‘How is he?’ asked the healer.
‘No better,’ said Fossetta. ‘His chest hasn’t cleared and the rash is worse than ever.’
Heçamede nodded slowly and reached up to turn back the hood of Falco’s cloak. ‘The emissary is right,’ she said. ‘This is not scarlet consumption.’
‘Is that good or bad?’ asked Fossetta.
‘Only time will tell,’ said Heçamede evasively.
The emissary had made a point of seeking her out last night. The condition he spoke of was very rare in these parts but the symptoms certainly seemed to fit. She would speak with him again if she got the chance. Right now he was surrounded by nobles all trying to speak to him at once. As she watched he raised a hand to calm them.
‘What news of the army?’ he asked.
‘The first riders reached us an hour ago,’ replied Morgan.
‘Two hours,’ corrected Bellius sourly.
Morgan gave him a withering glance, but Bellius just rolled his eyes and put a hand to his forehead. Like so many standing there he had the strained look of a man who had not slept.
‘The army is on its way,’ he said, taking a flask of wine from his manservant Ambrose. ‘They should catch us up some time later today.’
‘Good,’ said the emissary. ‘And the Possessed, what is the latest on them?’
‘They’re barely two days from the town,’ said Bellius.
The emissary’s gaze drew inward and his jaw bunched. ‘Then we had better be on our way,’ he said grimly. He turned back to Morgan. ‘Are the riders ready?’
Morgan gestured to one side where four horses stood in a line, their riders standing nervously by their sides. Each one of them had a leather dispatch tube slung over their shoulder. The emissary worked his way down the line. The first three were men of light build and weathered faces; the fourth was a young woman.
The emissary paused.
‘She is of age,’ said a man standing to one side with his arm around a woman who had the same dark eyes and black hair as the young rider. Both looked anxious but resolute.
‘She is fast,’ said the woman. ‘And brave.’
The emissary nodded to the young rider’s parents. ‘What is your name?’ he asked her.
‘Anwyn,’ said the young woman.
The emissary placed a hand on her shoulder then turned to address them all. ‘Ride swiftly,’ he said as the riders swung lightly into the saddle. ‘And deliver your message safely. Our fate lies with you.’
With a last nod of farewell the riders dug in their heels and galloped away.
‘Will they make it?’ Sir Gerallt Godwin voiced the question on all their minds.
The emissary watched as the riders disappeared beyond the edge of the plateau. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘They will make it.’ He stepped up into the saddle and looked down at the sea of upturned faces. There was nothing more to be said. It was time for them to leave. With a sigh he brought his horse onto the path and started along the road to Clemoncé.
Simeon urged his mount forward and the black warhorse automatically fell in beside the emissary’s grey. Likewise, Falco’s horse required no direction it simply followed on behind.
As Falco reached the path Malaki led his horse over to ride beside his friend. Behind them came Fossetta on one of the packhorses, her arms wrapped round a young boy who chatted away incessantly. Then came Balthazak with Sir Gerallt and Bryna Godwin. Merryweather was behind them with Tobias securely tied to the horse beside his father. The ebullient nobleman was declaring to his son that, despite the cold, this was the most exciting adventure. Beside him Tobias lifted a crooked arm to gesture up the line towards Falco.
‘Ballymudge...’
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Merryweather reaching over to pat his son’s withered leg. Tobias turned his wobbly head to look at his father. There was a frown of doubt on his lopsided face. ‘He’ll be fine,’ insisted Merryweather with a smile. His optimistic nature would not allow him to consider anything else.
And thus the envoy to the Queen of Wrath led the people of Caer Dour into the mountains. They made surprisingly good time and by midday they had covered almost seven miles. The oppressive clouds had broken and apart from a few sweeping showers the refugees remained mostly dry. It was still cold but the blue sky raised their spirits and the mountains of northern Valentia looked beautiful in the afternoon sunlight. The long caravan of people had stopped for food and rest when a rider arrived to say that the army was closing on them and should catch them up shortly after sunset.
