Grimenna Page 17

  Renn looked like a chill had swept over him. Something strange passed over his face, a lifting of shadows and a revealing of something soft and helpless.

  “Taking your own life is a sin,” he said. “It is cowardice, and is punishable by the laws of the land.” He recalled how they had had a terrible fight atop the ramparts and it was Odrik who ended up broken on the ground below.

  “Odrik saved you,” she breathed. “But you took the blame.”

  “I should have helped him. Instead I fought him.”

  He looked to the edge of Far Fall Rock, out to the sky wherein the swollen moon began to rise from the black silhouette of hills. Then he put the skewered meat aside and went to stand at the precipice and look down into the chasm below. His tattered oilskin cloak flitted in the stiff wind, his hair as knotted and wild as a Berg horse’s mane.

  “The funny thing is I would never have had the courage to take my life,” he breathed. “My brother was brave. He was no coward.”

  Paiva rose anxiously, watching him balance precariously at the edge of the rock. Renn swept his eyes up from the fathoms below, catching sight of a pillar of smoke rising from the tops of the trees in the moonlight. He pointed to it and looked back to her.

  “That’s Crowbill,” he said.

  She nodded, concerned for his footing on the rock. He stared out a moment longer over the forest.

  When he returned to the fire to eat from the roasted grouse there was little evidence of the revelation that had occurred. He was quiet and taciturn, his eyes thoughtful, but there was no struggle in them.

  They ate their meagre meal in silence and then he lay down wrapped in his oilskin and closed his eyes without a word. He seemingly fell into an exhausted sleep. Paiva sat and gazed over the daunting, dark forest, overwhelmed by the magnitude of open sky and endless trees. Then, with the chill of the high breeze at her back, she too lay down beneath the red cloak and tried to find her own rest.

  Chapter 11

  In the morning Renn took note of the smoke below them, then threw Paiva up on the horse and wound their way down Far Fall and into the woodlands below. He kept vigilant, his eyes and ears pricked for any movement in the trees.

  They were travelling hard for some time before Renn suddenly halted the horse and began scanning the trees. Paiva saw nothing, but a moment later dark shadows gathered and took the form of men. They crept out of the trees and came to stand in a half circle around them. All were bearded and dirty, covered in furs and leathers, each brandishing a weapon of their own comportment.

  The leader came forward, sporting a braided dark beard and a leather cap stuck with feathers. His face was peaked, with high cheek bones and a long, hooked nose. A smile lit up his birdlike face.

  “By my beard, that was you atop Far Fall last night then,” he cackled. “Where are you headed with a horse like that and a girl in a ranger’s cloak?”

  “Crowbill,” Renn called and returned a small smile. “We’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’ll trade you good swill and hot meat for your stories,” Crowbill replied. “Sure looks like you could use it.”

  “Fair trade,” Renn agreed, and then they were following Crowbill and his band into the trees. They came to a camp gathered in a copse of pines by a brook and there was the fire whose smoke had led them to Crowbill. Over it a wild boar was roasting in skewered pieces. There were little huts constructed from hides with pine boughs for roofs. Renn said they were called Thimblehuts and were easily collapsible and transportable for a roving band like Crowbill’s.

  Crowbill invited her to the fire where she seated herself on a mossy log. Renn went to water the horse and rub it down, then left it to graze through the underbrush. He returned and took a seat beside her, keeping a watchful eye on the other men who gawked at her. Renn’s edge returned when he caught one man staring rudely at Paiva; he set his cold eyes on the man until he shrunk back and looked away. Crowbill caught the interaction and laughed, bringing them a clay tankard filled with swill to share. He then turned his attention to his roasting meat while he drank from his own. Other men gathered round, all eager to hear tell of Renn’s stories.

  “So Renn, tell us,” Crowbill commanded cheerfully.

  “Lady Ceitra passed a sentence for me to have my neck stretched in the gallows,” he stated flatly.

  “However did you manage that?” Crowbill asked.

