“Hold on,” he heard himself say. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Betrayal
“Eisenhof,” Elena said, turning her tongue slowly around the word, as if trying to get a sense of the place. “Where in the name of Shallya is that?” It was, Stefan conceded, a fair question. A question to which he might have added, “when will we get there?” or even, “how do we know we are on course?” They had been travelling through the forest for nearly a month, a journey through a relentless maze of trees, living and dead. Now, as they sat resting for the first time that day, they could have been within a brief ride of their destination, or they could have been back at the point where they first entered the Drakwald. The landscape around them never changed, never varied other than in the dense pattern of the trees woven around them. It seemed to go on forever.
It could not be said that Stefan had underestimated the Drakwald. He had come to the forest with no prior assumptions for good or for ill. It had been a stranger to him, an alien land that must be traversed on a journey back to where his life had begun. For all that, the Drakwald had surprised, even shocked him. Few of his adventures, even upon the wooded foothills of the Grey Mountains, had prepared him for a habitat like this. The forest was a place of perpetual twilight, where all life was locked inside an unending struggle just to survive. Over the four weeks that they had travelled into the forest, his ears had grown accustomed to the incessant sound of water dripping from the gnarled, light-starved trees, just as his eyes had learnt to cope without the blessing of light. Now and again, sunlight from above the canopy of trees would break through, dappling the forest floor in a spray of gold. When it did, it was a rare and unexpected gift from the gods. Most of the time they journeyed through a grey gloom, steering a wide path around the few fortified settlements that would emerge suddenly from within clearings in the trees. Roots and creepers tugged at the horses’ feet; paths beckoned wide and smooth ahead only to turn back upon themselves or peter out into nothing. Progress had been slow.
“I don’t know exactly where Eisenhof is,” Stefan said, answering Elena’s question at last. “But judging from the chart that Otto left us, and—” he glanced at Murer—“if our navigation has stayed true, then it should be no more than a day or two’s ride north of where we are now. So long as we can keep making steady progress.”
“Steady?” Elena asked, incredulous. “You call the last four weeks steady progress? I call it coming within a knife’s blade of being murdered—more than once. Not to mention the horse we’ve already lost, the countless wrong roads, false roads, blocked pathways and the eternal, stinking damp of this place!” She stopped short, as though taken aback by her own sudden outpouring of rage. “I mean to say,” she went on, “it’s hardly been a steady journey, so far, has it?”
Stefan hesitated. His first instinct was to hit back at Elena. He had long since come to tire of her carping and complaints. But it wasn’t just her. It was all of them, himself included. Tempers frayed easily out here in the forest, and patience was quickly tested to its limit. So far, the attempts upon their lives had been the least of their worries. They had been attacked—three times in all—but it had been nothing that they hadn’t been able to handle. Bandits, grown used to the rich pickings offered by the few merchants bold enough to venture through, had assumed that Stefan and his company would be similarly easy meat. They had paid for that mistake with their lives; at least a dozen had been put to the sword without the travelers coming to any serious harm.
It had been unnerving, perhaps, but Stefan knew he would have found it more unnerving if they had encountered no trouble at all. The forest-dwelling bandits had made an unpleasant spectacle—murderous men who placed little value upon human life. But none had borne any obvious taint of mutation, or betrayed any sign of being in thrall to a greater, darker power.
These had been the more predictable foes; the forest itself was proving to be a more testing enemy. It seemed to be possessed of an innate cunning of its own, luring the travelers down promising byways, paths that cut through the shortest route across the forest, only for those paths to lead nowhere, or, worse, arc backwards in a subtle, bewildering curve that left the traveler further back than when he had first set out. On top of that, the laming of their one spare horse, and the poisonous, milk-white mould that overnight had laid waste to a portion of their provisions, had been two further burdens that they could have done without. Nevertheless, they had been making progress. They were still on schedule for Eisenhof, near enough.
