The Crimson Shield

by Nathan Hawke

  The Screambreaker shrugged. ‘There’s only one way to know, Gallow, and I am hungry. When it’s dark, we’ll go and look.’

  14

  GOSOMON

  Duvakh stepped over the body of the Marroc farmer who’d been stupid enough not to run away and looked the other man up and down. Shivering, starving, dull-eyed and with nothing to his name except a shirt. He couldn’t have been in the hills for more than a few days, yet he was half-dead. Still, he was definitely Vathan. Duvakh even knew him. ‘Gosomon? From Krenda’s ride? Why, Gosomon of Krenda’s Ride, are you hiding in a Marroc barn?’

  Gosomon told him. By the time he was done they were inside the farmhouse, eating some of the dead Marroc’s food and drinking his beer. Duvakh’s head was buzzing. The rest of his ride sat around, scratching themselves and patting their bellies. Good food was to be cherished. There were only five of them – six if you threw in the ghost he’d found in the barn – and the Marroc here had a good larder.

  ‘I reckon we’ll stay here another day or two.’ He pointed to Gosomon. ‘You might want to stay here a bit longer. Get your strength up.’

  Gosomon shook his head. ‘Krenda Bashar and the ardshan are waiting on my news. I need one of your horses.’

  The other riders laughed but Duvakh didn’t. The sun was setting. The flames from the burned-out barn had largely died away. The glowing embers would keep his riders and his horses pleasantly warm through the night. He looked at the gash on the back of his hand and then sucked at it. The wound was still weeping. ‘Krenda and the ardshan? I’d go right back to your swamp if I were you.’ He shook his head. ‘Hai Frika!’

  The laughter died. Duvakh scowled. Gosomon’s expression made him uneasy. He helped himself to some more of the dead farmer’s ale and made a face. An unpleasant drink, but it did the job. ‘We smashed those Marroc at Lostring Hill to pieces, eh?’ he said. ‘Broke their line and slaughtered them.’ He’d killed three men by his own count, charging down from the crest of the hill, cutting them down before the Marroc managed to reach the woods. ‘No one thought the forkbeards would be at Fedderhun, but they were and they broke like the rest. So you were one of the ones who went chasing off after the runners, eh?’

  Gosomon looked up. His face was hollow and haunted. Even in front of the fire with a couple of blankets wrapped around him he was shivering. A sheen of sweat covered his brow.

  ‘Scatter them far and wide,’ Duvakh said. ‘We learned that when we took gold from the forkbeards. The Marroc are good at running but not as good as our riders are at chasing, eh?’ He poured himself another cup. ‘While you were off chasing, you might like to know that the ardshan and the Weeping Giant had a falling-out. Next thing we knew we were on the move again.’ He puffed his cheeks, remembering the disappointment of Fedderhun, small and worthless, and how eager the bashars and their riders had been sink their teeth into something worth plundering. ‘Someone put it in the ardshan’s head that the forkbeards at Andhun weren’t ready for us. We thought we’d get in quick and have the place to ourselves for a few days before the Weeping Giant and his foot-sloggers could catch up with us. Load of toss that was. Not ready? Forkbeards looked plenty ready to me.’

  ‘Wasn’t so bad, though,’ chipped in another rider. ‘At least we didn’t have the Weeping Giant looming over us all the time telling us what we couldn’t do . . .’

  Gosomon’s head jerked sideways, staring at the wall as though if he looked hard enough, he might see right through it. A hand, sharply raised, drew silence. For a few long seconds they sat there frozen. Then Gosomon relaxed. ‘Thought I heard a noise.’

  Duvakh got up. ‘I’ll go and look. Need a piss anyway. Dansukh, tell him what happened at Andhun, eh? Let him know why he’s just a little bit too late with that word he’s carrying to Krenda and the ardshan.’

  ‘You took it? You took Andhun?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Duvakh laughed, shook his head and got up, leaving Dansukh to pick up the story. Outside, he walked around the farmhouse in case someone was out there but he couldn’t see anything except the dying flames from the barn and the shadows they cast. He belched loudly and stamped away from the embers for a piss. The forkbeards had come out from behind Andhun’s walls. Duvakh reckoned the ardshan had had the numbers by about two to one and everyone who’d fought with them said that the forkbeards knew squat about fighting against mounted soldiers; then again everyone who fought with them knew they were crazy too. Well, there wouldn’t be any Vathen coming back from Andhun saying the forkbeards knew squat about fighting horsemen any more. Turned out they knew perfectly well with their wall of shields and their long spears and their Marroc archers. Still crazy, though.

