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  The journey through the hills proved a long and hungry one, but Keverin comforted himself with the knowledge that he would not starve. No one could starve to death in a single tenday. It took much longer than that as Lorcan had pointed out.

  “How did you survive?” Keverin asked as they made their way through the hills. Their course was by necessity a meandering one. They chose their direction by the simple expedient of letting the grade lead them around the hills.

  “I’m a street thief, m’lord. I stole to buy food, but during the Hungry the only food to be had was carried by someone like me. I killed those I could find, took whatever they had on them, and tried not to let them do the same to me.”

  “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

  Lorcan shrugged. “I’m used to it. I lived on the streets for almost five years.”

  Keverin imagined the boy sneaking around the streets of Devarr in fear for his life. What must have gone through his head? Had he been more afraid of other desperate people or more of starving? Keverin remembered being attacked by a gang in Devarr last year. They had banded together like a troop of brigands for safety and had terrorised the city for years. They were gone now, many of them had joined Jihan’s new legion and were being trained at Malcor to oppose the Protectorate. It was not Lorcan’s fault that he had to kill to survive. It was King Pergann’s fault for failing in his duty.

  “If the King had done what he should you wouldn’t have needed to steal. It was Pergann’s failure not yours.”

  Lorcan shrugged the matter away. “I remember thinking about you back then. Well, the Lord Protectors I suppose.”

  “Oh?”

  Lorcan nodded. “I knew it was probably dishonorable to live the way I did back then. I was thinking of leaving Devarr, but I didn’t know anything about living outside the city so I stayed.”

  “I’m glad you did, my friend. Had you not been there, Julia could have died on the street that day.”

  “Not the Lady,” Lorcan said firmly. “Brian might have, but not her. She’s fast, m’lord. She killed them as quick as quick. If I hadn’t been there to kill those two, she would have used her magic to do it.”

  Keverin knew how quick to kill Julia was and it saddened him. He remembered the tear-streaked face of the scared young woman Julia had been before she lost her innocence to the war. It was sad, but the fact remained it was necessary for her to be hard to survive. War changed a person. You either changed or you didn’t survive.

  It was dark when they wearily stumbled upon the single roomed farmhouse. A cheery looking light shone out of the window and Keverin could hear voices singing—a family enjoying the evening.

  Keverin grinned. “We’re home, Lorcan. This is Deva.”

  “This?” Lorcan stared at him, incredulous. “This is nothing but a farm, m’lord. Athione is home.”

  “True, but this is a start.”

  They climbed the rough fence and crossed the yard toward the house, but before they could move more than a few yards, a voice shouted out of the darkness.

  “Don’t you come no closer! There’s nothing for you here but an arrow in the belly!”

  “Do you see him?” Keverin whispered.

  Lorcan held a dagger in each fist. “The roof, m’lord. He’s on the roof next to the chimney.”

  Keverin couldn’t make out anything in the dark, but Lorcan had a young man’s eyes. “We mean you no harm!” He shouted and the light went out within the house. Nothing stirred. “I am Keverin, Lord of Athione. I need—”

  Laughter came from the unseen man. “Well, m’lord,” he said and laughed mockingly. “You seem to have fallen on hard times.”

  Keverin ignored the jibe. “I have indeed. We could use some food and a place to sleep. I will see you amply repaid for the kindness.”

  “Don’t you take me for a fool, clansman. I ain’t been living on the border for nigh on thirty years without picking up a few things. I know what that torque means, and I ain’t never seen a Devan wearing clan leathers neither. Be off!”

  Lorcan wore the leathers, not him, but Keverin took the point. He should have approached alone with his torque hidden, but it was too late for that.

  “Just the food then!” Keverin shouted.

  Thump!

  Keverin stared at the quivering arrow standing up from the ground. It was less than an inch from his boot. The door of the house opened and another figure appeared with a drawn bow. It was a young man, probably the farmer’s son.

  “I’ll not come closer,” Keverin said. “I’m no threat to you, but we need food—some bread at least. You could bring some out.”

