by Angus Wells
Cullyn looked at the soldier. Laurens was likely old enough to be his father, and his face was still gray with pain—their reckless ride had done little for his wound. Cullyn could see the blood that oozed afresh from his side, and the way he clenched his teeth.
“You’ll not last long,” he said bluntly.
“Drak said the same,” Laurens replied, “but he was also wrong. So trust me, eh? You know this wood. Find us trails that bring us northward.”
Cullyn nodded, and rode ahead of Laurens as the day dimmed and a pale moon rose to illuminate the forest. He took them north along deer trails that began to freeze again, even as melting ice dripped over them and the horses’ hooves came sludgy from the ground. Every so often he looked back to find Laurens clutching at the saddle horn as if that were all that held him upright. Behind, he heard shouts, and as the night settled in saw torches burning, coming after them through the trees. He reined in where a glade gave them space to talk.
“We must find somewhere to rest.”
“Do you know anywhere?” Laurens swayed in the saddle, and under the moon’s wan light his face was hollowed. Cullyn saw that his eyes were dulled with pain, and that blood still oozed from the wound in his side.
“Not readily. I’d thought we’d have lost them by now.”
Laurens spat and smiled at the same time. “We’ve a priest on our heels, lad, and he’s got Church magic at his command. Like a hunting dog that’s got its nose. Don’t you understand?”
Cullyn shook his head. “I’ve had little to do with priests until now. There was one came when my parents died … a kindly man.”
“That would have been Fra Robyrt.” Laurens smiled grayly. “He was a kindly man, but not …” He paused, sucking in breath as he rubbed at his side. “Not gifted with the talent that raises the priesthood up. He cared for people, not power.”
Cullyn frowned his incomprehension. Laurens pressed his side, husking out cynical laughter. “There are two kinds of Churchmen, lad. One cares for his flock, the other for his ambition. The ambitious ones own the magic—which Per Fendur says is to find a way into the fey lands, to defeat the Barrier. Priests like Fra Robyrt seek to serve their gods and tend their flock. Priests like that bastard Fendur seek only to advance themselves. And as they find more magic with which they might overcome the Durrym’s, so they find ways to cross the Alagordar and take war to the fey folk.”
“Why?” Cullyn asked innocently.
“Because they can.” Laurens spat noisily. “Because they wish to extend their power. Because they’d bring all the world under the control of the Church, and they’d sit happy and fat atop it all. They’d command kings and dominate the world.”
“I’d thought,” Cullyn said, confused, “that priests were supposed to help us.”
“Some do,” Laurens replied. “Fra Robyrt was one. But Per Fendur …” He shook his head. “He’s of the other persuasion. He seeks only command and conquest. He’d invade the fey lands for want of power. And hunt us down like dogs.”
“So what do we do?” Cullyn asked. Laurens could never last out a gallop, and he felt no wish to be set on Per Fendur’s rack.
“So we go where they’ll not find us.”
“Where?” Cullyn asked.
And Laurens said, “Across the Alagordar.”
“You’re crazed! How shall we find our way back?”
“It turns you,” Laurens said, “and the Durrym magic shall likely confuse Fendur’s.”
“Save we become trapped there.”
“We’re trapped here,” Laurens grunted. “Can you not find us some hiding place, they’ll take us—and Fendur shall bring us back to the keep and question us. So—have you a better suggestion?”
Cullyn shook his head.
“Then let us find the river and cross it.”
Cullyn nodded and heeled Fey across the glade, down between looming oaks to the willows that flanked the river.
Moonlight shone in silver filigree over the water, its ripples glistening. The tumbling of the Alagordar was a subtle, sensate temptation that frightened him. But behind came the torches, and the threat of the rack and execution, and Laurens shouted for him to continue. So he heeled Fey into the water and heard Laurens splash down behind him, and went into Coim’na Drhu.
On the farther bank there was a subtler night: no snow, but the same moon, the ground firmer, the air warmer, so that they might come swiftly into the trees beyond.
Where Laurens fell from his saddle.
Cullyn swung down from Fey and ran to his wounded companion.
