Grimbeald led them directly to the Green Oak, which he was obviously familiar with, and went in and booked several rooms for the night. Fionnghuala dismounted from her horse and gathered her travelling bag, then followed the others into the inn a little nervously.
As she walked into the bar, she realised her nerves were justified as she saw every pair of eyes in the room staring at her and the other women in her party. It did not pay to be a woman in Wulfengar, she thought, especially this close to the Wall, where Wulfian feelings ran so much higher than in the scattered northern towns. Bearrach steered her toward some seats by the fire, passing between her and the Wulfians gathered around the tables, drinking ale. In spite of her earlier worries about his feelings for her, she was glad he was there, and that she was surrounded by hardened warriors.
Reaching the fire, they sat in chairs as the serving lad brought over a tray of cups and a couple of jugs of ale. Before they could even pour the drink, however, one of the Wulfian men came over to their party, and her heart sank at the fierce look on his face.
“Women are not welcome in this bar,” he spat. “You had best be on your way.” Behind him, several more Wulfians rose to their feet, adding their weight to his words.
Grimbeald stood and turned to face him. “They are with me,” he said quietly. “Therefore be careful with whom you pick your fight.”
The Wulfian turned on him, his heavy features carved into a sneer, his long beard shining with spilt ale. “Any Wulfian who travels with pawes is no friend of mine!”
Everyone seemed to move at once. The room was filled with the sing of steel as swords were drawn rapidly, and ale went flying as the Heartwood knights moved to engage the Wulfian warriors who were so incensed at their presence.
Fionnghuala was no warrior herself, but she wore a lightly padded jerkin under her cloak, and she knew how to handle a sword. However, she found herself pushed behind Bearrach as he clashed with a very short and rather ugly Wulfian, and she did not resent it, knowing he could defend himself better than she.
The scuffle was over within minutes. Though the Wulfians had spent their lives on the battlefront, raiding continually across the Wall, they were no match for trained Heartwood Exercitus, and Fionnghuala hardly had time to blink before the Wulfians were all looking at the sharp end of a sword.
Grimbeald pressed his weapon firmly into the neck of the Wulfian who had first spoken, a sliver of blood appearing above the steel blade. “Next time think carefully before you insult us,” he growled. The Wulfian spat at him, but said nothing more.
The innkeeper came over, frowning at the knocked over tables and spilt ale. “I think it would be best if you went up to your rooms, and I will serve you there,” he said. Clearly, he did not want to pass up the coins that would land in his purse, but he was not happy having the party under his roof.
Grimbeald nodded, and the Heartwood parties pulled back cautiously. But the Wulfians had lost the stomach for a fight and sank to their chairs, muttering curses and casting them angry looks.
Suddenly tired, Fionnghuala followed the others up the stairs to the rooms allocated to them. Dividing into small groups, they settled themselves in the rooms and ate the food hungrily that the innkeeper brought up to them.
After they had eaten, Fionnghuala watched the Heartwood knights who would be accompanying her and Bearrach station themselves on the floor close to the door. It was the first time she had ever been to Redgar, though she had heard a lot about the place from travellers to the region. She felt glad some of the knights would be going with her to the Portal. Suddenly the Quest seemed treacherous, full of pitfalls and dangers she had not contemplated when accepting the task. It would be good to have such trained warriors with her.
And at least she would have Grimbeald accompanying her until the Neck Pass, she thought. She looked to the left at the Wulfian who was lying on the bed next to hers. He was staring at the door, and she thought his face looked rather white beneath his bushy beard.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He started at her words and turned surprised eyes to her, then looked back at the door. “I thought I saw…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged. “Never mind.”
She studied him, seeing the closed look come down over his face like a veil. She could not tell what he was thinking, but still had the feeling he disliked her because of her sex. “Thank you for standing up for us,” she said softly.
