Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  Next to him, Procella had spun at the crash and now fell on the raider, pinning him to the ground. Smoothly, she drew her dagger and pushed it up under his chin. The raider shuddered, blood spilled from his mouth and he went limp.

  She got to her feet, wiping the blade on the dead raider and sheathing it at her side. Then she turned to Chonrad. If he had expected to see a thank-you on her lips, he was to be disappointed. She glared at him. “What are you doing? You idiot!”

  He gave a quick glance around to confirm there was no more immediate threat and then stared at her, confused at her anger. “I saved your life!” he snapped.

  “And what is the point of that when it nearly cost you yours?” she yelled.

  Chonrad said nothing. He knew he had transgressed the unwritten law of battle that you were never to risk your own life to save another’s, but still, he had expected some small display of gratitude for the fact that his act meant she lived to see another day. The rain hammered down between them, cold in the gash in his leg. He knew what the problem was. He had saved her, and now she was in his debt. And she would never forgive him for that.

  She glanced past him, and her expression changed. He turned and cold rose up to engulf him. All the raiders were dead – but two of their own were on the ground. Hora lay motionless, the spear that had killed her still sticking out of her ribcage at an angle. She had been an honourable knight, and he felt sad she would no longer fight another battle.

  But it was the sight of Fulco lying in the mud, and the huge sword wound in his stomach, that made his blood turn truly cold.

  He ran over to his bodyguard and knelt by his side. His thigh throbbed, but he hardly noticed it. Solum had already pulled up Fulco’s jerkin so he could see the wound, and Chonrad saw now it was irreparable, a gaping hole that could not be mended even by the most skilled surgeon in the land. Solum had tears in his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. “He saved you, Lord Barle. You did not see the raider coming at you from the side, and he got in his way and took the sword for you.”

  So Chonrad had saved Procella’s life, and Fulco had saved Chonrad’s. Chonrad gripped his friend’s hand tightly. Fulco’s face had taken on the greenish-grey shade of near-death, but he still managed a small smile. Last battle, he signed weakly. Waste.

  “There is nothing ignominious about this death,” said Chonrad fiercely. “Your name shall be remembered, my friend. You fought bravely and with honour. I shall see your family does not suffer.”

  Fulco coughed, and blood flecked his lips. His head fell back. His eyes met Chonrad’s, and it seemed to Chonrad their light was slowly fading, like the sun setting after a brilliant day. Arbor, Fulco signed. You are the key. Then his eyes dulled, his hand fell to his side and his body went limp.

  III

  Teague’s insides turned to water as he looked at the sharp end of Beata’s dagger. Even if his hands hadn’t been shackled and pinned to the ground, after watching her make short shrift of the other Komis, he knew he would never have been able to match her in combat.

  “I did not do it,” he said immediately, knowing he had to convince her he was not responsible for Peritus’s death.

  She turned the knife in her hand, kneeling down before him, far enough away so he couldn’t touch her, but close enough for him to see the sheen of sweat lying on her forehead after her battle. “Do what?”

  “Kill Peritus.” He did not miss the flinch she gave at the mention of her dead companion. “They took me by surprise; you have got to believe me.”

  “Have I?” For the first time she showed emotion: her blue-grey eyes blazed like lightning flashing across a stormy sky. “And how can I believe anything you say after what you did to me?”

  He tried to push himself to a sitting position, fell, and tried again. He felt weak lying beneath her, and although he was no fighter, he didn’t want to make her think he was totally at her mercy. “I did nothing to you except love you,” he said imploringly.

  Beata laughed, although there was no humour in it. “Love me? Love me! I do not think you know the meaning of the word!”

  He gazed into her eyes, trying to see inside them some of the woman he had slept with that night, but there was no sign of her. All that was left was this bitter knight. He gestured angrily to his shackles. “Would I be bound like this if I had left voluntarily?”

  She looked at the shackles as if seeing them for the first time. She shrugged. “So your friends turned on you? What a surprise!”

  “They are not my friends!” he insisted furiously. “I have never seen them before. I was sleeping with you that night, looking out over Henton Bay, and the next thing I knew, someone had put their hand over my mouth. I struggled, and I saw Peritus in the distance, fighting furiously, and I tried to fight back, but someone knocked me on the head and I blacked out. When I came to, I was tied to the back of a horse somewhere in the hills of Dorle.”

  For a moment, she said nothing. The knife turned again and again in her hands. The fire had almost died and she was completely in shadow except for the slight glint of the dying glow on the blade. “Even if what you say is true,” she said eventually, “I was still a fool to trust you and let you make love to me.”

  “Yes,” he said honestly. “You were. You are a Heartwood knight, who revealed her emotions and slept with someone you had only just met. It was irrational and foolish.” The blade turned, glinted. He continued hurriedly, “But you cannot deny there is – was – an attraction between us.”

  “You took advantage of me,” she said flatly.

  “Maybe, maybe not. I do not recall you pushing me away.”

