‘I hope to have help back here by tomorrow if I ride through the night.’
He returned to the room and was surprised to see that the Lady Donal was not sleeping, was agitated in fact.
‘I told you to rest,’ he said sternly.
Her eyes were glazing from the effects of the sleeping draught but she was fighting it. ‘Not until I give you something to take to Werryl. You must show it to the Queen, sir,’ she said emphatically, pointing to the sack which had been attached to the donkey.
He frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘The proof that she is contemplating marrying a madman.’
THIRTY-TWO
AREMYS CAME TO SLOWLY. Was someone kicking him? He could not be sure just yet. In fact he was not sure of anything other than the reality that he breathed. Everywhere else there was pain. There were also voices, men’s voices, and then he made out the familiar sounds of horses. He risked opening his eyes, trying for the life of him to remember why he was lying down in the open in such a freezing temperature.
‘Ah, so you’re alive then?’ someone said.
He grunted. ‘Just.’
‘Get Myrt,’ the voice said and Aremys heard footsteps retreat, crunching across fresh snow. It was a lovely sound; one he thought he remembered from childhood. ‘Can you move?’ the man asked.
‘Let me just open my eyes properly,’ he replied, squinting at the sharp brightness. A big scowling man, tall enough to match even his substantial height, came into view. He closed them again hurriedly.
More footsteps. A new voice, deeper this time. ‘Well, help him up, Firl.’
Aremys felt himself hauled roughly to his feet. His legs were unsteady and leaden, his mind clouded. He forced himself to open his eyes again but he ignored the man called Firl and regarded the older fellow with knowing grey eyes. The pain that sliced through his head was significant. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘My head aches.’
‘You must have fallen and hit it,’ the man suggested, presumably Myrt of the deep voice. ‘What is your name?’
Aremys reached up to scratch his head. Everything hurt. ‘I’d tell you if I could. I can’t remember a damn thing right now.’
Myrt sighed. ‘Get a blanket around him, someone. You, Firl, double with him,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Bruised and feeling sorry for himself, Aremys was helped none too gently on to a horse with the surly man called Firl — who clearly did not want to double with him — and began a journey to he knew not where, why or even where from.
Firl ignored him for the first hour or so. This did not bother Aremys; he was too concerned with keeping his balance and trying to remember his name. He was grateful for the blanket though.
‘Where are we?’ he finally asked.
‘Razors,’ the man responded bluntly.
Aremys never could suffer fools graciously. ‘Yes, I think I’ve worked that out. But where exactly?’
The sarcasm seemed to have little effect on the young brute. ‘East.’
He could tell he was not going to get much more out of this chatty fellow so he delved back into his own mind, which presently felt like tangled skeins of wool. Ignoring the growing headache he forced himself to concentrate in order to recall anything about himself. Nothing surfaced and he growled in his frustration.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
His companion spoke again with the same uninterested tone. ‘Firl. I thought we’d already established that.’
‘And the others?’ Aremys asked, struggling to keep his irritation in check.
‘Do you want me to list their names?’
‘Not if they’re all as uninteresting as yours.’ He felt the man’s body stiffen and was glad he had struck a blow. ‘I meant what are you doing out here?’
‘We’re a scouting party.’
‘For Cailech?’
‘Who else?’ the man said and Aremys, sitting behind, imagined him scowling.
‘Am I a prisoner?’
The man snorted. ‘Why don’t you make a run for it and see what happens? I’m a great shot.’
‘Look, Firl, I don’t even know what my name is let alone why I was lying flat on my back in the Razors. Why don’t you just shut your stupid mouth or I’ll shut it for you!’
Myrt overheard the raised voices and steered his horse over. He lifted his chin in enquiry. ‘Anything wrong?’
‘No,’ Firl mumbled.
‘Actually, yes,’ Aremys countered. ‘I want to know if I’m a prisoner and why. I’d like to know where we’re headed and why. I’d appreciate knowing why I’ve seemingly been captured by a scouting party, why I’m sitting with this oaf of few syllables and I’d love to know my own name!’ he roared, his headache pounding in tandem with his rising blood pressure and anger.
