The Gold Falcon

A few yards more brought them close enough to hear a man singing, a pleasant tenor voice that picked up snatches of songs, then idly dropped them again.

‘No Horsekin would sing like that,’ Neb said.

The yellow gnome grinned and nodded his agreement.

Another turn of the road brought them to a camp and its owner. He was hunkering down beside the fire and baking bread on an iron griddle. On the tall side, but slender as a lad, he had hair so pale that it looked like moonlight and a face so handsome that it was almost girlish. He wore a shirt that once had been splendid, but now the bands of red and purple embroidery were worn and threadbare, and the yellow stain of old linen spread across the shoulders and back. His trousers, blue brigga cut from once-fine wool, were faded, stained, and patched here and there – a rough-looking fellow, but the gnomes rushed into his camp without a trace of fear. He stood up and looked around, saw Neb and Clae, and mugged amazement.

‘What’s all this?’ he said. ‘Come over here, you two! You look half-starved and scared to death. What’s happened?’

‘Raiders,’ Neb stammered. ‘Horsekin burned my uncle’s farm and the village. Me and my brother got away.’

‘By the gods! You’re safe now – I swear it. You’ve got naught to fear from me.’

The yellow gnome grinned, leapt into the air, and vanished. As the two boys walked over, the stranger knelt again at the fire, where an iron griddle balanced on rocks. Clae sat down nearby with a grunt of exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the soda bread, but Neb stood for a moment, looking around him. Scattered by the fire were saddlebags and pack panniers stuffed with gear and provisions.

‘I’m Neb and this is Clae,’ Neb said. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

‘Well, you may call me Salamander,’ the stranger said. ‘My real name is so long that no one can ever say it properly. As to what I’m doing, I’m having dinner. Come join me.’

Shamelessly Neb and Clae wolfed down chunks of warm bread. Salamander rummaged through saddlebags of fine pale leather, found some cheese wrapped in clean cloth, and cut them slices with a dagger. While they ate the cheese, he bustled around, getting out a small sack of flour, a silver spoon, a little wooden box of the precious soda and a water-skin. He knelt down to mix up another batch of bread, kneading it in an iron pot, then slapped it into a thin cake right on the griddle with his oddly long and slender fingers.

‘Now, you two had best settle your stomachs before you eat anything more,’ he said. ‘You’ll only get sick if you eat too much after starving.’

‘True spoken,’ Neb said. ‘Oh ye gods, my thanks. May the gods give you every happiness in life for this.’

‘Nicely spoken, lad.’ Salamander looked up, glancing his way.

His eyes were grey, a common colour in this part of the country, and a perfectly ordinary shape, but all at once Neb couldn’t look away from them. I know him, he thought. I’ve met him – I couldn’t have met him. Salamander tilted his head to one side and returned the stare, then sat back on his heels, his smile gone. Neb could have sworn that Salamander recognized him as well. The silence held until Salamander looked away.

‘Tell me about the raid,’ he said abruptly. ‘Where are you from?’

‘The last farm on the Great West Road,’ Neb said, ‘but we’ve not lived there long. When our mam died, we had to go live with our uncle. Before that we lived in Trev Hael. My da was a scribe, but he died, too. Before Mam, I mean.’

‘Last year, was it? I heard that there was some sort of powerful illness in your town. An inflammation of the bowels, is what I heard, with fever.’

‘It was, and a terrible bad fever, too. I had a touch of it, but Da died of it, and our little sister did, too. Mam wore herself out, I think, nursing them, and then this spring, when it was so damp and chill –’ Neb felt tears welling in his voice.

‘You don’t need to say more,’ Salamander said. ‘That’s a sad thing all round. How old are you, lad? Do you know?’

‘I do. Da always kept count. I’m sixteen, and my brother is eight.’

‘Sixteen, is it? Huh.’ Salamander seemed to be counting something out in his mind. ‘I’m surprised your father didn’t marry you off years ago.’

‘It wasn’t for want of trying. He and the town matchmaker just never seemed to find the right lass.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Salamander pointed and smiled. ‘Look, your brother’s asleep.’

Clae had curled up right on the ground, and indeed he was asleep, open-mouthed and limp.

