Chapter 20

   

For the first time in many days Wyl felt his spirits lift. Saying farewell to Ylena had not been as difficult as he had imagined. She seemed peaceful at the monastery and Brother Jakub had seen to it that her accommodation was cozy if not elegant and in an especially quiet wing. Her rooms, although small, were airy and Jakub had deliberately chosen those that overlooked the orchard and the hills in the distance. She had not cried when Wyl said goodbye but she had hugged Romen hard and told him to hurry back. Ylena had pressed her brooch, the one Wyl had given her as a present, into his hand.

“It will bring you luck,” she had said.

As he rode away he tried to put aside the nagging thought that the youngster, Jorn, might yet undo his plans by revealing Ylena’s whereabouts. He worried at the possible repercussions, not only for his sister but for these good men who cared for her. And still he knew he had made a sound decision in bringing her here first where she might recover among kind strangers who understood to keep a distance. Too much familiarity, Jakub had agreed, could bring her back to herself too quickly and the memory of her suffering might be too vivid.

“Burying the reality is her way of defending herself against the pain. We can’t all be heroic like you and ride off into more danger after such adversity,” Jakub had said carefully.

Wyl did not understand what was couched in that final statement but he was determined to get to the bottom of whatever it was that sat between him and Jakub. He suspected it had something to do with the reason Romen Koreldy had left Grenadyn and turned to the dangerous life of a mercenary but there were no clues left for him within Romen.

Jakub had insisted on swapping the nag for a decent horse—a lovely roan—and, despite his hot protestations, the old man had finally agreed to accept some money from his friend, which he insisted could only be taken as a donation. Wyl had readily agreed and loved the feel of the horse beneath him. It seemed an age since he had ridden an animal of such quality and yet he realized that it had only really been a matter of days. How quickly one’s life can change, he thought, and how strange his had become in that short time.

He had searched his mind long and hard for any clues to the old woman’s whereabouts and it had only come to him very recently that she had mentioned hailing from the north. Even if it turned out that she had not returned home, it was worth trying; he could comb the towns and villages of the region, for they were few and far between that close to the Razor Mountains.

He urged the horse into a steady canter and once again headed across country to avoid being sighted. Wyl was well stocked and his intention was to travel for several days keeping the woods to his left and then come out into a town called Orkyld. known for its specific talent for crafting swords and knives. Master craftsmen from around the realm considered it the high altar of their trade and only the very best were picked to do their apprenticeships at Orkyld itself. It took him almost four days and in the end he had to carefully walk the horse into Orkyld as it had taken a stone into its shoe two miles back.

He paid for a room at the Old Yew Inn and was grateful that this part of the realm was used to strangers. No one paid him a second glance and the roan was cared for immediately. He treated himself to a jug of ale and several roasted pigeons before finding the local baths, where he gave himself a second treat of a leisurely dip. For those who could afford such luxury, a “smoothing” could be enjoyed for just a few more royals. He was sorely tempted because his muscles protested from being in the saddle so much. Wyl promised Romen’s body that luxury soon enough.

Right now he needed weaponry and a new pair of stout boots. The boots came first and as an afterthought he added a warm shirt and cloak to his list. The north could be very cold even at this time of the year.

Wyl’s inquiries led him to a master craftsman called Wevyr, who was supposedly one of the three most talented artisans in Orkyld. He recalled his father mentioning this man’s name but had never met him. At Wevyr’s workrooms twenty or so young men were diligently applying their skills to blades of all shapes and sizes. One stopped his work and moved to the counter.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like to buy a sword,” Wyl replied.

“I shall fetch Master Lerd for you, sir. May I give him your name please?”

“It’s Koreldy,” Wyl replied.

He waited while the youngster disappeared into a set of rooms beyond the main workroom. Another man reappeared as the first fellow returned to his seat.

“Are you Romen Koreldy, sir?” this one asked.

“I am.”

“In that case, follow me. please,” he said, turning.