Laurens clutched his side, watching blood spurt over his fingers.
“I used,” he said slowly, “to take worse wounds than this. But …”
Across the river torches gathered and Cullyn heard shouting.
Laurens groaned. “Leave me and go on.”
“No! Besides, where should I go?”
“Home.”
“To Per Fendur’s attentions?”
“Not those. But …”
“Get up! Damn you—get up.”
“You’re friends with the Durrym—go there.”
“I’ll not leave you!”
The torches that blazed across the river came closer. Cullyn hauled Laurens upright and set him astride the bay. “I’ll not leave you,” he said, as he heard the splashing of hoofs, saw the torchlight come closer.
“But you might kill me,” Laurens said.
“This was your idea.”
Laurens sighed out a rueful chuckle. “Perhaps not my best, but all we had, eh? So let’s head north and see if we can lose them.”
Cullyn was not sure Coim’na Drhu had a north. He wondered if all the compass points were not confused here, and whichever direction they took should lead them back to Kandar, with Per Fendur and Amadis hot on their heels. But with little other choice, he obeyed Laurens and rode what he supposed was northward. Surely the moon sat in the right quarter and the river ran to his left, but this was all fey land now and so he wondered where they might end up.
He followed some sort of trail, unsure what had made it, and found himself in a grove of dense birches that shone silver under the moon’s light. Great stones protruded from the grass that filled the space between the trees, like batholith monuments. The trail ended there, at a stone circle, and there was a sense of power, as if trees and stones and moonlight combined to imbue the circle with magic. He felt the hair on his neck stand up, and was abruptly cold and hot at the same time. He wondered if the combinations of light and shadow he saw amongst the stones were the products of moon and rocks, or capering spirits. Fey snorted, stamping restless hoofs, and Cullyn looked to Laurens.
The older man slumped in his saddle, one leg stained with the opening of his wound. The bay horse fretted, smelling the blood, and Cullyn walked Fey to stand beside.
“Can you go on?” he asked.
Laurens groaned and looked back to where the torches moved bright through the trees. “I’d best. They’ll be on us soon.”
“Where do we go? This trail ends here.”
“Hold northward. Keep the river on our left until we find another ford.”
“Which they’ll find.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not; this is a tricksy land. Who knows where we’ll come out?”
“All well,” Cullyn said, “back into Kandar.”
“But ahead of our hunters,” Laurens returned. “Now go!”
He pointed to where two vast stones stood upright and apart, allowing sufficient gap that the horses might pass between them. Moonlit grass and shining trees stood beyond, but when Cullyn trotted Fey through the opening he found himself riding a gentle sward that was flanked leftward with alders and willows, and the ground was moist, almost swampy. Laurens followed, still swaying in his saddle, but with a grin on his grizzled face as he looked back.
Cullyn followed his eyes and saw small, ancient stones looming amongst marshy trees, but somehow overlaid with monoliths that shimmered as the torc
hes approached. He watched them slow and skirt around, and wondered at the marvels of Coim’na Drhu.
Then Laurens said, “The priest will likely find a way ere long, so shall we go?”
And they set off again.
They halted as the sky woke up. Birds began to sing, and dawn’s pallid entrance gave way to sunlight. They stood in a grove of wide-branched alders whose branches split and curled like broken limbs across the ground. The Alagordar mouthed its passage to their left, and to the right—eastward into the heart of Coim’na Drhu—the forest deepened into oaks and birch and hazel.
“We need to keep going,” Laurens said. “Fendur will find a way around the stones … Likely already has.”
“And you’ll bleed to death if we go on.” Cullyn took the older man’s weight as he pitched from the saddle. “And then I’d be lost in this fey land.”
Laurens chuckled as he closed his eyes. “You think I know where we are?”
Cullyn dragged him to a stand of clean grass and left him there as he tended the two horses. Both were sweated by the long run, so he rubbed them down and walked them a while before he let them drink. Then he hobbled them and left them to crop the grass and marsh plants as he tended Laurens.
