by John Gwynne
She blinked at him. ‘Do you have a fever?’ she asked him.
‘Sarcasm isn’t an attractive quality, and it’s also not very helpful.’
She shrugged and followed him, the sound of flapping wings accompanying them.
Corban gathered up what was becoming his war council: Meical, Balur and Ethlinn, Tukul, Gar and Brina. He noticed Cywen had also joined them. Craf and Fech were nearby.
He felt the familiar tingle of fear. I am making plans, changing plans, and people’s lives will depend on my choices. The weight of that was huge. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts.
‘The plan has to change,’ he said to them. ‘Calidus, Nathair and a host of the Kadoshim are behind us, to the north. At best they are a day’s ride away, at worst . . .’ He shrugged, looking at the dark wall of trees behind them.
‘And what about Rhin’s warband?’ Meical asked him.
He paused. When I speak it, there’s no going back. Took a deep breath. ‘Can’t go around, so we’ll have to go through them.’
‘Is that wise?’ Brina said. ‘You risk being ensnared with one foe while another gets to stab you in the back.’
I asked her for advice, not criticism. Though the two are often entwined where Brina is concerned.
‘My da used to tell me, don’t hit if you can help it, but if you have to, hit fast, and hit hard.’ Corban saw a grin split Gar’s face and he heard Cywen grunt. They remember him saying that, too.
‘That makes sense,’ Meical agreed. ‘But how? Ride straight at them? Many will likely be lost.’
‘I’ve had a few thoughts about that.’ Corban said. ‘I think I have an idea.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CAMLIN
Camlin peered through a crack in the roundhouse’s shutters, loosely holding his bow and a nocked arrow. The sound of hooves was growing louder. He swore quietly.
I wanted them to ride around. Why the hell do they want to come back to this stinking hole? And he didn’t mean that metaphorically. The roundhouse stank of death, flies buzzing in lazy circles around half a dozen corpses of villagers who had obviously sought refuge there. He’d had a superficial look around, wondering why Rhin’s warriors had been in here, but a quick glance had revealed little, and the sound of hooves bearing down upon them outside hadn’t helped his concentration. When the news of riders approaching had reached them, Edana had looked to Camlin. He’d been frozen for a moment, conflicting interests warring in his brain, then ordered them all into the roundhouse, pausing a few moments to unclasp a few of the black and gold cloaks from Rhin’s fallen warriors.
Once upon a time it would have been a simple decision – prepare for an ambush, use the buildings around the town square. Spread our swords. If it came to it, kill and run. Regroup at an appointed spot.
Now, though, he had twenty-six lives other than his own to think of. That included a deposed king and queen and an eight-year-old girl. Meg, the bairn they’d found hiding in the stables, was sitting by his leg. She didn’t talk much, but every time he moved she moved with him, straying no further from him than his shadow.
He frowned as he glanced down at her now.
The shutters started to shake, the drumming of hooves becoming deafening.
There’s a lot of them. Just gets better.
So his plan had been to stick together and hide. Hide and hope they passed through.
He looked over his shoulder, saw pale, serious faces staring back at him. Roisin stood at the back of the hall, a dozen of her shieldmen tight about her. Lorcan was close to them, sitting on a blanket-covered chest, his feet dangling. He glimpsed Vonn and Baird, backs bent, digging at the wattle and daub wall with spear and sword. Always need an escape route. If they find us . . .
We’ll deal with that if it happens.
He peered through the crack in the shutter again. It was sunset, the sky was a wash of pink and orange clouds, shadows long and wide. That’s in our favour, at least.
He felt a presence behind him: Edana, trying to peer over his shoulder.
‘You should get back,’ Camlin whispered.
She ignored him.
Riders thundered into view, spreading around the edges of the market square. No horse wants to stand on a corpse. Camlin counted sixty, but he could hear more beyond his vision, hooves thumping on the hard-packed earth.
The warrior at their head sat tall in his saddle with an easy grace about him. He was clothed in a shirt of gleaming mail and a black leather surcoat, a sable cloak draping his shoulders.
‘Morcant,’ Edana whispered venomously.
