In the Red Lord's Reach Page 4

  "So you watched," said Alaric. "Did you know her?"

  The boy bent, drew a branch aside to expose her face. He studied her features for some time, and then he nodded. "I know her."

  "She was chained in the Red Lord's tower. He was torturing her without reason."

  Again the boy nodded.

  "She told me that she was not the first innocent to be taken."

  The boy stepped nearer to Alaric. "Are you leaving?"

  "Yes. I have no wish to die by torture." In the space of a heartbeat, he recalled the boy sitting at his feet, listening and whistling counterpoint to the lute, and he made a decision. "Would you like to come with me?"

  "Come with you?"

  "You could be my apprentice, learn the minstrel's trade, and see the wonders of the wide world."

  "No one leaves this valley," said the boy. "It is the Red Lord's law."

  "I leave. Will you come along?"

  The boy stood a long moment in thought, fingering the horn at his belt, and then he said, "Yes."

  Alaric smiled stiffly—he feared it was more a grimace than a smile, for his face felt rigid, as if made of cold clay—and he stretched his free hand toward the boy. "Give me your pledge."

  The boy clasped his hand firmly.

  "What is your name?" asked Alaric.

  "Valdin."

  "Valdin, we shall be friends from this day forward."

  "We shall be friends."

  "Our journey begins now. Come, walk close beside me." Silently, he added, And I shall show you a new form of travel. He half turned away from the boy, to gaze up at the darkly looming mountain slope, and then a tremendous blow struck him across the back of the head and he fell, rolling, tumbling, down the grassy path until he struck and wedged among some rocks. The sword slid from his nerveless fingers, clattering away in the darkness, and his arms and legs seemed to float away with it. The moon rocked crazily over his head, and the earth heaved beneath him as he struggled for consciousness. Above him, the horn bayed again and again, its note mingling with the roaring in his ears.

  Dizzy and sick, he lay still, denying the call to oblivion with all the strength of his mind, and at last the world steadied about him. Feigning a swoon yet, he looked out upon the landscape with slitted eyes. The boy stood above him, staff raised for another blow. Without moving his head, Alaric could see down the slope some distance; he chose a spot that he thought the boy would have some trouble scrambling to quickly, and he went there.

  Behind him, the boy's startled cry was loud. Alaric oriented himself swiftly, then flitted still farther away. From a safe distance, he watched and listened to the boy beating the brush for his vanished quarry. Soon, two men were toiling up the slope to join the youngster—Alaric guessed that he knew those two men well enough. They had not been with the boy long when his cries indicated that they were beating him. Alaric hoped they beat him well.

  After they had gone back to their cottage, he returned to the burial site and found his sword and lute and knapsack. He wiped the bloody blade on a clump of grass and sheathed it. The body was still there. He wondered if anyone but himself would ever mourn her.

  Down at the river, the castle of the Red Lord sat grim and silent in the moonlight. Briefly, Alaric thought of vengeance, for himself and for her and for all those innocents that had come before—vengeance on behalf of folk too terrified or too resigned to seek it for themselves. Perhaps he was the one person who could wreak that vengeance and escape with his life. He grasped the pommel of the sword, and his hand shook and his head spun and he, had to close his eyes against the memory of the black blood gushing out of her heart. I have killed enough for now.

  He turned away. His head ached horribly, and he needed rest. The next mountain peak would be safe enough; he found a grove of stunted trees some distance below it and claimed their shelter for the night.

  As he closed his eyes against the glare of the moon, he pushed away all thought that someday he might return.

  Part Two

  The Mountain Fastness

  FROM HIS RESTING place deep in the mountains, Alaric could not see the valley of the Red Lord. Yet behind his eyes, its image lingered: thatched huts huddled like frightened sheep in the wide fields, the great stone fortress looming like a vulture over the river, the Red Lord himself clothed in the color of blood and striding through his peasants' lives like a god. And the high tower, most sharply etched image of all, where the Red Lord satisfied the darkest cravings of his heart. Alaric shivered, though the campfire crackled bright at his feet. Beside him, his unsheathed sword glinted in the flamelight. A mere wish could take him back to the castle, to a silent search and a silent execution.

