The Crowded Shadows

by Celine Kiernan

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  THE CROWDED SHADOWS,

  look out for

  THE REBEL PRINCE

  Book 3 of The Moorehawke Trilogy

  by Celine Kiernan

  When Wynter was five, her father dressed her in a little red coat, put her on the back of his horse, and took her on a picnic. Wynter remembered the drowsy movement of the horse beneath her, and leaning back into the warm support of her father as they travelled the forest paths. She remembered his strong arms encompassing her as he held the reins, the scent of woodshavings and resin from his clothes. She remembered the light coming through the foliage, and how it had moved across her hands, so small on the big leather pommel of Lorcan’s saddle.

  Lorcan’s friend, Jonathon, had been with them, and his sons, Razi and Alberon. All of them were happy, and laughing, which was something they seemed to do quite often back then. Just two friends and their beloved children out for a jaunt on a warm autumn day, getting the best of the good weather before winter finally tightened its grip. Looking back on it, Wynter knew there must have been some kind of military presence with them, but she had no recollection of soldiers or any kind of guards. Perhaps she was so used to the presence of soldiers around her father’s good friend that she no longer noticed them. She never thought of Jonathon as “The King” back then. She recalled only thinking of him as Jon, that big, golden-headed man, so quick to lose his temper but just as quick to show affection. He had been best friend to her own father, and father to her two best friends, those brothers of her heart: the dark, serious, protective Razi, and the grinningly impulsive, loving Alberon.

  Razi had kept trotting on ahead, his brown face all alight at the unexpected freedom of the day. Alberon was for the first time astride his own horse, and Wynter remembered watching with amused envy as he urged the little creature on, attempting to keep pace with his older half-brother. She recalled him calling anxiously across the sun-dappled air, “Razi! Razi! Don’t leave me!” and Razi’s smile as he turned back to wait.

  They had stopped at a ford, and the men had stripped to their underthings and run into the shallow water, whooping and splashing and laughing at the cold. Wynter had hopped from foot to foot on the edge of the water, watching as Alberon threw himself into his father’s arms. Jon had flung him high into the sunshine, Albi’s small face luminous with sun-glitter and joy.

  A warm presence by her side, and she had looked up into Razi’s smiling face.

  “Come on, darling.” He had offered his hand. “It’s only cold for a moment.” He led her carefully into the stream, her hand held tight in his, then her father had waded over and hoisted them, one under each water-chilled arm, and carried them out into the bright water to teach them how to swim.

  Almost eleven years later, Wynter Moorehawke sat on the warm, smooth-pebbled beach of a similar ford and listened to the furtive rustling of the surrounding forest. Half her mind was on the unintelligible conversation of the Merron warriors who sat on the rocks to her right, the other half on the forest shadows and all the lurking possibilities they might contain.

  Down by the water’s edge, the now twenty-year-old Razi crouched on his haunches and frowned out across the shallow water. For a blissful moment it seemed as though he might actually relax and sit down, but Wynter knew that he was unlikely to stay still for long. Sure enough, the dark young man almost immediately ran his hands through his hair, sighed in frustration, and rose, once again, to his feet.

  Do not start pacing, thought Wynter, but Razi, of course, did just that.

  His lanky silhouette stalked out of sight at the corner of her eye, then stalked right back in again, just as quick, and Wynter had to turn her head so that she wouldn’t be driven mad by his ceaseless prowling. Since Embla’s death, a deep and angry river of impatience ran very close to Razi’s surface, and it manifested itself in constant, irritating motion. Wynter felt genuine sympathy for Razi’s loss, but just at that moment, the crunch, crunch, crunch of his footsteps on the pebble shore was grating on her already stretched nerves. She tightened her jaw against the urge to snap at him.

  An irritated sigh drifted across from the group of warriors. “Tabiyb,” rumbled Úlfnaor, “sit down before I take back of my sword to your head.” Razi glowered and the black-haired Merron leader frowned. “Sit,” he ordered. “You wear me out.” Razi sat, and Úlfnaor nodded in approval. “They be back soon,” he said. “You take this time to rest.”

