Then Ess'yr was coming around the edge of the crowd. Her brother was a little behind her.
'You should go,' said Ess'yr.
'We're leaving,' Orisian told her. 'On the ship. I wanted to say goodbye.'
'We will come to you.'
'It'll have to be soon. We'll be gone today.' He felt a sharp pang of apprehension. He could not leave her behind without talking to her. To him, if not to her, it was a parting that needed to be marked. He saw that Varryn was regarding him with unreadable eyes.
'Soon,' Ess'yr said, and he heard a promise in her gentle voice. 'But not now.'
'We'd better go,' Rothe said quietly. 'I don't think this is a good place to be now.'
Reluctantly, Orisian agreed. Ess'yr was already turning away, and he was suddenly afraid that he might not see those beautiful features again. He might have tried to call her back, but did not.
Yvane had been talking quietly with a Fox woman, and now rejoined them, her face troubled.
'Let's go,' she said.
The four of them walked together out of the camp and over the bridge into Koldihrve. The rain was soaking. It churned up the surface of the river.
'They really are savages,' Anyara murmured.
'They are,' agreed Rothe, and then to Orisian's faint surprise added softly, 'but I've seen worse things done by humans.'
'They caught that White Owl not far from here,' Yvane said as they stepped back on to the human side of the river. 'From the sound of it, there's a lot more where he came from. Very close. There's going to be a good deal of blood spilled.'
'Today?' Rothe asked.
'Probably. They say there're scores of White Owls. And your friends from Horin-Gyre too.'
'Wait, wait,' hissed Orisian, slowing suddenly.
The others looked questioningly at him, and he nodded down the street. Four or five men were standing in the sheeting rain. They were indistinct figures, shapeless cloaks hiding any detail, but nothing about them suggested goodwill. Yvane squinted at them, flicking rainwater from her brow.
'I thought you said you didn't upset Tomas yesterday,' she said.
'I didn't,' Orisian muttered. 'We parted on the best terms I could manage.'
He was casting about for another path to take. Every instinct told him this was something more than the simple observation Tomas had kept them under since they arrived in Koldihrve. Already, the men were moving, coming towards them. He could see weapons: staffs and cudgels.
'I'll deal with them,' Rothe growled. There was something close to relish in his voice.
'No,' Orisian said. 'No fighting unless we have no choice. We'll go around them, get out to the ship.' Inside, the thought was ringing in his head that he should have called Ess'yr back when she turned away from him. But it was too late for that.
'Down here,' he said and led them into a side street. 'Yvane, can you find the way to Hammarn's house?'
'I should think so.' She brushed past him to take the lead.
The alley narrowed, so that they had to trot along in single file. They passed the backs of small houses and shacks. There were no doors, and the few windows were shuttered. Water was spouting from the roofs, drenching them. The ground was slick mud, constantly treacherous, and littered with broken bits of wood, empty barrels and discarded pots.
'There's a street up ahead,' Yvane called. 'It's easy from there.'
They burst out on to the road, splashing through puddles. The mud was viscous and clinging. Rothe slipped to one knee and Orisian helped him up.
'Oh, dear,' Yvane said.
Tomas stood facing them, no more than a dozen paces away. Ame was with him, and three other men of his Watch. The First Watchman wore a thick woollen cloak and held a longsword.
'The very folk we sought,' Tomas rasped.
'I see you've taken that sword down from your wall,' Orisian said. 'Why is that?'
Rothe was stepping forwards, but Orisian put a restraining hand on his arm without taking his eyes from Tomas.
'Because it might be I've been played for a fool, that's why,' Tomas growled.
'We don't take kindly to being taken for fools by those as think they're our betters,' Ame added from behind Tomas. He was eyeing Orisian with a kind of malevolent eagerness. Orisian was acutely, almost agonisingly, aware that he was unarmed. The moment felt pregnant with violence, the hissing rain filled with a pressure that was going to demand release. He and Tomas faced each other.
