In the Red Lord's Reach Read online

  Hidden by thick brush, Alaric watched him—watched his eyes that looked straight at the Red Lord's castle, watched his lips that, from time to time, whispered curses. There was agony in those eyes and on those lips; Gilo's torment had begun already, before the Red Lord could touch him. And despite everything, Alaric felt a stab of pity for him.

  He heard the sound of footsteps then—hard boots crunching on loose pebbles. Some distance down the hillside, a dozen of the Red Lord's men were climbing toward the blasted tree.

  There was time, Alaric knew, for him to reach Gilo and carry him away. Time and to spare, before the soldiers finished their climb, to deliver him to a new life in the south, far from the nomads and his father, and safe from appetite of the Red Lord. A new life, another chance, all in the space of a heartbeat. Several heartbeats passed, along with the steady crunch of gravel.

  He jumped then, but only to the cover of a more distant thicket. A terrible punishment, Simir, he thought, but it is not for me to counter your judgment.

  The soldiers approached the tree warily, their swords drawn. Soon, though, they realized that Gilo was no bait for an ambush, only a sacrifice, and they slashed his bonds and marched him down the slope. Surrounded by the heralds of his future, Gilo walked stiff-legged, but without hesitating, without stumbling, and with his head held high.

  Alaric looked away at last, a shudder coursing through him. And then he was in the north once more, and in the distance lay the nomad camp, bustling with morning activity. He ran toward the tents, and the people, as fast as his legs could carry him.

  ****

  HE MADE NO more southward journeys. But that did not keep him from looking in that direction often, as often as all of Simir's people did.

  "Too soon, too soon," a woman would say to him, though she would be scanning the southern horizon herself, with a long-handled spoon in her fist and a pot steaming under her hands. She knew how long the high chief's journey should take; all the nomads did. They gauged the time not just by the days that passed, but by the miles they traveled and by the changes in their deer. While Simir's company was gone, the new calves grew long-legged and sturdy; the bucks' antlers spread and lengthened like strange, naked branches reaching for the sun; and even the does—to Alaric's amazement—sprouted antlers, nubs welling from their foreheads into slender fingers pointing forward and back. For the deer, the warm season moved at a smooth and steady pace; they never had reason to look anxiously to the south.

  "Too soon, too soon," someone would say. And then, late one afternoon, when the cookfires were blazing and the scent of stewing game seemed to envelope the whole camp, it was no longer too soon.

  A sharp-eyed lad on watch with the herd saw them first, and he shouted the news so wildly that the deer started and snorted and tossed their heads. Word passed like a storm wind through the camp, creating a great noise and bustle. Like a song, the name leaped from mouth to mouth: Simir, Simir! Only later, when someone thought to count the approaching figures, did the high chief's people realize that more deer than had gone south were returning, and every one bore a rider.

  ****

  THE NOMADS STREAMED out to welcome their leader, who rode straight and hard as only a man coming home would ride. They scarcely let him dismount before they mobbed him, crying out his name, grasping at him as if they needed the touch of his flesh to be sure he was real. He pressed hands all among the crowd, bellowing greetings in every direction. But Alaric's was the hand he clasped most firmly.

  "You did stay," he said, his voice barely audible in the tumult.

  "I said I would," Alaric replied.

  Simir waved toward the other riders, who had followed in a cluster some distance behind him and were just now reining in their deer. The people who had greeted him so warmly were less forward with them, for among the men who had gone south with Simir were nine strangers.

  Alaric recognized them.

  They did not look as they had when last he had seen them. Gone were the linen tatters that had passed as their clothing, gone the mangy goatskin cloaks. Instead, they wore the nomads' leather garments, and good boots on their feet. And they sat their steeds with confidence, they who had once scrambled barefoot and starveling in the mountains. Their hair betrayed them, though; blond as Simir's own, it marked them as born in the Red Lord's valley.

