Nandor (The Nandor Tales Book 2)

by Martin Owton

  Edith took her hand and together they stepped through where the wall should have been into a white world.

  “Think only of Celaine.” Aron’s voice seemed to come to her from some vast distance. Edith tried to visualise Celaine as she had last seen her, mounted awkwardly on her palfrey, trying to wave and hold on at the same time. As Edith and Lady Alice walked gingerly forward the mist began to darken, veiled shapes solidified around them until they were standing at the edge of a clump of scrubby trees. At their feet a figure lay curled in a hollow partly covered with dead leaves.

  “Celaine,” called Lady Alice softly.

  The figure stirred, groaned then awkwardly sat up. “Mama?” she croaked. “How did you get here?”

  She tried to reach forward, but the rope around her waist tugged her back. Tears sprang to Edith’s eyes and she stepped towards her sister, but Lady Alice pulled her back.

  “I’ll see to her. You take a look around and see if you can find out something useful. How many of the bastards are there?”

  Edith stared at her mother in shock, questioning whether she had heard what she thought she had.

  “Go on,” said Lady Alice over her shoulder as she bent down to gather Celaine in her arms.

  Edith raised her eyes and looked about her. A half moon veiled in cloud washed the wood in pale light enough to pick out the shapes of men huddled in their bedrolls around the remains of a fire. Edith picked her way around the camp counting six sleeping men and no sentry. Not disciplined men then, she thought. She walked on past the last man to where the horses were tethered. If only I could do something to slow them down. Loosing the horses would be good. She reached for the rope holding the nearest one and her hand passed straight through it. The horse snorted and turned its head towards her. She stepped back sharply, a stab of fear spearing her stomach.

  If it can sense me then maybe I can spook it enough to get it to break free.

  She waved her arms in front of the beast’s nose, but it just snorted again and turned away from her.

  Can it sense me then? She wondered. There’s too much I don’t know about this.

  She walked slowly back towards her mother and Celaine pausing to examine the weapons that lay beside the sleeping men. These are no warriors. Aron will make short work of them when we catch up with them. She smiled grimly at the thought as she remembered how he had killed the Saxish assassins in the Holy City. And I will be there too, to make sure.

  “There’re six of them,” she said as she knelt down beside her mother and Celaine.

  “Is that right?” asked Lady Alice. Celaine raised her head and nodded in agreement. Edith looked at her sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and tangled hair in horror. She would have taken her for a beggar in the street and passed her by without recognition.

  “There were more,” said Celaine, her voice cracked and thin. “But they argued and some left.”

  Anger began to grow in Edith’s heart as she watched her sister. I swear they will pay with their lives for what they’ve done.

  “Who’s their leader?” Edith asked.

  “Broll. The one with the black beard, but Tancred’s behind it.”

  “Tancred! Are you sure?” asked Lady Alice.

  “I heard him talking to them,” said Celaine. “He paid them to kill Daddy and Maldwyn.”

  Edith felt suddenly as if her blood had turned to ice. The idea that Tancred could be responsible had a hideous symmetry to it. It had to be him. All her years of loathing Tancred, all the memories of his jibes and cruelties collected together as mist gathered around her.

  “Edith,” Lady Alice called but her image was fading, lost in swirling white. Edith felt a moment of fear as the clouds engulfed her, but the anger blazed up again and swept the fear aside. Dark walls loomed out of the white and then she stood in a small room beside a single bed. A figure hunched under the bedclothes, indistinct in the gloom. Tancred.

  Edith edged towards him and then stopped. What could she do? She already knew that she could not touch him. To wake him would only show him that she knew of his treachery and lose any potential of surprising him later. Annoyed, she turned away from the bed and looked around the room. There was a table with a jug and basin and a rough chair. A rooming house then; just somewhere he was passing through. She went to the door. At least she could try to find out where he was. A moment of darkness passed and then she was on a landing. A candle lantern burned in a niche over the narrow stairs to light her way down.

