Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  She ran outside into the yard. The barn! She could hide there! She fled inside just as the first loud raucous voices arrived.

  Unfortunately, the barn was the third place they looked. Aethelind cowered behind part of an old cart, listening to the sound of splintering wood and quarrelling voices from the hall, squealing pigs and cackling chickens from the yard, and two or three men grunting and kicking things around in the barn. They were searching systematically, starting by the big door and working up to her end. She crouched lower. There was no way out. She tried not to breathe. Dust and cobwebs tickled her neck and her nose. Frija, protect me, don’t let me sneeze, don’t let them find me – Something heavy thumped against the cart and the rotting timber shook from top to bottom. Aethelind tried to back away and found the wall of the barn behind her. The cart crashed to the ground, and Aethelind found herself looking through a cloud of dust at two very large, very savage-looking men, covered in blood and with spears in their hands.

  It was at this point that it occurred to her that it might have been a good idea to bring a knife.

  “Ashhere! Ash! How many fingers am I holding up? Ash!”

  “Twelve,” Ashhere muttered groggily, and flopped back against whoever was holding him. His face and neck were unpleasantly wet and cold, he ached all over, and he had a pounding headache. It must have been quite a party –

  “Ash!” the voice insisted. More cold water sloshed into his face, and a hand slapped his cheek. “Wake up!”

  Ashhere surfaced reluctantly, to find that the pest was Lilla. He put a hand up to his aching head, and encountered a jagged cut and a lump the size of a hen’s egg.

  He groaned. “What hit me?”

  “A troll in ring mail,” Lilla answered. “At least, that’s what he looked like. I thought you were dead, but Drust wouldn’t believe me. Your old helmet did its job one last time after all.”

  Ashhere remembered. He remembered charging to meet the Bernician line, then somehow he and Lilla and Drust had been fighting in one of the splintered fragments of the Deiran shield-wall, trying to cut a path through to Eadwine in another fragment. Then he remembered dodging a spear only to see the great iron sword descending, and a vague thought that his next sight would be the queue for Woden’s hall. He struggled to sit up against Drust’s strong arm, expecting to see the familiar sight of the walls of Eboracum rising above the Ouse.

  What he actually saw was a desolate expanse of salt marsh and a wide river swirling in muddy channels between hummocks of weed. A dead tree stuck up out of the mud like a picked skeleton, and a pair of oystercatchers skimmed above the water, calling their eerie cry as they disappeared downstream. There was an all-pervading smell of dead fish, rotting vegetation and salt water.

  “Where are we?”

  “The end of the world,” Lilla said, shivering.

  “Down the river ye call the Ouse, near the sea,” Drust said. “Hiding from yon demons on horseback.”

  Which meant that Lilla was as near right as made no difference. The marshy wasteland where the Derwent, the Ouse and the Aire all met and flowed into the Humber formed the southern boundary of Deira. Ashhere knew vaguely that the world probably carried on beyond Deira’s borders, but he had never given it much thought. There were tales of enchanted forests where you could enter but never find your way out again, and of barren wildernesses that went on for ever and were inhabited by trolls and dragons and other monsters. Ashhere shivered at the thought. He believed he had seen a troll once, on the moors of the North March, a huge vague shape looming out of the mist. Drust had jeered at him and said it was a rock, and in the morning there was indeed a giant boulder there, but Ashhere remained convinced that he had had a narrow escape from being a troll’s supper. He certainly had no desire ever to see another one.

  Then a worse thought occurred to him. ‘Hiding’, Drust had said.

  “We didn’t – ” his voice faltered, “– we didn’t run away –?”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Lilla reassured him. “Eadwine’s here too.”

  That made it all right. If you stayed with your own lord, it didn’t count as running away, whoever else you abandoned. Your lord might have disgraced himself by flight, but the disgrace did not extend to you. Loyalty to your own lord was paramount, even if his behaviour was dishonourable. It was the one absolute certainty in an unreliable world.

