Pietrov laughed. “No, not that, though curse me the fool for not thinking it.” His mirth quickly faded. “I’m ordering all border forts on high alert in case Langorn gets a notion to kick us while we’re down.”

  Cadoc grimaced. “You’re still expecting the worst?”

  The muscles in Pietrov’s jaw clenched. “What choice have I got? It’s looking less likely each day that his Grace survived. Besides, I don’t trust the bastard up in Langorn further than I can spit.”

  Cadoc said, “I’d do the same in your situation.” He turned and glanced at the retreating wagons, now rolling onto the road beyond the city. “Look, if Langorn tries they’ll have to go through me first.”

  Pietrov frowned, his brow knotting tight. “Your brother’s got very friendly with Langorn this last year. He’s not sent much trade down our way. Word is he’s conceded some of your lands up north to the prince.”

  Cadoc eyed the soldier a long moment. His jaw tightened as he felt a wave of guilt and anger. He swallowed the feeling down and cleared his throat. “I’ll deal with my brother. I put him in an awkward position, I’ll get him out of it. My grandfather always wanted Skeinhold to be neutral, and I aim to see it stays that way.”

  Pietrov nodded. “My thanks. A friend on our northern border would be welcome indeed. Perhaps it is better you went home.” He motioned over his shoulder, waving the letter towards the retreating wagons. “You’d best be off unless you want to walk all the way home.”

  Cadoc took the letter and offered his hand in farewell. Pietrov shook it firmly. His hand was wiry and strong, but childlike compared to Cadoc’s massive paw. “My thanks,” said Cadoc. “I’ll not forget your generosity.”

  Pietrov shrugged off the comment. “The least I can do for your year’s service. Now go home and raise fat children, you lucky bastard.”

  Cadoc snorted. “Need to find a good woman first.”

  Pietrov leered. “There’s no such thing. Pick one with a nice arse and big tits and be content.”

  Cadoc laughed. “Aye, that would do it.”

  Their mirth faded. They stared at each other in an awkward but fleeting silence before Pietrov pumped Cadoc’s hand a final time. “Godspeed.”

  Cadoc nodded. “And you, my friend.” He broke the handshake, turned and jogged after the lumbering wagons.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Reckoning

  SKEINHOLD’S KEEP TOWERED over the castle’s walls and the surrounding settlements. Cadoc raised a hand to his forehead, squinting. The sky was overcast, and the afternoon sun hung low on the horizon as evening approached, casting an unpleasant glare through the cloud.

  Home, at last, he thought wistfully as he strained his eyes to make out the details of the keep he knew so well. He could just make out his brother’s standard hanging limp from a flagpole jutting out from timber hoarding atop the keep.

  Almost two weeks had passed since leaving Kas Mendoc. The final leg of their journey had been the slowest yet, and it only got worse once they passed through Abercrav and entered the Cae Valley. They came close to abandoning the wagons having spent almost as much time digging them out of the mud as they did driving them. Still, Cadoc reasoned to his men it was better than carrying their meagre possessions home. Yet, that was only a half-truth and the real reason he kept to himself. He had his pride, and the last thing he wanted was to present himself before his brother, on-foot, penniless, and his tail tucked between his legs, with less than half the men he’d taken abroad last year.

  Not long after sighting the keep, they reached Skeinhold’s outlying farmsteads. The road improved — cobbled the final half-mile approach to the castle. The hard, uneven surface jolted Cadoc’s teeth and set him on edge. Half the men jumped down from the wagons, choosing to walk instead.

  Their arrival was met with casual interest rather than alarm. With the harvest complete, few people tilled the fields. They passed one farmstead with two women threshing hay while a man chopped wood. They stopped their work to watch them as Fersin drove on towards the castle. A few children ventured near, but they darted off the instant one of Cadoc’s men called out to them.

  No-one challenged them, which struck Cadoc as odd — after all, they were armed men and now looked the part, thanks to the rest and fresh clothes Pietrov had granted them in Kas Mendoc. There weren’t many people about, and he noticed that more fields than usual lay fallow. A cold feeling began to settle in his gut.

