by John Gwynne
Camlin and Baird just stared at one another, chests rising and falling.
They both turned together to the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.
Edana and a dozen others, including Roisin and Lorcan. Quickly, Camlin moved to intercept them. She doesn’t need to see this.
‘You were supposed to wait for my signal,’ Camlin said, hurrying forward to stop her reaching the square.
Some truths are best not seen.
‘We heard screams, the clash of iron. I was worried for you,’ Edana said with a wave of her hand as she pushed past Camlin into the square.
She stood there a moment, eyes scanning about her, body rigid. Then she stuttered into motion, picking her way through the square, eyes sweeping the ground until she reached the gallows. She faltered, looked up at the children, their bloated corpses swinging in a gentle breeze. Ropes creaked.
She saw the black and gold of Cambren upon the dead warriors’ cloaks. ‘Rhin, even here.’
Camlin came and stood beside her, saw tears running down her cheeks.
Lorcan pushed forward and took her hand. ‘Come away now,’ he said.
‘These are my people,’ she snapped, yanking her hand out of his grip. ‘I am not some innocent girl . . .’ She trailed off. ‘Not any more.’
‘But, why do you stare so? You do not need to be here. We have seen, now let us go.’
‘I stare so that I will not forget. This is my land, these are my people. Rhin and her ilk have slain them. Slaughtered children. They will not be forgotten. There will be a reckoning.’
Lorcan looked into Edana’s face, then nodded.
‘What happened here, Camlin?’
Good question. And why were there warriors still here? He glanced at the roundhouse where the enemy had appeared from. Something’s wrong. We need to get out of here.
‘What happened here, Camlin?’ Edana repeated.
‘Hard to say. Rhin has warriors down this way, for some reason. Maybe the word that there is a resistance based in the marshes is true? Looks to me like they were making some kind of example.’ He nodded to the gallows. ‘My guess is it didn’t go down too well, got out of—’
‘Over there,’ Edana blurted, pointing behind Camlin. To the stables. ‘Something moved . . .’
I’m an idiot. These buildings need checking.
‘You should leave,’ he muttered to Edana as he set his bow down and drew his sword, Baird following him as he entered the stable. Camlin waited a moment for his eyes to adjust, then started skewering the straw in each stable. He got to the last partition, saw a lump in the straw.
‘If you don’t want an extra hole in your body, you’d best be standing up now.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘All right, I warned you,’ he said, stepping in.
The straw exploded upwards. He saw a flash of red hair as a small figure darted past him.
‘Got it,’ Baird shouted, hoisting the figure into the air. ‘I mean her,’ he suddenly bellowed as the child squirmed in his arms and bit his hand.
‘Enough, girlie,’ Camlin said. He made a point of sheathing his sword for her to see. She slowly calmed, then went limp in Baird’s arms.
‘We’re not going t’hurt you. What’s your name?’ Camlin asked. She just looked at him, big dark haunted eyes in a dirty face. She can’t be more’n eight, nine summers old. What’s the poor little mite had to witness to put such fear into her?
When Edana saw the child she held her arms out, but the child only stared, her face full of fear and suspicion. Baird put her on the ground.
‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ Edana said, crouching down to look her in the eye. ‘We’re friends, not enemies. What’s your name?’
More silence.
‘If we were going to put a blade in you, we’d have done it by now,’ Camlin told her.
The child looked at him. ‘Meg,’ she whispered.
‘How old are you, Meg?’ Edana asked with an encouraging smile.
Just a silent stare.
Camlin’s eyes were raking the buildings around the courtyard, his skin prickling. He wanted to take a look inside the roundhouse, but he also wanted Edana out of the village.
‘You need to get away from here,’ he said.
‘Soon,’ Edana said with a frown, stooping close to the girl. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘We’ll not hurt you.’
Meg just stared at her.
Need to hurry this along.
‘How old are you, Meg?’ Camlin asked.
‘Eight.’
‘How long ago did this happen?’ Camlin gestured at the square.
