Creel gathered enough of his household guard to match Sullen’s reported strength – twenty-five men – and strode purposefully through the disappearing encampment. Tents were being folded away, the ashes of fires kicked over and extinguished. Horses were being hitched to carts. Men were hurrying to and fro, some carrying stores, some weapons or saddles.
There were already many riders and walkers silhouetted up on the high horizons. Creel’s army was, with his consent, scattering. He would take only two hundred men to the gathering of the Council at Armadell-on-Lake. The rest – untrained levies, the volunteers, the farmers – had no desire to go anywhere but home now that the war was won, and they had too little value to him to make opposing that desire worthwhile. Two hundred should be enough to match or exceed whatever force the other members of the Council would bring with them to Armadell. He would not appear weak or inconsequential, and that was what mattered. All the better if he could slap Callotec’s head on the table when they met, and paint himself the taker of the last Hommetic life.
Creel knew, with the long experience of having lived inside his own skin, that if he allowed himself reflection, he would envy those men departing for their homes. Their wives and families. He had his own, waiting for him back at Mondoon, and he craved their comfort and company, and the sedate quiet of his faraway keep. That was where his heart resided, with them and with those walls. All else was distraction. Lost time.
But he could not permit such thoughts to ingrain themselves. He was caught up in the current of events, and if he did not ride it, and seek to guide it, he would drown. As so many others had already done.
“That horse is lame,” he shouted at an unfortunate handler leading a string of animals past. “If you’re too wit-short to see it, find someone who can, and knows what to do about it.”
Not a surprise, that the School should intrude upon his plans, but annoying. He had expected, especially after his exchanges with Yulan on the subject, that they might stir from their passivity now that those with the heart to do so had finished with the bleeding and the dying and the winning. Carrion birds come to see what spoils they might pick from the Hommetic carcass, perhaps. One more set of ambitions and pride to overfill and unbalance the already too small boat that the members of the Council had grudgingly consented to share.
“Could you not at least have found out what they wanted before coming running to me?” Creel growled at the browbeaten messenger, trotting along at his side in an effort to match his determined pace.
“They would not say, lord. Sullen would not say. Only that he had to speak with the Weaponsmith.”
“My Weaponsmith,” Creel rumbled.
In that part of the camp given over to the Weaponsmith and his modest entourage, there was no sign of preparations for departure. That annoyed Creel still more. As did the sight of those twenty-five Clade warriors, with their clean and fresh blue tunics. A pretty little army that would have been useful in the war, had they not been safely sequestered in their barracks.
The Weaponsmith had the grace to look faintly alarmed, perhaps even guilty, at Creel’s approach. The man with whom he stood in deep conversation did not. Sullen. Creel would have liked to know a good deal more about the School’s butcher than he did; but then, that was a sentiment shared by almost everyone, so far as he was aware.
He had never met anyone who knew exactly where Sullen had come from, how his slow ascent to the leadership of the Clade had been achieved or justified. It was just possible that his famed expertise with a blade and his equally famed ruthlessness were explanation enough, but that had always seemed a touch unlikely to Creel. It occurred to him that he should ask Yulan about it, when next they met. The Free always seemed to carry around with them more knowledge, about more things, than was entirely reasonable.
“The lord of Mondoon,” Sullen said, in his toneless way, and gave what might pass for a bow in undemanding circles.
“I know who I am,” Creel grunted. “What I’d like to know is what brings the Clade into my camp, and why I’m coming so late to the knowledge.”
“The affairs of the School,” Sullen said simply.
Creel loathed the absurd styling of his hair. Half cropped, half braided, and burdened with those silly little beads. A ridiculous affectation, in imitation of corsairs. Sullen had no corsair blood in him, as best Creel knew.
“That much I could have guessed,” he said. “I was hoping for more daylight than fog talk.”