  Am I to begin righting the wrongs of the world, Dall? he asked of his beloved mentor's memory. He could have flitted to that lonely grave in an instant, stood above it to contemplate the pattern of the grasses on its mounded surface, but that pattern would yield no answer. Dall the minstrel had never killed another human being; in this, as in so many things, Alaric had surpassed his old friend.

  He lay back against a tree. Supper had long since been served in the Red Lord's stronghold, and the scraps of the meal tossed to quarreling dogs. The courtyard would be quiet now, a few men-at-arms standing the weary watch till dawn. Alaric had not been inside the hall so late, but he was sure that only a handful of guards stirred there also, and probably one or two others at the door of the Lord's own chamber. This moment would be perfect for the killing, if only he knew where that chamber lay. But he did not. And so he waited, dozing by the fire, as he had waited for two days already—considering every possible approach, waiting for the perfect plan to come to him.

  Waiting for the courage.

  All his life he had run away from danger. If the sword had not been a keepsake, he would have sold it long since. But it was a treasure to him, a remnant of lost days of love and laughter with the Princess Solinde, her brother Jeris, and the mocking dwarf who was their father's jester. He could heft it with some grace, because those had also been days of sham combat with Jeris, their wooden weapons clashing beneath the summer sun, quilted armor soaking up their sweat. The blade which was the prince's parting gift had drawn blood only once, only that one terrible time; Alaric had never raised it in anger. Nor was it anger he felt now, only a cold loathing, as for a venomous spider. That loathing kept him in the mountains that hedged the Red Lord's valley, when he could be lazing on some warm hearth singing songs of love… but it was not a strong enough emotion to carry him back to the fortress.

  Yet it was too strong simply to fade away. He was not a warrior, but he was one man who could do the deed.

  He wondered if by now the Red Lord had chosen another victim to shackle in his tower. In that tiny prison room, in the middle of the night, one might kill the valley's dreadful master with only that helpless peasant for witness. Alaric's hand closed on the pommel of his sword. There would be guards standing beyond the door, he guessed, discreetly far from the Red Lord's pleasure; he would have to be quick, strike hard and sure before his quarry could utter a sound. Strike as he had done once already. His arms remembered the feel of the blade plunging through human flesh and bone, his inner eye the gout of blood which followed. His fingers shook, though he gripped the sword with whitened knuckles. Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow. He slid the blade into its scabbard; then he kicked dirt over the fire and curled up in his cloak. Sleep was long in claiming him.

  He awoke to a foot prodding his shoulder. A man stood over him, a heavy staff in his hands, its charred and sharpened end pointing at Alaric.

  Alaric smiled. "Good morn," he said.

  The man grunted. He wore the ragged remains of a linen shirt and trews, with a goatskin pulled over his shoulders as a cloak. His feet were bare and horny, the nails dirty and overgrown like animal claws. He gestured peremptorily with the staff. "Get up."

  Alaric obliged him slowly. He made no attempt to touch the sword, seeing the man's eyes flicker in that direction. "My name
is Alaric," he said, "and I am a minstrel. See, over there, that bundle contains my lute. I'll play it for you, if you like."

  The man scraped the sword toward himself with one foot, then picked it up with his left hand, cradling the staff in his right like a knight couching a lance for the charge. "A pretty piece of weaponry you have here, minstrel," he said, and he smiled, showing a mouth that was missing three teeth. "And you asked to use it, too, by burning wood most of the night on this mountain."

  "It was a very small fire," said Alaric, "and I didn't think anyone lived in this wilderness to see it."

  "Oh, we live here, if you want to call it a life. We live here." He made a sharp motion with the sword, and if the blade had not been sheathed, Alaric would have flinched, so close did it come to his belly. "Throw that knife down and step back from it."

