‘No,’ answered the man. ‘At least, I do not believe so. You spoke well this evening. I could not sleep, so I thought we could talk.’
Nuada swung from the bed and moved to an iron brazier in which the fire was dying. He stoked it with sticks and twigs until a flicker of flame began at the centre, then he added larger chunks of wood.
Groundsel sat quietly, his eyes unfocused. Nuada returned to his bed and waited. The outlaw leader had discarded his silken shirt and now wore the familiar thrown leather jerkin of the forester.
‘What troubles you, my Lord?’
‘Nothing. I fear nothing. I want for nothing. I am no fool, Nuada. I know that - had you chosen to - you could have made me a villain, a swine or a murdering dog. Those men who cheered me could just as easily have been persuaded to hang me. I know this . . . and I know I am not a hero. I know . . .’
Nuada remained silent while Groundsel scratched his short-cropped hair and rubbed at his round ugly face. ‘You know what I am saying?’
Nuada nodded, but still he did not speak. ‘I enjoyed your tale,’ said Groundsel, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘I enjoyed being cheered. And now I feel . . . I don’t know how I feel. A little sad, maybe. You understand?’ His dark button eyes fixed on Nuada.
‘Is it still a good feeling?’ asked the poet.
‘Yes and no. I’ve killed a lot of people, Nuada; I’ve robbed and I’ve cheated; I’ve lied. I am not a hero; that fire threatened to destroy all I’ve built. And the monster? I wanted to impress the girl. I am not a hero.’
‘A man is whatever he wishes to be,’ said Nuada softly. ‘There are no rigid patterns, no iron moulds. We are not cast from bronze. The hero Petric once headed an army which looted three cities. I have read the histories - his men raped and slaughtered thousands. But at the end he chose a different road.’
‘I cannot change. I am what I am: a runaway slave who murdered his master. I am the Ape. I am Groundsel. And I have never had cause to regret what I have become.’
‘Then why are you troubled?’
Groundsel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ‘Your tale was a lie. A flattery. And yet it touched me . . . because it ought to have been true. I have never cared about being loved. But tonight they cheered me, they lifted me high. And that, poet, was the finest moment of my life. It does not matter that I didn’t deserve it — but I wish I had.’
‘Let me ask you something, my Lord. When you stood before the beast and you saw its awesome power, were you not frightened?’
‘I was,’ Groundsel admitted.
‘And when it bore down on Arian, did it not occur to you that you could be killed as you charged to rescue her?’
‘I did not think of rescue.’
‘But you saw that it was about to slay her?’
‘Yes, that is true.’
‘And you charged the beast - and almost died. Every man there saw the deed. You are too hard on yourself. It was heroic, and it touched all who saw it.’
‘You confuse me,’ said Groundsel. ‘Tell me, does Arian love Llaw Gyffes?’
‘I think that she does,’ answered Nuada.
The outlaw leader stood. ‘I was going to have him killed. I was going to take her - willing or unwilling. But now I owe him, for if he had not leapt upon the beast, I would now be dead and I would have missed the only moment of magic in my life. Gods, I am tired. And there’s too much ale in this fat belly.’ He walked to the doorway but Nuada’s voice halted him.
‘My Lord!’
‘Yes,’ answered Groundsel, without turning.
‘You are a better man than you know. And I am glad I told the tale well.’
Groundsel walked out into the snow and Nuada settled back on his bed.
For five days a blizzard raged over the forest. Teams of hunters roamed the western wood, seeking signs of the were-beasts. One gigantic wolf creature was found dead in a drift and the howling was heard no more. The winter tore at the forest and the mountains, temperatures dropping tb forty below zero. In the stockaded village families stayed inside for much of the day, only emerging to gather wood for their fires. Of Groundsel himself little was seen; he took to walking the hills, avoiding his men. Nuada spent time with Arian and Llaw, and soon began to feel that boredom would kill him before the winter ended. There were few unattached women in the village, and those there were plied a trade he felt loath to patronize.
As the days passed, the lure of Cithaeron grew. He had the gold pieces Groundsel had given him — more than enough to pay for his passage. And he imagined the marble palaces, the beautiful nubile women and -most of all - the warm golden sunshine. Soft beds, good food - cooked with spices, or in wine - clean clothes and hot baths. He pictured himself swimming in a blue sea, the sun on his back.
