A figure watched the horsemen leave. He stood from where he’d been crouched among the baskets and stores piled along the wall and peered over the battlements. He knelt once more, stooping to pick up a smaller figure, a woman.
“Come, Rysa my love, stay alive for me, for our child. We’re almost there.” There was an edge to Lamorak’s voice. He was surprised by his lack of feelings―yes, he was concerned, but he should be angry, distraught even. He felt like an actor, as if he was not himself. It was this detachment that troubled him more than anything.
He put his thoughts behind him and backed away, staying close to the wall. He had to make it to the north gate. Treem would be waiting there for him with a horse and supplies. His cover story: a pelt trader leaving town for another trapping season in the Southlands.
These were his lands. So why did he not remember them? Lamorak shook his doubts from his mind. The north gate loomed ahead.
There was Treem, his man on the inside, the man who hated King Loarn almost as much as he did. They were united in their belief that the king had to fall.
He’d take Rysa to the blood witch. The witch would heal her wounds. He’d then turn his attention to Farren Crowe and his men, the men who dared hunt him.
Crowe and his bounty hunters would never darken his door.
Rysa whimpered as he laid her down in the cart. He covered her with blankets and gave her poppy elixir, watching as she passed into a heavy slumber. The wound was in her leg. His bandage would hold for the journey, but there was nothing he could do about the fever. That would be the blood witch’s job.
Sytra. Even her name made him feel uncomfortable.
Lamorak nodded at Treem and led the horse and cart out of Wyndrush. He took the road around town, heading west. The blood trail would occupy Crowe and his men for almost a day before it ran to ground in troll territory. By then he’d be long gone, a ghost in the west.
~
“This isn’t right, it’s too easy.”
Crowe stopped. With Jande no longer at his side, he had no one to confide in.
The blood trail led on through the trees. He dismounted and bent to examine the ground. This was not the fresh blood that had led out of Wyndrush―this was dried, at least a day old.
Old blood . . . an old trick.
Clever, but not clever enough.
“About turn men, back to Wyndrush. Our man is either wounded or has the wounded girl with him. They’ll need a healer, so we’ll check the town. If we find nothing, we’ll broaden our search. We’ll find the bastard. He’s mine . . . I’ll slit his throat and rip his lungs out myself.” Crowe spat to seal his oath.
Crowe turned his horse and set off at a gallop. His men followed, a blur of steel and thunder.
They arrived in Wyndrush an hour later and found Varnesh, the town healer, a wizened old man. He stood, bewildered, in his doorway as Crowe’s men questioned him and searched his home.
No, he had not treated any fugitives that day―or any other days.
Yes, there was a backwoods healer known to him in the western reaches, a woman by the name of Sytra. She lived in the vale called Grave’s Cradle. A witch versed in blood magic. She was wild and didn’t take kindly to strangers. The jarl had sent men to bring her in once, but she was protected by a pack of giant wolves. Only a few of the men had returned alive. Did the king’s representative really want to tangle with a blood witch? She could do terrible things to a man . . . Crowe listened to the old man’s words. He had learned to take local tales with a pinch of salt. Lore handed down from generation to generation usually carried a grain of truth but was corrupted by time and telling. There was no such thing as a blood witch, not any more―everyone knew that. And as for a pack of giant wolves . . . well. Crowe sneered at the thought. But at least he had a target area to search, and the trail would still be fresh. A man cannot travel fast with an injured companion.
“To me men! We head west to avenge our brothers and do the king’s work.”
~
Lamorak drove the horse hard all day.
He wished he’d brought his accomplices, but he’d ordered them to scatter after Rysa’s rescue. Eight possible suspects were better than one. It had been a long shot, but from what he had seen, Farren Crowe had taken the bait.
