‘Hey!’ Jimmy shouted, pelting forward.
Rox turned at the sound. Jimmy threw the first rock as he ran. Rox took it in the gut; the stiff leather of his jerkin took most of the force, but he still went ooof and staggered back two steps.
‘No!’ Jimmy shouted. ‘Run, curse you! Run for the ford!’
With more courage than sense, the blond youth was trying to pick up his knife despite the pained numbness of his well-whacked wrist. Skinny had recovered a little by the time Jimmy arrived on the scene. He dodged the second rock, even at pointblank range, and the young thief dropped with a yell beneath a vicious backhand sword-cut; Skinny didn’t have any reason to keep a chance-met stranger alive, and was probably still feeling the effects of the kick. He had to be wearing a boiled-leather cup under those greasy calfskin breeches, to be able to move at all.
Jimmy landed on his back in the dust, hands spread; one palm came down on something cool and metallic, and closed over it in reflex. Skinny’s sword glittered above a snarling face; the blond youth barrelled into him before it could come down, and Jimmy rolled and flicked himself back to his feet.
Skinny was coming at him, sword ready and malign intent plain. Behind him Rox grappled with the youth; he hit him on the point of his shoulder with the pommel of his sword, bringing a muffled grunt of pain, then grasped the back of his neck with one spade-sized hand and ran him forward four steps. The youth’s face made brutal contact with his own saddle; he bounced back and fell limp. The horse turned and bolted for the ford; Jimmy did likewise, diving aside into cover as something when past him with an unpleasant whistle.
It was a knife; the point thunked into a sapling and the blade quivered with a nerve-racking hum; but there were no sounds of pursuit once he’d made a hundred yards or so. Panting, he stopped and examined the thing he’d caught. It was like a locket, but with only a hair-wrapped needle on a card inside the crystal cover. Shrugging, he tucked it away.
A twig cracked under a foot nearby. Up! was his immediate impulse; and a big beech looked as scalable as a wall. He swarmed up it, and lay along a branch thicker than his body.
Weasel and pit-dog paused beneath him. ‘I say we should find him, and scrag him proper,’ Skinny said. ‘I don’t want any witnesses.’
The bigger man guffawed. ‘Who’s he going to take his story to?’ he laughed. ‘The Baron? Good luck to him! If he heads back to Land’s End to talk to the Constable, all the better, for it’ll be days before he sends anyone out here to poke around, assuming he does anything at all. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Jimmy lay motionless on a large branch, catching glimpses of the two men through the foliage. They hoisted the unconscious young man to his feet, and Rox held him up while Skinny lashed his ankles and wrists, then they heaved him over the neck of Skinny’s horse. Jimmy saw them ride off, and waited until he was certain the two men were gone. He let himself down, dropping the last six feet to land lightly on his toes. ‘What do I do now?’ he muttered to no one.
FIFTEEN
Discovery
Bernarr lay dreaming.
Sweat beaded on his forehead and he moaned as he clawed at the sheets. The dream was vivid: he could hear the breeze rustling in the trees, the sound of the surf against the cliffs. The colours were vibrant and even the scent of the woods, the horse’s sweat, and the oiled leathers filled his nostrils.
‘How dare you take my kill from me?’ the Baron demanded furiously. ‘Have you no manners at all?’ The boar lay twitching at the feet of the Baron’s mount, while Bernarr resisted the urge to draw steel and attack the youth.
The younger man bowed in his saddle. ‘I am sorry, my lord. I feared that you would miss and endanger yourself.’ Zakry’s tone was dripping with sincerity, but the slight lift of his lip offered mockery.
Bernarr stared at him coldly. ‘I have been hunting boar in these woods of mine since you were soiling your swaddling-clout,’ he said. ‘And I am hardly in my dotage now. I assure you, I am capable of taking down one of my own boars.’
Zakry inclined his head. ‘Sorry, my lord. I will have the huntsmen gather it up,’ he said, sounding apologetic.
‘You will leave it where it lies,’ Bernarr said abruptly. ‘I will not have it on my table.’ He touched the rein to the neck of his mount and turned back toward the hunt.