  Soon, the farms and fields gave way to houses and workshops clustered along the river on the opposite bank where the castle lay. A small crowd of men congregated in the village square. Cadoc began to see familiar faces, but no-one took enough interest to recognise him or any of his men. Faces were downcast, and few people spoke. By rights, the town should have been busy preparing for Midwinter.

  Fersin said, “Miserable lot, aren’t they. You reckon the harvest failed?”

  Cadoc had been wondering the same thing. He didn’t reply, his mind mulling over the possibility that a calamity had befallen their homeland. Speculation added to his disquiet. He knew his brother would be angry with him, but he didn’t want hardship adding more fuel to the fire.

  Too late now, he mused, sighing with a resigned sense of fatalism as the castle’s gatehouse loomed ahead.

  “Something wrong?” asked Fersin. “What do you think’s happened?”

  Cadoc realised his sergeant had expected a response. He grunted and shook his head without looking at the man. “Just drive. We’ll find out in good time.”

  Fersin flicked the reins, not that it did much good. The old nags pulling their wagon had two speeds: slow and slower. They plodded on through the town, towards the bridge spanning the river. On the far side, the gatehouse, and the keep beyond towered over them like a brooding grey giant.

  As they rumbled over the bridge’s rough timber planks, four guardsmen stepped out in challenge. Two were liveried in his brother’s colours while the other two wore tabards emblazoned with the boar’s head crest of the Prince of Langorn.

  The sergeant grunted and cursed under his breath. “Langorn scum. What’re those arseholes doing here?”

  Cadoc’s lips curled in a half-grin, but he wasn’t surprised by the development, remembering Pietrov’s warning his brother had gotten cozy with the Prince of Langorn in the last year. He cleared this throat, turned and spat into the river before Fersin pulled the wagon to a stop a half-dozen yards from the gate. He bared his teeth in greeting, and for several moments Cadoc and the soldiers scrutinised each other. A glimmer of recognition passed over the face of one as their eyes met. He was a short, squat man with greying hair, and a row of crooked, discoloured teeth.

  “Well, well, well, back at last,” said the guard, adding after a moment, “…my lord.”

  “Aye,” said Cadoc.

  “Heard you died there.”

  Cadoc shrugged. “You heard wrong.”

  “Well, you look like a half-buried turd,” he said and pointed to the livid scar Cadoc had acquired on his cheek. “That’s an improvement, though.”

  Cadoc’s brow creased. “Was hard fighting,” he said. His expression softened, and he flashed a wry grin. “Besides, not all of us are graced with your good looks, Argus.”

  Argus snorted, his face flushing with anger. His chest puffed up, and he straightened his back. “You watch your mouth, see, things aren’t going to be like they were, you…”

  One of the Langorn men stepped forward and put a hand on Argus’ shoulder, said something Cadoc didn’t hear. Argus promptly smacked his lips shut, his angry expression fading into a sullen frown.

  Cadoc’s interest was piqued by the display. He studied the Langorn soldier for a long moment. There was little that was remarkable beyond the man’s vivid blue eyes and soft features. He wasn’t much taller than the diminutive Argus, but he was leaner — his build, and gracile limbs and fingers, had an effeminate quality that Cadoc found disconcerting in a soldier. Hardly plucked from the finest crop of Prenig manhood, yet there was something uncomfortably familiar about the man.

  The soldier inclined his head in Cadoc’s direction. “You have a quarrel with this man?”

  Argus snorted, but he looked uncomfortable under scrutiny. “This is Cadoc, brother to his Lordship. He’s the one who marched off to fight with the Venyk last year and took half the garrison with him.”

  The soldier from Langorn stared at Cadoc, his expression slowly filling with sadness. “You’ve returned to unhappy days, my Lord, though perhaps your timing is a boon to your people.”

  Cadoc squirmed uncomfortably on the wagon’s hard drivers’ seat. “What has happened?”

  The soldiers exchanged uncomfortable glances while the two local men took a half-step back, leaving the short soldier from Langorn to do the talking.

  “My Lord, your brother met his maker some three weeks ago.”

  Cadoc stared at the soldier, his jaw going slack. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. The soldier’s bright eyes glistened with violet brilliance in the fading afternoon light. Then a rush of air escaped his throat. “His maker. You mean he’s dead?”

  The Langorn soldier bowed his head in silent confirmation. His gleaming violet eyes remained locked on Cadoc’s.

