A Time of Omens. Katharine Kerr

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      Although it was faint now, a bare wisp of smoke in the firelight, the thing shook its head no and lifted both hands – imploring him, Nevyn thought, to forgive it or do something or perhaps both. When he reached in and lifted the box, some weight inside lurched and slid with a waft of unpleasant smell from the crack around the lid. Since he considered himself hardened to all forms of death, Nevyn threw open the lid and nearly gagged – not from the smell, this time, but from the sight. Crammed inside lay the corpse of an infant boy, preserved with some mixture of spices and liquids. Only a few days old when it died, it had been mutilated in the exact same way as the corpse nailed to the palisade.

      Since the box brought a lot of dust up with it, the haunt kneeling nearby looked briefly solid, or at least its face and hands were visible as it tossed its head back and threw up its arms in a silent keen.

      ‘Your child?’

      It shook its head no, then slumped, doubling over to lay its head on the ground in front of him like a criminal begging a great lord for mercy.

      ‘You helped kill it? Or – I see – your friends were going to kill it. You protested, and they made you share its Wyrd.’

      The dust scattered to the floor. The haunt was gone.

      For some minutes Nevyn merely stared at the pitiful corpse in its tiny coffin. Although he’d never had the misfortune to see such mutilations before, he’d heard something about their significance – some half-forgotten lore that nagged at the edges of his memory and insisted that he examine the corpse more carefully. Finally he summoned up all his will and took the box over to the fire where there was light to work in, but he got bits of rag from his saddle-bags to wrap his hands before he reached in and took the mutilated pieces of the tiny mummy out. Underneath he found a thin lead plate, about two inches by four, much like the curse-talismans that ignorant peasants still bury in hopes of doing an enemy harm. Graven on it were words in the ancient tongue of the Dawntime, known only to scholars and priests – and some words that not even Nevyn could translate.

      ‘As this so that. Maryn king Maryn king Maryn. Death never dying. Aranrhodda ricca ricca ricca Bubo lubo.’

      His face and hands seemed to turn to ice, cold and numb and stiff. He looked up to find the room filled with Wildfolk, staring at him solemnly, some wide-eyed, some sucking an anxious finger, some gape-mouthed with terror.

      ‘Evil men did this, didn’t they?’

      They nodded a yes. In the fire a towering golden flame leapt up, then died down to a vaguely human face burning within the blaze.

      ‘Help me,’ Nevyn said to the Lord of Fire. ‘I want to get that corpse outside in here, and then burn it and this pitiful thing both. Then both souls can go to their rest.’

      Sparks showered in agreement.

      Nevyn slipped the lead plate into his pocket, lest melting it cause Maryn some harm. He gathered his gear and loaded up his mount, then untied the horse and led it about a quarter mile down the river, where he tethered it out in safety. When he got back to the lodge he found that the fire had already leapt from the hearth to smoulder in the woodpile. With the Wildfolk pulling as he pushed, Nevyn got the rotting log that bore the corpse free of the ground and hauled it inside. He positioned the corpse and log as close to the fire as possible, then laid the mutilated baby on the desecrated breast of the man who’d tried to save it. Although he felt more like vomiting than ever, he forced himself calm and raised his hands over his head to invoke the Great Ones.

      ‘Take them to their rest. Come to meet them when they go free.’

      From the sky outside, booming around the lodge, came three great knocks like the claps of godly hands. Nevyn began to shudder, and in the fire the flames fell low in worship.

      Even though Nevyn had asserted, and quite calmly, too, that there was no danger, none of the silver daggers were inclined to believe him. After the men had tethered out the horses and eaten dinner, Caradoc gave orders to scrounge all the dry wood they could find and build a couple of campfires. Maddyn suspected that the captain was as troubled as any man there by this talk of a haunt and wanted the light as badly, too.

      ‘Full watches tonight, lads,’ Maddyn said. ‘Shall we draw straws?’

      Instead so many men volunteered that his only problem was sorting out who was going to stand when. Once the first ring of guards was posted, some of the men rolled up in their blankets and went to sleep – or at least pretended to in a fine show of bravado – but most sat near one fire or another, keeping them going with sticks and bits of bark as devotedly as any priest ever tended a sacral flame. After about an hour, Maddyn left the prince to Caradoc’s and Owaen’s care at one of the fires and went for a turn round the guards. Most were calm enough, joking with him about ghosts and even making light of their own nerves, but when he came up to Branoic, who was posted out near the herd of horses, he found the younger man as tense as a harp-string.

      ‘Oh now here, lad! Look at the horses, standing there all peaceful like. If there was some fell thing about, they’d warn us.’

      ‘You heard what Nevyn said, and he’s right. There are some things horses can’t know. Maddyn, you can mock me all you like, but some evil thing walks this stretch of country. I can practically smell it.’

      Maddyn was about to make a joke when the knocks sounded, three distant rolls booming out like thunder from a clear sky. Branoic yelped like a kicked dog and spun round to point as a tower of pale silver flame shot up through the night. As far as Maddyn could tell, it was coming from the old hunting lodge. Even though they were over a mile away, Maddyn saw the river flash with reflected light as it seemed that the flames would lick at the sky itself. Then they fell back, leaving both men blind and blinking in the darkness. In the camp, yells and curses broke like a rainstorm. Around them horses neighed and reared, pulling at their tethers.

      ‘Come on!’ Maddyn grabbed Branoic’s arm. ‘Somewhat’s happened to Nevyn.’

      Stumbling and swearing, they took off downriver, running because it would take too long to calm and saddle horses. Just as Maddyn’s sight was finally clear someone hailed them: Nevyn himself, leading his horse along as calmly as you please.

      ‘Ye gods, my lord! We thought you slain.’

      ‘Naught of the sort. I did get a little carried away with that fire, didn’t I? I’ve never tried anything quite like that before, and I think me I need to refine my hand.’

      Nevyn refused to say anything more until they reached the camp. Shouting for answers the men surrounded him until Maryn yelled at them to shut up and let the councillor through. It was a good measure of the prince’s authority that they all fell back and did so. Once Nevyn reached the pool of firelight, he mugged a look of mild surprise.

      ‘I told you I’d lay the haunt to rest, lads, and I did. There’s naught more to worry about.’ He glanced around with a deliberate vagueness. ‘If someone would take my horse, I’d be grateful.’

      Owaen grabbed the reins and led the trembling beast away to join its fellows.

      ‘Oh come now, good councillor.’ With all the flexible courage of youth Maryn was grinning at him. ‘You can’t expect to put us off so easily.’

      ‘Well, perhaps not.’ The old man thought for a moment, but Maddyn was sure that he had his little speech all prepared and was only pretending to hesitate. ‘To lay СКАЧАТЬ