Ian Esslemont - Assail

One glanced to the other and jogged off southward, obviously to keep watch. The remaining brother approached. His gloved hand still rested on the grip of his longsword. Orman knew these two fought back to back, sometimes two-handed, sometimes one-handed with a dirk or a shield in the off hand. The brother looked Boarstooth up and down then nodded as if to say: impressive .

‘Old Bear?’ Orman asked.

The brother shook a negative.

‘When?’

‘Soon,’ the brother allowed, his voice almost womanishly soft.

‘Could use a fire.’

The brother nodded, then headed off north. He crossed the ice-edged stream stepping from rock to rock. Turning, he gestured for Orman to follow.

The brother — which one, damn the man! — led him up the wooded ridge slope. ‘Keth?’ he called, trying a throw. The young man paused, straightening. He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth drawn tight with suppressed humour, then turned away without offering any clue.

Ha! Very funny. Have your little joke. I’ll find out eventually.

They came to a cave comprising of leaning slabs of stone. The unmistakable musk of bear assaulted Orman, but for now the cave appeared unoccupied. The stamped-out remains of a fire lay before it. Here, the brother sat on a log and tucked his hands up into his armpits for warmth. Orman studied the fire pit. It was sunk and shielded by rocks so that its glow was hidden from below. He then glanced up at the dense branches of the spruce and fir woods. They should disperse the smoke quite well. He leaned Boarstooth up against a rock and set off to gather firewood.

When the sun reached overhead the other Reddin brother appeared. He tossed the body of a freshly killed rabbit to his brother, who pulled out his fighting dirk and set to skinning. Orman spent his time trying to decide which was which. It really didn’t matter, of course — but in a fight it certainly would. The dressed rabbit went on to a stick over the fire.

While the rabbit cooked the brothers sat quietly peering down at the clearing below. Their furs differed, Orman saw: one wore sheepskin wrapped around his tall moccasins while the other wore layered leather swathings over cloth wraps.

‘Is Gerrun joining us?’ he ventured.

The brothers exchanged a wordless glance. Then one gave a small shrug and a purse of the lips that said perhaps .

He gave up trying to get a response from them then. After a meal of the rabbit, goat’s cheese cut from a hard lump, and hardbread, the second brother headed off to keep watch. Orman put his back to a trunk, stretched out his legs, and allowed himself a nap.

He woke to a tap against his side. He opened his eyes a slit to see one of the brothers standing over him, bow in hand. This one inclined his head down-slope and Orman instinctively understood his message: company .

It was late in the day. He rose and adjusted his leathers, returned his sword to his side, then picked up Boarstooth. The brother had jogged off, disappearing into the woods. A troop of men was filing on to the clearing. A hunting party — and he the quarry. It seemed he had underestimated his uncle’s greed and temper. He slowly descended the ridge.

Presently one of the largest men of the party, one he recognized, raised his bearded face to the ridge, set his hands to his mouth, and bellowed: ‘Orman Bregin’s son!’ It was Jal, his uncle. ‘We know you are there! We tracked you! Come down, lad, and hand over that which you stole!’

Among the men, Orman now recognized two of his cousins. Of the rest, eight in all, seven were of his uncle’s hearthguards. And to his surprise the last of the hunters was the short, richly dressed figure of Gerrun Shortshanks himself. The party spread out, hands going to their sheathed swords.

Orman descended the slope to step out from behind the trunk of a large pine. He called: ‘I took only that which is mine by birthright!’

His uncle spotted him and waved him in closer. ‘Come, lad. Don’t be a fool! This has gone on long enough. Return it and I will let you journey south — no ill feelings. Why, I even offer a small purse to see you on to Mantle town.’

‘I do not want your silver, uncle. Just that which is mine by right.’

His uncle spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘And what will you do there in the wilderness? Wander willy-nilly to no good purpose like your father? Come now, grow up.’

Orman slammed the butt of Boarstooth to the frozen ground. ‘Bregin was sworn to Eusta! And I am my father’s son.’

Jal shook his head. All the while, his hearthguards advanced on the woods, spreading out. A few now crossed the rushing stream, stepping from rock to rock. Their armour rustled and jangled in the cold air. ‘Eusta is long gone, lad,’ his uncle called. ‘Your father should have bent his knee to Longarm. If he had, you could have risen in his service. But as it is …’ and he shook his head as if at the waste of it.

A new voice bellowed then, as deep as a rumbling of rocks falling. ‘Who would enter the Blood Holdings?’ The challenge echoed from ridge to ridge and a crowd of rooks took flight from a slim ash bordering the clearing. They cawed and squawked as if answering the voice and swirled overhead in a dark cloud.

The hearthguards hunched, peering warily about. Weapons slid from sheaths.

Orman scanned the woods. As if by magery a hugely tall and broad figure emerged from the trees close by the stream. A shaggy bear’s hide was bunched wide at the shoulders and hung in ragged lengths to brush the snowy ground. The great beast’s head rode the man’s like a hood, its upper jaw intact, yellowed teeth curving downward. Within that grisly headdress glared the grey-bearded, lined and one-eyed face of Old Bear.

Jal stared in amazement and wonder — he even retreated a number of steps to strike his back against the trunk of a spruce. Then he nodded to himself and fury darkened his face. ‘So. It is as everyone thought.’ He called to Orman: ‘Your father struck a pact with the Bloods. A traitor! He served them!’

Stung, Orman came sliding sideways down the rocky treed slope. He hopped fallen trunks and melt-slick rocks, holding Boarstooth high. ‘Say what you will of me,’ he shouted, ‘but do not insult my father’s name! You who cowered in the warmth of your hearthfire while he kept watch!’

‘Conspired with the mountain demons, you mean,’ Jal rumbled darkly. And he waved his contempt, his fingers thick with gold rings.

‘Enough!’ Orman yelled, furious, and he threw Boarstooth. The moment the weapon left his hand he felt a stab of regret. He did not know what he’d intended — to frighten the old man, to wound him — but the instant he loosed he knew the ancient heirloom would fly true.

Jal watched, perhaps in disbelief, as the spear flew high across the stream, then arced downward, tracing a path straight to him. It slammed home, pinning him to the tree where he remained standing, his mouth open, eyes staring wide at the haft where it emerged from his girth.

The hearthguards watched the flight and impact in stunned silence. Then they charged.

Arrows took the nearest two, one in the side, another through the head, giving Orman time to draw his sword. He parried the third — this one cousin Belard — then pommel-smashed him in the face, knocking him flying backwards in a spray of blood.

Old Bear was down from the woods in great bounds, roaring with battle-joy. He knocked aside the swing of a hearthguard with his tall spear then slashed him across the neck. The man fell gurgling and clutching at his throat. Orman’s other cousin, Tomen, backpedalled wildly, splashing through the stream then turning to run.

Two more hearthguards closed on Orman. A thrown hatchet from Gerrun took one, but the other dodged and ducked as he came. An arrow meant for him shattered on a rock. Orman met him, parrying and closing to grapple. Moments later the man jerked as a bloody arrowhead punched through the leathers of his chest, almost reaching Orman. The lad let him fall to the mud and snow, where he curled around the point like a pinned bird.