The man’s tone was quiet, measured, not accusing, yet Luis still looked down, ashamed.
“Of course, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be careful.”
Another nod and Luis turned, departing the woven hut by the canvas door, leaving the two figures inside to converse by themselves.
“You’re too soft on your men, outlander. I hope you know that.”
Iain smiled at the good natured criticism, his still-youthful face now becoming creased with the lines of fight and flight. The months had been hard. But the Foresters were still unbroken. And if he had anything to do with it, would remain that way.
“I know, John. But these men and women have been through a lot. It’s not my place to add to their burden. As long as they learn from their mistakes, that’s enough for me.” His eyes shimmered as he thought back to events that seemed almost a lifetime ago now. “This band is built on trust. It’s a family. The only family we have. You understand that…”
John nodded, eyes solemn within his lined, bearded face. He did, more than Iain could know. He could feel the weight of years resting heavily on even his burly frame. The months of fighting, of running, of eking out an existence from the darkness of the Forest. Hunted, hounded, at all turns, by the servants of a King who should not even be in power. He thought back, so long ago, to that dark time, driven from their homes, on the march, fleeing the wrath of the tax-collectors who had come a-knocking, with their troop of hired soldiers, on the hunt for monies they would never find.
Driven. Like geese, like sheep. Herded away from the towns and villages and into the wilderness. No rest, no mercy. Every straggler taken off to be hanged in that god-forsaken keep. Only snatched moments to grab a mouthful to eat or a minute of fitful slumber before moving on again, willing leaden limbs into action.
How John had felt like giving up. How they’d all felt like giving up. And then finally they’d found themselves, surrounded, cut off; a band of warriors, a dark wall between them and the safety of the forest. Death had closed in. But then salvation. A flash of bright light. The scorching taste of metal on the tongue. And cries had split the air. Arrows darkening the sky. Their pursuers routed beneath the fury of a new force.
The outlanders. Those who had named themselves so aptly for their new surroundings.
The Foresters.
So yes, when Iain spoke, John knew what he meant. He knew of what it was to find new family in the midst of strife. To find bonds of friendship in the heat of bloodshed.
He knew of hope.
Though his hope was different from that of the outlanders. They had faith that their lord would be coming to find them, to bring them back to his fold. Was this lord the self-same deity of which the preacher and his men sang every Sunday morning? Perhaps, though he had seen the Foresters exchanging wry grins at some of the sermons, suitably unimpressed by tales of water-walking and resurrection. They’d seen better, the looks had said.
No, John had no such grand visions. His ambitions were lower. More worldly. A woman. A home that wasn’t this wretched forest. The chance to raise a family in peace. To maybe rebuild his forge, continue his work as a smith.
To live, for once, as a man. Not a beast.
He started, Iain’s voice jarring him from his dream of times past and yet to come.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said, I think we’d best gather the men.”
John nodded, reaching for his sturdy, wooden quarterstaff.
“Aye. And you’d best inform your leader. Speaking of which, where is he?”
A shake of the head and Iain sighed.
“Where is he always? Out there, somewhere. Finding trouble. And killing it, no doubt.”
***
No sound betrayed his movement. No shape, no shine, no silhouette. He was a hunter.
And everything was his prey.
Fingers, strong and sinewy, curled about the wooden haft of his axe, slung low, ready. Footsteps that should have rustled in the undergrowth, muffled by years of experience. Eyes, unassuming, every-day, yet glistening with a burden of power, bored through the foliage seeking their target.
There; four men, leather clad and wielding crossbows. A vanguard to the larger force that even now approached the outskirts of the forest, making their way as stealthily as they could through the forest trails. Stealthily, yet each clumsy footstep telegraphed a hundred yards in every direction, there to be picked up by even the lowliest of the Foresters.
To Alann, they may as well have been wearing cowbells.
