Both points had a sobering effect, and the party fell silent as they redoubled their efforts. The current was strong and helped them to bring the bridge into sight before they heard the ominous thunder of galloping hooves. Konall looked back and quickly gauged the speed and distance of the horses behind them.
‘We should make it to the pass before them, but they will quickly catch us after that,’ he called across to their boat.
Brann felt the now-familiar lurch in his stomach. If only there was a way to collapse the bridge, he thought as they steered slightly towards the centre of the river to avoid low overhanging branches that lay ahead. His eyes widened as a thought struck him.
‘Steer towards the branches!’ he yelled. ‘Stop the boats there.’
‘What?’ Gerens shouted. ‘Are you mad?’ Even Grakk cast a dubious glance in his direction. Konall, however, was becoming accustomed to Brann’s ideas.
‘Do as he says,’ he snapped.
In seconds, they had reached the trees. Brann grabbed a slender, leafy branch and, using it to steady him, stood in the rocking boat and hacked at it with his sword. As he had hoped, the recent sunshine had left the bark and, especially, the leaves, dry. Tinder dry.
The branch quickly came loose and he tossed it to Konall, before cutting a similar one for himself. Forcing himself not to look back at the horsemen, he shouted at the others to start forward again – something they needed no encouragement to do – and told them to stay close to the bank.
‘Grakk, throw my pack ashore, then you and Gerens follow. Konall, throw yours and let Hakon ashore as well.’
As Grakk steadied himself to throw, Gerens said, ‘Why not move right into the side? We could jump instead of swimming.’
‘We cannot afford the time. You will understand,’ gasped Brann, tossing his weapons and cloak onto the bank.
‘Just do it!’ Konall roared, following Brann’s example, and the three former captives plunged into the water and made for the bank.
Brann grabbed his paddle. ‘Out towards the middle and point it directly at the bridge.’ Konall nodded, and did so.
In position first, Brann took out his flint and quickly sparked the dry leaves into the beginnings of a flame. Comprehension dawned on Konall’s face – quickly replaced by alarm.
‘My flint was in a pouch on my swordbelt,’ he shouted. ‘Throw yours to me.’ Brann did so, cursing himself for not giving Konall better instructions beforehand, and dropped out of the back of the boat into the water. The exertions had left him drenched in hot sweat, and although the icy mountain water at first took away his breath, it soon had an invigorating effect and his head cleared. He moved behind the boat and helped it on its way with a shove, although the current was already doing the job for him. Splashing noises to his right told him that Konall was doing the same. Tendrils of smoke were wisping from the boats and, as he started to swim, Brann hoped with a slight panic that the fire would take hold. When he glanced again after a few strokes, however, the flames were already leaping up into view thanks to the dust-dry leaves; now his hope was that the fire would not spread so quickly that the boats would sink before they reached the bridge.
His main consideration now was just to get onto dry land. He rued the fact that he had not time to throw his boots onto the riverbank; they were now dragging down his feet and making every movement of his legs a draining effort.
He managed to make it to within a few yards of the bank before the first arrow zipped and plopped into the water behind him. The sound, so innocuous compared with the lethal connotations of its source, gave him a sudden sense of déjà vu – a feeling that was heightened when Konall’s hand grasped him by the back of the tunic and hauled him forwards, landing him this time on the grassy riverbank rather than the slavers’ ship.
He was given no time to recover. Hands grabbed his wrists and he was dragged out of range of the horsemen’s cavalry-type short bows.
Having failed to hit any of the fugitives, the mercenaries realised too late the plan for the bridge. They spurred their horses in desperation at the crossing but, with blazing boats lodged underneath it, the upper structure that was as sun-dried as the branches Brann had cut had quickly succumbed to the flames. Fire was crackling from one end to the other already, and the horses reared and shied away as they were ridden up to it. Two riders managed to drag round the heads of their mounts and, savagely beating the beasts with the flats of their swords, they unbelievably managed to force the wide-eyed and flared-nostriled animals onto the bridge.
