Gray drew his blade and balanced it on its tip before them, showing the etched alloy to the engrossed guardsmen. Ramnea, she was called, and she was a beauty. Long, thin and paler than any Unthank blade that Roper had ever beheld. Her handle was engraved whale-bone and she seemed almost to glow in the dying light. She shared her name with the dog-headed angel of divine vengeance, and it had been an act of unusual generosity to bequeath the sword to Gray. The argument could be made that it had not even been Reynar’s to give. It was one of the most famous blades in the land, handed down through the Vidarr for centuries and highly coveted by Reynar’s own sons. A weapon of such quality was considered the property of the family throughout generations, rather than just one man. The nature of Reynar’s death and his surpassing stature had meant that the Vidarr had been generous, however, and had not contested Gray’s claim on the weapon. Reynar had started a new path for it; not father to son, but from one exceptional warrior to another.
“There ends my tale; you shall not hear it again,” said Gray. “Since my lord asks, that is why I believe the state of mind I seek to be possible. Ramnea reminds me of it, every day. She reminds me that by shielding myself from what I knew must be done, I allowed a great man to die for me. To that example, I dedicate my life.”
Gray sheathed the sword in the ensuing silence. Then he shrugged. “But who cares what I say? This is all irrelevant if I don’t live as I talk. Worse than irrelevant.” Two quick spoonfuls and he had finished his hoosh. He stood, face crumpling slightly, and deposited his bowl by the fire. “I’m going to relieve the sentries. Well fought today, all of you. Especially you, my lord.” The guardsmen thumped their feet again and Gray departed.
Later, Pryce left the fireside and headed for the outer rim of the camp. He collected a thick leather roll of supplies: bleached linen strips, phials of vinegar in which betony had been soaked, spools of silk and catgut thread, curved steel needles, four tweezers (two needle-nosed, two flat-nosed), several leather tourniquets and a sharp knife. He skirted the camp perimeter, raising a hand to the sentries who hailed him, and soon found Gray staring out into an ink-black night. The moon and stars had vanished without trace behind dense cloud.
“Old fool,” Pryce said irritably.
“What?”
“Show me your leg.”
Gray lifted his chain-mail skirt to reveal a jagged wound in his thigh; deep and clotted thickly with blood. “Sit,” commanded Pryce. Gray sat, stretching out the injured leg before him, and Pryce began to clean it with a linen cloth, soaked in the betony vinegar. “How did you get this?”
Gray took a deep breath and closed his eyes as the vinegar seeped into the wound. “Doing what you should be doing now; protecting the Black Lord.”
“He’s safe,” said Pryce dismissively.
“Not without you,” said Gray urgently. “Today’s victory has put him in greater danger than ever. Uvoren will hear of this soon and he will know that Roper has become a genuine threat. Gosta and Asger will be looking for an opportunity to kill him; all Uvoren’s friends will.”
“Uvoren is safe inside the Hindrunn with thirty thousand soldiers,” said Pryce. “He has no need for underhand tactics.”
“Even Uvoren would rather avoid the necessity of obliterating half the legions before the walls of the Hindrunn,” insisted Gray. “He will try to have him killed, and soon. Before he can make any more of a name for himself.”
With the clotting cleaned away, Gray’s wound was now bleeding freely again. Pryce looked at it thoughtfully, wiping away the blood, and then bade Gray press a wad of linen against it whilst he threaded one of the needles with silk. He washed his hands in vinegar, removed Gray’s palm from the wound and began to stitch it together.
“You needn’t worry, Gray. I can stop Gosta,” he said, finishing a stitch and blotting the wound. “And Asger. I’ll even stop them together, if I have to.” He bit his lip as he focused on the work.
“You can only stop them if you’re with him. I won’t leave unless I have to, but one of us must always remain and it should be you. I won’t defeat Gosta one-on-one.”
“Nannying,” said Pryce angrily. “How long am I to stay diligently by his side?”
“As long as is necessary,” said Gray, simply. “You are a Sacred Guardsman, are you not? Guard him.”
“Get someone else to do it.”
“There’s no one else I trust. Maybe Helmec, but I do not know him well enough for his loyalties to be clear.”
Pryce shook his head, tightening a stitch sharply and causing Gray to take a sudden breath. “Sorry,” he muttered. He finished the stitching in silence and then began winding a linen strip around the wound, finishing the dressing with a tight knot.
“Thank you, Pryce,” said Gray.
“So I must watch over him now?”
“Now and until we’ve worked out how to be rid of Gosta and Asger. But you think you could fight the two of them?”
“Perhaps,” said Pryce, frowning.
“Well, then maybe they’ll make it simple for us and attack whilst you guard him.”
“I wouldn’t do this for anyone else, Gray,” said Pryce, getting to his feet and swinging the leather roll onto his back. He looked angry and clearly wanted to say more. “I’m certainly not doing it for Roper.”
Gray stood with a little grunt of pain and took Pryce’s hand. “I know,” he said, turning back to the darkness.
10The Pass Beside the Sea
The first thing the Sacred Guard did before their day began was to pray. They lived lives more
