by Rj Barker
Blood on the ground by my boots. I knelt to study it. I had hoped to find the action written in footprints and broken grass, but it was far too late now. Anareth’s scream had brought half the camp running and no blade of grass stood upright. The cloying scent of crushed grass filled my nostrils again, making me feel nauseous.
“She died there, Girton.” I turned to find Aydor, huge and armoured, not smiling. His long hair fell to stick to the small enamel plates of armour shirt, his gap-toothed mouth worked on food behind his long beard. “She fought well, by all counts. Cut him twice before he got her.” He saw me wince at his words. “Sorry, Girton,” he looked truly contrite, “sometimes I do not think. Too long a soldier. I’ll miss her, Girton.”
“I know.” More than once I had caught Aydor ruining Feorwic’s training by running around with her on his shoulders while he huffed and growled, pretending to be a mount. The thought made me smile. “Where did the attacker die?”
Aydor pointed to the middle of the small clearing.
“Feorwic distracted him. As he struck her. Vinwulf cut him down with a strike to the throat. Say what you want about the little monster but he can fight.”
“Aye, and Anareth?”
“She ran for the wood by the banks. When Celot returned Vinwulf was going after her in case others came.”
“How is Celot?” It may seem odd that it worried me. Celot had been Aydor’s Heartblade, once, long ago, but Aydor had told him to protect Rufra and now he did. Celot was a feared warrior—one of the best I had ever seen—though in his mind he was little more than a child.
“Distraught of course.” Aydor kicked at the ground. “Rufra told him to ‘look after’ the children. If he had said ‘guard’ the children Celot would never have left them. I think mother kicked that into him, ‘Guard means never leave, you idiot!’ I can still hear her screaming it now.” He grimaced. “But ‘look after’? To him, that puts them in charge so he does what they say. They are royals, he is their servant. Celot’s world is very simple.” He shrugged. “The king was furious with him, though it is Rufra who is at fault.”
“Good luck getting Rufra to see that.” Aydor nodded. “I will speak to Celot, make sure he knows I do not blame him.”
“Thank you, Girton, it will help. But it is for Rufra that I am here. The naming of Aydon is finally over.”
“And you have an heir named for you.” I tried to smile for him but could not manage it.
“Aye, it should be you though. You were not led away by an obvious ruse, and it was you who saved the queen.”
“That will never happen,” I said. Aydor looked away. “Besides, it was you, not I, that acted as midwife while all about us panicked.”
His face crumpled up and he looked comically horrified. “You know, Girton, I would rather face down a cavalry charge on my own with nothing but a stick than see another babe born. Thank the dead gods I am not a woman.”
“Well, you would be an uncommonly ugly one. Your parents would think they had crossed Dark Ungar to deserve you.” He let out a laugh, a great, thick laugh that could not help but raise my spirits a little.
“I would call myself Adrin Milkcurdler and hire myself out to the cheesewrights.”
“You would make a fortune.” He grinned and I let out a sigh as I tried to stand, a sudden shot of pain running through me from my club foot. Aydor put out a hand.
“Come, let me help you, mage-bent. The king awaits.”
We trudged through Rufra’s small camp and all around us were signs of celebration. I glimpsed the priest of Torelc, god of time, in his night-blue clothes as he sat and drank with a group of mount archers. My early experiences of priests, with Neander and Darvin, one treacherous the other insane, had taught me not to trust them, but Benliu was a gentle soul. I think he had been surprised to find himself at a king’s court as Torelc’s priests were not generally popular. Their god was blamed with causing the wars of balance that left us godless, apart from Xus, the god of death. After Darvin’s treachery—which nearly cost Rufra the crown sixteen years ago—the king had made Danfoth his priest, but that relationship had quickly soured. There was something very dark in what Danfoth brought to religion. Atrocities had occurred and, though Rufra could never prove it, he and I were sure that Danfoth and his cult—the Children of Arnst—were behind them. At some point his religion had passed from a worship of Xus to a belief it was their duty to hasten the living toward him. What made this even more uncomfortable was that I remained, to them, the Chosen of Xus. I was a figure of veneration, having gained this lofty position by my part in unmasking the murderer of Arnst, the original leader of the cult, and defeating him in single combat. Though, like in all the best jester’s stories, I had cut off the head of one serpent only for more to spring up in its place, and, although few knew it, I had not even beheaded the right serpent.