  “He ain’t going to do it, m’lord,” Lorcan whispered. “We should go. I can sneak back later.”

  Keverin shook his head. “No. These people are innocents. We’re the invaders here.”

  “Stop your whispering and get out of here before I drop you where you stand!”

  “Wait pa!” the newcomer called. “The torque, it’s gold!”

  “We must go! Now, m’lord!” Lorcan hissed and backed a step.

  Keverin agreed. He didn’t like the way this was going. He backed away watching the one bowman he could see all the while feeling the other man about to loose his shaft.

  “Down!” Lorcan shouted, diving aside as both bowmen fired together.

  Keverin grunted as the boy tackled him around the legs and they both fell to the ground. The arrows missed them by mere inches. Keverin was snarling in rage at the audacity of these peasants, but it was Lorcan who was in control of the situation.

  “This way, and keep low,” Lorcan said scuttling rapidly toward the safety of a woodpile.

  Keverin followed and breathed easier when the bulk of the wood was between him and more arrows. Lorcan meanwhile had disappeared into the darkness. Keverin hunted high and low for the boy. He was beginning to think the lad had run off when he heard a howl of anger.

  “Fire! The bastards torched the barn!” the farmer screamed in rage.

  Keverin grinned. Lorcan had taken steps to create a diversion as well as his revenge. The farmer and his son threw down their weapons and ran to fetch buckets. Keverin saw a flash of teeth in the darkness—Lorcan grinning madly. Moments later the two of them were running into the night while behind them the darkness was lit by a huge bonfire.

  * * *

  3 ~ Vagabond

  After the disaster that night at the farm, Keverin and Lorcan hadn’t dared to approach another the same way again; neither did they immediately make for the nearest village, knowing that the farmer would probably go there and report the bandits that had set fire to his barn. Justice on the border might come in the form of a sword point or short rope. They didn’t dare risk it.

  A few days after their run in with the farmer, Lorcan slipped away in the night heading for a dim light they had seen through the trees. Keverin awoke the next morning to the mouth-watering smell of roasting chicken. Lorcan sat nearby turning the spit, and grinned when Keverin noticed the new clothes he wore. Instead of clan leathers, he now wore a plain white cotton shirt and brown woollen trousers. Both obviously made for a bigger man. A bundle nearby turned out to be similar clothing closer to Keverin’s size. Not only had Lorcan provided food, he had clothed them both. The boy was a wonder.

  Keverin and Lorcan ate like the starving men they were, not stopping until every scrap of food they had was gone. There was really no point in trying to save any for another day. It would have spoiled. During the meal, Keverin was forced to face unpalatable truths and rethink his plans. Without supplies they couldn’t hope to reach Elvissa in anything like a reasonable time. Lorcan’s actions had made that worse, though Keverin would never hurt the boy by telling him so. Burning the barn had been a necessary diversion, but his thieving last night meant they couldn’t approach these people for help either. They would have to circle wide around the house, or risk an arrow in the back. More time lost.

  Keverin pulled a handful of grass from the ground and used it
to clean the grease from his fingers. “We have to stop somewhere, Lorcan.” He threw the grass onto the fire where it flamed to nothing in a puff of smoke. He frowned. “We won’t make it to Elvissa this way.”

  “No one saw me, m’lord.”

  “I know. If someone had, we would know it by now. Besides, you’re too good to lead anyone back here.”

  Lorcan nodded, taking the praise as nothing more than his due.

  “That farmer the other day must have alerted the nearest village about us, and news travels fast out here. We can’t afford people’s distrust, especially when we need their help. So no more thieving unless I say, all right?”

  Lorcan nodded.

  “Good. We’ll tell people that you’re my son, and that I’m a guardsman turned out by his lord. My lack of a hand and the clothes you stole will help with that. I’ll shave off my beard—I never liked it anyway—it itches like mad sometimes.”

  Lorcan laughed.

  Keverin smiled, liking the sound. “Without my beard, both of us wearing new clothes, and with the torque out of sight, no one will recognise us as the dastardly barn burners.”

