The Demon Lord (20 page)

First and foremost, he would see the Vreijek sorceress…

Aldric watched as night crawled slowly towards a cold, wet, miserable dawn that would never have a sunrise, and reached down to gently shake Gueynor out of sleep. She was confused at first, stiff and sore from her uncomfortable posture, and her eyes were still red-rimmed from too many tears. “Morning,” the Alban explained. Gueynor glanced at the wan grey light beyond the shutters and closed her eyes again. “Just like any other day.”

“Like any other day,” she echoed. “Except that today they put my uncle in the earth.” Aldric’s face did not change. It wore the same hooded, inward-looking, thoughtful expression as when she awoke; except that now it was a shield to hide behind. “I thought I would feel different.”

“Nothing changes in a night. Not love, not grief—not hate. I know…” He rose silently and left her; to wash, to shave and then to dress himself in the few formal clothes he carried in his saddlebags—the blue and silver
elyu-dlas
of clan Talvalin and
a cymar
of warrior’s style, wide-shouldered and marked with crests, all worn over full black battle armour.

And then they buried Evthan Wolfsbane, wearing his old hunting buckskins and with the Beast’s pelt for a pillow. There was no coffin, no shroud, no winding-sheet; instead his grave was floored and lined with newly sawn pine wood so that a faint scent of resin hung in the damp air. It was raining slightly, a weeping drizzle from a dull, lead-coloured sky. Gueynor and her mother—Aldric’s mind found it hard to make the necessary transition of title to “aunt”—stood together at the graveside with the rest of Aline’s family. Tactfully, the Alban stood a little apart, water gathering in great crystal beads on his garb of steel and leather, but making dark blotches where it soaked into the fabric of his over-robe. He watched sombrely as Evthan’s body was lowered into the ground, the sight making him uncomfortable; burial like this was an alien concept to one brought up with the swift, bright ending of cremation, and when two villagers lifted spades he inclined his head a fraction, just enough to hide them with the drip-rimmed peak of his helmet, trying not to think of the dank, enveloping darkness and of the worms that would…

“Avert,” he muttered hastily and was ashamed. From somewhere in the woods beyond the village palisade came the howling of a wolf, small, ordinary and of no account. As that mournful sound slid down the scale to silence it was punctuated by the moist slithering of shov-died soil. Aldric raised one mailed arm, half in salute and half in farewell, and walked slowly from the funeral.

Darath the headman stood between him and the houses. Aldric was reluctant to be disturbed—the gloomy day and its grim events had struck a sympathetic chord within him—but the Jouvaine’s courteous bow, so profound it almost mimicked an Alban Low Obeisance, obliged him to at least give the man a hearing. Darath carried something in his arms, swaddled like an infant in many layers of cloth, and the sight of it sent an uneasy shiver along Aldric’s steel-sheathed limbs even before the parcel was unwrapped.

It was a gift. Evthan’s wolfskin
coyac
had been washed clean of blood, then dried and brushed until the lustrous sheen of its dark fur was quite restored. “Honoured sir,” Darath said, and the apprehension in his tone suggested that he had misread the glint in Aldric’s war-mask-shadowed eyes, “we would give you silver if we had it— but you know how poor the folk of Valden are. We can only offer food and a warm place to sleep for as long as you require it, and—and this, on this day, as a keepsake. To remind you of a man who would have been your friend, had he survived. He would have wished it so.”

The voice was no longer that of a village headman, just an old man who was afraid his offer was inadequate; not knowing all the facts, he had seen dissatisfaction and greed where there was only sorrow. And reluctance.

“What made you think that I would want this?” the Alban wondered softly.

“It is black, honoured sir. I hoped that it would please you.” The
coyac
was not black any more; like all else exposed to the fine, drifting mist of rain, the long guard hairs of its pelt were frosted now with moisture. That translucent film of silver did little to allay Aldric’s doubts when the garment was offered to him. He stared at it, and then at Darath. The headman bowed again, timidly, his mouth stretched by a nervously ingratiating smile, terrified lest he give offence to a known manslayer.

