It was the worst fit the Laird had ever had. “Fetch him,” Davy had said. “Waste no time.”
Once the Sterkarms had taken Mistress Crosar away, Davy had started for the Yonstone Tower, to check on Joan’s well-being. On the ride, he’d met with Yonstones, who’d told him that neither Joan Grannam nor Per May Sterkarm had ever reached their tower.
Davy had changed his road and ridden to meet his laird, hoping to find him recovered and capable. Instead, he’d found Richie Grannam in a stretcher and refusing to open his eyes or speak. So he’d brought the laird to his sister under the protection of green branches.
The weary ride over the hills had given Davy much time to consider what would follow from the laird’s melancholy fit. Richie Grannam was the head of the Grannam family. When word of his melancholy spread, there would be some Grannams—Davy could name them—who would see the chance to make themselves the laird.
Mistress Crosar was more than capable of managing the tower and its business, but Davy feared she would never be allowed to prove it. The Grannam men would say only a strong man could govern Grannam lands.
Marrying Joan would be a speedy way to secure the Brackenhill Tower. Was that how Joan had come to vanish? Had word of Richie Grannam’s sickness traveled fast?
When his men were as settled as they could be in a Sterkarm camp, Davy searched for Mistress Crosar and found her in the bothy given to her brother.
“Mistress, may I speak with you?”
“Davy! Well come. What troubles thee?”
Davy ducked inside and felt for the turf bench. He sat. “The Laird, be he … ?”
Mistress Crosar looked at the man on the bed who seemed to sleep. “What dost think thyself, Davy?”
“That he be no better.”
“I think tha’rt right.” She looked at him steadily, waiting for him to say what he had to say.
Davy hunted for words and could find none. “Will he be better soon?” If the laird would only recover, then the difficulties would go away. Mistress Crosar sighed. It was all the answer he needed. “Mistress”—he spread one hand—“Grannams, Mistress. You ken.”
She frowned. “What about Grannams?”
“Sim Longknowe,” he said.
She raised her brows. Sim Longknowe was her youngest brother. They had never been on the easiest of terms. “What of him?”
Davy turned his head and looked at Richie Grannam. Mistress Crosar, following his gaze, thought that talking with Davy was like trying to converse with a dog: a creature intelligent and perceptive but almost without words.
“Brackenhill Tower, Mistress. You ken.”
Mistress Crosar’s mouth opened as the gears of her mind began turning, like the gears of a mill when the brake is released. She realized that the immediate troubles of her brother and his daughter had distracted her. Danger lay not only before her, with Sterkarms and Elves, but behind her, among her own family. “Oh, Davy!”
The light from the doorway showed the glitter of alarm in her eyes. Davy decided he would not mention Joan’s disappearance until he knew more.
16th-Side A:
Wild Country
The Changeling Sterkarms • Joan Grannam • The Grannams • Per May
“It’ll aye be dark!” Joan was exasperated. “Do we play hide-and-seek?” They had dawdled on their way, changing direction or waiting with the horses while a few men went scrambling ahead on foot. These men seemed to think the best way to her father’s tower was to ride in the opposite direction.
Per Sterkarm brought his horse up on her other side, with Swart and Cuddy following behind. “An Elf-Pistol was fired, mawkin.”
His men sniggered, but Joan smiled, even though he’d called her a simpleton. He must like her a little to speak jokingly like that. She was winning him around.
It was true that a bone-achingly long time ago, as they’d started into territory she recognized as her father’s, a loud bang had resounded from the hills. “Before we gan there at a run,” Per said, “we must ken who fired that. And whyfore.”
They continued to approach the tower circuitously, keeping hillspurs between them and the tower, weaving from thicket to hollow. Joan fell into a trance of boredom, more aware of her wind-chilled fingers and cramping belly than of anything around her. Only when they’d circled the tower, observing it from all sides, did Sweet Milk lead them to its gate. He gave his helmet to Per May to help hide his hair and face.
