by RJ Baker
Rufra turned from me to sit on his throne and filled a new goblet from the barrel of perry by it. When he spoke now it was softly, as if he was seeing a place far away. “I should have told you about Arnst the minute you said a Landsman was sneaking about.”
“Why didn’t you?” I said, looking around the tent. Only now did I notice how bare it was. He had nothing of himself here, nothing except the broken table and scattered pieces, all else was simply the trappings of a king, not my friend. I had pitied myself and my loneliness while failing to see the same in others. What a fool I was. What a fool I had been.
“I felt stupid,” he said. “Here was Girton, having gone off to all these far exotic places and become so worldly. Taken a stand against an evil man, taken his weapon even. And then you come back to find your friend so committed to a good cause he has lifted a rapist to a place of power on his council, and here I am, forced into colluding with a Landsman. Every time Arnst became fixated on a woman I had Karrick spirit her away before Arnst could hurt her.” He poured the perry back into the barrel. “I did not know what he was until too late. I warned Arnst I would not stand for it, had him watched.”
“Why Karrick?”
“Because Arnst was persuasive, but I knew he could not convert a Landsman to his ways. Especially one like Karrick.” He made a small movement of his hand, a fluttering, a momentary affirmation of the mistake he’d made.
I saw how he must have struggled. He had trapped himself in an impossible place, needing those who were loyal to Arnst but worried by the influence he had in the camp – while at the same time desperate to protect his people from him. I had blundered in, come to all the wrong conclusions and made everything immeasurably worse.
“I have been a fool, Rufra,” I said. “I should not have acted without your permission. You were right.’”
“Small consolation, Girton,” he said, a sad smile on his face. “Have a drink” He waved a hand at the perry barrel.
“It does not agree with me,” I said, because I feared what the magic would do if I let myself become drunk.
He shrugged.
“Me neither,” he said, staring at his empty goblet. “Do you still believe Karrick guilty?”
“No,” I said quietly. “With what I know of Arnst now, the number of suspects has increased beyond thinking.”
“I should have told you,” said Rufra again.
“And I should have looked harder,” I said, more forcefully. “In truth I wanted Karrick to be guilty. I barely looked past him at all.”
“Not all the Landsmen are like the one you took that warhammer from, Girton,” he said, and the ground beneath my feet seemed to shift.
“They are still cruel – it is their reason for being.”
“The Tired Lands are cruel, and if another sorcerer rises they will become crueller still.”
I had no answer to that, not without telling Rufra truths about me I knew he could never accept.
“You are not cruel, Rufra.”
“I hope not to be, but being a king –” he wrapped his arms around himself “–it is a cruel business, Girton.”
“Surely you have some distractions? It cannot all be miserable.”
“Gusteffa does her best to amuse me. Sometimes it has only been Gusteffa’s clowning that has kept me sane.”
“A jester is a good companion,” I said.
He grinned.
“Aye. Maybe I have kept her because the jester I wanted was not here, but I have come to appreciate her talent and her council.” He stood. “Listen. Do you hear?”
I did. People shouting. The voices of men and women raised and demanding order. “What is happening?”
“Tomas presses me hard, and when the Landsmen left they took half our flour with them, Fureth is a man full of spite.” A cloud passed over his face. “Now I must replace what they took and food is more scarce than ever, so I am forced to choose between providing free bread and paying my soldiers. The proclamation has just gone out that bread must be paid for. I will be lucky if there are not riots.”
“Your people will understand.”
“Will they? Maybe they will today, Girton, but what about in a week, when they are hungry? Or in two weeks, when their children are hungry?” He went down on one knee, picking up the figure of the jester. “I need Tomas to attack,” he said under his breath.
“But what about Karrick, Rufra? What do we do?”
He stared at the figure.
“I will let Karrick’s death stand,” he said quietly and picked up the map table, starting to set the figures back on it. “It pains me. He was a good man, but if we say Arnst’s killer is still out there it will only lead to more turmoil, and if the people believe the Landsmen harboured a murderer they will trust them less and their defection will not seem such a blow.”
“But if there is still a spy you are still in danger.”
“I am always in danger, Girton.” His eyes flicked to the door flap, and from outside I could hear more voices raised in anger. “But I am used to it, and Nywulf, Crast and Neliu will keep me safe.”
“They are not here now.”
Rufra smiled. “Do not be so easily deceived. Neliu hides somewhere in the back of the tent.”
“You did not trust me?”
“I did –” he grinned “– but Neliu is not the trusting type, and if I had sent her away, she and I would have had to answer to Nywulf.”
“No one wants that,” I said, and we laughed – a small laugh, a slow repair to the material of our friendship which had become torn and ragged with distrust.
“I will continue to look for anyone who threatens you. I will not rest.”
“You do not need to do that, Girton. Simply be my friend.”
I nodded.