‘Hop up with me. Firl, you go on ahead,’ Myrt ordered. There was something of an admonishment in his expression towards his subordinate and it was not lost on the sulking Firl.
Aremys was more than glad to clamber up behind the superior. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled. ‘And for the blanket. I’m sorry for the outburst. I seem to have lost my manners as well as my memory.’
‘Either that or you’re a clever spy,’ Myrt said, clicking to his horse and moving forwards again.
‘Shar strike me! Is that what you all think?’
‘Why wouldn’t we? You are Morgravian, aren’t you?’
‘I… well… I don’t know,’ Aremys blustered.
‘You dress like one and curse like one.’
‘Then perhaps I am. I have no idea who I am. Mind you, I understand the Northernish you were muttering with your men earlier. Does that mean anything?’
‘Is that so? And what were we saying?’
Aremys told him.
‘All right, stranger, I’m impressed,’ Myrt admitted. ‘Most Morgravians wouldn’t understand a word of it, which is why we used it in front of you. Anything else?’
‘No, not really,’ Aremys said. ‘The mountains are familiar, although I can’t tell you why. No horse, no belongings save my sword.’ He shook his head. ‘No memory,’ he added mournfully.
‘Well, perhaps pulling out your toenails will help your memory,’ Myrt said and felt Aremys start behind him. He let out a deep rumbling laugh, enjoying his own jest.
‘Shar’s wrath, man! Will it come to that?’
‘Be easy. Did Firl tell you our business?’
‘Oh yes, we enjoyed a long and cordial chat.’ Myrt waited, unaffected by the biting wit of their new guest. ‘Only that you’re a scouting party,’ Aremys grumbled.
‘That’s right. Do you know Morgravia has all but declared war on the Mountain People?’
‘If I do I don’t remember.’
‘Then you’ll forgive us our suspicions,’ Myrt said. ‘Well, if you’re from Morgravia — which you probably aren’t — you’d know about our problems with King Celimus.’
The name was familiar and its mention sounded a distant series of alarm bells in his mind. Aremys pushed at them but had no success. ‘Why do you think I’m not from Morgravia?’
‘Because we picked you up on the Briavellian side of the Razors and your accent isn’t right. It’s Morgravian, all right, but it’s covering something else. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were from the northern islands.’
Again, a prick of familiarity but it was evasive. ‘I see. Maybe I am. I wish I could dredge up something to help my cause.’
Myrt nodded. ‘It will come. To answer your question: yes, you are our prisoner, but we shall treat you honourably until the King has decided what to do with you. I’m afraid relations with Morgravia are strained but your odd accent may save you yet. What shall we call you until then?’
Aremys pondered, unhappy at his situation but realising he had no option but to co-operate. He had no mount, no food, no memory and being alone in the Razors could kill him in a single night. ‘What’s a good Mountain name?’ he asked, following his better judgement.
; ‘How about Cullyn? It’s one of the oldest.’
He shrugged. ‘Fine.’
‘No such thing as a free meal in this troop, Cullyn. We’ll be on the ridges for a few days yet. What can you do to earn your keep?’
Aremys shook his head, feeling suddenly grateful to the big Mountain man. ‘I have no idea. You tell me.’
‘All right, then. We’re about to make camp here. You can provide the entertainment for tonight. How about you take on sulky Firl with the sword? I think he’d quite like a go at you.’
‘And me at him, I assure you.’
Myrt laughed. ‘I like your arrogance. Hope you haven’t forgotten your skills, Cullyn. Our Firl is one of the best in the Razors with a sword.’
‘Just promise me some ale and worry about your Mountain boy over there,’ Aremys said, grinning despite his pounding head.
