Willem moved towards him. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘I am getting older and this cursed illness is not helping matters one little bit.’
‘Not to worry, sir; there will always be someone to look after you.’
‘Will there, my boy? That is not the matter I wish to speak of anyway. What would you say if I took over the sponsorship of your education from the holy brothers? It would mean leaving the
church, of course, and taking up the life of secular study. It’s as cloistered in its way as the life of a monk and demands as much devotion to study and diligence. So I would not consider it
as an easier option. What it does mean is that you remain at the university, with me as my apprentice. There will be exams and lots of work, but I feel that you are clever and curious enough to
succeed me one day. What do you say?’
Willem tried not to sound excited. ‘Won’t it cost you a lot of money personally? The fees of a student are a considerable expense.’
‘Oh, I have saved enough over the years. I have been corresponding with the church over the matter and they are happy with the remuneration I am offering.’
‘But what about the Island of Healing? I always thought you would go there in your dotage.’
‘To get there you need more money than a humble scholar earns in a lifetime. That or the recommendation of a senior mage, and seeing as I don’t know any of
them
, going there
is hardly a viable option. Anyway, I expected you to be overjoyed at the news! Especially as your studies would bring you into contact with a certain lady artist that we know.’
Willem looked sheepish. ‘Of course, sir, there is that. But I did not think my affairs mattered to you.’
‘Ha, it is not as if I would get nothing out of this. I would get a bright and promising young scholar at my beck and call!’
‘Thank you, sir. It will take a long time to repay you, but I definitely will.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Cedric. ‘Now back to your books.’
Outside in the snow the men were still singing. They had moved on from Rheged’s walking song and were now on ‘The Lay of Sweet Rosie’ – something the St Kennelth’s
choir would never attempt. The road ahead curved eastwards to their right and started to drop steeply. In the distance they could see the two mountains drawing close together, the path they were on
diving between them.
‘And that,’ said Morgan, ‘marks the end of the pass.’
Samson next to him smiled. ‘Artorus’s holy breath, will I be happy to get there! Are you ready, Leon –
There is nothing better than a long road a...
’ He started to
sing in a full-throated voice, Leon joining in, but suddenly something unexpected happened. To their right were a couple of large drifts of snow. Rozgon was passing one when suddenly the snow
exploded upwards and outwards. Everyone turned in horror as the ettin hiding behind it bore down on the big man. Before he could sweep out his axe, its giant claw raked across his chest. Blood
sprayed on to the ettin’s fur as it hit him again with full force, sending him flying off the path and rolling down the steep mountain side until he impacted with a pine tree. There he lay
still, a bloody trail stretching behind him in the snow.
‘Mytha, give me strength!’ yelled Haelward. He was behind the creature and putting everything into the blow. He slashed his sword at the creature’s stocky foot where he guessed
the ankle would be. The blade bit deep and the creature’s dark blood spurted freely. Hamstrung, it roared its agony as it sank to one knee, trying to grab at its wound. Then Morgan was on
him. With a two-handed thrust he forced his blade into the creature’s open mouth puncturing its brain case and killing it instantly. The giant beast toppled over, taking Morgan’s sword
with it before he could twist the blade and pull it out. As they all stared at the creature, dumbfounded, there was more roaring and two other creatures bore down on them from the path ahead.
‘Shit, they’re fast!’ said Samson, loosing an arrow. The creature it hit stopped for a second, looking at the arrow sticking out of its chest dumbly, then continued its charge.
Varen took the torch from the bracket on the wagon, then ran at the nearest creature holding it out in front of him. At that the creature did stop. Varen noticed its face had a fresh wound –
evidently it was a survivor from the first encounter two nights before. He had his mace in his other hand and the two of them circled each other warily. The second ettin joined them, manoeuvring to
get behind Varen. Haelward joined Varen; they stood back to back, an ettin glaring at each of them. Morgan was struggling to get his sword out of the dead creature’s mouth. Samson and Leon
had their bows strung, ready to fire at whichever monster made the first move. Suddenly a new figure entered the fray – not Willem, who was frantically trying to calm the rearing and bucking
horses, but Cedric. He was holding a sack in one hand and a rush light in his other. Morgan at last freed his sword and called to him.
