Mordraud, Book One (18 page)

“
You’ll see. It means spending a lot of time with the soldiers, and if I understand right, you won’t mind that at all.”

Brillia
nt, thought Mordraud. Shield-bearer, stable-boy. Something of the kind, he told himself. Any work connect with the troops was fine.

“
I can’t wait to get started!”

“
Good. That’s the right spirit,” replied Larois. “See, I told you we’d be home before nightfall. Look!”

Mordraud
followed Larois’s outstretched arm, till his eyes fell on the blurred mass of the largest building he’d ever seen. Ten, even a hundred, times larger than his house, as tall as the sky, and weighing down on the hill, flattening its peak. Eld’s fortress. The heart of the rebellion against the Cambrian Empire.

“
Wake up, Gwern! Look over there!”

“
Where?! Ah...” His brother was left gaping, still half-dozy. “It’s a real castle! I didn’t think they were so... huge.”

“
But where have you two been living?!” Larois laughed, bending over the cart seat.

“
Those are just the walls... If they seem enormous... you should see Cambria.”

N
either of them was paying attention to her words. They were too busy contemplating the sight, submerged in their daydreams.

Bustle, children and playing for
Gwern.

Opportunities, ambitions and revenge for
Mordraud.

“Boy! We need you down here!”

The veteran coughed and wheezed, grasping at his chest with one hand. The surrounding din was unbearable – a storm of voices and shouting that vibrated in the air together with the sound of metal chinking against metal.

“Shift yourself, boy! Hurry up!”

Mordraud sidestepped two men slumped on the ground, and avoided the
outstretched arm attempting to grab him. Moving around was almost impossible in the midst of the crush. At last he managed to reach the trooper who, without thanking him, seized the balm he’d made such an effort to carry safe and sound through the bedlam.

“
Ohhh... damn chicken bone!” he yelled, thumping the table with the beer mug he’d just emptied. “I was about to choke! Thanks, boy. You were quick.”

The inn was more crowded th
an a battlefield. The pewter tankards were being emptied at amazing speed. The kitchen couldn’t keep up with the orders for the house’s famous chicken and onion stew. Mordraud wiped his forehead with his already drenched shirtsleeve and helped a couple of soldiers back up onto their benches. There were too many drunks to count. Finding a sober man was an impossible task.

“
Mordraud, another trayful!”

Gwern appeared out of the kitchen barely managing to hold a huge wooden board heaped with dishes. Another round of stew and mugs of beer. Larois was very proud of those dishes. She carved them herself, out of the stale bread. The alarming thing was that she kept re-using them, leaving them to dry off in the sun for a few hours after just rinsing them.

“But doesn’t anyone complain? It’s still bread... It gets soggy...” Mordraud asked one day, while watching the woman, with mild distaste, as she scraped out the bowls with a metal rasp.

“
Our customers are not very distinguished,” she answered, chuckling. “They’ve just done six months on the front – eating off the same plate is the last of their worries.”

Mordraud took the tray f
rom his brother’s arms and set out on another awful round. The soup was boiling. Its lapping was scorching his fingers, and mixing with the cool beer. He had yet another very long day ahead.

Larois had tricked him, but only partially. She
’d promised him and his brother a job and a place they could stay for a while. She’d welcomed them with a small room in her home, which stood right above the sole, large, tavern in Eldain’s fief. She’d told him he’d see a lot of the soldiers, and that he’d be working for them. That was all true. But Mordraud was not expecting to have to play the skivvy in an inn. He’d dreamt about serving a cavalryman, or helping the rebels at the front, even if only by digging, carrying water, or a thousand other things all much closer to his goal.

“
What are you complaining about?” the woman always replied. “Didn’t I tell you you’d be helping the soldiers? That’s how you help them! Bringing them drink!”

Larois was the landlady of the inn – a large hall with its wooden walls covered in knick-knacks pegged up at random, painted plates, farming tools, spears and swords pilfe
red at war... She’d inherited the place from her husband, who used to work with her. She didn’t have the heart to shut it down, as it was the only distraction for the men returning from the front, and so she’d struggled on alone for years. Until she came across two new helpers.

