Grakk nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. You term it “their gods”. And so, do you believe there are no gods?’
‘Oh, there must be gods.’ A brawny arm swept to indicate the fields around them and beyond, then up to the sky. ‘How else can all this be explained? Someone or something must have made it all, and must keep it all working. There’s enough work there for an army of gods. Why would they bother whether one of us sticks a sword in another, or falls in love with another, or recovers from a hangover, or wins a wager at the gladiator pit, or whatever else people pray for? But then I’m just an old soldier, and that’s just an old soldier’s opinion.’
‘An old soldier who is still alive, however,’ Grakk pointed out, ‘and whose opinion has therefore been formed and tested in many situations of living or dying.’
Brann thought that Cannick’s views sounded similar to the views of his own upbringing, where practical people lived off the land and prayed in gratitude to gods representing all aspects of nature while, at the same time, learnt to work themselves with all the unpredictable vagaries of nature that each year threw at them. The real problems came from other men, not gods. The thought of home sent a wistfulness through him, prompting in turn thoughts of urgency – and Loku.
He could see that Grakk, the learned gatherer of knowledge, was now intrigued by Cannick’s straightforward philosophies and had another question about to be asked. He cut in quickly. ‘Loku? Distance travelled? Length of time?’
Cannick sighed theatrically. ‘Oh, the impatience of youth. All right, young man, we shall work it out.’ Grakk looked crestfallen, and Cannick patted him consolingly on the shoulder. ‘Worry not, old friend, we can talk more later.’
He closed his eyes, as if to concentrate, and tapped one thumb against the fingers of that hand in turn, as if calculating. ‘Let’s see. From Markethaven, the last place we and he both were, it would be about seven days’ sailing along the south coast and another eight northwards, up the side of the country.’ His eyes flicked open and must have seen Brann’s dismay. ‘But that is in good weather, and in straight lines. He will have been hugging the coast because of the time of year – rough weather in the sea off the south coast and fullblown storms as he turned northward into the big sea. And not only will his winding route and the difficult waters have slowed him down, but he may well have had to put into port a couple of times when the weather got too bad for them.’ He nodded at Konall and Hakon, riding side-by-side in silence ahead of them. ‘The Southern sailors are nothing of the ilk of their lot, who would laugh at a storm and sail through it and out the other side as if the wind were no more than a baby’s fart. But then, the Northerners have such skill bred into them. Those Loku has taken passage with in his journey to meet up with his fellow conspirators,’ he spat again, ‘are not, as I say, that sort of sailor – we already know the first ship he took passage on had needed to put into Markethaven for repairs, causing him to wait until he could leave on the first ship to be headed his way. So I reckon, a good three-and-a-half weeks all in. Then a couple of days overland, east, to this town before us, if he didn’t want to go by boat around the Point of the Last Lands, and I’m fairly sure he will have had quite enough of bumpy seas by then to want to take on the worst part of the sail. Say, four weeks as a good guess.’
Grakk nodded thoughtfully, his hungry mind already absorbed in this new task. ‘By contrast, we were delayed three weeks, roughly, by the inconvenient siege of Markethaven, but were then able to cut diagonally across country to here, a trip so far of nineteen days.’
‘Which,’ Brann said slowly as his thoughts collected, ‘would put us maybe a dozen days behind him.’ He brightened. ‘Which isn’t too bad considering he doesn’t know we are chasing him. And this is his journey, so he will keep moving. We, of course, do not know what business he will conduct when he reaches his destination, as discovering that is part of our mission, but in conducting that business his progress will be slowed, and all the time we will draw closer.’
‘You see,’ Grakk beamed, ‘I was certain we could cheer up your disconsolate face.’ He turned to Cannick. ‘Now, about the gods and nature. Where would you say the gods’ influence ends, and the innate actions of flora and fauna begin?’
Brann groaned and slowed his horse to drop back, out of earshot. He studied the fields around them, quiet as dusk approached. The creaking and squeaking of the cart and the knock of the horses’ hooves were the only sounds: loud enough to mask the few voices that chatted – only Grakk and Cannick, as a matter of fact – but quiet enough to let him realise that work had finished for the day in the fields. The crops around this part of the road swayed slightly in the early evening breeze, their colour combining with the varying hues of other, more distant, fields to form a patchwork broken only by the occasional pasture hosting, in those he had seen so far, goats or cows. It was a scene that reminded him of home despite the harder ground and the irrigation channels Grakk had pointed out to him – a feature unheard of in his own rain-drenched homeland. He sighed. Home was a thought he had tried to avoid for the past year, but it had wormed its way into his head ever more often recently as they moved towards the islands. Depending on Loku’s movements and where they led Brann and his party, he may never travel any further north than the South Island, but even just to head in this direction made repressing memories more difficult by the day.
He shook his head in annoyance. He had to focus on the danger this town presented now. He fixed his attention on the approaching gate, analysing the situation, to force aside his self-indulgent maudlin musings.
Two guards lounged at the entrance, one leaning against the gatepost, his jaded gaze resting on the approaching party. The other rested a shoulder against the outside of the wall, facing his companion as they passed the time, and seeing nothing in the first guard’s expression to cause him to feel the need to turn his head towards the cart and its escort.
Brann’s eyes had already scanned their weapons, though – they were well-tended and to hand. His own hand strayed onto his belt, close to his own sword hilt. Just because someone looked lazy and disinterested now did not mean they would stay that way. And just because they looked as if they would take an extra second to lower a spear or draw a sword did not mean that they did not know how to use them once that second had passed. Just because they obviously did not expect trouble did not mean they were unable to deal with it were it to appear before them.
The hooves of the lead horses clattered for a moment as they passed over the stone at the start of the bridge across the moat, then gave off a deeper rumble as they moved onto the wooden main section. Brann’s eyes narrowed in curiosity, glancing from the bridge surface and then at the gateway, where a stout metal portcullis was ready to be dropped and where thick gates, banded with iron, could further block the way… but where no chains ran to the timbers of the bridge. He moved his horse beside Cannick’s.
‘No drawbridge?’ he said quietly. ‘Strange, given their desire to protect themselves from outsiders.’
‘Look where the bridge meets the other side,’ Cannick murmured.
Brann saw that the wood of the bridge led into a slot in the stone of the gatehouse. Cannick slowed his horse, pretending to check with a glance at the tailgate of the cart, to avoid closing on the guards while they were talking, and Brann followed suit.
‘It slides in?’
Cannick nodded.
Brann’s curiosity awakened. ‘But why? It seems a great deal of extra effort to construct this. And a normal drawbridge provides an extra layer across the gateway to penetrate.’
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