by Angus Wells
“Perhaps.” Cullyn studied the wound. “I’m no healer, and he’d be better off in the keep.”
“He’ll not make that distance,” Drak said, “else I’d have taken him there.”
“I’ve herbs and poultices.” Cullyn stared at the bloody hole. “And I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.” Drak set Laurens’s stained breeches aside. “What can I do?”
“Stoke that fire.” Cullyn indicated the hearth. “Set water to boiling, then leave the rest to me.”
“And the men?” Drak spoke over his shoulder as he drove an iron into the fire. “They’re hungry and cold.”
Cullyn sighed as he envisioned his winter’s supplies eaten. “There’s not enough room in here for all of you—and they’d best stay clear of Fey—so let them bed where they can. I’ll bring them food later.”
Drak nodded and went out to the waiting soldiers, and Cullyn looked to Laurens.
The man’s face was gray with pain, which was not surprising—Cullyn had seldom seen a worse wound. It was as if a boar had tusked him, thrusting through his side to open holes in front and back. Blood decorated his ribs and sweat beaded his forehead, running down the channels of his face to gather in the grizzle of his beard. He held his teeth clenched as Cullyn fed him more honey wine and lifted the pot from the fire, then fetched herbs that he set to boiling, and when they were ready set them on the wounds.
Laurens grunted and his body lurched as the steaming poultice settled on his flesh.
Cullyn wrapped the holes in moss and spiderwebs and tore up a sheet for the bandage that he wound about Laurens, who sighed gustily and settled back with a mumbled, “Thank you.” And closed his eyes.
Cullyn left him, going out to find the troop settled in the yard. He went to his smokehouse and fetched a side of cured pork that he gave them, along with sufficient wood from his stack that they might build a decent fire.
“Shall he live?” Drak asked.
Cullyn shrugged. “Likely, but he’ll not be fit to ride for a while.”
“We need to get back to Lyth,” Drak said. “How long before he can ride?”
“Days,” Cullyn answered. “That wound needs to heal. Put him on a horse and he’ll bleed to death.”
“We’ve not that much time.” Drak wiped an anxious hand across his face. “You know what’s happened?”
Cullyn shook his head, and Drak explained. Cullyn gasped: “Abra?”
“Taken by the Durrym,” Drak expanded. “Or seduced by them. By Lofantyl, at least.” He slapped his sword’s hilt angrily. “And to think we had the Durrym bastard in our dungeons! Per Fendur was right: we should have kept him chained. Or slain him straightaway.”
Cullyn offered no answer, thinking of the friend he’d known, and of Abra; and decided that he would speak of all this with Laurens, whom he trusted. So he bade Drak good-night and returned to the cottage where Laurens slept feverishly, and waited for a clearer morning, when Drak left with the troop.
“We’ll leave him here,” he said, “until he’s fit enough to ride. But I must go tell Lord Bartram that his daughter’s lost to the fey folk. Doubtless Lord Bartram will reward you for your aid.”
“I need no reward for helping a friend,” Cullyn said, and watched them gallop off through the snow before he returned inside to check on Laurens.
Who stared at him with glazed eyes and asked, “Where am I?”
Cullyn explained, and Laurens struggled to sit up. Cullyn pushed him back.
“Drak’s gone to the keep,” he said, “to take word to Lord Bartram.”
“I need to report.” Laurens struggled against Cullyn’s restraining hands. “I was in charge. I must report to Lord Bartram.”
It was an unequal dispute. Laurens was weak and feverish, and Cullyn could shove him easily back against the pillows. “Listen,” he said, “you’ve a hole in your side that will kill you if you get on a horse. You’ll bleed to death if you do.”
“But Abra’s taken by the fey folk, and I could not get her back. I must tell her father.”
“Drak will do that,” Cullyn said—even as he wondered if Abra had not gone of her own accord. “And you’d best wait here—until you heal.”
“I’ve a duty to Lord Bartram,” Laurens mumbled.
And then he closed his eyes and drifted into healing sleep.
Cullyn wiped his sweaty brow and saw him comfortable, then went out to check his animals even as he wondered at these strange events.
