‘Indeed,’ nodded Aldwyn, ‘and though I will respect his wishes about where we land, the fleet will remain within the bay. Captain, see to it that the fleet knows where we land. Morrick, ready your men. We will disembark before tomorrow night if the wind favours us. You are both dismissed.’
So it was that Aldwyn’s fleet traversed the blockade heading northeast and eventually hove-to not far from the north coast of the bay. Morrick’s spirits rose considerably when he saw the outlying arm of the Impassable Forest not far from the beach, but they fell again when from the boat carrying him ashore, he saw Linwood’s troops waiting for them on the sand.
It took all night to bring ashore the army which Aldwyn planned to march to the Hinterland. He left orders for the fleet to remain as long as supplies dictated and when the point of deprivation was approaching, to set sail west for the Isles in order for to resupply. His was the last boat to return to the fleet and once ashore he wasted no time in getting off the beach and away from Linwood’s people, whose invitations of hospitality he politely declined through intermediaries. He gave orders for his force to move out and, mounted upon a dappled grey mare, Lord Aldwyn led the men of the Folly on their march eastward to the Hinterland.
Every step was an education for every man of the party.
They left the coast behind and the land sloped upwards as they went. The Impassable Forest grew ever thicker to the north, and they remained within sight of it at all times. Aldwyn sent riders to scout the way ahead and hunters into the forest to bolster their supplies. By night they camped openly, but posted watches for none knew if there would still be Devised forces. However, the march was largely uneventful, and they reached the foothills of the Blade Mountains on the afternoon of the fourth day after setting out. Here it was true that the devastation caused by Awgren had not been maintained to the same degree as the rest of the continent, and Aldwyn’s troops marched across grass-covered slopes, occasionally spying birds or rabbits. Aldwyn gifted Morrick a mount, and they spent many hours riding together, talking of their homes and lives. Morrick told of how dearly he missed Rowan, even her temper. How he looked forward to days of once more building and crafting instead of marshalling and killing. The more he talked of it, the more painful his desire to set foot once more within the fences of his homestead.
He determined that after greeting his family and making love to his wife, he would sit for a time by the Whiteflow washing away the last months and looking up at the stars. The possibility that the Devised had overrun the place and killed them all was very real, but he forced these thoughts away, recognising that worrying would achieve nothing. Instead, Morrick chose to hope.
Aldwyn listened to these hopes and fears, all the time trying to glean what knowledge he could from the various stories of the Hinterland. He desired to understand the people and pondered how he would move forward in ruling this new dominion of the Combined People that now sat, possibly, on a hostile border. To begin with he did not speak of Linwood or his fears for the future, but after hours of conversation, he began to trust more in his new servant and spoke more freely. Morrick seemed more shocked than had any of his own people in whom he had confided and his reaction, in turn, shocked Aldwyn. After all, Morrick was from a people of betrayers – surely deception and malice were no stranger to him? He even voiced this thought to his new friend, though the words clearly caused some offence.
Morrick was sullen and silent for a time, but then spoke of how every man and woman he knew thought of Lachlan and Cathryn as akin to the knights of old who sallied forth on quests regardless of personal cost and likelihood of success. He had done his duty in fighting the Combined People, but he had ardently hoped for the defeat that eventually came to Awgren. To hear that there was already discord amongst these long-worshipped saviours was very sad, Morrick said, before sinking once more into sullen silence. Aldwyn thought on this for a time and made a quiet apology as they rode onwards towards the rising peaks of the Blade Mountains.
The column found the terrain offered little impediment, and little rivers running down from the mountains or out of the forest kept them well watered. In some ways the calm of the march was a welcome relief, and Aldwyn even began to think that if this was to be any indicator of life in the Hinterland, things might not be so bad after all.
