“It’s too late! We’re here! Tell me where the woman is, Eshenna.”
She recovered herself for a moment, met his gaze steadily, then grimaced and closed her eyes. She gestured towards the summit of the ridge behind them.
“Over there. She was close, beyond the rise, but then . . . I don’t know. She disappeared.”
There was a chorus of shouts. Orisian glanced round. Men were hauling themselves onto their horses.
Others were pointing back down the slope towards the treeline.
“It’s a false alarm,” Yvane muttered.
For a moment Orisian did not know what she meant, then he saw the two lean figures jogging out from amongst the trees. He recognised them at once: Ess’yr and Varryn.
“It’s all right,” he shouted at Torcaill.
The warrior had already reached the same conclusion himself. He calmed his men, stood expectantly watching the two Kyrinin coming up the slope towards them. Ess’yr and Varryn passed him by, ignoring every curious gaze as they made straight for Orisian. He stood up to meet them. Ess’yr had a bow again, he saw at once. Someone – some White Owl – must have died to give her that.
“The enemy fill the forest like deer,” Varryn said curtly. “We could not kill so many in five days of hunting.”
“Where?” Orisian asked. He could not take his eyes off Ess’yr. She was breathing deeply, a faint flush of exertion colouring her cheeks. She looked alive, full of renewed energy. There was dried blood on the arm of her jacket, but it looked to be someone else’s, not hers.
“Behind you,” Varryn said, “and beside you. All around. They are searching.”
“For K’rina. As we do.”
“Perhaps for her. For us, now. And for you.”
Torcaill and Rothe came striding up, urgent questions evident in their expressions.
“They will be on you here very soon,” Varryn continued.
“How many?” Torcaill demanded.
Varryn did not look round at the warrior, but down at the spear he held lightly in his hand.
“As many bows as you have swords,” he said. “Perhaps more.”
“At least in the open we can see them coming,” Rothe muttered.
Orisian knelt again at Eshenna’s side. The na’kyrim was more composed now, though she still seemed distressed.
“How close is she?” he asked her gently. “Can we reach her? We have no more time.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. She was very near, before I lost my sense of her. If we could find her trail, or some sign of her . . . perhaps. Your Fox are good trackers, aren’t they?”
Orisian looked up at Rothe, and then at Torcaill.
“We have to try. There’s still a chance to do what we came here to do.”
He could see the doubt in Torcaill’s face. It went unvoiced, but it was there. There was no instinct of obedience, Orisian thought. No immediate recognition of the authority of a Thane. It would have been better to have gone to Kolglas, to face what had to be faced there. But that was an old choice, taken and fixed. There could be no turning aside from this road now, only a race to its ending.
“Get the men mounted,” he said dully. “We have to move on quickly.”
They crested the ridge, and beheld a strange sight. Beneath them, stretching away into a haze of mist, stood a sea of dark treetops. Here, surrounded by hills, was a forest where no wind stirred. Strands of fog hung over and amongst the branches, like impaled fragments of soft, translucent cloth.
“The Veiled Woods,” Yvane murmured in Orisian’s ear. She rode with him once more now, to free Rothe for any fighting that might come. “That’s not what I would have hoped for.”
“If that’s where she is . . .” Orisian let the sentence trail away. Nothing he could say would make the forest below appear any less threatening, or decrease the apprehension that filled him at the sight of it.
“Best to tread lightly, when the Anain are stirring,” Yvane said. “If we can.”
Rothe drew his horse to a halt beside them.
“Not seen anywhere less inviting in a long time,” the shieldman observed gruffly.
“That, we can agree on,” muttered Yvane.
Torcaill’s warriors were strung out along the ridge top, almost as if they were drawing up in formation to charge down upon the army of mist-armoured trees. Torcaill himself was twisted in his saddle, looking not at the Veiled Woods but back down the slope they had climbed. Ess’yr and Varryn, standing close by, were facing that way too. They were speaking softly but urgently in their own language.
