by R. J. Grieve
The other prop needed for her plan was still sitting in its original position outside a livery stable when she returned to it. The large, wooden wheelbarrow full of hay stood just inside the gate and a moment later, the peasant girl in the straw hat was in possession of it and was trundling it over the cobbles towards the east gate.
It was getting late in the day, and there was a fair amount of traffic heading for the gate. Sareth, head bowed and shoulders stooped, joined the steady stream. She was pleased to note that she was not the only one pushing a barrow, and carefully she assumed the gait of someone weary and a little careworn.
The guards were still at their old task of extracting the correct amount of tax from the few people still coming into the city, and surprisingly, didn’t seem overly interested in those leaving. However, their air of disinterest was deceptive, because just as she drew level with them, they detained a slim young man in his twenties that might well have fitted Eimer’s description. Sareth passed them, more stooped than ever, the brim of her hat pulled well down, just as they embarked on a spirited altercation with their captive.
Once clear of the gate, she briskly rolled the barrow along the road until she came to the dense wood where they had deposited Gorm. Checking to make sure she was unobserved, she abruptly veered into the wood and was soon amongst the concealment of the trees.
The wood was peaceful and seemingly deserted. She stood for a moment listening to the birds singing their evening song, apparently undisturbed, before setting down her burden.
“Gorm?” she called softly. “Gorm? Are you still here?”
“Yes,” said a gruff voice so close behind her that she jumped.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that! You scared the wits out of me!”
“Sareth want Gorm?” was all he replied.
“Yes. I need you to come into the city. Our presence has been discovered. Eimer and Bethro are missing and Vesarion has been captured. I…I need you to help me rescue him.”
The Turog seemed unmoved by this plea. “Don’t like places of stone,” he said stubbornly.
“Please, Gorm, you must come. They’ve beaten him terribly and they’re….they’re going to hang him in the morning. Iska has a plan, but she says she needs you for it to work, so you must help us – please!”
With the last word, she sank to her knees before him. Unable to hold back her emotions any longer, hot, desperate tears began to stream unchecked down her face.
“Please, Gorm, I’m begging you,” she pleaded brokenly.
He stood for a moment looking at her, his expression difficult to read. Then slowly he reached out one stubby finger and gently wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Sareth love Vesarion?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” she replied, finding relief in confessing it. “I love him.”
“Then Gorm will help,” he announced decisively. “Not cry any more. Gorm will save Vesarion.”
“Thank you,” she responded fervently, and dried her eyes on her sleeve in a manner that created dirty streaks all over her face.
The return journey was considerably more difficult for Sareth than the outward one, because she had not anticipated that one small Turog could weigh so much. This time, she didn’t need to pretend to struggle with the wheelbarrow because it was taking every ounce of her strength just to keep it moving forward – and it didn’t help, that every now and then, a violent sneeze issued from the pile of hay.
“Gorm,” she hissed, as they approached the gate, “for goodness’ sake keep quiet!”
“Don’t like hay,” complained the wheelbarrow.
Sareth was left to reflect on the unfairness of life, that of all the vicious, murderous Turog in the world, she had to get stuck with the only one who suffered from hay fever.
As she struggled towards the gate, to her alarm, one of the guards began to exhibit some interest in her. He left his post and started to saunter towards her.
“What have you got in there?” he asked imperiously.
Trusting herself to speak only one word, she said laconically: “Hay.”
He looked at her dirty face and shabby clothes in distaste. “Very well, you can go on. There is no tax on hay.”
Sareth nodded and started to heave the wheelbarrow forward, only for the wheel to get stuck in a crack in the cobbles.
One of the other guards, not so supercilious as his comrade, came forward with the kind intention of helping her.
“Here,” he said pleasantly, “let me give you a hand.”
Sareth knew that the moment he felt the weight of the wheelbarrow, the game was up.
“No need,” she panted, and gave the barrow such a heave that it came free with a violent lurch that caused it to jolt forwards.
“Ouch!” exclaimed the pile of hay.
“Ouch!” cried Sareth in gruff tones. “Ouch!”
Avoiding the guard’s astonished stare, she struggled onwards with all the speed she could manage.
It was almost fully dark by the time Iska returned to the bell tower. The first few stars were beginning to pierce a velvety evening sky, as slowly the moon began to rise over the walls of the city. She found her two accomplices anxiously awaiting her in the gloom under the silent bell. Sareth had already noticed that their packs had vanished, leaving only her sword and one of Vesarion’s shirts. She wondered what Iska’s plan was, and was intrigued when her co-conspirator arrived carrying a basket full of bottles of wine.
“Hello Gorm,” Iska greeted him, setting down the basket.
By way of reply, he sneezed.
Sareth rolled her eyes. “As you can see,” said she long-sufferingly, “I’ve done my bit. Now you need to tell me what the plan is.”
“Very well,” replied Iska. “I’ve had a lot of arrangements to make but now everything is done.”
“What are the bottles of wine for?”