Aldric was not offended, only a little hurt, but aware he was to blame for his own reputation. Bowing in response, he accepted the gift. After all, together with his board and lodging it was no more than any other payment for a service rendered—no matter how reluctantly.

Despite whatever private reservations he might have had, Aldric’s acceptance of the
coyac
carried infinitely fewer complications than did Gueynor’s reaction to his plan. For she refused it outright.

“I will not be sent away—and I will not be treated as a child!” If her voice had been shrill and petulant the Alban might have known how to deal with it; certainly he would have been more inclined to argue. But it was quiet, controlled, firm and decisive. He could well believe her father had been Overlord in Seghar.

“Not even for your own safety’s sake?” he asked.

“My safety… ! My safety is hardly at risk. I have killed no one.” She considered that statement. “Yet.”

“What about the village?”

“Valden is in no danger. When was it—the night before last? And yet, no soldiers. I should have thought the Overlord would have sent his men here long ago, if he knew what you had done. If. Therefore…”

“It seems he doesn’t know.” Aldric was unable to suppress the undertone of sardonic amusement running through his voice. The girl had a quick brain—he already knew that—and was therefore someone to be watched. As much, at least, as she was evidently watching him. There was also a singlemindedness about her which he found… interesting. All the weeping for her uncle had been done last night; now that he was buried, no more would help—so there would be no more. Now she was concentrating on another matter: Geruath the Overlord, and her revenge on him. The Alban wondered if he had displayed a similar intensity when his thoughts were filled with Duergar and Kalarr. What plans had she already made that he’ did not know about—and where did he fit into them… ?

“What do you intend?” An idle ear would have detected only idle curiosity, with no real interest at all. And anyone who knew Aldric Talvalin would have become immediately most suspicious…

“To come with you.”

If her reply surprised him, no sign showed and he care-

fully adjusted part of his armour-lacing before bothering to react. Aldric had guessed something like this would happen, and the last thing he wanted was company—he would have enough difficulty protecting himself without looking after a girl who, no matter where she had been born, had spent the past ten years as a peasant in a peasant village. At least Tehal Kyrin could look after herself… “Oh, indeed. Where had you in mind?”

“Seghar. Where else? That’s the next place you’ll be going, Kourgath. You have some interest or other in the Geruaths. I can tell.”

“And I concede the point. But why take you— someone will know your face, surely?”

“No, I doubt that. I haven’t been within the walls in two years now. And I’m Evthan the hunter’s niece: a peasant, nothing more. Hardly worth noticing.” The bitterness in her voice was undisguised now—a raw, ugly sound which Aldric did not like to hear. Such a festering preoccupation with rank could prove very, very dangerous…

“You insult yourself. You insult me. And you insult the intelligence and eyesight of every male past puberty!” The irritable snap of each word negated any flattery they carried. “I don’t care about what you are, or what you think you should be—looking as you do now, you’ll be both noticed and remembered.”

“Don’t patronise me, Alban…”

“Patronise… ! I tell you nothing but the truth.” If you intend to follow me into the citadel, he continued inwardly, I shall expect you to be of some use. And reliable. But without attracting everyone’s attention. Aloud he said, “How well do you know the place?”

“Well enough.” She stared at him, into his eyes and through them as if reading the workings of the mind beyond. “I’ll be of use, don’t worry about that.”

Aldric could only grin wryly, as any man might whose secrets are not quite so secret as he might have hoped. “Even so,” his hand reached out to touch her pale blonde hair, “I think it would be better if you were… someone else. There might be too many memories aroused by the sight of Evthan’s niece in the company of an armed stranger. I don’t know what that soldier did when he ran away from me. I’ve guessed, of course—but only guessed. I know he’s still alive, somewhere. And if that somewhere is Seghar, and he identifies me, you’ll be implicated too. You, and this whole village, will be guilty in the eyes of the Overlord. As I told Darath, I was a fool; I made them a present of Evthan’s name. And how many Evthans are there in the Jevaiden… ?”

Although the question was rhetorical, Gueynor shrugged her shoulders grimly. “Not enough,” she answered. “Not enough by far.”

“You see? And you are his niece. This,” he stroked her hair again, a gentle caress with the palm of his right hand, “is what people remember of you after other details fade. So what can you dye it with?”

