family forge, under the ownership of the Hust but tasked with making weapons for Urusander’s Legion. It was plain but serviceable, and held its edge well, although twice the bars of the hilt had been replaced after cracking round the grip.
Many veterans claimed that the Hust had deliberately supplied inferior weapons to Urusander’s Legion, but this was the subject of guarded mutterings in the barracks, since Lord Urusander, upon hearing that opinion, had revealed a rare loss of temper, publicly dressing down the officer who had voiced the suspicion.
Osserc believed the soldiers, although apart from the bars, his Legion sword bore no flaws in workmanship. The iron was free of tin pits and the blade was impressively true.
In addition to these weapons, he selected a hunting knife, a dagger and three lances. The armour he chose was not the full dress set: silver filigree invited a thief’s eye and besides, it was too heavy to suit his fighting style. Instead, he selected a thick but supple leather hauberk, studded over the thighs to pull its weight down. Stained black, it was reinforced beneath the leather on the shoulders and the back of the neck with iron strips bound to the quilting of the inner layer. The heavily studded sleeves ended at his elbows where they were joined by thick straps to his vambraces, which were of matching black leather but banded in bared iron. Over all of this he wore a grey cloak, since the leather of his armour did not fare well under the harsh sun.
The helm he chose was a light skullcap of blued iron with a chain camail.
At two bells past midnight on the third night, he carried his gear down to the stables, making use of side passages to avoid the main rooms where the occasional guard wandered. He had done as Hunn Raal had asked of him. He had delivered the news of the Vitr. His responsibilities were at an end, and whatever might now happen in Kurald Galain, he would play no part in it. In fact, he had ceased to care.
He reached the stables undiscovered, and once there he set about saddling his two horses. They had been reshoed since his return and he took a moment to examine the work. Satisfied, he loaded his camp gear on to Neth’s broad back, including two of the lances and the Legion sword. From this moment forward, he would wear the Iralltan blade.
He led both mounts outside and swung on to his warhorse. Both animals were restless as he rode across the courtyard. At the gate two guards emerged.
‘Late to be riding, milord,’ one said.
In the gloom Osserc could not recognize the man, although his voice was vaguely familiar. ‘Just open the gate,’ he said.
The men complied and moments later Osserc rode through and out on to the track. For a change, the route down into the town was unobstructed. Once among the low buildings he eased Kyril into a slow trot. At one point he thought he heard running feet off to his left, crossing an alley, but when he turned he saw little more than a dark shape, quickly vanishing from sight.
He thought nothing of it until, upon reaching the last buildings on the north edge of the settlement, he found a figure standing in the lane before him. Curious, Osserc reined in.
‘You have business with me?’ he asked.
There was some light bleeding out from a house on one side, enough for Osserc to see that it was a man who was blocking his path. Young, heavy-set, breathing hard from his run. It seemed his hands were stained and they hung half curled at his sides.
‘She told me everything,’ the man said. ‘It took a while, but she told me everything.’ He stepped forward. ‘Y’think I couldn’t see? Couldn’t tell that she’d changed? Y’think I’m blind? I been waitin’ for you, sir. Keepin’ an eye on the road. I knew if you lit out, it’d be in the dark.’
Osserc dismounted. He approached the man, and saw now, clearly, the welts and cuts on the man’s knuckles, the kind made by someone’s teeth.
‘You shouldn’t of done that, s
ir. She was sweet. She was pure.’
As Osserc continued advancing, the man’s eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring. When he began tugging free his knife Osserc leapt forward. He blocked the draw and closed one hand tightly on the wrist, forcing it down. His other hand found the man’s throat. He squeezed hard and continued squeezing, even as the man reached up and fought to pull free.
‘You beat her?’ Osserc asked. ‘That sweet, pure woman?’
The eyes before him were bulging, the face darkening. Osserc drew out the man’s knife and flung it away. The man’s legs gave out before him and his weight yanked at Osserc’s grip, so he brought up his other hand to join the first one. He saw the man’s tongue protrude, strangely black and thick.
His struggles weakened, and then ceased entirely.
