Dark Oak

by Sannox, Jacob

  Lachlan marvelled that he had not heard of it in the Isles. There must been some loyalty for the man if no word had escaped his lands. No tyrant inspires so much fear that nobody rebels.

  ‘I’ve reason to believe he may turn against the Combined People, against the queen and I. To sunder what was brought together.’

  Habit shrugged.

  ‘We always stood apart as you know, lord. May be truth in it. Whoever is content with their lot? Awgren is gone, so why should Linwood not want what’s his.’

  ‘The queen and I have already granted him his old lands and made him a duke so he can self-govern. But I fear that will not be enough. For my part, I wish nothing more than to restore peace to our lands and return to my home in the Isles. But being ruler means planting hedges against those who would bring future discord. You understand? I am here to judge the peril – I know he has already concealed his true intentions.’

  Habit shrugged again.

  ‘I could not speak any sense of what Lord Linwood wants. But I know the people here are loyal to you both, so who knows how it would turn should weapons be drawn. I would tread careful, my lord. I would say the rulers in the Folly have been too distant, and I would not think it uncommon that many think the Drift should rule itself; that times have moved on.’

  Lachlan nodded, thinking he probably agreed and that perhaps Cathryn stood alone on this issue.

  A bell chimed. Then another of a different note. And another. One for each caravan in the clearing.

  Habit stood up.

  ‘Time for the contest. Come…will you watch or take part, lord?’

  Lachlan did not answer. He followed Habit out into the clearing. He saw that a woman stood by each of their caravans, ringing bells. The benches around the bonfire were filling with men in varying attire of varying age from young boy to old man. Belman and Hadwyn were already on the bench in front of him, and Lachlan joined them.

  The bells continued to ring as more men gathered, first sitting on the benches and when they were full, standing behind them or sitting before them on the grass.

  Habit fetched her bell and went to stand before her own caravan. Lachlan could hear bells ringing from the distance and wondered how many such glades there were within the Whoreswood.

  The bells stopped ringing.

  The Partisan women entered the circle and stood with their backs to the bonfire, singing and dancing around it. The men watched, enthralled, and Lachlan found himself evaluating the women, deciding who he would bed given the chance and the freedom to do so.

  A woman stood forward and walked the circle alone, making eye contact with some from every bench.

  ‘Who stands forth to steal my warrior honour?’ she cried and drew two knives.

  There was jostling on some benches, fuelled by drink perhaps, and there was awed hush over others, but within a second three men were on their feet.

  ‘Sister!’ cried the woman, and Habit plucked a knife from her belt at the small of her back and tossed it to the woman. She in turn strode towards the men and handed each of them a knife.

  ‘Last man standing,’ she said quietly and seated herself in one of their places. The men either side of her shuffled up to give her space.

  The three men formed a triangle, facing each other. Two of them were similarly attired in the military garb of Stragglers’ Drift, brawny men and tall. The third was in finer clothing, though not fine as such. He did not adopt a fighting stance, but his eyes were keen and flitted between the two soldiers.

  One soldier, bearded, burst forward, roaring at his comrade who settled his weight into a comfortable stance to receive him. The bearded soldier checked his charge and darted sideways at the man in fine clothes, who dodged aside. Lachlan’s saw the man grab the soldier’s wrist as he moved out of the way.

  Fast, he thought.

  And he did not stop there; the man in fine clothes twirled low and slashed once at the other soldier’s belly, though as a threat not an attack. The soldier jumped backwards and exchanged a glance with his bearded comrade. They seemed to evaluate the threat and together they ganged up on him. The man in fine clothes was swift on his feet and dextrous. He darted, stabbed and slashed. He grabbed limbs and dealt many wounds that bled on the soldiers’ arms. But, ere long, the bearded man seized him from behind, clamping his arms to his sides. The other soldier drove his knife into the man’s throat, but then, like a scorpion strikes, he shoved the dying man backwards so the bearded soldier was off-balance. As he staggered, the other soldier advanced, kicked him in the shin and seized his beard. The bearded soldier slashed upwards and hewed the blade across the other soldier’s wrist. Lachlan winced and the crowd let out a gasp as the blood began to pour. The wounded man struck out with his left and caught the bearded man’s face. He buried his knife in his eye and the big man fell back, joining the other dying man on the grass. Then, staggering at first, the last man standing also fell in the grass.

