by Greg Curtis
“Come child. You can help me hitch up the wagon, and I will tell you of your brother in law. It will I think, surprise you.”
Chapter Fifty.
“My lord!”
Iros was in the great room with his aides pouring over the plans for the fortifications, when the soldier came rushing in, disturbing them. In some ways though, it was a relief to see him, even if he surely had bad news. What else was there of late?
But the work was slow and painstaking as they went over the details of the gun emplacements, trying to find a design to allow them a useful field of fire without the possibility that when they were overrun as they would be, the cannon could not be turned against them. A limited track system was the best that they could come up with, the cannon placed on steel wheels and chained into a bunker dug into the hillside. But that was something hardly ever seen outside of a true castle, and never did they build such things into a hillside.
And as for the walls they were finally nearing completion, a century or more after they had started being built, but at a huge cost. Hundreds of masons working all the hours of the day demanded a lot of gold. Still it was something to celebrate. Of course even when they were finished it would only be the first step as they then started building the ramparts, cannon emplacements and towers into them.
Naturally it was going to be expensive. Everything was expensive and the treasury was being depleted at an alarming rate.
Nor did the army of physicians and aides attending him help him with his woes. All they did was annoy him as they kept telling him to rest, forced him to drink their foul concoctions, and wiped away the blood dripping from his eyes. That was as much as they could do. They could do nothing at all for the fever that sent him to the underworld every night or the fire in his joints that reminded him of it every day. Some days he wished it would be all over already. Other days he knew that there wasn’t far to go.
“Soldier.” The man came to an undignified halt in front of him, his armour clattering away. Obviously it hadn’t been tied down correctly, another matter he needed to attend to. Many of the guards didn’t tie it down fully. The armour restricted their movements and made it hard to carry out some of the more basic functions of life. But when war was coming it still wasn’t a choice. Loose armour allowed a sword to strike more easily at the unprotected flesh. Then again, maybe it would be a matter that Heriot would attend to instead. He wasn’t a soldier, but he knew enough to hire a war master. He hoped.
If only he would hurry up and arrive. Bearsport was only two hundred and fifty leagues away. If he rode fast he could be here in less than a month. But of course he wouldn’t. He didn’t ride. He would take a wagon, probably a train loaded down with his expensive passions, and when he finally reached Tendarin he’d spend a few days there, meeting old friends. It was likely to be three months before he reached Greenlands, and Iros was unlikely to be still be alive by then. Juna was going to be very busy pulling his white hair out by the time the new lord of Drake arrived.
Perhaps it was good for them both to be distracted just then. It stopped the fretting for a time.
“There is a -…” The soldier seemed to flap around like a fish on the dock for a bit, obviously distressed and unsure of himself. Something a soldier wasn’t supposed to be.
“There is a?”
“Woman?” Why did the man say the word as if he was not certain of it? How could you not be certain if someone was a woman? Iros looked into the soldier’s face and saw the confusion and alarm written all over it.
“There is a woman? Go on.”
“At the gate.” He looked relieved to have got that much out, and then he blurted out the rest. “She says you sent for her.”
That made no sense to him. All it did do was raise more questions. Things like who was she, since he had sent for no one? And why was she at the town gate? People were not normally kept there. The town was free to all save known brigands. Could Estelle have somehow arrived ahead of her husband? But she didn’t ride either as far as he knew, and she was in no more hurry to arrive than Heriot.
“Does she have a name soldier?”
“A long one my lord. Trekor Aileth. She calls herself the Seer of Bogreth, the Elder of Aellwy Te and a druidess of many other places.”
The name meant nothing to Iros, though seer and druidess meant hag or witch as far as he could be sure. And obviously a strange one from looking at the soldier’s face. Probably of unusual blood. They weren’t usually restricted from the town, though often people kept a respectable distance from them. He looked at his physicians and advisors and they looked straight back at him. None knew the name.
He shrugged. “I did not send for her.”
“No I did, honoured husband.” He turned, they all did, as Sophelia’s demure tones came from the large dining hall to their side. “Trekor Aileth is a healer of some repute among my people, and an elder.”
“She’s an elf?” Maybe that would explain at least a little of the soldier’s fluster.
“No? Yes? Maybe? In part?” Suddenly it was his wife’s turn to seem uncertain. “The blood of many flows through her veins, as does the magic. And it is said that there is at least a little troll in her. She is no more at home among the elves than among humans. But she has knowledge of many herbs and spells not known in civilised lands, and she is known to the Mother.” That last mattered to Sophelia he knew. It mattered to all elves. And if she was known, then she carried the status of an elder among them. An honoured profession no matter her blood.
“I asked my brother to seek her out as he returned home.”
