Leda

Chapter Thirty-Five: Scarecrows

"I'm accounted a fine singer amongst my people." Roc swayed side to side in his saddle and closed his eyes, humming under his breath. "I'll give you a demonstration, Hannac, if you care for one."

Hal cringed inwardly. "My Lord, as much as I would love that..."

Roc opened his mouth and puffed out his chest.

"...if Castor's men are in the area, we should not risk being overheard."

He opened his eyes, favouring her with a sage nod. Jools winked at Hal as she rode past.

"You know, Hannac," Roc said then in an exaggerated whisper, "I knew your father."

"So did I...eventually."

His massive head wagged like a great pendulum when he laughed. "Well yes, he did what he could to keep you a secret. Although having also met your mother, I can't blame him."

'You were doubly blessed, then."

"You'd never have thought it ˗ the pair of them. He was a dark horse, Franc Hannac. But an honourable man, deep down."

"He was, my Lord."

"He would have made short work of Castor. He'd have taken an army to the gates of Colvé, if necessary." He threw her a long, steady look.

Hal knew immediately where the conversation was leading. "My Lord, it may have escaped your attention, but I don't have an army."

Roc chuckled. "Not yet, lass. Not yet, you don't." He nodded at the mountains which now loomed closer with every passing day, the forest thinning at their base to mere scrub and thorn. Hal tipped back her head, taking in the soaring grey mass of rock which rose into countless peaks, some of them already crested with snow. The wild mountain ranges of the West had been little more than a faint silhouette from the ramparts of Hannac. Now they seemed like crouching giants. She felt their power, their threat and beauty.

"But just wait until we're on the other side of The Tooth," Roc continued.

"What's The Tooth?" she asked nervously.

"That fellow there." He pointed at a peak which jutted high above the others ˗ a ragged fang of rock.

Hal shivered. "We're going over that?"

He stared at her. "Well there's no other way, woman. And on the other side, in the valleys below..." he closed his eyes again, lost to his daydreams. "In the green valleys below lie my lands, my fort. Home, Hannac! Think of that. Home. And a thousand men waiting for my word ˗ to rally against Castor and kick his vicious little arse off the throne. Just think of it ˗ the houses of Roc and Hannac allied at last. It's what your father would have wanted."

"I'm sure," she murmured. So that had been Jools' plan all along. All that talk of evading Castor by heading west. Why else had she stored those weapons at the rocks? What other tricks did the little thief have up her sleeve? She observed her old friend as she rode ahead, laughing and joking with Salvesté. There would be words, Hal decided. There would definitely be words.

The last fringes of deep woodland gave way to sparser undergrowth and windswept, lonely rowans. They had passed the occasional woodsman's hut or cottage on their journey through the forest, their movements tracked by eyes peering out at them through windows, maddened with loneliness. She'd witnessed a poacher wearing an old fur hat and little else skinning a rabbit. Now, however, for the first time since they left Colvé, there were signs of a community of sorts. An uneven array of wooden shacks nestled at the foot of the mountains; sweetly scented wood smoke wisping up through the makeshift chimneys on their roofs. A few half-naked children ran about splashing in a stream, impervious to the cold. Outside their cottages, two old women sat washing clothes in barrels, pipes dangling from their mouths. They observed the travellers wordlessly. And then, one by one, more men and women emerged from their huts, squinting into the daylight ˗ some old, some young, although in many cases it was hard to tell their years, as their faces were so weather beaten and wrinkled, tanned by wind and sun.