‘But look at me – I’m all dressed to ride!’
‘Me and Ribs will be waitin’ downstairs, milady.’
* * *
Orfantal crouched in a hollow surrounded by shattered boulders. The sky overhead was black, overcast, and the darkness on all sides had stolen away all the familiar features he had looked upon a short while earlier. In his imagination the world was now transformed, seething with motion. He heard strange sounds, stared helplessly into the blackness where he thought he saw something staring back at him.
He missed his blanket, and the fire of the caravan guards, which was kept alive through each night and which he’d find when awakening with a start, forgetting where he was and frightened – but that smudge of coals and the occasional flicker of flame seen through the tent’s thin fabric always righted him again. But now there was nothing, no tent, no Gripp snoring and muttering under his breath. He was alone and he felt nothing like a hero.
Shivers raced through him. He remembered his daydreams of a bandit attack, and just as in that story he had fled into the night, into the hills. But the truth of it, here in this hollow, was nothing like that epic adventure. His feet were numb; his hands hung heavy and insensate at the ends of his wrists, and he felt the beckoning of sleep, as if the cold were drifting away.
He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him – the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.
He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.
A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.
From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’
With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.
‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’
The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’
Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.
‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move – no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’
Orfantal found that his eyes were adjusting and he could now make out the looming shapes of rocks and sheer cliffsides as Gripp worked up along a narrow trail. He then angled left, off the path, wending slowly between boulders, his breaths growing harsh.
There was an odd echo to those gasps and Gripp settled down to one knee. ‘We’re here.’
They were in a rock shelter, a shallow cave. Beneath Orfantal, as he was set down, was dry, powdery sand, and he settled into it. Gripp moved away and came back with a rough woollen blanket. It was not the one Orfantal’s grandmother had given him and it wasn’t Gripp’s own, which he remembered for its smell of the sage leaves which Gripp kept in a long cloth bag and folded into the bedroll when rolling it up every morning. This blanket stank of sweat and something else, pungent and musty. Once Gripp had wrapped Orfantal in its rough weave he began rubbing hard at the boy’s limbs, beginning with his feet and working his way up to his thighs; and then repeating the same rapid motions along Orfantal’s arms.
The effort brought warmth along with prickling irritation, and after a moment Orfantal pushed the hands away and curled up in the blanket.
‘Shivering again. That’s good, Orfantal. I was damned lucky to find you in time. I know you want to sleep but sleep’s not good right now. Wait a bit, wait till you feel good and warm.’
‘Where are the others? Did you fight them off?’
‘No, we didn’t fight them off. Though Haral gave a good account of himself. Migil and Thennis tried running off but got cut down from behind – fools. When you see it’s hopeless that’s when you stand. Breaking just sees you dead quicker and there’s nothing more shameful than a death-wound to the back.’ He paused and then grunted. ‘Unless you’re surrounded, of course. Then getting stabbed in the back is usually the way and there’s no shame in that.’
‘Heroes always get stabbed in the back,’ said Orfantal.
‘Not just heroes, Orfantal.’ Gripp had eased himself down into a sitting position, tenderly settling against the stone wall. ‘You know how to sew?’
The question confused him. After a moment he said, ‘I have seen the maids doing it.’
‘Good. Come light you’ve got some sewing to do.’
‘Are we going to make me some more clothes?’
‘No. Now listen, this is important. I need to sleep, too, and it might be that I don’t wake up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I don’t know how bad off I am. I think the flow’s eased but there’s no telling what that means. We’ll see. But if I don’t wake up, you’ve got to follow the road, east – the way we were going – but listen, stay off it, stay under cover. Just move alongside of the road, you understand? And if you hear riders, hide. Keep going until you’re out of the hills and then go to the nearest farm you see. Don’t try to explain anything or even tell them your bloodline – they won’t believe you. Just see if you can get a way into Kharkanas, even if it takes a week before a wagon of produce heads in. Once there, head straight for the Citadel.’
‘I understand. I will.’ And he felt for and found the tiny tin tube containing the missive Sukul had written for Hish Tulla, tucked into his belt pouch.
‘They made a mistake,’ Gripp continued, but now it seemed he was mostly talking to himself. ‘More than one, in fact. Me. You. I saw Silann, Esthala’s worthless husband. The fool never could command a unit in battle. But if he’s there then Esthala’s not far away, and she’s sharp enough. They’ll go back to the kill site, intent on tracking you from there and finishing things. But first they’ll look for my body and not find it and that will bother them more than you getting away.’ His head lifted and Orfantal sensed Gripp was looking at him once more. ‘We’re going to be quarry, you and me, as long as we’re in these hills.’
‘Hunted,’ said Orfantal.
‘Take your story to Lord Anomander, boy, no matter what.’
‘I will. Mother told me all about him.’
‘If they find our trail, I may have to lead them away from you. On my own, I mean.’
‘All right.’
