by R. J. Grieve
She said the words with such utter conviction, that for a moment his eyes narrowed in suspicion, but soon he was laughing again.
“I am going to have some fun with you,” he remarked, in gleeful anticipation. “Once I have knocked that toy out of your hand, I will do with you as I please.”
He glanced derisively at the prisoner, grimly holding on to Iska for support. “Then he will hang and that treacherous vixen who helped you, will follow him in due course.”
He drew breath to say more, clearly savouring the moment, but he never got the chance. Sareth had made up her mind what she must do and was not about to give him the advantage of playing by the rules. While he was still laughing, with lightning speed, she attacked. His arrogance had left him vulnerable, and her speed was such, that before he could react, her sword shot out and sliced through his upper arm.
He leaped back with a curse and just managed to parry a second lunge in the very nick of time.
A patch of red blossomed on his white shirt. He looked at it as if he could not believe what he was seeing, and came within a hair’s breadth of being wounded again when another thrust came his way with the speed of a striking snake. Desperately, he leaped backwards and the tip of Sareth’s blade merely grazed him. A roar of rage issued from him.
“You are going to regret that!” he bellowed and picking up a wooden chair easily in one hand, flung it at her with all his might.
Sareth shot downwards, ducking under the missile. It flew over her head and crashed against the wall, splintering into a dozen pieces.
“This is making too much noise,” said Iska worriedly.
Vesarion tried to disentangle himself from her hold. “Let go of me, Iska,” he said, his words a little slurred. “I must help her.”
But she clung on even tighter. “No. You are in no condition to help anyone, besides, I don’t think she needs any help. She’s running rings around him. Look!”
Sareth was indeed taking full advantage of her superior speed. Remembering everything Parrick and Vesarion had taught her, she was being elusive. Darting forward to attack and then leaping back out of range again, aggravatingly slippery. The large room was by now ringing to the sound of weapons and the occasional crash of furniture as Ursor vented his frustration. Again and again he tried to pin her down, so that he could exert his greater strength against her, but she was a will-o-the-wisp. Flashing her blade beneath his, she wounded him again on the thigh and avoiding his bull-like charge, leaped onto a chair and thence onto the table, dancing nimbly over the prone body of the guard. Ursor was by now in the same state of impotent rage as a bear attacked by hornets. He was roaring incoherently with wrath at the thought that he could be treated this way by a mere woman. Many times he brought his blade down with stunning force only to be met with no resistance at all, for she had changed positions at the very last moment. Not for an instant did she stop moving. Sometimes she attacked from one side, sometimes the other. He directed one of his many charges against her, hunching his shoulders aggressively, but with impeccable timing, she neatly sidestepped him and sliced her blade across his back as he went past. This time, however, was different - he recovered his poise much more speedily. He spun round and their swords crossed. Quickly, he began to slide his blade downwards to cross the hilts.
“Disengage,” whispered Vesarion urgently. “Disengage!”
As if she had heard him, she did just that, and leaving her opponent unbalanced by the sudden withdrawal of opposition, stepped back and with eyes blazing, deliberately slashed him across the face with the tip of her sword, splitting his cheek open from ear to nose.
“That is for what you did to Vesarion,” she spat.
But what her opponent lacked in intelligence, he made up for in stamina and he was by no means done for.
“This is going on too long,” muttered Vesarion.
“I do not want Sareth to have his death on her conscience,” unexpectedly said Iska.
But Vesarion overrode her. “She must finish him, Iska, otherwise he will tell your brother what he knows. Now, let go of me,” he commanded in a voice that brooked no opposition.
Ursor was injured in many places and was running with blood. Moreover he was suffering not only pain, but the novel sensation of humiliation, yet he was far from beaten. Realising that what he was doing was not working, he suppressed his rage and started to scheme relentlessly to trap Sareth. He began to herd her toward a tight corner between the desk and the door of the cell, where he could use his great strength to pin her.
