by Martin Owton
“Are there any merchants’ messengers staying here?” he asked. “I’m looking for companions for a fast passage to Sarazan.”
“Yes, master. We got three of ‘em staying.” Aron heaved a sigh of relief; the effort had been worth it. He paid the stableboy for the mare’s lodging, took his pack and sword and walked wearily into the inn.
Aron could see why the Traveller’s Rest was popular with merchant’s messengers; the interior was well-lit with lamps burning good quality oil, the floor tiles were bright and clean. All this would be reflected in the price of a bed for the night, he thought as he waited for the innkeeper to attend to him. But still, travelling with the messengers should cut the journey time by a day.
Aron purchased a bed in the travellers’ dormitory, a bowl of stew and a loaf of fresh bread. He thought about a mug of ale, but decided he had already parted with enough money and took water instead.
“You have merchants’ messengers in tonight?” Aron asked the landlord.
“What of it?” The landlord stared suspiciously at Aron from beneath bushy eyebrows.
“Could you point them out to me? I’m looking for company for a quick passage to Sarazan.”
The landlord’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Aron. “They’re good customers of mine, why would I want to be disturbing them?”
Aron met his gaze and held it. “They might be glad of me. I’m a handy swordsman.” He slipped a coin into the landlord’s palm.
“Zat so now?” He took another long look at Aron. “Reckon there’s no harm in them having a look at you. Come with me.”
Aron followed the landlord through a series of doors into a snug bar where three men sat warming their feet beside a small fire, a table piled with dirty dishes in one corner.
“Gentlemen,” said the landlord. “My pardon for disturbing you, but this lad here is looking for a fast passage to Sarazan. Says he’s handy with a sword.”
The three turned to look at Aron. They were solid men in their thirties, dark-haired, bulky in the shoulder and deep-chested, and all regarded him with suspicion bordering on hostility.
“Who’s your employer?” growled one through his luxuriant moustache.
“No-one. I’m travelling on my own account,” said Aron, knowing very well that this would do nothing to reassure them. He wondered what he could say that would.
“So what’s your hurry?” asked the moustache bearer.
“A friend of mine is in trouble,” said Aron.
“I don’t like it,” said the moustache bearer.
Merchants’ messengers sometimes carried considerable amounts of gold with them, and Aron could well understand his suspicion. He turned to walk away.
“Wait a moment,” said one of the other messengers. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Have you fought in the arena in the Holy City?”
“Last summer. I fought Mikael of Sarazan,” said Aron.
“I thought so,” said the messenger. “The champion of Nandor weren’t you? Aron? You’re a very fine swordsman.”
“So was Mikael of Sarazan,” said Aron.
“You won’t find a better swordsman, Orlis,” said the messenger. “If he wants to come with us, we should take him.”
Orlis grunted in reply. Aron could pick out no words, but his impression was negative. The third messenger spoke for the first time. “I agree with Barn. It would be no harm at all to have a good swordsman at our backs through Eigel Woods.”
Orlis grunted again. “Have it your own way. I’m for my bed.” He emptied his tankard and stood up. “Suppose I’ll be seeing you tomorrow then,” he said to Aron, and walked stiffly from the room.
“Don’t mind him,” said the third messenger to Aron. “He’s always grumpy after a day’s ride. I’m Dirick and this is Barn.” He held out a hand to Aron.
“What time do we leave tomorrow?” said Aron, taking Dirick’s hand. “Dawn?”
“As soon after dawn as we finish our breakfast,” said Dirick cheerily.
“I’ll see to it that someone wakes you,” said the landlord.
Aron realised then how tired he was from the day’s travelling, and how little sleep he could expect on the road to Sarazan.
“See you at breakfast,” he said to Dirick then turned to the landlord “You’d better show me where I’m sleeping.”
The travellers’ dormitory was a long low-ceilinged room with a row of pallet beds on either wall. It smelled clean and the floor looked to have been swept recently. Aron dumped his pack beside a pallet and sat down to take off his boots. He lay back on the straw-filled mattress utterly weary, pulled his blanket round him and closed his eyes.