  The girl stood from the bench.

  ‘My honour is intact tonight it seems and yet I keep my fee!’ she shouted. ‘Clumsy fighters and unworthy, but I thank them for the coins.’

  A round of reluctant applause started as she returned to her sisters and colleagues by the fire.

  Habit stood forward.

  ‘Have we all turned coward, or does any man stand forward to steal my warrior honour?’ she cried, taking out a knife and retrieving her other one from the bearded man’s eye.

  Lachlan stood and strode out.

  ‘My lord!’ called Hadwyn.

  ‘No, my lord,’ shouted Belman and got to his feet.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Lachlan.

  Habit strode forward, threatening Lachlan with the point of one knife.

  ‘No man may sit once he has presented the challenge!’

  ‘That man does not present the challenge.’

  ‘He does,’ said Belman.

  ‘You’ll have to kill each other, you fool!’ hissed Hadwyn.

  ‘It is done!’ said Habit. ‘You will both fight for the privilege of fighting me.’

  Others may well have planned on standing, but at this outburst, all were stilled. Hadwyn shifted in his seat but rather than stand he called out,

  ‘This is Lord Lachlan, Lord of the Isles and ruler of these lands. You will do as he bids!’

  A gasp went up and even shouts of recognition, for many of the men were recently returned from the war themselves. Cries of support arose, but Habit shouted them all down.

  ‘No man is lord in the Whoreswood while the contest plays out! You will fight, or I will muster the ladies and all will be killed. If you are indeed lords, you will honour this place of worship.’

  Lachlan sighed.

  ‘Very well. Belman, you have my thanks and my apology.’ He walked into the space between the bench and the fire then turned back to his friend who stood, baffled and conflicted before him – his attempt to save his lord having now turned sour.

  Lachlan drew his sword and reluctantly, Belman mirrored him.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord.’

  Lachlan shook his head and waved the other man’s concerns away.

  ‘Must it be to the death?’ he asked Habit.

  ‘Nay, to defeat,’ she said and with that Lachlan felt the weight lift.

  ‘Very well!’ he said and ran towards Belman. Belman steadied himself and watched the lord’s shoulders, knowing from experience that watching the eyes or the sword could mislead. He lifted his sword, and Lachlan brought his blade down upon it. It scraped off Belman’s weapon to the right, leaving the general free to whip his arm round and immediately strike at Lachlan’s side. Lachlan brought his blade to the vertical, parried and pushed back so Belman was off-balance. Belman wheeled away and, recovered, stepped forward slashing right and left, his arm longing to stab, but his mind demanding he hold back. Lachlan expertly parried every blow and came at his friend with a flurry of blows so fast and so powerful, so ingrained in his muscles, that it took everything Belman had to
repel him. When they reached the edge of the ring, men began to scramble out of the way and Belman side-stepped. Anticipating the need, Lachlan darted left twice and seized Belman’s right arm. He heaved down on it as he brought his knee up and drove it into Belman’s thigh, once, twice and a third time. Belman cried out and his leg collapsed from under him.

  Lachlan threw his blade aside and punched Belman with an uppercut to the jaw. Belman, his mouth hanging open, was sent sprawling onto his back missing three teeth and with blood coursing over his lips.

  Lachlan retrieved his sword and turned to Habit.

  ‘Come forth,’ he demanded, out of breath but full of menace. His blood was up and his eyes wild. His body was remembering recent war, and he reminded himself not to kill the woman or all would be lost in this endeavour.