‘That’s good,’ said the emissary. ‘Tell Lord Cadell that we look forward to hearing his council.’
Without pausing for food or drink the rider simply turned about and picked his way back down the crowded trail.
The emissary watched him go before returning to discuss the practicalities of the army’s arrival with Bellius and Morgan. They were deep in conversation when Simeon’s voice demanded their attention.
‘Chevalier!’
The old battle mage was on his feet, his ravaged face turned up towards the sky.
‘What is it?’ asked the emissary, coming to stand beside him.
‘Something watches us,’ said Simeon.
Falco felt a cold shiver run through him. He too had the sense of something watching, some insidious presence hanging in the air above them. He had put it down to the dark cloud of guilt and paranoia that was engulfing his mind. But now as he turned his eyes to the sky he could discern a distinct presence above them, distant and dark, a hot mote of evil.
Shielding his eyes the emissary gazed into the sky while around them others began to look upwards.
‘There!’ said Bryna suddenly. ‘Near that thin line of cloud.’
She was right. They could all see it now, a tiny dark shape hovering over them.
‘It has wings,’ said Bryna.
‘A bird,’ suggested Merryweather hopefully.
‘It’s not a bird,’ said Simeon.
‘Schwarz engel,’ said the emissary in the language of Illicia. ‘A dark angel. A lesser demon of the Possessed.’
‘Will it attack us?’ asked Sir Gerallt.
‘No,’ said the emissary, climbing onto a stand of rocks. ‘They are strong but they are not known for their bravery.’ Once more he peered into the sky before looking down along the route which the riders had taken. ‘They would not attack a mass of people, but they could pick off those who venture out alone.’ He gritted his teeth in frustration. ‘The demon must be gaining in strength if it is bringing through lesser minions.’
‘Will it go after the riders?’ asked Sir Gerallt.
‘It will return to its master first,’ said the emissary, ‘to inform the demon of our flight. But then...’ The unfinished sentence left them in little doubt.
‘Then we must warn them!’ said Bellius, seeming more animated than he had all day.
‘It’s too late,’ said Morgan. ‘They were our fastest riders and they have several hours head start.’
‘We shall just have to hope for the best,’ said the emissary. ‘They might be overlooked.’
‘And if they are not?’ asked Bellius.
‘Then they should seek the cover of rocks or trees,’ said the emissary. ‘If they hold their ground they might just stand a chance.’
All around him people were switching their gaze from the sky to the mountain trail along which they had come. Until now the demon army had seemed faceless and abstract but now a creature of darkness was actually looking down upon them. Suddenly the threat of the Possessed seemed horribly real.
‘We should get moving,’ said the emissary, and his tone had the force of command.
People packed away their food and the ripple of preparedness travelled down the long caravan of refugees. Within a matter of minutes the people of Caer Dour were on their way once more. At times the trail was too narrow for two horses to walk abreast but at others it widened out and as the afternoon sun made feeble attempts to warm them
Malaki drew alongside his friend once more.
‘Did you see it?’ he said, keeping his voice low so that the people around them would not overhear.
Falco did not answer.
‘It looked like a bird to me,’ persisted Malaki. ‘But Bryna’s eyes are better than most. She says it was the wrong shape, more like a man with wings.’
Falco gave his friend a sideways look.
‘You’ve been talking to Bryna?’ he wheezed.
Malaki smiled with pride, but also with relief. It was the first time Falco had spoken all day. Surely that was a good sign.
‘A little,’ said Malaki. ‘We’ve been discussing arrow points.’
‘Arrow points,’ said Falco as if that were entirely reasonable.
He glanced across at his friend and the blush on Malaki’s cheeks made his birthmark stand out more clearly than ever.
Falco’s mouth curved into a smile and the two boys laughed.
