by Peter Grant
“They must have hauled you out of your cairn yesterday afternoon or evening, after I’d left – but why? What good to anyone are the ashes of a dead man from an unnamed grave? Comes to that, how did they find your grave in the first place? It’s not something they’d have come across by accident. I never told anyone where I’d laid you to rest, just as you always said you wanted. Did they follow me, to make me lead them to you? I didn’t notice them, but their gruefells could have watched me through breaks in the clouds. Those foul things can see for leagues. I might not have noticed them if they were a long way off. My eyes aren’t as sharp as they used to be, curse it.”
He fell silent for a moment, considering, then shook his head. “This makes no sense. If they came here to get your ashes and your sword, why attack the inn? Were they trying to kill me? No, they can’t have known I was here, because they didn’t look for me or anyone else after they killed the innkeeper and his son. Besides, if they wanted me, they could have killed me on the road, where I’d not have had the protection of walls and a roof. Their arbalestier could have shot me from a safe distance, at no risk to themselves. Still, they did attack the inn, so they must have had a reason. What could it have been?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, and there’s no point playing guessing games. I’ll take you with me, sword brother, and figure out what to do with your ashes when I’m in a safer place than this.”
Owain re-wrapped the remains of the sword, returned it and the urn to the saddlebag, and laid it carefully next to the other. He hoisted the third saddlebag onto the cart. It was bigger and much heavier than the first two.
“What have we here? Some fancy clothes, and… well, well, well.” He opened a flat leather satchel to reveal a solid gold torc, each of its ends set with a strangely-shaped carved obsidian bead. Both had a flat octagonal base with a shape protruding from it, one a pentagon, the other a square. “Such things used to be worn by Graben princes. It must have belonged to one of those four, probably the one who was raping the girl – his purse was much the fattest. That would also explain so much gold and silver. A prince’s bodyguards would be well paid. They weren’t very good fighters, though; not worth much as bodyguards, if you ask me. Minor relatives, perhaps, hired as a sinecure?”
He returned the torc to its satchel, then opened a leather dispatch case. It contained three scrolls. Two were tied with black ribbons and sealed with wax, while the third had been opened. He unrolled it, then shrugged. He couldn’t read Graben characters, so he didn’t know what it said. He replaced it in the dispatch case, resolving to take the scrolls with him until he found someone who could decipher them. They might answer some of his questions.
There was still a lump in the bottom of the saddlebag. He reached in and pulled out a fat leather pouch, grunting at its unexpected weight. It chinked as he dropped it on the cart bed, and his eyes widened. “That sounds like more money.” He loosened its drawstrings, upended it, and gasped as a seemingly endless stream of gold coins cascaded onto the wood. “Well, I’ll be…” He counted it carefully. “Five hundred gold pieces, made up of coin from at least a dozen different places. That’s enough for a Baron’s ransom! What’s it doing in a gruefell’s saddlebags, out here in the middle of nowhere?” He returned the gold to its pouch, drawing the strings tight, and set it with the four purses he’d previously refilled. “At least I won’t walk away from this fight empty-handed. That’s more loot than ever came my way during the war years.”
The fourth and last saddlebag held more clothes, some better-quality food than the other bags, and another leather pouch holding another five hundred gold pieces. He counted them, then returned them to the pouch, put it back in the saddlebag, and laid it with the others. “Eleven hundred-odd gold pieces and a hundred-odd silver! Never mind a Baron’s ransom – that would pay for an Earl! Why were these raiders carrying so much? And why was it divided like this? It looks as if they were going to deliver those two pouches to someone, or perhaps two people – maybe to go with those two sealed scrolls. Their own money was in those four purses.”