He looked over at her then. In the light from the candles his eyes were very bright, like two polished stones in his face. “You should not judge all Wulfians the same,” he said. Then he turned over on his side away from her and drew the covers over his head.
Fionnghuala sighed. She looked across to her right. Bearrach was watching her, curled up on the bed, although his face was in shadow and she could not see his eyes.
“Good night,” he said, confirming he was still awake.
“Good night.” She looked over at the door. What had Grimbeald been about to tell her? What had he seen in the doorway?
In the distance, she heard a baby crying, its thin wail cutting through the sound of the rain on the shutters.
Shivering, she closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.
III
“Unnerving, isn’t it?” said Gavius lightly as he nudged his horse towards Beata, the mount prancing nervously beneath his too-tight reins.
She nodded. “I feel like I can hear the trees breathing.”
“Perhaps you can.” They were both aware, more than the average person in Anguis, of how alive trees were.
She smiled at him. Though she was nervous, her time spent as Dean had meant she always looked to comfort others before searching for comfort herself, and it was instinct now that made her lean over to him and place a light hand on his arm, his mail cold beneath her fingers. “Are you looking forward to your journey to Komis?” she asked, intending to distract him from the strangeness of their surroundings.
He shifted awkwardly and she was reminded that he, like herself, had not been trained to spend more than an hour or so in the saddle. She would have to ensure they stopped regularly to stretch their legs, or they would be unable to walk in the morning. He shrugged. “It should be… an adventure.”
Was he nervous? He’d done his Exercitus service, but had chosen to remain in Heartwood, as she had. But whereas she would be travelling in friendly territory, Komis was an unknown country. Although some of its people such as Silva had found their way to the east, they tended to keep themselves to themselves and as such were a puzzle to those from the Twelve Lands and Hanaire alike.
Before long they were in the heart of the forest. The trees had closed behind them, and those in front had yet to thin. They were enclosed in a rich green world, their nostrils filled with the smell of damp earth and decaying leaves underfoot, and the freshness of new growth above them.
The horses were nervous. Bred for the open road, they found this new atmosphere strange and bewildering, and the constant rustling sounds and movement of animals and leaves made the whites of their eyes show, and caused them again and again to startle.
Beata felt much the same. “This forest has eyes,” she said to Gavius, whose left hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
Gavius frowned. “I feel it, too. I cannot establish whether it is just because I am unfamiliar with the territory or if – Arbor’s roots!” His exclamation came as two figures appeared on the path before him.
Beata’s hand went automatically to her sword but the figure in front of her growled. He held a bow, the arrow nocked and pointing straight at her heart, with a bodkin head that would open up the links in her mail and find its way through to her soft flesh. She lifted her hand, looking aside at Gavius, who did the same. Turning in her saddle, she saw several more figures had emerged from the woods and they were now surrounded. The Militis shifted in their seats, but quieted as she gave them a warning look with her eyes.
The bandits were a motley bunch. Their clothe
s were filthy and badly mended where they had been torn over the years and covered with leaves and mud as camouflage; their hair was wild and their beards matted and flecked with food. She could smell them from up on the horse. Clearly they lived in the woods, probably leaving them only to steal food and other supplies. Outlaws, bandits, call them what you will, they obviously lived by their own rules, and considered themselves above the law.
“We want all the money you have in your purses,” one of the outlaws snarled in guttural Laxonian. “If we consider it enough, we will let you continue on your journey. And if not…” He left the answer to their imagination.
Gavius and Gravis, like Beata, carried Laxonian coin to buy food for the journey. She had no intention of giving hers up and was sure that neither did the twins. Still, she was reluctant to attack the outlaws. At Heartwood she had been trained to think defensively rather than to assume attack was the only option, and besides, she did not want to start this journey with bloodshed. Over her shoulder her eyes met Fortis’s at the back; his face showed no emotion, and she could not read his thoughts. Did he think she should attack?
