Graynelore Read online

  In truth, I did not yet understand or recognize just what it was I had been privy to here. What I had witnessed – no, something more than that – what I had unwittingly become a part of. I might have guessed, and called it wychcraft – wychcraft at the hands of an Elfwych. Or else, it was some other unearthly masquerade…a trick; a faerie’s Glamour, or the work of a fell-wisp. Though, none of it was likely in a world that believed only in the certainty of a cold sword. I, a grown man, was far beyond faerie tales!

  ‘I saw you dead…’ I said.

  ‘You mean you wanted me for dead, Wishard!’ she returned with a fury.

  ‘I saw you…your head was broken, taken from your shoulders, played with for a bloody football!’

  We had begun to sidestep each other. I was already holding my sword between us. We were circling warily about it.

  ‘What think you? I was in hiding,’ she said. ‘What better place to conceal myself upon a killing field, than in among the dead?’

  Only, there was an obvious deceit in her voice that betrayed her.

  ‘I think you are an unpractised liar,’ I said. ‘And this is impossible…’

  I raised my sword to make my stroke. What did she have to lie about?

  ‘Oh please, not now!’ she cried. ‘Not him!’

  ‘Eh?’

  Her outburst seemed nonsense. It was not a response to anything I had said. Yet she repeated herself, with even greater venom.

  ‘Please! Not now!’

  Then I felt the heat of the blow. My hesitation had cost me. She had struck first. She had stuck me with a short knife. My loose leather jack, sewn with its paltry strips of hammered iron, was always a poor man’s armour.

  ‘Shit!’

  It was experience moved me then. We were at close quarters. I turned the edge of my sword and instead of using the blade, drove the pommel down hard upon her head. The contact drew blood and tore a sliver of hair and skin from her scalp, knocked her sideways. But it was a poor, glancing blow; I had meant to break her head open.

  I hit her again and she collapsed already senseless.

  ‘Shit, shit!’

  I too was bleeding. And though I should have finished it then, still I held back. I did not kill her. I…could not do it?

  Stupidly – there was the noise and the threat of fighting all about me on the fells – I lowered my arm, sheathed my sword, and knelt down beside her. How might I explain this? (How might I explain any of this?) I wanted to touch her. Not a touch that would hurt her, not like that. Hurting her again would have been easy. I wanted…well, if I could make any sense of what I wanted…I wanted to prove that she was real, ordinary, human. And not some deluded man’s fetch; some foul whimsy brought up out of a night-torment.

  She was wearing the common breeches and reinforced jack of a fighting-man, and yet at her throat there was a gold amulet. It was a single piece and simply fashioned, but this was enough of a conceit (or perhaps a mistake) to mark her apart…only a damned fool or someone confident, in both her rank and her sword arm, would openly wear such an obvious badge of privilege in the frae. I was a soldier-thief. She was my worst enemy. I should have stolen it from her, taken it as my prize; added it to Notyet’s growing purse. I should have loosened her breeches and stolen more…gone on my way and thought no more of it.

  Her arm had fallen into the stream. The closed hand still held the knife. I took it up, threw the knife aside. I lifted her arm and laid it down, clear of the stream. I cupped my hand and, taking water, gently bathed her brow. That was all. As I did I heard the babble of the stream. I would swear this to you; it was speaking to me. Though it whispered, I could plainly hear its call. And I suddenly knew that if I would only listen to its voice then I would understand its words.

  This Elfwych and this Wishard…they are the very same…

  ‘What?’

  When I looked again I saw the stream was turning red.

  ‘Fucking, shit!’

  I was still bleeding. I ran my fingers across the cut. The wound was long, but it was not too deep. Yet it had been a deliberate thrust. What was this Elfwych about? Trying only to injure me, to distract me rather than kill? And why would she do that?

  Then she was moving again, her hand grasping at a tuft of grass, trying to pull herself upright.

  I watched as she slowly dragged herself to her feet.