So Lofantyl had been captured and rescued—with Abra’s aid, it seemed—and then Abra had been taken across the Barrier into the fey country. He threw feed down for the pigs and forked out Fey’s stall—set fresh hay in the manager—and gathered eggs that he took into the cottage and set to scrambling, with bacon and what little bread he had left.
He fed Laurens as if the soldier were a pigling in his care, a deserted shoat that must be mothered and tended. Yet even as he watched over Laurens he had decided what he must do.
“THEY WERE NOT THERE. We could not find them,” Amadis said. “We sought them long enough, but …” He shrugged and ducked his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but I believe your daughter is seduced and taken into the Durrym country. She’s gone away with the fey folk.”
“And perhaps,” Per Fendur said, “of her own choosing. After all—”
He closed his mouth as Lord Bartram glowered at him. “And the other patrols?”
“No word as yet.”
Then Drak came into the hall. He was hollow eyed and weary from his ride, and he swayed on his feet as he gave his report.
“So my daughter is taken away by the Durrym,” Lord Bartram said when Drak finished. “And Laurens lies wounded in this forester’s hut. What shall we do?”
He stared at Per Fendur, who said: “Does this not prove all I’ve told you? Do you want your daughter back, we must go to war.”
“How?” Bartram demanded. “The gods know, Drak has just told us there’s no way across the Alagordar. We are defeated by Durrym magic.”
“Save the Church finds a way,” Fendur said. “Trust me, my lord. And should we not speak with your master-at-arms, and also this forester? I wonder if they might not tell us the truth—surely more than they admit.”
“Laurens is honest,” Bartram said. “I cannot doubt him.”
“But the forester?” Fendur asked. “This … Cullyn. Is he trustworthy?”
“I don’t know him,” Bartram said.
“I’ve encountered him,” Amadis declared.
“And?” Fendur asked.
“A surly fellow, who dwells alone in the forest. Close on the margins of the river.”
“He seems friendly,” Drak ventured. “And surely served Laurens well.” He fell silent as Amadis glowered at him.
“Then perhaps we should question them both—in the name of the Church.” Fendur smiled, turning back to Lord Bartram as if Drak had not spoken. “After all, your beloved daughter is gone into the fey folks’ land—likely seduced by one of them—and should we not seek to get her back?”
“For that,” Bartram declared, “I’d sell my soul.”
“No need for such expedition,” Fendur said. “Only let us go talk with this forester, and with your master-at-arms—who seem to be in concert—and we shall have answers.”
NINE
I APOLOGIZE,” Lofantyl said as he helped Abra dismount. “This was not of my choosing.”
“No, but even so …” She looked around at a landscape that had nothing to do with Kandar. Here the woodland grew green, barely faded into autumn’s colors, let alone the snows that gripped her homeland. The sun was setting—she supposed the Durrym could not control that, but it seemed they commanded all else, as if they governed the seasons. For here they stood on bright green grass, with birds singing and the sun lowering slowly in the west so that long, hot shadows stretched leisurely across the glade. A brook babbled there, and the big Durrym horses drank thirstily.
“This is my land.”
Lofantyl took her hand and led her to the stream. “I hope you like it.”
“Have I any choice?” she asked.
“I’d have courted you otherwise,” he said, “had that been possible.”
“Save it was not, and so you’re here.” Afranydyr came to them. Lofantyl favored his brother with a sour glance that Afranydyr ignored as he spoke to Abra. “You are taken, my lady. My hapless brother declares himself in love with you, and perhaps he is, but even so—you are come into Coim’na Drhu now, and shall not go back to your Garm land.”
“So I am kidnapped?” Abra touched the hilt of her belt knife and contemplated stabbing him. But Lofantyl set an arm around her.
“Afranydyr speaks bluntly,” he said, “for he’s a blunt fellow. But I do love you, and I think you shall enjoy your life here.”
“And do I not?” she asked. “Can I return?”
Afranydyr barked short laughter; Lofantyl smiled easily, drawing her closer. “Come see Kash’ma Hall,” he said. “And then decide.”
