He lay on the ground, his shouts lost as the cliff continued to fragment behind him, breaking apart in a blast of sound that sent Frentis and Arendil reeling. The sandstone slabs tumbled into the gully below, shrieks of men and horses drowned by the crescendo of falling stone.
More dust rose in a tall plume, swallowing Grealin’s slumped form as the surviving cavalrymen and knights wheeled in confusion. Frentis got to his feet and felled a cavalryman with an arrow to the back as the fighters appeared on both sides of the gully’s edge, loosing arrows and crossbow bolts in a volley that did credit to their weeks of hard-won experience. Frentis saw about half the horsemen fall as he cast his bow aside and charged forward with sword drawn, the fighters running in from both sides.
It was done quickly, the knights and cavalrymen speared or hacked down in short order. He saw Arendil leap and bring his long sword down to cleave through a cavalryman’s arm as he tried to slash at Davoka. Ermund stood in front of a charging knight, sword held level with his head, stepping aside at the last instant to deliver an expert upward slash, finding the knight’s unarmoured throat and sending him from the saddle in a spiral of blood.
Frentis found Grealin lying on his side, eyes half-closed and a thick stream of blood seeping from every opening. He crouched next to him, laying a hand on his broad arm. The Aspect’s eyes fluttered open, still weeping red tears. They regarded Frentis for a silent moment, bright and clear, the flesh around them creasing as Grealin smiled. He sputtered, blood spurting from his mouth as he tried to speak. Frentis leaned close to hear him rasp, “I think . . . I prefer life . . . without prophecy.”
“Aspect?”
But there were no more words from the Aspect of the Seventh Order. Nor would there ever be.
Frentis walked towards the prostate form of the man in the blue armour. He was struggling to rise, a torrent of pained profanity issuing from his masked lips. Frentis put his sword point under the visor, the knight becoming instantly still as the other fighters crowded round.
“Don’t we have to try him first?” Draker asked. “Since he’s a Fief Lord and all.”
“Just kill the bastard, brother,” Ermund said. “Or let me have the honour.”
Frentis flipped the visor up, revealing a thin face with bloodied lips and terror-filled eyes.
“Wenders!” Ermund said in disdain, stepping forward to deliver a kick to the man’s skewered knee, drawing an agonised howl. “We want the master, not the dog. Let you out to play in his armour did he? Where is he?” He kicked again. “Where?”
“Enough,” Frentis said. “You know this man?”
“Rekus Wenders, Darnel’s chief retainer and lick-spittle. Led the knights who came for the baron, handed me and my men to the Volarians. Those he hadn’t slaughtered.”
“I-I follow my Fief Lord,” Wenders stammered. “I am bound to him by oath . . .”
“Fuck your oath.” Ermund stamped his boot onto Wenders’s neck and began to push down hard. “My cousins died that day, you filth!”
Davoka stepped forward, laying her hand on Ermund’s chest, her face fierce with disapproval. The knight stared at her in fury then turned away with a shout of frustration, leaving Wenders gasping on the ground.
Frentis beckoned to Thirty-Four. The former slave left off from cleaning his short sword and came to stand at his side, regarding Wenders with his customary incurious stare.
“This man was a numbered slave with a particular skill set,” Frentis told Wenders. “I assume you’ve seen enough of the Volarians to know what that means.”
The knight’s face became rigid with fear and a sharp smell arose from his armour.
“Faith!” Draker said, turning away in disgust. “Watching the knight kill him would’ve been easier to bear.” He walked off to rifle the corpses for valuables; an outlaw’s habits were hard to break.
“Good,” Frentis said to Wenders, sinking to his haunches. “We have little time for my friend’s usual subtlety, so you’ll understand the importance of brief but honest answers.”
The knight’s head began a vigorous nodding in the confines of his helmet.
“You will tell me all you know of Lord Darnel’s dispositions in Varinshold,” Frentis informed him. “How many men he has, where he sleeps, what he eats. And you will also tell me where he keeps the Aspect of my order.”