‘My lord,’ Zakry called out behind him. ‘I would speak with you in private.’
Bernarr stopped his horse, clenching his teeth. Such impudence! Even so, he turned and rode back to where the young lord sat fiddling nervously with the reins. ‘Follow me then,’ he said. ‘Let us get out of these woods and go somewhere no one can listen to this “private conversation”.’
He broke from the woods into meadowland starred with yellow flowers, drying slightly to a golden shade as the summer grew late, and rode up a hill. Birds broke out of the tall grass before them as the horses’ hooves threw up clods of earth. Bernarr kept the pace to a hard gallop until he came to the top of the rise. They stopped just short of the cliffs, the sea below a glorious vista. Gulls wheeled overhead.
Zakry pulled up past him, patting his horse’s neck. ‘Magnificent,’ he proclaimed, taking a deep breath.
‘What do you want?’ Bernarr asked impatiently.
‘My lord,’ Zakry said, ‘the Lady Elaine should never have left Rillanon: she pines for it, and even you can see that she is thin and pale. She should return to the capital. This is not the life for her! She needs excitement and the glamour of the court. I would ask you, for her sake, my lord, to put her aside.’
Bernarr stared at him in disbelief. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said. ‘Would you repeat yourself, sir?’
Zakry looked surprised. ‘My lord, I assumed you to be a man of the world. You must have known that Elaine and I were lovers.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Certainly you knew she wasn’t a virgin.’
‘Stop!’ Bernarr shouted. His knuckles were white on the reins and his eyes were wide, his breath whistling through his teeth as he tried to contain his fury.
‘I love her,’ Zakry said, as if the older man hadn’t spoken. ‘I never should have let her go. But it isn’t too late, you could have the marriage annulled. She would thank you for it.’
‘Put her aside? Are you mad? Elaine would die of shame if I were to do such a thing!’
‘It is what she wants, sir! She loves me, my lord. And I know she wishes to be with me. Please, have pity on us and let us be together.’
Bernarr made no attempt to hide his rage. ‘You will return to the castle now! Pack and leave my house and take the first ship from Land’s End you find, or I will not answer for your life beyond sunset.’ Turning to ride away, he wrenched at the rein with a strength that brought a squeal of protest from the horse.
‘Sir!’ Zakry shouted. ‘You will listen to me!’ He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and nearly collided with the Baron’s bay.
Will he lay hands on me, on my own land? Bernarr wondered. But he said nothing. With a whistle of effort, he turned and struck the other man hard with the back of his fisted gauntlet, iron studs ripping into flesh. Zakry fell back with a cry of pain. His cheek was laid open to the bone within a fraction of an inch of one eye. He dropped his reins and raised both hands in a protective gesture.
Zakry’s horse backed, confused and frightened, and flung up its head. Bernarr’s horse, sensing its rider’s anger and knowing the reins had gone slack, became excited. It laid back its ears, spun and kicked. Zakry’s horse, struck hard in the chest, reared. Making a single protesting whinny–almost like the cry of a giant child–it stepped backwards and to the side: one, two, then a third step.
And suddenly they were both gone.
Bernarr pulled hard on the reins, forcing his fractious mount into a tight circle. When he had finally re-established command, he slowly guided the horse to the edge of the cliff and stood up in his stirrups to look over the edge.
Both man and horse had disappeared. Below him, the wild wav
es crashed around fanged rocks, the spray tossing up forty or fifty feet at each great surge and making the solid granite of the cliffs tremble. Then, briefly, he saw the barrel of the dead horse amidst the breakers, the retreating tide pulling the animal out to sea. Of Zakry there was no sign.
Zakry’s disappearance was explained away by a contrived excuse: a message from the east, the need for him to return home by the first ship; and the willingness of those who listened not to offend their host by showing disbelief. Zakry’s luggage was sent to town the next day, to follow him to Rillanon, and Elaine’s friends continued to enjoy her husband’s hospitality. Elaine seemed distant and withdrawn.
Days later Bernarr had to send for a chirurgeon to examine Elaine, for she had taken to bed and complained of being ill.
