Legends 1 - Honoured Enemy Page 27

  The view from the cliff was magnificent, the mountain sweeping down across the open rocky slopes to the treeline more than a thousand feet below. Far beyond the trees were distant plains and in the still morning air he could see what appeared to be a herd of wild horses grazing. The next range of mountains, more than a dozen leagues away, stood out stark and clear, so close it seemed that he felt he could touch them.

  All of it was snow-covered, the dawn light illuminating the mountain slope and ice-clad trees so that it seemed as if the gods had carpeted the world in diamonds and rubies.

  'Food ready?' Corporal Bewin asked.

  'Hanson's with me and has the pot of soup simmering.'

  'I'd prefer some ale myself,' Luthar sighed.

  'Well, our relief will be up tonight,' Richard answered.

  'Damn Tsurani and their holy rantings. I should have been relieved last night.'

  'They stood watch the night of Midwinter feast,' Richard offered.

  'It wasn't my watch then damn them. I've been up here four days without a drink.'

  'Stop your whining,' Bewin replied. 'It all works out. Let's go get warm.'

  Luthar, grumbling, carefully worked his way down the rocky outcropping to the hut hidden at the edge of the treeline behind them.

  'Keep a sharp watch, son,' Bewin said.

  Richard smiled. 'I will.'

  'I'll send Hanson up at noon to relieve you. Remember lad, stay low, don't move around a lot, and keep alert. Keep watching along the flank of the mountains as well as the plains below. They could try to work a few scouts over the tops of the peaks to swing in behind us.'

  'Yes, corporal.'

  'It's hard to tell but out there, below the treeline, it looks like something beat down a trail, it could just be those wild horses, but I want you to keep a close watch on it. If you hear anything strange, see birds kicking up out of the forest, or if something just doesn't feel right, you come back and get me.'

  'Yes, corporal.'

  'Fine, son. Now off for some soup and sleep for me.'

  Richard smiled. There was almost a touch of warmth in Bewin's voice and it did his heart good. Bewin had been the only one to take him under his wing and show him some of the tricks of survival after Jurgen's death: the rest of the company had pretty well cut him off.

  Settling down into the cleft between two boulders Richard sat on the furs vacated by Bewin and Luthar, then pulled his white cloak up over his shoulders and head. From a hundred feet away he would be all but invisible and after several minutes he actually felt comfortable, as well as excited by the responsibility given to him. All the men of Hartraft's command, and for that matter the Tsurani as well, were now depending on him and he swelled with a touch of pride at the thought of it, standing watch while his comrades slept, or celebrated their ritual.

  In the weeks they had been together in the valley he had become fascinated by the Tsurani. Having been assigned to Brother Corwin, he had spent hours helping to nurse the four wounded Tsurani and three Kingdom soldiers who had survived the bitter march to the valley. One from each group had died, but the boy he had argued about saving had actually managed to live, his leg now almost healed, and though Osami would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, at least he was alive.

  The two had struggled to teach each other their tongues, and though the conversation carried little beyond food, the mastery of the Tsurani game of dice, and clumsy, laughing comments about some of the serving-girls, he felt he could call Osami a friend.

  When the talk in the barracks at night turned to whispered conversations about what was to be done regarding the Tsurani once they left the valley, he felt confused. Some of the men talked coldly of simply slaughtering the lot once they were free and clear, doing it by surprise in the night. Others declared that given all that happened perhaps an open and fair fight was best after all, and that maybe it could even be settled by a duel between Asayaga and Dennis, and then the two groups could go their separate ways. And finally there were a few who said the whole thing was crazy and once out of the valley they should just back away from each other and call it a draw.

  Richard wholeheartedly was behind that opinion, but given his position in the company with the death of Jurgen, he knew better than to offer any comment.

  The nightmare of the moment of Jurgen's death came back to him whenever he slept - the way Jurgen seemed to hang in the air above him, the spear covered with his heart's blood, the eyes looking into his, his strange, detached smile as the light fled from his eyes.

