He made arrows from another ash branch, sharpening the points as they had no metal for arrowheads. “Should do for birds,” he said. “Couldn’t take on a boar with it though, need iron-heads to get through the ribs.”
He hefted the bow and walked off into the forest. She waited a full two minutes, cursed and then followed. She found him crouched behind the husk of an ancient oak, an arrow notched to the bowstring. He waited with an absolute stillness, eyes fixed on a patch of tall grass in a small clearing ahead. Reva moved cautiously to his side but contrived to step on a dry twig, the loud crack echoing through the clearing. Three pheasants rose from the grass, wings thundering as they sought the sky. Al Sorna’s bowstring snapped and a bird tumbled back to earth, trailing feathers. He gave her a glance of faint reproach and went to fetch the game.
Not much of an archer, she thought. Liar.
In the morning she awoke to find herself alone in the camp, the Darkblade no doubt off hunting again, though his bow had been left propped against a fallen tree-trunk. There was a curious feeling in her belly, a strange heaviness and she realised this was the first time she could remember waking with a full stomach. Al Sorna had spitted and roasted the pheasant, seasoning the plucked skin with lemon thyme. The grease had covered her chin as she wolfed down her share. She caught him smiling as she ate, making her scowl and turn away. But she hadn’t stopped eating.
Her eyes lingered on the bow for a moment. It was shorter than the longbow that had frustrated her for years, the stave thinner and no doubt easier to draw. She glanced around then picked it up, notching one of the arrows from Al Sorna’s makeshift quiver of woven long grass. It felt light in her hands, comfortable. She took aim at the narrow trunk of a silver birch some ten yards away, it seemed the easiest target to hand. The bow was harder to draw than she anticipated, raising memories of hours of fruitless practice with the longbow, but she did at least manage to get the string back to her lips before loosing. The arrow glanced off the edge of the birch and disappeared into a patch of ferns.
“Not bad.” Al Sorna was striding through the undergrowth, freshly gathered mushrooms were piled in his cloak.
Reva tossed the bow back to him and slumped down, drawing her knife. “It’s unbalanced,” she muttered. “Threw my aim off.” She took hold of the hair at the nape of her neck and began her twice-weekly ritual of cutting.
“Don’t do that,” Al Sorna said. “You’re supposed to be my sister, and Asraelin women wear their hair long.”
“Asraelin women are vain sluts.” She pointedly sawed off a chunk of hair and let it fall.
Al Sorna sighed. “I suppose we could say you’re simpleminded. Took to cutting your hair as a child. Me old mum could never get her out of the habit.”
“You will not!” She glared at him. He smiled back. She gritted her teeth and returned the knife to its sheath.
He placed the bow and quiver of arrows next to her. “Keep it. I’ll make myself another.”
The next day saw them walking the road again. Al Sorna’s pace hadn’t slackened at all but she was finding it easier to keep up, no doubt helped by the recent improvement in her diet. They had been going for an hour when Al Sorna came to a halt, his head tilted upwards, nostrils flaring a little. It was a moment before Reva caught it, a scent on the westerly breeze, acrid, corrupt. She had smelt it before, as had he, no doubt on many more occasions.
He said nothing but left the road, walking towards the forest. It was beginning to thin as they travelled north, but there were still patches of thick woodland in which to camp or hunt. She noted a change in his movements as he approached the trees, a slight curve to the shoulders, a looseness to his arms, fingers splayed as if ready to reach for something. She had seen the priest move in a similar way, but never with such unconscious grace and she realised in a rush that the Darkblade was the priest’s superior, a thing she always thought impossible. No man could best the priest, his skills were born of the Father’s blessing after all. But this heretic, this enemy of the Loved, moved with such predatory grace she knew any contest between them would end only one way. I was a fool, she decided. Trying to take him like that. When the time comes to kill him, I must be more guileful . . . or better trained.
She followed at a short distance. She still carried the bow and wondered if she should notch an arrow but decided against it, her archery skills were hardly a threat to whatever might await them in the trees. She drew her knife instead, eyes continually seeking movement, finding only the sway of branches in the wind.
