Path of Revenge

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  ‘We should have left them in the clearing,’ the guardsman said. ‘I fear by making them walk for days we have given them no chance to recover from their ordeal. We would have been better to seek out the nearest village ourselves and tell them what we discovered.’

  ‘I doubt they would have been able to care for themselves,’ Stella said. ‘How many would have remained alive by the time someone returned to help them? Assuming we were believed? And I think a few days on their feet in the warmth of the open air has helped them.’ She cast an eye over the group as they walked, saw the limping, the open sores, the glazed eyes, the weariness. ‘Well, a few of them, anyway.’

  Tell them the real reason. Her helping the Destroyer escape Instruere all those years ago, involuntary though it was, had led directly to the suffering of these innocents. Directly. It was her fault the Lord of Fear had survived, and in the intervening years she had not thought once about the fate of the Maghdi Dasht. I thought they’d all died; I was sure of it. And now others pay the price for my assumption. And a darker thought: are there others out there? Other ghosts in the forest, haunting the eastward road, preying on passers-by? She would make it a high priority when she returned to Instruere…Except, of course, she was unlikely ever to return. Now the Koinobia had usurped the leadership, she would doubtless be declared an enemy. Her life would be forfeit; there would be a price on her head.

  How have the Halites come to power so swiftly? She’d received no hint of it as queen, nor had Leith, despite those in the king’s employ whose business it was to be aware of such things. Complicity, that’s the word underlying everything. Alliances between the Instruian Guard and the Halites, forged in secret while the king lay dying. And that cursed Archpriest now probably the new ruler, though she had no doubt he claimed otherwise.

  Stella sighed in relief when a small village came into view. The bedraggled procession of prisoners made their way along a brightly decorated main street, the village clearly in the throes of a festival of some kind. Stalls had been set up on both sides of the wide lane, banners flapped in the simoom wind, and children clapped their hands and laughed at the antics of performers.

  The music ceased, children stilled and the villagers turned as one to face the group. A number of the freed captives cowered in the face of the silent attention.

  ‘Milly! Milly!’ a woman screeched, and came running out of the crowd. She stopped before one of the prisoners, a girl of perhaps fifteen years, one of those who had not spoken since her rescue. One of those, Stella thought, whom the torture had driven mad.

  Milly—if it was she—shied away from the woman, who cried out in surprise. ‘Milly! It’s me, your ma! What has happened to you?’ She turned to Stella. ‘What happened to her?’

  This was not going to be easy. Though Stella had determined not to talk about the worst abuses, any relatives of the prisoners would be shocked by even the least harrowing of the tales that would emerge.

  The villagers gathered around, their festival forgotten, as Stella, assisted by Robal, explained about the brothers and the cage. There was anger at the words, which rose to fury, and some of the men decided then and there to mount an expedition to find the place, locate any other prisoners—or their graves—and bring any news they could back to the villages in the area. They rushed off to their homes, afire with plans to set out immediately.

  Worst were the women who sought news of missing loved ones. ‘Have you seen my Sirla? We thought the river took her. Three years ago it was,’ one woman said.

  ‘There must have been a wee boy, he’d be seven years old now, a little fellow with bright blue eyes and a smiling face,’ another woman said in tones so hopeful it almost broke Stella’s heart to hear. ‘Please, is he there? Why didn’t you bring him?’

  Request after request, all but drowning her under the waves of raw emotion. The fear, the despair, the rekindled hope. We’ve destroyed a village.

  In the end the travellers did not accept the perfunctory offers of hospitality advanced to them by some of the villagers, as much as they needed time to recover. Stella could feel the hostility their appearance had generated. A few, without lost children of their own, simply regretted the loss of their festival, of their fun or the income they were expecting: petty, selfish and not worth considering. But others were genuinely distressed, either because their lost child was not one of those returned, or—even worse, perhaps—because he or she was. Along with Milly, another prisoner, a young boy, was identified by frantic parents. Like Milly, the boy gave no indication of recognising his loved ones.

