“Not bedding down with us, Sir Erroll?” I asked him. He shook his head graciously and begged leave to scout the area. In other words, prance around on his horse while his squire did all the work.
The woman dismounted when the innkeeper appeared to greet his new customers. She told him, “Two of your finest rooms. The men will have one, I the other. My servant can sleep in the stables, with your permission?”
The innkeep nodded. He beckoned her inside to show her the rooms, and she followed, long skirts swishing about her ankles.
I made my way into the dark, smoke-filled gloom of the common room and sat down under the old fife and marching drum mounted on the wall. Most of the patrons were locals crowded around the fireplace on the far end, playing dice over stakes of farthings and ha'pennies. Nothing to hold my interest. I shouted at the nearest barmaid to fetch me something to drink. I got a jug of the house ale, which tasted like it were brewed from stale piss. Still, any port in a storm.
The farmboy gingerly sat down at my table. He seemed afraid of everything and everyone around him. A sensible attitude, in his case. Eventually he gathered enough courage to lean closer and speak to me from across the beer-stained oak.
“Did the lady say she intended us to bed in the same room?” he asked, faint tremor of horror in his voice.
I snorted, “Your arse is safe from me, lad, if that's what you're wondering.”
“I‒ I'm sorry, I didn't‒ did not mean to cause offence...” He stammered some more apologies, growing paler by the second. Abruptly he swayed to his feet and finished in a thin, trembling whimper, “I'll sleep in the stables.”
It was a fine idea. I raised my jug to him and wished him luck. He'd need every bit to survive the night with that little Harari hellcat for company.
Once she finished delivering our list of supplies, the woman joined my table, sipping a small cup of wine which the innkeep served in person. He flashed a toadyish smile and thanked her for her patronage.
It bothered me that I had every one of these jokers figured out except her. Maybe that was why I signed the contract. I couldn't for the life of me see her angle in any of this, and she brushed off every question with incredible agility.
“A good first day, wasn't it, Byren?” she asked pleasantly. “You're already making friends. This may be the first time Sir Erroll has had a kind word to say about someone lowborn. Not to mention young Adar, giving up his share of your room.”
“Is that his name?” I chuckled. “I think he was more terrified of me than of your... servant.”
She caught my momentary hesitation and flashed an indulgent smile. “Do I sense disapproval? Surely you admit a lady must have attendants, and her status is defined in the quality of her servants. Harari are hard to catch. Even harder to keep.”
“I try not to approve or disapprove of anything, Milady. I do the job and get paid.”
The rest of our conversation was meaningless small talk, whiling away the hours until she retired to her room. I decided I'd had enough company for one day as well. Even without the woman in front of me, her voice stayed fresh in my ears, lilting out of memory.
I lifted some moonshine off the innkeep and went upstairs. Locked myself in my room for a private party, just two bottles and me. I wasn't aware of anything else until the morning.
The whole group was packed up and ready to move by the time I made it downstairs. Hard white sunlight lanced through the shutter-like canopy of pine needles. The woman was settling up our tab, Sir Erroll by her side. The squire waited silently by the doorway. Every few seconds he would throw a glance over his shoulder at the cart outside, and the girl in irons sitting atop it who cursed as she darned some piece of linen.
I never considered myself much of a mind-reader, but something about the way he looked at the girl seemed off. For a moment I wondered if there was something going on between them, as unlikely as it seemed. Another story lurking under the surface. I needed to learn the secrets of this group for the sake of my own health, in case my first impressions didn't match up.
We were underway before long. Marching north through the fringe of white pines and cedar trees into the deeper forest. The road was buried under a carpet of needles, all except two deep ruts of cart-tracks worn in by regular traffic. A trio of riders galloped past us without bothering to offer greetings. Later on we met a farmer's cart laden with food and ale, off to supply the inn with more of its stale and sour delicacies.
I'd about walked off my morning fog when we halted for lunch in a small roadside clearing. Here and there, a few clumps of grass managed to survive the choking carpet of pine-needles. I ate with Sir Erroll and the woman, served by Erroll's squire, while Adar the farmboy took care of the horses. Hardbread with salted pork, cheese and butter. Not half bad, all things considered.
