[Sir Richard Straccan 01] - The Bone-Pedlar

by Sylvian Hamilton

  ‘Who are you?’ Straccan spoke in the tongue of the desert people. The wizened little mummy went on writing. Straccan looked at the pages, not recognising the script; it was similar to the Arabic he was familiar with but not the same. He took hold of the wrist of the writing hand and lifted it. The flesh was cold and dry, and he felt a nauseating dislike of the skin he touched, dark yellow, wrinkled and papery like a shed snakeskin. The fingers continued to wag, the pen to write invisible signs in the air. Straccan dropped it. The man must be drugged. An empty beaker lay on its side among the parchments. He sniffed it. A pungent smoky odour, but no drug that he knew.

  He walked round the table, looking at the scattered parchments. Many of them were very aged. There were bundles of that curious Egyptian stuff, papyrus, and wax tablets, as well as some ancient-looking dirty clay slabs covered with impressions like the tracks of birds. Among the clutter, he spotted a familiar bronze cylinder, green with age, engraved with a spiral of strange symbols. He reached for it and fingered the star on the lid. How in God’s name did that get here? It must be the same one, there surely couldn’t be two! He twisted the lid off, and yes, there was the icon.

  A yellow hand shot out and grabbed the cylinder. Straccan, shaken, saw the white eyes move and turn black, shark-like, lightless. The old man gabbled something he did not understand and scrambled to his feet, making not for the door but for the nearest brazier on to which he flung a handful of black glittering powder. Thick smoke rose. Straccan felt his sanity waver as shapes from nightmares and beyond nightmares began forming in the smoke. The chamber, so hot a few moments ago, suddenly seemed winter-cold. The old horror was giggling, drool on his chin. Straccan, chilled to the bone, snatched the cylinder back from the feeble hand, tore the door curtain aside, saw a key hanging beside the door, snatched that and got out of the room.

  He’d moved faster, he thought, than he’d ever moved in his life. He locked the door behind him and leaned against the arrow slit in the stair wall, sucking in clean air. He’d not breathed in much of the hallucinogen, and his head cleared quickly.

  He crept down the steps, past the open door into the hall where the gambling had reached the rancorous stage and was promising to get physical, and ducked out of sight through the outer door. As he crossed the yard he heard the sharp scrape of a pike against stone atop the tower, and the watchman began to cough, ending with a curse. A few minutes later he was back in his bed, listening to the champion’s peaceful snoring.

  Chapter 29

  Straccan left at dawn, with just the yawning champion to see him away, naturally unaware of the Arab’s whirlwind departure an hour later, escorted by two of Crawgard’s bowmen who’d almost rather have been skinned and salted than ride with Lord Rainard’s pet sorcerer. They were even more unhappy when they realised which road he was taking. He didn’t utter a word, and no one could have understood him if he had.

  When the kitchen boy, bringing breakfast, unlocked his door, the old man had pushed past him and scuttled down the steps straight out to the stable, where a frightened groom found him saddling Sir Bertran’s prized Arab mare.

  As he spurred furiously through the gate, two of the garrison, less lucky than the others, grabbed bows and helmets and followed cursing. If any harm came to him, Lord Rainard would have them killed.

  Straccan made his way along the river path to where Miles and Larktwist had camped overnight. All was peaceful, Miles shaving while Larktwist fished; there were already four trout lying on a leaf-lined bark platter, and as Straccan arrived Larktwist pulled out a fifth.

  ‘What news?’ Miles called, waving his razor.

  ‘Cilia’s not there.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Miles. ‘There’s no doubt?’

  ‘No.’ He recounted what had happened at Crawgard, but did not mention the strange episode the previous night when the summer evening had turned to mid-winter for a few fleeting moments. He was almost sure he’d imagined that, but now and then, on the very edge of his disquieted vision, the nightmare shapes of the old man’s lair lurked. When he tried to look straight at them, like faint stars they were gone.

  Before long they heard the rumble of Magnus’s wheels and the wagon lumbered into view.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ Straccan asked Bane, when Magnus, pocketing his second sixpence, had rattled away with an occasional pig-like squeal of ungreased axles.

