BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 29 страница
‘Is anything important broken?’ he finally managed.
How would he recall? thought Wynter bleakly. He barely knows who he is.
But Razi answered without hesitation. ‘There is not much damage. Just a few tonic vials and a crushed pillbox.’ He glanced up, smiling, and it almost broke Wynter’s heart when he said, ‘Everything is just as it is meant to be. Nothing of any importance is lost. What happened to it?’
‘It fall when Wolves attack,’ said Sólmundr.
Razi made no response to that, but his attention focused on Sólmundr’s bruised face as if noticing the wounds for the first time. ‘That cut on your cheek is quite inflamed,’ he said. ‘I can treat it for you, if I may?’ He must have mistaken Sól’s silence for reluctance, because he smiled again. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said. ‘Did you not realise that? Here, come over and I shall see what I can do.’
As Sól submitted to Razi’s care, Christopher gazed at Wynter. The knowledge of what had been retrieved was written large in his glittering eyes. Wynter tilted her head and smiled sadly, the knowledge of what remained lost written in her own.
DAY EIGHT: MESSAGES
DAWN DID not break to birdsong in this particular valley, or even to rosy tinted skies. Instead, the light seemed to drizzle in, grey and uniform, as if seeping up from the rocks themselves.
Wynter pushed herself upright and groaned. How do soldiers do this, she wondered, day after day on a campaign? Of all the tasks presented to them, how do they ever manage to push their bruised bodies from bed?
Alberon, she realised with a wince, would be the one to answer her that.
Carefully, she disentangled the covers and slipped from Christopher’s side. Neither he nor Sólmundr stirred. Like all Merron, they trusted their warhound to guard them in the night, and Boro had been the camp’s sole sentinel against the Loups-Garous.
‘And a good job you did of it too,’ she whispered, crouching to fondle his ears. He gazed ruefully up at her, not lifting his chin from his paws. In order to prevent him from running after the Wolves, Sólmundr had tethered the warhound to his ankle, and Boro could not quite reconcile himself to the indignity. There was a palpable air of embarrassment about him. ‘Never mind, dog,’ murmured Wynter. ‘You’re still a big brave beastie.’
The hound sighed and submitted to her caresses with stoicism. Once again, Wynter thought what an incredible creature he was. Sól could make his fortune from the breed. She had observed as much to him the night before, and Sól had commented dryly that he preferred his lungs inside his ribcage, if it was all the same to her.
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‘It is a capital offence among our people to trade the cúnna to strangers,’ explained Christopher.
‘Though,’ observed Sól, ‘Shirken once plan to take them for himself.’ At his friends’ expectant silence, Sólmundr had flashed his gap-toothed grin. ‘When enough of his men lose their heads, he give up idea. Even the puppies take man’s hand off at the wrist. Nach ea, mo ghadhar?’ he said, scrubbing Boro’s head. ‘Only the Merron can to handle na Cúnna Faoil.’
‘In that case, I should have gifted Shirken ten of them,’ muttered Wynter. ‘Five for him and five for his pestilent daughter.’ At the men’s lack of comprehension, she grinned. ‘Though the poor hounds would have need of a purging after, I should think.’
Sólmundr laughed.
‘The poor things would need more than a purge,’ smirked Christopher. ‘Shirken being rotten to his core, they would as likely die of poison.’
Then Razi, chuckling, had asked, ‘Who is Shirken?’ and the mirth had quickly drained from the conversation.
Wynter groaned at the memory and wandered across to where Razi stood a little apart from camp, staring up into the rocks above.
He glanced at her as she approached. ‘Those creatures have gone,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
‘I have been watching since first light. Only a few moments ago I saw them run along the base of that ridge and move off in that direction. Your warrior friend is right, there are two of them.’
Wynter pulled her cloak tight and shivered. ‘Where are they going, I wonder?’
‘Even the devil’s spawn need to eat. I suppose they have gone to hunt.’
She shrugged her cloak high around her neck and Razi winced at the bruising on her throat. ‘Your neck is livid,’ he said. ‘Do you have any difficulty swallowing . . . um . . .’ He peered at her, once again struggling to recall her name. He couldn’t seem to hang on to it at all.
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Wynter refrained from yelling, I’m Wynter! It’s Wynter, Razi! Try and remember! Instead she said, ‘I am the Protector Lady Wynter Moorehawke, my Lord.’
