The Martyr and the Prophet (The Lost Testament Book 1)

by C. B. Currie

  Berryck also promised to protect Caera, which would have been comforting if she thought he had the slightest idea how to do so.

  It was not yet midday when the sky lifted and the rain ceased, and they marched out of Brookleith. Folk stayed back under the menacing glare of Barthol’s cutthroats and watched helplessly as their loved ones were carted off. Caera passed the smaller of the new graveyards, so full of fresh mounds of all sizes and makeshift wooden head plaques. Drunith hobbled on a stick and convinced Barthol’s men to let her into her shack for remedies and ingredients. Caera hoped she’d taken the ones she needed. Then the grim procession of sellswords, followers, captured women and other hostages made its way onto the main forest road at the edge of the high fields and filed into the winter wood.

  The line could scarcely be expected to hold a steady pace or formation. They were constantly corralled by the armed men, harangued, told to hurry up, but there were many stragglers among the villagers who were not accustomed to long treks. Ellie was sobbing intermittently, Berryck was solemn and shame-faced, and Drunith needed helping. One of the ruffians struck her, shouting at the old woman to get up, but he was stopped by some quiet words from a slight, dark-haired member of the war band. Caera took Drunith’s arm and together the taverner’s daughter, the old woman and her walking staff somehow kept up.

  ‘What happened at the manor?’ She heard Ellie asking Berryck just behind them, in low voices so as not to arouse the ire of their guards.

  ‘They raped some servants, killed the old watchman. My father and I hid in the smithy and he sent me when he got a chance. I don’t know what happened after that. Haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Quiet!’ Snapped one of the mounted warriors as he trotted past, but he did no more to stop the chatting. Caera thought Berryck could have been more tactful, for Ellie had lapsed into tearful sobbing again. She needed to take her own mind off the predicament they were in, so she spoke to Drunith.

  ‘Did you kill your husband?’ She asked. It was not the most comforting of topics, but she was terribly curious.

  Drunith did not look up as they walked. ‘They say I did, child.’

  ‘Were you married in Brookleith?’

  ‘Yes, years ago, when I was a girl your age. Your parents’ parents might remember if they still lived.’

  Caera was sorely reminded that now only her father and one brother remained and wondered how long she would last or if she would see them again. But she knew she had to keep talking, keep the old woman talking, if only to keep her on her feet. She could not carry a child through this living nightmare on her own.

  ‘And you came from Beckstead?’ She knew it was a small hamlet somewhere in the Breadlands between Brookleith and Bastion, but there were many such clusters of farmhouses with makeshift chapels that were not real villages, so she had no idea exactly where it was.

  ‘I came to Brookleith when we were married, and it was not bad for a time.’

  ‘For a time?’

  ‘I was barren. He said it was all the tampering with herbs and potions that the women in my family have always done. He took to drink and he beat me often.’

  ‘Is that why you killed him?’

  ‘He grew sick in time. He had lived a hard life in his youth, had been a soldier and his love of spirits and his hatred of himself consumed him. He got sicker and sicker and died. They said I poisoned him.’ Then she sighed, ‘He wasn’t a bad man.’

  ‘Didn’t the Chapel try you for that?

  ‘Not under the young Father, Heaven rest him now. He wouldn’t have stood me to trial today either if he still lived.’

  ‘They’re going to hurt us, aren’t they?

  ‘Yes, child,’ the old woman answered. ‘I suppose they will.’

  After a hard afternoon on the road, Caera’s feet were sore and blistered. They were all cold, miserable and hungry. Barthol ordered his men to stop and make camp along the road as it was growing dark. The wagon was brought forward and the sellswords saw to it that food was distributed. They took to pitching tents, making campfires and laying out bedrolls. Caera and Drunith were put to work making a broth and Berryck was roughly pushed and shoved over to where horses needed shodding and weapons needed keening.

