Resistance

by Alex Janaway

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN – OWEN

  Owen looked up from his fire. Arno was awake, his head tilting to the side. Had something spooked him? Owen corrected himself. Hardly anything spooked Arno. He looked around and listened for a moment but nothing seemed amiss. ‘Close your eyes, my friend, rest,’ he pulsed softly. Arno looked at him, blinked once or twice, and then shifted himself back into a comfortable position. Owen smiled and returned his gaze to the fire, stoking it a little with a stick. He leaned back and looked up into a night sky that was clear, cloudless and bright. He felt something close to contentment, which he had not felt for some time. Although he still felt the same joy whenever he was in the air, on the ground his mind had been fixed on his purpose for so long. In this quiet moment, however, surrounded by the slopes of a Highland valley, the smells familiar, the landscape comforting, he had no reason to deny himself a moment’s respite. The war carried on, it had never really ended for him, but just for tonight he felt he could put it out of his mind.

  Perhaps it was the excitement of going home. He was longing to get back there, because there was a home to go back to, and it was full of people living their lives. The expectation had started to creep over him the previous evening, when he entered the borders of the Highlands proper, and espied the fire of a human hunting party. It was incredible to see life, human life, returning to the land. And to think, he had played a part in making it so! He’d made a show of gliding low and sweeping over the campsite a few times, just so they would know they had a friendly visitor.

  He found a suitable landing place a short distance to the west of the camp and had put down, leaving Arno settled. Then, forging his way through the dark trees, he had sought out the light, a clear and obvious beacon, and with it, a hunting party from Eagle’s Rest, led by Saul. He was welcomed in by the leathery old hunter and joined his group of ten, an equal number of men and women, around the fire. He shared their meat and told them his news. Another gnomish incursion had been dealt with, his fighters victorious with no serious casualties. A much smaller party this time, that had required little effort or numbers to deal with. It seemed the gnomes were either finally learning their lesson or being weeded out. They had toasted his success and Owen settled back to an evening of good company. Saul confirmed that Gerat and his people had arrived shortly before he’d led his group out.

  ‘I have to say, Owen. I’ve not seen a more bedraggled lot than them since the early days. To be fair, they looked pretty overwhelmed by the Rest. It all seemed a bit much for them.’

  ‘They have just walked a thousand miles to get here,’ said Owen with a laugh. ‘You were no different when I first met you.’

  Saul waved his hand dismissively. ‘That’s horseshit, I looked exactly like I do now. Rugged and lived in. Perfectly at home and suited to the hunting life.’

  ‘You smelled just like you do now as well,’ one of the group added.

  ‘I didn’t know things that weren’t dead could smell like that,’ chimed in another.

  Saul sniffed loudly. ‘It’s called blending in, something you shits have still to learn.’ He leaned in close and Owen had the opportunity to enjoy the odour first hand. It did smell a little like something had died. ‘Don’t listen to this lot of wet-behind-the-ears. A whole year I’ve been trying to teach them about woodcraft and they still insist on washing every morning. They’d have brought beds if we’d had mules to spare.’

  Owen had settled back to listen to their friendly banter, perfectly at his ease, returning to bed down with Arno a couple of hours later.

  He smiled at the memory. And he was surely looking forward to those beds Saul had mentioned.

  He and Arno had left at dawn to continue the journey, finding his current campsite later that afternoon.

  Owen awoke to spats of rain falling on his face. He screwed his nose up and shivered despite himself. It was time he was up and about, the idea of getting rained on, even for the short trip home, was most unwelcome. And, like an idiot, he had not thought to pack his oil skins. Too much comfortable living campaigning in the low country. He pushed back the blanket and sat up, looking into a grey sky. The seasons were changing. Definitely no time for breakfast. He looked sadly at the gently smouldering remains of his fire, an occasional droplet of water sizzling against the hot stones that ringed it. He set to breaking his very modest camp. He rolled up his blanket, tied it off and then packed his remaining gear. As the rain continued to fall in a desultory fashion, he hurried over to Arno who was, naturally, already awake.

