Malkrin felt the cold wind stinging his raw ankles where the shackles had rubbed. With a limp he trudged along an animal path meandering along the only route from the mountainous valleys of Cyprusnia. The frontier sentry posts and the palisade guarding the fertile valleys were over two days march behind him. Before him stretched the massive cleft called Darent Pass which wandered between rain-lashed mountain ridges. The wind channelled along this wide crevice causing him to lean into it to make headway. Coarse switch-grass amongst the moss covered rocks blew horizontally as he continued to stumble along the narrow pass. The path led in a day’s travel to the unknown lands and nameless dangers.
He’d been deposited two days ago by Brenna warriors commanded by the priest Sire Helm Rantiss. They’d struck the fetters from his wrists and ankles with a hammer against the nearest rock, jarring his limbs. The young priest had laughed at the pain caused as the circulation returned to Malkrin’s hands and feet.
‘On your way outcast, and may your lowsense guard you.’ He’d laughed at his insult, normally only spoken to murderers and rapists. It was obvious the priest never expected to see him again.
‘I’ll be back for you Rantiss,’ Malkrin had rasped between gritted teeth. He turned his back on his antagonist, picked up his meagre pack and limped off.
They’d thrown him a battered leather backpack and an old goatskin coat he’d used to cover a leak in his and Cabryce’s cottage roof. His baggy leggings were bound around his ankles with leather thongs; he had been allowed to keep his stout footwear. At least I’ll keep fairly dry, he thought as he trudged further from all he’d known. Someone had managed to smuggle some cheese, bread, oatcake and a sharp flint into his pack along with a leather water container and a fur for sleeping on.
Initially he had felt relieved to put distance between himself and Priest Rantiss lest he received a spear in the back. He knew they would probably hide out in rocks near the track, to stop him doubling back. But Malkrin had no intention of returning – for now. In spite of his predicament a fierce curiosity had ignited in him. If he was going to starve out here, he was determined to try to find out what he could of this land first.
The tall mountains surrounding Cyprusnia towered behind, to the sides, and above him. The tallest still showing a topping of winter snow, reminding him of the freezing winter they had all endured. Drizzle started as he stumbled through shingle on the floor of the pass. The surface beneath him became slippery and he was forced to concentrate on each step. He paused to refill his water container from a trickling mountain stream. The clear water revived him and he walked at a steady rate.
He had come this far only once before when chasing a band of wolf-pelted bandits who had attacked the palisade barrier shielding Cyprusnia. He remembered the cave where they had cornered one of the bandits. The man had turned to fight, to give his companions a chance to escape. The wolf-pelt man’s darting spear had ripped into Kalvin Beaverfoot’s shoulder. Malkrin had become incensed, his face red with berserk power. He had fought the bandit alone and had prevailed. Now, he looked to the distant ridge where the bandit’s companions had turned for a moment. He remembered their shouts of anger knowing their comrade had just died.
Malkrin had avenged his wounded comrade. He raised Palerin aloft in a victory salute. Later, calm again, he had regretted his vengeful temper. It had been wrong to relieve the man of his life, it would have been better to bind the bandit’s wrists and question him about his life and brethren. The knowledge would have been useful, and the man could then have been released. But the Brenna’s code decreed all bandits must be instantly sent to Jadde and Malkrin had obeyed without thought. They had left the corpse to the birds.
Malkrin now headed to that same cave for the night. It would offer respite from the bitter wind whistling down the long pass. Later as he entered the cave mouth he thought of the bandit with the wolf skull headdress who gave his life with brave abandon. Malkrin put his hands together before his face in the ancient gesture of respect a warrior shows for a fallen foes spirit.
He sat wearily on a rock just within the entrance and took in his surroundings. He had a good view of the long cleft between the mountains ending in the cave mouth. No one could creep up on him unnoticed – at least not in daylight. At night the loose shale would give them away. Ferns grew in the moisture at the cave entrance, filtering the wind as it blew at an angle outside. He walked around inside, gathered dry kindling and dead scrub, and set a fire by sparking his flint. He wished he’d been able to find a suitable tree to fashion a spear, bow or staff from. All he had found were dead boughs suitable only for firewood. He surveyed the view again, not many trees could take hold in this wind tormented region, only gorse and sage scrub.
