Bridge of Swords

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Aye, Dad. Anything!’

  ‘Well, two things. First, never forget who you are and where you come from. And second, never offer a promise so lightly! At least listen before agreeing to do anything!’

  They had both laughed then.

  When it had come time to say goodbye, nobody in the village had waved Huw off, although almost all had had something to say the previous day, along the lines of Huw was a fool and Earwen doubly so, to indulge him. Several of the elders had predicted Huw would be back within three moons, and would then have to do some real work, not swan around like a moonstruck calf.

  The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. They had never been short of a word before but neither could find anything to say now. Earwen could not get anything past the huge lump in his throat, while he could see the tears in his son’s eyes.

  ‘Come back safe,’ he managed to say.

  ‘I’ll come back rich. Don’t work too hard on the field,’ Huw said awkwardly.

  Unable to say what he really felt, Earwen held out his hand and Huw shook it carefully.

  ‘Better get moving. You’ve a long way to go.’

  Huw looked as though he was about to say something, then simply nodded.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said hoarsely.

  Earwen could not watch his son go. Firstly because his cursed eyes kept leaking but also because he had been struck with a terrible certainty he would never see his son again. That memory was thick within him as he downed a bowl of oatmeal and then walked out into the dawn, ready for another hard day in the fields.

  Broyle led his men into the village at the gallop. The village was bounded by a low fence, suitable for keeping animals in — or out — but little more. It also had a wide opening, easily big enough for four men to ride abreast through, and completely unguarded.

  Dogs barked at them and for a moment Broyle thought they had made a mistake, for these were big, powerful beasts, bred to drive off wolves — then owners called them back and he breathed again.

  Men, women and children looked out of houses, curious but not yet fearful of the men on big horses, dressed in plain tunics and trousers.

  ‘Who is the leader of this village?’ Broyle bellowed, reining in his horse and letting his men spread out behind him, so they were not all bunched in together.

  After a pause an older man, his dark beard shot through with grey, strode forwards.

  ‘There are no leaders here. We have no need for them. We are a community and work together,’ he began.

  ‘Well, you can work together on this! My men and I have just moved into the area. We have had a long ride and are in need of food and drink …’

  ‘Which you may purchase from us, at a fair price,’ the Velshman interrupted back, his voice big and booming. ‘If you are good neighbours, you shall be welcome …’

  Broyle ignored him. ‘We don’t pay! Now, bring us food, and drink, and any gold or silver you might have!’

  The Velshman stepped closer.

  ‘Who are you? Forlish?’ he demanded. ‘Did the Crumliners hire you to threaten us?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The next village over. Did they hire you?’

  Broyle was about to deny everything when he remembered his orders in time.

  ‘We are Balian,’ he boasted, certain this ignorant Velshman would not know the difference.

  ‘You sound Forlish. And how could Balians make their way through all of Forland to reach us?’ the Velshman declared. ‘You are a liar. Now leave our village! You are not welcome here!’

  Broyle’s hand went down to his sword.

  ‘Don’t cross me, old man,’ he warned softly. ‘For I shall kill you and your people if you do not obey me. Now, tell your people to get out their food and drink and gold, and we shall ride out of here with smiles on our faces, and you get to keep your head. Be sensible, man. You know who we are, what we can do. The rest of your people are hiding, not standing behind you. Walk away, tell your people to do what we say and you’ll get to sleep with your wife again tonight, hold your children.’

  Earwen looked up at the big Forlishman without fear. He heard the truth in the man’s words and knew his life hung by a thread. For a moment only he was tempted. He wanted to see Huw again, wanted to see the boy grow into a man. There was still so much he needed to tell him. But he could not stand before Huw if he did not live up to his own code. Death would be preferable to betraying everything he had lived by.

  If only he could see Huw once more …

  ‘Wolves do not go away if you feed them,’ Earwen shouted. ‘Brothers! Sisters! We are many but they are few! Rally here!’ He looked around, waved to the men he saw standing in their doorways. This village had more than a hundred men of fighting age. If they stood together, the Forlish would run. ‘If we stand together, then they cannot …’

  He never got to finish the sentence. Broyle knew the truth of his words and spurred his horse forwards, sword leaping into his hand. With a battle cry, he hacked down viciously.

  Earwen tried to dodge away but the Forlishman had been fighting for too long and was a step ahead. The last thing Earwen saw was the sharp sword whistling towards his head, the last thing he thought was an anguished hope for his son to be safe.

  A cry of horror went up from watching villagers as the Velshman collapsed, his head all but severed, and Broyle signalled to his men, his blood-covered sword held high. They fanned out in all directions and that was enough for those watching.

  Instinctively they backed into houses, trying to seek shelter and cover, rather than rushing out and fighting. Broyle was relieved to see it. He did not have the men to fight a whole village — there were enough men here to drive him away, did they but realise it. He had to use fear to make up for his lack of numbers.

  ‘Get into those homes and get us some plunder!’ Broyle roared at his men, gesturing with his bloodied sword.