  The big man sounded calm, but even as he spoke, his dark eyes roamed the far bank with restless anxiety. His warriors sat tensely around him, the three women sharpening their swords, the three men staring at the trees on the other side of the ford. They had set out that morning expecting to make contact with Alberon and to engage him in diplomatic talks, so men and women alike were magnificently dressed in the pale green embroidered tunics and britches of the Merron formal costume, their arms and hands and necks heavy with silver tribal jewelry. But the day had grown old with no contact from the Rebel Prince, and evening was fast approaching. Wynter was beginning to fear that they had been misled.

  She met the eye of the Merron healer, Hallvor. The sinewy woman smiled reassuringly, but Wynter could see the tension in her face. Úlfnaor’s two giant warhounds were snuffling about at the water’s edge. They looked up as Hallvor rose to her feet. She sheathed her sword as she made her way to the shore, and the dogs wagged their tails, hoping for action. But Hallvor just laid a callused hand on each of their wiry heads and stood watching the trees on the other side. She murmured unhappily in Merron. Úlfnaor answered in soothing tones.

  Wynter wished that Christopher was here, and not just because she wanted him to translate. She frowned across the water, willing him to return. Behind her, the gravel crunched as Razi began to move about once again. His long shadow fell across Wynter and he hunkered by her side, his elbows on his knees, his eyes on the far bank.

  “I do not think we will be lucky here either,” he said quietly.

  Wynter nodded. Since early morning, the Merron had been making their way along this river, stopping at prearranged rendezvous points, waiting for Alberon’s men to show up and guide them to the rebel camp. This was the fourth such designated meeting place and it, like all the others, had proved deserted. They had been waiting for well over an hour now, but still Úlfnaor was loath to move on. Apparently if this rendezvous proved a wash-out, there was only one remaining point at which they could hope to meet their guides. If that, too, proved deserted, then the Merron’s diplomatic mission would be a failure. The Northern warriors would have to return to their homeland with their duty unfulfilled, and Razi, Wynter and Christopher would be no closer to finding Alberon’s camp than they had been almost three weeks previously.

  “Chris and Sól have been away too long,” murmured Wynter.

  Razi just sighed and rubbed his face. He did not bother to reply. He’d heard enough of this from her, but Wynter didn’t care. She was prickly with anxiety. There were less than four hours of daylight left, and she wanted Christopher where she could see him. She wanted him by her side, not out in the woods where the Loups-Garous might be prowling and where the King’s men were still actively hunting the rebels.

  “Úlfnaor should never have allowed Chris and Sól out there alone,” she said. “Reconnoitre be damned! Truth be told, I think he let them go just to shut the two of them up and give them something to do.”

  Razi huffed in agreement. Christopher was an incorrigibly reckless fellow at the best of times, and as for Sólmundr—since the loss of his beloved Ashkr, the Merron warrior seemed possessed of a dangerous, unquenchable kind of restlessness. He and Christopher seemed to spark each other off, and both were champing at the bit, longing for action. They had set off into the forest with far too much enthusiasm and far too little caution for Wynter’s liking. She wished they would come back. Even with Sólmundr’s warhound, Boro, by their side, she feared her two friends were horribly vulnerable out the
re.

  Wynter was opening her mouth to say so, when down by the river’s edge, Hallvor and the warhounds suddenly came to attention. Frowning, the healer took a step forward, her eyes on the trees. The warhounds growled, and Hallvor gestured sharply to quiet them.

  Razi and Wynter rose to their feet. On the rocks, the other Merron stood up, swords in hand.

  “Cad é, a Hallvor?” asked Úlfnaor.

  Hallvor shushed him, her attention fixed ahead. Then she pointed into the trees.

  “Coinín,” she said. “Agus é ag rith.”

