Graynelore (20 page)

It is not in a reiver’s instincts to avoid a fight. Indeed, the reverse is true. It is perhaps no surprise then, that in trying to forever avoid the rising threat of The Great Riding, we ultimately came full on into the frae.

And if, inside my head, I heard the tempest approaching, my eyes looking out upon the real world did not see it coming. The vagary of The Withering, the constant motion of its trailing mists, the mournful wraith-like apparitions that stood in the place of the trees, revealed no secrets. Even the birds in flight, could not see all men in this circumstance: come before us and behind, here and there, and there again; the weeping sores of a gathering war. The crows, now a baffled, worried crowd of beating wings, turned recklessly upon the air. Several warnings came together in an utter confusion; piercing cries, frantic hollers above the first clash and clatter of iron, each one demanding a first response. But if the birds could not call a warning for every threat, the man upon the ground could not answer every call. We might quickly have found ourselves overwhelmed upon the field.

I thought I heard a distant thunder…What we had seen captured within that frozen hollow was not the end of it by far, only a temporary respite. Fighting-men were suddenly come again from within The Withering…

Would we have become our true selves then, would we have smitten our foes with faerie magic? Ha! And found ourselves become ever more diminished; ever further away from our full strength? Perhaps even beyond its recall, when our greater task, the making of a Ring of Eight, was as yet undone. No, my friend, save our strength. I sensed there was an end coming, a final conflict, but this was not it.

About me, my company stood in sudden disarray.

‘What do we do now, Rogrig? What do we do now?’ The question fell from every tongue it seemed, beseeching. And every eye was upon me, old and young.

‘Fuck,’ I said.

I returned their look, saw within their eyes, knew with good reason I was not among a company of good fighting-men. The ancient crone and the elder-man: too old by far. Dogsbeard: too young and too afraid. The gigant: still a baffled man, who would only wish himself awake from a living night-torment. And Norda…the Elfwych: a failing nursemaid to an unborn infant, and soon upon a battle she alone must fight.

‘Shit,’ I said.

By the fortunes, we were not met with a main force, but with a series of rabbles. I could see these were disparate groups of fighting-men. Scattered bands of an already battle weary foe…if they were, as yet, unwilling to retreat from the field, still with strength enough to make a mischief and to break themselves a few heads. Each one bore the looks and colours of a different grayne, both great and small. I recognized their breed if not their faces. Better still: there was much cross-fighting betwixt and between. It was clear to me; they were not seeking out a common enemy. They were not come only after us but after each other. Any man’s bones might reasonably be broken, any man’s blood spilled!

Again the birds cried out their warnings.

It was far better for Rogrig Wishard to stand up for himself, and alone, to stay squarely the man and make a defence of his sword arm. If the faerie was diminished and floundering, the reiver could still make a fight. (Did I truly think on it?
Abandonment…
Did I? My friend, cowardice is ever a valid tactic, and only smart survival!)

Again the general plea: ‘Rogrig, what must we do now?’

‘Now? Escape!’ I said. ‘We must escape!’ The words were upon my tongue before the notion.

To be embroiled within the action but not to be a party to the fight, or rather, not to be
seen
to be a party to the fight, required both a faerie’s Glamour and their transient nature – that we might best deceive men’s eyes – but it also required the reiver. I remembered another day, and a foolish faerie jig, made upon a Winter Festival. ‘If we cannot fight them, then we will use our wits to avoid our enemy,’ I said. ‘And we will use our feet to remove ourselves from their company.’

‘Eh?’ Wily Cockatrice looked sorely puzzled.

‘We will dance for them!’ I said.

‘
Dance
?’

‘Aye! We will give them a faerie’s dance, as we once danced before! Come, follow after me and do likewise…’ I gathered up the old crone’s cautiously proffered hand in mine and began my swirling jig. She took hold of the elder-man. And he, in his turn, made Norda and Dogsbeard his twisting tail, with the reeling gigant ever in pursuit.

In truth, I was not to see the better side of my companions this day. They could not fight, nor could they hardly run away with much conviction.

I tried to guide them through the stitches and knots of the shadows thrown by the mass of fighting-men as they wielded their swords and found their targets. Between sword tips and charging hobbs and falling men cut bloodily asunder. We were never our enemy’s match. I used my sword only when it could not be avoided; either to parry a blow, or to lop off a nodding head or a leading sword arm. And if the remainder of my company – Lowly Crows apart – stood sorely frightened, danced rigidly upon the spot, while blood was being let, I bit my tongue in want of a better moment to chastise them for it.

