The Exile of Elindel (The Elwardian Chronicles Book 1)

by Carol Browne

  She didn’t intend to shed her blood in the name of some petty, territorial dispute. If she sneaked through the rear of the hall and out across the compound . . .

  Her plan got no further. The image of Bellic’s stern face rose in her mind and in his wise, old eyes, she could see more than a hint of reproach. He would, no doubt, have reminded her she owed a great deal to Godwin and his family, and even to Lord Othere. To run away now would be an act of betrayal.

  She wrestled with her feelings, but there was only one honourable course to take, and at length, she made for the main doors. People were running everywhere, and it was impossible for her to make sense of the chaos. The clash of swords rang in the distance. That could mean only one thing: the raiders had already forced their way in and were fighting with Lord Othere’s men.

  But what could she do to help?

  She drew the air deep into her lungs in an effort to steady herself. She needed to consider her part in defending the people who had given her shelter, but any help she gave would have to be limited to those she considered her friends.

  What had become of Godwin, who had gone unskilled to join the defenders of the settlement? Perhaps already slain, his corpse lay, spilling blood before the gates of the stronghold. She wasn’t prepared for the indignation such a thought provoked, but she had to acknowledge that, wilthkin or not, he didn’t deserve to die like that. She was powerless to help him, but perhaps she could ensure his family was safe.

  Elgiva stepped over the threshold and hurried to Godwin’s hut; in her haste to get there, her own safety was forgotten.

  She found herself hoisted into the air. Twisting round, she came face to face with a tall, blond warrior. His fierce eyes glittered with triumph.

  “You’ll make a fine gift for my father-in-law, Othere’s dog!” he snarled.

  Elgiva kicked out angrily and caught him on the shin. He howled with rage and loosened his grip, but recovered before she could struggle free.

  “Siriol, curse him with the pox, the blister, and the scab!” she screamed.

  The raider laughed and slung her over his brawny shoulder. She beat her fists in vain against his muscle-hard torso. Restraining her legs with one hand and clutching his longsword with the other, he strolled away with his prize.

  “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you!”

  In the distance, she saw the servants’ dwellings, and she was being carried in the opposite direction. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Godwin had been her friend, and she had to help his family.

  When she thought of Rowena and the two little girls, desperation stirred up all manner of wild imaginings: scenes of destruction, slaughter, and rape.

  “Siriol! Siriol! Why don’t you help me?”

  But the amulet didn’t respond.

  Try harder. Try harder.

  Perhaps the amulet wouldn’t help, if in doing so it caused harm to another? But her heart was so full of hate. She must get free. She must help Rowena. She raged at herself and her fists were clenched so tightly they ached.

  Concentrate. Try harder. Do you want to end up as a spoil of battle?

  Siriol, why don’t you do something? You’re supposed to obey me!

  Could she penetrate the amulet’s passivity with her mind, forge some kind of link between her need and Siriol’s power?

  She needed words to awaken its might, but her mind was completely blank. She needed the words she had never been taught . . .

  What were the words? What were the words?

  “Stop struggling now, Othere’s dog, or my sword will spill your guts,” snarled the raider.

  His threat provided the spark. Her anger flared with a heat she feared would consume her if it found no release. She poured it into Siriol in a moment of exquisite focus.

  “In the name of Faine, protect me, Siriol!”

  A glow of power responded to her need. At first, it centred on the amulet, but it grew more vague, more diffuse. A strange warmth spread throughout her body. It set her nerve ends tingling, and her skin shivered with gooseflesh. She hadn’t expected this. For one awful moment, she feared Siriol couldn’t separate its mistress from her enemy. The use of the amulet had never been explained to her. And now it was too late.

  The power grew. There was an excruciating moment of calm, as if Elgiva were poised on the lip of some bottomless chasm. Did Siriol feel her hesitate?

  She surrendered herself to the power.

  “Siriol, strike him now!” she cried.

  Something contracted inside her. Then she felt an explosion, which seemed to be in her mind. An intense stab of hot pain passed from her body into that of her captor, and she was flung aside. He yelled in agony and fell to his knees.

