ELEVEN

 

 

THEY DID NOT linger in Ivrigar. Murtach and most of the company came in late that night, and by early the following afternoon, they were preparing to go on their way again. Over thirty grypesh had been slain, and the rest of the pack had dispersed in the western hills. Little damage had been done to the surrounding farms, since the beasts had concentrated their efforts on following the patrol and striving to enter Ivrigar. Riven, remembering the Rime Giant’s attempt on his life in Ralarth Rorim, wondered how many more times he was to be the focus of a battle.

Aelin wished them goodbye, members of her household helping the injured Hearthwares to mount their steeds. She kissed her husband dutifully, and for a moment Riven saw her and Ratagan exchange a look which had in it something of despair. Then they were formal again, and the company was trooping out of the courtyard and into the cold breeze that billowed down from the distant mountains, their faces set towards the east.

They rode through the stink of pyres where local men were burning the bodies of the beasts killed the night before, and then the land dipped and they were back in the Dales proper, with the hills behind them and some of the chill wind cut off. Riven pulled his cloak up about his neck, his bones aching and stiff and his legs still complaining about the horse between them. But he would have a drink and a warm bed awaiting him when he got rid of it. And Madra there, also, he suddenly remembered, and groaned aloud as he thought of the complications ahead. This world was more complex than his stories had ever made it.

Because it is real. It is not a story. It never was.

Then why Jenny, and Hugh? Why the spillover from his own life? He thought of his books. If anyone knew the answers in this country, it was the Dwarves. But how to get hold of them? There were none in Ralarth, none in the south. The only place they lived was in the northern mountains, the Greshorns. He shivered, remembering a dream where he had been riding north into the mountains with a woman who was not his wife.

Time to move on, maybe, to search for some answers before the whole thing comes down around my ears.

‘Riders ahead,’ Tagan, the black-bearded scout, said up front. ‘Half a dozen. ’Wares, I think.’

‘Not Ralarth’s ’Wares, though,’ Murtach said, his blue eyes narrowed against the wind that watered them.

They rode on at an easy trot, eating up the ground, until finally Murtach said in disgust: ‘Bragad’s lady—out for a ride, it seems, with five of her husband’s escort for company.’ And he spat over his mount’s shoulder.

The small group of riders spied them and altered their course to meet the patrol. In minutes, they stood facing each other across a few feet of upland grass, the fresher horses of Jinneth’s escort stamping impatiently. She was dressed in black, as always, making Riven wonder sourly if she were mourning someone, but there was a bright smile on her face as she took in the battered condition of Murtach’s patrol; the bandaged Hearthwares, the clawed mounts and the weary eyes of them all.

‘My lords Murtach and Ratagan,’ she said gaily. ‘You have been sorely missed from the council chamber. My husband was eager to meet the axe man and the shapeshifter of Ralarth once more.’

Murtach scowled, but said nothing.

‘Surely your errand was urgent, to take you away from such an important gathering in your own Rorim. And you have the foreign Teller with you also, I see.’ Her gaze flicked over Riven cursorily, and he stiffened as though he had been struck. ‘But here! I notice you have been fighting, so maybe your errand was not so slight. I trust you were the victors of whatever engagement you became embroiled in?’

‘We were,’ Murtach said succinctly. A low growl from Fife was silenced by his glare. ‘It might be better, though, my lady, if you were not to wander the open Dale with such a small escort. There are evil beasts abroad in great numbers, and even a well-armed group such as ours has its difficulties.’

‘My husband’s Hearthwares are equal to any task he sets them,’ she replied, her smile becoming frosty, like brittle icing on an old cake.

There was a low derisive murmur from the Ralarth ’Wares at this. Bragad’s men in their red sashes set hands on sword hilts.

Jinneth ignored them. ‘And we will be moving on now, if you don’t mind. The day wanes, and if your words are to be believed, then I had best be back in the security of your Rorim before nightfall.’ She gathered up her reins, but Murtach’s voice stopped her.

‘What of the council—is it yet over?’

She checked, irritated. ‘No. It continues, and will for another day or so at least. Your Warbutt and his son prove intractable, though their own lords disagree with them.’

Murtach cocked a brow. ‘Indeed? But then there are strange bedfellows about in these times, are there not?’

She whitened, and Riven saw the knuckles bunch on her riding whip. But then she jerked her horse around savagely, and wheeled off with her escort in pursuit. The Ralarth ’Wares grinned at her receding figure, but Murtach was sombre.

‘The council goes on too long,’ he said. ‘There is something here that smells bad.’ And he led them in a weary canter down to the Rorim.

 

 

THEY ENTERED THE Circle by the South Gate, the Hearthware lieutenant Dunan greeting them as they arrived, and walked the tired horses with their injured riders up alongside the Rorim’s stream to the Inner Circle, and the Manse with its blue pennants snapping in the brisk wind. There were many people about working at the common land between the walls, and more than a few seated outside the few inns they passed. Everyone acknowledged the Ralarth ’Wares and Myrcans with nods or bows, and someone, recognising Ratagan, swung him a tankard of beer. He drained it at a draught and threw it back, the dark mood that had kept him silent from Ivrigar falling away.

They rode through the market, with its gaudy awnings and crammed stalls, its pens of bawling sheep. Many of the pens were empty, however, and the shepherds who lounged on the rails there had a hopeless look. The big horses shouldered passersby aside, for which Murtach courteously apologised, and the wounded ’Wares, bloodstained and tired, drew stares from everywhere. There were concerned looks from burly matrons, and longing admiration from boys.

They caught a brief glimpse of the struggling figures on the practice grounds, the clash of their weapons on the wind. Then they entered the barbican of the Rorim itself, and clattered on the cobbles of the Inner Court where Riven had battled Giants. They came to a halt before the doors of the Manse and grooms ran out to take their horses, unarmoured Hearthwares helping their comrades from the saddle. Bicker was there, looking as tired as if he, and not they, had been riding and fighting in the past three days. And Madra was with him, the worry clear on her face a hundred feet away. Her eyes ran over the company for a moment, and then she turned away to go inside again. Riven and Ratagan exchanged a look, and Riven realised that the big man knew everything. Ratagan thumped his shoulder lightly, a crooked smile playing in his beard.

