Then, after a time the hairs on the back of his neck stood. The flame of his torch dimmed and shifted from bright yellow to a coppery green. Cadoc sensed rather than heard the approaching footsteps. The muscles of his jaw bulged as he clenched his fist around the flask and crushed the soft metal beyond recognition.

  “The price was always too high, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line,” said the bwgal. “I warned you the gods thirst.”

  Cadoc kept his back to the creature, trying to control his mounting rage. “And what good did it do for me?”

  “You are alive; that is what you wanted. And you have made yourself a name that men will fear and respect, Lord of Skeinhold, Butcher of Oskana.”

  Cadoc winced at the honorific. “I didn’t want this. Why him? He had a wife…and children.”

  The bwgal said, “I told you the Gods demanded the sacrifice be great. Evidently, you loved him more than you admitted to yourself.”

  Cadoc winced again. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. The bwgal’s words rang with truth and couldn’t have hurt more if they’d been carved onto his chest with an axe.

  “Why have you come? To gloat at my suffering?”

  The bwgal replied, “You debt to the gods is paid, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc whipped around and threw the misshapen flask, narrowly missing the bwgal’s head. “Then leave! Go back to your fucking mountain and rot. I never want to see you again.”

  The bwgal remained rooted where she stood, her lavender eyes fixed upon him. He couldn’t read her emotions from her impassive expression. At length, she said, “There’s one final matter.”

  Cadoc glowered at her. “What?”

  “My price is yet unpaid. Remember the clause in my contract, the boon I may ask, in return for the life I gave you.”

  Cadoc’s eyes narrowed. He wanted to throw himself at her and beat her brains out against the limestone wall. Yet, something stayed his hand. He was tired of killing and wasn’t even sure if he could kill her. Besides, he knew none of this was her fault, and killing her wouldn’t change a damned thing.

  “What do you want?”

  “Refuge.”

  “Refuge?” he repeated. He hadn’t expected that.

  “I seek sanctuary,” said the bwgal, and she moved for the first time, sweeping her hand across her body, her dirty crimson robes draping loosely from her bone-thin wrist. “Here in this place of solitude and darkness.”

  Cadoc sneered, noting her filthy appearance. “You’ve been exiled by your kin. For aiding me?”

  The bwgal bared her teeth. “Long before that, Lord of Skeinhold. I lived alone in that cold and lonely mountain long before you were born.”

  “Then why?”

  The creature shrugged, clasped her bony hands together and let the sleeves of her robe hide them once again. “Your grandfather Glyndaf might have answered that. But, it doesn’t matter why, not now.”

  “But why here?”

  She smiled. “I am old, even by the standards of my race. I seek a measure of comfort and protection in my twilight years.”

  “And in return?”

  Her violet eyes flashed in a brief flicker of anger but it quickly passed. A long, thin tongue pressed through her lips, like a snake slithering from beneath a shelf of rock. She licked her lips, studying him for several moments before she said, “Very well. In return for sanctuary in this place, I offer you counsel.”

  Cadoc smiled humourlessly. “I’ve need of none of your words, crone.”

  She smiled knowingly. “You asked it of the Weaver of Dreams, and he rebuffed you. I offer mine, and you rebuff me.”

  Cadoc stiffened. “You were watching me?”

  The bwgal nodded. “I’ve watched you since you returned to our shores.”

  The pieces fell into place, and Cadoc could see a picture forming as though a veil had been lifted from his eyes. “The priest from Skelgard, and the soldier of Langorn.”

  The bwgal nodded. “A simple glamour to alter the perceptions of those around me. People see what they want to see. As well as counsel, I can protect you from harm.”

  Cadoc snorted. “I’ve had my fill of your protections. My days of fighting are over, bwgal.”

  The bwgal shrugged. “Not all threats come at the point of a blade, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc pursed his lips together as he considered this. He couldn’t deny her power. He wasn’t sure what counsel she could offer in the governance of his lordship, but protection, whatever the form, was not to be scorned. Perhaps there was a mutual benefit in letting her haunt the crypt. The risks to him were slight. No-one but he would ever visit the place — not until his own passing, and then he didn’t care what happened. If she was indeed in her last years, then he might even outlive her.

