ELEVEN

 

For the best part of three days after the body boys carted his mum's corpse away, he managed to keep hold of the home. On the third he lost it to a family – two boys older than him plus their mother and father.

  Tom had never known his own father.

  There were plenty of empty buildings scattered around the under-City but they were mostly falling down, dangerous, and in need of heavy investment in sweat and toil to make them habitable, which was why they were empty. His home was sound, so he knew it was only a matter of time before someone took it from him. Not that he went without a fight, but all that did was earn him a bruised ribcage and a smack around the face. They were too big, too strong, and too many. The knowledge that one of their boy's would have a peach of a black eye in the morning provided only minor consolation.

  He was seven or eight years old – Mum never had been too good at keeping count.

  He survived the first couple of days by scavenging scraps from the swill bins behind taverns, though little was thrown out in the City Below and pickings were meagre. At night he found an empty building and crawled into a dark corner of the only room which still had a bit of roofing in place, covering himself with a large sheet of rotting cardboard – a deconstructed, flattened-out box. He lay awake for hours, fearing that the bats or some other more formidable haunter of the dark would creep up on him while he slept and kill him without his ever knowing.

  They didn't, so the following day he was still alive to contest with an obstinate spill dragon for a knob-end of stale bread and a bone which still had a few scraps of fatty, roasted meat clinging to it. The flecks of meat he devoured hungrily, and the bread wasn't too bad once it had been softened with a sprinkling of water.

  Yet something, either the meat or stray saliva from the vindictive spill dragon, proved less digestible.

  Within hours of the paltry meal he was struck by crippling stomach cramps. Remembering his mum's advice, he headed for the nearest temple of Thaiss, making it as far as the threshold before collapsing completely. The temple leant him a cot while they nursed him back to health, and he recovered quickly. With the benefit of hindsight, he realised the Thaistess was almost certainly a healer, but that possibility escaped him at the time. The boy was overcome with gratitude, not to mention a desperate need to belong somewhere. He determined to stay and serve at the temple, but they cast him out as soon as he was fit enough, the Thaistess explaining that the temple was not the right place for him. She was probably right and almost certainly meant well, though he failed to appreciate as much at the time. Her acolyte, on the other hand, was a spiteful cow who made his brief stay as uncomfortable as possible. He left the temple resenting their rejection and harbouring a bitter hatred of priestesses and religion which was to colour his attitude thereafter.

  Returning to the life of a solo forager proved far from easy, and he was soon sliding towards starvation, ill heath and an early death, when he encountered a pair of cocksure nicks who seemed a great deal better off than he was. They proved to be members of a gang called the Blue Claw, and it turned out he was operating on what they assured him was their turf. After a tense moment which threatened to erupt into violence but somehow avoided doing so, with food again the cause of contention, he ended up going with them and was soon recruited into the gang; a move which almost certainly saved his life.

 

Tom blinked into wakefulness, sitting up and staring around, momentarily thrown by the absence of walls and the sense of space. "Wh… where am I?"

  The face of a Thaistess loomed above him, smiling. "You're with friends Tom, and you're fine, though you were tossing and turning a bit in your sleep. Troubled dreams?"

  He relaxed and sank back onto his sleeping mat as everything came flooding back. "In a sense. I was just remembering why I've always mistrusted Thaistesses."

  "Oh." Mildra looked disconcerted, as if not entirely sure how to respond. "And do you, still?"

  He grinned. "Not as much."

  "Good."

  He wasn't given much chance to lie around. The morning began with another training session at Dewar's insistence and to Tom's delight. He really looked forward to these lessons and had to concede that maybe Dewar wasn't all that bad after all.

  Even so, as this third lesson started, he felt obliged to ask their self-appointed leader, "Not that I'm ungrateful or anything – I really appreciate this – but I can't help wondering why you're doing it."

  Dewar stared at him in way that seemed to say "don't think for one moment it's because I like you", though what he actually said was, "Four days from Thaiburley, two days out of Crosston, and we're all still alive. I'd like to keep it that way if I can. Simple as that. Now, raise your blade and stiffen up that elbow! Your arm's flapping around like a piece of soggy cardboard."

