The Broken World (4 page)

There was a general shuffling, a refusal to make eye contact, some mumbling. Then the village elder admitted that there might be one or two men panning a stream a couple of miles out.

‘To the west of here? A narrow gully with scrubby trees on the north bank?'

The old man nodded.

‘That's all right. I've already spoken to them. We can proceed. Now, as I've already told your chief here, my name is Melyn. I am Inquisitor of the Order of the High Ffrydd. Does anyone here know what that means?'

No answer. He'd expected none, but it might have been more fun if at least one of them had known who he was.

‘Never mind. I really only gathered you here to make my life easier. Captain, if you please.'

There was a shimmering in the Grym that Melyn felt through his bones, and a dozen warrior priests led by Captain Osgal appeared out of thin air. They had the villagers surrounded, and without a further word conjured up their blades of light.

‘What's this? What're you—' The village elder was cut short by a ball of conjured flame thrown straight at him by Melyn. As it exploded in the old man's face, setting his clothes and hair alight, the women in the crowd screamed. Soon the men joined in as the silent warrior priests set about them with their blades.

It was over in less than a minute. Only the bleating of goats and the clucking of chickens broke the silence that descended on the village green. Melyn got up, folded his travelling stool and strapped it back on to his saddle.

‘Pile them all up there.' He indicated a clear patch of grass and waited while the warrior priests did as they were ordered. Melyn was pleased to see that there was little blood; most of the sword cuts had been surgically precise. It made cleaning up easier.

‘Stand back now.' He waited until the last body was in place and the warrior priests had retreated, then he reached out for the lines all around him. It was a difficult working, like conjuring a blade of light as big as a horse. And he had to deflect all that power away from himself or risk turning into a very brief and very bright star. It was magic he had performed before, magic he was confident he could perform now, but still he had to gauge the exact moment to release all that pent-up energy.

The fire started in the middle of the pile of bodies. No ordinary flame this, it consumed totally, eating away the substance as it absorbed the dead back into the Grym. A pyre would have left a pall of greasy black smoke hanging in the air like an epitaph, a heap of dirty grey ash to mix with the soil and flow down the slope with the next rains, but this fire took everything into itself, reaching out like a living thing. Melyn watched as his warrior priests retreated, feeling the magical flame grasping for them. He smiled to himself; he knew exactly how far it could go and stood just beyond its limit. The heat washed over his face, warmed his skin for a few brief moments and then began to fade away, pulling in on itself until there was nothing but a tiny glowing orb a few feet above the ground. Then, with a
pop
not audible to normal ears, that too disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a perfectly round patch of bare earth.

Errol spent a further three days in the company of Lord and Lady Gremmil, and every one of those days was torment. His head injury began to heal, the agony subsiding to a dull ache with time, but he still had to be careful about sudden movements. Every so often he would turn to answer a question, and the whole world would darken, his knees go weak. If he was lucky, he caught himself, but more than once he had ended up sprawled on the floor.

A physician had examined him that first day, not long after he had woken. A thin sombre man dressed in flowing black robes and carrying a heavy leather case which he never opened, he had prodded Errol, peered into his eyes, felt his pulse and temperature and declared him a lucky young man. Apparently the blow had bruised his brain,
causing it to swell within his skull. Whoever had inflicted it had intended to kill. The physician offered to drill a hole and let some of the accumulated fluid out, but Errol declined. He had heard tales of trepanning from his mother and wanted nothing of it. Rest would be sufficient, as long as he could contain his eagerness to get away.

Lord and Lady Gremmil had a son, Evan, who was a little older than Errol but much the same size and build. Some months earlier he had ridden to Tynhelyg with a troop of men, the town's contribution to the war effort. Poul was obviously delighted that his boy was a captain, fully involved in the fight against the madmen from the south, but when Isobel brought Errol a selection of clothes far grander than anything he had ever owned before, he could see that she was worried about her only child. He felt terrible offering her sympathy and saying that he would look out for the young man when he returned to Tynhelyg. They were genuinely kind people, and he hated abusing their trust.