He grunted. ‘You’re figuring it out. That’s fast, Orfantal. Good.’
‘Gripp, did you kill any of them?’
‘Two for sure and that pained me.’
‘Why?’
‘Wounded is better. I wounded two more and that was good. Haral tried for the same. Remember him, Orfantal. He saw you riding away. He knew he had to buy you time, and the more wounded the enemy had to deal with the better your chances. He took cuts to deliver cuts. Haral was a good man.’
Orfantal nodded. A good man. A hero. ‘Did you see him die, Gripp?’
‘No. I lost consciousness for a time – the crack I rolled into was deeper than I’d thought it would be. By the time I made my way back out the killers were gone.’
‘They set fire to the skins.’
‘Idiots, like I said. But I found Haral. They took it out on his body, if you catch my meaning.’
‘That’s a cowardly thing to do!’
‘No, just undisciplined. But I got their faces burned into my brain. I got them in here, Orfantal, and if I live, they’ll all regret what they did. Now, it’s time to sleep.’
Orfantal settled down, warm inside the blanket. But notions of sleep seemed far away now. Gripp’s story rocked and bounced through his thoughts. Warriors battling to the death, the air filled with desperation. And in the midst of it all, he saw this old man now sleeping beside him, and it seemed impossible to think of him as a warrior. He closed his eyes, and sudden as a flash, sleep took him.
* * *
Ribs was an old herding dog, at least twelve years old, with a grey muzzle, oversized ears that flicked and cocked with every quick turn of the narrow, fox-like head. The long fur was a dishevelled blend of grey and black, snarled with burrs and filthy. The beast’s eyes were vaguely crossed.
Sukul stared down at it while Castellan Rancept checked the muting straps of his weapons one more time. Torchlight flickered across the courtyard. The gate guards stood waiting at a small postern door to the left of the gate tower. The air was cold and sharp.
Rancept lumbered up to her and nodded. ‘Ready?’
‘This thing’s all bones.’
‘Tapeworm, milady.’
‘Aren’t there treatments for that?’
‘A few. But skinny dogs live longer.’ With that he turned and made his way towards the gate, Ribs trotting along happily at his side.
Rancept had confiscated the sword she’d selected, along with the spear, leaving her a dagger. None of this was going as planned. The castellan was stubborn and too quick to take charge of things, when she’d wanted to be the one in command. Of course, it was something of a victory that they were going at all. He could have forbidden her outright. She followed him to the postern door and watched as the heavy bars were pulled. As soon as the door was drawn open, Ribs slipped out.
‘Where’s he going?’ Sukul demanded.
‘Scouting the trail ahead, milady.’
She grunted. ‘He’ll probably take us to the nearest squirrel hole.’
‘Ribs knows what we’re about.’
‘How?’
They were outside now and the door was pushed shut behind them. She heard the thump of the bars falling back into place.
At her question, Rancept shrugged. ‘I wander on occasion.’
‘The hills?’
‘If we need to talk to the Deniers. It’s important to Lady Hish that there’s no misunderstandings.’
‘Deniers? Bandits, you mean.’
‘It’s a hard scrape living in these hills, milady. There’s road taxes, if you like.’
‘Extortion.’
‘And Lady Hish’s tithe on travellers? Extortion’s a big word. It’s only extortion when someone else is doing it.’
They were making their way down the rough-hewn steps. The heavy clouds that had come in with dusk were now breaking up, stars showing through here and there. The temperature was fast dropping.
‘Tulla Hold was granted this land by royal charter,’ said Sukul. ‘A tithe is legal and necessary. Robbing people at the roadside isn’t. But now you’re hinting that Lady Hish had an arrangement with those thieves.’
Ribs was waiting at the middle landing, another half-dozen steps down. When Rancept and Sukul reached the dog, the animal suddenly left the descent, instead cutting across the boulders of the scree to the left of the stairs.
‘As I said,’ Sukul noted. ‘Some rock rat’s got Ribs hungry for more worms.’
But Rancept had halted. ‘We’re not taking the road, milady. There’s a track running above it on this side. It’s well hidden and don’t start up for a ways. Follow me.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’ Sukul asked as they clambered over the boulders.
‘Before they started working the mines,’ Rancept said, once more wheezing, ‘they made cheese from the goats they kept. And fine, soft leather, too. But more important, they kept an eye on the traffic. There’s a track some travellers take that avoids Tulla Hold.’
‘Cheating the tithe? That’s pathetic.’
‘Sometimes it’s that. Sometimes it’s just people who don’t want to be seen.’
‘What kind of people?’
Beyond the boulders, Ribs vanished between two sheer outcrops.
‘We’re at the trail now,’ Rancept said. ‘Time for the talking to end. Night carries voices, and the hills can channel sounds a long way. If you need my attention, just tap my shoulder. Otherwise, we move quietly now.’
‘This is ridiculous – I can still see the keep’s light from here.’
