Under A Colder Sun (Khale the Wanderer Book 1) (3 page)

“But who else is there?” asked the King. “The men and women of the Watch will not do for the errand that must be undertaken.”

“And why not, if I may ask, your Grace?”

“Because they are not Khale,” he answered.

“I would consider that to be a compliment, your Grace.”

“Not in this matter. It has to be him.” He sighed. “And we will have to pay him as he demands.”

“And bankrupt the city, your Grace? You speak insanity,” Murtagh said.

“I speak plainly,” the King said. “Better for us to be penniless and alive than to hoard our treasures only for Hruth Farness or Milius Barneth to take them from us.”

“Your Grace—”

The King’s gaze silenced Murtagh; it was the only strength the decrepit man seemed to have left. “It is agreed. Captain, you will meet with Khale’s man and tell him that Colm will pay his Master the sum of twenty thousand golden-eyes. You will then ask for his Master to attend us at court, so I may tell him of the errand I wish performed.”

“I understand, your Grace,” Murtagh said, tonelessly.

Leste thought of the children who sat in the gutters of Colm, with dirty water eddying around their ankles. The pale moons of their faces made hollow and cratered by sleepless nights and by their parents’ despair. With Alosse’s words in her ears, she felt sure a greater darkness was coming to overtake them—a darkness that might well slay them all.

*

Somewhere in Colm, two figures met in shadow and talked in halting whispers.

“We do not have twenty thousand golden-eyes in the city coffers. We have less than ten.”

“True, but I could not tell them that now, could I? There would be questions about where it had all gone and who we were paying it to.”

“To Farness and Barneth,” the other said, “to keep them from the city gates. You could have told them that.”

“No, no. It would mean my head on a spike. The King’s old—old enough to believe in chivalry, courage, justice and meeting your foe in battle on horseback. It would be our feet kicking from the market gallows if he knew Colm was only free because we were paying for it to stay so.”

“But what are we going to do? He wants to pay this Khale.”

“Khale will only be paid if he returns from this errand the King speaks of.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We are going to ensure that there are one or two ...
difficulties …
on his way. Be sure, my friend, he will not pass through the gates of Colm more than once.”

The two figures separated and went their own ways.

Chapter Four

Leste watched Khale stride into the court chamber and how all eyes quickly moved away from him. It was as she’d first thought: there was something about his presence that seemed wrong; a sense that he should not Be. She was sure it was a mere trick of the light, but the lanterns and sconces set around the walls of the court appeared to dim momentarily as he entered. Through the damp shadows of the court, a mountain walked. He did not bow, nor make any show of respect before the throne. He stood plainly in his furs and rags and met the gaze of the King.

“Alosse.”

No formality,
Leste thought.
He knows no respect for his betters. He approached the throne without being bidden to do so.

“Master Khale,” Alosse said, “you are welcome to our humble court and we extend the hospitality, the little that we have to offer, of Colm and its people to you.”

Leste watched a smile cross the brigand chief’s rude features. “Hospitality? Is that what you call it when your men ride down my own, run them through, and toss their bodies in the marshes to rot?”

Leste spoke before she could check herself. “They are brigands. They steal and kill. They get what they deserve.”

Khale turned on her and his face was tight with rugged lines. “You seem very sure of dealing in life and death, girl.”

“Those who kill without honour deserve the same fate.”

“Ah, deserve. There’s another word you don’t understand.”

“Lady of the Watch,” King Alosse said. “Please. Master Khale is our guest. Though we follow different roads in life, this is a time when those roads have crossed and we needs must meet as fellows, not as foes.”

Khale grunted, turned away from Leste, and addressed Alosse once more. “Your hospitality will do, Alosse. Now, you sent word of an errand and the gold that would go with it.”

“Master Khale, you agree to our terms?”

“I have agreed, as your Captain can testify. Now, I want to know more of this errand you wish to send me on.”

