‘There was a highborn riding with those wagons. A boy of five or six years of age. On his way to the Wise City. To the Citadel, in fact. A child of the Korlas family.’
Rancept pawed at the silver stubble on his jaw. ‘Korlas? Good soldier. Always sad. Heard he killed himself.’
‘Officially died in his sleep or something like that.’
‘Festered wound I think it was, milady.’
‘You’re trying my patience, castellan.’
His squint narrowed until his eyes were thin slits. ‘I do that, yes.’
‘I want us to ride out — tonight — and catch up to that caravan. If there are bandits that close to us, we need to know.’
‘Not bandits, milady.’
‘I know that, you oaf! So who attacked them and are we under threat?’
He grunted a second time. ‘Safe enough up here.’
‘I insist we ride out! I want fifteen Houseblades, and a fist of tracking dogs!’
‘You’ll get one Houseblade, milady, and Ribs.’
‘Ribs? That dog is constantly surprised by the smell of its own butt! And one Houseblade isn’t enough — you are supposed to accord me proper protection.’
‘And I will, milady,’ and he now turned to her, showing his teeth. ‘That one will be me.’
‘Castellan, forgive me, but walking up the stairs to get here nearly burst your heart.’
‘Hardly, milady. My heart’s just fine and so is the rest of me, barring this nose you keep trying to not look at.’
‘Abyss below. Then it shall be you and me, castellan.’
‘And Ribs, milady.’
‘Find yourself a horse-’
‘On foot,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter.’
‘But look at me — I’m all dressed to ride!’
‘Me and Ribs will be waitin’ downstairs, milady.’
Orfantal crouched in a hollow surrounded by shattered boulders. The sky overhead was black, overcast, and the darkness on all sides had stolen away all the familiar features he had looked upon a short while earlier. In his imagination the world was now transformed, seething with motion. He heard strange sounds, stared helplessly into the blackness where he thought he saw something staring back at him.
He missed his blanket, and the fire of the caravan guards, which was kept alive through each night and which he’d find when awakening with a start, forgetting where he was and frightened — but that smudge of coals and the occasional flicker of flame seen through the tent’s thin fabric always righted him again. But now there was nothing, no tent, no Gripp snoring and muttering under his breath. He was alone and he felt nothing like a hero.
Shivers raced through him. He remembered his daydreams of a bandit attack, and just as in that story he had fled into the night, into the hills. But the truth of it, here in this hollow, was nothing like that epic adventure. His feet were numb; his hands hung heavy and insensate at the ends of his wrists, and he felt the beckoning of sleep, as if the cold were drifting away.
He had not crawled far from the basin where his horse had died. The hills had seemed too vast, too threatening to venture deep into. If he lost sight of the basin, he’d lose sight of the road, and then he’d be lost. The truth was, his courage had failed him and he felt ashamed. The smell of his own urine mocked him. He could taste his own betrayal, bitter and sickening, and again and again the shudder of the horse echoed through him — the feel of life leaving it as he hugged its neck. It did not deserve that kind of end, driven forward in fear, pushed into exhaustion, guided by a foolish boy. What would he tell Wreneck? He would rather the bandits had cut him down instead.
He gave up on his fear of the night and closed his eyes. He’d stopped shivering and that was good.
A footfall on gravel dragged him awake. His heart pounded hard and seemed to swell inside his chest. He struggled to breathe.
From over his head, atop the boulder he leaned his back against, a voice drifted down. ‘There you are.’
With a soft cry, Orfantal tried to lunge forward, but his legs gave way beneath him.
‘Easy! It’s me, old Gripp.’
The man edged down into the hollow, alongside Orfantal. A hand settled on his shoulder. ‘You’re chilled as the Abyss. I made up a camp nearby, scavenged some bedding. Can you stand?’
Tears were streaming down from Orfantal’s eyes, but apart from that first cry no sound would come from him. Shame was flooding back into him. He tried to get up but failed again.
‘You wouldn’t have lasted the night. Good thing I found you. That thing with the horse, that was a smart move — no way they was going to follow you out there.’ As he was speaking he gathered up Orfantal in his arms. ‘Lie still. It’ll be all right. I got to move slow, got a hurt back and a wrenched knee.’ And now Orfantal could feel the man limping as he carried him; a rhythmic sagging to the left as Gripp tried to put weight on that leg. The old man’s skin was slick with sweat, a detail that Orfantal could not understand. ‘Just a little further. Can’t have no fire, though.’