  At the foot of the stairs another short corridor led to a door, wider and heavier than the other. With another moment of darkness, Edith passed through it and found herself in a narrow street. Looking up and down the street she saw nothing that she recognised. The building behind her was a solid townhouse, with little to distinguish it from its neighbours. Perhaps there’ll be a marketplace, or a bridge or a castle that will identify this place, she thought as she stepped away from the house.

  The house where Tancred slept was already lost in the gloom when Edith reached a junction with a larger road. She stood peering into the dark with no indication of which way to go, feeling anxious and slightly foolish.

  “Are you lost?” a child’s voice asked.

  Edith started in surprise. The child stood only a few paces away. Where did she come from? Why didn’t I notice her before she spoke?

  Despite the gloom its face was easy to see; wide blue eyes and pink cheeks framed by a fall of dark curls. She reminded Edith of Celaine aged around nine summers.

  “Where am I?” said Edith.

  “This is Market Street. That’s Widow’s Lane.” The child pointed with a thin arm back the way Edith had come.

  “What town is this?”

  “You are lost, aren’t you?” The child cocked her head on one side and grinned. Something in her gaze made Edith uneasy.

  “Come with me and I’ll take you home.” She stretched out a hand and Edith drew back. “Don’t be scared.”

  Edith looked into the blue eyes and started to move towards her then suddenly turned and fled. She pelted down Widow’s Lane until the breath burned in her chest then ducked into an alleyway. She buried herself in the dark of a doorway and as she stood listening for the sounds of pursuit she realised what had triggered her flight; in all the time she had looked at the child she had not blinked once. Something hard scuffed across wood up the narrow street. Fear rose like icy water around her and she started to shiver. She wished Aron was beside her, standing between her and whatever it was that was out there. The outline of the walls started to fade as another scuff sounded and breath rumbled in a cavernous chest just beyond the end of the alley. She turned her face to the wall and imagined herself warm and safe back in the solar.

  Everything went dark. Edith held her breath against the icy cold. After an endless moment an area of warmth grew around her back and chest. She breathed in and caught the familiar smell of candle smoke. The warmth became a blanket around her. She opened her eyes and looked up into her mother’s face. Tears of relief welled as Lady Alice, Aron and Maldwyn gathered around her, their faces taut with anxiety.

  “Edith?” said Lady Alice. “What happened to you? Where did you go? I was so worried.”

  “What happened?” asked Aron quietly.

  Edith paused a moment to put her story in order, but Maldwyn cut across her.

  “What happened? Did you find her?” He asked. “I only got a headache from it.” He leaned forward, his stool balanced on one leg.

  “Yes. We found her, tied to a tree,” said Lady Alice, her voice thick with anger. “And they’re taking her to Keshan.”

  “How many of them?” asked Aron.

  “Six,” said Edith. “They’re just bandits not soldiers. There wasn’t a sentry.”

  “Where are they?” asked Maldwyn.

  “She didn’t know,” said Lady Alice. “They’re in hill country, and there’s a lot of that between here and Keshan.”

  “What else did you find out?” said Maldwyn.


  “Tancred!” spat Lady Alice. “Celaine heard Tancred talking with the bandits. He’s behind it all.”

  Maldwyn tumbled off his stool and Edith burst out laughing as he sprawled across the sheepskins on the floor. Maldwyn sat up, his face red, eyes blazing. “Is he still with them,” he asked as he dusted himself off.

  “No. He argued with them,” said Lady Alice. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “I found him,” said Edith. “He’s in some little town, but I didn’t recognise anything about the place.”

  “We should’ve hunted him down last summer,” said Maldwyn, his fists clenched tight.

  “Why didn’t you?” asked Aron.

  “Father wouldn’t do it,” said Maldwyn.

  “He couldn’t believe Tancred would betray the family,” said Lady Alice. “He was wrong.”

  “This time I’ll kill him,” said Maldwyn “He can’t have many friends left.”

  “That is a lot less important than finding Celaine,” said Lady Alice. “Do you still intend to set out tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said Maldwyn. “We’ll go over the hills to the coast as you suggested. I’ve already sent out a message to Eldred at Whitestone Valley to expect us tomorrow night.”