  He marched forward and she took up a fighting stance. She darted this way and that with needle strikes and slashes while Lachlan merely evaded. He took a brief moment of respite to sheath his sword then went on, approaching her with palms open and his shoulders stooped, his weight on the balls of his feet. When next she came at him he swept her right hand away, swept her left and head-butted her in the bridge of her nose. She cried out and fell back. He stormed forward and kicked the knife out of her right hand. She rolled to stab him with the left but he darted back and she over-extended. He stepped in and landed a heavy blow in her ribs with his boot. Her whole body lifted and then dropped on her front. He bent down and forced the weapon from her hand then hauled her to her feet.

  ‘You have lost your warrior honour,’ he said and swept her up into his arms then carried her to her caravan. He set her down and, panting and holding her side, she ducked inside and closed the door behind them.

  ‘You are some fighter, my lord,’ she said, clearly in pain.

  ‘And you have lost no honour in losing to me,’ he said.

  ‘I have, and I will regain it now by stealing your strength from you,’ she breathed, trying to straighten up. Lachlan hoped he had not broken any of her ribs.

  ‘Nay, lady. You will regain it by offering the support of your people to me when I call on it. In return, I will grant you sovereign status to rule yourself and new lands, if you desire them, in the Isles, the Old Continent or the South.’

  Habit sat back down upon her bunk, scowling at him.

  ‘You not want me?’

  ‘It would not be politic to admit it were it so.’ He smiled and his eyes twinkled.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Linwood mounted his horse and thundered back towards his seat at Stragglers’ End, silent and brooding on what had passed.

  He mused on his encounter with Riark and strove with himself, unable to decide whether he should feel cowed by the other’s might or ashamed for his own lack of boldness. His cheeks reddened as he thought of how powerless he had been before the king of the Dryads and he indulged idle fantasies of how he might have acted, driving back the Dryad with the might of his will and the strength of his resolve. But as the hours passed, he came to some peace with the notion that there was nothing he could have done – Riark had the mastery and it seemed, in truth, that all his plans would come to nothing. For what could he or his forces do against such a foe?

  And yet Crinan lay tantalisingly to the south and greatly did Linwood desire to forge a new kingdom for himself, stretching from the rainy northern shores of Stragglers’ Drift to the Folly away in the bright sunlight of the south.

  He had spent most of his years training for battle, dreaming of the day when he could come into his own. To have an interloper cast his dreams into the sea was beyond his imagining.

  He would not accept it.

  As he and his retinue drew closer to home, he could see the Whoreswood come into view and hear the bells of the evening summons carried chiming on the wind. The trees’ intricate shapes gained new clarity as the road swept around the wood and curved back towards the gate.

  He halted his men when they were within a stone’s throw of the treeline. Linwood dismounted and walked under the canopy, eyeing the trunks with new suspicion. He laid his open palm against the bark and looked up into the leaves that swayed and rustled above him, competing with the sound of bells now closer.

  He stepped further in until he was obscured and then, looking about him, he drew his sword and set about hacking at the trunk of the nearest oak. He hefted his blade three times, chipping at the bark then stopped, awaiting some unknown reaction from a supernatural assailant he had only lately discovered.

  But nothing happened.

  Linwood set about the tree once more then turned on another then another, grunting and sweating with his labour but leaving scarce markings upon them by which they would remember him. They patiently endured, as was their way.

  He sheathed his notched sword and surveyed the damage with frustration. If the Dryad was made of such stuff, he would indeed give battle in vain, thought Linwood.

  He heard hooves on the road and started back towards it. A voice called out to him, and Linwood quickened his pace, trying to disguise his rapid breathing.

  When he emerged he saw that a rider attired in the uniform of his guard at Stragglers’ End was mingling with his retinue.

  ‘Your Grace.’ The man bowed his head and dismounted so as to meet the duke on a level.

  ‘What news?’ replied Linwood and climbed up into his saddle.

  The man was forced to look up at him.

  ‘We have word that Lord Lachlan is abroad in the Drift.’

  The noise that Linwood issued did not resemble words, and he gathered himself before speaking again.

