Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale (8 page)

“Do we not get some sort of a briefing? You could at least pretend you’re not just sending us off to our deaths?” I snap, the fearlessness of a dead man upon me. Morrigan laughs again, a scoff, suggesting he finds my feistiness amusing. Vesta, of course, does not laugh.

“You already know all there is to know. You both have a map and a written introduction to hand to their king. You are to head to Brightstone, build what links you can and, ideally, escort ‘The Son of God’ back to us. The only advice I can give you is eat whenever you can, fight only when you have to, and keep moving. If you return empty handed… Well, I think you both understand your current predicament.”

“Thanks. For. That.” Morrigan sighs. “I expected more from you, Vesty. We’ve been through a lot together. I thought we were…”

“We are most certainly not friends,” Vesta interjects, without even a hint of chivalric banter. “You are to ride today to the Gors. You will spend the night at the castle there. From then on, you will be on foot; the horses will not make it through the marsh or the snow. Ser Gruff, your armour and the best short-sword are on the wall over there.”

She gestures over to the far wall. Across the room, and in comparison to the formidable black plate-mail donned by Ser Morrigan, the brown leather armour seems skimpy. The dull copper shield must be no bigger than a large dinner plate and, I fear, about as much use defensively. On both the shield and the breastplate is a green goat motif. I sigh. I imagine the great knights before me: The Bull, The White Falcon, The Crow, The Silver Wolf, The Hammer of God, The Crocodile. There has never been one called ‘The Goat’.

“Farking hell. What’s that? If I’d known it was fancy dress, I’d have dressed differently,” chuckles Morrigan, still finding amusement amongst the increasing humourlessness of the situation.

“It will serve. A warrior such as Ser Gruff values mobility more than protection,” replies Vesta, as inscrutable as ever.

“And a good job too,” Morrigan winks. “Come on then, sprat. We’d better be getting off. Wouldn’t want to keep the reaper waiting.”

I’ve never felt comfortable on horseback.  It is not just that I find it unnatural, but also that it doesn’t feel like somewhere I’m supposed to be. Horses, and the people who ride them, belong to the upper echelons of society. Meanwhile, men such as my father are  associated with nothing so glamorous. Pigs, dogs and goats are our animals. And, when we want to get somewhere, we walk.

In my school, this difference is immediately apparent. Most of the highborn boys were taught to ride not long after they learned to walk. My first lesson, meanwhile, was only after I started there and was a demeaning and horrible experience: the other boys gliding around on their privately owned ponies whilst I struggled to even mount the ugly school mule.

I even suspect that horses themselves have an awareness of their owner’s breeding. I say this because they all treat me with the same contempt as my classmates do. Both groups make it quite clear, with their snorts and jolts, that they don’t want me anywhere near them. As such, riding a horse is, for me, more akin to being bullied than it is any sort of pleasure.

This is clearly not the case for my new companion, Morrigan. If I needed any more evidence of his highborn heritage, it is evident in the smooth and controlled manner with which he rides. Every person we pass as we move through the countryside seems to know him and he stops several times to bid people farewell and soak up their adulation. I, meanwhile, trot awkwardly behind him, unknown, and never quite able to catch up.

His horse is a massive black stallion and suits him perfectly. There is nothing especially impatient about the way he rides ahead, instead it just seems that his natural pace is quicker than mine. I’ve got no problem with this, it certainly reduces the need for conversation. Instead, I move forward in forlorn silence. With every reluctant step my horse makes, I am further away from my father. It takes us almost a full day’s riding to reach our overnight resting place, Gors castle.

“So you’ve never been to the Gors before?” asks Morrigan, slouched in his chair. Around him, there is only dull firelight and dampness, all that you might expect from the castle at the edge of the kingdom.

“I’ve never left the island before. Doesn’t look like I’ve been missing much,” I spit. The Gors, a low-lying salt marsh, stretching from the northern coast to the mountains, has proved to be about as interesting as it sounds – a vast wasteland of brown grass and puddles.

“You might think that this would be the most vulnerable point of the kingdom,” he begins, as though he is about to tell me something I don’t know.

“But it’s not. The treachery of the swamp and clear line of sight for defensive archers make it impossible for a force of any size to cross.” I complete his lecture myself. It is yet another fact I have been forced to learn by rote.

“I’m beginning to see why you got sent out here,” Morrigan chuckles. He appears to accept my temper, along with everything else, in frustratingly good humour.

“Why?”

“Because you always have to be right. It makes you seem a bit of a cock,” he grins, slapping me on the back as he does so. The drink is clearly getting to him.

“Thanks?”

