A Blackbird In Silver (Book 1) (31 page)

Half-way down the hill, they heard a scuffling some way below and to their right. The ring of sword blows, the thud of blade dropping on shield.

They began to trot downhill. A scream split the air, then silence.

‘Oh no.’ Benra cursed, quickening pace. Soon they came to a thin muddy track that ran across their path through the forest. To the right, about a hundred yards on, the track branched in two. Here Benra halted, looking up and down both paths. They could see nothing unusual.

They were about to move on when a figure appeared, walking from the trees at the fork. ‘We’d better run. It may not notice us,’ said Benra. But the riders stared, fascinated.

A Gorethrian, Ashurek noticed with a jolt.

Its clothes, though, were tattered and muddy, and the figure walked with a leaden, unfaltering gait. As it drew closer, they saw in shock that its flesh – bared in many places – was covered with great gashes and weals that did not bleed and seemed to cause it no pain. It stared out of unseeing, unblinking eyes. Half the flesh of its face had rotted and fallen away.

‘By the Worm,’ gasped Ashurek, ‘if I didn’t see him walking I’d swear he was dead.’

‘It is dead,’ said Benra, preparing to fight. ‘That is our enemy.’

Ashurek seized Benra’s shoulder.

‘Who has done this – abused the corpses of my countrymen?’ he hissed.

‘Never mind – get back into the trees,’ Benra said, but Ashurek was spurring Vixata into a gallop towards the figure.

He had no great love left for his country, but the hideous necromancy that had been practiced upon the Gorethrian was to him the ultimate, appalling blasphemy. A tearing scream of horror and anguish issued from his mouth as he bore down upon the thing. And as he wielded his sword, the blade shone with a leaden light, as if instilled with the hell-driven rage of its bearer.

The creature swung a mighty sabre, but Ashurek dodged; then his own blade cleaved the air and the creature’s head was severed, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Vixata galloped on, a streak of dull gold, but as Ashurek pulled her around, he saw with horror that the corpse still walked.

Benra faced it as it advanced, and hacked off its sword arm. Ashurek approached again and with a series of violent blows to its legs and trunk, finally felled it. Estarinel and Medrian watched, frozen in horrified fascination.

‘This is our problem,’ said Benra. ‘You can’t just kill them. Each one must be hacked into pieces to stop it fighting. Always go for the arms, and legs too if you have a chance.’ On the ground, the mutilated corpse still jerked and writhed. Ashurek glared down at it, shaking, his eyes blazing with baleful green fire.

‘Whoever is responsible for this is going to die,’ he said quietly.

They continued down through the trees. The bracken grew more prolific, the trees younger, until it seemed the woodland’s edge was not far ahead.

They heard rustling in the trees to their right. The neman blew three short blasts on his horn but no reply came.

‘Those aren’t our soldiers,’ the neman said.

Now they could hear two or three people running towards them.

‘Let me take the boy,’ Benra suggested to Estarinel, and cast Skord across his shoulder. ‘It’ll be easier for him and for you.’ As they cantered on, they caught a glimpse of three more living corpses, just to the front and side of them, lumbering through the trees with a swift mechanical gait. One limped, for it had a foot missing. Another’s arm was hanging off. Two were Gorethrian, but the third was a dead nemale warrior.

Ashurek and his companions sent their horses into a gallop. The warrior-corpses burst from the trees in front of them. The horses swerved and darted past their swinging blades unscathed, and flew on downhill, while the dead soldiers sped after them like automatons.

They ran unnaturally fast, as fast as Vixata could gallop. Ashurek found one gaining on him; he swung his shield with a thud into its face, sending it off balance, and spurred Vixata on. Galloping hard, she began to outpace them.

Young trees gave way to a sea of bracken that spilled onto a slope of sparse grass and shale. At the bottom of the slope stood the Boundary Wall. It looked huge. They could not let the horses career straight towards it and so they veered left, dodging the dead warriors who seemed slow to sense their direction. Circling uphill again, they saw Benra hurling himself headlong into the bracken to avoid a sword blow. Still holding Skord as if the boy weighed nothing, the neman resurfaced swinging his axe, hacking the Gorethrian’s legs until it toppled. Benra leapt up and ran on.

‘Come on! You’ll have to jump the wall – Look out!’

Medrian’s palfrey squealed and leapt forward as the dead neman’s sword swung. The blade only tangled in Taery’s tail, pulling out a few strands. Medrian made Taery prop sideways, then turned his head and swung him downhill at a canter. Shaell and Vixata were just ahead of her, with Benra striding alongside them, Skord flopping like a rag doll on his shoulder.

The stony scree sloped down almost to the base of the wall, separated from it by a wide ditch. The wall itself was built of ancient, crumbling stone, covered in silvery lichen and moss. It was close on six feet high and about ten wide, and what lay on the landing side – perhaps a thorn-choked drop, or heap of tumbled rocks – they would not know until it was too late.