  For a moment, everything went black in her mind. Why was she sprawled in the dirt? She forced herself to her feet. Her legs felt weak and boneless. Her head reeled and nausea griped her guts. She held the amulet in a trembling hand and glared at it.

  “Whose side are you on?”

  Her gaze flew to the stricken raider, who was rolling on the ground in pain. A strange desire to gloat on his agony rooted her to the spot, as though she were witnessing some personal achievement. At the same time, it was sickening and she longed to be as far away from the horror of it as possible. Of course he deserved his pain, but surely, Siriol, this was too much?

  When she had control of herself she tore her gaze away, left the man moaning on the icy ground, and ran to the servants’ quarters.

  ***

  Once inside the hut, Elgiva could hear the children whimpering with fear. She quickly moved towards them to offer reassurance, and they clutched at her robe. She hugged them both.

  “Don’t be afraid. We’ll be all right,” she said. She glanced at their mother. “Rowena, they might ransack the huts. You must find somewhere safe to hide, where they won’t find anything worth the bother of searching. The defences are breached. We must move quickly!”

  Clasping Rowena’s hand, Elgiva dragged her out of the hut, the children’s fingers still clamped to her robe. Fires blazed everywhere as they burst into the stark, cold light. A premonition of danger made Elgiva brusque, as she urged her charges behind an overturned cart.

  Three raiders tore past, one brandishing a torch. They were searching all of the huts for treasure, though the servants’ dwellings had little to offer. But Godwin’s proved more lucrative. To the cheers of his companions, a raider emerged with Godwin’s sword and flourished it triumphantly.

  Elgiva frowned and clenched her fists at the sight of his greedy smirk. Godwin’s only link with his past was now in the hands of scavengers. And she could do nothing about it.

  The man with the torch set flame to the thatch. As the fire took hold, his lips drew back in a fierce grin of pleasure. He joined his companions, and they dashed off again on the trail of plunder.

  Elgiva watched through narrowed eyes as the figures were lost in the billowing smoke. Rowena gaped at the loss of her home, and the children whimpered and clung to their mother. For a time, they watched the little hut burn, as though they were paying their last respects.

  “Huts can be rebuilt,” said Elgiva, “and you’re all safe and not in there.”

  Rowena’s lip trembled as she tried to smile. “Elgiva, yes. We must thank the gods. For that, for you. You saved us.”

  Elgiva lowered her gaze. Rowena’s gratitude stung her conscience. After all, she was merely discharging a debt. That and nothing more. “Come,” she said. “Follow me.”

  They trotted behind her as she led them towards the stables. The fences were smashed, the animals taken, and for the moment, all was quiet. She ushered them inside.

  “I can’t think of anywhere better, Rowena. If you hide in the straw, perhaps you’ll be safe. They can see the place is empty, nothing here for them to steal. But keep a look out for men with torches.” She turned to the children. “You must be very, very quiet. Still as two hares in a meadow.” She placed a finger on her lips, and the chil
dren nodded, eager to please.

  She hugged them again and turned away. She had been of some use to her friends and now could leave with a clean conscience.

  Rowena peered out of the shelter. “I wish I knew if Godwin . . . if . . . ” She swallowed and turned away.

  “He can take care of himself.” Another lie,but what else can I say?

  Rowena turned to face her. “He’s no warrior,” she said, and her face was streaked with tears.

  Elgiva sighed and got to her feet. “I’ll find him and bring you news.”

  Rowena tried to grab her arm, but Elgiva was far too nimble. Ignoring Rowena’s pleas, she left the stable at a run, breaching the wall of greasy, grey smoke rising in front of her.

  She hadn’t intended any of this, and she certainly didn’t want it. Godwin and his family had reached her in ways she hadn’t expected. Yet still, she needed to prove her integrity, to herself, if no one else.

  Then she would be free.

