by John Gwynne
‘MORCANT,’ Rafe yelled over the din of their charge, ‘STOP!’
Morcant glanced at him as Rafe leaned back in his saddle and dragged on his reins.
Morcant followed suit, sawed on his reins, his horse tossing its head, hooves skidding. Riders about them sped on through the glade and into the shadows as the forest closed above them. A heartbeat later those same warriors were thrown from their saddles, as if some invisible god had just flicked them hard in the chest, sending them hurtling through the air. The horses galloped on. In moments a dozen men were down, rolling on the giantsway and trampled by those behind, more men falling with every heartbeat.
Then Rafe saw it, a glint in the dappled light.
Ropes.
‘They’ve strung ropes across the giantsway,’ he bellowed to Morcant.
Morcant and Rafe were yelling, waving arms at the riders behind, horses skidding on the flagstones, down either side of the embankment, spilling onto the meadow grass as the bulk of the warband came galloping into the glade. More men fell to the ropes across the road, but the rest were slowing now and milling on the giantsway, spreading deeper into the glade. A great groaning creak rose up behind them and Rafe twisted in his saddle to see a tree toppling across the giantsway, a great booming crash as it slammed into the road.
It’s a trap.
Fear raced down Rafe’s spine.
A moment’s silence, dust settling. A bee buzzed industriously about a cluster of purple foxglove, oblivious of the warband it was sharing the glade with.
Then figures were stepping out of the shadows: men and women, all with long bows in their hands. Thirty, forty of them. They formed a ragged line, pulled arrows from quivers, nocked and drew their bows.
Loosed.
Blood in the sunlight, men and horses toppling, screaming, death throes churning the turf. Another flight of arrows thumping into flesh, muscle, mail, Rafe swinging out of his saddle, running behind his horse, using it as cover, heading down the embankment. Morcant yelling orders, mostly ignored. Then battle-cries from the far side of the giantsway, hidden from Rafe’s view. The clash of iron rising up from that direction, more screams. Rafe saw horsemen spur their mounts at the archers – forty, fifty riders together, maybe more, led by a quick-thinking captain – a wall of flesh and hooves and iron, spraying grass and earth as they leaped into motion.
The archers didn’t move, just kept on drawing, loosing, a handful of riders toppling back in their saddles, a horse’s front legs collapsing, ploughing into the ground, but the rest continued their charge. Fifty paces from the archers, and still they didn’t move. Another volley of arrows saw more men thrown from their saddles, but the wave of horsemen held their line, only twenty paces from the archers now.
Rafe grinned.
They’re dead. They’ll never get out of the way in time.
And then the wall of riders disappeared, as if swallowed by the earth itself.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CAMLIN
Men and horses screamed.
Camlin drew and loosed, again and again and again, firing down into the trench that had taken back-breaking days to dig, then been covered and hidden with a lattice framework of willow branches overlaid with a layer of turf and scattered with autumn leaves. Now the trench was full of men and horses, some screaming with broken bones or pierced with arrows, others desperately scrambling to get out. Two warriors right in front of Camlin were close to climbing out, forsaking their mounts and using sword and spear as spikes to pierce the earth and pull themselves up the steep slope. Baird lunged forwards with his sword and one warrior fell back, gurgling blood. The other one collapsed twitching with one of Camlin’s arrows through his eye.
‘Like mice in a grain barrel,’ Baird said as he stabbed a warrior, then kicked another in the head.
Those who had charged them were mostly dead, a pile of butchered meat in a ready-made grave. Camlin looked up, saw more of Morcant’s warband coming their way, further back a mass of horsemen clustered around the tree that had blocked any retreat down the giantsway. From the far side of the giantsway the din of battle echoed, where Pendathran and his men fought.
The gruff battlechief had arrived two days ago, bringing three hundred and forty men with him.
The time for us to roll our knuckle-bones is here, Edana had said. It’s do or die.
That it is, Camlin thought, looking from the ditch before him, full of blood and guts and slime, then up to the giantsway, clogged with raucous battle. And so far the plan had worked well.
Almost too well. That race before Morcant’s warband was too close for comfort.
