He didn't have a bow, and the traditional long knife was still in its sheath. In his hand he held a flat leather cosh. Essentially a ball of lead in a leather bag, part of the sneaky arsenal of Rangers and thieves. It could knock a man out cold, or stove his head in if you weren't careful.
He was fast as an alley cat. I was thoroughly drunk and a little hung-over at the same time, so it was once again my breastplate that saved me. He'd intended to kick the breath out of me and bash me over the head as I bent double. Instead his kick only moved me a few inches backward, and I grabbed hold of his leg. In desperation he hit one of my arms with the cosh and damn near broke it. Even my alcoholic shell couldn't protect me from that amount of pain. I howled, and drove the nose of my boot into his groin.
The cosh dropped from his slack fingers. I took it and escorted the shuffling, whimpering man to the door. My arm ‒ my sword arm ‒ hung limp and useless by my side. I prayed no one would notice.
My heart caught in my throat when I saw a coach pull up outside the inn, bouncing on the uneven surface of Yew Street. The woman emerged, graceful as a wind-blown leaf, and an audible hush fell among the onlookers. By ones and twos, the constable, the soldiers and everyone else dropped down on one knee. I did the same without even thinking.
Now I knew why she took so long. She was a vision. A red dress of such whisper-thin elegance that silkworms could've woven it directly onto her skin. It glittered with gold thread, buttons and dangles of burnished copper. Delicate patterns of lighter and deeper reds twirled around her like sashes on a dancer.
Sir Erroll and Faro followed at her heels. She stopped before the grey-haired constable, beckoned him up to his feet, and said, “I will speak to him. Please ensure that we're not interrupted.”
The constable stood at attention with the rigidity of a former soldier. His mouth worked, but the words wouldn't come. Everything he tried to say came out strangled. Eventually he stopped trying and snapped a salute to show that he'd obey. She rewarded him with a smile like red roses in bloom.
I threw out a few more crude shouts and smashed another stool to keep up appearances. Then she walked in, and everything went still.
“Like birds eating out of my hand,” she giggled. Her eyes met mine, but quickly looked away, as if I offended her. Or embarrassed her. “Let's not waste any time.”
I waved everyone through the back door, to where the hay-cart was waiting. The alley smelled of stale piss and rancid meat. The woman wrinkled her nose but she was the first to lay down among the piles of hay. There was just enough room for us all to settle with some manner of dignity. I pulled a blanket over us and told the barman's daughter to get us moving. She tugged on her rope, and the big cart-horse began to pull us away.
It was an awful, bone-jarring, teeth-chattering ride out of the Down. However, nothing seemed to dampen the woman's spirits. She smiled as if she could already taste freedom.
“I told you not to worry,” she said, though under the blanket I couldn't tell who she meant to address. “Everything went like clockwork.”
It was Sir Erroll who spoke, his voice strained. “Please, Milady, don't tempt fate.”
She only laughed delicately, and we suspended any conversation. At one point I heard a platoon of soldiers quick-march toward us, all shouts and nervous energy, and I was sure we'd be found out ‒ but they passed us without so much as a second glance.
We were out of the Black Lion, out of the Down, and pretty soon we'd be out of Kingsport. I could hardly believe it.
We finally stopped in a tiny, windowless courtyard off the main road. The girl tapped the side of the cart twice to let us know we were safe from prying eyes. My body was still shaking as I pulled myself out of the hay. Replacing the blanket, I whistled, and she led the cart away without looking back.
Barely a minute later, more wheels came rattling over the cobblestones. One of Nerell's coaches. The coachman jumped down, opened the door and beckoned us inside without a word. Four bodies made for a tight squeeze in the narrow coach. Still, the sumptuous cushions and upholstery were a nice change from picking hay out of my clothes. We started rolling, and through the crack between drawn curtains, I saw Aran's Cross pass me by.
