Wintersong

by William Cooper

  Finally Davish finished, and he stood in silence. All eyes turned to the ashen King, who now covered his face with a shaking hand. The silence felt cold and terrible like a death had just been announced. Davish cleared his throat and turned to the King, ‘Your highness, I think we ...’

  ‘Get out,’ said the King, his tone soft, barely audible.

  ‘My King?’ Said the lord.

  The King jumped up from his seat and bellowed. ‘Get out! By god! I need to think and I have no time for your prattle or politics.’

  Angry and offended the dignitaries of the realm stood up and muttering amongst themselves quickly left. One remained. Lord Middleton, had picked up the scroll that Davish had dropped onto the table. Bowing he said, ‘My King, you have need of this,’ and he mockingly passed the scroll to the enraged King. ‘If you wish we could call a meeting of the Concord and discuss this matter.’

  ‘I commanded you to leave,’ said the King hoarsely.

  ‘My King, with all respect,’ said Middleton, ‘our army has been broken by the Cathan, and many of our nobles lie dead on the sands. This is a grave matter; it cannot be ignored or dismissed like you dismiss the Concord. I demand you call the Concord to meet. It is your duty as King.’

  ‘My duty?’ shouted the King, ‘How dare you lecture a king! The Concord does not rule, I do!’ Get out. That is a royal command!’

  Bowing slightly and with deliberate care letting the scroll drop to the floor, the nobleman turned and left the court room. She looked at her husband, who staggered back up the dais and sat heavily on the throne. His hands gripped the arms of the throne as if he feared he would fall off. He bit his lip hard and it bled.

  Bad news spread fast, and soon she heard that the jesters and street-side politicians were denouncing the King’s supposed folly. Many were calling for Perriswood’s head, including several lords who called the man craven. She had heard that some lack wit called Free Jon had written a tract that denounced the King. He claimed that Merric was in league with the Prelate of the High Church. Cathan was but a ploy, in this fools eyes, to weaken the armies of the kingdom, leaving them easy prey for the Holy Empire. Such nonsense, but many had believed it, and a small riot had broken out in the Stews, where an effigy of Perriswood was hanged and burnt. In the end the city’s marshal was forced to send in the watch to settle the peace, but Thornsreach still simmered in an angry atmosphere, and the watch were fearful of more trouble.

  Merrick had brooded for days. His temper was tested again when word arrived that the Concord had met without his permission, in the old council halls on the west side of the city. They had issued a letter demanding that the King must adhere to the law and call a Concord before making war or trying to raise a tax. They had claimed his defeat was a punishment by god for his ‘tyranny.’ They demanded that he dissolved his own council and that Perriswood be brought to trial for his failure, and his cowardice.

  The King had not raged, he had not shouted, but instead he became quiet. He withdrew for days refusing, to talk to anyone, including Maria. She knew he was exhausted and felt isolated. Perriswood had fled to his estates to the south of the Isle. The King’s council were laying low and the Concord were baying for blood. She had tried to speak to her husband to other some consolation and advise him to give into some, but not all, of the Concord’s demands. Then, later Merric could build up power against the Concord, but he would have none of it. Merric wanted to be strong, like his father, and he seemed to see any compromise as failure. Normally she would not wish to interfere in his rule, despite what was said of her, but she knew how vulnerable her children would be if the nation turned on the King. The Concord had made no threat to their safety, but Maria understood power, and how it corrupted good men. Much could be hidden under words such as necessity and expediency. She no longer slept easily, and had taken to insuring her children were close at hand at all times. She feared there was to be war now. Even if the King could not see it, she would not let her children be used as pawns. She swore to protect them as the wolves gathered snarling around the throne of the Golden Isle.

