“Can we light a fire?” he said, hopeful.
“If we can find stuff dry enough to burn,” Stetland said, “we could light a small one near the entrance. It won't smoke us out there.”
“I'll help find wood,” Christian volunteered.
A search of the cave uncovered a fallen tree, perhaps dragged inside by past travellers seeking shelter and the warmth of a fire. They hacked bits off it with their blades and made a fire using the oil Stetland kept in his saddle bag. Minutes later, their shadows danced on the walls in the light of the flickering flames. Marcus held out his hands, palms forward, warming the skin there.
“So what's the plan?” Sir John said.
“We shelter here for the night,” Stetland said. “At first light, we set off. We'll journey around The Caves and arrive back at High Hunsley on its east side. If Volk's men have already left, then we’ll give them chase on the Great Road.”
“Some of the paths on the east side of The Caves are perilous,” Sir John said. “Given the ice, we may just end up breaking our necks.”
“We have little choice.”
“Perhaps,” Gladden said, “we should return to the west gate. If Volk’s men have already left the city then there’s a good chance the gates will be open to us. It would be less tricky than the path through The Caves.”
“But if they don't let us in then we've wasted even more time.”
“That settles it, then,” Sir John said. “We go around to the east gate at first light. Gods hope my mount doesn't lose its footing on those rocks, though.”
“That's not our only problem,” Stetland said. “On reaching High Hunsley, I was meant to send a bird back to Kingstown telling of our safe arrival. I fear that if King Bahlinger thinks us dead he'll send reinforcements. I'm sure the good folk of Kingstown will have learnt of the wizard bearer's disappearance by now and they'll be demanding swift and strong action. Bahlinger is likely to throw everything he has at High Hunsley.”
Sir John scratched his head. “Most of Kingstown's soldiers are tied up in the north, protecting towns and settlements.”
“Feasibly, how many men could Bahlinger send this way?”
“Perhaps a thousand, at a push. But that would be everything he has left.”
And that will leave Kingstown vulnerable to attack.
“Let's hope our business is concluded quickly tomorrow. Then we can put an end to this nonsense.”
Marcus's stomach rumbled. “Does anyone have any food?”
“I have a little bread in my saddle bag,” Stetland said. “I had imagined we'd be dining in High Hunsley tonight with Cassandra for company.” Stetland went to his horse and returned with a small round loaf. “This is the finest bread in all of Elt.” He tore off chunks and handed them round, giving Christian the first piece. “It was made by a miller and his wife in Everthorpe. I protected them from raiders who kept stealing their money. Now every time I visit the town they gift me a loaf.”
Marcus took a bite and was indeed surprised as to how good it tasted; crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. Just perfect.
“I think you should tell us a tale,” Marcus said. “To pass the time. Something with adventure. A true story, perhaps.”
“We really should be sleeping,” Stetland said. In the flickering light of the fire, he looked a little embarrassed.
“I'm too cold to sleep,” Christian said.
“Me too,” Marcus added.
“You don't want to disappoint your audience now, do you?” Sir John said, stroking his bushy moustache.
“I heard that you and my great-uncle Fabian,” Gladden said, “had many adventures full of guile and valour.”
“We had a few, that much is true.”
“Then how about one?” Marcus said.
There was further encouragement from them all.
Stetland held up his hands. “All right. Give me a moment to recall one, then.” Gladden threw a log onto the fire. The cave became brighter as the flames engulfed it. “I have many tales. Stories from across the seas to the north where trees walk the earth and a ring worn on a finger can give the bearer the greatest of powers. Stories from across the seas to the south where would-be kings battle for the throne and dragons live and breathe. But the one I have to tell you takes place closer to home.”
“Let's hear it, then,” Marcus encouraged.
“This tale demonstrates how using your mind can overcome an army, regardless of its size.” Stetland tapped his temple. “It takes place during the Northern Land War. Plenty died that summer, squabbling over farmland and cattle. It all began when the Men of the North, the so-called Savages, came down from the hills to seek food and water. You see, the summer was hot. The hottest for centuries. There were very few days of rain and any water that fell ran off the hills to the lower valleys. Their cattle died. Their wells ran dry. The Savages had a choice: descend from the hills or face certain death from starvation and dehydration.
“The people of the lower valleys were kindly folk, happy to spread the wealth in those desperate times. But Savages by their very nature are a greedy and brutal race of men. They came down from the hills and took want they wanted. Cattle were slaughtered for meat, women were ra—” Stetland's eyes, gleaming white in the campfire, rested on the young Christian “—kissed, passionately. Men were butchered, properties ransacked, even children were not spared.
“The great wizard Fabian and I, along with a small band of Kingstown soldiers, were assigned with the task of putting an end to the conflict. It became clear very quickly that negotiations were not going to work. I lost a dozen good men when talks went sour.
“We then attempted to drive them back into the hills, but their numbers were great and we were losing each and every battle we fought.