A camp was settled and the horses corralled in a small copse of fir trees which would also provide the wood for the men’s fire. Myrt ran a tight troop and gave orders briskly. Some men were designated to prepare the food, others to gather the wood, some to take care of the animals and the younger ones to restock the water skins. He took Aremys and another man to hunt down some meat. Aremys pleased his host by shooting four hares without wasting a single arrow. Each man returned with a brace of small game which was quickly skinned and gutted, and before long was roasting over the coals.
They no longer spoke in Northernish, a language only used these days for secrecy. If Aremys’s memory was intact he would know that the language only survived because of King Cailech and his love for the Mountain culture. He had made an edict that it would be taught from elder to grandchild and keep itself alive. In daily life, however, the Mountain Dwellers spoke the language of the region, a common tongue from Briavel in the east to as far west as Tallinor. Aremys had recognised the Northernish because his wetnurse, an old woman of the isles, had sung to him in the old language, but that was a memory closed to him right now — he could not even remember as far back as the previous day when he was clambering through the Thicket. One moment he had been following the shapely bottom of Ylena Thirsk; the next a wave of magic had roiled about him thickening the air to a dull, almost solid wall. Then an even more powerful blast of the magic opening a cleft through which his unconscious body was pushed… and dropped on a northeastern ridge of the Razors.
Whilst the meat cooked and a hearty vegetable broth simmered in the pot, Myrt posted lookouts then called the remaining eleven men around the fireside for the evening’s early entertainment. There were fifteen of them in total, all strong-looking fellows but only Firl was tall enough to go eye to eye with the giant stranger.
‘How do you feel, Cullyn?’
‘Like hurting someone,’ he mumbled. A roar went up from the delighted audience, ready for sport.
‘All right, then. Do we have a sparring partner to go up against our huge guest here?’
Firl stood, cutting the air with his heavy sword. He held it two-fisted and snarled, ‘He’s mine.’
Aremys shook off the blue blanket which had been lent to him and drew his own sword. As he did so, the dyed wool reflected off the blade and he momentarily staggered under the fleeting blaze of memory. ‘Koreldy,’ he whispered, with no idea who the person was who owned the name, and for no reason he could explain he associated that name with a blue-tinged sword.
Only Myrt caught the word and he too paused in recognition of a name known all too well to Cailech’s trusted senior men. This was not the time to raise it with the stranger, he decided, and instead stored it away. It would be brought to light when it counted, before the King. Suddenly this man amongst them was important.
He cleared his throat. ‘Firl, Cullyn, this is not to the death. If either of you mortally harm the other, I shall kill the perpetrator myself. Do you understand?’ Aremys nodded. Firl just snarled. ‘Firl?’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Good. This is sport, for our entertainment, don’t forget it, either of you. First blood declares the victor — then we shall eat in his honour.’
Both men touched their blades together then Firl adopted the two-fisted stance of the Mountain race, one leg placed wide diagonally behind the other, knees bent, ready to strike. But it was Aremys who surprised them all, including himself, by holding his sword upright before his face, fist upon fist on the hilt. This was a stance unique to one region alone. Everyone recognised the formal Grenadyn salute before combat.
Myrt, more taken aback than any, wanted to halt the proceedings but it was too late. Each combatant hurled himself at the other.
Firl gave away much in bulk but he fought like a savage. Myrt could see straightaway, however, that his own man was no match for the stranger. Cullyn, or whoever he was, was clearly a superior swordsman with moves and speed that came only with a soldier’s experience. Firl was young and headstrong. He might feel invincible but his skills had been tested only amongst the Mountain men and, courageous though he was, he knew none of the finesse of the southerners who prided themselves on grace and speed rather than brute force.
Myrt could see that Cullyn was merely blocking rather than attacking. He was allowing Firl to wear himself out and, too immature to realise it, this was precisely what the youngblood was doing. His heart was generous and his spirit keen but the older soldier was virtually playing with him.
Aremys looked over at Myrt and winked. It was all Myrt could do not to laugh, particularly as Cullyn began to back away, supposedly defending his life, as the enraged Firl stomped forwards, blustering and roaring his anger, slashing with the heavy sword he used like a battering ram at times.
