A Skillful Warrior (SoulNecklace Stories Book 2) (9 page)

Gradually, stony ground gave way to soft soil, and the trees seemed further apart, so it was easier to spot game through the undergrowth. Twice they startled a boar. Will shot a squirrel. It had stopped on its branch, staring at the men, and made an easy enough target.

‘Don’t think they see many people passing,’ said Jed.

Will retrieved his arrow, tied the small furry bundle to his saddle bough. He glanced down, and froze. A footprint! ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

They followed the rough trail. It led a circuitous route, but was easier than breaking their way.

‘Enchantress said to make for the coast. She must have seen something like this might happen. She gave me coin and all.’ Jed sounded amazed. ‘Me, to have coin! Not something I’m a-used to.’

‘Did she say which village?’

Jed shook his head. ‘You heard her. She just said an inn.’

Sometimes, Will felt puzzled by Jed. The only person he seemed to warm to was N’tombe, and even that seemed more a grudging acknowledgement. To everyone else, he was bitter and gruff; a self-sufficient loner. Yet he could be kind, intuitive and was utterly dependable in a fight. What had happened to him, to set him on this lonesome life?

What had happened to any of them? There was Dana, destined to this future she dreaded and he with his sorrowful past. Born from a mother already dead, N’tombe was the strangest of all, for she’d come from another world.

It wasn’t as though the forest disappeared; rather, it became fragmentary. The clearings grew larger until there was more grass than trees and finally only hedgerows and pasture. The creatures changed; forest birds gave way to birds of grass and fen, and rabbits and hare were common. Will shot a few more, until they had a brace across his saddle bow. They could trade them, maybe, for their fur, or they could eat them. Would be better than horse meat.

Dana was a good shot. She would have no difficulty finding game. He remembered her soft body, her thighs against his. A most pleasant thought.

Then Will blinked, torn from his daydream. What was that, there beyond the hedgerow? ‘Jed! A steeple!’

They reined their horses in, staring. ‘A town,’ said Jed, in wondering tones. ‘Dear God, I was beginning to wonder.’

A bath, thought Will. I can wash. ‘Do you think they’ll have hot water?’

‘Water?’ snorted Jed. ‘I was thinking of beer.’

T
he small village caught at Will’s heartstrings. A narrow cobbled roadway, leading down to the sea front, where boats lay pulled up on the muddy beach. It was a peaceful scene, reminding Will powerfully of his own home village.

‘Ain't seen so many people since ...’ said Jed.

‘Since you stole that boat.’

‘Shh!’ Jed glanced around.

Four months or so past, Jed and Will had departed the Stronghold in a great hurry, riding fast across the wild plains and the mountain passes. Finally, they’d reached a town, a mite larger than this one maybe, but similar enough with the fishing boats moored and a small harbor. Where Jed had stolen a boat. Save he preferred to use the word ‘borrowed.’

‘Ah, there was a time when I thought it might be the last boat I'd ever see.’ Jed smiled, clapped Will on the back. ‘Look at us now! There’s coin in my pocket and the sun is shining. We done well.’

Fishermen with weather-beaten faces sat mending their nets. They stopped their talking as Will and Jed passed and the tallest put down his net and stood up, shading his eyes. He stared at Will, at the knives in his belt, the quiver and his bow. At Jed, and the sword slung across his back.

With a rasp of steel, each fisherman laid a knife across his knees. No one said anything.

“Make for the coast,” N’tombe had said. Not specifying exactly where. But Jed had been sure this was the right place, and well, Jed had known the Enchantress longer than Will. So hopefully this was the village she’d meant. But these fishermen with their battered faces and old clothes appeared less than friendly.

Jed dismounted and held up his hands.
We’re friends
. But his eyes were watchful, and Will kept a hand near his knives.

‘We’re here to meet some folks. Two women.’

A fisher sniggered. ‘That’s what we’d all like, ain’t it?’

The men laughed; rough voices from rough men. One of them spat. The little puddle of saliva dribbled down between the cobbles. ‘We ain’t seen no one.’

‘Ah well,’ said Jed, turning in a circle while keeping his hands in the air. ‘Likely we’re early. Is there an inn we can wait at?’ He gazed at the fisher folk with an understanding eye. ‘Perhaps you and your friends here would care to drink with us.’

