Daric returned to the camp to find all awake and busy: a pot was on the boil, Gialyn was busy repacking his now dry clothes, and Olam was feeding the fire.
“What of it, my friends? Are we in for a good day?” Olam asked.
“It will be a hard day, no mistake in that,” Daric said. “Maybe we’ll just make it to Am’cherc. I doubt we’ll see an end to the Ambieth before nightfall.”
“We can go south, along the Ulsgaed Ridge; leave the marsh on the Southern Road,” Olam said tentatively.
“That’s wolf country, Olam. We should avoid that if at all possible.”
Daric dismissed the idea, but Grady seemed to have other thoughts. “I say we try. We have no idea if the northern pass is open. We may struggle days just to turn back at the last hurdle. You know well and good the north pass is often flooded. And after that storm…” Grady scratched his chin and looked towards the southeast. “I have no wish to stay in this marsh an hour longer than necessary.”
“It’s too dangerous. The wolves are fiercely territorial,” Daric said.
Olam opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I–I know the wolves. We will be safe enough, I’m sure of it.”
“What do you mean, ‘safe’?” Daric asked. “I know you’re good with animals, Olam, but no man travels the Illeas road, least not that I am aware of.” Daric stood, hands on hips. Olam had proven himself trustworthy, but was this a step too far?
“I have had dealings with them in the past. Indeed, they are territorial, but they have their customs. I could arrange safe passage. If the proper respect is given.”
Daric wondered what the man had meant by “customs.” But given their options, did they have any choice but follow his lead, again. “As you say, Olam. Once more, we go your way.”
Daric stepped closer and whispered in Olam’s ear. “Are you sure about this?”
Olam took Daric by the shoulder. “It has been a long time, but… yes, I’m sure.”
“Very well, we’ll be off as soon we’ve eaten.”
The travellers left the safety and comfort of the woods via a southern passage and once again turned out into the damp, unwelcoming mud of the Ambieth. The hearts that were so lightened only a few short hours earlier suddenly grew heavy, as memories of yesterday’s ordeal came flooding back to haunt them. Again, they travelled in pairs. Thankfully, enough of the path had been exposed to the night air; the going was far better than the previous evening. It was slow and tiresome, but by noon, they had passed beyond the halfway point – so Olam said.
Nobody bothered to speak much during their lunch of leftover fish and the last of the flatbread Grady had brought with him. Eating the last of their supply did nothing to brighten their dark mood. After lunch, they set off again in the manner to which they were accustomed, paying attention only to the few feet of damp earth in front of them, with little time spent taking in the view. Not that there was much to see. The marsh was still dank and grey following the onslaught of yesterday’s storm. No flower bloomed; no grass stood proudly waving in the wind – nothing but mist and endless repetition. If he did not know better, Daric would swear they were going in circles.
By early evening, they had reached its end. An ever-increasing covering of short grass and a sense of firmness underfoot heralded the end of the Ambieth and the beginning of Illeas’cu – the home of the wolves.
CHAPTER 16
For a Horse
Cal followed Mateaf along the harbour road and into the town of Whitecliff. They were eighty leagues southeast of Bailryn, Cal thought – he was not sure, the Surabhan roadways were still a mystery to him. From here, they would ride back to Crenach’coi, he hoped. He was glad of that, another day on the Swallow and he might have jumped ship and swam to Whitecliff.
Captain Mella’s desire to leave had left them at the wrong end of the harbour. Instead of a short walk, Cal and Mateaf would have to go through the town before they reached the road to Ironbridge. But as annoying as that was, Cal thought the crew of the Swallow would give the man a harder time. Mella had ordered them back to sea before any had had a chance to spend some of the money Cal had paid them – and it had been a lot of money: thirty Ren each, which was six months’ wages for most fisherfolk. No, Mella was in for a rough voyage back to Bailryn… if he got there at all; if the crew did not just throw him overboard at the Halem Straights.
