The Balintol Cycle I

Chapter three

Chapter threeAlmost instantly Palfrey let out a scream — really the yelp he let out was more like a mouse squeak. The two guards ran on, heads high, chests outthrust, pacing Dagert of Paylen stride for stride. Well, that was their duty, what they were paid for. I glanced back.

Palfrey’s shock of tow hair swung wildly as he danced and hobbled along, trying to clutch at his ankle and at the same time run after us.

Dagert did not turn his head.

“Come along, Palfrey, you hulu! Bratch!”

“I’m wounded, I’m wounded!” The words tumbled out all mixed up with squeakings and panting. “I’m skewered through!”

“No you’re not!” Dagert hadn’t even glanced back. “A scratch.”

“Mama Thehico the Healer aid me! Help!”

Not sure to be amused or annoyed I swung back and seized the servant up under the armpits and carried him along like a bundle of cordwood. He did have a long graze down his left shin and blood shone greasily black. He was babbling something to himself under his breath; but he had the sense not to struggle. The need to run as fast as possible coupled with the equally important need of dodging about randomly caused me to carry poor old Palfrey with less gentleness than was seemly for a wounded fellow creature. He yelped a bit but remained still and limp.

Thankfully the shooting became highly erratic as we opened the range and by the time the leaves of the first trees closed over our heads we were in no danger from either arrow or quarrel.

Putting Palfrey down I carefully did not look at Dagert. Palfrey lay on his back with his leg in the air and he clutched his ankle as though it was about to fall off. “Oh, oh, oh,” he moaned.

“Oh, do leave off, Palfrey, for the sweet sake of Harmonia!” Dagert’s voice held a strong note of amusement, although his light laugh did not accompany his words. “Just say thank you nicely to tyr Drajak.”

“Thank you, master, thank you,” gabbled Palfrey still clutching his leg which stuck up in the air like a half-masted flagpole. “I’m shot through!”

“No you’re not, you fambly. Now get on your feet and run with us. D’you want me to leave you alone here — with all those pirates?”

The flagpole leg came down like a drawbridge and Palfrey shot to his feet. “Notor! You wouldn’t—”

“Don’t try me, is all.” With that, Dagert of Paylen started off through the trees. Even on the uneven surface in the shadows he strode along with a lithe easy swagger, your bold adventurer, your dashing cavalier, to the life.

I bent and took Palfrey’s foot in my hand and twisted it to get a look at his wound. He yelped. The gash was a mere graze with a little blood. He’d live.

I said: “As soon as we can safely stop we’ll bind it up. Now come on.” And I gave him a friendly push in the right direction.

“Oh, the persecution I have to put up with!” But he trotted along smartly enough and did not fall behind.

Well, now, I considered as we threaded our way between the tree trunks, my first objective of getting out of doomed Amintin had been achieved. Now it was necessary for me join up with Fweygo and our charges. My confidence in Fweygo was already very high even in the short time of our acquaintance and with the powerful numim Ranaj to assist, the party should have won clear with the head start I’d given them. They were making for Bharang which lay over to the west. Therefore, it was necessary to cross the river, preferably unobserved. That meant this same night as ever was.

If this bright spark Dagert had a flier parked somewhere to the north, he might give me a lift.

In the general confusion of the night, of my interrupted duty, of my feelings about getting this job done and haring off home to Delia, I was fully in the mood to make sure Dagert of Paylen offered me a lift.

Palfrey kept on glancing down the backtrail as he hobbled along.

“They won’t bother to follow a few fugitives, dom,” I told him. “They’ll know that long before we can bring a rescue force they can be aboard their ships and vanished like ghosts.”

“Oh, master, please don’t mention ghosts!” He squeaked up the scale like a mouse caught in a trap. “Especially now, at night, in the forest! It’s positively unhealthy!”

Each to his own. I made myself say in a grave voice as we went on: “All the same, you don’t have to worry over the renders any longer.”

Apart from his untidy shock of straw-colored hair, this Palfrey who was bodyservant to Dagert of Paylen possessed a round snub nose, a twist of native cunning to his lips, a feeling that he understood far more than he admitted. In the fight back there his short sword had been stained with blood, but only slightly, as though he’d stabbed at a reiver once and then considered his duty done. The half-cloak he drew about him from time to time with a nervous gesture was patched but of good quality. No doubt it was a reach me down from the Amak. I did not think you could easily pigeonhole friend Palfrey.

We spent the next couple of burs moving swiftly through the woods — they were scarcely the forest Palfrey had dubbed them — until we passed over a slanting hill tall with rough grass and descended the far slope towards the thin darkly-gleaming streak of the river. We did not speak.

At last Palfrey broke the silence.

“Notor! Can’t we rest now — please? My leg burns like fire. I’m sure my foot is—”

“Your foot will do what feet are sent to Kregen to do. March!”

“Notor,” wailed the unhappy Palfrey. But he kept on going.

We were circling wide around the town to reach the river north of Amintin. The thought occurred to me to wonder why Dagert of Paylen had considered it necessary to land his flier here, when there was bound to be a vollerdrome, however small, within the confines of the walls. That action smacked of secrecy. Bright spark though he was, there was a spirit of deviltry in this fellow, of that there could be no mistake.