How many times our lives were saved that day, how many times again…By the strength of my arm; aye, and by the guile of our shifting faerie’s dance…Though as often, and more likely, by the simple distraction of our assailants by our common foe come suddenly upon us from out of The Withering.

In the heat of a battle you only know a man is your enemy when he is facing you down or running away. There was no good purpose in open flight. It only encouraged a deadly pursuit. Turning away from one approaching flank only brought you up against another, and at closer quarters. To go about unnoticed upon a killing field, to escape unseen, is a clever art for any man, common or fey.

I saw trailing strings of men flailing their swords – others, alone come out of the mist-bound trees, and randomly spread. Others again, in tightly gathered hordes. And come both a-foot and riding upon their hobbs. Yet there was a hesitation there; they were unwilling to stray too far away from the protection of the gathered mists (as if they themselves were cautious of another – greater – enemy).

‘Stand firm I say!’ I cried aloud. ‘Move inside the fleeting shadows. Do not present yourself a target, yet do not be caught in avoidance. Stay alive!’

‘This is a strange dance!’ returned the Elfwych, and not alone.

The worst of it came from the Bogarts, who were small, stolid fighting-men, with little humour and as little brain, and who did not care for subtle tactics or battle plans. Their fighting style was no better than a basic rush: a hack and a slash. Mind, what their technique lacked in finesse it made up for in brutal reliability. If their axes found their target you were crippled at the least; though more likely you were broken apart and stone dead.

‘Step aside! And hold! Step aside again!’ I hollered, bullying my company into startled flight. A shrouded mist was our covering mantle the one moment, the stone man the next. This, a simple trick: for a reiver will forever attack the moving man first. He is your threat. While the stone man, frozen in fright (a pretence as good as any faerie masquerade) describes a passive weedling, or a coward, who can be returned to. His dispatch enjoyed for wanton pleasure, when the real fighting, the true danger, is expelled.

It was a risky measure. It worked all the same.

And so we danced upon The Withering, and so we jigged, and so we bettered them all in the end. Step by step by step.

At last we were come clear of those foul trees, and were well out upon an open plain. The fighting was gone behind: and not a mark upon us to regret, beyond the passing souvenir.

We were well pleased with ourselves. Only…had the mice escaped the cats a little too easily?

At our backs now, enough open ground that even the sound of the frae did not easily carry to us. In front of us, a rising plateau, and beyond, a wall of mountains, skirted by another curtain of hanging mist. Only this one stood up innocent and white, and seemed as soft as any summer cloud.

I thought.

They emerged from the mist like ghosts, great lumbering figures, as if they were carrying the weight of their own deaths upon their backs.

Like
ghosts…but not ghosts. Rather, these were men…These too were fighting-men. This was surely the main force of The Great Riding.

Lowly Crows squealed a shrill warning. High upon the air, she wheeled and countered frantically. Wheeled and countered. Below her, we stood out upon the plateau; a lonely company. It was too late for us to run for cover, or to try another subtle escape.

I began to see them clearly as they emerged from out of the mist, riding steadily towards us across the open ground. They were a great crowd, gathered purposefully, all of them mounted upon their hobbs.

At their head rode a man I knew well enough. Wolfrid Wishard, my elder-cousin. These men were my own close kin. At his side, rode his son, Edbur-the-Widdle. The whelp was sitting upon
my
Dandelion.

We could only stand our ground and temper their approach. To have made any other move would have been to beg a chase and a quick slaughter.

If Wolfrid would only talk to me we were all alive a little longer yet.

I stepped out from among our company, to openly make myself obvious to him. It was a courtesy only: I fear, he knew me there already, as I knew him.

The Great Riding came on, in truth, it was an impressive sight; perhaps as many as four hundred horses strong. They advanced until they were tight around us, stood up only when the noses of their hobbs were in our faces. I might have smiled at the tactic. A close crowd meant your adversaries had no room to swing their swords. Was Wolfrid shy of me, even yet? Had he thought he was come upon a faerie host?

His first words were addressed to the sky. ‘The clouds are black and treacherous today, cousin,’ he said. Wolfrid was looking up toward the murder of crows whose number seemed to have grown miraculously.