He would build settlements in the foothills of the Blade Mountains and beacons in the passes, watching Linwood’s borders. He would nurture the people of the Hinterland and bring them in to the fold and, in time, begin to visit his ancestral home of Culrain to set about reclaiming it. Let Linwood have Stragglers’ Drift and Crinan – even try to break the Combined People if he liked, but Tayne, Culrain, the Isles and the Hinterland would stand in alliance as long as Aldwyn was alive, he decided. His diminishing anger about his new charge led to increasing admiration for Queen Cathryn.
He thought of her much when the conversation ebbed with Morrick or his aides. At night the weather was not so cold that he felt he needed a tent and instead, he slept fully clothed between layers of blankets, looking up at the constellations wheeling overhead and thinking on what life would have been like if he had been her consort in Lachlan’s place; if he was lying beside Cathryn on a soft mattress, far south in the Folly. These were old thoughts and dreams, long accepted as mere fantasy, but they did not cause him much anguish. Instead they offered him comfort to a degree. He knew full well that Cathryn loved him and due to their separate lives, he knew that would never grow weary or burdensome. Though he would later admonish himself for what he labelled a childish thought, that night he did consider himself the knight errant, questing for justice and holding the love of his lady in his heart, free from the necessity of proximity. Thinking of this, Aldwyn closed his eyes and slept, while Morrick, not far away, thought of Rowan and how in the next few days, he hoped to see her again and wondered what Rowan had called their child.
Morrick woke early the next morning and set about fishing a creek he had spied the previous evening. He caught a trout and, after gathering up some dry grass and firewood brought in from the forest edge, he borrowed a small pan to fry it. The meal was near ready when he heard the thunder of hooves as a rider passed him by, heading from the east and the direction of his home. He thought little of it, as the riders often returned but there was something of the rider’s speed that worried him. However there was nothing he could do in the short term and finished his task so that whatever the day might bring, he would at least have breakfasted. If the past year had taught Morrick anything it was that one should eat on the road whenever one can, for it is not always so easy a task to keep oneself sustained.
He was licking grease from his fingers, his belly relatively full, when one of his men approached him at a run. The brand upon his cheek looked raw and had melted his right eye shut.
‘Captain! The Hinterland is burning! Lord Aldwyn is seeking you.’
Morrick cursed, jumping up so quick he dropped the pan and spilled his water skin. He ran back to the camp, and as soon as he was within earshot he began hollering orders.
‘Men of the Hinterland, strike camp and muster on me! To arms – your homes are burning! Move it!’
Tents were already coming down and armour being strapped on when Aldwyn’s mare galloped up. Morrick finished buckling on his belt and took his axe in hand as the lord brought the mare to a standstill in front of him.
‘You’ve heard?’ he said. Aldwyn was in full armour, his sword at his side.
‘Aye, my lord. We march immediately.’ It was not a question, but Aldwyn could forgive the man his need to take action.
‘The rest of the men are arming as we speak. Form up at the head of the column – you will lead us in, Captain.’ He reared the mare.
The column crested a hill with Lord Aldwyn and Morrick at its head. They checked their pace for only a moment as they saw the smoke for the first time. A small village was directly ahead, already a blackened wreck with livestock bloodied and scattered across the grasslands.
<
br /> ‘Onward. At the double!’ hollered Aldwyn. He turned to Morrick.
‘Ride ahead with me?’
One of the aides behind them piped up an objection, but Aldwyn hushed him with a wave of his hand.
‘Take command and lead the men on,’ he shouted back to the aide.
He spurred on his horse and Morrick did the same. The two men bore down on the village flanked at some extreme by the outriding scouts.
They saw the first of the bodies between the houses and the first survivor not long afterwards. A woman carrying a baby saw their approach, screamed and ran towards the forest paying no heed to their attire. Morrick, new to riding, tried to head after her but flustered the horse. Aldwyn was quicker off the mark and soon overtook her.
‘Fear not!’ he called. ‘I am Lord Aldwyn, sent by Queen Cathryn of the Combined People.’
The words made no difference and the woman ran on, darting around him. Morrick saw her stumble as he managed to ride after and slowed the horse. On his feet, he ran to her.
