Days Of Light And Shadow

by Greg Curtis

  A few weeks, a lot of false tears shed and lies spread, and suddenly he was in the Iron Cock in a stupid little border town known only as Black Man’s Hole, staring at the man who had murdered his sister.

  But what to do? Finell wanted so desperately as he sat at his table, to simply walk up to him and drive his dagger straight into his evil heart. But he couldn’t. The man was fast. Basilisk fast so they said, and strong with it. And he was also suspicious, and under his cloak, always armoured. The chances were slim, even with a poisoned blade, that he would succeed. And even if Finell succeeded he would certainly be caught and killed by Anders’ men. Besides it wasn’t just Anders who had to die. It was all of them, and all of those who had given them their orders as well.

  Sometimes a man had to use his wits instead. Not like these foul human utra. He needed to find a way to kill the big man by stealth and cunning. Something he would not expect. Something that he would not even know had killed him until after it was all over. And as Finell sat at his table in the corner of the dark inn staring, hidden by the gloom, his hand instinctively found the half dozen vials of witchbane he had secreted under his cloak.

  Witchbane. The perfect weapon.

  Chapter Seventy Nine.

  “It’s done?” Juna entered the library, the serving girl in his wake with her tea tray, and headed for the broken figure bent low over a desk. Tenir he knew was probably exhausted. He had worked day and night to prepare the documents and get the signatures. It had been his one task. But it was more than simple exhaustion that bowed his head.

  “Yes. I sent the documents with all the signatures away an hour ago.” Tenir looked up at him, his blue eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep.

  “Good.” Juna took his customary place at the side of the desk and waited for a bit as the girl busied herself pouring them cups of tea.

  “How many?”

  “One hundred and sixteen have signed. One hundred and eighteen more have been sent the papers but have not yet returned them. And another fifty seven cannot even be found to send the papers to.”

  “Good.” Privately Juna still didn’t understand what was so important about a house. But he knew that it was and that finally a new house would be born out of the ashes of House Vora. It was the easiest option. There would have been an objection to House Vora being reformed. But new houses were formed more often. It was just that usually they were a family finally spreading its wings, and not the best part of three hundred unnamed members of an old family coming together anew.

  “Then in a month or so House Seylen will be created and much of your burden can be transferred to Chria in Leafshade.”

  “Maybe. If the Grove will support the creation of a new house and the Throne will accept it.” He still saw only the problems ahead Juna realised. Not the hope. No matter how many times he was shown it. Even the name of the new house, Seylen, chosen because it meant rebirth in the ancient elven language, couldn’t bring him any hope.

  “The Grove will. They are heavily indebted to you and House Vora for your sacrifice and will do whatever they can to help. Elders Yossirion and Trekor have both sent word that they support your letter. You also have the backing in writing of Lord Iros and Lady Sophelia, two people that Elaris will listen to since Greenlands is a major trading partner, and trade is vital to the recovery of both lands. And as far as the Throne is concerned, there is no high lord. The matter will be dealt with by functionaries, and with no high lord to tell them otherwise, what functionary would go against both trade and the Grove to say no?”

  “As you say.” But he didn’t mean it. Juna could see the defeat in his eyes. He would do all he could. He would struggle on. It was his duty. But he could not bring himself to see the hope ahead.

  “As I do say.” The steward had to be firm with him, almost as though he were a child instead of a grown man his own age. “But that’s not why I came. I need to ask you for a favour.”

  Finally Juna got something other than tired self loathing back from the elf. Tenir even looked up at him from his desk with mild curiosity.

  “It’s about your son. The physicians say Herodan is making good progress, and he like you has not put his name forwards for inclusion in House Seylen. So it is time to think of his future here in Greenlands.” Juna understood why none of the immediate family had put their names forward to become part of House Seylen. Tenir as the one who had made the decision for House Vora to secede knew his name would be a stumbling block in the creation of a new house. And the rest of his immediate family believed that they were too close to him, and that their names would also be unwelcome. Or that was what they said. Privately he suspected they were just being loyal to Tenir.

  “His future?”

  “Of course. He is a young man with many skills to offer. And soon he will grow tired of spending his days recovering. A man needs to have something to occupy his time.”

  “And you have a thought?”

  “Of course.” Juna tried to smile reassuringly at him.

  “Herodan has an exceptional education behind him. Languages, customs, literature, mathematics and so forth. He cannot return to his duties as an envoy again, but he can turn his hand to a new craft. One that would make full use of his skills, and grant him a position of standing in Greenlands.” And that was the key he suspected. The loss of house was as much about the loss of standing among the elves as it was anything else.

  Tenir nodded to him, his attention finally concentrated on him as he listened. His interest had been captured.

