Ghost of the Wall

by Jeff Mariotte

  Which only made sense. As the commander, he would have been in a position to claim the Teeth if he wanted.

  So Kral had made his way to Lupinius’s house, then inside. He’d been startled to find Alanya there. Surely she had mentioned her uncle, but if she’d ever said his name, he didn’t remember it. So many of those Aquilonian names sounded similar, to him, so when she spoke the names of people in the fort, he had paid scant attention.

  At first, his reflex had been to kill her as soon as he saw her. But he could not bring himself to do that. He knew, in his heart, that she had not betrayed him.

  Now they sat in Lupinius’s chairs; he, Alanya, and her little brother Donial—who, by his manner, Kral suspected might have been the one who had betrayed him. He knew the night was wasting away, and with morning’s light, escape would be much harder. But he hadn’t been able to force himself to leave yet.

  “What will you do now?” Alanya asked him.

  He didn’t even have to think about it. “Go after him.”

  “After Uncle Lupinius?” Donial asked, surprised.

  “Of course,” Kral said. “He has taken the crown. I must return it to its rightful place. I have no choice.”

  “How will you find him?” Alanya wondered.

  “He’s traveling through the forest. He will leave tracks.”

  “And if he’s taken the road, instead?”

  “There will still be tracks,” Kral said. He knew following Lupinius’s trail was the least of his worries. Anyone who would take a trunk with him when fleeing would not be hard to find.

  But Alanya surprised him with her next announcement. “Then you will not go alone, Kral.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Donial and I will accompany you.”

  “You cannot,” Kral responded.

  “Why?”

  The reasons were legion, he knew. They would slow him down. They would not be as stealthy in the forests as a Pict and would expose him to danger. If he had to worry about where they were, he might be less careful himself.

  “I travel alone,” he said, as if that explained it all.

  “You used to,” Alanya said.

  “Why do you want to come?”

  Donial sat watching the whole exchange with a confused expression on his face. He would go wherever his sister said, Kral supposed. “Lupinius stole from us as well as from you,” Alanya reminded him. “That mirror is my only memento of my mother, and now my father as well. And if Father had anything else of worth that he meant for us to have, Lupinius has no doubt taken that, too. If he could fit Father’s estate into his trunk, he would doubtless do so. Anyway, he wouldn’t have run like a frightened rat if he was not guilty of something, would he? I suspect he had a hand in our father’s death. Perhaps more than a hand.”

  “And you, Donial?” Kral asked. The young man still eyed him with suspicion, as if Kral might decide at any moment to plunge that knife into his heart. “How do you feel about it?”

  Donial looked uncertain, his gaze flitting back and forth between Kral and his sister. “I . . .” he began. Then he closed his mouth again and gave a small shrug. Kral thought the boy wanted to cry, but he fought back his tears.

  “Donial stays with me,” Alanya announced firmly.

  Kral didn’t usually like to think for too long on any given topic. He knew that if he declined to take them along, they could make all sorts of trouble for him. They could alert the soldiers to his presence now, before he even left the town. And if he did get away, they could set troops on his trail.

  He could kill them.

  Or he could take them along.

  One thing was certain. Lupinius would not have gone west, deeper into Pictish territory, or north, into Cimmeria. No, he would be traveling back into Aquilonia.

  Having Aquilonian allies, who knew the language well and understood the customs, might come in handy.

  Anyway, if he hadn’t been able to kill Alanya at that first moment, when the bloodlust had been hot within him and the fear of discovery strong, he wouldn’t be able to do it now.

  “Very well,” he said. “But we leave now. With every hour that passes, he gets farther ahead of us.”

  “Now?” Donial repeated.

  “Now.”

  “We’ll dress quickly,” Alanya countered. “And then we’ll go. Kral, see if you can find some provisions in the pantry for our journey. And mind you do not wake the staff.”

  Kral cocked his head and looked at her. His Aquilonian was still rudimentary, and he wasn’t sure he understood her tone of voice.

