“…him?”
He met Hesslebeck with a glare, for that one. “It will open her eyes. That’s all it has to do.” Show her what she should have seen a long time ago.
“Roit. Well, um, as well as you’re happy, I’m happy. I can’t guarantee she’ll be happy, though. Don’t fiddle wit the memory none. No returns of course. And…I don’t usually make a habit of this, but be careful with that. That’s quite a lot you’ve got there. Don’t put it all in at once, or, well, surprise! Eheh…yeah. Well, alright.”
Everyone from pauper to prince knew the dangers of arasyl. A pinch for your fancy, a cup for your soul; a drip-drop more to put you in your hole. There were reasons one only bought it in the dead of night.
As he turned to go, he felt the hesitation creeping up his spine. A drop was all the difference between…No. No I mustn’t. He had come too far to change his mind now, and he knew how to go about the deed, as well as any man. Rapists killed with it. Besotted lords with no concept of time or thought killed with it. He had read. He had studied. Most importantly, he would wait until there was nothing else.
Moments were as nothing before a lifetime. Others took the drug and destroyed life with it. He would use it to create.
* *
A new day brought new troubles.
It was exactly what Alviss had feared from the beginning, though Rurik had no intention of recognizing that, lest it be lorded over him until the end of time. Perhaps he had never been wary enough himself, but that was the whole purpose of having a guardian. One spent his life making sure the other could live his. He did not like to put it that way, though. Alviss was more than a guardian, it was just…
He probably should have listened.
Some time after dinner the night before, a small host of new arrivals peppered the inn, as loudly as children let wild. Rurik had been somewhat deep into his cups at the time, but he had still had the good sense to crawl back to his room like the good little drunk he was.
One man did not concern him. Seven did. Worse, he could name all but one of those that came: Ser Haldred Corsely, Ser Ald Witten, and Ser Durrick of Parem, accompanying two merchants that were long-time friends of his father’s, as well as a bard—Betten Bluebeard—who had called on the manor every winter since he was a boy. It was Bluebeard that had caught his attention. True to his name, the man was known for his beard, which he constantly colored with some Zuti dye or another. He kept it bushy, he kept it blue—and he could sing, too, when the mood struck him, though his expertise lay mostly in the drink.
Fortunately, most his musical talent lay in marching tunes, so it was not as if he needed all that much to sing. The problem with him, however, was the same as with all bards: he was an incorrigible gossip.
By the time Rurik stumbled into his room, Essa and Rowan had already returned, fortunately enough. Neither was awake, but he woke them with the details, before taking Essa in arm and kissing her full on the mouth. He could not particularly remember why, per se—not that he needed a reason. After that, however, the rest of the night was a touch hazy, and he woke up passed out on the floor, with a terrible kink in his neck he was still struggling to part with.
Come morning’s light, though, Alviss was fully aware of the situation as well. The Kuric was nigh furious. Or, rather, a slightly darker shade of emotionless. Alviss pulled him aside and told him he was to remain in his room unless the hall was clear—and to guarantee that, Alviss would be staying with him, night and day.
That was not particularly what Rurik had hoped for, but there was little he could do about it. Alviss stood a full two heads higher than him, with a body chiseled by years of blood, snow and steel. He could have made a run for it, but Alviss was also surprisingly quick for a man his size—and he did not take kindly to being made to run.
Either way, Alviss took the decision from his hands when he set himself before the door and did not move until one of the others needed to get in.
Rurik was fine enough with the arrangement when the others were about to keep him company, but the tight confines of their meager quarters quickly lost their appeal—and not only to him.
Rowan was the first to go, though not far. “I have an ear for song,” he said, as he headed out to see their newly arrived bard. You’ll be sadly disappointed, Rurik thought, though he kept it to himself. Then Essa left, with nary more than a quick kiss and a wave goodbye. She got the wanderlust, same as he. The only difference was that she was not bound by six and a half feet of glowering, bearded Kuric. Lucky girl. He would guilt her for it later when he had the chance, especially for the company she would be keeping.
