Forest by the river inlet, Southern Rills, The North, Westeros
Morning, two days after Vilar's ambush, 297 AC
Thick fog crept along the ground, turning the morning into a raw, grey murk. The Elder walked at the mule's shoulder, jerking the reins now and then when the animal tried to slow its pace. The cart wheels creaked over ruts, sacks of grain thudded dully against one another, and the road to the village of Strond seemed endless.
"How much farther we gotta haul this?" the Runt rasped, dragging his feet at the rear. "My boot's already falling apart."
"Shut it, shortarse" the Third snapped, striding on the other side. "We'll get there by midday if you stop sniveling. The headman said deliver to Strond, so we deliver. Or d'you want him counting your ribs for you?"
"I just asked..." the Runt muttered, glancing at the dark wall of forest. "These woods ain't right."
The Elder said nothing, spitting thick saliva at his feet. He couldn't care less about the lad's whining. Deliver the grain, collect the coin, pour it down his throat at the nearest tavern. The rest was empty talk.
Then the Elder yanked the reins sharply, making the mule snort in alarm.
"Whoa, you beast!" he barked.
"Why'd we stop?" The Third nearly walked into the side of the cart.
"Both of you shut it... Hear that?"
They froze. The forest around them seemed dead; the fog swallowed every sound, turning them into an indistinct hum. But a moment later, from somewhere above, came a triumphant cawing.
"Crows" the Third whispered, craning his neck. "A whole swarm of them. Over there, past the bend - circling."
The men exchanged glances. That many birds only gather for fresh carrion.
"Maybe somebody's cow croaked?" the Runt squeaked, picking at the grimy collar of his tunic. "Or an elk fell in a pit..."
"An elk don't stink like that." The Elder sniffed. On the wind came something sweet and nauseating. "Come on. Let's have a look."
They moved forward, carefully feeling the way among hollows and fog-hidden hummocks. Past the bend the haze parted slightly, revealing a small clearing.
The first thing they saw was a wagon - but there were no horses anywhere. Bales of goods lay strewn in the road mud, torn open by forest beasts or sharp beaks.
And then their gaze fell on the grass, where among the scattered wares lay bodies.
"Old Gods..." The Runt vomited right under the wheel of their cart.
They stood frozen. The crows rose from the ground in a black cloud, settling reluctantly on the branches of the nearest trees. The birds cawed loudly, displeased at being torn from their feast. The bodies had already been gnawed in places, and the air was only beginning to fill with the sweet, sickening odor of decay. The Elder had to press his sleeve firmly to his nose to keep from following the boy's example.
"Those are the lord's men" the Third whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the corpse of a huge man lying in a pool of crusted blood. "Look - black horse embroidered."
The Elder approached slowly, trying to breathe through his mouth and avoid stepping on the dark-stained earth. His eyes roved greedily across the clearing, sizing up the dead.
"What an axe..." he murmured, spotting the weapon in the grass. "Good steel, that."
He walked to the body of a young swordsman. The right hand was gone - either severed in the fight or already carried off by forest creatures. The dead man's throat had been opened into one ragged, deep line.
"Who laid them out like this?" The Runt wiped his face on his sleeve, barely standing from fright. "Three warriors... Slaughtered like sheep."
The Elder was not listening. He was already hovering over the stout man in a coat that had once been fine but was now caked in filth. The merchant had been run through the chest with a single short thrust.
"A merchant." The Elder bared his teeth in a grin. "Fat one - must've had coin."
"Bandits hit them?" The Third nodded at the bodies.
"What bandits, fool?" The Elder nudged a coin glinting in the grass with the toe of his boot. His eyes lit up. He bent quickly, scooped up the silver, then a second coin lying nearby. Then he grabbed the dead merchant's hand and tugged at a ring. "Oh... Now that's a fine little ring."
The gold would not budge. The Elder spat, shoved the dead man's finger into his mouth, slobbered on it generously, and wrenched the ring off with force, nearly dislocating the joint. The ring vanished into his pocket at once.
"What are you doing?" the Runt gasped. "Robbing the dead? The gods'll curse you!"
"Shut it, brat!" the Elder snarled. "They've no use for this lot anymore. Look here instead: the wool bales are whole, the spices are untouched, even the crockery's lying about."
He pointed at the wagon.
"Nothing taken" the Third whispered, looking around. "Nothing at all - but the men were killed. What kind of fool leaves goods like this in the mud?"
"These weren't fools." The Elder frowned. Fear was beginning to crowd out his greed. "Bad men passed through here. Very bad."
The Third walked a little farther, to the edge of the forest, where the crows cawed loudly.
"Over here! One more!"
There, twenty paces from the wagon, lay an archer. His quiver had spilled, arrows scattered on the ground. In the dead man's shoulder gaped a hole. The Third crouched, studying the wound.
"Arrow was pulled out, looks like" he guessed. "Bad business, all of it."
"We need to go" the Elder decided, tucking the purse deeper under his belt. "We get to Strond and tell the headman everything. Let him deal with the lords after that."
"What if they say we killed them?" The Runt began shaking again. "They'll hang us!"
"You're a fool. We've got no swords, no bows. How d'you reckon we'd take down three armored men?" The Elder spat in the direction of the bodies. "Don't touch the goods in the wagon - take only the coins lying underfoot. And if either of you breathes a word to anyone, I'll cut out your tongues myself and feed them to the crows. Understood?"
"But what if..." the Runt began, peering at the dark undergrowth. "What if whoever did this... they're still in there?"
"Then move it - grab what we can and go!" the Elder snarled. He seized the mule by the bridle and hauled the animal forward with all his strength.
