The Last Quarrel (The Complete Edition) (8 page)

She didn’t want to worry so much, or keep imagining the worst happening to Kerrin and Fallon and Padraig, but there was no stopping it. Fallon kept trying to see the best in things but she could only imagine the worst.

They rarely fought, but when they did it was always about this. Sometimes she felt they were growing apart. He wanted more from life, wanted to show how good he was. He wanted to be a warrior, a hero, admired by the King himself. She wanted him to stay as he was, because it was much safer. And now he was out there hunting poachers, while angry, and she would worry until he returned.

Fears danced around her head until she got up and went down to the fire. She drew up a chair and watched Kerrin sleep. Each time he drew breath she held her own, fearing it would be his last. She knew it was crazy but she could no more stop her dark thoughts than she could her tears.

Fallon crouched in the darkness, a cloak wrapped around him both for warmth and to break up his outline. Two of Devlin’s lambs had been taken in the past half-moon and nothing had remained of them, signaling it wasn’t foxes or wolves. He had waited fruitlessly out in the dark for two nights, the flock of sheep sleeping behind him, and he was not expecting to find anyone tonight either. But it was better than being at home, with Bridgit. Maybe when they both cooled down he could go back. Not that he was cold. His anger was keeping him warm.

Under his cloak he had his loaded crossbow and his shillelagh as well as a pair of long knives. He doubted he would need his sword for such as these and, besides, it was the wrong weapon for a wrestle in the woods. He breathed gently and easily, having made sure he was comfortable, for he didn’t know how long it would take to lose his anger. Maybe the poachers had moved on. Baltimore was hardly a rich target.

It was self-sufficient: a village built around the need to support the two score of fishing boats that paid for them all. Once gutted and smoked, the fish were shipped to Lunster and from there to the other big towns and cities of Gaelland. It was a hard life, because while the fish were packed into barrels and transported to the Duke’s castle in a never-ending wave, no money flowed back the other way. It was their duty to their lord. There was food aplenty but almost no money in the whole village. That suited Fallon just fine. He knew that money attracted trouble like flies to fresh shit. If the Duke had been paying them, the woods would have been full of bandits, not deer, and he would have needed a score of men to protect everyone. Of course the villagers cheated the Duke. They had to send half their catch to him – but it was easy enough to put aside a few extra fish to keep them through the winter and nobody was the wiser. Or were they? The whispers said the Earl of Meinster, further around to the north-west coast of Gaelland, paid men to count the fish as they came off the boats and, if less than half that number turned up at his castle, had the difference flogged into the whole village. Luckily the Duke was a fair lord, respected by his people. But who would be his replacement? He had no children, so his wife would take the title. After her death, it would be up to the King to announce a new Duke. Fallon doubted the best man would get the job.

He closed his eyes again, listening carefully, trying to be part of the woods. He rested his bolt’s sharp head on his leg, so it would jab him awake if he started to fall asleep. Maybe he should return home. After all, he had to be up with the dawn to get to Lunster as early as possible. He hated fighting with Bridgit, but he could not accept that they were doomed to sadness. For him, it was an easy choice. Try to live in hope. Part of that was loving her and wanting her and he could not stop doing that, not for anything. Yet she could only see darkness.

Maybe they did need to leave Baltimore. Yes, it was their home and their friends lived there but something needed to change. She didn’t like change. It scared her, like so much scared her these days, but they couldn’t keep going on like this. If anything happened to Kerrin … He shuddered to think what it would do to her. He had to do something to see her happy again. Maybe if he just said that to her …

Then his eyes flicked open as the night sounds of the wood changed. Everything went quiet, then he heard the first cautious steps through the undergrowth. It was dark, with barely a glimmer of light from the moon, but he was sitting down low, so he quickly spotted them silhouetted against the night sky: a pair of them.

He let them get close, then surged to his feet, crossbow in hand. “Don’t move, lads, unless you want to be breathing through a hole in your guts,” he ordered.

The pair of them swore in surprise, holding up knives, then raised their hands when they heard the creak of the crossbow.

