Caddoran

  Caddoran

  Roger Taylor

  Roger Taylor

  Caddoran

  Chapter 1

  Mist folded around the five figures on the beach, reducing their world to a grey, shifting dome, and deadening everything around them. Even if they had not been afraid of discovery, it would have made them lower their voices.

  Hyrald massaged his left arm with his right hand, to stave off the chilly dampness that was threatening to make him shiver. His sister moved to his side and voiced the inevitable question.

  ‘Where are we?’

  Hyrald would have liked to reply, ‘Just another damned lake. We’ll find shelter for the night and move around it in the morning,’ but every sense told him otherwise.

  ‘It’s the sea, Adren,’ he said flatly.

  Standing only a few paces away, Thyrn, slight and restless, and his uncle, Nordath, both turned to him as they caught the reply. The third man, Rhavvan, taller and heavier than the others, presumably also heard but made no response. He continued staring intently into the mist.

  ‘What?’ Thyrn demanded querulously.

  ‘The sea,’ Hyrald confirmed, more relaxed now that the word had been spoken, though he glanced uneasily at Rhavvan, who had moved further away and now stood vague and insubstantial at the shadowy limit of his vision.

  Thyrn looked around into the greyness as if for an ally. ‘The sea! It can’t be. The sea’s to the east, not north. Are you sure? How do you know? Gods, we’ll be trapped if we can’t move on…’

  ‘Sniff the air.’ Hyrald cut across the outburst almost viciously. He was in no mood to debate the obvious and Thyrn’s nervous disposition had to be firmly handled if it was not to run out of control. ‘That’s salt. I remember it well enough now. Be quiet.’ He raised a hand to emphasize the order.

  Thyrn blew out a steaming breath into the mist and stamped a foot irritably. Water welled up around his boot. Hyrald caught his eye and he fell still.

  Into the ensuing silence came the sound that Hyrald was listening for. A soft, distant lapping. He motioned the group forward and soon they were standing at the water’s edge. It glistened, oily smooth in the dull light, and quite still save for an occasional slow welling like the sleeping breath of a great animal. A thin foam-specked rim slithered slightly towards them, then retreated.

  ‘This is the sea?’ Thyrn whispered, curious now, as well as frightened. ‘I always thought it would be noisy – violent – great waves crashing in. Like in the old tales – and pictures.’ He waved his arms in imitation, then crouched down and tentatively dipped a finger into the water. Hyrald watched him – Thyrn could bring an almost uncanny intensity to the most trivial of actions – and it was rarely possible to predict what he would do next. He sniffed his damp finger then, without hesitation, sucked it noisily. His face wrinkled in distaste and he spat drily and wiped his hand across his mouth.

  ‘I just told you it was salt,’ Hyrald said. Almost in spite of himself, and as had proved the case before, he felt his irritation turning into a mixture of compassion and amusement at Thyrn’s naive curiosity. ‘It’s the sea all right. I’ve only seen it once, and that briefly and a long time ago – before Adren here was born – but that smell’s unmistakable. Takes me right back.’ He pulled a wry face as he pushed the old memories away. They were too much of a burden now, too full of different times. ‘I suppose it’s quiet because there’s no wind, or…’

  ‘Move!’

  The voice was soft, but commanding. It was Rhavvan’s. He was abruptly among them, urging them forwards, his arms spread as if to gather them all together. There was the same purposefulness in his moving as previously there had been in his motionless watching. It allowed no pause. Thyrn staggered to his feet fearfully, but made no sound. Hyrald and Adren took his arms to steady him, but he needed little support and was almost immediately half walking, half trotting ahead of them, his uncle following close behind him.

  Hyrald looked significantly at Rhavvan serving as rearguard. He was answered with a brief hand mime that told him, ‘Riders,’ and fingers held up which said, ‘Two, maybe three.’

  Hyrald nodded and drew his sword nervously. Both circumstances and his personal inclination led him towards evasion in preference to confrontation, but with no idea where they were or where they were going, the latter was very probable. Noting her brother’s action, Adren drew her sword also. They strode on in silence, Rhavvan occasionally inclining his head to catch any sounds behind them. Hyrald took solace from the fact that though they were lost, so too were their pursuers, and the mist hid everyone alike. Then the soft padding of his feet intruded to dispel this faint comfort and he looked down – mist would not hide the footprints they were leaving.

