“I haven’t got the time to wait around for you to die,” said the scarred man. Igglas whimpered.
Reaching down, the scarred man grasped the wounded boy by his belt and collar. Then, with a grunt, he hoisted him over his head and turned towards the precipice. After two short steps he hurled the dying boy over the side.
For the briefest of instants Igglas’ body seemed to hang suspended in midair. Then it plummeted. There was a short scream and then a wet thud as flesh and bone struck against stone. The Journeyman listened with his eyes squeezed shut as the sound of the corpse tumbling towards the river grew steadily more distant. At last there was another muted thump and a clatter of pebbles as it reached bottom.
“That’s that then,” said the scarred man, turning about and wiping his hands on his trousers. When he saw the Journeyman’s face he again let out a short burst of laughter. “First time’s always the hardest. Gets easier.”
The Journeyman bent double and heaved up the contents of his stomach. When he looked up from the pile of sick he saw that the scarred man was rummaging through the contents of Bolivor’s pouch. He came up with a handful of copper marks and a few bits of silver. With a shrug he tucked them into his own pouch.
“Are you going to kill me?” asked the Journeyman.
“Thought we’d been over this,” said the scarred man.
The Journeyman shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He failed.
“These two gits,” said the scarred man pointing to the heap of flesh before him then over the side of the cliff, “were more of a liability than an asset. I’m pleased to be rid of them.”
“Why?” asked the Journeyman groggily. “What did they do?”
“For starters, the little one shit in my bedroll,” said the scarred man. “Second, they raped a twelve year old girl not three weeks ago. Been running ever since. I told them they should keep their pricks to themselves and just demand a ransom, but they wouldn’t listen. After they snatched her from her matron they just couldn’t help themselves. Nothing but sleeping rough and constant running after that. Dragged myself half the length of the Vallén thanks to these two.”
“That’s horrible,” said the Journeyman. He felt as though his head were about to float away from his body. The sensation was not altogether unpleasant. Be that as it may, he felt sickened by what he had done, what he had seen, what he had heard.
“Sleeping rough for the better part of three weeks?” asked the scarred man. “You’re a journeyman; that sort of thing should be second nature to you.”
“No,” said the Journeyman dreamily, “I meant the girl…”
“She’ll live,” said the scarred man. With one hand he tugged a knife from Bolivor’s belt. He examined the weapon then tossed it to one side. “Couldn’t be bothered to oil it, could he? Just let it rust away…”
“She’ll live?” asked the Journeyman.
“And so will you,” said the scarred man.
“Why not go your own way?” asked the Journeyman. “Leave them to take the blame?”
“Strength in numbers,” said the scarred man. “Go it alone and you’ll be on the rack within a week.”
The Journeyman thought this over for a moment then asked, “Are you going to rob me?”
“No,” said the scarred man, “but a token of gratitude on your part wouldn’t be amiss.” He held out one hand, palm up.
The Journeyman looked at the proffered palm, then dipped into his own pouch. He hunted about until he located his purse, grabbed a small handful of coins, and dropped them into the outstretched hand.
The scarred man’s lips turned down and his eyebrows went up. He nodded in approval. “They pay you well,” he said.
“Not particularly,” replied the Journeyman.
“There’s silver in here,” said the scarred man.
“Hmm?” said the Journeyman.
Dropping the coins into his pouch the scarred man took the Journeyman by the shoulders. His head weaving back and forth he tried to match the Journeyman’s gaze. When he finally managed to do so he said matter-of-factly, “You’re concussed.”
“Oh,” said the Journeyman dully.
“Pupils are dilated,” said the scarred man.
The Journeyman said nothing.
The scarred man then tilted his head to the side and examined the wound in his arm, the one caused by Igglas’s club. The thick wool and leather the Journeyman wore had mitigated most of the damage, but a few of the spikes had gone through.
“You’ll want to wash that out,” said the scarred man. “Igglas liked to dip his club in cow shit whenever he got the chance. Filthy little bastard.”
