The bad news about Quintern seemed unreal, and would take time to sink in.
Gwenderith unrolled the map as they were going along. She found Atherly Berrow.
“We’re going to High Lyden,” said Pom. “Near the mountains.”
Gwenderith studied the map. “Here it is. It’s right by the border. We need to go out by the North Gate, that will set us on the right road.”
Pom nodded. Gwenderith stole a look at him; his face looked pinched as though he was cold, and he was very quiet. The horse trotted steadily through the dusty streets, the noise of its hooves seeming loud.
Before she expected it, they had reached the North Gate, and at the sight of the guards fear took hold of her; what if they were watching for her and Pom, should they have gone through separately? They were more recognizable together. They should have thought about how they would get past the gate, worked out a plan. She had relied as usual on Pom to think for both of them, and at the moment he was not capable of it. She must start thinking for herself. Too late now; Pom had stopped the horse and was sitting there blankly. They were held up by a drover’s small flock of sheep coming the other way. One of the soldiers came up to them. Gwenderith smiled nervously.
“What’ve you got there, darling?”
What had they got? She glanced behind her at the cart. “Wood.”
The soldier looked her up and down appreciatively. “On your way, sweetheart,” he said, waving them through.
They moved off, Pom still staring ahead, apparently oblivious. They drove past farms, then these gave way to open country, wooded here and there. Almost nobody else was on the road.
At length Gwenderith said, “Pom, tell me what happened to the Knight – he was a Knight, the man you met, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. He was called Quintern.” He stopped, then with an effort continued. “Skardroft’s men turned up while I was there, and he made me go while he stayed to fight them.”
“Might he have got away?”
“There were too many of them. He knew he was going to die; he gave me all his money and his other dagger, not his black one. He wanted to fight with his black dagger.” Pom turned to Gwenderith. “I hate Parrelor; it’s all his fault, if he’d got the saddle ready on time, or even earlier on today, Quintern would be alive, he’d be with us now.”
“Oh Pom...”
“Quintern said never trust a craftsman to get a job finished when he says he will. He was hanging around Atherly for three days and that’s why they caught up with him.”
Gwenderith could not think of anything comforting to say, and felt inadequate and out of her depth, as she so often did these days. After a while, she went back to thinking about the man she had hit over the head. It unsettled her, not knowing whether she had killed him, or whether she had just knocked him unconscious and he was now fine again. It was disturbing, not knowing. She kept going over what had happened.
They jogged on without speaking for a while, then she said, “Who was that man, the one who came to our inn?”
“I don’t know. He was the man I saw at the pawnbroker’s.”
“He knew who I was. He called me ‘Princess’. He was horrible.” Gwenderith shuddered. “You were so brave, not saying anything. I’ve never seen anyone be so brave.”
Pom flushed slightly and looked a bit better. He roused himself. “I didn’t thank you, Gwenderith – you were amazing. I thought I was going to be there for hours and he was going to break all my bones.”
Gwenderith doubted this. Thinking about it as they went along, she’d guessed the man had been about to tie Pom up and start on her; to see whether watching her pain, and maybe disfigurement, would make him talk. Pom would have had to choose between her and the Knights, and either way he’d have blamed himself. No need to disclose her suspicions; it might distress Pom further, when he was already upset.
“I’d have been done for without you,” he said.
At this Gwenderith felt better too. They met each other’s eyes and smiled.
“Do you know who will be meeting us?”
Pom shook his head. “Quintern was going to tell me about the Knights and everything on the journey. There wasn’t any time when the soldiers came. He didn’t tell me before in case someone like that man got hold of me, I suppose.”
“I expect it’ll be more Knights. At least you’ve found them, Pom.”
“I’ll have to tell them about Quintern,” said Pom unhappily.
Gwenderith thought of something. “What’s in that package Parrelor gave you?”
Pom gave the reins to her and opened it. It was the little carving of a dragon that he’d admired in the shop, and wanted for Tor.