The boys were only allowed to eat once we finished. The slave girl had nothing. Instead she turned her face away, stabbing sequins onto one of her lady's dresses.
Sir Erroll accosted me after the meal. “Byren, could I impose upon you to mind the camp for a few minutes? There's supposed to be some lovely waterfalls in this area, but I didn't get a chance to show my lady on our way south. It'd be a terrible shame if I missed the opportunity again.”
“Oh, Sir Erroll, you are a romantic,” the woman said coyly. “But you mustn't put noble Byren out so that we may enjoy ourselves.”
Erroll's chasing after her skirts made me ill. Nevertheless I forced a polite smile and bowed my head. “No imposition, Milady. Please, go.”
They thanked me, mounted up and rode off side by side laughing like lovebirds. I watched them go, bemused and disgusted by it all. Erroll desired her, that was obvious, but the woman... Her part in their romance seemed like a matter of course, something ritual and expected.
Perhaps it is, I thought suddenly. A knight bachelor travelling chastely with an unmarried lady would attract far more suspicion than the same couple engaged in perpetual marital foreplay. This way she could keep Erroll at arm's length whilst avoiding a spectacle for either of them. In which case, I could only admire her skill at keeping up appearances.
When I turned back to camp I caught the squire laid out on the back of the cart. He stared up into space, empty-eyed, so lost to the world he didn't even notice my approach. The slave girl sat crouched on the other side, eating something with terrible haste. Crumbs flew everywhere. She probably wasn't meant to have it, but I wasn't about to take it away from her.
A twig snapped somewhere out in the woods. Stopping to listen, I couldn't hear a single animal, not a scurrying foot, nothing that might explain the sound. The very lack of noise raised the hair on the back of my neck. After a minute of silence I shook my head and pretended to forget I'd heard anything, but my mind was cold and clear as I strolled over to my pack.
I picked up my breastplate and pushed it out in front of me like a shield, blocking the first arrow. It smashed to pieces against the polished bronze.
“Ambush!” I shouted at the others, who responded with blank stares. All except the squire. That boy reacted with the steadiness of a warrior beyond his years. He kicked everyone into cover behind the wagon, then began to organise a coordinated defence. Too bad it wouldn't do me any good. They were over there, and I caught in the open, cut off.
The arrow's impact still rang in my wrists as I dropped my breastplate, tore my sword from its scabbard, and ploughed headlong into the brush. My only chance against archers was to charge, to get up close and cut down anyone who refused to run.
Another arrow brushed against me, sharp steel raking across my thigh. It left a long, shallow gash which bubbled up a small stream of precious red blood. I gritted my teeth as I vaulted the fallen log where the archers hid. In a flash my sword opened the skull of a man who'd just nocked another arrow, and I turned to take the other one. Thickly caked grime covered the expression on his face, but I could see the white rims around his irises as he raised his dagger and rushed me. The mind behind those eyes had alre
ady gone mad with terror.
I was about to relieve him of his guts when I caught a faint glint of maille from under his rags. Too off-balance to pull back, I redirected a clumsy swing toward his knees, which cut deep with the satisfying jar of edge on bone. The hole it left in his trousers revealed a big chunk of meat peeling off his shin, which made him fall over backwards, screaming.
My mind raced with more and more questions as I closed to finish him off. How many more? Where's everyone else? Why are rabble like this wearing metal armour?
That moment, someone jumped me from behind and closed two massive arms around me in a bear hug, squeezing the air out of my lungs. I tried to bring my sword around to jab behind me, but the man caught my hand and crushed my fingers into the hilt until they felt like they'd burst like rotten tomatoes. I struggled, fuelled by survival instinct, and smashed the back of my head into his nose, forcing him to let go of my hand. Too late. The fingers wouldn't respond, the sword slipped out of my grip along with my best ‒ perhaps only ‒ hope of survival.