  ‘Morning, old friend. No time for a hunt.’

  Owen stowed his belongings and fished around in one of the saddlebags, retrieving a small haunch of meat and unwrapping it from its cloth package.

  Arno eyed this with interest and followed Owen as he placed the meat in front of the eagle.

  ‘Field rations for you.’ He stepped back, and Arno cocked his head watching him go. They had done this a thousand times and Arno needed no more encouragement, darting his head downward quickly, gobbling the meat in one go.

  ‘At least someone gets breakfast,’ said Owen, ruefully. Wasting no more time, he climbed aboard and settled into the saddle.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ he said aloud, and pulsed directions. Immediately Arno responded and they were in the air and climbing.

  Owen pulled his woollen cap a little lower over his face. At least it looked like the cloud cover was breaking up further west and beyond it the skies looked a lot friendlier. Arno made a turn, swooped over the top of a lower-lying peak, and there, directly ahead, was home. They followed the ridgeline that led to the gateway. A couple of figures were walking along the trail that wound its way down to the valley below.

  Then he was over the settlement proper, the hall, the outhouses, and the roost. A number of folk were about, and some pointed at his approach. A figure stood by the entrance to the hall, wrapped in dark furs. Was it Murtagh? He had missed the big Highlander. No, Murtagh would not be wearing furs at this time of year, he was far too hardy a soul. Whoever it was raised a hand in greeting. Arno took them in a wide curve before angling his way back for the roost. The gate to his stall was open, they all were, and Arno made an easy glide inside.

  Owen climbed off and got started into the routine of unpacking his gear, and removing the saddle from Arno. He looked around the roost as he loosened straps; the place was empty of both eagles and people. That was odd. He would have expected someone to be along to give him a hand, it wasn’t that early in the morning. Finally, the door opened and in stalked two men, neither of whom he immediately recognised. Following them was Gerat, wearing a set of dark furs. It must have been him by the hall.

  ‘Morning, lad,’ said the Scotian.

  ‘Gerat,’ Owen said, dumping a saddle bag and extending a hand.

  The man took it in his and shook it firmly. ‘Good to see you, Owen.’ Gerat looked, if anything, hairier than before, his exposed skin tanned and leathery.

  ‘And you. I heard you had arrived, so I came ahead of the others.’

  ‘Good of you,’ said Gerat. ‘These two will help get your kit stowed,’ he said, indicating his two companions.

  Owen nodded. ‘Where’s Murtagh? Naimh?’ Even if the big man was not about, Naimh, his sister, would have come to see him. She had arguably more influence in how this place ran than her brother.

  ‘Oh, I said I’d come and see to you. Everyone else is still inside, breaking their fast.’

  ‘A little late, isn’t it?’ asked Owen.

  Gerat was quiet a moment then shrugged. ‘More mouths to feed.’

  Owen scratched his chin. He supposed so. ‘How was the journey? Jussi wasn’t big on details.’ He glanced at Gerat’s men. Neither appeared to be doing much.

  Another shrug. ‘It was a long, damn trip, Owen, but, I have to say,’ he looked up and around, ‘this place. It’s perfect.’

  Owen smiled. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Gerat beckoned him forwards. ‘Come, you’ll want to say hel
lo to your people.’

  That was an odd way of putting it. ‘Your people too, now,’ responded Owen.

  ‘As you say.’

  As they made their way towards the hall, everything looked … wrong. Where was everyone? The familiar faces: Malcolm who worked the smithy, Sheena who managed the stables. All he saw were dirty-clothed survivors from Scotia, their eyes tracking him as he reached the steps and climbed to the entrance.

  Something was off. More than off, something was wrong.

  He stood at the entrance and faced Gerat.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  Gerat stood before him and folded his arms. He looked uncomfortable for a moment, and then his eyes hardened. Behind him Owen heard one of the large doors open.

  ‘Don’t fight it, lad,’ said Gerat.

