Bridge of Swords

by Duncan Lay

  The power of the full draw at that distance picked the man up and threw him to the ground, knocking the second one back at the same time. As the second one struggled to regain his balance, and his wits, Sendatsu snatched up another arrow, drew and loosed.

  ‘He’s over …’ the man began, but then all breath was punched out of him as the arrow slammed through his throat.

  Before the screams and gurgles had barely started, Sendatsu cut to his right, running hard then ducking down.

  ‘He’s got Redwald and Uffa!’ someone shouted, and Sendatsu could tell the confident calls of earlier were all gone. In their place was fear, even a little panic.

  ‘Let’s get out of here! He’s picking us off, one by one!’

  ‘It’s only one man!’ the one who was obviously the leader shouted. ‘Remember your training. Work together!’

  Sendatsu decided to silence that voice. He crawled carefully through the bushes towards where it was yelling instructions, and away from where the other men were gathering around two more of their fallen friends.

  ‘This is no normal bow,’ someone cried. ‘This arrow went right through Uffa and buried the head into the tree behind — I’ve never seen a bow with enough power to do that before!’

  Sendatsu silently acknowledged the man’s comment, while wriggling closer to his target.

  ‘Stop talking! We are giving away our positions. Sit tight and wait for him to make a mistake,’ the leader called.

  Sendatsu thanked him for giving away his own position like that and drew his sword as quietly as possible. Their leader was tucked in between two trees, making him a difficult target for an arrow at any time but near impossible in the little light available. Leaving his bow on the ground, Sendatsu eased himself close, then jumped to his feet and thrust his sword forwards.

  The man reacted like a cat, spinning and blocking with his own blade.

  ‘I have you now, you bastard!’ he cried. ‘He’s over here!’

  Sendatsu pressed in, knowing he had to finish this fast. All those years of training, of being beaten and hit by his father, took over and he parried one high blow, locking the two swords together. The man was a head taller than he was, and broad across the shoulders, but he had not been trained to the bow and Sendatsu’s archer strength was more than enough to allow him to twist the swords aside. The man gasped as he felt the power opposing him, then Sendatsu’s blade flashed like lightning away from the locked blade and through his lungs, using the reverse side stroke.

  Sendatsu ripped out his sword and did not stay to clean it, for he could hear the other men running closer. It took him a moment or two of fumbling to find his bow once more on the ground, then he was off and running too, blood sticky on his hand.

  ‘Cenred is dead! Let’s get out of here!’

  The shouts and cries as thoughts of revenge and duty were replaced by self-preservation were sweet music to Sendatsu’s ears.

  As they blundered back through the bushes, heading towards where they had left their horses and gear, he kept pace with them. There were only four left and they kept looking back over their shoulders, as if they expected him to appear out of the darkness behind them. So he sped up, outpacing them easily and letting their clumsy, crashing run through the bushes cover the noises he was making.

  He waited for them, an arrow on his string and his last useable one plunged into the earth at his feet.

  ‘See anything?’ he heard one cry, listened to the harsh breathing of frightened running men and drew back the cord.

  The leading man was running on rubbery legs, fear had lent him speed but had also robbed him of strength. They were like bullies, Sendatsu decided. They did not know what to do when somebody stood up to them. They had been so used to things going their way, they could not handle defeat.

  He let the leading man get five paces away and then he loosed, the power of the strike picking the man up and throwing him backwards, where he brought down a second man and made a third stumble. The last of the quartet swerved around his friends instinctively — and realised he should have dived for cover. Too late, as another arrow slashed through his chest.

  Sendatsu dropped his bow again and drew his sword. He was almost tempted to let the two humans recover, regain their feet and draw their swords. But his father spoke to him across the years.

  ‘Never give an enemy a chance. No mercy!’

  Sendatsu sprang out of the bushes like something from a nightmare. The fallen man looked up in time to have the dragon-tail stroke take his head, while the last man tried a feeble thrust before the figure-eight swept it aside and opened his chest to the night air.

  The dying moans of the men with arrows in them floated across the woods as Sendatsu gathered his bow and worked his way back towards the men’s camp. There would be a couple more guarding their prisoners and horses, he guessed.

  The pair of them were standing close to a fire, swords out but talking to each other, rather than looking for trouble. Sendatsu nodded to himself. They obviously expected their friends to return, rather than be picked off one by one and killed. Behind them, four women were slumped together, but he did not spare them a second glance.

  He checked his arrow bag. He had no arrows with man-killing heads left, only deer-killers. He was tempted to use them anyway, but then put down both his arrow bag and bow. Using the sword would be more honourable. ‘Are you ready to die?’ he asked as he stepped out of the shadows into the firelight.

  The two humans reacted instantly, dropping into a crouch.

  Sendatsu imagined he must make quite a sight, spattered with the blood of their comrades, his blade stained almost its entire length.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sendatsu of Dokuzen. And I have killed every last one of your friends. As I shall kill you, and rescue those women you hold.’

  The two humans looked at each other, then back at the bloodied Sendatsu. He half expected them to keep talking but instead they split apart and raced at him.