‘Women, eh?’

And they shared a laugh, dismounting together in the clatter of the crowded court.

 

 

LATER, AS NIGHT crept over the Rorim, they met in Riven’s room and shared a few pitchers of ale. Guillamon and Bicker were there, as well as Ratagan and Murtach, and Isay took up his usual post at the door. Fife and Drum sprawled contentedly on the floor. There was no sign of Madra, Riven noticed with a pang, and the beer was brought up to them by a serving maid he did not know.

Well done, Riven; another good deed done.

They sat savouring the malty brew for a while, with the darkness silent outside the windows. Both Bicker and Guillamon were preoccupied and frowning, and Ratagan’s attempts at jokes fell flat.

‘How is Aelin?’ Guillamon asked hopefully at last. Murtach shot his father a warning glance, but the big man merely shrugged, his deep eyes becoming shrouded by the overhanging brows.

‘Much as she was before. And so am I. There is no profit to be made there, Guillamon, not any more. I wish my friends would take that to heart. And my mother, also.’ He sipped at his beer. A savage look flitted across his face and was gone.

Guillamon grimaced. ‘Fair enough.’

They fell silent again. Murtach had already told Bicker of the fight at Ivrigar, and a strong patrol was being sent out in the morning under Ord. There were reports of other attacks to the north and west, but still no word had come in of Lionan or Mullach, and Murtach’s patrol had not sighted them. They and their forces seemed to have vanished from Ralarth.

‘But these talks, Bicker,’ Murtach was saying. ‘Why do they continue so long? Why does Bragad not give in? What does he hope to gain?’

The dark man looked harassed. ‘He has the support of three of Ralarth’s lords—a fair foothold, I would say. Theoretically they should follow the lead of the Warbutt if he commands them; they are his vassals. But you know, Murtach, that in the past the Warbutt has waived a point when a majority of the lords were against it.’

‘Not with this one, he won’t,’ Ratagan snorted.

‘I know, but the precedent is there.’

‘Well,’ the big man declared, ‘I see two lords sitting here who will not change their minds.’

‘The axe man and the shapeshifter,’ Murtach murmured. He appeared uneasy.

‘Bragad wants the pair of you present at the council. It is one of the reasons he has been delaying us these three days, I think,’ Guillamon put in.

‘He thinks he can change our minds?’ Ratagan asked derisively.

‘I don’t know. He wants to canvass every one of Ralarth’s lords.’

‘He is killing time,’ Bicker grated, ‘and I would like to know why.’ No one answered him. Ratagan refilled their flagons from the pitcher on the table.

‘One more day,’ Guillamon said. ‘Two, perhaps. Then we’ll give him another feast and send him on his way.’

‘And maybe have a word or two with the more bothersome of our lords,’ Murtach said darkly. ‘I’m thinking it’s no bad thing that we’ve Druim training a militia and extra Hearthwares for us. A small show of strength might be called for, to teach men like Marsco who is overlord in Ralarth.’

Guillamon nodded. ‘The very thing he feared he may well have brought upon himself anyway. We cannot have the lord of a place such as Ringill intriguing with the likes of Bragad.’

‘Or Bragad’s lady,’ Bicker added, and he darted a look of apology at Riven. Riven said nothing. He was becoming used to the idea that Jinneth was not Jenny, that Bragad was not Hugh. But it reminded him of what he wanted to say.

‘I’ve been here in Ralarth a fair while now,’ he began, and the others stared at him. ‘There are things and people here who were in my books—whom I created, in a manner of speaking. There are people here from my own world who have somehow been translated into Minginish. And there are people, places, history in this country I’d never even guessed at, though I sometimes feel I know them anyway.’ He met their eyes steadily. Fife and Drum lifted their heads off their paws and seemed to sniff the air.

‘It is here, in Ralarth, that the thing begins—here that the main characters come from, just as they did in the book. But it doesn’t end here, and the answers will not be found here in the Dales. I’m sure of that now. Staying here, I’m just the target for further attacks, with the Rorim between me and what’s trying to kill me. But the story has to move on.’

‘The third book,’ Bicker said quietly. ‘The last one.’

‘You know how the story goes,’ Riven said. ‘A trio of heroes set out in winter to save the land in a quest to the north.’

‘To find the Dwarves of the Greshorns,’ Murtach said.

‘And Sgurr Dearg, the Staer, is in the middle of those mountains,’ Riven told them. ‘That’s where it began. That’s where it will end. I’m sure of it.’

‘Had you planned the third book?’ Bicker asked, his eyes like two black holes in his sharp face.

‘Part of the way, yes. But I couldn’t get to grips with it. I couldn’t write it.’ He remembered sitting at his desk in the bothy before Bicker arrived, trying to tear the story out of himself and filling pages with blizzards and killing. He wondered if that was what was before them, but did not say anything. Best not to know.

‘The story has to be finished, and I must be the one to finish it.’ The words were like stones in his mouth. He felt he had said them before, and thought he could sense death sniffing at his shoulder, as he had that day on the Red Mountain. But that did not matter now. There were more important things.

‘I must leave Ralarth.’

He remembered the dream where he had been riding north with Jinneth into the mountains, and he was sure that something of that figure had been Jenny. Jenny telling him what to do, perhaps.

‘It is a long way to the Greshorns,’ Guillamon said. He seemed suddenly old. ‘And through a land that is every day stepping one pace closer to anarchy. Are you sure this is where you must go?’

‘I am,’ Riven said. He knew what he was asking these people to do and he did not like it, but there was no other way.

‘A curious time you have picked to tell us of this, Michael Riven,’ Murtach said, smiling wryly. ‘You will turn Bicker grey before you are done.’

‘The northern mountains,’ Bicker said, ignoring Murtach’s comment, ‘are almost a thousand miles away. At least six weeks’ travel. And as Guillamon said, these are arduous times...’ He shook his head, doubt written all over his face.