He loaded the best of the food from the inn’s pantry, filled a jar with lamp oil from a barrel, and took a lantern and a couple of spare wicks. He checked the bar, finding a few empty barrels. He selected a small, clean, sound one, rinsed it out carefully, and filled it with water from the well. Sealing it with a bung, he swung it onto the cart, then added a wooden mixing bowl from the kitchen to water the horse. Going back into the stable, he filled a tight-woven basket with oats, then loaded it, a nosebag, two coils of rope and some horse blankets onto the cart, along with his own gear and Ned’s tack. He topped off the cart with a tarpaulin, spreading it over everything and tying it down, to protect the load from the elements and hide it from prying eyes.
“Just you wait here for me, old fellow,” he told his horse, scratching his nose as Ned snorted at him. “I know you don’t like pulling a cart, but there’s far too much here to load on your back. It’s a day’s drive to the next town. I’ll buy another horse there – in fact, I’ll buy a light wagon and a double team. We can afford it, thanks to our enemies, and we’ll make faster time that way.”
He went back to the barn and dragged the fourth attacker’s body outside, tossing straw over the floor so the bloodstains wouldn’t be immediately noticeable. He carried the body into the inn, then fetched Gerd’s body and laid the war dog on a table next to the raider. He spread the fallen thatch and the flea-infested bedding and straw-filled mattresses around and on top of all the bodies, then splashed the rest of the lamp oil over them. Taking flint, steel and tinder from his belt pouch, he struck a spark and blew it to life, then tossed the burning kindling onto the nearest oil-soaked mattress. Flames licked up as he hurried from the building, swung onto the cart’s seat, and gathered the reins in his hands. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hey-yaah!” Ned threw himself into his harness, and the cart rumbled towards the road.
He drew rein at the top of a rise and looked back. Black smoke poured from the shattered roof as flames licked at the thatch. Any Graben scouts looking for their fellows would have a hard time learning anything from the burnt-out building. All they’d have to go by were the carcass of the half-eaten horse, and the rear half of a gruefell protruding from the front wall of the ruined inn. The clouds were still leaden. It would rain again soon, washing out any tracks he’d left – hopefully before anyone else arrived.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t take the time to build proper funeral pyres for you,” he apologized aloud to the dead innkeeper and his family. “I have to get clear before those creatures and their riders are missed. At least I avenged your deaths. I’ll have a priest say the prayers for you all when I can get to one.” He shook his head ruefully as he realized he’d never asked their names.
He turned around and shook the reins. Ned started forward again, and the burning inn disappeared behind the crest of the hill as the cart ran down its far side.
III
Owain drove his new wagon through the open gates of his livery stable three days later, in a shower of rain that dripped from his face and beard. He shivered, and muttered a curse as another rivulet found its way beneath the brim of his hat and down his neck. Dismounting, he opened the doors of the big stable and led the team inside. A stableman hurried to untie Ned’s lead rope from the rear of the wagon.
Owain nodded to him. “Thanks, Dirk. Rub him down properly, and when he’s dry brush him well. Give him a good ration of oats, and put him in a stall near the stove. It’ll be cold tonight. Do the same for these two horses.”
“Aye, Master Owain. Shall I help you unload first?”
“Yes, please. I’ll leave most of this stuff in the storeroom overnight. If you’ll call the taverner, he can help me take some up to my rooms. Tell the night watchman to keep the stove hot tonight, and the doors closed. I don’t want any of the horses coming down with wet lung or spring fever.”
“Aye, Master Owain.”
He cast his eyes
around the stable, finding nothing about which to complain. That pleased him. He tried to hire good staff, but nowadays it was hard to come by people who had a sense of responsibility. Dirk was one of the better ones, but he was already in his forties. The youngsters today… he shook his head disapprovingly. They all seemed to want as much money as possible, in return for as little work as possible.
He helped Dirk offload the wagon’s cargo. It filled less than half of the bed of the larger vehicle he’d bought at Legard, spending two of the Graben gold pieces to buy a young, strong, well-trained two-horse team, a good set of harness, and a newly-built light wagon with big iron-rimmed wheels and a sprung seat, designed for speedy travel over uneven terrain. It couldn’t carry anything like as much as a heavy transport wagon, but had just demonstrated that, with a light load, it could move almost as fast as a man on horseback, given decent roads. He’d had to pay a high price for a quick purchase, but under the circumstances he reckoned he’d no grounds for complaint.
