by Dan Abnett
Most seemed content with this. Bruda readied her bow. Harg eased his war-axe from its loop and set it on the cart bench next to him. Most of the rest eased their blades in their scabbards to make sure they were free. Caerdrath simply nodded and turned his steed west.
‘I should go with the outriders!’ Le Claux exclaimed, however, pulling out his sword. There was something like indignation in his Bretonnian accent. ‘I demand this honour! Am I not a noble champion of the Lady, sworn to uphold good? Am I-‘
‘Oh shut up!’ Gaude spat. ‘Do as you’re ordered and stop making a fuss!’
‘You fiend!’ Le Claux exploded and spurred forward. His eyes shone with anger. Fithvael had seen how the lowly squire seemed quite happy to mock and rile his sire, but now he had gone too far. Close to sundown, before a new day’s wineskin could be unstoppered, Le Claux was as sober as he was ever going to be. His mailed fist caught the flinching Gaude across the cheek and spun him out of the cart.
‘You won’t speak to me like that, you offal-hound! You dungeater! You won’t disrespect me so!’ Le Claux was snarling, his heavy steed stamping the track dangerously close to the dazed Gaude.
Nithrom rode in smartly and yanked Le Claux and his horse away hard by the reins. Erill and Brom dragged the bloodied Gaude back out of harm’s way.
‘Le Claux! Le Claux!’ Nithrom growled. ‘Calm yourself. I need you with me now! Why do you think I did not send you on an outer circuit? I’m driving these wagons down into the heart of what may be an enemy stronghold! I want a noble knight right at my side when I do that!’
Sullen but calmer, Le Claux pulled away and turned his horse down the track, leaving them behind.
‘Will you be all right?’ Nithrom asked the squire, who was climbing back into his cart. His nose was leaking a thin line of blood and there was a gash across his cheek.
‘He gets like this. I should know better.’
Nithrom nodded sadly and then called them to order. Caerdrath was already on his way. Vintze rode off with the twin warriors in tow, also heading west. The wagons and their support trundled off at a lick down the main track, chasing after Le Claux. Fithvael, with Cloden and Madoc at his side, swung east and galloped on, following the lip of the valley bowl.
NONE OF THEM spoke as they rode east, crossing down into the wooded slopes. The spread of woodland soon became too thick for them to see Maltane any more. They took their horses down banks with practised ease, slithering sideways, jerking crabwise down through tracts of gorse, fern and nettle. Cloden checked his position with the sun, half blocked by the canopy. But Fithvael already knew where they were; another mile south and west, and they would meet the eastern track.
Fithvael saw Madoc hold up a warning hand and reined in. He could hear a stream rushing nearby - and the unguarded voices of men.
The trio walked their horses forward in line through the glades, quiet as gliding phantoms. More voices, louder; some coarse laughter.
There were seven soldiers, watering at the side of the brook in the next clearing. All large men, travel soiled, splashing water on their dusty faces or drinking from their helmets. Their steeds, hard-ridden and sweating, drank along the edge of the bank. The men wore light polished plate over grey chain mail, and their long-backed bowl helmets had ragged plumes of blue and white cloth. Tilean dog-soldiers, outriders, scouts by the look of them.
There was no time for conference. As one, Fithvael, Cloden and Madoc surged forward out of the trees and came down on them from the rear. Cloden’s greatsword was low against his thigh like a lance. Madoc’s warhammer was whirring in a deadly arc. Fithvael drew his slender elven sword and swung it up ready.
Taken unawares, the Tileans had barely turned before Cloden was amongst them. One fell back into the stream with a shriek, his throat torn out, and another dropped and rolled down the back, clutching his shoulder. The Tilean horses started and ran in all directions.
Cloden overshot and crashed into the stream, turning his steed amid plumes of spray to engage another Tilean who waded in and rushed him with a broadsword. Madoc smashed into the water too, chasing down two enemies who ran for their lives towards the weapons and equipment they had left scattered on the far bank. The glade was alive with shouts and curses.
Fithvael reached another Tilean just as the man pulled himself into the saddle of his’ agitated horse. The Tilean swung his steed around, pulled out his sword and swept a scything blow at the veteran elf. Fithvael ducked low under it and took the human off his mount with a backhanded swing.