 

Ulbrax sat on his horse and considered the ill-assorted trio before him. At his side, the Rust Warrior – whom no horse would carry – remained unmoving and unconcerned.

  At least Ulbrax could appreciate the irony of the situation. He had gone to a lot of trouble to hire men much like this to kill the King Slayer and his party, who had doubtless passed through this area unhindered not long before, while here he was with three desperate men blocking his path to the front and three more behind. Men who required no hiring whatsoever.

  "Where were you when I needed you?" he muttered.

  "What wasat?"

  "Oh, nothing," he assured the speaker – a particularly ugly specimen who looked capable of scaring most victims into submission with a single glower. So far, Ugly had been the only one to speak. Maybe his two companions couldn't – words being such troublesome things to formulate, after all.

  Ugly grunted. Beside him stood a stick-thin shiftyeyed fellow who seemed incapable of standing still, forever twitching like a weasel on hot coals; that worthy sniggered.

  "Now, we don't wanna hurt no one," Ugly assured him unconvincingly. "But me friend 'ere has a gammy leg and finds walking tough." He indicated the twitching weasel. "So if you just wanna get offa that horse o' yours and leave it with us, we'll let you be on yer way. Oh, and to show what considerate souls we are, we'll even take some o' the heavier stuff from yer: ye know, weapons, coin, any jewellery, that sort o' thing; just so's ye don't tire yerselves out with all the walking."

  Weasel cackled at this, while the shoulders belonging to the big bear of a man on Ugly's other side – the thug holding the axe – shook in obvious appreciation.

  Ulbrax held the reins casually in one hand and felt almost as unconcerned as he was attempting to appear. He leant forward a little and smiled. "I don't think so." He then turned to the figure beside him. "Wil, be a good lad and clear the road, would you?"

  The Rust Warrior stepped up instantly. The big bear was closest and the first to react. He gave a snarl and raised his axe high, ready to cleave this impertinent man in two. He never got the chance. Wil's fist drove into the bear's stomach, travelling so far forward that it looked as if the warrior was somehow reaching inside the man to squeeze his intestines. The bear doubled up, eyes bulging and axe forgotten. Wil's left had then shot out, gripping the man's neck and twisting to produce an audible snap. That same hand caught the falling axe and, all in the one motion, swept it around to crush Ugly's skull, improving the man's looks no end as a good part of his face came away in a shower of blood and brains.

  Ulbrax was having a struggle to control his horse, which was clearly spooked by the unfolding situation, so he missed the stroke that took Weasel's hand off at the wrist, alerted only by the man's agonised scream and the amount of blood pumping from the severed limb. He controlled the mount sufficiently to move it to one side of the trail where it wouldn't block the path of the ongoing mayhem, and looked back in time to see the Rust Warrior lift the injured man and fling him at the onrushing trio of brigands. Weasel hit sideways, catching one of the three with his legs, causing that one to stumble and pause and step to the side, while striking another full on, bringing him down in a tangle of limbs and blood and cursing.

  The third charged on alone.

  Ulbrax was delighted at this unlooked for opportunity to watch his Rust Warrior at work, and had to admit to being impressed by what he'd seen so far.

  The brigand came straight in, either brave or stupid, face snarling beneath an unkempt beard, roaring defiance, and sword raised high with intent. Wil's axe met the man's blade with such force and speed that Ulbrax saw it only as a blur, while the resultant clash was loud enough to make him wince. He felt certain that one or both weapons must shatter beneath a blow like that, but in fact the brigand's sword simply went cartwheeling into the trees, steel evidently more resilient than the man's grip, however determined.

  The Rust Warrior didn't pause, bringing the axe around in a sweeping arc which took his opponent in the side, crushing ribs and tearing through muscle and organs as the blade exited through the chest, dragging gore and blood in its wake. So much so that Ulbrax hastily urged his mount back a few steps for fear that some of the muck might reach him.

  The man who'd been delayed by Weasel's flailing legs now faced the prospect of going one-on-one with the Rust Warrior. He clearly considered the odds carefully and didn't like what they totalled, because he took a few hesitant steps backward before turning around and running, dropping his sword in the process.

