Pendragon: A Novel of the Dark Age (Dark Age Book 1) by Wilde James

Author:Wilde, James [Wilde, James]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781473526778
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2017-07-12T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Season Turns

‘THAT CANNOT BE true.’ Solinus screwed up his nose. ‘Falx is a sly bastard, but even he wouldn’t steal gold from his own men’s purses.’

‘Have you been drunk for the last few years? Falx would sell his own mother,’ Comitinus snorted. The two men had been bickering from the moment the Grim Wolves had left the shelter of the fort.

Mato searched the rolling grasslands in that curtain between wall and endless gloomy forest. When the moon eased out from behind the clouds, bands of silver and black sailed across the empty landscape and his heart beat faster. ‘Enjoy this moment, brothers. Here, at least, there is peace.’

Comitinus jabbed a finger at Solinus, ignoring Mato’s urging. ‘The wagon bringing the wages from Londinium was robbed on the Stanegate, this we know. The thieves had cloths tied across their faces so they could not be identified. And Falx needs gold to complete his bargain with Varro the merchant.’

Solinus scrubbed the scar tissue on his face. ‘If that were true and the men found out, they would hang Falx from the wall. It’s been an age since anyone’s been paid, and—’

‘We’re here to do a job,’ Bellicus snapped. ‘You’d do well to keep your minds on it.’ He crouched, resting his fingertips on a patch of flattened grass.

Chastened, Comitinus rubbed his skinny wrists despite the spring warmth. ‘I say the Attacotti have returned to whatever place spawned them. We should go back to our beds.’

Solinus sniffed the wind. ‘You’re a whining bastard, and I’m loath to say it, but this time you’re right. If those flesh-eaters were camped out here, there’d be some trace. We’re wasting our time.’

An owl swooped overhead, its screech mournful. Mato watched its silhouette sweep by. ‘On a night like this, no one wastes their time.’ He realized that Bellicus had fallen silent. The red-bearded man was still hunched over the patch of grass. ‘What is it, brother?’ he asked.

‘Someone has passed this way before us. See? Here, and here. I would say four, perhaps five. They’ve not tried to hide their trail.’

Solinus crouched beside him. ‘Bollocks. You’re right.’

Mato turned to Comitinus, whose eyes were the sharpest. ‘What do you see?’

Comitinus shook his head. ‘Nothing, for now. They may well have reached the trees already. When I was a boy—’

‘Not another of your stories,’ Solinus grumbled. ‘What, the Attacotti came to your house and thought you were too scrawny to eat?’

Comitinus cocked an eyebrow. ‘If you don’t want to learn, it’s your loss. You’ll be wishing you did, the next time you’re looking death in the eye.’

Solinus thought for a moment, then said, ‘Go on, then.’

‘Too late.’ Comitinus turned his back.

Mato sighed. Sometimes it was like shepherding children. ‘We have no choice,’ he said, standing. ‘We follow the trail. But we keep our wits about us. If it is the Attacotti, we shouldn’t get too close. Not unless we want to go the way of the Ravens.’

‘Live to take the word back to the fort,’ Comitinus affirmed.

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