  On the Run

  Remus knelt low in the thick mud, and pushed himself closer to the barn’s wattle and daub wall. Quickly he looked around the corner of the barn, and saw an empty courtyard. Ducking back, he breathed a sigh of relief. No soldiers! That was good. He felt too weak to fight anyone. He slumped against the wall, and took a moment to rest. Trying to ignore the freezing cold rain as it hammered into him, he tried to plan his next move. The sprint across the field had left him gasping the damp air, and his hunger was like a sharp knife in his belly. He tried to slow down his breathing, to calm himself as he listened intently for any sign of his pursuers. It was a struggle to ignore his well-honed instincts; they screamed at him that there was danger here at the farm. He felt the urge to run, to keep moving, to keep running, but he knew from long experience that it was a time for caution. Cathan soldiers were looking for any survivors who had fled the beach. The Cathan were merciless bastards. No doubt the Raven Twins had put a bounty on the heads of any soldier brought back to them. He had seen plenty of evidence for that. As he moved across fields and woodland he came across mounds of dead Golden Isle soldiers, with their heads hacked off. Forest clearings full of bloated and bloodied corpses, stripped of their equipment and valuables, left for Ravens and wolves to pick at.

  Becoming a headless corpse was not part of Remus’s plan, and he knew it was caution, not speed, that would get him to safety. He had waited in the woods, soaked by the bitter rain, like some wild animal that feared the hunter. When the night came, he moved carefully out of the woods towards the farm. To hurry was to die. He hadn’t wanted to go near a settlement, any pursuer worth their salt and bread would search through barns and out house, especially on a night like this. But he had been forced to. He had no maps to choose an accurate path, though he knew he needed to go south to get to the wide Islinor border. By ill luck he had come to edge of the woods to see that below it was a wide valley that had few places to hide. There was a farmhouse in the centre of the valley and it had a clear view of the valley. He had no choice but to cross it, for the detour would take him miles out of his way. He had decided to wait until dark, before attempting it.

  The farmhouse was a small one, nothing more than a cottage. He thought it was empty, and he saw no light and smelt no wood smoke. It would have made a good shelter on a night like this, but it was too risky. Remus decided to use one of the outhouses as a rest point for his midnight journey across the valley. When he felt it dark enough he walked slowly out of the treeline and down the long slope of the hill to the valley floor. He kept low, using the hedgerows and rough-built stone walls as cover. When he was within distance of the outhouses he made a sprint for their relative safety. It had been terrifying, any moment he expected to hear an alarm raise, or to see soldiers hiding in the farm, as he moved quickly across the uneven ground.

  Remus felt no relief when he made it to the side of the barn. He felt exposed as he rested and listened carefully for danger. All he could hear was the pounding of the rain, the wind rustling through the trees that lay behind him and the gurgle of water running through the over filled guttering of the barn, and his own ragged breathing. Perhaps he was going to make it, maybe he was just shitting himself over shadows, he thought.

  A braying howl cut through the night, somewhere in the deep woods behind him. Remus heard the excited barking of hunting dogs that had caught a scent. Somewhere behind him, not far from the tree line, he heard a shout. He had to move and quickly.

  Tightening his grip around the broad bladed hunting knife he held, Remus propelled himself up from the mud, with a grunt pain. He ran into a surprised Cathan foot soldier who was walking carefully around the corner of the barn. Both of them fell into the mud of the courtyard. Remus swore as he realised he had dropped his hunting knife somewhere in the darkness. He heard the clatter and jingle of the armoured Cathan soldier as he tried to get up. Swearing again,
Remus scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, racing to beat the man, to gain any kind of advantage over the soldier.

  But luck was not on Remus’s side as both men got to their feet at the same time. He realised the guard had kept hold of his sword, and held it a way that suggested he knew how to use it. It was a rough piece of kit that sword. More a machete than a sword it was, sharp and brutal. The soldier cried out a word in Cathan as he stepped in and slashed at Remus’s unarmoured torso.

  The sword sliced towards him in a long arc, but Remus dodged quickly back, avoiding the blades savage cut. His attacker stepped to the right and Remus moved to keep the bastard in centre of his field of vision. The soldier was confident, and grinned evilly at him as he rushed in suddenly; taking an overhead swing that was meant to cleave Remus’s head in two.

