Chapter Forty

Eliot and Renard rode either side of Aridai, with the two tall-folk guards behind them. Despite the knot of anger that refused to loosen its hold on him, Eliot had found Fordel’s reaction to riding alongside Aridai’s horse amusing. His black horse had seemed to take offence at the size of the tall-folk horse, repeatedly snorting and pinning his ears back. Eliot had had to expend more energy than usual steadying his affronted mount who finally appeared to have accepted his place next to the larger horse.

Aridai eyed Fordel. “He seems much calmer now. I did not think he would mind Hanath,” he said, patting his horse’s neck. “All looked peaceful enough in the paddock.”

“Our horses were in a separate enclosure, though,” said Renard. “Fordel does like to lord it over other horses. Don’t argue.” He held up his hand to stop Eliot’s protest. “If Tas could talk, he’d tell you all about it. Also, it usually takes some time to convince Fordel to accept something new. He’s pig-headed, like his master,” finished Renard, grinning at Aridai.

Eliot shot Renard a deadpan stare, which turned into a rueful smile as Aridai’s rich, deep laugh resounded around them.

The first full day of the company’s journey to Mariosha, and, not for the first time, the same thought crossed Eliot’s mind; was his irritable mood affecting Fordel? Since leaving Aridai’s home the previous afternoon, he’d been locked in a constant battle to keep a lid on his simmering ill-temper. Also, the newly discovered knowledge of what Climence could be capable of had awakened his worry for Marcelin and Lina.

They talked of going to Granville first where Renard knew his father would accompany Aridai to the city to speak to the guard about Garlon. It was Renard who first noticed the approaching riders. They slowed their horses down to a walk.

“Eliot,” said Renard, “that looks–”

“Garlon,” said Eliot with a growl.

A few words from Aridai and the guards moved their horses to stand either side and slightly forward of Eliot and Renard.

Garlon, with a cloaked and hooded figure next to him, rode ahead of about six men. They checked their speed and came to a halt. Narrowing his eyes, Garlon said, “What a shame, seeing you here. I was hoping I’d catch you at the giant’s home. I prefer having all my annoyances in the one place, makes them easier to deal with.”

“I’d apologise for disappointing you,” said Eliot, “but I’d be lying.”

“So, you are the instigator.” Aridai urged his horse forward a couple of steps. “I suggest you turn from this path and return to your city.”

Garlon curled his lip in obvious distaste. “I don’t take, suggestions from giants.”

“I care not what you take or don’t take,” said Aridai, his gaze still fixed on Garlon as he placed his hand on Eliot’s arm, holding him back from moving Fordel forward. “I am telling you; you will not be continuing your way to the mountain.”

“You believe you can stop me? I have six men–”

“Do not be fooled that our guards only number two. They are more than a match for all of you.” Aridai spoke to his guards, his voice low.

Both guards unslung the circular shields that hung across their backs and drew their curved swords. No longer holding their horses’ reins, they continued to exude confidence; both horses remained still, ears pricked forward.

Despite his angry frustration, Eliot had to marvel at their control.

Baring his teeth, Garlon gestured sharply at his men. “Go. Clear the way.”

None of his men seemed in a hurry to carry out his order, their disquiet apparent.

A half-smile on his lips, Aridai directed his words at Garlon’s men. “My dispute is with your master. But know this, if you attack us, do not believe you will continue to live as free men. Even if you run, you will spend your lives looking over your shoulder. My family know the name of Garlon Dingle.”

Eliot and Renard exchanged openly amused looks as Garlon’s face turned an interesting shade of red.

“My family have powerful connections in Aiqos,” continued Aridai. “And I have influential friends in Mariosha. Through his name, they will find you.”

Silence followed his words. Garlon’s men hadn’t even drawn their swords. They remained where they were, their wariness apparent.

“What are you waiting for?” Garlon’s loud voice startled the horses.

Still, no one moved.

The cloaked figure, having remained quiet thus far, made an impatient noise and dismounted. “I care not for any of this.” Striding forward, he stopped in the space between Garlon and Aridai’s guard. “The cat, where is it? That is all I want.”

Aridai glanced at Eliot.

“Tulash,” said Eliot who had a clear view of the man’s paleness even though his hood still covered his head. “You’ll never have the cat.”

“This does not concern you.” He turned his attention to Aridai who’d dismounted. “Is the cat at your home?”

The tall-folk walked forward, halting a few paces from his guard. “Why do you think I would let you have my cat?”

“I will pay for it, handsomely. Whatever you desire, name it, and it shall be yours. All I ask in return is the cat.”

“Why are you so eager to have him? You could take any cat, but you insist on having him. Is it because of what your master did?”

Tulash stumbled back. “How do you? How can you know?”

Eliot, too, had dismounted and moved to stand alongside Aridai.

“I know what he did,” was all Aridai said.

Pushing his hood back, he squinted at them through his near-colourless eyes. “My master, Kashar, was a great creator. Few understood his genius–”

“Genius?” Aridai’s voice rose. “What he did was an affront to the natural laws–”

“You, like so many, are too simple, too small-minded to know true genius.”

“He threatened and harmed one I loved as a brother for no reason other than to indulge his curiosity.”

Drawing his head back slightly, Tulash regarded Aridai before his eyes momentarily widened. “Do you know what happened to my master? Does he still live?”

Aridai regarded him with a steady gaze, and when he finally spoke, his tone was icy. “He paid the ultimate price for his… genius.”

Tulash froze, his gaze on the ground, then began muttering denials.