Still, that was the captain’s problem; Cal had to find a couple of horses. And not just any horses – two that were big enough for Cren Woodsmen to ride. He did not much like his chances; Tall Horses were a rarity in Aleras.
A group of armed men – Seaguards, Cal thought, soldiers loyal to the king – were standing, hands on sword hilts, in two tight groups at each end of the bridge into Whitecliff. All around, merchants and fisherfolk busied themselves with their duties. None gave a second look at the Seaguards, but Cal thought the soldiers seemed nervous.
He pushed through the crowd until he caught up with Mateaf. The two were largely ignored by the townsfolk. Which in itself seemed odd; Cal had been abroad before and had never failed to solicit enquiring looks from the locals – but then he was nearly eight feet tall.
Mateaf stopped suddenly, and Cal walked into his back.
“Were did that lot come from?” Mateaf asked.
Cal followed Mateaf’s nod and saw around thirty young men standing in a half-circle at the end of the east pier. They were watching a fat man on a stepladder, who was busy whitewashing a sign. The men – they might have been soldiers if they had uniforms… mercenaries, maybe? – were egging the fat man on, bullying him.
“And there, too,” Mateaf said, nodding to the other side of the square harbour.
Cal looked and saw an even larger group of men congregated along the edge of the west pier. Most were sitting. But one man – maybe the group’s leader – was standing on a bench waving his arms around. The waving-arm man was giving a speech – that much was clear – but a speech about what, exactly?
Likely as not, some Republican mischief, Cal thought and decided he did not care enough to investigate.
“Come,” Cal said. “We must find our horses. I’d rather not spend the night here.”
Mateaf nodded his agreement. “Indeed. We should go. I do not like the look of that; there’s a riot coming, I’d bet good money on it.”
Again, Cal looked at the two groups of men. His friend was likely right, but it was none of their business.
“Leave them to it; we have our own duty.” He nodded at the path. It ran north in front of a row of warehouses, then turned west. “This way, I think. Mella said the stables are west of the bridge, across the river.”
Cal let Mateaf lead the way – side by side, they would have taken up most of the path – but still nobody looked twice at them. Yes, very strange.
To Cal, Whitecliff was a typical Surabhan town, dirty, noisy and too crowded. He let his eyes take in the scene. The stone-based houses, the tiled roofs, the hitching post for the many horses – small horses – and the cobbled road: all appeared quite ordinary. It was then he noticed that many of the townsfolk had their heads down; and while it was noisy, most of the sound came from the clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of wagon axels. Hardly anyone was talking. The balconies, those on the second floor above the inns and shops, were all empty, too. Cal glanced through one of the shop windows and was not surprised to see the store empty of people. Yes, folk would use the shop, but they’d do their business and go; none of the usual chitchat one might expect of such a place. What was happening in Whitecliff? If he did not know better, Cal would say the townsfolk already knew about the witch’s return; they seemed nervous, like the Seaguards.
“No, they can’t know about her, not this soon,” he whispered.
“What was that?” Mateaf asked.
“Nothing, I was just… I’ll tell you later.”
Mateaf shot him a puzzled look but asked no more questions.
With the crowd, it took them a
lmost an hour to reach the western edge of town, and another half an hour to find a stable. And when they did, they found seven, all in a row.
“Stable Row…” Cal looked up at the sign and laughed. “I suppose there’s an Inn Avenue, and a Blacksmith Street, too.”
Mateaf chuckled. “Well… if we can’t find a Kalidhain Tall Horse here…” he said, waving his arm to take in the long row of stables.
As it was, they tried four stables before finding one that had any Tall Horses. They were Eurmacian Tall Horses, not quite the size of a Kalidhain, but good enough.
“See if you can find the stable master,” Cal told Mateaf as he patted one of the horses on the neck.
There were two horses, both in the same stall – which seemed a bit cruel; there was not much room for them to stand comfortably, never mind lay down. But other than the accommodation, the horses appeared healthy and happy with their lot. Cal opened the stall and squeezed between the two animals. They backed away and whinnied nervously. Cal calmed them with a few soothing words and, once they had settled, he took a closer look.
