Grimenna Read online

  ‘I had never seen a more beautiful, magical woman in all my life. She was dressed in no more than rags — a peasant on the run from wolves, she said. But I knew better. She was a Spirit. Her hair was black as night, and her eyes as bright as star silver that struck me to my soul. It was a disguise, you see, so that we would not harm her.” Ulrig shook his head discontentedly over the memory.

  “I had a wife,” he continued. “I had a good name. I was once called Ulrig the Lionheart, and now I am Ulrig the Leathermaker. I once held my Lord’s banners proudly and carried his sigil on my chest. Now I’m stooped and old. I carry only regret… because I fell in love with this woman and shamed myself and my Lord, who loved her more than I. Her name was Lady Embril, and she was Renn’s mother.”

  Paiva blinked at him again, too stunned to say a thing. Ulrig nodded into her silence.

  “She was the Incarnate of Courage,” he said. “She could fill a man’s heart, raise his spirits, and soothe his fears. She was extraordinary, beautiful, strong … and the Land flourished under Pratermora’s rule while she lived. Varloga found her in the end. They said when they found her body her eyes were empty, her hair white as snow.

  “When Renn was thrown into the woods I could not help but see so much of her in him. At first I was angry, for half of him was made of the man who had thrown me away. But the other half of him was her. I took him under my wing. I made him my own son and have tried to guide him. I have tried to tell him, but he thinks I am just a mad old man.”

  “But he is a Virtue.”

  “Yes, his mother was an Incarnate.”

  “That means Odrik was a Virtue as well,” Paiva exclaimed. “Ceitra did not want Odrik dead, she wanted him to suffer. She wanted Renn to suffer … to corrupt him and provide her with more power.”

  “The Pratermoras have a dark legacy,” Ulrig said. “It is understandable the Strix was attracted to them. She was created to punish wicked men, to use fear to guide them from treachery, even if now she is beyond that. They come from a long line of corruption, of greed and fear mongering. I think to this day Embril came to them to teach them differently, to give them heart, to make them stronger. The Strix, I can only imagine how she feasted on them without her.”

  “But…” Paiva trailed off. “Why would she have Renn hanged then?”

  “Who knows? There could be many reasons. Perhaps it was because of you.” Ulrig gazed at her with speculative speckled eyes. “Perhaps it is because Courage found Hope. Let me tell you, it has been a few seasons Renn has not returned to the Keep with a trophy. The Folka heads he claimed he often gave to other men, for he had long ago given up asking his father for a pardon. Of a sudden he decided to try again, perhaps for no other reason than that he met the Ibbies of Birchloam.”

  “It was hardly an inspirational meeting,” she said, stunned.

  “You might be surprised to find that it was. Your father’s kindness struck deep. The very thing is you can’t have Courage without Fear, and facing his own father again took Courage. Rescuing his father from madness took Courage. Killing Folka is easy if they’re not your own nightmares. Facing a world that hates you, and asking forgiveness for your own hated self is something else. But if you can face your Fears because you suddenly found Hope, well, that is a powerful thing.” Paiva absorbed what he said, both fascinated and overwhelmed.

  “What I wouldn’t give to be a hundred miles away from here, back in the pasture tending sheep and watching the grass grow,” Paiva sighed. She cast her eyes back to the map. “How do we get to Morinvere?” she asked. “How do I find my father?”

  “It would entail a long journey,” Ulrig resolved. “We would have to cross other Wilderman territories. Mad Maggra runs the Painted Camp in the Northwoods below the Highpeaks. Not a good lot — they’re the worst of the Wilderman. Down here it’s just oath breakers, heretics, thieves and tax evaders. Up north is where the worst of murderers and tormentors flock. There are even children born up there, off women the Wildermen have stolen for themselves. They are the ones that suffer from the worst humors of the human heart. But, they’re always up for barter. I’ll offer them a good trade for their help.”

