by John Gwynne
‘. . . so worried about her, I cannot think,’ someone said.
Aphra?
‘She has her blood, is becoming a woman, and she has a fever. She will recover.’
‘It’s not just a fever, Mam, is it? What about her back?!’
Water, Riv said, or tried to, unsure whether the word actually left her lips.
She was lying face-down, the pillow beneath her face wet, which was uncomfortable. She tasted salt.
My own sweat, she realized, which was strange, as she was so cold.
Freezing! Why don’t they put a blanket on me? She tried to move, to speak, but didn’t think even a finger or toe twitched. A pain, deep in her belly, feeling like her insides were falling out, and her back . . .
Dear Elyon, the pain.
Perhaps she gasped, for there was a hand upon her back, a wet cloth, feeling like heaven.
‘What’s happening to her?’ Aphra said, and Riv felt a tugging sensation across her back, like when she had sat out too long in the sun and a few days later was peeling strips of sunburned skin from her shoulders and arms.
Footsteps, a shadow, Riv’s eye open a crack. Her mam stood before her. Behind her a stone wall, not her barrack room.
Where am I?
‘I don’t know,’ her mam said. A silence. ‘We may have to get her out of Drassil.’
And then sleep was pressing in upon her again, Riv fighting it, but her mam and sister’s voices faded . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
DREM
Drem woke with a start. A beam of daylight pierced a gap in the wall of the barn where he’d slept, motes of dust floating in the sunlight. A goat was nibbling at his breeches.
‘Off,’ he breathed, pushing it away.
Outside there were the sounds of splintering ice, the crunch of snow. Voices, whispered.
Drem’s eyes snapped open, fully awake now, and he eased himself up to a sitting position, clamping back the groan that wanted to escape his mouth.
They’re here.
He gripped his spear and levered himself stiffly to his feet, picked up his bundle of weapons and crept to the barn door.
Figures were in his yard, wrapped in fur, heads close together, whispering, the glint of steel in their hands. Other shadows moved at the edges of the yard, creeping around the sides of his cabin. Someone’s back shifted along the barn door, pressed against the crack he was peering through, cutting off his vision.
Counted eighteen. Heard more. That’s not good.
He thought about tiptoeing out the back of the barn, hiding, fleeing. He recognized the fear jolting through him that prompted these thoughts, thrusting them to the foremost of his mind. The logical voice in his mind managed to see them for what they were. A knee-jerk reaction. One that he would not listen to.
He’d made his decision. To stay and fight. If he’d run for Dun Seren, they would have caught up with him in the Wild, and he’d have less chance there than he had here. He thought of his da, closed his eyes a moment, breathed in long and deep, then blew it out slowly.
The figure moved away from the door and he saw Wispy Beard, head freshly shaved, though he hadn’t done a very good job of it, clumps of red stubble catching the sun. He signalled with a hand motion, sent three men towards the front door of Drem’s cabin, others spreading loosely through the yard.
Wispy’s in charge, then. No Burg or Kadoshim. That part of my gamble’s paid off. Just wish he hadn’t brought so many with him.
A scream rang out, distant, from the back of the cabin.
Drem smiled.
Nails and old knife blades frozen into the window frames.
A splintering crunch, yells, changing to thuds and screams. Much closer than the first ones, and higher pitched, communicating a much greater degree of pain.
Drem peered through the crack in the barn door, saw the three men Wispy had sent to his front door had disappeared, a great big hole in front of the steps to his cabin porch.
Hardest elk pit I’ve ever dug. And the first one I’ve set spears into.
All the men in the yard were alert now, anxious, weapons gripped tight, staring at Drem’s cabin. Two men climbed over the railings to either side of the steps. The crunch of the snow that Drem had decided to leave thick on the porch. A different type of crunch as one of the men trod on a bear trap, iron jaws snapping shut, shredding flesh and breaking bone.
Another ear-splitting shriek.
The last man at the door, kicking it open. Wood splintering.
The creak of rope, and then the man in the doorway was flying through the air, a wooden post the size of a tree trunk swinging in the open door.
Time to move.
