While you walk, hundreds will want you gone,
the spirits promised.
They will hunt you their whole lives, seeking your destruction with their every breath. But where you go, death shall always follow. They will hate you,
Kraeai kran ae.
Hate you with their very souls
.
He could feel his heart beating now. But slower and slower, weakening as the blood flowed out of him. He was dying. His heart was dying.
Seek out the Night Eye for your hope now,
said the spirits.
Take up your own pagan ways. But we do not want you. Farewell
.
Arren felt his heart stop.
Go back to the North, blackrobe,
the spirits said, their voices full of sneering mockery.
And then there was nothing but silence, and blackness.
10
Herbstitt
I
t was very cold. Arren shivered and curled up more tightly. His robe was wet.
Something grabbed him by the collar, and he was being hauled to his feet. He flung out an arm as his eyes snapped open, but too late. A rough hand grabbed him by the wrist, and there was a loud metallic snap as something closed tightly around it. Someone had grabbed his other arm, too, and before he knew what was happening he was being dragged backward. It was dark, and rain was still falling, but the moon had come out, and there were lights nearby. Lights and people.
The hands that had dragged him upright flung him down against a tree, and as he fell he realised his hands were manacled together. Terrified, he tried to get up and run, but someone kicked him in the stomach, and he keeled over, wheezing.
“All right, you son of a bitch,” a voice snarled. “We’ve got you, so don’t try anything on.”
Arren managed to sit up as someone brought a torch over. The guttering flame showed him a group of men clad in rough leather armour. They were armed and had the easy confidence of people used to travelling and fighting.
Arren’s hand went to his belt, dragging the other with it as he groped for his knife, but it was gone. He tried to get up, but one of the men grabbed hold of the manacles and dragged him forward, nearly tipping him onto his face.
Arren struggled wildly, wrenching at the chain. “Let go of me!”
They hit him again, this time in the head, but he barely felt it in his terror. He twisted sideways, breaking free of the man’s grip, and hurled himself at the nearest of them. It took the man by surprise; Arren knocked him sideways and ran for it.
Footsteps came up fast behind him, and something hit him in the back of the knees. His legs folded, and he stumbled to the ground. They were on him instantly, hitting him from all sides. He made a few attempts to defend himself, but the blows continued to fall, hard and merciless. Finally, half-conscious and bleeding badly from a cut lip, he slumped onto his side and lay there, gasping. The next time they dragged him to his feet, he didn’t resist.
One of them hit him hard in the face. “Thought you could get away, did you, blackrobe?”
Arren sagged, groaning. “Please stop hitting me.”
The man hit him again. “Shut your face!”
“Come on, Russ,” another voice cut in. “I’m getting soaked here. Let’s just get him back to camp.”
“Wait a moment,” said the one called Russ. “You”—this was to Arren—“is there anyone else here with you?”
“No,” Arren said without hesitation.
Russ drew back his hand to hit him again. “You sure about that, blackrobe?”
“There’s no-one else!” said Arren. “I swear!”
Russ lowered his hand. “Fine, whatever. I don’t see why we should be wasting our time with this kind of crap anyway. Here,” he said, turning to one of his companions, “toss me that rope, will you?” He caught it and wrapped it around Arren’s manacled wrists, binding them tightly together. He tugged at it a few times to make sure it was secure and then took hold of the loose end. “Right, let’s get going. Daen, could you bring my horse over here?”
He tied the end of the rope to the back of the animal’s saddle while his companions mounted, and then got up himself. “Let’s go. You go ahead, Jono.”
The group set out, four in all, riding in single file. Russ was at the back, and Arren had to walk behind him, the rope threatening to drag him down if he was too slow. He knew it would be pointless to try to pull back; the rope was thick, and besides, they’d only start hitting him again. He limped along after the column, looking back desperately over his shoulder at the mountain. He could just see the dead tree and the heap of boulders. There was no sign of anything unusual there, and no sign of Skade or Skandar, either. He was on his own.
They rode out of the clearing and away over the rocky landscape, heading southward. As Arren walked, he tried to untie the rope pinning his wrists together, but it had been tied expertly and refused to budge. His fingers were longer than those of a Southerner, but even so he couldn’t get hold of the knot. It had been tied on the side furthest away from his mouth, too, making it nearly impossible to get his teeth into it. He did manage to after a few tries, but it was too tight to be undone that way, and it was slick with rain. Even so, he continued to wrench at it, trying again and again to get a grip on it. He fell too far behind and was instantly pulled to the ground when the rope went taut. The horse dragged him along behind it while he tried to get up, but Russ quickly noticed and called a halt. He dismounted, strode over to Arren and pulled him upright.
Then he hit him again. “Bloody well keep up or I’ll cut your ears off, understand?”
After that Arren gave up and walked obediently along behind the column, rain slicking his hair to his head and trickling down his face. His robe was already soaked, and its weight slowed him down. He ached all over from the beating; his legs and back were starting to stiffen. Little spots of light flickered in his vision, and his head was spinning. He groaned softly. The encounter with the spirits still loomed large in his memory, but it was already starting to feel hazy and unreal. Like a dream. Or a nightmare. But deep down he knew it had been real.
Hatred started to roil in his chest, and the despair that went with it only made it worse. They hadn’t helped him. They had mocked him, condemned him, turned him away, tortured him with the memory of his own death. And then they had thrown him out of the cave, delivered him straight into the hands of his enemies.
He closed his eyes. They would have him soon. Griffiners. These men would give him straight to them. After that there would be no hope, none at all.