“Why?” Wyl asked in Romen’s casual way. It amazed him how Koreldy could do this without giving offense.

“It’s Master Wevyr, sir, he prefers to take care of his clients in his private room.”

“Thank you.” he said, impressed, and followed.

The man took him into a small yet light-filled room where a very old man was inspecting various weapons.

“Hello. Romen.” he greeted him. not looking up from his work.

Wyl nodded even though it wouldn’t be noticed. “Wevyr.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost them?”

“Er…no,” Wyl said, carefully. He presumed they were talking about weapons. He took the risk. “I had to give them up at a round of cards.”

“Shar’s Balls, man. You paid a fortune for those!” the master exclaimed, looking up through one huge eyeglass attached to a band around his head.

Wyl shrugged. “It was for high stakes.”

“You’re a fool!”

He could see this man was not impressed by Romen’s noble rank or purse. “I’m sorry.” he replied. “It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t, because you’re not getting any of my precious weapons again.”

“Oh. come on. Wevyr. Yours are the only blades that kill neatly.” he said, grinning.

It did not work for him. The old man seemed genuinely miffed. “I have crafted blades all of my life for the likes of the Thirsks of Argorn. Armyn Thirsk killed three hundred and seventy Briavellians in his time with one of my swords and Fergys Thirsk admitted the sword I made him thirty years ago needed sharpening only twice in its lifetime.” He coughed after his angry outburst.

Wyl was stunned by the mention of his family name. He had admired his father’s sword on countless occasions and, as was the Thirsk way, the Generals were buried with their blades. When he had lost his father he was too young to know important things like where to get the best swords crafted. Gueryn had held all of that information. Hearing his father’s name spoken aloud moved him. as did thinking of Gueryn. and he began to consider how he might be able to find out about his friend’s fate in the Razors.

He came out of his sorrowful thoughts. “Pardon?”

“I said, are you all right, Koreldy?”

Wyl took a breath. “Yes, apologies. You mentioning Thirsk made me think of the loss to the kingdom.”

The old man sighed and his voice softened. “Indeed, a great loss it is. I hear a rumor that the son is dead to us too. Is this true?”

Wyl nodded. “I was in Pearlis for the funeral.”

“A very sad business. The son should never have followed his father to the grave so soon. I did not even have a chance to forge a blade for him. Did you learn how it happened?”

“Treachery, I’m told.” Wyl could not help himself.

“Oh? Whose?”

“They say Celimus was jealous of him—wanted him dead.”

Wevyr looked horror-struck. “Hush, man! Walls have ears even in this remote town.”

“Sorry. It’s what I heard.”

“I don’t want to know any more,” Wevyr said, holding up his hand. “I am too old for intrigues. What is it you require?”

Wyl grinned. “A sword and two knives?”

“Come with me.”

The old man took off his eyepiece and walked around his work table to a display cabinet. He slowly unlocked it before reverently picking up a sword that had unique markings engraved on the blade itself as well as the hilt. It was magnificent.

“My finest ever,” he said, presenting it.

“And you’d let me have it?” Wyl said, incredulous.

The man made a face. “There are very few swordsmen I’d allow to even hold this beautiful weapon, Romen.” Then he scowled, voice scathing. “You are fortunate that you wield a blade with such exquisite finesse that you deserve something as fine as this.” He poked Romen Koreldy in the chest for good measure and his humor was not improved by the wide grin that greeted his efforts.

“Thank you.” Wyl took the handsome blade and weighted it. The balance was perfect. It was as if the sword had its own momentum. “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the open door, which led to a courtyard.

“Of course. There are matching knives.”

“Bring them,” Wyl said, marveling at the sword’s lightness and grace in his grip.

Outside he went through some of his old practice routines and felt Romen’s skills intruding, guiding his hand to new movements, and through it all the blade glided effortlessly through the air. As the sunlight hit the sword, it glinted blue, which in itself Wyl found fascinating.