  Ashhere looked around. He could see maybe twenty filthy and bedraggled men, all looking exhausted and many wounded to a greater or lesser degree, and about the same number of tired-looking horses miserably trying to graze the rank grass. Very few of the men had spears or shields. Some had swords, more had fighting knives, and a few had no weapon left except ordinary eating knives.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “This is everybody,” Lilla answered sombrely.

  Ashhere gaped, struggling to comprehend the scale of the disaster. His father and elder brother had been in the battle too, in the centre of the line among the King’s hearth-troop. He could see neither of them among the battered survivors. Clutching his hammer amulet, he murmured a prayer for them. Thunor would see their spirits safely into Woden’s hall.

  Arguing voices were coming from somewhere behind him. He recognised one of them as Beortred’s, the captain of Eadric’s hearth-troop, because he had heard it yelling orders before the shield-wall wavered and then broke. It was clipped and assured, accustomed to command.

  “– I’m telling you, we’ll stay here tonight and cross at low tide tomorrow –”

  Eadwine’s voice, harsh with pain and anger. “And I’m telling you, that’ll be too bloody late. Woden’s breath! A broken shoulder won’t kill me. Being overtaken by Aethelferth’s soldiers will. If you insist on using me as an excuse for deserting your King, bloody well do the bloody job properly!”

  “Deserting?!” A sword rang as it was drawn. Eadwine laughed, a demonic sound.

  “Go on, kill me. You think I care? Makes it a bit pointless though, doesn’t it, scraping me off a battlefield only to dump me in the river?”

  “I wish we hadn’t bothered!”

  “So do I! So don’t bother any more, understand? Every man for himself. You were all in my father’s service, or my brother’s. They’re both dead, so you’re all free to go. Got that? You owe me nothing. You can all go home.”

  “You’re being bloody ungrateful,” came Treowin’s voice, crossly, “considering we saved your life.”

  “For what, exactly? A few hours or a few days while the Twister hunts me down?”

  “Oh, nonsense. I know it’s been a close call so far, but we’ve lost them now. We’ll get to Lindsey soon and they’re our allies. You’re the king of Deira now –”

  “The King of Deira is dead. If you didn’t see it, I did.”

  The bleak misery in Eadwine’s tone made Ashhere’s flesh creep. Aelle’s end must have been terrible.

  “I’m sorry,” Treowin said gently. “Really I am. But Aelle’s dead, and you’re his eldest legitimate son, and as far as I’m concerned that makes you King unless the Council decides otherwise. So Caedbaed of Lindsey will help you –”

  “You’re being unusually stupid today. Haven’t you understood yet? The kingdom of Deira – no – longer – exists. The Twister is king now. Got it? Caedbaed of Lindsey will change his play to match the board as it is now, not as it was yesterday. If we still held Eboracum, that would be different –”

  “You were right about that,” Treowin said miserably. “We should have listened to you. I never imagined they’d walk all over us like that –”

  “Too late,” Eadwine interrupted. “Aethelferth won and we lost. Get that into your head and stop snivelling over dreams of winning the kingdom back.”

  “There’s still hope, as long as you live.”

  “So he can’t afford to let me escape, can’t you see that? Anyone who is a friend to me is an enemy of the Twister. Anyone, understand? Including you. So take your men, and anyone else who’ll fo
llow you, and clear off. Whatever the Ladies have in store for me I don’t expect anyone else to share it.”

  “I’m not leaving you!”

  “Why not?” Eadwine said cruelly. “You’ve abandoned one king today, you can abandon another. Now bugger off. I don’t want to see you again.”

  Eadwine came limping along the river bank to where Ashhere sat with Lilla and Drust. His cloak was slashed to ribbons, the tarnished mail was scored where blades had struck home, and his helmet was dented and missing some of its decorative panels. The gold ring-brooch fastening the cloak on his right shoulder had been shattered almost in half and some of the mail rings were bent and broken. A sword-stroke with that much force behind it could easily have broken the collar-bone, even though the mail had successfully turned the edge. He had switched his blood-crusted sword to hang from his left shoulder, and jammed his right hand into the sword-belt as a crude sling.

