Kellanved's Reach (Path to Ascendancy) Page 5

  ‘Very well. You are …?’

  She inclined her head a fraction. ‘You may call me Nightchill.’

  Chapter 3

  A cold, long-fingered hand clasped across his mouth woke Gregar and he flailed for an instant before realizing who it was; then he nodded. Haraj released him and raised a single digit to his mouth to sign for silence.

  They lay in a half-fallen-down old barn, close by the rutted road north to Balstro, along the River Nye. It was early morning and soldiers were tramping about outside; he could glimpse them through the slats. They wore the sky-blue livery of Gris.

  Gregar held himself as still and quiet as possible.

  After an agonizing wait, a gruff woman’s voice called out: ‘We know you’re in there! C’mon out.’

  Gregar shot an angry glare to Haraj, hissed, ‘You said they wouldn’t bother!’

  ‘I got us this far!’ he hissed back.

  ‘I had to carry you half the way!’

  Haraj flapped his hands, dismissive. ‘I’m not used to all this walking – who knew it’d be so fucking far?’

  ‘You coming?’ the woman barked. ‘Hurry up! Haven’t got all day.’

  Gregar shot Haraj another glare.

  ‘Maybe they don’t know we’re here,’ the lad whispered. ‘Maybe they’ll just go—’

  He shut up as thrown brands came arcing through the open doorway to land amid the scattered straw and rushes. A tossed splash of oil followed and immediately burst into flames.

  Gregar shook the fellow. ‘Magic us out of here!’

  The lad hugged himself. ‘I’m not that kind of mage … but I have an idea.’

  Gregar released him, coughed into a fist as the smoke thickened. ‘Fine! What? What is it?’

  Haraj ran for the entrance and jumped the flames, his hands held high, shouting, ‘I surrender! Don’t kill me!’

  Gregar threw wide his arms. ‘That’s it? That’s the plan?’ He shook his head then picked up a harvesting scythe – the only decent weapon he’d come across – and followed.

  Clearing the smoke, he paused, blinking, then threw down the scythe; the soldiers held crossbows trained upon him. In front of him, Haraj was kneeling on the ground, arms out.

  The fat female sergeant swaggered forward and tied their hands together behind their backs with leather thongs. ‘All this fuss just to get caught again,’ she growled, and clouted Gregar across the head. ‘That’s for all the trouble you caused me, y’damned wretch of a stonemason. And you,’ she shook Haraj like a rat. ‘Your master bent my ear warning me how tricky you are, so I’m gonna keep a close eye on you!’

  The soldiers yanked them to their feet and marched them down to the road, where a caged prison wagon waited. Gregar growled to Haraj, ‘Some plan.’ Yet his companion didn’t appear the least bit troubled by what was happening; he was even smiling as they were thrown in, and he offered Gregar a broad wink.

  The sergeant slammed and locked the cage door then returned to her troop. There she bellowed orders for them to set to work to contain the fire; it seemed she was having second thoughts about burning Grisian property so carelessly.

  Gregar threw himself down on the dirty straw. The quarries for him. Or just plain execution for escaping.

  The wagon rocked beneath him and he raised his head, complaining, ‘What in the name of Hood are you doing?’

  But the fellow wasn’t in the cage. In fact, the door now hung open and Haraj was on the roof, clambering like a human-sized spider for the front, and the driver’s plank seat.

  ‘Grab the reins!’ Gregar urged, coming to the front bars.

  ‘What’re they?’

  ‘The reins! The leads!’

  The lad thumped down into the driver’s seat. ‘These strappy things?’

  ‘Yes! Snap them. Snap them and yell!’

  Haraj gave the reins a pathetic shake. The two horses, sad old beaten-down animals, merely turned their heads to give him an amused look.

  ‘Mean it, dammit!’ Gregar snarled.

  A bellow of alarm sounded from the direction of the burning barn.

  Haraj snapped the leads as hard as he could and he may also have yelled something, but it was swallowed by the curdling scream Gregar let loose. The horses reared, startled, and took off up the rutted mud way – northward, fortunately.