  But it sounded as if she was giving him orders. He had only just decided not to kill her, and here she was telling him what to do.

  Still, what she said made perfect sense. And it was her house, or her uncle’s.

  He decided he might as well go along with her, at least for the moment. Where was the harm in that?

  WITH EVERY MILE he put behind him, Lupinius felt better and better. He was under Aquilonian skies again. Koronaka was still more fresh than a nightmare, but getting farther away all the time. The day had dawned bright and warm, like the new life he headed toward. Compared to Koronaka, Tarantia seemed like a distant paradise. He would be safe from Sharzen’s wrath there, if the fool dared to express it. Sharzen would be terrified to show himself in the king’s capital city. But Conan, even if he was angry at Sharzen, would have no way of knowing Lupinius’s role in the raid on the Bear Clan. He would be the sorrowful brother, still mourning the loss of Conan’s ambassador. Perhaps King Conan would even reward him for his loss.

  With his horse moving steadily beneath him, Lupinius glanced over at Calvert, riding alongside his wagon. When he had learned that the Ghost of the Wall was hunting for him—on top of everything else that had gone wrong—he had summoned Calvert and told him to choose a dozen of his bravest, most loyal Rangers. He packed his trunk, and while some of Calvert’s Rangers distracted the guards sent over by Sharzen, the rest loaded the wagon. With most of the city’s soldiers assigned to the western walls, it was a simple matter to set out for the east.

  They traveled all of that first night, and as morning grew brighter, they were still on the march, trying to put as much distance between themselves and Koronaka as possible. None of the Rangers had any loyalty to Governor Sharzen, except to the extent that they were loyal to Aquilonia’s king and his appointed subjects. But Lupinius paid them, and like most warriors, their allegiance went first to the man who filled their hands with gold.

  Calvert, muscular and handsome, tossed Lupinius an easy grin. “A new day dawns, eh?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Lupinius agreed. “Brighter than the last.”

  “I just hope the wall holds behind us,” Calvert said, with a chuckle. “Long enough for us to reach civilization, at any rate.”

  “It will hold for a while,” Lupinius speculated. “But if Sharzen keeps putting all his resources into it while the rest of the settlements do nothing, it may ultimately make Koronaka weaker, not stronger. Were I a Pict war chief, that is where I would attack.”

  “I’m glad you are not,” Calvert announced. “Rather would I ride in your company into Tarantia than into that forsaken wilderness again.”

  Lupinius nodded. “Especially since we ride toward my brother’s estate there—or should I say, my estate, by right of blood?”

  “From the way you describe it, Lupinius, I suspect we will find comfort there.”

  Lupinius didn’t much care for the way Calvert spoke to him—almost as an equal rather than as an employee. That was new. Until last night, Calvert had always shown him the appropriate respect. Something had changed. Lupinius supposed it was that Calvert understood they were becoming outlaws, after a fashion, or at least behaving like them. Sneaking away from the town in the dead of night, carrying what booty they could, and leaving the rest of the Rangers, as well as the household staff and his brother’s useless spawn, to fend for themselves. They had become conspirators togeth
er, accomplices in something that felt like a crime, although in fact it was not. Lupinius wasn’t sure he liked this new order, but there was little he could do about it without risking Calvert’s wrath. And he didn’t want to make this journey without the Rangers—the bandit Khatak was on the loose, according to reports, as were other brigands.

  He was safer than in Koronaka, but until he was inside the walls of his new home in Tarantia, he would not rest easy.

  What he hadn’t told Calvert, or anyone else, was that he still had the foul souvenir he’d taken from the Pict village, the crown of bones and teeth. He still had to believe, based on the way it was protected, that it had mystical significance. Back in Tarantia, he knew of a mage who could help him determine its true value, if any. Perhaps the mage would even buy it himself, if it was important enough.

