by K J Taylor
Cardock was happy to keep his distance. He sat huddled in a corner, hugging his knees, and tried to think, while the others jostled and argued among themselves.
He had spent that day in agonies. Even now his stomach was churning. His son was here, in captivity. And Erian the Bastard was here, too. They knew each other by sight. Cardock had already seen the bastard inspect every single one of the Wylam slaves that had come here with him, examining each face as if he expected one of them to become Arenadd’s. And he had seen him again that day, watching the slaves at work. Searching.
Every moment of that day, Cardock had expected to hear something or see something, expected to see people rushing to the tower in agitation, or to hear the news he dreaded: that Arren Cardockson had been found. When nothing happened, it did nothing to ease his mind.
Cardock laced his fingers together and tugged at them. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. Erian was still here. If he hadn’t found Arren yet, then he soon would. He would recognise him the instant he saw him.
His stomach was knotting. He had to do something, but what? He had tried to warn his son the previous night, but he didn’t know if Arenadd had understood. If he went to talk to him again now, someone might see the resemblance and ask questions. Or would the other slaves protect them? It was impossible to say.
The evening dragged on. Cardock ate nothing and ignored everyone who tried to talk to him. I have to do something, he told himself again and again. I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I have to see him again, make sure he’s all right. I have to know.
He got up, moving stiffly, and walked slowly toward the doorway.
Nobody paid much attention to him as he left the dormitory. Reaching the corridor outside, he shuffled along it, rubbing absent-mindedly at the brand scar on the back of his hand. It had healed cleanly enough, but it still itched occasionally.
He reached the door at the very end of the corridor, nearest to the guardroom, and carefully looked inside. It was still very crowded in there; some of the new slaves were busy sewing additional hammocks, but there wouldn’t be enough room to hang one for each of them. Many of them would still have to sleep on the floor. Still, it was a little better than what most slaves could expect.
“Here, you. What’re you doin’ in here?”
Cardock looked up at the hefty slave who had come over to him. “Nothing, I—”
“You’re not supposed to be in here, old man,” said the slave. “If yer lookin’ t’take extra rations out of our pot, forget it. There’s scarcely enough for us.”
“I’m not,” said Cardock. “I’m just looking for someone.”
“Lookin’ for who?” said the man. “Who are you, anyway? Don’t recognise yeh.”
“Cardock Skandarson,” said Cardock. There was no point in lying about it; the other slaves he had arrived with already knew his real name. “I’m looking for . . .” He frantically searched his memory. “Taranis,” he said at last. “I’m looking for a man called Taranis. Have you seen him?”
The man looked him up and down. “You may as well come in,” he said gruffly.
“Thank you.” Cardock entered, looking around him for any sign of Arenadd, but he failed to spot him anywhere. “This is Taranis’ dormitory, isn’t it?” he asked.
“It was,” said the man.
“Where is he, then?”
The man nodded toward a small group of people sitting by the back wall. “Ask Nolan. He was his friend; he’ll tell yer.”
“Thank you.” Cardock made for the little group.
None of them looked up as he approached. They were sitting in a rough square, four of them, all looking grim and subdued.
“Excuse me,” said Cardock.
One of them glanced up. “What d’you want?” he said roughly.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” said Cardock. “Can I join you?”
“Now’s not the best time,” said one of the others.
“Sorry,” said Cardock, “but I’m looking for Nolan. Someone said he could help me.”
“That’s me,” said the first man. “What is it?”
“I’m told you know Taranis,” said Cardock.
Nolan looked away. “I knew him, yeah.”
“I’m looking for him,” said Cardock. “Do you know where he is?”
They all stared at him in silence.
Finally, Nolan shuffled aside. “Sit down.”
Cardock did. “Thanks. Crowded in here, isn’t it?”
“Since you lot came along,” the man sitting next to Nolan said unpleasantly. “Why are you looking for Taranis? Y’just got here.”
“Never mind why,” said Cardock. “I just want to know where he is.”
“Did yer know him?” said Nolan.
Cardock hesitated. “We’ve . . . talked. Look, I don’t want to keep annoying you; can you please just tell me where he is?”
Nolan sighed. “It’s not a problem. What’s yer name?”