Their combined weight was too much for wood that was shabbily built and further weakened by the fire. With a creaking groan reminiscent of the collapsing jetty at the village, but with a volume resoundingly greater, the bridge disintegrated, taking the rearmost horse and rider with it into the fast-flowing river and to an inescapable drop over the waterfall. Spurred on by instinct rather than its rider, the leading horse had leapt forwards an instant before the collapse, and had managed to scramble onto the track beyond, dried earth sent flying by its flailing hoofs.
Surprised with the unlikely appearance of the horse from the flames, the party watched, stunned, as the rider roared and raised his sword, kicking his mount towards them. Snapping out of the daze, Konall dived headlong for his weapons, rolling over and rising to his feet with his bow and an arrow in his hands. In one fluid motion, he stood upright, drew and, without seeming to aim, let fly. The arrow streaked past the horse’s head and took the rider square in the chest. At that short range, the force of impact was awesome, lifting the man clear of his saddle and, with a violent thud, into the dirt behind him.
The mercenary surprised them for a second time in as many moments. Despite both the effect of the arrow and the crashing impact on the hard ground, he tried to rise. As he reached a sitting position, however, Grakk’s blade cartwheeled, flashing in the early morning sunlight, through the air and into his chest beside the arrow shaft. This time, he did not get up. As Grakk moved to collect his sword and ensure that the man had finally died – a trifle over-cautious, Brann thought, considering the punishment his body had taken – Konall retrieved his quiver and selected another arrow. The riders on the other bank had paused, milling in a group as they watched to see if their erstwhile companion would have any success; they had forgotten that, although the fugitives were outwith the short range of their bows, they were themselves very much within the range of Konall’s weapon.
The tall boy gave them a sharp reminder of the fact. His arrow flashed across the water towards one of the riders. An instant before impact, the man’s horse bucked slightly and the arrow drove into the rider’s stomach. He lurched forward with a hoarse scream, clutching with one hand at the arrow and with the other grabbing at the horse’s mane to keep himself in the saddle.
The rest of the group moved back out of range as Konall grumbled, ‘Damn that horse. That should have taken him in the chest like the last one.’
Grakk squinted across the river, his hand shielding his eyes from the morning sun. ‘No matter. He will not last the night. And now he will slow them down.’
As he spoke, one of the riders, a large man with flaming red hair, moved his mount alongside the stricken man, who was now roaring, the rage, anguish and agony clear in his cries. With a swift motion, the redhead cut his throat, and the cries stopped.
‘No, he will not,’ Gerens grunted.
The dead man thudded to the ground and, ignoring his corpse, the red-headed warrior grabbed the reins of the now riderless horse and led it away. Casting cries and glares of fury and abuse behind them, they wheeled their mounts back upriver and thundered off.
‘They will be looking for the nearest ford,’ Konall shouted. ‘And they have just shown us how much they want to catch us. We do not know how near, or far, they will be able to cross, so let us move now.’
Grakk had abandoned his rusty blade in the chest of the dead mercenary, swapping it for the man’s sword. As he took the belt and scabbarded the weapon, he remov
ed the sheathed long knife and tossed it to Gerens and offered the short bow and quiver to Hakon.
‘You know how to use this?’ he asked the tall boy, who had spoken few, if any words, since the rescue had begun.
Hakon looked insulted at the question, but nodded his thanks and took the weapon.
Agitated, Konall urged them on, but Brann, still coughing and spluttering, staggered to his feet and waved at them to wait. He walked with studied calm to the dead man’s horse, murmuring reassuringly to it. He stroked its nose and scratched its ears, and the beast, clearly well-tended and strong, rewarded him with a whinny and a nuzzle.
Brann looked at the others with a quiet smile. ‘Tempted as I am just to jump on, I have another suggestion: why not use it as a pack animal?’
Understanding quickly, Konall took the two packs and deftly used their straps to fasten them together, before slinging them over the horse’s back and lashing them to the saddle.