  Even as the realization impinged on him, Rhavvan grimaced and hissed out, ‘Stand, they’re on us!’

  Nordath moved in front of Thyrn protectively, his sword uneasily extended. Thyrn crouched low behind him. In front of them in turn, Hyrald and Adren stood either side of Rhavvan. Both kept a good distance away from him however, noting that he was hefting his long staff in preference to his sword, and to be hit accidentally by that was only marginally less damaging than being hit on purpose!

  Then Rhavvan was crouching low and signalling them to do the same.

  Struggling to control his breathing, Hyrald screwed up his eyes and peered into the shifting greyness. More thoughts that he did not want leaked into his mind. What was he doing here? What madness was abroad that would make Vashnar proclaim the Death Cry against them, turning him, his sister and Rhavvan from hunters into hunted? He tightened his grip on the sword and gritted his teeth to dispel the questions; there were no answers to be had here – they were only a hindrance. He must focus completely on what was happening.

  Within a heartbeat of this resolve, a shapeless movement in the mist ahead of him formed itself into a rider.

  Perhaps they’re not after us. Perhaps they’re fishermen or something. Not everyone in the country’s searching for us – surely? It was an unexpected and unsettling thought, and it made Hyrald falter as he braced himself. Then it and all doubts were gone, for as the rider drew nearer he saw the drawn sword. And he recognized the uniform of the Arvenshelm Wardens.

  This was no foolish villager looking for easy money. Vashnar was sending his own men the length of the country against them! And they had drawn swords without challenge.

  The implications almost unmanned Hyrald. He began to tremble violently, and his mind was filled with visions of throwing down his own sword and begging for mercy, or alternatively, dashing off into the mist and abandoning everything.

  Rhavvan’s voice cut through his fear. ‘Yours, Hyrald! Left side!’

  At the same time he became aware of Rhavvan surging upwards, his long staff lunging towards the rider’s head. The Death Cry was the Death Cry – no choices – and as though drawn after him, like an inadequate shadow, Hyrald too was on his feet and swinging a wild double-handed blow at the figure now above him, sword raised. The rider gave a brief cry of alarm and instinctively straightened up to avoid Rhavvan’s staff, but the speed of his horse and that of Rhavvan’s attack gave him little chance; Hyrald knew that the man’s neck had been broken even as the flat of his own sword struck him across the chest. The impact knocked Hyrald backwards and he tripped, nearly losing the sword. The corpse fell clear of him but he rolled over several times nevertheless, desperate to be away from it.

  As he staggered to his feet he was aware of violent action to his left as Adren and Rhavvan encountered a second rider, but before he could move to help them a third rider was emerging from the mist. He saw that it was another Warden but half in stark panic and half in a sudden, raging anger, he somehow jumped aside from the galloping horse and blindly thrust out his s
word.

  This time, he did lose it, though he was dragged some way before it was torn from him. As he tumbled on to all fours, he saw the rider sliding gracefully out of his saddle. Hyrald hesitated for a moment then stood up, reaching for a long knife in his belt. But the rider dropped on to his knees and slowly fell forwards. His fall was halted momentarily as the sword, embedded in his chest, struck the sand, then he tumbled onto his side.

  A noise behind Hyrald made him turn sharply, his knife extended in front of him and swinging from side to side in a dangerous arc.

  ‘Easy.’

  It was Rhavvan, crouching low, and edging towards him sideways, his staff extended and sweeping like Hyrald’s knife.

  Adren, some way from them and hazy in the mist, was crouching similarly. Nordath and Thyrn seemed not to have moved.

  How long had that taken? Hyrald thought, irrelevantly. Scarcely seconds, he presumed – and almost certainly two men were dead – suddenly cold now beyond anything this mist could bring. But time in combat was not measured thus. The moments just gone when he had seen Thyrn taste the seawater and pushed aside his own unwanted childhood memories were now the dim past.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Rhavvan had to ask the question twice before Hyrald heard it. ‘Yes, yes,’ he nodded eventually. He was shivering.

