Breta laughed delightedly. ‘By the balls of the gods, that is good!’
Philippe grinned awkwardly and shrugged, the pretence dropping as quickly as if he had flung away the cloak and wig. ‘It is what I do, my dear. Or at least, used to. I had not realised how much I missed it.’
‘Well,’ grunted Cannick, ‘from the look of that, we should have no fears about you down in the town.’ He looked across pointedly. ‘Should we, Brann.’
Brann was still unable to shake off the nerves about placing Philippe in such a situation, but forced a smile. ‘Of course not. Now we should look at hanging a couple of weapons on you to complete the image.’
Philippe nodded. ‘Of course. Just don’t let me try to draw a sword or they’ll realise I don’t know which end to hold.’
‘Leave that side of it to us.’ He turned as a thought hit him. ‘This does open up another possibility, however. Konall, you could accompany Hakon, which means you can go straight to your father, rather than Hakon having to explain it all to Ulfar and asking him to speak to Lord Ragnarr.’
Konall was at his horse. ‘Do you honestly think I was going to stay with you halfwits instead of seeing my family now that we have a real actor to play the role?’
Brann grinned. ‘I expect you would have stayed if you had thought it necessary.’
The tall boy paused in the action of climbing into the saddle. ‘You are probably right, but you have made the offer now and there is no going back on it.’ He kicked his horse into movement.
‘I could always change my mind.’
Konall’s back was to him as his horse walked away, so his voice was drifting back already. ‘I can’t hear you.’
Brann noticed, though, the crestfallen look that Hakon was wearing. He raised his eyebrows in question.
‘It was the “straight to Ragnarr” bit,’ the boy said, miserably, seeming even more enormous than usual when on horseback and viewed from the ground. ‘I have missed my family.’
Brann punched his ankle affectionately. ‘Do you think I would do that to you?’ Hakon looked at him, not fully comprehending. ‘Do you think Konall wants you to hold his hand while he speaks to his father? I would wager he will be happier if you leave that to him on his own.’
Hakon’s big grin burst across his face. He made to speak, but instead just beamed at length, nodded, and shook his horse into life. He cantered past Konall, his booming voice carrying back to them. ‘Don’t worry, my lord, your page will remind you of the route. And of the pace required.’
Konall’s gesture at the broad back was obscene, but still he gave his own horse its head and let it match Hakon’s, stride for stride.
Cannick laughed. ‘I love a man who can be made happy so easily.’
Brann smiled. ‘Me too.’ He turned to the rest. ‘Right, let’s get organised.’
They sat on their horses near the outskirts of the town, masks in place, and sinister in their stillness under the trees on the grass verge just beyond a bend in the road. Residents would not spot them but anyone led to them would find the sight imposing, if not unsettling. And Cannick had been sent as intermediary once more in the hope that those meeting them would indeed be led to them – surely, they would come to Daric’s summons, rather than expect Daric to come to them? Still, they would deal with whatever came their way.
Brann glanced at the others through the eyeholes, his breathing loud in his ears and hot in his face behind the thin metal. Philippe sat slightly ahead of them, he and Grakk sat immediately behind, and Gerens and Breta were silent behind them. Marlo, Mongoose and Sophaya were hidden a short ride further back on the road they had travelled along, in case they needed archery cover while making a fast retreat.
He returned his attention to Philippe. From the moment he had mounted his horse, he had remained in his character to the extent that Brann had found himself almost believing the ruse. It was chilling to see the look from those eyes, and he was glad to have the cloaked back to look at most of the time. Even now, Philippe sat straight and tall, mask on, long red braid brought forward over his shoulder to accommodate the raised hood and hanging down the right side of his chest. He stared relentlessly at the road ahead, imperious and silent.
The silence let them hear the hoof beats: a canter approaching the bend ahead, quietening to the walk that brought the party into sight. Cannick led a group of eight horsemen, all of them brawny and not one on the decent side of reputable.
