“Aedan,” said Osric, “there were women and children buried behind those homes, even babies. These men will show no mercy, not even to Liru. If they defeat us tonight, more innocents will die brutal deaths in other towns. The arm of justice punishes and it protects. Holding it back suspends both punishment and protection. If you find it difficult to swing your blade, think of all those who stand behind you.”
Aedan understood it well, but Osric had misread the doubt in his eyes. Conscience was not where his worry lay. It was better, though, to let the misunderstanding remain. Much better. Osric could not know. Neither could Liru. He tried to steel his resolve and turned to her. “Are you going to be able to defend yourself?” he asked.
“That depends on what I face.” She drew the slender sword that Osric had brought her. “This is a good weapon,” she said, holding it out and catching the pale gleam of a dying sky on its blade. “But the greatest advantage I have is that I will be underestimated.”
“How do you feel about killing?”
“I would willingly kill men who slaughtered families, as General Osric said. But I do not fight for your prince. He has betrayed me and it will not be forgotten.”
“He’s not my prince,” Aedan said, his voice rising with his temper. “You keep calling him my prince as if I have some part in this betrayal.”
“Then who is your leader?” she retorted, her own voice rising on a tide of anger and fear. “Who are your people? What are you even training for?”
Aedan opened his mouth twice but no words came out. He turned away from her and moved to an empty section of broken rocks where he sat, stood, pulled his hair, sat again and bit his fist until the dusk began to pool in the back of the cave and hid him from view.
Osric had spent the afternoon preparing for many contingencies. He now went over final instructions with the soldiers, making sure each man knew how to act. The ill-discipline that had characterised the men up until now was gone, smoke in the wind. They stood straight, attention fixed on their general. It was more than respect. Osric, as frightening as he was, represented survival. Their shallow breathing and wild eyes revealed how few of them had been tried in battle. And the odds tonight would be bad, even for experienced campaigners.
Merter, the ranger-captain, returned. He slipped into the cave like a panther. Aedan had been watching him over the afternoon and was no longer surprised that he was known as Captain Murder. It seemed he was only pretending to be civilised, and that he was barely accustomed to the society of others. He peered around him with the complete focus and deadly intensity of a hunting cat, and though he was not a big man, his prowling movements told of uncanny strength.
Aedan overheard his report to Osric. “I counted forty,” he said, “but there could be as many as fifty. They are well-armed, all mounted. They will reach us soon. Their armour is mostly plated leather but they carry heavy weapons. Here are two I picked up.” He held out a deep leaf-bladed sword and a large mace. Aedan wondered if the previous owners had even seen their attacker. Osric felt and tested the weapons, asked a few more questions about the armour and other weapons, and passed them on to Thormar who examined them and handed them along to the rest.
Aedan dried his palms again. He and Liru waited on the far left of the cave, in a slight recess. Merter and Tyne stood in front of them; to the right were Osric and six soldiers; and further down, Thormar commanded the remaining men. Tyne and Liru made a very careful inspection of the captured Fenn armour.
Aedan spotted the thieving soldier, known to him now as Holt, standing nearby. Holt had returned Aedan’s belongings, and even made a gift of his own dagger in apology. After Osric’s reprimand, he had looked genuinely sorry, as well as heartily frightened for his skin, and had promised he would do what he could to look after Aedan and Liru in the battle.
Aedan had seen this kind of change before. Some men could be so pliable under the influence of leadership that they all but mimicked the leader’s character. It was quite a change from Senbert to Osric, and Aedan was not complaining. Holt looked over now and saluted. Aedan returned the gesture.
The other soldier, the one Liru had stabbed, had made no apology. The wound appeared not to be troubling him much, and Aedan had even caught him grinning at Liru. He wished now that they had spoken of it to Osric, but he knew the soldier would claim he had only intended to be friendly. He would accept a reprimand and then haunt them with his eyes. Such men were as slippery as eels and just as poisonous.