‘Just as well,’ Neb said. ‘He’ll not have to listen to the tale this way.’

Neb told the story of their last day on the farm and their escape as clearly as he could. When he rambled to a stop, Salamander said nothing for a long moment. He looked sad, and so deeply weary that Neb wondered how he could ever have thought him young.

‘What made you go look at the waterfall?’ Salamander asked.

‘Oh, just a whim.’

The yellow gnome materialized, gave Neb a sour look, then climbed into his lap like a cat. Salamander pointed to the gnome with his cooking spoon.

‘It’s more likely he warned you,’ Salamander said. ‘He led you here, after all.’

Neb found he couldn’t speak. Someone else with the Sight! He’d always hoped for such. The irony of the bitter circumstances in which he’d had his hope fulfilled struck him hard.

‘Did anyone see you up on the cliff?’ Salamander went on.

‘I think so. Two Horsekin rode our way, but they were too far away for me to see if they were pointing at us or suchlike. We ran into the forest and hid.’ Neb paused, remembering. ‘I thought I heard voices, but the waterfall was so loud, it was hard to tell. There was a scream, too. It almost sounded like someone fell off the cliff.’

The yellow gnome began to clap its hands and dance in a little circle.

‘Here!’ Salamander said to it. ‘You and your lads didn’t push that Horsekin down the cliff, did you?’

The gnome stopped dancing, grinned, and nodded. Salamander, however, looked grim.

‘Is he dead?’ Salamander said.

The gnome nodded yes, then disappeared.

‘Ye gods!’ Neb could hear how feeble his own voice sounded. ‘I always thought of them like little pet birds or puppies. Sweet little creatures, that is.’

‘Never ever make that mistake again! They’re not called the Wildfolk for naught.’

‘I won’t, I can promise you that!’ Neb paused, struck by his sudden thought. ‘They saved our lives. If that Horsekin had got up to the top of the cliff …’ His voice deserted him.

‘He would have found you, truly. They have noses as keen as dogs’.’

‘Well, that’s one up for Clae, then. He told me that. But sir, the Wildfolk – what are they?’

‘Sir, am I?’ Salamander grinned at him. ‘No need for courtesies, lad. You have the same odd gift that I do, after all. As to what they are, do you know what an elemental spirit is?’

‘I don’t. I mean, everyone knows what spirits are, but I’ve not heard the word elemental before.’

‘Well, it’s a long thing to explain, but –’ Salamander stopped abruptly.

With a whimper Clae woke and sat up, stretching his arms over his head. Conversation about the Wildfolk would have to wait. Salamander flipped the griddle cake over with the handle of the spoon before he spoke again.

‘May the Horsekins’ hairy balls freeze off when they sink to the lowest hell,’ Salamander said. ‘But I don’t want to wait that long for justice. Allow me to offer you lads my protection, such as it is. I’ll escort you east, where we shall find both safety and revenge.’

‘My thanks! I’m truly grateful.’

Salamander smiled, and at that moment he looked young again, barely a twenty’s worth of years.

‘But sir?’ Clae said with a yawn. ‘Who are you? What are you really?’

‘Really?’ Salamander raised one pale eyebrow. ‘Well, lad, when it comes to me, there’s no such thing as really, because I’m a mountebank, a travelling minstrel, a storyteller, who deals in nothing but lies, jests, and the most blatant illusions. I am, in short, a gerthddyn, who wanders around parting honest folk from their coin in return for a few brief hours in the land of never-was, never-will-be. I can also juggle, make scarves appear out of thin air, and once, in my greatest moment, I plucked a sparrow out of the hat of a fat merchant.’

Clae giggled and sat up a bit straighter.

‘Later,’ Salamander went on, ‘after I’ve eaten, I shall tell you a story that will drive all thoughts of those cursed raiders out of your head, so that you may go to sleep when your most esteemed brother tells you to. I’m very good at driving away evil thoughts.’

‘My thanks,’ Neb said. ‘Truly, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for all of this.’

‘No payment needed.’ Salamander made a little bob of a bow. ‘Why should I ask for payment, when I never do an honest day’s work?’

