The Shadow Isle (33 page)

“Oh, it’s naught,” Mirryn said. “I guess.”

“Out with it!”

Mirryn stopped walking, and Gerran joined him. A few campfires still burned, casting an uncertain light here and there through the camp. All around them the men were spreading out their blankets for the night. The camp stank of smoke and sweat and horses, such a familiar smell that Gerran found it soothing.

“Well,” Mirryn said, “it’s about Branna and the daft things she says sometimes. Last summer, when you all were riding off to Zakh Gral, I was furious at being left behind.”

“I remember that, truly.”

“On the day the army left, she twitted me about it.” Mirryn hesitated. “When she warned you about Oth, it came true, and so that made me wonder.”

“What are you getting at? Did she give you some sort of warning?”

“Just that. In this truly peculiar voice she told me that I needed to stay in the dun for some reason, Wyrd, most likely. Then she said that at the turning of the next year toward spring my time of war would come. I don’t know why, but I got the impression that she was surprised, or I was going to be surprised. Well, here it is, early in the spring. And my mind keeps reminding me of her words. Do you think it might mean somewhat?”

“I’d wager high it does. Surprised, huh? I don’t see any harm in sending a few scouts ahead of us, but we’d best wait till dawn. We’d best tell the prince, too. In the dark the Horsekin have the advantage with those noses of theirs.”

“Horsekin?”

Gerran smiled, just briefly. “Who else would give us trouble? The silver dragon saw an army far to the north. This could be an advance force.”

“Good point.” Mirryn’s expression turned grim. “Dawn it is for those scouts.”

Gerran woke at the first light of a clear, dry day. He found Nicedd the silver dagger and a Red Wolf man whose wits he trusted and woke them to give them his orders. Once they were on their way, he went to Prince Voran’s tent. Voran had already risen and was standing outside, watching his servant rummage through a sack of provisions. Gerran told him that he’d sent off scouts, though he left out any mention of dweomer omens.

“Good thinking, my lord,” Voran said. “You never know what might happen up here on the border.”

“So I thought, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “We’ll see what news the scouts bring back, if any.”

The scouts left on foot just as the rest of the men were beginning to roll out of their blankets and pull on their boots. The entire camp was awake and eating their breakfast rations when the scouts came running back.

“We didn’t have to go far, my lord,” Nicedd said. “Maybe a mile. We found tracks and rubbish and a couple of latrine ditches, all fresh, and hoofprints, too big for an ordinary horse. I’d say that Horsekin raiders aren’t far ahead of us on the road.”

“Well and good, then,” Voran said. “When we ride, we ride armed and ready for trouble.” He turned to Caenvyr. “Make sure everyone hears the orders.”

With the scouts trailing after him, Gerran hurried back to his own part of the camp. While the Red Wolf men and the Westfolk archers gobbled the last of their breakfast, Gerran mentioned to a man here and there that it was Lord Mirryn who’d originally thought of sending out scouts. The news would spread quickly enough. Clae had already laid out his lord’s chain mail and helm. Gerran put them on, then ate a chunk of bread standing up while Clae saddled and bridled his horse. Mirryn joined him, his own breakfast in hand.

“With luck,” Gerran remarked, “we’ll catch the bastards on the road.”

“Good,” Mirryn said.

“Now look, you’re a good man with your sword, but I’ll warn you somewhat. In battle things happen a cursed lot faster than they do on the tourney ground. Don’t overreach yourself, foster brother. Make sure you stay with your men. Plenty of fighting will come your way. Don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of it!”

“You look troubled.”

“I’m not. I was just thinking that tonight my life is going to be completely different—one way or the other. It’s an odd thought to have with your breakfast.”

When the army rode out, the Westfolk archers rode at the head of the line of march with their curved hunting bows at the ready and a full quiver of arrows at each man’s hip. Once they spotted the enemy, they would peel off and attack the Horsekin from the flanks. Prince Voran’s men rode behind them and the Dun Cengarn men after them, with the Red Wolf bringing up the rear guard.

“Ye gods,” Mirryn said, “the dust!”

With seventy horsemen on a dirt road, the dust rose up in a high plume, a clear signal to any enemies ahead of them.

“True spoken,” Gerran said. “We can blasted well forget about catching the bastards by surprise. Here, Mirro, I’ve got to ride forward and take charge of my archers. If there’s a scrap, good luck.”

