Men poured into the clearing, two score at least, all in the grey of Ardan. Pendathran rode at their head.
Storm moved closer to Corban and leaned into his hip and leg, growling quietly.
Pendathran leaped from his horse and cried out when he saw Tull’s corpse. He took a moment, then focused on Gar and Corban, taking in Storm’s presence.
‘Why are you here?’ he said harshly. ‘With that wolven too.’ Behind him warriors were checking the fallen, spreading through the glade. Corban saw Marrock kneel beside Tull, and other warriors gathered around their fallen leader, Halion amongst them.
‘We were in the forest, heard the sounds of battle,’ Gar said.
‘Where are Alona and Edana? What did you see?’
‘What you see,’ Gar said with a sweep of his hand. ‘This is as we found it.’
‘So where are they?’ Pendathran demanded.
‘I think they fled, this way.’ Gar pointed into the trees. ‘Fled, or were taken.’
Marrock joined them, stepped lightly into the trees and nodded to Pendathran. ‘What would you have us do, Uncle?’ the huntsman asked.
‘We must split,’ he said. ‘If there is any hope of saving Alona we must grasp it. But this…’ he glowered around the glade. ‘This speaks of further mischief. If King Owain is moving against King Brenin, he will be in grave danger.’
He was suddenly all business. ‘Marrock. Choose some men–ones that can move quickly, and will be up for a fight at the end of it. I will go back to Uthandun. If King Owain has not yet struck I am taking Brenin back to Ardan. Now.’ He squeezed Marrock’s shoulder. ‘Look after yourself, and do all you can to get my sister back,’ he said gruffly. ‘If you are successful, make for the giantsway, but towards Ardan, not Narvon. We will try to meet you on the road. And Owain will pay dearly for this.’
Marrock wasted no time, calling out names. In moments a dozen men stood about him, Halion and Conall amongst them.
‘I am coming with you,’ Corban suddenly blurted.
‘No,’ Gar snapped.
Marrock shook his head.
‘Cywen. My sister is with them. I am coming.’ The thought of just running away was unbearable. He had to do something. Cywen was out there, scared.
‘No, lad. You are not a warrior yet,’ Marrock said, almost gently. ‘It will be no place for you.’
‘But…’ he looked about, could think only of Cywen running through the forest. ‘Wait–Storm can track them. She would lead us straight to Cywen. You’d not need to search for a trail, just follow her. It will speed your task.’
Marrock looked from Corban to the wolven and frowned.
‘If there is a chance of finding Alona more quickly,’ Pendathran said, preparing to leave, ‘take it.’
Marrock nodded.
‘But, boy,’ Pendathran said, ‘make sure that wolven does not bite any man of mine, or I’ll string you up myself.’
‘Aye,’ Corban said.
‘Farewell,’ Pendathran shouted as he left the glade, his warriors following in a burst of noise and speed.
‘Take this, Ban,’ Gar said quietly, passing him a sword, taken from one of the dead.
Corban just stared at it, then clumsily strapped it on, adjusting the scabbard on its belt.
Gar shuffled amongst the fallen around Tull, took up another weapon and belted it around his own waist.
‘You’re not coming, cripple,’ Conall said.
Gar glanced at him and said nothing, just continued strapping on the sword-belt. He loosened the blade in its scabbard.
‘Cripple, I’m talking to you,’ Conall said, louder, but Gar just walked over to stand beside Corban and Storm.
Conall strode over and grabbed Gar’s shoulder roughly. ‘You’ll answer me when I speak to you–and you’ll not be coming with us,’ Conall repeated.
‘I think I will,’ said Gar.
‘You’ll slow us. Take the sword off and hobble back to Uthandun, with all the other women.’ Conall was visibly furious.
‘I’ll go where the lad goes,’ Gar said calmly and rolled his shoulders, his neck clicking.
‘You’ll slow us,’ Conall repeated, stepping closer to Gar, almost nose to nose.
‘No need to slow your pace for me,’ Gar said. ‘If I fall behind, I fall behind.’
‘Leave it, Conall,’ Marrock grunted. ‘Gar’s right, if he can’t match our pace he’ll just fall behind. There’s no harm, no danger in that.’
