“Shut up and do as you’re told.”
Moving as slowly as possible, Edyon laid the bottle on the bank, close to Tash. It was so tempting to snatch it up and run. So tempting, but so very, very risky.
“Now step back, both of you, and get on your knees.”
“I can explain all this,” pleaded Edyon.
“Explain it on your knees.”
Edyon moved back.
“That goes for you too, girl,” the sheriff’s man said, and he jabbed his spear at her face so that she stepped quickly back to stand next to Edyon, and they both dropped to their knees.
“Please, sir,” Edyon said. “My friend and I were taking a walk in the woods when I noticed a faint glow coming from the river. A purple glow that was most unusual and certainly like nothing I’d seen before. We had just come down to investigate. It never occurred to me that it might be demon smoke. I’ve heard tell of demon smoke of course, in bars and suchlike, but I thought it was red. So when I saw purple, well . . .”
Edyon carried on spinning his story with such conviction he almost made Tash believe it. He certainly sounded like he believed it. But she doubted the sheriff’s man would. She would have to run for it. She could cope with the loss of the smoke if it meant escaping prison. She could cover the ground to the first bend in the river in twenty paces. She could do twenty paces before the sheriff’s man could throw the spear. Probably. Almost definitely. The ground was cold and damp. Tash dug her toes in and got ready to push off.
“Hello, there. Is there any trouble?”
The voice was deep and the accent foreign. Tash strained her neck to see who it was, but the riverbank blocked her view.
“No trouble that concerns you, sir.”
There was the sound of a horse walking forward. The rider came into view, middle-aged, with graying hair and a bandage round his neck, and close behind him another much younger rider, about the same age as Edyon.
“Hey, what’s that light?”
The older man jumped down from his horse and came toward them.
“Demon smoke, sir. Please step back.”
“Demon smoke! But surely that’s forbidden?”
Tash had a bad feeling about this man. He seemed relaxed and friendly, but he carried himself like a fighter. She’d seen people like him dealing in smoke and wouldn’t trust any of them as far as she could throw them.
The sheriff’s man said, “They’ll get twenty lashes and a year’s hard labor—and you’ll get a spear in your guts if you come any closer.” He turned to face the stranger.
Tash took her chance. She pushed off and ran as hard and fast as she ever had done, splashing through the shallow water. She was half expecting a spear to pierce her back, but all she heard was a shout of “Come back here!”
As if that was going to happen.
She made it round the bend in the river, slid to a stop, scrambled halfway up the bank, and pressed herself against it to see what was happening.
The newcomer had his hands raised, but he was arguing with the sheriff’s man. Edyon was climbing up the bank. The younger man had dismounted and was holding three horses, so it looked like they had brought a horse for Edyon. These must have been the people he was waiting to meet.
The sheriff’s man shook his spear at the older man but seemed to lose his grip on his lantern, which fell to the ground and went out. The only light was the purple glow from the smoke, and it was hard to see what was going on. The younger man stepped forward, but the sheriff’s man jabbed his spear at him, and the young man cried out in pain. With an angry shout, Edyon charged into the sheriff’s man with so much force that the huge man spun round, and then all the figures seemed to come together in a big tussle.
When they separated, there was one man—Edyon—holding the spear, another holding the horses’ reins and clutching his shoulder, and a third with a knife in each hand. The fourth man was on the ground.
No one was moving. Even the horses were still.
Tash muttered, “Shitting shits! Shitting shits!” And she slipped a little lower and pressed more into the bank so that she could only just see.
The older man bent down and wiped his knives on the body on the ground and slid them back out of sight in his jacket. Then he picked up the bottle of smoke, saying, “We need to leave here. Now.”
Edyon said, “But . . . the sheriff’s man . . . he’s . . .”
“Dead. Yes. Thanks to you.”
“But, but . . . I was only trying to stop him hurting March. I didn’t want . . .”
“March’ll live. The wound’s not too bad. But we need to get moving.”