The bandit in front of me stumbled to his feet with dagger still in hand. The rusty point of it came at my belly, step by limping step. He meant to cut the guts out of me and leave me to die slowly, and there was nothing I could do to stop him. I strained as hard as I could, legs lashing out, but the big man held me firm.
I watched the blade part the linen of my tunic. Cold metal cut into my flesh. Then, a short, sharp jerk.
Blood spattered into my eyes out of nowhere, and I felt the grip around my chest loosen. The hand holding the dagger flew into the air, without its owner attached. I looked up through the red film to see Sir Erroll's moustachioed face, wrathful as an avenging angel. It gave me my opportunity. I kicked backwards, and the arms couldn't keep hold of me. I tumbled to the ground. Behind me, the bandit ‒ a full head taller than the knight ‒ drove a massive fist into Sir Erroll's chest, knocking him into a tree. His fingers tightened around the knight's throat and Sir Erroll battered at the man's face and head with all his bull-like might, but the pressure never let up. His red cheeks began to turn purple, and his lips went grey as he choked for air.
I wiped a hand over my face and did what I had to do. I took the fallen bow from the ground, arrow still notched to the string, and ‒ fumbling with the string ‒ fired into the bandit's neck. His huge body toppled sideways through the underbrush, spasmed once, twice. Then everything went still.
“Was that all of them?” coughed Sir Erroll, hoarse and out of breath.
“It was enough.”
My eyes slowly started to clear. The woman appeared from between the trees on her palfrey, but jumped off and ran to us asking if we were alright.
She gasped, “Byren, what in God's name happened?” In the same breath she made little noises of concern and dabbed at my blood-stained eyelids with a handkerchief.
“As you see, Milady. I was protecting the camp.” I jerked my chin at the carnage around us.
“Are they woodsmen?” she asked, appalled at the notion of being attacked. I didn't respond right away, but knelt by the body of the first man I'd killed and tore away the rags covering him. Underneath was a cuirass of boiled leather stamped near the waist with the insignia of the King's armoury. Identical stamps showed on the man's arrows and the pommel of his dagger. The bow lying on the grass beside him, however, was a crude thing hastily-made from local timber. It made sense.
“Deserters,” I concluded. “Routed men from the war. This one dropped his bow when he ran, then threw away his livery and turned bandit.”
Sir Erroll hawked and spat on the corpse next to him. “The war follows us everywhere. We'll post a guard from now on, and I recommend we don't stop before we reach Oristo tonight.” He nodded at the lady and myself, and tromped off calling for his squire.
“Are you well enough to walk?” she asked me with surprising tenderness. Her hands examined the fresh slits on my stomach and thigh, unafraid of the blood. “This should bandage up well, but we can still turn back to the Fife and Drum for a day or two.”
“I can walk, Milady,” I replied, picked up my sword, and slid it back in its scabbard. “Please bring some water and tell Adar to give me a hand with these bodies. At the very least we can lay them together and say a prayer.”
She nodded and excused herself. I bent down once more, collecting the dead man's thin purse, and rolled him over to unlace his armour. Good iron would always be worth something.
As the old saying went, If the other fellow can't hang on to it, it's yours.
We moved away from the ambush site as fast as we could, and never let the horses slow below a canter. The winding forest road let out into the open plains of western Gernland. Though I managed to keep up on foot for a while, my thigh started bleeding again and I was forced to admit defeat. Even riding on the cart, though, I kept a close watch. Deserters are like cockroaches. Spot one, and you can bet there are others around hiding and waiting.
We caught sight of Oristo as the last rays of the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon. For a few minutes more, it crowned the town and the surrounding hills in gorgeous orange fire. Even at this distance I could see the mismatched helmets and spearheads of townsmen patrolling Oristo's palisade. Only a few fires burned in the huts and farmhouses outside the walls. Sir Erroll saw it too, and his bushy eyebrows dipped into a deep frown.
“I came this way not six months ago,” he said. “The gates were open and the palisade unmanned. Either the King has had some disastrous luck in the North or something's wrong.”
“Those deserters might have something to do with it,” I pointed out. “If three men rout and run, there'll be more behind them.”