The road degenerated into a rutted track after the last farm settlement. The people of Wyndrush didn’t have much to do with the western reaches with its dense forest and uninhabitable swamplands. For Sytra, it was the perfect place to practice her blood magic. There, she could work undisturbed, out of the king’s reach on the western fringes where the land touched the wild. Man had tamed much of Dal Riata’s central and coastal regions, yet an untamed heart remained deep in the inaccessible places, inhabited by old magics, old spirits.
He could taste the Erthe in the air.
He felt at home. Glancing down, he saw that Rysa’s eyes were closed, her breathing rapid. She looked bad―her skin ashen and clammy. Fever had taken hold. He threw down the reins and jumped off the cart, leading the horse off the track and into the trees. He unhitched the mare and set it free; he had no use for it now, not in this terrain. It would find its way back to Wyndrush.
Gently, he lifted Rysa out of the cart and, carrying her, started walking through the trees in the late afternoon light. He’d been to the Grave’s Cradle once before but hadn’t entered the vale. Rysa was birdlike in his arms, her body shivering.
Why was he unfeeling? Perhaps Sytra could tell him. He moved through the forest, his feet taking him closer to the Grave’s Cradle.
The temperature rose the further he went into the forest, and a cloying mist appeared between the trees. He stared ahead, feeling droplets of moisture in the air. His breathing was steady, his skin warm. The trees were silent―no birdsong graced the air. The sea of green stretched out ahead. The leaves above rustled, whispering dark secrets.
They knew he was here.
The trees knew, the forest knew, Sytra knew.
His shoulder brushed against a tendril of moss, and he heard a loud clacking. He stopped and inspected the tendril and saw behind it a length of string with broken pottery and bones tied along its length. He had just announced his presence to whoever had set this trap. Good . . . this was the healer’s territory.
He waited for a moment and, hearing nothing, continued on. The mist became thicker as he pushed through the trees. He willed himself on, disorientation taking him. He felt roots slick with moisture and fallen leaves beneath his feet. He would keep going.
He would find . . .
Something touched his left shoulder. He half expected to hear another sound trap. He was met by an expectant silence, then a woman’s voice.
“Why do you disturb my peace, stranger? This is a dangerous place to be wandering.”
Lamorak stopped and stared into the milky mist. “I come looking for the healer, Sytra. I have this woman with child who needs help. She’s fighting for her life . . . she is my love, my life.” His last words sounded hollow.
Silence.
Leaves rustled nearby.
“I’m Sytra, I am the healer you seek. I am here, all around you in every breath you take. You are an interesting one―your soul is empty. You are not whole. Ahh . . . I sense your self-doubt. You already suspect something. The one you carry is in danger. Lay her down, I will see to her. You must leave my home, and quickly―men with dark hearts follow you. Even now they approach.”
Lamorak felt the power of Sytra’s words. He obeyed and laid Rysa down among the mossy roots and fallen leaves. She’d be safe here, safer than with him. He took one last look at her face and tried to remember the first time they had met, but his mind was blank, the memory of their time together gone.
What was happening to him? He felt like a ghost, a shadow.
He turned and walked back into the mist. He knew Crowe would never give up, would hunt him down wherever he went. That was the kind of man he was―there were hunters and then there were the hunted. But he was
a hunter too, and this was a score that needed settling.
He would send a message to the king. Seal the deal in blood.
Lamorak smiled.
Chapter 23: Burning
The Seventh Star was elusive. Sive had to wait for the clouds to part to catch a glimpse.
She’d have to be careful―she’d need to stop many times to check her position, and it would be easy to lose her way in the forest. The night passed in a series of frustrating stops and starts as Sive checked and rechecked her bearings.
But the Seventh Star remained true, always returning, and at last, the sky cleared. Her body and mind felt tired and she was hungry. It didn’t matter―she was here, still alive, carrying Scalibur to its rightful owner.
She wondered if they would write songs about her once this was over, once the land had been wrenched free from the tyranny of King Loarn and his sheriffs. Would she be remembered for the part she’d played? Would she see Orphir again? What would her life be like in the new world?