Gremmil was a grey town. On the edge of the northlands, it had none of the gold to be found around Cerdys, but it had prospered well enough supplying food and equipment to the endless stream of prospectors who ventured north on the king's road. Errol didn't see much of it, keeping himself to the castle, but on the third day, when his balance was much better, Poul insisted on taking him down to the stables to pick out a horse.

‘I couldn't possibly take a horse. I've no money to pay.' Errol looked at the line of stables, a long face peering from the open top of each double door. He knew nothing about horses except that one end bit and the other kicked.

‘Nonsense, Errol. You're the king's man on the king's business. It's my duty to assist you in any way possible. And besides, you were attacked on my land. What kind of a lord would I be if I didn't compensate you for what happened?'

‘Well, I suppose I could always send the animal back with your son when he next returns home.'

‘I'll hear none of that. Come. I'll pick out a fine gelding and we can ride out a way so you can see if you think it suitable.'

That offer at least freed Errol from the dilemma of trying to choose a good mount. He had to hope that his meagre riding skills wouldn't show him up as the fraud he truly was. As it happened, the ride was not as traumatic as it could have been. Lord Gremmil was happy enough just to pass slowly through the streets of his town, exchanging pleasantries with the people and showing off some of its more substantial buildings.

‘My father built up the town to what it is today. He saw the potential in supplying the miners, and the big cities for that matter. The land here's not as fertile as down in the south, but we produce perfect barley for malting. Something in the soil, I suspect. Most of it gets shipped down to Tynhelyg. Turned into beer and whisky.'

Errol nodded, unsure quite what to say as they rode out through the town gates and along the road for a while. He didn't really need to talk; Poul was happy to go on about his freeman farmers, his relationship with the grain merchants and his contributions to King Ballah's coffers. Finally they reached a group of large stone buildings arranged around a junction in the road. One of the
structures was still being built, although it was nearing completion. An army of workers swarmed over it, putting the finishing touches to the roof, fitting freshly made shutters into the high windows. On seeing them approach, a tall man broke off from his work and hurried over.

‘Your lordship, it's good to see you.'

‘And you, Cerrin. How goes the work?'

‘Very well, sir. We should be finished in a day or two. Well before the first harvest.'

‘Splendid. Well, I'd better not keep you. I just thought I'd show our guest from the capital our new grain stores. Should quadruple our storage capacity, Errol.'

‘Nothing like it in the whole of the northlands.' The tall man tugged his forelock, glanced at Errol and then ran off back to his work. A few of the other labourers had stopped briefly to look at the visitors, but they all turned back and resumed their tasks.

‘Cerrin's father was the most skilled mason I've ever known.' Lord Gremmil walked his horse on past the unfinished building towards one of the completed three. ‘It was his idea to build centralized storage for the barley. Before that it was kept on individual farms. The big merchants wouldn't come near us. It wasn't worth their while having to drag those huge carts around a dozen different farmsteads until they were full.'

Errol listened to his host drone on about farming practices and the importance of good logistics as he was shown the inside of one of the grain stores. Empty, it was a vast space, their footsteps echoing on the smooth stone floor. It had been built so that there were no pillars or buttresses inside, just smooth walls and wide doors at either
end to make loading and unloading easy. As he listened to yet more of Lord Gremmil's enthusing, Errol realized that the noble was showing off his efficient demesne because he believed that Errol had the ear of the king and would put in a good word for him once he returned to Tynhelyg.

‘So, Errol, do you like the horse?' Lord Gremmil swung up into his own saddle and they set off back to the town at a gentle trot.

‘It's a fine beast, yes.'

‘Then he's my gift to you. Along with the saddle and harness. No, don't argue. And we'll have to see about getting you some provisions for the journey. Oh, and here.' He put his hand in his saddlebag, pulling out something and throwing it to Errol, who caught it before he could see what it was. ‘You'll probably need that too.'

