‘You’ve been my friend, Tinuva, since I was a boy. I’ll not leave you now.’
‘It is between my brother and me now. I know him, Gregory: he has thirsted for this across the centuries. I will go back and he will know I am waiting. His pride and his lust will consume him and he will stop to face me. If I win, perhaps the others will stop, if not . . .’ His voice trailed off. Then he said: ‘Well, if not, at least the rest of you will be free and that is good enough.’
‘I stand by you.’
‘You’ll be killed out of hand, Gregory, and it will divert me from what I have to do. They will not tolerate a human witness to what will happen.’
‘No, I go with you, Tinuva.’
Tinuva stepped closer and as he did so he knew that somehow 286
his countenance was changing, becoming something that he had left behind in these woods long ago.
‘Go!’ His voice was dark, filled with power.
‘I won’t. No!’
The blade flashed out as if it had leapt from its scabbard. The cut was a clean one and hissing with pain and shock Gregory backed up, holding his right hand, blood dripping from his fingers.
‘Natalese, try and draw a bow now,’ Tinuva snarled, voice full of menace.
‘Damn you,’ Gregory cried, shaking his injured hand. He tried to flex his fingers and blood dripped onto the snow.
‘Go!’ Tinuva raised his dagger. ‘It’ll be the other hand next time, and I’ll cut so that you never draw again.’
Stunned, Gregory backed away, fumbling for his own dagger with his left hand. Again Tinuva leapt in and Gregory’s dagger went spinning off, disappearing into the snow.
‘Then the hell with you,’ Gregory snarled. He backed up, trembling, his voice near to breaking. ‘The hell with you.’
Tinuva smiled. The sense he had within was like a distant memory.
It was almost frightful, this look of shock, disbelief, and rage in another’s eyes. It almost brought him joy and he struggled against it, finally lowering his own blade.
‘I want you to live,’ he whispered. ‘If you stay, you die. This is between Bovai and me, and you can do nothing. Tell Hartraft to build the bridge, get across, then destroy it. If it all works out, I’ll find another way back.’
‘You’re going to die.’
‘Even those who are long-lived must face that,’ Tinuva said softly.
‘From our birth we are all dying, but some of us finish sooner than others.’
Gregory lowered his head, and his shoulders began to shake.
Tinuva stepped forward, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, though he still kept his dagger poised.
‘Of men, you were the one true friend I have found in this world,’
Tinuva whispered. ‘A day will come when we shall hunt again, the wind in our hair as we track game through Yabon. Now, go my friend.’ And he kissed the Natalese lightly on the forehead.
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Startled Gregory looked up to see tears in the eyes of his friend.
Tinuva, smiling, brushed a tear from his face and dabbed it into Gregory’s bleeding hand.
After a moment, Gregory laughed softly. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ he sighed. ‘So that lore about the healing properties of elf tears is just a tale.’
‘Yes, just a tale.’
The two stood silent for a moment. Then Tinuva raised his head, turned and listened. ‘They’re coming. Go and tell Hartraft.
Now go!’
His final words were again filled with command and a dark power.
Gregory stood as if frozen for a moment then finally raised his head. ‘Till our next hunt my friend.’
But Tinuva was already gone, having disappeared into the storm.
‘He’s here.’
‘What, my chieftain?’
Bovai raised his hand, signalling for the column to halt. Golun looked over at him in confusion.
‘Tinuva: he’s close. He’s waiting for me alone.’
Golun drew his mount around in front of Bovai.
‘Then ride him down,’ Golun hissed. ‘We don’t know if Vakar reached the bridge and destroyed it. If he failed they’ll be across and destroying it even now. We had to stop so the damnable goblins could rest, but now we are closing in. Push in now, my chieftain.’
‘Vakar succeeded. They’re trapped.’
‘You might sense that sire, but I don’t.’
‘Bovai!’
The voice drifted on the wind, unearthly, floating on the breeze.
