by Wilf Jones
‘Oh those,’ he said.
‘What d’you mean: ‘oh those’? I’ve seen you star-gazing like the rest of us. Even you’re not that insensitive, for all your stupid bragging.’
‘Me? Brag? You’ve got me all wrong, Sigrid, I’m just honest.’
‘As a judge, no doubt. Oh no, that’s supposed to be sober, isn’t it? Not really something you could lay claim to.’
‘Sober now, aren’t I?’
‘Only because you’ve no choice, or did you find a hip flask back in Slaney?’
‘Come off it girl, you can knock it back with the best of them.’
‘You’d notice that, wouldn’t you? Well, let me tell you, red-nose, drinking is a skill I’ve learned. For you it’s a matter of pure need. Why did you have to follow me anyway?’
‘I didn’t. You just happened to wander back into camp,’ Angren pointed down to his gear already laid out for the night. ‘Daydreaming were we?’
Sigrid hadn’t wanted any of this conversation, this stupid arguing. It was astonishing that the pettiest things could get in the way of what was really important, could wipe out the grandeur of existence in just a few ill-chosen words. She felt sad and angry but most of all rather foolish. Damn man!
‘Oh just go to sleep will you!’ she said and turned away, not wanting him to look at her. As she stumbled over packs and saddles, searching for her own gear, she heard him mutter: ‘Bloody woman!’ and looking back was pleased to see him pummelling at his bag of clothes, ostensibly to make it a better shape for his head.
‘It’ll need to be bigger than that,’ she thought and grinned to herself as she got ready for sleep.
At last they reached the trees. It was early morning on the fourth day after their meeting with Bassalo. The trees were twisted, scattered things at first but soon they became tall and rampant, fighting each other for light and space. The wind could not follow them and stirred only the canopy leaving the forest floor to calm and relative silence. Seama allowed them a long halt and they revelled in the stillness. The change was better than a rest: good humour was very nearly restored and a meal made the prospect of having to move on almost bearable. But when they did move on, the fledgling mood did not survive. Within only an hour of resuming their journey there was not a man or woman among them not desperate to be out in the open once more. The forest was a mixture of competing stands of conifers and deciduous trees and was, at this point, completely untended. The undergrowth was a clawing tangle, the air dead and stifling and the constant noise of their thrashing progress no less wearing than the wind. Each yard was a struggle to be hacked out or forced or trampled. At least on the plain they had made good time.
There was no way round it: this forest stretched all the way to the foothills of Mount Hathen, or Mulhacen as the people of that area would say, and Moreda was deep in the centre of it. As they worked their way southward the travellers hoped to find the forest steadily easier, with decent trails and tidy glades, for clustered around the various streams and rivers that tumbled down from the Hathen range to become tributaries of the Rine, Asteranor’s second River, were many villages of foresters and even a few large towns. Their industry was in pollarding and felling, shredding and coppicing the incredible variety of hard and softwoods available to them; their commerce in supplying the timber needs for much of Southern Gothery, Matagorda, Garassia and the Fat Thousands. Everyday construction in those regions was much more reliant on wood than on bricks-and-mortar or stone and even the faraway capital city, the sprawling Garassa, made accessible by the Rine, was more than half built of timber from the Eastern Forest.
Angren knew quite a bit about the Beltez family and Estate, and the great manse: la Casa Moreda. They were among the chiefs of the foresters and their Lord ruled a substantial part of the central area, el Seno del Bosque. They were a noble family, well regarded by Kings and Governments, scrupulously fair and unquestionably honourable. They were the sort of good people Angren could not possibly get on with. Agonizingly formal in everything they did, as much between themselves as in dealing with outsiders, Angren could never feel comfortable in their company. How could he live with people who thought eating a duty not an entertainment; who thought that drinking alcohol to excess not only unwise but unseemly? All of this was bad enough but it was their strict marital code that caused Angren the most difficulty. Many of their women were beautiful: dark haired, brown eyed, fair skinned and wasp-waisted. All of them were also out of bounds. Angren’s various employments in the region had all been short-lived. He had only to show the slightest interest in any of these fine ladies and someone’s sense of family honour was outraged, and the Weapon-master was thrown out on his ear. He was not, after all, considered to be anything like a suitable partner for any daughter of Beltez.
