A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (18 page)

Corlin touched him on the shoulder. “Turn round and hold onto the saddle.”

With Otty standing as comfortable as he was able, Corlin lifted the stocky man’s collar-length hair. To his surprise and disgust, he could see the outline of the creature. Like an oversize, oblong, red-veined, semi-transparent tick, a pair of the creatures lay against the back of Otty’s neck as they slowly sucked his blood.

Although his heart was racing, Corlin’s hand was steady as he lifted the point of the blade towards the creatures’ lower edge. At the touch of the cold steel the sickly white flesh quivered. Encouraged by this unexpected reaction Corlin turned the knife and pressed the flat of the blade firmly along the creatures’ length. The reaction was instant and effective. As one, the two conjoined bodies convulsed in a violent paroxysm, tearing themselves away from Otty’s skin. Corlin didn’t hesitate. Ignoring Otty’s anguished screech, he let the knife fall and grasped the two creatures, one in each hand, and squeezed as hard as he could. A mess of primitive worm-like entrails and blood-stained fluids burst from the bulging ends to slither between Corlin’s fingers and over his hands. He eased the mutilated and lifeless remains away from Otty’s face and neck, and threw them to the ground. Crushing them under his foot, he found the final resultant squelch extremely satisfying in a gruesome kind of way.

Grasping Otty’s shoulders, Corlin turned him round and peered into his face. The stocky man’s eyes were closed and the tiny red puncture marks on his cheek and forehead matched those Corlin had seen on his neck.

The minstrel touched Otty’s face gently. “Can you open your eyes?”

Otty gave a little nod, and forced open one bleary eye. Soon both eyes were open and he gave Corlin a ghastly grin. With a good idea of what was coming next, the minstrel prudently stepped sideways. Two seconds later Otty was making his own contribution to the mess splattered on the mountain trail. After dry-retching a couple of times he gasped, coughed and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He glanced back along the trail.

His voice quavered as he looked at Corlin. “Is my neck bleeding?”

Corlin lifted Otty’s hair but all that was visible was a thin streak that was already drying. “Not that you’d notice. How d’you feel?”

Otty grimaced. “Bloody awful, but the sooner we get away from here, the better I’ll feel.”

Two bright spots of green glinted from high up on the canyon wall and Corlin felt inclined to agree that it was a good idea.

He wiped his sticky hands on a corner of Megan’s saddle-blanket and looked across at Otty. “Are you going to tell me how that happened?”

With a look at Corlin as though he thought it was all the minstrel’s fault, Otty shrugged. “Don’t rightly know.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Thanks for getting them off me, anyway.”

Corlin added the incident as one more reason why it would be better to travel alone. With one furtive glance back, Otty clambered into the saddle and sat waiting until Corlin had also mounted and turned Megan in the onward direction. The moonlight was bright enough for Corlin to see that the trail ahead was relatively clear of rocks and scree.

Just as keen as Otty to get out of this treacherous canyon, he decided to take the risk and urged Megan into a fast trot. An occasional glance over his shoulder assured him that this time Otty was staying very close. Half an hour later the trail widened and became two, the one to the right leading upwards into a crowded range of dark towering peaks. The other led steadily downwards through rocky terraced foothills strewn with clumps of vegetation, patches of rabbit-cropped grass, and small groups of wind-stunted trees, onto what appeared to be open plain. With no question or hesitation, Corlin steered Megan to the left.

* * *

There was no sunrise, just a cold grey lightening of a leaden sky. Both men were tired and chilled to the bone, and Otty was visibly shivering.

His teeth chattered as he asked Corlin “Where are we going?”

Making allowances for the petulance in Otty’s voice, Corlin waved his arm in a general southerly direction. “Well, if I haven’t lost my bearings completely, somewhere over there should be the city of Vellethen, but I’m hoping there’s at least one town or village before that. We all need food and rest.”