  Once the horses were spent, which didn’t take very long at all, they came to a slow stall amid deep woods and Haraj and Gregar jumped from the wagon. With a mere flick of his wrist the strange lad loosed Gregar’s bonds. Then he peered up at him and asked, ‘Now what?’

  For an instant Gregar was tempted to free the horses of their tack and try riding them, but being a mere commoner and apprentice stonemason he’d never even been on one before, and so he eyed the surrounding woods instead. ‘We should take off through the forest.’

  Haraj winced. ‘Really? I mean, the road would be easier going …’

  ‘They’ll send riders after us – or you, really. It’s you they want, isn’t it? They don’t give a damn about me.’

  The lad hunched from him as if expecting a beating, and the sight of this brought a wringing pain to Gregar’s chest. He looked away, blinking, and muttered, ‘We should get moving.’ He headed into the trees. ‘Follow me.’

  They walked through the forest for a time, or rather Gregar walked and Haraj crashed, tripped, cursed, broke branches, and shook brush as he fell. Gregar just sighed and waited for him to catch up. As the evening darkened into night Haraj cleared his throat to offer, tentatively, ‘Ah … we have no food …’

  ‘Noticed that, did you?’

  ‘Or water.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So … what’ve you got in mind?’

  ‘Can you hunt?’

  ‘Ah … no. Can you?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Ah. Well. That’s a problem.’

  Gregar started off again. ‘Yes it is. But it’s not one we can solve by standing around.’

  Haraj followed along, stumbling and breathing loudly. ‘What about tonight? Sleeping and all?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean … what about wolves and such?’

  Gregar turned to offer him a smile. ‘We’re the wolves now.’

  This mollified the lad for a time, though as the night darkened he spoke again. ‘But you do know where you’re going … don’t you?’

  Gregar halted to point roughly northwest – or at least what he was fairly certain was northwest. ‘I’m heading for the lines.’

  Haraj blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry … what lines?’

  Gregar couldn’t help but gape at the fellow. ‘Are you a fool? The lines! The Bloorian League is trying to encircle Gris! Surely you’ve heard about it.’

  The skinny fellow winced and ducked, writhing almost as if in agony, his head lowered. ‘I’ve heard about it, of course. But I’ve never – that is, I was never let …’ He cleared his throat, and finished as if in apology, ‘I didn’t get out much.’

  Again Gregar had to look away. He took a long breath, squinting at the surrounding dark woods. Finally, after some time, he said quietly, ‘Something will turn up, don’t you worry.’ He gestured north once more – at least what he hoped was north. ‘Let’s go a bit farther.’

  Some time later, exhausted, and, Gregar suspected, possibly lost, they halted next to a giant oak, gathered up armfuls of leaves, and covered themselves to attempt to sleep.

  Gregar woke first. The sun glared down in a dappling pattern about him through gaps in the boughs above. For a time he watched the sleeping curled form of his companion, then he scanned the woods. Let him rest a while longer. He was obviously completely unused to any physical exertion. Gregar had seen dogs raised in cages. Released, the poor pathetic things couldn’t even straighten their legs. They were cripples. Unable to walk.

  But to do that to a boy. To raise him in such a way.

  A burning heat clenched Gregar’s chest and he found he had t
o wipe his eyes to clear them.

  This Ap-Athlan had a lot to answer for.

  Noises in the underbrush caught his attention. Animals running. A forester would imagine that meant …

  Shapes now moved through the brush, upright. Gregar caught glimpses of pale sky-like blue amid the bushes. Grisian soldiery.

  A loud snapping of branches jerked Haraj awake, gasping and flailing. Gregar tried to calm him but the nearby figures halted. A step sounded next to him and he spun to peer up at a Grisian infantrywoman in mail, her surcoat torn and bloodied. She held a sword on him.

  ‘Here!’ she called.

  Gregar’s shoulders fell in despair. They’d been found.

  The figures closed. ‘Who is it?’ one called.

  ‘Don’t know,’ the woman answered, studying them with something like distaste. ‘Outlaws, looks like. Wretched runaways.’

  Gregar felt his mouth open, but no sound emerged. Outlaws?

  The surrounding brush parted and a number of Grisian heavy infantry now squinted down at them. One waved a dismissal. ‘We don’t have time for this. Just kill them.’