Without his herbs and poultices there was little he could do other than staunch the bleeding wound, and wonder how Laurens had stayed astride his horse. The man grew feverish: sweat beaded him, and even when Cullyn cut strips from his shirt to bandage him afresh, blood oozed through the cloth.
He built a fire, deciding that neither the glow nor the smoke would be seen as the day brightened. And Laurens needed warmth. They had no food; nor had Cullyn any idea of how long they might run—how long the pursuit would continue. But he’d not quit Laurens.
“WHERE AM I?” Laurens woke. “What are you doing?”
“Warming you.”
“A fire?” Laurens struggled upright. “Per Fendur will sense that. Do you want to light a beacon?”
“You fell off your horse.”
Laurens shrugged. “I’m not so fit as I used to be—so, thank you—but now shall we go? Else …”
“I think we’ve lost them,” Cullyn said.
“Let’s hope so.” Laurens coughed dubious laughter. “But with Per Fendur’s magical nose …”
“So what do we do?”
“Run and hide. Kick out that fire, and let’s ride.”
Cullyn stamped the fire to embers and helped Laurens astride the bay, and they went north again until Laurens pointed them westward.
“How can you know?”
Cullyn halted Fey at the fording Laurens indicated.
“Trust me, eh?” Laurens drooped over his saddle horn, his face pale. “I’ve been here before, in pursuit of the Durrym.”
The day had once more lengthened into evening. In Coim’na Drhu it was mellow autumn. Across the Alagordar it was winter’s ending, the commencement of spring. On one side of the river the trees blushed and faded into autumn’s mildness; on the other, they were stripped and bare and bled moisture onto muddy paths.
“They’ll find us there,” Cullyn protested. “If Per Fendur can find us, he’ll follow us.”
“Trust me,” Laurens said. “It’s likely our only chance.”
Cullyn shrugged. It seemed he had little other choice, so he walked Fey down the bank and into the river.
Laurens came behind on the bay horse, leaning low over his saddle, leaving droplets of blood in the stream behind.
They crossed into winter’s aftermath, where snow gave way to mud, and Cullyn halted again and turned to Laurens. “Where now?”
“North.”
Cullyn stared at the trees, dripping, the evening dark and cold. And he trapped in a forest he did not know.
“Where are we?”
“Hopefully safe from Per Fendur and Amadis,” Laurens muttered. “Go on, eh?”
Cullyn went on, and after a while of riding through winter-hung trees came to a clearing where a cottage not unlike his own stood. It was wood-built, with a stone chimney that bled smoke into the winter sky, and a thatched roof. And there was a stall beside, and pigs grubbing in the wet earth.
An old man came out. His hair was white as the winter and his face lined with wrinkles like some piece of ancient leather. He wore a long robe that was very dirty, drifting shapelessly from neck to feet. It might once have been decorated with sigils, but they were now either covered with dirt or so faded they had become unrecogniz able. He seemed ancient, save for his eyes, which were a piercing blue, bright as a summer morning.
Cullyn stared at him, and Laurens said: “Eben, we meet again.”
“I’d not thought that should happen,” came the answer. “Save you came to take me captive for your Church. Have you a squad of soldiers with you?”
“Hardly.” Laurens coughed out bitter laughter. “But a squad behind, and we in need of refuge.”
“And wounded, no? What happened?”
“I took a Durrym shaft,” Laurens said. “Were it not for him”—he gestured at Cullyn—“I’d be dead.”
“Through your thick hide as best I judge.” Eben stared at the bloody wound in Laurens’s side. “Best come in and let me tend you.”
“There’s more,” Laurens said. “We’re pursued. Outlawed, I suppose.”
“How so?”
“We fell afoul of the Church, and perhaps Lord Bartram.”
“Like me?” Eben smiled. “Come down off that horse before you fall off, eh? Come inside and explain.”
He turned to Cullyn. “Shall you help me?”
Cullyn nodded, not quite sure of what went on. He helped Laurens down from the bay horse and carried him into the hut, then saw Fey and the bay stabled, and went to find Laurens.
To be sure his friend—and savior?—was well.
