Then another man joined them, also cloaked, and wearing soft leather gloves. He appeared to be the man in charge as he immediately started hissing instructions to his companions. A wooden bar
secured the lower stable door and a bolt secured the upper. Slowly, silently, one man slid the bolt free, keeping a hold on the upper door to stop it opening; another, crouching down next to him,
started to slide the wooden bar free from its housing. It came loose; there was the sound of metal against leather and the glint of steel in the moonlight as weapons were drawn. The two men by the
doors readied themselves to swing them open as the others readied themselves to charge in. The tension was so thick it could be tasted on the air.
Suddenly a noise broke their collective concentration. As one, they turned to face the inn. Its rear door had swung open and standing there, looking almost like pale ghosts in the pallid light
of the lantern, were four men, their leader being an absolute giant of a man, one-eyed, clad in a wolf pelt and fingering an axe.
‘Now, fellas,’ he said, ‘you wouldn’t be waking our horses now, would you?’
Chaos broke loose. Rozgon closed the ground between himself and the enemy in two bounds, slamming his axe foursquare into the face of his nearest foe. The man went down instantly. Leaving the
axe where it was, he swept out a brutal-looking hammer concealed under his cloak, shoulder-charged the next man to him, before bringing the hammer to bear on the side of the man’s head with a
sickening thud. While he was doing this, Haelward next to him was thrusting his sword clinically through an enemy’s throat. With a half-twist of his blade, the sword was free to engage
another foe, leaving his first victim thrashing desperately on the floor as he tried vainly to staunch the flow of blood on to the cobbles. Samson and Leon both loosed arrows, sending another man
tumbling.
The two men by the stable door were standing at the ready, gripping wicked-looking knives, when suddenly the upper door swung violently open. It caught one of the men on the back of the head,
sending him tumbling. The other had just enough time to get out of the way but dropped his guard to do so. It was enough time for Morgan. He leapt out of the stables, sword raised, before swinging
a deadly blow at the man’s neck. It did not quite sever the head but he was killed instantly, jets of arterial blood shooting in all directions. The man sent flying by the stable door lasted
only a brief moment longer, as Leon’s arrow pierced his throat, its barbed head pushing through the back of the neck. This left one man, the man with the gloves. Seeing the ruin around him he
turned tail and ran. Samson let loose an arrow, which stuck in his leg; he went down for a second but continued to desperately try and escape, now limping badly. He was slowed so much, though, that
Haelward and Morgan caught up with him on the grass by the riverbank. Haelward brought the pommel of his sword down on the man’s head, knocking him to the ground. He held the sword to the
man’s throat, forcing him to lay still. Rozgon, walking armoury that he was, was dispatching the wounded with a knife. His task completed, he, Samson and Leon came and joined the other two
men by the river.
The whole battle lasted much less than a minute.
Such was the ferocity of the ambush that most of the men had gone down with barely a sound, and no alarm was raised, no hue and cry. Six men had died unnoticed, accompanied only by the sound of
the swollen river.
The surviving man was forced to stand and Rozgon was given another chance to use his headlock. He was a well-groomed man, dark-haired with a trimmed pointed beard. Morgan sheathed his sword and
drew his knife, which he placed close to the captive’s face. ‘Your name, and who you are working for,’ he said succinctly.
The man smiled and spat at him. ‘I am telling you nothing, Felmere man.’
Morgan looked at the man impassively. He had avoided the man’s spittle and instead appeared to be looking at a small tattoo the man had on the collar line.
‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You have nothing to lose.’
You won’t hurt me,’ he sneered. ‘The hero of Axmian would be above such things.’
‘Your ambush was incompetent,’ said Morgan. ‘Only seven men? All of you attacking together in a mob? Your employer will be greatly displeased. I imagine he paid you quite
well.’
‘You know nothing!’ hissed the man. ‘I may have failed but there will be others. Oh yes, he who pays me can afford
many
others.’
‘But I am afraid that that,’ said Morgan, ‘will no longer be your concern.’