Osric was completing his final inspection and stopped before Aedan and Liru. He spoke quietly. “It is best that I do not stand near you as I shall probably be targeted. Merter and Tyne will try to shield the attack, but it is possible that men will pass them. Liru, if you have not yet told Aedan how far your training reaches, now is the time. He will need to know how to work with you.”
“How do you know about my training?” she asked. “I thought only our order knew of it.”
“All on the war council know.”
“And I will not be tried or punished for speaking of it?”
“Not under these circumstances, not to Aedan. You’d best not speak of your final purpose, mind you, only your weapons training.”
Aedan couldn’t help feeling a little offended that secrets were being kept from him. Liru’s abrupt and snappy manner wasn’t helping either.
She drew him away from listening ears and explained. “We are taught many of the same weapons as you – I think you will have guessed that already – but using different styles. With the sword, our technique involves much movement. It is almost like dancing. We try to move out of the line of effective strikes. We only block when desperate, otherwise we dodge, deflect and counter-attack, almost always with the point and often for the hands and arms – even gauntlets have chinks. Think of a bird attacking one of those giant spiders.”
“It sounds like it would be best if I took the initial attack and you ‘pecked’ from the sides.”
“That is one of the ways it is meant to work.”
“With your style of fighting, what are your weaknesses?”
“I will tire quickly if I have to keep up that kind of movement, the uneven ground here might work against me, and I am light, so even with a shield a direct hit will stun me or knock me down.”
Aedan considered. “We can deal with one of those problems by clearing the ground of rocks,” he said, and they set to work.
Soldiers checked the preparations for the last time and took their positions, then Osric called for silence and the waiting began.
The last traces of day vanished from the sky, and night fell. A half-moon hidden by clouds gave a dull, pale light that made shadows indistinct and shapes unclear. The view from the cave mouth revealed a boulder-strewn valley, and on the far side of the river, a sheer rock wall. It meant that the cave could not be attacked from a distance or from cover. Even archers would need to show themselves before being able to release a single arrow.
Aedan searched the shadows between boulders. Sometimes he thought he saw movement. Once, he was sure there were shapes crawling over the whole river bed, but then all was still for so long that he decided he must have imagined them. Water gurgled, insects screeched, a pair of wood pigeons cooed a ghostly duet nearby. The grip of Aedan’s sword was now so damp he was sure it would fly from his hand at the first swing, but he dared not release the handle to dry it.
There was a sound, a single click as a pebble dropped down onto the ledge in front of the cave. Dimly, mostly in silhouette, he saw Osric pointing up. Loose pebbles and course sand had been strewn on the crest of the rock wall. Movement above the cave was now betrayed. Osric made a looping hand signal and two soldiers readied themselves beside the horses. Another pebble dropped on the far side. Then a gentle hiss of sand spoke from several points along the newly built wall and more pebbles dropped.
One of the attack strategies Osric had foreseen was that ropes might be used to lower men with ready crossbows. The position invited it. A
few dozen alder saplings would provide good anchors; Aedan imagined them being inspected now. In his mind, he could see ten or twenty men loading crossbows and tying onto the ends of ropes while their companions anchored themselves to the saplings and prepared to lower their companions down the short face.
It was the second shower of sand that Osric had waited for, and now it came. All the way across the outer ledge, sand drizzled and pebbles bounced. The sound was barely above the murmur of the stream, but for men who knew what it signified, it was a clarion call. Aedan was finding it difficult to breathe.
Osric made a downward motion with his arms. Two men swatted the team of horses. The animals surged forward, drawing ropes that led out the back of the cave. There was a deep crack that echoed from above, then a heavy rumble filled the air and shook the ground.
Earlier, it had demanded the strength of several horses to pull the colossal alder trunk into position, and much chopping to clear it of branches so that it would roll.
And now it rolled.
The saplings that might have stopped its progress had been partially cut so as to appear strong when tested, but not strong enough to withstand such a force.
