by J. V. Jones
Jack continued building the fire. “I’ve assumed we’ve been followed for the past week now.”
“Is it something you’ve sensed?”
“Not sorcery, if that’s what you mean, Tawl.” Jack placed a pointed emphasis on the word sorcery.
Tawl accepted the reprimand. He deserved it for not speaking plainly. “Why, then?”
“Because Baralis has ways of knowing what people are up to. He can follow their trails if they use sorcery.” Jack threw the last of the logs on the fire. “And because he’s tracked me down more than once before.”
A cool wind blew through the flames. The sun slid behind the hills to the west and the last of the day went with it. The horses nickered softly, then turned their attention back to the grass. Tawl had an uneasy feeling, and he suspected that Jack shared it.
They had been gone from the city for nine days now. Nine days of late nights and early mornings, of hard travel, long hours, aching limbs, and little rest. A week ago they purchased two horses from a farmer who was so scared of being robbed or beaten that he’d practically given them away. The horses were a little long in the tooth, but sturdy and well used to hard work. Tawl had let Jack have the bay, which was the smaller of the two, and kept the dun for himself. Under protest, Nabber rode at his back.
Up until now, the horses had actually slowed them down. Nabber hated horses and Jack had never learnt to ride. Tawl kept forgetting that Jack had been a baker’s apprentice. He didn’t look like one, didn’t act like one, and he held his blade like a killer, not a kitchen boy. But he was young, and there were many things he didn’t know. Simple things like how to ride, how to pack his belongings to keep them dry, how to follow the stars at night, and how to dampen the fire in the morning.
Slowly Tawl was teaching him all he knew. Jack learned fast. Already he was a better horseman than Nabber. Tomorrow, Tawl expected they’d actually make good time. Within a couple of days they should be in Ness. Once there they could exchange their horses for faster ones and ride to Rorn within two weeks.
Tawl smiled. He knew he was being overly optimistic—it might take twice as long as that—but he just couldn’t help himself. Melli was in Bren, and all he could think about was getting to Larn as fast as possible and then speeding back to her side. He dreamt of it every night.
“Tawl, we’re not going to do any more traveling tonight, are we? I’m as bowlegged as a wishbone.” Nabber made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Besides, this is a real nice spot to kip down. Right secluded, it is.”
Tawl looked at the fire. It was burning brightly now. Ever since Jack had mastered the art of building a quick fire, he used every opportunity to demonstrate it. Nabber was right. They shouldn’t go any farther tonight. They had a pleasant fire, a good place to sleep, and with only half a moon on show, there wasn’t much light to travel by anyway. Tawl had planned on riding for a few more hours, but he knew Nabber was tired. “Very well,” he said. “We’ll go no farther tonight.”
Nabber stood up. “I’m off to fill the flasks. There’s a stream beyond those trees.”
“Watch out for wolves,” said Tawl, smiling. Nabber wasn’t as interested in collecting water as he was in the possibility of pestering newts and frogs. Tawl watched the boy until he was out of sight, making a mental note of the exact direction he was headed.
“Still feeling uneasy?” asked Jack.
Tawl hid his surprise. “I never take anyone’s safety for granted.”
Jack was quiet for a while after that. There was a pot on the fire, and he was stirring lentils and dried meat into it.
They were in a gently sloping glade in a sparsely planted wood. The trees that surrounded them clustered in loose groups like old women. There were oaks, beech trees, and hawthorn bushes. Everything looked like it had been here a long time. Even the grass had the jaundiced look of the elderly.
Tawl made himself comfortable. He leant back against the trunk of a gnarled old oak and watched as Jack tended the stew. After a while, he said, “So Baralis has tracked you down before?”
Jack nodded. “And Melli, as well. We ran away from Castle Harvell together. He found us twice.”
“Why did Melli run away?”
“Her father was forcing her to marry Kylock.”
“So she just took off and ran away?”
“Yes. She left the castle in the middle of the night.”
