He glanced up at one of the others. ‘Now he insults us,’ he said softly. ‘Now he says we’re not good enough to share his fire.’
‘That’s not what I said at all.’
‘Now he calls me a liar!’ snapped the man, rising and moving towards me, his hand on his dagger. ‘I think you should apologize, bard.’ It was then that I knew for certain they planned to kill me.
‘Well?’ he asked, pushing in close with his hand on his dagger. His breath was foul upon my face, his expression feral. There was nothing to say, and so I said nothing. I heard his knife whisper from its sheath and I tensed myself for the lunge.
Suddenly his head jerked, and I heard a soft thud and the crack of split bone. I blinked in amazement, for an arrow had sprouted from his temple. He stood for a moment, then I heard his knife drop to the snow; his hand slowly moved up to touch the long shaft jutting from the side of his head. His mouth opened, but no words came, then he sagged against me and slid to the ground with blood seeping from his shattered skull.
The other two men stood transfixed.
And Jarek Mace appeared from behind a screen of bushes, walking forward to the fire with his bow looped over his shoulder. Ignoring the corpse, he approached the two men. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice smooth, his smile in place. ‘It is cold, to be sure.’
In that moment everything changed. The two robbers, who had looked so threatening and tough, appeared suddenly to have lost their power. I looked hard at them, but could see only unwashed peasants, confused and uncertain. What strength they had had was gone from them, their power leached away. They were wolves no longer.
‘I think,’ said Jarek Mace, ‘it is time for you to move on. You agree?’
They nodded, but said nothing. ‘Good,’ Mace told them. ‘Very good. Leave your bows behind, and take the body with you.’
Dumbly they dropped their bows to the ground, then walked slowly to where I stood. They did not look at me, but hauled the corpse upright and half-carried, half-dragged it away.
Within moments the little clearing was bare, and apart from the dropped bows and the blood by my feet there was no sign of the intruders.
‘Thank you,’ I managed to say.
‘You are most welcome,’ said Mace, ‘but it was nothing.’
‘You saved my life. He would have killed me.’
‘Yes. Now for the breakfast I promised you.’
‘Breakfast? Shouldn’t we be gone from here? They might come back with others.’
‘They won’t come back, bard,’ he assured me.
‘How can you be certain?’
‘They don’t want to die.’ Standing, he strolled back to the bushes, returning with a small deer slung across his broad shoulders. Thankfully he had already gutted and prepared it, but even then I could not tear my eyes from the deer’s delicate features. I have no aversion to eating venison, but I prefer it skinned and boned. It does my digestion no good at all to see the meat in its original form — and it is hard to appreciate food when its owner’s head lies close to your fire.
Even so the meat was good and Jarek cut the remaining portions and wrapped them in the hide for later use.
‘Well, what are your plans?’ he asked me as we finished our breakfast.
I shrugged. ‘I was told there was a village some six miles to the north. I intend to walk there and try to earn my supper.’
‘And then?’
‘I have thought no further on the subject. I would have starved in Ziraccu had I stayed much longer. Perhaps I will try for the ports and seek passage south.’
He nodded. ‘That’s good thinking. No one in their right mind would want to stay in this war-torn land. Is your power returned yet? I’m getting cold.’
‘No,’ I lied, basking in magick warmth. ‘Not for another hour-maybe two.’
‘Then let us be moving,’ he grunted, pushing himself to his feet and swinging the hide sack to his shoulder. Taking up my harp-bag, I walked alongside him.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the village you spoke of. I have friends there.’
I said nothing more and trudged silently behind him down the narrow trails through the trees. After a while we heard voices and laughter and emerged into a clearing beside the forest road.
It was a scene of murder and pillage. A score or more of rough-garbed woodsmen were moving among the bodies of the slain, ripping away rings and boots, cloaks and jerkins. Two wagons stood by, piled high with furniture and chests. I glanced at the dead — several men, three women, and beyond the road a monk in a bloodstained habit with an axe still jutting from his back.
‘Good morning, Wulf,’ called Jarek, striding across the murder site and hailing a hunchback with a forked beard.
The man looked up and grinned. ‘It is so far, Mace,’ he said. Lifting a small hand-axe, he brought the blade down on the hand of the dead man below him. I grunted in shock as the fingers were sliced in half. The hunchback lifted them, pulling the rings loose before discarding the shattered bones.
‘Who is your squeamish friend?’
‘He is a bard — and a magicker,’ Jarek told him. Then he pointed at the corpse. ‘You’ve missed an earring.’
The hunchback grunted and tore the gold loose; the dead man’s head flopped in the snow. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for long,’ muttered Wulf. ‘What’s in the hide?’
‘Venison.’Looking to share it with friends?’
‘Are you looking to buy it?’
The hunchback let out a cackling laugh. ‘Why should I not take it? There’s twenty of us, and only a fool would fight. You are no fool.’
‘No, I am not,’ Jarek agreed, smiling. ‘But I would kill you, Wulf, then offer to share it with the others. You think they’d fight to avenge you?’
‘Nah,’ said the hunchback. ‘What do you say to this here brooch?’ His bloody hand flicked the gold through the air. Jarek caught it with his left hand, then hefted it for weight.
‘Nice. It’s a bargain.’ Dropping the sack Jarek walked on, stepping over the body of the priest. I hurried after him, keeping my mouth shut and my disgust to myself until we were some distance from the scene.
‘At least he didn’t rape the women,’ said Jarek. ‘He’s very moral that way.’
‘Are you using that as an excuse for him?’
‘He doesn’t need me to excuse him,’ he answered. ‘Wulf is a woodsman — and a good one. But the war had taken its toll, even in the forest. The Count of Ziraccu needed money to hire his mercenaries. So, even — a count has a limited income: he could not afford to maintain his work-force here. Wulf has no job now. Food supplies are scarce, and prices have risen fourfold. He has a family to feed, yet no coin to buy food. What else could he do but take to the road?’
‘He has become a murderer!’
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’
‘You condone the murder of innocent women?’
‘I didn’t kill them,’ he said. ‘Don’t vent your anger on me.’
‘But you were happy to trade with their killers.’
He stopped and turned to face me — the smile, as ever, in place. ‘You are angry, bard, but not with me. You were filled with horror back there, and loathing and disgust. But you said nothing. That is what is burning inside you… not the trade.’
I let out a long sigh and looked away.
‘Come on,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It is a short walk to the village.’
The village was a collection of some twenty-five dwellings, some of simple wood construction beneath sloping roofs of thatch, others more solidly built of clay, mixed with powdered stone, beneath wooden roofs weighted with large stones. They were all single-storey, but equipped with narrow lofts where the children slept. The settlement was situated on the western shore of a long lake and a dozen fishing-boats were drawn up on the mud flats by the water’s edge.