Conall eyed Gar a moment longer, then nodded.
‘Right, lad,’ Marrock said. ‘Let’s see how good your wolven’s nose is. Lead the way.’
Corban bent down to Storm. ‘Cywen, Storm. Cywen. Seek.’
The wolven set off immediately, loping into the trees. Corban followed her, Marrock and a dozen warriors behind him, Gar leaving the glade last of all.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CYWEN
Cywen blinked sweat from her eyes and staggered over a tree root. Ronan reached out and steadied her.
‘Keep moving,’ the young warrior said, glancing back over his shoulder. The forest behind them was empty, at least it appeared empty. They had been running for what seemed an eternity, Cywen losing all track of time, but she was sure the forest had grown darker, the shadows deeper, so it must be approaching sunset? They would be safer once it was darker. Harder to track, surely? She looked at Ronan, his red hair sweat soaked and plastered to his head, face gaunt with worry. She nodded and forced her legs to move, her lungs burning. Edana was only a little ahead, flitting amongst thick foliage, so she tried to increase her speed.
Her world shrank to the space in front of her, focusing on every step, avoiding every moss-covered boulder, concentrating on not losing her companions.
She could not believe what had happened. What was King Owain thinking? Was this a bid to conquer Ardan? And what about those still at Uthandun–King Brenin, her mam and da, Corban, Gar…
The idea of them dying, of her not seeing them again, hit her hard. She felt sick to her stomach and staggered. The figures she was following slowed, then stopped. Like Cywen, they were all too breathless for speech.
Ronan and the other warrior–Ised, she remembered–conferred in sharp whispers, Ised pointing into the forest.
‘Do you… think… they… will… follow us?’ Edana said, between gasps for breath.
Ronan bit back an answer.
‘Of course,’ Queen Alona said. ‘Owain has crossed a line. He will not just give up, now. Darkness is our best hope–if we can keep ahead of them, reach the road…’
Birds squawked in the forest, back the way they had come.
‘Better be moving,’ Ronan said. ‘Ised is a woodsman, best if he leads us. I’d only get us lost.’ He smiled, weakly. ‘I’ll watch our backs.’
Ised set off, Alona and Edana close behind him. As Cywen gathered her breath and her will Ronan gripped her wrist. ‘If it comes to a fight, stay close to me. I am oathsworn to Edana, but I…’ He looked down. ‘I would see no harm come to you. Stay close to me.’
She smiled, here, in the midst of the Darkwood, death breathing down their necks, and yet she felt such a rush of joy. She leaned forward and brushed her lips on his freckled cheek. ‘I’ll do that,’ she whispered, then set off after the others.
They ploughed on, then there was movement at the edge of her vision, the sound of drumming feet.
‘Run,’ Ronan hissed, pushing her on.
Panic consumed her and she pounded into the forest–their pursuers were closing in. All of them sped up, though soon the sounds of pursuit grew even louder behind them. Cywen checked her belt for the the hilts of her last two knives.
‘It is no good,’ said Ronan, ‘they will be on us in moments.’
Ised heard him and pulled up before a thick-trunked elm. ‘We’ll make a stand here,’ he grunted, breathing heavily.
‘Behind us,’ Ronan said. He and Ised drew their swords and stood together, facing the shadows.
Cywe
n pulled a knife and glanced at Queen Alona and Edana.
Movement caught her eye, a figure, coming at them fast. She aimed and hurled her knife, hearing it thunk into wood. She whispered a curse and drew her last knife, then all was chaos. Warriors surged out of the darkness and targeted Ised and Ronan. A man screamed and fell at Ronan’s feet, his lifeless head flopping close to Cywen. She stared at his dull eyes.
Ised grunted and dropped to one knee, then a blade chopped into his neck and he toppled sideways.
Edana screamed.
A red-cloaked warrior advanced on Ronan, others emerging from the gloom, all with swords drawn. Ten, twelve, more–Cywen counted. We are dead.
‘Hold,’ a voice shouted, and the man before Ronan paused, though he didn’t lower his sword.