And without choice, she could only agree.
“I MUST BE GETTING OLD. Wounds never hurt like this before.”
Laurens eased upright, leaning on Cullyn’s shoulder.
“You were stuck through,” Cullyn said, “and bled like a butchered pig. It’s a wonder you’re alive at all.”
Laurens grunted what might be laughter and hobbled to the table, where Cullyn set him down. “I’ve suffered worse.”
“When you were younger?” Cullyn stirred the venison broth he’d set to simmering.
“Aye, perhaps that,” Laurens allowed. Then, “Have you any of that honey wine left?”
Cullyn laughed. “You’ve drunk most of it already.”
“Even so.” Laurens rubbed his bandaged side. “It does me good, no?”
Cullyn brought the flask and poured his friend a measure. Laurens raised the cup in toast and said, “Your health, my friend. I’d likely be dead were it not for you.”
“I’d do as much for anyone,” Cullyn said, embarrassed.
“But you did it for me,” Laurens replied. “And so I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” Cullyn returned.
“Save my life.”
THE NEXT DAY, when the first thawing set in and the hard snow began to melt, Amadis and Per Fendur arrived with a squadron of twenty men.
They trampled Cullyn’s yard, setting his pigs to squealing and Fey to snorting anger. The chickens fluttered their wings and squawked alarm.
Cullyn went out to meet them, with Laurens limping at his back.
“I’d speak with you,” Amadis said to Laurens.
“And I with you,” Fendur said to Cullyn.
The thaw had set the trees to dripping and the squadron sat disconsolate and damp. Drak sat his horse with his head down and an embarrassed expression on his face. Amadis shook out his cloak and shoved past Cullyn. Per Fendur entered the cottage with an oily smile and shook the moisture from his black cloak when he stood before the hearth.
“You might have sent a healer,” Laurens said. “Were it not for Cullyn, I’d likely have died.”
“You lost Abra,” Amadis returned.
“I lost her?” Laurens gaped at his captain. “She was taken by the Durrym, and I did my best to find her. What did you do?”
“This matters not at all,” Per Fendur said, staring at Cullyn. “What do you know?”
“That Abra’s been taken,” Cullyn said as the priest’s black eyes bored into him. “No more than that.”
“But you consort with the Durrym.”
“No.”
“You deny that Lofantyl was your friend?”
“No!”
“A Durrym?”
“I knew him first for a friend,” Cullyn gasped, “and only after for a Durrym.”
“Our enemy,” Fendur declared. “Our traditional enemy!”
“He was my friend,” Cullyn said. “He offered me no harm, nor could I believe he threatened Kandar.”
“Heresy!” Fendur shouted, and turned to Amadis. “They must be questioned.”
“It’s a good day’s ride to the keep,” Amadis said.
“Then we’ll spend the night here,” Fendur decided, “and take them back tomorrow.”
Laurens looked at Amadis and asked, “Do you truly doubt me so much?”
Amadis blushed and turned his eyes away.
Per Fendur shouted: “Take them both away! Secure them.”
So they were dragged out of the cottage and thrown into the stable, condemned.
“THIS IS NOT RIGHT,” Cullyn said.
“Right?” Laurens eased himself to a sitting position, taking care to avoid Fey’s stamping. “What’s right got to do with it?”
Cullyn stroked Fey’s neck as he answered, calming the stallion for fear he’d trample Laurens. “You did your duty,” he said, “and what offense have I given?”
“None,” Laurens replied, “save to tend me.”
“And for that we’re to be taken for questioning?”
“It’s the way of the world, lad,” Laurens said. “Amadis needs an excuse and Per Fendur a victim. Neither can admit they failed, so they need scapegoats—which are you and I.”
“So what shall become of us?”
Laurens chuckled cynically. “You’ve admitted the Durrym’s friendship—so most likely the Per will torture you until you give him whatever answers he seeks. I’ve acknowledged our friendship, so I imagine my fate shall not be so different.” He clutched his side as he spat into the straw. “And then … we die.”
“And Lord Bartram has no say?”