With Yvane pressed up behind him, Orisian could not easily turn or see over his shoulder. He had to wrestle his horse around in a tight half-circle. He saw at once what the others had. Shapes were moving at the edge of the forest: indistinct flickers of movement in that boundary between the light of open ground and the gloom of the woods. Insubstantial things, at this distance, but there could be no doubt what they were.
Torcaill came riding down the line of horsemen.
“Do you mean to press on, sire? Into those woods?”
Orisian nodded.
“Very well,” Torcaill said without hesitation. “Get your Kyrinin to lead the way. They’re our best hope of finding the woman. I’ll leave a dozen men here, to delay pursuit. They’ll have the slope to favour their charge, if the woodwights come out from amongst those trees.”
They went steadily down towards the Veiled Woods. Ess’yr and Varryn ran on ahead. No one spoke.
The mists settled about them, and the trees closed over their heads.
VII
The Veiled Woods quickly defeated the horses. Before they had gone more than a few dozen paces in from the edge, a thick mass of looping bramble stems and contorted undergrowth blocked their path.
There was no track to follow here, not even a suggestion of one. Ess’yr and her brother darted easily through the thicket and disappeared. The horses baulked. The ground was uneven, rippled by rocks, roots and dead wood half-hidden by wet grass. The trees, which had seemed tall and stately from the distance of the ridge crest, were in fact crowded, twisted and misshapen, thrusting their branches out at odd, low angles to obstruct any man on horseback.
“Get down,” Orisian told Yvane. Once she had done so, he dismounted too, and stood by his horse’s head, patting the bridge of its nose.
“We have to go on foot,” he said to Rothe. “It’ll take far too long if we try to ride.”
“We can lead the horses.”
Orisian shook his head. “Too slow.”
Torcaill rode over to them, his horse picking its way carefully, setting down each hoof as if it did not trust the ground.
“No way through for horses,” Rothe told him.
“No.”
“We’ll lose touch with Ess’yr if we don’t keep up,” Orisian said, feeling the first intimation of desperation.
There was a sudden sound: a muffled, rising rumble like far-off thunder. All of them looked back the way they had come, but the trees and low fogs blocked any view.
“They’re charging,” Torcaill said, tense. “So soon. I thought it’d take longer. Or that the wights would turn aside and look for a way round.”
“The White Owls are in a hurry,” Orisian said. “Just like us. This isn’t just some raid they’re on. It’s more important to them – to Aeglyss – than that. They won’t turn aside, or hide away.”
Somewhere at the rear of the weary bunch of riders, someone shouted out, “I see them! Wights coming!”
“Go, if you must,” Torcaill snapped down at Orisian, already turning his horse. “I’ll send some men with you on foot, and come after, if we can curb the pursuit here. I’ll not just abandon our horses to the wights. We’ll need them yet.”
Orisian saw no point in arguing.
“Stay with Torcaill,” he said to Yvane, and then, “You too, Eshenna. Rothe?”
With that, he started to run, fearful of being unable to find any sign of Ess’yr or Varr
yn beyond the thicket. He barged through the tangled undergrowth, feeling it rip at his clothes and snag his hair, but not caring. Rothe came blundering after him.
“Slow down, Orisian,” the shieldman shouted at him. “Wait for the others.”
Orisian waded on, fighting the resistant vegetation like the current of some fierce river that he was trying to cross. He burst free of its tenacious grip at last, and stumbled on over the scattered debris of a giant tree that had long ago fallen and been eaten into fragments. He could hear Rothe’s heavy tread close behind him. Further back, someone – one of Torcaill’s warriors – was cursing the brambles.
Orisian ran around a stagnant pond of murky water, sprang over a rotted, split stump. Still he could not see Ess’yr or Varryn, or any sign of their passing.
“Ess’yr,” he shouted, and regretted it instantly. The cry sounded far louder, in the limp, damp air that lay beneath the trees, than he had expected. He imagined it ringing out through the forest, turning the head of every living thing. He told himself that any White Owls would not need his voice to find him, but it was small comfort.
Then he saw Ess’yr up ahead, standing beside a moss-wrapped tree, and relief washed through him.
