Celimus threw back his head and laughed boyishly. ‘I’ll race you across the fields and show you how fine this beautiful stallion really is.’
Wildfire sprang forward and Cailech followed. But inside he felt a twinge of regret, for the Morgravian’s words had reminded him of Galapek and his growing sorrow at what had been worked upon the poor beast.
Gueryn was permitted to walk without being shackled this time. Even his hands were free to swing at his side as he luxuriated in the warmth on his back from another beautiful morning.
‘How are you today, Jos?’
‘Just fine,’ came the mangled reply but Gueryn understood.
‘Only one of you today?’
The big man nodded. ‘We trust you,’ he said and gave his crooked grin.
‘I won’t run away if you have more important duties to attend to,’ Gueryn assured.
The response was garbled but he worked out that Gueryn was Jos’s most important duty. ‘I can’t let the King down by losing you.’
‘All right, I do understand. But you have my word,’ Gueryn offered. His intent with this conversation was to build a friendship and some trust. He had no idea whether he would ever get an opportunity at escape but his chances were increased if he could lull his captors into believing he would never make such an attempt. Descending the Razors was no easy prospect, and vivid memories of an arrow thumping into his body served only to discourage him more, but it was spring and there would never be an easier time with the King and Myrt away.
‘Morning,’ Maegryn called, stepping back from a horse whose hooves he was inspecting.
‘And what a fine one it is,’ Gueryn replied.
‘Did you ache from your work?’
‘Yes, but it felt good.’
‘A treat for you. A ride, with Jos here and another guard.’
‘Oh? How come?’
‘Three of our stallions need a proper exercise.’
Gueryn could see his own pleasure reflected in the grin from the stablemaster. ‘A ride.’ He said it as though the words were brand new on his tongue.
‘I’d come myself but one of the King’s brood mares is in labour and I have to be around for the delivery. She’s struggling a bit so I can’t risk not being close.’
‘Can we help?’ Gueryn asked reflexively. He had been around horses since he was a child and had been involved in enough births to be useful.
‘I appreciate it but I’m hoping the little one will be born before you lot return. And the mother’s best with fewer fussing around her.’ Gueryn showed his understanding with a slight nod. ‘Jos, you’ll be on Charger — he’s out sunning himself over there in the paddock. He’s a fiery character but let him loose. He needs a good run. Rollo will be accompanying you. He’s on Dray, the older stallion.’
‘And me, Maegryn?’ Gueryn asked.
‘Well now, Morgravian, I thought I’d allow you to ride something very special. You might have to prove your worth as a horseman today because you’ll be calling on all your skills.’
Gueryn grinned. ‘Do your worst, Maegryn. I’d ride a donkey right now just for the chance to be back in a saddle again.’
‘This is no donkey, le Gant. This is the King’s most prized horse and he’s a flighty one. That’s him you hear right now making all that noise.’
Gueryn frowned. ‘He does sound agitated. What do you call him?’
‘Galapek.’
The joy of learning he would soon be on horseback, however briefly, had temporarily sapped Gueryn of his wits. It had not occurred to him that one of the mounts could be the very horse he was trying to track down.
‘Galapek,’ he repeated, taking a moment to gather himself and ensure no recognition showed in his expression. ‘That’s a sorrowful name indeed for a fine stallion.’
‘Oh? I’ve been told it’s from the old language. How could you know old Northernish?’ Maegryn asked, intrigued.
‘My ancestors on my maternal side were from a place even more north than here. The old language stayed alive in our family. I learned some of it as a child.’
‘So what does it mean? We’ve all been dying to know,’ Jos chimed in, his excitement torturing the sounds of the words.
Gueryn looked towards Maegryn, baffled. He had missed what Jos was trying to say.
‘I think he said that none of us know what Galapek means.’
‘It means traitor,’ Gueryn answered, surprised. So none of these men had an inkling about the stallion, not even the irony of the King’s choice of name.
‘Traitor?’ Maegryn repeated. ‘What sort of a name is that for a horse?’
Gueryn shrugged. ‘Perhaps your King has a sense of humour.’