The stink of burning had lessened and, at first, Joan saw nothing much out of order. Their arrival at the yard outside the gatehouse shocked her. The charred smell was stronger—and so was the stink of decay. Big black birds hopped from a heap of rubbish, which she realized was a body. The birds had been feeding.
Sweet Milk bellowed a hunting call: “Hell-oooo!” No answer came from the tower. The howling died away, the silence settled.
The Sterkarms looked at one another, wondering what had happened to their Per—not this additional one who rode with them, but theirs. The Grannams, seated on their horses at the rear of the party, looked at the ruin of their tower and wondered about their friends.
Dismounting, Per May leashed his hounds and gave them into Rane’s keeping before looking up at the gatehouse roof. Nothing moved up there, nothing made a sound. If anyone was in the tower, they’d be keeping watch, they’d have seen them climbing the path, if not sooner. Why were they hiding? By the Changeling’s account, the Elf-Captain hadn’t hid the last time they’d come calling.
Swinging around, Per May walked to where Anders sat his horse and said, “Give me thine ax.”
Anders looked to Sweet Milk. This wasn’t their own Per. Sweet Milk nodded, and Anders took the ax from its sling at his saddlebow. “What wilt do? Turn gate to kindling?”
Per smiled as he took the ax, but turned to Sweet Milk, holding the ax straight in the air. “Throw me up.”
Sweet Milk’s mouth crimped at one corner, amused that he understood this Per as well as the other. Dismounting, he handed his reins to Anders and walked with Per to the wall.
The towers were meant only to offer protection from raids, not to withstand sieges and catapults, and the wall was not quite five yards high. Sweet Milk himself was more than two yards tall.
Joan watched fearfully as Sweet Milk crouched and cupped his hands. Per, still holding the ax, stepped into them. Sweet Milk, grimacing with effort and grunting, rose from his crouch, lifting Per high in the air.
Joan’s hands went to her mouth. Per’s hands pattered up the stone, steadying him. He stepped, swaying, from Sweet Milk’s hands to the tall man’s shoulder. Sweet Milk swayed, too, under the weight of Per, his jakke, and helmet.
“Oh, he must no!” Joan cried. The Sterkarms laughed and watched Per reach up and hook the ax’s head over the wall’s peaked top. He pulled down hard.
“My ax!” Anders said.
Per grasped the ax handle with both hands and hauled. The muscles corded down his arms, bunched across his shoulders.
“What if someone’s hiding inside?” Joan cried. No one answered her.
Blood thumped in Per’s head. Loosing the ax with one hand, he reached for a space between merlons and slammed his fingers onto the wall’s top. That stung, but he gripped, and heaved, scrabbling with one foot for purchase on the wall. With one elbow on the wall, he let go of the ax with his other hand and grabbed at a merlon’s side. The ax caught between the wall and his body.
Grunting with effort, he raised his weight on one arm and the grip of one hand, easing himself into the narrow space between merlons, twisting sideways. He heard no sound from inside the tower.
The ax was released as he pulled himself up and fell, banging against the wall and bringing another outraged shout from Anders.
Per managed to wedge his hips between the merlons. The plastered stone scratched his hands and bruised his flesh agains
t his bones. Sweating, gasping, he clung on, hauled, scrabbled. Twisting, he brought up one foot and, with another groan of effort, stood in the narrow crennalation. Panting, he saluted the upturned faces below him.
There was a drop of almost his own height onto the inner walkway. He jumped, landing in a deep crouch.
Outside, they heard a slight thump as he landed. Sweet Milk stooped, hands on knees, pulling in long breaths. The others cricked their necks, staring upward, wondering if enemies had been waiting in ambush. It was an agonizingly long time before Per rose to his feet and was glimpsed, as yet unharmed. Then he moved out of sight.
There was a general movement toward the gatehouse.
40
16th-Side A:
The Captured Grannam Tower
Per May • Sweet Milk • Joan Grannam • Sandy Yonstone
Once he’d jumped down inside the tower, Per May rested awhile, his back against the wall, waiting for his heart to slow and his breathing to ease. He studied the yard below. He’d never been inside a Grannam Tower before, had never expected to see the inside of one.
