Bewildered, Silke looked to the Journeyman then back at the forest. Again he pointed towards the crest of the ridge above. Along its spine grew scrubby, stunted pines, their needles appearing almost black in the half-light. Just below this rough natural barrier could be seen a darker splotch, a hollow space between the stones. Without waiting for a reply from the paramour he guided her towards the cave, half dragging her the last few meters.
At the mouth of the cleft the Journeyman laid Silke to one side and slipped within. He then reemerged, grasped her under her arms, and pulled her inside. The going was slow, even with her attempts to aid him. Beyond its threshold the cave opened slightly and he was accorded better leverage. The Journeyman gave one last tug and she was through. He collapsed to the floor amidst years of accumulated deadfall and grit.
The Journeyman lay where he had fallen, staring up at the darkened ceiling of the cave no more than a meter above his head. In the faint light that shone through the narrow opening he could see his breath as it steamed from his mouth and nose. His chest heaved, and he drew in the musty forgotten smell of the cave in great gasps. At his feet he could feel Silke’s own labored breathing. For a long while neither moved, nor spoke. They lay coated in castoff pine needles, their cloaks dripping.
The sound of fabric moving against stone made the Journeyman raise his head. He peered down the length of his body towards where Silke lay. She had drawn herself up on her elbows and was looking at him. In the dim light he could not see her eyes, only the silhouette of her head and shoulders. Still he could feel the gravity of her stare. He lowered his head and went back to gazing at the ceiling. Outside the rain continued to fall, the sound of it swelling and fading, pulsing like a living thing.
Another scraping noise and again the Journeyman raised his head. He could feel more than see Silke as she drew herself along the cave floor and up towards where he lay. When she was level with him she reached out and grabbed hold of the front of his tunic.
Silke bent forward, her waterlogged hair hanging about his face. Her nose was no more than a centimeter from his. When she spoke he could feel her breath on his face. “You are the cause of this. You are the reason for my suffering.”
He did not respond.
“I would never have been here, in the Erstewald, if it were not for you. I would have been far away, with my own people. I would not have borne witness to the slaughter in Lyvys. I would not be in this cave freezing to death.”
Gracelessly she threw herself atop him. He could feel her breasts through the sodden wool and leather of his tunic. His breathing quickened.
Silke lowered her lips until they brushed his own. “I hate you with every fiber of my being.”
Then she rolled away from him, curling herself into a fetal ball. Her back was to him, her shoulders quaking. The Journeyman raised one hand, held it just above her shoulder, then let it drop.
Rolling to his side the Journeyman curled into a ball of his own and shut his eyes.
His clothes were stiff. His limbs were stiff. His back, shoulders, and neck were a mass of knots. The Journeyman tried to stretch, but his progress was halted by the shelf of rock that hung down over his head. He blinked and squinted at the stone. It was a dull reddish-brown, the color washed out and faded in the gray light that shone through the cave mouth. Tilting his head forward he peered down towards his feet. He could see nothing past the pallid wall of light.
Rolling to his side the Journeyman extended a hand. The words he was about to speak died on his lips as his hand found nothing but cold stone. Silke was gone.
Scooting himself awkwardly from the narrow cave he emerged into daylight. At first he could see nothing at all; then, by increments, the world came into focus. He squinted, raising a hand before his eyes. Around him stood trees that were dark and silent, their branches dripping with condensation. Between their boughs drifted motes of fog so pale as to be almost white. They swirled and eddied, hiding then again revealing the jagged rock formations that capped the ridge on which he sat. Just down the slope was another shape.
He rose and moved closer, his boots dislodging a small cascade of stones. The pebbles clattered down the slope, their sound jarring in the white-washed silence. The shape did not move.
“Silke?”
“Yes.”
His joints stiff and protesting, the Journeyman limped down
the slope to where the paramour sat. Covered from head to toe in her once blue cloak she appeared to be little more than a jutting stone; a rock formation that resembled the shape of a woman.