CHAPTER 26
Journey to the edge of the map
Routh handed Skardroft Quintern’s black dagger, like a good hunting dog who has retrieved something for his master. The cost had been high, but Knights never went quietly, and he knew the King would think the trophy worth it. Skardroft turned it over in his hands, considering it, running his fingers over the coiling snakes and the skull, symbol of man’s mortality. The number on the blade was seventeen, as he knew it would be.
“He was alone?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Did they find out anything about what the Knights are plotting?”
“I’m afraid not, Sire. He had nothing on him.”
Skardroft tested the finely-honed edge with his thumb. So many of them had died as Quintern had, outwitted, trapped and fighting to the end against overwhelming odds. Truth unto death. A Knight’s death. Skardroft had let his training lapse; these days he would not be able to die like a Knight as Quintern had. What of it? He was no longer of the Hundred. He had known Quintern in the old days at Atherly Berrow. They were almost of an age. Girls used to admire Quintern’s long black hair and handsome hawkish face. He remembered one girl in particular; they’d both run after her, but she’d chosen Quintern…he’d heard they’d got married…
However, those days were long gone. Routh was saying something.
“What was that, Routh?”
“Corfe, Sire. He’s been found a few streets away from where Quintern died. In a room at an inn, beaten about the head and left for dead.”
“Has he said anything yet about what happened?”
“He’s still unconscious, Your Majesty. They don’t know if he’ll wake up. He doesn’t look good. It was a girl staying in the room, but her description doesn’t match the one we have for the girl who pawned the dress. She was with a boy. It seems unlikely either of them did it, but of course we’re looking for them.”
Skardroft could not summon up much compassion for Corfe. Oddly, Quintern’s death touched him more in spite of the fact that he had brought it about; he had known and liked the man when they were both young. His attention returned to the dagger. He walked over to the display.
“Not many to go now, Sire.”
“No…”
Twenty-two; no, twenty-one because he would not be taking Torbrek’s dagger. How would he feel when the display was completed, the Knights just a memory, his self-imposed mission accomplished? Would it be enough?
Barlanik read Urquin’s letter for a second time. He was puzzled by it, as well as worried by the information it conveyed. The first part, the bad news about Gwenderith, was clear enough. The next bit said that Edric had done as he wanted, and taken his troops to the border. But Urquin seemed to have somehow misunderstood Barlanik’s letter, and got the idea that he was in favour of it. Surely this was not possible. Perhaps Urquin was slipping into a premature old age and losing his grip. He had seemed older at their last meeting, but although increasingly willing to leave everything to Barlanik, still had all his wits about him. However, that was before his illness. Perhaps too he was so distracted by the abduction of Gwenderith, that in his distress he had not read the letter properly.
One thing was plain; without the promised reinforcements their situation was precarious, and unlikely to improve. His on
ly hope was that Xantilor’s wing would recover before Skardroft attacked the Castle. He went to see Tor. She was sitting on a stool outside the entrance to the Dragon Tower sorting out her arrows. She looked up and saw him, and dropped half of them on the ground.
“Oh, hello,” she said.
He helped her pick them up. “How is Xantilor’s wing?”
Tor glanced inside the Tower. “The doctor’s here now having a look. I’m waiting to see what he says.”
“I’ve just had a letter from Urquin. Edric’s taken his army to the border.”
“Bloody hell.” Tor knew this was very bad news. “Why did he let him?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure Urquin understood my letter, or took it in properly. It’s quite odd.”
The doctor joined them, and Tor asked him how the broken bone was doing.
“It’s nicely aligned; there should be a minimum of callus. No shortening of the bone. You may find the wing droops slightly, but that shouldn’t affect its function.”
“Can he fly now?”
“No, no, it’s not ready for that. Now that I’ve taken the splint off it needs progressive mobilisation, to build up the muscle and complete the restoration of the bone structure. Graduated wing exercises short of actual flying. It’s important not to overdo it until healing is complete if you want a good outcome – that is, if you want him to be able to fly again.”