Eventually, Rufra cast Danfoth out of his court and he took his followers with him to Ceadoc, where he found a welcome in the high king’s palace. It was, in truth, not an acquaintance I was looking forward to renewing, though I knew Rufra would have me use my influence to try and win Danfoth’s support.
Personally, I would sooner put a knife in the man.
After the Children of Arnst had gone, Rufra had been unwilling to honour the dead gods’ priesthood and so invited a priest of Torelc, the most despised of the dead gods, to Maniyadoc. I had little to do with Benliu but Aydor assured me he was “a man who could hold his drink,” which to Aydor’s thinking was high praise—and I had found Aydor to be a surprisingly good judge of character.
“Girton, you can make your own way to Rufra’s caravan. I should join Benliu and receive some spiritual instruction,” Aydor said.
“You mean drink.”
“Of course.”
“Before you go, what sort of mood is he in?”
“Benliu? A drinking one I hope …”
“You know what I mean.” The smile fell from Aydor’s face.
“You would think, that just having had his queen saved and a new son brought into the world, he would be in a joyous mood.”
“But he is not,” I said.
“No, Girton, he is not.”
I nodded. I could not find any fault in what I had done to save Voniss.
But I had no doubt Rufra would.
Chapter 5
“Girton!”
I turned to find Boros striding toward me. The expression on his horribly scarred face as unreadable as ever, but light sparkled in his eyes and he grabbed me by the arm in the traditional greeting of warriors.
“Boros, why are you here? I thought you were enjoying yourself as blessed of the ap Loflaar lands.”
He shrugged, the many enamelled plates of his armour chiming happily.
“To tell the truth my father had the place running so efficiently I am not needed, even though he is dead. The staff know what they are doing. All are provided for and I spend most of my time overseeing petty squabbles about lost pigs.”
“You are bored,” I said with a smile that felt forced, but Boros did not see it and grinned back at me. A terrifying sight.
“That is the essence of it. And with Rufra heading to Ceadoc to become high king, well, I thought, surely there will be some excitement there.”
“It will be politics, Boros. Old men sitting and talking.”
“Tired Lands politics is never so simple.” His hand fell to the hilt of his longsword. “And you’ve already had some excitement, eh?” I nodded and rubbed at my arm. The bandage was tight and the magic running through me already healing the wound. “I wonder what honour Rufra will bestow on you for saving his queen and child?”
“He does not tend to honour me any more.”
“Well, if you will insist on keeping to the shadows. But the high kingship is why I am here, the great and the good of the Tired Lands will gather and no doubt Rufra will need a good sword arm at his side.” Something dark crossed his eyes when he said “great and good,” and I knew that h
e did not tell me everything.
“You think your brother may attend.” It was not a question and he did not reply, only glanced away. “He is dead, Boros. We beat him at Gwyre sixteen years ago and his own will have turned on him for it. They will have treated him just as cruelly as he treated others. No doubt Dark Ungar has chained him to the land and he starves and weeps as he pays for the things he did. You have been avenged.”
“I will believe it only when I see a corpse, Girton. You do not know him like I do.”
“Like you did. He is bleached bones now, Boros.” I put a hand on his arm and he took a deep breath to calm the mania that burned within him for his brother, the man who had stolen his looks with a blow from a mace.
“Aye, maybe,” he said.
“Have you seen Rufra yet?” I asked. “He will be glad you see you.”
“Not yet. I will let you see him first.”
