Rysa stared at Crowe, her eyes dark and deep. “So, you’ve made your choice then? You side with the king.”
“I am the right arm of the king and you are my trump card. My bait. And wounded bait is always more enticing. So, what’s it to be? Blinding? No, that won’t be practical. Flogging? No, we need you to walk . . . what then?”
Rysa looked defiantly at Crowe. Flames crackled in the hearth. He turned to the fire for a long moment.
Rysa’s eyes were drawn to the flames. She showed no fear.
“Your words are your poison and your tongue is your weapon, witch. I’ll have your tongue. You’ll spout lies no longer. Aye, that pleases me―then we’ll release you. You will return to Lamorak, leading us to him. Even if you run from him to protect him, he’ll come to you. I’ll be waiting. I’ll take him alive or dead, it matters not. His head is mine, and his sword is the king’s.”
Rysa had turned pale. “No lord,” she stammered, “I’ll tell you where he is, where he stays. Do not do this thing, do not take my speech . . . please . . .”
Crowe looked at Jande. “Take her away. Do it in front of the people this evening on the jarl’s steps, let the town know. We’ll release her tomorrow at first light. She’ll run like a rat back to her sewer.”
Crowe turned his back on her and heard Jande dragging her away. He’d put a show on for Wyndrush, for Lamorak. If there were spies in town, they’d take the news back to the outlaw. He’d be the one in control, Farren Crowe, the king’s right arm. The bastard would come to him and he would be ready.
The sky wept.
Rain beat down all morning and afternoon and still had not let up by evening. Crowe took his men into the jarl’s halls and briefed them on his plan. They were to position themselves around the crowd and watch for Lamorak. When they saw him, they were to take him down. Crowe wanted him alive if possible, but dead was acceptable too.
Any accomplices were to be killed. No quarter was to be shown. Crowe’s men understood―they were used to dealing with outlaws, and knew they would be paid well after this job. Whatever else was said about King Loarn, he always paid his men well. Men trusted Loarn―they trusted his gold.
When he had finished the briefing, Crowe retired to the jarl’s chambers. The jarl’s wife and family were in the town barracks for their own protection. Crowe had nothing against the creature comforts of civilization, but he was always happier in the wild, out among the spirits of the forest and water. He felt closer to the ancestors there. He lay on the jarl’s bed and closed his eyes. He would rest but not sleep. Sleep had evaded him most of his life―it was something for lesser men. He would sleep enough when he was dead. His breathing deepened and his eyelids fluttered. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The sound of the rain outside, the shouts of men, and the barking of dogs receded.
“Lord, it is time, we are ready.” Jande’s voice rang out across the room.
Crowe stirred on the bed. Surely he had just lain down? It was always the way―time ran when you weren’t watching her and crawled when you were. He yawned, scratching his beard. He would welcome some action, some blood, some madness. He rose and pulled on his cloak. He could hear the cursed rain falling in sheets outside.
“Come, let’s go Jande. Are the men in position?”
“Aye lord. There’s a good crowd outside―four, five hundred at least. The men are dispersed as you ordered. I’ve stationed several on the roofs as well. If he shows, we’ll skewer the bastard.”
“And the witch?”
“She’s ready, caged for security. Nothing can go wrong.”
“Lead on then Jande. We’ve the king’s work to do.”
The two men went outside into the rain. Jande had not exaggerated: the crowd was large and was baying for blood. Crowe’s eyes scanned the faces nearest the steps―young and old, those whom prosperity favored and those whom misfortune took, rich and poor . . . it was good. Word had got out.
Crowe walked over to the cage on the platform. Rysa was inside, deep rings under her eyes, her matted hair hanging over her eyes. She looked at him, her eyes dead. Good, the witch had lost hope. She would be compliant.
The rain fell and the crowd watched as Crowe turned to face them. He drew himself to his full height, raising his hand. Silence descended on the square.