He looked to the Weaponsmith, thinking a little weight applied to him more likely to be fruitful than that wasted upon the impervious Sullen. The Weaponsmith was a big man, easily a head taller than Creel, with arms reminiscent of tree trunks, grey hair tied tight back in a horse-tail, and a lean, stern face. But Creel knew he was not as resilient as he appeared. There was a vein of weakness, compliance that ran through the Clever. He had an instinct for submitting to those with the authority or determination to face him down.
“Let us show Mondoon what this is about,” Sullen said placidly, before any cracks could appear in the Weaponsmith’s facade. “It will save everybody some time.”
He led Creel to a litter, set upon the grass – what muddily remained of it after the trampling of the last few days – close by. A white sheet was draped over it, but the shape was unmistakable. A corpse. Creel felt the first intimation of gloom, rather than the irritation that had dominated thus far. His mind was not the most agile, but nor was it sluggish. He could guess the direction, if not the detail, of what was about to happen.
Sullen bent and pulled back a corner of the sheet.
Creel looked at the dead man. He did not know him, but even if he had, he might not have recognised him. Terrible burns, which had exposed and cooked the flesh, covered half the face. There was an odd blotching and bruising on the unburned cheek and chin. Sullen covered the dead man up quickly.
“What is it I’m meant to understand?” Creel muttered.
“He was killed by a Clever. Kerig, one of the Free.”
Creel turned on the Weaponsmith, who quailed just a little.
“I thought there were none dead. I was told – you told me – that none had taken any fatal wound, all would recover. The business with Kerig was cut short, before it could become a crow feast.”
“So I thought,” the Weaponsmith said, recovering a little of his poise. Perhaps buttressed by Sullen’s steady, expectant gaze. “I was wrong. This man died of his hurts. That made it – makes it – a matter for the School. I am entitled to expect my rightful —”
“Oh, hush,” said Creel. He turned to Sullen, who was almost smiling.
“I am satisfied there is something that bears examination here, lord,” Sullen said. “Something that it falls to the School, the Clade, to examine, by duty and law and tradition.”
Creel glared at him. The man was dirty from his journey. His garb was more fit for a levyman than the holder of high martial office. But he was no fool, Creel knew. He was dangerous. And he could surely not be here without the consent of the School’s Mistress, Morue. That was enough, just, to persuade Creel that his anger must not reach his tongue.
“I have bought the Free’s services,” he said tightly. “It’s of no concern to me what discussions you have with them after they’ve completed their —”
“We will be riding out shortly,” Sullen told him. “I have a man here who might follow their trail, but only if it is done soon, and fast.”
He gestured towards the silent gallery of Clade warriors with a loose hand. Creel looked there, and saw amongst the tall, erect fighting men one who was, by contrast, stooped and older and clad in a simple brown cloak. Pale and pinched of face. He looked unwell.
“What the Free are doing needs doing,” Creel growled, still staring at that odd little man. “You interfere with it, you aid no one.”
“Not our intent, of course. We must ask questions, that is all. Clarify matters. If a Clever kills a man, it falls to the School to pursue the truth, and justi
ce. It has always been so.”
Sullen spoke with all the calm confidence of one knowing he would not in the end be gainsaid, whatever rough waters he might encounter along the way. And he was right, Creel had to grudgingly acknowledge.
If he had his way, he would see the Council unpick some of the tendrils of power and influence the School had extended through the land over the years. The finding and training and guiding of Clevers was one thing. A valuable thing, for which the School had first been founded. The exercise of absolute and separate justice in all that related to Clevers, the levying of taxes on river trade, the provision of wayhouses for message riders, the keeping of records of land ownership: these and more, that the School had gathered unto itself over the decades, were different. They bloated the School’s coffers and its pride.
But nothing could be done now. Creel knew that. Not today. The ground in which seeds of change might sprout had not even been ploughed yet. And the School was easily strong enough to resist any ill-judged assault, should they choose to do so. They had Clevers, after all, and the Clade. And the Bereaved. They were still needed.
