by Anthony Ryan
So complete was my surrender to delirium that when a blast of shocking cold brought me back to the world, I found myself regarding a darkened and mostly empty town square. The sky was clear and bright with stars and the surrounding houses dark save for the faint glimmer of a candle behind the shutters. A few drunks lingered in shadowed corners but daren’t come any closer thanks to the dozen kingsmen posted around the pillory.
“Still in there, are you?” a voice enquired as Sir Althus’s bearded face loomed into view. He peered into my bleary eyes before grunting and stepping back, tossing aside the bucket he had used to douse my head in icy water. “Of course you are. He said you weren’t an easy lad to kill.”
He pulled a clay pipe from his tunic and fingered leaf into the bowl, watching without expression as I blinked and sputtered my way back to full consciousness. While I could no longer feel my hands, or much of the rest of my body, my head and face felt like they were aflame. It was scant surprise to find I was unable to draw breath through my nose and I spent a long interval gasping in pain as the cold air and the water stung my various injuries.
“Here,” Sir Althus grunted around his pipe stem, holding a flask to my lips. Water flooded my mouth, tasting more wonderful than the sweetest nectar to my parched and bruised throat. After I had gulped the flask dry, I strained my neck to peer up at him, watching as he positioned the pipe stem between his teeth. Holding it in place, he struck a flint to the leaf crammed into the bowl. It was a practised, skilful gesture that soon brought forth a musky, floral-tinted cloud of smoke as Sir Althus puffed away.
“Seen worse,” he mused, leaning down to survey my battered visage. “But I find it doubtful any maid will ever call you handsome. Try this.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and placed it between my swollen lips. “It’ll take some of the pain away.”
Pipe leaf was a rarity in those days, something shipped across the sea from far away that commanded a correspondingly high price and therefore remained a luxury to be enjoyed only by nobles. My first inhalation set me coughing once again but, after a short interval, as the oddly sweet vapour made its way into my lungs, I felt the fire engulfing my face begin to subside.
“Not too much,” he said, removing the pipe before I could draw in more of the blessed smoke. “Wouldn’t want you insensible, would I? Not before we’ve had a little chat.”
He wiped the pipe stem on his tunic before holding it to his mouth again, sighing as he sat on the topmost step of the small dais upon which the pillory rested. “I’d apologise for this… spectacle if I wasn’t possessed of a deep certainty that you deserve it, and more besides.” He had positioned himself so I could see his face without straining overmuch and I found myself regarded by a serious, insistent frown. “You did kill that fellow’s brother, did you not, Alwyn?”
Various responses rose and fell from my lips, ranging from flat denial to desperate apportioning of blame to one I assumed most likely dead. It was a terrible, bloodthirsty villain by the name of Erchel. He forced me to a life of outlawry, m’lord, I swear by all the Martyrs. But all that eventually emerged from my mouth was a weary groan of resignation, one Sir Althus heard enough truth in to let out a grunt of satisfaction.
“Thought so. Deckin’s orders, I assume?”
I returned his frown with one of my own then winced as the effort prompted a resurgence of pain and seepage of blood from open cuts.
“No?” The knight raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I’d wager he wasn’t happy when you told him. Always was a man to be wary of when his temper started to boil. I once saw him punch the life out of an archer who crowed too loudly about beating him at cards. But he was younger then – perhaps age mellowed him. Or was it just his fondness for you that spared you the knife?”
I fought to keep my features still, fearing both another surge of pain and betrayal of dangerous secrets to this overly perceptive knight. However, mention of his prior association with Deckin brought a small but curious squint to my gaze.
“That’s right,” he said, smoke shrouding his teeth as he smiled. “I knew him, back when his name was Deckin the Spit. It’s what they used to call him in the old duke’s castle, on account of all the years he spent turning meat in front of the fire. It wasn’t a name he was fond of but that’s the one the sergeant used when he marched us under the banner the first time and had us stutter out our oaths. We got sworn on the same day, y’see? Two boys whose balls hadn’t yet fully dropped and there we were, soldiers about to march to war.”