The cave warmed as the fire took hold. Its heat accentuated a dank smell of decay from further within the hollow. Instinctive unease overrode his tiredness. He forced his leaden limbs to check the dark recesses before collapsing onto a bed of dry ferns covered by his sleeping fur. He took a large draught from his water container and laughed emptily to himself as he compared his fern bed to his previous duck feather mattress he shared with Cabryce.
The comparison fanned his hatred of the Brenna laws, but strangely not the ruling Brenna themselves. For the first time he realised they were victims of their own rigid laws. Could tolerance move the people forward not the solid fist of revenge?
But whatever argument he set up within himself only returned his thoughts to his Cabryce – so warm and inviting. For the first time since childhood he felt the pain of a terrible separation and tears overwhelmed him.
Finally sleep overtook his grief as the fire died back to dull red warmth.
Later, something awoke his hunters’ highsense. He didn’t know how long he’d slept as cloud had obscured the moon beyond the cave entrance. He sat up and wrapped the sleeping fur around his arm – it was the only protection he had.
A scraping sound came from the front of the cave. Then a silhouette blocked the grey light filling the cave-mouth. Long legs and waving tail flowed silently along the entrance. A mouth opened to emit a hiss of recognition.
Pointed ears, whiskers, slit eyes with large pupils, two rows of sharp teeth – a wildcat.
Its green eyes seemed lit from within and its white fangs flashed even in the gloom. Malkrin glanced at the glowing fire embers, judging whether he could reach them before the cat sprung.
He dived and almost reached a glowing stick as the cat hissed again and leapt. He thrust the fur into its face and grabbed the end of a stick with his other hand. A claw raked his shoulder. He rammed the fur into the jaws of the creature. Sharp teeth bit through the fur and another paw raked his back shredding his tunic and flesh. He fell to the floor with the cat on top of him raking his legs and biting his shoulder as it searched for his throat. He brought up the glowing log in a swift thrust to the cat’s face. The creature hissed and drew back leaving the stench of burnt fur in the air. Malkrin rose and pressed his attack home, stabbing at the feline monster with the red-hot stick.
The wildcat slinked warily along the cave entrance. Both combatants now respecting each other.
The cat sprang again and Malkrin thrust his arm forward ramming the smoking stick into the creature’s mouth. The weight of the animal bowled him over backward. He held the sleeping fur over his chest and received another claw to an arm. He squirmed under the swarming shape and grasped another ember. This one was partially burnt with a white hot tip. It scorched his hand and he smelt burning flesh as he rammed it into amber fur. With a screech the creature disappeared out of the cave, the stick embedded in one pointed ear. There was the sound of dislodged shale and then silence.
Malkrin was shaking with spent effort, but forced himself to calm. Slowly he lifted sticks to rebuild the fire, should the creature return. With increasing sluggishness he examined his injuries. The burns were bad and had already started to blister. He could feel warm blood flowing down his shoulder and back as he removed the rags of his tunic and r
ipped the shreds into lengths with his good hand and teeth. Blood seeped through the cloth as he attempted to staunch it with fumbling fingers. Eventually he managed to wrap bloodstained strips round his shoulders and chest and the flow eased. The cave spun around him when he tried to stand on spent legs. He crawled slowly to the cave mouth.
The sunrise outside matched the colour of his blood splattered over the cave floor. He squinted, trying to see movement in the surrounding rocks. All was still, the cat had vanished.
He crawled back inside and watched the fire die back. Feebly he fed a few thick sticks and twigs into the hot ashes. They smoked and glowed, flames returned. He placed the ends of straight sticks near to the flames to harden – useful weapons in case another predator smelt his blood and came to finish him. He had no cloth left to wrap the deep wounds in his arm or the blisters on his hand so he trickled water from his container and drank the remaining drops.
The morning grew bright outside and the wind diminished. His legs felt numb and useless and he shivered in his rags. Every time he moved he felt as if his back was being eaten by the cat. He gritted his teeth and settled back into his bed of ferns digging his fingers into his palms.
Malkrin woke again as the sun passed midday height. Weakly he rose onto an elbow and collapsed groaning. He had no strength to sit, let alone continue his journey so forced down an oatcake and the remnants of the bread. There was no water left in the container so he crawled to the back of the cave to look for more along the damp rear wall. Not even a dribble welcomed him so he crawled around searching. In the furthest recess he found some saturated moss on a wet rock and sucked as much as he could, then chewed the moss. Lying against the moist rock, the gloomy surroundings seemed to obscure with mist. Later he succumbed to feverish dreams of Cabryce and friends searching and searching and finding only his bleached bones.