She turned back to the outlaw. She sat straight in the saddle and made her voice loud and clear. “We have no intention of giving up any of our possessions,” she replied in Laxonian. “We are Heartwood knights – holy warriors, on a Quest of great importance. You will let us through now!”
The outlaws all looked at each other. For a moment she thought she had won. Then her heart sank as they all burst out laughing.
The second outlaw in front of her stepped forward so his sword – cheap-looking and rusty with disuse – nudged her breast. “Give us your money,” he demanded, and she could smell the sourness of his breath as he leered at her, saying, “or else my sword won’t be the only thing looking to pierce that sweet body.”
Beata’s eyes narrowed as she understood his meaning. She looked at Gavius, whose face was stony with anger that this imbecile had insulted a holy guardian of the Arbor. She met his gaze openly. An outlaw’s weapon could kill as well as a knight’s, and she did not want to move unless everyone was ready. But in Gavius’s eyes she read what she had hoped – that he was poised to move, just waiting for her nod. Though they were not as battle-experienced as some, they were still knights, trained and practised in the art of war, and she knew instinctively the other Militis would automatically follow her lead.
She raised her left hand, palm upwards. In spite of the fact that she faced forwards, she could feel those in the saddle behind her tense. The outlaws around her shifted impatiently, waiting for a sign of their booty.
She dropped her hand.
Everything happened at once. She drew her cavalry sword – shorter and wider than her infantry weapon – and, using the impetus of the movement, swung the blade in an anticlockwise circle on her horse’s left side, the sword coming across and cleanly slicing through the throat of the outlaw who had leapt towards her with a shout as he saw her move.
To her right Gavius pulled sharply on his palfrey’s reins, causing the horse to rear up, its hooves thrashing and its whole weight coming down on the other outlaw at the front, crushing him instantly.
Something whistled by her ear and instinctively she kicked her feet free of her stirrups to avoid the arrows and rolled from the saddle, putting the mare’s body between her and the outlaws on her left. Behind her Gravis had done the same and together they ducked between the horses and emerged to face the outlaws, standing in the battle stance they had practised every day in the Exerceo since the age of seven.
Arrows whistled past them and Beata saw Caelestis had drawn her own bow and was shooting from her horse, and in front of them an outlaw fell, the shaft sticking out of his throat, his hands clawing at it even as he collapsed. Beata leapt over him, finding courage in the familiarity of the movements she was used to, easily defending herself against the clumsy movements of the bandit in front of her, realising quickly she was by far the more skilled. She parried his weak thrusts, then used the hilt of her sword to lock under his own and put her whole weight into the disarming movement, watching with satisfaction as his blade went flying off into the undergrowth. He turned to flee and she stopped, intending to let him go, but before he could reach the safety of the trees a small blade buried itself in his back and he fell heavily to the ground. She turned to see Fortis watching her, his face impassive, his hand still raised from the throw. She frowned at him. She would have to speak to him about that later.
Looking around she saw the skirmish was over. The outlaws were all dead. Most worryingly, Erubesco had been wounded, shot in the shoulder with an arrow that had embedded itself in her armour, and her pale face glistened with sweat.
Sheathing her sword, Beata ran up to her and caught her as she slid from the saddle. She lowered the knight to the floor and knelt beside her, examining the shaft. The bodkin head had just managed to enter the links in the mail. With careful fingers she pushed aside the broken links, apologising as Erubesco groaned in pain.
“Sorry.” She examined the tip of the arrow. “It has not gone in too far. I can still see the head. The mail and the jerkin caught most of the blow. I think I can pull it out.” She looked up at the Militis who stood around her. “Gavius and Gravis, can you move the horses out of the way, just take them a little further ahead to that clearing, and keep your eyes and ears open? Peritus, can you retrieve the small green bag from my horse’s side panniers – I have some herbs there that will help the wound to heal?”