“Lord Bartram’s a just and decent man,” Laurens returned. “But his beloved daughter is taken by this Lofantyl, and he’s crazed with grief. I think he’ll give Fendur his way.” He rubbed his side again. “And Vanysse will support Amadis, who’ll coddle her and sympathize as we are turned on the wheel.”
“So we shall be tortured?” Cullyn stroked Fey’s steaming nostrils. “Even though we are innocent?”
“Are we taken back,” Laurens said. “And then likely executed.”
“How can we avoid that?” Cullyn asked. He stared around the stable as Fey fretted beside him. Laurens’s bay stood nervous in the adjoining stall. There was a single window that let in pale light, and the one narrow door, outside of which stood guards. He could not imagine escape. “What can we do?”
Laurens groaned as he hauled himself upright. “Drak might aid us, for he’s a good lad. Otherwise …” He steadied himself, leaning on the rails. “You keep the tack in here?”
Cullyn nodded, gesturing at the saddles hung along the wall.
“Well, that’s a start.” Laurens went to the door and set an eye to the crack. “I suppose my blade’s in the cottage?”
Cullyn nodded.
“And you’ve no weapons here?”
“Only this.” Cullyn drew the knife Lofantyl had given him.
“A Durrym blade?” Laurens chuckled. “That alone would condemn you. Your bow?”
“In the cottage.”
“Then we must make do as best we can. Shall you saddle those horses?”
“What do you intend?” Cullyn asked.
“To avoid the rack. In my condition I’d not last a day under Per Fendur’s attention, and I’m too old to suffer torture.”
“So?”
“Saddle the horses and get ready to depart.”
“But where shall we go?” Cullyn asked.
“Away from here,” Laurens replied. “Or would you give yourself up to Per Fendur’s attentions?”
Cullyn saddled the horses.
“Excellent,” Laurens declared when they were accoutred. “Now wait on my word—but when I give it, mount and ride! No hesitation, eh? Just ride as if all the hounds of hell were barking at your heels.”
Cullyn held the two horses steady as Laurens went to the door and shouted for Drak.
Outside, the day was fading, afternoon giving way to dusk. There was a ste
ady dripping as the snow melted, and the light that entered the stable was mellow. Winter birds sang their chorus and Cullyn’s pigs shuffled through the snow, their hunting echoed by the clucking of the chickens.
“What?” Drak asked.
“I’d speak with you,” Laurens answered.
“I’m forbidden to speak with you.” Drak sounded embarrassed.
“Then the gods damn you!” Laurens hammered a fist against the door. “Shall you not exchange a word with an old friend?”
“What word?” Drak asked.
“Face to face,” Laurens demanded, and gestured that Cullyn bring the horses up.
The door opened and Laurens snatched Drak inside.
“My word,” he said as he swung the younger soldier against a stall, “forgive me.” He slammed a fist into Drak’s face. And then, as Drak slumped against broken fencing, he cried to Cullyn, “Mount up and ride!”
Cullyn swung astride Fey. Laurens climbed slower onto the bay’s saddle. And then he shouted and charged out of the stable, and they hurtled across the yard into the forest beyond.
It was all confusion then, and Cullyn wondered at what he’d done, for men came running to block them and Laurens rode them down and sent them spinning, and Fey snorted and bucked and snapped his teeth. Cullyn thought—in the brief moments of clarity as he fought free of clutching hands and ducked away from swords—that this must be what combat was like.
He glanced back to see Amadis and Per Fendur emerge from his cottage and then he was off, following Laurens.
They rode hard, putting in miles as the sun settled. Horses came behind them, the tramp of hooves and the shouting of the riders warning of determined pursuit. The ground was thick with the snow’s melting, slowing them as much as their pursuers, and melting icicles dripped from the overhanging branches, so that they were soaked and chilled before they halted.
“A while farther,” Laurens said, “and they’ll give up. I hope.”
“And then?” Cullyn asked, thinking that he’d lost his home now, and all he had was Fey and what little he’d stowed in the saddlebags.
“We’re alive, no?” Laurens said.
“And outlawed.”
“But not racked.”