  “She replaced Warden Yulin with a ranger from Birchloam,” Renn continued, “and Yulin in spite of her sprung me, gave me a horse and a cloak to escape with.”

  “Master Warden Yulin sprung you?” Crowbill gaped.

  “Like a rabbit from a snare,” Renn mused.

  Crowbill then took a long haul of his drink. “What is she thinking to strip a man like Yulin of his rank?” Paiva noted that there seemed to be a certain amount of respect for Yulin, despite that she understood all Wildermen hated Wardens and rangers irrevocably.

  “By my beard,” Crowbill laughed. “And what did you do to catch your neck in a noose?”

  “A good number of things.”

  “He lied to try and save my father,” Paiva interjected. All the men looked at her as if she had grown two heads. She felt Renn bristle beside her and she reached for the tankard and lifted it for a drink, then choked on the volatile liquid within. It burned her throat and sprung tears to her eyes. It had the powerful taste of medicine, like pinecones and cedar bark. She coughed it up, wondering if it was some sort of horse liniment, and handed the tankard to Renn who took a swig without complaint.

  “I call that Crowbill swill,” Crowbill chuckled. “Put hair on your chest and make your beard shine.”

  “I’m looking for my father,” Paiva said as she wiped her eyes, noting that she wanted neither chest hair or beard. “His name’s Viviel. He was branded and sent to the woods not too long ago. Wrongfully branded.”

  Crowbill looked back to her from the fire, his face drained of color.

  “Viviel you said?” he asked. “Tall fellow, big brown beard? A shepherd from Birchloam?”

  Paiva nodded anxiously.

  “Yes, he was here. And now he’s gone,” Crowbill said. “Slept by my fire for half a night. The woods began to stir with Folka. The trees shook, they howled and gnashed their teeth until we all thought we would perish. Never in all my years in the Wilderlands have I ever seen the likes of it. I was scared, so scared, as I never have been in all my years.” Then he pointed to a gray streak in his beard. “Never had any white in my beard before that night. We tried to frighten them off, started a huge blaze of a fire and shot arrows into the trees. They kept coming, howling and scraping their claws against stones. Some men got dragged off and we heard their bones broken as they screamed. Viviel fought alongside us, until he told us to lay down our arms. He walked into the trees after that, and with him went the Folka.”

  Paiva looked to Renn, whose brow creased into another of his thoughtful frowns. He looked sideways at her, and she hoped he would believe her stories now.

  “You know what I think,” Crowbill continued. “I think he had spirit blood in him. That’s why they wanted him. I don’t much like spirits, good or bad. I don’t like priests or sorcerers or magicians or soothsayers. Can’t stand none of it, and I hate the Folka. More than I hate Rangers and Wardens and sore teeth.” He looked back to Paiva and took a long swig of his drink, hissing out a hot breath. “You’re welcome to my camp, but if there’s trouble I want you gone.”

  Paiva nodded solemnly.

  “And you, Renn. What are you going to do with her?” Crowbill asked.

  “Well,” Renn shrugged. “I’m not going to let the wolves or any Wildermen eat her just yet.”

  — «» —

  Paiva ate and drank until she couldn’t move. She had not known how hungry she was until she tasted Crowbill’s finely roasted meal. There were chestnuts roasted in the
hot embers, ash cakes made from acorn meal and wild eggs to top off the thick chunk of boar meat Crowbill sliced into a wooden trencher for her. The meat was spiced with a wild flavor of woodland herbs and even a little salt. The men fell on it and devoured it with relish.

  “You see,” Crowbill winked at her. “Men don’t need to live in castles to eat like kings. I am a King, I am King Crowbill. King of the River Runners, Lord of all that is green and free.”

  His men jeered and laughed, raising their drinks of swill.

  “Life is wasted for any man who could want more than what we have,” Crowbill sang. “We have freedom, we have a river that feeds us with fish and a forest that gives us shelter and medicines. Here they think they’re punishing us by sending us away.”

