The Awakening (10 page)

‘A perfect day all round,’ he muttered.

‘First Son?’ asked Coerl Leone.

‘Nothing, Leone. It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘No,’ he corrected himself, ‘ride beside me for a while, Leone. I need to talk.’

Leone kneed her horse and eased in beside him.

‘Coerl,’ Shanek started. ‘We could have a problem before too long.’

‘First Son?’

‘You are a Coerl and Muttiah is a Caldorman. He outranks you, but I outrank Diplomat Cherise, and he is nominally in command. The chain of command could get a bit murky. I need to know whose orders you will obey.’

‘Yours,’ replied Leone without hesitation.

Shanek raised his eyebrows. ‘So much for murky.’

‘It is not murky at all, First Son. I received my commission to command your Fyrd from the Commander of the Army personally. His orders were simple. I have two tasks: first, to safeguard you at all times from any danger, and second, to obey your orders. The Commander outranks the Caldorman as you outrank the Diplomat.’

Shanek nodded. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad we’ve sorted that out.’

Leone nodded.

‘Leone,’ Shanek said, changing the subject. ‘What do you know about history?’

‘Only what I learned in the Military Loci, First Son.’

Shanek nodded. ‘Not much, then,’ he observed. ‘Domovoi taught me that course when I was twelve.’

‘It took me three years, First Son. I started when I was sixteen.’

‘I started my education when I was three. I could read at four. By the time I was ten I was fluent in all the major languages of the Empire,’ Shanek said.

‘When did you start your weapons training, First Son?’ Leone asked.

‘You should know, Coerl. You are my only teacher.’

‘I find that difficult to believe, First Son,’ she commented.

‘Why?’

‘You are very skilled, First Son. And if you have learned all your skills in just the years I have been teaching you, and only from me, you are even better than I thought.’

‘It’s just us, Leone. There’s no need to flatter me.’

Leone shook her head. ‘You should know, First Son, that I never flatter.’

‘That’s true,’ Shanek conceded. ‘You don’t.’

Wyn was awakened by the pain. Lying on the white sand was their little boat. One side was damaged, presumably from the reef that Wyn could see ringing the calm bay. Inside her, he could see nothing of their scant provisions; all had been lost.

He was lying face down on soft sand. It was warm; the sun was shining on his back. His head ached and his mouth was dry. With an effort, he rolled himself over, wincing as the sun struck his eyes. Through the blazing light he was able to make out a clear blue sky. The simple act of moving was enough to send waves of searing agony through every part of his body. He felt as if he had been trampled by wild horses. A groan escaped his lips as he forced himself into a sitting position.

The pain subsided after a few moments and he was able to open his eyes to look around.

He was on a small beach of white sand. Before him the Sea stretched away to a distant blue horizon. Behind him a forest of green and brown climbed up a steep mountain.

Beside him lay Hwenfayre. She looked like a rag doll, tossed carelessly aside, wet and bedraggled. He looked at her, with her white hair matted and her fair skin reddened by the sun, and, as he watched her, he loved her.

Her eyes were closed, but her cracked and swollen lips were parted slightly as she breathed shallowly. It was clear that she was asleep, not unconscious, for beneath her eyelids her eyes moved. As she stirred slightly she made small sounds. Wyn wondered what her dreams told her as she lay there. He watched her as she dreamed, but as the sun rose higher in the sky his thoughts turned to shelter.

Wyn quelled the protests from his abused body and stood. He stretched his back and stared out at the water. His attention was caught by a small object floating about twenty paces off the beach. A smile formed slowly as he recognised Hwenfayre’s harp. It must have stayed in the boat until they were beached. He waded out and brought it back.

As gently as he could, he lifted his battered Princess from the sand and carried her into the cool of the forest. As he carried her, she weakly grasped the front of his salt-encrusted tunic and murmured something without opening her eyes.

Once under the cover of the forest canopy, he laid her down on a bed of soft moss. He sat down, resting his back against a tree. He watched her breathe while he pondered what to do next.

Foremost in their immediate needs was food and water. Here, Wyn felt confident for the first time since he had seen Hwenfayre. He knew forests. He had spent years marching, fighting and fleeing
through them during the innumerable small ugly skirmishes that had made up the bulk of his adult life. Already his experienced eye had picked out a few berries and one or two promising gourds, and from within the many sounds of life that surrounded them, he was able to distinguish the unmistakable cheery sound of a small brook nearby.

Yet, despite their pressing need, he could not yet bear to take his eyes from Hwenfayre’s sleeping face. So he sat, resting his body in the cool shade, allowing his mind to drift through his memories, pondering what might have been. Finally, the demands of his body intruded, and he reluctantly heaved himself to his feet and went to forage what he could.

He returned to find Hwenfayre still sleeping. It seemed that her dreams had calmed and she rested more peacefully.

