by Ian Graham
Momentarily safe—the Wardens hadn’t yet nocked fresh arrows to their bowstrings—Ballas scrambled on to the bank. Then he sprinted towards the bridge. As he drew close, an arrow whizzed past his face. Diving flat on to the ground, he felt a second arrow tear through the flesh covering his shoulder blade. Grunting, he struggled to his feet. Then he hesitated.
Three Wardens raced over the bridge. As they approached, they drew their swords—each weapon flat-bladed and heavy. Ten yards from Ballas, they slowed.
‘This is the one,’ said the nearest Warden. He had small green eyes, and a heavy brow. He gazed at Ballas, then laughed—an oddly innocent sound. ‘Sweet grief, it is—he matches the description, no question.’ He glanced at the burning barge, drifting on the Merefed’s current. ‘It is said that when the Day of Reckoning arrives and a great conflagration incinerates the world, only cockroaches and the pure-hearted will emerge unharmed from the ash. Which do you suppose he is: cockroach, or saint?’
‘He does not seem the pious sort,’ said another Warden.
‘That is true,’ murmured the green-eyed Warden. Springing forward, he kicked Ballas in the stomach. Ballas sank to his, knees. ‘Tell me: what was your crime? Every Warden in Druine is hunting you. So what did you do, hm? Piss in the font at some Soriterath chapel? Bugger a Blessed Master?’
Ballas’s gaze flicked from Warden to Warden. He did not speak.
‘Oh, come now,’ said the Warden who’d kicked Ballas. ‘Speak freely. What have you got to lose? Soon you will be dead. Unburden yourself.’
Ballas stayed silent.
‘Very well,’ sighed the same Warden. ‘It doesn’t matter, anyway. I am sure that we shall learn what you did soon enough. Perhaps, when we deliver your head to the Blessed Masters, we shall be let in on the secret.’ He raised his sword high, preparing for a neck-cleaving stroke.
‘I attacked a Blessed Master,’ said Ballas suddenly.
The Warden paused, his sword still raised. ‘You did what?’
‘I slashed a Master’s face in half,’ said Ballas, quietly. ‘A single swipe of a sharp blade … I don’t know if I killed him or not. I imagine the Church uses Druine’s best physicians. So perhaps he hasn’t yet entered the Eltheryn Forest.’
The Warden lowered his sword until its tip rested on the ground. ‘When did this happen? Describe it to me.’
‘It’s a simple story,’ said Ballas. ‘Several nights ago, I was due to be nailed to the Penance Oak. This didn’t seem like a good idea. When the Blessed Master tried to stop me escaping, what choice did I have but to lash out?’
‘Small wonder that the Masters crave your death,’ said the Warden, visibly impressed. ‘No one knows that a Master has been wounded—or killed.’
‘There’re other things the Church would like to hide,’ said Ballas.
‘Such as?’ The Warden was genuinely curious.
‘The Masters have a tame Lectivin. He assists them at the Penance Oak. He uses a strange magick to torture the victim’s soul …’
The Warden gaped. This cannot be—’
Leaping to his feet, Ballas whipped a dagger from his belt and rammed it into the green-eyed Warden’s guts. Snatching up the fallen man’s sword, he advanced on the two remaining Wardens. The men backed away, shocked. Then they held their ground.
Ballas looked from man to man.
The Warden on Ballas’s right side charged, his sword raised aloft. The blade sliced down—but Ballas lifted the stabbed Warden’s sword, deflecting the blow. He kicked the oncoming Warden in the stomach. Then he swung the sword sideways into his neck. The man fell instantly, his neck half-severed.
Ballas glanced across the river. On the far bank, the three remaining Wardens had raised their bows and were taking aim.
Ballas looked at the last standing Warden on his side of the Merefed. The Warden stared back at him. Then he flung down his sword and turned to run away. Ballas dived forwards, tackling him to the ground. He jumped back to his feet and kicked the fallen Warden hard in the crotch. Grasping the man’s dropped sword, he hacked through the Warden’s right hand. Blood gouted from the stump. The Warden screamed. Dragging him to his feet, Ballas curled his forearm around his throat. Then he unsheathed the Warden’s dagger and touched the blade-tip to his eye socket.
