Bristling Wood (26 page)

“Oh, er, ah, well, I was just talking to my horse.”

Rhodry’s eyes glazed with a suppressed mockery that Perry was used to seeing on men’s faces.

“I see. My lord, can I ask you if we’re riding out tomorrow?”

“We are. Going to make a flank attack, give them a bit of a surprise.”

Rhodry smiled in honest pleasure at the news. He was handsome, strong, and eager for battle, just the sort of man that Perryn, was supposed to be and the type who always despised him. Perryn wasn’t sure if he envied or hated the silver dagger—both, he decided later.

On the morrow, the army mustered before dawn in a ward bright with iaring torchlight. The men were silent, the lords grim, the horses restless, stamping, tossing their heads at every wink of light on helm and sword. As usual, Nedd’s warband was the last to take their place in line, shouting at each other and squabbling over who would ride with whom. As he took his place beside his cousin, Perryn noticed Rhodry, smiling to himself as if he were gloating over a beautiful woman.

“We’re going to cut straight across country, Nedd said. “We’ll need you to scout, Perro.”

“No doubt. None of you could find your way through a copse to a mountain, I swear it.”

“Even woodcutters have their uses.”

Perryn merely shrugged. The restlessness of the horses was making him wonder if disaster lay ahead of them; sometimes animals could tell such things, in his experience. At last Graemyn blew his silver horn. As the first dawn silvered the sky, the gates swung open. With his sword raised high, the tieryn rode out, his personal warband clattering behind him, four abreast, the line snaking out and down the hill. Suddenly Perryn heard distant war cries, as if someone were racing to meet Graemyn beyond the walls. The men nearest the gates screamed in rage; the horns rang out to arm and charge. Naddryc had prepared a surprise of his own.

The ward turned into a shoving, shouting chaos as men dismounted, grabbing shields and helms, and rushed out the gates. Perryn swung down, then gave the gray one last pat.

“Farewell, and pray to Epona that we meet again.”

Then he ran after Nedd and out the gates. The battle was sweeping halfway up the hill, a raging, ragged swirl of men and riderless horses as Naddryc’s men struggled up while Graemyn’s tried to shove them back. In the dust pluming upward Perryn lost sight of Nedd almost at once. A burly fellow with an enemy blazon of blue and yellow on his shield charged him and swung in hard from the right. Perryn flung up his shield, caught the blow and thrust it away, then swung back, slapping his opponent hard on the thigh. Cursing, the man stumbled; Perryn got a hard cut on his sword arm. Bleeding, the man withdrew, feinting, parrying more than he swung. As he followed, Perryn realized that the enemy tide was ebbing back down the hill. Screaming war cries, Graemyn’s men swept after. We should hold this higher ground, Perryn thought. But it was too late, and no one would have taken orders from him, even if he’d tried to give them.

Down on the flat the battle re-formed itself into random knots and mobs of fighting. As Perryn ran toward the closest one, he suddenly heard laughter off to one side, a bubbling sort of chuckle that rose now and then to a howl over the smack and clang of swords striking shield and mail. It was such an eerie sound that for a moment he paused, looking this way and that to try to find the source. That brief curiosity cost him dear. At a shout behind him he turned to see three men running straight for him, and they all carried the blue-and-yellow shield. With a yelp of terror, Perryn flung up his shield and sword barely in time to parry the two hard blows that swung in on him.

Although the third man dodged past and ran on, the other two enemies closed in for a quick if dishonorable kill. As he desperately dodged and parried, Perryn heard the laughter again, shrieking, sobbing, ever louder, until all at once Rhodry lunged at the man attacking from the right and killed him with two quick slashes, back and forth with a gesture like waving away a fly. Gasping for breath, Perryn took a wild swing at the other blue-and-yellow, missed, nearly tripped, and regained his balance just in time to see the man fall, spitted in the back through the joining rf his mail. Rhodry jerked his sword free with a shake to scatter drops of blood.

“My thanks, silver dagger,” Penyn gasped.

For an answer Rhodry merely laughed, and his eyes were so glittering-wild that for a moment Perryn was afraid he’d turn on him. Yelling at the top of their lungs, five men from Nedd’s warband ran up and swept Rhodry and Perryn along toward a hard knot of fighting around Graemyn himself. Although Perryn tried to keep up, the entire line was swirling and breaking, falling back around him as Naddryc’s superior numbers began to tell. He got cut off as two of his allies shoved past him, running for their lives. When he ran for a man he thought was one of Nedd’s, the fellow swung his way and raised a shield marked with the red acorns of another enemy warband. Swearing, Perryn charged, but something struck him from behind.