“And the same to you.” Mirryn gave him a grin. “Lots of it.”

Gerran trotted his horse up the line and pulled in next to Vantalaber, the leader of the archers’ squad. As a sign of his position, Van wore a bird’s wing sewn to one side of his helm, which was mostly leather though reinforced with brass strips over the crown and around the base. Van grinned at him with the exact same expression as Mirryn and patted the bow laid across his cantle.

“We’ll aim for the horses first,” Van said.

“Good. If you can bring down a few in front, they’ll have to make a messy charge.”

About a mile on, the road entered a forest, a thick stand of old growth maple, larch, and scattered pine. Here and there branches overhung the road and scattered the dust cloud, but in a couple of miles more the road broke free of the cover. Dust rose again as the warbands followed the road into a wide meadow.

To either side stretched open farmland. A mile or so off to the left a plume of smoke rose, the sign of a burning farmstead, no doubt. Ahead of the oncoming Deverry force, armed and ready Horsekin sat on their heavy horses in two-deep ranks, formed into a rough crescent. Thirty raiders, maybe forty—Gerran had no time to count. He reached down and pulled a javelin from the sheath under his right leg. With a silver horn in hand, Prince Voran urged his horse up to the front rank.

“Now!” Voran shouted at the top of his lungs, then raised the horn and blew.

The archers peeled off, five on each side. The prince’s men threw their javelins in a hail of deadly steel, then drew swords on the follow through. The Horsekin shouted and flung up shields to deflect them. One javelin found its mark; a Horsekin in the second rank slumped in the saddle, then fell over his mount’s neck, but the raiders in the front rank held their position until the arrows began flying. With a whistle and hiss, death struck from the side. Horses screamed and reared; two fell to their knees, dying. The Horsekin in the rear rank screamed war cries and pressed forward; those in the front had no choice but to charge. In an answering roar of war cries, Voran’s men charged to meet them.

Gerran found himself caught in the front rank of the charge. Through the choking dust he spotted a Horsekin toward the edge of the enemy formation who was wearing the red tabard of the Keepers of Discipline. In dead silence, Gerran rode straight for him. A Westfolk arrow hissed by him and grazed the Keeper’s bay horse. A red stripe opened on the horse’s flank as it neighed and reared, pawing the air. When it came down, Gerran was there to meet its rider.

The Keeper swung down with his falcata. Gerran twisted away, ended up low in the saddle, then struck up from below. He caught the Keeper full in the face, just under the nasal bar of his helm. With a scream the Keeper tumbled backward just as another arrow struck his mount full in the neck. The horse went down, and Gerran spurred his own mount past them into the thick of the fighting.

So thick, in fact, that he found himself unable to face off with another Horsekin rider—the prince’s force outnumbered them at least two to one. The Westfolk archers had done their work to broaden the odds further. The remaining Horsekin were trying to turn and flee; the arrows kept coming, and Deverry riders were pushing hard into the center of what had been the Horsekin formation. Over the melee a brass horn sang out as somewhere a Horsekin officer signaled retreat.

Gerran pulled free of the hopeless mob and turned his horse. The Red Wolf men, trapped as they had been in the rear rank, were just joining the fighting, or trying to. Gerran allowed himself a grin at the thought of how frustrated Mirryn must be, then rose in the stirrups and looked for his archers, spread dangerously around the edge of the field. He began riding after them, yelling for them to join ranks and return to safety. A few heard him and turned their horses just as a Horsekin squad broke free of the mob and headed straight for Gerran, caught isolated on the edge of the battle.

You rash dolt!
Gerran had just time to think it before the squad mobbed him, four riders, swinging hard with falcatas, pressing in two at a time. No time to think of attack—Gerran had shield and sword and parried with both. He swayed and ducked as his horse danced and kicked, but one of the Horsekin had managed to edge round to the rear. A hard blow caught Gerran on the back of his left shoulder. He nearly dropped the shield but clutched the handhold with all his arm’s failing strength and saved it.

All at once a Horsekin yelled, another screamed; the horse directly in front of his went down, an arrow in its throat. Gerran heard shouting, “Red Wolf! Red Wolf!” Swinging a blooded blade, Mirryn burst into the scrap from the side. A Horsekin went down. Daumyr spitted another in the back. The last raider tried to turn his horse and run, but a Westfolk arrow struck his horse full in the chest. Mirryn finished off the rider as the Horsekin fought to jump free of his falling mount.

