by B R Crichton
“The wood becomes slimy with damp in this valley,” Giaco told them. “It is tradition that every crossing is done with a handful of sand to cast onto the wet timber in front of your feet. In this way, the bridge is kept usable.”
“You heard the man,” Blunt ordered, “get your hands dirty, and blinker the bloody horses, we don’t need them taking fright on that bridge.”
In turn, they took tentative steps onto the log, growing in confidence as they realised how solid a structure it was. The thundering cascade fell to their left as they crossed, churning dizzyingly under their feet. Each man cast his handful of sand where he thought it was most needed, and hurried his step towards the end of the crossing, jumping down with relief from the massive trunk onto rough stone steps.
Kellan walked slowly across, staring at the water, and thinking how much it reminded him of that day when he had first entered Lythuria. He had been spell bound by the tiny droplets breaking free from the clutches of the mother river to float alone for the briefest of moments. The Calm that he used to leash his anger was learned by remembering his own moment spent suspended in space, rushing, unfeeling towards the inevitable conclusion of the crushing turmoil below.
“I know what you’re thinking.” It was Elan, behind him.
“How do you know?”
“Because I am thinking it too. But these mountains are a far cry from our home. We will see Lythuria’s Veil again my friend. I know it.”
Kellan walked on slowly.
He envied those droplets now. Their existence was brief, but could his be considered any more enduring? Knowing what he knew, could he really think of his own life having any greater significance than a droplet of water when compared to the endurance of the one he would have to face? He was a drop of water in a river of humanity, and he may have broken free from it for an instant, but it would throw him against the rocks and crush him in the churn in time.
The horses crossed without major incident, though a few needed to be cajoled a little. Even blinkered, they sensed that there was alarming amount of air beneath them, and were hesitant on the log.
“We will find a suitable site for an encampment up that way a little,” Blunt said, waving vaguely up the correspondingly steep slope on the east side of the Mathalin. “Giaco, Rino, I know this is not your patch any more, but you haven’t failed me yet, don’t bloody start now. Take a couple of my men, and scout ahead. We will stick to the trail and meet you along it at some point. Sooner than bloody later I hope.” He took off his wide brimmed hat and fanned his sweaty face. It was humid amongst the trees, and everyone was feeling the heat, but Blunt had done a great deal more walking than he would have liked, with ever-stiffening ankles. It did not put him in good spirits.
Jarone hated the second shift on sentry duty. He would sooner get it out of the way, and then go to his bedroll as the coldest part of the night was descending. But he had been mildly pleased to find that he would be awaiting the sun with Teodor. The man shared his sense of humour, and seldom went on sentry duty without a wineskin hidden about his person. They had taken up a position to the north of the camp, a hundred paces through the sparse woodland.
“I swear Teodor,” he said, “the whores in Moshet will make you forget your own mother with their skills.”
“So I have heard, but when have you been to Moshet?” his friend said doubtfully.
“It is many years ago now. I was working escort duty for a merchant. Friend of the old Governor. Anyway, we had five days in Moshet, and my friend, I nearly forgot to come back.”
“Were they that good?”
“Unstop that wineskin, and I’ll tell you more,” he said with a grin that was twisted by the scar on his left cheek.
Teodor hesitated before removing a skin from under his heavy cloak. “You know me too well.”
“Keep it well hidden though; that ‘Scurrilous’ Blunt will have you flayed if he catches you.”
“Catches us,” Teodor corrected his friend.
Jarone chuckled and held out his hands eagerly.
“The thing is,” he said as he took a drink. “The whores in the merchant parts of the city are well schooled, and trained in the carnal arts, and I could not fault their ability one bit. Not one bit. There are things they can do with just their feet that will have you at their mercy, and do you know what a ‘Milkmaid’s embrace’ is?”
“No,” Teodor said, leaning forwards, eager to learn.
“Well,” he took another long swallow, “you ask for one when we reach Moshet. You will not be disappointed, my friend.”
“If we go to Moshet. Damned city might be empty, or in Jendayan hands by the time we get there.”
“We will go to Moshet, and believe me, the whores will be among the last to leave. When husbands pack their wives and children onto wagons to send them east to safety, who do you think will comfort those poor men in the night?”
Teodor’s face brightened as he caught up. “The whores.”
Jarone smiled indulgently. “But if you really want to have more fun than any man ought to be allowed,” he said with that wicked grin, “you need to go to the slums. Oh, Teodor. The girls” he said, and then paused, lost for words. “Young. So young, and the things that they will let you do to them for your coin? Anything.” He stared at his friend intently, and spelled it out slowly. “Anything. They will do anything.”
Jarone sat back and enjoyed his friend’s wineskin again, before offering it back to his dumbstruck companion.
“Anything?” he said.
“Anything,” Jarone repeated with a suggestive leer.
Teodor took a long drink. “Then we must reach Moshet. Quickly.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jarone grinned. “I see no reason to stay here with this doomed army. We should take a pair of horses when the opportunity arises, and make our own way. What do you say?”