“How long will that take?” Barlanik asked.
The doctor’s eyebrows lifted. “As I’m always telling Tor, my knowledge about dragons is limited to what I’ve learned from Xantilor. My usual patients aren’t reptiles and don’t as a rule have wings. I did suggest she tried an austringer or a falconer.”
“Your best guess? I won’t hold you to it.”
“Two, three weeks? I don’t really know. A rough guide is the thickness of the bone; a chicken’s leg will heal in a week if rested. Now Xantilor’s bone, though it’s one of his smaller ones, is thicker than a man’s thighbone. And of course, once it’s completely better, it may take a while for him to relearn his flying skills.” The doctor picked up his bag briskly. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m running late and I’ve got some two-legged patients waiting for me.”
Barlanik looked thoughtful and Tor could see why. Without the dragon, their chances of beating off a sustained attack on the Castle were slim. Although she was of course pleased that the wing was mending well, if Xantilor was going to be slaughtered by Skardroft’s troops anyway it became academic. She wished there was some way of getting him out of the Castle to safety. When she had suggested to him that maybe he should go elsewhere to recover, he refused even to discuss it.
To her surprise, Barlanik turned to her and smiled. “Don’t be despondent, Tor. I’ve been a soldier long enough to know that nothing is certain; there’s often a surprise round the corner. Never worry till you have to, and even then, there’s very little point in it. We’ll have to see what we can do on our own without Edric or Xantilor.”
The long journey to High Lyden continued. Pom got the horse to trot as much as he could without tiring him out. After a few hours, the road crossed a river, and they stopped to feed and rest the horse and have something to eat. Parrelor had tipped a mixed selection of what he had to hand into a bag; bread, cheese, plums, carrot cake and almonds. The carrot cake had got over everything else, but they were too hungry to care.
Gwenderith said tentatively, “You know, Pom, Parrelor’s a kind man, thinking of this food and giving you the dragon. Perhaps he couldn’t help the dragon saddle being late; perhaps it was just one of those unlucky things. You said Quintern and he were friends.”
“Yeah, maybe. It’s just, Quintern could be here, and he isn’t. If we’d got out an hour earlier he’d be alive. I feel really bad about it.” Pom went quiet again.
When they had finished their meal he said, as he packed what was left into the bag and licked his fingers, “We’ve got to go on hurrying, just in case they’re after us. We can’t take the cart off the road, and cavalry horses’ll be faster than us. I don’t think we should stop for the night; just keep going. We can take turns to sleep on the cart in the space behind the seat. It’s a straight road, more or less; we shouldn’t get lost.”
“Pom; if the saddle was supposed to be ready three days ago, will they still be waiting for us? What if they’ve gone?”
“Quintern wasn’t worried about that. Maybe they knew it might take longer...we won’t worry about it till we get there.”
The lingering twilight turned to darkness, and Gwenderith tried to get some sleep. The space in the cart was narrow, and a bit too short for her, and very hard even with Pom’s blanket wrapped around her. She dozed uncomfortably now and then, though frequently jolted awake, but was not sorry when it was Pom’s turn. A better size for the space, he fell instantly into a deep sleep.
Gwenderith gazed at the inky sky, marvelling at the millions of stars. The dark countryside passed slowly on either side. Pom began to struggle in his sleep and cry out, and she woke him. Wide-eyed and shaking, he refused to try to go back to sleep. He joined her on the seat, and they put the blanket over their knees. She was not surprised he should have had a nightmare about Corfe.
He did not tell her, because he did not want to talk about it, that he had been dreaming about abandoning Quintern to die alone.
To Gwenderith the night seemed to go on forever. She felt they would still be travelling through the dark and never arriving for eternity. Pom slept again, slumped against her. Awake alone, her exhausted mind began to suggest that the road was going round in a circle, and they were passing landmarks they had passed before.
