The pair of outlaws looked at each other, then made their way over to the man’s table, relishing the warmth of the hearth as they sat on the barrels. The barman went back to his business as the three began to talk.
“The Shiriff’s coin?” enquired Will, a slight smile playing his lips. “This is where they come to conscript you say, old man?”
A sage nod.
“Aye. One of many. Each of the taverns offers them pickings of a night; a drunk youth is oftentimes easily swayed with promise of gold or glory. And call me Nathaniel…”
“Will,” the youth replied, before gesturing to his companion. “And this is the Boy.”
Nathaniel raised his eyebrows in amusement as he took in the strapping youth.
“The Boy? Perhaps once a suitable title, but surely the years necessitate a change at some point?”
The Boy stared into the flames as he pondered his reply.
“A person’s name gives him power. Likewise, knowledge of that name can then give power to his foes. The Boy suits my purposes for now.”
The old man nodded, then replied as he drew forth a pipe, proceeding to fill the bowl with tobacco.
“Wise words, if not a little paranoid, if you don’t mind my say so. I have heard tell from holy men that a demon can be controlled by the knowledge of its name. But you are no demon, lad, or at least you hide your horns well, if that you be. I’m sure whatever doom you feel might befall you upon use of your true title would not be as bad as you imagine…”
The Boy didn’t reply, instead taking a deep gulp of the hoppy ale, face half in shadow, half lit orange by the flickering flames, as Will began talking anew.
***
It was another two nights before the Shiriff’s men called in again at The Trip and the Boy had begun to despair that their money or their livers would give out before they had a chance at receiving the Shiriff’s coin. It was not to be so. The militia called in.
The two outlaws, called up.
They stood, side by side, along with other youths, mostly thin, bedraggled and hungover looking sorts, blinking their eyes in the harsh sunlight of the castle courtyard as they stood for their first morning inspection. The Boy scratched at his lower back, the rough, spun-wool red tunic that was the recruits’ attire itchy on his skin.
“Belay that, boy!” barked a low and rasping voice. The veteran that stood and watched the parade marched over, figure gnarled lean and whippet-like by years of hard service. He stuck his face right in the Boy’s, one eye milky-white from the scar that bisected it and ran down his cheek. “Arms down by your sides and leave them there and be damn thankful I’m here to tell you. If the guardmaster was ‘ere, you’d be in for a beasting…”
As if on cue, the grinding of metal on metal as a bar was drawn back, then the creak of hinges as the gate swung open to allow figures to march into the courtyard. The recruits snapped to attention. Three men, better dressed than the recruits, strode forth onto the flagstones, the sound of their heavy boot steps echoing loud and clear, cloaks flapping behind them in the cool breeze.
“Oh, shit…” came a whispered sigh from The Boy’s side, that could only have been Will.
He risked a glance to the left, a shiver of cold familiarity passing down his spine as the three marched into place before the youths, inspecting them with the same sneering, distasteful looks as one might inspect dog dirt on the bottom of your boot. The leader, whom The Boy could only assume was the guardmaster himself, scanned the ranks of young men, his cruel eyes narrow in his scarred face. As his gaze passed the two outlaws, it paused for a second, his lip flickering for an instant into a smile of recognition, revealing black teeth, but only for an instant before he continued his inspection. Finally, with a brief nod to himself, he spoke.
“Welcome, o’ brave and honourable volunteers to the Shiriff’s service.” He smiled, as did the three beside him, his two officers and Scarface, as the recruits gazed about at each other.
Could any of them remember volunteering for anything? They could remember little through the haze of hangover. Only two of the throng stood and met the guardmaster’s gaze, defying him now, even as they had two nights before in the wagon on the way to town. The man continued.
“I’m Guardmaster Cooper. But you sorry lot can call me ‘sirrah.’” His tone changed, as did his eyes, becoming hard like flint. “In three days’ time, the Shiriff himself comes to inspect you. I have three days in which to turn you maggots into men. During that time, you eat when I tell you, sleep when I tell you, shit when I tell you. You take the shilling wanting glory and gold, your life becomes forfeit. Perhaps one day you can earn it back. Until that day, your life is mine.” He smiled again. “Do we have an understanding…?”
The two outlaws looked at each other for an instant, wondering what they’d let themselves in for, certain that the following days would be full of hardships, then turned back to face the officer along with the other men at their backs.
“Sirrah, yes sirrah!”
***
“Oh, for pity’s sake…”
Iain’s incredulous voice filled the hut, the messenger staggering back a step as though expecting the man to throw an object at him for bearing such news. John placed a meaty hand on the Outlander’s shoulder, guiding himself aside and stepping forward to speak to the messenger himself, eyes serious in his bearded face.
“And you are certain it was them, man? The shadows played no trick on your eyes? Nor indeed ,the ale?”
The man shook his head vehemently.
“No, John. It be them, clear as day, I tell thee. Saw ‘em with me own eyes taking the Shiriff’s shilling in the Trip, not two days ago.”
A look of sorrow flickered across John’s face, then he nodded and bid the man be on his way, before turning back to the table behind him, Iain at his side as they looked to the figure that sat, silent, up until this point.
