Ignoring the girl, the farmhands bundled outside to rescue the burning cart and catch the spooked horses. Garian had been watching them through a hole in the kitchen door, willing the dolts to notice the flames before they got round to raping the girl. As it was, he’d had to watch them give her a beating which had tightened a cold knot of hatred in his gut. When they were all outside, he sneaked in to the bar. Cowering in the corner behind the counter was a man in an apron and a heavily pregnant woman, they were probably the innkeepers. Whoever they were, they looked scared witless. He put his finger to his lips; they nodded and kept quiet.
“Can you sit a horse?” he whispered to the woman. She nodded vigorously.
“Mine’s out back,” said Garian, “take it and ride to the Hadami caravan on the main road, tell them what’s happening. They may have seen the smoke already, so don’t rush and risk your unborn, alright?” Keeping his eye on the door, he steered them out through the kitchen.
When they’d gone, Garian went to help the girl. She’d pulled herself up and was leaning against the bar. Her face was bruised and her clothes torn, but her huge, blue eyes were defiant.
“Quickly, girl, get over here.” Garian beckoned her over.
She eyed him suspiciously and stayed where she was. He could see through the window that the glow was diminishing.
“For fuck’s sake, hurry up!” he hissed. A moment later, the Ox burst into the bar, smoke curling from his charred smock.
He glared murderously at Garian. “You little bastard!” he bellowed and charged.
The Ox was slow and lunged clumsily over the bar. Garian swayed back, easily avoiding the ponderous attack even with an injured leg. Before the Ox had chance to throw another punch, the girl snatched a jug off the bar, and belted him over the head with it. The stout, earthenware vessel bounced off his skull. The Ox swayed, momentarily stunned by the blow, giving Garian time to slip a bolt into the handbow. When he recovered what few wits he possessed, the farmhand lashed out, and viciously backhanded the girl across the face, lifting her off her feet. She landed amid a billow of petticoats and lay still.
Garian rarely wanted to hurt people, even though he did it often enough, but seeing the girl hit like that made him particularly keen to take down the Ox. He rested the bow across his forearm and squeezed the trigger. The bolt struck the Ox in the cheek. Garian cursed—he’d aimed for the bastard’s eye. The Ox bellowed his fury, and ripped the shaft from his face. Meanwhile, the others were stumbling back inside.
There was no point trying to reload. At most, he’d get one more off before they mobbed him. All I wanted was a bed for the night. The door to the kitchen was just behind him. All sense told him to run. He’d done what he could for the girl and had a duty to get his report back to Hyram. It was sheer folly to try and hold them off until help arrived, particularly in his condition. He wasn’t a hero; he was a spy—a killer.
“Why isn’t anything ever fucking easy?” he muttered and drew his knife.
None of the farmhands were keen to be the first to tackle him when he drew the long-bladed hunting knife. They backed off and threw mugs, chairs, and anything else that wasn’t nailed down. Even on one leg, he was far nimbler than his assailants were accurate. He could have kept them at bay all day, but then one of them had the wit to drag the semi-conscious girl to her feet and hold a bailing hook to her throat.
“Drop the knife, you little cunt,” the drunk snarled.
Garian considered his options; it didn’t take long. As soon as he dropped the blade, the cowards were on him. He was dragged over the bar by his hair and beaten to the floor. He could hear the girl cursing and shouting, but all he could see through the web of his laced fingers were feet and fists, raining blows from all directions. He curled into a ball, tried to weather the brutal onslaught like he used to do when he was six, when his father got bored of beating his mother. They kicked him, stamped on him, punched him… After what felt like hours, he was picked up, hoisted above shoulder height, and thrown through the window. He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. When he opened his eyes, he saw glass shards falling all around him. Someone was crying…was it his mother? No, she was already dead. Was he dead…?
“Weems gonna kick ya to death, ya runty little bastard,” one of them sneered.
