Bloodheir

VII

The Veiled Woods quickly defeated the horses. Before they had gone more than a few dozen paces in from the edge, a thick mass of looping bramble stems and contorted undergrowth blocked their path. There was no track to follow here, not even a suggestion of one. Ess’yr and her brother darted easily through the thicket and disappeared. The horses baulked. The ground was uneven, rippled by rocks, roots and dead wood half-hidden by wet grass. The trees, which had seemed tall and stately from the distance of the ridge crest, were in fact crowded, twisted and misshapen, thrusting their branches out at odd, low angles to obstruct any man on horseback.

“Get down,” Orisian told Yvane. Once she had done so, he dismounted too, and stood by his horse’s head, patting the bridge of its nose.

“We have to go on foot,” he said to Rothe. “It’ll take far too long if we try to ride.”

“We can lead the horses.”

Orisian shook his head. “Too slow.”

Torcaill rode over to them, his horse picking its way carefully, setting down each hoof as if it did not trust the ground.

“No way through for horses,” Rothe told him.

“No.”

“We’ll lose touch with Ess’yr if we don’t keep up,” Orisian said, feeling the first intimation of desperation.

There was a sudden sound: a muffled, rising rumble like far-off thunder. All of them looked back the way they had come, but the trees and low fogs blocked any view.

“They’re charging,” Torcaill said, tense. “So soon. I thought it’d take longer. Or that the wights would turn aside and look for a way round.”

“The White Owls are in a hurry,” Orisian said. “Just like us. This isn’t just some raid they’re on. It’s more important to them — to Aeglyss — than that. They won’t turn aside, or hide away.”

Somewhere at the rear of the weary bunch of riders, someone shouted out, “I see them! Wights coming!”

“Go, if you must,” Torcaill snapped down at Orisian, already turning his horse. “I’ll send some men with you on foot, and come after, if we can curb the pursuit here. I’ll not just abandon our horses to the wights. We’ll need them yet.”

Orisian saw no point in arguing.

“Stay with Torcaill,” he said to Yvane, and then, “You too, Eshenna. Rothe?”

With that, he started to run, fearful of being unable to find any sign of Ess’yr or Varryn beyond the thicket. He barged through the tangled undergrowth, feeling it rip at his clothes and snag his hair, but not caring. Rothe came blundering after him.

“Slow down, Orisian,” the shieldman shouted at him. “Wait for the others.”

Orisian waded on, fighting the resistant vegetation like the current of some fierce river that he was trying to cross. He burst free of its tenacious grip at last, and stumbled on over the scattered debris of a giant tree that had long ago fallen and been eaten into fragments. He could hear Rothe’s heavy tread close behind him. Further back, someone — one of Torcaill’s warriors — was cursing the brambles.

Orisian ran around a stagnant pond of murky water, sprang over a rotted, split stump. Still he could not see Ess’yr or Varryn, or any sign of their passing.

“Ess’yr,” he shouted, and regretted it instantly. The cry sounded far louder, in the limp, damp air that lay beneath the trees, than he had expected. He imagined it ringing out through the forest, turning the head of every living thing. He told himself that any White Owls would not need his voice to find him, but it was small comfort.

Then he saw Ess’yr up ahead, standing beside a moss-wrapped tree, and relief washed through him.

“Come,” she said as he reached her. “Quickly. There is scent. Perhaps it is her.”

And with that she was already spinning on her heel and running on, deeper into the Veiled Woods. Rothe drew level with Orisian and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I think I heard fighting, perhaps. Back behind us. Not sure.”

“They’ve got her trail,” Orisian said — hoping, believing, that it was true.

He set off after Ess’yr.

There was a dark scar across the forest floor, running up to the base of an ancient tree, where the turf and moss and leaf litter had split — or been torn — apart and peeled back to expose the earth. Orisian crouched down next to it and dug his fingers into the loose soil. It had a warm, wet smell.

“It seems fresh,” he said. There were still insects crawling across the loam, still worms writhing in it.

Varryn went on a few paces and bent to examine the grass.

“Not long,” Ess’yr said. “We are very close behind her.”

“She was here? Is this to do with her?” Orisian asked, wiping his hand on some moss.

Ess’yr was watching her brother. “With her. There is the smell of na’kyrim here. Or with the Anain. We walk in their sight. They are awake, in this place. Can you not feel it?”