‘I’ll go alone, if I have to,’ Riven snapped with sudden irritation. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do.’

‘But you are sure?’

He clenched back his own fears and doubts. ‘Yes. It has to be done.’

Bicker sighed, and threw back half the beer in his mug. ‘Strange times,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Indeed,’ Guillamon agreed. ‘Horses you will need, and an escort. Hearthwares we can ill afford. Supplies. A guide.’

‘I know the Greshorns, the path to the Red Mountain,’ Bicker said heavily. ‘I, for one, must go.’

‘Things here are not so settled that you can all of a sudden disappear,’ Guillamon said.

The dark man nodded. ‘First things first. We must wait until this thing with Bragad is resolved. The Rorim must be secure.’

‘What will the Warbutt say?’ Ratagan asked.

Bicker cursed. ‘His son on his wanderings again. I will not be popular, but there is no help for it.’

‘I always wanted to see what the Greshorns looked like,’ Ratagan said.

‘They are not so appealing that I relish the idea of seeing them again,’ Murtach retorted.

‘Three lords—two of them our most able captains—leaving us on such a quest.’ Guillamon was grim. ‘I don’t like this. I do not know if you can all go.’

‘Strange times,’ Bicker repeated. ‘But I agree with the Teller. Nothing is being accomplished by his remaining here. Half the Dale believes him to be some sort of wizard out of the western mountains, and folk such as Bragad will use the rumours. The clearances of thirty years ago are not forgotten. The Hidden Folk are still feared. If it is not those of Garrafad and Carnach we will soon have to face, it may be our own people. They are afraid.’

‘We’re all afraid,’ Ratagan growled. ‘Doesn’t mean we have to start the burning and the exiling again.’

‘No, but Bragad will use fear to help himself. He has our own lords turned to his way of thinking already.’

‘Then we must turn them back,’ Murtach said sharply, his blue eyes glinting. ‘A purge of our own, perhaps. There used to be such a thing as loyalty in this Dale.’

‘Maybe,’ Bicker mused. ‘Maybe.’ He looked at Riven. ‘All right. We will do it. We will aid you in your quest.’ He smiled slightly, for a second becoming entirely the quicksilver character of Riven’s stories. ‘It is, after all, what we brought you here for—to resolve our problems for us.’

And my own, also.

‘I suppose I had better go, to keep an eye on you,’ Ratagan said absently, but he was grinning. Murtach did not speak. His face was closed.

‘I also,’ a voice said, and they looked up, surprised, to see Isay by the door, his beer gripped in one knotted fist. ‘I am the Teller’s bodyguard. I must go.’

‘So you are set on it, then,’ Guillamon said heavily. ‘I suppose you are right. We are not accomplishing anything keeping the Teller here, except to fuel more rumours.’ He paused. ‘Who else do you suppose should go?’

‘Tagan is our best tracker,’ Ratagan said, ‘and he has been to the Greshorns.’

‘Luib will go,’ Isay informed them. ‘He becomes old, and would be glad for the chance to see the hills around Merkadale again before he dies.’

‘All right.’ Guillamon became brisk. ‘Later we will organise this. It is enough to know for the moment that you are going... But do you know what you will do when you get there?’

‘Find the Dwarves,’ Riven answered him.

‘They say that Birkinlig, the Father of Sorcerers, dwells still in the high mountains, perhaps with the Dwarves.’

‘They say also that the Greshorns are the end of the world,’ Murtach said shortly.

His father smiled at this. ‘My son, for someone with your heritage, you are overfond of scepticism.’ Ratagan chuckled.

‘I believe in magic,’ Riven said, meeting Murtach’s eyes. ‘Maybe that’s what I’m looking for.’

‘You may not have to look far,’ Murtach said, obscurely.

Guillamon stood up. ‘Indeed. But it is suppertime soon, and this old man needs his board, magic or no magic.’ He turned to go, but stopped. ‘Say no word of this to the household at present. We do not want the Rorim humming like a top with news like this, and Bragad here.’ Then he left, nodding to Isay as he went.

Ratagan sat back in his chair till it creaked, and blew air out through pursed lips.

‘Such tidings! My head spins. We live back in the time of fairy tales. A quest awaits us, no less, and who can say what it will bring?’

‘Or how it will end,’ said Bicker, watching Riven as he stared out at the darkness beyond the window.

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING saw a sky heavy with rain hanging over the hills. Murtach and Ratagan had joined the council, and Riven was left largely to his own devices. He sat and stared out at the drizzle-veiled Circle for a while, and then buckled on his sword and left his room. The Rorim was almost subdued this morning, though from the upper storeys of the Manse he could see Hearthwares busy with horses and harnesses in the yard outside their barracks. They were packing mule yokes also. He wondered if these were preparations for the journey he had suggested last night. The day’s patrol had already left under Ord’s leadership. They would be in the hills above Ivrigar by now.

Peering farther, beyond the ramparts, he could see the two longhouses in the Circle where the ’Wares of Bragad were billeted, but they held no sign of life. Probably out riding with their lord’s wife. Bragad had brought quite a few men with him—a dozen or so, though some, of course, were Mugeary’s, if that made any difference. Riven felt momentarily uneasy thinking about them, and remembered Bicker’s question of the night before. Was Bragad killing time here? And where were Mullach and Lionan?

Wheels within wheels. Not my business.

Or was it? He felt responsible for having Bragad here. He was, after all, a facsimile of someone from Riven’s own world.

He wandered around for a while and ran into a few of the household busy with their duties. Then, afraid of meeting Madra, he decided to go outside, to where the trainee Hearthwares were at work in the practice fields. Isay followed him unquestioningly as always when he passed through the gates of the Rorim proper to the open space beyond. A large square had been beaten into the dirt there, muddy with rain. Jutting out of it were a line of tall posts, high as a man, a score of figures attacking them whilst thirty others looked on, wooden swords in their hands, and three Myrcans directing the whole group. Riven watched in fascination, for he had never seen the Myrcans more animated. They jumped about in the mud, correcting a swing here, a stance there; demonstrating how to stab with the bodyweight behind the thrust, how to parry, how to club with the pommel. Riven forgot why he had come, and stood in grudging admiration for their speed and sureness. Their pupils were covered with red mud from slips and falls, but the teachers were unmarked except for ochre spatters that streaked their mailed tunics.

