Graynelore (17 page)

Without hobbs, we were forced to travel a-foot. We went lightly, and warily. Norda Elfwych always hobbling, her body stiffened with pain still. To her credit, she did not complain. If I offered her an arm for support she only made light of it and offered me her own in return. I shook my head at her. But made no further noise about it; let her be.

Lowly Crows, ever the bird in flight now, kept a constant vigil over our heads. She came to rest on my shoulder only when she had something important to report. Something that needed a better explanation than a whispered curse from a shadow-tongue…

Like, the sight of houses being raided. Like, foul murder being done. The fact that there were so few grazing beasts in the fields: there was only the odd hapless stray, standing forlorn; loan survivors, animals run carelessly off their pasture and unlooked for. There were only the scrawly druins, keeping themselves to the far horizons. They, the wiliest of creatures: the beggars of a wild and hardy breed. No bigger than the black-faced sheep, but sturdier than the hairy-cattle. Good summer meat and better winter fat. Excepting, they were impossible to catch for any but a true fell-stockman.

If there were any men about, they were about for a reason. And up to no good. They were better left to themselves, or run away from, unless you fancied your chances with your sword arm. There was already evidence of recent skirmishing. Here, the corpse of a slaughtered hobby-horse. And the remnants of a robber’s haul strewn across the trail: deemed worthless, it had been abandoned. There, the body of a dead man crudely cut up; and sorely mistreated. All the right pieces, I dare say, only arranged in a most unusual, nay, distasteful fashion, even to my battle-hardened eye.

On a distant hillside I picked out the telltale signs of a revenge taken too far. There was smoke, rising – first plumes of white, then bruised black – and the orange glow of fire set against the sky. These were winter shielings I saw; a poor man’s shelter; left to burn to the ground. Fuck your neighbour’s wife if you have to, kill his eldest child, and steal the vitals from his babbie’s mouth. But then, ask yourself this: if you take everything from a man today what will there be left worth stealing tomorrow? (Do you remember my warning, my friend?)

These were the first signs of it then: The Great Riding. All Graynelore was up in arms and upon the raider’s trail, to the last willing man. It had all the makings of a dirty ruckus, an ugly scourging; a cruel and crude free-for-all. Lowly Crows had truly stirred us up a deadly storm: and us its cause. Us…

Where were we heading? For certain, our trail was less of a plan than it was a considered response. Finding the whereabouts of our broken company was not the difficulty. We knew where to look. They were all calling to us now. The shadow-tongues, the unspoken voices, were become a great host.

Come to us…Find us…

Come to us…Find us…

They said. If not always the words, the sentiment: expressed in waves of turbulent sound. The cadence, the rhythm; rather like distant, but frantic birdsong. Like a crying wind, or murmured rumours; the howl of a storm or the rustle of dry bracken upon an open moorland. Yet, always with the same meaning:

Come to us…Find us…

Come to us…Find us…

We only had to seek them out…

And
there
was the problem.

They had deliberately drawn wide apart, were spread more thinly and across a far greater territory than I might have imagined. And at any moment I fully expected to be attacked upon the open trail. After all, to look at, we were a most agreeable target; only a single man alone, an ailing woman, and a flutter of crows.

Our principle tactic – our best defence – was to stay off the trade roads, and the obvious reiver trails. A circuitous route might be a greater labour and a far longer trial, but it was worthy of the effort if it kept our party alive. In particular, the Long Ridings of the ruling graynes were to be avoided at all costs. The Troll, the Bogart, the Wishard, and the Elfwych – aye, even the diminished Elfwych – and their eager blood-ties. Their numbers would be counted in hundreds, and beware any man who found himself crossing their path. There were few hot-blooded fighting-men among them who would have a care for whose head it was they were separating from its shoulders.
Any
man who as much as stood in their way was a declared enemy! Every traveller was become their fair game!

Paradoxically, there was an advantage to be gained by this. Of course, it hindered our progress, but if it kept us on our guard and always wary, it did the same for our own sworn enemies. It was much preferable to us finding ourselves the sole prey of The Great Riding.

