by A. J. Smith
She smiled and her lips cracked in the cold. During the day the glare from the snow was difficult to bear, but at night the darkness was almost comforting. Bronwyn was glad that the gloom didn’t reach much beyond twilight and never became total, though the temperature dropped even further when the blue skies disappeared. Her limbs shivered, her fingers ached and her face stung, but she still smiled.
‘Sleep, I think,’ yawned Stone Dog, exposing his hands in front of the fire and clenching each fist.
‘Indeed.’ Bronwyn puffed out her cheeks and huddled up next to the fire.
* * *
She dreamt. Somewhere in the shadowy corners of her mind a raven called to her, its voice sharp and insistent. She often dreamt of Brytag, but never did the World Raven call to her in such a way. It now seemed as if time was short and events were colliding faster and faster. She didn’t know why he was calling to her. She was a scared Ro noblewoman, far from home and ill suited to interpret the will of a god, be it a bird or a Giant.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
The raven cawed louder.
‘I don’t understand.’
Silence for a moment. Then the raven flapped its wings extravagantly and let out a series of short, sharp sounds, snapping its beak and hopping up and down. The World Raven became fully visible in her mind, perched on thin air and flexing its vicious talons. Behind it was a vague impression of riders in dark blue.
It stopped cawing, but its deep black eyes regarded her. Whatever she was seeing and whatever the raven wanted, Bronwyn felt small and confused. She wondered how much was a dream and how much was real. Or maybe none of it was real and she was simply the scared Ro noblewoman she was trying not to be. The raven wanted her to know something, but its call was incomprehensible and came from far away beyond the world. The riders in blue were fanned out and plunging across snowy ground.
Then another sound began to drown out the cawing. It came from closer and Bronwyn thought it was the growling of a dog.
* * *
She awoke sharply and with a gasp. Across the low embers of the flickering fire, Bronwyn saw two green dots, flecked with red. The eyes were widely spaced and, although the beast remained in darkness, she could tell it was a large creature. Next to her Micah Stone Dog was still asleep, curled up under his cloak. She didn’t dare to look up to see if Dragneel was there.
A louder growl and Micah spluttered awake. The young man of Wraith rubbed his eyes and sat up quickly.
‘What’s that?’ he asked in a whisper, directing wide eyes across the fire.
The creature shuffled slowly round the fire, its head emerging into the small globe of light. It was a huge, broad-shouldered dog with a squat muzzle and massively muscled forelegs and shoulders. Its eyes were striking and the flecks of red appeared to pulsate as the dog snarled at them.
‘It’s a Volk war-hound,’ said a voice from above. Dragneel had reappeared and there was a catch of fear in his voice. ‘Don’t piss it off.’
‘It looks pissed off already,’ replied Micah. ‘And it’s got a lot of teeth.’
A sudden movement caught Bronwyn’s eyes and dark figures emerged on the opposite bank. A moment later, before she could alert her companions, an arrow thudded into the ground next to their fire. Micah sprang backwards and Dragneel rolled out of view as more arrows narrowly missed them.
The war-hound leapt at her. The beast was huge and heavy enough to pin her to the snowy ground without apparent effort. Bronwyn had the wind knocked out of her and was utterly helpless as the dog growled over her exposed neck. But it didn’t kill her. It merely kept its hypnotic eyes on her face.
She held her breath and saw Micah draw his locaber axe and dart forward. An arrow in his thigh slowed the axe-man, but he reached the other bank and swung up at the legs of one of their attackers. The shapes had been silent, but now a sound of pained anger erupted from them. She saw a dozen or more jump down from the bank. They were all bare-chested, with blue tattoos covering their bodies. Each man wielded a short bow and a curved sword.
‘I don’t die easy,’ barked Micah, parrying an attack and opening a man’s chest.
Dragneel appeared again, waving his arms in the air. ‘Friends, we’re friends.’
His words were cut off by an arrow striking him solidly in the stomach. The priest dropped his crutches and fell from the overhang. He landed next to where the war-hound had pinned down Bronwyn. Another arrow hit Micah in the side and he fell to one knee. Then the dog howled. It was a deep-throated rumble of a sound that cut through the melee.
