by Martin Owton
“I hate this city,” whispered Celaine wiping her mouth with Edith’s handkerchief. “Everyone is so horrible. I want to go home.”
“We can’t,” said Edith, her eyes closed and her breathing almost returned to normal. “We have to get to Lord Tirellan. Someone has to fight for us; otherwise we’ll be ruined.”
Celaine’s reply was somewhere between a whimper and a gurgle.
“Which way is Tirellan’s house from here?” asked Edith.
Celaine looked around. “I’ve no idea,” she said hopelessly.
“Then we’ll have to ask someone,” said Edith. She looked around the square and spied a respectable looking middle-aged couple strolling arm in arm nearby. “They’ll do. Come along Celaine,” she said offering her sister an arm up.
“Excuse me, good sir.”
Edith started, but before she could continue the wife gave her a cold stare, turned her head away and hauled her husband off across the square without a word.
“Well, whatever is wrong with them?” exclaimed Edith.
“Everyone in the city is mad,” replied Celaine.
“Let’s try them.” Edith pointed to a knot of young men who were watching them with interest from the doorway of a tavern.
“I don’t like the way they’re looking at us,” said Celaine, but Edith was already walking purposefully towards them.
“Could any of you fine gentlemen tell us the way to Lord Tirellan’s residence?” Edith said firmly.
“Why certainly, miss,” said the foremost of the lads, a tall well-built fellow with a cowlick of dark hair falling across his eyes. “But first we must fix a price.” He smiled mischievously at Edith.
“What had you in mind?” said Edith looking him straight in the eye.
“Show us your legs,” came a voice from the rear of the group. The tall lad grinned. “Show me and my friends your legs, and I’ll take you there myself.”
Edith stood speechless for three breaths studying the lad’s face. She saw amusement and mischief, but she thought, no evil. Someone thrust a stool towards her. Then her mind was made up. She skipped up onto the stool then took hold of the muddied hem of her skirt with both hands and with a mischievous smile slowly raised it to the middle of her thighs. She stood for a few moments ignoring the chorus of whistles and shouts of more and higher, and then hopped down in front of the tall lad, a tingle of excitement running through her.
“Now take us to Lord Tirellan’s,” she said looking him straight in the eye again. The lad took a deep breath and glanced around at his cronies.
“The price was agreed and paid,” said Edith firmly.
“She did what was agreed,” said one of the fellows. “You owe the maid. See you later, Will.”
Will said nothing for a moment and then smiled. “If you’ll come this way, girls.”
He directed them towards a sidestreet. Celaine, her face white and thin-lipped, gave Edith a furious glance as she walked past the Will’s group of friends and then hurried out of earshot of their laughter.
Will strolled easily through the dark streets, chatting away happily, completely undeterred by the girls’ silence. In the time it took to reach their destination, they learned that he was apprenticed to his uncle who was a bootmaker, that he lived with his widowed mother and three sisters, and had never been further than a day’s walk from the city. Finally they turned a corner and stood before a fine white-painted house surrounded by a wall decorated with an armorial crest every three paces.
“Lord Tirellan’s house as promised,” said Will turning to face the girls with a smile. “And may I know who I have had the pleasure of escorting?”
Edith smiled at the young man. “Lady Edith, of Nandor and this is my sister Lady Celaine.” Will’s cheery expression froze and he bent in a deep bow.
“My apologies, ladies,” he said in a strangled whisper. “I had no idea who you were. Please forgive my friends and me for our behaviour.”
Edith smiled at him. “Thank you for being our guide, Will. You were a friend when we needed one.”
“With your permission, I’ll leave you now, ladies.” Will stood up and with a tight smile turned and hurried away. As soon as he was out of earshot Edith burst out laughing.
“How could you do that?” said Celaine. “Displaying yourself in front of that crowd. What would mother say?”
“I did what I had to do to get us a guide,” said Edith. “I don’t care what mother would say and anyway, she isn’t going to find out. And it worked, didn’t it?”
