Revenge

by Fiona McIntosh

  No, not slow of mind or reaction at all, but today the Ninth of the Paladin had simply been enjoying being Figgis again and, he realised with disgust, had let his guard down.

  Until that moment his journey had been uneventful. He had travelled swiftly down through the north since arriving at Caradoon from Cipres, sleeping in the fields and eating whatever he could forage for. He did not feel the cold nor did he experience the hunger pangs of the ordinary man. He was a Rock Dweller and travelling rough was no hardship for his kind.

  He had skirted all the townships and the villages through the Midlands but it was the sleepy and sparsely populated village of Duntaryn which proved his downfall. Deciding that he needed to pick up speed, he had chanced the quicker route through the main thoroughfare instead of following his instincts and the stream that meandered around the outskirts of the village.

  He should have sensed trouble, should have seen it coming. It was enough that Duntaryn was a spooky place, its main street shrouded by dense hedgerow and overhanging trees. There was a strange atmosphere as he entered the village and he felt hidden eyes boring into him.

  The sack had been thrown over his head expertly. If he was a normal-sized man, it would not have hindered his arms as it did, but being a Rock Dweller—or a dwarf, as they preferred to call his kind—he could do little more than struggle helplessly. Firm hands picked him up and a blow to the head stopped him struggling further. It brought thunderous pain and he had thought dimly how it was a fallacy that Rock Dwellers had skulls of stone. Figgis lost his bearings and his consciousness.

  Now, conscious but with eyes deliberately closed, he reflected on how the disaster had occurred because he had been deep in thought. The meeting with Torkyn Gynt in Cipres had been unexpected. Figgis was glad to have helped with the young lad, Locklyn Gylbyt. That Maiden contraption was ludicrous. How could such a thing ever be considered a just resolution to a dispute? Oh, but being able to look into Gynt’s eyes had given him strength just when he was beginning to feel the whole quest was pointless.

  He was the One; the reason they had strived so long. And their pain and suffering had not been in vain. This man would save all worlds when he assembled the Trinity.

  It did not matter to Figgis that Gynt may not have known that the small man he briefly spoke to in Cipres was the Ninth Paladin to die bravely on his behalf. All that mattered was that he had completed the first of his tasks and now he must find his charge quickly. The boy needed his help; Lys had said so in his dreams. She had urged him to stow away on the ship to Caradoon and get himself this far; she continued to push him. He was the boy’s guardian. It was his most vital role of all as Paladin.

  Suddenly cold water shocked his eyes open; someone had tipped a bucketful over his head, which still throbbed. He made himself lean up on his elbow to face the group of whispering men standing over him.

  ‘A dwarf, all right.’

  ‘Don’t see his sort in these parts. I thought dwarves were fable.’

  ‘He’ll bring the crowds.’

  Figgis looked at them unblinking. The smoke from their pipes in this confined space made him want to gag; so did his headache.

  ‘Can you speak?’ one said.

  ‘Good day, you dung-breathed thugs,’ Figgis replied in his own language, which he knew none here would understand. This group felt dangerous; he decided to play stupid until he had worked out what to do next.

  The first speaker blew out smoke and grinned, revealing more gums than teeth. He was built like a stone shed. ‘He speaks!’

  A younger man said, ‘Try him on Tallinese.’

  The first man nodded. He addressed Figgis, enunciating his words with the greatest of care and pausing between each one. ‘Do…you…understand…Tallinese?’

  ‘Yes…I…do,’ Figgis replied, though again in his own guttural language. Then he spoke a stream of what seemed nonsense. He kept it low, almost placatory, but he enjoyed using every insult known to his race. His long dead mother would be turning in her tomb if she could hear him speak such vulgarity, he thought.

  The man sighed. ‘It would have been good to hear him beg in Tallinese,’ he said with some regret.

