“Good day,” I said, slapping the dust from my cloak. The old man bobbed his head in greeting. His skin was weathered and tough-looking, hanging down in wattles beneath his chin. “I could use something to eat.”
“You’d be him, I expect.”
Now it was my turn to stare warily. “Him, who?”
“Judging by that cloak of yours, the crazy Pilgrim, Rorian.” The old man chuckled and shook his head, the flaps of skin beneath his chin wiggling. “Word travels fast around here, youngster.” The old man pointed his whittling knife at me. “Were I you, I’d keep on riding. The Lord’s men are close. I’d not want to be wearing your boots if they catch you.”
I hesitated, my mind blank as I tried to understand. How? How could anyone know about me this far from Mount Halas? Then I grimaced, realizing what the answer was. Sabina. Sabina must have told someone. I turned, heading back for my horse.
“Youngster?” I glanced at the old man as I mounted. He was pointing with the knife again, this time to the north. Horsemen were streaming down a shallow hill there. “Head south two miles. You’ll come to Ripper’s Forest. You might lose them in there.”
I nodded my gratitude, feeling my heart surging in my chest as I swung the black around, guiding her south at a gallop. I looked behind me, cursing. The riders had seen me and were giving chase. I hunched lower over the mare’s saddle, urging her onward through weaving fields of golden wheat. I saw a valley of green lushness off to my left and I veered toward it, hoping to lose my pursuers there. But, before I’d reached even halfway, more riders appeared over the valley crest, racing toward me. I hauled back savagely on the black’s reins, turning her south again as I looked desperately over my shoulder. The riders behind me were two hundred yards away. I could hear them whopping, confident that they had me. I wasn’t sure that they were wrong.
The mare was fast—not as fast as Angry, of course—yet quick enough that even with my inexpert riding, we managed to keep the lead, though it was narrowing slowly. The second group of riders merged with the first, spreading out in a long line, clearly intent on ensnaring me. I looked ahead. The dark forest sprawled out five hundred yards in front of me, with my pursuers now less than a hundred yards behind. I could see individual faces amid brilliant flashes of green surcoats. A rider on a spotted brown and white horse surged forward from the pack, cutting the distance between us as he gave his mount its head. The man’s metal helmet gleamed in the sunlight and he grinned, raising his sword as he swept toward me. I drew Malo’s short sword and waited, hunched tightly over my horse’s back, watching the quickly approaching rider beneath my armpit.
“I’ve got you now, you bastard!” the rider shouted, pulling even with me.
He swung his sword across his body, hard and vicious toward my head. I raised Malo’s smaller sword, blocking the downward stroke, then twisted my wrist as metal screeched against metal, flinging the other man’s weapon away. I was bouncing in my saddle, almost falling as I lunged outward, slashing across my assailant’s chest. The rider wailed, throwing up his arms as the emblem of a giant yellow eagle on his green surcoat split open and blood gushed out. The man fell, somersaulting over his horse’s rump as I pressed my face to the mare’s ears, urging greater speed from her.
More riders were galloping on either side of me now, though none came within two sword lengths of me. I imagine after seeing their companion die so easily, the others had decided to take a more cautious approach. The forest lay less than a hundred yards away, but the outriders to either side were ahead of me now and were sweeping inward in a pincer-like movement. I had only moments before they closed off my escape route.
I took one final, regretful look at the forest, then yanked hard on the black’s reins, intent on trying to swing around and ride through my pursuers. The mare screamed in protest at the suddenness of my move and she fought me, rising back on her hind legs as she kicked her forelegs. I felt myself sliding in the saddle and I released the reins and stabbed at the pommel with my free hand, but missed. I fell with a cry and hit the ground hard, then rolled in the dusty field as pawing, stamping hooves surrounded me. I twisted onto my back, looking up into the grinning face of a bearded man just as he struck downward with the hilt of his sword.
Then I knew nothing more.