  Then he smiled at her kindly, his speckled eyes twinkling with the shine of his Cures All. “Don’t you fret, you’ll not go alone. I’m completely dedicated to this adventure now. What a great joy it would be! How the world would change if the spirits of the good humors were set free, if they could restore good will in the world of men! Perhaps Lady Embril would rise again…” Then he sprang to his feet and loped to the wall where he retrieved the curled horn of a mountain ram.

  “Come along, Paiva Ibbie of Birchloam,” he said and scurried out the main entrance of the cave.

  “Where are we going?” she asked worriedly as she followed him out. She found the Cures All had eased her aches immensely and she was able to walk without complaint.

  “To gather the others back to camp.” He loped up to the top of his cave and inhaled a deep lungful of air. He pointed the horn to his lips and let loose a deep, howling call that reverberated out over the land. He blew for some time, with short breaths and then long. Then he stuck the tip of the horn in his ear and pointed the flared end out towards the hills, trying to catch any distant sounds.

  Paiva stared at him, finding him to be a wonderful oddity. She tried to imagine him thirty years ago, dressed in a knight’s armor, serving his Lord with pride, and found her imagination lacking. He did not look like a man who had come from, or ever belonged, in the higher crust of society.

  From out over the hills a returning horn sounded and Ulrig’s bushy eyebrows shot up in delight. The call came from the south and Ulrig eagerly swung his horn in that direction, listening to his answering calls and gauging the distance between them. He pulled the horn from his ear and wiped clean its tip with a handful of beard.

  “They went southwards then,” Urlig noted to her. “Down into Far Fall. I’d say by evening tomorrow they’ll reach camp if they have no problems. I’m sure you’ll like the gang. One of them has a certain compulsion towards women but I’m sure the others will keep him in his place.”

  Paiva smiled feebly and turned to look northwards, out over the sweep of mountains. “There,” Ulrig said and pointed to the jagged seam of a mountain range. “That’s the Highpeaks. Below it is Maggra’s camp.”

  “That looks like a long ways away.”

  “Oh, it is.” Ulrig smiled happily. “Full of bogs and fissures and back-breaking hills. Even the rangers don’t make it that far. Well … I think Yulin might have, once.”

  “I don’t know if I could walk that far.”

  “You don’t have to,” Ulrig scoffed. “We’re the Far Reach Gang. We ride Bergs. I’ve been catching and breeding them since I came to these hills.”

  He then brought her down the north slope of the mountain on a steep, rocky path that winded through some thinning trees. At the bottom of it was a ridge ledge that dropped into a cliff and was not passable. On this ledge, trapped there by a little wooden gate were a few straggly looking Bergs grazing on mountain grass. Renn looked up from a rock on which he sat smoking his pipe amidst them.

  “You ever ridden a Berg?” Ulrig asked her as they came up to the gate.

  “No,” Paiva said. “Though I’ve heard much about them.”

  “A Wilderman’s best friend — a scrappy little beast that can carry a man over the tallest mountain and across the widest river. Their only downfall is that they have rather boney withers and can make a man sore real fast if he loses his seat.”

  Paiva chuckled and leaned onto the gate to watch the animals shake flies and tear at the grass. From the rocks ran a stream of water that pooled into a stone trough. There was a small wooden lean-to constructed against the rock face and beneath it stood a black-eyed mare that was busy tearing strips of wood from it with her teeth.

  “Is that Runa?” Paiva
asked.

  Ulrig chuckled as the mare pinned her ears back at him and snorted with ill temper. “Berg mares are a special sort,” Ulrig smiled. “Harder to gentle than any wild stud. Perhaps you should go to talk with Renn.”

  Paiva nodded and slipped through the rungs of the gate while Ulrig departed back up the path.

  She went to sit beside Renn on his rock who was staring intently at the mare with a bemused expression.

  “Why did Ulrig call the gang back?” Renn asked. “Can’t have been because he’s decided we’re all going on a journey to this mythical Morinvere?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was hoping you would come with me.”

