Declan laughed, and three of the men stepped back. The young smith suddenly took a single leap forward, wheeled, and threw a blow at one man’s head, and saw him fall back, almost losing his footing as he retreated. Then two men attacked and Declan found himself moving with a precision and speed he would not have imagined he possessed, despite hours of practice with Edvalt. He took one man’s strike on his own blade with ease, then spun and struck the other man across the throat before he brought his own sword up and continued in a full circle to strike the first man in the back, knocking him to his knees.
Edvalt hurried forward and finished the man while Declan turned to face another. The three men who had retreated needed no more excuses to quit the struggle, and they turned and fled. The last two men standing saw Mila leading the villagers towards them, many holding old weapons or farm tools, but all yelling and ready for a fight, and they took off, only a few moments behind those already running up the road.
Declan hesitated for a moment as he considered giving chase, but Edvalt’s voice cut through the air. ‘Help me!’
He saw that the old smith was also wounded, a deep cut in one side, but Edvalt ignored his injury as he knelt beside Jusan, who had collapsed to the ground, his back against the wall of the smithy.
Declan had seen enough injuries to know that Jusan’s was serious. He ran to the house and grabbed kitchen rags, then hurried back to find that some of the village men were giving chase to the slavers, while others were putting down the two dying horses. A few had gathered around Mila and Edvalt, who were tending to Jusan. The young apprentice was white-faced and his vision went in and out of focus, but he was still conscious.
Declan handed the rags to Mila, who placed them firmly on Jusan’s left side. ‘The blood’s red,’ she said, ‘so if we can stop this bleeding, he should live.’ Declan knew that if the blood had been dark, it would have meant the boy’s liver or other organ had been pierced and Jusan would have been dying.
Declan knelt beside Edvalt to inspect his left side. ‘Nasty,’ he said as he saw the long slash across the old man’s ribs.
‘I’ve had worse,’ said the smith.
‘Get me my sewing,’ ordered Mila, and Declan hurried into the house. His heart was pounding and he flexed his hands as if he was struggling to gain control of himself. His mind raced as if he were still in combat, yet he also felt an odd calm that kept him focused. He moved to where Mila kept her sewing basket, a tightly woven wicker rectangle with a cleverly hinged lid, in two strides. One benefit of being married to a smith was an abundant supply of needles, the sale of which had contributed in no small part to Edvalt’s prosperity over the years.
He carried the basket out to Mila, who took it and efficiently pulled out a large needle and threaded it. ‘We need to brine the wound,’ she said.
Edvalt kept his hand pressed against his side as he settled down into a more comfortable position. Mila said to Declan, ‘Get salt, a half-handful, and a half-filled pitcher of water. Mix it good and bring it here.’
Again Declan headed into the house and did as he was asked. He returned with a half-filled pitcher of salted water. Seaside folk had long ago learned that, for reasons known only to the gods, wounds that were bathed in seawater festered less often than those bathed in fresh water. As it was too far to run to the sea, salting fresh water did as well. It didn’t mean Jusan wouldn’t get a festering wound and die, but it bettered his chances.
The youngster screamed weakly and thrashed about as Mila bathed his wound. Declan had to hold him in place as the old woman began to sew. Jusan gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out, but he could barely restrain himself. At last Mila tied off the stitches and said, ‘That’s as good as it can be done; he’s in the hands of the gods now. Carry him inside,’ she told Declan.
As the newly minted master smith did so, Mila turned her attention to her husband, who repeated, ‘I’ve had worse.’
With a snort of derision, she answered, ‘I’ve given you worse.’
Declan laid Jusan down on his own bed; the younger apprentice usually slept in the smithy, but he’d rest better on a proper cot. The boy’s head lolled and his eyes were closed, but he was breathing easily, so Declan knew that Jusan slept. He returned outside to find the village men approaching with a dozen or more freed captives, and driving a trio of wagons.
A fisherman named Rees hiked his thumb over his shoulder towards the following prisoners and said, ‘We have trouble, Edvalt.’
Wincing as his wife finished sewing him up, the old smith said, ‘Really?’
