A Night of Discord
Remus hated the soft bed that enclosed him. The beautifully embroidered blankets were too smothering for his tastes, and he had cast them to the floor as he lay sinking into the deep bed. He was not used to such luxury and the comforts offered by Lord Tobin’s town house. It had become his prison for too long and now he longed to move on. Hopefully, it would not be before he was hale enough to leave. Though he was already well rested and healed and could move well enough now, but still tired easily. Remus knew it would be months before he was as strong as he once was, but he was stronger than he had been when he was carried, raving, off Rengor’s ship, three weeks ago.
He should have died of his wound, but Lord Tobin’s household made sure he was cared for. Everything was done for him, even the physician, a man called Kimper was paid for. That old hawk of a bone saw with his mercurial eye, was not like the butchers and barber surgeons Remus was used too. His tools were sharp and clean, and his methods were effective. Kimper had insisted that his patient be fed plain food of good quality. It had been good to be cared for in such comfort, but Remus was a man of action. His life had been one of constant movement, from city to city, and land to land. He was becoming impatient with rest. A lifetime of sleeping in barns, under hedges or, if he was lucky, in tents had rendered him unsuitable for soft comfort. He wanted to be done with this place
It wasn’t that he was ungrateful, by no means. He should have died of that bloody, infected wound that the falchion wielding bastard had sliced into his side. It was not the worst wound he had received in his career, and he was used to working with injury, and knew how to care for them, but the journey over the mountains and the Islinor border had been tough. The wound had become a blackened stinking mess by the time he reached Pavil. He had enough strength and wits left to negotiate a boat from that old bastard Rengor. Yet, as the ship left the harbour he began to sicken quickly and soon he was insensible
He had woken in this soft bed a few days after landfall. Remus soon learnt from the servants that he had been carried to a house owned by Lord Tobin Valnis. The house was in the select Beechwood area. He remembered it well from his childhood. It was an area that waifs and thieves like him were quickly chased out of by the watch. It was an old part of the city, full of small elegant, stone built buildings that had fallen out of fashion. The fashionable now built homes around King’s Hill close to the King’s Tower. Those homes were often built in the Belthic fashion. The white walled homes built around a large garden, were often faced in white marble, and engraved entablatures and pillars. Those building always made Remus think of some awful sickly, confection made of sugar. He preferred the solidity of the houses in Beechwood, and he wondered why Tobin, a powerful and wealthy man, had elected to keep his household here.
Lord Aran had come to see him a handful of times, and he had been amazed to find out that Aran was a member of one of the oldest and most powerful families in of the Golden isles. The young lord had been friendly, but awkward. Aran was not comfortable talking to a commoner, Remus felt, and his eyes had a haunted look Remus had seen in many a veteran. The boy would do well to hang up his sword, he thought. Aran had finally left for his estates in the north, and the goodbye had been typically formal and stiff. Tobin was a different beast, and one Remus recognised. The master of the house had visited him several times over the weeks, and he had grown to like Tobin. Despite his wealth and breeding he dressed plainly and seemed relaxed in the company of a commoner. His servants seemed in awe of him, and he had an aura of calm authority. He had brought a chessboard a few times and they had played, though Remus invariably lost. He had enjoyed the short conversations he had with the man, and he was impressed with Tobin’s obvious intelligence and almost old fashioned civility. Last night the general had briefly visited him, and he had thanked him again for bringing Aran home, for risking his life. He had given Remus a promissory, note to be delivered to the Royal Bank when he was well. Remus had choked on his one tankard of ale when he read the amount of sovereigns the man had given him. It was well in excess of the sum he had negotiated with the Aran! Remus could easily live of the money for the rest of his life, and live comfortably, if he was careful. Tobin waved away any thanks with genuine modesty, simply saying, ‘Some debts cannot be paid in gold, but this I think, will go some way towards it.’
