What Kind of Man
“Wynter? Wyn? Come along now …”
She drifted up to the smell of food, and Razi’s deep voice whispering.
“Huh?” she said none too intelligently, and squinted up into his sooty face.
“Here you go,” he said, offering her a bowl of the spicy soup he’d made from their supplies.
She took it from him, yawning and bleary, and pulled herself up from her cramped slouch. Her back screeched dully, but the pain was nowhere near as bad as before. She was shocked to see evening light slanting low and golden through the trees.
“J… Jesu,” she croaked. “Was I asleep?”
“If your snoring was anything to go by, then I would wager that yes, you were.” He turned to Christopher, another bowl in his hand. The young man was limp and motionless, his hands folded on his chest, his head laid back into the crooked embrace of tree roots. Even so utterly relaxed, Christopher had a sleepless look to him, the skin under his eyes swollen, his face drawn, as if exhaustion were a permanent resident in his face. Razi hesitated, then he bent to lay the bowl of food by the fire.
A twig snapped in the trees and Razi jerked his eyes up, his hand dropping to his sword. There was a huge man silhouetted at the tree line. Razi crouched and unhooked his sword, and the man turned, yelling into the trees behind him. Whatever it was that he shouted was lost in Razi’s furious bellow. Wynter barely had time to push to her hands and knees, her back screaming in protest, before Razi drew his weapon and leapt across the flames. He kicked the man hard in the stomach and brought his sword flashing down onto his head. With a cry, the big man fell onto his back, bringing his shield up just in time to absorb Razi’s ferocious blow.
The falchion sword sliced through the shield with ease, biting into the man’s collarbone in a blow that would have taken the head from his shoulders had it not been deflected. The man screamed and his blood shot up in a fine spray to redden Razi’s hands and stipple his snarling face.
Wynter scurried forward, scrambling for her travel belt and the knife it contained. Christopher surged silently to his feet, his katar already in hand, his grasp of the situation uncertain.
Razi planted his foot firmly on the man’s shield, holding him in place. He pulled his sword free with a cracking splinter of wood and raised it over his head, ready for the fatal blow.
Something low and grey shot from the trees. It hit Razi full in the chest, bearing him backwards and away from the man, carrying him to the ground. Christopher screamed and rushed across the clearing, the katar flashing. Another murderous shape launched itself from the shadows and Christopher was carried backwards, missing the campfire by inches and landing in an explosion of leaves at the base of a tree.
Wynter screamed and struggled with the tangle of her belt, trying to release her knife. I here was the sound of yelling and someone ran into the clearing. A panicked voice shouted in Hadrish, “Drop the weapons! Frith an Domhain, drop! Coinín! Abair leo a gcuid airm a chaithcamb uathu!”
Wynter froze and crouched, glaring through the tangled mess of her fringe. Ashkr, wild-eyed and frantic, stood at the edge of the trees, his sword drawn.
In the shadows, Wari rolled to his side, clutching his shoulder as blood flowed out between his fingers. He was white-faced with pain. At his feet, Razi lay pinned to the ground, a huge warhound standing over him, its jaws clamped around his throat. Razi, his hands knotted in the dog’s fur, gagged, and Wynter saw the flesh of his neck dimple under the pressure of the hound’s teeth.
Across the fire, metal clinked softly against stone as Christopher allowed his knife to drop from his hand. A second warhound stood over him, its teeth locked on his straining neck. Wynter lurched to her knees, not knowing which way to turn, and Christopher rolled terrified grey eyes to her, and held out his hand. Do nothing! Do nothing! Slowly he lowered his shaking hands to the ground, and he allowed his body to relax under the arch of the big dog’s legs. To Wynter’s relief, she saw the powerful jaws ease up slightly on Christopher’s throat.
Razi gagged again, and a line of blood flowed around the taut curve of his neck as the hound’s teeth punctured his skin.
“Brother,” cried Wynter, “do not struggle.” Razi stilled and Wynter saw him force himself to relax. His hands drifted to the ground. The warhound instantly eased its grip, and Wynter’s eyes fluttered shut in momentary relief.