‘You,’ he grunted, ‘will be my shield.’ Ballas glanced at the other Wardens, their bows poised. ‘Do not struggle, and I promise I will spare you. Understand?’
‘Y-yes,’ stammered the injured Warden.
Slowly, Ballas crossed the bridge to the far bank. The bow-wielding Wardens watched him uneasily. Two of them lowered their weapons. The third shifted his aim slightly, until the arrowhead pointed directly at Ballas’s face.
‘Don’t be stupid, Haren!’ shouted the Warden whom Ballas held. ‘Don’t be an idiot!’
‘I always aim true,’ said the other Warden. ‘I can hit him easily from here!’
‘More likely you will hit me!’
There is no danger,’ said the arrow-aiming Warden. ‘No danger at—’
Ballas sank his dagger into his human shield’s eye socket, then dived sideways. The mutilated Warden staggered, howling. In panic, the Warden called Haren released his arrow. It sank into the half-blinded Warden’s ribs.
The other two Wardens stared. Moments ago, they had been the aggressors. Now Ballas sensed their fear. Three of their colleagues were dead. They felt their own vulnerability—and their mortality—coursing through their souls.
The three surviving Wardens hesitated—then they ran towards their horses, tied to a rowan tree fifty paces away.
Ballas’s gaze followed them. Then it alighted on a previously unseen figure: a fat, bald-headed priest, seated upon a black mare. Frowning, Ballas realised he had seen him before. It took him a moment to remember where.
The tavern, he thought. He failed to settle his bill; the tavern-master called to him …
The priest glanced at the retreating Wardens. Then he jabbed his heels into his mare’s flanks. Turning, he started out across the moorland.
Moving quickly, Ballas unsheathed the sword of the last Warden killed in the skirmish. Taking a few steps, he hurled the weapon through the air. The flat of the blade struck the back of the fleeing holy man’s head. He toppled from the saddle, landing awkwardly on the ground.
Ballas approached.
The priest lay upon his back. As he drew closer, Ballas noticed an unnatural stillness in the holy man’s posture. He was not dead: his chest rose and fell and, staring at the sky, he blinked furiously. Yet he stayed strangely immobile.
Ballas halted at the priest’s side.
‘Help me,’ pleaded the holy man. ‘Please—you must help me. My arms, my legs … they are numb! I can feel nothing! Nor can I move.’
‘Help you?’ asked Ballas. ‘Were you not here to witness my death?’
The priest winced. ‘Whatever your crime, I will arrange a pardon. Help me, and you need no longer fear the Church.’
‘You’re a clergyman of influence?’ asked Ballas.
‘Yes, yes! Many think that one day I shall be invested as a Master.’
‘Liar,’ said Ballas flatly. Picking up the sword, he thrust its blade through the holy man’s neck. The priest’s eyes glazed. His expression slackened.
Kneeling, Ballas unfastened a coin pouch from the priest’s belt. Inside nestled a couple of gold pieces. Attaching the pouch to his own belt, Ballas strode back to the river bank.
He was part-way through looting the body of the Warden he’d stabbed in the eye when there came the noise of splashing water.
A stocky, black-bearded figure clambered out of the Merefed. The barge-master.
Ballas paused, staring.
The barge-master shook drops of water from his fingertips— a bizarre gesture for one already soaked to the skin. He spat on the grass. Then he looked up.
He blinked.
‘You’re alive,’ he said flatly. Then he looked at the slain Wardens
. ‘And many others are not.’ He glanced at the barge, drifting steadily down the Merefed. Flames capered upon the deck. It resembled a pagan funeral craft, Ballas thought.
‘Why … why were the Wardens attacking us?’ asked the barge-master.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ballas and shrugged.
‘My cargo is legal. I transport only silks, wine, a few items of jewellery … Nothing forbidden by Papal Law. Damn everything, but why did they murder my oarsmen, and burn my boat? I cannot see why—Look out!’
Ballas spun round. The half-blinded Warden lunged at him. By some miracle of resilience, he had not perished. Wrong-footed, Ballas slipped on the wet grass. The Warden slashed left-handed with his retrieved dagger at Ballas’s face—then he toppled backwards as the barge-master hurtled into him. The Warden sprawled on the ground. Wrestling the dagger from his hand, the barge-master drove the blade hilt-deep into his throat. The Warden spasmed. Then, finally, grew still.
