The splash of boots in a puddle drew his attention from the pig farmer and the Journeyman raised his head. The Guildmaster, accompanied by a quartet of guardsmen, strode to the door of his cell. Wordlessly, one of the soldiers fitted a key into the lock and swung the door open. The iron hinges squealed in protest.
“On your feet,” said the Guildmaster and gestured that the Journeyman should stand.
Stiffly, he rose and stood swaying before the older man.
“Step forward,” said the Guildmaster.
The Journeyman stepped forward.
“Hands,” said the Guildmaster.
The Journeyman presented his hands. Manacles were locked on his wrists, the steel cold against his skin.
Two of the guardsmen took him by the arms and lead him out of the cell. Together they made their way towards the guardhouse at the far end of the stockade. As they went mud squelched beneath their feet and sucked at their boots.
When they reached the guardhouse the Journeyman was ushered through the door and into an anteroom. He halted before an expansive desk cluttered with papers. It was plain, carved of pine, and stained a deep reddish-brown. To his eyes the desktop looked very much like the stained boards of the gallows. Behind it sat a soldier, round faced and red-cheeked.
“Do not speak,” cautioned the Guildmaster. The Journeyman regarded him, then turned back to the soldier behind the desk. The man peered back at him, his expression lofty. Despite the ache in his joints and the chill in his bones, the Journeyman dearly wished he was at liberty to box the man’s ears. Alas, he must simply endure.
The Guildmaster and the soldier behind the desk exchanged paperwork and signatures. Afterwards a bundle was presented to the Guildmaster. The older man handed it to the Journeyman who took it, raising one eyebrow.
“Get undressed,” said the Guildmaster.
“I beg your pardon?” asked the Journeyman.
“Get undressed and put that on.” The Guildmaster’s tone was flinty, his teeth set. The Journeyman raised his arms, his wrists still manacled. From his pouch one of the guardsmen produced a key. After the manacles had been removed he began to strip off his sodden clothing. When he was fully disrobed he undid the twine that held the bundle closed.
One of the guardsmen, a grizzled fellow of indeterminate age with a pleated beard that hung to the middle of his chest, snorted. The Journeyman looked to the man then down at himself. His normally thin frame was gaunt, his ribs clearly visible through the musculature of his chest. At his side the livid scar where he had taken the blade of Torr’s spear stood out starkly against his pale skin. On his left forearm, just below the elbow, was another scar. It had been placed there by an iron, white hot, impressed expertly into his flesh. The image burned into his skin was that of a serpent swallowing its own tail; the Ouroboros, the symbol of his guild.
The man with the pleated beard continued to stare.
“Bigger than yours?” asked the Journeyman.
The Guildmaster shoved a finger into the Journeyman’s face. “Be. Silent.”
Without acknowledging his superior’s reproach the Journeyman pulled away the last of the twine. Within the bundle was a folded cloak, trousers, and a tunic and undergarments of soft muslin. All were of a familiar slate gray, trail worn, and comfortable. He raised his eyes to the Guildmaster.
“Your uniform,” said the older man. “Until officially disbarred you are still a Journeyman. Put it on.”
Without hesitation the Journeyman did so. He tugged the tunic over his head, his trousers over his hips, then buckled the leather straps that held the woolen uniform in place. The garments were warm, comforting to the touch.
“Boots,” said the Guildmaster.
The Journeyman buckled on his muddied boots. No sooner had he done so then the manacles were again locked about his wrists. The four guardsmen then shoved him towards the door.
Stumbling, the Journeyman turned back to the Guildmaster. “Where?” he asked.
“To the stables,” replied the Guildmaster. From one of the guardsmen he accepted the key to the Journeyman’s manacles.
“We’re leaving? Now?”
Back into the courtyard trooped the six men. The soldiers pressed the Journeyman forward while the Guildmaster trailed behind, muddy water splashing about their ankles. The clouds above continued to mist the stockade with a thin curtain of rain.
“We are not done here,” said the Journeyman. To his own ears his voice sounded strained, agitated.