Osserc studied the lifeless eyes. He was not sure if he had intended to kill the fool. But it was done now. He released his grip and watched as the body crumpled on to the dirt track.
I killed someone. Not in battle – no, it was in battle. Well, close enough. He went for his knife. He came to me, thinking to stab me. To murder me. And he beat Renarr – I saw the proof of that. He beat her like a coward. Might be he killed her – would I have heard? I stayed in my room, stayed away from the taverns. I know nothing of what’s happened in town.
He beat her to death, but justice was mine, mine to deliver.
He found himself back on his horse, riding clear of Neret Sorr, winding tracks, low stone walls and farmhouses before him. He was trembling and his left hand ached.
He had been counted strong, even by the soldiers he’d sparred with. And he had, with one hand, just crushed a man’s throat. A grip that had seemed filled with rage, with almost mindless fury – if only it had blinded him; if only he’d not been able to see the man’s face, his eyes, his open mouth and the jutting tongue. Somehow, even that ghastly mask had simply made him squeeze harder.
Osserc could not understand what had happened, how any of this had happened. He had meant to ride away unseen by anyone, setting forth on a new life. Instead, in his wake they would find a dead man, strangled, a parting gift of horror from the Lord’s son.
Thoughts of his father struck him then, like blows to the body that left him sickened. He urged Kyril into a fast canter, fighting to stifle a moan.
The night, so vast around him, seemed to mock him with its indifference. The world held no regard for his feelings, his fears; the mad cavort of all the things filling his head. It cared nothing for the ache in his left hand and how it felt as if it still grasped that throat – the throat with its hard muscles that slowly surrendered to the ever-tightening pressure of his grip, and the way the windpipe finally crumpled into something soft and ringed that moved too easily, too loosely. All these sensations roiled in his fingers, in the flattened throb of his palm, and though he dared not look down, he knew he would see murder’s own stain – a stain invisible to everyone else but unmistakable to his own eyes.
Hunched over, he rode on. And there came then a bleak thought, repeating in his mind amidst the thumping drums of horse hoofs.
The darkness is not enough.
* * *
Beneath bright morning light, Serap rode into Neret Sorr from the south track. Once on the high street, she swung her horse left and made for the keep road. But the way ahead was blocked by a flat-bed wagon, the ox rigged to it, and a small crowd. Three of the town’s constabulary were there, and Serap saw two young men approach from a lane opposite, carrying a body between them on a canvas tarp. They clutched the corners but kept losing their grip. Though other men walked with them none made a move to help.
Reining in, Serap looked to the nearest constable and saw that the man was studying her. After a moment he stepped forward.
‘Lieutenant Serap.’
She studied him. ‘Ex-Legion, yes? Ninth Company.’
‘Sergeant Yeld, sir. I was on Sharenas’s staff.’
‘What has happened here?’
‘Murder last night, sir. A local got strangled.’
‘If you’ve a mind to hunt down the killer,’ she said, ‘I have some experience at that. Has he run or he is holed up somewhere?’
All at once the sergeant looked uncomfortable. ‘Not sure, sir. No witnesses.’
‘Is there a seer in town?’
‘Old Stillhap up at the keep, sir. We haven’t sent for him yet.’
Serap dismounted. Her back was sore. She’d ridden hard from Kharkanas, bearing the latest news along with Hunn Raal’s usual exhortations to ensure that she spoke directly with Lord Urusander. Although the news she had been instructed to give him made her uneasy, since much of it was close to a lie, she was now committed. Still, a minor delay here in town might give her time to compose her thoughts, quell her misgivings, before seeing Urusander. ‘I will examine the body,’ she said, walking over to where the two men had finally reached the wagon with their burden.
The sergeant joined her. ‘Mason’s apprentice, though his master tells us he ain’t been showing for work up at the keep the past two days, and no one recalls seeing him in that time either. He was up to something, I suppose.’
The body was on the bed now and Serap climbed aboard the wagon. She drew the canvas to one side, revealing the corpse.
Yeld grunted. ‘Ugly way to die, sir.’
‘Not a rope or garrotte.’
‘No sir. Was hands that done that.’
‘Not hands, sergeant. One hand.’
Mutters sounded from the crowd now gathered round.