Wyn’s gathering had been successful. He had found enough food for the two of them, some herbs that had medicinal benefits, as well as a large hollow gourd in which he carried cool, clear water. Sitting beside Hwenfayre, he started grinding one of the herbs to make a soothing ointment for her sunburned skin.

He gently undressed her and applied the thick salve. As he did so, he was again surprised at how frail and delicate she was. Her thin white shift was torn and ragged, so he discarded it, wrapping her in his heavy guardsman’s cloak, which she had used as a pillow. Then, confident that he had done all he could, he sat and leaned back against a tree to wait for her to awaken.

It was nearly night when she opened her eyes.

‘Wyn.’

‘My Princess. Did you sleep well?’

‘I feel I have slept for a thousand years.’ She stretched luxuriously under Wyn’s cloak. Suddenly she blushed as she discovered her nakedness. Her eyes widened as she realised her situation, imagining what must have happened. ‘Did you…?’

‘Your clothes were ruined by the sea. I tended your burns and wrapped you warmly. Yes,’ Wyn replied gravely.

‘Thank you, Wyn.’

‘And of course I kept my eyes closed at all times.’

Hwenfayre blushed more deeply, covering her mouth with her hand. A giggle escaped. Wyn smiled back. Then they were both laughing.

A short while later, Hwenfayre and Wyn enjoyed a rudimentary meal of nuts, berries and fresh water.

‘Where are we?’ she asked through a mouthful of red berries, the juice dribbling down her chin.

‘I have no idea, Princess,’ Wyn replied. ‘We are on an island. I think it is one of an archipelago. And I think we are well south of your home. Beyond that I cannot say. My navigation skills are not great.’

‘And the boat?’

‘Damaged when we struck the reef that surrounds this island. I fear we are trapped here. At least for the time being.’

‘So, what do we do now?’

‘Now, we try to find shelter for the night. After you have finished eating, of course.’

Hwenfayre grinned mischievously, like a little girl. Wyn could not help but smile back as he helped himself to some food. When they had finished their
simple meal they started to look for shelter for the night.

They found a small cave. It had a narrow opening but widened out to provide sufficient floor space for them both to lie down comfortably. Wyn tossed and turned for hours, listening to the noises of the forest, worrying about what the new day would bring.

It brought a bright, fresh morning. The sky was clear and blue. He awoke to the sound of Hwenfayre singing to greet the sunrise. Her gentle, soft voice did not have the yearning sound that had characterised her singing when she stood on the wall. He looked at her as she sat cross-legged in the mouth of the cave. Her back was straight, she had discarded his cloak and was naked as she faced the morning. Her hair tumbled freely down her smooth skin. The normally wild locks caught the sun and shone, almost glowing in the early morning light. He stared, lost in thought.

She heard him stirring and stopped her song. Without turning, she put her harp down and pulled the heavy blue robe up over her shoulders from where it lay behind her.

‘Good morning, my Princess,’ Wyn said.

She turned her head to him and smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she replied. Her eyes glowed with pleasure. ‘What are we going to do today?’ she asked.

‘I think you should rest here today. Get some of your strength back. I’ll scout around, look for some more food, water, maybe another place to shelter.’

Hwenfayre shifted around without standing until she was facing him. She held the robe tightly around her. ‘Why do you call me Princess?’ she asked, eyes intent.

‘Because you are a princess.’

‘Why?’

‘Hwenfayre, I am not learned in the rules of our people. I am nothing more than a mercenary. I don’t know why you are a princess, but you are. For some reason you have been born to be the High Priestess and Princess of the Children of Danan.’ He grinned wryly. ‘From what I recall of my childhood stories, your arrival could cause a few problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’

‘Always you ask questions that I cannot answer.’ Wyn regretted his comment. She had difficulties enough without worrying about what would probably never happen. He rose to his feet. Already his trained body was recovering its strength. ‘I shall go and see what I can find. Rest here, my Princess.’ Without another word, he strode past her into the forest.

The sound of Hwenfayre’s song followed him.

Once in the cool of the thick forest, Wyn put the image of Hwenfayre out of his mind and concentrated on the task of finding food.

It was not difficult, although he lamented the loss of his bow, for there was plentiful game. He gathered what he could as he made his way towards the stream. Once there, he saw what he had half feared, half hoped for: footprints.

They were in the soft sand beside the stream. He crouched beside them, examining them closely. His tracking skills were rusty, unused for some years, but he could easily make out that they were recent. There were three different men, running, probably hunting.

Wyn rocked back on his heels, thinking.

There were many tales of islanders, some good, others less so. The most common was that they were suspicious and wary of strangers. That did not concern Wyn. What did concern him were the rumours of human sacrifice and ritual cannibalism that sometimes surfaced. He stared at the tracks, his mind weighing up the alternatives. After a few minutes’ thought, he decided to follow the tracks.

They were easy to follow, so he did not miss the blood. One of the men was injured. As Wyn continued to follow the trail, the blood traces became heavier and closer together.

It came as no surprise when he stumbled upon the body.