He halted in front of Philippe, and inclined his head. ‘Lord, I can present your emissary in this land, Ove, son of Ingvar. Ove, this is—’
A man rode from among the bruisers: small weasel eyes matching pinched weasel face matching thin weasel body. Brann’s attention flicked back to the eyes: they were the giveaway. Darting, cunning, suspicious, calculating, probing. But when Philippe removed his mask, they also became fearful.
‘This is Master Daric?’ the thin voice whined. ‘How could I not know?’
Philippe slowly pushed back his hood and slipped the long braid back over his shoulder. His gaze bored into the weasel.
‘It is always better to be sure, in everything,’ he said, his tone deep and heavy with power. ‘Is it not, Ove, son of Ingvar?’
The man nodded nervously. ‘It is that, Master, it is that.’ He looked around nervously. ‘We have a camp further inland, where we have prepared a welcome. If that would please you?’ Philippe stared at him. ‘Or do you have other plans? We are, of course, at your bidding.’
Philippe stared still. Ove squirmed. Eventually, Philippe nodded. ‘We will see your camp.’
Brann breathed in relief. Only this road led inland from the town, initially, splitting later, so they would soon pass by the spot where their three archers lay in wait.
‘While we ride,’ Philippe continued, ‘you can start briefing me on your situation here.’
‘You would not rather wait until the comfort of the camp?’ Ove said. A glare turned his whine to a stammer. ‘As you wish, Master. Of course.’
‘I have travelled far. I wish to waste no more time.’
Ove indicated the road ahead, and Philippe moved his horse to walk it alongside him. Brann and his three companions moved in immediately behind, with Cannick respectfully to one side; it was more than uncomfortable leaving Ove’s bodyguards at their unguarded rear, but there was no way he was letting Philippe be separated from him, and it also allowed him to hear their words.
‘You lead here?’ Philippe asked.
‘I have that honour, Master. Following Lord Loku’s absence, it has fallen to me to rebuild our work in these lands.’
‘Ah, Loku, yes. His plan here came to nothing. His men were routed by slaves.’
‘They were indeed, Master, but not for nothing. The people of this land had a danger living hidden among them. They are no longer unaware of that danger, and look in every shadow for a repeat. And so we sow rumours and stories, feeding that fear, while at the same time we rebuild. We have three camps hidden, and we gather recruits where and when we can.’
‘Such as the camp we ride for now?’
‘No, Master. This is a temporary camp, set for your arrival and to avoid delaying your departure, for I am aware you have important business elsewhere. The other camps are in the mountains and the wilderness, to avoid detection.’
Darkness filled Philippe’s voice. ‘What do you know of my plans elsewhere?’
‘Only what we were briefed in Lord Loku’s communications.’ Ove’s voice mixed panic with appeasement. ‘He has been most helpful in aiding our work to rebuild here. If you were not able to visit us within the next month, we were to dispatch a delegate to report to the Council ourselves, but thankfully we have been honoured enough to receive your presence instead. A report from you of our endeavours will carry so much more weight, don’t you think?’
‘Naturally. You will be hoping, therefore, that the weight of my opinion reflects favourably on what I discover here. And what do you know of the location of the Counc
il’s meeting?’
The man shrugged. ‘Only as little as anyone knows, Master?’
There was an edge to Philippe’s voice. ‘Which is? When I ask, you answer without evasion.’
Even from behind, Brann could see the small man swallow nervously. ‘Only that it is in the Kiss of the Two Seas, as it always is. Were we needed to send someone there ourselves, Lord Loku would have notified me of the identity of the agent there, and he would have taken our report and presented it to the Council.’ He looked up at the imposing figure at his side. ‘That will not now be necessary, of course, with your presence gracing us, Master.’