The villains of the Black Company were not suitable partners!
The thought of what might be happening at La Casa Moreda made the muscles in his stomach tighten as anger fed his imagination. He may have been uncomfortable among the Beltezians, but it didn’t mean he disliked them. He admired their discipline, their forthright attitude. He knew that the men would fight to the death to preserve the dignity of their wives, sisters and daughters. But what if they’d been defeated and the Company were even now enjoying the spoils of a new victory? Angren made himself remember what the Black Company had done in Huaresh, and he thought of what Trant had once done to his own family. The anger frothed inside him. But anger was good and revenge a necessity. Both would drive him on. If the Black Company had taken Moreda, there would be savage retribution – the red rage would see to that.
Already his own companions felt the impact of Angren’s fierce dedication: whenever they wavered he pushed them on; whenever the way ahead seemed hopeless he got them through by making them work harder. As they fought and struggled through this nigh impossible forest they were beginning to lose patience, but Angren allowed no respite. There were no stories now, no jokes, only curses and moans and Angren’s best sergeant’s voice booming out to bully, to cajole and encourage. The normally unquenchable brothers were tetchy and didn’t much like being told what to do but they got on with it; their good natured captain became more and more grumpy and said more than once that he wished he’d never left the River. Only ‘Berta seemed more cheerful than before and Angren supposed that was because every step took her a little further away from the dragons.
Seama, as often since Tumboll and the loss of Bellus, was completely withdrawn from the company. Angren wondered if it was grief that kept him quiet. Or perhaps he was thinking things through. He’d been spending a lot of time with those papers of his, admittedly with a frown on his face, but wasn’t that a good sign? If he was busy planning ahead then all the better. The wizard didn’t offer any help in beating a path, and Angren decided to let him get on with it. Whatever it might be.
The dandy too was quiet. With no possibility of conversation with Seama, and little prospect of intelligent conversation with the rest of them, Terrance seemed content to suffer the journey in contemplation of his surroundings. Time and again he paused in his labours to study leaves or flowers; he seemed to find fascination in the soil beneath his feet and the insects and birds among the trees. Such an interest, such behaviour left Angren baffled.
They travelled in single file, with the horses trailing behind, the better to weave their way through the trees and, excepting Seama, they took turn-about in taking the lead. It was a tough, exhausting job and fresh arms were needed every twenty minutes or so. Angren and ‘Berta did more than their fair share but it was Garaid, the King’s spy, who put in most of the work. He chopped and pulled and ripped and pressed, driven by something far more potent it seemed than Angren’s barking. Perhaps it was an attempt to make up for the debacle back at the stable. Clearly, the affair had unnerved the man. They had all come to accept Garaid’s long silences and the few words he spoke between them. He
seemed lost in a world of his own making and now in the trial of the forest it seemed to be getting worse. Pleased that Garaid was doing so much to push them through the tangle, Angren tried to ignore the contortions that wracked the man’s face but he couldn’t help wondering what was happening. It was as if the King’s spy was engaged in some sort of internal struggle; the grimaces and grunts a part of some frightening argument only he participated in, that only he could hear. Angren dismissed the idea as fanciful and put it all down to the severe exertion. Angren’s fancy was closer to the truth.
‘Keep still! Not such easy meat. Trying to say something? Well you can keep that face of yours sweet and straight. I’ll wear you down, Garaid Barbossa. You cannot win. That’s it: swing your arms, chop it down; the exercise is good for us. And it’ll keep you busy; keep you in your place. Down in the Pons and Medulla, down in the spinal column. House-keeping: that’s your province now. Reticular Activating Circuits? Ha! It’s all coming back. It’s amazing what fresh blood can do. Somatic Functions, that’s it, that’s your end of it. The Cortex is mine. I’ll keep the communications: the mouth, the eyes, the ears. And I’ll enjoy them. I’ve not had sensation like this for ten thousand years. So just you keep quiet!’