The tattooed men backed away from Stone Dog and held their bows ready. The axe-man was breathing heavily and grasping the arrowhead in his side, but he did not appear badly hurt. Dragneel’s wound was worse and he was barely moving.
The hound growled at the tattooed figures and clamped its teeth around the neck of Bronwyn’s cloak. With great strength, the dog dragged her away from the overhang and into the middle of the gully. She wailed as snow-covered rocks assaulted her back and she rolled into an undignified seated position before the war-hound.
One of their attackers stepped to the front and began to stroke the huge hound. Bronwyn was surprised to see a woman looking down at her, wearing tight-fitting leather.
‘Who are you?’ asked the woman in a gravelly voice. ‘Why are you here, under the Moon?’
Bronwyn looked over at Stone Dog. He still held his axe in one hand and was surrounded by armed men. A steady trickle of blood came from the arrow in his thigh and the wound in his side had made him double over in the snow.
‘We’re not your enemies, you stupid bastards,’ spat Micah.
The woman looked at the two men killed by Stone Dog. ‘You look like enemies.’
The hound growled again, craning its neck towards the woman. The red flecks formed a pupil, showing a worrying intelligence in the dog’s eyes.
‘Okay, okay,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll try politeness.’
She moved closer to Bronwyn and sheathed her sword. The weapon was simple and appeared to be made of lacquered wood rather than steel. She had black hair, in a tight knot, and dark blue warpaint covered her face.
‘I am Dawn, called Sun Runner. What is your name, woman?’
Bronwyn shook. Her back was torn up from the rocks and her teeth were chattering. ‘My friends are wounded.’ The words were hesitant.
‘Two of mine are dead,’ replied the woman of the Crescent.
Stone Dog laughed. ‘Shooting arrows at people in the dark is not the way to make friends.’
‘I asked you for your name, woman... I’ll kill you before I ask for it again.’
The tattooed men numbered almost two dozen and most of them held arrows notched to their short bows.
‘Bronwyn,’ she said quietly, ‘of Ro Canarn.’
‘And your companions?’ asked the woman.
‘Micah Stone Dog of Wraith and Dragneel Dark Crest of Brytag’s Roost.’ She blurted out the names, stumbling over each syllable. ‘We hoped for a more friendly introduction.’
The Volk war-hound backed away and sat on its haunches, looking at Bronwyn. The dog was no longer growling and the flecks in its eyes were dancing from side to side. Most of the men of the Crescent were focused on the dog, as if waiting for something.
Dawn Sun Runner nodded. She was absently stroking a hand along the hound’s back, ruffling his ears playfully.
‘Okay, I think we can lower the bows. You!’ she pointed to a man behind her. ‘Fetch Barron, he can help the young axe-man.’ The tattooed warrior disappeared quickly into the dark Moon Wood.
Bronwyn turned to look at Dragneel. The priest was shuffling in pain and his fists were grasping at the snowy ground.
‘And him?’ she asked.
Dawn looked over at the one-legged man lying on his back with an arrow protruding upward from his stomach. ‘I don’t think ointments and bandages will help him,’ she replied impassively.
‘You shot an unarmed priest in
the dark,’ barked Micah. ‘He’s an annoying bastard, but still a priest.’
The men of the Crescent didn’t react to this news. They all displayed a similar impassiveness to that of Dawn. Bronwyn and Micah looked at each other, finding their behaviour strange.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Micah. ‘He needs help.’
The man who had been sent into the trees poked his head back round a tree. ‘Barron says that the wounded need to come to him.’
The men quickly moved to pick up Dragneel and Micah, while Dawn offered her hand to Bronwyn. She allowed herself to be helped to her feet and winced as the wounds on her back flexed and split. The war-hound pawed at her cloak, shaking off the snow and straightening her clothing. It looked at her and panted happily, a nonetheless intimidating gesture, given its size.
Micah shoved away the help and stood defiantly on his own. Dragneel was barely conscious and had to be lifted from the ground. Stone Dog limped over towards Bronwyn, holding his axe and resisting any attempt to take it from him. The young man of Wraith was very attached to his hook-pointed locaber axe and scowled at the men of the Crescent who circled him.