When he finally stepped into the group and asked to join, there were murmurs from the trainees at the blue sash he wore. The leading Myrcan looked him up and down critically, then his gaze passed over Riven’s shoulder to Isay. He seemed to see something there, and nodded.

‘Remove your sword belt and take up a practice weapon. Join the large group there, and do as they do.’

So it was that Riven found himself attacking a wooden post with a wooden sword that was slippery with mud, and being lectured by the unsmiling Myrcans. It reminded him of Sandhurst, except that the instructors there had always bellowed their orders and called their charges by various unsanitary epithets. The Myrcans were quiet, darting here and there to adjust and correct. They never had to shout, and no one ever argued with them.

He trained on until dark, when it was just he, Isay and the three Myrcan instructors who were left on the practice field. He realised dimly that if he had volunteered to go on training all night, his teachers would not have objected. They radiated a fierce interest in their work that was at odds with their taciturn manner. And Riven was eager to learn. Even so, by the time he finally put down his wooden weapon and re buckled his sword belt, his recently healed collarbone was shouting at him and the older injuries over his body joined in. He was stiff with mud and thickheaded with tiredness as he and Isay trooped back through the gatehouse to the Manse. The first candles were being lit, and the stars were out. The night was clear, and arched up from the hills with a new moon rising over their crests.

Usually he ate with the others in the hall in the evenings, but this night he asked Isay to see Colban and have a tray brought up, and some hot water. He felt better than he had for a while, with hard work aching in his bones and the knowledge that he had decided what he must do at last.

Savour it, while you can.

The mirror showed that his face was smeared with mud, and it had stuck in his beard also. He grinned tiredly at himself, and wondered where the young officer had gone. Staring out at him were a pair of steady eyes that had lines of pain and care etched round them. There was a frown line bitten deep between the brows, and the forehead was intaglioed with scars. The mouth was harsh, downturned at one corner, though it rose when he smiled.

Sir Michael, Knight of the Isle. And now he has a quest.

He unbuckled his sword belt, then unlaced his jerkin and began to slip it over his head. There was a knock on the door, and when he grunted muffled assent it opened and someone came in. He managed to free his head, and threw the jerkin to the floor, to see Madra there with a heavy tray at the table.

Half a dozen stupid hellos passed through his mind, leaving him with nothing to say. She lit more candles without a word, and shut the tinderbox with a snap.

‘You should wash before the water gets cold.’

He stared at her for a minute, then stripped to the waist and started to scrub the clay off in the basin of steaming water. He thought she would leave, but she did not. As he blinked the drops out of his eyes, she handed him a towel. He realised, looking at her then, that the line of her jaw could be formidable, that there was stubbornness under those brows. She seemed older. He pressed the towel to his face until the lights started behind his eyelids, then pulled on a fresh shirt. His boots were still caked with mud, but they could wait. He sat down at the table and began eating without tasting the food.

‘You’re going away up north, aren’t you?’

He stopped chewing. ‘How do you know?’

‘Colban finds everything out, one way or another. The kitchen is always full of talk. There are Hearthwares preparing for the journey even now.’

‘It was supposed to be a secret.’

She sat down. ‘Keeping a secret in the Manse is like hiding a fire under straw. You are travelling to the Greshorns.’

Riven said nothing.

‘Are you going back to your own world, to the Isle?’

He liked the steadiness of those eyes, the earnestness of the face; but they confused him. ‘I don’t know.’

Her hand darted out to his across the table. ‘Take me with you.’

‘What?’

‘Let me go back with you. Let me stay with you.’

He pulled away his hand with a jerk. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘You’re alone back there. Ratagan told me, and Bicker says that the Isle of Mists is an empty place, full of mountains and deserted coasts. I cook well. I can work hard. I am not afraid. Please take me with you. I—’

‘Shut up!’ He knew what she was about to say; something he had never thought to have heard said to him again. The tears jumped into her eyes and she bent her head, hugging her arms to her breasts. A hurt child.

But she terrified him, because he wanted her and he liked having that grave face near him, and she was willing to have him even with the ghosts crowding at his shoulder.

He stood up at the same time as she did, and caught her as she made for the door. A brief struggle and she was still, her face set, but tears on her cheeks. He wiped them away, held her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. Bastard.

Her voice was muffled by his shoulder. ‘I thought you wanted me. I thought—’ And she pressed harder into his embrace. But she was seeking comfort, nothing else. Then she raised her head and looked at him, hair caught in her mouth. He could not keep her gaze. She left him and went to the table.

‘You’ve hardly eaten anything.’ She laughed through her tears. ‘That is my fault, keeping you from your food.’ She took up the basin, spilling muddy water on the floor. ‘Colban will be wondering where I have got to.’ Then she left.

He unsheathed his sword and grimaced at the blue steel. He swung it in a glittering arc, and it sliced through the table as though it were butter, carving its way through the heavy wood and jarring his arm, striking sparks off the stone floor.

Isay peered in. ‘I heard a noise.’ He saw the great slice that had been hacked out of the table. Riven met his eyes with a wild glare.

‘Just practising,’ he said, and the door was closed again.

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING found him on the practice fields as soon as the sun was up, battering his post as though it were a mortal enemy. The Myrcans looked on with what he could have sworn was approval. Old Luib, the chief instructor, took his arms and adjusted the swing.

‘Put all your weight behind it, but move on the ball of your foot, ready to recover if the swing does not strike home.’ The white stripe on his face glistened in the early light.

Riven halted, panting, as the other trainees trotted over. He nodded to them and asked Luib, partly because he was interested, partly because he needed to get his breath back: ‘How many of them will make Hearthwares?’

Luib shrugged fractionally. He studied his charges as the other instructors put them through their paces.

‘Five; maybe six.’

Riven whistled softly. ‘What about the rest?’