24: Gandertown
Five days later, I arrived with an escort of ten men on the outskirts of Gandertown, where, I was told, I was to meet with the True King before my execution. I had slept little the past few days, but other than a headache and a constant, nagging fatigue, I found myself in reasonable shape. My captors were surprisingly decent men who had given me as much food and water as I wished, though they watched me night and day with a wary respect.
Their leader was a man named Wiflem, who, despite my original reluctance, I quickly came to like. He was an intelligent, powerful-looking man and had taken to riding beside me each day, talking about all manner of things. I rode the same black mare the Tapeau had given me, though now my ankles were lashed together by rope beneath the horse’s belly, and my wrists were tied to my saddle.
“It’s a shame, really,” Wiflem was saying as we trotted down a busy road. He slicked sweat off his brow with his hand, then hocked and spat noisily into the swirling dust beneath us. “So many good men have died already in this stupid war. And for what?” He snorted. “So that one brother or the other becomes king? What does it matter?”
I looked at him in surprise. “You don’t care who wins?”
Wiflem shrugged. “A king is a king. They shit just like you and I do, so why should I care? Will it make any difference to me which one sits on the throne?” He chuckled and shook his head, not waiting for me to answer. Wiflem did that a lot. “No, of course not. The king will make the laws and we will obey them, and that will be that. It’s always been that way and it will always be that way. The actual man with his ass on the throne is meaningless.”
“Yet, you can have a good and competent king, or a bad and inept one,” I pointed out.
“So?” Wiflem said.
“So, one can make your life better,” I answered, “while the other can only make it worse.”
Wiflem laughed in amusement as he twirled his pointed mustache tips, which he seemed unabashedly proud of. “If only it were that simple, my friend. Even the best-intentioned of men can create problems for the likes of us.” He raised an eyebrow at my look. “You don’t believe me? Take my own Lord Graaf, for instance. A good man by all accounts.” He winked at me. “The kind of man you are referring to, I would wager. He stops and kisses babies in the courtyard, of all things, and is known to be fair and reasonable when meting out justice at court.”
“He sounds like a fine lord,” I said, thankful now that the Outlaw of Corwick had not visited him.
“Yes,” Wiflem said. “He is all that.”
“Then I don’t understand your point.”
“Lord Graaf returned from the south three days ago,” Wiflem went on. “We have had little rain since he left and some of the crops on his lands have begun to wither, ensuring a shortage this winter unless rain comes soon.” I just blinked at the man, wondering where he was going with this. “My lord, in his wisdom, decided that rather than wait for a near-certain famine, he would purchase what we needed to see us through the winter now, so that none of his people would starve.”
“A commendable act,” I responded, impressed. Few if any lords I’d known would have done such a thing.
“Ah,” Wiflem said, lifting a finger. “There is only one problem.”
He stared at me expectantly and I accommodated him. “What?” I asked.
“Money. Lord Graaf has helped finance Prince Tyrale’s war effort from the beginning, which has left his coffers decidedly weakened. He had enough money to pay his men through the winter, or enough to purchase supplies for the peasants, but not both.”
“So, he paid for the supplies,” I said, seeing his point now.
“Indeed, he did,” Wiflem agreed
. He glanced at me and I could see a hint of anger in his eyes. “Peasant farmers will sit by their fires this winter, their bellies full, while my family sits out in the cold because I will be unable to pay for their lodging.”
“But surely a man like your lord will take that into account?” I protested. “From what you say about him, I doubt he would let such a thing happen.”
“Your eyes are blind, my young friend,” Wiflem grunted, “and your doubts wrong.” He stared ahead moodily as the road wound around a deep bend. “We are warriors, men with a higher status than simple peasants. As such, we are expected to be prepared for anything. There will be no help coming from our lord. He would consider it an insult if we were to ask.” Wiflem paused, wiping his face again with his hand. “So, as to my point. While Lord Graaf’s act is a noble one, its very nobleness will affect me and mine directly, just as I told you. In comparison, a lesser lord might be inclined to let the peasants starve in favor of his men, who are the key to his power. Good does not always mean right.”