  As she pelted towards the mead hall, she made herself a promise. If she escaped from this place with her life, she would march straight back to Derryth and give him a very large piece of her mind.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Deor, fatally wounded, lay stretched at the feet of his comrades. The warriors couldn’t move him to a place of safety, for the battle was raging all around them, but they tried to shield him as best they could. Their battle cries still rang bravely in the air, and their swords were slick with the enemy’s gore.

  Beyond the wall of the stronghold, just out of the archers’ range, Beortnoth sat on a great black horse that raked the earth with its hooves. He watched the embroilment like a god of war and laughed at the missiles that fell short of their target. The sight struck terror into Othere’s men.

  Godwin glanced down at Deor. “My lord, how do you fare?”

  “I’m dying, you stupid bastard. Forget me, man . . . the foe!” He choked on the blood that rose in his throat, his face as white as the frost.

  A fresh wave of raiders surged to attack. Godwin parried blow after blow until his head swam. That he still lived amazed him, but years of hard work had given him the muscle to wield the mighty longsword Elric had found for him. At least now he had a shield, too, for Deor could hold his no longer, and he had Elric beside him. Many times, he thanked the gods for the younger man’s quick reactions. Now they were part of a sturdy line of battle-seasoned warriors, and while these veterans stood at his side, Godwin could count on their protection.

  He swung at his assailants, trying to disable them before they came too close, but he was growing more fatigued. Only the need to survive kept him going, gave him the strength to continue hacking and slashing with the ponderous blade. He was glad to have left his own sword behind. Too short, too blunt for this bloody work.

  Weariness warped the world around him, but he battled on, compelled to keep the flashing blade in motion. It seemed he had always been here, whirling this blade, and always would be. The foe kept coming, the foe would keep coming, and at his feet, Deor’s lifeless body mocked him with its sightless gaze.

  Deor was dead. This realisation shattered Godwin’s concentration.

  “Godwin, look out!” cried Elric.

  Godwin looked up and saw a long blade poised in the air above him. Numb to the core and unable to move, he watched his death descend.

  He was knocked aside and thrown among the corpses on the ground. A battle-hardened warrior now stood in his place, and with practised ease he dispatched the marauder, as if such things were the reason for his existence.

  The grey-bearded veteran flashed him a grin of fellowship. It was Cerdic, Elric’s tutor in swordplay, a good-natured man who had always treated Godwin like an equal.

  Cerdic tucked his sword under his arm and, with his right hand, helped Godwin to his feet. His left hand was unfit for the task, as three of its fingers were missing. Briefly, they grinned at each other like the old comrades they were, before Godwin retrieved his own sword and staggered back to the line of warriors.

  He gritted his teeth and held in his mind’s eye the images he fought for: his wife, his children, his lord. His home. He clung to these symbols of permanence. It was the only reasonable thing to do.

  Oh, Grim, don’t let me die like this!

  ***

  Elgiva soon found the hub of the conflict. A seething mass of warriors were battling for control of the area before the stronghold’s gates. The latter hung from their hinges, like the broken wings of some great, trampled bird.

  Drawing closer, she spotted Elric. His face was grey with effort, and his sword dripped with blood. She felt a pang of compassion. Though he looked like a man, he was the same age as her. He shouldn’t be forced to risk his life in so desperate a manner. His courage made her stand back and look at her own.

  She searched the turmoil feverishly. The air blew about her in acrid gusts, sharp with smoke and the reek of gore. Her eyes stung and watered so much, all she could see was a meaningless blur.

  Scrubbing away the tears, she edged carefully forwards. The ground was churned and trampled by combat, strewn with weapons and injured men. And then she saw Deor, twisted and still. Blood trailed from his mouth. His eyes were wide and staring, but he saw no more of this world. His pale, clenched fist still gripped his shattered sword.

  She found Godwin—alive or dead, she couldn’t tell—lying beside the wall of the stronghold. The intensity of her reaction surprised her, but of all the wilthkin, Godwin was the one she most wanted to survive.

  Avoiding the blades that sliced about her head, she ran to his side and knelt. His hand still gripped the hilt of his sword, and it filled Elgiva with dread, as a picture of Deor flashed into her mind.

