‘I am working here,’ said Harad.
‘You will receive the same wages, my boy. I would take it as a personal favour if you would agree.’
Harad stared hard at Skilgannon. ‘No horses,’ he said. ‘It will be a long walk.’
‘I can walk,’ said Skilgannon. ‘However, if you would prefer not to guide me, I will understand.’
Harad swung to Landis Kan. ‘How long do you want me to guide him?’
‘Three. . four days.’
‘When?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘Meet me here at sunup,’ said Harad to Skilgannon. He nodded to Landis Kan and strode back towards the logging camp.
After he had gone Landis stood silently alongside Skilgannon, who sensed the man’s unease. ‘Are you angry?’ Landis asked, at last.
‘Oh yes, Landis. I am angry.’ Landis took an involuntary backward step, his face showing his fear.
Skilgannon gave a cold smile. ‘But I will not harm you.’
‘That is a relief,’ said Landis. ‘What can you tell me of Harad’s. . ancestor?’
Skilgannon shook his head. ‘I see why you wanted me to meet him, but I will tell you nothing. I need to think on this. Alone.’ With that he stepped smoothly into the saddle and rode away.
Harad was uneasy as he returned to work — not that anyone would have noticed. He still swung his axe with unfailing power, his strength seemingly limitless. He worked throughout the morning, silently as always, his face grim, his expression set. At one point he saw Balish staring at him, but ignored him.
Lathar and his brothers were close by, and twice he found himself working alongside them. They did not speak, but during one short break Lathar offered Harad a drink from a water canteen. Harad accepted it. Lathar sighed. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he said. ‘So, where did the first oak tree come from?’
Harad relaxed and suddenly chuckled. ‘I don’t know. A woman said it to me. Now I can’t get it out of my head.’
‘Me too,’ said Lathar. ‘Women, eh?’
Harad nodded. No more was said, but the enmity between them melted away.
The day was warm, the work exhausting. By the midday break Harad had been toiling for six hours.
He found himself looking forward to seeing Charis, to sitting quietly on a log, with her beside him. When the women came he walked away to sit alone, and waited for her. She was wearing a cream-coloured smock, and a green skirt, and her feet were bare. Her long, golden hair was tied back with a green ribbon. Harad felt his heartbeat quicken. Charis was carrying a basket of food. She moved among the men, offering them bread. Harad waited, his impatience growing. Finally she turned towards him, and smiled. He reddened.
‘Good day to you, Harad,’ she said.
‘And you,’ he replied, struggling for something intelligent to say. Charis handed him a small loaf and a block of firm cheese. Then she swung away. Harad was astonished. Always she stopped and spoke to him. It was bizarre. On all the occasions when he wished to be alone she would hover close by. Now that he actually wanted to talk to her she was moving away.
‘Wait!’ he called, before he could stop himself. Charis looked around, obviously surprised, ‘I. . I wanted to speak to you.’
Charis wandered back to where he sat. ‘What about?’ she asked, though she did not sit.
‘I am going away for a few days.’
‘Why would you need to tell me that?’
‘I wanted to ask about the lord’s nephew. I am to take him into the high country.’
‘The painted man?’
‘Painted?’
‘He has tattoos on his chest and his back. A great cat, and a hawk or eagle. A hunting bird anyway.
Oh yes, and a spider on his forearm.’
‘You have seen these things?’
‘No. One of the other girls told me. He stands naked in his room.’
‘Naked? In front of women?’
‘He is from Outside. They act differently there, I suppose,’ said Charis. ‘He is very good looking, don’t you think?’
Harad felt anger swelling inside him. ‘You think so?’
‘Of course. I spoke to him. He is very polite. He complimented me. Why does he want to go to the high country?’
‘I didn’t ask him,’ growled Harad, wondering what the compliment might have been.
‘Well, you can ask him while you travel.’ With that she walked away. Harad’s mood darkened, and his appetite disappeared. He pictured the tall, dark-haired young man. His eyes were very blue. Maybe that was what she meant. In a heartbeat I could lift him and snap him in two, he thought. Then he recalled those eyes. As a fighter Harad had an instinct about the strengths and weaknesses of other men. He did not doubt he could crush the man — but it would not be done in a heartbeat.
Leaving the food untouched he strode back to work ahead of the others, easing out his frustration with every swing of the long-handled axe.
Towards dusk Balish approached him. Harad had never liked the man. There was something sly and mean about him. Yet it was Balish who controlled the work gangs, and distributed the wages. Harad sighed and tried to avoid showing his contempt.
‘What did the lord want?’ asked Balish.
Harad told him about the trip to the high country with the nephew, the foreigner. ‘Hard country up there,’ offered Balish. ‘It is said there are renegade Jiamads roaming the upper passes.’
‘I have seen one or two,’ Harad told him. ‘There are like the bears and the big cats. They mostly avoid men.’
‘What is it that he wants to see?’
‘Maybe the ruins,’ said Harad.
‘I have never heard of this nephew before,’ said Balish. ‘Why is he here, do you think?’
Harad shrugged. How would he know? Balish stood around for a few more moments, making increasingly idle conversation. Then he wandered away. Harad sat down, annoyed now that he had not eaten his meal. Hungry, he walked back to where he had left his loaf and cheese. It had gone. It would be a long wait to breakfast.
He thought about the ruins. Every autumn Harad would travel to them, clambering over the old stones.
There was something about the place that eased his spirit. He felt at peace there, in a way he could find peace nowhere else. Perhaps it was the solitude. Harad did not know. What he did know was that he did not relish the thought of taking a stranger there.
Chapter Four
Thirty miles to the south a small group of cavalry and infantry made their way up the steep slopes towards the pass of Cithesis. Two scouts rode ahead of the main party. One of them carried a long lance, from which fluttered an unadorned flag of simple yellow. The bearer glanced nervously about him.
Too many of his comrades had been killed while carrying a flag of truce for him to feel at ease.
Some distance behind him rode the herald, Unwallis. Alongside him was the swordsman, Decado, and fifteen riders of the Eternal Guard, in their armour of black and silver. Bringing up the rear were twenty Jiamads.
Unwallis was not a young man, and he loathed these missions to outlying lands and settlements. Of late he had grown ever more fond of his palace back in Diranan. There was a time when he had revelled in intrigue and politics, but he had been younger then. This latest war had sapped both his ambition and his energy. He glanced at the dark-haired young man riding beside him on a white gelding. He was everything Unwallis had once been: ambitious, ruthless, and driven by a desire to excel. Unwallis hated him for his youth and his strength, although he kept that hatred well masked. Decado was not a man to endure enemies, and, more, he was the latest favourite of the Eternal. Mostly, however, Decado was at least an interesting companion. He had wit, and a sharp, dry sense of humour. Except, of course, as now, when he was suffering. Unwallis glanced at the young man. His face was unnaturally pale, his dark eyes narrowed in pain. Unwallis himself had suffered severe headaches in his long life, but nothing compared to what the young swordsman went through. Last month he had collapsed in the palace, and his ears had bled. Unwallis shivered. Memnon had administered a heavy narcotic, but even this had not quelled the pain, and Decado had spent three days in a darkened room, crying out in agony.