“I will.” But it was not enough. Never enough. I had done so much damage to what he was trying to build and yet he forgave me so easily and asked for so little in return. It was more than I could have done in his position, and I felt a need, a deep need, to wash away my foolishness. To wash away the blood and bitterness of my years in the wild here in his tent and recreate myself. I fell to my knees before him, raising my throat in the old way of respect and finding old words, words from the stories of great Riders I had told as jester, springing into my mouth.
“I pledge myself to you, Rufra ap Vthyr. I will be your servant and friend –”
“Girton,” there is no need for this.” But I carried on.
“– and my blade will be as your hand. It shall not be unsheathed without your command. It will make no cut without your permission.”
He looked at me so strangely I wondered if he thought I was making a joke. Then he nodded, clearly unsure of what to say, the moment seemed so solemn, so serious, but a small smile crept onto his face.
“You don’t need my permission every time though,” he said. “If someone tries to kill you, don’t die simply because I am emptying my bowels in a bush.”
And suddenly we were laughing again, like children.
Chapter 26
I spent hours talking with Rufra. We avoided the years I had spent with the Landsmen, instead talking of where else I had been and what I had seen, and I realised the time away with my master had not all been bad – I had seen wonders few others ever would. We talked of victories gained and losses we had suffered and, in low tones with many pauses, he told me of the day Gusteffa brought news of the death of his child. I had no answer to the pain – so obvious and raw on his face – all I could do was listen and hope the release of words helped ease him somewhat. Each time we heard shouts from outside his face was like a skyscape: clouds of worry, doubt and fear passing across it, all to be burned away by his determined scowl. Occasionally, reports would be brought to him, words were whispered into his ear and he would nod then issue instructions. Sometimes he told me what was said – scouts reporting on troop movements, men reporting on the mood of the camp – and sometimes he did not, and I did not ask. If it mattered he would tel
l me. Eventually, the camp became quiet.
As I stood to leave he lifted his Conwy sword slightly from its scabbard so I could see the shining blade.
“Brothers,” he said quietly.
“Brothers,” I said, lifting the stabsword slightly from the scabbard at my thigh, he nodded and grinned as I dropped it and it slotted back into place. I left feeling stronger than I had in months, years maybe – stronger through my friendship and stronger because at some point during our talk I had decided to stop running from myself. Maybe I would never be a good man like Rufra, my path was set, my black deeds were done. My blade would only ever wreak havoc – it was my fate – but I would give my life for Rufra and his new ways. For the first time in days it seemed my club foot did not ache.
The day had fled. It was that moment before twilight when the promise of day and warmth is fading, but – and it may have been my imagination or the pleasant buzz my renewed friendship with Rufra had given me – despite the darkness gathering her skirts it seemed like the heavy air that threatened the Birthstorm had retreated a little. Maybe this would be one of those rare years when the Birthstorm existed only as threat on the horizon but never came into being, simply dissipating – giving way to the long, dry, heat of yearslife when the grasses ripened and hissed with the promise of bread to come, but also when the wells dried out and people balanced on the knife’s edge of life.
Twilight was when people thronged to the priests to hear their sermons and sign the books. I wondered if it put folk on edge to sign the books above ground in a tent rather than trailing down steps to the traditional buried chapels. I passed the congregants outside Darvin’s open tent. He sounded hoarse and the crowd overflowed from his tent, so eager were they to hear what he said. It was a comforting to see so many drawn to the words of a good man, and I stopped, joining the back of the crowd and listening.
“… and remember, people you love may fail you or seem to let you down, but you must forgive! You must try to understand that what they do, even when it hurts, even when it seems terrible to us, is for us all!” His masked face regarded his congregation as if he were beseeching each and every one. “Sometimes we must cause a small pain to avert a larger one. We must sacrifice what we think is important so that good may persevere and the true gods be reborn …”
I nodded and walked away. Darvin was trying to make them understand Rufra’s changes and ready those who followed him for a world that may become even harder as Rufra tried to remake it into something fairer.
I was thirsty, and there was a well on one of the small wooded rises that overlooked the camp. I could slake my thirst there and have a moment alone. I headed up the slope deep in thought.
Rufra had been through much, but he had built a kingdom, whereas I had been through much and done nothing but feel sorry for myself.
And kill.
I had always said I hated the path I had been taken along, that I would rather have been a performer, bringing joy and laughter instead of death and sorrow, but what had I done to avoid it? Nothing. I picked up the bucket by the well, its wood worn smooth by long use, while idly thinking about putting on my motley and make-up and entertaining the crowd in the night market for nothing but the joy of it.
The arrow punched the bucket from my hand and it bounced along the ground, violently unspooling the rope from the winch in a screech of complaining metal. I froze, for the barest moment, trying to understand what had just happened and then dived to the side. As the bucket rolled to a stop a second arrow cut through the air, smashing its tip against the stone lip of the well where I had been standing a moment before. Panic. In the gathering dark the archer could be anywhere. No. He must be in front of me. I vaulted backwards, my hands gripping the cold edge of the well – a third arrow cut through the air with the sound of material tearing – I pushed off the stone, going over the wooden roof of the well and feeling-rather-than-seeing the arrow pass below me. Landing on the muddy ground, I slipped down behind the well.