Iska could see the sheen of perspiration on Sareth’s forehead, her intense concentration as she tried to anticipate every move, but present also was just the tiniest suggestion of fear in her eyes.
Sareth made to duck past him as she had done many times before, but this time he was too quick for her. His sword shot forward and he trapped her against the table. She wriggled free but he had left her nowhere to go but a narrow corner behind the door where all her advantage had gone. His cheek was running with blood, giving him a ghastly, mask-like appearance but he still managed to smile gloatingly as he raised his sword. Then he noticed her eyes flick past him, and he heard a voice behind him call his name. Casting a swift glance over his shoulder, he saw Vesarion, gripping the sword belonging to the drugged guard. Ursor correctly identified that the greater threat came from behind and began to spin round - but he was not quick enough. Vesarion, summoning up his last few dregs of strength, grasped the hilt in both hands and drawing the sword back to its full extent, drove it hard into his tormentor’s belly.
Ursor gave a harsh grunt and dropped to his knees. With a suppressed groan of pain, Vesarion jerked his blade free and swinging the sword sideways, slashed it across his enemy’s throat, silencing him for ever.
Sareth flew to help him as he swayed on his feet. “Thank you,” she said fervently. “It was my intention to rescue you, but once again it is you who have saved me. And yet, somehow it is only fitting that he should die by your hand.”
His hand gripped her shoulder and behind the bruises on his face, she thought she detected the ghost of a smile.
“I was always taught not to fight while in a temper,” he said, “but clearly that rule does not apply to you. I have never seen you in such a rage.”
Iska, who had been giving the body a kick, just to make sure it was really dead, hurried over. “Sareth! You were magnificent! That bully can take his threats and his cruelty to the grave.” She said the last few words with such venom that for a moment Sareth thought she was going to spit on the corpse, however, she quickly recollected herself, and drew Vesarion’s arm across her shoulder again. “We have delayed too long. We must hurry. I can only pray that the sound of the fight has not attracted attention. I will lock this door behind us, and the door to the guardroom as well, because the longer what has happened here remains unknown, the better chance we have of getting away.”
By the time Iska made use of her stolen bunch of keys to gain access to the armoury, everyone’s nerves were raw. Vesarion made the best speed he could as they descended the stairs but at every moment they expected to be discovered, as fresh guards coming off duty repaired to the guardroom. Just as the armoury door opened, they detected the sound of marching feet outside in the parade ground and knew that their run of luck had ended. The three fugitives practically flung themselves through the door and waited in silence while Iska locked it behind them.
The armoury, lit by the limited light of the candle, seemed a huge, high-ceilinged affair lined with rack after rack of swords, pikes, maces and battleaxes, disappearing off in ranks into the darkness. Helmets and plate armour sat on shelves and chain-mail hauberks hung from hooks on the wall.
Iska gasped when she saw the huge stockpile of weapons. “All this was not present the last time I was in here. There is enough here to equip an army.”
“I think,” replied Sareth grimly, “that is the idea.”
Vesarion might have only possessed the sight of one eye
but he still managed to pick out the choicest sword, lifting it down from the rack with care.
“You shouldn’t burden yourself with that,” Iska cautioned, “because you are going to have to crawl through the drainage system.”
But he refused to give it up. “It might come in handy,” was all he would say.
A fresh moment of panic broke out when, despite a frantic search at the back of the armoury, they failed to find the inspection hatch.
“Are you sure it’s here?” Sareth asked.
“Yes, of course I’m sure,” Iska replied scornfully. “I’ve told you, I’ve been in the armoury before, courtesy of the hatch, it just seems…er…to have disappeared.”
It was Vesarion who resolved the problem. Raising his voice a little he called: “Gorm? Are you there?”
“Yes,” came the muffled reply from beneath the floor. “It won’t open.”
“Then tap on the underside of the cover.”
