“Madness,” he heard a man say.
All around him, the crowd started arguing. The people cheering Flyn’s name were sure he would walk away with the prize. Those like Pocket who had seen the Dread Cockerel fight were horrified, knowing that the match would only result in a dead squire. Why was he out there in the first place? Pocket was sure it should be Bronze Wattle, not some mirthful upstart. How could he have been beaten? And by a squire? The Old Goose continued to try and convince the stubborn squire to better arm himself while the Dread Cockerel stood unmoving, staring implacably. Coalspur’s sword was as good as his.
At last, Flyn’s protests won through and the Old Goose turned back to the platform. Flyn spun his quarterstaff and said something to the Dread Cockerel that Pocket could not hear. The knight made no reply but took a step towards the squire, the cudgel riding his fist. Pocket did not want to watch.
“HOLD!”
The crowd gasped and spun at the voice behind them. After a moment of shocked silence they parted, allowing a figure to pass and approach the field. It was a coburn, dressed in mail and blue surcoat, both travel stained and speckled with mud. A sword hung from his belt and a spear was propped on one shoulder. He was a good height and well built, yet stooped and weary, his face stricken with exhaustion. He came within a few feet of Pocket as he ducked under the rope and walked to the platform where he knelt before the officers.
“Forgive my intrusion, Grand Master,” the newcomer said with respect, but loud enough so that the crowd could hear.
Lackcomb’s face was unreadable. “Rise Sir Tillory and be welcomed. We feared you lost.” Pocket leaned forward. Sir Tillory the Calm, thought to be dead.
“Not lost, Grand Master,” Sir Tillory replied as he stood. “Only delayed in Kymbru. But I have come and wish to enter the tourney.”
Murmurs began spreading through the crowd, but Lackcomb focused only on the knight standing before him. “The champions of this tourney have already been decided, sir. I fear you are too late.”
Sir Tillory looked the Grand Master in the eyes. “I have heard that the tourney was open to all who might wish to enter, including the squires.” His voice was even and steady with no hint of irritation. “All I ask is a chance to win the prize as is my right as a sworn brother of this Order.”
“The tourney is near an end. The Knights Errant must return to their questing ere long. We cannot delay this decision further.”
“Nor do I wish to,” Sir Tillory said placidly.
“Very well,” Lackcomb replied. “But you shall have to defeat both champions to win the prize and you look hard used.”
“I will fight as I am.”
“Very well. Whom will you challenge?”
Sir Tillory turned and faced the would-be champions. After a moment he turned back. “I do not know the youth. I shall fight the Dread Cockerel.”
The crowd buzzed and Lackcomb nodded. Sir Tillory stuck his spear into the earth and removed his sword belt, doffing the stained surcoat as well. “Might I have use of those, my old teacher?” he asked the Old Goose, motioning to the arms he still carried. The Old Goose smiled and helped Sir Tillory into the breastplate. The knight took the tourney sword, but refused the shield and saluted the Grand Master before walking out to where the champions stood.
Flyn hesitated a moment, reluctant to leave the field, but after a moment he gave ground. It was the first time Pocket had seen him without a smile. The Dread Cockerel stood stark still, his face giving no hint as to his feelings regarding this new adversary.
Sir Tillory circled to the left, his legs spread, sword at the ready. The Dread Cockerel only turned in place, keeping his opponent in view. Sir Tillory was the broader of the two, but the Cockerel towered over him. Sir Tillory would need every inch of the tourney sword’s length to get past the reach of that ghastly cudgel. Pocket set his jaw and resolved not to blink.