Ah. Not quite yet then. Unlike their boots, the threat lacked impact, why, dying like this was almost funny. After all the fights he’d survived against iron-hearted warriors and cold-eyed killers, he was going to be kicked to death by a gang of drunken farm hands. At least Jerim wouldn’t get his message. It would probably be used to wipe one of their big, hairy arses the next time nature called. If he’d had the strength he would have laughed.
A kick in the ribs flipped him onto his stomach. As his conscious mind ceased to function, primitive instinct took over and he tried to crawl away from the source of pain, harsh laughter ringing in his ears. Suddenly, the laughter stopped. Something was in his way, stopping him crawling. He looked up. Through the blur, he saw a pair of calfskin boots. The last thing he heard before he passed out was a dog growling.
The smell of bacon crept into Garian’s dreams and dragged him by the nose to hungry wakefulness. He opened his eyes to see a painted wooden ceiling. A thick downy quilt obscured the rest of his surroundings. Warm and sleepy, he wanted nothing more than to burrow into it and sleep for another week or two. Alas, duty wouldn’t allow him to indulge the fantasy. He propped himself up on his elbow and took a look around.
Everything ached and his head was pounding. Considering the beating he’d taken, he felt in remarkably good shape, and very hungry. He was in a wagon; the boxed-in bed was against the wall opposite the split door, the top half of which was ajar. The door creaked gently back and forth, allowing the smell of cooking and a wavering slice of sunlight to slip inside.
He was slightly perturbed to discover that he was naked except for bandages wrapped around his sore ribs and thigh. But there was something else his sleep fuddled mind was struggling to recall. The wallet. Panicked, he was about to leap out of bed when he saw it lying on a chest next to the bed with his other belongings. He grabbed it and checked that the parchment was still inside, which it was. Relieved, he lay back and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t sleep. The mouth-watering smell of food was too good to ignore. He wrapped the quilt around him, and limped to the door.
He opened the door; it was morning, his breath tumbled out in delicate, frosty curls. The sun was climbing over the horizon, but hadn’t yet chased the chill from the air. He wondered how long he’d been out. The Hadami wagons had been moved closer to the inn, the window of which had been boarded up. The burnt cart was gone, leaving only a blackened patch of earth to mark where it had been. There was no sign of the drunks. The swordsman he’d met earlier was sitting by a fire in front of the wagon, expertly flipping bacon in a large frying pan. It sizzled noisily next to a cluster of juicy tomatoes and a heap of glistening mushrooms. Garian’s stomach rumbled.
The Hadami called over his shoulder. “Come and join me, young sir. I’m about to break fast.”
“I’m not really dressed for it.”
The Hadami turned round. “Ah. I see what you mean. Your clothes were a mess. My beloved took them to wash after she cleaned you up. Wait there, I’ll go find out where they are.”
The Hadami went over to another caravan and tapped on the door. Garian was pleased to see it was opened by the girl from the inn. She looked well, save for a few bruises. After speaking with the swordsman, she disappeared inside and returned a few moments later with a bundle of clothes. Instead of giving them to the swordsman, she brought them over herself. It was only when she reached the steps of the wagon that he remembered he was naked save for a quilt and quickly made sure that it was covering his modesty. A bruise darkened her cheek and her lip was swollen, but her eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered; no, they were more beautiful.
“Good morning, lady,” he mumbled.
A knowing smile spread across he
r face. “So it would seem.”
Garian blushed, which wasn’t like him, but the way she looked at him was disarming, like she knew what he was thinking, although right at that moment it probably wasn’t hard to guess.
“Here, take these.” She thrust the bundle into his arms. “My mother tried to wash your clothes, but they were ruined.” She draped the garments over the door then skipped down the stairs and joined the swordsman by the fire.
The clothes were a good fit—whoever had chosen them had gauged his size better than Hyram. He would never have chosen grey linen trousers or the pale blue shirt, but he couldn’t deny they were comfortable. He had to admit defeat when it came to the headscarf. There was obviously a knack to winding the slippery fabric around a head, but he couldn’t fathom it. He’d learn how to do it at some point, and then maybe add Vodoni to his repertoire of disguises.