Brann ensured they were secure. ‘That should let us move faster,’ he observed, pleased with his idea.
‘Then let us do so,’ Konall said and, with no more delay, they started at a fast jog for the head of the ravine. As they neared it, Konall faltered, unsure whether to take the familiar path they had come along or to opt for the route along the top of the cliff.
‘I know what you are thinking…’ Brann started.
‘Just tell me which way,’ Konall snapped. ‘You can explain why as we run. We have wasted too much time already.’
‘The way we came,’ Brann said immediately, and they broke into a sprint in that direction.
Grakk’s voice rang out. ‘Slow down. We will tire more quickly at this pace. We need to last a long time.’
No answer was needed. Their youthful impatience duly curbed by his experience, they settled into a more sensible lope with Brann, leading the horse, at the rear.
Konall dropped back beside him. ‘So, why?’
Brann glanced up at the other route. ‘It was tempting to try the other path in the hope that it might be quicker, but that would have been no more than a gamble. And, although we would be able to spot danger from a distance because it is more open up there, that would be more of a disadvantage than an advantage – we would be more easily seen, also. Down here, any bandits coming towards us will not be expecting us at all and, if we run into them, we will be less surprised. And we will still have advance warning of the horsemen catching us as we will easily hear the hooves as they push the pace on this hard surface.
‘And we at least know the lie of the land ahead of us, and what route to take.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘And where the sentries are at the other end.’
Konall’s eyes narrowed as he digested the theory. ‘And,’ Brann continued, ‘from a military point of view, we would be cut to pieces in seconds if caught in the open by horsemen. Here, however, on this narrow curving path, they cannot manoeuvre and could not attack more than two abreast – or less in places. We will have more of a chance.’
Konall was silent for a few paces. He grunted, a decisive sound. ‘I agree. Your logic is sound. Now, all we can do is make the best of what chance strews in our path.’
He moved back to the head of the group, and they continued at the same pace. As they rounded a corner, Brann noticed that Gerens – who was next in line in front of him – stumbled slightly.
‘Are you struggling?’ he asked, moving alongside the boy. ‘If we need to take a rest, we will just have to do so.’
Gerens shook his head. ‘I am fine,’ he said through heavy breathing. ‘I just have not had much sleep recently. I will manage.’
‘Are you sure?’ Brann was still concerned.
‘Of course I am,’ Gerens snapped, his anger rising sharply. ‘I would rather be tired than dead. And the thought of horsemen coming up hard behind us is helping me to keep going, believe it or not.’
Brann dropped back in the face of the rare show of anger from his friend, but resolved to watch him more closely. In doing so, however, he found himself observing not only Gerens, but each of the members of their little group. They had settled into a steady pace, the horse was obediently following Brann’s direction, there was – for the moment at least – no sign of the enemy, the sun was warm on their shoulders and the air was cool and fresh: he was astounded to find that, despite the situation they were in, he was growing bored with running. Studying the others at least occupied his mind, and his position at the rear afforded him a perfect opportunity to do so.
Gerens had lost the reckless cynicism that had characterised his speech in reaction to the harrowing experience, and had reverted to his normal self, if a little tetchy. The slight falter in his gait, no matter how much he tried to disguise it or fight it, was continuing, as was Brann’s concern. Grakk, as always, was simply Grakk: experienced, unruffled by any eventuality, simplistically logical and watching everything with the wry outlook of a man who knows that fate, the gods and other men’s mistakes and decisions control the lives of everyone, from kings to beggars, and it was up to each to cope as he could with whatever situation faced him at the time. Hakon, Brann did not know, but the boy seemed capable physically: he was a good couple of inches shorter than Konall – although he would still tower over most men in Brann’s homeland – but his shoulders were broader and hinted at the strength he would possess once his body matured to match them. His straight black hair bounced jauntily between his shoulderblades as he ran, in contrast to his demeanour, which was even quieter than that of Konall, although, in his case, he was more withdrawn than aloof. Brann wondered how much of that reticence was a result of his recent experience – an opposite reaction to that of Gerens, but for the same reason. He seemed in a state of shock and, watching him, Brann felt empathy rising strongly within him as he remembered feeling so similarly, so recently. In fact, who knew how strongly it might return to him once the current situation, which was so dominant in his consideration at the moment, was over.
