Vagrant, p.7
Vagrant, page 7
We caught up with everybody as they reined in at the head of the valley. The sun grew on the horizon and we turned down into the next valley.
Leaves floated above us, clustered like clouds, and sunlight dappled down through them. Last autumn’s brown leaves spilled down the banks into the dips and hollows and spring’s green growth fought through in irregular clumps.
Santhorne rode next to me. ‘You’re far too quiet – do you ever speak?’
I fidgeted with the reins. ‘What ... what would you like me to say?’
‘What does your family do for trade?’
‘I, erm, we – just ... survived?’ I looked up nervously. ‘Surviving is my trade.’
Santhorne howled with laughter, thinking I was joking. He looked across, clearly waiting for me to ask him.
‘Um, how about you? What does your family do?’ I asked, thinking of his parents supporting his many siblings.
‘Bowyers. My father’s a master craftsman. Fletchers too – although people should do their own, lazy beggars. Ours are superior, of course. And I’m an archer.’
If he was a fletcher, perhaps I could watch him to get some tips. ‘Are you good?’
He looked slightly offended. ‘Of course I am! Being a wicked archer is part of the trade – everyone wants me to fletch their arrows, wants the bows I make. They think it’ll make them as good as me.’ He grinned. ‘It doesn’t, of course, but they’re too dumb to realise that.’
‘And you left your trade to come?’
‘You don’t have to live in the same tribe all your life.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I need to do something with my life – go to fresh places, meet new people. And who knows – maybe I won’t go back.’
It had never occurred to me before that you could make a new life for yourself somewhere else. People didn’t really do that in our camp; you lived and you died in the same tribe. Your tribe was protection against thieves, marauders, wild animals ... a community. I shook my head. It was a nice idea, but where else would I go?
Santhorne had several different bows on his back; he picked one and handed it to me. ‘Here. Take a look.’
Demara craned her neck and jostled Star closer to see. Santhorne’s bow was more powerful than mine, the yew expertly shaped, with heavily curved tips and a leather-wrapped handle.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, turning it over in my hands, touching the elegant curves, testing its balance. I handed it back. ‘I’ll have to try shooting against you some time.’
‘That would be fun,’ said Santhorne politely. He jerked his chin. ‘Let’s see yours, then.’
I disentangled my old elm bow from the saddlebags and passed it over to him. It looked wide and clunky by comparison.
Santhorne examined it, testing the draw. ‘Alright, your bow is rubbish. You actually use this?’ He squinted along it.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It’s absolutely ancient, that’s what.’
I shrugged. ‘I have to compensate a bit. It’s not fancy, but it suits me.’
‘I could make you a much better one.’ He handed it back. ‘One worthy to take me on with.’
Without asking, he plucked one of my arrows from my quiver, running a practised eye over it. He snorted. ‘If you can hit anything with these arrows, I’ll be surprised. How many times have you used these?’
It was a simple, non-barbed head, the cheapest to trade for, the iron blunt from the number of times I had used it: fired it and then always, always gone to retrieve it.
I couldn’t afford to lose them.
He adjusted the fletching. ‘You make these yourself?’
‘Yes,’ I said proudly.
He nodded. ‘It figures. I’ll make you some decent ones.’ He tossed it back to me. ‘If you can get anywhere near the target with that lot, I’ll go eat myself.’
‘We need to plan how we’re going to get into Morghil,’ said Arran, dropping to a trot along narrow dirt tracks as we dipped and turned through the forest, the river blinking alongside us.
Demara nodded. ‘This is such a fantastic opportunity. If we rescue Farrant, we can restore him to the twelve Northern Tribes.’
Arran winced. ‘Let’s not yell his name about – the enemy presumes he’s dead. Let’s not jeopardise his life now.’
‘Who’s going to hear me?’ she said scornfully. ‘And how do you know the enemy presumes he’s dead?’
‘Because they would have killed him if they didn’t,’ he said.
Demara sniffed and poked Santhorne with her boot. ‘You’re riding too close to me.’