“Did you make this especially for someone?” he asked Wevyr, who had arrived carrying the pair of knives.

“Yes. For me. It is the sum of my training and experience—my life’s work, you could say.”

“You know I want it,” Wyl admitted.

“It is yours. The price is exorbitant, of course.”

“Naturally.” Wyl said, amused. He exchanged the sword for the pair of knives.

Wevyr looked towards a hessian dummy hanging fifteen or so paces ahead of them. “Try them.” he said.

Before he even threw. Wyl knew they would land true. Romen’s skill with throwing blades was already obvious to him but the knives themselves were as perfect as their larger counterpart and they moved sweetly through the air. one landing in the dummy’s face, the other in the gut. He had not even taken aim but spun on a heel and thrown from instinct.

“If you lose these, Romen Koreldy, don’t ever come to Orkyld again.”

With his purse significantly lighter, Wyl felt renewed at the feel of the sword by his thigh. He had purchased a special crossover body belt recommended by Wevyr for the knives. The clever part of this soft, malleable belt was that it was designed to be worn inside the shirt so the knives could be concealed. He could lift the blades from their holder in the blink of an eye and, although Wyl knew he probably did not need to, he was looking forward to practicing with them in the woods behind Orkyld.

Wyl had changed into his new shirt and was getting used to the feel of the belt next to his skin. He was beginning to feel comfortable yet something nagged at him through the evening, which he spent leisurely in the common room of the Old Yew Inn. He knew the thought was there. His keen soldier’s sense combined with Romen’s naturally suspicious nature tried to make him sit up and take notice of it. The trouble was he was feeling especially relaxed on this night as a half-decent musician sang a lament in one corner and the kitchen served up his favorite dish of steamed fish. The vague notion of danger dissipated instantly when a particularly good-looking woman strode up and slapped him hard around the face.

“Romen Koreldy, you dare to sit at this table!”

Wyl rubbed the stinging mark of her hand and, with his mouth wide open, watched her flounce off, magnificent in her anger.

Other patrons laughed, enjoying the spectacle and his embarrassment.

Another girl sidled up to clear his table. “Arlyn is really cross this time, Romen,” she warned.

“So I can see,” he said, wondering what Romen could have done, although he could probably guess. “Can I make it up to her?”

“I don’t know—how do you make it up to a woman who was preparing for her wedding?” asked the girl.

It was worse than Wyl had first guessed. “I can explain,” he offered, feeling helpless.

“Not to me, Romen, to her!”

“Where can I find Arlyn later?”

The woman rested his dishes against her hip and said with no little exasperation, “Forgotten already?”

He sighed. “Life’s been a bit hard for me lately—I just thought she might have—er—”

“No, nothing’s changed. You’ll still find her working her hands to the bone out the back.”

Wyl nodded and thanked her although it did him little good. He needed to sober up and so decided to take some fresh air. Perhaps I might find a place to buy Arlyn a gift as a peace offering.

On the rare occasion his parents had had cross words, his father had always made the first move to reconciliation, usually with some beautiful item that he knew would please his wife and hopefully soften her toward his spoken apology. Wyl felt helpless at being held responsible for Romen’s fault—all he could do was try to remedy the slight by making Arlyn a Thirsk-style apology. Also at the back of his mind was the notion that this excuse to meet with Arlyn and make his peace offering might give him an opportunity to learn more about the man whose body he walked in.

Wyl left the inn and strolled into Orkyld’s main street. It was a busy enough town. Apart from its fame as a place to buy weaponry, it seemed to be a busy hub for people moving into the north. Walking without clear direction he began to consider how to make amends with Arlyn without finding himself trapped.

“Marriage! Shar’s Wrath!” he murmured. It was the last complication he needed.

They had been careful. Jerico was not a man to take chances and following Koreldy had been challenging. The mercenary’s trail had disappeared at Farnswyth and, although Jerico hated to do it he split the men up into four groups. They were handpicked by him; all trusted cutthroats who would slit the jugulars of their own grandmothers if paid enough coin.

