I am just Cloot, Tor. Nothing has changed but the
body I’m in, and I tell you, I much prefer this new one. Yes, it’s for keeps.
…I’m not sure I can keep coping with all these strange twists and turns. You’re my closest friend in the world, Cloot…and now you’re a bird.
His voice choked slightly.
Cloot’s voice softened in his mind.
I know. But there is a purpose to all this. We must trust Lys and trust each other.
I trust you, but why Lys? She has brought you nothing but pain and grief, and now this!
Tor shook his head, stood and angrily began pacing the clearing. The falcon had to adjust its grip on the boy to steady itself.
She brought me to you, Tor. That’s all I know; and now she has turned me into this regal creature and I’m happy to be so. Don’t feel sorry for me. If you knew what it is to soar above the land, you wouldn’t. Now come, we must not tarry. Cyrus is in grave trouble. We can philosophise later on the strangeness of our lives. Right now, we must act. Follow me, he’s not far away.
Cloot hopped for emphasis.
Cloot…
Tor’s voice held a note of pleading.
The bird’s patience was ebbing.
He’s dying, Tor, and it’s very ugly. Only you can help him. We’ll talk later, now go!
It took only two powerful beats of Cloot’s wings to carry him to an upper branch of a tall tree.
Don’t lose sight of me. We must be as silent as possible to ambush them.
Then he flew deeper into the forest.
Tor followed quietly, keeping the downy, dark feathers of his falcon’s underbelly in sight as he
wondered what lay ahead, and who ‘they’ might be. They travelled in silence for several minutes through terrain which began to thicken dramatically. Cloot became harder to follow as he swooped amongst the trees. Finally the bird halted; Tor could no longer see him but the link was open and he could feel his friend’s strong presence.
Hush, Tor. You must tread with care now. They are but thirty paces ahead of you
, the bird whispered in his mind.
He could hear them, rustling and moving. The voices were muted.
How many?
he called to Cloot.
There are five of them. The leader is Corlin.
Corlin!
Tor was relieved he had contained his yell to the link.
The same.
Cloot’s own voice was thick with hatred.
Revenge—is that what this is about?
Tor took another few paces until he could hide behind a thick cover of saplings yet clearly see the men.
I can’t imagine what else it could be. Corlin’s pride took a hammering that day in the market square and he blames Cyrus for the humiliation.
Cloot dropped silently from the uppermost branches above Tor to land neatly on his shoulder.
Tor jumped.
I wish you’d stop doing that without warning.
He looked around the scene. Two men were dozing, another two were drinking nearby. Corlin was removed from the others, sitting very still near the horses.
Where’s Cyrus?
Tor snarled.
Over to your right.
Tor turned slightly to peer between two branches and nearly retched. Strung pathetically between two mighty trees hung the Prime, held in place by nails through his hands. He made no sound and appeared unconscious. Blood had run in rivulets from his head, hands and body. His once white shirt was stained a dark and rusty red. They could not see his face for his head lolled away from them, chin almost touching his chest. His thick, normally well-groomed hair was matted and slicked with his own blood.
Be calm
, whispered Cloot. He felt a powerful surge of magic tingle through his friend’s body.
Tor’s voice was devoid of emotion when he spoke.
Corlin must die for this.
I couldn’t agree more. But let’s not announce ourselves just yet. We have no weapons—only your magic.
We need nothing else
, Tor said in the same detached manner, his body trembling with the power infusing it and the fury which fired it.
Let them make the first move so we know what their intentions are. I’ll get closer.
Cloot lifted silently from Tor’s shoulder, reappearing moments later on a low but well-concealed branch of one of the trees the Prime was nailed to.
They did not have to wait long. Corlin stirred himself. The men who were drinking kicked the other two awake; they said nothing but nodded towards Corlin. They all stood. Tor noted that one of the men
was Goron, the brute he had helped Eryn escape from.
‘My, my, this is a pleasant little group,’ he muttered to himself.
‘It’s time,’ Corlin said and picked up a pail from by the horses. He walked across to the prisoner and threw its darkish contents over the Prime’s head. The others laughed drunkenly and enjoyed watching Cyrus attempt ineffectually to shake off the liquid.
