The Dark Horse (13 page)

16

It was as if the years had fallen away, for Mouse became silent again, just as she had been when the Storn found her.

Whether it was from shock or fear, no one could tell, but she kept herself to herself and would speak to no one. Not even Sigurd.

She made use of all her old haunts—the grain store and the hills—and she began to sleep in the hounds’ kennel house again. This time no one tried to stop her.

Evening.

There was yet another meeting in the great broch, and the Storn were, at last, roused to some passion. Everyone was there except Mouse.

Sigurd had a hard job to make himself heard, let alone obeyed. He could not understand what had changed them, at first. Something had changed, and soon Sigurd understood what had moved them.

Fear.

“People!” he cried above the tumult of voices raised in the hall. But he was not heeded.

“This will achieve nothing!” he cried again and again, but he could not be heard above the shouts and arguments that seemed to blame him for everything.

He looked desperately at his mother for inspiration, but Freya shook her head. She looked as scared as everyone else.

Sigurd gave up. He rose from his seat by the fire and started to walk to the door.

Amazingly, as he went, the room fell quiet, so that by the time he was at the threshold, there was absolute silence. He hadn’t intended this, but it had worked.

Sigurd shook his head.

“Lawspeaker?” said Hemm, the dog handler.

All faces turned to Sigurd. Steadily he looked around the broch. He met every gaze, and as he did so each head dropped in shame. He walked slowly back into the center of the broch. He reached the fire. After a long time he finally spoke.

“So, this is the great tribe of the Storn. Reduced to an arguing rabble, with no respect for themselves or the law. . . . And what is to be done? Longshank, what would you do? Hemm, what about you?”

He looked from face to face, but there was no reply.

“We are scared, Sigurd,” said Thorbjorn.

Sigurd nodded.

“I know,” he said. He didn’t add: And so am I.

“And is it true?” asked Hemm. “About the Dark Horse?”

Sigurd nodded again.

“I have made a mistake. I thought we needed to think about food first. I was wrong. We need to think about food and defending ourselves in equal measure. From tomorrow morning we will start to build a defensive ditch and wall around the village. But we will continue our work in the fields, and the fishing will continue as normal.”

Now murmurs started again in the hall.

“How are we to do all this?” called a voice.

Sigurd peered into the gloom at the back of the hall.

“With hard work,” he said. “With hard work and a determination to prevail. . . . And those of you who are not ready to try had better leave now. Follow Sif, wherever she has gone, and try your chances there. But the rest of us will stay here and make it work.”

Sigurd stopped and waited, but there were no more complaints.

“Very well,” he said. “Weapons. I want each man with a sword to raise his arm now.”

About a quarter of the people present raised their arm.

Sigurd tried to quell the fear that rose in his throat.

“Anyone with a spear or other weapon, raise your hand.”

A few more people put their hand in the air.

“Very well. Thorbjorn will be busy in the forge from tomorrow also.”

“But we have little iron, Sigurd,” said Thorbjorn.

“Do what you can,” said Sigurd. “And get what help you need.”

“I have not been idle,” said Thorbjorn a little defensively. “Wait!”

He left the hall but returned a minute later with a long bundle of cloth.

He approached Sigurd.

“As you know, Cold Lightning could not be mended. But the Lawspeaker must not be without a sword.”

Thorbjorn unwrapped the cloth. Out of it he pulled a gleaming, bright weapon. A fire-new sword. It was a good piece of work—Sigurd could tell that immediately.

“Forged from the broken pieces of Cold Lightning—the new Lawspeaker’s sword!”

Thorbjorn held it high for everyone to see. It glimmered and glowed in the firelight, and a hush descended once more.

Sigurd took the piece in his hands.

“It shall be called Fire-fresh!” he cried.

And hope was not yet dead.

17

I went to see Mouse, to show her Fire-fresh, to see if that would shake her from her mute stillness.

I found her, for once, in her own home, the broch that she and I had shared with Father and Mother for many years.

She stared into the fire, and though I tried again to rouse her, she would not even look at me, let alone speak.

But it was all for nothing, for it was then that the world was ripped apart.

There were shouts outside. I ran to see what was happening.

Egil Hemmson, a boy just a few years younger than me, stood on the roof of the great broch. How he got there I do not know, but I will remember to my last day how he stood still and pointed.

He pointed to the hill horizon, up behind the village.

“Look!” he cried. “Look!”

People followed his gaze.

“What is it, boy?” shouted his father.

“Horsemen! Horsemen!”

We all looked, but there was nothing.

“Idiot boy! Get down!”

But then I saw, too.

“No,” I said. “No. He’s right. . . .”

For a long time we stared at the hill, and as the clouds came and went we saw the figures more clearly. A string of men on horseback strung out across the horizon.

All was calm; there was an unnatural quiet. We did nothing.

And then there was a scream.

“Horsemen! On the beach!”

“Quick!”

“To your arms!” I cried.