  The warrior hefted up the heavy battle axe as if it were a feather-light trinket and flung it at the hastily retreating brigand's back. The axe flew like a bolt from a bow: true, straight and fast, smashing into the man before he had gone more than a dozen paces. Ulbrax couldn't have said which part of the weapon actually made contact first and didn't bother trying to work it out. The axe struck with enough force to shatter the runner, sending him tumbling to the ground with blood gouting from his mouth while limbs and body twisted at impossible angles.

  The Rust Warrior strode over to where the final wouldbe robber was disentangling himself from the still-moaning form of Weasel. The warrior swatted away the man's hastily reclaimed sword, grabbed him by the throat and lifted him up, so that he dangled from one outthrust fist, toes almost scraping the ground.

  As on the hillside the previous evening, the warrior started to glow; a radiance which spread along his arm to envelope the other man, whose body started to distort until it came apart in myriad dried-blood slivers. The glow faded and all that remained was a snowfall of rusty motes, while Wil's face was gone, to be replaced by an altogether more worldly-wise and menacing visage.

  Ulbrax sighed, thinking that he'd probably stick with the name Wil, otherwise this could soon get very confusing. He'd been eager to put the Rust Warrior through its paces and had wondered how long before the thing would need to feed again and replenish its energies. Now both concerns were dealt with. All in all, a very rewarding encounter. Besides, he'd grown increasingly tired of having to look at Wil's fresh-faced innocence.

  Almost as if acting on a whim or in response to some casual afterthought, the warrior trod down heavily on the back of the Weasel's neck, crushing vertebrae as he pressed him into the dirt. Following a convulsion, a strangled squawk and the single twitch of an eye, all sound and movement at ground level ceased.

 

Tom was amazed at how quickly his body had adjusted to the rigours of regular walking. Since that first day he'd found the going a lot easier and the aches and pains had grown progressively less, though how much of that was due to Mildra's ministrations he couldn't say. The Thaistess seemed to have recovered fully, and now spent more time on her feet than she did in the saddle, though she admitted to being glad that Beauty was there. He had a feeling she would have sat on the horse more often but chose to walk in order to keep him company; a kindness he was grateful for since, lessons aside, Dewar clearly considered Tom unworthy of anything as comradely as conversation.

  On the outskirts of the first sizable town they'd encountered since Crosston, they stopped to chat with a family headed in the opposite direction, or at least Dewar did. Tom had already noted that their leader could be polite to the point of charming when he wanted something – information in this instance. It was only when you got to know the man better that the joy of his true personality shone through.

  The father did all the talking. He had been striding beside a pair of oxen which pulled the family's covered wagon, and greeted them cheerily. His wife sat on the wagon itself and held the reins, while constantly trying to shoo their inquisitive daughter back inside as the girl kept scrambling forward to peek at the strangers. The wife's glare made it abundantly clear that she didn't trust them in the least, though Tom didn't feel singled out. He had a feeling this was her standard approach to all outsiders, and he wondered if she'd been like this even before the arrival of her daughter. Evidently her mistrust hadn't yet rubbed off on the girl in question, who could be no more than five or six and seemed determined to ignore the instructions of her over-protective mother, treating them all to a cheeky grin before being forced back out of sight again.

  Tom had caught most of the exchange, but once the family moved on Dewar filled them in on what he'd learned in any case. "The town's called Sull, and we're going to have to take a ferry to cross a tributary river which feeds into the Thair here."

  All of which sounded simple enough, but the reality of Sull itself proved to be anything but. Once they'd worked their way through a confusion of narrow streets and more people and barrows and carts and animals than they could possibly have anticipated, the party arrived at the ferry port, to be confronted by a broad and powerful river of mud-brown water, and a flat-decked boat. The water was flowing with daunting speed and the old boat – all that would be standing between them and the rushing torrent – looked frail and inadequate in comparison. Boarding had already begun, and they joined the short queue of people and occasional horses that were still waiting their turn. Beauty took some persuading, but eventually Dewar was able to lead her onboard. Tom's vote was with the horse, and had he been on his own he would undoubtedly have found an excuse not to step onto the deck; but with Dewar, Kohn and Mildra there beside him that was never going to be an option. The few seats were quickly taken, though the ferry was far from crowded, leaving the four of them to cluster around Beauty near the aft of the deck. Kohn drew a few stares and whispered comments but not many, suggesting that he wasn't the first Kayjele to pass this way.

