“Huronian soldiers killed her?”
The bump in Vyder’s throat rose and fell. “Huronian hunters.”
“Now you kill Huron?”
He held his palms out towards her. “Too many questions.”
Vyder stood and walked away. She watched his departing back before he was consumed by shadow at the far edges of the campfire.
We are not so dissimilar. The Huronians killed my people, used them as slaves, poisoned them, spread disease. They would have annihilated us as a people had my ancestors not chosen to flee north.
She clenched her jaw and snapped the twig between her fingers, throwing the pieces into the fire.
“We are same, you and I,” she called into the darkness.
Silence greeted her words.
Even if the crazy one attacks, I’ll not kill this one. I’ll run away.
She heard a branch snap underfoot and saw movement amongst the shadows. A moment later Vyder’s form appeared in the flickering light offered by the campfire. She drew herself up into a crouch, legs bunched beneath her as those mismatched eyes bored into her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a small gap between a thick shrub and tall tree.
That’s my line of escape if the crazy one is back.
Snapping her focus back to the approaching man, she noticed he still glared at her. He stopped on the far side of the fire and sat.
“I’m about to rescue a prince of Wendurlund.” It was Vyder’s voice.
She relaxed.
Prince.
She thought about the word. It was unfamiliar. Although the Wendurlund language was solidifying in her mind the more she spoke and listened to it, that one word caused her pause.
“The son of a war chief,” he added.
“You kill Huron to rescue this warrior?”
The hint of a smile teased the corner of Vyder’s lips. “I suppose so, yes.”
Ahitika touched her breastplate, the power emanating through her. “Then I come with you.”
* * *
Captain Rone sat upon his warhorse in the centre of the King’s Own column, wending its way back towards Wendurlund territory. Their scouting mission at an end, it would be up to another King’s Own unit to ride out into the wildlands of Huron. As with every other unit that had returned from such trips deep into enemy territory, his men were unkempt, their mouths hidden beneath thick beards, long hair touching shoulders. Dust and dried mud smeared their armour, although their weapons remained pristine.
They filed through thick forest, which would eventually become the Likane Forest of Eastern Wendurlund. He had chosen not to patrol along the road paralleling them somewhere in the distance of the thick forest. Rone had been an officer of the King’s Own for close to a decade and grim experience had taught him walking along a road was recipe for an ambush.
A staccato of dull thumps made him turn in the saddle. He watched one of the rear scouts cantering through the forest towards him.
Where’s the other scout?
He’d sent two soldiers forward of the column to give them early warning were they to be riding into an ambush or particularly rough terrain. The other pair of scouts he’d ordered to remain behind the column and watch their route of departure for an enemy force that may have discovered them and were following. The scout reigned in his destrier beside Rone.
He strained to hear the scout’s voice. “You need to see this, sir.”
Rone cleared his throat as quiet as possible. “Where’s the second scout?” he whispered.
“Still in position.”
He nodded. “We have an enemy force tailing us?”
The scout paused for a moment. He shifted in his saddle. “Not quite, sir, no. But you need to see it all the same.”
“Wait here.”
Rone turned to Baras, his bugler. “With me, Baras.”
He pushed his heels against the flank of the horse and the animal responded instantly, accelerating into a canter, the hessian sacks tied around each hoof dampening the thuds. He allowed the destrier to pick its way around trees as he moved towards the head of the column of King’s Own. Twice he was forced to lay flat upon the animal’s neck as low hanging boughs swept mere inches overhead. Horse after horse passed them by. He pulled gently upon the reins so he was walking beside Dreas, his most senior subunit commander, leading the column.
“Sir?”
“Hold this course, Dreas, I’m heading back to our rear scouts.”
Dreas’s eyes narrowed. “Enemy follow up?”
“Apparently not. I shouldn’t be long.”
Dreas touched his temple with an index finger. “Right you are, sir.”
He nodded, looked at Baras, then jerked his head in the direction in which they’d just come. Baras turned and cantered away, Rone following suit. As he passed along the column, Rone spotted the scout and signalled the soldier to him. The scout broke formation and within moments was cantering in front of Rone, heading back the way the column had travelled.
After several miles, the scout slowed and nudged his mount down a small embankment into a small, open space in the forest. Rone noticed the second scout’s horse tied to a tree, grazing in silence. Rone leaned down and checked the hessian sacks were still secured around his boots. When he was satisfied, he withdrew his musket and dismounted. The sacks over the boots of his soldiers greatly diminished their sound as they patrolled, but also thwarted the task of tracking them. A set of clear boot prints gave a tracker a vast array of information about his quarry. Size, weight, boot prints may distinguish the soldiers of a particular army, and even a unit within that army. A shortened pace on one stride may indicate a limp and therefore the possibility of injury. The hessian sack tied around each boot was rudimentary, but made tracking just that little more difficult. He led his warhorse across the leaf litter past a campfire. He paused and kicked the charcoal.
Relatively fresh, may a day or two old.
He caught the scout’s eye, who held up two fingers before gesturing towards the campfire at his feet.
Two day’s old.
