‘Tomorrow you help me tie up the mare,’ he said softly, his face intent as he tended the hound. ‘I must try burn shut tear in her shoulder.’
‘It will abscess,’ murmured Christopher. ‘I’ll sew it up for you and we can pack it in mud to keep the flies off.’
Out in the restless night, something big came clattering down the rocky path, and the three of them froze, their hands reaching for their swords. The sound of hooves echoed from the gully walls and they heard Ozkar whinny in greeting as horses approached the camp. Wynter crawled to the edge of the firelight and peered around the rocks. Razi’s big mare came trotting from the shadows, Christopher’s sturdy little horse at her side. Their saddles sat crooked on their backs, their tack and equipment trailing behind. Wearily, they joined their herd-mates at the highline, their shapes merging in the semi-dark.
‘Jesu Christi,’ she whispered and crept out to check their condition.
Christopher came out to guard her, his eyes on the shadows, his sword in his hand.
‘They are in rude health,’ breathed Wynter in awe, releasing the poor creatures from their tangled burdens. ‘They have hardly a scratch!’
Christopher nodded tightly and gestured that she hurry up. The wind had died to a gusting breeze and a narrow moon cast ink-well shadows from rock and crevasse. His eyes roamed this darkness constantly, his bruised face grim.
As Wynter hoisted the saddles from the horses’ tired shoulders, a howl rose up from the rocks above them. Long, protracted, filled with loss, it was the lonely call of the remaining Loup-Garou. There was no threat in the sound, only sorrow, only pain, and as Wynter laid the saddles on the ground and backed carefully to Christopher’s side, the Wolf ’s voice fell to a sobbing moan and died away. The horses trembled and huddled a little closer but showed no greater signs of fear than that. Boro did not even growl.
Christopher took Wynter’s arm, tugging her backwards, and they edged their way slowly to the fire. The howl rose up again, moaning its hurt to the moon.
‘It’s wounded,’ whispered Christopher. ‘It won’t attack.’ And he pulled her back down between the leaning rocks and into the warm radiance of the firelight.
The night turned to morning. The morning spun towards noon.
Sólmundr hunkered down in the opening between the rocks and laid his sword across his knees. He squinted against the midday sun as he scanned the bluff above, the breeze tousling at his loose hair and tugging his cloak. ‘We not find them,’ he rasped. ‘There is signs of at least one, moving about in the rocks, but I not find body of other. It might to be still alive but I doubt it. It fall very far.’
‘It likely fell down between the rocks,’ said Wynter dully. ‘It’s nothing but meat for crows by now.’
Sólmundr ceased his restless scanning of the skyline and peered in at her. He didn’t ask how Razi was; any fool could tell that the young man’s condition hadn’t changed. Sucking his teeth, the warrior met Wynter’s eyes, the obvious question clear in his face. She sat beside her motionless friend and stared back at him.
‘We wait,’ she said.
Sólmundr sighed, and his eyes dropped to the diplomatic folder lying across Wynter’s knee. For a moment Wynter thought he would speak; that he would be the one to say the very thing she was thinking. But the warrior just nodded, rose to his feet and went to help Christopher tend to the horses. Wynter frowned in misery and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands closing around the leather covers of the folder.
This was day six of their ten-day journey. Alberon was at this very moment travelling the lower slopes somewhere with his entourage of men, already five days into his own trek home. Every moment that they delayed here was a moment stolen from Alberon. Regardless of their circumstances, the unheeding clock of their plan ticked relentlessly on. If Razi did not get to the castle in time to appease the King, if Alberon turned up in advance of his brother – the consequences would be catastrophic.
We can afford one or two days’ delay, thought Wynter bleakly. Certainly we can afford that! Even if Razi took two full days to recover, they would still make it home three days ahead of Alberon. Three days would be plenty of time for a man like Razi to persuade the King. Wouldn’t it?
Beside her, Razi breathed on, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only indication that he was alive. Wynter clutched the diplomatic folder to her chest and willed him to wake.
Noon passed. The sun set. Night crept in once again.