There was a note of desperation in Otty’s voice. “I just hope it’s not too far.” He gave a little cough. “To be honest, I’m just about all in.”

Riding a yard or two ahead, Corlin was unable to see Otty’s face. He turned in the saddle, intending to try and lift his friend’s mood with a joke. Instead, he managed to dismount just in time to catch him as he toppled off Egg’s back. With a firm grip under the unconscious man’s armpits, he lowered him to the ground and pulled him onto a nearby patch of soft turf. With his fingers pressed to the side of Otty’s neck, Corlin breathed a sigh of relief at feeling the steady, if not very strong, pulse.

He patted the man’s chubby cheek. “Otty. Wake up! C’mon Otty.”

There was no response, and Corlin felt a brief wave of hopelessness wash over him. He took a deep breath and began to think things through. The prospect of getting Otty back into the saddle was initially daunting, but he was sure it could be done. After that it was a matter of keeping him there and making his way to Vellethen as quickly as possible, all the time watching for that vital moment when he regained consciousness. His mind made up, he crouched beside Otty and braced himself to lift the stocky man in the same way he would lift a calf or a sheep.

He was about to take Otty’s weight when the urgent tone of a man’s voice came from behind him. “Wait! Let me help you.”

Surprised by the man’s unheard arrival and less by his identity, Corlin watched over his shoulder as the man with the braided hat-band walked towards him.

The man crouched down beside him and lifted one of Otty’s eyelids.”What happened to him?”

Corlin shook his head. “I’m not sure. He just passed out and fell off his horse.” He jerked his head back along the trail. “He was attacked by something back there in the canyon.”

He described the whole incident with the invisible flying creatures, while hat-band examined the marks on Otty’s face before lifting his head to study the tiny wounds on his neck.

His face drawn with concern, the man turned his dark-eyed gaze on Corlin. “This man needs a Physician-mage as quickly as possible. Let’s get him onto his horse.”

Between them, the two men lifted Otty and laid him over his saddle.

Corlin looked around. “Where’s your horse? I didn’t hear you arrive.”

The man gave him a twisted smile. “There’s no reason that you should. Now, mount up and get yourself to Vellethen as fast as you can. I’ll see to the care and welfare of your friend.”

A frisson of alarm sped through Corlin’s veins. “But...”

He had no chance to say anything further or to ask the dozen questions that were racing through his mind. Otty, Egg and the man with the braided hat-band had vanished.

Corlin groaned “Not more magic!” He groaned again when he realised that along with Otty and Egg, hat-band had taken the saddlebags. All that was left for him to eat was the walnuts in the cotton bag. To add to his frustration, he had no idea where he would start looking for Otty once he arrived in Vellethen. Suddenly everything seemed to be conspiring against him. His mouth set in a grimace of determination he clambered into the saddle and kneed Megan up onto a nearby ridge. There he stood up in the stirrups and looked in the general direction of Vellethen, but all he could see were acres of open fields and stands of woodland. The trail was clear and meandered down through the foothills, disappearing into the depths of a small forest before reappearing, a pale ribbon streaking in a south-easterly direction through pristine meadows. There was no sign of livestock, which told Corlin that the grassland was too far from civilisation to be grazed. With a deep sigh of resignation he eased Megan down onto the trail, hoping there would be an isolated farmstead or holding whose occupants would give him a meal in exchange for a ballad or two.

It was almost dark when Corlin arrived in a fair-sized village nestled in the southern foothills. His growling stomach had been temporarily forgotten as he had ridden over a rise an hour earlier to see the streets and cottages spread out below him. Knowing it was unlikely that he would find anywhere else before nightfall, he had decided to take his time and enjoy the peace and quiet. Riding through the meadows on the village outskirts he looked with interest at the flocks of sheep. Unlike his father’s small flock which had been thick-set and short-legged with a long rippling fleece, the majority of these flocks had a shorter fleece and their long legs and smooth faces were, for the most part, completely black. His curiosity roused, and glad to have something to take his mind off his quest, if only for a while, he looked around for a shepherd or smallholder who might be willing to discuss sheep with him, but as he drew nearer the village itself the only people he saw were a few workmen and housewives hurrying home to their cottages.

