Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  She smiled. “Oh, I think we both know that is not true.”

  “You think you can still best me one-handed?” he scoffed.

  She raised an eyebrow. “I do not think so; I know so.”

  Teague knew he had to raise his game. She was clearly going to try to use force to make him go closer to the tree, and he had to do everything he could to stop her doing that. If he could just distract her until the invasion started, maybe then she would leave him alone, and he would somehow be able to disguise himself and slip away.

  He took a step closer to her. He knew how to get under her skin. “You seem to think you are the one in control,” he said softly. “If that is so, then you must bear full responsibility for what happened between us that evening. Can you do that, Beata? Can you accept you were as responsible as I for the seduction that occurred?”

  “I…” For the first time she faltered. Two bright spots of pink appeared on her cheekbones, the only colour on her pale face apart from her blue eyes. She took a step backwards, clearly unnerved at his proximity. “Do not come any closer,” she warned.

  Teague ignored her. He continued to walk forwards, and she continued to back away until she bumped into the cells and could retreat no further.

  He fixed her there with his golden eyes, moving closer until their bodies touched. She could easily have pushed him away with her good arm, but she seemed unable to move, although her chest rose and fell quickly with her rapid breathing. She seemed entranced by his eyes, and indeed, that was what he had intended. He knew others found them beguiling, but this time, there was more to Beata’s inability to move than fascination with the colour of his eyes. Like him, she was remembering what had transpired between them.

  His gaze fell to her lips. He remembered the feel of them beneath his own, their softness as he had pressed his mouth onto hers. Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her more than anything in the world. The urge was irresistible. If he had been clearer in his thoughts, he may have realised something magical was at work, but his senses had overridden his mental processes, and all he could think about was Beata and the touch and taste of her.

  He placed one hand on either side of the cell behind her and leaned forward.

  Their lips touched. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the kiss.

  He had forgotten about distracting her, about the tree, about anything except the feel of her in his arms and the memory of their lovemaking. Carefully avoiding her wounded shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him, his left hand threading through her hair, cupping the back of her head. He could feel her heart pounding against his own ribs. She softened in his arms, leaning into the kiss, her good arm moving around his waist, and he felt her sigh, although whether from bliss or resignation he couldn’t tell. All thoughts of distraction fled from his mind. There was just Beata, and her beautiful, soft lips.

  It was only when something fell on his cheek that he blinked and opened his eyes, then lifted his head. Like people awaking from a dream, they looked around in surprise. Soft rose petals were falling from the sky. The ceiling of the Temple was still intact; the petals were materialising out of thin air, falling throughout the room, landing on the heads and shoulders of those standing around, who, Teague suddenly noticed, were all staring at the couple caught up in their embrace.

  Teague looked down at Beata and felt a sudden stab of fear at the look on her face. Rage, white and hot, burned in her eyes, and she pushed him with her good arm in the chest so hard, he stumbled. “You would try to seduce me here, of all places!” she hissed. Before he could say anything, before he could move, she drew her arm back and suddenly her fist met his chin with a loud crack, and then he was his back on the floor.

  “It was not me,” he said truthfully, turning as she aimed a kick at his groin, and she missed and hit his thigh. She ignored him and tried again, but he curled into a ball, yelling as she whacked his shinbone. “Beata!” How could he explain he hadn’t been responsible for the petals?

  “Beata!” This time the voice came from Beata’s side. He waited until the kicks had stopped and then unfurled slightly to see who it was. Fear clenched his stomach. It was Silva.

  Beata glared at the Custos of the Arbor, her fury making her more beautiful than ever. “He… he…” She seemed unable to put her anger into words.

  “I know,” said Silva calmly. “I saw. He tells the truth, Beata; it was not him. He has a connection to the Arbor; I could feel it. It was the tree who wanted him to kiss you. It was the tree that sent the petals.”

  “It was the Arbor?” gasped Beata, puzzled.

  Silva’s golden eyes were unreadable. “It read what was in your hearts and interpreted it in the only way it knows: the natural world.”

  Beata reddened. “If it could read my heart, it would send thunder and lightning, not rose petals.”

  Silva’s gaze was unrelenting. “That is what you want to feel, not what you truly feel. You can deny it to yourself, Beata, but you cannot deny your true feelings to the Arbor. It sees all.”

  Beata turned. Clearly, Silva’s words had not made her feel better. “I have had enough,” she spat. “It is time. Let us take him to the tree.”

  “No!” Teague yelled, and turned onto his knees, intending to make a run for it, but he wasn’t quick enough, and Beata’s foot came down on his backside, forcing him forward onto his face. He turned and felt her firm hand on his arm, dragging him to his feet. He twisted, trying to wrench himself from her grip, but she was so strong it surprised him, and then Silva too had his arm, and although he struggled, he could not shake them off.

  Half-dragging him, half-carrying him, they brought him through the gate in the fence and across the channel to the inner circle. Beata threw him down in front of the tree so he sprawled on the ground amongst its roots. She towered over him, still furious, although whether it was just with him or also with herself he wasn’t really sure.

  “No!” he yelled, then, more pleadingly, “Please, do not make me do this.”

