by David Hair
Most of the forty or so individuals who had been at the tavern and agreed to the journey had families. Some knew others who hadn’t been there, but would be interested, and they had to be approached and cautiously sounded out, then sworn to secrecy. Raythe worried, but as the days passed, he began to think their secret might hold. They grew to sixty families, plus many more single men, mostly hunters and trappers, as well as the mercenaries in Rhamp’s service. In just a few days’ time almost three hundred souls would be taking the Ghost Road.
But one cold afternoon, Larch Hawkstone, the captain of the Governor’s Borderers – the thugs who passed as law enforcers in remote Teshveld – cantered into the yard outside his hut. He had a dozen men at his back armed with sabres and a few flintlocks. The air went still; even the birds in the woods fell silent.
Raythe was sawing timber, shirt off and sweat running down his back. His old wagon was spread out around him in pieces as he repaired the axle-mounts. There was no hiding what he was doing, so he straightened, mind racing. Why’s Hawkstone here? He should be down in Sothlyn this week, squeezing the crofters for tax they can’t pay.
‘Master Cowley,’ the Borderer captain called, his suspicious eyes resting on Zar, who was shelling peas on the porch. ‘What’re you up to?’
Raythe put the saw aside and faced him, flexing his aching hands. ‘Repairs, Captain,’ he answered, assessing the riders. The Borderers had a bad reputation at the best of times and their demeanour today suggested that they were anticipating trouble. There surely would be if Hawkstone found the looted Bolgravian flintlocks inside.
‘Has someone taken ill?’ Raythe asked, hoping against hope for a simple explanation.
Hawkstone, a burly man with leathery skin and a thick beard, leaned forward in the saddle. ‘More like taken leave of their senses,’ he drawled. ‘I was speaking with Orban Croft and he says there’s folks here are packing up on account of Dash Cowley, but he dinnae know why. An’ now here’s you, fixing up your wagon.’
Orban Croft, that nosy prick . . .
The question was, had someone dropped the word ‘istariol’ in Larch Hawkstone’s ear, or the name ‘Raythe Vyre’? Croft hadn’t been at the meeting, though – what had he been told? And by whom?
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Raythe replied genially, hiding his alarm. His sword and pistol were inside and his limbs ached from the effort required to get his wagon fit for travel again, even though he was used to hard work. ‘This old thing’s been crying out for attention all summer.’
‘Skinny runt, ain’t he?’ one of Hawkstone’s men snickered.
Piper, isn’t it? Raythe thought. Yes, he was lean, but he was muscular, and there were plenty of scars earned in battle, including one left by the lead ball they’d cut out of him after Colfar’s last stand. He didn’t think Hawkstone’s men could boast much in the way of honourable wounds; they just chewed on the fat of the land. But thirteen against two – and one of those a teenaged girl – were the sort of odds Hawkstone’s men liked.
‘I expect Orban Croft got things garbled, as usual,’ he remarked. ‘I’m here for the long haul.’
Hawkstone studied him dubiously, then asked, ‘Do you know the name “Gospodoi”?’
‘Of course. He was the Bolgrav lord whose party called on me a few weeks back. One of them was sick, but I patched him up.’ Raythe stopped for a moment as if thinking, then added, ‘I’m pretty sure they were heading east when they left.’
Hawkstone screwed up his face in puzzlement. ‘Governor Veterkoi just received a letter from his counterpart in Falcombe, asking why Lord Gospodoi hasn’t returned.’
‘I have no idea – that was the direction he was heading. But the roads aren’t exactly safe between here and Falcombe.’ And how would the governor even know he was coming? he wondered.
Hawkstone answered his unvoiced question. ‘Lord Gospodoi sent a bird ahead, to ensure his lodgings were ready.’ He stroked his beard as he added, ‘We’ll just have a look round, shall we? Make sure there’s none of the lord’s belongings lying around here.’
Zar shot him a fearful look, which didn’t go unnoticed.
‘The girl worried about something?’ Piper sneered. ‘Hey, Twig-legs, what’s your problem?’
‘I’ve got no problems,’ Zar shot back rashly, ‘but yours are obvious.’
‘Don’t give me mouth, girl,’ Piper snarled, swinging from the saddle and advancing on her. ‘Your girl needs a good slapping, Cowley – I’ll do it myself.’