Mordraud served at
the tables while Gwern lent a hand in the kitchen. Too small to be at the stove and too weedy to haul up the supplies from the cellar, he did all he could to make her work easier, and Larois was more than glad to have a child to keep her company. Gwern seemed much better with her around. His fits weren’t so frequent. He had a smile on his face and had found a bit of energy.

The work in the inn came and went in waves, following the rhythm of the soldiers returning from the front. Mordraud took advantage of the quiet days to go wandering along the streets in the fief, or to train alone behind the house where Larois attended to her florid vegetable garden. The
town was much smaller than it had seemed to him at first. A village squeezed between mighty walls permanently guarded over by lookouts, and Eldain’s castle. Workshops, stores, smithies and stables – everything was squashed inside that stone ring. The houses were juxtaposed to the walls, one row after another, small but wretchedly adequate for the lean families living there. Eld was paying a high price for a war that gave no signs of subsiding in ferocity. Everybody in the town had lost someone, whether he be father, husband or son – and often more than one. The fields were tended by the women and the elderly, watched over by guards for fear of bandit raids. Many residents had not forsaken their farms, thus exposing themselves to constant danger. But Eld’s people were tough, and unaccustomed to compromise. They had no intention of giving an inch of what had been theirs by right for centuries.

Mordraud was astonished b
y how many people could live so packed together. At times, as he walked briskly past the shops, where the women came to buy what little food still reached the fief, he felt the irresistible urge to escape to quieter lanes. The crowds terrified him. Instead, Gwern seemed to feel at ease among all those adults, who were always kind to him. A hunk of bread, a couple of slices of salted ham, even some of the season’s fruit. He was always holding something when he came back to the inn to start working. They would sleep in the same bed at night, worn out by the day’s hectic pace, and they’d vie to tell each other about the most interesting things they’d seen. Gwern would always win. And if Mordraud hadn’t stopped him, he’d have been able to go on all night.

“
There’s that butcher, know the one I mean? Thin and lanky, with those bulging eyes... He’s like that because he used to go with tarts. So a woman behind the counter at the baker’s was saying... Know the one? That tall one who’s always got a red neck... He drinks all day but he’s a good man really. His wife’s always telling her friends. One of them’s... blonde, short... you often see her in the square...”

Mordraud would nod, trying not to lose track. Impossible. His brother was worse than an old
maid. He would listen, and chat to everyone: he spent his time with Eld’s people. He’d been a different person since they’d arrived at the fiefdom. Gwern was growing up in the right place.

“
Are you listening? You have to pay attention here... it gets complicated. The baker’s wife’s friend... just think! She’s having an affair with a foot-soldier in the army, who’s far younger! They do it in secret, behind the stables south of the walls. Unbelievable, don’t you think?!”

“
Huh... what?”

“
Well, he’s much younger than her! I suppose it’s like, um...” Gwern whispered so as not to be heard by anyone. “...It’s like if you and Larois did it together!”

“
Gwern, do you know what
to do it
or
not do it with someone
means?”

The boy considered it, and Mordraud sniggered, letting out a sigh.

“It means they kiss each other, they touch each other. Basically... they do certain things...”

“
THAT?!”

“
Exactly.”

Mordra
ud had the distinct feeling he’d revealed to him the biggest secret in the world. Sometimes he forgot his brother was ten years younger than him, and was still little more than a child.

“
I don’t believe you.”

“
Look, tomorrow go to Larois and tell her: I want to do it with you.”

Gwern shook h
is head in bafflement. “What’re you saying?! She’s old!”

“
Well, you said I could do it with her...! So why don’t you? What d’you say?”

“
But I didn’t know! No, no! You couldn’t do it with her, I’m sure you couldn’t... And let’s stop saying these things – it’s all just coming out of my mouth without me wanting it to!”

“
Okay... So, where were you?”

Gwern got back to telling his stories. How
much time had gone by since that night with The Stranger, Mordraud thought. He was losing track. He’d not forgotten even a moment of it, and he was sure that Gwern too was not free of that awful burden. But his brother was doing all he could to leave the past behind him, and he was managing wonderfully. Instead, he was making a much worse job of it.

