Адриан Голдсуорти: The Encircling Sea

Ferox took some of his dry kindling from a bag, gathered as many sticks as he could find and lit a small fire on the high bank above the ford. The burn provided water, and he used a flat stone and the pommel of his dagger to grind up some army biscuits, tipping the crumbs into a bronze pan, before adding slices of onion and the last of his salted bacon. He laid it down beside the fire and decided to wash and shave before he cooked.

The mist was thinning, burning away in the early morning sun, so that the shepherd and his boy saw him before they were close. He was a big man, dark of hair and grim of face, wearing just trousers and boots, his broad chest bare as he crouched beside the stream, scraping at his chin and upper lip with a razor.

The shepherd was old, his hair and beard long, white and filthy, suggesting that neither water nor razors had figured much in his experience. Yet it was the size of the lone man, the scars on his chest and the scabbarded sword lying within reach that made him wary. Together with the horses and the mail shirt draped over a pile of bags, they made it clear that this stranger was a warrior.

Ferox waved a hand and went back to his task without paying them any more attention. After a while, the shepherd whistled and came forward, a shaggy dog beside him, while the boy chivvied the half-dozen sheep they had with them. The warrior nicked himself and cursed, making the dog growl and keep growling, even when the tall man shrugged and rubbed his face with a rag.

‘Good morning, father,’ he said, touching a hand to his brow. That was the custom in these parts, but his accent was strange.

‘Roman?’ the shepherd said after a while. He knew little of the iron race from the south, for they had never come in great numbers to these high glens.

‘Aye,’ the tall man said. He was standing now, and made no move to pick up his sword. ‘My name is Ferox and I mean you no harm. I’ve a broth boiling, if you and the lad have a mind to join me.’

The old man looked uncertain, at least as far as it was possible to tell behind the wild hair and dirt. No doubt he feared to give offence while wanting to get away from the warrior as fast as he could. The dog growled again, and the shepherd prodded the animal with his foot to silence it.

‘Thank you, lord, but we are in haste.’ He stared for a moment. ‘Will you give us the way?’ His voice was nervous.

Ferox made a sweeping gesture. ‘These are your lands, father, not mine.’ He stepped back away from the sword to show that he meant them no harm. Even so the old man was nervous as he hurried through the ford, the dog barking to urge the sheep through the rushing water. Two were heavily pregnant ewes, and another a lamb from the first to arrive a few weeks ago. The boy was more curious than frightened, staring at the stranger with wide eyes. Only the grey horses unnerved him.

‘Kelpies,’ he squealed as one of the mares trotted over. The shepherd cuffed the boy and forced him on. A strange warrior and a Roman was more to be feared than the spirits from the lakes said to take the form of pale horses.

Ferox smiled. Since the snow had cleared few people had left tracks near the ford, and most of them were shepherds like these. There was no sign of any horse passing this way, for this was poor country. No one lived closer than ten miles, and even then only a few huts and farms were dotted around. There were not many people until you got lower, heading towards the coast.

Ferox bent down and splashed more of the icy water onto his face. There was a pouch left beside his sword and he fetched it, reaching inside. He pulled out a caltrop, four iron spikes welded together so that whichever way it fell one of the sharp, two-inch points stood straight up. Stepping into the stream, he dropped this and a dozen more in a couple of rows running across the ford. They vanished, lost in the bubbling water, and he had to hope that they would do their job and not simply be pushed deep into the mud. The last one went in, and once again he reached down and cupped a handful of water to splash across his face. Feeling refreshed, he picked up his sword, walked back to the fire and dressed in his tunic, padded jerkin and shirt of mail. They would not get here for a couple of hours at least, so he sat down cross-legged by the fire and started to cook.

The sun rose and the last of the mist cleared. An eagle circled high overheard, a tiny shape even though Ferox knew that it was a big bird searching the hillsides for newborn lambs. This was a good time for predators and he hoped that good fortune would stretch to cover him. He wondered whether the hunting bird with its sharp eyes could see his prey coming. That is if they were coming, for he might be wrong, even though he was sure that he was not. There were only two ways they could go, and this was the harder route, but it led more quickly to the lands of the Creones and he no longer doubted that that was their destination. Vindex was not convinced, so he and the two other Brigantian scouts had headed north, trusting to the better going to catch up with their quarry. In the meantime, Ferox had taken the high pass so that he could get ahead of them, if they went the other way. There were five or six men – the tracks left by one of the horses were odd and left him unsure whether the rider was a warrior or captive – so that the odds were not good if he was right.

‘Take one of the lads with you,’ Vindex had said. ‘Give you more of a chance if you do meet them.’

‘No.’ Ferox had not needed to look at them to be sure. One of the scouts was too young, too unpredictable, the other reliable enough, but not a killer. ‘Keep them with you. You’ll need them both if I’m wrong.’

The Brigantian had stared at him for a while, the evening shadows making his long face more skull-like than usual. ‘Trying to be the hero again,’ he said at last. ‘They always die at the end of their story.’

‘Don’t we all.’

Vindex sighed. ‘Aye, we do. No sense in rushing though, especially for you these days.’ The tall Brigantian did not say any more and just shrugged. After a moment he had grabbed the horns of his saddle and vaulted up onto his horse. ‘If the trail goes cold once it is daylight we’ll come to you. Least I can do for a friend is burn his corpse. That’s if I can find all the pieces.’

‘Liar, you just want to steal anything they leave behind.’

‘That too. Those are nice boots.’

Ferox grinned. ‘Clear off. Maybe you are right and they are going north. In that case I’ll come and pinch your boots.’ He tapped the side of his scabbard, a gesture of Vindex’s people. ‘Ride to good fortune.’

‘We’ll do our best.’

Ferox spat on the grass. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘if you’re not even going to try.’

The Brigantians cantered off. ‘Good luck,’ Vindex called back just before he went over the brow of the hill.

That was yesterday, and now Ferox wondered whether the scouts had seen the trail left by the fugitives turn just as he had said it would, heading west towards the coast. Vindex and his men should be coming this way by now, but they would have to ride a good way to reach the pass and then loop around the loch to get here. Unless their horses sprouted wings, they would not arrive in time to make a difference.

Ferox looked up again, blinking as he followed the hovering eagle, for the sun was bright and warm with the promise of spring. Movement caught his eye and he saw another bird some way off, but only after pulling down the wide brim of his hat and squinting did he see that this one was a raven. He was right then, for the Morrigan’s bird never came by chance. The goddess knew that a fight was coming and warriors would shed their life blood in this place.