‘Fletcher, I know I’ve never told you this, but you are neither my apprentice nor a burden. You are my son, even if we do not share the same blood. I am proud of you; prouder than ever tonight. You stood up for yourself and you have nothing to be ashamed of.’ He gripped Fletcher in a bear hug, and Fletcher buried his face in his shoulder, sobbing.
‘I have some gifts for you,’ Berdon said, brushing tears from his cheeks. He disappeared into his room and came back holding two large parcels. He shoved them down into Fletcher’s satchel and gave him a forced smile.
‘I was going to give these to you on your sixteenth birthday, but it’s best I give them to you now. Open them when you’re far away from here. Oh, and you’re going to need protection. Take this.’
A rack of weapons lay against the far wall. Berdon selected a curved sword from the back, where the rarer items were kept. He held it up to the light.
It was a strange piece, one that Fletcher had never seen before. The first third of the blade was the same as any sword, a leather hilt followed by four inches of sharp steel. But next part of the sword curved in a crescent, like a sickle. At the end of the curve the sword continued on with a sharp point once again.
‘You’ve no formal training, so if you end up in trouble . . . well . . . let’s not think about that. This sickle sword is a wild card. They won’t know how to parry it. You can trap their blade in the curve of the sickle, then move in past their guard and hit them with the back edge of it. The point is long enough for stabbing, so don’t be afraid to use it in that way too.’ Berdon demonstrated, swiping the sickle down and to the side, then bringing the back edge up at head height and stabbing violently.
‘The outer edge of the sickle is curved like a good axe head. You can use it to split a shield or even chop down a tree if you need to, far better than any sword could. You can take a man’s head from his shoulders with a good backswing.’ He handed the blade to Fletcher, who strapped it to the back of his satchel with a leather belt.
‘Keep it oiled and away from the damp. Because of its shape it won’t fit in a conventional scabbard. You’ll have to get one made when you get a chance. Tell the blacksmith it’s a standard sized khopesh. They will know how to make one if they know their trade,’ Berdon said.
‘Thank you. I’ll do that,’ Fletcher said gratefully, stroking the leather pommel.
‘As for that demon, keep it hidden,’ Berdon instructed, peering into the imp’s amber eyes. ‘You’ll never pass for a noble, nor should you try to. Even if someone hasn’t heard about Didric, it’s best to avoid attention.’
Fletcher gathered the demon into his arms and examined it, wondering how exactly he would keep the unruly creature out of sight.
Suddenly, the bells began to toll, their brassy knells reverberating in the streets outside. Even with the bells clamouring, Fletcher heard distant shouts down the road.
‘Go! But not to the elven front, that’s where they will expect you to run. Head south, to Corcillum. I’ll bar the forge’s door, make them think you’re still in here. I will hold them off as long as I can,’ Berdon said, shoving him out of the forge and into the cold night air.
‘Goodbye, son.’
Fletcher caught one last glimpse of his friend, mentor and father, silhouetted in the doorway. Then the door slammed shut and he was alone in the world, but for the sleeping creature around his neck. A fugitive.
13
It had been two days. Two days on the run, cutting back and forth to leave false trails. No food, no sleep, only drinking when he waded down the mountain streams, trying to kill his scent and leave no footprints. Whenever he stopped to rest, he could hear the bark of the hunting dogs in the distance.
At night he would climb to the top of a tall tree to check his direction by the constellations in the sky. When he did, he saw the flicker of campfires in the valleys above him. The whole town guard and probably most of the hunters were chasing him. Didric’s father, Caspar, must have put a huge bounty on his head.
Now, on the third night, he could only see tiny pinpricks of light halfway up the mountain. They had turned back, the trail gone cold. He breathed a sigh of relief and began the long climb down, careful not to lose his footing. Any injury, even a sprained ankle, could mean death now.
He did not let himself become too complacent. Lord Faversham, a powerful noble, owned most of the land around the base of Beartooth. He was notorious for sending patrols of his men through the forest to catch poachers. Fletcher would have trouble explaining to them why he was travelling alone, so far away from the safe mountain paths.