  Even if that failed to produce any notable income, he had also taken his niece’s mirror, the gems of which would bring a pretty penny. And, of course, his brother’s estate had lands and possessions. If only he had thought of this earlier, he could have spared himself time and trouble, sitting in Koronaka waiting for King Conan to make the intelligent decision on funding the wall.

  MUCH TO KRAL’S chagrin, they were unavoidably delayed in setting off after Lupinius. Donial found it amusing—the Pict had been so anxious to get on the road, then he was the one who stalled them. He actually had Donial and Alanya spend the rest of the night in a clearing in the woods, less than three miles from Koronaka’s eastern gate, while he went dashing back across the Black to tell his fellow savages that he was leaving. They took advantage of the time to sleep for a while. By the time Kral reached them again, it was morning.

  Still, the way he had taken them out of Uncle Lupinius’s place and past the guards had been impressive. He may have been a savage, but he was as quick and agile as a cat, and he seemed to have a knack for finding the shadowed places where one could hide.

  When he rejoined them, shortly after first light, Kral had a smile on his face. He walked with the springy step of one who hadn’t been awake and running around all night long. With him he brought three horses, a chestnut and a dun mare, and a red roan stallion with a white blaze on his muzzle. All three were saddled and bridled, ready to ride.

  “Where did you get those?” Alanya asked with a laugh. Her long hair was loose, and she wore a simple brown tunic, riding breeches, and buckskin boots. Donial’s outfit was similar, but his tunic was green, and he had a sword hanging from his belt. He wasn’t about to leave their defense entirely up to the savage.

  “From some soldiers who didn’t need them as much as we do,” Kral said. The blood, and much of the blue paint, had been washed off by his trips across the river. His hair and the skin he wore as a loincloth had dried, and he looked almost clean, for a Pict.

  “Do they know that?”

  “They will,” Kral said. “But by the time they count, we will be long gone.”

  Alanya looked at him admiringly. “What else have you been doing?” she asked him. For his part, Donial still had a hard time coming up with a civil sentence for the Pict, or imagining why he should. But Alanya clearly liked him and trusted him.

  “Arranging for Klea to keep up my efforts,” Kral replied.

  “What efforts?” Alanya asked.

  “Harassing the settlers. Slowing progress on the wall. Trying to find the Teeth.”

  “I thought Lupinius had the crown,” Alanya said, confused.

  “We think he does,” Kral answered. “We don’t know that for certain. Until we do, I do not want to let up on the fort.”

  “So even though we’re taking you away, there will continue to be a Ghost of the Wall?”

  “There will,” Kral said, with a broad grin. He helped Alanya up into her saddle on the dun. The chestnut mare was to be for Donial, and Kral would ride the roan. “Those who slaughtered the Bear Clan, breaking the agreed truce, will continue to pay for their crimes.”

  “To be fair,” Donial pointed out as he mounted the chestnut, “you Picts are the enemy.”

  “To be fair,” Kral countered, “when two enemies are in a state of truce, they are not exactly enemies. Or at least, they are not supposed to be fighting.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Donial said.

  “It is,” Alanya confirmed. “That’s what Father always told us—that we were safe from Pict attacks because we had a truce with the Bear Clan.”

  “And then the Picts killed him,” Donial observed.

  “We know not who killed him,” Alanya said. “We have only Uncle’s version of that story, and I no longer trust him in the least.”

  “If a Pict did kill your father, it is because he was part of the attacking force,” Kral suggested. “Of course they tried to defend their homes.”

  Donial, remembering the soldier who had claimed Father’s wound was too large to have been made by a Pictish spear, had no argument for that. “I knew others who died, friends of mine,” Donial said. “Do not expect me to forget that, Kral.”

  “Donial!” Alanya shouted, a horrified look on her face. Donial felt a moment’s shame—if he had done something wrong, he didn’t know what, but his sister was sure acting like he had.