‘I fear it is not such a good day to be abroad,’ I returned.

‘Indeed, we are both of us a long way from our home…’

At Wolfrid’s side, Edbur snorted loudly, pulled at the reign of his hobb needlessly. Dandy twitched her ears, as if for the discomfort of it.

‘What is it that we have come to, Rogrig?’ said Wolfrid. He let his eyes slide across my company, man for man, as if in speculation. He had approached us, certain that our meagre party posed a threat to him; enough to require wary handling, and a subtle appraisal. Already I felt the mood had changed. He saw only ordinary men now.

‘Will you have the truth, cousin?’ I said. I would hold the man up a while yet.

‘The truth?’ said Wolfrid, with a growing smile. Again, Edbur snorted at his father’s side. ‘Is it only the truth you would offer me, then?’

I shrugged. It was my turn to cast my eye upon my cousins; the reiver and his whelp before their great army. I understood them well enough. Upon Graynelore, where most men were liars, there was little of value in any truth. Upon a killing field, it was hardly enough to make a bargain. I knew my words were never going to be enough to turn the argument this day. Wolfrid was already set upon his path. I gave him my story anyway. Why ever not? I told him my faerie tale, as you know it, my friend.

At the end, Wolfrid sat back upon his hobb, rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Not yet as a threat, he took comfort in what he knew best, while he considered my tale. He and I were always the same. At last he sighed, and shook his head in obvious disbelief.

‘If the Old-man’s Council were capable of one deceit, then they were certainly capable of another…’ I said pre-emptively, though with little real hope of persuasion.

‘What would you have us believe, Rogrig?’ he said. ‘Eh? That a wych took up the Old-man’s dead body, and at the beckon of a twisted Council gave it new life! That you, no doubt a wholly innocent man, were only saving her from her peril, her torment…and then what…? You simply took to the air and flew away!’ He paused. He could not hide the growing anger, the exasperation in his voice. Wolfrid was not a good diplomat. He was far better at using force to get his own way, than he was his tongue.

‘Is it the faerie tale, or rather, is it the human tale I should believe? A foolish man so besotted, so enamoured, of a woman he would certainly kill his own Graynelord. Do murder in his own household. He takes off with her, abandons all. He outlaws himself and her, both.’

At my side, Norda Elfwych was trying to push herself forward, trying to make herself known to him. ‘But there is truth in this! And true witness!’ she said. ‘I for one—’

Wolfrid only raised his hand against her, dismissively, pointing to her belly, already swollen with child, as is the way of faerie. ‘Ah yes…there it is again: the truth…And now, here before us are your true witnesses, Rogrig…a foul Elfwych and an unborn bastard!’

Norda drew her arms about herself, as if to shield the unborn infant from the taint; to protect the new life there, growing steadily inside of her. Wolfrid continued:

‘Well, it seems there was more than one murder done that day. So many of our cousins greeted only with a sword…If only the dead might speak as eloquently as the living. Eh?’ Again, he cast his gaze across our small company.

I felt a sudden quickening. We were almost upon the moment. This was not the time or the place for us to reveal ourselves: too hard the fight. Nor was it the time to die. More: I had no desire to take up arms against my closest kin. Here was Wolfrid, the Headman of my own house, together with the best part of my own family. And all come to make their stand against us; to make that spot another killing field.

Yet what was left to be said? Sadly, I could not answer him right for answering him wrong. It was a double-edged sword he offered me. Either way I knew there was death here. Sometimes it was easier to kill than it was
not
to kill. Certainly, it was far simpler than a reasoned argument. There was no escaping it. Wolfrid was here to pick a fight.

I knew the game. Wolfrid was not come on a faerie hunt, nor was he here simply to take revenge for his Graynelord’s death (faithful though he had been). Cloggie-Unthank and Fibra lay already dead within an ice-bound hollow. It might have been at Wolfrid’s own hand. It might have been at the hand of another. Matter-less. With every death, great or small, the balance of power shifted. With the death of the Old-man’s siblings that balance had tilted, remarkably, in Wolfrid’s favour. He had only to take it up. Wield it (before some other wanting man came and took it from him in his stead).

The Great Riding was the simplest of politics. More so, it required
no
considered thought. The graynes would continue to wield their swords at each other, until one of them came out on top.