  Alaric did as he said, and the man scooped the knife up with two fingers of the hand that held the sword.

  "Are you a bandit?" the minstrel asked.

  His captor laughed. "Oh, yes, we are bandits. We plunder and live a soft life up here in the mountains." He jerked his head toward his right shoulder. "Come along, minstrel. You can entertain at our bandit feast."

  "I'll need my lute for that."

  "Well, then bring it. But mark you show me it's nothing more than a lute before we take another step."

  Alaric unwrapped the instrument slowly, and when the man was satisfied with its identity, he wrapped it up again, to protect it from the morning damp. His knapsack contained little more than a change of clothing; his captor passed it with a glance, and Alaric slung both bundles over his shoulder. He started walking.

  They took no path, for there was none, not even a goat trail. Underfoot were stones rimmed with tough grass, slippery with dew. The second time he fell, Alaric would have stopped to nurse his battered shins, but the sharp end of the staff urged him onward. "Up there," said the man, pointing to a boulder-strewn incline.

  A depression, relatively free of obstructions, followed the base of the rise and curved around it in the distance. "Can't we go that way?" asked Alaric.

  "Climb."

  The minstrel could have reached the top of the slope in an eyeblink with his power, but so long as another human being watched, he dared not. Instead, panting, he clutched at the rocks with fingers scraped raw and climbed. His captor moved beside him, still carrying staff and sword and knife; he seemed not to need his hands for the ascent at all. They made slow, steady progress, and Alaric began to wonder what they would see at the summit.

  He never found out. Well below the top, hidden from the view of anyone beneath by a broad ledge, was the entrance of a cave. Alaric and his captor squeezed through the narrow opening. Inside was darkness and a rank smell.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the feeble illumination from behind him, Alaric was able to pick out nearby human figures. He also became aware of the walls and ceiling—the space around him was scarcely more than a pocket in the mountainside, and a few bodies filled it up. The smell, he realized, was that of their unwashed flesh.

  "Here he is," said his captor.

  "Does he have food?" asked a woman.

  "No. He had food yesterday, but he ate it all."

  The woman keened softly. "How can he travel without food?"

  "He is a fool," said Alaric's captor.

  "I planned to hunt," said Alaric.

  "You are a fool," said another woman. "There's nothing to hunt in these mountains."

  "There are wild goats," said Alaric.

  "Goats!" said a man. "Shall we turn him loose and watch him hunt the goats of these mountains!"

  "Let's eat him," said the first woman. At her words, a hush fell over the crowd, not even the shuffle of feet marring it.

  Alaric edged sideways till rock was at his back and he was no longer silhouetted against the entrance. "I can find you food," he said, "if you're hungry. But if you eat me, you won't have the benefit of my services, nor my music."

  "My baby is hungry," said the woman. "I can't give milk without food."

  "The stranger says he can find us food," said the other woman. "Where?"

  "A secret place," replied Alaric.

  "The valley," said the woman who had spoken of her baby. "He'll bring the Red Lord's men to hunt us down."

  "Nearer than the valley," said Alaric.

  "Show me," said his captor.

  "I can't do that. You must trust me."

  "We trust no one."

  "Swear on your mother's grave that you will not harm me," said Alaric, "and I will swear on mine that I'll not bring you harm."

  "As if such swearing would mean anything to the Red Lord!"

  "I am not the Red Lord's man. I am not of the valley at all."

  "You could have come to the valley since the last of us left. You could be his man… though I can't recall that he ever let an outlander live."

  "He's done it now!" cried the woman. "To deceive us!"

  "Let me leave," said Alaric, "and I'll return before the sun marks noon. I couldn't travel to the valley and back in that short a time."

  "He has the Red Lord's men hidden in our mountains!" wailed the woman.

  "Hush, Malgis," said the second woman. "We would know if they were in our mountains."

  "I'll leave you my lute as ransom," said Alaric. "My sword, my cloak, all… but you must give me back my knife."

