The traitor, p.24
The Traitor, page 24
“I assume you’re here on your own agency?” I asked Wilhum, voice soft as I peered at the shadowy upper reaches of the stairwell. In addition to his keys and purse, I had relieved the gaoler of his cudgel and stood ready to crack the skull of any unfortunate guard who might descend to bar our path.
“It seems I am once again shorn of a monarch to serve,” Wilhum replied. His tone was light with forced humour but, glancing at his face, I saw features rendered grim with shame. Summoning a smile, he added, “Betraying self-crowned royalty is becoming something of a habit for me, it seems.”
“One I’m grateful for,” I said, voice lowered to a whisper as I started up the steps in a cautious crouch. “What made you do it?”
Wilhum gave no reply until we had reached the apex of the stairwell, finding ourselves confronted by a very solid and very closed door. “When I returned, when I came to this city of ashes…” he began then trailed off, eyes clouding. “It’s not her, not now. The woman I looked upon, the woman I called friend since childhood, she’s no longer there. And she’s done… things.”
“What things…?” I began, then fell silent at the sound of conversation beyond the door. It was muted by heavy oak and iron, but I fancied I discerned at least three different voices. They sounded calm enough, their muffled words interspersed with short bursts of laughter.
“We’ve no time,” Wilhum muttered. “They’ll be on their way by now.”
“They?”
“That Rhianvelan horror and her gaggle of lickspittles.” Wilhum’s handsome face bunched in a sympathetic wince. “Today our queen was heard to say that she wishes to be cleansed of all treachery. It’s a new habit she’s adopted, speaking in code that those who grovel around her compete to decipher. However, I feel this one was a trifle obvious.”
“Is that how you got a warrant to visit me? Told her you were going to cut my throat.”
“The warrant is as fine a forgery as I’ve ever encountered, her signature a true work of art.” Wilhum drew his sword and hunched in readiness. “You are to be congratulated on your friends, my lord Scribe.”
“You heard the man downstairs.” I moved to the door and gently began testing the keys in the lock. “I’m no fucking lord.”
It was the fifth key that turned the lock. I took comfort from the fact that the laughing guards on the other side would assume it was their master returning from the traitor’s cell. I was less comforted by the knowledge that escaping this place probably entailed killing them all. I had concealed Lorine’s vial in the gaoler’s purse. Taking it out, I removed the stopper and put my shoulder to the door.
I had hoped to fling the barrier aside with enough speed to achieve surprise, instead the heavy lump of wood and metal swung open with an irksome absence of dramatic haste. Consequently, the five men crowding the guardroom beyond were revealed one at a time, each blinking in surprise as the expectant sight of their master failed to materialise. Instead, they were confronted by a barefoot man in ragged, besmirched shirt and trews clutching a cudgel in one hand and small bottle in the other. Thankfully, the failure to secure surprise worked in my favour, for, after comprehending the meaning of my appearance, they came for me as one. Consequently, it was an easy matter to douse their faces with one flick of the bottle.
The effect was shocking in its instancy. The five of them reeled back from the door, hands clutching at their faces. The screams that followed were mercifully short but dreadful enough, shrieks of purest agony that cut to the bone before a spasming rictus clamped their jaws shut. Terror blazed in their gaping eyes, red foam bubbling from their mouths as they writhed, boots drumming on the flagstones, the air thick with guttural choking then stained by the stink of voided bowels. Had I been provided a more copious diet in recent days, I would surely have vomited.
“Martyrs,” Wilhum breathed, staring at the bodies, still now, save one that continued to twitch as a stream of crimson drool flowed from his lips. Swallowing his gorge, Wilhum directed a distasteful glare at the bottle in my hand. “Quite a brew you have there.”
I saw that the vial retained a few drops of the pale unremarkable liquid and carefully replaced the stopper before consigning it to the gaoler’s purse. Such a thing was too useful to be wasted.
Wilhum stepped carefully over the carpet of bodies to retrieve two cloaks hanging from pegs on the far wall. “Here,” he said, tossing one to me. “Probably not the best idea for the Traitor Scribe to wander about with his face uncovered.”