‘Hope he likes the taste of second-hand ale,’ one of them said, nudging his companion.
‘I can’t say I could, knowing it’s passed through your guts already,’ said the other.
‘Ho, you can talk Fyster!’ It was Goron speaking. ‘Your piss smells to high heaven but it must surely taste like hell.’
This made them all laugh again until Corlin held up his hand for quiet. Cyrus groaned, and Tor’s heart lurched when he saw the blade appear in Corlin’s hand. It glinted in the morning sun.
‘I tire of you, Prime Arsewipe. Now look up at me, there’s a good soldier, so I can slit your throat properly and with absolute pleasure.’ He grabbed hold of the Prime’s hair and wrenched his head back.
Tor emerged from his cover silently. Cold fury was now controlling the power which brimmed inside him. He thumped a huge bolt of energy into Cyrus, who shook uncontrollably for a few seconds, amusing his captors greatly. They read it as fear.
Cyrus took a deep breath.
‘Oh, you want to say something, Prime Pigshit? Well, we’re all ears,’ laughed Corlin and theatrically bent down near his prisoner’s face.
Tor, still unnoticed, sent another spike and enjoyed watching Cyrus open his puffy, blackened eyes and register his presence nearby. Yet even Tor could hardly believe the smile which creased across the Prime’s almost shredded lips.
‘I just can’t wait to feel a blade slicing through your murderous throat, Corlin. Why don’t you look around?’ Cyrus was breathing heavily from the effort, spitting blood but eyes ablaze as the stream of life-giving energy seared into him.
The group of men were guffawing, slapping their thighs and each other’s backs at their prisoner’s courageous but stupid words. Corlin was not laughing though. He was turning as suggested. Turning to see Tor, alone, unarmed, standing only paces behind him and smiling.
‘Remember me?’ Tor asked politely.
He heard Cloot
tsk, tsk
in his head before Corlin roared his anger, let go of Cyrus’s hair and charged. The other men were turning now too, and one screamed as a falcon dropped, talons outstretched towards his face, shrieking its intent.
And just as suddenly as it had all erupted, the wood went silent as all five captors found themselves paralysed.
Corlin’s arm was raised, blade pointing straight at Tor. His face was contorted with rage yet his body was rooted to the spot where he stood. Only his eyes
could move and they rolled wildly with confusion and terror.
Cloot landed lightly on Tor’s shoulder. They both stared at Corlin for a few moments before moving to Cyrus who was struggling to hold his head up and take in the scene.
He spat blood. ‘Is this a dream?’
‘No. Stay still a moment,’ Tor said, unable to meet the Prime’s eyes. He wondered how he was going to explain this away.
Tor lifted Cyrus to take the weight off his arms and then focused on the nail holding his right hand. A simple spell eased the nail back from the tree’s bark. When it came out, Tor shouldered the man’s full weight to repeat the spell on the second nail. The Prime groaned when he was laid on the ground and the nails were finally removed from his numb, shattered hands.
‘Untie my legs,’ he breathed raggedly.
Tor stood, walked across to Corlin and unlaced the stubby fingers which gripped the knife he was brandishing. He returned to the Prime and cut the bonds which held his legs.
‘Get me up, boy.’
‘No, Cyrus. Please, let me—’
‘I said get me on my feet—that’s an order!’ It took a giant effort for Cyrus to bellow this.
With Tor’s help, he painfully pulled himself upright, his weak legs barely able to hold him.
‘Help me, Gynt…please.’
Tor put his shoulder under the stooped figure of the bleeding soldier and hefted him straight. ‘Now what?’
‘Put that blade in my hand. You’ll have to wrap my fingers around it because I can’t feel them.’
‘Would you not prefer to see these murderers meet their fate in Tal?’
‘The four thugs over there will, but he’s mine and justice will be meted by me personally,’ Cyrus said through teeth gritted against his pain.
Leaning heavily on Tor, he hobbled the fifteen or so paces to where Corlin stood frozen in his charge, his breeches wet at the front from the panic he now felt. Cyrus stared at his torturer for a long time.
‘The King’s Company, Tor—did you meet up with them?’
Tor swallowed. ‘Yes, sir. Captain Herek was in charge. He was preparing to leave for Tal at dawn.’