While he padlocked the storeroom, Dirk called Mark. The taverner was fat and jovial, but Owain knew there were hard muscles beneath the lard, and an experienced eye for who was, or was not, likely to settle his reckoning. That’s why he’d hired the man as innkeeper and taverner, and his wife as bookkeeper for both businesses plus his livery stable and the store next door, in which he had a half interest. The four together brought in a comfortable income for him every year.
Mark held out his hand. “Welcome home, Master Owain. Was it a good trip?”
“Not really, but I’m back safe and sound. That’s the main thing.”
“Aye. Where’s your old war dog?”
“I’m afraid Gerd died on the journey. I gave him a warrior’s send-off.”
Mark’s face fell. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know how close you were to him.”
“He had a good life,” Owain said shortly, without further explanation. He’d decided he daren’t share what had happened at the inn with most others – not until he’d learned more about why it had happened.
They filled their arms with the gruefells’ saddlebags, plus his own smaller ones and bedroll, and headed for the side door giving access to the inn’s taproom. There were half a dozen townspeople at the tables and around the stove, along with a couple of strangers, probably travelers passing through. All heads turned as he strode in. The townsfolk smiled and nodded to see him. “Hello, Master Owain.” “Greetings, sir.” “Good to have you back, Master Owain.”
“It’s good to see you too, friends,” he replied, nodding to each table in turn. “I trust things have been peaceful while I’ve been gone?”
“Aye, Master Owain. Nothing to complain about except the rain,” one answered. “It hasn’t stopped for a week.”
“I know – it went with me and it’s come back with me,” he grimaced. “It’d better stop soon, or the farmers will be worrying about the spring planting.”
Mark snorted. “They already are! Three of them were drowning their sorrows in here yesterday.”
The barmaid flashed him a smile. “D’ye want a hot bath, Master Owain?”
“Yes, please, Maisie.”
“I’ll draw one for you. How about a mug o’ hot mulled mead to warm your insides while you wait?”
“Aye, that’ll be very welcome, thanks.”
She took a mug over to the stove and filled it from a kettle resting on the back burner. Taking a red-hot poker from the fire beneath, she banged it against the stove to knock off the traces of coals or ash, then thrust it into the mead. The liquid boiled and sizzled around it. She withdrew the poker, replaced it in the coals, and followed the men as they headed up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Jem, mind the bar for a moment, would you?”
“I’ll do that,” one of the regulars replied. “Is it worth a free mug o’ your best?”
“It’s worth two fingers’ less froth next time you buy one, if you ask nicely.” The other drinkers laughed.
Owain and Mark deposited the baggage in his sitting-room, then the taverner went back downstairs. Maisie handed over the mug, then made for the bathroom at the end of the corridor. “Will you be wanting company tonight?” she asked coyly, with a swish of her hips against his as she passed him on her way to the door.
He laughed. “I always turn you down, girl, so why go on asking?”
“Someday I might catch you off-guard.”
“Not likely. Besides, I’m worn to a nub tonight, and chilled to the bone. I doubt I could do anything for you until I’ve eased my aching bones and caught up on some sleep.”
She grinned. “They do say you’re only as old as you think you are.”
“In that case, tonight I think I’m a hundred!”
He sipped the hot, spicy mead, thankful for its warmth spreading down his throat as he put the Graben gold and scrolls into the big iron-bound chest bolted to the floor next to his desk, then locked it. He took his own saddlebags into the bedroom, lit the ready-laid fire in the stove, then undressed, tossing all the dirty clothes into the laundry hamper. He wrapped a towel around his waist, took the mug and headed for the bathroom, sinking into the tub with a sigh of relief, his aching back and joints welcoming the warmth. Taking a small tub of soft soap, a long-handled brush and a washcloth, he scrubbed himself clean, reveling in the tingle of his skin as it shed the grime of several days’ hard travel. He reminded himself yet again that the trouble and expense of installing a wood-fired boiler, to provide hot water for the bathroom and kitchen, had been more than justified.