  Paiva felt her head swim from the swill she had managed to drink by watering down, and she laughed loudly and cheered along with the River Runners. They spent the remainder of the day eating and exchanging stories, until night crept in and the men began to trail off to their appropriate Thimblehuts and sleep. Crowbill offered them a hut to sleep in, and Paiva was overjoyed to discover inside there was an abundance of furs and pelts in which to keep warm. She sprang inside and curled into the furs, falling into a dreamless sleep in seconds.

  — «» —

  Renn tethered the horse by the hut and brushed it down with dry grass, then Crowbill motioned him back to the fire where they sat together and shared swill.

  “What is happening at the Keep?” Crowbill asked. “Mikal and his fellows passed through here and told us what came to pass with the Lord.” Crowbill stuffed a pipe and gave it to Renn, who lit it from a smoldering stick he pulled from the fire.

  He breathed a long breath of smoke and shook his head. He began to reiterate the tale of his hunt for his father through the woods, told of Ceitra and a guarded story of what had come to pass with the Keep tower burning. Renn related the whole tale, back from the beginning when he had first encountered Paiva on Mummers-eve. He explained how Viviel had been branded and outcast for harboring them that night, and though he knew it was unjust and cruel he felt entirely guilty about it all.

  Crowbill listened raptly. “If you really think about it, all of this madness that has happened with your family started with Ceitra. I remember you telling me how you had fallen for her wiles as a boy. You were there on the ramparts that day to comfort her, maybe confess your love, I don’t know, when Odrik came upon you… Ceitra enjoyed watching you fight over her.” He took a swig of his drink. “I think you should believe the girl. You have nothing left to lose if you do.”

  Renn was silent, watching the folds of smoke spewing from the fire.

  “I told you once long ago the only way to salve your conscience and rid yourself of guilt was to kill a Folka. But it never salved anything, did it?” Crowbill asked.

  “No,” Renn said. “Not at all.”

  “It’s a stupid way to be forgiven. What mad man decided so long ago sending men into Grimenna would cure them of evil? What mad man had the idea that killing something would salve great wrongs?”

  Renn shrugged, knowing very well it was some great forefather of his.

  “You know what I think?” Crowbill mused as he sucked down another swig of his swill. “I think this girl’s telling you the truth. I think these spirits that haunt these woods is all our own ill-doing. Your father might never pardon you; his pardon might not be worth it all in the end. But helping these Ibbies might be the cure of your evils.”

  “I don’t care, Crowbill,” he sighed.

  “Sure you do. If you didn’t you’d have let that girl drown in the river.”

  Renn’s head swum with the swill. He tucked the pipe away beneath his cloak and thanked Crowbill for his hospitality and bid him goodnight. Crowbill chuckled and spat into the fire.

  “Anything for Black Renn. I know I’ll sleep safe tonight with you in camp.”

  Renn went back to the hut where Paiva was curled sound asleep. He bent and reached in, searching for a fur with which to sleep and found he ached for her warmth. Away from the fire the night was damp and chilled.

  Instead he withdrew a fur from the hut and lay down on the cold hard ground at its door, guarding Paiva from the outside, and the unworthy wants inside him.

  — «» —

  Paiva woke late in the morning and when she pulled herself out of the Thimblehut she found that the camp was being dismantled by the busy Wildermen. She looked about for Renn and found him hunched over with Crowbill, rolling up the hides of a hut and securing them into a bundle.

  “What’s going on?” she asked worriedly, for in the air hung a palpable tension. The fire was doused, the forest floor swept clean.

  “Milady,” Crowbill inclined his head in a curt nod. “Scout came down from the hills this morn and said there was a patrol headed our way. Seems they picked up your trail. Poor Renn’s losing his knack for evading rangers. Best we move out, I think. We’ll fuddle the trail for you and lose the rangers.”

  Renn was quiet and went about his business of gathering up hides.

  “That’s … nice of you,” Paiva said.

  Crowbill grinned. “Anything for a pretty lady,” he said.

  “I’m not pretty,” she stammered bashfully and hurriedly bent to help.

  “You could look like the back end of a bull and he’d still think you’re pretty,” Renn murmured. Paiva gaped at him.