  ‘If you can call it that,’ said Bane grumpily. ‘That oatmeal just makes a man hungry.’

  ‘How about some fine fresh fish?’ Larktwist said, bearing the platter, now with eight trout, up to their fire.

  ‘Jesu,’ said Bane admiringly. ‘That’s what I call a catch!’

  ‘The river’s full of them,’ Larktwist said. ‘You could pull them out all day. You want to help me clean them?’

  ‘Not especially,’ said Bane, ‘but if it means they’ll be cooking quicker …’ He and Larktwist went into a private huddle: Bane returned the borrowed dice and counted out a share of his winnings.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Miles asked, as they packed up their camp after breakfast.

  ‘We’ll make for Soulistoun,’ said Straccan. ‘I asked FitzCarne about it. It’s Soulis’s chief demesne, east of here towards Edinburgh. I don’t know what else to do. Gilla may be there, please God.’

  They rode east, and in the late afternoon, to Straccan’s frustration, Miles’s horse cast a shoe, which slowed them down. Luckily the road was soft, and after a couple of miles they saw smoke over the trees. A farm perhaps, or a village. A village it was, and a blacksmith in it, cheerful at the unexpected business coming his way.

  ‘Bane and I’ll ride on,’ said Straccan. ‘We’ll keep to the road and find a place to camp tonight. You follow when you’re done here.’

  The smith gave them an uneasy glance. ‘It’s a bad road, noble Sirs,’ he said.

  ‘Gets rough, does it?’

  ‘Rough, aye, but that’s not what I meant. It’s a bad road for travellers. You gentlemen should go back towards Crawgard, and north from there to Hawick, and then turn east.’

  ‘But it’s much shorter this way,’ said Miles.

  ‘It’s dangerous, Lords,’ the smith said.

  ‘Bandits?’

  ‘Some say so, but none’s ever been caught. People just vanish. It could be wolves, of course, but…’ He crossed himself and kissed the little brass crucifix that hung round his thick neck on a plaited cord. ‘We call it the devil’s road,’ he said.

  ‘You think the devil snatches travellers?’ Straccan asked.

  The man lowered his voice. ‘There’s an ogre,’ he said.

  There was a thoughtful silence. Then Bane said. ‘Seen it, have you? This ogre?’

  ‘No, Sir, and please God I never do. But it’s there, and it eats people. Well, I’ve said my piece. Do as you please, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!’

  The family numbered thirty creatures; eight males, twelve females and ten juveniles from infants to about ten years of age. At fifty, Sawney was an old man, but unlike other folk he had never gone hungry. There was always meat of a sort to fill his belly, so instead of being half-starved and feeble like most outlaws, he was a powerful brute, heavy and surprisingly, dangerously fast. His was the blind savagery of the boar, bowling down prey with a grunting irresistible charge. All flesh was his family’s prey, but their choicest delicacy was human.

  For years they had waylaid, slain and devoured travellers. They fell on solitary walkers, or pairs if they looked unlikely to put up much of a fight, with the ferocity of a wolf pack, and even ambushed and dragged down riders. Although all folk carried weapons of some sort—dagger, sword, axe, club—none of the family was ever badly hurt. So swift, so shocking were their attacks that victims often stood staring in disbelief, too amazed even to run until too late. But if they ran, oh when they ran, that was sport indeed! The reeking baying pack was inescapable, attacking as they did on their own ground, the steep rough paths and desolate boggy places they k
new so well.

  They would hurl rocks and trip-sticks to bring their quarry down, batter the skulls in with stones, drag the bodies a little way off into the dense gorse and bracken and often tear the warm quivering flesh from the bones there and then.

  Their lair had never been found. The brave few who sought it were never seen again. In that wild empty land the family had flourished for twenty years, since Sawney and his woman Kate, running from justice in Carlisle with the hue and cry after them, had stumbled on their refuge and denned there ever since. She bore a child each year, of which some lived and grew; brothers and sisters incestuously mated, and so they multiplied.