  There was a moment of indecision. She stood almost within reach of me. What was it? Was she going to come at me again? (Even without her knife.) I lifted my sword, only to stay my hand before it ran clear of the scabbard. She turned slowly, almost invitingly, towards me – but invitingly of what?

  Afterwards, a long time afterwards, I remembered there was an instant then when our eyes briefly met. What did we each see there? What was there between us?

  I could so easily have felled her.

  I could so easily have let her go.

  I did neither.

  Upon the moment, the distant, random clatter of swords striking against swords, the cries and counter cries of men in the frae, was usurped, overlaid by the sudden toning of an iron bell. First there was one, and then came a second in reply, off at some great distance. And then there were many. Each of them, languid, almost soporific in tone; it was a deep and sonorous sound. Their beat was deliberately regular and no sooner heard than the gathered crows – our constant aerial spectators – seemed to scatter above our heads, spiralling ever upwards into the very heights of the sky.

  All around us, near and far, men stayed their arms; the fighting was instantly done with.

  I let go the hilt of my sword, without a care, let it run freely back upon its scabbard.

  The toning of the iron bells was an obvious signal. There were to be no more killings made this day. For it bore all the notes of surrender, and a defeat accepted. Perhaps even the death of a Headman.

  Chapter Seven

  The Unspoken Voice

  When the Elfwych woman turned her back on me and walked away, heading towards The Rise, and Staward Peel, I did nothing more than follow after her.

  I walked a-foot. Dandelion came trailing behind me, her ears pricked but without complaint. If there was any danger remaining, it was far enough away now and of little enough concern to ignore.

  The toning of the iron bells accompanied us.

  ‘You have another name, Elfwych?’ I called out to her, raising my voice to be heard.

  For the briefest moment she faltered in her step, as if caught, surprised to find me still there. ‘Use your eyes and look about you, Wishard,’ she said. ‘Upon Graynelore people die for their names.’ There was a slow drawl to her speech that told me her head was still befuddled by the blows I had struck. Though it had not blunted her tongue; the way she spoke dared me to make an argument. It was a mute point.

  ‘Aye, well, listen to the bells…There has been enough of death,’ I said, honestly enough. ‘What do you say to an equal trade instead…a name for a name?’

  ‘Ha! Does that not depend upon the goods offered being of an equal value, and the trader not simply a common thief?’

  ‘Are you a thief then, Elfwych?’ I was goading her.

  ‘And is my name safe with you, Wishard?’

  ‘Rogrig…’ I corrected her. If I did not answer her question (I did not wish to lie). It seemed she did not want one.

  ‘I am called Norda,’ she said, without inference.

  It was my turn to falter in my step. I turned my head aside, certain I could not easily conceal my reaction to her revelation. I knew the name, of course. Who upon the West or South March of Graynelore did not? This woman was Norda Elfwych, the elder daughter of Stain Elfwych, Headman of his grayne. It was she that Old-man Wishard had set his eye upon (aye, and his lust). She was the prize we were fighting for this day.

  Suddenly the iron bells stopped their toning. One by one, they were quickly stilled. Their message was delivered.

  The silence they left behind them lay thick and heavy upon the air. No natu
ral sound was willing to intrude upon it. It seemed the world had taken a deep breath, and now held it, waiting upon an outcome.

  We continued to walk on together, if always at a safe distance from each other; still wary enemies and adversaries, and neither of us quite willing to take our hands away from our concealed weapons. (No fighting man – or woman – wears but one.) Though I carried my sword sheathed.

  ‘I did not ask you for an escort home, Rogrig Wishard,’ she said, at last, determined to break the uneasy silence between us.

  ‘I did not offer you one, Norda Elfwych,’ I returned.

  ‘Am I to be your prisoner then…is that it? Or perhaps you are to be mine?’ She tried to laugh, only to falter as she stumbled again.

