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Five

Kal clutched Star Thistle's mane and pressed his knees into the mare's flanks, urging her to a more rapid gallop against the stiff north wind that soughed through the restless trees. More than once he had nearly slipped from the saddle in a stupor of exhaustion. He had now alerted three of the homesteads that clung to the Edgemere Road and was fast approaching the outskirts of Wrenhaven. Already he could already see the lights of the Sunken Bottle looming like a beacon in the darkness.

He had lost altogether too much precious time at the Fletcher place. Old Thurfar Fletcher would not at first be persuaded that Kal was not playing a young man's mad prank. It was Thurfar's wife, Fionna, who had finally convinced him that Kal must be in earnest, but not before Kal found himself offering to swear solemnly by the sacred warrant of the orrthon and the Great Glence. At length Thurfar promised to spread the alarm to his immediate neighbours, who lived on the steadings flung out along the eastern margins of Deepmere.

Kal began to pull in the reins of the dark chestnut mare and sprang off her back before she had even halted. He had to find Tudno, the Town Warden, and explain the situation to him in person, his father had emphasized. Tudno was a man of parts, a man you could depend on. He needed to be alerted as soon as possible. His father had added too that Tudno might be found at the alehouse, where he was wont to catch up on the latest news in the valley and, occasionally, the wider world outside. On top of all that, he was an excellent longbowman, one of the best in the Holding.

The Sunken Bottle was a low-slung limestone building in the shape of a carpenter's square, its inside elbow looking onto a paved cobblestone courtyard. Closing the courtyard was a line of stables, fronted by some hitching posts and lit by an outdoor lantern. The only other illumination that spilled out into the courtyard came from the great bow window of the taproom.

Kal had only ever set foot in the Bottle twice before, and that with his father on business. Not that Kal was opposed to a pint or two, it was just that life had not yet afforded him the need to frequent such an establishment. From the stables he could hear the whinnying of another horse. He tethered Star Thistle to a post and rushed to the taproom door, above which hung the weathered device of an uncorked bottle being visited by a disinterested school of fish below the whitecaps of storm-tossed waves.

For a moment, he checked his haste and peered through the bow window, catching his breath. Just the other side of the glass, a large barrel-chested man with an apron stood peering out into the night. A fire burned briskly in the hearth. Someone seated at the inglenook moved away. Two fellows just on the edge of Kal's line of sight rose from their seats as well, leaving two other men in animated conversation over their cups at one of the scrubbed deal tables that were a hallmark of the Sunken Bottle. One of the men looked like Landros.

"And what brings you here to the Sunken Bottle this fine spring evening? You're Frysan Wright's lad, ain't you?" The man with the black tavern-keeper's apron accosted Kal almost as soon as he set foot inside the almost empty taproom. There was no mistaking his distinctive features. Old Golls, the boys of the Holding called him, poking fun of his meaty face and pendulous chops.

"Aye, Master Persamus, that I am. But I need to find Master Tudno. Is he here? I must see him." The words spilled out of Kal's mouth, his chest still heaving.

"Indeed he is. He's but stepped out to the privy. He'll be back in a moment to wet his lips again, I can assure you, young sir, or my name ain't Persamus Meade."

"But, I must tell him now. The Holding . . . Ferabek's—the Holding's been invaded. We're all in danger!"

"Invaded?" The tavern-keeper was taken aback, his face incredulous. He placed his fists on his hips. "What do you mean, 'invaded'?"

"We're all in grave danger. Ferabek himself has come, with his Black Scorpions. To kill us all. We must flee."

"Surely you can't be serious, lad."

"You must believe me. I must speak to Master Tudno."

"Calm yourself, young Master Wright. I told you, Tudno's about his business. He'll be back directly."

"But—but Master Meade . . ." Exasperation and panic coloured Kal's words. He could hear it in his own voice, and it made him feel embarrassed, juvenile and inept.

The tavern-keeper laid a thick hand on Kal's shoulder. "My friends call me Persy," he said, "and I count you among my friends. Come sit down here, while Tudno finishes what he's about. He won't be long. Kalaquinn, isn't it?"

"Aye, Kalaquinn."

"Come then, Kalaquinn, you look right worn and 'wildered, and perhaps a touch chilled. This way, my man, sit yourself down by the chimney," urged Persamus, taking Kal in hand and leading him to the wooden settle at the chimney corner. "Here we are, Persy'll take good care of you, while you wait a moment for the Warden," promised the tavern-keeper as he lifted a pewter tankard off one of the hooks that lined the beam above the flaming warmth of the great fireplace. "I'll be back as soon as a horse'll lick his ear, Kalaquinn."

