It was in a marshy ditch between hills that a pair of reed-cutters nodded Durand's way, dragging wrists across foreheads. The mud in the hollows of collarbone and throat made them seem like dead men. Still, they smiled. One man tugged his forelock, somehow recognizing Durand's blood. Durand nodded.
He turned back on a wor
ried Heremund. "No matter what I
do, my lot is not the worst." Heremund laughed.
"You could always wear that thing, you know," he said, jerking his chin toward the mail. "That's what they're for."
Durand laughed. "Walking all day in a hauberk and leggings. Then, perhaps, I
would
have the worst lot" There would be no skin on his shoulders.
They were low in a valley, and it was getting on toward evening. The first day's traveling was at an end.
Durand turned to the reed-cutters.
"Lads," he called. "What's this place called?"
The two men conferred a moment, then called back: "Balian's the village, sir." It was not a famous name.
Durand looked back to Heremund—this would tell him how far they'd traveled—but the skald's darting eyes told him more than he wanted to know.
"How far does that make it?" he asked.
'Three leagues, Durand. Maybe."
Durand nodded.
They must cover ninety.
Durand waved numb thanks to the cutters and tramped up the hill. If he did not find something soon, he would starve before he got his chance.
They reached the top of the rise, where a valley fell away below them, opening half a league around the silver course of the River Banderol. The low Eye of Heaven lanced across the valley, free for the first moment in days. It shimmered over black fields blushing green with the first shoots of the winter wheat
Heremund stalked up after him.
"You know, I wager those lads'll
lend us a spot by their fire if we gave them a hand with the—"
Just then, light sparked on metal. Beyond the river, rounds of steel winked from the far ridgeline. Durand saw it: spurs, the pommels of swords, the high brows of helms all flashing under Heaven's Eye. A cavalcade of horsemen rode like something from a dream.
"Knights,"
Durand breathed. As though his voice dispelled the dream, the column vanished, swallowed by some dip in the terrain.
"Durand, what is it?"
He waited for the glint of metal to bob back above the ridge, feeling the curl of his cloak in his fist Here, at least, was a chance at something.
But the flash did not return.
He wouldn't wait. "Follow me, skald!" he said, and plunged down from the headland across the patchwork mire of fields. This chance would not slip from his hands.
Heremund chased him. "What in the Hells are you going on about? I'm not meant for vaulting bloody hedges."
Durand jolted down the slope past toiling peasants who gaped or shouted curses. Finally, the gray swell of the river loomed up in his path. There must have been twenty paces of deep water, and, left or right, Durand saw no sign of bridge or ford.
Heremund reeled up behind. "If you intend to escape me," he gasped, "you can't just
stop
here. I'm too quick for that." "We've got to get across!"
"All right," the skald panted. "But I insist. Don't tell me anything. Not a word. Nothing that might Drive off the thought. Some fiend of the forest. Has taken hold of your troubled mind."
The little man braced his weight on his knees, eyebrows up around his hairline, then gave up hope of getting an explanation.
"Right," he said. "I reckon I know where we are."
They squandered half an hour searching for the bridge, half the time walking backward. Durand kept his neck craned for a glimpse, but saw no more sign.
Finally, the skald gestured to a broad expanse of turbulent water where a thousand small stones had forced the river out of its deep channel.
"Here. The Ford of Coystril, I think," the skald said. "A battle was fought here long ago. Fetch Hollow's somewhere near." The little man peered up in turn at both flanks of the valley. The ruins of low walls mazed the slopes.
Durand needed to hear nothing more. Weaving under the weight of his armor, he splashed into the river. By the time he had jogged up the far valley wall, blood and blackness crowded his vision. At the top, he found nothing but an empty road. The riders were gone.
"There is some sign that men have passed here," said Heremund, sweating, and it did look as though something had churned up the road. "Not many," said the skald, "maybe a score. Some were on good horses, I think. Not peasants and oxen anyway. Shod hooves."
Durand nodded. "This is where I saw them."
"We weren't looking for oxen, then?" The little man paused. "Knights perhaps?"
"Aye."
"Glad you've seen fit to confide in me at last."
The road forked near where they stood, one branch heading overland away from the river. Heremund waded into the morass, fingering the gouges and sockets cut in the mud by the passing horses.
"We've got to overtake them," Durand said.
"They've taken the Tormentil road. A fair-sized town hunkered on the edge of the forest a couple of leagues west of here."
Durand checked Heaven's Eye, gauging that they had an hour or two before dusk.
"Of course," said Heremund, "they could be stopping before then or turning up another road to go somewhere else altogether."
'Tormentil," said Durand, feeling the sound of it. If it had a reputation, word of it had never reached him.
"Big enough there's likely to be a tavern of sorts most nights. Decent place. Nothing else close."
Durand allowed himself a crooked smile.
"They're heading for Tormentil, then," said Durand, "or we won't catch them."
"Three leagues!" exclaimed the exhausted skald.
"Aye, Heremund, but maybe when the Eye goes down, there'll be beer."
Dark and doubt
came on.
They slithered along the grassy verge of a track in full flood. Bald-faced rooks tumbled in bare branches, ill-omened things.