It was lying face down in the stream with a crossbow bolt protruding from its back. From the amount of blood that was spread over the dead man’s back, it was clear that he had run in great pain. Wyn paused, considering what would make a man run so far with a bolt in his back. With effort, he pulled the bolt from the body and examined it.

It occurred to him suddenly where he had seen such a bolt before. His eyes widened in shock and he leaped to his feet. Tossing the bloodied bolt to the ground, the former mercenary turned and ran back to where his Princess rested.

As he neared the cave he slowed to a careful, silent walk. Thus it was that he heard the sounds of conversation.

He stopped to listen. Over the pounding of his heart he could discern Hwenfayre’s voice. She was talking animatedly with someone who responded in tones too low for him to understand. On impulse,
responding to the promptings of an instinct honed by years of danger, he left the path and crept forward, taking pains not to alert Hwenfayre to his approach.

The former mercenary experienced a moment of satisfaction that his skills had not deserted him when he saw a figure half-hidden beside the path.

It was a man clad in the leather and canvas of a Southern Raider. He held a cocked crossbow, aimed along the path. Wyn thought for a moment, considering his options. The Southern Raiders were not known for their mercy. Neither were they known for spending time talking to a beautiful young woman whom they happened across alone in a forest.

Hwenfayre laughed. The hidden man sniggered softly, an evil, chilling sound, and Wyn reacted without thought. He darted forward, moving silently through the underbrush, striking the man with a killing blow to the throat.

The Raider’s eyes widened in shock, then he died, gasping, as he tried desperately to breathe through his crushed larynx. Wyn lowered the body to the ground, relieving it of a razor-sharp knife as well as the crossbow.

It was an assassin’s weapon, designed to kill. Wyn tested the weight and balance of the weapon. It was a piece of quality workmanship, no footpad’s tool. The knife was similar. He sheathed it carefully in his boot.

Hwenfayre laughed again. This time Wyn could hear the response of the man to whom she spoke.

‘Yes indeed, my Lady. Many.’

His accent was harsh, almost guttural. It was not the voice of an islander. Rather, it was the voice of a
Southern Raider. Wyn felt the anger rise unbidden. He could almost taste it. Visions of violent death flickered through his mind as he crept forward through the underbrush towards the cave where his Princess sat, entranced by the words of an assassin.

When he could see the cave entrance, he stopped and considered. Hwenfayre sat with her back to him, facing the man who was keeping an eye on the path. He was obviously awaiting the approach of either his colleague or Wyn himself. He also was clad in the leather and canvas of a Southern Raider, but his clothes were of a better cut than those of his comrade. Wyn listened as he watched. The assassin was spinning a tale of wealth and power. As he spoke, in a low and intense voice, it became clear that he knew a great deal more of the society of the Children of Danan than he should. And he was telling Hwenfayre how she might rule the children and lead them to greatness.

Clearly the man would die; it was simply a matter of when and how. Wyn toyed with the idea of simply shooting him where he sat, but he was unfamiliar with the weapon he held, and as he only had one shot he decided not to risk it. Instead, he continued to watch, listen and await his opportunity.

Hwenfayre was leaning forward, listening carefully. As she did so, the dark blue guardsman’s cloak that she was wearing slipped off her shoulder. She was so intent on what she was hearing that she did not notice, but the Southern Raider did.

His eyes widened at the sight of Hwenfayre’s pale shoulder and his voice trailed away. She noticed the direction of his stare and moved to cover herself.
Wyn felt his anger rising again. He tensed, raising the assassin’s crossbow almost unconsciously. Instinct took over as the mercenary squeezed the trigger. There was a dull twang as the bolt shot out, followed almost immediately by a heavy thud.

Hwenfayre screamed as the Raider slumped backwards, a crossbow bolt seeming to suddenly sprout from his chest.

Wyn leaped to his feet and bounded through the undergrowth. When he reached the cave mouth, he knelt and gently gathered the still-screaming woman in his arms. He rocked her slightly and murmured soothing sounds into her hair as she clung to him, burying her face in his chest.

After a few minutes her cries stopped. Her grip on him eased. He moved her gently away from his chest and lifted her chin. She tried to smile through her tear-ravaged face.

‘It’s all right now, Princess,’ Wyn reassured her.

‘But what happened? Who is he? Who killed him?’

‘He was a Southern Raider. An assassin, most likely. And I killed him.’

‘Why?’

‘You do not know these men, Princess. They are hard men, killers. I do not believe he was here merely to amuse you with tales. He had a friend, an accomplice, over there in the bushes.’ Wyn indicated the crossbow that he still held. ‘He had this aimed at you.’ It was a lie, but not one that he would lose sleep over. Hwenfayre’s eyes widened at the sight of the weapon. She pushed away from him. ‘My Princess,’ he continued, taking hold of her hand, ‘there are those who would wish you dead for the power you
have. I am sorry that I left you alone.’ Her hand, still resting in his, gripped tightly as he spoke.