It left me strangely unmoved. Usually I felt something when I left a place behind, good or bad. Kingsport, though, was in all ways not my city. Too big. Too white. Too genteel. Even Tunson Down felt clean and polite compared to my natural stomping grounds in Farrowhale, Gernholm, Newmond. People here slept off the night's drinking in a tavern without getting robbed, knifed and dumped in the harbour. It wasn't natural.
Also, in retrospect, the local wine tasted like dead horse piss. It was a headache in a bottle and I hated myself for drinking it.
It turned out we didn't even need to stop at the gatehouse, but rolled right through under the protection of Nerell's emblem. I breathed a tentative sigh of relief. Tentative, because nothing made me more anxious than things going according to plan.
We bounced around in that coach for the better part of a day. First negotiating the outer periphery of Kingsport, then up the hills to Red Aran's Wood, going as fast as the horses could pull. My heart raced the whole time, expecting to hear shouts behind us to stop, stop in the name of the King. They never came.
Several coaches ground to a halt when we reached the edge of the forest. Looking back, I could still see the white walls of the city, but we were well enough hidden among trees and brush. The welcome scent of wet leaves and dirt pervaded everything. Yazizi came to knock on our door, letting us know it was safe to come out.
Lady Nerell was waiting for us. I figured her consort and son had gone on ahead. What happened here needn't concern them. The less they knew, the better they'd be shielded from Lauric's wrath, if it came to that.
Nerell gestured to a large stack of things being unloaded from the other carts. Our packs and baggage. Our horses were staked to the ground beside the pile, saddled and ready. There were even a few extra to carry supplies. The men working ‒ Nerell's personal retinue, by their colours ‒ kept their eyes studiously to themselves.
“I'm sorry I can't do more,” she said as Ioanna came to embrace her. “Saints, I hope you know what you're doing, Anna...”
“Don't I always?”
They separated, and I saw moisture sparkle in Nerell's eyes. “Go. You have a Kingdom to save.”
She signalled to the coach drivers and climbed aboard. The wagons rattled off into the woods.
Alone at last, Yazizi went straight to her palfrey and threw her arms around its neck. For a moment she was the picture of happiness and serenity.
“Gentlemen,” said the woman, “I don't need to tell you what will happen if my brother catches us. We have exactly one chance. Seize it.”
The moment passed, and Yazizi dutifully began to load her mistress's things. She had no possessions of her own.
Faro and I followed her example. It was a mercy that everyone had learned to travel light by now, and we took only minutes to get everything secured. A few of us had to help Aemedd with his things, and to lift him onto his smelly Harari hell-beast. How in God's name had Nerell brought a camel unnoticed through the streets of Kingsport?
No matter. I only hoped it wouldn't slow us down running from‒
“Rangers,” said the scholar, pointing.
The distant city gates were open, disgorging a platoon of grey specks, their cloaks fluttering in the brisk autumn wind. Heavy longbows were slung across their backs. I wondered if Descard was with them. If so, we must have ruined his timetable.
It was all the incentive we needed to kick our mounts into action. A trot to warm the horses, then a canter, then a full gallop. We couldn't hide from Descard's boys. We could only stay one step ahead of them.
We didn't stop except to water the horses, and occasionally ourselves. Food was gnawed in the saddle. We flew past logger's huts and inns that I didn't remember from my feverish first trip. We had no time for their hospitality. Not even if it meant a
hot meal or a proper bed. Rain began to come down in buckets, and I looked at every roof with envious eyes.
The Port Road led us for miles and miles through forests and farm country, but we were forced to make camp when the last daylight died away. Too much risk of running into fallen trees, or bandits, or other dangers in the dark. So we slogged around in the mud trying to set up tents, and eventually passed out, exhausted. It was a cold camp. No one bothered with the futile effort of lighting a fire.
Morning came behind a wall of clouds. The shower had carried on through the night and left everything drenched to its core, including me. The trees offered no shelter at all. They just spread the heavy droplets around a little.
We took down our tents, packed and loaded our kit, and mounted up again without exchanging a word. I glanced behind me, half-expecting to see grey cloaks dashing through the trees. Nothing. For now, we were alone in the woods.