Despite his dislike of Firl, Aremys felt sorry for the youngster. He was brave, but would almost certainly lose his life young if caught in any serious fight with a Legionnaire. He could tell the man wanted to impress his companions against the arrogant stranger and, with years on his side, was ready to let him do so. It would not do to humiliate Firl — he would make no friends amongst the Mountain men then, and oddly he felt he could quite easily fit in with these soldiers.
After all, Myrt had been fair. With Morgravia an enemy, they could just have easily run him through as he lay in the snow, but instead they had given him warmth and transport, food and company, as well as safety. Not humiliating Firl — as much as he would have liked to — was the least he could do, if just for the leader, Myrt. And so he winked and the message was understood.
The fight continued until Aremys felt the pain of his headache begin to weigh heavily. He had been able to set it aside but hunger and the exertion of the contest brought it pounding to the fore again. Seeking the right opening, he feinted all too obviously. Even the less agile Firl could see it coming and he slashed. Aremys felt the welcome, if painful wound open up on the top of his non-fighting arm. He yelled appropriately and the audience roared appreciative applause for the youngblood, who grinned awkwardly but regarded his fighting partner with unease. Both stood before each other breathing deeply.
‘Good fight, Firl,’ Myrt said. ‘We eat in your honour tonight.’
Aremys nodded at Firl. ‘Well done,’ he said but the younger man just stared. Others rose to thump him on the back which meant Aremys could turn away from the unhappy stare. The lad was no idiot; he knew he had been allowed to win.
‘Come, let me bind that for you,’ Myrt said to Aremys. ‘And don’t say no, it’s too awkward for you to do yourself.’
Aremys gladly followed the leader towards a tiny spring that skirted the copse.
‘That was bravely done,’ Myrt said, kneeling beside his guest. ‘A lesser man would have felt the need to impose his superior skill.’
‘Nothing to be gained by that but an enemy.’
Myrt nodded. ‘A soldier with wisdom.’
Aremys looked at him. ‘What makes you say soldier?’
‘You fight like one. You’ve had experience — even you must have felt that.’
It was so frustrating not to know. ‘A s
oldier?’ he mused. ‘The sword felt comfortable in my hand, I’ll admit it. He’s your best, you say?’
‘I said it for his benefit. Firl’s a good man but he’s young and hot-headed.’
‘He’ll die quickly in battle, Myrt.’
‘Then teach him.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve got nothing else to do right now. Teach him, teach the others.’
‘How to kill Morgravians, you mean?’
Myrt grimaced as he cleaned the wound. It was a surface cut, nothing serious, and even the victim wasn’t complaining. ‘Your loyalty does not lie there.’
‘And you know this?’ Aremys muttered.
‘Cullyn, I think I am right in saying that you are from Grenadyn originally.’
Aremys shot him an angry look. The naming of that place seemed to jolt some memory from long ago. It made him think of children… a young girl in particular. He could see her. All curls and chubby smiles. She threw herself into his arms and kissed him. ‘Serah,’ he breathed, the sorrowful memory of a sister slotting into place.
‘What?’
‘I am from Grenadyn,’ he declared, knew it was right.
‘You remember?’
Aremys nodded. ‘I think so, yes. It would explain why I understand Northernish.’
‘And why you hold your sword in the formal Grenadyne manner.’
‘Hmm… now you’re just showing off.’
‘I miss little. Who is Serah?’
Aremys was not ready for this man — albeit someone he could not help but like and trust — to know too much. He suspected his lost memory possessed secrets and although he could not remember them just yet, if his memory was going to come back in dribs and drabs he would rather be in control of what he revealed in case it was dangerous knowledge. ‘I don’t know,’ he lied effectively. ‘Her name just drifted across my mind.’
‘You see, I said your memory would come back in time,’ Myrt said, pleased. ‘There, it’s just a nick. My thanks for your indulgence with the lad.’
‘He needs encouragement,’ Aremys admitted.
‘And training,’ Myrt said. ‘Perhaps we all do,’ he added sagely before returning the wink.
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