by RJ Baker
Around the copse waited Tomas and his men. Unlike Rufra’s Riders, who had a sort of merry and colourful individuality, all of Tomas’s Riders looked the same: dull armour, iron mount gildings. Even their bonemount was dull, a four-pointed skull decked out in rusty browns. Only Tomas stuck out, his mount a magnificent white and brown beast with nine-point antlers gilded in gold carved to look like ears of corn. The same motifs were chased into the hard joints at the shoulders and elbows of his armour, and the small enamel plates of his chest piece were white and gold, again made to resemble corn. The chains over his kilt and his greaves were golden; his wide helm was steel polished bright enough to look like silver, and a golden circlet of corn encircled it. He wore no visor, and when he deigned to turn his haughty, handsome face towards us, he looked every bit a king – especially compared to Rufra, who was wearing his most comfortable armour for riding and was significantly less impressive than at least half of his Riders. If you had not known who Rufra was, you would have thought him a down-at-heel Rider who had got a bit above his station.
We halted ten mounts’ lengths from Tomas’s forces and formed into a line facing them.
“Girton, Nywulf, Cearis, ride with me,” said Rufra.
He walked Balance forward and we followed.
“Have you men for me, Tomas ap Glyndier?” said Rufra, his words as dull as the armour Tomas’s men wore; they were well practised and tired.
From behind Tomas came a figure dressed in the vestments of a high priest, a nondescript grey robe pinned with rags of hundreds of different colours. From the blank white mask came a voice not even the priest’s monotone could disguise. I knew it and hated the man behind the mask, Neander, who had led my first love to her death. My hand tightened around Xus’s reins, and Rufra put out a hand, briefly touching me, letting me know he understood my anger and my hatred. But at the same time his touch was an order, a command that I should not move or react even though nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to put my stabsword through Neander’s gut.
“As you well know, King Tomas ap Glyndier is a man of strength and does not suffer traitors to live, Rufra,” he said. I found myself bristling on behalf of my friend at Neander’s insolence – to not even give Rufra a courtesy title – Rufra seemed unconcerned.
“Then do you have names for me, High Priest, so that I may tell those left behind that their loved ones will not return?”
Neander recited a list of names, not many, but I could almost feel Rufra wilt with each monotone pronouncement. I would gladly have cut Neander’s throat for him if he asked, and done it for myself if the opportunity presented itself. “I have men for Tomas, if you have their ransom?”
Tomas nodded, but it was Neander who spoke. “Pay him, Caren ap Galdrar.” He waved a hand at a man who came forward with two small bags of coin and gave them to Cearis.
“King ap Glyndier has a gift for you, pretender,” said Neander, and I found myself looking over my shoulder, expecting a trap to be sprung, but instead the same man who had paid the ransom took a package from his saddlebags. It was a weighty parcel bound in leather, and he had to use both hands to throw the package to Rufra, who caught it, held it for a moment and then almost dropped it. Now it was nearer I could see that what I had taken for leather was nothing of the sort, it was the skin of a man wrapped into a parcel. The top of the parcel was his face, stretched out into a distorted scream. Something fizzed around the scars on my skin as Tomas spoke.
“This is all that remains of the traitor Karl ap Beyler, who changed sides to ride with you,” he said as if there was nothing odd about handing over the skin of a man you had once known.
“So you skinned him?” said Cearis, revulsion and disbelief warring on her face.
“King ap Glyndier would never do such a thing,” said Neander, his mask scanning Rufra’s Riders and the prisoners behind them. “Sadly for ap Beyler, Nonmen captured him after they came across him and some of your scouts. Your other men died quickly, but they seem to have taken against ap Beyler, for some reason. We could not spare the men to save him; it was the Nonmen who flayed him alive.” The hint of a smile played over Tomas’s lips as the priest spoke. “I heard it took him a long time to die. His skin was all the king’s men could retrieve for you.” This was a warning, and we all knew it, a warning from Tomas to his own men and to the prisoners that he would show no mercy to those he considered had betrayed him.