“Whatever it is, we have a duty to assist.” The knight's eyes burned with zealotry, clutching the pommel of his sword.
The woman smiled gently. “Your gallantry does you credit, Sir Erroll, but we are tired and have a long way to go yet.”
“Ah... Of course, my Lady.” He sighed and turned to his squire. “Faro, strike a torch so they can see us.”
The squire did as ordered and rode faithfully at his master's side, lighting us as we went with the flickering torch. We followed the road to the edge of town, and met no one. It wasn't until we reached the palisade gates that we received a challenge.
“Name yourself,” called a voice from up the wall.
The woman rode forward. “Lady Silbane, accompanied by Sir Erroll Highhaven, Sergeant Byren formerly of the King's Own Angian Guard, and servants. We've come from Newmond, passing through on our way north.”
The speaker hesitated, and I could make out a hissed argument between several different people. Then, “Have your knight show his shield!”
Sir Erroll looked offended. It was rude and untrusting for them to ask ‒ and I probably would've done the same thing. Grumbling, the knight unslung his heater shield from his saddle, stripped away the oilcloth covering and raised it to show the red raven on its face.
“We know of no knight by that name or emblem,” said the man on the palisade. I saw Sir Erroll go purple, his jaw tight and the muscles in his neck bunching with fury. However, after another angry discussion, the voice came again. “You may pass, but surrender your weapons at the gate. Do that and we'll have no trouble.”
What choice did we have? With no way of knowing the enemy's numbers, camping outside of town would be sheer idiocy.
The gates swung open and we rode through. Two unarmoured spearmen came out to take our weapons, and I handed mine over with the stiffness of a soldier forced to part from his closest companions. Sir Erroll loathed it even more than I did, but he still decided a sword and lance were less comfort right now than a warm bed and a safe place to sleep. The townsmen closed the gates behind us, then sent a young spearman to escort our party to the local tavern. I decided to get close to him.
“I don't mean to offend, mate,” I began, “but this place feels on edge. What's the matter?”
He shook his head. “If I were you, stranger,
I'd turn back south and ride as far as you can.”
“Why?”
“Because... Because.” His face hardened even further. “You wouldn't understand.”
“Try me.”
He gave me a long look, and I couldn't help feeling some sympathy. He looked about the age I was when I joined the Army. Same brown eyes already losing their youthful shine. Another man like me in the making, Saints help him.
Something seemed to register inside him, and he sighed in utter resignation. “Our preacher says the whole town is cursed. We survive mostly on trade, but there hasn't been a merchant here in weeks, just kingsmen who take everything and leave without paying a penny. And that's not the worst of it.” He paused as if navigating some painful memory. “People have been disappearing. We don't know where they go, they up and vanish in the night, gone, with all their belongings. All we know is they don't come back.”
“Running south?”
“Maybe, but don't let Father Osric hear you say that. He swears it's daemons, and half the people here believe him. The man's so old he can barely remember what day it is.” He spat on the ground in disgust. “We should've gone south to Feldland months ago, but my father won't hear of it. Not that it means bugger-all to you, stranger.”
“It's fine. Thanks for the tip.”
In truth, even a bad conversation beat having to look at Oristo. It was a dull place built entirely of logs and mud-bricks. The best pub in the world couldn't save this town, and the Dog's Head wasn't even a good one.
The front door of the establishment had already been bolted shut, but our guide banged on it until the innkeep came staggering downstairs to open up. The woman negotiated our stay while I saw Adar off to the stables. Then I grabbed a bottle of local strongwine from behind the counter and headed upstairs. After the day's events, I deserved to quench my thirst a little.
I sat and drank and forgot everything for a few blissful hours.
I must've passed out at some point. The candles had guttered out by the time I woke to the sound of my door creaking open. It was slow and deliberate, and my fingers fumbled for the knife which had been on my belt but was now in a stockpile at the town gates. Left with no other options, I jumped the shadowy figure as it entered. Locked my arm around his throat in one smooth movement and squeezed tight. The man wriggled like a wet fish, but he couldn't escape. All I had to do was hold on long enough.
Written in Blood Page 2