Teodor looked thoughtful, and then took another long drink.
“Count me in. Has this gone any further?” he whispered.
“Just you and me, my friend.”
Teodor threw the wineskin to Jarone and winked. “Need a piss.” He stood and turned, and walked away to a tree, unbuttoning his fly as he went.
“How soon?” He cast over his shoulder as he relieved himself.
“Soon. A few days at most. We should volunteer for the next scouting party; they are usually on horseback.” Came the hushed reply
“What about whoever else is in the party?”
“It will most likely be those fools from Mallin. Kill them if necessary, I don’t care.”
“Let us hope it does not come to that. We could bind them. Leave them for the rest to find.”
Teodor waited for a response as he finished urinating against the tree. “I mean, there is no need to kill them. Is there?”
Still no reply. He turned as he buttoned his fly and saw his friend standing, clutching his throat, his hands dark with the blood that spilled from between trembling fingers.
“Jarone?”
Jarone’s mouth worked silently, only a gurgle escaping him as he fell to his knees; horror etched onto his face.
“Jarone!”
Teodor was running back towards the encampment before his friend was dead. He was shouting all the way, raising the alarm. Some silent assassin had clearly made his way into the camp and must be stopped.
It was some time before they realised that the assassin had been making his way out.
Blunt had called a meeting shortly after the discovery of Kellan’s flight. Olimar and Valia stood behind him where he alone sat on a flat rock. He was quiet; thoughtful as he waited for everyone to gather and settle down.
Governor Krennet was present to represent the Arbis Morans, as was Alano Clemente to speak for those from Balina in neighbouring Bal Mora. Truman, Granger and Elan had been summoned to speak for Kellan, and to answer in his absence, for his deed.
The atmosphere was tense. The fact that Blunt was a picture of silent contemplation and not
foul-mouthed bluster was reason enough to heighten the tension, but there was concern, at least on Granger’s side of the meeting, for Kellan’s safety as well.
Blunt eyed Granger, Elan and Truman, his steely gaze holding each in turn as he tried to see within their skulls and read their thoughts at that moment.
“You three men know Kellan better than anyone here,” he said quietly. “I need you to help me make sense of what has happened.”
“What can we possibly tell you?” Truman asked.
“There are so many things that go unexplained,” he replied. “His prowess on the battlefield should have been warning enough to steer well clear, but I confess, I found his skill useful to the Band. Then the incident on the ship. In the storm,” he looked at Granger. “You did not explain that to my satisfaction, and I foolishly let it slide. Then we lost near on thirty men to the Shar; creatures intent on killing Kellan, which he in turn felled with a whisper. Once again, I let it go as if it were merely a skirmish with tavern toughs. I swear to you, I am either getting soft in my old age or my mind is addled.
“Now he has slipped into the night, unseen by the sentries, leaving one with a grin below the chin, if you get my meaning.”
Krennet looked indignant; puffing his skinny chest out as far as it would go. “He murdered one of my men.”
“How do you know that was Kellan’s doing?” Elan said. “For all you know that man could have been killed by someone abducting Kellan.”
A choked laugh escaped Blunt. He gestured to Valia.
“This was found on the body of the Sentry; Jarone, I believe.” she said, throwing a square of delicate, embroidered fabric onto the ground in the middle of the group.
“What is it?” Truman asked.
“Giaco tells me it is a favour. A token of love given by a bride to her new husband as proof of her virtue. It is a tradition in Mallin.”
“And much of Bal Mora,” Alano added. “My Casilda gave something very similar to me when we married. I still keep it.”
“And what has it to do with Kellan?” Truman said with a shrug.
“I saw the Farrier in Mallin give this to Kellan before we left the town.” Valia said.
“Why would he give that to Kellan?” Truman said. “Were they to be wed?” His attempt at humour failed miserably, falling on the ears of an unreceptive audience.
“Jarone was accused of raping that same farrier’s daughter,” Olimar said.
“A crime for which he was never tried,” Truman pointed out, aiming the comment at Krennet, who only looked bored in response.
“But Kellan saw fit to carry out a punishment all the same,” Olimar said.
There was a long silence, and then Elan said, “Kellan’s mother was raped.”
“What?” Blunt said, confused by the purpose of the sudden revelation.
“When he was a child. His whole village was destroyed by Korathean militiamen. His mother was raped and murdered in front of him. That was why he hated the empire so much. That is why he fought so fiercely. That girl in Mallin; it must have stirred too many bad memories.”
They all stared at the favour on the ground.
“Then why run away?” Blunt asked. “He could have killed the man by stealth and stayed. Why this?”
“I fear that Kellan is at a crossroads,” Granger said, speaking for the first time.
“A what?” Blunt grunted.
“I have told you before that Kellan is different; that his abilities are special. But he also carries a great burden as a result.”
“There is much that you are not telling us, Historian,” Blunt said, leaning forward and placing his hand on the hilt of his sword warningly. “I suggest you let it all out. You have been hiding the truth from us ever since our paths crossed. Now would be a good time to come clean.”