A steady tapping sound began to issue from underneath a heavy chest found to contain spare parts for crossbows. Just as they were in the act of heaving the chest aside, the sound of running footsteps was heard in the corridor outside. They froze and listened intently. A raised voice was heard calling in puzzlement to someone in the parade ground: “Has anyone got a spare key to the guardroom? The door is locked and I can get no reply!”
“Quickly,” hissed Vesarion. “They’ll be on us in no time.”
Desperately they levered up the hatch using a borrowed battleaxe, with Gorm pushing from below, and were soon peering into the dark void. The ugly but welcomingly familiar features of the Turog stared up at them, his eyes unblinking.
“Save Vesarion,” he announced and held up one leathery paw to the injured man.
Some time ago, Vesarion might not have taken that hand, but now he did so without hesitation.
“Thank you, Gorm,” he said, wincing in pain as he squeezed through the narrow opening.
Sareth and Iska followed, closing the hatch behind them and they all found themselves on their hands and knees in the dark drain, lit only by the small candle from the guardroom, which, having rendered such excellent service, was now showing an inclination to go out.
The drain smelt damp and mouldy and was lined with a squelching carpet of wet leaves. Something of the rodent variety scuttled secretively away.
“Lucky it’s been dry recently,” observed Sareth, “or we’d have to swim for it. Lead on Gorm.”
The Turog, happily in his element, could easily have out-distanced his human friends, but showing remarkable solicitude for the injured man, he slowed his pace, helping and encouraging as best he could. With an unfailing sense of direction he guided them past every intersection until he halted beneath another access hatch, set just above his head. Rising to his feet, he cautiously eased it upwards. Anyone standing in the street above, would have been a shade nonplussed to have seen the hatch rise, apparently of its own volition, and a pair of alarmingly yellow eyes glaring out from beneath it. But the hour was late and the quiet side-street was deserted, except for a stray dog, initially intrigued by the rising hatch. It came sniffing over, but as soon as it caught the whiff of Turog, it shot off, howling in terror.
As Vesarion struggled out of the tunnel, he scraped his back against the edge and could not suppress a faint cry of pain. Gorm gripped his elbow and helped him to his feet, his observant stare taking in the fact that the back of the new shirt was already soaked with red.
“Vesarion badly hurt,” he remarked gruffly. “Brave man. Sareth make you better.”
But the object of his sympathy, teeth clenched in pain, could not reply.
Iska, hoping that it was taking the guards a very long time to locate a spare key, led them quickly through quiet back alleys towards the south gate, followed by Sareth supporting Vesarion. Gorm brought up the rear, glancing over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. He had refused to obey Iska’s instructions to go back down the drain and now ducked uneasily in and out of doorways, afraid to be seen. He need not have troubled himself, for it was long past midnight and all the respectable townsfolk were in bed, and the not-so-respectable ones, had they seen the Turog, would probably have attributed it to having indulged in one glass of ale too many.
The livery stable, too, was deserted and quietly as ghosts they drifted in, to be greeted by the pleasant, musky smell of hay and warm horseflesh. Two chestnut horses were already saddled and waiting patiently in their stalls. Sareth helped Iska to lash their belongings onto the horses. Then both she and Vesarion donned their cloaks and pulled up the hoods. Rapidly, Iska gave Sareth instructions how to reach the hiding place she had chosen for them.
“You should be there by tomorrow, if all goes well. Actually, I could not be sending you to a better hiding place. Not only does no one but Callis and myself know of its existence but it will help to heal Vesarion.”
“How so?” asked Sareth, perplexed.
Iska smiled mysteriously. “You’ll understand when you get there. Callis has given me some remedies to treat Vesarion’s injuries and I have put them in your pack, along with a letter instructing you how to use them.”
Vesarion, who with immense effort had managed to get in the saddle, leaned down and offered his hand to Iska.
