by A. E. Rayne
Not knowing if they would be in time.
35
Eadmund was woken by the clatter of the iron poker hitting the cauldron. He jerked upright, rubbing his eyes, wondering if it was still night, then he saw some streaks of light creeping under the door. He grimaced, feeling a dull ache in his stomach, looking down at Evaine who was moaning, not wanting to wake up yet.
‘Go back to sleep, Eadmund,’ she mumbled, curling towards him, flapping a hand in his direction. ‘Sleep, my love.’
Yawning, Eadmund turned to the bedside table and took a sip of water. Evaine appeared to have fallen back to sleep, so he lay down again, pulling the sheet away from his chest, pressing a palm against his stomach. The room was hot, and he felt sweaty, but when he touched his stomach, it felt like ice.
He stared at Evaine, watching as she fell back to sleep, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of memories rushing around his head.
Getta rolled over, her eyes wide, ready to scream before a smoky hand clamped over her mouth. She panicked, wanting to look around. There were men in her tent. She could hear noises outside.
Shouting. People running.
Getta knew that Raymon had been dragged out of bed. She was conscious of being naked. It was barely dawn, and she squinted, trying to make out the face of the man who leaned over her, then her attention shifted as she saw another man approach, bending down.
‘Ssshhh,’ Garren smiled, indicating for the man to remove his hand. ‘You’re safe.’ And he helped Getta sit up, retrieving her dress from the ground and handing it to her. ‘Get dressed.’ And turning, Garren nodded for his men to leave.
Getta’s heart was thudding so loudly she couldn’t breathe. ‘Where’s my son?’ she panicked, trying to swallow. ‘Where’s Raymon?’
Garren sat on the bed, watching as she pulled on her dress.
Getta didn’t want to see his eyes, but she could feel them all over her. She shook, in shock, not really believing what was happening. All the things she’d thought about and considered; all that she had wished for and imagined. It had just been in her head. Frustrations and annoyances. Fantasies and dreams. She was terrified to think that it was actually happening. ‘What have you done?’ she whispered, hearing more screams; the whinnying of horses. ‘Where is my son?’
Garren put his hand up to her hair, smoothing it away from her rumpled face. ‘Remember what I said? You’re safe, Getta. I won’t let anything happen to you. Now put on your boots, and we can talk about your son.’
Jael watched Fyr flying up ahead, her sleek, black feathers glistening in the early light. The sky was brightening quickly now, and Jael could feel her throat tightening. She didn’t think Raymon would have led his army too far off the main road, though they could hardly camp in a tangle of trees. He would have needed to find a clearing large enough to accommodate all his men and horses.
But where?
Jael could feel them getting closer. Fyn’s bow was strung across her back, banging with every crash of Tig’s hooves onto the ground, the quiver of arrows banging with it.
‘My son!’
She heard her father’s urgent voice again; her heartbeat quickening.
Fyr disappeared into the trees, and Jael yanked Tig’s reins, pulling him after her.
Getta’s eyes bulged as Garren took her out of the tent, into the clearing where they had camped for the night. The sky was a greyish, light-blue. Smoke was drifting from blazing fires. Men stood around them, their eyes turning to Garren as he brought Getta towards them.
‘Getta!’
She quickly spotted Raymon, on his knees, a man behind him with a knife.
Ravenna was beside him; Aldo Maas with a handful of her hair as he stood behind her, pressing himself against her back.
‘Garren,’ Getta tried, afraid that she might vomit. ‘Garren, it shouldn’t be like this!’ She gripped his arm, pleading with him. ‘This is not the way to do it.’
‘Getta!’ Raymon called again. ‘Where’s Lothar?’
Getta spun around as more and more of those loyal to Raymon were brought towards the fires, kicking and fighting, knocked down to the forest floor.
Surrounded.
‘What are you doing, Garren?’ Ravenna begged. ‘Let my son go! Please! He’s just a boy! If you want to be king, be king! But let him live!’ She was crying so much she could barely get the words out. ‘Please!’ She felt no fear for herself. Only her son. ‘Aldo!’ She could feel the old man behind her. She could see the glint of his knife out of the corner of her eye. ‘Please! Not my son!’