Bovai stiffened. Even Golun turned, dropping his reins, reaching to unsling his bow. Bovai extended his hand, motioning for him to stop.
‘Bovai!’
Again the echoing cry, more felt than heard; even so the column of riders behind Bovai stirred, bows rising up.
‘Hold, all of you,’ Bovai hissed, turning to look back at his fellow 288
moredhel. ‘It is Tinuva; the time has come for the matter to be decided.’
‘He’s delaying us, buying time,’ Golun hissed. ‘Then he’ll slip away.’
Bovai looked back and shook his head. ‘He’s with them now.
Despite the evil of their queen and their Spellweavers, the eledhel have honour. He will not run this time.’
Golun sighed and lowered his head. ‘Then upon you shall it rest if they escape.’
‘We’ll have Hartraft and all of them before the day is half done.’
As Bovai spoke he looked back at his followers. ‘It shall be but a little undertaking, my brothers, then honour for me, and glory for all of us. Which we shall tell Murad of upon our return, with the honour of our clan restored and the heads of Hartraft and Tinuva in a basket to present to him.’
Several nodded their heads.
‘All of it, all my share of the loot, of the glory, I give to you, for what I shall do next I have waited an eternity for.’
Golun leaned closer. ‘Then fight him, if you must, but let me lead this column around to the road to finish Hartraft.’
Bovai looked at him in surprise. ‘A few minutes only,’ he whispered, ‘and I want all of them to see. All of them.’
Golun cursed silently.
‘Order the goblins and humans to move back: they are not to see this. They can rest on the far side of the hill we just crossed.’
Golun reluctantly grunted an acknowledgment, then barked out the command for a squad to direct the goblins and humans to their designated place. Those so tasked muttered in disappointment and Bovai knew he had just won his point, for the rest now felt privileged and would not miss the honour of bearing witness to the confrontation about to take place. It was one which had been speculated about in the long houses across hundreds of winters.
At last Bovai would face his renegade brother Morvai, now called Tinuva.
‘No one intervenes,’ Bovai said. ‘No matter what. Anyone who raises a bow or unsheaths a blade, let him be struck down.’
There was a chorus of agreement even as the unfortunates given 289
the task of herding the goblins and humans broke away from the ranks and headed back down the column.
Bovai dismounted, pulling his bow out from its case, testing the draw. Some of his followers rode up, reaching into their quivers and drawing out arrows.
‘Take this: this is the shaft that killed Uvanta at two hundred paces,’ one of them said.
‘This shaft came from the hand of Govina the master fletcher,’
another said.
Bovai, deeply moved, bowed his thanks to each and carefully placed the two arrows in his quiver. It meant that these members of his clan now fought with him and the gesture filled him with pride.
His fight had become theirs. He stepped away from the group and raised his head.
‘Tinuva!’
His cry echoed out. If a mortal had heard it, a chill would have coursed down his spine, for the cry was a whisper from another world, high-pitched, unearthly, filled with a fell power.
He moved silently, d
rifting with the wind, feeling its touch, sensing that never had he been so alive as he now felt at this moment.
The shadow which had darkened his world was about to be lifted forever, and again he could walk in the sunlight and beneath the moon without shame.
‘Bovai.’
The voice was close, very close. He tensed, turning . . . and then he saw him, standing in a clearing, his bow down, the world around him a swirl of white snow, the only sound the gentle hissing as the icy sparkles struck the ground.
‘Tinuva.’
He stepped closer. The wind swirled up and for an instant he felt a touch of panic, imagining that it was all illusion, that his brother had disappeared. The snow parted like a curtain being drawn back and he was still there, not a dozen paces away. He took another step, then Tinuva slowly raised his right hand.
‘Close enough.’
Bovai nodded in agreement.
Tinuva sighed, a sigh that was filled with an infinite sadness and 290
for the briefest of moments Bovai felt a stab of pain. Here before him was his brother, whom he had once loved as no other. Though now of the despised eledhel he could sense all that he once was.