In the chill grey light before dawn they reached High Lyden, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves disturbed quiet shuttered streets with almost no one stirring. Pom woke up, yawned and stretched. When they had passed through the town, and the road ran between fields again, he stopped the cart.
“We need to think how to get through the border post,” he said. “Quintern said there could be a dozen soldiers manning it.”
“Will it be worse than leaving Atherly Berrow? The soldier there didn’t check our load. He seemed rather friendly.”
Pom thought of the effect Gwenderith always had on the soldiers. It had been annoying, but now it might help. He looked at her critically. “You’ve got a smudge on your cheek. Here.” He rubbed it off. “You’ve got to smile at the border guard, be really friendly, and then maybe they won’t think to look at the cart. Don’t look stuck up, try not to think like a princess.”
The light was brightening as they approached the border post. It was going to be another hot day. At first it appeared deserted, and Pom began to hope they could go past without a check, but there was a barrier across the road and two soldiers came out yawning. Gwenderith took a deep breath and smiled at them.
“Good morning,” she said, with all the charm she could muster.
“Good morning to you,” the older one said, looking much more awake. “And what’s in your cart?”
“Just some wood.”
“Come and show me.”
Gwenderith got down from her seat and stood in front of the soldier. Turning, she led him to the back of the cart. She knew nothing about timber, and they had not worked out a cover story for where they were taking it, or why. “Well, we’ve got big bits of wood and smaller bits. And some bits in between.” She smiled up at him. “Do you want a closer look?”
“Yes, but not at the wood,” said the soldier.
Gwenderith blushed and laughed and carried on walking round to the front of the cart again, the man following her.
“Why don’t you let the lad take it and come and have some breakfast with us?”
“That’s a very tempting offer.” Gwenderith lowered her lashes, wondering if this was flirting, and if so whether she was doing it right. “But how would my little brother manage without me? I’ll have to come back some other time on my own.”
“Any time at
all, gorgeous, we’ll be waiting for you.” The man grinned and raised the barrier. His younger colleague had not stopped staring at her since she arrived. Then they were through, and Gwenderith gave a friendly wave as the cart drew away.
Pom looked at her. “D’you think I’ll be that stupid when I’m a man?”
“Oh, I thought they were rather sweet,” said Gwenderith, pleased with herself.
The horse plodded wearily on, his head down, and with the excitement of the border post over, Pom and Gwenderith got to that light-headed state of tiredness where everything seems strange and unreal. The road stretched out in a straight line ahead of them, and all at once there was a man on his own in the distance striding towards them, illuminated by the dawn’s golden light. He was tall, wearing armour, with pale shoulder-length hair. As he got nearer Pom stared, not daring to believe his eyes. A wild irrational hope rose in his heart, and suddenly he was sure.
“Quintern.”
He dropped the reins, jumped out of the cart and ran towards him. As he got up to him, he saw he was mistaken; this man was half Quintern’s age, his hair was not silver but very fair; he was a stranger. Pom turned and went and sat under a tree a short way off, overcome. The man looked at him, then came up to Gwenderith.
“Are you Quintern?” she asked him doubtfully.
“No, I’m his son, Farren. Is he not with you?”
“No. I’m so very sorry.” Gwenderith did not know how to tell him. This was awful. Her eyes filled with tears. She would have to tell him. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
Farren became still. “How did it happen?”
“The soldiers found him. Pom was with him, he can tell you.”
Farren put a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then walked over to Pom and sat down beside him under the tree. Gwenderith waited, while the horse cropped the roadside grass and Muffin pretended to look for rabbits. The little dog was not using his right back leg, hopping around on the other three, but it did not seem to be bothering him. Pom and Farren talked for half an hour. Towards the end she saw Pom smile once or twice, then they came back to the cart together. She looked anxiously at their faces. To her relief she saw Pom looked much happier, nearly his old self.
Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy) Page 23