  And Hartraft. The way the commander looked at him, the coldness which had not broken once in the past month, that tortured him, too.

  The lazy hours passed. Occasionally he would stand to stretch then sit back down. Towards mid-morning he thought he saw something moving down on the plains. He shaded his eyes, straining to see. It almost looked like a horseman, briefly glimpsed for a moment, apparently chasing a second horse, then the trees on the lower slope, several miles away, blocked his view.

  Should he call Bewin?

  He decided to wait, to remain still and watch, but the long minutes passed, and he wondered if his eyes were playing tricks, that it was just two horses with no one astride the second. The two horses turned and disappeared back under the trees. With nothing to point out he knew he'd look foolish.

  He settled back. Strange how this all had turned out. He had expected the war to be far different - armies arrayed, valiant lancers to the fore in full armour, trumpets blaring, banners flying, the chance to fulfil all the childhood dreams of glory.

  And yet, in the past month, he had seen instead a savage murder-match in the forest, men grappling like animals in the driving rain and snow, long, exhausting hours of running with terror at one's heels, the brutal killing of the troll which squealed in terror as its life slipped away; then the final mind-numbing march up the mountain slope.

  No trumpets, no mentioning of his name in a dispatch back to the King, no jovial brotherhood around the campfire. And as for the enemy, that was the boy Osami, his own age, just as frightened as he was, the two of them secretly sharing a stolen bottle of brandy, shaking dice together and gambling over a few coins which Osami treasured as if they were jewels. And then there was the boring endless tedium of inspections, bringing in firewood, or toting the kills that the hunters made back to the compound.

  He heard voices behind him and looked back. He couldn't see anything because the camp was well hidden on the reverse slope, but it sounded like Brother Corwin, - he heard a booming laugh, a snatch of a comment from Bewin rejoicing that the monk, having climbed all this way, had thought to bring along a skin filled with brandy. He started to move, then thought it best to remain diligent and to keep careful watch. Looking up at the sun, he judged that in another hour at most it would be time for his relief and then he could sit with the monk and have a sip of brandy.

  Strange that Brother Corwin would come up this far, but the monk had taken to disappearing for days at a time, out to gather herbs hidden beneath the snows which might help to heal the half-dozen men down with the flux and the few wounded who were slow to mend.

  An hour or more passed and Richard wondered if Bewin knew just how carefully he was doing his job, not drifting back to seek a few minutes' warmth by the fire, but staying, instead, at his post no matter what the temptations Corwin had brought along.

  Again he caught a glimpse of movement - the herd of horses which had been out in the middle of the valley had been edging closer towards the woods which flanked the slope, then shied back, breaking into a run for several hundred yards before settling back down.

  'A beautiful day, isn't it young Richard?'

  He turned. It was Brother Corwin, laboriously coming up the slope, his heavy breathing making clouds of steam before his face, holding the hem of his monk's robe up as he kicked through the icy crust of snow.

  Richard smiled. If he had had any friend in this last month it had been Corwin. The monk had shown him many of his s
ecrets of healing: how to stitch a wound, pull an arrow and to staunch bleeding, his compassion shared equally on both sides and he had praised Richard for his own gentle touch and friendliness to young Osami.

  Richard half-stood but the monk motioned for him to be seated. 'Don't show yourself, lad, one never knows who is watching below.'

  'I haven't seen anything this morning, Brother, other than a few horses.'

  'Still, the woods always have eyes.'

  Corwin sat down by his side.

  'Why? Do you think they are down there?'

  'It's fair to think so. They know we are here.'

  'Then why not attack us?'

  'Because as long as there are watchers up here you can give sufficient warning. Three or four archers could tie them up for hours while a messenger was sent back. This is the only pass from the northern valley. I know, I've walked these woods for weeks.'

  'Its so peaceful,' Richard sighed. 'One would almost think there is no war.'

  'Oh there is war, young Richard.'

  The way he said it caused Richard to turn and look into the monk's eyes.