His keen eyes narrowed as he planned his attack. Luis had ran past earlier, completely oblivious to Alann’s presence. That was fine by the Woodsman; such hit and run favoured the stealthy and Luis was yet green. He laughed to himself for an instant. That anyone could be thought green after enduring what they had, hah! Yet they were the Foresters; they were measured by a different yardstick.
A rustling in the undergrowth caught his attention and he turned, silently, just as a flock of birds erupted from the gloom of the mid-day forest. He froze for long moments, rigid, mouth open to help him hear as the last of the wing beats died away. Keen eyes scanned the forest floor, but there was nothing there, no trace of what may have disturbed the birds. His gaze lingered moments more, eyebrows furrowed, before turning back to his quarry that prowled still on the forest path.
The man on the left had his crossbow slung across his back, unwound and unready. That weapon wouldn’t enter the equation; he would be using only the rondel dagger at his belt. He could be left till last. The other two had crossbows at the ready, bolts in place and ready to fly at the touch of a switch. One was encumbered, a large backpack across his shoulders and metal helmet atop his brow. The other unladen with such burdens.
Order of kill decided then; unladen crossbowman, other crossbowman, dagger-man. Three men, three swings of the axe. He nodded to himself in grim resolution, feeling the humming power coursing through the wooden handle of the simple, workman weapon at his side. Three men. Not even a… Wait. His eyes narrowed. Three…?
Cold steel pricked his cheek as rancid breath hissed through rotting teeth in a guttural parody of a laugh. Alann’s eyes strained in their sockets to look to the right, spying the end of a crossbow pressed hard against his face, the sweaty, unshaven militiaman grinning at his luck.
“Gotcha…”
Alann sniffed. Damn birds. The soldier’s finger twitched on the trigger and Alann made to turn, ready to pit his speed against the remorseless flight of steel, but never had the chance.
“No you don’t!”
A blur of motion, an impact of body on body, and the soldier went down, finger instinctively closing about the trigger. The metal bolt careened from the end of the weapon, just grazing Alann’s cheek in a whistle of air, but no time to check for damage. Two bodies rolled on the floor, crossbow discarded, forgotten, as the soldier went for his dagger, one booted foot sending the new figure sprawling away. The newcomer leapt up, fingers grasping for the longbow on his back, but it wasn’t there, sent flying in the fracas. His fingers instead closed about the shaft of an arrow, whipping it out and hurling it end over end, even as the bellowing soldier closed the distance between them.
The militiaman’s corpse skidded to a halt at the newcomer’s feet in a flurry of fallen leaves, lifeless eyes gazing up into the last face he’d ever see, the shaft of the arrow sticking out a clear foot from his throat.
The newcomer turned, a smile on his youthful face as he grasped his peaked cap and made a flourished bow to the Woodsman.
Alann growled. The Boy. He should have known.
“What are you doing here? Trying to give away our position to the entire enemy force?”
The smile remained on The Boy’s youthful face.
“I managed to sneak up on you, didn’t I?” A mischievous glint in his eyes. “And don’t sound too grateful, will you? I only saved your arse…”
Alann nodded behind The Boy.
“Oh aye? And who’s going to save yours?”
Three figures paced closer from the trail, alerted by the sounds of voices. Two raised their crossbows, aimed and ready to fire, murder shining in their eyes. The third lingered behind, rondel dagger shifting uneasily from hand to trembling, sweaty hand.
The Boy’s mouth opened in alarm, but before he could make a sound, force beyond force threw him aside to fall into the leaves. The twang of crossbows and all The Boy could do was gaze up in awe as events unfolded before him as if in slow motion.
The first bolt flew with invisible speed and impeccable aim, but was greeted by the flat of an axe blade, rebounding off in a shower of sparks to fly back whence it came. Even as the soldier fell, steel helmet cracked asunder by the force of his own, redirected shot, Alann whirled in an arc, axe whistling through the air over the startled Boy, before releasing and soaring towards the second crossbowman. Axe flew, even as bolt flew, the two meeting in mid-air by chance or aim, the sharp edge of the Woodsman’s weapon cleaving the bolt in harmless twain, before carrying on to its prey. The crossbowman left the ground, axe buried in his chest, the power of the throw carrying him ten feet backwards to crash into the unyielding trunk of a sturdy oak, before falling, broken and lifeless, to the forest floor.