Warning shouts were followed by the cracking of many small trees and the screams of men that grew and grew and suddenly burst on their ears as bodies dropped past the opening and thudded into the rocky ledge. A shower of debris was followed by a deep rush as the great trunk hurtled past the defenders and crashed on the rocks, scattering everyone with a shower of stones, chips of wood, and dust. A few more bodies came down with the log, but not one of them moved.
Horses reared, and soldiers were forced to subdue their steeds or be trampled. Osric gave a quiet order, and three men darted out to collect weapons. As expected, there were many crossbows. Most were broken, but half a dozen still worked – these were reloaded and placed ready.
Then all fell silent again.
Aedan estimated that between fifteen and twenty-five men had fallen, leaving enough still to mount a strong attack. Dust clouds drifted through the cave. There were some muffled coughs.
They waited.
As the air gradually cleared, Aedan studied the shadows between boulders again.
Horses snorted.
He could hear Liru’s rapid and shallow breathing, and then realised his was the same. He tried to force himself to take long, deep breaths and relax his limbs, remembering all too well Dun’s warning about rapid exhaustion. Yet, try as he might, it seemed impossible to calm himself.
Again he could see dozens of points of movement – it was as if the boulders themselves were crawling. There was a sharp clicking of pebbles to the left. He saw the movement. It was the ground behind the large rock Osric had expected they would use. He had balanced a few stones so that they would topple if the ground there was disturbed. Several similar traps had been rigged further down and one of these now also spoke. The archers knew where their targets would appear. They took aim.
Silence.
Aedan wanted to scream. He dreaded the charge, but he could not endure much more of this waiting.
When it happened, there was no battle cry. Behind a cloud of whistling arrows, shapes swarmed out from the two screens of rock and bounded across the riverbed towards the cave. Aedan knew the entrance would be black to the attackers, giving them nothing to aim at. It was no surprise then that only one of their arrows found a shield, one a horse, and the rest clattered against rock.
The Thirnish bows twanged and six Fenn attackers collapsed. These Thirnish soldiers were not quick enough with the bow to nock and aim again in the time remaining, but the half-dozen crossbows were raised and fired, bringing down another four. Then the wave struck. The attackers were big men who swung heavy maces and large swords with ease. A dozen of them crashed into the defences.
Osric had instructed the soldiers to stab for the eyes because men stumbling into darkness would not likely cover their faces and would not see the points of spears or swords thrust from the shadows. It worked. About half of the attackers went down without even striking their opponents, but the remaining Fenn gained a foothold and began to lay about them with devastating blows.
The Thirnish began to fall.
Aedan saw Osric throw his sword like a knife, skewering a Fenn soldier who had knocked Senbert to his knees and was about to bring a mace down on his head. The man crumpled with Osric’s sword through him and Senbert sprang back to his feet.
An attacker saw Osric weaponless and turned on him, swinging a heavy sword. Osric swatted the blade aside with the shield strapped to his arm, stepped forward, and delivered a blow with his gauntleted fist that did the work of a hammer. Before the man dropped, Osric grabbed him by the throat and belt and hurled him into another two attackers, knocking them both off their feet. Senbert’s blade finished them. Osric unhooked his giant mace and smashed into the next enemy that caught his eye.
Two men fell on Merter and Tyne. Aedan was not surprised to see Merter’s feral speed and skill – the attackers found themselves with an uncaged animal at their throats – but it was Tyne who held his attention. She fought as Liru had described – dancing, darting and slipping through defences with movements so quick and elusive that her opponent may as well have been duelling a shadow. Aedan had never seen anything like it in his training, never imagined that such grace could be so deadly. He felt an immediate respect for this tall woman.
“Aedan!” Liru screamed. “Your right!”
He spun around to see that one of the Fenn had broken through and was striding towards him, snarling and lifting his mace.
Aedan faltered.
