He caught a glimpse of a darker shadow in the snow and reined in. A stag, caught by surprise, struggled to its feet, a curtain of snow falling from its back. The two gazed at each other for an instant and then it clumsily bounded off.
‘A good sign,’ Roxanne whispered. ‘No one is about.’
He nodded and they rode on in silence for several minutes.
‘You hunted here before?’ he asked.
‘Before the shortness of breath began to afflict my father he took me over the pass several times. I think it was more just to see some new country: there was always more than enough game in our own valley. We’d ride like this, with me behind him, and he’d tell me stories of kings, princes, cities with a hundred tall spiralling towers and of the great ships that sailed on warm seas.’
He spared a look back over his shoulder. There was a sad smile on her face as she remembered a happier time.
‘I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say since I’ve met you.’
‘And this is the most you’ve spoken to me since I met you.’
Again there was a long silence. The snow came down harder again, at times obscuring the view so that he could barely see a dozen feet in front of them. They crossed a narrow stream, the horse nearly losing its footing on the ice-covered rocks on the far bank. It was barely calf-deep but it was, nevertheless, a major barrier. Men would get wet, then have to keep on marching, their boots freezing, the cold sapping their strength. Chances were at least one would lose his footing in the stream and get soaked, a virtual death-sentence for what in other times would be seen as a source of levity and a good laugh.
He waited for a moment, not sure how far back the column was.
‘How come you never talk, Hartraft?’
‘Talk? To who?’
‘Me.’
‘There was never much to say.’
‘You like Alyssa, don’t you?’
The branch of a tree, overburdened with the newly-fallen snow groaned and cracked, and a cascade of snow tumbled down near them, sending up a swirl of flakes.
‘Asayaga is better at such things than I am. He has the courtly touch.’
‘Father told me about your Gwenynth. I’m sorry.’
‘If only I had known it was Corwin,’ he said coldly. ‘I should have known, sensed it. And he was within my grasp for weeks.’
‘Is that all you think of?’
‘What?’
‘Vengeance?’
‘It’s a start,’ he replied, the tone in his voice indicating that the conversation was finished.
‘I lost my father last night. If we do have to fight the moredhel I hope to do my part, but to spend my life hunting them down … father would want different for me.’
Dennis did not reply.
‘He was worried about you.’
‘Keep an eye on the woods.’
‘He remembered you as a boy who had a fire in his eyes, a love of adventure, and even a touch of the poet. He said the two of you would make up funny little verses together. That you loved to watch sunsets, to sing, and would clamour for books to read.’
‘I was a boy.’
‘No, that was the same you, just long ago.’
‘I don’t need someone else to tell me to get over what happened,’ Dennis whispered. ‘Now do your job and keep an eye on the woods.’
‘No one can see thirty feet in this,’ she said.
‘I didn’t survive nine years of war thinking like that.’
Even as he spoke he caught a glimpse of a hooded lantern at the head of the column. He wanted to swear at the fool who had lit it, but realized that in a way the girl was right. There was no one out here other than this desperate column.
Asayaga was in the lead, holding the lantern. Reaching the edge of the stream he hesitated.
‘Just cross it,’ Dennis hissed.
‘We need to rest, we’re carrying many of the children.’
‘Put all of them on the horses and keep moving.’
He turned his mount and pressed on up the slope, leaving the party behind to negotiate the frigid water.
The hours passed and the snow thickened to a heavy all-consuming fall that muffled the world, deadening all sound except for the laboured breathing of the horse. An hour after sunset they crested the ridge and paused for a few minutes, then dismounted to let the tired animal rest. He explored both sides of the trail, hoping to find that the pass was narrow enough to make it defendable. The ground, however, was open – just a shallow depression – . Dejected, he came back to find one of his corporals, Alfred, bent double, gasping, Roxanne down by his side offering him a drink from her wine-sack.
‘Captain Asayaga sent me up to find you,’ he reported, leaning against the sweat-soaked and shivering horse for support. ‘Gregory came up from the rearguard: they’ve had several skirmishes, killing two human scouts. We lost two as well, both Tsurani who were wounded and stayed behind.’
