by J. V. Jones
Mistake number two had been transferring the items that he needed from the heavy leather bag to the lighter cloth sack, for his supplies were now as wet as himself. So he was now reduced to eating damp drybread: contrary to popular belief, it didn’t benefit from a soaking.
Mistake number three was where he had left his supplies: out in the open where anyone could spot them. Yesterday it hadn’t seemed important: they were dead weight that needed to be dropped as soon as possible. Today they were signposts that could point to who he was, where he was going, and most importantly of all, the identity of the people who had helped him on his way. Large was the Wadwells’ trademark, and if he had learned that spending less than one day with them, then everyone in the surrounding countryside was bound to know it, too. One look at the size of the ointment jar, the length of the bandages, and the diameter of the cheese would be enough to seal their fates.
How could he have been so stupid? Jack threw the drybread on the ground. It landed soundlessly, cradled by a bed of wet leaves. He had to learn to think before he acted. Standing up, he kicked at the bed of leaves, sending them flying into the air. Green and newly budded, stripped from the tree by cutting rain, they slumped heavily back to earth. Sometimes even thinking was dangerous.
Strangely enough, his fever had actually subsided. Jack felt more clear-headed than he had in weeks. The gentleness of nature seemed to act like a salve. Raindrops gathering mass on the underside of branches flashed with simple brilliance when plump enough to fall. The many greens of spring were soft on the eye and even softer underfoot. Everywhere the sound of water dripping, running, and pooling could be heard. It competed with the calls of small animals and birds. Most of all it was the smell. Fresh and old in one, the scent of new leaves and ancient earth mixing in mist-damp air. Jack’s lungs were full of it, his blood ran with it, and gently it pushed against the outside of his skin.
Muscles that a day before had been tense and sore were now relaxed and merely tender. Dog bites had flattened and dried, and wounds had lost their fester. Even the gash in his chest felt better, the pain not so biting, the terrible itch of knitting flesh and bones now no more than a simple irritation.
How much was nature’s work and how much Mrs. Wadwell’s was impossible to tell. At the end of the day, Jack supposed, looking over the expanse of tangled woodland, it was all one and the same.
Time to be on his way. The sack, which he swung over his left shoulder, was so saturated with water, it dripped. Pork, drybread, nuts, fresh clothing, a few good knives, and his bedroll were all contained, wetly, within. In fact the whole thing was now almost twice as heavy as before. Jack smiled grimly. No doubt about it, he was not cut out for adventures. Any self-respecting hero would have known rain was on its way, built a suitable shelter in a matter of hours, and buried the remaining supplies in an unmarked grave. Instead, here he was, shoes squelching with every step, hair plastered to his skull, and body weighted down with a sack full of little else but water.
Jack looked up past the branches to the sky. An unremarkable gray met his eyes. It was impossible to tell which way the light came from. “Head east and then northeast,” Mrs. Wadwell had said. “Follow the brook upstream.” Well, he’d found the brook; it was behind the group of hazel and hawthorn bushes that he was heading toward, but judging from the noise, it was no longer a bubbling woodland brook but rather a raging torrent of purposeful water. Now all that remained was to follow its path downstream.
He wasn’t ready to leave Halcus and the garrison town just yet. He had business to attend to with certain people in a certain well-appointed cottage which, as best as he could gauge, lay several leagues to the west.
• • •
A few hours later Jack fell under the shadow of the garrison. Rain diluted the sweat on his forehead, sending it streaming off the end of his nose and down his neck into his tunic. He judged he was near the place where the tunnel had ended before someone had sealed it up with dirt and stone. The place where Tarissa said she would wait for him. The place where he had been betrayed.
Jack knew better than to pursue such thoughts. Too dangerous by far, especially here, with the blackened walls of the garrison looming high in the distance. It was neither the time nor the setting for a second disaster. So he buried his hurt deep, binding it away from the light of his thoughts, afraid that even as little as recalling the curve of Tarissa’s cheek, or the sheen of her chestnut hair, might spark the fire within.