  For another strange passage of time, the five remained silent and still, partly uncertain what to do, partly watching and listening for any further attack. Then a groan rose into the damp air, drawing them all back to the present. It was the rider that Rhavvan and Adren had dealt with. Rhavvan slowly straightened and walked over to him.

  ‘I can’t hear anyone else,’ he said. ‘And they’d be on us by now if there were others nearby. Get their horses, Adren. Nordath, see what they’ve got in the way of supplies.’ He glanced at Hyrald and then at the third fallen rider. ‘You go and get your sword back.’ An unsteadiness in his voice marred the briskness he was affecting.

  Knife poised and teeth bared uneasily, Hyrald lifted the cloak which had draped itself over the fallen rider’s head. He was relieved to see a heavily bearded and lined face. He was far from certain how he would have responded had he found himself looking into a face he knew, or that of some fresh-faced young recruit. Gingerly, he felt about the man’s throat for a pulse, though he knew he would find nothing. There was a stillness about the body that he recognized well enough.

  More distressing was the retrieval of his sword. It had jammed between the man’s ribs, and freeing it involved a deal of brute force, causing the corpse to twitch disturbingly and to emit strange noises. When he finally succeeded in wrenching it free, he pushed it three times into the soft sand to clean it, then skimmed it noisily through the silent sea.

  ‘Wardens’, he said needlessly as he joined Rhavvan, kneeling by the second downed rider. ‘Vashnar’s.’ Rhavvan nodded but held up a hand for silence.

  ‘How many more of you are there?’ he asked the rider.

  Hyrald knelt beside him. This time the victimwas a young man, his face distorted by pain and fear, but again Hyrald was relieved not to recognize him. Not that it gave him much consolation. Stranger or no, he was still a Warden, and they were all a long way from Arvenshelm. His earlier questions about what Vashnar was doing returned in full force.

  ‘How many more of you are there?’ Rhavvan was asking again.

  ‘You’ve killed me,’ the rider said through clenched teeth. ‘I’m dying.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Rhavvan said. ‘You’ve been lucky. Especially drawing on us without a challenge. Your two companions are dead but all you’ve got, as far as I can tell, is a broken shoulder.’

  Fear returned to the rider’s face, then he made a lunge towards a knife in his belt. The attempt ended in his crying out in pain and collapsing back.

  ‘I did tell you you’d broken your shoulder,’ Rhavvan said, shaking his head. ‘But then I suppose if you’d been the kind of person to listen to advice, you’d never have ended up in the Wardens, would you?’

  With a deft movement he produced his own knife and brandished it significantly in the man’s face. Then, none too gently, he heaved him into a sitting position, cut a length from his surcoat, bound the injured arm across his chest, and dragged him to his feet. It was swiftly done, but it was a noisy procedure which made Hyrald and the others wince openly and left the young man gasping with pain and leaning heavily on Rhavvan.

  ‘Listen to me,’ the big man said forcefully.

  He had to say it twice more before the rider looked at him, eyes ill-focused.

  ‘How many are in your company? Where are they?’

  The rider’s face became sullen.

  Rhavvan gave up. ‘All right. We can’t help you further. Go back along your tracks. You’ll find help eventually.’

  ‘We can’t leave him,’ Nordath objected. ‘He can hardly stand, let alone walk.’

  ‘What the hell else can we do with him?’ Rhavvan retorted.

  Nordath stammered. ‘I… I don’t know, but we haven’t seen even a farmhouse for two days and if there were only these three, he’ll die of exposure… or starvation, or something.’