The edge of dark urgency which had driven Kal to the Sunken Bottle was blunted by the warmth and cheer of the place. He sat on the settle, casting a glance about, while behind him he thought he heard the voice of Landros.

". . . and I say now's the time for weeding your cornfield. There's an old saying I just found in Twelve Score Points of Good Husbandry—"

"What's that you're talking about, Lan?" Kal recognized old Sarmel's familiar inflection and tone.

"Twelve Score Points of Good Husbandry. It's a manuscript I received just the other day all the way from Dinas Antrum, and I was reading in it just this morning that, 'In spring's third month get weed hook, crotch, and glove, and weed out such ones as the corn doth not love'—"

"But what do you know about husbandry, Lan," Sarmel said, setting his ale mug on the table with a thump, nipping the old teacher's dissertation in the bud. "You who've had your nose in dusty parchments when you're not drilling the lads in their letters? And what would you want with a lowland rag? Tell me, what do they know about corn and weeding?"

Sarmel and Landros fell into the banter of jocund argument, a place they had clearly visited many times. His attention wandering from one to the other, Kal listened to their voices blend with the other sounds of the public house—the crackle and spit of pine on the hearth, the hiss of a kettle, the mournful moan of the wind outside as it played with the pub sign creaking in its wrought iron hanger. Beneath this all now ran some kind of whispering talk behind his back that he could not catch. Again he shot a glance about the room.

After what seemed a touch longer than the time it would take for a horse to lick its ear, the ebullient alehouse keeper waddled back with a tankard full of mulled wine that he thumped down on the table before the young man. Kal hesitated. The stout man, smiling, nodded at the full cup and held out an open hand in a gesture of amicable hospitality.

"On the house, Kalaquinn."

Chilled and parched from his hard ride and the dust of the Edgemere Road, Kal acquiesced, seized the mug, and quaffed it to the dregs. It was a strong draught with an oddly bitter edge, and Kal sputtered a cough.

"Oh-ho, there's a thirsty fellow! I've never seen a body down one of old Persy's willy-waughts of mulled wine so speedily in all my days. Why, you must have a stomach like an ale vat, lad!" Persamus lowered his portly frame down beside Kal, straddling a bench, his jowls aquiver with amusement.

"Where's Master Tudno? Surely he must be back from the privy, Master Persamus. I must find him." Kal made to get up. "The news, he must have the news. We're all in grave peril—"

"Now, what might this grave peril be?" pressed the ruddy-faced Persamus.

"I told you, I must find Master Tudno. Please, I must sound the alarm to him and be on my way."

"Well, you'll have a bonny time finding Master Tudno tonight, I can tell you that, lad."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say, it appears he did his business and gave us the slip, you and me, although it seems he mentioned that he meant to go up to the Pass to talk to the gatewardens about something or other, and that he'd be back in the morning."

"He's gone where?"

"Why, up to the Pass, lad, checking up on them lads that are supposed to guard us all from evil hosting."

"He's in danger. The whole Holding's—"

"Howgates in danger? Are you certain Persy's wine's not addled your head a wee bit? Aye, sure you must be sore tired from your riding this night!"

"I tell you, Master Persamus, we're in danger. I'm going after Tudno. I'll catch up to him right enough, if I leave now."

Again Kal made to stand, staggering off balance, but the pub-keeper's great hand patted his forearm, encouraging him to remain seated.

"Persy, call me Persy. We don't stand on ceremony here at the Bottle."

"I have—I have to go," stammered Kal as if to himself. "Not a word of a lie . . . no . . . I saw it with my own two eyes—"

"Now, what did you see with your own two eyes, son? Sit you down. You may tell me then, and I may be able to lend you a helping hand. There ain't nobody more helpful to a fellow in distress than Persy Meade," Persamus said in low tones soothingly—an understanding uncle colluding with a favourite nephew. He seemed all at once so very friendly and wise and trustworthy. Kal sank back to the bench. Given the circumstances, he seemed the best person in Wrenhaven to pass on the alarm to—right at the hub of things here at the tavern, seeing as Tudno had eluded him.

Kal ventured a hasty look around him to see who else was within earshot. There were the two harmless drinkers he had noticed on coming into the taproom. And yet they seemed somehow changed. Perhaps it was the quality of the light that had changed. Someone must have extinguished some of the torches that were set in spaces between the oaken timbers that ran across the ceiling. The taproom seemed much dimmer and more cavernous than when he had come in, except for the crackling fire that blazed up before him in the hearth, the warm dance of its flames infecting him with a hypnotic languor, fixing him to the spot. The stout tavern-keeper rose from the settle to throw another log on it from the well-stocked woodbox.