Camlin had seen Rafe enter the Baglun two days gone, had been waiting for him, and had left a trail for him to follow. Not too obvious; he’d been trained by Braith, and so Camlin knew Rafe would be good. No, just enough to ensure that Rafe would get a glimpse of Edana’s camp. Once Camlin saw Rafe slinking away he knew he’d be back with Morcant and a warband. All that was left to do was lure them into Camlin’s killing ground.
Other riders were gathering on the meadow and giantsway, orders flying, organizing, swords and spears pointing at Camlin and his crew.
‘Ready, lads and lasses?’ Camlin shouted, drawing, nocking, choosing his target. His arrow took a man through the throat, sent him tumbling sideways from his saddle, one foot stuck in his stirrup, his horse running off. Others fell as Camlin’s archers released their deadly hail.
Then the riders were moving, not bounding into a gallop, but a more controlled canter that ate up the distance between them and Camlin’s crew.
‘Ready!’ Camlin yelled again, another arrow nocked and loosed. He saw it skitter away, a glancing blow across an iron helm.
‘Back,’ he shouted as the riders swept around the edges of the long pit, bearing down on Camlin’s forty from their flanks, but Camlin and his crew were stepping back into the treeline, melting into the shadows, the horses crashing into the undergrowth after them, men ducking beneath low branches, weapons snaring.
And then new figures were appearing: a host of warriors rising up from the undergrowth and roaring out of the shadows, led by a blonde-haired woman, clothed in chainmail shirt and leather surcoat, hair knotted in a thick warrior braid that curled beneath her iron cap.
Edana, spear in her hands, Halion at her side.
They carved into the riders with a deafening roar.
A crashing of hooves to his left, and Camlin was spinning, a horse bearing down on him, iron glinting as a sword rushed towards his head.
Sometimes you can be too busy watching someone else’s back to take care of your own.
Camlin threw himself backwards, tripped and fell as a sword hissed through the air where his neck had been. He rolled to the side, as hooves sought to trample him.
Another figure appeared, moving in close to the rider, iron clashing, then the figure was jumping away, the rider’s saddle girth cut and he was slipping, crashing to the ground.
‘He’s all yours,’ Baird grinned at him and swept off amongst the trees.
Camlin rushed forwards and kicked the rising warrior in the face, stabbed down into his mouth, sprayed teeth as he ripped his blade free. The man’s boots drummed on the turf, then were still.
Camlin stood over him, breathing heavily, then he wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s cloak and retrieved his bow. The enemy within the trees were dead or retreating, Edana leading her warriors out onto the meadow. They ran after the retreating horsemen and charged at the milling crowds upon the meadow. Pendathran and his warriors were spread amongst them, visible upon the giantsway. Camlin gathered his archers about him, seeking a spot from where they could wreak the most ruin.
‘Good fight,’ Baird grunted at Camlin as he pulled his sword from a dead man’s ribs.
‘Aye,’ Camlin said, pausing to survey the field. They were still vastly outnumbered, but the enemy were fighting in milling confusion. Edana’s and Pendathran’s men on foot were slipping amongst the too
-close horsemen, swords and spears slashing at thighs and horses’ bellies.
We may be outnumbered still, but the odds are a damn sight more even than when I came galloping into this glade.
Baird ran at a rider, leaped, one hand grabbing the back of the saddle and heaving himself up, sword raking across the warrior’s throat, then Baird was jumping away, the dying warrior spraying blood between fingers.
Camlin saw Morcant; his sword was red to the hilt. Warriors were gathering behind him, hundreds, more rallying to him, forming up into a wedge and pushing into Edana’s men. Morcant chopped savagely to either side, face twisted in a snarl, men falling before him, his followers widening the gap that he was making. He was heading straight towards Edana.
‘Meg,’ Camlin shouted, ‘you up there?’
‘Course I am,’ a squeaky voice drifted down.
‘Think you’d better blow that horn.’
Morcant was closer to Edana, dead warriors left in a bloody wake behind him. Camlin pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and drew, aiming at Morcant’s chest. A knot of riders passed in front of him, obscuring him momentarily from view.
Come on. Got you now.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
RAFE
Got you now, Rafe thought as he crept up on Camlin.