The grain cart rattled over ruts and roots. The peasants were nearly running, not daring to look back. The fear of mysterious killers who leave gold behind was far stronger than their own greed.
And behind them the black flock descended on the clearing once more with a triumphant cawing, resuming their bloody feast.
* * *
Ryswell Castle, The Rills, The North, Westeros
Evening, 298 AC
The fire in the hearth crackled, devouring dry logs and casting dancing shadows across the rough stonework of the walls. Beyond the narrow arrow-slit windows the sunset was dying, painting the sky above the Rills in the colors of old copper.
Lord Rodrik Ryswell sat behind a massive oak table heaped with parchment scrolls, scowling at columns of figures set down in the maester's neat hand.
The numbers added up, but the tally brought no joy.
Rodrik was in his sixth decade. An age when most men in the North are already feeding worms underground or warming old bones by the fire. He had spent the greater part of his life clinging to these harsh lands with a death grip.
The Rills had never aspired to greatness: this was not the Dreadfort with its ice-cold, terror-inspiring order, nor Winterfell draped in centuries of Stark glory, and certainly not White Harbor ringing with gold and pot-bellied trading vessels. The Ryswell lands were cut from different cloth: a chain of stony hills, meager forests, crop fields, stubborn peasants, and the sea and rivers that faithfully provided fish but stubbornly refused to yield gold. The Ryswells survived on horses, flocks of sheep, heavy wool, crops, and a talent rare among northerners - staying out of other men's wars unless absolutely necessary.
Rodrik rubbed his nose wearily and set the ledger aside. His eyes ached from the small letters and the smoke. He was a solidly built man who had not yet lost his youthful strength: broad shoulders, a short beard going grey, and hands more accustomed to a sword hilt than a quill. On his finger gleamed a dull bronze ring engraved with a horse's head. The sign of his house.
The heavy oak door groaned, admitting a draft. Into the study came Maester Keldrin. The old man moved slowly, favoring his left leg and leaning on a staff of black wood. At his neck the chain clinked softly: silver, iron, copper, tin. Not the longest chain in the Citadel, but Keldrin had served the Ryswells for thirty years and knew every brook in these lands better than the lines on his own palm.
"Several reports, my lord" the maester creaked, setting a stack of scrolls on the table.
"Sit" Rodrik nodded toward the fireside chair, upholstered in a worn hide. "And read aloud. My eyes refuse to serve me today."
Keldrin lowered himself into the chair with a quiet sigh of relief. Northern drafts were merciless to old bones.
"I'll begin with the good news, my lord. The sheep in the western pens are healthy. The murrain we feared after the rains passed the flocks by. The shepherds swear the lambing this year will be a rich one."
"Something, at least" Rodrik grunted, pouring himself watered wine from a pewter jug. "Continue."
"Tax collection in the western villages is complete. Seven thousand silver stags and six hundred copper pennies."
"Give it to the steward. Have him enter it in the records."
"A complaint from the miller at the Hills." The maester unrolled the next scrap of parchment. "He claims his neighbor has illegally diverted water from the stream to his own fields, leaving the mill wheel idle for three days."
"Let the local headman sort it out. If they can't manage on their own and start cutting each other, then let them come to me for judgment."
So it went for a while longer. Petty disputes, routine concerns, tallies of grain and wool: from this grey cloth the life of a lord was woven. Rodrik listened with half an ear, staring at the fire. The world seemed as it always had been. Predictable, comprehensible, and slightly dull.
A sharp knock came at the door. Lord Rodrik called permission to enter. On the threshold stood a young lad - one of those castle servants whose faces usually blur into the monotonous procession of daily life.
"My lord. Maester. Forgive me. A rider has just arrived - says it's urgent."
The lord nodded toward the maester. The lad handed the scroll to Keldrin and, receiving brief leave to go, vanished quickly behind the heavy door. Keldrin, clearing his throat softly, unrolled the tight tube of parchment. He scanned the lines, and a note of bewilderment crept into his voice.
"This is... ill news, my lord" he said, hesitating.
"How ill? From whom?"
"From the village of Strond. Perhaps you should read this yourself."
Rodrik took the scroll and unrolled it. The headman's handwriting was crooked, riddled with crude errors and blots. The man clearly barely knew how to hold a quill. The letters danced on the parchment. Whoever had written it was either shaking with terror or barely on his feet.
"To Lord Ryswell. I rite with a hevy hart. This morning the grain haulers found a terrable discovery on the old road by the southern inlet. Bodys my lord. Four of them. Three your soldiers in armor with the horse head. The fourth a fat merchant. Dead. Hacked by steel. But gold on them. Wagon hole and goods not tuched. We did not tuch the bodys. Left as is. Your servant headman Duk"
Rodrik fell silent. The parchment crackled in his clenching fist. A thick, dense silence hung over the study. Even the fire in the hearth seemed to hush, not daring to crackle. Keldrin stood motionless, his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe.
"Three of my men" the lord said at last. His voice was frighteningly quiet, but steel rang within that stillness. "Killed on my land."
"Yes, my lord."
"And not robbed."
"Yes, my lord. Bandits would have taken the horses and weapons without fail. Madmen would have killed for sport. But here..."
Rodrik rose slowly. He paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back, then stopped at the window, staring into the impenetrable darkness that blanketed the Rills.
"The southern stretch, by the river inlet..." he muttered under his breath. Then he turned sharply to the door and called loudly for the servant.
The servant appeared instantly, as though he had been waiting behind the door.
"Harrod. To me. Now."
The wait was not long. The captain of the lord's guard entered with a quick, confident stride. Harrod was a wiry man of about thirty-five, with a short bristle of dark hair and eyes accustomed to noticing details. On his cloak was embroidered the black horse's head, and a sword hung at his belt.