  ‘So might we all, before we’re through,’ Rhavvan snapped. He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead and voiced the question that kept returning to Hyrald. ‘What in the name of all that’s sane is happening?’ He flicked a thumb towards Thyrn. We start off chasing this errant Caddoran. “A discreet matter,” Vashnar tells us – Warden to Warden. No Cry to be called – no public fuss. Then, no sooner do we find him than theDeath Cry’s proclaimed against us. I didn’t even know it was still legal. And against all of us! It’s madness. What are we doing wandering about in a part of the country where no one lives, no idea where we are, where we’re going…’

  ‘We’re going north, Rhavvan.’ It was Thyrn, anxious and earnest. ‘There are other countries up there, and a great city – so big that… ’

  Rhavvan turned to him angrily, making him flinch and step backwards. The big man pointed upwards. ‘There’s a moon up there, boy, but it doesn’t mean we can get to it. City or no city, it may have escaped your notice but we’ve just run into the sea where we didn’t expect to find it. And now we’ve got Wardens – Wardens, no less – our own people, at our backs.’

  Hyrald laid a quietening hand on his arm.

  Rhavvan paused, then growling to himself and shaking off the hand, he turned away from Thyrn. ‘I know, I know,’ he said to Hyrald. ‘Not his fault. No one’s fault – except Vashnar’s. But…’

  ‘Come on,’ Hyrald said. ‘Let’s move. We haven’t the time for debate. We’ve got to keep moving. We’ll have to head west along the coast and see where we come to. At least anyone following will be as lost as we are.’ He looked at the young Warden still leaning on Rhavvan. ‘You’ve got a choice. Stay here, or come with us. If we come across a village we’ll leave you there.’

  The Warden, holding his bound arm stiffly and swaying slightly, returned his gaze. ‘Can I have my horse?’ he asked.

  Hyrald extended his arm to stop Rhavvan’s advance. ‘You’re lucky to be alive, lad. Just take this message back to the others. We don’t know what’s going on. Whatever Thyrn’s done, it probably needs no more than disciplining by the Caddoran Congress, and the rest of us have done nothing. Vashnar had no right to proclaim even the Cry against us, let alone the Death Cry – we’re here at his asking.’ He leaned forward. We’ve had no Hearing – nothing.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ the Warden said, shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, you do now.’

  The young man met his gaze awkwardly. Hyrald looked at him intently, then at the bodies of the two other men lying nearby. It was not difficult to see what had happened once the Death Cry had been proclaimed. ‘Barrack room talk, eh? Told you it would be easy money, did they? Or put you in well with Vashnar?’ There was no reply. ‘Well, you’re a lifetime wiser than you were a few minutes ago.
As are your friends. Ask more questions in future.’ He glanced at his companions. ‘We’ll give you a couple of days’ food and water – that’s the best we can do. Head back the way you came – you won’t enjoy it but you should make it. And anyone you meet on the way, tell them what I’ve said. The more people who’ve heard about it, the safer you’ll be when you get back to Arvenshelm – whatever’s going on there.’ An unexpected thought came to him. ‘And tell them too, that as things are, we’ve no choice but to treat anyone who tries to stop us as mortal enemies, but one day, somehow, we’ll be back for a Hearing – for justice. Do you understand?’

  A soft cry from Thyrn and a gasp from Rhavvan made the Warden start before he could reply. Rhavvan stepped forward, his staff poised defensively as a strange swaying shape emerged uneasily from the mist.

  Chapter 2

  Krim glowered bleary-eyed at the grimy window through which the spring sunlight was filtering into the murky hall. His hand clutched fitfully at a shabby remnant of what had once been an ornately embroidered curtain but withdrew at the first hint of a snowfall of ancient dust. The curtain, swaying up to the gloomy ceiling, was attached to a mechanism that had ceased to function shortly after Krim had arrived to take up his late father’s duties many years ago. It was one of several things that had been a constant source of strain between Krim and Ector – the Moot Palace’s Most Noble Artisan – a man of similar vintage and disposition whose charge it was to maintain the fabric of the rambling cluster of buildings that constituted the Moot Palace.

  Krim curled his lip and turned away from the window to look to the protection of his own charges from the blanching touch of the sun. Tall, thin, and alarmingly straight, he moved like a large and very stiff insect. So much so that even those who knew him, caught unawares, would tend to flinch in anticipation of the creaking of joints that might reasonably be expected from such a gait. But Krim moved silently. Indeed, but for the occasional hacking cough – not dissimilar to that of a gagging dog, though explosively short and very loud – everything about Krim was silent. It was a necessary part of his office.