Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (4 page)

Having outfitted themselves, the party moved quietly in amongst the rough-barked boles. They were wearing close-fitting garments dyed with greens and browns, to blend in with their surroundings. Soft-soled boots shod their feet, and they sought to avoid stepping on twigs or dry leaves, looking for mats of fallen spruce-needles, or short turf on which to walk. A steady breeze rustled the fragrant foliage, creating a continuous whisper of silvery sound against which the hunters’ slight noise of passage might pass unmarked. Branches dipped and swished as a couple of squirrels scampered by.

As they neared the high clearings where wild deer grazed, the huntsmen continually monitored the direction of the air currents, that they might approach the animals from downwind. “The evening breeze generally blows downhill,” Conall Gearnach murmured to Prince Ronin of Slievmordhu, who clambered close behind him. “We are still climbing. All is well, so far.”

Ronin—second in line to the throne of Slievmordhu—was of middle height, and, like his father, had a somewhat square face. His nose was wide, with flared nostrils, and jutted above a downy upper lip. “I wish I were not
downwind of Gunnlaug,” he commented with a wry grimace. “He stinks of stale sweat and beer.”

Gearnach chuckled quietly. As they climbed the spur, with the wind in their faces and the sun peering over their left shoulders, the knight hitched his baldric to a more secure position on his shoulder. He put on an extra burst of speed and pulled ahead of the group. Instinct warned him it would be wise to scout in advance.

His intuition proved well-founded. From the corner of his eye he spotted movements that seemed out of place, above them on the slope and to the left. Instantly he extended his hand in a prearranged signal. The gamekeepers and other attendants, always alert to Gearnach’s commands, took heed and relayed the message through the party:
Possible danger ahead. Take cover.

The huntsmen made themselves inconspicuous behind boles and fallen branches, and crouched, watching. If Gearnach had signalled “peril,” it was likely that unseelie wights lurked nearby.

From the northwest, a line of stooping figures came loping swiftly and quietly through the woodland. They were moving across the spur, keeping to the south side, just below the crest of the ridge and parallel to it. It was an old huntsman’s trick, staying out of sight beneath a ridgetop to avoid being outlined against the horizon. Gearnach counted twenty of them.

Yet, these were not wights.

They were men: gigantic men, slow and strong as oxen; uglier than diseased toadstools. It was also said they were as stupid as cabbages, but never to their faces, for they were utterly without compassion. The recognition startled the watchers. It was not often that Marauders were spied at such great distances from the eastern ranges of Slievmordhu. The Grïmnørslanders amongst the party knew also that on the other side of the spur the land dropped quickly into a valley, where the village of Ødegaard nestled in a bend of the river, and it was toward that isolated hamlet that the Marauders were making. There was no doubt they intended to despoil the village; it was ever their way.

“My heart yearns to pin those freaks with my sword,” muttered Gunnlaug. “This will prove a better day’s sport than I had hoped.”

Gearnach, who had crawled speedily back to join the hunting party, whispered, “My lord Gunnlaug, you and the other princes must not endanger your lives by challenging these creatures. As your fathers’ heirs you bear that responsibility to your people.”

“Nay, Two-Swords,” Halvdan said quickly. “It is there you are mistaken. Leaders who are not prepared to defend their subjects are unfit to rule them.”

“Aye,” brothers Kieran and Ronin said together.

“Indeed Halvdan is right,” Walter of Narngalis agreed.

For the blink of an eye Gearnach held still, while a thousand concerns whirled through his mind. He was aware that if they were to strike the Marauders they must strike soon, or they would lose the advantage. The five sons of kings under his care were fearless; he had guessed they would refuse to be left out of any action, and as their vassal he was in no position to gainsay them. Making one last attempt to do what he considered to be his duty, he said, “We must let them pass, but send messengers to the village to raise the alarm.”

The princes would not hear of it.

“Quit your dawdling, man!” said Gunnlaug, seething. “Let’s skewer them.”

If the knight was nettled at the prince’s insulting tone, he was too disciplined to show it. Besides, his thoughts were occupied with matters at hand. All members of the hunting party were trained fighters. It was part of a princely education to study the martial skills, and the gamekeepers and equerries who accompanied the princes on hunting trips had also been tutored in combat, for they additionally performed the role of bodyguards.

