Mordraud, Book One Page 14

  Then, the war.

  “Whoever should manage to defeat Eldain will be treated like a God!” exclaimed Dunwich, smiling as he quoted Emperor Loralon’s own words.

  “Did you call me, darling? Time to go already?” murmured Silia, sitting up in bed. The sheet dropped down to her legs, revealing small but round breasts, meandering hips and naked thighs. She’d lost weight. She was also fighting her own war, he noticed. Struggling against all those who wanted to get near him, drawing on her few means, but with great dedication.

  “No, not yet,” he whispered, bending over her. Dawn bathed the fine lacquered furniture and the girl’s skin in a crimson light. A gaudy ring twinkled on the bedside table. “We still have a little time... and I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Ah, really?!” Silia cried, as she stretched her hand out towards him. “Wonderful...”

  That was his day.

  IX

  “Keep still, damn you... Don’t make things harder for me...”

  The squirrel was quivering in desperation and was nipping at his fingers in an attempt to save himself. Mordraud would have preferred to avoid the scene, more for his brother’s sake than for his own. Gwern adored squirrels, and if the child found out that the evening’s dinner promised to be precisely one of those billows of brown fur, then he’d refuse to eat it. A risk the older boy couldn’t afford to take.

  Mordraud had got all his calculations wrong. Trusting in his sense of orientation alone, he’d cut across the woods in the hope of reaching Eld in the shortest time possible, avoiding the paths and villages. He couldn’t know exactly where the clashes between Cambria and the rebels were, nor which villages were friendly and which hostile. He knew he was in a land of conflict, but had no real idea of how safe they actually were. Or whether there were any places at all that would be friendly for him and his brother. From the remains of their home, he salvaged a few blankets, a change of clothes for both, a flint block, a few knives and a copper pan, besides the few coins he’d managed to root out. ‘That bastard squandered them all on drink,’ he thought, biting his lip in fury.

  “Don’t you understand me?! Keep still!”

  Mordraud rummaged around with his free hand in the bottom of the bag, searching for a suitable weapon. The penknife he kept in his pocket was too small and blunt to kill that poor beast. At least if he didn’t want to hurt it more than was necessary.

  “If it were for me alone, I’d already have skinned you with a stone...” he whispered to the fur ball. “I’m only doing it for Gwern, do you get me?”

  It wasn’t true. He also liked squirrels, and it churned his stomach to think about slaughtering one, but Gwern could no longer go on eating just a fistful of wild berries and a few withered soft potatoes. What he needed was a decent piece of fresh meat roasted over the fire.

  “You’re definitely not big... two or three bites in all... Probably not even enough.”

  Mordraud was certain the squirrel was looking him straight in the eye, begging for mercy. He could feel its minute heart racing inside his closed hand. Two or three bites in all. A useless little heap of skin and bone.

  “Bah, go and get lost, you pointless creature.”

  As soon as he slackened his hold, the animal shot away, vanishing into the tree trunk behind him. Mordraud got up, cursing, and added a few dry twigs to the fire he’d lit to keep Gwern warm. His brother was sleeping near the remains of the charred lumps, tossing and turning under the heavy blanket. It was a cool evening, not chilly enough to warrant the fire, but Gwern always felt cold. An iciness that surfaced from his bones and sinews ‘What an idiot I am... And now? What will I give him to eat now?’ he wondered as he gazed hopelessly about. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind... Don’t take it personally...’

  Mordraud scanned the branches and jumped up, clinging to the lower ones. It had been a favourite pastime of his as a boy, climbing all the trees he came across and watching everything from above.

  ‘Anyway, I saw you went this way... And I’m an expert at squirrel hunts.’

  Mordraud ascended higher, advancing while hanging from his hands, until he’d almost reached the bushy head of the vast conker tree nearby. He saw his prey’s fluffy tail peep out from behind the trunk for an instant, and quickened his pace to find a spot where he could straddle the branch.

  ‘Almost there...’