Raindrops tumbled from the rim of my hood, from my nose, from my lips and eyebrows and fingertips. Hooves splashed from puddle to pool to inland sea. I'd felt less wet on our barge trip from Dunoghan. Somehow the persistent downpour wore on me worse than a dip in the Salt Sea.
Yazizi dropped back to ride next to me for a spell, casting glances from under her hood. Anger and humiliation coloured her cheeks red. The endless patter of rain muffled her voice to a whisper, though she still managed to sound haughty. “Is the Tzan beginning to appeal yet?”
“A hanging would appeal more than another week with sand up my arse.”
“Hmph. At least we would be warm.”
Hugging herself, she gave a teeth-chattering shiver and went back to Faro.
I decided to check up on our scholar. Aemedd sat slumped on his camel, partly dry thanks to the little tent he'd built out of his cloak. His face was grey, his eyes closed, but every now and again he coughed himself back to life. The reins of his beast were tied to Faro's saddle just in case.
“How are you feeling, Professor?” I asked as pleasantly as possible.
His eyes fluttered open and struggled to focus on me. Several breaths wheezed in and out of him before he managed to summon his energies enough to speak. He sounded like a soft breeze through a reed patch. “Byren. I... have never felt better.”
“If you can tell jokes, there's life in you yet.” I hoped my smile looked reassuring. “Let me know if there's anything I can do. To make you more comfortable, I mean.”
“Thank you for the sentiment. I am well enough.” He paused. Then, “I underestimated you. You're not the buffoon I took you for. Delivering us from the Listener was impressive.”
“I got lucky.”
“Be that as it may.”
Left with no other option, I dipped my head to accept the compliment. “I wanted to ask you something, Professor. Lady Ioanna mentioned something about symbols. A translation?”
He snorted and coughed. “Translation is a strong word. I don't believe the bronze-crafters had a proper written language. It is merely observation and an analysis of some rubbings I took. Their art and pictograms are... enlightening.”
“It looks like a lot of spirals to me.”
“It is a lot of spirals. However, a few of them combine to form interesting shapes if you pay careful attention. A sword, a helm, a shield, a breastplate, and more. From these, I have been able to draw certain conclusions. Some I am still considering. Before I make them public, you see.”
Half-closed eyes twinkled at me, as if sharing some secret knowledge. I flashed a conspiratorial grin and told him, “You know more about this bronze business than you've been letting on, sir.”
Aemedd interlaced his fingers in a monastic gesture of humility. “I am an historian.”
The conversation died as he fought for breath and I, too, felt the need to come up for air. I wanted to hit him. After all this time, the sly bastard was still holding out on us. Neglecting to inform the lower ranks was one thing. By implication, he was keeping some secrets even from the woman.
On the other hand, maybe I could turn that to my advantage... Whatever Aemedd wasn't telling us, he clearly thought it was important, and he had no one else to talk to. The knight hated him. The squire and Yazizi were beneath notice. The only other person left was our employer, and by definition he couldn't confide in her. Sticking to him like glue was beginning to seem worthwhile.
The small, distant voice of Humber congratulated me. He told me I was finally thinking for myself. I muttered at him to shut up.
The only sign of the sun setting was a vague darkening of the leaden sky. Thunder boomed far away, but even the lightning was invisible. Again, we rode until the last ray of light was gone, then camped, and got up again just as tired.
I woke up to the repeated, alien thought of, I have a son.
Karl Byren ‒ the bachelor-for-life, the failed soldier, the sot ‒ begot a child. A son I would never know, or be able to acknowledge. A son who looked like the strongest, brightest, happiest creature in the world. A son who would be raised into lordhood and luxury by Nerell and Sir Graeme. No matter what happened, some tiny part of me would live on in him.
God, this world took you for a turn when you least expected it.
Wet leaves slapped me in the face. Our distance from the major cities was getting obvious by the state of the Port Road. Potholes, broken tiles, heavy branches drooping into our path. A pair of half-ruined bridges bowed low over fat, swollen creeks, outliers of the Crookfarn. The bridges had been 'mended' by virtue of wooden planks laid over the breaks. Further north, a small tree had fallen halfway across the road, showing scorch marks where it had been struck by lightning. We managed to lead our horses around and left it for the Rangers to deal with.