  Edith’s stomach tightened as she realised that now was the time to make her case for going with them.

  “Good,” said Lady Alice.

  Edith opened her mouth to speak but her mother stopped her. “In a moment, Edith.” She turned back to Maldwyn. “One more thing, Maldwyn. You should take Edith with you.”

  Edith’s mouth dropped open in surprise. How could she have known?

  “Celaine will need someone to look after her when you find her. I can’t go, so it has to be Edith.”

  Aron started to speak, but Lady Alice caught him with a glance and he stopped.

  “Furthermore,” she continued. “Edith is the only one of you who can walk the mist. You’ll need her to reach Celaine. I don’t really want her to go, but I can’t see another way.”

  Edith held her breath as she waited for Maldwyn’s reaction. He looked at her for a long moment then to his mother without speaking.

  “We’ll need her,” said Aron quietly. “And Celaine will need her when we find her.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wiston cursed at the sharp stab of a bite on his neck and swatted ineffectively at the clouds of insects that buzzed around him. His horse slipped on some rock hidden under the mud of the trail, jolting him forward, and he cursed again. He looked back at the line of pack mules that wound along the narrow path.

  “Hold now, sergeant,” he called, and the mounted men-at-arms ahead of him halted. “Wait for the train to catch up.” He turned and bellowed down the line at the muleteers. “Close up now.”

  He looked up at the steep slopes of the valley ahead, the dark trees fading into the mist that seemed ever-present in this wild and desolate land. Plenty of cover up there. Every instinct he had learned in fifteen years soldiering told him that this place was a trap. The train of mules, heavily laden with part-refined silver, was spread out over three hundred paces or more along the track, the troops at either end too far away to intervene against a strike in the centre. Our numbers afford us no advantage. My Lord should have given me a mage or two.

  “Close up, damn you! Lieutenant, get those mules moving. It’ll be dark before you know it.” An insect flew into his left eye. He blinked the eye tight shut against the pain and cursed again.

  Wiston sat and fumed, rubbing his sore eye, as the muleteers struggled with their animals; the thick mud of the trail sucking at boots and hooves alike. Eventually the train was closed up and they were able to get moving; his frustration eased slightly, but the sense of danger was undiminished.

  Kusso, the ear-less scout, trotted up beside him on a pony that seemed to float over the mud. “Too big.” He gestured at the mule-train and spread his arms wide. “Too long.”

  Wiston nodded at his words, his face set grim. “I did not choose the size of this convoy.”

  “No good,” said Kusso. He flicked the reins and his pony scampered forward up the side of the trail towards the front of the train.

  We have to find a better way of getting the ore out of these hills and down to the coast, Wiston thought as he stared again up the trail into the mist. We could lose a lot of men up here. These mines are supposed to pay for Caldon’s army, but they could bleed it to death, and with it my chances of advancement.

  As the mule-train climbed towards the pass the mist grew thicker around them, and Wiston’s fears multiplied as he lost sight of the soldiers ahead of him. He loosened his sword in its scabbard as his world shrank to ten paces or less. I’ll not feel comfortable until tomorrow afternoon when we’re through the hills and can see Cuiport. The thought of Cuiport comforted him for a moment; a hot meal, a flask of wine and, maybe, an evening’s pleasure at the Duke’s House.

  Cries of alarm and trumpet calls sounded from somewhere out in the mist. Wiston halted his horse and drew his sword. He could not initially tell which direction the cries came from. Two figures carrying spears rushed out of the mist toward him. Wiston instantly spurred his horse into the undergrowth, ducking low against the horse’s neck to avoid the lower branches of the trees, then turned to face his attackers. The horseman beside him was not so fast. He managed only to turn and catch a spear full in the chest. He shrieked and tumbled from his horse as it reared and struck out, catching the spearman with its hooves. Wiston swung his blade and struck the wounded spearman a fearsome blow that sheared through shoulder, spine and chest. The impact nearly took the blade from Wiston’s hand, but he clung on and turned to face the second spearman. The loose horse careered into the spearman, knocking him over and Wiston pushed his mount to trample him beneath its iron-shod hooves.