Alann walked, slowly, purposefully, towards the third, trembling man. The soldier’s breath coming in short, ragged gasps, as he gazed about the forest floor, seeing two of his comrades lying, slain, in as many moments.
“Who… who are you?”
Alann sniffed.
“Merely a Woodsman.”
Horror lit the man’s face as what was left of his courage fled, legs buckling as he fell to his knees, dagger falling from shaking fingers.
“Please… please don’t kill me.” Tears glistened the man’s eyes. “ I have a wife. I have children…”
Alann regarded the soldier. His lined face. The bubble of snot threatening to erupt from one nostril. This was no bloodthirsty Clansman. No gibbering demon.
This was nothing more than an unfortunate soul, press-ganged into the service of an uncaring lord. The Woodsman nodded.
“Go. But go straight home. Do not return to your lord. Do not give away our position.” He placed one foot on the chest of a fallen soldier, wrenching his axe free, before fixing the sole survivor with a meaningful glare. “I will know if you do…”
The man nodded, a smile of ecstasy lighting his face at such luck, before spinning and flying from the forest.
“Why?” The Boy’s voice pierced the silence as the Woodsman cleaned his axe of his enemy’s blood.
“Why what?”
“Why did you let him go? He’s no different from these pigs here.” The Boy kicked at a corpse, a look of disdain on his face. “He would have gladly killed us, had he the courage. Was it just his spinelessness that caused you to take pity on him?”
Alann laughed and shook his head. He had grown used to The Boy’s blunt questions over the time they’d been in this land. The lad was eager, latching onto the outlanders from the off, willing to learn their ways. He was brave, too. And smart. Alann suspected that he had the seeds of greatness within him. But whether his impetuosity would ever let them mature…
“You will learn, my young friend, that it’s not the common man that’s your enemy, but rather those he fears. Give a man a choice, a way out, and he’ll almost always take it over killing you.”
The Boy nodded, then inclined his head to the corpse that lay slumped at the base of the tree.
“And what about him? And the other two?”
Alann paused.
“Some people won’t see the choice, even when it’s right in front of their eyes.”
“But if they’d lowered their weapons, you’d have let them go?”
Alann thought for a moment.
“Maybe. It depends on the man. I like to think the best of people, but even so,” he looked down at the lined scowl that creased the dead man’s face, “you get scum in every barrel. Come, let’s get back to camp. I have a feeling that Iain’s fretting over our whereabouts…”
***
A city in the forest. A myriad huts, campfires, men, women, children. The smell of food, the scent of beer. The sounds of merrymaking. The sonorous preaching of the clergyman. The laughter of the children. Outlanders and Englanders as one.
The din of life.
This place was a refuge, a haven, for those forced to flee their former homes. But a haven no longer, for once more the enemy were at the gates. Alann cleared his throat. The hubbub died down.
For when the Woodsman spoke, people listened.
“My friends, I’ve known you long enough to not insult your intelligence. The rumours are true; our foes are on the move.” Murmurs amongst the crowd and Alann pressed on. “The army we face is large, I’ll kid you not. But this is our home. Our opponents fight for fear or coin. We fight for our freedom. We cannot be defeated. Not if we stand as one.”
John marched forth from behind his leader, his great stature looming above even the Woodsman as he bellowed out from behind his bushy beard.
“Who amongst you will answer the Call of the Forest?”
As expected, every Outlander stepped forwards. As expected, so did every able-bodied Englander. Alann’s chest swelled with pride till it was fit to burst. This, he thought. This is how tales are made. Not with demons, not with demi-gods that bestrode the battlefield on wings of fire.
No. With real men and women. Humble, working folk that simply dared to stand up and be counted when the time came to heed the call.
