by A. D. Green
The Order. That had been a shock and a revelation all at once and it explained much to Nihm. That Marron and Darion were of the Order meant they lived in the wilds because that was where the Order sent them.
But why? There was nothing here except the Old Forest, the Darkwood some of her books named it and she liked the name, made it sound more exciting and dangerous. Then there were the Blue Lakes and grasslands past the forest and then mountains. There was nothing to be here for, nothing except the ilfanum. Was that why they were sent, for the ilf? No, that wasn't right.
The urak, it was what started all of this. The past weeks played through Nihm’s mind, her feelings and emotions riding along with her. She saw things through different eyes it seemed; assessing, analysing, calculating.
She saw Morten, young, not much older than her; his face and smile. She felt… curious, rather than self-conscious. She saw him in the stable, the flush on his cheeks, his stance, his manner, his words. In the inn, the furtive glances he gave her. He liked her, a different kind of revelation. Interesting, she felt her pulse quicken, felt her own fear and excitement.
She saw again the figure step from the alley, cloaked and hooded; his face dark, his eyes dead. Eyes she would never forget. She felt herself moving as the dagger arced through the air. Slow, too slow. Time slowed, the knife slowed, her falling body slowed. The result was the same. Then voices and blurred faces, Marron was there and Morten.
She opened her eyes, blinked. Morten was still there. He was holding her hand and talking. What was he saying? He looked shocked. Why can’t I feel my hand?
Nihm blinked her eyelids,
Nihm shouted. She blinked and could see Morten looking at her.
“What did you say Nihm?” he said.
He gripped her hand and whilst Nihm couldn’t hear him she could feel pain shooting up her hand and into her arm, glorious pain. Pain that was really starting to hurt now.
“Ow, that is really starting to hurt Morton,” she tried saying. The words sounded okay in her head but all she heard was a jumble of noise as if speaking under water. The pain was intense. Why was he holding her hand so damn hard?
“You need to blow your nose Morten,” she said, feeling suddenly very happy.
“I can’t understand you Nihm. But you’re all right. You’re safe. Look Marron is here,” Morten said. He let her hand go as he was suddenly thrust aside.
Marron’s face appeared above her. Nihm blinked drinking in the sight. Her mother had dark shadows under her eyes. Then suddenly Marron was hugging her and crying.
Pain lanced through Nihm’s body.
Marron was crying and talking to her all at once. “Nihm, Nihm are you okay? How do you feel?”
She felt exhausted is how she felt, the sound suddenly crisp and clear. But Nihm had no time to marvel at the return of her hearing as her Ma’s question sunk into her. The pain had been debilitating, draining but she was okay only hungry… suddenly very hungry.
“I’m okay Ma. But I’m starving,” she said but the words wouldn’t come out right sounding like gibberish.
“Nihm, love, I don’t understand you. Can you blink your eyes if you understand me?” Marron asked.
Nihm blinked her eyes and was rewarded with Marron’s beaming smile. A shaggy head pushed into view and Marron snapped at Ash. “Get back you great fur ball, you can see her later. Go on with you.” She pushed the wolfdog away.
Sai replied.
“Dig the heel of your bow into the arch of your foot like so and lean on it,” Darion said illustrating to Nihm. “If you just string the bow then it’s not taut enough. Any arrow you fire will not travel much past its own length.” Nihm watched her eight year old self with a short bow emulating her Da, leaning and arching the limbs of the bow.
“That’s it Nihm, you’ve got it. The secret though is getting the right amount of bend on the bow. Too much and the bow string is too tight; it can damage the bow and make it difficult to draw. Let the limbs of the bow do the work. You need just enough bend so you can slip the bowstring on and tie it off. See?” He showed her. The memory faded.
Pleased, an emotion. Something she had not felt from Sai before.
“Nihm, are you in pain?” Marron cried, feeling her daughter’s brow. “Blink if you’re in pain.”
Nihm thought. She didn’t blink.
“Good, I think. You do understand me, don’t you Nihm?” Marron asked.
Nihm blinked, frustrated. At least with Sai the communication was instant, their previous discussion having lasted no more than a breath. When was Marron going to feed her?
“Good. I’m going to give you some water, okay?” Marron said.