Camlin shared her hatred, remembering the last time he had seen the man. Back in the Darkwood Morcant had led the ambush on Queen Alona, Edana’s mam. Both of them had been taken prisoner, as well as Cywen, Corban’s sister. Soon after, Morcant had ordered Cywen’s death, and that had been the last straw for Camlin. He’d drawn his sword and stood in front of her.
What kind of fool am I, standing against Rhin’s first-sword? Even now he couldn’t explain exactly why he’d done it.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he whispered.
‘He’s evil.’
‘I know. But let’s live long enough to kill him and tell the tale.’
Edana glared, then gave a sharp nod.
Morcant turned. Camlin saw him take a deep breath and wrinkle his nose.
‘Let’s make this quick,’ Morcant said to the warrior beside him. ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Bring them up.’ He paused, looking across the square to the roundhouse. ‘Where are the guards I left?’
Camlin wrapped one of the cloaks about his shoulders, threw one to Baird and the two of them stepped into the roundhouse doors. Camlin raised a hand to Morcant.
‘Ah,’ Morcant said. He stared a moment, but then another rider appeared, leading a line of half a dozen riders by a rope, men and women with hands bound sitting upon them. Prisoners.
‘Look around you,’ Morcant said to them, languidly gesturing with a hand to the corpse-strewn ground. ‘This is what happens when I am defied. This could happen in your village too.’ He tapped his heels against his mount, guided it through the dead to the gallows, where he pushed at the body of one of the hanging bairns. It spun lazily in the fading sun. ‘Men, women, children. I will spare no one.’
One of the villagers on horseback bent over and vomited.
Morcant’s horse picked its way back to them.
‘It doesn’t have to be like this. All you have to do is tell me. Where are the outlaws based?’
‘We don’t know,’ one of the prisoners said, a white-haired woman. ‘We are peaceful people, we want no trouble.’
‘Neither do I,’ Morcant said. ‘I’d rather get my task finished and be on my way back to Dun Carreg. Marsh life is not for me.’ As if to emphasize his point, he slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck. ‘So tell me where they are. My patience is wearing, my temper fraying.’
‘You’re a monster,’ one of the younger men snarled, ‘a woman-killer, a bairn-slayer.’ He spat in Morcant’s face.
Morcant’s expression shifted from annoyance to blind rage in a heartbeat. In a blur his arm moved, there was the ring of iron and a head was spinning through the air, Morcant’s face splattered with the dead man’s blood.
‘I. Am not. A monster.’ Morcant calmly cleaned his blade on the headless corpse’s shirt. Slowly it toppled back in the saddle and slumped to the ground. He sheathed his sword and with the hem of his cloak wiped the dead man’s blood and spittle from his face. ‘I do, however, admit to a temper. It gets the better of me sometimes. As to what I did here – in my defence, the people of this village did more than just refuse me information. I had reason to believe that they were supplying provisions to the outlaws in the marshes.’ He shrugged. ‘That could not be allowed to continue.’
He rode along the line of the remaining prisoners, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. ‘I do not just punish those who
oppose me. I reward those who help me. I will pay well for the right information. Enough silver to feed and clothe your entire village for a year. Or you could just share it between the five of you. Our secret.’
‘You’re lying,’ one of them muttered.
‘Am I? There’s a chest full of silver in that roundhouse. Bring it out.’
Camlin looked at Baird, then back into the roundhouse. He stared at Lorcan, who looked at him in horror, lifted the blanket off the chest he was sitting upon and kicked it with his heel. It chinked. Everyone in the room stared at him.
Asroth’s stones. And I call myself a thief. I’m ashamed.
‘Bring out the chest,’ Morcant called impatiently.
‘Some help,’ Baird shouted back, then shrugged at Camlin.
Morcant gestured to two warriors. ‘Go fetch it for me.’ The warriors rode towards the roundhouse.
‘Baird, Vonn, how’s that bolt-hole coming?’ Camlin snapped.
‘Nearly there,’ Vonn hissed.
They heard horses come to a stand outside the roundhouse, boots hit the ground. Footsteps.
No time now. Everyone scrambled for the dark corners of the room, hiding behind an overturned table, chairs, anything. Camlin shoved Edana behind him and drew his knife.