The woods in these parts were patrolled. Rovas had told him that, and his own observations confirmed it. Footprints freshly embedded in the mud and wads of snatch spat to either side of the path told of guards passing not long ago. Less than two days after the fire, they were bound to be on the alert. Jack slipped from the path and into the bushes. Thorns tore at his britches and barbed branches caught at his sack. His chest was aching badly now; the long walk and the weight of the supplies had finally taken their toll. A mouthful of brandy might help. If he remembered rightly, there was a pewter flask in his sack, and he was pretty sure that Mrs. Wadwell would have filled it with some of the pale gold liqueur. Ducking down amongst the undergrowth, he hunkered in the dirt to search through his belongings.
The second his bottom landed in the mud, footfalls sounded. Twigs crackled underfoot. The drizzling rain cut visibility down by half. Voices, muffled, distant, filtered through the mist.
Jack drew in a deep breath and settled lower in the bushes. Slowly, he reached for his sack. “Mistake number four,” he whispered to himself: not carrying a knife at his waist. His hand felt for the sharpness of blade. Under pork and flask, resting at the bottom in a porridge of drybread and rainwater, his hand closed around a wooden shaft. He drew it out a finger’s breadth at a time, careful not to disturb the surrounding contents.
The voices drew nearer. Casual talk at first: complaints about the rain and their superior officer. Jack dared not look out from the bush. He wiped the knife against a branch, scraping wet lumps of drybread from the blade. The handle wasn’t important.
He knew the moment the voices died away that his tracks had been found. The guards were playing it shrewdly, not giving him the chance to escape by raising the alarm. Picturing them following the tracks to the bushes, Jack raised himself onto the balls of his feet, still crouching, yet ready to pounce.
To the right, the bushes began to rustle. Sharp whispers were exchanged. Steel slithered against leather. Jack tensed his muscles.
“Who goes there?” came a voice, nearer than he had expected.
Jack sprang up from the bushes. Two guards faced him, swords drawn. For an instant their faces registered fear. A second later they were upon him. The first man sprang forward, whilst the second took the flank.
Up came his knife, more a probe than an attack. Rovas’ advice played like a commentary in Jack’s ear: “Never panic. Remember, the other man is always at least as scared as you.” Nothing about two men, thought Jack. Or was there? Divide and separate seemed to fit the bill.
Stepping forward, his foot brushed against the sack. His mind grasped a possibility. Almost before the idea formed in his head, he had done it. Jack kicked the sack with all his might, sending it flying into the chest of the first man. Not pausing for an instant, he sidestepped to face the second guard. Tiny drops of rain rested atop his oiled mustache.
Rovas was in Jack’s ear. “Do anything to throw your opponent off guard: dance, laugh, cry. Anything.” An earth-shattering primal scream sounded, and it took Jack a moment to realize that he, himself, had made the noise.
Leaping on the second man, Jack brought him to the ground. His knife was embedded in the man’s sword arm before he knew it. Blood gurgled onto the mud. The man flailed his sword and tried to knee him in the vitals. Jack sprang up to avoid the knee. Landing straight down again, knife carrying the momentum of his entire body, he stabbed the man in the heart.
Whip-quick he was on his feet. The entire contents of the sack were strewn over the bushes. Nervo
us, circling, the first guard kept his distance. “Feign a weakness to encourage a careful man to attack.” Blood from the dead guard ran down Jack’s side. He stumbled to the left as if injured, righted himself, and then came forward, favoring the opposite side. The gleam of weakness perceived flashed in the guard’s eye.
Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Jack concentrated on watching the line of the guard’s body. He was about to attack to the left, he was sure of it. The instant the guard made his move he was ready. The man’s sword jabbed straight for the bloodstain. Jack spun toward it, left fist clenched, and punched the hand that held the hilt. How he managed it, he would never know. It was perfect timing and placement. He hit the hand with such force that the man lost his grip on the blade.
“Never pause to admire your handiwork, no matter how brilliant the move.” Jack lunged forward. The guard ducked, hand scraping in the mud in search of his sword. Thrown off balance for an instant, Jack looked up to see a thin streak of light heading toward him. The guard had thrown the blade. Launching himself into the air, Jack leapt to the side. He felt the graze of metal on his shin bone, and then pain exploded in his chest as he landed, shoulder first, in the mud.