Darkness, chilled to the bone, nose full of smoke and the reek of a nearby midden. Harsh voices raised in laughter just beyond the rough wooden wall at his back. Fear paralysed him. He hardly dared breathe in case it drew their attention. Help me. Help me, Celaine’s voice pleaded in his mind. Some part of his brain that stood outside the dream recognised her and sought to reply. I am coming. He remembered the truedream he had had of her a year ago when he lay asleep in the inn in Sarazan. Of coming upon her weeping in the bower in the herb garden of Nandor Castle, of comforting her then and drying her tears. He tried to send that memory to her, hoping he could comfort her again.
The vision faded; he was back in the travellers’ dormitory, surrounded by slumbering men. He sat up in the bed, wiping away the sweat that, despite the cool of the room, matted his hair. Did I reach her? Iduna, find her and hold her in your hand until I can get to her.
CHAPTER THREE
Celaine woke to a moment of hope. Her dream of Aron had been so clear and vivid that she expected to find him beside her. She opened her eyes and despair washed over her as she looked around her prison, unchanged in the morning light.
It really happened. Father is really dead.
She pulled the dirty woollen blanket close against the bitter cold. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she huddled down in the pile of straw that was her bed, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt her bruised ribs.
Did anyone else survive? Does anyone know I’m here?
Grey light crept through the cracks between the rough timbers of the walls. Rough but sturdy; she had kicked at it until her feet bled last night to no avail. A dog barked furiously, a harsh voice replied with a volley of curses, and the dog’s yelp told of a kick. The smoke of a cooking fire seeped through Celaine’s prison mingled with the reek of the midden.
The bolts on the door rattled; Celaine sat up heart pounding as the door opened to admit two unshaven men dressed in smocks of uncured wool. One of them carried a bowl that steamed in the cold morning air.
“Breakfast, your ladyship,” he rasped. He laid the bowl on the earth beside Celaine, and picked up last night’s untouched supper. “Not ‘ungry, my lady? Oh dear. Still you look like you could stand a bit of starving. Fat as an autumn pig in’t yer?” He leered at her, displaying blackened teeth. Celaine said nothing, but pulled the blanket closer around her body.
The second man stepped forward and placed a jug of water beside the bowl, his dark and hungry eyes never leaving Celaine’s face. Celaine cowered back against the timber wall away from him, but he said nothing and made no move towards her. The first man picked up the soil bucket, took it outside and returned a moment later with it emptied. Then they both withdrew and Celaine heard the bolts on the door rattle back into place.
She lay back down on the straw, ignoring the bowl of hot gruel, and closed her eyes trying to recapture the dream of Aron. She remembered how he had fought the Saxish clansmen last summer in the Holy City’s narrow streets. She had been terrified then by his ferocity and ruthlessness as he killed the assassins; now she wished with all her heart that he was beside her. Then they would pay for their treatment of her. Iduna, send him to me, she prayed, her eyes filling with tears again.
Sometime later raised voices dragged her from the restless sleep she had fallen into. Shouted arguments were common enough
in the camp, but this one was different; she recognised one of the voices as her cousin, Tancred. She leaned against the rough wood of the wall and concentrated on picking out the words.
“I paid you for the two deaths and you gave me only one.”
That was beyond all doubt Tancred. She had heard his voice raised in anger enough times to know it anywhere.
“We did what we agreed,” replied a harsh voice. “Pay us the money.”
“You did half what we agreed. You get half the money.”
“Pay us or we keep the girl.”
Celaine’s stomach froze at his words.
“The girl comes with me.”
“Only when you pay us.”
The harsh voice was joined by others and Tancred’s reply was lost in the uproar. Celaine felt empty, utterly lost and very afraid. Tancred was behind it all. The ambush, her father’s death and her abduction: it was all clear now. But what did he mean that they had given him only one death? It must be that Maldwyn was still alive. That thought produced a small flare of hope before realisation quenched it: Tancred was the reason why she hadn’t been touched. Without the lure of Tancred’s gold there was nothing to save her from the bandits’ pleasure.
