by John Donlan
“I know what you are going to say, Darius, and I know you are right, but I do not think we can rush this. If we try, she may pull away, retreat into herself. She has been ill used, and she will have a hard time trusting anyone now. If that happens, she might never tell us what we want to know.”
“I know. I have had the same thought, sister. But it may be a risk we have to take. By now, father will be almost to West Reach. Without knowledge of who was responsible for the attack in the swamp, he will have nothing to offer in his defence when he faces the king.”
Torelle ran a hand through her hair. She looked tired, her face lined with worry. “I will do what I can,” she said. “Although... perhaps it may be better for you to try.”
“Me?” Darius almost laughed, but he could see that his sister was serious. “Why? It is you that she trusts. You that talked her back to her room, not me.”
Torelle smiled at him. “Yes, but it was you that convinced her to come with us in the first place. Back in the swamp. She trusted you then, and I think she will do the same now. If you can but hold your impatience in check. I think she sees something in you. Perhaps she is even sweet on you, though I cannot understand why that might be.” Her continued smile betrayed her amusement.
Darius pursed his lips at that, but he could feel heat rushing to his cheeks. He had not noticed it in the swamps, but now that the young woman was clean and presentable, it was obvious to anyone that she was pretty; no, beautiful was closer to the mark. Her darker skin was beguiling and entrancing, and her large, almond-like eyes seemed to pull him in whenever he looked at her.
“That is nonsense,” he said, with more of a bite than he had intended. “I believe you are wrong in this, but if you think I can do something that you cannot, then I am willing to try, for the sake of father and for the sake of peace.”
“For the sake of peace then. Go on. Use those silken words of yours for something other than making the castle serving girls blush.”
Darius struggled for a witty reply, but none were forthcoming. Torelle smiled, patted him on the shoulder lightly, then swept away along the passage and out of sight. Darius stared at the door she had left through for a moment, then sighed and went back into the room with the girl.
She was still eating, but she looked up at him when he entered, and for a brief moment, Darius wondered if his sister had not been right after all. There was something in her eyes, in the expression on her face that suggested she thought about him in ways he had not previously suspected. But it was gone a moment later, and the wariness that had been there before increased due to the absence of Torelle.
“My sister has duties to attend to,” he said, a little stiffly. He strode across the table and sat down in the seat that Torelle had occupied. The girl stopped eating to stare at him suspiciously.
“Please, finish your meal,” he said, trying hard not to let his impatience take over as it so badly wanted to. In that, at least, his sister was certainly correct. If he pushed too hard, too aggressively, the girl would respond by pulling away and retreating from the questions. He would never get the answers he needed. “I do not mean to intrude, so please, eat. The food was prepared specially for you, and knowing the castle cook, it will be delicious. She has a way of preparing meals that is sublime.”
The girl seemed to agree, because a moment later, she began stuffing the food into her mouth again as though she had not eaten in weeks. Darius suspected that might be partly true. He did not know how the Tho'reen treated their slaves, but he had a suspicion it was not with an over-abundance of fine food. She was thin, far thinner than any person had a right to be.
The grime of the swamp had been washed away and her torn clothes had been replaced with new, clean garments. She was actually a pretty young woman. She had large eyes, soft, dark skin, and thick, full lips. Her hair was long and lustrous, hanging darkly down her back in flowing streaks. He had heard that the Tho'reen often wore their hair braided. He thought she would look good with her hair done that way. She was petite, and small of stature, but he had already seen how quick and agile she could be.
He snapped out of his reveries to watch as she finished the last of the food on her plate. When she was done, she leaned back, a satisfied look on her face.
Darius smiled. It was good to see her content for once, and apparently at ease. “I know you understand me, and I know you are wary about our intentions here. But I would ask that you take a walk with me. I would like to show you my home, and then, if you are willing, discuss something of great importance with you. As my sister has already told you, if you then wish it, you may leave. You are not a prisoner here.”
The girl hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded and rose from her chair. She was a short, dainty thing, and would barely come to Darius' shoulder, but there was an air of pride about her that surprised him. He would have expected a slave to appear broken, cowed, meek. She was none of those things, and it was inspiring to see.
He led her out of the room and into the castle. He had no idea where he was going, just that he needed time for her to see that he truly meant no harm. They wandered from room to room and hall to hall. He would stop from time to time, point out something of special significance to his family. She listened impassively to all of it, but her expression rarely changed. He wondered if she was even really taking any of it in, or if she was thinking about the moment he was done and she would be free to leave.
At last he led her out of the castle and across the stone cobbles of the courtyard to a separate building on the far side, near the walls. The door was large and ornate and engraved with the crest of the Crow family. This was the entrance to the catacombs below the castle, the place where generations of Crows had been laid to rest. Darius found the tombs to be peaceful, and when he was struggling with a decision or had something on his mind, he would come here, to be with his ancestors and to gather his thoughts.
