Waterborne Exile (33 page)

Brett pulled on his clothes and tiptoed out. The sky to the east glowed with pre-dawn light, but true daylight wouldn’t be upon them for another hour yet. It was a good time to travel.

He’d meant to walk around a bit in the fresh air, ease the tension in his mind and body, but suddenly he knew he had to act: he had to seek out the Lady Alwenna. She’d told him not to, but… this was something he could not ignore.

Mind made up, he crept back inside, grabbed some dried meat and a costrel to carry water. He would fill it at the stream on his way out of the valley. Balancing saddle and bridle over one arm he stepped outside again, closed the door carefully behind him and set off to the horse pasture. He’d not gone more than a dozen paces when a voice behind him interrupted.

“Brett, wait. What are you up to?” His elder brother Malcolm had followed him.

“I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d go for a ride, go hunting, you know.”

“You left your bow behind. You won’t catch much without that.”

Brett shrugged. “I was going to check the snares.”

“No you weren’t.” Malcolm studied him severely. “I’m not bothered what you get up to, but Ma’ll worry. You know how she is.”

None knew better. “She might worry less if I’m gone.”

“What, seriously? You can’t just sneak off like this.”

“I’ve a good reason.”

Sometimes his brother was more perceptive than Brett liked to admit. This proved to be one of those times.

“It’s the landbound queen, isn’t it? You’re going after her.”

Brett shrugged. “It’s not like you make it sound. She’s in danger. I’ve had such nightmares…”

Malcolm’s expression changed subtly, from accusation to understanding. “You, too?”

“You’ve had them as well?”

“Whenever I slept last night, it was as if something was stalking me. I couldn’t see what or where it was, but… It was enough to stop me sleeping.”

Brett nodded. “Then you can see I’ve got to try and find them?”

Malcolm nodded reluctantly. “We don’t even know where they went.”

“I followed their tracks the day after they left. They went up into the mountains. I’ll find them.”

“I’m coming, too. Erin’s with her, remember?”

“You have no horse, Mal. I think I need to travel fast. You keep Ma at bay – someone should know where I’ve gone.”

Malcolm grimaced. “I’d sooner come with you.”

Brett grinned suddenly, an echo of his father’s irrepressible humour. “I’m going, before you suggest swapping places.”

A few minutes later, Brett was riding his horse out along the trail towards the mountains, thanking the Goddess he’d followed their trail all those days ago. It was a relief to be doing something at last, after all the days spent at Scarrow’s Deep treading on eggshells, trying not to mention his father or the Lady Alwenna in his mother’s presence when they’d been the two people most on his mind. The shadow of his nightmare still clung about him, but it had lost its strength out in the open as the sun rose. In its place was the certainty he was doing the right thing.

Vasic had decreed the challengers should fight outside in the courtyard, where there was more room. They were surrounded now by an eager crowd. Vasic and his bride watched from a vantage points on the steps. The first thing Weaver noticed was how uneven the cobbles were underfoot. That would give Rekhart the advantage: he was young, strong, in his prime. Weaver was far from his best game. He’d not done anything like enough training to recover his fitness since the fire – the only advantage he could claim over his opponent was he’d been sober these past weeks and was sober now. But he’d taught Rekhart well, more years ago than he cared to think about and that advantage would be of little use to him.

The sky was overcast, so there was no advantage to be gained from sunlight. They circled cautiously, neither willing to engage. The crowd began to jeer. This was helping no one. Weaver adopted fool’s guard, placing his right foot forward and, holding his sword at waist height, lowered the point. Rekhart took the bait and lunged for his head: Weaver brought his point up, responding in kind and they’d broken the impasse.

The younger man fought with the desperation of one who was cornered and had only one way out: that way led through Weaver. Every camp fire they’d shared, every tense wait for battle, the years of their friendship – all had come down to this. Rekhart’s every movement was steeled with desperation, and, may the Goddess be merciful, he had the edge on Weaver now. His technique was ragged – always had been – but he was moving more easily on the uneven ground and his reactions were swifter than Weaver’s.

Weaver slipped on the cobbles. His right foot shot out from under him and he overbalanced, dropping to one knee which hit the ground with a painful crunch, sending shockwaves jarring through his upper body. Weaver dropped his sword, hand slapping on the ground to keep himself upright.