Drem slipped the bolts on the barn door, padded back behind the baggage ponies he’d brought in from the stables. With a great shout, he slapped one on the rump, another and another, sent them neighing and bursting through the barn doors as they exploded outwards into the yard, men turning, yelling, leaping out of the way, slipping, sliding, falling in the snow and ice.
Men went down, trampled, the sound of screams, bones splintering, the horses bolting left and right, some to the paddock, some for the yard’s gate and the track away from Drem’s hold.
Men were groaning, rising from the snow, others turning to stare at the barn. One at least lay motionless in the courtyard. Drem stood just inside, set his feet and hurled his spear, saw it punch into a man’s chest, hurling him onto his back, an eruption of blood, bright on the snow.
Men shouted, saw him. Started to move.
Still too many.
Drem reached to his bundle of weapons set on a crate beside him, gripped a short axe, hefted its weight and threw it. A man went down in a spray of teeth and blood.
He gripped a knife handle, again taking a moment to gauge its weight, then hurled it at the men crowding the open gateway. A scream, a man stumbling, another axe and knife hefted and thrown. Then they were too close and Drem was running towards the back of the barn, stopped by a barrel of lime water that had been left from tanning last year’s furs, swept up his fire iron and struck sparks.
A WHUMPH as the barrel ignited and he kicked it over, hairs singeing, the men behind him skidding, one pushed by those behind him into the flames, screeching in agony, and Drem was running on, grabbing the reins of the pony he’d left saddled and tethered at the back of the barn and kicking at the boards he’d cut partway through last evening. He crashed out into bright daylight and snow, his pony only too eager to follow and escape from the flames and screams. Drem clambered onto his mount, dragging on the reins and cantered round the side of the barn to the front of his yard. Shouts behind him, the crunch of footsteps in snow told him there were at least some that still chased him.
A handful of men were still in the yard, three or four. More staggering out from the barn. One of them was on fire, a human torch.
Six still standing in the yard, at least, and more behind me, and I’m out of tricks. Too many for me to take. Time to ride for Kergard, and get this lot to chase me. If I make it, then Ulf, Hildith and the Assembly will have to get involved, will have to protect me. It could lead to them doing something about the mine.
He put his heels to his pony and she neighed and leaped forwards, a dozen strides and she was close to a gallop, wind ripping tears from Drem’s eyes, the gateway of his courtyard looming closer.
An impact, a scream from his mount and he was falling, threw himself clear and grunted as he hit the snow, saw his pony rolling, a spear protruding from her chest. She screamed again, tried to regain her feet, but her strength was failing her, blood staining the snow pink.
Drem staggered to his feet, looked about wildly, saw Wispy and a handful of men running at him, the sound of men behind.
Some detached, analytical part of Drem’s mind hoped that the goats and chickens were all right, that they’d escaped from the fire that was now blazing through the barn, black smoke belching into the sky.
Almost made it.
&nb
sp; He drew his sword, felt a comfort in the knowledge he’d put up a good fight, more than good. Enough to make his da proud. He just wanted to take Wispy Beard with him now. Wispy was running towards Drem, sword in his fist, screaming orders, spittle flying, almost incoherent.
‘Why don’t you come and kill me yourself?’ Drem shouted, surprising himself with the passion he felt, and he strode towards Wispy. Was pleased to see a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes. But then others were flanking him, spreading into a half-circle about Drem.
He didn’t wait for them, instead hurled himself at Wispy, startling him, slicing down with his sword as he ran. Wispy shuffled back, more stumble than swordcraft, managed to raise his own sword, deflecting Drem’s blade, though it still cut a red line into Wispy’s arm through his fur cloak. Drem swung again, a wild blow, his momentum carrying him on, his blade chopping into Wispy’s torso, leather and fur deflecting the blade, but Drem heard the distinct sound of ribs breaking, and then Drem was crashing into the man, both of them stumbling, falling to the ground, limbs tangled, Drem’s sword spinning away. Wispy cursed and spat, tried to headbutt Drem, failed, tried to bite him instead, managed to latch onto his ear. Drem felt the pain, but as a distant thing, utterly focused on inflicting as much damage upon this man as was possible before he ran out of time. He managed to connect a punch to the back of Wispy’s bald head, felt him loosen for a moment, teeth dropping away from his ear, and Drem pulled free, climbed to his feet.
