Far Horizons: Tales of Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Horror. Issue #20 November 2015 | Page 57

mingled with the cacophony.

Here and there in the crowd were grim faced
warriors, and Padraig spotted the grey of a wolf’s pelt
through a window. If his father was anywhere, he was
going to be talking to Maelgwyn, and Maelgwyn’s
champion would not be far away.

He jogged Andarta’s elbow and pointed with
his chin. She nodded and strode confidently through
the crowd. Padraig had a hard time matching her, not
having the knack, or the dexterity, to sinuously move
amongst and around people. He was glad to reach the
doorway and see that she’d waited for him.

As they made their way down the corridor,
Padraig trotting to keep up with the warrior woman,
they walked past a room where Elise and Teilo were
deep in whispered conversation. Elise’s eyes followed
Padraig as he stared at the pair whilst hurrying past.
He wondered what her expression was. He thought it
might be dread.

Andarta marched up to the two warriors in
plaid stood either side of the door and put her hand
out, ready to open it. The bigger of the two, a bear of
a man, replete with coarse black hair and a beehive
beard dropped a meaty hand onto Andarta’s arm.

She moved a little too fast for Padraig to
follow but the man was suddenly upon his knees, his
face white with shock and pain, Andarta holding his
wrist, his hand bent back upon it. Padraig saw beads
of sweat sparkle on the man’s forehead.

“I suggest you let us in. My father is inside,
and we have urgent business,” he said. The man to
the left slid an inch of steel out of a scabbard. Andarta
merely cocked an eyebrow.

“Seriously. I think you should just let us in,”
Padraig said, hoping that his voice sounded braver
than he was feeling. The man who was trying to cradle
his own arm, which was obviously causing him great
pain although Andarta seemed to not be expending
any great effort, nodded frantically.

The man on the left sucked his teeth, decided
that this was a problem above his pay grade and
knocked on the door, which was snatched immediately
open by yet another warrior. This one in Green Salmon
colours. The man silently took in the scene before him
and sighed.

“You’d best come in.”

Padraig looked beyond the man, who moved
aside so that they could enter, and saw his father,
Maelgwyn, Maelgwyn’s champion and another three
or four men, one he recognised as the Magister, staring
at them. Whatever conversation they’d been having
had come to a grinding halt.

There was a clatter as the ursine form of the
guard Andarta had been holding flopped to the floor.
He rolled and leapt to his feet, his face having gone
from white, to red, his hand snatched at an axe he
wore. As Maelgwyn shouted a name, and Phelan
shouted no, Andarta, through some form of awareness,
glanced over her shoulder. She seemed to then bend
down to inspect the floor, and her leg pivoted straight
up. There was an audible crack, followed by a second
clatter as the large man toppled gracelessly to the
floor. His nose was spread across his fa ce by the heel
of Andarta’s leather bound foot.

There was a moment of stunned silence,
broken by a discrete cough by Phelan.

“May I introduce my companions on the road?
Andarta and my son Padraig. Please meet the new
Righ of the Green Salmon.”
***
The man in red paused, the sounds of the
approaching quayside were obvious. He opened his
eyes and took in the scene. A riot of colour greeted
him, laced with the stalking black forms of ferrymen,
in their tricorns and bird masks. A multitude of voices
were raised in haggling with the merchants that lined
the quayside. Somewhere a woman’s high voice sang
beautifully. Seagulls argued raucously over scraps
dropped by careless pedestrians. The water became

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