Brian Ruckley - Bloodheir

“See who’s coming here,” Torcaill murmured, nodding up the road.

Three warriors were trotting along. They carried nothing save spears and shields. Orisian moved into the centre of the road.

“Have you come from Ive Bridge?” he shouted at them as they drew near.

The lead warrior slowed a fraction, glared at Orisian. And dismissed him. Orisian saw the decision in the man’s eyes. He shifted sideways to block his path, and stretched out an arm. Torcaill’s men, scattered along the roadside, were rising to their feet.

“What’s happening at Ive Bridge?” Orisian asked.

“Nothing any more,” the first of the warriors muttered. The three of them fell into a walk, but showed no inclination to stop. They made to pass Orisian by. He took hold of an arm and pulled at the man.

“Are there Lannis men there?”

The warrior jerked his arm free and glared at Orisian. His lips drew back in a nascent snarl, only to loosen as he saw Torcaill and his men crowding up. He was suddenly uneasy.

“Might be,” he grunted. “Their luck’s run out, though. Too few of them to hold the bridge.”

“You left them. Is that it? You’re Haig, aren’t you?”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps you don’t think Lannis men are good enough to die beside.”

The warrior snorted and brushed past Orisian.

“I don’t mean to die beside anyone today, or any day soon.”

Torcaill gently pulled Orisian aside.

“Sire…” he said.

Orisian stared after the three Haig men as they hurried on. They quickly overhauled the old woman, and disappeared around a dipping turn in the road. A pair of buzzards were spiralling up, Orisian saw, higher and higher into the sky like dancers to some silent tune.

“You know where we’re going,” he said to Torcaill, still watching the birds.

They were moving too slowly. Taim Narran knew that. All his men must know it, though no one spoke of it. They spoke of nothing, walking in steadfast silence behind the dishevelled flock of survivors from Ive Bridge. There were half a dozen wounded there, carried on makeshift litters; a little gang of lost children, who never strayed more than few paces from one another; the last few stubborn villagers who had left their homes only after long argument; a sick woman, swaying on the back of a sullen donkey. It was not much to salvage, but it was the best that Taim had been able to do.

Ive Bridge was gone. Anyone they had left behind — and there had been some, too sick or frightened or infirm to move — was in the hands of the Black Road now. Dead, or enslaved. Taim had left most of his warriors there, too: corpses in the streets of a village they had never heard of until the time came for them to die in it. He still did not know whether he could justify their deaths to their families, should he ever be asked. He did not know whether he could justify his own death, which he thought was likely to come before the end of this cold day.

Once already he and his handful of men had turned to stand against the pursuit. They chose a place where the road narrowed between two rocky spurs. The stretch leading up to the gap was steep, weaving its way between boulders. The Black Road warriors were panting and distracted by the time they finished the ascent, and had perhaps not known that there were still fighting men amongst those they hunted. Taim had led the rush down upon them. He rode the tide of reckless abandon that was in him, surrendered himself to it. He almost paid a heavy price. A sword got under his guard and slammed across his side. Had its wielder been more deft or skilled, it would have been a crippling wound, but the blade came at an acute angle. It cut him, possibly broke a rib, to judge by the stabbing pain that now accompanied each breath. His own countering cut was more sure and more telling. It opened his assailant’s shoulder joint and sent him slithering away down a scree of loose rock.

They had won a little time there. Only a little, though. The brief satisfaction of seeing the Black Roaders fleeing back down the trail was soon succeeded by resignation. There were forty or more warriors within sight, scattered all along the road’s sweeping curves. Some were mounted. One, distant, was standing up in his stirrups, hammering the shaft of a spear against his shield, howling defiance up at the figures on the heights. Taim had heard his own death in that shout.

One of the children was crying, and some of the others were beginning to sniff and murmur in sympathy. They were exhausted and bewildered. There would be no chance to rest, though, Taim knew. The Black Road might come more slowly, more cautiously, having been bloodied once, but they would come.

He found himself strangely calm as he trudged along. His one regret was that he had not seen Jaen or Maira. That would break his heart if he dwelled on it, or upon the thought that they were surely now trapped in Kolkyre with the cruel host of the Black Road all around. Everything else, he could bear. Even the failure of this effort to save these few strangers.

“Rider,” one of the men walking at his side said.

Taim turned and walked backwards for a few paces. The road was nearly level, cutting an almost straight path back through rock and spindly bushes. There was a solitary rider there, sharp against a blue sky. He was holding a sword up above his head.

“Doesn’t look like he’s in a good mood,” Taim muttered.

Others came up out of a dip in the road, coalescing around that first horseman, gathering about him, blocking out the blue firmament bit by bit. Taim spun around once more and looked ahead. There was little help on offer from the land. A little further on, the ground humped on either side of the road, a jumble of rocks. That would have to do.

“Tell the rest to hurry on,” Taim said quietly. “We’ll stand there. Do the best we can.”

He set his men amongst boulders on either side of the road: only fifteen or so. Too few, of course, especially now that the enemy had seen their paltry number and would be confident, hungry. Taim waited with his back to stone. The winter sun was on his face, almost warm. There had been a day like this once, very long ago, when he and Jaen were freshly betrothed and they had gone along the banks of the Glas looking for willow sprigs to make a basket. It was the wrong time of year — the withies would not be as soft and pliable as they ought to be for such work — but Jaen had wanted to go, so they had gone. That was what he remembered now, of all things. It made him smile, and made him sad.

He heard the hard crack of a crossbow bolt against rock.

“It’ll take them a long time if they mean to finish us off like that,” a warrior hunched down beside Taim said.

“The longer the better,” Taim murmured. “I doubt they’ve got the patience for that, though. Black Road’s never been famous for patience.”

He ventured a snatched glance over the top of the sheltering boulder and saw three or four riders advancing at a walk, many more coming on foot after them. Another quarrel hissed over his head.

“No patience at all,” he observed as he ducked back down.

Hoofs on the road, picking up their pace. Cries of bloody intent. Feet running. Taim shifted onto the balls of his feet, crouched down, waiting.

“The horses mustn’t get through,” he called out. “Take them, if nothing else.”

The sun was on his back now. He could feel it through his jerkin. It was almost possible to believe that it was not winter at all.

He surged up, sword already back, two-handed. He cut the lead rider out of his saddle. The jarring impact shivered through his arms and down through his ribcage and he cried out in pain. Another horse flashed past. He tried to cut at its hindquarters but missed. He was out in the road now, and as he steadied himself he saw a score of Black Roaders descending upon him.