Out of consideration for Gueynor’s inexperience he held to a leisurely pace, little more than an amble, and glanced over now and then to see how she fared. He had improvised a bridle, but she had to perch on nothing more than a folded blanket without girth, stirrups or pommel. It meant her seat was rigid and inflexible, her backbone was like a poker that transmitted every jolt, and her knees had clamped to the pony’s ribs like pincers. After years cradled in the reassuring embrace of a war saddle, Aldric himself wouldn’t have felt much more at ease.
They spoke seldom, each wrapped in private thoughts, although he sometimes glanced suspiciously at the sky. He was familiar with this changeable summer weather and, despite Aunt Aline’s assurance that the greasy dye of their disguises was waterproof, he had no intention of getting caught by an unexpected downpour. His worries were groundless. The remaining clouds thinned then cleared until even in the shadow of trees it was hot. The afternoon sun blazed overhead and mere branches offered little shelter to travellers on the narrow forest trails. Wisps of vapour curled like fragile skeins of cobweb from the damp undergrowth, and the warm air grew close and sticky. There was no wind.
“How far to Seghar?” Aldric was soft-voiced now, influenced by the vast humid stillness that surrounded them. Even the horses’ hoofs no longer seemed to fall so heavily, reminding him of that first day’s hunt with Evthan. And of all that had followed it.
“One long day’s walk from Valden. Less on horseback, I’m sure.”
“At this speed? No less, and maybe more. We might get there before full dark.” A thought struck him, of being locked out after curfew. “If we don’t, will they let us in?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Then we’ll stop for a while. If the guards let us in we’ll get in, and if not it’s already too late to hurry.”
Aldric kicked both feet free of the stirrup irons and let them dangle as he stretched backwards as far as the tall, curved cantle would allow. A stream had been running close beside the bridle-path for maybe half a mile now, chuckling over half-seen rocks as it flowed down from the higher reaches of the Jevaiden plateau, and once in a while it formed wide pools alive with golden light and bronze-green shadowy depths. The twinkling of a thousand sun-shot ripples looked cool and inviting to someone who felt hot and tired. Hungry, too. After last night’s waking vigil nothing seemed urgent any more.
Nothing at all…
*
In the first half-hour since the path beneath his pony’s hoofs dried out enough to give off dust again, Marek Endain’s carefully dressed hair and beard had turned to greyish rattails. His round-bellied, short-legged beast was refusing to hurry through such heat and, with similar proportions himself, its rider could only sympathise. The skin under his richly embroidered garments was gritty, and his nose reminded him he was sweating as much as the little horse, though its employers never relied on smell for a good first impression. He tugged sticky silk out of his armpits, eyed the nearest pool and decided that regardless of how cold the water might be, a bath and change of clothing was long overdue.
He dismounted from the relieved pony, hobbled its forelegs and removed saddle and saddlebags before leaving it to crop the grass while he washed. A dabble with one hand proved the water was even more shockingly cold than expected, so he used an approach which for obvious reasons happened only when alone. It involved a long run-up, a yell of anticipation and a leap that ended with his explosive landing backside-foremost in the deepest part of the pool. A column of foam-streaked water rose and fell but the pony, who had seen and heard it all before, merely snorted and went back to grazing.
What paid far more attention to the uproar was a clump of bushes upstream, jerking as if every branch was shocked out of a deep and comfortable sleep…
Sitting in the shallows, Marek scrubbed himself all over with gravel from the riverbed until he glowed with cleanliness and friction, then rinsed off by swimming across the pool. Like many fat men he was buoyant and confident in water and, once the initial chill became more refreshing, he floated on his back and watched the dragonflies as they flicked and hovered over him. For all his idleness his mind was working hard, not thinking about anything new, just repeating what had passed through it so many times before.
I shouldn’t have accepted this commission. It’s probably dangerous, and I’m getting too old.