‘Lady, he speaks the truth. I’m from Northall!’
When it became clear that running was futile, the two men eventually managed to calm her and also those who, hearing her cries, came out of hiding. Reassured they were no longer under attack, one man agreed to talk to Morrick, admitting to having known his father.
‘I have sorry news for you, Brother. Your wife attempted to raise rebellion, but was betrayed by a woman of the village. This Lara told the Devised of Awgren’s defeat and they rampaged across the Hinterland burning all settlements.’
Morrick’s chest heaved, and he spluttered then he dropped to his knees and vomited. But the man took him by the shoulder.
‘From what I hear, she lives still. Many of the leaders fled into the Forest and have yet to be caught.’
Morrick retched again, wishing he had not eaten the trout after all. He was overcome with panic and shrugged off Lord Aldwyn when he attempted to offer comfort, telling him that they would advance on the Whiteflow with all speed.
By now the first of the riders had caught up, and Aldwyn sought out the captains.
‘We march to battle now,’ he told them. ‘Be ever watchful.’
He found Morrick already mounted, but called for him to dismount.
‘We must be ready to fight now. It is no time to be riding on many miles ahead of our charges. You must be patient…many of your men will already have found loved ones dead,’ he said, but Morrick shook his head.
‘Fuck you and fuck the men,’ roared Morrick. ‘I didn’t come this far to abandon my family in the dying minutes of hope.’
Aldwyn drew his sword and for a moment, Morrick was convinced the duke would attack. He bared his teeth and grabbed for his axe.
‘Let me do this, my lord,’ he pleaded, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Aldwyn’s eyes burned into him and Morrick dropped his gaze. He was about to apologise and fall into line, when the lord spoke up.
‘Go. I will grant you this freedom, but speak like that to me again and I will rip you limb from limb.’
Morrick dropped his gaze once more.
‘Apologies, my lord, I am ever grateful for your mercy and am at your service. But my wife. My children…’
Aldwyn sheathed his sword.
‘Go. Good luck, Captain. May you find your people safe and well. I will bring the folk of the Hinterland on at your heels.’
Morrick rode onwards and reached Northall within the hour and found it intact. Devised swarmed about the village and the heads of many villagers stood erected on pikes at the village edge.
He heard the Devised roar as they sighted him, but he spurred his horse on and rode for his home. He saw the smoke before ever he reached it, but with little thought he rode on towards the forest.
Rowan, he thought. Rowan.
Chapter Thirteen
The forest swallowed Morrick whole and, in an instant he was thrown from the ever-changing present to the timeless shade under the boughs. But this was no opportunity for staking a homecoming or for nostalgia.
His mare raced onwards, head down and ears pinned to its head, the scent of the creatures behind riddling its equine mind in ways that no study or reason could explain. Morrick bounded down and up, ever more up in the saddle until finally after just a few seconds he was hurled off the beast, and it disappeared amongst the trees.
He crashed down amongst the roots, crying out as a gnarl of knot impacted near the column of his spine. He moaned and churned in the undergrowth even as he tried to stand and flee. Ere long he heard the sounds of battle underway behind him; Lord Aldwyn’s soldiers had charged to meet the Devised.
Morrick cursed as he found his feet and stumbled onwards, stooping to clutch his fallen axe, gathering speed as the pain subsided a little. His breathing was hard, fast and ragged as he tore onwards. Spindly outstretched branches scratched at his face and arching roots tripped him into stumbling, but he dashed onwards thinking only of escape and finding Rowan, certain that she would have let him some sort of sign.
The sound of weapons ringing against iron faded as he raced onwards, but he only stopped to catch his breath when it was all he could do.
He arrived in a small clearing ringed with tall ash trees and fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands. His body heaved and wretched as he tried to bring all his faculties back under his control. In time he gathered himself and found his feet once more. The leaves gently rustled and he could hear birds, but these were the only sounds now aside from the intermittent buzz of insect wings.
‘Well then,’ he said to nobody at all.
