by James Evans
But that wouldn’t stop them for long, especially if real money was involved. There would be plenty of locals who might take the Emperor’s money to put a knife in his back. He needed a larger city where he would be just one amongst the teeming hordes. In a small town, the provincial authorities themselves might be tempted to hand him over, just to curry favour with the neighbouring Imperial governor. Catshed would offer, at best, a temporary refuge.
He looked back over his shoulder, spooked by a sudden fear of recapture. The sharp movement brought on a fresh wave of nausea and a stab of pain behind his eyes. For a few minutes he did nothing but cling to the horse as it wandered westward. His vision eventually cleared but the headache seemed to be settling in for good. He kicked the horse to a gallop for a few minutes before slowing to a rapid trot. The nausea wasn’t going away either and the ride got steadily more uncomfortable as he bounced up and down.
After several hours he had covered many miles but found no sign of the town and he was starting to worry. His headache was steadily worsening and it was only a matter of time before riding a horse became impossible. He kept going - what else could he do? - pushing the horse on as fast as it would go as his spirits fell and his earlier optimism drained slowly away.
And then, as he stretched his back at the crest of a hill, he saw to his enormous relief that the valley below held a dirt track running broadly east-west and that, to the north west and not too far away, there were the faint smudges of smoke that signalled a town.
Following the road, uneven and dusty as it was, allowed Marrinek to make good time. He kept the horse at a trot for a while but eventually the nausea returned and he had to stop to throw up at the side of the road. He struggled to get back onto the horse, much to the amusement of the small children watching from the side of the grass bank.
Even so, he managed to reach the walls of the town in the early evening. The sun was dipping but the gates were still open and the guards merely glared suspiciously as he passed under the arch of the gatehouse.
They might have stopped him, if he had been on foot, and refused him entry. He could see them twitching, torn between letting in a potential troublemaker and upsetting a noble; in this part of the world only the rich rode horses and no good ever came from upsetting the rich, however badly they dressed. Self-interest won and the guards just stared as they waved him through into the relative safety of the town. He had hoped to enter the town unnoticed but at least he was inside; things were looking up.
Captain Tredgar’s day was going from bad to worse. Assaults on his men were not unusual but they were normally sparked by drunken brawls or minor villains evading arrest. A stand-up fight in the middle of a forest that resulted in two of his men being injured was a new and unwelcome occurrence. That he had then stolen their equipment and a horse before simply walking away just made everything that much more embarrassing.
Following the trail left by the beggar and his stolen horse was not difficult and they made good progress through the forest. Broken branches, footprints and disturbed leaves made it clear that the man was making no real effort to obscure his trail so maybe he hadn’t anticipated a pursuit. Tredgar was determined to use that fact to his advantage and when they finally emerged onto the plains he wasted no time in mounting up and leading Bakker and Binder across the grasslands at a gentle trot.
Here also the trail was easy to follow. The man was walking his horse and only occasionally trotting, taking his time as if he had no real care in the world, and the earth was soft enough after the long damp spring to leave an easy trail of hoof prints. Tredgar spurred his horse to a fast trot and led his squad west and north, following the beggar’s trail for several hours across the hills until it joined a dirt road. Here amongst the regular traffic and broken, well-travelled road surface, it was impossible to say for sure which way the beggar had gone and Tredgar was forced to make a decision.
He sat for a few minutes watching as walkers and carts made their way along the road. Would the beggar have turned east and headed back toward the Empire, or continued west, toward the city states? West seemed more likely; it was the prevailing direction of the tracks they’d been following so far and Tredgar didn’t think the beggar would want to head toward the Empire so soon, even if he hadn’t realised that he was being pursued. He made his decision and they kicked their horses to a gallop, following the road westward.
Tredgar’s galloping pursuit carried them quickly along the road but they saw no sign of the beggar and eventually they were forced to slow their horses to avoid exhausting them completely.
It was mid-evening by the time they climbed a small hill overlooking the town of Catshed and Tredgar was forced to admit that his quarry was, for now at least, behind his reach. Either he had turned east and was lost somewhere in the Empire or he had reached the relative safety of Catshed. Hot pursuit through the wilds was one thing but continuing the chase within the walls of an independent town while dressed in the uniform of an Imperial watchman would cause all sorts problems, even if the guards allowed him into the town, which he doubted.
Tredgar sat his horse at the side of the road and gazed down at the town for a few minutes considering his next move. It was galling to have come so far for so little achievement but further pursuit just wasn’t going to be possible. He cursed under his breath.
“You two wait here,” said Tredgar, “I’m going to talk to the gate guards, see if they know anything.”
He rode on down the road, dismounting to walk the last hundred yards, stopping just short of the gatehouse where several of the town’s watchmen were waiting for him.
“You’re a long way from home,” said one, an officer maybe, although Tredgar couldn’t work out his rank from the insignia on his shoulder.
“I am,” he admitted, tying his horse to a hitching post, “and I’m tired and hungry to boot. It’s been a long day and it’s going to be a long night as well.”
