Reinard.
He and his band of bloodthirsty cut-throats had their headquarters in Graven and were an open, festering sore in the body of trade. Caravans were sacked, pilgrims were murdered, women were raped. Yet an army could not seek them out, so vast was the forest.
Reinard. Sired by a prince of Hell, born to a noblewoman of Ulalia. Or so he told it. Rek had heard that his mother was a Lentrian whore and his father a nameless sailor. He had never repeated this intelligence – he did not, as the phrase went, have the guts for it. Even if he had, he mused, he would not keep them long once he tried it. One of Reinard’s favourite pastimes with prisoners was to roast sections of them over hot coals and serve the meat to those poor unfortunates taken prisoner with them. If he met Reinard, the best thing would be to flatter the hell out of him. And if that didn’t work, to give
him the latest news, send him in the direction of the nearest caravan and ride swiftly from his domain.
Rek had made sure he knew the details of all the caravans passing through Graven and their probable routes. Silks, jewels, spices, slaves, cattle. In truth he had no wish to part with this information. Nothing would please him better than to ride through Graven quietly, knowing the caravanners’ fate was in the lap of the gods.
The chestnut’s hooves made little sound on the snow, and Rek kept the pace to a gentle walk in case hidden roots should cause the horse to stumble. The cold began to work its way through his warm clothing and his feet were soon feeling frozen within the doeskin boots. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of sheepskin mittens.
The horse plodded on. At noon, Rek stopped for a brief, cold meal, hobbling the gelding by a frozen stream. With a thick Vagrian dagger he chipped away the ice, allowing the beast to drink, then gave him a handful of oats. He stroked the long neck and the chestnut’s head came up sharply, teeth bared. Rek leapt backwards, falling into a deep snowdrift. He lay there for a moment, then smiled.
‘I knew you didn’t like me,’ he said. The horse turned to look at him and snorted.
As he was about to mount, Rek glanced at the horse’s hind-quarters. Deep switch scars showed by the tail.
Gently, his hand moved over them. ‘So,’ he said, ‘someone took a whip to you, eh, Daffodil? Didn’t break your spirit did they, boy?’ He swung into the saddle. With luck, he reckoned, he should be free of the forest in five days.
Gnarled oaks with twisted roots cast ominous dusk shadows across the track and night breezes set the branches to whispering as Rek walked the gelding deeper into the forest. The moon was rising above the trees, casting a ghostly light on the trail. Teeth chattering, he began to cast about for a good camping site, finding one an hour later in a small hollow by an ice-covered pool. He built a stall in some bushes to keep the worst of the wind from the horse, fed it and then built a small fire by a fallen oak and a large boulder. Out of the wind, the heat reflected from the stone, Rek brewed tea to help down his dried beef; then he pulled his blanket over his shoulders, leaned against the oak and watched the flames dance.
A skinny fox poked its snout through a bush, peering at the fire. On impulse, Rek threw it a strip of beef. The animal flicked its eyes from the man to the morsel and back again, before darting out to snatch the meat from the frozen ground. Then it vanished into the night. Rek held out his hands to the fire and thought of Horeb.
The burly innkeeper had raised him after Rek’s father had been killed in the northern wars against the Sathuli. Honest, loyal, strong and dependable – Horeb was all of these. And he was kind, a prince among men.
Rek had managed to repay him one well-remembered night when three Vagrian deserters had attacked him in an alley near the inn.