Durand wondered what he was chasing. A band of knights might be some lord and his men traveling to Red Winding, but it could as easily be nearly anything else. Still, he had not seen anything like a chance before this, and there were times when a man must take a stand.
The rooks could have been laughing at him.
"Durand."
It felt like he had swung poor Brag over his shoulder, instead of just his packs, and a fist of hunger worked its fingers in his guts. His eyes felt hot as candle flames. With every step his shield slapped him on the—
"—Durand. Hold up," said Heremund.
The little man hopped into the track and crouched low, careful not to sink his knees in the muck. There was no way to tell what he was after.
"Aye?" said Durand.
"I think we've got lucky."
Durand nearly laughed at the idea. "What do you see?"
"We'll have supper after all. I may even give you a share, seeing as you've been such good company."
Durand was about to interrupt when Heremund stuck a finger into the air. He made a show of snorting air up his nose.
"You smell it?"
Durand smelled nothing and scowled. "Cow dung," prompted Heremund. "How hungry
are
you?"
"It'll be a village close by, a
nd I'll bet my eyes it's Tormen
til." Heremund looked around himself and spotted something in the hedge a few strides off. "Here! That's clinched it for certain."
The little man had tramped up to what looked like a low roadside shrine. A squat stone construction slumped around a dark niche. As he reached the thing, though, Heremund stumbled back.
"Gods!
”
Durand let his bundles down into the grass and waded nearer, swallowing an odd wave of panic. At first he could see little. There was a squat trunk of masonry, and a black gap at about the height of a man's belt. As Durand moved closer, the shadows kept their secret—for a moment. A scent touched Durand's nostrils. Sharp.
It was not uncommon for people to set flowers or loops of trail-woven grass rope at a roadside icon. Sometimes the thing might be given honey or bread. But what Durand smelled was the reek of excrement.
"King of Heaven," Durand murmured, wincing, but he did not retreat. The stink was foul, but there was more to it than the reek of a latrine pit. He clenched his teeth.
Within the niche, the light of the slivered moon glistened on round edges. There would be an icon in there somewhere, some Power's face staring out, likely rubbed smooth by the touch of many fingers. With the shrine at a roadside, there was a good chance Durand was staring into the face of the Traveler.
As he peered, the confusion of glistening points took shape. Over a knob of stone gleamed blood, buttery smears of excrement, and something else: a livid rag that obscured the face of the little Power. He looked; there was something about the shape. Then he saw: a narrow slit in the pale rag was feathered with short hairs. Durand stumbled backward, too late. There had been eyelashes in that scrap of skin.
"Mad," said Heremund. "Someone's mad."
"Who'd do a thing like this?" Durand said. Who would dare? Every soul in the Atthias had heard stories of lords who'd stabled their horses in sanctuaries and woken up blind. Or men who had offered coin to some shrine or other and then gone back on their word only to find themselves crippled or bereaved soon after. Durand could not imagine toying with the Powers of Heaven.
"Hells," said Heremund. "Let's get away from here. Someone's playing with the Powers. There's a town not far off, and I aim to be in it before I say another word about this place."
He got no argument from Durand.
5. Peers of the Leopard
K
nowing there was a madman in the forest with them, they walked with their eyes on the trees. There was a murderer loose. Or a grave robber. A madman or a necromancer. The howl of a wolf broke loose among the branches. "Gods. Enough is enough," said Heremund. Durand could hear the drum of padded feet and the huff of breath gulping round the loop of a long tongue. "Run," he said, and both men took off.
The pounding came closer still, and closer. The full, wild power of the wolf's howl screamed out. Any moment, teeth would snap in their throats. Then, suddenly, there were buildings. It was the town. Firelight swung ahead of Durand, and he bolted for it, throwing down his bundles. He nearly lifted Heremund off his feet. And then they were surrounded.
A dozen armed men were lurching from round a bonfire. There were houses. The firelight seemed to slither on blade edges, and—for an instant—Durand could see that every man was scared out of his head.
"We've got you, you bastard!" someone shouted, and the whole camp of soldiers leapt on him. He had an instant to think of Heremund—the man must have stopped—then something stabbed a shock down his shoulder. Though he threw his fist, blows rained down on him like hammers on an anvil—he even saw the sparks.
Then it all stopped.
Durand breathed with his face in the muck. Someone was laughing. Clucking his tongue. When Durand peered up, there wasn't a soul looking his way, for every eye was on a small man beyond the bonfires. This was no giant who could stop a mob of soldiers, but a clerk or priest. A small man, all in black; the empty sleeves of his gardecorps robe swung nearly to the ground. The hanging robe and spindly shins made him look like one of the roadside rooks. He cocked a pale, bald head.
"Ah, yes. Fear and rage," the man cooed. 'Two faces on one thin coin."
A leather brown soldier with a shock of blond hair turned on the Rook. "You'd best get inside before something happens to you, priestling."
Though Durand liked the soldier's chances against the stranger, the scrawny Rook showed no sign of fear.
"You will have noticed, I think, that a cur will snarl when he is afraid."
"Right," said the soldier. "We've had enough of you."
The Rook clucked his tongue. "You are so eager. Such a hurry. It comes to us all in the end, you know."
The soldier only slipped a mace from his belt.