"Halt! Halt! We stop here." The Arvonian words that broke the peace of the cool shade were forced and thickly accented.
Kal bade Gwyn with a gesture of his flattened hand to remain still. Very slowly, he raised his head and ventured a furtive look through the leaves and brambles from behind the oak. It was a company of horsemen, some two dozen of them, cloaked in grey hodden over grey tunics and boiled leather cuirasses, lightly armed with pikes and swords, as well as bows. All were highlanders, Southwoldsmen, except for a trio of swarthy barrel-chested men at the head of the column, each wearing mail, helm, greaves, and a scarlet surcoat emblazoned with the black scorpion. Kal suppressed a shiver. The three of them swung down from their mounts while the Southwoldsmen milled behind them in the roadway. These kept their distance from the Dragoons and, one by one, began to climb stiff-limbed from their horses.
Two of the grey-clad men lagged even farther back in the very rear of the mounted troop, reining in their horses level to where Kal and Gwyn hid among the trees. They talked in low tones to each other, their highland brogue unmistakable.
"By the welkin, it's about time we pulled up for a spell!" said a robust dark-haired man, who leaned forward in his saddle, swore, and spat loudly onto the dry cobbles beside his horse. His broad florid cheeks and chin were shadowed by a scraggly growth of dusky stubble. "We ride hard, and, as it is, we'll be lucky to reach the Crossed Daggers before midnight. And it's off again amorn, before even cockcrow!"
"What do you want, Tam? Our kind and good taskmasters need a rest. After all, they've ridden from before dawn," the other highlander replied sourly, arching his back in the saddle, stretching. "Wouldn't want to tax them overmuch." He was a somewhat older man, but still in the flush of youth, tall and lean. As he turned to look behind him down the road, Kal saw that the man had a narrow, sallow face framed by curling reddish muttonchop whiskers. He looked fraught, but it occurred to Kal that this might have been the cast most common to his countenance, features etched and set in lines of worry. The lean man returned his attention to the three soldiers at the head of the company. "How many times will these idiots have us ride this road?"
"Bah!" growled the dark-haired man. "Who knows? As thick as birch stumps, the lot of them. Look at that one, there. Did you mark how he sits his horse? He'll have broke that poor nag's back ere we're quit of them."
"Aye, so you've said afore. 'Got the seat of a tilt-yard dummy.' So you've said about them all."
The lean man's horse tossed its head while, farther up the road, other horses stamped restively. Their riders stood beside them, gripping their reins, occasionally speaking an inaudible calming word.
The dark-haired man leaned forward once more and stroked the neck of his mount. "I tell you, the horses don't like it. Why did they order us stop here? Too close to that accursed forest."
"One can hope that if the waldscathes come, they'll take the Scorpions first. They're meatier than any of us." A thin grin creased the lean man's expression, then vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. "One can hope."
"Aye, one can hope," the dark-haired man said, then cleared his throat and spat again on the ground. "One can hope that the lot of them rot. The whole stinking lot of them. I've about had my fill of them, the vile Gharssûlian hag-seed, commanding us about in our own holding. Who brought us to this pretty pass?"
The lean man shook his head. "You've said afore."
"Aye, who was it, then?" the dark-haired man ranted, ignoring his companion's gesture of warning. "Who was it welcomed the Scorpion whoresons into South Wold? And with open arms—?"
"Hold your tongue, Tam—"
"Who was it? None other than our own—"
"Hold your tongue—!"
"—proud and independent Baron Nuath, staunch leader of his people, lapdog to the mighty Boar."
"Hold your tongue, man! Are you mad?" the lean man hissed angrily, glancing at the main body of his fellow Southwoldsmen. "You know there are spies. Everywhere. And you, you hurling insults around like a boy tossing stones at a hornet's nest."
"But think of it. I tell you, things aren't right." The dark-haired man's tone softened. He seemed to appeal now to his companion's sense of justice. "Things are not right. Look, here we are, ordered about by these outlander pigs, trotting all over South Wold trying to chase down what? A handful of survivors from Lammermorn?"