Getting clear of the building required some more unlocking of gates and doors, our path mostly unimpeded by guards. It transpired we had left all but two dead in our wake. The final pair were stationed at the main exit, a lanky youth and a bewhiskered veteran. The youngster dropped at the first kiss of the cudgel to the crown of his head, his older comrade stepping smartly aside and raising his empty hands when Wilhum advanced upon him with levelled sword.
“Sorry,” I told the veteran before laying him out with the cudgel. The risk of him raising the alarm as soon as we departed was too great and we had no time to bind him. After a quick appraisal of the younger guard’s feet, I relieved him of his boots and the belt holding his falchion before pulling the hood of my cloak over my head.
“We make for the eastern palace wall,” Wilhum said, gently easing the main door open. “Best not to run—”
“I know,” I cut in, annoyed that he would presume to teach me elementary lessons in not attracting unwanted notice. “I’m the outlaw, remember?” I added, offering a grin in response to his frown.
“No,” he sighed, stepping out into the night. “We’re both outlaws now.”
The blocky, unadorned building that served as the palace prison stood apart from the main structure of the royal residence. It sat between the outer and inner walls, a neglected but necessary architectural embarrassment to this former seat of Algathinet power. As a consequence, the path between the walls was patrolled with less frequency and vigilance than the inner precincts, allowing Wilhum and I to maintain a sedate progress. My hip bothered me a good deal more now, and I had to resist the urge to limp lest it draw the eye of the sentries on the inner wall.
“So,” I asked Wilhum in a strained mutter, keen for the distraction of conversation. “How did your Caerith hunting expedition go?”
“It was a farcical waste of time,” he replied with no apparent regret. “The Caerith who abide in this realm have a remarkable facility for melting into the shadows when danger threatens. As you might expect there were informants aplenty. ‘There’s a bunch of ’em encamped in those hills, m’lord. I swears it. Practising all manner of dark rites they are, too. Give us a sovereign and I’ll take you straight there.’ Almost always nonsense, of course. Even when we did get a credible whisper of one, they’d gone by the time we arrived. After months of traipsing about, our only catch was a frail old man living in a hut in the southern Cordwain. Seemed doubtful he’d live out the winter, so I just let him be. Nice old duffer he was too, so far as I could tell. Couldn’t speak a word of Albermaine-ish, if you can believe that.”
“I can’t. All the Caerith who come here speak our tongue. He was play-acting.” And, I added inwardly, probably much older than he appeared.
“Cunning old sod.” Wilhum’s chuckle lacked rancour, though his humour vanished at the faint echo of shouting from the direction of the prison. “The horror appears to have found our leavings. Time to run.”
Fresh agony flared in my hip as I struggled to match his sprint for the eastern wall. I came close to stumbling a few times but the fear of recapture by Harldin’s vengeful sister kept me upright. I caught up with Wilhum at the base of the wall, finding him holding a thick knotted rope. Glancing up, I saw one end affixed to the top with a grapple.
“After you,” I said, receiving an emphatic headshake in return.
“You are the object of this enterprise.” He forced the rope into my hands. “No arguments. Now climb.”
My hip felt like it was on fire when I began the ascent, and blossomed into a raging inferno by the time I crested the wall. This outer barrier to the palace grounds lacked a battlement, requiring me to lever myself on to uneven brickwork at the top. I expected to have to wait for Wilhum to climb to my side before throwing the rope over, but found another already fixed in place.
“Hurry, my lord!” an urgent voice hissed from below. Looking down, I beheld Tiler’s upturned face. He sat astride his mount, clutching the reins of two other horses. I felt an unexpected surge of relief at the sight of Blackfoot’s pale coat. Clearly, Wilhum had help in orchestrating tonight’s events. Hearing a fresh tumult from the direction of the prison, I glanced down to ensure he was nearing the top, then took hold of the second rope and began my descent. I performed the feat with a distinct absence of grace, my attempts to brace my legs against the wall constantly frustrated by my wound. The strength in my left leg was almost spent by the time I reached the grassy verge at the base.