"My lord?" He gave a short bow. "Maester?"
"Sit, Harrod." Rodrik gestured to a hard chair. "This will be brief and unpleasant."
The captain lowered himself into the seat, palms on his knees. From the lord's darkened face he already knew: something foul had happened.
"Who patrols the southern stretch?" Ryswell asked, drilling him with a stare. "The road from the old bridge to the fork by the forest."
Harrod answered without hesitation.
"Halgar, my lord. He's in charge there. With him are Bran, Willa, and another lad - name's slipped my mind. Four of them."
"Four..." Rodrik echoed. "You trust these people?"
"Halgar is a reliable warrior - I'd stake my life on him as on myself. Bran and Willa are young but know the work. Bran's hot-blooded; I trained him myself - his hand won't falter. And Willa is the daughter of our late armorer Jon; Halgar took her under his wing. I have confidence in them. What's happened?"
"They are most likely dead."
The words fell into the silence like heavy stones. The composure drained from Harrod's face at once; his cheekbones tightened.
"Dead?" he repeated, disbelieving. "All of them?"
"The headman's report speaks of three bodies of our soldiers and one merchant." Rodrik jabbed a finger at the crumpled parchment. "Three, Harrod. Where the fourth is - unknown. Either taken, or still lying out there somewhere."
"Three warriors..." The captain clenched his fists. "Could it not be them? Halgar isn't taken down easily - he's a bear, not a man. Who could have done this? Bandits? Pirates?"
"The gold was untouched. This was no robbery - there was a fight."
Rodrik leaned over the table, bracing on his fists.
"I want you to go there at once. Right now, tonight. Take the best trackers."
"It will be done, my lord."
"Examine the site. Every trace, Harrod. Find me the ones who did this."
The captain rose sharply, his hand settling on the sword hilt with its heavy, habitual weight.
"I'll turn over every stone from here to the border, my lord. If some band has decided to roam our woods..."
"Don't be rash" the lord cut him off, ice in his voice. "Whoever they are, they're dangerous. They killed the patrol and left without touching the goods. These are no common outlaws. Be careful."
Harrod paused at the door. His face, lit only by the firelight, looked carved from granite.
"My lord... when I find the killers... what do I do with them? Kill them on the spot?"
Rodrik was silent, watching the shadows dance in the corners of the room.
"No" he said at last. "Bring them to me. Alive. I want to look them in the eye before I hand them to the headsman."
"Yes, my lord."
The heavy door closed behind the captain with a dull thud. Rodrik sank back into his chair, feeling the weight of his years pressing down on his shoulders. Maester Keldrin took a soundless step forward.
"My lord" the old man began carefully. "The site of the fight lies very close to the border of your daughter's lands. If the killers went east, they may already be on her territory. Perhaps a raven should be sent to Lady Barbrey? To warn her?"
"Warn her of what?" Rodrik looked up, and for an instant a bitter smirk flashed in his eyes. "That my men were butchered like pigs, and I don't even know who dared to do it?"
He reached for the quill, turned it nervously between his fingers, and hurled it back onto the table in anger.
"No. Harrod will get me answers first. Only then will I write to my daughter."
"As you wish, my lord."
The maester bowed low and slipped soundlessly from the study. Rodrik Ryswell was left alone. Alone with a dying hearth, a heap of ledgers, and thoughts as dark as a northern night.
* * *
The crows spotted them first. Harrod heard the cawing long before the forest opened up before them. It was the hoarse, indignant shrieking of dozens of birds, disturbed in the midst of their feast. The sound was familiar to him to the point of nausea - anyone who had carried a sword long enough inevitably learned to recognize the voices of crows that had found fresh carrion.
"There" he said shortly, reining in his horse and pointing at a gap between the trees. "Past the bend."
Owen, riding to his right, grimaced. The young, sturdy tracker with the red beard usually wore an impudent grin, but now it had vanished, replaced by pallor.
"I can smell it" Breckan grunted from the rear. He was Owen's opposite in every way: past forty, lean and sinewy, with a face like a worn-out boot, seamed with scars. He had served the Ryswells longer than Owen had walked the earth, and had seen enough death not to fear meeting one more. "Rot. Six days at least."
They dismounted at the clearing's edge, tying their horses to pine branches and loosing the dogs. Two large hounds, catching the scent of blood and carrion, lunged forward with loud baying. The black cloud of birds rose into the air with reluctance. The crows, glossy from their rich feeding, settled on surrounding branches, eyes glittering as they waited for the men to finish their business and leave them in peace.
"Heel, you stupid mutts!" Breckan barked, yanking the leads and forcing the dogs to sit at his feet. They whined impatiently, shifting their paws and never taking their eyes off the bodies.
The clearing looked as though a battle had taken place - but a strange one. Harrod circled the site slowly, treading softly so as not to trample the few surviving tracks. Here and there the ground was darkened with brown stains already soaked into the soil. The bodies lay where death had found them.
The first he recognized by the axe. It was Halgar - a mountain of muscle and fury. Harrod well remembered the booming laugh that had once set mugs rattling in taverns. He remembered too how Halgar had prized his two-handed battle-axe, won in a game of dice.
"With this beauty I could split horse and rider in two" he had boasted once.
Now Halgar lay face down in the mud, his axe lying uselessly beside him. Beneath the warrior's ribs gaped a terrible wound. Harrod crouched, studying the mark of the blow. The edges were clean and frighteningly even - the blade that had made them was very sharp.
"Quick death" Owen said quietly, standing behind the captain's shoulder. "He didn't even realize he'd died."