Both horses were what the Cren called “Northern Browns.” They would be from the Eurmac border, not that far from the Crenach forest. They seemed a little underfed, but their coats were shiny. More importantly, their hooves had been well looked after. With horses of this size, proper shoeing was a must, Cal knew. He was about to check their teeth when he heard a man’s voice.
“They’re not for sale.”
Cal looked up and saw a tall man – tall for a Surabhan, at any rate – walking towards the stall. Cal squeezed his way back into the courtyard and pulled the latch, locking the stall behind him. The horses resumed their position, heads together, peering over the half-door.
“They’re not for sale,” the man repeated.
“But I have not made an offer,” Cal said, looking down at the stable master – if he was the stable master.
“Doesn’t matter,” the man said, stretching his neck so as to appear taller – it did not help. “Took me three months to nurse them back to health. I’ll not sell them ‘till I know they’re right.”
Cal could not stop a grin creasing his lips. So that’s why their coats are shiny. Rude or not, he felt an instant liking for this man.
“Why have you got them cooped up in the same stall?” Cal asked.
The stable master huffed. “You try separating them and see what you get.”
Cal had heard that of Eurmac horses. If not separated as foals, they would stay together their whole lives. If you tried taking one away, likely as not, you’d end up with a useless animal.
“I would take them both,” Cal said, and Mateaf nodded.
“We know horses, sir,” Mateaf added. “They would be well cared for; I can assure you of that.”
The stable master seemed to consider the idea. He looked over his shoulder, back at the house where Cal assumed the man lived, and then over the other shoulder, back towards town. “And where would you take them,” he asked.
“Brae’vis is our destination, sir,” Mateaf said. “Once there, they would join the rest of our herd. Most are Tall Horses.”
Again, the man seemed on the verge of giving in. He scratched his head and stared down at the straw-covered courtyard. Cal thought he was mumbling something, but could not hear what it was.
“If it’s money,” Cal said, “I’ll give you ten Ren!”
That was easily twice what the horses were worth, but the stable master made no response to his offer. Instead, he looked back over his shoulder at his house.
Finally, the stable master said, “I take it you came through town—” Cal nodded. Where’s this going? “—and that you have noticed the… uh… mercenaries?”
“Yes,” Cal said. “Who are they?”
The stable master shrugged. “Listen, I’ll let you take the horses for free, if you’ll agree to do me a favour in return.”
He wants to give me two horses? It must be a big favour.
“And what is this favour, Mr…”
“My name is Roddig Fayo. This is my place.”
Cal extended his hand. “I am Cahldien Linar, and this is Mateaf Shea. But please, call me Cal.”
Roddig reached up and shook Cal’s hand. The stable master’s hand was wet, Cal noticed; Roddick was sweating.
“So what’s this favour?” Mateaf asked.
Roddig cleared his throat. He seemed embarrassed. Finally he said, “You can have the horses… for free… if you will agree to take my wife and daughters to their grandmother’s in Ironbridge.”
Cal felt his eyes widen, and it was his turn to scratch his head. “Why did you not send them with one of the merchants? They still run merchant trains, do they not?”
Roddig was shaking his head. “Can’t trust them, not anymore. Gods, I don’t know who to trust these days. Please, take them away from here. I’d take them myself, but the horses…” he waved his hand, taking in the fifteen stalls, all with at least one horse inside.
Cal looked down at Roddig. The man was scared, that much was plain enough. And for good reason: if those gangs at the harbour were anything to go by, Whitecliff was on the cusp of riots, or worse. But why?
If I had daughters, Cal thought, I’d probably want them out of the way, too.
He nodded at Roddig. “Very well, we will deliver your wife and children to Ironbridge, and we will pay for the horses, at least the going rate. But we leave today. We have urgent business of our own; business that can’t wait. Gods know we’ve wasted enough time already.” He whispered the last while looking at Mateaf.