  ‘Righty-o,’ the woman answered, and raised her sword.

  For a fraction of an instant Gregar simply stared upward, completely paralysed by disbelief. Really? This was happening? He was to be murdered. Just like that?

  Then he reacted, and suddenly everyone about him seemed to be moving in slow motion. Rising, he pushed his back into the woman, and taking her descending arm used his strength and the techniques of years of heaving stone blocks, and threw her to spin head over heels. She crashed amid the brush.

  Now the soldiery gaped at him – then rushed. First came the one who’d ordered their deaths. His sword was raised and Gregar stepped into the swing, blocked the arm, and shoved his straightened fingers into the man’s throat. Cartilage popped and snapped. The man flinched in shock and pain.

  Drawing backwards, Gregar slid his left hand down the man’s arm and snatched the sword from his weakened grip, then pushed him away with his right.

  For a fraction of a second he admired the silvery iron length of the blade he had taken. This was the first real sword he’d ever held – not some wooden training piece he’d secretly played with until someone saw and beat him for it. Frankly, it felt too heavy in his hand; he much preferred the sticks he had practised with ceaselessly.

  The next man came in, swinging. Gregar sidestepped the blow, and because they were all wearing armour and he was not, he didn’t bother hacking at the extended mailed arm but slashed downwards in passing, across the back of the man’s knee.

  The fellow bellowed his pain and fell.

  Something crashed into him, sending him flying; a shield-bash, he realized, as he staggered into a meadow of tall weeds and grass next to their hiding place. The helmeted heads of at least twenty more Grisian troopers turned his way.

  Shit!

  The one who had shield-bashed him now came on, thrusting and jabbing with the point of his sword – he’d obviously been watching and learning. Gregar gave ground, circling.

  Capricious Oponn’s luck was with Gregar then, as the fellow tripped on something: a hole, or a tangle of grasses. Gregar was immediately inside his guard, thrusting in over the shield to strike the neck and push inwards, feeling the muscle, the frail bones and ligaments parting and giving.

  The man fell gurgling and clutching at his neck.

  Gregar pulled back, turning in a full circle. He now faced a ring of infantry.

  Strangely then, though the sky was completely clear, approaching thunder sounded, turning everyone’s head.

  Two cavalrymen crashed into the ring of troopers.

  They swung down at the soldiery, hacking from side to side. One heaved his mount to the left, the other to the right. Immediately, Gregar was forgotten. All the Grisians closed on the mounted fighters.

  The newcomers fought with astonishing speed and ruthlessness. One threw himself from his mount even while still moving; he bore a tall spear that he whipped about, slashing. A banner rippled close to its broad leaf-shaped tip. The other remained mounted, hacking with two swords in elegant figure-eight motions. Even the mounts fought, lashing out to crush chests.

  Gregar stared, stunned. Each rider wore an ankle-length tabard of a red so dark as to be near black. Sinuous down the front and back writhed a long silver dragon sigil. Their mounts’ livery shared this dark blood-red field and sigil.

  The Crimson Guard.

  The two finished off the Grisian infantry with brutal efficiency. Then the spear-bearer turned to regard Gregar, planting the long weapon. Haraj came staggering out of the brush then, attracting everyone’s attention; the lad tripped over a torn bloody body, took one look, then promptly vomited, heaving and gagging in misery.

  The two Crimson guardsmen exchanged arched looks. The spear-bearer inclined his head to Gregar in salute and remounted, while Haraj waved an arm, wiping the spume from his mouth. ‘Wait! Wait! We want to join the Guard!’

  The two shared amused smiles. ‘Sorry,’ answered the spearman. ‘Our roster is full right now.’

  ‘No!’ Haraj insisted. ‘You don’t understand …’

  The spearman pointed north. ‘There are refugees in the Coastal Range. Outlaws too. They’ll take you.’ The two kneed their mounts and thundered off.

  ‘No, wait!’ Haraj called after them, but he let his arms fall. ‘Dammit.’

  ‘I don’t think we made much of an impression,’ Gregar offered.

  ‘I’ll make an impression,’ Haraj practically snarled. ‘What now? I’m famished and cold and wet.’

