by Helen Gosney
Rowan had no way of knowing how big the labyrinth might be, short of scaling a wall to see, and he didn’t want to be doing that with his knee as it was. He soon found it was surprisingly intricate and convoluted, with pathways crossing at odd angles and many-branched intersections and steps up and down that seemed to serve no purpose at all except to irritate him. After a few of these he felt less guilty about his act of vandalism. A couple of times he found himself facing a dead end and he swore and retraced his steps, but finally his innate forester’s sense for finding his way led him to what he felt must be almost the end of the maze. He’d just thought that when he heard a single blood-chilling howl. Rasa, he thought immediately. Dammit. I was starting to think you really were an old wives’ tale. The howling ceased, to be replaced by an unhappy whine and whimper.
“That didn’t sound right, my lady Rasa. Don’t fret, I’ll help you if I can,” he said softly, unable to stop himself even though he knew it was daft, “But you’ll have to let me help you first.”
He kept on, guided now by the miserable complaints as much as anything else and he turned the last corner of the maze to come face to face with… Rasa.
Rowan stopped a good way back and stared at her. She was magnificent and not a lot smaller than the cave lion. The statue at the end of the bridge hadn’t done justice to her or the size of her gleaming fangs either. She certainly wasn’t the toothless old dodderer the g’Hakken had supposed and she wasn’t happy about something.
“What’s wrong, my lady direwolf? Have you hurt yourself somehow…?” Rowan’s heart sank as he saw the heavy studded collar and thick chains that secured her to the wall. There was just enough length to them that he wouldn’t be able to get past. He saw the gnawed bones and the empty and long-dry bowl that had rolled out of her reach. And he saw the old and not so old marks of whips torn into the direwolf’s shaggy sides and felt ill.
“Please, please let me help you, beautiful Rasa. I won’t hurt you,” he said softly, gently. “No, no, sweet one, don’t snarl at me…” as the direwolf did exactly that, “Here, you must be thirsty…”
He grabbed his water bottle and filled the bowl, watching the direwolf watching him with avid attention as she smelt the water. He held it in one hand and his hunting knife in the other and stepped a bit closer. She was so thirsty that she’d drunk half the bowl before she raised her head and stared at him with gleaming topaz eyes. She whined softly in her throat and lowered her muzzle to the water again.
“You’re welcome, Rasa. Drink it all if you want to, I’ve got plenty. Are you hungry, too? I’ve not got much with me, but you’re welcome to it,” he said, putting the bowl down and rummaging quickly in his pack. He held out some of the previous night’s roast pigeon as the topaz eyes stared at him again. The meat disappeared in less time than it takes to tell, and so did some dried fruit and nuts and an apple that Rowan cut into pieces and shared with her.
“Well, Rasa, that went better than I dared hope, considering that I didn’t think I’d even see you at all,” Rowan said as he carefully stroked the great direwolf’s head. Rasa didn’t seem to mind at all. “Now, let me just do one more thing for you, lady… just keep still for a moment, like that…” the knife flashed suddenly and the heavy collar fell to the ground with a clank of the chains that ran from it. The direwolf jumped at the unexpected noise, then pushed her head against Rowan’s hand. He tickled her ears and she sighed deeply, an oddly human sound.
“Now, Rasa, we’ve just got this last chain here on the gates to deal with, and you’ll be free. Stand back a bit, there… mind your muzzle,” Rowan swapped the knife for the sabre and found that this chain was no more secure against it than the one at the other end of the maze had been. He stroked the direwolf’s thick fur one more time as the gates swung open. The huge creature suddenly sprang at the two whips curled neatly just outside the gate. She shredded them both with her teeth and claws, scraped the debris up into an untidy pile, squatted over it and piddled on it. She looked up at Rowan with a pleased expression, licked his hand as she wagged her bushy tail, then she bounded off into the darkness.
He laughed and carved his name again where Rasa had been chained, just because he could, and stepped through into a small copse of the same spindly trees as before.
