‘You don’t like officers.’
‘I do if they can get us home.’
One of the soldiers stood and Stern glared at him. It was the one with Broglanh’s jacket and the scrambled face. He was pointing west.
‘Look! Fire!’ he said.
‘We’ve got a fire,’ Quora replied tiredly, but Stern turned to look.
‘That’s a big fire,’ he said.
By sun-up the next day more than one hundred and ninety City warriors had gathered at Hayden’s encampment, drawn by the beacon of the funeral pyre. Some would go no further and their future was bleak. Most were strong enough to march, though their progress would be slow. And a handful appeared to have been nowhere near a fight. Hayden suspected that some were runners who had seen the pyre and decided to come back now it was safe, others who had hidden, perhaps in the Vorago, perhaps just playing dead until the battle was ended. He did not judge them, but it would be useful to know who they were.
For himself, he was in an awkward position. He could not lie about his identity. None of the survivors here knew who he was but it was likely, as they made their way back to the City, they would meet others who did. He was trusting that the soldiers’ lack of curiosity would be his ally. So far they had succumbed automatically to his manner of command. If those present considered him their general, others they met were likely to fall into line.
He stood at the edge of the Vorago, looking out over the chasm to his homeland. In truth, he knew the lands of the City far better than he did Petrus. When he turned his back on it, he knew it would be for the last time. His latest letter to Anna had been despatched five days before. A few more missed days and she would think him dead. A great feeling of loss came over him. If Anna thought him dead, then might he not as well be?
He thought of Rosteval. He had debated taking the old boy’s saddle with him, for it was of skilled and ancient work, built by Tanaree craftsmen of fine leathers and carved wood, depicting the totems of the people, who were born in the saddle, it was said, who drank blood and crucified their enemies. He had first laid it on Rosteval’s back twenty years before when the horse was a fiery young stallion. But it was heavy and to take it along would be considered sentimental by warriors who owned nothing they could not carry themselves. So, with a sigh and a convulsive heave, he had thrown the saddle on Marcus’ funeral pyre. The old gods demanded the deaths of his horses when a great leader died. Hayden could not offer Marcus that, so the saddle was symbolic. Afterwards his burden, both physical and spiritual, felt a little eased.
‘Sir?’
Hayden took a deep breath and turned, putting Petrus behind him. A black-haired soldier was looking at him questioningly. Hayden searched for the man’s name and remembered it was Stern. He had brought thirty men and women to the pyre the night before. He was big and well-muscled, with a veteran’s steely gaze and a natural way of command. Hayden already had him pegged as his second.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Stern. ‘One hundred and seventy-seven ready to march.’
‘And the others?’
‘We can leave them food and water, and weapons.’ He shook his head in amazement. City soldiers never left food behind, he’d said.
Hayden had briefly considered leaving a platoon of relatively able soldiers to guard the wounded, but had decided against it. If the enemy army were to come back there was nothing a handful of warriors could do. And the battlefield would become intolerable in a day or so as the thousands of corpses started to rot. Even now the rats were gathering. Where do they come from, he thought, in the middle of nowhere, leagues from human habitation? Any guards would be forced to leave this place soon, as would anyone who could stagger or crawl. It would be a waste of resources. His priority was the City. He knew now he would end his life in her service. What would Mason think of that, he wondered?
Hayden strode over to the waiting soldiers, most of whom were standing by their packs ready to march. He eyed the few who remained seated.
‘My name is Hayden,’ he told them. ‘I fought with your general Marcus Rae Khan. I believe that the reason the enemy left so quickly is that they intend to march on the City.’ He looked around but no one expressed any surprise. ‘Therefore we must travel with all speed. Anyone who cannot keep up will be left behind.’ He had already noted in his mind which ones he reckoned would fall by the wayside, but then again, he thought, you never can tell.