At Farnswyth he had briefed them all with care and then sent them off in different directions. He and two other men had traveled north. His only reason for this direction had been the small item of information he had gleaned from a conversation he had overheard between the King, who was then still a Prince, and Koreldy.

When the Prince’s spies had first noted Koreldy arriving in Morgravia, he had been requested to meet with Celimus. It just happened that Jerico was attached to a network of spies that Celimus paid handsomely for information and, although Koreldy had not seen him. he had been present during their first meeting. Celimus had asked the mercenary directly about what he was doing in the realm. Koreldy had been guarded, had tried to laugh it off and hold on to the mystery, but the Prince had persisted and finally the mercenary had admitted he was escaping the clutch of a woman determined to marry him. Jerico recalled how Celimus had laughed at this.

It could have been a ruse but Koreldy’s sour tone suggested otherwise. And so, with no other ideas to follow, he and his murderous companion had headed to Orkyld, where Koreldy had mentioned the scorned woman lived. Jerico’s intense joy at spotting the mercenary walking into Orkyld with a lame horse held no bounds. He had even let out an inadvertent whoop of surprise before cupping his hands over his mouth. Koreldy had looked his way but the glance had understandably slid over him. They had never met, fortunately. A large part of Jerico’s success in his trade was the fact that he was so ordinary-looking and thus forgettable. Not a single feature of his person would ever win comment. He was neither thin nor fat. tall nor short. His hair was sandy-colored and his face hardly handsome but then it was not especially ugly. His voice was low and unremarkable. But his mind was quick and he had no qualms about killing.

He had given over the day to observing Koreldy. A room at the Old Yew and a hearty meal of pigeon. Following him to the baths was easy enough and then to purchase garments. Jerico had then expertly shadowed him to the famous blademaker, Wevyr, but although he saw him enter the man’s workrooms, he did not see him leave and after waiting what he considered was long enough, he made his furious way back to the inn. hoping he had not lost his prey.

The killer had been rewarded with the information that the man had recently returned. He had waited, toying with a jug of ale. His companion meanwhile kept a watch outside in case Koreldy decided again to take a back door out of the inn this time. Later Jerico surmised that obviously their quarry was not suspicious, for he had descended the stairs into the common room in the evening wearing a wide grin for the serving girls and a fine new sword. Jerico’s companion had returned to sit beside him.

Jerico had admired the sword from a distance and promised himself the fine weapon as a special prize after killing Koreldy.

“He’d better not have spent too much of his gold on that sword,” his companion had murmured, his back deliberately turned toward Jerico so they were not taken as friends.

Jerico had snickered. “I couldn’t agree more, but remember there’s only the three of us now to split the spoils.”

“Shame we can’t split that sword into three.” the man grumbled.

Jerico smiled to himself; he had decided against mentioning to his companions that the King had offered to double the figure on Jerico’s return to Pearlis. should he be successful in ridding Celimus of Koreldy. “I’ll tell you what, you can take a bigger share of the gold he’s carrying, as I have need of that sword.”

The man had nodded. Jerico had returned to his ale and his observation of the mercenary. He spent the time considering whether to cut off Koreldy’s ring finger while he was still alive so they could enjoy the screams or whether to do it after he was dispatched and silent. Jerico favored live torture and thus had begun to hatch his plan for capture when a voluptuous woman had appeared from the back of the inn and belted Koreldy hard enough that everyone heard the slap. He had noticed the angry words she muttered before her departure and then the low conversation between Koreldy and the other serving woman. Jerico had downed his cup of ale as Koreldy stood and righted his sword, and then he followed his prey out of the inn, giving a low whistle to the other of his companions.

They watched Koreldy now as he strolled off but were in no hurry. Jerico, ever cautious, heeded the fact that he had been present at the funeral feast for Wyl Thirsk. Just in case Koreldy had seen him, he suggested to his companion to go ahead of their victim while he brought up the rear.