March said, “Edyon, sir. There’s nothing we can do here. This is my friend Holywell, another servant of the prince. He can keep you safe.”
Edyon was still standing with the spear and staring at the sheriff’s man.
The man called Holywell looked toward Tash and she sank out of sight.
“Who was the girl? Can we trust her to be quiet?”
“She’s . . . she’s a demon hunter,” replied Edyon. “She won’t be running to the sheriff.”
Holywell said in a loud voice, “If she does, she’ll have her guts cut open.” And Tash knew the message was meant for her to hear.
She risked one more peek over the bank. Edyon still seemed to be in a daze as Holywell took the spear from him and dropped it to the ground. Holywell virtually pushed Edyon onto a horse, saying, “Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get going.”
Tash watched them ride off and then stayed where she was for a few moments, ensuring everything was quiet. Nothing moved. She crept back along the river toward the sheriff’s man. She’d seen dead demons before, but never a dead man. The sheriff’s man was not so beautiful, but there was something about him that was the same as a dead demon: he was just a shell, the life gone out of him.
Tash ran. She needed to get away from that place. Running helped. Running took her mind off things. She ran as fast as she could, following Edyon and the others, but really she just wanted to go back to Gravell, to rewind everything to before she’d seen Gravell in the bathhouse and before she’d seen those stupid gray boots.
AMBROSE
THE BRIGANTINE–PITORIAN BORDER
“THIS IS madness!” exclaimed Ambrose. “It makes no sense. Why invade Pitoria? It’s Calidor that Aloysius wants—it’s always been Calidor.”
“Perhaps he learned his lesson after the last war and is looking for easier pickings,” Tarquin replied.
“But relations with Pitoria have been improving. Catherine is about to marry the heir to the throne!”
“Which means every lord in the kingdom will be in Tornia for the wedding. Perhaps Aloysius’s plan is not so ludicrous. What better time to invade? Get a foothold in the north, then move south. The marriage is a wonderful diversion.”
“But . . . they’ll think Catherine is part of the plot.”
“Are you sure she isn’t?”
Ambrose had to remind himself that Tarquin didn’t know Catherine at all. “She’s not. I’m sure of it. She’ll be imprisoned—or executed! I have to warn her!”
“Careful, brother. Communicating war plans to a foreign power is treason against Brigant.”
“I’ve no intention of communicating plans to a foreign power, only to Catherine. I swore an oath to protect her and that remains my duty and . . . and . . .”
“And you love her,” finished Tarquin simply.
There was no point denying it.
“I do.”
“Then you must go. Find her. Warn her. The invasion is set for the day before the wedding. That’s only a week away. You have to reach Tornia before then. Take the letter to show her.”
Ambrose nodded. “What about you? Noyes’s men will have noticed your absence from Tarasenth.”
“I’m carrying on my normal
duties, making a tour of our villages,” said Tarquin, shrugging. “I’ll do so briefly, then return home and warn Father.”
“They’ll have a description of the man who stole the orders. I don’t think it will take much for them to realize it was me. That will lead them to you.”
“Stop worrying about me. I can handle their questions. But, Ambrose, whatever happens, even if you warn the princess, a war is coming. Aloysius will invade. I hope at the end of this you’ll be able to come home, but for now we must part, and I fear it will be a long time before we see each other again.” Tarquin embraced Ambrose. “Be careful, little brother.”
This parting was so sudden. Even if Ambrose succeeded in warning Catherine, he was fleeing his native country as a proclaimed traitor. It seemed unlikely he’d see Tarquin again, and at the thought of that he pulled his brother tighter. “You’re the best of brothers. The best. I will make you proud.”
He felt Tarquin kiss his forehead and then release him, saying, “Remember us. Remember Anne too.”
Ambrose nodded. He couldn’t speak.
Tarquin swung himself into his saddle. “I’ll miss you more than you realize. I know you’ll act with honor.” And he wheeled his horse round and rode away.