  He reacted immediately, moving to his left and driving the human there back and across to his right with a series of figure-eight strikes. None pierced the man’s guard but it still forced the human to retreat to Sendatsu’s right, where he blocked the approach of the second man. The humans tried to split apart again, to come at Sendatsu from opposite sides, but he moved back to his right, driving the humans back and keeping them entangled in each other’s way, so they could not get to his flanks. It was an exercise he had practised scores of times before and, just when he could see the frustration on the humans’ faces, he changed his tactics. Now he sprang to the attack as they tried to sweep back and around. Caught by surprise, he cornered one man and cut high and low, using the floating cloud style, too fast for the man to keep up. His third blow ripped open the man’s throat and he pivoted smoothly to block the last man’s approach.

  The man backed away as Sendatsu advanced, raining blows from all directions, before sweeping low in the dragon-tail stroke to take the man’s leg off above the knee. Screaming horribly, the man collapsed, clutching at his spurting stump, before Sendatsu finished him off with a swift cut to the throat.

  As the man fell he could not restrain himself and had to roar his triumph to the skies. The women all shrieked and clutched each other as he strode around the clearing, shouting out his victory. As he came close to them they wailed in terror and he stopped. The four of them clung together, some turning tear-streaked faces away from him as he walked over to them. He also noticed how much food was piled up near the fire. His stomach growled and he hoped he would get a decent meal out of this, at least.

  ‘Your ordeal is over. You are free. Your captors are all dead.’ He smiled at them through the mask of blood. He kneeled down and used one of the human swords to cut the ropes — no sense in blunting his own blade.

  ‘Wh-who are you?’ asked the oldest of the quartet.

  ‘I am Sendatsu of Dokuzen. I am an elf.’

  ‘An elf?’ The four relaxed a little at t
he news.

  ‘You are safe now. I have freed you!’ Sendatsu exclaimed proudly. He could not stay still; the reaction of the fight had him wanting to run back to Dokuzen and tell his father he was not useless after all.

  The oldest of the quartet, the one who was first to speak, turned to him, wiping her eyes.

  ‘How can we ever repay you? I am Delia and we shall never forget what you did.’

  Sendatsu grinned. ‘I am glad you said that. Because I need you four to do something for me.’

  They drew away from him, drew together again.

  ‘What is it you want?’ Delia cried.

  ‘Are you really an elf?’ another asked.

  ‘Of course I’m an elf!’ Sendatsu roared at them.

  ‘Maegen, if he is an elf, then he can bring the dead back to life, change the past and save all in our village of Patcham!’ Delia clutched the second speaker

  ‘What? I can’t do that!’ Sendatsu protested.

  ‘Why not? I thought you were an elf?’

  ‘I cannot do such a thing! Even our most powerful Magic-weaver cannot bring the dead back to life.’

  ‘But all the legends speak of your powerful magic, how it can do anything!’ the woman Delia had called Maegen cried.

  ‘Well, I cannot do this. But speaking of legends, can any of you read another language, maybe an old language …?’

  ‘If you are truly an elf, then bless my elfbolt, give it the power to heal.’ Delia reached into her dress and produced a small lump of stone on a thong, holding it out towards him.

  ‘What?’ Sendatsu had never seen such a thing, nor heard of them before.

  ‘An elfbolt! All it needs is your blessing to become a powerful source of magic!’

  Sendatsu just stared at them. Were they speaking another language? The emphasis on some scrap of stone totally confused him.

  ‘He will not do even that! Don’t trust him!’ Maegen hissed.

  Bewildered, Sendatsu looked from one to the next. What was the significance of the stone and why were they so obsessed with it? It infuriated him.

  ‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘No more of this nonsense! Now you will stop this and listen to me or …’

  He stopped there, partly because he did not mean to threaten them but mainly because they had run away, racing towards the tethered horses.

  ‘Wait! I am sorry — I mean you no harm!’ he called, the anger gone from his voice. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home!’ Delia replied strongly. The four of them clambered into saddles and looked as though they would be galloping out of there.

  Sendatsu could not believe it. He risked his life, saved them, and they were running away from him! Just what did these humans think of elves? To have such strange memories of elven magic … what legends had been left behind?

  ‘You could at least cook me some food!’ he shouted as they clattered away.

  He kicked a saddle in frustration and anger. Even allowing for what they had gone through, this was ridiculous. He could not talk with humans. And when he did, their obsession and misconception of magic spoiled things. This was going to be even harder than he thought. How was he to get through to these humans?

  8

  It started with the Magic-weavers. They had been so firmly under the control of our forefathers that perhaps it was natural they would be the first to rebel. As the most gifted among us in magic, the most powerful, they saw themselves as something special. They were also the way to create the magical barrier and seal ourselves away from the rest of the humans.

  To my face they smiled and bowed and promised to fulfil the wishes of the forefathers but, behind my back, they schemed and plotted.

  They thought they should rule the elves.

  That was bad enough but I didn’t realise there were other elves who thought they should rule the world.

  ‘What was it like at court, sir?’