“Cardock. Where’s Taranis?”
“He’s not here,” said Nolan.
“Why? Where did he go? Is he okay?”
But Nolan couldn’t seem to reply. The man beside him gripped his friend’s shoulder and looked accusingly at Cardock. “He’s dead, all right? Can you just leave us alone?”
Cardock only stared at him. “What?”
“He’s dead,” Nolan repeated. “Taranis died. This morning.”
Cardock felt as if his stomach had been torn out. “That’s not true,” he said flatly. “I don’t believe you.”
Nolan shook his head. “I was there. I saw it with me own eyes. He just dropped dead in front of us.” He shuddered. “It was horrible. He was acting funny. White and sweating. Muttering to himself. Said he felt wrong. An’ then he just . . . went mad. Ran away like there was wolves on his tail. Guards caught him, an’ he just started yelling.”
“Yelling what?” said his friend.
“ ‘They’re coming,’ ” said Nolan. “ ‘They’re coming, don’t let them get me.’ An’ after that it was all just babble. ‘Don’t let me fall.’ He kept sayin’ it over an’ over. ‘Don’t let me fall.’ An’ then he just . . . died. Guard thumped him; he fell over an’ never got up. They made me bury him. I checked him, tried to wake him up, but he was gone. Just like that. Dead.”
“No,” Cardock whispered. “No, no. Oh gods. No.”
Nolan had gone pale, his eyes red rimmed. “What’s wrong with you?” he snapped.
Cardock lurched forward and grabbed him by the front of his robe, shaking him violently. “Stop it!” he shouted. “Shut up! You’re lying! He’s not dead!”
Hands grabbed him and pulled him away, and he didn’t resist. He sagged limply in their grasp, sobbing hoarsely. “No,” he moaned. “No, this isn’t . . . can’t . . .”
Every man in the room had turned and was staring at him.
Nolan stood up. “Look at me,” he said softly. “Look me in the face.”
Cardock didn’t have the strength to resist as the two who had restrained him lifted him to his feet. He knew he had given himself away, but he didn’t care. What did it matter? What did anything matter now?
Nolan stooped to look at him, and squinted. “What in the gods’ names?” he breathed.
“What’s your name?” someone else said sharply. “What did you say your name was?”
“Cardock,” he mumbled. “Wolf Tribe. Son of Skandar.”
“You an’ Taranis,” said Nolan. “You—Annan, look at him. Look at his face.”
The one called Annan did. “By the Moon,” he muttered eventually. “It’s him. Taranis. The spitting image.”
“You were related, weren’t yeh?” said Nolan. “Y’were, weren’t yeh? You an’ Taranis.”
Cardock looked up. “I was his father.”
Absolute silence reigned in the chamber. Every slave there was looking uncertain.
“His father?” said Nolan. “Wait. Wait. Cardock? Did yer say yer name was Cardock?”
“Yes.”
“Cardock . . . Cardockson,” said Nolan. “Cardockson.”
“No,” said Annan. “That ain’t possible. Stop it. Taranis was—”
“Taranis wasn’t his name,” Cardock burst forth, not caring any more. “His name was Arenadd. Arenadd Taranisäii. My son.”
“Arren Cardockson?” someone shouted.
Nolan grabbed Cardock’s arm. “Are you sayin’—are you sayin’ that Taranis was Arren Cardockson?”
“Yes,” said Cardock.
“But that’s ridiculous!” said Annan. “You’re tellin’ me that Arren Cardockson was sleepin’ in the hammock next to mine?”
“But that explains it, doesn’t it?” said Nolan. “That explains everything. Why he never had no brand. Why he knew all that about griffins. Why he was so scared of griffiners comin’ back here.”
As suddenly as it had gone quiet, the room erupted into shouting. Cardock found himself being accosted by a dozen different people, all shouting questions and accusations at him. He backed away, frightened and bewildered, but he wasn’t left to face them alone. Nolan and Annan moved in front of him, shielding him from the mob. Cardock cowered behind them, panic-stricken.
“What in the gods’ names is going on in here?”
The voice lashed out like a whip. Most of the slaves went quiet instantly, and the rest were quick to follow suit as Caedmon limped into the room, his face a picture of fury.