  Beg? What was this about? He could see there were five of them now that his eyesight had adjusted, and he realised he was being held in a farm building of some kind, probably a barn. They had turned away from him and were murmuring amongst themselves. Figgis closed his eyes and feigned dizziness; maybe he could get them to believe he was sleeping, which would encourage them to speak louder. Gradually he allowed himself to slip over until he was prone on the ground again, his head on the offending sack.

  ‘Leave him,’ he heard the first speaker say. ‘The main thing is that we have our sacrifices.’

  The conversation continued quietly but Figgis’s exceptionally sharp hearing picked up every mumbled word of it.

  ‘How is the girl?’ The same man, he seemed to be the leader.

  ‘She’s all right.’ A new voice.

  ‘I mean, does she suspect anything?’

  ‘I can’t tell. Ory may know more. He delivers to the family.’

  ‘Ory…’

  ‘Yes?’ Footsteps, presumably Ory’s.

  ‘Does the girl know anything?’

  Figgis heard scratching before Ory spoke. ‘No…I don’t believe so. I saw her yesterday. She seems her usual contrary self. She could guess, of course. She’s no ordinary-looking person and this is no ordinary time of the year for these parts.’

  The leader seemed to ignore what Ory had said. ‘What about the parents?’

  ‘They’re not her parents, Scargyl.’

  ‘It matters not to me. With the dwarf here, we have a perfect union. It’s shaping up for the best ceremony we’ve had since I was a lad. I’m only just old enough to remember the Giant.’

  ‘They say he took his time dying.’ Figgis recognised the voice; the man who had told Scargyl to ask if he understood Tallinese.

  ‘He did that, Truk. He gave us very good value that spring solstice. Tasted all right too.’

  Scargyl, Truk, Ory. Two more to account for. Still, Figgis thought, their number was irrelevant compared with what he had just discovered. So he and some girl were destined to be the highlight in some grisly death ritual on the spring solstice. How many more days before the solstice eve? He thought hard with his blurry, aching head and settled upon the figure of two.

  Two days to plan his escape or Orlac would triumph.

  Gidyon had been walking for several days. He had taken Sorrel’s advice and kept himself to himself. When entering a village, he would spend a few coins on bread and fruit. Fresh water seemed to follow him in the bright, fast-flowing stream he had kept to his left for all of his journey.

  As a result of his meagre diet, his money was holding up. And, in an inspired move, he had managed so far to convince the people he ran into that he was mute. It was an old trick he recalled playing as a child, but he could not quite remember when and on whom. Each day his memory of his past dimmed further and with it his fear of it failing him.

  Being mute meant that people invariably lumbered him with the label of being stupid as well. It suited his purposes though. He could point at what he wanted and hold out his money in his palm, so the person serving could select the right coin. Gidyon had no clear idea of the value of his money but he was beginning to get a grasp on it. He would have to drop the mute affectation shortly, however. Though his money was adequate for bread and fruit, he would need to earn some more if he was to find a bed to sleep in—a luxury he longed for after many nights spent in fields. He also needed to ask for directions to this Axon place. By listening to the chatter of people around him in each village, he had worked out that he was essentially on the right path, though it was probably time to swing more to the south.

  He promised himself that at the next village he would have a voice and he would find himself an odd job for the day and a bed for the night. There were quite a number of people coming and go
ing on this road and he caught bits of conversations about a festival being held at Duntaryn in a few days. He reckoned this would be the next village he came to. A festival could be fun, he thought to himself.

  Try though he might, Gidyon had not enjoyed any success in opening a link to Lauryn. It frustrated him that she called upon him with such ease and yet the magic evaded him. Through Lauryn, Sorrel told him to keep peace with himself, that it would happen in time.

  They seemed to be travelling in a slightly more comfortable style than he was, staying at inns each evening. Lauryn sounded excited that they had spent one whole day picking the redberries and frostfruit of the region, from which the famous preserves favoured by royalty were made.

  My fingers are purple, Gidyon. You should see them.

  I hope to soon, Lauryn. It was lovely to hear the joy in her voice. She had seemed so sullen and argumentative when they had met.

  Sorrel wants to know where you are now?

