The Martyr by Anthony Ryan

Author:Anthony Ryan [Ryan, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780316430791
Publisher: Orbit; Hachette Book Group
Published: 2022-06-28T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The Alundian’s accent was thick and much of his slang unfamiliar, but I felt I had known him all my life. Outlaws come in varied shapes and sizes, with a similarly disparate range of ill-luck tales describing their path to a lawless life. A small number, however, are not brought to the villain’s path by poor choices or misfortune. Rather, like this scarred, wiry villain with his chaotically arranged moustache and whiskers, they are born to it. I have always found it curious that those outlaws most prone to betrayal tend to be of this breed. It was as if avarice had been seeded in the fibre of their being in the womb and would always win out over other concerns when opportunity presented itself. For one such as this, ten gold crown sovereigns proved an irresistible lure. Still, I did catch a small glimmer of shame in the outlaw’s eye as he shifted and stuttered out his story, large, bloodshot eyes shifting continually between myself and Lord Ehlbert.

“The old watchtower ’neath Uhlpin’s Pass, m’lordships,” he said, bobbing his head with every other word. “Got peepers on the trails, though. Scrag-men too.” His throat seemed to close of its own volition then, voice faltering and a dry, raspy cough emerging from his cracked lips. The cheeks above his whiskers bore the marks of a man who had lived in the open for weeks, suffering air chilled enough to permanently scar the skin. Although clad in a foul-smelling sheepskin, he shivered continually. Scared shitless, I decided, reading the fellow’s eyes and finding far more fear than shame.

“Drink, good fellow,” Lord Ehlbert told him, sliding a tankard brimming with ale across the table. We were alone in this stone-built hut the locals called an inn. It sat in a huddle of yet smaller huts amid the foothills of the mountains that dominated Alundia’s southern border. Getting here required an arduous eight-day journey from the wine country to the east. We had spent weeks among the frosted vineyards in a fruitless search for Lord Roulgarth before a messenger arrived from Highsahl bearing a missive from Princess Leannor. We were directed to venture south where, thanks to a vaguely described source I knew must be one of Leannor’s many spies, a man with a useful story could be found. Upon arrival we discovered this lonely, shivering fellow to be the inn’s only patron, the village having been denuded of most of its residents as supplies of food diminished due to the chaos of war. The innkeeper had been banished to his shed for the evening and any ears that might be tempted to overhear this conversation warded off by a tight cordon of kingsmen.

“Scrag-men?” I prompted after the Alundian had gulped down a hefty swig of ale.

“Y’know, gutters and knifers,” he said, beer froth dangling from his scraggly moustache. “Those that do the killing when need arises.”

“Outlaws then,” I said. “Like yourself. Seems like strange company for a high-born noble.”

“Lord Roulgarth’s not a man to judge a fellow for his past.

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