Aldo bent low to her ear. ‘Pray to your gods, bitch,’ he growled as his son came forward.
‘Raymon Vandaal must die!’ Garren bellowed. ‘He is no Iskavallan! He is not our rightful king! His father stole the throne! His grandfather stole the throne! But at least they were Iskavallans!’ He spun around, watching the puzzled faces of the men who gathered around him. ‘This nothing pup is a Brekkan! Ranuf Furyck’s son! Put on our throne to help the Furycks claim Iskavall for themselves!’
The shock on his men’s faces was pronounced, but the shock on Raymon’s was greater still.
‘No!’ Raymon cried. ‘No! It’s not true!’ He looked at his mother, seeking her support, but Ravenna closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face and he knew. ‘No!’
Garren turned to Getta, his voice a whisper in her ear. ‘You will watch. And when we’re done, you will have your son back. But not until we’re done. I need your loyalty, Getta. I cannot have a wife who isn’t loyal.’
The shock was a clattering sound in his head, and Raymon couldn’t breathe.
He saw Getta nod at Garren, and he screamed.
Jael’s head was up. ‘Get ready!’ she turned and cried to Aleksander, who passed the call down the pounding train of horses streaming behind them. They were riding single file. At pace. The path was too narrow for more.
Jael gripped Tig with her knees and dropped the reins, pulling the bow over her head, nocking an arrow.
They thought it was thunder, looking up at the sky, which made no sense as the morning had dawned clear and then they saw Jael Furyck thundering towards them on her giant, black horse, her mail shirt and battered helmet gleaming in the sunlight.
‘Kill them!’ Garren yelled to his father, pushing Getta into the nearest tent and unsheathing one of his swords.
‘My son!’
Ranuf’s words rang in Jael’s ears until she couldn’t hear anything but his desperate plea, and drawing the bowstring past her ear, feeling Tig charging forward, straight for the Iskavallan camp, she looked at Ravenna who had a knife at her throat, and she aimed for the man standing behind Raymon.
‘No!’ Raymon screamed as his captor flew backwards, an arrow through his forehead, his mother slumping to the ground beside him, her throat sliced open. Jael quickly nocked another arrow as the path widened and her men filled the clearing on either side of her. Releasing her bowstring, she shot Aldo Maas in the back of the neck as he ran away from Ravenna.
Slipping the bow back over her shoulder, Jael unsheathed Toothpick and kicked Tig towards the scattering men.
‘Mother!’ Raymon threw himself over Ravenna’s body, but her neck was gushing blood over her nightdress, and her eyes remained fixed open in shock. Hauling himself to his feet, Raymon tried to swallow, turning away from her, running to find his sword and his wife.
‘Don’t kill them all!’ Jael bellowed. ‘We need them! Get the ones running!’
And her men urged their horses on, fanning out into the clearing, weapons raised, sharpened blades catching the morning light.
Jael brought Toothpick down into the scalp of a stumbling Iskavallan who was charging after Garren Maas. The man tumbled to the ground as she drew out her blade, nudging Tig with her boots. She saw Raymon out of the corner of her eye, running, a man she recognised chasing him with an axe. ‘Raymon!’ she yelled. ‘Get a fucking sword!’
And Raymon turned, shocked to see who was trying to ki
ll him, quickly ducking the axe blade that was aiming for his head. He had been dragged out of bed half-naked and didn’t have a weapon. In the confusion of the attack, he didn’t even know where his tent was. Throwing himself at Tolbert’s waist, Raymon knocked him to the ground, punching him on the nose as Tolbert worked to free his blade, aiming it at Raymon’s head. Raymon staggered, tipping to the side, righting himself as he ducked the blade, swinging another punch at Tolbert’s nose. Breaking it. Now Tolbert’s eyes were watering, and everything had blurred as he struggled onto his knees. He only saw shadows, and he didn’t notice the big one looming over him until it was too late and Jael had stabbed Toothpick through the back of his neck.
‘Here,’ she said, handing Raymon a sword she’d picked up. ‘Come with me!’
‘But Getta!’ Raymon tried. ‘What about Getta?’