* * *
Ambrose cut east toward the coast, and soon the Bay of Rossarb lay huge before him and, across the water, Pitoria. The narrow road hugged the coast as it rolled toward the Brigantine castle of Nort, an ugly square stone building set back from the beach and following the steep slopes of the mountain foot. Beyond it, a small river bridge marked the actual border; on the other side of it lay a small Pitorian fort. In the far distance was the town of Rossarb, and behind it, the strange flat mountains of the Northern Plateau. It was a desolate place, still and silent, marked by a few straggly shrubs and stunted trees, and Ambrose struggled to imagine how, in just a few days’ time, thousands of men would be marching through it to invade Pitoria.
His hands tightened into fists on his reins. An invasion without warning by a king bereft of honor. A man who, to gain a tactical advantage, thought nothing of sacrificing his only daughter, a woman with more of the qualities of kingship—intelligence, compassion, justice—than her father would ever possess. She was alone in a foreign land, unaware of the danger that closed in around her.
Despite his impatience to keep moving, Ambrose had to wait for nightfall before striking out for the border. Nort Castle straddled the road. On the landward side, a steep, bare hillside sloped down to the castle, impossible to navigate on horseback. That left the shore. With the tide out, an expanse of sand offered the only clear way to the border.
His heart in his mouth, Ambrose rode out of the sandy grassland and onto the beach in full view of the castle. The night was dark, the moon obscured by clouds, but he still felt horribly exposed. Surely the castle would be on high alert with the invasion so close. With every moment he expected a shout of challenge or an arrow to come flying out of the darkness.
He was within bowshot of the castle, certainly, when the gates began to open. One rider came out, then another and another. Four in total, trotting toward him. Their horses would be fresh. His was not. Still, there was no going back, that was certain.
The soldiers drew themselves up in a line as Ambrose approached, smiling and shouting a cheery “Good evening, sirs!” But he was close enough now to see Boris’s badge on their tunics, and he knew he couldn’t bluff his way through. There was only one thing to do. He kicked hard and rode at a gallop directly at the men. The soldiers shouted for him to stop, but Ambrose drew his sword, his wild slashes forcing them apart. And then he was past them, his body bent forward, his eyes on the Pitorian fort in the distance, knowing that his horse hadn’t the strength to go far at speed.
“Come on!” he urged, as his horse skirted the castle and returned to the road on the far side. Ahead lay the bridge and the border, but his horse was tiring fast. He glanced back. The four soldiers were close, but not as close as he’d feared. Spurring his horse again, Ambrose forced a final burst of speed from the creature’s legs and clattered onto the bridge. Ahead, he could see a mounted soldier, roused by the disturbance, making his way out of the Pitorian fort.
Two of the pursuing soldiers had pulled up before the bridge, perhaps reluctant to cross the border, but the others were close behind him. If they were as good at throwing their swords as the boy at Fielding, Ambrose was a dead man. But no blade hit him, and he rode hard, shouting, “Help! Help!”
The Pitorian soldier was riding fast toward him now, close enough for Ambrose to see his purple hair, and as Ambrose’s horse finally staggered to a halt, the soldier asked, “Trouble, sir?”
“Just a little,” gasped Ambrose. “I bring news for King Arell, but my friends here don’t seem to want me to deliver it.”
Ambrose could hear the Brigantines riding up, and he turned his horse as one of the soldiers, a captain, shouted, “Sir Ambrose Norwend, you are to return with us. You’re wanted in Brigane.”
“I’m not returning with you anywhere.”
The captain rode forward, saying, “You’re a traitor. You’re coming with us.”
The purple-haired man rode slowly forward too. “If this man is a traitor, he’s a traitor to Brigant.” He stopped his horse and flicked his hand at the soldiers as if shooing off a child. “You’re on Pitorian soil. You have no authority here. If this man doesn’t wish to go with you, you can’t make him.” Then his face hardened. “So I suggest you piss off back to your side of the border.”