“Forgive me for ever doubting you, Iska,” he said quietly. Then gently gripping her hand, said simply: “Thank you.”
To everyone’s surprise, he then turned to Gorm who had hung back because he was making the horses uneasy.
“I am greatly in your debt, Gorm. Take care of Iska until we meet again.”
Gorm, who had been about to announce that he wanted to come with Sareth, was obliged to swallow the request and nod agreement.
Just as Sareth put her foot in the stirrup to mount, impulsively, she suddenly turned and caught Iska in the sort of hug that made her friend wonder if all her ribs were still intact.
“There are no words to thank you,” she said brokenly in her ear. “Just see if you can find that idiot brother of mine, and above all, stay safe.”
“Don’t worry. Thanks to the fact that you disposed of that animal Ursor, I am in little danger. When I find Eimer and Bethro, we will probably have to lie low for a while until the dust settles, so don’t be alarmed if you don’t hear from us for some time. Just concentrate on getting Vesarion well again.”
The south gate was just around the corner from the stables and leaving Gorm skulking and sneezing amongst the hay, Iska led them confidently towards the guards. As they entered the pool of light by the gate, she received a slight nod from one of them, then both sentries resolutely looked in the opposite direction as the two hooded figures walked their horses out through the archway and into the anonymity of the darkness beyond.
As the city fell behind them, Sareth risked one last glance behind her, but the guards were alone. Iska had vanished into the night.
The landlord of the Cock and Pheasant inn was not a happy man. The brewer who supplied his ale had put his prices up, profits were down, and the disruption of the last couple of days, with soldiers charging about everywhere, was scaring off customers. Only a few hardened drinkers had turned up last night. And just to cap it all, he suspected that he had hired an idiot to help in the taproom. He was leaning on the counter, rather despondently counting the previous night’s meagre takings, when some tuneless whistling coming from the far side of the room, made him look up from his task with a frown of annoyance.
A vacuous youth was vigorously sweeping the floor, apparently oblivious to the sour looks being cast at him. Finally, resorting to more direct methods, his employer said sharply: “Would you stop that dreadful noise! It has all the charm of a cat with its tail caught in a mangle.”
The lad, largely immune to insults, grinned and continued enthusiastically sweeping the floor, raising a choking dust, until the landlord could stand it no longer.
“Set that broom down and go and fetch me another barrel of ale from the cellar. We haven’t enough to d
o for this evening – although at the rate things are going, one barrel should last us for a week. And don’t bring the stuff delivered yesterday, mind. Make sure it’s one of the older barrels.”
With a sense of relief, he saw the youth disappear down the corridor towards the cellar, however, his respite from relentless cheerfulness was short-lived, for just as he was half way through adding up a column of figures, the door burst open and his assistant tumbled headlong into the room. The landlord, losing track of his addition yet again, rounded on him angrily.
“What now?”
The boy, white around the gills and gasping, seemed incapable of speech and stood gulping for a moment before blurting out: “There’s a dead body in the cellar!”
The landlord, who had recently been suspecting that the lad was missing a few arrows from his quiver, was now confirmed in his diagnosis.
“Stop acting the fool and fetch the ale.”
“But….but, there is! There’s a dead man in the cellar! I swear it!”
He caught his employer urgently by the sleeve and tugged insistently. “Come and see.”
Lighting an oil lamp, the landlord followed the lad down the steps into the dark cellar and immediately was forced to revise his opinion.
There, stretched out on the floor beneath the trapdoor, was a portly man apparently exhibiting no signs of life.
It wasn’t the first time someone had fallen down the trapdoor and from the position of the body, the landlord was pretty sure that was what had happened. However, hard on the heels of this discovery, came the realisation that with the whole city in an uproar and the guards on edge, intent on being mightily officious, a dead body might not be the most advantageous thing to have in one’s cellar.
Carefully, the landlord prodded the corpse with one toe and fairly leaped back in alarm when a groan issued from it.