The fishermen looked at each other. When they grinned Will saw gaps in their teeth.

Jed taught the fishers a song about a blacksmith:

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‘His hammer came up,

His hammer came down,

He worked hard for the women

Throughout the town.’

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T
hey were bawling it out the fourth time, seated on wooden benches by the open door of the pub. The sun came streaming into the bar and Will and Jed could see the boats and watch all the comings and goings. Not that there was a lot happening in this small village.

It felt grand, to be sitting here in the sun with beer in the belly and a head full of song, and Will thumped his metal tankard on the wooden bench enthusiastically. They were all singing together, Jed and him and these fine fishermen whose names he didn’t know, so at first they didn’t hear the horses’ hooves clattering and sliding on the steep cobbled street.

Four white-haired men came streaming through the village, their horse’s hooves spraying divots of mud. Past the pub and along the dirt track that led to the grass-covered headland beyond the bay. They wore black, and were gone so fast it was like watching shadows fading into the distance. One of the men carried a heavy bundle, a large black sack lying across his saddle bows.

The fisher folk stopped their song and turned to watch them pass.

‘Strangers,’ Jed nodded at the group as they passed onto the flank of the hill.

The head fisherman shook his head. ‘Them’s no strangers,’ he said, ‘them’s the Evans.’

The men murmured, a sound of warning or apprehension. Will shook his head, puzzled. Something not quite right about those white-haired men. That sack they’d carried was about the size of a small person. Yet they had moved surprisingly easily for men so laden.

Jed stared at Will, Will looked at Jed. Sacks the size of a small man.

‘Come on,’ Will, grabbed his cloak.

‘Look!’ A fisherman pointed at the headland. A tongue of flame licked the blue sky. ‘The beacon!’

The men rushed to the door of the small pub in a mass of arms and legs. Struggling to get through the narrow opening, they spilled onto the track in a beer-smelling heap, regained their feet and set off at a run towards the beacon. It was blazing brightly now; Will could hear the wood crackling. Someone in the village must have seen the flames, for the church bell began tolling loudly.

Will ran towards the headland with the others. Why did he feel this overwhelming panic? Like something he loved was about to be lost forever. His legs felt heavy and his chest ached. He shouldn’t have had the beer.

The path was slippery, trodden by hooved animals and the brisk sea wind was cool against his face. To their left, a low cliff sloped sharply down to the sea. From the village behind more people came running, calling to each other in loud, excited voices.

Not the right weather for a shipwreck, Will thought, looking out at the calm sea. So why a beacon? It’s signaling something.

He rounded the headland, saw a grey-stoned beach, a calm, wide open bay and a square-prowed ship at anchor.

‘That ship!’ gasped Jed.

Will nodded, as if in answer to a question. That ship, all right. It had pleated sails and a harpoon at the stern and a crew of dark-haired sailors in white robes.

They’d seen this type of craft before, in the storm that struck so sudden, when he and Jed were out on the ocean in Jed’s “borrowed” boat. The square prow, the pleated sail: a ship of the Eternal One. But he’d seen them all destroyed. Or so he had thought. Fool that he was! He’d given no thought that some of these boats might have survived the storm.

On the beach, four black-clad men sat on four horses, watching the sea. Sailors from the ship called to them.

Jed stared down at the beach. ‘Tell you, lad, I don’t like the look of this.’

The four riders dismounted. Two of them lowered the sack onto the beach. One of them pulled a knife and cut open the black fabric.

‘No!’

On the black cloth, Dana lay so quiet. Peaceful-like, if he could tell from this distance. She looked like she was asleep.

‘Careful, Will.’ Jed grabbed Will, held him still. Stopped him rolling down the cliff. Stopped him pulling out his knife and killing all that stood between him and the girl.

He ran down the path, the slope pulling his strides longer and longer, until it felt he was running with ten-league boots. The track was rutted and small sharp stones stuck out at odd angles and caught him as he ran. Behind him came the villagers.