Dennis nodded.
Just below the top of the pass they had spied an abandoned cabin, Roxanne stating that it belonged to an old hermit. He had hoped to let the party rest for half an hour, to build a fire for the children to warm up, but that was impossible now.
‘How far to the dwarf road?’ Dennis asked, looking over at Roxanne.
‘In fair weather, not more than two hours on horse. The bridge beyond, a half hour in good conditions.’
Dennis sighed and shook his head.
If the road was overgrown it would help, but dwarven roads were usually well built, straight and well paved – no one could match the dwarves for stonework. It would prove a disadvantage now. Once on it Bovai would send his whole column of cavalry off in hot pursuit rather than simply probing.
‘Tell Asayaga we must move faster,’ Dennis said. ‘Keep them moving.’
He mounted, Roxanne sliding back to give him room.
Alfred saluted and started back.
‘No, wait here until they catch up with you, Corporal. No sense you running up and down this hill twice.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Alfred gasped.
Dennis nudged his tired mount, but the horse refused to budge for a moment and finally he had to kick hard with his heels to get it moving.
He was throwing caution aside now. If they were not blocking this point it should be an open run down to the road. Once on the road he could check for signs. It gave him a terrible naked feeling, riding hard like this in the middle of the night, abandoning the careful routine of years of moving, waiting, listening, then covering as your companion leapfrogged forward.
Several times his mount nearly lost its footing. Once he lost the trail completely and had to slowly backtrack, barely able to pick out the pathway as the snow continued to fall.
The third moon had risen an hour before and there was ample light by which to navigate if he kept to a slow and steady pace. He fought back the urge to pick up speed, but galloping down a mountain trail through the woods at night would be folly of the worst sort.
He could sense Roxanne falling asleep, her arms around his waist going slack, her head lolling on his shoulder, her warm breath on the back of his neck. He let her rest for a few minutes then slapped her lightly on the thigh.
‘Stay awake, I need your eyes.’
She sighed, mumbled something and then sat upright.
‘Where are we?’
‘I don’t know,’ she whispered.
He sensed a narrow clearing ahead before actually seeing it where the trees thinned out slightly. He reined in and slipped out of the saddle, taking his bow, which had been resting across the pommel, and removing the oil-cloth draped over the string. Nocking an arrow he slipped forward, paused, then slowly dropped down onto the road. Even in the darkness he could discern its lines, a straight cut through the forest, wide enough for two carts to pass each other. Bent low, he crept to the middle of it, crouched and carefully scanned the path. After several minutes he started to brush aside the powdery snow, probing down through the foot-deep
fresh fall until he hit the hard crust below. He cursed silently. It was hard to tell in the darkness, especially by touch, but there were footprints: goblins and at least one horse. He reached into his haversack, pulled out some tinder and a precious springlock sparker, a gift from Wolfgar on midwinter’s night, wound it up and held it close to the tinder, his cloak draped over his shoulders and head to shield himself. He pressed the trigger and a shower of sparks came spinning out, striking the tinder. Cupping the fluffy down and thin white bark shavings he blew them to life so that a tiny curl of a flame flared up – not much more than the light from a candle about to flicker out – but after hours of darkness the light seemed nearly as bright as day. Keeping one eye closed in order not to destroy his night vision, he scanned the footprints, kicking back more of the powder and then let the flame wink out. Catlike he straightened up, opened his other eye and carefully scanned both ways: nothing moved.
‘Roxanne,’ he hissed and she came out of the edge of the woods and down to the road, leading their horse. ‘He’s sent someone around – at least four goblins and one rider. They passed here just before the storm started.’
‘The bridge,’ she whispered.
He stood up, brushing the snow off his trousers. ‘Either hold it, or destroy it,’ he sighed. He weighed the odds. Go back, get a few men, then come back again. An hour or more to do that. It was hard to tell how long before dawn. One man, in the dark, however, might catch them by surprise. ‘I’m going,’ he said. ‘You wait here, guide the column onto this trail and tell Asayaga I’ve gone ahead and what’s happening. Make sure he puts out scouts as he comes up to the bridge in case it doesn’t work out.’