‘Stupid name, if you ask me. This is an extraordinary beast, le Gant. You Morgravians would never have clapped eyes on anything as remarkable. He’s the most beautiful stallion I’ve ever seen.’
‘Grenadyne?’
Maegryn’s eyes seemed to sink into his skull even further, if that was possible. ‘He was a present. I have no idea who sired him.’
Gueryn sensed the withdrawal. He had worked too hard to lose this precious friendship, however fragile it was. ‘Well, let’s see this splendid beast. You’ve made me feel envious already.’
‘Here he comes now,’ Maegryn replied, forthcoming again. ‘Admit it, le Gant. He’s the finest horse you’ve ever seen.’
Gueryn felt his breath catch in his throat. The horse was massive through the chest. He came towards them, proud and majestic in gait. He shook his head and his long mane flicked in a shiny wave of fluid movement whilst his black coat all but sparkled in the bright morning. He was beautiful, there was no denying it, but Gueryn saw the ugliness in the horse’s eyes. They were wide, as if in permanent fear, and his flesh appeared to twitch incessantly.
‘Ah, here’s your other companion,’ Maegryn said. ‘Rollo is one of the King’s most trusted men, le Gant. No tricks, eh? He’s also one of our best archers and won’t flinch to sink an arrow back into that shoulder of yours.’
Rollo did not smile. No jest was being made here.
Gueryn recalled with vivid intensity how the arrow had ripped through skin and nerves, muscle and bone. He was in no hurry to feel that sensation again, yet knew he would risk it if the opportunity for escape presented itself. ‘Have no fear,’ he assured, lying easily.
Maegryn gave some final instructions regarding the horses and Gueryn submitted to having his hands loosely strung together.
‘You can still handle the horse with ease. Just a precaution, you understand?’ Rollo said.
Gueryn pulled a face which suggested it was of no consequence to him and then made use of Maegryn’s offered leg-up to hoist himself into the saddle. The other men followed suit and, after a nod from Rollo, the party eased itself away from the stable compound.
‘Give them a slow drink at the lake,’ Maegryn called after them. ‘We haven’t watered them since this morning.’
Gueryn smiled. He had been captive so long he had forgotten how much he loved life, wanted to cling to it, but right now life felt marvellous.
TWENTY
THEY HAD TRAVELLED A SHORT distance that night using magic. Knave had wanted to do a test, mainly to see how much pain it created for Fynch. The boy had performed the magical transportation and then slept restlessly, sometimes crying out, presumably in pain. Now awake, he squatted pale and quiet, chewing sharvan leaves.
Knave wanted to ask Fynch what he had meant the previous day when he answered the kestrel’s question so audaciously, but he did not dare. When Fynch had finally roused from the curious stupor he had fallen into after the bird’s departure, he had been withdrawn and Knave had sensed it was no time for talk. Movement was best and so he had suggested they walk for a time and then sleep until the early hours, which they had done. When the time came, Knave had marvelled at the speed with which Fynch had conjured the spell to create what could only be described as a bridge to the Thicket. When the Thicket responded, Knav
e felt a pulse like a thick plume of air punched into his side. The next moment he landed, breathless, alongside Fynch on a safe ledge deeper into the Razors and closer to their prey.
‘All right, Knave?’ Fynch had whispered.
Yes, he had replied and that was the end of the conversation. Fynch had settled immediately and slept. Once again, the dog had lain down beside his companion and kept the youngster’s body warm with his own.
Now it was time to move again. Are we waiting for something? Knave risked.
‘For Kestrel. I feel him.’
How is the pain?
‘Not unbearable,’ Fynch answered. ‘Thank you,’ he added and Knave knew he meant it. Then: ‘Kestrel speaks,’ and Fynch opened his mind to share the communication with Knave. Where are you? he asked the bird across the leagues that divided them.
Just outside Sharptyn. I have found her.
Good, he replied calmly, as though talking with a bird was something he did most days. What can you see?
She seems to be a prisoner — she walks with shackled hands and feet. There are others, all women. Men guard them. And there’s a child — a small girl belonging to one of the men, I think. The girl talks to your friend.
