The Demon Lord (4 page)

Turning, Aldric leaned against the wall and stared at Evthan. “Are you quite sure that thing’s a wolf?” he demanded bluntly. It was perhaps an effect of the light, or of his black clothing—or of some thought passing through his mind—but for a moment the Alban’s face had blanched: not to a natural pallor, but as stark as salt. Then Evthan blinked and Aldric moved and the image, like those which had created it, was gone.

“I told you before,” the hunter said quietly. “Not a wolf.
The
Wolf.” He drew again on his pipe while Aldric lifted his discarded wine-cup and studied the contents, realising how very much like blood was the dark wine. Then he sat down and for a moment closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind, to impose some order on the thousand thoughts which tumbled through it.

“But what,” he asked eventually, “does your Overlord say about all this? And what has he done?” He waited for an answer, but heard not even an indrawn breath.

There was still no answer to his question when his eyes opened, and he looked from side to side with a carefully-schooled expression of mild curiosity which would never have deceived anyone who knew him at all well. However, neither Jouvaine knew him even slightly…

“Has anything been done by Geruath at all?” he asked again. Gueynor glanced at her uncle, and from the corner of one lash-hooded eye Aldric caught a glimpse of Evthan’s answering nod. What that meant, he was unsure—but the very fact that he permitted her to speak, and that she required permission in the first place, was interesting. If “interesting” was the word he wanted, which he doubted very much.

“The Overlord’s son—Crisen—sent messengers once,” she said, very firmly as if daring him to deny it. “They were asking about…” Gueynor met the Alban’s intent stare and her voice faltered and then tailed off, once more becoming nervous and uncertain. “They asked all of us about… about…”

“About
what
?” Aldric prompted. There was no answer. “You tell me, Evthan,” he asked over his shoulder without turning round.

“She doesn’t know.”

“Obviously. That was why I asked you.” His abrupt-

ness was deliberate; Evthan was proud and if insulted might well lose his temper, forgetting whatever mask of innocence or ignorance he was hiding behind.

In the event, however, Aldric was to be disappointed.

“They asked about the Beast,” Evthan said flatly, and instead of becoming loudly angry he grew stiff-necked and haughty. “May I remind you,
hlens’l
, that you are guest in this my house, and—”

A strange attitude for a peasant to adopt, thought Aldric sardonically. “And I intend to help you hunt this Beast!” he snapped. “But before then I deserve to know about it! I think I have that right, at least!
Estai tel’hlaur
, Evthan?”

The hunter looked abashed. Proud he might be, but he was embarrassed and ashamed by his outburst. “I do not deny it, Kourgath. Your pardon.”

Aldric nodded cold acknowledgement and drained his wine-cup down to the bitter dregs, then clicked it firmly back on to the table.

“I want,” he said, “to see your blacksmith.”

“I’ll take you to him, Kourgath.” Gueynor was on her feet at once without noticing how, for a heartbeat’s duration, Aldric had failed to respond to his assumed name.

Evthan, saying nothing, waved them both from the room. Gueynor led the way, not trying to talk. The man who had smiled at her had seemed younger than the not-quite-twenty-four he claimed, but now with face taut and humourless he looked much older, disturbingly solemn and in no mood for idle chatter.

The smith showed Aldric where everything was in his small, well-appointed forge, then found himself dismissed by a curt nod. Gueynor remained behind, watching with unsettling attentiveness. Aldric was certain he had let slip nothing that was not already suspected, but even so her interest disturbed him. “Doesn’t anyone in Valden own a hunting dog?” he asked.

The girl twitched, apparently emerging from some very private inner world to which she had retreated. “Laine bought two,” she replied. “After the Beast came. But he uses them to catch deer.”

“They’ll do.” Aldric jerked his head towards the door. “Go speak to him. And better take your uncle. This— Laine, was it?—might not want to put his hounds at risk.” Gueynor hesitated. “All right, then leave your uncle out of it. But go!” She went.

And directly she was gone he pulled the bag of newly-minted florins from inside his jerkin, shook a dozen into a crucible and pushed them deep into the fire. Working hastily, he pumped the bellows until sparks whirled up and the charcoal panted from dull red to a blaze of yellow.

