Hauling himself to his feet, he reclaimed his sword and, ignoring the intense pain, in one powerful hack lopped off the head of Jerico, its tongue lolling out of the mouth. He pulled off the dead man’s shirt and wrapped the head in it several times, hoping the blood would not show through too soon. Fortunately it was a black shirt and would hide the seepage for a while.
With disgust now he rolled the bodies into the bushes. Wolves or other scavengers would find them soon enough and that was fitting. He cared not. Wyl staggered from the woods carrying Jerico’s head, which he had already decided would have special ironic significance for Celimus. He spent an hour trying to find a suitable container amongst the rubbish of the town and, when satisfied, he hid the box and its vile contents to be despatched as soon as he could arrange it.
Then only did he collapse.
TWENTY-ONE
THIS TIME WHEN WYL regained his senses he was lying in a bed. At first he thought he was dreaming as memories of an ugly night returned. He touched the feather coverlet and it was real enough to convince him he was not imagining these comfy surrounds, and the spicy fragrance which lingered around him definitely smacked of a woman. Its owner, familiar to him, suddenly leaned over.
‘Don’t hit me again, Arlyn,’ he croaked and smiled crookedly.
She gave a full-throated laugh this time. ‘I’m tempted, Romen. What in Shar’s Name happened to you last night?’
‘Long story. Would you believe me if I told you it all happened because of you?’
‘No, because you are a liar, a cheat and a low, good-for-nothing scoundrel whom I shall toss from my bed just as soon as your body can stand it.’
He winced. ‘How bad?’
‘The physic says you can’t move for a couple of days at least.’
‘Then I am at your mercy,’ Wyl said, surprising himself. He liked women a lot yet he felt tongue-tied amongst them. He thought of Valentyna; the thrill of her touch and how his throat had closed up when she had turned her attention fully to him. And yet here he was in this woman’s bed, acting the roguish flatterer using Romen’s confidence.
‘Penny for those thoughts?’ Arlyn said, squeezing out a rag into a small bowl of water. She smoothed the linen gently over his face, her expression suddenly tender.
‘I was just contemplating how sorry I am,’ he said softly.
Arlyn paused in her ministrations and fixed him with her green gaze. ‘You hurt me so much.’
Wyl reached over with Romen’s large hand and cupped hers to his chest. ‘I know. I have a lot to explain.’
‘But not yet,’ she said, reaching for a cup and handing it to him. ‘Rest and heal are the doctor’s orders. Drink this.’
He did so and pulled an expression of the worst sort of disgust.
‘Sleep now,’ she said, a smile passing across her face.
‘Arlyn,’ he said drowsily. ‘How did I get here?’
‘A huge black dog dragged you to my doorstep,’ she said indignantly.
He started to laugh as he drifted away. ‘His name’s Knave.’
‘It could be King Celimus for all I care,’ he heard her say as he lost his grip on the bright morning. ‘I’ve told him he stays out of this bedroom. He’s outside.’
‘Thank you,’ he said and slept.
Two fierce needs woke Wyl. It was dusk now. He was starving but even more pressing than the desire of his belly was the desperation of his bladder. He would have to move fast or make a fool of himself in front of Arlyn. He scanned the room desperately looking for the chamber pot and, after eyeing it, dragged himself out of the bed. Arlyn must have heard him moving because she entered the room just as he finished.
‘You shouldn’t be up,’ she scolded.
He looked around. ‘It was urgent,’ he admitted sheepishly.
‘Let me feed you and then we’ll talk.’
Arlyn’s food was delicious and as Wyl ate he wanted to ask her questions but he knew he could not for fear of showing his ignorance. He had decided that Romen must have got himself trapped and no doubt did flee Arlyn’s arms rather coldheartedly. The man’s manner, his whole ease amongst people, suggested he was a womaniser. Wyl was the opposite sort of character. He needed to try to right the wrong, at least in her eyes.
