by RJ Baker
But it did not, and there was only one foot in front of another.
Maniyadoc had changed in the five years I had been away, selling my sword and my morals to the highest bidder while trying to stay ahead of the Open Circle’s assassins. I had seen much of war: we had spent half a year with the Ilstoi of the far seas, they believed that if you angered the land it would form itself into a giant and smash all you owned and loved, replacing it with a carpet of green. It looked like one of these Ilstoi giants had been loosed in Maniyadoc. I trudged past farm buildings collapsed in on themselves and thick with grasses and small trees. Only when you looked more closely did you see the black scars of fire on timbers and the unnaturally straight cut marks of swords and axes. In other places the grass grew strange and thick, and when I put down the travois to forage along the sides of the roads for water I found bleached bones among the lush growth. I was not surprised. War had been my business for five years and it raged nowhere fiercer than in Maniyadoc where the three kings, Tomas, Aydor and my friend Rufra, warred for supremacy and access to the scant resources of a land scarred by the actions of ancient sorcerers.
Sorcerer. That word still sent a shudder through me, despite, or maybe because, I am one. As always when I thought of magic my mind slid away to other memories, replacing fear of what was in me with hate or anger.
The face of my lover, Drusl, in the stable, as she cut her throat to return her magic to the land.
A pain in my chest so fierce I had to stop. There had been other women, and men, since Drusl, but only one I had become close to, and even then it had not been love. The secrets inside me had killed Drusl and I held them close. Who I am and what I am could never be aired. I could not let myself get close to anyone, not truly close, and so I had not.
I walked on, one foot in front of the other, past fields overrun with weeds. In one place the road was verged with blood gibbets. I counted twenty, each one marked with the parched branch and tattered flag of a white tree on a green background that belonged to the Landsmen. Once, the blood gibbet, with its tortuous machinery of windmills and blades, had been solely for magic users, but above many of these were wooden plaques with “TRAITOR” burned into them. Some had no sign above them, but all contained bodies in various states of decay, many wearing the red and black I knew Rufra had taken for his colours. It seemed the war had allowed the Landsmen to run rampant with their cruel punishments, and they had gone beyond their usual search for magic users. This close to the sourlands the stink of putrefaction was barely discernible.
In the last of the blood gibbets was a man, young, emaciated and crack-skinned. He croaked something, whether begging for water or food I do not know. He wore the yellow and black that showed he was one of Aydor’s men. I had tangled with Aydor before and had been instrumental in putting Rufra on his throne. He had been a cruel, stupid boy who killed for his own amusement; I had nothing but hate in me for the old king’s heir. No doubt he had grown into a cruel and stupid leader. I walked on, leaving the man to his fate.
One foot in front of the other.
I kept my eye open for signs of assassins, the subtle signposts of the Open Circle – knotted grass, a scratched post, an arrangement of flower petals, but though death was everywhere signs of assassins were curiously absent. Occasionally I found a bit of scratch, but the requests were either struck through as fulfilled or so worn as to be clearly years old. My master had said that the Open Circle generally avoided war; our skills were wasted in the shieldwall. When I questioned why we were fighting in them she would not answer. But still, it appeared the Open Circle were not active in Maniyadoc, and that made me a feel a little safer.
As the midday sun burned away the last of the morning chill the Glynti made their move. I was passing through a steep-sided gulley, a place where it seemed a massive axe had scored a furrow in the middle of a wooded copse, and the branches, late to leaf, were a skeletal lacework of black against blue sky. A voice rang out and stilled the singing of the winged lizards.
“Stay still, boy. Stay or we shoot.”
The voice of the woman we had let go. I put down the travois and slowly unstrapped the warhammer from my thigh. It was a crude and vicious weapon, a hardwood staff topped with a head made of glittering stone. One side was beaked for punching through armour and the other rounded for breaking limbs. I itched for my shield, but it was too securely worked into the travois for me to get at.