  He sighed as the pressure in his bladder eased. Say one thing for the Marroc – their beer tasted rotten but it did the trick. Oh, and say another thing for them – they could shoot. An arrow had torn through his gauntlet and ripped open the skin across the back of his hand. He counted himself lucky it hadn’t been a lot worse. The forkbeards, when they’d charged, had hit the ardshan’s lines like a battering ram. The ardshan’s foot-sloggers had simply folded and crumbled. Duvakh wasn’t sure the forkbeards had ever actually stopped moving.

  He kicked the dead Marroc farmer one more time, wondering why this one hadn’t run like the rest when he’d seen Vathen coming over the hill. Marroc always ran. That was the joy of them.

  Quiet footsteps came up behind him.

  ‘Suppose we’ll have to cross the hills or make our way back to the coast and the Weeping Giant,’ he muttered to whoever it was who’d come out to join him. He laughed. ‘And then listen to the foot-sloggers’ jibes and taunts.’ He spat. ‘Maybe we should stay out here on the edge of the wild, helping ourselves to whatever comes our way. Tempting thought, eh?’

  Some sixth sense suddenly made him wonder if the footsteps behind him weren’t another one of his ride out for a piss after all. His sixth sense was right too, just not quick enough. By the time he turned the axe was already coming down.

  The Vathan turned at the last moment. His mouth fell open and he reeled back in surprise. Gallow’s axe blade went straight through his face, opening him from cheek to cheek and smashing his jaw. He made a hooting noise and then the backswing caught him cleanly on the nape of his neck. Gallow caught him as he fell. He dragged the dead Vathan into the shadows and crouched beside him, listening. There were five horses tethered outside the farmhouse. Four more Vathen inside then. With luck the others were drunk too.

  The house fell quiet. A voice called, ‘Duvakh?’ Gallow crept back around the walls, bent almost double as he passed each window, to where the Screambreaker stood with an ear pressed against the stone. He held up four fingers and pointed inside. Trying to get Corvin to stay a half-mile away with the horses was like talking to the tide, asking it not to ebb and flow. He’d given up.

  The Screambreaker shook his head and held up another finger.

  ‘They heard me,’ Gallow whispered.

  The Screambreaker yanked him close and hissed in his ear. ‘Didn’t they just. Clumsy oaf. Should have let him go back inside.’

  ‘I want to take them where there’s space.’

  ‘And I wanted to hear what happened at Andhun.’ He spat. ‘Still, too late for that now. They heard something and now they’re nervy as virgins in spring. Get on with it and call them out!’

  ‘No.’ He wished he’d kept some of the Vathan arrows now. When they were on their horses, the Vathen preferred bows or their javelots, spears light enough to throw but hefty enough to run a man through. The quivers on the horses here were empty. ‘They’ll come out soon enough, looking for their friend.’ Gallow pointed to the edge of the shadows cast by the embers of the barn. ‘I want you to stand there. They’ll see you when they come out. Don’t move when they challenge you. I’ll take them from the side.’ He’d have to be quick too, before they could get to the Screambreaker. The old man was getting stronger but he was in no shape to fight.

  ‘That s
ounds like Marroc talk. We should stand together and call them out.’

  ‘And if you were at your strength, Corvin Screambreaker, I would like nothing better. But you’re not, and so a Marroc strategy must suffice if you want to eat bread and not steel tonight.’

  The Screambreaker stiffened. A Lhosir was either fit to fight or useless.

  ‘Oh, the wound to your head,’ muttered Gallow. ‘I dare say it impedes your sight. It’s not a fair fight.’ He looked at the old man, but all he got was that word on his lips. Silent but there. Nioingr. ‘Fine then! Do it your way and die. In fact no, I’ll not give you the pleasure of killing any of them.’ He stalked back past the house, openly this time, shaking his axe arm loose and gripping his shield. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted. ‘Vathen! Are you listening? There’s more of us out here but none of the rest can be bothered with fighting you. They say it’s too easy!’ He reached the door and kicked it in. The farmhouse was a typical Marroc dwelling, one big space with a curtained-off night room. The Vathen were on their feet and ready for him with their heavy leather riding coats, long knives and axes. Not one of them had thought to put on his helm. And he was right – four not five, although there was an odd-looking Marroc cowering in a corner wearing nothing but a shirt. They had food too. It reminded Gallow how hungry he was.