Fire stabbed, then spread down his shoulder. All at once, his fingers were loosening on the sword’s hilt of their own will. He swirled around and caught a strike on his shield, but when he tried to raise his right arm, his fingers dropped the sword, Then he felt the blood, sheeting down his arm and pouring into his gauntlet. As the enemy pressed in, Perryn brought up the shield like a weapon and swung hard, as he dodged back, stumbling over uncertain ground. Yet there were enemies behind him.

With a shout of desperation, Perryn charged and rammed the shield full strength into the enemy in front of him. Taken utterly off guard by this suicidal manoeuvre, the man slipped and fell backward. A startled Perryn fell on top of him, with his shield caught between them and his whole weight slamming it down. The enemy’s head jerked back, and he lay still, whether dead or merely stunned Perryn neither knew nor cared. He scrambled up, shamelessly threw his shield, and ran for the dun—but only for a few yards. Suddenly he realized that the battle was lost, that the field belonged to the enemy, that the last of his comrades were fleeing through the gates just ahead of a line of blue-and-yellow shields. He fell to his knees and watched as the gates swung shut. Enemies ran past, shouting to one another.

“They’re going to stand a siege—whoreson bastards—get to the postern!”

No one even looked at the half-dead warrior slumped on the ground, It occurred to Perryn that without his shield, no one would even recognize him as an enemy in this confusion . . . His head spinning, he staggered to his feet and grabbed a sword with his left hand from a nearby corpse, then took off, trotting after the others and yelling, “To the postern!” While he didn’t give a pig’s fart about Graemyn, Nedd was trapped in the dun in a half-provisioned siege with no one to lift it. Graemyn had called in every ally he had for this battle.

In the dust-smeared, milling mob, the ruse worked well. He kept with them for about twenty yards, then fell back and ran for the trees edging the battlefield. If anyone even saw him go, they had no time to chase after. Among the pines, neatly tethered, were Waddryc’s horses with only a couple of servants to guard them. Perryn charged the nearest horse handler, who promptly broke and ran. In one smooth slash Perryn cut a tether rope, threw the sword away, and grabbed the reins of a solid chestnut gelding.

“Good horse. Please help me.”

The chestnut stood patiently as Perryn hauled himself into the saddle. Keeping to the trees, he rode away from the battle. Although every step the horse took made the world swim in front of him and his dangling right arm throb, he bit his lower lip until it bled and kept riding. He had to get news to Benoic. That was the only thought he allowed himself to have. When he reached the road, he kicked the horse to a gallop and stayed on by sheer force of will. Gallop, trot, gallop, trot, walk—on and on he went, reminding himself that he could get help in Spaebrwn. Although he wondered at times if he’d live to reach the village, the blood was drying on his arm, not welling up fresh.

Just before noon, he crested the last hill above Spaebrwn and pulled the horse to a halt. For a long time he stared down at the glowing spread of ashes and charred timbers, half hidden under a drift of smoke. The breeze brought with it a sickening smell, too much like roasted pork. Some of the villagers had waited too long to flee.

“Ah ye gods, our Naddryc takes his revenge a bit too seriously, if you ask me.”

The gelding snorted and tossed its head, spooked by the smell of burning. Perryn urged him on, skirted the ruins, and turned back into the pine forest. Even though he could neither raise his arm nor move his fingers, he was going to have to try to ride back to Nedd’s dun on his own. By taking side trails through wild country, he could shorten the distance to some forty miles. Once they were well among the trees, he paused the horse again and thought of the dun, pictured it clearly in his mind, and remembered all the safe times he’d enjoyed Nedd’s company there. Then he went on, heading straight for it. Every time he started drifting from the most direct path, he felt a deep discomfort, something like a fear or anxiety, pricking at him. As soon as he turned the right way, the discomfort vanished. Although he didn’t understand it in the least, this trick had led him back to places he thought of as home many a time in the past.

Perryn picked his way through the forest until sundown, then dismounted and led his horse through the dark for a few miles more, stumbling only to force himself up again, until they reached a small stream. Slacking the horse’s bit with his left hand seemed to take an eternity. Finally he got it free and let the gelding drink.

“My apologies, but there’s no oats.”

In a golden mist the forest was spinning slowly around him. He sat down just before he fainted.