Razi frowned uncertainly; the formality seemed to take him by surprise.
‘Delighted to meet you, Protector Lady,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘If your chaperones don’t mind, I would be pleased to check your throat.’
She allowed him to guide her to a rock and sat down, raising her chin while he gently probed her neck with his fingers. He did not once ask how she had managed to ring her throat with bruises.
‘Do you enjoy being a doctor, my Lord?’
He smiled. ‘It is all I ever wanted to be.’
‘It is unusual enough. A king’s son would surely find himself with more urgent things at hand than lancing boils and dressing scurvy.’ His fingers paused at her throat. She pressed on. ‘As a pastime it is commendable, but surely your duties in court would present you with tasks infinitely more important?’ He sat back, staring at her, and she knotted her hands together, almost afraid to continue.
‘You consider the relief of suffering to be a task beneath us?’ he asked softly. ‘The saving of lives is, to you, a pursuit unworthy of a king’s son?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But a man such as yourself must surely have bigger obligations?’
‘Obligations,’ whispered Razi.
‘Yes, my Lord!’ she urged, thrilled to see recognition flare in his eyes. ‘Do you remember? Do you remember what your obligations are?’
‘Mary,’ he said in amazement. ‘How could I have forgot her?’
‘Mary,’ said Wynter flatly. ‘You remember Mary.’
‘She needs my help.’
‘Jesu Christi!’ Wynter threw her hands up despair. ‘Razi! I swear to God, if I need to shove you down another hill, I shall! You are bound to drive me to—’
Before she could say any more, a horse screamed in the pass above them and a stranger’s harsh cries of fear had them surging to their feet.
Boro tried to run up the shingle slope, barking and straining against his chain, eager to get to the fray. Sólmundr was dragged several feet, his cursing muffled in the covers that had been drawn up over his head. Razi leapt across his kicking body and raced for the horses. As Wynter skirted the men, Christopher threw back his covers, grabbing his sword, and shouted at her in hoarse Merron: ‘Cad é, Iseult? What is it?’
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‘Get your weapons!’ she yelled. ‘Something’s happening on the ridge!’
She reached Ozkar just as Razi finished bridling his mare. Without waiting to saddle up, he grabbed the creature’s mane and leapt on, urging her up the path. Wynter was no great lover of bareback riding, but she did the same. As she galloped past, Sólmundr released Boro and the warhound shot ahead of Razi’s mare, streaking across the grey rocks like a shadow of the wind.
It did not take a moment for Sól and Christopher to catch up: before Wynter was even halfway up the rocky path, the thunder of their horses was a reassurance at her back.
Upon the ridge there was one rider, astride a tough little horse built for speed and endurance. The man was yelling and lashing out with his sword while a snarling Loup-Garou forced his mount to back towards the cliff face. Unknown to the rider, the second Loup-Garou was slinking around behind him. Wynter was alarmed to see it making its way up the rocks to the shelf over the man’s head, obviously planning to drop on him from above.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Razi, kicking his mare over the uneven ground. ‘Watch out! Above you!’
The rider did not hear, and he kept valiantly lashing at the Loup-Garou, his terrified horse falling back with each of the Wolf ’s snarling leaps forward.
‘Look up!’ screamed Wynter.
Boro came into view then, shooting from between the rocks, and just as the first Loup-Garou leapt again for the horse’s throat, the giant warhound flew through the air and tackled it. The two creatures rolled to the side in a savagery of teeth and fur, and the rider was left swiping at empty air for a moment. Thankfully, his horse shied sideways, away from the fighting creatures and out from under the ledge.
Behind Wynter came the familiar thwack of Christopher’s crossbow. The bolt shot to the ledge above the rider and plunged itself into the ground next to the creeping Loup-Garou. Christopher spat a ripe curse as the creature leapt in fright and ran away, unharmed. At its companion’s yipping retreat, the other Wolf broke free of Boro’s clutches and raced, howling, into the jumbled rocks. Boro followed.
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Wynter saw the man’s relief turn to fear as he registered the four riders thundering towards him. He pulled his terrified horse around to face them, and she did not blame him that he crouched in his saddle and lifted his sword. She could not speak for herself, but her companions certainly made a wild spectacle. Dishevelled and fierce, they had their swords drawn and their unshaven faces were wicked with aggression. They were the very illustration of the word ‘bandits’. The poor fellow, his back literally to the wall, scanned their ranks for an opening through which to flee. As he readied himself, his intention obviously to barrel through their horses and take his chances, Wynter recognised him from King Jonathon’s court.