‘We have work to do if you want to see Getta again, now come on!’ And Jael ran towards Thorgils, who she could see, off his horse, fighting a man almost as big as him. She quickly scanned the clearing, looking for Garren, but he had disappeared when she’d stopped to help Raymon.
Thorgils dispatched the look-alike tree with a swift butt of his head before dropping to the ground to slice his knife across the man’s throat.
‘Thorgils!’ Jael called as she ran past him. ‘Look after Raymon! Don’t let anything happen to him! I have to go!’ Because she had just seen Garren Maas jump on a horse and kick it through the trees. Running for Tig, Jael sheathed Toothpick and, mounting quickly, urged him after the grey horse, straight past Gant.
Gant watched her go, turning to assess the situation. They had released Raymon’s men and put down the main thrust of the uprising, but small clusters of fights were splintering. ‘Let’s finish this! Round up the rebels and let’s finish this now!’ he bellowed, taking charge.
Jael heard him as she slipped through the trees, confident that Gant and her men could snuff out the rebels quickly, but she would need to get their leader.
A man like Garren Maas would never stop trying to steal the throne.
She had to put him down.
Garren skidded around the trees, his horse struggling with her footing on the rain-soaked forest floor. His head was low, ducking branches, avoiding the thick bough his horse had just slipped under; his heart pounding in time to her hooves; a rhythmic, steady beat. And then another sound.
Turning, he saw Jael Furyck thundering after him.
Jael saw the panic in Garren’s eyes, but also the determination to escape. The forest was a maze of entangled trees; narrow, snake-like paths curling around gnarled trunks. There was no clear stretch that she could she as she worked the reins, guiding Tig with her knees, but she didn’t need to. He could see well enough where he needed to go. The tree cover was light, and the sun was getting brighter, and they could both see where Garren Maas was.
Jael knew that she had to stop him escaping, but she wasn’t convinced that she was strong enough to fight him yet. Not with a sword. But she couldn’t see a way to use her bow in the maze of trees. She needed Garren to find his way to a clearing.
Until then she had to keep up with his very fast horse. ‘Come on, Tig!’ she growled, dipping lower as a branch slapped her in the face. ‘Come on!’
Thorgils kept one eye on Raymon who appeared well-equipped to handle his sword, but he had the sense that the young king was looking to bolt and find his wife. His eyes were skittish, skipping around the tents, not paying as much attention as he needed to the man trying to kill him.
Thorgils kicked an Iskavallan in the balls, his shoulder aching and his head pounding. Astrid would not be pleased with him, he thought, feeling blood pool in his shoulder wound which had no doubt ripped open again. ‘Finish him!’ he barked at Raymon who was shuffling from side to side, parrying and thrusting but getting nowhere. ‘Like this!’ And Thorgils chopped his sword into the man’s neck, knocking him sideways, stumbling as Karsten shoved him out of the way of the axe that was swinging for his own neck.
Thorgils shook his head, scrambling back to his feet, one eye on Raymon who appeared to be concentrating now, the other on Karsten who finished off Thorgils’ attacker with two quick blows across the man’s middle. Spinning around, he heard Rork bellow as he dropped to his knees a spear in his shoulder.
‘Rork!’ Karsten yelled, running for him.
Thorgils suddenly had two men on him, and he couldn’t help Karsten or Rork, but Aleksander was there, severing the head of Rork’s attacker; Karsten quickly dragging Rork to his feet, away from danger.
‘Aarrghh!’ Thorgils screamed as someone sliced across the back of his thigh. Turning with a growl, he raised his sword, but Raymon was there, his blade through the Iskavallan’s back. He nodded at Thorgils and spun away, trying to find his way to Getta. He needed to know that she was safe.
Running, head swivelling, looking for his wife, he slipped on the bloody pine needles of the forest floor, crashing to his knees, one of Garren’s men looming over him.
‘Raymon!’ Axl had just cut down one Iskavallan, and he saw the young king fall, but he had no way through to him. Swapping his sword into his left hand, he drew his knife out with the other, planting his feet and flicking his wrist, watching the blade snap through the air, landing in the neck of the man who had just drawn blood from Raymon’s forearm.