  It was Christopher, running soundless and very fast through the trees, his long black hair flying behind him, his slim arms and legs pumping. He burst into the sunlight and crossed the shallow ford in a glitter of splashing footsteps. Boro and Sólmundr came racing after.

  “Quick!” hissed Christopher. “Someone’s coming, and they ain’t no diplomatic party!”

  The Merron spun for their horses, but Sólmundr called them back. He ran straight up the rocks and flung himself on the weapons pile, snatching up his longbow and arrows. His companions swerved to join him and he began hissing breathless explanations as they loaded up.

  Christopher’s grey eyes met Wynter’s as he slid to a halt at her side.

  “No time to run,” he said. “Make a stand! They’re right behind us.”

  She drew her sword. “How many?”

  “Have I time to load the matchlock?” asked Razi.

  Christopher shook his head to both questions. “No idea how many, don’t even think they know we’re here. But they’re heading straight for us and they’re in a damned big hurry. No time for the gun, Razi. Just draw your swords, the two of you, and stay behind the archers.”

  Sólmundr shouted, and Christopher spun just in time to catch the crossbow which the warrior had flung to him. Christopher’s quiver of black bolts came sailing after, and Wynter caught it one-handed while Christopher pulled the lever to draw his bow. She handed him a bolt. He loaded the bow as he spun to face the ford and Wynter stepped to his side, her sword in hand.

  Sólmundr shook his sandy hair from his eyes and drew his longbow, sighting on the trees. The Merron spread out along the beach, their longbows at the ready, their warhounds standing in disciplined silence at their sides. The wood and leather of the longbows creaked as the warriors put just enough tension on the strings to keep the arrows in place, not yet expending their energies on a full-draw. The buzzing quiet of the autumn evening settled around them as they waited.

  Christopher nestled the crossbow into the hollow of his shoulder. He settled his stance. “Here they come,” he whispered. Wynter could hear them now, coming up fast. So different to Christopher’s earlier silent approach; this was the noise of someone smashing heedlessly through the heavy forest. It was the sound of someone panicked, someone desperate. The Merron pulled their longbows to full-draw and levelled their aim.

  The man who crashed through the trees didn’t register them. He came staggering from the shade into the sunlight and splashed half way across the bright water without even noticing the row of imposing warriors standing on the far bank, tracking him with their arrows. His head was down, his arms wrapped around his belly, and all his energies seemed taken with simply putting one foot in front of the other.

  “Hold!” cried Wynter. “You hold now!”

  The man spun in response to her voice and staggered to a halt. Once his forward momentum deserted him, he seemed to lose his ability to stand and he immediately dropped to his knees and collapsed face-first into the shallow river. The water around him instantly turned red.

  There was a moment of stunned silence as the company watched the man’s blood swirl and spread and trail away in dark ribbons from his body. Then Razi threw his sword aside with a clatter and waded into mid-stream to roll the man onto his back.

  Wynter had assumed the poor fellow to be unconscious, but as soon as Razi lifted his face from the water the man took a gasping breath and clutched Razi’s coat with a bloody fist.

  “Help me,” he rasped. “Help me…” His half-opened eyes were on the Merron, who had switched their aim back to the trees and were dividing their attention between the newcomer and whoever might appear in pursuit of him.

  Razi began to heave the fellow up and Wynter ran to help him. Christopher splashed out after her. Without dropping his guard, he circled around in front of her and Razi, his crossbow aimed at the far bank.

  “Get yourselves behind the archers,” he ordered roughly.

  “Cavalry… cavalry…” moaned the wounded man as they dragged him to shore. “Escape… the Prince.”

  Razi met Wynter’s eyes across the top of the man’s head as they laid him on the warm stones of the beach. “You are a member of the King’s cavalry?” he murmured, turning the man over, and opening his jacket to check his injuries. Wynter winced at the sight of a pulsing wound in the poor fellow’s side. She had to look away from the mess of exposed bone and bulging organs.

  “I will fetch your medical bag,” she said.

  But Razi shook his head, his face grim, and Wynter knew there was nothing that could be done.