They collected their horses until the beasts were cantering almost on the spot, mouths foaming. The two remaining corpse-warriors – Gorethrian and neman – set upon Ashurek but, with Vixata’s skill, he kept them at bay. She kicked, struck and lunged at the assailants, dodging sword blows like a feather.

They saw Benra negotiate the wall – with Skord now tucked under an upper arm – as easily as a cat. His long, well-muscled legs flexed as he leapt the ditch. He found a hand-hold on the wall, and in one clean movement he sprang up and hauled himself onto the top.

‘It’s flat up here. You can bank it,’ Benra called, making to climb down the far side. The third warrior was on its feet again and lumbering downhill towards them. With a parting kick, Vixata launched herself at the wall. It seemed to grow higher and higher as she approached, and Ashurek knew that while her momentum carried her downwards, she would struggle to gain height in the jump.

As they reached the ditch Vixata took off, and with a rush of air she made a vast leap and landed on top of the wall; gathered herself; leapt off the other side and landed on good ground, well out over a second, smaller ditch.

‘Your courage will make up for my lack of it,’ Estarinel told Shaell, running a hand down the stallion’s great, powerful neck. The undead warriors were right behind him as he rode hard at the wall. Shaell leapt, skidded on the mossy top of the wall, regained balance, took another stride and made a stomach-sinking leap to the ground below.

Behind him, he heard Medrian – as always, more cheerful in a crisis – shout, ‘In case this horse can’t jump I’ll close my eyes!’

A dead Gorethrian was at the palfrey’s flank. Twisting, she hacked off its arm, but it would not drop back. She made Taery dodge and, spooked, he galloped at the looming wall, too fast. And she did close her eyes as he took flight.

The others saw the palfrey, like an eagle of pearly blue and gold, come soaring over the wall in one great leap. Taery landed like a bird, balanced, effortless. Even the neman – whose kind were noted for their dislike of horses – stared at Taery Jasmena in amazement.

Eventually Ashurek broke the silence.

‘It seems worth returning to Arlenmia to ask where we can get a few more of those beasts,’ was all he said.

Shaken and silent, they followed Benra, forded a knee-deep stream thick with bulrushes, then turned and followed the stream along its far bank. The waterway ran parallel to the wall for some distance. About two miles further on they saw a wide gap in the wall where once a gate had been, and now they clearly heard battle-shouts, steel ringing on steel.

‘One of our many disadvantages,’ said Benra, ‘is that whenever one of our soldiers is killed, it automatically joins the other side.’

‘But corpses don’t just walk from their graves and wage war on countries,’ Ashurek stated. ‘Whose army is it?’

‘Oh, they are the pets of a certain northern nobleman who’s decided to conquer this country – I gather re-animating corpses is one of his favourite hobbies. Setrel will tell you.’

Ashurek did not ask who the nobleman was, for he already knew, and did not wish to hear the loathed name spoken.

#

They followed the stream across flat, marshy meadows until they came to a cart road that ran between fields and copses. At last they reached the village. A sign planted in the road read, ‘
Hamlet of Morthemcote, Retherny Valley
’.

Wisps of mist clung around the village. The track wound between two rows of cottages, each a small, rounded structure of granite, the rich silvery grey rock tinted with pinks and fawns. These dwellings, with their pointed thatched roofs, oak doors and small leaded windows, reminded Estarinel poignantly of Forluin. A wide grass verge ran on each side of the road, the grass bright with flowers. Beyond the rooftops rose forested hills.

The village was quiet, the silence broken now and then by birdsong, dogs barking, a cow lowing, children at play, a cart rattling down a track out of their sight. Deceptive peace.

At last Benra led them to a larger dwelling, built as if five round cottages had been fused into one. Moss crusted the granite walls. A spiral of smoke floated from the chimney. The neman motioned them to dismount, set Skord on his feet and passed him to Ashurek, who held up the half-conscious boy. The oak door bore a small sign reading,
The House of Setrel; Village Elder by appointment to the Long Table at Mardrathern.

Benra knocked. The door opened and a rosy-faced girl of about fourteen looked out. She was wearing a long, sleeveless dress of purple velvet, a silver circlet on her long brown hair.

‘Good lady, is your father at home?’ the neman asked, giving a slight bow with all four arms held down by his sides.

‘Yes, come in, Benra,’ she said, smiling.

The interior revealed a circular room with a slate floor, oak furniture, a large fireplace opposite the door. Three more doors led into further rooms. By the hearth sat a boy of about twelve, very similar to his sister, whittling a piece of wood. And poring over parchment documents at a table was Setrel himself, the village Elder. He stood up to greet them.

Although not tall, Setrel was imposing. The bony nobility of his face was emphasised by his black, grey-streaked hair and beard. He wore a plain black robe.