“They have been drugged. I took them to Callis and he mixed a strong sleeping draught with the wine. Whoever drinks it will go out like a light. Now, Vesarion is being held in the old armoury. It lies within an outer wall that is guarded day and night. He will be held in a cell on the first floor, and to get to it, one must pass the guardroom, which will have about a dozen off-duty guards in it. The next obstacle is an anteroom used by those guarding the prisoner – there will probably only be one or two gaolers present, for as far as I know, Vesarion is the only prisoner. When the soldiers come off duty, they have a standing arrangement with a nearby inn to provide them with supper. A serving maid from the inn delivers baskets of food and wine to the guardroom at a set time each evening.”
At this point, Iska paused in her recital and faced Sareth, who had been listening to her intently, with a slight look of trouble on her face. “Before I go any further, I feel it only fair to tell you that my plan will involve theft, assault, kidnapping and, at least on my part, treason – are you prepared for this?”
Sareth never flinched. Looking Iska determinedly in the eye, she said: “I am prepared for anything, up to and including murder. You do not need to ask this question of me, Iska, for you know perfectly well I will do whatever it takes to save Vesarion.”
“I thought you would say that, but I had to be sure, because my plan is dangerous and there is a lot that could go wrong.”
“Fine. Tell me the rest of it. I am guessing that you are going to replace the maid and drug the guards, am I right?”
“Yes, except that we will both have to accompany the food into the armoury disguised as maids because I can’t manage this on my own.”
“Are there normally two?”
“No. I can only hope that they will be so interested in their food that they won’t think it suspicious. I fear that Vesarion has been so badly injured that he will barely be able to walk. He is certainly going to need more help than I can give him on my own. Also, if we are surprised, then you stand a better chance of dealing with it than me.”
Gorm, who had been listening to all this with a puzzled look on
his blunt features, suddenly enquired: “What do I do?”
“The problem is how to get Vesarion out of there once he is released from his cell. The gates are guarded and there may well be other soldiers in the parade ground. I mean, we can hardly disguise someone of his height as a maid, so we have to leave by a different route. You’ve heard me say many times that I know every tunnel and secret passage in this city. I also know every inch of the network of storm drains under the streets. One such drain passes directly under the armoury building. The armoury itself is on the ground floor and is always kept securely locked, but the guards upstairs have the key, so if all goes to plan, we should be able to get it. At the back of the armoury is a metal inspection hatch that leads directly into the drains.” Interpreting Sareth’s sudden change of expression, she added quickly: “Don’t worry, the drains are quite large, a man could easily crawl along them, although admittedly they are better suited for someone of Gorm’s size. The only problem is that a kind of key is needed to open the hatch and I don’t know where it is. However, the hatch can be opened without the key from underneath – and that is where you come in, Gorm. You must enter the network of drains at another location and crawl along until you are beneath the armoury. Once there, you must wait patiently for our signal before opening the hatch. Is that clear?”
He nodded vigorously. “Yes. Can do that.”
“Good. Then the only thing we are missing is a disguise for you, Sareth.”
Sareth smiled triumphantly. “I already have one,” she declared, holding up the shabby dress. “As you said, I am resourceful.”
“Excellent.”
“What do we do once we are out of the drain?”
“I have hired horses from a livery stable and have already taken your packs there. You and Vesarion will leave from the south gate and ride to a place I know where you can hide until he is recovered. I will give you directions before you leave.”
“You are not coming?” It was more of a statement than a question, for Sareth already knew the answer.
“I must find Eimer and Bethro. You know that, Sareth.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “What do we do about the guards at the gate?”
“They have been heavily bribed to let you pass. They are used to taking bribes from people not too keen to pay their taxes, so they are totally venal, even at the best of times. Admittedly, this is a bit unusual, so it took a truly staggering amount of money to persuade them.”
“You have that sort of money?” Sareth asked doubtfully.
Iska smiled, enjoying some inward joke. “No, but my dear brother does. I know he would be utterly delighted to discover that he was the means of enabling you to escape from the city. I mean, really! What does he expect if he leaves his strongbox sitting on the table in his room and doesn’t take the trouble to close his window properly? Such carelessness! There are thieves about, you know!”
For the first time since the incident in the square, Sareth laughed. “Iska, you are a devil!”
Iska laughed, delighted with the compliment. “Now, you and I, Sareth, have a maid to kidnap.”
Vesarion knew he was going to die in the morning. No one had directly told him, but he had heard the guards talking and knew that a noose awaited him at sunrise. Now he sat in darkness on the cold floor of his prison, his wrists chained to the wall. Despite being utterly exhausted, he was in such pain that he could not lie down. His back was on fire, like acid eating into his flesh, so that he could not even lean back against the wall. Every inch of his body was either bruised or wounded, tormenting him with pain. His lips felt swollen and one eye had almost completely closed. Despite the fact that he had eaten nothing since breakfast early that morning, he was not hungry. Instead, he sat on the stone floor battling wave after wave of nausea, until at long last they finally subsided.
An indifferent silver moon rose with cool serenity over the armoury, peeping in at the small barred window of his cell. It cast long, argent stripes on the stone floor, creating deep shadows that were almost blue. Vesarion looked at them, knowing that the next time the moon cast its light in at the little window, he would no longer be alive to see it.