I nodded then left. The pair of guards at Rufra’s two-storey caravan parted to let me through. Inside it was stiflingly hot. A fire burned in a metal brazier despite the fact the yearsbirth sun was hot enough to burn skin. Rufra loved the heat, he said it was the only thing that kept away the pain of the wound in his side.
He sat on a stark wooden throne, little more than a raised chair, and by his feet Gusteffa the jester lounged. Really, I should have stood by him at all times as I was his Heartblade and that was my place, but he preferred the company of his lesser jester and a constantly revolving set of guards. He watched me, blue eyes burning with some inner fire, but I was no longer privy to what fuelled it.
“The queen nearly died, Girton,” he said. That was it, no preamble, no welcome.
“But she did not, and now you have a strong son.”
He leaned forward.
“You knocked a heavily pregnant woman from a mount. She could have fallen badly, been trampled.”
“But she was not.”
“And that was luck, Girton, nothing more, and dead gods know you should never rely on my luck.” There was the crux of it. Rufra really believed himself cursed, though his realm had prospered, he had not: a wound that would not heal, two children and a wife dead, the loss of so many that he called friends.
“Voniss has ridden all her life, she knows how to fall from a mount safely.”
“My aunt Cearis had ridden all her life, was the best cavalry leader I ever had, and she died falling from a mount.” He did not raise his voice but I knew him well enough to hear anger there—anger and a little desperation.
“It was knock Voniss down or leave her to certain death at the blades of the assassin.”
He looked away from me, staring down at Gusteffa.
“I want to know who sent them, Girton.” He mumbled the words. “I task you with this. Take whatever you want, whatever troops you need. Comb the grasslands for this assassin.”
“That will be a waste of time as they will be long gone. If you want to find the culprit, look to Ceadoc.”
He leant back in his chair, wincing as pain shot through him, and I saw the smallest movement of his hand toward his side before he stopped it. Never show weakness, it was ingrained in him now. It had made him hard and cold.
“Ceadoc,” he said, making the castle’s name into a sigh. “I must talk to you of Ceadoc, Girton.”
“I know.” I sounded petulant and knew it. “You wish me to protect your family and find who sent these assassins? I could balance a plate on my head as well.”
Rufra stared at me and a cold silence fell on the room. Had I gone too far? Once he would have laughed at that. Now he only blinked.
“You are a man of many talents,” he said slowly. “But I would make some requests of you, and I would lay down some rules.”
“Rules?”
“I am a king, it is generally what kings do.” He sat straighter and I thought I saw a flash of humour in his eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Neander will be at Ceadoc.”
“I know.” A fizzing through my blood, a sudden need to be holding a blade.
“I know you blame him for the death of your first love, but that was twenty years ago now. You are not to touch him.” I started to speak but he raised a hand. “Without him, the entire priesthood will turn against me. With him, he will make sure they support me.”
“And what did you have to offer him for this?”
“That does not concern you.” We locked gazes, but it was a war I could not win unless I was willing to walk away, and I was not. I still hoped, almost every day, that I would see my friend emerge from beneath the shell of royalty he closed around himself. And sometimes I did fleetingly: caught happy moments, saw him laugh, but these moments had become more and more sparing over the years. “And I want you to approach the Children of Arnst, Girton. They will not see my emissaries since I banished them, but they will see you. They still call you Chosen.”
“And what can I offer them?”
“A temple, on the site of the old battlecamp, in the place where Arnst died.”
“That is a mistake, Rufra. You were right to cast them out. Don’t do this, don’t let a bunch of murderers create a place of pilgrimage for a rapist on your lands. That is not what you fought for.”
“How do you know what I fought for, assassin?”
“I know because I fought with you. We were friends.”
He stared at me, his mouth opening and closing, his body shaking with emotion. I hoped beyond hope he would say something funny, something clever that would warm me.
“I also want you to dance when we reach Ceadoc,” he said, “for the assembled blessed.”