Remus felt guilty about Tobin’s generosity. He had helped Aran mostly for his own self-preservation and for profit. There must have been something of that guilt on his face for Tobin to read. The general put his hand on Remus’s shoulder and simply said, ‘I have been a soldier most of my life, Remus. I dislike false comforts and courtesy. I prefer the company of soldiers to many a fine gentleman, and I understand mercenaries well. The Honourable Company were brave, skilled and did not deserve to be cut down as they were by the Cathan.’ Smiling softly, he continued, ‘You were a wounded, hunted man. I too have knowledge of that, and that is when you find real bravery. Not in crowds of men after a victory, or alehouse warriors, or thugs standing over the weak. But when the die has been cast in ill favour, and you must struggle to live with mischance. That’s when you see the real man.’ You may have had your own reasons for helping Aran, but the results of your actions have made his father and I happy men. Also you may have delayed, a war without even realising it.’ He broke out into a large smile and patted Remus on the shoulder. ‘So take the money and spend it as you will, and do not think of yourself poorly for taking it.’
Remus stuttered a rough, ‘Thank you,’ and, for the first time in his life, wished he had been taught to speak like a lord, so he could frame some elegant response, but he had none to give.
Tobin stood then, and as he began to leave, he said, ‘I spoke to Kimper. He believes you will soon be ready to leave. He is impressed by your speed of recovery. Once you are well enough, we will arrange lodgings for you, and then you may do as you will.’ Walking towards the door Tobin added, ‘I will visit again,’ and quietly left the room.
For a moment Remus stared at the closed door. Part of him wanted to leave the money there, to simply and modestly take his leave when he was well. He had helped Aran for gain, and this Tobin had seen through it and simply did not care. But more than that he had understood why Remus had done it. It was almost like he had reached into his mind and opened it up like a cheap book and quickly read its contents
He had heard of Tobin Valnis. Who in his trade had not? The Wolfhound, they called him because of his family crest. The soldier who at eighteen had led the charge of Cranick Pass in the Northlands against the clans. The man who had, at twenty five, been promoted by King William to the role of Kings General, where he had continued to have an illustrious career. Tobin had won a score of battles against the enemies of the Golden Isle. Remus had known many generals. Few had impressed him. Most were blustery, arrogant and overbearing back stabbing politicians. Yet Tobin was different, he had a quiet, almost contemplative authority, and an almost supernatural ability to read men. It was said he didn’t fight armies; he fought the mind of the enemy general. Remus could believe all he had heard, now that he had met the man.
Remus had spent a sleepless night, thinking about his life and how he had got here. He had to admit that while he had done much he could be proud of, there was much to be ashamed of. All through the next day his mind was in turmoil, and he began to wonder if he had, perhaps, lived too long as a soldier. Maybe it was time to live a better life? But, he would miss the excitement and danger, and what could he do instead? Marry a woman, to grow fat and bored? Finally, he had retired to bed, but he found no comfort as his mind refused to silence the doubts that now kept him awake.
He didn’t know how long he had lain there when, he was startled from his restless sleep. It sounded like a scream and the sound of a window being smashed somewhere in the street? Laying still in the dark for a moment he listened carefully, unsure if it had been but a dream. Then he heard a man’s cry of pain, and the sound of other men shouting. He smelt burn
ing, and he heard more smashing of windows. Someone was cursing, a Stews accent, a man screaming in pain, laughter and shouting.
Ignoring the sudden, lancing pain, of his wounded side he fought off dizziness and pulled himself out of the bed. Every instinct in his body warned him of some impending danger. Carefully, he peered out of the small window that overlooked the select street. He swore as he saw the chaos in the street below. He watched an expensive carriage being turned over by a baying mob. The horses, a symbol of power and wealth, cried out in pain as they were hacked to death by angry commoners. The passengers, lords by the look, were dragged out and beaten savagely. Others ran down the street throwing torn up cobblestone through windows. Further down the street, he could see the red glow of a fire. Over the last few days he had heard the servants muttering about trouble in the Stews, and that it hadn’t been safe to travel through it. Something about Cathan and taxes. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the gossip. Below the window he heard the sounds of men thumping heavily on the doors of Tobin’s home. Time to move he thought. He rushed to his clothes and hurriedly dressed, ignoring his dizziness and pain. He doubted the mob would care if he was injured, and he had no intention of being in the house when the mob finally broke in.