“Unless you are one of the peasants,” I said, looking down at my horse’s twitching ears.
Wiflem glanced at me in irritation, then his lips slowly twisted into a smile. “A fair point.”
We rode in silence for a time until Wiflem drew one of Waldin’s scrolls from his saddlebags and began to read. I knew the soldier had looked at them already, though, up until now, he’d said little about them.
“This part here still has me confused,” Wiflem said, turning the scroll toward me. I glanced at it but said nothing. “This imbecile claims to have made a copy of an important codex.” Wiflem let the scroll drop to his lap as he studied me. “Does he mean the Halas Codex, do you think?”
Wiflem and his men had been told my true identity, but not what I’d been doing on Mount Halas. Their instructions were to simply bring me and everything on my person to Gandertown, nothing more. I nodded. “Yes, that’s what he means.”
Wiflem studied me thoughtfully. The man was no fool, I’ had come to learn, and I knew he would be putting the pieces together. “So, you went on The Walk disguised as this Rorian fellow, yes?” I grunted assent. “Who was he?”
“A scholar,” I said.
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
Wiflem pursed his lips. “And this Rorian was looking for the second codex?”
“He was.”
“But you took his place?”
“I did.”
“Did you find it?”
I shook my head and gestured to the scroll. “Just those, nothing more.” I realized Wiflem hadn’t noticed the note left behind by Verica. If he had, he’d already know what had happened to the codex. I saw no reason to enlighten him.
Wiflem held up the scroll. “I imagine the prince will be disappointed with these.”
“Undoubtedly,” I agreed. “But, at least he will have my stretched neck to look forward to.”
Wiflem chuckled. “True enough.”
Riders appeared on the road and Wiflem signaled for us to move aside as soldiers wearing Prince Tyrale’s prancing golden lion rode past in a long line. We returned to the road, riding onward in silence until we crested a sloping hill, looking down on a sprawling city, the likes of which I couldn’t have even imagined. I’d thought Halhaven was big, but Gandertown dwarfed it in size. The city was built around the bases of two towering hills. A glittering palace of white stone dominated one, while on the second rose the largest Holy House that I had ever seen.
Wiflem grinned at the look on my face. “Impressive, is it not?”
“Indeed, it is,” I said as we started downward.
I could see deep blue water stretching off behind the city walls to the north, with ships of every size and shape seemingly moving at random along the surface. The outer city walls rose twenty feet, with rectangular towers spaced every fifty feet along them. A second wall rose inside the first, twice as tall, with men holding long pikes pacing the battlements. The prince’s lion pennant rose over every turret, with an oversized Rock of Life banner flapping proudly from the top of the Holy House. The double city gates stood open, each one three times the size of the gates at Halhaven.
Wiflem led us toward the gates as people moved aside to let us pass. I could hear hushed whispers as we rode until finally, somebody pointed at me.
“It’s the Outlaw of Corwick!”
Wiflem cursed under his breath, grabbing my horse’s reins and drawing the mare closer to him as shouts of anger began to rise. Something slapped wetly against my shoulder and slid off, landing on my thigh. A horse turd, I realized as I was struck again, this time in the chest. Wiflem drew his sword, shouting for people to make way as the furious crowd closed in on us, trying to drag me from my saddle. I don’t think they noticed or maybe just didn’t care that I was tied to my horse. Wiflem’s men finally made a protective cordon around my jittery horse, slapping the flats of their swords across the backs and heads of the enraged mob as we used our mounts as battering rams to clear a path.
I heard a strident horn sound, then the clang of armor as men with pikes marched through the gates, prodding the crowd away from us. A half-eaten apple caromed painfully off the side of my nose and I turned to look back, blinking away tears. A girl of no more than ten raised her arm in triumph, pointing at me with hatred on her face, while her companion of a similar age threw another apple at me and missed. The second girl stuck her tongue out, disappointed at the miss before I passed through the gates and lost sight of her.
“My apologies for that,” Wiflem said once we were safely through. “I should have anticipated that might happen.”