Good.
“Yes,” said the Guildmaster, “we are.”
“Torr!” barked the Journeyman, his foot catching the rim of a puddle. “What of the Huul? He was supposed to have been executed after Olis. Why hasn’t he been hung already?”
“Drysden has assured me that he will indeed be executed,” said the Guildmaster, his stride unflagging.
The Journeyman stumbled again, nearly falling into the quagmire. “No!” he cried. “I need to see him with my own eyes! I need to see him die!”
He was shocked at the plaintive tone of his voice and the sudden swell of emotion that had suddenly blossomed in his chest. He had not intended the words to have dredged up a genuine response. This tantrum wasn’t supposed to be real. Nonetheless, the sort of fear he had felt while fleeing through the winter locked forest, Huuls quick on his heels, gnawed him. His breath came in ragged gasps and sweat stood out on his brow despite the cold.
“Torr is no longer any concern of yours,” said the Guildmaster.
“He tried to burn me alive!” shouted the Journeyman. “I need to know that his sentence was carried out; I need to know that he’s dead!”
“Do not be a child!” snapped the Guildmaster. “It is not for you to decide whether he lives or dies. You have forfeited your right to see him hang. You are not owed any closure. All you have left is your own punishment.”
So saying, the Guildmaster gave the Journeyman a shove. The Journeyman stumbled, knocking into one of the guardsmen. The man pushed him away with a curse. He fell against the Guildmaster. The older man righted him, setting him back on his feet. The Journeyman doubled over, coughed, and raised his manacled hands to his mouth. As he was propelled forward he slipped the thing he had lifted from the Guildmaster’s pouch beneath his tongue.
Numbly, the remainder of his outburst quelled, he set his feet towards the stables. Once inside he mounted the horse that was presented to him. The animal’s bridal had already been lashed to the Guildmaser’s saddle by a leather strap.
As the older man then led him towards the gate the Journeyman muttered, “No. For the love of the gods…”
“What now?” asked the Guildmaster. Looking up he was presented with the answer to his own question. “Silke will be riding with us,” he said flatly. “You will not object.”
As the two men rode by the paramour drew along side, matching her horse’s pace with theirs. Together they passed from the stockade.
The fort’s eastern gate, that great construct of timber and bronze, swung slowly on its unoiled hinges. The Journeyman turned in his saddle and looked up, watching as the portals clanged shut. On the ramparts above the double doors could be seen the silhouettes of guardsman. They observed the small party from behind rows of sharpened logs, staring obtusely down as the three made their way along the muddy track that lead off into the Erstewald.
“Eyes front,” said the Guildmaster.
Silke giggled.
The Journeyman swiveled round and again faced forward in his saddle. Beneath him the animal he rode snorted. He reached up and patted its neck. Through the leather of the saddle he could feel the roll of its gait, each huffing breath, each plodding footfall. He knew that after only a few hours he would be sore, his thighs and buttocks chafed. He wondered if the Guildmaster would let him walk. To move under his own power would lessen the misery of being dragged back to a guildhall and in front of a tribunal.
“You do not like riding very much, do you?”
The Journeyman
turned to regard Silke. The red-haired woman rode on the opposite side of the Guildmaster and to the left of the Journeyman. Her roan was clean and well brushed, her saddle and tack fine and polished. Flung over her shoulders, its length extending down the back of her mount, was a voluminous cloak of rich azure, the color reminiscent of a glacial lake in winter. Red curls peaked from beneath the fur-trimmed hood of the cloak. She blinked at the Journeyman and smiled. He wondered if she had always had dimples in her cheeks. Surely he would have noticed them after spending the night with her. He must have. Though, for whatever reason, he could not recall having seen the dimples before.
“No,” replied the Journeyman, “I do not care for riding. Not horses at any rate. A cow every now and again, perhaps...”
Silke stiffened, then again smiled. “If you’re so unused to riding I do not envy you the coming days. They will be very hard on your backside, though not as hard as your guildmates I suspect.”
