brother. He has a blood feud with you now.’
‘You’re going to hang me, old friend. Hrothin will be disappointed.’
Beyard dangled Gallow’s locket in the air between them, the one with a snip of Arda’s hair inside. ‘A feud is settled between families, Gallow, not just the men who start it. I
can give him yours if I choose.’ There was little of Beyard’s face to see through the iron mask and crown he wore. Certainly not his eyes. ‘They’re only Marroc.’
Gallow’s voice dropped. ‘The Beyard I once knew would never sully himself like that.’
‘But I am of the Fateguard now. I serve other ends.’ Was that a glimmer of resentment lingering in there for whatever the Eyes of Time did to make the servants of fate as they were?
‘I know you didn’t slay the Screambreaker, as so many say you did, but you still led Marroc men against their king, you struck Yurlak’s son and took his hand and now you’ve
killed two of your kinsmen without cause. What would your old friend say to that, Gallow?’
‘He’d ask why I did each of those things and he’d listen as I told him. Perhaps he might even agree I was right.’
They spent three long days plodding up the Aulian Way through ice and trampled snow. The fourth took them up into the start of the mountain pass where Gallow had first met Addic. The snowfalls
since had been light but it still took hours of searching to find where Gallow had killed Fahred, walking their horses slowly along the road, Hrothin and Arithas pointing to features of the
landscape here and there –
No, it was further than this; I remember that stone on the way back; No, too far
– but it was the horse tracks that settled it, for the Lhosir had
dismounted to fight and no one else had been foolhardy enough to take a horse up the narrow path of the pass in deep snow. They found the place where they’d run up the slope after the Marroc,
the snow still pockmarked by their steps, and then the scar in the white where the Marroc had fallen and slid and almost gone over the edge. They found where Gallow had killed Hrothin’s
brother and, as they burrowed into the snow, the stains of his blood.
Gallow watched. There were other tracks here. Someone had come back after the fight. Hard to say whether it was one man or two, certainly not more, but the way the snow had been scattered about
made it clear they’d been looking for something. The Lhosir poked about until Beyard pushed them all away.
‘Back! Before you make it worse!’ He turned to Gallow, face hidden behind his mask. ‘Are you lying, Foxbeard? Was the sword never here?’ But he knew better. Arithas and
Hrothin hadn’t paid it much thought at the time but they’d noticed the blade he’d drawn was longer than they were used to and remembered it falling into the snow. They’d
been there and they’d seen it, even if they hadn’t known the Edge of Sorrows for what it was.
The Lhosir untied him from his saddle and pulled him down and Gallow walked up the road, tracing the fight in his head. Arithas and Hrothin had beaten him down where Beyard was sniffing at the
snow. One Lhosir had come further past, a few yards on to where Oribas had been. The snow there was churned and trampled, most of it pushed over the edge. A struggle, perhaps. The Marroc
they’d saved must have run but Gallow couldn’t see any other prints. He’d run through his old tracks then, which made sense because he’d have been quicker that way too.
Gallow looked over the edge. Trails of snow lay in broken lumps down the side of the ravine, but when he looked up the snow was pristine. It had fallen from the road then. Someone had gone over.
Oribas, as Beyard had said; and then he saw the Aulian’s satchel still hanging from the dead branch of a broken tree, a dozen feet below him.
When he turned, Arithas and Hrothin were right behind him. He looked them up and down. ‘Which one of you threw him over?’
Arithas sneered. ‘He didn’t
‘You’re going to hang me, old friend. Hrothin will be disappointed.’
Beyard dangled Gallow’s locket in the air between them, the one with a snip of Arda’s hair inside. ‘A feud is settled between families, Gallow, not just the men who start it. I
can give him yours if I choose.’ There was little of Beyard’s face to see through the iron mask and crown he wore. Certainly not his eyes. ‘They’re only Marroc.’
Gallow’s voice dropped. ‘The Beyard I once knew would never sully himself like that.’
‘But I am of the Fateguard now. I serve other ends.’ Was that a glimmer of resentment lingering in there for whatever the Eyes of Time did to make the servants of fate as they were?
‘I know you didn’t slay the Screambreaker, as so many say you did, but you still led Marroc men against their king, you struck Yurlak’s son and took his hand and now you’ve
killed two of your kinsmen without cause. What would your old friend say to that, Gallow?’
‘He’d ask why I did each of those things and he’d listen as I told him. Perhaps he might even agree I was right.’
They spent three long days plodding up the Aulian Way through ice and trampled snow. The fourth took them up into the start of the mountain pass where Gallow had first met Addic. The snowfalls
since had been light but it still took hours of searching to find where Gallow had killed Fahred, walking their horses slowly along the road, Hrothin and Arithas pointing to features of the
landscape here and there –
No, it was further than this; I remember that stone on the way back; No, too far
– but it was the horse tracks that settled it, for the Lhosir had
dismounted to fight and no one else had been foolhardy enough to take a horse up the narrow path of the pass in deep snow. They found the place where they’d run up the slope after the Marroc,
the snow still pockmarked by their steps, and then the scar in the white where the Marroc had fallen and slid and almost gone over the edge. They found where Gallow had killed Hrothin’s
brother and, as they burrowed into the snow, the stains of his blood.
Gallow watched. There were other tracks here. Someone had come back after the fight. Hard to say whether it was one man or two, certainly not more, but the way the snow had been scattered about
made it clear they’d been looking for something. The Lhosir poked about until Beyard pushed them all away.
‘Back! Before you make it worse!’ He turned to Gallow, face hidden behind his mask. ‘Are you lying, Foxbeard? Was the sword never here?’ But he knew better. Arithas and
Hrothin hadn’t paid it much thought at the time but they’d noticed the blade he’d drawn was longer than they were used to and remembered it falling into the snow. They’d
been there and they’d seen it, even if they hadn’t known the Edge of Sorrows for what it was.
The Lhosir untied him from his saddle and pulled him down and Gallow walked up the road, tracing the fight in his head. Arithas and Hrothin had beaten him down where Beyard was sniffing at the
snow. One Lhosir had come further past, a few yards on to where Oribas had been. The snow there was churned and trampled, most of it pushed over the edge. A struggle, perhaps. The Marroc
they’d saved must have run but Gallow couldn’t see any other prints. He’d run through his old tracks then, which made sense because he’d have been quicker that way too.
Gallow looked over the edge. Trails of snow lay in broken lumps down the side of the ravine, but when he looked up the snow was pristine. It had fallen from the road then. Someone had gone over.
Oribas, as Beyard had said; and then he saw the Aulian’s satchel still hanging from the dead branch of a broken tree, a dozen feet below him.
When he turned, Arithas and Hrothin were right behind him. He looked them up and down. ‘Which one of you threw him over?’
Arithas sneered. ‘He didn’t
Similar Books