As he dried himself, he thought back over the journey. He hadn’t stayed at inns along the way, preferring to camp out of sight in clumps of trees, clear of the road, to avoid any Graben scouts that might be searching for him. He’d kept a sharp lookout, but hadn’t seen any sign of gruefells watching him from a distance. However, he knew the danger was far from over.
I don’t see any way for them to have learned about Sigurd’s grave other than by following me to it, he thought to himself as he put on clean, warm clothes. If so, they’re bound to suspect I killed those men at the inn and their gruefells. If they followed me to Sigurd’s grave, they’ll know I came from here; so what should I do? Stay here and wait for them, or get away from here, keeping ahead of them while I try to find out what’s going on?
He ate two bowls of thick, rich meat and vegetable stew in the common room, washed down with a flagon of red wine, which reduced him to a semi-comatose state of repletion. Stumbling upstairs, he undressed, then collapsed into his warm, comfortable bed, drowsily deciding to put off further reflection until the next day.
—————
Next morning saw him hard at work, checking on everything that had happened during his week-long absence. Satisfied at last that all was well, he glanced out of the window. The rain had cleared at last, and the sun was shining in a blue sky. He reached for his jacket.
“I’m going out for a few hours,” he informed Mark. “I won’t be back for lunch.”
“Need a mount?”
“Yes, but not Ned – he’s had a hard week. Saddle one of the rental horses for me.”
He rode out of town a couple of miles, looking up and around for any sign of lurking gruefells in the distance, but finding none. Topping a rise, he came into sight of a group of three houses and a barn on the hill to his right. A wagon trail led from the road up towards them. Men were working in the fields, and two women were hanging washing on a line behind the houses.
As he drew rein in the square formed by the buildings, a voice hailed him. “Well, by all the Gods, if it isn’t the King’s Champion himself! What brings you out this way?”
He grinned. “Hello, Diava. What else but the pleasure of your company?”
“Ha! A likely story. We’re just two old crocks swapping war stories in our dotage – at least, that’s what my daughter tells me.”
“Sounds like she takes after her mother.”
“Aye, God rest her, she never did get used to us lowering t
he level in the bottle as often or as much as we did. Still, she never tried to stop me.”
“She probably would have in the end, if you hadn’t outlived her.” The visitor stepped onto the porch of the smallest house, to be greeted with a firm wrist-grip by the man awaiting him. The two grizzled veterans studied each other for a moment.
“It’s not just social this time, Diava,” Owain admitted. “I ran into some bad trouble on this trip.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“Graben raiders and gruefells. I’m sorry to say they killed Gerd.”
The other sucked in his breath between his teeth. “You never seem to do things by halves – including making enemies! Did Gerd die well?”
“He did. It was a warrior’s death, fighting the enemy.”
“Then be proud of him! Come on in. I made a new blend last week. I steeped redberries in corn liquor through the winter, then drained the spirit and blended it one part to three with mead. The berries are pretty good, too – strong enough by themselves to give you a hangover! We’ll drink to Gerd’s memory.”
Over two glasses of the heady mixture, accompanied by a few of the berries, Owain told his friend of the events of the past four days. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “If they followed me, they must have known where to look for me in the first place. That means they’ll be back as soon as they figure out what happened to their people. Do I fight them here? If I do, it’ll put the whole town in danger. Word is that some Graben raiders are using the black arts now, and we’ve no mage or priest here to counter them. If I flee, they may hit here anyway before they find out I’ve gone. Once they know that, they’ll be looking for me. Where can I hide from them? I’m not one to do that for long, anyway. I’d rather face them and get it over with, one way or the other.”