Two stepped forward, one younger, with a scar under his eye. Cywen gasped, recognizing them both. Rhin’s champion that had duelled with Tull on Midwinter’s Eve. Morcant. What is he doing here? And the other man was Braith–she would never forget his face after that night at Dun Carreg.
‘We could use this one,’ Braith said to Morcant. ‘Better the message reach Brenin from one of his own warriors than one of ours.’
Morcant had a sword drawn, but held loosely. He paused.
A message. Please, Elyon, let them spare Ronan, let them send him to Brenin.
Morcant looked between Ronan and Braith, Ronan shifting his feet, a quiver in his sword arm.
Suddenly Morcant exploded into motion, faster than Cywen could follow. Iron grated on iron, Ronan twisting and shouting, then he was sinking, blood gushing from his throat. It took a moment to register in Cywen’s mind, then she screamed and grabbed for him. She pressed a hand to his neck, trying to stem the flow, but blood poured through her fingers. No, no, no, no, no! she screamed inside, his weight pushing her to the ground, where she held his head in her lap. His eyes looked up into hers, blinked once and then became dull, sightless. She felt a confusion of rage and grief. Then she hurled herself at Morcant, stabbing with the knife she still clutched in one hand.
Morcant jumped back and swore as she stabbed him, the knife turning on his chainmail shirt. He clubbed her with the back of his hand and she fell to the ground, the metallic taste of blood in her mouth.
‘Bind them,’ Morcant said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CAMLIN
‘We��ll camp here,’ Braith called, standing before a patch of open ground.
They had walked hard until sunset, Camlin behind the three women as they travelled through the forest. Their prisoners had made no trouble and kept mostly silent, walking with heads down, apart from the one Scar had clubbed. She had stared at Scar’s back most of the time, her fury almost tangible.
Braith ordered the women to sit against a wide chestnut, where they were tied to the trunk and each other. Camlin looked around at the men making camp and failed to shake his dark mood. Out of the score of the old crew that had followed Braith out of the hills only eight remained, including him. The new lads had not fared much better, as only twelve of them moved around the fire and stream. Eight of their number lay dead in the grass back at the glade. He sat in the shadows beyond the fire’s reach, his back to a tree, and began running a whetstone over his sword’s edge. He had a bad feeling about this, a niggling sensation in his gut and a sense of dread to match. Braith had told them this was a ransom job. Kill the guards, grab the girls, wear the red cloaks of Narvon to throw anyone off their trail, then bleed a large pot of coin from King Brenin. That sounded good: plenty of coin poured onto a stiff dose of revenge. But things didn’t feel right.
Braith had not given a straight answer on who the new lads were or where they came from, and as time had passed Braith had been dipping his head more and more to Scar, as if he were the crew’s chief. And now, plain as day, Scar had known the big man, called him Tull. More than that, had some grudge with him. Then Queen Rhin had been mentioned. He had no axe to grind with her–Brenin and Owain were his problem–but taking orders from any king or queen sat ill with him.
He was starting to feel used, and he didn’t like that one little bit.
And then there was the bairn. The one with the knives from Dun Carreg. She was tied to a tree, glaring holes into Scar.
He’d not be killing women or bairns–and Braith knew that.
Later, when he saw Braith slip into the trees, Camlin followed silently.
Camlin changed his approach now, holding his hands up. He didn’t want an arrow in his chest.
Braith nodded a greeting but said nothing, and for a while they stood there in silence. Eventually Camlin spoke. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘I heard what the big man said, Braith, back in the glade. He knew Scar, and, that talk, about Rhin…’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Who is Scar? And why do you treat him like he’s chief? You, who’s not taken sauce from any man in all the years I’ve known you?’
Braith looked at him, his face expressionless.
‘We’ve followed you a long time, Braith. I’ve followed you a long time. Think you owe me some truth here.’
‘Aye, maybe so,’ Braith conceded.‘Scar is Rhin’s first-sword. His name’s Morcant.’
Camlin folded his arms, waiting for the rest.
‘You asked me back at the village what my story is, Cam.’
‘Aye. I remember.’
‘I am Rhin’s man. I always have been. Well, as long as I can remember. King Owain killed my kin, my mam and da, over a border dispute. It was Rhin’s people, in the village I took you to, that raised me. Rhin sent me here, with the task of becoming one of you.’