  De Brasy had come upon an injured female in a boar trap a few years ago, and for amusement kept it alive, fed it and perversely made some sort of pet of the thing. He had tamed it to muzzle and collar and kept it chained and obedient for fear of the whip. Eventually, he could almost trust it—never quite—but in its halting barely recognisable speech it told him about the family and led him to the lair. With gifts of food, especially sugar for which they had a desperate greed, he persuaded them to his will. He found them useful. More than one of his enemies—he had many ended up in the family’s larder, and several of his creditors, of whom there were even more, went the same way.

  They had watched several days with feral patience, and these were the men; these were the horses they must look for, the white-foot bay and the grey.

  The path ran beside the river for miles, and then climbed above a rocky gorge, narrowing at a bend with a nasty drop on the right and a wall of rock on the left. Out of a cleft above the riders sprang three of the males, hanging on Zingiber’s neck, stabbing and hacking to bring the stallion down. Straccan tore the axe from his saddle bow and struck at the filthy hands that grabbed him. A severed hand fell like a loathsome great spider, the male screaming and waving his spouting arm as he toppled into the gorge. The other two drew back as Zingiber fell bleeding to his knees. Straccan leapt clear as the horse rolled in agony, and with sword in his right hand and axe in his left, flung himself after the two retreating males.

  Behind him on the path, Bane had time to draw his sword and spur forward, leaping Zingiber’s body and thrashing legs. He caught up with Straccan where the path widened, curving away from the gorge between thickets of rowan in dense gorse and bracken broken by rocky outcrops. From this shelter, in a pincer movement, flinging stones with deadly accuracy, came a dozen more of Sawney’s tribe.

  Straccan was forced back against the rock, facing half a dozen of the creatures. His axe and sword kept them off but several stones struck him, one opening a gash above his left eye from which the blood blinded him while a blow over the ear made him dizzy and sick.

  Bane kept his horse turning, turning, its hooves jabbing at the attackers, while he slashed left and right with his sword, but a fresh shower of missiles brought him toppling from the saddle, and with howls of triumph the creatures rushed at him. The grey neighed and galloped back the way they had come, leaping Zingiber’s lifeless body, hooves clattering on the rocky path, round the curve, out of sight.

  Three of Straccan’s attackers turned to join the pack swarming over Bane, and the other three hesitated, glancing at their kindred. Straccan dropped his axe, tugged the horn from his belt and blew long and hard.

  Almost at once came the ringing of hooves on rock again, and here was Sir Miles coming full tilt up the path, straight at the pack worrying Bane. Mace whirling, he scattered them, and Larktwist, coming up behind leading the mule and Bane’s runaway horse, jumped down and dragged Bane out of the road on to the grass at the side.

  Straccan brought down two with his sword, sickened when he saw that one was female. One more fell to Miles’s mace, and the rest dashed into the cover of the rowans and tall bracken, and were gone as if they’d never been, leaving their stench, and their dead. ‘This one’s alive,’ said Larktwist, rolling a body over with his foot. Miles dismounted, took straps from his saddlebag and bound the creature’s hands and feet.

  From some distance ahead and still out of sight, came the sound of another horn, tan-tan-ta-ra-tan, and soon a rider came in sight, wearing an old-fashioned plate hauberk and steel cap, on a big dusty black gelding.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Straccan gasped, bending to retrieve his axe and almost falling as sick dizziness surged over him.

  ‘Haven’t the faintest,’ Miles panted.

  Larktwist rummaged in the packs for the first-aid kit and bound a rough dressing round Straccan’s head. Bane, however, was unconscious and breathing stertorously, almost snoring.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Larktwist said. ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  As the newcomer—an old man, and a knight by his bearing and gear—drew nearer, Straccan knelt by Bane, whose eyes were closed and whose face looked shrunken and collapsed. ‘Hawkan,’ he said. ‘Hawkan, can you hear me?’

  ‘He can’t,’ said Larktwist.

  The rider slowed to a trot as he came close, then to a walk, and halted.

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Straccan said. ‘We were set upon by—I don’t know what they were—savages! There were women too. I killed one.’

  Struggling against vertigo, he bent over Bane touching his face gently. ‘Hawkan, they’ve gone.’