"Come, Kalaquinn, out with it. I'm certain it would take more than a pull of Persy's mulled wine to jerrycummumble the tongue of one of Frysan Wright's sons. If there's danger, old Persy should know about it. The better to apply some proper physic to the problem, that's what old Persy says."

The story tumbled out from Kal's mouth in broken whispers as fast as his wine-fuddled lips could frame it, how he and Galli had been viciously attacked by the lowland spies, how the two of them had trailed these men and had discovered Ferabek's camp in an upland meadow on the Wrights' own homestead, and how they had overheard the Boar himself talking about an invasion of the Holding and slaughter, sharing his plans with Enbarr—a traitor, like Kenulf. Kal's mind grew more and more clotted and sluggish and he found himself struggling to follow the thread of his own tale. Even so, in halting phrases he managed to tell Persy of the strange, undigested bits of information he had somehow gleaned from his eavesdropping.

"You don't say, lad. Howshe, son, what happened after that?" encouraged Persy every now and again, whenever Kal's energies seemed to flag or his tongue got twisted. At last, Kal explained how his father had settled on Tarlynn's Coomb as the best meeting point, a place where all the Holdsfolk could regroup once they were alerted.

"And Galli, he's supposed to go to the Great Glence to tell Wilum and then I'm to meet them all at the Coomb as soon as I find Tudno and give him the news. But how can I do that when he's on his way up to the Pass and may be captured or dead already for all I know? Perhaps I can catch up to him still?" Kal wanted to rise from the settle but his body resisted. He found a strange lethargic heaviness had overtaken him. "What shall I do now, Persy?" asked Kal as his drooping eyes wandered from the fire towards his companion.

Like the thinning of a fog, the young man realized that something was amiss, for Persy had turned his head to the open doorway that led from the taproom to the scullery beyond. There were no lights there. Nor outside now at the stables. It was as if he had stumbled into the alehouse after hours. A figure was emerging from the shadowed entrance to the scullery. Persy nodded in that direction, beckoning on the newcomer, ignoring Kal, whom events had suddenly prodded into a new and frightened alertness. Who was this? There was something familiar in the profile and the gait.

"You've played me the jack, Meade!" cried Kal. "This is a trap! You've laid a trap for me!" Clumsily he lurched up from the settle, knocking it over, and turned to run for the door. He had scarcely stirred when two strong sets of arms stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Ho there, boy, now where's your manners to be getting up and going without so much as offering a by-your-leave to your gracious host, our dear Persy?" asked the shorter of his two captors. "We'd think it was downright unfriendly if you was to drink and run, and us wanting to get to know you better. Why, we hardly had a chance to exchange two words this morning. We was in such a hurry."

"Help! Someone help—" Kal tried to shout at the top of his lungs, but his cry came out feeble and strengthless.

"Shut him up!" barked Enbarr, who had slipped clear of the darkness and was now drawing near the alehouse keeper. Close on his heels came Kenulf. Skrobb clapped the palm of his hand over Kal's mouth.

"Shall I put him out of service for you, Enbarr?"

"No, no, you fool! Be gentle with him, gentle, or you'll pay for your roughness with your neck. I want to keep my prize intact 'til my lord the Boar has had his chance to look him over. Stuff a rag in his mouth. You've done me yeoman service, Persy, to clear out the Bottle on such short notice, allowing us to bag this fine young gentleman. And to learn his plans, which he has been so very liberal in providing us. A talkative lad, aren't you, when your father's not 'round about to hold your tongue? Other lads need their fathers to hold their hands. But you're the only pup I know who needs his daddy to hold his tongue," Enbarr said, a cold sneer playing across his face. Kal's stomach churned. How could he have been so naive and foolish? To have been fished in by old Golls of all people? "Here's a little something for your efforts, Persy," continued Enbarr, counting out four silver crowns and handing them to the innkeeper.

"My deepest thanks to you, Master Enbarr. That's right generous of you, right generous of you indeed," Persamus said, eyeing the money as he fondled it in his meaty hands. "I'm more than glad to oblige you, especially when there was so few as were here tonight anyhow, just Landros and old Sarmel, talking about them old days like they always do, the doddering fools. As much chance of bringing back the good old days, as they call them, as Deepmere freezing over in midsummer," he chattered on, greedily rubbing the silver coins in his palm.

"Oh, before I forget, there's something else I'd dearly like to give you for your efforts," added Enbarr, nodding to Grumm, who brought up his dagger from behind the tavern-keeper, swung it around, and drew it back across his throat in one swift movement. "Why, he's speechless with gratitude. You know, I think this is the first time I've ever seen Persy with nothing to say."