  Suddenly, she stood, walking off and disappearing into the darkness. Teague tried to peer through the blackness to see where she had gone. She had completely vanished. He moved his hands around in the shackles tiredly, wondering if she had left him to be eaten by whatever animals roamed in the forest. Closing his eyes, he stretched out with his senses again, feeling for her. No, she was still there, somewhere in the bushes. Thinking. He wondered if she were planning how to kill him.

  He sighed and lay down. He was tired and fed up with playing her game. If she was going to kill him, there was nothing he could do about it. He might as well get some sleep before it happened.

  It was still raining, but the trees provided a little protection, and the ground wasn’t too wet. He dozed off quickly, and when he awoke, he was surprised to see the sky was beginning to lighten. He pushed himself upright, his arms stiff where they were still bound, and looked around the glade. The dead Komis had all been removed. Beata was there, sitting on a fallen tree, watching him. He wondered if she had stayed awake all night.

  “You have not killed me, then,” he said.

  She said nothing. Her eyes were still slices of frozen blue, her face expressionless.

  He sighed. “If you are still going to kill me, please get on with it. I am tired of waiting, and I am stiff as a plank of wood. And not in a good way.”

  She pushed herself off the tree and came to kneel beside him. Then, bending, she pulled out the hook that had bound his shackles to the ground. “I am not going to kill you,” she said calmly.

  He looked up at her face, unnerved by being so close to her. He could remember the soft touch of her lips beneath his own, and the feel of her hair under his hands. She had looked so different in the dress, with her hair down. He could not reconcile the two Beatas: the sensual, passionate woman and the hardened, accomplished knight.

  “Are you going to let me go?” he asked hoarsely.

  She smiled. “No. You are going to return to Heartwood with me.”

  His heart sank. “Heartwood?”

  “That is why I was originally sent to find you.”

  “I thought you were sent to ask me if I would return with you.”

  She tipped her head, and for the first time there was real humour in her eyes. “Actually, the Imperator told me to get you back any way I could – even if I had to drag you there.” />
  Teague sighed. He knew she meant what she said. He flexed his fingers, the shackles tight on his wrists. “Can you at least take these things off?”

  She studied him for a moment, then pulled out a small iron key. “I found it on one of the Komis guards. I will undo them. But be assured, if you try to escape, I will come after you. And I will not be as forgiving the next time.” She unlocked the iron links around his hands.

  He rubbed his arms, which throbbed painfully as the blood coursed through them. “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me,” she said briskly. “It is in my best interests to keep you well for our journey. It is not done out of the kindness of my heart.”

  “Of course not,” he said, accepting some bread and cheese from her, and eating hungrily. He felt surprisingly cheerful, in spite of her words. He was still alive, and at last, the dreaded shackles were off. Of course, she would be watching him like a cat. But she had to sleep sometime, he thought. And he had made a living out of blending in with nature. When he disappeared, he would make sure she would never find him.

  They left Harlton Forest and started to bear east to avoid the Tail Ridge of the Spina Mountains. Amerle was a beautiful land, Teague thought: a softly rolling landscape of hills and dales, covered with sheep like specks of fluff on a green blanket. However, he began to realise how much the rain was starting to affect Anguis; although not heavy, the continual drizzle had caused the rivers to rise and there was flooding in some fields, the crops drooping miserably and animals huddling under trees to escape the non-stop downpour. They passed over a river and stopped on the bridge to look down at the water gushing below; though it had not yet burst its banks, the river was a deep brown colour, thick and heavy as a too-long-boiled stew, and turbulent as if filled with nervous energy. It would not be long before the rivers started rising too far to be contained, and that would mean disaster to this already-suffering land.

  He noticed that after seeing the river, Beata picked up the pace a little, not pushing the horses too hard but no longer travelling at the slow walk they had been. She was obviously as aware as he was that Anguis’s time was running out.

  They spent the first night in a small inn, in a settlement little bigger than a hamlet, mainly used for travellers passing from Harlton to Cuddington, as they were. There was only one room available, and so he spent the night sleeping next to Beata, but every time he turned to look at her, he saw her deep blue eyes shining and knew she was watching him. When she slept, he did not know, but it was quickly becoming clear to him he was going to have to take a risk if he really meant to escape.

  His opportunity came when they stopped at Prampton. He had passed through it before and remembered it as a bustling trading post, full of people travelling across Laxony, its inns packed with merchants and messengers on the business of local dignitaries. As they rode into it now, however, he found it quiet and empty, as if the rain had washed away all the people and all the life in it. The roads were ankle-deep with mud, and their horses splashed through the water lying in rapidly growing pools around the houses.

  For the first time, Teague was frightened. He had seen flooding before, of course, but he could sense this was something different. He thought about what Beata had said, that he could help fight back against the Darkwater Lords, but he could not see how. Deep down, he knew he had a power others did not seem to have, but it was an instinctive thing, and he had no idea how he could be of help to anyone. If he left, then Beata would return to Heartwood, and they would forget about him, and he could hide away in the forests somewhere, and nobody would ever find him.

  Beata led him to an inn, and they rented a room for the night. It was almost dark, and they were both sodden from the continual rain. They left the horses in the inn’s stable with the stablehand and made their way inside. There was a roaring log fire, and she ordered food and ale, which he consumed with relish, knowing it might be a while before he got any more.