“But it was such a risk. He could have been any kind of criminal.”
“But he wasn’t,” Edith smiled mischievously. “He was quite nice, wasn’t he?”
“In a common sort of way, I suppose,” said Celaine. “But I still think you were mad to do it.”
“We’re here now. Let’s do what we came for.”
“We can’t go in looking like this. Let me brush my hair first. You need to do yours too.”
A few minutes later the sisters, their appearance slightly less unkempt, approached the house.
“What are you going to say to the gateman?” asked Edith. “He might not let us in if we’re not expected.”
“He will at least send for Petter. You know how servants gossip, everyone will know who I am.”
They walked up to the gate and saw the gateman’s post empty with the gate wide to the night. Edith looked around for a moment and then walked in.
“Where are you going?” hissed Celaine.
“Inside. There’s light in some of the rooms, so we’ll find someone who can tell us where your precious Petter is. Now come on,” replied Edith. “Or don’t you think he’ll be pleased to see you?”
Edith started up the gravelled driveway to the entrance, and Celaine followed a moment later.
“I don’t understand,” said Celaine when they reached the entrance. “There’s usually someone either here or at the gate.”
Edith tried the door which swung open at her touch. “Never mind, let’s see if Petter’s at home.” They stepped into the lamplit hallway.
“What’s the smell?” asked Edith wrinkling her nose.
“Scented oil,” said Celaine. “Petter burns it in the lamps. Isn’t it lovely?”
“Choking more like,” said Edith holding her nose. “Isn’t that an incredible picture.”
She pointed to the mural of the fauns and shepherdesses.
“Petter’s got lots of beautiful things,” said Celaine airily. “He’s probably through here.” She moved towards the door beside the mural. “Don’t touch anything.”
Together they walked down the wood-panelled corridor, Edith wide-eyed at the richness of the decorations.
“This is a treasure house,” she whispered. “It’s like a fairy story.”
Ahead of them the door was ajar and as Celaine approached it, she set her shoulders back and her head up. She pushed open the door and walked in followed closely by Edith.
The girls looked around the empty room. On a table stood three wine goblets, two of them still with red wine in them. Other than that, there was no sign of anyone. Celaine noticed the door in the far wall stood ajar and that the lamps were lit in the room beyond.
“He might be through here,” she said.” I’ve never been in there, so I don’t know where it goes.”
“Then let’s see,” said Edith.
CHAPTER 32
Aron opened his eyes to a world of white. He shook his head and dark shadows swam in a pale background. He pushed himself up from where he lay and lifted his head above the layer of mist that clung to the ground. Around him trees and bushes grew out of a white sea. He stood up and regarded his surroundings. Above, the sky was cloudless blue with barely a breath of wind. In front, a small valley with the shadows of the trees stretched long across the grass, the ridge on the far side perhaps five hundred paces distant. Behind him was a scrubby wood in the full leaf of summer though
strangely silent with no birdsong or buzzing insects.
Morning or evening? thought Aron. Already the mist was thinner around his feet, the air chill on his naked body. Morning then, but where? The spirit world? He tentatively ran his hands over his back exploring the sites of remembered pain and found no injury. Am I dead then? This doesn’t look like any afterlife I’ve ever heard of.
The sight of two horsemen cresting the ridge interrupted his musings. They halted and one pointed in his direction. Aron heard the distant blare of a horn, and then a pack of hounds appeared on the ridge. The horsemen kicked their mounts into a gallop and headed down the slope directly towards him, the pack at their heels.
After a moment’s hesitation, Aron turned and ran for what looked to be the thickest part of the wood. He paced himself as he ran, as if this was one of the hare and hounds chases at the Academy, except that this time the hounds were real. He could hear them howling as they picked up his trail at the edge of the wood. He looked for a tree to climb; but every one was either too large, tall pines with no handholds within reach, or too small to take his weight. He ran on picking his way, trying to keep to dense enough parts of the wood to hinder at least the horsemen. Thin branches lashed across his naked body as he crashed through the foliage, dodging to avoid the thicker boughs, looking continuously for some refuge. The ground sloped away ahead of him. Please let there be a river at the bottom of the hill, he thought as he heard a hunting horn blare somewhere behind him. The horn was answered by the baying of the hounds, closer now than before. Aron pushed himself to run faster. I’m done for if I twist an ankle now, he thought, ignoring the pain from feet bruised by the rough ground.
