by E. V. Greig
Elharan caught Naomi by her elbow before she could follow. “Let him go, Naomi. He is right to leave, and you know it. Do not cause him any further difficulty.”
“I’m not the one who leapt to conclusions here, Elharan!” Naomi’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “And I have no intention of worsening this situation, I can assure you.”
Ruiryk and Banor edged past them and tiptoed out of the guardhouse. “Get the feeling that those two are closer than a noblewoman and her guardsman ought to be, Banor?”
There was a blur of movement and then Ruiryk was somehow in a heap halfway across the courtyard. “Guard you your glib tongue, you troublesome type, and never let me hear you let slip such loose speech again as regards the Lady!” Misericord kicked Ruiryk sharply in the stomach to emphasise his warning.
“Misericord! Enough!” Naomi had appeared from the guardhouse. “Escort me to my chambers. I need rest, and I would have your counsel upon the way.”
“As my Lady wishes, so will I wander.” The masked man bowed and fell into step alongside Naomi, folding his arms neatly behind his back as he did so. The hound whined and bounded after them.
Banor dragged Ruiryk up. “Reckon they're all touched in the head, lad!”
Ruiryk groaned. “Let's just try to stop annoying them for a while!”
∞∞∞
Sherni regarded her captive. “You are awake, I see.”
Her voice clawed at him. Slo’annathorys groaned and rolled over, burying his face into the cold stone floor that he lay upon. “Damned wyrm – you shall pay for this!”
“I think not, mercenary. You are my prisoner, and you shall pay dearly for what you did!”
The sylvanth dragged himself to his feet and glared at his would-be captor. “I culled your brood to protect the people of this region. I shall make no apology!”
“They were but hatched, you murderous fiend! Helpless little wyrmlings – why, they could not yet even crawl far, let alone use their wings! You shall pay for their deaths, you and all those that you hold dear!”
“You would do well to keep away from my friends and family, wyrm.” Slo’annathorys tugged at his chains to no avail: they were cold iron and bolted securely to the floor. No hope of escape there.
Sherni laughed bitterly. “I have already slain your precious human mate! Now she walks the land as one of Vesqua’s servants, and hunts your little mongrel son as her prey! As to your friends, I shall deal with them as it suits me to.”
“I shall kill you for this!”
“You had your chance to kill me once, mercenary. You wasted it. Now you are going to spend the rest of your long life regretting that fact. You see, I do not mean to kill you. Oh no. That would be far too merciful a fate. I mean to let you live, knowing that from this moment forth, you are to blame for every ill thing that befalls those whom you love!”
∞∞∞
“Hugo! Wait! Where are you going?” Kaiwan ran after him towards the gate.
“I’m leaving to go and fight the agents of the Vor’Barysk. Stay here with your friends, and try to be something other than a sacrifice. Stop casting spells on people without their permission. Oh, and stop spreading rumours too. Words can be dangerous things, Kaiwan.”
She grabbed his arm. “Please, do not leave! I only answered him truthfully; I knew not that I had spoken wrongly until it was explained to me! I did not mean to cause such trouble for you, Hugo. I am sorry.”
“I know. I believe you. But nevertheless I’m going. It’s for the best.”
But I do not want you to go!”
“It’s my choice to make, girl! Now leave me be - run and grow up. Learn to be a woman, learn to be human, learn to be responsible, learn anything you wish, but don’t trouble me further.”
She loosed her hold on him. “I wanted to learn those things from you, Hugo.”
He ignored her and kept on walking. Soon the gate loomed behind him. Ahead of him lay the same lands that he had gazed over when he had exiled Bandhir only days before. Here and there were still signs of the restless dead: mercifully only dumb beasts and birds that had wandered out of the Vale. Most were already beginning to rot away; none were likely to pose any significant threat for they were slow and awkward. Of the wyrm there was still no sign. He supposed that the nhynquara would pose him the greatest danger, but he had already proven that he could defeat her. There was Bandhir too, of course. Hugo wondered whether he would ever encounter him again.
“You forgot your horse.” Hugo turned and saw another of Naomi's retinue standing there: the lanky par’dath that he recalled had been present upon his return from the Vale. He was struggling to control a familiar looking black stallion. “Captain Heideir Gyrfalcon, by the way.”
“I don't have a horse.”
Gyrfalcon shrugged. “Her Ladyship said to give you this one. So I suppose that makes him yours.” He offered Hugo the reins. “She said to tell you that his name is Waneve. Some sort of Fey bred brute: apparently you’re the only one that he hasn’t tried to kill yet.”
Hugo shook his head. “I won’t take her gift.”
“Trust me on this; she’s far more stubborn than you are.” Gyrfalcon belched and glanced at his pocket watch. “Look, just take the horse and go, before I miss my card game.”
“Tell the Lady Naomi that I’ve no need for her charity!”
“Oh tell her yourself, you ungrateful sod! I’ve a bloody card game to get to; I ain’t got the time to play at being your fucking errand boy!” Gyrfalcon tossed the reins at Hugo and loped off back into the keep.
