Hreldar spoke again, coldly and definitively. ‘When he comes back, see if he knows the Hand Language. That’ll answer all debate.’
Within the hour, the servant and the guard re-turned.
Arinndier casually tried to engage the guard in con-versation, but the man would not be drawn. His eyes followed the boy constantly as he slouched around the table collecting the dishes.
‘Careful, boy, you’re spilling the wine on my tunic,’ Eldric said angrily, standing up suddenly. The boy started and fumbled for a cloth in his belt, nearly dropping his tray in the process.
‘Put it down, boy,’ said Darek testily, waving his hands emphatically. Flustered, the boy put the tray on the table and, with shaking hands, offered Eldric the cloth. Eldric waved it away with an irritable gesture. The boy dithered and hesitated, ran the back of his hand across his nose as if about to weep, and then replaced the cloth in his belt.
‘I didn’t see all that,’ said Arinndier when the guard and the servant had left. ‘I was busy trying to obscure the guard’s view.’
The others were looking a little stunned.
Darek spoke. ‘I asked him who he was,’ he said, repeating the gesture reflexively
‘And?’ said Arinndier.
‘Just two words, Arin,’ said Eldric. ‘Just two words.’
Arinndier gazed skyward. ‘Go on,’ he said patiently.
Eldric’s hand flicked out the boy’s reply. ‘Queen’s messenger.’
The high hedges threw long shadows across the narrow lane as the Mathidrin patrol rode leisurely back towards the City. For the most part, the six men were silent. The tour had been uneventful and their leader, newly promoted, was peevishly angry that nothing had arisen to provide him with an excuse to demonstrate to his men that his leadership would be worth following.
In the villages that lay on their circuit, they had found the inhabitants remarkably docile. Usually it was possible to provoke the odd individual into some angry response and then enjoy the administration of a little summary justice on the offender. Or some lone soul would be found wandering the fields who could be accused of spying for the Orthlundyn and pursued relentlessly while ‘attempting to escape’. But on this tour, nothing. The fields were deserted or the people were present in sufficient numbers to make too blatantly unjust a provocation a little too risky. Now they were heading for Vakloss two days early.
The patrol leader stretched up in his saddle, his muscles aching with the day’s riding and the tension of his mounting petulance. If only some yokel would step out of one of these fields, he thought. I’d give these lads something to remember. Then, as if at the command of his thoughts, a halting figure emerged from a gateway some way along the road from them. It was an old man, the leader noted, and limping. Not much of a chase here, but anything will do after a tour like this.
He loosened his heavy staff in its loop, running his thumb over two small notches cut in the handle. One for each of the ‘fugitives’ he had killed-struck down at the gallop with a single stylish swinging blow that earned him great praise from his peers when he was just a trooper. Even as he started to spur his horse forward, he was already receiving the plaudits of his fellows back in the barracks that evening. His stomach tightened with pleasure and anticipation.
‘You,’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’ Somewhat to his surprise, the figure halted and turned to face him. He could not make out the features of the man, as they were hidden under the brim of a large hat and the man was stooping and leaning heavily on a stick. Reaching him, the patrol leader found the bright setting sun shining in his face. He screwed up his eyes and peered down at the figure standing uncertainly in the flickering shadows of the wind-stirred trees and hedges.
‘Sir?’ said the figure timorously.
‘Why were you running away?’ the patrol leader demanded harshly.
The figure gave a nervous laugh. ‘Running, sir? I can’t run. I’m lame, you see.’ And he lifted his stick a little way off the ground.
But the patrol leader had made his decision. He had to impress his newly acquired patrol and this old fool would have to serve his purpose. He gripped his staff. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You were sneaking about, and when you saw us you tried to run away. Right, men?’
Nodding and grinning expectantly, the members of the patrol concurred.
‘He’ll have to be taken in for interrogation,’ volun-teered one. ‘There’s plenty of room now the old dungeons have been opened up.’
‘No, no, no,’ said the leader, affecting concern. ‘I don’t think we need disturb this good man to that extent. After all, we’re empowered to attend to these matters as we find them.’ He leaned forward solici-tously, ‘You don’t want to go to Vakloss and face the Lord Dan-Tor do you, old man?’
The old man was trembling visibly.
Vermin, these creatures, thought the patrol leader. And cowards as well.
‘The Lord Dan-Tor’s a great Lord, sir,’ stammered the old man. ‘It would be an honour to meet him. He’s done so much for our country.’
‘Indeed he has, old man,’ said the patrol leader. ‘And he’ll do more when he’s rooted out all the traitorous scum that goes skulking about the lanes spying on his Mathidrin and reporting everything to our country’s enemies.’ He took out his staff with a luxurious gesture and held it almost touching the old man’s face.
‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,’ said the old man, stepping back a little further into the shade.
‘Come on, get on with it,’ said one of the patrol. ‘It’ll be dark before we get back.’ The patrol leader shot an angry glance at the complainer. He’d deal with that one later. But this old fool was no use, there’d be no entertainment from him, craven old dolt.
‘The young sir’s right, sir,’ said the old man, reach-ing out a shaking hand and touching the leader’s boot nervously. ‘It’s going to be a dark night.’
The patrol leader withdrew his foot furiously. ‘Don’t touch me!’ he shouted, almost hysterically. ‘This is the only thing belonging to the Mathidrin that traitors are allowed to touch.’ The vicious intent that had taken root at the first sight of the old man rose compulsively to its climax even though the route to it lacked the elegance he would have preferred. He stood up in his stirrups, raising the staff high above him, and brought it whistling down on the old man’s head.
But the old man’s head was not there. In an almost leisurely manner he stepped to one side at the last moment and the blow missed him completely. Poised for impact, and not finding any, the patrol leader tumbled heavily from his horse. The old man reached out as if to catch him, but his action seemed only to accelerate his fall and there was a skin-crawling crack as the two hit the ground.
The patrol leader subsided into the summer grass, his head at a very strange angle, and his face wearing a surprised, if blank-eyed, expression. The old man stood up, remarkably straight now, and looked at the patrol, momentarily stunned and motionless at this unexpected turn of events. The birds stopped singing.
‘A long dark night ahead, gentlemen,’ he said in a voice completely without its previous whine and tremor. Then the evening calm was broken by a sudden rush of wind followed by a sound like the falling of ripe fruit.
With barely a gasp, the remaining five riders fell slowly from their horses, each impaled on an arrow.
Figures appeared silently from the deepening shad-ows and quietened the nervous horses before moving to the fallen Mathidrin.
The birds started to sing again, and the setting sun flooded the lane red before sinking out of sight.
Yatsu took off his broad-brimmed hat and laid his stick on the ground. ‘Careful,’ he said to the others. ‘Careful how you draw the arrows.’