Just as twilight was darkening into night, Salamander built up the fire and settled in to tell the promised story, which fascinated Neb as much as it did young Clae. Salamander swept them away to a far-off land where great sorcerers fought with greedy dragons over treasure, then told them of a prince who was questing for a gem that had magic, or dweomer, as Salamander called it. He played all the parts, his voice lilting for the beautiful princess, snarling for the evil sorcerer, rumbling for the mighty king. Every now and then, he sang a song as part of the tale, his beautiful voice harmonizing with the wind in the trees. By the time the stone was found, and the prince and princess safely married, Clae was smiling.

‘Oh, I want there to be real dweomer gems,’ Clae said. ‘And real dweomermasters, too.’

‘Do you now?’ Salamander gave him a grin. ‘Well, you never know, lad. You think about it when you’re falling asleep.’

Neb found a soft spot in the grass for his brother’s bed. He wrapped Clae up in one of the gerthddyn’s blankets and stayed with him until he was safely asleep, then rejoined Salamander at the fire.

‘A thousand thanks for amusing my brother,’ Neb said. ‘I’d gladly shower you with gold if I had any.’

‘I only wish it were so easy to soothe your heart,’ Salamander said.

‘Well, good sir, that will take some doing, truly. First we lost our hearth kin, and now our uncle. It was all so horrible at first, it had me thinking we’d escaped the raiders only to live like beggars in the streets.’

‘Now here, the folk in this part of the world aren’t so hard-hearted that they’ll let you starve. One way or another, we’ll find some provision for you and the lad.’

‘If I can get back to Trev Hael, I can make my own provision. After all, I can read and write. If naught else I can become a town letter-writer and earn our keep that way.’

‘Well, there you go! It’s a valuable skill to have.’ Salamander hesitated on the edge of a smile. ‘Provided that’s the craft you want to follow.’

‘Well, I don’t know aught else but writing and suchlike. I’m not strong enough to join a warband, and I wouldn’t want to weave or suchlike, so I don’t know what other craft there’d be for me.’

‘You don’t, eh? Well, scribing is an honourable sort of work, and there’s not many who can do it out here in Arcodd.’

Neb considered Salamander for a moment. In the dancing firelight it was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn that the gerthddyn was struggling to keep from laughing.

‘Or what about herbcraft?’ Salamander went on. ‘Have you ever thought of trying your hand at that?’

‘I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humours and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?’

‘It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.’

‘She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you –’

‘Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.’

Salamander was hiding something – Neb was sure of it – but probing for it might insult their benefactor. ‘Govylla, her name was,’ Neb went on. ‘She lived through the plague. Huh – I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were travelling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.’

‘And some might well be travelling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been travelling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honourable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire indeed.’

As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man, cold, ruthless and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and began singing about lasses and spring flowers.

Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would pick out wooden swords and wicker shields, then face off in the much-trampled grass. The rest of the troop sat in untidy lines off to either side and yelled comments and insults as the combat progressed. Gerran, the captain of the Red Wolf warband, sat off to one side with Lord Mirryn, Tieryn Cadryc’s son. Brown-haired and blue-eyed, with a liberal dusting of freckles across his broad cheekbones, Mirryn was lounging full-length, propped up on one elbow, and chewing on a long grass stem like a farmer.

‘One of these days our miserly gwerbret’s bound to set up a proper tourney,’ Mirryn said. ‘Although everyone knows you’d win it, so I doubt me if I can get anyone to wager against you.’

‘Oh here,’ Gerran said. ‘It’s not that much of a sure thing.’

‘Of course it is.’ Mirryn grinned at him. ‘False humility doesn’t become you.’

Gerran allowed himself a brief smile. Out in the meadow a new fight was starting. The rest of the warband called out jests and jeers, teasing Daumyr for his bad luck in drawing his sparring partner. Daumyr, the tallest man in the troop at well over six feet, stood grinning while he swung his wooden sword in lazy circles to limber up his arm. His opponent, Warryc, was skinny and short – but fast.

‘Ye gods, Daumyr’s got a long reach!’ Mirryn said. ‘It’s truly amazing, the way Warryc beats him every time. Huh – there must be a way we can use this at the next tourney.’

‘Use it for what?’ Gerran said.

‘Acquiring some hard coin, that’s what, by setting up a wager, getting some poor dolt to bet high on Daumyr.’