“I knew I should have killed you,” I shouted into the wood, emboldened by the weight of the hammer in my hand.
“You should have,” rang the reply, bouncing from tree to tree and robbing itself of direction and distance as it worked its way down the steep and mossy slopes. “But as my life was spared I will give you one chance. The woman is dead already, you must know that. The poison cannot be stopped. Leave her there and walk away. Do that and we will not shoot you down.”
“I wanted you dead, woman – you owe me no favours,” I shouted back. “I think you bluff, I think there is only you and you wish me to walk away so you do not have to face me.”
The woman laughed, a rich and hearty sound, and then she let out a piercing whistle. Glynti appeared from behind trees – only for the briefest second. I counted five but heard more behind me. I felt no fear, only an ache in my arms from the weight of the warhammer.
“We have numbers, boy.”
“Then why let me live?”
A pause. Almost long enough for the timid winged lizards to begin their disturbed song again.
“You killed my man, maybe I want you as a replacement, eh? I’m giving you a chance to live, mage-bent boy. Take it.”
She thought me a boy as I am small. Many make that mistake and it is their last.
“I will not leave my master.” I spread my arms. “Shoot your arrows if you have them.”
My breath came slowly and the world took on a rare clarity: branches bobbed, the fuzzy promise of life in their buds, grass waved and the sun warmed my skin.
No arrows came.
The wood rang again with the woman’s laughter.
“You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that.” She let out a piercing whistle and the Glynti appeared from behind the trees. Twelve of them, eight men and four women, including her. “You can’t stand against us all, child.” They pushed through knee-high bracken, treading carefully as they came down the steep slope. Eight stopped in front of me and the rest took up positions to my rear. A calm fell on me. It was like this before most battles – a time for readying yourself, for checking weapons and armour, preparing your mind for the moment to come when you took a life or lost your own. The Glynti hefted their weapons. The eight were going to rush me; the other four were there purely to make sure I did not escape.
“Come, boy,” said the woman. “This is your last chance. Your master is dead in all but flesh. Walk away. I will still allow it.” She picked a scab from one of the burns on her face and flicked it away. “We are not a greedy people; another can have your price.”
“No.”
“Walk away, boy.”
“No.”
“I will not ask again.”
“Good. I am tired of talking.”
She shrugged, and the men around her organised themselves into a rough shieldwall; their circular shields had been polished to a sheen and reflected distorted trees back at me. As I readied myself, choosing how I would die on their charge and which Glynti I would take with me to Xus’s dark palace, an argument broke out. A tall warrior with long, dyed-red braids was shouting at the woman in Glynti, a language I didn’t understand. She shouted back at him and occasionally they would point at me.
“Brank would avenge his brother, boy.” she shrugged. “But I have seen you fight and do not want to lose another bedmate.”
“Then you and your people may walk away,” I said, then added, “I will allow it.”
She chuckled, shaking her head and looking at the ground.
“It is a pity you will die, I would have enjoye
d you. You have spirit.” She motioned Brank forward.
The warrior came on at a crouch with his shield raised and his curved sword held high. I waited for him to come near and thought that, had he been less of a fool, he would have brought a spear. He launched a swing at me with his sword and I jumped back, avoiding the blade. He brought his shield up, an instinctive reflex but the wrong one. The hammer came down, with all my strength behind it, on the shield – and like all Glynti shields it was a flimsy thing, thin metal over wood, and it shattered, as did the bones in the arm that held it. With a scream Brank launched himself at me, swinging his sword overarm. I grabbed the haft of the warhammer, one hand at the hilt, the other below the head, and blocked his blade.