He talked to Groundsel’s men. Apparently the Royal Road to Pertia Port was less than half a day’s walk away; once on the road it was two days to Pertia.
Even so, Nuada did not relish the journey.
But then Groundsel ceased his lonely walks and took to sitting in the hall, gloomy and sullen, his eyes on Arian. If Llaw noticed he gave no sign of it, but the outlaw leader tried to goad him on several occasions. The former blacksmith would have none of it. But Nuada knew it was only a matter of time before the two men came to blows, and he did not want to be in the village when the violence came.
He liked Llaw, and in a curious way Groundsel also.
On the morning of the sixth day Nuada slipped away from the village, continuing his way west through the frozen forest, seeking the sanctuary of the Royal Road with its inns and taverns. He walked for most of the day and made his camp in a shallow cave out of the wind. There he lit a fire and berated himself for his stupidity. The village had at least been warm and welcoming; out here death stalked him with icy fingers. The following morning, cold and frightened, he continued on his way, but the paths he had been told of were disguised by snowfall and the grey, lowering sky offered no clue to direction. He stumbled on, his feet numb, his body trembling, and by noon he was hopelessly lost.
There was no cave to help him here and he made a camp behind some boulders where he struggled to light a fire, but the wind blew it out. A great weariness settled on him and the cold seemed to lessen. He was filled with the desire to lie down in the snow and sleep.
Don’t be a fool!
he told himself and rising, he forced himself to move on slowly. His foot sank into a snowdrift and he almost fell. Reaching out, he took hold of a snow-covered branch jutting from the ground. The branch gave, the snow falling from it. Nuada screamed — what he was holding was no branch but an arm, frozen and black. He threw himself to his left and his body struck something solid beneath the snow. He scrambled to his feet as the snow fell away to show a man’s upper body - the face grey, the teeth exposed in a sickening parody of a grin.
Nuada looked around him. Everywhere there were signs of death. Panic swept through him as he backed away from the icy graveyard.
I won’t die here! I won’t!
The smell of woodsmoke came to him. Somewhere, someone had built a fire. The wind was in his face so he headed into it, calling out. He staggered on, falling into a drift and pulling himself clear. The smell was stronger now. He called again . . . and fell. He began to crawl.
‘Over here!’ he heard someone call and hands pulled at his arms.
Nuada awoke in a deep cave, where a huge fire was blazing. He sat up, pushing back the sheepskin-lined cloak that covered him. Seven men and four women were sitting round the fire, their faces thin and gaunt.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’ The men ignored him, but a young woman with raven-dark hair moved to sit beside him.
‘It is a temporary rescue, I am afraid,’ she said. ‘There is no food and the roads are blocked.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘We are from nowhere,’ she told him. ‘We are non-people now, trying to reach Cithaeron. We left the realm four days ago and joined with a caravan of refugees. Then the snows came.’
‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
She waved her arm towards the cave entrance. ‘They are out there. Some have built wind walls; others have tried to force a path through to the coast. They are dying.’
‘How many are you?’
‘Two hundred started out. I don’t know how many have died.’
Nuada stood and fastened the cloak around his shoulders. He walked to the cave entrance and looked up at the sky. There were no clouds and the stars were shining like diamonds. ‘I will fetch help.’
‘You almost died out there. Do not go back. Even if you conquer the winter, there is still the killer Groundsel.’
‘Let me borrow the cloak,’ he said, ‘and I shall return with food. Gather as many of your people here as you can; tell the others not to wander.’
‘Why would you do this for Nomads?’ she asked him.
‘Because I am a fool,’ he told her. ‘Gather your people.’
He stepped out into the night and began to climb towards the east, following the pointing finger of the Star Warrior and lining his path with the Great Spear.
On the point of exhaustion he found a cave where he rested for two hours, warmed by a small fire. Then he pushed on.
By the middle of the following afternoon he found himself on the hill overlooking the stockade. Weak from hunger and cold, he slipped and slithered down the hill. Llaw Gyffes saw him from the parapet and climbed down to meet him.
‘Welcome back,’ said Llaw. ‘Was it an enjoyable stroll?’
‘There are people dying back there, Llaw, starving to death. We must help them.’
‘First let us help you, poet. Your face is chalk white.’ He led him to Arian’s hut, where the girl was sitting by the brazier. She rose as he entered and laughed at him.
