She shifted in discomfort, shooting a wary eye in my direction. I had told Leannor’s council that the location of this treasure had been discovered among the Hound’s papers, thinking it a more plausible explanation than being guided to it in a dream conjured by a Caerith witch.

  “The Hound wrote much of his journal in code,” I explained. “One that defied decipherment until I came along.”

  Wilhum gave a placid nod in response, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Fortunately, he consented to refrain from further questions. “A full appraisal of the wealth here would require a more expert eye than mine,” he said, reaching into the coffin to raise a handful of chunky gold coins. “But I’ve little doubt we now possess riches enough to fund three armies, never mind one.”

  “And an awful temptation,” Toria added. “’Specially when your company is a bunch of outlaws.”

  “Former outlaws,” I corrected, though I saw her point. “We’ll pack up a quarter of it, which you’ll carry back to Tarisahl and present to the princess regent with my compliments. Tell her also to take ship and bring the host here forthwith.”

  “We haven’t parleyed with the Caerith yet,” she pointed out. “Don’t you want to wait for them?”

  “They’ve already given us leave to stay,” I said, turning away to mount the steps.

  “How do you know?” Wilhum asked.

  “They know we’re here and haven’t killed us.” I started up the steps, then paused to add, “Yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Sea Crow departed with the next tide under darkened skies, portending a storm. It duly arrived come dusk, hard, lacerating gales sweeping in from the sea driving thick curtains of rain against the shore. The Free Company huddled in their tents until the wind tore them from the pegs, forcing a retreat to the shelter of Castle Dreol. To alleviate their damp, confined misery, and also soothe any larcenous inclinations, I handed each of them a gold coin from the Hound’s trove. Reactions were surprisingly varied. Falko and the other Yollands were wide-eyed with gratitude, Adlar and Juhlina only mildly interested, and Tiler puzzled by his own absence of greed.

  “Was a time I’d’ve slit every throat here just for this,” he muttered, brows furrowed as he repeatedly flipped the coin. “Now, I can’t think of a single thing to spend it on.”

  “Consider it a pension,” I advised. “No war lasts forever.”

  Tiler gave a half-amused grunt and consigned the coin to his pocket.

  Quintrell’s reaction was the most noteworthy, mainly for his curious inability to mask it. I saw it clearly as he beheld the coin I handed him, as pure an expression of naked avarice as I had ever seen. Catching my eye, he immediately strove to conceal it, forcing an offhand laugh and avowing a desire to keep the token for all his years as a souvenir of his days fighting the evil queen. I hadn’t thought him an overly greedy soul before now. Duplicitous and barely trustworthy, certainly, but this was my first true glimpse of the mercenary lurking under all that charm. It made me wonder why I had allowed him to stay with us. With Lorine refusing to take up arms against Evadine, continuing to harbour her self-confessed spy seemed foolish. But, although no fighter, the minstrel had become a fixture of our company. The others appreciated his music and gift for finding humour even in the worst of times, something I realised now to be yet more artifice. Quintrell navigated the world from behind a facade of ingratiation, as befitted a spy. But, while I could tolerate a spy, a professional liar subsumed in greed was another matter.

  I gave a good-natured laugh and, still smiling, leaned closer to whisper in his ear: “Go near the crypt and I’ll kill you.”

  As the night wore on and gales lashed the castle walls, the company made itself as comfortable as it could and tried to sleep. They spread out across the floor in their blankets and bedrolls, lying cheek by jowl. The veterans among them managed to sleep, as did the Yollands, for whom this could hardly be called hardship. Others remained awake in restless agitation, casting worried glances at the surrounding walls of aged stone buffeted by the raging storm outside.

  For myself, I made no attempt to sleep, taking up position on the stairwell. I couldn’t divine the source of my certainty that any slumber I attempted would soon be interrupted, but didn’t question it. Nor did I feel any great surprise when the sound of a very loud voice cut through the blustering howl of the wind.

  “ALWYN SCRIBE!” it boomed, rousing much of the company who began reaching for their weapons as the voice continued in Caerith. “Get your Ishlichen carcass out here!”