‘It’s just a suggestion,’ said Christopher softly. ‘I think you should consider it.’
‘No.’
‘But it makes perfect sense! Why must you be so damned exasperating?’
‘In what way does it make sense, Christopher Garron? Tell me how, by any stretch of anyone’s fertile imagination, does it make sense for you to turn up at the castle bearing papers from the Rebel Prince?’
Presumably in some kind of effort to prevent his brain exploding, Christopher clutched his head between his hands and squeezed. ‘I will explain that the Lord Razi is wounded in the hills and that I am speaking on his behalf,’ he grated. ‘Sól and Boro will protect you and Raz until the soldiers come to find you. It’s. Perfectly. Reasonable.
’ ‘The Wolves will kill you.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’
‘The Wolves will kill you, and if they do not, the King’s men will.’
Christopher scrubbed his face with his hands and muttered darkly in Hadrish. Sól sighed and threw some dried horse dung onto the fire. The moon was dark, the sky heavy with clouds. Beyond their little ring of firelight, the night pressed thick and impenetrable, the air made unbearably cold by the wind.
The Loup-Garou howled low and mournful in the rocks above, and Sólmundr grimaced out into the darkness. ‘I going to kill that cac!’ he hissed.
The damnable creature had remained hidden all through the daylight hours, but as soon as darkness had fallen, it had resumed its melancholy song. Boro growled, but Sólmundr refused to let the big dog be drawn out into the rocks. He did not trust that the Loup-Garou really was alone.
‘Iseult,’ persisted Christopher, ‘look at me. Lass, look at me!’
She looked at him, her face set.
‘Iseult,’ he said gently, ‘we can’t let him down. What will he say if those papers don’t get through? What’ll he think if we continue to just sit here on our arses and let precious time dribble through our fists? At least if I go ahead there’s a chance of setting things straight. At the very least, it might make their da think twice about shooting off arrows when Alberon rides into sight.’
Christopher waited for her reply, his face earnest in the unsteady light. He was so utterly convinced that he could make it past the gate guards and into the King’s presence that Wynter wanted to kiss him. Razi’s chest rose and fell beneath her hand, their friend as still and as silent as the day before.
‘If Razi has not woken by tomorrow,’ she said, ‘we will strap him to his horse and finish the journey together. None of us goes on without him.’
Sólmundr glanced up at her, but said nothing. He didn’t have to point out how risky that journey might be for Razi; they all knew it.
‘It’s the only way,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what the people may think of him, Razi is still his Royal Highness the Prince, heir to the Southland throne. In his company, no one will prevent our access to the King. Without him, what are we? Nothing but a Northern savage, a gypsy thief and a disgraced murderess, carrying between them the incendiary papers of a rebel prince already declared mortuus in vita. Forgive me, but if any of us attempted entering the castle without Razi by our side, we would be dead before we set foot on the moat bridge. Even if Razi . . .’ She paused, the words too hard to articulate. Then she forced herself to go on. ‘Even should he die, we shall still have to bring him with us. Without him we have no hope. With him, there is at least the slimmest of chances that our story will be heard.’
She could not look into their faces, though
she could imagine Christopher’s expression well enough.
‘That’s what you want to do?’ he said. ‘You want to strap Razi to his horse like a bundle of luggage, and offer him up to his da as if he were goods being exchanged for favour?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to trek him across these mountains, regardless of what it does to his health?’
‘Yes, Christopher.’
There was a long, bitter silence, and she finally glanced up. ‘Please don’t look at me like that,’ she said softly. ‘Please, Christopher. Don’t.’ He shook his head and tightened his jaw, and she set her face against his anger. ‘Tell me something,’ she said, her voice harder than she would ever have wished it to be. ‘If the choice were given to Razi himself, what would he do?’ She looked from Christopher to Sólmundr, challenging them to tell her anything but the truth. They dropped their eyes and she nodded. ‘We leave tomorrow,’ she said, ‘all of us. So get some sleep, it is my turn to watch him.’
DAY SEVEN: BOTH SIDES
OF THE COIN
‘COME HERE and eat.’
