by Widowmaker
Bayrd’s head snapped around in an attempt to follow it, but eyes that could track an arrow in the air could see nothing but a faint, receding twinkle against the blue sky, like a star falling from the Heavens. But he knew when it reached its destination.
As if someone had poured oil into a brazier, a globe of jade-green flame threaded with lines of burning silver erupted from inside the edge of Baylen Forest. For an instant the treetops became stark silhouettes, their shadows reaching out and down from underneath this new green sun. Then that sun rebounded from the forest as though from something solid, like a ball bouncing from a paving-slab, and arched high into the air before tipping over and descending into the midst of Erhal’s army.
More than half a mile separated the self-styled Overlord from where Bayrd Talvalin stood, but he still braced himself for the crash and roar of impact as the green fire landed squarely on the great ar’Albanak clan banner and sent it whirling up in flames. But there was no such sound, no such explosion; only a huge gasp like an indrawn breath – or a breath choked out by force – as the green sphere collapsed into itself and the threads of silver drew tight as a noose as they disappeared. And then all was silence.
Until the screaming began.
“What did you do?” he whispered, even though he had neither need nor desire to find out the details of what had happened to Erhal; what he had seen had been as graphic as he wanted, now or later.
“Convinced them. Look.”
A ripple went through the army as though it was a single creature rather than five thousand individuals, spreading outward from where the fire had struck before contracting in again. Then the screaming changed. It was a thin sound over all that distance, but it was clear enough that Bayrd could tell the instant that fear and confusion became shock and rage. Men who might have killed Erhal themselves were pushing forward to see what had happened to him, then surging back filled not with satisfaction at his death, but with fury at how their lord, their honour and their strength of arms had all been insulted.
The single creature shook itself as the ranks recovered their positions, and then, in silence, without drum or trumpet, challenge or defiance – and without paying any further heed to Gerin ar’Diskan’s small force, even when it marched to join instead of fight them – the army of the Overlord of Alba began to move.
Towards Baylen Forest.
“That was easier than you let on,” said Bayrd. His voice was low. After what he had just seen from the quiet of their vantage point, shouting seemed somehow disrespectful.
Eskra cuffed at him, though the blow was as feeble as a child’s. “You do what I’ve just done, then call it easy,” she snapped; but there was no real edge to her voice, nor any strength to put it there. “I had to convince men who’d rather go back to Cerdor and rescue their families that they’d been personally slighted. After that, it was easy. Your people, loved. Know one of them” – her hand closed on his – “know all of them. Most, anyway.”
She leaned her armoured head against his armoured shoulder, then swore wearily and straightened up, tearing impatiently at the straps and laces. “At least I don’t need this damned shell any more, and you—”
“I need it,” said Bayrd abruptly, moving like a man coming from a dream to full wakefulness without the period of pleasant drowsing in between. “I need it now. And so does Marc ar’Dru. I got him into this mess. I’ll get him—”
The rest of the shout was lost in a thudding of hooves.
The construction of an Alban war-saddle was such that a man couldn’t really vault into it from the ground. Bayrd Talvalin made a creditable attempt, even though he was still halfway between afoot and mounted when the grey mare Yarak shot off like an arrow underneath him.
After what had happened, there was no time to waste. Prisoners would be a luxury that the Albans would ignore, and Gerin ar’Diskan was likely to slaughter anyone in cu Ruruc’s presence. From the sound of it, that meant Marc.
An arrow – whose, he neither knew nor cared – scythed past him as he came within range of the forest. By now the bulk of the two armies had forced their way beneath its shadows, and he could hear shouting and the clangour of steel above even the sounds of his own speed. Bodies lay here and there, fewer than he had expected to see, and none of them struck down by anything unusual.
Unusual, he thought, his mind shying from any more specific description.