Granger sighed heavily. “I can tell you what I know, but I doubt that you would believe me.”
Blunt leaned forward a little further, and smiled humourlessly. “Try me.”
Granger nodded slowly. “You have a right to know, I suppose. You will know that I speak the truth, in time, but for now you can have the facts as I know them. For you to understand fully, I must begin long in the past.”
Chapter Twenty Two
Beginnings…
Kellan practised hard with his sword. He and Truman spent long hours sparring now, the poet surprised at how quick a learner the younger man was. He experimented with the Calm, and found that in the absence of the rushes of emotion, he could break down the moves into simple steps.
Truman learnt to recognise the look on Kellan’s face just before he became more dangerous. He knew that the young man was using some sort of mental trick to relax into the forms, and knew when to double his guard. Even a cane bound blade could leave a nasty welt, and he had several to prove it.
When under the influence of the Calm, Kellan was able to predict Truman’s moves from his body positioning. It was glaringly obvious what the poet was doing at all times, and all movement appeared slowed, giving Kellan ample time to react to every move.
He had tried to explain the Calm to Truman, but the poet could find no mental handle to complete the trick. Kellan wondered if Ganindhra had done more than just guide him in those sessions; wondered if he had affected Kellan’s mind more directly. But he knew that the memory was his own. That blissful moment suspended above the river, below the sky, beside the tumbling waters. Physically detached, yet bound by the same laws.
Bringing the creature to mind filled him with a sense of loss. He felt both betrayed and betrayer. The support he had craved had not come from those he loved, but then perhaps he had been too hasty in making his decision. Especially as he had been so easily distracted from his original goals for so long.
But there was so much to see in this world, and the sense of wonder and hunger to experience more had, temporarily at least, diverted his energies.
One evening, Kellan accompanied Truman to a tavern where the poet was performing. Tonight he brought his lute with him, being one of the occasions that he would be entertaining ‘the rabble’, as he put it. For all his airs and graces, Truman knew as many bawdy songs and rhymes to make a sailor blush, as any other entertainer of ‘the rabble’.
The tavern; ‘The King’s Head’, was a low ceilinged room with whitewashed walls and neatly arranged tables and chairs. When they arrived, there were few customers in, as it was still early and the factories were yet to disgorge their thirsty labourers. They sat and enjoyed a drink as they waited for the room to fill.
A serving maid winked at Truman as she deposited the tankards on their table, leaning over and pressing her bosoms together with her arms to display her charms. The poet smoothed his moustaches with a roguish grin, and whispered something in her ear. She giggled, and left with a wiggle that was all for Truman’s benefit, but was enjoyed by Kellan as well.
“You have never told me about home,” Truman said, surprising Kellan from his musing.
He shrugged after a pause. “There is not a great deal to tell,” he replied.
“If you do not wish to speak of it, then I will press you no further,” Truman conceded, “but I know so little about the man I have spent the last several weeks with.
Kellan took a long drink from his tankard.
“I fled my home in the Northlands when Korathean soldiers, militiamen, murdered my family, massacred the village. I was lucky, and was found by a man who took me in and raised me. I have spent the last ten years or more in Lythuria.”
Truman thumped the table. “Fate man, I have written whole ballads about less. ‘Not a great deal to tell’, indeed. And growing up in Lythuria? You must tell me about that place. I have never been, but have heard so many tall tales about those people. I am told that outsiders are not usually invited to stay, but you were different?”
Kellan held up a hand, chuckling at the poet’s excitement.
“Easy friend,” he said, “I am not comfortable with my past; that is why I never
mentioned it. I left home some months ago with something of a cloud over my head.”
“A woman!” Truman smoothed his moustaches and leant closer.
“No. Well, yes,” Kellan stammered.
“I knew it,” the poet brought his hands together with a crack.
“No,” Kellan protested, “there is more to it than that. I will tell you in time. For now, your audience awaits.”
A few groups of men had drifted into the tavern while they spoke, and the room was beginning to buzz with conversation.
Truman snatched the lute up from the table and pointed a warning finger at Kellan.
“I will have the truth out of you, my friend,” he said, then jumped up onto a stool, with his head almost touching the ceiling
Kellan laughed at his friend as he began playing a sprightly tune that soon had the drinkers clapping in time to the music.
There was a song about a Duchess and a stable boy, and then one called ‘What the chambermaid wouldn’t do’, which as it turned out, was not much. Kellan had tears streaming down his cheeks, and banged the table for more as the room filled to capacity over the next hour.
After a while, Truman put down his lute, and began reciting short poems. They were all a few short lines in length, and usually about unlikely scenarios a man might find himself in with ladies of easy virtue. He picked on members of his audience, insulting their sexual prowess and calling their wives’ honour into question, yet none took offence. He was self-deprecating one moment, and self-aggrandising the next. It appeared that anything went when you were entertaining ‘the rabble’, and perhaps that was why Truman enjoyed it so much.
The expressions on the faces of the drinkers was bordering on that of pain as they howled with laughter.