They continued on in silence and the sun disappeared once more behind the clouds. The landscape was craggy, the grey rocks interspersed with heather, gorse and twisted stands of mountain pine. The sound of startled birds accompanied them as they made their way along the remote winding track. Rounding a curve they could see that the trail led down to a river valley. It was wide and sheltered, a good place to make camp.
The light was fading by the time they reached the floor of the valley and Malaki reached up to help Falco down from his horse. He laid him down in a sandy hollow and set about making a fire. Darkness brought a certain calm to the camp with people cocooned in the reassuring glow of firelight. The fear and shock were still present but they were on their way, one day closer to the city of Toulwar, one day closer to safety. The night was still young but many had settled down into bedrolls and blankets, exhausted by the tension and the miles of difficult travel.
All Falco wanted to do was sleep. Instead he found himself hunched forward and sweating as Fossetta removed the silk dressing from the burns on his shoulder.
‘Good,’ said Heçamede who was kneeling beside the housekeeper. ‘There’s no sign of infection. Now, clean the edges and spray it with the atomiser.’
She handed Fossetta a clean swab and Falco choked back a cry as she cleaned the edge of his wounds. Even the gentle misting of herb infused water burned like fire and Falco stared straight ahead, trying to shut out the pain as Fossetta applied a fresh piece of oiled silk. Finally the dressing was changed and Falco was allowed to relax back into a more comfortable position. Then, just when he thought he could close his eyes and shut out the world the emissary appeared at Heçamede’s shoulder.
‘How is he?’ he asked, crouching down beside the healer.
‘I think you’re right,’ said Heçamede and Falco looked away as she drew back his garments to expose his chest.
‘See how the rash is spreading, and it does not pale when compressed.’
‘Yes,’ said the emissary. ‘This looks more and more like the disease that took my sister.’
‘If it’s not crimson lung then what is it?’ asked Fossetta. ‘And can it be cured?’
‘It’s an infection caused by the spores of a fungus,’ said Heçamede.’ The spores are released when certain types of wood burn. In rare cases the fungus can invade the body.’
‘In Illicia it is treated with the resin from the Silver pine but I’m told this tree does not grow in Valentia,’ said the emissary.
‘We could use the resin from Corros pine trees,’ said Heçamede.
‘But that’s caustic,’ said Fossetta. ‘Just touching the sap can cause burns.’
‘We have no choice,’ said Heçamede. ‘The infection is spreading. Soon the tissue will begin to break down.’
Fossetta blanched. She knew what Heçamede was saying. The infection was not only spreading across Falco’s skin. It was in his lungs too. If it was not stopped he would be consumed from within. Her jaw bunched and tears sprang to her eyes as she looked up and down the valley for signs of Corros pine trees. Then she turned to Malaki.
‘Come!’ she said. ‘You will help me look.’
Malaki had never heard such a tone in Fossetta’s voice before.
‘Of course,’ he said, rising to his feet and fastening on his sword. There had been no more sign of the dark angel but still, it would not be wise to venture into the darkness unarmed.
‘We’ll start on the northern slopes,’ said Fossetta. ‘Corros pine prefers the shade.’ And with that they were gone.
Slumping back onto his bedroll Falco turned his face away from the fire. Why were they bothering? Why did they even care? It was all his own fault anyway. All he wanted to do now was sleep. It did not matter to him if he never woke again.
13
Dark Angel
The army caught up with them shortly after nightfall and Lord Cadell immediately fell into conference with the emissary and the leaders of Caer Dour. Drifting in and out of sleep Falco could hear the murmur of their discussions. It was getting late when he woke to see Simeon and the emissary returning to their bedrolls. The two men sat down and Malaki rose to fetch them each a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread.
Hovering on the edge of sleep Falco watched as they quietly ate their supper. His eyes slid across the rocky ground, picking out the dim shapes of people in the firelight. Bryna Godwin lay not far away and Falco watched as Sir Gerallt settled down beside his daughter. Close to them was Merryweather, his great heavy body curled around his son who was sleeping soundly in his father’s embrace.