  The pale-haired newcomers remained mounted after their nomad companions had joined the welcoming crowd. Seven men and two women, they looked about nervously, eyes ever returning to one another, seeking reassurance. Even their leader, Berown, whom Alaric remembered as a hard man clinging to the remnants of an old pride, seemed cowed.

  There had been eleven of them, back in the mountains. Missing were the two who knew Alaric's secret.

  Simir raised an arm for silence, and when his people had hushed, he made a broad gesture toward the strangers. "These are exiles from the Red Lord's land," he said in a loud, carrying voice, "just as I was. We found them in the mountains, near death, and we brought them with us out of pity. I hope that you will take them to your hearts, and that the north will be good to them, as it has been to me."

  At that, people pressed forward to help the newcomers down, to clasp their hands and offer them food, and to give them the smiles that Simir's return had prompted.

  "And a troublesome bundle they've been," the high chief muttered as he turned once more to Alaric. Taking the minstrel's arm, he pushed through the throng toward his own tent, answering with nods and a lifted hand the greetings that still assailed him from every side. At last he reached his fire, and beckoning to Kata, who had stayed there while so many others had rushed away, he slipped into his shelter.

  Inside, he set his hands on his hips and looked from Kata to Alaric. "Has all been well since I left?"

  "Quite well," said Kata.

  "Good. And with you, my son?"

  "Well enough. Though I missed you. I missed your laugh."

  Simir smiled. "I missed your songs. It was a long journey." The smile faded. "But a successful one."

  Alaric looked down at the rug beneath his feet.

  The high chief set his big hand on Alaric's shoulder. "They are all far away," he said firmly, "and we will not speak of them again."

  Alaric raised his head. "As you will, Simir."

  "You had other success, I hope," said Kata.

  Simir nodded to her. "Four bags of the plants. We gathered all we could find. And not a Red Lord's man did we see the whole time." His fingers tightened on Alaric's shoulder a moment and then let go. "Just this ragtag bunch, half dead of hunger."

  "You could have left them to the other half," Kata said. "We have enough of our own mouths to feed, and there's a hard winter coming, Simir. I've told you that before."

  "We couldn't leave them; they might have set him free." He shook his head. "They didn't want to come; we had to be a bit rough about persuading them. But when they're used to us, they'll be content enough. And what do nine more mouths mean? We'll manage."

  "No hunters among them, I'll warrant."

  "They'll learn."

  "They gathered roots and berries in the mountains," said Alaric. "They had no bows for hunting."

  Both Simir and Kata looked to him.

  "I met them there. I offered to guide them to the south, where life would be softer, but they wouldn't go. They were eleven then, at the end of last winter."

  "They swore they were only nine," said Simir. "If we left two hiding in the mountains…" He frowned deeply.

  As much for his own sake as for Simir's, Alaric said, "I'll find out."

  ****

  BEROWN WAS CROUCHING by one of the more distant fires, taking a bowl of stew from the hands of a stout matron. When he noticed Alaric standing on the other side of the flames, he almost dropped the bowl. "You!" He scrambled to his feet, one arm curled protectively about the food.

  "Good eve," said Alaric.

  "So this is where you came from." And he glanced down at the bowl, as if suddenly afraid o
f its contents.

  "No, I am a guest among them, as you are."

  "Guest! Is that what you call it?" His eyes darted to the two men who stood some paces off, swords buckled to their waists, watching him.

  "Better to live here than to die in the mountains," said Alaric "At any rate, they tell me you were dying. You don't look so bad, Berown, none of you do. I suppose they fed you on the journey north."

  He nodded hesitantly.

  "They're good people, my friend. You'll be happy among them. Malgis and Daugas would have been happy, too. Why aren't they with you?"

  Berown's lips pressed together whitely. "Don't you know? You drove them to it."

  Alaric frowned, a chill of foreboding touching the back of his neck. "What do you mean?"

  "You tricked them into following you. Where were you leading them? To death, or to something worse? Some foul witch's place, wasn't it, where you'd drain their blood and use it in your brews?"