  ‘Wh–’Owen tried to turn, but his arms were seized and something was pulled over his head, blocking his vision. Even as he struggled to break free he pulsed, ‘Arno. Fly. Get away. Go!’ The Eagle reacted immediately to his distress. Owen heard a shriek and frantic shouting. ‘That’s it, Arno. Go. Get–’

  A fist drove into his stomach and he doubled over.

  ‘He’s talking to that damn bird of his,’ shouted someone.

  ‘Then shut him up,’ he heard Gerat order.

  Stars flashed before his eyes as something struck his head. Owen fell to his knees. He felt the impact of a boot to his back, and now he was face down on the wooden deck of the hall. More kicks followed. The breath was knocked out of him and he curled his body protectively. A boot smacked him in the ear and he jerked with the shock.

  ‘Alright, don’t fucking kill him.’ The voice was muffled, like he was in another room. Hands grabbed him, pulled him to his feet and started dragging him … where? He couldn’t make it out, he couldn’t think straight. His legs wouldn’t work and he just flopped into the arms of whoever was carrying him, his eyes closed and everything faded to black.

  When he came to, it was in darkness. He could vaguely feel the sack or whatever it was still covering his head. His breath, hot and smelling of blood, washed back against him. He did not struggle or try to stand up, rather he tested his limbs, trying to understand the injuries he had received. He gently wriggled his fingers and his toes, and felt bindings on his wrists, tight and cutting. He shuffled his legs. They were not bound but hurt like hell in a number of places. He realised he was lying on the floor, on his side. He tried to lift his head and immediately regretted it. A wash of bile rose up into his mouth. He took deep breaths through his nose and started to swallow, gulping down the waves of saliva he was producing in abundance. Desperately trying to crush the panic. His throat stung sharply, but he was able to keep whatever was left in his stomach down.

  Owen tried to take stock of his situation. He had a nasty lump on his head, a bunch of painful areas on his back and his legs, but his breathing was reasonably even, and nothing seemed broken, not even a rib. That was, all things considered, lucky. He ran a tongue along his teeth. They were all there. But there was something not quite right about his hearing. It was his left side, where the boot had connected, it felt … muffled. So that was him. Trussed up, beaten up, and likely locked up. But he was alive and in one piece, which meant something. But, and now he started to feel a rising sense of panic. What the Emperor had happened here? Gerat had taken control. But why? What in the Seven Hells would that achieve? And more importantly, where was everyone else? That panic he had felt returned as fear. A cold dread. He had seen none of the other Highlanders. Were they all prisoners, like him? His mind raced, thinking about possibilities. And one thing kept repeating, one dreadful thought: his people would not have submitted, would never have submitted. They would have died first …

  It was later, much later, that he heard movement and a door opening very close to him. It scraped the edges of the floor, not far from his head. That sound, it was familiar.

  There were footsteps and hands gripped him, pulling him upright. It hurt. Then a hand gripped the sacking covering his head and, with a few head hairs in tow, pulled it off.

  He blinked a few times, getting his bearings. Someone was next to him, holding the sacking. The room he was in was gloomy. A weak light, drab and sickly, filtered in from outside.

  It was his room.

  Standing by the door, his face in shadow, was Gerat. His arms were folded and he was watching Owen with open contempt.

  ‘Owen.’

  Owen was no fool. If he was alive, then the man wanted something from him. But he was in no way inclined to give it to him, whatever it was. He did not reply.

  Gerat sighed and took another step into the room. ‘Give him some water.’

  The man next to Owen produced a skin and held it up to Owen’s lips. He drank deeply, even as his scratchy throat complained. After a few seconds the skin was pulled away.

  ‘Lad,’ said Gerat. ‘I understand. You are angry right now. I get it. No way round that. But you’ll still listen to me. You’ve got no choice.’ Another step and he hunkered down next to Owen and inspected his face. ‘Got yourself banged up pretty good. Wasn’t sure if you would come to. Taking a blow to the head like that, many folk never get up, some are never quite the same. You still the same, Owen?’ He looked into Owen’s eyes, searching. Owen breathed heavily through his nose, trying to keep his burgeoning anger in check. Gerat grunted and leaned back. ‘Yeah, you’re still there. Let’s cut to it then. This place, Eagle’s Rest, is no longer yours. It’s mine.’