She followed him down the stone steps and into the cool dimness below. Torches were kept lit down here, partially to allow those who visited the place the opportunity to see where they were going, but mainly because of tradition. It was said that those who died needed light to find their way to the side of the Gods, and so their burial places were kept illuminated.
The walls on either side of the passageways and musty caverns of the tomb were hollow and filled with the sarcophagi of the dead. Close to the entrance, all of the coffins belonged to the more recent dead of the Crow family. Further back, in the deepest parts, the ancient deceased lay for all eternity. The names on those coffins were old and mostly unknown to anyone other than the loremaster of the castle. Darius had been down there to visit them many times, as was traditional, but they were as distant and as far away as the lands across the sea.
Here at last the girl started to show some emotion. She knew what the place was, of course – one could hardly fail to see it - and as soon as she realised, her face became solemn and sad. She wandered with him, down torch lit halls to the very furthest recesses of the catacombs.
“All of my family rest here; those who have passed beyond the veil to reside with the Gods.” He stopped before one of the sarcophagi and brushed the dust of ages away from the name that was written. It belonged to his great, great, great grandfather. Tonwill, general in the army of the first king. The king who had united the kingdom so many years ago. This was one of the better known of Darius’ ancient relatives. He had been the founder of the Crow dynasty as it was today.
“This man was a hero to those who served under him,” Darius said. “He helped the first king bring peace to the warring lords that ruled here. Helped join them under one banner. I have often wondered what kind of man he was. The history of my family tells that he was a good man, a courageous man. But history has a way of becoming skewed and twisted, especially when written by those who came to rule. Who knows the truth for certain?”
He fell silent, thoughtful. The girl stared at him and then began walking away, deeper into the catacombs. Dari
us followed her, wondering again what might be running through her mind. She seemed almost as deep in thought as he was.
“It is the duty of each new line in my family to strive to equal the deeds of those who came before,” he said when he caught up with her. “None have ever reached the heights that Tonwill did. Even my father, in his battles against the Tho'reen, never truly came close.”
She looked up at him instantly, eyes wide. He knew what she was thinking this time.
“Yes, we have fought against the Tho'reen. Many times. And war is likely to come again soon. But you must know this. That is why your masters came, to try and talk of peace with the king. But the people you came with, the people who enslaved you... they are dead. Butchered. There can be no peace now, and my father will be blamed for it. Even if he was not the one to wield the blade, these are his lands, his responsibility. The king will have no choice but to lay the burden on my father. He does not deserve that. It will bring dishonour to him.”
She was watching him intently, listening closely to every word. He sensed a shift of trust. Perhaps he was getting through to her, making her see what needed to be done.
“I cannot let that happen to my father. He is a good man. But there is only one way that the end I see can be avoided. I need to know what happened in the swamp. Please help me. You were there... you saw the massacre. You must know who did this. I know you cannot tell me, not with words. But there must be a way. Help me, and my family will forever be in your debt.”
She ran her tongue over her lips for a moment and looked down towards the ground, hiding her face from view. He waited as patiently as he could, but his heart was pounding nervously. If she declined, if she told him no...
Suddenly she looked up again and her small hand slid out to grip his own. She squeezed briefly, and then nodded.
He smiled at her, relief washing through him. “Thank you,” he said simply, and then the two of them left the catacombs and returned to the castle above.
Sixteen
It was raining heavily outside the old farmhouse. The wind was blowing hard, too, and it whipped the drops against the side of the house and lashed them against the window panes, making them rattle. The night sky, already black before the rain and the storm, was even darker now, the moon having been hidden behind the racing black clouds. Lightning forked down and hit a tree somewhere in the swamp causing flames to leap up briefly, only to die down again a moment later as the rain extinguished the fire. Thunder rumbled, as though the Gods were warring in their eternal realm.
The old farmer peered out through the rain-slick windows and glowered for a moment before turning back to his wife who was stirring a pot of broth over the flickering flames in the hearth. The storm had been building all day, and with it his mood.
His anger had begun that morning after his brief visit to the castle. The lordling, Darius Crow, had promised him coin, a reward for services rendered. But when he had got to the castle gates and demanded his promised reward, one of the guards had hit him in the stomach with the butt of his halberd and laughed. He had taken the coin purse from his belt and jingled it mockingly towards the farmer. “Is this what you want, you old fool? Aye, I suspect it is. The lord said you were to have it, but I think it'll do better in my own pocket. So go on, get out of here, before I decide to use the other end of my weapon on you.”
He'd left quick enough, but his resentment had simmered ever since. It was always the way. The lords lived well in their keeps and castles, while the common folk were treated no better than the muck beneath their heels. It didn't matter that the coin had been meant for him, that the duke's son had kept his promise; all that mattered was that he had been denied what was owed him, and that he had someone to blame.
“My son has a mangled hand,” he grunted. “And that bastard lord doesn't care.” He had repeated the same thing over and over since returning home, but venting his anger made him feel better, at least for awhile. “That girl... the one who did it. She was important somehow. A spy for the Tho'reen maybe. Or maybe he's turned traitor!” The idea came to him suddenly, and he saw it had merit at once. It was something he could use and latch onto. He liked it. It made the duke's son into a real villain.