‘They are to remain in the Circle under arms and defend the Rorim, so that the Hearthwares can be freed for duties beyond the wall.’

‘And what about the Myrcans? Where do you get your new recruits from?’

Luib met his eyes with a slight frown. ‘Myrcans are born. They travel from their home Dale in the north, and take service with whoever needs them.’

Riven’s interest quickened. ‘Whereabouts in the north?’

‘West of Drinan.’

There was a pause, Riven trying to remember Minginish’s geography, but a few moments later Luib put him back to work. With every crack of the wood he was seeing Madra’s face, and the tears springing into it.

He would have stayed there until dark again, but Ratagan and Bicker came out to find him. By the time he noticed them, they had been watching for some minutes. Luib took the practice sword from him with a nod, and he joined them at the edge of the field. There was a wind blowing, clearing the sky of cloud wrack, and a pale moon was already inching its way above the brows of the hills. It would be another clear night.

‘If you are not careful, someone will mistake you for a Hearthware,’ said Ratagan, handing him his sword belt.

Riven pulled it on. ‘It passes the time.’ He slapped the scabbard. ‘And, besides, if I am going to wear it, I may as well be able to use it.’

‘You use it none so badly,’ the big man retorted.

They moved off, toward the walls of the Rorim. Bicker seemed deep in thought, and he splashed through puddles without seeing them.

‘What is it?’ Riven asked.

‘Oh, things. Too many little things are happening at the one time. There is something in the air.’

‘Is the council over yet?’

‘It finished this afternoon. Bragad was affable enough at the end—said that all things came to pass in good time, if they were meant to. Even Marsco seemed resigned to the fact that the Rorims will not combine.’

‘But you are worried.’

Bicker nodded. ‘He gave in too easily, at the last; too graciously after the time and prestige he has wasted here. And there is more. The Lady Jinneth went out riding alone this afternoon, and she has not yet come back. And her husband is not worried; he says she will return in her own time.’

‘That she will,’ Ratagan snorted.

Bicker shook his head. ‘Too many people are wandering the Dales—important people. Lionan and Mullach, for instance. No one has heard from them for days. And both Rim-Suardal and Rim-Drynoch are well-nigh deserted—or so Ord says. He went round there yesterday on his patrol.’

‘Bragad has the strength of two Rorims behind him now, plus maybe the men of three of your own lords,’ Riven said quietly. ‘Do you think he would attack Ralarth?’

Bicker was startled. ‘Attack Ralarth? But he himself is inside the Rorim.’

‘Ever heard of the Trojan horse, Bicker?’

‘Tell me.’

‘If Bragad wanted to take Ralarth Rorim, what better way to begin than to get some of his men inside beforehand?’

‘There are twelve of his ’Wares billeted in the Circle,’ Ratagan rumbled thoughtfully.

‘Lionan and Mullach, and Jinneth, could be out there somewhere now, waiting for a signal to attack—or Jinneth could have brought the signal herself. Or the men in the longhouses could be tasked with sending it.’

‘That is surmise,’ Bicker said sharply.

‘Better safe than sorry.’

The dark man fell silent. They walked through the barbican of the Rorim into the cobbled courtyard beyond. There was a smell of hay and horse urine from the stables, and a pair of serving maids, wrapped against the cold, were winding water up from the well.

‘The household knows about the journey north,’ Riven said.

Bicker nodded, and sighed. ‘Young Hearthwares. They tell their lady friends, and then all secrecy is lost. Your reputation as a wizard is secured, my friend. Why else would you be seeking to travel to the Greshorns in such times?’ He spat, and rubbed it into the cobbles with his boot. The three stood silent a moment, receiving stares from the girls at the well and a pair of passing Hearthwares.

Bicker swore suddenly. ‘All right. You have a suspicious mind, Michael Riven, but my own goes along with it. I will try to set up a few... safeguards, in case our fears are proved true.’

‘The captains will be at the feasting tonight,’ Ratagan pointed out. ‘If it is defenders we need, who will lead until we can join them?’

‘There’s Dunan,’ Riven offered.

‘And Luib,’ Bicker added. ‘He can lead the trainees. We will divide our people—some to the Rorim and the Circle, and some to the outer wall to give us advance warning.’

‘The Warbutt will have to be told,’ Ratagan said gently.

‘Aye,’ Bicker said. ‘My task, I believe. He will take some convincing, but it will be done.’ He looked up at the clearing sky, darkening now into dusk. ‘This is Bragad’s last night in the Rorim. If we are right, then it will be tonight. Whatever he has planned will be tonight. Some night for a feast.’

‘I’m not going,’ Riven said. He was thinking of Madra pouring beer for him at the last one.

‘An extra man on the ramparts is no bad thing,’ Bicker said absently. He turned and stared at the Manse. ‘I must go, then. I have things to do...’ And he walked off slowly with none of his usual sprightliness.

Ratagan followed him with his eyes. ‘This is not Bicker’s province,’ he said. ‘More Murtach’s. Bicker was never one to be tied down with intrigue and politics.’

‘Hence his wanderings in the mountains,’ Riven noted.

‘Aye.’ Ratagan hesitated. ‘You really believe Bragad is going to try and take our Rorim?’

‘Yes.’

Ratagan thought. ‘That would mean killing. ’Wares against ’Wares. Perhaps even—’ He stopped. ‘No, he’d never get Myrcan to fight Myrcan.’ He frowned. ‘Is this sort of thing common in your world?’

‘Where I come from, there is always a war going on somewhere or other. That is why I was able to be a soldier; we keep armies at the ready all the time.’

Ratagan shook his head. ‘Sounds like somewhere the Myrcans would love.’

Riven stared up at the Manse with its flapping pennants. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they would. I think they would hate it.’

The big man gripped his shoulder. ‘I had best put in an appearance at the feast. I am expected to be present where there is beer flowing.’ He bit his bottom lip for a moment. ‘Riven?’

‘What?’

‘Madra is... young. I know I am not such a blameless one as should be saying it, but try and find it in your heart to be good to her, for she is lovely.’

Then he turned away.