  He felt that he’d brushed something with his fingers as they gripped the wood. He pulled himself up to investigate. It was the nest of some bird or other, with four large brown eggs encased in dried grass. Mordraud thought about it until his fingers started hurting. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the squirrel staring at him from a higher branch, ready to scamper off again.

  ‘Mum always used to say: if there’s no meat, then eggs will do fine...’

  ***

  The copper pan was full, finally. Mordraud whisked the eggs with the tip of a knife, expecting to find a chick in there, but luck was on his side. Ludicrous to say so, he thought, chuckling. The last soft potatoes had been diced and browned to complete the recipe.

  “Gwern, wake up... You’ve got to eat something. It’s not good for you to sleep all the time,” whispered Mordraud as he gently shook his brother. “It’s ready.”

  “Hmm... What’s for dinner? Potatoes?” Gwern asked weakly.

  “No, something much better!”

  Gwern sat up and stretched his arms behind his back. He was as thin as a spectre, and much paler.

  “It smells good...”

  “Of course it does, and you haven’t tasted it yet!” trumpeted Mordraud enthusiastically. “These are Potatoes Mordraud-Style! Ordinary potatoes haven’t got a patch on them!”

  “Potatoes Mordraud-Style?!”

  Breathing in deeply like a chef over an exquisite soup, Mordraud stirred his creation one last time and passed the pan to his brother, taking just a spoonful for himself. Gwern rubbed his eyes, and tasted the mixture using the tip of his knife.

  “Mmm, really good! Well done!” he said to his brother, nodding with conviction. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve got a recipe all of your own?”

  Mordraud watched Gwern in pleasure as he tucked into his eggs, and tasted the food he’d kept back for himself.

  It was disgusting. Absolutely foul.

  “Well... it was a secret...” replied Mordraud, finding it hard to swallow the stuff, “And it might have been better if it had stayed that way...”

  “Don’t be silly! It’s really tasty. Thanks!”

  Gwern would never have admitted that gunge was inedible. His brother had made it. And he wasn’t the slightest bit aware a squirrel, that night, had returned home alive on his account.

  “You’re welcome, Gwern.”

  Mordraud left him to eat in peace, and went to collect more firewood, in the form of twigs that had fallen from the horse chestnut sheltering them with its foliage.

  “How far to go, do you reckon?”

  “Not far, not far at all. If we’re lucky we should see Eld and its walls tomorrow... at worst, in a couple of days’ time.”

  He’d said the same the day before. And perhaps the one before that.

  “Great! I can’t wait to get there! Just imagine, Mordraud! A real castle!”

  “Yeah... A big, strong, impenetrable castle...” he replied, trying not to show the unease he felt. A great castle. Great dangers. And a great war.

  Coughing broke up their conversation. Gwern had just finished eating when one of his attacks came on. Mordraud took a blanket and grabbed him before he could fall over backwards and possibly bang his head on the hard bare ground. His brother’s fits had grown so sudden and racking that he couldn’t take his eyes off him for a moment.

  “It’s not long now, not long at all,” he murmured to the shuddering boy. “Maybe even tomorrow...”

  ***

  The morning brought no castle with it, and neither did the next day, nor the one after that. Mordraud quickened the pace, navigating by the s
un and the mountain silhouettes, calling up, against his will, his father’s tales of Eld and the rebels’ resistance to the Empire.

  “The castle’s beyond a chestnut wood, after a valley snaking between a cluster of low bare hills, where the local shepherds take their sheep to graze,” he’d told his son on one of the rare occasions he’d spoken to him. It was back when Varno still showed some interest in him, and from time to time would tell him about the hardships and perils of a mercenary’s life. Years so very far away they no longer felt like his, made up of faded and unreal images.

  “Those are the hills. Can you see them? Over there, Gwern...”

  Mordraud pointed out something to his brother, who was slumped and clutched at his shoulder. Ten days had gone by since they’d left their old abode, and Gwern was no longer capable of keeping up. The hilly paths had exhausted him.