Enbarr stepped casually out of the way of the spurting blood as Persy slumped woodenly to the floor, spilling the crowns, so that they rolled to Kenulf's feet. Kal looked on aghast, his horror muffled by the gag, while Skrobb held him immobile.

"You . . . You killed him!" gasped Kenulf, shuffling away from the coins as if they bore contagion.

"Come now, coz, you mustn't be so squeamish!"

"I didn't know!"

"You didn't know what?" roared Enbarr, rounding on him. "That my lord Ferabek hasn't invaded this clanholding to play skittles with the local tavern-keeper? Tell me, what don't you know? What daydream country have you been living in, man?"

"Um . . . I'm just not used to this sort of thing," replied Kenulf, cringing at this new savagery.

"Well, you'd better get used to 'this sort of thing' and fast, now that the Boar is on the brink of his sweep. Just remember that it's you that helped to pave the way for him, dear cousin! Now, Grumm," continued Enbarr, turning aside to look at the tavern-keeper's inert body, "let the grubbing swine lie—"

"What about them . . . them silver crowns?"

"Go ahead." Enbarr flicked one of the coins with the toe of his boot. "But mind you look after this fellow as if your life depended on it. I want you to truss him up nice and tight and take him to Broadmeadows. Use Persy's horse and wagon. They're no good to him now, are they? And bring along the Wright boy's horse. We'd better stable it at Broadmeadows, in case someone comes looking for him and gets suspicious at seeing it. Put him in the Locker. You know where I keep the key. And then—I have an idea . . . aye, an excellent idea," mused Enbarr.

"What is it you want us to be doing after we've done that, Master Enbarr?" Grumm said.

"I want you and Skrobb to make sure Wright is safely tucked away in the Locker, and then you are to take to the Westwynd Way with all the speed your sluggish bodies can muster. There's too much danger along the Edgemere Road, too many homesteads thereabouts. He's given folk the alarm. You may take Strawboy and Windstorm. They're the two finest mounts in the old Thane's stables. I want you to fly as if you had the Greymalkin at your heels. Go to the Great Glence and capture the old man, before he has a chance to scurry up into Tarlynn's Coomb. That's not too far away from the Hordanu's Enclosure, and the hiding holes he may have up in the mountain heights . . . ? Even with their expert trackers it could take the Scorpions days, if not weeks, to ferret around and dig the old fox out of those wild upland places. You'll have to watch for the other fellow, the Clout lad. He may reach the old man before you do. But you can handle him alone. It'll be the two of you against one of him."

"What do you mean two against one? What about the Hordanu?"

"Oh, Grumm," Enbarr shook his head. "Do you need to ask? If you're worried about a sorry old bag of bones . . . Really! Though I don't dare say his mind is gone. Aye, it's his mind that makes him a force still to be reckoned with . . . but not for two fine footland-rakers from Dinas Antrum like you. His mind lacks your exquisite refinement," remarked Enbarr with a burst of harsh laughter. "Anyway," he went on, stopping before the hearthfire to look into the flames, "here's your chance to redeem not only yourselves but me too with my lord Ferabek. He's none too happy with your antics this morning. But mind that the old man and Clout come to no harm at your hands or you'll end up providing a feed for the Boar's dogs. We'll leave it to him to decide the fate of the old man and his boy."

"What shall we do when we've got them?"

"Just guard them well 'til the Scorpions come. If this one spoke truth over that mulled concoction of Persy's, there'll be only his friend helping the old man make the trek to the Coomb. So you should be snug and safe just waiting for the rest of us to relieve you. It's a good thing Wright stumbled into our hands here or we'd never know what plans these clanfellows of mine have hatched."

Enbarr wheeled about from the fire.

"Now get to your business. Bundle him into Persy's wagon, cover him well. The last thing we want is any curious townsfolk asking questions. Make sure you take his horse. Go now. Kenulf, you and I had better make haste to the Boar and tell him of these newest events."

"Aren't you afeared to be on the Edgemere Road with the alarm being raised and all?" asked Grumm.

"You may spare yourself the anxiety. There's no one that'll see us but foxes and night owls. You don't think I've spent so long in this wretched highland backwater without learning my way around a bit along the bypaths and side trails? More than cousin Kenulf here, and he's been a Holdsman all his life, eh Kenulf?"

"No, not likely," sniggered Grumm, "when he don't hardly stir from Broadmeadows or Wrenhaven except to journey out to Dinas Antrum? He can't tell a tree from a turtle nor one end of a longbow from the other. But one thing's sure, he knows his way around the gaming tables, don't he?"

"W-well, I . . . I . . ." stammered Kenulf.

Enbarr ignored him.