The men on the beach below looked up, startled. Called urgently to the sailors.
‘Make haste. Hurry, hurry.’
One pointed at Will and his legs felt suddenly heavy, as though encased in iron. But he struggled forward, chest aching. Need to go faster!

The dinghy rowed through the low waves and crunched on the rocky shore. The sailors leapt out. One picked up Dana, tossed her over his shoulder. Her hair shone, red in the sunlight.

Will kept yelling. He felt as though some great animal had taken charge of his voice, calling out in pain from inside him. He reached the bottom of the track, scrambled awkwardly across boulders and damp seaweed.

The sailors and the white-haired strangers clambered in beside the Princess. Then they grabbed for the oars, and pushing through the surf, rowed away from the beach towards the waiting ship.

Reaching the sand, Will raced towards the men. He pulled a knife from his belt. Too far to throw. If only he had his arrows. If only he had his horse. If only he hadn’t left her. He felt as though he was in a dream, remote from the scene, powerless to change what was happening.

Some of the sailors on the dinghy had bows ready, aiming for the shore, ready to shoot at pursuers. But the rowers bent to their oars, pulling hard, hard towards the ship and the sailors were already pulling up the anchor.

Will slithered to a halt, his chest heaving. He stared at the tall waves that sprayed the shore with white foam. He could swim this, he could!

‘Will!’ Jed grabbed him as he started wading out into the water. ‘No! You can’t swim that, lad. It’s too far.’

Too late. With a thud the dinghy reached the side of the boat, a rope ladder was lowered and the Princess was lifted onto the enemy’s boat. She hung limp as the men heaved and pulled her over the side of the boat. The Evans brothers followed, clambering up the ladder like long-legged spiders.

One of them turned and stared at Will out of dark eyes, as if in challenge. The wind ruffled the white hair about the man’s head and it shimmered like a halo.

You ain’t no angel
, thought Will fiercely.
You’d best take care of her, for I will follow you. And I will find you, wherever you go.
He lifted up his knife and the sun struck the blade.

The man turned from the rail as the sailors pulled up the anchor. Thud, thud against the side of the ship. And, standing on the beach, Will felt the wind shift. It smelt of snow and mountain air. As if by magic, the breeze caught the pleated sails and the tillerman threw the tiller round, so the ship turned her prow towards the open sea.

Inside the glass,

Dancers turn.

A dragon leaps,

Cold fire burns.

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Towers tremble,

Dark crows call,

The glass breaks,

Shatters all.

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Shards flying,

Pierce the skin.

One thousand cuts,

A song begins.

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M
y whole body ached. Groaning, I put my hand to my head, trying to keep it from moving, but it was no good because the world seemed to dip and sway about me. It was so dark! Had I gone blind?

I lay on rough, scratchy hay that smelt of summer and mold. Beside me, water sloshed. I moaned again, my voice echoing as if I was calling down a long tunnel. Oh, my head! Where was I?

The continual pitching, the splashing — I must be on a boat.

I lay for a time, rocking gently and feeling nothing at all save the ache in my head. Finally, closing my eyes, I reached for sleep. At least in my dreams I wouldn’t hurt.

***

I
heard a deep voice, singing softly.

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‘
Sleep little one,

Do not cry.

I will sing a

Lullaby.’

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C
arrying a lute, a man stepped towards me. His music sounded like trickles of water; soothing and familiar. He sang a song all children knew. Every nurse sang this song over every cradle in the Kingdom.

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‘For you are

My pretty dear,

Hush your cry,

Turn your ear.

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Sleep little one.

Do not cry.

And I will sing

Your lullaby’

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I
reached towards him, to pay the singer his coin, but my hand slipped through him as he faded. And then I was in another place, somewhere silent and utterly still, save for the soft sigh of a breeze that stirred my hair, raised goosebumps on my neck. A strange smell — sweet, slightly acid, like the odor of old wine. The stone floor was slightly slippery with moisture. This place seemed familiar.

I walked forward cautiously, turned a corner into a haze of light. Torches glowed in black holders. The high brick roof was vaulted, so shadows lingered in the curves. The dull dusty glass of old bottles, stacked in wooden holders, reflected the light. I stood in the wine cellar of the Castle underneath the kitchens. Even if this was just a dream, it was good to be home.