In the centre of the trees was a small, beautifully decorated building made of the same golden stone as the bridge. It was octagonal, domed, and set on a circular plinth of five steps, and it seemed to glow with an inner radiance. Rowan scouted around the outside of the building very thoroughly indeed, then climbed the steps just as cautiously, thankful for once that there were so few of them. He paused at the tall wooden door at the top. Set in the centre of the door was the symbol he’d seen before - an ornate octagon within a plain circle. Remembering his previous experience with a door carrying this symbol, he was wary. It wouldn’t do to fall and break his neck here – wherever ‘here’ was. He pressed the door lightly, and it swung open easily at his touch.
The building was filled with beautiful pale golden light, though he couldn’t see its source. It seemed to stretch impossibly far into the distance, and he thought he could see a faint mistiness there. There was nothing else to see, for this building was as empty as all of the others had been, but still Rowan checked it carefully before he swore again and began to walk forward. None of this was doing his knee or his temper any good at all, he thought, feeling himself becoming more irritated with every step. He remembered his act of defiance in carving his name -twice- as well as the markers of his passage in the Gods’ precious labyrinth and laughed. Bugger the lot of you, he thought blasphemously and moved on, his irritation gone. Quite a long time later he stopped, leaned on his staff and peered into the mist as best he could without actually entering it.
He thought he could see a tall, thin figure there - no, a multitude of tall thin figures - and then there was only one again. It - or they - turned and began to move towards him. They seemed to be coming from an immense distance, but finally the being - or beings; he still wasn’t sure how many there were - stood tall before him.
They seemed to flicker and shimmer in Rowan’s vision. There was both a multitude of beings, and only the one... simultaneously. When it/they spoke, it was with both a dry, deep voice and the whispering of many. Rowan didn’t try to make any sense of it; he suspected that it was beyond his poor human brain to do so.
“Who is this that seeks me/us here...?” the eerie voices echoed strangely in his ears.
“I’m Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist... Rowan of Yaarl...” he replied, uncertain of what, exactly, he was seeing, but his good manners intact.
“Yaarl...?”
The beings, whether one or many, were very tall, with pale elongated faces, long white hair, cold silvery eyes, and long thin limbs. They were all dressed alike in long, stiff, pale robes. They whispered and muttered to themselves, then looked down at Rowan dispassionately.
“I/we have not spoken with one of your kind before...”
“What of the pilgrims who used to come here, long ago?”
“They never came to this place... you are the first to climb the stairway and cross the bridge... the first to walk the maze… they never came ... and I/we did not speak with them...”
“But...”
“And so... my/our power wanes in this... this Yaarl of yours...”
“Who are you...? With all respect, what are you...?” Rowan asked quietly, still uncertain if he was speaking to one being or many.
The single creature looked down at him and suddenly it seemed to shimmer into the semblance of a wise old man.
“I am the one your kind calls Arno Kren... Great Father...” it said, its voice deep and commanding.
The multitude of beings coalesced before Rowan.
“I am the one your kind calls Great Mother, Sheera Li...” one whispered, seeming suddenly to be an old woman, wrinkled but still lovely.
Rowan stared as the rest of the creatures shimmered and changed befor
e him.
“I am the life-giver, Temba Narl...” said a young pretty woman.
“I am Pyenar the Mapmaker, the Holder of the Keys,” a haughty looking old man said with his nose in the air.
“Healer, I am... Cashel Noor...” sighed a tall dark woman.
“And I, Hui, who helps the rain...” from a plump grey-haired man.
“Crista... the Silver Lady, who cares for the trees...” lisped a beautiful woman with flowers and leaves trailing through her long silver hair.
“Rill... who loves the rivers...” mumbled a shy-looking young man.
“Toh... who brings pleasure...” whispered a curly-haired, handsome man with wicked eyes.
“And I am Beldar… the Warrior…” A huge man stepped forward. He was at least a couple of handspans taller than Rowan, broad shouldered and impressively muscled, with dark shaggy hair to his shoulders and an enormous sword in one hand. He appeared to be dressed much as Rowan was himself, in dark leather trousers and vest, though Beldar was shirtless.
