Cattra's Legacy

by Anna Mackenzie

  Ripping a strip from her already tattered skirt, Risha dipped it in the simmering water and began sponging dried blood from Muir’s torso and arm. As she dabbed gingerly at the wound, bright blood broke through the dark crusting that had sealed it. By the time Clik returned the water was red. He observed her from sideways slanted eyes and produced two large, soft leaves and a handful of moss. When she hesitated he clucked impatiently and pushed her hands aside, rolling the leaves and laying them gently over the wound, padding it with moss then binding the whole tightly.

  With a satisfied nod he disappeared again. Risha knew she should check on Torfell but exhaustion crept like a chill through every limb. Pulling Muir’s jerkin over his chest she lay beside him and covered them both with her cloak.

  When she woke she surfaced slowly, her eyes roaming across the soil and roots and rock of the overhang before her brain engaged sufficiently to tell her where she was. Someone — Clik — had laid brushwood over the opening and spread Muir’s damp clothes to dry. A rich aroma rose from the pot that simmered on the flames: meat stew. Risha’s stomach rumbled.

  Rolling upright, she found her muscles stiff and uncooperative. She studied Muir’s face. It was ashen.

  Through a narrow gap in the brushwood she saw that it was raining again, a dense, hard rain that had a settled-in look. Torfell was tethered a little way off. With a sharp pang of guilt, Risha pulled Muir’s cloak over her shoulders and hurried to unsaddle her. The mare let out a low whicker of greeting. Remembering the apple Risha fished it from her shirt, smiling as the mare’s soft lips tickled her palm.

  When she ducked back beneath the overhang, Muir’s eyes were open.

  ‘Muir!’ Dumping the saddle on the shelter’s stony floor she dropped to her knees beside him. ‘Are you … I thought …’ There were no words for the relief that washed through her. She held the flask to his lips. He slurped noisily, water dribbling down his chin. ‘You’ve bruised your side and you’ve a nasty wound on your arm,’ she told him.

  ‘Should have left me,’ Muir muttered.

  Risha shook her head. ‘We’re safe for now. Just rest. I’ll take care of you.’

  Muir’s eyes flickered and closed.

  Pushing Torfell’s saddle up against the cave wall, Risha leant against it. By the time Clik returned she’d dozed off, the heat of the little fire bringing a flush of colour to her cheeks. Clik stared for a moment, his head cocked to one side, then trotted back into the trees.

  When Risha roused, the light that filtered through the brushwood door provided no clue to how long she’d slept. She sniffed. The stew that had earlier been simmering had been lifted from the flames, its warm, rich smell reminding her that her last hot meal had been in Garadale. As she sat up, Clik appeared.

  ‘Do you live here?’ she asked. Clik shrugged and nudged the stew towards her. She didn’t hesitate.

  Her stomach filled quickly and Risha held the stew out to Clik. He scooped up a few mouthfuls. ‘That was good,’ she told him. ‘You’re very clever, Clik.’

  He dropped his head so that his tangled hair hid his face, and she wondered about his family; whether he’d been orphaned or abandoned. His self-reliance couldn’t be entirely self-taught. Studying him surreptitiously, she decided he might be a year or two older than she’d first thought but small for his age — still, not more than nine or ten.

  Reaching up to a ledge in the cave wall, the boy brought down a chipped bowl. Risha stared at the familiar flecked colours of Torfell stone. Clik dipped some juice from the stew and broke in two eggs that he took from a pouch at his waist, stirring the mix with his finger. When he nodded towards Muir, Risha gently shook the man’s shoulder. He muttered and turned but didn’t rouse. Risha sponged his face and tilted the water flask to his lips. Muir swallowed, and she repeated the process with Clik’s bowl, persisting until it was empty. With an approving nod, Clik rose and went out into the dusk.

  Risha woke again at dawn. She’d slept well. The fire had dried their clothes and warmed the small space, and Clik had cut brushwood to make a bed. Risha marvelled at his self-sufficiency. For the first time since she’d crossed the Othar she felt something close to comfort.