Philippe ignored him, and Brann resisted the temptation to glance at Grakk. The Kiss of the Two Seas? If anyone knew of the place, it would be the tribesman with a childhood of education and adult years filled with travel and a thirst for knowledge. He forced his eyes forward. If Philippe could maintain such a pretence without pause, he could surely manage to stay in character himself when the only requirement was to keep in line, be silent, and stare straight ahead.
Philippe jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. ‘These your men?’
‘A few of the more robust that we have. Most of those in the camps are not so well developed, but we keep the best as our elite guard, and,’ he preened himself, ‘brought the best of those for your escort. More of these are in the town, in case of need, but the majority of the force is split over the camps.’
‘For training?’
‘For gathering, Master. The training, as ever, comprises the usual consumption of narcotic herbs. Lord Loku’s instructions have always been clear that a trained man is long to prepare and hard to replace, but a man frenzied on the right herbs can be sent into battle in an instant, and an entire army can be readied in this way in the time it takes to train a single soldier to hold a sword. Some have gained practice through raids that spread a certain level of unease at least, and terror at most, but many have been sent on to serve as instructed, and many more will be ready to go soon.’
Philippe nodded sagely. ‘It pleases me that you hold so true to our principles.’
Ove swelled with pride.
The larger man began to speak again, but stopped himself as a thought seemed to occur to him. ‘The Council. You mentioned leaving at the end of the month to reach the city.’ Ove nodded enthusiastically. ‘You are certain there is sufficient time? When do you believe the Council is scheduled to be held?’
Brann smiled. Cleverly put.
Ove seemed flustered once more. ‘Why, Lord Loku was quite clear with the date in his most recent missive. It—’
They were distracted by the rumble of hooves from behind. A great many hooves.
The air was filled with the ring of steel as all present drew their weapons, turning their horses’ heads towards the rear.
A band of horsemen thundered into view, at least a score of them. Unease grew in Brann’s stomach, but Ove smiled, waving a reassuring hand in the direction of Philippe and his men.
‘There is no danger, Master. My cousin has brought the remainder of our men from the town.’ He frowned. ‘Though why, I cannot think. If you will excuse me?’
Philippe nodded slightly, and Ove rode to meet a man only marginally different in appearance from himself. The rest of the men, chests as burly and eyes as hard as those with Ove, passed them by and reined in ahead of the group. Most likely, these men were there to protect them from a threat to Daric but, regardless, Brann felt uncomfortable: it was bad enough having potential foes at your back, but in front as well… His sword remained in his hand, as did those of his companions. He glanced at the road ahead. If they had only passed around the next bend, they would have been in sight of their companions and their arrows. And if they had only done so before these visitors had arrived.
But considering if only ahead of what is can only leave you unprepared. And he hated to be unprepared. He let his horse wheel slightly back and forth, as if restless, to view the situation through the mask.
Ove nodded to his cousin and smiled. Brann relaxed slightly. The cousin trotted his horse to Philippe, who sat impassively watching.
‘My profound apologies for the interruption, Master,’ he said, drawing close. ‘If I could have a word in confidence?’
Philippe nodded, and the man drew alongside, leaning in.
‘I have to let you know that—’
His hand shot forward and grabbed the long braid of hair. One sharp yank and the wig flew from Philippe’s head, the man’s other hand holding a broad knife at the young man’s throat. He moved it up slightly to pat against Philippe’s jaw.
‘You can close that, if you wish. What you should be concerned about having opened for you is your throat.’ He smiled, clearly enjoying himself. ‘I don’t know who you are, but I know you are not Master Daric. And you may not know me but, more importantly, given this situation, is what I was before this new calling: a cut-throat, and a highly effective one at that.’ He glanced at Brann and the cloaked riders beside him, all of whom were edging their horses close with muscles tensed to attack. ‘You, who accompany this imposter, should understand that most who specialise in cutting throats prefer a slender blade for ease of concealment, but I always favoured this heavy blade for the one very effective reason that just the slightest twitch of my wrist will open the gullet in the beat of a gnat’s wing.’