Wynter gave the pack mule’s straps one last tug and followed Sólmundr to the fire. Christopher handed them a bowl of porridge each and they ate in silence. On the path above them, buzzards squawked and scuffled, their huge wings rustling as they fought over the dead. More circled in the sky overhead, scanning for predators before spiralling down to join the grisly meal. Sólmundr had dragged the nearest Loup-Garou corpse up into the rocks, flinging its head after it like a shot-put. There, too, buzzards hopped and quarrelled as they ate their fill. Wynter tried not to listen; she would be happy to leave those sounds behind.
‘I’m done.’ Christopher threw his bowl to the ground. ‘You clean that.’ He got to his feet, snagged a waterskin and headed for Razi, who still lay within the shelter of the rocks. ‘I’ll see if I can get him to drink. Call me when we’re ready to go.’
Wynter and Sólmundr exchanged a glance and went on with their breakfast. It was the most their friend had said all morning.
‘Oh!’ cried Christopher. They both turned to see him drop to his hands and knees and peer into the shadows of the rocks. He smiled broadly. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ answered Razi.
Wynter and Sól flung their bowls aside and ran to crouch at Christopher’s side. Razi was sitting against the rocks, his covers tangled around his legs. He seemed so startled by their abrupt appearance that Wynter couldn’t help a shaky laugh.
‘Hello, Razi,’ she whispered. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘Your head, it not pain you?’
Razi turned his dark eyes to Sól. He thought for a moment. ‘My neck hurts,’ he said. ‘I feel stiff.’
‘Come out of there, man!’ cried Christopher. ‘Have something to eat!’
Razi emerged, blinking, into the sunshine and they guided him to the fire, supporting him on either side as if he were an old man. Wynter sat him down on a rock.
‘You want to drink?’ asked Sól. ‘You thirsty?’
‘I’m thirsty,’ said Razi.
Sólmundr offered him the waterskin. Razi took it, but then just sat with it in his hand, gazing at it. Sól flickered a glance at Wynter. ‘You not thirsty, then?’ he asked.
Razi just kept looking at the waterskin, as if uncertain what it was.
‘Um . . . are you hungry?’ asked Christopher, snatching away the water and thrusting a bowl of porridge into Razi’s hand. ‘You must be hungry.’
‘I’m hungry,’ agreed Razi, but he made no effort to touch the food.
‘Then eat it,’ said Wynter, her heart beginning to flutter in her chest. Razi gazed up at her, his eyes wide with uncertainty. ‘Eat it, Razi,’ she cried.
Razi ate the porridge, scooping it mechanically into his mouth. When he was finished, he left his fingers in the bowl and sat there, puzzled, food on his lips.
‘Razi . . .’ ventured Wynter, but his look of strained confusion stopped her from asking, What is wrong?
There was a moment of silence between them. Then Christopher took the waterskin, dampened the corner of his cloak with it and wiped Razi’s face and fingers clean.
‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, helping Razi to his feet. ‘We’re going.’
When Razi saw the horses, saddled up and ready to go, his face lost all its puzzled vacancy and he broke away from his friend and went to his mare. She whinnied and stamped, happy to see him.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, stroking her noble face.
Wynter got slowly to her feet as Razi confidently went through his usual pre-ride check. Apparently oblivious to the terrible scratches and cuts on the poor animal’s skin, he ran his strong hands down her legs and checked her hooves. He made a careful examination of her horribly scuffed tack, tightened the girth and checked the balance of the saddlebags. Satisfied, he patted the lovely animal on her bruised neck, murmured in Arabic that she was ‘a wonderful beast’, then swung smoothly into the saddle.
Backing the mare from between the other horses, Razi drew her around and smiled at Christopher with the same politeness that he would give any groomsman in any tavern stables.
‘Thank you, my man,’ he said. ‘She’s in fine form.’
‘Yes,’ whispered Christopher.
‘You took good care of her.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
At his friend’s bleak stare, Razi lost his certainty for a moment, and his eyes hopped from Christopher to Wynter and back.