It was clear there’d been a fire. Many buildings were in collapsed ruin, and the stink of rain-soaked ash and burning was strong. He saw how the fire had traveled from a place against the west wall, where everything was ash, to a place against the opposite wall, where the flames had blackened the plaster as they burned out.
The tower rose above all, oddly bare on one side, but with some of its outbuildings still crowding against it on the other. Nothing moved down there, not a pig or a hen. He could see no one on the wall tops.
With most of his breath back, Per rose, drew the long knife the Changelings had given him, and studied the yard below. An Elf lay sprawled there, the butt of his Elf-Pistol still in his hand.
His heart picked up a faster beat again. He feared the Elf played dead to lure him near while living ones hid in ambush. If anyone was alive in the tower, he’d have seen him climbing the wall. The thought made Per’s hair rise and his ears ring.
He skittered down the steps to the yard, watching the body but also glancing at the wall tops and the open mouth of the gatehouse. He saw no one, and the dead Elf didn’t move. He peered into the dim, empty gatehouse. Shafts of light shone through gaps in the gate’s planking, shining on water pooled between muddy cobbles. From outside came sounds of horses stamping and his hounds whining.
Darting to the gate, Per heaved aside the beam, throwing it down with an echoing crash. Those waiting outside shoved the gates wide and entered with a clamor of hooves on cobbles. As they entered, the men noted the blood pooled in the stones, at the inner entrance to the courtyard. And bloody handprints on the whitewashed walls. There had been fighting and killing here.
Swart and Cuddy came in with Rane, tails thrashing, as happy to see Per as if he’d been absent a year. Sweet Milk clapped Per May on the shoulder, as much to hold him to the spot as to congratulate him. The Changeling Sterkarms looked to Sweet Milk for orders, not Per May, and he singled out a couple with his eyes, nodding toward the gatehouse. They understood they were to guard the gate. With another look he singled out another man and said, “Horses.”
Joan led her horse slowly through the gatehouse’s shadows, staring at the ruin of her home. Sandy Yonstone watched her as he led his own horse beside her.
Sweet Milk looked at Joan, indicating with a jab of the forefinger that she was to stay where she was. For once, instead of arguing, she sank down on the gatehouse steps. She seemed dazed by what she saw. Sandy took his stand beside her, and she turned her face away.
There was an iron ring in the gatehouse wall. Per led his hounds to it and tethered them there. Behind him, Sweet Milk swept his men together with a wave of the hand. He nodded toward the alleyways they were to search.
The men were not eager. The half-burned buildings might collapse and others held many nooks to hide attackers. As frequent ambushers themselves, the Changelings were well aware of the danger.
Returning to Sweet Milk’s side, Per May said, “Gan in threes. One man ahead, two behind. Keep apart. Then they can no shoot two of you at one time.”
The men looked to Sweet Milk. When he nodded, they allowed Per May to sort them into teams, and direct them into the alleys. Once ordered, they started off, as much afraid of losing face as of attack.
Per May led two men into the nearest alley, which was partly blocked with debris. Their feet crunched on charred wood, but that was the only sound. Per May guessed the tower was empty, but if he was wrong, it could be his death. He had to stop often, to clear tangles of thatch or climb over a charred, fallen beam. Fear flared across his shoulders and scalp then as he expected the impact of an arrow or Elf-Ball. He wondered if he would live to enter the tower.
Changeling Per
Changeling Per lay hugging his belly and dissolving in pain.
He’d gambled that the gatehouse roof was empty and that all the Elves were dead. He’d lost. The Elf on the roof had fired its pistol before collapsing itself. The pistol balls had torn into Per’s belly like a kick from a horse.
Per had smacked down on hard stone and rolled frantically to reach the staircase again. Thinking the Elf would follow him, he’d slithered and fallen down the staircase, his heart pounding at the gallop.
