Rebellion

CHAPTER 100

Glynnie bent to pick something up, then scuttled around behind the cistern, into the shadows. Grandys reeled up the yard into the darkness as several dozen troops stormed through the gates. Rix assumed they were the men who had marched off to join the chancellor’s army. He lowered himself into the water until they passed, then scrabbled helplessly at the edge.

“Here,” whispered Glynnie, who had crept around the side of the cistern and was sliding one end of her bloodstained length of timber in.

With his failing strength, Rix dragged himself onto it and clung there, panting. It was all he could do.

“Give me your hand,” said Glynnie.

He reached up. She caught his left hand, and with Glynnie pulling and Rix heaving, he reached the rim and toppled off onto the cobblestones.

“So cold.” He wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering violently.

“Wait here,” said Glynnie, looking around. “Won’t be long.” She darted up towards the fire.

“What — you doing?” said Rix. “If he comes back — ’

Neither Grandys nor the other Heroes were anywhere to be seen, though Rix could hear fighting not far away. His teeth chattered.

“Glynnie?” he said hoarsely.

Never before had he felt so afraid. Even in Grandys’ drunken state he was a ferocious enemy. He could well rally his troops and defeat the attackers, and the moment he did he would be back, intent on bloody vengeance against the woman who had struck him down.

Rix crawled across to the dead men, found the heaviest sword and used it to push himself to his feet. A cold wind gusted in through the gates, striking through his wet clothes to the bone, for it was well below freezing now. Without dry gear he would soon collapse. Rix began to strip the biggest of the dead men, though it was slow work one-handed; his good fingers were as numb as the dead ones.

Glynnie came running back, carrying a chunk of roast rump the size of a pumpkin and dragging a sack. She wrenched the coat and pants off the man who had the arrow through his neck, and threw them into the sack.

“Horses, quick!” said Glynnie. “Where are the stables?”

“Don’t know,” said Rix.

“Hold this.” Glynnie thrust the roast into his hands. She must have taken it from a spit because it was still gloriously hot. She looked around. “Down there. Come on.”

He held it against his chest. The warmth helped. He staggered after her, his boots squelching with every step. The horses had been unsaddled and fed, and were in their stalls.

Glynnie chose a bay mare with dark brown ears, Lirriam’s mount. Rix looked around for the biggest. Grandys was constantly riding his horses to death and his latest mount, down the far end, was a wild-eyed black stallion some eighteen hands high.

Rix stuffed the piece of beef in one of Grandys’ saddlebags, calmed the horse with his hands, then heaved the saddle on and tightened the straps. It was all he could do to mount the beast via the side of the stall. Glynnie was waiting near the doors. She took a blanket from the sack, cut a hole through the middle and threw it to him. He put his head through the hole and gathered the blanket around him.

“How are you doing?” she said anxiously.

“Better.”

“How long can you ride without getting warmed up?” She studied him in the light slanting in through the doorway. “You saved me when we were in the lake, remember? I know how bad it gets.”

“Death from hypothermia is a risk I’ll have to take. If Grandys catches us — ”

“I know. How long?”

He got out the hot slab of beef and held it against his chest, under the blanket.

“Can probably manage an hour.”

“Which way?” said Glynnie. “I don’t know this country.”

“North,” said Rix.

“Which way is that?”

“Keep the moon on your right. The deeper we go into Lakeland, the more little lakes there are, and the harder it’ll be to trace us.”

They rode quietly away, and only when they were out of sight over the hill did they spur their horses to a trot, the fastest pace that was safe over rough ground in darkness. It was a clear night lit by a half moon, but windy and miserably cold, and the quicker they went the more it penetrated Rix’s damp blanket. Finally, when they were five or six miles away, some time after midnight and in broken country with hundreds of little lakes and pools, he signed to her to stop.

“Can’t go — any further.”

She went ahead, riding around the edge of a lake until she found a protected spot against a north-facing cliff, where it would be safe to light a fire. They dismounted and Glynnie kindled a little blaze, then held a blanket up to break the breeze while Rix stripped, dried himself and put on the dry clothes taken from the dead man. He donned two coats, wrapped the blanket around himself and sat by the fire.

“You smell like roast beef,” said Glynnie, kneeling before him with a little pot of a Herovian ointment she must have stolen from Bastion Cowly.

“Feel like frozen beef.”

She dug her fingers into the ointment and began to smooth it across his battered face. He winced.

“You’re going to look a mess in the morning,” said Glynnie.

“Least — there’ll be — a morning.”

“Don’t talk. It wastes warmth.”