“Me?” He had not asked me to dance as Death’s Jester for many years.
“Gusteffa says if I have Death’s Jester with me, and if I do not let you dance it will be seen as an insult to the blessed who are yet to make up their minds. I cannot have that. I need them on my side. And none of your games either.”
“Games, my king?”
“Messages, mottoes, choosing stories that will insult those gathered. Dance something safe. Gusteffa will help you decide.” The little jester grinned at me. I wanted to snap at her but this was not her fault. I held my anger in check.
“Death’s Jester makes its own choices.”
“Death’s Jester serves me!” He roared it, standing from his throne and then looking confused at what he had done. He glanced at Gusteffa, who turned to me and gave me a small shrug, as if to apologise for the whims of kings. “Please, Girton,” said Rufra. “Please do this thing for me.”
He sat, looking pained and miserable.
“Very well,” I said.
“And I am sorry about Feorwic, Girton,” he said. Before I could take some comfort from his words he chose to spoil it. “She should have left the assassin to Vinwulf. The boy can handle himself. Her death was needless.”
“Needless?” That one word escaped my lips and I found I could say no more. Rufra stared at me and my hands itched for violence. That he could be so dismissive of Feorwic created a fury within me, but at least part of it was that I feared he was right. Poor Feorwic should not have died, she should never have been here. “May I go now, my king?” He nodded but as I reached the door he spoke again.
“I have received a letter from Olek ap Survin. He says his father Dannic ap Survin is in fine health.” He said it conversationally, as if he were not reprimanding me because I had not carried out a murder he was too cowardly to ask me for.
“He is an old man, King Rufra,” I replied. “Old and ill. Such men often sicken and die without warning.” I walked out without waiting for a reply. Boros stared at my face as I left.
“He’s in a good mood then?” I did not reply, only stalked off into the camp.
I had a child to bury.
I laid Feorwic under a cairn of rocks by the river near where she had died. One day, this would be her island. As I laid each rock I made an oath to Xus the unseen: I would find who had sent this assassin, not for Rufra, but for me. And I would aveng
e myself on them no matter how unpolitic it may be or how much trouble it may cause the king in his bid to become high king of Ceadoc.
All my life I had put aside my own wishes for others, but not this time.
I would send Feorwic’s killer into a life of service to Dark Ungar and, for the first time in many years, I heard a voice inside me speak.
I can help you.
Chapter 6
I studied the corpse of Feorwic’s killer as Rufra’s camp was packed up around me. He did not look particularly monstrous, few men did in death. Just another Tired Lands man: skin pox scarred, teeth missing and a finger too. Dirt had worked its way into the skin around his eyes in such a way that it looked as if he had been tattooed with spiderweb patterns over his face. At that thought I removed the rough blanket from his body and turned his corpse. The Children of Arnst often decorated themselves with symbols of death—a skull or a stylised blood gibbet—and it would not surprise me to find them behind an attempt on Rufra or his family. He had cast them from his lands and denied them access to places they believed holy.
But I found nothing, and had not really expected to. The body would have been checked already by Rufra’s healer priests of Anwith and they would have looked for signs of the Children. As I turned the body back I saw the wounds on his legs.
“Oh, Feorwic,” I said under my breath. I had taught her, when facing a taller opponent, to cut at the knees or hamstrings but in her panic she must have forgotten. All that showed on this man was useless slashes at his calves, barely more than scratches. Vinwulf’s killing blow had been more efficient, a straight thrust to the throat. A good move. I squatted by the body, staring at the man’s face trying to find some secret in his slack features. As the tent was taken down around me and light intruded, I gathered up his body, then staggered away from the camp with it. When I found a place where the current of the river ran swiftly I threw the corpse into the water. It landed with a huge splash—a fountain of water—and then it sank, reappearing a moment later floating face down, arms outstretched as it spun slowly in the current before starting downstream.