Sir Tillory lunged, but his thrust was a feint and quickly turned into a backhand cut. The cudgel knocked the blade aside lazily and then swung up in an arc only to descend in a crushing strike. Sir Tillory pivoted out of the way, but the Dread Cockerel checked his downward swing and spun, delivering a glancing blow. Sir Tillory stumbled and almost lost his feet. The Dread Cockerel pressed the attack, the heavy cudgel swinging at the end of his long arm as if it weighed no more than a switch. Sir Tillory fell back, desperately trying to keep away from the flying iron. He did not attempt to parry, lest his sword be knocked clear from his hands. The Dread Cockerel threw a ferocious forehand swing that came inches from Sir Tillory’s beak. The force of the attack caused the Dread Cockerel to overextend himself and Sir Tillory’s sword hammered twice into the side of his breastplate. The Dread Cockerel brought the cudgel around for a backswing, which the shorter knight ducked and then made a low slash of his own. The mail skirt around the Cockerel’s legs took some of the impact, but the blade struck true and the grim knight drew back, hobbling slightly. Pocket felt his breath catch in his chest. It was the first time all day anyone had landed a blow on the fiendish knight. Perhaps he could be hurt after all.
But Pocket’s hope withered quickly. The Dread Cockerel advanced like a cat stalking some vermin prey. He did not attack, but simply waded in on Sir Tillory, allowing him to attack, turning the sword blows aside with ease. The shorter knight tried to stand his ground, but he dared not let the cudgel come within reach. The sword struck out, again and again with little effect. It was a strange dance; the Cockerel advanced and defended while poor Sir Tillory retreated, trying to attack. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled and then it would be over. He had come late, tired from traveling and whatever perils he must have suffered along the way. He could not keep this up for long. In contrast, Pocket had watched the Dread Cockerel fight for the better part of a day and his strength showed no signs of flagging. He was no longer limping from the blow he received mere moments before.
And then it happened.
From his vantage Pocket could not say whether it was a stone that tripped Sir Tillory or a mud hole or simply a misstep, but he went down hard. He managed to get up on one knee before the cudgel came screaming down, and he raised his sword to block. The heavy iron head crashed into the blade, bending it horribly before slamming into Sir Tillory’s head. The knight’s limbs went oddly limp as he fell, flopping in a manner that made Pocket queasy. The Dread Cockerel stood over him, staring downward and remained there as the Knights Sergeant came running, dropping to their knees in the mud around the fallen knight. The Grand Master stood on the platform, waiting. Pocket watched as the Old Goose rose from the mud to face the platform and slowly shook his head. Pocket stood, silent as the rest of the crowd. Sir Tillory the Calm, thought dead only this morning. If only he’d stayed away, Pocket thought.
SEVEN
It was windy on the Tor. The trees hissed in complaint, their branches bending, throwing their leaves into the air, flights of red and gold. Padric tied his hair back to keep it out of his face, but the wind plucked ceaselessly, and soon errant wispy tendrils broke free to tickle at his eyes and lips. He shivered. The ascent had been tougher than he expected and when they reached the top he was sweating freely. Now the chill breeze cooled the moisture that clung to his skin and Padric found himself wishing for a dry tunic. He considered sitting on one of the pieces of broken wall, somewhere out of the wind, to ease his quivering legs but dismissed the thought quickly. Faabar stood in the overgrown center of the ruined castle, his back turned. Padric would not rest so long as the fomori was on his feet. The steep grades to the top of Bwyneth Tor were taxing even with two good legs; Padric did not know how Faabar managed the climb.
He could do nothing but gawk for a moment when he first laid eyes on the huge warrior. Fafnir had instructed Padric to deliver the sword to Faabar’s hut the morning after he and Rosheen arrived in Hog’s Wallow. When the fomori came to the door, Padric almost dropped the blade. At least seven feet tall, he dwarfed even the biggest men Padric had known, his father
among them. Faabar’s shoulders were broad and sloping, his neck corded with heavy muscle. His skin bristled with coarse hair, like a cow or goat’s hide, while a thick black mane fell across his entire back. From this mane sprouted two sweeping horns, like a ram’s, and below was a bulging brow. Faabar’s nose was flat and broad, while two curved fangs poked out from his thick lower lip. His eyes were gold flecked with jet, an animal’s eyes. A predator.
And now the predator hunted across the top of the Tor, his head uplifted, his body still, sniffing the fierce wind. Faabar wore loose fitting woolen breeches and soft leather boots, but he was bare from the waist up save the leather harness that held the greatsword strapped firmly to his back. Fafnir’s work was impressive, it could not be denied. From pommel to tip the weapon was as tall as Padric, the blade almost as wide as both his hands and solid steel. Padric’s steel knife was a weapon of utilitarian beauty, but next to the colossal sword, it looked fit for nothing but spreading butter. In addition to his new sword, Faabar also carried a long hafted maul of heavy wood with a head banded in bronze.
