Haraj blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry … what lines?’
Gregar couldn’t help but gape at the fellow. ‘Are you a fool? The lines! The Bloorian League is trying to encircle Gris! Surely you’ve heard about it.’
The skinny fellow winced and ducked, writhing almost as if in agony, his head lowered. ‘I’ve heard about it, of course. But I’ve never – that is, I was never let …’ He cleared his throat, and finished as if in apology, ‘I didn’t get out much.’
Again Gregar had to look away. He took a long breath, squinting at the surrounding dark woods. Finally, after some time, he said quietly, ‘Something will turn up, don’t you worry.’ He gestured north once more – at least what he hoped was north. ‘Let’s go a bit farther.’
Some time later, exhausted, and, Gregar suspected, possibly lost, they halted next to a giant oak, gathered up armfuls of leaves, and covered themselves to attempt to sleep.
Gregar woke first. The sun glared down in a dappling pattern about him through gaps in the boughs above. For a time he watched the sleeping curled form of his companion, then he scanned the woods. Let him rest a while longer. He was obviously completely unused to any physical exertion. Gregar had seen dogs raised in cages. Released, the poor pathetic things couldn’t even straighten their legs. They were cripples. Unable to walk.
But to do that to a boy. To raise him in such a way.
A burning heat clenched Gregar’s chest and he found he had to wipe his eyes to clear them.
This Ap-Athlan had a lot to answer for.
Noises in the underbrush caught his attention. Animals running. A forester would imagine that meant …
Shapes now moved through the brush, upright. Gregar caught glimpses of pale sky-like blue amid the bushes. Grisian soldiery.
A loud snapping of branches jerked Haraj awake, gasping and flailing. Gregar tried to calm him but the nearby figures halted. A step sounded next to him and he spun to peer up at a Grisian infantrywoman in mail, her surcoat torn and bloodied. She held a sword on him.
‘Here!’ she called.
Gregar’s shoulders fell in despair. They’d been found.
The figures closed. ‘Who is it?’ one called.
‘Don’t know,’ the woman answered, studying them with something like distaste. ‘Outlaws, looks like. Wretched runaways.’
Gregar felt his mouth open, but no sound emerged. Outlaws?
The surrounding brush parted and a number of Grisian heavy infantry now squinted down at them. One waved a dismissal. ‘We don’t have time for this. Just kill them.’
‘Righty-o,’ the woman answered, and raised her sword.
For a fraction of an instant Gregar simply stared upward, completely paralysed by disbelief. Really? This was happening? He was to be murdered. Just like that?
Then he reacted, and suddenly everyone about him seemed to be moving in slow motion. Rising, he pushed his back into the woman, and taking her descending arm used his strength and the techniques of years of heaving stone blocks, and threw her to spin head over heels. She crashed amid the brush.
Now the soldiery gaped at him – then rushed. First came the one who’d ordered their deaths. His sword was raised and Gregar stepped into the swing, blocked the arm, and shoved his straightened fingers into the man’s throat. Cartilage popped and snapped. The man flinched in shock and pain.
Drawing backwards, Gregar slid his left hand down the man’s arm and snatched the sword from his weakened grip, then pushed him away with his right.
For a fraction of a second he admired the silvery iron length of the blade he had taken. This was the first real sword he’d ever held – not some wooden training piece he’d secretly played with until someone saw and beat him for it. Frankly, it felt too heavy in his hand; he much preferred the sticks he had practised with ceaselessly.
The next man came in, swinging. Gregar sidestepped the blow, and because they were all wearing armour and he was not, he didn’t bother hacking at the extended mailed arm but slashed downwards in passing, across the back of the man’s knee.
The fellow bellowed his pain and fell.
Something crashed into him, sending him flying; a shield-bash, he realized, as he staggered into a meadow of tall weeds and grass next to their hiding place. The helmeted heads of at least twenty more Grisian troopers turned his way.
Shit!
The one who had shield-bashed him now came on, thrusting and jabbing with the point of his sword – he’d obviously been watching and learning. Gregar gave ground, circling.
Capricious Oponn’s luck was with Gregar then, as the fellow tripped on something: a hole, or a tangle of grasses. Gregar was immediately inside his guard, thrusting in over the shield to strike the neck and push inwards, feeling the muscle, the frail bones and ligaments parting and giving.
The man fell gurgling and clutching at his neck.
Gregar pulled back, turning in a full circle. He now faced a ring of infantry.
Strangely then, though the sky was completely clear, approaching thunder sounded, turning everyone’s head.
Two cavalrymen crashed into the ring of troopers.
They swung down at the soldiery, hacking from side to side. One heaved his mount to the left, the other to the right. Immediately, Gregar was forgotten. All the Grisians closed on the mounted fighters.
The newcomers fought with astonishing speed and ruthlessness. One threw himself from his mount even while still moving; he bore a tall spear that he whipped about, slashing. A banner rippled close to its broad leaf-shaped tip. The other remained mounted, hacking with two swords in elegant figure-eight motions. Even the mounts fought, lashing out to crush chests.
Gregar stared, stunned. Each rider wore an ankle-length tabard of a red so dark as to be near black. Sinuous down the front and back writhed a long silver dragon sigil. Their mounts’ livery shared this dark blood-red field and sigil.
The Crimson Guard.
The two finished off the Grisian infantry with brutal efficiency. Then the spear-bearer turned to regard Gregar, planting the long weapon. Haraj came staggering out of the brush then, attracting everyone’s attention; the lad tripped over a torn bloody body, took one look, then promptly vomited, heaving and gagging in misery.
The two Crimson guardsmen exchanged arched looks. The spear-bearer inclined his head to Gregar in salute and remounted, while Haraj waved an arm, wiping the spume from his mouth. ‘Wait! Wait! We want to join the Guard!’
The two shared amused smiles. ‘Sorry,’ answered the spearman. ‘Our roster is full right now.’
‘No!’ Haraj insisted. ‘You don’t understand …’
The spearman pointed north. ‘There are refugees in the Coastal Range. Outlaws too. They’ll take you.’ The two kneed their mounts and thundered off.
‘No, wait!’ Haraj called after them, but he let his arms fall. ‘Dammit.’
‘I don’t think we made much of an impression,’ Gregar offered.
‘I’ll make an impression,’ Haraj practically snarled. ‘What now? I’m famished and cold and wet.’
Gregar waved to the bodies. ‘This lot must have something. Search them. And quickly, before more show up.’
Haraj recoiled. He shuddered and hugged himself. ‘Must we?’
‘If you want food and water. Myself, I might try to find some armour that fits.’
After rifling through all the bodies they came up with a few pouches of dried meat and wrapped boiled barley and assorted light weapons, and Gregar had selected a coat of mail that he believed might fit.
‘Now what?’ Haraj asked, burdened by seven skins of water thrown over a shoulder. ‘Which way?’
Gregar had to smile. He motioned to the twinned deep sets of hoofprints.
They set off running as best they could.
* * *
The hamlet on the south shore of the river Idryn was so small it didn’t even have a formal name. The locals Dancer had asked directions from just called it ‘the town’, and pointed them onward.