Without warning, so dense was the undergrowth, they came onto a massive clearing. At its edges there were stumps of trees, whole trunks lying flat and a continuous scrap heap of branches, twigs and leaves stretching away to left and right. Ten yards beyond that there was no evidence of trees at all. The far edge of the cleared circle was almost half a mile away and crossing the middle of it was the line of a small brook bridged with logs and mud. A road ran roughly east to west. An earthen road. Above them the late afternoon sky was cloudy once more – there would be no more stars. They decided to rest awhile.
Angren tied the reins of his horse to a hewn branch and took out his sword for a little practice. After a week of cleaning and sharpening it was bright and deadly and all he needed now was to get used to the weight and the balance. The others were delving into their packs for food while Angren stood, legs planted two feet apart, hefting the blade all about him.
‘Must you do that?’ ‘Berta demanded after she had nearly stepped into the arc of one of Angren’s backswings.
‘Got to put in the hours, girl.’
‘Girl?’
Angren grinned. His mood was improving by the minute.
‘It won’t be long now,’ he said meaning to cheer her up, ‘and I need to get the feel of this beauty. Reckon I’ll be using her soon enough.’
‘I hope so,’ ‘Berta said, ‘but until then just you watch who you’re using it on.’
‘Hey, Angren. Why not teach Piedi a few strokes while you’re at it.’
Piedoro gave his brother a push. ‘Just because you can play with that needle you call a sword, don’t make you more useful in a fight, not with only one arm anyway. Tell you what, big brother, how about a duel? You can use your sword, I’ll use Garra’s bow.’
‘Oh, very fair! What do you think Angren? Could you teach him?’
There was an edge to Edro’s voice that seemed to suggest he was worried about his brother. Among these fine warriors it seemed all the more obvious that Piedoro was actually a very good sailor.
‘Oh pretty easily, given a year or two. Still, he’d be better off with a bow: it’d keep him out of the man to man stuff. Can you use a bow, Piedi?’
‘Can I use a bow? Is he a fool? Eh, Edronio tell the man.’
Edro laughed. ‘You want me to do your bragging for you now? Why not? It hurts me to say, Angren, but he’s not too bad.’
‘Not bad? I am an artist!’
‘Now let’s not get carried away. Is he always like this?’
Piedoro was strutting around with Garaid’s bow and spying a rabbit thirty yards off, he let fly. And he missed by no more than a whisker. Angren was impressed.
‘If you’re so good,’ he asked, ‘why didn’t you buy a bow in Fletton?’
‘I felt that a sword would better suit my character.’
‘So what character’s that?’ Bibron asked with a grin, ‘Sado’s Clown?’
Piedoro was most offended or pretended to be. He was not very good at pretending. The banter continued until it was time to go. Angren was pleased to hear them all laughing again.
After a good break, they were beginning to remount when Terrance De Vere, who was first in the saddle said:
‘Well my friends, I believe we have company.’
They all looked. To their alarm, at least fifty knights were breaking the cover of the trees where the road led east. Someone among the brigade had quick eyes, and the knights immediately turned to charge towards them, leaping the brook in an instant. As they approached the attack took on a formation like an inverted vee or arrow. Familiar with the pattern, Angren knew that the arms of the vee were to catch anyone attempting to escape, and that the inside of the vee would be lined with spikes.
‘Not just messengers this time then,’ he said.
ABDUCTION
The Eastern Forest, Aegarde 3057.8.5
‘This doesn’t promise to be all that comfortable, Seama,’ said Terrance, ‘Will we sit here and wait for them?’
‘I think we shall. Angren, can you tell who they are? I don’t think they can be Black Company. Isn’t that an Aegardean banner?’
Angren looked at the banner flying in the wind of their approach. It was important for a travelling Aegardean to have a good grasp of heraldry. Some nobles were altogether too easy to offend.