After helping him to eat, Arlyn brought a bowl of scented water for him to wash his hands and face. Then she took a seat on the bed near to him.
‘So, Romen. Will you tell me what went wrong?’
Wyl had already given the situation much thought and decided to tell a lie of such extravagance that she could never blame herself for being abandoned so callously.
He took a deep breath. ‘I am a marked man, Arlyn. When I left here it was not because I did not want to marry you but because I had to flee for my life.’
Whatever excuse Arlyn had expected, this was so far away from it. She remained silent despite the obvious questions in her expression and Wyl pressed on.
‘King Celimus wants me dead,’ he said. ‘I suspect it has to do with a friendship I had with his former General, Wyl Thirsk.’
‘Former General?’
‘He’s dead. Murdered by assassins sent on the express wishes of the King.’
She was going to say something but thought better of it.
‘But here’s the worst of it,’ Wyl continued. ‘What happened last night was one of a series of attacks. The first occurred after I ran from you. They tracked me down and left me for dead but in fact they had knocked me unconscious. When I came to I had lost my memory.’
It was thin but he had been convincing. He watched Arlyn’s hand move to her throat. The story was working. He hated himself for lying but he would be damned if he would risk hurting her again. This at least gave her the dignity she deserved.
‘I did not even recall my name.’ He had to be careful here. ‘How long have I been gone?’ he asked casually as though trying to search for the answer from himself.
She readily gave him the answer, not realising the subtlety of his ruse.
Wyl had to stop himself from looking at her in alarm. What a bastard Romen had been. ‘Is it really that long?’ he muttered instead. ‘I spent a good part of that time in a monastery convalescing from the stabbing injuries but mostly trying to find myself again.’ He thought she might cry but she soldiered on.
‘And your memory?’
‘I still have not recovered much of it, which is why I must ask your forgiveness if I appear vague.’ He liked the neat excuse which might permit him to make errors.
‘Oh, Romen, this is shocking news and there I was thinking … oh never mind. And last night it happened again?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve been safe for a while and perhaps I got too confident coming back here but I was drawn to Orkyld. I was drawn to you, Arlyn, but I can’t remember anything of what happened between us. I’m so ashamed. So sorry to have hurt you.’
His sincerity melted her and Wyl despised himself. He would stop now.
‘What happened to the men who attacked you last night?’
‘They ran away when Knave joined in the fray,’ he lied. His last lie, he promised himself. ‘If not for him, I would surely be dead. Where is he anyway?’
‘Terrifying people.’
He smiled, knowing he needed to press home the point now. ‘I am a fugitive. I will be until Celimus succeeds in killing me. Already I have tarried too long and I must get myself away from here. By staying here I put you in danger.’
‘They would kill me too?’
He shrugged and it hurt to do so. ‘They are ruthless. The King uses common cutthroats — unscrupulous bastards. No honour.’
‘Where can you go?’
Wyl shook his head this time. ‘I intend to keep moving. Perhaps I’ll go across the seas. This is why I cannot marry you, my love. I don’t know when I might next see you, if at all.’
‘Romen, let me be honest now. I don’t believe, after all this time, we could find that special affection we had before. It’s been too
long.’ This was music to Wyl’s ears. ‘But can we not hide you here?’ she said, taking his hand.
‘No. Too dangerous. They are on my trail now. I must lose them again. As soon as I can walk, I’m leaving. Forgive me.’
‘Never mind how we feel now, I hated seeing you so hurt yesterday.’
‘Next time they won’t fail,’ Wyl said, hoping it was the last nail to drive into this wretched coffin of their relationship.
She rallied. ‘How can I help? Money?’
‘I have money. I want you to forget about me. Wipe all trace of my stay here after I leave and tell anyone who knows you have me here to keep their wits about them and not answer any questions.’
She nodded. ‘No one saw you come to my house.’
‘Good. I’ll leave tomorrow at nightfall.’
‘So soon?’
