The Demon Lord (The Book of Years Series 2) Page 3

  “There’s your village, hunter. A bowshot yonder.” The Jouvaine blinked, seeming to return from a place far beyond the forest, and drew in a trembling breath. He recovered his composure with an effort and met Aldric’s unwinking gaze with another.

  “Best I lead the way, Kourgath. Since the Empire’s troubles we—”

  “Aren’t over-fond of armoured riders? Yes. So I can believe.” He dismounted, drawing Widowmaker up across his back on her cross-strap until the taiken’s long hilt reared above his shoulder. Whether anyone here recognised it as the peace position from which he couldn’t draw the blade was another matter. They might still see only an armoured man with a ready sword. “Walk on. I’ll be behind you.”

  The rest, that ‘behind’ might be the safest place to stay, he left unsaid.

  *

  Valden was tiny, a cluster of lime-washed cottages huddled in a clearing hacked from the living forest. The new stockade which ringed it kept the trees at bay, but gave the place a claustrophobic air like that of a besieged fortress. Aldric could almost smell the fear. People performing listless tasks in their small garden-patches stopped and watched with dull-eyed resignation as he entered the stockade. They had lost faith in their hunter long ago and were fast losing hope in anything else. They might have left the village had the forest not surrounded it, but they did nothing now but wait for that forest to sprout fangs as it had done so many times before.

  He understood Evthan’s black mood better now. Valden’s despair was an infection which needed surgery to cure it, and destruction to bring healing. The destruction of the Beast.

  The hunter’s house was larger than expected, with a stable at the back. It was empty now but clean enough, with fresh straw in the hall and fodder baled at the back, all likely intended for the steeds of whatever gentry Evthan might guide on expeditions into the forest. Aldric wondered how long it had been since the last one. Once the horses’ harness was off he gave them both a rubdown and inspected their hoofs, then saw to water, hay and a careful measure of grain from his own feed-sack. For an Alban horselord, the welfare of his animals always came first, when they were his means of getting out of a dangerous situation far faster than he got into it. He threw his saddlebags over one shoulder and returned to the house.

  It had a pleasant smell, blended of beeswax from polished furniture, of lavender from dried bunches hanging in the corners of each room, of woodsmoke from a black iron stove that must have cost a great deal to bring out here, and best of all to a hungry man was the savoury scent of food. After what Evthan had said about the loss of his family, meeting two women was a surprise that must have showed on Aldric’s face.

  “Aline, my sister,” the Jouvaine explained, “and Gueynor, my niece.” That was the girl who backed into the shadows as Evthan brought his guest indoors. “I hoped I would return with company, so I asked them to prepare a meal. It will be better than my poor efforts.”

  Aldric opened his mouth to say a thank-you, but his stomach beat him to it with a protracted bubbling squeak like a rusty gate submerged in syrup. It caused a protracted few seconds of embarrassed silence while he went pink and everyone else looked elsewhere. He laughed, not that there was much else he could have done, and the awkward moment passed when the others joined in. He had a feeling it was the first time any of them had laughed at anything in far too long.

  His insistence on time to wash and change before the meal was typical to those who knew Albans, but it also gave him privacy to rearrange the contents of his saddlebags. In the past months he had learned to distrust everyone on principle and, while Imperial florins weren’t worth much, the quantity he carried would raise questions if anyone saw them.

  And there were other things he preferred no one saw at all.

  He returned washed, brushed and free of armour, though still carrying his Three Blades – which got a look from Evthan, but no comment – and found the table in the small main room already set. Such a room, and the several others of this house including the one for his own use, showed the forester’s elevated status in Valden. Its headman, for all his apparent authority, might not live in anything as fine because Evthan served a more important purpose. His skills as hunter and tracker pleased Lord Geruath’s friends and sent them away happy with their sport, a happiness that trickled down in tangible form to the whole village. Some of that happiness was on the table now, because the bottles of wine were a probable gift from one such contented hunting-guest.