Conall Gearnach rapidly calculated the odds. The hunting party numbered only a dozen, but he reckoned he could personally take on two foes at a time. Furthermore, if the Marauders were allowed to reach the spur’s furthest out-post and begin descending into the valley of the Fiskflød he and his companions would gain an extra advantage; not only would they take the brigands by surprise, they would be attacking from higher ground. There would be an opportunity for some archery before they engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

The knight made his decision.

“Follow me,” he said. “Keep low and be silent. When I give the signal, move quickly to the attack. Loose your arrows. Keep shooting until they either scatter and flee, or rush us. If they advance, draw your blades for close work.”

The huntsmen crept up the slope in the wake of the Marauders. Soon the brigands reached the eastern end of the spur, where it began to fall away into the dale. They commenced their descent. At their backs, the huntsmen quietly congregated along the very spine of the ridge, looking down upon their foes. Trees were sparser on this northern incline. Spruce gave way to ivy-carpeted birch-woods, their delicate boughs in early bud. In the wooded valley at the foot of the spur, mist was rising from the broad and winding river. Through the trees on the far shore, the slate roof of a tiny cluster of houses could be glimpsed. Tendrils of smoke trailed from their chimneys. Sunlight snagged like filaments of glitter on the topmost crags of the mountains that rose behind
the village. The huntsmen drew arrows from quivers, nocked them to the bowstrings, and stealthily moved forward. Calculating his moment, Gearnach sketched a quick downward stroke through the air, and the skirmish ensued.

Prince Gunnlaug’s arrow was first to spring from the bow; he had not waited for Gearnach’s downstroke but had let fly as soon as the knight raised his hand. The shafts of his companions were not far behind, and three huge Marauders lay writhing, mortally wounded by the time the remainder realized they were under attack. During the ensuing moments another four suffered injury and fell screaming to the ground. Some of the brigands dashed for cover while others ran up the incline towards their assailants, who continued to loose their arrows. The Marauders were drawing knives from their scabbards as they charged.

“These two are mine!” Roaring at the top of his voice Gearnach sprang forward to meet the leaders, both his swords at the ready. Faced with the unexpected sight of the twin blades whirling and flashing like the spokes of interlocking wheels of light, the Marauders momentarily balked. In their instant of hesitation Gearnach was upon them. As he fought, more Marauders bounded up the hill to join the fray, one by one, like nightmarish giants. Their group was scattered, with some sheltering from the barrage behind trees, while those who had been furthest down the hill were still scrambling back up to join their fellows. This meant that those who arrived first were outnumbered. The huntsmen cut them down; then, leaving Gearnach to dispatch his opponents, they plunged down the slope to engage the balance of their enemies. Having ascertained that he himself would be in no great danger, Prince Gunnlaug leaped down at the heels of his companions, yelling and brandishing his sword. On reaching the wounded swarmsmen he hacked them to death where they lay.

Conall Gearnach, wiping the blood of his defeated opponents from his eyes, raced down the hill to join his charges. As he ran he tried to scan the scene. Trees blocked his view, but he calculated that twelve of their foes lay dead. Suddenly he flung himself to one side, somersaulted and nimbly rolled back onto his feet. Two Marauders had jumped out at him from behind the trunk of a forest giant. Having barely evaded their first assault Gearnach set to, defending himself, his swords arcing and slicing, no longer bright but dark with gore. Yet he remained partly blinded by blood and sweat, while his assailants, who had been in hiding, were clear-sighted and vigorous. The knight found himself hard-pressed. Only capable of peering from one bleary eye, he was forced to give ground. Focusing all his attention on the struggle, he could
not spare the breath to shout for help, but he was aware that unless he received aid, he would soon be cut down. Having parried the swarmsmen’s blades, he simultaneously locked swords with them both. With his single sighted eye he saw a knife being driven towards his heart. In that flash it was clear that by the time he had unlocked his own weapons it would be too late to deflect the blow. Driven by desperation, the knight dropped one of his swords, intending to make a last-ditch attempt to ward off the lethal stroke with his bare arm; but there was no time. Gearnach knew he was about to die.