Tawl suddenly felt very happy. He could picture Melli working herself up into an indignant rage, then deciding to do something reckless. He’d never met a woman with more spirit. “What was she like when you met her?”
“Uppity.” Jack took the pot from the middle of the fire and set it amongst the ashes to the side. He picked up his pack and came and sat close to Tawl. “Her hand was bleeding and she’d just been robbed, but she still refused my help. It took her over an hour just to tell me her name.” Jack smiled, remembering. “She was beautiful, though.”
Tawl smiled with him. “Yes, she is beautiful.”
“And strong. To this day I still don’t know how she managed to drag me across the forest to Harvell’s eastern road. She even persuaded a pig farmer to take care of me. Told her I was injured in a hunting accident.”
“And the pig farmer believed her?”
“Melli has a way of saying things that makes it difficult for people to contradict her.”
“You mean she bullied the pig farmer?”
“What do you think?”
Both men laughed. Tawl’s heart filled with joy. He liked sitting here, in the glade under the pale moon, and talking of Melli. It was the next best thing to being with her.
“You care about her very much, don’t you?” he said when the laughter died down.
Jack looked up. “Yes, I do.”
Tawl sensed some reluctance in his voice. By not speaking he encouraged Jack to say more.
“But I’m not in love with her, though. Not like you are.”
In his own way, Jack was telling him he had no rival. Tawl lifted his hand and brought it to rest on Jack’s shoulder. The world seemed like a good place. There was honor and friendship and love. “And what of you, Jack?” he said softly. “Who do you dream of at night?”
Tawl smiled. He knew he’d caught the boy off guard.
Jack moved toward the fire. His back was to Tawl, and when he spoke his voice sounded far away. “There’s a girl in Halcus. Her family took me in. She was beautiful, not perfect like Melli, but . . . ” Jack shrugged. “But beautiful all the same.”
Sensing Jack’s mood matched his own, Tawl settled himself back against his tree. He shot a quick glance in Nabber’s direction—all seemed quiet—and then said, “So, tell me her name.”
“Tarissa.”
Tawl could tell a lot by the way Jack said her name. There was longing in his voice, and something else. A certain hardness. Not used to such conversations himself, Tawl’s instinct was to tread lightly. “What did she look like?” He thought he’d asked the wrong question, for several minutes passed with no reply.
The wind died down and the moon lost itself behind a bank of clouds. The fire crackled and popped, spitting flecks of green summer wood up with the smoke. Finally Jack spoke: “Her eyes are brown and sparkling. Her hair is chestnut and gold. There’s a tiny bump in the middle of her nose and her dimples deepen when she smiles.”
As Jack spoke, Tawl looked at Jack. His hair was the exact same color as the woman he’d just described.
A soft whirring sound whipped through the dark.
Tawl felt a cool wisp of air brush against his face.
Crack!
“Get down!” he shouted. Directly above him, an arrow jutted from the trunk of the tree. Its shaft was still vibrating.
Jack dropped to the ground.
“Kick the fire out.”
Tawl followed the direction of the arrow’s flight. The archer was to the north of them. Behind him, Jack threw soil on the fire. It banked, then died. “Crawl over and untether the h
orses.” Tawl spoke to Jack, but his mind was on Nabber. “Bring them to meet me by the stream. Hold their reins to the side and put their bodies between you and the archer.” Tawl was going to ask him to draw his knife, but a single gleam of steel caught his eye. Jack was already ahead of him.
Tawl scrambled over to the campfire. The pot of stew was overturned. No supper tonight. Grabbing hold of the packs and bedrolls, he made a run for the stream.
It would be impossible for the archer to get a good shot now. His targets were on the move and there was no firelight to set his sights by. The trees would make it difficult for him to get a clean line, as well. Strange, but Tawl never doubted for an instant that it was a lone archer. If there’d been more than one he and Jack would be dead by now.
No. This was one man working alone. And Tawl had the distinct feeling they’d just been sent a greeting. The arrow was too well placed to be a mark gone awry. A handspan above his forehead, centered between his eyes—it was a classic warning shot. Someone not only wanted them to know he was out there, but also that he was in no hurry to kill them just yet. He wanted to scare them first.