“Tancred!” she screamed at the top of her voice. Bad as Tancred was, the bandits promised to be worse, and he represented the only chance she could see of getting out. She hammered on the wooden walls of her prison until the pain forced her to stop, but no-one seemed to notice. The noise outside faded away and there was silence broken only by the beating of her heart.
After a time that felt like a week, Celaine heard voices, initially faint but drawing closer, still raised in dispute. She strained to catch the words.
“Idiot. Why can’t you keep hold of your temper.”
“He tried to cheat us. No-one does that to me. I don’t care who they are.”
“You should’ve took the money. Now we got nothing.”
“We still got the girl.”
“What good is she?” Celaine held her breath as fear gripped her stomach. “If you think you’ll get a ransom out of the Earl for her, then you’re gone in the head. We’ll be lucky if he only hangs us.”
“We’ll take her to Keshan.”
The great cold hand holding Celaine’s stomach gave a squeeze and she nearly vomited. Even in Nandor, Keshan was a byword for all that was evil and corrupt.
“You can take her to Keshan. I’m not going near the place. I’ve had enough of this. I should never have let you talk me into this.”
“Oh! So it’s my fault now. Nothing to do with that bastard Tancred double-crossing us?”
“If you’d done your job properly and taken down the son, then we could be clear away with our pockets full of gold.”
“You shoulda got more from him when you agreed to do it.” A third voice joined the argument.
“Give us our share of that now.” A fourth voice.
More voices joined to make a tumult that Celaine could no longer pick the words from. The cries became those of pain and were joined for a few moments by the clash of steel.
Celaine put her eye to a crack in the timber and saw a mad scrum of struggling bodies. Two men with swords hacked another to the ground. He screamed shrilly, until a sword was plunged into his body. Then all was silent. Men ran in every direction out of Celaine’s view leaving the body in the mud.
The bolts on the door were drawn back and Celaine’s heart nearly froze. Two men, their rough clothes splashed with blood, strode in. She pressed herself into the farthest corner away from them. The larger of them seized her by the arm and pulled her upright.
“Stop. Listen to me,” she gasped as his fingers dug into her arm. “My brother will pay you whatever you ask if you take me to him.”
“What do you think we are? Idiots? Your brother will hang us,” the bandit growled.
“No. I swear. I’ll make him let you go.”
“Shut your row. You’re going to Keshan.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Wake up, Master.” A hand shook Aron roughly by the shoulder.
He sat up with a start, peering at the dim figure standing over him.
“What is it?” he grunted.
“It’s nearly dawn, Master. There’s breakfast waiting. The other gentlemen are downstairs.” The lad picked up his lantern and shuffled off towards the stairs.
“God’s already!” He resisted the temptation to fall back onto his pallet. It seemed only a few minutes had passed since he had closed his eyes after dreaming of Celaine again. Around him the other occupants of the dormitory slumbered on. He kicked off the thin blanket and swung his feet onto the cold wooden floor, the stiffness of his muscles reminding him of yesterday’s hard ride. He groped in the dark for his boots and hauled them on. Today would be at least as hard. He lifted his pack to his shoulder and walked to the head of the stairs, careful to avoid waking the sleepers.
Orlis, Barn and Dirick sat at a table in the candlelit common room, their breakfasts spread before them. The rich scent of fresh bread convinced Aron that he was hungry despite the early hour.
“Good to see you, Aron.” Dirick greeted him with a cheery smile. “Not too early is it? There’s hot porridge with new milk if you want, otherwise we have fresh bread and honey.” Barn grinned at him through a mouthful of bread and Orlis grunted without looking up.
Aron thought of the long road ahead of them, and reached for the porridge.
“How far do we ride today?” he asked after a few mouthfuls.
“We should be at Beeches Cross well before dark, if we ride for most of the day,” said Barn. “We’ll stop at the Crossways Inn.”