‘What’s this, what strangers have you found?’

The nemale warrior saluted. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I detained them up on the road, heading straight for the battle area. I guided them around the danger… more or less. This boy with them is injured and sick, so I thought I’d best bring them to you. Also, I assume you’d like to check their identities?’

‘Yes, thank you, Benra, you’ve done well. Bring them in. As for their horses…’ Setrel motioned the two children to the door and both rushed eagerly outside. ‘Atrel and Seytra will look after them. Now, will you go back up to the field of battle, Benra, and bring me a full report?’

The neman grinned, saluted, and strode out.

‘Now. . . bring the lad through here.’ Setrel led them through one of the inner doors into a circular bedroom. Ashurek placed Skord on the bed.

The boy lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, breathing very fast. His skin was waxen and felt cold and moist to the touch. Setrel took Skord’s chin in his fingers, turning the boy’s head from side to side while looking intently into his eyes.

‘I don’t know who you are, or what you’re doing wandering about in Excarith,’ said Setrel as he examined the boy. ‘I thought we’d warned everyone away.’ He struck Estarinel as a kindly and wise man who bore too many troubles.

‘We are three travellers on a personal errand,’ Ashurek began. ‘We were transported to this country by supernatural means from Belhadra, and we found ourselves in a rocky gorge with no idea of where we were. All we know of your war is what Benra told us, but I think I know your enemy.’

‘Supernatural means?’ said Setrel, pausing in his examination and looking hard at Ashurek. ‘A… gorge?’

‘I am only telling you this much because we need your help,’ said the Gorethrian.

‘It seems to me you haven’t told me anything at all,’ Setrel said shortly.

‘More than you realise. But I think there can be trust between us, because your terrible enemy is also mine: Gastada.’

At this Setrel looked with sober surprise round the faces of the three. ‘I wonder who you are,’ he said as if to himself. ‘What is the help you need?’

‘A safe place for the boy to stay, so we may continue our journey – aboard a ship if possible.’

‘The boy will be safe enough here – but I cannot discern what’s wrong with him. He seems to be in deep shock.’

Estarinel explained as best he could what had happened to Skord. ‘I think he’s killing himself through terror,’ the Forluinishman finished. ‘He’s lost the will to live.’

‘A wasting disease,’ Setrel agreed, looking down at the pallid, blank-eyed youth. ‘I will do what I can; first I’ll give him herbal mixtures to make him sleep. He needs rest, and then food. I hope you’ll stay with us for supper, so that we may talk.’

The village Elder’s two rosy-faced children had fed and settled the horses, and had gone to bed. Darkness was falling as his wife Ayla, a stout, cheerful woman with curly brown hair, made them a meal of meat stew with bread. Earlier, they had heard Setrel talking to her outside, as she returned from an errand.

‘We have guests – there is a Gorethrian inside.’ His wife’s response was a startled, ‘Oh!’ but he continued, ‘However, don’t fear them – I believe them to be friends. They may help us. And listen – they claim that they came up out of the gorge.’

To this Ayla had replied laughingly, ‘Oh, you and that wretched poem!’

Now, as they sat round the wooden table, Estarinel noticed that Medrian was eating very little. All evening she had been silent. She listened with head bowed as Setrel spoke to them.

‘I don’t believe you are spies, in case you were wondering, because our enemy is of a quite different nature. As you said, it is Gastada we are fighting. We’ve heard many stories over the years of the terrible things he has done in his own country, but only in the past year has he launched this attack against us.’

Setrel stroked his long, silky beard and gazed round at them, his eyes reflecting sparks of light from the fire. The room, in semi-darkness, was warm and homely, a complete and welcome contrast to the cold, metallic beauty of Arlenmia’s house.

‘Countries invade other countries,’ Setrel continued. ‘It is no rare thing. But Gastada, the Duke of Guldarktal, is no conventional enemy. His army is one of walking corpses, as you saw. They say he summons demons for his power… and in battle, any soldier of ours that dies immediately joins his dead army. Can you see what that means?’

‘That his army is invincible,’ said Ashurek.

‘Yes.’ Setrel shuddered. ‘And he is playing with us. He sent a message outlining his intention to invade Excarith. What cool arrogance! We haven’t much of an army, so the Long Table decided we should employ nemen mercenaries. They are good, but we haven’t yet won a battle. There’s been skirmish after skirmish, and each one, like today’s, has been ended only by the Dead Army withdrawing.’ His face was calm but his hands gripped the chair arms. ‘You understand that Gastada can finish us whenever he chooses.

‘We are an optimistic people – stoical, you might say. But we can see no way out of this horror. Gastada said he would send three black crows over as a sign when the final battle is nigh – so, we wait for the sign. We laugh and dance, and sharpen our weapons, and impoverish ourselves in hopes of being able to pay the nemen for one more week and one more week. We live our normal lives – and wait for our doom.’