by Tom Stacey
“Three,” said Hari, with a twist of the mouth. “The other is out back with a fourth, spilling his guts up.”
“Three?” Beccorban could not keep the surprise from his voice. “How?”
“With a sharp blade and the promise of blood,” said a small but confident voice.
Beccorban turned quickly, his hand going to his knife. “I don’t like being snuck up on, girl,” he said in a low growl. He had not heard her move at all and was having uncomfortable memories of a similar moment by an open grave in a dark forest clearing.
“They never do, old man,” she said, and there was laughter in her deep brown eyes. Beautiful eyes, he thought.
“What is your name, girl?” he asked.
“Riella. What is yours?”
Beccorban swallowed. “It would be of no interest to you.” He turned back to Hari. “I mean to go by the coast road, but will need a place to stay for the night.”
“Aye,” said Hari, “the coast road will be easier. The snows haven’t fallen yet in the lowlands. They are later than they have ever been, but it makes travelling simpler for now. Be ware though, woodsman. There have been some strange sightings on that road, and storms are ever sweeping in from the Scoldsee. You would do well to have a shelter in mind between here and the second city. Even you won’t last long in the open.”
“Tallow?” Beccorban asked.
“Aye, that may serve. Times are hard though. Hospitality might not be what it was.”
“What of your hospitality? Do you have a room to spare?”
“As you know, I have only one room, and it is taken.”
There was a loud creak from upstairs as somebody put their weight on an old floorboard. It was followed by a heavy trudge and a hoarse mumbling as an old, bedraggled man with long greasy hair and a moth-bitten blanket around his shoulders appeared from the door behind the bar, a few dishevelled possessions tucked under his arm. He stopped briefly to cast rheumy eyes over the assembly and then carried on, out past the gawpers at the door and into the snow.
“Be well, Micah,” called Hari after him. He smiled as he was rewarded by a retreating stream of slurred curses.
“It seems your room has just become free,” said Beccorban.
Hari shook his head. “No, woodsman. Micah is making room for our new guest.” He nodded at Riella.
Beccorban looked at the young woman, who still hovered near his elbow. “If it is an auction you want, I have more coin.”
Hari shook his head again. “Not coin. It was a reward for services rendered. I’m sorry, woodsman, but I honour my debts. I can give you supplies but no more.”
“You’re going to Kressel.” Riella spoke and when she did it was not a question so much as it was a statement of fact.
“Yes,” answered Beccorban, too gruffly. “What business is it of yours?”
“I need to get to Kressel, but I would rather not go alone. If you would travel with me, you can share my room for the night.”
Beccorban snorted. “I am too old for that, lass. Find yourself another bed partner.” He pointed at Tollett, who blushed. “Your last victim seems a willing candidate.”
Her eyes flashed with fire. “I did not say that you could share my bed, old man, but my room. Make sure you know the difference if you want to leave this tavern with all that you came in with.”
Beccorban paused, unsure of how to continue. Unable to control himself, he laughed. It just seemed to make her angrier. “You can travel fast and light?” he asked. “I shan’t wait for you.”
Her expression softened. “I travel with what you see.”
“Good.” Beccorban looked at her and could not help but like what he saw. “Then you have a deal.” He held out his hand and, to his surprise, she took it in the warrior’s grip, clasping his wrist with strength.
She released his hand and pushed past Hari, disappearing up the stairs silently.
Beccorban laid a silver finn on the pitted wooden bar. “For the room.” He turned to look at the soldiers. “You two will be gone before I’m back, or you will have more than a sore hand to worry about.” Yellen looked like he was going to say something and then thought better of it. With Tollett supporting him, he shuffled out into the snow.
“You can keep the silver,” said Hari. “You don’t need to pay for the room.”
“I’ll pay for the beefsteak, then,” said Beccorban, walking past Hari and making for the stairs. “It really was very good.”