  He sighed. “Very well, crone. You may reside here at my pleasure and remain in this crypt unless by my bidding. I will call on you at each new moon…”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’m not finished,” he snapped. The bwgal's mouth closed abruptly. She inclined her head and Cadoc continued. “You will swear loyalty to my house and offer fealty to me as Lord of Skeinhold.”

  The bwgal’s widening eyes betrayed surprise, yet as far as he could tell, she wasn’t angry. She hesitated before answering, her long tongue appearing again to lick her dry lips.

  “Agreed.”

  Cadoc closed the distance between them and offered his hand. Her violet eyes dropped to his massive paw, staring at it dubiously.

  When she didn’t move, Cadoc said, “I don’t need your blood to seal this contract, bwgal, as you needed mine.”

  She bared her teeth again. “It seems we both have much to learn, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line, Lord of Skeinhold.”

  She took his hand but was clearly uncomfortable touching his. He resisted the urge to crush her bones to a pulp, or gloat or sneer at his small victory. His shake was firm while his expression remained solemn. A contract was a contract, and he’d not besmirch his honour. Not in the presence of his ancestors.

  “Welcome to Skeinhold, bwgal,” he said as he broke the handshake. His arm swept before him, and he smiled without humour. “Make yourself at home.”

  She inclined her head. “My Lord’s will be done, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Beginnings

  CADOC SETTLED INTO his role as Lord of Skeinhold and guardian to his brother’s children. He spent his first year pacifying much of the valley, extending his rule right to the border with the Duchy of Mendoc. That had been the bwgal’s idea. It doubled the size of his realm with little effort for the villages and hamlets that dotted the valley welcomed the protection he offered. Cadoc drew a line a comfortable two miles north of Abercrav and didn’t attempt to cross into the Venyk kingdom, staying true to his promise to Pietrov.

  Months after his return, he’d learnt that Duke Artur had survived the fall of Antios only to return a broken man, crippled with the loss of his leg. The bwgal’s second piece of advice was to sign a treaty with the duke, and so he despatched word to Kas Mendoc, inviting the duke to talk.

  They met as old friends in the castle of Abercrav along the defensive wall built by Artur’s grandfather, Gwylim. Artur agreed to recognise Cadoc as Lord of Skeinhold and acknowledged his rule over the southern extent of the Cae Valley — providing he stayed on his side of Gwilym’s Wall. Artur made it plain the treaty would only stand if Skeinhold remained independent from Langorn, which suited Cadoc just fine. He had no love of the Princes of Langorn, despite their shared culture and his friendship with the Weaver of Dreams.

  Content, Cadoc apportioned his newly acquired lands to the surviving men of his company in return for fealty and tithe. They kept the region free of trouble and turned to tillage, copying the practices he’d learnt from the Venyk. With the abundance of grain and meat, Cadoc secured a deal to supply Abercrav, which he was able to do more reliably and cheaply than distant Merthon and Kas Mendoc. So, though his lordship was small in comparison to the Venyk lands of the south, and Langorn to the north, it afforded him a measure of wealth and satisfaction he hadn’t anticipated.

  The children grew into the promise of who they would someday be — Cerian, beautiful, willful and defiant. Without a woman in his life to guide Cerian, Cadoc indulged her whims, and she spent her days riding and practising archery at the butts. She was becoming as good as any boy her age. It became a source of pride for Cadoc, and were she the one to eventually rule Skeinhold, he would have rested easy — but that burden would fall to Tom upon his majority.

  Tom weighed heavily on his mind. The boy was bright, quiet and given to thoughtful contemplation. He was capable enough at arms, but his passions lay elsewhere, and Cadoc sensed the boy’s growing resentment in his tutelage. He was at a loss with what to do with him. Skeinhold needed a warrior, not a scholar, but even if Cadoc yielded to common sense and had the boy educated, who could do it? He didn’t trust the Prince of Langorn, nor the Venyk monastery at Hafran

  Again the bwgal proffered advice. Wise rulers were men of letters, she had said. Look to the Venyk, she had counselled. Their laws and religion persisted and flourished, and they had grown strong through the written word. The oral traditions of his own people were vulnerable, bound to a dying caste of Weavers. So Cadoc arranged for Tom to be educated in Kas Mendoc, where he was tutored alongside Marek Kasparu, the duke’s eldest son.