'Word from the Black Roaders is they're hunting two runaways. Boy and girl,' said the First Watchman, his eyes flicking from Orisian to Anyara and back again, 'perhaps travelling with Fox Kyrinin, perhaps with a warrior. And not just any ordinary folk these: kin of the Thane himself. Word is there's reward to be had for any who take hold of them, and nothing but strife for those as aids them.'
'You told me no one would trouble us, if we gave no cause,' Orisian said. He spat rainwater away from his lips. It felt like the air itself was turning to water, like breathing would be impossible soon.
'Cause, is it?' snapped Tomas. 'Well, I've cause enough. I've a town to keep safe from harm. We want no part in arguments between Blood lords, but you've put us there. And done it without telling me the truth of who you are.'
'Not intentionally,' Orisian said as calmly as he could. 'Let us be on our way, and the trouble will pass you by.'
'You think so?' scoffed Tomas. 'I think maybe not.'
'Don't imagine you're more important than you are, Tomas,' muttered Yvane. The First Watchman shot her such a look of feral contempt it startled even the na'kyrim. Orisian groaned inwardly, sensing any chance of a peaceful outcome to this slipping away.
'Don't test me,' Tomas snapped at Yvane. 'You'll all come to the Tower, and we'll see then what's to be done for the best.'
'No,' said Orisian heavily. 'We can't do that.'
He saw Ame's lip begin to twitch into a snarl. He saw Tomas' eyes narrow.
There was a clattering, urgent sound then, from somewhere out in the storm on the town's landward edge. It sounded like pots being hammered together, or a shield being beaten. It sounded like an alarm.
'Tomas! Tomas!' A faint and distant voice, almost lost in the downpour. 'They're here! Riders! White Owl!'
Orisian saw the shock that flashed across the First Watchman's face. For an instant he felt sorry for the man. He felt sorry for all of them, as choice and chance collapsed into this one pattern that might kill them all. There were other noises, caught up in the roar of the rainstorm: drums, cries from across the river.
'That's the Fox,' said Yvane. 'It's starting.'
Orisian stared at the na'kyrim for a moment.
'Then it is time for us to go,' he said.
He flicked a glance at Rothe, striving to ask a question with his eyes. He thought he saw the answer he was looking for. Orisian moved first, his shieldman a moment behind him. Tomas and all his men were staring at Yvane, their aggression momentarily overlaid by confusion and alarm. They were slow.
Orisian hit Tomas around the waist, inside the First Watchman's sword arc before he even realised what was happening. They smacked down together into the mud. Orisian heard the sound of Rothe reaching Ame in almost the same instant, but it barely registered. His whole world had narrowed into a maelstrom of mud and water and the flailing limbs he wrestled with. A detached part of his mind said he was surely going to die here, yet his body had a furious, frenzied hunger for life and he punched and clawed at Tomas like a wild animal.
The First Watchman threatened to lever himself up again, but his hand shot from beneath him. Orisian threw his weight across Tomas' sword arm, pinning it, and raked at his throat with hooked fingers. There was a terrible blow to Orisian's flank, a club landing squarely on his old knife wound. The pain was blinding, but even as he was bludgeoned sideways his fingers clenched reflexively on the First Watchman's throat and he heard a strangulated cry.
Then Orisian rolled free. He got on to one knee, fighting against pain, the mud and the wei
ght of rain. The butt of a staff swept by his face so close he felt it pass. Anyara flung herself at his assailant, shouting furiously. The man slithered sideways, twisting too late to fend her off. Orisian scrambled back to Tomas. The First Watchman was writhing in the mud, pawing vaguely at his throat. Orisian seized his sword and, forgetting everything Rothe had ever taught him, hacked wildly at the man with the staff. The blade found the knee joint and he went down, taking Anyara with him. Orisian staggered to his feet, the sword dragging in the mud, water pouring from him. He gasped for breath, struggled to find Rothe. Ame's dead eye, streaked with dirt, met him. The Second Watchman lay on his side, his neck broken and his battered helm lying in the road collecting rainwater.