‘Get back, Cedric – they will kill you!’
Cedric ignored him. He put the light in the sack, which ignited instantly, then bracing his legs he hurled it at the nearest creature striking it square in the back. It merely bounced off the
creature and fell burning to the floor, but it broke the ettin’s concentration, making it turn round. Seeing the fire, it growled and backed away slowly. Seeing that it was disturbed, both
archers let fly at it simultaneously. It was enough for the creature. Varen’s torch, the burning sack, the keen-eyed men with swords and the bowmen out of its reach decided its course of
action. It turned and started bounding back the way it came. Its companion, now isolated, barked ferociously at its onlooking foes, then turned tail and followed closely behind, going at great
speed with its loping strides.
Everyone stood stock still, staring at the curved white backs of the monsters as they disappeared into the distance. Haelward finally turned to Cedric.
‘Books!’ said Cedric ruefully. ‘Soaked in the last of the brandy.’
As he spoke, the wind whipped at the fire in front of him, sending some blackened smoking pages into the air. ‘Where is Morgan?’
Morgan had disappeared. Haelward sighed ‘I know where he is.’
Wearily he walked off the path on to the steep pine-clad slopes of the gorge.
Morgan had already scrambled a good way down, kicking up fountains of snow as he did so. There, lying flat against a tree and soaked in his own dark blood, was Rozgon. Morgan saw immediately
that he was not dead – he was expelling ragged white plumes of air – but as he drew nearer he could see how badly wounded he was. The ettin had ripped open his chest, exposing the bone,
and veins and arteries were visibly leaking blood on to the snow around him. Morgan knelt down beside him, gently cradling his head. The wounded man weakly opened his bloodshot eyes.
‘Come on,’ said Morgan gently. ‘Me and the boys will get you on to the wagon.’
Rozgon gave out a weak, wheezy laugh. ‘Don’t be more stupid than you look; we are hardly first-year warriors. I am not leaving this spot and you know it.’
Morgan didn’t know what to say. ‘What can we do for you?’
Rozgon tried adjusting his position but quickly gave up. ‘Fuck, it hurts! Do me a favour, Morgan – I don’t know how long it will take me to die, but I don’t want the last
thing I see to be one of those bastards starting to eat me. Finish it for me now – as a friend.’
Morgan couldn’t look at him; he looked at the trees to his left and right and swallowed hard. ‘Don’t ask me to do this.’
Rozgon smiled weakly. ‘It won’t be so bad; I will be with the Gods after all. And I will be with Greta and the girls again.’ He lifted himself on to his elbow, wincing at he
did so. ‘Who knows, I may even see Lisbeth and little Erik.’
Morgan met his gaze this time. ‘If you do, if they are there, say hello from me. Tell them I will be with them again, probably not before too long. Say I always think of them.’
‘I will, my friend. Now do it for me, please.’
Morgan took out his knife; he had sharpened it that very morning.
‘Xhenafa bring you to Artorus’s side – there never was a truer warrior.’
‘One last thing, leave me here. My body will keep those monsters interested and away from you for a while. It is only flesh; I care not what happens to it.’
Morgan nodded. All those who followed the Church of Artorus saw the body after death as unimportant; it was nearly always burned. Gripping his knife firmly, he leaned over the man he had fought
countless battles with over the last ten years, whom he had always looked up to as he found his own feet as a soldier.
And then he did what he had to do.
Haelward joined him a minute later. Tapping Morgan on his shoulder, the two of them turned and made the steep climb back to the path. Behind them the crows were already descending.
They continued their journey. Nobody spoke and the speed with which they had travelled earlier slowed. The one spare horse they had had fled, leaving them with just two. The worst of the journey
was over, though. They didn’t make it out of the pass that night, but now that the path was flanked with trees it was easy enough to gather plenty of dead wood and make a large fire. The snow
had fallen here, too, but much less copiously and only one to two inches of it covered the ground. That night they heard the wolves and the braying of flocks of mountain deer but nothing else.