Hugo stared at the horse. It stared back at him. “Waneve, huh? Waneve the killer Fey bred stallion. Oh joy, my life is turning into a badly written bardic romance.”
Waneve lifted his tail and farted. Then he deliberately trod on Hugo’s foot.
“Damn whatever bard thought that would be funny!” Hugo jerked the rein sharply and made the horse back up. “Fine. I’ll tell her myself then. Bloody nobles and their bloody stupid charity. How am I supposed to provide for a warhorse?”
He made his way back inside the keep and tethered Waneve. It occurred to him that he ought to pay his respects to Partola’s grave too before he actually left. She had been buried in the main crypt. Olef had informed him of that, after waiting for Hugo to finish his tirade. He supposed that he had treated the lad unfairly at that. It was a shame that he could not apologise to him now. “Damned hag, why did she attack him? And why did everyone blame me?”
“Because the hag framed you.” Elharan was waiting for him. “She stole your shirt and placed it in Olef’s hand after she killed him. And she used metal from your forge to do that too. She’s a smart one, for a hag.” The aged captain sighed. “So I take it that Lady Naomi has sent for you?”
“She sent her retainer after me with a horse. I intend to refuse her offer.”
“That's probably her intention, you know.”
Hugo scowled. “I don’t like to be played for a fool! Where is she?”
“In her chamber, resting, or more likely calming Misericord.” Elharan gestured. “Come on, I’ll take you to talk to her. Mind that's all you do.”
They entered the main tower together and climbed the stairs up to the living quarters, Elharan nodding to the guards as they passed them. Hugo eyed the finery that surrounded them. “I suspect that there are wyrms with poorer hoards than this! But why are none of the candlesticks paired? I noticed it the last time I was here too. Don't they always come in sets?”
Elharan chuckled. “Lady Naomi collects odd candlesticks. It’s a hobby of hers.”
“I suppose there are nobles that do worse.”
“Oh yes. Much worse.” Elharan nodded and pointed to a final staircase. “She’ll be up there. Be sure and knock first.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Nay, Master Khuff; I have work to be about! Enjoy your audience - and I wish you well upon your travels. I misjudged you, but I reckon that you’re right to leave. That temper
will only end badly.”
Hugo watched as the aged captain went back down the previous staircase. He wondered why Elharan was willing to allow him an unsupervised audience with Lady Naomi. Presumably he didn’t think so very lowly of him after all. Perhaps this was his idea of an apology. He sighed and made his way up to the Mistress of Briersburge’s chamber. “Lady Naomi, I’d speak with you, please.”
“Come in, it’s open.”
He pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Lady Naomi was seated by the window, toying absently with the ears of her hound. Misericord was nowhere to be seen. “I don’t want your charity.”
She shrugged. “It’s not charity. A horse is only a fair payment for your saving my uncle's life.”
“I see. I still can’t accept it.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because I don’t have the means to care for it - warhorses need shoes, and oats, and stabling.”
“Not that horse. Waneve is never to be shod, and he’ll be perfectly happy with whatever grass is available to him.”
“He’s clearly used to a stable.”
“He’ll adapt.” Naomi pointed to a small wooden chest. “Still, I knew that you would want to debate it. The rest of your payment is in there. If you mean to fight the Vor’Barysk, you’ll need equipment to do so.”
“So you did lure me back here.” Hugo glared at her. “Elharan said as much.”
“Oh, drat the fellow! Honestly, he spoils my surprises all the time. Look, be reasonable: you’ll need weapons and armour and coin too and never mind the usual equipment for a journey. It’s all in there.”
“What does a noblewoman know of such things? And how could you have armour to fit me so readily?”
“I’ve seen my share of adventures, Hugo. As to the armour, well it was going to be a thank you gift for dealing with Bandhir. I have a good eye for measurements, and my people are very diligent. They worked hard on crafting it. You could at least take a look.”
“Fine, I’ll look at it.” He opened the chest and lifted out a blanket, an iron cooking pot, a coiled length of rope, a simple cooking knife, some smoked meat, a whetstone, a flint and steel, and a small bag of coins. Underneath was a set of black leather armour, carefully oiled and folded. It had a matching scabbard for his sword. There was also a clean black silk shirt. “Huh. Silk?”
“Anthiri silk. It all but self cleans, it’s amazing really. They used to make it from these huge caterpillars...oh never mind. It wears well. You shan’t need to change it often. Which ought to suit you.”
“Are you always so damned impertinent?”
“Yes. Are you always so damned ungrateful?”
“Why should you care?”
“Because I thought to have raised you better than that.”
Hugo spun to face her, dropping the shirt as he did so. “What did you just say?”