  Razi leant close. “You are a member of the cavalry?” he repeated gently.

  “Yes… no… not… they’re after me. Oh Jesu, help me…” The man began trying to crawl away, his bloody hands scrabbling on the smooth stones, his face twisted in pain. Blood pumped in horrible quantities from his wound and pooled on the rocks around him.

  “Shhh,” said Wynter, laying her hand on his face. “Lie easy… lie easy, friend.” The man stilled, and rested his head on the stones with a moan. “Who pursues you?” she asked.

  “The cavalry… the cavalry… the King’s men…”

  Wynter glanced at Razi. The King’s men.

  “You work for my brother,” said Razi softly.

  The man looked up into Razi’s dark face for the first time, and his eyes widened in fear. “Oh God help me,” he whispered. “You’re the Arab.” He moaned and closed his eyes. “Oh, I am lost.”

  “My father’s men pursue you?” asked Razi. “You seek the safety of the rebel camp?”

  “The Lord Razi is hoping to meet his brother at the rebel camp,” whispered Wynter. “He wishes to reconcile him to the King. We can take you to safety, if you will but show us the way to the Prince.” But the man just turned his face into the stones, convinced now that he was amongst enemies, determined to speak no more.

  “Razi,” said Christopher, glancing back at his friend. “The Merron cannot allow the King’s men to take them.”

  Sólmundr and Úlfnaor looked over their shoulders at Razi. The rest of the Merron, unable to understand this conversation, kept aim on the trees, but their eyes flicked anxiously between their leaders and the dark-skinned man they’d sworn to protect.

  “Razi,” insisted Christopher, “if your father’s men arrive, we must fire on them! Else you are condemning these people to death—and your mission is failed.”

  Razi shook his head and would not lift his eyes from the wounded man.

  Wynter laid a hand on his arm. She looked up into Christopher’s pained face.

  “The King’s men will kill us, lass,” said Christopher. “We must fight them or die; there ain’t no way around it.”

  “Others is coming!” cried Sólmundr, and Wynter leapt to her feet at the sounds of riders approaching fast through the trees. She weighed her sword in her hand and stepped to Christopher’s side again, her heart hammering with anger and with fear. Dear God, had it truly come to this? Must she now face loyal soldiers of the Crown and kill them or die?

  The Merron ordered their dogs to heel, and once again pulled their longbows to full-draw. A flash of sun on metal showed through the shifting leaves of the forest as dark shapes advanced upon them. Úlfnaor, his huge arms quivering with the strain, held his aim and murmured softly to his warriors. He was obviously telling them, “Wait… wait…”

  Wynter crouched low. She brought her s
word up. She had made up her mind that she would not die here. She would not die!

  Christopher looked back at Razi, wanting his permission to fire.

  Razi bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he snatched his sword, rose to his feet and stood ready at Christopher’s side. Christopher took aim just as the King’s soldiers burst through the trees.

  There were only two of them, and they entered the ford with an almost childlike abandon. Wynter knew that she would never forget the looks on their faces when, expecting nothing more than a wounded soldier fleeing on foot, they suddenly found themselves confronted with a row of hard-faced archers.

  There was just a brief moment of suspension, the smallest fraction of time, then the youngest soldier grabbed for his sword. Christopher’s crossbow-bolt took him between his eyes and carried him backwards from his horse. All other sound was buried in the heavy twock of longbows, and the hiss and thud of Merron arrows seeking and finding their target. The soldiers’ limp bodies tumbled to the water with mighty splashes. Their blood washed downstream just as the rebel soldier’s had done.

  Wynter’s sword-arm dropped to her side and she watched the King’s men die.

  The magnificent cavalry horses staggered under a second hail of missiles. They fell, and their blood mingled with that of their riders, eddying out into the clear water to flood the river with scarlet. The stain rapidly filled the ford, swirling and flowing, and stretching its arms outwards until it lapped in bright, sun-dappled wavelets on the shore and coloured the heedless stones at Wynter’s feet.