“
...What was it like before?”

Mordraud realised he hadn
’t listened to even a word. “Sorry... what?!”

“
Mum and dad... What were they like before?”

The question m
ade his blood run cold. “Why on earth did you start thinking about that?!”

“
You were muttering mum’s name while I was talking.”

How could he have been such a twit, he wondered in amazement. He didn
’t feel at all ready to talk to Gwern about their family.

“
Let’s see... When before? Ten years ago? Twenty?”

“
No, before I was born,” replied Gwern, a serious look on his face.

“
You’re not thinking...?”

“
Well, perhaps,” said Gwern, stumbling a bit on his words. “Maybe... it was my fault mum got ill, and so dad...”

“
NEVER SAY THAT AGAIN!”

Mordraud shouted without realising, springing up from the bed. He covered his left hand at once, to conceal the shaking.
“You’re not to blame if mum fell ill. It was dad’s fault... all his fault. And Dunwich’s too, because he didn’t come home to help.”

“
But mum once told me our brother was so clever everyone wanted him in Cambria... And that he sent lots of money home, with doctors for me and her...”

“
And what good did that do?! Is mum still alive? Are you well?!”

“
Mordraud, don’t yell at me... You’re frightening me...” mumbled Gwern, distressed.

“
Sorry... I’m sorry...”

Mordraud hugged him, squeezing him tight. He couldn
’t keep his anger under control. He wasn’t able to. He only managed it when he could let himself go – a contradictory solution, he thought sullenly. “You’re not to blame, you never were. Do you believe me?”

“
Yes, I believe you,” stammered Gwern with tears in his eyes. “But please don’t be angry with me...”

“
I’m not angry with you,” he murmured, stroking his hair. “I’m just a bit... well, I don’t know how to put it...”

“
Scurrilous?”

“
And where did you hear that one?!” exclaimed Mordraud.

“
Larois is always saying so. That you’re a good boy, a very good boy... but that you’re coarse and a bit scurrilous.”

“
But do you know what ‘scurrilous’ means?”

Gwern raised his eyes and shook his head decisively. Mordraud leant over to whisper in his ear.

“Do you remember the other evening, when that soldier grabbed a mug of beer that wasn’t his?”

“
Yeah...”

“
Know what I said to him?”

Mordraud repeated word for word the complicated curse that was popular among soldiers at the time. Gwern went white as a sheet and burst out laughing, covering his mouth.

“The Gods wouldn’t like something like that, certainly not right there...”

***

Winter came, and with it the customary and meagre seasonal truce. A wonderful recurrence. The bitter cold, snow and ice sent Cambria’s cravings for grandeur into hibernation, and gave Eld time to catch its breath. Just a few sporadic assaults by the Imperial troops taunted the front, which was never deserted by the rebel forces.

These months saw the inn become the heart of
town life. Mordraud and Gwern slogged like slaves, and Larois had to invent something new in the kitchens every evening, being careful how she used the supplies the castle provided her with. The beer began to run scarce as usual, and they hauled out the barrels holding the stronger liquor they’d wisely made and stored. The men got drunk quicker, and ordered less of it. All the tables were stages to competitions to see who could narrate the most heroic and unlikely events, and Mordraud would listen, biting his lip in frustration. He wanted to take part in the war too. His work at the inn was stifling him, it got on his nerves to the point of keeping him awake at night: his sleep was fitful and restless on the best of days.

“
The Lances were charging us, and one of them attempted to get over the Rampart to take us by surprise. They’d already planted their torches in the ground... The flames were beginning to blaze out of control!”

One story was attracting more listeners than others, through its exaggeration and inventiveness.
“The arrows were showering down like rain, and the soldier next to me was like a pin-cushion... I felt a pain in my shoulder, but I grabbed the wooden shaft, and BAM!”

The young soldier, drunk to his eyeballs, got up bashing his pewter
tankard on the table. “I snapped it in two, and used the stump to pierce his horse’s cheek. The Lances can go screw themselves!”