‘Would you be kind enough to hand me my pouch?’ he asked. It was a small leather bag with a long strap designed to be worn across the body. She gave it to him and he delved inside, bringing out Ylena’s brooch. She would not miss it and it was going to a worthy person who had brought him the good luck his sister had wished for him.
‘This is for you. I do remember choosing it but not where or when,’ he said, smiling regretfully, as he put it into her palm.
‘Oh, Romen, it’s beautiful.’
‘Then it will do justice to its owner,’ he said, this time with sincerity. ‘Keep it as a reminder of what we shared once.’
She kissed his hand which was still entwined with hers and could not help but feel a surge of desire for the handsome rake who lay near naked in her bed. ‘Then I must return the gift.’
Wyl felt compelled to shrink from any mention of a gift from a woman. ‘Oh?’ he said.
‘The only one I have at hand,’ she said, unbuttoning her shirt.
The next day Romen’s arms held Arlyn close but it was Wyl who, with great fondness, kissed her goodbye. Her tender attentions had allowed him to forget himself for a brief time. Lying beside her, loving the incomparable sensation of her flesh against his, he lost his senses in a glut of affection. Although hampered by his injuries, this did not prevent their lovemaking and it helped immeasurably towards disguising his inexperience. If he had been healthy she would have known he was not Romen, or at least not the Romen she had once known.
Wyl Thirsk had not bedded a woman in quite some time. The last memorable occasion was with a young soapmaker in Pearlis who supplied her produce to Stoneheart. It was a brief fling between two young people with little experience. He had seen her a few times around the castle and had once been nearby when a horse shied towards her and she had spilled her basket of soaps in fright. Wyl had called for two pages to help her pick them up and then he had graciously apologised for the skittish horse. The girl had a sweet smile and had accepted his apology shyly.
She had not been so bashful the next time he had come across her in one of the better taverns in the city where she was making another delivery. On this occasion she had invited him back to the tiny, airless room where she lived with her father above their shop and undressed herself. It had been quick but nonetheless memorable; Wyl groaning as he reached his height of pleasure and she enjoying his look of ecstasy more than experiencing much of her own.
He had thanked her and pressed some coin into her pocket to buy herself some new fabric for a dress or ribbons for her hair. He thought he might see her again but their paths had not crossed. A half dozen other joyless, mainly urgent couplings — more from necessity than anything else — he had chosen to put out of his mind. That was the sum of his sexual experiences in recent years.
But Arlyn, he would always remember her …
‘I can’t come back,’ he whispered as he hugged her, being careful not to crush his body against hers too hard.
She nodded, long resigned to Romen not being in her life. ‘I know. Be safe.’
And with one last warning for secrecy, Wyl left. Like him, his horse was glad to be out of its confines and on the dusty road again. They did not linger and he did not look back, although he suspected she may still be watching him.
‘One more errand,’ he promised the beast as they rounded a bend and mercifully fell out of her sight.
As he expected — though he did not know why he should be so confident — he found Knave waiting for him in the undergrowth at the spot where they had hidden the box containing the assassin’s head. They sat together for a few moments, Wyl stroking the dog and weighing up his thoughts about the animal’s enchantment. It seemed futile to pretend Knave was not part of Myrren’s magical world and yet if he tried to explain it to a stranger, they would probably laugh at his reckonings.
Finally he spoke, glad that it no longer felt odd giving Knave instructions. The dog always seemed to understand anyway. ‘Now you know you must return,’ he said sternly. ‘Go back to Fynch. Keep Valentyna safe until I come,’ he added, hoping that his instincts were true. The Widow Ilyk had cautioned him to keep Fynch and Knave close, yet he had sent both away.
Knave fixed him with his intense stare. Then he gave a single bark. Wyl had no idea what it meant but when his dog licked him and then bounded off, turning once only as if in farewell, Wyl had to assume the dog knew its duty. He felt a twinge of sadness at its leaving. Something about Knave made him feel incredibly safe, invincible even. But that was every reason why the dog had to return to Valentyna. Perhaps Knave would offer the same comfort to her?