  And at that same instant Richard felt the blow of the dagger plunging into his side.

  It struck with a violence he could never have imagined, an agonizing pain that drove the breath out of his lungs and he fell backwards, gasping.

  Even as he fell back he could not believe what had just happened. Corwin stood up, dagger in his hand and smiled.

  Richard, terrified, trying to breathe and yet unable to do so, looked at him, wide-eyed.

  'Why?' he gasped.

  There was almost a hint of sadness and pity in Corwin's eyes. 'I'm sorry, my son. I actually like you. Too bad, you were such a handsome young lad. Such a waste it seems.'

  'Bewin!' He gasped the cry out, clutching his side, struggling to stand.

  'No sense in calling for him. They're all dead.'

  'What?'

  'Poison in the brandy. Easy enough. I don't think they even realized they were dying, just a quiet drifting off to sleep. Quite peaceful actually. Then I cut their throats to make sure.'

  'Bewin!'

  A cross look clouded the rotund brother's features. 'They're dead, Richard. It's an old trick, I've used it a number of times.'

  'Who are you?' Richard sobbed.

  Corwin smiled again. 'Hartraft should have figured it out. I've been hunting him for quite some time. Years ago I was sent to his stinking little village to kill him, his father and grandfather but couldn't get close enough to poison their drink.' Corwin laughed and shook his head. 'Besides, I realized a better plan to punish the Hartraft clan. Strange he didn't remember me when I came across you all out in the forest, but then again I've put on a few pounds since, and no longer looked like the holy relic merchant I once posed as.'

  Richard leaned over, coughing, frothy droplets of blood spraying on to the snow.

  'I opened the pass the night his village fell. Just like here, poisoned the guards and stabbed the one still on watch, then sat back and watched the Tsurani storm in. Far more amusing to let one foe kill another. I followed the attack, knowing where the escape-hole was to get out of the keep. Too bad about the girl - the bolt was actually meant for Dennis, but in a way it was far more delightful in its results. It was kinder to her to kill her, rather than have her mourning her husband, and far crueller to have him watch her die, don't you think?'

  'Who are you?' Richard gasped again.

  'A servant of Murmandamus,' Corwin announced coldly. 'Long ago I was told to kill the Hartrafts. His father's estates were a vital key in my master's plans. Oh, I've stalked Dennis on and off over the years, but this cursed war made it damn difficult to close in on him.'

  Corwin smiled, using the hem of his robe to wipe Richard's blood off his dagger.

  'I was back with Bovai and his attacking column when we caught a Kingdom scout who, after some persuasion, said you Marauders were nearby. My mission was to get south, but the wonderful thing about the moredhel is they think in terms of years and decades rather than days and months. So Bovai sent me out to find you, infiltrate your ranks, but to leave Hartraft alive. With final revenge so close, Bovai must be half-mad to have Dennis's blood on his own dagger, not mine. After you're all dead, I'll return to my original mission.' He laughed. 'Actually it was quite masterful the way I ruined that trap you were setting for the Tsurani. In fact, they were about to head off in the opposite direction when I led them back to you and triggered a nice little slaughter.'

  'But as for Hartraft, believe me young Richard, it would have been easy enough to poison him this last month, but Bovai wants the pleasure of that kill. Besides, I only had enough poison hidden on me for one more job, and figured I'd need that to help with my escape when the time came to lead Bovai through this pass.'

  'You bastard!' Richard cried, feeling at last for his dagger.

  'Oh lad, it's a sin to curse a holy brother.' Corwin snickered at the joke. 'Bovai's waiting down in those woods, boy. I just saw signs of him yesterday. Once you and your friends are dead he will attack. I'm sorry son, but it's time to die. Since I like you, let's make this easy. Just lie back and close your eyes. I promise it won't hurt.'

  Richard, soul filled with terror, fumbled with his dagger, and held it up, gasping in agony with every movement.

