by S J Hartland
“I didn’t—” A slap. A ringing in his ears.
“When Caelmarsh learns you attacked me, he’ll insist Vraymorg surrender you.”
Kaell writhed. The knee hurt his hip.
“My lord would never surrender me to you.”
“Caelmarsh is the king’s grand constable. Vraymorg must obey. Besides, why should he care about you? You’re a burden. A bastard with no name. No one.”
Kaell arched his back. The brute pinned him.
“Settle down.” Paulin smeared his blood on Kaell’s tunic. “I’ll give you a chance to run.”
“I won’t run,” Kaell said. “I did nothing wrong.”
“You attacked me. That’s after you put your bastard’s hands all over Caelmarsh’s daughter. Your lord can’t save you from what’s ahead. Life as a slave.”
“You snake. Why are you doing this?”
Paulin laughed. “I have reason enough. Reason you won’t understand—boy.”
With one flick he cut Kaell’s hands free and rose, looking down with a knife-edged smile. “Your life here is over. Unless you run. Why don’t you run?”
Kaell struggled to his knees. Then to his feet. He ran.
Val Arques
“His book.” Cold sweat riveted off Vraymorg’s brow. “When I read it later, I understood just how devious they were. That night I didn’t know the whole of it. A guard fetched me to say Paulin had barged into the storeroom where I put Kaell—to keep him safe.”
He groaned. “Safe. He was never safe.”
“What did you do?”
“On that awful night?” Vraymorg shuddered. “I went after Paulin.”
His arm bruised Paulin’s windpipe. “You did something. That’s why he bolted.”
Paulin choked out sounds.
“Vraymorg.” Caelmarsh tried to pull his arm away. “He can hardly answer if you strangle him. The boy’s out of control. He attacked Paulin and now he’s fled to escape punishment.”
“Kaell would not.” Confident words. But doubt nagged. Kaell had run before.
With an angry hiss, he shoved Paulin at Arn and a guardsman called Aalart Hillborn, barely old enough to shave. The two held the brute while Vraymorg paced and thought.
A three-moon night. The spectres of the Lost walked. Kaell knew not to venture beyond the castle walls. Unless terrified. But what terrified him? Ghouls didn’t. The Lost? Maybe.
He kicked the hatch shut on the storeroom. With Aalart on guard, the boy should have been safe there. Yet Paulin still found him.
He whirled on Aalart. “Why did you leave?”
“Paulin ordered me gone. I knew something was up, so I sought you at once.”
“Why obey?” Paulin might be a lord’s captain but Vraymorg trained his men better than that. Obedience to him first. Regardless of what lord—or king—threw their weight about.
Beneath Vraymorg’s angry stare, Aalart did not flinch. “He said the grand constable told him to question the boy.”
“My lord.”
Vraymorg turned. His foot slid on a wet patch. Blood?
Ewen approached at a rush. “Kaell’s not in the castle. The men are ready to search the grounds. We’ve torches.”
“Get out your dogs.” Paulin sneered. Menace oozed from him like sickness. “Or let me hunt him down. I’ll take him to Dal-Kanu in irons.”
“Dal-Kanu?” Vraymorg glared at Caelmarsh.
“What did you expect?” The grand constable flared up. “First, this brat humiliates me, now he stabs my sword. The king will deal with him. Kaell will be fortunate if he doesn’t hang. And you, Vraymorg, will be fortunate to keep your head.”
Ewen plucked at his sleeve. “Kaell knows the danger on a three-moon night. We locked down the castle, so he’s inside the grounds.”
“You’re right. He’s here.” Somewhere.
Caelmarsh coughed to clear phlegm. “Release Paulin. He answers to the king, not you.”
Vraymorg grunted angrily. “Unhand the snake, Arn. Just keep him out of my sight.”
Cloak drawn tight, he stomped out and ran up the stairs to the ward.
Ewen followed, grumbling. “Slow down. Wait for me.”
Vraymorg remembered his brother calling those same words as they raced up sand banks near Tide’s End. The two boys had slid down on shields “borrowed” from the armoury.
Once the bank collapsed on Vraymorg. He panicked, gasped for air that wasn’t there, choked on sand. Karolus had pulled him out.