The two thugs seized Kal, shoving him through the door into the courtyard. Moments later he was being trundled through the cobbled streets of Wrenhaven in the cart of Persy's wagon. The effects of the drink that the innkeeper had given him were beginning to wear off. In the stuffy black air underneath a great canvas tarpaulin he squirmed against the stout hempen rope that bound his hands and feet together, and him to the cart itself. He could hear the steady clop of Star Thistle following the wagon and a couple of times the hoofbeats of other riders passing by heedless in the night. Once a townsman on foot exchanged coolly distant greetings with Grumm and went on.

The wagon slowed and its wheels rang out a different duller sound on the pavement. They must be at Broadmeadows. Kal strove to remember the manor's architectural layout. He had only been at the place on a handful of occasions, mostly when Wilum had sent him on errands there. Kal could smell fresh manure. The stables. The wagon came to an abrupt halt. Kal heard the sound of tack and harness being loosened.

"Skrobb, you stay here, and I'll go fetch the key to the Locker and have the horses stabled. That one's a fine-looking animal, ain't she? I'll be back in a minute. You start getting him untied from the cart, and when I get back, we'll heave him into the Locker." Grumm and the horses moved away.

The wagon rocked as Skrobb climbed into the back. He drew up the tarpaulin and snorted in contempt as he stooped over, squinting into the darkened corner, to untie Kal from the paling of the cart.

"So you've been trying hard to wiggle out of my nicely knotted handiwork, have you? This might discourage you right enough," he said with a brutish laugh as he straightened and gave Kal a painful kick in the ribs. Kal doubled and heaved against the gag in his mouth.

When Grumm reappeared, they each took one of Kal's shoulders and dragged him off the bed of the cart. The quarter-moon had drifted behind a bank of clouds. All around them it had turned dark, except for the occasional twinkle of light from the main buildings of the manor and the lamp that shed a murky pool of light on the stableyard at the far side of the stalls. Skrobb cursed Grumm for not bringing a torch, until Grumm reminded him that, if they were carrying a light, they might readily be marked by anybody who happened to look out a window towards the old abandoned wing of Broadmeadows.

"Tell me now who'd come out to have a look, if they sees a light. Might be one of the stableboys for all they knows or cares," Skrobb scoffed.

"Better not to take any chances with this here cargo, Skrobb, or our heads is forfeit. Anyways, here we are," Grumm said, panting, and let go his grip of Kal's shoulder at a break in the stretch of crumbling ivy-clad stonework where they stopped before a thick oak door banded with iron and fitted with a small keyhole. Reaching into a leather pouch that he carried slung by his side, he produced a metal key, which he fitted into the lock. The door swung open into a dank musty cellar that had once served as a jail in the early days of the Thane's Assizes. It was shrouded in a thick darkness, as heavy and oppressive as a set of shackles. Grumm brushed away the cobwebs and felt his way down the short steep flight of stone stairs that led from the door, fumbling to get his bearings.

"Very well, then," he said, when he remounted the steps, "we'll commit him to the nether depths of the Locker. The stairs is right in front of you. Let me lead the way. Grab hold of one of his shoulders again. Mind your step. It's a bit of a fall if you miss your footing. Don't be hurrisome or you'll pay for it with a broken head. Have you got him?"

"Aye . . . Easy does it—"

"There we are, Skrobb. Let's lie him right here. Here's the whipping post. We'll fix him fast to it. Have you got some more rope?"

"Here."

"Good, we'll just make certain the rat don't get no notion of turning down our hospitality. There we are. What's there to tie him to?"

"Don't know . . . Oh . . . Here's an iron ring. Near the top."

"Pass the rope through it. Got it?"

"There it is, Grumm, old stick. I'll have him fixed as good as if he was in leg irons directly."

"Right cozy you'll be in this snuggery, boy-o, 'til our night's work is done," exclaimed Grumm, after they had laid Kal on a heap of mouldering rags and then tied him securely to the whipping post. He and his partner then remounted the stairs. Grumm bade Skrobb fetch Kal's longbow and quiver together with his shortsword and knife from the cart and tuck them into the Locker for safekeeping. Kal's weapons were thrown into a corner far from his reach, and the thick oaken door was shut fast, leaving Kal in the darkness of the Locker, tethered to a stout wooden post at which prisoners had once been flogged for their misdemeanours.

Kal lay there for what seemed an eternity.