At least in his heart he had the comfort of knowing that he had held out to the end. He had done all he could to protect his friends, and knew that he had passed the test that he had been far from certain he would pass. Now his mind was strangely at peace. His only regret was that he had never told Sareth that he loved her. Common sense told him that is was better for her not to know, but he found reason a poor advisor, and instead sat looking at the moonlight, trying to ignore his pain, summoning up a picture of Sareth that day at the inn which was so clear it was almost as if she was right before him. He remembered sitting beside her, looking into her eyes, wondering if he was imagining the feeling that she was willing him to say something. Wishful thinking, he supposed, but now he regretted not speaking anyway.
The saddest words in the world echoed through his head – too late.
Another spasm of pain gripped him and he clenched his fists and held his breath until it eased.
Tomorrow, at sunrise, the ancient line of Westrin would come to an end. It would pass into history and thence into legend, as was, perhaps, only fitting. He found himself accepting the thought with a certain fatalism. The sword of Erren-dar would pass to someone else now.
“Eimer should have it,” he murmured to himself. “It is only right that it should fall to him to save Eskendria, for he has more greatness of heart than his brother.”
He realised, that despite knowing Eimer all his life, he had only come to understand him during the course of their journey. So much that he had not understood before, had become clear to him recently. So much about others. So much about himself.
Images of the events of the last few weeks that had changed his life, flashed with crystal clarity onto his inner eye.
He saw Eimer, ever courageous, standing in the snow, his bow at the ready, waiting steadily for the wolves to attack. He remembered his astonishment when he had seen Gorm weeping before Sareth because he thought he had failed her. He lived again the sun glancing off the river at the foot of the ravine, the day Bethro had caught the fish and he remembered Iska, when they had caught up with her in the Great Forest, telling with ill-concealed sadness, of how her father had rejected her.
But most of all he thought of Sareth. He let his mind dwell on her, and his prison cell faded far away. He saw her again as he had seen her that evening in the Rose Tower, with the candlelight shining on her hair. He remembered her grey eyes looking directly into his the day their swords had crossed. But again and again he saw her looking up at him that fateful day at the inn, waiting for him to say the words that never came. He had let the precious moment slip through his fingers, in ignorance of the fact that there would never be another one. And for Vesarion, the knowledge was almost worse than the physical hurts he had to bear.
The moon, now looking directly onto the man kneeling on the floor of the prison, saw him bow his head into his hands with unbearable grief. When finally he raised his head he looked up at the sky.
“I wish I had told her,” he whispered, “and now I never will.” Gazing up at the serene face sailing above, he said, “If you happen to see her, tell her I love her.”
The moon kept its own counsel, but it was looking down with a certain degree of curiosity on events taking place a short distance away at the rear of an inn called the White Hart.
Sareth and Iska were lying in ambush at the back of the inn, awaiting the emergence of the serving maid. The door to a seldom-used storeroom lay ajar behind them and within it lay Sareth’s disguise and her sword. The basket containing the drugged bottles of wine was put out of harm’s way in a corner, with Vesarion’s shirt tucked into it.
Gorm had already been stuffed down a hatch into the storm drain a short distance from the armoury, with strict instructions of how to get to his destination ringing in his ears. He had rapidly crawled away, feeling strange
ly in his element.
Now the minutes dragged past and there was no sign of the maid. Sareth, in a highly keyed-up state, was fidgeting restlessly, aware that the whole plan hinged on the maid’s capture. Iska, whose job was to distract the servant while Sareth attacked her, was on the far side of the street. Glancing towards her co-conspirator standing in the shadow of the doorway, she turned up her hands and shrugged in a manner intended to convey that she had no idea what the delay was.
However, a short time later, they heard a feminine voice reassure someone at the inn that she wouldn’t be long and the sound of light footsteps approaching on the cobbles. Iska tensed. Into view came a young woman of about her own height and age, carrying two heavy baskets. She clearly had no qualms about entering the dark street, but when Iska suddenly emerged from the gloom, she started.
“I’m sorry,” began Iska politely, “but could you give me directions to the White Hart Inn, please?”
The girl turned to reply and at the same moment, Sareth sprang forward, caught the victim’s throat in the crook of her arm and dragged her backwards into the doorway. At the same instant, she clapped her other hand tightly over her mouth.
Iska deftly relieved the girl of her two baskets and in a trice they were all in the storeroom, lit only by the stub of a small candle.
But the girl, seeing that her attackers were just two women, had no notion of surrendering quietly. She began to struggle with Sareth, clawing at her arm, trying to scratch her face, until Iska caught her hands and bound them tightly together. However, she was still giving Sareth trouble, wriggling and kicking, attempting to get her mouth free to scream for help. Iska stuffed a large handkerchief into her mouth and between them, they managed to wrestle her to the ground and tied her ankles. They stood back to observe their handiwork, both dishevelled and panting.
“Why couldn’t she have been a timid little mouse?” railed Sareth. “Even with the handkerchief, she’s making too much noise, and for this to succeed, she must not be found until the morning. I think it’s time to see if Callis’s potion works. You hold her nose,” she instructed ruthlessly, “and I’ll pour some down her throat.”