“Yeah, well,” said the officer, smiling in grim sympathy, “we know how those go. How can we help, friend?”
“I’m Captain Tredgar, Heberon Watch, and I’m looking for a man who may have come this way, dressed as a beggar, riding a stolen horse with one of our saddles and carrying a long staff. Have you seen him?”
The officer shrugged and looked at his men.
“Anyone?”
“Yeah, I saw him,” said one man, “long hair, big beard, right? He had a crappy old coat that had seen better days and he looked half dead and he didn’t smell too good neither, but he were here.”
Tredgar nodded along grimly. His hunch and been right; the beggar didn’t want to return to the Empire. He turned back to the officer.
“He assaulted two of my men this morning and I’ve pursued him all the way from Heberon,” said Tredgar, exaggerating slightly so that he didn’t have to mention the shipwreck, “he’s dangerous and I want him.”
“I’d love to help, I really would, but I’ll never get permission to hand him over to you, even if we knew where he was. Sorry, you know how it is,” said the officer, a sympathetic look on his face as he held up his hands to show there was nothing he could do.
“Now, listen,” said Tredgar, taking a step forward.
“No, you listen, mate. This isn’t part of the Empire,” said the officer forcefully, “and your uniform means nothing here. If you want to talk to his lordship about it then by all means, but you’ll have to leave your sword, armour and horse here and I’ll tell you now his lordship won’t give you any better news than I did.”
Tredgar hesitated, then held up his hands.
“Your town, your rules,” he said, backing away towards his horse, “and he’s your problem, now.”
He untied his horse and climbed into the saddle.
“I tried to help,” he said, “remember that, if he makes trouble for you, I tried to help.”
And he turned the horse and kicked it into a canter back down the road to where he’d left his squad.
An hour afte
r riding into Catshed, Marrinek lowered himself into a hot tub in the bath house of the Noble God, an inn near the town walls. The innkeeper had tried to turn him away, at first, but the man’s concerns had disappeared under the weight of Marrinek’s silver.
Now he had a clean room and his horse was safely stabled in the inn’s yard, cared for by a groom who seemed to think the animal had been ridden half to death. A few days’ rest would do the creature a power of good.
New clothes, acquired from a merchant only too happy to accept Imperial coins, were laid out by the tub to replace the worn, ill-fitting clothes he had stripped from the corpses. The travel-worn coat he had taken from the sailor was old but still serviceable and hung from a hook on the back of the door.
He played with the soap, luxuriating in the experience as two years of grime was slowly eased from his skin. The trimming of his beard and hair would have to wait but at least now they were clean. Long hair was rare in the Empire but here, where fashions often ran counter to those across the border, his look was only a little unusual rather than totally outrageous. He ran his fingers through his hair and tied it back with a strip of cloth.
Aching muscles were soothed by the warm water but the headache, brought on he knew, by withdrawal from the drug fed to him by his jailers, was getting worse.
He lay with his head resting against the edge of the tub, breathing deeply to hold back the pain and nausea.
He dozed gently then jerked awake, head spinning at the sudden movement. The thought he might drown in a bath after surviving prison, shipwreck and pursuit forced a sudden bark of laughter and then an immediate groan of pain as his head pounded.
Overall, though, his position today was rather better than it had been yesterday, when his only prospect was a long life of confinement in the prison at Ankeron West. Now, beyond the borders of the Empire and, he hoped, the reach of his enemies, he could begin to rebuild his life and plan his revenge.
When the cooling water dropped below a comfortable temperature he heaved himself carefully from the tub and dressed in his new clothes. Back in his room, he lay down on the bed with a damp cloth on his forehead and reviewed his situation. The clothes, food and room had almost exhausted his meagre supply of stolen coin but at least he had a bed to sleep in and warm food to eat. He had left enough money with the landlord to cover several nights, time he knew he would need to recover from the effects of the drugs.
With nothing more to be done and his head feeling like it was about to split, Marrinek closed his eyes and tried to rest.
He woke the next morning having slept fitfully throughout the night. His headache raged and when he pushed himself off the bed he stumbled immediately, only arresting his fall by snatching at the frame of the door.
He stood for a few moments then fell back toward the bed, stomach heaving violently as he spewed the remains of last night’s meal into the chamber pot. He sat there for maybe an hour cuddling the pot, vomiting repeatedly until, finally, the sickness subsided and he was able to stand. He stretched his cramped muscles but his body wasn’t ready for such a movement and he stumbled back against the door, catching the handle in the small of his back and only just remaining upright.
He wrenched the door open and stood for a moment in the doorway, leaning heavily on the doorframe for support. Then he grabbed the tray of food left for him by the landlord on the shelf outside his room and staggered back to his bed, kicking the door closed behind him as he went.
Exhausted by these efforts, he collapsed back down on the bed and wrapped himself tightly in the thin blankets, food forgotten and abandoned on the floor. He was shivering now despite the warmth of the day, and the chill was deepening quickly. As the shivers worsened he closed his eyes, covered his head with the blanket and curled into a stinking, sweating ball to try to keep warm.
