Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  He sighed again as his golden eyes searched the dark depths of the trees for some sign of life. Not that it would matter if there was a bear in there – he could hardly defend himself, his hands bound behind his back, and tied to the ground. He would be a nice, easy meal for whatever fanged monster was waiting.

  He looked across the fire at his captors, who all seemed to be sleeping peacefully, save for the man on watch, who sat eating, his eyes occasionally resting on Teague. In spite of the fact that they were countrymen, Teague hated them. Hated them for what they had done to him, and the manner in which they had done it.

  He thought back to the evening he had spent in the gardens with Beata. Passionate Beata, with her long hair and her wide, innocent gaze. Although he had seen her oak leaf tattoo, he had a hard job accepting she was a Heartwood knight. She seemed too gentle, too beautiful to be confined to mail and sword, to be celibate for her whole life. A citizen of the world, Teague had seduced her with some measure of mischievousness, unable to resist the challenge of leading a holy knight astray. Afterwards, however, as she had lain in his arms in that arbour overlooking Henton Bay, he had half-regretted his actions; not because he wished he hadn’t slept with her – quite the opposite: she had surprised him with her passion, and it had shocked him how appealing her naivety and innocence had been. But he wished he had not seduced her so quickly. He was certain she would regret it in the morning, and he could not bear to see a look of resentment or shame on her face.

  Now, however, he was sure she would be feeling a damn sight more than resentment at what she found when she awoke. The Komis had come on him in the night while he slept, and even Peritus, that brave knight who had tried to defend him, could not stand up to the ruthlessness of the Komis warriors who had slaughtered the Heartwood Militis and left him to bleed to death in the dirt as they bound Teague’s hands and led him away. He had tried to call to Beata, who – suffused with ale – had slept soundly, and so they had knocked him out, and by the time he had come to, his head throbbing in time with the horse’s hooves, he had been far from Henton, Beata already awake and discovering her childhood friend was dead.

  He wondered if she hated him, and immediately knew that to be the case. He was surprised at how much that saddened him. It was not the first time a woman had wished him dead, by any means. But somehow, the thought of her sweet face turning hard and bitter made him ache inside. He just hoped she recovered quickly and learned from her lesson.

  Something rustled in the trees, and he froze as the Komis guard turned in the direction of the noise, confirming it was not his imagination. But the leaves stilled and eventually, the guard leaned back, chewing contentedly on some piece of meat he had pulled from his saddlebag.

  Sleep refusing to come, Teague thought for a while about Heartwood and the things Beata had described to him, about the Darkwater Lords and the Arbor, and the Veriditas ceremony. He wondered if he would have been able to help. Would he have gone with Beata? Maybe when she had awakened, she would not have wanted him to go, he thought sadly. Trust him to ruin the one good thing that had come into his life in ages.

  He looked again at the sleeping Komis. Was his kidnap something to do with Heartwood? Had they got wind of Beata’s plan to use him to resurrect the Arbor, or was their attack on him something completely unconnected? He couldn’t think why else they would come all the way across Laxony to find him. What was so important about him? Komis left their own land so rarely; they must want him very badly, he thought. The idea did not please him.

  In the trees, a rustling sounded again, and Teague frowned and pushed himself up onto his elbow, which was difficult with his arms behind his back. There was definitely something in the fringes of the forest. Closing his eyes, he felt with his senses along the forest floor. As clearly as if his hand was brushing the grassy glade, he felt with his mind along to the trees, touching Anguis like a lover, reaching out. His fingers became leaves that danced and brushed the air around the place where he had seen movement, and then they found the culprit.

  There was a person crouching in the bushes. Shocked, Teague withdrew his senses and stared at the trees. The leaves rustled and very slowly the person crept forwards. Teague frowned to try and make him out. He was slim, dressed in mail and breeches with short dark hair. Teague watched him creep forward and then something caught in the fire and the flames flared a little, lighting up the intruder’s face.