‘I mean, more’s coming.’ Rees knelt before the smith, his leathery tanned face and bald, sunburned pate glistening with perspiration. ‘The lads we cut loose tell of slavers moving in groups, fanning out to comb through the Covenant. Seems old Lodavico of Sandura is replenishing his armies. Lost a bunch of soldiers in the last year, something to do with destroying all of Ithrace’s former allies. Since he betrayed Langene all those years ago, he seems to think the Covenant doesn’t mean anything. Sandura’s army might well be heading this way, but before that’ – he pointed a thumb back towards the corpses of the slavers – ‘this lot are already behaving like no truce exists around the Narrows.’
Edvalt leaned back against the side of the smithy, saying nothing for a long minute as he considered what he had heard. Rees began to speak, but Edvalt held up his hand. ‘I’m thinking,’ was all he said.
There was no official government in Oncon. As in many villages in the Covenant, the locals governed themselves by consensus, which at times led to some very rough justice, but for a large part the system worked. Edvalt was looked on by the villagers as a natural leader, in part because of his position: the smith was the most important man in the village, and he knew more about the outside world than any other resident. Some even suggested he had been a soldier, perhaps one of rank.
Finally, Edvalt said, ‘We should brace for trouble, then.’ He motioned to Declan to help him to his feet. Once upright, he stood for a moment, testing how steady he was. He brushed away Declan’s offer of help and said, ‘I’m fine.’
Such was the respect for Edvalt’s opinion on important matters that the villagers gathered around him remained silent. A few helped the freed captives settle in under the shade of the smithy and house, while everyone waited.
Eventually Edvalt spoke. ‘Did any of the slavers escape?’
Rees stood and looked at the other villagers. ‘Did you chase them all down?’
A man named Flet stood on his toes and spoke over the heads of his neighbours. He said, ‘A couple got up the road. We let them go when they turned east and kept running. They’ll not be back soon.’
‘No,’ said Edvalt, ‘not soon, but they will be back.’ He grunted with discomfort and said, ‘They’ll be coming for these’ – he pointed to the prisoners sitting a short way off – ‘and any others they can take.’
‘What should we do?’ asked a woman named Thea. She was a widow with one grown son who cared for her. She added, ‘If they take my boy, I’ll starve.’
Edvalt shook his head. ‘No, Thea. We’re not the sort of community to let you starve, but you’re right. They’ll take your boy, and other lads, like Declan and Jusan.’
‘So what do we do?’ asked Rees, echoing the widow’s concerns.
‘Well, first thing,’ said Edvalt, ‘might be some valuables in those wagons.’ Two of the villagers turned to inspect the carts. Then he pointed to the captives. ‘And we feed this lot before they die on us.’
He moved away from the building, again brushing off Declan’s attempt to help him. ‘I’ve got a cut, lad. I’m not dying.’
He got to the centre of the clearing, where he could look down towards the rest of the village, and said, ‘We must be careful, for if we’re not, those murdering bastards might just start killing before we can get organized.’
He held up his hand for silence, anticipating the flood of questions that began, and after a moment he said, ‘Here?
??s what we do: all the boys and young men have to leave the village. We have three, maybe four days to get them away. The slavers have a company commander somewhere. He won’t take kindly to losing men and captives. If those two who got away find him tonight, he’ll call in his other squads, and they’ll gather by tomorrow night. Another day to get here … Three days, maybe four,’ he repeated.
‘What will we do about the crops?’ asked one of the farmers. ‘With the boys gone, we’ll lose more than half.’
‘The fishermen can help out. With fewer mouths to feed they don’t need to make a catch every day. When the crops are in, the farmers can learn to haul nets.
‘The boys don’t need to be gone forever, just for a few weeks. Head some of them down to Newbay. That should be far enough away and we can send word by boat if the slavers head that way. If they find only old men and women, small children, maybe they’ll give up combing the villages.’
‘What about the girls?’ asked a woman, putting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder, a girl of fourteen years.