It was Iain’s voice that broke the pregnant silence.
“What do you think, my lord?”
Alann looked up from his contemplation, pausing for a moment, before speaking to John.
“What do we know of your man from the town? Is he trustworthy?”
Eyes closed in sadness, the big man nodded slowly.
“Aye. Franklin has been a friend to us for a goodly time now. I have no reason to suspect he lies about this.”
“Hmm.” Alann looked thoughtful. “Then we are forced to acknowledge that the two have indeed joined up with the Shiriff’s men. The only question is, why…?”
To their credit, none of the two before him voce the obvious: treachery. Will had been with the outlaws since the beginning, fleeing his village along with several others, joining the exodus to the countryside before the arrival of the Foresters.
The Boy, however, had appeared later on, perhaps two years ago. Stumbling, wounded and starved, through the depths of the dark wood, where the outlaw scouts had found him, brought him in. It had taken a long time before he would even speak, catatonic from whatever traumatic experiences he had suffered. And then, when he finally had spoken, all he voiced was his hatred of the false king and his men. A hatred he had proven in battle half a dozen times since those early days, each time slaying the Shiriff’s men with his deadly accurate bow-fire.
No, treachery was not at play here. Instead, something more subtle.
And far more foolhardy.
The last words of Rodney the tax-collector sprang to mind and the eyes of all three widened as comprehension dawned.
“They… they can’t be thinking…” Iain began, but John was nodding solemnly, an expression a curious mixture of pride and disappointment etched on his broad face.
“Aye, they mean to kill the Shiriff before he comes to get us first.”
A pause, then Iain spoke again.
“What do we do about it?”
“It’s a suicide mission,” John replied. “They have no hope of getting out alive; even should they succeed in slaying him, his guards will fall upo
n them instantly. Their heads will be mounted above Nottingham’s gates the very next day.” His mighty hands balled into fists. “We must go in, find them, bring them back.”
Iain cocked his head, frowning in confusion.
“How do you think we should go about that, then? The two of them could find their way into town easily enough without arousing suspicion, but an army of us? We’d be cut down by bowfire before we reached a hundred yards of town walls.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
Iain looked up at the larger man, obviously weighing up the possible outcomes of his next words.
“They made their bed. They should lie in it.”
A snarl twitched across John’s face as he rounded on the Forester.
“Just like that, eh? Who was it that spoke to me of family? You want that we should leave our kin to die for no other reason than the folly of youth?”
If Iain was scared of the hulk before him, he gave no sign, his back stiff and legs sure as he retorted.
“If we go in to rescue them, more might die. Many more, that will be needed in days ahead to protect the people that live here. We cannot risk more lives simply for the stupidity of two! Tell him, Alann.”
John opened his mouth to shout the Forester down, but a word cut through the tension in the air, defusing the situation as ably as a bucket of water upon a fire.
“Enough.” The Woodsman rose from his chair as the two turned to listen. “I have made my decision.”
Chapter Five:
Darkness was falling as they rounded the corner and came upon the village. There, on the road, a solitary figure standing, bright orange lantern held aloft in the encroaching dusk. Virginie left the pack, rushing forward to meet the stranger. Pol darted forwards, ready to protect her, but was stayed by Gwenna’s raised hand. She didn’t need her shaman senses to see the familiarity in Virginie’s movement.
“Felice? You got my message?”
The woman with the lamp nodded, the two embracing, before parting.
“The letter arrived a few days ago, ma cousine,” she replied. “But tell me, what is all this about? Who are these people that you wish me to hide?”
“Friends. Good people, but who’ve fallen into trouble.” She turned, waving back to the troupe which followed, calling them near.
“So, you are Felice?” Gwenna smiled as she drew near. “Many thanks to you for agreeing to put us up.”
A curt nod was her only response, a cold look, a mixture of suspicion and fear written across the woman’s face. How much had Virginie told her cousin, thought Gwenna? All of a sudden, suspicion was aroused briefly within her own breast; how close was Virginie to her cousin? Could Felice have betrayed them for the reward offered by l’eglise? Once upon a time, in a world far from here, Gwenna could have called upon the spirits of water to divine the truth she needed. But here, now, she had no such power to fall back on. There was no time to think things through now, not here on the road.
The woman turned, gesturing them to follow her into the darkening village. The shaman gave a quick look to Virginie, who nodded in encouragement. No choice but to continue as they had; trusting in the kindness of strangers and hoping against hope that they could find eventual safety. It had worked thus far.
She only hoped it would not fail them now.
***
The fire crackled warm and welcoming in the hearth of the inn, the smell of roasted meats and boiling vegetables filling the air with pleasing aromas, disarming with ease the suspicions which had beset her before. Looking about the low-beamed bar, Gwenna could see that the other shamans all appeared to feel more at ease too, sprawled out as they were wherever there happened to be room; the chairs, the floor, the rug before the blazing fire. They all looked tired, but pleasantly comfortable.