“If you keep the Free from their task, you hasten the closest thing left to a Hommetic heir into the hands of the Empire,” he said stubbornly. If he must yield, he would not do so gracefully.
“Where he’s as likely to be hung from a gibbet as fed wine and sweetmeats, I’d think,” said Sullen. “But nobody will be kept from their task, in any case. Questions only, I said. Do I look to have come with an army fit for fighting the Free?”
That, Creel had to concede. Twenty-five of the Clade would not be compelling Yulan into doing anything he did not want to do.
“The Weaponsmith will accompany us,” Sullen added.
Which tested Creel of Mondoon’s restraint to its outer bounds, and just a hand’s width beyond.
“He’s my man,” he snapped. “Taken into my household at his own request. He’s coming with me to Armadell.”
He included the Weaponsmith himself within the compass of his ferocious glare. The Clever looked distinctly uncomfortable. Sullen, predictably enough, was unmoved.
“Given his peculiar talents, you’ll understand that the School has long taken a close interest in this new member of your household. His liberty to do as he does is ours to determine, in law. While he served the King, the balance was in his favour. Now… well, we will have to see. For now, it is his wish that he accompany us.”
The Weaponsmith only nodded nervously in response to Creel’s angry, silent question. The lord of Mondoon stood there for just a moment more, stewing in his frustration. Then he concluded that he was achieving nothing but sharpening the appearance of his defeat in the eye of every observer. He spun on his heel and stamped away.
“They were making for Curmen, and the Old Threetower Road, I understand,” Sullen called at his back.
“You understand whatever you like,” Creel muttered. “I’ve got a march to prepare.”
“Well, we have our own means of finding the way, as I said.”
Creel did glance back, briefly, before disappearing into the comfortably familiar churn of his army of simple men doing needful things. He saw that feeble-seeming man who had stood amongst the Clade warriors kneeling on the grass. Pressing his hand flat to the ground. Closing his eyes. He looked to have an ugly welt of a scar, fresh-looking, around his throat, like a raw torc.
Some Clever trickery in the making, no doubt. So be it. The Free had a good deal of that to call upon themselves, if needed. Yulan was a match for Sullen. Hopefully.
17
Two Ends To A Spear
Yulan could all but smell the weariness draped over the Free like a deadening blanket. Unlike most of the others, he and Hamdan could sleep on horseback. Not well or long, but better than not at all. It was a habit and a talent passed down through generations from their distant ancestors, horse lords who had supposedly ruled all these lands and more long, long ago. Before even the Sorentine dynasty arose.
Such were the meagre inheritances of a lost dominion: a people, strewn along the desert’s edge, who could breed horses and sleep as they rode, and use a bow like no others; but in more years than not could barely feed their families. It was not much for those who had held sway over countless thousands to pass on to their descendants. No less than most kingdoms provided for their latter kin, Yulan suspected.
The Sorentines had kept their primacy for centuries, yet their people were now a discordant, disorderly scattering of clans in a few valleys. The Hommetics had had their brief moment of glory, bright indeed for a merchant family that had won control of Armadell-on-Lake more by luck than judgement amidst the chaos of the Sorentine collapse. It had taken them close to fifty years of warring to win themselves a wider kingdom, and not much longer than that to lose it. To pass into extinction.
Yulan’s people had at least survived, even if in poverty. Should he live long enough to return to his homelands with the booty his service in the Free had won him, he would be the wealthiest man to walk that hot, dry ground in many years. He did not know if that would ever happen. It certainly would not until he had answered what had happened at Towers’ Shadow. Until he could pass a day without seeing, clear as if it was there before him, a child’s arm in the mouths of dogs.
But even then, if he outlived the Free, and lifted the burden of Towers’ Shadow from his shoulders, there were other things he meant to do – had to do – before he could turn his path southward.
A day and a night after Rudran joined them, they had come far and fast over hard ground. Yulan was tired, right down to his deepest bones, so he knew that the rest of the Free must be beyond the limits of their endurance. They had taken turns eking out what little rest they could on the wagon, but that, Yulan knew from experience, was about as unrestful as sleep ever got.
