Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  Something snapped in Eadwine and he began to laugh, a manic sound, brittle as shattering glass.

  “No,” he gasped, “no, no, no! Now I know why I haven’t seen a ghost!”

  Chapter 19

  “What happened to him in the city?” Lilla panted, struggling to keep up with Eadwine’s punishing pace. “I’ve never known him so unhappy, or in such a hurry.”

  “Woman trouble,” grunted Drust, shifting his shield on his shoulder.

  Lilla frowned. “I don’t think it’s a woman. He’s got that haunted look back, like when he first heard his brother was dead. Only worse.”

  “When he’s miserable there’s always a woman at the bottom of it,” Drust insisted.

  “Shows what you know. He’s no womaniser.”

  “That’s why they make him miserable. He lets them mess with his head and heart. If he kept them to the one part that’s concerned with women he’d be a lot happier.” He shifted the shield to his other shoulder. “I reckon he’s told that blonde piece he’s finished with her and he feels bad about it.”

  “Break a promise? Never –” Lilla broke off, struck by a new possibility. “Maybe he was looking for his girl and found she’s dead.”

  Drust snorted. “Her? Girls with tits like that don’t get killed.”

  “Maybe she’s a prisoner –”

  “And he feels obliged tae rescue her and doesna want tae, because he likes the little witch better? Aye, that’s the sort of stupid thing he’d fret over.”

  “You’re wrong!” Lilla snapped, all the more hotly because he thought it might well be true.

  “Aye, weel. My shield says when this is over and his brother’s avenged, we go back and pick up the little witch.”

  “And my sword says we come back to Eboracum and rescue his girl!”

  “What are you two gossiping about back there?” Eadwine shouted over his shoulder. “Get a move on!”

  “Coming, lord!” Lilla called back, and turned to Drust. “Done?”

  “Done!”

  Two nights’ journey, marching from dusk to dawn without pause or rest, following little-used paths and tracks winding stickily through the woods and marshes of Eboracum Vale. Much of the farmland was a drear landscape still, ashen under the winter sleet, with here and there a ploughed field or a stack of timber beside the charred hump of a farmstead marking where some hardy souls had begun to return and rebuild. Dawn on the third day brought them to the southern edge of the moors, a country of scattered farms in hard-won valley clearings tucked among high and lonely hills. This land had been their home four months ago, their own country, where they could count every man as a friend. Now they came creeping back to it under cover of darkness, like thieves in the night.

  And found it wrecked beyond all recognition.

  They had been braced for trouble, after Eadwine had passed on Heledd’s news of rebellion and punishment. They were familiar with the aftermath of raids, livestock taken and houses burned and survivors living hungry in the ruins or crammed into the homes of kinsmen and friends. But nothing had prepared them for Black Dudda’s inventive savagery.

  Every farm and smallholding was broken and roofless, either deserted or occupied only by the dead. Here were Aelfweard and his wife Hild, a famously lugubrious couple who farmed a benign, south-facing, well-watered valley and yet were always gloomily predicting crop failure or cattle plague or the wrong sort of weather, now merely charred skeletons lying with their legs broken in the burned-out wreck of the farmhouse. Cuthwulf and his three sons, who lived in cheerful bachelor chaos, brewed the best ale in Deira and were seldom sober, hanging in a disintegrating row from their door lintel. Sigelind, three times widowed, recently married for the fourth time and pregnant with her tenth child, floating face-down in the duck pond with her children drowned around her and her husband’s headless body thrown down the well. Locca and Leofa, who farmed adjacent lands on opposite sides of the same stream and who maintained a permanent tight-lipped quarrel with no known origin. Four times a year they had stalked into the folk-moot, bristling with righteous indignation, and accused each other of pissing in the stream, moving the boundary stones, letting their cattle get into each other’s hayfields, and insulting each other’s daughters. Four times a year Eadwine had listened to them with an admirably straight face, exchanged resigned glances with their long-suffering wives, and awarded each of them exactly equal amounts of compensation. Now Leofa was a scatter of calcined bone in the burned-out ruin of his house, and Locca was a heap of evil-smelling shreds being shovelled into a shallow grave. Nothing and no-one had been spared. Every animal had been slaughtered and left to rot in the fields, even down to the chickens. Every house had been destroyed, even down to a tiny hovel in the bottom of a valley that was too steep for crops and too wet for pasture, where a single couple had scraped a precarious living from charcoal-burning and trapping and now lay with shattered limbs and shattered skulls outside the broken doorway of their home.