  “Stand easy,” I told Tiler and the other soldiers who had begun arming themselves. I rose and descended the stairs, steeling myself for the confrontation to come. Pausing next to Juhlina, I lowered my voice to impart what might well be my final order: “Stay here. Keep them all inside.”

  The Widow was plainly unconvinced. “I’ll come with you,” she said, hefting her warhammer.

  “No!” I gripped the haft of her weapon, forcing it down. “Whatever happens, don’t attempt to fight them. If they cut my head off and make sport with my innards, you will do nothing. You hear me?”

  She bridled at the harshness of my tone, but consented to reply with a stiff nod.

  We had sealed the tower’s doorway with tent canvas, which took a while to undo before I emerged to find my vision immediately swamped by sheeting rain. Sputtering, I pulled my cloak over my head, making out the sight of a very large figure standing in the castle gateway. The Eithlisch wore no covering tonight and stood revealed in all his bare-chested monstrosity, flesh blazing white with each flare of lightning. I fought a panicked urge to retreat, call the company to arms and secrete myself at the top of the tower while they faced his wrath. A shameful notion, but I’ll not deny I considered it for a heartbeat longer than is seemly. However, there are some confrontations even the worst coward cannot evade. I had something to answer for, and I knew there was no shirking the punishment.

  Labouring towards him through the swirling gale, I saw that the Eithlisch’s fists were clenched, water streaming down the knotted trunks of his arms to cascade from ball-sized knuckles. His impossibly broad chest swelled as I drew nearer, a flash of lightning revealing the wall of his teeth. They weren’t bared in a smile.

  I halted within reach of his arms, feeling it would be pointless not to. I remained silent, instead squinting up at his grimacing, rage-filled visage in grim expectation. I could claim to have awaited my impending fate with serene acceptance, but, cherished reader, you know me better than that. I trembled under the weight of his stare, my guts roiling so badly I thought I might dirty my trews at any second. But I’ll always take some pride in the fact that I didn’t run, not even when the monster moved closer, towering over me, his face now quivering with fury. Still, he said nothing, but he didn’t need to.

  “Yes,” I told him, shouting above the wind and forcing myself to meet his baleful eye. “Yes, she died. Yes, I got her killed.” I took a long deep breath, savouring it, for I knew it might be my last. “But so did you, when you sent her away. You knew the Doenlisch wouldn’t be found unless she wanted to be. You also knew Lilat wouldn’t willingly leave my side…”

  The roar that came from the Eithlisch’s mouth was the equal of the storm’s thunder. I closed my eyes, waiting for the first blow to fall, but instead of the sound of my skull crushing under the weight of his mighty fist, I heard the dull crump of shattered stone. Opening my eyes, I saw the Eithlisch on his knees, driving punches into the flagstones of the castle courtyard. I saw no blood on his knuckles, no sign that this caused him any injury at all, save for anguish, for he continued to roar, shards of granite fountaining around him. I had known him to be a being steeped in whatever arcane power the Caerith shared, but watching him vent his rage, I beheld something elemental, something beyond human.

  He stopped after much of the courtyard had been transformed into grit, hunching over, a rebounding curtain of rain outlining his heaving torso. From some deep hidden recess of courage, I found the fortitude to speak again. “If you’re done, we have much to discuss. I’m told you can lead me to the stone feather. It’s important, apparently.”

  It transpired that the Eithlisch hadn’t come alone, not that his companion appeared any happier to see me.

  The Eithlisch responded to my words with a stone-faced glance before stomping off into the night, whereupon the tall, lean form of Lord Roulgarth Cohlsair emerged out of the pelting rain. His garb was a strange melange of knightly armour and Caerith accoutrements. A longsword hung at his belt, but the spear-like weapon, the tahlik, was slung across his back. The former Knight Warden of Alundia said nothing by way of greeting, instead pointing to the distant treeline before disappearing into the swirling gloom.