‘I’m going with you.’
‘Like hell you are.’
‘What are you going to do, just gallop in on this old nag?’ she snapped. ‘You don’t even know the ground before the bridge.’
‘Then tell me now, girl, what will I see before approaching the bridge.’
‘Like hell. You’ll need someone to cover your back.’
He wanted to laugh but was too exhausted even to make the effort.
‘I go, or you can just stumble into the trap on your own. There’s no room for all that nonsense about protecting Wolfgar’s daughter, Hartraft. If you fail here, we all die. I can put an arrow through a man at fifty yards. My father was a bard but he was also a damn good bowman and taught me well.’
Dennis sighed and shook his head. ‘You do exactly what I tell you to do.’ He mounted, fighting down the temptation to rake the flanks of the horse and simply gallop off. No, she was right. It was a blind attack – surprise and speed was everything, but an extra arrow might make all the difference. He pulled her up behind him. He urged the horse up to all that it could give, which was, at best, a laborious trot. The poor animal gasped for air, legs rubbery, barely able to hold its footing. She protested once, begging him to let the dying beast rest for just a few minutes, but he pressed on. He had no idea as to the size of the bridge – even if it was still there – but if it was, and the centre span was wood, it might still be standing, especially if the goblins, arriving at dark and typical of their breed, had decided to settle down for the night and do their job come dawn.
They rode in silence for a while then finally Roxanne’s head came up, and she looked off to the side of the trail. ‘I remember that,’ she hissed into his ear, and pointed. ‘It’s a side trail up to an old quarry. My father took me there to see the marble. The bridge is only a few minutes’ ride ahead.’
Even as she spoke, he could feel that their horse was ready to give way. He tried to kick it forward but the animal simply stopped, its flanks shaking, and with a groan it settled to its knees. Cursing, he slipped off the saddle and uncovered his bow. ‘We go in on foot.’
Roxanne dismounted, unslung her own bow and strung it. He waited impatiently and was about to speak when she reached out and gently scratched the horse’s ear. ‘I’m sorry old friend,’ she whispered. ‘Rest now.’ She looked back up at Dennis and he could see that her eyes were bright with tears and that she was shaking, though whether from cold or fear he couldn’t tell.
‘Take the right side of the road, stay a dozen paces behind me: I’ll be on the left. If I fall, you get the hell out. No heroics, just turn and run until you meet up with Asayaga.’ She nodded. He realized that it was beginning to get lighter, that dawn was not far off. He patted her on the shoulder, a clumsy gesture, then withdrew his hand. ‘Remember: get out.’ Then he turned and set off at a lopping trot, not looking back.
The road turned in a long gentle curve to the right, cutting down and clinging to the flank of the hill. Off to his left he could now hear a low rushing thunder: the river cascading over a falls. Good, the sound would cover his approach. He could see nearly a hundred feet now: if not for the snow it would be a clear view all the way down to his goal. And then he saw it – a dull, pulsing glow of light. He picked up his pace, arrow nocked and bow half-drawn, the glow of light turning the falling snow ahead into a pool of pink. He could see a glowing swirl rising up as well and spreading out; then there was a flash of fire, an explosion of light, and dark demonic figures dancing and waving their arms as one of them hurled another pot of oil into the conflagration consuming the centre span of the bridge. He ran, powdery snow churning up, his sprint so quick that he nearly lost his footing on the ice underneath. He reached the edge of the bridge, the stone span arching up to the centre section of wood that was blazing from end to end. His first arrow caught a goblin in the middle of its back from not fifty feet away. The goblin pitched forward, shrieking, staggering out on to the burning beams. For a few precious seconds the dying goblin’s four companions thought he was drunk, which he indeed was, and broke into gales of laughter at their companion’s antics, until a second one spun around, an arrow protruding from his body. The other three finally began to turn, one of them pointing at Dennis. They were perfect targets, silhouetted by the fire and his next arrow gutted yet another, who sank down to his knees shrieking in agony, his cries heard above the roar of the fire. One of them began to charge, but the second hesitated and looked around for a way to escape. Another arrow streaked in, piercing the charging goblin’s heart, but he continued forward for a dozen paces, almost reaching Dennis before collapsing. The last survivor began to squeal and run frantically back and forth at the edge of the inferno, looking for a way out. Dennis, with cold brutality drew another arrow, carefully nocked it, and raised his bow.