Yarak slewed to a halt and he flung himself to the ground. If nothing happened to either of them between now and later, the mare would still be waiting when he emerged again. Nobody would – could – steal Yarak, and she would be safer here without an armoured man on her back to draw enemy arrows. He remembered the shaft which had scraped past his helmet on his way across the moor, wondering vaguely who in all this chaos the enemy might be.
And where, in all the chaos that he could hear but not yet see, he might find one man among so many, when they were all trying to slaughter one another. Especially a man who would probably look like Kalarr cu Ruruc’s chief lieutenant. Find him; keep him in one piece; and try to do the same thing for himself.
“Luck,” said Bayrd. “Blind luck. And you.” Isileth Widowmaker hissed as he slid her from the scabbard. “Especially you.”
He plunged into the gloom.
Going after Kalarr was easier than he dared hope, and luck had nothing to do with it. All he had to do was follow the bull-bellow of Gerin ar’Diskan’s voice, plain and clear even above the sounds of battle. And even in dead silence he might have tracked the clan-lord, by the trail of shattered bodies Gerin left behind.
Somebody lunged at him with both hands full, a mace in one and a war-axe in the other, and even though his eyes had grown more used to the distracting dapple of bright sunlight cutting through the deep-green shade, Bayrd had no time to recognize the man’s crest-coat or identify himself.
He met the axe with a glissading block that sent the weapon screeching in a shower of sparks, and took the mace alongside the head in another shower of sparks that were entirely inside his own skull. Bayrd staggered sideways, lashing out backhanded at his opponent in an attempt to clear himself the space and time to get his breath and senses back.
It gained him more time than he expected. Yelling triumphantly, the man was already charging forward to finish him off with the axe raised high above his head, and he ran straight into the full-force sweep of Widowmaker’s blade. Bayrd felt the crunch of flesh and metal giving way beneath the taiken’s edge, and heard whoever it had been crash backwards into the undergrowth without a sound.
Bayrd paused, panting, his head reeling, listening for Gerin’s voice and trying to get his bearings. There had been – his mind hunted for the figure – nearly twelve thousand men crammed into this forest, and except for the dead, this was the only one of them that he had seen.
A skin-crawling thought of what Kalarr might have done with the rest touched briefly on his mind, then went away almost as fast. If Eskra was right, then he hadn’t the power for anything so huge. Assuming he had the power for anything right now, except headlong flight while he still had a head to call his own – because Bayrd could hear Gerin again, a raging voice demanding combat, satisfaction and cu Ruruc’s head in equal measure.
Despite the pounding ache inside his own head, Bayrd Talvalin laughed harshly, and started to run towards the sound.
Then an unseen hand reached out from between the trees and pushed him in the centre of the chest, his feet went out from under him, and he was flung backwards into the bracken. His ears were clanging again, and not from that blow on the helmet. There was heat on his face, and not from the exertion of running in armour on a summer’s day.
And there was a black and orange-purple glow blotting his vision that flared into new life with every blink of his eyes.
Bayrd lay there, dazed, aching, but grateful for the immobility and silence. All of a sudden it had gone very quiet in the Forest of Baylen. No more shouts, no more screams, no more clash of weapons. T
here wasn’t a sound except for what belonged there, the wind in the branches and the stirring of small creatures – even though most of those had probably been frightened away by the sounds of battle, and what he was hearing was the settling of his own armoured body as it crushed down the bracken.
That was strange. He was convinced that somewhere in his memory of the past few seconds was the echo of some colossal noise and light and heat but, as if that memory was wax, the heat had smoothed it clean.
He struggled to his feet – not easy when those feet were supported six inches off the ground by a mattress of flattened vegetation – and with Widowmaker poised in one hand, walked carefully in search of Gerin. Or Marc ar’Dru. Or even Kalarr cu Ruruc, provided he was already dead.
He was.
The banner that Bayrd had heard described so often was smashed hard enough against a treetrunk that its very weave had started to unravel. The red snake writhing across it was still clear enough, but the black silk of the rest of the flag was charred and still smouldering.