  For a moment she didn’t speak. Then, more softly, she said, “I have no choice. We all have a destiny to fulfil Teague, and this is yours.”

  Then she stepped back, and let the tree loom over him.

  IV

  Chonrad sat quietly on his horse at the head of the Equitas and watched the water slowly seep through the parapets of Heartwood’s outer walls. He shivered. It was a terrifying sight. It was so unnatural, seeing water at that height. His grandfather, who also came from Vichton, had once seen a tidal wave during a great storm. Although only six feet high, it had swept in from the ocean and destroyed most of the town, killing several thousand people. His grandfather must have felt what he was feeling now, thought Chonrad, watching the first splashes reach the grass in the Baillium. Part of the terror came from the unfamiliar, from not knowing how to react or what to do in that situation.

  He looked over his shoulder, checking everyone was ready. The Heartwood Equitas, or cavalry, had its own commander, a sturdy rider called Aquila, whose horse now stood beside Chonrad, chomping impatiently at the bit, but he had been glad of Chonrad’s offer of help. Chonrad’s own battle steed pawed the ground, and he patted its side, speaking to it softly. No doubt it was picking up on his tension: horses could always sense the battle to come, almost as if they could see into the future, he often thought.

  He looked across at the front line, the knights of which were facing the walls, waiting for the first onslaught of Darkwater warriors. He could not see Procella and Valens from where he was, but he could see the faces of some of the knights. They showed the same mix of emotions he had seen the whole of his life on Isenbard’s Wall: nervousness at the thought of their lives coming to an end that day, determination to prove themselves worthy knights and eagerness to engage the enemy and end the waiting.

  He wished he had Fulco at his side. Not as a bodyguard, although it had always been nice to know someone was there to protect his back, but as a companion, a friend to watch ov
er and to watch over you when all around you the enemy were baying for your blood.

  Once again, he found himself wondering just what he was doing there, in Heartwood. The outcome seemed inevitable, and he faced almost certain death. If that was the case, shouldn’t he be at home, in Vichton, trying to save the people who looked to him for security, as well as looking after his family? He thought about the beach he had stood on only days before, when Dolosus had vanished into the sea. Presumably, that would soon be under water when the Darkwater Lords invaded. They would storm the city and take his castle, and Arbor knew what they would do to his children.

  His hands tightened on the reins. He should be there. He should not be amongst these knights who lived a life he could not comprehend, with their rituals and services and strange deference to the dying tree that made shivers run up his spine.

  Then he remembered Fulco’s last “words”. You are the key, he had signed. Chonrad shifted in the saddle, aware once again of this feeling of fate, that somehow he was destined to play a part in this struggle, a part he had not yet fulfilled. He wanted to scoff at such a fanciful notion, but as a battle commander, he had learned to rely on hunches and gut feelings, as they had saved his life more than once. And now his gut feeling was telling him his job in Heartwood was not yet done.

  Not that it would have made a difference if he had wanted to leave, Chonrad thought wryly as the flow from the top of the battlements increased. It was too late now. The tide had turned, so to speak, and it was only moments before Darkwater struck.

  The water level outside had clearly almost reached the top of the wall. Water was pouring through the crenellations, adding to the already-large puddles in the Baillium, but he could see it was nothing compared to what was about to come over the wall.

  He glanced along the front line again and suddenly saw Procella as she stepped forwards and yelled something to her army. He gave a half smile. She was stunning, not an ounce of fear on her face, her sword glinting in the moonlight.

  And then the water reached the top of the wall.

  There was a moment when time seemed to freeze, and Chonrad thought that was it; the water was not going to go any higher. They had won; the Darkwater Lords would go away and leave them alone.

  Then, when it happened, it happened suddenly. A stream of water started pouring down the wall, producing a tremendous waterfall, all the way round the wall from one end where it met the mountains to the other. And as it touched the ground, Darkwater warriors leapt out from the water, materialising in solid form and immediately coming forward, swords drawn.

  Procella yelled something, although he couldn’t hear her over the rush of the water and the battle cries of the army. The archers pulled back their strings, and the continual rain was joined by a torrent of arrows. They thudded down into the water warriors, and hundreds of them stopped, shuddered and then dissolved in water, but immediately there were more to take their place, splashing through the remains left by their kin. Another hail of arrows flooded down, then another, and then the water warriors were too close to the Exercitus, and so the archers drew their swords, and battle was engaged.

  Chonrad gritted his teeth, holding the reins of his horse tightly. He wished he had refused to follow her directions and had stayed with her on the front line. It was his usual role, and he did not enjoy this waiting game. Though she was Dux, she was not his captain, and he should have ignored her. But it was too late now.

  She wanted him to wait until the last of the Darkwater army was over the wall and then move in behind them, effectively closing them in a pincer movement, but the Darkwater warriors just kept on coming. There was no sign of them stopping. He looked over at Aquilas, whose pale face echoed his own fear; there was no end to the army, just as there was no end to the fish in the sea, and they would be waiting there all night if they waited for the end.

  Chonrad raised an eyebrow at Aquilas, who nodded firmly. Drawing his sword, Chonrad kicked his heels into his mount. The horse reared, then charged out from the Barracks, straight into the side of the Darkwater army.