  Two of the Vathen rushed him together. The other two bolted for the back door. Gallow met the charge with his own, buffeting one away with a great blow from his shield. He caught the swinging axe from the other with his own weapon, barged on with his shoulder and head-butted the next Vathan in the face, cracking the man’s nose. As he staggered back, Gallow turned and brought his axe down, shattering the first Vathan’s collar and splitting him to his breastbone. A torrent of blood exploded over both of them and the man went down. Gallow turned. The Vathan with the broken nose dived through the curtain to the night room. Gallow ignored him, went for the two who’d run outside and caught them at their horses. The first was vaulting into the saddle – Gallow threw his axe, catching the man in the ribs and caving in his side. The horse bolted and vanished into the night, the Vathan lolling lifelessly on its back. The last one jumped at Gallow with his knife. He pulled Gallow’s shield aside and stabbed. Gallow twisted sideways. The blade skittered off his mail, hard enough to spark; then he caught the man’s arm with his own and gave a vicious twist. There was a crack of breaking bone and the Vathan screamed. Gallow twisted more. The man fell, writhing; before he could get back up, Gallow had his sword out and drove it through the back of the Vathan’s neck.

  He paused for an instant. Inside the house he saw movement – the Vathan with the broken nose bolting for the other door. He jumped up and gave chase but he needn’t have bothered – the last Vathan ran straight into the Screambreaker’s sword. The old man staggered. The Vathan stumbled on a few more paces and then toppled to his knees and fell to the dirt. Gallow made sure he was dead.

  ‘That’s a strong arm you have there, Screambreaker, to drive a sword through all that leather,’ he said as he came back.

  Corvin looked at him. He was breathing hard. ‘You’ll not give me the pleasure of killing any of them, eh?’ He pointed. ‘You missed one.’

  Someone was bolting for the horses. It was the man Gallow had taken to be a Marroc. From the way he landed in the saddle and sped away, he was a Vathan after all. A Vathan with no weapon, no armour, nothing but a shirt. The Screambreaker had been right. Five, not four. Gallow reached for a stone to throw, but the old man held his arm back.

  ‘Let him go,’ he said. ‘He saw my face and he knows who I am.’ He bared his teeth. ‘And that, Truesword, is a knife in every Vathan heart.’

  15

  ANDHUN

  They ate what the Vathen had left and made themselves comfortable. In the morning when it was light Gallow found the first Vathan soldier who’d tried to flee lying on the ground with his horse standing beside him a hundred yards away from the farmhouse, Gallow’s axe still stuck through his ribs. Gallow pulled the axe free and set about cleaning and sharpening it.

  ‘We’ve missed the battle,’ grumbled Corvin. ‘You should have let me leave sooner.’

  ‘You were welcome to leave whenever you wanted,’ said Gallow. ‘Debate that with whoever thumped you on the head after Lostring Hill. How do you know we missed it, anyway?’

  ‘Listening to their talk before you made such a mule’s arse of killing them. But look. Quivers on their saddles but no javelots, so they used them already. And the horses – they’ve been ridden hard. The first one you killed, he’s got the sash of a ride leader. He should have sixteen men with him but he’s got four. Got a fresh wound too, a cut on his hand. There’s blood on one of the saddles that hasn’t been cleaned. If they were scouts then their quivers would be full and they’d have bows. If they were foragers then they should have a cart or some mules. This lot were on the wrong end of a fight not long before we came. Look at the way they ran from us. No spirit left in them.’

  Gallow shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean they came from Andhun.’

  ‘Well they did, no-beard. Where else?’

  They took the Vathan horses and rode on towards the coast. The farms and hamlets they passed were deserted. A few were burned-out but most were intact. The Marroc had fled, fearing the coming of the Vathen, but the Vathen had followed the sea road and now the land was deserted. Even the fields were empty, the animals taken or gone.

