by Ian Graham
‘What if the stranger proves troublesome?’ asked Heresh, as they trod back toward the cottage.
‘Troublesome?’
‘He is trussed up,’ said Heresh, ‘in an uncomfortable fashion. In truth, he is our prisoner. From the looks of him, I doubt he’s very happy about it.’
‘He will not stir all night. I fed him a mix of galbore and falcharon …’
‘A sedative?’
‘I told him it was a blood-purifier.’ Crask smiled faintly. ‘I promised it would aid recovery.’ He sighed. ‘It was not so great a lie, my girl. It may not help him, but it will assist us. And it is more vaccine than remedy for it will prevent a plague of violence befalling us. He will snooze like an exhausted child, and disturb us not at all.’
‘And in the morning, when he wakes? He will know he has been poisoned. His skull will ache from the galbore and falcharon. He may even grow mildly feverish.’
‘What of it? When he wakes, he will be the Wardens’ problem. Let Jaspar Grethinne deal with him.’
The day had started badly for Jaspar Grethinne.
At dawn a cacophony of magpies had roused him. Perched on his windowsill, they had shreck-shrecked so loudly that it had seemed his skull, made brittle by a hangover, would shatter. Cracking open his eyes, the Warden Commander had found himself sprawled upon his living-room floor.
He had groaned—a deep, heartfelt noise of pain.
A man could gauge his drunkenness in different ways. The degree to which his speech slurred or his footsteps reeled were decent indicators. So too was the number of arm-wrestling bouts he initiated. And the women he endeavoured—clumsily, humiliatingly—to seduce.
The most reliable, in Grethinne’s experience, was far simpler. A tipsy man always found his way to his bed. But a truly drunken man—a man savagely, almost suicidally soused— slept where he collapsed. It did not matter where. On a road, in a ditch, or in the middle of a wheat field—a truly ale-frazzled man was equally content.
The previous night, Grethinne had been ale-frazzled.
He had been gambling, too. A huge mistake, for a drunken man. Yet one a drunken man often made.
Struggling upright, Grethinne’s gaze focused on a table close to the hearth. Two wooden dice rested upon it. He winced, recalling the extent of his losses. With a bellyful of ale, he had grown preposterously self-confident. Mistress Fortune guided his hand—he had been certain of it. Thus he had bet a month’s wages on a single throw. When he lost, he presumed it had been an aberration—that Mistress Fortune had blinked. So, on the next throw, he had staked his Commander’s dagger with its ruby-decorated hilt: a weapon, part ceremonial, part practical, bestowed by the Church on all Commanders. For ten years it had been his prized possession. Like his red shoulder-stripes, it represented his sole achievement in life. He had worn it, hip-sheathed, with deep pride. He kept it well polished, so that when light struck it—when the pale iron flashed and the rubies sparkled—others would be reminded exactly what he was.
And Grethinne too would be reminded.
Perhaps he lived in Keltherimyn—a festering town, peopled by idiots. But he was a Warden Commander. A man of power. Of influence. Every slack-jawed, dull-witted denizen knew it. Few men respected Grethinne. But all feared him. And he found that immensely gratifying.
Yet, at the gambling table, all men were equal. There was no special dispensation in tournaments of luck for Warden Commanders. He had lost his wages. And his dagger.
As Grethinne washed and then got dressed in his Scarrendestin-blazoned tunic, he brooded upon these matters.
He sensed that, as his day had started poorly, it would continue in a similar fashion.
He was mistaken.
The marsh-dwelling former convict, Lugen Crask, was waiting at the guardhouse. He brought incredible news. News that Grethinne, convinced of his own ill luck, scarcely dared believe.
Crask had a stranger imprisoned in his home and, fearing that he might be violent—and a lawbreaker—requested that the man should be removed by Wardens. In return, Crask offered Grethinne a bribe: a basketful of rare eels.
In itself, this was good news. Grethinne could sell the eels for a small fortune. Enough to pay off his gambling debts. Enough, more importantly, to buy back his dagger with its jewelled hilt.
When Crask described the stranger, however, Grethinne’s heart leaped. Crask spoke graphically of the man’s appearance: very tall, very broad, very ugly. A face and body covered with scars, old and new. And an accent from a rustic corner of Druine: Hernshire, Crask suggested—or Hearthfall.
