The Grey Man dragged the second corpse inside, then returned with a bucket of water and doused the blood on the ground. ‘Come inside,’ he said, his voice cool.
On leaden legs Niallad stepped across the threshold. The bodies were to the right of the door. The Grey Man pushed it closed and led Niallad into a long, dark window-less room. He lit two lanterns, hanging them on the wall, and Niallad saw that the room was hung with weapons, and targets had been placed around it, some round, as if for archery, others shaped into the forms of men.
‘They think you were responsible for the massacre,’ said Niallad.
‘It is no surprise. Murder and lies usually go together.’
‘I thought you had killed Aric.’
‘So did I, boy. The rug moved under my feet as I lunged at him. Perhaps I’m getting too old for this kind of life.’
The Grey Man stripped off his silk jerkin, leggings and boots, hurling them to a nearby bench. From a chest set against one wall he drew out a leather hunting shirt, buckskin leggings and knee-length moccasins. Dressing swiftly he strapped on a sword-belt then looped a baldric, with seven throwing knives, over his shoulder. He glanced back at Niallad. ‘Get out of those clothes,’ he said. He delved into the chest once more and produced a second shirt of dark leather, which he tossed to Niallad.
‘Why did you save me?’ asked Niallad.
The Grey Man stood silently for a moment. ‘To pay a debt, boy,’ he said at last.
‘My name is Niallad. Please be so kind as to use it.’
‘Very well, Niallad. Get out of those clothes and find yourself a weapon that suits you. I would suggest a shortsword, but there are several sabres. Also choose a hunting knife.’
‘A debt to whom?’
The Grey Man paused. ‘This is no time for questions.’
‘I am the Duke’s son . . .’ Niallad hesitated, seeing again his father’s corpse. ‘I am the Duke of Kydor,’ he continued, his voice trembling. ‘I have seen you kill four men tonight. I want to know why I am here, and what are your intentions.’
The Grey Man moved to a bench and sat down. He rubbed a hand across his face and Niallad saw how tired he was. He was not young, and there were dark rings below his eyes. ‘It was my intention,’ said the Grey Man, ‘to board a ship and leave this land, to find a place where there were no wars, no murders, no scheming politicians, no greed. That was my intention. Instead I am about to be hunted once more. Why did I save you? Because a ghost came to a friend of mine. Because you are young and I knew you feared assassination. Because I am a fool, and somewhere deep inside me there is still a semblance of honour. Take your pick. As to my intentions towards you? I have none. Now, choose a weapon and let us leave more questions until we are away from here.’
‘Who was the ghost?’ persisted Niallad.
‘Your grandfather, Orien the Battle King.’
‘Why would he come to you?’
‘He didn’t. As I said, he came to a friend.’ The Grey Man placed his hand on Niallad’s shoulder. ‘I know this has been a terrible night for you but, believe me, it could get worse. We do not have the time to talk now. Later, when we are away from here, I will answer what questions you have. All right?’
The Grey Man moved away. Niallad removed his tunic and donned the shirt. It was too large, but it felt comfortable. He walked around the room, examining the weapons on display. He chose a sabre with a blued blade and a fist-guard of black-stained brass. It was beautifully balanced. Finding the scabbard and belt, he tried to put it on. But the belt was too large. ‘Here,’ said the Grey Man, tossing him a baldric with a scabbard ring attached. Niallad settled it into place and slipped the scabbard through the reinforced leather loop.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Niallad.
‘We live or we die,’ said the Grey Man.