Rothe was roaring, howling like some beast in a blood-rage. The two Watchmen he faced were backing away from him, glancing nervously at one another.
'Lannis! Lannis!' Rothe bellowed at them, and at the rain-swept sky, and they ran.
Orisian raised the sword with two hands. The last of Tomas' men had thrown Anyara off him; she sprawled helplessly in the road as he hauled himself upright, leaning heavily on his staff.
'Go,' Orisian shouted and thrust the sword forwards. Rothe was coming too, reeling as if he was drunk but still roaring. The Watchman hesitated for a moment, saw that he was alone and hobbled away.
Rothe helped Anyara up. He used his right hand only; his left arm hung limply at his side.
'You're hurt?' Orisian called.
'It'll come back,' Rothe grunted. 'Don't think it's broken. Lucky that Inkallim's hound didn't have longer teeth, or I'd be no use at all.' He nodded at the sword Orisian carried and held out his good hand. Without hesitation, Orisian presented the sword to him hilt-first. Even with only one arm, Rothe could put it to better use. The shieldman smiled harshly as he took hold of the weapon.
'Feels better to have my hand on a sword again,' he said. He grimaced as he peered at the blade. 'Even if it's not been cared for as it should.'
The alarm was being rung again, more furiously even than before. It sounded closer too, but in all the tumult of the rain it was hard to be sure. It was, in any case, abruptly cut off. Tomas still lay on the road, struggling to breathe. His teeth were bared. His eyes seemed to be roving about blindly. Orisian, calmer now, felt a moment of horror at what he had done to the man. He saw Rothe eyeing the First Watchman purposefully.
'Leave him,' he murmured.
'We should go,' Yvane said. 'Now.'
The rain pounded on the roofs around them, churned the roadway. Other sounds were rising up to compete with the storm. There were cries: panicked voices blurred with the sound of rain. Perhaps even the sound of battle. It was impossible to say where the noise was coming from, but it was not far.
Rothe made them go down the centre of the street, fearful that doors or alleyways might hold a surprise. Every muscle in Orisian's body sang with the desire to run, but his wound was acutely painful and Rothe acutely wary. They went cautiously to a corner, and turned into a road that angled towards the sea.
'I hear horses,' Yvane said.
Orisian tried, but he could not disentangle the blur of sounds assailing his ears. Perhaps there were hoofs buried in the cacophony.
'Can't tell,' shouted Rothe. He was at the rear, constantly turning this way and that, constantly seeking threat. Then, 'Here's trouble,' he cried.
They all looked, and saw two Koldihrvers staggering out into a junction. The rain put an illusion of distance on the scene, muffled any sound. The men paused, as if unsure of where to go. One of them stared at Orisian and the others. Then three great horses came plunging through the rain and mud, their riders swinging swords. They rode over the Koldihrvers, slamming them down. The horses slithered around. Their hoofs carved troughs into the sodden ground. The riders leaned down and hacked at the fallen men. No cries, no screams, reached Orisian. He saw the riders straighten, though, and master their mounts and come on. The horses stretched their legs and surged through plumes of spray.
'Black Road!' Anyara was shouting.
Rothe had both hands upon the hilt of the old sword now. The riders were bearing down on him; beyond, deeper into the grey rain, Orisian could see more horses appearing.
'Get into a house,' Rothe urged through gritted teeth.
Orisian spun, and found two more warriors galloping towards them from the other end of the road. A wild-haired woman was in the lead, leaning forwards over her horse's neck, sword held out to the side as if she meant to take a head in the first charge.
'They're behind us,' he cried out.
Even as the words left his mouth, a lean, pale-haired figure sprang out from between two houses, lunging to punch a spear into the side of the first horse's neck as it passed. The animal twisted in mid-stride. It crashed down in an eruption of mud and water, flinging its rider loose. The spear splintered and cartwheeled away. Orisian started forwards but Ess'yr was ahead of him, whipping out a knife from her belt. She threw herself on to the woman, stabbing precisely for the throat. The fallen horse was thrashing around, unable to rise. The second rider slid to a halt beyond it. Varryn came swiftly and silently from the same alleyway as Ess'yr, and drove his spear up into the man's back. He hooked the Black Roader out of the saddle and cast him down, impaled.