“Let her in.” Iros gave the order immediately. The choice was easy, not because he believed that the hag could help him, but because his wife had sent for her and it would have been unacceptable to speak against her. Their marriage might be a facade, but it still had to be honoured.
“And the cats?”
“Cats soldier?” But it wasn’t the soldier who answered him.
“Trekor Aileth travels everywhere with two crag cats at her side. Fearsome beasts as large as horses but I have not heard of them attacking anyone without her command.” But then Sophelia wouldn’t have he thought. Those who had seen such an event were probably dead. Eaten by the cats. Iros kept his thoughts to himself though.
“The cat’s too.” He really didn’t want wild animals in his castle, but he couldn’t really deny them access if they travelled as her pets. Still at least if the cats attacked, it would be quick. Better than this dying by painful inches.
“My lord.” The soldier immediately ran off, heading he guessed for the town gate, and leaving behind a very confused court. The advisors were silent because they didn’t know what to say. The physicians for the same reason. And the guards never said anything at all anyway.
“You did not speak to me of this.” He wasn’t upset. If anything it was nice to know that she cared enough to try. But he was curious.
“I did not know how to husband. Forgive me. I did not know if the druidess could help, or if she would even come. For the most part she holds to her own company and what is known of her is through whisper and the drunken tales told by bards around firesides.” And if she was of mixed blood then he guessed she wouldn’t have been welcome among the high born, so they would have little more than gossip to work with. Often it had been his experience in Leafshade, the low born knew more than their betters.
“There is nothing to forgive good wife.” Save maybe himself for having doubted her decency. His wife was always a woman of proper heart. Somehow he kept forgetting that when he saw her blue hair.
It was hard to know that she was not only an elf but cousin to Finell, and at the same time that she wasn’t like him. Maybe it was just the sickness talking but every time he saw her walking the hallways or out in the garden, for the first few moments he saw only her evil cousin. He felt the cold of the dungeon clutching him, and heard the crack of the whip. It took him a moment to remember where he was, and that that time had pa
ssed.
Of course it would be back with him every night as his dreams kept bringing him back there. And sometimes when he woke in the morning, he wasn’t completely sure that he was awake. Was he in Greenlands remembering the dungeon? Or was he in the dungeon still, dreaming of home?
Maybe if the healer could do nothing else, and he doubted there was much that anyone could do any longer, she could at least ease his fears.
Instead of asking foolish questions that Sophelia couldn’t answer, he changed the subject, and passed the time as they waited for the healer to arrive asking about her progress on her garden. He hadn’t seen it, he wouldn’t invade her private quarters, but the servants said it was very pretty. And though it was probably inappropriate he quite enjoyed seeing the smile return to her face when she spoke of it. She had suffered enough for her sacrifice. It was nice that one of them could rediscover some happiness in life.
Soon though, as she was telling him of the roses she’d planted, they heard the sound of horses outside the great hall, and turned their attention to the entrance.
“By the Divines!” Iros was shocked when he first set eyes on the hag, and he could suddenly understand his soldier’s hesitation in describing her. The rest of the assembled knew the same surprise. He heard their collective gasp. Even Sophelia who had sent for her, seemed taken aback.
His first thought when the doors swung open wide and she strode in was that an ogre had arrived, tracking half the forest floor with it. The serving people were not going to be happy with so much mud being tracked across the nice clean stone floor. But he couldn’t really worry about such trivial things just then.
She was an imposing figure. So tall and so broad of shoulder, that she almost dwarfed every other man there. In one hand she held what looked like a small tree trunk as a walking stick. And what he could see of her arms through the tears in the greenish rags she called clothes, showed powerful muscles. Knotted muscles rippling such as a warrior should dream of. Was she even a woman?
Then there was her hair. Green eyes and curly green hair. Who save elves had green eyes and brightly coloured hair? And even if they did what elf would let it hang long and unkempt down to her waist, with leaves and twigs sticking out of it? But that was only the beginning of what was unexpected about her. Her skin was oily and smudged with dirt. Covered in it, just like her clothes. If he’d had to guess he would have thought that she’d been wallowing in a mud hole just before arriving at his door. Maybe she had. The denizens of the various fens were known to be strange.
Most striking though were the tusks, both upper and lower, that protruded from her face, dominating it. Though they were nowhere near as massive as those of the trolls, their blood flowed through her veins for certain. As did that of the dark elves. The blackened fingernails that looked more like claws extending from those disturbingly long fingers could be from no others. And her toes. As he stared at them he suddenly realised that she wasn’t wearing leather shoes on her feet. What he was seeing was her own bare skin and a healthy covering of dry mud.
Though she seemed in good health, the deep wrinkles that dominated her face suggested she was very old. Or as he suddenly realised, that she was also of gnomish blood. Why not? She had every other blood.