Aldric was sweating, and not just with the heat. He dare not be caught, not now he had begun to melt the silver coins. His ideas, theories, suspicions were made plain there in the fire—and, moreover, what he meant to do about them. The less was known about that, the better; because he was scared of what might happen in this damned strange place with its damned peculiar people. They might panic… and in that panic, somebody would die.

A glance from the doorway told him no one was about so, slipping out, he headed at a run towards the stable where his gear was stowed. There were arrows underneath one arm when he came back—and nocks, beeswax and untrimmed fletchings in the other hand to answer awkward questions.

Born into one of Alba’s oldest high-clan houses, he had been educated as well as any and better than most; though the Art Magic was neither approved of by clan-lords nor taught to their children, he had acquired some small ability in that direction—as well as knowledge about subjects that were far from wholesome. No matter that he had heard the howl at midday in bright sunshine, the moon tomorrow night was full—and he was far too cynical to trust what legends claimed were the limitations of a werewolf.

Then he stopped, with a freezing sensation knotting his stomach. Someone—or something—was moving in the smithy. Reversing one of the arrows and holding it like a dagger, Aldric drifted noiselessly through the door and then sideways, away from the betraying brightness at his back.

Gueynor had not heard him come in—probably she would not have done so had he kicked the door wide open. But she turned anyway, very slowly, and when he saw her face he lowered the arrow.

“Why did you come back?” The rasp in his voice was born of tension, no more. “There’s nothing here to interest you,” he added when she remained silent. It was then he saw what dangled from her fingers: his money-bag.

“Coins,” the girl said dully. “Silver coins. And others melting.” Her eyes swept his face, then slid down to the arrow. “So you—you
do
think that…” She took several gasping little breaths, fuelling the scream he sensed was building up inside her. “
I—I
thought… I hoped… but then…” Her voice was getting shrill. “You don’t just think! You
know
! Or else you wouldn’t—” Her hand jerked convulsively, fingers clawing at her face, and florins chimed across the floor. “It’s true, isn’t it? You know, and it’s… it’s—”

“A precaution, nothing more!” He cut into her hysteria with an iron-edged snap that was the vocal equivalent of a slap in the face. The scream died still-born and a tiny, desolate whimpering was all that escaped her lips; when Aldric put his arms around the girl he felt her shiver at the touch. “Gueynor,” he said more softly, “I have been wrong before.”

“But what if you’re right? It means that the Beast is— might be…” She began to cry.

Aldric winced inwardly. He knew what she meant. Werewolves had no choice in the matter of their changing, and no control over their bestial counterparts. They were victims, just as much as those they killed—and they might not even know about the change…

Just what had Gueynor and Evthan been concealing from him? Why did Crisen Geruath want to know about the Beast and then do nothing? What was happening here? And how much had Rynert known of it when he selected Aldric as his emissary?

“I don’t want you to fret,” he murmured, cupping her chin with one hand and wiping away her tears with the other. “Or to tell any one else about this. Please. Because I could be wrong. And probably am.” Very gently he kissed her cheek, smiling thinly at the chaste gesture,

and just for a moment with the touch of her skin still warm on his lips was tempted to do more. She was so very like Kyrin…

Aldric shivered slightly, realising what it was about the girl that had attracted and intrigued him. It was a bittersweet memory which the Alban had tried to dismiss and did not like to dwell on. And yet that… difference… remained. He frowned and backed away, shaking his head as if waking from some convoluted dream, then with a courteous little bow ushered the puzzled Gueynor out. And locked the door behind her.

There were silver coins and steel-tipped arrows on the floor. Aldric stared at and through them, then squared his shoulders and turned towards the forge. There was still work to do.

Evthan was standing outside the smithy when the Alban finally emerged. Both men looked at one another silently, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Then the hunter cleared his throat. “I spoke to Gueynor,” he began.

Aldric watched him but offered no response.

“She saw how you looked at her, and—and thought to pay you for the Beast’s life. We can’t do so in coin… But you—you…”

“Threw her out? Nothing so violent, I hope. I had my reasons.”

“You are… strange.” It was not an insult. “And you acted honourably with my niece.” Evthan hesitated, searching for the right words. “If—if the worst should happen, I would not have you sent into the Darkness by our rites without someone to name you truly. For the comfort of your spirit. And Kourgath is not your true name, my friend.
I—I
beg pardon if I offend.”