Hearthfall.
On hearing this, fireworks went off in Grethinne’s mind. Several days ago, he—like every other Warden Commander— had received an urgent edict from the Blessed Masters, stating that a dangerous fugitive was at large who, if encountered, should be exterminated. They did not disclose the fugitive’s crime—but for such an edict to be issued, it was clearly serious. How serious had been apparent from the sweat-lathered state of the horse on which the courier who’d delivered the message had ridden into Keltherimyn. While his mount was being fed and watered, the courier had told Grethinne that similar alerts were going out all over Druine by whatever means were fastest: messenger pigeons, elite horseback riders, even the semaphore and heliograph towers used only in times of national emergency to get news to the remotest parts of the country. The fugitive’s name was Anhaga Ballas. And his description matched exactly that given by Lugen Crask.
Grethinne’s sour mood evaporated. Not only was the fugitive in Crask’s home, but he was trussed up—and drugged. Crask had fed him a powerful sedative; at present he was slumbering happily, like a baby.
Gathering four of his best men, Grethinne ordered Crask to take him to his cottage.
Soon the Warden Commander was trudging through marshland. His leggings were mud-splashed. Under his tunic he sweated fiercely.
Everything was dark water, rotting plant life, mist … and eels. Grethinne hadn’t seen any of the creatures. Yet he sensed them, drifting under the surface. They were watching him— for they watched all things in the marsh. The marsh was their universe. And every human was an intruder. They worried Grethinne. Even the dead specimens, on Crask’s market stalls, made him uneasy. He could not quite say why. Perhaps it was their tiny bubble-curved eyes. Or their unearthly sleekness. Maybe it was their sheer number, a solitary eel was not a fearsome thing. But they always moved in writhing hordes … a slithering infinity of glossy, limbless forms.
‘Crask,’ said Grethinne, ‘are you certain we are safe?’
‘Of course,’ replied the eel-catcher, several paces ahead. ‘Tread where I tread, and all will be well.’
Grethinne glanced at the other Wardens. They too seemed uneasy. The Commander spat into the water.
‘Crask,’ he called out, ‘this is a foul place. How can you live here?’
‘I don’t have much choice,’ replied Crask. ‘As well you know.’ Halting, he pointed at a few dark rocks sticking up from the water. ‘Walk on them,’ he said. ‘Stay out of the water.’
‘Why?’
‘If you don’t,’ said Crask, ‘you will die. The more venomous eels live around here. A single bite will paralyse you. The man you are to take from my home did not use the stepping stones. He paid dearly.’
The Warden Commander got on to the stepping stones. Like a tightrope walker, he moved forward carefully, his arms outstretched for balance. He kept his gaze fixed on the rocks. Yet still he glimpsed the occasional elongated dark shape below the surface. Eels, perhaps? Or tree branches, rotting on the marsh bed?
Grethinne swallowed.
‘Crask,’ he said, ‘these eels you are to give me—are there many of them?’
‘There will be a full basket, as I said before,’ replied Crask, striding casually over the stones. ‘Enough to bring a couple of gold coins, if they are sold for a fair price.’
Grethinne smiled thinly. ‘They will be,’ he replied.
The st
epping stones ended. Lugen Crask guided the Wardens another quarter-mile into the marsh. Then they halted at the eel-catcher’s cottage: a well-constructed wooden dwelling, perched on stilts above the water level. They clambered up a flight of steps on to a porch.
Lugen Crask drew a knife.
His move startled Grethinne. Had the old man lured them into a trap of some sort? Reflexively, Grethinne reached for his precious dagger—and found the sheath empty.
He cursed.
Crask gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Settle your nerves, Commander,’ he said, a touch of irony in his voice. ‘This blade is not a weapon, just a cleansing device.’ He waved the knife at Grethinne’s boots. Looking down, the Commander saw leeches, at least a dozen fastened to each boot. Their tiny mouths probed the leather.
Grethinne cursed again.
Stooping, Crask began prising the creatures from his own boots. Taking another Warden’s knife, Grethinne copied the eel-catcher, sliding the blade beneath each slick body and wrenching it off. His hands were shaking and, too often, the knife sliced a leech open. Trickles of blood ran down his boots.
Eventually, the cleansing was over.