  He stood looking down at them, his face unreadable behind the mask of the helmet, a menacing stranger from the fringes of nightmare.

  “Not dead after all, Ash? And I thought you were one of the lucky ones.”

  “I was,” Ashhere said, missing the sarcasm. “Was it you told them to get me out?”

  “No,” Eadwine snarled. “Nobody asked my opinion on anything.” He plucked the fragments of the ring-brooch from his cloak and tossed one half to Ashhere and the other to Lilla. “Here. Not much reward for three years’ service, but that’s all I can do for you. Drust, you’re released from your oath. Now get lost, all of you.”

  “I don’t understand –?” Ashhere began.

  Eadwine swore. “I know you’re thick, but what exactly do you not understand? Get lost. Go away. Bugger off.”

  Ashhere was hurt and bewildered. Eadwine had never spoken to him like that before. “B-but – where to?”

  “How should I know? Go home. Go and find another lord to serve. Go and jump in the river for all I care.” He glared round at them. “Go on, bugger off!”

  “No,” Lilla said flatly. “You are my lord and I go where you go.”

  “Not now, you don’t. Can’t you get it into your thick head? The Twister’s not interested in you lot. You’re not worth spit to him. But my head was worth its weight in gold as soon as he realised he wouldn’t find it on the field. I’ll be hunted for the rest of my life, which isn’t likely to be long. So bugger off, all of you.”

  “No.”

  He swore savagely at them. “Deira’s finished. I’m finished. You’re better off without me.”

  “No. Never.”

  “You can’t do this to us,” Ashhere pleaded. He could imagine nothing worse than wandering through the world bereft of a lord to look after him and make his decisions for him. That was the deal; you obeyed your lord and he provided for you. It might amuse the Three Ladies to torment one or both of you by preventing you fulfilling your obligation, but you had to try to the very limits of your ability. On both sides.

  “You can’t desert us,” he insisted. “We’re lost without you.”

  “Oh, by all the gods –!” Eadwine clenched and unclenched his fist, the muscles in his throat working. “What the hell did I do to deserve you lot?”

  They exchanged glances, not sure if this was a blessing or a curse.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice a little more normal. “Never let it be said that I failed you as well. On your own heads be it. You’ll regret it, I warn you.”

  Ashhere found himself grinning inanely from sheer relief. “Where are we going?”

  “Lundencaster. Aethelbert of Kent rules there, and he is overlord in the South. If anyone can defy the Twister it’s him. Well, come on then! If we’re going we might as well get there.”

  “Right.” They looked about uncertainly. Dusk was already beginning to fall. “What do we do?”

  “Cross the Ouse. Here. Now.”

  “How?” Lilla gasped, looking at the river swirling through the mud flats. The tide had dropped since they had first halted here, but there was still an awful lot of water in the river and it was flowing fast. “You can’t swim with a broken shoulder. You’ll drown.”

  “That’d solve everybody’s problems,” Eadwine snapped bitterly. “But horses can swim. Kick them into the water, don’t let them turn back, and all you have to do is hang on.”

  This proved to be the case. By the time they were all gathered, soaking wet, muddy and exhausted, some considerable way downstream on the opposite bank, they found that another dozen men had copied the idea and followed them. Among the newcomers were Treowin and Beortred.

  “What are you lot doing here?” Eadwine demanded curtly.

  “Coming with you,” Treowin said, “and don’t argue about it, because you’re not going to change our minds.”

  But it seemed that Eadwine was past arguing with anyone. “Suit yourselves,” he said indifferently. “It’s your funeral.”