“It was then that we hatched a plan. We could not face them on the battlefield, we were outnumbered ten to one. Regardless of our skills with sword, we would die out there, we knew, leaving the poor folk of the valleys to endure further suffering. So, Fabian and I, acting as bait, led the full throng of the Savages' army into the heart of the farmland. They chased us on horseback, thinking that they would cut us down and have two heads, one a wizard – a great prize – to parade on their spikes. But we had other ideas. There was a crevice that split the hills, deep and narrow. They followed us into it, blind in their pursuit of blood. Fabian and I gave them the slip on one of the bends. We hid in a cave and watched them charge by, roaring with their spears and axes held high. But we were ready for them.
“The farmers of the valleys had packed the other end of the crevice with horses and livestock. The Savages had no choice but to pull up their mounts. Behind them, logs were dropped. We had trapped over five hundred braying Men of the North in that one single narrow crevice.
“Now, the men of the valleys were keen hunters. They had lined the top of the crevice with the best they had in the skill of arrow and bow. The Savages could do nothing but look up, begging for mercy. The men of the valleys showed none. One by one the Savages were picked off, until nothing was left but a pile of dead bodies.”
Christian was sitting open mouthed. “It was the Savages who attacked my village, wasn't it?”
Stetland nodded. “Savages are greedy. It wouldn't surprise me at all if they've joined Volk's cause.”
Gladden put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “These are difficult times, young man, but you are safe with us.”
Marcus hoped that were true. He had never faced combat, and despite his training he was worried he wouldn't be up to the task.
“Perhaps I should have chosen a different tale,” Stetland said. “But I wanted to show that although Volk's numbers are great, there's a lot to be said for mind over brawn.”
“Maybe we should get some sleep,” Sir John suggested.
“That's probably a good idea.” Stetland stood and snapped more branches from the fallen tree. “We'll keep the fire burning for as long as we can. It will keep us warm and ward off wild animals.
I think we should take it in turns to keep watch, too.”
“I'll go first,” Marcus said. He didn't feel much like sleeping. It was too cold and his mind was busy with thoughts of Gabel and the possibility of further skirmishes come the morn.
“All right,” Stetland said. “Wake me in an hour.”
Marcus sat by the fire, teasing it with a stick. He found the dancing flames hypnotic. He sat as close to the fire as he could, feeling the warmth burn his skin. When ten, maybe fifteen, minutes had past, he heard snoring from the back of the cave. Probably the wizard, he looks the snoring sort. Then, through the flames and the air it warped, he saw a figure. Standing, he reached for his sword, but stopped when the figure stepped closer, revealing itself in the warm light of the fire. It was a woman, naked, with flowing blond hair. Furthermore, he knew her.
Amber. The whore from The Warrens.
His eyes wandered down her body. Her blonde hair tousled over her shoulders, falling in gold-speckled spirals, stopping short of her breasts, which were plump and pert, the nipples of each set inside dark areolas, erect and proud. His eyes continued down her body, over her taut navel, resting on the hairless skin between her legs. He felt his body respond to the sight.
She looks so perfect.
She lifted a hand towards him. With her palm facing upwards, she curled her index finger, motioning for him to go to her. Marcus looked over his shoulder. The back of the cave was concealed by inky black fingers. Even so, he was sure everyone was sleeping. He looked back towards Amber. She stretched her full, red lips into a sultry smile, raising one corner of her mouth ever so slightly. Her eyes sparkled with the blue of a summer's sky. Marcus was crazy with lust.
He stepped around the fire towards her. Amber turned and stepped out of the cave and into the night. For a moment, Marcus admired the curve of her bottom, before she disappeared into the darkness and the mist of falling snow.
She must be freezing.
With one last nervous look around, Marcus followed her into the night. In an instant, the snow blasted the side of his face. He held a hand up to shield himself, but received little respite.
Where is she?
The cold was doing little to quell the lust-fuelled fire inside him. He stepped further into the night, knowing the entrance to the cave would be lost to him. But he didn't care. He wanted Amber, the whore from The Warrens.
Just as he thought he was going crazy and that he'd imagined it all, he glimpsed her flowing blond locks. She was standing by a smaller cave across the way. Trudging through the snow, his back arched and head down against the driving wind, he made his way towards her. By the time he reached the rocks on the other side of the path, she had disappeared into the cave. He quickly followed. With no fire to light it, the cave was dark. But he could see her leaning against the stone wall towards the back. She seemed to glow, a guiding beacon. Feeling hypnotised, as he had when staring into the flames of the campfire, he stumbled towards her, already loosening the string around his trousers. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to be inside her. As he approached her, she was still wearing the same sultry smile. How he wanted to kiss those lips like he had so many times before. She was standing with her left leg bent at the knee. As he stood within touching distance she casually parted the leg, exposing herself to him.
Marcus, breathing hard, reached out to touch her left cheek when a glint of metal blinded him. Then, the full length of a sword disappeared into the left side of Amber's head and emerged out the other in a tangle of blonde hair. He took a step backwards, the breath driven out of him. Amber began to scream, shrill and high-pitched. Half concealed in the shadows next to her, holding the sword still wedged in her skull, was Stetland Rouger. His face showed no remorse.
What has he done? What has the bastard done?