The second body was Bran's. The young man lay in a pool of dried blackness, arms flung wide, as though trying to embrace the earth that could not protect him. Harrod slowly sank to one knee beside him. He well remembered how, only half a year ago, he had personally presented the lad with his guardsman's cloak, and how Bran had glowed with pride.
The right hand was gone, and the sight was ghastly. White bone amid torn flesh, the meat already gnawed in places by forest creatures. The boy's sword lay off to the side. The captain reached out and touched the frozen face of his pupil. Bran's throat had been opened with one impossibly precise stroke. The blow had been so powerful that the cervical vertebrae barely held together.
"The boy never even knew where the steel came from" Harrod said, dry and nearly without feeling.
At that moment Breckan, who had been circling the clearing's edge with the dogs, called out that he had found a third body. Harrod went over and saw the archer. He lay on his side, curled up. His face had been savaged by animals, but that was not the work of men. In the dead man's shoulder a black hole gaped where an arrow had struck, and the bow and spilled quiver lay nearby.
"Three" Breckan stated, spitting to one side. "All dead. Where's the fourth?"
"Willa" Harrod answered. "Her body isn't here."
The captain walked a little farther, circling the trees in search of surviving tracks. At last, finding something important, he beckoned Breckan over. The old tracker pressed one of the hounds' noses into a chain of small footprints leading westward into the thicket. The dog caught the scent at once, baying loudly and straining the lead, pointing the direction.
"She ran" Harrod said through his teeth.
"The wretch" Breckan spat with such enormous contempt that Owen shivered involuntarily. "Left her own to rot in the mud and saved her own skin."
"Fear breaks stronger folk than her" Owen tried to put in, looking at the tracks.
"Fear's no excuse for a rat" Breckan said harshly, clenching his jaw. "Better she'd been lying here with them. At least she'd have died a warrior."
"We'll find her later. First we need to examine the merchant" Harrod cut in.
At that moment two trackers emerged from the forest. Their clothes were smeared with pine needles and their faces were grim. One of them approached the captain.
"Captain, we found the place where Halgar's group kept their horses. South of here, closer to the bank. One horse is dead - wolves or wild dogs got to it, gnawed down to the bones. The rest broke loose. Ropes frayed or chewed through, but the knots are still intact."
Harrod raised a brow in surprise.
"So the killers didn't take them?"
"No. Judging by the tracks, the horses simply bolted in all directions - spooked badly."
"Strange" Harrod muttered, peering into the thicket. "Whoever this was, gold and horses don't interest them. Track the horses down - they can't have gone far."
The trackers nodded and vanished swiftly into the forest. Harrod returned to the dead. The fourth body lay a short distance from Halgar. It was a stout man in clothing that had once been fine but was now reduced to wretched tatters. A precise thrust had taken him through the chest. The merchant had died slowly, judging by the way his fingers were clawed.
The remaining trackers quickly searched the surrounding area but found nothing new.
"The merchant's purse is gone" Owen spoke up.
"No doubt those damn peasants helped themselves" Breckan grumbled.
"We found two other purses where the horses were tied" a young tracker added from the side.
"The killers took only the merchant's money? But why his alone?" Owen asked.
Harrod looked at him thoughtfully and bent over the merchant's body, searching it carefully. Inside the coat, in a hidden pocket, his fingers found a folded sheet of parchment. Unrolling it, the captain saw invoices for cloth, a list of spices, and several promissory notes. At the bottom was a signature, scrawled in a hurried hand: "Vilar."
"Vilar" Harrod read aloud.
"I know that name" one of the young guardsmen spoke up suddenly, studying the swollen face of the dead man. "Or knew it. He used to come round our castle often. Traded good cloth and pepper, liked to make the women laugh. A talkative man, but harmless."
"What was he doing here?" Owen asked.
"Most likely what he always did - hauling goods" Harrod answered.
"But why was Halgar with him?" Harrod straightened and asked it as though of himself, sweeping the clearing with a heavy gaze. "This was no chance meeting. They were standing together when the fight began."
He walked the circle once more, reading the story of the slaughter from the imprints in the earth. His eyes followed the trail, noting Halgar's heavy boot marks and Bran's lighter steps. Over everything lay the crude trampling of peasant soles - those oafs who had found the bodies must have blundered about in a panic, stamping the ground with their heavy boots. But amid the chaos Harrod made out other marks, and for an instant he froze.
Foreign tracks led across the entire clearing, passing from one corpse to the next. These were the prints of boots with soft soles, not studded with the iron nails soldiers wore. The tracks did not weave or break into a run - they moved with predatory precision. Harrod whistled and led the second dog to the find. The hound sniffed the ground confidently and gave a low growl, looking northward - the direction the killer had gone.
"See that?" Harrod pointed out the prints to the trackers standing nearby. "He didn't wander and he didn't run. He moved with certainty. The tracks lead to the old bridge."
"One man?" someone among the young trackers asked in disbelief. "One against three? Four?"
"He took them all, and he did it fast." Harrod looked at his men with cold eyes. "This was the work of a seasoned warrior, not bandits with clubs."
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of wind in the treetops and the cawing of crows. The captain's gaze passed over the bodies and met Breckan's eyes.
"We need to bury them" Breckan said, finally breaking the silence. "Can't leave them rotting in the open."
"We'll make the graves here, at the very edge" Harrod nodded. "Shallow - we haven't the time - so we'll cover them with stones."
They worked in silence, biting into the soil with camp shovels. By evening four fresh mounds stood at the forest's edge. Harrod stood over them and, after clearing his throat quietly, gathered his thoughts.
"May the Old Gods take you. And may your sleep be sounder than our memory. We will avenge your deaths."
He turned and walked toward the horses.
