by S J Hartland
“Superstitious nonsense.” He nodded towards a young, ruddy-cheeked man dismounting amid rattling steel. “The king’s sword, Goffren of Burrow.”
“I know that name.”
Goffren grasped his arm. “Vraymorg. The last time we met you knocked me down, thrust a sword to my throat and demanded I yield.”
His chortle drew startled stares. Vraymorg recalled that same booming laugh in the king’s great hall. Usually after a drunken Goffren picked a fight.
“Luck favoured me that day.”
“Luck? You dizzied me with fancy footwork. Didn’t know where the next blow might land.”
Kaell caught his eye, his brows edged up. Curious about the where and how of that fight.
Vraymorg turned to Caelmarsh. “Your men understand the danger tonight?”
“This nonsense about ghosts and don’t venture beyond the walls?”
“Not nonsense, Caelmarsh. The Lost will rise. Many in the Mountains see them. But the sentries will burn fires all night to keep them away.”
He gestured to a man and woman. “My steward and his wife will show you and the lady to your chambers. You’ll wish to rest. Then perhaps—” The king’s business. Best be done with it and send Caelmarsh on his way. He and his dangerous-looking daughter.
“Who’s this peacock?” Goffren’s interest fell on Kaell. “With that pretty hair, he must be some fancy chamber boy. Is he yours, Vraymorg?”
A Downs soldier sniggered and nudged a companion.
Vraymorg rested a hand on Kaell’s stiffened shoulder. A crude taunt. By rights, he should draw steel on the fool. Chamber boy. Slang for a younger man kept for carnal purposes.
Goffren deliberately sought to rile either him or Kaell. Goffren liked to stir up trouble.
Vraymorg once heard him call the Lord of the Falls’ sword Jason Roya a snivelling sooka who screwed goats. The two fought below the king’s window, both so drunk they toppled every time they swung their swords.
A stern-faced Cathmor flung them in a cell—together. They threw drunken punches then. The jailer left them to it. The next morning, bruised and sore-headed, the fools slapped each other’s backs, declaring a lifelong bond as they staggered off to drink the king’s wine.
Something like that.
“Watch your tongue, Goffren.” Paulin’s empty, black stare fell on Kaell. “Vraymorg has a certain type. Women above his station.”
Vraymorg slitted his eyes. What exactly did Paulin think he knew? He understood Goffren’s game but Paulin’s? It would be viciously subtle.
“You have a short memory, Goffren,” Vraymorg kept his tone even. “Didn’t this boy put you and many others in the dirt in that tourney in Dal-Decma?” He forbade Kaell to enter, but the boy went anyway.
Kaell slid him a grateful glance.
“You say this piece of fluff is Khir’s warrior?” Goffren looked Kaell up and down. “You dressed the child in pants, but my lord—surely she’s a girl.” He flicked hair off Kaell’s brow.
Shoulders hunched, his breaths thick, Kaell threw Vraymorg a pleading look. Let me show him. Let me put him in the dirt again.
“Leave the girl alone.” Paulin’s sly gaze fixed on Kaell. “Pick on someone not so tough, Goffren. Someone you can actually beat.”
“Like a mouse,” a soldier said.
“A wounded mouse,” Paulin corrected, still watching Kaell. “Not children.”
Kaell bristled, a fist curled against his empty scabbard.
“Don’t know how he put me in the dirt. A trick? He’s not so tough. But pretty. Yes.” Goffren tilted Kaell’s chin with a gloved hand. “I think I’ll give the pretty girl a big kiss.”
Kaell shoved him. The bladesman stumbled a step, sneering. “You even push like a girl.”
“Stand away, Kaell.” Vraymorg blocked him. He knew that look, the storm building beneath Kaell’s flattened, green gaze.
Through clenched teeth, Kaell strained words. “But my lord—”
“Yes, stand away—darling,” Goffren taunted.
Kaell roared and leapt at him. Goffren hit the ground, his breath lost in a whoosh. Kaell scrambled off him, his fist swinging as soon as the man reeled to his feet. The blow smacked Goffren’s head back. He staggered.
Arn grabbed Kaell’s shoulders. The boy thrashed. “Let me—let go!”
“Most entertaining.” Caelmarsh smacked his red lips together. “So the boy has a temper.”
