Blood of the Land

by Martin Davey

  “We aren’t Seek..." Marin began, but seeing Retaj’s face, he stopped and entered the inn without waiting to see if Retaj was following.

  The ceiling was low; thick, smoke-blackened beams crossed the ceiling and had no doubt struck more than the occasional overgrown drunk across the forehead over the years. Chairs were pushed away from tables, three or four had been tipped over on their sides, tankards and mugs littered the scratched surfaces of the tables, more than one of them half full of stale beer. Marin could almost believe he saw the stale gold liquid rippling in time with the beating of the drums.

  “Why do those half empty tankards make me more nervous?” Retaj had followed him into the inn. “I’ve never known a village peasant leave his drink unfinished.”

  Marin ignored him. A jumble of papers had been carelessly pinned to the wall behind the bar; the scraps red, white, yellow and blue. The handwriting was scratched and spidery, the spelling worse. “Weaslit.” Marin said.

  “Pardon?” Retaj sniffed doubtfully at one of the tankards.

  “Weaslit. It’s what this village is called.” Marin dropped one of the papers he had been holding up. Three or four battered books were on a shelf under the bar. They looked like account books. He left them and the scuffed pair of boots on the floor.

  “Ah.” Retaj rubbed a hand through his greasy red hair. The closer they got to the source of the drums, the more the younger man seemed to suffer from headaches. “I ought to tell you, Marin, that I definitely don’t wish to die in a place called Weaslit. I’ve no wish to die anyplace soon, but definitely not in a place called Weaslit. It sounds like—“

  “I’m well aware what it sounds like,” Marin snapped. “But we’re as safe here as we are anywhere. Everybody is gone.”

  Retaj looked around him with eyes wide and arms spread. “You don’t say. And you find that comforting? That everybody in this forsaken village suddenly decided to flee for their lives?”

  “Not flee for their lives, no. But leave yes.” Marin traced a finger along the bar. No dust. “We’re safe here,” he repeated more for himself than for Retaj. “It’s as though you seek out the Sleeper’s embrace every chance you get,” Retaj had said not long after Marin had saved him from the Farsling.

  He had been with Retaj too long, become too familiar with him. It was time to move on, travel alone for a while. It would be nice to enjoy the quiet, to listen to the sound of the drums without some endless prattling disturbing his thoughts. Tomorrow morning Retaj would be waking to find himself even more alone in Weaslit. Marin couldn’t help but smile to think how his friend would cope when he woke. At least there were no hired killers around to make wagers with he couldn’t afford like he had with the Farsling.

  Slatted wooden steps led upstairs, probably to the landlord’s quarters. The wood stained dull and black through years of use.

  Marin was on the third step when he heard the dull thud. A soft sound that he had no right to hear other than it fell in between the beats of the drums. He didn’t break his stride on the steps, breathing through his mouth, senses on full alert.

  There. More movement at the bottom of the steps; more felt than heard.

  His hand left the banister and drew his sword in one smooth motion as he turned.

  Long blonde hair, fine-boned face, black padded leather armour under a pale green shirt. Marin didn’t have room to swing his sword, instead he struck out with his sword hand, felt the man’s nose crack with the contact. The man was quick, he grabbed Marin’s arm in a grip tight enough to send cold pain soaring up his arm.

  The momentum of the punch still moving them both towards the banister, Marin swung a booted foot, catching the blonde figure a thudding blow in the ribs. A mistake. The man released Marin’s arm with his left hand, dropped it to his side to trap Marin’s foot there; pulled Marin toward him like an eager lover and both fell crashing down the stairs and landing against a cabinet stacked with plates and tankards.

  A curiously quiet fight, the only sound the occasional gasp for air or the breaking of crockery as it fell about them.

  All the more shocking then, when a voice bellowed from the dining room. “Stop!” And Marin, still clinging to his opponent on the floor, looked up to see the door swinging and swinging on its hinges, fleeting glimpses of a giant man standing over a dark bundle on the floor.