“Come,” she said as he reached her. “Quickly. There is scent. Perhaps it is her.”
And with that she was already spinning on her heel and running on, deeper into the Veiled Woods.
Rothe drew level with Orisian and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I think I heard fighting, perhaps. Back behind us. Not sure.”
“They’ve got her trail,” Orisian said – hoping, believing, that it was true.
He set off after Ess’yr.
There was a dark scar across the forest floor, running up to the base of an ancient tree, where the turf and moss and leaf litter had split – or been torn – apart and peeled back to expose the earth. Orisian crouched down next to it and dug his fingers into the loose soil. It had a warm, wet smell.
“It seems fresh,” he said. There were still insects crawling across the loam, still worms writhing in it.
Varryn went on a few paces and bent to examine the grass.
“Not long,” Ess’yr said. “We are very close behind her.”
“She was here? Is this to do with her?” Orisian asked, wiping his hand on some moss.
Ess’yr was watching her brother. “With her. There is the smell of na’kyrim here. Or with the Anain. We walk in their sight. They are awake, in this place. Can you not feel it?”
Orisian frowned. He felt the age, the eeriness of the Veiled Woods, but surely that was just to do with the old, twisted trees, the moist air. He looked again, with more careful eyes, and saw the moss – rich and luminously green – that clothed rocks and fallen timber, saw the leaves, some brown, some yellow, some even a blotched green, that still clung to twigs. He breathed in deeply, and felt the softness of the air in his chest. It all felt like a place out of its season.
Rothe was at his side, breathing heavily.
“You must stay closer to me,” the shieldman grumbled. “The White Owls’ll be fast enough to flank us, get ahead of us even, however hard Torcaill tries. This is not the kind of place I’d choose to go up against Kyrinin. Where are those men who’re supposed to be with us?”
He glared around, as if to blame or accuse the forest itself as the origin of all their woes. There was, behind them, perhaps the sound of someone crashing through the forest. It might be one or more of Torcaill’s warriors. Orisian was not sure how long they had been running for, how far behind his supposed escort might have fallen. It seemed improbable that any White Owl would make so much noise, but he was nevertheless disinclined to shout out to whoever it was.
“I don’t think Kyrinin are the only things we’ve got to worry about here,” he murmured.
Rothe looked at him, troubled. “What does that mean?”
Orisian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. There was nothing that Rothe, or Torcaill, or any of them, could do about Anain. He straightened himself and turned round. “Come on – we have to keep up with Ess’yr and Varryn.”
The two Fox were trotting away, heads down like hunting dogs following a scent. Rothe stared after them.
“We need those men,” he said. “If we get too strung out in here, we’ll never find each other again. None of us can match those two’s pace.” He nodded after the disappearing Kyrinin.
Orisian sighed, looking first after Ess’yr and then back the way they had come, searching for any sign that Torcaill and the others were approaching. Somewhere, distantly in that direction, he thought he heard shouting. A few small birds were hopping, chattering, through the canopy above.
“What we came for is close,” he said. “Ess’yr and Varryn are certain of it. If the White Owls reach the woman before we do, everything has been for nothing. Come on.”
He went without waiting to see Rothe’s reaction. He did not need to; he knew that his shieldman would follow. The two of them, struggling to match the pace of their Kyrinin guides through the tangled forest, stumbled over hidden rocks, stamped down on brittle, rotten branches, crashed through nets of briars.
Ess’yr and Varryn, as far as Orisian could tell, made not a sound.
The woods were suffused with a strange, pale light. The flat white vapours that draped the treetops were quite motionless. Everything felt vaguely unreal to Orisian. Then he heard a bird call, from somewhere off to his left. It was an unfamiliar sound. He risked a glance that way as he ran. There was nothing to see but the silent throng of contorted tree trunks. A sudden dip in the ground almost sent him sprawling down, and he had to return his attention to his feet.
There was another call, perhaps closer, though it was hard to judge on the still, heavy air. He looked again. And this time he saw a flutter of movement. He slowed despite himself, looked again. Something moved, far out amongst the mist-blurred green and brown of the forest.
