Fates Choice Page 19

  Out of instinct, the men started to look to him for instructions. He had not returned to the wagon. Instead, he instructed Caenet to take Raelf, which was the only horse not now attached to the wagon, and return to Home Manor with a request for another caravan to meet them at the merchant’s guild. Torr would head there and wait for Caenet to return, so the two men from Home Manor who could not walk along with Torr, could get back.

  Caenet galloped off leaving Torr to limp along next to the two horses who would pull the wagon down into Paega itself. This was hardly a glorious entry back into the town. A young man with a limp walking alongside a small parade of equally tired looking men.

  People stopped to look as they entered the town, passing the small market and into the larger warehouse district, but there was no praise or celebration initially, just the stares of people looking up momentarily from their normal routine. Torr started to feel himself getting angry. They had received a warmer and more organised welcome from Tantes, even though they were now entering their own home port. However, most people working in the warehouses were not, in the main, natives of Paega, having just arrived here with their goods from quite far and wide, or taken delivery of loaded wagons bound for other towns. Many may not have even been aware of the raid on the bandit camp at all.

  He quickly grabbed an urchin boy standing by the side of the road, who had been quite happily minding his own nose and chewing on a piece of dried meat. The men automatically stopped behind Torr.

  “You...do you know where the merchants guild is?” The boy nodded, wide eyed at being accosted.

  “Right, well run to it and tell whoever you find that Captain Skarsdale and the survivors of the raid on the bandit camp are almost upon them and require the courtesy of their sodding hospitality...now!”

  The boy ran off at top speed, leaving Torr and the remaining men left with him to limp, walk, or be carried by the wagon, towards a building that, ordinarily, most of the men with him would never venture into. Only after sending the boy running did Torr consider that he had, essentially, given his authority to the men to dine somewhere when normally it was not his place to say. Torr didn’t care now. They deserved it more than most. If any puffed up fat merchant tried to stop him then, frankly, Torr was quite willing to use the authority of his mace, which he had tied to the head bar of the wagon.

  He was getting grumpy with fatigue and lack of uninterrupted sleep. However, he also felt a growing sense of confidence that, he presumed, came from surviving the battle and his deeds thereon. He was determined to lead the way, even if that meant the men would have to go at the slow pace he could muster.

  Eventually, as they left the warehouse district, towards the centre of the town, one or two townsfolk met Torr’s gaze, smiled and started to clap. As they passed the magistrates and the harbour masters, people were coming from these more distinguished buildings and starting to cheer as the men slowly made their way to salvation.

  By this time, word had reached the outlying reaches of Paega’s Bay, to the houses where the workers, dockhands and labourers lived. The men who formed the backbone of this ragged column. Families started to come out of the line of gathering well wishers now forming, when they caught sight of their husbands, sons and fathers, dragging them off in pure joy or hugging them as they walked. Torr saw though other families looking on with fear as they failed to spot their loved ones returning now.

  Eventually, with what men that had not been waylaid by family, or those who had insisted on returning for their just reward, they reached the main doors to the merchant guild. They were opened just as Torr thought he would have to batter them down. Two doormen stood either side, with the figure of Efaen Valheimer himself appearing at the far end of the large entrance hall. This room essentially took up the entire ground floor, aside from some smaller meeting rooms on each side. Just as they entered, further staff were coming down the stairs laden with food and drink on large silver platters, together with two of the, more reasonable, merchants who had lent men to the expedition.

  Torr grinned. He wouldn’t have to smash anyone’s skulls or set fire to the building after all.

  He also noticed, with amusement, that the guild’s prize entrance rug, that ran almost the length of the hall, had been taken up, exposing just the bare stone, but still polished, floor. Can’t have the riff raff getting our prized possessions dirty.

  Nevertheless, despite this vanity, Efaen Valheimer greeted each man in turn before sending him, with a pat on the back, into one of the rooms where food and drink lay.

  Torr had gone to the back of the wagon, to ensure that everyone was helped off and that the two horses, no lesser survivors themselves, were taken to the main stable and given all the fodder that could be gathered. He also grabbed his mace before the wagon was moved off

  As such, Torr was the last to enter. By the time he did, the men had already ravished the tables of the contents. He saw, as he drew closer to the door where the men had been herded, prized oil paintings being taken out and put safely elsewhere. When he got into the room himself, he conceded that the precautions seemed necessary. The floor was already swimming in wine, ale and food as men sat heavily on two long padded benches lining each wall, becoming increasingly oblivious to the serenity of their surroundings.

  He took a swig himself from a wine carafe, after the men had offered it to him. He offered his thanks to all of them, making sure each had a drink in hand so they could toast their return.

  “You have done well I believe” Efaen said to Torr as the men got deeper into their own revelry. The head of the merchants guild of Paegas Bay and the young cavalry officer had moved just out of the room to ensure they could communicate without having to shout. Before they did Torr had taken another full carafe out of the hands of a servant, a line of whom were now locked in a desperate fight of their own to replenish the returning men’s cups as fast as they were being emptied.

  “News travels fast sir”.

