by J. P. Ashman
‘Indeed.’ Achiad followed in Antreas’ footsteps, who halted suddenly.
‘What now?’
‘I tire of her,’ Antreas whispered without turning.
‘Rina? How so? I found her quite pleasing.’
‘Her skin.’
‘What of it? It is rare to see skin so dark, at least this far north.’
Screwing his face up, Antreas bobbed his head from side to side before going on. ‘It is, but not as rare as white. Pure white.’
‘Doesn’t exist, Brother,’ Achiad said, making to move past. ‘Whether your new-found fascination with the neutrals recognises that or not. Our own skin is as pale as one could imagine, no?’
Taking one last look at his now sleeping concubine, Antreas merely grunted and left the room, hurrying to catch Achiad’s long strides. ‘It may not exist,’ he said, once outside the earshot of Rina, ‘but I do not much care for such trivial things as doesn’t and can’t and impossible, do I?’
‘No. No you do not.’
‘Exactly.’ They walked down a curving, sloping passageway that revealed porcelain busts of both male and female elf, human and dwarf forms. Antreas stopped. ‘So, I shall make one.’
Achiad stopped too, turning to look back up at Antreas from several paces further down the passageway. He held his scarred hands out, awaiting an explanation as to how that would happen.
‘I’ll have some porcelain skin made for Rina.’ Beaming at the thought, grin stretched and wicked, Antreas continued on his way, a spring in his step, following the shaking head of his sighing sibling.
‘I’d rather not know,’ Achiad admitted, before changing tack. ‘Now tell me more of this dream.’
‘Can it not wait until we reach Andarna?’
‘No, I tire of waiting, it’s all we ever do.’
They turned a corner and two sentinels stood to attention, eyes diverted.
‘Very well.’ Antreas continued to follow Achiad down another corridor. ‘I’ll tell you who featured in it, but not what he was doing or where he was; I’ll leave that surprise until we are all together.’
‘It was a ‘he’, in your dream?’
‘It was a ‘he’, yes, but not any old ‘he’.’
Achiad’s eyes widened as he looked back. ‘You mean Him?’
A nod. ‘Yes, I do mean Him.’ Antreas shuddered. ‘It was that beast of a human I dreamt of, Achiad, that shit of a mage. I dreamt of Master Hitchmogh, boil his rotten bones.’
Chapter 18 – Time to go
‘We’re leaving,’ Correia said as she entered the tent, Fal and Gleave behind her.
‘About time.’ Sav sat up and stretched. ‘This camp stinks.’
‘Most do,’ Gleave offered, dropping to a cot.
‘I said we’re leaving,’ Correia repeated, glaring at Gleave. He groaned and pulled himself back to his feet using Starks’ arm to do so.
‘There’s a spy in camp,’ Starks said, crouching to pack his things. Correia sighed, Sav laughed and Gleave cursed.
‘Starks, are you serious?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be, Gleave?’ he said, looking over to the man. ‘What did you think the hue and cry during the night was all about?’ He shook his head with exasperation and returned to packing.
Gleave rubbed his face hard and forced another curse through his fingers. ‘Squall’s salty min—’
‘Gleave!’ Correia rounded on him, mouth open and eyes hard.
‘Too much?’ he asked, right cheek raised in amusement.
‘Aye, mate,’ Fal said, putting his weapons down and tending to his own belongings, ‘a little.’
‘Why’s he so shitty with me again?’ Starks asked without turning, thumb jerking Gleave’s way.
‘You don’t get it, do you lad?’ Gleave filled his saddle bags with increased gusto as Starks looked about the tent, brow creased.
‘It was me, Starks.’ Correia held her hands out to the sides and turned full circle. ‘I’m the spy.’
Starks’ furrowed brow was accompanied by an open mouth and wrinkled nose. ‘Eh?’ Eyes widened. ‘Oh, you were spying on the Earl’s son?’
Correia nodded, Sav laughed, again, and Gleave barked one of his own.
‘She was—’ Fal started, until Starks cut in.
‘Then who’ve they got in the stocks, down the hill?’
All eyes turned to Starks. Correia swallowed hard.
‘Explain,’ she said, crouching before Starks, who shrugged.