“Who are you?” one asked nervously.

“I’m Fallon and this is my village. You boys are poachers, so unless you want me to nail you up for the crows, you’re going to come back with me and submit yourself to the Duke’s judgment.”

“Bastard nobles! It’s their fault we’re doing this. A man has to eat,” the poacher spat.

“Aye. The world’s a hard place, but you’re making it harder for others. So I’ll get you to drop those knives and then walk slowly out into the field with me.”

“Look – Fallon, wasn’t it? Just let us go. We swear we’ll never come back this way,” the poacher pleaded.

“I can’t let you boys go because then you’ll only be stealing from someone else.”

“You don’t know what it’s like. The bastard nobles just squeeze you and squeeze you until there’s nothing left. They live like kings and we survive on scraps.”

“Tell it to someone who gives a shit,” Fallon said. “The knives. Drop them now or the crows will be feasting on your guts tomorrow.”

The poachers sighed and Fallon smiled grimly. There was only one shot in the bow but neither wanted to be the first to taste it. Then a cloud covered the moon and the dim light became blackness.

Fallon heard the two of them split apart and circle around and cursed silently. He dropped the crossbow and, after a moment’s hesitation, dropped the shillelagh as well and drew his knives, backing away silently. They wanted to take him on? Well, they were about to find they had picked the wrong night to do it. His frustration and anger bubbled over and he tensed himself for action.

The first attack came from his left, the poacher crashing out of the bushes, aiming at the spot where Fallon had been. Fallon took a fast step forward and rammed his left-hand knife up under the ribs, feeling the shock of the impact up his arm and the hot spurt of blood across his hand as he let go of the knife and left the poacher to scream out his agony with a foot of cold steel buried in his side. Fallon swiveled to his right and braced himself for the second man, who was charging in to save the other.

Fallon was ready for him but, in the darkness, the man tripped and went under his straight thrust. Fallon jumped back and away, feeling the hiss as the poacher lashed out where his legs had been a moment before. He stepped forwards swiftly and rammed his knee up, feeling it strike something that broke. The poacher squealed and flopped backwards and Fallon kicked out, thumping into the man’s body. But it was too good a kick, because it drove the man out of reach and he dared not chase too close, for fear of a knife in the dark.

Instead he backed away a pace, sliding his feet carefully so as not to make noise, although the screams and gurgles of the dying poacher behind him covered what he was doing. He tried to block out the dying man’s moans and listen to what the other was doing, but it was impossible.

He could sense the poacher easing towards him but he didn’t know from which direction. So he stood his ground and waited, every sense on edge, poised for action.

Then the moon slid out from behind the cloud and he caught a flash of steel over to his left. Instantly he swiveled away from a blow that would have taken his guts out and kicked out at the man’s knee, breaking bone with a crack. The poacher went down, bloodied face open in a silent scream, then Fallon stepped in and followed it up with his knife, driving it through the man’s throat.

He stood on his toes, ready for anything else to come at him, blood dripping down his hand and from his blade, but the poacher whose throat he had slit stopped thrashing in a few heartbeats, while the other’s screams had dwindled to a breathy gasp that also faded.

Fallon stood ready for a count of one hundred anyway, then lowered his knife and wiped blood off his face. Luckily Devlin’s house was close by, because he would need to wash and change if he was not going to give Kerrin and Bridgit a heart attack by walking in like that. Part of him wanted to do that, to show Bridgit what had nearly happened and prove she should be nicer to him, but he knew that would be the worst thing for her.

His anger had burned out and now he wanted to go home and hug and kiss his son and wife. The smell of the dead bodies and the senselessness of it made him shake his head. They would have spent a day in the stocks and been whipped from Lunster but they would have been alive. Now they were worm food. Looking down at the pair of half-starved dead thieves, he did not feel much like a hero.

Fallon reined in his borrowed horse and adjusted the formal surcoat around his neck. The damn thing still smelled of lavender and it seemed to be getting worse, not better, the longer he went on. Not that the people of Lunster would be able to smell it. The stench of the town rose all the way up the hillside to where Fallon looked down on it. It suited his foul mood.