“I’d strike Goffren too,” Annatise said. “If the brute tried to kiss me.”
Downs men laughed. Goffren slapped dirt from his pants. “I’d do the same to myself.” He made a farce of slapping his face and falling down. A grinning soldier pulled him up.
Arn whispered to the boy, then at his nod released him.
“Kaell. Attend me,” Vraymorg said.
With an embarrassed glance at the girl, the young man wandered to his lord.
Annatise flicked hair over her shoulder. Her brazen gaze swept Kaell from head to foot.
Caelmarsh thrust his hands to his waist. “Annatise!”
The girl offered her father a wide-eyed look of innocence.
“Quite a performance,” Caelmarsh said. “If your steward shows us our chambers we’ll wash the dust off.” He squinted at Kaell. “Then I’ll question him.”
Near the fire, the wine’s heat in his veins, his body grew languid and heavy. The warmth, the room’s perfumes, the tangle of Rozenn’s fingers in his hair, all lulled.
Her touch was gentle as though he was infinitely precious. He might even think she cared. Maybe she did—in her way.
“Don’t stop,” she said.
Vraymorg shifted his head on the cushion. He realised then he did not wish to tell this story. It had a benign beginning, true; a memory of an autumn day, of a night when the Lost walked, of a sixteen-year-old boy on the verge of adulthood testing the boundaries of his lord’s authority. It was what happened later…
“I think I must,” he said with a short, humourless laugh. “I don’t know why I began this tale. There is nothing good in it. Nothing good at all.”
Rozenn stroked his hair. “I’m not afraid to hear it, Val.”
No, but he was afraid to tell it.
“Just a little more,” she said. “There can be no harm in that. It’s just a story.”
No harm. Despite the room’s stifling warmth, he shivered. No harm in words, perhaps. But in intentions, in deeds? No harm in murder?
“Perhaps a little more,” he said. “But only a little.”
The courtyard bustled with rushing figures, rang with jingling harnesses and snorting horses. Ewen directed men to unload trunks. Arn and Paulin discussed billeting Downs soldiers. On the walls men bundled cut wood, ready for the all-night fires.
Everything as Vraymorg commanded. Grooms, servants, soldiers—even the castle dogs did as he ordered. Only the boy disobeyed him.
He faced Kaell with a heavy sigh. “I warned you. They’re king’s men. Their orders are to provoke you, pry out weakness.”
“You heard his insult,” Kaell protested. “If I did nothing—” A pretty girl sitting on a horse might think him a coward. Oh yes, Vraymorg understood.
“I didn’t draw my sword.”
“Just as well.”
“I thought about my knife,” Kaell said. “I wanted to shut his foul mouth.”
“Men like Goffren aren’t worth the trouble, Kaell. There will always be fools who want to test themselves against you. To prove their courage to others, to themselves.”
“Not this again. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Men who hate you because of what you are, who think you believe you’re better than them, that you enjoy a privileged life while they strain and suffer.”
Kaell’s face clouded with impatience. “We’ve had this talk before. Just saying it all again doesn’t make it simpler. Why can’t I strike back?”
“You can defend yourself. But a bonded warrior must never kill men or women. This is a serious
matter.”
“It’s not fair.”
“Is it fair if the gods gift a man with strength and speed to defeat evil only for that warrior to use his gifts against others?”
Kaell shifted his weight. “I understand. My lord, I do. It’s just—”
“The chamber boy insult?”
“Ah, that nonsense. These flatlanders throw stupid taunts about. I know I don’t look like a girl but …” He paused. “Do I dress like a peacock?”
Vraymorg tilted an eyebrow. He found nothing amiss with Kaell’s clasped cloak or silver bracelet snaking his upper arm.
His thoughts plunged back to Isles warriors who rode to battle with his father. He could not remember all their names. But faces, yes. The silver-tongued Grantam Northman, who could forget him? Or the Lightening Sword.
Until he understood men’s winks meant something more lascivious, he supposed Northman’s nickname reflected his flashing blade. An Isles warrior to the core. His boots always shone, he wore crisp, white, linen tunics and scented his skin with oils.
“No.” Vraymorg fingered a silver chain. “You dress like an Isles man.”
