‘They’re not!’ Liliwen wailed. ‘We’ve lost them and we’ll never see them again.’
‘How did you become separated?’
‘We were waiting outside the front gate,’ said Liliwen. ‘Mother and Father were trying to get something from the house. All these people came running down the road, screaming. Millions!’ she said hyperbolically. ‘We got carried along with them and when we went back, our house was on fire. Mother and Father were gone.’
‘It burned to the ground,’ said Meriwen. ‘We waited for ages but they didn’t come back. Then people started screaming and running away, so we ran too.’
‘Your parents are probably up ahead,’ said Nish. ‘Waiting for you.’
‘I hope so,’ Liliwen said doubtfully.
This was developing the wrong way. He could not afford to take on someone else’s problems. Two girls, alone on the road with no one to look after them, did not bear thinking about. He told himself that this situation must have been repeated countless times in the war, but it made no difference. He knew the girls now and could not abandon them.
The day grew hot, and Nish’s leg more painful with every step. Liliwen was struggling too. They came to a rivulet trickling across the road, its reeds trampled into mud. Nish eyed the brown water, swallowing raspily. If he drank here it would probably make him sick.
The girls stood by. ‘I can’t go any further.’ Liliwen wiped away tears of pain.
Her sister pointed upstream to where a pair of umbrella-shaped trees leaned towards each other. ‘It’ll be cool in the shade.’
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to stop yet,’ said Nish. ‘The enemy –’
‘We don’t need your help,’ said Meriwen, eyes flashing.
‘Yes, we do. Don’t be silly, sis.’
The shade looked beautifully cool, and Nish’s throat was as dry as the soles of his boots, so he accompanied them up the wooded stream, gripping his mallet. It was a good place for an ambush. There were all kinds of vermin on the road, desperate for whatever they could get.
His stomach began to bubble and churn. The stream was about a long leap across, and here flowing clear and clean. The girls cooled their feet in the running water. Nish drank until he was bursting, then looked for fruit, nuts or anything else edible. He found nothing; it was too early in the season. Judging by the trails twisting through the scrub, plenty of game came to drink, though he doubted if anything would be slow enough for him to thump with the mallet.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got flint and tinder in your pack?’ he said to Meriwen.
‘Of course! Do you want to make a fire?’
‘I need to boil water and bathe my wounds.’
She handed him a flintstone, a small packet of tinder and a little cooking pot with a wire handle. Nish gathered dry wood and soon had a fire going. It gave off just the faintest trail of blue smoke. He heated water, cleaned his wounds, then poked the dirty bandages under the boiling water. After a few minutes he fished them out with a stick and, when they were cool enough, wrapped the wounds again.
His stomach was now churning like a milk separator. Those wretched oysters! Nish hobbled into the scrub to relieve himself. It took a long while, and he had just turned back when he heard a muffled cry.
The girls! Why had he gone so far from the fire? He ran a few steps before realising that he was heading in the wrong direction. Everything looked the same in this scrub. Walking in a circle until he found his footmarks, he followed them back. When he finally burst into the clearing by the rivulet, the girls were gone.
If he lost them, Meriwen and Liliwen were as good as dead. Their abductors would take them away from the crowded road. Which way? They might have gone up the stream, or off into the scrub. He hunted for tracks.
There were tracks everywhere. Hundreds of refugees had filled their water bottles here. Nish hobbled back and forth, feeling panicky. Why hadn’t he been more careful? He’d had a bad feeling about this place from the beginning.
Tracks ran into the scrub here and there, though none were the right size. Wading the stream, he searched the other side and came upon several sets of marks leading upstream. Among them he saw a small bootprint. Nish limped that way.
There could have been two abductors, or even three. Bad odds, especially if they were armed. One man with a sword would make short work of his mallet. Hopefully they would not take the children too far, or Nish’s injured leg would beat him. He followed the tracks for a few hundred paces by the water, came into a clearing and lost them on hard ground.
Now what? Nish stopped, cupping his ear. Was that a groan? No, just the wind rubbing two tree trunks together. Had they gone back across the stream? He could see no tracks there. He took the risk and kept going. Despair crept over him. If he lost them he would never be able to forgive himself.
There – a footprint in the soft mud of a dried-up pool. It belonged to one of the girls, and the dry grass was crushed beside it. He followed stealthily and, anxious minutes later, caught a flash up ahead, perhaps the sun reflecting off a pack buckle. Creeping forward, he peered between the trees.
There were two of them: big, unshaven ruffians in filthy clothes. Each had hold of a struggling girl but, as Nish watched, the taller of the men struck Meriwen across the face and threw her down on the grass. Nish had a moment of panic, a failure of nerve. There was no way he could attack them both. He closed his eyes, feeling sick. Then Meriwen screamed.
He hurled himself through the trees, ignoring the agony in his leg, and swung wildly at the man who held Liliwen. His leg folded up and the blow missed. Thrusting Liliwen to one side, the man lashed out.
The blow caught Nish on the side of the head, making his skull ring. He staggered backwards. The man came after him, arms flailing. Nish did not have the strength to lift the mallet above his head. All he could do, as the bearish man lunged, was to swing it up, underarm.
The amateurish attack took the man by surprise and the heavy, iron-bound mallet caught him fair under the chin. His head snapped back so hard that his feet lifted off the ground. He fell, legs thrashing.
The other fellow flailed at Nish with a cudgel, which caught him on the elbow. The mallet went flying and Nish’s whole arm began to go numb. The backswing crashed against his ribs. The third blow was aimed at his head.
Nish ducked but the cudgel clipped the top of his skull, knocking him to his knees. His vision blurred; he could hardly see. His hand, scratching on the ground, found a pebble. Nish hurled it at the ruffian’s face. It missed.
The man kicked Nish’s legs from under him. Nish went sprawling. The man lunged. Hands big enough to throttle a steer went around his throat. The fellow gave out a horrible, black-toothed grin and squeezed.
TWENTY-SIX
Nish tried to push him off but the man pinned his shoulders with his knees. Then he tried to knee the ruffian in the groin but was in the wrong position. He kicked and squirmed. It was no good. The huge thumbs dug into his windpipe.
Tossing his head from side to side, he managed to gasp, ‘Please, don’t!’
The man spat in his face. As Nish began to black out, he gave one last, despairing heave. It failed.
There came a nauseating pulpy thud and the man collapsed on top of him, his eyes wide open. Nish choked; the fingers had locked around his neck. He tried to push the fellow off but he was far too heavy. Nish managed to get his fingers under the man’s thumbs and prise them away. Liliwen was on her knees, heaving on one arm. Together they rolled him to one side.
Nish could not stand up. He wiped his face and gasped, ‘Thank you. Are you all right?’
She nodded stiffly, avoiding his eyes.
‘What happened?’
‘I whacked him in the back of the head with your mallet,’ whispered Liliwen. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’