The Dark Mirror (26 page)

Of course, it was possible what Gartnait had spotted was a deer or a wild pig. In these days leading up to war, men were all too ready to jump at shadows, to see antler as
raised staff or tusk as sharpened blade.

The whistle came again, a single note, brief and urgent. With it came a flash of movement down the hill among the bracken, and a color that was not part of the natural brown and gray and green of the woods: the pale image of a man’s face, here then gone as the fellow ducked down behind some natural cover, a bush, a fallen tree, a heap of stones. He’d been
quick. A moment later Bridei saw Gartnait whisk by on his left to vanish behind a thicker stand of pines.

They had talked about this often enough; had rehearsed it, or something like it, with the older, more experienced men, Donal in particular. Today there were only the two of them, and neither with any real combat experience to his name. Bridei moved to the right, taking the opposite flank
to Gartnait. Between them they would flush this interloper out. Of course, Bridei thought as he edged forward with bow in hand, moving silently on the forest’s needled floor, this fellow could very well be leading them into a trap. There could be a group lying in wait to ambush them. He must go with caution, keep an escape route open and make sure he did not announce his presence until he saw what
the enemy was up to. The aim was capture, not killing. Spies had information; they must take this one alive.

Bridei and Gartnait had settled, after several years of training together, into a recognition that each surpassed the other in certain disciplines. Gartnait would never quite have Bridei’s skill with the bow. Bridei could not match his long-legged friend at running, nor did he possess
Gartnait’s natural flair for all activities to do with water. Folk had been heard to jest, to Dreseida’s annoyance, that Talorgen’s eldest son had one of the Seal Tribe somewhere in his ancestry. Gartnait lacked Bridei’s affinity with animals, his ability to get the best from his riding horse, his gift for charming household cat or dog. And nobody at Raven’s Well could walk as silently through the
forest as Bridei did, a talent, Dreseida was heard to observe in the dry way she had, that could only be acquired through a druidic education. It was true. Broichan’s earliest lessons were lodged deep in his student’s memory:
Always travel through the forest as a part of it, Bridei, not as an intruder
.

His feet now made no sound, or at least none detectable by man. He went as a creature of the
forest goes, wary but sure, feeling each ridge, each hollow, each root and leaf and stone as if his feet were an extension of what
lay beneath them. His ears were tuned for the smallest sound, his eyes open for the least sign that might betray an alien presence, a sense of something that did not belong.

He knew where Gartnait was; the faint crunch of cautious boot on pine carpet, the whisper
of breath revealed his friend’s position. Besides, there was a pattern to what they were doing and each knew his part in it as they knew the old rhymes of childhood, almost instinctively, somewhere in the beating heart, the pulsing blood. Down the hill they crept on either side until they were close by the spot where the enemy had gone to ground. They could have done with a third man. Failing that,
it was clear they must wait, for Bridei could see now that their quarry was hiding in a hollow between rocks where a fallen tree, its splintered limbs still thickly needled, provided a natural barrier and concealment. To attempt an assault into such a neat and secure position would be foolish, perhaps suicidal. Even a single man holed up in such a spot could maintain an effective defense for some
time, and do some damage while he was about it. Two or more could last as long as their weaponry allowed. If they had a stock of arrows or throwing knives they might pick off both attackers. It had been a good choice of retreat. But not good enough; the enemy was, in effect, trapped in a space with only one point of exit, and if Bridei and Gartnait could maintain a vigil long enough, eventually
their adversary must show himself. Then they would take him. Them. Bridei hoped there were no more than two. Success in this venture was vital. This was not just the capture of a spy, a blow against the wretched Gaels. It was an opportunity, if they got it right, to be accepted as men among men; as warriors deserving of inclusion in Talorgen’s elite.

Gartnait was in view and signaled that he
was of the same mind. They settled, on the alert with weapons ready, one on each side and slightly above the hollow. From within there would be no view of them. Now the only sounds in the forest were the gurgling of a stream, the sigh of the breeze through the trees, the rustlings of creatures in the undergrowth.

