‘Yes, Dorrin,’ Kyle said. ‘Good night.’
The lad’s straw cot was at the very back of the cabin. After the blankets fell between them, Lyan went to the door and opened it a hand’s breadth. ‘You’re dismissed,’ she said.
‘Not one guard?’ enquired Turath from beyond.
‘I don’t think there will be a sortie this night,’ she answered, quite dryly.
‘Very good, commander.’
She closed the door, bolted it, went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She gave one to Kyle and motioned him to remain silent. The cabin possessed one window opening, next to the door, and she peeped out to make certain the guards had gone before closing the wooden shutters and pulling a muslin cloth across. She crossed to him and raised the glass.
He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him with a raised finger. Leaning close, she whispered, ‘Are you a fool to have come here!’
‘I know … I know,’ he murmured back, his voice low.
She continued, fierce, hissing, ‘There are veterans here from Korel!’
He raised both hands, surrendering. ‘Yes. I agree. We’ll have to leave tonight.’
‘We?’
He was surprised to see her confused, but then she seemed to recover and she set down the wine, her gaze lowered. When she once more met his gaze he understood; she’d taken too long to find her words. ‘Kyle … there are riches, and more, to be won here — I can’t throw all that away …’
He set down his glass as well, fought hard to keep all expression from his face. ‘You were right.’
‘Right?’
‘I was a fool.’
Stung, she shook her head. ‘No … it’s not that. Don’t you understand?’
‘Leave. Now. With me. You and Dorrin. That I understand.’
But she took up her glass and walked away. ‘Now you are being a fool. A romantic fool.’
He picked up his wine as well, threw it back hard and swallowed. He regarded her across the beaten earth floor. In his anger it occurred to him: was this why she still wore her armour? Hadn’t even unbuckled her sword? He murmured, ‘You’re the fool, Lyan.’
Her face stiffened, and she inclined her head as if in farewell. ‘Thank you for saying hello to Dorrin. You mean a lot to him. For his sake, please do not get yourself killed.’
‘For his sake?’
He watched her closely, saw the muscles of her jaw tighten against an answer she might have given, watched her resolutely refuse to speak.
He crossed to the door, unbolted it and glanced out. The muddy mass of tracks and wagon-ruts that was a way out of Mantle town lay mostly empty. He turned back to give her one last look. ‘Give my apologies to Dorrin.’ And he slipped out.
He might have imagined it, but it appeared as if she lurched towards him as he left, but it was too little and too late. So much, he decided, for what might have been between them. He now wondered whether he’d imagined it all — as a romantic fool might.
He yanked his hood low and pulled his cloak tightly about himself, tucking his hand within his shirt to grip the white blade. He meant to head out north immediately; get out of the encampment as swiftly as possible. His route took him past a few timber houses of the old Mantle town. As he crossed in front of one entrance it burst open and out spilled a crowd of rowdy drunken outlanders in a glare of yellow lantern-light. They stumbled into him and he righted one with a quick, ‘Careful, there.’
It was a woman, and she blinked at him, frowning, even as she clenched a fistful of his cloak. He answered the frown, puzzled. She shoved her other hand into his face, showing him the bandaged stump where a thumb would jut.
‘It’s that damned Whiteblade!’ she yelled.
In answer, Kyle yanked free the blade and swept it across her neck in one swift motion. The crowd of outlanders shouted and gagged their horror as her head fell in a gout of jetting blood. He attempted to yank free but her fist still held him tight by the cloak. He chopped off that hand at the wrist.
Other hands grabbed at him and these he severed as well. The crowd — those not clenching stumps of wrists and forearms — now scrambled to give him room. He fled north.
But yells and alarm preceded him. Armed soldiers exited a large tent right in front of him. A few quick cuts crippled these and he pushed inside. He sliced the main centre pole, and as the heavy sailcloth tent billowed down around him he cut his way out at the rear. Now he ran.
Calls for archers sounded all about. He tried to keep to the darker patches of the tent encampment, but more and more torches were being lit as troops crowded the ways. Ahead, across trampled fields and a creek, lay woods. He pounded for the creek. Troops from tents nearby attempted to slow him by blocking his way. The white blade severed shields, vambraces, spear hafts, and two crossbows before their handlers had finished cocking them.
Several arrows hissed past him. One plucked his cloak, then he was tumbling down a muddy slope into a shockingly chill rushing creek. He slogged on. A tossed burning torch crashed into his back, sending him off his feet into the creek. Arrows nipped the waves about him.
‘Get him!’ someone yelled from the shore.
A new voice bellowed, commandingly, ‘Stay out of his reach! Archers, form up!’
Kyle lurched to his feet and stumbled on. He was surprised, then, to see a thick night fog now rolling out of the forest. He couldn’t understand it, but it was a blessing and he made for it.
‘Damned northern giants!’ someone yelled.
‘Fire now!’ the commander ordered.
Kyle dived under the swift waist-high waters. The current buffeted him and the water seemed to suck all warmth from his body. He simply attempted to stay under for as long as he could; he gripped at boulders his questing hands found in the bed, tried to bring his legs down.
Holding his breath, he reflected that never in all his years did he imagine how much he would owe old one-handed Stoop of the Crimson Guard for all those enforced near-drownings in swimming lessons. Finally, his lungs burning, he had to come up and he pushed his face to the surface to suck in a fresh breath of air. He blinked, finding that he’d entered a world of dense swirling banners of fog. Voices shouted, sounding very far off for some reason, as if the fog muted or distorted them. He slogged onward. Gaining the far shore, he heaved his frozen stiff body up the mud and bracken to lie panting, thankful just to be out of that numbing water.
A wide hand gathered up the cloth at his back and yanked him to his feet. ‘What are you doing here?’ a deep voice demanded. Kyle wiped water from his face and peered up at a bearded giant of a fellow in cured leather armour, a spear in his other hand.
‘I’m looking for the Losts.’
The hand released him and urged him along with a push at the back. He nearly fell as his legs wobbled, numb and tingling. ‘They’re coming. We must move.’ Through the curling vapours behind, Kyle glimpsed blurred orange flames bobbing. ‘The fog and creek should delay them, but we’d best give them some room.’
On a hunch, Kyle guessed through numb lips: ‘Are you Baran? Baran Heel?’
‘Yes. And you are the one my mother escorted off our Holding.’ At Kyle’s start, the fellow chuckled. ‘I saw you in the distance.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hunting.’
Baran pushed him on. In the fog it was hard to tell their direction, but Kyle thought it north. The haze thinned as they jogged through the forest. As the night sky cleared and the land rose, he knew they were indeed headed north.
‘This is Bain Holding, isn’t it?’
‘Bain Holding is no more. It has gone the way of my mother’s, and so many others before it.’
‘Oh — I’m sorry.’
‘What is it to you? An outlander.’
He’d never considered himself proud of where he’d come from — quite the opposite, in fact — but the accusation irritated him deeply. ‘I’m no outlander. I’m from the southern plains.’