But I could never be prepared for the snow savages living beyond the border. Sheltered from the worst of them by the great mountains of the Mother Island, the people of Tallakarn know them only as a vague terror. There are those, my father included, who consider them to be shadow demons borne of the darkness beyond the mountains. Others say that they are part-human, part-animal; that they sport claws and fangs and eat raw flesh. Fewer still claim that they are no different to us; that they are just from the wrong side of the mountains.
Regardless of who or what they are, several things are known. On the rare occasions that they have attacked the kingdom, it has always been at night and as sudden as a thunderstorm. When they have done so, they have shown no mercy; every person that crosses their path is killed, eaten or burned. Some may even suffer all three fates in no particular order. They are thought to be formidable in combat, and very few warriors who have fought them remain to tell the tale.
Despite all these ominous signs, they have never been more than a nuisance to the borders of the kingdom. As with their origins, the reasons for this are a matter of great contention across the land. Those that say they are demons say that they dare not face the sun and warmth of the kingdom. Such superstitious folk are quite happy to ignore the fact that the kingdom can go for months under perpetual dark clouds. Meanwhile, those that say they are animals contest that their numbers are too small and their natures too fractious to ever pose a real threat. The king, and those who are especially loyal to him, declare that we are safe because of the royal army and the protection it offers.
About a hundred years ago, members of a tribe that were considered snow savages did navigate their way to the southern reaches of the kingdom but, instead of fighting, they simply settled and made peace with their new neighbours. These people became known as the Bwlch, the ‘people of the mountain pass’. Since that time, they have stood right on the bulwark of the battle against the snow and its savages. Some of the great knights of history are descended from the Bwlch; “The Spear”, “The White Falcon”, “The man of Iron”, “The Bull” are all names of knights revered throughout the land. Fighting is in their blood; they have needed it to survive.
Needless to say then, that it is with the school’s master of arms, a proud member of the Bwlch, that I have spent most of my time since that fated conversation with Vesta. Practice has seemed to be my only hope.
Ten
Arberth, looming large over the tidal region that connects the island to the mainland, seems to be a nation apart from the rest of the island. The people there aren’t quite islanders or mainlanders. It is a melting pot in the middle, a beacon for all the lowest sorts of life, designed by cunning architecture to be easily isolated should the island be attacked. This threat of isolation, in addition to the importance of its role as gateway to the island, gives the townsfolk a somewhat unique identity. They seem an insolent, arrogant sort, forever on the verge of rebellion.
What makes its architecture so cunning is the city walls. It is obvious that a town must be walled off on the side that faces the enemy and so it is: anyone hoping to raid the island by land must first breach the mighty stone walls that face the mainland. This difficult task is made more difficult by the greedy tide that covers the area twice each day, sweeping in to swallow anyone imprudent enough to have got his or her timing wrong.
However, Arberth is also walled off from the rest of the island. Why this is so, given that it has no independence and has always remained loyal to the island, is not so obvious. The key is in the design of gate and wall. It is designed to be sealed off; the gate must be operated from both sides and the island-facing walls can only be manned by soldiers arriving from outside the city gates. This ensures that, should Arberth ever fall, any potential raiders would find themselves stuck on the wrong side of yet another wall.
Of course, in these times of peace, there seems little chance of raiders ever making it as far as Arberth. The walled city is, in fact, a relic from a bygone era when the island was at war with the tribes from the mainland. Now it stands as nothing more than an impressive reminder of that time; dark, dank walls rising slowly from the murk. These walls, a testament to the ingenuity of humankind, can be seen from miles away. I have always felt it is a shame that it is these walls, so ugly and functional, that dominate the landscape rather than the beautiful ornate towers of Tallakarn, tucked away in the distance.