‘Are they whole?’
Tor skirted the question. ‘Most were recovering from being drugged. They feared for your life.’
‘Is the Company complete, Mr Gynt? Are there any casualties other than sore heads?’
During this exchange Cyrus had not moved his eyes from the terrified face of Corlin, who was now dribbling his fear. Tor hesitated. A small flock of birds—probably wrens, he thought—lifted noisily from the canopy of trees, spooked by some bird of prey perhaps. He felt Cloot twitch at his shoulder and realised with surprise that his friend would probably now enjoy the sport of hunting and killing such game.
‘Answer me, Gynt,’ said the Prime quietly.
‘As I understood it, sir, the four men on watch had been killed, amongst them your lieutenant.’ Tor held his breath.
‘Royce?’ Cyrus said this as if he did not understand Tor’s answer.
‘I don’t know his name,’ Tor replied, embarrassed. He shifted his own weight to keep the Prime’s tall body from falling over.
‘Light! Royce! The man was just married, you worthless bastard,’ he railed at Corlin, whose eyes widened at the sight of the blade dancing in front of him now.
Cyrus gathered his remaining strength. ‘Your four companions will stand before the King’s justice for the death of three good soldiers and for the theft, torture and near death of his Prime. But you, Corlin, you will die now in the Heartwood, before my justice alone, for the death of my newly married lieutenant, for the suffering of his bride when she is delivered the news, and for the sons and daughters he never had the chance to sire.’
Cyrus fought back tears and, with a staggering effort of sheer will, stood his full height and pushed away Tor’s help. With both numbed hands clutching at the thick, short dagger, he plunged his full weight behind the blow sinking the blade to its hilt into the throat of Corlin. It was the ceremonial death of a murderer.
A fountain of Corlin’s blood spewed forth over the Prime, joining his own on his torn shirt. He stood and let it flow over him, saying nothing, just
witnessing the life drain from Corlin, still frozen in his steps.
‘Release him,’ the Prime said finally when Corlin’s eyes had glazed over.
Tor snapped the spell on Corlin and his dead body thudded to the ground, sodden with his blood. Cyrus was not far behind him, collapsing first to his knees and then onto his chest, slipping into grateful unconsciousness.
It was several hours later before Tor was ready. He was shockingly tired. He leaned against a tree and looked at Cyrus, now cleaned with what water was available and bandaged with strips of Cloot’s old shirt. They had dressed Cyrus in another shirt they had found in one of the men’s saddlebags.
Cyrus was sleeping after Tor’s powerful ministrations had mended bones and healed some of the swollen, bruised areas on his body. Corlin and his men had whipped Cyrus near to death and his back and chest were a fretwork of lacerations. Tor had weaved his magic to clean up the wounds and prevent any further infection. He had wanted to heal the cuts too, but Cloot had strongly urged him against it, and Tor agreed it would be hard enough to explain the Prime’s recovery. He had given Cyrus much of his own energy stores to stay alive but now that the major injuries were already mending Tor let him sleep so his own defences could rally. He gave him some
fiery spirit they found in Corlin’s possessions to help him sleep deeply, without pain.
Tor had released the men one by one from the spell, after securing their hands behind their backs and then tying them to each other with a strong rope he had dug out of their bags. They were so scared of him that they would happily have tied one another up if he had asked them to.
Cloot was concerned that although these men would sound as though they were talking gibberish, someone might pay attention to their rantings about magic. Someone like Chief Inquisitor Goth.
Tor had pondered this whilst he went back to fetch Bess and Fleet. He recalled something which Alyssa had said to him years ago: ‘Nothing is impossible with your power, Tor.’ The words echoed in his head and he wondered whether it would be possible to take all memory of his intervention from Corlin’s thugs.
Try it
, Cloot said when Tor asked him what he thought.
Even I know that King Lorys does not suffer sentients happily. If he gets so much as a sniff of magic being wielded in his Kingdom, our days are numbered.
What about Cyrus then?
Don’t worry about Cyrus. I don’t think you have anything but gratitude to fear from him
, said the falcon preening itself on Tor’s shoulder.
He’s an honourable man, Cloot. He may feel obliged to tell the Inquisitors.