“You’re still here,” said the Journeyman drawing up beside her.
Silke turned and peered up at him with blood-shot eyes. He had no doubt that his own looked little better.
“We slept the night through,” said the paramour.
The Journeyman nodded.
Silke went back to staring down the slope.
For a moment the Journeyman was unsure what he should do. For lack of any better ideas he sat down beside her, his knees cracking. She turned again to regard him, then refocused on the fog.
“When I woke and found myself alone I thought you had gone. I didn’t expect to find you sitting ”
“Where are we?” Silke cut in.
The Journeyman thought for a moment then said, “Somewhere west of the Erstewald.”
“Huul territory?”
“Most likely.”
She sighed.
“Hardly seems fair,” said the paramour.
“Hardly,” said the Journeyman.
“The Huuls, they don’t care much for my people, the Erstemenschen,” said Silke. “They’ve made a career out of hacking us to pieces whenever they can.”
“They don’t care much for Journeymen, either,” he said.
They remained silent, watching as the fog wandered about the trees and stone outcroppings. In its wake the stunted pines were still. The beads of rainwater that clung to their dark needles remained poised, winking in the diffuse light.
“We’ve a problem,” said Silke.
The Journeyman concurred. “Yes, we’ve a problem.”
“To the east is Lyvys, Thane, and the whole Imperial army.”
“One of their armies,” said the Journeyman.
Silke shot him a withering look then went on. “To the west are harsh and unforgiving mountains crawling with Huuls. Once the fog clears and they see that Lyvys has been burned they’ll come streaming out of their holes and return to pillaging the First Forest.”
The Journeyman shrugged. “To the South is Ghul, the remains of Olis’s farmstead, and hordes of Horselords. They’ll be riding north once word reaches them that Lyvys has fallen. They’ll snatch up what scraps the Huuls leave behind.”
“Northward seems the only possible route of escape,” sighed the paramour. She turned and looked at the Journeyman with narrowed eyes. “Escape for me, not for you.”
“I have no intention of moving in the same direction as the Vallénci,” said the Journeyman. “Your people are allied with the Lords of the Vallén, not mine.”
Silke nodded.
“What of Drysden?” asked the Journeyman.
“His is not the only noble house in the Vallén,” she said.
The Journeyman cocked an eyebrow.
“I have allies of my own,” said the paramour.
He raised a hand in mute surrender.
“In their hierarchy Drysden is far from the pinnacle,” said Silke. “He is a good soldier, but he wields little political power. His cousin is by far the more influential member of his family.”
“You think Drysden and his relatives will tolerate your presence after what he’s suffered?”
“He needn’t know I am there.”
“And how will you manage that?” asked the Journeyman. “His are the only troops between here and the Vallén. To get there you must go through him.”
Silke let out a quick, humorless laugh. “I have my ways.”
Again there was sil
ence. At last the Journeyman got shakily to his feet. “Then we are parted,” he said and extended his hand. After a moment’s pause Silke took it and he helped her to her feet.
She wiped the pine needles from the back of her trousers, then looked up at the Journeyman. She met his eyes, glasz staring into pale blue, each showing signs of the strain and fatigue that had plagued them since…when? The Journeyman could not remember. In his mind the days and nights that had passed since his arrival in Lyvys had bled together. Even the dreamless sleep that had taken him the night before had done little to ease his exhaustion. Ahead was more walking, more running; a seeming infinity of flight and pursuit. The thought made him weary to his very core.
“What will you ” Silke began then her eyes went wide.
Journeyman and paramour raised their heads in unison. The sound that came drifting through the fog was unmistakable. It was the sound of an armored column moving in lockstep.
27. THE VALLEY
The soldiers marched two abreast, a double file of men dressed in mail and blue-gray uniforms. On their heads were nasal helmets and over their shoulders were slung spears, halberds, and pole axes. The blades of their weapons were bare, moisture running in thin rivulets from the steel. Their uniforms were torn, stained in places with soot and dried gore. As they moved over the broken and slippery terrain they glanced nervously from side to side, their furtive glances a counterpoint to their slumped and weary posture.
