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| "The hillside was quiet, apart from the sighing of the wind and the mournful bleating of the sheep." |
In the hall of Craec Annwn the soldiers were waking up after their night of revelry. Coughs and groans filled the air as they stirred their stinking, ale-soaked bodies.
The last to wake was a young man whose name was Falen. At twenty years old he was allowed to call himself a man, but in truth he was scarcely more than a lad: his beard was sparse, and his voice still cracked occasionally. He was more hung-over than the rest, his eyeballs as dry as sandpaper and an ache in his head the size of a fist; as he sat up and rubbed his eyes the pain intensified, making him wince and clap his hands to his temples.
There were laughs from the other end of the hall.
“Hey! Look! Baby’s up at last!”
“You all right, mate? Bit of a lightweight, ain’t yer?”
“‘E is, isn’t ‘e?”
“Oi! Falen! You should stick to milk, mate!”
Falen brushed off their scorn with a scowl and a wave of his hand. It was always the same when it came to drinking: the same old taunts the morning after, the same smirks and condescending looks. It would not have been so bad if he had known they were false; but he was famous in the castle for not being able to hold his ale. Last night he had only had two mugs, and now look at him!
He struggled to his feet, swaying only slightly as he looked around for the door. He needed to get out of the castle, he decided: get some fresh air, and five minutes to himself. That would do it. He wouldn’t be missed, not today. Even the Baron would be sleeping it off, the old fool. No-one would be around to check up on him.
His eyes lighted on the corner where he had thrown the prisoner last night, but there was nothing there now, just the odd spot of blood in the rushes. He had only a hazy recollection of what had happened after all the drinking, but it was enough. He shook his head. Poor fellow. Cafan only knew what they had done with him now.
As he stumbled out of the hall and down the passage to the front door more shouts followed him, but he ignored them. He knew where there was a nice shepherd-girl up on the hill who wouldn’t be so displeased to see him. An afternoon with her would do him the world of good, even if she wouldn’t let him lay so much as a hand on her. Just to hear her sing would be enough. She had the voice of an adan.
He barged through the main castle doors into the courtyard, and the high sun hit him full in the face, nearly knocking him sideways. It was accompanied by a din of hammering, sawing, shouting and calling that echoed in his head and made the ache swell unbearably. Life in the castle was in full swing, and had been since sunrise. Blacksmiths pounded and grunted, carpenters sawed and hammered, washer-women nattered and screeched, and serving-boys and ladies-maids preened and flirted; but they all stopped what they were doing to stare and snigger at Falen as he struggled across the courtyard and out of the gate.
The final word came from the sentries on the gate:
“Morning, Falen. Up early, is it?”
“Had a bit much, have we?”
“Mind how you go, now!”
Their jokes attracted the attention of a nearby crowd of urchins who immediately sensed some fun was to be had and swarmed around Falen on his way down the path to the town, laughing and giggling at his unsteady progress and occasional bouts of flatulence. When he grew fed up with their inane chattering and teasing he turned and rushed at them, roaring as fiercely as he could, but the only effect was to make him seem even more hilarious, and after retreating to a safe distance they renewed their baiting with fresh vigour.
He was relived when at last he had staggered through the town and out of the gates and the children gave up and fell back, looking for something else to amuse them. A gust of fresh air hit his face; he breathed it in deeply, soothing his aching head and his churning stomach. That was more like it. Who needed alcohol, anyway? Waste of time, in his opinion.
The hillside was quiet, apart from the sighing of the wind and the mournful bleating of the sheep. As Falen climbed higher up the valley and further from the town he felt the cobwebs blow away, and he even managed a smile. Who cared what they thought, those idiots down in the castle? Let them roll around in their own vomit! He was up here in the fresh air, and he was free!
He cast around expectantly for the familiar form of his favourite shepherd-girl, but, strangely, the field was empty. He frowned. That was unusual. She was always here at this time. He called her name a couple of times, waiting to see if she answered, but there was no reply. She was nowhere to be seen; and it was only then that he realised this part of the hillside was deserted.
He looked over at the next field, where sheep grazed contentedly with their woolly heads down; he looked at the field on the other side, and saw the same. Only the field he was standing in contained no sign of life, not even the smallest bird.