Panting for breath, Gerran lowered his shield and saw only Deverry riders and Westfolk archers on the field. Prince Voran’s silver horn was singing the order to hold and stand. Mirryn pulled his horse up beside Gerran.

“My thanks,” Gerran gasped it out.

“You had the luck,” Mirryn said. “Daumyr spotted you off on the edge.”

With his drawn sword Gerran saluted Daumyr, who shoved his helm back and grinned with sweat running down his face. Vantalaber guided his horse up to join them with his bow slung over one shoulder.

“I’ve collected all our men, Gerro,” Van said. “All accounted for. It gladdens my heart to see you alive.”

“I got careless,” Gerran said. “I nearly paid for it, too.”

“It happens.” Van shrugged the comment away. “The prince’s captain tells me that a couple of Horsekin got clean away. He says it’s too dangerous to go after them, because they’re probably going to rejoin a larger force somewhere.”

“Most likely,” Gerran said. “This lot didn’t have a baggage train, not so much as a pack mule with them. They can’t be riding on their own.”

Prince Voran had reached the same conclusion. By then, the sun had climbed to zenith. The prince and Gerran discussed the situation while Mirryn and the two captains, Voran’s and Ridvar’s, sat on their horses with them and listened. With the immediate danger past, Gerran could allow himself to feel the pain in his shoulder, burning like fire from the falcata blow. Still, since no one had mentioned seeing any blood seeping through his mail, he forced his mind away from it.

“Good thing you thought of those scouts,” Voran said in an oddly mild tone of voice. “Now, we’ve got two men dead and a couple of wounded.” He turned in the saddle and spoke to his captain. “Caenvyr, make sure that any wounded Horsekin are disposed of. Then pick ten men for a guard to wait with our own wounded till the wagons catch up. It shouldn’t be long now. We’ll bury our dead in the oak trees near the holy temple.”

“Your Highness.” Caenvyr bowed from the saddle, then rode off.

Voran turned to Ridvar’s captain. “Your lord needs to know what’s happened here. Send messengers, but four of them, just in case any of the swine are hiding along the forest road. Bring them to me before they leave, so I can tell them the message.”

“Done, then, Your Highness.” The captain jogged off to follow orders.

“Now, as for us,” Voran returned his attention to the two lords. “Let’s gather our men and push on. I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a good reason why Govvin hasn’t answered that summons from the gwerbret.”

“So am I, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “The temple’s defensible if the main body of raiders come back for us.”

“Good thought, yet once again. Very well. Let’s ride.”

The temple complex stood at the top of a low hill. From the outside, it looked like a typical Deverry dun, with a high stone wall, crenellated, circling a tall broch tower. In the ward, or so Gerran had been told, the priests had built a round temple of Bel out of the sacred oak wood. When they rode up to the base of the hill, he could see that the gates to the dun hung open, smashed half off their hinges. The warm spring wind brought down the unmistakable stink of rotting blood and flesh.

“By all the gods!” Prince Voran whispered. He started to say more, then merely shook his head in disbelief.

The men behind him began to curse and mutter among themselves. Gerran rose in his stirrups and looked through the gates. He could see what appeared to be irregular tree trunks. standing in the ward.

“It looks like they’ve taken the temple apart, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “Whoever they were.”

“And then they left again,” the prince said. “No man’s going to live in that stink. Dead priests, I assume.”

The prince had assumed correctly, but none of them could have guessed what lay ahead. Most of the prince’s men dismounted and armed, then followed the prince and Gerran while the Cengarn men and the Red Wolf guarded the horses. Cautiously, three abreast, they walked up the hill, then stopped, stunned, at the gates. Ravens rose from a feast, shrieking in annoyance at being disturbed.

Mercifully, all of the priests had already died. Each one of them had been stripped, bound, and then impaled on a long Horsekin spear, inserted in the anus and shoved all the way through to the back of the neck and out again. Their faces, twisted in agony, showed that they’d been still alive during the impalement. A few must have lived for some while, judging from their pain-twisted faces and the way they’d bitten through their own lips. Twelve priests in all, plus four servants, made up the thicket of death.