It took a while before he got dry, but it was only noon. He decided to walk. He put his clothes on and his mail over them. Lissandro entered the forest. There were no paths to follow, not even trails dug by the hooves of animals. Actually, there were no animals to spot, no singing birds, no noise in the bushes. The forest was silent. The trees were darker now. Lissandro looked up. He did not see the sky through the canopy, not even a ray of light. The oaks were large, tall, the bark covered with thick grooves. The branches growing in all directions were distorted and twisted like the arms of agonizing men consumed by fire. On most of the trees grew beard lichen. Usually, the fungus was a sign of healthy air in a forest. But here, the air was heavy and rancid. The lichen looked like decaying pieces of flesh, hanging from burned bodies. The ground was covered with worm-eaten trunks, mossy boulders, and ferns. Their colors went from dark green to purple. The humus was moist under his feet. There was something malevolent in these woods, a darkness that had been growing for years. Lissandro hated it. After a while, Lissandro noticed that he had walked with his dagger in his hand. He needed to calm down, or he would cut himself by inadvertence.
He advanced that way for many hours until he got hungry. There were no animals to see, and he did not even have his bow. He was resigned to eat some roots when he spotted a patch of wood sorrel. The leaves tasted sour under his tongue, but it was still better than chewing on earth covered roots.
Twilight came. Lissandro pondered on where to pass the night. There were boulders a little further ahead. Maybe he could slip between stones and crawl into a cavity. He found a hole his size, laid a litter of fern at the bottom, and lay down on it, curled like a ball. He would freeze, but at least he would not get the night moisture on him.
As he tried to sleep, he heard the first calls of tawny owls, followed by the croaking of toads, and darkest sounds he had never heard before. There is life in this forest, he thought. His blood froze in his veins. He knew he would not get much sleep this night.
CHAPTER 14
“Sir Bertrant… Commander?” a voice called him.
He woke up with a terrible headache. His mouth felt dry and pasty. Bertrant had fallen asleep in his chair once again. He grumbled. His doublet felt too tight. He had moved during his sleep, and now his clothes were all twisted. He wiggled and drew on the fabric to put them back in place. It still felt wrong on his belly. Too short, he thought, or too fat. His doublet felt damp. He bent his head and sniffed at his armpit. When was the last time he had changed clothes? Or was it the tent? Everything stank in that darn camp anyway. He sat himself straight and accidentally hit the flagon of wine with the back of his hand. This would not improve the look of his board. Papers, maps, quills, and remainders of food on platters lay astray on the large oak table. While sponging up the wine with a pellet of paper, Bertrant tried to remember what he had done last before he drowsed. Yes, something about the furniture for the infirmary. That bloody monk turned him mad with his solicitations. He looked up. Only now, he noticed that Faremanne stood by the opening of the tent.
“My lord, Commander?” Faremanne repeated.
“Yes, what is it?” Bertrant grouched. It had better not be the monk again. The smell around him made his head ache.
“We have captured spies, Commander.”
“What, orcs? Bandits? I already told you to kill those scum on sight.” The woods crawled with these things by now.
“No orcs, Commander. I don’t think they are bandits either…but they were spying on us from the outskirts of the camp,” Faremanne said, confused.
“No bandits, you say? Bring them in.” Bertrant was curious. Were there villagers still alive around here? Without his flagon of wine, he would never hold through the boredom of the days. He would not mind some distraction.