Swiftly, he stuffed the promissory note into his belt pouch and cursed again for not having a blade or a weapon of any kind. But maybe that was well, it would force him to flee. Even full strength no one man was match for an angry mob. Damn it! He thought this sort of thing happened in the Stews, not in this part of the city! For violence to spill out into Beechwood, the Stews must have been pushed to breaking point. Riots weren’t uncommon in Thornsreach, but usually the poor just burnt their own shitty little homes, stinking alehouses and shops. An act that just seemed to Remus to make their misery worse, but this was different. This seemed more focused, somehow more angry than usual.
Remus opened the bedroom door and poked his head out into the darkened landing. No one seemed to be around. A thunderous boom filled the house as something heavy hit the oaken doors at the front of the house. The doors would be hard to break down, but, by the sounds of it the mob had found a battering ram of sorts to use. He didn’t know how long the door would last. Remus figured he would leave by the gardens and the rear delivery door. It led out into an alleyway that had plenty of places to hide and plenty of exits. Then, all he had to do was lie low until the watch regained control.
He moved down the stairs cautiously and made for the rear of the house. Passing a closed door he heard voices behind it. Then he heard a baby cry out, and a woman hushing the babe. For a moment he continued, ignoring the crying baby, then he saw Tobin’s face pass over his mind’s eye, the calm authority, the simple kindness and sense of honour. What if it was his family or even one of the servants that had cared for him so carefully hiding terrified in the room he had just passed by? Hating himself for it he spat out, ‘Fuck it’, and walked back down the corridor towards the sound of the baby and opened a door. He felt a rush of air, then heard the all too familiar twang of a crossbow bolt as it flashed past his head to smash dully into the plastered wall opposite. Ducking quickly, he shouted, ‘Don’t shoot; I’m here to help you!’
‘A sick man, with no weapon or armour? Some hero you are,’ said a young woman, who was dressed fashionably as if she was at a dance. She had long dark, hair and, of more interest to Remus, a still loaded crossbow pointed at his chest.
Another woman, older, around thirty, stood with the other crossbow. She was quickly, clumsily trying to reload it. It was Tobin’s wife, Angela, a pretty air head, who he suspected had not fired the shot that had nearly killed him, but had been passed the crossbow to reload it by the dark haired woman. A serving girl knelt behind them, with a babe in her arms. Remus recognised the baby as Malcolm, and a toddler, that held the maid’s skirt in terror, as Sebastian. Both Tobin’s sons. Two manservants, no more than boys stood in front of the children, holding cudgels. They were both trying to look fiercely at Remus, but he could see the fear in their eyes. Yet, he noted, they had not run, as he suspected the rest of the household had. The only sword he could see, was in a belt around the shapely hips of the young girl. He grinned to himself that he still noticed such things, even in these circumstance. It looked like they were standing in some kind of library, not that he had a lot of experience when it came to places of study.
Another crash echoed through the house as the battering ram continued its work. Glancing to the windows he noticed the shutters had been closed and locked. That was something good at least.
‘Well, say something, man!’ said the dark haired girl. Behind her Angela let out a cry of dismay as the crossbow bolt fell out of its housing, to clatter onto the wooden floor.
‘Aye,’ said Remus. ‘Maybe I’m no hero, but I know when to fight and when to run, and its time to run. Those bastards are going to break in. You should come with me.’
‘We’re not running, you can act the coward. My brother will come for us.’ So she was Melissa, the young sister of Tobin, he realised. A noble women used to getting her way, and dumb enough to believe two loaded crossbows could stop a mob.
‘Your brother will have to fight his way through a rioting city. Even with an armed escort that’s going to take time. Look ...’ His words were cut off by another boom, and this time he heard wood splinter. The door was giving way and this wench wanted to argue.
The maid with the baby started to cry, as did the toddler at her skirts. The two servants looked terrified, as did Tobin’s Wife. They would flee, but this girl was defiant, and she seemed to have become their leader. Was she simple, or just too naive to know what a mob would do with a pretty young woman like her?
Before he could reason with her, Angela surprised them all by stepping forward. ‘What do you want us to do?’ she asked. Melissa looked like she was about to protest, but was cut off by Angela. ‘I’m the lady of the house, this man was the one who rescued Aran, and I would hear his advice.’