But Iros found himself less concerned with her a heartbeat later when her cats padded in. Two huge crag cats, each as large as two men, and both of them looking distinctly hungry. Golden panthers as large as lions, but with eyes of green. All around him hands went to swords immediately, but true to his instructions, none were drawn. Instead they just let her approach, though a few looked askance at him as she did so.
Sophelia though surprised him as she went down on one knee to her. Clearly whoever or whatever she was, she had his wife’s respect.
“Trekor Aileth?”
“At your service boy.” The hag actually managed a small, ridiculous looking bow, which didn’t fit at all with her addressing him as ‘boy’. But oddly he didn’t mind that. Not when he was too busy staring at the cats as they padded around her, snarling quietly to one another. Maybe they were looking for mice. Maybe very big mice. Mice that walked on two legs.
The practiced diplomat in him slowly realised one other thing about her, she had some education behind her. Her voice itself was guttural, a sound something between that of a woman and a bull snorting, but her language, even in those few words, showed evidence of some learning. And he knew it was only proper that he should respond to her in kind. Especially if she was an elder.
“I thank you for the honour you do me woman, though there is no need here. This is a farmer’s land, not the king’s city.”
“Then might I trouble the farmer lord for a seat. It has been a long journey.” Not that she looked particularly tired to him.
“Of course.” He waved at the nearest servant he could see, most of them were standing at the doorway to the kitchen, staring, and a couple of them quickly scurried over to drag a bench from behind one of the great tables in the dining hall. There was no way that she was ever going to fit on a chair. They just hadn’t been built with someone like her in mind.
“My thanks boy.”
“You are of course welcome. My wife tells me that you might know something of my illness.”
“Illness boy?” Her green eyes suddenly held him. “You think it is an illness that besets you? Your wounds do not heal, your eyes bleed and your joints burn, your entire body burns at night. That is of no illness that I have ever heard of.”
“Then what is it woman?” Koran snapped at her from the side of the hall, catching them all unawares. He had obviously had enough already. It was to be expected. He was the finest physician in the town, educated in the best colleges, and a proud man. The idea that this strange woman from the fens might think his diagnosis wrong probably did not sit well with him. Especially when she was dressed in rags and covered in mud. He was a man who always took great pride in his appearance.
“The spotted elf knew. He told me the moment he arrived and looking at the boy. I can see he was correct. Why did he not share that knowledge with you?”
Spotted elf? She could only mean Herodan, though why she called him spotted he had no idea. The man had clean skin and no spots as far as he could remember.
“I don’t know old woman. Perhaps you could ask him yourself.” Koran sounded irked.
“Be gentle on my age old man. Unlike you I am in my early years yet. And what the spotted elf told me was only what should have been clear to all. He spoke of poison.”
“Poison?” The physician stared at the witch in disbelief. “The lord could not have been poisoned. He has been here under my care for all the time since his return, and no one here would poison him.”
“It was not done here. Not if what the spotted elf said is correct. The slimy toad king did it before he was even freed.” Slimy toad king? Iros knew she had to be speaking of Finell, and he had to admit he liked the description. Maybe it was one he’d remember for another day. If he had that day.
“That would be a very slow acting poison.” And not one that the physician had obviously ever encountered. “And yet it would explain a lot.” Suddenly he stopped rubbing his beard and looked up at her in wonderment.
“A soul poison?”
“So you might call it. My kind know it as witchbane. Rubbed into a man’s wounds it promises a long, slow and painful death.” Long, slow and painful. She had that right at least. Though painful didn’t perhaps go far enough. There were days when the burning in his joints was so bad that he almost yearned to be back in the dungeon being whipped instead.
“Witchbane. I have heard of this poison. From the skin of the wild spiked toad, harvested by moonlight, mixed with the blood of the dead and then cursed.” The physician turned back to him. “There is no cure my lord.” Iros had to wonder though. Was Koran telling him the bitter truth or laying some sort of charge against the hag?
“Of course there’s a cure. Now what sort of a witch would know of witchban
e and not know how to treat it?” She had a point, even if Koran didn’t seem to like it. In fact he was scowling, something he normally didn’t do. But then normally people didn’t bluntly inform him that they knew something he didn’t either. Iros decided he’d better take charge before things became nasty between the two of them. Or nastier. And besides, there were things he needed to know. And he was too tired to play games.
“So there is a cure and of course a price. Please tell me of your price Trekor Aileth.”
“A price!” She stared at him quizzically, a very unnatural expression on her already unnatural face. “How very human of you boy.”
“The elves would speak of honour and debts owed. The dwarves of gold and clan. And the humans of price. But we of the fen would speak of none of that. No honour gained or debt owed. No gold gleaned and no place in a clan earned. No price.”