“You do not.” So you know a little Alban, Aldric guessed.
An-kourgath
was the little forest lynx-cat he wore as a crest on his collar—it was not a proper name, only a nickname and that rarely. And what else do you know that I have yet to find out… ? He gave the man a formal bow of courtesy, no irony or sarcasm in the graceful movement or on his face. “My name is safe enough with you, I fancy, Evthan Wolfsbane.”

“Do not, if—” Evthan started to say, but Aldric hushed him with a gesture and a crooked smile. Six days ago—Compassion of God, so long already?—had things gone otherwise his only funeral rites would have been those of the kites and the ravens. Like Youenn Sicard…

“Somebody should have my name,” the Alban said. “If only to remember me. I am Aldric Talvalin. I was
kailin-eir, ilauem-arluth
—a warrior of noble birth and a lord in my own right. Once. Now… now I am
eijo
, landless, lordless, a wanderer on the roads of the world.” Again the sour smile twisted his lips, and the darkness was on him again as it had not been since the humming-bulb arrows came warbling in and hammered Youenn dead from his saddle to the dirt… “Can you blame me if I seek some peace in anonymity now and then?”

Evthan drew his own conclusions from the young man’s sombre words. “You were involved in the fighting that we heard of?” he asked. Aldric nodded—it was true enough. “And you left Alba as a consequence?”

“Persons of rank and power suggested it.”

“A mercenary.” Evthan seemed content now. “Some have already guessed as much. But we protect our friends, Kourgath. You are safe in Valden.”

What about in the woods
? thought Aldric. Aloud he said merely, “I thank you for that,” then pushed the arrows he was carrying into his belt. Without his hand around them the gleaming heads were plain to see—and plainly not just steel.

Evthan gestured at them, and the Alban saw how the hunter’s blue eyes narrowed to conceal the fear which flickered through their depths. Gueynor had kept her secret, as he had asked, and now his own stupidity had revealed it. His oath was no less venomous for being silently directed at himself.

“Those are… interesting,” Evthan muttered. “No one else suspects the Beast might be… not just a wolf.”

Liar
, Aldric said inwardly. Apart from himself there was Gueynor, Evthan and Crisen Geruath—and what had provoked interest from that quarter anyway? The other two had good reason to know, and to be afraid of what they knew, but Crisen was the Overlord’s son: he should have had no curiosity at all about the doings of peasants. And instead he had sent messengers asking about the Beast…

Unanswerable questions of his own flashed through Aldric’s mind and he glanced northward, in the direction where he had been told the Geruath hold of Seghar lay. “I told Gueynor that these are only a precaution,” he said quietly, then drew in a long deep breath and looked up at the sky. “Time we began. Get the dogs—I’ll see to my own gear.” He watched the Jouvaine’s back as Evthan walked away, and twitched one shoulder in a little shrug. Any hunt today or tonight would be a waste of time, at least for the quarry he hoped to flush. But tomorrow could prove another matter. Especially after moonrise.

His arming-leathers were sturdy enough for hunting, but despite that it was only after long deliberation that he set aside his battle armour, knowing that the
tsalaer was
far too heavy. Even so he detached both armoured sleeves from the cuirass and strapped them on beneath his jerkin, just in case. With rather more regret—and the courtesy which she deserved—he unhooked Isileth Widowmaker from his weapon-belt and set the
taiken
in her accustomed place on his saddle. He had come to regard the ancient longsword as a luck-piece, and disliked being separated from her by more than the length of his arm, but he knew she wasn’t practical for hunting. Hunting animals, at least.

The
tsepan
dirk remained, of course. That was a matter of self-respect; a
kailin
could leave off rank, and family, and name—but never the suicide blade which preserved his honour.

Aldric decided on the shorter of his two war-bows, it being more easily managed among the trees than the seven-foot-long assymetrical Great bow, and belted the weapon’s case around his waist before sliding the silver-headed arrows in beside it. In addition to the special arrows he picked out half-a-dozen more with bowelraker tips, heavy flesh-tearing shafts which were meant to stop anything unarmoured dead—or shockingly maimed—in its tracks. And he removed one of the two holstered
telekin
which hung to either side of his saddle.