He felt the scurry of mice—at least, it seemed like mice— clambering all over him. It proved almost impossible to chase them off, with his hands firmly bound behind his back and his feet tightly secure. All he could do was helplessly rock from side to side or move his head. But this became tiring after a while, for he was limited as well by the scant three or four feet of play that his tether afforded him. There would be rats down in this hole as well. He shuddered at the mere thought. After a bit he became indifferent to the creatures, seeing them as no more than what he deserved for his folly. He cursed himself for having put into deeper danger his own family and Galli's and Wilum, not to mention the other folk that had received the first alarm along the Edgemere Road or the rest of the people in the Holding. It was not as if things weren't desperate to begin with—but here he had succeeded in making matters even worse. In the midst of his thoughts he drifted off into a troubled sleep, his body racked by the day's exhausting events.

The Locker remained cloaked in pitch blackness. He had no idea how long he had slumbered. The left side of his body, on which he had slept, felt sore and full of cramps. He ached to be free of his bonds. He could not even cry out to ease his frustration, although it would probably do him precious little good at this hour of the night, in an unkempt overgrown part of the grounds of Broadmeadows, where nobody wandered even during the daylight hours. They had ensured he would not work loose the gag stuffed in his mouth by wrapping yet another one across his lips. And like all his other restraints they had tied it as tight as possible.

Now that Kal had rested, the weary self-pity that had taxed him earlier yielded to a growing determination to find some way out of this predicament. He wriggled his hands and his feet until his skin was chafed raw. There was no give. Grumm and Skrobb had done their job well. In desperation, he began to test the tethering rope that led from the iron ring on the whipping post to the cords that bound his hands behind his back. Pulling with all his might, his feet against the post, he tried to draw the ring out of the ancient wood. The rope bit into his wrists under the strain and his shoulders ached, yet the ring remained fast. But the old, dry post itself—it seemed to shift a bit. Kal let the tether go slack and explored the base of the post with his back to it. His bound hands clawed at the loose crumbling mortar and swept it aside. Leaning against the post for support, he pushed himself struggling to his feet and bumped the beam with his shoulder. It moved out of the vertical. Play—it definitely had some play. He hit against the thing once more. More movement. Again and again he threw his weight at the post, until at last it listed in its hole. Now he stepped away and pulled as hard as he could on the rope once again, until the circulation seemed gone in his hands. Not enough purchase that way. If somehow he could gain a solid handhold nearer the base of the post and lift it out. His back against it, he slid numbed fingers down the wooden beam, fumbling for a grip. He felt something solid, cold—fixed low to the post—a ring, a handhold. His fingers curled around it, and he pulled, straining every sinew with the effort. The post was coming free of its moorings. At last the base of it cleared the hole. His heart pounding, Kal let the post drop flat on the ground and fell to his knees to catch his breath.

Having recovered, he sought out his blade, which lay against a corner of the wall, dragging the uprooted post in his wake. Crouched over his hunting knife's upturned edge, he began cutting away at the ropes that bound his hands. It was slow going, even though the weapon had been honed to a fine cutting edge. Kal always kept his blades sharp. It was the awkward angle of his bound hands behind his back, and several times the blade slipped, nicking his wrists. All the same Kal knew he was making progress.

He froze. His heart jumped up into his craw. A voice drifted in to him from outside the Locker. Had his captors come back for him already? Had he slept that long? Feverishly he began to saw at the rope. He tore into his restraints until the blade had clumsily severed the last stubborn thread of hemp, allowing his hands to break free. He loosened his feet, expecting the door of the dungeon to swing open at any moment, although he could no longer hear voices. Stiff and sore, not stopping even to undo his gag, he groped for the stairs in the dark and climbed them, ready with his knife to lash out. At the top of the steps he paused, straining his ears. Then he heard it again, fainter now and touched with the native accents of the Holding.

"Kalaquinn, Kalaquinn Wright, are you there?"

At once, Kal recognized the voice. It was drawing farther away along the walls of the old manor. He ripped the muzzling band of cloth and spat out the rag balled up in his mouth.

"Master Landros, here I am, over here in the Locker!" he shouted. Again, he cried out, leaning his body towards a small window with thick iron bars that now let a touch of moonlight into the dingy jail from above him.

"Hello, lad! Where are you now?"

"Here in the Locker."

"How did you end up down there?" The Holding's schoolmaster stood now directly under the window, just above head height. A faint glow from the lantern he carried filtered into the musty chamber.

"It's a long story, Master Landros. Enbarr's Dungheap lackeys, they cooped me up in here. They're off to the Great Glence, wanting to capture Wilum. The Boar has broken through our defences. He's in the Holding. He's going to attack us and put us all to the sword. I was to tell Tudno, but they captured me and brought me here. How is it that you're here, Master Landros, and what time do you make it to be?"

"It's nigh on the midnight watch, lad. But never mind the time nor any more explanations. I'd rather talk with you face-to-face. We'd better get you out of there. Trouble is that we don't have a key and that's a thick door. It would take a giant to get you out."

"Or a Star Thistle."

