It was a form of panic, to spin off thought after thought, none of them connected to the monster on the road ahead of him, or the wave of terror that it emitted like a fist of fear.
‘
A lance of fire sprang from his riding stick to the winged creature, whose head was bathed in flame for as long as man might draw a deep breath. The liquid parts of the creature’s head vaporized and its skull exploded, lit by the intense flame of the lance of fire.
The fire went out, apart for some pale blue flames that licked at the creature’s neck for a few heartbeats before sizzling out.
Silence fell, in which the creature’s tail lashed the ground –
The silence went on, and on. The night smelled of singed hair and burnt soap.
The Magus drew a deep breath. Raised his riding crop and blew gently on the silver rune set in the gold cap. He smiled to himself, despite the fatigue that settled on his shoulders like a haubergeon of mail, and allowed himself a single ‘heh’.
He watched the northern horizon as the fire flickered there again, then dismounted and walked through the darkness to the creature’s side and muttered ‘Fiat lux.’ His light was blue and pale, but it sufficed.
He made a clucking sound, reached out into the night with his senses, recoiled from what he found there and ran for his horse.
East of Lissen Carak – Peter
Peter lay in a state of angry exhaustion and watched the pale fire flicker in the distant west. He had to tear his eyes away from it and watch the darkness to be sure that the whole thing wasn’t just his imagination. But it was true – above the endless trees, somewhere to the west, there was a great fire. So great, it reflected from the cliff face above him in long flashes of light.
His two ‘masters’ slept through it.
He struggled with his yoke again, surrendered again, and fell asleep.
Awoke to the smaller man kneeling beside him.
‘Cook,’ he said. ‘Wake up. Something is out here with us,’ he added. There was fear in his voice.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked the other Morean.
‘I’m letting him out of this yoke,’ said the smaller man. ‘I’m not going to run and leave him to die. Jesu – I’m a better man than that.’
‘He’s a pagan, or a heretic, or some such filth. Leave him.’ The first man was loading the mule as fast as he could. It was dark, but not true dark – the first pale light of morning. And something heavy was moving in the bush.
‘I am a Christian man,’ Peter said.
‘See?’ said the smaller man. He fumbled with the chains. Grunted.
‘Come on!’ shouted his friend.
The shorter man pulled again, slammed the yoke against a rock, and scrambled to his feet. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We don’t have the key.’ And he followed his mate into the woods, leaving Peter lying on the ground.
He lay there and waited to die.
But no one came for him, and you can only be so terrified for so long.
He got to his feet and stumbled over a stump he’d made himself the night before. The axe handle bruised his shin. The idiots had left their axe.
He plucked it from the stump. He went through the camp, over the broken ground in the near dark – camp was too strong a word for a place where three men had built a fire the size of a rabbit and lain on the bare ground. But by the fire he found an earthenware cup, still intact, and a tinderbox with both char cloth, flint and a steel.
Peter knelt on the ground and prayed to God. He managed a bittersweet thanks, and then he put the cup and the tinderbox into the front of his shirt, tied them in place, and made his way to the road, just a few horse lengths to the north. It was the main road from the eastern seaports to the Albin Plains. He knew that much.
To the east lay civilization and safety – and slavery.
To the west lay the Albin River and the Wild. Peter had seen the Wild, red in tooth and claw. And it had not enslaved him. So he shouldered the axe and headed west.
Harndon Palace – Desiderata
She read the note with ill-concealed irritation. ‘He gave this to you when?’ she asked the terrified boy.
‘Yesterday, r’Grace,’ he mumbled. ‘Which – er – cook sent me to Cheapside and me mum was sick-’
She looked at him. She was annoyed – she loved the useless old Magus the way she loved her magnificent Eastern riding horse, and his recent display of
‘An he took a horse – a fine horse – r’Grace. Had leather bags – had hisn staff.’ The boy’s desire to please was palpable, and she relented.
She turned to Lady Almspend and motioned at her waist. ‘Give the boy a leopard for his pains and send Mastiff to the Magus’ rooms in the tower. I would like a full report.’ She made a face. ‘Sir Richard?’
Sir Richard Fitzroy was the old king’s bastard son, a handsome man, a fine knight, and a reliable messenger. He doted on the Queen, and the Queen appreciated his stability.
He was attending her, obviously courting Lady Almspend now that his low-born rival was gone.
She beckonned to him. ‘Sir Richard – I need a private word with the king,’ she said.
‘Consider it done,’ he allowed, and bowed himself out.
East of Albinkirk – Gerald Random
Gerald Random woke to hear Guilbert Blackhead rapping for entrance to his tent – knocking on the tent’s cross-pole with his sword hilt. Random was on his feet in an instant, dagger in hand, and he was awake in another.
‘What is it?’ he asked, fumbling for the hooks and eyes that would open the flap.
‘No idea. But you had better see it.’ Guilbert’s urgency was carried fluently.
Random was out of the tent in another few heartbeats.
They were camped in a narrow meadow on the banks of the Albin, and the great river was in full flood, running fast and deep and almost silent, the black water sullen in the damp night air. They’d been hit by rain squalls again and again all day, and men and animals were still as wet and as sullen as the water.
Far off, north-east, the first crags of the mountains should have been visible, but low clouds drifted right over them, obscuring them for minutes at a time and then clearing just as rapidly, keeping the grass and the trees full of water.
As the next low cloud passed by, the Adnacrag Mountains loomed even in the darkness. Random thought that they might make the fortress town of Albinkirk in four more days. It was not the distance but the condition of the road at this time of year which delayed them. The river road, with its stone bridges and deep stone foundations built by the Archaics, was the only one a sane man would travel with heavy wagons. Every other road was fetlock deep in mud. But all the same, it was not easy.
There was an orange glow to the north.
‘Just watch,’ Guilbert said.
After six days on the road Random had the warrant-man’s measure – careful, cautious, and thorough. Perhaps not the man for a deed of daring, but just the sort of man to work a convoy. The guard posts were always manned and constantly checked.
Whatever he was trying to show the merchant, it was important.
Random watched a flicker – was it more than that? North-west, towards the fair. Perhaps – but they were too far for the fair to be visible. It was fifty leagues away or more – they were not yet to Albinkirk.
‘There!’ said the mercenary.