The man fell, and Ivaar was there, hand out, pulling Raymon to his feet. ‘Come on!’ he yelled. ‘You’re with me!’
Thorgils joined them, remembering Jael’s words. ‘You don’t leave!’ he grumbled at Raymon. ‘Not till we’re done! And we’re not done till I say we’re done!’
Ivaar nodded at Thorgils, and they stood on either side of Raymon as the Iskavallans charged.
Garren could hear rushing water. He knew that he was close to a stream, and he spurred his horse on, checking quickly behind him to see how far away Jael Furyck was.
Her horse was bigger, more powerful, but he’d had enough of a head start to keep just ahead of her. Turning around unbalanced his horse, though, and as he turned back, she stumbled, her legs tangling, tripping and falling in the wet leaves just before the stream. Jael pulled on the reins, skidding Tig to a halt, too close to use her bow and arrow. Sliding out of the saddle, she unsheathed Toothpick and ran towards Garren as he staggered to his feet, hauling two swords from the scabbards strapped across his back, ignoring the pitiful cries of his injured horse who roared in agony, her front shins snapped, unable to stand.
Jael thought quickly, assessing the situation, her father’s voice calmly walking her through it as if they were in the training ring.
‘Two swords. Slippery surface. Stream. No help.’
And she remembered the look in Ravenna’s eyes as Garren’s father had slit her throat, and her father’s face in her dream as he had held their son. How happy he had been. How in love.
And the clarity of that thought wiped away everything else.
‘Kill him.’
She could almost feel Ranuf’s breath on her neck, his hand on her shoulder.
‘Kill him, Jael. For me.’
Garren’s men were overwhelmed. Their leaders were dead or gone, and the Brekkan army was crushing them, smothering them.
Killing them.
Aleksander spat out a mouthful of blood, one eye on Raymon Vandaal who was still on his feet, flanked by Thorgils and Ivaar who were working hard, fighting off his attackers.
But there were not many now, and no more were rushing to join them.
Aleksander spun as Axl jerked an Iskavallan towards him, his arm around the man’s throat. He had no sword. He was sobbing, begging for his life.
‘We take prisoners,’ Axl said, pleased that Aleksander was quickly nodding. ‘Raymon should decide their fate, not us.’
‘Throw down your weapons!’ Aleksander called. ‘You’re outnumbered! Throw down your weapons!’
‘We surrender!’ one man quickly yelled. He was older, blood dripping from a gash in his forehead, his sword
in the air. ‘Please! We surrender!’
Gant lifted his own blood-red sword, panting. ‘Hold!’ he cried, scanning the clearing, watching more Iskavallans – those who had followed Garren and Aldo Maas – raising their weapons and their hands. They were surrounded. Abandoned.
At the mercy of their king.
Thorgils brought Raymon towards Gant.
‘Your men, your problem,’ Gant said shortly, looking around at the mounds of bodies, hoping not to find many of their own men lying amongst the slaughtered Iskavallan rebels. The smell of smoke and blood and bowels was intense. ‘What do you want to do?’
Raymon couldn’t think. ‘I want to know where my wife and son are. That they’re safe. Gather these men together. Guard them.’ He kept looking around. ‘I need to find my wife.’ He wanted to find his mother too, but he knew that it was a futile wish.
He couldn’t help her anymore.
Gant nodded, turning to Thorgils and Aleksander, Ivaar and Karsten. ‘Bring them in!’ he called. ‘To the fires! On their knees! They will wait for their king’s judgement!’
‘You will die!’ Garren yelled.
‘I will,’ Jael said calmly, trying to keep her breathing steady, though she was desperate to fill her lungs with some air. ‘But not today.’ She firmed up her grip on Toothpick and waited to see what he would do.
Garren had two swords. Likely he thought that was an advantage.
Jael scuffed her boots deep into the slippery leaves, searching for solid earth, her eyes never leaving his.
Garren lunged, swords twirling, his long, blond hair floating behind him like Eidur, God of the Hunt. Jael dipped to the left, leaving him to stumble to a stop before spinning around. Every part of her felt slow and heavy, and she knew then that he would defeat her with his swords.