Kal's neck bristled as the man spoke, his arms and legs cramped from lying still, tense, alert. He could feel Gwyn beside him.
"Survivors? Do you really think there were survivors? Do you really think the pigs would let any escape?"
"What nonsense do you talk?"
"And here they have us hunting for them, them that were like us—highlanders. Highlanders, I tell you, sold out to the Boar by their own, by Strongbow. And how long 'til the pigs turn on us? How long, eh? How long 'til it's our necks stretched on the block? And it's Nuath, I tell you, Nuath that's sold us out!"
"Shut your trap, Tam. You'd do well to shut your trap!" The lean man reined over his horse into a sidestep until he faced his comrade. His face had grown flushed. "You know full well that you've no choice in this matter, not unless you fancy your Bridura in widow's weeds, with your little ones as orphans. You've no choice. And nor have I."
"Bah! I tell y—"
"Enough!" The lean man raised his open hand. "I can't say that I don't agree with you, Tam. I can't say that I don't. But you and your notions. They'll get you in a spot of trouble one of these days, in a bad spot of trouble." The lean man shook his head, then turned his horse and spurred it forward, mixing with the others. Most of the Southwoldsmen were now afoot, savouring the shade. Some stood talking amongst themselves, others sat leaning against trees, and three or four knelt on the cobbled trackway playing at dice. None of them seemed keen to draw near the Black Scorpions, who glowered at their highland conscripts with ill-disguised contempt.
Now was the time to creep away. Kal's limbs loosened as he prepared to back off slowly. He returned his attention to the dark-haired man just as the man swung a leg over the back of his horse and, with a creak of leather, dropped lightly to the ground, cursing under his breath all the while. Kal froze. The man stepped towards the edge of the road, threw the reins around a sapling, and started into the woods, lifting the hem of his tunic and unlacing his breeches.
Kal lowered his head, hoping that he had completely drawn his cloak over himself and hoping that Gwyn had done the same.
The man strode crashing through the undergrowth towards Kal and Gwyn until he had come to the great oak behind which they lay. This he leaned against as he relieved himself loudly, sighing.
From the corner of his eye, Kal could see the man. Kal closed his eyes. "Thou, Wuldor, art great . . . Thou, Wuldor, art great . . . Thou, Wuldor . . ." The lines from the Great Doxology whirled through his mind as he lay there. It seemed interminable. Then the man finished. Kal heard him, opened an eye, and saw him. He stood there, adjusted himself, and relaced the front of his breeches, then turned, stopped, turned back, peered into the woods, grunted, and thrashed his way up to the Road.
They had been seen. Kal was sure of it. They had been seen, and in a moment two dozen horsemen would be upon them.
The dark-haired man had retrieved his reins, taken his horse by the bridle, patting its neck, then walked without haste down the cobbles towards where his fellows were gathered.
He had to have seen them. Kal lifted his head again, puzzled. Or perhaps, by some chance, he hadn't. Or then again, perhaps he had and was letting them slip away. Either way, now was the time to run. Behind them, the woods were thick with undergrowth. It would be nearly impossible for a horse to manage. Any pursuers would have to make chase on foot. If he and Gwyn could slip into the heavy growth, they just might stand a chance.
The two Holdsmen eased their way farther into the copse and crept westward away from the Road, watching every step, keenly aware of every sound. The woods, however, were not deep. After some fifty paces, they came
to the far edge of the trees and found themselves on the verge of a large field, filled with tall grass and brush, dangerously exposed to view in every direction except north. In that direction, ranks of trees rose on a gentle slope, an unbroken flank of the copse.
"That way," Kal whispered, pointing north. They would have to go parallel to the road, past where the soldiers still rested in the shade. "It's the only cover. We'll put some distance between us and them then double back, west then south. Quiet now, as you value your hide."
Nerves taut, Kal stole one last glance back over his shoulder. Through the screening leaves, he could discern the fragmented forms of the horsemen beginning to mount again and form a column. Though the men still talked, he could hear nothing more than the pitched whinny of a nervous horse. He nodded to Gwyn and, leaning forward, began slipping his way through the woods, guarding his footfall against every rustling leaf or snapping twig. Gwyn remained close on his heels. Once more, Kal marvelled at the deftness with which Gwyn was capable of moving. They crept farther up the rising wood. To their right, on the Old High Road, now nearly a hundred paces from them, the company of soldiers began to move again. Kal heaved a sigh of relief. That had been a close-run game—too close.