Halfway along the main street he came to an inn, its windows bright with light, but a chain slung between posts on each side of the door made it clear that ‘The King’s Arms’ was not yet open for business. Corlin rode past, turned under the broad arch and into the stable-yard.

A young stable hand hurried forward and caught Megan’s bridle. “Will you be lodging for the night sir?”

Corlin dismounted, stretched and looked around the dimly lit stalls. “Yes please, but I’ll have her unsaddled if you don’t mind.” Feeling a bit silly at having to ask, Corlin leaned forward, his voice low. “Would you mind telling me where I am?”

The young man took Megan’s lead-rein and peered over her saddle, his eyebrows raised. “You’re in Wycholt sir; the last place with an inn until you gets to Hanbrook on t’other side of the River Lowen.”

He guided Megan into a stall, and began to loosen her girth while Corlin untied the gimalin from the cantle and made a grab for the bag of walnuts just as the hand was lifting the saddle off Megan’s back. To Corlin’s surprise, the bag of nuts jingled. The stable-hand had heard it too, but pretended not to notice as Corlin tucked the cotton bag inside his coat. It jingled again and Corlin knew he would have to investigate before he entered the inn, when it opened. Walnuts shouldn’t jingle.

Having unsaddled Megan, the stable-hand was loitering expectantly and Corlin knew he was hoping for a tip.

The minstrel jerked a thumb towards the inn. “When I’ve settled with the landlord I’ll send something out for you. I need to get some small change.”

The young man’s shoulders drooped. “That means I won’t get it, if you give it to him. He’s an old tight-fist.”

Corlin nodded. “I see. In that case I’ll give it you myself, in the morning before I leave.”

His face long and sallow in the light of a nearby lantern, the stable-hand shrugged and turned away. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t be here tomorrow.” He jerked his head towards the furthest stall. “His rider had a similar problem.”

His curiosity piqued, Corlin took a few steps forward to get a closer look. The big black gelding in the end stall turned its head and gave him a long stare before returning its attention to the hay-net on the wall. Corlin’s heart sank. If that was hat-band’s horse, where was Otty? He moved away and slipped into Megan’s stall. Using her body as a shield he carefully pulled the cotton bag out of his inside pocket. Easing the drawstring open, he peered inside. For a moment or two he stood with his mouth open as he struggled to catch his breath. Eventually, his face flushed with excitement and his heart pounding, he slipped the bag back into his pocket, wondering again about the powers of the old crone who had sat by the ancient walls of Tallard city. There was no sign of the stable-hand, so Corlin made his way out of the stables, along the alley at the side of the inn, and knocked on the back door. A minute or two later the hatch slammed back and a pair of cold grey eyes peered through.

The voice which accompanied them was female, thin and reedy. “Yes? What is it?”

Corlin’s unhurried ride along the meandering road to the village, contemplating little more than sheep, had left him feeling relaxed and at peace with the world. Having arrived at the stable, his jaundiced view of magic had then been drastically altered by the contents of the bag which had once contained walnuts. Now, the woman’s hostile tone collapsed Corlin’s elevated mood like a punctured bag-pipe. Unable to keep the disenchanted grimace from his face, he leaned on his staff and took his weight on his good leg.

He looked straight back into the unblinking stare. “I’d like a room for the night, and a meal, if that’s possible.”

The cold grey eyes blinked once, the hatch clattered shut and the door creaked open. “You’d better come in then.”

Corlin stepped into a narrow stone-flagged passage, lit by one small lantern hung on the white-washed wall halfway along. The door thumped shut, and he turned to see the woman behind him. Thin as a lath, she barely came up to his shoulder as her cold stare fixed on the gimalin slung across his back. She waved him ahead.