Something clubbed him across the shoulders and he collapsed back on top of Wispy, felt his strength leaking away, but still managed to put a knee in Wispy’s groin and rolled away as the club came down again, missing him and driving into Wispy’s gut. Drem remembered his bone-handled knife, still sheathed at his belt, wrapped a fist around it, slashed across someone’s leg planted in the snow before his eyes, saw a spurt of blood, swung his seax wildly about him as he tried to scramble to his feet, slipping in the snow-churned mush.
A boot in his gut drove the air from him, sending him crashing back down. There was a thud in the small of his back, the worst pain so far, and he gasped, not enough air to scream. Slashed with his seax again, someone crying out, a shouted oath, a boot stamping on his forearm, his grip abruptly empty. Blinding pain in his wrist, a scream this time, breath or no breath. Kicked in the mouth, the taste of blood, kicked again in the chest, rolled onto his back. Something cold and sharp at his throat. Opening his eyes to silhouettes against the bright sky.
‘Get him up,’ a voice snarled. Wispy, he guessed. Drem didn’t care, was in a place beyond caring, he’d done his best, slain more than he believed possible. Smoke billowed in the sky above him, and Drem saw a shape highlighted by the black clouds.
A white bird, circling.
Is that death, come for my spirit? What form of bird does death take? That looks like a crow!
He heard it cawing, a raucous squawking.
Then he was being hauled to his feet, a noose wrapped around his neck.
Not this again.
He found the strength to scream, even knowing that it would not do him the slightest bit of good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SIG
Sig saw the smoke first, grunting at Cullen and pointing. Keld was somewhere in the woods to the north, only the flash of fur showing that he and Fen were close. They’d just passed a derelict hold on their right, the main cabin with two splintered holes in it, a cairn in the yard. Sig would have stopped, but something whispered to her of haste. They’d planned to stop at Kergard, but the place had been heaving like a kicked nest of wasps and so Sig had made the decision to ride on in a wide half-circle around the town, so as not to be seen. The trader Asger had given clear directions to Olin and Drem’s hold anyway, and after almost two ten-nights of travelling ever deeper into the ice and snow, Sig was eager to be at her journey’s end.
‘I don’t like the look of that smoke,’ Sig said.
‘Isn’t that close to where we are heading?’ Cullen asked.
‘Aye,’ Sig grunted. ‘Some speed, I think, and loosen your blades. The frost—’
‘I know,’ Cullen said, checking his sword and knife in their scabbards, ‘it can make the blade stick.’
‘You’ve learned something, then,’ Sig said, muttering to Hammer beneath her, the bear shifting from a lumbering walk to a lumbering run.
‘Oh aye,’ Cullen nodded, touching his heels to his horse’s ribs. ‘Maybe because I’ve been told the same fact five times a day, every single day since we left Dun Seren.’
‘Well, it gets—’
‘Cold in the north. I know.’
For once Cullen sounded short of humour.
A shape appeared in the sky: Rab, flapping towards them at great speed.
They’re going to kill him!’ the crow squawked, turning in a tight spiralling circle about Sig and Cullen.
‘How many?’ Cullen called up to the bird.
‘Ten, twelve. Lots dead already,’ Rab cawed down at them.
‘Tell Keld,’ Sig said, snapping a command to Hammer, who leaped forwards with a ground-shaking growl. Sig shrugged her cloak from one arm and drew her longsword as Rab bolted towards the snow-laden trees.
A fence and open gateway appeared at the end of the track they were speeding down, black clouds of smoke billowing in the wind. Sig saw figures in a courtyard, growing larger by the heartbeat as Hammer’s loping run ate up the ground.
Flames crackled up into the sky, a barn engulfed, roaring, and there were men gathered beneath the branches of a tree, hoisting on a rope that had been thrown over a branch, a figure dangling on the end of it, fingers clawing at the noose about its neck, feet kicking.