Santhorne pushed Idris closer, banging against Star, who squealed and jibbed, ricocheting across into Araf’s sturdy brown and white bulk. Araf didn’t budge as Star bounced off him; he didn’t appear to even notice, but I moved him over, out of the way.
‘I said you’re riding too close, you fool!’ said Demara. Star reared, throwing her head back. ‘She’s a very highly strung mare.’
‘She’s not the only highly strung mare, eh, Dem?’ said Santhorne, with a sly glance sideways.
Demara leaned out of her saddle to hit him and he swerved out of her way, grinning.
In the late afternoon, the beech trees cleared, the hills sloping away underneath us, and an eagle called overhead. Arran rode his large bay next to me; light buttery tan melded into dark taupe down the stallion’s legs. ‘So, what’s your story?’
The question made me jump. ‘I don’t have a story.’
He looked puzzled. ‘Everyone has a story.’
‘I don’t.’
Arran gave me a sideways glance. ‘This is Hirrim. Our horses are made on slightly sturdier lines than those two.’ He nodded to Star and Idris in front.
I smiled looking at Araf’s thick brown and white splodged legs plodding beneath us and patted his fat barrel of a body.
Arran reached out. ‘Let’s see your hand.’
‘Why?’
His hand was still outstretched. ‘I’m a healer. Let me see.’
I eyed him suspiciously, expecting a trick, then slowly held my hand out. He turned my palm up, his fingers warm against the back of my hand, and ran his thumb over the pink edges of the wound.
‘That’s a nasty scar,’ he commented. ‘You did well not to lose the use of your fingers.’
I didn’t say anything.
He flexed my hand, manipulating my fingers, and I grimaced as the newly healed skin pulled taut. ‘You need to stretch it while it’s still pliable. Otherwise the scar tissue will tighten as it ages.’
I fiddled with the reins with my good hand.
‘Your healer didn’t exactly do an outstanding job of stitching it, did he?’
‘I didn’t use a healer.’ I pulled my hand back.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye but said nothing.
Above us, the bright greens of the valley turned into the browns and rusts of bracken and heather.
‘So how come I haven’t met you before?’
‘I guess I haven’t travelled much.’
‘I’ve never seen you when I’ve been over to Jatarn’s camp, though.’
‘I’m usually busy.’
Demara twisted round in front of us. ‘She doesn’t get out much,’ she said helpfully.
I screwed up my eyes against the rising sun and Arran dropped back to shade me. ‘Do I know your parents?’ he asked casually.
‘No.’
I must have been a very disappointing baby because, presumably, my parents just set me down one day and forgot about me. Or whatever killed them decided not to eat me. Even the wild beasts didn’t want me. When I was younger, I used to imagine they had both died defending me and declaring their eternal love. That was probably how it happened.
‘Try me.’
‘I never knew them. I was found in the woods.’
Demara giggled. ‘That’s what all parents tell their children.’
A faint blush appeared in Arran’s cheeks.
‘So, did your parents die or did they abandon you?’ Santhorne looked interested.
I avoided his curious gaze. ‘I don’t know. I presume they died.’
‘So, you’re not Merrick’s brat then?’ said Demara.
‘No.’ I glared at her.
Apparently my parentage – or lack of – was interesting to people who had it.
Demara snorted. ‘Maybe they took one look at your face and decided they didn’t want you after all.’ She glanced away with a giggle at a look from Arran. ‘What? I’m joking, silly. Gelda knows I’m only teasing, don’t you?’
‘It’s fine. I’ve never had parents, so I shouldn’t miss them, right?’ My voice sounded more bitter than I meant it to.
‘I heard you were close to the scout who died, but I hadn’t realised why,’ said Arran evenly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Santhorne nodded. ‘Can’t imagine what it’s like not to have parents.’
My chest tightened and I shrugged. We needed to move on from this conversation.
Arran frowned. ‘Did Merrick tell you how he found Farrant? Or anything that might help us locate him?’
Star jibbed into Idris, who reared up. Santhorne and Demara started arguing.