‘Dragneel’s in trouble,’ said Stone Dog. ‘They’d better have a priest, or he’s done for.’
‘They’re Moon clan?’ asked Bronwyn, whispering the words.
‘Hope so.’
‘You okay?’ She frowned in sympathy, looking at the two arrows sticking out of the young axe-man.
‘Well... I’m leaking blood all over the place, but I’ll live.’ His eyes were darting from side to side, keeping track of the movements of the warriors around him. ‘I could do with some help, but don’t worry about me. These bastards still follow Rowanoco.’
‘Mouths shut,’ demanded Dawn.
Bronwyn and Micah moved slowly away from the gully, flanked by tattooed warriors and leaning on each other to make walking easier. They were led into the trees, away from the glow of their fire and into the glow of another. Their attackers were camped close by, obscured by the ridge and with their fire placed out of sight.
Several more men of the Crescent stood flexing their bowstrings round the fire. An older man, not displaying any tattoos, was reclining against a tree.
Dragneel was placed on the snowy ground, while Micah and Bronwyn were shoved, under guard, into a wooden corral where the men of the Crescent had several packhorses tied up.
‘These two are Ranen,’ said the man sitting by the fire. His tone was disapproving. ‘You said they were Ro.’
‘We saw the woman, she was Ro... we assumed...’ replied Dawn.
‘Not exactly an invading army of Red knights, though.’ The older man stood and flexed his back, muttering under his breath about sleeping rough.
‘They’re spies... or scouts.’ Dawn showed no emotion in her voice and spoke in a matter-of-fact manner.
‘We’re not,’ barked Stone Dog from the corral. ‘We come from South Warden seeking aid.’
‘Silence,’ snapped Dawn. ‘You do not speak here.’
‘I clearly do, you fucking idiot,’ replied the young man of Wraith. A nearby man of the Crescent slapped the arrow in Micah’s side, making him recoil in pain.
‘Stop it,’ shouted Bronwyn. ‘We’re not your enemies. You people have plenty to contend with without inventing more.’
‘If she speaks again, kill her,’ ordered Dawn, and several men aimed arrows at the noblewoman.
Bronwyn began to sweat and her hands shook. She knew nothing of the Moon clans and didn’t know whether or not they were likely summarily to execute her.
The older man sauntered casually over to the corral and stood before the two prisoners. Like Sun Runner, he’d largely ignored the body of Dragneel. Bronwyn could no longer see any movement from the priest of Brytag.
‘Who are you, woman of the stone?’ asked the man.
He had long, straight brown hair, flecked with white, and his beard was surprisingly well groomed. His clothing was made of leather and furs and was more suited to the cold weather than that of his companions.
‘Bronwyn of Canarn... we are not people you should be fighting.’
‘Dawn thinks you are,’ he replied. ‘But Warm Heart isn’t sure.’ At the sound of its name, the huge war-hound loped into the glow of the fire and growled playfully at the man.
‘I’m Barron, called Crow Friend. I decide whether or not we kill you.’
She looked nervously at Micah, who had kept quiet since the wound in his side had been aggravated. He was pale and obviously in pain.
‘We were sent by Johan Long Shadow to seek aid for Scarlet Company. If you kill us, you kill people trying to help the Freelands,’ said Stone Dog.
Another growl from Warm Heart and the men of the Crescent lowered their bows.
‘Okay,’ conceded Barron. ‘Perhaps I am not the ultimate arbiter of your fate.’
‘My friends need help,’ spluttered Bronwyn. ‘He’s going to die.’ She pointed a shaking hand at Dragneel.
Barron puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. Slowly, he turned from the corral and approached the unconscious priest. Kneeling down, he inspected the arrow protruding from his stomach and gently pushed at the bloodied flesh. A lank mop of hair obscured Dragneel’s face and his arms were splayed across the ground.
‘Hmm, he’s in trouble,’ said Barron.
Absently, he swept the hair out of the priest’s face and looked at his features for the first time. His expression changed completely and he craned forward to get a better look at Dragneel’s face.
‘I know this man.’ He quickly turned the priest on to his side and took note of the man’s missing leg. ‘Dark Crest, you silly bastard.’
