‘Razi?’ asked Wynter.
He smiled, and glanced kindly at her. ‘You should really call me my Lord,’ he said. ‘My knights might take offence otherwise. Though in private you may call me Razi; I shall not mind.’
Who does he think I am? thought Wynter in despair. ‘Razi!’ she cried, drawing his full attention again. ‘Where do you think we are?’
Wynter saw confusion rise up in his face.
‘What do you think we’re doing here?’
Obviously neither question had occurred to him, and he looked about him as if for the first time. ‘I . . .’ he said. ‘We . . .’ Not finding an answer readily to hand, Razi’s confusion rapidly turned to panic. ‘I should know that,’ he said, the knowledge that something was wrong suddenly very clear in his face. ‘I should know that!’ he cried. ‘I do know that! It’s here!’ He clutched his forehead, as if to capture a black shadow there. ‘It’s right here! OH!
’ Razi slammed his fist into his temple, startling his mare and causing her to throw her head in fear. He hit his temple again, very hard, as if trying to dislodge something within his brain, and Wynter grabbed his arm, appalled.
‘Don’t!’ she cried.
‘But I should know!’ he shouted, his horse pawing and dancing beneath him. ‘I should know.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ called Christopher.
Razi reined his panicked horse to a standstill and stared at his friend with anxious hope.
‘It’s all right,’ said Christopher.
‘You are sure?’
‘Yes. You know your name, do you not?’
Razi nodded. Christopher did not ask, as Wynter would have done, Do you know what it means? Do you recall who your father is? Instead he waited patiently while Razi turned to look at Sólmundr. The warrior smiled sadly and raised his chin in greeting.
‘I . . . I am the Lord Razi Kingsson,’ murmured Razi, turning to scan Wynter’s face, ‘al-Sayyid Razi ibn-Jon Malik al-fadl.’
‘There you have it,’ said Christopher, and he turned his horse without meeting Wynter’s eye and set off up the trail again. ‘That is all that counts.’
Razi relaxed instantly. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Good.’ He laughed ruefully. ‘Good. That’s very good.’
But it’s not all that counts! thought Wynter. It’s not all that counts at all.
Up in the rocks, something snickered. Wynter and Christopher crouched in their saddles, reaching for their swords. The sly, dirty sound skittered from rock to rock around them and slithered its way in echoes from the cliffs above. Boro tried to bolt after it, but Sólmundr snapped at him, ‘Tar anseo,’ and the warhound came reluctantly to heel.
Razi did not crouch. Instead he straightened indignantly and glared into the rocks with absolute disdain. ‘Loup-Garou vermin,’ he hissed. ‘Surely there’s something that can be done about the damned things?’ And with a tut of disapproval, he swung his horse around and nodded for Christopher to lead the way.
They journeyed until late into the evening, when the waning light made the uneven ground too treacherous and the danger of Wolves too dire to continue on. Still deep in the heart of that silent, echoing valley, they set up camp in a sheltering alcove of rock.
The horses tended to, the equipment checked, Wynter once more took Alberon’s folder and sat with it across her knee. She ran her hands across its plain cover and contemplated the impact it would have upon the kingdom. Glancing at Razi, she wondered how he would have tackled presenting this to his father. Certainly he did not believe in Alberon’s plans. In fact, they seemed to go against his very nature. But, despite his very great difficulty in seeing Alberon’s point of view, Wynter was certain Razi would have done his best to represent his brother’s argument. She could not fathom how he would go about defending a plan so contrary to his own personal beliefs, but if anyone could have managed the task, it would have been Razi.
Now, as her friend placidly watched the sun withdraw its dismal light from the valley, Wynter hugged the folder to her chest and fretted over what was going to happen. Razi had not recognised these documents when she had shown them to him, and he had simply gazed curiously at her when she had tried to explain his mission. The urge to grab him and shake him and scream What are we going to do? had been almost too much to handle. But, despite her frustration, Wynter did not want to cause another of Razi’s horrible panics, and so, faced with even this mildest of confusion, she had risen to her feet and walked away from him. Razi had been sitting, ever since, with his back to the cliff wall, completely still and passive. Wynter thought he had never looked so serene, and to her shame, that infuriated her.