  Retaj.

  Marin looked down into the eyes of the man beneath him. They were green, opened wide in what looked like questioning amusement despite the blood streaming from the ugly broken nose. The giant was walking towards the door, a scene from a flickering nightmare as the door swung and swung.

  No way could he fight them both, not entangled as he was with the one on the floor, the giant approaching like the Nameless One himself.

  Marin looked back to the man below him and allowed the sword to be pried from his hands.

  And still the drums beat and pounded as though nothing in all the world had happened.

  CHAPTER 7

  The knocking at the door was loud enough to make Landros’s heart miss a beat.

  It couldn’t be Feren.

  Not again.

  The last time there had been a knock like that at his door, he had found his friend standing in the doorway, his expressionless face white, the blood congealing in the jagged split in his skull black.

  More knocking, loud and impatient. Maybe if he ignored it, they might go away. He couldn’t have seen Feren. The dead didn’t come back to life; even in the stories Feren had loved so much. Once a man was dead, he was safe in the arms of the Keepers in Insitur. If he was good in the eyes of the Five, that is.

  The knocking again, loud enough to setting the walls to shaking this time. Where was Pascal?

  “Endrassi? Landros Endrassi?” It was a man’s voice, the kind of voice that would usually have Landros worried should it be shouting at his door. Only this time it filled him with relief.

  Landros hurried to the door; the key already in his hand. A Commander of the town guard waited on the other side. Like a lot of people in Katrinamal, Landros knew his face but couldn’t put a name to the man. Much older than Landros, the Commander had a receding hairline and heavy eyebrows that made his eyes look dark. Like all the members of the guard, his uniform of blue was neatly pressed. The man shuffled his booted feet when Landros opened the door; he stood straighter as though he was trying to look down on Landros even though they were of the same height.

  “You seem to be under the impression that I have nothing better to do with my time than stand in this piss-stinking corridor, lad.”

  Landros blinked and ran a hand through his hair. “What…what is it you want?”

  “Landros Endrassi? Captain of the Watch?” Disbelief reverberated through his voice. “Commander Perun. The Town Clerk has summoned you to his office. I am to take you there this moment.” Dark eyes shifted to Landros’s creased vest and loose belt. “Though it might be prudent to give you a moment to tidy yourself up lad.”

  Landros ran a hand through his hair again; made a mental note to get it cut. He nodded and ransacked his room looking for some clean clothes. Once he finally rejoined the Commander, the wrinkling of the older man’s nose suggested that they weren’t much of an improvement. He seemed reluctant to wait another moment and turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.

  Landros pulled on his jacket and hurried after him.

  The smell of horse shit hung heavy in the air. The stables weren’t far away and the smell was always worse on warm days. And though it was still early, the sun already blazed bright overhead.

  Perun set off along Rourke’s Way. Already the streets thronged with people, though all seemed to step out of the way of the Commander like a river breaking around a rock. This part of Katrinamal was mainly residential housing where the less fortunate lived, those who hadn’t been Visited by the Keepers and so forced to find their own calling in life. Here the colours were mainly drab browns and greys, maybe a dull green here and there.


  Landros dodged his way through the crowds. “So where is it the Clerk wants to see me? At the Hall?”

  The Commander was like a beacon of a better life in his finely pressed blue uniform. He stopped now and looked back at Landros, his pink scalp shining under the sun. “The Hall is no place to conduct business, lad. The Hall is to give glory to the words of the gods, nothing more, nothing less. I am to take you to the Clerk’s house.”

  Despite the heat of the morning, Landros felt a cold sweat on his chest. He hurried to catch up with the Commander. “So why does the Town Clerk want to speak with me?” For some reason he felt guilty. Could it be because of his failure to bring the woman back with him? They had searched the cliffs for the better part of the day and still not found her. Or could it be because of Feren? Landros wondered if his heart and mind were clear of conscience. The Keepers could see into the hearts and minds of all men and nobody was safe from their nightly roamings. Could Landros honestly say he was blameless for Feren’s death, blameless for the woman’s escape?

