“You think you are never going to have to kill when you are tired and drunk? Think again.”
I think he was angry. He'd thrown the practice sword at me and I'd dropped it. I could barely stand up. I was pretty wasted. The light of dusk was all we had and I could hardly see. I'd nearly fallen off the dray for the tenth time and the sun was setting. He'd dragged the packs to the ground, thrown me a bottle and walked the horses till they cooled down, then let them drink, gave them some oats and let them crop at the grass when he came back to where I lay, calling curtly for me that I get to my feet.
Now I stooped, swaying, and got a grip on the practice blade. I was down before I knew he wasn't going to wait for me.
“Get up.”
I did, slowly, watching him carefully.
It went on for a while and it wasn't pretty. The beating – who can call it anything else? – went on long after I couldn't see for lack of light and only ended when he couldn't see. I was a mess of bruises when he finally stopped. He was angry okay, but it wasn't my fault as such. Drunk worked, that's all.
I'd half noticed it before but thought nothing of it. The idea occurred to me and I thought it was worth a try. I'd been struggling to drink as little as possible, fighting the addiction as long as I could and ruthlessly putting the bottle away each time I took a pull. It was hard, especially that part. I wanted to keep drinking till the bottle was empty and then open another. This time I had.
I thought it was worth a try. When I had had a drink before, still in the prison of my room when I had caved to the demands and taken that first drink after days of deprivation, the sound of the dogs had faded a little. It happened again, the next time. And each time. I thought it was worth a try. Each sip, each addition to the alcohol in my belly and the sound of the dogs faded, they seemed more confused, whimpering, the baying gone and replaced with whining and snuffling. When I was drunk they lost the smell of me, they couldn't find me while I was drunk.
Well, so much for my good intentions.
“How many are there?”
He had asked the question before and I had given him the same answer before. “I don't know. Larner showed me the two, but they were the first two. I can hear a pack, eight or ten or twelve, I don't know. Not many more than that, I think.” I spoke very slowly. He grew visibly stern when I slurred. I didn't want him to be more angry than he was. It hurt.
We sat in the dark, not wanting to attract attention with a fire, and ate cold meat. The nights were cool but not seriously cold. I didn't mind that. Wrapped in my cloak I was warm enough, covered in dew at dawn but soon dried by the sun and breeze as we moved. I didn't want the meat but forced it down.
“How much do you know about the Eyrie? Tell me everything.”
I did. Slowly. The Eyrie was a fortress atop a flat topped hill that might have been natural or not. The walls were twenty five feet and it was the stronghold of the Alendi tribe, big enough for all of them in times of severe threat. The people and livestock both. It was as big as a city but usually nearly empty, the province of the Erdrun clan, the clan with the distinction of having the most kings in Alendi history. A king was a temporary thing, a warlord under whom the tribe united for war and then he stepped down when the war was done. Less than a thousand men, women and children made the Eyrie their permanent home, maintaining it in case of need, making weapons and missiles and stockpiling them there. A great pasture spread from the walls to the center of the Eyrie, and there there was a keep inside a moat. That is where our man would be, if he was anywhere. It had, after all, been some time since I had word he was there.
I wanted to sleep, but he kept me talking long into the night, asking questions, seeking details. Yes, they made weapons; there were forges and blacksmiths. The tribe was wealthy from selling what they considered to be surplus weapons. Good steel but not as good as we made, clearly.
“I need shleep,” I couldn't help slurring.
“So sleep.”