The black gate itself is a living throng, with fishermen, farmers, traders, guardsmen and beggars heading both into and out of the city. There are guards but no official checkpoint, and people are in and out as they please. There is nothing to fear. I am just another peasant boy in a miserable crowd on a miserable day. Vesta has asked me to report to the bridge tower, a huge structure on the other side of the city that looks out across to the mainland. Even when the sea fog is as low as it is this morning, it is unmissable.
In this unfamiliar city, the sea fog feels welcome. The stench of fish and faeces, never a favourite of mine, only hangs faintly on the air, suppressed by the fog’s cold mask. Meanwhile, fog also spares me from the real ugliness of the city that I imagine is around me. The emaciated dogs, the rubicund drunkards, the ramshackle hovels, the beggar children of my mind are hidden away from me by the murk. And whilst the narrow twisting streets are busy, they are busy only with the serious-faced people of the morning. Nobody who has woken at this time has woken to cause trouble.
The misery etched on the faces of these people doesn’t evade my attention. These are dour, hard-bitten folk with little on their mind except earning enough money to eat and keep warm. What little extra they have will be spent on alcohol. It could be that their fate is worse than mine. I could end up amongst these people, amongst their drudgery, not only amongst it but a part of it, adding to it. There is surely a mercy to be found in every fate.
I wind up and down, left and right, through the claustrophobic streets of the port. The streets are busy, certainly busier than in the royal city and more unpredictable. In places I am caught in bottlenecks, stuck behind ambling tramps and old ladies who are moving so slow that they seem scarcely to be alive, whilst, in other areas, the crowd is so fast moving that there is a danger of being crushed; traders, sailors and guards are in such a rush to get wherever they’re going that, to them, trampling an old lady to death must seem little more than an occupational hazard. Every so often the filthy stench is broken by the smell of baking bread or roasting meat, but these aromas are localised and are gone almost as soon as I notice them. At all times I keep my eyes on the bridge tower ahead, my mind intent on my next meeting with Vesta.
No one speaks a word to me. This, in itself, feels damning. If I had looked too rough, I might have been picked out by the guards. If had looked too well dressed, I might have become a target for someone or other but, as it is, no one even notices me. I pass through the crowd as if I am someone who is meant to be here. Having seen this particular crowd, I cannot help but feel insulted
It is only as I start to near the bridge tower that the crowds begin to thin. It becomes clear that the tower I am looking for is built into the same wall that provided me an initial welcome. The wall – dark, foreboding, impenetrable – encircles the whole city and the bridge tower is built into it. Unimaginatively named for the bridge that extends outward from it, this tower is the only route by which a boy destined for the mainland can pass without getting wet. It is something I have not done before today.
The tower stands above a gateway in the wall. This gateway is the bridge to the mainland and there is a steady stream of traffic coming in both directions. A variety of animals, none of which look particularly happy, pull a variety of carts in either direction. A few men, the poorest, have dogs pulling their carts, whilst others have goats, cattle or horses. Everything about this place seems to overwhelm: the stench, the shouting, the rattling, the constant flux of movement. It is all rather too much for a boy like me.
A single knight makes his way through the crowd on
horseback, his gleaming steel armour standing out in stark contrast to the drabness of those around him. I recognise him by his heraldry, a green flag with a white feather, as ‘The White Falcon’. His very presence causes upheaval amongst the crowd. His footmen have a full time job trying to redirect the various beggars and street vendors making their way towards him whilst urchins also follow behind, part star struck, part hoping for some small piece of fortune.
But no one is heading to the actual entrance of the tower, tucked off to the right hand side of the gateway. It would seem that the approach to the tower is kept clear for official visitors only. It stands guarded by two men in the dark iron armour of the Arberth guard. As I approach, I can tell by their poor posture alone that these guards are little more than low-level thugs, certainly nothing to aspire to.
It only takes me one look at the guard on the left to realise that, even before I have approached, he already hates me. Etched onto his face is the scornful look worn by all guards when they see a peasant approaching.
“What do you want, you piece of shit?”