  It was as they were rolling these bodies with as much decorum as possible into a hastily-dug grave, that they heard the moaning. All four instinctively recoiled, hearts hammering and hands reaching for amulets, but the moan had come not from the corpses but from the hut. A half-grown boy was dragging himself, inch by agonising inch, out into the light. His hands, feet and knees had been smashed to bloody shards and he was trying to crawl on his elbows. Jagged splinters of bone gleamed through torn flesh, and both his legs were blackened, stinking and swollen. Gangrene had set in.

  “Water,” he groaned, “water–”

  The four travellers stood rooted to the spot, paralysed by pity and revulsion in equal measure. There was something obscene about this creeping, crippled horror with its corrupting flesh, something less than human.

  “Ida –!” Eadwine choked, and went to him. “Here, lad –”

  The boy sucked thirstily at the proffered water bottle, coughed, choked, and sagged back against Eadwine’s arm. “Hurts –” He rolled his head from side to side as if trying to escape the pain. “It hurts – ”

  “Lie still, Ida,” Eadwine said softly. “Who did this?”

  “Butcher – the Butcher –”

  “Black Dudda?”

  “Aye – his servant killed – by th’ outlaws – he said we done it – we never! We never done nowt – he said we knew who had – said he’d break our bones – one by one – til we told him where they hide – we didn’t know nowt – nowt – it hurts –” Ida’s bleeding hands flopped against Eadwine’s chest in desperate appeal. “Hurts – make it stop –”

  “I’ll make it stop, Ida. I promise. See, help is coming, look.”

  He gestured to the right. Ida turned his head. Eadwine’s dagger flashed, and Ida lay still in his arms, blood gushing from his cut throat.

  “Outlaws?” queried Drust, as they heaped earth and stones over the enlarged grave.

  “Exactly,” said Eadwine, through clenched teeth. He rolled the last stone into place and got to his feet, his face set in an expression of cold anger that none of the others had ever seen before. “Come. I want a word with these outlaws, so we have hunting to do.”

  Not even Drust dared to question Eadwine in this mood, even when it turned out that ‘hunting’ was meant literally. They ran down a young stag in the late afternoon, and Eadwine insisted on hauling it out of the valley and carrying it along a high moorland ridge – much to Ashhere’s alarm, since they could hardly fail to be seen on the skyline if hostile eyes were watching – to a deep, steep-sided, woodland-filled hollow in the moors. Wade’s Cauldron it was called, after a giant called Wade who carved it out to cook his wedding feast and still, according to harassed mothers, prowled the moors in search of naughty children for dessert. Here Eadwine made them stop, light a large fire in a clearing backed by a rocky outcrop, and set about roasting haunches of venison.

  “Er – should we damp the fire down?” Ashhere ventured, feeling a little braver now that he was comfortably full of his firs
t hot meal in days.

  “No,” Eadwine answered. “I’m expecting company to dinner.”

  “Er –?”

  “Be quiet, Ash!”

  Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Ashhere could hear his three companions breathing, the distant hoot of an owl, the rustle of a mouse in the leaf-litter – except it was a very heavy mouse –

  Eadwine sat bolt upright, alert as a kestrel sighting prey.

  “Come into the light, friend,” he commanded.

  The mouse scuffled to a startled stop. Eadwine moved his hand to his sword hilt.

  “I said, come into the light.”

  A man limped out of the shadows. A small, scrawny man, not much bigger than an adolescent boy, but with a snake’s speed of movement and a thin face alive with all the mischief of the world.

  “By the Hammer!” said Ashhere, astonished. “Weasel!”

  “Ar!” grinned the newcomer, helping himself to a chunk of venison. “An’ ‘oo was you expecting then?”

  “Not you, at any rate,” Eadwine said frankly. “You’re losing your touch, Weasel, if we could hear you coming.”