“What goes on between my guildmates and my arse is my business ” began the Journeyman. He was cut short by a harsh word from the Guildmaster.
“Be silent, the both of you!”
At this outburst the horses shied. The Journeyman felt his stomach knot as the animal beneath him skittered sideways.
“Fine mounts you’ve obtained,” he said. “Will they start at every noise along the trail? If so perhaps we should just sell them to the knackers, pocket the money, and simply make our way on foot.”
“You are an acerbic little man,” said Silke, her smile never leaving her face. Above the grin her eyes shone hard and cruel. “I am not surprised that you are in the position that you are in.”
“Enough,” growled the Guildmaster. “It is my great misfortune that I must contend with both prisoner and witness; I do not need them sniping at each other like children as well. Keep your own council. I have no compunctions about bloodying either of you should you make my position here untenable.”
Again Silke stiffened. This time her smile fell. “Do not think that you can order me about as though I were a serving girl or this wretch you have in irons. I agreed to accompany you of my own volition. I can just as easily choose not to.”
“You chose to accompany me because I paid you,” said the Guildmaster. “Unless I’m mistaken, you would not have agreed to give testimony otherwise.”
“You’ve paid your witness?” burst out the Journeyman. “I’m assured to have a fair trail now, aren’t I?”
“She is only being paid to repeat the testimony she has already given,” said the Guildmaster.
“Which Drysden more than likely paid for as well.”
The Guildmaster did not respond.
Locking eyes with the red-haired woman the Journeyman said flatly, “You show your true colors, whore.”
“I am as much a whore as you, Journeyman!” screamed Silke. “At least I am honest about what it is I do!”
“Enough!” bellowed the Guildmaster and reined in his horse. He turned to Silke and then to the Journeyman. “Do not speak again, either one of you.”
His cheeks were red with fury, the color showing through the tanned and weathered flesh. In all of his years taking instruction from this man never had the Journeyman seen him so incensed. Though his own anger and embarrassment threatened to well up and come pouring form his lips, he bit the words back. What the Guildmaster must be feeling he could only guess at. To stray too close to that pyre of barely contained rage would be an act of self immolation. In truth it would only impede what he must do.
Silently the trio continued on. Beneath the hooves of their horses the churned roadway squelched. Overhead the clouds lay low and ubiquitous, the drizzle coming and going, occasionally turning to rain. To either side stood endless ranks of trees, many still festooned on their western face with flood debris. They sat mutely, marking the passage of the three travelers.
It was another hour before they saw the first flash of steel shining from between the darkened trunks.
22. ADVANCE
The first of the bolts hissed past the Journyman’s head, brushing at the hem of his hood. He felt the breath of their passage as the steel piling clipped the wool beside his cheek. He threw himself forward across the neck of his mount as more bolts sped past. His horse, its ears flat against its skull, danced in place, pulling at its reins. The leather thongs that still fastened his mount to the Guildmaster’s saddle were stretched taut.
“Back!” cried the Guildmaster, waving at the Journeyman and Silke. “Get back!”
The road was narrow, hemmed in on both sides by trees. All three horses attempted to turn at once, half rearing, sliding in the mud. The Journeyman clamped down with his thighs and gripped the saddle horn with both hands in an attempt to keep his balance.
A meaty thud and the shock of impact jolted him sideways, nearly unhorsing him. The Guildmaster’s animal, with a scream of terror, bit and slashed at his own mount. In desperation to be free of the writhing mass of horseflesh and the oncoming line of armored men, the beast lashed out wildly. With a curse the Guildmaster fought to keep the animal under control.
More bolts hissed by, thudding into the trees that flanked the roadway. The first rank of bowman drew back to reload while those behind stepped forward and loosed. This staggered advance would bring them down on the trio within moments, steel tipped quarrels burying themselves in the travelers. The Journeyman saw this even through the jumble of rearing horses.
“Drecksnest!” swore Silke. “Still halten!”