‘I have the most happy news for you, my lord,’ the man gushed.
‘My lady is not ill,’ Bernarr said, his lips lifting in a smile.
‘Even better, my lord!’ The man preened as though he’d worked a marvel. ‘The Baroness is with child! Quick work, my lord, eh?’
The Baron stared at him, his face an unreadable mask. He remained motionless, until the chirurgeon bowed again. ‘My steward will see to your fee,’ Bernarr said coldly and went into the house. Yet even the chirurgeon’s vulgarity could not destroy his delight at the news, or his relief that Elaine was not truly ill. He went directly to her rooms.
She looked up, startled at his entrance, her green eyes wide. Bernarr knelt at her side, taking her hand in his and kissing it. In his dream he could still feel the fragile fingers, the soft skin, still see the pulse beating in her neck as she lay pale against the white pillows and cushions.
Tears gathered in her eyes, yet her expression was not joyous. They spoke in broken sentences, and he remembered nothing of what they said, save that when he left her chamber, she was quietly weeping.
The guests observed the obligatory feigned joy at the news of her condition, used it as an excuse to organize a feast, and drank a large portion of the baronial wine cellar.
But soon they were forced to leave. By ship to Krondor, then overland to Salador and on to Rillanon was a trip of more than a month. Once the Straits of Darkness were in the grip of winter storms, the only passage was around the southern tip of Great Kesh, a travel of three months beset with storms, pirates and Keshian raiders. When it became clear the Baron would not invite them to spend the winter in Land’s End, they bid their host and hostess a polite farewell, and departed.
The Baron twisted in the damp sheets, his eyes fluttering as he moaned. The storm…
On the night on which the Baroness Elaine went into labour a storm sprang up out of the sea; hills and walls of purple-black cloud piled along the western horizon, flickering with lightning but touched gold by the sun as it set behind them. The surge came before the storm: mountain-high waves that set fishermen dragging their craft higher and lashing them to trees and boulders; then to praying as the thrust of air came shrieking about their thatch. When the rain followed it came in nearly horizontal, blown before the monster winds.
Whips of rain lashed the manor, too. Lightning forked the sky and thunder rattled the windows. Bernarr had bribed the midwife to stay at the manse for the last two weeks and now he was very glad he’d done so.
As he got ready to dine, a servant announced a traveller and his servants at the gate, begging shelter. This Bernarr granted gladly–hospitality brought luck, and at this moment he wanted his full share. The house was so still these days he would also welcome the company and he was delighted to discover that his guest was a scholar who cared far more for the books in his coach than for either his horses, his servants or himself.
He was a tall, imposing man, with large eyes and a penetrating gaze, a few years older than Bernarr. His name was Lyman Malachy.
‘Yes,’ said Malachy, ‘when I heard of the sudden death of your father, I began my journey from a great distance. With many distractions and delays behind me, I arrive tonight.’ He shook his sleeve as if to dispatch the remaining drops of rainwater on the cuff. ‘I had exchanged missives with your father, but I had no knowledge of his heirs. I feared you wouldn’t know what you had in his books and might sell them to someone else before I could possibly make an offer.’
The Baron smiled and shook his head. He was about to speak when he noticed that Lyman’s eyes had gone distant, which surprised him. Up until this moment the little fellow had been an excellent and most attentive guest. But almost immediately Lyman’s eyes cleared and he looked gravely at the Baron.
‘A child will be born in this house tonight,’ he said. ‘A boy.’
‘How could you know that?’ Bernarr asked in wonder. ‘The Baroness is with child, but she isn’t due so soon.’
Lyman smiled tersely. ‘I would not trust everyone with this knowledge,’ he said. ‘But, as you are an educated man, beyond crude peasant superstition, and so generous a host, I will confess. I am a magician.’
‘Ah,’ was all Bernarr said. But he wondered what to do. He’d taken an instant liking to his mysterious guest, and like most citizens of the Kingdom he had his doubts about those who dabbled in magic; yet he felt a curious kinship with Malachy. He chose to be delicate; after all, the man would be gone in the morning. ‘That must cause you some…difficulty.’