‘All I heard was they’d caught the spy, and had him trussed up in the stocks, awaiting questioning. They’ve sent a rider for a witchunter. Apparently, there’s a camp of them nearby.’
‘And we all know what that means,’ Sav said, packing quickly, despite the fact everyone else had stopped to stare at Starks.
‘How’d you find all this out?’ Gleave asked, voice gruff as ever through lack of sleep.
‘Never mind that.’ Fal moved to the tent flap and peered outside. ‘Where’s Errolas?’ he said, silhouetted as he was by the rising sun.
‘Oh, shit!’ Sav dropped his things and turned to Fal, then Correia, fingers dancing by his sides.
‘When did you last see him?’ Correia’s question was open to anyone. All four shook heads.
‘When we entered camp?’ Gleave offered. ‘You sent him and me off separately, didn’t you, Correia, before we even had chance to re-dress our legs’
‘And he’s not been back since?’ Correia shouted, glaring at them all.
No one said a word.
‘Gleave, Sav, Fal, go get your friend out of the stocks. Starks, you’re with me, where I can keep an eye on you.’ Starks frowned and Gleave tutted. The other two armed themselves.
‘Where’re we going?’ Starks said to Correia, as the others left the tent.
‘Nowhere, Starks. We’re packing, now get on with it, you’ve a lot to do.’ Correia dropped onto her cot and closed her eyes. ‘Another one of you gets captured and I’m leaving the idiot behind. Goes for you too, Starks.’ Correia peeked at him through one half-opened eye.
Wrinkled nose matched wrinkled brow. ‘But this is the first time one of us has been captured?’
‘And the last, Starks. Now shut up and pack up. And quietly, I have a headache.’
From behind Gleave’s empty cot and unpacked saddlebags, Pecker crowed, terribly, and Correia cursed poetically.
Wood smoke drifted across the muddy ground, filling the nostrils of the three men who walked – one limped – through it, hands on sheathed weapons. A dog barked off to the side, behind a row of campaign tents, another further up the hill. Jeering met the trio, the sound coming from beyond an off-white canvas corner. Jaws firm, they walked into a scene of pushing soldiers, some waving, many drinking.
‘We have the bastard!’ a scrawny lad shouted, nothing more than braes and a ridiculously short linen shirt, all held together by a failing belt with a dagger slid through it.
‘What bastard?’ Gleave demanded, the grimace he’d worn with the pace they’d kept through the camp making him appear scarier than ever.
The lad shrank back and faltered entirely when he saw the spiral tattoos of Fal’s face. He mumbled something.
‘Eh? Speak up!’ Gleave reached out, grasped filthy linen and dragged the lad along whilst approaching the back of the crowd.
‘Elf, sir.’
‘Elf, is it?’ Gleave stopped and held the lad firm, Fal and Sav on each shoulder. ‘And what’s the name of the thick fuck who’s in charge of the stocks?’
The lad’s bottom lip quivered. ‘Dunno,’ was all he managed.
‘Right, lads,’ Gleave said, looking to the crowd whilst shoving the lad away; a stumble turned into a run, which was followed by two fingers held high.
‘Looks like we’re after a thick fuck called Dunno,’ Gleave said. Fal and Sav shook their heads at that, although their smirks gave away their amusement.
‘We go in hard and aggressive,’ Gleave said, hands leaving his sword and axe, to
hover away from his waist, chest puffed up to match the bravado he took on and showed off. Fal and Sav did the same, although not to the degree Gleave took it.
‘Out of my way, fuckwits!’ Gleave’s deep voice moved men as might a city tavern doorman. Sav and Fal had to use elbows to keep up, despite their friend’s injury, and Fal receiving more than a couple of bigoted remarks when folk saw who shoved them.
Before they knew it, they were through the throng of men and out the other side, curses following their forced path. All three faltered when they saw Errolas, legs and arms locked in thick wooden stocks, bruised face and shorn hair gazing back at them through swollen eyes. Three big men stood about him.
‘Oh shit… Errolas,’ Fal managed, before his stomach reached for his throat and his knuckles paled, fingers of one hand wringing his falchion’s hilt, the others bunching to make a fist.
‘Who’s the thick fuck called Dunno?’
‘I thought he was joking,’ Fal said to Sav.