Twice we came face to face with small bands of fighting-men: Short Ridings – three or four men, strong blood-ties, no doubt; the members of lesser graynes ready to take a chance upon a wayside ambush in search of easy spoil – who, on balance, decided we were not worth the cost of a fight. (A livid wound is a livid wound, however it is come by.) At the first meet, a stony eyed standoff was enough of a confrontation to satisfy both our parties. We each looked the other over warily or cockily (as was our want) and let our paths cross without incident. Not so much as a word exchanged. A mistaken greeting, even then, might have caused a deadly ruckus.

At the second meet, there was need of a slanging match. A rough tongue lashing! Which, it has to be said, we were
all
rather good at, and even enjoyed. And if it was only a light-hearted affair, with no lasting damage done to either side; better that than a death fight. We were caught out upon a lightly trodden path; a winding trail within a wooded grove. Lowly Crows gave us a warning, but there was little space for either of our parties to turn aside – gracefully. And neither they, nor we, would retire unchallenged. They came on; four men riding, two abreast. I could see they were poorly armed, with little more than long knives, and they already carried heavily loaded sacks. Their hobbs walked head down, labouring under the weight of their toil. I reckoned it was worth a bellowed oath to save the strength of my sword arm.

‘Move yourself aside! You great pair of cack-handed fuckers!’ I slung at the first pair, as we drew level.

I did not stand up to the argument, but stayed plainly open handed in their sight, kept my feet walking. If my instinct was still to make a fist of it and bring the beggars down.

‘Pah!’ The bigger lad looked down at me shrewdly. At once understood, by my gesture, I meant not to fight, only to argue…if he had a like mind. Fortunately, he saw the advantage, and took up my offer with a relish. He sucked on his nose; gobbed noisily at my feet. ‘That’s a big mouth on you, hard man. Mind, I can see you would both sooner shit yourselves and run, before you swung a piece of iron this way!’

‘Aye, you reckon do you?’ Norda Elfwych was suddenly animated. It seemed this was a game we all knew how to play. ‘And you have, no doubt, pinned your own babbies to your table for fresh meat, long before now!’

‘Well now, isn’t
that
the ugliest face I’ve ever seen talking!’ This was the smaller man of the leading pair. ‘It’s no better than a scrawly druin!’

‘Better a druin’s face than its withered hinnies!’ cried Norda.

‘Hark at the woman! I ken your breeches are so often slackened it’s a fair wonder you bother to keep them tied up at all.’

‘Fuck you!’

‘Yes, please! If that’s your best offer?’

‘Dagger’s arse!’

‘Aye; and a wych’s curse!’

‘Ha! I’ll have all your fucking jollies in a bottle!’ Norda was making unusual faces at the last man in their line.

‘I’m fair leaking myself! See? See? I’m fair leaking myself!’ The man loosened his breeches, leaned over the side of his hobb, and aimed a piss at her as he passed her by. Fortunately, he was well off his mark.

‘Ma hinnies’ puddle! If that’s your best shot maybe you are in want of a woman’s help to steady your aim?’ Norda gestured crudely with her hand.

At that, the man appeared momentarily confused; uncertain if he had been encouraged to some lewd act, or foully blasphemed against. He decided upon the latter. ‘And is that really the hard man’s sister talking?’ he bellowed. ‘Or is it his brother perhaps?’

‘Come back here and find out for yourself!’ cried Norda.

‘Right you are then!’

‘There’ll be nothing but a cuss of a foul wind ballooning them pants!’

‘Aye, for sure…there’s a cuss of foul wind…only I know where it’s blowing.’ This last retort came half-heartedly. Mind, our two companies were well past each other, and a good fifty paces apart, before we finally gave it up, and took ourselves a breath.

‘Norda, I am no innocent man,’ I said, wryly, ‘but that is a black tongue you have!’

‘Far better a blackened tongue, Rogrig, than sticks and stones and broken bones,’ she returned. Her face was bright with the lark. ‘Far better that.’

‘Ha.’

It is fair to say, that slanging match raised both our spirits, if only for a short while. Soon after, we left the easily trodden paths, travelled instead to the lonely places: to the waterlogged fens and to the barren moorlands dressed only with bracken and stone and wild gorse. When every man is an enemy, and every welcoming house but a trap, then every marked trail becomes a warning and a danger to be avoided.