‘It has at times,’ Lyman admitted. ‘There is prejudice against those of us who follow the art, who have the gift…But fortunately for me my family was well off and I was sent far from home to study. As a result, no one who knew me as a child knows of my talents, and as my parents left me with a handsome legacy, I am able to support myself quite comfortably. Which means I can afford to buy books!’
They both grinned at that. Then came a sharp rap on the door.
‘Come,’ Bernarr called.
A servant appeared, his face drawn and his eyes wide. ‘My lord! The Lady Elaine’s time has come!’
Bernarr rose to his feet, his heart leaping to his throat. As he passed his guest, he saw a small smile raise the corner of the magician’s mouth.
Images sped by.
The midwife standing by the door, a worried expression on her face. ‘The baby is coming…’ and then her words faded.
Then the face of Elaine, pale and drenched in perspiration as the midwife commanded her to push. The screaming and the blood.
The crying baby, held out proudly by the midwife, who said, ‘You have a son, my lady’ to the fading Baroness, who was in too much pain even to recognize the baby for what it was.
Blood was everywhere.
Blood.
Bernarr turned in bed, moaning and crying, No! he tried to say, but only another low groan escaped his lips.
Then Lyman was at his shoulder. His manner was calm and commanding. ‘Everyone leave the room,’ he said simply.
Then the screaming stopped.
Bernarr sat up in bed. He was panting as if he had run for hours, and his still-fit body was taut and drenched with perspiration as if he had fought a battle. He rolled out of bed, pulled off his soaked night shirt, and threw it across the floor. Through the window he could see the morning sun had just crested the mountains, and another day had started. Only hours, he thought, as he sat naked on the bed, reaching for a mug and the pitcher of water left on the night table. He drank and refilled the mug to drink again.
But the other thirst–the thirst to end this nightmare that had plagued him for seventeen years, to see his Elaine restored and free of the endless pain–still lingered.
Standing up, he moved to the tub of water awaiting his morning wash. He didn’t mind the cold water: he had grown used to it. He needed to cleanse himself of the foul feeling on his skin, and would not don clothing until he did. He stepped into the small copper tub, squatted and grabbed the sponge upon the table next to it, ignoring the chilly bite of the water. If only I could clean away my pain, he thought, as he had every morning for seventeen years.
But soon…
Aunt Cleora went pale.
‘Oh, Ruthia!’ she gasped, a hand pressed to her throat.
The horse-dealer prodded the saddle where it lay on the flagstones of the kitchen floor. A black-and-white kitten came up to it, sniffing at the fascinating scents of horse-sweat, leather and blood.
‘Aye, it’s blood, right enough,’ Kerson said. ‘And this–’ his toe touched the stub of an arrow that jutted up from the rear of the saddle, ‘–isn’t no hunting shaft, either.’
He produced a pair of pliers from a loop at his waist and bent, putting one foot on the saddle and pinching the tool closed on the glint of metal where arrow shaft joined leather.
‘Come up there!’ he grunted, heaving backward, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching.
It came free, and he stuck it under their noses. ‘See? Bodkin point, not a broad head. None use that, except for hunting men–it’s meant to pierce armour or jerkin.’
Lorrie stared at the saddle with a sick dread in her heart, worse even than the cold feeling that had held her since her family died. She knew they were dead; she knew Rip was still alive for the feeling was there in distant flashes. But she didn’t know whether Bram was alive or dead.
‘The horse come in at first light,’ Kerson said. It was an hour after sunrise, and the family had just been finishing the morning meal when the horse-trader had arrived at the door of the house. ‘Poor beast had its ribs beat raw by the stirrups, and dried foam caked halfway to its tail. Looks like it was trotting all night. Took a bad fright, and I thought seeing’s it was that tall blond lad, your young niece’s friend, that bought it, and he was on his way chasing after your niece’s other friend, the lad I sold…’ he pointed to Lorrie, ‘…your old horse to, well, anyway, seeing as it sort of all fit together, I thought you should know.’
Legends of the Riftwar Page 95