  As she stretched and sat up, Clik uncurled from his corner of the overhang and prodded the fire into life. ‘Thank you for helping us,’ Risha said.

  He dipped his head.

  Muir had been restless through the night but his colour was a little better — at least, Risha told herself it was so. She placed a hand on his forehead. His skin felt warm but not clammy. ‘Have you ever been to LeMarc, Clik?’

  The boy shrugged.

  Risha watched as he added wood to the fire and pushed the pot back onto the flames. ‘How far are we from the River Othar?’

  Clik draped his sacking around his shoulders. In the doorway he paused and held up a finger.

  ‘One day? By foot?’

  He nodded.

  ‘How about Lacstone Marsh?’

  He shook his head, then seemed to think better of it and held up three fingers.

  Three days by foot might be as little as one on horseback. Or two, Risha amended, considering the weight Torfell would have to carry. ‘Muir and I have to get back to LeMarc,’ she said. ‘You’d be welcome if you’d like to come with us.’

  Ignoring her invitation, Clik ducked out of sight.

  As she went to check on Torfell, Risha wondered whether Cantrel and the guardsmen had held the bridge. Either way, Fratton’s soldiers might still be hunting them.

  Torfell’s head lifted at Risha’s approach. ‘You’re my brave horse, aren’t you?’ she whispered, letting the mare nuzzle against her as she stroked her soft ears. ‘Without you, Muir and I would both be dead.’ Torfell whickered and returned to eating. Risha felt a pang as she remembered Firefly.

  The thin slice of sky that showed through the branches of the trees was a washed-out blue. Weighing the risks of travelling by day with the advantages of making the most of a fine morning, Risha slipped back beneath the overhang.

  The light through the trees was dim and the path they followed badly overgrown. Risha leant sideways to avoid a drooping branch. Behind her, Muir swayed. When she’d shaken him awake he’d seemed scarcely aware of who she was. He’d eaten another egg, but it had taken all her strength, and Clik’s, to get him onto Torfell.

  At least their clothes were dry and it was not yet raining.

  At the edge of the trees she turned to the boy. He gave his shy smile and pointed out their path.

  ‘Thank you, Clik. I’ll come back to see you, I promise.’

  He opened his eyes very wide — she wasn’t sure if it was disbelief or enthusiasm — then disappeared silently into the trees.

  Risha studied the valley before them. If she’d understood Clik’s directions, the river lay half a day’s ride to the south, but they should first ride due west if they were aiming for its terminus at the marsh.

  Clucking gently to Torfell, Risha moved out from among the trees. Two days, and it would be only the river that lay between them and LeMarc.

  21

  The price

  As Torfell stamped at the water’s edge, Risha cursed her stupidity. The brown torrent that stretched wild and wide in front of them was impassable. Hadn’t Muir told her the summer bridge was washed away by each year’s rains? And there had surely been enough of that in the past week.

  Behind her Muir shivered, his fever heightened by the incessant rain. With the hills clagged in cloud she’d lost her bearings and it had taken longer to reach the river than she’d expected. Now they had no option but to backtrack up to Othbridge — with the risk of meeting Fratton’s soldiers — or to head north and west, skirting the marsh and making their way down to Saithe. Neither option boded well for Muir. Or Torfell. The little mare was struggling with their combined weight. Risha had walked beside her all day yesterday, but it was easier to keep Muir in the saddle when she rode. Eyeing the dark, low-slung clouds she wondered whether she dared a
pproach a farmhouse.

  There was a flash of movement upstream and a horseman appeared from a cluster of trees, a second rider following. Both men wore the colours of Fratton. Cursing, she nudged Muir. ‘Trouble,’ she muttered. He barely stirred.

  Risha turned her back on the river, and LeMarc, and dug her heels into the mare’s sides. When she reached a slight rise in the road she looked back: the first rider had reached the junction of tow-path and road, while the second cut cross-country. She smiled grimly as she saw his horse baulk at the unstable ground. But Torfell was flagging.

  Whispering encouragement, she leant low over the mare’s neck. Muir leant with her, his weight heavy against her back. Torfell’s hooves threw gobbets of mud up from the road. Risha’s hair was slick against her skull, a muddy strand plastered to her cheek.

