Bloodheir

VI

Taim’s first thought was to make for Kolkyre, but that was impossible. Chaos seemed to have risen up and taken hold of the world, and now shook it as if to break it apart. The army of the Black Road quickly spread itself across the whole plain, its every element rushing in disordered, hungry pursuit of its defeated prey. Every time he sought to turn towards Kolkyre, he found some obstacle in his path: a mob of Tarbains swarming over a couple of Aewult’s supply wagons on a farm track; Gyre riders quartering fields and chasing down Haig warriors who had tried to hide amongst the grass and ditches; a farmhouse burning, with a hundred Black Roaders herding cattle together amidst the smoke.

Taim ran, sometimes alone, sometimes amongst others fleeing from the battle. He kept a steady pace, wary of tiring himself. Others had not been so cautious, and he passed many solitary men who had fallen, exhausted or overcome by wounds. In a tiny copse of lean trees, he found two dozen Taral-Haig spearmen gathered, arguing over what to do. He stayed only long enough to beg a drink of water from one of them. They were full of fear and anger, and leaderless. They shouted at one another. Some wanted to fight their way through to Kolkyre, others to keep running all the way back to Drandar. He left them, and pressed on across the treeless ridges and shallow dales of Kolkyre’s hinterland.

Late on the day of the battle, when the scattered clouds out over the sea were already burning orange with the sun’s setting light, he paused at an abandoned farmstead that stood on a low finger of ground reaching out from the eastern hills. The valley of the River Kyre lay to the south of him, broad and open. He thought he could see movement on the road that followed the river’s course, but could not tell whether it was friend or foe. He could see Kolkyre, too: dark and distant down at the river mouth. Companies of men were moving back and forth across the plain around it, most of them streaming southwards. There was, though, order amidst the turmoil. He could just make out a great column forming up, outside the city walls. Kilkry-Haig, he guessed; Roaric attempting, too late, to limit the disaster that had befallen the True Bloods.

“What Blood are you?” someone asked behind him, and Taim spun around.

There were three men, smeared in dirt and blood, watching him with wary, hostile eyes. They must have been hiding somewhere amongst the outbuildings. Taim cursed himself for his carelessness. The one who had spoken did not, at least, have the accent of a northerner.

“Lannis,” Taim said flatly.

One of the men grunted and looked away northwards, no longer interested. Another sneered, “Can hardly call yourself a Blood any more, can you? As good as masterless.”

Taim shrugged, making himself meek. He was reasonably confident he could kill these men if he had to, but he had no intention of picking a fight when there were so many more dangerous opponents abroad.

“We’ve no food to spare, if that’s what you’re looking for,” the third man muttered.

“I’m not hungry. I only wanted to rest for a time.”

The men remained suspicious, but seemed to conclude that he was not worth any further time or trouble. They disappeared into the farmhouse. Taim moved a little further away and leaned on the wall of a cattle pen. He could hear crashing from within the house. They would take whatever of value they could find, of course. The sound of that ransacking was in his ears as he watched the day’s second, brief battle.

The Black Road came out of the north in fragments. There was no line drawn up, no structure. First in a trickle, then a flood, warriors threw themselves against the Kilkry-Haig army assembling within sight of Kolkyre’s northern gate. There was little wind, and no sound reached Taim above the noise of wreckage being created in the farmhouse behind him. The companies of warriors were too far away to be anything more in his sight than smudges drifting up and against each other, merging and mixing. He watched the stain of their struggle swell and spread. Like thickening smoke from some far-off fire, more and more Black Road warriors flowed down the road and into the battle.

Taim turned away. He could guess the outcome and had no desire to witness it.

Twilight was descending. If there were White Owls, or even Hunt Inkallim, amongst the host spreading itself over Kilkry lands, darkness would offer more threat than protection. He meant to move on through the night.

He glanced up at the farmhouse, and saw a face at a window: one of the looters, staring out at him. Taim recognised the danger in that attention, and trotted off down into the valley of the Kyre.

Taim reached the river around the middle of the night. There was no moonlight. He had slowed to a walk, picking his careful way across the empty pastures of the valley floor. He heard the road that hugged the Kyre’s northern bank long before he saw any sign of it: the trundling of wheels on cobbles, the fraught voices of frightened, lost men.

As he drew closer, just as he began to hear the river itself, he almost walked into a group of men lying in the wet grass, wrapped in dark cloaks that rendered them all but invisible. One sprang up in his path, crying out and lunging at him. Taim knocked the man down and ran on before his comrades could rouse themselves.

The confusion on the road was dangerous. All but blind in the darkness, warriors and farmers and villagers were milling about. Almost all were heading upriver, away from Kolkyre, but many strayed from the road, stumbling into fields and the clumps of trees along the riverside. A great wagon, hauled by long-horned cattle, nearly crushed Taim when he had to duck into its path to avoid a horseman cantering recklessly along. He found himself caught up in a great throng of country folk who had fled their village. Some of them grasped at him, reaching out in hope or desperation, asking for news. He had none to give, and shrugged off their hands.