The guard was on him before he knew it. No longer with sword, he was brandishing a large wet rock. Heaving it high above his head, he made ready to slam it into Jack’s face. “When you’ve been grounded by a foe, always go for his knees.” Jack’s leg shot out, he didn’t get the knee, but he got the shin. The guard stumbled backward, attempting to regain his footing. Holding the knife in front of him, Jack tried to stand. Just as he gathered momentum, his foot slipped and he was sent hurtling toward the guard. The man’s groin was on a level with his knife.
Jack cringed as the blade went in; he had planned to get him in the chest. The guard screamed and screamed again. Blood welled over his thighs, soaking his britches. The rock fell from his hands and landed harmlessly by his side. Standing now, Jack aimed his knife with care. Straight for the heart this time, a nice clean blow. The second the knife was out, the guard slumped to the ground.
Pain throbbing in his chest, shaking from head to foot, and dangerously close to panicking, Jack began to run. He had to get away. Two men dead: their screams sounding in his ears, their blood on his clothes—Rovas had done a fine job.
Not stopping to pick up the strewn supplies, he fled from the fight scene. Racing through mud and brambles, jumping over logs and branches, he ran until the pain was too much. A sticky warmth close to the top of his tunic told him that the arrow wound had reopened. Slipping the knife into the rope that formed his belt, Jack pressed hard against the wound with his free hand. He counted to a hundred ten times before he let his hand down. The bleeding had stopped. The fabric of the tunic was stuck to his chest. Grimacing, he let it be.
He walked slowly now, every step a concentrated effort of muscle and willpower. Without realizing it, he had drawn nearer to the garrison. Through thinning trees he spotted the gray stone walls. Ahead lay the road and the main gate. The gatehouse no longer had roof or timbers. The top layers of stone had toppled to the ground. They lay in a blackened heap surrounded by soot. Something bright caught Jack’s eye. At first he thought it was a flag. Drawing nearer, he made out the freshly logged lines of a gibbet. A man in a red coat swung from its upper beam. Slowly the rope turned in the wind, and even from a distance, Jack recognized the face of his short-lived cell mate, Bringe. The man had lied himself into a hanging.
Jack had little sympathy for him.
A sharp blast of air buffeted his body, chilling him to the bone. Turning away from the garrison, Jack spied two hills on the horizon. Lit by sunlight escaping from a break in the clouds, they looked strangely familiar. He stood and stared at them for a moment before realizing that for months he had looked at them from the other side. Rovas’ cottage lay nestled in the valley behind.
Checking that the road was clear, Jack sprang across it, quickly making for the shelter of the woods. He walked for hours.
The rain stopped, the temperature dropped, and the woods thinned to a single line of trees; Jack hardly noticed. He had his sights set on the joining point between the two distant hills, and reaching it was all that mattered.
• • •
Tavalisk regarded the artichokes carefully. The look of them was the thing. It told one all one needed to know about the softness of the yellow flesh within. The broad flat bottom must sit with a certain indolence upon the platter. Like an aging whore, it must be ready to yield. The thorny leaves at the top of the bud should look like the devoted at the confessional; their desire to reveal their secrets so great that one could see them, ripe, upon their lips.
The archbishop raised a choosing hand above the platter. They all looked so good that he was about to resort to one posy, two posy, when in walked Gamil.
“No knock!” Tavalisk’s voice was high with anger.
“Such news, Your Eminence.” His aide was short of breath.
“There is no news, Gamil, that is so important it warrants an invasion of my privacy. No news at all.” Tavalisk turned back to his artichokes. “Now kindly wait until I bid you speak.”
The archbishop grabbed at the nearest specimen. Testily he plucked at the outer leaves, casting them aside. He would not deign to scrape them between his teeth like a poor man. He was only interested in the heart. For good measure, he threw a few Gamil’s way, making sure that they were good and greasy first. Warm olive oil was near impossible to remove from silk.
The heart emerged, urine yellow, glistening like a jewel. Tavalisk dropped it upon his tongue, where it came as close to melting as any vegetable ever could. “I think you’d better go ahead and speak, Gamil,” he said, picking a second artichoke from the platter, “for holding your peace ill suits you. You look like a Marls sausage—badly stuffed and lacking in meat.” In truth, Tavalisk was rather eager to hear the news, but it wouldn’t do to betray that fact to his aide.