That same, sick band of dread tightened at his throat now.
Men in the ward held torches. Fires leapt from braziers on the walls, the flames’ bizarre wind dance etching walls. The air was dense with cold, with scents of smoke and pine.
A three-moon night when folk cowered beneath blankets, letting lust or love silence the cries of the dead. Kaell knew better than to wander on such a night.
Arn joined him in the chill-swept courtyard. Ewen doubled over, hands to knees, catching his breath. He cast a doubtful look at the moons rising together.
“He’s only a boy. And mist rolls in.”
“We’ll find him.” Vraymorg shoved down panic. Surely Kaell would not leave the castle when the Lost rose outside. “Have them search this ward, then the bailey. And the crypt.”
Ewen trod off.
“Arn, we’ll take the orchard and the ruins.”
Arn nodded, fisted a torch and trudged towards the collapsed tower on an overgrown mound. Men tended fires on the outer wall above their heads. Vraymorg hailed them.
“We heard, my lord,” one called back. “No sign of him.”
Arn waved the torch about the crumbling ruin. Builders long ago removed most of its stone for the new keep. But some hewed blocks, green and slippery with moss, formed broken walls. Trees claimed the subsiding husk, their roots piercing ancient stone.
Vraymorg lifted a rusted metal cover to a cellar.
Arn dropped to his belly and waved the torch inside. “Empty, my lord.”
Vraymorg slammed the cover closed. If not there … where?
A dull ache pounded to his core. His fault. He’d locked Kaell in that hole to keep him safe, not make him easy prey for Paulin and Caelmarsh to manipulate.
Arn lifted the light to the keep’s ivy-strangled walls. “Broken branch.”
His lord shrugged. Ghosts, lovers stealing kisses and children playing at knights all haunted the old keep. Anyone could have snapped that bough.
Arn stepped over a root and rounded the shell. He swung the flame.
“Kaell!” Vraymorg cried. Caught in the light, the boy scrambled up the broken earth through a gaping breach in the stone.
“Kaell!”
Vraymorg clambered after him. A stiff branch stabbed his shoulder. Another slapped his face as he crawled, broken stone grazing palms.
He straightened. No sign of Kaell in the orchard. Where? Where?
A shout from the wall. “I see him, my lord. To your right.”
Darkness closed as clouds banked the moons.
“No, he’s gone again.” Then the guard cursed. Clamouring footsteps and alarmed, belligerent voices carried from the wall. “Someone’s there. They’re armed. Seize them.”
Arn rushed up. “Paulin’s on the walk.”
Moonlight split clouds. Vraymorg glimpsed a figure running through trees. He looked up fast at the wall. Paulin held a bow, its string drawn back.
“No!” He sprinted at the wall. The arrow twanged. Vraymorg jerked to a halt, whirled to see Kaell spin backwards. Hit the ground.
“Arn, stop Paulin.” Vraymorg weaved to Kaell, blocking Paulin’s sight. An arrow hissed above his head. Kaell yelped.
A racket broke out on the wall; shouts, a thudding scuffle, Paulin’s protests.
He dropped beside Kaell. The boy clutched his arm, breaths fast and hard.
“You told them to shoot me?”
“Paulin shot you. Why did you run when I called out?”
Kaell groaned with pain
. “I saw lights. I panicked. Thought it was him.”
“Paulin? Why run from him?” Vraymorg brushed an arrow’s fletching with taut fingers. He pushed Kaell’s hands away to examine the boy’s bleeding ankle. It must hurt.
No answer.
“Tell me, Kaell.”
The boy’s voice sounded tiny. “Paulin said you had to surrender me to the king.”
Vraymorg rocked back on his heels. “You believed it?”
In the moonlight, Kaell’s eyes rounded like an owl’s. A sob mewed in his throat. Vraymorg felt helpless. No cloak. No words.
Kaell whispered, “He stabbed himself, said he’d tell everyone I did it, that Caelmarsh would force you give me to the king. That Cathmor would sell me.” Frightened tears welled.
Vraymorg heard only his own ragged breaths, in and out, in and out. Cold wind brushed his face. Kaell’s blood coated his fingers.
“Do not cry, Kaell. Warriors do not cry. I taught you better than that.”