 

 

JINNETH HAD STILL not returned when the feast began. Riven walked the ramparts, watching the Dale under the young moon. He heard the sounds of merriment from the Manse, and he knew that Madra would be in there, pouring wine for Bragad and suffering the leers of drunk men.

And he watched the high hills to the west, and knew that out there, also, there were other women whose faces he knew. He continued his pacing, caught in contradictions. Better to turn over in his mind the arrangements he and Bicker had organised, to search for loose ends, gaps in the plan.

Steps behind him; light, not like those of the Hearthware sentries. They stopped at his side. He could faintly smell her sweat, and also the lavender of the garland she wore in her hair. She tugged it off and played with it in her hands as she watched the Dale with him, leaning on the stone of the wall.

You don’t give up, do you? He smiled weakly.

There was torchlight in the longhouse where Bragad’s men were billeted. They were making merry also. He wondered if the whole Rorim were drunk tonight. At least the Myrcans would be sober.

A wind stirred his hair, fanned Madra’s out behind her. It looked black in the starlight.

‘What is it you do in your world?’ she asked him.

The question caught him by surprise. He realised that there were things he had done; but now, he did nothing.

‘I was once a soldier, and then a storyteller.’

‘You loved someone.’

He grimaced. ‘She died.’

‘But you still love her.’

‘Yes.’

She squeezed his hand, and he looked at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know before.’

‘Did Ratagan tell you?’

‘Yes.’

It was cold in the clear night, with the wind running through the Dale. Her face seemed ageless in the dim light, and she was stifling shivers. He brought her inside his cloak, and wrapped it around the both of them. Her hands were chill, and she slipped them inside his shirt to warm them. He could feel them at the small of his back, feel the scratch of the lavender garland which she still held.

‘How old are you?’

Her face turned up to him. ‘I have seen sixteen summers.’

Sixteen. Jesus Christ.

‘How old are you?’ she asked.

‘Old as the hills.’

‘I do not believe you. You are not even as old as Bicker, and he has no grey in his hair.’

He laughed and hugged her closer, unthinkingly. He was responding to her presence. Warning bells sounded in his head.

I’m supposed to keep my wits about me, and an eye on those longhouses.

But he did not push her away. It was warm under the cloak. Her palms were no longer cold against the skin of his back. She rested her head on his chest.

‘You are leaving after Bragad’s visit, aren’t you?’

‘More news from the kitchens?’

‘It is all over the Rorim.’

He cursed. Too many tongues wagged in this place. He wondered if Bragad knew, also.

An owl hooted nearby, and was answered by another farther away. A lone sentry stood watching on the ramparts some way off. The moon caught a glint of his metal armour as he turned in his walk.

‘Shouldn’t you be in at the feast?’ Riven asked.

‘Bragad asked the Warbutt if the captains and the lords could drink alone in the hall. The servers were sent out as well, as soon as the eating was done.’

‘Talking about matters of import,’ Riven said absently, though uneasiness buzzed at him like a fly. He watched the longhouses in the Circle. The torchlight still flickered at the windows, and there were faint bursts of song filtering out.

Doesn’t look as though they’ll be up to anything tonight.

Dunan and twenty Hearthwares were out in the Circle to keep an eye on them anyway. Luib was on the gates with his trainees. The Rorim itself was not so well defended, but they had enough men to neutralise Bragad and hold the gates—for a while.

So why the uneasiness?

He looked down from the ramparts to see Isay standing with his arms folded and his staff tucked into his belt. The sight reassured him.

‘Why did you not go to the feast?’ Madra asked.

‘I wanted to be on my own.’

‘Oh.’ She drew away, but he pulled her close again. ‘You are a strange man,’ she said. ‘You can get drunk and sing with the rest, and yet you like to be on your own. You never lifted a sword before, yet you use one as though you are born to it.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Isay told me.’

‘Isay!’ The exclamation was soft, so the Myrcan would not hear him. He nuzzled Madra’s hair. ‘You get told everything, don’t you?’

She did not reply, but her arms pulled him tight to her with surprising strength and she kissed him fiercely on the lips. Her thighs pushed his legs apart and she pressed herself against him.

‘Let me stay with you tonight.’

And there was that formidable cast to her jaw, the steady sureness of her eyes.

‘All right,’ he replied hoarsely. The cloak fell away from her, and they walked along the ramparts to the catwalk stairs, the air cool on their hot faces. But Riven tripped on a shadow, and would have fallen if she had not caught his arm. He stared down.

‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered.

It was a dead Hearthware, lying in a dark pool of blood. He had been stabbed through the throat.

Riven straightened and glared over at the longhouses. The lights were still there, and he could hear the singing.

‘Isay!’ he yelled. The Myrcan was at the stairs in an instant, with his staff in his hands. His eyes fired as he saw the corpse of the Hearthware.

‘Get to the hall—tell them what has happened, and get them to secure the Manse. There are enemies in the Rorim, and probably more on the way.’

Isay nodded and pelted off.

‘It is Phelim. He was only two summers older than me,’ Madra said, with tears in her voice. She smoothed the hair back from the dead face. Riven pulled her to her feet.

‘Go to the kitchens and warn them there. We are about to be attacked. Tell them to try and arm themselves.’ He shook her. ‘Tell them, Madra!’ She looked at him wide-eyed for a second, then ran off in the same direction as Isay. Riven leant on the ramparts and drew a deep breath.

Think, Riven. What does this mean? What are they doing?

As he stood there, one of the Circle longhouses where Bragad’s ’Wares had been billeted began to blossom with flame. Two figures were at its eaves with torches. Even as he watched, he saw lights flaming in the Dale in answer—and he saw Dunan and his men rush the longhouses with the moon glittering on their swords.

They are coming.

Luib’s men were divided between the three gates in the outer wall. If their attackers were in any strength, it would not take them long to get through. Or they might just clamber over the wall at any point. The outer wall was a defence only against animals, not men. It was to protect the flocks and herds within, more than anything else. Not for the first time, Riven cursed the trust of these people in... other people.

The longhouses were ablaze from gable to gable now, and Dunan’s Hearthwares milled about them. Then Riven was jolted, as Isay nearly knocked him down.