  I’ve recently left Churley and am heading to another village which I believe is called Duntaryn. It should bring me further south, more in line with where I need to be, I gather.

  There was a long pause. Gidyon…Lauryn sounded serious. Sorrel says that Duntaryn is a strange place. When will you reach it?

  Tonight, I hope. Why?

  Another pause. She says to sleep in a field, well away from the village. If you can avoid it altogether, do so. If you can’t, pass through quickly and don’t linger.

  What’s this all about? Again he had to wait whilst Lauryn related his question and then received a response.

  Sorrel says—in her usual cryptic manner—that the spring solstice is not a clever time to be a stranger in Duntaryn. She refuses to give me more information but insists you don’t try to find work there, or even stop there at all if you can help it. Just walk straight on to the next main village, which is Mexford, but try to make it to Fragglesham as soon as you can. There’s a good inn there where you can stay. There will also be work there. Axon is just a full day’s walk from Fragglesham. We’re almost there, Gidyon, just stick to the plan.

  All right. But I don’t understand this fear of Duntaryn. I hear there’s a festival on there.

  Sorrel knows more than us. We should listen to her.

  Yes, that’s true. So, it’s another cold night under the stars for me.

  Sorry, Gidyon, but…

  They both said it together: It was your idea! and they laughed.

  I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.

  Sleep safely, Gid.

  He felt quite lighthearted after their conversation. Even the notion of spending another night curled under a bush did not make him feel irritable, though it was a long, dusty walk and well and truly dusk before he reached the outskirts of Duntaryn.

  Evening began to slide in around him and suddenly the wooded laneway felt slightly more dangerous. A wolf howled in the distance, which sent a shiver through him, and the shadows began to grow tall and ominous. By nightfall he was feeling edgy and very alone and desperately wished he had the power to open a link with Lauryn and hear her voice.

  Just as he had convinced himself to walk through the night and put this village well behind him, he saw a lantern swinging in the near distance.

  Gidyon reacted instinctively. ‘Hey!’

  He could tell its carrier had turned by the way the lantern swung around.

  ‘Who is out there?’ It was a woman’s voice. She sounded alarmed.

  ‘A traveller. I’m sorry to frighten you.’

  ‘I’ve got a stick!’ she warned.

  The wolf howled again.

  ‘I won’t harm you, miss. I’m weary, hungry. Actually, I just need somewhere warm to lie down. A barn, perhaps.’

  ‘Let me see your face,’ she said.

  Gidyon approached, walking slowly, not wanting to scare her any further. He stopped a fair enough distance away that she would not feel threatened.

  ‘Closer,’ she said.

  ‘I promise I mean no harm. Er…I can pay.’

  ‘You have a kind voice, stranger. There is no malice in it. Yes, I trust you but I would like to see to whom I speak.’

  Gidyon stepped forward a few more paces. He could only just see her outline. Her face was in shadow from the glare of the lantern.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘A face to match the kind voice.’

  ‘Thank you. My name is Gidyon…Gidyon Gynt.’

  ‘I am Yseul. I live at the cottage over yonder.’ She pointed and he could make out the dark shape of a dwelling. Candlelight flickered very softly deep in the cottage.

  ‘Is there a barn here, Yseul?’

  ‘Yes. Right over there. You are welcome to share it with the two pigs, the cow and the three goats.’ She giggled. Now that he concentrated, he realised it was a young voice.

  ‘Are you er…married to the farmer?’

  ‘Farmer! The ox, you mean. No, I am not married to anyone, Master Gynt. No one owns me. But I have to work for the ox and his fat wife.’ She suddenly stopped.

  Gidyon was unsure of what to say next. He ran his fingers through his hair and was glad when she came to his rescue.

  ‘My turn to say sorry. I did not mean to alarm you. They are not very pleasant people. Feel free to stay the night but don’t get caught, or if you do, don’t tell them I allowed you to sleep there.’

  ‘What will happen?’