Is Elspyth injured?
Pretty name. There was a pause. Not injured but she looks frightened.
What are they doing now? Fynch pressed his temples and Knave knew the pain was back.
I can’t really tell. I would guess that they are stretching their limbs because they came out of a shed a short while ago.
Fynch. You must stop, Knave urged.
Fynch nodded. Kestrel, I am so grateful to you. Can I trouble you to remain there a while longer?
No trouble.
Thank you. I’ll talk again shortly. Fynch closed the link.
You cannot keep doing this, the dog cautioned.
‘We must save her.’ Fynch’s tone was stubborn.
How?
‘You must go to Valentyna and get her help.’ The dog chose silence to show his exasperation. ‘Please, Knave.’
We have a task to complete.
‘And I will finish it as promised. But I also promised that I would help Wyl’s cause. I will not forgive myself if Elspyth perishes.’
We are helpless.
‘Not helpless. Just distant. I can fix that.’
No, Fynch.
‘Yes. If you won’t go, I will.’
A difficult silence lengthened between them as the huge dog regarded the trembling yet implacable boy. Knave knew the suffocating pain Elysius had suffered, even though the sorcerer had used his magic infrequently and with utmost care. Knave could not imagine the burden Fynch was bearing right now.
You’ll send me?
‘And bring you back when you’ve delivered her a note.’
That will still take days.
‘Not if I send you the entire distance.’
Fynch! It will kill you.
‘Trust me. I am stronger than you think.’
The dog felt helpless. He had no doubt his companion would send himself back to Werryl if Knave did not comply. And you will promise to continue on alone? he asked.
Fynch covered his face, pushing his fingers against his eyes. His answer was mumbled and weak. ‘Yes, of course.’
Rashlyn will sense the magic, Knave warned.
‘I don’t care. Elspyth could die.’
So could you.
‘I am already sacrificed.’
Oh, Fynch.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound cruel but you must do this for me. I will prepare a note. Valentyna can send help.’
Can you write? the dog asked, grasping at any excuse which might prevent this madness.
‘I know some letters… enough to convey the urgency.’
Knave looked at him gravely. There is a cave over there. You must rest a while before you travel on.
‘I think you’re right,’ Fynch admitted. He dug into his sack for a scrap of parchment he had had the foresight to throw in, but although he had brought a quill he had forgotten ink in his rush. ‘I’ll use blood,’ he said matter of factly and, without hesitating, dragged a small knife across his palm.
He scrawled five words only, spelt incorrectly but clear enough he was sure: Elspyth, Sharptyn south, huts, danger. He had to dip the quill frequently into the pool of blood in his palm. Knave could not watch, disgusted with this turn of events but also feeling helpless.
‘For Valentyna only, you understand?’
I understand. Knave allowed Fynch to tie the parchment around his neck with some trailing grass vines. It was fragile but would make the journey.
‘Ready?’
Do it! the dog instructed, unable to conceal his disdain any longer.
‘I’ll wait to hear,’ Fynch said, hugging the dog briefly. Without wasting another word he sent Knave tumbling through a magical tunnel arcing from the Razors to Werryl.
Used to this mode of transport by now, Knave landed softly on all fours, checked that the parchment was still in place and then took his bearings. He was in the woodlands just beyond Werryl city, where the Queen liked to ride. Sighing to himself, he set off at a lope towards the palace and, no doubt, a stunned Valentyna.
Back in the Razors, Fynch retched pitifully with the pain, but there was nothing to be expelled. He curled up, exhausted, in the cold but dry cave and, chewing on his decreasing supply of sharvan leaves, drifted towards sleep — the only place where respite from his aching head was to be found.
It was late afternoon of Elspyth’s second day as a prisoner. The first day had passed in a blur, caused by the drug and the shock of her situation. Elspyth was still too stunned to take in all that had happened to her, but it had sunk in by now that she was amongst women only; there were no male prisoners. The men were their captors. Released from the huts, she found the courage to speak to one of her fellow prisoners.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Finally found your voice then. Don’t worry, we’re all the same when we first arrive.’