He must have slept again, and slept soundly, because night had fallen when he next woke. Someone must have been in to check on him, though, because a candle had been lit and his pot replaced. A jug of water now stood on the small table alongside a fresh plate of food and Marrinek gave silent thanks to the landlord. His headache was down to a dull nagging pain and the shivering and nausea seemed to have passed.
He dragged himself upright and managed to walk across the room to the plate of food. He picked at the bread and cheese but his appetite had left him and all he really wanted to do was sleep. He stood there for a few minutes, staring out the window, then he went back to bed and slept till morning.
The next day he woke weak and hungry. The small mirror on the wall told him all he needed to know; he was alive, just about, but he had lost weight and his eyes had a haunted, sunken look that seemed new. He turned his head this way and that, taking in the prominent cheek bones and grey-tinged skin. He looked like a three-day dead corpse but at least he was free.
He ate every scrap of food in the room and washed in the basin then turned his attention to his goods and chattels. For a man who had spent almost two years in prison, he wasn’t doing too badly but he could hardly have been said to be doing well.
He set out his possessions on the bed and took stock. The corpse-clothes were gone, so his wardrobe was limited to the clothes he was wearing, a pair of worn boots, a spare shirt and the sailor’s coat. He had a few coins left but not enough to be of any real use. The standard issue Imperial sword and matching dagger, both made to the latest pattern issued to the army and watch, were in good condition, new and barely used. Finally, he had a fresh-cut staff that was little more than raw wood.
It was the staff to which he paid most attention. Given the right tools and a selection of materials he could transform the plain staff into a formidable weapon but at the moment his options were limited. That said, there were useful things he could do with only the staff, the knife and a little time.
The first step was to tidy the rough edges left when he hacked the staff from the tree. The knife wasn’t quite the right tool for this - it would have been much easier with charming tools, or even a set of rasps - but he whittled and carved and sliced until eventually had a finish that was, if not good, then at least reasonable. He stripped the bark away to expose the green wood then shaved away the stubs of the branches to produce a smooth, rounded shape along which he could slide his hands easily as he changed grip.
That left him with a damp, green stick better suited to ornament than to fighting. It wasn’t possible to charm living things and green wood of the staff was too close to alive for Marrinek’s purposes. Seasoned wood was far more straightforward and could, to some degree, be worked without charming tools.
Most people would have seasoned the staff by simply leaving it in a loft or storeroom for a year to dry out, or maybe, if they were impatient, baking it in a bread oven. Marrinek couldn’t wait for the staff to dry naturally and he didn’t have an oven so that left only one option.
He paused briefly, wondering if this was really a wise thing to be doing, then he threw caution to the wind, held the staff in front of him and concentrated.
Focussing power into green wood was risky. There was a chance that the wood would simply react badly to the power. Even for a man of his talents, such work would be difficult but today, somehow, it wasn’t working at all. The effects of the drug, maybe, still blocking his power.
He tried again and again but each time, although he could feel the power, he couldn’t quite grasp it. At every attempt the power slipped from his grasp like water running through his fingers leaving him with nothing more useful than a cold wet sensation.
After an hour’s effort he gave up, exhausted, frustrated, angry and hungry. He threw the staff down on the bed and went in search of food.
The rest of the day he spent tidying himself up, eating and exercising. He cleaned his boots then worked through the staff fighting forms he had learned years before. He paused for something to eat then exercised again, his withered muscles aching with the effort, his breathing laboured. He kept going, practising and eating, eating and practicing, un
til, by late afternoon, exhaustion forced him to stop.
Eventually, Marrinek sank back onto the bed. Pain came from every muscle but it didn’t matter; he was free. Within seconds, he was asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT HAD BEEN a long and ultimately profitless day for Tredgar and his dispirited squad of watchmen. Trekking home across the western hills on tired horses was hard going. The heat of the day had faded quickly after sunset and they were soon shivering. Camping without tents or even warm clothes held little appeal but their progress, without lamps or starlight, was so slow there was no point continuing. Tredgar called a halt as they entered a sheltered hollow at the foot of one of the hills.
“We’ll camp here for the night and continue on to Heberon at first light.” He slid from his horse and tied her reins to a nearby bush then removed the saddle, slinging it to the ground a short distance away.
“Let’s get a fire going for a little warmth then turn in.”
Bakker and Binder settled their horses for the night then gathered firewood, building a pile where Tredgar had cleared a patch of earth. He stacked the wood in a pyramid, stuffing the gaps between the larger branches with twigs, then pulled a charm about six inches long from his inside coat pocket.
He stuck the end of the charm into the kindling and a small hot flame appeared, spreading swiftly to the twigs and branches. He blew gently to fan the flames then returned the charm to his pocket as the smaller branches began to burn.
It was a cloudy night and cool but even lying on the grass with saddles as pillows, warmed only by the flames of the fire and far from their loved ones, sleep came quickly.