‘So how are you, brother?’ Tinuva asked and Bovai felt a flash of hot anger.
‘I am not your brother. My brother Morvai died the night you were created, eledhel. And you know all that I have been since the day you left, as I know all that you have been.’
Tinuva nodded. ‘I slew Kavala.’
Bovai shrugged. ‘He was too ambitious for his own good. If you had not killed him, once you were dead I would have cut his heart out.’
‘I didn’t need to go that far. Killing him was enough.’
‘As I shall now kill you,’ Bovai said softly.
‘That is what you want?’
Bovai hesitated and Tinuva took a step closer, bow still down.
Bovai half-raised his bow and he stopped, tensing. ‘You were once of the People. You know that what you’ve become is an abomination to us all. You are a traitor to your race. Honour demands that you die. It is not what I want; it is what I need,’ Bovai finally hissed.
Tinuva sighed again. ‘Then there is no more to be said,’ he replied, but now his voice was full with power, power as Bovai once remembered it and it sent a thrill through him. For this was the Morvai he had once loved, but whom he must now slay, and all the glory that had once been Tinuva’s would now be his. Honour would be restored, the clan would again be whole, and Tinuva could be buried as a brother who had finally returned, through death, to his own blood.
‘Then, “brother” let us begin,’ Bovai snarled and he stepped back.
Another eddy of snow swirled up, as if the passion of the two had stirred the breeze. An arrow snapped past Bovai, missing him by inches. He raced from the clearing, one now with the wind, turned, caught a glimpse of a shadow, and released his bolt.
The hunt between the brothers had begun.
‘Damn it, tie it off, tie it off !’
Dennis pushed his way in, tearing off his gloves, and helped to lash 291
off a log. One of his men, swearing, pulled back bloodied hands that had been wrapped around the rope. Throwing another lash around the log, Dennis pulled hard, straining to keep it taut as two men behind him threw the end of the rope around one of the stone abutments and tied it off.
‘Secured!’
Dennis stepped back, looking up at the two logs which had been raised to form an inverted V twenty feet high at the edge of the broken span. The whole contraption was wobbly: they simply didn’t have enough rope, nor the time, to do it all right, but it would have to do. A double length of rope, flung over the top of the V, dangled down to the black, scorched stones.
He looked over the edge. It was nearly two hundred feet down to the river below. He caught a glimpse of two Tsurani far below.
They had volunteered to try and get across the river. There had been three of them, but the third had lost his grip on the icy rocks and plummeted to his death. The two survivors were valiantly trying to make their way across the torrent below, jumping from icy rock to icy rock, with the hope of then climbing up the far side. If they succeeded a rope would be hurled across and they would help in the desperate task of trying to pull the timber across.
Leaving the bridge, Dennis went up the road a couple of hundred yards and then turned into the woods. A group of Tsurani were hurriedly cutting the branches off a tree which had just been dropped.
He paced off the length.
‘I already checked it, Hartraft – it’s long enough.’
Asayaga looked up, sweat dripping from his brow, axe clutched tightly in his hand.
‘The top looks too thin – it might just break when we drop it.’
‘Tsurani are builders, Hartraft; we know what we are doing.’
‘You’d better.’
Asayaga stood up. ‘Don’t try to order me any more, Hartraft. We know what we are doing. You’re suppose to be handling the defences, leave this to me.’
‘Once across we settle things. Tsurani.’
‘Why do you think I’m working so hard?’ Asayaga snapped.
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Dennis was tempted to make a reply but knew they were wasting precious time. ‘Just keep at it, damn it.’
He stalked back to the road and pressed on up to the crest. Half of his men were dragging in logs and throwing up a barricade. To either side men were dropping saplings, making a tangle that could stop a cavalry charge from cutting around the flanks. The position was impossible, however, and he knew it. The crest was too open.