Roddig’s face split into a wide grin. For a moment, Cal thought the man was going to jump up and down with glee. “They’ve been packed this past fortnight; we’ve just been waiting for the right opportunity. I can have them ready within the hour.”
Cal nodded. “No need for that. Have your dinner, say your goodbyes; we’ll leave two hours before sunset. That should give us plenty of time to ride clear of town and make camp.”
“Thank you, thank you! I’ll go tell the wife. Thank you.”
Before Cal could say more, the stable master about faced and started to run – yes, run – back to his house.
Mateaf nudged Cal’s elbow. “You did not ask how old the children are.”
Cal started. A vision of two awkward, Surabhan teenagers flashed through his mind. “How old are the children?” he shouted after Roddig.
The stable master stopped at his door and turned. “Seven and four, but they’re good girls… honest.” He said the last as he disappeared inside the house.
“Seven and four…” Cal whispered. “Oh no.”
* * *
As it happened, the children were no trouble at all, at least not for Cal or Mateaf. Mrs. Fayo – or Meela, as she insisted they call her – on the other hand, had her hands full keeping the two girls quiet. Ethyl and Moll were excited to see their grandmother, and apparently they wanted the rest of Aleras to know. Meela managed to calm them down eventually, and the children sat quietly in the back of their cart for the two hours it took them to reach a good enough campsite.
Cal built a fire far enough from a stream to avoid the bitemes, and close enough to a small stand of trees so they might seek cover if it rained. The sky was clear, but after the storm they had had a few days earlier, Cal was not taking any chances. Roddig had said the horses would not need hobbling, so Mateaf put them on a long guideline and left them to graze. They did not go far; even the two carthorses stayed by the trees.
Meela started a stew while the children played a game with sticks and ten small stones. Cal had no idea what the Surabhan called the game, but in Crenach they called it Criol. The player with the stick had to hit a stone into a circle drawn on the ground. If you got three in a row, out of your ten tries, you won. Simple, but fun; Cal could remember playing it when he was a child.
“How far are you going?” Meela asked. She was stirring the stew in a large pot. It smelled good, but Cal wondered
if there would be enough.
“We’re going home, to Brae’vis, twenty leagues west of Ironbridge, if you take the Witham Road,” Cal said. “It’s just over the border, in the Crenach’coi.”
“That’s where the monsters live,” Ethyl, the older of the two girls, said. She was waiting for her little sister to finish her turn.
Cal laughed. “I suppose some of our creatures might look like monsters to a little girl, Ethyl, but most are harmless.”
Ethyl did not look convinced. “I heard there were big dogs there, as big as horses.”
“You mean the Darkin,” Cal said. “Yes, they are very big. But they’re not dangerous, not if you leave them alone. Although they might get angry if you call them ‘dogs.’ The Darkin are wolves.”
“Wolves,” Ethyl said. Her eyes widened. She looked at her mother. “We’re not going there, are we?”
“No, Rosebud, we’re not going to the woods; we’re going to Grandma’s, remember? No wolves, I promise.”
Meela gave Cal an I-wish-you-would-not-say-things-like-that look, and changed the subject. “You and Moll go wash your hands. Supper will be ready soon.”
Ethyl ran off to fetch her sister.
“My pardon,” Cal said. “I did not think.”
“No harm done,” Meela said. “It’s Moll who has the nightmares. Ethyl says she’s scared, but given half a chance, she’d love to see a wolf the size of a horse.” Meela tapped the side of the pot, then asked, “Are they really that big?”
Cal looked over at the carthorses. He made a seesaw sign with his hand. “Almost; some are likely bigger. But I was telling the truth: they’re not wild. They are good neighbours, for the most part.”
He did not tell her the Cren considered the Darkin as brothers, or that a Darkin Wolf sat on the Elders Council. Nobody outside of Crenach’coi knew that… which was probably for the best; the Darkin did have quite the reputation as fearsome creatures.
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