Bridgit had not even wanted to hold him and finally he had gone to bed while she had climbed in with Kerrin. After a short night of sleep, he had risen in the dawn and eaten yesterday’s bread and cold lamb while Kerrin and Bridgit slept on. He had kissed his wife goodbye but been too angry to wake her.

There seemed to be a large number of people hurrying into Lunster, more than he remembered from his last trip there, which had admittedly been the previous year. Perhaps there was a market on, or something like that. Worrying about what he would say to the Duchess to impress her and brooding on the way he could not get his hands on Bridgit, he rode up to the county town.

The sight of his surcoat, smelling of lavender though it was, was enough to see him waved through the gate ahead of a press of people. The road there was churned into mud and people were slipping and sliding, heedless of what was getting on them, desperate to get inside. Not that inside the town was much to look at. The houses were clustered tightly on top of each other, extra rooms thrown on top or to the side until they were squeezing each other tight. Baltimore often smelled – the whiff of the fish-smoking fires, the reek of animals and the stench of the tanner, if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. But that was nothing compared to Lunster. It was almost like a cloak over the senses, a mixture of smoke, rot, death, animals, humans and all their waste packed into a small space. It made Fallon’s eyes water and his nose sting and he was glad Kerrin had not come with him because the boy would have been coughing before they had gone ten paces inside the gate. The smell failed to deter the crowd of people at the gate, however. Most were shouting at the guards but the words were melding into one big noise.

Fallon paid little attention to them but he could not fail to notice the strange mood of the town and the way people were keeping close hold of their children. Normally flocks of little ones would be running through the muddy streets, or begging for coins and food from the merchants hauling their goods into Lunster. It was one of the many things Bridgit hated about it. But today they were keeping out of the way.

The shops seemed empty. Few people were looking through the goods and the merchants were calling out desperately to anyone who looked like a customer. Further down the road, however, the church was packed, people spilling out onto the street and even kneeling in the mud and muck, heads bowed in prayer. It was all strange, and Fallon hoped they would have some answers for him at his lord’s seat.

In some counties the lord’s seat was a castle but Lunster had never needed that, although they still called it one. The Duke’s home was more of a sprawling manor, on the only high ground in Lunster, set back a little way from the harbor, surrounded by a high wall that looked impressive but was thin and lacked any crenellations along the top. It was above the rest of the town in many ways. The only thing it shared with the rest of Lunster was the smell. It got both the reek of the town and the odor of the harbor, which was covered in trading ships and waste.

Like the front gate, the gate to the Duke’s manor was surrounded by a small crowd, all shouting at the guards, who stared back impassively. The town gate had to be open to let the business of Lunster continue each day. The Duke’s gate only had to be opened at his order: it was firmly barred to the shrieking crowd and the guards showed no sign of moving.

Fallon wondered if word that the Duke was missing had somehow got back here. What else could be causing such commotion? He pushed his way through the crowd, using his horse to force a path to the door. People glared at him and spat in the mud as he passed but none dared say anything, not to a man wearing the Duke’s surcoat.

“What is it?” The sergeant in charge of the line of men across the gate looked up at him wearily.

“I have to get in. I have urgent news for the Duchess and a vital report to make.”

The sergeant sniffed. “The Duchess won’t be seeing anyone else this day. Leave me your name and where you’ll be staying and a message will be sent when she wants to hear your report.”

“What’s going on?” Fallon demanded.

“You don’t need to know. It’s not for the likes of you,” the man sneered.

“You don’t understand,” Fallon growled. “I have a message for the Duchess. I am the sergeant of the guard at Baltimore –”

“I don’t care,” the sergeant said. “Go back to the shithole you came from and leave the real work to actual soldiers. You’re just a farmer in a surcoat.”