Hari laughed and a few of the lines eased from his face. “I’ll have some ale sent up.”
“No, not ale. Just water.”
“It’s no trouble.”
“I know, but your ale is piss.”
XI
There were twenty of them in two groups of ten, and they had been combing the undergrowth at the base of the hillock for over an hour. There was nothing wrong with their method, save that Callistan would have done it differently. They were right to search where they were searching, of course. Atop the hillock sat a tumble of ruins, no doubt all that remained of a watchtower or stone fortress built by the early settlers of this land. It was easy to imagine that a terrified fugitive would hole up in the deceptive shelter on the hill. Man is a domesticated creature and ever yearns for the comfort of walls and a roof.
But Callistan was not a terrified fugitive. He was a man on a mission — wronged and wounded, true, but now his tormentors would learn his measure.
The Lord of Blackwatch breathed out slowly and took a look around him to make certain he was not being snuck up on. He was still working mostly on reflex. His memory may have fled him but his instincts had stayed true and he had quickly learned to trust them implicitly.
He had expected to be followed — only a fool would not have — but never so soon. At the end of his second day out from the capital, he had lit a fire to warm his bones and cook his food: a scrawny hare he had killed with a well-thrown stone. Nothing seemed wrong at first. His camp was in a shallow dell that had plenty of canopy cover overhead and stout trees all around to conceal him. However, the enemy had brought hounds, and it didn’t take them long to stumble on his hiding place. One of the dogs, a pup, had given himself away, yapping excitedly at the first scent of the man he was tasked to find. Callistan had fled headlong, scooping up his pack and sword, and bolting blindly through the darkness, his meagre meal untouched. Fear gave him speed and he ran until he was sure he would collide with a tree or trip on a rock and knock himself unconscious. The gods must have taken pity on him for they sent him a stream, and though it was shallow, it was enough for the dogs to lose his scent.
He followed the stream for hours until the false dawn painted the sky grey. Eventually, the waters led him to a small lake with a cave nearby. It was little more than a gap between two mammoth slabs of rock that lay overlapping like fallen bookends, but it was dry and dark and showed no evidence of other inhabitants: no bones or stray hairs that could have belonged to a wolf or a bear. Or whatever else was out here.
Then the rains came. They weren’t the flood rains that plagued the Southlands most winters, nor were they the rains that fell every day without fail in some faraway place, the name of which he could not remember — or had he made that up? Instead these rains were a brief squall, the tail end of a storm from the region to the east known as the Watch. His home.
The rains fell for the whole morning, and his pursuers had been forced to stall their search. Even a hunting dog could not track a man in a torrential downpour. While his pursuers shivered, Callistan sheltered in the cave, emerging dry and rested — though still hungry — to gain a lead over the slipskin’s unknowing minions. Now he lay in a deep trench some ten paces inside a thick copse of trees, watching armed men poke at bushes with the shafts of their spears and lead tired dogs on fruitless sorties up the hill. As he watched, one of the tracker teams — a bent-backed man and a small white terrier with patches of brown fur — made their way from the summit. The man was saying something, shouting down to an
officer on horseback who waited at the bottom of the hill.
Suddenly the terrier leapt forward, excited by the smell of the horse. The tracker holding his lead was yanked from his feet to slide face down through the mud to the bottom of the hill. A great jeer went up from the others and the tracker rose, red face caked in brown. He kicked the dog savagely in the ribs. It yelped and tried to run but the tracker was still holding its lead. After some more struggling it gave up and sank to its haunches, covering its nose with its paws and whining piteously. Callistan winced in sympathy and tentatively probed his own ribs. His body was healing and he felt stronger every day, but it was a slow process. He stared glumly at his gloved left hand. Some of his wounds could never heal.