Ashkr edged forward, his sword up, his eyes on Wynter. He glanced at Wari as he passed him by, and asked something in Merron. Wari, still clutching his wounded shoulder, forced a reply through gritted teeth. Ashkr came around to kick Razi’s sword into the bushes, and then stood looking down at him, his navy eyes cold.
He flicked a glance at Wynter. “Throw your weapon into bush,” heng her travel belt into the bushes. The warhounds jerked at the sudden movement, their growls intensifying, their eyes turning to her. Christopher made an unconscious moan of fear, and Razi’s hands flew upwards as the great jaws tightened on their throats.
Ashkr hissed and snapped something to the dogs. Razi’s hands drifted down into the leaves again as the hounds relaxed their grip once more. He glared up at the tall blond, his face full of hate. Ashkr balanced his sword in his gloved hand and spoke to Wynter. “Iseult,” he said. “Bring to me all your weapons.” She looked to Razi, and Ashkr yelled at her. “Now!”
Wynter scrambled stiffly to her feet and limped around the camp, picking up Christopher’s katar, his crossbow, her short sword and Razi’s matchlock. “Now, the knife in Coinín’s boot and on the leg of Tabiyb.” Fuming, Wynter stooped to slip Razi’s knife from the sheath on his thigh. She looked up into his face as she did so, but he was glaring at Ashkr with trembling fury.
She crossed to disarm Christopher, and he shifted to try and see her as she slid the dagger from his boot. She looked into his eyes, and his face creased in agonised apology. Wynter grabbed his hand, holding his gaze. It’s all right, love. It’s not your fault. Christopher closed his eyes and swallowed against the constricting teeth of the warhound. Wynter squeezed his fingers. Then she rose to her feet and dumped their weapons into the bushes before returning to Ashkr.
He levelled his sword at her, and his eyes flicked to Wari, who was groaning and trying to pull himself into a sitting position. Ashkr said something. At Wari’s strained reply, Ashkr’s eyes went hard with fury and he suddenly pressed his sword to Wynter’s neck.
There was such rage in his handsome face that Wynter thought he was going to slit her throat right there, but he just kept the blade on her neck, and ordered, “Kneel! Now! Hands in legs!”
She wasn’t sure what he meant but she sank to her knees, her hands up, looking him in the eye all the time. “Hands in legs, Iseult! Hands in legs!” He tapped her raised hands with the flat of his sword and, in a flash of understanding, she tucked them in behind her knees and knelt down on them.
She glanced at Razi. He was straining against the awkward angle of his head, his eyes wide with fear for her. He watched as the tall blond brought his blade to Wynter’s throat again. Wynter felt the sharp metal grate against her pulse, and she drew her head back, locking eyes with Razi, trying not to look frightened.
“Tabiyb,” snarled Ashkr, his voice tight with fury. “Why you put fight to Wari? What for you harm?”
Razi’s eyes widened in disbelief, and Wynter glanced across at the wounded man. He was slumped against the base of a tree, his eyes screwed shut in pain, his blood-soaked hand pressed to his shoulder. Wynter dropped her eyes to his sword and moaned.
“Oh Christ, Razi,” she whispered. “He had not even unhooked the keep on his scabbard. I do not think he ever intended to attack.”
Razi stared up at her. No, no… you are wrong.
She met his eyes and shook her head regretfully. I am not. Razi groaned and pressed his head back into the leaves, appalled. The dog’s saliva mingled with the blood from Razi’s neck, trailing to the ground in revolting strings, and Razi looked beseechingly at Ashkr, rai
sing his hands from the ground, palms up. Ashkr frowned at him for a moment before realising that Razi was too frightened to speak with the dog’s teeth still puncturing his throat.
He clicked his fingers. “Tarraing siar, Boro.”
At once the huge hound released its grip on Razi’s neck and stood over him, snarling, its long teeth only inches from his terrified face. Razi held its eyes, too frightened to look away. “I am sorry, Ashkr,” he grated. “I thought he meant us harm. I thought—”
Ashkr clicked his fingers again and said, “Anseo, Boro. Anois!” The dog turned away at once and trotted across to flop placidly at its master’s feet.
Razi rolled to his side, his hands flying to his throat, then lurched to his knees. His eyes flicked from Wynter, still kneeling with Ashkr’s sword at her throat, to Christopher, splayed beneath the legs of the other growling warhound.