The wooden doors creaked open. It was dusk now, almost dark in the roundhouse. A weak wash of light filtered a little way into the room, silhouetting the warriors as they strode inside. Camlin let them take a few steps in, out of sight from the square, then leaped forwards, one hand clamping over a mouth, his knife plunging into a back, slicing between ribs, puncturing a lung. The warrior in his grip stiffened, hissed. Camlin stabbed again, and again. The other warrior was turning, sword already half out of its scabbard, his mouth open, drawing breath to yell.
A sword crunched into his neck, cutting deep, blood spurting. The sword swung again, wildly, hit him in the face, taking off half his jaw and spinning him. Teeth, blood and bone sprayed as he collapsed to the floor.
Camlin turned, saw Edana standing with her sword gripped in both hands. She was staring at the fallen warrior. Camlin peered through the shutter.
No one’s noticed. Yet. He swept up his bow and arrow and ran to the back wall, where Baird and Vonn had finally cut a hole in the wall. Pale light seeped through. We’ve about a fast count to thirty, if we’re lucky . . .
‘Out, now,’ he hissed.
Cian was first through, Roisin behind him, another half-dozen shieldmen straight after. Camlin stuck his head through the hole.
‘Don’t wait – head south, to the river. Saw some boats – they’re our best chance.’ He searched the room for the bairn Meg, jumped a little when he saw her standing beside him. ‘Meg, show Cian the way to the river and boats.’
‘You coming?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be along after.’
She chewed at her lip a moment, then nodded, slipped through the hole and sprinted off into the dusk. Cian and the others hurried after her.
Edana was still standing by the door, clutching her sword. Vonn was whispering to her, but to no apparent effect. Camlin strode over, took one look at her and shook her by the shoulders.
‘You’ve killed a man,’ he hissed at Edana. ‘Good. He was your enemy and would have killed you. Now sheathe your sword and get out, ’fore someone else comes and tries to kill you.’
She blinked at him, then nodded, tried to sheathe her sword but her hands were shaking. Baird helped her and hurried her through the hole in the wall, other warriors following.
Morcant’s voice called out and Camlin felt his heart freeze. Hooves, footsteps.
‘Move,’ Camlin hissed, pushing men through the hole. ‘Lorcan, you next.’
‘I shall wait with you and defend Edana’s escape.’
Camlin sighed.
There were only a handful of them left: Camlin and Lorcan, a couple of Roisin’s shieldmen, one of them Brogan – the shieldman with the barrel of herring still strapped to his back – and Vonn.
Camlin calmly pulled a handful of arrows from the quiver at his belt and stabbed them into the ground.
Feet drummed at the doors, warriors strode in, half a dozen at least. They saw Camlin and his companions, froze a heartbeat or two and Camlin put an arrow through the first man’s throat. He fell back in a spray of blood, crashing into those behind him. Draw, breathe, release, and Camlin put another arrow into them. Then they were charging, calling to their comrades outside as they came.
Vonn was through the hole.
Camlin nocked, drew, released, another warrior stumbled to the ground, tripping others behind him.
One of Lorcan’s shieldmen shouted a battle-cry and ran at the warriors. He swung his sword two-handed, gutted the first man he reached, ploughed into the others shoulder first, sending them all staggering.
‘Come on,’ Vonn yelled through the hole.
‘Time to go,’ Camlin said to Lorcan, grabbing him by the shoulder and shoving him through.
‘You next, big man,’ Camlin told Brogan, at the same time drawing his bow and releasing. More warriors in black and gold were crowding through the roundhouse doors. Brogan grunted, stuck in the gap, as the barrel on his back wedged tight. Camlin took a step back and hurled himself at the warrior, both of them exploding through the wall. Camlin rolled on the ground, looked back, saw feet pounding towards them and caught a glimpse of the chest full of silver. He gave one last wistful look at it. Once upon a time . . . Then he was running. Vonn and Lorcan were just ahead of him, swerving between wattle-and-daub buildings, Brogan hard on his heels. Hooves were drumming, warriors yelling somewhere behind him, far too close for Camlin’s liking.