Lugen Crask led Grethinne into his home. Gesturing at a closed door, he said, ‘Through there.’
Grethinne looked at the other Wardens. Noiselessly, they drew their knives. This seemed to surprise the eel-catcher.
‘Is that really necessary?’ he asked.
Crask did not know about the Masters’ edict. He hadn’t the faintest inkling that the stranger in his home might, in truth, be the most wanted man in Druine. Grethinne had decided not to enlighten him. There were a few things he needed to think through.
‘Crask, I am Warden Commander, you are an eel-catcher,’ said Grethinne. ‘I do not pretend to understand your profession. You should not claim expertise in mine.’
‘I was merely implying that this is my home, and I would prefer there to be no bloodshed.’
‘Your preferences,’ replied Grethinne, ‘are not my concern.’ Turning the door handle, Grethinne stepped through.
The fugitive lay bound on a pallet-bed. He was as Crask had said. Tall, broad-shouldered, and ugly. Bruises covered his face—yet his features were still discernible. A strong, mulish jaw. An oft-broken stub of a nose. A heavy brow and wide solid forehead. All these had been mentioned in the edict.
Alongside Grethinne a Warden whispered, ‘It is him.’
Grethinne nodded.
‘Crask,’ he said, turning to the eel-catcher. ‘Not everyone in Druine is pleased to be woken by Wardens. Your guest may act violently. Much as I dislike you, it is my duty to ensure that you come to no harm. You must leave us alone, for the time being.’
‘He is already tightly bound,’ said Crask. ‘What harm can he do?’
Grethinne did not reply. He merely stared hard at the eel-catcher. Spreading his hands in a gesture of resignation, Crask left the room.
Things have turned out well for us, Commander,’ said another Warden. ‘Deliver up this fellow, and surely we shall receive some reward. The Masters, I understand, are generous in such matters.’
‘Speak softly,’ whispered Grethinne, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘We must not wake our prisoner too soon.’ He glanced at the door, ensuring that it was shut. ‘Besides, there are things that must be known only to us. Things Crask must not hear.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Warden.
Grethinne looked around at the gathered men. ‘When we hand over the fugitive to the Masters we shall, as you said, get some reward. And it may well prove substantial. But should we not try for more?’
The Wardens listened attentively.
What shall we tell the Masters? The truth? Ha—I do not think so. For it is hardly glorious, is it? “An old man captured him, then tied him up and drugged him—all we did was bring him out of the marsh and lock him in a prison-cell.” ’ Girethinne shook his head. ‘No. For all its accuracy, that tale will serve us badly. We ought to devise a better yarn.’
‘Such as?’ asked a Warden, blinking.
‘Simple,’ replied Grethinne. ‘We say that we captured him—and that it was a long, dangerous task. For days, we tracked him across moorland. The weather was foul and our prey was cunning. Against great odds, we caught up with him. Naturally, there was much violence at the moment of capture. We shall claim he fought like a madman. If needs be, we shall each present injuries as proof. Just bruises and shallow cuts—nothing too severe.’ He rubbed his hands together. The Blessed Masters will appreciate our efforts. Perhaps we shall receive something more than money. Promotions, maybe. Or—and I pray this is so—perhaps they will grant any request for a transfer to a different town. I despise Keltherimyn. It must be the worst posting in Druine.’
‘With respect, Commander,’ said a Warden, ‘you are overlooking something. Lugen Crask will know the truth. What is to prevent—’
‘Lugen Crask,’ said Grethinne mildly, ‘will die.’
The Warden raised his eyebrows.
‘Once he has led us beyond the swamp’s dangerous areas, we shall kill him and throw his body to the eels.’
‘And his daughter?’
‘The same.’ Grethinne shrugged. ‘People will assume that they grew careless and tumbled into the eels’ nest. No one will care too much. Crask and his daughter are hardly well liked. And if their corpses are dredged out and examined for marks of foul play—well, after the eels have sated their hunger there won’t be any corpses: only bones. Now,’ he went on, directing his gaze to Anhaga Ballas, ‘let us ensure that, when this one wakes, he will not prove troublesome.’
The Commander moved towards the bed.