“Let them go!” he rasped. “Let …” He coughed and wiped his neck free of slime and blood. “Ashkr, let them go.”
Ashkr stood tall, his face rigid with anger, his blond hair drifting around him in the evening light. “You fix Wari, Tabiyb!” he said coldly. “Now! You make Wari good, and not do more harm.” Razi, his hands to his throat, looked up into Ashkr’s furious eyes and nodded.
“I have broken your collarbone,” said Razi, indicating the bandages that held Wari’s huge arm to his chest. “I’m afraid you must keep your arm like this for at least two months, so that the soft ends of the bone may harden against each other. It is vital that …” As Razi proceeded with a stream of instructions, Wari continued to glare at him. Ashkr, who insisted on communicating through his sparse Hadrish, stood over them both and translated as best he could.
At the fire, Wynter placed her empty soup howl on the ground and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. The hounds followed her every movement with their eyes. “Christopher,” she whispered. “Why doesn’t Ashkr just speak Merron and have you translate?”
“If Ashkr starts to speak Merron, girly, you’ll know he thinks yourself and Razi below respect and we will be in real trouble.” He looked down at his untouched soup and held the bowl out to one of the hounds. It glanced guiltily towards Ashkr and slunk forward. Christopher put the bowl on the ground, and watched as the huge creature ate the meal he seemed to have no stomach for. Then he addressed Ashkr in cold Hadrish.
“What do you want with us, Caora? Why are you here?”
Ashkr glanced at him. Then he turned back to Razi who was looking up at him, wiping his bloody hands on a cloth. Ashkr still had his sword in his hand, levelled at Razi’s head. “Can Wari be safe on horse now, Tabiyb? Can we go on?”
Razi nodded. “It will cause him pain, and he must be careful that—”
Before Razi could finish, Wari had pushed himself to his feet and turned for his horse.
Ashkr gestured with his sword, motioning Razi to his horse. “Come,” he snapped. “Get things. Get doctor things. We go.”
Razi rose slowly to his feet, Wynter and Christopher did the same.
“Are you asking for my help?” asked Razi. “After your people ran off and left us? After they left Christopher?”
“Safety of my peoples come before that of strangers. We needed move quick.”
“But now you need my help? Is that it? Now you need me, so you—”
“What has happened?” interrupted Christopher, his eyes on Ashkr.
Ashkr snapped his attention to him. “Sólmundr bad,” he said. “He near… near to… Sól bad. Need help.”
“Oh,” said Christopher softly, “Sólmundr.”
Ashkr looked back to Razi, deep distress evident in his face. “Sól not want you help him, Tabiyb. He think …” He dropped his eyes. Whatever it was that Sólmundr thought, Ashkr decided not to share, instead he rambled on in broken Hadrish, his expression more and more desperate. “Úlfnaor not want you help, he say that Hallvor do all. Ach Hallvor, duairt sí… Hallvor, she say that nothing left she do can to help.” Ashkr shook his head at that, his face crumbling. “But I want you help, Tabiyb. I want you save Sól, like Coinín say you able.” He looked pleadingly at Razi. “Please, Tabiyb, to you I am begging. Fix Sól.”
To Wynter’s utter shock, Razi’s face grew stiff as ice and he shook his head coldly.
“Go to hell,” he snarled.
Ashkr gaped. Wari stood with his hand on his horse’s neck and froze in absolute horror. He perhaps did not fully understand the words, but he couldn’t possibly have missed the sentiment. “Cad é?” he said, his tone one of disbelief.
“Go to hell,” repeated Razi. “How dare you? After—?”
“Tabhair nóiméad dúinn,” said Christopher, stepping forward with a strained smile, holding his hand up to the stunned Merron.
Razi rounded on him. “What did you just say?” he growled in Southlandast. “What did you just say, Christopher? Because I am not helping them! I’m not! Why should I?”
“Because that’s who you are! You’re a man who fixes; you’re a man who heals. Or have the Wolves stolen that from us too?”
Razi blinked, and his eyes slid away.
“Besides,” said Christopher, nodding reassuringly to Ashkr, and moving to pick up their things. There was a trace of his old sly humour in his voice and he glanced at Wynter and gave her a weary half-smile as he said, “I have a feeling the Merron might know the way to your brother’s camp a lot better than we do.”