“Ah, it’s fine. I’m probably out here for the same reason,” he snorts, sinking the last of his beer. As he does so, he thuds it down three times on the table as a signal to the serving girl. As someone of status, this is a gesture so natural that it doesn’t even seem to register to him that he’s done it. Meanwhile I, unused to being served by anyone, instinctively look round to watch her emerge obediently from the shadows.

“It’s not the most exciting of places but the lord, Ser Geraint, is a good friend of mine. It’s a shame he’s not here actually. I do like good company,” he smirks, seemingly proud at the subtlety of his insult.

The dull flames from the hearth behind and the wall torches fill the room with shadows. Three long oak tables dominate the room and I wonder how long it has been since they were full. A stuffed crocodile’s head is mounted above the fireplace, adding the only bit of character to an otherwise uninspiring room. Morrigan only turns to look at the serving girl as she walks away, a cheeky glint in his eye.

“So, what did you do?” I continue.

“I think a more accurate question would be ‘Who did I do?’… And, of course, I’m not going to answer that question.” His smirk drops off his face, becoming something more rueful.

Ser Morrigan, The Crow, is probably subject to more rumour than any other individual in the kingdom – a renowned drinker, brawler and womaniser known to cause as many problems as he solves and a constant source of embarrassment for the chivalric order to which he belongs. There are some who might use this opportunity to probe him, to sort out the truths, the half truths and the lies. But this is not in my nature; to pursue such questioning might lead him to feel that I consider such feats an accomplishment. I don’t.

“What does it matter, anyway?” I sigh. “We’re dead men.”

“To us, we who are about to die,” he slurs, drunkenly raising his cup, smirking anew. I clink my tankard to his.

“You know… We could just quite simply not go, you know…” he murmurs, dropping his voice out of the serving girl’s range.

“What’s the alternative? There’s nowhere else to go. Lady Vesta made it quite clear we’ll be hanged as traitors should we return empty handed.” I whisper too, joining him in the collusion.

“Then we rough it for… let’s say… two years. It’ll be easier to find a spot of territory to defend than it will be to wander the wilderness,” he whispers. There is more than an air of drunkenness about the idea, something at least a little half-baked.

“Surely if there was anywhere worth defending, there will already be someone defending it?”

“Then we can take it over… I don’t know if you’ve seen me fight… And you… And you…” His voice trails off as he remembers that he thinks he’s been saddled with a lame goat. His eyes look open and honest as he talks, betraying an almost boyish naivety.

“Lady Vesta told us… if you stand still in the wilderness, you are dead.”

“Well then… we could defect to the Kernow,” he suggests.

“Lady Vesta told me that the Kernow now kill all strangers on sight.”

“Ha ha ha… What is this thing you’ve got with farking Vesta? ‘Lady Vesta says this, Lady Vesta says that.’ Fark. The woman’s a maniac!”

“She knows what she’s talking about.”

“Everyone’s got this thing about Vesta. Like she’s some sort of farking paragon, but let me tell you something, she’s a monster… Have you ever fought her?”

He drunkenly brings his face so close to mine that I can smell the beer on his breath. The question brings back memories of how I was restrained in the palace at Tallakarn. I wince slightly.

“Briefly.”

“Then you’ll know what I mean… You know… Only one man has ever put her down.”

“Who?”

“The Bull.”

This answer does not altogether surprise me. The Bull is probably the only living knight who looks set to join his mythic forebears in legend. One doesn’t become leader of the Bwlch easily.

“So she’s a great fighter. How does that make her a monster?”

“If you ever become trained in
knightly
combat, you’ll see what I mean. A true knight wouldn’t decapitate an underpowered opponent. Your mate from the other day, for instance.”

“But he wasn’t doing his job properly. He was obstructing royal business.”

“So he deserved to be decapitated? Fark… There’s more to life than the rules, Ser Goat.” As he says this, he burps and wipes his mouth. I use the opportunity to withdraw to a safer, less odiferous distance.

“Well, for me, rules are rules,” I sniff.

“This coming from a boy who ignored royal orders to let the prince win that farking little trophy or whatever it was.”

“Those were orders that expected me to break the rules of the competition. They were immoral.”

“So rules are rules when they suit you? When they don’t, they’re immoral?” he smiles smugly, thinking he’s got a point.

“No, it’s not like that.”

“And how about that little gwnt you crippled? Where were the rules then?”

“Tomos was twice my size. He attacked me…”

“Ha ha, you don’t have to justify yourself to me, boy. You’re the one with the rule book.”

He reclines further back in his chair, flashing me yet another of his increasingly self-satisfied smiles. Getting the sense that he is merely provoking me for his entertainment, I remain silent and draw a long sip of my ale.

“So, seeing as how you know it all, I’m guessing you know how Vesta got her gig?”