“Here, my lord.” Tiler reached down to hand me Blackfoot’s reins. The warhorse greeted me with a snort and a toss of his head, nickering in annoyance when I tried and failed to mount him. After three more attempts, each more painful than the last, I succeeded in the task, unable to contain a shout as I swung my leg over the saddle.
“Careful,” Tiler warned. “Plenty of patrols about.”
Studying his tense features, I was struck by the unexpected pleasure of finding him here. Of all the scouts, he had been the one I felt certain to desert for safer climes at the first opportunity. “My thanks,” I said. “For coming.”
He spared me a tight, wary grin before resuming his survey of the blackened, part-ruined streets to our right. “You came for me, my lord.”
“You shouldn’t feel obliged to call me that any longer. In fact, I think I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“Then what do I call you?” I was surprised to see that the question seemed to genuinely baffle him.
“Scribe, if you like. Or just Alwyn. I believe I’ve grown weary of titles.”
“Right,” Wilhum said, striding across the verge to take the reins from Tiler before mounting his own charger. “We’d best be off.”
“Can’t go the way we came in,” Tiler advised. “The eastward quarter’s thick with patrols since it got dark. Reckon we should head for the western road. Fewer houses still standing there, so less reason for them to scout it. Also, the gatehouse is mostly tumbled down. Got caught in the fire, see.”
“That’ll mean passing through the square,” Wilhum said, casting a cautious glance in my direction.
“Can’t be helped, my lord.”
“Wasting time,” I said, kicking my heels to compel Blackfoot into a walk.
The wind and rain of the intervening days had scoured much of the ash from the ruins of Couravel, but a good deal of it lingered. The night breeze raised the pall of detritus in gritty, eye stinging gusts as we followed the line of the outer wall to the main square. As a result, I was denied a fulsome view of what awaited us there until a yet stronger wind swept the ugly cloud away to reveal the scaffold. The intervening distance was too great to make out the identity of the three bodies hanging from the crossbeam atop the platform, yet a sudden, grim certainty caused me to bring Blackfoot to a halt.
“Alwyn!” Wilhum said, voice hard with urgency. I ignored him, trotting Blackfoot towards the scaffold then stopping when the faces of the hanged came into view. A handful of Covenant soldiers were stationed around the platform and reacted to my appearance with baffled immobility, even though I was sure they must have recognised me. I barely heard their increasingly alarmed exchanges as they debated what to do, so fixated was I on the dead. She has done… things.
Former Ascendant Hilbert had been blindfolded before the drop, I assumed at his request. Even so, I recognised his curiously peaceful features, somehow retaining an air of superiority even in death. Had to bring the translation to her personally, didn’t you? I asked him, silently. Thinking it the key to your future importance in the Covenant Resurgent. I suppose I should have warned you, even were she not a creature of the Malecite, there was never any chance she would favour one such as you.
A groan escaped me upon turning to regard the figure hanging alongside Hilbert. “I told you to fly far and fast,” I murmured to Delric’s unresponsive features which were a stark contrast to the cleric’s. Hanging often has a way of rendering the face into a tensed, mottled bruise, sometimes freezing expressions at the moment of final agony. So it was with Delric, his lips still drawn back from his teeth, as if snarling. Although a man of gruff manners, this was the only time I had seen him express any sign of aggression.
Despite the already raging grief, it was the sight of the third figure that sent the coldest blade of ice through my chest.
“We told her not to try, my lord.” Tiler’s voice was heavy with shame, his distress enough to make him forget my injunction against use of titles. “Wouldn’t listen. Just slipped away into the shadows the very night they took you. ’Course we looked but there’s no tracking her.”
The sergeant in charge of the Covenant soldiers had recovered enough wit to assert his authority now, hefting his halberd and striding towards me. “Lord Alwyn Scribe, you are named a traitor…”
Blackfoot responded to my touch on the reins with practised speed and precision, rearing to deliver a kick of his forehooves into the sergeant’s face. The fellow sprawled back, face a bloodied ruin. The soldier to his right was little more than a boy, probably a new recruit to the host, fully aware of the tale of the Traitor Scribe but with no experience of Captain Alwyn. Had I been of less concentrated mind, I would probably have met his reckless charge with a blow that would have wounded or stunned him. Instead, I buried the edge of my stolen falchion in his forehead, kicked the body aside and dismounted Blackfoot. The other soldiers, all older and considerably wiser, stood aside as I climbed the steps of the scaffold.
