Blade of Fortriu (10 page)

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Authors: Juliet Marillier

BOOK: Blade of Fortriu
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He knew the right response. One did not live at Bridei’s court long without becoming aware of the full
pattern of formal greetings and farewells, the conduct of ritual observance among the folk of Fortriu. The correct response was,
May the Flamekeeper light your waking
. But he did not believe in gods, neither those of Bridei’s people nor the arrogant, elusive deities of his homeland. Such blessings were not appropriate in his case. No god had the power to cleanse the dark visitations of his nights.
They were with him forever, a hell of his own making. He should curse Ana, not bless her. She had awoken something within him that he did not want, a thread of memory he had spent long years crushing with all his strength. He did not need this. He could not allow it. All he wanted was the orders, the task, the flawless execution of it. Then the next orders.
“Sleep well,” he said despite himself,
and saw her curl up under the blankets, her fair head pillowed on one hand. He waited until he knew she had fallen asleep. Then he woke the third shift and sent them out to watch. Above them, from the branch of a gnarled and twisted tree, a hooded crow, bright-eyed, watched every move.
 
 
NEXT DAY, ANA lay in the shelter listening to the pattering of rain on the oiled cloth and the sounds
of the camp going about its orderly business around her. Not a moment of the unexpected respite was wasted. Game was caught, butchered, cooked. Weapons were sharpened. Waterskins were filled and horses tended to. Some of the men slept, but only after gaining Faolan’s permission. Ana herself drifted off to sleep from time to time; the acrid herbal draught that Faolan kept brewing had a decidedly
soporific effect. In the dusk they cooked oats into a gruel for her, and she found she was hungry. The next morning they struck camp and rode on to the west.
Her cramps had subsided. She still felt faint and tired, but she could see the look in Faolan’s eye and did her best to appear confident and strong. The rain was not heavy; not yet. Not here, at least. But the river was still some way off,
if Faolan’s estimate was correct, and in this increasingly grim high country many streams rushed down the valleys, tumbling over rocky shelves, gurgling through secret chasms, spreading here and there to sucking swamps that lay in wait for horse and rider. To the north, dark-bellied clouds massed. In the air above the riders rang out the alarm calls of many birds. So many birds; this place was
full of them, those Ana knew well, kestrel, buzzard, skylark, and some that were quite new to her. From time to time she saw a bird like the one that had startled her in the woods by the ford, something akin to a hooded crow, but not quite as it should be, for there was a singular look to the eyes. They were wary, knowing. By the time the travelers moved out of the denser regions of the forest and
onto a narrow track across steep bare fells, she had sighted a bird of this kind three times, and was beginning to wonder if it were but one bird, the same bird, that followed them, here winging high above, there perched on a great stone by the wayside, observing the travelers with its piercing eyes as they passed. One of the men took out a slingshot, palmed a stone.
“No,” Faolan told him. “We’ve
meat enough for a supper or two. Leave it.”
 