Edvalt nodded. ‘Yes, they should go as well. If these bastards are looking for fighting men and don’t find any here, they may instead look for women to sell, or at least make use of. They may also burn a few huts into the bargain. Let’s give them as little reason to kill us as we can.’ Then with anger he added, ‘But be ready to fight and kill them if you must.’
The men tried to look determined, but all knew only the men and women over fifty and children would be left if the young men and women fled. ‘Some of the boys should go with all the girls to Covenant Green. There’s that order of holy women there.’
‘Nuns,’ supplied a village woman.
‘Yes, they’re the type that feed lepers and takes care of madmen,’ offered another.
‘Yes, go to … What do they call it?’
‘The Abbey of Hope,’ supplied the first woman.
‘Good name,’ said Edvalt. ‘Tell whoever is in charge what happened here and ask that they shelter the girls until we send word it’s safe for them to return. The boys can help out around the town for food or chance coming back. The slavers should be here and gone by then.’
At the last, Edvalt didn’t sound convincing.
‘What about them?’ asked another fisherman, indicating the freed prisoners.
Edvalt looked at the ragged men, ranging from their late teens to their early thirties. All showed signs of beatings and starvation. ‘What do you want?’ he asked the prisoner closest to him.
‘Something to eat would do,’ he answered, and a few of the villagers laughed. ‘And then I want to go home.’
‘Where’s home?’ asked Edvalt.
‘Marquensas. I’m a teamster. We took a cargo of fruit to the market at Dunkeep, and on the way we got taken by those murderers.’
‘Dunkeep?’ said a villager. ‘That’s in Ilcomen!’
The teamster nodded. ‘I mentioned that as we were being chained up. Didn’t seem to impress the slavers.’ He motioned towards the wagons and said, ‘One of those up there is mine, or rather was my master’s. He died trying to fight them off.’
‘Well, it’s yours now,’ said Edvalt. ‘Let’s feed these boys,’ he said to the villagers. ‘After we eat, let’s meet here and organize. We’ve got to get ready. This trouble is far from over.’
As the villagers began to help the freed captives, Edvalt motioned for the teamster to stay. ‘We’ll feed you soon, but I think we can help each other. What’s your name?’
‘Ratigan.’
Edvalt laughed and winced from the pain that caused in his side. ‘You’re called Rat, I would wager.’
The man’s brows narrowed. He looked whipcord tough, slender but muscular, and Declan could see why the slavers had taken him: with training he might prove a good warrior. ‘Not since I was a boy of eleven and beat Jono Bolles senseless for it,’ he replied with a note of challenge in his voice.
‘Well, Ratigan,’ said Edvalt, clapping him on his shoulder, ‘we’re all friends here; else we’re dead men. Come along and I’ll tell you what I have in mind.’
Ratigan entered the hut after Mila and Declan, and was followed by Edvalt.
The old woman uncovered a food chest, pulled out bread baked the day before, and cut off a large slice. ‘Got salted fish and some cheese, too,’ she said. The starving man nodded as he bit into the drying bread.
‘Now,’ said Edvalt, ‘I’ve got a lad in that cot too weak to walk, and we have to have him away in a day or two at the most; I think I know a way that will benefit us all.’
‘How?’ asked Ratigan.
‘I want you to take my former journeyman’ – he pointed at Declan – ‘and his apprentice—’
‘My apprentice?’ interrupted Declan.
‘Your apprentice,’ said Edvalt with a nod. ‘If we survive the coming days, I can always find another lad to train up. I was going to sell you this smithy if you’d a mind to stay, but if slavers are making free and the Covenant is being ignored, there may be no smithy in a few more days. And if they do burn this place to the ground, Mila and I will have to start over somewhere else.’ He didn’t look terribly distressed at that prospect; Declan knew Edvalt was frugal and had secreted away enough gold that starting over should not be a problem. Declan also realised that Edvalt didn’t wish for Declan to buy the smithy; he might have said he was ready to retire, but truly he wasn’t, even if he hadn’t understood that until this moment. Edvalt would likely welcome the challenge of rebuilding. Declan found the irony delicious and welcomed the decision’s being taken out of his hands. No, for Edvalt, starting over would not be a problem; living through the next few days, on the other hand, might be.