The rain continued, and we rode on.
“Where are we?” I asked Sir Erroll during one of our rest stops.
“Halfway between Kingsport and Gallowan,” he said without hesitation. Pointing somewhere to our left, “Burford,” and to our right, “Wollin.”
“Really? That far?”
“You'd rather we slowed down?”
“Point taken. How much longer until we reach the delta?”
“Two days. Three to find a decent ford.”
I frowned at the sky. Light droplets spattered my face. “God only knows what state it'll be in.”
The knight smiled, grimly. “Don't lose faith now, Byren. Not after we dragged your sorry carcass all this way.”
“Sir.” I snapped a salute, unhooked my mare's feed bag, and mounted up again. My arse was raw from hours in the saddle. We still had a long way to go.
As promised, two more days went by in wet, dreary silence. We left the Port Road and turned further west, following cart tracks where we could, forging our own way when we couldn't. We passed through Lindon-upon-Crook without stopping and crossed its great arch bridge over the rushing farn. The hills levelled out. Forest gave way to grassland.
I was miserable and so was everybody else. Somehow we managed to avoid any major fights. Voices were raised once or twice, but no one had the energy to carry it through.
It wasn't until the second evening that the woman seemed to remember I existed, and summoned me to her tent. I went, grumbling and tired of being used.
“Karl,” she greeted me pleasantly. “Sit down, rest. You must be tired.”
“I'll stand, Milady.”
I neglected even to add a 'with respect.' Wasn't I feeling bold!
The rebuke didn't discomfit her. She stayed where she was, sitting cross-legged at her little table, though she placed down two cups and filled them from a decanter of rose-red wine. She offered one to me with a flourish of her hand.
Despite my pride, I couldn't help myself. I took the cup and sipped at it to keep my lips wet. It tasted light and sweet ‒ not my usual, but nice.
“You must think it's a terrible trick I played on you,” she said into the silence. Her tone was... hard to read. Did I detect a note of contrition? Or was she just manipulating me again? “Perhaps I shou
ldn't have traded on you so heavily. However, your contract clearly states your duties to include any task‒”
“Will that be all, then?” My mouth moved on its own. I couldn't believe I'd interrupted her. And she let me, staring up doe-eyed as I placed my cup back on the table. “As a simple hired mercenary, Milady, I must tend to my duties about camp.”
“Nerell told me everything.”
Such a simple phrase, and it went through me like a bolt of lightning. I sat down on a cushion at her table, dreading what she might say next.
“She has been a dear friend to me for many years, and I...” She let out a long, weary sigh. “I have been unkind to you, Karl. I owe you for her life and freedom, as well as my own. I don't believe I ever thanked you properly.”
I stared at her. There was the faint flush to her cheeks, the errant lock of hair drifting down from her perfect mane, forgotten; all the little cues of someone trying to hide how flustered she really was. If this was manipulation, she did it brilliantly, and I hung on her every word.
“You are far more than a simple mercenary, Karl. The truth is, I've been trying to think of the right words to say to you since we left.”
The lump in my throat took several swallows to go down. I croaked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said in slow, deliberate tones, “that I've grown quite fond of you. Nerell encouraged me to tell you this. We share a mutual regard for you, and we agree that you deserve more for this journey than a bag of coins and a firm handshake. If we do succeed, I could arrange a knighthood, even a nice Barony...”
At first I boggled at the thought. Me, raised to the ranks of aristocracy? It was ludicrous, but if it came to that, I wouldn't turn it down. It would be worth it just to watch Sir Erroll go spare.
I might be able to see Calum again, every once in a while. Even Nerell's company would be pleasant if I could only stop the memories flashing through my mind every time I saw her face.
“I think I understand, Milady,” I said, too shocked to stammer. “Thank you. Will‒ Will that be all?”
Written in Blood Page 33