Without warning, he swung his sword at Rowan’s head. It hissed through the air as Rowan leaped backwards, hoping to deflect the Warrior’s great sword with his staff. He succeeded to the extent that the blade missed him, but at the cost of a foot or so being severed from the end of the staff. Damnation! That wouldn’t do, he thought. So much for politeness. He threw the longer piece at Beldar like a spear and drew his sabre. Beldar grunted as the staff gouged a bloody furrow across his ribs, but he brushed it aside and sprang at Rowan again. Sparks flew as the blades clashed, the force of it almost knocking Rowan’s sabre from his hands, sending a sharp pain through his already injured shoulder.
Rowan was strong and fit and very fast, a superb swordsman with either hand who was rightly confident of his abilities; but he knew that his knee was unreliable and from the feel of it, his shoulder mightn’t be much better. But he thought he’d need to use both hands to counter the sheer power of the other’s blows. Of course, that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t have a damned good try against Beldar. He hadn’t come so far to just give up at the first obstacle, even one as formidable as the ‘man’ who faced him now.
If he hadn’t fallen down those cursed stairs he’d be better off… He danced away light-footed as Beldar came after him, blocking the blows as best he could, thankful he’d maintained his expertise; he’d need every bit of it against this gigantic man, or creature, or whatever he was. It was almost like fighting a troll in some ways, except that trolls rarely used a sword and they were never as fast as Beldar. They didn’t have his bloodlust either.
They fought back and forth for a time, neither landing a serious blow on the other, though both had sustained a few small cuts. Rowan’s shoulder was stiffening and he thought that his knee would fail him soon too. He was a little surprised it hadn’t already done so. Beldar seemed unbothered, fierce and tireless and very fast for his size. For a horrible moment, Rowan was reminded of Trill… and of Rollo of Plait, also a very big man, though not as large as Beldar.
**********
38. “…surrender and come out peacefully.”
Rowan blinked back tears as the baby died in his arms. It was too soon after losing his own child for him to simply pretend he felt nothing. He held the little boy close for a moment longer and then knelt down and placed him carefully back in his dead mother’s arms. He stood up slowly and looked around the carnage of Trill’s main square again.
“Don’t go near the well, lads,” he said bleakly, knowing by the retching of a couple of his troopers that his warning was too late for some, “You don’t need to see what Rollo’s done there.”
He wished he’d not seen it too, knew it would haunt him for a very long time. The overflowing crimson water that looked like blood had been bad enough, and the hacked and dismembered bodies of babies and children in it far worse, but it had been the others that had almost made Rowan retch as well. The little ones who still clutched handfuls of moss ripped from the walls of the well, the ones whose fingers and hands were torn to the bone in their desperate attempts to escape, the ones who’d clearly still been alive when thrown into the ghastly water.
He fought down renewed nausea and sighed. His poor troopers looked as shattered as he felt himself. Not even the carnage of Messton had prepared them for the torture, rape and murder of all the folk in this little town. And it was so quiet. But… no, it wasn’t, he realised suddenly.
“Cade, do you hear that?” he said quickly.
Sergeant Cade Pendtsen shook his head. He and Rowan had first met at the Silver Spurs as Cadets, then they’d been stationed together at Den Tiryl, and though Cade’s rise through the ranks hadn’t been as meteoric as the younger man’s, they’d remained good friends. Cade was now at Den Mellar, waiting for the paperwork that would see him transferred elsewhere as Lieutenant to come through, but they’d found themselves in the mixed troop that the Commandant had mustered at Den Siddon.
When Captain Yianni of Den Mellar and many of his Lieutenants had fallen early in the morning of the battle at Messton, his troops had milled uncertainly, appalled at the carnage all around them. They’d heard a sudden piercing whistle and then someone had shouted at them, his voice already a bit rough from the unaccustomed need to make himself heard over chaos.