Aron heard the splash of water ahead of him and, breaking through a screen of bushes, he came upon a stream. Too small to offer a real chance of losing them, he thought as he jumped in; the water blissfully cool on his injured feet. He waded downstream for some thirty paces before hauling himself out onto an overhanging branch and back to dry land again. Then he set off continuing downhill, tracking the path of the stream. Behind him the cries of the hounds echoed through the wood.
The slope flattened out and the scrubby bushes gave way to lusher greener plants. As he ran, Aron was aware that the ground was softer underfoot. The trees were smaller too, willow rather than pine. He ran on, each breath burning in his chest. The cries of the hounds faded; they’ve lost the trail he thought. Then a minute later, a horn blasted and they gave tongue again. Aron looked around desperately for some refuge where he could rest up, catch his breath and think. Ahead of him was a high bank of reeds; he plunged into it and sank shin deep in water. He splashed through the screen of reeds and found himself looking out over open water.
To his left and right the water stretched a good distance, five hundred paces perhaps; the shore ahead of him was much closer, maybe fifty paces. Aron splashed forward as the cries of the hounds grew closer.
By the time the dogs came in sight, Aron was hip deep and nearly halfway across the lake. The leading dogs bounded through the shallows and then swam towards him. Aron turned to face them and saw the two horsemen push through the reeds and halt their mounts in the shallows. He was close enough to recognise his pursuers as Tirellan and Cristoff.
How is it that they have horses and hounds in the spirit world? Aron thought as he stared at them. I thought you brought only your essence here.
He had no more time for questioning as the first dog was almost upon him, teeth bared, growling deep in its throat. Aron reached out his left hand; the dog snapped at it. Aron pulled his arm away and threw his weight onto the dog’s back pushing it under the water. He threw a leg over the struggling beast as if trying to ride it, as the second dog seized his right arm in its jaws. Hot needles of pain leapt up his arm. Aron clamped his legs around the first dog, bearing down on it and then caught the second dog’s muzzle with his left hand and hauled it below the water. The second dog tore at Aron’s body and legs with its claws. Aron held on struggling for balance, gritting his teeth against the pain as a third dog sank its teeth into his shoulder.
After an eternity the second dog released its grip on his arm allowing Aron to get a new, firmer hold on it. The first dog ceased struggling. Aron stood up and then rolled to bring the third dog under the water. A fourth dog snapped at his face.
“Damnation Cristoff, this fellow’s game.” Lord Tirellan’s voice carried over the water. “Never had one fight like this. Let’s get him moving again before he slaughters the whole pack.”
He raised his horn to his lips and blew a blast. The dogs turned immediately and began to swim for the shore.
Aron looked up at the sound of the horn, but retained his grip on the now limp second dog.
“Encourage him to get moving, Cristoff,” called Tirellan.
Aron tensed at the words.
“Certainly, Petter.”
Cristoff slid a light hunting bow from its hanging on his saddle and nocked a arrow. He took brief aim, smoothly bent the bow and let fly.
Aron saw the bow bend and lifted the body of the dog up before him. He fell backwards off his feet. He felt the arrow strike the dog, the point punching right through the body to just scratch his chest. He dropped to the lake floor and struck out for the far shore, holding his breath for as long as he could before surfacing to breathe.
Tirellan turned his horse down the long axis of the lake and pointed to the far end. Cristoff wheeled his horse the opposite way and kicked it into a hand gallop. Tirellan blew his horn, and the dogs, after a moment’s confusion, divided into two roughly equal packs and chased baying after the riders.