  Aldric had lived off field and travel rations long enough to grow weary of beans and lentils made up as stew with leathery meats either smoked or dried or salted, and dared hope he might get a steak, or a few chops, or in the head-forester’s house perhaps even venison. Something crisp-edged and sizzling from the pan or a bed of hot coals, anyway. There was at least wild-boar bacon done that way, but as a garnish for eggs and cheese.

  The main dish was beans, made up as stew.

  He was quick enough to keep any hint of disappointment off his face because this village was under siege, by an enemy beyond reason or parley or treaty. If finding any food other than what they grew themselves meant a journey through woods where the Beast lay in wait, then all the money in his saddlebags could buy no better than he was served now.

  So stew it was, but good stew regardless, store-cupboard beans, bacon and sausage lightened by fresh vegetables from the garden behind the house, spices that must have come in during quieter, happier times, and a splash of fruitfire distilled from local berries. With fresh bread, butter and an aggressive cheese to follow, it was a far better meal than Aldric had expected and he had to restrain his appetite. It was likely that this dinner included donations from other households, enough food to feed all of them for several days, yet too-obvious pity, charity, whatever, would insult the effort put into their welcome. As he waved away an offered third helping in favour of a dried apple and a little more wine, he caught the look of relief on Aline’s face and realised he’d judged the situation right.

  When they finished, Evthan pushed back his chair from the table and coaxed life into a long-stemmed pipe. Logs in the stove snapped and settled, dishes clattered from the kitchen as Aline packed away far more than mere leftovers, and an air of comfort settled over the house. Aldric guessed it was far from usual, and sat quietly so as not to disturb it. He could have forgotten the atmosphere outside altogether had it not been for Gueynor. Even when her aunt left she stayed behind, fascinated by her uncle’s guest yet also nervous. She was afraid of the Beast, afraid of the man who had arrived in armour and still carried weapons, maybe even afraid of her uncle. Did Evthan lash out at the remnants of his family when despair became too much for him to bear? Or was she afraid for him, for his loss of reputation, for what a stranger’s success might do to the little self-esteem he had left? Aldric didn’t know.

  What he did know was that her high-boned cheeks and braided pale-blonde hair were achingly familiar. There had been no women in his life since the parting with Tehal Kyrin, Several had tried to catch his eye and once caught had looked appealing enough, but cold company rented with cold cash held no appeal. Gueynor was different. She wore typical Jouvaine peasant clothing of loose blouse and skirt, boots and bodice, all embroidered and her best clothes, but she wore them as if they were more even than that. Their eyes met, and Aldric was the first to venture a smile, hoping for one in return.

  At that instant a deep, sonorous wail rose and fell out among the trees. Gueynor gasped, her gaze tearing away from Aldric towards her uncle’s face as if expecting to see – or startled not to see – a reaction of sorts, but the hunter remained calm. He breathed out fragrant smoke and looked first at the girl, then at Aldric.

  “The Beast,” he said, “is in our woods again.”

  Aldric set down his cup, noting how his hand transferred a tremor to the surface of the wine, and crossed to the open window. Everything was still. No birds sang, not even a breeze moved the air. The world seemed shocked to silence by that melancholy sou
nd, and unbidden images coiled out of his subconscious, souring the wine against his tongue. He had drunk nothing like enough to drown them.

  It was a waking dream, and within the dream was nightmare, a flickering of images like pictures strewn across a table. Snow falling, drifting into a white shroud across a leaden winter landscape. From that stillness, the sound of tears and a buzz of glutted flies. The mingled reek of incense and roses, gross red blossoms with thorns like talons. Flame, and candlelight, and the distant mournful howling of a wolf beneath a silver full-blown moon. Pain, and the gaudy splattering of blood across cracked milk-white marble…

  He leaned against the wall and stared at Evthan.

  “Are you sure that thing’s a wolf?”

  “I told you before,” the hunter said. “Not a wolf. The wolf.” He drew on his pipe while Aldric lifted his discarded cup again and took a thoughtful sip. There was no tremor this time, but the blood-red wine made him wish he had asked for white instead. As he sat down he tried to impose order on the thousand thoughts which tumbled through his mind.