“People of Wyndrush. I am Farren Crowe, King Loarn’s right arm. I’ve come to arrest the one who calls himself Lamorak of the Southlands, the one who has taken Jarl Ruairc, your leader. This is his woman, his witch. She carries his child.” He gestured toward the cage.
A murmur passed through the throng. Heads nodded.
“Hang her!” a voice shouted at the back of the crowd.
“Burn her!”
“Quarter her!”
Crowe raised his hand again. This was good―all part of the theater. He had the people in his hand and he could do anything he wanted. He savored the moment.
“She’s a witch, she spins lies with her tongue. I will relieve her of this burden and will take her tongue with you as witness to the king’s law. Then we will turn her free to run back to her master like the dog she is.”
The crowd hung on his words. Crowe nodded at his men standing nearby.
“Do it.”
Crowe moved away from the cage, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for anything untoward, any sign. He looked along the rooftops surrounding the square, waiting, his hand poised on his sword. He was in full armor, as were his men. The trap was set. His men opened the cage, its rusty grating piercing the air. The crowd leaned in. Rysa was in chains, her arms and feet bound. The cage was just part of the show. Crowe’s eyes flicked to Rysa’s face, searching to see where she was looking, but her head hung low.
The crowd grew quiet. Rain fell. Seconds dragged.
Come on you bastard, make your move. Crowe stood with his legs apart, hands on his hips.
“Ready lord.”
Crowe looked at his men. Two held Rysa by the arms―they had hauled her to a standing position. The third man held an iron vice in one hand, the instrument that would be placed in Rysa’s mouth, forcing open her jaws. Crowe nodded. The man gabbed Rysa by the hair, pulling her head up to face the crowd. She struggled and swore, spitting at him. Blood came from her mouth. She had bitten herself.
“You will rue this day Farren Crowe, you and your ancestors. I draw upon the darkening and by the spittle on my lips and blood in my mouth I curse you and your men and place a hex of darkness on this place and your bones. You will never rest from this day forward. You and your descendants will know nothing but sorrow on this earth. This curse will live in your bones until the end of days.”
The crowd stirred uneasily.
The man holding the vice struck Rysa in the face, bloodying her nose. Her head dropped. He forced the instrument into her mouth and twisted its mechanism, separating her jaws and exposing her tongue. He turned and reached to the burning brazier, to the red-hot tongs lying there.
Crowe looked on, drawn in by the unfolding drama.
The man took the tongs from the brazier’s embers and waved it at the crowd. The rain sizzled as it hit the red-hot iron. The crowd stared.
Crowe saw movement somewhere high on his right flank.
A crow had landed on the roof’s guttering and stood watching him with its head tilted. He stared back. The bitch’s curse, was this a sign?
He turned away from the crow, unease settling in his stomach. A slight wisp of air brushed his forehead. The man holding the tongs to Rysa’s mouth slumped to his knees. Two arrows protruded from his skull.
What had just happened?
Another heartbeat and the two men holding Rysa groaned and slumped to the ground, arrows sticking from their throats.
Crowe’s instincts kicked in. He dropped to the ground and rolled off the platform, sword in hand. He scanned the crowd and saw nothing but terror as people turned and fled.
Bastard, how’s he done this? How’s he got past my men?
Crowe
crawled to the platform and took cover. An arrow slammed into the wooden strut beside his face. He ducked under the platform, trying to see where it had come from.
How many are there?
He heard a noise above, footfalls. A shadow moved across the slats. He thrust his sword up through the boards and felt purchase. He heard a groan. He withdrew his blade and thrust again a little further forward. He felt soft resistance, and blood seeped through the slats and trickled down his blade.
It seemed as if minutes had passed, but it had been mere seconds.
Crowe glanced at the empty square. He risked a look at the rooftops―clear. He stepped into the square and shouted.
“Come out and fight like a man, just you and me. Let’s settle this now.”