He stopped in his tracks, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. Something at the back of his mind was nudging him, telling him that this was not right, that he should not be here. A queasy sensation began to grow in the bottom of his stomach, and it had nothing to do with last night’s drink.
Deciding that the shepherd-girl could wait until tomorrow, he turned and began walking back down the hillside, quickening his pace with every step. He had not felt this way since he was a child, when he had scurried to his bed past shadows where monsters lurked, knowing that if he stopped for even a second they would have him. Now he was a man, but the fear that grew in him was the same, and it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a run.
Only when he reached the hedge at the bottom of the field did he slow down, his heart hammering, and force himself to stop and look back. There was nothing there. Of course there was nothing! Relief and embarrassment mingled. Why would he ever have thought differently? He was just scaring himself, playing on his own nerves.
He snorted, mocking himself for his own foolishness. He turned back to head towards the town, and before he had gone two paces a sharp blow to the back of his head knocked him unconscious. He had no chance to be surprised, and he did not even feel his limp body hit the dirt.
*
“Wake up.”
Falen groaned as he struggled back into wakefulness. This was definitely the worst hangover he had ever had. His head felt strangely heavy, his nose was blocked up, and he was finding it hard to breathe.
“Wake up.”
Someone slapped him, not hard enough to hurt but just hard enough to get his attention. He opened bleary eyes and peered around. Something was wrong. For one thing he could not move his arms or legs, and for another he seemed to be floating — clouds drifted by below him, and there was a thick branch at his feet. How much had he had to drink, anyway?
“Wake up.”
Whoever that voice belonged to was starting to get on his nerves.
“I’m up,” he said, or at least tried to say. The words came out muffled, and his mouth burned with sudden pain. A quick probe with his tongue found two of his teeth missing. What was going on? He struggled to stand up, or at least sit, but he could not move. Struggling harder, he found that his hands and feet were tied. He looked around again: a man was standing by his head, but the hangover must have been worse than he thought, because the man was upside-down.
That was when a thought that had been waiting patiently in the back of his mind sat up and began waving its hands to get his attention. There was something wrong about the man. His skin was too light, his face too thin. He held something in his hand: a length of rope, stretched taut, which ran from the man’s hand to the branch by Falen’s feet.
The thought waved harder and more urgently.
“Awake yet?” the man said. He peered into Falen’s groggy face, decided otherwise, and without another word he let go of the rope and Falen fell head-first into the stream below him.
Immediately choking water filled his mouth and nostrils. He thrashed about in startled shock, but his hands were tied to his body and his feet were tied to the rope that was strung over the branch above him, and he could not escape. He clasped his eyes and lips tight, resisting the urge to breathe, but it was no good. He needed air. He needed to breathe. Just one breath ... just one ... As purple spots began to creep into the edges of his vision there was a strong tug on his legs, and he was hauled out of the water to hang, gasping and dripping, with his head inches from the stream.
The man watched impassively as Falen sucked in lungfuls of air. After a minute he reached out and turned him round to face him.
“Where is the prisoner?” he said.
Falen struggled to focus on him. “Wh- who are you talking about?”
The man tutted and let go of the rope again.
This time he did not leave Falen under for long, but when he pulled him up he was wide-eyed and panicking.
“Just stop! Stop!” Falen screamed hysterically, spitting out water. “I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just stop!”
The man leaned over the stream, grabbed a handful of his hair, and pulled his face towards him until their noses were almost touching.
“Where is the prisoner?” he repeated.
Falen looked into those eyes, and with a chill he finally realised what it was the thought had been trying to tell him. The man had pale skin and blue eyes, and was not a man at all: it was a beremer, the same beremer (and here a deeper chill ran through him) they had taken from that village yesterday.
Another thought came to him: You’re going to die.
“What- what prisoner?” he stammered, trying not to show the fear bubbling up inside him.
“The one you brought to Craec Annwn yesterday,” the beremer said. “The man from the fishing village. Where is he?”
“I don’t know ...” Falen shook his head and craned his neck, looking for someone to help. But there was no-one.
The beremer slapped him, bringing his attention back. “Look at me,” it said. “Look at me. Do you know a man called Iefor?”
Falen shook his head. “No. I don’t know anything. I’m just a soldier. Please don’t do this ...”
The beremer ignored him. It let go of Falen’s hair and walked over to where the rope was tied to the tree-trunk. When Falen saw what it was about to do he began to struggle again.