  “Godwin!” She shook his arm, and the weapon slid from his grasp. “By Faine, you’re alive. Listen. Godwin, listen. I’ve hidden your family. They’re safe, do you hear me? Godwin!” She found herself shouting, angry at him, at herself, at everything. “Wake up, Godwin. Wake up, damn you!”

  His eyelids flickered open, and he gave her a vacant look.

  “You can’t stay here. You’ll be hacked to pieces.” She shook his arm again.

  “Am I not . . . already . . . then?” His voice was hoarse and weak.

  Sighing with impatience, she struggled to heave him upright. Slowly, they crawled and stumbled away from the thick of battle, and then she let him rest.

  “Your head is bleeding, Godwin. Is that your only wound? You’re covered in blood. Not all yours, I hope.” Her nose wrinkled at the stink of gore.

  “Something hit me,” was all he said.

  She tore a strip from the hem of her robe and began to bandage his head.

  “You said they were safe,” he ventured.

  “Your family? Yes. I hid them in the stables. I saw Othere while I was looking for you, and he promised he would send men to rescue them. They’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

  She smiled at him, and he relaxed. His honest gaze beamed gratitude at her, and she wished she’d been less abrupt with him.

  “Othere’s hurt, but he’ll be fine, too,” she told him.

  “I’m glad, Elgiva. While he’s alive, there’s hope for the rest of us.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “Hope, Godwin? He’s an old, wounded man. Your warriors, they’re dead, they’re injured, they’re outnumbered. Can’t you see, it’s only a matter of time?”

  “We’ll be taken, then, Elgiva. We’ll be slaves of Beortnoth.” A sudden look of horror widened his eyes. “Elgiva, they’ll take my daughters!”

  She saw his fear, and she also saw herself, making pies in the kitchen of the great hall with Godwin’s wife, while his two little children played with the leftover dough. She remembered laughing with them, and for a while, she had known what it felt like to have a family. Her pulse was pounding in her throat as she fought to control conflicting emotions. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to compose herself, but his pain and her own anger demanded her attention. And no
t merely her attention.

  She jumped to her feet. “This has gone on long enough.”

  “Elgiva, where are you going?”

  Elgiva didn’t respond. She crept towards the stronghold’s gates, her back pressed to the wall, and all the while, she searched the ground for the weapon she needed.

  ***

  With a major effort, Godwin stood and tottered in her wake. His vision swam from the exertion, but when it cleared, he saw his friend lift a tall, curved bow from the body of a fallen archer. Then she selected a single arrow and ran towards the gates.

  The warriors at the entrance were too engrossed in battle to notice the girl who darted among them. One swung his axe half-heartedly, but she ducked beneath his arm; clearly no one was going to stand in her way. Godwin pursued her as best he could, too numb to care for his own well-being. The conviction that he should follow her was too compelling to ignore.

  ***

  Elgiva ran through the shattered gates and came to a halt about thirty yards from the line of warriors that were ranked around Beortnoth. They bristled with contempt at the sight of her, her slight form dwarfed by the bow. Their master’s eyes narrowed above his hooked nose and for a moment, he seemed to consider the threat, but then he let out a roar of mirth.

  “My lords, we are undone!” he cried in a booming voice edged with malice. “A fierce war-maiden is upon us!”

  His men greeted his words with hoarse laughter.

  With a grimace of effort, Elgiva struggled to nock the single arrow.

  “By the time you have that weapon under control, if you can, little serf, my warriors here will have cut you down,” Beortnoth promised sternly. “Othere must be desperate, indeed, to send his half-grown serving women to fight his battles for him!”

  His men raised their bows and nocked their arrows, while others unsheathed their swords, unhurried in their complacency.

  “Siriol, hear me,” whispered Elgiva. “Raise a wall of power before me so that their arrows will not strike me.”

  Planting her feet firmly on the earth, she drew a steadying breath and held it. Her elven instincts, her whole being, were focused upon the mastery of the bow.