  “Not really, Garel sent me a message yesterday. He assured me he is well”. Efaen’s comment was clearly a question to the young man.

  “Yes sir, wounded but not mortally”.

  “Ah...good, good. And you are aware that Master Millerson is also alive?”

  Efaen realised from the look of shock on Torr’s face that he was not.

  “I’m sorry young man. It hadn’t occurred to me that news may not have reached you. Oaks Keep sent a message bird to Cuhlaed’s office, confirming that he had come out of his sleep, together with updates on some of the other wounded, whilst you were all on the road back up to Paega. He is, however, not yet fit enough to travel so will convalesce with them but it is good news nonetheless yes?”

  Torr could only nod, tiredness and wine already taking their toll on his physical and emotional strength.

  Efaen offered Torr a chair, which the young man took, instead of leaning against the stone door frame any longer than he had to, whilst he took in the news. He ensured Torr was given another wine cup before the older man left, allowing Torr to reflect on the news in as much privacy as their current setting could give.

  He had brought his mace in with him before the wagon was sent off. It was now laid beneath his chair, crossed over the crutch given to him at Oaks Keep, both items looking like a new coat of arms. Torr was just content to listen, now slightly removed from the rest of the men’s increasing revelry, whilst he silently gave thanks for his friend’s recovery.

  He was too tired to think of anything anymore, the wine now starting to numb his aching leg as well. He had decided though as he waited for Caenet, or someone else from Home Manor, he didn’t care who now, that he would give his mace a name: Skullsplitter. He had mused over Kneecapper but, somehow, that had less sense of menace about it.

  He had started to think if he should name his crutch as well before his father arrived. By this time Torr was perhaps only slightly more conscious then he was when Aelboric returned from his voyage to find Raeknor and Torr under the barrel of their
rather dubious cider. Torr grinned at the irony of the thought. It was his behaviour then that, arguably, had led his father to take the action which, in turn, led to Torr sitting where he was now.

  He saw his father grinning back though. Either his father had been drinking as well or he was just relieved to see his son back in one piece, more or less.

  Aelboric ran over to his youngest son, hugging him and dragging him up.

  “Sunlord’s balls”. He had never heard his father blaspheme before. “We were told you were alive but wounded. The damn messenger I sent didn’t have the brain to write down anything else. Your mother has been beside herself...again!”

  Aelboric, took his son by the shoulders before hugging him again. Through the open main doors to the merchants guild Torr could see it was getting dusk.

  “Come on, we need to get you and the men back before it gets too dark. Where are they?” Torr just pointed to the room behind them which, he suddenly realised, had become very quiet. He had no idea when or where Efaen had gone either.

  Aelboric had used the caravan that was generally reserved for Torr’s mother and sister. It was covered and with thick padded bench seats in the back. The few men that were to return to Home Manor were roused from their slumber and helped onto the wagon before Torr. As they left Paega’s Bay he caught the feel of a Stormsen wind. The cooling air revitalised him sufficiently for the ride home to answer some of his father’s continued questions. It seemed strange to Torr that his father was now seeking answers from him when most of their caravan rides together in the past had resulted in Aelboric dispensing much of his worldly wisdom to his son.

  Torr was aware that his father had been forced to fight on more than one occasion before, when attacked by pirates. There appeared to be some understanding in the older man’s tone now when he listened to his son.

  When they arrived, his mother and sister threatened to squeeze the life out of him, Mae once again weeping, partially at her son’s safe return, but also with some concern at the state of his leg, which was still black with bruising and appeared to have swollen up again.

  He was dismissed to his room and ordered to rest, Mae insisting that Aelboric sent word to the Abbey for one of their apothecaries first thing in the morning.

  Torr did not have the strength now to argue. He was helped upstairs by Maem and Shishgaerd, who also then washed and re bandaged his wound, before the young man collapsed willingly into his own bed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  T he next ten-day was more excruciating in its boredom as it was with pain from his leg as he was, essentially, housebound. He was unable to ride, hunt or do anything else worth talking about.

  The Apothecary came once, assessed his wound and then left the dressing and application of ointment to the house staff.

  Gradually, he was able to bear weight without having to rely on support although it became clear quickly enough that the scar would be large and permanent.

  A messenger also arrived confirming details of the ceremony at the Abbey to mark the battle and honour the fallen, requesting the attendance of the entirety of the Skarsdale family and all those who fought.

  By the time of the family’s ride up to the Abbey on a clearing Stormsen morning after overnight rain had soaked the fields after their freshly harvested bounty, Torr was able to ride, so he had taken Scout on ahead. His leg was slightly stiff though when he dismounted at the Abbey’s stables. His apparel of full dress riding gear, appropriate for the venue and gravity of the event, was tighter than the loose robes he’d been able to wear around Home Manor for the last ten-day. He was therefore still limping a bit.

  Garel was there to greet him, dressed in his formal military doublet. The garrison commander had made a point of insisting that he greet all who fought and survived and the family members of those who had not. He was also still bearing the scars of battle, only being able to greet guests with one hand still.