Nihm blinked and saw Marron smile in response. She felt her Ma squeeze an arm about her shoulders and lift her gently. Nihm opened her mouth slowly, taking pleasure in that simple movement. At least it didn’t blow her head off in agony this time.
Her Ma raised a cup to her lips and dribbled water into her. She felt the coolness of it in her mouth and swallowed it automatically. She felt like a babe as
Marron gave her little drops, not wanting to choke her. It felt good to drink.
“Now you must eat Nihm. Can you eat something?” Marron asked.
Nihm blinked her eyes several times and Marron grinned. “Good girl, you always had a good appetite.”
A woman spoke in the background, the voice familiar. “I’ll get you some broth Marron,” the voice said.
Chapter 47
: The Holdstead
Albert Encoma watched with sad eyes. There were forty two souls living at the holdstead and not near enough capacity on the wagons and carts to take all their belongings with them. Hard choices had to be made and more than one argument had ensued over what was wanted and what was needed.
His son, James, was the only one already gone. After the confrontation with the Black Crow's Knight Captain, Albert had sent him to the Shawcross Holdstead to pass on Lord Richard's warning. He was still mad with his youngest son. The lad had almost got himself killed running his mouth off like that.
His other sons, John and Arthur, along with a dozen other holdsteaders were out in the fields rounding up the livestock. Many were already herded into the bottom fields where the Black Crow's men had recently camped.
“Come on people, time to go. Let’s get it together,” he shouted, hustling and chivvying the holders along. A few appeared from within the holdstead clutching final items they had missed earlier and were suddenly too important to leave.
Hildi came and took his hand, her eyes stern and full of resolve. She had lived here forty years and didn’t know when she would return but she’d done her crying the night before in the privacy of their room. Now it was time to go.
The two of them walked the few steps to the large double doors that gave entry to the holdstead. They were tall and solid and with a grunt of effort they pulled them closed with a bang, the sound loud, lonely and final. Together they turned looking back into the courtyard enclosed by thick stone walls.
Here are all my people, Albert thought. Their faces reflected his own, sadness and worry. Still if they needed to go they needed to get on with it. Sitting around feeling sorry wasn’t going to help any.
Albert helped Hildi up into their wagon. Jacob, his oldest grandson, held the reins and leaned over to take her arm as she clambered up. Albert gave her rump a pat as it went by and she grunted giving him a glare as she took her seat.
“You be minding those hands of yours Bert Encoma,” Hildi snapped but her eyes held a hint of mischief in them.
Seeing Jacob’s grin Bert winked at him. “Sorry Hildi, slip is all.” At least I have my family with me he thought.
The arrow took Hildi high on her chest, just below her neck. The force propelled her off the bench seat and onto the load in the back of the wagon. Dogs started barking out in the back field and screams suddenly filled the air.
Albert stared where his wife had sat moments before, dazed. He glanced in the back to where she lay pinned against the cargo, not wanting to, knowing she was dead but unable to keep from looking anyway.
“Grandda, grandda,” Jacob shouted, his panic and fear threatening to overwhelm him.
It was enough to snap Albert out of his fugue. Leaping up into the bench seat he yelled. “Ride boy, ride!”
Jacob snapped the reins and the horses, already tense, bolted for the large open gate in the stone wall. Jacob heard cries and screaming from out in the fields to his left where his Da was and over that the cattle looing, clearly agitated. He’d herded them enough to know.
A large figure suddenly loomed in front of the gateway. It was manlike only too tall and broad for any man. The horses danced unsettled in their traps.
“Grandda!” Jacob screamed.
“Ride through him boy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop for nothin’,” Albert shouted.
The horses tried to shy away; it was all Jacob could do to keep them straight. His grandda suddenly shouted at them and the horses broke into a canter committing to the gateway.
At the last possible instant the hulking figure dived out of the way and they were through and onto the short track leading to the road. The horses shied as a score more of the giant men stood blocking the way. Jacob couldn’t hold the wagon and they veered off onto the long grass and down a small slope, the wagon bumping and jumping alarmingly.
Albert clung on in disbelief, watching his grandson lash the horses out of sheer terror as they bolted over the grass field. There were more urak here, for surely that is what they were. They were certainly no men he’d ever seen the like of.