  “What does your Overlord say about all this? And what has he done?” Aldric waited, but heard not even an indrawn breath, and looked from side to side with an air of idle curiosity which wouldn’t have deceived anyone but these strangers. “Was anything done by Lord Geruath?” he asked again. “Anything at all?”

  Gueynor glanced at her uncle, and from the corner of one lash-hooded eye Aldric glimpsed Evthan’s answering nod. What the exchange meant he wasn’t sure, but that she needed given leave to speak was interesting. If ‘interesting’ was the word he wanted, which he doubted very much.

  “The Overlord’s son – Crisen – sent messengers once,” she said, as if daring him to question that once wasn’t enough. “They were asking about…” Under Aldric’s intent stare her voice faltered, once more becoming nervous and uncertain. “They questioned all of us about… About…”

  “About what?” Aldric leaned forward, but Gueynor said nothing more. “Evthan, what did the messengers ask about?”

  “She doesn’t know,” the hunter said. It was a lie. She did know, she had been about to say what she knew, and for whatever reason had decided not.

  “That was why I asked you.” Aldric’s abruptness was deliberate. Evthan was a proud man, and if insulted might lose his temper and forget whatever mask of innocence or ignorance he was hiding behind. It didn’t work.

  “They asked about the Beast,” Evthan said, and instead of becoming angry he grew stiff-necked and haughty instead. “I remind you, hlensyarl, that you are guest in this my house, and—”

  “And I mean to help you hunt this Beast. But I also deserve to learn something about it. I think I have that right, at least. Estai tel’hlaur, Evthanul?” The hunter looked abashed. Proud he might be, but being called on his outburst left him embarrassed and ashamed.

  “I don’t deny it, Kourgath. Your pardon.” Aldric nodded cold acknowledgement and drained his wine-cup down to the bitter dregs, then returned it to the table with a click.

  “I want,” he said, “to see your blacksmith.”

  “I’ll take you to him, Kourgath.” Gueynor was on her feet at once, and this time there was no request for permission. Evthan waved them both from the room and Gueynor led the way, not trying to talk. Aldric didn’t blame her. He had smiled at her more than once since he entered the house, but now, with the Beast’s howl still echoing in his memory, he was no mood for idle chatter.

  *

  The smith showed Aldric where everything was in his small, well-appointed forge, and after a brief word of thanks left with what seemed relief. Gueynor remained behind, watching with unsettling attentiveness. He was certain he had let slip nothing that wasn’t already suspected, but even so her interest disturbed him.

  “Does anyone in Valden own a hunting dog?” he asked and she emerged with a blink from some private inner world.

  “Laine bought two. After the Beast came. But he uses them to catch deer.”

  “They’ll do.” Aldric jerked his head towards the door. “Go speak to him. And take your uncle. This – Laine, was it? – might not want to put his hounds at risk.” Gueynor hesitated. “All right, leave your uncle out of it. But be as persuasive as you can.”

  Directly she left he pulled a bag of new-minted florins from inside his jerkin, shook a dozen into a crucible and pushed them deep into the fire before pumping the bellows until sparks whirled up and the charcoal panted from dull red to a blaze of yellow. Aldric was sweating with more than heat and effort. Now the silver coins had begun to melt he wanted done before anyone realised what he suspected about the Beast, with that suspicion plain in the fire for all to see. The fewer people knew about that, the better, because in this damned strange place with its damned peculiar people anything might happen. They might panic and, in that panic, somebody might die.

  A glance from the doorway assured him that no one was about, and he walked as quickly as quietness allowed to the stable where he had stowed his gear. There were arrows underneath one arm when he came back, with nocks, beeswax and untrimmed fletchings in the other hand to answer awkward questions, and an undercurrent of cursing that he hadn’t thought to get his sequence of action right and do this first.