“Any plan?” one of them asked.

“Play it by ear. although your talents might come in handy as a distraction. We’re looking to catch him unawares in one of the side streets or better still an alley. And listen!” he warned. “It won’t be done here. The woods will give us the cover—and privacy we need,” he added.

His partner smiled grimly and set off, digging into his pockets for the distraction his companion had referred to.

Wyl was lost in his thoughts. He looked up and saw a man juggling wooden balls—at least seven of them—and the juggling was skilled enough to stop Wyl in his tracks to admire the performance.

He watched for a while and laughed when the man performed a small jig while still not disturbing the rhythm of the balls. It occurred to him that this fellow might know where the sideshow alley performers might be in the realm.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where the fairground traders are right now?” Wyl asked. As he continued to juggle, the man screwed up his face in thought. Wyl pressed. “It’s just that I met someone at the Morgravian royal tournament and have a message for her.”

“Can’t say I do. sir. I’m just a wandering performer. I follow my own path.”

“Well, thanks anyway.” Wyl said, tossing him a coin. He made to move on and then turned back. “Oh; by the way. where can I buy a nice trinket for a very angry lady at this time of night?”

The juggler expertly gathered in the wooden balls and a few passersby clapped as they walked on. He grinned at Wyl’s dilemma. “I believe I might know just the place, sir. If you’re prepared to pay a very small fee. I can take you there.”

“Oh? What sort of place?”

“Would a silversmith suit, sir? My cousin crafts very pretty jewelry at his shop just down the back here. He’ll give you a good price too—I’ll see to it.”

Wyl was tired. He felt uneasy about Arlyn but was it really that important to settle Romen’s old scores? He decided it was. now that he was to all intents and purposes Romen Koreldy. Tongues wagged and if he was going to wear this body, this face, for the rest of his life, then he certainly did not want women around the kingdom hating him. He sighed.

“Yes, why not? Is it far?”

“Not at all.” the juggler said with no little glee. “Just a minute or two. My, that’s a fine sword, sir, that you carry…”

Jerico smirked as he overheard the juggler making trivial conversation, leading their prey like an innocent animal to slaughter.

The world went dark for Wyl soon after.

Wyl came back to consciousness abruptly but he was badly disoriented. It took him several moments to realize he was hanging upside down from a length of rope tied to a tree and that he had been beaten very effectively. He hurt everywhere. The mournful hoot from an owl told him few sensible people would be abroad in these woods at night. The burning sensation on his face led him to believe his captors had emptied their bladders in an attempt to revive him.

Obviously it had worked. He shook his head, noted that at least his arms were free, and tried to get a bearing on his surrounds. Not far away lay his scabbard and the blue sword. Damn them! They’re not getting that! He felt at his chest and realized with a tingle of relief that they had not yet discovered the concealed knives. He marveled again at Wevyr’s work—the knives were so slim and flat that he was not surprised his captors had not noticed them. He surreptitiously undid a button of his shirt so he could reach them.

The men turned.

“Time for some fun.” the juggler said.

Jerico walked closer.

“I presume you already have my purse and I see you’ve claimed my sword.” Wyl said in Romen’s calm manner. “Is my life that important to you?”

“Not to us,” Jerico replied.

Wyl felt a chill settle about him. So this was not about theft then. “To whom?”

Jerico grinned. “Far higher-ranked individuals. We’re just the means to the end.”

“Well then, whatever he is paying you I will triple.” Wyl offered.

“No, Koreldy,” Jerico said firmly. “I have made a point of doing business with care. I never double-cross a client I have made a bargain with. This policy has kept me alive.”

“But not necessarily rich,” Wyl answered, playing for time as his mind raced. Romen’s instincts told him he had to get the three men a bit closer to him and to each other before he could risk a strike. But then even what was left of Romen reminded him that at best he could only cut himself down and take one of them out. At worst he could possibly injure or even kill one but remain hanging like a pig on a rope waiting for its throat to be slit.