  It was Beata. Teague gasped, and the noise made the guard’s head snap round to look at him. Following Teague’s gaze, the guard turned to look into the forest. Teague watched, cursing himself for his explosion, as Beata, realising all hope of surprise had gone, sprang from the forest edge and sprinted towards the guard.

  She bowled straight into him, knocking him flying, and was on top of him before he could draw his sword. Teague watched, shocked, as she calmly slit her assailant’s throat, leaning hard on the blade so it cut deeply into the sinew and muscle of his neck. Blood flowed thick and dark red from the wound, and she quickly wiped her dagger on the grass before pushing herself to her feet.

  She risked one quick glance over at him. He tried to smile, but his face felt frozen with the shock of what he had just seen. He could not equate the knight in front of him with the passionate woman who had lain in his arms. Could they really be one and the same? In the dull firelight, he saw the oak leaf tattoo on her arm, however, and knew it was she. He had been foolish to underestimate her before. She was not a lady, simpering and flustered, who had been seduced by his masterful embrace. She was a powerful and passionate knight who had merely put aside her years of training to find comfort in love. He was the innocent, not she.

  The rest of the camp had begun to realise what was going on, and there were shouts as everyone roused and began to look for weapons. Teague watched in horror as the remaining five Komis got to their feet. She was vastly outnumbered, and he was in no position to help her – not that he would have been any good to her, he thought painfully, well aware his battle skills were virtually non-existent.

  However, she seemed to be holding her own. He watched her, stunned to see how agilely she fought, finally able to accept she truly was a knight of Heartwood. Her moves were clearly instinctive, and she cut, thrust and parried expertly, easily deflecting most of the Komis blows.

  The first warrior she knocked to the floor with one blow and finished off with a sword thrust to the neck above the collarbone, pushing the blade in deeply, then pressing her foot down on his body and using her weight to withdraw the weapon. This was done in seconds, and she spun in a circle to avoid a swinging sword from behind her, bringing up her own blade to meet it with a ringing clash. She twisted her sword so the hilts locked together, and while he struggled to free his weapon, she kicked up with a booted foot into his groin, causing him to suck in his breath and bend instinctively. As he did, so she cut deeply into his right arm, severing it just above the elbow. He fell to the ground, and from the amount of blood and noise emanating from him, he wasn’t going to last long.

  The third was more difficult, especially as the fourth and fifth began to circle her too, and for a moment, Teague thought it was going to be too much for her. He watched for some sign of panic, a realisation that she was defeated. But it did not come. She remained calm and silent, her eyes watching and assessing the skills of her assailants. She struck out several times, making no real impact on them, and for a moment, he thought she was backing off, afraid to take them on, but finally he realised she was testing them, finding out their weaknesses.

  Eventually, she picked one of them and attacked, her sword cutting a swathe through the air and then twisting cleverly to turn aside the other’s blade so she could continue her cut down into the scarcely protected upper leg. The weapon sliced through the large artery in his thigh, and he fell to the ground, groaning and clutching it as he bled into the earth.

  The last two Komis were stronger, and Beata fought these for some time. First one and then the other would attack her,
trying to tire her, and then both would mount an assault at once, trying to prise open her defence from both sides, but each time she sprang away from them, forcing them to turn around and follow her, guarding her back and probing continually to try and find a spot she could weaken.

  Eventually, one of them stumbled over a fallen log, and she immediately took the opportunity while he was distracted and flicked aside his sword. Grabbing her dagger by the blade, she flung it at his head. The point hit the centre of his right eye and pierced through to the brain, and he fell to the ground, motionless.

  The remaining Komis warrior let out a great roar and doubled his effort to attack her. For a while, Teague held his breath, certain this time she would be beaten; clearly, she was tiring – her face was red with exertion, and her movements were slower. Still, she moved like a blur, and he found himself mesmerised by her expertise, fascinated by the way she reacted so instinctively, parrying and thrusting, sidestepping and turning without thinking.

  And eventually, the last Komis made the mistake of being distracted; Teague heaved himself to his knees as Beata stumbled, and he let out a shout of fear; the Komis glanced over at him, and she wasted no time in swinging the blade around with all the force she could manage. His head rolled on the floor, severed with the one swing.