He thought of the slipskin and its performance at the square in Temple. What had it been trying to achieve? The people had already accepted it as the real Callistan; he had the bruises to prove it. Had it simply been more gloating? Maybe it wanted him to know despair before he died. That was a possibility, though it seemed oddly wasteful. The point had been to present Callistan to the Empron as evidence of hidden enemies, had it not? Why waste the time in the square? Pride? Had the beast wanted accolade? That did not fit with its talk of grand schemes and vengeful enemies. It seemed… petty. Yes, that was the word: petty. Maybe spite isn’t a uniquely human emotion, thought Callistan. The slipskin was most definitely not human.
He had very little memory of the landscape, but it felt good to be moving forward with a destination in mind. The mad rush to get back to his family had faded to a cool, calculated reserve. He had to find them, but there was no faster option available to him, and so he had quickly learned to live with all the little frustrations travelling on foot could throw his way. Being followed was simply one more annoyance. But it didn’t matter, because he had a plan; a plan that centred on the young officer’s magnificent horse.
It was interesting to observe how the men chasing him worked. They were mostly city watchmen in dark brown jerkins, though a few were trackers in their own rough homespun and cloth cut in greens and browns. They were led by an officer in crimson plate mail. Besides the horse he rode, and the fact that he was the only man in armour, it was obvious he was in charge from the way he directed the men. The mounted soldier looked like a missel, the most junior member of the Verian officer corps, but Callistan could not be sure. In truth, he knew he would be a little offended if they had sent someone so junior to hunt him down, although he was too far away to clearly make out the number of golden rings on the officer’s pauldrons.
However, the man betrayed his lowly rank in subtle ways. Callistan had been watching for hours now, and most of his time had been spent on the young officer. For a start, the Missel had not set a picket screen. Granted, he was only leading a small force and was in friendly territory, yet he had enough men to spare a few roving sentries to protect the trackers as they worked. Besides, for all they knew they were after a desperate man — they had most likely been told that he was a slipskin. What was to stop him ambushing a tracker party or picking off the smaller groups? Instead, the officer seemed content to let his men roam around. Indeed, it was as if he was afraid of them. He had not gotten off his horse all day and Callistan could swear that the young officer flinched whenever a watchman spoke to him.
Yet most telling of all was the sword he wore. It was a gaudy thing, in a gold scabbard with bright jewels of many colours along the length. Callistan would not have been surprised if the blade was made of gold too. It was an obvious commission gift, probably presented to him by proud parents on his graduation from the military school in Iero. There was nothing wrong with wearing such a bauble in parades or ceremonial duties, but in the field it was the mark of a fool, and a conscripted army that relied on its veteros and officer corps did not have much time for fools. The boy would find his blade stolen within a week, perhaps even by one of the men he now led. If the gods were good, a senior officer would warn him of his folly and recommend he chop it up with good, practical steel, and sell it for better armour. Armour saved your life, trinkets got you killed.
Callistan rubbed at the stump of his finger. The weather made it ache, and he flexed the whole hand, feeling the skin stretch over the crudely cut bone. One of Hapal’s men had cleaned it up somewhat, but it still threatened to break its stitches and spill warm blood down his arm. That made him afraid. Dogs could smell blood. He gently rubbed the pad of his thumb over the wound, probing the swollen flesh for the tender spots that would suggest infection or loose shards of bone. There had been a ring there once but whatever significance it had held was lost to him now, like so many things. He smiled to himself. Perhaps Raiya will know, he thought.
Callistan watched the Missel watch his men. If he had been leading the hunt, he would have split them into smaller groups. They ought to have been in groups of five, or maybe even three. That way they would cover more ground, and if they cornered him, then three men would be more than a match for one, especially one so tired and tortured. Surely the slipskin thought it had done enough to slow him? It was supposed to know every physical aspect of those it mimicked. Does it know my limits?
It knows I have family, he thought. Hopefully it did not know where they were. Hapal had told him, but who else knew where to go? Would it understand what drove him? Did it have family of its own? Callistan shuddered at the thought — surely those things did not breed.