“A keen edge and sharp point are little use against a foe without flesh,” the fomori had said when Deglan kept complaining about the excessive arms. The herbalist was worried about the extra weight and the strain on Faabar’s injured leg. Had the gnome his way, Faabar would have stayed in bed entirely, but the fomori had been firm in his determination. Deglan only relented on the condition that he go along as well to tend the wound. They were freed from his fretting when they reached the Tor and the gnome refused to go up. He was waiting now at the bottom astride his huge toad. As they started up the steep trail, Padric thought he heard the cantankerous little man muttering something about the last time he had ridden to the top and a vow never to do so again.
The climb had taken the better part of the morning and the going was difficult. Faabar carried the maul in his right hand, using the haft as a makeshift crutch as they hauled themselves over boulders and root-choked inclines. Padric wondered if that was the true reason he refused to leave the weapon behind. Rosheen had an easier time of it, her wings carrying her almost effortlessly up to the summit where the ruins lay waiting.
And the wind.
Rosheen was grounded by the force of the gusts as soon as they reached the top and now huddled at the base of a gnarled tree growing within the broken leavings of what was once a standing tower. She sat well away, not looking in his direction, still wroth with him for coming along. That was fine by Padric. He was cross with her for trying to leave him out of the hunt.
They had been several days in the village, and Jileen offered them a place by the fire in the common hall of the alehouse. Ardal insisted that Fafnir reside in Brogan’s house for his comfort until he took his leave. So Padric’s days were spent helping Fafnir at the forge and his nights in the companionable warmth of the alehouse. He saw little of Rosheen who remained strangely absent. She claimed to be helping the gnome with Faabar’s healing, but Padric had known her long enough to detect things unsaid. On the fourth morning, Padric entered the oppressive heat of the smithy to find the dwarf already hard at work on a plough blade. The same blade commissioned by Brogan just before he died.
“Too much of the wilds?” The dwarf barely looked up from his labors.
Padric feared there might be a jibe in the comment and was tense in his reply. “Not at all. I am ready to leave whenever you are. I will not be going back to Stone Fort. You have my word.”
“Oaths,” Fafnir said between hammer strikes. “No need for those tricky things. Ingot and I are glad of your company. No one need bind themselves to me. Our travels will take us back to your home one day and it would be a pity if you could not see your kin because of an oath sworn in haste.” The dwarf worked the tongs deftly as he spoke, turning the hot steel and hammering it into shape. It would be a fine plough, well-tempered and strong. Padric laughed at the thought; the habitual musings of a farmer’s son. “And it was not the wilds ahead of us that I was meaning, but the wilds surrounding us today. The wilds your piskie means to wander with Faabar and that sour gnome.”
“Was that today?” Padric went to the coal scuttle and began shoveling so Fafnir would not see the confusion on his face. “I had forgotten.” In truth, he had not known at all. Where would Rosheen be going with those two? And for what purpose? He had suspected she was hiding something, but willful as she could be, it bothered him that she would keep her journey a secret.
“Not how I would spend my day, for certain and sure. Out hunting a husk,” the dwarf grunted as he bent the glowing metal. “A fool’s errand and wise of you to see it, boy. He is well away from here by now. Husks do not eat and need little rest, unlike men. You must be weary of such travel. Kederic Winetongue has men out looking and dogs too, Ardal tells me. Why would a wounded warrior, an herbalist and a piskie new-comer go out in search of a quarry long gone and well sought for?”
Padric continued to shovel as the question gnawed at him. Now Fafnir was the one leaving things unsaid. Why all the dissembling? Padric heard the sharp, angry hiss as Fafnir quenched the blade in the water barrel. The answer came to him. He turned.
“Because they are not looking for Slouch Hat.”
Fafnir looked up through the steam. “Then why say so? And why should you not believe it when the herdsmen so clearly do?”
“You do not believe it either,” Padric said.
