Heartwood (7 page)

Combat was rarely won on the defensive, and Chonrad knew he had to step up his game. All around him he could hear the sounds of battle, and briefly wondered if any had fallen, but there was no time to dwell on the matter, for the warrior was coming for him again. This time, however, he planted his feet firmly and was the first to swing, a right-handed thrust at the warrior's left side. It was parried neatly, but Chonrad followed it with a quick swing to his left, and the blade cut into the warrior's upper arm, sinking deep into the flesh. Chonrad waiting for the howl of pain, but to his amazement none came; the warrior pulled himself back so the blade sliced free, and looked down with what Chonrad could only call interest as thick, dark, green-blue blood oozed out of the wound.

Deep inside, a small sliver of fear embedded itself in his stomach. He thrust at the warrior's chest, but the sword glanced off the hard shell breastplate. He could find no weak spot in the warrior's torso, but his uncovered arms and legs were an obvious target. Flipping his opponent's weapon to one side using the hilt as a lever, he swung the blade round and up, and with all his strength brought it across his body. This time the steel did more than sink into the warrior's flesh; it severed the arm just above the elbow joint, the limb falling to the floor with the sword still clutched tightly in its hand.

The warrior looked at his side, seemingly confused. Chonrad steadied himself, then aimed his blade at the gap between his enemy's breastplate and arm socket, and thrust it in. The blade went in deep, almost up to the hilt. The warrior screeched and shuddered. Then Chonrad watched in shock as the body
melted
– it just dissolved into water, falling in a pool at his feet.

It was only as he looked down that he realised what he had not noticed before: the water level had risen from above the top of the channel to cover the whole floor of the Curia, and he was currently ankle-deep. He turned to cast a quick glance over the scene, his first real look at the battle since it had started. Procella was right in the middle and was clearly in control; feet planted firmly, she swung her blade at the warrior in front of her, and was in no immediate danger. Protecting her back was Valens, and the mighty Imperator also looked dangerous in spite of his war wound. A fierce grimace on his face, he lopped off the head of one of the water warriors even as Chonrad watched, the warrior's head – its helmet still intact – rolling on the floor before it, too, dissolved into the water sloshing around their ankles.

The twins battled it out fiercely to one side, and just in front of him stood Beata, her mail hood still in folds around her neck, her beautiful face flushed and strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead as she thrust and parried. The warrior with one arm was fighting admirably, wielding his sword with practised ease.

Some of the Laxonian lords were visible, but he could not see Hariman, and he wondered if he had fallen. Raedwulf still stood, as did Grimbeald, the Wulfengar lord putting up an excellent fight in spite of his short stature. There were other figures on the floor though, their faces beneath the water, and it was too early to tell whether they were winning or losing the fight.

Briefly, he wondered where Fulco was. Surely if his bodyguard had heard the sounds of battle, he would have come running. Were these water warriors also outside in the Baillium?

It was then he saw Dulcis off to one side of the Curia, defending herself valiantly against a huge warrior, his enormous frame towering over her as he slashed down continuously with his mighty sword. Chonrad ran over to her, but he was too late – even as he leapt onto her podium, the warrior lifted his arms back and, with a two-handed blow, slid the tip of the sword into her stomach. She wore only light armour, and the point of the weapon passed easily through the padded tunic and into her body. The warrior pushed until her body touched the hilt and then, with a final and probably unnecessary move, twisted the blade before pulling it out.

Dulcis fell to her knees, her face white, and stared blankly at Chonrad as he ran towards her, only just managing to catch her as she fell to the floor.

 

V

His battle fury now truly engaged, Chonrad let out a blood-curdling yell before swinging his sword at Dulcis's executor. The warrior had barely enough time to turn round before Chonrad rained down blows upon his body. In spite of the fact that he was several inches taller than Chonrad and a good deal heavier, Chonrad managed to push him back until the warrior tripped on Dulcis's fallen body and toppled backwards, landing with a splash in the water. Chonrad knelt on top of him and, rage giving him extra strength, forced the blade down through the gap above the warrior's mail and below his helmet into the soft flesh below. The warrior shuddered, went rigid and then, with the same strange gurgling scream deep inside him, melted into the water.