His fault. The boy imitated him. Not just how he dressed; sometimes Kaell unconsciously mimicked his gestures or posture.
“Is that good? I’ve never met anyone from the Isles.”
“Others might mock them as strutting peacocks, but Isles folk take pride in their appearance, prize beauty and elegance in both men and women.”
He shrugged. “Choose for yourself how you wish to look. Let no one tell you what you must do. Except me, of course.” He grinned. “Now I need you to prepare. Caelmarsh wants to see you. This time, no matter who says what, hold your tongue—and your temper.”
“Did he?” Rozenn begged.
Vraymorg blinked away the past. The fire’s glint etched her golden hair. He wanted to touch its flooding silk, its ethereal wisps. Too much trouble. Too hard to move, to care.
“Don’t stop there. I hope the boy heeded your words and minded his temper.”
He snorted. “Kaell? Heed my words? Does your son Alecc heed yours? Within minutes he was free with his fists again.”
Vraymorg found Arn in the stables ordering Caelmarsh’s soldiers about. Some tended to horses, others carried tents to the ward. No sign of Paulin—the one man he must keep close until he left. Which wouldn’t be soon enough.
“Paulin?”
Arn looked about. “Here a moment ago. Feel that chill?”
“What about Kaell?”
“I sent him off. He yabbered nonsense about pretty girls and how she’s too good for him but maybe he can talk to her anyhow. Went to the crypt.” Arn nodded towards the walls.
Vraymorg trudged outside.
Kaell strode under the wall walk near the forge.
One of the blacksmith’s sons leaned against the doorway, swiping sweat from a broad forehead below spiked brown hair. His cheeks flushed from the furnace and soot stained his leather apron. He took a long look at Kaell.
“Hey freak. Where did you get those fancy clothes?”
Kaell stopped. “You want trouble, Pen-John?”
Vraymorg started forward. Laugh it off, boy. Pick your fights—but don’t pick all of them.
“Me? With you?” Pen-John jeered. “Don’t waste my time seeking trouble with freaks. Who made that cloak then? Your mother? Wait. You don’t know who she is. I do. Some blonde Venivan tart. Maybe I did her last time I was in Tide’s End.”
Kaell scoffed. “You couldn’t get it up.” He walked on.
Vraymorg halted with a sigh of relief. The boy had avoided a fight—this time.
Pen-John’s brother appeared, wiping grimy hands on pants. “You don’t want trouble with him. You might catch something nasty.”
“Trouble?” Pen-John laughed. “He’s all troubled out. Tried throwing his weight around with some Downs men. They put the freak in his place. Besides, he’s dressed up in his best. Doesn’t want to dirty his fancy cloak by tangling with the likes of me.”
Kaell’s shoulders rose. He stopped, turned.
Curse it. Vraymorg edged closer.
“Leave it, my lord.” Arn appeared at his elbow. “The boy can sort it out.”
“Two against one. Three, if the smith steps in.”
“Happens all the time. Caught Kaell scrapping with them both a few days ago. The boy can look after himself.”
“Ha,” said Vraymorg, secretly pleased.
“You want at me, Pen-John?” Kaell shouted. “You sure? I busted your nose last time.”
The man scoffed. “You got lucky with a swinging arm. But if we dance in the dirt you’ll mess up that nice cloak.”
“So I will,” Kaell said calmly. Removing his cloak, he folded it and placed it on grass.
“I should stop this,” Vraymorg muttered.
Arn shook his head. “Kaell’s not a child anymore.”
“And get blood on that tunic?” Pen-John said. “Cost more than I earn in a year, I’d say.”
“You’re right. No need to spoil my garments over you.” Kaell pulled the tunic over his head and put it on the cloak. He stood naked to the waist, sun beating on blond hair.
“Nice boots,” Pen-John said. “Pity to get blood on them.”
His brother grabbed his arm. “Are you witless? You know how this ends.”
Vraymorg thought he knew how this ended too. He took a step.
“Let it play out,” Arn said.
Pen-John shook off his brother’s grasp. “Leave me be.” He scowled at Kaell. “Best take off those pants because I’m going to make you bleed.”
“I can beat you clothed or naked,” Kaell said.