‘The very soul of honour, that’s you.’

Gerran was about to say more when he heard hoofbeats and shouting. A young page on a bay pony came galloping across the meadow.

‘My lord Mirryn! Captain Gerran!’ the page called out. ‘The tieryn wants you straightaway. There’s been a raid on the Great West Road.’

Mirryn led the warband back at the run. Up at the top of a hill, new walls of pale stone, built at the high king’s expense, circled the fort to protect the tall stone broch tower and its outbuildings. The men dashed through the great iron-bound gates, stopped in the ward to catch their collective breath, then hurried into the great hall. Sunlight fell in dusty shafts from narrow windows, cut directly into stone, and striped the huge round room with shadows. Gerran paused, letting his eyes adjust, then picked his way through the clutter of tables and benches, dogs and servants. The warband followed him, but Mirryn hurried on ahead to his father’s side. When he saw Gerran lingering behind, Mirryn waved him up with an impatient arm.

By the hearth of honour, Cadryc was pacing back and forth, a tall man, tending towards stout, with a thin band of grey hair clinging to the back of his head and a pair of ratty grey moustaches. Perched on the end of a table was the gerthddyn, Salamander. Mirryn and Gerran exchanged a look of faint disgust at the sight of him, a babbling fool in their shared opinion, with his tricks and tales. When Gerran started to kneel before the tieryn, Cadryc impatiently waved him to his feet.

‘Raiders,’ Cadryc said. ‘Didn’t the page tell you? We’re riding tomorrow at dawn, so get the men ready.’

‘Well and good, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘How far are they?’

‘Who knows, by now?’ Cadryc shook his head in frustrated rage. ‘Let’s hope they’re still looting the village.’

‘Bastards,’ Mirryn said. ‘I hope to all the gods they are. We’ll make them pay high for this.’

‘You’re staying here, lad,’ Cadryc said. ‘I’m not risking myself and my heir both.’

Mirryn flushed red, took a step forward, then shoved his hands into his brigga pockets.

‘For all we know, the raiders have set up some sort of ruse or trap,’ Cadryc went on. ‘I’ll be leaving you ten men to command on fortguard. Your foster-brother here can handle the rest well enough.’

‘Far be it from me to argue with you,’ Mirryn said. ‘Your grace.’

‘Just that – don’t argue,’ Cadryc snapped. ‘And don’t sulk, either.’

Mirryn spun on his heel and stalked off, heading back outside. Cadryc muttered a few insults under his breath. Gerran decided a distraction was in order and turned to the gerthddyn.

‘Little did I dream our paths would cross so soon.’ Salamander gave him a fatuous smile. ‘An honour to see you, captain.’

‘Spare me the horseshit,’ Gerran said. ‘Did you see this raid or only find a burned village or suchlike?’

‘Ah, what a soul of courtesy you are.’ Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Actually, I found refugees, who escaped by blind luck.’

When Salamander pointed, Gerran noticed for the first time a tattered dirty lad and an equally ragged little boy, kneeling by the corner of the massive stone hearth. Dirt clotted in hair that was most likely mousy brown, and they shared a certain look about their deep-set blue eyes that marked them for close kin. Skinny as a stick, the older lad was, with fine, small hands, but the younger, though half-starved from the look of him, had broad hands and shoulders that promised strong bones and height one day.

‘They lost everything in the raid,’ Salamander said. ‘Kin, house, the lot.’ He pointed. ‘Their names are Neb and Clae.’

‘We’ll give them a place here.’ Tieryn Cadryc beckoned to a page. ‘Go find my wife and ask her to join us.’

When the page trotted off, Neb, the older lad, watched him go with dead eyes.

‘How many of them were there?’ Gerran asked him. ‘The raiders, I mean.’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ Neb said. ‘We were a good distance away, up by the waterfall, so we could see down into the valley. We saw the village burning, and our farm, and then a lot of people just running around.’

‘Cursed lucky thing you were gone.’

The lad nodded, staring at him, too tired to speak, most likely.

‘The raiding party won’t be travelling fast, not with prisoners to drag along,’ Cadryc broke in. ‘I’ve sent a message to Lord Pedrys, telling him to meet us on the road with every man he can muster. I’d summon the other vassals as well, but they live too cursed far east, and we’ve got to make speed.’

‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘Wasn’t there a lord near this village?’

‘There was. What I want to know is this: is there still?’

Neb watched the captain and the tieryn walk away, talking of their plans, both of them tall men, but red-haired Gerran was as lean as the balding tieryn was stout. Neither would be a good man to cross, Neb decided, nor Lord Mirryn, either. Salamander left his perch on the table and joined the two boys.

‘Well, there,’ the gerthddyn said. ‘Your uncle will be avenged, and perhaps they’ll even manage to rescue your aunt.’

‘If they do,’ Clae said, ‘we won’t have to go back to her, will we?’

‘You won’t. Judging from what you told me on our journey here she doesn’t seem to be a paragon of the female virtues, unlike the tieryn’s good wife.’ Salamander glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who, I might add, is arriving at this very moment.’

Salamander stepped aside and bowed just as the lady hurried up, a stout little woman, her dark hair streaked with grey. She wore a pair of dresses of fine-woven blue linen, caught in at the waist by a plaid kirtle in yellow, white and green. Two pages trailed after her, a skinny pale boy with a head of golden curls and a brown-haired lad a few years older.

‘My lady, this is Neb and Clae,’ Salamander said. ‘Lads, this is the honourable Lady Galla, wife to Tieryn Cadryc.’

Since he was already kneeling, Neb ducked his head in respect and elbowed Clae to make him do the same.

‘You may rise, lads,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard your terrible story from young Coryn, here.’ She gestured at the older, brown-haired page. ‘Now don’t you worry, we’ll find a place for you in the dun. The cook and the grooms can always use an extra pair of hands.’

‘My thanks, my lady,’ Neb said. ‘We’ll be glad to work for our keep, but we might not be staying –’

‘My lady?’ Salamander broke in. ‘Luck has brought you someone more valuable than a mere kitchen lad. Our Neb can read and write.’

‘Luck indeed!’ Lady Galla smiled brilliantly. ‘My husband’s had need of a scribe for ever so long, him and half the noble-born in Arcodd, of course, but what scribe would be wanting to travel all the way out here, anyway, if he could find a better place down in Deverry? Well and good, young Neb, we’ll see how well you form your letters, but first you need to eat from the look of you, and a bath wouldn’t hurt either.’

‘Thank you, my lady.’ Clae looked up with wide eyes. ‘We’ve been so hungry for so long.’

‘Food first, then. Coryn, take them to the cook house and tell Cook I said to feed them well. Then do what you can about getting them clean. Clothes – well, I’ll see what I can find.’

The food turned out to be generous scraps of roast pork, bread with butter, and some dried apples to chew on for a sweet. The cook let them sit in the straw by the door while she went back to work at her high table, cracking dried oats with a stone roller in a big stone quern. Coryn helped himself to a handful of apples and sat down with them. He seemed a pleasant sort, chatting to the brothers as they wolfed down the meal.

‘I do like our lady,’ Coryn said. ‘She’s ever so kind and cheerful. And our lord’s noble and honourable, too. But watch your step around Gerran. He’s a touchy sort of man, the Falcon, and he’ll slap you daft if you cross him.’

‘The Falcon?’ Neb said with his mouth full. ‘What –’

‘Oh, everyone calls him that. He’s got a falcon device stamped on his gear and suchlike.’

‘Is it his clan mark?’

‘It’s not, because he’s not noble-born.’ Coryn frowned in thought. ‘I don’t know why he carries it, and he probably shouldn’t, ’cause he’s a commoner.’

The cook turned their way and shoved her sweaty dark hair back from her face with a crooked little finger. ‘The mark’s just a fancy of Gerran’s,’ she said. ‘After all, he was an orphan, and it’s a comfort, like, to pretend he’s got a family.’

‘Still,’ Coryn said, ‘it’s giving himself airs.’

‘Oh, get along with you!’ The cook rolled her eyes. ‘It comes to him natural, like. He was raised in the dun like Lord Mirryn’s brother, wasn’t he now?’

‘Why?’ Clae said with his mouth half-full.

The cook glared narrow-eyed.

‘Say please,’ Neb muttered.

‘Please, good dame,’ Clae said. ‘Why?’