by Anthony Ryan
My pursuer had made the unwise decision of leaping in order to swing his sword at my chest, lowering his shield in the process. As a consequence, there was nothing to prevent the bolt from finding his cheek just to the left of the iron guard covering his nose. The stirrup crossbow lacked the power of its windlass cousin, but at so close a range it had no difficulty in driving a bolt clear through the muscle and bone of a man’s face and into the brain beyond. The shield-bearer was dead before he hit the ground.
I lost no time in recharging the crossbow, setting the second bolt in place and levelling it at the trio of warriors still assailing Wilhum. All notion of fleeing the scene had gone now, as is often the way when the fight takes hold, banishing rational thought and leaving just the compulsion to do further injury.
Instinct guided my aim to the tallest of the three, an axe-wielding bear of a man who also wore a helm but no armour to protect his legs. He staggered as the bolt sank into the rear of his thigh, Wilhum taking swift advantage of the distraction to lunge forwards and spit the axe wielder through the neck. Wilhum kept his sword in place, grabbing the spasming warrior’s shoulder and turning him to deflect another charge from one of his surviving assailants. He continued to use the dying man as a shield, heaving him to and fro to ward off further attacks.
I ran for Karnic, hoping to retrieve the quiver of bolts, but his fractious mood persisted. Wilhum’s mount had ceased its death struggles and Karnic’s herd-born instinct had seemingly died with it. He turned as I got near, preventing me from grabbing the quiver but briefly presenting the handle of my longsword. I managed to catch hold of the pommel, drawing the blade clear of the scabbard before Karnic reeled away, eyes wide in panic as he sped off.
“Fucking coward,” I muttered, hefting the sword and turning towards the three battling men. Wilhum still kept his near-dead makeshift shield upright while the two attackers constantly sought to flank him, however I could tell the former noble’s strength was close to its last ebb. The pair of swordsmen evidently saw it too, leaving off their assaults to draw back a little, one circling left, the other right. As soon as Wilhum allowed their spitted companion to fall his end would be swift in coming.
Noting the easy familiarity with which both men twirled their swords in anticipation, I deduced charging headlong into this fight would be too great a challenge for my still-meagre sword skills. Instead, I hurried to gather up the shield of the man who had fallen to my crossbow. It was a heavy contrivance, the oak planks that formed it daubed with a design in red and blue paint that spiralled out from an iron boss in its centre. However, with my body stoked by the heat of combat, it felt light enough as I fixed the straps over my forearm.
I chose the attacker to Wilhum’s right, since he seemed most preoccupied with his flagging prey. I crouched as I charged straight at the fellow, positioning the shield so it covered me from nose to crotch, and quelling the urge to voice a challenging shout. Due to this, or simple good fortune, he failed to turn until I was almost upon him. He did manage a swipe at my head, but I ducked in time and the blade only shaved splinters from the shield before the boss struck him in the chest.
He rebounded a few feet, shifting his stance so he didn’t fall, but the impact of the blow left him sluggish. He succeeded in parrying the thrust I aimed at his gut, but not in arresting the blade’s momentum, so that it slid down his own and bit deep into his hip. He fell, letting out a shout of mingled frustration and pain, snarling at me as I closed in for the killing blow. Before I could thrust, his companion forced me to duck again with an overhead swing of his sword. I caught it with the shield and replied with an ineffectual riposte, the fellow nimbly sidestepping the arcing blade and drawing his own back for another go, murderous intent writ large in his glaring features. His next blow never came, for at that juncture Wilhum’s longsword sliced off the top portion of the fellow’s golden-haired skull.
Seeing a human brain exposed in such a way is a morbidly fascinating sight. I stared transfixed at the revealed organ in all its glistening and partially mashed pinkness as the warrior tottered about, still clinging to life by some strange working of his soon-to-be-lifeless body. His lips mangled out what may have been a last word or two, but I doubted they made sense even in his own tongue. When he at last consented to topple over, I found all urges to further violence abruptly slip away to be replaced by a wave of deep, nauseous weariness that had me leaning on my sword, drawing in laboured breaths.