He switched his attention to Konall, who now seemed so familiar despite the short time since their circumstances had flung them together. The change in him had been astonishing – not simply the transformation that had bemused Gerens from sneering, unapproachable self-centred noble who barked orders with unquestioned and ruthless authority to a more open – by his standards – young man who was not only willing to listen to alternative views, but was inclined to ask for advice. It was more than that, for it was possible, even likely, that the old Konall would return once they returned to Ravensrest and, although he had changed, he had not lost – and probably would never lose – his air of superiority and the need to lead or, at least, to be seen to do so. In itself, Brann mused, that was probably no bad thing in someone who would one day, and possibly at a moment’s notice, have to assume the responsibilities that awaited Konall.
No, it was something else: it was his attitude towards Grakk. While the southern tribesman, true to his accepting, impassive style, bore in his manner no apparent enmity towards Konall over the treatment he had received after Hakon’s slip in the snow when they hunted the bear, and seemed to have entirely dismissed the matter, Konall, by contrast, appeared to be aware of it with increasing discomfort.
He seemed awkward around Grakk, and the more the wiry slave seemed unconcerned by the whole affair, the more it troubled Konall. The young noble appeared to have discovered a conscience, and was finding the experience bewildering.
Brann’s reverie was abruptly disturbed as Konall skidded to a halt, his arm raised in warning. The others bunched up behind him and Brann, slower to react than the surprisingly well-trained horse, was jerked to a standstill by the reins – a curious reversal of roles, he thought. He frantically scanned the path ahead for an enemy, reaching for both his bow and his sword in his confusion.
Grakk’s calming hand on his arm stopped his fevered movements and he followed the pointing of a slender finger to raise his gaze above the trail. A small landslide had started at some point but had, it seemed, sto
pped almost immediately. Whether it had been initiated by a rock disturbed by the weather or the foot of a passing creature was impossible to tell – and immaterial. What mattered was that a small, but potentially lethal, number of rocks and small boulders were poised precariously, waiting for the slightest reason to crash down upon the path. Konall and Brann, with their attention fixed continuously on rounding the next corner they faced, must have passed under the danger unaware when they had travelled in the opposite direction.
‘Very slowly, and very quietly, we move past, one at a time,’ Konall whispered. ‘The horse first.’
Brann looked at him questioningly. He knew he would have to be the one to lead the horse, as he had earned the trust that would be vital to keep it calm over the next few moments. And he could understand why they were moving singly – if the rocks came down, casualties would be minimised. But why first? Surely, as the one most likely to bring down the rockfall, the horse should go last and allow the others to pass before they risked blocking the path.
Konall guessed his thoughts, and looked almost gleeful. ‘I cannot believe I have reasoned this ahead of you,’ he whispered. The others looked at each other in surprise at the admission of Brann’s superiority in any way. ‘I assume you think the horse should go last. But if one of the others brings the rocks down, the horse will be trapped on the wrong side. If it comes down and any of us are on this side, all we have to do is scramble over. Humans climb better than horses.’
Brann smiled. ‘You are right. Absolutely right.’ He paused as a thought struck him. ‘But, if humans can climb it, why risk them walking under it? Once the horse has got through, why not bring it all down? You can all then climb over in safety. And,’ his eyes widened in excited realisation, ‘it will delay the horses pursuing us!’
Konall nodded. ‘I agree. But you would never have thought of it without my idea in the first place. Admit it.’
Brann held up his hands in submission. ‘I admit it, I admit it. Now can we begin? I am having enough trouble with my bowels at the thought of creeping under those rocks without delaying any longer.’
Hero Born Page 30