  Cheering, his men sprang into action, working as a team, as they had learned to do in a dozen Balian villages. One in four held their horses, while the other three raced off to the closest houses. One kicked the door in then the other two burst inside, weapons drawn. Shrieks and cries followed, as the house was ransacked and the occupants terrorised. Then the trio emerged, carrying sides of bacon, legs of lamb, bread and cheese, barrels of ale and, sometimes, small pouches of coins.

  A couple even emerged with a screaming woman over one shoulder, often followed by one or two crying children, although those were silenced with a blow if they got too close or the noise got too much. As for the man of the house in that case, the only sight of him was blood on a Forlish sword, although one came out swinging a wood axe — only to be cut down in the open. Together the villagers might have stood a chance but one Velshman was no match for three veteran Forlish warriors.

  Broyle watched with approval, only needing to help once, when a couple of men tried to attack one of his laden parties. But by the time he had galloped over there, the Velshmen were dead, their children and wives fleeing and his men had picked up their booty and carried it back to where the horses waited. After each group had been to two houses, and the pile of goods looked more than enough for the horses to carry away, he called halt. ‘That’s enough, lads. We have to leave these sheep with enough fleece so it’s worth another visit!’

  His men, all of them carrying valuables, and a handful with blood on their swords, cheered in response as they mounted up.

  ‘How easy is this going to be?’ Broyle grinned, helping himself to a loaf of fresh bread and tearing off a huge chunk. ‘We’ll find somewhere to store this, then see what other pickings are around.’

  He looked back at the village, at the Velsh emerging from hiding and wailing over their dead.

  ‘The king knows what he is doing. They’ll run to him after a few more visits like that,’ Broyle declared.

  His men, laden and looking forward to enjoying the spoils they had taken, grinned in agreement.

  Broyle h
ad been on raiding missions before, many times, when his regiment needed supplies and they had outpaced the wagons. Living off the land was almost second nature. He pushed the men hard, making sure they put plenty of distance between themselves and the village. He was sure there would be no pursuit but refused to get complacent. He had kept his men alive by being careful.

  It was late afternoon, the setting sun casting long shadows across the ground when they found a patch of woods on a hill, seemingly a long way from any villages, and the ideal place to base themselves.

  ‘Take what we picked up this morning and make camp up there,’ he instructed one of his corporals, Cenred. He had brought two with him and trusted Cenred far more than the other, Ricbert. Ricbert was a good fighter but a poor corporal. Cenred was the steadier man.

  ‘What about the women?’ Ricbert protested, as Broyle had expected him to.

  ‘Will be waiting for us when we return. We shall sweep around the area, see who our new neighbours are.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘There will be plenty for all,’ Broyle said warningly. ‘Another word and it could be your last.’

  Ricbert subsided and Broyle watched Cenred lead ten men with laden horses, as well as the four captured women, up towards the woods.

  ‘Come on. The king doesn’t pay us to sit and watch,’ Broyle said harshly, leading the rest of his men off to the south.

  Sendatsu had made himself a rough camp in the woods. He had failed at another village, this time one with a handful of elven buildings at its centre. These were not villas, nor halls but what looked like barns or storage huts. Still, they stood out from the Velsh buildings and were being used as homes by what looked like a dozen Velsh.

  But while these buildings were full of Velsh, the Velsh were empty of answers — and less friendly than Bedwin and Blodwen. They had endless demands for magic to save a prize cow or heal a sick child. Sendatsu tried to explain that magic was not that simple, and healing magic best left to a priest of Aroaril, for it took too much energy — but they would not listen, instead accusing him of keeping the magic to himself. At the very least they wanted him to tell them what to do, to ‘lead them back towards the light’, as one had said. They would not listen to his questions, nor believe him when he said his magic could not do all the things they wanted.

  Like the other village, he found himself in the middle of a knot of angry humans, all trying to pull him in a dozen directions. He tried to reason with them but they would not listen. When one grabbed hold of his pouch it was the last straw and he broke clear and ran for it.

  Now he was huddled next to a small fire, wondering miserably what his children were doing, back in Dokuzen, and how he might find answers when the humans would not even stop and listen to his questions. Then he heard the voices. They were close. The speech was different to that of the humans he had met in the villages, their voices lacking the lilt and singsong quality of the Velsh, being harsher and cruder. Mixed in with the harsh calls of the men were cries from women, and these seemed to be Velsh. He kicked dirt over his fire then grabbed his pack and his bow and faded back into the trees. Night was falling, and he had been staring into the fire for long enough that his eyes were struggling to help him tell where to go. Luckily his little stumbles and breaking of twigs underfoot were lost in the noise of the humans’ approach.

  He found himself a hiding place, between two fallen tree trunks, and settled there to allow his eyes to adjust to the gathering darkness.

  Cenred ordered two of his men to gather firewood, the others to start building shelters. They were old soldiers, and moved to their tasks swiftly, their enthusiasm for what was going to happen afterwards making the routine move even faster.