  “Greenlands has suffered terrible losses in the war, especially among the adults and those who had no experience in the use of weapons. But parents throughout the land protected their children as best they could, as they should. The consequence of this is that we have many children and less masters than we need to teach them. The three academies are crying out for tutors and teachers. For masters of all the disciplines. And I can think of no one better to help them.”

  For a moment Juna almost imagined that he saw a trace of hope in the elf’s eyes. Maybe even the beginning of a smile. This was his son after all, and he needed his son to have a good life. Every parent did.

  “I’ll speak with him.”

  And that Juna thought as he sipped his tea, was a victory.

  Chapter Eighty.

  The brigand raised a gauntleted hand and made as if to strike him across the face.

  “No sir, please don’t hurt me.” Finell shrieked and instantly went down on his hands and knees before the brigand, knowing that it was both expected and necessary. Brigands lived to terrify people. It was their pleasure as well as their way of earning coin. It was their life blood. And none were more terrifying than Ander’s gang.

  Thirty men at arms, camped out not half a league from the town, openly bragging of all the battles they’d won and the gold they’d seized, and of course the women they’d violated. No one would touch them of course. There was no law in Black Man’s Hole. The rule of law did not even know that the town existed. The only commandment was that the strongest did what they wanted and the rest let them. Anders and his men were the strongest by many leagues. When they rode into the town, people got out of their way and the streets emptied. When they entered an inn, the other patrons fell silent and left. They were naught but bullies who ruled by violence and intimidation.

  But not for much longer.

  “You’re late boy.” The bristle faced brigand still looked to want to smash him with the back of an iron gauntlet, and Finell let out another small shriek of apology. It seemed to be enough, as the man made a strange grunt of disgust, spat on him, and then finally waved him through. Finell had always known he would be let in. They might set a guard, but they were only looking for armed enemies. Soldiers maybe, who wanted a fight. Small boys from the inn weren’t any sort of threat. And the bandits wanted their ale. The guard had just been putting on a show, proving to the rest that he was as big and bad as they were.

  Immediately Finell reached for the
reigns to the mule, gave them a tug and soon had the animal pulling the small cart into the bandit’s campsite.

  It wasn’t much of a campsite. A score and a half of bed rolls circling a huge bonfire in the centre, and a single tent among them. Finell didn’t need to ask to know who’s tent it was. But he carefully didn’t look in that direction. Not because he was frightened of being recognised. None of these men would have given him a second glance. He was nothing more than the innkeeper’s boy. But because staring might give away his purpose, and that would be risky. If they guessed his interest, that he wasn’t just a lowly drudge, they might grow suspicious of the ale. That could not happen.

  If nothing else, he didn’t have the witchbane to spare. And he had used so much.

  Half a vial in each barrel. It was a shocking amount of the poison to use, and he had only a limited supply and so many more enemies to kill. But he knew that there were thirty men at arms and he had to make sure of all of them. Even those who might only take a sip because they were on watch. All of them had to die. Because if a single one of them was still on his feet when he returned, Finell’s chances of survival were slim.

  The men were sitting around the campfire, talking and eating for the most part. No doubt planning on spending their coin from whatever crime they’d committed last. A few were sharpening weapons or repairing holes in their armour. Several were rolling fate stones against a target as others wagered on how close they could get. One, probably the most junior member of the gang, was tending to the horses.

  But what they were doing was far less important than what they weren’t doing, and none of them were paying him any attention. A few were staring at the barrels on the back of the cart, but none had eyes for him.

  “Get it! Before he’d even made it all the way to the camp site, someone gave the command and instantly half a dozen men leapt to their feet and started carrying the barrels away, leaving him standing there for a moment, confused. Wondering what to do. But he knew what to do. Grem, the boy who he’d paid to let him take the cart, had told him exactly what would happen. What he had to do.

  “Sir.” Finell approached the brigand who’d given the order, bowed his head a little, and held out his hand. “Half a silver please.”

  He hated having to beg. Especially to beg one of the brigands who’d murdered his sister. But it had to be. It was what was expected. And if he turned and left without payment, the brigands would know something was wrong. The innkeeper did not simply give them barrels of ale for free, and it was one of the few things they paid for.

  “Aggh!” The man made a grunting sound and threw a pile of small copper coins on the ground in front of him. Grem had told him that that would likely happen. Sometimes they even gave him a kick while he went down on his hands and knees to gather up the coins. But he still had to do it. Such was the life of a drudge if he wanted to keep eating and sleep out of the rain. Finell immediately fell to his hands and knees to gather the coins up. He even counted them, fifteen coppers, before he stuffed them in the pocket of his cloak and got back up, just as he was expected to.

  “Thank you sir.” The brigand said nothing, just scowled at him, and that was that.