I nodded, throat tight, running the worn leather reins through my fingers as I thought back through every detail of that gruesome scene. I grimaced; if a loved one was dying, it shouldn’t be gruesome. I should have been filled with concern, not revolted. Past the lump in my throat, I told him what Merrick had said.
‘I couldn’t make much of it out ...’ I finished. ‘I should have asked for more details, I know, but how could I question someone who’s dying? I couldn’t exactly ask him what the plan was. The worst thing was ... I did nothing to help him.’ My voice broke. ‘I just sat there, holding his hand. I didn’t bandage his wounds or offer him water or anything.’
‘If he wanted medicine, he would’ve asked for a healer – he asked for you.’
I shook my head. ‘I should have asked him for details. We might have known where Farrant is in prison or how to get him out—’
‘It doesn’t sound like he was in a fit state to give you any. He told you that Farrant was alive and in prison. That was the most important thing.’
I shrugged, not willing to believe him.
‘From what you’ve told me, there was nothing you could have done.’
‘And he’s a healer, so he’d know,’ said Santhorne, gesturing to a neat leather bag hanging from Hirrim’s saddle. ‘Warrior by day, healer’s apprentice by night.’ He raised his voice. ‘You’re a butcher – that’s right, isn’t it, Arran? Plus you get the wimp’s life, sitting around with your feet up, away from all the action, waiting for the sickly folk to come to you.’
Arran grinned at what was clearly a long-standing joke between them.
‘You do both?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Cadoc encourages all warriors to apprentice in a second trade – says it keeps us out of mischief.’ Santhorne dropped his voice. ‘Arran’s actually pretty good – but don’t tell him I said that. Our healer’s super old and needed an apprentice, and Arran does everything while old Quinn sits with his feet up, stirring the odd potion. Arran trains with us the rest of the time.’ He raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, ’Ran, you can either kill me or heal me, depending on your mood?’
‘It depends on how much you’ve irritated me that day,’ Arran tossed over his shoulder.
Demara leaned forward. ‘So, why are you a healer? Why not a cattle farmer like your father? Isn’t that what all your brothers do?’
He shrugged. ‘Quinn needed an apprentice.’
Demara leaned over to me with a whisper. ‘I’ve got a fancy to injure myself just so he can have his hands all over me. He’s welcome to check me over any time.’ She laughed at my bemused look.
Santhorne jabbed him in the ribs with the tip of his bow. ‘Don’t go thinking he’s soft though, he’s our second-best warrior at camp.’
I looked over, interested. ‘Who’s your best?’
‘Me,’ Santhorne said simply.
‘Oh.’ And I believed him. ‘Not Oak, then?’
Arran and Santhorne both snorted at the same time, looking unimpressed.
‘And I kicked Madog’s backside last summer when we trained together,’ Santhorne added.
‘Did you?’ I couldn’t help being pleased at the thought of Madog being put in his place. And he was our best warrior. Perhaps when I got back, I could casually let slip that I knew Santhorne and Arran, and maybe he might leave me alone a bit.
‘Do you ... specialise in something?’ I wasn’t sure if it was a silly question.
Arran didn’t seem to find it silly. ‘I have an interest in herbs.’
‘He finds plants interesting.’ Santhorne rolled his eyes.
‘Some plants can poison you, some can heal you, but which is which?’ Arran shrugged. ‘I’d say that’s pretty interesting.’
‘Rather you than me.’ Santhorne thumped him on his leg. ‘As long as you patch me up like you normally do, then I’m good. Dem, bet you can’t beat me to that tree.’
‘Don’t call me Dem!’
‘Have you known each other a long time?’
Arran watched Santhorne gallop into the distance, followed by Demara neck and neck with him. ‘You could say that.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘His family moved into our tribe when Santhorne was about fifteen. Before that, they lived in the south, by the ocean. Some of the lads in the tribe didn’t take kindly to a newcomer, especially when he was a better apprentice than they were. One day I caught a bunch of them beating him up in the forest.’