Faremanne left the tent and came back a few seconds later, pushing two men and a boy in front of him. Bertrant leaned forward and opened his eyes widely. What kind of peculiar company was that? The man standing on the left had long brown hair waving down to his shoulders, with short sideburns along the length of his ears. In comparison, Faremanne’s long, red, curly hair looked like the fur of a shaggy dog. Yet, the most interesting was his refined features. He had a straight, thin nose and large cheekbones. His generous, feminine mouth was compensated by a sharp, steel-cold look under the prominent arch of his eyebrows. If he had not been sitting, Bertrant would have stepped back. He had seen nasty looks on murderers and butchers, but these eyes bore no mark of such filth. The hate they spread was cold and implacable. As if he had read Bertrant’s thoughts, the man lowered his head. When he raised it again, his dark blue eyes had lost their bite. The man even looked confused. Bertrant’s eyes turned on the man on the right. There was no trace of biting in this one. Despite being a grown man like his friend, his face reminded Bertrant of a young maiden. His huge, green eyes, over his large cheekbones and his small, upturned nose, reflected the innocence of newborn lambs dragged to the butcher’s block. To make things worse, his hair, which reached the back of his thighs, was dyed lavender. Bertrant did not want to know if the sinuous drawings on the man’s forehead were makeup or tattoos. Who on earth would inflict such a thing on himself? And moreover, stroll through a war zone with such a look? However, despite their supple physique, both men could carry heavy armour with ease. Bertrant noted to never misjudge their strength. Besides, their armours were magnificent. Only rich lords or Highnesses could afford such piece of art unless the men had stolen them or knew a blacksmith. The young boy, with his freckles and messy auburn hair, looked ordinary. Of all the three of them, only the child had his eyes riveted down by fear. Bertrant turned back to the man on the left. If someone would speak, it would be him.
“Who are you? And why were you spying on my camp?” Bertrant asked.
“My name is Louis, Sir. My companion and I are the personal guards of his lordship Folc of the House Tyntagiel,” Louis said, bowing. The man knew his courtesies, but his salute seemed forced.
“And where is his lordship?” Bertrant asked, perplexed.
“Right here.” The young boy stepped forward.
Bertrant wondered for a second if they made fun of him. He looked closely at the boy.
“And what is his lordship doing here?” he asked with sarcasm.
“My name is Folc of Tyntagiel, Sir. I was a page to Lord Hunfray of Berridan. Since his and my parents’ deaths, my guards have protected me.”
“And who were your parents?” Bertrant knew Lord Hunfray, and he did die during the war. Besides, the lad knew how to show his respect. The boy’s story made sense.
“Raymond and Isabel, Sir.” The boy looked genuinely sad. Raymond and Isabel of Tyntagiel. Bertrant remembered them now, a barony on the Crysas Peninsula. So many nobles had died during the war.
“I remember your mother, a beautiful red-haired woman. You’ve got her freckles. I’m sorry for your loss, lad. Faremanne, untie them.” Bertrant got up and moved towards the group. “Why are you here?”
“We had heard of the Rebellion and hoped to join your ranks, Sir,” Louis responded.
“Oh, so you want to join our army.”
“No.” Louis looked right at him. “This place…” He paused. “…is a mess.”
It felt like a slap in Bertrant’s face. The man had chosen his words, which made the insult even greater. Furthermore, Bertrant had seen a glimpse of contempt in his eyes, and it had not been for the place. The man clearly suggested that Bertrant too was a mess.
“I suppose that His Highness would do much better,” mocked one of Bertrant’s men standing on the side. He had watched the scene in silence, caressing his pointy goatee.
“And you are?” Louis snapped at the man.
“Captain Segar Mills. I guess that my men made a bad impression on you.” Segar smirked.
“They are untrained. We could win against any of your men in a duel,” Louis said, this time with open scorn. Bertrant realized that only his title as commander had spared him fr
om this insolent attitude.
Bertrant watched the two men bite at each other. The insult was hard to swallow. Yet, he had to admit that Louis was right. That camp was a mess and he should be ashamed of his own appearance, except that no one would have dared to tell him that. The man had sass. However, Bertrant could only tolerate such an attitude if it was justified by actions.
“Well, we will see if you can be true to your words,” Bertrant intervened. “Let’s make a duel.” If the man was a fraud, he would die. Should he win, he may well be of some worth.
“Not with me,” Louis said and turned to his friend, “with him. Selen, against one of your men.”
“Me?” Selen asked, astonished.
“If he loses, you can kill both of us,” Louis added, holding Bertrant’s gaze.
Bertrant wondered why the man would send his delicate companion to face one of Segar’s brutes, condemning himself to death at the same time when he certainly had a better chance to save his skin himself. Something was fishy. He felt like a pawn on a board, and he did not like that at all. He remembered his own previous note, never judge a book by its cover. Bertrant gave a slight smile.