  Stella watched as the village physic made a show of examining Conal’s arm, partly because the woman could face no more of the horror that had been placed in her lap. ‘You’ve cracked it, all right,’ the plain-faced woman said, handling the limb as though it were a snake. ‘Not much to be done apart from keeping it still. Not much chance of that, if I know young men.’ She sighed. ‘Here’s what will happen. I’ll wrap your arm to your chest to keep it still. After a few days the pain will go away and it will start to itch. You won’t be able to stand it, and you’ll tell yourself your arm has healed quickly. You’ll take the binding off, do something foolish and rebreak it, much worse this time. If you’re lucky and it doesn’t get infected, at the least it’ll never set properly. You’ll lose most of the use of it. So why don’t we save the bother of binding it and just send you on your way?’

  ‘No, no,’ Conal said, his face drawn with the pain. ‘I’ll follow your advice—I’ll not move it, nor will I unbind it before time.’

  ‘So they all say. Well, by the look of you you’re not a woodsman or a farmer. Perhaps you’ve not the need for both arms. My husband has a saw; how about we take it off at the shoulder? Save you a deal of trouble later.’

  The priest’s face took on a faintly pale cast. ‘Please, madam, just bind it as you said. I promise not to interfere with it before time.’

  Her point made, the physic immobilised his arm, taking longer than Stella thought she ought to. Avoiding the task of examining more of the prisoners.

  ‘In a month or so seek out a doctor,’ the physic said. ‘Let him examine my work. If he says you can use your arm again, you may say my name in a blessing to Eternal Hal.’

  ‘That I will, lady; I am a—ow!’

  Stella had nudged him in the back. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but the physic has other patients to see to, many with needs greater than yours. And we must be leaving. We have a long way still to travel.’

  ‘I have payment,’ Conal said, drawing out the purse he’d taken. ‘How much do you require?’

  ‘Nothing,’ the woman said, her severe face softening. ‘You have done a noble thing, bringing these children home, though I doubt many will thank you for it. Now, I have unpleasant things to do. Be careful with that arm of yours.’

  As soon as the physic had gone, Robal leaned close to Stella. ‘Sooner or later anger and suspicion will fall on us,’ he whispered to her, and she nodded agreement. They made an abrupt departure from the village after accepting offers of food and drink, but before the prisoners began to tell their tales. A few villagers marked their leaving with taunts and rude comments, but most bade them farewell.

  ‘We are fortunate to escape before the worst of the story is told,’ Robal commented as they made their way northwards along a grassy lane. On either side tall poplars bent before the simoom.

  ‘You could have defended us, I am sure,’ Stella said. ‘But I would rather avoid anything that imprints us on their memories more clearly than has been achieved already. The grey guards will certainly come through this village in search of us.’ They must have marked her escape to the far bank of the Aleinus.

  ‘Well, then,’ Conal said, almost cheerfully. He seemed relatively unaffected by the tragedy of the prisoners. ‘Where do we go now?’

  Robal growled, but Stella thought it a legitimate question. I don’t know, she was tempted to say to the priest. I have too many questions. I need to go somewhere
that provides answers.

  ‘Somewhere the Koinobia cannot find me,’ she said after some thought. ‘Do either of you have any ideas?’

  CHAPTER 17

  THE LIMITS OF IMMORTALITY

  IT HAD BEEN A FLIPPANT comment, Conal knew. Stella had not expected for a moment that either he or Robal would offer a serious suggestion. But the guardsman rumbled in his throat for a moment, then ventured his thoughts.

  ‘I know a place beyond the reach of the priests and their interference,’ he said, casting a baleful glance at Conal as he spoke. ‘But the priest can’t come. He stays here.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Conal said heatedly, rubbing at his arm. They turned from the lane onto a woodland path, walking under the spreading branches of large oaks. ‘No. The agreement specifies that I remain with Stella until she has told me her story. I cannot be discarded yet.’ The threat of being left behind lent him an inner strength he had not realised he owned; it seemed to pour into his body from the back of his head, along with a dozen other arguments as to why he should stay with them.