‘I think he is. He’s that bloody confident.’
Fal looked about the angry faces. Their fun had been interrupted; a whole army’s fun.
Several had laughed at Gleave’s words, laughs that died away when Gleave glared at the crowd.
‘Well?’ Gleave said, looking about. ‘Who’s the prick in charge here?’
‘Lords above,’ Sav muttered, before taking a deep breath and trying to look as confident as Gleave. Fal did the same.
‘I am.’ One of the three men stood by Errolas stepped forward, hand on belted war-hammer.
‘You’re this thick fuck Dunno I hear tell of?’ Gleave asked.
Several in the crowd laughed, others crowed and shouted unintelligible things. Most of the bored men didn’t care in what form the entertainment came, as long as something took their minds from their boredom; boredom bred dangerous men and the pathfinders knew it.
‘Watch your mouth,’ Dunno said, taking a step towards Gleave.
‘You a sergeant, Dunno?’ Gleave asked, not slowing his verbal and psychological assault one bit. He took a step forward of his own, leg paining him but ignored, Fal knew, hands away from his weapons, confidence radiating like heat-haze from a fire.
‘I’m one of Sir Allon’s ventinars. Who the fuck are you?’
Gleave spat. ‘An fucking archer, typical…’
Sav frowned.
‘…I’m Sergeant Gleave Picton of the King’s Pathfinders, and he’s one of ours.’ Gleave pointed a grubby finger at Errolas. The crowd quietened.
‘Ah,’ Dunno said, grinning despite the situation. ‘The Spymaster’s pups. Well, this one lives up to your mistress’ name. Been spying on our lord commander has this foreign bastard. So, I sent for the witchunters, as should be the way. Tis a shame we don’t have a true inquisitor…’ Dunno kicked Errolas’ bare foot, not hard, but enough to elicit a response from the elf’s friends.
Gleave rushed the man, leg be damned, Fal and Sav following suit, weapons drawn.
Before Dunno could respond, bar half retrieving his hammer, Gleave had him by the throat, up off his feet and slammed down hard into the mud. The other two by the stocks dropped their weapons as Fal and Sav held theirs within killing distance.
The crowd shouted, cursed and surged forward, a moment after the pathfinders. It wasn’t quick enough. Before they could act, before they could use their numbers to best the three men who’d forced themselves through their lines, in their own camp, their self-preservation kicked in and stayed their hands. Many were drinking, but few were drunk enough to act on it. Most were unarmed and unarmoured, unlike the pathfinders, and more still were conscripts, not professional fighting men at all. What also stopped the tide was the bellowing voice of the sergeant who’d seen Correia and her men about the camp since their arrival. When he arrived, his own men in tow, the crowd, reluctantly but swiftly, departed, leaving three men at the mercy of three others.
‘The elf leaves with the pathfinders,’ the sergeant said, snatching the stock keys from the prone ventinar and opening the locks himself. ‘My apologies,’ he offered to Errolas, who looked back through slits, the merest hint of a nod noticeable. ‘And you three,’ the sergeant said of the ventinar and his two archers, ‘get the fuck out of my sight.’ They did as they were told, once allowed to do so.
‘Do you expect thanks?’ Gleave said, rounding on the man.
The sergeant laughed. ‘No, but I do expect you three to fuck off too, with the elf, before the lads come back in force or the witchunters arrive. They ain’t mine, you see, these archers, and I’ve trod on their toes in front of their men, so I’ll be fucking off myself now.’ Without a second glance, the sergeant motioned for his scowling men to follow and head off up the hill, back towards the colourful striped tents and banners above.
Heads shaking and curses flowing, Gleave, Fal and Sav helped Errolas up and headed back to their tent, marred all the way by glaring eyes and grunted comments and empty – for now – threats.
‘The sooner we’re out of here the better,’ Gleave said.
The others agreed.
Starks half-drew his short-sword as he heard the commotion approach the tent. Correia held a hand up to stop him.
‘That’ll do us no good here, Starks,’ she said, moving to the tent flap. Opening it, she sucked in a breath and moved aside as her men piled in, a battered elf held between them.
‘What—’ Starks started.
‘Never mind what,’ Gleave cut in. ‘We’re out of here, now!’