Even though he was one-handed and in pain it was a jarring blow, and he followed it up with another and another, forcing me back until I tripped over a rut in the path. Brank aimed another blow and I twisted the hammer so his blade hit the stone end, shattering the sword’s poor-quality metal. Then I brought round the pommel, crowned with the claw of some fearsome beast, and ripped the man’s stomach open. I started to push myself up, thinking him beaten, but he threw himself at me, his entrails looping around our bodies as he knocked me back to the ground. As we rolled in the dirt in his blood and shit he managed to get one huge hand around my throat, squeezing the life out of me even as the life drained from him.
Breath hissed in and out of his teeth. I could smell the tang of his last meal and the badly cured hides he wore as armour. Through the trees behind him I thought I saw Xus the unseen fluttering though the shafts of sunlight. Reaching up I grabbed Brank’s head, pushing my thumbs into his eyes and forcing a scream out of his mouth. Even blinded he kept his hand clamped around my throat, his thirst for vengeance overwhelming his pain.
My hand scrabbled at my side, looking for my stabsword. My vision began to swim and all feeling fled from my body. Did I have the blade? I didn’t know. Time was running out. Above the Glynti hovered a figure of shadow and sadness. With all my strength I thrust my arm forward. It seemed every scar etched into my chest convulsed, grasping my body far tighter than Brank’s hand around my neck, thrusting blades into my flesh. And then I was breathing, coughing and choking on the air, and the weight of the Glynti was gone from my chest.
I lived, for what it was worth.
The remaining Glynti had gathered around while I fought, standing in a ring, swords and spears extended towards me and faces twisted in disgust and horror. The body before me had a smoking hole where his throat should be and my blood sang a sweet and sickly song in my ears.
“Sorcerer,” hissed the woman. “Maniyadoc’s filth.” She drew back her blade for a killing stroke and I did not have the strength to stop her.
The arrow took her though the throat and she fell, coughing, to her knees. The remaining Glynti turned as archers emerged from the undergrowth and the air filled with the thunder of mounted troops. Another round of arrows felled more Glynti and then three huge mounts charged in, heads down, lethal antlers sweeping from side to side to cut down anyone in their way with razor-sharp gildings. In moments the Glynti were dead and I was surrounded by armoured soldiers. They wore no colours and flew no loyalty flags, only stared down at me – suspicious eyes behind grimacing faceplates.
“Who are you?” asked their leader, a thin man. He was familiar but I could not place him. My mind was shattered, twisted and confused by what had happened. I had used magic – had it been that long since the Landsmen’s Leash was cut into me to hold the magic at bay?
“Girton ap Gwynr,” I said. Like a fool I used the name I had been known by in Maniyadoc when my master and I had brought down Queen Adran and her odious son, Aydor. All the prospective kings of Maniyadoc would know that name and only one would welcome hearing it.
“Girton ap Gwynr, eh?” said the Rider. “Well, my king will want to meet you.” He lashed out with his boot, catching me on the side of my head, and I fell into a darkness I had been secretly longing for.
Chapter 3
A sacking hood was the walls of my cell. My head ached and I stank of old blood. When I tried to move I found I had been trussed like a hog for the spit, and I could barely tense my muscles without pain. Below the stink of the blood on my clothes the air was heavy with other scents: mud, mounts, mouldering grass and the rancid fat used to grease armour. Wind whispered across canvas and my skin was patched with cold by the touch of a breeze.
This was a battle camp, and an ill kept one at that. I froze so the hiss of my clothes against the groundsheet did not interfere with my hearing. Breathing. Someone else was in the tent with me.
“Master?” The scratch of leather on canvas as I moved. “Master?”
No reply, but whoever was there turned towards me. I heard the creak of leather and an infinitesimal increase in the volume of their breath.
“My master, where is she?”
No answer.
“Please, she was dying. Is she still alive?”
Still no answer, and it left me feeling angry, ashamed and weak at the begging tone in my voice. I resolved to say nothing more. Instead I fell back on counting out the seconds.
One, my master.
Two, my master.
And every second I counted was a reminder of her sweating and moaning as the Glynti poison sucked at her life. I approached fifteen “my-masters” before whoever shared the tent with me left.