With that, he thrust his knife deep into the side of the man’s neck before pulling it outwards, opening the windpipe and causing a stream of gore to spurt forth, hitting Morgan in the face
with greater accuracy than the man’s spit had done earlier. He nodded to Rozgon who dragged the almost-dead fellow to the water’s edge before pitching him in with a gentle splosh.
Morgan’s last image of the man was of his frozen, startled expression before he disappeared into the dark waters.
‘Was that necessary?’ Haelward said in a low voice. ‘We could have just sent him back to Fenchard.’
‘Who would have had him killed anyway.’ said Morgan. ‘Only more slowly and painfully, if what we have heard about Fenchard stands up. A failed assassin is a dead assassin.
Besides, what did you notice about him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Haelward. ‘It was rather dark.’
‘Firstly, and this is a minor point, did you see his beard?’ Morgan was cleaning his knife on the grass. ‘He was well dressed, some expensive gear, yet his beard was hardly
Tanarese high fashion. Few people here wear their beards in such a way, and secondly and more importantly I noticed a small tattoo of Mytha just under his throat.’
‘We all have them,’ said Samson. ‘How is that unusual?’
‘Yes, of Mytha the bear, but our religion is different to other places. Women here venerate Elissa above Camille and for us Mytha is a bear. This man’s tattoo was of Mytha the bull.
That and his beard led me to believe that he was...’
‘Arshuman,’ whispered Haelward.
‘Exactly,’ said Morgan, sheathing his knife. ‘An Arshuman that has lived here for a long time, judging by his accent, but an Arshuman nonetheless. Now let’s get this mess
cleared up.’
‘Why hire an Arshuman killer?’ Rozgon enquired. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘To be honest, I can’t be doing with thinking about it now. One thing is for certain, though: Master Fenchard keeps some very strange company.’
The other bodies were collected and faced the same fate as the Arshuman victim – that of being dumped into the river. Haelward busied himself with a bucket and did his best to sluice the
cobbles clean of blood. Rozgon was about to throw the last body into the river when he noticed something and indicated for Morgan to come over.
‘Look at this one,’ he said, indicating the man’s hands.
On the third finger and little finger of each hand the nail was missing, and instead the skin had grown thickly to form a fleshy pad. With a little difficulty – the muscles were already
beginning to lock – Morgan forced his mouth open. The same two incisor teeth on each side of the mouth were missing, too. ‘They have been pulled.’ said Rozgon. ‘As have his
fingernails.’
‘The man has been tortured,’ Morgan mused. ‘And a while ago, judging by the way the skin has regrown on his fingers. Has Fenchard been emptying his dungeons? Kill us and get
your freedom maybe?’
‘Who knows?’ Rozgon replied. ‘But your explanation is as good as any.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter now; we had better pack up and leave before dawn. I am sure Fenchard won’t be up before noon, but we might as well be on the safe side.’
‘One question,’ said Haelward, setting down the pail, ‘why did you leave Sir Varen behind? His mace would have been useful; you could have moved the professor and Willem to
another room and locked the door. They would never have been found.’
Morgan stopped and looked at him. ‘Because Sir Varen is a knight and an honourable man. Honour would not have best served us tonight; I wanted no one reporting back to Fenchard before we
were able to leave. I know you’re not happy with what I did it – and it might surprise you that neither am I – but the fact is our mission takes priority and the Baron’s
grudge against me is not important when compared against it. I reckoned you had a better chance of understanding that than Varen.’
‘You didn’t kill him just because he was Arshuman then.’
Morgan smiled at him and walked back into the inn.
They left as soon as they could, while it was still dark. Sir Varen gently propelled the horses forward, his face showing yellow by the light of the wagon’s lantern. As
soon as they passed the baronial hall, they took the road northwards and very shortly they were clear of the town and into the copses and fields of the surrounding countryside. The road narrowed to
a smaller dirt track at this point and veered slightly eastwards until it was closely hugging the river. The birds slowly started to find their voice as dawn slowly broke and a pale light started
to show through the pink-tinted clouds above. They met nobody and spoke little themselves being content with their own thoughts and the smell of fast-flowing water coming from the river as it
bubbled and sang alongside them.