Sólmundr hummed as he cooked the supper. Boro lay at his side, his chin on his paws. Now and again, the giant hound’s ears would swivel upwards and he would growl at something unseen in the rocks above. But he was used, by now, to Sólmundr calling him back, and he made no attempt to run off to what Sól was convinced would be a fatal encounter with not one but two Loups-Garous.
Christopher was fussing with the mule-packs. He too was driving Wynter mad, though it was hard for her to understand why. It was not really that she blamed him for the terrible encounter with the Wolves. It was more, oh God forgive her, that she wanted him to blame himself. At least a little. At least to the extent that she could then hug him and tell him, This is not your fault. But Christopher’s reaction to Razi’s condition was so calm, so hard-faced and practical, that it left Wynter with no room for anything – not anger, not forgiveness, not even affection. Christopher had become remote and as brittle as ice. He cursed quietly to himself, tugging at the luggage, and Wynter was just about to ask him to stop fiddling and to sit down when he strode past her, something in his hand.
‘Here,’ he said, crouching by the fire and plopping the doctor’s bag at Razi’s feet.
Sólmundr tensed. Razi frowned uncertainly, and Wynter sat straighter, clutching the folder to her chest. She waited for Christopher to demand, Do you know what this is? Do you recognise it? But instead, he snapped the catches on the bag and opened it.
Razi jerked forward, as if tempted to stop him.
‘It fell off the mule,’ said Christopher, peering inside. ‘Some of the vials are broken.’
‘Be careful!’ Razi shot out a hand and grabbed Christopher’s wrist, stopping him from reaching into the bag. Gently he pushed the young man’s hand aside. ‘If you cannot tell the contents of the broken vial, a cut could prove disastrous.’ He smiled reassuringly at his friend. ‘I should like to check it for myself.’
Christopher watched as Razi took the bag and began an expert survey of its contents. As their friend sorted through the tools of his trade, Wynter saw Christopher working himself up to speak. As he struggled to articulate his question, Christopher’s emotions seemed to worm their way to the surface of his composure, so that when he finally spoke his expression was achingly raw and vulnerable. It stabbed Wynter to see all the hurt and all the guilt that he had been hiding from her. She almost cried at the knowledge that Christopher had chosen not to share with her his pain and grief.
‘Is anything important broken?’ he finally managed.
How would he recall? thought Wynter bleakly. He barely knows who he is.
But Razi answered without hesitation. ‘There is not much damage. Just a few tonic vials and a crushed pillbox.’ He glanced up, smiling, and it almost broke Wynter’s heart when he said, ‘Everything is just as it is meant to be. Nothing of any importance is lost. What happened to it?’
‘It fall when Wolves attack,’ said Sólmundr.
Razi made no response to that, but his attention focused on Sólmundr’s bruised face as if noticing the wounds for the first time. ‘That cut on your cheek is quite inflamed,’ he said. ‘I can treat it for you, if I may?’ He must have mistaken Sól’s silence for reluctance, because he smiled again. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Did you not realise that? Here, come over and I shall see what I can do.’
As Sól submitted to Razi�
�s care, Christopher gazed at Wynter. The knowledge of what had been retrieved was written large in his glittering eyes. Wynter tilted her head and smiled sadly, the knowledge of what remained lost written in her own.
DAY EIGHT: MESSAGES
DAWN DID not break to birdsong in this particular valley, or even to rosy tinted skies. Instead, the light seemed to drizzle in, grey and uniform, as if seeping up from the rocks themselves.
Wynter pushed herself upright and groaned. How do soldiers do this, she wondered, day after day on a campaign? Of all the tasks presented to them, how do they ever manage to push their bruised bodies from bed?
Alberon, she realised with a wince, would be the one to answer her that.
Carefully, she disentangled the covers and slipped from Christopher’s side. Neither he nor Sólmundr stirred. Like all Merron, they trusted their warhound to guard them in the night, and Boro had been the camp’s sole sentinel against the Loups-Garous.