He wondered how long his unenthusiastic search would have to go on before he could had enough reason to abandon it and go home. Then something passed his head with a quick swish that ended in a sharp choppy splash and the dragonflies scattered. It might have been a leaping fish or a diving bird, even though his presence should have scared both away. Marek ducked beneath the water to see better, what he saw made him gasp, that made him inhale a lot of river, and that made him submerge for several seconds before he broke surface again.
Instead of a fish or bird there was a long, slender arrow drifting slowly upward, wreathed in a cloud of tiny, self-made bubbles. The sharp steel head whose weight pulled it from the horizontal glinted as it rose, as malevolent as the eye of any pike and much more threatening.
As he coughed and spluttered, he raked wet hair from his eyes as if that would help him spot who had shot the arrow. It didn’t. All he could see was forest, either the pillared tree trunks or an impenetrable tangle of undergrowth. But someone could see him.
“Get out, come here, and bring my arrow with you.”
Despite the risk of another impatience-provoked shot, Marek took a few seconds for modesty before following that emotionless voice to its source, and wrapped himself in the blanket he used for a towel. He was trying hard not to think about what had just happened. Either it was an example of skilled archery, or the bowman had meant to kill him and missed. Neither alternative was appealing.
He got another start only seconds later when a large black horse appeared without warning from behind a tree. The animal wasn’t hobbled, and it watched him for a moment or two before wandering back into the shade.
The archer, presumably the horse’s owner, was lounging under an oak tree, booted feet crossed on top of his saddlery and gear. A young woman sat with equal comfort by his side, although her back was tensed and her face uncertain. If her companion felt that way he concealed it well, because the shadows cast by low, leaf-heavy branches masked his features and it seemed unlikely they fell just-so by accident. There was a book set upside-down on the grass to keep its place while its reader folded his arms and dozed, or embraced his lady…
Or shot at unsuspecting swimmers with the short heavy bow in one hand, which already had a second arrow nocked to the string.
At first sight everything appeared casual, almost disorderly, until a second, more careful glance revealed purpose behind the chaotic scatter. That purpose was swift access to a disturbing number of weapons. Besides the shortbow and its arrow-crammed case there was another full quiver hanging from the saddle footstool, a pair of telekin spring-guns holstered either side of the pommel, a dirk and shortsword at the man’s belt and a longsword propped within easy reach.
Hilt and harness, boots, bow and breeches were all stark black, just like the wolfskin rolled into a cushion between the stranger’s head and the tree trunk. His white shirt was open and its sleeves rolled up like any man taking his ease on a hot day, but there was a thumb-ringed shooting-glove on one hand and a leather bracer on the other brown forearm. Silver glittered in the hollow of his throat, a thick collar with a pendant talisman, and that was the first thing of all his accouterments to make Marek relax.
“What did I do that you find calming?” The archer still spoke Drusalan, but now, closer, there was the undertone of another accent.
“Silver.” Marek nodded towards it, relieved his voice own was so steady. “At least you’re not—” he gave a quick insincere grin to prove he wasn’t being serious “—a forest demon.”
“Now there’s a strange greeting, Kourgath,” said the woman, and the suspicion in her tone was all to
o clear.
Too late now to abandon any commission, thought Marek as he looked at the bow, the telekin and the longsword. He feared for his safety, then for his dignity since the blanket round his ample waist was working loose. He tugged at it, grateful for something to do with hands that threatened to tremble at any moment, and when he looked up realised he was being examined by the single grey-green eye of a face much younger than he had expected to see. That face was clean-shaven, darkened by sun and weather, and marked with the stark diagonal of a patch across brow, right eye and cheekbone. As he returned stare for stare with the advantage of two eyes on his side, the archer’s gloved right hand came up to ease his patch a little lower, as if hiding something.
That implied a recent mutilation, and lack of age and experience would make him quick to counter any challenge from a world which might think him weak or incomplete. Any challenge at all, real or imagined. That meant he was as deadly as a coiled viper. Yet there was something about him which sounded a near-forgotten chord of memory. His hair wasn’t close-cropped like the Imperial military and it was almost black, but it was still cut short enough to be…
The memory hovered an instant longer, then vanished.
