Legends of the Riftwar (21 page)

It was the wonderful insults that had triggered something. A memory of long ago, of boyhood, a memory of hearing such phrases, cherishing them, and repeating them to his friends, until one day his father overheard him and washed his mouth out with soured milk.

‘I know that voice. Wolfgar, is that you?'

The voice did not reply.

‘Damn it. Wolfgar? I remember you now. When I was a boy you use to chant the old ballads for my grandfather. You were the finest of bards of the northern frontier.'

Dennis took another few steps forward and cleared his throat.

He proclaimed the words in the old way, a deep baritone chant, his voice carrying far across the fields.

‘You wrote those words,' Dennis said with a grin. ‘I remember it well, you pox-eaten offspring of a pus-licking dog.'

There was no response until finally the gate cracked open and a wizened old man, leaning on a ornately carved and twisted staff slowly shuffled out.

It took more than a minute for him to cross the few dozen yards
to where Dennis stood. He was so hunched over that the crown of his bald, liver-spotted head came barely to Dennis's shoulder. Like an ageing buzzard he craned his neck, twisting sideways so he could look up into Dennis's eyes.

‘Oh, horse shit,' Wolfgar sighed. ‘It
is
you.'

Dennis respectfully lowered his head in a formal bow. ‘You were the greatest of bards ever to visit the Hartraft Keep.'

‘Bountiful was the table of your grandsire,' Wolfgar said, his voice weak but suddenly revealing the richness of the training in his craft, ‘for there is still fat at the root of my heart from the feasts he gave in my honour.' Bones creaking, he turned slightly to look at Asayaga. ‘What in the name of all the devils is that? Is that little man typical of them, these Tsurani I hear of?'

‘He is the captain of the band that joined my unit.'

Dennis could see Asayaga stiffen slightly and Wolfgar cackled.

‘Proud as a peacock with a new feather sticking out of his ass, this Tsurani.'

‘I did not join him,' Asayaga snapped. ‘We have an alliance.'

‘Oh, an alliance is it?' and Wolfgar's features clouded. ‘Then you spoke the truth. The Dark Brothers are chasing you.'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh damn you,' Wolfgar sighed wearily. ‘They suspected some of us were hiding hereabouts, but never bothered to look too hard, being troubled by other things. Now they'll be on us.' ‘My men,' Dennis said and then he caught Asayaga's baleful gaze. ‘Our men. We've been on the run for days. We need shelter, food, a place for our wounded to heal. I can offer you nothing in return but my bond one day to repay you. I ask this in memory of my father and grandfather who were honoured to call you their friend.'

‘And if I refuse?'

Dennis drew closer, leaning over. ‘I'll have to storm this place, Wolfgar and take it,' he whispered sadly. ‘It's either that or my men will die. And you know the Hartrafts well enough to know we honour the pledge to our troops to see to their needs first. Don't make me fight you and your friends inside.'

Wolfgar sighed in the way only an old man could, the raspy whistle of his breath revealing an infinite weariness with the ways
of the world. He craned his neck further around, his squinting gaze focused on the western sky. ‘Storm coming again. Maybe it will block the passes for a while.'

Dennis followed his gaze and saw the wisps of high clouds beginning to darken the early evening sky. The old man was right, by morning it would be snowing again. ‘I need shelter now,' he said and this time there was a cold insistence to his voice. ‘I'll ask only one more time as a friend.' He paused and then shook his head. ‘I'd prefer it if we clasped hands in memory of my sires who were your friends and patrons long ago. Once the storm is passed and my men rested we'll clear out and try to throw the Dark Brothers off from you.'

‘No, it's too late for that now,' Wolfgar replied. ‘The damage is done.'

He squinted, looking at Asayaga again.

‘Someone as short as you most likely won't eat much anyhow. Come on, you bastards, bring your men inside.'

The morning was cold.

Dennis Hartraft leaned against the wall of Wolfgar's stockade, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders, hood up to block out the cold wind sweeping down from the west.