Eliot strode up to him. Mere inches separating them, he spoke softly, his words for Tulash alone. “The cat, are you planning on reversing the change?”

The pale man raised his gaze and looked uncomprehendingly at Eliot.

“Answer me. Do you know how to change him back?”

Tulash straightened his frame. “I will never reveal my plans to you or anyone,” he said with a sneer.

Heat flushed through Eliot as rage surged to the surface. Grabbing Tulash by the cloak, he pulled him closer. “Tell me.”

Flecks of spittle dotted Tulash’s cheek as the startled man struggled to free himself.

With a curse, Eliot shoved him back.

Tulash fell to land on his rear, his hand up to ward Eliot off.

“I said, answer me.” His clenched hands held before him, Eliot stood over the babbling man. He heard Renard shout his name but didn’t turn. Roughly thrust from Tulash, he stumbled to the side, barely managing to stay upright.

“You want to fight, boy?” said Garlon. “Then let us fight.” He shrugged off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. “I’ve been waiting for this moment, to teach you your place.” One deliberate step at a time, he shortened the distance between them.

Eliot didn’t respond but stood his ground, his body quivering slightly.

“You’ve been a constant thorn in my side. Your mere presence aggravates me. Because of you, Marcelin keeps her distance.”

At the mention of his mother’s name, Eliot clenched his jaw.

Seemingly unperturbed by Eliot’s silence, Garlon continued, “If not for you, she’d already be mine. And make no mistake, boy, she will be mine.”

With a guttural cry, Eliot barrelled into Garlon, driving him back.

Garlon grabbed him by the shoulders, shoved him, bashed his fist into Eliot’s face.

The metallic taste of blood in his mouth, Eliot staggered drunkenly. Fought to stay upright as Garlon lunged.

Eliot’s world narrowed, his only goal, to protect his mother from this brute.

He blocked Garlon’s punch, cried out as the man seized his fist, twisted his arm. Kicked his feet out from under him. Landing on his back, Eliot gasped, the wind knocked out of him.

“Pitiful,” said Garlon, breathing noisily. Looming over Eliot, gripping a fistful of his tunic, he yanked him up.

Eliot forced air into his lungs. Jerking his head back, he slammed his forehead into Garlon’s nose. Heard the crack of breaking cartilage, saw blood trickle over the man’s lips.

Grunting, Garlon tottered back, hands hovering over his nose.

Eliot lurched forward, punched him. Garlon fell.

Astride Garlon, Eliot punched him. And punched him. He had to keep Marcelin safe. Another punch. He had to protect his mother. Again, he punched him. A halo of pain surrounded his head. His arms screamed with each movement. But he had to protect her.

Eliot frowned; he seemed to be moving away from Garlon, his fists no longer connecting.

“Eliot, enough. Enough.”

Upright, he was set on his feet. His blurry gaze rested on Aridai.

“It is over.”

Shaking his head, he looked down at Garlon, groaning, his face bloodied and puffy. “I have to–”

“No. It is over,” said Aridai again. “Come.”

Eliot allowed his uncle to half-lead, half-carry him away. He sat on the ground. A hand holding a cup came into view. He forced himself to look up into Renard’s concerned gaze.

“Drink,” said Renard softly. “Slowly.”

He winced as he took the cup, the knuckles on both hands already red and swelling. Water dribbled down his chin as he took a sip; the cut on his already swelling lip made it awkward to close his mouth properly. What he did manage to swallow tasted coppery, making him gag. Taking another mouthful, he spat the reddish-brown water onto the grass.

“Here,” said Renard, offering him a wet cloth. “Wipe the blood off your face.”

Again, Eliot didn’t speak, only nodded. The marked lack of energy that weighed him down seemed strange now his rage was spent. But he was aware of every aching muscle, every point of pain. An unintentional shiver gripped him as the breeze cooled his body through his sweat-soaked shirt. Hearing Aridai’s voice, he turned, his movements slow as if he had aged in the last little while.

“Take him and leave,” Aridai told Garlon’s men. “Care for him as best you can. Make sure a physician tends him at his home. We will come for him later.”

They got their master on his horse, and one of his men hoisted himself up behind Garlon to hold him in place for the man appeared barely conscious.

“Not you,” said Aridai, his tone forceful.

Tulash, in the process of scurrying towards Garlon’s men, stuttered to a stop.

“Leave his horse, he comes with us.”

“No, no.” Tulash’s voice was pitched higher as he darted to join Garlon’s men. “I will not go with you, I must return with him.” A pitiful mewling sound fell from him as one of the men handed Tulash his horse’s reins before they guided their horses away.

Aridai spoke to his guard, and one of them dismounted and strode to Tulash.

His eyes bulging, Tulash backed away, tried to run, tripped over his robe, and fell. He cried out in a language unfamiliar to them before scrabbling for the cord around his neck, and the bottle attached to it. He fumbled to undo it, a fevered look in his pale eyes.

Aridai darted forward, exclaiming in the tall-folk tongue, and the guard ran to Tulash.

Too late.

He swallowed the contents of the bottle. His mouth gaped open in a silent cry, he clawed at his throat then collapsed, unmoving.

The guard went down on one knee and checked Tulash, then turned to Aridai and shook his head.

No one spoke.

Eliot didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, he was relieved for this meant Reuven would no longer be hunted. But what if Tulash’s plan had involved turning him back to Ruvane? Lowering his head, the only thing Eliot knew for certain was Tulash’s death meant the death of any chance of being with his father, the man, ever again.