  Cadoc forced himself to blink, then he shook his head in protest. He swallowed what felt like a mouthful of sand. Fersin put a hand on Cadoc’s shoulder, but he shrugged off the gesture and slid from his seat. He covered the distanced to the Langorn soldier in three powerful strides. The man stood his ground, seemingly unafraid as Cadoc bore down on him like charging bull. His face flushed as his bloodlust rose like bile from his belly. He grasped instinctively for his sword, but he’d left it in the rear of the wagon. The other three soldiers retreated, even though they were armed and Cadoc was not.

  Calmly, the Langorn man held out his hand. Cadoc stopped short of bowling him over. He was panting hard, his great barrelled chest expanding as he fought to control the urge to crack the little man’s skull open with his bare hands. The soldier looked up at Cadoc, his expression devoid of feeling. “I am not your enemy, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  Cadoc eyed the soldier in suspicion. “Who are you?”

  The man’s lips creased at the corners into a wry smile. It lingered for a fleeting moment before his face became neutral once more. “A simple soldier, no more,” he replied with a sibilance that needled its way into Cadoc’s ear.

  Cadoc’s shoulders slumped. “Tell me what happened.”

  “My Lord,” the soldier began in a voice, calm but unsettling. “It is not my place to say. You must speak with the Weaver.”

  Cadoc took a step back, his eyes widened. “The Weaver of Dreams is here?”

  The soldier nodded. “Your brother’s steward sent word to Langorn. My prince sent the Weaver here with all haste. I am part of his escort, no more.”

  Cadoc was content with the explanation. “Where can I find him?”

  “The keep.”

  Cadoc glanced from the soldier to his three hesitant companions. “Let us pass.”

  The Langorn soldier bowed and stepped back into the shadows of the gatehouse, disappearing from sight. Argus and his companion had already stepped aside.

  Cadoc returned to the wagon and climbed in. “Drive,” he said, and Fersin flicked the reins. As they moved through the gatehouse, Cadoc looked for the Langorn soldier but saw no sign of him in the shadows. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, but as they passed into the courtyard, he pushed the nagging feeling of familiarity from his mind.

  The courtyard was filled with a hundred people — villagers, farmers and soldiers. They congregated in groups. Heated arguments filled the air. A few stopped at the sight and sound of the two wagons rumbling into view, turning to gaze at the new arrivals. Suddenly, as though the distraction provided a sinister opportunity, one group broke into a fist fight. It escalated quickly, with soldiers drawing steel and rushing into the fray. A man cried in pain as a knife took him in the gut. A soldier cut the offending knifeman down with his sword.

  The death cry jarred Cadoc to his senses, and he bellowed to his men. “Stop them!” he cried. At once his men piled out of the wagons and took up arms.

  “Form up!” shouted Fersin

  The seasoned warriors settled into a closely packed formation. They advanced on the brawling men. Cadoc joined their ranks, unarmed, but longing to vent his frustrations. He barked aloud, “These are our people. Don’t kill anyone unless you have to!”

  The sight of the approaching pack of armed and disciplined men made those at the periphery of the brawl — the blustering fools who liked to egg men on from the rear — take stock and retreat. Cadoc and his men covered the distance to the brawling men in less than a minute. He grabbed a villager, who was about to stab a soldier in the back and spun him around. The man’s eyes went wide as Cadoc’s fist became the sole focus of his vision. His nose broke with a satisfying crunch and the splatter of blood before he crumpled to the ground.

  “Stand fast!”

  Cadoc’s blood froze in veins.

  That voice! It filled the courtyard like a thunderclap. The anger drained from his body. All around him, men ceased fighting, the sounds of battle died abruptly so that only the ringing tone of the Weaver’s voice and the groans of the injured remained.

  Cadoc turned and shoved his way through the crowd of men. He looked up at the keep. The Weaver of Dreams stood before the keep’s entrance, atop a flight of stairs. The hood of his cloak was thrown back, his silver-white hair billowing like a banner in the wind. He held his staff out at arm's length, one end rooted to the stone beneath his feet, the other glowing as bright as the summer sun. His blazing blue eyes flashed with anger as scanned the crowd until they settled on Cadoc, and his expression softened into a sad smile. He beckoned with a wave of his free hand. “Come, Lord Cadoc, we have matters most grave to discuss.”