In the ensuing silence, Sólmundr gathered up the breakfast things and roughly scoured them clean. ‘Let us to go,’ he said, and crossed to stow the equipment and take to his horse.
‘Are you joining us, young lady?’ Razi asked Wynter. ‘This seems a bleak enough place to linger. It might be wise to stick with us for a while. At least until we’re somewhere more hospitable.’
‘All right,’ she whispered.
Razi frowned in sympathy. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, ‘we shan’t let anything happen to you.’ He smiled – Razi’s warm, encouraging smile, now completely devoid of any trace of recognition – and gestured for Wynter to get onto her horse. ‘Come along, it will be all right now. We’ll look after you. Pretty soon you’ll be home and safe, and all this will seem like a bad dream.’
Wynter took to the saddle. Everyone waited, as usual, for Razi to take the lead, but he simply sat there. After a moment, he glanced anxiously at Christopher, and there was some small hint in his expression that he knew something wasn’t right.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but I’m not too certain where we are headed.’
Christopher’s face creased for just a moment; then he nodded, cleared his throat and pulled ahead, leading the way up the gravel path to the head of the gully. Razi’s expression cleared of all doubt and he fell unquestioningly in behind Christopher’s little mare – absolutely content to allow someone else lead the way.
Christopher led them from the relative tranquillity of the gully back into the unrelenting gales of the mountain passes. The wind snatched all attempts at communication from them, and for hours they travelled with their heads down, their eyes squinted against the blasting air.
Fear and shame vied in equal measure for dominance within Wynter. Her reaction to Razi’s condition was a gall in her heart. Battling the gale and her own anxious thoughts, she was appalled to find herself dwelling more on the effect that Razi’s confusion would have on the kingdom than on Razi himself. Had her friend been limp and unconscious, it would have been easier to fret for him. But there he was, strong as ever, guiding his mare with his usual skill through the harsh mountain terrain – yet he was completely useless.
Useless? My God! When had she ever judged Razi by his uses to her? Yet she was incapable of weighing her joy at his apparent health over the damage that his condition might do to Alberon’s delicate negotiations. Even her hope that Razi would soon recover was overshadowed by fear that he may not recover soon enoug
h.
They turned a corner – quite literally the path took a sharp branch left and down – and suddenly the wind was gone. It was as if someone had shut the door in a quiet room, blocking the storm outside, and for a moment the effect was almost stunning. Wynter straightened, blinking. Behind her, Sól’s saddle creaked as he turned to regard the path behind them. The wind could still be heard there, moaning past the narrow mouth of the ravine, rushing like water through the pass they had just left.
‘Frith an Domhain,’ murmured Sól, unwrapping his scarf.
It was much warmer without the breeze, and Wynter quickly divested herself of cloak and scarf. As they rode on, the men did the same, though it was not clement enough to do without jackets.
The further they ventured into the ravine, the quieter it grew. This sudden silence made Wynter feel vulnerable somehow, as if they were the only prey in a darkly shifting world of silent predators. Unease settled on the party and they rode with heads swivelling on tense necks, eyes searching the loose gravel slopes and precipitous bluffs overhead. The horses’ footsteps echoed from watchful cliffs, and Boro’s skittering expeditions onto the shale sounded horribly loud.
Christopher scanned the jumbled slope below them, his eyes hopping from rock to rock, while Razi’s attention seemed focused on the rough landscape that loomed to their left. Boro repeatedly tried to run up into those same boulders, his hackles raised, but Sólmundr kept him firmly to heel. Wynter, however, kept her eyes on Razi, and as soon as the path widened she kicked forward to ride side-by-side with him.
‘There is someone up there,’ he murmured, ‘my horse can sense them.’
‘It is a Loup-Garou,’ said Wynter, regarding him closely. ‘He is tracking us. I suspect there is another in the rocks below.’
Razi seemed more surprised than disturbed. ‘Loups-Garous?’ he said. ‘I have heard that they are vile creatures. Your friend is right to keep his crossbow strung.’
He went back to scanning the rocks. His calm acceptance of the situation was terrifying; his lack of questions bizarre.
The Rebel Prince Page 29
