‘We are not lovers,’ said Mathilde indignantly.
‘Are you not? I shall rephrase it then – would-be lovers – for I feel at least one of you wishes it were the case.’
‘You have quite the mouth on you,’ said Morgan. ‘Perhaps we should nail your tongue to the wall.’
‘As you wish, it would be easier to kill me, though.’
‘Why are you so desperate to die?’ asked Mathilde.
‘It is the price of failure. Your man lived, so my life is forfeit. I would ask that when you kill me you make it quick, but in truth I am entirely at your mercy in that regard.’
Mathilde turned to Morgan. ‘Just give her what she wishes; we are wasting our time here and the smell gets no better.’
‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘There are still many things to discuss with her; I agree, though, that this is not the place for it. Tell me, my erstwhile assassin, what is your name?’
‘An odd request – is it important? Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter if you know. It is Syalin, if the matter interests you.’
‘Are you Chiran?’
‘Now that would be telling.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Morgan. ‘I know you are not Chiran. I know more about you than you think. I am transferring you to a cell in the keep’s small prison. It usually houses nobles who commit crimes against their baron, so, as you can imagine, it is nicer than this place. I will see you again in a couple of days.’
Back in the courtyard, Morgan called a guard over as Mathilde handed her torch to the other one still on duty.
‘Transfer her to the keep’s prison. She is dangerous so keep her wrists bound and on a chain. Give her some freedom, though; I want her to be able to move around a little if only to clean herself up. Oh and burn her clothes and sluice her down; she smells like a tannery in high summer. Give her a linen robe or something, something simple like the sisters of Meriel wear. One other thing, I saw her bodice had been partly unlaced; I am not accusing you but somebody has been putting their hands where they do not belong; see that no one does it again. Now, I need to get back to my rooms.’
Morgan’s strength was failing, and Astania and Mathilde had to provide much assistance to get him back to his bed; once there, he collapsed on to it, falling into sleep even as Astania went to remove his bloodied bandages.
He woke again in darkness, the room being lit by a mere couple of candles. He was angry at his infirmity and the restrictions it imposed upon him. He sighed in his frustration and it was only then that he noticed a figure sitting by his bed.
‘I leave you on your own for a few days and you end up full of more holes than a sponge. I really do wonder how you managed to stay alive before you met me.’
Morgan laughed softly and shook his head. ‘Hello, Itheya; where is Astania?’
‘I have sent her away. She needed rest. She told me you have some very impressive scars, though she would not say exactly where they are to be found. It is late in the evening; everyone is abed. I said I would stay with you till morning. That low sofa is very comfortable, so I have somewhere to sleep if need be.’
‘I have been hearing that the enemy is greatly afeard of you; you keep sending us their supply wagons, which is very considerate of you, what with it being winter and the constant threat of besiegement and everything. So why have you come to visit this invalid when things are going so well?’
‘I will tell you shortly. First, tell me where the head is of this woman that tried to kill you? I wish to pay it some disrespect.’
‘It’s still attached to her neck for now; she may be of more use alive than dead. That is something I need to determine.’
Itheya’s eyes were raised to the ceiling. ‘You are too soft. If she had done that to me, her death would be long and painful. I cannot see what “use” she can be to you alive.’
Morgan levered himself up a little so he could see her a little better, though she was still mostly a silhouette to him. ‘I tell you what, you do the fighting and I will do the politics. This girl is from a country opposed to the one that backs the people you have been fighting. So why is she here? Trust me – I need to find out.’
The elf shook her head. ‘Humans and their infighting. Although my people are little better, as I am slowly learning.’
Morgan detected the sadness in her voice. ‘What do you mean?’
Itheya did not reply immediately. Instead, she reached out and gently took his damaged hand in her own.
‘Father is dead. He is dead and my brother wishes to usurp the leadership of the tribe. I need to return, maybe even to kill him, or be killed by him – I do not know’
‘Artorus’s teeth, Itheya, I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yes, there is. I will admit my reasons for sending everyone away were not entirely selfless.’
He tried gripping her hand a little, but the pain prevented him.’ Go on.’
She released his hand and stood, turning her back to him.
‘You cannot imagine standing before your people when the news was given to you and having to react as if it meant nothing, as if the messenger was talking of bad weather to come or horses refusing to eat their feed. I am unable to grieve as I should, not in front of the war band. I want to weep for my father, Morgan. Maybe just for tonight, away from everybody, I can. With you.’
Morgan propped his back up against the headboard. ‘Look at me.’
She turned and resumed her seat. Morgan stroked her cheek ever so slightly and she did not move away. ‘So this is our night together then.’
She laughed softly. ‘Not quite as I have imagined it, but yes, I suppose it is.’
Morgan swallowed and made a decision. ‘The mage, Cheris, she is a few rooms down the hall. The other day I told her something about myself, something few people know. I feel I owe it to you to repeat it again.’
And so he told her of his wife and family and what happened to them ten long years ago. He tried to discern her response as he spoke but could see only shadow and the barest of light flickering softly in her eyes.
