The Spirit Stone. Katharine Kerr

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      Gwairyc suddenly remembered the king, pouring the old man ale with his own hands. In a kind of panic he tried to speak but found he could only stammer.

      ‘It appears you see the flaw in your argument.’ Nevyn smiled in a twisted sort of way, then stood up. ‘You might think about all this a bit. Now, wring the water out of those brigga. Then spread them out flat on the grass to dry. I’m going back to the house.’

      Once the brigga were drying, Gwairyc returned to the cow-barn. He unsaddled the pair of riding horses and unloaded the mule. He found a reasonably clean spot in a corner to pile up the gear, then looked over the various stalls. He had no idea if these folk brought the cows in at night or left them out. A skinny youngish man with a weather-beaten face and cropped brown hair, slick with grease, came into the barn.

      ‘Be you Nevyn’s apprentice? I’m Myrn. Ligga’s man.’

      ‘I’m Gwairyc.’

      Myrn nodded in what might have been a greeting. ‘I’ll put them horses up for you. My thanks for saving my lad.’

      ‘That was Nevyn’s work, not mine, truly.’

      Myrn nodded again and took a pitch-fork from the floor. Gwairyc hurried out and left the horses to him.

      On the morrow, Anno seemed to be recovering, but Nevyn left various packets of herbs for his care just in case. When Ligga tried to offer him her few saved coppers as payment, Nevyn refused. That gesture Gwairyc could understand. Taking coins from folk like these would be as ignoble as stealing a hunting dog’s food.

      They left the farm and took up their slow road west again. Mile after mile, village after village, farm after farm – Nevyn seemed to know every commoner in the kingdom, and all of them were, in Gwairyc’s opinion, filthy. Gwairyc saw more injuries and illnesses than he’d ever known existed, with disgusting symptoms all: cuts gone septic, clustered boils, fevers, vomiting, loose bowels, swellings, foul dark urine, and dropsies, to say naught of the ever-present diseased teeth. He tried at first to shut the symptoms out of his mind, but the sights and smells haunted him. At times he dreamt about them. It’s the shame of the thing, he told himself. Why else would they sicken me so much?

      Yet one afternoon, as they rode down a lane between two fields pale green with sprouting wheat, he remembered the first battle he’d ever seen, or rather, its aftermath, the dead men, the dying horses. Once the battle-rage had worn off, he’d felt a stomach-churning disgust far stronger than any of Nevyn’s patients aroused in him. He’d been not much more than a lad, then, and he would rather have died than let any of the men around him see his feelings. And in time, he’d learned how to armour his soul. I’ll grow used to this, too, he told himself. After all, I’ve got no choice.

      Late one hot afternoon, when rain clouds were boiling up from the south, they came to a sprawling village on the banks of a broad but shallow stream. The place was too small to offer an inn, but the tavernman, who knew Nevyn well, let them shelter in his hayloft. After Gwairyc stabled the horses and mule, Nevyn bought them each a tankard of ale. They sat outside the tavern on a little bench across from a market square, empty except for a couple of brown dogs, lying near the public well. In the stiff wind the poplars growing all round the town shivered and bowed.

      ‘We’re in for a storm, all right,’ Nevyn pronounced.

      ‘I’d say so, my lord. I hope to the gods that the stable roof doesn’t leak.’

      Nevyn nodded his agreement and had a sip of his ale. With the clatter of hooves and the jingle of polished tack, a squad of five horsemen came trotting down the village street and up to the inn. As they dismounted, Gwairyc saw the swords at their sides and the blazon of a red hawk on their shirts.

      ‘Must be the riders of our local lord,’ Gwairyc said.

      ‘Just so. I don’t remember his name.’

      The lads tied their horses up at the side of the tavern, then came strolling around to the door. Gwairyc envied them. Once he’d been free to enjoy a tankard in the company of men who understood him, men who were true companions and fellow-warriors. One of the riders paused, looking Nevyn over.

      ‘Good morrow, sir. You look new to our village.’

      ‘Just passing through. I’m a herbman, you see.’

      The rider nodded pleasantly and went inside with his fellows. In a bit, Nevyn finished his ale and handed the tankard to Gwairyc.

      ‘Take this back in. One’s enough for me, but buy yourself another if you’d like, lad.’

      ‘My thanks. I will.’

      Gwairyc took the copper for the ale from Nevyn and carried the tankards back to the tavernman. While the tavernman was dipping him a second tankard from the barrel, Gwairyc realized that the Red Hawk riders were looking him over. As Gwairyc started back outside with his full tankard, a beefy blond fellow got up and blocked his way.

      ‘What are you doing with a sword, lad?’

      ‘What’s it to you?’ Gwairyc said.

      ‘You’re naught but the servant for that moth-eaten old herbman. You’ve got no right to carry a man’s weapon.’

      Gwairyc threw the tankard of ale full into his face. With a howl of rage, the fellow staggered back and swatted at the ale running and foaming down his chest. Shouting, the other lads jumped up, hands going to their hilts. Gwairyc drew and dropped into a fighting stance. He could ask for naught better than a chance to kill someone and wash away his shame with blood.

      ‘What’s all this?’ Nevyn yelled. ‘Stop it!’

      No one paid him the least attention. The nearest two riders drew, dropping into their stance, and edged cautiously for Gwairyc. Gwairyc waited, judging distance. All at once a crash and crackle like thunder boomed around him. Blue fire leapt up, surrounding his enemies in one enormous flame, blinding him as well as them. He heard the lads yelling and cursing as another fire came with the thunder close behind.

      ‘Get out!’ Nevyn’s voice said calmly. ‘All of you – out now!’

      Still half-blind, Gwairyc staggered back, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear his sight. He could just barely see the Red Hawk riders, equally blind, stumbling as fast as they could, shoving each other to be the first out the door. In the corner the tavernman was laughing in long peals while he hugged his own middle. Nevyn strolled over to Gwairyc and pulled the sword from his limp hand.

      ‘Did you do that?’ Gwairyc heard his voice squeaking like a lad’s.

      ‘And who else would it have been?’ the tavernman broke in. ‘Ye gods, Nevyn, you’re a marvel, you are – and at your age, too.’

      ‘Oh, the old horse can take a jump or two yet,’ Nevyn said, grinning. ‘Now listen, Gwarro. I won’t have you killing anyone. Do you understand me?’

      ‘I think I finally do understand you, my lord. You’re dweomer.’

      ‘Just that. What did you think I did to earn the king’s favour? Lance his boils?’

      Shaking too hard to speak, Gwairyc leaned back against the tavernroom wall. Nevyn looked at the sword.

СКАЧАТЬ