She was off to see Voren, no doubt. That was about as irritating as anything else. For Rurik, the grand and glorious return home was three days spent imprisoned in a cell of his own choosing, while his love was free to roam and to see and to hear all the things he had spent so long dreaming of, any time she wanted. And in the company of any man but me.
He did not like to be sullen, so he tried to make up for it with alcohol—frequently, and in large doses. Unfortunately, part of his imprisonment was a lack of even that basic human right. Alviss would have none of it. According to him, they needed to conserve their coin. It might well have been true, but the very concept was appalling to Rurik.
One could always get more coin, but one could not put a price on inebriation.
Down the hall, he could hear the cheers as the bard began to sing. He was accompanied by drum, his every syllable drawn out by a raucous procession of hands-on-cloth. To Rurik’s dismay, it was a tune he knew all too well. It was another marcher’s tune, but one set to the exploits of his own dear father. It was called “The Ballad of the River Knights.”
Ride on, ride on, you noble sons
those spears are near at hand
and all the river’s howling
for the cruelest feast of all.
Ride on, ride on, you gallant knights
tip your lance and strike the bank—
they will not take another step
upon our Father’s land.
Other voices took up the words as the song played on, and he was thankful for that. The fingers knew the beats on the drum, but the words were grizzled in the bard’s own mouth. There was a reason he never played it until the drinks had long been flowing.
Ride on, ride on, our true defenders
you shall not die this day—
for roses wilt beneath the sun,
but owls ever soar!
Ride on, ride on, our sweetest saviors
Assal is right beside you,
silver sword in hand.
brave sons and daughters of the March
ride on, ride on.
He needed a pint. Desperately. Idle hands were torture enough, but the off-key notes were simply cruel to inflict upon a sober man’s ears. It was not a bad song, in truth, though Bluebeard had been the one to write it. But he could not take the singer’s voice without a spot of ale. The sight of him squirming only seemed to amuse his captor, though.
Just as he began to imagine how he could avenge his eardrums, however, the song abruptly stopped. There was a shout, joined by the ringing clatter of plates and mugs smashing against wood. Other voices soon joined the first, though the chorus sounded more like cheers. The clamor rose, tables creaking and chairs grating.
Alviss stood and peered out into the hall, holding a hand out to stay him. The northman turned to him and pressed him back toward the bed. “Wait here.” Then Alviss hurried out the door, leaving his bardiche behind. Rurik waited a moment to see if he would return, but when he did not, he sprang to his feet and hastened after him.
I’ll be damned if I sit and wait a moment longer. It was not as though the Kuric could do much more to punish him. Gruff as the old man may have been, he did not strike his charges. He could stare them straight to Hell, or he could lock them in their rooms and pin them to their beds, but he would not raise a hand against them. Having already been locked up, there was lit
tle more for Rurik to lose.
The feasting hall was a roar as he arrived. A crack of bone on flesh echoed through his ears, and the nearest table heaved across his path. Hopping back, he peeked in past the door, hoping for a look. What he found made his skin crawl.
Ser Corsely rebounded from the table, swinging a wild haymaker at his assailant. Chigenda slapped it aside and drove his fist into the knight’s gut, staggering him. Corsely wheezed as the innkeeper shrieked, but he followed with a quick right into the Zuti’s side.
Rurik drew up his hood to ward any wandering gazes, though all eyes were on the fight. Both were already bleeding. Neither broke. They traded another few swings before Chigenda lunged, tackling the knight and dragging both bellowing onto the table. Bits of food and drink scattered beneath them as they rolled, grabbing and punching in earnest.
“Teach that bastard a lesson!” one of the merchants screamed. “Beat that black arse raw!” Ser Witten added. Everyone seemed to be cheering for their fellow knight, save Old Jez, who simply screamed at them to stop.
When Jez appeared with broom in hand and began to strike both of them amid her own shrieking wails, the crowd-at-large began to laugh as well as cheer. No one seemed to notice, at first, as Alviss joined her beside the table. He quickly turned their mirth to roars of disappointment, though, as he reached in to tear them apart.