“No demon, eh?” The single eye blinked lazily, like a cat’s. “There are plenty who would argue. I’m eijo. And what are you, besides a man of Cerenau?” Those last words were in pure Alban, coloured by the Elthanek burr that had made his fluent Drusalan sound so strange.
“Is my accent so obvious?” said Marek and laughed, having to force it a little. An eijo, before Heaven! It explains the hair and the Three Blades. But it didn’t quite explain the tiny memory that came nagging back.
“Are you a priest,” the girl asked, “that your first words concern demons?” It sounded innocent, too innocent, and he wondered how much of that wide-eyed curiosity was just an act.
“Not a priest,” he replied with as much hauteur as his slipping towel would allow. “My name is Marek Endain, a demon-queller. The demon-queller.” His bow was jerky, laced with aggressive politeness, and the eijo replied with a perfunctory gesture of greeting and a grin. Even though it was as brief as his salute, that flash of teeth disarmed the situation.
“Demon-queller, eh?” There might have been awe or respect in his voice, but Marek was inclined to doubt it. “You can call me Kourgath. I’m a traveller and mercenary. Just a mercenary. My lady is Gueynor of…”
“No fixed abode?” suggested the demon-queller generously.
“Ternon,” Gueynor finished for him. “A few years back.”
Not too many, thought Marek. Babes in arms don’t leave home alone. I wonder do your parents know about it? His eyes flicked briefly to the eijo’s face. No, probably not.
Already over the worst of his fright and despite appearances, Marek Endain didn’t frighten easily, he was beginning to suspect why this young couple were so jumpy and suspicious. The lad was in his middle twenties, the girl not twenty, both well-spoken but expecting and fearing pursuit. A handsome mercenary and perhaps a wealthy merchant’s daughter, not abducted by the look of her, just taken in by too many romantic tales. Marek felt warmly sentimental, remembering an occasion when he too had been young and foolish. The time for a sensible lecture might come later, but for now…
“Your secrets are safe with me,” he announced, hitching his towel to a new anchorage higher up the majestic curve of his belly. Kourgath and Gueynor looked at him, both wearing the same expression, then at each other. Then the towel slipped and Marek’s grab for it was just a little too late.
Kourgath laughed, Gueynor put one hand in front of her mouth and blushed, but the demon-queller was beyond blushing even though the Jevaiden plateau obstinately refused to open and swallow him.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, carefully avoiding anyone’s direct gaze, “I’ll dress now.”
“I don’t mind at all,” said Kourgath, “and neither does my lady. In fact we’d consider it a wise decision. Very wise indeed.”
*
“Do you think we can trust him?” Gueynor asked once the Cernuan walked away, wrapped in dignity and not much else.
“Yes. At least I hope so.” Aldric wasn’t smiling now. “Because the only alternative is—”
“No! I told you before, I won’t agree to murder!”
“Except for the Geruaths.” His voice was nasty. “So call it self-defence.”
“Why? Because it sounds better?”
“If he turns out dangerous, it sounds just right.”
“Thanks to you shooting at him!” Now her amusement had faded, Gueynor was still angry about that. “If you hadn’t been so hasty he’d have passed us by!”
“I doubt it.” Aldric didn’t want to explain about the sixth-sense feeling that made him certain Marek’s route would have brought the demon-queller and his pony right on top of them. It had been only good tactics to make the first move, gain the advantage of surprise and, as things turned out, gain an unsuspecting ally as well.
“Did you see his face?”
“What about his face?”
“He thinks we’ve run away together.” Gueynor made a disbelieving noise, but Aldric smiled. “He sized us up, saw you weren’t my prisoner, and assumed that anyone looking for us would look for you first.”
“You might be right.” She conceded the point reluctantly, sounding unconvinced. “But what difference does that make?”