Sir Althus paused to take a long pull from his pipe, releasing the pale-grey cloud in concert with a laugh that was both rueful and bitter. When he spoke on, I noted how his voice had altered, the soft inflection and precise enunciation of the nobility replaced by the coarse tones and clipped vowels of the commons.
“You’d’ve thought they might’ve spared us the worst of it, at least for a bit. Waited until we’d grown some before they shoved us into line clutching halberds that weighed more than we did. But that’s not how it was under the banners at the tail end of the Duchy Wars. Whatever the age, whatever the spindliness of your arms or lack of skill with weapons, you fought alongside everyone else and, if the Martyrs lent you luck, you got to live. It also helped if you had a sturdy friend to guard your arse when things got lively. See this?”
Sir Althus drew back the sleeve of his right arm, displaying a patch of pale bare skin among the otherwise hairy skin and muscle. “Crossbow bolt straight through from end to end at the second siege of Ilvertren, or was it the third?” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. Point is, I came closer to dying that day than I’ve ever done since, and it was Deckin who bore me away from the walls before some other keen-eyed bastard could finish the job.”
Another upsurge of pain pushed a groan from my mouth and he paused to put the pipe to my lips once again, letting me puff away a little longer this time. The smoke brought a notable lessening to my agonies but also added a cloudy befuddlement to my vision. When Sir Althus sat back his face had taken on a vague, distorted quality, although I continued to discern his words with decent clarity.
“Time and the waywardness of war eventually parted Deckin and I,” he said with a note of nostalgic regret. “I got a chance at Crown Company and took it while he opted to stay as a duchy man. I suspect he had resolved to take the outlaw’s path by then, drawn back to the Shavine Marches by the father he hated. It was his grand obsession all the years I knew him, the great scheme of ultimate revenge. How it must have irked him when Duke Rouphon contrived to put his own head on the block.”
The knight shook his head with a soft laugh. He no longer looked at me, his gaze distant and unfocused, leading me to conclude this tale was not in fact for me. I was just a convenient ear for a story he couldn’t tell his noble friends.
“So,” he went on after a moment of brief, sombre reflection, “Deckin became an outlaw while I, after many travails, became a knight. I won’t trouble you with the details of my elevation, Alwyn, for I suspect you couldn’t give two shits. Suffice to say that whereas I once bowed and knuckled my forehead to those born to privilege, now others bow and knuckle to me. Some years ago, King Tomas’s father put a sword on my shoulder and named me Sir Althus Levalle, Knight Commander of Crown Company. I have a wife of noble, if not particularly noteworthy blood, a castle of my own and lands and churls to go with it. These can be the rewards of war, if you live long enough to claim them. They could have been Deckin’s too, if not for his obsession, for he was always the better soldier, and said as much when I sat at his side in the dungeon not three nights ago, as I now sit beside you. The duke’s torturers had been at him but he never spoke a word, not to them. But he would speak to me. ‘You would’ve died a dozen times but for me,’ he said, and I can’t claim him a liar. ‘You owe me a dozen debts, old friend. But I’ll only ask for settlement of two.’”
A sudden, deep weariness swept through me then, causing my head to dip and bringing another groan to my lips. Either through the eff
ects of his pipe or the gathering dusk, everything was growing dark. Sir Althus was a distant echo when he spoke again.
“Only two favours, that’s what he asked of me. First, that it be me who wielded the sword when he received the King’s justice. ‘I’d prefer death at the hands of a friend, if you’re willing.’
“I’ve never been a shirker, Alwyn. Duty is duty and it’s what I’m sworn to. Something you’d do well to remember: only ever give an oath if you’re willing to keep it, even unto death. A false oath has no value and the only reward it brings is the distrust and enmity of others, usually those with more wealth and power than you’ll ever have. So, if you give your word, make sure you keep it. As I kept it when I took the head of a man I once loved as a brother. As I’m keeping it now. Y’see, Deckin’s second favour was that I keep watch for a youth of his acquaintance, a lad clever enough to have escaped the slaughter at Moss Mill but, he suspected, not so clever as to stay well clear of this place.”