  Lorcan nodded and left to refill their only waterbag. While the boy was doing that, Keverin changed his clothes and stuffed the old ones in a hollow between the roots of a tree. He used one of Lorcan’s knives to scrape away his beard, wincing when he cut himself, but feeling better when it was gone. It wasn’t a clean shave by any stretch of the imagination, but it should fool a casual observer. He wished he had his razor with him, and snorted at the thought. He might as well wish for a pair of horses and a score of guardsmen besides. He kicked the fire apart, and upon Lorcan’s return led the way further into the trees.

  Slogging over root infested ground and forcing a path where none existed was hard work. The ground undulated, often forcing him to crawl up hillocks or follow shallow streams around them. He didn’t push the pace, couldn’t push it, for he still tired very quickly. His left arm began to ache with a steady burn of over-used muscles, and he longed to rest. Lorcan stopped briefly to cut a staff from deadwood, but it did little to help. Nothing could. He was a one-handed man, a cripple, and the force of that knowledge hit him harder every time something like this reminded him of it.

  They found the highroad the following afternoon, and Keverin decided to follow it west toward Malcor.

  “We are going the wrong way, m’lord.”

  Keverin nodded. “The barn burners were heading east, but we look different and are heading west.”

  “It’s a thin disguise.”

  “It is indeed, but better than nothing.”

  Lorcan sighed petulantly and began walking.

  Keverin said nothing. They were dirty from their struggle through the woods, and very tired. The boy’s hollow cheeks were an outward sign of the hunger gnawing at his belly. Keverin had no doubt he looked the same or worse. It felt like tendays since they shared the stolen chicken, and his hunger worsened as he remembered how good it had been. They slogged on down the road, each lost in thought or memory.

  He prayed that Julia was all right and that she hadn’t done anything rash. She was impulsive and quick to anger. He shuddered to think what she might have done when she learned of his supposed death. If the situation had been reversed, and he had lost her, his revenge would have been terrible to behold, but Julia was a powerful mage. Her vengeance could kill hundreds, as it had at Athione when the walls came down.

  Keverin stopped when he noticed rutted wheel tracks joining the highroad. He followed them with his eyes, looking for their destination, but the tracks curved not far ahead and he couldn’t see around it. The lane was nothing more than a rutted dirt path heading into the woods, but the deep grooves left by a wagon passing this way told him that his search was nearing it end. If he was not mistaken, they would lead to a farm. He steered Lorcan left off the road and under the trees.

  A short while later, Keverin’s surmise was borne out when the trees opened into a clearing—fields bordered with ditches and dry stone walls. A farmhouse with chimney smoking sat beyond the fields, and he could make out sheds and a barn, with some people working nearby. A pair of dogs lay warming themselves near the well in the evening sun, ignoring the chickens pecking the ground nearby. The fields hadn’t been planted long; he could see the faint green haze of new growth. Corn probably. Had it been full summer, he would have been sure of his welcome—farms during harvest always needed more strong backs than they usually had, but now with the planting already done? He didn’t know, and it worried him.

  The clothes and time of day made all the difference when they approached the farmhouse. Unlike last time, they were met with curiosity not animosity. The dogs were the first to notice them; getting to their feet and barking in welcome, they ran to Lorcan and circled him with tails wagging and tongues lolling. The boy grinned and patted the affectionate rogues, but Keverin kept his attention on the farmhands watching them. There were three men, two carrying pitchforks from their labours in the barn. The other was an older man, probably the owner. Perhaps the younger two were his sons, though he seemed too young to have grown sons.

  “Come, Lorcan, let’s not keep them waiting.”

  They walked the rest of the way with the dogs darting around and between them. Keverin raised his hand in greeting, and the eldest among the three men came to meet him.

  “I’m Keverin, and this is my son, Lorcan. Have you any work that needs doing? My boy is strong. He’s no slacker, my word on it.”