  Quietly, Cadoc hoped Skeinhold’s future would be secure with new ways of thinking. He’d lost his taste for killing and if diplomacy could be done with the stroke of a quill where the only spillage was ink then so much the better they’d all be. Even so, his doubts lingered, and he wondered if it was only a matter of time before his lordship would become a casualty in the rivalry between Kas Mendoc and Langorn.

  His fears became a reality when Artur’s wife died giving birth to twins, Lillian and Emilan. The duchess had been the Prince of Langorn’s sister, the marriage orchestrated to ensure peace between the two realms.

  The prince demanded immediately she be cremated in Langorn according to Prenig rites, but Artur refused. Though more tolerant than most Venyk lords to the old ways, Artur asserted his right to bury his wife in the manner of his choosing. The argument quickly escalated, first in trade disputes. Then, when Langorn began a campaign of border raids and called on Skeinhold for support, Cadoc declared his neutrality and recalled Tom. His stance ensured a major war did not break out, and Cadoc was hailed as the voice of wisdom in the north.

  * * *

  CADOC’S HORSE SNORTED impatiently, the blast of air from its nostrils condensing to a fine white mist on the cold afternoon air. The gelding pawed at the frozen ground. Cadoc relaxed in his saddle, not wanting the horse to feel his own apprehension.

  He waited impatiently on the edge of a cliff overlooking the valley. The position should have offered a view stretching all the way to Abercrav, but a thick mist had settled on the valley floor and didn’t look as though it would clear any time soon.

  Twenty men-at-arms waited behind him, strung out in loose formation, ready to mount and ride when the order was given. They were his most trusted retainers, men who’d served him since the crusade. Cadoc had assembled them that morning when word arrived from Abercrav by carrier pigeon that Tom’s caravan had left to make the final leg of the journey to Skeinhold. He hadn’t expected trouble; his hold over the southern reaches of Cae Valley was tight, and so far Langorn had kept its raiders to the eastern portions of the mountain range. So when word came in a second aerial despatch that an unknown force was seen tracking the caravan, he’d ridden out in force.

  “We should have heard from them by now,” said Fersin.

  Cadoc scowled in irritation at his former sergeant, now Steward of Skeinhold. “That’s the tenth time you’ve said it. I’m not sending more men into the mist, they’re blind down there.”

  “Sorry,” he began, “I…”

  Cadoc cut him off with a wave of his hand. He cocked his head to one side, listening. The sound came again, the baying of an excited hound. Moments later the shrill warning note from the horn of one of his men cut through the cold air.

  “Ride!” Cadoc bellowed, setting off without waiting, turning his horse and riding down the path to the valley floor. It was a dangerous ride, even for his mountain-bred pony, as the way was narrow, but every rider made it to the valley floor without injury to man or horse.

  Cadoc rode into the mist, following the sound of the horn. They passed through open woodland, slowing as they navigated the rough terrain. The fog wasn’t as bad on the ground as it had looked from above, with visibility extending almost a hundred yards. Cadoc emerged from the trees onto open pastureland. Cattle bolted before the advancing horses. The lay of the land sloped towards the valley’s centre. It wasn’t far away, Cadoc had chosen this location because it was the narrowest part of the valley between Skeinhold and Abercrav. The river and the road that followed its course was only a few hundred yards away, but the mist grew thicker as they neared the lower ground, and he couldn't see the line of willow trees marking the river.

  Cadoc heard the sounds of battle even over the thundering of hooves. Another blast of a horn filled the air, rallying those Cadoc had ordered to scout for the caravan. The sounds sent the old thrill of combat welling inside him. His heart pounded and skin prickled with sweat despite the cold. He bellowed, his men chorusing his war cry. He knew the mist would both disguise their numbers and amplify the sounds of their advance.