"Where to now, Captain?" Owen asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Breckan, take the hounds and two of the lads - follow Willa's trail. She can't have gone far. Find her and bring her to me alive. She saw everything." The old tracker nodded silently. "The rest of you, with me" Harrod continued, swinging into the saddle. "We'll comb the nearest villages and inns. Vilar couldn't have been traveling alone - he must have had a companion, and someone surely saw this butcher."
They left the clearing, leaving the dead alone with the forest. The wind was gradually picking up, carrying from the north the smell of coming rain.
* * *
Breckan found her in a house on the outskirts, at the home of a widow Willa called her aunt. The girl had burrowed into the cellar like a terrified ferret when three warriors in cloaks bearing the horse's head kicked in the flimsy door. The aunt wailed and lamented about her niece's innocence and divine wrath until Breckan roared at her, reducing the old woman to silence with a bony fist pressed to her mouth.
Two hours later they were in the detachment's camp. Captain Harrod stood by the old well casing, arms crossed over his chest. In the thickening dusk his face looked hewn from stone, and in it there was not a shadow of sympathy or a hint of mercy. When Willa was shoved roughly from behind and forced to her knees before him, he looked down at her for a long time. And that silence was more terrible than any curse.
Willa was only twenty. The daughter of the old armorer, she had dreamt since childhood of ringing steel and whistling arrows. For years she had proved she could hold a line alongside men, and she had been immensely proud when they finally accepted her into the patrol. It was a rare honor for a girl in these harsh lands. But now no trace of that pride remained. Filthy, gaunt, her eyes red from sleeplessness and tears, she trembled finely, not daring to raise her gaze above the captain's boots.
The silence was broken by Breckan's mocking voice. He spat at the ground and stepped closer, fixing the girl with a venomous stare.
"Told you then, Harrod, that bitch would never make a soldier" he rasped, rubbing the scar on his cheek. "And you lot carried on about her father's dying wish and the lord's promise to the armorer. Well, here's the result! Women belong at the washtub, not in the saddle. They're dim, they're stupid, and at the first sign of trouble they tuck tail."
Breckan stepped up to Willa and seized her roughly by the hair, forcing her head back to meet Harrod's eyes.
"Look at her. Our lads are rotting in the forest, picked over by crows and beasts, and this piece of filth is alive. Ran like the lowest rat."
Harrod did not move. His gaze remained cold and impenetrable.
"Seven days" he said at last. His voice was quiet, but steel clanged within that stillness. "Seven days you hid here while your comrades rotted in the forest under the crows."
"I... I was afraid" Willa whispered, not daring to lift her head.
The slap rang out sharply, tearing the camp's silence, and Willa's head snapped to the side. A livid mark bloomed instantly on her dirty cheek. She cried out and tried to crawl away, but Breckan, standing behind her, seized her shoulders in a hard grip and hauled her back into place.
"Afraid?" Harrod took a step closer, looming over her like a black shadow. "Halgar was your commander. Bran was your brother in arms. And you ran like the lowest rat."
"I couldn't do anything!" she sobbed, her voice breaking into a hysterical scream. "He was too strong... I didn't want to die! I didn't want to rot there with them while crows pecked out my eyes! I just wanted to live..."
The second slap was harder still. Blood burst from her split lip, falling in thick drops onto the trampled grass.
"For a soldier of the Ryswells - yes, your life belongs to the lord" Harrod cut in. "And your death should have belonged to your brothers in arms. You traded their blood for your wretched 'tomorrow.'"
Willa collapsed forward, weeping into the dirt, but Breckan kept hauling her back by the hair.
"And you didn't send word to the castle!" Harrod's voice tore into a furious snarl. "You didn't warn the other patrols! You crawled into a hole and hoped it would all sort itself out and no one would learn of your shame!"
"Captain" Owen interjected cautiously. The young tracker shifted from foot to foot, obvious discomfort on his face. "Maybe... maybe go easy on her? She's a girl, after all. She was scared. First real fight, and then this..."
"Shut up" Harrod cut him off without turning his head.
Breckan's hard fingers dug deeper into Willa's hair, wrenching her head back so far she hissed with pain. Now she was forced to look directly into the captain's cold eyes.
"Tell Harrod everything" the old veteran hissed into her ear. "Word for word. And if you lie about any of it, I'll rip your tongue out before the headsman gets the chance. And then I'll gouge your eyes and cut off your ears."
Willa spoke. She spoke in fits and starts, constantly choking on words, blood, and tears. Animal fear made her believe her own lies, which lent the account a chillingly convincing air.
In a halting rush she told how the patrol had heard distant cries, how they had come upon the merchant and the stranger. Halgar had ordered her and Gorn to hold back and keep formation, while he and Bran went forward, seeking peace.
"And then... then that demon drew his sword" she whispered, and in her dilated pupils stood genuine horror. "He moved too fast. Halgar died first. Gorn managed to loose an arrow, but it missed... Bran tried to cover himself, but... One blow. Just one blow for each. He wasn't human, Captain. Humans don't kill like that."
Harrod listened in silence. His jaw was clamped shut, his face a mask of frozen fury.
"Name" he said curtly.
"Aerindir. The merchant screamed that name when he begged for mercy. Aerindir."
Harrod turned away and stared at the darkening sky. He exhaled slowly, making his decision, then waved a hand at two warriors standing by the horse line.
"Gart. Eddis. Bind her and take her to the castle."
"No!" Willa wrenched desperately against Breckan's grip, but the old man struck her behind the knees, and she crashed into the mud again. "Please! I've told you everything! I'm not guilty! Captain Harrod, I beg you!"
But Harrod was already walking slowly away, not looking back. He gazed eastward, where the killer had vanished beyond the horizon.
"Lord Ryswell will decide whether you're guilty or not" his cold voice drifted back. "My task is to find the killer. Yours is to pray the lord is merciful."