‘They beat him up?’ I said surprised, unable to picture Santhorne getting mistreated.
‘He was rather outnumbered.’ There was a grim set to his jaw.
I thought back to that night at Cadoc’s camp. ‘Was Oak one of them?’
‘He was.’
‘What happened?’
‘I ... asked them nicely to leave him alone.’
‘You asked them nicely?’
‘Amazing what a polite conversation will do.’ He didn’t quite meet my eyes.
Demara and Santhorne cantered back, flushed and laughing.
‘Move it,’ said Demara. ‘Do we have to trot all the way to Morghil, or are we actually going to find this man-who-shall-not-be-named before he dies of old age?’
We cantered down the next valley until dusk. I dismounted stiffly, more used to spending all day on foot than riding for so many hours.
Santhorne’s stomach growled. ‘Who’s cooking?’
‘I am,’ said Demara. ‘I’ll be in charge of all food. Believe it or not, I have no wish to be poisoned by any of you.’
Santhorne dropped to sit on the ground, stretching his boots out in front of him, his hands behind his head. ‘Suits me.’
Demara marched over and hauled him to his feet. ‘Oh, you’ll be helping – but I’m in charge. Sant – fire and tents. Arran – go fish. Gelda, sort the horses out. I’ll start on supper.’
By the time I’d watered the horses and turned them out to graze, the tents had been strung from stout birch trees and the smell of woodsmoke drifted over. Metal clashed on metal as Arran and Santhorne scuffled in the clearing, both breathing hard. Sweat dripped off them and the metal glinted as flames caught the blades.
I crossed over to Demara, who was ignoring them. ‘Why are they fighting?’
She snorted. ‘Sant said Arran was out of shape, and Arran took exception to that. So ...’ She trailed off like it was obvious.
Neither of them looked out of shape to me. They both looked far fitter and more muscled than the warriors in our tribe ever did.
Their blades moved faster than I could follow, the thrust of Santhorne’s arm parried by a flash from Arran. Santhorne turned, and Arran’s sword was up in guard. Arran was breathing hard, eyes narrowed, concentrating. Santhorne flicked sweat back from his eyes.
Demara sighed, bored. ‘Right, that’s enough – I’m coming through.’ With no other warning, she stepped out and almost into the swinging path of Santhorne’s blade.
He growled and his blade swept away from her mid-swing. ‘Are you insane?’
‘No more than you.’
Arran looked across at Santhorne. ‘You’re right. I am rusty on that backhand.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Santhorne, chest heaving. ‘I’d whoop your sorry backside if I was using my right hand.’
Arran grinned, sweat covering his face, hands on his knees. ‘Oh, I know.’
On the back of Santhorne’s black leather belt was a small engraved eagle, metal wings outstretched.
‘I like the ornament on your belt.’ I said. ‘It’s very pretty.’
‘First, it’s not pretty. Arran designed it, he’s got one too. It’s got sharp wings in case you have your hands tied behind your back ... but I know you were really checking out my backside.’ He winked at me.
‘No! I wasn’t—’
He laughed, groaning, and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I’m messing around, O Small One.’
He turned and threw a punch at Arran’s face, which Arran blocked with a muscled forearm. I jumped back out of their way. They swapped, sweating, their movements fluid and well-practised.
‘Watch that right hook,’ Santhorne called.
Arran grunted, and my untrained eye couldn’t detect any difference with the next ones, but there must have been because Santhorne nodded.
‘Better,’ he called, absorbing another flurry of blows.
At first I watched aimlessly, something to pass the time while I cleaned the tack until supper. But there were patterns – a specific move, a specific countermove. It was like a puzzle as both sides tried to out manoeuvre each other.
Santhorne had a particular hold on Arran’s arm. With the next move, the power had shifted, and Arran had Santhorne’s neck in a specific grip he seemed to have been shooting for the whole time.
Demara tutted. ‘Enough messing about. Peel these.’
Santhorne looked up, hurt. ‘Dem – I’ll have you know we are two of the best warriors in the Northern Territory. We’re training!’