She frowned, as if unsure. ‘Two nights?’ she said hesitantly. Then her bottom lip trembled and she started sobbing.
‘We know it was Rhin’s men,’ Camlin said, feeling sorry for her – no child should have to go through this horror. ‘They wear the black and gold. Don’t know why they did it, though. And it’d be real helpful if you could remember how many.’
‘That’s enough for now,’ Edana said to him as Meg continued to sob – days of pent-up emotion and fear obviously released.
‘There were lots,’ Meg suddenly blurted. ‘And their chief was called Morcant.’ She spat his name.
‘Morcant,’ Edana whispered. Camlin sucked in a breath as they shared a look. Back when Camlin had been part of Braith’s crew in the Darkwood Morcant had joined them and led the raid that had captured Edana and her mam, Alona, Queen of Ardan. Soon after Camlin had found himself drawing a blade against Morcant and switching sides. Camlin loathed him.
He looked at the square, at the bodies swinging from the gallows. Not a surprise that he’s behind this. But what’s he doing this far west. Hunting rebels?
Something nagged at Camlin and he looked about, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
Then he saw Vonn and the others burst into the far side of the square, Vonn waving desperately. Camlin crouched down, placing a palm flat on the ground. A slight vibration. Steady, rhythmic.
Horses.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
VERADIS
Veradis marched forwards, stepping in time with a dozen warriors spread either side of him, over two score more at his back. They were advancing upon a squat stone tower surrounded by a village of thatch and wood. The sun sat low in a blue sky, the air fresh and sharp as they continued their approach through green meadows carpeted with wildflowers.
A beautiful day.
To the west, behind a low hill, he saw a cloud of dust appear, marking Geraint’s horsemen as they circled the village. Hidden from the rebels inside. The plan was that they would go round the village and wait for Veradis’ shield wall to flush the rebels out of the town into the open meadows beyond, a killing ground for Geraint’s mounted warriors.
Veradis had spent over a moon hunting down the remnants of King Eremon’s resistance. The realm was still not stable, and that would not change while its newly appointed vassal king Conall was away chasing after Edana. Domhain had been conquered, the citizens of Dun Taras throwing open the gates in surrender, in acceptance of Conall, one of their own, with the blood of a Domhain king in his veins.
Even if he is a bastard. But Rhin sitting upon the throne in Conall’s absence had not gone down well. Unrest had escalated into violence, and the streets of Dun Taras had run red. The rebels had notched up a string of minor victories, and even when Veradis and his shield wall had entered the fray it had been hard, bloody work. The shield wall had not been designed for enclosed spaces and back-alley fighting. But eventually the rebels had been defeated and fled. Rhin had ordered her battlechief, Geraint, to give chase, and had asked Veradis to lend his support.
Better to crush them now, put an end to the leaders, than allow them to spread their poison. It will only fester and rear up again, she had said to him.
Veradis knew she was right. The stability of the realm meant peace and less bloodshed.
They reached a field of barley, trampling through the
green unripened stalks. A wide street of hard-packed mud opened before them. Veradis heard the bass lowing of a herd of auroch in the distance. He gave his commands and the warriors’ shields snapped together, a concussive crack as they marched forwards, no one breaking stride. Veradis peered over the rim of his shield. It was an improved design, oval instead of round, giving more protection to his head and ankles, while making it easier to stab his short sword around its edges. He’d spent much of the winter thinking on his shield wall, considering strategies, strengths and weaknesses, seeing where injuries were most common, and the new shields were one of a few innovations he had made.
They marched into the village, their iron-nailed boots thumping on the ground like a drum beating time. A narrow street angled away, and Veradis gave more orders. The back row of twelve men broke out of formation and establishing a new compact wall, three men wide, four deep, who took this new street. This was how he’d learned to fight in the city streets – smaller, more compact groups.
The tower reared over rooftops ahead of them, its unshuttered windows like dark eyes in its granite face. They are here somewhere, could not have slipped away in the night. He saw a flash of movement in one of the windows. Holed up in the tower, then.