Ballas was woken up violently. A series of hard blows jolted his head this way and that. Opening his eyes, he found a Warden Commander at the bedside, delivering punch after punch. A thin man, it seemed that he had to work doubly hard to inflict harm. Exertion reddened his face and a snarl tightened his features. With a Warden’s assistance, he rolled Ballas from the bed. The big man struck the floor heavily. Stepping back, the Commander kicked him in the ribs, then in the stomach. His wrists and knees bound, Ballas couldn’t defend himself. He curled into a ball and took the thrashing.
Eventually it stopped.
‘Is there no hangover remedy,’ said the Commander, panting, ‘as potent as brutality? Shotten herrings, hair of the dog—they are myths, not cures. Only a little fist- and knee-work can soothe an aching skull.’ His boot-tip nudged Ballas’s side. ‘On your feet, Anhaga Ballas.’
Raising his head, Ballas looked at the Commander.
‘Come on,’ snapped the man. ‘Get up!’
‘I am not Anhaga Ballas,’ rasped Ballas, tasting his own blood and feeling bruises spread across his flesh. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
‘Do not lie to me,’ said the Commander. ‘There is not a Warden in Druine who has not been alerted by now to your—’ he gestured vaguely at Ballas’s form ‘—appearance. You are a distinctive-looking man. That is unfortunate. How can a fugitive as large and ugly as yourself remain undetected? He cannot—no more than a walrus can lie unnoticed in an aviary.’ He gestured peremptorily to two of the Wardens. Grasping Ballas’s wrists, they hauled him to his feet. One of them kneeled swiftly and untied the big man’s knees and ankles.
Ballas stood steadily for a moment. Then the room seemed to lurch. The big man staggered and if the Wardens had not seized him he would have fallen. Groaning, he spat out a mouthful of bile on to the floor. He felt sick. And it was a nausea different to that which usually followed a beating. Sweat seeped from his pores, yet he felt cold. His eyes burned, as if a coarse fabric had scraped them raw. And the dawn light creeping through the window shutters seemed unbearably bright.
He sagged in the Wardens’ grip. The Commander watched him with interest.
‘For a man so keenly sought,’ he said, ‘you seem unable to cope with even a minor beating. Think yourself fortunate: I treated you leniently. I could have
inflicted much greater harm upon you.’
‘I am … sick,’ said Ballas hoarsely. ‘I have been … poisoned. The old man fed me something, I am certain of it.’
‘Oh yes—a sleeping draught,’ said the Commander thoughtfully. ‘He was afraid of you, Anhaga Ballas. He thought it wise to keep you subdued.’ He squinted at Ballas. ‘I am curious. Of all Druine’s criminals, it is you the Masters wish most urgently to apprehend. Yet I cannot imagine what your crime is. You do not seem to be a forger, or a maker of counterfeit coin. Nor do you seem sharp-witted enough to be a Denouncer of the Church. Or even a magicker. Tell me: what is your crime?’
Ballas did not reply.
‘Oh, come now—this is no time for modesty. What great, glittering misdeed has attracted the Masters’ wrath?’
Again, Ballas did not speak.
The Commander stared intently at Ballas. Then he shrugged, sighing. ‘It doesn’t matter. I am certain that all will be told when I deliver you to the Masters.’
Ballas blinked. ‘You’re not going to kill me?’
‘Not unless you force me to,’ replied the Commander. ‘The Masters have issued an edict demanding that you should be killed on sight. Then your head is to be sundered from your neck and sent to the Esklarion Sacros as proof of the deed. But I think the Masters would appreciate it more if their quarry was delivered alive. I am certain they have all manner of morbid reprisals that, if given the chance, they would wish to inflict upon you.’ A smile flickered over his lips. ‘In return, I will gain their favour. When I woke this morning, I saw only dark clouds. Now the sun blazes brightly. Strange, how one’s fortunes can so suddenly change.’ Glancing at the Wardens, he said, ‘Come. Let us get on with it.’
They half dragged, half carried Ballas into the next room. Lugen Crask stood beside an unlit bowl of coals. Beside him was a young red-haired woman. Crask’s daughter, Ballas knew. He had not seen her before—he’d only heard her voice through the wooden cottage walls.
The Wardens ushered Ballas out through the door and on to a long porch. For an instant he saw the marshland: the reeds and rushes, mist and water. Then sharp daylight seemed to explode inside his skull. Grimacing, he screwed his eyes shut.