“Dye it?” Gueynor jerked away from his touch as if each finger glowed red-hot. “Are you seriously considering disguises… !”

“Quite seriously. Someone has already tried to kill me. They killed my travelling companion instead. Both occurrences are fair justification for me to become very serious indeed, since I do not intend to offer them—or him—a second chance. And I think a mercenary should look the part—” As the drily flippant words left his mouth Aldric’s teeth closed with a distinctly audible click, but not quite fast enough to catch them. “Damn,” he said softly after a moment’s consideration. “I talk too much.”

“But you are…” Gueynor began to surprise. Then, as he had expected, she stopped and stared. The tensed muscles at the corners of his jaw and the hot anger in his eyes told their own tale. “You are not—and never have been, Aldric Talvalin.”

He might have said “Who?” and tried to brazen out the error, but in a strange way he was glad she knew. Aldric had felt increasingly deceitful, an uncomfortable sensation where lovers were concerned, even such casual bedmates as he and Gueynor; but having told one person in the Jevaiden already, he had decided after thought that one was enough. Evthan must have told the girl; maybe in the knowledge of his own impending death, or because he thought that they might kill each other. The reason was hardly important now.

“Gueynor-an,” the Alban said, using a courteous form to emphasise his words, “I am only who and what I say I am. Nothing more and nothing less. I trust you to make appropriate responses—for both our sakes.”

“Aldric-ain,”—Gueynor knew enough Alban, it seemed, to use the affectionate, if her pronunciation was correct— “you can trust me with your life, as my uncle trusted you with his.”

Aldric looked carefully at her, not particularly sure how to take what she had said. He dismissed its several meanings with a faint, unfinished smile: “Disguises,” he said thoughtfully. “Nothing elaborate. Just sufficient to deceive. Long ago I was told that the first element of disguise is to conceal the obvious. Your hair, my scar.” He tapped his own right cheekbone, just below the eye. “And I’ll become a little darker, too.”

“What do you plan about the scar?” Scepticism aside, Gueynor was interested.

“Cover it. An eyepatch should do. Mercenaries collect such things almost as part of their wages. But more important, it will be something to remember: a convenient hook for inconvenient memories to catch on… They will remember a black-haired, one-eyed man and his buxom brown-haired lady. No more than that.”

“Buxom… ?” repeated Gueynor suspiciously.

“Padding! Remove it, remove the patch, wash our hair and faces and we shall be two different people.” Gueynor could see, that enthusiasm was possibly an Alban failing rather than a strength and said so.

“I think you’re mad!”

“Possibly. But it’s an entertaining sort of madness, don’t you think?”

“It could see us both dead.”

“So could walking barefaced into Seghar citadel—and much more quickly.”

There was no arguing with that point of view, and Gueynor did not even try.

Aldric gazed at his reflection in the disc of polished bronze which had done Evthan duty as a mirror. The face which stared back at him was familiar, but it was not the Aldric Talvalin that he knew. It skin was swarthy now, rattier than tanned; the result of carefully applied berry-juice, mixed with oil to make it waterproof. It smelt a little strange… His hair was almost black after a wash with the same stuff, without the telltale fair streaks which were a legacy of his father’s family, and was crossed by the dramatic stripe of the patch which covered his right eye and the scar beneath it. Aldric reached out and turned the mirror slightly, his remaining eye narrowing thoughtfully at what he saw. The accumulated alterations, each small in itself, together produced an image which he disliked even though it was what he had hoped for: ruthless, brutal, cold—nobody would ask the owner of that face too many searching questions. And nobody would trust him at all…

Other than those few details, he had changed nothing; not even his nationality. Anyone hearing of an Alban mercenary within the walls of Seghar would almost certainly try to see this newcomer at once and, having seen him, not recognise the man they sought and leave him alone. He hoped. At least they would be unsure of his identity. He hoped… Aldric grinned viciously at himself, a humourless white gleam of teeth against the olive complexion, and guessed that if his mind worked on that track for long enough he would finish by avoiding the citadel entirely. At least there was no need to adopt a different voice; feigned accents were all very well in their proper place, but that place was not the fortress of a provincial Overlord.