Raythe stepped in front of Piper. He came up to the man’s chest. ‘Hawkstone,’ he called, ‘call off your dog.’
Piper bunched a fist and Raythe fixed the Borderer with a baleful stare. ‘Don’t.’
The thug wasn’t at all fazed. ‘Or what, little man?’
‘Sure you want to find out?’
‘Feck off!’ the Borderer snarled, splaying his fingers and shoving at Raythe’s chest—
—except that Raythe wasn’t there: he’d stepped away and twisted to one side, letting the man’s hand flash harmlessly past him – but he’d simultaneously brought up his knee and now he slammed it straight into Piper’s crotch, even as he grabbed the Borderer’s arm and hauled it round. As Piper gasped explosively and jack-knifed, Raythe flipped him onto his back and slammed a foot down onto his throat. Convulsing and turning purple, Piper tried in vain to inhale.
Half a dozen blades were already out and three men were unslinging their flintlocks and priming them – as the front door of the hut opened, revealing Jesco Duretto, cradling his own flintlock, the hammer cocked, with a big smile on his face. A moment later Vidar Vidarsson appeared from behind the hut, hefting a huge woodsman’s axe with a deep, throaty growl.
‘Bet that hurt,’ Jesco snickered at Piper. ‘You’ll be singing falsetto for a week, I’ll wager.’ He levelled the gun at the nearest Borderer. ‘But at least he’s alive, eh?’
The Borderer froze.
‘Hold!’ Hawkstone barked and his men had enough discipline – or maybe a sense of their own mortality – to stop where they were. Jesco’s gun was just one against three, but Vidar’s growl sucked the air from their lungs and they froze like deer before a wolf, primordial fear overriding natural belligerence.
‘There’s no need for this, Captain,’ Raythe said calmly. ‘Your Bolgravs aren’t here. Try the Falcombe Road.’
Jesco switched his aim to Hawkstone himself. The Borderers, faces strained, counted the odds: they might be in their favour, but if it did kick off, some of them would definitely die.
For a moment, pride warred with fear on Hawkstone’s face, then he spat, ‘You’ve overstepped, Cowley. The governor grants us the right to go where we want.’
‘And does he give you the right to bully children, or is that just for your own amusement?’
Piper made a growling noise and Raythe pressed his foot down on his windpipe again. ‘I’ve nothing to hide, Hawkstone – but you don’t ever unleash this pig on my daughter.’
‘She needs to show respect,’ Hawkstone muttered.
‘The pig didn’t earn any,’ Zar sniffed.
‘Zar,’ Raythe warned, before adding, ‘She’s right, though.’
Hawkstone’s eyes narrowed, but he made a gesture and his men reluctantly lowered their guns and sheathed their blades – not that it made Raythe feel much better, for swords could be redrawn in seconds. But Jesco’s gun and Vidar himself were a clear and present threat too, so he took his foot from Piper’s throat and picked up his axe from the woodpile.
Piper rolled over, dry-retching and gasping for breath. When he got his breath back, he glared murderously up at Raythe, his hands twitching towards violence.
‘Is it really worth dying over?’ Raythe asked quietly, smacking the axe haft into the palm of his left hand.
Glowering, Piper lurched dazedly to his feet. ‘You shouldn’t—’ he started, but his voice came out in a breathless, rasping squeak and he shut up.
Raythe turned back to H
awkstone. ‘Shall we start this conversation again, Captain?’
Hawkstone considered his options. Legally, he could do whatever he damned well liked; usually anyone who stood up to him was dragged off to the cells in Sommaport after an educational beating – but those were mostly villagers with no martial training, not an exiled Otravian who was clearly more than a healer. He scowled, ordered Piper to remount, then faced Raythe again.
‘You’re out of line, Cowley,’ he rasped. ‘All of you are.’
‘I saw a man menacing a young girl,’ Jesco broke in. ‘I think it’s your rabble who are out of line.’
Hawkstone grunted, then hauled on his reins and turned his horse. ‘We’ll be back,’ he promised, before raising his hand and cantering away, his men at his heels.
Raythe didn’t react, other than to mutter, ‘Zar, what have I told you about provoking those pigs?’