Orisian wheeled about. The three other horsemen were moments from Rothe. The shieldman stood with his feet well spaced, the sword held out before him.
'Come,' Ess'yr was shouting at Orisian. She had his arm in a powerful grip and dragged him towards the alley she had emerged from.
'I have to get a sword,' Orisian said, casting about for one dropped by the two fallen warriors.
Then Anyara was pushing him from the other side, crying right into his ear, 'Move, move!'
Yvane barged into them all and knocked them down. A Black Road horseman surged past, the scything sweep of his blade cutting only the sodden air where Anyara had been standing. They scrambled for the safety of the alley. The road behind them was suddenly full of horses, bursting through the veils of rain.
'Rothe!' Orisian yelled. He could not see his shieldman in the chaos. Varryn ran forwards, darting between two rearing horses.
'I will bring him,' the Kyrinin snapped over his shoulder as he went.
Orisian thought he heard Rothe shouting, 'Make for the ship, Orisian.'
Anyara was pulling him down the narrow path. Yvane and Ess'yr were already ahead.
'I'm not leaving anyone,' Orisian shouted at his sister.
'They'll find us,' she replied without looking round. 'You don't want to die here, do you?'
They heard wailing from one of the houses they rushed past. They were moving away from the sea, away from the safety of Delyne's ship, but the alley offered no side turns. It channelled them along its length and spat them out into another street.
There was a woman screaming as she ran down the road. She was hauling a girl after her, dragging her through the mud. The child was crying. Battle spilled into the road beyond them: half a dozen of Koldihrve's Watchmen locked in a doomed struggle with three Horin-Gyre riders. One of the horses reared and twisted away in panic. Its rider was thrown. The other two slashed about them with their swords. Orisian glimpsed a spray of blood; it looked black at this distance, through the rain.
Ess'yr led them away from the fight, pressing close to the houses fronting the street as if they could give some shelter from the horrors consuming Koldihrve.
'Wait,' gasped Yvane. She gestured at a shabby house next to them. 'There's a path on the other side of these, I think. We can cut back to the sea.'
She pushed rather weakly at the door. It opened partway and then stuck. Orisian kicked at it and it smacked open. They tumbled inside. There was only one room: a bed with threadbare blankets, a table, chair and ash-filled fireplace. The occupants had fled, or were fighting or dying somewhere. The rain shook the thin roof. Water ran from their hair, their clothes.
'We can't leave Rothe,' Orisian said.
'He kn
ows where we're going,' Yvane said. 'He'll come to us.' She was struggling with the latch on a closed window at the far side of the room. Orisian went to help her.
The shutters came open. Yvane leaned out. Ess'yr was watching the door.
'You left your own people to come to us,' Orisian said to the Kyrinin.
Her hair was clinging to the side of her face. Rainwater ran in fine rivulets over her skin. She blinked, and there were droplets upon her eyelashes: silvery beads of rain.
'I must see you safe,' she said.
'We have to go,' Anyara insisted.
'All right,' Yvane said. 'I don't see any trouble out on this side. Hammarn's is close. Follow me.'
She clambered out of the window on to a wooden walkway that ran along the backs of the houses. Anyara went after her, and then Ess'yr. Orisian put his hands on the window frame to pull himself out. He swung a leg up and over, and then stopped. A pale glint by the fireplace took his eye: the blade of a thin knife hanging from a hook. He pulled himself back inside. He went across and took the knife in his hand. It was a plain tool, but it was sharp.
'Orisian.'
He turned, and thought his heart would stop. A lean, powerful man stood in the doorway. He was half-stooped, for the frame was too low for him. He held a sword; blood and water were dripping together from its blade.
'That is your name, isn't it?' the man said quietly. 'Mine is Kanin oc Horin-Gyre.'
Godless World 1 - Winterbirth Page 53