  The old man dismounted. ‘I am Blaise d’Etranger,’ he said. ‘They won’t come back now; we are too many, and armed. Let us carry your companion. A little way ahead there is a place where we can tend him, and you can rest.’

  Sir Miles cut two rowan saplings and crossed them at one end, using a blanket to make a travois. They wrapped Bane like a baby, fastened him into the travois so he could not be dislodged, and fixed the contrivance to his horse, which Straccan now must ride. The captive they hauled upright and gagged, loosing its feet so it could walk but fastening its strapped hands to Miles’s saddle, so it must trot alongside the horse.

  As they rode slowly, led by the newcomer, Straccan pushed forward to ride beside the old man. He was tall and very thin, with fierce hawkish features in which the marks of old suffering were plain. From under his steel cap long white locks fell on to his shoulders. His white beard was neatly braided and great moustaches hid his mouth. A heavy two-handed sword hung under his mantle, and strapped to his saddle was an odd sort of staff, forked and iron-clad at one end, pointed and iron-tipped at the other. A nasty weapon, the Scottish gaveloc, and one that Straccan had never seen.

  ‘You are Sir Richard Straccan,’ the old man said.

  ‘You know me, Sir? Yet I don’t remember you, and I am sure I would.’

  ‘Sir William Hoby sent me a letter. He said you were seeking Rainard de Soulis, the Lord of Crawgard.’

  ‘He has stolen my daughter,’ said Straccan. ‘I’ve been to Crawgard. All I found were a disabled tourney champion, a madwoman and some foul old Arab. Soulis isn’t there. We are going to his demesne, Soulistoun, to seek him.’

  ‘He’s at Dunfermline with the king,’ said Sir Blaise. ‘Or was when I left Coldinghame. But he’ll leave there soon, for Skelrig.’

  ‘Skelrig?’

  ‘Aye. There’s a man there, a knight in his service, who is sick, so I heard.’

  ‘Robert de Beauris?’

  ‘Yes. You know him?’

  ‘I’ve had some dealings with him. But until now, I didn’t know he was Soulis’s man. Sir Blaise, it was good of my friend William to write to you, and gracious of you to come seeking me; but why?’

  ‘William is an old friend of mine, too. He told me your errand. He thought I might be of help.’

  They had come about a mile from the ambush; the road went downhill again and levelled, meeting the river and running alongside. There was an ancient beehive stone hut, an abandoned hermitage, on a small spit of rock that stuck out into the river. A heron, disturbed by their coming, laboured heavily away dropping its fish. An otter splashed in after it, disappearing in a swirl of silver bubbles to emerge at the opposite
bank, where it vanished into the reeds with its booty.

  They carried Bane into the hut, which was cold but blessedly dry, and while Miles cut bracken to make a bed, Larktwist got a fire going and heated water to bathe the blood off Bane and Straccan. Blaise wordlessly produced needle and sinew and competently stitched the flap of skin that had been torn loose over Straccan’s eye. It was quite numb, and Straccan felt nothing. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He lifted Bane’s unresponsive hand. It was cold.

  ‘Will he die?’ Miles asked.

  ‘It’s in God’s hands,’ said Blaise.

  ‘Can we do nothing for him?’

  ‘Only pray, and keep him warm.’

  Later, as they sat round the fire eating supper, the old knight produced Sir William Hoby’s letter and showed it to Straccan.

  ‘Why is he so concerned?’ Straccan asked. ‘He has sent me his nephew, Miles, God bless him, and now you.’

  ‘When Soulis’s name came up, he was concerned; and so am I.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him, in Outremer. He lived there some years, first as crusader, later as a pilgrim. Tell me, Sir Richard, have you heard of a black pilgrimage?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘It is for an evil end. Soulis made his pilgrimage far into the southern waste. He was gone two years and reckoned dead. But no, out he came after all, and with great treasure. It was whispered that he had found the lost City of Pillars.’

  Miles said, ‘Sir, what is the City of Pillars?’

  The old knight was silent so long that Miles thought his question had not been heard, but he did not like to ask again. Then Sir Blaise said, ‘The City of Pillars, fabled Irem, was lost in the waste for a thousand years. But Soulis went in search of it, and found it. That’s where your old Arab came from.’