Hestin’s cloak had never quite recovered its full green lustre after that climb up from the Old Threetower Road. The bull marched stolidly on, but there would come another moment, soon, when she could not make it do so without loosing her grip upon the Clamour.
Yulan judged they must be ahead of Callotec’s column by now. Unless it had scattered. Unless Callotec had run for the border and left behind all the wagons, all the levies, and the Bereaved. That, Yulan thought, would be the wise thing to do. It would be what he would do, if riding in Callotec’s saddle. But he did not think it was what Callotec would do. He thought Callotec would first want to fulfil a promise he had made long ago.
And as Yulan thought these things, thought that the time had come to rest once more and ready themselves for the greater test to come, a burned-out farmstead appeared there by the trail. Rudran and half his lancers were riding ahead to flush out any trouble that might be awaiting them. They whistled back when the ruined building came in sight, to call a halt. Yulan trotted his horse up to join them as they examined the place from a cautious distance.
It had been prosperous once, that much was clear. Burned not long ago. A few weeks, perhaps a couple of months. The walls still stood, in part, but the roof was gone and the stone had been blackened by the fire. There were dead animals – the bones of them, at least – outside. Scraps of gristle and withered flesh clung to the bones like wilted leaves. It was all the scavengers had left.
“Shall I take a look?” Rudran asked.
He was a simple, solid man. Not much given to talk, or to laughter, or to any vigour of emotion. Devoid of any ambition save to lead the finest, most disciplined little band of lancers he could. A good and safe man to have at your side when what needed to be done was clear, and difficult, and likely bloody.
“We need a place to rest for a few hours,” Yulan said. “Why don’t you just ride up there and see if it feels restful to you?”
“I will.”
He said it, yet he did not spur his horse on ahead. He regarded his Captain steadily, from beneath thick, reddish eyebrows.
“You want to know what makes you a fool, Yulan?” he asked at length.
/> “By all means,” Yulan said, entirely surprised that such a question should come from this placid rock of a man.
“Thinking there’s any one of us, man or woman, that’d not follow you out here, to do this thing. What was it about, Ordeller saying over and over when we reached Curmen that we could turn back if we wanted?”
“I thought it right.”
“It was wrong. You don’t think every one of us who saw what Callotec did there wants to make things right just as much as you? I told you back then there’d come a time for mending, and here it is. It’s never been just you waiting for the day to come. Even the ones who weren’t there. They all want to wash the Free’s name clean of that memory.”
“I don’t… I didn’t think I could ask anyone to die for it.”
“Anyone except you, you mean,” Rudran grunted. “Fool, again. Did it never occur to you that half the Free would die for any cause you chose to name? Not for the cause, but for you.”
“Lorin was forty-two years old,” Yulan said distantly. “Joined the Free before I’d even left my village. Had a scar on his cheek he took from a horse thief’s knife. Had a wife in Sussadar and one in Armadell-on-Lake, and loved them both. Died under his horse when it broke a leg on the charge. Manadar was twenty-five. As good with a throwing knife as any I’ve ever known. He wanted to see everything the world had to offer, and had made a good start on it. Played the reed flute every evening, near enough, and was less good with that than with the knife. A slaver’s mace to the side of his head.”
“They died in the Empire, two years ago,” Rudran nodded. “What of it?”
“I remember them too well. I don’t want to see anyone else dying. Not when we all thought the Free was finished with and all had new lives to be forging.”
Rudran grunted. “Best shed that, I’d say. We’re in it now, all of us willingly. You’ve got the best of the Free here with you, and if you want to bring it out in one piece, it’s time to think war, not peace. If you’re not willing to risk lives, more than likely you’ll lose them. No half-measures. We need you thinking hard and clear. There’s a lot of dying to be done; you want it to be them, not us, you set your mind to killing, not keeping people alive. Now hold this, would you?”
The Free Page 17