by Tom Stacey
After a while he judged that he was far enough away from the camp to afford a little noise. He broke into a run and moved quickly up to the narrow path that topped the ridge. The Missel had placed his camp poorly, he knew, but it was only now that he could see it in full that he knew how poorly. The ridge ran in a thin ribbon towards a large, teardrop-shaped plateau, upon which sat the camp. To either side the ground fell away into darkness. Callistan shook his head. It was as though the Missel was planning to lead his men in a final stand against overwhelming force. There could be no orderly retreat from this position, not if the path was taken. That presented Callistan with a problem. The horse was over on the other side of the plateau, and once he had freed it, he would have to ride it back through the middle of the camp if he did not want to face a perilous slide down the slope in the dark.
Options. Sometimes it was better not to have them.
The camp was arranged around two large fires that burned brightly, casting orange light on to the men nearby. Most were sleeping, though some still sat in the glow, hugging their knees and talking in low tones or staring dumbly at the dancers in the flames. Callistan crept closer, careful to tread softly and avoid any loose twigs or other noisome detritus. He wasn’t afraid of being seen — there were no pickets and the fire would have made the men night-blind — but the forest was quiet and even a tired man’s ears were sharp. He did a quick head count. Yes, they were all in sight, except for their officer, though Callistan was sure he knew where to find him. What had looked like a tent from below was indeed a tent, dun leather pitched in a peak. Callistan grimaced. It was a poor officer that secured his comforts over those of his men.
There was no way for him to make it through the camp unseen. He would have to skirt the fringes like a lurk from a children’s story, creeping around in the shadows and stealing little ones away in a flash. But he wouldn’t be carrying off a scared child; he would be trying to steal a powerful war horse of some eighteen hands. By now the beast was probably rested and nuzzling contentedly on a feed bag of wholesome grain. It would be anticipating a quiet night and would not make things easy for him.
Callistan crouched by a tree and unslung the falcata from around his shoulder. It was a long blade and would cause him trouble on the steep slope. It would be better used as a support, like an old man uses a staff. It would ruin the leather scabbard but, as Hapal had said, it was just a tool. There was no point worrying about such things. Callistan gripped the warm leather in one hand and used it to test the ground in front of him. He would need to be careful: the wet leaves and slick mud made for treacherous footing. He grunted softly. It irked him to ruin a good scabbard, and the leather was sinking about a finger’s length into the mud every time he leant on it. He grimaced. No matter. It’s the blade that counts, not the sheath.
It took him over an hour but finally he was in position below the crest. He could hear the horse’s contented whinnying, since now there was even less noise from the camp. It seemed that even the grumblers had retreated to their bedrolls, leaving all else unguarded. Callistan slowly poked his head above the lip of the rise. To his left was the Missel’s tent, and though the leather flaps were pinned back with knotted rope, there was no sign of movement from inside. Callistan laid down on his belly and crawled forward, cradling his sword in his arms like a child. The horse was to his right, close enough for the Missel’s convenience but not so close that the horse might disturb its rider's sleep. Ahead was the camp, and Callistan could not help but marvel at the complacency.
Not a single man was awake. Callistan had crawled so that any sharp-eyed watchman would not see him creeping around; now he could see that he had overestimated his adversaries. Had he waited back on the path, he could have walked right through the centre of the camp unhindered. There weren’t even any spits strung or kettles heating. This was a miserable camp and its miserable collection of miserable men had fallen asleep fast so that dawn might bring brighter prospects.
Callistan stood and strode to the horse. It was dozing and turned its head at the disturbance, but he cupped its muzzle gently in one hand and whispered soothing words in its ear. The horse whickered softly and brushed rubbery lips at his hand, searching for a treat. He patted its broad flank, freeing dust from its brown coat, and breathed in that comforting, horsey smell. He slotted his falcata in the loops reserved for the Missel’s shiny sword.
