Out the corner of her eye, she could see the feet of the man she had killed. The bottom of his boots faced her. There was a hole in one of the soles, his black sock poked through. She turned to look closer. He had nothing, she thought. All he wanted was some money, and now he’s dead! By the gods, what if he had children? Oh no! Please no! Her thoughts turned to a whisper and then to moans. “No, no, no…” she cried quietly.
* * *
Grady peered down at the sorrowful sight. Thoughts went through his mind of the girl who wanted to join the guards – this child who played with knives and wished for a life of excitement and adventure. Now, reality had smacked her about the face and she had crumbled into a withering pit of despair. He recalled all the times he had killed a man, the times when duty fell upon him to do what was needed. He always stood firm and faced his duty bravely.
Grady closed his eyes. But did I? he wondered. Or was it just luck that I survived? Was it the training that steadied my hand? Would I have acted any differently in her shoes?
He looked at her again and saw a young child forced to kill to save a friend’s life. He knelt in front of her and took her by the shoulders.
“Elspeth,” he said. “This is what you wished for.”
Elspeth drew herself away, kicking him and screaming, “No.”
Grady wrestled with her, almost pinned her to the post. “Listen to me. Would you rather it be me lying there dead? And if that were the case, I’d pray to the gods you were lying beside me; the thought of what he would do to you…”
Grady bowed his head. He spoke softly: “This is what heroes do. They kill bad men and save their friends. The means are not always honourable and often not worthy of song or praise. You do it because there is no choice. You must raise yourself up. You must think of what you have saved – both your life and mine. I’m in your debt for the rest of my days.”
With that, he kissed her on the forehead. “Come on. Let us find this medicine and be gone from here.”
* * *
Elspeth felt better. The sick feeling in her gut was now a cold emotion – though still sickening. Of course, what else could I do? She got to her feet and, after a few seconds to steady herself, joined Grady by the herb shelf.
It did not take long to find what they wanted. Elspeth put the jars in her bag and then the two of them crept up the stairs and out the back door. A small fence stood between them and a long hedge of thicket that ran south along the outskirts of Be’olyn. They walked, half-crouched, the full length of the town until they reached the hill and had to climb up onto the road. They quickly marched past the dishevelled houses and on up to the top of the ridge. Once over the crest, they relaxed a little. They walked another half mile before deciding it would be best to cut across the fields.
“Do you think they’ll come after us?” Elspeth asked.
“I doubt discovering a dead man is anything unusual for them folk. They will probably be arguing over how to split his possessions.”
“I hope you’re right. We really do have enough problems to deal with without adding to it.”
Grady gave a chuckle. “You’re not wrong,” he said.
They took to the path at the base of the ridge and then followed the tributary, the same as would eventually feed the waterfall next to the gully. The way lay clear, and they made a good time back to the hollow.
CHAPTER 33
The Cren
Arfael woke in the middle of a field. The moist dew lay lightly on his face and hair. He opened his eyes and tried to lift his head. The pain was shocking; not an inch of his body was free of its twisting torment. Slowly, he pulled his hand up and felt inside his mouth. His teeth were missing, and so were his fingernails. With an effort, he forced himself to his knees. All around were the remnants of the beast: long black talons and sharp white fangs, discarded like fruit peelings.
He pushed his hand against his knee and stood up. A short way to his left, one of the fallen Salrians lay in an unnatural position, his arms twisted behind his neck and a foot facing the wrong way. Arfael looked down at the body with shame. He knew well enough he had had to Change; he had to save his friends. But what came after, the relentless chase and the pitiless killing, that was all the beast’s doing. The Salrians had been running away, in fear for their lives and no threat to anyone. He looked down at the body, broken and covered with blood, eyes still wide with panic. Arfael was sure the Salrian had not done enough to deserve such a fate, and he felt all the worse for knowing it. Closing his eyes, he said a silent prayer Olam had taught him and then wondered for a moment whether the verse was more for his own benefit.
He took the pouch from around the Salrian’s waist and emptied its contents next to the body. Then, trying not to look into those glassy grey eyes, he put everything that seemed important back into the dead man’s pockets. He gathered his discarded talons and teeth and put them in the pouch, before stuffing the whole lot into the large side pocket of his trousers. He took one last look at the body, promised to come back and bury him properly, then left the sorry sight behind and made his way slowly back to the gully.
He was west of the waterfall, at the bottom of the steep ridge he and the others had walked on the previous afternoon.
How did I get down here? The Salrian must have climbed down thinking he might escape. He did well to get this far.
To the south, the river ran along the flats. To the east, he could see the tree tops of Crenach’coi, the weird angle they made as they turned north across the river. By his reckoning, he was three miles from the falls.
Those Salrians must have split up. No chance they would have made it three miles as a group. I wonder if any of them got away.
Slowly, he made his way along the base of the ridge. His mouth was dry, his legs ached, and his fingers were sore – from the talons ripping through his fingernails. He plodded, one foot after the other, disenchanted with his lot and disappointed he had to show his other side to his new friends. There would be no more laughing and joking. Gods, tell me I didn’t hurt any of them, please.