Beata waited until Peritus had brought her the bag, then removed from it some of the linen strips she had taken from the Infirmaria in Heartwood. She had not thought she would need them so early in their journey. She folded the strips into a wad and handed it to Peritus, who was kneeling by her side. Then she removed a small, thick wooden stick. Instructing Erubesco to open her mouth, she placed it sideways and closed the knight’s jaw so she bit down on it. Then she took a deep breath.
IV
It was a long journey around the Forest of Wings. Grimbeald saw Fionnghuala and her escorts glancing impatiently from time to time at the trees as if wishing they could make them part and reveal a road straight through to the Neck Pass. But the trees remained closed, and the road long and treacherous.
Grimbeald had suggested to Fionnghuala they take the river instead of the road, but the Hanaireans had distrusted the water even before the appearance of the Darkwater Lords, and they stated firmly they would stick to the road in spite of its lack of maintenance. Grimbeald could have left them at Acelstan, as there was a river route from there straight up to the Highlands, but decided instead to stick with them to Karlgan. He could feel the growing tension in the land as the political climate escalated on the Wall; each town they passed through now held groups of Wulfians talking about war. The Heartwood knights were looked on with dislike, and Grimbeald did not want to leave them alone until he had to.
Wulfian attitude to Heartwood had never been benevolent. The Militis were regarded as interferers by the Wulfians in a private relationship between themselves and the Laxonians, and were generally only tolerated because they were the holy guardians of the Arbor. The violent nature of the Wulfians was not a random thing; it was an integral part of their religion. The Wulfian branch of Animism had developed over hundreds of years, until it was as much a part of their lives as the sap was part of the tree, and it was not something that could be talked out of them at one Congressus. And yet they still worshipped the tree, and thus the Heartwood knights had been endured, until now.
Grimbeald had not discussed it with the Congressus, but he had been hearing very disturbing conversations on his journeys across Wulfengar. There was talk of a major invasion of Laxony – which was nothing new, really, and tended to be a general topic of conversation – but, more worryingly, there had also been talk of taking over Heartwood. The Militis were regarded as being too friendly towards the Laxonians, and there were many Wulfians who thought their own priests would be better able to de
fend the Arbor.
But he had not told Valens about these rumblings. Grimbeald’s loyalties were torn. He was not your average, typical Wulfian. His mother had been half Hanairean, and her mother had ensured she was educated in the ways of other people and their beliefs. Grimbeald’s mother had done the same with him, and therefore although he had grown up trained as a Wulfian knight by his father, he was not as antagonistic towards Laxony and Heartwood as many of his peers were.
But there was more to his differences than that. Wulfians were generally straightforward men, raised on a diet of aggression, taught that violence was the way to show their love for the Arbor. But Grimbeald did not have the heart of a warrior. Sometimes he fancied that, as a child, someone had crept in to his room in the night, taken out his heart and replaced it with a bard’s or an artist’s. Instead of seeing violence, he saw beauty everywhere he went. And he enjoyed expressing that beauty through music, writing and painting. But he could not express it openly because he knew he would be chased from Wulfengar before he could sing a note.
And yet sometimes he wanted that to happen. Sometimes he felt life was an elaborate game, a play, and he was a pawn placed on the board and moved by unseen hands, while in his mind he daydreamed about things he was sure very few other Wulfians had ever considered. He would be at a Council meeting, and the room would be filled with Wulfians all talking animatedly, and he would be sitting at the head of the table but his mind would be outside, running through the grasses, or lying by the river and watching the fish dart in and out of the reeds. Because of this he had gained the reputation of being a thinker, a strategist, someone who considered all the options and trusted his head before his heart, which in a strange way was something the passionate and impulsive Wulfians admired. But he had never explained to anyone this was not the case, although now, as he wandered along uncomfortably on his horse and looked across at the elegant Hanaireans talking quietly among themselves, he wondered how different his life would have been if he had escaped at a young age and made his way to his grandmother’s land.
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