  The little man grinned more broadly, if that were possible. He was of indeterminate age and mysterious origin, a thief and a pickpocket on Eboracum’s busy waterfront until, for some reason no-one else was quite sure of, he had attached himself to Eadwine and by extension to the warband. He was not a warrior, nor was he quite a servant, he was always getting into trouble and out of it again, and he had a useful knack of getting into unexpected places and finding out undisclosed information. He was sharp as a needle, charming as a puppy, tricky as a fox and trustworthy as a cat. He could get up a woman’s skirt faster than a rat up a drain, talk his way out of trouble with her husband, and steal the family silver into the bargain. His name, inevitably, was Weasel. It was probably not the name his mother had given him, though opinion was evenly divided over whether he had ever had a mother in the first place. He had been badly injured in the foot trying to loot an enemy corpse at the fords of Esk, in the first skirmish against the Bernician invaders four months ago, and so unable to follow the retreat to Eboracum. Eadwine had sent him off the battlefield to take what refuge he could find with the villagers of Beacon Bay, and that had been the last they heard of him.

  “Ar, the foot mended, thank you for asking,” Weasel explained. “We ’eard you got away from the battle, so when I could walk I started ’eading south, back to the city, an’ in Derwent Vale I ’eard they’d got you at Wicstun, so I ’itched a ride in a cart an’ went there instead.”

  Eadwine laughed. “What, a rescue attempt? Don’t tell me you came over all virtuous, Weasel.”

  “Ar, there was ’undreds of folk goin’ to see the show. Big event, big crowd, good pickings,” said Weasel, unabashed. “But I were too late, any’ow. They’d finished days before I arrived.”

  “What do you mean, finished?”

  “At the ’Ome of the Gods. Ceremony over, priests gone ‘ome. Yer armour’s ’anging in the sacred grove. Very pretty it looks too.”

  Eadwine blanched. “Treowin took my armour! What happened to him?”

  “Ar! Well, I dint know that, did I? I thought it was you.” He sniffed. “Bit sad, really. Until I ’eard the rumour.”

  “Weasel, I am not in the mood for riddles. What happened?”

  “Ar! Wish I’d seen it. Made the Twister look a right fool, everybody seeing ’e’d got the wrong man an’ all. Couldn’t give the gods the wrong man.”

  Eadwine sagged with relief. “They spared him? They spared Treowin?”

  “Ar. Can’t get nothing out of a corpse. Mind you, I ’eard he died before ’e said anything. Can I ’ave some more dinner?”

  “Weasel –!”

  “Stupid idea, trying to keep a feller prisoner in the middle of ’is own lands,” Weasel continued, enjoying the effect he was having. “’Is sister was offerin’ gold for ’is rescue. Lucky I were on ’and. Always pleased to oblige a lady, me. Mind you, I earned it. Took me weeks to find ’im, ’idden away in a shack. Even most of the guards dint know ’e was there. ’E sent you a message.”

  “Weasel, if you stop once more, I swear I’ll strangle you –!”

  “Ar, an’ then you’ll never know the end.”

  “What message?”

  “Three guesses.”

  “Weasel –!”

  “Ar!” said Weasel, grinning. “Well now, I think ’e’d like to tell you ‘imself.”

  He turned, beckoned, a twig cracked under a clumsy footstep, and a tall, dark figure stalked out of the shadows.

  It was Treowin, but greatly changed. His face, once so handsome, was now marred by a broken nose and a puckered scar on the left side of his jaw. Two of his front teeth were missing and two more were broken. His right arm terminated in a stump where the wrist and hand should be.

  “Eadwine?” He blinked uncertainly in the light. “Is it you?”

  Eadwine embraced him like a brother. “Can you doubt it? Alas, my friend!” He looked at Treowin long and searchingly. “I fear you have suffered greatly.” For Treowin was trembling slightly from head to foot, not the shaking weakness that comes from weariness or wounds, but a kind of heightened tension like a harp-string tuned to breaking-point, or a highly-bred horse quivering under the touch of an unfamiliar hand. And there was a strange expression in his eyes too, excited and yet somehow furtive, like a child bursting with an important secret.

  Eadwine stepped back, feeling suddenly uneasy. “Come. Tell us your tale –”

  “You must go away!” Treowin blurted out. “Far, far away! Now! At once!”

  “I have an errand that will not wait and that no-one else can do,” Eadwine said calmly. “You would not have me leave my brother unavenged?”

  Treowin did not appear to have heard. “You’re mad to come here! The Twister –”

  “Has offered gold for my head. I know.”

  “He has vowed you to Woden!”

  The circle of firelight seemed to shrivel and fade, and the others involuntarily shrank away from Eadwine, as if they expected the dread war-god to stride out of the darkness to snatch his prize.

  “This explains much,” Eadwine murmured thoughtfully, when Treowin had stumbled to the end of his terrible tale. “It means Aethelferth can never give up hunting me.”