  ‘How have I not heard of this? In force? How is it I am just hearing of it now? For what purpose is he here?’ He rattled off the questions and his men felt alarmed at the seeming panic in one usually so unflappable.

  ‘I know not all the answers, Your Grace, but I have heard word less than an hour ago that Lord Lachlan is even now attending the contest within the Whoreswood. And rumour has been heard these past few days, of visitors in Redbranch bringing tidings from the south.’

  Linwood looked towards the trees and took a tighter grip on the reins.

  Am I ever to be vexed now?

  ‘Very well,’ he said finally. ‘You return to the gate. Issue standing orders to allow no one to leave Stragglers’ End and none enter without giving a full account of themselves. Have riders sent to all settlements, to the defences at Strewn Men Bay and to Lady Isobel asking for report whilst urging caution. Tell them what you know. And get a regiment to report to me here. Go.’

  The man bowed low, hurried for his horse and spurred it back to the gate at great haste.

  Linwood turned to the captains who led the company that travelled with him, some twenty men.

  ‘Your orders are of the utmost importance, Captain. Form a perimeter around the Whoreswood. Nobody goes in or out, lest I send word myself. I will send word in due course. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, Your Grace.’

  Before he left, one of his men called out to him.

  ‘But if Lord Lachlan should come and counteract your orders?’

  Linwood had been about to ride off but instead rode up to the man and, quick and brutal, he drew his notched sword and slew the man at his feet, hacking into his neck. The horses nearby whinnied and grew unsettled. A cry went up from the surrounding men.

  ‘Does anyone else need to know what to do should any man question my orders on my own land? Let it be known that King Linwood commands in the united realm of New Crinan, whether north or south of the forest. The Combined People are no more.’

  A lieutenant began hollering orders and the men obeyed without further hesitation. Linwood watched them do his bidding for a while then rode up the road towards the gate of Stragglers’ End.

  He arrived to find the great oak doors closed against him and a guard of five blocking his way with pikes lowered.

  ‘Who goes there?’ one of the men shouted.

  ‘King Linwood of New
Crinan, lord of these lands and master of this keep. Stand aside.’

  A pause.

  ‘Step forward into the lamplight, Your Grace, if it be so,’ said the voice.

  Linwood was heartened to see his orders had been heeded so quickly and did as was asked of him.

  ‘Apologies, Your Grace,’ said the gate sergeant. ‘I was told to challenge all.’

  ‘Keep it up. No exceptions,’ said Linwood. ‘But you will address me as Sire. All of the lands belonging to Crinan are renewed, and the House of Linwood sits upon the throne. Spread the word amongst the men and send word for my council to assemble immediately in the throne room.’

  It had been many long months since Linwood had been home to Stragglers’ End and he returned to it now with fresh scars and perhaps a harder heart than when he left. There was no cheering as he entered, rather his folk bowed or drew back when they saw that he was coming.

  The curtain wall of Stragglers’ End was of stone, not over tall and crudely assembled, but its parapets extended out so that the footholds afforded by gaps in the stone could not be used to an assailant’s advantage. The streets inside were narrow, lined with huts and lodges. The central keep was encircled by another stone wall and within were vast parade grounds and barracks, forges and stables, armouries and prisons. Nothing grew within the walls, not even a single flower. Instead, tunnels led out to walled farmlands off to the west. Linwood’s horse picked its way between his people as they walked the muddy streets. As word passed quicker than he could, the crowds thinned as he neared the keep.

  Linwood barrelled through the keep towards his throne room, built in long anticipation of greater importance for his house. There was a long table running down the centre of the room upon which maps were strewn. The room was manned by the castellan, Willard.

  ‘Lord Linwood, my congratulations on your victorious return.’

  Linwood sighed at having to repeat himself.

  ‘Issue a royal decree, Willard. I have taken the throne of Crinan and claim both the old lands and the new as part of my realm. Stragglers’ Drift and Crinan secede from the Combined People and are now to be known as New Crinan. Send word to all in the new kingdom. And muster for war.’