At the bottom, it had been hard to stand, harder to walk. He’d staggered, leaving blood splatters and handprints on the walls. Blood had run down his sides, soaking his shirt and breeches, but he’d reached the gate.
It was barred. He’d tried lifting the cumbersome bar of wood but couldn’t grip it, his hands slippy with blood. The effort wrenched his belly wound and took him to his knees in a gout of blood. This is the day of your death and the manner of your dying. …
Memory blurred. He was no longer in the gatehouse but he didn’t know where he was. He’d stumbled, stooped, trying to ease the spreading pain … A shout had roused him. “Hell-oooo!” Who was hunting? He’d tried to reply, but his dry mouth would make no sound. Then he remembered the Elves.
He could not stand, so crawled, but the pain rose and drowned him.
Per May
Per May checked every doorway and window in the upper stories as he moved slowly down the alley, but ambushers hid themselves well. Every opening he passed set the back of his neck tingling in expectation of the Elf-Bolt’s punch. As he drew a breath of relief at having passed one, there was another ahead.
He neared the open yard before the tower. Fear pumped his lungs like forge bellows, because if there was an ambush, it must be soon. He paused at that last corner, trying to find courage. When he finally edged one eye around the building’s side and saw a man, the jolt of alarm almost lifted his feet from the ground.
Drawing back, he held up a hand, halting the men behind him. Slowly, heart thumping and breath short, he took another look.
The man he’d seen wasn’t dressed like an Elf. He sat in the alley’s mud, slumped, as if exhausted, against a wall. He raised his head, and his face was so hideous that Per almost stepped back, but then he saw that the face was not mutilated, but striped with blood.
Signaling to the men behind him to be ready, Per stepped out from behind the building.
The injured man saw him and watched him come. He showed no fear.
Per May stood above him. The wounded man clutched at his own belly, and blood had soaked his long shirt. He looked up with eyes so pale a blue they were almost silver. Andrea had described his eyes like that, and Per May realized that he looked at himself. This was Changeling Per.
There was so much blood soaked into his shirt. And a smell: a sour, iron stink of butchery and fresh shit. Seeing his own image, so hurt and dazed with pain, turned Per May cold. He backed toward the alley and the men who waited for his order.
Those men passed him and looked down at their own Per. One of them, Nikol, crouched by the wounded man and tri
ed to pull his bloody hands from his belly. “No,” Changeling Per whispered. And then, “Thirsty.”
Cristy said, “Where be Sweet Milk?” He went off in search of him.
Nikol uncorked the leather flask from his belt and looked up at Per May, who still stood by with dangling hands. “Blankets!” When Per May didn’t move, he said, “Gan!”
Per May started, looked around and headed for a ladder that leaned against a wall nearby. Outbuildings’ upper rooms were often used as dormitories, and from the top of the ladder, he saw a mess of blankets on the floor. Snatching up three, draping them over his shoulder, he jumped down the ladder, missing half of the rungs. He reached Nikol and Changeling Per again just as Sweet Milk strode along the alley from the other direction.
Sweet Milk dropped to his knees beside Changeling Per and, less tentative than Nikol, seized his hands, pulling them away from his wound. They all looked at the welter of torn, blood-soaked cloth and swollen flesh.
Per May felt he’d been doused in ice water. He was his own ghost, looking down at his own dying body.
Sweet Milk and Changeling Per stared at each other. Changeling Per licked his dry lips. “Elven paid me. They be feasting in tower!”
Sweet Milk looked up and saw the gray blankets dangling from Per May’s hands. “Bind him up. Soak cloth. Wet his mouth.”
Cristy took the blanket from Per May, who, it seemed, would stand there until world’s end. He said, “No point pouring good beer in one hole for it to run out another!”
Sweet Milk gave Cristy a long, straight look. He let go of Changeling Per’s hands and rose to his full height, never taking his eyes off Cristy, who tried to disappear behind the other men.
Sweet Milk looked down at Changeling Per again, who gasped for breath and said, “I be glad, Little Daddy.” He shivered and braced himself against the wall behind him.
A Sterkarm Tryst Page 36