  “Agh,” he sighed dismally. “Why can’t you just let me be? My life was much simpler before I stumbled upon you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  She turned away from the mare and gazed at his profile. She watched his black hair flutter in the low breeze of the mountain top and studied the scar that ran across the bridge of his bent nose. His jaw was hairless and a question suddenly came to mind, pushing through the sadness she felt for his own dejection.

  “Why do you have no beard?” she asked. He swung his head to look at her in surprise, then he uttered a warm, genuine laugh that sent a thrill of pleasure through her. He rubbed his chin wistfully and felt for a scar beneath his jaw.

  “I had a beard,” he said. “Ulrig stole it.”

  She gaped at him.

  “I got it caught in a bow string and ripped half of it off,” he began. “I tried to grow it again and it came in all funny, and I kept getting scraped in the face or cut in the mouth. It got tangled in a branch once and I stayed stuck in the tree while my horse ran away. Wounds are very hard to heal when they are covered in bristles. Ulrig decided it was best if I just kept a clean face. He said my beard was bad luck and made me get rid of it. He rubbed a salve he concocted over it and it hasn’t grown back since.”

  Paiva laughed heartily and he smiled, rubbing his naked chin. She noticed his teeth were almost perfect, if not for a few chips. Another sign of his higher breeding. She had almost forgotten he was a Lord’s son, and the realization that he was a Virtue as well made her smile falter. There they were together, a Wilderman and a shepherd’s daughter, both sharing origins as concrete as mist.

  “They were starting to call me Badluck Blackbeard,” he continued thoughtfully. “I prefer Black Renn.”

  Paiva shook her head at the Wildermen’s superstitions and swung her head and looked out towards the far off Highpeaks, her laughter dying in her throat as she caught sight of them.

  “Renn,” she said. “Ulrig says we’re to go to the Northwoods.”

  “Did he?” he mused and followed her gaze out to the north. “I haven’t been there in a long time. Not since Mad Maggra chased me off.”

  “What happened? Would you be in danger if you returned there?”

  “No, not really,” he said. Then a troubled thought drew his brow down. She wondered at his curious reaction, but before she could ask him any more questions he had sprung to his feet.

  “You’ll have to learn how to ride a Berg if that’s where we’re headed.”

  “I can ride a horse fine,” she said. “I grew up on a farm.”

  “With a hitching horse, no doubt,” he said as he went towards the black-eyed mare. “I grew up riding stallions and war chargers. But they were nothing compared to these wild little ponies.”

  Runa pinned her ears back at him and swung her head through the air, shaking flies from her scraggly brown mane. He stuck a finger through her halter, which was a loose scrap of leather twisted into a rope, and pulled her head down. She swung her body into him and struck out her foot, but he was wise enough to keep his feet well placed and out of harm’s way.

  “They were domesticated once,” Renn said. “The Wildermen say they were either the horses that remained after the forest swallowed the Old Settlements or that they were pests in the lowlands that they herded into the river to drown. No one really knows. They weren’t meant to survive either way, and when they did, they became quite wild again.” The mare eyed him, the white of her eye rolling. “Funny enough, it’s the mares that make better mounts for a Wilderman. The studs are rather lazy.” He stroked Runa’s neck. He seemed to think better of asking Runa to teach Paiva, and opted instead for a barrel-bodied male with long whiskers about his nose and eyes.

  “Here,” he said as he drew the shaggy, brown horse up to the rock. “You can try Felder. He’s Ulrig’s old stud.”

  Paiva went and pet the Berg, scratching flies from his ears and loosening burrs from his mane. He appeared to be calm and harmless, his eyes half-closed in a doze from the late morning sun. Paiva grabbed a fistful of his mane and launched herself up onto his back to Renn’s surprise.

  He scrabbled under her weight, but Renn held him fast. She felt Felder’s body coil with nerves under her, and as Renn led him forward into a walk she felt her own tension mounting.