  ‘What have you done?’ demanded Owen. He had to know the truth.

  ‘I did what I had to. You see, Owen, a place like this? Well, like I said, perfect. A safe place. A place where we can live peacefully. It was worth it, you know, that trek. It wasn’t easy. We lost a few along the way. The old, the infirm. A couple of young ones. But it was worth every step. Soon as I got here, I thought to myself, Gerat, you can make this a home, a real home for your people. But there was a problem.’ He rocked back and rubbed his hands together. He opened them up and looked at his palms. ‘Your people were already here.’

  ‘Gerat–’

  The man stopped him with a shake of his head. ‘I know what you are going to say. Plenty of space for everyone, right?’ He smiled sadly. ‘I could see that. But what did it matter? It still ain’t no city, it ain’t part of some great empire. It was one small, safe place, hidden from the world. And that,’ he raised a single digit to force the point, ‘that is why we had to make a change. Because all the folk here – folk – well, they weren’t hiding anymore. You said it yourself. You are at war. And that means drawing attention.’ He shook his head and sighed again. ‘I couldn’t have that.’

  Owen was at a loss. ‘Gerat, you’ve been at war since I first met you. I was the one who wanted no part of it.’

  ‘True,’ Gerat said, and placed a hand on Owen’s shoulder. He squeezed it gently. ‘You were right. War, fighting, resistance. What’s the damn point, Owen? Everyone dies, nobody wins. We could never hope to win. All there is … all there can be, is survival.’

  ‘And you are telling me what you had back west was survival?’

  ‘It was. And it was shit. A slow, shitty death. I knew that. But it was all we had. My people, you saw them, they had nothing else. All they had was me to keep them together, to keep order. Without me and my lads they would have perished. But when you came, with your promise of something better, it gave us all hope. They were willing to give it a try.’ Gerat rubbed his large hands over his face.

  ‘But not if we continue to live in fear. We need space, room to breathe, freedom from always looking over our shoulders. We all want that. But you want war.’

  ‘Gerat. They don’t know where we are. They never will. It’s not how we fight,’ said Owen.

  Gerat shook his head. ‘Not yet, but the more noise you make, the more scratching you do, then they’ll want to itch that scratch. They’ll come. And we’ll all die. Just like my daughter did. Not again.’

  Owe
n understood now. Gerat was broken.

  ‘Gerat, we can work this out. We can still make a home for you. It doesn’t have to be here. Let me see my people, let me speak to Murtagh–’

  Gerat shook his head. ‘Owen. He’s gone.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Want me to spell it out?’

  Owen let his rage take hold, a cold, powerful anger. He surged forward, trying to get to his feet, reaching out with his tied hands to grab Gerat. He got his fingers around the man’s throat before he felt a swift punch to the side of his head. He gasped, his hands twitched free, and Gerat scuttled back. His face was hard, murderous even.

  ‘Careful, lad. I need you because you might come in useful. But I don’t need you that much.’

  ‘What have you done?’ Owen cried.

  ‘I’ve given us all a chance at a better life, a peaceful one. But your people, they weren’t interested in that, they were all behind you. So I had to get make an example. Make my argument iron clad. Make sure there would be no resistance. So Murtagh, most of the men, they had to go.’ He reached out and placed a fatherly hand on Owen’s shoulder. ‘It was fast. I’m not a cruel man, Owen. I made it quick, many were asleep. The others? We’re keeping them safe.’

  Owen shook his head, despite the pain. He felt tears streaming down his eyes.

  ‘You fucker. You fucker.’

  ‘I had to, I couldn’t risk it. It was your people or mine. This world has changed, Owen. I told you, back in Scotia, people don’t work together, they take what they can and if it means taking it from someone else, so be it. My people will follow me, and now they have something to call their own, a proper home. And I mean to keep it. And that,’ he pushed himself up, ‘is why you are still around. I figure we might get more of your people coming back. I need you around to keep them honest.’

  ‘They’ll fight you,’ warned Owen. ‘I won’t order them to do otherwise.’