He saw him pull an arrow from his quiver and aim into the battle.
At Morcant.
Rafe drew his knife and gathered his legs under him.
Then a horn blew out, long and loud. It startled Rafe because it came from almost directly above. He craned his neck, saw a small figure standing on a branch, a horn to its lips.
Then something happened in the battle.
The warriors at the far end of the giantsway – at least two hundred men, all mounted and clustered by the fallen tree – were tearing off their cloaks of black and gold and charging into their comrades. Men were screaming, horses rearing, hooves lashing, swords rising and falling.
What! Who? Then Rafe realized. The warriors who had just arrived at Dun Carreg this morning. He spied their red-haired captain, stabbing and hacking his way along the road.
Betrayed. Rafe felt a rush of fear, for the first time truly considered the possibility of losing this battle.
And I’d wager you’ve played your part in it all, you sneaky bastard, Rafe thought, glaring at Camlin’s back. There was a tremor in the archer’s arm as he waited for a clear shot at Morcant.
With a snarl Rafe leaped at Camlin.
The collision sent Camlin’s arrow skittering high, his bow flying from his grip, Rafe stabbing at Camlin’s back. The blade scraped off mail, the coat hidden under a jerkin and tunic. They rolled on the ground together, Rafe with one arm tightening around Camlin’s throat. Then stars exploded in Rafe’s vision and he tasted blood, was rolling, felt grass on his face. The world lurched back into focus and he was on his hands and knees, knife still in his grip, blood gushing from his nose.
Camlin had butted Rafe in the face with the back of his head. The ageing huntsman was climbing to his feet now, sword in his hand.
‘I was hoping I’d run into you,’ Camlin said.
Rafe jumped to his feet and hurled himself at Camlin, consumed with the urge to smash, stab and beat the life from him.
Camlin swung away, but too slowly, Rafe clipping Camlin’s hip with his shoulder, sending the older man spinning, Rafe slashing with his knife but only cutting through air. Camlin’s sword hissed over his head but Rafe was skidding, turning and leaping at Camlin again.
Just get close, let my knife do the rest.
They crashed together, tumbling to the turf, Rafe’s knife pinned between Camlin and the ground. Pain exploded in Rafe’s head as Camlin pounded him with the hilt of his sword. He bit Camlin’s shoulder, swung his head up, connected with Camlin’s chin, felt him go limp for a moment and put his free hand over Camlin’s face, started grinding it into the ground, fingers searching for his eyes, nose, anything to rip or gouge. He felt panic in the old man as Rafe’s fingers inched closer to Camlin’s eyes.
Then another explosion in his head, the world spinning, and he was flat on his back, looking up at branches and blue sky. He rolled, felt his stomach lurch.
A girl was standing over Camlin. Her arm drew back and she threw something; fresh pain erupted in his shoulder.
‘Little bitch,’ he snarled, stumbling towards her and Camlin, backhanding her, sending her flying through the air, rolling to a stop. She didn’t move.
He stood over Camlin, who was on his hands and knees now, hand searching for his sword hilt. Rafe kicked him in the ribs, lifted Camlin from the ground, sent him tumbling towards the ditch full of dead riders and horses.
‘Best stop that,’ a voice said behind him, ‘that’s my friend you’re kicking.’
Rafe turned to see an ageing warrior, small and slim, his sword red to the hilt, only one eye in his head, the other socket a scar-latticed hole.
Rafe switched his knife to his left hand and drew his sword.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CAMLIN
Camlin spat blood.
He heard a voice, Baird? then the clash and grunt of blows. He rose unsteadily, a sharp pain in his ribs.
Pain’s good, he told himself. Tells me I’m not dead.
Rafe . . .
He was a dozen paces away, trading blows with Baird, who was retreating before a savage onslaught, Rafe’s attack not so much skilful, but relentless and adder-fast. Camlin took a step towards them, then he saw a small, crumpled shape in the grass.
‘Meg?’
He stumbled to her side, fear spiralling within him, dropped to one knee and lifted her head.
She groaned, which helped him to breathe. Her jaw was broken, bruised and slack.
Rafe.