“Wait!” he said. “Stop! Stop! Maybe I do know something.”
“I’ll stop when you tell me about Iefor and the prisoner,” the beremer replied coolly.
Falen closed his eyes, thinking hard. “I don’t know about the prisoner. He was already gone when I woke up— Wait!”
The beremer paused in the act of lowering him towards the stream.
“I think I might know about Iefor,” Falen said quickly. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Go on.”
“Someone came around last night, asking for Iefor. Said he had a message.”
“And?”
“Someone said he was with the Baron’s son, Aedwyc. The only person that could be is the Scholar who was hanging around yesterday. He’s the only one Aedwyc sees in his chambers, apart from … you know … the girls.”
“I’m not interested in that. Tell me more about this Scholar.”
Falen’s mind raced, trying to remember everything he knew. Whatever he said would mean the difference between living and dying. “He’s been around before. Comes about once a month. He’s always with Aedwyc, up in his rooms. No-one knows what they do up there. The servants make talk of witch-craft, but it’s all rumour.”
“What else?”
“They say he’s involved in some sort of group, or ... or religion or something. The ones we saw last night, the ones in masks. It’s just rumours, but you never know ...”
“What about the prisoner? You said they’d taken him. Where?”
“I don’t know — probably Padascel. That’s where they take most political prisoners.”
“What was the prince doing with your company?”
“I– I don’t know,” Falen said again. “He came the day before yesterday, on royal business. He just decided to come with us. The Scholar had a royal warrant. We were told to look for a beremer and a man named Beorod. That was all, I swear!”
“Tell me more about this Scholar’s religion. What do they believe? Where do they meet? What did they want with me?”
“I only know the stories.”
“Then tell me the stories.”
Falen licked his lips, trying to ignore the stream flowing below him. “They say it’s the galac-men, that someone’s trying to bring back the old ways again.”
“What else?”
“They– they meet at the standing stones, I think. They make sacrifices to the old gods, the ones the Oscemen banished ...” He trailed off, uncomfortably aware that he was coming to the end of his knowledge.
“What else?” the beremer repeated.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” Falen stared at the length of rope clasped in the beremer’s white hand. The muscles in its arm bunched and flexed with the effort of keeping him aloft — just one arm, Falen could not help but notice. That was all it needed. He didn’t stand a chance.
“Well?” The beremer let the rope slip an inch. Falen’s head brushed the surface of the stream.
“Just wait!” He was panicking and he knew it. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps; he could not think straight; he did not know what else to tell the beremer, or whether it would matter anyway.
The beremer was losing patience, he could tell. It was shifting its feet and staring at him in the same way a cat might stare at a mouse, wondering whether or not to end its misery.
“Just wait!” he repeated. But it was no good. The beremer came to a decision.
“You know what I am, don’t you?” it said.
“Yes — but I won’t tell! I won’t say a thing to anyone! I promise! I swear by Cafan!”
“That name means nothing to me.” The beremer’s voice was cold and dispassionate.
“Please don’t!” Falen was sobbing unashamedly now, the tears trickling over his eyebrows and down his forehead to drop into the rushing waters inches below.
The beremer shook its head. “I’m sorry,” it said. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Wait! No! Wait! Wait—!”
It let go of the rope. Falen plunged downwards, and the rushing cold water surrounded him again.
He held his breath for as long as he could, but it was not long enough. It would never be long enough. As the cold darkness closed in around him and dots began to dance at the edges of his vision, and as his lungs burned and screamed for air, Falen prayed for mercy, for reprieve, for some miracle that would save him.
Cafan was not listening that day.
*
Haemel waited until the body in the stream had stopped twitching, then counted to three hundred in his head before he hauled it out again. It was a dead weight now, and it hung limply as he pulled it to shore and laid it out on the grass. He took Banac’s sword from behind the tree and set to work on the grass, digging a shallow ditch six feet long and three feet deep; his white skin gleamed in the sun, and beads of sweat ran down his arms and chest as he worked.
When he had finished digging the ditch he filled it in again, only now the earth rose in a slight mound where it had been flat. He laid stones on top of the mound and stood beside it in silent contemplation for a long time. Then he took up his clothes and the sword, and walked away.
* * *
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