The Harp of Kings (Warrior Bards) Page 6

  “You can speak, Nessan. We are safe here.” Illann has told Oschu and his family the names we travel under. They already knew where we were headed and that we would bring back their horses after midsummer. But the exact nature of the mission will remain secret. That’s safer for all.

  I mumble, “Thank you for your hospitality,” and fall silent again. It feels wrong to speak. It feels perilous, even though these folk are trustworthy. There is a part of me that would rather be on the floor by the hearth, watching the slow breathing of the hound, who now slumbers as peacefully as any house dog. I would like to stretch out with my head against her warm flank. There is a part of me that is as weak as a child.

  “You’re not so far from the court of Breifne,” says Illann, carefully casual. “I hear there’s a new king to be crowned at midsummer. Many folk traveling that way? Or is it too early for that?”

  “Some have passed by, saying they’re headed for that place. Plenty of work for a skilled farrier in those parts, I should think.”

  “How’s the road between here and there? Anything likely to slow us down?”

  “Depends how much of a hurry you’re in,” says Oschu. “I’ve got a strong pair of horses for you, and there’s another pair of ours waiting at your next stop, but I don’t want my animals run into the ground.”

  “You won’t have much time to do whatever needs doing,” puts in Oschu’s wife, who’s been introduced as Maen. I wonder if those names are as false as the ones we are using.

  “Long enough,” Illann says with a confidence I do not share. “As for the horses, you know I’ll take care of them, Oschu.”

  “The road’s good.” It’s the first time the son has spoken except for a polite greeting. “Your next day will be mostly level pastureland. You might be slowed by folk moving stock. It’s hillier terrain as you come close to Breifne, some of it densely forested. You’d want to take care in that area. It’s quicker through the woods, but some of the terrain’s quite steep. Many folk choose to go by the longer way, down in the valley, even though there are fords to cross.” He pauses, glancing at his father.

  “There’s a story or two associated with the forest path,” says Oschu. “Odd tales. Shouldn’t stop you from taking that route if you’re in a hurry. But be watchful.”

  What is he talking about? Ne’er-do-wells waiting by the track to set upon us and rob us of our few valuables? Illann and I should be more than able to deal with that. Or are we supposed to stick to our roles as harmless farriers while they cut our throats and throw our bodies in a hole somewhere?

  “Mm-hm,” says Illann, nodding. He’s evidently understood this better than I. “You might keep an eye out for a band of traveling musicians. Group of three, two men and a woman. If they happen to pass by, you might want to offer them the same kind of assistance you’ve so kindly provided for us.”

  Oschu grins. I wonder if he and Illann are old friends. Perhaps they trained on Swan Island together, years ago. Then I dismiss the idea. Why would a Swan Island warrior choose to come and live in this out-of-the-way place? Wouldn’t any man rather be on the island, using his fighting skills? Even a man of Oschu’s years could continue to hold his own.

  “If they happen to pass by, we most certainly will,” Oschu says. “There was a fellow I used to know, best bodhran player in all Dalriada, though he mostly turned his hand to other things. I wonder where he is now.”

  Illann smiles. “I wonder.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The weather’s turned wet when we reach the forest road, which Illann says is less than a day from our destination. Going this way will not only be quicker, but the trees will provide some shelter from the rain. We’re riding the mares we’ll take to court with us, Illann’s a big roan, mine a sturdy gray. The last night of our journey, we’ll be sleeping in the open unless a suitable lodging place can be found. We have two bags of oats, given to us at the last friendly house, but they won’t last the horses long. We could reach court before nightfall. But Illann prefers that we arrive in the morning. He thinks there’ll be more folk coming in and out of the royal establishment, so we’ll attract less attention.

  “Look for a vantage point, somewhere we might get a good view to the west,” he says as we traverse a winding track along the hillside. “There’s another tract of woodland next to Cathra’s court, and a sizable settlement. A few miles further along, we should be able to see it in the distance. The royal establishment is on a rise, not quite a hill, but it stands out—a stone-built keep and a fortified wall.”