“Her gig?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I forgot I was talking to Ser Gruffydd of the Green, the noblest man to ever herd a goat. Please excuse my language. I’m talking about her job. Have you ever heard how she got her job?”

“The king told me that she abducted the prince when he was a baby.”

“Yeah, and…”

“And that’s all I know.”

“Well, well, well. Something you don’t know, hey? Well, you know Vesta is from the snow, don’t you? A
diethrin?
”

“No. I didn’t know that either.”

The number of
diethrin
in the kingdom is absolutely tiny. Whilst the people of the Bwlch are the only recent example of an entire tribe joining civilisation, the incidence of individuals turning up and being accepted is even more unusual.

“She and the women she turned up with gave us more grief than anyone in my lifetime. There were only about five of them. God only knows how they got on the island. They were in and out of the palace like ghosts.”

“How did you stop them?”

“We didn’t. They rode us over the land like it was their own. At some point, Vesta sold her own people out. Don’t ask me how or why or even how she came to be where she is now. Don’t ask me to trust her either. She’s turned tail at least once in her life… And that’s all I need to know.”

Hearing Vesta described to me thus disappoints me more than I thought it might. Almost without noticing, I’ve come to see her as some sort of hero – something to aspire to, a person of honour, a no-nonsense administrator. Hearing her described as a snow savage and, worse, a traitor leaves me feeling slightly chilled. I also shouldn’t forget that, however she sold it to me, she was ultimately the person who sent me on this quest.

“Time for bed. Early start tomorrow,” I grumble, suddenly more miserable than ever.

“Boring, boring goat,” grins Morrigan, tapping his tankard on the table.

We trudge through the snow for twelve terrible days. The savages are not as numerous as I had feared but, even without combat, time spent in this tundra is a constant struggle. Every day that passes is a battle to fulfil primal needs – warmth, hunger, thirst – against a ravenous nature that, I am quickly learning, doesn’t want us to live.

Everything that we islanders take for granted has become something we have to actively fight for; food must be hunted from what sparse fauna is available, shelters must be carved from the frozen ground, and everything looks so similar that is possible to walk for a day without feeling like we’ve moved. The weather, spring-like in its capriciousness, varies between delicate sunlight and heavy snowfall. It is, however, never even slightly warm; the sun, our compass and calendar, stays out for longer each day without ever daring to produce a stroke of heat.

Despite the fresh and frigid weather, the relationship between Morrigan and myself is, to my great surprise, a good one. For some reason, I have found myself beginning to warm to him. Perhaps it is because that rebellious streak, that mischief for which he is renowned, has very little opportunity to show itself out here in the wilderness. Instead, his casual and easy-going nature has come to the fore, making him an escape from, rather than an addition to, the burden of the journey.

Vesta was also right in identifying us as a solid potential team. Both my small frame and hillside upbringing have aided me in becoming a passable survivalist and scout. Meanwhile, his strength and skill with the bow have provided sources of food and shelter that I could not have achieved alone. A grim determination has set over us and, as the week has passed, perhaps even a sense that we have a chance to achieve our task. It seems cruel then that it is only hours after this thought has crossed my mind that we are ambushed.

It is towards the end of the day, our eyes hungrily surveying the land for suitable shelter. As the first arrow hits, the wound it creates feels hotter than I have felt for days, like a shard of molten iron in my left knee. Given the sheer force of its arrival, it is almost all I can do to simply remain on my feet.

Morrigan whirls one hundred and eighty degrees, shield out, faster than I have ever seen him move. The arrow destined for him bounces off his moving shield.

“Over there!” he screams. Despite the searing pain, something in me tells me that falling will not be a good idea; we are too exposed. I would be a sitting duck. We need shelter. I ignore the instinct to fall and, instead, draw my shield. My stricken leg immediately feels useless, a piece of burdensome equipment that must be dragged. Nevertheless, I try my best to limp alongside Morrigan. We move slowly, back to back, peering through the failing light.

“Four! From my direction! Head for those trees to your left!” he screams. Everything about him suddenly appears sharper, more focused; his casual demeanour has disappeared in the blink of an eye. I can only obey, the pain in my knee is too much for any more active consideration. We tread slowly back to back. What is left of my energy is used to survey the land in front of me. It remains, I think, clear.

Morrigan, meanwhile, masterfully covers me from behind, keeping the three onrushing attackers in his field of vision, all the while deflecting the arrows of the fourth. We tread purposefully towards the meagre copse of trees that must be at least several hundred metres away. In my pain, each footstep feels like an eternity.

And, of course, the attackers are upon us before we can reach anywhere near it. Now, more than ever, it is apparent that The Crow deserves his formidable reputation. When ‘off duty’, he carries his solid frame with a casual languor, almost as though it is too heavy for him. Now though, it is clear that he is carrying out the purpose for which he was designed. All that size and bulk finally appear to make sense.