  'All right then,' Corwin whispered coldly. 'Now I'm afraid it will hurt, lad. I don't like defiance. Have you ever seen a man have his tongue carved out and then listened to him drown on his own blood? It's really quite interesting.'

  Corwin sprung, but his bulk played against him as Richard staggered to one side. Richard felt a hot slash across his arm even as his own blade cut across Corwin's face, laying open his cheek to the bone.

  Corwin, bellowing in rage, dived back in, blade flashing. Richard backed up, left hand clasped to his side, strength draining away and then the world seemed to spin around as he fell off the outcrop of rock. He fell, world tumbling end over end and then there was darkness.

  He awoke to agony, the salty taste of blood in his mouth, and experienced a moment of terror, as he expected to see Corwin above him, having already cut out his tongue.

  He waited for a moment, cautiously looking around, and then tried to sit up, but the slightest movement sent a wave of agony through him. Coughing, he spat up a foam of blood.

  He tried to make sense of his surroundings, for the ground seemed to rise up beside him. He blinked and realized he was not where he had fought Corwin, but on a ledge a few feet below his hiding spot. He must have fallen over the edge when Corwin struck him. He wondered why he was still alive, then considered the drop.

  The fat false-priest could hardly have climbed down to finish him off, and probably thought him already dead, or close enough that the cold would complete the task. And the slash he had given him to his face probably had him off somewhere trying to staunch the flow of blood.

  With hazy vision he looked around and then, ever so slowly, stood up, with every muscle crying out in pain. He saw a small rock at knee level protruding from the face of the bank and stepped upon it.

  Heaving himself upward, he almost fainted as he gripped the ledge above. Knowing he had but one chance, he forced himself to take a deep breath and pulled himself over. Then he collapsed on the ground and passed out.

  Consciousness returned some time later and Richard sat up slowly. He looked at the angle of the sun and realized no more than an hour had passed. He got to his unsteady feet and looked around. The monk was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling, he wove his way back down to the camp. The fire still snapped and crackled in the hut, and there, lying around the fire, were Bewin, Hanson and Luthar. Poisoned by Corwin.

  The realization filled him with rage. He leaned over, gasping and coughing and specks of blood splattered onto the snow.

  I'm bleeding inside, I'm dying, he thought.

  He looked back over his shoulder, wondering if he heard horses approaching. Were they coming already?

  Looking
up at the sun, he judged that it was well past noon. Corwin must have left him for dead more than an hour ago. Already they could be on the move.

  Another spasm of coughing overtook him and he sat down, feeling such an infinite weariness that he was tempted to lie down by the fire and sleep. He fought it off, knowing that it was the dark shadow. Absently, he picked up the sack of brandy lying by Bewin, then remembered what it contained and threw it aside.

  Crawling over to the corporal he slowly worked the waist-belt off of the dead man then opened his own tunic. Reaching into Bewin's haversack, he pulled out the field-dressing that Hartraft insisted all of his men carry. For the first time he looked at the puncture wound on his right side between his two lowest ribs. A thin trickle of blood seeped out and with each breath he could almost feel the air leaking away. He pressed the bandage up against the wound then ever so slowly wrapped Bewin's belt around his chest and cinched it in tight to hold the bandage in place. The effort caused him to cry out in anguish. Unable to button his tunic, he left it open and stood up.

  Amazingly Corwin had not thought to take the horse tied off behind the hut. It was an old nag, used to haul extra supplies up to the watchers, and was there in case a messenger ever had to get back quickly. Richard knew that the monk didn't like horses, but still he should have taken the beast along - or killed it.

  It wasn't even saddled, but the effort of doing that now was beyond him. He led the horse around to the side of a rough-hewn table set in front of the cabin. Richard crawled up on to the table and then clawed his way onto the back of the horse.

  Facing down the mountain, back towards Wolfgar's Stockade, he set off. He knew in his soul that it was now a race, twenty miles against death. Who would win the race he wasn't sure. To gallop the old horse would have her wheezing in minutes and probably kill him with blood loss. To walk would mean a half-day's ride back to the garrison.