Segar stared at Selen and sneered. “You’re in a hurry to die.” He turned to Selen with a mocking bow. “If my lady can follow me out, we will find you a good match.” Bertrant observed that the green eyes had lost their ingenuousness.
At the call of Segar, the men gathered in a circle in front of the pavilion. A long line of scruffy faces pressed on each other in search of some action.
“I need a volunteer,” Segar yelled, “to give that a good thrashing!” Segar pointed at Selen. The men roared, many laughed. Soon, a forest of hands rose in the air. Fools, Bertrant thought, all a bunch of fools. Though he still had incomprehension marked on his face, Selen showed no sign of fear. Bertrant saw by the way he stared at the ground, the sun, and the crowd that he prepared himself. He might look like a maiden, but he was a soldier. The fight promised to be interesting.
“You remember the orcs,” Bertrant heard Louis murmur to his friend. “These men are a thousand.”
“Thank you. I’ll get even with you for that,” Selen responded, half smiling.
Segar had made his choice. A mountain of a man smashed his way through the crowd. Bertrant gulped. He knew the brute. The Mountain had made as many victims in the camp and in the villages as on the battlefield. The chances of Louis’s friend winning the fight were thin. Selen stepped forward. The circle reformed around the two men.
“When I’m done with you, can I keep your head? I like to decorate my tent with pretty things,” The Mountain chuckled.
“You would probably make good use of a brain, indeed.” Selen sidestepped, keeping his eyes on his adversary.
The big man grunted and engaged. He swirled his long sword. Selen rolled down and avoided the mighty blow. He rose and kept on sidestepping. The soldier threw another strike. Selen backstepped and kept on moving around. Selen hopped and dodged, avoiding all the blows. He only used his sword to deflect the closest strikes on the flat of his blade. The soldier gesticulated, sweeping his sword like a scythe. By luck, he hit Selen with the back of his wrong hand. Selen’s body flew and smashed on the ground. He jumped up like a cat and cast himself on the side. The long sword cleft the dust behind him. The soldier growled. He turned around and cut downwards. Selen blocked the blow but hit the ground again. He twisted. Rose. Sidestepped. The Mountain panted. He snorted. The soldier rotated his sword low. Selen backflipped over the blade. He landed on the tip of his feet and plunged under the soldier. Selen cleaved the man’s belly, rotated behind him and kicked his ass. The Mountain knelt as his guts spilled out. Selen jumped, weapon first, and landed on him. Selen’s sword ran through the man’s back. The chest exploded in gushes of blood.
The crowd was speechless. So was Bertrant. When Selen pulled out his sword, more blood spurted upwards. The young man hopped from the corpse and, in the heavy silence, walked back towards them. Bertrant saw Selen look at his friend and beam like a fluttered maiden. For a second, he saw the relief on Louis’s face and a hint of joy. Standing one step behind Louis, Selen turned around and faced the crowd. The soldiers cheered. The men got what they wanted. They got blood. Bertrant glimpsed at Segar disappearing into the crowd. And Louis got an enemy.
“Well, it seems that you are accepted in the camp,” Bertrand said, looking directly at Louis. He finally understood what the latter had planned all along. If the soldiers had seen Selen as Bertrant had seen the man himself, his chances of existing in the camp were nonexistent. Louis had known it. He had not sacrificed his friend. He had saved his life, unafraid to use his own to tip the scales. Bertrant could only admire the gesture, and he needed clever men. “A tent will be prepared for his lordship of Tyntagiel, according to his rank of course. Our champion will stand by his side, and you, you will share the tent of Faremanne.” As pleased as he was to have new, talented recruits in the army, Bertrant was not foolish enough to let them form their own clan.
“Thank you, Commander,” Louis said. The man was grateful, but his mouth twitched. Bertrant’s decision to separate them had not pleased him.
“Faremanne will show you to your quarters. As for me, I would be pleased to have you at my table tonight.” This was a dinner Bertrant looked forward to.