Two warriors seized her by the arms, roughly binding her wrists with rope. Willa no longer screamed - she only sobbed quietly, hanging limp in the guards' grip. Breckan watched them go and fell into step beside them. Drawing level with Eddis, he caught the man's shoulder and leaned close to his ear, engulfing the warrior in a reek of stale drink and rotten teeth.
"Don't hold back on the road" the old man hissed. "Have your fun with the bitch, long and slow. Make her curse the moment she decided to run before she ever sees the castle walls. Creatures like her need to know their worth."
Eddis froze for an instant, then a predatory smile spread across his face. He gave the veteran a short nod, and an ugly gleam flared in his eyes. Harrod watched until the riders and their prisoner had dissolved into the advancing darkness of night.
* * *
When the knock came at the study door, Rodrik was already at his desk.
"Enter" he said shortly.
Maester Keldrin came in, clutching a scroll in his hand.
"Word from the captain, my lord. The rider has just arrived."
"Read it" Rodrik ordered. "Aloud."
Keldrin unrolled the parchment and, clearing his throat softly, began to read.
"My lord. The bodies of our men have been found and identified; it was Halgar's patrol. On my order the soldiers and the merchant were buried where they fell. The merchant, whose name was Vilar, was known to our watchmen. No gold was found on him, but all the goods in the wagon were untouched.
The fourth of the patrol, the girl, we found alive in a village one day's ride from the forest. She fled the field in disgrace. Under my questioning she related that the patrol came upon Vilar and a stranger in the forest, fiercely quarreling. Halgar's men dismounted and approached, seeking peace, but instead of words the stranger answered with steel. This was no gang and no forest outlaws - a single warrior stood against them.
The girl claims the fighter was skilled. Our men fell quickly, as did the merchant. The killer's name is Aerindir. Through inquiries in the surrounding area we have learned that he was hired by Vilar as an escort to Barrowton. He is tall, with golden hair, speaks strangely, and wears unusual armor. His tracks lead to the bridge at the southern part of the river inlet. I await your further orders."
Keldrin lowered the letter. He distinctly recalled how, nearly a week earlier, a rider had come from Windton bearing a scroll from Garret in which this name had first been mentioned. At the time Lord Rodrik had burned the message, declaring that old Garret was seeing ghosts in his ale and wine, and that some southern vagabond was simply leading gullible peasants by the nose. A heavy silence settled over the study.
Rodrik sat motionless, but within the lord a true storm raged.
"Aerindir" he said at last, and the name sounded like a curse. "The very golden man from Garret's letter - the one I laughed at."
"My lord..."
"I didn't believe it!" Rodrik brought his fist crashing down on the table, sending the inkwell jumping. "I called it a drunkard's ravings!"
He surged to his feet, shoving the chair back, and paced the study in wide, impatient strides. His breathing was heavy and ragged. He stopped at the window, gripping the sill with white-knuckled fingers.
"The girl says this butcher cut them down like cattle. And didn't even take the gold. A madman. A dangerous madman..." he whispered.
"This wretch killed them all."
Rodrik wheeled sharply toward the maester, and in his eyes blazed the cold fire of resolve.
"Write, Keldrin."
The old man hastily drew a clean sheet of parchment toward him and dipped the quill in ink.
"The first letter goes to my daughter in Barrowton. Inform Lady Barbrey of everything we know. Describe him: golden hair, tall, the name. Write that this man killed three of my guardsmen, and let her order her garrison to turn the city inside out."
The maester scrawled the lord's words in rapid strokes, throwing him an anxious glance from time to time.
"The second message, prepare for Harrod. He is to ride for Barrowton at once. He takes fresh horses at every village along the way and changes them without delay. He must find the trail. Let him shake down the gate guards, the innkeepers, the whores in the brothels - anyone who may have seen this Aerindir."
"What are your orders regarding the stranger himself?" The maester's quill hovered above the paper. "If Harrod finds him, is he permitted to kill him if he resists?"
Rodrik was silent, studying the map of the North that hung on the wall.
"He is unlikely to surrender without a fight" he said hollowly. "If there is a chance to take him alive, let him take it. If not, let them bring me his head."
Keldrin nodded and set to writing, the quill scratching across the parchment. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but its warmth did nothing to warm the lord. Inside Rodrik churned cold, fury, and the burning guilt of having dismissed Garret's letter. At last the maester finished and addressed his master quietly.
"My lord, the letters are ready."
Rodrik read the text carefully and set his sweeping signature. Then he pressed the heavy signet ring into hot wax, sealing both messages, and nodded to the maester.
When Keldrin shuffled from the study, Rodrik went to the map once more. His finger traced slowly from the old southern bridge along the road northeast, and came to rest on Barrowton.
You can run fast, he thought, but my shadow will still be longer.
* * *
Barrowton greeted them with a drizzling rain. The city, built around the Great Barrow of the First Men, seemed pressed flat against the earth by a heavy leaden sky. Grey walls, wet rooftops, and equally grey, indifferent faces of passersby made for a bleak impression. Here the dead, lying beneath the ancient hills, seemed far more real than the living.
At the gate they were expected. A man of middle years with a copper buckle in the shape of the Dustin arms stepped forward, barring the column's path. His men leaned lazily on their spears, eyeing the arriving warriors.
"From the Rills?" he asked, spitting into the road mud. "Captain Harrod?"
"The same." Harrod did not dismount, looking down at the guardsman from the saddle.
"Sergeant Beron. Lady Barbrey has ordered we give you every assistance." He surveyed the weary horses and dust-caked warriors with a sour look. "Looking for that golden-haired bastard who killed your lads?"