The Journeyman wavered, then pitched forwards. The scarred man caught him and set him back on his feet. “Keep awake,” he said, “keep moving. If you continue down this path you’ll come to the high road by late afternoon. Just follow it north and you should be able to make Vytás Keep before sunset.”
The Journeyman nodded.
“Good,” the scarred man said and gave him a pat on his uninjured shoulder. “As for me, I’m for the Erstewald.”
With that he ducked around the Journeyman and disappeared into the brush at the side of the trail. He emerged a moment later with a rucksack over his shoulder. As he passed he nodded to the Journeyman then disappeared down the trail.
The Journeyman watched until the scarred man was out of sight then again bent double and vomited. This time nothing but bile splashed onto his boots. When he stood up again he found that his ears were buzzing. Filling the silence left in the scarred man’s wake, the buzzing grew until it sounded as though a hive of gnats had settled into his ears. The Journeyman listened for a while, then took several experimental steps down the path. When he was sure he could walk without toppling over he took several more.
Before he could take a dozen more, his progress was halted by a flutter of wings from off to his right. The Journeyman turned towards the sound. Settling into one of the trees that overshadowed the riverbed was a kite. The bird was snow white save for the ashen that ran highlights along the tips of its wings, tail, and the top of its head. The sight of it made the Journeyman shiver. Its coloring reminded him of winter; of bitter cold and privation seemingly without end.
The great bird opened and closed its wings, shook out its tail feathers, and readjusted its perch. The Journeyman watched intently as the wind ruffled the plumage along the kite’s breast. Despite the battering he had taken and the haze that clouded his vision, the image of the bird was as clear as a polished glass. Every detail, every minute sensation he experienced in that moment, imprinted itself on his memory. Years later he would be able to look back at this moment and feel the wind on his face, smell the wet grass and the blood soaking into the roadway. It was burned into his mind like the hot iron had burned the image of the Ouroboros into flesh.
Turning its head to the side the kite fixed the Journeyman with one jet-black eye. He stared back at the great bird, his mind again beginning to wander.
Were kite’s scavengers? He found that didn’t know. Would it sail down on silent wings to the spot where Igglas lay broken and crumpled? Would it peck out his eyes and score the flesh of his cheeks? Well, if not the kite then the crows, surely.
The Journeyman’s stomach gave a sudden rumble. Prepared for another bout of vomiting he stooped and placed his hands on his knees. It was several seconds before he realized that he was not going to be sick. In fact, his stomach was demanding to be fed.
The Journeyman’s lips turned down in a frown.
What sort of a monster was he that he could be hungry at a time like this? Had he not just skewered two men, then watched as a third was hurled off of a cliff? He found that he did not have an answer to the question either.
With a shake of his head the Journeyman retrieved his pack from where he had dropped it seemingly a lifetime ago. He then started up the muddy track moving north and east. A dozen paces later and there came another rustle of wings from off to his righ
t. When the Journeyman looked back over the precipice the kite was gone.
2. THE HOUSE OF VYTÁS
“They did a number on you, boy.” So saying, the physician turned the Journeyman’s head roughly from one side to the other. He winced. The physician did not seem to notice.
“The good news,” said the bearded old saw-bones, “is that I can reset your nose. Should heal up quite nicely. Won’t even be able to tell it was broken. The bad news is that it’s going to hurt like hell.”
The Journeyman shrugged. “No sense in waiting.” The physician nodded in approval. “Alright,” he said and handed the Journeyman a clean white cloth. “Hold this under your nose. When I set it, it’ll bleed like a bastard.”
The Journeyman did as he was bidden and held the cloth to his lips. The physician then grasped the bridge of his nose in the first two fingers of both hands. Slowly he began to probe the split pieces of cartilage. The Journeyman’s eyes began to water. The physician then pinched and jerked sharply downwards. A crackling sound filled his ears. Without meaning to the Journeyman barked out a cry of pain.