As he steeled himself to be riven by the final wound another blade entered his field of vision. Halvdan was there, thwacking the knife aside with the flat of his sword and sending it spinning. Gearnach swept his remaining weapon in an upward arc, slitting open the belly of his nearest oppressor. Having finished off one opponent he turned to the other, but the fellow, perceiving that reinforcements had turned the tide, had already taken to his heels.

“Thirteen down!” bellowed Gearnach. “Seven to go!”

He passed his sleeve across his eyes to wipe them clear, and when he looked again Halvdan was gone; but there was plenty of action further down the slope in the twilight, so he took himself amongst it.

Soon the fight was over. By the time the last brigand had been slain or driven off, young Ronin of Slievmordhu, white-faced, was seated on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Around him the slender birch-trunks glimmered palely in the gloaming. Evening moths flittered on the edges of vision, like half-forgotten thoughts. Gunnlaug stood with feet braced apart, shooting arrows at any movement amongst the trees, no matter that it was only the wind, while the equerries, bearers and other attendants collected fallen arrow-shafts and counted the corpses of sixteen Marauders.

“No stomach for blood, eh?” Gunnlaug said to Ronin, guffawing.

“Four have got away,” growled Gearnach, wiping his sword-blades on the grass. “But they’ll not forget this encounter.”

“They shall think twice before they venture onto Grïmnørsland soil again!” yelled Gunnlaug, wasting more arrows.

“What are our casualties?” Conall Gearnach asked one of the gamekeepers.

“Five wounded, one slain, sir. Prince Halvdan’s page lies dead. Their royal highnesses are unhurt.”

“Tend to the wounded.” The knight slid his weapons into their scabbards, one to each side of his body.

“This is a great pity,” said Walter of Narngalis. “Garth Carter was a fine lad. His mother will grieve.” The prince’s voice sounded hoarse; he
was indeed deeply moved by the death of the youth. Swiftly he crouched beside one of the injured men, who had been groaning in pain, and began to give him water from a flask.

Kieran of Slievmordhu was leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. “Where is Halvdan?” he asked.

The huntsmen looked about. King Thorgild’s second son was nowhere in sight. It came to Gearnach like a stone hitting him in the heart: he had not set eyes on the flaxen-haired prince since the incident in which Halvdan had saved his life.

“I saw him over there, near that fallen tree swathed in moss,” Walter said, but there was doubt in his voice. Raising his finger, he pointed.

Almost before the words had left the prince’s lips Gearnach had hastened over to the spot, and was kneeling on the greensward. “There are tracks,” he said urgently. “Many marks of boots in the soft ground, and long grooves, as if something has been dragged along.” Next instant he was off again, leaping over fallen boughs and tussocks, heading in the direction indicated by the grooves. Before his companions fully understood his purpose he had disappeared into the birch-wood.

“He’ll need support. I shall go after him,” said Kieran, picking up his sword.

“I too,” said Walter. He jumped to his feet.

Kieran’s equerry made protest to his lord. “Nay, Your Highness, begging your pardon,” he said, “ ‘Twould be folly. We no longer have the advantage of surprise. In those woods ambushers might pick off any man with ease. Your father would not forgive me, were you to be harmed. I am somewhat skilled in healing, which may be of use. I beseech you, let me go in your stead.”

The gamekeepers volunteered to join him, but Kieran, his eyes alight, would not be swayed. “I will aid Halvdan!” he cried, quickly tucking a full water-flask into his belt-pouch.

Moving closer to his lord, the equerry murmured rapidly, and in low tones, so that none might overhear, “Sir, I pray, look about you. Your brother’s face is milk-white, and I fear he feels somewhat faint. Prince Gunnlaug wishes only to find more heads to break. Prince Walter is concerned for our wounded, and I ween he would thank you, were you to take charge for now, in place of Prince Halvdan. Gearnach and the gamekeepers are woodcraf ty. If they cannot discover the son of Thorgild, then no man can.”

Reluctantly, Kieran acquiesced. Gunnlaug, who had flung himself down on a carpet of ground-ivy to rest, said, “Two-Swords knows what he is at. I daresay he will rescue my brother and soon return with him. But if you fellows are
so keen on this mission, then hie hence.” Not to be outdone, to his own equerry he said, “You, Riordan, accompany them.”