Chigenda managed to end their series of barrel rolls on top. He caught Ser Corsely by the hair and proceeded to slam his head repeatedly into the table, only returning to his fists when the man began to daze. As the blood ran down his battered face and dribbled through his beard, Alviss seized Chigenda by the arm and wrenched him off. The Zuti tumbled to the floor in one of his less graceful displays, and twisted on the Kuric with a snarl.
Alviss stood his ground. He stared his companion down, body braced for an assault that would never come. Chigenda shouted again, more a roar than a word, slapped his hands across the floor, and spun away. Ser Corsely struggled to rise then, but the bloodlust was still on, and he clambered toward the Zuti. Yet as soon as he did, roaring curses on Chigenda’s “bastard dogs,” Alviss laid him flat again with one heavy punch to the back. He did not stir again, save to groan.
“Apologies.”
Rurik’s hand brushed up against his belt as the knight’s friends descended on Alviss.
Chigenda loomed before him, however. “Quite a show,” Rurik murmured. Chigenda slapped him up against the frame of the door so hard it knocked the wind out of him. Rasping from the blow, he went for his pistol, but the Zuti was quicker, taking his wrist and wrenching it behind his back. He tried to wriggle loose, but Chigenda was by far the stronger man, and effortlessly hurled him back down the hallway.
He skidded a short ways on the flat of his back. His shirt ripped along the shoulder and his skin burned from impact with the wood. Reeling from the suddenness of the Zuti’s assault, he was still lying there when the man stepped over him, scowling. Are you so broken? He could see the rage boiling in his eyes, but the Zuti did not so much as throw another punch. Moving down the hall, he went to his room and disappeared inside, slamming the door behind him.
By the time Rurik picked up enough pieces of his pride to crawl back down the hall, the commotion had died. Crunching himself into as small and inconspicuous a shape as he could beside the door, Rurik peered out, watching for any signs of trouble.
Jez was working her way down the site of the brawl, sweeping up the shattered and spilt remnants of the men’s lunches. Beyond her, Alviss was speaking with Ser Witten. Witten wore a glare that could have curdled milk, were it on any face but his. His fierce eyes were contrasted by his blubbery cheeks and a double chin.
The rest of his party had taken their wounded and retreated back to their table. Despite their earlier bluster, however, there seemed little animosity for the beating. One of the merchants was teasing Ser Corsely about it, as a dazed Corsely merely cried out for more ale. Tully hastily set about fulfilling that request, and across the room, Bluebeard began to play again.
Beside the battle scene, Witten grabbed at Alviss’s furs. “If anything happened to him…” he started to say, only to be shrugged off by the Kuric.
“He is fine,” Alviss replied, coolly. “But far from me and far from home.” Then he turned to go and the knight did not try to stay him again.
“Just keep your mud-pie out of here, you hear?” Witten called at his back. Alviss kept walking, away from Witten and his friends, past the table and the muttering innkeeper, to Rurik, still crouched in the doorway.
“Up.” Taking Rurik by the hand, he hefted him up and set him walking. Alviss prodded him back to the room. When they were alone, he rubbed at his eyes and sank against the closed door.
He said nothing, so Rurik ventured, “The Zuti’s always starting…”
Alviss cut him off with a look. “Chigenda ate. Drunk Corsely bated him. Both struck. Both to blame.” Easing off the door, the northman slid over to join Rurik on the bed, sighing as he settled into the straw. “And you,” he added, sadly.
“Me?” The scraped skin on his shoulder began to itch. What have I done? “I’m not the Zuti’s wrangler.”
“This is why no inn. I warned you and you knew.” Alviss shook his head and said no more for a long moment, leaving them in awkward silence. Then he turned on him. “They knew me. Witten did. He did not forget.”