He moved on. Passing an open palm along the neck of his horse, he tied the reins loosely around a nearby branch and ensured the horse had enough free rein that it could drop its head to graze upon the pick. He held the musket across his body, index finger touching the trigger guard. Baras finished tying his horse before joining them. Rone gestured for the scout to lead the way. He paused, watching the soldier’s departing back, allowing the scout to gain distance from them. Maintaining a good distance made it more difficult for the enemy were they to walk into an ambush where a musket volley would decimate a group of soldiers bunched together.
He began walking, careful where he placed his feet, avoiding dead branches, or saplings, where pushing past them would cause unnecessary extra noise and movement. The trio moved in near silence. Several birds fluttered in the branches high above them, calling between one another. But, another noise, distant to begin with, pervaded the forest. As they advanced, the familiar noise grew in volume. Rone’s eyebrows drew together and he clenched his jaw.
Military drums.
The beats fell in a precise, repeating pattern.
Sounding the beat for marching soldiers. Gods.
The scout swung around to him as he walked. Rone was not oblivious to the concern in the soldier’s eyes, before he turned away again, leading the way up a small hill that would give them a good visual of the open plain Rone knew would roll out in the distance below them.
I’m not sure I want to see what will be upon the plain.
He passed between two trees and stopped in front of a sapling barring his advance. Touching the thin trunk, Rone pushed it aside slowly, side stepped around it and then guided the trunk back into place. When the upper branches of the sapling stopped moving, he removed his hand and continued to follow his scout.
Light invaded the forest as the trees thinned out and blue sky drifted in through the gaps in the canopy. R
one noticed the scout crouch beside a thick shrub. He came to a stop and knelt beside his scout.
“Morning sir,” the shrub whispered.
Rone flinched and turned and caught the stern glare of his second scout hidden within the shrub.
“We got a problem.”
The loud drum beats brought him back and he looked out upon the plain below them. A cold wave swept across his chest and down into his guts as his eyes drifted across the endless ranks of Huronian infantry, line after line, unit after unit. Cavalry, auxiliary cavalry and the small square of household horsemen dedicated to protecting their king. He did a rapid calculation in his mind.
“At least thirty thousand, sir.” Rone could barely make out the soft words.
If not more. Two things to note, they’re marching west, towards Wendurlund and their king is with them. So definitely not some training exercise then.
“Seems we are at war, sir.”
“It would seem so gentlemen.”
The first scout touched Rone’s shoulder. “There’s something else, sir. Look to the centre of the Army.”
He watched the massive formation, almost a mighty beast in its own right from this distance. Flashes of sunlight glanced from steel as armoured men marched, like light reflected from a babbling river.
“In the centre, sir. The wagon,” the second scout’s whispered voice pitched in.
Then he saw it, a small, wooden prison wagon rolling along between vast squares of infantry. He squinted and could make out the tiny figure of a man sat on the floor.
“What of it?”
“It’s him, sir.”
He frowned. “Speak plainly man, who?”
“It is Prince Henry, sir.”
Another shard of ice lanced through his body, his lips parting, eyes widening. He licked his lips. “Are you sure?”
“They call me Eagle Eye for a reason, sir. I’m sure. It’s the prince.”
Rone’s lips peeled apart and his teeth flashed from the depths of his beard as he snarled. He turned to the first scout and clenched a hold of his shoulder. “You lad, ride back to the column, halt them and bring them back here. Fast and quiet.”
Rone released the man who brushed past him without a word and made his way back the way they’d travelled so recently. He looked out at the seemingly infinite army marching on the plain beneath them.
“We have work to do.”
XII
Crouched behind a shrub, Vyder swept his gaze across the campfires that dotted the night enshrouded plain in a mighty circle. The sheer number of them gave some indication to the mighty army that were at harbour for the night. After the Army moved out into its position for the evening, parties were sent out in all directions into the forest to gather wood. The incessant clop of axes rang out all around Vyder as he and Ahitika remained hidden. One roving party had come within visual distance of him, but they remained ignorant of the assassin in their midst. He’d waited until nightfall before moving forward to a closer position. The ring created by the campfires was more than five miles across, at least. Occasionally, Vyder heard distant singing or laughter drift to his ears as the breeze changed direction. Around the closest campfire were several hundred soldiers. Some sat in groups, talking, others stood in idle gatherings, while some slept. Shifting his position to alleviate the ache in one foot, he saw all either had their personal weapons carried with them, or on the ground within arm’s reach. That spoke of discipline and training.
What are we waiting for brother?
“Give me a moment, Gorgoroth,” Vyder whispered. “We can’t just walk in without a plan.”
Why? You have me now, remember? You’re more than sure it was the king’s son locked up in that prison wagon. So we need to get in there one way or another. No time like the present.
He felt a soft touch on his elbow. “You talk to crazy one?”
The assassin looked at the young Kalote woman beside him. Her head was cocked, eyes wide and he knew she was ready to flee at the hint of Gorgoroth’s presence.
“You’re safe Ahitika.”
She relaxed and returned her attention to the army arrayed in the darkness before them, her black hair and olive skin making her almost invisible in the darkness. “What we wait for?”
See? The woman is all for strolling in as well! I’m beginning to like her.