“We’re doing fine,” he told Elena. “We knew it was going to be hard when we set out.”
“We’ve had some bad luck, that’s all,” Bruno commented, shivering from the morning chill. Zucharov shot him a questioning glance at the mention of luck, and his face briefly darkened. “Luck?” he said at last. “Wherever Eisenhof lies, it won’t be Krankendorf. Warm beds, and plenty of beer. We could have been there more than a week ago. Now that would have been luck.”
“We could,” Stefan confirmed, sharply. “But we were never going to go that way. Plenty of beer, plenty of prying eyes too. Otto warned us to stay well away from the trading road. We’d have been drawing too much attention to ourselves travelling through a place as big as Krankendorf. Otto will have arranged provisions for us at Eisenhof. We’ve got enough to see us there as long as we’re careful.”
They had each found their own path as the journey had progressed, their own way of surviving the forest. Elena had mostly taken refuge in the company of her maid. Lisette had proved the perfect foil for her intemperate mistress, always there to soothe or calm. Much of their conversation was in Bretonnian, further isolating them from the rest of the group. But, if it was what Elena needed to get through, then Stefan had no quarrel with that in the end.
Bruno’s isolation was of another sort. He had worked at least as hard as any of them, taken on more than his share of late night watches, and, when the occasion demanded, fought with his customary steel and skill. In that sense, his contribution had been faultless. But that was just the outer man: a shell. The Bruno inside the shell seemed to have disappeared, drifted away into a world every bit as cold and lonely as the desolate forest itself. Stefan saw it in the haunted look in his eyes, heard it in the tormented murmurings of his sleep. Bruno had done everything that had been asked of him. But, for all that, Stefan had asked himself if his insistence on having Bruno with them wouldn’t yet prove to be his first mistake.
As for the others, Alexei clearly couldn’t wait to be rid of the suffocating Drakwald. At every resting point he would prowl the forest like a caged bear, searching for a way clear of the forest where none existed, urging his comrades to hurry on with the journey. He was not, he had told them more than once, a man for confined spaces. None of that affected the way he wielded his sword; Alexei alone had accounted for six of the dozen bandits slain.
Tomas Murer had done his job, so far at least. He had made mistakes, sometimes leading them back towards the west, rather than east, sometimes around in a complete circle. But, by and large, the trickery of the forest itself bore most of the blame for that. Tomas had done his best in difficult circumstances, and, so far as Stefan could tell, he had done it sober. Certainly, since that first night he had continued to resist any temptation that Alexei Zucharov put in his way, and Stefan had never seen him take so much as a sip of anything stronger than water.
Certainly, there had been times when Tomas had wandered off alone, away into the enveloping woods. If asked for a reason, it would always be so that he could get his bearings for the onward journey. He was rarely gone more than a few minutes, and, if he was falling back into drinking while he was away from the others, then it wasn’t showing. Not yet, at least.
In any case, there were times when each of them craved time alone, even if only for a few moments. Even Lisette, who most of the time could not be prised from Elena’s side, could be seen wandering apart from her mistress, immersed in though
ts of her own. It was a need that Stefan understood as well as anyone.
He stretched and climbed to his feet, working his limbs back into life. The dank air of the forest had a way of creeping into his bones so that he started to ache in almost every joint if he sat for more than a few minutes. Alexei was right; it was time they got underway once more. Time was now a luxury after the various setbacks of the last few weeks. They must waste no more of it. He walked over to where Elena was sitting, Lisette at her side. The little Bretonnian girl was busy working a comb through her mistress’ hair, doing her best to ignore Elena’s curses when the comb tugged against a knot. Elena snatched the comb away from her as Stefan approached, then gave Lisette a brief, forgiving kiss upon the cheek.
“The others are saddling up,” Stefan informed her. “We need to be ready to leave in a few minutes.”
“That’s fine,” Elena replied, her sarcasm only thinly veiled. “I’m getting used to being ordered around.”