CHAPTER 15
Bertrant turned away from them. Louis could breathe again. His plan had worked. He had given the boy a status and had secured Selen’s safety in the camp. He had risked all on a throw of a dice. He still felt dizzy after the fight. He hoped that no one had seen the sweat on his brow or the terror in his eyes when Selen had fallen. They would have probably believed that he was afraid for his own life. Yet, he could not have cared less about the sword over his head. He had been a hairbreadth away from running into the arena to protect his friend. Still, he had trusted Selen to the very end. The way his friend had fought had filled him with admiration. Never had he seen such a beautiful warrior, in all senses of the term.
Faremanne led them to their quarters. The tent was not big but could be compartmented with curtains for privacy. It was much cleaner than the ones of the common footmen and had a litter of straw. Louis counted two beds covered with furs, four racks for swords and armours, and three massive trunks.
“I will let you install yourself. Call me if you need anything,” Faremanne said. “That was a splendid fight,” he added. The knight turned around and left the tent.
Louis grabbed Selen’s hands. “Are you all right?” He had been eager to ask since the fight had ended. “Your forehead is bleeding. Let me see to it. Sit down. Folc, bring me some water!” He pulled Selen to a bed and forced him to sit.
“It’s all right,” Selen said with his usual, gentle smile. He sounded exhausted. “I feel a bit groggy, but I’m not injured. It was close still. Yet, I could not lose, not with your life in my hands.”
The words went straight to Louis’s heart. The remorse overwhelmed him. “I’m sorry I asked you to do that. I wanted the soldiers to respect you as a knight so that you could be safe here. I would not have let you die.”
“I know. I understood it when I saw them cheer me.” Selen flushed. “That was the first time I was cheered.” Selen looked down at Louis’s hands on his. “Your hands. They’re bleeding.”
“I may have hurt myself. I was a bit stressed.” Louis smiled. He had pressed his fists so hard that he had cut his palms, opening the wounds and blisters he had made at the river. After the rope, his thin gloves had been in shreds, and he had thrown them away. Only now did he notice the pain in his hands.
“But you still sent me to fight,” Selen said, surprised.
Without considering it, the truth crossed his lips. “I trust you.” Louis stared at Selen.
“Here is the water!” Folc shouted. The boy put the jar on a trunk and filled a bowl. He handed the water and a clean cloth to Louis.
Louis dipped the cloth and wiped gently at Selen’s brow. The cut was s
uperficial. “You won’t need stitches, but you should disinfect it. If you don’t have something antiseptic with you in your bag, I suggest you visit the infirmary.” Louis gave the water bowl back to Folc.
“I will,” Selen answered. He took Louis’s hands in his and observed the cuts. “You should clean your hands. Between the rope at the river and today, your hands are so damaged that they really need a balm. I will fix it for you.”
“Should I fetch your soap, Selen?” Folc asked.
“Yes, do. Thank you.”
The boy searched inside Selen’s bag, took out the soap, and handed it to Selen with the bowl of water. Selen washed his forehead first, then proceeded in cleaning Louis’s hands. The blood and the dust left his skin and blended in the soapy water.
“Will you accompany me to Bertrant’s dinner tonight? The man seems disabused but clever. We may learn a lot,” Louis asked.
“Are you sure he didn’t want to talk to you in private?” Selen put the water on the side. Louis’s hands were cleaned and felt fresh.
“Maybe, but he will have to deal with it. You have the right to know about our future in this camp. Besides, he didn’t specify that he would be alone. I don’t want to face an inquisition.” Furthermore, Selen was the hero of the day, he should get the honors.
Selen rose and removed his armour. The blood on it was drying. Folc jumped to help him with the straps. Louis saw that it surprised Selen and put his friend ill-at-ease. They mounted the armour on the rack. Folc assembled the parts with dexterity. Selen frowned. He took a wet rag and filled a bowl with water.
“I can do it,” Selen scolded towards Folc when the boy took hold of the rag.
“The kid is just doing his job,” Louis pointed out. He did not remember if he had seen Selen angry at someone until now, considering the orcs were not people. He guessed his friend did not like to be served.
“I know. I’m sorry, Folc, but you don’t have to. I’m no lord, not even a knight,” Selen said.
Rising from Dust (Light from Aphelion Book 1) Page 10