“Thank your men,” said Rufra, biting the words out through gritted teeth as he turned his attention from the priest to Tomas. “I assure you, Tomas, that should you ever find yourself in peril I will be just as quick to assist you. Now, I have no wish to share the air with you for longer than I must. Take your men.” He lifted his arm, signalling the four prisoners to be brought forward. As they advanced, Rufra cut the string around the skin, letting it fall open and unroll into a nightmare shape, a thinman straight out of the legends of the hedgings, the flapping ghost of what had once been life. “Remember your oath to me,” said Rufra, holding up the skin with one hand. “You swore not to raise a weapon against me. Remember what happened in the sourlands to Akirin ap Valyan.” He looked each man in the face and held the skin up so the holes where there had been eyes stared out, the hair of the scalp falling over his arm. “Remember that when Akirin betrayed his oath to me he died quick and clean. Ask yourselves if a man who would allow this –” he shook the skin, rage in his voice “– is a man you want to serve.”
Rufra watched, unmoving apart from his eyes, as three of the men slid off their mounts and walked over to Tomas; the fourth watched the backs of the others and then took hold of the reins of his mount and turned it to face Rufra.
“You said I could hold a blade again if I wielded it for you.”
Rufra nodded. “Yes.”
“Karl was my cousin,” he said quietly. “He taught me to fight.” He turned his mount, trotting it to the end of Rufra’s line where he stared into the faces of men who he had once fought with – except I do not think he really saw them. I think he looked into the past, into a place where a man he had loved died screaming, and tried not to see his own face on that bloody parcel.
“So, Tomas,” said Rufra. “Have you given thought to my offer, a battle of kings? Or will you have your priest answer that question too?”
Tomas stared at Rufra, his face working hard to remain impassive. I wondered why he didn’t want to face Rufra; he had always been an impressive swordsman, always been sure of his own skill. Then I noticed his eyes flick to Nywulf and back again and I understood. Nywulf had once beaten Tomas with nothing but a wooden sword, and Nywulf had taught Rufra.
Tomas was scared.
“Five months, Tomas, and we either fight or you forfeit the crown.”
“You’ll be dead before we ever cross blades,” said Tomas.
“One of us will,” said Rufra. “Now come,” he said to us. “We are done here.” Mounts started to turn, but Boros walked his from the line. The scarred man pointed at the Rider who had held the coin and skin, a huge man with eyes so small they looked like black pits. I pitied his mount, not just because it had to carry him but because the animal’s hindquarters were covered in marks from the whip, some fresh and still bleeding.
“I see you there, Caren ap Galdrar, once in service to my family. Is my brother here?” he said. “Or does he still cower behind Tomas’s shield like a frightened child?” I thought the man would reply but Neander silenced him with a glance.
“I am sure Barin has heard your challenge,” he said, “and would love nothing more than to finish the job he started at Goldenson Copse, but you are a lucky man today, Boros ap Loflaar. Tomas is a merciful king and has forbidden Barin from meeting you. He thinks it is wrong for such a renowned Rider to victimise the mage-bent.”
Laughter came from Tomas’s party, and if Rufra had not ridden up and taken hold of Boros’s reins I am sure he would have charged into the opposing line. Tomas’s laughter stopped as he appeared to notice me
for the first time. His eyes ran down my body to my club foot.
“Girton ap Gwynr,” he said. “I had heard you were back in the Tired Lands and I have a message for you.” He was full of himself now, enjoying the laughter Neander had caused at Boros’s expense – but he forgot he dealt with someone who had been jester, someone who knew how easy it was to puncture the skin of a man puffed up with his own importance.
“A message for me, King Tomas,” I said in my brightest voice and pulled an exaggeratedly thoughtful face, tapping my lip with a finger. “Yes, hmm, well. Maybe, oh well why not?” I grinned at him. “I am sure King Rufra will allow you to deliver it,” I used a voice loud enough for all to hear and a manner more suited to a king than a cripple. Now our lines rippled with laughter and Tomas gave me a look that said he would not soon forget the insult.