 
THEY HEARD THE river before it came into view. At first it was a whispering, then a murmuring, then an insistent drumming that sought to drown their voices. Ana’s skin grew clammy with trepidation.
“Don’t be alarmed.” Faolan had ridden up beside her. “If the water is too high we’ll camp somewhere on this side and wait. I won’t attempt a crossing
unless I’m certain we can do it safely. It’s not worth risking our lives for the sake of getting there on time.”
“Isn’t it critical that we do just that?” Ana asked.
“Let me be the judge of what is critical,” Faolan said. He had the old guard back on his expression now; she could not tell what was in his mind. That strange conversation, the two of them alone in the dark, seemed increasingly
like something from a dream. “According to Ged’s man, this is traversable as long as appropriate safeguards are put in place. Trust me.” Without waiting for a response he rode away to the head of the line.
“I’ve a word for men like that,” Creisa observed from her place behind Ana. “But you would frown on it, my lady, so I’ll keep it to myself.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Ana said. “If we go
on, it will be because that is the best choice, after all considerations are taken into account.”
“Yes, my lady.” The tone suggested Creisa was far from convinced. She had hitched her skirt up somewhat higher than was strictly essential for riding astride. The men who rode nearby had their eyes on the interesting length of shapely stocking-clad leg that was thus revealed; if their horses kept
sure footing on a path that was stony, narrow, and increasingly steep, it was little thanks to their riders. Ana felt a deep longing for all this to be over. Her back was hurting and she felt dizzy and sick. Her mind was on a warm bath, clean hair, fresh clothes, and a comfortable bed in which she could sleep out of the weather. Alone. Once she got safely to Briar Wood, she would never take those
simple things for granted again. A little voice whispered inside her that, once she was married to Alpin, sleeping alone wouldn’t be an option. She closed her mind to that. It did not bear thinking about.
The track wound around the flank of a valley; here the countryside was wooded again, dark pines on the upper reaches, a mixed clustering of smaller trees down near the river, screening it from
sight. Its voice was insistent; somewhere down there, there must be rapids. Ana heard Faolan shouting an order and, behind and before her, the men picked up the pace. Her own pony surged forward, taking its lead from the larger animals.
“Black Crow save us,” Creisa exclaimed, “I’m going to have bruises in places I’ve never even thought about!”
Then Faolan yelled again, sharply, and there was
no breath left to spare for complaints; keeping up on the narrow track took all their energy. Ana’s head swam. She clenched her teeth and made her back straight. Now was no time for weakness.
A final corner, a sharp, sliding descent down a perilous, gravelly incline, and the ford came in sight, fringed by willows. Birds darted across the water, their paths crossing and recrossing in an elaborate
dance. There was a single broad channel here, unbroken by visible rocks. The water’s surface was smooth; the flow did not seem unduly swift. Ana thought it seemed safer than the shingly, treacherous waterway of their first crossing. Rain was falling, gentle but persistent. If they wanted to go over, now was probably the time.
Kinet dismounted, took staff in hand, and, at Faolan’s nod, waded carefully
in. It was immediately evident that the current here was stronger than appearances suggested. He staggered, thrust the staff in hard and regained his footing. The water came to his thighs.
“Keep going,” Faolan called over the noise of the flow. “Test it right across, if you can.”
It was difficult. Three times Kinet came close to falling, and he was a big man. Creisa was biting her knuckles.
At length Kinet staggered out on the far side, wet almost to the waist. Faolan gestured him back.
The men conferred in low voices while the women waited. On a bending branch, half concealed behind the delicate foliage of a willow, a bird sat, bright-eyed and uncannily still amid the forest shadows. Ana stared back; she was becoming sure it was the same creature following them, tracking them.
If she had had Tuala’s abilities, she might have been able to tell what it was thinking; to interpret its cries. She remembered what the girls at Banmerren had said of their Otherworldly fellow student, how Tuala had taught them to listen for the voices of marten, eel, beetle, and dunnock; how to understand the deep, slow thoughts of an oak. Ana had no such skills. The bird was bothering her. “What
do you want?” she found herself whispering. “What are you, some kind of spy?” The gaze remained on her, intense, unblinking. It was disturbing.
She saw Faolan beckon, and rode over to the men, Creisa behind her.
“Very well,” Faolan said, his expression stern. “We—”
Ana never found out which he had decided, to go on or to wait. There was a whirr and a thump, and Kinet, who had just waded out
of the river once more, toppled to the ground, his eyes bulging and a blue-fletched arrow protruding from his neck. Creisa screamed. The men moved in a flash, forming a protective circle around the women while two of their number dismounted to crouch by the fallen man. Ana heard Wrad say, “He’s dead,” and Creisa utter a stifled sob. A moment later another arrow came, from the opposite direction,