Before long, he arrived at the falls. The water was murky with sediment dragged from up river. The falls whipped the plunge pool like a mixing bowl. Kneeling at the bank, he paused to look at his reflection – all the stranger because of the dirty water. He had never liked seeing himself. He must have gone the first thirty years without looking at what he had become. Not that he remember much of what he looked like before the curse had robbed him of his identity, just that he used to be different. Splashing at his own image, he washed the blood from his hands, face and chest. After taking a long drink, he put his feet, ankle deep, into the pool. There he sat, contemplating the events of the previous evening.
Thoughts of the others were foremost in his mind. Had they all survived the attack? And if so, what would they think of him now they knew the truth? And what if he had hurt one of them? Killed one of them! No, he could not think of that. Besides, Olam would have told them what to do. Still, the thought kept recurring as he gazed at the mist made by the waterfall. He did not know what he would do if Elspeth had been injured in any way… even a scratch.
Before starting the climb, he picked up a bowl, a cup and a few other bits that had rolled down during the attack. Further along, he found his pack – lying on the side of the gully where he had thrown it – along with Ealian’s. He dressed in a clean shirt and then picked up both packs. He began the search for his friends. He hoped they were still his friends.
His best guess, they would have continued up along the tributary. And sure enough, he picked up their trail at the top of the gully. It was not hard to see. Evidently, a group of people had recently crossed the river. Heavy feet had scuffed the bank, too heavy for any one person; they must have carried someone across. He crossed at the same point, then searched the horizon. Where would they go? Deciding to take the safe and sure option, he made his way to the ridge and followed it down to the trees. He turned north and followed the line of birch and oak. If h
e knew Olam, his friend would have headed for cover; they would be camped in the trees just inside the Coi.
Twenty minutes later, Arfael was beginning to wonder if his plan had merit. Then he heard noises coming from up ahead. He immediately recognised the voice of his friend. Relief filled his heart; at least he was safe. Olam’s voice sounded reasoned and flat. He was talking to somebody. Maybe they all made it. They wouldn’t be so calm if… A flutter of nerves prickled his skin. He almost did not want to know; such answers were for brave men, and right now he was hurt, cold, and… scared, he realised.
Things had changed over the past week. Ever since hearing of his true ancestors, he had dared to hope that his journey would soon be at an end and that maybe he could keep his new friends for more than a few weeks. Was that too much to hope?
Listening to Olam’s voice, he tried to imagine the scene. Would he be talking so softly if any of them had been hurt? Maybe. He stared at the trees in front of him, willing his feet to move, praying that they were all safe, and hoping – desperately hoping – they would welcome him and not run at the first sight.
He decided a quick shout would be best.
“Hello.”
Arfael waited for a response. All was quiet. Then he heard footsteps running towards him. A moment later, he saw Olam emerge over the rim of the hollow.
“My friend, thank the gods you are safe.”
Arfael bowed. “Hello, friend.”
“Let me look at you. Are you injured?”
“I'm all right,” Arfael said. “My teeth will grow back by tomorrow.”
Olam walked around him, checking for cuts and bruises. After finding all in good order, he gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. “Come! Come on! You must be hungry.” Olam led him into their camp.
“Is everyone…?”
Arfael trailed off, but he was sure Olam would know the rest of his question.
“No one else was hurt, Arfael. You have no need to worry.”
Arfael let out a long breath. It felt as if he had been holding it in for the last three hours. “Thank the gods,” he whispered.
Daric nodded casually.
Arfael was pleased to see it, but then he remembered Gialyn’s father had fallen into the river before he had changed.
“Are you all right, my friend?” Daric asked.
“I am now.”
Arfael pointed at Gialyn, who was sleeping by the unlit fire.
Daric raised a reassuring hand. “He will be fine. We had quite a night, too. You should sit; have some food.” Daric pointed towards a large log at the other side of the fire.
“Yes… soon.” He gave Daric a toothless grin.
Slowly, Arfael looked around the camp. First, to where Ealian lay; then he focused an angry eye on the Salrians. Both Si’eth and Bre’ach hitched back farther into the tree’s roots. Then Arfael saw Toban.
Toban stood. “Good to see you back, friend,” the wolf said. “You had us all worried.”
Arfael bowed. “Good to see you, too. But how did you get here?” he asked.
“That’s a long story. I’ll tell you when you’ve had time to rest.”
“Where are the others? Elspeth and Grady?”
For one horrible moment, he thought they might be dead. But then Daric would not have been calm and the Salrians would likely not be drawing breath. And you should calm down, too, Arfael told himself. It’s over, for now.
“They’re off, hunting down medicines for Ealian,” Olam said. He had gone to Elspeth’s brother and was now trying to feed some water to the boy.
“It’s the Black, then, is it?” Arfael asked. He already knew the answer. The surprise was that Olam had not told him.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Olam said. “We are all hoping for a miracle, but…” Olam knelt and rinsed Ealian’s face and neck with a clean cloth.
Arfael looked down at the sorrowful sight. “You should have told me, Olam. I could have watched him.”
“I know,” Olam said. “It is unforgivable. I have no excuse. I am sorry.”