‘He’s a priest, I told you,’ said Micah weakly.
‘He’s not just a priest,’ countered Barron. ‘He’s a man of the World Raven.’
Even Dawn narrowed her eyes and showed concern at this news. It was the most animated she had appeared since they had fired their first arrow.
‘Pick him up, gently,’ said Barron. ‘Dawn, bring the other two, and try not to kill anyone. Warm Heart.’ The Volk hound’s ears flickered and he looked eagerly at Barron, panting and wagging his short tail. ‘Go and tell Federick that we have guests.’
Quite how the huge dog would convey this news was unclear, but Bronwyn saw him bound off into the dark woods.
* * *
Bronwyn did not know the organization of the Moon clans. She didn’t know how many clans there were, or whether they followed a single chieftain or a group of lesser captains. What was clear, as they were led through the snowy gullies of the Moon Wood, was that they talked little and moved in eerie silence. Their tattoos were patterned by some kind of blue ink and she saw Dawn reapply her designs as she walked.
‘Some kind of mushroom,’ muttered Stone Dog, limping along next to her.
‘What is?’
‘The blue stuff. Freya used to say that the Moon Wood was filled with hallucinogenic mushrooms which make them a bit... unpredictable. I think these ones are called night-raiders.’
‘So they’re drugged up?’ asked Bronwyn.
‘Think so, they dry it... rub it on their skin, smoke it in pipes.’
Micah had removed the arrow from his thigh, but a wooden shaft still jutted from his side and made walking awkward. He was tough and she knew he wouldn’t complain, but Bronwyn could see droplets of sweat on his face.
They were now deep within the woods and far from the central trail they’d been following. She had no skill at tracking, but even a young Ro noblewoman could tell that they were now entering the outskirts of a rude settlement. In the high branches of trees were disguised platforms, with archers hidden under grassy nets and other kinds of camouflage. The ground was dotted with pit traps and tripwires, though most of them were not primed.
‘Stay in the middle of the path,’ ordered Barron Crow Friend from the front. ‘If you break the tree line, they’ll shoot you.’
More faces ap
peared at ground level. Many carried wooden swords, curved and covered in some kind of hard lacquer that gave them a serrated edge. They were mostly bare-chested and untroubled by the cold. Those that were wrapped up warm were also bereft of blue tattoos, and Bronwyn wondered whether the mushrooms protected them against the weather.
Ahead of them, Warm Heart appeared from between the thinly spaced trees and panted happily at Barron. The war-hound confused Bronwyn, who was unsure how intelligent it was, though she was pleased that it seemed to like her. He led the way through forested clearings, now wide and open, protected by a high canopy and dense undergrowth on either side. It was wilder here than in the southern woods and the terrain was more up and down, with craggy rocks providing the men of the Crescent with ample cover in which to build their primitive settlements. They built almost exclusively out of wood, which the Moon clans had shaped and twisted into homes, staircases and walkways that snaked between the trees. Their craft was strange and Bronwyn could see no nails or joints, so that the structures had an organic appearance as if they had been shaped out of single pieces of treated wood.
‘Wooden swords,’ muttered Stone Dog. ‘I was captured by people with wooden swords. How embarrassing.’
‘I promise I won’t tell Horrock,’ said Bronwyn. She took in her surroundings, seeing numerous eyes looking her up and down. ‘Don’t the Free Companies have any contact with these people?’
‘Not that I know of. The Moon clans were originally escaped servants from the Ro work gangs. When the Free Companies rose up, those under the Moon stayed in their woods.’
‘Do they care about the Freelands?’ she asked.
‘You’ll have to ask them.’
‘That’s not helpful.’
Barron and Dawn led them into a shallow depression in the ground. The snow was sparse here and various wooden platforms served as a piecemeal roof across the edges of the large space. Warm Heart scampered forward and ran down the incline to the large fire that sat in the open space. Around the sides of the depression, under the wooden roof, sat various men and women, lying back on comfortable-looking cushions and talking boisterously. For the first time since she had entered the Moon Wood, Bronwyn saw people at rest, maybe even enjoying themselves. These Ranen were not tattooed and all wore thick furs, though a few were barefoot and warming their feet by the fire.