When he’d finished dressing, he scrutinised his reflection in the polished copper pots hanging on the dresser. He decided he felt better than he looked. He had to get back to Hyram with the parchment, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. The way she’d smiled at him. Why had she smiled at him like that? It didn’t make sense. He was thin and short. His hair was too brown, and too wild, and his eyes were too dark and staring. Most of the time he hid his true face, he was a good actor, he had to be; his life often depended on his ability to dissemble.
Right then, with no need for subterfuge, he saw himself for what he really was: a cold-hearted gutter-snipe, a killer. The only difference between him and the average piece of street scum was that he wasn’t out to cut a purse, or mug a drunk. He was above average scum, the kind who put a crossbow bolt in a man’s back for a piece of paper. That he killed in the name of the King didn’t make it any better. He was worthless, just like his father used to say. A girl like her could never be interested in a killer like you.
“Fuck off.” He growled at his reflection and settled a less fierce mask over his sharp features.
As weak as a new born calf and just as graceful, he climbed down the steps of the caravan.
“Come, sit. You must be hungry; the healing my wife gave you takes a lot out of a body. You’ll be going Thinne if you’re not careful,” said the Hadami.
He and the girl touched the crescent moon pendants they were wearing. Garian had heard the term before. Thinne didn’t mean a lack of weight; it signified a lack of essence, a death of spirit. If a person lost too much of their essence they would became evil spirits. Hadami legends were full of cautionary tales of the Thinne, hunting the living. Garian knew that all manner of fell creatures still haunted the dark and lonely places of the earth and stalked the unwary, but the only monsters he’d ever encountered, and there had been a few, had all been human.
The Hadami handed him a plate piled with food. Garian was ravenous, but refrained from devouring it like a hungry dog.
“How long have I been here?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“Two nights. You drifted all of yesterday, my Mati—mother that is, thought you might not wake up. She stayed with you until she was sure you weren’t going to leave us.”
“I’m grateful. What happened to those bastards who attacked us?”
The girl looked at the swordsman.
He wiped his knife on the grass. “They were dealt with.”
“I don’t remember much after being thrown through the window,” said Garian.
The Hadami gave a half smile. “I can see by your face you will not rest until you have a full account.”
“I would appreciate that, sir.”
“Well, now let me see… We saw the smoke and met the Innkeepers on the road. They told us what was happening. Maire and I reached the inn first, just in time, I think. It looked like those savages were intending to kill you.”
Garian nodded. “Aye, I believe so. Did you have a hound with you? I seem to recall hearing a dog growling.”
The Hadami smiled apologetically. “We have started in the middle, this is wrong.” He wiped his hand on his trousers before offering it to Garian. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Korstoi Kristi, Hetman of this Charaval. This is my daughter.” He gestured to the girl.
As much as he wanted to introduce himself as Captain Garian Tain, he refrained. “Garian Tain, cartographer,” he said and shook the Hetman’s hand.
The Hetman’s daughter leaned over and offered her hand. He tried not to seem too eager to take it, or smile too warmly when she touched him.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Garian Tain. I’m Sulithabai Kristi, daughter of Korstoi Kristi and B’ha’Maire Na Strolzogyr.”
The Hetman clapped him on the back. “It was most remiss of us not to introduce ourselves. Don’t mistake me—we’re not Shemisana, we are Vodoni! A Shemisana would have killed themselves for committing such a terrible breach of etiquette.” The Hetman laughed heartily. “Now where was I? Ah, yes. The Innkeeper told us what was happening, and my beloved and I made for the inn as quickly as we could, followed by the rest of the Charaval. The pigs who attacked you were too drunk and stupid to back down. May the gods forgive me, but a part of me is glad that they didn’t.” Korstoi sheathed his knife. “We gave them the chance to surrender because unlike them, we are civilised people. It was more than they deserved. After three of them had gone to their gods the rest lost their appetite for violence.”
Prompted by the Hetman’s account, Garian’s memories came flooding back. He suddenly remembered the screaming and the sound of bone’s snapping, of flesh being torn apart, and when the screaming stopped, hot breath against his cheek, and a pair of inhuman, blue eyes staring down at him.