  Again Remus dodged the blade, but this time he stepped to the right of the soldier. In the same movement Remus kicked out and smashed his boot into the side of the soldier’s right knee. There was sicking crunch of bone and the soldier fell forwards with a scream as he ploughed into the rain soaked mud. Remus began to move towards him, with the intent of stealing his sword but was halted by the sounds of shouting in the courtyard. Turning quickly, he saw soldiers pouring out of the outbuildings and the farmhouse.

  ‘Fuck this!’ said Remus and decided that discretion was better than valour.

  Remus bolted into the night. He gasped for air and felt that he just wanted to stop, fall to his knees and vomit up his fatigue and pain, but he knew he would be dead if he stopped, for he could hear the pounding feet of men and the dog’s barking. He vaulted a low, stone wall and landed in another field. An arrow whisked overhead, and he fought the instinct to look back as he barrelled into the darkness.

  Another arrow shot past his ear, then another thudded into the ground near his feet as he run. The bastards were taking pot shots into the dark, he thought. He ducked his head down and kept running. His chest was on fire, his head throbbed and his heart felt like it was trying to burst from his chest. For a moment he lost his footing in the muddy field, and fell hard into the mud. Remus heard excited shouts behind him. His pursuers had scented the end of the chase. Fighting his own pain, he rolled up onto his feet and ran. The rain smashed down harder, and the wind was blowing violently through the tree line ahead. He swore it sounded like a roaring river. Another stone wall stood before him and as more arrows whistled and sliced through the air around him, he vaulted the wall and cried out as he plunged into the darkness below. It felt like an eternity of falling before he hit the icy water at the bottom of the deep gorge like a battering ram. Days of heavy rain had swollen the river to near bursting point, and now it raced through the narrow gorge in a torrent. Remus fought his way to the icy surface. He tried to struggle to the nearest bank, but the current was too strong and he was swept along. All Remus could do was try to keep his above the water. His muscles ached, and the cold sapped his strength. He felt panic begin to rise in his stomach, he was not going to make it, he thought.

  Then, in the dim light he saw the shadow of a thick tree stump that was half-submerged in the water. In desperation he grabbed at its slippery surface. His muscles screamed at him as he clawed his way to the riverbank. After what seemed an age, he pulled himself onto the narrow muddy bank. Still he kept moving, trying to get to dry ground. The mud was slippery and the stones cut into his hands but he pulled himself up out of the mud and to safety.

  Gasping in the raw, damp air he lay in the undergrowth shivering, his muscles aflame with the exertion of the night. Breathing hard, he rolled over onto his back. For a moment he was tempted to lie in the undergrowth, to let sleep take him, but he knew that would be his death. His cry of defiance and rage at his own weakness echoed off the step gorge walls, and he hauled himself to his feet. He had escaped death for now, but that grim angel was out there somewhere, waiting for him to fuck up.

  Remus hoped his pursuers were on the other side of the river and thought him drowned. But, if not, they would search for him along the bank. So the further he went from the river the better, he thought. As he walked along the uneven floor of the forest, he finally had time to start thinking. It occurred to him that whoever had commanded the search had been good. There was no way those soldiers were there by chance. The bastard must have placed small units of men in some of the outhouses. He’d probably drawn a circle onto some map and tried to cover all of the most common hiding places and escape routes in the area. He was glad now he had stayed off the roads and had tried to avoid buildings. With planning like that, no wonder they had lost so badly. He had barely escaped the slaughter on the beach. As he moved slowly through the woods he wondered about the Honourable Company. It had had been scattered on the beach and many of his comrades were now dead. Others were fleeing Cathan hunters, just as he was. He had seen Melcher take a blow to the head. Old Tom had pulled a rider from a horse and mounted the beast. Hopefully the old veteran managed to get away, but who knew. Remus had to make it out on foot, fleeing with the others as the Cathan cavalry run through them hacking and cutting. It was mayhem. He lost his helmet and his shield. He run into the baggage train and stole a horse that had been tethered to a cart. Some Golden Isle lord had made the mistake of trying to take the horse from him. The lord had commanded him to give him the horse. When Remus ignored the fool, the knight raised his sword and took a swing at him. His lordship had died with his head split open by Remus’s sword. He had then raced the old nag off the beach and up into the hills. The poor creature eventually collapsed under him, too old to take the strain. Putting the creature down, he then made his way on foot. He made sure he always kept to the woods and avoided roads and high places. How many of his comrades were still alive was unclear but, one thing was certain, Lotho was dead. He had seen him felled him by a Cathan arrow.