  “You think I am a messenger boy, Endrassi? It’s bad enough that the Town Clerk sends me to fetch you and it’s bad enough that you let me spend half the morning waiting at your door. The least you can do is save your questions for The Clerk.”

  The man’s attitude was starting to grate on Landros’s nerves, but he couldn’t help himself asking one more question. “Is it true? What they say about the Clerks? That the Keepers change them?”

  The Commander didn’t favour him with an answer. He turned on his heel and the rest of the journey was spent in silence.

  Even though Katrinamal wasn’t a big town, a man could spend years in the place and still manage to find himself lost. Katrinamal had the appearance of never being planned. Poverty lived side by side with wealth; one moment Landros was chasing Perun past a row of rickety lean-to houses, and the next they turned a corner to find a little cluster of shops selling only the finest furniture, or a grand residence owned by some person truly blessed in the eyes of the Five.

  Landros knew the way to Ricon Lovelin’s residence. A bewildering array of turns and corners and alleys, but still he could have negotiated them blindfolded. The Clerk’s estate lay on the same side of town as his mother’s home. Walking the same route he had walked so many times before, he felt a familiar queasiness; a nauseating lightness in his stomach.

  Who would he rather be going to see; his mother and her insane ravings, or Ricon Lovelin with his religious fervour and his impossibly dark eyes? Landros was almost surprised to find that the answer was the Town Clerk.

  The house of the Clerk was visible long before they got near it. A flag with the crest of the Keepers hung listlessly in the still air on a crenellated stone roof the colour of ancient paper. The house looked like an old castle from Feren’s stories.

  Landros hurried his step to keep pace with the Commander as they neared the posts to the outer gates of the house. Even here it was still a distance past the pastures and stables and barns to the house itself. Just inside the gates was a row of servants’ houses, each one of them bigger than Feren’s mother’s house and it was from one of these comely homes that a bustling middle-aged woman hurried toward them. She had a giant key clasped in one fat fist and she looked at Landros suspiciously before speaking to the Commander, “Took your time din’t you?”

  Perun sucked on his lip. “Aye, Beatie. Some people are harder to wake than others, it seems.”

  “Yes, well.” The portly woman fiddled with her skirts while her cheeks turned a similar shade of red to the sky on a summer’s dawn. “The Master doesn’t like to be kept waiting is all I’m sayin’.” She fiddled with the padlock on the black wrought iron gates. “Take my husband, Mister Kanun, when he works all night such as he will be tonight, he won’t be happy if he was made to wait for his dinner when he gets home in the morning. Not happy at all, he wouldn’t be.” She finally managed to work the key into the lock and swung the gates open enough to allow the Commander and Landros entrance.

  “Is that right, Beatie?” The Commander’s shoulder brushed hers as he stepped through the gate. “And the Keepers know he is a man not accustomed to being unsatisfied, I’ll wager.” Landros couldn’t believe the change in the man; all of his grim, dark aura evaporated by the smile of this old woman. “I’ll make sure my patrol takes me past these parts tonight. Just to make sure you are safe and well without your husband to watch over you.”

  Landros tried to smile as he passed the woman. Beatie must be at least twenty summers older than the Commander, weigh at least twice as much. His smile felt more like a grimace.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you, Perun.” She swung the gate closed behind them almost before Landros was through it, locked it just as quickly.

  He hurried after Perun, looking all around. It looked no different to any other farmland; stone walls, green pastures, stables and barns were scattered about. The difference here was that the farmers and shepherds were labouring to feed one house, the house looming over them all like some watchful, never-sated beast. Some said that there were twenty-one rooms in that house and that the Great hall’s ceiling was so high a warg could stand in it without stooping.

  “She seemed like a nice woman, Perun,” he said without any real hope of reply.