‘I know the general’s first priority,’ he went on, ‘would be to get a message back to the City, for we cannot expect to arrive there before the vanguard of the enemy army. So we must watch out for horses. There will be fugitive mounts, uninjured, somewhere around. They might have run away in fear, but eventually they will return to us. Are we carrying horse feed, Stern?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘This might be the single most important thing one of you does in his life. Just one horse – one rider, one message – getting through could make the difference between the City surviving and being overrun by the enemy.’
My tongue should shrivel in my mouth, he thought with grim humour, recalling his many years of planning and campaigning to destroy that City.
He looked around at them, men and women, all blood-stained, most with bandages, some with splinted limbs. In his heyday he had led armies of a hundred thousand men, soldiers long dead in the service of Petrus. This ragtag band, this remnant of an army, had the strength and courage and endurance of any Petrassi force more than twice its size – he could admit that to himself now. And they were looking to him to lead them back to their City, to fight their way through hostile territory and, perhaps, confront the barbarians again which would surely result in their deaths.
He thought back to the last thing Marcus had ever said to him and drew his sword.
Holding it high, ‘May the gods of ice and fire see our valour and make us victorious!’ he roared.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE NEXT MORNING Emly was alarmed to discover Stalker was leading them westward, back towards the battlefield. He told her the enemy lay east and north of them and they would have to lie low and wait for the army to depart before they too struck out east. She knew she had no choice to trust the northlander but she was filled with misgivings.
They followed the coast, skirting the field of battle with its piled corpses, until they were heading north, along the line of the Vorago. But by the time the sun was high and hot they were forced to stop, for Evan had fallen into unconsciousness again.
Stalker picked a spot to rest in the shadows of an ancient tree, its grey bulk teetering on the lip of the abyss, throwing out old, dry roots into the warm, still air above the chasm. Stalker walked back and forth along the brink, staring down, squinting.
Despite their setback he seemed in good humour and, as she sat pulling dried meat and drier cornbread from their packs, Emly asked him, ‘Stalker, will you teach me to fight?’
He snorted. ‘You’re no warrior. You should keep his bed warm for your man,’ he said, nodding at Evan, ‘and make his food.’
‘I’ve been lucky so far,’ she argued, considering her rescue from a series of mortal perils by strong men. ‘But there might come a time, there will come a time,’ she amended, trying to sound resolute, ‘when I need to defend myself and there are no soldiers like you to protect me.’ Then she told him about Casmir and his trial and his bid to kidnap her. Stalker listened closely, his ginger head cocked.
‘You’re small,’ he said at last, looking her over with a warrior’s eye, ‘and light. You’ve no mass, no muscle. You’ve no swordmaster handy to teach you, like Indaro . . .’
‘I have you,’ she said shyly.
He snorted again and spat on the ground. ‘I’m just big and heavy. Everything you’re not. And I’m no swordmaster.’
He pulled at his braids, thinking about it. ‘Go, get your blade,’ he said at last.
She scrambled up eagerly and Stalker retreated from the cliff-edge to a flat
spot of ground far from Evan’s sleeping body. She saw his bad ankle was no longer bothering him. Sometimes he limped heavily, she’d noticed, at others you’d believe there was nothing wrong with it.
‘Come at me,’ he said, beckoning. ‘Kill me.’
Emly pulled out Quora’s pigsticker and, pushing off her heels, ran full tilt at him. He watched her, crouching slightly, his broadsword ready. He seemed about to engage his blade with hers but at the last moment he twisted, batting her weapon away with the back of his gauntleted hand. She ploughed into him. It was like hitting a building, and she fell to the ground, dropping the knife. He picked it up.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘From a soldier.’
‘It’s a handsome gift,’ he said. ‘What was he called, this generous soldier?’
‘She. Quora,’ Em answered. ‘Why?’
‘Where was she from?’
‘I don’t know.’
He shook his head. ‘This is a venerable weapon,’ he told her. ‘We’ll make a warrior of you yet, girl.’
‘Will you teach me?’