The rope grew taut again. Arren jogged forward a short way, and once he had enough slack he lifted his hands to his neck and felt it carefully, checking yet again.
His heart was absolutely silent.
T
hey rode on through the night, still heading away from the mountains. After a while the ground became more level and the trees thicker. The rain slowed to a few light spots, though by now every member of the party was already wet through. They rode on regardless, keeping up a steady pace, while Arren trudged along on the end of his rope, head bowed.
Finally, a shout from the front made him look up. The others had sped up. Russ nudged his horse’s sides, and the animal lurched forward without warning, nearly dragging Arren over again. He had to break into a clumsy run to keep pace, his boots catching on rocks and sticks and threatening to trip him. Tired panic started to grip him. If they went on like this for too long he’d never be able to keep up. To his relief, they slowed down again a short time later, when they reached the edge of a stand of trees. And as they went in among them, he heard voices from up ahead. There was light there, too, the flickering light of a campfire.
The horses finally came to a halt, and the riders dismounted. Two people were waiting for them by the large fire. Russ turned and took hold of Arren’s rope before he slid out of the saddle. The instant he hit the ground he pulled hard on the rope, dragging Arren toward him, and then shoved him into a kneeling position. “Sit there and don’t move.”
The two who had been waiting came over. “You got him, then,” said one.
Russ kicked Arren casually in the stomach. “Yes, thank gods,” he said as Arren doubled over, wheezing. “Little shit gave us some trouble, though.”
“Where’d you find him?”
“Up north, near the mountains,” said Russ. “Found him asleep under a tree.”
“That’s that sorted out, then,” said the other. “No sign of Raen’s group, then?”
“Not a damn thing. We found their last camp, or something that might’ve been it, but other than that—it’s the bloody rain. Covers everything up. Nothing more we can do about it; either they’ve gone back or they’re still lost somewhere. We’ve done half the job, and they’ll just have to be happy with it, because I’m not staying out here any longer.”
The other man took Arren by the shoulder. “I hear yah. I’ll get this son of a bitch secured; you go get yourself warmed up. There’s some warm wine over by the fire; help yourself.”
Russ sighed. “Thanks, mate. That’s just what I need.”
He walked off purposefully toward the fire, and his friend pulled Arren upright and gave him a shove. “Go on, move it.”
Arren, too exhausted to resist, allowed himself to be taken to the foot of a large tree. There his bonds were removed, and his hands were shackled behind his back and tethered to an overhanging branch, pulling them upward. Once he’d tugged on the rope to make sure it was secure, the man walked off and left Arren alone.
Arren pulled at the rope, but without much hope. When it refused to budge he sat down with his back to the tree trunk and watched his captors relax around the fire. They were talking among themselves, but he couldn’t catch most of it, and the bits and pieces he did pick up weren’t very useful. All he could gather was that they had agreed to start heading back the next day; just where they were heading back to wasn’t certain, but they all seemed keen to go there. They ate and passed around a jar of wine that had been warmed up by the fire, and Arren had to sit and watch them, burning inside with both fear and hunger.
He had hoped that he could find a way to break free while they were busy, but it was futile. The rope wouldn’t budge and neither would the manacles, and in any case they were still keeping an eye on him; those of them who were facing toward him kept glancing at him. And once they had eaten, one of them came over and sat down just out of his reach, watching him in silence.
Arren looked back uneasily, but the man didn’t seem about to do anything other than watch. He thought of saying something but decided against it.
The man looked him up and down, and then sighed. “Trying to go north, were you?”
There was no point in hiding it. Arren nodded.
The man shook his head in disgust. “North!” he said. “Why do you sods always go north? I mean, what’s the point? D’you think you’re going to find some sort of paradise there? Ye gods. Bloody blackrobes. You’ve all got snow between your ears.”
Another man wandered over. “You all set for the night, Jono?”
The man identified as Jono shrugged. “Some more wine’d be nice, but I’d better not risk it. See you later.”
“Yeah, all right,” said his friend. “You come and wake me up when you’re ready to turn in, okay?”
“Yeah, right. Good night.”
“Huh, I’ll bet.” The man walked off. The others had finished off the wine and were busy setting up bedrolls around the fire. The horses had been tethered on the other side of the camp.
Arren’s guard yawned and pulled his waterproof cloak around his shoulders. “Get some sleep, blackrobe,” he advised. “You’re gonna need it for tomorrow, and I don’t want to have to sling you over the back of my saddle, understand?”
“Where are we going?” Arren dared ask.
“Back to Herbstitt,” Jono said briefly. He squinted at Arren. “I don’t get it. Why run? I mean, where did you think you were going? Did you really think you were going to get away?”
Arren said nothing.
Jono shrugged. “You just don’t make any sense to me, that’s all.”
He didn’t say anything more after that. The rain had stopped, and Arren sat and watched his guard, hoping he’d fall asleep. But the man was obviously too well-trained for that sort of thing. He stayed at his post, his attention never wandering. Occasionally he would hum a tune under his breath or mutter something to himself, but he showed no sign of falling asleep or letting his attention waver. Eventually he did start showing signs of tiredness, but at that point he got up and went and woke his companion, who came to take his place, muttering and irritable but alert. After that, Arren gave up. It wasn’t as if he could have done anything, even if there hadn’t been someone watching him; he’d already searched the ground for a sharp rock that he could use to cut the rope and found nothing. And if he could get loose, he wouldn’t get very far with his hands chained together behind his back.
The rope was too short for him to lie down. He had to try and make himself comfortable sitting up against the tree, the manacles digging into his back. He fell asleep with the resolution that he would keep looking for an opportunity to escape. It had to happen sooner or later.