By the time Aron reached the shore both Tirellan and Cristoff were out of sight, hidden by the trees, though he could still hear the hounds. He sat down for a moment’s rest on a stretch of coarse grass and inspected his wounds. His right forearm was bleeding freely from the dog bite as was his left shoulder. His stomach and thighs were scratched from the dog’s claws and though they burned fiercely they weren’t deep.
I have to keep moving, he thought. If I rest for too long I’ll stiffen and be unable to run. He pulled himself up and lurched into a trot away from the lakeshore. But where am I going? He thought of what he knew of the spirit world. Not much really, just the walking in the mist and Iduna’s bower. He remembered her face and what she had said when he asked how he would ever find her again.
Keep me always in your heart and I will find you.
He pushed through a stand of bushes, flinching as the branches swept across his lacerated body, seeking some hiding place; but this side of the lake was the much like the other, mostly scrub and willow. Ahead of him the wood seemed thicker with bigger trees. He struggled to move faster, but his legs seemed unable to respond. I can’t go much further, he thought desperately. He stumbled over a root and nearly fell. Dark specks danced for a moment in his field of vision as he pulled himself up. Horn blasts sounded from left and right. Round the end of the lake now. He ran on, gasping for breath. A stand of pines reared up in front of him, one of the trees growing up at an angle. A shallow enough slope to climb? It looked possible. Aron halted at the foot of the tree. I’d be safe from the dogs up there, but Cristoff has a bow. I’d be an easy target and there’d be nothing I could do.
Beyond the pines grew a thick bank of tangled gorse and thorn. Aron looked around at the fallen wood and selected a likely looking branch. He hefted it in his hands; a tool to clear a way through the undergrowth, but also a club to use against the dogs. But what then? I can’t run much further and I can’t kill all the dogs. He looked at the undergrowth and a desperate plan formed in his mind. If the undergrowth is thick enough, I can draw the dogs in, but Tirellan and Cristoff won’t bring their horses in. Then I can circle round and come out behind them, despatch one of them, take the horse and escape.
He moved forward into the undergrowth, the baying of the hounds now loud on either side of him. It was impossible to move quickly and Aron collected many m
ore scratches from the thicket. He could feel his arm and shoulder stiffening as he eased his way carefully through using the branch to push the larger bushes. If I clear a way, it’ll only lead them straight to me. The sound of dogs now merged behind him. They’ve reached the point where I came ashore. The dogs will be into the bushes soon. He struggled forward bearing to his right through the dense dark heart of the thicket. I hope this undergrowth is deep enough.
A horn blew somewhere away to his right. Soon. He drove onwards a few more paces before the tumult of the dogs became mixed with the sound of cracking branches as they pushed into the thicket. Distancing his mind from the pain it brought, Aron forced his way through the tangled foliage expecting at any moment to break into clear ground. I should be out of this by now, he thought. I’m lost.
Aron could hear the nearest dogs individually pushing their way through the undergrowth. He readied the club and turned to face the oncoming threat. The first dog came in sight behind a screen of branches. It leapt forward snarling, but snagged itself on a snare of thorn, and Aron brought the club down on its head with all his strength. He had no time to see the effect as a second dog appeared through the same gap. Aron thrashed at it, but the branches took most of the blow and the dog fled howling. Aron turned and continued his push through the thicket. Ahead of him the foliage seemed to grow thinner.
A horn blew close at hand and he heard the noise as something large crashed its way through the undergrowth. Either Tirellan or Cristoff had driven their horse into the thicket. Cursing, Aron pushed the foliage out of his path, and broke through into clear ground. He stumbled and almost fell to his knees, exhaustion running through his veins. He looked quickly around, but this place seemed to bear no relation to the wood he had been in before. The thin scrubby grass had given way to rich succulent sward, the twisted thorns to strong, clean-limbed fruit trees, even the air seemed warmer. Behind him the noise of the hunt’s passage through the tanglewood told that they were on his heels.