‘Andrew!’ she yelled. ‘Andrew Pritchard! Hold!
’ At the unlikely calling of his name, Pritchard pulled his horse to, regarding them with wide-eyed amazement. Almost immediately, he recognised Razi’s distinctive face. That seemed to terrify him even more than the thought of bandits, and, with a cry, he kicked his horse forward, hoping to shoot the gap between Christopher and Sól and escape down the path before they could turn.
‘Stop him!’ screeched Wynter, and in an act of quite astounding agility, Sólmundr threw himself from his horse’s bare back and tackled Andrew Pritchard to the ground.
Pritchard fought and struggled, but Sól pinned him down, his strong forearm pressed to the man’s throat. ‘Be good, now!’ Sól warned. ‘Be good!’
Christopher leapt from his horse, kicking the man’s sword aside, and Wynter ran across to stand over him. At the looming ring of assailants, Pritchard yelled, trying in vain to push Sólmundr from him. Christopher grinned, wickedly amused at the poor man’s panic.
‘Calm down, friend,’ he said. ‘Pretty and all as you are, we ain’t about to violate your chastity.’
‘Jesu!’ screeched Pritchard, and he kicked and writhed with extra ferocity.
‘Lord Andrew!’ snapped Wynter. ‘Be still! We shall not harm you!’ She tapped Sól’s shoulder with her sword and said in Hadrish, ‘Sól! Get off the poor man!’
Sólmundr leapt back, grinning, and he and Christopher levelled their swords at Pritchard’s head.
‘I will not talk,’ cried the lord, staggering to his feet. ‘You may save yourself the trouble of your barbarian tortures.’
Razi came to Wynter’s side, his face curious. Wynter leapt in before he could speak. ‘Lord Andrew,’ she began, but Pritchard’s eyes were on Razi, and he spoke across her as though she were not there.
‘We might have known it wasn’t your head in that sack,’ he spat. ‘What poor black bastard did you have that done to? All that you might skulk about in safety and continue your plan to undo your brother!’
Christopher’s fist came from nowhere, and Pritchard was back on the ground before Wynter registered the blow.
‘That was the Lord Razi’s friend!’ hissed Christopher, leaning over Pritchard, his face like poison. ‘And he were brought down by the likes of you. So don’t you lay that poor lad’s death at the Lord Razi’s feet, or so help me God, I’ll skin you alive!’
This exchange was conducted in Southlandast and Sólmundr could not possibly have understood it. Still, he responded to Christopher’s anger by pressing his sword to Pritchard’s throat, no trace of wicked humour left in his weathered face.
Pritchard, his hand to his nose, regarded Sól’s blade through narrowed eyes, then glared up at Razi. ‘I will not betray the Prince to you,’ he said.
Razi looked at him with horrified confusion. He opened his mouth to speak and Wynter dropped to a crouch by Pritchard’s feet, purposely drawing the man’s attention before her friend could betray himself.
‘Lord Andrew,’ she said, ‘you have mistaken the Lord Razi’s intentions. You both work to a common purpose. My Lord Razi has only just left his brother’s camp in the Indirie Valley. He travels now bearing papers from the Prince. He travels in the Prince’s name, his task being to press the Royal Prince Alberon’s case and to reconcile the true heir with his father the King.’
Pritchard regarded her with court-wary eyes. Slowly his attention returned to Razi.
‘We . . .’ said Razi. Wynter’s hands knotted. Razi cleared his throat; his voice strengthened. ‘We can show you the Prince’s documents. If that would ease your mind?’ Wynter briefly closed her eyes in relief. Even addled out of his wits, Razi was smooth as butter.
Pritchard sat slowly forward, and Wynter saw a strong desire to believe dawn in the man’s face.
‘My Lord Razi has been sent ahead of his Royal Highness,’ she assured him. ‘The Prince has bid him to smooth the way with their father. He intends to assure the King that there is no threat to his throne. To let the King know that his Royal Highness has no intention of staging a coup.’
‘I fear you are too late, my Lord,’ whispered Pritchard. ‘I fear we may both be too late. I think the King may already have lured your brother out, and I suspect he may already be set to strike.’