‘And a good job you did of it too,’ she whispered, crouching to fondle his ears. He gazed ruefully up at her, not lifting his chin from his paws. In order to prevent him from running after the Wolves, Sólmundr had tethered the warhound to his ankle, and Boro could not quite reconcile himself to the indignity. There was a palpable air of embarrassment about him. ‘Never mind, dog,’ murmured Wynter. ‘You’re still a big brave beastie.’
The hound sighed and submitted to her caresses with stoicism. Once again, Wynter thought what an incredible creature he was. Sól could make his fortune from the breed. She had observed as much to him the night before, and Sól had commented dryly that he preferred his lungs inside his ribcage, if it was all the same to her.
‘It is a capital offence among our people to trade the cúnna to strangers,’ explained Christopher.
‘Though,’ observed Sól, ‘Shirken once plan to take them for himself.’ At his friends’ expectant silence, Sólmundr had flashed his gap-toothed grin. ‘When enough of his men lose their heads, he give up idea. Even the puppies take man’s hand off at the wrist. Nach ea, mo ghadhar?’ he said, scrubbing Boro’s head. ‘Only the Merron can to handle na Cúnna Faoil.’
‘In that case, I should have gifted Shirken ten of them,’ muttered Wynter. ‘Five for him and five for his pestilent daughter.’ At the men’s lack of comprehension, she grinned. ‘Though the poor hounds would have need of a purging after, I should think.’
Sólmundr laughed.
‘The poor things would need more than a purge,’ smirked Christopher. ‘Shirken being rotten to his core, they would as likely die of poison.’
Then Razi, chuckling, had asked, ‘Who is Shirken?’ and the mirth had quickly drained from the conversation.
Wynter groaned at the memory and wandered across to where Razi stood a little apart from camp, staring up into the rocks above.
He glanced at her as she approached. ‘Those creatures have gone,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have been watching since first light. Only a few moments ago I saw them run along the base of that ridge and move off in that direction. Your warrior friend is right, there are two of them.’
Wynter pulled her cloak tight and shivered. ‘Where are they going, I wonder?’
‘Even the devil’s spawn need to eat. I suppose they have gone to hunt.’
She shrugged her cloak high around her neck and Razi winced at the bruising on her throat. ‘Your neck is livid,’ he said. ‘Do you have any difficulty swallowing . . . um . . .’ He peered at her, once again struggling to recall her name. He couldn’t seem to hang on to it at all.
Wynter refrained from yelling, I’m Wynter! It’s Wynter, Razi! Try and remember! Instead she said, ‘I am the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke, my Lord.’
Razi frowned uncertainly; the formality seemed to take him by surprise.
‘Delighted to meet you, Protector Lady,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘If your chaperones don’t mind, I would be pleased to check your throat.’
She allowed him to guide her to a rock and sat down, raising her chin while he gently probed her neck with his fingers. He did not once ask how she had managed to ring her throat with bruises.
‘Do you enjoy being a doctor, my Lord?’
He smiled. ‘It is all I ever wanted to be.’
‘It is unusual enough. A king’s son would surely find himself with more urgent things at hand than lancing boils and dressing scurvy.’ His fingers paused at her throat. She pressed on. ‘As a pastime it is commendable, but surely your duties in court would present you with tasks infinitely more important?’ He sat back, staring at her, and she knotted her hands together, almost afraid to continue.
‘You consider the relief of suffering to be a task beneath us?’ he asked softly. ‘The saving of lives is, to you, a pursuit unworthy of a king’s son?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But a man such as yourself must surely have bigger obligations?’
‘Obligations,’ whispered Razi.
‘Yes, my Lord!’ she urged, thrilled to see recognition flare in his eyes. ‘Do you remember? Do you remember what your obligations are?’
‘Mary,’ he said in amazement. ‘How could I have forgot her?’
‘Mary,’ said Wynter flatly. ‘You remember Mary.’
‘She needs my help.’
‘Jesu Christi!’ Wynter threw her hands up despair. ‘Razi! I swear to God, if I need to shove you down another hill, I shall! You are bound to drive me to—’
Before she could say any more, a horse screamed in the pass above them and a stranger’s harsh cries of fear had them surging to their feet.