She looked up through the trees to find that dawn had obscured her star. She’d have to stop, eat, and rest. She looked around. Trees stretched out around her on all sides. She’d go a little further, perhaps find shelter. And there it was: smoke. Someone was nearby. A camp?
She backed away. Where there were people, there was trouble. Her foot caught on a fallen branch and she stumbled, landing on the ground with a crunch. She held her breath and listened.
A dog barked.
Sive cursed under her breath. The gods were not with her.
She pulled herself up and ran back the way she had come. She was not going to be captured, not at this stage in her journey, not after all she had been through. Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. She heard movement behind and to the left. She was being flanked.
She darted to the right and doubled back toward the smoke. She forced herself to concentrate . . . be unpredictable, do the opposite of what they expect. She burst through undergrowth and found herself in a camp with a fire at its center. A pot full of bubbling stew hung suspended above the flames. There was a mesh hammock slung between two trees.
“Stop, who are you?” a voice erupted behind her.
She spun round, her weapon ready.
She saw a boy, no more than twelve years old holding a short bow, an arrow nocked. He looked wary but confident.
Sive thought fast. He was alone, he was only a boy―she could take him. But then there were his dogs. Her shoulders slumped and she sighed.
“I mean no harm. I’m a traveler, and I came upon your camp by accident. I’ll leave you in peace.” She hoped she sounded convincing. Just then, two large dogs burst through the undergrowth. They advanced on her, snapping and growling.
The boy lowered his bow and nodded. “Down boys, down,” he said. The dogs stopped growling but held their ground.
Sive nodded her thanks. “I’ll be going then.” She turned to walk away, expecting to feel an arrow in her back at any moment.
Never turn your back on a stranger. She remembered her mother’s words.
A twig snapped behind her and she tensed.
“Wait, you remind me of my sister. Stay, join me and the boys.” He gestured to the dogs. “Have some stew. I’ve not spoken to anyone for ages.”
Sive processed his words. She turned and saw he was smiling.
She nodded slowly. “I’m hungry and . . . well, that stew does smell good.”
He beamed at her. “Rabbit stew―I caught them myself.” The boy was quiet for a moment. “I’ve run away from home,” he said eventually. “I’ve had enough of them and their beatings. I’ve come to live in the forest, be a woodsman. It’s a good life.” He gestured for her to sit by the fire. “I take it you’re alone then . . . like me.”
Sive hesitated. This is where the questions would start, and questions would be awkward.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve run away from my village too. Same reason.”
He handed her a bowl of stew. “You eat first―I’ve only one bowl.”
The stew smelled good. She began to eat. The meat was tender, the stew rich and flavorsome.
“This is good,” she said, her mouth full.
He looked pleased. The two dogs took up places either side of him, resting their heads between their paws, eyes glued to the food.
“So, what’s your name?” he asked, stroking the dogs’ heads.
“Sive. I’m from the north. I’m headed west to start a new life by the coast. I’ll look for work there.”
He nodded. “West, eh? You’re not going anywhere near the falls, are you? There’s bad things there, undead, them that eat human flesh.”
Sive stopped chewing. “What do you mean?”
“The falls . . .”
“You mean the Shattered Falls?”
“Sure do. It’s crawling with undead, held there by some curse. We was told that when we was kids. Keep away, they always said, otherwise we’d be belly feed for them critters.”
Sive’s heart sank.
She’d thought all she had to do was get to the Shattered Falls and wait. But no, there was an army of undead to contend with. What next?
She looked at the boy. “What’s your name?”
“Cal. This is Scratch and this one’s Misty.” He ruffled the dogs’ heads. “They came with me from the village―they wouldn’t leave me, had them from puppies.” Cal threw a sidelong glance at her. “What are those marks on your arms?”
Sive looked at her skin and saw the ugly scars there. Already her old life seemed distant, forgotten. “Oh,” she said, but words didn’t come.