“It means he’s formed his own opinions, and they’ll be more credible than anything I might feed him. He’s forgiven me for that arrow already – at least he didn’t mention it – and I doubt he’ll betray us to anyone now. Marek thinks your family is chasing us. He’s a romantic at heart, I think.”
“You think!”
“I think.” Aldric had been accused of the same thing. “But I’d still go bond for his silence.”
Gueynor stared at him for a moment, then reached out to adjust the black patch over his eye. He had raised it to shoot, muttering something about not judging the distance accurately otherwise, and had been twitching at it ever since as if it itched.
“Don’t go bond for anything,” she said. the waspishness gone from her voice. “You might lose more than money.”
What then? he almost asked. Life? Honour? No, not honour. That was long lost. He had employed deception with practised ease yet again, letting an innocent stranger accept him as something he was not. It was a dishonourable thing for any Alban warrior, and for a clan-lord should have been unthinkable. It had been unthinkable for him, but in a different way. He hadn’t thought about it at all. Maybe if Marek had been from somewhere else it wouldn’t have mattered, but he was Cernuan. It meant he was South Alban – though if he was like other Cernuans Aldric had met, he wouldn’t care for that name – and a fellow-countryman of sorts in this foreign province. Maybe Gueynor was right, and he was a little mad after all if being mad meant no longer caring about his own self-respect.
Was that why he had helped Evthan in his hunt for the Beast? And why he now hoped to help Gueynor? Because he was trying to recover something, to prove something to the world and to himself? Prove he could have saved his father’s life and his own honour if he had come home in time? And would he always have to prove it by killing and deceit, down all the days of a life that seemed sometimes already far too long?
Aldric’s mouth opened, but no words emerged and it closed again with a snap of teeth that Gueynor could hear. Instead he got to his feet, almost flinging himself upright and away from the comfort of her hand, her presence, her sympathy. He seized the black wolfskin coyac and drew it on over his shirt, hesitating a moment as he felt its weight settle on his shoulders, then moved away to stare unseeing down into the ripples of the uncomplicated pool while he tried to come to terms with the complications raising ripples inside his own head.
*
When Marek returned he was wearing a splendid cymar over-robe, scarlet patterned with whorls of gold and black. There were two stoppered wine-jars secure
d between the fingers of his left hand and three turned-wood drinking bowls in the right. He glanced warily towards Gueynor as if aware his earlier appearance had provoked some sort of argument, and was reassured when she patted the ground and smiled at him.
A few seconds later there was the distinctive sound of a cork being drawn, but he shook his head to refuse the offered bowl. In his present mood the last thing he needed was to start drinking, well aware from past experience where it could lead. He had been down that road before, and with less reason than now. So no wine. With his resolution settled, he counted breaths for several moments more before he turned round.
Gueynor and Marek were already deep in conversation about anything and everything except, he reckoned, eijin who shot at perfect strangers in the middle of their ablutions. The demon-queller looked a lot more elegant and capable now than the dripping, towel-wrapped figure who had stood before them not so long ago. His mobile, intelligent face was quick to smile, framed by the silvered chestnut of hair and full beard, and though he seemed fat, most of his surplus weight was in his belly with the rest stocky rather than plump. There was considerable strength in those thick limbs. As Aldric looked with the eye and mind of one attuned to deception, he realised the Cernuan deliberately cultivated this image of a harmless, middle-aged fat man over-fond of food and drink. And that meant he was nothing of the sort.
“What does a demon-queller do?” asked Gueynor. When Marek finished putting hair and beard to rights and drew a long breath, Aldric recognised the symptoms.
“Briefly, please,” he said. Marek Endain let out that gathered breath with a sharp, slightly outraged gasp. Nobody had ever asked him to edit his customary long-winded introduction before, and he had the air of a man who didn’t want to. “Leave out all the long words,” Aldric added. “That should help.” His expression hadn’t altered, making it impossible for Marek to tell if he was joking. The Cernuan decided not and played things safe, though it took a few seconds for him to reorganise his thoughts.
The Demon Lord Page 16