  The men were efficient, but they were still menacing. They had their captives alone in a dark forest and there was nowhere to run even if she were capable of doing so. Caera looked around at the campfires and mused how such a forbidding place could be made to look so welcoming, but it was cold fear she felt in her stomach as the scarred ruffians leered at her. She had noticed all day they had wandering hands and made lewd comments. Now she could sense a heavier tension descending on the camp.

  ‘They’ll eat and drink, then start carrying you girls off,’ Drunith said, still stirring, not looking up from her cooking.

  ‘I’ll fight.’

  ‘You can’t, they’ll only hurt you more just to get at that young cunny of yours.’

  She felt a stab of fear and shock, and wished the old crone didn’t always have to be so blunt. ‘Berryck will fight. He and the other men.’

  ‘They’ll die. There’s nothing they can do either.’

  ‘So posion the food, make them sick, use one of your remedies…’

  ‘They’ll kill me and I quite like living.’

  Caera stopped tending the fire and felt her eyes well with tears. She knew that was destined to be her fate, to be taken one by one by the brutes as often as they liked as long as they had her. She had thought she was strong enough, that the worst in her life had happened already, but that was before war had come.

  ‘What you must do Caera, is find a protector.’

  Drunith was looking at her now, haggard features and hooked nose flickering in the firelight. The crone had always been so unappealing to look at and in any case Caera had rarely spoken to her for long. Now she noticed the nose was bent to one side and her right eye socket was deformed from blows suffered many years ago.

  ‘A protector? Who?’

  ‘I’ve been watching and listening all day,’ and in her eyes was cunning and anger and care all at once. ‘There’s one they fear, the mage.’

  ‘A mage?’

  ‘Oh there is magic in the world girl, but tonight you must work a woman’s spell.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘The one who stopped them striking me, they called him Hyllis.’

  Caera looked over to where the dark-haired man was reading alone by his own fire. He had his own bedroll but no tent, and was tucked away at the edge of the camp as if he did not wish to be disturbed. She was surprised any of them could read.

  ‘He doesn’t look like a mage.’

  ‘But they fear him, perhaps even their leader fears him. I heard some of them talking about him. They say he healed Barthol when he was wounded at Regent’s Sanctuary, and that he killed his old gang’s leader with a curse that infected his arm.’

  Caera wondered how much of that could be true. But then she suspected it really had been Drunith’s potions that killed her husband all those years ago. Perhaps there was magic in the world, perhaps the old crone’s spells would work and perhaps if she could just keep them both alive long enough there might be time to do something about the child inside her.

  ‘What am I to do?’

  ‘He’s the only one I’ve seen who hasn’t groped or whistled, hasn’t looked at any of you girls like you’re meat to be carved up. Maybe he likes boys.’

  There was a scuffle and she looked up. She couldn’t see who for sure in the dark but two or three fires away two men were struggling with one of the women. When she cried out, she knew it was Ellie. Poor Ellie who was to be wed next spring. They were dragging her into one of the small tents.

  ‘They fear him,’ Said Drunith, and Caera turned back to her with wide, fearful eyes.

  ‘Take this broth,’ the old healer urged her, and she realized that she had not seen what Drunith had put in it apart from the rabbit meat and carrots they’d started with
. ‘Give it to that young man and crawl into his bed tonight. Make sure you drink some too. Maybe he won’t touch you at all, maybe he’ll at least be gentle, but better the one you choose than being passed around all the rest.’

  If Caera had sought a protector in Drunith she was sorely disappointed. But the logic of it was unassailable. If they did fear him, and he did prefer boys then it might be the only chance she had. Not just for this night but until they could get away from this band of rough hands. Ellie’s screams of protestation grew louder and men outside were laughing at the commotion as they passed around flasks of wine and ale. Would they be laughing at her when her turn came?

  She took the wooden soup dish from the old woman and stood.

  ‘Go thank him for helping me. And make sure they see you.’