It was dark again and he crawled back to the fire. A few embers remained and he added the last of the kindling, summoned weak breaths and blew the fire back to life. He groped for dead brush and sticks and panting like a victim of lung disease pulled the lighter lengths slowly onto the fire. The blaze warmed him but the effort sent him back into febrile dreams.
Consciousness returned and the bright moon swam in an arc before his eyes. Cold numbed his feet then his legs. A disembodied hand added more sticks to the dying embers. He realised in a distant way it was his own and sunk back into an exhausting sleep.
Later he awoke suddenly, greeted by the clatter of shale from slopes outside the cave.
The cat was returning to finish him.
He didn’t care, and slipped into a wonderful dream of Cabryce spoon-feeding him wine on their luxurious bed.
Light seemed a long way off. From the darkest recess of the cave he saw a crumpled body below. His mind retreated further into a dark tunnel leaving the wrecked body beside the glowing fire.
He woke, again with the sound of slipping shale, closer now. It seemed to echo then fade.
The light faded to a pin-prick and he retreated further into the tunnel. Instinctively he knew he had to keep the light focused on the crumpled form.
The light diminished to the merest speck and frozen blackness swamped him.
Then slowly the light spread and changed to cloudy daylight and he felt the fern bed return under him. He clawed a hand toward the glare as Cabryce spooned more wine into his mouth.
It was a good dream. He felt some warmth return.
He spluttered; feeling liquid dribble from his mouth. A face that wasn’t Cabryce’s peered down at him. He blinked and screwed his eyes against the background glare. A young girl was sitting bent over him. Her long orange-brown hair curled down near to his face forming curtains that framing her delicate concern. It reminded him of a child he knew, one of the ordinary folk. With a bone spoon she fed him more refreshing liquid. Another face swam into view. He definitely recognised that face, he rose onto his elbows with a painful groan. Halle Fisheye must have sought him, intent on revenge – he had limped badly ever since Malkrin had allowed the boar to skewer him.
‘Halle?’ he inquired.
‘Take it easy Sire, you have to recover strength. We only just found you in time.’
‘Only just?’ he repeated trying to focus on what Halle was saying.
‘Only just – before you died; stupid.’ The girl spoke without malice. Malkrin focused on her, seeing a sunny expression of concern and relief.
Somehow he was amongst friends.
He noticed a pile of rags soaked in congealed blood. He passed a hand behind his back, feeling healed scars where weeping wounds should have been.
‘How?’ He felt really confused; Jadde should be greeting him now.
‘My daughter, she has a . . . certain gift.’
Malkrin arched his eyebrows and rose unsteadily to a sitting position. His mind-fog cleared. ‘She has a highsense and has healed me?’
The tinkling young voice washed over him. ‘You catch on quickly; Sire must be improving.’
‘How long was I ill for?’
‘We found you at high sun yesterday. It is now an hourglass before sunset the next day. Seara laid her hands to you to stop the bleeding and infection. Then we washed you and wrapped you in warm furs to aid the fevers withdrawal. Later she lay healing to your blistered hand. You should feel strength returning to it.’
Malkrin had forgotten the serious burns and stared at his hand in astonishment. The skin was merely red and soft, like hands used to a lifetime of washing clothes in the river. He flexed the fingers; they worked. He would be able to grip a weapon with his usual strength.
‘I have him here Sire.’
Somehow Halle knew. Malkrin watched him respectfully remove Palerin from a fur. The sword was in its richly embossed leather scabbard, ready for use. Halle laid Palerin beside him and Malkrin groped weakly for his trusted weapon. Finally he locked his hand around the hilt. It felt powerful in his fist and sent a thrill of energy through him.
He realised there was a lot happening here he could barely grasp, and stared from one respectful face to the other.
‘Friends, you have a lot to tell. I am more than curious.’
‘First, some more stew,’ Seara said, spoon feeding him from a steaming wooden bowl. How had he missed the aroma? The cave was heavy with it and he felt suddenly ravenous.
Seara fed him in silence, then she could contain herself no more, ‘It is good Sire?’
There was something mischievous in her eyes.
With a full mouth he spluttered, ‘for Jadde’s sake, just call me Malkrin. I am no longer a high-person. Why do you ask with such concern?’
‘It is made from a dead cat we found down the slope – it is how we realised you were up here.’
‘It is more than good Seara. But I had hoped to have seen the last of that cat.’
They all laughed.