Stefan shrugged, turned to depart, and then stopped. He crouched down upon his knees so that he was face to face with Elena. “Look,” he began, firmly. “We’ve got a long way to go. A long time on the road together, you and I. I don’t know exactly what it is that you’ve got against me, but, for both of our sakes, I think we’d better have it out now.”
Elena stared at him for a moment. It was clear that Stefan wasn’t going to move until he had her response. She took a deep breath. “Lisette,” she said. “Go and make sure all our things are stowed ready to ride.” She exchanged glances with her maid. “Don’t rush.” Lisette made muttered excuses and got up, gathering her skirts beneath her.
Stefan sat down upon the mossy soil next to Elena, the two of them remaining a few feet apart. “What is it, then?” he asked. “You think I’m just a mercenary, in this for the money?”
Elena threw him an accusing glance. “Well,” she said. “Don’t try and deny you’re not being well paid for your services. I know the sums Otto had set aside for you.”
“I live by the sword, as all men must live by some means,” Stefan agreed. “But I’ll tell you what,” he said, with conviction, “there are easier ways of earning money than this, with the sword or without.”
The briefest of smiles flickered over Elena’s features. Her face softened just a little. “Look,” she said, “don’t take it personally. It’s not about you, not really.” She paused. “It’s just, well, I’ve always wanted to stand on my own two feet. I don’t take very well to having my life ordered for me.”
“I can identify with that,” Stefan said.
“I’m sick of being preached at the whole time. My father was always excelling at that.”
“Was? Is he—”
“Dead? I’ve no idea,” she said, quietly. “The last I heard of him, he was alive and well, living in Couronne, or some such place.” Underneath the off-hand tone, there was something bruised, very fragile in her voice. “You see,” she said, “he was one of the ones they don’t tell heroes’ tales about. When things started to get bad in Erengrad he had a choice: stay and stand his ground, fight for what he believed in, or get out. My father discovered he wasn’t cut out to be such a hero after all. So he chose to get out. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“I’m sorry,” Stefan replied. He looked towards Elena, but she kept her face turned away from him.
“What about you?” she said at last. “Your family, I mean.”
“I have a brother, Mikhal, back in Altdorf.” Stefan said. “My parents are buried in Kislev. My father made the other choice, I suppose. He defended his home, fought for his village to the last. It cost him his life.”
“What’s its name?” Elena asked. “The village you came from?”
“It doesn’t have a name anymore,” Stefan said, shaking his head. “It’s a place that no longer exists.” They sat side by side for a while, not moving or talking. The anger had been washed away, replaced by a shared sense of loss.
“We must look to the future now,” Stefan continued at last. “Think of what lies ahead for us. This priest, in Middenheim, for example. What of him? Do you know him?”
“I only know his name—Father Andreas. And Otto forbade me to mention even that to anyone but you. I know too that he is one of the very few men who could be entrusted with the third part of the Star.”
“Then Andreas must also be one of the Keepers of the Flame,” Stefan surmised. “Let’s hope that the Scarandar don’t find him before we do.” He stood up. “We’d best make ready to strike camp,” he said, quietly. “We really do need to—”
“To move on,” Elena said. “Yes, I know. You are absolutely right.”
Both turned at the sound of footsteps approaching through the damp undergrowth. Stefan looked around, expecting to see Lisette returning, but it was Bruno, with Tomas Murer following close behind.
From the expressions on their faces, Stefan could see at once that something was wrong.
“What is it?” he demanded, getting to his feet at once. Bruno shook his head, perplexed. “It’s the provisions,” he said. “The water, I mean.”
“What’s the matter with the water?”
“Four of the dozen remaining skins have split,” Tomas mumbled. Stefan stared at him in momentary disbelief. “What do you mean, split?”
“Split or cut open,” Bruno clarified. “I found it just now.”
“How much water has been lost?” Stefan demanded. This was the one commodity they could not do without.
