“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.
Scratch, Frentis thought in automatic recognition, knowing the foolishness of the thought with instant chagrin. This animal was not quite Scratch’s size and its snout was mostly free of the scars for which his old friend was named. He often wondered what became of him, assuming he had been lost or killed when Vaelin sacrificed himself at Linesh. Wherever he was, this wasn’t him. This was a slave-hound pack leader, and it had made a kill.
“Please!” Frentis’s head came up in a jerk at the call from above, finding himself staring at a girl’s face, a pale oval of wide-eyed terror framed by dark oak leaves.
The pack leader left off feeding to issue a curious grunt at the new sound, raising its nose, nostrils flaring. Something pink and red dangled from its jaw, Frentis taking a moment to recognise it as a human ear.
“Oh please!” the face in the branches called again and the pack leader gave a loud rasping yelp, its brothers closing in around as they charged towards the oak barely fifteen paces from where they lay. The oak was old, and tall, the trunk thick and gnarled. Scant obstacle for a slave-hound. Frentis had seen Scratch clamber halfway up a birch without breaking stride.
He raised his head from the brush, casting his gaze about. No Volarians, yet. But they’ll soon come to see what the dogs brought down.
“Don’t let them get close,” he told Davoka and stood up.
He waited for the first dog to leap up the trunk then sent an arrow through its back, the beast slumping back to earth with a faint whine. The others turned, snarling, the pack leader charging straight for them, the other two circling round. Scratch was always so clever, Frentis remembered.
He made sure of the kill, waiting for the pack leader to close then putting the arrow in his eye. The animal’s momentum kept it coming as the arrowhead found its brain and its legs gave way, tumbling towards him. He leapt the corpse, dropping the bow and drawing his sword, slashing at the dog closing from the side, the blade slicing through its nose. It reared back, head shaking furiously from side to side, still snarling in fury . . . then pitching over dead as Davoka’s spear punched through its rib cage.
She pulled the weapon free then whirled on the remaining dog, now standing still, blinking in confusion, beginning to cower as Davoka charged.
“Wait!” Frentis called, too late as the Lonak woman skewered the animal through the neck.
“Strange,” she commented, wiping the spear-blade on the dog’s pelt. “Come at you like an enraged rock ape then cower like a sick pup.”
“It’s . . . in their nature.” His gaze was drawn to the sight of the girl dropping from the branches of the oak. She landed heavily on bare feet and ran to them, terror still lighting her gaze. She was perhaps fourteen, dressed in a fine but somewhat besmirched dress, her hair showing the semblance of a noble fashion.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She flung herself against Frentis, hugging him tight. “The Departed must have sent you.”
“Erm,” Frentis said. The war, the pits and a long journey of murder hadn’t prepared him for a circumstance like this. He touched the girl lightly on the shoulders. “There, there.”
She continued to sob into his chest until Davoka came over to tug her off. The girl started at the sight of the Lonak woman, pulling away and sheltering behind Frentis. “She’s a foreigner!” she hissed. “One of them!”
“No,” Frentis told her. “She’s from somewhere else. She’s a friend.”
The girl gave a dubious whimper and continued clutching at Frentis’s sleeve.
“Are there more of you?” he asked.
“Just Gaffil. We ran from the wagon. He hit one of the whippers and we ran.”
“Gaffil?”
“Lady Allin’s steward. He must be here somewhere.” She stepped away, raising her voice. “Gaffil!” She fell silent as Davoka pointed her spear at something in the brush, something that might once have been a man.
“Oh,” the girl said in a small voice and fainted.
“You’re carrying her,” Davoka stated.
? ? ?
Her name was Illian Al Jervin, third daughter to Karlin Al Jervin, recently favoured by the King for the quality of his granite.
“Granite?” Davoka asked with a frown.
“Stone,” Frentis explained. “You build things with it.”
“The King loves to build!” Illian said. “And Father’s quarries make the best stone.”
“Quarries don’t make stone,” Arendil scoffed, stirring the stewpot suspended over the fire. “You take stone from them.”
“What do you know?” Illian rounded on him. “You’re a Renfaelin, and a peasant if I’m any judge.”
“Then you’re not,” he replied evenly. “My grandfather is Baron Hughlin Banders . . .”
“Enough!” Frentis said. “Lady Illian. You spoke of a wagon.”