  “Worry not, Alanya,” Kral said. “And Donial, I do not expect you to forget, any more than I expect to forget my family and friends who died in the attack. There are three left, of my whole village, Donial. Three. I will never forget that.”

  “Are you going to murder us in our sleep?” Donial asked.

  “If I was going to do that, I would have done so last night,” Kral pointed out. “It would have been far easier to get out of town safely without the two of you.”

  “He has a point,” Alanya noted.

  “No one says we have to like each other, Donial,” Kral added. “But if we’re to travel together, we must try to trust each other.”

  Trusting a savage, and one of the same clan that had killed his father, seemed like a tall order. But Donial understood the point that Kral was making. If they couldn’t trust one another, this temporary partnership would never work at all.

  He would try, then. He would keep an eye on Kral, but he would try to let the Pict prove himself as trustworthy.

  And, he thought, as he prodded his mount into an easy trot, he would turn him in to Aquilonian authorities at the first possible opportunity.

  19

  THEY WERE ATTACKED on the second day.

  Lupinius had no way of knowing if they were being pursued. But if the Ghost of the Wall had really chosen him as the object of his murderous wrath, he didn’t want to take unnecessary chances. He allowed the horses and the small band of Rangers that accompanied him to take short rests from time to time, and a few hours of sleep on the second night, but they had been going for two nights and part of another day, and all were weary.

  It was almost noon. The early-autumn sun was high and merciless. The riders had shed helmets and mail and rode in loose tunics, wetting cloths to wrap about their heads or necks from time to time to help stave off the heat. Months in the cooler climes of the Westermarck had lowered their tolerance for the heat of the inland valleys through which they rode.

  Lupinius was nodding off, almost asleep at the wagon’s reins, when three riders stepped their horses onto the narrow road. Sheer cliff walls rose up on one side of the roadway. The other was clotted with low trees and scrub, thorny and dense. The trees had been tall enough to conceal the riders, though. The men were armored, with helmets that covered their faces. One of them held a crossbow, the others straight swords of medium length and breadth.

  Calvert, who usually rode close to Lupinius, moved instead to the head of the column and hailed the riders.

  “Move off the road,” he commanded. “We would pass.”

  “In good time,” the rider in the center answered. His voice was gruff, and the sword he held remained visibly displayed.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Lupinius demanded. Around him, Rangers freed swords
from scabbards. Trey, mounted just ahead of him, slipped his longbow off his back and plucked an arrow from a quiver. The mood of the day had gone from lazy and sleepy to bowstring taut in an instant. Even the birds overhead seemed to have quieted.

  “No one needs be hurt,” the apparent leader of the riders said. “We can see by your escort, sir, and your bearing, that you are a man of some distinction. All we want, then, are the contents of that wagon. The lot of you can keep your horses and ride on.”

  Calvert couldn’t contain a sputter of laughter. “Three of you against ten Rangers?”

  “Your count, not mine,” the rider said. Uneasy, Lupinius tilted his head and looked up the cliff wall that flanked the road. Staggered among the boulders there were at least twenty men. Some had arrows drawn and pointed down, others had massive rocks in their hands that they could send crashing down at a moment’s notice. The ambushers had picked their spot well. The road was too narrow here to allow for easy retreat, especially with the wagon. They could probably charge through the three men blocking the road, but who knew if there were more back in those trees and scrub? And they would certainly take heavy casualties from those stationed above.

  By giving up the wagon, Lupinius could probably save his own skin—if these brigands were to be taken at their word. And in their defense, they could have simply attacked first, rather than making such a demand, if they intended to kill Lupinius and the Rangers anyway. Which made the calculation a little more difficult. If he had been sure they’d die anyway, he would have just insisted they fight their way out.

  All this went through his mind in a matter of seconds. Calvert had partially turned on his mount to see what Lupinius’s decision might be, but hadn’t turned his back completely on the three riders. Finally, Lupinius decided that fighting was the best course. He gave Calvert a discreet nod.