TEN
THE COTTAGE WAS much like Cullyn’s—a single room with a hearth that served also as a stove, a table set close to the fire, four rough chairs about it, and a narrow bed overlooked by one of the three windows. What made it different was the proliferation of books and animals that seemed to merge into one great mass. Shelves filled with tomes and dusty parchments hid one wall, and on them lay squirrels and rats, while bats hung from the edges and sleepy birds rested above them. More books lay scattered across the floor, dogs and cats spread over and amongst them. Cullyn gaped in amazement as a fox rose from a bed of ancient tomes, yawned, stared at him, and sauntered past. A dog eyed him, barked indolently, and then wagged its tail before settling back on its book-bed. A massive cat, all ginger, stretched and came to rub itself against his legs.
“Dammit!” Eben gestured at the multiplicity of animals lying on the bed. “Get off, eh? We’ve a hurt man here. And you!” He turned to Cullyn. “Stop gaping and help me. I’m not so young as I was, and Laurens is damnably heavy.”
Cullyn obeyed as cats and dogs and badgers and rats clambered from the pallet. He set an arm around Laurens and helped Eben settle the soldier on the bed.
“He took a Durrym arrow in his side,” Cullyn said.
“I’m old, not blind.” Eben shoved him aside with more strength than his narrow frame suggested. “And he’s been bleeding since, no?”
“I did my best to tend him, but I’m no healer. And—”
“Explain later.” Eben pointed toward the shelves around the hearth. “For now, fetch me that blue bottle.”
Cullyn obeyed as Eben stripped Laurens naked and studied the ugly holes.
“A typical Durrym wound. Only the gods—if they exist—know how he survived it. A lesser man would have died.” He took the bottle from Cullyn and bled a few drips of some dark liquid into Laurens’s mouth. “Fine archers, the Durrym.” He patted Laurens’s shoulder. “You should have taken more care extracting the shaft: you’d have done yourself less harm.”
“I had no time,” Laurens mumbled. “I was in a fight.”
“Blood and blood and blood, eh?” Eben watched as Laurens’s eyes closed and his breathing gr
ew deep and steady. “Is it not always the way?”
“Can you save him?” Cullyn asked.
“Perhaps; I shall do my best. And I need your help.”
“Tell me what to do,” Cullyn asked.
“Fill that pot with fresh well water and set it to boiling.”
Cullyn took the indicated pot out to the well, escorted by a coterie of animals. Bats fluttered by him as he went out, and rats and badgers scurried past his feet. He began to wonder if he were still in Coim’na Drhu, for surely there was magic at work here.
When he returned inside, Eben had numerous pots set on the table, and was busily grinding a pestle into a mortar, crushing ingredients. “When the water boils,” he said, “bring it to me. Until then, keep silent.”
Cullyn stood watching as the silver-haired man bent over Laurens. Eben raised his hands and shaped signs in the air; then he took the blue bottle and splashed some of its content over Laurens’s side, then drew his forefinger through the liquid, marking out sigils.
“Does it boil yet?”
Cullyn started and looked to the pot: “Yes.”
“Then set it on the table, damn you.”
Cullyn found a cloth and brought the pot to the table. Eben rose from beside the bed and kicked a sleepy cat aside before he set to spooning the hot water into a bowl, into which he tipped his medicaments. He mixed them and then went to Laurens, who now lay sound asleep, and set to pasting the mixture over the wounds. Then he produced swathes of linen that Cullyn thought—considering the circumstances of the cottage—were remarkably clean, and wrapped the bandages around Laurens.
“That’s as much as I can do.” He settled a blanket over the supine form. “I’ll pray for him, but that’s a bad wound.”
“I know,” Cullyn said. “I doubted he’d survive our ride.”
“Which you must tell me about.” Eben gestured at the table. “I suppose you’re hungry, so you can tell me as we eat.”
“I need to see the horses bedded first,” Cullyn said. “They’ve run hard of late.”
“Admirable.” Eben chuckled. “I could like a young man who cares for his animals. But don’t worry.” He raised a hand as Cullyn began to rise. “They’re tended. Stripped and rubbed down and stabled safe.”
