Tyrant

IX

Lorin chose one of the smallest stones from near the top of the cairn. He stretched his arm back, gathered his strength for a moment or two and then flung the stone as hard and far as he could. It tumbled away and then went tip-tapping down the hill. It bounced and bounded down the slope, its descent knocking out a faint message.

Manadar, far below, heard that message. His head-a tiny black dot-rose above the lip of the gully where they had left him with the horses. Lorin waved. Manadar emerged, leading the three animals.

‘Be hard work, hauling them all the way up here,’ Brennan observed.

‘You want to go and help him?’

In truth, Brennan did. That was his instinct. Hard work was a part of what he needed, he thought, to dislodge doubt.

‘No,’ he said instead, because that seemed to be the answer Lorin expected.

Rather than watch Manadar struggling up, battling reluctant horses as much as the incline, Brennan searched the slaver’s body. The man was not heavily laden. He had some flatbread in a folded cloth and a few copper coins in a pouch. Brennan examined his spear just in case it was worth keeping. Probably not, he judged. The shaft was not perfectly straight, and the binding that held the rough iron point looked about ready to let go. If slaving was a trade to make men rich, this man had not reaped the benefit. Most likely, Brennan supposed, whatever gold was flowing ended up pooling in the tyrant’s pockets.

With a fleeting twinge of guilt, Brennan tore the dead man’s shirt apart. He used some more or less clean scraps of it to wipe away as much as he could of the man’s blood from his own clothes.

While he did it, Lorin was ranging across the top of the hill. He was still keeping low, trying to make himself a little less obvious, but he could not see as far and wide as he wanted to without accepting some small risk of being seen himself. Soon, he gave out a sharp, wordless hiss to attract Brennan’s attention.

‘Can’t see over the far side properly-hill’s got a big, ugly shoulder out there-but look what I found down here,’ Lorin said as Brennan joined him.

Brennan squatted at Lorin’s side and looked. What he saw, there at the very foot of the slope, was so unexpected that he blinked and could think of nothing to say at first.

‘Are those trees?’ he managed to ask stupidly. Obviously-if improbably-they were trees.

‘There must be a spring,’ Lorin snapped, irritated. ‘Never mind the trees though. Eyes, eyes! Tell me what else you see.’

Brennan stared. Concentrated. People. He saw people. The little clump of trees was not dense. The canopy was open. Beneath it, Brennan could see figures moving about. It was impossible to say exactly how many; no more than a dozen or so, he thought. And some horses too, now that he looked closely. Just a few of them, tethered in a line on the far side of the thicket.

‘Where are the rest of them?’ he wondered aloud.

‘Somewhere,’ Lorin said. He shrank back from the brow of the hill. ‘You keep your eyes on those bastards. I’ll hurry Manadar along.’

Brennan stayed there, watching. He lay flat on his belly, resting his chin on his hands. He could feel the stored heat of the rock beneath him.

There was no sign of agitation or excitement down there among the trees. People moved to and fro without haste. And now that he gave them his full attention, he thought he could see more of them. The slightest stirring of the leaves now and again revealed what might be quite a few more folk; not moving, these. Sitting or lying together in a couple of tight groups in the shade of the trees.

Slavers or slaves? He could not be sure. Either way, it meant he was back in the van of the Free. He was back at the sharp edge of things. He swallowed. His mouth was dry.

Something else took his eye. A fragment of movement, not among the trees but further round the flank of the hill. A lone figure was working its way around rocks, flitting in and out of sight. Moving towards the copse without much care for concealment. Brennan frowned and stared. He felt beads of sweat creeping down his face and the back of his neck.

It was Marweh. He was sure of it.

He rolled onto his back and looked across the top of the hill, searching for Lorin. He and Manadar were there, just coming up onto the summit, leading the three unhappy-looking horses.

‘Marweh’s there,’ Brennan called out softly.

Lorin dropped the reins and hurried to his side.

‘Where?’

Brennan pointed. ‘She’s making for the slavers. Doesn’t seem like they’ve seen her yet, but she’ll be there in a minute or two.’

Lorin hissed out between clenched teeth. He stared. He brushed the scar on his face with his fingertips. Then, resolved, he moved.

‘Let’s go,’ he snapped.

Brennan, surprised, did not follow him at once. Manadar too was caught somewhat off guard by the sudden urgency. Lorin snatched his horse’s lead from his hands and vaulted nimbly up into the saddle.

‘Had enough of all this sneaking and creeping about anyway,’ Lorin snarled, drawing his sword. ‘Nothing’s going to get settled until someone tests their fortune.’

Brennan scrambled to his feet and ran for his horse. Manadar was already swinging up onto his.

‘Hurry up!’ Lorin cried, edging forwards. ‘Yulan’s commands were to keep her from reaching the slavers, and to keep her alive. We’re about to fail in one for sure and the other most likely.’

He kicked his horse and it sprang forward and threw itself down the hillside.

Lorin shouted as he went: ‘Now it’s time to ride like you belong in the Free!’