  The words seemed to freeze his very marrow. Spoken here in the open, where anyone could hear, that name—witch—made him want to shrink away, to use that witch's power to escape. He fought the impulse with all his strength. "Berown—"

  "They told us about you! A minstrel you said you were, a simple traveler, when all the time you wanted to carry us all off with you, to serve your evil purposes."

  "No! That isn't—"

  "They told us! They saw you use your witch's power. Deny it if you like, but I know the truth when I hear it. Before their eyes, you melted away like mist. Daugas said so, and he was no fool!"

  Alaric took a step toward him, and Berown backed off twice as far, the bowl still clutched in his hands. Beside him, the woman who had given him the food looked on, her face suffused with puzzlement. A few other people were drifting near, drawn by the raised voices.

  "Daugas was hungry," Alaric said firmly. "Hunger can make the mind play strange tricks. Whatever he thought he saw was in his imagination, nothing more. I'm no witch!"

  Berown spat on the ground. "Malgis was mad before you found us; but she was madder still after running from you. She wouldn't stay in the mountains any longer; she said she wanted to go home. So she went down into the valley, in full daylight, and no one could keep Daugas from going after her. We never saw either of them again."

  "Berown—"

  "Your fault, witch! You lured them, and when they realized your lure was evil, they lost all hope." He backed off yet another pace. "And here we all are, in your clutches." Abruptly, he threw the bowl to the ground, and its contents splashed the fire. "Have I lived so long as an exile just to come to this?"

  "Berown, listen to me!" Alaric raised a pleading hand toward the man and then, seeing him retreat again, curled it into a fist and dropped it to his side. "I am not a witch, Berown. I don't know what Malgis and Daugas thought they saw, or dreamed they saw. I only tried to lead them to safety. But she was afraid. She turned back. Not from fear of me, Berown, but from fear of the outside world. That was her madness, and finally, it made her go home. '' He felt an ache behind his eyes as he remembered her pathetic, emaciated face. "I tried to help you, Berown. You know that. I never meant you any harm."

  "They died because of you."

  Alaric shook his head. "Because of themselves."

  He saw the man waver, saw the clash of fear and anger in his face give way to uncertainty. Malgis had been mad, that was sure. And he must know, perhaps even from his own experience, that starvation could bring visions in its wake, and raving. He had seen nothing with his own eyes, that was the most important thing. He wavered.

  "I am sorry about them, Berown," Alaric said. "Truly sorry. I would have it otherwise, I swear. But the nine of you, at least, are safe now."

  Berown straightened his back at that and looked around, wariness in his eyes. "Safe?" he said. "Safe among our enemies?"

  "Not yours. Not anymore." He backed off a few steps, and when Berown just stood his ground, he turned and walked away.

  Halfway to Simir's fire, he felt a tug at his sleeve: the woman who had served Berown his dinner. "Are you truly not a witch, minstrel?" she asked.

  He tried to smile at her, and thought he succeeded partly. "No, kind lady, I am not."

  "What a shame," she murmured, and let him go.

  ****

  THAT EVENING, AT a small fire kindled some hundred paces from Simir's tent, where the two of them could sit alone with no listeners but the stars in the sky, he told the high chief about himself—about the long road behind him and the many people left along the way; about the troubles that his witch's power had brought him, and saved him from; about the doubts and fears that had driven him. It was a long chronicle, for one not yet twenty summers old, and the tale of Malgis and Daugas was only a small part of it; still, in spite of all that he had said to Berown, he felt the weight of their deaths on his shoulders.

  "Kata was right," he murmured, toying with a cup of deer's-milk wine. "I am a coward. I could have saved them both in spite of their fear. I had only to take them away, kicking and struggling as they might, and then they could never have gone back to the valley."

  "It isn't easy to make other people's decisions for them," said Simir. "One learns that, as high chief."