  Heart pounding Wiston looked around. He was alone in the mist, though the clamour of battle surged all around him. A horn blew and he spurred his horse towards it; immediately his way was blocked by impenetrable trees. Confused, he looked down at the ground to see if he was still on the pathway, but it was impossible to tell. A spearman, his face covered in swirling tattoos, rushed at him screaming a war cry. Wiston twitched the reins and his horse danced sideways. The spearpoint missed his neck by a handswidth. He slashed at the spearman backhanded. The war cry turned to a howl of anguish as Wiston felt the blade strike something solid.

  Where are my men? He peered into the mist, a cold knot of fear growing in his gut. He pushed his horse forward and then stopped. An animal growled somewhere in front. His horse shied at the sound and Wiston fought for control. Another growl; whatever the animal was it had to be huge. Wood cracked loudly, as if trees, not branches, were being snapped. A foul smell like burnt hair reached his nostrils. His horse shied again and Wiston was thrown from the saddle. He landed on his back, his head struck something hard, and for a moment everything went dark. The beast roared; a great deep-throated roar that resonated in Wiston’s chest. The mist parted and an icy spasm of terror gripped Wiston’s whole body as he glimpsed a dark shape taller than the trees. The ground shook as it went by, smashing through trees like peasticks. The foul reek it left in the air almost choked Wiston as he struggled to breathe. The mist closed behind it and Wiston tried to stand, but bright lights filled his eyes and sharp pain shot through his head. He rolled over as a rush of nausea struck him and he thought he would vomit.

  Must get into some cover. I’m a dead man out here in the open. He pushed himself onto hands and knees, ignoring the lights in his head, and groped through the grass for his sword. Panic tightened his chest until his hand closed on the hilt. He began to crawl forward towards the undergrowth. Something moved behind him. He pushed himself to his feet, using his sword to support his unsteady legs, and turned to face the source of the sound.

  Kusso stood before him. A wound on his scalp had spilled blood over half his face, giving him such a savage aspect that Wiston barely recognised him.

  �
��You hurt, my Lord?” asked the scout.

  “My horse,” said Wiston. “He threw me.”

  “He gone, my Lord. Like my horse. We walk now. We hide. Many enemy. I know place to hide.” Kusso moved past him and, taking Wiston’s arm, pushed his way into the undergrowth. After fives or six paces they stood in a small clearing between the trunks of two huge trees.

  “I must find my men. Rally them, fight back.”

  “Too late.” Kusso shook his head. “All dead.”

  “Impossible.” Wiston paused. He was suddenly aware that the sounds of battle had faded. The voices that called through the mist spoke the harsh tongue of the enemy; there were none he could understand.

  “All dead,” said Kusso. “We go.”

  Wiston could only nod in agreement.

  “We walk up. Take off armour.”

  Reluctantly Wiston took off his helm and fumbled with the straps and buckles of his body armour. Kusso was right; he would not be able to walk a great distance or climb the steep hillsides wearing it. He threw it down and drew off the coat of rings he wore beneath, leaving him feeling naked. He paused a moment to reflect on how much they would cost to replace.

  “I’ll keep my sword.”

  Wiston followed Kusso as he pushed his way uphill through the undergrowth. Every breath carried the stink of the creature that he had glimpsed through the mist, leaving his throat raw and his head throbbing. His shoulders and back ached from the fall making each step a painful effort. The voices of the clansmen slowly faded as they climbed until all was silent, save for Wiston’s laboured breathing.

  “How much further?” asked Wiston.

  “Soon.”

  Wiston gritted his teeth and forced his legs to climb the hillside, too tired to swat at the insects that still buzzed around him. Kusso turned onto a narrow path that ran parallel to the slope then pushed his way into a thicket. Wiston followed him and almost fell into a rocky hollow surrounded by thick bushes. In one corner the roots of a fallen tree had created a shallow cave; Wiston crawled into it and laid himself on the dry soil. Kusso passed him a water bottle and he drank deeply, relishing the coolness on his throat. He lay back and tried to will the thumping in his head into stillness.