I, Rogrig Wishard, did not stand in Wolfrid’s way. No. I have said it before now; Graynelore is ever in need of its symbols of power. How often its leaders use that particular staff to lean upon. And how convenient it was for Wolfrid: that we should appear before him now. He had proved his loyalty to his Graynelord. He had proved his arm against his rivals. He had only to prove the power of his justice, the quality of his judgement…And we the example to behold!

Better a slaughter for a Graynelord’s murder, than for the whimsy of a faerie tale. But there would be a slaughter either way.

‘Well, Rogrig…Will you show me an open hand?’ Wolfrid asked.

He was leaning across his hobb, facing me eye to eye. His look was asking questions. I knew him well enough. He wanted to understand why more men should die this day. He wanted to understand why old friends had become enemies. He wanted me to give him a reason to turn his hobb about and ride his men off the field, alive still and unharmed. He wanted a greater truth that made sense to him and gave him deliverance.

‘Well, on the one hand, we always have our swords. On the other—’ I gestured towards The Withering, where among the mists and shadows men fought yet, and further, to the distant shallow, to the place where we both knew bodies lay dead and frozen upon the ground.

Wolfrid simply shrugged.

I tried again. ‘On the other,
other
hand—’

Wolfrid quickly interrupted me. ‘Exactly, how many hands do you have to reveal here, cousin?’

‘Only as many as I need to make my play…’ I faltered there, my feeble jest unheeded.

I had nothing more to say to him.

The moment was come.

All about us, eager fighting-men, patient until now, stiffened in their saddles, steadied their mounts in readiness. Their breath came suddenly hard and fast.

And the air was become suddenly pungent. It stung my nose. I knew that sign well enough. Close beside me, at Wolfrid’s side, Edbur-the-Widdle had pissed himself.

Beneath him, Dandy snorted disdainfully. Through her leather mask her eyes sharpened upon me, knew me there. Among all, the snitch would be made to pay for his youthful folly…aye and for Dandy’s dishonouring. And I knew she would see to this in my stead, if, in the event, I could not.

Hands resting upon hilts drew swords and would come to blows.

Only
I
did not want this. Truly,
I did not want this.
Still I hesitated.

Lowly Crows did not.

As I look back upon that scene now, I feel as if I stood by and watched as she made her attack; akin to one transfixed by it. Perhaps I was. Perhaps I did.

The man, Wolfrid, upon his fine grey hobby-horse, silhouetted against a wretched sky, his hand raised within a fisted iron-bound glove. The mob of crows crying murder, suddenly plummeting, falling down upon him…Choosing him for their first victim, and relentless with it. One upon the next upon the next, throwing their collective weight against him, using their beaks and their practised claws. Each blow compounded the last, left a cut or a hefty bruise. And Lowly Crows’ dreadful, screech; a foul, demonic sound to every ear there, human and faerie…

Him, striking the air blindly with his sword: finding contact with the birds only because their number was so great his weapon could not be avoided. The bodies of headless, wingless, birds began to fall like some kind of obscene rain.

While impotent men – the majority and seemingly stupefied – stood about, rigidly fixed and unmoving.

Still, Lowly Crows attacked. Again and again and again, until blood-red ribbons of flailed skin hung from Wolfrid’s distorted face and from the poor grey hobb’s exposed flanks.

It was the man who fell dead first; well before the horse.

Only then the greater field came back to life, openly clashed, and brought their iron to bear upon the frae.

I would not have had it so.

If I was a Wishard – more than a man with a name – if I could, truly wish…I wished then.

How quickly a world can turn, and turn about again.

The sky, suddenly tormented, broke open upon the instant. The standing mists, now lying dormant at the foot of the mountains, sprang up, a mass of flailing tails and rope-like spirals; rent the air to the very heart of a glowering storm. Came back to ground again, not only driving rain, but a raging torrent; a rising wall of churning waters. Without a warning it took up both friend and foe alike. Its cruel edge divided riders from their horses, and swept them away. It ran them off their feet and turned them into the ground. It drove them apart with such a vicious fury there was not the briefest inch of time for men to see their fate, or understand its root. There was not a reiver among our horde canny enough to parry the blows of that storm.

Not even, I, its maker.

Though I might have closed my eyes against it, and wished that I could…

Indeed. And found myself at a loss, sterile and unable. The cost of the deed not yet fully paid out.

As was the way of faerie…

Nevertheless, I would wish again. I would…