Cal sensed her reticence. “I seen some others in my village do that to themselves, they said it helped them. Dunno how though, the beatings was bad enough for me. I don’t know why they beat us. A friend of mine, his father beat him, broke a branch right across his back and killed him. His father said it’d be one less mouth to feed. There’s no joy in this world, no peace. Except in the woods . . . you’re best off alone.”
Sive looked at him. “You said you had a sister?”
Cal’s face fell. “Yes . . . Sira, she was older than me. She tried to protect me, but my father sold her to the big hall, the king’s sheriff. I never saw her again . . .” his voice broke.
Sive’s eyes watched the fire, its flames flickering brightly. They were quiet for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.
Cal shifted slightly. “Some say the beatings are a sickness, that it comes from King Loarn, from his mages. He’s infected the land and the people. They fight among themselves, so as they don’t fight him. What do you think?”
Sive nodded and handed the empty bowl back to the boy. “Aye, you might have a point there Cal, I’ve heard that too. Loarn isn’t a good king, his sons neither. They’re out for themselves. The people are no better than slaves, and it’s the children that suffer most. There’s no justice under Loarn’s rule, no law, only fear. That’s why the grown-ups have turned against each other and their own kin.”
“It needs to be stopped,” Cal added.
“Yes . . . yes, it does, but that’s a whole other conversation.” Sive glanced at the boy’s hammock.
Cal noticed. “You want to rest? Go ahead, use it. Me and the boys, we’ll finish up here, then we’re off to check the snares. We’ll be back in a while. It’s safe here, you’ll be fine.”
Just a short while, Sive told herself.
She smiled at Cal and nodded. She climbed into the hammock and, after a few moments, was sound asleep.
Sive awoke shivering. It was dark and cold―the fire had gone out. She stretched her arms and legs and listened. The stars were out, and she could see the Seventh Star beckoning her. Time was slipping away.
She got out of the hammock. Somewhere in the forest, an owl hooted, and a gentle breeze rustled the canopy above. She tightened her cloak and gathered up her few possessions. She took one last look around. She would have liked to thank Cal―he’d been good to her.
&n
bsp; Another damaged soul in a damaged world.
She took her bearing on the Seventh Star and headed back out into the night.
The sleep had done her good. Her planned nap had turned into the whole afternoon. As the ground became more uneven, Sive looked to the stars. Soon, Sive found herself descending gradually. The trees had thinned and the breeze had picked up. She stopped and listened. The branches creaked and groaned.
She smelled smoke.
Faint, but there. A trace. Instinct told her to keep away, but the Seventh Star beckoned her on. She could go back, but she would lose valuable time. She shook her head despite herself. She would flank the smoke.
She circled around the area, but the more ground she covered the stronger the smell became. She slowed down and listened, waiting.
She saw a flickering light in the distance. If she had to pass through this area, she needed to at least know what was ahead. She crouched low and crept forward.
The light glimmered through the undergrowth. The smell of smoke was becoming stronger. Sive came to a clearing with a clear line of sight down the valley. A village lay in the distance, a quarter-mile away, its buildings on fire.
Was this Cal’s village? What had happened?
She kept to the trees and walked along the fringes of the forest toward the village. The smoke was stronger here and there was something else too―a harder stench, one that turned her stomach. The smell of burning flesh, of death.
Fear welled up inside her. She recognized the panic and pushed it back down―that way led to chaos and mistakes. She took three deep breaths and continued on. Deeper in the forest, she heard rustlings and movement. Animals? Perhaps they were unsettled by the burning village.
She had drawn level with the village and could make out the details of various nearby buildings, it looked much like her own village―a big hall at its center, a ring of smaller dwellings and outhouses surrounding it. All the buildings were on fire. She quickened her pace. Whatever had happened here, Sive did not want to know. She stepped over a root in the semidarkness. Except it wasn’t a root. A hand grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. She fought back, kicking out as she stumbled. The claw recoiled, releasing her, and a low moan followed.
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