Without any warning, the memories took hold. The image of his father bore down on him. Unreasoning rage and crushing violence. Inescapable, unopposable. All fell silent but for a rising scream of dread.
His bladder emptied and his limbs collapsed, dropping him and his sword to the ground. The whimper that escaped his throat was a sickening admission of naked helplessness. It was the whimper of a child, a voice of numb terror, of a spirit utterly crushed and taught to cower.
The mace reached the height of its swing and began an arcing descent. A dim shape clouded his vision as Liru stepped in front of him and took the blow on her shield. It lifted her off her feet and cast her through the air. She struck the wall and slid to the floor where she remained motionless.
The mace rose again. Aedan was frozen. He could neither speak nor move. He saw a hand grasp the mace and another hand grip the Fenn’s throat. It was Holt who had intervened, but it was clear that he had lost his weapons.
The attacker twisted around and the two men struggled back and forth until Holt lost his footing and went to ground under a weight far greater than his own. He was outmatched. A big hand closed around his throat. He struggled and kicked, his movements becoming weaker and slower.
Aedan knew his countryman was dying. He knew he had to do something, but his body would not respond. His terror only mounted as Holt’s life ebbed.
A soft tread drew his attention to the side as Tyne rushed up and thrust the point of her sword through the assailant’s temple. Holt drew a great breath of air and slowly crawled from under the body of his dead enemy.
Tyne looked down at Aedan wordlessly. It was too dark to read her expression but the detached posture spoke her disdain clearly enough. She turned her back on him and went to Liru’s still form.
As quickly as it had begun, the clangour of battle died out. The last attacker had fallen. Heavy breathing, the moans of the wounded, and someone’s wet, foamy coughing replaced the screams and the crash of metal.
The defenders set about gathering their wounded and looking for survivors among the bodies. Only four of the Thirnish had been lost and another three were wounded. The Fenn losses, however, were considerable – forty-one were dead, most of them crushed by the alder trunk. Eight were seriously, if not mortally, wounded.
After Merter had scouted the area and was certain that the threat had passed, fires w
ere lit and the injured properly tended. The stench of battle was heavy in the cave, making it a grim camp, but Osric was not prepared to expose the party to the arrows of possible stragglers.
Aedan recovered sufficiently to get to his feet. Liru had not moved. Tyne and Fergal were crouched beside her. They did not look at Aedan. He wanted to ask, he wanted to help, but the stickiness of his trousers and the hot glow of his shame were enough to tell him that he did not belong there. Tyne had seen him, he knew it, and she would not forget. He looked up and caught Holt’s eye, but the man turned away.
Aedan’s face contorted in a spasm of self-loathing. He recoiled from the light of the fires, and headed across the river bed to where the water gurgled – clear, untarnished. He knew he was exposing himself to a rogue archer. He didn’t care. An arrow now would be a mercy. He walked downstream to where none from the cave would be able to see him. Here he splashed into the brisk eddies of a small pool, lowered himself, and sat in the clean water, fouling it.
A laugh bitter as gall escaped him. Had he not also fouled the battle, just by standing among his companions, those who had relied on him? Liru lay dying or crippled because of him. He had watched, unmoving, just watched, while Holt had almost died in front of him. He would never forget the look of those eyes turned towards him in frantic appeal. Holt’s dagger had been in Aedan’s belt, and there it had remained.
Even now, the strength in his arms was barely enough to raise his hand, but earlier it had been as if his arms were not his, as if they were the dead limbs of a corpse. He could still see them as they had flopped on the ground, useless. And the paralysis had only fed his terror.
He looked down the valley, tracing the waters that fled the scene.
Should he do the same?
What hope had he of being a marshal? Whatever courage and strength he possessed were treacherous. Maybe a prince’s treachery was what he deserved.
He grew cold, and stood, water pouring off him. Then he cursed himself for the thought. How could he think of his own comfort after what he had done to his friends?
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 54