Rekhart stared at Weaver, lowering his sword point and backing away. “Damn it, I never thought it would end like this.”

“The time for thinking’s long past, Jaseph. Just get it over with.” The pain through his knee was incredible.

“No. Not this way. Take up your sword.” Rekhart waited, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The crowd jeered again, louder than before.

Weaver gritted his teeth and took hold of his sword before pushing himself up to stand on his own two feet once more. Weaver tested his weight on his knee: the result wasn’t good, but it held him. He had a vague recollection of the grey brother he had fought at the summer palace. The man had been unstoppable: he’d never blinked, never showed any sign of fatigue… It was an effort for Weaver simply to pull the air in and out of his lungs. He was no more one of the grey brethren than Rekhart here. Well, Goddess willing, here would be an end to it all. He was almost glad: his death would make a poor spectacle for Vasic.

“Come on, what are you waiting for?” Rekhart glared at him, his eyes wild. Once a man looked at life like that, there was no standing in his way. But old habits died hard.

Weaver readied his guard. “I’ve slowed down, Rekhart. A bit like you.”

“What are you implying?” They began to circle again.

“A few years have passed since we last sparred in the training grounds. You’ve changed.” The longer he kept Rekhart talking, the better his chance of recovering his breath.

“Everyone changes. What of it?”

“It can’t just be the drink. Something must have driven you to it.”

Rekhart shook his head. “You don’t know what it was like.”

“But selling yourself to the likes of Jervin? A far cry from the city watch. No wonder you turned to drink.”

“Do you dare to judge me? I lost everything.” The crowd were jeering and booing now, so no one was likely to overhear their words.

“That’s too bad.” Weaver shrugged. “I lost my wife and child, Rekhart, but I never lost my honour.”

Rekhart grimaced. “Damn you, you’ve not always been so pure.”

Weaver could guess what was coming next.

“Like when you were shagging your king’s wife – not so honourable then, were you?”

Weaver saw red then. He’d had no appetite for this fight – not until that moment.

Weaver waded in with an overhand blow, feinting at the last minute. Rekhart sidestepped, too late to avoid Weaver’s blade slicing through his ear. Blood spurted over Rekhart’s shoulder as he hurled himself at Weaver. He displayed no science, no technique in his fury, keeping up the onslaught until, finally, Weaver had no answer. Weaver made a half-hearted attempt to parry the blow, but he was tired, so tired. And Rekhart found the precise point between his ribs with heart-stopping certainty.

The pain was every bit as excruciating as it had been the day Weaver had died on the stone slab in the cellar beneath the summer palace. Here was an end to it. He would have muttered a word of thanks, but his vision was already dimming, and his voice wouldn’t respond to the commands his brain sent it.

Rekhart withdrew his sword from Weaver’s chest, the blade stinging every inch of the way. Blood spilled from the wound, dark and thick and sluggish, congealing on the hand Weaver pressed to the gash in his chest. Not that he could hope to staunch that wound. He dropped his hand, realising it was useless, but the blood spilled no more. Weaver stared stupidly at his fingers. The blood there was dark brown, as if old and spent long ago. Yet he still stood. The pain in his chest had subsided. He still held his sword in his right hand, just as it should be. There was a rightness about it all.

Rekhart stared at him in open-mouthed dismay.

“What’s the matter, Jaseph? Cat got your tongue?”

Rekhart staggered back. “Impossible. That was a fatal blow. I killed you.”

Weaver smiled, a lazy smile that Rekhart seemed to find worse than anything he’d said before that moment.

“I killed you! I know it!” Rekhart lunged forwards again, swinging his sword wildly at Weaver, slicing his shoulder open. Weaver shrugged off the blow and Rekhart drew his dagger, plunging it into Weaver’s chest where the sword had pierced him before. “I struck you through the heart, I know I did.” He staggered back, leaving his dagger protruding from Weaver’s rib cage.

Weaver pulled the blade out and tossed it away.

“Well, that much was thoughtful, I suppose. A clean kill. Do you expect me to thank you?”