“She’s a shifter!” Garian spluttered.
Korstoi Kristi raised an eyebrow. “Did I not say I was the Hetman of this Charaval? Ah, but you do not know our ways. As Hetman it was my pleasure, and my duty, to marry a Moon Maiden. The Silver Weavers and the Vodoni have ever been joined thus. Don’t they teach you stone dwellers anything these days?”
“Alas, our education is somewhat lacking when it comes to Moon Maidens and Silver Weavers,” Garian confessed without shame.
“It’s been a long time since I was called a maiden.” The woman swept from behind him. She looked younger than the Hetman, although her hair was grey. It was her eyes that marked her out as something other than an ordinary, middle-aged woman; they were disconcertingly blue, more akin to those of a wolf than a human. Now he remembered her. She was the one who had been looking after him. He stood up and bowed.
“Ack, sit down, child, finish your food, you need to get your strength back. You’ve been through a lot.”
“You’re most kind. I believe I have you to thank for tending to me. My leg feels much better.”
“And so it should—now it hasn’t got poison running through it. It’s a good thing our paths crossed or you’d have most likely bled to death before the next day was out, and then my darling Suli…Let’s just say, the gods are good.”
Garian didn’t give a fuck about the gods. His professional pride was wounded, he was certain the knife had been clean. “Are you sure there was poison?”
She laughed sharply, revealing canines that were slightly too long. “Oh yes. It was Red Widow Bark. The bush grows in southern Guthland where it’s warm and damp. It’s good for those with thick blood and weak hearts, but only as a last resort, as it kills as often as it cures. It has no smell that you could discern and it keeps its strength for many days, even when applied to a blade. Like the one you got stuck by, I imagine.” She folded her arms and fixed him with a challenging stare.
“You’re right, Da. He is brave.” Sulithabai winked at Garian. “There aren’t many who’d dare question Mati on the subject of herbs.”
The Hetman threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Now Maire, my love, go easy on the boy. We haven’t finished our breakfast yet, and you know how slow-witted men are when their bellies are empty.”
“Don’t try to wheedle me, Korstoi Kristi. Now, you’ll have to ex
cuse me. Clothes don’t wash themselves.”
Maire kissed her husband, far more passionately than Garian thought proper for a middle-aged couple.
“Take care of yourself, young man. I’d hate for all my hard work to be wasted.” Maire grinned at him and strode off between the wagons.
“I’ve never even heard of Red Widow Bark,” said Garian.
“Don’t be hard on yourself, ‘tis a rare herb,” offered Korstoi. “I doubt that even in Guthland there are many who know what it’s used for, and even fewer who know how to prepare it. My wife is exceptional, you know.”
Garian nodded. “Indeed. I must ask her about the antidote before I leave.” He turned to Sulithabai. “Are you…like your mother? I mean, you didn’t change back at the inn…”
She flashed him a dazzling smile. “No. I’m not a shifter as you put it. I’m just an ordinary girl.”
“I don’t think you’re the least bit ordinary,” said Garian before he could stop himself.
“I suppose I should get on too,” said the Hetman. “I’ll see you later, Suli…Suli? Never mind.” The Hetman got up and left.
The next morning, Garian woke in the Hadami wagon, only this time he wasn’t alone. Suli was with him. They’d spent the whole of the previous day and most of the night talking. When they knew all there was to know about each other and had drunk their fill of mead, they’d made love. He’d tried to stop himself; he didn’t want to offend his hosts, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, and apparently, hard as it was for him to believe, she wanted him. Whatever the truth he hadn’t needed much persuading.
Now, lying next to her, he could hardly believe his good fortune and tried not to think about what would happen if her parents weren’t as understanding as she’d assured him they were. Worse still was the thought that he might wake up any minute and find it was only a dream. He buried his face in her thick, golden hair. It smelled of rosemary, wood smoke, and her.
“What are you doing?” She mumbled sleepily.
The Red Knight Page 10