And it was true. All my talk of preparing ourselves. It was all for nothing because the Dark Horse had already come.

I don’t know who spotted the second set of horsemen riding at us along the beach, but before we had time even to panic, we could hear the thundering of their horses’ hooves as they attacked at full speed along the shoreline.

Even in the split second before they struck, there was time to think a thousand thoughts. But on top of all the simple things—like fear and wondering if there was any hope and trying to plan some kind of defense—one thing struck me. A thought that filled me with a sudden and profound horror.

The Dark Horse were so confident of victory that they could leave half their number up on the hillside to watch. We would be slaughtered.

“To your arms!” I cried again.

Now there was total panic. I was torn. I wanted to find Mouse and Mother, but I was Lawspeaker now. I held Fire-fresh tightly in my fist and ran to gather our men to the front of the attack.

18

The Dark Horse spread fear before them—the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats drummed louder and louder each second, until even the noise of the sea was silenced.

Sigurd gathered a dozen men around him at the edge of the village.

“Use the buildings!” he called. “Cover your backs!”

He had realized that out in the open they would be cut down as easily as the wheat at Harvest-month.

The crazy pattern of tiny brochs offered some protection from the horsemen. It was a small plan of sorts, but just a moment before the Dark Horse struck, there were more shouts from the village.

“They’re coming from the other side!”

In the confusion that followed, the first wave of riders was upon them.

Instantly Sigurd could see that the situation was hopeless. They were a tribe of farmers and fishers, and not very good ones at that. They were being attacked by an army, a ruthless, specialized tribe of killers who had done this a hundred times before.

In the first few seconds many Storn men died of horse-borne spear thrusts. The black horses tore through the village, weaving their way expertly between the brochs.

A great screaming arose, and Sigurd saw that there was no hope. He watched with horror as Longshank fell easily under the blade of an ax.

The Dark Horse seemed to cut down two of the Storn with each swing of the sword. Sigurd hesitated a moment longer, but there was no doubt.

“All is lost!” he cried. “Run! Run for your lives!”

He ran wildly through the village, calling to everyone to flee. He found Freya, running toward him.

“Mother! Where’s Mouse? We must get away!”

“She’s in the broch. She won’t come out!”

“I’ll get her! You go! Take Skinfax and go!”

“Where are we going?”

“To the hills, tell everyone you can to run to the hills!”

And he went, leaving his mother to do the best she could.

Sigurd ran past the great broch to his old home.

He burst in and found Mouse.

She looked up at him as he came in.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Mouse! We must go! The Dark Horse . . . we must run!”

She shook her head. “No, Sigurd, I must stay.”

“What! Why?”

She shrugged. “I must stay.”

“No!” shouted Sigurd.

Mouse jumped at the ferocity of his voice.

“Come on! Now!”

She hesitated.

From outside, the noise of screams and shouts rose higher.

“Where will we go?” she asked.

“To the hills. Please, come on! Please, sister!”

Mouse looked at him suddenly. Sister . . .

“The hills?” she asked, half smiling.

“Let’s go,” Sigurd said, and took her hand.

They ran out and immediately were nearly killed. A horseman rode straight at them as soon as they appeared from the broch. But it was getting dark now, and the horseman missed his first deadly swing. Sigurd saw to it that it was his last, for he buried Fire-fresh in the man’s ribs under his outstretched arm.

The Dark Horseman fell to the ground, instantly still. The horse reared above them.

“Come on!” yelled Sigurd, pulling Mouse away.

“No!” said Mouse. “Wait . . .”

She put a hand to the horse’s side, and Sigurd watched amazed as it quickly calmed down, despite the noise all around. In a few more moments it stood peacefully, pushing its head into Mouse’s hair.

“This way,” she said, and without question Sigurd pushed her small body up onto the horse’s shoulders, then swung himself into the saddle behind her.

And, to Sigurd’s great shame, they ran away.

All around them the Storn ran crazily for cover. The dead lay thick between the brochs. As they fled Sigurd recognized Herda, a spear in his chest.

The invasion was almost over. Mouse and Sigurd rode on the invaders’ horse out of the village. It was a powerful beast, and they hurtled away from the danger.

They could see the remains of their tribe running into the fields and, already beyond, reaching the foothills.

Here and there they could see someone being pursued by a Dark Horseman, and watched helplessly as he or she was put to the sword or spear.

“It’s the end,” wept Sigurd from the saddle. “This is the end.”

Night fell as they escaped into the hills above what used to be their home.

19

We rode through the night. After a while I stopped trying to guide the horse and just let it pick its way through the lower slopes into the hills behind.

I had no idea where we were going, nor did I much care. If we had ridden into the Dark Horse camp, I think I would just have accepted it then. My attempt at being Lawspeaker was ill starred, and I could see no hope.

I thought Mouse was asleep, so I rested my head on her shoulder and closed my eyes.

I concentrated on the jogging of the horse and tried to block out the pain in my mind.