The sound of the paramour’s curses drew the Journeyman’s attention from the crash of horses and the passing bolts. He raised his eyes in time to see the red-haired woman yank her reigns hard left. The animal beneath her, its eyes rolling, attempted to comply with the command. At the same time the Guildmaster’s mount threw itself sideways, dashing Silke into the wall of trees.
Then came the tell-tail sound of a quarrel biting into flesh. The Guildmaster’s horse reared, the wooden shaft of a bolt protruding from its hindquarters. It screamed and skittered in the mud, its back legs dancing. The Guildmaster drove his heels into the sides of the terrified animal. It lurched forward, battering aside the Journeyman’s mount. With a sharp crack the tether straps ripped free of the Guildmaster’s saddle.
Yet another bolt flew past, grazing the Jounrneyman’s left shoulder. He ignored the pain and kicked his own horse in the flanks. The animal needed little prodding; at a full run it sped down the muddy highway, back the way they had come.
“Gods damn it!” shouted the Guildmaster. “Belkor and Mékla, slow down!” His oaths were caught by the rushing wind and blown back towards the Journeyman. He would have smiled, hearing his old mentor profane his faith so, were he not clinging to his saddle for dear life.
From behind came the sound of rapid hoof beats. The Journeyman glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Silke’s blue cloak as it billowed behind her. Her hood had been swept back and her flaming red curls bounced in time with the pounding of her horse’s hooves. Further back, their line now advancing at a run, came the crossbowmen. Behind them, sitting high in his saddle, was a lone figure. His hair was long and greasy, his scarred face unshaven. Over his right eye was a patch on which was emblazoned the caricature of a single, staring eye.
A bend in the road obscured the column of soldiers from view and the Journeyman refocused on the way ahead. To either side the trees rushed by in a blur of waterlogged trunks and skeletal branches. Mud, thrown up by the Guildmaster’s horse, splattered his face and tunic. The rain, little more than a delicate misting, nevertheless stung his cheeks and brow. He squinted his eyes and tried to maintain his hold on the saddle horn. He failed.
Another twist in the roadway saw his horse go careening off to the right. The Journeyman slid from the saddle, landing on his hip in the mud, sliding feet first towards the spot where his mount went crashing through the underbrush. He came to a halt at the side of the road, his left side caked in muck, his vision blurred by grit and water.
Thundering hooves passed no more than an arm’s length from the Journeyman’s head. He ducked, having no desire to be trampled after just having been thrown. The hoof-beats stopped and reversed. Wiping at his eyes the Journeyman raised his head.
“It would seem your lack of horsemanship has saved you,” said Silke. “Pity.”
The Journeyman, sliding in the mud, managed to regain his feet. From the side of the road came the crash of branches as his horse righted itself. He glanced to his right in time to see the animal attempt to leap a fallen log and go crashing away through the tangle of flood debris that lined the road. He sprang for its reins, caught them with one finger, and pulled. The horse reversed its course and danced back into the roadway, nearly crushing his feet.
“They’re Imperial Hegemon troops,” said Silke seeming not to have noticed the Journeyman’s struggle with his horse. Exasperated, he turned back towards the paramour.
“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth, “I know the man at the head of the column.”
“Do you?” replied Silke and raised an eyebrow.
The sound of booted feet tramping through mud came echoing through the trees. Silke and the Journeyman glanced towards the source of the noise then back at each other.
“Do you plan to stand there and wait for your friend?” asked Silke.
Though not long ago he had been in Thane’s pay, now he did not think the old mercenary would have any compunction about filling him with arrows. Whatever Thane’s reason for leading an armed contingent into the Erstewald, the Journeyman no longer fit into his plans. This made him a liability.
“No,” said the Journeyman, shaking his head, “I think not.”
Silke made to go, drawing on her reins, then stopped. “What have you got in your mouth?” she asked.
Raising his manacled hands to his lips the Journeyman extended the key he had lifted from the Guildmaster’s pouch and tucked under his tongue. He fitted it into the manacles, amazed that he had not swallowed it after being thrown from his horse. He gave the key a twist then dropped the sprung irons into the mud.
Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim) Page 12