“I have not forgotten the part you played at Maniyadoc, mage-bent,” he spat, “and you will be dealt with.”
“I am honoured you remember a man as lowly as I,” I said and performed an elaborate bow from the saddle of Xus. I could hear Rufra chuckling beside me.
“Come,” said Rufra. “We should leave. I cannot watch Girton bait you any more, Tomas. As you know, I cannot bear cruelty.” More laughter as we turned our mounts and walked away. From the corner of my eye I could see Tomas, so angry he looked like he’d been boiled, and for a moment I thought he may charge us with his Riders, but Neander held on to the reins of his mount.
“Laugh all you want,” Tomas shouted after us, standing in his stirrups to make his voice carry. “Enjoy telling your jokes to Aydor when you meet him!”
We formed back into a column and rode slowly away. Up ahead I saw Rufra speaking with Cearis, Nywulf and Crast and pointing back at us. Cearis and Crast split from the front, Cearis walking her mount more slowly so she could speak quietly to Boros and I.
“That was well done, to goad him so,” she said as she fell into step by us. “Tomas is a fool when he is angry and he said too much; no wonder he uses Neander as his mouthpiece. It seems Tomas knows we go to meet Aydor next and he should not. There is no way he can allow Aydor to come to us; it is an insult to him and in the eyes of many it legitimises Rufra’s claim to the throne. We are no longer going to meet up with the infantry – Rufra does not think we have time. When we clear the copse we ride for the meeting with Aydor. Rufra suspects we will find him under attack.”
“We are only twenty,” I said and inwardly I cursed. I had been nursing ideas of going after Tomas at night and then finding Neander to settle my own score.
“Aye,” replied Cearis with a wink, “only twenty, but we are twenty of Rufra’s.”
“And that will be enough?”
“It will have to be,” said Boros, and though I could not read his expression I could hear in his voice that he would be happy for a chance to lash out.
“Boros,” said Cearis, “you are to take Crast and another Rider back to Gabran and have him march for Arrot’s Lee, that is where Rufra has arranged to meet Aydor. Tell Gabran to go as fast as he can go without tiring the troops.”
“But you will need all the Riders you—” he began.
“This is an order from Rufra,” said Cearis, and her tone left no room for argument. Boros looked at her a moment too long for it to seem anything but insolent, and then turned his mount, shouting out a name and putting spurs to the animal as Crast and the second Rider joined him.
“Rufra asks you to ride with him, Girton,” Cearis said, and we trotted to the front of the column. Rufra was riding head down, looking tense, and it struck me how far away this man was from the boy I had known five years ago.
“Rufra?” I said.
“Girton –” my name little more than a growl “– I cannot believe I have been so easily duped. Aydor is in danger from the Nonmen, I should have known they were riding in numbers when I saw so many hogs.”
“Pigs and Nonmen. Maniyadoc is a place I no longer know.”
“The big herds often follow the Nonmen. They know there will be food where the Nonmen go.”
“Why did you send Boros away?”
Rufra glanced over his shoulder in the direction Boros had gone.
“Because I cannot trust him, not in this.”
“I don’t understand. You said you trusted all of your council.”
“In most ways, Girton.” He stretched, rolling his neck and glancing over his shoulder to see if we were out of sight of Tomas’s men yet. “You have seen the Boarlord, Chirol?” I nodded. “Chirol is a recent name the man has taken as his family want nothing to do with him any longer.” I felt I knew where this was going.
“He is Barin? Boros’s brother?”
“Yes, though it does not do to mention that in front of any of the ap Loflaar. The pretence Barin is still with Tomas is kept up by them.”
“And by Tomas, from what he said.”
“Aye, it suits Tomas not to be tied too closely to the Nonmen.”
“But Boros hates his brother – surely that should make him fight harder?”
“Harder but blindly,” Rufra said sadly. “Boros will pursue his vengeance against Chirol with a singular purpose if he sees him. If Chirol attacks Aydor our best plan is to drive him away and escape. But Boros will chase him, alone if he has to. In battle he will ignore orders if it means he will get his vengeance. At best I will have to discipline him, at worst I will lose him, and I cannot have that. He is loyal; his Riders love him, and I need his family as they hold the port town of Hart.”