Three Tileans dead, now four as Cloden butchered the man with the broadsword mid-stream. Madoc ran down his pair, hammering one sideways into the rushing water and letting his horse’s churning hooves trample the other. The seventh, dropping his helmet, ran at Fithvael with a pike. The strike missed, but Fithvael and his horse went over as they evaded, hooves slipping out on the mossy bank. Both horse and elf sprang up unhurt, but Fithvael had no time to remount, and dodged another pike-lunge that came at his belly. He grabbed the passing shaft of the weapon with his free hand and cut it in two with his sword. The Tilean threw the broken wood aside and drew his own sword, slamming it round and down at Fithvael.
Their blades clashed. The Tilean was no mean swordsman. He parried well and managed to wrong-foot Fithvael with his next pass. The Tilean’s blade cut a nick from Fithvael’s shoulder guard.
Fithvael braced, darted left and then feinted in with a blow that looked like a slice but turned into a thrust. He impaled the Tilean through the gut and lifted him off his feet. Fithvael ripped the blade clear and the Tilean collapsed without a sound.
Stern-faced, Fithvael looked round at the others. Cloden had reached the far bank and dismounted to search through the mercenaries’ packs and bags. Madoc sat astride his horse in the middle of the rushing stream, Tilean blood blackening the fast-moving foam around his horse’s shins, and glancing back at Fithvael. There was a triumphant look in his eyes, the first real life or passion Fithvael had seen there. For all his sour, cynical bearing, it seemed like this burst of combat had revitalised something in the Middenheim wolf. Madoc grinned at Fithvael and raised his hammer in a brutal, victorious gesture.
A blue-fletched arrow hit him square in the throat, knocking him clean out of the saddle and into the water. His horse bolted, thrashing spray. Madoc’s heavy armoured form rocked in the current, half-submerged, but did not rise.
Fithvael heard Cloden cry out as he darted for cover. The air was hissing around them. More arrows rained down. Some hit tree trunks or soil on Cloden’s side of the stream. Others shattered or rebounded from the stream’s stones or plopped out of sight into the flow. More thunked into the mossy ground around Fithvael, wretchedly close, driving down into the wet ground. At least three embedded themselves into the Tilean corpses littering the banks.
Fithvael ducked into the undergrowth, but not quite fast enough. A blue-trimmed arrow pinned the end of his cape to the ground and the garment yanked him back. He tore it off, breaking his cloak’s brooch-clasp, and threw himself behind a tree. By then, his cloak was staked out on the wet grass by four more arrows. Another one smacked into the tree that sheltered him.
The archers rode into view, thrashing through the thickets on light chargers that leapt the fern cover in bold, clear bounds. There were nine of them, more Tilean outriders armoured much like the septet they had slain on the stream bank. All rode expertly, the reins between their teeth, their powerful composite bows raised to fire and fire again. Holsters of blue-feathered arrows slapped at their hips.
They loosed more arrows. Their skill with their bows was notable. Though they rode full pelt and without hands to guide their steeds, they managed a murderous rate of fire. Cloden had scrambled into cover over on the far side of the stream and darts whickered into the underbrush around him.
Now, and only now, was a chance, as the Tileans dropped their bows around their pommels to retake the reins and pull up their mounts before the stream. Three drew swords and galloped on thr
ough the water towards Cloden; the others circled around at Fithvael.
A singular whistle had brought the elf’s trusted horse to him, traces trailing. Fithvael snatched his half-wound crossbow from his saddle, slapped his horse on and levered the bowstring back fully. There was a Tilean almost on him, but he did not let haste muddy his skill. He nocked a short quarrel, raised his weapon and put the bolt smack between the Tilean’s eyes, spinning him out of the saddle.
There was no time to reload. Fithvael flung the crossbow aside and redrew his sword, hastening round behind a clump of willow that shielded him from the next nearest Tilean. He came out round the other side of the sinuous tree, and lanced his sword up through the neck of another mercenary who was charging round to block him. The man fell, shrieking, but Fithvael’s sword was lodged tight in him and tore from the elf’s hand.
