The Forgotten - Chapter 8

  Sigwulf woke suddenly at a noise from the horses and rolled into a crouching position, sword in hand, eyes narrowed, and heard a mocking laugh.

“A little jumpy aren’t we,” Astrid mocked him as she stroked the small mare’s dish shaped face.  The small mare dubbed ‘Swift’ by Astrid, nudged the small young woman affectionately.

Sigwulf noted with disappointment that the stern lines had returned to Astrid’s face.  However, her face did soften when she looked at the little horse.

“What type of horse is that?  What’s her name?”  Sigwulf asked to cover his momentary embarrassment as he stood.

Astrid shrugged.  “I have no idea what her breed is, but I call her Swift because she runs very fast.  She belonged to one of the slavers and he treated her cruelly.  I helped keep her warm at night, and fed her when I could.  In return I have the only friend I have ever been able to trust.  That was before Cull decided to sell me.”

A feeling of pity welled up in him.

“I don’t accept pity.”  Astrid savagely spat at him.

Sigwulf was startled by her perceptiveness and the sheer force of her will.  He concluded that the stronghold was in for a shock.  His smile was dripping with anticipation.

“What’s that leer for?”  Astrid asked with suspicion.

“You do realise that no one like you has ever graced the stronghold before.  I think you’re going to give everyone a bit of a fright.”

Astrid sniffed.  “And that’s exactly the way it should be.  Normality leaves room for people to become complacent.  Complacent attitudes lead to death, in both of our lives.”

Sigwulf nodded.  “You’re right.”

“That is obvious.”

Sigwulf winced and realised that she was indeed smarter than most of the women he had bedded at the stronghold and that made her a challenge, one that was unobtainable for a solider such as him.  Damn the nobles.  Wealth and women for the pampered popinjays, where a solider who does the real work gets dirt and death.

“Time to leave,” he grunted.  “We still have a long way to go today.”

Astrid’s mocking laugh followed him as he sheathed his sword and moved to pull some bread and cheese from his saddlebags.

  The sun was high that afternoon, but the air was still chill.  Astrid was not as sombre as the day before, but still just as quiet Sigwulf noted to her.

“What is there to talk about?”

“Anything at all.  I thought you might have some questions.”

“About my regency you mean?”

Sigwulf shrugged.  “Lord Draynon will answer most of those.  I was meaning more about the stronghold personally.”

“You want to boast, you mean?”

“Boast?  No.  Just a few items of interest.”

Astrid sighed and rolled her eyes.

Sigwulf ignored it.  “Security is very important there.  Some of the people there live two lives, mostly the older men but there are one or two of the younger ones working in the city also.  Usually the sons that aren’t suited to knighthood and such.  Thankfully there are very few of those as we need every man we can get.  At home, I am a Galadon Knight.  In the city I have a two room town house, and I am the second in command of Administration and a liaison officer between Derrell, Hawthorn and Kothmar.  I never really need to check in anywhere so I can explain frequent and long absences quite easily.”

“I thought only members of the Kalash Clergy had any authority?”

“A Kalash Priest is the number one at Hawthorn capital, but he’s lazy and leaves most of the work up to me.  I spend most of my time in Hawthorn and incoming reports from the outlying areas are fairly frequent.  It’s one way to keep abreast of what the rest of the realm is doing and what the Clergy is up to without raising suspicions, plus I get great freedom of movement to pursue my duties and training at the stronghold.”

“What about Sentra and Cweorn Ston?  Why don‘t you visit them?”

“They are not all that much different from Hawthorn.  Derrell is a coastal town and Kothmar is the largest city on Faynon.  Hawthorn is just in between, so is Sentra.  Nobody in their right mind visits Cweorn Ston if they can help it.”

“But Cweorn Ston is extremely profitable with all of the gemstone, gold and iron mining that goes on there.  That’s one of the reasons why the Kaltharian continent and the rest of the realm is so strong and economically wealthy.  The money is always there.  Someone just needs to dig it up.”

“True, but.  Wait a minute.  Where did you learn about geography and mining and so on?”  “Same place you did I imagine.”

“I learnt at the stronghold.”

Astrid shrugged.  “Some of the other thieves could read and write.  They taught me a little.”  “Can you read and write passably, or just a little?”

“Rather well actually.  And yes, I can count, argue religion and even philosophy.  As a thief you can pick any lock.  The public library has,” she paused and swallowed.  “Had, some fantastic books on philosophy and the inconsistency of man.  Quite interesting really.”  Sigwulf hid his surprise and reined in Kann to a stop.

“Feel like running the horses for a bit?”  Sigwulf innocently asked.

“Always.”  Astrid flashed a quick smile.

Sigwulf looked around them then pointed to a distant line of trees.

“The edge of the Hawthorn forest.  Home is in there.  We need to get there as quickly as possible.  No one should notice two riders having a race.”