Marcus reached for his sword intending to slay the man who had ended Amber's life, when Stetland held up a hand towards him. Marcus paused, only momentarily, but it was long enough for Amber's face to contort and change. She was aging rapidly, he saw. Her hair, once the colour of sunshine, became thin, grey wisps that fell about her face like rats' tails. Her breasts shrunk to empty bags that hung from a chest laddered with protruding ribs. Her warm-coloured skin had turned blue-grey with dark blotches and weeping scabs. Her legs and arms were like bones with a thin covering of skin. And her face – Amber's beautiful face – was no more. Instead it had been replaced by a skeletal mask that had no discernible gender.
When the thing that was once Amber ceased its piercing scream and appeared dead, Stetland pushed the heel of his hand against its skull and pulled his blade free. The thing fell to the floor like it was no more than a bag of disconnected bones.
“Whoever you thought that was,” Stetland said, “it wasn't. That was a Soul Eater.” Marcus found it hard to say anything. He stumbled for the right words and the breath to say them with, but couldn't find either. “From the way you were looking at it and the way you were untying your trousers, I guess you saw a woman. Someone you know, right?”
“Amber,” Marcus said, finding his breath. “It was Amber Tilly.”
“It was no more than a wraith taking the form of someone it found in your mind. She probably looked perfect; more perfect than the real thing. Our minds have the habit of removing imperfections.”
Her scar, Marcus thought. Amber has a scar on her left cheek. The thing on the floor that had once taken the form of Amber hadn't had that telling scar. And part of Amber's index finger is missing. The thing beckoned me out into the snow with a full finger.
“You were lucky,” Stetland said. “If you'd kissed it, it would have killed you and taken your soul for its own.”
“How did you know I'd left the cave?”
“You don't live in the wilds for as long as I have without developing a sense for danger.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said, feeling embarrassed and scared at the same time.
“There are many dangers out here, Marcus. Keep your wits about you.”
Stetland placed his hand on Marcus's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze before leaving the cave. With one last glance at the heap of bones on the floor, Marcus followed.
CHAPTER 9
It was noisy in the brothel's downstairs room. It always was at this time of night. Mia's Brothel was one of the most popular establishments in The Warrens. Men of varying ages filled the room, pouring ale down their necks while groping the resident whores. Soon they would begin to drift off into the rooms upstairs, where the real business took place.
Amber Tilly was sitting at one of the many round wooden tables. She knew from experience that at some point during the evening ahead a table or two would be tipped over by brawling men, causing drinks to spill, which would in turn trigger further fights. The night was still young, though, and her table was currently occupied by several soldiers who were drunk but well behaved. One of them was a knight, she knew, for he had told her so several times. He was a bearded man of perhaps forty years. A few speckles of white plagued his beard. The man's name was Jasper Courcelle.
“Is Amber your real name, my dear,” he said. He took a swig of ale from his tankard. Some of it drooled from the corner of his mouth, wetting his beard.
“Yes.” Her father had given her the name because he thought her pure, like amber. How wrong he was. She was twenty-one years old and had worked as a whore since the age of fourteen. She did think her name apt, however, as it spelled the last part of the word 'bedchamber', a place where she spent most of her time.
“Tis a pretty name,” the drooling knight, Jasper, said.
Jasper was a Kingstown knight stationed at Low Drewton, he told her.
“Shouldn't you be keeping guard in your little town?” Amber said.
“Nah,” Jasper said, running the back of his hand across his beard to wipe away the drooled ale. “It can guard itself, at least for tonight, anyway. Besides, there's only eight of us. My soldiers and I have needs. You can't fight with full balls, my dear, distracts
the mind.” He tapped at his temple.
“So, tell me, Jasper, have any girls caught your eye this evening?” She knew he wanted her. She hoped he would have a few more ales and then part with his money before discovering his inability to get hard.
Jasper leaned forward, ale heavy on his breath. “I'm looking at her right now, although I'm seeing two, which would be fabulous if I believed it true.”
Amber ran her fingers through her long, blonde hair, as flirtatiously as she could, and then leant forward, brushing her nose against his. “I'm only one girl, but I fuck like two.”
Jasper's eyes grew wide. For a moment she thought his heart had given up. That had happened once to a gentleman she was entertaining, she remembered.
“Tell me, my dear,” Jasper said, when he'd recovered from the shock of her blunt tongue. “Where did you get that scar on your left cheek? It does nothing to lessen your beauty, but I'm curious, nonetheless.”
She touched the scar, feeling its raised ridge.
“It happened a long time ago.” Not so long, just a year. “Sometimes men have too much to drink and fight. Let's just say I got caught between a knife and drunkard.” It was a lie, but a well-rehearsed one.
“And your finger?” He looked down at her right hand and to her missing index finger.
“Another fight,” she said. “It makes me no less able to yank your cock, though.”
“I don't doubt it. I once met a woman with one leg. She fucked with twice the vigour, just to prove she was no less a woman.”
I don't need to prove anything, she thought, but continued to smile. “I'll yank you twice as hard, then.”
“How much do you cost, my dear?”
“Maybe too much for you.” She pushed her hair behind her left ear. This was all part of the game she was so used to playing. “Quality costs.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her ample chest.
Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 8