He left the road, and went tentatively onto a marshy bit of ground by the river. Water closed over his booted feet, but there was a huge tree stump and he sat there for a time, thinking. There was no crossing of the Kyre downstream, he knew, save the bridge at Kolkyre itself. That would be in Black Road hands by now. The only other bridge he had heard of was the one that led to Ive, and that must be the best part of a day’s walk up the valley. There would be ferry boats somewhere, but he did not know where. He briefly considered attempting to swim the river, but it was broad, and sounded to him powerful and fast. He had never been a strong swimmer. Reluctantly, he made his way along the riverside until he found a tree strong enough to hold his weight, and he wedged himself into the fork of a low branch to wait for dawn, and the clarity of daylight.

In the morning, Taim found more than he could have hoped for: forty or so Lannis men riding up the road. Only then, filled with relief at the sight of them, did he recognise how deeply he had slipped into despondency and uncertainty. Like a man tasting clean water for the first time in days, he embraced their leader, and went from man to man clasping hands and laughing. And they were as glad, to have the Captain of Anduran returned to them. They had no spare horses, but one man climbed up behind another and gave his own mount to Taim.

“Do you know where the rest of us are? What became of them?” Taim asked.

There were only shaken heads and downcast eyes in response. He had not expected more.

“Did you feel it, in the battle?” someone asked him. “There was a shadow across us, across every man’s spirit. Nothing of our own making.”

“I felt it,” Taim grunted. “It passed, though, didn’t it? You’re men still. You’ve swords still, and horses.”

“We do.”

“Good. We’ll make for Ive. Everyone will gather there, or at Donnish.”

“We’re to submit ourselves to the Bloodheir again, then?” grumbled one of the men.

Taim cowed him with a single fierce glare. “We’re to find another chance to face the Black Road, that’s what we’re to do. There’ll be no way in or out of Kolkyre by now. Whether we like it or not, it’ll be Haig that decides this war, so if you want to be a part of the decision that’s where we go.” And, he thought, it’ll be to Haig that Orisian must go, if he can. There was nowhere else now. If their Thane still lived, he must find his way to the Haig army sooner or later. And if he was no longer alive… Taim did not know the answer to that.

They followed the river up into the hills. Behind them, beyond obscuring ridges, pillars of smoke climbed into grey skies. There were fewer people on the road now. Those who did share it with them were mostly the slow ones: whole families, the sick and the aged.

There was a young girl, no more than eight or nine years old, sitting on the grass, holding a wailing baby in her arms. She watched them pass by. Tears had run streaks down through the dirt on her cheeks, but now she was silent; just watching, in defeated resignation. Taim reined in his horse and stared down at the girl. She looked back at him, without fear or hope, without any sign of emotion.

“Come,” he called down to her, bending down and holding out a hand.

She shuffled backwards across the grass. The baby was screaming, a sound of such undiluted distress that it cut Taim to the quick.

“We can carry you, if you’re too tired to walk,” he said.

The little girl shook her head and hugged the babe tighter against her chest.

“You shouldn’t stay here.” Taim’s men had passed him by now, riding on. “It might not be safe.”

“I’m waiting,” she said, so soft and shy that he barely caught it.

“Who for?” he asked. But she did not reply. She would not look at him any more. Taim left her, not knowing what else to do. Thinking of Jaen, and of Maira their daughter.

The river grew more turbulent. The rich pastures bordering it gave way to sparser, poorer grasslands and stretches of bare rock. The hills bulged up ever higher, and colder air blew around their haunches.

In the afternoon, the silhouettes of riders appeared above and behind Taim’s band. They kept pace for a time, paralleling the course of the road. A group of villagers trudging along a little way ahead saw them too, and began to run.

“Haig or Black Road?” one of the warriors near Taim wondered.

“I don’t know. Black Road, if I had to guess.”

The distant figures fell away beneath the ridgeline after a while. Taim picked up his pace. He looked back down the road. It wound its way off towards the coastal plain. There was bad weather out there, coming in from the sea: fat clouds and a wall of rain or sleet that hung like a curtain from the sky. All down the road’s winding path people were scattered, crawling their way up the valley. It could not be long, Taim knew, before the wolves of the Black Road descended upon this straggling flock.

At the place where the road to Ive forked off southwards, the Kyre was narrow, funnelled between two rock buttresses. A single-arched stone bridge spanned the channel. On the north side of the river, the hillside was steep and bleak. The road to Highfast was cut into its face. Taim looked that way for a while, thinking of Orisian, but turned his men south and led them clattering across the bridge.