Kal took another step, and a drumming flurry erupted at his feet. The air exploded in front of him. He recoiled from the blur of grey-brown that flew up in his face and staggered back onto a fallen branch that cracked under the weight of his step. The flushed grouse wheeled away up the slope.
Kal whirled around. There, through the trees, he saw that the column had stopped. And there, as if framed by the leaves, a lone horse stood on the road, its rider in clear view, red-clad and staring hard at Kal. Shouts filled the air, a hard-edged guttural voice, sharp and commanding. A horseman reared on his mount, turned and plunged headlong into the woods, only to be thrown from his horse as the beast got entangled in the scrub. Other soldiers had dropped from their horses and were running into the woods, hacking their way with swords through the undergrowth.
"Gwyn! Run! This way!" Kal seized his companion by the shoulder and jerked him up the forested hillside.
"Halt!" The shouts multiplied behind them. "Halt! Halt!"
Breathless, Kal glanced back and saw a clutch of Southwoldsmen swarming through the woods, slashing, shouting, pointing up the slope, their excitement overborne by the gruffer voices of the Scorpions who goaded them. Kal's heart pounded as they clambered up the steepening ground. Around them, arrows sliced through foliage and thudded into trees. They would cross over the wooded ridge ahead, then try to lose their pursuers in the countryside beyond.
North. They would go north. That was where Carric-thona lay. It couldn't be far . . . Carric-thona . . . a songline, and a songline meant safety—that's what Wilum had said. If they could just reach Carric-thona again . . . .
Kal crested the ridge and spun around, looking for the other Holdsman. He had lagged behind, struggling up the hill, dragging his leg slightly.
"Hurry, Gwyn!" Kal stretched out his hand to the young Holdsman, who fought his way up the last few feet to grab it. Together, the two threw themselves headlong over the brow of the hill and out of the line of sight. They tumbled several paces down the opposite slope, then scrambled to their feet and rushed down the ridge, angling their way westward to the left across its flank, fighting the undergrowth.
Kal slipped and narrowly missed impaling himself on a bone-dry limb, jutting sharp as a spear point from a fallen tree trunk. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the deadfall, his chest heaving. Gwyn pulled up beside him. Behind and above them, the soldiers crashed through the trees, fighting to gain the ridge. Kal grasped the brooch at his throat with one hand, while the shaking fingers of his other sought the strings of the pios and plucked them—nothing. All he could hear was the thin ting of the wires, his and Gwyn's laboured breathing, and the approach of the soldiers. A head appeared over the ridge, then another.
Clumsily, Gwyn clambered over the log, pressing forward keenly on the downslope. He turned into a well-trodden game trail, like a hound on the scent. Now it was Kal who found himself struggling to keep up. Down the trail they flew. Again, arrows clattered among the trees behind them, but not as near. They had stretched their lead.
The falling woodland levelled somewhat. The oaks and beech gave way to thin groves of aspen and birch. They ran down through a maze of staghorn sumacs into a grassy field that stepped down into a further long hollow, then swept up the side of a facing hill. They stopped. Kal looked for a bolt-hole, some means of slipping away. He made to turn aside into the bordering woods. The deep cover offered some hope of escape, but Gwyn ran ahead full tilt into the open field.
"Not that way! No! Gwyn! Not that way!"
Gwyn paid no heed to Kal's cry, but continued to speed down into the valley.
"Fine. Here we go, then," Kal said to himself through gritted teeth, and ran, trying to keep up with the boy. But Gwyn pressed on, putting distance between them. As he ran, every now and again, Kal brought his hand up and ran his thumb across the strings of his pios. For his efforts, he got never more than a feeble and tinny thrum. Kal thought his lungs would burst.