I shrugged. “I doubt apples and shit will be the worst thing to happen to me today,” I said soberly.
Wiflem regarded me thoughtfully, and I was surprised to see momentary regret in his eyes. “I fear you may be right about that,” he responded.
Wiflem and his men led me toward the first hill where the palace lay. Soldiers with pikes marched behind and before us, discouraging a repeat of what had occurred outside the city walls. We climbed the hill slowly, with the cobblestone pathway lined with onlookers. Most raised their fists at me, shouting my name and insults, though no more projectiles came my way. Finally, we reached the palace courtyard, and my bonds were cut before our mounts were led away.
“Forgive me for this,” Wiflem said, holding out a pair of iron manacles. I said nothing as he clamped them around my wrists. “You and you,” Wiflem grunted to several of his men. “Come with me.”
I was led into the palace, passing through a cavernous entrance that echoed loudly with every footfall we took on glittering, highly-polished golden tiles. A tall man approached us wearing a flowing black cape over a fine velvet jacket and rich trousers. His hair was thick and streaked with shoots of grey, and his beard was trimmed close to his jaw. I took a deep breath, working hard to control the rage that I felt inside. Wiflem frowned at me as I fidgeted, holding me tightly as the man approached us with long, easy strides. It was Hervi Desh, of course.
I was angry, but hardly surprised by Desh’s appearance. In fact, I’d been expecting him to appear. Desh stopped in front of me and I felt calm take over me as I met his eyes. The Mother had planned this all along, I told myself. Just like She had with the two Ragnas. I just needed to be patient and bide my time until I understood what She had in store for the both of us.
“So, you caught him, then?” Desh said, glancing at Wiflem.
“We did, Advisor,” Wiflem said, bowing slightly.
Hervi Desh leaned toward me, examining me from head to foot. “It has been a long time, Hadrack of Corwick. I can’t tell you how much I have been looking forward to this.”
I said nothing, turning my gaze upward to stare at the high ceiling above me. I pictured the look on Desh’s face from years ago when I’d startled his horse, causing him to fall and strike his head. It wasn’t much, considering my situation, but it gave me some solace knowing that I had hurt him back then.
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Desh gestured to us with a carefully manicured hand. “Come.”
He spun on his heel, then marched toward a set of double doors protected by two armed guards. The men opened the doors for Desh and we followed him inside, then made our way down a long aisle of sculpted stone that led into a grand room dominated by a raised dais at the opposite end. Two thrones stood side by side on the dais, with a man seated in each. We approached and halted ten feet away. The man sitting on the left throne was withered and shrunken almost to a corpse, the black robes he wore hanging on him like curtains. The First Son, I knew, feeling momentary awe sweep over me. The second man was young and blond, though he sat slumped as though exhausted or bored. His head was propped up by his balled fist, his elbow on his knee as he stared at me through hooded eyes. A crown of gold sat perched awkwardly on his head. I was looking at Prince Tyrale.
Hervi Desh moved to stand to the prince’s left, a supportive hand on his shoulder. “Kneel in the presence of the True King,” Desh said, motioning us down. Wiflem knelt, pulling me with him as his men dropped to one knee behind us. “You may rise,” Desh said after a long pause, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He waved a hand. “You and your men may go,” he said to Wiflem. He indicated the silent soldiers who stood around the room watching dispassionately. “My men can take care of the prisoner from here.”
We rose and Wiflem paused to squeeze my arm in support before he and his men marched out of the room. I stood before the prince, the First Son, and Hervi Desh, smoldering with impotent anger.
The First Son cleared his throat weakly. “Come closer, boy,” he said, crooking a spindly finger at me. I thought briefly about disobeying the order, but decided it would be better to pick my battles. The First Son wasn’t my enemy—at least, not as far as I knew. I took a step closer to the dais, then at the priest’s urging, a second. “You seem too young to have done all that has been laid at your feet,” the First Son said gravely, regarding me with weary, watery blue eyes.
The Wolf On The Run (The Wolf of Corwick Castle Book 3) Page 36