and lodged itself with a thud in Faolan’s upper arm. He glanced at it and, with a coldblooded detachment that impressed Ana even through her terror, gripped the shaft in his hand and wrenched it out. The tip glistened scarlet. The men held their circle, weapons pointed outward. There was a sound of movement in the woods around them now, twigs cracking, bushes rustling, footsteps; a force of some considerable
size was closing in from many directions, unseen, deadly. There was only one way out.
“Over!” Faolan snapped. “Wrad, take Creisa behind you. Ana, with me. Move!”
Someone had thrown him a length of cloth and he was winding it around his arm even as he spoke. In a matter of moments Ana was on Faolan’s horse once more, this time behind him as he guided the animal one-handed. They moved into the
river. As if to mock their decision, the dark clouds rolled over them and the rain turned from a persistent drizzle to a deluge.
“Hold on tightly.” Ana could just hear Faolan’s words above the voice of the river and the drumming of the downpour. “The bottom’s uneven and the water’s rising.”
Ana glanced over her shoulder. Behind them, some way back, Wrad had ridden into the ford with Creisa clinging
on behind him. Benard led the pack pony; another man walked beside a horse across which the limp form of Kinet had been hastily laid. The others were still on the bank, weapons at the ready, scanning the expanses of the forest. The attackers had not yet appeared. She looked ahead again, through the curtain of rain to the shadowy darkness that was the rise on the western side. Might not more
men be waiting there to pick them off one by one as they rode out of the ford? She hoped Faolan had thought of that. Shivering, she hummed under her breath, hardly aware of what the song was, just hoping it might help her be brave.
One two three four, chickens pecking at the door. Five six seven eight, corbies perching on the gate
… It had been useful when she was little and lying alone in the
dark, waiting for sleep to come.
She looked behind her again. They were all in the water now. She thought there were dark-clad figures under the trees on the eastern side, emerging from cover onto the bank. They seemed to be wearing blue headbands. Through the downpour she thought she could make out a man lifting a bow, fitting an arrow.
“They’re right behind us,” she said. “On the bank.”
Faolan gave a tight nod. At some signal Ana could not detect, the horse moved forward more quickly. It stumbled, and water surged up. Tension ran through Faolan’s body as he struggled to help the animal balance. The current felt like fierce hands clutching, like an enemy force seeking to drag them down. Then, all of a sudden, the animal staggered out onto a pebbly shore and up to a grassy rise, and
they were safely over.
Faolan swung down, awkward with his wounded arm. Blood was seeping through the makeshift bandage; the sleeve of his shirt was red. “Lead the horse. Go higher,” he said. “The water’s coming up fast. Here.” He took something from his belt, slapped it onto her hand: a knife, unsheathed, a serious-looking weapon with a serrated edge. “Take it. If you need it, use it. Get out
of sight and wait for us. Go!”
“What are you—”
“Ana, go!”
The look in his eyes made obedience the only choice. Over his shoulder she could see the long line of riders stretched out across the breadth of the ford. They were slow; already the water was visibly deeper and the horses were in obvious difficulty. She watched Faolan make his way back to the edge, waiting in full view of anyone who
might seek to loose another arrow. Waiting until he saw all his men safely across. Then she took the horse’s bridle and began to climb the hill.
Ana had not gone far when there came a sound that froze the blood in her veins. She did not know what it was, only that it was the voice of catastrophe. She turned on the path, edging out from the cover of close-growing bushes to get a clear view toward
the ford. The noise was a roaring, a rolling, a huge, tumultuous growling as of an approaching monster. The men in the water were looking upstream; she saw their faces in the moment before it struck them, white, stunned, eyes full of the recognition of death. Then the wave came, a flood that had been trapped somewhere in the higher reaches of the river and released all at once as a barrier gave
under its pressure, sending the mass of water hurtling downstream. Its power snatched up everything that stood in its way: massive tree trunks with roots like reaching fingers, rocks, earth, bushes, broken creatures, all in a tumbling turmoil. It was a scouring of the land that would be a long time mending. The wave moved across the ford before Ana’s disbelieving eyes; in an instant men, woman,
horses were caught up in it, their screams lost in its ferocious music, and borne away in its churning madness. The rain had eased a little; she could see clearly across the water to the other side. The far bank had been gouged out. The river had taken a monstrous bite of it. There was nobody there. From side to side, the valley was full of rushing water.

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