  I grunt in response. I’m wondering if I’ll be able to keep quiet if we’re set upon by ill-doers along the way. Oschu didn’t elaborate on what exactly it was people said about this stretch of road. What if I spot someone aiming an arrow at Illann? How am I supposed to warn him?

  As it happens, when we ride through this forest we’re not attacked by a motley band of locals waving clubs and demanding our valuables. What occurs is a far stranger phenomenon. Illann is in the lead. His horse moves steadily despite the awkward terrain; my companion is an expert rider. The path is narrower here, a steep rise to one side, a sharp drop to the other, with trees on that lower hillside obscuring the view out across the valley. It’s still raining, though we’re largely protected by the overhanging branches. But my horse becomes uneasy; I feel it in her body. Ahead of us, the roan slows. I listen as I’ve been taught. The whisper of the rain; hooves on the path; the jingle of harness. The wind in the trees.

  Then, sudden and silent, something flies across my path, less than an arm’s length from my face. I flinch, lifting a hand to shield my eyes. The mare shies and I’m falling, landing hard, rolling helpless to the very edge of the drop. One kick from the panicking horse and I’ll be over, or damaged beyond saving. I grab for the dangling reins, sending a wave of pain through my back. For a moment I get a hold, then the animal pulls away. Morrigan’s britches, what if it falls?

  “Nessan.” Illann’s voice, sounding much calmer than I feel. “Don’t stand up, you’re right on the edge. Can you move? Just nod your head for yes.”

  I nod my head. It feels like I have a knife in my skull. What was that thing? A giant crow? Or not a bird at all? Did I imagine the weird smell, like rotting fish?

  “Edge toward me on your belly,” Illann says. “Make sure you’re safely on the path before you try to get up.”

  Something calls out in the forest, something that doesn’t sound like any bird I’ve ever heard. I do as I’m told, worming my way to a safe spot, struggling to my feet. My head’s throbbing, my back is on fire, and I feel as if I’m going to pass out or spew up my guts. I’m upright, just about. And my horse is gone, presumably bolted back the way we came. Several choice oaths are on my lips, but I don’t speak. The whole thing’s happened without dumb Nessan letting out so much as a grunt. So, although I’ve lost my horse and nearly got myself killed, it could be said I’ve done quite well.

  “Right,” says Illann, speaking slowly and carefully as if reassuring a child. “We’re going ahead a bit—see where the path widens, by those rocks?—and you’re going to wait while I ride back to find your mare. I’m hoping she won’t have gone far. Do you need my help to walk?”

  A little later there I am, sitting on a flat stone all by myself, drinking from Illann’s waterskin. The mare can’t be left to find her own way back to her home stable; she’s carrying not only my bag of possessions, but also half of our essential tools. That might put our credibility in doubt when we turn up at the royal establishment looking for work. We’ll get hired, I suppose, since this regent knows the two teams are coming to find his harp for him and in what guise. But we don’t want people asking awkward questions. If they’d let Nessan have a voice, I wonder if I’d have been convincing as an ordinary workingman. Or does my speech give away my breeding? I pick up a small stone and hurl it into the bushes. Some creature lets out a startled chitterin
g sound. Now my wrist hurts, too.

  Illann’s gone a long time; long enough for me to start imagining disasters. How far would he pursue the missing horse before he gave up? What if she’s gone down the bank somewhere and broken her leg, and he’s ridden right past without noticing? What if the thing that attacked me has done the same thing to Illann? I have no idea what the creature was. But I saw its eyes, its wings, its strange claws. Its foul odor still hangs in the air. What if there are more of them?

  The day stretches out. Rain is still falling, light but persistent. I make myself move; the pain feels worse if I sit in the same position too long. Standing is best, but on my feet I soon feel dizzy. A pox on this! What if I can’t ride? What if I can’t do the work I have to do when we get to court?

