‘Who are you?’ Thoriol managed to blurt out. He had to grasp the doorframe to keep from falling. ‘Where am I?’
The elf with the scar motioned to his companions, who rose silently and left the cabin by a door at the other end. Then Scar-face beckoned Thoriol to join him at the table.
‘Come,’ he said. His voice had an earthy quality, rich with the accent of Chrace. ‘You look like you could use a seat.’
In the absence of better options, Thoriol tottered over to the table, collapsed onto the bench and slumped to his elbows.
‘Who are you?’ he asked again, feeling like he might be sick a second time.
‘Baelian.’
Thoriol stared stupidly, wondering if that should mean something to him. ‘That all?’
Baelian shrugged. ‘What do you want to know? This is my ship. The archers aboard are my company. As are you, of course.’
‘As am I,’ Thoriol repeated. He felt thick-headed. Some of what Baelian said resonated faintly with him, as if he’d dreamed of it a long time ago. ‘I have no idea what has happened, but I warn you, sir, my father is–’
‘Yes, you explained all of that,’ said Baelian. ‘Do you not remember?’
Thoriol managed to summon up the energy for a cold look. ‘Obviously not.’
‘You had taken a lot of it. Your first time, perhaps? It can do that to the unwary.’
As Baelian spoke, some recollection began to filter back through Thoriol’s addled mind. The dream-philtre. The poppy.
‘How long have I been out?’ he asked nervously.
‘Three days.’
Thoriol felt dizzy. He stared at the rough grain of the wood, trying to latch on to something certain. ‘If you have taken me against my will,’ he said, as deliberately as he was able, ‘you will suffer for it.’
Baelian laughed. He pushed back, hands behind his head. ‘Do I look like the kind? This is what you wanted, lad. You may not remember it now, but you will.’
As Baelian spoke Thoriol began to have the horrible feeling that he had done something very rash. His memory began to come back in slivers – he recalled speaking to Baelian in the House, watching the scar with fascination in the light of the lanterns.
‘Why don’t you remind me?’ Thoriol suggested. ‘That might save some time.’
‘As you wish.’ Baelian reached across the table and rifled through some leaves of parchment before drawing one out. He pushed it across to Thoriol. ‘Your scroll of warrant. You signed it before we left Lothern.’
Thoriol stared at the sheet. It was covered with a dense screed of runes and had a wax seal at its base. Just above the seal he could see his own scrawled handwriting.
‘We spoke for a long time,’ explained Baelian. ‘You wanted to escape, I made you a proposal. You were very keen to take it up. It’ll all come back in time.’
‘What does this mean?’ Thoriol asked, struggling to decipher what he’d been given – the words seemed to swim before his eyes.
‘You are a member of my company of archers. You’ve had the training, you know how to use a longbow. The pay’s good, and in gold. You’ll get it, too: ask anyone. Nothing to worry about, lad. You wanted to escape, and this is your chance.’
Thoriol ran a shaking hand through his blond-grey hair. His nausea got worse with every revelation. Some of what Baelian told him resonated, some of it didn’t.
‘You took advantage,’ Thoriol accused, putting as much authority as he could into his voice. ‘I was not in my right mind. You have no hold over me.’
Baelian looked amused. ‘Is that right? That’s not what the parchment says.’
‘I had taken a… dream-philtre.’
‘A dream-philtre? I’m shocked. You know they’re prohibited?’
Thoriol looked up into Baelian’s eyes and saw the mockery there. ‘So that’s how this works.’
Baelian sighed. ‘Look, lad, this can be as easy or hard as you make it. You’re one of the company. You can’t change that, not until I release you, but you’re no slave. Like I say, you’ll be paid, you’ll be trained. The captains aren’t too picky about who serves these days, not with two wars running at once, so you’ll be fine. Anyway, I look after my own.’
Thoriol barely listened. Already thoughts of his father’s vengeance were running through his head. He guessed that this Baelian didn’t fully understand who he’d taken on; telling him again would do no good, as he’d surely not convince him now. A familiar voice of derision echoed through his head.
You are a failure. You have failed again. And this time you are on your own.
‘So where are we going?’ he asked. He had to plan, to think, to recover. He was of the House of Tor Caled, the lineage of the Dragontamer – something would turn up.
‘Where do you think? Where the fighting is.’
For a moment, Thoriol had a terrifying vision of Naggaroth – a land he had only heard about in hushed whispers. He knew that his father had campaigned in the seas off the frozen coasts, and there were rumours that asur raiding parties had penetrated the interior. Even before Baelian spoke again, though, he realised how stupid that idea was.
‘The colonies, lad,’ said Baelian. ‘A long way from Ulthuan. You should be happy – you can make a fine fortune in the east, and whatever you’re running away from back home won’t follow you out there.’
Thoriol nodded wearily. So that was that – a single night’s indiscretion, and he’d allowed himself to be hoodwinked into a stint in the wilderness. Once the ship made landfall he’d have to think hard on how to get out of it.
‘Tor Alessi?’ he asked, trying to picture how the next few weeks were likely to unfold.
‘Where else?’ said Baelian. ‘Or, as you’ll start to think of it soon, home.’
Thoriol smiled acidly. The stench of vomit was beginning to seep from his cabin, mirroring his mood. It was hard to think of a way in which he could have got things more badly wrong.
Of course, there