Sig was almost at the gates when the first man heard her. She guided Hammer off the track, cutting across deep snow, saw a man turn and look straight at her just before Hammer smashed through the post-and-rail fence that enclosed the yard. He was shaven-haired, a vicious smile on his face from laughing at the man at the end of the rope.
The fence fractured with a deafening crack, an explosion of splinters, one piercing the man staring at her, straight through his eye. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Others ducked or leaped away from the noise. Hammer smashed straight into those that remained, a boulder amongst twigs. Bones snapped, flesh tore, men screamed and died, flying through the air in myriad directions. Sig swung her sword, cutting the rope, the man at its end dropping to the ground. He coughed and heaved, body convulsing, hands ripping the noose free from about his neck.
Good, he lives.
There was movement to Sig’s right and she swung her sword, took the head from a man attempting to stick his spear in Hammer’s flank, saw it fly spinning through the air, the man’s body stumbling on a few paces before it collapsed. Another ran screaming at them and Hammer split him open with one swipe of her paw, claws raking him into bloody strips of meat and bone. Hooves drummed, and Sig twisted in her saddle to see Cullen ride into the yard, his spear skewering a man brandishing a sword at him. Cullen left the spear in the dying man, drew his sword and then rode at two more shaven-haired men who were hovering between fight and flight. His mount crashed into them, sent one spinning to the ground, the other swinging his sword at Cullen’s legs, but Sig knew that Cullen was more than their match.
She looked about, assessing for more danger.
None stood before her or close to the tree. Three figures were sprinting away from her and the courtyard, northwards towards the treeline that edged the hold. Rab flapped and landed on a branch before them, dislodging snow in a heap upon the head of one of the men. He looked up and opened his mouth to curse, but then a shape was bursting from the shadows of the trees, a huge, grey-streaked hound, thickly muscled, jaws gaping wide. Fen slammed into the man, teeth clamping around his face and throat, the momentum of his leap sending them both crashing to the ground, rolling in a spray of snow. The man was screaming, battering at the hound as their roll slowed and came to a halt, Fen scrambling on top
. A savage wrench of his head, as if it were shaking a caught rabbit, a spray of blood, and the man was abruptly silent.
The other two men had paused a moment, but they were running now.
One collapsed, falling back into the snow, clutching at an axe that suddenly sprouted from his chest. Bloody froth bubbled from his mouth. Keld emerged from the trees, running, another axe in one hand. His eyes fixed on the last man standing.
He was a shaven-haired warrior, sword in hand, a wispy red beard growing from his chin. He knew he had no chance of out-running Keld, so accepted his only option and swung his sword at the onrushing huntsman. Keld caught the blade with his axe, twisted, and the man was crying out, his blade falling from his grip.
‘I want him alive,’ Sig bellowed, Keld swirling round the red-haired man, his arm already moving, whole body committed to his blow. Sig saw him try to check it, but there was only half a heartbeat to do it in, the axe shifting its angle a fraction, the blow chopping into the base of his neck instead of his skull, and judging by the way the man screamed as he collapsed, there would be no coming back for him.
Too late.
Keld looked at Sig and shrugged, mouthed Sorry. Then the huntsman chopped his axe into the man’s head, silencing the screams.
Sig slipped from Hammer’s back, patting the bear’s neck, and strode to the man on the ground. He was sitting up now, just staring at her.
‘You must be Sig,’ he croaked.
‘Aye,’ Sig said, feeling the grin split her face, for she recognized this man before her, could still see the shape of the boy in the sharp lines of his face, echoes of his mam and da, too.
‘Well met, Drem ben Olin,’ she said, crouching and giving him her hand.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
RIV
Riv lay in a cot, slowly realizing that she was awake. She had been dreaming, strange, unsettling dreams of steel and blood, of Bleda, Aphra and Kol. Of Jin opening her mouth, a snake emerging instead of words, long and sinuous, jaws opening to reveal fangs dripping with poison. Of a mountain of heads with eyes that watched her every move. She was glad to be awake, though her throat felt blistered and raw, and she was still cold. Oh so very cold.