“Very well. As a man of the brigands yourself, you cannot help but be aware of the riven state of the land.”

“I find it to be profitable, Alosse, riven or not. It is to my liking, for the time being.”

“That being as it may,” the King went on, “Colm is poor and we share borders with the kingdoms of Farness and Barneth.”

“I know the names. I believe my men have robbed them well, and I have slain some of their men,” he said with a crooked smile and a glance at Leste.

She shifted her feet and ran her fingers over the pommel of her sword. He spoke of killing with such cold relish in his voice.

“Farness and Barneth are our superiors in men and wealth. When the time comes, Colm will fall before them and its people be trampled under their feet.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“This is why I wish to ask you, Master Khale, to perform a sacred duty for this kingdom.”

“A sacred duty? Interesting. Go on.”

“I need you to journey with my daughter, Milanda, to Neprokhodymh, where she will be wedded to the Autarch.”

Khale studied Alosse, and then Leste and the other guards and courtiers scattered about the chamber. He burst into raucous laughter. “
Neprokhodymh?
I’m glad I made the price twenty thousand. That nest of sorcerers and warlocks is home only to suicide and death.”

“So it is,” said the King, “and those who dwell there are powerful. The Autarch is a man who not even fierce Lord Barneth would dare to cross.”

Khale, his laughter spent, replied, “It is your wealth and blood that you are squandering on this foolhardy journey, Alosse, but I will take one and ferry the other as you wish.”

Leste looked at him and wished she could fathom the undercurrents to his words. She could feel in her gut that Khale had said something to Alosse, something significant that was between the two of them alone, but she could not tell what.

“Very well.” Alosse clapped. “Let the banquet to honour our guest commence.”

*

Khale sat beside Alosse at the long table; though this drew many disgruntled looks from the courtiers, none were brave enough to challenge him on his rudeness. The simple, languid brutality with which he tore into the roasted quail and partridge being served left little to the imagination regarding his strength.

Leste found herself wishing the truth were not true as she supped her wine and picked at her meat, black bread, and dried fruit.

This was more of a welcome than a brigand chief deserved in the King’s court. But these were hard times, and she understood that the King believed he needed Khale even though she thought he did not. It was not her place to question her liege.

The minstrels began to play earnestly on their fiddles and harps as maidens, coifed with flowers and dressed in plain white frocks, danced barefoot into the court chamber. They pivoted and spun with grace. They frolicked, wove, and swayed in time with the lilting melodies and strident rhythms. Leste watched them blandly. She did not like dancing and wondered, for a time, where Murtagh was. He should be here.

Looking along the table, she noticed that Khale’s face had altered as he watched the dancing girls; its beetle-brow crags creased and furrowed. If she had not known better, Leste would have said they were showing the lines of all the centuries he had lived.

“Get them away! Away from me—now! Out, I say, out!”
he shouted, hurling his wine-cup at the girls.

Alosse rose and clapped his hands sharply, making the girls scatter back through the doors and the minstrels fall silent.

“Master Khale, what ails you?” he enquired gently.

“A memory,” was all Leste heard. A raw whisper from the back of Khale’s throat. “An old ghost or two. Nothing more.”

Khale sat up straight and the feast continued, more subdued than before, and with even more of the courtiers and guards regarding the brigand chief with open fear on their faces. After the feast was done, many excused themselves, leaving only Alosse, Khale, and Leste remaining at the table while the servants cleared away the dishes and flagons.

Alosse clapped his hands one final time. “The feast is ended. We shall speak on the morrow, Master Khale. Tonight, the hospitality of our palace is at your disposal.”

Leste did not like the idea of Khale remaining within the castle walls, not one bit.

Chapter Five

Khale sat alone in the bedchamber that had been given to him for the night.

The Lady of the Watch was on guard outside. She had made no bones about the fact that while he might be here at the King’s request, he was not trusted. He was sure she would stand there until dawn if she thought it necessary.