  ‘Then Stella will remain in danger,’ the guardsman said. ‘I will not take a priest with me into…To safety,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Then I will not accompany you,’ Stella said, folding her arms and standing astride the path. ‘Conal is a danger to no one. He will give his word not to betray the location of this place to any priest or member of the Koinobia, and you will accept it. Then I will be in a position to evaluate your kind offer.’

  Robal squared up to her: a head and a half taller, weighing perhaps twice as much, but without the iron will to enforce his opinion.

  Come, Robal, the queen will have her way. You are just posturing, wasting our time.

  ‘Oh? And you are always transparent?’ Robal snapped at him. Shocked, Conal realised he had spoken the words aloud. Not only was he losing control over his thoughts, his mouth also seemed to be falling outside his discipline.

  ‘Come, you two, we remain in danger yet.’ Stella turned and resumed walking. ‘None of us will be immune from suffering should the Koinobia discover us. Give your word, Conal.’

  ‘I promise on my honour as a—on my honour,’ he amended, ‘never to reveal the location of the place to which Robal Anders takes us.’

  ‘Very well,’ Stella said patiently. ‘Now, Robal, tell him you accept.’

  ‘Tell him yourself,’ the man snarled. ‘Since it was you who decided his word was worth anything.’

  They came to the end of the woodland path, climbed a stile and crossed a main road. In the distance they heard a horse’s hoofs beating the ground; they scrambled across the road, over a ditch and a second stile, and hid in the long grass of the field until the noise had faded to silence.

  ‘I don’t understand your resentment towards me,’ Conal said to the man kneeling beside him. Yes, you do, the voice in his head remarked. Your kind has taken control in Faltha. Don’t you think he is angered by that? ‘But here’s a question for you. A guard was executed in Instruere last year for killing his wife in a drunken rage. Do all guards kill their wives?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So neither are all priests as you imagine. Let us concentrate our energy on getting the Destroyer’s—on getting Stella to safety. If you are still not satisfied with my promises after that, then perhaps you can adopt your fellow guardsman’s solution to rid himself of an inconvenient companion. Or you can show me that not all guards are alike. Agreed?’

  ‘Very clever, wordsmith. But when you leave a man no choice but to do that which he mistrusts, you make an enemy. Be careful, priest. I’m watching you.’

  Conal stood, turned to Stella and dusted himself off. ‘And that is the best you are going to get from us,’ he said wryly.

  ‘So I see.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, Robal, lead on.’

  The guardsman led them to Finar, a small town nestled into a hill overlooking the Aleinus River, which in this area, twenty or so leagues upriver of Vindicare, flowed from the northeast. While Stella and Conal hid in the fields beyond the houses, the guardsman took the coin Conal had found in the beast-man’s purse and purchased further supplies.

  ‘They have an eye open for us,’ Robal said when he returned. ‘I have purchased only half of what we need, for fear of being marked. The story of the ghost and his prisoners has arrived here before us; the town is full of talk. It seems that all the towns and villages in the area have lost children at unusually high rates over the last few years.’

  ‘And they suspected nothing?’ Conal asked. ‘Organised no search?’

  ‘All attributed to natural causes,’ the guardsman explained. ‘There are many ways a young person can be lost. Drowned, most of them were thought to be, or lost in the woods, taken by wild beasts. A few people thought it odd, apparently, but no one went further than suspecting the Wodrani craft plying the river. They were searched on occasion, but nothing was found.’

  ‘So many deaths to lay at the Destroyer’s feet,’ Stella said quietly as they rose to follow the guardsman. ‘It seems our story still goes on. I had thought with Leith’s death it was at an end.’

  ‘The Destroyer will answer for those deaths one day,’ Conal said.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Robal said over his shoulder. ‘How, exactly? If he is immortal, how can he ever be brought to account? What punishment suffices for what we saw, priest, when we cannot do the like to him?’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Enough! We are about to reach the river. I have hired a boat to take us to the southern side, from where we will travel by cart into the steppes of Austrau. The boatman must hear nothing of our true identities. We can carry on the debate once we reach the southern shore, should there be anything sensible left to say.’