He allowed air to fill his lungs before he let it out in a sharp exhalation. Although there might have been a massive army arrayed before him, infiltrating their ranks was far easier than gaining entry to a castle. Huge numbers of soldiers mixed with the dark of night could work in their favour. If things turned sour, confusion would reign supreme, giving him the upper hand.
“We wait for a moment Ahitika, there’re probably soldiers watching the perimetre of the encampment, hidden in the darkness. I need to work out where they’re most likely to be before we just wander on in.”
There’s no way to know for sure without wandering on in.
“How you know without walking forward?”
Vyder gritted his teeth, sat in silence and listened to the laughter peeling out in his mind.
I like her. Yes, I like her.
“I thought you hated all humans?” he whispered.
Not any more, brother. Shall we?
“Stay low and quiet, Ahitika. We move at a snail’s pace.”
He stood, withdrew his knife with one smooth, slow movement and stepped forward into the night, mindful of his footing. Although Vyder didn’t check to see if Ahitika followed, he heard the soft pad of her moccasins behind him. Glaring at the campfire in the near distance, he watched for rapid movement or sudden calls of warning to suggest they were alerted to his presence.
The soldiers illuminated orange by the dancing flames of the fire remained in position, oblivious to what was happening outside of their circle of light. The air was cool, a refreshing change from the oppressive heat of the day. His shin slammed into a fallen branch and he winced, coming to a stop. Taking a pace back, he raised one foot and stepped over the obstacle with methodical lack of speed. Ahitika was crouched beside a tree, her face glowing in the soft light thrown by the fire in the near distance. She was looking back at him, waiting for him to catch up.
She is at home in the darkness.
Negotiating over a much smaller branch, he knelt beside her. She tapped his arm and gestured in front of them. Leaning towards him, she placed a cupped hand against his ear.
“Two soldiers sitting in grass, facing outward watching on other side of this tree.”
He nodded. “Are you sure?”
She raised one eyebrow and glared at him.
“Do they know we’re here?”
Her shoulders rose and fell in rapid motion, then finally her eyebrow fell into line with the other and she turned away.
Vyder stood, the crack of his knee seemed deafening in the night.
You’re getting old.
Vyder felt suddenly numb, a heaviness creeping into his arms and legs.
Allow me, brother.
Gorgoroth dodged the tree and inside four strides was at full sprint. He leapt high, flying over the heads of the seated guards and landed lightly behind them. Swivelling around, he faced the backs of the soldiers. Before they could cry a warning, the first died with the hunting knife embedded in his neck at the base of the skull. Gorgoroth ripped the blade free and as the second soldier was half way to his feet, slammed it into the same area of his neck. The man was dead before his body thudded onto the ground.
Vyder clenched and opened his hands as feeling returned to his body. He covered his mouth and supressed a cough. Kneeling beside the taller of the two sentries, he unbuckled the deceased man’s armour.
“What you do?”
He looked up at the Kalote woman standing over him.
“Get changed,” he whispered. “If we come across any soldiers, it’ll be easier to blend in if we’re wearing their uniforms.” He
gestured towards the dead men at his feet.
She shrugged. “We come across soldiers, we kill them.”
Vyder ignored the roar of laughter peeling through his mind.
“Not when there’re tens of thousands of them. You don’t know the Huronians. We’ll be dead or worse if they find out who we are.”
Ahitika moved in a blur and before he knew it, she was staring into his face. Her teeth bared, eyes wide, the flames in the near distance glinting from them, lending power to her fury.
“Don’t tell me I not know these people. This our land! Kalote land!” she swept her hand out to encompass their surroundings. “I know Huron, my people know Huron. They are enemy. I kill Huron warriors where I find them.” She tapped the scalps hung from her belt. “And if they strong warrior, I take scalp.”
Vyder took a deep breath and let it out slow. “I’m sorry, Ahitika. I meant nothing by it.”
She spoke rapid words in the Kalote language, spat on the ground, then turned away. She began to unbuckle the armour of the second sentry. Vyder dragged the armour clear, placed it on and began buckling it up. He was immediately aware of the weight, but knew his body would adjust. He flicked the cloak off his shoulder and felt it billow out behind him, touching the back of his trousers, then stooped to drag clear the armour leggings of the dead guard. The weight of the chest armour tipped him off balance and Vyder nearly fell as he was pulling on the leggings. They fit well over his trousers. Unclipping the strap beneath the cooling skin of the guard’s chin, he lifted clear the open-faced helmet and lowered it onto his head. Tightening the strap, beneath his jaw, he locked it into place.
He turned to the Kalote woman. “Nearly finished?”
She stood before him, the chest armour several sizes too large, armoured leggings barely fitting and the helmet sitting so low on her head it hid the top of her eyes. Vyder supressed a laugh.
“Comfortable?” he couldn’t help the smile that creased his lips.
Narrowed, partially hidden eyes glared up at him from beneath the helmet. “Let us get it done.”
Vyder strode through the knee-length grass in the direction of the prison wagon. He’d burned the direction of the wagon into his mind prior to the dying sun slipping below the horizon. Confidence reasserted itself. Were they to be seen, they’d just look like another couple of guards.
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