  Come daybreak, I gathered Wilhum and Juhlina before leading them to the forest. We were met at the edge of the woods by a dozen toalisch, different from the other Caerith warriors I had seen in that they all wore swords or carried halberds in addition to their tahliks and flat bows. Some were also partially clad in ring mail rather than the usual hardened leather. The toalisch escorted us into their camp of conical shelters where every eye regarded us in glowering suspicion. It was hard to gauge their number accurately, for the camp was clearly extensive. The swift appearance of the Eithlisch last night made it plain we were expected, so I assumed they had established themselves here before our arrival.

  We found Roulgarth in a small clearing tutoring a group of warriors in the use of the halberd, calling out instruction in accented but serviceable Caerith. His pupils wielded the weapons well enough, but without any semblance of order to their line.

  “Scribe,” Roulgarth said, looking me up and down with an expression that held ample judgement but scant welcome. “Not dead then?”

  I ignored Roulgarth’s jibe and nodded to the toalisch. “They’ll need to learn some proper drill if they’re to stand a chance against the Ascendant Queen’s Host.”

  “So you made her a queen, did you? How proud you must be.” Roulgarth afforded me a thin smile, reminding me that, while the skills I had learned from this man had surely saved my life, the dislike between us was entirely mutual. The moment of tension lengthened, growing taut enough that it might well have escalated if another voice hadn’t intervened.

  “Is that Wilhum Dornmahl I see?” a young toalisch asked, separating himself from the practising warriors to approach us. He spoke Albermaine-ish with a slight Alundian burr, but in all other respects he appeared so fully Caerith that it took me a second to recognise Merick Albrisend, Roulgarth’s nephew.

  “The most defeated knight of every tourney he entered, as I recall,” Merick continued, offering Wilhum an overly florid bow.

  “A tourney isn’t a battle,” Wilhum replied, though I detected no particular rancour as he returned Merick’s bow.

  “True enough,” Merick conceded before turning to me, his humour fading, though he did consent to offer a nod. “Scribe. I couldn’t quite believe it when the Eithlisch told us you were coming, intending to make war on your bitch-martyr no less. Yet here you are.”

  “As are you,” I replied. “Hope you can fight better than when I knocked you on your arse at Walvern Castle.”

  A barb like this would once have brought at least a peeved scowl to Merick’s brow, but now he merely laughed. “That I can, thanks to my uncle and these folk I’m proud to call brother and sister.” He gestured to the toalisch, most of whom had left off their practice to spectate upon this exchange. Scanning them, I recognised one of the warriors from Lilat’s village. Judging by her hard, accusatory stare, she recognised me too.

  “How many do you command?” I asked, turning back to Roulgarth.

  “None,” he said. “They call me Vahlisch, a title which requires respect but not obedience. The Caerith have no rulers, Scribe. No kings, marshals or dukes to command them to war. They are here because the Eithlisch has told them their homes stand imperilled by the danger growing beyond the northern mountains. But it was their choice to come, and it will be their choice to fight. As for numbers—” he pursed his lips in consideration “—two thousand or so here with more likely to arrive by month’s end.”

  “You’ll have yet more soon enough, when the Crown Host arrives. Many are badly in need of training, and a marshal to guide them in battle.”

  “Your little king, or rather his mother, will be happy to place an exiled Alundian in charge of her army?” Roulgarth laughed. “I think not.”

  “The little king is betrothed to your niece, who will also be here soon. Does she, a queen in waiting who shares your blood, not also deserve your service?”

  Roulgarth’s face darkened, though not in anger this time. Here was a man resolving to bear a distasteful burden. “If such service wins Alundia back for my family, I’ll suffer all the wounds to honour and pride I must. One thing these people have taught me is the power of humility.”

  “I’ve little doubt the princess regent will prove amenable to negotiation.”

  A shuffling among the onlooking warriors drew my eye to the sight of them parting to make way for a large, cowled figure. Even in his shrunken state, the Eithlisch’s appearance was enough to cause alarm to Wilhum and Juhlina. Both took a step forward as the Caerith giant advanced upon me, hands moving to their weapons, which in turn caused a ripple of aggressive agitation among the toalisch.

  “It’s all right,” I said, resting a hand on my companions’ shoulders.

  Coming to a halt, the Eithlisch addressed Roulgarth in Caerith. “Vahlisch, are you content to wait here for the Ishlichen horde?”