Glynnie laid a spare blanket on the ground between the fire and the cliff, sat down and began to cut pieces off the slab of beef. It was still steaming in the middle. Rix slumped opposite her.

“Eat!” she said, handing him a piece.

“Don’t think I can swallow.”

“Try. It’ll warm you.”

He swallowed a small piece, then another.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.

“We did it together.”

He didn’t have the strength to argue. “I was so afraid for you. I was sure — ”

“But you never gave in. Will he come after us?” said Glynnie. “If he survives the fight?”

“He’ll survive. And come after us.”

“Now?” Her voice was a little higher than usual.

Rix shook his head. “Too drunk. His debauches always end with him collapsing, unconscious. He’ll sleep for ten hours, then wake with a bad head and more bile than a wounded caitsthe. He’ll rant and swear bloody revenge, and run anyone through who looks at him sideways, but he won’t come after us until he’s stone sober and has finished brooding about his humiliation.”

“And then…”

Rix felt sick at the thought of what Grandys would do to Glynnie. “He may not come for a week. But when he does, he’ll hunt us with the same viciousness as he storms a castle. Nothing and no one will stand in his way. He always wins.”

She trembled. “Not always. We beat him last night.”

“You did. And we were lucky.”

“It still counts as a win.” She got up and made tea, stirred in honey from the honeycomb and handed him the mug. “Well, if we’re going to die, let’s make our deaths worthwhile.”

He wrapped his bruised fingers around the hot mug. “Er — what do you have in mind?”

“Would you say that Grandys’ reputation is the key to his success?”

“It’s a big part,” said Rix, unsure where she was going.

“Then the best way to undermine him would be to make people laugh at him.”

Rix shivered. “I don’t think that’s ever happened.”

“If it got out that he’d been beaten up by a woman, a no-account little maidservant, it’d do him more damage than a defeat on the battlefield.”

“How would it get out?”

“We’re riding west to join the chancellor’s army. It should be at Nyrdly by now. We’ll announce Grandys’ defeat at every town and village on the way. In a couple of days, the way news spreads in Hightspall, the whole country will know about it.”

“What if they don’t believe us?”

“They’ll believe us,” said Glynnie. “You’re riding Grandys’ horse. And…”

“And?” said Rix.

“And I’ve got this.” She reached into her pocket, but did not pull her hand out at once. She was grinning, teasing him, making him wait.

“You’ve got what?” cried Rix.

She drew out her hand and held it palm up. Precious opal shone in the firelight — a single piece of armour in the shape of Axil Grandys’ huge nose.

Rix roared with laughter, though briefly. His battered mouth hurt too much. “Where did you get that?”

“It cracked off when I whacked him one. Thought it might come in handy.”

He threw his arms around her. “Grandys’ famous nose. No one can argue with that. Glynnie, you’re brilliant.”

“It’s taken you long enough to realise it,” she muttered, then smiled. “What are you going to do when we get to Nyrdly?”

“Ask the chancellor for a captain’s commission, then fight for Hightspall.”

“What makes you think he’ll give you one?” she said mischievously. “He used to hate you.”

“I hope he will,” said Rix, suddenly uncertain. “He was happy to make use of my reputation at Glimmering. And I’ve learned a lot since then. A lot about leadership. A lot about right and wrong. A lot about war.”

“And a lot about Grandys,” said Glynnie. “You know more about how he fights, and thinks, than anyone on our side. Of course the chancellor will make you an officer. You should be our commander-in-chief.”

“So you’ve been saying since before we left Caulderon,” said Rix. “A captain’s rank will do me nicely, if he’ll allow it. It’s an unforgiving business, leading an army.” He studied her face in the firelight. “Glynnie…?”

“Yes?”

He swallowed. “Something occurred to me when I was in the cistern, just before you helped me out.”

“What’s that?”

“How much has changed since Glimmering. We’ve been friends for a good while now, but…” He faded out, not sure how to put it.

“But you were the lord of a great fortress, and I was just a humble maidservant,” she said helpfully.

“Not just a maidservant. But yes — that was always between us.”

“You’re still the lord of a fortress. I’m still a maidservant.” But her eyes twinkled as she said it.

“Not here. Not now. Not if we never get back.”

“I’m not sure what you’re saying, Rix.”

“I’ve plumbed the depths. You’ve done tremendous things. The balance has tipped. You’re the strong one now.”

“We’re both strong,” said Glynnie.

“And that’s a good thing.”

Neither spoke for a while. Rix stared into the fire. He could feel her gaze on him.

“Rix?” said Glynnie tentatively. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“Can I ride with you?”

“For the rest of your life,” said Rix.