I can help you.
No. The voice did not help.
Silence.
Was the archer moving? I listened for the crack of a twig or the subtle brush of cloth against branch. I couldn’t stay here; I needed to be among the trees. Even though their cover was thin it would be enough for me to work round and get behind whoever attacked me.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
I can help you.
No.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
I ran for the treeline, stepping awkwardly and erratically to make myself a harder target. Another arrow, this one from slightly to the left of where I thought the first arrows had come from. The brush of fletching against my cheek. The archer was good but not good enough. I made the trees, hiding behind the slim cover of a young pine. Two arrows in quick succession bit into the tree, showering me with splinters and astringent sap. Fall and roll, coming up behind another tree. Repeat, this time in the opposite direction. Stop, listen.
I can help you.
No.
I listened.
Nothing.
Run. Tree to tree, breath loud in my ear, waiting for the arrow to hit. The punch of it. The pain. The shock and the gasping for life as it runs out through the wound. Don’t think like that! Another tree, more cover.
No arrows.
Was the archer waiting, hoping for me to become complacent? Or were they gone, knowing they had missed their chance and taking the opportunity to melt away until they could try again.
Let me help you.
I felt it call to me – the well of life beneath, the darkness within. I could reach out into the wood and pluck the archer from his perch, dash him against the ground. Smash him into pulp and … “The Tired Lands are cruel, and if another sorcerer rises they will become crueller still.”
What would I ever bring Rufra but trouble and sorrow?
I stepped out from my tree, arms open, all senses working, waiting for the arrow. Ready for it. Ready.
One, my master.
Two, my master.
Three, my master.
Nothing.
Four, my master
Five, my master.
Six, my master.
They were gone.
No.
A sound. The rattle of wood on wood – a dropped bow. I ran, sliding behind another tree. This part of the wood was on a steep slope and the trees barely clung on, the ground little more than loose scree. A bow on the ground, one of the hornbows used by Rufra’s mount archers. I picked it up as I ran past, skidded to a stop at the edge of the wood where the tents of the camp started. No one there. Whoever had attacked me was already gone. I inspected the bow, nothing special about it, no markings or personalisation. I wandered around the wood, finding a place where the leaf litter had recently been disturbed, following tracks and admiring the skill of who had attacked me. I wondered how long they had lain in wait then shook my head. No, they must have followed me. My visit to the wood had been an impulse. Had my attacker picked me up at Darvin’s tent, or had they been waiting for me outside Rufra’s tent? Either way it was unlikely I would find someone who remembered them; a man or woman with a bow was too common a sight in the camp.
Still, I walked up and down the lines of tents, looking for a sign, keeping alert for someone following me. Every face that passed looked suspicious. Did that man’s eyes follow me? Did that woman signal to someone behind a tent? Were those children, gathered around an old woman with their hands out, taking coin or marking my movements?
This was madness – I could not suspect everyone who passed me. I returned to our tent, resolutely looking only ahead. When I slipped inside I was surprised to find no lamps lit. My eyes accustomed themselves to the low light. My master’s bed was empty.
The impact came from behind, high in the centre of my back, throwing me forward.
An arrow.
I knew the way they killed. Felt its ghost as it ruptured my lungs, split my breastbone a
nd burst from my chest. I hit the floor, dust billowing from the carpet. The weight on my back forced me down into the choking cloud.
Not an arrow.
A person. I tried to roll. A hand grabbed my hair, pulling my head back and baring my neck for the blade at my throat.
“What did you do, Girton?” My master’s voice, raw and full of pain. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” The word spat out, eyes closed to hide the lie from her even though she was behind me.
“Where is he?” Her weight altering, knees becoming painful shards in my back as she moved, her lips by my ear. “Where is Mastal? What have you done with him?”
“Gone.” I spat out dust, coughed. “He left.”
“Don’t lie!” My head pulled further back. “What did you do?” I had never heard her so angry. “I can feel it, Girton. Feel the magic in my bones, feel the poison is gone. Before it was always there, like a weight, but now I am free of it. What did you do?” She bit out each word like she was forcing down filthy medicine.
“I did not mean it,” I whispered. My mind raced and I felt like a child again. I could not tell her the truth. That I had killed Mastal was bad enough, but that I had used his life to save hers? I did not know what she would do, to me or herself. When she had taught me to lie she had taught me to always hide a lie within a truth.
We can stop her.
A terrified mount bending to my will.
“I doctored your medicine.” I choked the words out, eager to be rid of their filthy taint.
“What?”
“With doxy leaf. I found a supplier of yandil and—”
“You could have killed me.” Disbelief in her voice.
“I did not know!”
“Mastal thought he had failed and that you would die. I used that to drive him away. Then I treated you myself with the yandil I had gathered.”
One, my master.
Two, my master.