  “I am,” Roulgarth replied. “Though I cannot give surety as to the outcome.”

  “My surety rests in you, as does that of the toalisch, for you have their trust. Alwyn Scribe—” the Eithlisch turned away, a thick arm emerging from his cloak in a beckoning gesture “—come. We have far to go.”

  “How far?” I called after him, but he was already striding off. Muttering a curse, I started after him, casting a string of orders over my shoulder at Wilhum and Juhlina. “I have to go with him. Stay here and prepare for the host’s arrival. Lord Roulgarth has command of this outpost. If you can find some horses, scout the ground betwixt here and the northern mountains.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Wilhum called after me.

  “I haven’t the faintest notion.” I paused, watching the Eithlisch’s cloaked form striding purposefully through the trees. Journeying alone into unknown lands with such a being, a being that detested me in truth, was not something to relish. “If I don’t return,” I said, turning back to address Roulgarth, “march on Albermaine come the winter. The pass at Kain Laethil provides a viable route. The Caerith know where to find it.”

  The forest seemed endless, the height and breadth of the trees marking it as distinct in nature and age from the Shavine Forest. The further we moved from the coast, the more majestic the trees became. I passed several with trunks broader than a house, ascending to a loftiness that outshone the tallest cathedral spire. A day of southward marching at the punishing pace set by my guide brought no end in sight nor notable variance in the landscape. The Eithlisch ignored my first flurry of questions while maintaining a long, regular stride I found hard to match. Nor did he feel the need to rest until nightfall, by which time I was both tired and hungry.

  We camped in the shadow of a fallen giant of the forest, the bark of the great tree partially stripped to reveal wood a deep shade of red. The Eithlisch apparently felt no need of a fire, but avowed no objection to me lighting one, not that I had anything to cook over it. My companion did have food, a bundle of mushrooms and edible roots he consumed without feeling compelled to share. When I pointed out that the Doenlisch surely didn’t wish me to starve, he drew back his cowl, revealing an expression of dour resignation.

  “This one has food,” he said, jutting his chin at the trees. “Though why she should strive so hard to be near you, I can’t fathom.”

  Hearing the rustle of bracken underfoot, I rose in alarm, relaxing when Juhlina came into view. She carried two packs on her shoulders and the strain of her march showed in her stooped back and drawn features. It was clear she had run part of the way to catch up.

  “Martyrs’ arses, he walks fast,” she said, dumping the packs beside my nascent fire. “All I could gather quickly,” Juhlina said, extracting victuals from the sack. “Lucky this one’s so easy to track.”

  “You shouldn’t have come,” I said, even though I knew I wouldn’t order her to leave. “But I’m glad you did.”

  Juhlina handed me an iron skillet which I held over the fire while she cut strips of bacon. “Where are we going exactly?” she enquired, directing a cautious glance at the hulking Caerith. Shorn of his cowl, his face stood revealed in all its hairless, sculpted strangeness, a sight sure to invite stares. Seeing his visage in daylight for the first time, I was struck by the smoothness of his skin, lacking scars or stubble, despite an unfathomable span of years. I thought of the ravening, enraged creature from the night before and my conviction grew that, whatever he might be, the Eithlisch could not be termed fully human.

  I expected him to ignore Juhlina’s question as he had mine, but he responded without pause, his tone softer than before and phrased in his slightly archaic Albermaine-ish. “To council in the Mirror City, good lady. And from thence—” his gaze narrowed as his eyes slipped towards me “—to somewhere else.”

  “Mirror City?” Juhlina enquired.

  “A clumsy translation,” he told her. “The meaning of the title will become plain when you see it. Count yourself favoured, for few Ishlischen have ever travelled so deep into Caerith lands.”

  I didn’t feel favoured. Instead, the weight of his gaze as he spoke of ‘somewhere else’ put me decidedly on edge.

  “Ishlichen?” Juhlina asked.

  “It’s what they call us,” I said, using my dagger to tease the bacon in the skillet while she added beans and a splash of water. “They also use it to describe things thrown on a midden heap.”