The Messenger

  The messenger hit the floor face-first in a sudden thud and scraping of chainmail on stone that made the hall silent for the second time in just as many moments. As if to catch the man, Silker and Smashednose reactively let go of Fenris’s arms. He had the chance to thrash Pioter Grey now, kick his head in, but the anger that had burned in his chest had been replaced. It was uncertainty, dread curiosity. Something much more significant than his brawl was happening. Then, in the midst of the frozen moment, where time had stopped in Lynetor’s hall, there was the flutter of Alayna’s skirts as she rushed to the man’s aid. Fenris found that he was following the healer.

  “Help me turn him over,” Alayna ordered.

  Fenris complied, grabbing the man’s leg, helping to gently roll the messenger on his back. His leg was covered in something warm and wet. Whiteeyes thought it was piss until he saw that it was blood.

  Alayna pointed at one of the soldiers who had accompanied the messenger in. “Get me something to rest his head, a cloth and clean water.” She pointed at the other soldier. “Get my apprentice, tell her the man is wounded and weak. She’ll know what to bring.”

  The soldier looked at her sceptically for a moment, then looked at Fenris, who had been the cause of trouble just moments ago, but that was then, and this was now. The soldier nodded and rushed off.

  The healer was handed a cloak, which she placed, folded, underneath the messenger’s head. A pitcher of water, large bowl and cloth followed shortly after. Fenris watched her work with a certain respect. She was decisive, deft when a hall full of supposed warriors ready for battle had faltered. A small crowd had gathered around them now, the higher-ranking men and lords shoving their way to the front.

  Alayna hiked the man’s mail up and found his wound, a deep cut across the messenger’s thigh. She made Fenris put pressure on it, and the man moaned something incomprehensible, but didn’t open his eyes.

  “What did he say?” said Lord Becker. “Speak, healer, will he live? He must live.”

  “He is weak, lord,” Alayna said. “Wherever he came from, he used the last of his strength to get here. There is only so much I can do. It is up to God and the Balance if he lives.”

  “Damn the Balance, damn the…”

  “Medicus,” Lord Herik’s voice cut through the hall. He had descended from the high table, and the crowd parted for him. “Heal this man, fulfil your contract.”

  A sharp gasp ran through the lords in the crowd. A healing from a medicus was a fortune. If the rumours Fenris had heard about them were true, even a man as rich as Lord Herik would likely have less than a dozen healings for his household, and most would have been inherited. Use of a medicus in wartime was revered for king and council alone.

  “Lord Herik,” Jung began. “Let us spare the magnanimity, I am sure the healer can revive him.”

  Fenris saw Smashednose mutter something to Becker, and the lord spoke up. “We need to know what message he has. He has put himself to death to get here.”

  “I have made my decision,” Herik said. “Heal him.”

  “As you wish, Sire.” The medicus said in his deep baritone voice.

  He grunted as he took a knee, shakily lowering his bulk to the floor beside Fenris. The warrior went to remove his hands from the messenger’s wound, but the medicus said, “Remain as you are.” He placed a hand over Fenris’s. It was mostly hidden by the sleeve of his white gold robe, but what the warrior saw of it was hairy and huge, almost like a bear paw. The medicus’s other hand was placed over the messenger’s heart. Across the other side of the body, Alayna touched her forehead with her middle and fore fingers in the sign of prayer.

  “This is usually performed privately, Lord Herik,” the medicus said.

  “We will have to make do under the circumstances,” Herik replied. “Lords, I command you to avert your eyes.”

  There was some mummering amongst the crowd, but eventually, every back was turned. Fenris had never been a part of something so public and yet strangely intimate. The hall held over a hundred men, yet within this circle it was just him, Alayna, Lord Herik, the medicus and the wounded messenger. Felt like he should be praying, but his hands were busy, and Fenris Whiteeyes was not a praying man, so he watched.

  Alayna and Lord Herik bowed their heads. The lord was a hard man for Fenris to read, a hard man for most, both aloof and ever present, prideful and wise. None could tell whether their leader truly fought for his nephew’s kingship or his own. But in this moment, he seemed like a praying man, as much as the mercenary had ever seen one.

  The medicus started his chant, sounding out words Fenris didn’t understand in a low, but carefully pronounced voice. The messenger’s pale cheeks flushed red as a wave of nausea and strange, itchy heat washed over Fenris Whiteeyes. As the Balance of the world tipped, Fenris felt his heart double and then triple in its beat. Could have sworn he saw the thick hair on the medicus’s hands grow, saw moss that hadn’t been there before begin to sprout across the flagstones. And then, with a horse, spluttering cough, the messenger’s head arched back.

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  When the medicus finished, there was no more wound beneath Fenris’s hands, only dry blood and a pink scar. Before anyone turned around, the medicus pulled something from his robes. It was a small vial holding a dark liquid which the medicus drank in its entirety. For the brief moment the vial was unstopped, the air was rank and acrid. The medicus tucked it back into his robes, his face scrunched and sour. “It is done.”

  ***

  The messenger didn’t remain in the hall for long. As soon as he could stand, he and Lord Herik’s council vanished into the castle’s private rooms. The only ones seated at the high table now were the Constable, his wife, and the medicus who ate and drank with a ravenous fury that put wild hogs to shame. Pioter Grey and his had left the hall. For those that remained, the great hall of Lynetor felt hollow, uneasy, filled only with worry and rumour.

  “It’s nigh on a miracle,” Alayna explained. Silker and Hessen were leaning across the table intently. She hadn’t addressed Fenris after the messenger was healed. Probably annoyed about the fight, but she’d explain the healing. “He was exhausted and had lost a lot of blood. Even if he had been brought straight to the apothecary’s tent, I doubt there would have been much I could do. The medicus tilted the Balance. It felt so strange.”