‘Sire . . . err . . . Malkrin, its head was fried with a stick embedded in its ear and its mouth scorched to a cinder,’ Halle said. ‘We thought the beast had been dead three days.’
The sun was setting outside and they rebuilt the fire making the cave cosy with flickering flames and crackling heat.
Malkrin relaxed and indulged in the heat from the broth and the fire. They fed him again with dripping smeared bread, slabs of roast cat and corn-cakes washed down with water.
Malkrin was content, his strength was returning fast. Jadde had sent friends. All was perhaps not lost.
'Sire, I have a message for you from Cabryce, may I recite it now?' Halle asked, breaking the companionable silence.
Malkrin nodded, a vision of his soul mate sprang into his head as if she were there with him.
'My dearest husband,’ Halle hesitated and looked embarrassed at the second-hand intimacy.
'Get on with it,' Malkrin snapped to cover his distress. Would he ever see her again? He resolved in that instant that he would.
‘ . . . I wish I were with you. I would give up all that I have here
, just so we could face the dangers together. Please be assured that I will await your return with single focus. I shall look to the sunrise every morning and the sunset every evening and think of you. Be assured no other man will share my bed. Until we meet again I pray that Jadde’s blessing will enable you to increase your gift, and then help you to return safely to overcome our opponents. I send you the greatest luck and all my love, Cabryce.
Halle and Seara fell deep in their own thoughts, respecting the need for Malkrin to contemplate his message.
Later Halle and Seara told their story as flames reflected on their faces. Knots cracked in the fire adding effect to the account.
‘I was six summers old when my parents realised I had a very occasional talent.’ Halle began, looking at the dusty ground as he retrieved the distant memories. ‘Sometimes I could predict what they would say and tell them first. Many times they questioned me and warned me to never reveal it because of its infrequency. They told me the Brenna would discredit me and send me away. So I kept quiet and told no one. Once or twice a year the inner feeling would light up and I guessed what someone would say – and I was always right. I lived that way until I married my Desira. I told her and she kept the secret. Then Jadde blessed us with Seara. We watched her closely . . .’
Seara exploded excitedly. ‘And then when I was young I healed my mother after she sliced her arm with a flint.’
Halle caught a little of Seara’s excitement. ‘And we knew to keep it unannounced. Sometimes when she was a mere infant Seara couldn’t muster the power to heal. It was hard because people around us fell ill, some even died, perhaps unnecessarily. We feared the Brenna and their cruel rules.’
Seara took up the account. ‘Then I learnt after many seasons to summon the power at will. I healed my mother when her hearing began to fail. Secretly I healed a few illnesses by stroking people in sympathy.’
Malkrin remembered the kind child who visited the sick.
‘But I couldn’t heal too frequently or people would have guessed. It was sad and I felt bad, very bad when people suffered.’
‘We helped her come to terms with the reality.’ Halle declared. ‘Then the boar gored me and Seara cured the wound and I had to pretend to have a serious limp . . . we are ashamed to reveal this Sire.’
‘All that time I had concern for you and helped your family – and you had been well?’ Malkrin was astonished but realised the implications. Josiath had been right. There was hidden highsense amongst the people.
‘Then I was so mad at your sentence that I forgot the limp and Priest Helm Rantiss noticed.’
The priest will face an accounting, Malkrin thought angrily.
‘We hid with Mistress Cabryce the same night you were in the cells.’ Seara added nervously.
‘Cabryce is in consort with you as well?’ Malkrin raised his voice in astonishment.
‘It was a terrible thing to inflict ourselves on her when she was deep in fear for your fate. We hoped for her sympathy and would have pleaded. We could see confusion and distrust on her face so laid ourselves and our story before her.’ Halle looked suddenly grimmer. ’She helped us gather our belongings with Desera’s tearful help.’
‘And here we are,’ Seara finished.
Her tinkling voice cheered Malkrin as if healing powers were in her words as well as her hands. He stood and tested his muscles and legs.
‘My friends, your story is truly extraordinary. I thank you for your help and friendship. But now we must plan how to survive, for this is an inhospitable land we must travel.’
Seara smiled, collected the bowls then took them to the back of the cave. Halle sat beside him and uttered boldly. ‘Lead the way Sire – but where to?’
‘We must find the Wolf-hood bandits and seek their help.’
‘Their help, to do what Sire?’
‘To locate Jadde, and place all the injustices before her.’
‘But they’re bandits and will kill us.’
‘I’m not so sure they are just bandits and I don’t believe they will dispatch us.’