She could hear Givan shouting, ‘No! No!’ But this was followed by a low snarling growl and the sound of bones being crunched and split.
Sheera eased her way back into her shelter and, as silently as she could, fed twigs to the smouldering fire, blowing it to life. The branches to her left quivered, and she heard the beast snuffling beyond them. Forcing herself to stay calm, she continued to work at the fire. A small finger of flame licked at the wood, then gathered itself; she picked up a dry branch and held it to the flame. Snow tipped into her shelter as the beast beyond pushed its snout forward. With great care Sheera took the smoking branch from the fire and turned, lifting it to where she could almost see the beast’s head. Acrid smoke curled into the creature’s nostrils and it snorted hard, pulling back abruptly.
Sheera returned the branch to the fire and waited. She could hear it feeding beyond the shelter.
But would it return?
Nuada was awakened close to dawn by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up, his eyes bleary, his body aching from the intake of ale. A lantern had been placed on the table by the bed and he recognized Groundsel’s squat figure sitting beside it.
‘What… why are you here?’ asked Nuada. His mouth was dry and he reached for the tankard beside his bed; it contained flat beer, but even this was welcome. He shivered. Outside the snow was falling fast and a cold wind blew through the gaps in the rough-hewn door-frame. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders. ‘Is something wrong, Lord Groundsel?’
‘No,’ answered the man. ‘At least, I do not believe so. You spoke well this evening. I could not sleep, so I thought we could talk.’
Nuada swung from the bed and moved to an iron brazier in which the fire was dying. He stoked it with sticks and twigs until a flicker of flame began at the centre, then he added larger chunks of wood.
Groundsel sat quietly, his eyes unfocused. Nuada returned to his bed and waited. The outlaw leader had discarded his silken shirt and now wore the familiar thrown leather jerkin of the forester.
‘What troubles you, my Lord?’
‘Nothing. I fear nothing. I want for nothing. I am no fool, Nuada. I know that — had you chosen to — you could have made me a villain, a swine or a murdering dog. Those men who cheered me could just as easily have been persuaded to hang me. I know this… and I know I am not a hero. I know…’
Nuada remained silent while Groundsel scratched his short-cropped hair and rubbed at his round ugly face. ‘You know what I am saying?’
Nuada nodded, but still he did not speak. ‘I enjoyed your tale,’ said Groundsel, his voice dropping to a near whisper. ‘I enjoyed being cheered. And now I feel… I don’t know how I feel. A little sad, maybe. You understand?’ His dark button eyes fixed on Nuada.
‘Is it still a good feeling?’ asked the poet.
‘Yes and no. I’ve killed a lot of people, Nuada; I’ve robbed and I’ve cheated; I’ve lied. I am not a hero; that fire threatened to destroy all I’ve built. And the monster? I wanted to impress the girl. I am not a hero.’
‘A man is whatever he wishes to be,’ said Nuada softly. ‘There are no rigid patterns, no iron moulds. We are not cast from bronze. The hero Petric once headed an army which looted three cities. I have read the histories — his men raped and slaughtered thousands. But at the end he chose a different road.’
‘I cannot change. I am what I am: a runaway slave who murdered his master. I am the Ape. I am Groundsel. And I have never had cause to regret what I have become.’
‘Then why are you troubled?’
Groundsel leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. ‘Your tale was a lie. A flattery. And yet it touched me… because it ought to have been true. I have never cared about being loved. But tonight they cheered me, they lifted me high. And that, poet, was the finest moment of my life. It does not matter that I didn’t deserve it — but I wish I had.’
‘Let me ask you something, my Lord. When you stood before the beast and you saw its awesome power, were you not frightened?’
‘I was,’ Groundsel admitted.
‘And when it bore down on Arian, did it not occur to you that you could be killed as you charged to rescue her?’
‘I did not think of rescue.’
‘But you saw that it was about to slay her?’
‘Yes, that is true.’
‘And you charged the beast — and almost died. Every man there saw the deed. You are too hard on yourself. It was heroic, and it touched all who saw it.’
‘You confuse me,’ said Groundsel. ‘Tell me, does Arian love Llaw Gyffes?’
‘I think that she does,’ answered Nuada.
The outlaw leader stood. ‘I was going to have him killed. I was going to take her — willing or unwilling. But now I owe him, for if he had not leapt upon the beast, I would now be dead and I would have missed the only moment of magic in my life. Gods, I am tired. And there’s too much ale in this fat belly.’ He walked to the doorway but Nuada’s voice halted him.
‘My Lord!’
‘Yes,’ answered Groundsel, without turning.
‘You are a better man than you know. And I am glad I told the tale well.’
Groundsel walked out into the snow and Nuada settled back on his bed.
For five days a blizzard raged over the forest. Teams of hunters roamed the western wood, seeking signs of the were-beasts. One gigantic wolf creature was found dead in a drift and the howling was heard no more. The winter tore at the forest and the mountains, temperatures dropping tb forty below zero. In the stockaded village families stayed inside for much of the day, only emerging to gather wood for their fires. Of Groundsel himself little was seen; he took to walking the hills, avoiding his men. Nuada spent time with Arian and Llaw, and soon began to feel that boredom would kill him before the winter ended. There were few unattached women in the village, and those there were plied a trade he felt loath to patronize.
As the days passed, the lure of Cithaeron grew. He had the gold pieces Groundsel had given him — more than enough to pay for his passage. And he imagined the marble palaces, the beautiful nubile women and — most of all — the warm golden sunshine. Soft beds, good food — cooked with spices, or in wine — clean clothes and hot baths. He pictured himself swimming in a blue sea, the sun on his back.
He talked to Groundsel’s men. Apparently the Royal Road to Pertia Port was less than half a day’s walk away; once on the road it was two days to Pertia.
Even so, Nuada did not relish the journey.
But then Groundsel ceased his lonely walks and took to sitting in the hall, gloomy and sullen, his eyes on Arian. If Llaw noticed he gave no sign of it, but the outlaw leader tried to goad him on several occasions. The former blacksmith would have none of it. But Nuada knew it was only a matter of time before the two men came to blows, and he did not want to be in the village when the violence came.
He liked Llaw, and in a curious way Groundsel also.
On the morning of the sixth day Nuada slipped away from the village, continuing his way west through the frozen forest, seeking the sanctuary of the Royal Road with its inns and taverns. He walked for most of the day and made his camp in a shallow cave out of the wind. There he lit a fire and berated himself for his stupidity. The village had at least been warm and welcoming; out here death stalked him with icy fingers. The following morning, cold and frightened, he continued on his way, but the paths he had been told of were disguised by snowfall and the grey, lowering sky offered no clue to direction. He stumbled on, his feet numb, his body trembling, and by noon he was hopelessly lost.