In relief Remus nodded to the woman and said ‘We go out the back way, through the gardens. Come on!’
He quickly moved back out into the corridor, and the rag-tag group followed close behind. As they moved they heard the battering ram strike home, and this time the splintering noise was louder and they heard a cheer of victory. Remus knew the doors had finally given way and men were pouring into the front of hall of the house, the smashing of plates, glass and furniture confirmed that. If they were lucky the mob would be distracted by their own carnage long enough to give them time to get out of the house.
Remus had become familiar with the layout of the house. He knew the quickest way to the gardens was a narrow corridor that led to a service door that opened out on to the gardens. Reaching the long narrow corridor he stood at its entrance and motioned for one of the manservants to lead the way. They fled past him, and he followed them half-way down the corridor, and then stopped and turned to face the front of the house. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw one of the lads with the cudgels opening the door that led out to the garden. He waited for them to make their way out of the house as he held his ground. Remus would buy them time if they needed it
As the last of their pathetic little group passed through the door out into the gardens he was about to turn and leave, when he heard coarse drunken laughter from the far end of the corridor. A group of four drunken men burst in from the hall. They were laughing and shouting as if in an alehouse and held their makeshift weapons eagerly. One cried out mockingly, ‘Anyone home?’
These fools must have started exploring the house before the rest of the mob was done destroying and looting the halls and rooms to the front, Remus thought.
He remained still and calmed his nerves. In the light of the candles that illuminated the corridor the thugs soon saw him standing there. The one in front, a large brute with a shaved head and a fat neck, saw him first, and pointed an arming dagger at him, and sneered with contempt. ‘What the fuck is that?’ he asked his comrades
.
Remus noticed the arming dagger was a foot long double-edged blade with two sweeping quillons, designed to catch blades. Far too expensive for this street trash to own. Stolen, no doubt, and a deadly weapon in skilled hands, but this fool held it like a butcher’s cleaver.
‘Fucking dead ‘e is, that’s what!’’ said a weasely looking man in filthy garments.
With a roar of rage they came charging down the narrow corridor towards him. They came without plan, and Remus was waiting for them. He had picked this spot well, he knew only one thug at a time could reach him, and he could only be attacked from the front. A familiar calmness enveloped Remus, and he felt his heart slow and his breathing become more relaxed. It was always like this when he fought. A calm silence filled him, a silence that often unnerved his enemies. Most men roared or shouted a curse to bolster their spirits, to add strength to their courage, but with Remus it was always silence. He did not understand why he could remain so calm when it was time for violence, but he never questioned it, he used it
It was the large shaven-headed man that reached him first. Snarling like a beast with spit frothing at his cracked lips he tried to thrust the blade into Remus chest. With a speed that surprised the brawler, Remus twisted a little to his left. The blade punched through air, as Remus gripped the man’s right wrist and elbow with both hands. In one fluid, practised movement he pulled up the wrist and pushed down the elbow. It happened so fast that for a moment the fat necked man didn’t even feel his arm break as he found himself crashing face first into the corridor’s wall. His forehead left a bloody smear on the white washed stone as he fell.
Quickly Remus fell to one knee and swept up the fallen arming dagger, as the second man charged in, cudgel raised. In one graceful movement the mercenary stood and stepped into the charging mans path and thrust out the knife. The blade tore through the thug’s abdomen, and punched up into his lungs. Remus viscously pulled the dagger out with a twist, and blood sprayed out as the man went tumbling backwards with a gargling scream. The third man crashed into the second as he tumbled to the floor. He hesitated in shock and fear, and didn’t have time to react as Remus stepped in and gripped him by his jacket. The thug dropped his knife in terror, and pissed himself as Remus pulled him onto the blade he thrust through his throat with a brutally efficiency. The fourth man had stopped in horror as he was confronted by the sudden butchery of the corridor. Staring gape-mouthed, he made eye contact with Remus and saw the devil in them. Screaming, he fled back down the corridor wanting no part of Remus’s art.
Wintersong Page 9