He rode back into town where the coaches left for the south. The driver he approached agreed, for a price, to deliver the box, which Wyl had now carefully wrapped in several hessian sacks, to Pearlis.
‘Where can I leave it?’ the man asked.
‘At the palace.’
‘Who for?’
‘Just leave it with the guards at the main gate. They’re already expecting it.’
‘No message?’
‘There’s one inside,’ he lied. ‘It’s for a very high-ranking noble. Don’t touch it please — he will scream hell and high murder if it is tampered with.’
‘Shar! What’s in here, man?’ the coachman asked.
Wyl knew it might be tempting for the fellow to take a peep if he did not give him a better reason to leave well alone. ‘It’s a witch’s talisman,’ he explained and appreciated the look of alarm which spread across the man’s face. Good. It seemed the fear of witch curses was still rife in the north, even though the Zerque influence had faded. ‘If it’s looked upon by any but the true recipient, the intruder is blinded.’ Thank the stars that what was left of Romen in him found it very easy to embellish all truths, he thought, amazed at how such falsehoods came to him.
The man looked ready to toss the box off his coach.
‘Look here, I will give an extra gold piece for your trouble. I appreciate your help with this and I too don’t care much for the contents. I didn’t look either — I’m simply the courier to this point,’ Wyl added and the money seemed to soothe the man’s concern. ‘How long?’
‘About four days, sir.’
‘Safe travels,’ Wyl called as the coach drew out.
The weather became decidedly cooler as Wyl began to ascend into the higher northern counties of the realm. He was glad of the cloak. They moved at a steady pace to keep the uneven terrain from jarring Romen’s injured body more than necessary. Wyl was grateful to Arlyn for packing some of the strong-tasting potion. It was even harder to take as pure medicine than the brew she had plied him with at his bedside. Nevertheless he sipped it morning and night, grateful for the relief it brought. He travelled for two and a half days through increasingly barren land as the terrain became more rocky. He recalled that the villages were scattered and there were no major towns in this part of the north. Wyl was not interested in any of them for now. His attention was firmly focused on reaching Yentro, where the Widow Ilyk hailed from; it would be a small place, he imagined, of little note.
Half a day’s ride later and he was stunned to enter what was clea
rly a bustling frontier town.
Wyl stopped the horse in no little amazement. This was a major trading town, he could tell, and business was brisk. First stop was the stables. Then he went in search of a decent inn. There were far too many people around for him to worry about being noticed and the population was so varied that Wyl felt sure he would appear to be just another journeyman.
He was wrong.
‘It’s him, I swear it,’ the man said, deferentially.
The person he had addressed was eating. He ate with care, reflecting his careful, neat thoughts as he chewed and considered the information he had just learned. His men were reliable, especially his friend and counsel, Lothryn, who spoke with him now. He scratched at the newly grown beard he used for disguise.
So, Romen Koreldy had returned. Why?
Green, unreadable eyes looked back at Lothryn. ‘Why now?’
Lothryn shrugged. It made no sense for Koreldy to be back in the north. ‘Spying?’ he offered, instinctively.
‘My inclination lingers there too. Spying for Celimus perhaps. The Morgravian brat is hungry for more Mountain blood, then,’ he mused. ‘We foiled their recent incursion attempt with that team of useless spies — Haldor help the Morgravian King if they’re the kind of dullards we’re up against! Only the leader was worth his salt as a soldier. We’ll kill them all, Lothryn. And we’ll spread the Mountain Kingdom beyond the Razors, mark my words.’
Lothryn said nothing, waiting for his superior to make the inevitable decision. It came swiftly. The strapping, golden-haired man pushed his plate away, no longer hungry. He stood to his full, intimidating height and looked towards his loyal deputy, his friend for more than thirty years. ‘Take Myrt and one other. Follow him for a few hours. Let’s find out what he’s up to. Then take him. I’ll see you back at the Cave.’
The Quickening Page 29