“Is something the matter with Crucio?” asked a youthful, cultured voice.
Callistan froze. He had thought everybody asleep but he must have misjudged. From the tone and the clipped coolness, he knew it was the Missel speaking. His mind raced. From what he had seen, the young officer was afraid of the rough men he led and that would be his best defence. “Not especially, sir,” he said, lowering his voice and affecting a lazy drawl. It would not suit if he spoke like the Lord of Blackwatch.
The Missel paused, unsure of how to respond to Callistan’s surliness. “Did you check his hooves? He seemed to be lagging a bit on the way up here.”
Callistan frowned. He needed the horse to be fit or else it would be no use to him. He edged along the horse’s flank and gently lifted the its rear leg, careful not to turn his head towards the Missel. The hoof seemed fine so he made a quick cursory check of the other three, trying to keep the horse between him and the officer as much as possible. ‘Nothing wrong, s’far as I can see, sir,” he said.
The Missel nodded and followed Callistan around the other side of the horse. He peered at Callistan in the darkness and Callistan quickly ducked behind the horse’s rump, making a show of inspecting the tail that had been braided and docked in the military fashion.
“You are not Warrig,” said the Missel, and Callistan braced himself for action. “Tell me, is he sleeping?” Callistan sighed with audible relief but it must have sounded like annoyance to the Missel, for he took a step back, and when he spoke, his voice was apologetic. “Forgive me. I did not mean to sound so accusing. Who are you? Are you one of the trackers? I don’t know everybody’s name yet.”
Callistan turned and smiled. The Missel was indeed young and had an open, innocent face, but he was still an enemy. Callistan’s smile became a grin. The poor bastard did not even know his own men’s faces.
The Missel grinned back, probably thinking he had made some jest he was unaware of.
Callistan took a step forward, still grinning from ear to ear like a simpleton. The Missel was standing a few paces away, smiling sheepishly. Behind him was a steep drop into darkness. Callistan took another step forward and the Missel’s smile began to fray at the edges.
“Your name? I didn’t catch it earlier. There’s been so much to do.”
Callistan took yet another step and the Missel’s smile crumbled into a frown. The young officer felt for the jewelled toy he usually wore at his waist but it was not there. He must have left it in his tent. His expression turned to utter panic and he opened his mouth to shout a warning. Callistan leapt forward to clap a hand over his mouth and punched him solidly in the gut. The Missel doubled over with a whoosh as the air rushed out of his lungs. Callistan grabbed him by the loose fabric of his tunic and thrust him backwards, letting go as he fell. The Missel disappeared into the darkness, limbs flailing. He made a heaving sound as he tumbled away, desperate to suck in some air to warn the others.
Callistan moved like lightning, yanking out the peg that tethered Crucio to the ground and hauling himself into the saddle. The horse should have been unsaddled and brushed down for the night, but the gods were finally turning their favour on him, and the Missel’s ineptitude was serving to make his escape easier. He kicked the horse into action and Crucio sprung to the task with a startled expulsion off air that steamed in the frigid night air like a hellish bellows. He galloped through the camp and wheeled the horse around bleary-eyed men scrambling from their bedrolls. As Callistan rode past the fire, Crucio's hooves kicked loose a stray log in an explosion of violent orange sparks that caught a bedroll and began to smoulder. He
passed the last watchman and pushed on into the night, sure he could make out the frustrated screams of the Missel rolling up the hill behind him.
Callistan rode all night, as fast as the horse could carry him, though he knew he did not need to. This was the only horse he had seen amongst his pursuers. As long as they were the only ones after him, there was no way they could catch him now. Nevertheless, he rode hard because it made him feel alive. He knew instinctively that it was dangerous for a horseman to travel so fast at night — all it would take was a rabbit hole or a tangled root to trip the horse and send him tumbling headfirst into the hard ground — but he could not care less. This was what he did and it felt wonderfully familiar, like nothing else had until this moment.
