From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’
With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.
‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’
The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’
Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.
‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move — no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’
Orfantal found that his eyes were adjusting and he could now make out the looming shapes of rocks and sheer cliffsides as Gripp worked up along a narrow trail. He then angled left, off the path, wending slowly between boulders, his breaths growing harsh.
There was an odd echo to those gasps and Gripp settled down to one knee. ‘We’re here.’
They were in a rock shelter, a shallow cave. Beneath Orfantal, as he was set down, was dry, powdery sand, and he settled into it. Gripp moved away and came back with a rough woollen blanket. It was not the one Orfantal’s grandmother had given him and it wasn’t Gripp’s own, which he remembered for its smell of the sage leaves which Gripp kept in a long cloth bag and folded into the bedroll when rolling it up every morning. This blanket stank of sweat and something else, pungent and musty. Once Gripp had wrapped Orfantal in its rough weave he began rubbing hard at the boy’s limbs, beginning with his feet and working his way up to his thighs; and then repeating the same rapid motions along Orfantal’s arms.
The effort brought warmth along with prickling irritation, and after a moment Orfantal pushed the hands away and curled up in the blanket.
‘Shivering again. That’s good, Orfantal. I was damned lucky to find you in time. I know you want to sleep but sleep’s not good right now. Wait a bit, wait till you feel good and warm.’
‘Where are the others? Did you fight them off?’
‘No, we didn’t fight them off. Though Haral gave a good account of himself. Migil and Thennis tried running off but got cut down from behind — fools. When you see it’s hopeless that’s when you stand. Breaking just sees you dead quicker and there’s nothing more shameful than a death-wound to the back.’ He paused and then grunted. ‘Unless you’re surrounded, of course. Then getting stabbed in the back is usually the way and there’s no shame in that.’
‘Heroes always get stabbed in the back,’ said Orfantal.
‘Not just heroes, Orfantal.’ Gripp had eased himself down into a sitting position, tenderly settling against the stone wall. ‘You know how to sew?’
The question confused him. After a moment he said, ‘I have seen the maids doing it.’
‘Good. Come light you’ve got some sewing to do.’
‘Are we going to make me some more clothes?’
‘No. Now listen, this is important. I need to sleep, too, and it might be that I don’t wake up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I don’t know how bad off I am. I think the flow’s eased but there’s no telling what that means. We’ll see. But if I don’t wake up, you’ve got to follow the road, east — the way we were going — but listen, stay off it, stay under cover. Just move alongside of the road, you understand? And if you hear riders, hide. Keep going until you’re out of the hills and then go to the nearest farm you see. Don’t try to explain anything or even tell them your bloodline — they won’t believe you. Just see if you can get a way into Kharkanas, even if it takes a week before a wagon of produce heads in. Once there, head straight for the Citadel.’
‘I understand. I will.’ And he felt for and found the tiny tin tube containing the missive Sukul had written for Hish Tulla, tucked into his belt pouch.
‘They made a mistake,’ Gripp continued, but now it seemed he was mostly talking to himself. ‘More than one, in fact. Me. You. I saw Silann, Esthala’s worthless husband. The fool never could command a unit in battle. But if he’s there then Esthala’s not far away, and she’s sharp enough. They’ll go back to the kill site, intent on tracking you from there and finishing things. But first they’ll look for my body and not find it and that will bother them more than you getting away.’ His head lifted and Orfantal sensed Gripp was looking at him once more. ‘We’re going to be quarry, you and me, as long as we’re in these hills.’
‘Hunted,’ said Orfantal.
‘Take your story to Lord Anomander, boy, no matter what.’
‘I will. Mother told me all about him.’
‘If they find our trail, I may have to lead them away from you. On my own, I mean.’
‘All right.’
He grunted. ‘You’re figuring it out. That’s fast, Orfantal. Good.’
‘Gripp, did you kill any of them?’
‘Two for sure and that pained me.’
‘Why?’
‘Wounded is better. I wounded two more and that was good. Haral tried for the same. Remember him, Orfantal. He saw you riding away. He knew he had to buy you time, and the more wounded the enemy had to deal with the better your chances. He took cuts to deliver cuts. Haral was a good man.’
Orfantal nodded. A good man. A hero. ‘Did you see him die, Gripp?’
‘No. I lost consciousness for a time — the crack I rolled into was deeper than I’d thought it would be. By the time I made my way back out the killers were gone.’
‘They set fire to the skins.’
‘Idiots, like I said. But I found Haral. They took it out on his body, if you catch my meaning.’
‘That’s a cowardly thing to do!’
‘No, just undisciplined. But I got their faces burned into my brain. I got them in here, Orfantal, and if I live, they’ll all regret what they did. Now, it’s time to sleep.’
Orfantal settled down, warm inside the blanket. But notions of sleep seemed far away now. Gripp’s story rocked and bounced through his thoughts. Warriors battling to the death, the air filled with desperation. And in the midst of it all, he saw this old man now sleeping beside him, and it seemed impossible to think of him as a warrior. He closed his eyes, and sudden as a flash, sleep took him.
Ribs was an old herding dog, at least twelve years old, with a grey muzzle, oversized ears that flicked and cocked with every quick turn of the narrow, fox-like head. The long fur was a dishevelled blend of grey and black, snarled with burrs and filthy. The beast’s eyes were vaguely crossed.
Sukul stared down at it while Castellan Rancept checked the muting straps of his weapons one more time. Torchlight flickered across the courtyard. The gate guards stood waiting at a small postern door to the left of the gate tower. The air was cold and sharp.
Rancept lumbered up to her and nodded. ‘Ready?’
‘This thing’s all bones.’
‘Tapeworm, milady.’
‘Aren’t there treatments for that?’
‘A few. But skinny dogs live longer.’ With that he turned and made his way towards the gate, Ribs trotting along happily at his side.
Rancept had confiscated the sword she’d selected, along with the spear, leaving her a dagger. None of this was going as planned. The castellan was stubborn and too quick to take charge of things, when she’d wanted to be the one in command. Of course, it was something of a victory that they were going at all. He could have forbidden her outright. She followed him to the postern door and watched as the heavy bars were pulled. As soon as the door was drawn open, Ribs slipped out.
‘Where’s he going?’ Sukul demanded.