  There was an Alms prayer at the beginning of the ceremony, once all guests had arrived, filling the Abbey nave beyond its seating capacity. The price for any late comers was a long morning standing up for the entire event, faced with the constant glare of priests tapping the stone Alms fonts. Most merchants gave gladly. It had been their own retinue’s who had lost their lives. It was better to pay Alms to the families now, than face an increased demand from Cuhlead Tiri’s office, for tax to house and maintain them later.

  As Torr’s family and their own surviving men caught up after their slower wagon ride and sat down, Torr saw Elswyth and her family take pews on the far side of the large nave. Truth was Torr had raced ahead on Scout hoping he would be able to catch up with the Roedart’s before the ceremony commenced. Instead, Garel had commandeered the young man to help with the duties of greeting all the guests.

  Carodin and his family had arrived shortly after. Both the young officers took the first opportunity they had to talk at length since parting on the battlefield. They left a queue of guests waiting to be formally greeted to the ceremony as custom demanded.

  They agreed they would talk further at the end of the lengthy sermon. Torr’s leg was starting to hurt again as the nave was open to the winds that were now starting to blow in earnest along the coast. They remained sitting on pews which Torr thought had been designed to cause pain to anyone who ever thought of nodding off, or getting too comfy, through prayers.

  After the names of the fallen had been read out, their souls salvation requested and the thanks for the harvest, all guests were invited into the Abbey’s cloisters, a short walk away. Torr had to ask his father for a helping shoulder by the end. The walk improved his gait but he still found it more comfortable to rest as much of his weight as possible against the large and heavy oak tables that had been laid out with all the local produce of the season which, fortunately now, included cider. As this was the Abbey though, the glasses were small to observe the tenants of moderation, something that Torr did not appreciate today. Still, this was a place of worship to the Sunlord, not a dockside tavern.

  Torr recognised the tables as those used by students at the Abbey during mealtimes. They must have been dragged or lifted from the usual resting place, into the largest hall in the square cloister, to accommodate all the guests.

  Carodin had found him again so both young men stood by the table as their respective families cast off all the spirituality of the event aside and started to mingle with other merchants’ families. Carodin was concerned that he could see his father talking to the family of his prospective bride to be, no doubt filling them with tales of their son’s daring in the hope, probably, of gaining a larger dowry. In fact, Carodin froze as he saw the bride to be in question.

  “Oh...well, yes, she looks...umm...lovely” said Torr with a smirk.

  “Gods’, hide me will you. We can use the old monk’s quarters and I’m pretty sure I can still pick the lock on the outside door to get the hells out of here unseen”. Carodin looked as if he was in greater peril here than they had been during the battle.

  “Nope, sorry old chum, we’ve been given orders to politely greet any family members who approach us, so we can offer our condolences, so that’s our duty”.

  In fact, several of the merchants themselves had approached them, to offer their thanks and appreciation for what their own men had told them of the young men’s endeavours during the battle.

  Carodin had decided to carry out his duties elsewhere when he saw his potential bride to be getting closer, leaving Torr on his own just as Abbot Cleaves himself approached the young cavalryman.

  The head cleric was still wearing his trademark frown of disapproval as he looked directly at Torr on his approach. I swear if he gives me a hard time about anything now I’ll cave his head in with a loaf of bread if I have to.

  “Congratulations, young man, you have served your town and Abbey with distinction if what I hear is correct”

  As Abbot Cleaves spoke he held out his hand, frown disappearing in an instant. Torr’s lower jaw went slac
k in response. In all his years at the Abbey school, he had never ever seen the Abbot smile, let alone speak to anyone in anything other than tones of admonishment, even his own priests. As Torr continued to stare, his eyes at least had the opportunity to take in the fact that Cleaves other hand held an empty cider glass.

  In view of the young man’s lack of response, the Abbot grabbed Torr’s hand, that the young man wasn’t using to prop himself up with and firmly shook it in both of his. Empty glass and all still clutched in the priest’s hands.

  “Umm...yes sir, thank you”.

  “And how is the leg? I trust our apothecaries have treated you well yes?”

  Torr regained some of his composure. “Yes sir, yes, thank you...again”.

  “No thank you young Captain Skarsdale...it is Captain isn’t it? I’m afraid I was never a battle priest”. Abbot Cleaves looked away for a moment, shaking his head as if reminiscing about some aspect of his youth, not that Torr could ever conceive of the man ever being young, or this jolly.

  “Ahh..yes sir, that’s right, Captain”.

  Either the Abbot was under some spell or he had received a very sudden personality transplant. However, his next comments shed some enlightenment on his condition: “Marvellous vintage this year, don’t you think son?” Abbot Cleaves held up his empty glass admiringly, but only upon closer inspection seemed to realise or recall it was empty.

  “Must find the kitchen staff, we’ll have to see how many barrels the head gardener gave them”.

  The head of the Abbey turned and wandered off, still leaving Torr open mouthed.

  “Well that’s not an attractive look is it?”

  Torr heard the far more melodic, mirthful and pretty voice just behind him and, as he turned, also felt a single delicate finger under his chin push his jaw shut.