“My lord.” Arn stood at the front of men carrying torches.
“Where?”
No need to say who he meant. Aalart shoved Paulin forward. Caelmarsh’s captain looked from their angry faces to Kaell and laughed out aloud.
“A tricky shot that second one. I did well to only wound him.”
Vraymorg surged up, cold with rage. He scraped his sword free.
Arn grabbed his shoulders. “Think, my lord. Think.”
“He’ll answer for it,” Vraymorg seethed.
“So he will. He spilled a bonded warrior’s blood. His fate is set. The brute awakened magic and can’t escape it. That is far, far worse than to die quickly from a sword thrust.”
Slowly Vraymorg lowered the blade.
Arn released him and turned on Paulin. “You shot him. Are you mad? You must be. That, or you serve the Blood Lord.”
Parents told their children stories of the fabled Blood Lord so they stayed inside after dark. Yet Arn spat his name with certainty, his face twisted with loathing.
Paulin sneered. “I stopped him fleeing just punishment. That’s all. How do you stop them here? Kiss them?” He laughed again. “Filthy goat screwers. All of you.”
“Take that back or I’ll—” A guardsman started.
Paulin thrust his hands to a belted waist. “Or you’ll what? I’m the grand constable’s sword. I’m here to judge, not be judged. I did what you cowards were too gutless to do.”
He shouldered through simmering men. “You’ll find me with the grand constable. Telling him a sorry tale. The boy seduced Annatise and attacked me. A flawed bonded warrior. The king must take charge of him. If he can’t redeem Kaell, Cathmor will kill him or sell him.”
As he stomped away a mutter rose at his back.
“My lord,” Aalart said. “He can’t—”
“Let him go. But this isn’t finished.” Vraymorg scooped Kaell into his arms. The boy sobbed in pain.
“No crying, Kaell.” His curt tone covered his relief. Even if the boy’s wounds kept him in bed a week or two, he was safe.
He nodded to Arn to take Kaell’s legs. Torch-waving men accompanied them back to the keep.
“The physician will have to cut that arrow in his ankle out,” Vraymorg told Arn.
Overhearing, Kaell groaned.
“Yes, it will hurt,” Vraymorg said. “I’d take the pain for you if I could.”
Anger flared through his body. He fought it, knowing it was unfair, knowing his anger hid something else. Guilt? That Kaell should think so little of himself must be his fault.
Then he gave up, blurted: “You believed him?” His breath steamed out in cold air. “You believe I’d surrender you to Paulin, or the king? Because that monster said so?”
Kaell hung his head. “Paulin said you had to obey. I thought—”
“What? That you’re a bale of hay? For others to barter, pass around like spoils of battle?”
“I don’t know.”
Vraymorg cast Arn a look. The captain concentrated on the ground.
“How can you think you have so little value? By all the Mountains gods, Kaell, this castle is your home.”
The boy lifted his head. “Is it, my lord?”
“What do you mean?”
Arn lost his hold. Kaell hissed a breath as his foot scraped the ground.
“Sorry.” The captain re-established his grip. Vraymorg considered him again. Would Arn take his words back to the barracks? No. He was fond of Kaell. He’d say nothing.
“Well, Kaell. I await your answer. What do you mean?” He was too heartsick to soften his sharp tone.
“I don’t have a second name. You reminded me of that when the grand constable rode in. That means I’m no one.”
“It’s no shame to have only one name, Kaell. Few are born into the great houses of Telor. Do you think any less of Ewen because he has one name only? Or Alyssa? Olier?”
“No. But then—who am I? I’m not your son. Yet everything I have is yours. Even the sword. It’s mine only until—” He bit his lip.
“Careful my lord,” Arn said. “There’s a step.”
They reached the keep. The physician Robbie Teverall tut-tutted from the doorway. “Bring him out of the cold.” He shook his balding head. “What is it this time, young man?”
Arn grunted. “Gods you’re heavy, Kaell. Next time a man shoots you find another slave to carry you. I’ll need Teverall to fix my broken back.”
The boy grinned, then winced again.
“Shot?” The physician’s eyebrows drew down. “How?”
“Twice.” Vraymorg backed up the stairs. Raised voices carried from above; Paulin and Caelmarsh arguing. He and Arn laid Kaell on a cot in the physician’s room and stepped away.