“No, but I am well-traveled and weary with the world. I see brigands and deceit everywhere. I am a dwarf, a mercenary people it is said, who seek only to sell their loyalty. Who am I to be trusting? Or trusted?” He fixed Padric with a friendly, knowing look. “Not much to do today, anyway. I can finish this alone. Take the day if you like, rest up…or whatever you like.”
Padric made for the ale house and begged some food from Jileen before grabbing his pack, axe and knife. He caught up with the trio an hour later. Faabar’s hut was vacant, but the fomori’s heavy steps and the splayed prints of Deglan’s giant toad were easy enough to follow. He found them on a meandering goat trail, headed up into the high country northwest of the village. Faabar was the first to turn and see him coming, but it was Rosheen who flew back to meet him.
“Go back,” she said firmly, but Padric hiked right past her without a glance. “Padric, this is no game. Go back.”
“Bugger off.” It was harsh, but Padric was angry, sick of being disregarded. He made his way up the trail, eyes ahead, where Deglan and Faabar stood watching and waiting.
Rosheen was fluttering at his side. “Padric! Look at me! We will be back tonight, just wait for us in the Wallow! There is no reason you should go! Padric! Would you stop a moment? Look at me! Dammit! Padric!”
He ignored it all and only stopped when he reached the daunting pair. The gnome looked annoyed, but the fomori’s face was still.
“Where she goes, I go,” Padric told them. It was the only explanation he could give.
Deglan sucked at his teeth. “Then neither of you go.”
Padric wished the gnome luck with that declaration. Rosheen was as unstoppable as the tide when her mind was set. “I go where I wish, Master Loamtoes,” she said and turned her fuming face back to Padric. “I am sorry, but this is no place for you. For a mortal. You must trust me, it is too dangerous.”
“What is, Rosh?” he kept his voice even. “What is too dangerous? Hunting a man made of straw? You will need to do better than that if you want to frighten me off. I am not a boy anymore.”
“This is not like fighting a gruagach, Padric!” Rosheen’s voice was growing thin with impatience. “This is…”
“Is what?” he would not let her finish. “The truth of it now! I may be mortal and too foolish…too…unskilled for this company, but if you are all so wise, so powerful, why would I be in any danger from a lone husk? Even one that has killed? Answer me that,
Rosh! Or else get used to me being here, for I am going with you.”
“I cannot let you, Padric...”
“Why?”
“I promised…”
“What is so damned dreadful that you would keep me from…”
“An Unwound!”
Padric laughed. He was so embarrassed for her that he could not even meet Rosheen’s eyes. He kept laughing and looked at his feet, shaking his head. She truly still thought him a mewling child, frightened by stories. His laughter turned bitter in his throat and he did finally look her in the face. “An Unwound? Why stop there? Why not Festus Lambkiller or the Gaunt Prince himself? You really do think me a fool.”
“She says it true, lad.” It was Deglan who spoke, regarding Padric with a withering look, part pity, part disdain. “And you are a fool. I do not know any in the race of man who is not, but you are a prize among buffoons, not trusting the word of one you have known your whole, miserably short life. A life that will end even sooner if we find this thing, so do as you’re told and go back. We have no use for you here.” The gnome turned his toad and started up the trail. Padric turned to Rosheen, but now it was she who could not meet his gaze. Padric spared her the effort and started back toward the village.
“Wait,” Faabar’s voice rolled deep and wet in his throat. Padric turned and the fomori limped down towards him. He came up and regarded Padric with his golden eyes. “Is it true? Did you battle a skinchanger and live?”
Padric struggled to hold the fomori’s gaze. “I did.”
“And the gruagach? Did it survive?”
Padric clenched his teeth. He had not been proud of killing the gruagach and the face of the little girl came to him in his sleep, forcing him to split it with his axe again and again in a nightly struggle of bad dreams. He was not proud, but the act had given him a sense of prowess, of courage. A sense that shrank away while he stood in the shadow of the huge fomori. Faabar’s arms were slabs of muscle, thicker than Padric’s waist, his weapons larger than most men. What was Padric’s deed compared to this fearsome brute? But he answered all the same.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 13