  Then suddenly he saw the dark shapes of the caravans and seconds later the whole scene came into view. The bandits had almost overrun the caravans, which had attempted and failed to mount a running defence. Their run coming to an abrupt halt when the lead wagon broke a wheel and tipped over.

  It was over almost before it started. The bandits, already tired from their running fight, turned and fled towards the river at the sound of Cadoc’s approach. His men rode them down, striking from behind and moving on for the next kill without stopping.

  He let his men go on ahead, slowing his mount to a walk. The animal was breathing hard, and foam blew from its nostrils, but he was sure he hadn’t taxed it beyond endurance. He yanked the reins, pulling the horse towards the line of caravans and called, “Tom, where are you!”

  A Venyk soldier in Kasparu livery poked his head around the tailgate. He was bleeding from a cut on his temple, his face streaked with mud. His wits looked half-addled and, as he moved into view, his sword dragging behind him, Cadoc saw the man was bleeding from the shoulder.

  “You Cadoc?” asked the soldier, coming to a stop, but swaying on his feet.

  “Lord Cadoc,” he reminded the soldier.

  The soldier gave a lopsided grin. “Sorry, m’Lord.” He stuck the point of his sword into the hard ground, leaning on it like a cane; it flexed under his weight. With his free hand, the soldier pointed to the rearmost caravan. “He and the lady are in there.”

  Cadoc was surprised by the remark. The despatch made no mention of a woman, certainly none worthy of the honorific. He made a waving motion at the ground. “Sit down, man, before you fall. We’ll see to your needs in turn.”

  The soldier obliged, slumping slowly to the ground, his hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

  Cadoc made his way cautiously to the rearmost caravan. The driver was bent over in his seat, the side of his head bashed in, his face a mass of blood and brains. Cadoc shook his head in disgust; he hoped he’d seen his last of such brutality and for it happen on his own lands was deeply troubling. As he walked around to the back of the caravan, he spied three more bodies. One was a Venyk soldier while the others clearly belonged to their attackers. He bent to examine them. They were young men, not more than five and twenty by his reckoning. One had died after taking a Venyk longsword to the gut where it remained still, his expression of agony was frozen to his otherwise handsome face.

  The other two had died by no apparent means. The only sign of injury was a thin stream of blood from their nose and ears. Cadoc looked closer at one, the man's dying expression was utterly neutral as though his life had been snuffed out like a candle. Cadoc pressed his fingers against the man’s neck to confirm he was actually dead. He withdrew his hand at once as a sudden feeling of nausea engulfed him, breaking suddenly into a cold sweat. He backed away at once; his instincts told him the man’s death was by no means natural. No matter, dead was dead, and the bastard had it coming.

  He shifted his gaze to the back of the caravan. The tailgate was down, the door shut tight. “Tom, you in there?” he called. “It’s your uncle, Cadoc.”

  The caravan swayed as someone moved within. Cadoc's keen ears caught the sounds of a brief but unintelligible conversation. Cadoc rested his hands on his belt, but he kept his thumbs on the outside in case he needed to move fast for his sword or dagger. Moments later, the door cracked open. A shadow passed over the opening then a pair of eyes peered through at Cadoc.

  "You are safe," Cadoc said.

  The door swung open. Cadoc beheld a woman's smiling face, and his jaw dropped in amazement. She stepped through the door, holding on to the frame for support. She even managed to curtsey despite the severe slant of the caravan. “My Lord Cadoc.”

  Cadoc stared at her for a full minute before remembering his manners. He cleared his throat, resisting the urge to spit as he usually would. “My Lady…Jewana.”

  She smiled. “You remember. Rescuing me on the road is becoming a habit of yours, my lord.”

  Tom appeared from behind her skirts, and Cadoc tore his eyes from Jewana long enough to take in his nephew’s queasy visage. The boy’s face was drained of colour, his lips, chin and the front of his tunic were stained with fresh vomit.

  “Are you hurt, boy?”

  Tom shook his head. “No, Uncle, I’m not.”

  Cadoc approached the steps of the caravan and held out his hand. The boy took it, and Cadoc hoisted him down. He hadn't changed much, still slight of build and several years from coming into his growth. “Come, lad, we’ll get you home to your sister.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10