“Done,” said the physician. Then, “Keep the cloth under your nose; no sense in getting any more blood on your clothes.”
The Journeyman nodded. The physician, his job done, went to a bowl of clean water set on the only other table in the surgery and began to wash up. After he had dried his hands he turned to the Journeyman. “The Master says you should be treated for any other aches or pains. So, if you’ve a broken bone or a bruised rib now’s the time to tell me.”
Taking stock of his personage the Journeyman made a mental tally of the contusions and scrapes he had suffered. The physician had already cleaned and bound his shoulder and none of the other bumps and scrapes seemed worthy of further attention. In fact he was eager to be shed of this grizzled veteran and out of the surgery all together. Though the physician had done a fine job of resetting his nose, the fellow resembled a butcher more than a man of medicine. He was tall and thickly built with large, rough hands. More than a few scars adorned his forearms. The Journeyman supposed that he may have been a soldier in his younger days, or a torturer.
“Well?” asked the physician.
“No,” said the Journeyman, “I’m alright.”
The physician nodded.
“When the bleeding’s stopped you can pitch the cloth in the bin over there. One of the house servants will be along presently to collect you. Follow him wherever he takes you.”
The Journeyman opened his mouth to thank the physician, but the man was out the door before the words had passed his lips. Feeling foolish the Journeyman closed his mouth and looked down at the floor.
Soon enough there was a tentative rap at the door. A moment later and a thin man in a servant’s uniform entered. He drew to a halt before the Journeyman and inclined his head.
“When you’re ready,” said the servant.
Taking the bloodied towel from under his nose the Journeyman dabbed at his nostrils. Gore no longer seemed to be seeping from them, though they were clogged and would not allow him to take a proper breath. He supposed he would have to contend with being a literal mouth breather until he was fully healed.
“Might as well be now,” said the Journeyman, getting up from his chair. Immediately the whole of his face began to throb. The room attempted to pirouette around him and he was compelled to shut his eyes. When he opened them again the walls were standing mercifully still.
“This way,” said the servant.
Tossing the towel into the bin the physician had indicated the Journeyman followed the servant out into corridor.
Neither the torch light nor the glow cast by the blazing fire at the end of the hall reached to the peak of the high ceiling. The soaring buttresses remained in shadow, their graceful curves hidden from view. It was just as well. Tilting his head back made the Journeyman dizzy and ever so slightly nauseous. He opted to keep his gaze level and his stomach un-churned.
At head height the hall was no less spectacular. The shadowed vaulting overhead joined with a series of massive timber columns that were sunk into the slate floor. These had been carved into intricate motifs; scenes of hunts and of strange creatures, of valiant warriors and desperate battles. The tapestries that graced the walls between the columns added to the gallery of carvings their own scenes from Vallénci history and myth. The Journeyman was unfamiliar with the characters depicted, the battles fought, the beasts slain, but was awed nonetheless. Had he been able to examine the tapestries more closely he would have discovered they were finer even than those lining the halls of the Hegemon’s palace far to the south.
Along the sides of the hall had been placed rows of long tables and high-backed chairs. To the Journeyman it was strange to see such finery pushed aside. In his mind’s eye the halls of great houses played host to a constant stream of nobles and courtiers that feasted without pause. It was doubly strange to see a solitary figure sat at a modest table before the great hearth.
With his back to the hall the man was no more than a silhouette; a flat outline framed by the firelight. His posture was bent, stooped over the table as though he were very old, or perhaps a grotesque, a hunchback. After a few more steps he saw that neither was the case. The man was simply engrossed in whatever lay on the table before him.
“No need to be hesitant,” said the shadowed figure. The Journeyman drew to a halt.