‘If I get the chance.’ He sat down again at their fire. ‘And once we’ve got this blade sharpened. Have you been slicing turnips with it?’
She nodded, embarrassed.
‘Once it’s sharp it’ll cut through leather and the boiled wool those soldiers wear for armour. Even some metals.’
He squinted at her as a stonemason might at a poorly built wall. ‘You have to pick your scraps,’ he said. ‘You’re small and you’re quick. You offer a small target. You need to seek out the soft points. Eyes, throat, groin. In, out. Quick as a pixie.’
She nodded. Evan and Stern had both told her the same. ‘And to defend myself?’
‘You have no defence. Just turn and run as fast as you can. You’ll easily outrun any man weighed down by armour and weapons.’
Emly was disappointed and her face must have shown it, because, ‘I’ll show you a few moves,’ Stalker said at last, scratching his beard. ‘Once we’ve a little time, and a place of safety.’
But there was no time, no place of safety. Stalker lifted his head like an old dog scenting the breeze, and Em listened too. She could hear nothing but the soughing of the wind over dry grass, the stealthy rustle of a wild animal. She closed her eyes. In the far distance she could just hear a faint sound.
‘Hooves,’ said Stalker. He stood up and, with an agility belying his size and age, he ran to Blackbird and mounted. The startled horse reared and Stalker pulled roughly on his reins.
‘Stay here,’ he ordered Em. ‘Get your man ready to travel.’
Then he thundered off, heading north-east. In a moment he was out of sight.
Emly felt a chill breeze course through her, for all the warmth of the sun. She shivered. A moment ago she had been happily talking to Stalker, safe under his protection. Now she was alone again, the sole guardian of her wounded lover. For a fleeting moment she wondered if Stalker had planned to abandon them, then she squared her shoulders. Whatever happened, she would be ready. She packed their bags and strapped them on the warhorse. Patience fidgeted as if keen to be off. Then Em knelt beside her man.
‘Evan.’ She laid her hand on his heart, where there were no wounds. ‘Evan, you must wake up.’
His eyes opened slowly, the thick blond lashes sweeping up like a curtain. His face was unnaturally calm, almost slack, as if some vital sinews had been cut; but his eyes focused and his voice, when it came, was slow but clear.
‘Time to go?’
‘Stalker says we must be ready.’
She helped him sit, kneeling behind him and supporting him. It was more than a day now since he had been injured and she’d expected him to be stronger. Deep in her mind a treacherous thought fluttered and bumped like a wet-winged moth. What if he never recovers? What if, this time, his wounds are too severe?
‘Thekla?’ he asked suddenly, his voice sharp as a blade. He was staring at something she could not see. She wondered who Thekla was. She stroked his hair and willed Stalker to return. But time seemed to limp by slowly, and the sun had moved across the sky before Patience raised his head and pricked his ears. Emly heard galloping hoofbeats the moment before Stalker reappeared at the top of their hideout. He flung himself off the lathered horse and knelt beside her.
‘We’re trapped,’ he told her. ‘The army’s all around us, and they’re scouring the cliff-edge for survivors. They’ll find you in a heartbeat.’
Appalled, she stared up into his face. ‘Then we’ll die here together.’ She put her arms round Evan.
‘No need for that, lass. There’s a path down the cliff under that tree, I saw it earlier. It’s a goat path, but if you hide down there they won’t bother to follow. They’ve bigger fish to catch.’
‘Where?’ She stood and looked where he was pointing. She peered down into the chasm. All she could see was steep, unforgiving rock, almost vertical, sprinkled with a few scrawny plants. She shook her head. ‘I can’t see it.’
He grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her a pace to the right. ‘There.’
He was right. But it was no goat path. Someone had carved shallow steps into the cliff-face. You could only see them if you stood in exactly the right place. She marvelled that Stalker had spotted them.
‘Can we get Evan down there?’ she asked doubtfully.
‘Not us, lassie. You.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll make a run for it through their lines. They won’t be expecting a lone horseman. I’ll come back for you if I can. Quick now, you haven’t much time.’