  Remus knew that the Honourable Company had been effectively destroyed. He had been on the losing side in battle before, but this was different. There had been no retreat, or ending of contracts. This had been an absolute slaughter. Lotho had been the company, and with his death everything had changed. Remus knew he would have to start again and find another company, but first he had to get out of this mess and get back to Scianna. There, at least, he had stashed some money, clothing and weapons. Not a fortune, but enough to start again. All he had to do was out manoeuvre any patrols or hunters for long enough. Eventually, they would give up the search, and he would perhaps find somewhere to rest. Determined to survive, he would not let himself be captured. But he didn’t know how long he could go one for. He was exhausted, foot sore, badly bruised and his legs ached like a devil and he didn’t know how long he could walk for. But he had to persevere. A few hours later, the shock and fatigue caught up with him. The rain had passed, and as the first light of dawn could be seen through the forests trees, Remus found himself unable to continue. His body refused to take one step more, and he slumped to his knees. For a moment he knelt in the loam of the deep forest, his mind in an unthinking numbed state. Then slowly he fell against the rough bark of a mossy old oak and blacked out.

  He awoke to the sound of birdsong, and the warm midday sun streamed across his body as it shone through the gaps in the trees. Remus pulled himself up slowly, groaning as his stiff legs and back ached as he moved. What a fool, he thought. He could have been easily captured as he slept, but fortunately he was deep in the woods, far from any footpath. Ignoring his rumbling stomach he took stock of his situation, and judged the direction he needed to travel by the slowly rising sun to the east. After taking some water from a small stream, he plunged on into the woods.

  It was late afternoon, when Remus picked up the stench of pigs nearby, and soon he reached the outskirts of a farm. It was a simple affair, a small farmhouse, which was occupied by a family of peasants. Many outhouses dotted the fields, as did the conical, stone pig pens common to the Cathan people. Wishing to avoid any complication, Remus, patiently hid the woods until dark, ignoring his hunger as he waited.


  Once it was dark enough Remus headed towards one of the stone pig pens on the edge of the farm. Remus jumped into the sty and ducked down into the low pen. The pigs grunted at him as he entered. Making calming noises, so as not to scare the pigs, he settled down in a filthy corner and tried to ignore the stench. Sharing a pen with four sows he was grateful for the heat their bodies produced, and they in turn seemed content to ignore him after they briefly snuffled him.

  He dozed fitfully and a few hours before dawn he prepared to leave. Stripping off his padded jacket he buried it in the mud of the pen and, swallowing his own disgust, covered himself into the filth and mud of the pen. Quietly he snuck out of the sty, and headed towards the outhouse furthest from the farm house. Cautiously, he searched the barns and found a large working-man’s smock hanging off a nail and a woollen hat common to the farmers of the area. Thankfully, he also found a barrel of dried apples, some cheese and a small mattock that he hid under the smock. With his food in a sack that he slung over his shoulder, and snuck back into the woods. He did not stop until he felt he was far enough away from the farm. As he walked he devoured a hunk of cheese and some apples, washed down with some stream water. Feeling much better for the food he moved on.

  After a few hours of walking, Remus eventually found a road that cut through the woods, and he headed south. To a passing observer he looked like a filthy vagrant, and he certainly smelt like one. Remus did his best to look the part. He didn’t have to fake a pained limp, but the vacant, mugging expression he put on his face when he came close to travellers was enough to convince them he was a witless half-wit who could only grunt. The reek of his clothing was enough to discourage casual conversation. He was making good progress towards the Islinor border when, late in the evening, he came across a long stone bridge that covered a wide river. Remus’s knowledge of the area was scant but he believed it was the river Senner. He felt elated, the Senner was but a day or so away from the border.