  “You’ll have to relax,” Renn said. “You’re making him nervous.” He led her in a tight circle, then along the ridge. Felder trod unbothered along the precipice while Paiva clung to his mane with terror and gazed down into the fathoms below. Renn laughed at her taut face, then circled and passed her by the precipice again until she grew accustomed to the dizzying height.

  “I’ve never seen a Berg horse fall off a mountain,” he said. “I’ve seen Wildermen fall but never a Berg. Ulrig thinks they talk to rocks as well. They seem to know when a ledge is safe or not. Always listen to your Berg when you’re not sure if the way is clear.”

  Renn tied a thong of leather to Felder’s halter and passed them to her, giving her control of the horse. He stepped back and watched as she urged Felder forwards with a sharp kick. Felder hardly moved. So much for reacting to the slightest touch.

  “Kick him harder,” he ordered. Paiva did and Felder responded by throwing out his back legs with a twist and bucking her off. She rolled into the grass as Felder trotted away to join the other Bergs and continue his grazing.

  Renn helped her to her feet, suppressing a smile.

  “Berg studs are lazy,” he said. “Not nearly as wild as the mares though.” Paiva got to her feet and brushed herself off, then went to retrieve Felder and try again. He allowed her a short walk around the ridge before he grew tired of her and bucked her off again, leaving her to nurse her bruises while he sauntered back to his grass. Runa watched with pricked ears and Paiva was sure she was enjoying the spectacle.

  She got back on her feet and tried again, this time managing to keep her seat through Felder’s bucking. Renn narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the old stud and went to stand at the edge of the ridge.

  Paiva had him in a neat little trot until she circled him back towards the other horses, then he broke into a jolted canter and made a dash for his escape. Paiva tried to counter him, pulling on his reins and swinging his head away from his friends. He was stubborn and sure-footed. He threw his shoulders and she tumbled off, rolling to a stop on Renn’s feet at the edge of the cliff.

  He shook his head piteously and bent to help her up. “Oh, it will be a long ride to Maggra’s,” he sighed. He looked back up to the Bergs grazing and flicking their tails with a thoughtful frown.

  “Ulrig says Bergs bond with their riders, and Ulrig’s the only one who’s ever ridden Felder, just as I’m the only one who’s ever ridden Runa. Perhaps you need a young horse, one without the imprint of a rider.”

  “I don’t like the thought of that,” she said as she nursed her scraped elbows. But Renn had already headed towards a lanky colt and snatched him up. Paiva looked dismally at the horse. He was longer, leaner and younger than Felder.

  “He’s never had a rider?” she asked as she went and patted his neck.

  Renn shrugged. “Well, he’s broke, more or less. We’ve used him as a pack horse. He c
an be ridden. But no one’s claimed him yet.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jakbur.”

  She patted his neck thoughtfully, looking up into his deep eyes. His nostrils flared and took in her scent. His tail swished and whisked flies away from his belly. She grabbed his mane and levered herself up stiffly, sitting on his back while Renn held him fast.

  “I like this horse,” she said, sitting for a moment longer to get a feel for him. She stroked his neck and ruffled his mane. Runa gave a low nicker and the colt responded in kind.

  “Is he Runa’s colt?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “And Felder’s.”

  “He’s nice,” she said, then wearily she slid off. “But I think I’d like to take a break from being thrown off Bergs for a while.”

  Renn smiled and released the colt, watching him trot off with the others.

  “You should smile more,” she said. His pale eyes looked to her in surprise and she immediately felt her cheeks burn. “You look less terrible,” she blurted, then turned on her heel and headed back up to the cave, wincing on sore feet and happy to leave the unruly horses behind her.

  Renn jogged to catch up to her and they began the walk back up to the cave while he chuckled at her under his breath. Of a sudden a shaggy shape appeared in their path, stumbling out of the trees. She gasped and took a step back at the shape before her. It was an immense man covered in furs with a great beard, and under the crook of his arm was a twisted crutch made of carved wood he leaned on heavily to support a dragging leg.