Chonrad stood, soaked now from the waist down, but furious and ready to kill. Sword swinging, he went into the fray, knocking aside blades and warriors alike as he sliced a path through the battling bodies.

The water seemed to be coming in waves now, the strength of the liquid making him struggle to keep his feet. However, as in all the battles he had fought in, he became aware of a sense of victory even before it became clear they had won. The number of huge green warriors seemed to be diminishing, and a renewed sense of energy swept through him as the people fighting beside him pushed the enemy back towards the channel of water at the edge. To one side he could see out of the corner of his eye Procella, Valens and one of the twins battling valiantly, and to the other side Grimbeald, a couple of Militis and a Hanaire lord, all sensing the warriors were in decline.

Eventually there were only half a dozen of the water warriors left. They hurriedly exchanged words as they scanned the room and realised their reduced numbers. They seemed to be pressing for a withdrawal. Together they all jumped in, melting into the water before Chonrad's eyes. Within seconds, they were gone.

The Militis, Laxonians, Wulfians and Hanaireans who were still standing watched as the waters around them began to recede, the water withdrawing into the channel, although the floor was flat and there was no obvious gradient to cause the water to flow back. Within about a minute, the floor was clear, and the river channel flowed merrily along in its usual manner.

“Roots of the Arbor,” swore one of the twins, his voice loud in the sudden silence that had fallen on the Curia. “What in the name of Animus were they?”

Chonrad gradually lowered his sword to the ground. Everyone did the same, turning to view the floor of the Curia and see what damage had been done.

Immediately, Procella saw Dulcis and, with a cry, ran over to her and knelt by her side. Chonrad walked over to them. “I am sorry,” he said. “I saw her go down but I could not get there in time.”

Procella bent her head over the Abbatis, and he thought she was crying, but when she lifted her face he saw that anger and not grief was her emotion. Slowly she pushed herself to her feet. Marching into the centre of the circle, she sheathed her sword as she looked about, counting the dead. Chonrad joined her. Hariman had fallen, as he had feared, and two other Laxonian lords had not survived. Wulfengar had fared little better. Raedwulf, though not yet dead, had received a deep wound to his stomach, and from experience Chonrad knew he would not last the night. Kyneburg and Leofric lay where they had been killed. Only Grimbeald still stood, blood running freely down his face from a cut he had received on his temple.

Of the Militis, Chonrad spotted four knights on the floor. Apart from Dulcis, none were known to him. The twins and Beata were still on their feet, and so were half a dozen others, although several were wounded.

“Has anybody got even the faintest idea what just happened?” asked Valens, looking at the survivors, his hands on his hips. No answers were forthcoming. Eventually he held up his hands in defeat. “We can debate the whys and wherefores of this later – for now we must assess the damage and stop it happening again.”

“We should close the culvert outside the walls,” said Procella, “stop the flow of water into the Baillium for now. And we should raise the drawbridge – if it has not been done already. That way they will have to attack Heartwood the old way – by siege.”

“Good,” said Valens. He walked over to the entrance and pushed aside the screens. Chonrad saw the look on his face before he saw the view outside. It was enough to make him run over to look out at the scene.

The rest of the Baillium looked as if a tidal wave had hit it. Tents had been flattened, buildings were in ruins, horses lay dead where they had drowned, and there were bodies all over the place. Rain continued to hammer down on the scene, washing it in a dull grey light.

The rest of those still standing in the Curia joined Valens at the door. They looked out at the detritus, frozen for a moment in shock. Chonrad stared at a limping figure coming towards them and recognised Fulco. He ran towards him, and the two knights clasped hands. “I am glad you are safe,” Chonrad said.

Fulco signed something and Chonrad chuckled.

“What did he say?” asked Procella.

“I cannot repeat it here,” Chonrad said wryly. “Let us just say it involved a swear word or two.”