He wondered if he'd ever really be warm again. The world was forever cold it seemed, seeping into his bones, and his heart. He knew it was a cold of the mind, not the body, for even though it was now winter in this valley, the cold he felt on the wind was nothing compared to the bitter freezing they had endured the last three days of their chase. Then Dennis reconsidered: not a cold of the mind, but a cold in his soul.

Perhaps it was Wolfgar who triggered it, memories better left dead…

A long-ago winter morning standing on the battlement wall, watching the first snow of winter drifting down, the wonder of it all for a child of seven, heavy flakes swirling, a bard kneeling by his side, laughing as he caught the flakes on his tongue or held out his mittens to catch one, then hold it up close to look at its intricate design until it melted away.

He remembered so clearly the sound of laughter, looking down into the courtyard below, a little girl running in circles, arms wide, shouting that she was a snowflake riding on the wind, the bard chuckling softly, telling him he knew a secret, that the little girl liked him.

Years later, again a snowfall and the little girl had grown, and they were to be married, standing arm in arm on the battlement, both of them sharing the memory of the bard, laughing, wondering if there was a way he could be found and invited to perform for their wedding.

And yet another snowfall, the flicker of fire, the screams…

He lowered his head, pushing that thought away.
Never let that back in, never.

‘Remind you of something?'

Dennis took a deep breath, blinking hard, his features falling back into the mask he presented to life. He turned.

Wolfgar was ever so slowly climbing the steps to the battlement, staff wobbling, the old man hanging on to it with both hands, taking one step at a time. Dennis almost reached out to help him, but knew better: old men had their pride, especially this one.

At last Wolfgar was at his side, hood drawn up over his head, frail body wrapped in heavy layers of furs. He looked up and smiled crookedly. His lips were blue and Dennis knew that wasn't from the cold, for his breath came in a raspy gurgle and his pale eyes were watery.

‘You shouldn't be out in the cold like this,' Dennis offered.

‘Damn you, it's a life covered in offal when I have to start taking advice from a lad who I once pushed off my lap because his swaddling clothes were leaking on me'. Wolfgar laughed and shook his head. ‘I asked if standing up there reminded you of something, you seemed lost in thought.'

‘Just waiting for Gregory and Tinuva to return.'

‘There are some things that never change with a man–the boy still locked inside. Even when you were seven you use to stand like that, shoulders hunched, hands clasped in front of you, always watching. Reminded me of a snowy day, the two of us watching the first storm of the season, and I told you that Gwenynth liked you. How your eyes sparkled even though you were a proud lad of seven and would not admit that girls were of any interest yet.'

Dennis looked away.

‘I heard what happened to her, to your father and grandfather.'

Dennis felt a hand on his shoulder. He wanted to shrug it off but couldn't.

‘My heart was with you, lad. I wept for you. Your old grandfather always wanted to die in a damn good fight, and your father, well, he never had a chance to rule in his own right but I heard he died sword in hand. But for you, I wept.'

He fell silent, not mentioning her death. Dennis closed his eyes…

The begging, the pleading for her not to let go, his fumbling to stop the bleeding, to somehow force her soul back into her body and that smile that lit her features as she slipped away, as if she was trying to console a little boy who didn't understand, that it would work out in the end…but it never did.

‘It was nine years ago,' Dennis whispered, using every ounce of effort to keep control of his voice.

‘In some matters time is meaningless. For an elf like Tinuva, nine years is but a moment. Memory of loss can linger for an eternity. I know, I use to sing about it often enough.' Wolfgar hawked and spat noisily, removing his hand from Dennis's shoulder to wipe his mouth.

Dennis looked over at him. ‘Let it drop,' he snapped. ‘It was a long time ago. No song, not even yours can bring them back, except in memory, and I prefer those memories buried.'

Wolfgar nodded. ‘My eyes are all but gone, young Hartraft. I didn't see Jurgen with you.'

Dennis sighed. ‘Dead. Killed last week.'

‘Ahh.' Wolfgar spat again. ‘There was a man who could shake the dice.' There was a tremor to his voice. ‘Is there anyone left from the old days?'