"We are" Harrod said shortly, still in the saddle.
"Well then, a handful of my men are at your disposal."
He gave a nod, and ten warriors in grey Dustin cloaks detached from the wall, stepping forward.
"The city guard has been reinforced - every entry and exit is watched. We're checking every wagon. Good hunting to you, but keep one thing in mind. The city's crawling with merchants, sailors, and all manner of road scum. Finding one man in such a crowd is hard - but if we spot anyone with gold on his head, we'll let you know straightaway."
Harrod gave a curt nod and urged his horse through the gate.
"We split up. We need to check every tavern, brothel, and stable. A man like him can't hide that face for long."
They began their rounds at the taverns. The first three yielded nothing but the smell of sour ale. The proprietors only shook their heads in silence, and the serving girls hid their eyes in fright. But at the River Breeze, fortune finally turned their way.
The tavern stood nearly at the port itself. Above the entrance, groaning in the wind on rusty chains, hung a sign with a crudely daubed boat in a spray of waves. Inside it reeked of old fish, fried onion, and the sweat of dozens of unwashed bodies. The innkeeper - a fat man with darting eyes and mustaches resembling walrus tusks - went visibly pale when seven armed men in Ryswell cloaks closed tightly around his counter.
"How may I serve you, good sers?" he babbled, feverishly wiping his hands on a greasy apron. "Fresh ale? A roast? I've the finest pork in the district, straight from"
"Golden-haired stranger. Tall, in strange armor. Was he here?" Harrod cut him off mid-sentence, looming over the counter.
The fat man faltered. His eyes darted fearfully past the captain's shoulder to where the grim warriors stood in their road-dusty cloaks. They looked angry and hungry for blood after the long ride. At last the innkeeper's gaze returned to Harrod, whose heavy stare bore down harder than all the rest.
"He was..." he breathed, lowering his voice. "About ten days ago. Took a room for two nights."
"Tell me everything." Harrod leaned forward, and the counter boards groaned. "Every word, and don't even think of squirming."
"Strange sort, he was. The girls had eyes for him, but his own were cold. Spoke little, paid well, and sat in the corner the whole time." The innkeeper licked his dry lips and edged closer to the captain. "Down at the port they whispered he was looking for a captain - the maddest sort. Wanted to be taken west, across the Sunset Sea."
Breckan, standing behind Harrod, let out a low growl, and Owen gave a short whistle of surprise.
"Only a dead man seeks a road into the abyss" the old tracker muttered.
"That's what everyone at the port figured" the innkeeper nodded. "The captains just laughed at him. Then on the third day he simply vanished. We looked in the room - empty. Left without a sound."
"Where exactly?" Harrod pressed forward.
"Who knows? But he left nothing in the room and took his horse from the stable. Ask the boy - Tim, the stablehand. He's bound to know something."
Harrod gestured sharply for his men to follow. Breckan swiped two full mugs of ale from the counter on the way out, shoving one into another tracker's hand. The innkeeper started to protest, but a single look from the veteran killed the impulse.
In the corner of the stable, by the dim light of an oil lamp, a tousle-haired lad of about thirteen was busy grooming a grey mare. He did not notice the armed men at once.
"You there" Harrod called.
The boy turned and immediately went pale, dropping the curry comb straight into the straw. The sight of stern men in mail and swords struck him dumb on the spot.
"G-good evening, sers..."
"Golden-haired man" Harrod took a step toward him, his shadow swallowing the boy. "What did he ride out on? And where?"
Tim swallowed convulsively, slowly backing toward the wooden wall.
"I... I saddle lots of horses every day... don't remember..."
Breckan did not wait for more. He set the mug of ale on a beam and stepped forward, seizing the boy by the scruff and lifting him off the straw. Tim dangled helplessly, legs kicking in the air, choking with sudden terror.
"Don't you dare lie to me, pup" the veteran growled, bringing his scar-ravaged face close to the boy's nose. "We've lost warriors, and we've no time for your games. Remember, or I'll cut your ears off and feed them to these horses, and make a eunuch of you besides."
"I r-remember! I remember!" Tim squealed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Golden hair! A spotted mare!"
Breckan opened his fist, and the boy crumpled to the dirty stable floor with a muffled groan.
"Talk" Harrod ordered.
"He left ten days ago" Tim rattled off, pressing his head fearfully into his shoulders. "Saddled the horse himself... Asked how many days to White Harbor. I said twelve... He tossed me a silver coin and was gone by midday. That's everything, sers! I swear, that's everything!"
Harrod and Breckan exchanged a brief look.
"Anything else?" Harrod pressed.
"No! Nothing else!" The boy sniffled.
Breckan regarded him with contempt. Suddenly his hand shot forward and a heavy fist crashed into the stablehand's face. Tim flew back against the stall partition; blood poured from his broken nose. The boy pressed a palm to his face and stared at the warriors with eyes full of tears and terror.
"That's to help your memory" the old man said through his teeth, wiping his knuckles on his cloak. "So next time your tongue moves faster."
The trackers followed the captain out into the street. Night had fully enveloped Barrowton, and rain continued to fall drearily over the city.
"We need to send a raven to Lord Rodrik. I'll go to the maester. The rest of you, ready fresh horses and fill the saddlebags with provisions" Harrod ordered, addressing his men.
The message for the lord was as brief as could be.
"My lord. He left Barrowton ten days ago and is now headed for White Harbor. We ride after him at once."
A black raven launched itself from the eaves and soared into the dark sky, dissolving instantly into the curtain of rain. Returning to his men, Harrod swung into the saddle with one practiced motion. His heavy cloak snapped in the sharp wind.
"To White Harbor!" the captain commanded, wheeling his horse. "Pray to the gods that this bastard hasn't hired a ship before we arrive."