  Gregar waved to the bodies. ‘This lot must have something. Search them. And quickly, before more show up.’

  Haraj recoiled. He shuddered and hugged himself. ‘Must we?’

  ‘If you want food and water. Myself, I might try to find some armour that fits.’

  After rifling through all the bodies they came up with a few pouches of dried meat and wrapped boiled barley and assorted light weapons, and Gregar had selected a coat of mail that he believed might fit.

  ‘Now what?’ Haraj asked, burdened by seven skins of water thrown over a shoulder. ‘Which way?’

  Gregar had to smile. He motioned to the twinned deep sets of hoofprints.

  They set off running as best they could.

  * * *

  The hamlet on the south shore of the river Idryn was so small it didn’t even have a formal name. The locals Dancer had asked directions from just called it ‘the town’, and pointed them onward.

  No formal roads. Just mud paths between a few wattle and daub mud houses, sod-roofed. Fish dried on racks while a handful of sheep watched them nervously from a pen.

  He and Kellanved walked down to the muddy waterfront and peered around. Dancer eyed the mage, who raised his chin to indicate the distant shore. ‘North – and west.’

  Dancer grunted. This news eased his general ill-temper a touch. He did not like this errand much. Not much at all. Just a few lazy days’ journey east down the Idryn lay Li Heng. He did not want to see that city again.

  Children played along the shore and Kellanved approached them. ‘We’re looking for a boat,’ he called.

  The mud-smeared pack halted in their game of capturing frogs to gape at them. ‘Who’re you?’ one demanded.

  ‘A traveller. Now, do any of you know—’

  ‘You talk funny.’

  ‘So do you. Now, a boat, yes?’

  ‘No we don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’ Kellanved asked.

  ‘Talk funny. We talk normal-like.’

  Kellanved opened his arms. ‘Well, it’s all a matter of perspective. Different peoples—’

  Dancer held out a single Hengan silver round. ‘This goes to whoever can bring us a boatman.’

  The children took off as a mass, straight down the shore. Dancer raised a brow to Kellanved, who huffed and rolled his eyes.

  Moments later the gang returned with a stooped elder
ly man whom they alternately cajoled and pulled. Once they neared, the children abandoned him to mob Dancer.

  ‘I found him! Me!’ they all shouted at once.

  Dancer made a display of tossing the coin far off into the tall grasses. The kids ran off, kicking and piling on to each other.

  ‘They’ll search for ever,’ Kellanved opined.

  ‘Yes, they will,’ Dancer agreed, and he showed Kellanved the coin still cupped in his palm.

  Kellanved smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m not the only one with tricks, hmm?’

  The old man tipped his head. ‘You want a boat, sors?’

  ‘We wish to cross,’ answered Kellanved.

  The oldster nodded and motioned that they should follow.

  The boat proved to be a leaky punt that the old fellow pushed off the strand then invited them to enter. Dancer stepped in gingerly, fearful that his foot might go right through the rotten planks. Water sloshed, filling the bottom. Kellanved rather daintily set himself down on a plank seat. The boatman set his two oars into their locks and heaved.

  They barely made any headway from the shore. The boatman motioned a clawed hand to Dancer and indicated a wooden cup floating at his feet. ‘Gotta bail.’

  Dancer picked up the pathetic piece of carved wood and examined it incredulously. ‘With this?’

  The boatman spat over the side. ‘What you do is you dip it into the water and throw it over.’

  Dancer gritted his teeth against saying anything more – and making things worse – and started bailing.

  ‘You city folk,’ the boatman sniggered. ‘Don’t know nothing.’

  Kellanved swept an arm to the west. ‘So tell me, O stalwart wise man of the river, salt of the earth, what lies to the west?’

  The boatman hawked up a mass of phlegm and spat over the side once more. ‘The rest of the damned country, that’s what.’ And he shook his head at the astounding depth of their ignorance.

  Kellanved and Dancer exchanged quizzical looks and were quiet for the remainder of the trip.

  When they reached the north shore, Dancer tossed the man the silver Hengan round and the fellow grunted, unimpressed, though it was no doubt ten times anything he had ever been paid. Then Kellanved pointed his walking stick west and they set off, the mage swinging his stick, Dancer shaking his head.