‘They have taken the hall,’ he panted. ‘Bragad’s men hold it, and all in it; his ’Wares must have come over the ramparts in the night.’

And two left behind as a diversion. Clever. Was that a faint shouting he heard, away by the outer wall?

‘Run to Dunan. Tell him to get his men into the Rorim, and to send a runner to Luib on the gates. We have to get everybody back to man these ramparts.’ Isay turned to go, but Riven stopped him. ‘What about our Myrcans? What are they doing?’

‘Two guard the hall doors, with two ’Wares. Druim and Belig arm the household.’

‘Good. Go on!’ Isay leapt over the wall and disappeared into the depths of the ditch. A moment later he was up and running towards the blazing buildings in the Circle.

Riven stood alone on the eerily deserted ramparts, and chafed with impatience. Bragad’s plan was clear now. Hold the leaders hostage in the hall whilst the larger force punch their way through the defences to take the Rorim from its leaderless and probably drunk defenders. His ’Wares had left their billets and accomplished the first part of the plan, leaving some of their number behind to allay suspicions. No doubt Jinneth and the two renegade lords of Ralarth were on their way, with God knew how many at their back.

Dunan’s group began loping towards the Rorim, leaving two bodies behind them on the moonlit ground. They had half a mile to run. From the outer wall came the faint but definite sound of fighting.

Riven rubbed his sword hilt with a white thumb, thinking for a second of Madra pressing against him. He shook his head angrily, and heard a clatter of feet behind, coming up the catwalk stairs. He met them with a drawn sword, but it was Gwion and Colban and a score of others armed with staves, kitchen knives and clubs. Colban was sweating and breathless.

‘Well met, Lord,’ he gasped as his group trooped out along the ramparts. Then he leaned on the wall and rubbed his face with his free hand. ‘I am too old for this sort of thing.’

Gwion was the only one of them who had a sword.

‘Our people are helping the Myrcans guard the hall doors,’ the Steward said. ‘My wife commands them. There are many of Bragad’s ’Wares in there, holding the captains. The doors have been barred. All the others I could find, I brought here.’ He put his fist to his chest and coughed.

‘You did well,’ said Riven. Madra glided to his side with a knife in her hand. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked away. ‘Dunan and our Hearthwares will be here in minutes. More of Bragad’s men are on the way. We have to hold the Rorim against them.’

There were frightened murmurs at this. In the clear night air, the sound of battle at the nearest of the gates was clearly audible. Gwion ushered them about like sheep and positioned them along the wall. Two-thirds of the ramparts were undefended.

There was a tumult at the gates, and in a few moments Dunan and the Hearthwares joined them.

‘A fine night for a fight!’ the Hearthware leader said, his teeth flashing and the blood shining on his sword. Isay took his place at Riven’s side once more. As the ’Wares positioned themselves amongst the household, Dunan gazed out on the Circle. ‘Luib is pulling his men out in feigned flight; when the foe attacks us, he and his men will take them in the rear.’

Riven nodded. And here it was. Four years in the army, and this is my first real battle—with a sword in my hand. He felt Madra’s arm encircle his waist.

‘Are you afraid?’ she asked.

‘You bet your life I am.’ Then he frowned. ‘You can’t stay here. You can’t stay in the middle of a battle.’

‘There are other women on the ramparts.’

His face twisted as he glanced about him. ‘I know, but—’ He was conscious of the others there watching them. And he saw the stubbornness under her brows. ‘Damn it.’ And he turned away from her smile.

The sounds of battle on the outer wall ceased, and the night was quiet except for fidgeting on the catwalk. Madra was shivering again, her eyes fixed on the Circle beyond the burning longhouses. There was a distant crash as a roof collapsed in flames.

A figure appeared, running past the blaze and stumbling his way to the gate, which boomed open and then closed behind him. He lurched to the catwalk, the breath tearing in his throat and the sweat shiny on his face. A Hearthware.

‘Where is Dunan?’

‘Here, Fimir. What news?’

‘Luib has lost nine men. He has pulled his lot away in flight.’ Fimir seemed to choke on his words. ‘It is Mullach and Lionan—our own lords! They lead the attackers.’

‘How many are they?’ Dunan asked sharply. The Hearthware gulped for breath.

‘Luib tried to count. At least a score of ’Wares, and half a dozen Myrcans; maybe a hundred others, unarmoured like our trainees. Some of them are Suardale men—and Drynoch men!’

Dunan cursed softly. ‘All right, Fimir; that was well done. Get your breath back. You’ll be needing it soon.’ Fimir nodded and tottered away.

‘We have a fight on our hands,’ Dunan said. He sucked his teeth. ‘Our own Dales. And Myrcan fighting Myrcan. I’d like to know how the fox persuaded them to that.’

‘Why would your people fight each other?’ Riven asked Isay.

‘I know not. But they will have had a good reason.’ Doubt clouded his face, and he was troubled.

‘Just kill their ’Wares for us, then, and we’ll try and take care of your countrymen,’ said Dunan dryly. He spat over the wall into the darkness of the ditch. ‘I hope Luib’s bunch bloodied their noses for them, or things are going to be rather tight around here in a few moments.’

They all heard the noise of feet at once, and instinctively leaned over the battlements, craning to see.

‘There,’ said Riven, pointing. ‘Coming into the firelight.’

Then they were visible: a dark crowd of men with the light glinting off armour and sword blades, and two figures, one slim, one broad, leading them. They fanned out as they approached, and the Hearthwares on the catwalk produced bows from the sheaths at their backs and nocked them with pale-fletched arrows.

‘Wait till the bastards get closer,’ Dunan grated. The attackers halted and seemed to consult amongst themselves; then they gave a ragged cheer and charged, discharging a volley of arrows as they came. They hailed down and clinked on the ramparts. One of the household screamed and fell off the catwalk to the buildings below.