The knights around him laughed, clearly as relieved as he was that they were alive. Their laughter died away, however, as they continued to survey the scene, seeing the number of people dead or injured. “Why?” Chonrad found himself saying, his brow furrowed as he thought of how devastating the attack had been. “Why did they do it?”

And then, suddenly, Procella jumped as if she had been struck by lightning. “The Arbor!” she shrieked and, before anyone could stop her, she leapt over the dead bodies lying nearest the Curia and sprinted down the road towards the Castellum.

Chonrad was just the beat of a pulse behind her. In the pouring rain they ran to the central road and then turned towards the Temple. His heart thudded, and it was not just from the exertion of the run. Could it have been the Arbor the warriors were after?

Behind him he could hear the pounding of feet as everyone followed, but he and Procella were way ahead. Debris littered the road, bits of tent pole and food and animals and dead people, but there was no time to stop and assess the situation. Together they raced towards the Castellum, and part of him wanted to get there, and part of him didn't.

The rain soon soaked him, but he paid little heed to the wetness on his face, welcoming the coolness. His worst fears were realised, however, as they neared the building and saw the oak doors were open, the entrance encumbered by the bodies of the two dead Custodes who usually guarded the doors. Procella didn't stop, however; she leapt over the fallen knights and Chonrad followed, entering the darkness of the Temple.

He almost ran into her, and Fulco into him, neither realising the one in front had stopped. “What…” he began, his voice faltering as he took in the scene before him.

The place was littered with dead and wounded Militis. He heard Procella's intake of breath as she looked around the room, taking in the number of fallen knights. Heartwood knights prided themselves on their military prowess, and they were a strong and fearless bunch. How many of the water warriors had attacked the Temple to cause such damage?

The waters had obviously risen in here too, because the wooden tiers had been damaged in places, and broken beams littered the floor. Their attention, however, was soon drawn to the tree that stood in the centre of the rings.

Procella walked forward, stopped, then walked forward again. Chonrad followed her slowly. He could not believe what his eyes were seeing.

The Arbor was split in half.

A dozen swords had hacked at the top of the trunk, severing some of the branches and carving a great gouge in the bark so they could get the blades in even deeper. He dreaded to think about the strength of the warriors who had caused such damage. Their continued carving had resulted in the trunk being divided almost to the ground.

Procella stopped and fell to her knees. Suddenly he realised who lay on the floor – it was Silva, and miraculously she was still alive. She was covered in blood though, and he guessed the water warriors had probably left her for dead not realising that in fact some small amount of lifeforce still existed inside her.

Procella cradled Silva's head, brushing back some of the black hair. The disturbing golden eyes flickered and she looked up at the knight crouching over her. “I am sorry,” she said in a husky voice.

Procella half-laughed, half-cried as she said: “What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I let them take it,” said Silva. She turned her head and spat blood onto the floor before continuing. “I could not stop them. I let them take it, I am sorry.”

“Take what?” Chonrad asked, dropping to his knees beside her.

“The Pectoris.” Silva dissolved into tears. “The heart of the Arbor is gone!”

Chonrad's eyes met Procella's. Together they looked up at the old oak tree. Its heart taken, the Arbor sagged sadly.

But that wasn't the worst thing of all somehow, in Chonrad's mind.

The worst thing was that the Arbor's leaves were starting to fall.

 

CHAPTER THREE

I

Nitesco came to his senses slowly, as if he were swimming to the surface from the bottom of a deep pond. He lay on his front, his cheek against the cold stone floor. Slowly, he lifted his head. It pounded as if someone were hitting him repeatedly with a hammer, and when he lifted his hand to touch his brow, it came away scarlet.

Carefully, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Beneath his mail, his padded tunic was soaked, and he shivered with the cold as a cool evening breeze swept through the gap in the Temple wall.

Gap? Nitesco did a double take as he stared at the wooden screen separating the Temple from the Domus. There was a huge hole in the middle. No wonder he could feel a draught.