Astrid nodded.  “Would you like a head start?”

Sigwulf laughed.  “Look at the size of this brute.  I should be asking you that.”

“Alright,” Astrid replied and nudged the mare in the ribs.

The small horse was soon at a gallop, her ears back and the bit in her teeth.  Sigwulf urged his war horse into an early gallop and soon caught the mare.

“Told you,” he shouted at Astrid through a grin, revelling in the exhilarating feeling of the wind in his face and the bunching and relaxing of the muscles of the powerful horse beneath him.

Astrid returned the grin with a wink and leaned further forward, then whispered something to her horse.  Sigwulf watched the mare’s back drop by an inch, the tail lifted up and she began to move at a dead run, her hooves scarcely seeming to touch the ground.  Try as he might, he could not catch up with the small mare.  By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Astrid had dismounted and the mare was cropping on some grass as she leant against the mare’s shoulder, arms folded across her chest as she waited.  Sigwulf pulled in his lathered horse who snorted and looked at the small mare suspiciously.

“Told you,” Astrid mocked.

Sigwulf slid out of his saddle.  “Of course Kann had to carry chainmail, saddle, saddle bags, and such.”

“Yes, but Kann is a warhorse, a stallion and twice the size of Swift.  A mare.”  Astrid’s voice dripped honey.

Swift, knowing she was being talked about, lifted her head and gave a derisive snort in the direction the the big stallion, her upper lip curling insultingly before she returned to cropping on the winter dry grass.  The stallion snorted his own reply, staring back at the mare with  undisguised hostility.  Swift ignored him.

“We’ll let the horses rest for a little before we enter the forest.”  Sigwulf stalked away, muttering to himself.

Finally, Astrid approached him.  “Sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

“Giving you a rough time.  I’m not used to being told what to do or walking into a situation that I don’t fully understand.  Normally I’m the one in control and telling others what to do.”

Sigwulf relented his position of stiff formality in acceptance of the apology.  “It won’t be easy.  I’m afraid that I can’t help to let you know what to expect either.  To me it’s quite normal.  I remember some of my life before the stronghold, and have no wish to remember it.  Just be sure to treat Lord Draynon with respect and he’ll offer you the same courtesy.”

“Just who is this Lord Draynon?”

“The leader of the Galadon Knights in Hawthorn.  Respect his title by addressing him as Lord Draynon.  He’ll fill you in on all the details that I can’t even guess at.  I’m just a messenger.”

“So you said you were brought there?  You were never born at the stronghold then?”

“No.  I wasn’t.  That small town near Derrell where we picked you up from was my place of birth actually.”

Astrid was surprised.  “Really?  But you don’t act like it?  No obvious scarring.  No swearing with every second word.  Very little spitting.”

“I was taken when I was about 15 years old.  I slipped picking the purse of a knight.  He picked up Vance and myself then took us to Hawthorn.  A fortune of circumstance 12 years ago.”

“So you were an orphan?”

“Bastard whore son.  The horses should be well rested by now,” Sigwulf added, changing the subject, his formality returning.

Astrid nodded.  “Time to go then is it?”

“Eager?”

“Not really, but I guess I have a husband to meet.”

Sigwulf gave a sigh and walked back to his horse.  “How often is someone going to have to tell you that you will have time to choose for yourself?  Will you listen to them or keep saying ‘poor me’ because you were born into responsibility?”

“Poor me?  I have lived every day of my life in the gutter that was also my home and has just been totally destroyed for the third time that I know of.  Where have you been for the last 12 years?  For 12 years you have had a roof over your head and three meals a day.  I had one meal on a good day and two on a great one.  Most of the time I was forced to sleep on a roof to avoid Cull locking me in a cage to keep men away from me, or to let him lock me in on occasion to avoid rape, then hope he would remember where he left me before I starved to death.  I was there for three days once before he realised I was not anywhere underfoot.  It happened on more than one occasion.  Any friends that I made caused them to be murdered or worse.  Soon people were afraid to even speak to me for fear that Cull would have them murdered, and from then on I was alone, but not lonely, big difference I might add.  So next time you think that I should feel guilty for being born into responsibility, think about where the two of us have been living for the past 12 years, then try and tell me again that I should feel guilty for feeling a little unhappy and hard done by right now.”

Sigwulf growled.  “You should feel guilty.  Hundreds of people have already died for you and hundreds more will.  Still think you have time to wallow in self-pity?  I lost my best friend because of you but I’m not moping about it because I don’t have the time.  I couldn’t even mourn his passing at the time of his death because you were too busy being stunned to even move, forcing me to babysit you.  Now shut up, mount up and follow, or is that too difficult for you?”

“You really are a bastard,” she growled in reply as she hauled herself onto Swift’s back.