“Let me tell you a story, Hugo. Once upon a time, there was a noblewoman who lost her memory and ended up in a slave caravan. There she met a dear little boy named Hugo Khuff, whose father had been killed by witchfinders. Little Hugo had seen the whole thing. He hid himself as his father had told him to, and once night had fallen, he crept out, gathered up his father’s hammer, and ran away as fast as his legs would allow him to. He was taken by slave-traders the very next day, and that is how he met the noblewoman. She was ill with fever, and little Hugo cared for her. At length she recovered from her fever, and the two of them escaped from the caravan. They made their way to the market town of Brexelhaft, and the amnesiac noblewoman took up work there as a seamstress, which kept a roof over their heads and food on the table. Little Hugo was apprenticed to the local smithy, where he worked the bellows in exchange for training. All was well, until little Hugo fell ill one day with the falling sickness. The town apothecary knew of a remedy that would help to prevent any further seizures, but it was costly. In desperation, the noblewoman took a second job in the town brothel, and that paid for the remedy. The brothel was in a different part of the same inn that they were already living in, so she was able to hide the truth of her extra work from little Hugo. In fact, he never knew a thing about her shameful career, until he turned sixteen and visited the brothel with his friends. Sorry, am I boring you? Perhaps you’ve heard it before?”
He stumbled to her side and dropped to his knees, resting his head on her lap. “Nami, you thought you were called Nami! But how can this be? You died! You died, saving my life – I buried you!”
“You chained my body to your father’s hammer and tossed me into the depths of a lake to prevent my being found and burnt by the witchfinders who had killed me. It was inventive, I grant you that. I understand that you escaped them and joined the army?”
“A mercenary took me on and trained me. But Nami – Naomi, how is this possible? You were dead! They slit your throat in front of me!”
“I got better.” She smiled and stroked his hair. “I still had amnesia though – in fact, I even forgot about you for a time. Dying often has that effect on me.”
“How did you come back? How did you get out of the lake?”
“I always come back: it’s in my nature. As to the lake, it took an age for poor Spellsnitcher to fish me out. He hates water, you know.”
“Spellsnitcher?”
“An old friend. He fished me out and took me to family to recuperate. Unfortunately, I still had amnesia and so whenever I woke up, I panicked. I climbed out of a window and ran away. Still, that’s a tale for another time. So – how is it that you come back?”
He held up his left hand. “Sylthal ring. Found it in an abandoned wyrm’s lair.”
“Hmm, I see. Well, that explains that. Now then, may I beg that you do not leave us forever, Hugo?”
“I will return, Naomi. I promise.”
“I am glad of that. By the way, Spellsnitcher also retrieved the hammer. It is in there too, beneath the armour. I expect that you will want it back?”
“I – you have my father’s hammer? Oathbinder – Gods, I had thought it to be lost forever!”
“I have often wondered why it was named so.”
“He used to perform weddings in his forge. The bride and groom would make their vows upon his hammer.”
Naomi nodded. “I see. So – is there any hope that I might send you away clean and well dressed?”
“You’ll keep on at me otherwise, so I suppose I’d best agree.” Hugo got to his feet. “But you haven’t aged a day, Naomi. The ring stopped me from ageing. What are you, that you remain forever young?”
“My family have long been students of necromancy, Hugo. I am the result of that: cursed, eternal, closer to the dead than to the living. I cannot bear my own children because of it, but I cannot die. And I shall never age a day further.”
“Does that mean that your uncle is a necromancer?”
“No, Uncle Ranulf was married to my mother’s sister. He is not of the Du’Valle lineage. He is an Isylth, yes, but not of death. Well, unless you count his fire spells.” She stood and took him by the hand. “Now come: you are to bathe and see to your hair and beard. My maid shall draw a bath for you.”
“Why is it that I suspect it has already been drawn?”
“I expect you’re just naturally suspicious by nature.”
“I’d wager it’s even at the right temperature.”
“Would you prefer it to be cold? Because I’m certain that we can arrange that for you.” Naomi shot him a look.
“You know, this reminds me of when I was a child. You were bossy then too.”
“And you were just as hot tempered as you are now, Hugo! I don’t suppose that you plan to work on that temper of yours?”
“I’ve tried to, Naomi. But I fear I’m only suited to war.”
“Stop being so damned melodramatic or I shall find you an even worse horse to take on your journey.”
“You don’t really grasp the nature of rewarding brave deeds, do you?”
“I refuse to enable terminal stupi
dity, if that’s what you mean.”
“Er – I did save you from Bandhir.”
“I’d been waiting for him to play his hand for months, Hugo. Sometimes it is easier to keep one’s enemy where they can be observed.”
“You’re utterly mad. I hope your uncle has a nice quiet tower lined up for you.”
“People tried that once already. I climbed out.”
Hugo chuckled. “Bloody damsel!”
“Wouldn’t that make you a brave and dashing young prince?”
“Aye well, I never did like fairytales.”
About the Author
E.V. Greig is a graduate of Queen’s University Belfast, and the co-founder of the literary e-zine A New Ulster. She has been actively involved within the Arts Community in Northern Ireland since 2001. Her debut work The Legend of Graymyrh is an Experimental High Fantasy Adventure, originally developed with the support of the Arts Council NI and National Lottery under SIAP 2013. This serialization is a revised edition of that work. Her novella series Bird Bright Shadows is what she terms as Cyphernoire: a Feminist friendly genre combining Science Fiction, Cyberpunk, and Espionage, with an underlying current of BDSM.