He rode until dawn broke over the horizon and the dew steamed from the earth. To the north, he thought that he could make out the distant tops of towers built of dark stone. That must be Blackwatch, where he was Lord and master, Herald of the Greatseat. But he was not headed there. His family was elsewhere.
He turned south, relying on Hapal’s hurried instructions to find his way. He rode out of the forest and through fields, over hills and through valleys, through streams and past farmsteads, where startled workers scattered out of his way. He rode until the great horse beneath him heaved and blew, until sweat had soaked its dark mane and foam flecked the corners of its mouth, until finally, after steeping a gentle fold in the land, he curbed his mount above a large and low stone house that sprawled next to a wide stream of silver-blue. Smoke rose lazily from the chimney, and the sun painted the fields around in vibrant tones of green and yellow, stippled here and there with myriad blues and reds and purples as flowers stretched towards the warmth like basking cats.
Home. He did not know how he knew but he knew and that was enough. It was the country house that Hapal had mentioned, and suddenly a red-haired woman with a dark green skirt and a white shirt appeared from behind the house. She froze when she saw the horseman on the hill and raised a hand to shield the glare from her eyes. Callistan’s heart soared, for he had made it and he was not too late.
The red-haired woman called out to somebody behind her and her voice was like music. Crucio snorted softly, as if eager to join in, so Callistan breathed deep and tapped the horse’s flanks with his heels.
He rode down the hill and went to see his family.
XII
Riella wrinkled her nose. The room smelt stale and musty and had not been aired in a long time. The two small windows were locked and bolted and had their shutters drawn across, so that the only light in the room was the glow from the fire. It was freezing outside but the air felt oppressive in here and it was making her feel sick. She reached up and unbound the scarf from around her face. Despite the heat, she could feel the sweat cooling on her neck. Pulling down her hood, she freed her long blonde hair from its ties, shaking it loose in a torrent of gold. Riella took in her surroundings. It was a large room that took up fully half the width of the building. Against one wall there was a large double bed carved out of a dark wood. It was covered in several wolf pelts and had four large posts, one at each corner. Curiously it looked like it had not been slept in, or even on. Instead there was a small pile of worn furs scattered in front of the hearth.
Riella sighed heavily and removed her cloak. The heat was starting to get to her but she knew there was another reason why she felt so uncomfortable. Had she made a bad decision? She needed to get to Kressel desperately, but as much as she could handle herself, she knew the routes to the second city were not to be walked alone. There were highwaymen everywhere, and worse if certain rumours were to be believed.
The large man downstairs, the woodsman, seemed like he was one of the good ones, but once they were alone he could easily change. Maybe that’s why he had been wearing that mask, she thought. Maybe it’s how he hides his true nature.
Riella unlatched the wooden shutters and flung them outwards into the cool air. She gasped as it rushed into the room. It stole her breath from her but it immediately made her nausea subside.
“Are you always so fond of the cold?” asked that gruff voice. Riella turned quickly to face the woodsman. She had not heard him enter the room. “I can sneak too, girl,” he said, the merest suggestion of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Riella turned back to face out the window and rob him of any satisfaction at her shock. He did not move for a while and then joined her. Now that he did not mind being heard, his tread was heavy and imposing and she could feel the floorboards bow slightly under the weight of him. He stood an arm’s length from her and breathed deeply of the mountain air. Riella did not turn her head, but out of the corner of her eye she could see his broad, fur and leather clad chest rise and fall. She took a breath of her own and inhaled the scent of him: warm animal hides and the smoky, sweaty smell of fur. It was comforting in a way that the smell of other men was not — usually when they were near her they stank of stale wine, vomit, and oily lust.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” she said, trying and failing to keep naked interest from her voice.
The woodsman turned his head towards her, as if noticing her for the first time. “And it is still no business of yours,” he said. “What takes you to Kressel?” he continued in a clumsy attempt to distract her.