Serap straightened. ‘Takes a strong man to do that. I see a knife sheath at his belt but no knife.’
‘Found a dozen paces away, sir,’ said Yeld.
‘Blood on it?’
‘No. But look at his hands – seems he fought back.’
‘Anyone with a bruised face in this mob?’ Serap asked with a half-smile as she scanned the townsfolk. ‘No,’ she added. ‘That would be too easy.’
Someone spoke from the crowd. ‘Anyone seen Renarr?’
‘Who’s Renarr?’ Serap asked.
‘The woman he was courting,’ Yeld replied. ‘From what I gather.’
‘Millick was courtin’ and plannin’ t’marry,’ someone else said.
‘Where does this Renarr live?’
Yeld pointed to a solid stone house at the western end of the high street, close to the Tithe Gate.
‘Send anyone over there yet?’
‘Sir, she’s Gurren’s daughter. Gurren was married to Captain Shellas.’
‘And?’
‘And Gurren’s got no love for Legion. Or ex-Legion. I doubt we could get in the door.’
‘But she needs to be told, sergeant. Out of decency, she needs to know.’
‘I expect she knows, sir. It’s been on everyone’s tongue all morning, this whole mess.’
Serap returned to her horse. She gestured Yeld close and kept her voice low as she said, ‘Was this Gurren’s work? Did the boy – Millick – rape his daughter, you think? Knock her up?’
Yeld clawed at his beard, squinting at the ground. ‘Gurren’s got a temper. And he used to be a smith – still has a hand in, so long as it ain’t Vatha or Legion work. But sir, no one wants to lose a smith. This town’s only got the one who ain’t working day and night for Lord Urusander. I admit, living here now, I’m pretty reluctant to stir up a wasp nest—’
‘A mason’s apprentice was murdered in the street, sergeant.’
‘And no one’s looking at Old Smith Gurren. That’s the problem.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Meaning I heard from one of last night’s High Gate guards that Osserc rode out two bells past midnight, trailing a spare mount and kitted for a journey. He ain’t come back, and it gets worse.’
‘How?’
‘Clean horse tracks on the lane up to and then around the body. Freshly shoed, just like Osserc’s mounts were. Osserc’s probably the strongest man I know, lieutenant. Take all that and add to
rumours from a few days ago, about Renarr coming back late from the stream – same track as Osserc rode in on earlier that morning … so you see, right now there’s rumours and just rumours and still plenty of mysteries. It’s a wasp nest no matter which side we kick at it.’
Serap cursed under her breath. ‘That gate guard been talking?’
‘Just to me.’
‘And those horse tracks?’
‘I took note, since I was put in mind of Urusander’s boy riding out. But I don’t think anyone else noticed. Get plenty of riding back and forth, and I obscured the path that went round the body. Scuffed it up, I mean.’
‘I know what you meant,’ she replied, irritated with the detail. ‘Has Lord Urusander been informed of any of this?’
‘Not yet, sir. I was on my way when you arrived.’
‘You could clear Gurren by making him put his left hand round the dead man’s neck – see if the imprint fits.’
‘Yes, sir, I could, though the body’s starting to swell up some.’
‘But if you did and Gurren was cleared of suspicion, you’d be left with one choice—’
‘Yes, sir, and it’s a rumour already out here. Going after Gurren would make it worse, if you see what I mean. Worse for Lord Urusander. Worse for the Legion.’
‘You’ve thought this through, Yeld.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘We can’t make it go away, sir, but we can let it rust.’
Serap swung into the saddle. ‘I will report all this to Lord Urusander.’
‘All of it?’
‘All that he needs to hear. There’s been a murder. No witnesses and no suspects. The rest is just base speculation. The loss of a mason’s apprentice will be a hardship on the family, and no doubt the mason, too, and we both know that the commander will do what’s necessary to ease their loss.’
The sergeant nodded up at her. ‘Very good, lieutenant. Oh, and welcome.’
She eyed him jadedly at that, but he seemed sincere. She edged her horse past the wagon and then through the crowd. The mood around her wasn’t yet ugly, which was something. She did not envy Yeld and his squad.
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