“Our four-city force intercepted a messenger heading to Valdis. He was carrying a note addressed to Tyren himself.”
“Who was it from? The duke of Bren? Baralis?”
“It was neither signed nor sealed, Your Eminence, but the messenger spoke with a kingdoms’ accent and his livery was crested in gold.”
“Give me the letter.” In his excitement, Tavalisk actually wiped his hands on his own robe.
Gamil pulled a roll of parchment from his scribing bag and handed it to the archbishop.
After several moments of study, Tavalisk put it down on his desk. “You realize that this letter is from Kylock?”
“I thought as much, Your Eminence.”
“From what I can gather, he has entered into an agreement with Valdis. Tyren is sending knights to Halcus to fight on his behalf, and in return Kylock is promising the knighthood exclusive rights to northeastern trade and a cut in the spoils of war.”
“I think the deal has already been struck, Your Eminence. Just this morning I received a report from Camlee, telling of forty score of knights passing through on their way up north.”
“And our four-city force let them pass?”
“We had little choice, Your Eminence. Our forces were spread out and there were too many to attack.”
“Hmm.” Tavalisk began plucking at a third artichoke. “Were they well armed?”
Gamil nodded. “War horses, full armor, steeled to the hilt.”
“So by the looks of things they were heading for a battle?”
“It would appear so, Your Eminence.”
Reaching the heart, Tavalisk pounded it to a pulp with his fist. “It seems that the newly crowned king is full of surprises. First the invasion and now a secret treaty with Tyren. Young Kylock is turning out to be quite the dark horse.”
“What does Your Eminence intend to do about this?”
“Well,” said Tavalisk, scraping the pulp from his hand, “making the document public will do little good. It’s not signed, so therefore it’s worthless—Kylock wi
ll simply deny he ever sent it.” He poured himself a glass of wine. “However, it would be interesting to see the letter fall into the duke of Bren’s hands. I’m willing to make a bet he knows nothing of this alliance, and once he learns of it . . .” Tavalisk shook his head “. . . who knows what he’ll do.”
“It certainly puts him in a difficult position, Your Eminence. He is a well-known supporter of the knighthood and everyone will come to the conclusion he asked Tyren to help Kylock.”
“Undoubtedly you are right, Gamil. When this news comes to light, the duke of Bren will look like he’s secretly working to bring Halcus to its knees.” Tavalisk took a long gulp of wine. He was beginning to feel rather excited. “Annis and Highwall won’t like this one bit. They’ll take it as proof that the duke is planning a grand northern empire: Bren, the kingdoms, Halcus. It’s only a matter of time before their names will be added to the list.”
“Annis and Highwall are no longer arming in secret, Your Eminence. They have both taken to parading their soldiers in the city streets for all and sundry to see. Just last week we intercepted a cargo bound for Highwall: eight covered wagons stocked with resin, sulfur, and quicklime.”
The archbishop smiled. “The stuff of siege warfare,” he said. “How interesting. I hope we let them pass?”
“Only after sufficient toll had been taken, Your Eminence.”
“Toll?” The archbishop raised his glass to his lips only to find it empty. Had he drunk that much already?
“A wagon’s worth of the three. In the correct proportions, no less. The merchant seemed not to mind. He said more was on its way.”
“Is it indeed? Highwall seems intent on stocking up for a war.” Tavalisk ran his finger over the rim of the glass. “Mind you they have good reason to be, trapped as they are between Halcus and Bren.”
“If this letter were signed, Your Eminence, it would be enough to start a major war.”
“Oh, one will start anyway, Gamil. With Tyren’s help, Kylock will make it through to the capital. The knighthood have had men in Helch for over five years now—supposedly negotiating peace, if I remember correctly. Anyway, after all that time they are bound to know the castle’s defenses like the backs of their hands. And Tyren will certainly be feeding Kylock information along with manpower.” Tavalisk’s hand slipped on the glass and it fell to the tiled floor, smashing soundly.