  Hessen whistled softly, and Silker nodded, taking the new information in bit by bit. Margot had arrived, too late for the healing and listened on as well. The world of affecting the Balance beyond the use of cheap charms and prayers at wells was not for the common man. When it was, it was usually bad luck.

  “What was it like for you, Fenris?” Hessen said. “I can see that it hasn’t fixed your eyes much. Should have asked him to do you while he was at it.”

  “My eyes work fine,” Fenris said.

  Silker took a sip of his drink. “I wonder how much that service would cost.”

  Margot jumped into the conversation now, excited by the commotion. “You mercenaries think everything can be bought. The medicus are administered by the Order of Sanatus, delegated by the bishops. Even with the war on, you couldn’t get one. You’d have better luck hiring a natural philosopher from the east.”

  Silker shook his head. “Arcanists? They are not like the tales. I’ve seen them. They have a few impressive tricks when they don’t have their heads in books, but you could spend the same money on more men, weapons and food. Hardly worth the cost, even if you can figure out how to field them properly.”

  Fenris tried to catch Alayna’s eyes, and couldn’t. “This is a fascinating conversation,” he said. “But…”

  “She’s a fascinating young lady.” Hessen winked, and Margot frowned at that. Alayna cleared her throat.

  “But I’ll be taking them back to camp now.” Fenris got up. “I’d advise you two to go with each other. Watch out for Pioter Grey an’ his.”

  They left the hall. It was deep in the evening now, a clear sky with bright stars. It was comfortable without a heavy cloak, but the coolness of the breeze warned of the ending season. Fenris and Alayna were on the path down from the gatehouse. They had allowed Margot to walk on ahead when Alayna finally broke the silence.

  “I know what business you’re in, Fenris, but that sort of trouble can’t come for me and my son,” she said.

  Fenris grimaced, felt a pang of guilt in his stomach. “You’re right, but you’ll be safe. Pioter is a bastard, not an animal. The mercenary companies of Baidon have a way of dealing with things.”

  “Did you really kill Ralke Grey?”

  “Someone else did,” Fenris said. “But I wanted to.”

  The healer didn’t respond to that. She took it in silently, looking out onto the cooking fires in the camp below. It was still Fenris’s turn to talk. Talk. He’d felt more sure of himself wrestling Pioter for a knife, but there was only one way to go about it. He’d be blunt.

  “Do you still want me to meet you in Highvale when the campaign is over? If I am alive.” He braced himself for the response.

  “Yes,” she said after considering the question. “And don’t die, Fenris. I’m worried that messenger didn’t have good news.”

  “I’m good at what I do.” Fenris smiled. He pushed the thought of a long campaign away. It could be tomorrow’s problem. “You’re not so bad yourself. I’ve got a bruise on the side of my ribs where you missed Pioter and hit me. You’ve got a strong arm.”

  “That so?” Alayna said. “I am a healer too. I could have a look at it if you wanted.”

  “I might just take you up on that offer,” Fenris said. He felt a blush rising in his cheeks. Lucky it was dark, otherwise he’d look like a giddy fool.

  The healer and warrior held each other’s hands and made their way back to her tent.

  ***

  When Fenris arrived back at the company’s camp, there was a grim cluster around the campfire. Silker, Hessen, Karlin, Borke and other men in even less prominent positions of command sat with faces waiting for bad news. Word of the half-dead messenger had spread like a summer fire, overcoming even the rumours surrounding Ralke Grey’s death. Men expected the worst, and they knew that it was right to. The morning’s easy victory suddenly felt very far away.

  “Just in time, Whiteeyes,” Einar Smashednose said. “Have yourself a seat.”

  Fenris took his place at the fire between Karlin and Borke, several of the men under his command standing behind him.

  “Word from the south?” Fenris asked. “Lord Ignate?”

  “Nothing from the south so far,” Smashednose said.

  Silker opened his mouth, but Smashednose held his hand out and addressed the men as one. “The messenger came from Telborh. Less than a day ago, ships landed on the coast and took the fort. Philip the Bain has brought a second army to Baidon. They’ve started a march north, likely heading for the Kings Pass and onto Highvale. If they can get there before the pass closes, they’ll take the city unopposed. We’ll be marching out to meet them. The rest of the army will be marching south to secure Ignate’s victory.”

  “What of Lynetor?” Someone asked.

  Smashednose scowled. “A garrison will protect it, but broadly speaking, a great fucking waste of time.”

  “Who’s leading the second army?” Silker asked.

  “Larker the Hound,” Smashednosed replied.

  Larker the Hound. Some chuckled at the name, others tested it out in their mouth, but Fenris watched Smashednose intently. There was none of the hate in his expression, none of the amusement that presented when the old man knew he was facing a fool. This was the dreadful serious, the worried Einar Smashednose, who suddenly looked so old and tired as he habitually felt for the dagger in his belt. There weren’t many that could do that to the old man. It sent a shiver down Fenris Whiteeyes’s spine.

  “We’ll break camp at first light,” Smashednose said. “The real war has started, and it’s time for us to earn our keep.”

  The group dispersed, some off to their tents, others off to the few still open shops of the merchant’s camp for one last of whatever they fancied. Smashnose stopped Fenris just before the man left.

  “This about Ralke Grey?” Fenris asked.

  The old warrior nodded. “Aye, you kill him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not anymore,” Einar said. “But it would have been a good thing if one of us had got a little practice in before the proper killing starts.”