  She glanced back. The lead soldier was steadily closing the gap. The second had dismounted and was struggling to drag his horse back towards the road. Risha scanned ahead for any advantage. There was nothing. It was as if the land had been washed clear. Not a tree, not a house, not a stalk of wheat stood before them. The thud of hooves was loud in her ears. She thought of her crossbow in the guardhouse at Othbridge. Her breath sawed in her throat. A span of water was all that had separated them from LeMarc. They should have tried to swim the river: drowning would have been preferable to being captured by Fratton’s soldiers.

  Torfell was blowing hard. Risha could feel the animal’s exhaustion through each quivering hoof-fall. A snatched glance behind confirmed that they couldn’t hope to evade their pursuer. The hoof beats of his mount seemed as loud as her heart. She could hear the creak of leather as the man leant forward in his stirrups, straining towards them.

  Risha veered from the road, pulling Torfell’s head west. She darted a glance over her shoulder. The soldier had crossed behind and was closing on her right flank, while his companion had regained the road and was whipping his horse towards them — she’d be caught between, cut off from both road and river.

  She forced herself to think. Her only advantage lay in that the men were separated. Could she improve the odds? For weapons, she had her knife and short sword — neither a match against a fully armed soldier.

  The ground beneath Torfell’s feet suddenly dipped and she faltered. Seeing it, the soldier took his chance, swerving in, blade swinging. Risha wrenched Torfell’s head away, but the blow had been aimed at Muir. It missed, slicing instead into Torfell’s flank. The mare lurched and shuddered. Slipping her knife from its sheath, Risha pulled Torfell up, blade ready in her hand. The soldier overshot but quickly wheeled, grinning as he spurred towards her, sword poised.

  Risha threw. Gorth’s lessons hadn’t been wasted, nor her hours of practice. The knife lodged in the man’s torso, a little low, perhaps, but deep. She saw the surprise on his face, saw his sword waver as he clutched at his stomach. Bright blood welled around the handle of her knife. Lip curled in a snarl, he steadied his sword. Risha risked a glance behind. The second soldier was raising his crossbow. She dug her heels into Torfell’s flanks and the mare plunged gamely forward as the injured man spurred his horse on a collision course.

  He toppled sideways before he reached her, his weight pulling his horse on a tangent. Torfell sidestepped, canting Muir sideways. Risha cocked an arm to steady him and urged the mare on towards the boggy ground that edged the marsh.

  Torfell flinched as the ground began to quake beneath her hooves. A crossbow bolt sped past; a moment later Torfell shuddered. ‘Just a little further,’ Risha urged.

  Tendrils of fog swayed and danced around the mare’s legs, gouts of mud lifting with each hoof-fall. The boggy ground alternated with lurid patches of green and low clumps of stiff grass. Rain suddenly sheeted down, hemming them in. Risha slowed Torfell to a walk. She could hear a man cursing. She glimpsed him briefly through the rain; he was still within crossbow range. She nudged Torfell on. The mare’s head was hanging, sweat lathered on her neck, but she obeyed. Unsteadily, favouring her left hind leg, she carried them deeper into the marsh.

  The fog that had curled around their legs began to thicken and rise. Risha slid to the ground and walked ahead. The smell of the bog intensified. Several times she floundered into deep water disguised by weed and once sank to the knee in dark, grasping mud.

  ‘Muir,’ she said softly. There was no response. She’d lost all sense of direction. The marsh stretched blandly around them, its greens and browns beginning to merge into the blind grey of encroaching night. Stagnant pools and the occasional murky rivulet glimmered darkly. Here and there, small mounds rose from the bog.

  Testing each step, Risha led Torfell towards a low hump crested by tall, spiky grass. It had stopped raining, but the air, thick with moisture and the cloying stink of the marsh, seemed to soak into her skin.

  At the foot of the hillock Torfell stopped dead. The horse was exhausted, her nose hanging almost to the ground. Coaxing and tugging on her bridle, Risha finally convinced her to lunge up the small slope. Remembering the sword slash, Risha rounded her flank. Her blood chilled.