The barge-master stood. ‘A strong fellow,’ he said, eyeing the Warden’s injuries. ‘A knife in his eye, one hand chopped off, an arrow in his chest—and still he does not die.’ The barge-master helped Ballas to his feet and said, ‘A mistake or not, for certain the Wardens now have real cause to arrest me—and you, my friend.’ He gestured to the corpses. ‘This has been a black day for the Church. Oh—ha! And it gets blacker still.’ He pointed across the moors. ‘A dead priest. Is that not the maggot in the rotten meat?’
Suddenly, thunder boomed. Lightning bolts flashed along the horizon.
The barge-master laughed. ‘We have angered the creator-god,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Worse, we have angered the Church. Where are we to go?’
Ballas stared broodingly at him. ‘I don’t crave company.’
‘Nor do I,’ said the barge-master. ‘But, like it or not, our fates are now intertwined. It is safer, for both of us, if we travel together. Besides, you are bleeding. What is it, your shoulder blade? Let me look.’ He moved behind Ballas. ‘That is deep— very deep. I can see bone through that gash in your flesh.’
‘It’ll heal,’ said Ballas.
‘Only if it is stitched,’ replied the barge-master. ‘And it is in too awkward a position for you to reach. Look: the hour is late, a storm is upon us—it would be sensible to find shelter, somewhere that I can tend your wound. Then we could discuss what to do next.’
Ballas inwardly conceded that, yes, that would be sensible. His wound needed closing up … and, if the Wardens returned, it would be far better if he were not alone.
Ballas glanced to the opposite river bank, where Garrullon lay. A short distance away, Sparrow floated face down, arrows sticking from his neck and back.
Ballas and the barge-master took what coin the fallen Wardens possessed, retrieved their horses, and rode northwards through the thickening storm. As night fell, and lightning bolts provided the only illumination, they found a deserted barn beside an untenanted farmhouse. First they inspected the farmhouse, expecting it to provide good shelter. But there was no roofing thatch and every room was exposed to the sky. So the two men took themselves and their horses into the barn.
From a small store in the farmhouse, Ballas gathered a bundle of firewood. In the middle of the barn floor, within a ring of stones, he started a fire.
They found medical provisions in a Warden’s saddlebag: a needle, thread, and powdered herbs that, when mixed with water, would become a wound-disinfecting paste.
The barge-master heated the needle in the fire. Then he stitched Ballas’s arrow-scored shoulder blade. Once the treatment was finished they took from the saddlebags a couple of pieces of dried beef, which they ate seated at the fire’s edge.
Also in the saddlebag was a map of Druine. Ballas gazed at it in the firelight.
‘Making plans, hm?’ asked the barge-master.
Ballas glanced at him. ‘My sister is still sick,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to travel to Redreathe. That much has not changed.’
‘I don’t know what I am going to do,’ said the barge-master. ‘Until this afternoon, I had my own set of plans. I would work the barge for another five years. Then I would retire. I have a little money put aside—not enough to live on but sufficient to help sustain me if I invested it wisely. I intended to find myself a young wife, who would give me six strong, healthy children. Now, though …’ He sighed. ‘I have killed a Warden. Everything is different.’
‘No one except me saw you take his life.’
‘True,’ nodded the barge-master. ‘Yet I still do not know why we were attacked. What if the Church is hunting me? I will not lie to you: I have led a sinful life. I have fornicated; in my wake, there are a hundred … a thousand cuckolded men. What if one was a friend of a priest of influence? Or a Servant of the Church? Might they not persuade the Church to exact revenge upon me?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Ballas quietly. ‘Your sins are minor. They don’t threaten the Church’s power.’
The barge-master’s shoulders sagged.
Ballas looked at the map again. His gaze wandered from the northern mountains to the southern coast; from moorland tracts to marshland swamps. He knew he couldn’t run for ever. The Wardens would pursue him until he was captured—or killed. If he remained in Druine they would eventually find him.
He glanced up. The barge-master stared at him.
‘A problem?’ asked Ballas.
‘No,’ said the barge-master. ‘I am tired, that is all. It has been a trying day …’ He yawned. ‘I must sleep.’
