CHAPTER EIGHT
THE PRICE OF A LIFE
'Get up.'
The sound of steel sliding from its scabbard drove Hughell to his feet. His heart pounded.
The Silent Warrior's eyes, so compassionate before, were hard as ice.
'Walk,' he ordered and Hughell obeyed.
Without horses, the journey back to the river was agonisingly slow. Hughell's ribs pained him at each breath, at times his head throbbed so badly he thought he was going to be sick.
When at last he stumbled from the tree line and onto the sandy belt that lined the riverbank, the afternoon was fading. A few weak rays of sun crowned the tops of the trees.
This shore was deserted now. Across the river he could see the small crowd of refugees, clustered anxiously around a makeshift litter. A few of the figures hung about the edges of the crowd, scabbards hanging from their belts.
Only a brief ride lay between Hughell and the real consequences of what he had done.
As he stepped from the ferry, every eye in that crowd of men, women and children turned and looked at him. No one said anything, but still Hughell did not feel, until a woman rose from beside the litter and strode towards them. She was short and womanly, but strong-looking, with a mass of bushy blonde hair chopped just above her shoulders. Her freckled face twisted with emotion.
'Captain Shemie, my brother is deteriorating,' she said, her voice high and clear above the rush of the river. 'You are a Silent Warrior. There must be something you can do.'
Shemie left Hughell where he stood - he was too exhausted to even think about escape – and went to kneel by the litter. Hughell saw him motion to the other Silent Warrior, who handed him a small, carefully wrapped package.
Within moments, a sweet smell filled the air and the throbbing in Hughell’s temple seemed to lessen.
The captain stood, towering over every head.
'His wounds are deep. Sir Coryth must be taken where hands more skilled than I can help him. It will take the strongest medicine – and the swiftest horses – if we are to save him.'
His eyes scanned the anguished faces of the crowd, as one by one they began to nod. The slaves knew they would have to go on - without their escort.
Suddenly the emptiness welled up inside Hughell's heart, overwhelming him with the realisation of what he had done. All he had wanted was to fight for something, anything really, but in his wanderings he had achieved what the barbaric Shadow Warriors had failed to do: deprived this ragged band of refugees of their champion.
Shemie placed a massive hand on the lady's shoulder.
'Lady Nadoli,' he said. 'The Haven in Cytra has been made ready for the task of restoring these people. You must lead them to the coast. Eyaza and I will go ahead with your brother.'
The other Silent Warrior, Eyaza, came striding up from the ferry, leading both of the horses.
Shemie mounted and the other Silent Warrior bent, lifting Sir Coryth in his arms. He passed the wounded man to his captain, then with a final, sombre salute, mounted. The two warriors set off at a canter, their massive forms framed against the dying sun.
Lady Nadoli watched them until they were out of sight.
Only then did she round on Hughell, her lips quivering with suppressed anger. She would not look at his face, only pointed and said in a voice far lower than before: 'Bind him.'
Hughell let himself be tied. Every excuse, every apology shrivelled before it reached his tongue. Vaguely, he wondered why she didn't kill him now. She must despise him, even more than he despised himself.
Six days passed. Six days of walking and stopping, of eating meagre rations and sleeping on whatever bed the ground afforded.
Every night, Hughell's feet were bound to prevent his escape. No one was cruel to him, but neither did they warm to his presence. Cold indifference met him, whether he chose to walk near the front of the group, or at the rear with the stragglers.
For one thing he was grateful; Lady Nadoli, preoccupied as she had become by the people's needs, seemed to have forgotten all about him, although one of the sword-bearing peasants was usually stationed nearby.
Then came an evening when the wind blew strong. Torrential rain drove them into a narrow gully, where they sought cover among the scattered tree ferns and boulders.
Hughell found a low cleft beneath one of the boulders and crawled inside, not minding that the ground was a little damp. He was glad to be away from the others, even if it was only for a few hours.
Darkness came on quicker than usual that night.
Further down the gully, shadows ducked back and forth, or stood huddled against the trunks of the tree ferns.
A movement nearer his hiding place caught Hughell's eye. A child was walking about in the downpour, a sizable leaf held over his head like a makeshift umbrella.
Hughell watched him in amusement for a second, then stuck his hand out of the alcove and waved.
After a minute, the boy saw the movement and hurried over, diving onto all fours to crawl in beside Hughell. He shook his head like a pup, then drew his bony knees up to his chest.
'I like your hat,' said Hughell.
'Thanks.' The boy grinned, ducking low to avoid the granite ceiling.
The two looked out, watching the grey downpour.
'Everyone seems a little sad tonight,' said the boy. 'I think they are wishing that Sir Coryth were here. They don't need to worry, though. The Prince will look after him.'
'Who is the Prince?' said Hughell.
The boy turned wide eyes toward him. 'Don't you know? I thought eveyone knew.'
Hughell merely shook his head.
'I will tell you,' said the boy and his hands fluttered as he launched into the tale of the great King who ruled Arrethtrae before the rebellion of the dark knight Lucius and how when it seemed that all the kingdom had fallen into darkness, the King's own son had come, disguised as a peasant, to bring hope.
The lad was far from a good storyteller. He started near the end, leaped back and forth between his favourite parts, explained things without explaining them and finished when he fell asleep somewhere in the middle, too tired to form another word.
But it didn't matter.
To Hughell it was as though a veil had been torn from his eyes and the heart of the kingdom laid bare before him. Parts of the story seemed too fanciful to be true, like the King using the life spice to raise his Son back to life after the Noble Knights had hung Him from a tree. And yet...
Hughell stared out into the darkness. All that he had seen declared it to be true. The Silent Warriors were real and so were their evil counterparts. He had witnessed the fury of their fight with his own eyes.
But more than this, his heart knew it to be true.
There were but two powers at war for the kingdom. Say what he would or think what he might, a man fought for one or the other.
Hughell rolled over and stared into the fast approaching darkness, his heart beating fast. It was then that he realised that no one had remembered to bind his feet.
All was silent in the gully, but for the drip, drip of water through the leaves. A different person had bound him every night. No one would come to check, each assuming that someone else had been assigned the task. He could make a run for it now and there was every chance he would never be caught.
There under the rock, Hughell faced the descision.
If there truly was but one thing in the kingdom worth fighting for, even if it were too late for him to choose it, he could not leave until he knew for sure.