They built a fire for Grealin, having no time for more than the briefest of words, Frentis stumbling through them as best he could. How do you do justice to a man like this in a few phrases? he thought. He faltered to a halt in trying to recite the Catechism of Faith and Davoka stepped forward as the others exchanged uncertain glances.
“My people fear those like him,” she said, voice ringing in the confines of the gully. “We think they steal what belongs to the Mahlessa and the gods, becoming twisted with the theft, unworthy of trust or clan. This man taught me that we are wrong.”
Arendil came forward, smiling sadly at Grealin’s shrouded bulk. “He used to tell me stories about the Order sometimes, at night when the others were asleep. Every one was different, carrying a new lesson. I hope I listened as well as I should.”
Illian went to his side as her face bunched in anticipation of tears, grasping his hand before raising her own voice. “He said blood made me a lady, but life had made me a huntress. He thought it suited me better.”
Frentis moved forward with the torch, touching it to the kindling and stepping back. “Good-bye Master,” he whispered as the flames rose.
Davoka stripped Wenders of his armour and removed the arrows before binding his wounds. She wasn’t gentle and the knight’s yelps were enough to make Ermund clamp a hand over his mouth and hold a dagger to his throat as she completed her work. They propped him against a fallen section of cliff with a canteen within easy reach.
“When your lord asks,” Frentis said, “tell him the Red Brother offers his compliments and will return shortly to settle our business. If you’re smart, you’ll forget to tell him how helpful you’ve been.”
“You’re all fools,” the knight replied, finding some vestige of courage now it was clear they didn’t intend to kill him. “This land belongs to the Volarians now. If you want to live, you have to join with them. Think me a coward if you want, but I’ll still be breathing twenty years from now whilst you’ll all be long de—”
Illian’s crossbow bolt made a loud metallic ping as it punched through Wender’s eye to connect with the rock behind his head. Incredibly he managed to gasp out a few final words, whatever wisdom they held lost in a babble of spittle before he slumped forward, lifeless and silent.
“Sorry, brother,” Illian told Frentis with an expression of sincere contrition. “My finger slipped.”
They trekked north for three days. There had been only two surviving horses from the carnage in the gully, tall Renfaelin steeds now pressed into service as pack animals under Master Rensial’s care. The Volarian dead had yielded a decent supply of food, strips of dried beef and a hard biscuit of wheat and barley that turned into a surprisingly appetising porridge when placed in boiling water.
On the third day the crags and vales of northern Asrael gave way to the tall downs of the Renfaelin border, the grassy mounds rising from pasture largely devoid of forest or sheltering rocks.
“We could turn east,” Draker suggested. “Make for the coast. Country’s more broken up there. Remember it well from my smuggling days.”
“We can’t afford the time,” Frentis replied, though he shared the big man’s reluctance. Perfect place for cavalry, but there’s nothing else for it.
They kept to the low country as much as possible, steering clear of roads or villages, climbing the downs only to make camp come evening. Two more days’ march brought them within sight of the River Andur, beyond which Arendil assured them lay forest aplenty.
“Thanks to the Departed,” Illian said. “I feel naked out here.”
They covered five miles the following morning before they heard it, a distant thunder accompanied by a faint tremble in the earth. By now there was none amongst them so naïve as to mistake it for an approaching storm.
“Moving south,” Davoka reported, lying down with her ear to the ground. “Ahead of us.” She got to her feet with a grave expression. “Be here very soon.”
“Illian! Arendil!” Frentis beckoned them over to the two horses, Master Rensial swiftly removing the packs and handing them the reins. “Ride west,” Frentis told them. “Push hard. A week’s journey will take you to Nilsael . . .” He trailed off at the sight of Illian releasing the reins and stepping back, arms crossed. Arendil stood at her side, also empty-handed.
“This is not a game . . .” he began.
“I know it’s not a game, brother,” Illian broke in. “And I am not a child, neither is Arendil. You can’t do what we have done and remain children. We’re staying.”
Frentis stared at them helplessly, guilt threatening to force a scream from his breast. If you die here, it’s my fault!