  Cenred stood and supervised, watching their four sobbing captives at the same time. Not that they were likely to run, given they were all tied together, but he was not about to take the chance. He had learned as much from his sergeant.

  He was pleased with the day’s work. He guessed they would probably have to kill more at the start, when the Velsh were more likely to fight back. Once the braver ones had been culled, like the older man that morning, the others would fall into place like the sheep they were.

  Then he drew his sword and whistled sharply.

  Instantly all work on the camp stopped and men raced for swords.

  ‘I smell smoke. There’s another camp nearby. Two to guard the horses — and women — the rest of you with me,’ Cenred ordered.

  Moving quickly and silently, with the ease of long practice, they slipped through the trees.

  It was not long before they found the remains of a fire, a trickle of smoke easing out from where someone had tried to cover it with dirt.

  ‘Single campfire. Probably a traveller.’

  ‘Just one man,’ Cenred agreed with his scout’s prediction. ‘We must find him and silence him. None can know we are here! Spread out!’

  Sendatsu was close enough to hear them, and by now could glimpse them, shapes against the darkening sky. They looked and acted differently from the Velsh. The story that elves shut themselves away from the human world was probably false but now, seeing these men spread out, swords in hands, he had a sense of the sort of humans Dokuzen mothers used to describe to terrify their children.

  For a moment he thought about fading away into the trees, sure they could not find him in the gathering gloom. After all, there were plenty of them and he had too much to lose to get involved in some scrappy fight in this nowhere woods.

  ‘Find him! Those women we took from the village have been tormenting us all day and I’m not going to wait much longer!’ someone shouted.

  Sendatsu’s face tightened in anger. So they were rapists as well as killers? He could not walk away, even though it was the smart thing to do. He could not leave women to the mercy of these men. That would haunt him for ever more.

  ‘Come on! Find him! Kill him!’

  That gave him a moment’s fear. Then it was replaced with a surge of anger. They thought to hunt him? He would show them he was the superior being, they were just crude men. He had been trained in woodcraft for years, had worked with both the sword and the bow. They could not hope to match him. Swiftly he strung his bow and checked his arrow bag. He only had a dozen arrows and barely half were useable. The heads on the others were facing the same way as the bow, so they could slice through the ribs of an animal that walked on four legs, like a deer. He needed arrows with the sharp metal head at right angles to the bow, so they could pass between the ribs of a standing animal, like a man.

  He moved with purpose, an arrow held lightly across his bow, at the ready. The longbow was not ideal for this sort of country, for there were too many bushes and hanging branches to offer a clear shot at any distance. It meant he had to get close. But he was willing to do that.

  They were searching carefully, holding up torches to help them look. They obviously thought he had gone to ground, for the torches made a perfect aiming point, he thought with satisfaction.

  Sighting on one man, he drew back the string, feeling the strain, and focused on what he could see in the flickering torchlight. This man was scarred and hard-looking, with big shoulders. The way he held the sword suggested he knew exactly how to handle it.

  He raised his bow and released in one movement, not pulling it back to the full draw, the arrow whispering out. He heard the solid thunk as it struck but the man stood for a long moment and he began to doubt, wondered if he had missed — then the man toppled forwards silently, his torch falling with him.

  The sight of the man falling gave Sendatsu a feeling of power and he felt his senses come fully alive again. All his fear for Mai and Cheijun, his anger at what was happening, hurt and frustration had been looking for an outlet — and now it had found one.

  ‘What’s going on over there?’

  The shout brought a smile to Sendatsu’s face and he circled out to his left, searching for a new target, picking his way carefully over the fallen leaves and twi
gs on the ground.

  The men gathered around their fallen comrade, one of them inspecting the long arrow and in particular the arrowhead protruding out of his back.

  ‘What in the name of all that’s holy is that?’ one man shouted.

  ‘It’s an arrow, idiot,’ someone answered him.

  ‘Arrowheads don’t look like that — they don’t stick two feet out of your bloody back!’ the first voice cried.

  The torches were giving Sendatsu a good look at them and he tried to spot the leader, although he was probably the one on his knees, inspecting the fallen man, making him an impossible target. No matter, there were far easier ones. Sendatsu drew and loosed, sending a shaft into the back of the closest. He lingered long enough to see the spray of blood blast into the faces of two men opposite as the sharpened head tore out the other side, then he ducked and ran, circling around still further.

  ‘Drop those torches! Stay together! He’s only one man!’

  Sendatsu heard the shouts and almost laughed. He was more than just one man. He found another likely place for an ambush and stopped, standing behind a huge tree. The woods were darker now, but hardly quiet — the dying cries of the second man Sendatsu had picked off still echoed but, in between, Sendatsu could hear a pair of men walking cautiously towards him. A pair was better than one, for they made a bigger target, walking one behind the other, the second a little to the left. Moving slowly, for fast motion was easier to see in low light, he drew back the bow and sighted on the lead man. He let them get close, barely ten paces away, before loosing.