Pen-John spluttered with rage. “Brat bastard. Think you’re so much better than us—”
“I certainly look better,” Kaell said.
“You, you—” Pen-John hunched like an ogre, breathing hard. Then with a roar, he ran head down at Kaell. The boy stepped aside, grabbed his shoulders and flung him down.
“One thing about Kaell.” Arn smirked. “You show him a move, he practises it and he’s got it. Now that hold is handy when Olier is drunk and spoils for a fight.”
“Pen-John’s always spoiling for a fight, drunk or not.” Vraymorg fisted his hands at his side, every instinct shouting to step in. But Arn was right. Kaell was old enough to swing in his own battles—as the Isles saying went.
Kaell pinned Pen-John with a knee to his chest. The man bucked. “Get him off me, Vince. What do you wait for?”
“You. Get off my brother.” Vince wrapped burly arms about Kaell’s chest and hurled him sideways. The boy sprawled. Vince kicked at his head. Kaell rolled away safely. He scrambled up. Vince came at him, huffing, fists swinging.
Kaell ducked, grabbed the man’s waist and threw him into the dirt.
“A variation on the move.” Arn nodded approval. “Good boy.”
Pen-John circled behind. He grasped Kaell’s arms and yanked them back. Kaell writhed as Vince rose, panting. “You don’t play nice, brat.” He pummelled the boy’s belly.
“Leave it, my lord,” Arn warned once more when Vraymorg tensed. “Let them sort it out.”
“Ha,” said Vraymorg again.
Kaell grunted as each blow landed. He bent over as far as the yoking grip allowed.
Pen-John grinned. “Hit him, Vince.”
Vince gripped Kaell’s hair, bunched his hand. “Can’t mess up your cloak since it’s all nicely folded, but I can mess up your face.”
Kaell kicked his shin. Hard. The smith reeled back, howling. The boy twisted free, ducked beneath his second assailant’s flailing arms and punched soft flesh below ribs. A breathless Pen-John’s knees skidded to ground.
Vraymorg choked off a cheer. A lord must keep the peace, not barrack for combatants.
Vince circled, cursing. Kaell jabbed a fist into his jaw. The smith’s head jerked back, but he stood his ground, spitting blood. “You’ll pay for that.”
He swung. Ka
ell swayed clear, bellowed, and threw himself at the man. Both hit the ground, Kaell on top. He lifted Vince’s head, slugged him. The man lay still.
Vraymorg relaxed, willing the man to stay down.
Pen-John wheezed on his knees. Between broken breaths, he snarled, “Freak. Think you’re the little lord. All dressed up in fine clothes like someone born all high and mighty. But you’re nothing but a bastard with no second name.”
Kaell grasped Pen-John’s hair. Sweat glistened off his bare chest. “The cloak, the boots. All of it. It’s small compensation for dying young and bloody. Dying for the likes of you.”
He hurled Pen-John down, cheek to dirt, gathered his cloak and tunic and stalked off.
Vraymorg tasted bitterness on his tongue. “Is that really how he sees his life?”
Arn shrugged. “There’s truth in what he says.”
“It’s the way with warriors.” Rozenn broke into his memories. “They get the best food, the best chambers. Women. We tolerate warriors’ excesses because they’re certain to die.”
Die. Such a short word. It contained too much but offered nothing. For it was an ugly word, too. A suffocating, poisoning wound of a word.
It’s small compensation for dying young and bloody. He could still hear how Kaell said that. Without fear. But with an undertone of resignation no sixteen-year-old should feel.
“Different rules, especially moral standards, apply to swordsmen,” he said, thinking of his cousin Dace, long dead. A celebrated warrior who slew a tyrant in the ruins of Seithin. He hid his pain with potions and drink. Everyone pretended not to know.
“What happened next?” Rozenn said.
Vraymorg’s throat lumped. “The next I knew from Kaell. He had a book he scribbled in.” He wriggled, uneasy; the room too hot. “I’ve said enough, Rozenn. I can’t talk about this.”
She kissed his brow. “You’ll feel better sharing it. Tell me what Kaell wrote?”
He shut his eyes, remembering how he found Kaell’s book beneath the boy’s bed. It was later, much later, when Kaell’s wounds had healed and he could walk again.
Part of him wished he never read it.