Lilat’s features were another contrast to Delric’s, being so badly scarred and bruised. Like him, her death had been slow, the band of raw flesh around her neck testament to the fact that she had fought all the way to the end.
“Alwyn!” Wilhum called again, no longer attempting to quell his voice. Dimly, I heard raised voices from the direction of the main palace gate, soon followed by the grind of the great doorway being hauled open.
“Did you watch this?” I asked Wilhum, still unable to look away from Lilat’s face. “Did you stand there and do nothing while the sentences were read out? Did you cheer along, perhaps?”
“I couldn’t do anything to stop it!” The mingled anger and anguish in his voice caused me to turn, finding him stricken with desperate entreaty. “But I can save you.” A loud clatter came from the direction of the palace, indicating the main gate was now fully open. “Please Alwyn!”
I used the falchion to cut the rope and gathered Lilat’s limp form into my arms. My hip gave forth a fresh wave of agony as I laid the corpse over the saddle, then climbed up behind. I know I shouted with mingled pain and grief then, for I recall the soldiers retreating a few more paces, but our subsequent flight from the city is all just a vague, shadowy thing from thereon. I know there was a short but savage fight with the Rhianvelan guards on the eastern gate, but the details of it are forever lost. I also have no memory of pausing at the scaffold, but according to Tiler before riding away with Lilat’s body, I turned and spoke to the soldiers thus: “She’s not a queen. Nor is she a martyr. It’s a lie, and we are all fools. Leave this city and go to whatever place you call home. If you do not, when next we meet, I’ll kill you all.”
I forced myself to look at Lilat’s body in full after I set it down in the forest. I had no desire to see the marks of torture that marred her flesh, but wouldn’t allow myself the cowardice of looking away. The least she deserved was a proper accounting of her suffering.
I found several burns and numerous unstitched cuts. There were also smaller marks I knew came from a long thin blade thrust deep into muscles to tweak nerves. I wondered what questions they asked of her, and knew they would have made little sense of any answers wrung from her lips. I wondered too if Evadine had been there, standing in stern witness to the torment inflicted on one of the Caerith she hated so much. I doubted it. I still knew her mind, or at least the portion of it that believed itself human. Like many a tyrant, Evadine considered herself the opposite. To her, such extremes were necessities, not cruelties. Also, while she was content for atrocities to be carried out on her behalf, she would feel no desire to partake herself. Such things are beneath a queen’s dignity, after all.
“You leave your dead to the forest,” I said, smoothing a hand over Lilat’s brow. When it came to the treatment of their fallen, Caerith custom was pragmatic to the point of indifference. But I felt sure those who abandoned the shell of their loved ones to nature’s mercy must practise some form of ritual, one I berated myself for not bothering to learn during my time among her people. Still, I felt compelled to offer a eulogy, even if it amounted to no more than clumsy words spoken by a guilty fool. I fought to summon the image of her face as it had been, but all I could see was this battered, ruined mask devoid of life.
“I used to think,” I continued, pushing the words out through a choked throat, “that I didn’t want you to follow me. I never asked you to, did I? But, when I woke on that mountainside to find you there, I was grateful. Grateful for your guidance, your knowledge. Grateful most of all for being my friend, for I have so few. And grateful for every step we shared. I’ll swear no vengeance in your name. You wouldn’t have wanted it, and we’re beyond vengeance now. One last thing I’m grateful for is that you won’t have to see what I’m going to do.”
My fingers teased the curls of her hair, wondering why it had never occurred to me before that it was of a shade far darker than any other Caerith I had encountered. “Legacy of your Albermaine-ish ancestor?” I asked her, recalling the Eithlisch’s story of Lilat’s familial origins, how he had rescued her great-great-grandmother from a miserable existence in some minor noble’s holdfast.