‘I think you said, “Don’t provoke the pigs”,’ she drawled.
Jesco ruffled her hair. ‘She’s like you a few years back, Raythe,’ he chuckled. ‘Mouthy.’
‘Please Deo, not,’ Raythe muttered, watching the Borderers riding away. He noted they were now strung out and slowing down, not speeding up as they receded . . .
‘Stay alert,’ he warned. ‘Zarelda, get inside.’
‘But Da—’
‘Get inside!’ Raythe snapped as the riders suddenly hollered, wheeled their horses and came streaming back down the track, blades flashing in the dull light as they cleared scabbards.
Battle-honed reflexes instantly took over: Jesco aimed and pulled the trigger, the hammer fell, igniting the powder in the pan, and it boomed, gouting flame and flooding the air with black smoke. An instant later one of the Borderer gunmen flung up his arms and went over the back of his mount. His gun discharged harmlessly into the air, making the horses screech and recoil.
The remaining two gunmen immediately fired back, but under cover of the smoke of Jesco’s shot, Raythe had already ghosted to one side. One ball struck the wall and the other flew through the open door of the cabin, making Zar shout in alarm.
Jesco drew his sword. Vidar, growling like a wolf, hunched over, baring his teeth.
We’ve got about eight seconds before they’re on us, Raythe calculated.
He dropped to one knee, shouting, ‘Cognatus; animus!’
His inner senses roared, the inside of his skull flashed with light and he felt Cognatus plunge into him. His familiar filled his senses, peering through his eyes and engaging with his mind. Potential crackled around him, but he was still vulnerable to blade or ball.
The Borderer gunners peeled away to reload, but the rest barrelled onwards, brandishing curved sabres.
‘Praesemino!’ Raythe shouted, prepare, and as Cognatus poured energy through him, the air temperature palpably dropped.
But the enemy were closing in . . .
Jesco stepped in front of him, as he always did – and to his surprise, Vidar did the same, even as the human mask he kept over his bearskin nature slipped and his features contorted.
‘I always have to do this,’ Jesco complained, as the riders bore down on them, ‘but good to have company. Welcome to the team, Vidar – just think of yourself as Raythe’s shield.’
Vidar hefted the axe and roared as his mouth filled up with very sharp teeth.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Jesco said chattily. ‘Though it’s a pretty thankless task, I should warn you.’
A moment later the attackers were on them, the horses rearing up while the riders hacked downwards. ‘Here we go,’ Jesco cried, parrying a blow, then thrusting his blade into his foe’s side. The man shrieked, jerking on his reins and sending his horse off-track. Vidar, bellowing in fury as another horse reared over him, steel-shod hooves flailing, slammed his axe into the beast’s throat and it went down, crushing the rider beneath; there was a sharply cut-off howl.
Zar shouted something from the doorway and loosed her crossbow, but the bolt flew wide and she yowled in frustration.
Finally, Raythe and Cognatus were ready. ‘Paratus!’ he shouted, as he traced Caeli, the rune of air: ‘Impetus potentia nunc!’ A burst of force slammed from his palm and hit the knot of riders like a herd of runaway bulls, sending beasts and men flying; limbs snapped and heads thudded on the ground with a sickening crack.
‘It’s rewarding, though,’ Jesco went on, talking to the heedless Vidar as if they were sharing a tankard at Gravis’ tavern. ‘I love it when he does that.’
Vidar roared and the horse coming at him suddenly shot sideways, clipped another and went down, dragging its rider with it. Now, with only half a dozen still mounted, Hawkstone was revealed, lining up his pistol.
‘Habere scutum!’ Raythe cried, and this time Cognatus sent rippling, translucent energy outwards to form a glass-like shield. Hawkstone’s gun barked, but the ball hit the transparent wall, lost all impetus and dropped to the turf to lie harmlessly among his broken men and beasts.
‘Yee-ha!’ Jesco crowed as he charged into the chaos, hacking down anyone who was trying to get to their feet. Then Vidar leaped – a gigantic bound of fully ten paces – and bore another man to the ground. When the bearskin ripped out his throat with a single swipe of a massive claw, the few remaining mounted Borderers broke and went galloping away with Hawkstone at their head. Those on the ground still able to move clambered slowly and painfully to their feet and limped off, leaving seven dead, one man with a broken leg, and four horses who would never walk again.