He looked around him, adjusted his belt and then sat. He had no notion at all what to do for the best; he knew only that somewhere within these woods, Rowan, Callum, Declan and his baby were fleeing. The thoughts stirred him and he yearned to be on his feet, on the move, hunting them down. But how? To where would the refugees flee?
Morrick could not think of where he would go in their position, let alone what his wife would do.
Many miles to the west, the forest delved down into a gorge that had been cut into the earth over a thousand years by the unceasing artistry of a creek. At the edge of this gorge the trees came to an end and the refugees came to a crossroads. Garrick had assumed the role of both leader and guide, though in truth he had not much more experience of the forest than did any of the other villagers and certainly less than the sailors who had passed through its outskirts only once on the journey from the east coast. Captain Lynch’s wound had begun to fester and, to Rowan’s horror, his men had burned out the infected flesh. His face was covered with a damp offcut from a shirt as he lay on a makeshift gurney constructed from fallen boughs and as they travelled on, even the injured men took turns in dragging him along. Callum still wore the cutlass at his belt as he walked alongside Garrick. Declan walked with the sailors, one hand on Lynch’s carriage.
A straggle of refugees followed on behind and at the very rear, walked Rowan. Her arms were crossed about her bosom, fingertips digging into the meagre flesh above her ribs so that her nailbeds whitened and her knuckles ached. Her hair hung lank in her face, long fallen from its bun; she stared down at her feet as she walked, mindlessly traversing all obstacles. She was so concentrated that she did not notice the line ahead of her halt, and she nearly walked into Acorna.
Garrick stood with his thumbs tucked into his belt, staring down into the gorge. He clucked his tongue and shook his head.
Callum looked down too and then to the north upstream and to the south.
‘What now?’ he asked when it was clear from the silence that Garrick had no idea anyway.
‘We make camp,’ said Garrick. ‘Two of us go north, two go south. Try to find a way across.’
‘And then what?’ said Wilson.
‘And then cross it,’ replied Garrick, not meeting the other man’s gaze. There had been a tension growing between the two leaders of the respective groups, at least while Lynch was incapacitat
ed.
‘To what end?’ said Wilson. He sat down on a rock. ‘We have yet to decide where we are going.’
‘We’ve been through this, Wilson. What other choice do we have? We cannot remain in the Hinterland. Our choices are north through the Forest or west to the coast. We can only hope that the Combined People will accept us there.’
Wilson grumbled something and clearly Lynch overheard him.
Though he kept his one eye shut, he spoke up.
‘Make camp for now. We’ll think more on this matter.’
Lynch’s men drew him under a bower and then dispersed, some to help fetch firewood, others to look for food. Rowan sat a little way off, her back up against a tree. After a time, Acorna brought her some water, but knew from experience it was best to leave it at that.
As the evening approached, Rowan sat alone thinking of Bracken, of her little body being carried beneath the waters of the Whiteflow by the Naiads. Her eyelids grew heavy, but every time she began to doze, she started awake again as images of the white horse filled her dreaming mind. Eventually she grew so tired that she did drift off for longer, but a hand on her shoulder woke her again and she yelped a little high-pitched squeak.
It was full dark now and the features of the face looking down at her were merely hinted at by the far-off firelight. The face seemed grim and terrible so that Rowan drew back against the tree.
‘Easy there…’ Lynch’s voice soothed and she recognised him then, breathing out a great gust of relief. He kneeled down and then fell back to sitting. He shuffled over so that his body was nearer to her.
‘I’m sorry to wake you, Rowan.’ He reached out and his rough fingertips grazed the ice-cold back of her hand. She flinched, but did not shake it off. She said nothing.
‘They’ve scouted the gorge. There’s a crossing some four miles to the north and to the south, the forest gives way to the foothills north of the Blade Mountains. A few of my men ventured out and they say the land there is not scorched, that we can make it into the passes and cross into Crinan – make for the Folly.’
Dark Oak Page 16