The figure chuckled. “Come, sit with me. I’ve prepared a late
supper and I’m afraid it’s too much for me to tackle alone. You’re welcome to what’s left.” Crossing to where the figure sat the Journeyman made his way around the table. When he was within a meter of the man he stopped and bowed. He had a duty to perform and had already been waylaid long enough. Had he not allowed himself to be surprised by the highwaymen he would have been able to deliver his message hours ago. Nor, for that matter, would he have had to call upon the good graces of the house physician. “I’ve been commissioned by Her Grace, the Lady Cerridwyn of the House of Vytás—”
“I am aware,” said the figure. He pushed back from the table and stood.
The Journeyman raised his eyes from the floor and looked into the face of the man. The angular countenance that gazed back at him was cold, the features implacable. On the man’s chin stood a few days growth of beard salted with gray. His eyes gleamed from out of deep sockets set beneath high brows. His hair, streaked along the temples with gray, was swept back from his forehead in a rakish part. Though his face belied not the least hint of emotion his bearing was regal, his posture calculated. He was handsome, his looks unmistakably northern. To the Journeyman he appeared the very picture of Vallénci nobility.
“My aunt, the Lady Cerridwyn,” said the nobleman, “has sent several messengers already. They were all alike in content and tone. Though you are the first Journeyman to bring me one of her letters I imagine this latest to be much the same.”
“My Lord, I—” began the Journeyman.
The nobleman cut him off, “Neither my uncle nor myself is interested in what she has to say. The Lady Cerridwyn deserted her husband, her children, her house. Wherever it is she has gone she may remain.”
The Journeyman drew a deep breath. Though unnerved by the bearing of the high-born man before him, here was a situation that at least lent itself to his training. “I have been commissioned,” he said, “and must fulfill my obligation. You may, of course, refuse delivery. If it is your wish to do so I will need your mark.”
The nobleman sighed. “You have a duty, I understand. Our family’s inner politics are not your concern. There is a way of doing things, especially where the Journeymen are concerned.”
“There is, my Lord,” said the Journeyman.
“Should I ever wish to use the services of your guild in the future I must acknowledge your presence and your attempt to deliver your message.”
“Yes, my Lord,” said the Journeyman.
The nobleman nodded. “Very well, I will accept the
letter.”
Reaching into his pouch the Journeyman produced a large envelope sealed with wax. He then fished his ledger from the same pouch, as well as a pen and a small bottle of ink. He opened the small leather-bound book to the first page where he had written the name of the letter’s sender as well as its intended recipient. Below the names was a blank space. He indicated this to the nobleman as he unscrewed the cap from the bottle of ink. “My Lord, if you will make your mark here I will release this missive into your custody.”
The nobleman held out his hand and the Journeyman provided him with the pen. This he dipped gently into the ink, then set it to paper. When he had finished scrawling his name and title the Journeyman retrieved his pen and ledger. “From Her Grace, the Lady Cerridwyn of the House of Vytás, a letter for His Lordship, the Baron Leonas of the House of Vytás.”
Without taking his eyes from the Journeyman, Leonas accepted the letter. For a time he stood as still as a statue, staring down at the young messenger. His face was covered in shadow; only the line of his jaw, his cheek, and his temple were outlined by the flickering firelight. Though his deep-set eyes were hidden the Journeyman could feel the nobleman’s gaze boring into him.
At last, Leonas set the letter on the table and his posture eased. Unconsciously, the Journeyman let out a sigh of relief. “That’s over then,” said Leonas. “Now, you will join me at table.”
“My Lord,” said the Journeyman in a small voice, “I wouldn’t want to intrude. You’ve already provided the physician, which is more than—”
“Nonsense,” said Leonas. A hint of a smile played across his lips. “It is no intrusion at all. You were assaulted on one of my family’s roads. That is simply inexcusable. The least I can do is feed you and offer medical attention. Speaking of which, I hope the good doctor was not too rough with you?”
Somewhat taken aback by the sudden show of familiarity, the Journeyman was momentarily unable to answer. At the drop of a hat the nobleman before him had gone from imposing and regal to adopting an air of near conviviality.
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