  I must do it. I must be capable. I must not become the mission’s weak point. A warrior must learn to endure pain. He must keep fighting, no matter what.

  I sink back onto the rock, knowing I will faint if I don’t sit down. I’m getting cold. I should walk around, do some exercises, keep myself warm. But I’m tired, and everything hurts. I shut my eyes, so I can’t see the trees and sky and rocks swirling around, and then I’m six years old again, and my brothers are leading me into the woods, they’re telling me there’s a puppy trapped down a hole, and the space is too narrow for either of them to go down and save it. When we reach the place I can’t hear the puppy crying, and my brothers say it must be nearly dead, and they tell me if I don’t go down quickly it will die and it will be my fault for not being brave enough. The hole’s only just big enough for me to fit. Seanan holds me by the ankles and lowers me head down into the narrow space. It’s dark. I’m scared. I can’t see anything. What if there’s water at the bottom, and I get drowned before he pulls me back up? Shout when you get a hold of it, Dau! Seanan calls, but I can hardly hear him, my heart’s going so hard it’s a drum in my ears. I wait for my outstretched hands to feel the warm fur of the puppy, but the hole goes down and down and there’s nothing. I can’t feel anything! I yell, but the earth swallows the sound. Then my brother lets go.

  “You’re not well,” someone says, and my eyes snap open, and I’m back in Breifne, a man again, though my heart is beating as wildly as it did that day when my brothers tried to kill me. There’s an old woman standing on the path, with a dog. She’s wrapped up in a big woolen cloak with a hood, which she takes off as I stare blankly at her, my mind still half in the past. She steps forward and puts the cloak around my shoulders. The dog, a shaggy gray creature with something of the wolf in it, stands quiet beside her. Its amber eyes are watchful.

  I try to shrug the cloak off, but she stops me with a sharp gesture. The garment is like a warm embrace. Under it, I’m shivering all over. How long have I been sitting here in the rain? What has happened to Illann?

  “Don’t push me away, fellow,” she says. “I don’t leave folk in trouble to fend for themselves. What happened to you? Are you hurt? Lost?”

  I explain with gestures that I cannot speak. That I have a companion who has gone off in a certain direction. That he’s coming back, with horses. How much of this she understands, I don’t know; my shaking hands don’t make it easier.

  “My cottage is not far away,” the woman says. “I can shelter you for tonight.”

  I gesture, No. I will wait here for my friend. Because if I don’t, chances are Illann will pass right by this house of hers and I’ll be walking all the way to the court of Breifne. With a dent in my skull and a lame leg. A fine contribution to the mission.

  “You were intending to sit there and wait?” She casts a look at the rain, which is coming down all around us, much heavier than before. Small pools are forming on the track. It’s muddy now and it will soon be treacherous. I think of Illann trying to get back, riding one horse and leading the other. If he’s got any sense he’ll seek shelter for the night and come looking for me in the morning. “Whatever happened must have addled your wits,” the woman says. “Your companions will find you at my house. It’s the only one in these parts, and the obvious place for you to shelter. Even if you were fit and well, there are a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t stay out here any longer. Can you walk? Put your hand on my shoulder.”

  I obey, since she’s speaking sense. When I touch her, the wolf-dog growls deep in its throat.

  “Easy, Storm. This way, young man.”

  After that, things become blurry. A steep walk, which I manage by gritting my teeth and trying to ignore the pain. The woman is on one side and the wolf-dog on the other. Without their support I could not get up this path. The house is on level ground at the top, with a stream running past and oaks to either side. It’s an odd place, crooked and dark. Things dangle on strings all along the front, items I’m too tired and dizzy to identify. Feathers? Bones? Dried-up corpses? There’s a row of little birds up on the thatch, feathers ruffled against the rain.