They might break up the initial charge, but eventually they’d be flanked and pushed back. Once off the crest, the ground below –around the bridge – was a death trap.
In the ruins of the mill he saw the old women and children huddled around a fire. He looked over at the corporal who had come in from the rearguard only minutes ago. They had already spoken but he felt compelled to do so again.
‘You know what to do for them if the moredhel start to break through,’ Dennis said, nodding back towards the mill.
The old corporal gulped and nodded. ‘Trust me, sir. I’ll see to it.
The poor little lambs . . .’ He looked at the tiny faces of the children and the frightened expressions on the women and his own visage softened for a moment, then with resolution in his voice, he said,
‘I’ll see it’s done, sir.’
Dennis caught a glimpse of Roxanne, who had refused to stay in the mill, and was now helping with the defences. She noticed his gaze, nodded in his direction and continued with the work.
From back down on the road a gang of Tsurani emerged, half-carrying, half-dragging a sixty foot log. Dennis raced back down to join them.
‘I have this, Hartraft,’ Asayaga snapped and Dennis stepped back.
The men cursed and struggled for several minutes to swing the log out onto the road, but because it was twice as long as the road was wide, the heavy root-end snagged in the saplings at the edge. The tangle was finally cut away and the Tsurani, half-running, propelled forward by the weight of their burden, slipped down the road and up on to the bridge. Reaching the edge, they laid the log down under the inverted V.
Asayaga shouted for the ropes from the overhead hoist and the 293
four men holding the cables lowered them down. The ropes were slung around the log like nooses, and tied off. Thirty Tsurani started to push the log forward. Dennis wanted to comment, but remained silent. Asayaga was in charge of this and the Tsurani were damn good engineers.
The log was soon nearly thirty feet across, the men at the front letting go as their section passed the edge, then coming around to the root-end, ready to throw their weight on if it started to tip.
Finally it was balanced: another few feet and it would pitch over into the gorge. Asayaga detailed off the rest of his men to the cables going up over the inverted V, ordering them to pull and keep the forward end of the log up high. The far end
of the log started to rise and after going up only half a dozen feet the root-end started to skid backwards.
‘I need more men!’ Asayaga shouted.
Dennis grabbed one of his soldiers and sent him up the hill to get those working on the barricade to come down. The women and children who had been watching from the mill instinctively came out and Asayaga directed them to the cables.
‘We need to hoist the log, and push the root-end forward at the same time!’ Asayaga shouted.
Kingdom troops came swarming down the road. Dennis had suggested that horses be used but Asayaga had refused because the ground was too slippery and if only one of them balked, or worse yet took off in the wrong direction, the whole enterprise would be lost.
Asayaga detailed men off to the two ropes and waited for a moment as several of them brought up a short length of log and set it across the butt of the span so that more men could press in on it.
A Tsurani, showing remarkable bravery, clawed his way up the inverted V, carrying a small bucket of butter carried out from Wolfgar’s. It was all they had to use for grease where the ropes crossed over the top of the V. Dennis could see that with proper equipment like a simple block and tackle, the entire job could be done by a dozen men. Now it would have to be brute strength and a prayer that the ropes did not snap under the strain, that the log didn’t hang up in the sling, and that the Tsurani had indeed made it long enough.
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The men struggled on the ropes and gradually hoisted the front end higher, while at the other end the Tsurani pushed the span forward. The next twenty feet gained came fairly easily but there was still another eight to ten feet to go. A precarious balance was reached when the log was high at the far end, but was now so steeply angled that no more forward purchase could be gained.
‘Another hour, damn it, and I could have made a pivoting sling and swung the whole damn thing over with twenty men!’ Asayaga cried, looking over angrily at Dennis.
‘We don’t have an hour.’
Asayaga held up both hands. ‘No one move!’
All fell silent.
‘Men on the ropes, the angle is too steep now. As we push on the log, slowly give way and lower it back down.’
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