“I doubt it would have made much difference,” Arfael muttered. “But no more secrets.”
“Agreed,” Olam said with his hand on his heart.
Arfael came and sat down by the fire. He took the food Daric offered – fish again – then pulled out the pouch that he had taken from the Salrian and handed it to Olam, who took a peek inside and then quickly wrapped the whole bundle in a cloth and pushed it deep into his pack.
“What was that?” Daric asked.
Olam gave the Salrians a quick sideways glance. “I’ll tell you later,” he said, nodding at where the prisoners lay.
* * *
The rest of the day passed slowly. Daric and Olam took turns watching the prisoners so the wolves could go to the river and hunt. Lunch came and went, then early afternoon. The spring air lay thick and heavy with the bloom and seed of the forest. There were now plenty of them to guard the prisoners, and despite their troubled thoughts, most were able to sleep a little.
Olam explained all that had happened since the gully. Arfael would nod and pretend to be interested, but Olam knew his big friend would be more concerned over Elspeth. They both knew Be’olyn was no place for a child. At least Grady had gone with her.
It was early evening when the sound of heavy feet running towards the hollow brought the wolves to attention. Olam was going to ask who it was, but a cry of “We’re back! We’re back!” answered the question.
Elspeth and Grady appeared just as the last remnants of dusky light leaked from behind the western ridge. Elspeth immediately ran to Olam, too eager to help her brother to notice anybody else. But Grady paused a while to weigh up the situation. He looked cautiously at Arfael, and then at Daric, who gave him a reassuring nod.
Elspeth quickly unpacked two jars. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked, forcing the jars of kharoe and liet into Olam’s hands.
Olam looked down at the jars and tried not to sigh. He had half-hoped she would not find any. Now, it was down to him to perform some miracle with the herbs he had asked for, knowing well and good Ealian’s condition was likely beyond any treatment he was capable of.
Elspeth followed Olam over to her brother. He was near the end, there was no arguing that. She fell to her knees with her hands to her mouth. Gasping for air, her eyes filled with tears.
“Are we too late?” she asked, and then buried her face in her hands as if not wanting to hear the answer.
“I will not lie, my de—”
Olam got no further with his reply.
Elspeth fell to the ground in a bawling heap of shattered nerves. “By the gods! No! No! Please no!”
Daric tried to comfort her. She fell on to his lap and convulsed with uncontrollable sobs.
Daric opened his mouth to say something, doubtless a comforting word, but nothing came. Olam could see tears in the old soldier’s eyes, which Daric blinked away as he stared up at the heavens. Olam brushed a tear from his own cheek and swallowed down a moan of regret and sadness.
Arfael came and sat at Elspeth’s side. He picked up her trembling hand, Ealian’s, too, and put them together. “You must say goodbye, if this is the way of it.”
Elspeth cried all the louder. She moved over to Ealian and lay down by his side. “I’m here, little brother,” she said. “It is all right. You’re not alone.” She kissed his forehead and pulled him close.
Olam raised his head from a bow. “I am still going to try the kharoe. There is still hope.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Daric said. His voice seemed oddly out of place to Olam’s ears. And when he looked, he noticed Daric was smiling. “We have some friends come to visit.”
Olam and Elspeth both sat up quickly. Behind Daric, standing atop the southern rim of the hollow were four men. The Woodsmen of Crenach had arrived… at last.
* * *
Grady stumbled forward, tripping on his own feet. He fumbled with his pack…
Where is it!
Quickly, he tossed the pack to the side and looked under it…
There it is.
He grabbed his shortsword by the hilt and rose up. With the blade in his right hand, feet apart, and his left hand ready at guard, he faced the four Woodsmen.
The wolves began to growl. Grady noticed they were looking at him.
Toban ran forward until he was between Grady and the Woodsmen. “Stop!” he shouted. “They’re not here to fight.”
Olam moved to Grady’s side and put a hand on his wrist, gently lowering the sword. “Think, Grady. They have bows. We would be dead by now if that were their intent.”
Grady’s heart was pounding. Breathing heavily, he gave Olam a quizzical look, and then slowly lowered the shortsword to his side. He turned to the four Woodsmen. They stood motionless; unimpressed, so it seemed, by his sword-wielding antics.
Daric moved to the fore. “All’s well, my friend, we have been hoping they would show.”
Grady turned his head quickly. “What do you mean ‘hoping’?”
Daric moved forward until he was standing by the wolf. “They may be Ealian’s only hope,” he said.
Grady’s jaw clenched, and he threw Daric a piercing stare. Tossing his shortsword to the ground, he said, “You know, a little bit more knowledge, a little bit more information would go a long way towards calming my nerves. First, the Black, then Ealian, and now the secret Woodsmen. I’m beginning to feel like the spare horse dragged behind the cart.”
“I’m sorry,” Daric said. “Events have moved faster than we expected. I was going to tell you about our plan to find the Cren – although, seems they have found us – but there wasn’t time.”
“So why go to Be’olyn? We could have been searching for these… folk – he waved a hand at the Woodsmen – instead of risking the Town of Thieves.”
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