Something heavy caught him across the shoulders from behind and slammed him into the bole of a larch. His vision swam and he could feel hot liquid dribbling down his back under his armour. He moved, slow and unsteady, barely in time to miss a sword stroke that clove into the bark. Then a sword hilt punched him in the side of the head and he went down.
Blood rushed in his ears, like he was underwater. He could hear curt Tilean voices shouting and cursing around him, the stamp of hooves.
A scream.
A cry, in a voice he knew as well as he knew his own.
Blinking, Fithvael looked up.
Blue-steel keening in the close woodland air, Gilead of Tor Anrok exploded into the Tilean horsemen from behind, his white hair and scarlet cloak lifting in the air behind him. Gilead’s horse was foaming at the mouth, and its eyes were wild and bright, but not half so wild and bright as the eyes of his old friend. It was times like this that he was afraid of Gilead’s warrior soul. The fear almost eclipsed his joy at seeing Gilead here, now.
Gilead severed the torso of the Tilean nearest him and the man’s hips and legs rode away on his crazed steed. The son of Lothain churned forward to meet another two, severing the arms of one at the elbows and decapitating the other. The headless corpse dropped out of its saddle and was dragged by one stirruped foot. The other, blood jetting from his jerking stumps, disappeared into the woods as his horse bolted, his screams echoing through the trees for minutes afterwards.
On the far bank, the trio who had chased down Cloden turned and spurred back to the new fight with furious yells and brandished swords.
As they turned, Cloden exploded up from cover and took one off his horse with a massive sweep of his huge two-handed sword.
Gilead blocked a sword-swing from the remaining Tilean on his side of the stream, broke the blade against his own, and cut down through the man’s gold-armoured collarbone. Then he turned to meet the charge of the last pair who were powering up out of the streambed at full gallop, cascading spray.
Gilead became a blur, shadowfast. Two riderless horses passed by on either side of his steed and disappeared into the woods. Two dismembered bodies crashed to the ground beside him in sprays of blood.
The elf sat back in his saddle, his smoking sword low at his side. He looked across at Fithvael.
‘So you changed your mind?’ Fithvael said archly.
‘Just in time, so it would seem,’ Gilead replied.
Fithvael shook his head at the retort and splashed out into the stream to reach Madoc. Coming from the far side, Cloden reached the Middenheimer at about the same time.
Madoc was alive, but the arrow was buried deep in his thickly muscled neck. Blood stained the rapid water around him. Madoc blinked up at them and tried to speak but nothing clearer than a gurgle issued from his lips.
‘That’s bad…’ Cloden muttered, and looked as if he was about to put Madoc out of his misery, much as a man would a lame horse.
‘Help me get him up. Now!’ Fithvael commanded, his voice brooking no disagreement.
Cloden shrugged, sheathed his great sword across his back and helped Fithvael lift the saturated dead weight of the wolf. They dragged the lolling Middenheimer back to the bank where Gilead sat waiting on his stamping, wild-eyed steed.
Bodies littered the bank and the moss was soaked with blood. With a grunt, Cloden lowered Madoc onto his back and Fithvael whistled for his horse once more. He had herbs and dressings in his saddlebags, curative miracles beyond human knowledge.
‘I thought you said you were done with him,’ Cloden remarked, indicating the silent, waiting figure of Gilead with a jerk of his head.
‘I did,’ Fithvael answered quietly. ‘But I don’t think he is yet done with me.’
NITHROM’S COMPANY WERE assembled in the main public yard of Maltane, a scrubby area an acre square surrounded by dwellings that lay directly before the main slope of the inner mound. Dusk was falling.
Nithrom rode from the waiting group in concern as he saw Fithvael’s party come in through the eastern gate of the town, the elf and Cloden riding slowly and supporting Madoc on his horse between then. Gilead rode in behind, some way back.
‘By the gods! What happened?’
‘Tileans, dog-soldiers,’ scowled Cloden. ‘We came upon a clutch and laid them low, but then more came down from the woods. A lot more. Bowmen.’
Nithrom leaned in to scrutinise Madoc’s wound with distressed eyes. Madoc, weak but conscious, tried to brush him away.
‘That needs attention, and quickly.’
Madoc made a gurgling grunt that was trying to be words.
‘You have dressed it,’ Nithrom said to Fithvael, who nodded.
‘As best as I could. I can do a better job if we can get him to a cot and get a fire going. He is not co-operative.’