Boro tried to run up the shingle slope, barking and straining against his chain, eager to get to the fray. Sólmundr was dragged several feet, his cursing muffled in the covers that had been drawn up over his head. Razi leapt across his kicking body and raced for the horses. As Wynter skirted the men, Christopher threw back his covers, grabbing his sword, and shouted at her in hoarse Merron: ‘Cad é, Iseult? What is it?’
‘Get your weapons!’ she yelled. ‘Something’s happening on the ridge!’
She reached Ozkar just as Razi finished bridling his mare. Without waiting to saddle up, he grabbed the creature’s mane and leapt on, urging her up the path. Wynter was no great lover of bareback riding, but she did the same. As she galloped past, Sólmundr released Boro and the warhound shot ahead of Razi’s mare, streaking across the grey rocks like a shadow of the wind.
It did not take a moment for Sól and Christopher to catch up: before Wynter was even halfway up the rocky path, the thunder of their horses was a reassurance at her back.
Upon the ridge there was one rider, astride a tough little horse built for speed and endurance. The man was yelling and lashing out with his sword while a snarling Loup-Garou forced his mount to back towards the cliff face. Unknown to the rider, the second Loup-Garou was slinking around behind him. Wynter was alarmed to see it making its way up the rocks to the shelf over the man’s head, obviously planning to drop on him from above.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Razi, kicking his mare over the uneven ground. ‘Watch out! Above you!’
The rider did not hear, and he kept valiantly lashing at the Loup-Garou, his terrified horse falling back with each of the Wolf ’s snarling leaps forward.
‘Look up!’ screamed Wynter.
Boro came into view then, shooting from between the rocks, and just as the first Loup-Garou leapt again for the horse’s throat, the giant warhound flew through the air and tackled it. The two creatures rolled to the side in a savagery of teeth and fur, and the rider was left swiping at empty air for a moment. Thankfully, his horse shied sideways, away from the fighting creatures and out from under the ledge.
Behind Wynter came the familiar thwack of Christopher’s crossbow. The bolt shot to the ledge above the rider and plunged itself into the ground next to the creeping Loup-Garou. Christopher spat a ripe curse as the creature leapt in fright and ran away, unharmed. At its companion’s yippin
g retreat, the other Wolf broke free of Boro’s clutches and raced, howling, into the jumbled rocks. Boro followed.
Wynter saw the man’s relief turn to fear as he registered the four riders thundering towards him. He pulled his terrified horse around to face them, and she did not blame him that he crouched in his saddle and lifted his sword. She could not speak for herself, but her companions certainly made a wild spectacle. Dishevelled and fierce, they had their swords drawn and their unshaven faces were wicked with aggression. They were the very illustration of the word ‘bandits’. The poor fellow, his back literally to the wall, scanned their ranks for an opening through which to flee. As he readied himself, his intention obviously to barrel through their horses and take his chances, Wynter recognised him from King Jonathon’s court.
‘Andrew!’ she yelled. ‘Andrew Pritchard! Hold!
’ At the unlikely calling of his name, Pritchard pulled his horse to, regarding them with wide-eyed amazement. Almost immediately, he recognised Razi’s distinctive face. That seemed to terrify him even more than the thought of bandits, and, with a cry, he kicked his horse forward, hoping to shoot the gap between Christopher and Sól and escape down the path before they could turn.
‘Stop him!’ screeched Wynter, and in an act of quite astounding agility, Sólmundr threw himself from his horse’s bare back and tackled Andrew Pritchard to the ground.
Pritchard fought and struggled, but Sól pinned him down, his strong forearm pressed to the man’s throat. ‘Be good, now!’ Sól warned. ‘Be good!’
Christopher leapt from his horse, kicking the man’s sword aside, and Wynter ran across to stand over him. At the looming ring of assailants, Pritchard yelled, trying in vain to push Sólmundr from him. Christopher grinned, wickedly amused at the poor man’s panic.
‘Calm down, friend,’ he said. ‘Pretty and all as you are, we ain’t about to violate your chastity.’
‘Jesu!’ screeched Pritchard, and he kicked and writhed with extra ferocity.
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