His wife said nothing. She stirred the pot, not willing to involve herself. When he was angry, she knew he was quick with his fists, and it was always better to remain silent than speak out and risk his fury.
“Do you hear me, woman?” He moved up behind her. “He's betraying his own kind! I wonder what the king might think about that? Maybe tomorrow, I'll arrange for a message to send to his royal highness, tell him all about his treacherous duke and weasel of a son. That should teach the lordling that he can't treat us like this.”
“Your food is ready,” his wife said quietly. She didn't say anything about his suggestion, which only angered him even more.
He moved forward threateningly, and when she saw him coming, she shrank away, raising her hands as if to ward him off. It never did any good. His fists always found their mark eventually. All she ever did by resisting him was prolong the pain.
But he did not strike her this time. A loud roar suddenly filled the air. A deafening bellow that was louder even than the sounds of the storm.
He whirled on the spot and raced back to the window. The noise had come from outside. He peered through the glass, through the streaks of rain, and saw that the barn was burning. The barn where his son had met that girl. His rage turned from a dull throb to a sharp point in his skull. The duke's son had returned to cover his tracks. It was the only answer his slow-witted brain could come up with. The lordling had set fire to the barn!
“Damn him to the pit!” he howled, dashing from the window to the door. “Rouse that lout!” He hissed, nodding to the bedroom door, beyond which his son was resting. “And have him fetch more water!”
The rain from the storm might have been enough to extinguish the fire that was destroying his livelihood, but he was not about to take any chances. The flames were already stronger and burning brighter than he would have expected in such a short amount of time. The noble swine were being thorough, determined that nothing would be left.
He rushed out into the howling wind and driving rain and ran across the yard towards where the flames were burning. There was a barrel out near the corner of the barn. With the rain the way it was, there would be enough water inside for him to start to quench the flames.
He gave no thought to considering whether those who had started the fire would still be nearby. He assumed they had done what they had and left, not wanting anyone to witness the act. But he was wrong. As he drew closer to the barn and started to feel the heat wash over him, even with the rain plastering his face, he saw figures standing outside the inferno. He came to a stop and stared as they turned to face him.
He counted seven, no, eight. He could not see any features against the backdrop of the fire, but he could tell that they were looking straight at him. They knew he was there.
He swallowed and took a step backwards. If they knew he had seen them, they would not let him live. They could not let him live. Burning the barn would no longer be enough for them. That certainty ran through his mind as he turned on his heel and raced back towards the farmhouse.
His first thought was to get inside, barricade the door. But he knew that would only be a temporary solution and would only delay the inevitable. Those who had started the fire would get inside eventually, and then they would slaughter him.
He stopped, several paces from the door. He could hear movement inside. His family, getting ready to help fight the fire. He could open the door and urge them all out, but if he did that, he would waste precious moments, seconds that could be spent running for his life. He glanced over his shoulder briefly and saw the figures moving in pursuit. They were gaining on him quickly. He could see weapons gleaming dully in their fists. He had only a few moments to make his decision.
He cast a final glance towards the farmhouse door, and then turned
away and ran towards the swamp. If he could make it to the tree line and the mire beyond, he could lose the pursuers easily enough, especially in the dark. He just had to make it. His family would simply have to fend for themselves.
Perhaps the men who were chasing him would leave his wife and son alive. They hadn't witnessed what had happened, after all. There would be no need to kill them. Even as the thought entered his mind, he knew it to be a false hope. His family were as good as dead already. That should have chilled him to the bone, but all he could think of at that moment was saving his own skin.
The tree line appeared ahead of him, blurred through the driving rain. He was almost to safety.
Something sliced into the back of his leg and he screamed in agony as he plunged forward and fell face first into the grass and mud. Sobbing, her rolled onto his side and looked to see what had hit him. The black, feathered shaft of an arrow had pierced his calf at the back of his leg and the sharp, pointed end was sticking out the front. Blood trickled from the wound and pattered down to the ground like black goo. With a shaking hand he grasped the shaft as if to pull it free, but as soon as his fingers touched the wooden length, he knew he could not do it. The pain ran through him like a bolt of lightning and he screamed again.
He fell back onto the grass, sobbing piteously, and stared up at the dark sky. Rain fell ceaselessly, hitting his face, drenching him in chill water. For a brief moment, the clouds parted and he could see the cold, pale disc of the moon staring down at him, mocking him for his cowardice.
Then something else moved in front of the moon, blocking the light. He stared up at that oval shape and knew it was one of the men that was following him.
A moment later, however, he realised his error. It was not a man at all. It was something far worse. He could see pale, bloodless, wrinkled flesh covered the places where eyes, mouth and nose should have been. A patchwork of skin, sewn together with rotting pieces of twine. It leaned towards him, and once more he screamed. Not in pain this time, but in fear.