‘Madoc was always robust.’
‘He’s got an arrow through his throat. He’s sucking breath and he has lost too much blood, and the dart-head is buried in the bone of his neck! I do not care how robust he thinks he is, he will be dead by the time dawn comes, unless we can get that cruel shard out and staunch the flow.’ Fithvael seemed far angrier than he had any right to be.
‘Fithvael’s right,’ murmured Cloden. ‘Get a dirty piece of iron like that wedged in your flesh, even a mild wound, and the iron’ll brew up poison in your blood.’
‘We will see to it,’ Nithrom said sternly, ‘and Madoc won’t resist.’ He said this last part whilst shooting a warning look at the swaying, sweating Madoc.
Then Nithrom looked beyond them and saw Gilead approaching slowly down from the east gate.
‘Gilead te tuin Lothain…’ he whispered. ‘So you came after all.’
‘He… turned the tide, when we were overrun,’ Cloden said grudgingly. ‘They had us cold, me and the elf.’
Nithrom rode over to Gilead and they regarded each other for a moment.
‘Will you stay?’
‘Perhaps. For a while at least.’
Nithrom nodded and turned his horse away, riding back to the main group and raising his voice so all could hear. ‘Vintze found nothing to the west, and Caerdrath reports the southern edges are also clear of any trace. Only now, to the east, do we have a sign of them.’
‘Scouts,’ Fithvael suggested, drawing near. ‘They had ridden hard, so they were probably outriders probing ahead of the main unit.’
‘Usual Tilean company tactics,’ said Brom, ‘a vanguard pack of fast archers reconnoitering the land.’
‘The main force would be but a day behind,’ finished Dolph in what seemed the same voice, their words overlapping.
‘Did any you met survive? Any ride back to carry a warning?’ Harg asked.
‘None,’ Gilead replied simply, and all understood the truth of it.
‘That is really no better,’ Vintze said then, wiping a palm across his stubbled chin. ‘When the vanguard don’t return, they’ll be just as well warned.’
‘Wery bad…’ growled Bruda, scanning the fading light on the northern slopes with hunting glances.
‘So where is everyone?’ Cloden asked, saying the words for them all, gesturi
ng around the deserted town.
THEY RODE TOGETHER up the steep mound above the main settlement and reached the timber bridge that crossed the deep inner ditch. It was a deep, well-dug fortification, and the low evening sunlight did not penetrate its murky depths. The bridge itself was solid and firm, and built so that a horse team could pull it down from the inner courtyard in the event of a siege. But it was old, and the harness hooks were weed-choked and rusty.
Beyond it, the timber fence was firm and secure, and sat like a crown around the cranium of the hill. Iron braziers on the wall top were cold and dead. The gate itself, a single section of hardwood planks, was sealed tight.
Nithrom looked across at Gaude, who shrugged and pulled out his battered cornet. He blew a loose association of notes, some in the same key. To Fithvael it seemed a sadly appropriate fanfare for their band.
Silence followed.
‘Again?’ Gaude suggested, gesturing with his cornet and wetting his lips.
Nithrom shook his head and signalled instead to Vintze. Without question, the lean, leather-suited Reiklander slipped off his mount and crossed the bridge to the gate. His long, pale hair and the silver hilt of his sword caught the last of the sunlight as he climbed up the gate, as nimble as a squirrel.
Astride the top, he reached inside with dagger and cut something. Fithvael heard a heavy counterweight trundle to the ground. The gate began to swing inwards and, still astride it, Vintze kicked out at the gatepost, accelerating the motion. He rode the gate as it swung wide and then jumped down, sword in hand.
Nithrom lead the other riders in across the bridge, indicating with a deft gesture for Caerdrath to remain outside on watch. The noble elf turned his steed and sat motionless in the dying light, gazing north.
As they moved in past him, Fithvael saw how Gilead cast Caerdrath a lingering, questioning look. Quite the last being Gilead had expected to find in this ragged human band, Fithvael was sure.
Inside the fortification, it was like black night already. Long bars of golden sunlight raked in through the open gate, but the high fence blocked everything else out. Above them, in a sky as dark blue as the trim of an Elector’s cloak, freckles of early stars began to shine.