Southwards to our left a dull orange reflection hung in the sky. What wind there was carried the sounds away from us. Pirates are, in general and with certain notable exceptions, unpleasant vermin. Their boldness this night of terror boded ill for the coastal towns, indicating a power that felt it economical to destroy a seaport. Killing geese that lay golden eggs is not an economical proposition for thieves.

Palfrey’s injured foot hit a stone or other obstruction in the grass and he staggered and fell against me. I clapped an arm about his narrow waist and hoicked him up. A gasp of pain puffed between his lips.

“Hard,” he half whispered, half stuttered. “H-Hard man!”

“The notor will rest in a moment.”

“Only when we reach the ruins and the voller.”

Judging by the fleeting glimpses of the Maiden with the Many Smiles as clouds passed overhead I fancied it would rain again before dawn. Used though I am to roughing it in all kinds of weather, like any normal person in any normal circumstances I generally prefer to be under cover and dry when it rains. These ruins would offer cover of a sort. If, that is, I could afford to waste time lollygagging about instead of being up and about my duty for the Everoinye.

Anyway, what in a Herrelldrin Hell was this fine fancy Dagert of Paylen doing hiding his flier in some ruins and then footslogging it into Amintin? Mind you, the Star Lords had flung me into the town in something like the same way. And — ruins. We were skirting the riverbank now, heading south towards the fireglow in the sky. The land looked unkempt. It has been said that when buildings grow old the English rebuild and add wings, the Americans knock them down and build new and bigger and the Irish just leave them and build new along the road. From the little I knew this was an ancient land shrouded in mystery with new peoples merely imposing a surface culture. A hardened adventurer feels many emotions at the prospect of ruins and, of these, two are pre-eminent. One: the excitement of financial gain. Two: the anticipation of danger and death.

Palfrey had called a few trees a forest. Dagert had chosen to conceal his voller in ruined buildings rather than in the woods. That presumably indicated they were both urbanites.

As Opaz in the guise of Whetti-Orbium ordained, the rain began as we reached the dark vegetation shrouded mass of the ruins. What they had been in their prime was hard to say; a monastery, a castle, a fortified villa, a series of structures at the least of considerable extent sloping down towards the riverbank. Rain pattered against ancient stone blocks. Mud slicked underfoot. One could hope that the deluge would extinguish the fiery agony of Amintin.

Dagert of Paylen did not hesitate. Between crumbled stone pillars he stalked into the half-darkness of a courtyard. Cracked paving stones surrounded what had once been a fountain. Low, jagged-edged walls surrounded the space. Here no roofs had survived. Everywhere in crack and crevice grew thistles, hardy, bright purple and lustrous green, and nettles of a richer lighter green, loaded with stingers. Ahead gaped blackness beneath an arch of desiccating brickwork. There must be some remnants of roof left over there, then.

Speaking in a soft voice, Dagert said: “Bring her out, Palfrey.”

“Yes, notor.”

Palfrey started across. The odd thing here was that he showed no apparent apprehension about wandering about sinister ruins at night yet he had expressed serious concern over ghosts in the woods. One would have thought that no matter how accustomed to city streets he might be, dark ruins would be another thing altogether.

Despite the smells of mud and damp vegetation the penetrating stink of incense irritated my nostrils before the monotonous sound of chanting reached my ears. Palfrey stopped as though poleaxed.

Dagert’s fist reached down for the hilt of his rapier.

Palfrey half turned and his eyes were the whitest things in his face.

“Over here.” Dagert’s voice sounded like silk drawn over a sword blade. He pointed to the ruins of the courtyard to our right.

The two guards, silent, moving like clumsy dolls, vanished into the shadows as Dagert pulled Palfrey in. Here we were completely concealed and could look out without being observed. I glanced at Dagert’s servant. Poor old Palfrey, his fears of the ghosts of the forests had transferred themselves across with sudden terror to these ruins.

Despite the rain that stench of incense wafted stronger. The chanting — low, monotonous, hypnotic — grew louder.

From the darkness emerged a procession. Now torchlight spilled around the edges of the ruined walls and scythed long streaks of red fire across the paving. Cloaked and hooded figures appeared, two by two, heads bowed and hands clasped. The torchlight illuminated their robes, all a dark red, smoky and sullen. The faces were shrouded in blackness.

Water hissed and sizzled against the orange flare of the torches.

The words of the chant were unintelligible to me. One word, often repeated, dominated. Oltomek. Or, it could have been Altamek. The rain spattered down, the torches hissed, the figures chanted and moved on two by two. At their head they carried a gilded pole on which was mounted a gilded figure of some beast from nightmare. Winged, taloned, fanged, the things ruby eyes glinted and sparkled in the torchlight. The sense of primeval evil reeked from the idol.

Immediately after this gilded blasphemy followed another staff, silvered, upon which a symbol swayed and nodded as the red-cloaked figure crossed the cracked paving. The symbol looked to be a stylized representation of a pair of upflung wings, joined at the bottom, almost touching at their tips, forming an oval round.

Chanting Ultumak or Oltomek, two by two, the figures passed across the courtyard and exited on the far side. Two by two they were swallowed up by darkness. The stench of incense cloyed sickeningly, then the wash of rain cleansed the air. The torchlights died.

Palfrey, shaking, said: “Notor—”

“Madmen,” said Dagert of Paylen. His light laugh sounded more grim than usual. “Hanitcha the Harrower take them! By Krun! They’re no business of mine!”