  With the transaction completed Finell grabbed the reigns of the mule and quickly started leading him away. It was time to leave, but to leave carefully. He wanted to run, he so very much wanted to run, but instead he had to do everything just as Grem would. So he led the mule away a little from the camp, before, taking his seat on the little cart, and flicking the reigns to get the animal slowly moving.

  When he reached the track, the guard didn’t even bother to abuse him. He just grunted and waved him by with a tired flick of his hand, his thoughts really on the two fresh barrels of ale back with the others. And so within a matter of moments Finell was riding away from the camp, his work done.

  It was as easy as that! As he rode slowly away, the mule lazily pulling the cart over the rough track, Finell almost couldn’t believe it. A few coins, a little poison, and a bit of dirt, and he had killed Elwene’s murderers. All of them. Though they didn’t know that yet.

  They would drink all day he knew, and then if they were still able, they would make the short ride into town to drink some more at the inn, annoy the serving girls and use the ladies of the night. But this night he hoped they might not manage that ride into town. Given the amount of witchbane he had used, they might be too sick.

  But still, he decided as the mule hauled him back to town, it would be best if he wasn’t in town this evening, Just in case someone wasn’t that ill and guessed the cause.

  Brigands could be very vengeful.

  Chapter Eighty One.

  Finell returned to the brigand’s camp just before nightfall, hoping that by then his work would be done. And praying that the reason they hadn’t ridden into town that afternoon was that they were already sick, and not that they’d realised the ale had been poisoned and were waiting for the guilty party to show.

  For that reason he’d returned the mule and the wagon to Grem along with the coppers he’d been given, and crept on foot through the forests for a good league instead of taking the shorter track. An elf was always more at home in the forest anyway. Even an elf like him. And with every step he took he hunted desperately for any sign of an ambush. But there was none. Not a man, not a scout, not a sentry. The woods were filled only with animals. He hadn’t needed to worry.

  He knew that the moment he pushed aside a few fronds so that he could peak out from the forest at the campsite.

  They were all down. Already. Every bedroll was taken, and no one stood watch. No one even stood. The poison had already eaten away too much of them. Because he’d used so much of the witchbane, it was acting faster than it should. Instead of riding into town, getting hugely drunk and causing trouble with maybe a belly ache to show for the poison they’d drunk, they all lay on the ground, writhing in pain, and moaning. And the huge fire that had been burning all day in the centre of the clearing, it was barely smouldering. No one had the strength left to throw any more wood on it.

  Finell breathed a quiet sigh of relief seeing them there, and then let a small smirk of satisfaction spread across his face. The poison had worked well. Very well. Perfectly.

  Best of all, the big man was crying out too. Finell could hear him even in his tent, trying to hold back his screams. But as the witchbane burnt his joints he couldn’t completely hold them in. As the leader it was likely that he’d taken the largest share of the ale and was suffering for his greed. The others were much the same though. All of them, lying in their sleeping rolls, crying for pain. And none of them knew why.

  The sight pleased Finell. That they should die in agony never knowing why, that was a good thing. Or maybe they should know. Maybe they should know their crime, know that their punishment was just. He couldn’t decide. But he realised as he spied on them from the undergrowth, that he didn’t have to decide for a little bit. They were going to die, but not immediately. There was time.

  Stupid bloody utra! They’d thought they were safe. They’d thought they’d got away with murdering Elwene. But with all their weapons, all their might, they’d never thought that the servant boy bringing them their barrels of ale might be the death of them.

  And their leader, with a face like that. A face that the witnesses had described perfectly, or rather the scars running down one side of it. He should have run for the furthest lands he could find, and then run some more. It still wouldn’t have been far enough though, Finell would still have found him. But he might have had some more time to live first.

  Still, seeing them there like that, writhing in pain on the ground, wasn’t enough for Finell. It was good that they suffered, but he still had to see their leader, the scar faced man, suffering with them.

  Anders, the women of the borderlands and a few others had called him. A name they spoke with obvious fear in their eyes. He was a frightening man, even to those who only knew of him. And if he and his men rode through the
ir lands, anyone who knew of him hid.

  Finell had to see him suffering. After what Anders had done to his sister, he had to see with his own eyes that he was truly dying. And after that Finell had to make sure that the murderer understood why he was going to die in such agony. That he understood his crime. The man had to know regret. He had to beg for forgiveness. And when he didn’t get it, he had to know that he was doomed.

  It was the least he deserved. But there was more. Another reason to see him before he passed on.

  Finell wanted to know who had given him the order. Maybe that foul envoy had passed it to him, but he was never the one in charge. At most he was just a messenger, and though he would kill him for even that, Iros’ death could wait. But it was surely the king himself who had given the command. Herrick the utra. And he too would die for that. So too would his advisors. Those who had advised the king to murder his sister. Then those who had sent the message. The masters of the roosts. The riders. All of them.