  Hector turned in his saddle. He had been brooding on the bad luck that seemed to have cursed his life. Once again, with triumph almost in his grasp, it had slipped away. With many miles of road to travel and little in the way of company, naturally his thoughts turned inwards. Now the sergeant of the guards he had been given had interrupted his brooding.

  He glowered at the sergeant for a heartbeat before his face was transformed by a broad smile. ‘Like nothing you could ever imagine,’ he said warmly. ‘To stand in front of your king, to have the whole court on their feet and applauding you … it is a feeling like no other. You are lifted upwards on that wave of adulation, it fills you to the brim and, at that moment, you can truly do anything.’

  ‘So you performed as well, sir? I thought it was just your daughter …’

  ‘Of course I performed! You don’t think she just woke up with that sort of talent, do you?’ Hector snapped. ‘I was the greatest singer the court ever heard! The women used to swoon all over me as soon as I opened my mouth.’ He looked around at the guards, saw he had their full attention and basked in it. ‘Sergeant, what is your name?’

  ‘Edric, sir,’ he reminded him yet again.

  ‘Well, Edric, the king himself shed a tear the first time he listened to me sing.’

  ‘The king cried, sir?’

  Hector paused. ‘So I was told,’ he added hastily. ‘But bards used to sing songs about how good a singer I was. All of Forland was going to learn of my greatness. Your parents would have sung you to sleep with tales of my prowess, used them to calm your crying.’

  ‘My parents weren’t into singing, sir. More into hitting me until I shut up. But how come I never heard of you?’

  ‘I lost my voice,’ Hector admitted, the fire that had filled him at those memories now dying down.

  ‘Still, at least you have your daughter, sir. Everyone talks about her. You can be famous through her.’

  ‘Famous through her? She owes me everything! She would be nothing without me. Nothing!’

  They rode on in silence for a little while, as Hector brooded anew.

  ‘So no chance you could give us a tune or two, help the miles along, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  Rhiannon threw back her head and laughed.

  The first few days after leaving Cridianton had been like some sort of nightmare. Her father, the central part of her life, had gone. Every day she had been told what to do, what to wear, where to go and what to eat. To have that taken away was an enormous gulf in her life. The thought he had died to save her from Ward was even more devastating. Hector had prepared her for the court of King Ward, filled her head with stories about how wonderful it was and what a success she would be. To have that taken away from her at the same time as her father was almost too much for her. Without Huw, she would not have made it.

  Back in Cridianton he had been her only friend. At the auditions for the king he had performed after her — and saved her when nerves left her tongue tied and her legs leaden, playing the lyre to break the spell she was under and release her ability. Then, during one of the king’s war meetings, when they had been the entertainment, he had invited her to join him in seeing the city. Even now she marvelled she had been brave and daring enough to say yes.

  Together they had run through the quiet servants’ passageways and slipped out of the castle without being seen.

  She delighted in every moment. She had never felt more alive. He showed her the magnificent Central Park, with its tree-lined paths and gorgeous statues, and then they watched a short play at an open-air theatre before enjoying pastries at one of Cridianton’s many fine eating houses. They talked incessantly, about everything, from what they liked to eat, to music they liked and the people they had already performed for at Ward’s court.

  Rhiannon felt as though a dam had burst within her. She never got to talk much with her father, unless it was about dancing or singing — and then it was more a case of him telling and her listening. She had never had a friend to talk to, and the words poured out of her.

  It became their little secret, to sneak ou
t into the city. Her father had told her time and again that men only wanted one thing from her, that they were only interested in her face and body — but it was not like that with Huw. He told her they were only friends and she believed it.

  When he revealed to her he was not from Forland but Vales she had been shocked — but also terrified for Huw. She knew as well as he did Ward’s plans for that country. Hearing Huw say he had to leave Cridianton to warn his people had been frightening. The thought of losing him, of losing this precious freedom he gave her, was too much to bear.

  She had always been truthful until that day. Lying to her father was beyond imagining. But she had seen him do it often enough, when he wanted something done for him, or to get his own way. She had sworn she would never do anything like that — but found herself asking Huw to stay on, trying to persuade him to delay his trip north to warn his father and the other Velsh. After all, the Velsh could not stop the Forlish, they had no army, no flag, no ruler and no organisation. Why should he go back there and get himself killed, especially when he was no warrior himself? What could one bard do?

  When reasoned argument did not work, she held his hand and hinted they could become more than friends. It had felt wrong, it had brought a flush to her cheeks, but it had worked. Huw had instantly agreed to wait a little longer.

  And not only had the lie worked, it had come back to save her. For Huw had witnessed King Ward killing her father and been able to get her out of Cridianton ahead of the king’s men. As the only person she knew, and her only friend ever, she naturally leaned on him for that time. In those first days, still shocked by what had happened, she would have agreed to anything Huw had asked. The fact he had not asked anything, had done nothing more than take care of her, was now a relief. It would have made things too complicated. Since they had performed at Pontypridd, met that elf and fought the Velsh, it felt as though she had come alive. Huw was letting her decide which road to travel, where they should sleep and whether they should perform or not. After merely doing what she was told, the feeling of power was quite intoxicating.