Firm hands took hold of my chin, lifting my gaze to regard his shifting, fuzzy-edged face. Despite my growing confusion, I could discern the grim regret in his eyes and voice. “Deckin asked that I get you away from here, find a place for you in my household, but thanks to your adventures last night that’s impossible now. I’m afraid it niggles my conscience a mite too much to give safe harbour to one who murders a soldier.”
His words stirred a flurry of terror deep inside me, but it was a contained thing, kept small by the pipe and my pain-wracked, starved state. “But don’t worry,” Sir Althus continued, voice even more distant now so that it seemed he spoke from the far end of a very long tunnel. At the time the words made only slight purchase on my mind, so in penning this account I have been forced to guess much of it. However, I’d lay a good-sized wager as to its accuracy if Sir Althus were in a position to verify it, which, students of history will be aware, he certainly is not.
“Neither will I drag you before the new duke for judgment,” is what I believe he told me as I slipped rapidly towards insensibility. “That bitch he’s taken a liking to will surely confirm your membership of Deckin’s band then there will be nothing I can do for you. No, it’s the Pit Mines for you, my lad. By fortunate chance the chainsman was already making his rounds to collect Lord Duhbos’ dregs from the dungeons. He gets twenty sheks for every benighted soul he delivers to the Pit, so was easily persuaded to take another. That fellow who was so keen to gut you will kick off something fierce, I’m sure, but a silver sovereign should quiet him, especially when I’ve told him where you’ve been sent. After a while in the Pit you might come to reflect that the rope and a gizzard slitting would have been preferable in the end…”
I know he said more but it’s forever lost to me now. I recall watching boots merging with a fast-descending black cloud as his voice became a mournful, wordless dirge. I wouldn’t see Sir Althus Levalle again for several years and when I did, despite the debt I owe him and in contrast to the pity stirred when I think of Deckin, it was with a great welling of anger. It’s true that Sir Althus saved me, so I shouldn’t hate his memory, but he also damned me, and so I do.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I awoke to a song, not particularly tuneful and sung in a language I didn’t know, but nonetheless cast forth with an enthusiasm that matched its volume. I blinked blood-encrusted eyes, raising my head only for it to be jerked against something hard as the surface on which I lay gave an abrupt shift. My vision remained blurred and gritted but the swaying floor and creaking squeal of an axle told me I was on a cart of some kind. The stench of sweat and stale shit also told me I wasn’t alone.
“The sleeping princess isn’t dead after all,” a voice commented, and my occluded sight swung towards a pale, blurred oval. The voice was female but somewhat grating, the accent telling of origins beyond the Marches. One of the southern duchies, I thought.
“Might be another one gone in the head, though,” the voice went on as I continued to regard its owner with a gaping mouth and unfocused gaze. The face loomed closer and I discerned a frowning brow above small, piercing eyes. “Are you simple?” she asked with slow deliberation. “Do you know words?”
“I know fucking words,” I muttered as annoyance cut through my confusion. I tried to raise my hand to shove this inquisitor away only to find it constrained by a manacle fixed to a short chain. The sharp pain as the iron band bit into my wrist brought a hiss to my lips and a slight moisture to my eyes which had the fortunate effect of clearing my vision enough to discern my surroundings.
My initial puzzlement at finding the sky cut into a series of uneven squares became sour chagrin as I realised I was peering at it through a cage. The bars were formed of flat iron strips affixed into a box, the joints secured with thick bolts. My experienced gaze quickly sought out patches of rust, finding only a few, which meant this cage wouldn’t be easily busted. Woodland passed by on either side of the cart which, I noted with dismay, was escorted by six mounted men-at-arms in unfamiliar livery of grey and black. I found my attention momentarily captured by the woods, finding them composed mostly of tall pines jutting up from a blanket of frosted ferns. This was not the Shavine Forest I knew so well.