  Beata ate little and did not engage him in conversation. He was content to sit in silence and ate looking into the fire, planning his escape.

  After they had eaten, they went up to their room. There was a small fire there, and Beata stripped and hung her wet clothes over the clothing stand and placed it near the flames. Teague tried not to look at her but found his eyes drawn to her slim, pale body shining in the darkness of the room like the rising Light Moon. She ignored him, and he remembered what she had said about living a communal life, that she was used to undressing and even bathing in front of both men and women. She certainly had no sense of embarrassment or self-consciousness, which he found strange, as women usually undressed coyly, shy as they revealed themselves to him. Yet again, it drew attention to the fact that she was so different from all the other women he had ever met. He watched her pull on a set of clothes from her bag and dress, then come over to lie beside him on the pallet. He lay on his left side, facing her, and closed his eyes.

  For a while he stayed still. She moved restlessly beside him, then after a while, she relaxed. He waited as long as he could, then slowly opened his eyes. He was startled to see her blue ones open, fixed on him. He blinked and lowered his eyelids again, feigning sleepiness. Irritation burned inside him. Did she never sleep?

  This time, he left it a long while before he opened his eyes again. He listened to her breathing slow, and for a while he dozed too, warmed by the fire and the food in his belly. Some time later, he roused. He opened his eyes slowly. At last, she was asleep.

  Like a cat, he got to his feet, hardly making a sound. He was helped by the rain, which pounded mercilessly on the shutters, dampening any sound he might have made. He was already dressed, and he did not stop to take anything. Quietly, he let himself out the door, then quickly descended the stairs.

  The inn was quiet, and he met no one on the way to the front door. He lifted the latch as carefully as he could; it squeaked a little, and he grimaced but did not stop, sliding out of the gap and closing the door behind him. Swiftly, he made his way around to the stables. The stable door was closed, and when he tested it, he found it bolted from the inside.

  He cursed under his breath. The rain seemed to be coming down even heavier, running down his face, blinding him, his clothing completely soaked. The rain ran out of his boots in rivulets. He would have to leave the horse and try to steal another on the way, he thought. He could not waste more time before leaving the town.

  He turned – and immediately felt as if he had walked into a solid wall. Beata’s fist met his nose with an audible crunch, and blood spurted immediately down his face, into his mouth and all down his clothing. His knees wobbled and he fell backwards, landing in the mud with a resounding squelch.

  He looked up at the knight standing over him. There was a little light coming from the house across the road and she was silhouetted against this, a towering figure wielding a heavy sword. He didn’t have to see her face to know it would be thunderous.

  She moved before he could blink, delivering a blow between his legs with her foot that made him curl up in pain. “What was that for?” he said in a hoarse voice. “I was already on the ground.”

  “That was for ruining my only dry set of clothes,” she yelled. With a final blow, she knocked him across the head, and then the mud and the rain melded into the darkness and everything went black.

  IV

  Chonrad stood atop the Porta, the sodden canopy above him dripping sporadically on his head, and looked down at the Flumen that flowed to the north of Isenbard’s Wall. It was within inches of bursting its banks, and from the increasingly dark colour of the clouds above his head, he knew it would not be long before that happened.

  Behind him, he could hear Valens and Procella arguing with half a dozen Laxonian officials. They had arrived at Heartwood with a plea to send the Exercitus back to man the Wall against the Wulfians. As Chonrad knew too well, their reQuest was highly justified, and he had no doubt the towns south of the Wall were suffering greatly from the Wulfian raids. How
ever, he also knew Valens had no intention of letting the Exercitus out of his sight, and he understood why. The Exercitus was needed for the imminent raid on Heartwood, and nothing was going to make Valens send it away and leave Heartwood vulnerable. The Wall was still manned with local troops, Valens was arguing; they would have to do for now.

  Chonrad sighed, feeling strangely lonely. He had not realised how much he had grown used to having Fulco around him until he was there no longer. Though of course his bodyguard had been unable to talk, and his constant presence had meant Chonrad forgot he was there more often than not, it was now very strange not to see him at all. Chonrad folded his arms, not sure if it was his eyes misting or merely the low cloud that seemed to be settling over the Baillium. He felt humbled to think Fulco had died saving his life. It was very odd how it had happened; Fulco saving his life so he could save Procella’s. It was almost as if it were meant to be…

  Fulco’s last message to him rang around his head: Arbor… You are the key… Procella had asked him what Fulco had signed and Chonrad had said it was nothing, just the nonsensical ramblings of a dying man. But he had pondered on the words ever since. You are the key? What could he have meant? Was he just saying he had an important part to play in the saving of the Arbor, as they all had? Or was it something more mysterious, a message he was supposed to convey…?

  Chonrad shook his head. It was just fanciful talk. The man had been in incredible pain, aware of the fact that within minutes he would be dead – he had just been trying to convey his feelings for his overlord, to somehow express his emotions towards the man who had been his companion for thirty or so years. It was nothing more than that.