I was taken from the tent some hours later. They cut the straps around my legs and lifted me to my feet while blood rushed back in a painful wave. I could have escaped, but the thought of facing the world without my master terrified me, the cuts she made were all that stood between me and the magic, and all that magic ever brought with it was destruction and death.
“Come on.” I did not know the voice, a man of indeterminate age, and there was neither friendship not scorn in his it. He led me over slippery mud by my elbow.
He was not rough – maybe someone wanted me unharmed, the better to endure the torture. Part of me hoped that this was one of Rufra’s camps but I knew it was unlikely. From the way I was being treated it was more likely to belong to Tomas or, even worse, Aydor, who had always delighted in casual cruelty and throwing around his considerable weight. Whoever it belonged to I felt sure that, at best, my neck would be meeting the chopping block before the end of the day. But if it was Aydor who held me that was unlikely; he would delight in my death, it would be long and agonising.
I did not bother to count the steps or work out the direction we walked from the feel of the yearsbirth sun on my skin. What point? I had run the world over to escape death and still ended up in this place with my master poisoned and myself captured by armed men and on the way to meet my fate. I was tired, tired of fighting, tired of pain, and I let them lead me as if I were a prize boar ready for slaughter.
We entered a large tent, the fierce heat of braziers warmed my face even through the sacking. A hand on my shoulder forced me to my knees. “The prisoner, sire.”
Some communication must have passed, as the bag was pulled from my head. My vision swam. So many candles had been lit that their brightness dazzled me, a thousand stars shining in a smoky firmament.
The fug cleared. Focus returned. A chill settled in my stomach.
Leaning forward to scrutinise me from a raised chair was Aydor ap Mennix, formerly heir to Maniyadoc and the Long Tides. He was bigger now than he had been five years ago, weightier than he had been. A fool would have called him fat and underestimated him for it, but I had been among armies and I recognised a fighter, and I knew him for one. On the field he was the sort I would be wary of because size generally meant strength even if did not mean skill.
Aydor wore his brown hair long, falling around his shoulders, down his chest and catching on the bright yellow enamelling of his armour. The scar his mother had given him bisected his face and when he smiled I could see half his teeth were missing.
If nothing else, at least his breath would not be as rotten a
s before. Dead gods grant us such small mercies.
“Girton ap Gwynr,” he said, “if that was ever your name.”
“It wasn’t,” I said. “I call myself Girton Club-Foot.”
“Girton Club-Foot.” He chewed on the name thoughtfully for a while. “Is that not an insult, to be called Club-Foot?”
“Not if I am the one to choose it.”
He nodded to himself.
“They call me the Fat Bear behind my back.” I heard the guards around me stiffen – a jingling and chinking of armour. “They think I don’t know they do it but I do. I quite like it if I’m honest, the bear part anyway.” He looked up from me to the man by my side. “Cut Girton Club-Foot loose, Captain Thian. And give him back his weapons.”
“Sire?”
“Do as I say,” said Aydor, his voice sharp and used to command.
I was too shocked to speak. Then, as my bonds were cut and my blades and the warhammer dropped by me, I wondered if he meant to fight me and if I cared enough to beat him. I stared at the weapons on the floor, wary that reaching for them may be the trigger that sprang the jaws of a trap.
Aydor stood, tottering slightly, and I realised he was drunk. He took a step forward and, using a hand to steady himself, sat on the low stage his wooden throne had been set upon.
“It’s not a trick,” he said, pointing at the weapons.
“Where is my master?” The words sprang from my mouth before I was aware they were even being formed.
“You mean the woman you were with?” He frowned as if confused; it was almost comical. “She’s with my healer. He is foreign like her and he knows poisons.”
“She lives?”
“For now. Mastal says he has halted the poison’s advance but a cure confounds him. He says the Glynti are clever with poisons.” He nodded to himself then pointed at me with a thick finger. “You killed my mother.”