"What's that, lad?"

"My father's horse, Master Landros. She's an Aenonian, light as the wind and strong as an oak. There isn't a horse anywhere in the Holding like Star Thistle. They've put her in one of the stables here. If you could find her, bring her to me."

"How would I recognize her, Kalaquinn?"

"As I said, there isn't a horse anywhere like Star Thistle, even at Broadmeadows. She's dark chestnut with a white star marking on her forehead. But wait now! She might just hear me if I whistle for her even from here, if I could raise myself and get closer to that window somehow. Let me see. I think I can do it."

At this Kal took a run at reaching the window ledge from the stone staircase, leaping towards it. He missed and slid down the wall of the Locker to the ground. The second time he found a handhold on the sill and pulled himself up, using the iron bars that were set into the crumbling mortar of the window frame. Holding on with one hand, he used the fingers of the other to whistle an ear-piercing call with all his breath. Three times he whistled his summons and then rested for a space by gripping the bars with both hands. As he got set to whistle again, his ears caught the powerful, earth-pounding thud of hooves and a scant moment later he saw that Star Thistle had broken free of the stable area and was drawing near in the moonlight, still saddled and dragging her lead rope. She must have left a sleepily confused groom or two in her wake. Now she stamped on the cobblestone outside the Locker with a restive tossing of her mane, while the schoolmaster retreated beside the trunk of a large beech.

"It's all right, Master Landros. She won't harm you. She's looking for me. Here I am, Star Thistle. Come, Star." Kal pulled himself up, and the chestnut mare drew near the window, nuzzling Kal's face through the bars with her soft nose. He dropped to the floor.

"Master Landros, she won't hurt you. Come toward her. Gently. Stroke her neck. Are you there?"

". . . good girl—yes, Kal. She's a beautiful horse—good girl . . ." The schoolmaster continued to soothe the animal.

"Master Landros, she has the lead rope. Is it long enough to tie from her saddle to the window?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Good. Listen now. Take the rope off her. Loop it over the pommel of the saddle—easy, Star, easy—it's all right, she'll let you do it."

A moment passed. Star Thistle nickered, and Kal could hear Landros cooing to her again.

"Good, Kal. That's done."

"Bring the other end to the window here. Tie it off to the bars."

The schoolmaster's hands appeared at the window.

"The bars, they're forged together, but the mortar's loose. It should pull out."

"Yes, I can see the stonework's crumbling in places. There, that should hold."

"All right, stand back. Keep an eye on the saddle. It may shift, but it should hold . . . Pull, Star Thistle, pull! 'Unsheathe your flashing hooves and bring them down with crashing fury.' " The line from Hedric's Master Legendary tumbled out from Kal's lips. Even as he finished the verse, Star Thistle leaned her mighty weight against the rope. The rope held. Iron grated against the ancient masonry, and the prison bars broke free amid a shower of dust and stone shard, clanking on the cobbled courtyard.

Before the dust had settled, Landros again appeared at the window with the rope, lowering it through the opening. Kal fumbled in the darkness for his sword, which he strapped to his hip. His bow and quiver Landros pulled up on the rope. Again the rope was lowered. Kal clambered quickly up the wall and through the opening, where Landros helped him regain his footing outside.

He breathed in the fresh night air, almost intoxicating after the stifling confinement of the Locker. Star Thistle neighed and pushed her muzzle affectionately into Kal's chest.

"Good girl, Star Thistle, good girl. Where would I be without you now?" He stroked the mare's nose and forehead. "Master Landros, I'm glad to see you. What are you doing here? I thought most sober-sided Holdsmen were asleep at this hour."

"I suppose I'm not always as sober-sided as I ought to be, lad. Now quick. To my place. With all this commotion we'd best make ourselves scarce. This way."

Landros led Kal and his horse away from the manor buildings. After skirting a paddock, they turned onto a footpath that soon disappeared into a grove of beech on the edge of Darran Wood, emerging again in a meadow overgrown with teasel and burdock. In a neatly mown clearing the other side of a split-rail fence stood a low stone cottage, its windows lit by a faint glow.

"Take a seat. Draw it closer to the fire," said the schoolmaster, ushering Kal to a chair, as soon as they entered the cottage. He bustled to light another candle, placing it on the rough-hewn table nearby.

"Let me get you something to unparch your lips." From a shelf behind him Landros handed Kal a tankard and then disappeared into a small larder. He reappeared carrying cheese and bread together with a pitcher, from which he filled Kal's tankard and another for himself with ale. The schoolmaster settled into his own chair and brought a taper to the bowl of his pipe. Kal raised his mug in thanks and took a long pull of the ale.