Orisian frowned. He felt the age, the eeriness of the Veiled Woods, but surely that was just to do with the old, twisted trees, the moist air. He looked again, with more careful eyes, and saw the moss — rich and luminously green — that clothed rocks and fallen timber, saw the leaves, some brown, some yellow, some even a blotched green, that still clung to twigs. He breathed in deeply, and felt the softness of the air in his chest. It all felt like a place out of its season.

Rothe was at his side, breathing heavily.

“You must stay closer to me,” the shieldman grumbled. “The White Owls’ll be fast enough to flank us, get ahead of us even, however hard Torcaill tries. This is not the kind of place I’d choose to go up against Kyrinin. Where are those men who’re supposed to be with us?”

He glared around, as if to blame or accuse the forest itself as the origin of all their woes. There was, behind them, perhaps the sound of someone crashing through the forest. It might be one or more of Torcaill’s warriors. Orisian was not sure how long they had been running for, how far behind his supposed escort might have fallen. It seemed improbable that any White Owl would make so much noise, but he was nevertheless disinclined to shout out to whoever it was.

“I don’t think Kyrinin are the only things we’ve got to worry about here,” he murmured.

Rothe looked at him, troubled. “What does that mean?”

Orisian shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.” And it didn’t. There was nothing that Rothe, or Torcaill, or any of them, could do about Anain. He straightened himself and turned round. “Come on — we have to keep up with Ess’yr and Varryn.”

The two Fox were trotting away, heads down like hunting dogs following a scent. Rothe stared after them.

“We need those men,” he said. “If we get too strung out in here, we’ll never find each other again. None of us can match those two’s pace.” He nodded after the disappearing Kyrinin.

Orisian sighed, looking first after Ess’yr and then back the way they had come, searching for any sign that Torcaill and the others were approaching. Somewhere, distantly in that direction, he thought he heard shouting. A few small birds were hopping, chattering, through the canopy above.

“What we came for is close,” he said. “Ess’yr and Varryn are certain of it. If the White Owls reach the woman before we do, everything has been for nothing. Come on.”

He went without waiting to see Rothe’s reaction. He did not need to; he knew that his shieldman would follow. The two of them, struggling to match the pace of their Kyrinin guides through the tangled forest, stumbled over hidden rocks, stamped down on brittle, rotten branches, crashed through nets of briars. Ess’yr and Varryn, as far as Orisian could tell, made not a sound.

The woods were suffused with a strange, pale light. The flat white vapours that draped the treetops were quite motionless. Everything felt vaguely unreal to Orisian. Then he heard a bird call, from somewhere off to his left. It was an unfamiliar sound. He risked a glance that way as he ran. There was nothing to see but the silent throng of contorted tree trunks. A sudden dip in the ground almost sent him sprawling down, and he had to return his attention to his feet.

There was another call, perhaps closer, though it was hard to judge on the still, heavy air. He looked again. And this time he saw a flutter of movement. He slowed despite himself, looked again. Something moved, far out amongst the mist-blurred green and brown of the forest.

“Keep going,” Rothe snapped, running up behind him. “It’s too late to stop. We have to stay with them now.”

Orisian ran faster, vaulting over a fallen tree; glimpsing the profusion of tiny mushrooms that had burst up out of its crumbling wood. To his surprise, he found Varryn kneeling amongst willow saplings, an arrow set to the string of his bow.

“Go,” hissed the Kyrinin. “Follow Ess’yr.”

Orisian ran on wordlessly, glancing back only once; seeing Varryn drifting through the undergrowth, as intent as any hunter. Ahead, Ess’yr had increased her pace. She ran in bursts: a few long, lithe strides, then a moment of casting about, then another surge forward. Trees flashed past. They were going much too fast for any hope of quiet now. Orisian could hear Rothe crashing along behind him like a boulder tumbling downhill.

Above the noise of their own haste he heard a faint, far-off cry. It was too light, too thin to be born of a human throat. Then another sound: a clattering, rattling cadence that rushed up close and then stopped. It came again and he glanced sideways in time to see an arrow tumbling through scrub, its flight unbalanced and broken by the undergrowth. It glanced off a tree trunk and dipped into the ground, sinking to its flights in yielding moss.

“Faster,” shouted Rothe.

Orisian’s thighs and calfs burned, but he stretched his legs and drove on after Ess’yr. His shield thumped rhythmically against his back. He leaped across a tiny stream, so overgrown with ferns and choked with mossy stones that the water only betrayed its presence by its gurgling voice. He wanted to draw his sword, but was unsure whether he could do so without falling, or at least slowing down. He was on the verge of making the attempt when he rounded the great fat trunk of a wizened oak to find Ess’yr crouched in a tiny glade. She was at the side of a woman who was lying face down in the grass beside a massive fallen tree.