The juggler laughed and walked forward. “How would you know, mercenary, what we are worth?”

“I don’t,” Wyl admitted.

“Well now,” Jerico said, taking a dagger from his own belt. “There is this ugly business of having to cut off one of your fingers.”

“Why?”

“The man who is paying for your death requires it.”

“Well, I suppose it keeps you lowlifes honest.”

Jerico stepped forward. “From one assassin to another, I take offense at the word ‘lowlife.’”

The men were in range. He would go for the leader. No more time to think—at least he would die taking one of them with him.

The men were standing close enough that even dizzied and upside-down he felt confident of hitting one of them. In a smooth movement Wyl crossed his arms and lifted the two knives from their belt and, using the same momentum, hurled one toward the man he considered leader. At that same moment, out of the darkness leapt a huge shadow that enveloped the juggler, who went down screaming with terror.

Shocked, Wyl held his second knife close to his chest, ready for what might attack next. The gurgling sound of a man dying was blotted out by the deep, guttural sound of a beast ripping at flesh. He spun around again on the rope and could see Jerico lying still on the ground while his companion writhed in agony. And then he too went still very quickly. The beast gave chase after the third man, who senselessly ran deeper into the woods. Wyl heard a muffled scream before the woods became silent again.

“Knave?” Wyl asked into the dark fearfully and he flinched as the dog appeared at his side, his warm breath smelling of blood.

Wyl struggled upward, bending himself double to reach the rope that bound him and slashed with the knife. He fell in a heap and Knave loomed over him. For an instant he felt a thrill of alarm. This dog had just mauled two men to death. He could do the same to him, his still-jumbled mind thought. Instead Knave licked Wyl and sat down, a gentle whine of pleasure escaping from the dog’s throat.

Wyl was trembling. He looked over at the dead bodies and back at the dog. Knave had saved his life, there was no question about this. But where had he come from and how did he know where to find me? He tried to stand and promptly fell over again. He had broken ribs, he realized. It added up that his attackers had enjoyed some fun with him—not that he could remember much.

Knave was rooting about in the undergrowth and returned now carrying a flask.

Wyl had seen the treacherous juggler sipping from it and gratefully took a draught of what turned out to be strong liquor. He felt it burn all the way down his throat before its comforting warmth hit.

Knave regarded him intently.

“I gather Fynch is not with you.” he commented and the dog lay down, putting his head on his paws. “Hmm. thought not. I have to presume he at least has obeyed instructions and remained with Valentyna, which is where you are going back to right now.”

The dog growled and moved closer to his side.

Wyl searched the bodies in an attempt to discover who these men were. There were no clues, but he recognized one of them: Celimus’s man! He was sure of it. He remembered catching sight of him at the funeral feast for his own true body.

And that probably explained the vague feeling of threat he had felt all day. He remembered now; he had sighted the killer this morning as he walked into Orkyld. A noise—a man yelping—had caught his attention but only for a moment.

That was it. Celimus had sent the killer after him. It was the Kins who wanted his finger. He looked down at his hands in reflex and noted his signet ring. It and the finger it sat on was probably what was required as proof of his death. Wyl growled to himself now. anger overtaking his fatigue. He would give Celimus something to consider.

Hauling himself to his feet, he reclaimed his sword and, ignoring the intense pain, in one powerful hack lopped off the head of Jerico, its tongue lolling out of the mouth. He pulled off the dead man’s shirt and wrapped the head in it several times, hoping the blood would not show through too soon. Fortunately it was a black shirt and would hide the seepage for a while.

With disgust now he rolled the bodies into the bushes. Wolves or other scavengers would find them soon enough and that was fitting. He cared not. Wyl staggered from the woods carrying Jerico’s head, which he had already decided would have special ironic significance for Celimus. He spent an hour trying to find a suitable container among the rubbish of the town and, when satisfied, he hid the box and its vile contents to be dispatched as soon as he could arrange it.

Only then did he collapse.