Heçamede’s bedroll was spread within the encircling light of the fire, but she was tending to the needs of the people while Fossetta had taken herself off to one side to prepare the needles from the Corros pine trees that she and Malaki had collected. Even from here Falco’s eyes watered as veils of the acerbic fumes wafted across the campsite.
As Simeon and the emissary finished their late supper Balthazak took something from his saddle bag and approached the emissary. Crouching down he handed him a small bundle wrapped in a soft white cloth.
The emissary looked surprised. ‘I can’t believe you found the time,’ he said.
Balthazak inclined his head as if it were nothing. ‘It still needs to be cleaned and the leather needs to be polished and braided. I have a finished belt if you need it.’
The emissary waved the suggestion away.
‘I’d like to do it myself.’
Balthazak nodded. ‘Just let me know when you need to set the rivets.’
‘Thank you,’ said the emissary. He opened the bundle to reveal a needle file, several lengths of black leather cord and a silver belt buckle in the shape of a horse’s head.
‘You’ve a nice touch,’ said Balthazak.
The emissary snorted softly. ‘This was my fourth attempt.’
‘I hope she’s worth it.’
‘She is,’ said the emissary.
With a smile Balthazak returned to his bedroll. He drained the last of the wine from his cup then he drew up his cloak and fell asleep. Within a matter of seconds he was snoring loudly. The people gathered around the fire looked at each other in mild embarrassment. Malaki shook his head despairingly.
‘He does that every night,’ he said and people laughed then one by one they followed the blacksmith’s lead.
It was some time later when Falco stirred from sleep. Heçamede had finally returned to her bedroll and Falco thought that everyone was asleep until he saw movement from across the fire.
The emissary lifted the belt buckle and blew away some of the detritus that he had scraped off with the file. In the faint glow of the fire Falco could see that the silver metal was beginning to shine. Seeming to sense that someone was watching him, the emissary turned to look at Falco, his grey eyes dark and shadowed. For a moment the emissary held him with his searching gaze then he gave him a slow nod of acknowledgement and Falco lowered his eyes to the fire. His gaze sank deep into the glowing embers and slowly he fell asleep once more.
He wo
ke to the feel of rain on his face.
It was barely daylight and yet the people of Caer Dour were breaking camp. All around there was the bustle of activity interspersed with the crying of children. The dry night had turned wet and cold and people steamed as they prepared for another difficult day of travel.
Falco tried to raise himself but even the effort of sitting up put a strain on his chest, the damp weather only compounding the problem with his breathing. Fossetta crouched beside him with a bowl of porridge.
‘Not yet,’ said Heçamede who was leaning over a copper pan set above the fire. ‘He wouldn’t keep it down.’
Fossetta nodded and watched as Heçamede reached for the clay jar that she herself had prepared. As the water in the pot began to boil Heçamede spooned a small amount of a brown tar-like substance into the pan. The effect was immediate and the healer screwed up her face and turned away from the plumes of acrid steam.
Falco felt a sense of foreboding as Fossetta put down the porridge and cradled him against her chest. Holding it at arm’s length Heçamede brought the pan forward with a blanket to go over Falco’s head. The anxiety on her face did nothing to allay Falco’s trepidation, but he did not resist as they set the pan on a stone and leaned him towards it. Heçamede threw the cloth over his head and Falco was shrouded in darkness. The fumes stung his eyes and made his skin prickle and burn, but as he drew a breath the pain exploded in his chest. It felt like he was drowning in acid.
Despite his illness and inherent weakness he lurched back, butting Fossetta in the cheek and spilling the pan of boiling water onto the earth. The people around him cursed at the foul biting fumes and Falco slumped onto his side coughing and choking and trying desperately to fill his lungs with clear cold air.
Heçamede bent down to see if Fossetta was all right but the housekeeper seemed more concerned about Falco. After all, it was she who had made the preparation that had caused him so much pain. Malaki threw aside the blanket and helped Falco into a more comfortable position, staring down at the rash which extended beyond his hairline.
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