He helped her get Evan to standing. The soldier could stay on his feet, if supported, but he seemed to have no idea of how to move forward. He was looking round, his face pale as death, his eyes flickering constantly. Em placed his arm round her shoulders, then her arm round his waist.
They managed the first step down the cliff path, then Stalker grabbed Patience’s reins and climbed on to Blackbird.
‘You’re taking both of them?’ Em asked him. Her heart was pounding and Evan was leaning against her.
‘If I leave one it’ll point straight to where you are,’ Stalker said, then, without another word, taking their packs with their food and water, he turned the gelding and rode away. Em listened. The sound of hooves drifted off and there was stillness.
She blinked back her tears. ‘Come,’ she said to Evan, ‘we must go this way. We’ll be safe then.’
She pulled and pushed him one step down, then two, talking encouragingly. She tried not to think of the aching abyss on their right, the crumbling, dry rock under her feet, the placing of his boots, one at a time.
‘One more step,’ she kept saying. Evan was leaning on her heavily and she feared he might topple them over.
But they made it to the shelter of the old tree. Its swirling, searching roots hid a deep recess where it was shadowy and cool and a little damp. Emly helped Evan inside, where he lay unconscious again. She scrambled back out into the light and climbed a little way to check if they could be seen from above, then ducked back under the spreading roots and sat beside him, her heart heavy. Why had Stalker taken their food and water? How long would they last without it? He’d said he’d come back, but would he?
She woke with a start and wondered how long she had been sleeping. Evan slept deeply beside her and she thought that, if she could only find water, this would be as good a place as any for him to recover. In the gloom under the roots she could see his eyelids flickering as if he were dreaming. She hoped they were dreams and not nightmares, for she believed good thoughts as he slept would aid his healing. He repeated the word Thekla and Em wondered again what it meant. She was thirsty and thought that if she searched the battlefield she might find discarded water skins. But the prospect filled her with dread and she made no move.
Then her heart leaped as she heard a sound outside, a gentle breathing, then a sharp huffing noise. It was so dark in the root cave and so bri
ght outside that she could see nothing. She wondered nervously if it might be a wolf or wildcat, or a bear angered by intruders in its den. Knife in hand, she crawled out into the daylight.
A large brown goat stood regarding her with dark eyes. It wagged its head and huffed again. She smiled at it, wondering if she could kill it for food. Then she saw it was wearing a collar.
She heard footfalls and raised her knife. A figure clad in grey appeared, rising swiftly from the Vorago. It was a young woman, slender and fair, bearing a stout stick to aid her climb. Her robes were cut off below the knee and on her feet she wore thick rope sandals. She stopped when she saw Em. Then she spotted the blade and stepped back a pace, glancing behind her, ready to run. Em quickly laid the pigsticker on the ground and spread her hands.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked in the City tongue.
It was one of the hardest things Stern had ever had to do. Just half a day into their march in pursuit of the enemy army, injured soldiers began dropping by the wayside, and one of them was Quora.
For an old boy, Hayden had set a punishing pace. Despite his years he was whipcord thin and tough as his boots, his faded blue eyes fixed on the horizon, his lean face dark with intent. Unlike any general Stern had ever known – though such acquaintance was largely anecdotal – Hayden carried his own pack, a battered, ancient thing with his breastplate and helm strapped atop, and he ate with his troops.
But the man was relentless, determined that within days they would catch up with the weakest soldiers, the sick and injured, at the rear of the enemy army. To do that he would abandon his own wounded men and women.
‘We have a long journey,’ Stern pointed out to him as they marched together on the first morning. ‘Do we need to catch them so soon?’
‘We want them to know we’re here,’ Hayden replied, his eyes fixed ahead. ‘If we start to pick them off they will have to consider us, make plans to deal with us. It will be something extra for them to do, something their generals don’t need. We’ll make them change their plans. That can only be a good thing.’
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