  “”It means you’re a dead man!” Treowin cried. “Unless you go away, far away, where other gods rule.”

  “As to that, we shall see.” Eadwine drew a deep breath. “There are many gods in the nine worlds, and they are all subject to the Three Ladies, just as we are. If the Ladies weave me in their web, Woden or any other god cannot cut me out. And if they choose to snip my thread, no god’s favour will save me.” He looked around at his friends. “For my part, I will take my chances with my fate, whatever is woven. But I would not compel anyone to follow me.”

  Silence for what seemed like a long time.

  Then Drust cleared his throat. “The Great Mother hasna heard of this upstart ye call Woden.” He held out his hand to Eadwine. “I follow ye, lord.”

  “And I –” quavered Lilla, “I follow Lord Frey and I have not heard he has any quarrel with you, lord.”

  “N–n–nor Red-beard,” stuttered Ashhere, clutching both his amulets tight in his fists and bracing himself for a thunderbolt.

  “For my king, I would defy every god in the nine worlds!” declared Treowin.

  “An’ me, I follow my belly an’ no god ever give me a decent meal,” drawled Weasel, and belched. “That for the lot of ‘em!”

  Ashhere winced, but the sky remained placidly empty of flaming thunderbolts.

  “I thank you all,” Eadwine said, when he could speak. “And I hope you have no cause –” he glanced at Treowin and corrected himself, “– no further cause to regret it.” He stretched stiffly and glanced up at the stars. “I wonder where tonight’s intended guests are? That owl was a long way off, but they should have managed to walk
here by now.”

  “Er – owls don’t walk –” Ashhere began, and subsided when Lilla elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Ar!” said Weasel. “I told ’em not to use that signal. Tawny owls live in the valleys. Up ’ere, what you wants is a wolf, or mebbe a fox.”

  Eadwine gave him a dangerous look. “Are you involved in this, Weasel?”

  Weasel looked hurt. “Me? I could of done better’n a cartload o’ firewood an’ a couple o’ dead slaves! But Fulla won’t listen to the likes o’ me.”

  Eadwine frowned. “Fulla? Thirty-ish, built like a barrel on legs and with about as much brain, reckons the answer to any problem is to hit it, keeps sheep with half a dozen cousins on the marshy land above Boggle Bay? That Fulla?”

  “That’s ‘im,” Weasel agreed.

  “How in the name of all the gods did he start a rebellion? I didn’t think he could lead the way out of a burning house.”

  Weasel grinned. “Depends what you call a rebellion. Seems the new lord what come after the battle told ’em all they ’ad to pay double food-rent an’ not do military service no more. Fulla dint like this – ’e enjoys strutting about with a spear – so ’e said ’e weren’t going to put up wi’ being treated like a slave an’ ’e weren’t going to pay the extra rent.”

  Eadwine groaned and put his head in his hands. Weasel cackled with laughter.

  “It were quite a show, Fulla bellowing an’ Deornoth bellowing back, an’ Fulla’s wife railing at ‘im for a mutton-headed fool an’ swearin’ she’d not let ’im back in the ’ouse til ’e saw sense. Wish I’d been selling tickets. Any’ow, a few more numbskulls join Fulla an’ they stamp off to tell the new lord they’ll pay the lawful rent an’ no more, an’ ’e laughs at ’em an’ tells ’is guards to chuck ’em in the river, ’cos the law now is what ’e says it is. Well, this gets everybody riled, not just the muttonheads, an’ the upshot is a couple of ’undred folk descend on ’is hall one night an ’is lordship an’ ’is guards get trussed up in a cart an’ hauled off to the king.” Weasel’s voice became suddenly sober. “They was expecting the king to ’ear their case an’ either tell ’is lordship to behave ’imself or send ’em a new lord more to their liking. But what come back was Black Dudda, wi’ the messengers’ ’eads on a spear.” He shivered. “Folk ’ere dint know what ’it ’em. Me ’an ’im –” he nodded at Treowin, “– ’ad just come up ’ere ’cos ’is sister said ’e were too dangerous for ’er to keep in Wicstun, an’ it were like a year’s worth of raids all rolled into one. After that most folk – them that was still alive – kept their ’eads down an’ ’id away in sheds an’ shielings out o’ the way. But Fulla an’ a few cousins an’ some other numbskulls ’ang around up ’ere eating rats, beating up easy targets, stealing from other folk an’ calling ’emselves outlaws.”