A sound seeped into his awareness, more a vibration at first, travelling into his boots, up his legs. It grew louder by the heartbeat, and then a cloud of dust was roiling down the street towards them. He stood, gaped open mouthed for long moments before he realized what was happening.
‘Auroch,’ he bellowed, leaping to the side, pulling men with him.
The huge cattle stampeded down the street, swinging their long horns from huge, shaggy-haired heads. Tall as giants, they were mountains of muscle and fur. The ground shook beneath their hooves.
Veradis slammed against a wall, other men with him, some crashing through doors and shuttered windows. One of his warriors stumbled in the road. Veradis reached out a hand, but the auroch were already upon them. One moment the warrior was there, the next he was gone, blood splattering Veradis’ face as a seething, stinking mass of cattle surged by, the thunder of it almost overwhelming.
And then they were past, stampeding down the street, out into the fields of barley. He called out to his men, his voice a croak choked by the dust, and he saw shapes scattered on the ground, knowing they were his sword-brothers and that many would never stand again.
For the first time in an age he felt a deep, mind-numbing fear fill him. The shield wall had been dominant for so long in his memory, crushing any opponent with overwhelming regularity, that to see it broken and scattered so easily was shocking. Not since the very first battle, when he had stood in the wall and faced a charge of draig-riding giants had the shield wall been so easily destroyed.
Then he heard voices, battle-cries, saw shadowy figures emerging from the settling dust. The rebels, come to finish any survivors before we can regroup.
Somehow he was still holding his shield. He drew his short sword. ‘To me,’ he managed, more a choking whisper than the battle-cry he was hoping for, then again, louder, the act dissolving the fear that had frozen him, transforming it into anger. His eagle-guard would not fall like this. He glimpsed a handful of his warriors moving towards him. Then the rebels were on them, screaming their defiance.
Veradis took a blow on his shield that reverberated through his arm. He swept his shield wide, opening his foe’s defence, and plunged his sword into the man’s belly, wrenching it free in a spray of blood. He snarled and kicked the collapsing man away, strode into the chaos, a hot rage filling his veins.
Bodies littered the ground, mounds of trampled meat. The rebels were all warriors, stalwarts of Eremon and Rath, not pitchfork-wielding farmers. They attacked with a controlled fury, knowing this was their last, and also their best, chance of defeating Rhin’s notorious ally. Veradis looked around wildly, trying to find men to regroup the shield wall, but they were fractured, embroiled in scores of solitary battles.
‘So be it,’ Veradis growled. They’ll see there’s more to us than just the shield wall. He blocked an overhand swing that was about to take a stumbling comrade’s head off, twisted and back-swung, opening his attacker’s throat. He reached down, pulled his sword-brother to his feet and moved on. Smashed his shield into an enemy’s side, stabbed hard, his sword-tip breaking through a shirt of mail to slide across ribs. His opponent cried out, pulled away, was hacked down by another eagle-guard. A spear was thrust towards him; Veradis deflected it with his shield, the spear-tip bursting through layers of ox-hide and beech, punching through a handspan above his wrist. He dropped his shield, wrenching the spear from his opponent’s hands, and hacked his blade down into the man’s skull. Veradis switched his short sword to his left hand, drew his longsword and fought on.
A horn blew to his left, two short blasts, one long. He grinned fiercely. It was one of their signals: regroup. The eagle-guard that had left the shield wall before the auroch stampede appeared from a side street nearby, a dozen men in formation, their shields locked. He started cutting his way towards them.
Others did the same, merging into the wall, swelling it, and before Veradis reached them it had grown, six men wide, four rows deep. The resistance started to fall before it.
Other sounds emerged over the din of battle – the thunder of hooves and the blowing of horns, growing rapidly louder.