  This time I did not move to help her – though she was not expecting me to – I was being deliberately cautious of her now. She shook her head as if to clear her befuddlement, put a finger to her ear as if to stop the ringing. There was blood. Her pain was more than obvious. Certainly, she must have endured more serious injury – she was a fighter, and by reputation more than equal to many a man – only the last strike of my sword had knocked her cold. That had, obviously, annoyed her. I could read it in her face each time she glanced my way. She was, after all, the daughter of a Headman, and a privileged member of her grayne. (A grayne that, no doubt, felt it had a rightful claim to the title of Graynelord.) In her eyes, she had been brought to ground by a clumsy, common fell-man, a poor soldier-thief without distinction. She had managed to stick me with her knife and could well have finished it. Only, I sensed there was still something more to this than her common annoyance alone.

  You are not even aware of your own true nature.

  Did I say it, did I even think it? Or did she? She was looking my way, but her mouth was not moving. There were no words spoken. I will swear to it. I am a plain man, but I am not an idiot.

  It might have been the voice of the babbling stream (all this time we had continued to follow its course), or else it was the movement of the leaves on a tree, or the scuffling of a breeze as it ran off through the long grass.

  For certain I had felt a connection between us, but I had not understood it for anything more than, what? At best a weak man’s physical desire for a woman. She had roared at me. Why? Was it for my ignorance? (I did not know.) I had mistaken that too. So she had wounded me and I, in my turn, had struck her down. We both might thank the fortunes I had not the wit to take my advantage of her while I might.

  Again I heard the whispers of an unspoken voice:

  How long have I waited upon another…

  ‘What?’ I said.

  Look to Wycken…You must look there…

  ‘Wycken? What did you say, there? What is this trickery?’

  But that was the last of it.

  Before me, Norda Elfwych looked suddenly ashen. Her face had drained white. She fell to her knees and let go the contents of her stomach.

  I chose then to stay silent. I chose to remain Rogrig Stone Heart yet awhile. I waited with her until she was done and had cleaned herself up, then we walked on. We remained always just out of arm’s reach of each other. I deliberately followed a few steps behind her and let Dandy make her own way, free of her reigns.

  We were not travelling alone, nor had we been for some time now. There were many others coming off the killing fields, instinctively covering the same ground. Some were riding, but as many men went a-foot now, driving their over-laden hobby-horses before them: the hobbs made to carry more than their full weight of dead men slung across their backs. Elfwych and Wishard moving in the same direction…

  The fighting was done with. The day was won and it was lost. We were nearing The Rise, and close to the tower of Staward Peel, where we would wait upon the pronouncement of the manner of our truce, that we might all take ourselves safely to our homes again.

  Chapter Eight

  The Broken Tower

  All settlements throughout Graynelore, though loosely planned, were broadly similar, often built upon lonely and inhospitable ground. They grew up higgledy-piggledy, sometimes upon exposed hilltops, sometimes hidden away within closed valleys, or kept a secret within dense woodland, as the country allowed. The best houses, though small and squat, were always made of stone, with walls so thick that, from within, you could not hold an ear to the world outside. Lesser dwellings were huddled together, with perhaps a patch of land for pasture, or for grain fields, or for root fields; the staples of our diet. All the graynes – great or small – set their houses as close to the Stronghold of their Headman as familiarity would allow. They maintained them in this manner, not out of any real desire for close community, but rather for mutual safety: common defence against the raider. In a moment of crisis, close kin were in eye sight and earshot of close kin, and might more easily raise the alarm, go to their neighbour’s aid, or make good their escape.

  The Elfwych bastle-houses of The Rise were great in number. Only, as we began to pass them by, it became obvious that many of them were already long abandoned, and others, if still inhabited, were sorely ill-repaired. Strings of fell beasts were being led off nearby pasture, and Norda’s own close kin stood by and watched as Wishards brazenly took them. These were the first spoils of the Elfwych Riding then.

  The weight of men about us steadily grew in number. There might have been as many as two hundred men waiting upon the breach in Stain Elfwych’s broken peel tower. Both sides still held their arms, as was the way of things, but it was more than obvious where the surrender lay.