‘Ah, the mighty hunter is home! Did you catch anything? Apart from frostbite?’
Llaw helped Nuada from his frozen clothes and began to rub at the poet’s skin, forcing circulation back to the surface. Arian warmed a towel by the fire, then held it to Nuada’s face. He lay back as they tended him and his eyes closed . . . When he awoke, Llaw was sitting by his bed.
‘There are two hundred people trapped in the forest,’ Nuada told him. ‘They are Nomads. They have no food, and there is no way out to Cithaeron.’
‘A stupid time to try and escape,’ commented Llaw.
‘I would imagine it was that or die,’ said the poet. ‘We must help them.’
‘Why? I do not know any of them.’
‘Why?
What do you mean why? They are people, Llaw, like you and me.’
‘No, they are not. I am safe and warm in a hut, and I have food. I am not trapped.’
‘I shall go to Groundsel,’ snapped Nuada, swinging from the bed. He stood and moved naked to the fire where his clothes were drying.
‘A pretty sight,’ said Arian. ‘Such fine, pert buttocks.’ He turned slowly to face her.
‘Make your jests, Arian. Laugh while babies die of cold. Laugh while women sob at their loss.’
Her smile faded. ‘I do not laugh at them,’ she said.
‘No, you do not even think of them. You disgust me — the pair of you. You are no better than the King; in fact you are worse. He condemns them to death in order to steal their wealth, but you condemn them for no reason at all.’
He dressed and tramped across the snow to the hall where some forty men were present - drinking, eating, telling stories. His arrival was greeted by a cheer and he waved to the men and moved on to stand before Groundsel.
‘I am glad you are alive,’ said the outlaw. ‘I missed you.’
He told Groundsel of the Nomads dying in the forest and the man shrugged. ‘They chose a poor time to run. Still, the snow might clear in a few days. Some of them will get through.’
‘Will you not help them, my Lord?’
‘Is there a reason why I should? Can they pay me?’
‘I do not know. But tell me - that magic moment we spoke of, how much was it worth?’
Groundsel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What has that to do with this?’ he whispered. ‘I was drunk . . . soft in the head. I regret what I said.’
‘Then put a price on your drunken words. How much gold is such a memory worth? Ten Raq? Twenty? A thousand?’
‘You know the answer,’ hissed Groundsel. ‘It is priceless.’
‘And that, my Lord, is how those people can pay you. No monsters to slay. No acts of courage. Just a gift to those who need it.’
‘And you, Nuada, what do you give?’
‘I have nothing.’
‘You have the twenty gold Raq I gave you, for your passage to Cithaeron. Will you pay that for grain?’
‘Yes, of course, but. . .’ Nuada blinked as Groundsel held out his hand, then opened his leather hip-pouch and counted out the coin.
Groundsel put the gold to one side and leaned forward. ‘And will you stay in the forest until I give you leave to go?’
‘Stay? I . . .’ He saw the look of dark triumph in Groundsel’s eyes and swallowed hard. In Cithaeron he could be rich again and live in a palace, with beautiful women to wait on him. The sun was bright and warm, the climate temperate. But here, amid the towering boredom?
‘Well?’ insisted Groundsel.
‘I will stay. But I too have a condition, my Lord. No more thefts from Nomads. I’ll stay for the hero Groundsel, not the robber killer.’
Groundsel chuckled and slapped Nuada’s shoulder. ‘I agree to your condition. Groundsel, the lying oath-breaker, the thief and the killer, gives you his word. For what it is worth.’
Despite the heavy cloak and the sheepskin gloves, two pairs of woollen leggings and fur-lined boots, Errin was bitterly cold. For two days he had followed Ubadai through the frozen forest, riding at a snail’s pace for fear of injuries to their mounts. Some trails, simple in summer, had become death-traps for riders, with ice-covered stones, holes part covered by snow, and trees heavy laden and ready to fall at a breath of wind. Ubadai had said nothing for the whole of the first day and when they had camped he had built a good fire, rolled into his blankets and slept until the dawn. Errin knew the tribesman was angry, and the Gabalan lord felt a large measure of guilt over it. He had freed Ubadai and the Nomad had no reason to follow him back into danger. But then he had had no reason to ride into Mactha fortress in order to rescue his former master either. It was baffling.