Rurik felt his stomach churn all the way up into his throat. Just like that. He squirmed in his seat, trying to think of a way out, but everything came up blank. It could not be. Alviss had to be wrong. They did not see him. They only saw Alviss. They only saw Chigenda. Alviss they might have known, but Chigenda they would not. Along the border, he might have feared it, but not here. Here they were far from idiotic tales of black men scouring the night with spears in hand, raping and killing and burning indiscriminately. No. If they had truly known Chigenda, they would have brought more than fists to bear.
Alviss meant something, though. If not to them, than to his father. For whatever the reason, when Rurik’s father had released him from the cells beneath his own manor, he had sent Alviss to be with him in his exile, and the act would mean the same to both of them. The Kuric was to be at his side until death, and Alviss would gladly hold to it, as though Assal Himself had bound their souls together. Seeing Alviss would mean seeing him. His father would never believe one would come without the other.
What if they tell? Most lords would balk at trusting the word of a dust knight. They were little better than peasants. Corsely’s a drunkard, but the rest…Dust knights they may have been, but they had long been his father’s men. Witten always ate at his father’s table whenever he came. Kasimir treated his and Parem’s words as he might treat those of his own sworn swords. If they inquired as to Alviss’s return, he would surely send his men to sniff them out.
Then would come the long rope and a short drop.
Alviss patted his leg as the discomfort spread plain across his face. “He will not speak. We are of mind,” Alviss assured him. “Others might. We musts move tonight, or never. We risk too much.”
He had little trouble in imagining who the “others” might be. Bluebeard, I’ll skin you like a pig you ugly little bastard. Rurik rubbed his hands nervously together. They were dry, he noticed. Must have been the wind. It did not help that he was always forgetting his gloves of late. Alviss stared at him. He fidgeted and glanced away. The longer he stretched the silence, though, the heavier the Kuric’s words grew. He was always arguing for swiftness. He had never expected it to come. At that moment, he wondered if he had ever actually wished it, either.
When his lips parted, he could only squeak out a single word. “Tonight?”
“You said you wanted this soon. This is your wish.”
When he glanced up at him, Rurik found the old Kuric’s gaze had softened considerably. He looked almost melancholy, and that made Rurik more uncomfortable than ever. In many ways, Alviss was more a father to him than his ow
n, but often Rurik would look at him and still see the same shadow he had when he was given his first wooden tourney sword and pressed into Alviss’s hall.
More than a man, and less. A myth. A statue. A warrior. Legends did not falter. Statues did not weep. Warriors did not fear. Yet in that moment, he knew that both of them were terrified of what was soon to come.
“I-I suppose…” Be careful what you wish for.
* *
The ranger drew the scarf tighter to her face.
The wind bit through cloth and leather both, chilling her to the bone. Overhead, the clouds were beginning to gather, darker and darker, casting a grey pall over the town. Snow was coming. Roswitte could smell it in the air. The breeze had a dampness to it that clung to everything it touched. It made her shudder, inadvertently.
Winter at last. She found herself staring at the sky, waiting for the storm that would not come. It could be hours yet. The longer off, the better. If they could squeeze in but a few more caravans before the snows hit, Verdan would be in fine shape for the coming season, though she dared not hope for such. She knew the river valley far too well. Winter was already overdo, and when it came it would be brutal.
She rubbed her hands together, hoping to restore some of the feeling to them. It was just her luck. The day the snows were coming was one of the days she pulled patrol. Jennor and Garen and Zeit would be gathered around the fires, keeping their eyes on the new arrivals, but not her, no. She had to make sure the wolves did not get too brazen before the food left them. She had already caught a loner circling Weasel Dane’s sheep pens.
One arrow was all it had taken to drive the animal off. It would be back, though. They always came back. Hunger had a way of making one overly brash.
She began as the sun was rising, she returned as it set. Fallit was already waiting for her near the encampment. He smiled at her as she approached, framed by dozens of tents at his back. Garen and Finn were there as well, waiting to take their places and exchanging ill-humor about some of the new arrivals in the meanwhile. They waved at her, but they did not hush their jokes on her account.
The Hollow March Page 9