He finished and coughed a little. Itheya passed him some water which he drank thirstily. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I had no idea. I hope my occasional forwardness with you has not offended.’
‘It has not,’ he replied. ‘Cheris said I should move on and I should not mourn for ever. I suppose she is right, but it is difficult to accept it sometimes.’
‘I would agree with her, but maybe tonight is not the best time to speak of you putting the past to rest. I doubt you could manage any form of infidelity in your current state anyway.’
They both laughed together, Itheya went and blew out the candles, then returned to her chair, laying her head against his midriff. Morgan put his hand around her feeling her soft warmth. In this way many minutes passed until finally he became aware of her shaking, almost imperceptibly against him. There was no noise and he was going to ask her if he could do anything. Then he realised that he already was.
For Itheya, heir presumptive of the Morioka tribe, was weeping.
15
Sir Varen, Knight of the Eagle Claw, slowly and carefully breathed in the scent of pine resin and serenely reflected on the events of the past few weeks.
Holed up in Zerannon as they were, he, Samson and Leon had slowly come to the conclusion that, if one were not well heeled and there for the waters, it was probably the most boring place in the whole of Tanaren. They had had to change inns a while ago, Samson’s nocturnal visits to the female staff being discovered by the good landlord who, with the help of his burly relatives, gave the philanderer a fairly rigorous going over. He and Leon had to intercede, dragging the other man away while dishing out a hiding to his attackers. The new inn they found was colder and more expensive and had poorer food but at least the serving girls were uglier.
The arrival of Baron Richney with a small army, then, had come as a gift from the Gods. Immediately they had sought them out and explained what they were doing
here. It had come as a surprise then that Morgan and Cedric were not only still alive but had crossed the mountains with the Wych folk. They were a little disgruntled at not being told at first, but after a few reflective drinks decided that they had probably never had the chance to send a message to them. So they volunteered to show Richney the island where Morgan had met the Wyches so they could leave the (frankly substandard) weapons of iron he was carrying there. That done, they had tagged along with the army, which was heading for Athkaril to meet the Grand Duke solely for the want of anything better to do. However, as the army followed the sprightly river Kada as it ran and danced in its picturesque tree-lined valley, they had a change of heart. Spying an elderly man fishing on the river, they paid him a pretty sum to ferry them over to the far bank. From there it was only a few days through the woods to Shayer Ridge and a further short journey from there to Felmere itself. They decided to travel to Varen’s hometown first and decide what to do next when they got there.
And that was where they were now, some two days from Shayer Ridge, swathed in furs against the cold. There had been a light falling of snow the night before, giving the landscape a rugged beauty – high conical pines stood out black, stark and bleak against the patchy white carpet of the land beneath.
They were in Baron Lasgaart’s country. Most people lived in the flatter, more fertile land some miles to the south, but a few of the hardier subjects lived up here, either to log or to fish or to burn charcoal. They had passed a couple of villages so far in their travels and it had been a dispiriting sight. War, or its rumour, was everywhere. Children were thin and undernourished, clinging to each other and staring silently with their large blank eyes as the strangers passed. Their parents were suspicious, treating all armed men as potential enemies, even those bearing Lasgaart’s colours. Varen spoke to those he could, Fenchard’s men were in the southern towns and their own baron had fled north some days earlier, so he hadn’t allied with the traitor baron as yet. He had appeared to have given up on his lands, though; none of his men remained to fight here now, so it was more than possible they were travelling through enemy-occupied lands.
So, no fire and little conversation had been the norm for the last couple of days, something that had done little to lighten the mood. Samson was scouting ahead; they could barely make him out for the trees and the snow, for when the sun did appear through the clouds the reflection off the ground was strong enough to force them to shield their eyes. Leon was grumbling as quietly as he could as he checked the tension in his bow for the thousandth time that morning.
‘I could tell Fenchard was an arrogant little shit but I never thought he could sink as low as this.’ It was a statement Varen had heard from him again and again. ‘And to get all those men to follow him, too; if I was born in Haslan Falls I would have fled rather than follow him.’
‘It sounds like a lot of his men weren’t from Haslan Falls, though. He has been taking Arshuman coin and could pay enough prisoners, foreigners and sellswords to intimidate those true men that had served him for years before.’
‘They still could have fled, though.’ Leon sounded unconvinced.
‘And have Trask chasing after them? Say they have families. They could not flee so easily and from what I have heard of him he would think nothing of exacting retribution on them. What if he caught your Miriam?’
Leon did not reply; obviously Varen’s point had struck home. The two men walked on a little further when Leon grabbed the other man’s arm.
‘Samson is waving to us; he must have seen something.’
As quickly as they could, they joined the other man who was crouched down behind some low brush staring intently ahead.
‘What is it?’ Leon whispered, lying next to him.
‘A village, but I can’t see any people. There is something wrong here. See the trailing smoke?’
The village was made up of half a dozen wooden cabins built in a semicircle. It was surrounded by a shallow ditch crossed by a wooden plank bridge not fifty yards from them. From behind the buildings a thin wisp of smoke climbed wanly into the treetops; they could not see what was causing it. The place was utterly silent; it had to be deserted.