‘Hartraft!’ He heard an arrow hiss past his cheek and then he was down, something ramming into him from behind, a dagger flashing into the snow within inches of his throat. He kicked out, rolled over and then his attacker was on top of him, blade poised, the flash of it coming down yet again, narrowly missing his eyes. His assailant was a moredhel, strong and sinewy. He pinned Dennis’s right hand to the ground with his left, even as he raised his right for another strike. Dennis tried to kick his legs up, to catch him in the back of the head, but the response was a knee to the groin which caused Dennis to gasp. And then he barely saw the shadow of Roxanne coming up from behind, her dagger glinting as she leapt in, cutting the moredhel across the throat.
Silently, the moredhel staggered to his feet, the dagger slipping from his grasp. Both hands went to his throat and arterial blood squirted out from between his fingers. He looked back at the woman, astonishment in his eyes, as if she had broken some rule and played a cruel and unfair joke. Then he sank to his knees.
Dennis rolled away, a hazy sheen of pain consuming his world. The other goblin …
He looked up. Roxanne had Dennis’s bow in her hand. He watched her reach into her quiver, pull out an arrow, nock it and raise the bow. It was a heavy weapon and she struggled to draw the arrow back. The goblin still at the edge of the fire was shrieking, hands raised imploringly. She hesitated for a second then released the shot. The bolt brought the creature down, but didn’t kill it. Trembling, she took a second arrow, and advanced towards the goblin.
‘Be careful,’ Dennis gasped, coming to his knees, eyes still on the dying moredhel.
Roxanne stopped a dozen paces away and the goblin kicked and thrashed, trying to roll out of the way. ‘Be still and let me finish it,’ she cried.
The second shot missed completely. She started to scream at the goblin even as she drew a third arrow, stepping closer, aiming almost straight down.
Hands raised, it continued to beg for mercy in the common tongue. She released the arrow, and the screaming stopped, changing to a gurgling cry, almost like that of a wounded rabbit. She started to fumble for a fourth arrow but the goblin finally curled up and was still.
She came back to Dennis and knelt down by his side, looking warily at the moredhel whose throat she had cut. Blood leaked from the wound, but it was not yet dead. The dark elf stared at her. ‘And to think, a human woman slew me,’ he whispered. ‘Tell my brothers it was Hartraft, then Bovai will have more reason for vengeance.’
She nodded.
‘Tell Tinuva his cousin Vakar will await him on the far shore.’ Still kneeling, he lowered his head and was still.
Roxanne, sobbing, leaned over and vomited, gasping for air.
Dennis, legs wobbly, stood up and gently rubbed her shoulders as she cried.
‘I’m sorry. I saw him coming up, I shot and missed, almost hit you.’
‘It’s all right, it’s your first fight. It’s alright.’
‘And the way he kept shrieking, I didn’t want him to suffer, I just wanted him to die.’
‘Its alright,’ he said woodenly, looking at the bridge. The entire centre span was a crackling hell. It was obvious that the moredhel had not let his goblins sleep through the night. They had shovelled the wooden section clean, then piled brush and dried timber torn from the side of the mill above the bridge onto the span. Even as he watched, the flooring gave way, crashing down to reveal one of the two support spans underneath. The goblins had been at work there too, having cut through both beams with an axe. The support spans gave way and the entire structure crashed down into the thundering river below in an explosion of steam and hissing embers. He sighed, barely noticing that Roxanne was standing, leaning against him, still crying, her arm around his waist.