  Tom was momentarily distracted by Dewar's ongoing efforts to keep Beauty quiet. The man lavished more affection on that animal than Tom could imagine him ever sparing for a fellow human. As the ferry got under way, the former nick found himself staring at the water dashing beneath them, mesmerised by its power and insistent urgency, as it battered and frothed at the ferry's side. Reaching the far bank could not come quickly enough as far as he was concerned. Yet, so absorbed was he by the swirling patterns of water against the boat's hull that the abrupt jolt of their arrival took him completely by surprise, for all that it was an enormous relief.

  They shuffled forward with the other passengers and Tom soon felt the luxury of solid land beneath his feet once more. Ahead of them stood a smattering of dwellings, but nothing to compare with the bustling town on the south side of the crossing. The houses clustered around the foot of a disconcertingly steep hill, and were soon left behind as the party climbed up to a point where they were able to look back at Sull, the ferry – which looked even frailer at this distance – and the merging of the two rivers. It was impossible not to be impressed by the power and sheer volume of water involved as the two powerful torrents clashed and eventually melded. The tributary they had just crossed was sufficiently large and impressive in its own right that Tom felt a moment of doubt and, as they left it behind and moved on, he felt compelled to ask, "How do we know we're following the right river?"

  "Simple," Mildra told him with reassuring confidence. "I can sense the goddess in this one."

  Had anyone else said that, Tom would have laughed; but this was Mildra, so he didn't.

 

Ulbrax felt sure his quarry would be sticking close to the Thair – the priestess would insist on that – which meant this was the only road they could take. And, unless they'd acquired horses somewhere along the way, they couldn't be too far ahead; but he really did need to know how far.

  The covered wagon which now approached, pulled by a pair of plodding oxen, offered an opportunity to find out, as well as a means of testing a few other things. He stopped and waited for the wagon to draw closer. Beside him, Wil did the same. "Good day to you, Sir," he said, wearing his most disarming smile.

  "Morning." The fellow holding the reins of the cart seemed friendly enough, but the sour-faced woman sitting beside him – presumably the poor brecker's wife – glared back with open suspicion.

  "A lovely day to be travelling," Ulbrax said, casually patting the nearest of the two oxen, which had been pulled to a halt and now stood patiently swishing its tail. The Rust Warrior, for whom the wife had reserved particularly daggered glares, wisely stood some distance back from the animals. "Could you tell me, how far are we from Sull?" Ulbrax asked. Although he'd never visited the town he had lived in the area long enough to know the general lay of the land.

  "Oh, no more'n a couple of hours ride, a bit more if yer walking," the man said, glancing at Wil.

  "Excellent news!" Ulbrax's smile broadened. He then continued, with studied casualness. "We're hurrying to catch up with some friends and wondered if they might have passed you on the road. A party of four. You can't miss them – one's a Kayjele, then there's a man, a young woman and a lad."

  "Friends, you say?"

  Was that a hint of suspicion in the man's voice? Would they be forced to resort to threat and violence after all? No matter if so, but it seemed only fair to give politeness one more chance. "Yes, we were running late and missed a rendezvous, so are now desperately trying to catch them; you know how it is." Time to employ the smile again.

  The man nodded, as if he'd done the same sort of thing himself before now. "Happens we did see a group like that just as we were leaving Sull, so you're a few hours behind, maybe more, maybe less, depending on the timing of the ferry."

  There! Politeness did have its uses after all. "Much obliged. We'll bid you good journey and will be on our way, then. After all, we've a ferry to catch!"

  "Hope you do, and that you catch up with your friends," the man said.

  "Oh, we will, never fear," Ulbrax assured him as the man twitched the reins and yelled the team of oxen into lumbering motion.

  Ulbrax was delighted with the exchange. This was the first time since being woken that the Rust Warrior had encountered people without killing someone. Welcome reassurance ahead of their venturing into a busy town such as Sull. He glanced across at his silent companion, who had no difficulty keeping pace with the horse's long stride. Now, unless Rust Warriors had some previously unsuspected inhibition against crossing open water, they couldn't fail, but one hurdle at a time.