  Caera was fearful she would not even make the twenty paces or so over to Hyllis and his bedroll, that she would suddenly be seized by half a dozen pairs of calloused, grasping paws. But the mercenaries nearest seemed content with their drink and bawdy jokes for the time being. A couple of them looked at her with cutting, predatory eyes that followed her all the way as she walked gingerly over to the young man reading the book.

  In the morning camp was broken and the traumatized hostages of Barthol’s baggage train were set back on their course, trudging sore-footed through the woods to Regent’ Sanctuary. Hyllis had not touched her that night. He did not like boys either. He had welcomed her company, she had given him the broth and they ate and drank together until she became sleepy and they had climbed together into the bedroll for warmth, he had put his arm around her and a cloud of whatever Drunith had put in the soup blotted out the wailing and moaning of the other women in the camp.

  She had awoken still wrapped in Hyllis’s arms. They had talked awhile before the herbs had taken their toll. And in the morning he greeted her like an old friend or lover. He seemed shamed by the actions of his companions and he aware of her fear of the other men. He stayed close to her that day and some of the soldiers teased him a little. But none ever dared grope her the way they’d done the day before. They arrived at the village mid-morning, emerging suddenly from the darkness of woodland onto the fields below the village. Beyond the cluster of houses and the stone chapel, the foothills of the sunset peaks climbed upward. Caera had seen them from a distance, when standing in the ridge above Brookleith’s high field and looking out across the woods, but now they were right ahead under a blue winter sky.

  With Barthol riding into town at the vanguard, the scene at Brookleith was repeated, only with better weather. The village priest and elders were cowed and there was no armed resistance. She had heard that Jandryl had left men but there was no sign of them. Barthol’s men demanded copper, silver, food and whatever other valuables they could. They took more hostages - a few young women and an old carpenter - though the village was smaller and pickings slimmer. One of the Brookleith women found relatives in the confusion and tried to hide, but was found and was beaten for the attempt. She was shoved back into line with the others.

  After a short lunch Barthold’s men were on the move again. They headed westward along the road to the Breadlands, where it joined the one from Brookleith and wound its way through farms and hamlets to the Crossroads Inn.

  That night, camped at the edge of the woods on the side of the road, Caera stayed with Hyllis again.

  ‘He would have burned the chapel down if he weren’t fighting for Lord Dorand and the king,’ the brigand told her as they supped by his fire. His accent was southern, perhaps from near the capital, but Caera had met travelers from all over at the King’s Ransom, and had been to none of the places they hailed from. Drunith listened on, for Caera had brought her as a cook, but the old woman said little in front of any of the men. ‘He lost a fight there, and would like to have taught them all a lesson.’

  Caera thought a man like Barthol Malgan could do anything he wanted, but she was learning the truth of his situation.

  ‘His father lost his lands – a gambler, threw all the money away. He should have been one of the shire’s knights or something and he’s been forever trying to get that back.’

  ‘I heard Dorand opposed the king.’ She knew nothing of politics but Hyllis was a curious mind and liked to talk of high people when the others weren’t around. He seemed to have found an eager listener in Caera.

  ‘He changed his mind apparently. Perhaps he didn’t want to be called off to war. They say he’s not a fighter. Easier to send men to subdue his own provinces. Anyway that gave Barthol his chance.’

  ‘Chance to do what?’

  ‘Gain favor, gain land,’ he looked Caera up and down and appeared to appraise her a moment. ‘Loot and plunder.’

  ‘How long have you served him?’

  ‘I don’t serve anyone,’ he chuckled. The rebuke was not unkind but she recalled painfully a similar conversation with the Northman and was reminded of how near to danger she still was among these cutthroats and thieves.

  ‘How did you come to be with him then?’

  ‘We had a little gang going, Tometh and me and some others. Two were killed at regent’s sanctuary. I didn’t like Tometh much but he was good at what he did.’

  ‘Robbing?’ Caera asked.

  ‘And raping and just hurting people,’ he looked over to the rest of the camp where wailing and grunts were coming from some of the tents, while the drinking and laughter continued. Then he turned to see Caera’s tearful, frightened eyes. He leaned over and wiped a tear from her cheek.

