Kellanved's Reach

‘Well, join your earnest entreaties to mine. I am so very worried by the fecklessness of this new generation. They know only to spend money like water and have no concern for the future.’

Heboric crooked a smile – having heard that very complaint from his own elders.

‘Tell me,’ the ancient demanded, ‘have you seen the Holy Enclosure of Fener at Vor?’

‘Indeed I have, mother.’

‘Tell me of it.’

For the remainder of the day Heboric described the situation of the enclosure, its location and layout. The old Kanian aristocrat then questioned him thoroughly as to its rites and rituals; it seemed she was a dedicated student of all the gods’ practices and obeisances. Her guards, he noted, appeared quite relieved to have a new target for her ceaseless interrogation.

Three days’ travel passed in this manner, the Kanian elder, Lady Warin – who, it turned out, was a distant relation of the Kan and Chulalorn line – demanding an account of every scrap of eldritch worship or rite that Heboric had ever come across – which was extensive, as he considered himself something of a historian of the field.

On the fourth day the slow slogging progress of the heavy wagon was interrupted by three mounted figures blocking the road. Lady Warin’s guards immediately drew their weapons, their captain calling, ‘What is the meaning of this?’

The central figure kneed her mount forward. ‘It is what it looks like,’ she answered, rather lazily. ‘The lady will hand over all her coin and jewellery.’

Heboric eyed the bandit woman. She wore a ragged cloak, yes, but beneath he believed he saw the glint of blackened mail. And three horses? Rich bandits indeed. ‘Captain,’ he called, ‘have her shrug off that rag she’s wearing.’

The captain waved the three away with a shake of his sword. ‘Choose your targets with more care, fools. This is Lady Warin, an elder of the Kan line!’

‘I know she is,’ the bandit leader answered, as lazily as before, and Heboric gripped the wagon’s side. No! ‘Fire!’

A fusillade of crossbow bolts came flying from the woods and Lady Warin’s guards all grunted, taken by multiple shots. Heboric himself crumpled, a leg kicked out from under him by the impact of a bolt.

He lay in the mud, panting, while the jangling of harnesses announced the approach of the three mounts. Through the roaring in his ears he heard the old woman say, with great disparagement, ‘So … are we to return to the old dynastic wars?’

The bandit woman dismounted. Heboric noted from under the wagon that her boots were tall and of fine leather. ‘They never ended,’ the woman answered, and the wagon rocked as she climbed inside. Reaching up, snarling with the effort, Heboric pulled himself upright.

‘Curse all of you to Hood’s darkest pits!’ Lady Warin hissed, then gasped.

Heboric stood, panting, and examined his leg – the bolt had passed straight through the meat of his thigh.

‘This one’s still alive,’ a new voice observed from nearby. Heboric looked up, blinking. More of the so-called bandits now surrounded the wagon, crossbows resting in their arms. Boots squelched in the mud as the bandit woman leapt down from the wagon. She’d thrown off her old cloak and was using a piece of torn rich cloth to clean her blade. Her armour was plain and functional; ex-military, Heboric thought.

She looked him up and down. ‘Sorry, priest. But there are to be no witnesses to this bandit attack.’

He did not bother pointing out the obvious truth that this was no bandit attack. Instead, he drew a snarling breath and grated through his pain, ‘Do not make me call the Boar.’

The woman raised a brow, nodding. ‘I’ve heard the stories, of course. The Boar-wildness. Never seen it myself. I think of it as apocryphal.’

Through clenched teeth, Heboric ground out, ‘Do not force me. It is very painful.’

Brow still raised, the officer asked, ‘For you?’

‘For everyone involved.’

Sighing, she turned to her troop. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Reload.’

Damning the woman for forcing this on him, Heboric called inwardly upon the Great Boar, the roaring god of war’s wildness, petitioning: Ride my flesh!

And charged.

When Heboric awoke, it was night, and he lay half in a small creek. Groaning, he turned over to wash the thick sticky layer of drying blood and gore from himself in the icy cold water. He spat out something that might have been a piece of human flesh and washed his mouth, gagging. Then he passed out once more.

With the warmth of the sun, he rose and staggered about until he saw the raised bed of the road and returned to it once more, heading north. Of the Lady Warin’s wagon or party, he found nothing. He must have run or wandered far from that location. At the first farmer’s thatched hut he limped over and banged on the door until it opened and hands took him to heave him on to a straw pallet. Here he sank into a deep sleep of near death, as the Boar cares not for the demands he places upon the flesh he rides.

Chapter 9