Her tone softened a little, although it was clear that she was all business and would brook no nonsense. “Go through that door in front of you and up the stairs. The room straight ahead is taken but you can have either of the other two. Dinner is in an hour, and you pay your coin before you eat. The door facing the stairs leads into the bar-room.”

Corlin raised a hand in agreement as he walked towards the door. He was just about to click the latch when the woman tapped him on the shoulder.

She nodded at the gimalin. “Can you play that?”

Corlin grinned. “I can get a tune or two out of it.”

To his surprise a wistful little smile crossed her thin face. “Perhaps later you might...?

She left the question hanging, and the minstrel found himself warming to this tiny mouse of a woman dressed in shapeless dark brown fustian.

He pulled the door open and stood at the foot of the dog-legged stairs. “No problem. When I’ve cleaned up and eaten.”

A twinkle of pleasure lit her eyes, only to be extinguished as a harsh voice called out “Annie! Where you to?”

The woman dodged round Corlin and reached for the latch on the bar-room door. “That’s Denzil, my husband. I have to go.”

Before Corlin could say anything else she had opened the door and was gone into the bar, closing the door behind her. Denzil’s distinctive accent, and the words he had used to call Annie, had started Corlin thinking. The man was obviously not from these parts, and it was a fair bet that he was a FarWest man. Making his slow way up the stairs, Corlin anticipated some interesting conversation if the man was the conversational type. He paused on the landing for a moment before continuing up the second short flight. At the top, he stood for a moment in the narrow hallway and assessed his choice of rooms, before deciding on the one to the right. A thin smile of satisfaction crossed his face as he looked out through the window. His assessment had been accurate. His room overlooked the stable-yard and some outbuildings to the rear.

He had just taken off his coat and hung it on a wooden peg on the wall, when there was a gentle knock on his door. Before he could reach it, the door opened and Annie scurried in with a large pitcher, steam rising from its wide mouth. She placed it carefully beside the glazed earthenware bowl on the wooden wash-stand. A slim leather case was slipped out of her apron pocket and placed beside it.

She gave him a timid little smile. “I thought you’d like some hot water to clean up with. Have to go. Got to finish doing dinner.” As she left the room she popped her head back round the door. “It’s lamb. I hope that’s alright.”

Corlin felt like royalty as he washed in the hot water and shaved using the razor that Annie had left for him. Clean shaven again for the first time in days, he tidied his hair as best he could with his fingers then sat on the plain wooden chair beneath the window and tuned the gimalin. With the instrument tucked under his arm, and his stomach growling in anticipation of a home-cooked lamb dinner, he left the room and made his way downstairs.

Apart from a bearded bear of a man, who Corlin took to be Denzil, watching him with some interest from behind the long polished bar, and a nondescript figure hunched over a table by the window, the room was empty. The seat of a high-backed settle made a resting place for the gimalin while he made his way to the bar.

For all his fearsome appearance, the landlord gave Corlin a cheery smile. “What’ll be your pleasure me ‘ansome?”

The minstrel returned the smile. “A tankard of your best brew, please landlord.”

The big man nodded his approval and drew the beer from a huge barrel at the back of the bar. His eyes drifted to the corner by the window as he placed the brimming tankard on the bar-top.

He gave Corlin another bright smile. “That’ll be a copper for the beer.” He glanced over to the corner again and gave Corlin a meaningful look. “Er...would there ‘appen to be anything else, sir?”

Slipping his hand into his tunic pocket, Corlin gave a brief shake of his head. “Might as well settle up now, eh landlord? ‘Tis done then.” He placed a silver on the counter. “That should cover the night’s livery and my supper.”

The landlord palmed the coin and nodded towards the window corner. “Erm... what about your unhappy friend over there?”