‘Yes, Seama. I think we’ve the company of Baron, The Lord Gumb by his colours, or his soldiery at least. I can’t say I’ve ever met him and I’m buggered if I can remember anything more than the name.’
‘Some guide you are,’ snorted Bibron. ‘Don’t you know whether he’s friendly or not? Some sort of idiot to go by his name, but then Aegarde’s full of queer names.’
Angren raised his eyebrows. ‘I don’t know, Bibron Farber, Aegarde’s a big place.’
‘We’ll find out more soon enough, I should say’, Terrance said, ‘Here they come and still charging. If they don’t slow down soon we shall all be stuck like pigs.’ He pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it vigorously above his head. Being mounted the message he gave was unhindered and the approaching knights slowed to a canter and then to a trot, though they kept the same formation.
They were lightly armoured with breast plates, light helmets and gauntlets of heavy leather. Each carried a levelled spear and, buckled on their saddles, heavy swords. At least twenty wore short bows across their backs, and quivers to match. All of their livery was adorned with the same motif as on the banner: a boar’s head with red eyes and round it a crown of oak leaves.
The knights came to a halt only when they had enclosed Seama and his friends between the arms of the vee. They didn’t lower their weapons. One man at the head of one of the arms made himself spokesman.
‘Name your business and name yourselves,’ he commanded.
‘Despite your obvious superiority of main strength, sir, I would still remind you of courtesy, and I reserve tale of our business to one more worthy of it than you, Sergeant.’
Angren turned. It wasn’t Seama who spoke but Terrance De Vere. Surprise was a part of what he felt. Angren looked at Seama but the wizard made no sign. He decided to say nothing.
‘You are not speaking to a sergeant,’ bellowed a red faced, bewhiskered man who rode out from the point of the vee. ‘You’ll tell me who the devil you are and what you might be doing on my land, and you’ll be sharp about it!’
Terrance was unmoved and with an impressive display of confident calm continued as if the man had merely passed the time of day.
‘You, sir, I must take it, are the Lord of this demesne?’
‘You c
an count on it!’
‘Then I must suppose, as my servant and guide here tells me,’ Terrance pointed a finger at Angren, ‘that you are the Lord Gumb.’
‘Gumb! Are you trying to insult me?’
‘Certainly not, My Lord. How can it be that I have upset you?’
At this point a pleasant faced young man rode forward to his Lord’s side.
‘May I explain,’ said he ‘your servant’s knowledge seems inadequate, unless he has deliberately led you astray. My Lord’s name is Gumb, without the pronunciation of the ‘b’. Sounding the ‘b’ is considered impolite. I am sure you meant nothing by it. Uncle, I’m sure there was no intent. Being Gotherian, how could they know?’
The smile did not leave the young man’s face, but there was something unpleasant in the way he stressed ‘Gotherian’. Angren scowled, but Terrance spoke up undaunted, ‘In all honesty, My Lord, we had seen your name in script only and so the mistake was made. May I apologise?
‘Permission granted! Now, who the blethering hell are you?’
‘My name is Terrance De Vere’
‘From?’
A pained look crossed Terrance’s face. ‘Why, from the town of Vere.’
‘In Gothery?’
‘Well no, it is in the east of Pars. Though I am often in Gothery on business.’
‘And that is?’
‘I am a boat builder, or rather my men build the boats while I provide the money and materials. I am presently wanting to buy Keeler’s wood.’
‘What, you take wood from Aegarde to the east of Pars to build boats where there’s hardly a decent stretch of water to navigate? What kind of a fool do you take me for?’
‘Nay My Lord, my business is on the Hypodedicus. I left Vere a long time ago. I am here on a journey to visit the Masters of Beltez in order to arrange supplies of certain hard woods, particularly Keeler’s wood as I said. These, my companions, are my guards for fear of brigands. Just now we appear to be lost, and yonder road is the first we’ve seen since we went astray.’