Though they maintained their marching order it was evident that these men had been in constant motion for days. A forced march like this through difficult and hostile terrain produced skittishness in even the most seasoned of troops. These men had been routed; that was plainly evident. The Journeyman thought it no wonder they looked ready to jump out of their skin.
From the patches sewn onto their tunics the Journeyman recognized the soldiers as belonging to the contingent of Vallénci that had been stationed in Lyvys. Driven out by Thane’s troops, these men had somehow survived the crushing defeat the Hegemony had dealt them. Now they retreated north, their lines streaming away from the First Forest and back towards the Vallén.
“Where are the rest of them?” asked Silke, more to herself than the Journeyman. She crouched beside him, concealed from view by a jagged spur of rock. Their hiding place looked out over a narrow valley that ran between two steep ridges, its floor covered in bracken and new spring grass. The herbage was trampled flat; the already loose stones churned up and kicked to the side by hundreds of passing feet.
“That’s the lot,” said the Journeyman with a shrug. “I’ve only counted four…maybe five hundred men,” said the paramour, brow furrowed.
“You saw the slaughter in Lyvys as readily as I,” said the Journeyman. “I’m surprised this many made it out.”
“Where is he?” asked Silke.
“Drysden?”
Silke did not deign to respond.
“I can only hope he was ”
The Journeyman’s heart sank as the sound of horses clattering awkwardly over the broken ground came echoing through the defile. A moment later a mounted contingent split the ranks of marching soldiers. They reined up short, their horses snorting great plumes of steam into the early morning fog. The Journeyman could see that the animals had been ridden hard; their sides covered in sweat, foam dripping from their lips. The men that sat astride their exhausted mounts glanced nervously about, the whites of their eyes visible even from where Silke and the Journeyman huddled.
“There’s your answer,” said the paramour and pointed.
At the center of the pack milled a Percheron with speckled flanks. Atop the charger, standing in the stirrups, was the unmistakable figure of Drysden. The young noble’s hair was loose, the long dark strands clinging wetly to his neck and shoulders. His armor was battered, his cloak half torn from his shoulders. His already thin face was haggard, his cheeks sunken. The dark circles beneath his pale eyes lent him a grizzled, haunted look.
“Turn them!”
The words rang clear and hollow in the stillness of the valley. It was an order, one given by a man on the verge of panic. The Journeyman was shocked to hear it issue from Drysden’s lips.
“Turn them!” shouted the young noble again. “Order your units about and form up!”
The officers that sat to either side of him turned to each other then back to the lordling. The Journeyman saw confusion on their faces, and fear. One spurred towards the head of the column while another waded forward into the mass of milling foot-soldiers. As they scrambled out of the officer’s way the men-at-arms stared about in shocked bewilderment.
Drysden smote the officer closest to him on the side of the head then grabbed ahold of the man’s breastplate. Drawing him close he barked, “Turn the column and form up! Three men deep, pikemen to the fore! Set the halberdiers in the back two ranks. Block the entrance to the defile and we ”
His tirade was cut short by a trumpet blast from the east. The sharp series of notes rebounded from the rocky escarpments and echoed through the trees. Even in his hiding place high above the valley the sound sent a chill up the Journeyman’s spine. Beside him he felt Silke stiffen.
“No,” breathed the paramour, then louder, “No!”
Drysden’s head snapped in the direction from which the cry had come. The Journeyman saw his pale eyes lock upon the rocky spur behind which they crouched, then again turn towards the east. A moment later a second trumpet blast came rolling up the defile. The Journeyman turned to his right in time to see a wall of mounted men burst through the swirling fog. “Thane…” he said, and out of the corner of his eye, saw Silke cringe
With lances couched the line of Imperial cavalry thundered into the mouth of the valley. Without breaking stride they crashed through the disorganized jumble of foot-soldiers. Men screamed and tried to throw themselves to the side. They were caught by the steep walls of the defile, their retreat cut off. With crushing efficiency the cavalry rode down the back of the column, trampling men beneath the hooves of their horses or spitting them on their lances. The Vallénci troops scrambled over one another, knocking their fellows to the ground in a mad rush to escape the onslaught.