The first attacker, sprinting at full stretch, is met by a right boot to the face that sends him skittling to his knees. In one movement, Morrigan drops his shield, switches sword arms, and uses the momentum of his high kick to bring in a sweeping wide sword-cut across the torso of the second attacker. The snow flashes crimson for a second and the sky fills with the savage’s death song.

The sweeping cut naturally brings Morrigan’s bodyweight to the right but he does not seek to adjust it. Instead, he uses the power of the swing to perform almost a one hundred and eighty degree pirouette. It is not accidental that this pirouette brings the back of his right elbow into contact with the gut of the onrushing third man. The first savage, meanwhile, climbs to his feet.

“Take him!” screams Morrigan, focusing on the third attacker, who is backing away, almost doubled over, in a defensive stance.

Hot blood courses through me, numbing the wound only just sufficiently for me to maintain my balance. The savage approaches, keeping his stance low, switching his crude blade between his hands, poking at my sword arm, testing my defences. I bat his prods away, hesitating. Every time I attempt to move my feet or shift my weight, a fresh jolt of pain flashes through me. Worse still, the realisation that this is my first real fight jumps into my mind and fear almost takes over. But then a deeper instinct arrives and washes everything away: it is kill or die.

I meet his eyes in the way I have done in one hundred sparring battles. To my surprise, something in them tells me I’ve already won. They look frenzied and desperate. His face, too well acquainted with Morrigan’s boot, is a bloodied mess and blood trickles down from the inside of his helmet. In this instant, it seems only to be a battle of wills; we are both badly injured and, at some point, one or both of us will die.

He is slashing at me with speed but no precision, with the impatience of a dying man. More tellingly, the dull blade he wields doesn’t even appear to pose a threat to my armour. It only takes a few more wild lashes for him to make a mistake. His hand stays out a little too long and I smash it with my shield before thrusting my sword through his stomach. He falls to his knees, shortly followed by me. I watch his eyes freeze as life fades from him. I’ve killed someone and it saddens me.

My eyes flash up, seeking out Morrigan. He is nowhere to be seen. The corpses of the three assailants lie around me, their blood a vivid contrast to the virgin snow. The sickening feeling of Morrigan’s absence reactivates the agony coursing through my knee. I cough. My lungs are filled with cold and pain. Realising I cannot give in so easily, I raise my head once more and scour the darkening skyline for some sort of indication. My only hope is that he has gone after, and hunted down, the archer. There is no sign. Instinctively, I limp towards the copse.

It seems to take an agonisingly long time to reach the small gathering of trees. My wound is screaming. The pain is so great that, perversely, I find myself sweating despite the cold around me. This is my first experience of the casual ease of death. My vulnerability is what frightens me, that all it would take to kill me is one well-placed arrow. Equally devastating is the knowledge that, to have any chance of survival, I will have to dig a shelter, build a fire and treat the wound before I can even begin to think about getting any rest. This thought, not to mention the pain, nauseates me. The realisation that there is no alternative forces my hand.

The fire is my main priority. Every fire I have built so far on this journey, and I have built the majority, has been small and designed for subtlety. This one is neither small nor subtle. It doesn’t need to be. I cover it with whatever plant matter I can find to build smoke and heat. The rationale for this is simple: the agony in my knee tells me I will die if Morrigan does not return. Whether this is at the hands of savages attracted by the flames, or a slow death from starvation and injury, is irrelevant to me. A visual fire increases the chances of him finding me and that outweighs everything. It will also soften up the snow to help me dig my shelter.

By the time my shelter is dug, it is beginning to feel more like a grave. I can barely walk. There is still light in the sky but it is approaching its final flicker. The weight of exhaustion causes me to feel as though it has been hours since the battle, although I know from the sun that hardly any time has passed.

Grimly, I reach for the base of the arrow lodged in the back of my knee. I have been taught in combat lessons that all the most effective weapons hurt more on the way out than on the way in. I now begin to realise that words alone have never done this fact justice; I feel every jagged edge of this evil weapon as it rips through my body in reverse, carving an entirely fresh wound. As I grit my teeth and pull, nothing exists except for agony, the pain of one thousand screaming suns moving through a small orifice just below the back of my knee. The wound throbs, sweat pours down my face, consciousness fades from me.

“Looks painful,” quips Morrigan, crunching tactlessly through the melting snow. I’m unable to reply, too exhausted even for relief.

“Could have at least dug me a shelter. Selfish bastard,” he smirks, trying, as ever, to soften me with good humour. I manage to murmur a curse in response but even I am not sure what it is supposed to mean.

“Never mind. Looks like I’m up for the night anyway, seeing that you’ve given away our position and all. Come here, let’s check that scratch.”