  Inside, there’s nobody else in sight. The woman builds up the fire on her small hearth, hangs a pot on a three-legged iron contraption to heat, then orders me to strip off my wet clothing. I’m handed a blanket to put around me while she drapes my garments over a makeshift line above the hearth. I feel as if I’ve wandered into some strange dream. Visions of long ago keep coming into my mind, none of them happy ones. Were there any glad times? Laughter, sunshine, kindness? If there were, I cannot remember them. Only one, and in the end that proved the most painful of all.

  I try not to grimace as the old woman checks my bruises, peers into my eyes, frowns, then starts mixing up a potion of some kind. Will she heal me or poison me? I can’t ask. I won’t ask. She heats broth, gives me a share. The spoon rattles against the bowl as I eat; my hands won’t obey me. I can’t keep my eyes open.

  * * *

  * * *

  I wake with a start in the first light of dawn; it’s bright between the gaps in the shutters. For a moment I don’t know where I am. I hardly know who I am. My mind is full of stories, or maybe they are half-remembered dreams. I can hear something scratching up on the roof and I imagine a whole flock of the crow-things gathering, ready for another attack. I need to go. I need to get out of this place. And yet I don’t want to move. The bed is warm, and I’m comfortable. Strangely comfortable. Cautiously, I move an arm. I turn my head one way, then the other, expecting the searing pain I felt after I fell. But there’s nothing. I attempt a half roll onto my side, waiting for my back to protest. Nothing. What was in that draft she gave me?

  I sit up and look across the room. On the floor by the cold hearth, the old woman is asleep on a blanket. The wolf-dog lies next to her, pressed close, but it lifts its head, turning its gaze straight on me. The message is clear: Look at her the wrong way and you die, stranger.

  I decide getting up and searching for a privy can wait a little longer. I lie down again and close my eyes. And straightaway my head is full of images—the crow-things again, this time winging their way through a dark forest, a place where the trees grow closer than they do here and the paths are of a kind known only to wild creatures. A place where a strange music plays, not the robust songs and dances Liobhan and the others entertain folk with on the island, but something that makes the hairs on my neck stand up. Someone is wandering there, a man in a gray cloak with a bundle in his arms, but what that wrapping contains, I cannot tell. The creatures keep pace with him, high above, calling to one another. Part of me stands back watching. Part of me walks that path, holds that burden, hears the birds, hears the beat of his own heart, hears the call of the music . . .

  “Is your name Nessan?”

  My eyes snap open. The little house is much brighter; one set of shutters is open, and sunlight enters. On the hearth, a fledgling fire burns. The dog watches from just inside the closed door.

  I sit up, rubbing my eyes. How could I have fallen asleep again? What felt like a moment’s rest has lasted far longer. And the dream is hard to shake off. What was in that drink she
gave me? Has she been telling me stories while I slept? Maybe I talked in my sleep. The most rigorous training offered by Swan Island cannot prevent that.

  I realize, suddenly, what her question must mean. I struggle out of bed, nodding assent. Illann must be here. My clothes—

  “Slow down, lad. One step at a time, or you’ll be off your horse again from sheer exhaustion, and you won’t have me to help you next time. The other fellow will wait for you. Not forever, but for long enough.” The woman fetches my tunic, trousers, boots, cloak, all remarkably dry.

  I can hear him now, faintly, calling, “Nessan!” Not right outside; he must be on the main track, down at the bottom. I can’t ask if she’s spoken to him; whether he knows I’m here. Conveying that in gestures will be far too slow. I can’t let him move on without me.

  I scramble into my clothes while she busies herself at the fire. The privy can wait. I fling on my cloak and head for the door, and the dog is up, eyes intent on me. I look across at the woman. She’s crouched by the hearth, gazing back at me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. It occurs to me that a man of my breeding should offer some kind of compensation for her trouble. The pouch is still at my belt, with its small supply of coppers—Illann carries most of our funds. I dig into it, fetch out a few coins, and drop them on the table.

  The old woman doesn’t move. Her eyes are still on me, and I feel as if I’m being judged. Can she be suggesting the payment is not enough? This place is a run-down hovel, far from anywhere. Surely even one copper would be welcome.