‘The war took them all.' Dennis's tone indicated clearly enough that he didn't wish to say more.

There was a long silence of several moments. The two old friends watched as the heavy flakes gently swirled.

Dennis looked back at the long house where all the men were sleeping. Wolfgar's great hall was a heavy building of logs that stretched for over thirty paces. On the other side of the courtyard were stables, some workshops, and at the far end a detached kitchen,
connected by a stone corridor to the long house so that if a fire started it would not destroy the entire dwelling. It was a fortress typical of the frontier, enough to keep a small band of marauders out, but against an army like Bovai's it would fall in a matter of hours.

It was, however, the difference between life and death for Dennis and the men with him.

After being allowed in, the men had built up roaring fires to warm the long house and all had collapsed into exhausted slumber. He had even managed a few hours' rest until he was awoken by Tinuva, who suggested that a scout should be sent back to the gorge, just to make sure that their pursuers had truly given up the chase for now and were not attempting to somehow get a party across so that the bridge could be rebuilt. So shortly after midnight Tinuva and Gregory had ridden back out. Unable to sleep, Dennis decided to keep watch until their return.

‘They're all asleep in there, snoring and breaking wind,' Wolfgar announced. ‘Gods' how they are stinking up the place! A hundred men in there, a tight fit, with a dozen more wounded packed into the blacksmith's shop. What in the name of Kahooli's Loins am I to do with them all?'

‘Kicking us out now, I don't think my men would go along with it.'

‘That Tsurani leader, Ass-you-gag.'

‘Asayaga.'

‘However you say the bastard's name. How by Astalon's Blood did you ever fall in with them?'

Dennis briefly recounted their tale and Wolfgar nodded appraisingly.

‘Shrewd move. When do you plan to kill him?'

‘Once this is over.'

‘When is that?'

‘I'm not sure now,' Dennis said. ‘At first I figured it'd last a day at most. Now I just don't know.'

‘Can you trust him not to stab you in the back?'

‘Trust a Tsurani?' Dennis asked, incredulous.

The question had never been asked so directly since all this started. He realized he had been, in general, thinking minute by minute,
always keeping a watchful eye for the first false move which had yet to come, but not seriously contemplating that this arrangement could go on for weeks, even months.

‘In their own way they're honourable I guess,' Dennis finally ventured. ‘They don't torture prisoners, they kill the wounded cleanly as we do.'

‘That's a mark on their side,' Wolfgar said quietly.

‘He needs me more than I need him now.'

‘How's that?'

‘I know the way back, he doesn't.'

‘Do you? The bridge is down. Do you know the way back?'

Dennis looked at his old friend, and then at the surrounding peaks brushed with the first light of dawn. Even as he looked at them the light blurred and softened. The overarching clouds sweeping in from the west blanketed what little blue sky was left on the eastern horizon. The flurries began to thicken.

‘Like I said yesterday, a big storm coming,' Wolfgar announced. ‘With luck it will close the last of the passes. Now answer my question, Hartraft. Do you know the way?'

Dennis shook his head. He had never ventured this far north before.

‘Then you know nothing more than the Tsurani. But you still haven't answered the question, boy.'

‘I was a boy twenty years ago, Wolfgar,' Dennis replied sharply.

Wolfgar threw back his head and cackled like a demented old bird. ‘At my age, anyone who can still remember to button his trousers after making water is a boy. Now answer me: can you trust him not to stab you and your men in the back?'

‘Yes, damn it,' Dennis snapped. ‘They seem to have this thing, this code in how they fight duels. When the time comes he'll shout some sort of challenge first, the others will back up, and we will fight. Once that's settled I guess the general slaughter begins.'

‘Can you take him?'

‘In a fair fight?'

‘Like the one you described. Not in the woods, not in the night, but deliberate, out in the open, one on one with only blades.'

Dennis hesitated.

‘You're not sure, are you?'