"I know that something's amiss. I could smell it at the Bottle." Landros sucked on his pipe—the taper's flame flared and subsided, then flared again. Smoke wreathed the old teacher's head as he restored the candle to the table. "I wouldn't trust that smooth-talking Persy as far as I could throw him. I saw how he glad-handed you, lad, when you stepped into the taproom, after young Enbarr and his cronies made themselves scarce. Something's brewing here, I thought to myself, even while I kept up my end of the conversation with old Sarmel, as if I hadn't noticed a blessed thing. And then Persy cleared us out extraordinarily politely, too politely by a half, mind you. I've never seen Persy so smooth . . . Very strange, when we'd hardly even begun the first watch of the night, and Sarmel and I, we'd scarcely had more than a couple of pints." Landros paused to pull on his pipe, then continued. "So, puzzled though I was, I made my way home here, and then, next thing I know, as I'm watching the stars and enjoying a pipe, I see those two shifty Dinasantrians riding Persy's wagon past my place, with a lone horse hitched to the wagon from behind and a tarp stretched over its box. I could tell they were bound for Broadmeadows. And then, no sooner had I seen them go to the manor than I see them tearing up the turf, each of them on a strong mount. By then I'm getting an odd feeling that you may be in trouble. So I walk to the stables and ask one of the grooms about Persy's wagon and he tells me that the two 'heapers had left it somewhere by the old manor buildings. And then, he mentioned the fine Aenonian mare they'd brought with them and that it looked like the horse he's seen young Kalaquinn Wright riding, the envy of all the folk who admire fine horseflesh." The lean man pushed himself back in his chair and ran his gnarled fingers through the wisps of white hair crowning his head.

"I started poking around the old pile, calling your name just for good measure. I had this strange idea that it was you they had carted away in Persy's wagon, for it was clear enough to me that it was Kalaquinn Wright they were after in the Bottle. They didn't do a very good job of hiding their intentions, I daresay. I suppose they thought we were just two old drones, Sarmel and me, an oldling and a schoolmaster, dullards deep in our cups, unaware of the things happening around us." His eyes sparkled over the rim of his tankard as he winked at Kal. "Well, the truth is," he said, setting down his ale, "I really don't know what's on here, lad. Tell me now what I'm missing. What's this about the Boar being in this valley of ours? How do you expect me to believe such a thing with hardly a word of explanation?"

"It's true, Landros. Let me tell you what's happened, but quickly. We don't have any time to spare. I have to be on my way to Wuldor's Howe. Perhaps I can save Galli and Wilum yet."

"Just a minute now, Kalaquinn Wright. Begin at the beginning, and then perhaps I can do something to help the situation out, even though I'm just a simple scribe. Don't you go underestimating me as well, for I tell you there's no quicker way to wrack and ruin than when you misjudge a man by underestimating him or worse still, giving him more trust than he deserves, as you well know."

"It all began this morning when I went to fetch Galli at the Burrows." Kal went on to explain to the schoolmaster all that had occurred. Landros pulled at his chin and twisted his face into a squint of deep concentration amid billows of pipe smoke.

"No doubt about it, lad. You'd better rush to Wuldor's Howe as fast as Star Thistle can take you, if you're fit to ride, that is." Kal was already headed towards the door of the cottage.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? They were none too gentle."

"Aye, I'm sure. Just chafed wrists, that's all."

"All right then, I'll sound the alert here in town, beginning with the Town Warden, for he certainly hasn't gone traipsing up to the Pass." The schoolmaster had risen from his chair, placing his hand on the young Holdsman's shoulder, as he ushered him outside. "If fate is kind to us, we'll meet at Tarlynn's Coomb. We'll tweak the Boar's snout with the stoutest longbowmen in all the highlands. I feel my blood rising, lad. There was a day when I could flourish a sword with the best of them, and I was a passable shot at the Holdsmeet, when all the bowmen of highland Arvon used to compete at the butts in this very town of Wrenhaven. Why, there was one year I was the only one to hit the mark at a hundred paces. A pity the Holdsmeet has been suspended, now that it's become a handy occasion for Gawmage to pack with his wheedling spies—but I'm babbling now. You're right. We must be quick. And may the spirit of Ardiel watch over you, young Kalaquinn Wright."

Outside Landros scanned the road that ran not a stone's throw from his cottage. Star Thistle grazed, screened from the thoroughfare by a hedge of flowering lilac. The horse whickered a greeting.

"There's not much time. Come, up you go. With a mount like this, you should be in Wuldor's Howe more quickly than a bird. Re'm ena, this beats anything that's ever happened in the Holding. Goodspeed to you, Kalaquinn. Briacoil."

"Briacoil, Landros."

 

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