If the Goddess had spared him, she’d done it for a reason. And Weaver had not far to look to find that reason: it glared at him through Rekhart’s eyes, resentful and unthinking, like some feral creature. He’d been a good man once, but had lost his way beyond recall. Weaver knew what the Goddess required of him.

As if he sensed Weaver’s new resolve, Rekhart charged at him, launching an overhead blow, with the clear intent of decapitating him. Weaver raised his hands and deflected Rekhart’s blade with his own. He stepped forward, capturing both Rekhart’s arms with his left arm, so they were locked face to face. Rekhart’s elbows were pinned, leaving his sword useless behind Weaver, with Weaver’s blade between them at head height. Rekhart’s anger turned to horror an instant before Weaver punched the cross guard of his sword through the younger man’s eye socket, cleansing the fear from his face with a burst of gore.

Weaver released Rekhart. His lifeless body twisted as he fell to the cobbles and landed with his injured eye to the ground. His remaining good eye stared toward Weaver, devoid of any expression, but devoid, too, of any pain. The corpse that lay there was recognisable as his erstwhile friend, but Weaver could find no regret for him in his heart – or whatever it was that now impelled his body forward, day after day. Rekhart had fallen long ago, dragged down by evil deeds that should never have been his lot. All Weaver had done was tidy away the messy remainder of the man he’d once been. Now he methodically cleaned his sword and sheathed it once more.

Vasic clapped his hands and the rest of the onlookers followed with their applause. Weaver acknowledged it with a single nod as he fought to recover his breath. Durstan stood at the edge of the crowd, watching with an expression of unholy pleasure on his face.

From where he stood, Marten could see the soldiers lifting Rekhart’s body from the cobbles. Vasic continued to applaud. Weaver was still catching his breath, acknowledging the applause with nothing more than a sour nod. The king had a new champion.

The Lady Drelena turned away from the scene, her expression stricken. A solitary maidservant scurried to keep up with her as she made her way back to the keep. She would pass close by the place where Marten stood. This was his moment.

He stepped forward, bowing with all the grace he could muster, once again regretting the absence of his court finery. “Your highness, I can see this scene has distressed you. May I offer you my arm for support?”

She eyed him with something close to suspicion. “I have seen you at court; my husband called you freemerchant, did he not?”

“He has done so, my lady, on many occasions. But I trust you will not think the worse of me for that?”

“I do not even know your name, sir. I doubt I shall think of you at all.”

“My name is Marten, my lady.”

“What, simply Marten? You must have the shortest name at court.”

Marten bowed. “I may safely lay claim to that distinction. As a former freemerchant – for I can claim to be one no longer – I have no estates to my name and no title to brandish about.”

“Well, there must be something to recommend you, or you would not be here. Dare I hope it is your wit? Lend me your arm, sir. I am, as you rightly observed, sickened by what has taken place here today – divert me and you shall have my gratitude.”

“Shall I be your jester, my lady, and fill your ears with empty witticisms?”

“No. Nothing would annoy me more greatly. Tell me about yourself – of your homeland.”

“My homeland? Alas, I was born a freemerchant and I have none. The road is my home.”

“None at all?” They had reached the edge of the courtyard. Onlookers were still milling around, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the carnage.

“Nothing that you would call home, my lady. There is a place where those who are too old or infirm to travel stay, where we have scraped shelter from unforgiving ground.”

“Is it near the sea? That is what I call home.”

“No, my lady, it is as far from the sea as it is possible to be.”

“Further even than Highkell? I cannot imagine that. I am almost curious to see such a place.”

“There is little enough to see. It is a barren place which offers little comfort save what we carry in our own hearts.”

“And is that not enough?”

Marten smiled ruefully. “If it were, my lady, I would not be here.”

“So you are a man with a purpose. Yes, I can see that. Does this place of yours have a name?”

“We call it Scarrow’s Deep. But you will not find it on any map of the Peninsular Kingdoms.” Marten stepped aside so she could precede him into the building. The silence within the stone walls was an eerie contrast to the activity outside.

“Is that a challenge, freemerchant?” Her voice rang out, startling in the silence and she lowered it as she continued to speak. “Goddess, how this place broods. At home we were never free of the cry of seagulls. I miss them more than I ever imagined possible.”