  “Yes, there are sheep too... Like you said...” he responded, in a feeble voice. He’d fallen asleep again, in a sleepiness Mordraud didn’t like, not one bit. Gwern seemed to be in a constant faint state, while never resting. It was a matter of days. He had to hurry, at all cost.

  The valley was a long narrow tongue of land that melted into gentle rolling hills covered by planted fields and hamlets of farms. Mordraud breathed a sigh of relief. The war had not invaded there yet, leaving the valley-folk free to live in a fragile limbo of peace. Cutting across the hills would enable him to significantly shorten the route to Eld, while also avoiding the main road, with its loaded carts and wayfarers. When evening descended, the two brothers camped near the road, the other side of a ditch skirting a field of corn, and slept without lighting the fire. The night was a dark moonless one. Gwern was very restless, and moaned about feeling an intense cold rising from the hard dry earth where they were stretched out. Not even all the blankets they’d brought with them were enough to appease him with a mild warmth.

  When the sun climbed over the hills, Gwern’s forehead was burning.

  “Damn, we could have done without this...” cursed Mordraud as he felt his brother’s reddened taut face. “And now? How am I going to get you beyond the hills?”

  “We’ll go anyway. I just need a few hours’ rest... Then we can set off...” mumbled Gwern, attempting to sound convincing. His eyes conveyed the exact opposite. If he stayed in the middle of a field in that condition, he’d be dead before evening.

  “No, we have to ask for help. Damn it, I really didn’t want to have to...”

  Mordraud had to give up on his plans. He’d been avoiding all contact with other people right since the first day, fuelled by his fear of falling into the wrong hands. It was dangerous for an adolescent and a frail boy to be wandering around alone in lands disputed in war – or at least that’s what Mordraud said. The truth was he trusted nobody. Except himself.

  “Come on, let’s try at that farm. They might let us sleep in the hayloft, and I should be able to buy a slice of fresh meat for a few coins...” he panted as he carried his brother on his back. The rural estate wasn’t far away. As they approached, Mordraud noticed the yard was bustling with a small market.

  “There are lots of people here! Hold on, Gwern... Perhaps we should move on to the next one...”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  Mordraud understood without having to hear any more. Gwern never protested and would have followed his brother anywhere he decided to go. That apology meant much more. Gwern felt he’d reached the end.

  “Okay, we’ll try here.”

  Three carriages and several untethered horses waited for their owners, who were busy making their purchases from the various farmers. A few long tables covered with red-decorated white tablecloths displayed large wooden crates full of fresh food. Vegetables, the season’s fruits, salamis and cured meats beaded with black pepper. A couple of men were drinking wine near a large dark glass demijohn cased in straw. Instead, the women felt and smelt the produce, bargaining excitedly with the country-folk to get the best price. Mordraud didn’t know what to do. Gwern was slumped on his shoulders in a terrible state, and the boy’s rasping breath scorched his face. It was a special occasion. Never in his whole life had Mordraud seen so many people crowded around.

  “Hey, boy. Everything alright?”

  A fat bearded man motioned to him to go closer to his counter. He was selling cured hams and smoked bacon. His white apron was disgustingly caked in layers of old blood. Mordraud was no longer a child – he was seventeen now – but his body made him look five or six years younger. He didn’t at all take kindly to being treated like a boy. But now wasn’t the time to get annoyed.

  “My brother... isn’t well,” he replied, clearing his throat. Gwern became suddenly unbearably heavy.

  “What’s happened? Is your mum here doing her shopping?” he went on. He was chopping the last bones for making stock. And was using a rather unnerving knife.

  Mordraud looked about, wondering whether he should pretend.

  “No, we’re alone...”

  “Let me see,” ordered the butcher, bending over at his side. He felt the child’s forehead with his lard-soiled hand, and effortlessly lifted him from Mordraud’s shoulders to get a better look. Gwern immediately felt much worse and turned white. The man pulled back just in time. A gush of sick skimmed his chest.

  “For love of the Gods! What’s this boy eaten?!”