She could feel it herself, too, now that she was in the warm. Her eyes drooping, limbs feeling like they were weighted down with lead. Such strange feelings; even now, so long after arriving in this land, she still felt keenly how cut off they were from the nourishment of the earth, the succour of the spirits. Where once a mere thought could open a connection, a conduit to a world of fresh and vital energy, now her body, and those of the shamans with her, were bound by the same laws that governed those of ordinary men.
Fatigue had dogged their every mile.
“More vin?”
Gwenna looked up from her contemplation, to Felice who stood with a pewter decanter of sweet smelling wine. The red-haired shaman smiled as the innkeeper filled her goblet anew, this time Virginie’s cousin returning the gesture. Here, behind locked doors and away from prying eyes, it seemed that she had relaxed somewhat, a fact for which Gwenna was grateful. Suspicion only ever begat suspicion.
A sip of the rich, sweet red wine. She closed her eyes in appreciation. The wine was better here even than it had been in the ever-summer glades of the Retreat.
The Retreat. She thought back with a sigh; how long it seemed since she had departed the shamans’ spiritual home for that final time, marching at the head of a ragtag army of plainsmen and betrayed-followers of the God-king Invictus. Marching towards that epic final showdown against the forces of darkness. What would have become of their home now, half a universe away? They had blown shut the portal between worlds behind them, trapping the evil forces of Those Beyond the Veil, for now, at least. Was her birth-world even now overrun by gibbering hordes of demons and their ilk? Were the plains afire, the mountains scoured of life?
Did anyone yet live that they had left behind?
She shuddered for an instant, suppressing her horror at the thought of a world bereft of life, stalked by raging demons with fire for eyes and teeth of obsidian. But then she steeled herself; for was that not the very fate that they had hoped to forestall by coming here? Their previous world was lost; had been, since the very first moment their Lord had been dragged, screaming from this very world into that of her birth; taken, a pawn, a minion in an unknowable and elaborate plan of domination by dark and ancient forces that dwelt in a realm of fire and brimstone. No, their homeworld had been doomed from the start. But here? Here they had a chance. They had time to prepare the world, the human race, for the invasion to come.
She thought to the country that she had seen, the people she had met and helped on their journey south through France. This world seemed ignorant of even the basics of communing with the spirits, seemingly blind to the wonders of the life that dwelt unseen around them. In fact, those in power seemed to go even beyond that, persecuting with great ire anyone that even showed any hint of believing in any powers beyond that of their nameless and faceless ‘god.’ What a strange concept, she thought. Most men in her previous world had struggled for freedom, keen to live a life of independence, free from the tyrannical grip of a distant ruler. Here, it seems, they craved it, so much so that they would invent kings where there were none, rules to abide by simply for the sake of abiding.
In all her experience, Gwenna had known no gods, no deities worthy of worship.
She had met the Avatars, sure; those vast and incomprehensible incarnations of the elements themselves, each more than just a physical being, instead, a representation of that entire element – earth, fire, air, water – as it appeared throughout the cosmos. Yet even they had demanded no worship, content in knowing themselves to be what they were; just a part of a greater whole. A large part, an integral part, but a part nonetheless.
Within, not above.
Besides, the god the masters of the French people seemed so eager to push on everyone and inflict upon themselves was ascribed human characteristics; the Avatars as she had met them were inscrutable, alien, so far beyond mankind as mankind was beyond the ants, beyond the worms that crawl through the soil.
No. Only one being had she met that appeared to meet that strange and idealistic fusion of earthly humanity and godly power, mortal and immortal. She thought back to when she had last seen him, that final parting look of those piercing green eyes as she’d passed thro
ugh the portal.
Stone, once-called Invictus, the God-King. A mortal, plucked from his life and dragged screaming through the barrier between worlds. Changed, hardened. Made something more. Filled with dark power, then emptied, cleansed, to be reused, recharged. Repurposed.
What was he now, Gwenna thought? Even with the wisdom of Wrynn coursing through her veins lending her knowledge beyond her years, she couldn’t fail to be amazed by the power she’d seen displayed as he’d fought in that final, climactic battle against the demons arrayed against them. Twin glaives a-glow with power, he’d surged through the ranks of the foe like a celestial comet; where he’d struck, death had followed, his glowing skin and rippling torso proof against any and all weapons of the enemy. Where he had soared on wings of light, quailing hearts had grown strong. Where his mighty hand had touched, people had changed, grown, become better, more whole, more assured of their purpose.
Yet even so, even despite the miraculous power that now dwelt within him, a living, fiery conduit to the combined might of the Avatars themselves, even despite that, Gwenna still knew that Stone was no god. Nor would he even pretend to be. Once, perhaps, when she had only known him as Invictus, she would have most likely said differently. She had grown up to tales of his barbarism, of his iron rule. But despite all her harboured vehemence, the man the shamans had rescued, unconscious, on the brink of death, had not been the tyrant of legend.
He had been merely a man, used, abused, then discarded once his purpose had been served. A man so difficult not to like, whose green eyes and easy manner had seemed so familiar, so welcoming to the red-haired shaman that she’d found herself warming to him despite her reservations.
Only when her mentor and guardian, the late, great Master Wrynn had finally left this world, leaving her with all his accumulated wisdom and memories had she finally learned the truth, the secret her teacher had kept from her for all these years.
Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 6