“I told them it was an assassin, an assassin I killed. Master, I seek no pardon for my crime . . .”
“It was not your crime, brother. And I can see no good arising from any misguided honesty. Indulge your guilt when this war is won.”
“Yes, Master.”
“This woman with whom you journeyed. You’re certain she’s dead?”
Her red smile, the love shining in her eyes before he twisted the blade . . . Beloved . . . “Very.”
Grealin fell to silence, lost in thought for several long minutes. When he spoke again it was a reflective murmur. “She stole a gift . . .”
“Master?”
Grealin blinked then turned to him with a smile. “Rest, brother. Sooner you’re mended the sooner we can plan our war, eh?”
“You intend to fight?”
“That is our Order’s charge, is it not?”
Frentis nodded. “I am glad we are of like mind in this.”
“Hungry for revenge, brother?”
Frentis felt a smile come to his lips. “Starving, Master.”
He knew it was a dream from the slow even beat of his heart, free of hatred or guilt; the heart of a contented man. He stood on a beach, watching the surf crash on the shore. Gulls soared low over the waves and the air had a bitter chill, harsh on his skin but welcome all the same. There was a child playing near the water’s edge, a boy of perhaps seven years. Nearby a slender woman stood, close enough to catch the boy should he venture too close to the waves. Her face was turned from him, long dark hair twisted and tangled in the wind, a plain woollen shawl about her shoulders.
He walked to her, feet soft on the sand, keeping low. She kept her gaze on the boy, seemingly deaf to his approach, then spinning as he closed, catching the arm he sought to wrap around her neck, a kick sending him sprawling to the sand.
“One day,” he said, scowling up at her.
“But not today, beloved,” she replied with a laugh, helping him up.
She pressed herself against him, planting a soft kiss on his lips, then turned back to the boy as his arms enfolded her. “I did say he would be beautiful.”
“You did, and you were right.”
She shuddered against the wind, pulling his arms tighter about her. “Why did you kill me?”
Tears were falling down his face, his contented heart vanished now, replaced by something fierce and hungry. “Because of all the people we killed. Because of the madness I saw in your eyes. Because you refused this.”
She gasped as his arms tightened, ribs breaking. The boy was caught by a wave and began to jump in the water, laughing and waving at his parents. The woman laughed and coughed blood.
“Did you ever have a name?” Frentis asked her.
She convulsed in his arms and he knew she was smiling her red smile once more. “I still do, beloved . . .”
He was woken by shouting, rolling from his bed of ferns and feeling every muscle groan in protest. He looked at the wound, finding it bandaged with no sign of maggots. He was light-headed and possessed of a monstrous thirst, but the fever was gone, his skin cold to the touch and free of sweat. He pulled on his dead man’s jerkin and emerged from the shelter.
“The brother I know,” Ratter was shouting at Master Grealin. “You I don’t, fat man. Don’t give me no fuckin’ orders.”
Frentis looked on in wide-eyed wonder as the master failed to beat the wiry thief to the ground. Instead he gave a patient nod and clasped his hands together. “Not orders, good fellow. Merely an observation . . .”
“Oh, bugger off with the big words-”
Frentis’s cuff caught Ratter on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. “Don’t talk to him like that,” he stated, turning to Grealin. “Problem, Master?”
“I thought a little reconnaissance might be in order,” Grealin replied. “A brief ranging to ascertain if we are truly alone here.”
Frentis nodded. “I’ll go.” He gave a brief but formal bow to Davoka, presently engaged in skinning a freshly caught rabbit by the fire. “My lady ambassador, would you care for a stroll?”
She shrugged, handing the half-skinned catch to Arendil and reaching for her spear. “Like I showed you. Keep the fur.”
“Master Grealin’s words are to be respected at all times,” Frentis told a sullen Ratter, now rubbing his head. “And his commands obeyed. If you can’t do that, feel free to leave. It’s a big forest.”
“Your sleep is troubled,” Davoka observed as they struck out in an easterly direction. In addition to his sword Frentis carried an Order-fashioned bow Arendil had had the presence of mind to retrieve from one of the fallen brothers, although his foresight hadn’t extended to securing more than three arrows.
“The fever,” Frentis replied.
“In sleep you speak a tongue I don’t know. Sounds like the barking of the new Merim Her. And your fever is gone.”
Volarian. I have been dreaming in Volarian. “I’ve travelled far,” he said. “Since the war.”
Davoka halted and turned to face him. “Enough shadow talk. You know of these people. Your coming brought celebration, followed by death and fire. Now you speak their tongue in your dreams. You are part of this.”
“I am a brother of the Sixth Order and a loyal servant of the Faith and the Realm.”
“My people have a word, Garvish. You know this?”
He shook his head, increasingly aware of how she held her spear, a measured distance between each hand, grip tensed and ready.
“One who kills without purpose,” she said. “Not warrior, not hunter. Killer. I look at you, I see Garvish.”
“I always had a purpose,” he replied. Just not my own.
“What happened to my queen?” she demanded, her grip tightening.
“She was your friend?”
The Lonak woman’s mouth twisted as she suppressed something deep felt, and painful. Carrying some guilt of her own, Frentis surmised.
“My sister,” Davoka said.
“Then I grieve for you, and for her. I told you what happened. The assassin burned her and she fled.”
“The assassin only you saw.”
Beloved . . . “The assassin I killed.”
“Seen and killed only by you.”
“What do you think I am? A spy? What purpose would I serve in leading you and the boy here to skulk in a forest?”
She relaxed a little, the grip on her spear loosening. “I know you are Garvish. Beyond that, we’ll see.”
They kept on towards the east for five hundred paces then turned north, circling around in a wide arc until the trees began to thin. “You know this forest?” Davoka asked.
“We would train here often, but never this deep. I doubt even the King’s wardens come this far in more than they have to. There any many stories of those who ventured into the deep woods and vanished, swallowed by the trees and wandering until hunger claimed them.”
Davoka gave an irritated grunt. “In the mountains you can see. Here only green and more green.”
They stopped in unison as a sound reached their ears, distant but clear. A man screaming in pain.
They exchanged a glance. “We risk the camp,” Davoka said.
Frentis notched an arrow and set off at a run. “War is ever a risk.”
The screams trailed off to a piteous wailing as they neared, replaced by something else, a thick, savage cacophony of growls stirring a rush of memory for Frentis. He slowed to a walk, moving forward in a crouch, keeping to the thickest brush. He held up a hand to signal a halt and raised his head, nostrils flared, a pungent scent coming to him on the breeze stirring yet more memories. Upwind, he thought. Good.
He lowered himself to the forest floor and moved forward at a crawl, Davoka moving beside him with equal stealth until the expected sight came into view through the foliage. The dog was huge, standing over three feet at the shoulder, thick with muscle from haunch to neck, the snout broad and blunt, ears small and flat. It growled as it fed, occasionally pausing to snap at the three other dogs clustered around, its jaws red and dripping gore.