Correia nodded and motioned for Starks to do what they’d planned. He hauled two of the saddle bags he’d packed onto his shoulders and left the tent. The others lay Errolas on the nearest bunk, his previous slashed leg the least of his – or their – worries.
‘Sav,’ Correia said, eyes on Errolas, ‘help Starks and make sure he’s alright out there, I expect we could have company.’ Fal and Gleave voiced their concerned agreement at that.
‘I’m alright,’ Errolas managed through split and swollen lips. ‘I feel better than I look.’
‘Can you ride?’ Correia wasn’t waiting on pleasantries. She needed to know, and fast. Dogs barked and men shouted; the noises grew closer.
‘We need to go to Sir Allon and…’ Fal started, but Correia’s shaking head stopped him.
‘I was lucky to be spared the same fate,’ Correia said, checking the elf’s more obvious wounds, ‘and I have the baron to thank for that, I’m sure. We can’t risk putting on the young Bratby any more than we have. His father’s knights will follow him, but the numbers out there will be hard to control should they decide they want blood. He’d be better giving it them rather than risking them turning on him, or leaving.’
‘They wouldn’t dare!’ Fal tried.
‘I’ve seen it happen,’ Gleave said, pulling Errolas back to his unsteady feet. ‘Not on this scale, but…’ he left it at that.
‘Gleave’s right,’ Correia said. ‘Sir Allon isn’t his father and many of these men know it. If Giles himself was here I’d have little concern about this, but Sir Allon? He doesn’t hold the same authority. And we all saw those men he had executed and staked out, on show, for allowing his father to be captured.’
‘Let’s move,’ Fal said.
Fal got under Errolas’ other arm and he and Gleave walked the elf behind Correia, who led the way out the tent and into the light, where a crowd had gathered; faces stern and fists clenched, whilst some brandished weapons. Several dogs strained against the ropes their masters held.
A man pointed. ‘There’s the elf bastard!’
Shouts and curses followed, with calls to string up a gibbet tree.
‘This elf is under my protection,’ Correia said, looking for Sav and Starks. Before she’d scanned the surrounds, hooves thudded the earth and the two she looked for rode in, the rest of the group’s horses held deftly alongside by Sav, awkwardly by Starks.
Sav pulled alongside Correia, with Fal’s and Correia’s horses, and leaned down to her.
>
‘It’s now or never,’ he said, offering her a wink. She saw through the act of confidence, but nodded and smiled all the same.
The crowed surged and the dogs lunged, if but a little, until the pathfinders, Errolas included, mounted their elf-gifted steeds. Once towering above the growing mob, few onlookers continued their courageous bullying of the few. They gestured and shook fists and weapons alike, threatened the release of their dogs and worse; much aimed at Correia herself, plenty of it lude, which pulled Sav’s frown into a snarl. He drew his sword.
‘Hold!’ Correia said, forcing her mount towards the dogs and men. Pathfinders fell in alongside and behind her, their mounts snorting and huffing as they walked through, rather than around the gathered soldiers. Some shoved, some jabbed weapons half-heartedly towards the riders, but none came close to striking, most knowing that one word from one rider could send all horses kicking and biting and rearing. Those that didn’t know were pulled back and told with harsh words or harsher fists.
The soldiers grew bolder as they stood and watched the riders walk their horses down the hill, away from them. Once far enough away, the insults turned to serious threats and talk of what they would have done should the scene have turned ugly. The following cheer bit at the backs of the group as they kicked their mounts into a canter through the white spread of campaign tents, scattering onlookers before passing the confused pickets to ride out into the meadows, to wheel and ride on into the forests of The Marches. Errolas looked half dead, but if that were the case it didn’t show in his riding, for he not only matched his companions’ speed as they charged on down the wide woodland road to Sirreta, but surged ahead, leaving the human camp and his abusers behind.
Chapter 19 – A well timed kick…
Joncausks sniffed, which sent his broken nose to pounding.
‘If you sniff one more time…’ Boxall said, chin resting on his knees, which he’d tucked up to his blood-soiled linen-covered chest.
Joncausks sniffed.
Tahir chuckled, despite missing teeth.
Boxall lifted his head from his knees and glared at Joncausks. ‘I’m not sure how much more of that I can take, Jon.’