Looking ahead, Tawl spotted the bright glimmer of the stream. There were shadows moving in front of it. The horses. He sprinted toward them. As soon as he spotted Jack, he shouted, “Is Nabber with you?”
Jack didn’t get a chance to reply.
Nabber piped up: “Hey, Tawl, what’s been going on? A boy can’t take forty winks round here without finding himself in the middle of an uproar.” He walked forward into the moonlight. His tunic sported several wriggling bulges.
“Leave the toads here, Nabber,” said Tawl, resisting the urge to hug the boy. “We’re going to be on the move tonight, after all. We’ve got to put some distance between ourselves and the man who fired that arrow.”
Skaythe rarely smiled. At times such as this, when he had reason to be pleased, he permitted himself a satisfied tightening of his lips. Nothing more.
From his position on the top of the rise, he could just make out the slow-moving forms of the two horses. He couldn’t see if they were being ridden or led. It didn’t matter. He had accomplished exactly what he set out to do tonight: he’d thrown down the red marker.
Too bad Tawl hadn’t spared a glance for the arrow, or he just might have guessed the game.
There is something sacred about an arrow. It speeds through the air carrying a message of death, propelled only by muscle and tensile force. Every part of the arrow could tell you something about the archer’s intent. Messages within the message, like a secret code within a letter.
Skaythe was a little disappointed that Tawl had not taken the time to read the arrow on the tree. After all, he had once been a knight, and knights knew all about the secret language of archery.
If Tawl had but looked he would have seen a small arrowhead, finely shaped for accuracy. Not a hunting arrowhead, a sporting one, designed to hit a target, not a beast. It had never been aimed for a kill, rather a well-placed threat, instead. As for the shaft, it was shaped from finest cedar. Not something a casual archer could easily come by, but something a serious archer would make it his business to acquire. The shaft was a thing of beauty: smooth enough to rub across a lady’s cheek, straight enough to set your sights by. It was a shaft that told of the archer himself. It told of his skill, his perfectionism, and his knowledge of his trade. Only professionals used cedarwood.
Then there were the fletchings, the most specific feature of the arrow. The archer’s chance to show off his true colors. They were the arrow’s banner, its flag waving in the breeze for all to see once it had hit its target. The fletchings of Skaythe’s arrow were unique.
Red silk and human hair.
Red silk for the marker that was thrown into the pit the night that Blayze was murdered. Human hair shaved from Blayze’s corpse the day before they laid him in his grave.
The arrow was a tribute to his brother’s memory and a sworn oath of vengeance.
Skaythe had been with Blayze when he died. He had watched the fight in the pit, watched the knight beat Blayze’s skull against the ground until his brain splattered the dirt walls, watched his body being carried to the palace, and watched him die without once gaining consciousness.
Tawl hadn’t fought a man that night, he had murdered one. He could have stopped sooner; Blayze was out as soon as his skull smashed against the stone for the first time. The knight could have stopped then and there and claimed victory. But no, he continued on and on, only stopping when his second pulled him off. Blayze could have walked away from that fight with his life, able to fight another day, to regain his lost dignity, and to settle old scores that hadn’t yet been settled. But the knight had put an end to all of that.
Skaythe fastened his quiver to his back and mounted his horse. He urged the gelding forward toward the glade.
Now he would never have the chance to beat Blayze one on one.
They had been rivals first, brothers second. They were born exactly nine months apart. Skaythe was the eldest. People said that Blayze had the charm and good looks, while Skaythe had the skill and the brains. They were fighting before they could walk. By the time Skaythe reached his sixteenth year there seemed no limit to what he could achieve. He fought like a demon. No one could beat him, though his brother always came close.
They were good days, then. Their rivalry spurred them both on; they lived for it, and it shaped them into the fighters they became. As soon as Skaythe mastered a new move he would use it against Blayze, then teach him it after he’d won. Sometimes, but not often, Blayze would learn a new technique first. Oh, the fight would be glorious then. Skaythe was never happier than when he was faced with new challenges. There was joy in every thrust and parry, meaning in every blow.