Standing still and staying silent came easily to Bridei, accustomed as he was to
the disciplines of his upbringing. For Gartnait it was more difficult. As their vigil wore on and the man or men in hiding made neither move nor sound, Bridei could see his friend shifting the weight from one leg to the other, changing his grip on his knife, stifling a yawn. Nonetheless, both young men held their silence. The longer this took, the more likely it was that someone else would be on
the scene before any confrontation occurred.
If any of the men at arms came out, the whole pattern would change. There would be less likelihood of getting wounded or killed. On the other hand, they would lose the chance to do this alone and to prove themselves at last. Bridei’s own thoughts troubled him, for he knew they were not worthy of a seasoned warrior, for whom overall strategy must play
a greater part than personal ambitions.
Let them not come until we’ve finished the job
.

It was the enemy who broke the hush: there came a whispered word, indistinct but with a harsh edge to it that made Bridei catch his breath. The fellow spoke in the tongue of Dalriada; this was indeed their prime foe, and now it seemed he might be on the move.

Gartnait, knife poised, glanced across with raised
brows.
Go in? Now?
Bridei shook his head:
Not yet
. Then, with the hands, a series of signs he hoped Gartnait would understand. Fingers across throat, then showing a negative:
not kill
. Pointing to Gartnait, to himself, then indicating where they would jump on their quarry. Wrists together as if tied:
We’ll seize them, bind them
. There wasn’t time for more, but Gartnait, freckles standing out against
a sudden pallor, showed with a little nod that he understood.

This was going to be too close for the bow. It would be hand-to-hand combat with knives. Bridei’s mouth went dry; his breathing became harder to keep in control. What if the enemy was not easily overcome? They had to avoid an extended struggle, for they must minimize damage to this foe so he could give them what information he had:
with luck, Gabhran’s positions, his armaments, his forces, his plans. A spy was like treasure, and treasure must be handled with care, even by a very young man who has never fought against a real enemy. Bridei’s heart pumped; his blood surged. Every part of him was on edge. He used the techniques Broichan had taught him, slowing his breathing, calming his thoughts. When the moment came it must be
controlled in every respect or all they would carry back to Talorgen, to Donal, to the rest of this influential household, would be a tale of opportunity squandered. Who, then, would want them tagging along on a major expedition, more liability than asset?

A little cough came from within the hideout, a sound almost as subtle as their own signals; an instant later two men erupted from cover, on
their feet and bolting across the difficult terrain, so quick, too quick. Gartnait set off in pursuit. Bridei thrust knife in sheath, seized his bow, set arrow to string and loosed it in what seemed the space of a single breath. He had always excelled at this. His first shot caught one fellow in the shoulder, making him stagger before weaving away under the pines; his second took the other in the
thigh.
Then Bridei ran. Gartnait had downed one adversary and was grappling with him in the undergrowth. He was cursing as he sought to relieve the fellow of his weapons, and his opponent sounded to be returning the abuse in his own tongue. Bridei halted. His quarry, the man with a damaged shoulder, had disappeared as if by magic. He could not have outrun his pursuer, not with such a wound. Bridei
had aimed with precision; the fellow would be weakened and in pain. But he’d still be able to use a knife, and it only takes a moment to step out from cover and slit your enemy’s throat. Bridei held his breath, listening for a sound beyond the furious oaths of Gartnait’s captive and the hissing epithets of Gartnait himself, who was now evidently trying to bind the fellow’s arms. He shut those
things out, using one of Broichan’s tricks, tuning his ears to a single thread, a rasp of breath, a whistle of agony; he used his nose as a hunting creature would, to fix on the smell of fear. And there he was, the enemy, not far away under the bracken, crouched low, waiting. Waiting for Bridei to walk just a little closer . . . waiting to strike . . .

One step forward, decisive and bold. The
bow held ready, the arrow perfectly aligned. “Get up!” Bridei barked. “Both hands on your head! Step out where I can see you or I put this through your heart!”

Silence. Nothing moved.

“Make no doubt of my aim.” Bridei worked hard at an authoritative tone and thought he succeeded. “Want a taste of it?” And when there was no response, he loosed his shaft, praying that he had judged the shot correctly;
there was probably less than two handspans leeway in it, judging by the sound of that breathing.

He heard his arrow lodge in wood—
thwack
!—and felt a surge of relief that he had not miscalculated and killed the man. A moment later the enemy rose to his feet, one hand on his head, the other arm loose and useless by his side. Red seeped across the shoulder of his tunic and down his shirt. His face
was ash-white, his jaw set tight as if his teeth were clenched in pain. His eyes were coolly assessing.