Looking ahead it dawned on Morgan how familiar he was with the approaching mountains. They had been there with him pretty much all of his life and generally he took as much, or as little,
account of them as he did of his weather-worn boots or the dagger he had had since he was eleven years old and which he still polished and whetted every day. Looking at them now, though, it was as
if he were seeing them for the first time.
He had heard stories of the great Dragon Spine Mountains in Chira whose tallest peaks soared upwards, past even the highest clouds; of Mount Kzugun in northern Koze, part of the Gnekun range,
which was supposedly the tallest mountain in the world; and even of the Red Mountains, Chira’s northern boundary and the longest range known to man, running for thousands of miles west to
east, joining the Western Ocean to the barely explored Sea of Squalls, reputedly home to many fantastical creatures – but the Derannen Mountains ahead seemed formidable enough on their own
– a broad, blue-grey array of spikes, at some points over a mile high and fringed with snow. The pass they sought cut between Mount Deraska in the west and Mount Baenarran in the east, both
just under a mile in height. The pass was slightly less than half the height of these two peaks, so it was under the snowline but of course not immune to heavy falls of snow itself, which blocked
it permanently for two or three months a year. They were beginning to travel gently uphill already and within a day or so they would be in the pine-clad foothills, inhaling the smell of resin and
walking on the spongy carpet of discarded brown needles as they made their way to Shayer Ridge, the mountain town the enemy had never conquered. Then they would veer westwards to the Tower of
Hayader, which guarded the narrow mouth of the pass. After that ... well, after that, they would be on their own.
They proceeded northwards for a good while, wanting to put as much space between them and Tetha Vinoyen as possible, and did not stop for a meal until the middle of the afternoon. Morgan
wondered about the wagon again; it definitely slowed their progress and, although the pass could accommodate a wagon, it would still be painful-going as the snow clouds gathered above them. It had
to be taken, of course, as it bore the gold for the elves, among other things, so there was little point worrying about it. Also Cedric could never walk the pass unaided. And what of Cedric? He had
barely emerged from the wagon since they had started their journey. It was odd for such a garrulous man. And did he know of the unspoken dangers of the pass? Attacks by animals or worse. He had
stated that he had made a study of such things. Morgan decided to climb into the wagon and chat to him.
The wagon itself was full of clutter but a central space had been cleared where Cedric sat on a trunk with a book opened in front of him. Willem was not there; he was eating with the other men.
Morgan was about to greet him when he noticed something odd. Cedric’s left side was facing him with his hand resting on his knee. Except that it wasn’t resting. It was shaking, quite
violently, and uncontrollably. Morgan identified it immediately.
‘The shaking palsy?’ Cedric looked at him grimly, nodding as he did so.
‘At least you have heard of it,’ he said. ‘I knew I would have to tell you all eventually but I just couldn’t work out the best way of doing so.’
Morgan smiled sympathetically. ‘Not all of us soldiers are brain-addled killing machines. My grandfather had it. When did you first start to notice it?’
‘Oh, about three or four years ago now. I was reading a tome – I am not sure I can recall which one, possibly something relating to the sightings of fell horrors in the Morrathnay
Forest – when I noticed the little finger on my left hand had the tiniest of tremors. I tried to stop it but I just couldn’t. After that, it began to happen quite frequently and always
slightly worse than before. Ultimately, I checked with the university’s healer, who confirmed what you have just told me yourself. It is not too bad ... yet. I get stiff and have difficulty
walking some days, but other than that I get by. Willem is as much my carer as my student, I am afraid.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier?’
Cedric looked at him quizzically. ‘Would you have undertaken this task if you had known?’
Morgan smiled again. ‘Surprisingly enough, yes. As I have said, my grandfather had it and it will change nothing when we go over the mountains. I would have kept you in the wagon
regardless. We just need to make sure you have an extra blanket. That is all.’
Cedric snorted. ‘Please, no special treatment. It will be some years before I am confined to a chair or bed and I have no desire for that to happen to me until my ague absolutely forces me
into one. I suppose now I will have to tell the others... Do you think any of them will want to turn back?’