The wounded man lurched across the ground towards me, jabbing his sword at my legs, but it was a weak gesture. The cut I had dealt him had evidently nicked an important vein for a red torrent flowed thick down his legs. His eyes were hot coals of hatred amid rapidly paling features, teeth white as he bared them to cast out what I assumed to be a curse in a tongue I had never heard.
“‘Godless son of a whore’,” Wilhum said by way of translation. He stood with his longsword resting on his shoulder, regarding the stricken warrior with a grimly satisfied frown. The Crimson Hawk hadn’t been forgiven. “At least I think so,” he added. “My Ascarlian is a little rusty.”
“Can’t say he’s altogether wrong,” I replied, raising my face to the sky as sweat caught a chill kiss from the seaward wind.
“I must say, you surprised me, Scribe.” Wilhum’s tone was mostly reflective but also tinged with a measure of gratitude. “I’m shamed to say I assumed you’d be halfway back to Olversahl by now.”
Any sardonic reply I might have dreamt up was forgotten when the wounded Ascarlian suddenly launched into song. It was a discordant tune to my ear but presumably more melodious to his, or perhaps he was just a very poor singer. He tipped his head back as he sang, casting the words out to the sky. His voice was strong at first, but soon began to dwindle as his face grew ever paler.
“What was that?” I asked Wilhum when the song finally faded. The Ascarlian slumped onto his back, chest rising and falling with renewed energy as his body tried to stave off the inevitable end.
“His death ode.” Wilhum angled his head to watch the warrior’s final seconds play out. “He implores Ulthnir, Father of the Altvar, to recognise a warrior fallen in battle and accept his shade into the Halls of Aevnir, where the feast and the fight never end.”
Seeing the Ascarlian shudder out his last ragged breath, twitch a bit and lie still, I grunted, “I’d rather have the feast than the fight.”
“They’re the same thing.”
Wilhum was the first to react to the new voice, whirling about with his longsword poised for a thrust. My continuing fatigue was such that I responded with far less alacrity, grimacing at the shield’s suddenly irksome weight as I shifted it higher and rested my longsword atop the rim.
I had deduced already that Ascarlians were a tall breed, but the man standing a dozen paces off was of even more imposing stature than those we had just sent off to their mythic hall. I fancied he stood closer to seven feet than six, broad of shoulder and thick of limb. The fact that a man of such bulk had contrived to make a soundless approach was disturbingly impressive. A black bearskin lay over his shoulders, contrasting sharply with his unconstrained mass of steel-grey hair. A glance at the deeply lined and weathered visage above his equally grey beard, the skin marked by a complex mass of tattoos in faded blue ink, confirmed this was not a young man. Still, his age didn’t prevent him from easily hefting the huge axe in his hands. In addition to its size, the weapon was made even more disconcerting by virtue of its twin blades, fashioned from stone rather than steel.
The thought of another bout of combat was dispiriting enough, but fighting this monster surely meant doom. In any case, the notion became even less appealing at the sight of a score more Ascarlians spreading out on the slope behind him. Most carried swords and axes but there were also some archers among them, arrows notched to the strings of their longbows. However, it was the appearance of the two wolves that banished any thought of further battle from my mind.
They appeared on either side of the hulking Ascar
lian, one with fur of purest white, the other deep black, and both were massive. Wolves were a common enough sight in the Shavine Forest and, despite the many fear-filled tales spun about them, posed little danger as long as they were treated with careful respect. Shavine wolves were typically grey pelted and, while usually far larger than any dog, could not compete in size with this pair, both standing at least four feet at the shoulder. They settled placidly enough at the Ascarlian’s side, but the steady, unblinking gaze of their yellow eyes told me they possessed none of the fear of man instilled in their southern cousins.
I gave a hopeless laugh and lowered the shield while Wilhum bridled, bringing his longsword up so it was level with his eyes, the point aimed at the grey-haired giant. He snarled something in Ascarlian then and, although I never did learn what it was, it brought forth a hearty if derisive chorus of laughter from our foes. The two wolves sank a little lower, lips trembling in a burgeoning snarl. However, they calmed when the hulking axeman winced and said, “You sound like a vomiting cat.”