On the ground beneath it lay a corpse. Like the flag, Bayrd had only ever heard descriptions of Kalarr; tall and fair, or tall and dark, depending on who he was attempting to deceive. He was none of those things now, but a little, shrivelled, blackened thing, so seared by whatever had happened here that his burnt body didn’t even smell bad. His head was still on.
“So Gerin didn’t find you,” said Bayrd.
He leaned on Widowmaker’s pommel and stared down at the charcoal doll, trying to think all the noble thoughts of a kailin-eir facing his dead enemy. Instead, whether from weariness or from headache or from simple lack of interest any more, he was thinking absolutely nothing.
“Gerin did,” said a voice behind him.
Bayrd came upright with a jerk, the longsword’s blade whirring as he whipped her to a ready position. And then relaxed, feeling the long leashed-in fear seeping out of him like water from a sponge.
Gerin ar’Diskan leaned against a tree and grinned at him with a mouth that lacked at least one of its front teeth. His armour was in tatters. It looked as though it had been ripped off his body by main force and thrown hastily back on, no longer properly fitting the man it had been made for. Even Gerin himself looked strange and somehow different…
Bayrd felt a momentary worm of doubt move through his mind. Or was it a snake?
“Father of Fires, but you’re still jumpy today!” said another voice. Marc’s voice. He was standing beside another of the scorched, smoking trees, not leaning on the trunk but simply propping himself up against it, looking as confused as Bayrd was feeling. The reason was obvious enough; there was an oozing purple bruise the size of a fist – whose fist? – on his forehead just over the temple.
Bayrd Talvalin looked from one to the other, realizing how alone he was in this smoke-stinking clearing. Then Gerin stepped forward, if it was Gerin at all, and Bayrd began to raise Widowmaker in case it wasn’t.
Then he let the point drop to the moss again, and laughed shakily. Small wonder Gerin ar’Diskan looked different. He’d gone into battle a black-moustached man with straight black hair. He’d come out of it a man whose hair was singed curly and grey, where it hadn’t been scorched down to the skin. As for the sweeping moustache, all that remained was a crumbling smear of ash under his nose. For an instant he had looked fair-haired and clean-shaven. For an instant he had almost died.
But the instant was over.
And so was the battle. There were rustling sounds amongst the trees, furtive noises, but none of them threatening.
They were the sounds made by survivors determined to continue that survival by running away, as quickly and as quietly as they were able. Bayrd listened for a few seconds, then ran Isileth Widowmaker back into her scabbard and hoisted her to the peace position at his back.
He looked at the burnt body on the ground, then at Marc and at Gerin.
“What happened?” he said. Gerin poked at the corpse with his toe.
“He tried to be clever. He was too high and mighty to meet me with a sword. He tried some sort of spell instead.” Lord ar’Diskan was trying to remember his dignity, trying to remember he had just won a battle, trying to remember that the man in front of him was an enemy of six years standing. He was failing on all three counts. All that he was remembering was that his son had been murdered, and that the man who had done it lay dead at his feet. “Your lady wife once said what might happen to cu Ruruc if he over-stretched himself.”
“Yes,” said Bayrd. “She said that he would pull himself asunder.”
Gerin drew back his boot and kicked the body, and it flew apart. He stared at the drift of ash and cinders for a few seconds, then drew a deep breath and slowly let it out. “She was right.”
“Then it’s over.”
“For now.”
Bayrd wanted to find Eskra again, wanted to bring Marc out of this place, wanted to learn what had been happening in Hold ar’Kelayr, and above all wanted to discover what had happened to the flask of wine he had so carefully secured to his saddle. He didn’t need enigmatic comments. “Over is over,” he said flatly, “and now is now. Let tomorrow take care of itself.”
Gerin ar’Diskan smiled a small smile to himself, and bowed ever so slightly. “I’m sure it will,” he said. “In my experience, it always does.”