“Keep going,” Rothe snapped, running up behind him. “It’s too late to stop. We have to stay with them now.”
Orisian ran faster, vaulting over a fallen tree; glimpsing the profusion of tiny mushrooms that had burst up out of its crumbling wood. To his surprise, he found Varryn kneeling amongst willow saplings, an arrow set to the string of his bow.
“Go,” hissed the Kyrinin. “Follow Ess’yr.”
Orisian ran on wordlessly, glancing back only once; seeing Varryn drifting through the undergrowth, as intent as any hunter. Ahead, Ess’yr had increased her pace. She ran in bursts: a few long, lithe strides, then a moment of casting about, then another surge forward. Trees flashed past. They were going much too fast for any hope of quiet now. Orisian could hear Rothe crashing along behind him like a boulder tumbling downhill.
Above the noise of their own haste he heard a faint, far-off cry. It was too light, too thin to be born of a human throat. Then another sound: a clattering, rattling cadence that rushed up close and then stopped. It came again and he glanced sideways in time to see an arrow tumbling through scrub, its flight unbalanced and broken by the undergrowth. It glanced off a tree trunk and dipped into the ground, sinking to its flights in yielding moss.
“Faster,” shouted Rothe.
Orisian’s thighs and calfs burned, but he stretched his legs and drove on after Ess’yr. His shield thumped rhythmically against his back. He leaped across a tiny stream, so overgrown with ferns and choked with mossy stones that the water only betrayed its presence by its gurgling voice. He wanted to draw his sword, but was unsure whether he could do so without falling, or at least slowing down. He was on the verge of making the attempt when he rounded the great fat trunk of a wizened oak to find Ess’yr crouched in a tiny glade. She was at the side of a woman who was lying face down in the grass beside a massive fallen tree.
Orisian bent down, panting for breath. Ess’yr glanced at him.
“This is the one,” she said. “She still lives.”
Orisian turned the prone wo
man over onto her back. She was light in his hands, almost as if her clothes were empty. Her na’kyrim face was neither old nor young, neither beautiful nor plain. It was painfully thin, though. Her deathly-pale cheeks, smeared with streaks of dirt, bore dozens of tiny scratches. As though, Orisian thought, she had been assailed by a flock of birds. Or thorns, perhaps; thorns, and roots and twigs. Her breathing was shallow. She smelled – he leaned closer – of the wet earth and decaying leaves. Her simple deer-hide dress was caked with soil and was full of little rips.
“Move her,” Ess’yr said. She hooked a hand under the na’kyrim ’s armpit. Orisian got to his feet and took hold of the collar of the woman’s dress. Together, they dragged her up against the great wet bulk of the fallen trunk. The woman’s eyes were open. The pupils moved this way and that, but they had no grip upon the world.
Then Rothe was thumping over the grass towards them, shouting as he came, “Get under cover. Leave her, Orisian! Get under cover. They’re coming.”
Orisian hesitated. He looked at Rothe, scanned the forest behind him and saw nothing. Rothe had his sword in one hand, his shield still slung across his back. With his free hand he seized Orisian’s upper arm and thrust him away from the na’kyrim .
“Get behind the tree,” the shieldman shouted.
Orisian obeyed, soft rotten wood crumbling beneath his hands and feet. “Get her!” he cried.
Ess’yr vaulted over the huge fallen tree trunk, reached back and hauled at the na’kyrim . One-handed, Rothe lifted the insensate woman and pushed her bodily over the dead tree. She slid onto the sodden grass beside Orisian. Rothe followed her. There was a dull thud as he did so and he went unsteadily down onto his knees, with a disgusted grunt. Orisian reached out to steady the big man. Ess’yr was quickly stringing her bow, bending low to stay out of sight.
An arrow was embedded in the back of Rothe’s leg, driven deep into the meat of his thigh. Without thinking, Orisian reached for it and snapped the shaft off. Rothe gasped in pain, but was already unbuckling the straps of his shield and settling it onto his left arm.
“Keep low,” he rasped. “Come on, get your shield ready.”
Bloodheir Page 33