Seven riders in deep hoods left Barrowton under cover of night. The hooves of their horses beat a steady, hollow rhythm against the wet cobblestones, carrying the column into the darkness. With every mile they covered, the distance to the golden-haired stranger shrank inexorably.
* * *
The bridge over the White Knife was finer than any the elf had crossed on this continent. Having seen shaky wooden decking and moss-covered pilings, Aerindir appreciated the work of local craftsmen here. Broad arches of pale stone rose above the rushing current.
The horses' hooves drummed hollowly against the stone. Aerindir, riding slightly ahead, adjusted the leather band that securely hid his ears. Over eleven days of travel he had learned even greater caution. Bors had been right: if he did not flash elven armor or speak in riddles, for most people he was simply another tall sellsword.
Beside him, on his dark bay gelding, rode Bors Blackmorn. The knight looked tired but quite content.
"The river is called the White Knife" he explained, raising his voice above the rush of water. "It cuts through the North and empties into the Bite. There, at the very mouth, stands our destination."
The hedge knight had proved a good companion - far better than Aerindir could have hoped. He possessed a rare gift: the ability to keep silent when words were unnecessary, and he did not try to pry into the soul. He had accepted Aerindir as a strange foreigner from the West, seeking the impossible.
When they rode off the bridge onto the far bank, a vista opened before them that made the elf draw rein. Before them lay White Harbor.
The city rose majestically on the horizon where land met sea. Massive walls of whitened stone climbed in broad tiers, shining beneath the northern sun. Tall towers reached for the sky, crowned with banners bearing a turquoise merman, fluttering in the wind.
Aerindir could not tear his gaze from the fortress with its snow-white walls and towers by the sea, and in that moment memories washed over him in a hot wave.
"White Harbor" Bors said, pride in his voice, having noticed his companion freeze in the saddle. "The greatest port in the North, and the only place in these harsh lands that smells of money and distant countries."
Aerindir merely nodded, closing his eyes for an instant.
"They trade here with Braavos, Pentos, and Lys - ships come even from the Summer Isles. The Manderlys themselves, lords of this city, came here from the south hundreds of years ago and brought with them not only their gods but southern gold."
"White walls by the sea..." Aerindir said softly, almost in a whisper.
Bors glanced at him with curiosity.
"Reminds you of home?"
"Yes."
They rode on, descending along a busy highway amid a stream of carts, riders, and foot travelers. Unlike gloomy Barrowton, life here pulsed with energy. The sun stood high, and a fresh sea wind already carried the smell of salt and ice-cold water.
Soon the riders drew near the gates - massive oak doors in heavy iron banding, above which the banners of House Manderly flew proudly. The guardsmen, clad in serviceable mail and turquoise cloaks bearing the image of a white merman rising from the waves with a trident in his hands, watched lazily over the never-ending procession of people. In the trading heart of the North, foreigners had long since become a familiar sight, and no one was in any hurry to show them undue interest.
One of the watchmen recognized Bors and gave the knight a friendly nod, raising his spear.
"Welcome back, Ser Bors! Hoping the road was easy this time?"
"Even easier than I'd have liked" the knight quipped.
"Well then - pass through."
They rode beneath the arch, and the city engulfed them at once in noise and sharp smells.
Broad streets paved with white cobblestone were packed with people. Everything mingled here in a vivid whirl of life: sailors in bright clothing and blue turbans, clamorous merchants hawking their wares in a babel of tongues, and fishermen with baskets brimming with fresh herring and cod. Children darted between the legs of passersby, beggars reached for alms, and street musicians played spirited tunes on lutes and pipes.
The air smelled of fish and pitch, the smoke of smokehouses, and exotic spices: cinnamon, saffron, and black pepper. Into this fragrance wove the salt of the sea breeze and that particular spirit of freedom found only in great port cities. Aerindir looked around hungrily, trying to absorb every detail. White Harbor breathed with full lungs.
To the left of the main street stretched the shops of merchants offering passersby silks, amber, and fine gold jewelry. To the right crowded sturdy stone buildings and taverns, from whose windows drifted snatches of music and the aroma of roasting meat. In the distance, on a hill, rose the majestic New Castle, as Bors explained. Beside it stood the roof of a sept, adorned with statues. Farther south loomed a massive old fortress, built directly into the city walls. From his companion's words the elf understood this to be the Wolf's Den - an ancient stronghold that now served as a prison.
Bors reined in his horse and pointed southeast.
"Over there is the city square" the knight's voice barely carried above the noise of the crowd. "Through it we'll reach the harbor proper. If you want to hire a vessel, that's where to begin."
Here hope had kindled once more. Bors pointed toward the New Castle rising on the hill.
"That's where Lord Wyman Manderly sits" the knight said. "I need to go there and report on the parcel delivery. In the castle guardsmen's quarters I have a small room."
He drew rein, stopping at a busy crossroads and looking at his companion.
"In the eastern part of the city there's an excellent tavern called the Mermaid. It's always tidy, they serve meat you could swallow your tongue over, and they don't ask unnecessary questions." Bors waved a hand in the right direction. "Keep to that side - passersby will point you the rest of the way. Take a room there."
"And you?"
"I'll come by tomorrow morning" Bors promised. "I'll find you at the Mermaid, and then we'll put our heads together on how to find a captain willing to sail into the abyss."
Aerindir nodded, accepting the advice. The knight turned his gelding and rode unhurriedly up the street toward the castle walls, soon lost in the crowd.
The elf was left alone amid the noisy throng. The sun was already sinking slowly toward the west, painting the city's white stones in a soft gold much like the color of his own hair. He had reached White Harbor, and his journey continued.