Raythe groaned as he saw the damage, momentarily hating his powers. ‘Abeo, Cognatus, amico,’ he muttered, and the link to his familiar spirit dissipated, leaving him feeling like he’d taken a punch to the throat. The invisible parrot reformed and settled on his shoulder, cawing excitedly at the carnage.
Jesco, noticing Vidar about to chase after the Borderer captain, grabbed the bearskin’s axe-haft and shouted, ‘Vidar, Vidar – they’ve gone – that’s enough!’
The berserk ranger’s eyes were blazing amber and his bestial face contorted . . . but he seemed to hear Jesco through the red haze and he dropped to his knees, panting and staring down at his bloodied hands, and then at the dead and broken lying around them.
They say a true bearskin hates what he is, Raythe remembered.
It didn’t appear to bother Jesco, though. ‘There, Shaggy, we’re all done,’ the Shadran chirped. ‘Better now?’
The Norgan ranger gave him a haunted look, then shuddered.
Jesco patted his head cheerily. ‘Don’t try telling me it wasn’t fun,’ he remarked, walking over to the Borderer with the broken leg. ‘What do we do with this poor chap?’
The terrified man was holding one knee and sucking in agonised breaths as he stared at his lower leg hanging at an unnatural angle. His other leg was far worse, though, with the calf-bone jutting through the flesh and blood pumping out in a gushes.
He died before their undecided eyes.
Holy Gerda, Raythe thought, we haven’t even left and the killing’s begun.
Jesco shrugged. ‘Problem solved.’ He turned to Raythe. ‘How long before more come back, Boss?’
‘At the rate they were running, they’ll reach Sommaport by nightfall, so it’s conceivable the good captain will be back by midday tomorrow,’ Raythe said with a sigh. ‘He’ll probably have a squad of fifty backing him up – that’s too many for us to deal with. On the other hand, my wagon’s all but ready; I only need to bolt it back together. I say we just go – everyone’s more or less ready anyway. Let’s bring our departure forward a day. We’ll move to Gravis’ tavern and send the word around.’
‘Good. I’m sick of this dump,’ Jesco declared. Clapping Vidar’s shoulder, he said, ‘Well fought, brother.’
Vidar rose shakily. ‘Aye, and you. You called me back – I’m in your debt.’
‘You killed a man who wanted to kill me: I’m in yours.’ Jesco grinned. ‘Evens, then.’ He walked over to a broken-legged horse and pulled out his blade, ready to
put the beast out of its misery, when he stopped and asked, ‘Raythe, can you heal these poor brutes?’
Raythe frowned. ‘Not instantly, no.’
‘Shame we don’t have that sort of time,’ Jesco remarked, and plunged his sword through its chest. He dealt with the rest of the injured horses, then pointed to the one remaining, which had bolted a few dozen yards but was now watching warily. It was unharmed. ‘That one’s mine.’
Surveying the battleground, Vidar asked, ‘I thought you needed istariol for sorcery?’
‘Only for the big stuff,’ Raythe told him. ‘Little spells like this, I can power myself.’
‘Little,’ Vidar echoed, his eyes widening. ‘No wonder the Bolgravian sorcerers ripped our armies apart.’
They all set to work and an hour later, the wagon was loaded and Jesco, settling himself on his new mount, was needling Vidar about the fur cloak he wore. ‘Was it your father? Or your mama?’
Raythe left them to it and walked over to his shaky-looking daughter. Putting an arm round her shoulder, he said quietly, ‘You all right, Zar?’
‘I hate this place,’ she said, her nose wrinkling at the stench of blood. ‘I’m glad we’re going.’
Her bereft voice belied her words.
We haven’t lived in the same place longer than a year since we started running, Raythe thought. She really needs stability.
‘Unless we do this, nowhere will ever be safe and there’ll never be a hope of anything better,’ he told her. ‘Sometimes you have to leave to find the way home.’
‘I know. It’s just . . .’ She bit her trembling lip, then blurted, ‘I miss Mum.’
She’d always adored Mirella. She’d been twelve when they’d escaped the Mandaryke coup. Now she was nearly sixteen.
‘We’ll get her back,’ Raythe promised her. ‘I swear we will.’