Fallon felt his fists clench as he glared at the sergeant, who stared back indifferently. He was a big man, with a broad, flat face and shaven head. Scars around his face showed he was only too happy to settle arguments himself. But Fallon had a secret weapon. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a scabbarded sword, holding it hilt first towards the sergeant. “I’m a farmer in a surcoat who’s holding the Duke’s sword. Now would you like me to ride back into town and tell the people what’s really happened to the Duke, or do you think the Duchess would like to hear first?” Fallon asked harshly.

The sergeant’s blue eyes bulged as he recognized the jeweled sword hilt.

“Aroaril! Get the bogging gates open and someone go and run to the captain!” he barked.

Fallon tucked the sword back into his lap and nudged his horse forward and through the rapidly opening gates. The guards stared at him warily as they pulled apart to let him through; Fallon could hear the whispers racing through the crowd behind him. It was a mark of how surprised they were that none tried to push forward as the gates opened.

Fallon rode into what seemed like another world. He knew that, around the back, was a tangle of stables and storerooms. But all the visitor could see at first was a beautiful series of gardens, a mass of flowering plants all trying to keep the stench of the town at bay, filling the space between the wall and the manor house, three stories of beautiful golden stone, carved with care and skill. It had been years since Fallon had been inside but it still sent a shiver down his spine, seeing its beauty against such ugliness outside.

“What happened? How did you come by the Duke’s sword?” the gate sergeant asked urgently.

“You don’t need to know. It’s not for the likes of you,” Fallon told him coolly.

The man’s eyes narrowed but a call made him stiffen to attention.

“Fallon! As I live and breathe, it is good to see you, man!”

Fallon and the sergeant saluted the tall man hurrying down the swept stone path towards them, dressed in a similar surcoat – except his was of finer quality and had a crown embroidered on the shoulder.

“Captain Hagen, good to see you, sir,” Fallon said stiffly, climbing down from his horse.

“Don’t you go bothering with that nonsense!” Hagen clapped him on the shoulder. “Look at you – you’ve barely changed!”

“Neither have you,” Fallon said dutifully.

“Ah, you are as bad a liar as always!” Hagen said cheerfully.

Fallon grinned back, while the gate sergeant stood at attention, giving them both anxious glances. Fallon looked at his old friend critically. Hagen was maybe an inch or so taller than he was, with powerful shoulders and the beginnings of a paunch. He had a crooked nose, a scar through his left eyebrow and once-brown hair that was now thin and grey. They had joined up together as recruits, sweated, worked, fought and drunk together. But while Fallon had married Bridgit and taken a job as a humble guard sergeant in a quiet village, Hagen had never married and stayed in Lunster in all that time, rising to be captain of the Duke’s guard.

“What are you doing here then? Decided to give up the quiet life and come and give me a hand whipping these lads into shape?” Hagen smiled.

“Nothing so good. Take a look at this.” Fallon pulled out the Duke’s sword and handed it over.

Hagen’s smile disappeared in a moment. “Aroaril save us! How did you end up with this?”

“It is a grim story and a strange one. Perhaps not here, though?” Fallon nodded towards the gate sergeant, who was listening frantically.

“Too right,” Hagen agreed. “Gannon! Take Sergeant Fallon’s horse to the stables and make sure it is treated as if it were the Duke’s own!”

While the glowering Gannon led his horse away, Fallon allowed himself to be guided towards the manor house.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Maybe I should be the one asking you,” Hagen said. “Seeing as you hold the Duke’s sword, you might hold a few answers as well. Sit here.”

Fallon joined him on a wooden bench, screened from both the gate and the manor house by thick bushes. “I’ll tell you what I know, which isn’t much,” he said, explaining what had happened and his suspicions about who was behind it.

Hagen’s face grew darker as Fallon talked on.

“Has that got anything to do with what’s going on in the town?” Fallon asked.