John turned, nodding to his leader, and Alann smiled.
“Form fighting groups. Distribute the weapons. At daybreak, we crush our foes.”
***
No! This is not how it was planned. Rodney turned about, spinning, twin axes ready to strike down his foes, but none drew near the tax-collector. Not because they were afraid, no. These outlaws didn’t seem to know the meaning of fear, not like his own, cowardly troops. No, they were not afraid.
They were cunning.
Sneaky. Attacking, then fleeing, drawing Rodney and his men ever deeper into the bowels of this God-forsaken forest, this dark, twisting labyrinth where the horses would fall and numbers count for nought.
Here and there, he would catch a glimpse of others fighting alongside the outlaws. Steely, determined men and women that appeared like wraiths from the dark, striking down his soldiers with preternatural skill, before slipping back into the shadows.
The Outlanders. He had heard tell of them. How they’d appeared, as if by miracle, to save the outlaws from the clutches of defeat. Hah, fairy tales, he sneered. Them and their leader, the Woodsman, they called him. Ten feet tall, they say. With eyes of fire and a voice like thunder.
Bullshit.
One of his own men came flying towards him, feet lent wings of fear, eyes wide with horror. One of Rodney’s own axes put an end to the coward’s flight, a whipping arm slicing his throat and sending the traitor careening to the floor, hands grasping at his sundered neck.
There was nothing more to these forests but shadow and superstition. He would prove that himself. And by doing so, win the praises of his lord.
His watery grey eyes scanned the gloom, fixing on a hide-clad youth, mouth breaking into a predator grin. The lad’s attention was elsewhere, crouched where he thought himself hidden, loosing arrow after arrow into the fray with impressive speed. The youth was good. He’d best make this quick.
A strong arm hurled an axe, the sharp, heavy head whirling in an whistling arc towards his prey, ready to smash his skull into fragments, but luck or some sixth sense caused the youth to duck at the last instant. The axe snatched the cap from atop his head, the lad turning in shock, hand feeling with comedic drama the empty space his cap used to occupy.
Rodney snarled and charged, hoping to catch the youth while still in shock, but, to his credit, the archer regained his wit quickly, nocking and loosing an arrow at the cha
rging soldier. Even against a fast approaching target, his aim was good and Rodney winced in anticipation as a missile soared his way. An impact and the warrior laughed incredulously, the arrow lodged firmly in the leather of his shoulder, but missing his flesh entirely. God was with him this day. With a roar of triumph he lunged upon his startled foe, crashing down upon the slight youth, dashing the bow to one side and making ready to slay with his axe.
The boy wasn’t going to go down without a fight, grasping Rodney’s axe arm with both hands in an effort to keep him at bay, but his muscles were young, still developing, and the bigger man’s bulk began to tell as the youth cried out in desperation and fear. The boy’s knee rose, smashing into his assailant’s midsection, but the leather armour shielded him from the worst and, with a snarl of savage glee, Rodney began to force the axe blade down towards his younger opponent’s neck.
A sudden and fierce pain in his shoulder, white hot like fire, and the soldier cried out in pain, releasing his pressure on his foe enough for the youth to bring his legs up and kick him away. Stumbling backwards, Rodney felt behind him as best he could, noting the sticky wetness that coated his fingers. He didn’t have to wait long to find the cause, as another youth grasped his former opponent by the arm and helped him up.
“Good timing, Will.”
The youth’s saviour nodded, spinning the bloodied dagger in his other hand.
“Don’t mention it.” He nodded towards the soldier. “Now let’s take care of him.”
Rodney laughed, despite the pain, throwing his head back.
“Yes! Let’s have at it, children. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
“No lads,” another voice behind him, deep and resonant. “This one we leave.”
Rodney turned in surprise, axe ready, eyes ranging higher as he took in the bulk of his new foe. Bushy beard, twinkling eyes and a raised, meaty fist.
An instant later, blackness.
Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 2