“Is it a good road?” asked Aron wondering if he should put on his chainmail. “I mean is it safe?”
“No such thing as a safe road,” said Orlis still without looking up.
“Don’t mind him,” said Dirick. “It’s safe enough.”
They were interrupted by a tousle-haired groom. “Your horses are ready gentlemen,” he said before departing, leaving behind a faint odour of stables.
Orlis and Barn pushed back their chairs and got noisily to their feet.
“Time to be on the road then,” said Dirick. He pointed to the basket of loaves in the middle of the table. “You might want to take a couple of those and some of the cheese to eat on the way. We won’t be stopping before Beeches Cross.”
Aron picked up a loaf of dark bread and cut himself a slab of crumbly white cheese which he wrapped in a cloth begged from a sleepy-eyed maid. He stowed the food in the top of his pack and walked out into the yard. The three men were already mounted and waiting for him in the grey half-light, wrapped in heavy cloaks against the cold morning air. The groom led Aron’s horse from the stable and held it as he mounted. Aron was barely set in the saddle before Orlis led them out of the yard and away down to the river and slipway where the ferry waited.
Grey half-light turned into grey morning as they rode Orlis and Barn in front, Dirick alongside Aron.
“If you’re from Darien, how did you come to be fighting as champion of Nandor?” asked Dirick.
“How did you know I’m from Darien?” replied Aron.
“I recognise the accent. I’ve been doing a lot of runs to Darien in the last year or so. There’s a lot of business being done up there. Cloth for uniforms, iron for tools and swords, leather for boots. It all has to be bought and paid for, keeps me busy.”
“Caldon is reshaping the land,” said Aron grimly.
“He’s certainly spending a lot of silver on it. You can’t find a stonemason or a carpenter in the whole of the High Kingdom. They’re all in Darien building his castles.”
“And once he has Darien subdued, he’ll be looking for his next prey.”
“Already done that. Moved into the tribal wildlands up north.”
At that point the road narrowed obliging Dirick to go ahead of Aron and end the conversation. Aron contemplated Dirick’s information with a heavy heart; he had hea
rd similar news from other Darien exiles and it had the ring of truth about it. There was no easy road back to Darien for Earl Cordra and his followers. He pulled his cloak closer around him as a gust of wind carrying the promise of rain kicked up the leaves at side of the path. Today would likely be as wet as yesterday. He yawned and shifted in his saddle to try to ease his stiff legs. I’ve let myself get out of condition, he thought. I took it too easy in Laranda. The day was going to be a long and painful one.
***
They arrived at Beeches Cross well before sundown, though with low cloud and drizzle it was already quite dark. Aron was tired, stiff and had learned more than he ever desired to know about Dirick’s life, career as a merchant’s messenger and views on many aspects of life. He had also listened to Barn’s discourses about the virtues of the cuisine in most parts of the High Kingdom. He did not, Aron noted, mention Nandor. Orlis had grunted at him once.
The Crossways Inn was a sprawling low building with a dozen chimneys, each one sprouting a plume of fragrant woodsmoke.
“Why are we stopping so early?” asked Aron.
“The road gets rougher from here on,” said Barn. “This is the last decent place before the Eigel forest. You wouldn’t want to stop the night there. We’ve a long day’s ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Why did we start so early then?”
“To be in time to order the roast suckling pig,” said Barn with a laugh. “Best in the High Kingdom. And we’ve time for a hot bath before dinner.”
Aron climbed stiffly from his horse and gratefully passed the reins to a stable boy. He enquired about the cost of a bath and was disappointed to find it beyond his meagre purse as was the roast suckling pig. He sat in the common room, ordered a bowl of stew and a small mug of ale, then later joined the other three in a private dining room as they devoured generous portions of the suckling pig and a flagon of dark red wine.
The tavernkeeper came to gossip with them and, over a glass of wine, told them of the latest rumours of bandits on the road. “Growing dreadful bold they are,” he said over the rim of his glass.