‘What is this place?’
‘We’re prisoners. They trick us, trap us and keep us here.’
‘What for?’
‘Who are you? You’re not Briavellian, are you?’
‘My name is Elspyth. I’m from Yentro, northern Morgravia.’
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re a long way from home, Elspyth, and you’ll certainly wish you’d never been duped by Ericson. I’m Alda, from south-eastern Briavel.’
‘He’s trapped us, you say?’
Alda nodded. ‘For his sport.’
Elspyth gaped at her companion, unable to decipher what in Shar’s name she could mean by that comment. ‘Sport?’ she repeated.
‘Well, it’s for all of them really. He just gets paid a lot for finding us.’
‘Alda,’ Elspyth said, her voice shaking now. ‘You’ll have to explain because I don’t understand any of this.’
A bird screeched in the tall trees. Both women glanced up but neither could see the kestrel perched there.
‘We fight and they bet on us. After three wins, we’re sold on apparently. I’ve got one more win to go to get out of here.’
Elspyth had not thought life could get more complicated, but it just had. ‘Sold?’
‘There’s a good slave trade out of Morgravia’s south. Didn’t you know?’ the woman asked, clearly surprised.
‘I had no idea.’
‘Oh, yes. A very good trade. Ships from the Exotic Isles slip into and out of a tiny bay called Cheem, east of Ramon, west of Argorn. They pick up slaves regularly.’ She shrugged at the disbelief on the newcomer’s face. ‘At least it’s an escape from this — but you have to survive three bouts, of course.’
It was too much for Elspyth to take in. ‘What sort of fighting is it? Bare hands?’
Now the woman laughed harshly and Elspyth heard a hint of despair. ‘Blades, you fool. This is to the death. You will be fighting for your life tonight,
my girl, and the right to be shipped off as a slave. Forget your former self — it doesn’t exist any more.’ Then she became wistful, the bravado shattering. ‘Perhaps one day I’ll see my family again, track down my son, but right now I have to make it through one more fight.’
Elspyth grabbed her companion’s arm. ‘Alda, I don’t know how to fight.’
‘None of us know, girl! It’s pure animal instinct that has kept me alive. I suggest you find some or your blood will be splashed across the main hut’s dust tonight.’
Elspyth could not help the tears. This was all too much of a shock.
Alda pushed Elspyth’s hands from her sleeve. ‘Expect nothing from me, or anyone else for that matter. No one has friends here. We don’t know who we’ll have to kill next to survive. Two days ago I killed someone I liked. I don’t want to know you or feel sorry for you, because you might be the woman I have to kill tonight. They do it for entertainment — they bet on us and then they sell us on. Ericson dreamed it all up apparently. Did he use the young girl to lure you?’
Elspyth nodded blindly through her tears.
‘No good blaming yourself. I fell the same way, accepting a seemingly kind offer of a lift, trying to get back from Werryl to my family more quickly than I could on foot. They’re experts at picking the perfect mark.’
‘What were you doing in Werryl?’ Elspyth asked, desperate to prolong any conversation that might take her mind off what was hurtling towards her. She heard the shriek of the bird again but ignored it, finding herself on her knees in the dust, clinging to the skirts of this woman who had no intention of further confidences.
‘It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to share anything more with you. Don’t think we’re friends: I can’t help you — won’t help you. You’d best prepare yourself. It’s either kill or be killed. Get that straight now.’
Alda ripped herself away and hurried to the other side of the compound. No one saw the tears she shed there over her own cruelty. What sort of monster had these men turned her into?
Wyl too was preparing for death, except he wanted to embrace it. Dying again would be his salvation in this instance and he wondered who he would become. In truth he did not care; all he knew was that he could not bear to be Ylena for much longer. Instead he clung to Fynch’s quiet belief that random acts could change the course of Myrren’s gift. He desperately wanted to believe in anything that might spare him living as Celimus. As much as he loved the idea of marrying Valentyna, the notion of walking in the body of the present King of Morgravia was repulsive. Every time he saw the vision of Celimus’s face before him he had to draw on all his strength to force it away.
The Quickening Page 124