Hagen rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I bloody hope not, but I fear so. For the last couple of days, we’ve been hearing reports from up and down the coast of people disappearing. People go fishing and never return, their boat found bobbing in the sea. Family just disappears, leaves a meal on the table. Others left fish smoking or dinner cooking, just vanished. And nobody has seen anything, or can find any trace of violence, let alone blood. So you can imagine what people are thinking. The church has been packed these last two days, while anyone who doesn’t live in a village is heading in here, wanting protection. The ones outside the manor gate are relatives or friends of the missing. They want us to do something, although Aroaril knows what. I’m buggered if I know where to start.”

“It’s not magic. I’m sure of it. It’s men doing this.”

“Why? What would they do with some smelly fishermen and some farmer’s kids? The Duke, he would be worth a bit – but if you’ve got him, why keep going? None of it makes sense. People are screaming about selkies and there’s not much we can do to deny it. Packs of idiots are going out to pray to colonies of seals and offer them food each day. I don’t know which side is more scared of the other.”

“We need to set up a trap somehow – give me a few squads of men to hide in an old farmhouse or on a ship and then see what happens. All we need is one person to escape, or one sighting of a ship and we’ll know it is men,” Fallon said.

Hagen sighed gustily. “Why didn’t you stay here, mate? Then it would be your problem, not mine.”

“I like the fresh air and the people,” Fallon said defensively. “Besides, who’s to say I’d be a captain? You always wanted it more.”

“True. But now I’ve got it, I don’t want it any more. Especially like this. Breaking up a few fights is one thing; even chasing bandits through woods is all right. But old wives’ tales coming to life and stealing people away – that’s something else. Anyway, we’d better go tell the Duchess the bad news.”

Fallon had to scrape his boots off before following Hagen into the manor house. He hadn’t been asked to, he just felt he should. The entrance was spacious and light, the windows filled with real glass, another Kottermani invention. The hall was lined with beautifully carved Kottermani tables, each one almost covered with huge bunches of fresh flowers. Guards in spotless surcoats saluted as they passed, lining the corridor all the way to a reception room. Fallon had to stifle his gasp of awe. The last time he had been there, to receive his surcoat, had been many years earlier, and it had been impressive then, with wood paneling on the walls, sheepskins on the floor and the best Gaelish furniture. Now beautiful portraits and tapestries hid the paneling and delicate Kottermani rugs softened the floor, while stunning velvet-covered couches and seats from Kotterman had replaced the solid Gaelish items. Fallon reckoned he could feed his whole village for a year on what just this room must have cost. It looked empty; then he spotted someone with long blond hair sitting in a stunning chair with her back to the door, looking out of the window to yet more garden.

“Duchess Dina, we have news,” Hagen announced.

Fallon snapped to attention as the Duchess stood and turned. She was tall, nearly his height, and slim. He had expected to see a young woman, for although the Duke was older than Fallon, nobles always married girls as young as they could get away with. Yet she looked about his age, although she was obviously working hard to look younger. She had bright green eyes, which looked Fallon up and down. She was attractive but in a strange way. Fallon felt nothing for her, yet the tight dress she wore, the arrangement of her hair and the way her face was powdered and her lips stained red was all obviously designed to draw men.

“Captain, what is going on?” she asked sharply.

Hagen bowed his head. “My lady. This is Sergeant Fallon of Baltimore. He has grave news about the Duke.”

Fallon was watching her: she froze for a heartbeat, then her face seemed to crumple and she sat down again.

“I have been fearing the worst. Tell me it now,” she commanded.

Fallon solemnly handed over the Duke’s sword and went through everything once more.

“My poor husband. Dead, or taken. At the very least, lost to us,” she said thickly, and stood to walk around so her back was to them and she was looking out to the garden.

“Do you want us to leave you for a while, my lady?” Hagen asked.

She said nothing for a long moment, then turned back and sat down again. “No, I must deal with this now. The county is depending on me. This is grave news indeed. Fallon, you have done very well. Not many would have thought to have both a priestess and a wizard search the ship. Most of those outside would have thought it was selkies, or some other nonsense.”

Fallon felt himself relax. “And you don’t believe that, my lady?” he asked.

The Duchess smiled, her whole face lighting when she did so. “Let’s say I am naturally suspicious.”