Orisian bent down, panting for breath. Ess’yr glanced at him.

“This is the one,” she said. “She still lives.”

Orisian turned the prone woman over onto her back. She was light in his hands, almost as if her clothes were empty. Her na’kyrim face was neither old nor young, neither beautiful nor plain. It was painfully thin, though. Her deathly-pale cheeks, smeared with streaks of dirt, bore dozens of tiny scratches. As though, Orisian thought, she had been assailed by a flock of birds. Or thorns, perhaps; thorns, and roots and twigs. Her breathing was shallow. She smelled — he leaned closer — of the wet earth and decaying leaves. Her simple deer-hide dress was caked with soil and was full of little rips.

“Move her,” Ess’yr said. She hooked a hand under the na’kyrim ’s armpit. Orisian got to his feet and took hold of the collar of the woman’s dress. Together, they dragged her up against the great wet bulk of the fallen trunk. The woman’s eyes were open. The pupils moved this way and that, but they had no grip upon the world.

Then Rothe was thumping over the grass towards them, shouting as he came, “Get under cover. Leave her, Orisian! Get under cover. They’re coming.”

Orisian hesitated. He looked at Rothe, scanned the forest behind him and saw nothing. Rothe had his sword in one hand, his shield still slung across his back. With his free hand he seized Orisian’s upper arm and thrust him away from the na’kyrim.

“Get behind the tree,” the shieldman shouted.

Orisian obeyed, soft rotten wood crumbling beneath his hands and feet. “Get her!” he cried.

Ess’yr vaulted over the huge fallen tree trunk, reached back and hauled at the na’kyrim. One-handed, Rothe lifted the insensate woman and pushed her bodily over the dead tree. She slid onto the sodden grass beside Orisian. Rothe followed her. There was a dull thud as he did so and he went unsteadily down onto his knees, with a disgusted grunt. Orisian reached out to steady the big man. Ess’yr was quickly stringing her bow, bending low to stay out of sight.

An arrow was embedded in the back of Rothe’s leg, driven deep into the meat of his thigh. Without thinking, Orisian reached for it and snapped the shaft off. Rothe gasped in pain, but was already unbuckling the straps of his shield and settling it onto his left arm.

“Keep low,” he rasped. “Come on, get your shield ready.”

Orisian tried to do as he was told. His fingers were clumsy, unable to move as fast and nimbly as his mind desired of them.

Ess’yr had an arrow at her bowstring. She scurried a few paces away from them and peered over the tree trunk. There were a couple of hollow cracks as arrows smacked into the dead wood, the whispering flight of two or three more that flashed overhead and disappeared into the forest. Ess’yr rose to a crouch and loosed off an arrow in reply.

“How many?” Rothe demanded of her as she sank back down, reaching for another shaft.

“Enough,” she said calmly.

“Enough for what?” the shieldman muttered in exasperation.

Orisian had sword and shield ready now. He stayed in a low crouch, trying to ignore the fluttering heartbeat he felt in his throat, the cold sweat on his brow and his palms.

“Where’s Varryn?” he asked.

“They are coming,” Ess’yr said. She spun, still sunk down on her haunches, and sighted along the length of the great tree trunk. A figure rounded its far end, where its root plate stood tall: a Kyrinin, a man with a tattooed face. Then Ess’yr’s arrow was lodged in his chest and he was pitching backwards.

“Behind you,” Ess’yr hissed, casting aside the bow and taking up her spear.

Rothe and Orisian both looked over their shoulders. Another White Owl warrior was leaping over the tree trunk, little more than a spear’s length away. Rothe surged up before Orisian could move. Shieldman and Kyrinin crashed together. Orisian heard gasps of violently expelled breath as the two of them fell in a tangle. The White Owl was faster, more agile, than Rothe; he rolled and swept up onto his feet, already in a low fighting stance. Rothe was still scrambling to get upright.

Orisian rushed at the back of the White Owl. He knew at once that he was too slow. He could see the Kyrinin turning, the tip of his spear snapping round at stomach height. Something else hammered into Orisian from the side, knocking him flying. He hit the ground clumsily, his sword pinned beneath him. He was distantly aware that his shin had smacked against a sharp-edged rock, but the pain was carried away, for now, on the flood of the moment.