‘I want you to take the smaller anvil, my second-best set of tools, and that box of sand.’ Declan’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing. In a softer voice, Edvalt said, ‘Keep that sword you’re almost finished with.’ He leaned forward and whispered to Declan, ‘My gut tells me when Baron Bartholomy arrives – if he arrives here – he’s only going to find smoking rubble.’
Declan looked his former master in the eye and said, ‘Hope for the best—’
‘Expect the worst,’ finished Edvalt. Resuming a normal tone, Edvalt said, ‘Accompany Ratigan to Marquensas. I promised Baron Daylon that should I find an apprentice whom I judged to be my equal, I would send that lad to him.’ Before Declan could object to being elevated to Edvalt’s equal, the older smith held up his hand and cut him off. ‘In his own way the baron is a fair man. If you take his service, he’ll treat you well. If you don’t wish to, that’s likely fine. Seek out a town or village nearby in need of a smith and establish yourself. Sandura may be bold here in the Covenant, but I’ll bet Lodavico is years away from taking on the likes of Baron Daylon. I’ll give you a bit of gold so you can purchase or rent a building. You’ll know what you need to do from there, lad.
‘You’re a fine smith, Declan. Best apprentice I’ve ever had, and you’ve the makings of a fine swordsman from what I saw today. Either way, you need to be out on your own. Jusan’s a fair apprentice and you’ll sort him out as well as I would.
‘Now, that’s an end to it.’
Declan knew his former master well enough to accept that if Edvalt said that was the end of it, it was indeed the end. He nodded once and left the hungry driver wolfing down food, as Edvalt rested.
Declan stepped outside as a man named Posey waved to him. ‘Declan! You need to see this.’
Posey stood at the side of the lead horse on the first wagon and as soon as Declan neared, he turned and hurried past the second to the third. Declan hesitated when he saw the first mule. He then hurried to confirm his suspicion, and his spine went cold as he recognised the last wagon. ‘Roz?’ he asked softly.
‘No sign of her,’ answered Posey.
Declan saw two of the former captives sitting in the shade of the smithy; the young men were wolfing down food given to them by one of the townsfolk, and he hurried over to them. ‘Do yo
u know what happened to the woman driving that mule team?’ he asked.
Both men nodded. One with a badly-bandaged face spoke through a mouthful of bread. ‘Ran into her just before we got here. She was coming down the road …’ He shook his head, realising that detail was pointless. ‘Anyway, her wagon was empty and they said she was too old to be sold to a brothel, so they decided to have some fun with her.’
The other man nodded. ‘She put up a fight, I can tell you that. She had her knife out and was off her wagon before the first rider could dismount. She neutered him like a calf and left him screaming like a frightened little girl as he bled to death.’
The bandaged man said, ‘She held two others at bay, then turned the blade on herself.’
The second man added, ‘She was not going to be raped: she made that clear. Took her own life rather than give in to the bastards.’
Declan felt dizzy. A painful, hot hole replaced his stomach. He stood motionless for a moment, then asked, ‘Where?’
‘About an hour up the road,’ said the first man. ‘They left her there, beside the road, alongside the lad she killed.’
Declan felt a stab of cold in his stomach and pushed aside any thought that Roz might be dead. Until he saw her with his own eyes … He turned and silently walked into the smithy. A moment later he returned with a shovel in his hand and walked to the first wagon. Leaping onto the buckboard, he took the reins and urged the mules to move and turn the wagon around.
Posey asked, ‘Where are you off to, Declan?’
Eyes fixed forward, he answered, ‘To say goodbye to a friend.’ With a flick of the reins he started the wagon up the road.
Declan drove the mules hard, and given the contrary nature of the beasts, they surprised him in their willingness to be hurried. Unlike horses, he found mules tended to be smart and take the path of least resistance given the opportunity to choose, but they would not budge if you overloaded them, which was why teamsters like Roz, who were not usually in a hurry, preferred them to horses.