The river, find the river. It was near dark, a bluish tinge to the air as the sun faded. Camlin heard the sound of water, ran around a hut, stopped to yank open the gate of a pig pen and then ran on. There was a stampede of feet and squealing pigs, followed almost immediately by swearing, crashing, falling. Camlin grinned and then burst out of the village onto the riverbank.
The boats were tied along the bank, Roisin and Cian already in a canoe, a dozen others sat in boats, pushing away from the bank into the wide, sluggish river.
‘Lorcan,’ Roisin cried out when she saw her son, and he clambered in beside her.
Baird stood over Edana in a larger flat-bottomed boat, gesturing frantically to them. Then a hand was slipping into his, Meg, tugging him towards the boat. He didn’t need much encouragement, rushed to the riverbank and boarded.
Horses thundered along the bank, warriors yelling. Spears whistled past them, splashing and disappearing into the river. Close by someone screamed and fell from a boat.
‘Upriver, into the marshes,’ Camlin yelled as he saw a coracle with two warriors in it start to paddle downriver.
It’ll be faster going downriver, but they’ll track us with no problem. Only chance is to head into the marshes.
Then Camlin saw Morcant. He burst from between two huts, saw the boats pushing into the river and snarled. Camlin nocked another arrow, drew and sighted, aiming for Morcant’s chest. A spear suddenly slammed into Brogan; the big man grunted and dropped the steering pole, the boat veering. Camlin’s arrow skittered wide as he tried to regain his balance. Swearing loudly, he drew another arrow from his quiver but the boat was starting to spin, caught in the sluggish current. Camlin clambered to his feet, the boat rocking; he grabbed the pole and started pushing. In seconds they were moving in the right direction, heading upstream into the marshes with half a dozen other river craft. Brogan groaned and pushed himself up.
‘Thought you were dead,’ Camlin said to the big warrior.
‘Spear hit the barrel of fish on my back.’ Brogan grinned and held up a herring from the shattered barrel. Baird laughed, the sound strange amidst the panic and fear of their flight.
‘Come on, fish-man, lend a hand,’ Baird said.
Morcant was leading riders along the bank, shadowing the boats.
‘Meg, do you know your way
around these marshes?’
‘A bit,’ the girl confessed.
‘Appreciate it if you’d be our eyes, take us where they can’t follow.’
It did not take long before Meg was guiding them off of the main river down narrower tributaries, ever south and east, sometimes pushing their way through great banks of reeds, sometimes coasting like ghosts on the liquid dark, always heading deeper into the marshes. It was darker now, the moon and stars veiled by ragged cloud. Camlin watched with satisfaction as their pursuit slowed, the terrain becoming unnavigable for the horses in the dark.
Eventually Camlin heard a splash and a horse neigh wildly. Before they disappeared into the darkness Camlin saw a rider come close to the bank. For a moment the clouds cleared and moonlight shone bright upon them, silvering the dark river and the warrior upon his mount. It was Morcant, and he stared straight at him. Camlin returned the gaze with a mocking grin.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FIDELE
Fidele watched Maquin as he gutted and skinned a rabbit, his movements efficient and practised.
If I were alone out here I would have starved to death long ago. She felt a surge of frustration as she observed Maquin, a moment of shame at how useless she was proving to be. What can I actually do? Run through woodland, and that not very well. Rule? And I didn’t prove to be too successful at that, either. She felt a wave of shame, thought of how the world had changed in so short a time. It was not so long ago that I dwelt in Jerolin with my husband and son. Now Aquilus is dead, Nathair gone who knows where, and I am living hand-to-mouth in the wild. Who even sits on the throne in Jerolin now? Who rules the people of Tenebral? My people. She felt a failure, felt that she’d let down all those who depended upon her.
All of those years living a life of service, bound by duty and honour. Aquilus was almost a stranger through our last years of marriage, so consumed and driven by Meical’s prophecy, and yet it all came to nothing, ended by a traitor’s blade. And Nathair, my own son, left me and then chose Lykos over me. She felt a flush of anger – the two men in her life whom she had trusted wholeheartedly, both abandoning her. Neither of them taking her into their confidences. The emotion was swiftly followed by shame - Aquilus was a good man, just preoccupied by these dangerous times. And Nathair is a good man, again, swept away by the dark times we live in.