The two Brigantines stared at him, clearly itching to fight and weighing the odds: two against two, and Ambrose exhausted. But, just as their hands were creeping toward their swords, a shout came from the Pitorian fort and more soldiers began walking toward them.
The captain spat on the ground and said, “Fuck you. Fuck Pitoria.”
But he turned and rode slowly back over the bridge.
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
EDYON WAS riding fast, but his mind was whirling faster. He had killed a sheriff’s man. Blood had spurted from the man’s neck, just as it had when he had killed the chicken for Madame Eruth, but to see spurt from another human being, to hear it splatter on the ground, to feel it splash on his face . . . Edyon was riding close behind Holywell with March to his side. He could hear the horses’ hooves and smell their sweat, and yet all he could see was the sheriff’s man lying on the ground. Dead.
I see death all around you now . . .
Edyon’s stomach heaved. He slowed his horse to a stop just as his stew-and-wine supper erupted from his mouth, down his leg, and onto the ground. He stared at it, waiting for more to come, and it did with another heave of his stomach. He spat. The taste of vomit filled his mouth, throat, and nose. The ground was shiny with his sick as it had been shiny with the sheriff’s man’s blood. Edyon shuddered, spat again, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
March and Holywell had pulled up and were watching him. Their faces said more than words could, and they certainly didn’t communicate sympathy. Holywell looked amused. March looked disgusted, but then his face changed, and Edyon thought perhaps he had been mistaken. March’s shoulder was covered in blood.
Edyon’s stomach twisted again and he leaned over and waited, but nothing more came up. The worst had passed, and he took a breath and sat up. Holywell and March were no longer looking at him. Holywell was inspecting March’s wound instead and talking to him in a language Edyon didn’t understand.
How had this happened? How was he fleeing into the night with these two men he didn’t even know? How was it that he was involved in a murder? All Edyon had been doing was trying to help March. When the sheriff’s man had attacked March with his spear, Edyon had lunged forward to stop him, but he was huge, bigger than Stone’s guards, and Edyon had expected to be flicked away like a fly . . . Instead, he had spun the sheriff’s man round easily
and pushed him back into Holywell, who had raised his knife at the same time, catching the man in the neck.
Holywell had been quick. Had he meant to kill the man? It didn’t matter. Holywell might have been holding the blade, but Edyon had pushed the sheriff’s man onto it with his strange newfound strength. And he, Edyon, had been the one the sheriff’s man was trying to arrest. A man was dead and it was his fault.
I see death all around you now . . . And if he had been at a crossroads as Madame Eruth had foretold, there was no going back. He had thought his future lay in moving toward far lands and riches, but pain, suffering, and death seemed to be the truth of it after all.
Holywell produced some bandages from his pack and began binding March’s shoulder. March stared straight ahead, face pale, his jaw clenched.
“That’ll have to do for now,” Holywell said to March. He turned to Edyon, saying, “When you’re ready, Your Highness, we need to keep going.”
Edyon nodded, then muttered, “Yes. Of course. Is March . . . Will he be . . .”
“March is fine, Your Highness. A flesh wound. It looks worse than it is. Are you ready to go on?”
“Yes, but where are we going?”
“North. As far as we can, as fast as we can.”
“North? But Calidor is west of here.”
“It is, Your Highness, but first we need to get away from Dornan and any of the sheriff’s men who may be after us, and then we’ll find the best route to Calidor.”
“But can’t we do that by going west?”
“That would mean doubling back. Too late for that now.”
“They won’t be searching for us yet, surely?”
Holywell replied, “Perhaps not, but we can’t risk it. They may have caught the girl and wrung the truth from her already.”
Edyon hoped the girl had fled safely. She had had no part in the killing.
“Besides”—Holywell indicated a bandage round his own neck—“March and I are both already wounded. I don’t know how well we could protect Your Highness if we are caught. The more ground we cover now, the better.”