The crowd parted to let him through, and he stumped toward the centre of the room, holding his stick menacingly and glaring at everyone as if daring them to challenge him.
“What’s goin’ on in here?” he said again, jabbing the stick at them all. “Own up. Who started this?”
As if acting on an unspoken agreement, Nolan and Annan took Cardock by the shoulders and led him straight to the old man.
Caedmon regarded them suspiciously. “Nolan. You ain’t the type t’stir up trouble. Can’t say the same for you, though,” he added, to Annan. “What’s this about? An’ who’s this?”
“We’re sorry, sir,” said Nolan. “It’s just that . . .”
“It’s this bugger’s fault,” said Annan, nodding at Cardock.
Caedmon squinted at him. “Who’re you? Tenderneck, obviously. You look . . . familiar.”
Nolan darted closer. “He’s Taranis’ father,” he hissed.
Caedmon blinked. “His father? Here?”
“Yes, he just came—”
“He was Arren Cardockson!” one of the other slaves shouted suddenly. “Tell him, you old bastard. That Taranis was lyin’ about his name. He was Arren Cardockson, and you’re Cardock, his father.”
Caedmon had become very still. “Is this true?” he said sharply. “Or are ye playin’ some prank? I warn ye, tenderneck, I am not to be trifled with, an’ I do not take kindly t’being lied to or played with. What’s this nonsense ye’re spewin’? Out with it.”
Cardock watched the older man as he spoke, his mind racing. But one look at Caedmon’s unbending expression told him there was no point in trying to lie. “It’s true,” he said, so quietly the others barely heard him. “I am Cardock Skandarson of Eagleholm. I was a freed slave and I lived in Idun with my wife, Annir. Arenadd was our only son. Our only child.” He shuddered, and tears started to trickle down his face.
Caedmon listened closely. “You’re admitting that?”
“He’s dead,” Cardock mumbled. “Why lie?”
“Why are ye here, then?” said Caedmon. “How’d ye get to be here?”
“We were captured,” said Cardock. “In Norton. Waiting for him to meet us. Erian the Bastard forced us to tell him what we knew, and then he sold us. I don’t know where Annir is.”
Caedmon said nothing. If he was shocked he hid it well; he stood very still, wearing a frown, apparently deep in thought.
“He’s got t’be tellin’ the truth,” Nolan put in. “Look at him. Taranis—Arren looked just like him. They got to be father an’ son. Anyway, why would he lie about somethin’ like that? It doesn’t make no sense.”
Finally Caedmon nodded. “Right. I believe you. Now listen”—he turned to look around at the others—“an’ I want all of you to listen.” He paused to make sure he had their full attention. “We’re tellin’ nobody about this, understand? Nobody. Not even the men in the other dorms. Nobody.”
“Why?” someone demanded.
“Because I say so,” Caedmon snapped. “Cardock’s one of ours now, an’ he’s had a hard time. How would ye feel if you’d lost yer only son an’ yer wife as well? So we’re gonna help him. It doesn’t matter if Taranis was Arren Cardockson or if he was the High Priestess of Amoran. He’s dead now. Cardock is one of us, an’ we stick together, so I expect ye to treat him like one of ye. If anyone even talks about going and ratting him out, I swear by the Night God’s eye that man will suffer for it. An’ believe me when I say I have the power to make that happen. Cross me, an’ ye’ll pay.” He glared at them. “That clear enough for yer?”
Nobody spoke.
“I said, is that clear?” said Caedmon.
“I reckon so, Caedmon,” said Nolan.
There was a general mumbling and nodding from the others.
“Right, then,” said Caedmon. He nodded to Cardock. “Ye’ve nothin’ to fear. They won’t lay a hand on ye. Not unless they want to lose it.”
Cardock smiled shakily as the others wandered off. “Thank you, Caedmon.”
“It’s nothin’,” said Caedmon. “Now you just sit down an’ try an’ rest. I’ll get someone t’bring ye some food. Y’need plenty to eat.”
In a kind of trance, Cardock allowed himself to be led to a comparatively private corner behind some hammocks and accepted the food he was given. He stirred it listlessly, feeling as if there were a huge void inside him, a hole where his son had been.