He grunted as the officer rode out of sight. It looked like the men were moving on, and Callistan had a horse to steal.
He could smell the horse. They had tethered it a stone’s throw from the main camp, near a silhouette that was probably a tent. Otherwise it seemed that the horse was by itself and there was no sign of sentries. The horse had a sweaty, musty smell, but it was oddly comforting and it rolled down the hill to meld with the rich scent of soil and wet earth.
Callistan reached behind himself and pulled his falcata around so that it would not stick into the ground and trip him when he crouched. It was a horseman’s weapon but he did not have a horse. Not yet. He plucked a piece of grass from the ground in front of him, placed it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. It was still damp from the day’s rainfall and it smelt green and fresh. Smell was important to him. It was dark out here and he was well hidden, but he risked discovery the closer he got to the camp. The men in their world of light around the bright fires would be relying on sight, but Callistan was a hunter now and hunters used all their senses.
The men in the camp were not laughing and joking as one would expect. They had suffered a difficult day, slogging through the countryside on a fruitless search for a man they believed could change his features at whim. If Callistan strained his ears he could just make out low mumbles, but there was no real conversation, and that suggested a mistrustful and wary atmosphere in the camp. It made sense. They could not exactly take confidence from their inexperienced leader.
Callistan spat out the stalk of grass and crept forward. They were in a young forest, lightly populated with thin, straggly trees. The trees were not dense enough to keep out the wind: an icy blast from the depths of the Scoldsee that stole the breath from your lungs. The Missel had situated the camp on a rise, no doubt reasoning that a hill was a naturally defensible position. Callistan smiled. They weren’t facing off against an enemy horde, just one man. Did the Missel know something he did not? No, it was just inexperience. It had probably seemed like the right idea to the young officer, but it was a foolish, puerile logic. A raised position was eminently defensible, but it was also visible. Callistan had been able to follow the party of men with ease and the siting of several fires on the hilltop gave him a beacon that he could readily avoid.
Or aim for.
Callistan almost felt sorry for the boy. He had been sent with an overlarge force of city watchmen, unsuited to long marches and tough conditions, to find one man. If he were with true soldiers as he should have been, he would have had an experienced vetero to guide him. Without one, he was a tottering chi
ld on shaky legs.
There was no clue as to the whereabouts of the dogs either. Briefly, panic clutched at his heart as he imagined the trackers flanking him with their hounds, sneaking up the hill in the soupy darkness behind him, waiting for the signal to lunge. He shook his head. That was giving the boy altogether too much credit. The dogs had disappeared sometime in the afternoon, and it was more likely that they had simply left or been sent back to Temple. Perhaps the poor Missel had been forced to let them go or face mutiny. Whatever the case, it made Callistan’s job easier.
Despite his confidence, he couldn’t help an occasional glance behind him. The shadows were deep at the foot of the rise, inky and intimidating. Were he completely alone, Callistan would have feared that those shadows hid something more monstrous than mere dogs, but now he told himself that he was the one to be feared. It is funny, he thought, how the mere presence of other humans, friend or foe, can dispel the power of the night. He wrapped a gloved hand around a sapling’s trunk and made to pull himself up the slope. The bark gave way with a wet crack and he fell forward, quickly flinging out his hands to steady himself on the forest's thick carpet of wet leaves. He waited. There was no sound of movement, no cry halloo from the camp, just the sullen near-silence of miserable men.
Callistan breathed out slowly and glared at the small tree that had betrayed him. It was largely rotten and the bark had slewed off of it like old meat off bone to leave a pale scar of dying yellow wood underneath. The wet leaves on the ground had blanketed his fall. Once again, the rains had saved him.
He calmed his breathing and began to crawl up the slope on hands and knees, using the knots and bumps in the landscape for support rather than any of the untrustworthy trees. He stopped some distance from the fires at the top and began to work his way along the spine of the ridge. If he could get up to the same level as his pursuers, he could better plan how to approach them.