The knot of gray-blue uniforms further up the valley shattered as men streamed away to either side. The neat column disintegrated into a milling throng that ran, helter-skelter, like so many frightened hares. In their midst the small contingent of mounted officers broke apart, joining the foot soldiers in flight. Only Drysden remained where he was, his horse rearing, slashing at the air with its hooves. The young noble’s sword was out, the length of blued steel gleaming even in the halflight. Then the cavalry was in the open and crashing into the backs of the fleeing troops.
Mounted warriors rode in and amongst the routed Vallénci, hacking at them with swords and warpicks. The Journeyman saw men fall, limbs hacked away and heads split nearly in two. Others were flung to the ground by the thundering bulk of the horses and crushed into the mud and stones by thrashing hooves. The sound of metal on metal, metal on flesh, and the crunch of bone was audible even over the terrified screams of the dying.
At sparse intervals isolated pockets of resistance sprang up as Vallénci troops pulled together in tight schiltrons. They set the butts of their spears and halberds into the mud creating bristling walls of pointed steel. A dozen cavalrymen and their horses died on these defensive formations, both men and mounts run through. Then, one by one, the schiltrons began to succumb to the overwhelming numbers that bore down upon them. With no thought to their own losses the hurtling mass of lancers and horses broke the formations. Dying men and animals barreled into the schiltrons, crushing the defenders and opening holes wide enough for their fellows to ride through. The Journeyman cringed at the sight of the disemboweled or speared horses that lay writhing amidst the fallen soldiery.
As the schiltrons began to fall the remaining Vallénci broke and scattered. The Imperials rode them down, transforming the field of battle into an abattoir. Men died by on
es and twos, separated from their units, caught out in the open. The clatter of hooves, the clash of steel, the roar of men and beasts grew to a frightening crescendo. Mud and cruor coated the ground, the churned mess overlaid by the heaped bodies of the slain. Sprawled amidst the dead, lay the wounded. Some begged for aid; others called for their mothers. At these rending cries the Journeyman felt Silke shudder and tense beside him. He spared the paramour one quick glance and saw tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.
Lashing out furiously with his longsword, Drysden hewed through the neck of one assailant then turned and skewed another as he rode past. He spun his Percheron, knocking its flanks into the animal of a third lancer. The gelding went over sideways, hooves flashing. It crushed its rider beneath it, splintering the man’s pelvis and tearing his leg from its socket.
Two more lancers drove at the young noble, each with sword upraised. With a furious cry Drysden turned to meet them, his own dripping blade held out before him. He passed to the near side of the first rider, striking an overhand blow as he flew by. The stroke caught the man in the back, knocking him free of his saddle. He hit the ground with a crash, crumpling into the mud and skidding to a halt.
Drysden and the remaining cavalryman wheeled and came at each other a second time. They met full on, swords flashing, the ring of steel rebounding from the surrounding hillsides. His eyes wide, seeming to pop from their sockets, the young lord of the Vallén hewed at his opponent. His teeth were bared in an animal snarl that gave him the appearance of a cornered wolf; a beast that would rend and tear at its tormentors until either he or they lay dead.
Delivering a series of vicious overhand blows Drysden shattered his opponent’s blade. The man let out an audible moan the instant before the final stroke hacked through his wrist and into his neck. A jet of crimson splashed across Drysden’s face, the blood standing out in sharp contrast against his pale skin.
Though his stomach lurched and his head swam the Journeyman forced himself to remain focused on the battle. He watched as the young noble struck yet another foeman from his saddle then, turning his horse, barked an order to his remaining officers.
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