“I’m here to meet with Lady Vesta.”
“What would the virgin want with a piece of shit like you?”
“I’ve heard the virgin likes ‘em young,” his colleague interjects. They both snort seedily. I remain silent.
“I said ‘What would the virgin want with a piece of shit like you?’”
“I don’t see that that’s any of your business.”
“Oi oi… He’s a bit of a feisty one,” the first one chuckles. “Didn’t your father teach you how to speak to your betters?”
“Yes he did. Not that I think that’s pertinent to this conversation.”
“Ooh! Pert-ti-nent..” he replies, stretching the unfamiliar word out across his primitive vocal chords. “Looks like this peasant thinks he’s better than what he is. You ain’t coming in,” he snaps. His control over this one solitary doorframe has obviously sent him mad with power.
This refusal puts me in a strange situation. I am attending the bridge tower at the behest of Lady Vesta, the king’s advisor. I am most certainly not attending because I want to and, in fact, the last thing I actually want is to be admitted entry. But nonetheless, it is not the place of this gormless simpleton, with his red drinker’s face, to decide my fate.
“I’ll not ask you again,” I say, remaining in the doorway. “I’ve attended as required but I shan’t be begging some drunken thug to allow me any further.”
At this insult, the guard on the left unfurls his club and moves toward me as if to beat me. I nonchalantly sidestep two or three clumsy swings before his friend from the other side of the door comes to join in. I do not attempt to fight them but simply duck and weave through their wallops, each of which is so slow and cumbersome that I would sincerely worry for them if anyone with any actual malicious intent was trying to gain entry.
The more that they swing and miss, the angrier they get and the louder they shout for assistance. As ‘assistance’ arrives, it mostly takes the form of other gormless, red-faced guards who are quite happy to stand and laugh raucously at their colleagues’ ineffectiveness. But then I notice a fourth combatant has entered the fight. As soon as I do, one of the guards, the initial aggressor, is cleanly decapitated by him. At this stage, both the fracas and the laughter stops. Lady Vesta, the mystery combatant, turns to the guard who still has a head.
“The crown no longer has a use for your services. I suggest you leave Arberth immediately. Everybody else, back to your positions. Howell, please ensure the body is disposed of in an appropriate manner and that his widow is sent a ham. For the record, he died a traitor’s death and his pension, therefore, is withheld.”
She passes her bloodied sword to her squire and turns on her heel; the crowd dissipates almost as quickly as it assembled. Howell, the prince’s cousin and, seemingly, Vesta’s squire, dutifully scurries off to collect the head, which has rolled away from the tower back towards the town.
“Hi, Gruff,” he whispers as he scuttles past. I forget to answer, my heart racing, astounded by the unbelievable swiftness and brutality of what I have just seen.
“If you could come with me,” Vesta shouts over her shoulder as she walks away. Her voice is clipped and without emotion. I follow, awestruck.
Unlike upon our first meeting at the palace, I do not have to walk far; we are only just inside the tower before we are in the armaments room. The walk is, once again, punctuated by the comfortable silence of two people who don’t feel the need to talk. The walls of this room are covered in a vast array of weaponry that dwarves the meagre, poorly maintained armoury of the Prince Libran School. I had genuinely never realised that there were so many ways to kill a man. My preoccupation with the weapons means that it takes me a fraction of a second to notice a man slouched on a chair in the far corner of the room, legs apart, swigging from a tankard of breakfast ale. I know from my studies that the man is Ser Morrigan, ‘The Crow’.
“Farking hell, Vesty. This isn’t him, is it?” he snorts, sitting up, choking a little.
“Ser Morrigan, I would like you to meet Ser Gruffydd.” Vesta, to her credit, does not acknowledge Morrigan’s initial disdain.