The Ascarlian’s voice was heavily accented but his Albermainish flowed with precisely spoken ease. “Please, insult my tongue no further.”
Wilhum said nothing but kept his sword where it was, not that this seemed to concern the Ascarlian overmuch. His gaze changed as it shifted to me, taking on a surprisingly expectant cast. I might have taken it for recognition but for there being no earthly chance either of us had ever clapped eyes on the other before this moment.
“This, I take it,” I said to Wilhum, “is the Tielwald you spoke of.”
The giant laughed before Wilhum could answer, bowing a little, albeit with a stiffness that indicated it was an unfamiliar gesture. “That I am. Margnus Gruinskard. It means Margnus of the Stoneaxe in your tongue.” His gaze roved briefly over the bodies surrounding us, displaying thoughtful admiration rather than anger. “And you, my brave and skilful friends?”
“Alwyn Scribe,” I said, returning the bow. “It means… Alwyn the scribe.” I glanced at Wilhum, finding his features taking on a worryingly reddened hue. “This is Wilhum Dornmahl. I don’t know what his name means. You’ll have to forgive his rudeness, but what you did to the wool merchant we found in the woods has stirred his chivalric nature.”
“Ah.” Margnus Gruinskard settled a steady gaze on Wilhum. “The Crimson Hawk is a just punishment for those who break oaths made to the Altvar. All the farmers of this land swore to sell no more wool to Olversahl. The man in the woods proved himself a liar and paid for it.”
“Was his oath freely given?” Wilhum demanded. “I doubt it. And are you going to feed his children now there is no one to fish the fjords and work the land?”
The Ascarlian stiffened a little, a faintly offended tone colouring his response. “Children do not go hungry in the realm of the Sister Queens. We are a people of few laws, but that is one we hold to.”
“This land does not belong to the Sister Queens,” I pointed out, adopting a far milder tone than Wilhum. “In fact, you are trespassing on the lawful domain of King Tomas Algathinet and I would thank you to remove yourself with all dispatch.”
The Tielwald’s face creased in puzzlement for a second before he let out a hearty chuckle, one that was swiftly echoed by his fellow warriors. The two wolves, however, merely yawned.
“You speak with flowers in your voice,” Margnus Gruinskard observed before nodding at Wilhum. “Yet this one’s voice is cleaner. He is, what is the term, ‘high born’? And you are low. Yes?”
“There is no distinction between high and low in Covenant Company,” Wilhum replied. “We are all equal in our devotion to the Seraphile’s grace and the Martyrs’ example.”
“Covenant Company.” The Tielwald repeated the words with evident distaste, shaking his head. “Still, after all these years, your people enslave themselves to lies. Is that why you are here? This is a—” his distaste turned to amusement “—grand crusade against the heathen?”
“We merely come to protect what is rightfully ours,” Wilhum said. “And has been so for centuries.”
The Ascarlian laughed again, but this time it was more of a short, bitter grunt. “When I was a boy, I stole a piglet from my neighbour, kept it hidden in the forest and raised it up into fine boar. We slaughtered and roasted him to honour the Altvar on my fifteenth birthday when, drunk and loose of tongue, I confessed to my father what I had done years before. He leathered my rump until it bled, then made me work a full winter on my neighbour’s farm in recompense. What is stolen remains so, regardless of time.”
Without warning he hefted his axe and started forwards. Wilhum tensed for an attack while I resisted the urge to raise the shield. Fighting was pointless now. I began to formulate some last witticism that might divert the coming slaughter but stilled my tongue when the giant kept clear of us, striding past to regard the body of the fellow whose shield I held. The Tielwald’s expression was one of impassive scrutiny but his tone sombre when he glanced at me once again, nodding to the shield.
“That is not yours to keep,” he said.
Eager for the chance to win any measure of favour, I unhooked the thick wooden circle from my arm and set it down. Margnus Gruinskard acknowledged the gesture with a fractional nod before resuming his scrutiny of the fallen warrior.