  A murmur went up from the crowd and attention shifted to Cadoc. He heard his name repeated in whispers. ‘Cadoc’s returned! The Gods be praised!’ said one man and the group’s mood abruptly shifted from anger to nervous excitement.

  Villagers, farmers and soldiers pressed around him, smiling and laughing. Cadoc shrugged them off. “Tend to the wounded, and be ashamed,” he said and shoved his way clear, marching up the keep’s motte, his boots scuffing on the well-worn steps carved into the earth.

  The Weaver of Dreams waited patiently. The light faded from his staff as the old man drew the stout oat to his chest, leaning heavily upon it. “Welcome home, Cadoc,” he said in greeting. He swept his arm towards the entranceway and said, “Come inside.”

  Cadoc crossed the threshold and found himself in the familiar surrounds of his ancestral home. Nothing had changed. They were in a large, open room that once served as the family’s great hall before Cadoc’s father had constructed a massive timber long hall along the castle’s northern wall. Carpets were rolled up in the centre of the chamber, revealing an open trapdoor, leading down into the lower levels. Cadoc stared at the opening for a moment. There wasn’t much down there apart from stores on the ground level, yet below that…Cadoc shook his head, not wanting to think of it.

  “Come, upstairs,” said the Weaver. “You must see the children.” The old man began walking toward a spiral stairwell.

  “Children?” Cadoc echoed.

  The Weaver stopped and turned. “Your niece and nephew, or had you forgotten?”

  Cadoc shook his head, his patience breaking like a damn. “Stop, gods damn it, man, what has happened? Your soldier said my brother is dead.”

  The Weaver’s bushy white eyebrows met in the middle. “What soldier?”

  “The one at the gate, from Langorn. He said he was part of your escort.”

  The Weaver stared at him, the look of surprise becoming a penetrating stare as the old man studied him. Cadoc shifted uncomfortably under the magician’s gaze. At length, the Weaver blinked and said, “I came alone. If there are Langorn soldiers here, they came before I.”

  Cadoc frowned as the feeling of unease returned. “No matter,” he said but made a mental note to seek out the soldier — or whoever he was — once he learnt the truth.

  “Come,” said the Weaver.

  Cadoc shook his head and folded his arm, his stance wide. “I will not move until you explain yourself, my Lord Weaver.”

  The old man’s expression clouded, and for a moment he looked ready to argue, but slowly his expression changed, and he sighed, nodding in acquiesce. “Very well,” he said and led Cadoc to the trapdoor. “He lies within, his lady wife beside him.”

  He descended through the trapdoor and into the darkness of the storeroom. Cadoc quickly followed, stumbling in the dark. There was a strong smell of decay. The Weaver muttered a word, and the end of his staff flared to life. Cadoc sniffed, smelling the coppery stink of blood. Two bodies lay on a marble slab normally used to keep butter and cheese cold. The bodies were covered with blankets, soaked through with blood that had dried in the cold air. Cadoc roughly pulled the top of the blankets free and stared at the lifeless faces of his brother and sister-in-law. Their skin was ashen, and Cadoc's nose wrinkled at the strong reek wafting from their putrefying bodies. His brother’s neck was a mass of dried blood, encrusted around a deep puncture mark that had claimed his life. It was a stab wound, not the livid smile of a slit throat. He looked away, eyes scanning the body of his sister-in-law. Her chest and arms were a torn and bloodied mass of stabs and slashes.

  Cadoc began to tremble. He gripped the edge of the marble slab for support, looking across at the Weaver. “Who did this?”

  The Weaver moved around the slab and put a hand on Cadoc’s shoulder. “The culprit lies before you.”

  Cadoc’s head snapped around. “What? She did this to him?”

  The Weaver shook his head. “He took his own life after he murdered her in a rage.”

  Cadoc’s mouth fell open, and he took a step back. “Impossible. He would not…”

  The Weaver covered the bodies and clutched his staff in both hands. “Accounts are confused. I pieced together what I could. Servants were roused by her screams. They called for guards who managed to break down the doors to their chamber. He went for the children. She died protecting them.”

 

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