Loyalty
, he thought,
the first and the worst of all sins.

A table was set in his chamber with fruits, cold cuts of game and white meat, as well as flagons of spiced wine. Khale supped from one of them. It was overly spiced to cover its cheap, watery bitterness.

Twenty thousand golden-eyes,
he thought.
I wonder that Alosse is able to make them believe he has that much in his coffers. But that is a King for you; the lies that fall from his lips are treated as gold coins by his subjects. And between them, who is the greater fool?

As he sat on the bed musing on this and polishing off the bad wine, the door to the bedchamber eased open with the slightest creak. Looking up, he saw a young girl stumble in, as if she had been pushed from outside. Her eyes were red from weeping. The door closed behind her and Khale barely discerned a whisper from outside.

An order by its tone, no doubt.

She looked at Khale quickly, and then looked away, studying the worn tapestries on the walls and the ornamented chests that all looked as if they had been neglected and left there to rot. Khale could see her arms and legs were too thin, and that some bone showed around her rib cage. She was dressed in silks, but he could tell she was not used to them.
They must feel strange on skin that is used to a poorer cut of cloth,
he thought.

“Eat.” He gestured with his flagon to the table.

She looked at him. Her fingers, wringing themselves hard, were too thin as well.

“I said eat.”

Slowly, not taking her eyes from him, she went to the table and began to pick at the fruit; first, some grapes, then an apple and an orange. Khale watched her, knowing the reptilian yellow that flickered across his eyes must make her want to leave, even if nothing else about him did.

He wondered why she was here. She had been sent to please him, that much was obvious, but no girl would agree to do so without much money being offered. Or it could be more than that: a father, brother, or husband to hang at dawn by the King’s order, whether he had done wrong or not.

Yes
, he thought,
the girl is scared, but not just for herself.

She wore her beauty as a faded mask. Her long black hair was not as lustrous as it might once have been. Her eyes were too big and white with hunger to be seductive. But her lips were becoming wet with colour as she bit deep into another orange and drank heartily from a flagon.

Wine gives courage to women as much as men
, he thought, and he waited while she finished her small feast. Then, she came to him with halting steps; frightened and a bit drunk. Her shaking hands found his chest and fumbled at the rough stitching of his furs. Khale took her hands in his and removed them, shaking his head.

Her eyes, wide and begging, went to his.

Please don’t send me away. I must do this. I have to.
That is what they said.

He nodded and undressed them both. He laid her down on a bed worth more than the lives of her whole family. For the next hour of her life, Khale was gentle and no-one was more surprised than he.

*

Not long after the girl departed, the door opened once more.

“It’s been a long time, Khale,” Alosse said as he came in.

“Alosse,” Khale answered, gnawing on a rich cut of game, “you have grown old, and you smell of piss.”

The King smiled back. “Age comes to those of us not as blessed as you.”

“I’m not blessed, Alosse, never have been. I do not call it my curse lightly.” Khale cleared his throat and swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Your messengers were well chosen. They had no idea.”

“Indeed. Your demands mortified them, you know.”

Khale got to his feet, stretching out his arms, back, and legs. “The girl is an idealist. I can see it in her. It burns like fire. That fire will soon go out though, once she’s lived a little.”

“Fire, yes,” Alosse said. “That was a good trick with the fires in the court when you came in.”

“A simple but effective conjuration,” Khale said. “Men grow no less superstitious as the world turns under their feet. A touch of darkness is the root of all fear.”

The King harrumphed. “No matter. To business—we have much to discuss.”

Khale sat down. “So, it is true. You finally got the attention of the Autarch.”

“I did, though it took time and a desperate need.”

“And a daughter who has not been despoiled. How old is she? Eighteen. For keeping her pure so long in this world, you have done well.”

The King’s face strained for a moment at Khale’s words. “It has not been easy, but it has been done. She is of age, and the time for her purpose is at hand. I need you to do as we agreed a long time ago.”