Then the Ralarth ’Wares fired, on Dunan’s hoarse order. There was a hissing sound in the night, clear above the roar of the attackers, and men began to crumple below, hitting the ground with the feathered shafts decorating them. The charge hardly paused, however, and swarmed up to the gates in a rush. They milled there for seconds, a dark mass glinting like beetles in the light of the moon—and then there were thin, spiked shapes being raised against the walls. Slim tree trunks with the branches cut down to within a foot of the bole were placed against the battlements, and men began to climb up them.

The defenders pushed at the makeshift ladders, and at least one went crashing back down into the crowd below; but those who exposed themselves to do it were immediately the target of a dozen archers. Riven saw a Hearthware collapse with arrows in his face and neck. A cook from the kitchens took one in the eye and stumbled backwards with his hands pressed to his temples.

Dunan swore viciously. ‘Those whoresons have twice as many archers as us. They’ll pin us down and then swarm all over us.’

Enemy heads began appearing over the wall. Many died there, with spear points in their mouths or sword blades splitting their skulls, but defenders were falling also. Riven hacked at the neck of one man who had a leg over the wall and saw the agonised face disappear. I’ve killed a man, he thought, but the realisation meant nothing to him in that mad moment.

Armoured Hearthwares with red sashes belting their middles laboured on to the battlements, with the defender’s weapons pounding them like smith’s hammers on an anvil. They reeled under the blows, but the heavy steel saved them and they recovered to push back unarmoured householders. Their comrades followed in a steady stream, like water widening a hole in a dyke—and then Riven saw Mullach top the battlements, with his hammer whirling about his head and the black moustache framing a snarl of a mouth.

The fighting became hand-to-hand all along the wall, blades flashing wickedly in the moonlight. Riven wanted to find Madra, for she was no longer at his side, but the man in front of him fell and he found himself confronting an enemy militiaman. His brain switched off, his limbs doing their job automatically. Their swords rang together, and Riven knew he was the weaker man. He was forced to back away, almost tripping over bodies and becoming enmeshed in other fights. He blocked blow after blow, but his healing bones were ready to collapse. The man grinned, seeing the defeat in Riven’s eyes, and beat down his blade. He raised his own weapon again for the kill, and then fell forward on to his face with a knife buried to the hilt between his shoulders. Madra stood behind him, eyes wild, blood on her hands.

‘Are you all right?’

He nodded, fighting for air. Isay staggered over with a crimson slash across his temple and gore clinging to his staff.

‘I was held back!’ he gasped, his face a maze of guilt and anger. ‘I could not come in time!’

‘It’s all right. I’m all right, for God’s sake.’ The three stood in a momentary island of calm, whilst around them the fighting surged like surf beating up a beach. Wedges of red-sashed men were driving in up and down the catwalk, cutting the defenders off into pockets. Dunan was there, flailing like a maniac, whilst Mullach was laying about himself with something like ecstasy written all over his brutal face. And Lionan had arrived now also, poised like a cat on a merlon and watching the fight intently, the rapier a silver sliver in his hand. He wore a red sash. Riven wondered where Jinneth was—and the enemy Myrcans, also. He could see none on the wall.

The fight swayed towards them again, and Riven cursed, pushing Madra behind him. Chivalry, and the rest. He hated to see her with blood on her hands.

The fighting continued, spreading off the great curve of the ramparts down into the buildings below. Another fire started up somewhere, limning them all in orange and yellow. Ralarth Rorim was burning.

There were lights in the Dale now, as the men who lived there came forward to investigate the tumult. The night was a chiaroscuro of light and dark, moon and flame, steel and shadow, and the Rorim resounded with screams and shouts, the clash of metal, the crack of bone and thud of flesh. All order became lost as the battle opened out and a struggling press of men fought for the ramparts, the rooftops, the alleys between buildings. They slipped on the blood-slicked cobbles or tripped on the bodies that choked the ground. And above the flames of burning houses rose up to drown out the moonlight and rush hot air into their streaming faces.

Where were Luib and his men? Riven had time to wonder. Then he heard Madra’s despairing cry, and turned to see the enemy Myrcans surging on to the ramparts, their staffs swinging, cutting down the defenders like corn.

Isay pushed Riven aside and stood holding his staff at the ready as his countrymen approached.

‘Flee,’ he said. ‘The wall is lost. I will hold them.’

‘Not on your life,’ Riven spat, and he took his place at Isay’s shoulder.

They saw Gwion fall with a smashed skull, a Ralarth ’Ware hurled down to the street below; and then the enemy Myrcans confronted Isay and Riven.

‘Will you fight your own people? Have you fallen that far?’ Isay yelled at them, eyes wild. The two leading Myrcans paused for a second. One of them pointed his bloody staff at Riven.

‘You harbour in this place a lord of the Hidden Folk, an agent of this land’s destruction. It is from his like, here and in the mountains, that the ruin of the Dales is come. Give him up and the fighting will end. You are of the same blood as us, sworn to protect Minginish. He would seek to destroy it. Your service has been twisted by shapeshifters and wizards.’

‘Those are lies!’ Isay cried. ‘The lies of Bragad!’ But the Myrcans were already upon them. Riven had no time to think before the Myrcan staff whistled around his ears, and smashed lights into his head.

Not again.

He fell, and was dimly conscious of Isay standing over him, swaying like a tree in a gale under the assault of his countrymen; then another figure joined him. Her hair swung as she bent to pick up his sword and he tried to move, to stop her, but could not. He saw the sword flash in his defence, and groaned.

Then there was shouting, and someone was crying: ‘Luib! Luib has come!’ And he could have sworn that he heard Ratagan’s roar above the din of the battle. His head reeled. He smelled the burning in the air, saw the stars dimmed by smoke above him. The screaming would not stop, and he grimaced.

Dying in my own story. Bad luck, that.

Scenes flickered in front of his closing eyes. Lionan brought to bay like a wildcat, eyes blazing. Mullach falling with that rictus of hate still contorting his face. And Nurse Cohen above him, her head snapped back by a blow and the blood splintering from it. But it was not Nurse Cohen, it was Madra.

He groaned again, but could watch no longer. The dark took him, rushed on him like a cloud, and the noises stopped. The visions fled, the pain died.