  A tight-lipped glare reinforced the guardsman’s words, and Conal had the good sense, or at least enough of an instinct for self-preservation, to remain silent.

  Rain began to fall from a leaden sky as they were rowed across the grey Aleinus River. The boatman was a chatterbox, a cheerful, long-faced man enamoured of his own voice, and spoke to them of the Falthan War and the action his grandfather had seen at Aleinus Gates and parts further east. The three of them endured his wildly inaccurate tales, thankful that the self-absorbed monologue ensured the man asked them no awkward questions.

  After an hour Conal found himself marvelling at the man’s stamina: he rowed a heavy boat across the current without seeming to draw breath. The rain fell in sheets, muting the occasional clap of thunder and forcing Conal to help bail rainwater. Finally the man ran the boat aground on the muddy southern shore and assisted his passengers out, talking all the while.

  ‘So my granda, he said the biggest battle was by Skull Rock, not at Vulture’s Craw like the historians and the travelling players say. Reckoned had we lost at The Gap, there wouldn’t have been enough army to resist the Destroyer at Vulture’s Craw. Likely blessed Hal’s sacrifice would have been meaningless. My granda fought with the Strauxmen at Skull Rock, but with the Fodhram at Vulture’s Craw. Better chance of survival, see? And you’ll have a better chance at survival, and protecting her majesty there, if you stay away from them greycloaks. Fare you well, then, and I’ll be thankin’ you for my payment. You can trust me, you can, not to say nothing to nobody.’

  Robal paused halfway through counting out the coin, as though his brain had finally caught up with the man’s words. His head jerked up.

  ‘Some of us,’ the boatman said with a deliberateness lacking in his earlier speech, ‘have longer memories than others.’

  The two men stared at each other, then Robal nodded.

  Stella, whose attention had been engaged in collecting and distributing their supplies, came over. ‘Is all well?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Robal said, and shook the boatman’s hand. ‘Fare well, friend, and with all good fortune.’

  ‘And you, sir,’ came the response.

  ‘Would either of you care to explain that?’ Stella asked as they climbe
d up the southern bank.

  ‘No,’ said Robal and Conal together; they looked at each other in surprise, and both laughed.

  The conversation turned the next day to the subject of death and punishment, prompted by Robal’s question of the day before. The last of the coin Conal had appropriated had purchased a donkey and a small covered trap, and the three of them huddled together out of the thickly falling rain as Robal guided the stolid donkey down puddle-lined paths.

  ‘Best way to break a drought,’ the guardsman said morosely.

  ‘What’s that?’ Conal asked, picking at the strapping that held his broken arm to his chest.

  ‘Plan some long-distance travel.’

  ‘Ah yes. I remember a storm—’ He clamped his mouth shut, thinking better of mentioning anything about his previous travels.

  ‘Yesterday you implied that the Destroyer cannot be punished for his evil,’ Stella said to Robal. ‘Does your argument depend on the assumption that death is the only punishment he deserves, or merely the worst that can be given?’

  ‘Ah, you have thought about this,’ the guardsman said carefully. ‘I’ve had my mind filled with the back ways of this land. It’s been a while since I travelled in this part of Austrau.’

  ‘Then let me answer,’ Stella continued. ‘I can think of many worse things than death. To be left alive when everyone you know and love passes on would be worse than death to me. Who knows what the Destroyer fears most? The loss of his power, perhaps. Or to be shown proof that his two-thousand-year rebellion was not justified. Whomever wishes to punish a powerful man must first find out what he fears.’

  ‘I would not fear being immortal,’ Conal said. ‘I cannot see what is to be feared about outliving one’s friends.’

  Robal muttered something; Conal could guess what it was. ‘I have more friends than you might think,’ he said haughtily. ‘And to carry their memories into the next generation, and the next, and the next: would that not confer on them, through me, another kind of immortality?’