Dennis shook his head. ‘I've watched him,' He said. ‘He's as swift as a cat–he cut two goblins in the flash of an eye, the head of the first had yet to even hit the ground and the guts of the second were already spilling. He's the fastest I've ever seen.' Dennis hesitated. ‘Even Jurgen in his prime would have had a hard time taking him.'

‘That's saying something,' Wolfgar replied. ‘I bet on that old bastard more than once and won–bar-room brawl, duel of honour, nothing could touch him.'

‘Something finally did,' Dennis said, his gaze distant.

‘What will you do?' Wolfgar pressed.

‘Fight him when the time comes.'

‘That will be a show,' Wolfgar snorted. ‘Tell me, do you want to beat him?'

‘What the hell kind of question is that?'

‘Some men, when they've lost too much become fey. They don't know it, but already the gods of the dead have touched them. Their memories dwell so much with those who have crossed over that in their inner heart they wish to cross as well and therefore place themselves upon the path unknowingly. Dennis, have you become fey?'

Dennis shook his head. ‘That's madness.'

Wolfgar laughed. ‘The whole world is mad right now. Not fifty miles south of here the Kingdom and the Tsurani are fighting over gods know what when I half suspect if the damn royals of both sides sat down and drained a keg together it'd soon be straightened out. Fifty miles north of here moredhel hack one another up for sport, and you sit here and talk about madness. Dennis, you haven't answered me, do you want to win?'

‘Of course I want to win, to live. My men–if I'm killed in the opening move it might destroy their chance. I'm pledged to get my men back. I've done half a hundred patrols since the war started and always we get back.'

‘We. What about
you
, do you always come back? How much of you stays behind with each of these patrols of yours?'

‘You speak in riddles, Wolfgar.'

‘I'm a bard, that's part of the trade at times. Do you like this Ass-you?'

‘Asayaga.'

‘Do you like him?'

Dennis looked at Wolfgar in surprise. ‘Your questions are addled.' He regretted the word even as he said it.

Wolfgar, however, chuckled. Then, coughing, he leaned over, gasping until he finally caught his breath. ‘You respect the way they fight, I know that. I heard some of your men speak of it last night before they settled in–grudging praise for the Tsurani skill in battle.'

‘They're good. At least they're good in a stand-up fight in the open. Catch them by surprise in the woods and you have them every time, but a stand-up infantry against infantry and you'd pay a terrible price. I think we'd have been overwhelmed retreating up here if it hadn't been for them. There weren't fifty arrows left in my entire command, my men were collapsing from the cold and exhaustion.'

‘I dare say the Tsurani are saying the same about you right now. They know they'd all be dead back at poor old Brendan's Stockade if you hadn't wandered in. They know as well your skill in the woods: they respect it, and deep down they fear it. So we have two sides here who both respect and fear each other.' Wolfgar laughed. ‘Damn, how the gods love to play jokes. I've seen marriages like this–hell my third one was damn near identical to what you now got. So now you're stuck with each other.'

Dennis nodded. ‘If I can keep the peace.'

‘You will. That Ass You, or whatever it is he calls himself, you could find worse allies out here. Hell, better an enemy you can trust than a friend you aren't sure of. Try and extend your agreement. But damn my soul, if you can't, take your argument somewhere else: I don't want my long house turned into a slaughter pen.' He hesitated and looked over at Dennis with a calculating smile. ‘But then again, your rotting bodies piled up outside my gate might buy off the Dark Brothers when they finally show up.'

Dennis started to reply but Wolfgar held up his hand.

‘I might be a renegade bard with a price on my head, but I honour old memories, Dennis Hartraft.'

Dennis said nothing for a moment then finally he looked up.
‘Your story? I haven't heard a damn thing about you since the King's warrant for your head was handed to my grandfather. Hell, I was still just a stripling then.'

Wolfgar laughed. ‘Twenty years. That's what I get for composing bad verse about the pustulating sores on the royal buttocks.'

‘Well it never would have started if you hadn't been seen jumping out of the window of the favourite royal consort,' Dennis replied. ‘Prince Rodrick, now our King, is as you may have noticed, mad, or so they say. That woman was his favourite. Of all the women to stoke your lust.'