  ‘They will flog me. He enjoys it. She enjoys watching but I’ve learned not to cry any more and give her the satisfaction. It happens often enough but I try not to give them an easy excuse. Follow me.’

  Gidyon took a deep breath. He felt the slice of the link opening and responded. Not now, Lauryn. Can we talk later?

  The link closed immediately; he felt bad, especially as they had agreed to talk the next day.

  He followed Yseul and they tiptoed into the barn.

  ‘You must leave early,’ she cautioned. ‘Don’t stay around these parts. Duntaryn is not a good place for strangers at any time, but particularly now,’ she added.

  Gidyon still had not seen her face properly. She made to leave but he reached out and took her arm. ‘Yseul, can I at least pay you something for your generosity?’

  ‘No. But you can take me away with you.’ It slipped out; she had not meant to say this.

  ‘What…are you a prisoner?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ she said, sadly.

  As the lantern swayed, its glow crossed her face. He had a fleeting glimpse of dark hair, olive skin, curiously light eyes.

  ‘Thank you, Yseul,’ he whispered.

  She did not reply but he could hear a gruff man’s voice bellowing her name into the darkness.

  ‘I’m coming!’ she called back.

  Gidyon climbed the ladder to the top of the barn, dug himself into the sweet-smelling straw and lay down gratefully. He touched his stone, which was in an inside pocket close to his chest, and noticed it was hot again. He was too tired to think on what it might mean. If Gidyon had understood the significance of the Stones of Ordolt, he would have known it was warning him. Instead he fell asleep.

  He woke very early after a long and deep sleep during which he had dreamed. A woman he never actually saw had spoken to him. She did not tell him her name but she urged him to wake and put this village behind him. She also told him that his protector was close. He did not understand any of it.

  Gidyon sat up and smiled to himself. First Sorrel and then the girl, Yseul, had spooked him; now he was dreaming up other women frightening him off.

  The sky was just lightening; he could see it would be a lovely, crisp day and after such a refreshing sleep he felt glad to be alive. All notion of danger had passed and his belly was rumbling. He promptly forgot about the dream. He had not eaten a hearty meal in days and if he was going to walk for the next twelve hours or so, he needed a breakfast. So what if everyone kept warning him about Duntaryn? It was just a sleepy old village. He would get some food into himself and then he would start his trek south east
to Axon.

  He dusted off the straw from his clothes and then heard someone enter the barn. He ducked down.

  ‘Are you here?’ she whispered. It was Yseul.

  Gidyon’s relief was huge. ‘Yes,’ he called back softly.

  ‘You must leave. Quickly.’

  Yseul climbed the ladder. She seemed terrified. Looking at her now in the gentle morning light, he could see she was roughly his own age. He had not seen it in that moment of glimpsing her face last night, but she really was an extraordinarily pretty girl.

  ‘Yseul, what is all this about Duntaryn? Why are you so scared?’

  ‘No time to explain. I have brought you some food.’ She dug into her apron pocket and produced some warm muffins and a pear. ‘I’m sorry, it is all I could steal without them knowing.’

  ‘It is more than enough…after what you have already done for me.’ Gidyon stepped towards her but she backed away.

  ‘Master Gynt—’

  ‘Gidyon,’ he corrected gently.

  Nervously, she looked back down into the barn and whispered, ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘I wasn’t really listening. No, no, I don’t think I did hear anything.’

  She nodded with relief. ‘You know you offered to pay last night…’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ Gidyon began to rummage in his pockets for the last of his coins.

  ‘No, not money. I am wondering if you would repay one generosity with another?’ she said, looking at him hard.

  He noticed again how very light her eyes were. How strange, he thought, they were neither green nor blue. Grey would not be accurate either. They were almost sandy in colour.

  He realised she was looking at him intently, waiting for his reply. ‘Er…well, yes, I’ll be happy to. How can I show my gratitude then?’

  She smiled tentatively. ‘I have a small brother. They beat him too. They are merciless towards him. Would you take him with you, wherever you go? I promise he will be no trouble.’