I swung my now-clear eyes towards the woman who had greeted my awakening, finding her in fact little more than a girl. Her hair was a mass of matted black spikes framing oval features that might have been pretty, but it was hard to tell under the mask of grime. I found the rest of her too scrawny to pique my lust, not that I was capable of such diversions at that juncture. Beside her lay the source of much of the smell I found so offensive despite my damaged nose – a very large man who seemed to be as wide as he was tall. He lay in filthy and corpulent somnolence, chins and belly wobbling every time the cart traversed a rut. He was clad in a thin covering of threadbare rags but, judging by the wisps of vapour rising from his slack mouth, had nonetheless contrived to survive the cold.
“I call him the Sleeping Boar,” the spiky-haired girl told me in her grating accent. “Wagered Silent Simp here you’d be the first one to wake, not that he took the bet.” She inclined her head at the other occupant of the cart, the sight of him causing me to jerk my chains in surprise.
“Raith!”
The Caerith barely seemed to register my greeting, his attention entirely fixed on the bulky figure of the drover of this cage on wheels. His shaggy head lifted as he let out a fresh, even louder outburst of song in a strong but discordant voice that echoed alien words through the trees.
“He does that a lot,” the girl said, grimacing as she shifted to alleviate an ache in her back. “You really don’t want to tell him to shut it, tempting though it is. He’s got a hefty stick and isn’t shy about using it.”
“Raith,” I said again, straining against my manacles to reach out to the Caerith. This time he turned to me and I found myself confronted by a hollowed-cheeked shadow of the man I knew. The crossed pattern of marks across his face appeared more livid now, a crimson contrast to the unhealthy, waxy sheen of his skin. He wore a tattered, sleeveless jerkin, arms that had once been thick with muscle now noticeably thinner.
“Old friends are you?” the girl enquired. “Hope you’re more talkative than he is. Just sits there staring at the chainsman all day. Won’t eat the scraps we’re given neither. It’s like he wants to die.”
“Deckin…” I began, finding I had little more to say, for it was clear Raith either already knew what I had to tell him, or didn’t care. I saw only the vaguest semblance of reason in his gaze, but still, with no other sources of information to hand, felt the need to press him.
“Lorine,” I said. “Did you see…?”
“She cut him,” the Caerith said, his voice a flat monotone. “Opened him all the way up.”
“Who?” I squinted at him in bafflement. “Who did she cut?”
Raith, however, no longer felt obliged to provide me answers. Blinking, he turned and resumed his fascinated observance of our drover’s broad back. As I grunted in defeat and d
rew back, I noticed that, for the first time I could remember, Raith was not wearing his necklace of charms.
“How long since Castle Duhbos?” I asked the girl.
She settled her cautious but curious eyes on me for a time before consenting to answer. “Three days since they bundled you into the cart along with Silent Simp and this lard-bucket.” She jabbed a toe at the flaccid bulk of the Sleeping Boar. “I’ve been freezing my arse in this thing for three weeks now. Started to think I’d have no company.”
She gave a humourless smile and I glimpsed yellow teeth before her mouth closed quickly and the scrutiny returned. I knew her as an outlaw without hearing a word of her story; she just had that look, the part-feral, barely contained energy common to youthful thieves. I took some gratification from knowing she would want out of this cage as much as I did. It always paid to have help if you wanted to slip a chain.
“Alwyn,” I told her, resting my back against the bars and offering a smile I instantly regretted for it opened some of my cuts.
“Alwyn what?” she enquired.
“Just Alwyn.”
“So, Alwyn the Just, then?”
She showed her yellow teeth again in a grin as my face took on a withering expression.
“When they pushed you in here, I heard mention of Deckin Scarl,” she said, voice lowered a little and casting a wary eye at the fur-covered bulk of the humming chainsman. “Is it true? You ran with him?”
I entertained the notion of lying again, but dishonesty now seemed a pointless indulgence. Deckin and the rest were all dead and Raith and I, the only survivors of that legendary pack of villains, on our way to a short life in the Pit Mines.