  Born into one of Alba’s oldest high-clan houses, Aldric was educated as well as any and better than most. The Art Magic was neither approved of by clan-lords nor taught to their children, but he had acquired a certain ability in that direction too, and knowledge about other subjects far from wholesome. It didn’t matter that he had heard the howl at midday in bright sunshine, the moon tomorrow night was full, and he was far too cautious to trust what legends claimed were the limitations of a werewolf.

  Then he stopped shy of the door, because someone was moving inside. With one arrow reversed and held like a dagger, Aldric drifted noiselessly into the smithy, moving sideways away from the betraying brightness at his back. Then he relaxed and lowered the arrow, because the intruder was Gueynor. She hadn’t heard him come in, and from the look of her wouldn’t have done so even if he’d kicked the door wide open.

  “Why did you come back?” he asked. “There’s nothing here to interest you.” Until he heard the clink of silver florins as she turned his money-bag over in her hands. There was indeed interest here, more than enough of it.

  “Coins,” she said. “Silver coins. And others melting. So even you think…” She took several gasping little breaths, fuelling the scream he sensed was building up inside her. “I – I’d hoped they were wrong. But they said…” Her voice was getting shrill. “You don’t think! You’re sure! Or else you wouldn’t—” One hand jerked convulsively and coins chimed across the floor. “It’s true, isn’t it? It’s – it’s—”

  “It’s a precaution, no more!” His iron-edged snap was the vocal equivalent of a slap in the face, enough that the scream died still-born. When Aldric laid the arrows aside and put his hands on her shoulders, not to shake but to reassure, he felt them shiver at the touch. “Gueynor, you only met me what, two hours ago? You don’t know what I know. But it’s a lot less than what I don’t know.”

  “What if you’re right? That the Beast is – might be…” Forced to confront something she had avoided with every waking thought, she looked on the verge of tears.

  Whether he was right or wrong about the rest, Aldric realised what she meant. Most of their legends claimed werebeasts had no choice about their changing, they might not even be aware of it, with no control over the behaviour of their bestial counterparts. They were victims as much as those they killed, and that made the killings doubly tragic. So what were Gueynor and Evthan concealing from him? Why did Crisen Geruath want to hear about the Beast, and then do nothing? What was happening here? And how much had Rynert known of it when he selected Aldric as his emissary? Question piled on question, and like any unrelieved irritant they made him angry. He hid it with a hard, brief smile.

  “Given my talent for error, I’m more likely wrong. But
don’t want you to tell anyone else about this, please. They would only worry.” He cupped her chin with one hand and wiped away her tears with the other, amused at such worldly wisdom from a young man who, just a year ago, had seldom even spoken to a woman. He kissed her cheek, deliberately chaste, yet the touch of her skin warm on his lips tempted him with a bittersweet memory he’d tried to dismiss and didn’t like to dwell on. She was so like Kyrin. Like her, yet unlike her, and most importantly, not her at all. That made things easier.

  Aldric backed away, shaking his head as if waking from a convoluted dream, and with a courteous little bow ushered Gueynor out before locking the door as he should have done at the beginning. There were silver coins on the floor, and steel-tipped arrows on the bench. Aldric stared at and through them, then squared his shoulders and turned towards the forge.

  There was work to do.

  *

  Evthan was standing outside the smithy when he emerged and both men looked at one another, neither wanting to be first to speak. It was the hunter who cleared his throat and broke the uneasy silence.

  “Gueynor saw how you looked at her, and… And she came to the forge to offer payment for the Beast’s life. We can’t do it in coin. But you, you—”

  “Threw her out? Nothing so violent, I hope. I have my reasons.”

  “You’re a strange one, Alban.” Unlike when Rynert used the same word, this wasn’t an insult. “And you treated my niece with…” Evthan searched for the right word. “With courtesy and restraint. If the worst should happen, I don’t want to send you to the Darkness by our rites without your proper name. For the comfort of your spirit. And that name isn’t Kourgath. I beg pardon if I offend.”

  “You don’t.” But you understand enough Alban to realise ‘kourgath’ is never more than a nickname. What else do you know that I’ve yet to find out? He gave the man a formal bow. “My proper name is safe enough with you, Evthan Wolfsbane.”