“This is Tahlwild, my nephew,” he said. “A fool and a braggart, it must be said, and his woman won’t mourn him, or his children if truth be told. But never let it be said that he failed to honour the Altvar, slacked at his oar, or turned his back to a bared blade. Now I have to carry his shield home to his mother. My sister’s tongue, when sharpened by grief, is not an easy thing to bear.”
I was pondering the wisdom of offering some form of apology when Wilhum burst out, “No one invited your kind here, Ascarlian. A pox on your nephew and your warband of cravens.”
I glared at him in exasperated reproach, seeing only anger and hunger for yet more blood in the stare he shot back. I realised then that he hadn’t sought out these interlopers to administer justice. This was to be his glorious end, the turncoat knight finding ultimate redemption in a hopeless but brave stand against the heathen northmen.
“Die if you want,” I hissed at him. “But don’t expect me to join you. I’m done saving your noble arse today.”
“I didn’t ask you to, Scribe,” he returned evenly. “She told you to let me run, didn’t she?”
My profanity-laden rejoinder was stilled at the sound of a loud cough from Margnus Gruinskard. When I turned to face him he had closed the distance between us by a considerable margin. I now stood well within the sweep of his axe while he was still clear of the reach of my sword.
“Fear me not,” he said and once again I saw the same expectant cast to his gaze. It turned to muted consternation when I replied with only a baffled grin that I’m sure bore more resemblance to a fearful grimace.
“Our fight is not ordained for today,” he went on, his hand moving to pluck a trinket from beneath his furs. It hung from his neck on a leather cord, a small nugget of silver fashioned by expert hands to resemble a knotted rope. As he worked it between thumb and forefinger I felt a pulse of heat beneath my jerkin. I would spend many hours later convincing myself it had been an illusion, some product of my near-panicked mind, but felt it I did. It was a small thing, no more than the warmth of a taper as it brushes your skin, but it was there, and it came from the token Berrine had given me. The token that was identical to the one now held by this Tielwald, a man who was both warrior and priest.
“Besides,” he added, “I have a request to make of you. I should be grateful if you would carry a message back to the captain of your company.” He let the silver knot fall from his fingers and raised his hand to point over my shoulder.
Still unnerved by the heated trinket and not altogether sure I wasn’t about to receive the full force of his stone axe between my shoulder blades, I turned to follow his outstretched finger. It pointed to the blue expanse of sea beyond the clifftop. The sun was
high in a mostly cloudless sky and the haze was low and thin. Consequently, it wasn’t long before I discerned a line of dark smudges on the horizon. I counted a dozen at first, then a dozen more, the smudges resolving into broad square sails. As they drew ever nearer, I made out the oars dipping and rising as the ships ploughed a course for this very stretch of shore, guided, no doubt, by the blazing beacon fire on the clifftop. I counted close to a hundred before the Tielwald spoke again.
“You are wrong to say we were not invited here.” I turned to find him crouching to retrieve his nephew’s shield. He gave a grim, almost apologetic smile as he rose, slinging it over his shoulder. “Go back to Olversahl and report what you saw. I would consider it a special favour if you would tell that dog Fohlvast personally. When we take the port, I’ll spare you long enough to hear you describe the look on his face.”
He hefted his axe and gestured towards the forest. “Now, my friends, it is time for you to go. I have a funeral feast to officiate and, while I appreciate your company, I regret to say your presence would not be welcomed by the Altvar.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Elderman Fohlvast’s expression upon hearing our report was certainly a sight worth seeing. He was unable to conceal the flare of utter terror that rose in his eyes, or the sudden, sweaty paling of his skin. I have seen many a man confront his worst fears and it is often mundane in its uniformity. Fohlvast’s bowels and bladder, I knew, were presently loosening while his heart drove rapid hammer blows against his chest. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see a pool of piss spread across the floor around his boots. Still, ever the actor, he made a valiant effort to master himself, coughing and trying to keep his features impassive as Evadine merely sighed and turned her gaze to the map unfurled on the large table in her quarters.