He walked into the open, dragging his sword along the ground. The square was deserted and the rain had stopped. Steam rose from the earth. He looked back at the platform and saw the bodies of his men.
The cage was hanging open.
Rysa was nowhere to be seen. There was something else, but he could not make it out.
Crowe approached the platform, walking along its side and up the steps, stopping by the cage. He cursed and spat. Jande’s severed head lay discarded on the floor of the cage.
“You bastard. I will find you. I will track you down and I will kill you . . . slowly. That is my promise, that is my oath, by Falinor.”
His eyes scanned the scene once more . . . and there it was.
A blood trail, faint but definite, leading away from the platform.
Crowe smiled.
Chapter 20: Seventh Star
Now that you carry Scalibur, you will see the hidden stars. Follow the Seventh Star until she releases you at the Shattered Falls.
The crone’s words returned to Sive. She thought about this new leader, this Ae’fir. What kind of man was he? What would he do? Would he be cruel? All men were cruel―her father had been cruel, had beaten and humiliated her. She touched the scars on her arms where she had cut herself. She remembered when the cutting had stopped working. Men ruled the world, men were brutal. They deserved to die. Where there were men, there was killing. They were not to be trusted.
Only her love for Orphir could be trusted.
Sive felt alone. She missed Orphir.
This task will be my death.
How was she even supposed to find the Seventh Star? It was a myth, everyone knew that. How could magic hide the stars? I have no choice, I will seek and find. Falinor help me.
Sive looked at the sky through the trees. Night was still a few hours away, but Monkwood was eerie at all hours. She pulled out the dagger and looked at it. A plain iron dagger―she’d put it to good use in a fight if she had to. It hardly seemed real, all the things that had passed. She fancied she’d been dreaming when the crone had given her Scalibur.
But she knew she hadn’t been dreaming. Here she was in Monkwood, here was the dagger in her hand, here were the monks’ satchel and supplies . . . and here was the quest, burning in her heart. To reach the Shattered Falls, use the Seventh Star.
Sive ate some bread and cheese and lay back, closing her eyes.
An owl’s hoot woke her. She lay still, disorientated. Remembering where she was, what she had to do, Sive picked up the satchel and stood, gazing at the sky. She couldn’t see through the canopy. Sive walked through the forest and, after some time, came to a rocky outcrop. She started climbing, arriving at the top after exploiting a few well-placed handholds. She gazed at the night sky.
It was clear: she saw the Six Sisters shimmering, the stars she had grown up with, the stars everyone knew. Just above them, hanging high in the sky, was a new star, glittering coldly. It was green.
Green light, Erthe light. A sign: this was the Seventh Star, her guide. Her heart quickened as she stared. Sive reached into her tunic and pulled out the dagger. She looked at it carefully under the starlight. It remained unchanged, a plain iron dagger.
Except she knew it wasn’t.
She replaced the dagger, climbed down from the outcrop, and began walking.
The forest thinned at intervals, allowing her to correct her course. It was a dry night, and she walked for many hours. When her hunger returned, she stopped to eat, just as the sky was beginning to lighten.
She didn’t know much about Monkwood except it was dangerous, a place where spirits caught between the living and dead worlds were supposed to dwell. Why did stories of unknown places always rely on fear and dread? Was there a secret place that was green and full of peace and light?
I’d like to see that place, but behind every ray of light is a stretch of darkness. That’s just the way it is.
Sive’s musings were brought to an abrupt halt. A noise came from up ahead. She froze and searched the darkness. The stars were still clearly visible.
Four shapes moved through the foliage. Deer. She would let them pass before moving on. The deer came into full view, noses to the ground, grazing quietly―two does and their fawns. Sive’s mind returned to her youth, to days spent hunting alone in the forest near home, long cold hours spent stalking and waiting. This was a hunter’s dream―she was well placed for a kill and she was downwind.