  ‘They won’t touch you. I promise. I know magic.’

  ‘They say you killed your leader, cursed him, is that true?’

  ‘Shhsh!’ he hushed her, looking around to make sure none heard.

  ‘Tometh was a bully and a fool. He preyed on the weak. If I had a trade or something I never would have joined them. He got himself killed when he picked a fight he couldn’t win. Even running back to Barthol didn’t save the bastard.’

  ‘And did you heal Barthol?’

  ‘Yes, I found a book, a magic book full of spells.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  He reached for a satchel the carried and produced several books. They were big leather-bound tomes like the ones she’d seen in the chapel. He drew one, with a plain brown cover and brass fittings and opened it to show her.

  Caera had never learned to read more than a few words and the only thing she could write with any certainty was her own name, but she could tell it wasn’t their country’s script. It was flowing, cursive, with sharp edges and tails at the bottom of letters. Words were strung together like little patterns. It certainly looked magical.

  ‘Some fools robbed a priory, broke into the chapel at Havenside. We took it from them.’

  ‘Is this where you get your magic?’

  ‘My mother was a healer, like the old girl here.’ Caera understood why he had sympathized with Drunith. ‘She taught me salves and remedies. I don’t remember them all, but the one I put on Barthol’s cut cleared it up in a couple of days. The men said they’d never seen a wound heal so quick. It was pretty deep.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘It’s an old book, written in some eastern tongue. There was a man with us who’d worked as a servant for a heathen in the capital. The easterner taught him to read a bit and he taught me some words.’

  ‘You can read their words?’

  Hyllis took up the leather-bound book and opened it again. Searching for the right page, he ran a finger down the heavy parchment and thick black script and stopped at one corner.’

  ‘This one. Ashlakh. It’s a word of power.’

  ‘Ashlak?’ Caera asked.

  ‘No, Ashlakh, he told me.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s a spell, an ancient word of power.’

  ‘Ashlak,’ she voiced again, wishing this cryptic word would somehow transport her out of this camp and the danger that stalked her, but nothing happened. Perhaps she was saying it wro
ng.

  ‘What does the spell do?’ Caera pressed. ‘Does heal the sick? Or is it a curse of some sort?’

  ‘A secret,’ Hyllis insisted coyly, but slapped the book shut. ‘The fellow who could read it died a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The Scourge, like a lot of people.’

  ‘And was it the scourge that killed Tometh or your spells?’ She whispered.

  ‘Some say it was me, and maybe they should believe that. Maybe it was just a wound fever.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Drunith interrupted quietly. She had stopped her cooking and looked like she had been listening for some time.

  Hyllis looked around again. Caera thought he was not unhandsome, though his face was a little weathered from outdoor living. He was only a few years older than her, she guessed, and wondered how an otherwise gentle soul had landed up with this rabble.

  ‘We’re to join Dorand’s forces in a few days at Juniper Keep. Jandryl Faldon and the holy knights are holed up there and he wants the castle. The king wants the castle. It will be a big camp and we were sent to collect forage and followers.’

  Caera knew what that meant. A few bandits who knew Hyllis might fear him, but not a whole army of strangers. Here she might be protected, but surrounded by hundreds of soldiers, she would surely be seized and passed around, like poor Ellie and the other girls.

  ‘How do they take the castle?’ Drunith asked.

  ‘By siege I suppose, though I’ve never seen one. Maybe they can convince the enemy to lay down his arms. But they’ll have to hang the leaders.’

  Caera didn’t like the idea of Jandryl hanging, or of that Holy Knight being killed. She hoped they would behead the Northman and cut him to pieces. But that wouldn’t be enough to save her if she couldn’t find a way out of this camp. She needed a plan to get out, to get both her and Drunith out, but the old woman would be a burden. She looked fearfully around the camp where the debauchery continued unabated.