Corlin frowned, looked over his shoulder and took a minute to study the blond-haired young man hunched on the window-seat, seemingly lost to the world in the contemplation of his tankard of beer. His clothes were plain, rather shabby and hung on his lean frame like hand-me-downs. In contrast, the black high-quality leather calf-length boots seemed absurdly out of place. Despite the apparent attempt at ordinariness, Corlin recognised the wearer almost immediately.

Hoping his pretence of mild resentment would be convincing, Corlin took a swig of his beer before jerking his head towards the character by the window. “So, what did he tell you?”

The landlord gave a shrug that Otty would have envied. “He said someone ‘ud be along d’reckly to take care o’ things. There hasn’t been anyone ‘ere ‘cept you.”

Corlin grimaced, picked up his tankard and made as good a show as his foot would allow of stomping across the room. He pulled out a chair, sat down hard and placed his tankard none too gently on the blond man’s table.

Keeping his voice low he leaned towards the man. “I know where prince Harald is, so I guess you must be Olaf.”

Bright blue eyes locked on Corlin’s grey-green ones. “I fear you are mistaken, fellow. My name is Oliver.”

Corlin’s mouth gave a wry twist. “Of course, sire. And it’s Winter Festival and I’m Old Tam.”

A door to the far side of the room swung open, and Annie scurried in, a laden plate in each hand. Seeing the two men apparently in friendly conversation she crossed the room and carefully placed a plate of roast lamb and vegetables in front of each of them.

Immediately, the man calling himself Oliver reached out and pushed the plate to one side. “I have lost my appetite. Please take this away.”

Surprise and disappointment registered on Annie’s face as she reached for the plate, only to find Corlin staying her hand.

His tone almost threatening, the minstrel’s voice was a low murmur as he leaned forward. “As it would seem I am paying for this, I suggest you eat it and be thankful. When we’ve eaten, you and I have a lot to talk about.”

With a smile and a nod of thanks, he took the offered cutlery from Annie. “He’ll be alright. It’s just one of his moods. No offence intended.”

The door of the inn flew open to admit a blast of cold air and a couple of tall, heavy-set men in working clothes, giving Annie no chance to say anything further. She hurried back across the room towards her kitchen, while Corlin dropped a knife and fork beside his companion’s plate. The man said nothing, just gave Corlin a brief nod of thanks, snatched up the cutlery and began to attack his food as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Looking at him, Corlin wondered briefly about the truth of it.

By the time the two men had finished their meal, more customers had made their way into the inn, and the bar-room was buzzing with conversation, argument, and laughter.

A man’s loud voice, alive with friendly interest, carried above the noise. “I see a gimalin here. Who’s the minstrel?”

The general din ebbed as everyone looked around. Corlin took the last swig of his beer, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and briefly raised his hand. The small crowd parted to allow the questioner through, the gimalin cradled in his arms.

The landlord called across, his deep growl complementing his bear-like appearance. “P’raps a lively tune ‘ud cheer up your unhappy friend, master minstrel!”

As Corlin took the instrument he forced a smile. He wasn’t really in the mood for a musical evening. He wanted to get ‘Oliver’ on his own and find out why the young prince was apparently hiding here, and wearing somebody else’s old clothes. The noise in the room swelled again as Corlin removed the gimalin’s soft leather case which Otty had somehow acquired during his time exploring Tallard. He dropped it on the table and looked hard at the morose young prince.

Keeping his voice low, he let his tone make his meaning quite clear. “Perhaps ‘Oliver’ you can look after this for me until I’m done?”

Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and walked away from the table, ignoring as he always did, the curious glances at his bent foot, and the whispered comments as he crossed the room. Perched on a vacant stool at the far side of the fireplace, he thought for a moment about what his audience might appreciate, and began with a simple but lively piece just to get his fingers loosened up. Annie gave him a wistful little smile as she sidled past him to collect the empty plates from the table. On her way back, the smile was accompanied by a nod of satisfaction. Corlin thought he detected a spring in her step as she headed for the kitchen door.