Errol shook what he had caught and nearly dropped it in surprise. It was a leather bag that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coin, and judging by its weight there was enough to keep him going for months.

‘Lord Gremmil, I can't—'

‘Say nothing more of it. Let's return to the castle and make preparations. No doubt you'll want to leave in the morning. You'll dine with Isobel and me in the main hall tonight.' And, so saying, he kicked his horse into a canter and then a gallop. Errol stared at the bag of money, then at his fast-disappearing host and finally back the way they had come, the road to Tynhelyg. There was nothing to stop him heading off straight away; he had more already than he had arrived with, and every hour he spent here was an hour longer it would take him to track down the
circus. And then what? Someone had overpowered Benfro, and they had not thought twice about leaving Errol for dead. What could he hope to do? Perhaps it was better to stay here, at least for another night. It was hard to maintain his deception, but he could always plead a headache and retire early, take a bit of time to try and work out what he was going to do.

Stowing his newly found wealth in his newly acquired saddlebag, Errol kicked his horse into a slow canter and followed the trail of dust back to the city. Poul was waiting for him at the gates, and they walked back through the busy streets at a more sedate pace before handing over the horses to a couple of stable hands. Isobel greeted them with a look of worried excitement on her face.

‘Errol, it's good to see you up and about. I hope you're feeling better.'

‘Much, thank you. But I'm a little tired. If you don't mind I'd like to have a rest before this evening.' Errol smiled and bowed. He could see that Lady Gremmil wanted to tell her husband something important, and he had no desire to intrude upon their business any more than he already had.

‘Of course, of course.'

‘Lord Gremmil, I am indebted to you. To you both.' Errol bowed once more, then turned away, heading for the stairs. But he couldn't help overhearing what Lady Gremmil had to say to her husband.

‘A messenger arrived not ten minutes ago. The king has put out another call to arms, and he's sending one of the war council out into the country to see the job's done properly. Poul, he's coming here. He'll be here by nightfall.'

‘Who's coming, Bella?'

‘That horrid man, Duke Dondal.'

Errol almost fell down the stairs when he heard the name. He could feel panic rising in him. Dondal would recognize him in an instant. There was no way he could stay here any longer. Ignoring the ache in his head and the weariness in his arms and legs, he slipped past the stairs and out through a side door. The yard was a bustle of activity, but no one paid him any heed as he walked across the cobbles towards the stables. He was still wearing the riding cloak given to him by Lady Gremmil, and he pulled it around his shoulders, turning up the collar against the late afternoon breeze. The two horses were still tethered outside their stalls. A boy was taking the saddle off Lord Gremmil's animal. Errol hurried over, trying not to look anxious.

‘Here, lad. Don't worry yourself with the other one. I think I'll take him out for another ride.'

‘Not at all, sir. Less work for me.' The boy grinned and untied the horse. Errol pulled himself up into the saddle, grateful for Captain Osgal's rough tutoring in horsemanship.

With a nod of thanks to the stable boy, he kicked the horse lightly in the ribs and steered it out through the castle gates. Errol retraced his earlier journey down through the town, getting no more than a casual glance from the guards at the town gate, but as he rode away from the walls, heading out along the road through fields of swirling barley, he felt like his back was naked, just waiting for a killer blow. Any moment now, he thought, there'll be shouting and the sound of galloping hooves. A troop of
men will run me down, take me back and throw me into a dungeon.

It took longer to reach the grain stores than before, and as he approached the huge stone buildings it occurred to Errol that they were too far from the castle to be easily defended. They had been built at the crossroads where they were most accessible to the local farmers; Lord Gremmil had no fear that they would ever be attacked, since they were deep in the heart of Llanwennog here. The town walls were a reminder of an earlier time, before the House of Ballah had united the country in peace.