The furthest deer raised its head, ears pricked. The others sensed its alarm and stopped feeding. A breeze rustled the leaves, and the forest held its breath. Sive crouched and watched as the deer bolted, spooked. Sive heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow being loosed followed by a cry of alarm.
One of the deer had been hit.
Feet rushed in the undergrowth ahead. People, more than one. They were close―Sive could smell sweat, hear coarse voices. Men. She followed two pairs of legs running after the deer, pelting through the low bushes past her.
Wait, not yet.
Sive allowed herself to breathe. She counted to three and started to rise. A hand pressed down in the small of her back.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” a man’s voice growled in her right ear. “There are others . . .”
Sive froze and did as the voice said, lying prone on the forest floor with the hand still on her back. A minute later, more feet passed in the undergrowth ahead, at least four more people. Their voices were unguarded: men laughed and shouted in a tongue she did not understand.
She lay still, the pressure constant between her shoulder blades, the men’s voices still clearly audible through the foliage. They were working on the deer carcass, and the smell of blood pervaded the air. After a while, the voices grew louder, and Sive caught a glimpse of six men walking, carrying the carcass on a pole. The men’s arms were painted blue, and their faces were tattooed with swirling shapes. Their heads were shaven and they wore plaited beards.
The men were heavily armed. A young boy took up the rear, his arms and legs shackled, the skin of his back horribly scarred. He looked no more than ten summers old.
The men passed from view, their voices fading. The hand on her back didn’t budge. Finally, she heard movement behind her.
“Now would be a good time to leave. Sometimes they have a man taking up the rear―it doesn’t look like it this time though. I’d recommend you try and avoid the Shekra, they are a most unpleasant breed. They eat human flesh. If you come across one, you’re better off killing him.”
Sive nodded. “Can I get up now? And thank you for . . .”
She waited for an answer but none came so she turned. No one was there. She stood up and caught a glimpse of movement in the undergrowth and ran to the spot. A figure was disappearing into the trees ahead.
“Wait!” she called.
The figure stopped and turned. It was an older man, with long, straggly hair and an unkempt beard. He held a bow and wore a green hooded tunic. Leaves and small branches protruded from his clothes. He shook his head. “I’d advise you not to shout or even raise your voice in Monkwood. Believe me, there are things you don’t want to meet. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go.” The man started to turn.
“Wait, who are you? I just
wanted to thank you for your help back there. Those men, those Shekra, they looked like trouble. Are they really cannibals?”
The man glanced back. “Look, I really need to be going. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone―just be more careful next time. Monkwood is a dangerous place at the best of times. And yes, the Shekra are cannibals. Your thanks are accepted, and now I must be going.”
Sive took a step forwards. “Wait, can you help me? I have to cross these woods to meet someone and if you’d be my guide I’m sure he’d pay handsomely for your time. I’d be most grateful if you’d consider . . .”
The man brought his finger to his lips and froze. His eyes darted left and right.
Sive listened but didn’t hear anything except a bird calling in the trees off to the left. She saw movement out of the corner of one eye and remembered what the man had said about the Shekra leaving someone to take up the rear. The old man stared, nodded, and beckoned her to follow him.
He led the way through the trees. Sive noticed that he made no sound and moved with effortless grace as if he was one with the forest. She made a conscious attempt to follow in his footsteps. He took a line up a brief incline, bringing them to a viewpoint above the forest.
The man continued to an outcrop above the tree line. He beckoned Sive, indicating a place to hide.
“He’s following us. I’ve been careful not to leave a trail, but there’s always a trail and these Shekra are persistent. If we can see him, he can see us. If he shows himself above the tree line, he means to kill us. If we see him, it means we need to kill him. Pray to your god we don’t see him.”
Sive’s eyes focused on the way they had come. The slope above the tree line was open with some scattered ferns. They waited. The man produced an antler catapult and took a smooth stone from a pouch at his belt.
Minutes passed.
Aes Sidhe Page 10