  Immediately, she turned to check behind her, then quickly ran over to the other Komis. She finished off the two who were wounded without a second thought, showing them no mercy but making their deaths quick. Then she knelt and wiped her blade on the grass.

  Teague sat back, his heart starting to hammer in his chest. Until that moment, he had been thrilled to see her, certain she had come to rescue him, flattered and encouraged by her appearance. As he watched her pull the dagger out of the dead Komis’s eye, however, suddenly the thought occurred to him she wasn’t actually there to rescue him at all; what if she were so angry with him she wanted the opportunity to kill him herself? He had seen her be brutal, fearless and bloodthirsty – would she stoop to torture, just to pay him back?

  He watched her now slide the sword into her scabbard, but the dagger remained in her hand, blade pointing towards him. She came towards him slowly, stealthily, and knelt down on one knee in front of him. Up close, he could see the sweat beading on her forehead, her hair curling around her temples from the warmth, and distractedly, he thought she had never looked so beautiful.

  “Hello, my lover,” she said softly. Her grey-blue eyes were cold as a glacier. She turned the blade in her hand. It caught the last dregs of the firelight, glinting, blinding him. Fear crusted inside him, and his mouth went completely dry.

  She smiled. “Now, where were we?”

  II

  The journey back from Henton to Heartwood seemed a long and laborious one after the events on the beach. Chonrad’s spirits were very low, and he sensed from the lack of conversation the others felt the same. Of course, it was possible Dolosus had transformed into a water elemental and was at that very moment on his way down to Darkwater, about to rescue the Pectoris from the clutches of the Darkwater Lords. But he doubted it. Chonrad had not liked Dolosus from the beginning, and the suspicious way he had transformed while the others had failed made him think there was something suspect behind Dolosus’s transformation, something that had nothing to do with Nitesco.

  He also recognised that his own guilt and resentment at his failure to transform might have something to do with his suspicions. Although he had told himself he did not believe it was possible, it wasn’t until the spell had failed that he realised deep down he had placed his faith in Nitesco and had in fact been sure it would work.

  He looked across at the Libraris, knowing Nitesco, too, was fretting at his failure. Following Dolosus’s disappearance, Nitesco had tried several times to get the spell to work but was unable to do so, and eventually, they realised it was time to call it a day. Procella had told them that in the morning, they would be returning to Heartwood, and Nitesco had not argued with her but had hung his head, clearly dejected at his failure.

  Now the hood of Nitesco’s cloak was pulled well over his face, and Chonrad could not see his features. He wondered whether to call out to him, to reassure him, but he knew it would be a waste of time. Nitesco would blame himself when Heartwood fell, convinced that had he been successful in transforming the other knights, Heartwood would have survived, and nothing Chonrad nor anyone else could say would convince him otherwise.

  Chonrad caught himself with that thought. Was he already so sure Heartwood could not be saved? He could not think how it could be, when the Arbor’s Pectoris was gone forever. Was it possible to save Heartwood, and indeed Anguis, without the Arbor? He was not a theologian and did not understand exactly Animus’s connection with the Arbor, but even he knew the tree was the key to the energy that flowed through the land, and without it, the land would die. There would be no food to feed the people, and eventually they would cease to exist, whether the Darkwater Lords invaded or not.

  He looked down at where his knuckles were white on the reins of his horse. Like the burgeoning waters, panic threatened to rise up and overwhelm him. All was not lost, he told himself, trying to breathe deeply and slow his pounding heart. Surely not even the most educated theologian could say for certain they were doomed. They did not know yet how the other Quests had gone; if they had been successful, then maybe they could buy some time to sort out how to get the Pectoris back. He must not lose all hope. Not yet.

  He turned in his seat to call to Procella, intending to convey his thoughts and try to lift her spirits too. However, as he looked over his shoulder, he saw with shock that about a dozen raiders on horseback were riding towards them at a furious rate; what with the roaring sound of the river and the fact that he had been so lost in his thoughts, he had not heard them approaching.