They froze.
‘And now,’ he was almost crowing by this stage, ‘you will all lay down your weapons.’
Brann’s head swam. To disarm themselves would be a momentary prelude to the death of them all. But to watch Philippe die would only buy them time to take as many of these men with them before they were overwhelmed. But Philippe would die anyway. But to watch him die and not to act…
Grakk clearly shared his last thought. A flash of silver streaked past the edge of Brann’s vision and, before the throwing star had even lodged in the side of the man’s face, Brann had hammered his heels into the flanks of his horse, jumping it forward. The cousin’s hands had no sooner clutched at his face in shocked surprise, knife and Philippe forgotten, before Brann’s black sword speared his neck. Blood spilled from his mouth and nose, before spraying over a horrified Philippe as Brann wrenched the black blade free.
‘Better his than yours,’ Brann said, hoping to snap the boy from his paralysis. ‘Get behind me.’
The five clustered around Philippe. Brann pushed back his own hood, ripping off his mask to give him the vision he was used to. He lifted his round shield from his saddle and slipped his arm into place, never taking his eyes from those in front. The men facing them had been momentarily stunned at the sight of the sudden death, but now steadied themselves, spreading wide at front and rear to offer as many blades as possible to a single attack. There was no rush, however. The numbers so heavily favoured them that no one wanted to be the first to charge onto a sword, preferring to wait for several to go together.
Brann glanced at the others. ‘Take it to them?’ Universal agreement. He looked at Philippe. ‘Stay close. See a gap, take it and run.’
Without waiting for a reply, he launched his horse forward, aiming to the edge of those ahead, where the road met the verge. Hit at the end of their line, and the rest could only swing round on one of their flanks. If they could punch through before they could be closed in at the side and the rear, they might have a chance at flight.
The five battered as a tight unit at the wall of horse and man, sharp edges hacking and throats snarling with bared teeth. Their move was unexpected and they made headway, but only enough to enable Philippe to break away; his anguished look over his shoulder at those he left behind all that they saw of him before he rounded the far bend. They were forced back, and Brann turned to face those he knew would be there.
Three men cried out among the foe, falling with arrow shafts protruding. More arrows followed but it would not be enough before they were overwhelmed and the remainder of the force could turn their combined attention on the vulnerab
le archers. It did, however, give a moment to regroup.
‘Tight circle!’ Brann yelled, but realised the command was already unnecessary. The others, as experienced as he – or more so – were already moving to do just that. They would not fall cheaply. Defiance roared from him in a sound more animal than man, but he could already feel the icy calm of combat spreading through his mind, stilling his emotions and sharpening his thoughts.
Movement in an unexpected direction caught his attention, and he jerked his head to see Ove wheel his horse and head up the opposite verge, where he could circle through open land to either a town or inland. Frustration lanced through him at the thought of losing vital information, but his attention was drawn back to the more immediate danger as men closed on all sides. Sword hacked and thrust, shield deflected and battered, horse twisted and turned in terror as he reacted and reacted and reacted and reacted.
There was a roar.
It was not from those they faced.
Those they faced turned in confusion. Brann took the chance to gut a man, then looked up.
Above the heads of their enemy, a party of riders, around fifty in number and with Philippe at their head, crested the rise that Ove had just climbed. The weasel-man’s horse reared and threw him, and the men and women facing him likewise leapt from their horses, but in their case with intent. Mailed and with sword or axe in hand, they charged.
It was finished in the time that Brann managed to assess the health of his companions. All were fine, thanks to the arrival of their succour so soon after their desperate last stand had begun. Their foes, however, had fared otherwise. Not a man of Ove’s band, save the man himself, still drew breath. And each breath that Ove took was one of terror. His hands had already been bound before him, and he knelt, shuddering and staring at the ground, between two warriors with bright blades in their hands and loathing in their eyes.
Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3) Page 22