strong – and so exclusive, Gilbert thought resentfully – that he would have wagered his own immortal soul on the fact that Moryson would elect to stay and share Jayme’s fate.
“How did you escape Carlon?” Gilbert asked.
And why are you here, now?
Moryson coughed, a harsh guttural sound, and Gilbert passed across a waterskin.
Moryson took a deep draught, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Thank you. I have not drunk in over a day. Well now, how did I escape? I saw you flee down the stairs as it became evident that Borneheld, the fool, had lost the battle with Axis. I knew why you left. There was nothing protecting Carlon now, and Axis would have little sympathy for you – nor for Jayme or myself.
“I tried to follow you down the stairs, but my legs are old and weak, and I lost you within minutes.”
Gilbert frowned; surely he would have heard if Moryson had stumbled down the stairs after him?
“Jayme might choose to stay and confront his former BattleAxe, but I chose to leave and risk my life elsewhere,” Moryson continued. “After I had lost you I fled to a small door I knew of, which opens onto Grail Lake. There I found a small boat moored. Exhausted, but frightened by the thought that soon Axis himself might come riding into Carlon, I rowed my way across the lake to a spot well north of the Tower of the Seneschal, then began my tedious flight.”
Moryson’s voice strengthened as he warmed to his tale. “For days I stumbled east, then south-east, desperate to avoid Axis and the Forbidden, snatching food where I could, rest where I dared. After a week I heard tell from a passing merchant, Dru-Beorh by name, that he had encountered you further south in Nor. I wondered if perhaps my future lay with you. Alone I could do nothing, but Gilbert, I thought, Gilbert must have a plan. I shall find Gilbert. So, here I am.”
Gilbert just stared at the old man. Deprivation and fright have driven him senseless, he thought. How had he managed to survive this long?
“And what sort of plan did you think I might have in mind?” he asked. “What did you think I would be able to do for you?”
“I thought that you might know somewhere to hide,” Moryson said, his voice slipping back into fragility. “I won’t survive on my own, but, I thought, my old friend Gilbert will help me.”
Old friend indeed, Gilbert thought angrily. Moryson and Jayme kept me at arm’s length for years, never trusting me with their secret confidences, never truly thinking I was worthy of their regard. Yet now Moryson, frightened and directionless, dares to sit here and tell me that he is and has always been my friend.
“I thought perhaps we could find some of our scattered brethren,” Moryson said. “Axis must have dispossessed dozens of Plough-Keepers as he rode through eastern Achar towards Carlon.”
Gilbert finally noticed the blackened remains of the bread and busied himself pulling the loaf clear of the coals, thinking carefully as he did so. Moryson’s vague words had given him the germ of an idea. He was right. There must be many Brothers of the Seneschal, scholars as well as the local Plough-Keepers – the Brothers who ministered within the villages – wandering as vaguely and with as little direction as he and Moryson. Singly they could do nothing, but together …
“You have hit the matter on the head, Moryson,” he said. “I intend to move eastwards and gather what remnants of the Brotherhood remain.”
“And then?” Moryson asked. “What will we do then?”
“It is best that I wait until we are a dozen or so, Moryson,” Gilbert replied smoothly, “and then I shall inform you of my plan.”
Moryson nodded, his shoulders hunched. Gilbert remembered Moryson as a strong and proud man, in spirit if not in body, but the man who now sat across the fire seemed shattered, almost servile.
Well, he thought, Moryson has had a bad few weeks, and has seen his life and his power destroyed. No wonder the old man now appears to want nothing more than a blanket-wrapped chair by a fire. Gilbert smiled as he realised that the relationship between himself and Moryson had altered dramatically. Now he was the driving force, now he would say what was to be done and when, and Moryson would nod and agree and say that Gilbert knew best. Sitting about this fire were the two most senior members of the Seneschal remaining (for Axis had surely skewered Jayme by now), and of the two, Gilbert was the strongest. That makes me the leader of the Seneschal, he realised suddenly. I am to all effects and purposes the Brother-Leader of the Seneschal!
After gloating to himself for some minutes, Gilbert finally thought to carve up what was left of the bread and pass some to Moryson with some beef and a wizened apple. That should keep the old man alive until morning.
Once they had finished eating and as the fire died down, Gilbert led the nightly prayers to Artor. Even during the most harried days of his escape, Gilbert had never neglected his evening and dawn prayers to Artor. Of all the things that could be said about Gilbert, lack of dedication to his beloved god was not one of them.
Moryson and Gilbert were startled from their observances by a strange rhythmic thumping. It surrounded them, and the men exchanged puzzled and fearful glances as the noise grew louder.
“What is it?” Gilbert finally asked, not raising his voice above a whisper.
Moryson actually whimpered, and Gilbert glanced his way. If Moryson had seemed weak and fearful previously, now he was absolutely terrified. He had curled himself into as small a ball as possible, as if he could somehow burrow into the earth and escape whatever it was that came their way.
“What is it?” Gilbert hissed.
“Ahhh!” Moryson moaned, and wriggled some more, actually scraping at the earth with his fingers.
“Moryson!”
“Artor!” Moryson cried. “It is Artor!”
Gilbert stared at him wide-eyed. Artor? For an instant Gilbert’s reaction vacillated between outright terror and transcendent ecstasy.
Ecstasy won.
“Artor!” he screamed and leapt to his feet. “Artor! It is I! Gilbert! Your true servant! What must I do to serve you? What is your desire?”
Damn fool, damn fool, damn fool, Moryson muttered over and over in his mind, not sure whether he referred to himself or Gilbert. Damn fool! He curled himself into an even tighter ball.
The strange thumping increased, now almost a thunder, and Gilbert could see a light in the distance. “Artor!” he screamed yet again.
As the light drew closer, Gilbert saw it emanated from two monstrous red bulls that were yoked to an equally monstrous plough. Behind strode Artor, one hand on the plough, the other raised to goad His team forward. The ploughshare cut deep into the ground, making a rhythmic thump as it thudded through the earth. Behind Artor ran a wide and deep furrow, straight as an arrow, heading directly for Gilbert.
Breath steamed in great gouts from the flared nostrils of the bulls, and they flung their heads from side to side, rolling their furious eyes as if they wanted to trample all unbelievers and scorners in their path.
But Gilbert was neither an unbeliever nor a scorner, and he stood his ground confidently.
“Furrow