  “That might be true but she sure don’t look like no one’s back end,” Crowbill said cheerfully. “Might even call her beautiful, no, Renn?”

  “I haven’t bothered looking,” he said tersely. She was sure Crowbill would erupt into flames with the look Renn threw him.

  “You’d have to be blind not see that,” Crowbill laughed.

  Paiva went about helping to gather up the camp. By the time the Wildermen were ready to move out each was burdened under the trappings of their rolled-up huts and bundles of furs. They used their bows as staffs and cleaved off into the woods at a quick pace, moving silently as wraiths and quick as hares. Renn threw Paiva and a few bundles up on the horse’s back, then with a bow and a quiver from Crowbill slung over his shoulder, he took the horse’s reins in hand and followed the band into the trees on foot.

  “Where are we going now?” she asked Renn as they dodged through the trees. The horse was pulled into a trot behind Renn’s quick pace. She sensed his urgency and felt a lump of fear begin to knot her stomach.

  “We’ll head to my camp at Far Reach,” Renn tossed over his shoulder.

  Crowbill joined up with them, jogging beside the horse, huge bundles bouncing on his back. Crowbill didn’t look the least encumbered by it. Between his teeth he clamped his pipe and he sucked on it thoughtfully as they moved along.

  “I told the fellas we’ll go as far as the Snowy Rock,” Crowbill said to Renn. “Give me your horse and take what supplies you’ll need to go on to Far Reach. The horse with its damned Keep smithy shoes will leave too clear a trail; the dogs will smell it out. You’ll have an easier time evading them without it.”

  “They catch you with a ranger’s horse they’ll mark your ledger and give you a beating,” Renn replied.

  “Agh,” Crowbill laughed. “Then I won’t let them catch me. I’ll send them on a good chase. You’ll be well clear of them before they even realize it.”

  “Thank you Crowbill,” Paiva said down to him from the horse. He winked up to her.

  “It is you I must thank, for you have brought me good gossip and gossip is a prized currency in the woods.”

  The River Runners, aptly named for their ability to run long through the trees, winded themselves at the top of Snowy Rock by the midday sun. From atop the huge body of rock, which was covered in strange white moss and lichens, they looked down onto the Far Fall valley below. Paiva slipped from the horse and gave its neck a quick stroke before Renn handed it ov
er to Crowbill.

  Renn took a fair share of rations he wrapped in an oiled skin and threw it over his back with his quiver and bow. Crowbill also took her red cloak which was doused in a foul-smelling liniment he said would evade the ranger’s hounds. Renn shook hands with Crowbill, then nodded towards the others who nodded back.

  “You keep close to Renn, girlie. Don’t go wandering off in these parts of the woods,” Crowbill said. Then he pulled the horse into the trees and disappeared. The other River Runners each skipped away in different directions, slashing at branches and leaving their footprints rutted deep into the loam of the forest floor.

  Paiva turned and followed Renn northwards, into the trees where he found a game trail over which he trod softly. He warned her of leaving no sign of her passing and she placed her bare feet on stones and roots, keeping clear of any dirt that would leave an impression.

  They travelled hard, scaling a ridge and passing through thick copses, making their way steadily upwards. By the time evening fell they were at the edge of a mountain that blotted out the setting sun. Renn said that on the other side was Far Reach, and if she wasn’t too tired they could press onward and reach it by morning.

  Paiva looked up at the mountain and felt a tremor of exhaustion run through her aching legs. Renn’s stride was twice as long as hers and she had spent the day stumbling to keep up with him. He seemed to sense her derision of scaling the mountain in the dark, so instead he led them beneath a ledge as darkness fell and decided to let her rest there.

  She drank from the waterskin and ate from the wild meat Crowbill had given them. They sat in silence and darkness, looking out over the forest and star-soaked sky. Animals called through the dark; wolves bayed in the hills.

  Suddenly a strangled wail rose up far off in the distance and the wolves fell silent. It sent shivers over Paiva’s skin despite the sheen of sweat that clung to her body from her day of hard travelling.