  A gash like a bloodied mouth ran across Torfell’s rump, exposing severed muscle and the white flash of bone. Thick rivulets of blood flowed from the wound, dripping from her hock to the knife-edged grass. An animal noise came from Risha’s throat as she fumbled at the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  Torfell stamped and blew, pulling away and circling. Risha flung her arms around the mare’s neck and let her tears mingle with the sweat and foam that was rapidly cooling on the shivering creature’s hide. ‘Oh, Torfell,’ she whispered. ‘What have I done?’

  Torfell stood, legs splayed, suffering and patient. Risha drew a shuddering breath and turned to Muir. He lay slumped along the mare’s back, his breathing ragged but audible. Risha slashed the rope that bound his feet, stumbling to her knees as he slipped sideways, falling heavily into her arms.

  Released from her burden of responsibility, Torfell lowered herself gracelessly to her front knees then collapsed onto her side. Risha stroked her horse’s neck and unbuckled the girth. She wasn’t strong enough to pull the saddle free. As she whispered and patted her, Torfell whickered in reply.

  Wearily, Risha tugged Muir closer, half-propping him against the horse’s belly, before settling alongside. She knew that Torfell would die. She supposed she should ease the horse’s suffering by cutting her throat, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  Once she had exhausted her tears, Risha let her head rest back against the mare’s heaving side and fell asleep.

  22

  Nan-Irem

  Morning’s pale light filtered eerily through the bands of fog that lay like shrouds against Risha’s skin. Torfell’s warmth had kept them alive through the night, but still she felt clammy and cold, as if the marsh’s fetid damp had seeped through every pore. Beside her Muir was shivering, though his skin felt hot.

  Clambering upright she walked stiffly around the tiny island. Torfell barely raised her head when Risha bent to stroke her soft nose. The mare’s breath came in a slow huffing, barely discernible, her eye following when Risha straightened.

  Bog and water encircled them. There were no clues to which way they’d come; no hint of the way out. With the sun filtered through the thick mist, she couldn’t judge where north lay — not that it mattered, she thought bitterly. Without Torfell she would never be able to move Muir. This tiny hump of earth, surrounded by dank, stinking bog, would be their grave.

  Pulling the water flask from her saddle bag, Risha helped Muir drink. His eyes flickered but didn’t open. She wished there was something she could do for Torfell, but there was not.

  It was hard to judge the passage of time. A light rain fell for a while and she sheltered Muir as best she could with her cloak. She began to feel very thirsty and eventually allowed herself a mouthful — nowhere near enough to alleviate her need, but the flask was nearly empty and the filthy brown marsh water unfit to drink. She opened her mouth to catch wh
atever rain she could. It seemed an irony that they should die longing for water in such a damp and miserable place.

  After a while Risha stood and circled the mound, testing her foot on the surrounding bog here and there. There was perhaps a chain of rushes she could try — but she wasn’t strong enough to carry Muir. He would die, she knew, and quite soon. His breathing was fast and shallow, his whole body burning up. She wet his lips again.

  As she straightened a slap of sound drifted through the fog. The dense, moisture-laden air played tricks on the ears. The sound made her think of Fenn and the river. Wiping her rain-streaked face, Risha turned.

  A shadow stared back at her. It was an old man, gaunt and still as a heron.

  Risha’s mouth grew suddenly drier. Torfell snorted but Risha didn’t dare turn to soothe her in case the wraith should disappear. Perhaps he wasn’t real. Perhaps he was Death. She remembered the stories the village children had told, trying to scare one another into sleeplessness, of an old man who stalked the rock faces and pushed the unwary to their deaths.

  She shivered. The man extended a hand towards her and beckoned.

  Risha didn’t move. He beckoned again. He was standing on a platform of wood — no, a shallow-bottomed boat. Lowering a pole into the weed-clad water, he pushed the front edge out into the bog.

  ‘My friend is ill,’ Risha said, her voice dried to a croak. Like the croak of a heron, she thought.

  The punt was only a few steps away. In two light bounds the old man was beside her. Kneeling, he touched a leathery hand to Muir’s forehead and pursed his lips.