  They spent a cold and miserable night in the marshes on the south bank of the river. A few men found scraps of food in pouches or saddlebags, but for most of them there was nothing to eat. Nobody dared light a fire to dry their wet clothes, even if they could have found anything in the salt marshes that was dry enough to burn, but as it turned out that mattered very little, for they were all drenched again crossing the Aire in a similar way as soon as it got light the next morning. There was a perfectly good ford across the Aire about ten miles inland, where an army-path crossed the river, but Eadwine was adamant that Aethelferth would be guarding it by now and nobody had the nerve to find out if he was wrong. Capture would mean execution or sale as slaves. A dismal day floundering through more marshes and wading or swimming muddy rivers was succeeded by an equally dismal night.

  It was a sullen and dejected little group that faced a bleary dawn on the second day. After the third or fourth river they had found their way up onto slightly higher and drier ground, but it had rained most of the night and put paid both to Beortred’s attempts to light a fire and to anyone’s attempts to sleep. There were no farmsteads to steal food from, and Eadwine had refused to stop to try to fish or hunt – in any case none of them had hunting gear and only Drust and Beortred even had a spear – so all they had eaten since the defeat was a few elderberries and some sloes. Hunger was becoming unpleasantly insistent. Bruises, cuts and other injuries from the battle were stiff and painful, and saddle-soreness added insult to injury for everyone except Eadwine and Treowin, who were the only two really capable riders in the group. Eadwine remained indifferent at best, hostile at worst, and that added considerably to their misery. If he was deliberately trying to drive them away, it was certainly working. Several men had already given up and left to try their luck elsewhere, reckoning that anything was better than starving to death in the company of a man who hadn’t a civilised word for anyone. Seven remained besides Eadwine and his three companions, and their patience was visibly running out.

  “This is getting stupid,” Beortred growled, as they were preparing to depart in the early morning chill. It had stopped raining and the sun was slowly creeping out of the mist over the marshes, but a cold and searching wind was blowing from the east and making them all shiver. They had almost forgotten what it was like to be warm, dry and fed, and Beortred was developing a cold, which added to his ill-temper. He sneezed, and glared at Eadwine. “Are you listening to me? I’m fed up with this. Dragging us through one marsh after another, mile after bloody mile. I say we go back to the nearest army-path, now.”

  Eadwine was adjusting his horse’s saddle and did not pay him the courtesy of looking round. “Go where you like. I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

  “Come back to the road with us,” Treowin argued. “We’ve lost them, I tell you. We haven’t seen anyone since we crossed the Ouse.”

  “That,” said Eadwine with exaggerated patience, as if he were addressing a particularly slow-witted child, “is the point of keeping to the wasteland.”

  “They’ve given up,” Treowin insisted, keeping h
is temper with obvious difficulty.

  “If they were ever after us in the first place,” grumbled Beortred. “I bet this is all in your head. The Twister’s not the slightest bit interested in you.”

  “You’re running from shadows,” Treowin insisted.

  “And I’m buggered if I’m swimming the Trent,” Beortred declared.

  “I’m not intending to swim the Trent –”

  “Some sense at last!”

  “– because I’m not intending to cross it.”

  “What?”

  “You’re mad!”

  “But Lindsey’s just on the other side,” Treowin protested, above the general chorus of complaint. “We’ll be safe there. We’ve ridden quite far enough.”

  “I agree with that,” muttered Ashhere under his breath. “Next time I want to see this wretched horse is in a stew.”

  “I told you, you might be safe in Lindsey, but I won’t be. How many times have I got to say it before it sinks into your thick skull?”

  “Why do you have to be so bloody obstinate?” Treowin demanded, beginning to get angry. “Caedbaed of Lindsey is Deira’s ally.”

  “Was. Past tense.”

  “Oh, come on –”

  “Treowin, has it escaped your notice that I am obliged to take vengeance on Aethelferth for my father’s death? In the unlikely event that I survive, that is. Giving shelter to me is inviting the wrath of the Twister. Caedbaed might choose to use me to pick a fight with Aethelferth, but I’d put more faith in a Jute’s promise. If he has any brains at all he’ll cash in my head. I’m no blood-kin to him, remember.” He swung painfully into the saddle, trying not to jar his broken shoulder. “You go and ask Caedbaed for refuge in Lindsey if you like. I’m going south.”