  Mordraud thought on their dinner of the day before. He’d finished his supplies and had found nothing better than a handful of limp yet familiar mushrooms. His mother had often cooked them for the pair.

  “Mushrooms. Those grey and white ones with a broad cap.”

  “And you?! Did you eat them too?” the man shouted at him, roughly. Everybody near them fell silent and turned around to look at the scene.

  “No... I gave them all to him – there weren’t enough for two...”

  “I bet this is food poisoning! LAROIS!” yelled the butcher. “Where are you?! LAROIS!”

  “What is it, Brenno? What’s happened?!” asked a farmer who’d come closer, with a wooden mug full of wine in his hand. “Who are these two urchins?”

  “And how should I know?! They just appeared. The youngest is half-dead!” retorted the butcher, whose name must have been Brenno.

  “Is he really that ill?” whimpered Mordraud in despair, cursing himself for his dumb idea of the mushrooms.

  “Ill?! If he’s not given something quick, he’ll be gone before evening!”

  Mordraud staggered, stunned. Out of the small crowd that had gathered emerged a short stout middle-aged woman with her cheeks on fire from a couple of glasses too many. Her hair was like shaggy grey wool.

  “I’m coming, Brenno. What is it you’ve got to bawl about?” she burst out in alarm. “And who are these two children? Are they some farmer’s kids? I’ve never seen them before.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know!” the man repeated, shaking Gwern like a sack. “But come and look here! The younger one’s in a really bad way!”

  “And what’s he done? Put him down! You’re a heavy-handed brute!” the woman cried, taking Gwern into her arms at once. She used nimble and expert fingers to touch his forehead and neck, she lifted an eyelid and she felt his stomach.

  “It’s swollen and he’s moaning. What’s he eaten?”

  “Mushrooms. Perhaps Madman’s Cap,” replied the butcher.

  “Oh no! We need some hot water, some wild fennel and a handful of linseed... Go on, quick about it!”

  All the men and women at the small improvised market set about acting on her instructions. Mordraud waited next to his languishing brother, in silence. He teetered there, unable to answer Larois’s questions.

  “Where are you from? Where are your parents?”

  “Are you refugees? Did they attack you on the road to the North?”

  “Tell me, my boy! Does your brother suffer from any serious illness?”

  Mordraud merely managed to nod: he was too distraught to think up some sort of plausible e
xcuse. He certainly couldn’t say his mother was an Aelian, his father was dead, and The Stranger had taken his place.

  “For love of the Gods, can’t you see your brother’s in a terrible state? Come on, snap out of it!” the woman yelled in his face, slapping him hard enough to make him sway. “What were you running from? Where were you going?”

  “We’re... we’re on our way to Eld,” stammered Mordraud, staring at her with vacant eyes. His left arm was shaking pitifully.

  “Is somebody waiting for you there?”

  “No, we’re... we’re...”

  The first ingredients were brought, and Larois began mixing the linseed with the boiling water at once, working them directly with her hand. Her skin was red and as tough as old hide.

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Gwern groaned and writhed as if someone were raking through his guts with blades. Larois stripped him down to his abdomen, and spread on it a layer of crushed and squeezed hot linseed, and used the remaining water to pulp the fennel between her fingers. Mordraud missed the rest. The woman moved too quickly for his distracted eyes. Larois made a pungent paste, which she applied inside the child’s nostrils and on his tongue.

  “My son too nearly died once because of a fistful of mushrooms picked in the wrong place...”

  Mordraud began breathing again only when he felt his arm was no longer trembling, and he saw Gwern’s expression relax. The old lady’s remedy seemed to work.

  “And he’s okay now?!”

  “Yes, he is for the time being, but he still needs a couple of brews I know, just to be sure. I’ll make them now – I should have the stuff on my cart.”

  “But... could he really have died?”

  Larois awkwardly brushed Mordraud’s shoulder with her hand, halfway between a caress and stroking a dog. “No, usually they spend days on the toilet, but don’t die. Be more careful next time: Madman’s Cap looks very similar to a field mushroom. But your brother seems feeble. Is he ill?”