They found the bodies about twenty yards in, three of them, man, woman and child. The man had been lashed to a tree and gagged with a hemp rope, dried blood stained his bare chest from neck to waist. The woman was naked and her flesh bore the marks of prolonged torment, bruises and shallow cuts. One of her fingers had been hacked off, whilst she still breathed judging by the amount of blood. The boy could be no more than ten years in age and was also naked and similarly abused.
“Outlaws,” Reva said. She peered closer at the man tied to the tree, seeing how the hemp gag gouged into the flesh of his cheeks. “Looks like they made him watch.”
Al Sorna’s gaze was moving over the scene with an intensity she hadn’t seen before, scanning the ground as he moved, tracking. “This happened at least a day and a half ago,” Reva said. “Any tracks will be stale. They’ll be in the nearest town, drinking and whoring with whatever spoils they got here.”
He turned a fierce gaze on her. “Your World Father’s love seems to make you cold.”
His anger made her take a firmer grip on the knife. “This land is thick with thievery and murder, Darkblade. I’ve seen death before. We’ve been lucky not to have drawn any outlaws ourselves.”
The fierceness in his gaze faded and he straightened, losing the predatory readiness. “Rhansmill is closest.”
“It’s out of our way.”
“I know.” He went to the body of the man and used his sailor’s knife to cut the bonds securing him to the tree. “Gather wood,” he told her. “A lot of wood.”
It took another day to get to Rhansmill, an unimpressive huddle of houses clustered around a water mill on the banks of the Avern River. They arrived at night, finding the place in the throes of some form of celebration, numerous torches had been lit and the townsfolk thronged around a semicircle of garishly painted wagons.
“Players,” Reva said with distaste, seeing the frivolous and occasionally lewd depictions on the sides of the wagons. They made their way slowly through the crowd, Al Sorna’s hood drawn close about his face; however, the audience’s gaze was fixed on a wooden stage in the centre of the semicircle. The man on stage was narrow of face and dressed in a shirt of bright red silk with tight-fitting trews of yellow and black, he sang and played a mandolin whilst a woman in a chiffon dress danced. The man’s playing was expert, his voice melodious and pure, but it was the dance that captured Reva’s attention, the grace and precision of the woman’s movements drawing her gaze like a flame-entranced moth. Her bare arms seemed to shine in the torchlight, her eyes, bright and blue behind a chiffon veil . . .
Reva looked away and closed her eyes, fingernails digging into her palms. World Father, I call on your forgiveness once more . . .
“My lover’s hand held soft in mine,” the man in the red shirt sang, the final verse of “Across the Valley.” “Upon her cheek bright tears do shine, To the Beyond I’ll take her smile, Where for her love I’ll wait . . .” He stopped, eyes wide as they caught a figure in the crowd. Reva tracked his gaze, finding it directed straight at Al Sorna’s hooded face. “. . . a while,” the man finished, forcing the words out. The crowd’s applause was quick, despite the stumble.
“Thank you, my friends!” The mandolin player bowed deeply, raising a hand to the dancer. “The lovely Ellora and I thank you most humbly. Please show your appreciation in the usual manner.” He pointed at the bucket placed at the front of the stage. “And now, dear friends”—the player’s voice dropped a little, his expression becoming grave—“prepare yourselves for our final performance of the night. A tale of high adventure and low treachery, of blood spilled and treasure stolen, prepare yourselves for The Pirate’s Revenge!” He threw his arms wide then took the hand of the girl and rushed from the stage, hampered somewhat by a noticeable limp. Two men promptly strode onto the boards, both dressed in a fanciful approximation of Meldenean sailor’s garb.
“I spy a ship, Captain!” the shorter of the men said when the applause had faded, holding a wooden spyglass to his eye to scan an imaginary horizon. “A Realm vessel, if I’m any judge. Rich plunder to be had, by the gods.”
“Plunder indeed!” the taller player agreed, a false beard of loose wool covering his chin and a red scarf on his head. “And much blood to spill to sate our gods’ thirst.”
Al Sorna gave a soft touch to her arm as the two players shared an evil laugh. He inclined his head to the left and she followed as he moved through the crowd, making for a gap between the line of wagons. She was unsurprised to find the mandolin player there, eyes bright in the shadows, drinking in the sight of Al Sorna as he drew back his hood.