The following morning, the mountain path petered out into an upland of pine and spruce. The sun shone fitfully upon the travellers and a bright mountain stream spilled joyfully over rocks as it
bounded down the wooded hillside. They followed it until it crashed over a lip of rock, creating a waterfall some twenty feet high. After finding a gentler route down they came to the splash pool
where they filled their flasks and stopped to refresh themselves. Ahead was a broad grassy plain, dotted with bushes, low hills and similar streams to the one they were following. To their left
they could see a wide dirt track heading west and north – the road to the city of Zerannon; to their right in the far distance was a belt of mist shrouding a low green smudge that stretched
out into the endless distance. Nobody needed to be told that that was the Aelvenwood. At least the mountains were behind them now.
A large press of men stood facing two others. Between them was a large wooden fire. One of the two was standing on a low table which was so rickety that he had to keep moving
his feet to keep his balance. His hands were bound behind him and a rope was round his neck, its other end being looped around a solid branch of a great oak tree next to him. The other man stood
facing the crowd, the flames of the fire casting dark saturnine shadows over his bald scarred face. His black eyes could have belonged to Keth, god of the underworld, such was their implacable
coldness, their lack of mercy. In turn, he held each of the gazes of the men facing him; none of them could stare back for long. Then he spoke, with a voice like gravel sliding into a bottomless
cavern.
‘All of you know me by now. You know my name, you know I command you, but it appears a couple of things still need to be made clear...
‘I expect nothing less than complete loyalty from all of you. When I tell you to do something, you do it; you don’t ask my reasons, you do not question me. This man, Bakker,’
he gestured to the man on his left, ‘failed to understand the consequences of doing such a thing and now faces punishment. If you follow his path of disloyalty, then you will face the same
degree of retribution. You fight for
me
now. Forget that fop Fenchard; all he does is supply the money. You fight for
me
and you follow
my
code of honour.’ He stroked his
bearded chin. ‘Honour – you may have heard of this as having something to do with knights in polished armour or velvet-wearing daddy’s boys who take to the battlefield brandishing
a perfumed handkerchief to banish the smell of guts, shit and fear. Then let me tell you, I have trod on more corpses of these snivelling little nobodies than you have squeezed spots on your
baby-soft skin. I see what you all are – farm boys, chancers, craftsmen who make things that nobody wants anymore, and I imagine you all need ... clarification as to exactly what honour
actually is.’
He took two or three steps to his right, then back to his left, and with a swift gesture kicked the table from under the other man’s feet. Oblivious to the swinging jerking figure he
continued. ‘Honour is not about bowing to your opponent or waiting for him to stand if he falls over. Honour is about survival; it is about winning; it is about killing your opponent without
mercy and taking his money, weapons, house and woman. There is no honour in lying cold in the mud with the crows plucking your eyes out as the worms wriggle through your grey flesh... But there is
honour in drinking that man’s wine and spending his coin while his grateful widow kneels willingly before you. Follow me without question and all this honour shall be yours. No more hungry
bellies for your families, no more being spat upon by fat merchants as you sell them your underpriced goods and they sell you their overpriced ones. Follow me and see the fear and respect in the
eyes of those that once loathed you. Sir Trask will make you the men you always wanted to be.’
The jerking of the man next to him had nearly stopped. As with all victims of hanging he had soiled himself, and urine was dripping from his boot on to the soft grass below. There was a flash of
steel as Trask suddenly took hold of the man’s arm. For a few moments his audience could not see what he was doing, as he had his back to them, but then he stepped in front of the fire. By
its fierce light he looked like one of Keth’s demons returned to this world ... and then they saw it. It was a rope of thin wire and attached to it, like the charms of a bracelet, were a
selection of human fingers, some blackened and swollen, some white and bloodless. Bakker’s finger was there, too, dripping blood on to Trask’s armour. He addressed them again.
‘Show your enemies the meaning of fear. If they fear your attack, then they cease to think rationally and your knife is already at their throat. Make them fear you and you will have all
the honour in the world.’