  "I wanted to help. At the end, all I could do was steal a few goats for them. Oh, I thought it was a good herd for just eleven men and women, but even so, you found them starving."

  "I remember they spoke of goats. They had eaten the last one sometime before we arrived."

  Alaric shook his head. "So even there, I failed them."

  Simir set a hand on his ankle. "You didn't fail them, my son. You helped them to live longer than they would have without you."

  "But I could have done more."

  Simir refilled both their cups from a small flask. Then he looked at Alaric thoughtfully. "Tell me," he said, "what is it that you really wish you had done for these people?"

  Alaric took a deep breath. "I wish that I had killed the Red Lord."

  The high chief nodded.

  "But I was afraid. And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I became. After a time, I convinced myself that there were good reasons not to kill him. His people needed him, with a terrible, twisted need. I told myself that folk who felt that way even deserved him, and that, at any rate, they would never thank me for the deed. So I turned my back on it. And on them."

  "You could have done it, I suppose," Simir murmured.

  "I think so. But there was danger, of course. And I have always tried to avoid danger." He turned the cup in his hands. "So I gave them goats instead." He felt the pain behind his eyes again, the heat of tears that would not come. In his mind's eye, Malgis's face was overlaid with that other woman's, that victim of artful damage whose pain he had ended with his sword. "Only goats."

  Simir sighed. "I have no answer for you, my son."

  Softly, Alaric said, "I could still do it. I could be there before you could blink your eyes, hunt him down in his own castle, stab him to the heart." He looked down into the cup. "But I won't. Because I'm still afraid."

  Simir gripped the hand that held that cup, gripped it firmly with his own big paw. "You're one of us now. Your concerns are here, not in the valley. This life is what matters to you, just as it does to me."

  Alaric looked into his face. Yes, he thought, this is a man who knows what failure is. Not cowardice, but at least failure. "I suppose you are right."

  "You'll understand when winter comes. You won't have time to worry about the past then. The northern winter takes all a man has in him, and more."

  "So I've heard."

  "And this may be a harder one than usual, if Kata is right."

  "Is she generally right?"

  Simir nodded. "But we'll manage, together. We always do. These are strong and determined people, these nomads of the north."

  Alaric smiled a little. "You love them very much, don't you?"

  "They've been good to me. It's easy to love goodness."

  Ala
ric leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell me, did you know any of our new arrivals… before? Berown was one of the Red Lord's men…"

  'I knew him, a little. He was just a boy then, a fresh recruit, but already a bully. Like the rest of us. His years as a fugitive have beaten him down."

  "Not entirely," said Alaric.

  "No, not entirely. But he'll be watched, he and the others."

  "He'll cause trouble, I think."

  "He caused trouble on the way north. I expect more before he settles down." He finished his wine, refilled the cup. "I think perhaps you should stay out of his way for now. I doubt that a few words from your mouth truly convinced him that you're not a witch, and he needs some time in the north before he understands our feelings toward witches. Kata must work on him, on all of them."

  Alaric nodded, though he suspected that Kata was more likely to add to their fear than allay it.

  "I won't say I didn't think of leaving them somewhere along the way north, somewhere like Nuriki's band, where we borrowed the extra deer. But it was my idea to bring them along, and so they are my responsibility." He pointed to Alaric. "As you are."

  "I'll stay away from him."

  "Well, you'll be with me a good part of the time, so you won't have much chance to fall afoul of him. I missed your songs, Alaric; I missed them mightily on that long journey. And I hear that you sang very little while I was gone."

  Alaric shrugged. "You are my best audience, Simir. Without you, the songs seemed… flavorless."

  "And I hear, too, that you kept yourself busy with other things. With learning some warrior's skills."

  "It was just exercise. I am no warrior."

  "Still, I'd like to see what you've learned."

  With a short, dry laugh, Alaric said, "See what I haven't learned, you mean. I'm a poor swordsman, Simir. Every time I try, I prove it over again."