“So you sent him away. And Crast to make sure he does as you say.”
Rufra nodded, and I wondered at how he made these decisions. Losing three Riders could mean defeat against the Nonmen, but Rufra had thought past that point and to what it would mean to lose Boros in the long run.
“It is hard to be a king, is it not?” said Nywulf quietly from beside me. I nodded. “But he does well, and he has a task for you, if you will take it.”
I glanced back at Rufra, who looked almost embarrassed. “You must think me a fool, attacking with only eighteen Riders.”
“That depends how many Nonmen there are.” I grinned and he nodded.
“It does. If you were right and Aydor has two hundred troops then I imagine the Nonmen will have gathered a larger force than is usual for them, maybe three or four hundred.”
“How do you know Aydor is even in danger?” Rufra glanced across at me, then at Nywulf, and there was a struggle on his ugly face, making him seem to age decades in seconds.
“I need Aydor. For him to come to me is for the previous king’s son to acknowledge my right to rule. I have arranged to meet him and bring him to my camp under cover of the prisoner exchange. As I was leaving the camp anyway, I thought I could keep the meeting secret and get back with a minimum of fuss.”
“But Tomas knew.”
“Maybe.” He glanced at Nywulf, who was doing his best not to look smug. “Or he has guessed. He is not stupid.”
“Rufra,” I said, “you cannot think Aydor is worth risking your men for. You should—” He reached out, putting a gloved hand on my arm, and I had to pull on Xus’s reins to stop him biting my friend.
“Peace, Girton. The Nonmen have no real cavalry, and you have not seen my mount archers in action.”
“How do you even know it is Nonmen? Tomas could have an army waiting.”
Rufra shook his head. “If an army moved through Maniyadoc I would know, and Tomas would not risk his own men this far from his lines. It will be Nonmen, and my mount archers will cut them to pieces.”
“They may be fine cavalry, Rufra, but at close quarters cavalry can easily be overwhelmed.”
“Maybe.” He smiled at me and I wondered what I was missing. “But this brings me to my favour. I do not mean to downplay your skills in any way, but you have not trained with my mount archers and could not keep up with them. So, if you would, when we go against the Nonmen they will create a distraction so you can ride for the back of Aydor’s troops
and get to Aydor with me.”
“You want him dead?” The thought of finishing Aydor was like the thought of fine food: my mouth became wet with saliva.
“No.” He looked puzzled. “Did you not listen to a word I said? I need him. I want you to keep him alive.”
“Again? We should all regret I was so successful last time.”
“This is different to when his mother ruled, Girton.” Rufra’s voice was low, his temper bubbling somewhere underneath.
“But Rufra, this could be a trap. It could be Aydor who let Tomas know where he was. An army could be waiting for you.”
“Aydor has given me his promise,” he said, word by careful word.
“Aydor’s promise is worth nothing. You should let me kill him. Nothing panics an army like losing its leader. If I finish Aydor the Nonmen will wipe out what’s left of his army.”
“Girton,” said Rufra quietly, looking ahead with his jaw set, “I am asking you to do this as a friend. Keep him alive as long as you can and if we cannot win then get Aydor away.”
“But—”
“Don’t make me ask you as your king.” Hard words, spat out in haste.
I stared at him, unable to find a reply.
“Then I will do as you ask, King Rufra,” I said and pulled on Xus’s reins, slowing him so the column had to split around me. Some of the Riders grumbled and swore at me for ruining their formation.
I fitted in nowhere. Not with my master, who kept secrets and now sweated, close to death in bed. Not with Rufra, who I barely recognised, and not with his men, who were a tightly knit group where I would only ever be an outsider, a spy.
From the front came an order to drop into the long run, a mile-eating stride that mounts could maintain for hours without becoming tired.
I let the rhythm of the animals’ feet on the ground and the swaying of Xus’ back lull me into a hypnotic trance.
And I dreamed of being another Girton in another life.