Ballas too felt oppressively tired. Sitting back against the barn wall, he closed his eyes. He began to drowse—then a flash of blue-silver light flared in his mind’s eye. Ballas jerked wide awake. He looked around the shadowed, firelit barn. Then he sighed.
‘Lightning,’ he murmured. ‘That is all.’ Tiredness swept over him. He shut his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
The following morning dawn light woke Ballas. Sitting upright, he rubbed his face and felt the stitches in his shoulder blade tug tight. He grunted. Then he glanced across the barn. The barge-master slept curled up in the corner, his head pillowed on his arm. Muttering, Ballas got to his feet. He had slept right through the night. Yet he felt groggy, as if he had not slumbered at all. He realised that he had been dreaming. He could not recall the dream itself, although he knew somehow that it had been strange, and troublesome. Frowning, he tried hard to remember. He felt it floating just beneath the surface of his memory—and its presence irritated him: he wanted to know what the dream had been.
Yet it remained elusive.
Scowling, Ballas walked towards the barn door, intending to step outside and urinate. Yet movement caught his eye. The day’s fresh light seeped through gaps between the wooden wall-planks—and this light had been blocked fleetingly by a dark shape. Cursing softly, Ballas peered through a gap. Two of the Wardens who had escaped the previous day stood outside. They had exchanged their short-bows for lethal-looking crossbows.
Ballas hurried to the barge-master. Clamping a hand over his mouth, he shook him awake.
The barge-master’s eyes flicked open.
‘They’ve found us,’ said Ballas, removing his hand.
‘The Wardens?’
‘Two of those who fled yesterday,’ said Ballas, nodding. ‘Clearly they don’t want to go back empty-handed to the Masters.’
‘What do we do?’
‘Fight,’ replied Ballas, shrugging.
‘That’s easy for you,’ said the barge-master. ‘You are as broad and heavy as a bull. But me? My talents lie elsewhere.’ He gazed through a gap in the planks. ‘Sweet grief, they have crossbows. I have seen such weapons in use. They are fearsome contraptions: once I witnessed a bolt slam clean through a full-grown boar’s head. I thought such devices were outlawed by the Blessed Masters.’
‘They are,’ said Ballas, casting around for something— anything—he could use as a weapon. He found a pitchfork propped upright in the corner. The prongs were rusty but sharp-tipped.
He tested its weight in his palm. It would have to do. ‘Find yourself something to fight with,’ he told the barge-master.
The barge-master did not move from the gap. ‘What can we do?’ he asked softly. ‘We are even in numbers—but mismatched in weaponry. What are our tactics to be, big man?’ There was an odd note in his voice.
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Ballas.
The barge-master moved away from the wall and crept cautiously through the barn, seeking a makeshift weapon. Ballas stared through the gap. The Wardens were discussing how best to attack. But Ballas had a plan of his own. The Wardens were nervous. Even now, their crossbows were aimed at the barn door. Ballas suspected that as soon as the door opened at least one Warden would release a bolt. To ensure that the remaining bolt was dispatched effectively, the second Warden would need a proper target—an enemy to aim at.
Ballas glanced at the barge-master. He had found a plank that, split lengthwise, would make a useful cudgel.
‘Will this do?’ asked the barge-master, raising the plank.
‘Aye,’ replied Ballas—knowing the barge-master would have no opportunity to use it.
The barn was freezing cold. Yet sweat glistened on the barge-master’s face. ‘Are the Wardens still out there? Where are they standing?’
Ballas looked out through the gap. ‘They haven’t budged,’ he began—then toppled sideways as something slammed into the side of his head.
The barge-master stood over him.
‘What—’ began Ballas.
The barge-master smashed the plank-edge into Ballas’s forehead. The impact rolled the big man on to his back.
‘You are not to be trusted,’ said the barge-master. ‘That was Garrullon and Sparrow’s mistake. They believed you were helping them escape—’ another blow, this one across Ballas’s cheekbone ‘—yet, in truth, they were merely arrow fodder. Their deaths provided you with a few seconds of safety. The Wardens’ arrows had been loosed; they needed time to reload. From the water, I witnessed everything. And I think you have been plotting to use me in a similar fashion. Well, my friend, it shall not happen.’ He swung the plank once more—this time, it struck between Ballas’s legs.