Geraint and his warband. They must have heard us. Thank Elyon. He saw Geraint riding a black warhorse at the head of a host of mounted warriors. He skewered a rebel with his spear, let it go, drew his sword and started cutting down rebels as if they were stalks of wheat. It was a matter of heartbeats before the rebels were broken, fleeing in all directions. No one can stand with a shield wall before them, cavalry behind. Veradis stood there, panting, both swords bloody.
‘Well met,’ he said to Geraint as Rhin’s battlechief pulled his horse up beside him. The warrior leaned over and gripped Veradis’ forearm.
‘Think you might just have saved my life,’ Veradis said to him.
‘Good.’ Geraint grinned. ‘I’ve been meaning to return that favour.’
Dun Taras came into view as the road wound between two hills, the fortress’ dark walls a brooding shadow against the countryside. Veradis rode beside Geraint, their warriors spread in a column behind them. A cluster of prisoners walked at the centre of the line, hands bound and heads bowed. Thirty men, survivors of the uprising, heading towards Rhin for her judgment.
Which is unlikely to be merciful, judging by her mood when I left Dun Taras.
Geraint, however, was in fine spirits, laughing and joking as they approached Dun Taras.
Veradis was in the grip of a dark mood, the deaths of his men weighing heavily upon him.
Thirty-eight men dead. And what honour in that death? Slain by overgrown cows. More men lost than in the battle of Domhain Pass, where we fought against a warband ten thousand strong.
He looked at the pouch hanging from his belt, filled with the draig teeth he had collected from a dozen of the fallen. Men who stood with me from the beginning, who stood against the draigs and giants of Tarbesh. Nathair’s first battle, his first victory. Nathair’s Fangs, we called ourselves. It was my fault. I should not have marched them into that village unprepared. I should have sent scouts first. I have become over-confident, arrogant, thinking my men and shield wall are unbeatable. This proves we are not.
Rhin was waiting for them in Eremon’s old chambers. Veradis remembered the room all too well; it had been where they had fought the old battlechief Rath and his shieldmen, where his friend Bos had died. He avoided looking at the flagstones where Bos had fallen, scrubbed of blood now, but there was still a faint outline, if you looked hard enough. Blood always leaves a stain.
‘Well, Geraint, I can tell by your grin that my problems with rebels are ended,’ Rhin said coolly. Her silver hair was braided with gold thread, spilling across one shoulder, the paleness of her skin enhanced by her sable gown.
‘Yes, my Queen,’ Geraint said. ‘The rebellion is finished. None escaped – a few hundred dead, and thirty prisoners await your justice.’
Rhin raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Something to look forward to, then. Come, celebrate with me.’ Veradis was handed a cup by a servant and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was a cup of wine, not the mead or ale that was so popular in this part of the world.
‘To strong men that will always do my bidding,’ Rhin said, lifting her cup, chuckling. Veradis wasn’t sure he wanted to drink to that, but the wine smelt good and his throat was dry after their long ride.
Rhin enquired of the battle, shrewd as always, asking about tactics and the decisiveness of the conflict. How many dead on both sides, how many survivors? Were the leaders dead? Her eyes bored into him as Veradis told of the auroch stampede.
‘Always adapt,’ she said when he’d finished. ‘War is wits, Veradis. Strength, courage, skill, these are all valuable assets in combat, but wits are what win a battle, and a war. Your shield wall has served us well, but our enemy are not mindless animals. They will study, analyse, adapt. You must be one step ahead, always, or you will stagnate and be outwitted.’
‘Aye, my lady,’ Veradis said. This I have learned. ‘And how go things here, my lady?’
She sighed wearily and rubbed at her temple. ‘I am spending my life organizing, administrating and advocating between petty grievances, Veradis, and it is boring. I find myself in a position where I command four realms – all of the west, in fact – and it is tedious. There is a lot to do, and I am stuck here in Domhain, waiting for Conall to return to us.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It would appear that I prefer to conquer than to rule!’ She shifted in her seat, scowling. ‘Not to mention that this chair is uncomfortable; no wonder Eremon killed himself.’