‘If we’re going to argue, milady, we can turn round right now. But I’ll tell you this. Look at Ribs.’
The animal had reappeared and was seated just ahead. ‘What about him?’ Sukul asked.
‘Strangers in the hills, milady. That’s what Ribs is telling us.’
To her eyes the animal looked no different from any other time she’d seen it. There was no way to tell where it was looking with those crossed eyes. But as Rancept moved forward, the dog wheeled and raced up the trail again. Tugging tight her slightly oversized gloves, she followed.
For all his size, the castellan moved quietly, not once glancing back to see if she kept pace. This latter detail irritated her and she wanted to hiss at him, since she was getting tired and the trail seemed to go on for ever. Her boots pinched her feet; her nose was running and she’d begun using the back of one hand to wipe at it, and that was staining the fine leather of the glove. Even more annoying, there was nothing bold in this venture. She’d wanted a dozen well-armoured and grim-faced riders at her back, each one ready to give up his or her life at her word. She’d wanted the thunder of horse hoofs and the clatter of iron and wooden scabbards.
Beneath all of this was the conviction that an innocent little boy was lying dead somewhere ahead of them, killed for no good reason but the silence his death would ensure. She’d taken enough hints from Hish Tulla that there was trouble in the realm. The whole thing seemed ridiculous. Peace had been won, but she knew that the hunger for fighting was not yet done with. It was never done with, and there were people in the world who wanted nothing else, since lawlessness was their nature.
Sukul did not have to look far to see such people; she counted her sisters among them. They delighted in all manner of lusts, and the wilder their environs the more base their desires. If she was honest with herself, there was something of that in her as well. But the reality – including this cold, night-shrouded ordeal – was proving more crass than what the imagination offered in all those idle moments when boredom was a shout inside the skull.
She’d made promises to that boy, to that lost bastard of the Korlas line. They seemed both empty and wasted, and the rush of secrecy she’d felt, looking upon his wide, innocent eyes, was now a source of guilt. She’d played at being grown-up, but it had been a childish game none the less. What if they’d tortured Orfantal? Was Hish Tulla now in danger?
Half the night was gone, and still they padded along. All Sukul wanted to do now was stop, rest, even sleep.
The swirl of stars had spun half round when she collided with Rancept’s back – she’d not been looking ahead, eyes instead on those now-dusty boots that were torturing her feet. Grunting at the collision, she stumbled back, but a hand snapped out to right her, and then that hand drew her close.
She smelled the lanolin of the thick sheepskin jacket he was wearing, and somehow the familiarity of it steadied her.
He leaned down. ‘Riders ahead,’ he said in a whisper.
Sukul looked past him, but Ribs
was nowhere in sight.
‘No questions,’ he continued as she started to speak, and his other hand pressed against her mouth, but just briefly – before panic could take her. ‘We wait for Ribs.’
* * *
Bandits had carved out numerous hidden trails through these hills, and Risp led her dozen soldiers along one of them that would bring them out on to the road close to where they’d seen the smoke. The old Denier camps they’d come across were abandoned, at least a season old, but she knew the cause of that: the Hust Forge’s demand for ore had grown prodigious of late, for reasons not one of Hunn Raal’s spies could glean. In any case, banditry had been given up and now those miners were growing wealthy with Hust coin.
Thoughts of the Hust Legion – perhaps soon to be bolstered by new recruits – left her disquieted. Every cry for peace was echoed by the beating of iron into blades. No one was fooled unless they willed it upon themselves. Civil war was coming. Hunn Raal meant it to be short; necessarily bloody, true enough, but short.
Urusander escorted to Kharkanas by his triumphant Legion, every enemy of the realm dispensed with and feeding the weeds; an end to the divisiveness and all these private armies; a grand marriage to bind the military and the faith: this was the proper path awaiting them. The Hust Forge would fall under the command of Urusander’s Legion, and that cursed Hust Legion would be gone, disbanded, their dreadful weapons melted down into slag. Houseblades would be reduced to a modest family and estate guard, with prohibitions against re-arming. The Borderswords and the Wardens of the Outer Reach would be folded into the Legion, under Osserc’s command. In this way, peace would be won.
The best solutions were the simple ones. Besides, she had liked the look of the Wardens of the Outer Reach, and had thoughts of commanding them at some point. Her first order would be the burning down of Glimmer Fate, followed by the killing of the naked wolves and whatever other terrible beasts dwelt in those black grasses. They could then face the Vitr directly, and meet its challenge from a position of strength. If an invasion from that sea was forthcoming, she would stand ready for it upon its very shore.
Urusander placed much value in merit; he cared not if the blood was low or highborn among his officers. That was why the nobles hated him so. Calat Hustain was highborn and this alone granted him the privilege and power of command – and Risp had well seen the result of that: the Wardens were little more than a rabble, devoid of discipline and far too respectful of eccentricity among the ranks. She would change all of that.
Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) Page 40