  At least no man there tried to hinder Norda’s progress. Perhaps aware of her rank, riders shied their hobby-horses aside and gave her way as she approached the door of the broken tower.

  She looked back towards me only once more. I will admit it; I had already deserted her. I had deliberately slipped away into the growing crowds, was already lost to her eyes among the throng; Dandy too. I caught a glimpse of the question on her face. Had I been making certain she was safe…or safely delivered? I dared not disclose myself and attempt an answer. The job was done, either way. Beyond the Riding I, a common fell-man, had no further part to play here. Neither Graynelord nor Headmen sought my opinion of the terms of any truce. Certainly, it was not my place to interfere with the Old-man’s…conquests. Save for this: I was more than curious of that strange connection between us two; that ethereal bond that even now left an Elfwych and a Wishard somehow hopelessly conjoined. I made a vow then. I would play the spy and keep an eye out for Norda Elfwych. Within that broken ruin of a tower there were many vantage points a nimble man could choose to make his perch.

  I used Dandy’s back for my first platform, climbed the broken stonework with ease from then on, and soon found myself sitting pretty within a, largely collapsed, arched wind-eye. The perfect spy hole! The spot gave me the advantage of overlooking both the inner Great Hall and the outer courtyard. The truth of the Elfwych decline had not been overstated. Staward Peel was in a ruinous decay. Its weakened face lay open to the sky in several places it should not have been.

  I carefully watched Norda’s progress through the crowded courtyard. Among the throng I recognized my own close kin, my elder-cousin Wolfrid, and caught sight of Edbur-the-Widdle some way behind the Old-man himself.

  The Graynelord was still mounted upon his beautiful silver-grey hobb, still dressed for show in his best finery and polished body armour. I had last seen him at the head of his grayne leading us into the frae, though I could see no mark of battle upon him. He was looking Norda’s way, staring avidly after her as she approached the breached doorway. His face and balding head stood out bright red with an unhealthy excitement. Suddenly, he stood up in his saddle: another deliberate show of his manhood. There was no disguise here. And if he made no movement to bar her way, content yet, it seemed, to stay his hand and wait upon the moment: he was making his intentions more than obvious.

  When Norda walked across the threshold of the tower she was immediately faced by the remains of her own fami
ly…both the standing and the fallen. From the vantage of my perch, I could see by the way she pinched her nose and gagged at the throat – which she tried to disguise with her hand – it was the stench that first caught her attention. Though, I am certain, she was well used to the smell of the bloodied dead, forgive her reaction. After all, the sack of butchered meat presented to her was all that was left of her own father. I do not make the description frivolously. The tolling iron bells had not lied. If they had called for a truce, they had also warned of a Headman’s death. Stain Elfwych had been killed in battle. For the sport of it – and some small souvenirs – his enemies, my family, had crudely hacked his body into little pieces.

  ‘Ah, my dearest sister, thank the fortunes, she has returned safely to us.’ It was Iccara, Norda’s younger brother, who made the greeting. His face was tight with worry and thick with sweat, though there was no sign of a blood wound upon him. He had been in a heavy fight or else he had been running. With the killing of his father it seemed he was now the Headman of the Elfwych. A feeble weedling man, it was a title he did not want and was not best suited to. Let other men lead; let him alone. Of course, he had no choice in the matter. He may have been Norda’s younger sibling, his beard still a shadow of soft hair, but no woman was ever a Graynelord.

  He pushed his lank hair away from his face and gave her a weak smile.

  Norda appeared to sway, as if her legs were about to give way beneath her, and she might well have let them and swooned, but this was not the time to show a woman’s weakness. She feigned strength, and stood firm.

  ‘This day is lost, then?’ she said, desperately trying to keep emotion out of her voice.

  ‘Aye…lost my hen.’ There was a twitch about Iccara’s left eye. ‘Though not perhaps without a little hope; and even some advantage to it…’

  ‘Advantage, how so?’ she asked, confused. ‘And speak plainly brother, if you can, this day is already sorely long and illused. What are you saying?’