  "He hunts with a knife," muttered one of the men.

  "I have my methods. I promise you, you will not regret giving me my freedom."

  His captor, having dropped the staff, the sword, and the knife in other hands, stepped close to Alaric and gripped the minstrel's shoulders with strong fingers. He turned Alaric's face to the light of the entrance and gazed at it long. "I brought you here because I thought you were the Red Lord's spy. You were too close to this meeting place. You didn't move on with yesterday morning, as any traveler would. But if it be true that you are nothing but a minstrel, that you aren't of the valley, then I have saved your life this day; for if you had gone on to the valley, you would surely be on the road to death right now. The Red Lord greets travelers most unpleasantly, minstrel, this I promise you."

  "I know," said Alaric. "I have been to the valley, I have seen and heard terrible things, and I have narrowly missed the fate you are thinking of. I have no love for the Red Lord, believe me. And if you will conquer your fear of me, I can help you, I swear it."

  "Why were you lying so long at your campfire, then, minstrel?"

  "I was thinking of how I might kill him."

  The gasp of the crowd sounded like a sudden gust of wind through the entrance to the cave.

  "You are a fool," said one of the men.

  "Possibly," said Alaric. "I wasn't quite sure that I would try it. Now I'll put off the decision while I find you food."

  His captor let his shoulders loose. "Go," he said. He passed the knife to Alaric. "Bring the food back here before noon. We will not be here when you return, but we will see you. And if you should prove something other than a minstrel who owes no allegiance to the Red Lord, you will never see any of us again."

  Alaric squeezed through the cave entrance. Outside, balancing on the ledge that hid the opening from below, he turned back. Darkness lay behind him, and he could see nothing inside now that his eyes were narrowed by sunlight. He said, "Who are you folk?"

  His captor answered. "The Red Lord wanted each of us, and we cheated him. We are the exiles of the valley."

  Alaric nodded and started down the mountainside. The descent was more treacherous than the climb had been, but shorter, because he did not intend to reach the bottom. He angled toward an outcropping of rock below and to one side of the cave entrance; behind it, he could not be seen from the opening. He vanished.

  Many days' journey south was a dense forest where game was plentiful and scarcely knew the fear of man. Alaric hunted there when he could find no easier source of food, either in manor house or peasant hut. Among the trees was a clear
brook where deer drank in the morning; he went to it, appearing some distance from the verge. No animals were within sight, so he settled down to wait, leafy bushes cloaking his body, wind blowing his scent away from the water. A short time passed before a doe peered out of the greenery on the far side of the stream. Alaric held himself immobile while she edged toward the flowing water, head turning from side to side as she sought signs of danger. At last she bent to drink. Alaric was beside her in an instant, and before she could startle he had plunged his knife into her throat, hooked an arm about her neck, and wrestled her to the ground. Their strengths were evenly matched, for the doe weighed near as much as he did, but hers ebbed fast with her life's blood. When she stopped struggling, he hefted the carcass across his shoulders and returned to the mountains.

  He appeared a short walk from his campsite of the previous night, in a place he hoped none of the exiles would have reason to be watching. The spot seemed to be deserted. He dropped the deer and then wriggled his back and shoulders, which had been creaking under the heavy weight. After catching his breath, he bent to the task of skinning and dressing out the animal.

  Some time later, just as the sun was reaching its zenith, he arrived at the bottom of the slope that led to the cave. He had walked there, using the same route that his captor had selected; though it was unmarked, he remembered every step of the way, as he always remembered such things. He had wrapped a forequarter of the deer in the skin, carrying it over his shoulder, and now he threw it down upon the rocks.

  "Come get it, my friends!" he shouted. "I'm not going to climb with this load!" He sat down on a boulder to wait for them.

  Noon passed, and no one came to him.

  "Don't tell me I've done this for nothing!" he said at last. He stood up, hands on hips, looking around in annoyance. "I haven't any army with me—surely you can see that by now! I thought you folk were hungry!"