Morrigan rises, smirking, to his feet, and the size difference between us is immediately apparent. He must be two metres tall. His height is such that it seems to belie his breadth and so, whilst he is undeniably a well-built man, he appears to look more like a normal man scaled up than a giant. Swarthy with scruffy black hair and an insouciant smirk, he is not the type of knight that one learns about in chivalric scripture. He offers me a limp, casual handshake.
“Farking hell,” he repeats incredulously. “Ser Gruff?”
“Gruffydd is to be knighted for his achievements in the Prince Libran Trophy and for offering his services to the kingdom in this most trying of times.”
“Yes. On my return,” I add pointedly.
“Well, here’s to that!” laughs Morrigan with more than a hint of sarcasm, drinking deeply from his tankard. “But, seriously, Vesty. What am I supposed to do with him? Use him for a toothpick?!”
He snorts slightly, amused at his own observation. As unfunny as it might be, the physical contrast he draws is a fair one; there is nothing on me but skin and bone.
“As you both know, it would be unsafe and unsustainable to send all twelve of you out together. The land, in any one place, will not feed twelve people and it will be harder for you to evade detection. And make no mistake, evading detection is your only hope of survival out there.”
“Even so, give me a farking chance,” Morrigan pleads. “Look at this chap. My five-year-old daughter has more meat on her.”
“Your five–year-old daughter hasn’t been raised on the hillside,” I interject aggressively. I will not be spoken down to. In response, Morrigan smiles mischievously. Something about his attitude suggests that he’s not taking the whole thing entirely seriously.
“The six pairs have been picked to give you all the optimum chance of succeeding in your quest.”
“Well, the king only knows what I’ve done to deserve this,” Morrigan smirks ruefully. He has hardly stopped smirking throughout.
“I’m sure he does.”
My reply is straight faced. The Crow enjoys a less than savoury reputation across the whole of the kingdom, and I am under no illusion that I am not the only one being sent on the quest for the purpose of punishment.
“Well, I’m sure that you two will have more than enough time to iron out your differences over the coming months. For now, however, I would suggest you get yourself armed and off. You have a long ride ahead.”
“Do we not get some sort of a briefing? You could at least pretend you’re not just sending us off to our deaths?” I snap, the fearlessness of a dead man upon me. Morrigan laughs again, a scoff, suggesting he finds my feistiness amusing. Vesta, of course, does not laugh.
“You already know all there is to know. You both have a map and a written introduc
tion to hand to their king. You are to head to Brightstone, build what links you can and, ideally, escort ‘The Son of God’ back to us. The only advice I can give you is eat whenever you can, fight only when you have to, and keep moving. If you return empty handed… Well, I think you both understand your current predicament.”
“Thanks. For. That.” Morrigan sighs. “I expected more from you, Vesty. We’ve been through a lot together. I thought we were…”
“We are most certainly not friends,” Vesta interjects, without even a hint of chivalric banter. “You are to ride today to the Gors. You will spend the night at the castle there. From then on, you will be on foot; the horses will not make it through the marsh or the snow. Ser Gruff, your armour and the best short-sword are on the wall over there.”
She gestures over to the far wall. Across the room, and in comparison to the formidable black plate-mail donned by Ser Morrigan, the brown leather armour seems skimpy. The dull copper shield must be no bigger than a large dinner plate and, I fear, about as much use defensively. On both the shield and the breastplate is a green goat motif. I sigh. I imagine the great knights before me: The Bull, The White Falcon, The Crow, The Silver Wolf, The Hammer of God, The Crocodile. There has never been one called ‘The Goat’.
“Farking hell. What’s that? If I’d known it was fancy dress, I’d have dressed differently,” chuckles Morrigan, still finding amusement amongst the increasing humourlessness of the situation.
“It will serve. A warrior such as Ser Gruff values mobility more than protection,” replies Vesta, as inscrutable as ever.
“And a good job too,” Morrigan winks. “Come on then, sprat. We’d better be getting off. Wouldn’t want to keep the reaper waiting.”
Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale Page 6