He sat up, managed to get his sword out from under him. A blur of closing movement gave him enough warning to lift his shield. It took the spear thrust close to its centre and trapped the point there, holding it fast. Orisian tried to roll onto his feet, but the White Owl still had hold of the spear. A single hard tug was enough both to twist Orisian onto his knees and to pull it free of the shield. Orisian watched the butt of the spear sweeping towards him. He could see it coming, it seemed slow, it seemed that he had plenty of time to block it with his sword; yet his arm was only now beginning to move, far too late. The moment passed. The butt of the spear leaped into his face. He felt the skin under his cheekbone split. He felt a rush of hot, wet blood in his mouth. One eye was awash with blinding light. He slumped sideways, flailing with his shield. A blow landed on it. He blinked and saw the White Owl standing over him, readying another stabbing lunge. He slashed at the Kyrinin’s legs with his sword. The Kyrinin sprang out of reach.

Ess’yr came from behind and drove her own spear into the small of the White Owl’s back. He arched, his mouth silently stretched open. Ess’yr tripped him and pinned him to the ground. Orisian swayed onto his feet. He still could not see properly. He spat teeth onto the muddy grass. Blood and saliva trailed from his mouth. Through the showers of blurry lights that cascaded across his vision, he saw White Owls spilling over the huge fallen tree. Rothe was still fighting, bodies at his feet. Ess’yr tried to wrench her spear free, but it resisted. She released it and turned to meet the wave of assailants with a knife.

Orisian stumbled forwards. The White Owl that Ess’yr had impaled was stirring, clawing at the ground. The spear protruding from his back jerked and swung about. Orisian hacked at the back of his head, felt the blade meet bone, and stepped over him. There was a terrible anger howling inside his skull, a vast roaring filling his ears.

Ess’yr dodged the thrust of a spear, stabbed its wielder in the groin. A second White Owl reached her before she could untangle herself, knocked her down. Orisian cried out, bloody spittle filming his lips, and sprang forwards. There was no room in his mind for thought, but his body took over, leaped up, brought the sword down on the Kyrinin’s shoulder. Orisian heard the clear crack of bone breaking. The White Owl fell, within reach of Ess’yr and her knife. Orisian rushed on beyond.

He ducked behind his shield and charged, meaning to drive his way to Rothe so that he could stand back to back with his shieldman. One Kyrinin darted out of his path; the next, he crashed up against and pressed to the thick bole of the dead tree. The White Owl writhed and strained, gripping the rim of Orisian’s shield with one hand and pulling it this way and that. Another was coming from the side. Orisian managed to turn aside the incoming spear with a wild sweep of his sword, but the movement left him open with his blade down and wide. The Kyrinin recovered more quickly, brought the spear back up, then jerked. An arrow was in his side. Another darted in beside it. He fell. Orisian had no time to think. The White Owl he had pinned against the great log was too strong for him to hold. He hacked at the exposed legs below his shield until the Kyrinin went down.

He saw the na’kyrim woman they had come for curled up against the tree trunk like a child, a dead White Owl laid out beside her almost as if they were a sleeping couple. He saw Varryn coming sprinting from amongst the trees, and behind him human figures: Torcaill’s men. He saw Ess’yr, a spear in her hand once more, trading blocks and blows with an opponent. And he saw Rothe, down on one knee, shield up to block one attack, sword parrying another, nothing left to block the third that punched a spear deep into his shoulder.

Orisian lunged forwards. He was in amongst them. Blows landed on his shield, on his hip. Someone went down on his left. He looked, terrified, but it was not Rothe. The shieldman had got back to his feet. His shield arm was hanging limp, defeated by injuries old and new. He cut down one of the White Owls in front of Orisian, stretched out sword and arm, pushing Orisian back.

“Stay clear,” Rothe said. Then something hit him at the base of his neck. There was blood there. The shieldman’s eyes flared for a moment. Varryn brushed past them, spear and elbows jabbing and stabbing. One of Torcaill’s warriors crashed by. Rothe took an uncertain step backwards, and toppled.

Orisian heard the clatter of spears, the gasps of pain and exertion, felt the impact of bodies falling or feet stamping. He saw only Rothe. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees at his shieldman’s side. Rothe was watching him. Only his eyes moved. He coughed and blood bubbled out across his lips and beard. Orisian shook his shield free, cast it away. He cupped Rothe’s face in his hands. Strands of blood were falling from his own mouth. The wound in Rothe’s throat was gurgling. Rothe blinked, again and again. His gaze never faltered, never left Orisian’s eyes. Orisian pressed a hand to Rothe’s neck. The blood flooded slickly out between his fingers and across the back of his hand. Dark. Remorseless.

“Wait, wait,” Orisian heard himself saying.

Rothe blinked once more. And then never again.