Bloodheir (67 page)

There would soon be no one left here save those without any choice in the matter, Taim knew as he looked out from the doorway of the inn. Behind him, laid out on tables and on the floor, were the sick and the injured. They could not walk away from here. Nor would the old woman he’d seen sitting on a stool in the inn’s kitchen. She was too frail for the long road to Ive.

He could see the barricade across the bridge. All through the night, huts had been stripped of their contents to build it higher. Twenty or so Lannis and Haig warriors were sitting in its shelter now, talking softly amongst themselves, sharing water from their skins. Taim lifted his gaze, followed the rise and fall of the bridge across to the far side of the river. There was movement on the tall, steep slope above the road: shapes shifting amongst the rocks. A lot of them. And he thought he could make out a long line of riders snaking its way up the valley. He wondered dispassionately how long the bridge could be held; how many dead it would take before the Black Road could overwhelm them. How much time could be bought for those struggling southwards. And whether he had any choice in any of this. Did he want to sacrifice his men – himself – in this cause?

Something flashed out from the high ground north of the river. His first, instant thought was that it was a bird, but it darted down and skittered across the surface of the road not twenty paces from where he stood: a crossbow bolt. Another followed it. He heard its dry, muffled impact in the turf roof of one of the cottages.

Someone was behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“What’s this place called, anyway?” Taim asked.

“Ive Bridge.”

Taim nodded. “Ive Bridge. Yes, I suppose it would be.”

“At the bridge. Ive Bridge,” the old woman said.

Orisian moved closer, coming up to Torcaill’s shoulder.

“You’re sure?” the warrior asked the woman.

She grimaced at him. “I’m old, not stupid. I can tell the difference.”

“Lannis men?” Orisian said.

She fixed him with a look that bordered on the contemptuous. “Is it that you’re all deaf, is that it? Yes, Lannis men. Fighting on the bridge. Black Road all over the place, other side of the river, apparently. Not this side yet, though.”

“How far is it?” asked Orisian.

She considered her answer for a few moments longer than he would have liked. “Half a day, I should think. Not more. Probably less.”

They watched her shuffle off down the road. She moved steadily, for a woman of such age. They had seen others, on this road, less strong and more desperate. The long trail down from Stone had been all but empty. Only a handful of goatherds and hunters had shared it with them. That mountain track had brought them to the Ive road now, though, and they had found themselves caught up in a steady trickle of people trudging southwards. All of them told the same tale of defeat and destruction, and testified to the truth of it with their bent backs and fretful faces. Every one of them – men, women, children – looked lost, cast adrift; hounded by fears and grim memories.

“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.

The first ran at Taim with a spear. He ducked under it and let the woman tumble over him, then sprang up and knocked another aside with a backhanded stroke against her shield. They came on like a swarm of wolves. One of his warriors, and then two, were at his side, fending off attacks. They hacked and swung. Taim could feel sweat beading across his forehead. He barely saw those he fought, those he killed. Body after body appeared before him and he cut them down, barged them aside, and each of them was only a shape, a danger. The pain in his flank soared but it was nothing that could reach him.

The man on his left went down, speared in the belly. Taim took a glancing blow on his hip that staggered him for a moment. A sword came darting in to pounce on his weakness. He turned it aside, and snapped his own blade round and up fast enough to open a wrist to the bone. He felt almost light, as if his feet could glide weightless over the cobbles of the road.

And then people were running. Fleeing. Someone hit him from behind and knocked him to his knees.

Men came past him and the Black Roaders were falling away, going down beneath swords. He looked up, bleary-eyed, and saw a riderless horse galloping back, pounding down the road. And Torcaill. He saw Torcaill running, and tripping a Black Road warrior, standing on the man’s back and driving a swordpoint down into his spine.

Taim did not hear fighting all around him now. It was moving away, fading. Someone had their hand on his elbow and was hauling him up. He was unsteady on his feet. He had to hunch over a little to protect his ribs.

“Taim,” said Orisian.

Taim laughed, not wholly certain at that moment whether he could trust his eyes, and not caring.

“Sire. Can I lean on you, sire? I am not sure I can walk too well.”

He put his arm around Orisian’s shoulder and hobbled to the side of the road, where he could sit on a flat-topped rock. Those Black Roaders still alive were scattering, some back the way they had come, others out over the scrubby ground. Orisian’s two Kyrinin were standing in the roadway, methodically sending arrow after arrow skimming out, straight and true. Taim shook his head, trying to rid himself of the strange blurry feeling that was settling inside his skull. He looked at his Thane, and saw a small warrior: shield on one arm, sword in hand, a raw scar across the breadth of his cheek. And hard eyes.

There were bodies thick on the road. A hand was reaching up, opening and closing. Someone was whimpering, like a beaten child. A woman was crawling along on her hands and knees. She spilled blood from her stomach as she went. Torcaill and two of his men moved amongst the human debris. They stood over the woman. She put a hand on Torcaill’s boot. He looked over towards Taim and Orisian.

“We can’t care for them,” Taim heard Orisian say, and was surprised at the coldness of his voice. But he did not watch Torcaill killing the woman, Taim noted. Nor did he flinch at the sound of the blow falling.

“We will have to move on, sire,” Taim murmured. “There will be more of them before long.”

“I know. Is Aewult beaten, then?”

Taim nodded, wincing and pressing an arm against his chest.

“Where’s Anyara? Do you know?”

And Taim had to tell him, and that was perhaps the hardest thing he had done that day.