Camlin had wondered many things, but never this. ‘Why?’ he said, shocked now.
‘To stir things up between Brenin and Owain. She wants their land, Cam, and she’ll have it, too. Soon.’
‘So this,’ Camlin said, waving a hand back at the campsite. ‘This is about more’n just coin and vengeance?’
‘Aye. We’re starting a war here. Soon enough Ardan and Narvon will be at each other’s throats, and Queen Rhin will step in at the end of it, clean up the mess.’
After all these years of robbery, burning and murder Camlin felt he should have expected this, or at least not been surprised, but instead he felt foolish. And betrayed. Somehow he’d trusted Braith.
Somewhere in the forest a fox barked, like a bairn’s scream.
‘You could do all right out of this, Cam. You could join me. I’ll be going back, soon. Back to Rhin. You’ve a good head on your shoulders, and at a time like this there’s always need of those that can do our work.’ He waited for Camlin’s response.
‘And if I don’t…’ Camlin said.
‘Become chief here. For a while, at least. There should be easy pickings for a time, with both kings Brenin and Owain distracted. ’Course, once Rhin steps in, you’ll have to find a new trade. She’ll not have the likes of you roaming her land, takin’ what you want, when you want.’ He coughed, not quite a laugh. ‘Times are changing, Cam. You move with them, or get moved by them. We’ve been through a lot together, you an’ me. I’d be proud t’have you with me.’ He reached out and squeezed Camlin’s shoulder.
‘Huh,’ said Camlin, his mind racing, fighting the urge to shake Braith’s hand off him. He didn’t like this. The Darkwood life suited him. He had always had a chief, sure, but that was different to a king or queen pulling your strings. So that left staying in the Darkwood, becoming chief himself. He didn’t fancy that much, either–and it wasn’t exactly a long-term move, anyway, if what Braith was saying about Rhin was true. ‘So, what’s your plan, now, Braith?’ he asked, struggling to keep his voice expressionless.
‘The plan is to take the women across the river, to the village in the hills. From there deliver them to Rhin. Get paid.’ He shrugged. ‘After that, it’s up to you.’
‘So, why have you just not killed them? The women, I mean. Surely King Brenin’s wife and daughter dead in the glade would have been the quickest route to sparking a
war.’
‘Rhin wants some leverage, some bargaining power, in case things don’t go her way. Whether they’re dead or not, Brenin’ll think Owain’s behind it, the red cloaks will make sure of that.’
‘Good,’ said Camlin vehemently. ‘I’ll not be part to the killing of women or bairns, Braith. I told you that back at Dun Carreg.’
‘Aye, you did.’
‘So, I’d not see any harm come to them.’
‘Let me make this clear to you, Cam,’ Braith said, an edge to his voice. ‘We’re part of something bigger here. Rhin’s champion–I’m not scared to hold up a blade ’gainst any man, but I’d not rush it with him. I’ve seen him destroy men.’ Braith stopped a moment, letting his words sink in. ‘From what I know, there’s no risk to any of them women, less they try t’run, or start screamin’ their lungs out. But my point is this, Cam. Right now you’re in no position to be giving out orders to anyone. Not yet. If you choose t’be chief, well an’ good. But right now, it’s Morcant that says what’s what around here, and after him, it’s me. Don’t go forgetting that.’
Camlin frowned in the darkness.
They said no more, and a short while later Camlin walked back to the camp. On the way he unclasped his red cloak and let it fall to the ground.
At dawn, Camlin stirred, grey light filtering hazily down to the forest floor. Mist swirled up from the stream in thick coils and crept amongst the forms of sleeping men.
He looked past the fire to the tree where the women were bound and saw the girl from the watering pool staring straight back at him, so he walked over to the captives.
‘I know you,’ the girl said as he drew close. He did not answer, just offered his water skin.
‘My hands,’ she said, raising an eyebrow.
Of course. All of the captives’ hands were bound tight, then bound again to each other and the trunk of the tree. He put the water skin to her lips. She pursed them a moment, eyes glaring at him. Looking closer he saw tear tracks streaked her grimy, bloodstained face.
‘Drink, girl. You’ll spite none but yourself.’