Albert leaned across thinking to take the reins from Jacob when the one of the wagon's wheels hit something hard bouncing the wagon up two foot from the ground. It landed with a crash and groaning of stressed wood. Then, like a whip crack the wheel snapped and Albert was propelled tumbling through the air. He hit the ground hard, pain shooting through his shoulder as his collar bone snapped. His head smacked the ground dazing him then blessedly he passed out.
When he awoke Albert groaned in agony unable to stifle his cries. He felt groggy and his head hurt but it was nothing compared to his shoulder. His eyes were sticky and hard to open and he realised he must be covered in blood.
“Got a live one,” said a gruff voice.
Albert lay on his side. As his vision cleared he made out the bulky mass of someone laid next to him. Blinking his eyes clear he moaned. It was Jacob. His head lay at an awkward angle from his body. His eyes were open but there was no life in them.
Albert sobbed as the realisation sank in and he rolled onto his back. The pain almost made him pass out but he couldn’t bear looking at his dead grandson. Hildi, my Hildi he thought in despair the memory of her returning. What have they done to you? A tear leaked from his eye.
A figure loomed over Albert. The face had all the right parts but they were bigger; the forehead deep and ridged, the nose wider and flatter, the eyes larger and further apart. Cruel eyes he thought. Its skin looked ashen grey and leathery. A white hand was painted over its face giving it a savage aspect.
The urak grinned, the gesture all too human. Its wide mouth, full-lipped, revealed square block like teeth. It held a large cleaver sword in one of its big hands and it prodded Albert’s shoulder with it.
Albert cried out at the lancing pain. His breathing ragged, his mouth dry.
“He don’t look in any shape to move,” the urak said, his voice deep and guttural.
Albert twisted his head but the pain was excruciating and he couldn’t move it much and couldn’t see who the urak spoke to. That the urak spoke common and he could understand it only made it seem more human, despite their size and obvious differences.
“Be quick. Nasqchuk has given the order to move. We’re not staying,” came the reply, this voice not so deep. Somehow Albert knew it to be female.
The urak towering over Albert looked down at him. Albert tried to read its eyes but couldn’t. They looked flat and emotionless. Gasping, his lips dry Albert moistened them with his tongue. Why were they doing this? He opened his mouth to speak. “Wh…”
The urak leant on his sword the thick point biting deep into the man’s throat, the sharp broad edge slicing through neck and spine neatly separating head from body.
The urak left the man where he lay, blood pulsing from his neck and into the soil. The human looked old and leathery. Instead he turned to the dead pup lying to the side and nonchalantly scooped up the boy flipping him over his shoulder. This one would be more to his liking.
Chapter 48
: Santranta’s Boil
Amos and his men moved quickly, a sense of urgency upon them after what they had witnessed. They travelled hard after leaving the wrecked villag
e behind, trying to put as many leagues in as they could. But progress slowed as the terrain grew difficult. The wooded hillside turned dense with undergrowth and proved hard to traverse by horse.
As darkness fell they moved lower into the valleys, skirting the woodland to make more time. Amos knew it was a risk. The sky was clear and the tri moons reflected a hazy light making them easier to spot. But it also gave much needed light for them to travel by. Time was the enemy, the risk necessary.
They found a deer trail running west and followed it, travelling well. Amos had a map of the northern Rivers and unfurled it whenever they stopped to water and rest the horses. The rolling hills and valleys would soon end, turning to grassland. There would likely be holdsteads out there, people living on the edge of the wilds.
At one such stop Amos debated whether to turn south for Thorsten once they cleared the hills but his eye was drawn to a dimple on his map. A hillock rising up out of the plains called Santranta’s Boil, a colourful description that amused him. It was the notation next to it though that interested him. Eagles Watch, an ancient tower long abandoned sat upon the Boil. If he could reach it then it would afford him views for ten, twenty leagues. If a war host were coming he would see it for sure.
Amos glanced at Jerkze and Jobe thinking. Talk was dangerous, sound carried at night in the valleys and the two men were quiet, lost in their own reflections.
His mind resolved, he would make for the Boil but send the two of them back to Thorsten. One could scout from Eagle’s Watch as easily as three.
Watching his men Amos couldn’t stop the thought that they’d been eight setting out all those many months back. His father concerned with happenings in the Rivers, had charged him to investigate matters. Amos had relished the chance.