She smiled faintly but decided she had nothing to hide. Let him have his games, she thought. I am through with games. “I mean to join the Temple Dawn.”
“Not the Temple Blossom?” he asked. She glared at the side of his head but there was no trace of mockery in his voice.
“No,” she said, “not a red temple. I have paid my penance to the Goddess of Love.”
He snorted with laughter and a plume of frosted air shot from his nostrils like dragon smoke. “Love is one name for it.”
“And what would you know of it?” she snapped. Fury had come upon her like a sudden storm and she wanted to rage at this vast and intimidating man. “Do you have no lusts for women? I suppose it makes sense,” she sneered, “the old ones always struggled to get it up.”
His face darkened with anger. “Be careful.”
“Perhaps you’re into boys?” she said mock-sweetly. “There were always one or two pederasts—”
“Enough!” he roared and she fell silent, stunned by his ferocity. She suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to retreat and so hurried over to the other side of the room, putting the bed between him and her and busying herself with arranging the fallen furs by the fire. The woodsman stood like a great furry statue for some time, silhouetted against the bright window. Finally he turned, and when he did his face was softer. He sighed audibly and shrugged his bearskin from his shoulders, carefully wrapping it and laying it upon the pelts on the bed. She tried not to watch him as he sat down, the bed groaning in protest at his bulk.
“My name is Beccorban,” he said so softly that, for a second, she thought she had imagined it. The name tugged at her memory like an insistent child, but fear had caused her wits to flee momentarily — though she recognised the peace offering as it was intended. “I would ask that you keep that name to yourself.” He turned and looked at her intensely with eyes the colour of winter. “It means many different things to many different people and few of those things are good.”
Riella nodded and Beccorban — where had she heard that name? — turned back to his solace.
The cool air had robbed the room of its stifling atmosphere, but Riella was close to the fire and it was making her skin feel sore. She gathered the worn furs in a pile at her feet and stole a pillow from the bed, plumping it and laying it at the head of the assorted wolfskins to form a makeshift bed.
“Not there, girl,” said Beccorban.
She frowned. “What’s wrong with here?”
“It’s in the middle of the room. I would prefer it if my back was against something solid.” He pointed. “Maybe the wall under the window.”
Riella cocked an eyebrow. “But you’ll be cold.”
&n
bsp; “I’ve been cold before,” he said bluntly.
Riella paused and then obediently began to ferry the furs over to the space beneath the solitary window. She closed the shutters again and latched them, satisfied that the air was a bit more breathable now. When she had finished, she rapped a knuckle on the timber wall. “Something solid,” she said. “Are you expecting trouble?”
“Aren’t you?”
Riella pursed her lips, caught out by his question. “From those soldiers? I wasn’t really, no.”
Beccorban grimaced as though he had swallowed something sour and waved a hand vigorously. “Those weren’t soldiers, just boys in armour, but you can bet they’re not alone.” He spread his hands. “If there are more of them, they won’t be far away, and maybe they will be better than unblooded fools.”
Riella caught herself playing with her sleeve and stopped. “You think that more of them will come to Wort?"
“It’s the only place out here and some might want a rest, a warm bed, and a belly full of ale. If these idiots have friends, it would be best to be alert. It’s always best to be alert. After all, they did say they were looking for someone. How many people can you catch with four men?”
“They were searching for you.”
He nodded. “And they’ve found me. Others will too.”
“I thought you killed the others.”
“Some of them, yes,” he said, and when he did not continue, Riella went on.
“Why not leave now?”
He smiled ruefully. “Because old men need rest sometimes.”
Riella looked at her feet. “I’m sorry I mocked you. It was rude of me.”
Beccorban laughed. “I am old, older than you, older than I was yesterday, and tomorrow I shall be older still. Now,” he said, leaning backwards, “I’m going to shut my eyes for a bit. I’ll move later and you can have the bed back, but I’d forgotten how seductive a feather mattress can be.”