Nolan and Annan stayed with him, curious and concerned. Caedmon stayed, too. Others hovered close by, obviously wanting to come closer and ask questions but loath to do so while Caedmon was there.
“Eat,” the old man urged. “I know ye ain’t hungry, but ye’ve got t’eat. Wastin’ away won’t help nobody.”
Cardock managed a few spoonfuls. He sought for something to say, but nothing came. His mind was a blank.
“I still don’t believe this,” Annan said at last. “I mean, Arren Cardockson? Him? Here?”
“I always thought he was odd, y’know,” said Nolan. “I liked him, but I always thought there was something—”
“I know,” said Annan. “There was somethin’ not quite right about him. He always looked so . . . I dunno. Just not right somehow.”
“I heard him talkin’ in his sleep,” said Nolan. “Did you?”
“Of course I did,” said Annan. “Everyone did. Madog said he heard him speakin’ some different language once. All sorts of clicks an’ trills an’ things. I told him he was talkin’ out his nethereye, but—”
“Griffish?” said Nolan. “Y’think maybe it was griffish?”
“Maybe, who knows? It scared me, though,” Annan added. “What you said about the stuff he shouted before—” He broke off awkwardly. “I heard him say things like that in his sleep. ‘Help me, I’m falling,’ over an’ over again.”
“I knew about that,” said Nolan. “He was scared of heights. Whenever we was at the quarry an’ went over that bit where there’s that drop, he’d go all pale.”
“He was afraid of heights,” said Cardock. His voice sounded flat and distant, as if he had become detached from it somehow. “Ever since he was a boy. He loved to climb. All the time. But someone, someone, someone . . .” He could hear himself starting to wander now. “Someone pushed him off a roof. He was twelve. Broke his arm. I asked him over and over to tell me who did it, but he never said. After that he was always frightened. Even stairs made him nervous. He hated heights, and he lived right at the edge of the city. I kept telling him to move, but he wouldn’t; he said Eluna wouldn’t let him.”
&nb
sp; Caedmon leant forward and touched him on the shoulder. “Hush. Calm down. Ye’re all right. Here, just have some water.”
Nolan and Annan exchanged glances.
“I can’t believe it that he was a murderer,” said Nolan. “He didn’t—well, he didn’t feel like a murderer. He was too nice.”
“Kind.” Annan nodded. “Good sense of humour. I still haven’t told Torc he’s dead. The boy loved him like a brother.”
“I liked him,” said Caedmon. “No matter what they say he did, I thought he was a good man. Good mind, well spoken, respectful. A good friend. Always did his share an’ never complained or made trouble.”
“He was a good boy,” Cardock’s faraway voice mumbled.
“Yes.” Caedmon tugged gently at his arm. “Come on. I should take ye back to yer dorm now before people start askin’ questions. C’mon.”
Cardock heaved a sigh and got up. “Yes, I need to be alone for a while.”
As he started to leave the room with Caedmon, Nolan caught up with him and touched his arm. “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry if we was unkind to you before. Your son was a good friend to me. So, for his sake, I’ll be a friend t’you to, if yer want.”
Cardock looked at him, taking in his rough, honest face, and smiled sadly. “Thanks, Nolan. I’d like that.”
Caedmon escorted him back to his dormitory and guided him to a hammock, roughly ordering its occupant to find a spot on the floor. Cardock thanked him and lay back in the hammock while the others around him got ready for bed, their voices low and unconcerned. Even content.
Eventually the lights were snuffed out, and darkness closed in. Cardock lay in silence, not really aware of his surroundings, staring fixedly at the ceiling.
Part of him wanted to cry, but his tears had dried up, leaving him feeling dead inside. Part of him wanted to curse or to scream, but he had no energy for either. Besides, what was the point? And part of him wanted to pray, but the words wouldn’t come to him. What could he possibly say? What could he say that would help him now? Nothing, nothing.
Helpless anger filled him. There was no window here, but he could see the moon in his mind’s eye: the great silver orb that he had prayed to and kept faith in all his life. Curse you, he thought. Curse you. You gave me back my son and then took him away again. He was all I had left, and you took him. Curse you!