Razi gravely extended his hand. ‘Get up. Tell us everything you know.’
‘I must hurry, my Lord,’ said Pritchard, accepting Razi’s assistance in climbing to his feet.
Sólmundr made a show of swatting the dust from Pritchard’s back and shoulders, and Pritchard shrugged him off with an irritated snarl. Grinning, Sól began mockingly to fix the man’s dishevelled hair.
‘Sólmundr!’ snapped Wynter.
The warrior demurely spread his hands, displaying the two little knives he had removed from Pritchard’s person. Wynter smiled.
Andrew Pritchard eyed Sól with murderous disdain. He pushed his hair back off his face with no more discomposure than if Sól had produced an iced bun from the folds of his cloak. ‘I’ll have those back, please,’ he said.
‘When we’re done talking,’ murmured Christopher.
Pritchard curled his lip and turned to Razi. ‘I must hurry, my Lord. The King’s plans have been in effect for much longer than I can tell. I must try and reach the Royal Prince before he accepts his father’s invitation to parley.’
Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi. He was doing his best to play along, but expecting him to bluff his way through this was like asking a blind man to guess a colour by touch. Andrew Pritchard took their silence as mistrust. ‘Good Christ!’ he cried, flinging his hands out. ‘Do we have an accord or not? We could dance around ourselves for days here, or we can commence to deciding a course of action. What shall it be, my Lord?’
‘What is it you suspect the King of planning?’ asked Razi in a commendably neutral attempt to move the situation along.
Andrew Pritchard’s eyes skittered from Razi’s dark face to Sól and Christopher.
‘You can trust the Lord Razi’s men,’ said Wynter.
Pritchard made no secret of his scepticism, but he went on nonetheless. ‘Some members of council were providing his Royal Highness with supplies and information. The King rooted them out. They were . . . they were persuaded to talk.’
Pritchard’s usual sneer turned nauseous and he frowned miserably.
‘I am sure they were,’ muttered Christopher, sheathing his sword.
‘From what little I understand, they gave up the meeting point for Prince Alberon’s provisioners. When next the Prince’s men arrived to collect supplies, the King’s soldiers took them.’
‘Those poor men,’ whispered Wynter. ‘They were already overdue when we arrived in Alberon’s camp.’
‘I doubt they were tortured, Protector Lady. The King’s men had orders to send them back to the Prince carrying a message from his Majesty offering forgiveness and a chance to parley.’
‘It is a trap?’ asked Razi.
Pritchard nodded. ‘I suspect so, my Lord. But I am days late finding these things out. The King has already left for his rendezvous, and though I race to warn the Prince, I fear he may already have departed his camp and moved beyond my reach.’
‘Alberon . . .’ breathed Wynter.
‘It’s possible the Prince did not receive the King’s message,’ said Christopher. ‘He certainly hadn’t by the time we left camp, and he was due to leave the very next day. It’s possible that he’s right at this moment travelling the slopes below us as we planned, heading home to the palace.’
‘If that is the case, my Lord Razi must get to the palace before him,’ said Pritchard. ‘Otherwise it will look as though the Prince is attempting a coup while the King is away. You must return and convince all parties involved to hold fire until legitimate parley has been established.’
‘It is useless us returning to the palace if the Prince is blithely heading to a rendezvous elsewhere!’ cried Wynter.
‘Perhaps we should all return to the camp,’ said Christopher.
‘Where is the King planning on meeting the Prince?’ asked Razi.
Pritchard shook his head. ‘His Majesty took off with a tiny entourage of men, but told no one of his destination. There have been reports of a camp settled by the Chér Ford. But I do not know for certain. I had to leave before I could confirm the sightings. Though a royal pennant was reported, I can’t confirm that it is the King; it could be just rumours.’
The Chér Ford. Wynter knew of it. Silted over with treacherous mud, its ferry house a ruin, the ford had not been used by travellers for generations. It was deep in the remote woods, and was three days’ journey from the palace. If Alberon had received the King’s message and had decided to act on it, rather than follow their plan to return home, he would almost be there by now. She had no doubt he would be riding into a trap.
‘You must go, Lord Andrew!’ she cried, pushing Pritchard to his horse. ‘You must continue to Alberon’s camp and try and convey your message to him! You must fly!’
Christopher and Sól handed Pritchard his weapons and he leapt onto his horse.
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