‘Over there.’ Varen pointed northwards to a small clearing partially separated from the buildings. There was a small shack surrounded by a couple of mounds of burned and blackened wood. Some wooden posts were stuck into the frozen ground with rectangular cross pieces nailed to them.
‘A cemetery,’ said Leon. ‘What of it?’
‘Two recent pyres; it seems a lot for such a small place.’
Both the other men nodded in agreement. As was usual among those who followed the Church of Artorus, the dead were first burned then their bones and ash buried. A post of remembrance was then placed over them with a crosspiece giving the person’s name and an outline of their life. Of course most people could not read the dedications, so they often added their own crosspieces carved with an image of Xhenafa along with any other pertinent symbols – a shoe for a cobbler, a barrel for a cooper and so forth. Carvings of spouses and children were often made, too. In larger towns these days burning the dead could become problematic, so such ceremonies often took place outside the city walls after the funeral service in the church. Only important people such as Baron Felmere were burned within city walls but, as long as the dead were released to Xhenafa through fire, the manner in which it happened was not so important.
‘Well, shall we go in to the village?’ Samson asked without enthusiasm.
‘It does seem deserted,’ his cousin replied.
‘But somebody could be lying in wait; there are a thousand places for an army to hide.’ Varen was feeling an impending sense of dread about the entire situation.
‘Lying in wait for whom?’ said Leon. ‘Not us, no one knows we are here.’
‘Let’s go in,’ said Samson. ‘If we see anyone, run like one of Keth’s demons are after us.’
He stood and, boots crunching the snow underfoot, went to cross the bridge, Leon close behind. Varen looked to the heavens, uttered a silent prayer to Destrien, a minor god associated with Mytha and a bringer of good luck, and followed the other two some twenty paces behind.
He caught up with them as they arrived at the cabins. The windows had no glass and all the shutters were closed and covered with hides. All the doors were shut, too, apart from one which was slightly ajar and creaking forlornly in the breeze. Varen gripped his mace and gritted his teeth; the silence carried more threat than a hundred charging warriors.
‘Let’s see that smoke,’ he whispered to the others.
Slowly, they split up and, using the cabin walls as cover, moved towards the source of the smoke. Varen crouched just as the other two were doing and slowly craned his neck past the covering wall of the building he was using for concealment. But there was barely anything to see – just one fire outside the circular ditch which had burned down to its smouldering embers. Beyond it just a few feet away was the tree line. Whoever had made the fire had departed a while hence.
Uttering a huge sigh of relief, Varen went up to the fire, closely followed by his companions. The earth and snow around the fire had been churned up by a great many feet. He let Leon, a far better tracker than he, try to fathom what had happened here.
‘There were quite a few heavy built men here,’ Leon said thoughtfully, ‘and there appears to have been something of a struggle. There are some blood flecks and it looks like somebody has fallen here. But there are women and children, too; they have been standing here almost in single file. It is strange. It looks like they went this way, maybe one or possibly two hours ago.’ He pointed eastwards through the trees.
‘Well?’ said Varen. ‘It is going more or less in the direction we want to go. Do we follow them or not’
‘I thought you weren’t interested in seeing what has happened here?’ Samson was smiling.
‘Well, we don’t have to get involved, just watch. We can head off to Shayer Ridge any time w
e want to. Having said that, it seems pretty likely that all this land is Fenchard’s now, so we need to be very, very careful.’
‘It is wrong, though, isn’t it? Fugitives in our own land and no Arshumans for miles around, and here we are skulking from tree to tree like thieves.’ Leon was as morose as ever.
‘Well, if they have children with them they couldn’t have gone that far; we should be able to catch them before they make camp for the evening. Let’s get moving.’ Samson stalked off in the direction Leon had indicated. Varen and Leon looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and followed suit.
By late afternoon they had caught them. They watched, concealed behind a fallen tree trunk, making as little noise as they possibly could. The people they were watching were settling down in a small hollow through which ran a thin sliver of a stream, full of pebbles covered in weed. Samson turned on his back, looked at the sky and hissed a soft curse through his teeth.
‘I would never had believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Slavers, Keth curse them! What are these bastards doing here?’ He kept his voice low.
‘They pay the Arshumans; it was probably a condition of them backing Fenchard, to allow these people to come here and take who they please. They ignore the towns in case the people gang up against them, and instead pillage the small villages like the one we have passed. They are probably on their way to another village now.’ Leon did not stop shaking his head as he whispered his reply.
There were seven men in all, with leather under their furs, and carrying maces and cudgels. They were olive-skinned and swarthy, from some southern land; some wore gold rings through their ears or nose and sported tattoos on their hands or faces. They talked to each other frequently, but in a language none of the onlookers could comprehend. As for the slaves, there were seven young children, each wearing an iron collar connected to its neighbour by a chain, and some five women, none of them old, collared and chained to each other in a similar manner. Finally there were the men, four of them; they had been hooded and bound and forced to sit apart from the rest of their families.
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