  Very early on in his life, Chonrad had learned a well-trained cavalry could turn a battle in an instant. Not only did a cavalry knight have the advantage of height from which to see the battle, the horse itself was both a weapon and a shield, protecting him from the occasional blow and yet able to crush enemies beneath its huge hooves.

  Thunder, his own horse, was a stallion standing at seventeen hands high, built and bred for war, a horse that sensed blood in the air and got the battle fever in his eyes.

  Thunder crashed into the Darkwater Lords on their left flank, crushing bodies beneath his hooves as Chonrad swung his heavy sword on either side of him, slicing through green skin and limbs. The stallion ploughed through the Darkwater army with the rest of the cavalry on his tail, cutting a swathe through the green warriors like a plough in a field of corn.

  As before when Darkwater first attacked in the Curia, Chonrad was struck by how powerful the warriors were. They were all tall and broad-shouldered with bulging muscles, and although he seemed to hack limbs off all over the place, his sword just rang off the strange seashell armour they wore.

  And still they kept coming. He reached the other side of the Baillium and turned the horse, both of them sweating, the stallion’s eyes wide with excitement. Aquila reined in beside him, and they looked over at the walls to see more and more of the water warriors materialising. The flow of the waterfall from the battlements did not seem to be easing, either. With a sinking heart, Chonrad realised they were vastly outnumbered.

  He caught himself there, however. Had he really thought they stood a chance? He had already known his death was written for that day. He was not going to spend his last minutes getting depressed. He was a warrior, and he was going to fight to the death.

  “For Anguis!” he yelled, hoping his children would meet a quick death.

  “And for Heartwood!” yelled back Aquila.

  That too, thought Chonrad, with slightly less enthusiasm.

  He charged back into the fray. This time, the bodies seemed more compact and he did not cut such a swathe through, finding himself jammed in about halfway across the Baillium. He slashed with the sword as hands reached out to grab him, but it was only minutes before he realised it was no good; if he didn’t dismount they would pull him off the horse, and then he would probably be crushed under its hooves.

  Pulling sharply on the reins, he leaned forward as Thunder reared and then crashed down on several bodies, bones snapping under his weight. Kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Chonrad dismounted neatly, slapping Thunder on the rump so the stallion skittered off, scattering warriors as it ran.

  With one hand, he pulled the hood of his mail coat over his head, and then someone was on him, and he was swinging his sword with all his might as the Darkwater warrior slashed at him with his curved weapon.

  He killed that one, then another, realising that although they were strong and powerful, his years of training and battle experience made him more than a match for most of the water warriors. However, there were so many of them, he soon realised it was sheer numbers that were going to be the problem.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Procella. She was fighting easily, seemingly with two warriors at once, and Valens was at her back, the two of them circling in a kind of horrific dance, Valens clearly favouring his injured leg. But as he neared, he saw her glance repeatedly at the wall, and he knew she was thinking the same as him: there was no way they could hold out against those kinds of numbers.

  He reached her side, and she gave him a brief flash of a smile before they continued to fight. “I am sorry I could not do more with the cavalry,” he shouted above the noise of swords on armour and the screams and yells of battle. “They were too many.”

  “And they are still coming,” she yelled back. “We shall fall under this number. We are going to have to retreat.”

  He fought off a particularly big Darkwater Lord whose sword jus
t managed to nick him in the face before he thrust his own blade down into his neck, and Chonrad cursed as blood poured down his cheek. It was a small wound but one of those which would bleed profusely; just what he didn’t need.

  He looked around briefly, knowing in battle the balance of power was like a ball tossed into the air; it would continue to climb, and then it would reach its peak and seemingly hang there for a moment before it began its descent, and he wondered whether this battle had reached the peak yet.

  All around him, the Exercitus were battling hard. Darkwater warriors were falling, dissolving into water as they hit the ground. The whole of the Baillium was now ankle-deep in water, and rising. Though the Exercitus were holding their ground, the water warriors were still increasing in numbers, pressing forward all the time, and friendly bodies littered the ground all around him. He saw one Heartwood warrior fall and then another as their foes seemed to double in number, coming forward in droves.

  It had happened, he thought. The ball was on its way down.

  “Retreat!” yelled Procella at the same time, obviously realising the battle had reached its turning point at the same time as he had. Behind her, someone sounded the horn, which echoed above the clashing of battle. “Retreat!”

  The Exercitus started to move backwards towards the Temple. Chonrad stumbled several times on bodies, although he did not have time to check who they were. There was no time either to pick up the bodies or take them with him. He fought continuously, and began to realise he was starting to use defensive tactics more than aggressive ones. The Darkwater warriors were growing more confident, sure of success. They scented blood.

  Under the water, which was now a foot deep, gravel scrunched, and he realised he was in the Quad. Exercitus were pouring through the oak doors into the Temple, and he joined Procella and Valens at the front, digging his heels deep into the ground and holding off the onslaught while the army retreated. Gradually, they were pushed back. Beside him, Solum fell, speared like a pig in the stomach, but although he cursed, he could not stop to help because he was being pushed back, and he was slipping in the water.