“Twice.” Teverall stooped over his patient. “What next?”
Arn rubbed his arms. “Got to check on the sentries,” he mumbled to Vraymorg. “Three-moon night and all.” He smiled at Kaell. “I’ll check on you tomorrow, young ’un.”
“No point,” Teverall grumbled. “A long poppy-juice sleep for this one.” He shook his head sadly. “Shot. In the middle of the night, mind you. You’d think the Lost had attacked.”
Vraymorg stayed as Teverall cleaned and bandaged Kaell’s shoulder. Bone-weary, he reeled with the strain of worry and fear; knowing this long, awful night was far from over.
Paulin. He did not intend to let the gods deal with the snake.
The physician bid him hold Kaell down as he dug the bolt out. The boy screamed and blacked out briefly. Vraymorg winced as though the knife was cutting him.
Teverall bound Kaell’s ankle. Then he stirred more poppy juice into wine. Kaell’s eyes hazed. Vraymorg pulled up a stool. “There now, Kaell. There now. Sleep.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” the boy murmured.
“I didn’t like your answer to mine.” Why run? Because of words. Empty words? Because he really thought his lord would believe Paulin over him?
Vraymorg knew he should hold his tongue until morning. Kaell looked beaten. But frustration and fear nagged. “You believed that brute? You believed I’d give you up?”
Kaell wrenched his head away. “Paulin made it sound possible.”
“Possible.” His anger rekindled. “Let’s have it then. Exactly how worthless do you think you are?”
Kaell swallowed. He cast a hesitant, almost hopeful look at his lord. “Paulin said I was like a slave. A burden. A bastard with one name. Not someone who belongs here.”
Bleakly, Vraymorg stared at the floor. Words tumbled through his mind, things he might say but would not. You’re loved here. You belong here. Like a son—
No, no. Say these words and they became real. He could not bear that again. To feel. To love. There was nothing kind about love. Raising a child was fraught with not just struggle, but fear. Beneath those moments of joy, even pride, there was always fear.
It was why a man’s arms might tighten when he hugged his child. Why his throat might close up the
first time a small hand clasped a sword hilt, why he might hold back tears at a bright, undaunted smile before his child rode out to fight that first battle.
Teverall pounced. “No more talk. Sleep. My lord, a word.”
He drew Vraymorg aside. “Something odd here, my lord. Nur weed on his breath. It heightens panic. Nasty stuff. Might explain why he ran.”
“You didn’t answer,” Kaell whispered in a dreamy voice. “What am I?”
Vraymorg hesitated, tempted to let the boy drift to sleep. He knew what Kaell wanted to hear, what he deserved. But he would not love him like a son. Care for him, yes. Prepare him.
Love meant loss. Kaell would die. Vraymorg would not.
With a sigh, he sat and stroked Kaell’s hair. “This is your home, and you are my ward.”
“Ward.” Kaell’s voice held an ethereal sweetness. “King Rollo had a ward. The orphaned Lord of the Plains. Long ago. The king treated him like a son.”
“Like that, yes.”
“So I’m like a lord.” Kaell’s lips curled into a smile and he closed his eyes.
Then a man screamed.
“There now.” Rozenn touched his hair. “Nearly done. The sword hungers for this story, Val. Soon you’ll know neither fear nor pain.”
She pulled her hand away. “My, how hot you are. You’re burning up.”
Burning up. But it was cold that night, the night of the Lost. The three-moon night when Paulin fell to his death. No. Tell it correctly. When Arn Tranter pushed Paulin to his death.
Teverall’s head jerked around. “By Khir. What was that?”
Vraymorg rushed to the window. The three moons washed the castle with white light. Smouldering fires twitched shadows on towers. In a scape of metal, Arn leaned over the roof balustrade. “He fell, my lord. Paulin. I tried to grab him. But he fell.”
Vraymorg looked down. The grand constable’s captain sprawled in the snow.
Too hot. Sweat poured down his face. Vraymorg tried to swipe it away. His hand did not obey him. The sword burned his flesh. He moaned.
Rozenn lifted the blade off him. Sorrow rimmed her eyes like a dark halo, but triumph glimmered beneath.