“To me, Den Mellar! Don’t just bloody stand there like idiots and wait for these buggers to kill you too! To me, you silly bastards, and hurry up about it!”
Cade had looked around and seen Rowan and his grey stallion leading the Den Siddon contingent, his g’Hakken sabre already running with blood. He’d never been so pleased to see anyone.
When Rowan had called for volunteers to try and catch up with Rollo after the battle, Cade had been among the first to step forward in spite of a big gash down his face and a couple of minor wounds. He could still ride, still fight effectively, and that was all that was needed.
“No, Sir, I can’t hear anything. Only these cursed bloody flies,” he said unhappily.
“No, ‘tisn’t flies. It sounds like… ‘tis over this way,” Rowan hurried to the edge of the square and looked up the little street that started there. “I think we’ve found the bastards, lads,” he said, his anguish suddenly becoming a white-hot anger at the men who’d done such dreadful things here. Keep calm, Rowan lad, keep calm, he told himself sternly.
A hundred yards or so down the street was a tavern, the Black Swan by the sign that creaked sadly in the breeze. Sounds of drunken revelry came from within.
The Wirrans suddenly became all business. They hadn’t bargained on finding an entire little town murdered by Rollo and his men, but they were certainly prepared to try and capture those responsible. They scouted around the building swiftly and silently as Rowan slipped up to a window and peered very carefully inside.
There were perhaps forty-five or so of Rollo’s men in there, all as drunk as lords. Some had passed out and were snoring raucously in chairs or on the floor, quite a few looked like they weren’t far from joining them and yes, there was Duke Rollo himself, whisky bottle in hand. He seemed uninjured and having led from the rear at Messton, he probably was, Rowan thought. Bloody coward. But the man was so drunk he could barely stand. Those still conscious were singing, laughing, cursing and shouting so loudly they couldn’t hear their drunken friends and so they had to shout even more loudly. They certainly hadn’t heard Rowan or his men.
The tavern was an old timber building, single storied, with a single fairly narrow door at the front and back and it was topped with a fine thatched roof, as much of Trill was. The small leaded windows wouldn’t be easy to break and would be even harder for most men to get through quickly. Not a good choice, Rollo, Rowan thought, not a good choice at all. Did you really think we wouldn’t still be coming after you? He ordered his men to block the back door. Quietly.
Rollo’s men caroused on, completely unaware that Rowan had finally caught up with them. His little troop of fifteen volunteers were all carrying injuries, as he was himself,
but that wouldn’t stop any of them. He set his men around the building, with two archers covering the front door and one at the back, then walked up silently again and hammered loudly on the door with the hilt of his sabre and called on those inside to surrender.
The din from inside stopped abruptly, followed by a babble of drunken voices wondering just what the hell was going on.
“Who the bloody hell’s that out there?” a slurred voice finally demanded.
“Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, Captain of the Wirran Guard. This building is surrounded. I call on you to surrender and come out peacefully,” Rowan said firmly, but with little real hope of it actually happening.
“Wirran Guard? Where in the Nethermost bloody Hells did they come from?” another voice demanded querulously. “I thought we’d left them well behind, the bastards!”
“No! We will not surrender to you. These are my ancestral lands and you have no authority here!” a third, more arrogant voice shouted. Rollo.
There were outraged mutters among Rowan’s men. This certainly wasn’t part of Plait or Rollo’s ancestral anything. And neither were they.
“This is Wirran, not Plait, and it has been for seven hundred years. These are Wirrans that you’ve tortured and murdered in this little town, and you’ll find that I do in fact have authority here,” Rowan said, his voice very cold, “Drop your weapons and surrender. You can’t escape, you murdering bastards.”
“Ha! Come in and get us!” Drunken cheers and laughter greeted Rollo’s defiance.
“Drop your weapons, surrender and come out peacefully, or face the consequences,” Rowan said again, “This is your last chance.” But he knew that Rollo and his men wouldn’t surrender to him or anyone else.