Finally, he caught up to his companion, panting like a bellows, halfway along the uphill slope of the field. Gwyn had stopped at an outcrop of rock terraced into the hillside. Crowning it was a solitary tree. Across the dell, the soldiers spilled out of the woods and into the open. Somehow, Kal and Gwyn had managed to outpace the soldiers and put nearly two furlongs between them. But now they were in the open and had been seen. The soldiers rallied, pointing across the shallow valley. From the woods came horsemen, ten—eleven of them. The horses each turned tight circles on the edge of the field, tossing their heads, then, as one, rounded and began to gallop down the field, followed by the soldiers on foot at a run.
Panic gripped Kal's gut. He gasped for air. Beside him, Gwyn smiled. Kal's mind reeled. How could the boy smile? Smile, as if not a thing in the world was wrong? The horses thundered down the field. Already, arrows streaked across the sky. They would fall short, but the next flight would not.
Kal felt trapped, not by the enemy bearing down on him, nor by the bank of stone at his back, but trapped, as though he was submerged in honey, with limbs leaden, and time slowing, slowing, painfully, to a standstill. In his eye, Kal beheld the whole—Gwyn's full-toothed grin, the arrows in midflight, the horses and their riders, the Southwoldsmen and Scorpions on foot, the blue sky overhead, an elm limned against it, and the Talamadh . . . the Talamadh . . .
He lifted a hand heavily to the figure of the harp at his neck and played a listless finger across it. Like a rose releasing its fragrance, or a fountain its crystal waters, a chord burst forth from the pios and hung suspended in the air around the two Holdsmen. Kal felt all the hair on his head stand up as a strange stillness settled over them.
In the field before them, the horses' legs stiffened and their hooves churned the sod as their riders reined them up short. They stamped and turned in their places. Soon the men on foot had caught up with them, the lot of them shouting in confusion. Over the sound of disorder, a Gharssûlian's voice grew louder, yet remained indistinct. Moments passed one to the next as the soldiers' confusion increased.
Kal looked to Gwyn, his own expression of awed confusion reflected in the boy's. The resonant tones still echoed, and Kal struck the strings again. The sound swelled like a rising breeze.
The men in the middle of the field thronged, arguing, pointing up along the grassy side of the slope, scanning its brow and the wooded verges on either side. To the front of the group moved a mounted figure, dark-haired and leaning forward in his saddle. He brought his horse around, his back to Kal, to stand in front of the Black Scorpion Dragoons, one on horseback and two on foot. He spoke with them, gesturing emphatically. He pointed diagonally across the rising grassland towards the forest to the north, then dropped his arm. The Gharssûlians looked one to the other, then barked sharp orders and moved obliquely a
cross the field in the direction the horseman had indicated. The Southwoldsman wheeled around on his horse to the back of the forming column, and, as he did, Kal recognized him as the dour-faced man he had overheard on the Old High Road.
Kal and Gwyn watched, numb with shock, burning with relief, as the column, horses and men, trotted up the field to the left and began to disappear into the woods. As the last few Southwoldsmen were about to enter the trees, Kal saw the dark-haired man pull up his horse and turn to face the outthrust rock under which he and Gwyn stood. The horse fidgeted beneath its rider, tramping the grass. The man looked at the Holdsmen, then bowed his head, spun his horse around, and was gone. Kal could have sworn he saw a smile on the man's face.
Kal and Gwyn stood alone on the hillside. Over them, the air released its hold on the tones, and the sound of the pios faded and was gone.
"Carric-thona . . . ," Kal said.
Gwyn grinned again at Kal and winked, then turned and clambered up onto the rocky shelf over which grew the tall elm.
"Aye, Gwyn. Good idea. We'll stay on the songline"—Kal pointed northwest along the grassy rise—"and move away from our pursuers. Let's go now."
Kal and Gwyn scrambled on a slant up the last of the hillside, following, as nearly as Kal could figure, the lie of Carric-thona. They crested the hill and dropped into a depression out of view of the long field and the path the soldiers had taken behind them. Kal slowed his pace as they threaded between towering pillars of stone that ringed the hollow and topped the ridge like the battlements of a castle.
Darkling Fields of Arvon Page 15