The Will of the World
Ashkr set a gruelling pace, forging relentlessly onwards, his face set, his posture taut. Wynter could tell that he was trying hard to make allowances for their ragged state, but if anyone lagged behind for too long, the desperate man would eventually heave his mount in a tight circle, gallop around to the straggler and ride alongside them, urging, “Hurry! Hurry! Please, to you I am begging, can you hurry?”
Over an hour later, when they finally crested a hill and found themselves looking down on the Merron camp, Wynter almost fell from her horse with pain and relief. Beside her, Wari moaned what sounded like a prayer of thanksgiving, and Christopher relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the pommel of his saddle. Razi, silent for the whole journey, sat rigid and wary, looking down at the tents below.
Ashkr spurred his horse down the hill and between the tents, heading for the rear of the camp. His hounds accompanied him, baying and howling, and the other dogs flowed from the shadows to greet them. It was very late in the evening, dusk settling in a rosy haze over the tops of the trees, and glowing cookfires scented the misty air. All around the camp, men and women exited tents and rose from campfires, looking up at the little knot of travellers that straggled behind their returning lord.
“Wari!” shouted a woman, panic evident in her voice. “Wari!” She began to run forward, and Wari, hearing her voice, straightened from his agonised slump. He lifted his good arm in weary greeting as he trotted from the trees, and several men and women advanced on him in concern. There were noises of outrage over his injury. Razi began to walk his horse through the crowding Merron, and Wynter and Christopher fell into place behind him.
Up ahead, Ashkr brought his horse to a sliding halt. He leapt from the saddle and ran the last few yards to where Embla was emerging from the depths of a tent. Anxiously, Ashkr grabbed his sister’s shoulders and questioned her. She put her hand on his chest and her reply caused Ashkr to cry out in despair. He pushed his way past her, the tent-flap closing behind him with a snap. Embla stood looking after him for a moment, then she turned to watch as Razi, Wynter and Christopher made their way towards her. There was no welcome in her beautiful face, only strain, and a distressed sorrow that was on the edge of tears.
Wynter glanced around them as they made their way towards the waiting lady. The camp consisted of eight or nine of the Merron’s famous conical tents, most of them lit from within, most with small cookfires out front. Wynter squinted to see into the gathering dusk beyond the fires. There were a score or more of horses, side hobbled and set loose to graze on the grassy pla
in that sloped down to the river. Behind the tents a series of washing lines fluttered in the breeze, and there were large piles of firewood dotted about. This was no hastily erected sick-stop; this was a well established, well selected, semi-permanent camp. Perhaps a base from which the Merron intended to operate.
Wynter began to suspect that the men and women who had been waiting in the trees at the Wherry Tavern had been an advance party, sent ahead to prepare for the arrival of their lords and lady. She saw Razi studying the environs, no doubt coming to similar conclusions. Christopher was slouched in his saddle, guiding his mount one-handed through the wary crowd. He only had eyes for Embla, and he seemed to be reading her face, judging her intent.
Embla cast a brief glance at Wynter and Christopher, then turned all her attention to Razi. He brought his horse to a stop and sat looking coldly down at her, waiting.
“Sól will not let you to treat him,” Embla said softly. “It not matters what Ash says.”
Razi eyed her without replying, grunted and slid from his saddle. Wynter saw him hide a stagger as he hit the ground, and for the first time it occurred to her how exhausted he must be. “Wyn—” he said, then cleared his throat. “Iseult,” he amended, lifting his arms. “Come along.” He took Wynter by the waist, and Embla frowned in concern as she saw the wince that Wynter couldn’t hide. Her navy eyes darted between Wynter and Christopher, and she seemed genuinely shocked at their battered appearance.
Razi gazed up into Wynter’s face. “Are you ready?” he whispered. She nodded, biting her lip, and Razi used all his strength to swing her from her horse. Pain exploded and everything threatened to fade out for a moment, but her senses returned almost immediately, and she was able to push from his grip and support her own weight before her weakness became too obvious. Razi turned to look questioningly at Christopher. The young man hesitated, then he set his jaw and slid from the saddle unaided. Razi placed a discreet hand on his back to steady him, and then turned to Embla.
The Crowded Shadows Page 19