  ‘Twelvefingers must have sent them across the Isset.’ Corvin nodded approvingly. ‘Take away everything the Vathen can eat and Andhun is the only crossing.’

  ‘Not so, old man. If you know the paths, a man – a whole army of men – could cross the Isset through the Crackmarsh. Still, I doubt the Vathen know that.’

  The Screambreaker stopped and looked at him long and hard. ‘They may not know it now, but sooner or later they’ll find a Marroc to tell them.’

  Gallow shrugged. ‘Good luck to them if they try it. About time someone cleared out the ghuldogs.’

  With each day the Screambreaker grew stronger. As they started at last into the line of hills before Andhun, a band of riders came over a crest heading the other way. Lhosir, eight of them. When they saw Gallow and Corvin they stopped and one rode forward apart from the rest.

  ‘I’m Tolvis of the Black Mountain,’ he called. ‘Sworn blade to King Yurlak. Name yourselves.’

  ‘I know him,’ muttered Corvin.

  ‘The man I ride with is Corvin Screambreaker,’ cried Gallow. ‘Known among the Marroc as the Widowmaker and the Nightmare of the North. He too is a sworn blade to King Yurlak. I am Gallow of Middislet, sworn to no one.’

  ‘You’re sworn to the king, bare-beard, whether you like it or not,’ snapped Corvin.

  ‘Corvin Screambreaker?’ Tolvis of the Black Mountain took off his helm and cocked his head. ‘Now there’s a thing. See, we’d heard the Nightmare of the North was dead. The Marroc have been quietly drinking to that for a week now. When they think we won’t see and with one eye cast over their shoulder in case they’re wrong of course.’ He grinned.

  ‘Someone at Lostring Hill was kind enough to land the Screambreaker a good blow to the head and render him senseless just long enough for me to drag him away. Come see him for yourself if you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Tolvis of the Black Mountain rode closer. He was cautious, more so than Gallow would have expected, but as he came close enough to be sure of Corvin’s face, a smile spread across his own. ‘Maker-Devourer! It’s true!’

  The Screambreaker grunted. ‘Tolvis of the Black Mountain is it now? You fought with me years ago but you weren’t called that back then. It’s a Tolvis Loudmouth that I seem to remember.’

  The smile broadened. ‘Pardon my caution, Screambreaker. You’re on Vathan horses.’

  ‘Their previous riders forgot their need of them. I’d hoped to aid you in the fight here but I hear the Vathen have already come.’

  ‘They have, but not in all their numbers.’ Tolvi
s turned his horse. ‘Very obliging of them it was, and so we obliged them right back. I’ll ride you to Andhun. We’ll pass the field on the way. You’ll know it when you see it – it’ll be the one that’s mostly the colour of Vathan blood. They were five or six thousand and a lot of them on horse, and we smashed them.’

  The Screambreaker curled his nose. ‘Five or six thousand? That all? There were five times that number at Fedderhun. Did they have the Sword of the Weeping God with them? The red sword Solace?’

  Gallow looked at Corvin, curious. Fenaric had said something about the same thing, words he’d heard at Fedderhun, but Gallow had never repeated them to the Screambreaker. Something he overheard from the Vathen at the farm, then?

  Tolvis shrugged. ‘The Comforter? They didn’t have it here, no.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the main Vathan force yet.’

  ‘Oh, we know that.’ Tolvis laughed. ‘But let them come in bits and pieces – we’ll chew each one up and spit it back at the next.’

  An hour later they began to see bodies. Dead Vathen, most of them speared from behind.

  Corvin frowned as he passed them. ‘They look like they were killed by their own horsemen.’

  A black cloud of rooks or crows circled ahead of them past a stand of trees. Tolvis put on a face as though he’d eaten a mouthful of something rotten. ‘Prince Medrin had those of us with horses mount up and ride them down, same as the Vathen used to do for us against the Marroc.’ He laughed. ‘I’ll tell you, the Vathen are a lot better at it than we are. Spent more time collecting spears that had missed than we did riding.’

  ‘Medrin had you do that?’

  Tolvis wrinkled his nose. ‘Can’t say as any of us much liked it. Or were much good at it. But he is Yurlak’s heir.’