  The farmer noticed Keverin’s empty cuff right away, his eyes lingering upon the ugly scars a moment too long for Keverin’s comfort. “Dwyer is my name. I own the place.” He waved a hand back toward the other two men. “My brothers Ladde, and Finn.” The two nodded a greeting. “You ask for work, but… forgive me for asking, can you do anything?”

  Keverin nodded. “There must be something even a cripple can do, and my son is young and hale.”

  Dwyer nodded thoughtfully. “I could probably find you both something. Mind you, I can’t pay much.”

  Keverin sighed in relief. “Anything would be a help. We need supplies and have far to go.”

  “You can sleep in the hayloft, but you’ll eat with us in the house. I’ll pay you a few coppers a day depending on what you do. Food is free, but any other supplies you want come out of your pay. Good enough?”

  Keverin nodded.

  Dwyer held out his hand, and switched to his left when Keverin raised his to seal the bargain. “It’s late, come into the house. You can start work tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Dwyer. We’re famished.”

  “Starved is more like it. You’ve travelled a hard road, Keverin, you and your boy. I wager you have some tales to tell, eh? You can tell some this evening and make a start on earning your pay.”

  Keverin laughed, but he knew Dwyer was serious. A bard out here must be a very rare sight indeed. Any entertainment would be worth a meal or two. It was a good thought and one worth exploring in future. He didn’t have much of a singing voice, and would make a terrible bard because of that, but he could certainly spin a few tales.

  Dwyer entered the house while his brothers freshened themselves at the rain barrel. Keverin and Lorcan waited politely for them to finish before doing the same. Keverin longed for a proper bath and clean clothes, but dunking his head in the barrel helped. Lorcan had to wash his hand and forearms for him. Keverin averted his eyes from the pity he knew filled the farmers’ eyes. Lorcan handed him the old shirt they had seen the others dry themselves with, and while Keverin attended to himself with it, Lorcan ducked his head in the barrel and came up spluttering.

  “Whoa, that’s freezing!” Lorcan gasped.

  The farmers laughed along with Keverin at Lorcan’s antics, and then led the way into the house. Keverin entered looking back to see Lorcan finish drying himself, but then turned to find himself confronted by a woman. He stopped just inside the door, and offered his best bow.

  “May I enter, La
dy?” he said automatically, forgetting for the moment he was not entering the woman’s quarter of a noble’s estate.

  The woman smiled, but she was obviously surprised by his elaborate courtesy. “Of course you must. How else will you sit and eat with us?”

  Keverin smiled but inwardly cursed. These people were peasants, good folk he had no doubt, but they were not nobles. Courtly ways had no place here. Devan men treated all women with respect and courtesy as was proper, but only noble women lived separate from their men. They had their own domains and ruled them as a lord would rule his lands. By treating Elsbet so, he had revealed himself as more than a simple cripple looking for work. Elsbet glanced at Dwyer uncertainly, and the look they exchanged between them wasn’t lost on Keverin. They were suspicious, but not yet hostile. He had to allay their fears quickly.

  “Thank you. I am Keverin, and this is my son Lorcan. Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”

  “I’m Elsbet; Dwyer is my husband… if he didn’t tell you. Come in then, sit-sit-sit all of you! The food will not go to waste I warn you. You’ll eat it hot or you’ll eat it cold, but eat it you will!”

  Elsbet was a solid woman of about twenty years or so with dark brown hair peeping from under a plain blue scarf. She wore a woollen dress and cotton blouse as most peasant women did, but hers had colourful embroidery stitched up the arms. He had seen the style sold in the marketplace a few times, though not often. The small yellow flowers and green vines made him wonder if she had Tinker blood or had simply bought it.

  Keverin ducked under the low beams of the ceiling, he was much taller than the others, and took his place on one of the benches lining the table positioned in the centre of the room. Lorcan sat with him before the others arrayed themselves around the table. Their positions weren’t lost on Keverin. Dwyer’s brothers had bracketed him and Lorcan like a pair of book ends. It would be quite difficult to rise quickly as was no doubt their intention. Dwyer sat at the head of the table, and Elsbet brought the food to him.