There was a little village there, at the south end of the bridge, perched above the river on a huge flat platform of bare ground: squat stone huts, some roofed with turf, some with slate. There was a miserable-looking inn, a blacksmith, and some stables and sheds. And scores of people, perhaps hundreds. They were crowded around every building, sheltering against the walls. Many were curled up, with cloaks or blankets pulled over their heads — sleeping or sick. Families were clustered around tiny fires they had made from whatever meagre pile of wood they could assemble. Some Haig warriors were handing out flatbreads from a barrow, beating back those who tried to grab an extra portion.

“Find some feed and water for the horses,” Taim instructed.

He went in search of anyone of authority, anyone who could tell him something of how things stood. He found no one. A listless despair had settled over the village, brought perhaps by the hundreds who had already fled this way. The warriors here were without captains; half of the place’s original inhabitants had already left, making for Ive. It was obvious that many of those now encamped here would not be going further soon, if ever. Few had set out upon their journey with adequate preparation, and all had been on the move for too long without rest. The sky was already darkening towards dusk, and foul weather gathering further down the valley, threatening to come surging up towards the Karkyre Peaks.

“Black Road!”

The shout sped through the village, taken up by one voice after another. Taim ran back to the bridge. Riders were on the road across the valley, still some way further downriver but moving fast. Ahead of them a few desperate figures were running, striving to reach the bridge before they were cut down. Taim could see some of them flinging aside their belongings. They had no chance, though. He saw first one, then two, caught and killed by their pursuers.

“Block the bridge,” Taim shouted at the nearest of his men as he ran for his horse. “A shield line across this end.”

He slapped a Haig warrior on the shoulder as he sprinted by, shouting, “Get your men together. If we don’t hold the bridge, we’re all done.”

He did not wait to see if the man did as he was told. People — those who could — were already running, gathering their families, rushing for the road south. Taim could hear children crying. He leaped up into the saddle. Ten or twelve of his horsemen were at his side. Most of the rest were on foot, arraying themselves across the roadway, blocking off the near end of the bridge. They squatted down behind their round shields. Few had the spears that were needed to meet a charge.

A young man came staggering across the bridge. The wall of shields parted to let him through. He was the last. The Black Road riders were close. Taim could see the dull texture of their mail shirts as they pounded up. He could hear the snorting breath of the lead horse as it swung towards the bridge.

A knot of Haig spearmen appeared at his side. He looked down at them and saw their fear.

“Wait here with me,” he muttered. “There’s been enough running for now, don’t you think? These are people of the True Bloods we’re fighting for. They’ll die if the Black Road crosses this bridge, so fight well.”

The first horseman came across the bridge at the gallop. The valley rang to the sound of hoof on stone, every rock face reflecting the sound. There were flecks of foam at the mouth of his great bay horse. He crashed down upon the shield line at full pace, as if he had not even seen it. Horse and rider went plunging through, both tumbling, and took three or four men with them. More came close behind, and they hesitated no more than the first had. They fell like hammer blows on kindling, ploughing through the thin Lannis ranks. Horses went down. Men were crushed, and knocked flying.

Taim turned to the little wedge of Haig men drawn up beside him. There was no sense in waiting. There was to be no subtlety to this; it would be won and lost quickly, in the first savage moments when men must choose between courage and fear.

“Go,” Taim shouted at the Haig men. For an instant, he was not sure they would do as he commanded. But then they were running, and crying out, and driving their way to the heart of the fight.

“Us too,” Taim called to his companions, and they charged in.

The battleground was constricted, the slaughter compressed into the small open space where the bridge disgorged the road between huts. Taim’s horse stamped on someone as it lunged forwards. It barged through and took him up against a woman who was laying about her from horseback with a long thin-bladed sword. She cut at Taim’s arm. He blocked the blow and swung for her flank. Her horse lurched sideways and carried her out of his reach. A spear stabbed into her stomach from below, and he turned away, seeking another opponent. More warriors were still coming across the bridge. Taim saw one of his men battered to the ground and trampled. A horse reared beside him, and twisted and crashed down on its side. He urged his own mount on, closer and closer to the bridge. He killed one man, and another.

He glimpsed villagers rushing up to the edge of the fray, falling on injured or unwary Black Roaders, clubbing them and jabbing at them with knives. He hacked and slashed until his arm ached. And, quite suddenly, it was done, and the enemy were all dead or downed, and the bridge still belonged to Taim and his men.

Sleet was falling, and the day’s light was almost done. Taim could hear people cheering. He sat on his horse at the mouth of the bridge and stared off down the valley. There were other companies of warriors on the road, out there in the gloom, drawing closer.

He sheathed his sword and turned back towards the village. One of the Haig warriors grinned up at him.

“It’s not done yet,” Taim said wearily before the man could speak. “Is there a ford across the river anywhere near here? Another bridge?”

The spearman shook his head, his brief joy dispelled by Taim’s grave expression.

“Get whatever you can find out of the houses, then,” Taim said. “Benches, tables. Anything. We need to put a wall across the bridge.”