“All of it,” Bruno said. “Every drop. All we have is what’s left in the last eight skins.”
All of them, Alexei included, were gathered around by now. Stefan looked around the group, facing each of them in turn. “Who knows anything about this?” he said. “Who was last near the horses?”
None of the others replied, but Alexei fixed Tomas with a murderous stare. He’d gladly put a noose about his neck, Stefan realised. But there’s no more evidence against him than there is against me, or Alexei himself, for that matter.
“Could this be an accident?” he said to Bruno. “Could this be anything other than deliberate?”
Bruno shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a clean tear through each of the skins. But they were all full. Maybe the pressure inside—”
“It’s no accident,” Alexei said, sourly. “No more than half the other troubles that have befallen us.” He turned, and glared at Tomas once again. “No accident,” he repeated.
Of one thing Stefan was sure. He wasn’t going to be pushed into making any hasty judgments, and now wasn’t the time for an inquest. More pressingly, they would need water. Their supplies had been measured to get them as far as Eisenhof, and no further. Now they would need to replenish along the way.
“We’ll get to the truth of this in due course,” he said, gravely. “For the moment we need a new supply of water. Any ideas?”
“I wouldn’t take any of the water from here about,” Bruno said. “Too much of a risk.”
“What about the river?” Lisette suggested. “The water there must be as fresh as we will find.”
“Yes,” Elena said, picking up on the idea, “the Talabec will be our salvation. It skirts the forest, doesn’t it?”
Stefan turned to Tomas Murer. “Well?” he asked, “What about it?”
Tomas looked doubtful. “No,” he said at last, “it’s too far. The river lies right on the far side of the forest. Probably a week’s journey in itself.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Elena said, petulantly. “We just go without?”
Tomas looked around. Stefan noticed the faintest of tremors in both his hands as he stood before them. “There are places, in the forest,” he replied. “Hidden wells, that draw their water from the underground streams that flow beneath the Drakwald. Hunters use them, those that know where to look. If we’re where I think we are, then there’s one no more than half a day’s ride from here.”
Stefan looked at Bruno. “What do you think?”
> “I’d say we have little alternative,” Bruno said. “The river is too far, and we’ll never make Eisenhof with what we’ve got left.”
“Very well then.” Stefan said. “That’s decided. We’ll find this well and then hope we can make up time to Eisenhof. Let’s get on with it.”
Alexei waited until Stefan and Bruno had turned to follow the two women back to the horses. He caught hold of Tomas Murer, and pulled him back.
“You might fool the others with your poor-drunk-on-the-mend act,” he said, quietly. “But you don’t fool me.” Tomas paled, and started to protest. Alexei pressed the palm of his hand hard against his face.
“Just listen to me,” he said. “I don’t believe in coincidences, I don’t believe in chance. I didn’t believe it that night back in Altdorf, and I haven’t believed it since.” He pulled his knife from his belt, and brandished it in front of Murer’s face. “I’ll be watching you,” he promised Tomas. “Watching you like a hawk. Don’t believe for a moment I won’t slit your throat as clean as those waterskins, if you give me the slightest excuse.” He put the knife back and shoved Tomas forward, pushing him on towards the waiting horses.
“We’re coming,” he called out to the others. “Just having a friendly word before we get underway,”
If the pace along the road was slow before, it now fell slower still as the travelers set off in search of the well buried deep within the forest. In places the path beneath the horses’ hooves disappeared altogether, as the riders navigated their mounts through a blanket of matted creeper that rose to the height of their feet in the stirrups. Tomas had them frequently stop so that he could check or replot their direction.
“How can he tell one path from the other in this infernal tangle of weeds?” Bruno asked, incredulous. Stefan pointed up towards where the sun was struggling to break through the canopy of leaves overhead. “He’s navigating by the sun,” he told Bruno. “What remains of it. Taal help us if we don’t find this well by the time it starts to set.”
[Stefan Kumansky 01] - Star of Erengrad Page 11