“Move out here!” Bridei commanded, jerking his head, since there was little likelihood his captive understood the tongue of the Priteni. The Gael obeyed him, stepping to a point three paces from Bridei in the shadow of the pines. He stared straight into his captor’s eyes, then spat with calculated
precision into his face.

Bridei took a slow breath. He did not raise a hand to wipe the spittle from his cheek. “Turn around,” he ordered, miming the action.

The other raised his brows as if to indicate incomprehension. His expression had become bland and calm; indeed, the impression he gave now was that he thought the whole thing a little ridiculous. He was young, Bridei judged, perhaps not
so very much older than himself, although his eyes had an old look about them.

“Turn!” Bridei showed him again, gesturing with the knife and reaching for the rope he carried in his small pack.

The enemy turned his back. A moment later, as Bridei made to fasten his wrists together with the cord, the man’s foot came around to deliver a crippling blow to Bridei’s shin and his good arm hammered
back to catch his captor heavily in the ribs. Off balance and winded, Bridei did the only thing he could: lunged and grabbed the other by his injured arm, letting his own weight drag his opponent down until, after a painful, writhing tussle on the ground, he had him pinned on his back, his breath wheezing in his chest and Bridei’s knife held firmly against his neck.

“Try that again and I’ll break
the other arm for you,” Bridei gasped. “Gartnait!” Despite the disadvantage of his injury, the Gael was ready for another trick, and another; he would fight all the way. Bridei could see it in his eyes; they held not the slightest trace of fear.

“Tie his hands, will you?” he muttered as Gartnait loped up, his own opponent apparently trussed and compliant, for there was no shouting now.

Gartnait
busied himself with the rope. The captive twisted, straining to free himself from Bridei’s grip.

“Stop that, scum!” Gartnait delivered a sharp blow across the ear, and jerked the cord tight so that it bit viciously into the bound wrists. Bridei winced, imagining the surge of pain up the arm to the damaged shoulder. The man’s face showed not a twitch.

“Can the other fellow walk?” Bridei asked
his friend. “We’d best move quickly. There could be more of them out there.”

“I put a gag on,” Gartnait said. “Best do the same here.”

“You’ve already made enough noise to alert their reinforcements, if there are any,” Bridei observed drily. “Go on, pick up your man; I’ll handle this one. And thanks.”

Gartnait grinned. “Don’t mention it. No doubt you’ll get the chance to return the favor before
long.”

There was a smear of blood on Gartnait’s cheek and a look in his eyes that Bridei had never seen before. He could not quite place it, but it made
him suddenly cold. Without turning to look, he sensed the captive’s eyes on him. Bridei wound the end of the rope around one hand, leashing the fellow to him like a dog. He held the knife against the Gael’s back. “Move,” he directed, and they
set off toward Raven’s Well. Behind, Gartnait conveyed his own man more awkwardly, for the wound to the leg meant this one could not walk without support. Bridei slowed his pace, not to go too far ahead and seem to be claiming undue credit for himself. They’d done a good job; Talorgen must recognize that. Donal, too, would be impressed in his quiet way. Why, then, did Bridei feel uneasy still, his
nerves on edge, his mind teased by something not quite right? Did more of the enemy lie concealed in pockets of the land beneath the pines, ready to strike? Surely not; the ideal moment for such an ambush was already past. Would their captives make a sudden break for freedom and this time make a better job of it? Hardly; Gartnait’s prisoner was flagging, his features ghastly white, his leg buckling
under him; there would be no more running for this one awhile. Bridei’s captive had ceased his struggles, although the look on his face was not that of a defeated man. This fellow had not the red hair, the broad, fair-complexioned features that were most common to the men of Dalriada. Instead, the young warrior was long of face, dark of hair, a man of wiry, muscular build. He could almost have
been one of their own save that his skin bore no evidence of the tattooist’s needles and colors. Every seasoned fighter of the Priteni wore his battle marks with pride, alongside his signs of origin, the creatures and symbols that told his kinship. After the spring campaign both Bridei and Gartnait should have earned the first of the combat decorations for themselves. This man’s skin bore no such
patterns and that, as much as anything, marked him out as alien in this place.