Camlin lay Meg down gently and advanced on Rafe and Baird.
They were both breathing hard, both bleeding, Baird along the length of one forearm, Rafe a gash across his cheek.
Boots drummed; Brogan joined them.
‘This the one you told me about?’ he asked Camlin, eyeing Rafe. ‘The one you keep putting arrows into that won’t die?’
‘Aye, that’s him,’ Camlin said.
The two of them circled Rafe, who was edging back towards the treeline, Baird making feints and lunges. Camlin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword, awaited an opening. Brogan was on Rafe’s far side now. He raised his sword.
Then Rafe was throwing his weapons down, dropping to his knees, arms raised behind his head.
‘Mercy,’ he cried, ‘mercy.’
Camlin blinked, stared at Baird and Brogan, both of them looking as shocked as Camlin felt.
Baird laughed.
Camlin took a limping pace closer, sword-point hovering over Rafe’s chest.
Just kill him, put your sword through his heart. He’s trouble. Put an end to it, put an end to him.
Camlin’s blade hovered, trembling. Rafe was weeping, snot running from his nose.
‘Mercy,’ he begged.
Camlin lowered his sword.
Then a horn was blowing, ringing through the clearing.
It was Vonn. He’d climbed the Oathstone and was sending blast after blast reverberating around the great glade. Camlin felt the battle ebb, men pausing to stare at Vonn.
‘Edana is merciful,’ Vonn cried as the last horn blast still hung in the air. ‘Men of Ardan, if you fight for Rhin, lay down your arms. Edana is merciful, so lay down your arms and live.’
‘Never,’ a voice cried out – Morcant. He was on foot before the Oathstone, still a score or so of his men about him, Edana and her shieldmen close. ‘Edana leads this rabble and nothing else, Rhin is Queen of the West.’
‘Morcant is Rhin’s whore,’ Vonn cried out, ‘a puppet of Cambren. If there are men of Ardan or Narvon amongst you, lay down your arms and save yourselves. The battle is lost for you, but Edana is merciful.’
And slowly, from only a few men at first, Camlin heard the clat
ter of weapons dropping to the ground, the sound growing, rippling about the field.
Morcant screeched with rage and hurled himself towards Edana, a handful of warriors following him, the sounds of battle ringing out again, but only there. Elsewhere about the field men were falling to their knees and raising their hands in surrender. Morcant cut a man down, almost within reach of Edana. Camlin saw his bow and retrieved it, took a few paces towards the battle.
Behind Camlin there was a thud, a grunt, the sounds of a scuffle. He turned and blinked, confused at first.
Baird was standing, swaying, his hands pressed tight to his stomach, looking down at Brogan and Rafe as they rolled on the grass. Even as Camlin took a step towards them he heard a crunch, saw Rafe club Brogan’s skull with the pommel of his dagger, once, twice, Brogan slumping. A third time. Rafe wriggled out from beneath the bulk of the big warrior and jumped to his feet.
Camlin drew an arrow, aimed it at Rafe’s heart.
Baird took a staggering step, lifted his hands from his stomach, blood-drenched. He sighed and dropped to the ground.
Camlin’s arm wavered and Rafe ran, ducking, twisting, towards the treeline. Camlin loosed, his arrow thumping into a trunk, Rafe spinning away, a shadow amongst the trees. With a snarl, Camlin ran to Baird, dropped and cradled him, saw the warrior’s one eye staring lifelessly back at him.
Mercy, Rafe said, shed a few tears, and I lowered my sword. And now Baird’s dead. I’ve gone soft. Braith would have exiled me from the Darkwood for such foolishness. He shook his head, mouth a thin line.
He moved to Brogan. Blood was matting the big man’s hair. A pulse beat faintly at his neck.
Camlin stared into the forest, searching for Rafe, but there was no sign of him. He stood and took a pace towards the trees.
‘Camlin,’ a voice whispered. It was Meg, groaning as she moved. Camlin limped over to her, carried her to a tree and laid her against it. He stroked hair from her eyes.
‘My thaw urts,’ she mumbled.
‘I know, lass,’ Camlin whispered. ‘It’s going t’hurt for a while longer.’