Like sheep in a snowstorm, the remains of the army huddled in Graemyn’s great hall that night, eighty-odd men in decent shape, twenty-some badly wounded. Rhodry sat on the floor with the last six men of Nedd’s warband. No one spoke as they watched the table of honor across the hall, where Graemyn and his allies talked, heads together, faces drawn and tight-lipped in the torchlight. Frightened serving lasses crept through the warband and doled out scant rations of watered ale. By the servants’ hearth, a young page sat weeping, wondering, most like, if he’d ever see his mother again. Finally Nedd left the honor table and limped, back, to his own men. He slid down the wall rather than sat until, he could slump half upright in the straw.

“You should be lying down, my lord,” Rhodry said.

“The blasted cut’s not that bad.” Nedd laid his hand on his thigh, as if trying to hide the bloody bandage.

“My apologies, my lord.”

“Oh, and you have mine. We’re all going to have to watch our cursed tempers.”

Everyone nodded, looking at the floor, out into space, anywhere rather than at each other.

“We’ve got provisions for a good six weeks,” the lord went on. “Longer if we start eating horses.”

“Is there any chance for a parley?” Rhodry asked.

“There’s always a chance. Graemyn’s sending a herald out on the morrow.”

Rhodry watched the parley from a distance, because at dawn he drew a turn on guard up on the ramparts. Outside, Naddryc’s men had cleared the battlefield of corpses, leaving a torn, bloodstained stretch of bare ground for about three hundred yards. Beyond that were the tents and horses of the besiegers. Around the dun, beyond javelin range, trotted a mounted patrol. In a rough count, Rhodry estimated that Naddryc had at least a hundred and thirty men left. When the sun was about an hour’s worth up in the sky, the gates opened, and Graemyn’s chamberlain, carrying a long staff wound with red ribbons, slipped out. The patrol trotted over to him, made honorable half-bows from their saddles, then escorted him over to the camp. Rhodry leaned onto the ramparts and waited. When a flutter of crows flew past cawing and dodging, he envied them their wings.

Although the herald returned in about half an hour, Rhodry had lo wait to hear the news until he was relieved from watch. He scrambled down the ladder and hurried into the great hall, where the warbands were eating in an ominous silence. Although the other lords were gone, Nedd was eating with his men. Rhodry sat down and helped himself to a chunk of bread from a basket, but he looked expectantly at the lord.

“Naddryc won’t parley,” Nedd said quietly. “He’s made Graemyn one offer. If we surrender without a fight, he’ll spare the women and children. Otherwise, he’ll raze the dun and kill every living thing in it.”

When Rhodry swore under his breath, the other men nodded in stunned agreement.

“He’s a hard man, Naddryc,” Nedd went on. “And he’s sworn a vow of blood feud.”

“And if we surrender, what then?” Rhodry said. “Will he hang every man in the dun?”

“Just that, silver dagger.”

Rhodry laid the chunk of bread back down. For a moment he wished that they’d sally, die fighting, die clean, instead of swinging like a horse thief, but there was the tieryn’s lady, her serving women, his daughters and little son.

“Ah well,” Rhodry said. “A rope’s a better death than a fever. They say you jerk once and there’s an end to it.”

“For all your silver dagger, you’re a decent man, Rhodry of Aberwyn. I only hope that my noble allies are as honorable as you.”

“Oh, here, my lord! You don’t mean they’re arguing about it?”

“They are. Well, by the hells, we’ll hold out for a while before we do anything at all. The bastard can wait for a few days while he savors his piss-poor victory.”

“Why not wait until he starves us out?”

“What if he changes his terms? I wouldn’t put it past the whoreson to demand prompt surrender if we’re going to save one woman’s life.”

Perryn woke to sunlight streaming down between the trees, like golden spears of light to his dazed sight. When he sat up, he shrieked at the pulse of pain in his arm. On his knees he crawled to the stream and drank, cupping the water in his left hand, Then he realized that his horse was gone. He staggered up, took a few steps, and knew that he would never be able to walk the remaining twenty miles to the dun. Fortunately, there was no reason that he’d have to. He walked another couple of yards, then went very still, waiting, barely thinking, until he felt the odd sensation, a quivering alertness, a certain knowledge that somewhere close was, if not that horse, then another. Following its lead, he angled away, ignoring the discomfort that told him he was no longer heading straight for the dun, and worked his slow way through the trees until at last he saw the brightening light ahead that meant a mountain meadow. The pull of a horse was so strong that he forgot himself, hurried, and banged his injured arm against a tree. When he yelped aloud, he heard an answering whicker just ahead. More cautiously this time he went on and broke free of the forest into a little grassy valley, where the chestnut was grazing, the reins tangling in the grass. When Perryn staggered over, the horse raised its head and nuzzled his good arm.