  Cursing himself for his lack of attention, he pulled back on his rains sharply, and the palfrey reared and twisted in the air, turning to face the other way. “Attack!” he yelled, drawing his sword from the scabbard at his side as the others turned, startled, taking out their own weapons as they saw the approaching party.

  Chonrad ripped at the fastenings of his cloak, undoing it and throwing it to the ground, knowing the heavy, sodden wool would hamper his movements. Immediately, the coldness of the heavy rain soaked through his mail into his jerkin. With alarm, he saw the raiding party were carrying spears. It was a weapon he used in battle, and could be extremely dangerous in experienced hands. He cursed that he hadn’t thought to bring one with him, but truth was he hadn’t expected to encounter so many Wulfians so far south of the border, and it was a cumbersome weapon, especially when riding long distances. Clearly, the retreat of the Exercitus was proving fatal to the Laxonian patrolling of the Wall, he thought, steadying himself in the saddle, sword lowered at his side.

  Beside him, he saw Solum and Terreo stand in their stirrups, crossbows in hand, and both fired a shot, each bringing down one of the party. That left about ten compared to the seven of them, he thought. Normally, he would have fancied those odds; although the Wulfians rode well and had spears, five Heartwood knights and two trained Laxonians should have been more than enough to best them easily. However, they were all tired and dispirited, and he knew that the worst thing for a soldier to experience before going into battle was low morale.

  Procella yelled at everyone to fan out, and automatically they did so, Hora, Fulco, Chonrad, Solum, Procella, Terreo and Nitesco forming a line, forcing the raiders to do the same. The raiders yelled, raising themselves up and throwing their spears, which came whistling towards them through the rain. Chonrad tensed in the saddle, then bent hurriedly to the right, feeling the whoosh of metal and wood by his ear. To his left, he saw someone fall from the saddle, but he did not know who it was. There was no time to look – the raiders were on them.

  He raised his sword and met his opponent’s with a clash as the horse thundered into him, and his own palfrey reared, hooves flying. Dropping down, the horse spun around,
and he met his assailant’s weapon with a parry, feeling the weight of the blow all the way up to his shoulder. He hammered blows onto the Wulfian, the warrior’s parries weakening. His years of training and experience were beginning to show through. Seeing the raider lean back in the saddle on the verge of losing his balance, Chonrad whipped his sword around and it cut deeply into the raider’s upper arm. The Wulfian screamed and dropped his sword to clutch the wounded limb. Chonrad kicked him from the saddle, then pulled hard on the palfrey’s reins, causing him to rear again. The horse’s hooves dropped down onto the grounded raider with a sickening crunch, and his screams ended abruptly.

  Chonrad dashed the rain from his face and scanned the scene quickly. The first thing he saw was Procella; she had dismounted and was finishing off one of the raiders, who was clearly no match for her in her current mood. Chonrad could see clearly the anger on her face, and she was obviously taking out her frustration on the warrior. Chonrad felt almost sorry for him. However, as he looked across, he saw behind her another raider who had spotted she had her back turned, and evidently thought it an easy target; he was riding towards her, sword raised. Intent on defeating her victim, Procella had not seen him.

  Beside him, out of the corner of his eye, Chonrad saw Fulco move to stop him, anticipating what he was going to do, but Chonrad ignored him and kicked his heels into his palfrey’s sides. The horse leapt forward and covered the distance in a flash, flanks bunching and heaving, shiny with rain. But it was going to be too late, too late…

  Chonrad saw the raider start to bring down his sword; he could picture it biting into Procella’s skull, cleaving skin from bone. He let out a roar and swung his legs up behind him and over the saddle, holding tight to the front and bringing his body up, feet first, between the raider and the oblivious Dux. The raider’s sword came down and glanced off his body armour, cutting instead into his thigh. Then they clashed; Chonrad’s weight slammed into the Wulfian, and together they crashed to the ground. Pain lanced through his leg as if it had been seared with a hot rod of iron, but he ignored it and rolled to his feet. He could put his weight on the leg, so he knew it couldn’t be too bad.