‘Which is the messenger?’ asked the albino.
‘Observe,’ answered the Abbot.
*
Reinard had not had things going his way just recently. An attack on a caravan had been beaten off with heavy losses and then three more of his men had been found dead at dusk – among them his brother Erlik. A prisoner he had taken two days previously had died of fright long before the real entertainment could begin, and the weather had turned for the worse. Bad luck was haunting him and he was at a loss to understand why.
Damn the Speaker, he thought bitterly as he led his men towards the cabin. If he had not been in one of his three-day sleeps the attack on the caravan would have been avoided. Reinard had toyed with the idea of removing his feet as he slept, but good sense and greed had just held sway. Speaker was invaluable. He had come out of his trance as Reinard carried Erlik’s body back to the camp.
‘Do you see what has happened while you slept?’ Reinard had stormed.
‘You lost eight men in a bad raid and a woman slew Erlik, and another after they killed her horse,’ answered Speaker. Reinard stared hard at the old man, peering at the sightless sockets.
‘A woman, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘There was a third man killed. What of him?’
‘Slain by an arrow through the forehead.’
‘Who fired it?’
‘The man called Regnak. The Wanderer who comes here on occasions.’
Reinard shook his head. A woman brought him a goblet of mulled wine and he sat on a large stone by a blazing fire. ‘It can’t be, he wouldn’t dare! Are you sure it was him?’
‘It was him,’ said Speaker. ‘And now I must rest.’
‘Wait! Where are they now?’
‘I shall find out,’ said the old man, returning to his hut. Reinard called for food and summoned Grussin. The axeman squatted on the ground before him.
‘Did you hear?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Do you believe it?’ answered Grussin.
‘It’s ridiculous. But when has the old man been wrong? Am I getting old? When a craven like Rek can attack my men, I must be doing something wrong. I will have him roasted slowly over the fire for this.’
‘We’re getting short of food,’ said Grussin.
‘What?’
‘Short of food. It’s been a long winter and we needed that damn caravan.’
‘There will be others. First, we will find Rek.’
‘Is it worth it?’ asked Grussin.
‘Worth it? He helped some woman to kill my brother. I want that woman staked out and enjoyed by all the men. I want the flesh cut from her body in tiny strips from her feet to her neck. And then the dogs can have her.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic,’ said Reinard, hurling his now empty plate across the fire.
‘No? Well, maybe I’m getting old. When we came here, there seemed to be a reason for it all. I’m beginning to forget what it was.’
‘We came here because Abalayn and his mangy crew had my farm sacked and my family killed. And I haven’t forgotten. You’re not turning soft, are you?’
Grussin noted the gleam in Reinard’s eyes.
‘No, of course not. You’re the leader and whatever you say is fine by me. We will find Rek – and the woman. Why don’t you get some rest?’
‘A curse on rest,’ muttered Reinard. ‘You sleep if you have to. We leave as soon as the old man gives us directions.’
Grussin walked to his hut and hurled himself on his fern-filled bed.
‘You are troubled?’ His woman, Mella, asked him as she kneeled by his side, offering him wine.
‘How would you like to leave?’ he asked, placing a huge hand on her shoulder. She leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Wherever you go, I shall be with you,’ she said.
‘I’m tired of it,’ he said. ‘Tired of the killing. It gets more senseless with every day. He must be mad.’
‘Hush!’ she whispered, wary now. She leaned in to his bearded face and whispered in his ear: ‘Don’t voice your fears. We can leave quietly in the spring. Stay calm and do his bidding until then.’