People watched them and shook their heads. Never were there two such brothers, they said.
Then, when Blayze turned sixteen they had their last fight. It was dark, and they had both been drinking. Skaythe had downed one skin; Blayze, always lacking in moderation, had two. The fight was sloppy, undisciplined. It took place in the courtyard at the back of their father’s shop. One oil lamp and two candles were the only light they had.
Ale not only made them slow, it made them bitter. Before long the fight became nasty: long-held resentments surfaced in the fray. Blayze was always the favorite, beloved of both their parents, his handsome face a guarantee of success. Skaythe was the arrogant one, a bad-tempered bully, unable to control his moods. Insults came faster than blows.
Skaythe was the most clear-headed of the two, and he took the advantage when it came, raking his knife along his brother’s arm and then pressing it into his chest. Normally in a friendly bout, as soon as blood was drawn from the torso the fight was won. Skaythe turned his back on his brother and began to walk away. He felt a sharp blow to his head. Stumbling forward, he fell to the ground. He spun around in time to see Blayze standing over him with a rock in his hand. The rock blasted into his leg. His knee exploded in pain. The night became light as he screamed, then darkened as the agony of splintered bones pushing against muscle became too much for him to bear.
Skaythe’s face was grim as he remembered. His knuckles were white as he held the reins.
After that day he never fought again. The knee healed in time, but the limp remained. Neither Skaythe nor Blayze mentioned the fight again. Skaythe put all his efforts into helping Blayze become a champion. Blayze’s victories were his victories, and his failures were too few to count. While his brother fought his way through every pit in Bren, Skaythe quietly kept up his skills, practicing archery instead of the longsword, and the lance instead of the flail. He had a local blacksmith forge a spike for his stick and turned a weakness into a weapon. He could walk without his stick now, but it suited him too well to give it up.
Ten years had passed since the incident with the rock. Blayze eventually became duke’s champion, and Skaythe was at his side all the way. Right until the final fight.
Even now
, Skaythe found it hard to believe that Blayze was gone. Every day of those ten long years he had imagined that a time would come when he and his brother would fight again. And he would beat him one last time.
Only now there would never be a fight. And all the victories left were hollow ones.
Skaythe dismounted his horse. He stepped into the glade and moved toward the tree where the arrow was lodged. Taking the shaft in his fist, he pulled it from the trunk. The wood split in his hand.
The knight had a lot to answer for.
All the apples and crates were gone. Someone had cleared them away.
Maybor stood in the same shadows that had helped him escape four nights earlier. He was in the alleyway and had just opened the gate into the courtyard. It was dark and quiet. There was no sign of movement, and not a single sliver of light shone up from the cellar’s depths.
For three hours he’d been here. Watching. Waiting. Making sure that no one was watching and waiting for him. The butcher’s lights had gone out two hours back. Then the butcher himself had come out and relieved himself against the wall. Nothing else had happened since. No footfalls, no muffled coughs, no calls. The courtyard was empty, and it looked like the cellar was, too.
Maybor only knew one prayer. It was self-centered and immodest and used the word me a lot, and he chose to speak it now as he crept toward the door.
The wooden panel had been moved back into place. Maybor nudged it with his foot. It was loose. Bending down, he scooped his fingers under the corner and pulled the trapdoor up. It had not been fastened on the inside. There was no bar to prevent it from being kicked in. Maybor peered downward. It was very dark. It stank of sour wine. The guards must have split a good few barrels open.
Without pausing to look around, Maybor lowered himself into the cellar. He landed with a jolt. The crates that were usually underneath were gone. Rats scattered. His shoes quickly soaked with wine.
“Anyone there?” he called softly.
Nothing.
Maybor fumbled in the dark until he found a candle. The wick was wet and wouldn’t take a spark from the flint. “Damn,” he hissed.