Upon a time, we came again to that river’s mouth, where our gathered fey company had once encamped. And for a good while more, we travelled north. We followed the coastline of the eastern sea border, with its cruelly exposed headlands, where there was no shelter and we were constantly beaten by the winds coming off the Great Sea; the brutal squalling tumults of air that had cut the face of the cliff-rock into devilish unnatural shapes. We went ever further, turned at last inland again, treading always upon unbroken ground, where there were no paths to follow; which might well have been our undoing, if Lowly Crows had not been constantly flying over our heads making sure of our way; if the shadow-voices had not continued to call, drawing us ever onward.

And so it was that in following this interminable, devious route we avoided any real trouble. And, here and there, in this hide-hole or that, along the way, we at last renewed our acquaintance with our greater company. First found was Dogsbeard. And then Wily Cockatrice who, in wanton celebration, lit her pipe and filled the air with an extravagant trail of green and purple smoke. Next found, was the elder-man: who was so excited at our discovery, he came at us out of cover, and all of a sudden, from among a string of elder trees. I had never seen him so animated. It took a skirling cry from Lowly Crows to stay my hand upon my sword, or else I might have turned upon him in mistake. Fortunately, in the event, we were well met.

Norda Elfwych was always received kindly and respectfully into our growing company. There was an open show of friendship, if given a little solemnly, not to say with relief at the success of our adventure. Certainly, there was never any hint of faerie slight. Only a sympathetic eye for her diminished state; her cruel injuries that so obviously tormented her still.

Intriguingly, with each addition to our company my understanding of the shadow-tongue became a little clearer. It was more obviously defined – if not particularly easier to comprehend. That is to say, I could almost make out who it was who was sending which message, or making which noise; if I could not often translate the meanings. You see, we did not speak with one voice, not often in the same tongue even, or so it seemed. We each of us had a very individual way of calling; a coarse signature that belonged to us alone.

And among the shadow-tongues, there were the
others
…who made the ethereal noises; sounds as raw as the wind, as delicate as falling rain upon fallen autumn leaves. These were the voices that belonged neither to any living man
nor
to any fey creature; voices that might have always been there, calling across the ages, asking not for understanding but only to be remembered and heard.

At last there were only two of our company missing: Fortuna and Sunfast, the lithe coquettes; those closest of companions, who I had also known briefly for a pair of unifauns, and my lovers…They were not so far away now. Their voices were both distinct and strong, if disparate, it seemed, which only served to confuse me. Why were they not calling out together, when they were always together?

Inside my head, their calls sounded like a beautiful, untamed music. It reminded me of the tunes Notyet had played upon her wooden whistle in my childhood days. And we were so close to them…so very close to finding them. Surely it was enough for us to use our eyes and search them out?

And then, finally, there was the first of the pair before us – Fortuna – if stiffly crouched; cleverly hidden among the undergrowth some paces off the beaten track. She appeared timid, unwilling to break her cover and stand up, unwilling to show herself, even to us, though our approach was open and welcoming.

If her behaviour was, as yet, beyond my understanding, it left me uncomfortably wary, as if I should be on my guard against some greater unseen danger.

The faces of my close company had begun to turn sour. There was a look of consternation upon the faces of both the elder-man and Dogsbeard; elsewhere it was a bitter grief. What did Wily Cockatrice
see
? I felt sure she knew something more of the truth in this.

Above me, upon the air, the crows were in frantic disarray. Lowly Crows was calling pitifully. Suddenly swooping and wheeling, trying to draw my attention toward a stand of three oak trees a little way off the path.

Inside my head the unspoken-voices, the shadow-tongues, were changing their tunes. The sweet music was become fractious, distorted, and oddly disturbing.

Then it broke apart, splintered, like the shattering of a fragile glass.

Then, sudden, sharp discords; painful, resonant notes struck my inner ears. Physically hurt.

I was not the only one to feel it. Beside me Norda Elfwych twisted her face for the pain of it. Wily Cockatrice turned hers away that none of our company should see her mournful expression; or the sting of tears in her eye.