  “You will address me by my rightful title, which is Commander. And Beatie is a lady, Endrassi. Not that you will be familiar with such judging by the amount of time you and your young friend spend at Mother Jendra’s.”

  The Commander’s usual mood had reappeared as swiftly as night followed the setting of the sun. Perun knew that he had visited Mother Jendra’s with Pascal? Landros had only been made Captain of the Watch the night before. Which meant that Perun had been watching him even before he had been made Captain. Landros couldn’t think of a single reason why the Commander of the Town Guard would have been watching him. Something to think about later, for now he followed him through the outer grounds of the Clerk’s house.

  Running a town of eight thousand souls was a lot of work, it seemed. Everywhere Landros looked he saw people running to do the bidding of the Town Clerk. This was a house of importance, of business. Important and business-like people hurried about to do the Clerk’s will, and through it all, Landros hurried after Perun.

  Two carts pulled by bored horses rocked past them on the dirt track, the driver barely glancing in their direction as he scratched at his beard. A lazy ox idly swished its tale as it watched them pass from baleful black eyes. Arched windows, black and bright as the Clerk’s own eyes, perhaps three times as tall as Landros himself, glared down at the approaching men.

  More than one passing servant, scholar or guide glanced in their direction, but none stopped to question them. None stopped to greet them, either. It was cold under the shadow of the house, the building seeming impossibly tall as Landros followed Perun to an arched entranceway.

  The kitchen was long and smoky. Fatted duck and roast vegetables for dinner, it looked like; pots bubbled, ovens swinging open and closed, the sound of chopping loud in the air. More than a score of people hurrying about to prepare the feast, aprons dirty and smeared, arms and cheeks soaked in sweat by the heat of the furnace. Landros followed Perun through it all.

  Through the Great hall and another arched doorway and they were in the solar. Here there was a large bed, green curtains closed around it. A candelabrum with five candles, flickering flames playing idle shadows along the stone wall, stood on a green wooden table piled with books and scrolls and papers. Compared to the Great hall, the solar was a riot of colour and luxury. A rug of some grey, black-spotted beast covered much of the floor. Landros dreaded to think how big the creature must have been in life.

  “Wait here. Somebody will be along to collect you shortly.” Perun’s dark face was shadowed in the flickering light of the candles. His booted steps were soft and quiet on the thick hide of the beast. “Are you well?”

  Squeak...creak...
squeak...

  Sweat, cold as frost on Landros’s forehead. Feren sat at the desk, still wearing the uniform he had died in, though the red coat now looked fragile with age, as though if Landros took it between finger and thumb it would crumble to dust. He lifted a finger, the nail black and bruised, to pale blue lips. Sitting behind the Clerk’s books like that, he looked like some dread librarian demanding quiet.

  Squeak....creak...squeak....

  If Landros looked away for a moment, then Feren would be gone. That’s what had happened before, it would happen again. He wiped a hand across his damp forehead, tried to smile at Perun, though it felt weak and sickly on his face. “So I’m to wait here, am I?”

  Perun pursed his lips in disapproval. “That, I believe, is what I said. You’ll forgive me if I don’t pull out a chair for you.” He took a single step away before pausing and looking back. “One word of warning, lad. I’d sharpen up my wits and attitude if I were you. The Town Clerk is not a man to suffer a fool.” And with that, he strode away.

  Standing in the solar of a cold, draughty house with the table behind him, the curtained bed at his side and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Landros found he could almost miss the Commander’s disagreeable company. Surely Feren would be gone by now. He turned.

  Feren was still there. Landros could even see the light of the sun shining in the oily black gunk around the hole in his head. His friend now seemed oblivious to his presence, faded blue eyes staring straight ahead. It almost looked as though somebody had reanimated the corpse but lacked the ability to breathe life to the mind. But that couldn’t be; Landros had heard Feren hammering on his door the day before, he had only moments ago seen Feren lift a finger to his lips to silence him.