Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Read online

  Gearnach, who had crawled speedily back to join the hunting party, whispered, “My lord Gunnlaug, you and the other princes must not endanger your lives by challenging these creatures. As your fathers’ heirs you bear that responsibility to your people.”

  “Nay, Two-Swords,” Halvdan said quickly. “It is there you are mistaken. Leaders who are not prepared to defend their subjects are unfit to rule them.”

  “Aye,” brothers Kieran and Ronin said together.

  “Indeed Halvdan is right,” Walter of Narngalis agreed.

  For the blink of an eye Gearnach held still, while a thousand concerns whirled through his mind. He was aware that if they were to strike the Marauders they must strike soon, or they would lose the advantage. The five sons of kings under his care were fearless; he had guessed they would refuse to be left out of any action, and as their vassal he was in no position to gainsay them. Making one last attempt to do what he considered to be his duty, he said, “We must let them pass, but send messengers to the village to raise the alarm.”

  The princes would not hear of it.

  “Quit your dawdling, man!” said Gunnlaug, seething. “Let’s skewer them.”

  If the knight was nettled at the prince’s insulting tone, he was too disciplined to show it. Besides, his thoughts were occupied with matters at hand. All members of the hunting party were trained fighters. It was part of a princely education to study the martial skills, and the gamekeepers and equerries who accompanied the princes on hunting trips had also been tutored in combat, for they additionally performed the role of bodyguards.

  Conall Gearnach rapidly calculated the odds. The hunting party numbered only a dozen, but he reckoned he could personally take on two foes at a time. Furthermore, if the Marauders were allowed to reach the spur’s furthest out-post and begin descending into the valley of the Fiskflød he and his companions would gain an extra advantage; not only would they take the brigands by surprise, they would be attacking from higher ground. There would be an opportunity for some archery before they engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

  The knight made his decision.

  “Follow me,” he said. “Keep low and be silent. When I give the signal, move quickly to the attack. Loose your arrows. Keep shooting until they either scatter and flee, or rush us. If they advance, draw your blades for close work.”

  The huntsmen crept up the slope in the wake of the Marauders. Soon the brigands reached the eastern end of the spur, where it began to fall away into the dale. They commenced their descent. At their backs, the huntsmen quietly congregated along the very spine of the ridge, looking down upon their foes. Trees were sparser on this northern incline. Spruce gave way to ivy-carpeted birch-woods, their delicate boughs in early bud. In the wooded valley at the foot of the spur, mist was rising from the broad and winding river. Through the trees on the far shore, the slate roof of a tiny cluster of houses could be glimpsed. Tendrils of smoke trailed from their chimneys. Sunlight snagged like filaments of glitter on the topmost crags of the mountains that rose behind the village. The huntsmen drew arrows from quivers, nocked them to the bowstrings, and stealthily moved forward. Calculating his moment, Gearnach sketched a quick downward stroke through the air, and the skirmish ensued.

  Prince Gunnlaug’s arrow was first to spring from the bow; he had not waited for Gearnach’s downstroke but had let fly as soon as the knight raised his hand. The shafts of his companions were not far behind, and three huge Marauders lay writhing, mortally wounded by the time the remainder realized they were under attack. During the ensuing moments another four suffered injury and fell screaming to the ground. Some of the brigands dashed for cover while others ran up the incline towards their assailants, who continued to loose their arrows. The Marauders were drawing knives from their scabbards as they charged.

  “These two are mine!” Roaring at the top of his voice Gearnach sprang forward to meet the leaders, both his swords at the ready. Faced with the unexpected sight of the twin blades whirling and flashing like the spokes of interlocking wheels of light, the Marauders momentarily balked. In their instant of hesitation Gearnach was upon them. As he fought, more Marauders bounded up the hill to join the fray, one by one, like nightmarish giants. Their group was scattered, with some sheltering from the barrage behind trees, while those who had been furthest down the hill were still scrambling back up to join their fellows. This meant that those who arrived first were outnumbered. The huntsmen cut them down; then, leaving Gearnach to dispatch his opponents, they plunged down the slope to engage the balance of their enemies. Having ascertained that he himself would be in no great danger, Prince Gunnlaug leaped down at the heels of his companions, yelling and brandishing his sword. On reaching the wounded swarmsmen he hacked them to death where they lay.

  Conall Gearnach, wiping the blood of his defeated opponents from his eyes, raced down the hill to join his charges. As he ran he tried to scan the scene. Trees blocked his view, but he calculated that twelve of their foes lay dead. Suddenly he flung himself to one side, somersaulted and nimbly rolled back onto his feet. Two Marauders had jumped out at him from behind the trunk of a forest giant. Having barely evaded their first assault Gearnach set to, defending himself, his swords arcing and slicing, no longer bright but dark with gore. Yet he remained partly blinded by blood and sweat, while his assailants, who had been in hiding, were clear-sighted and vigorous. The knight found himself hard-pressed. Only capable of peering from one bleary eye, he was forced to give ground. Focusing all his attention on the struggle, he could not spare the breath to shout for help, but he was aware that unless he received aid, he would soon be cut down. Having parried the swarmsmen’s blades, he simultaneously locked swords with them both. With his single sighted eye he saw a knife being driven towards his heart. In that flash it was clear that by the time he had unlocked his own weapons it would be too late to deflect the blow. Driven by desperation, the knight dropped one of his swords, intending to make a last-ditch attempt to ward off the lethal stroke with his bare arm; but there was no time. Gearnach knew he was about to die.

  As he steeled himself to be riven by the final wound another blade entered his field of vision. Halvdan was there, thwacking the knife aside with the flat of his sword and sending it spinning. Gearnach swept his remaining weapon in an upward arc, slitting open the belly of his nearest oppressor. Having finished off one opponent he turned to the other, but the fellow, perceiving that reinforcements had turned the tide, had already taken to his heels.

  “Thirteen down!” bellowed Gearnach. “Seven to go!”

  He passed his sleeve across his eyes to wipe them clear, and when he looked again Halvdan was gone; but there was plenty of action further down the slope in the twilight, so he took himself amongst it.

  Soon the fight was over. By the time the last brigand had been slain or driven off, young Ronin of Slievmordhu, white-faced, was seated on the ground with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Around him the slender birch-trunks glimmered palely in the gloaming. Evening moths flittered on the edges of vision, like half-forgotten thoughts. Gunnlaug stood with feet braced apart, shooting arrows at any movement amongst the trees, no matter that it was only the wind, while the equerries, bearers and other attendants collected fallen arrow-shafts and counted the corpses of sixteen Marauders.

  “No stomach for blood, eh?” Gunnlaug said to Ronin, guffawing.

  “Four have got away,” growled Gearnach, wiping his sword-blades on the grass. “But they’ll not forget this encounter.”

  “They shall think twice before they venture onto Grïmnørsland soil again!” yelled Gunnlaug, wasting more arrows.

  “What are our casualties?” Conall Gearnach asked one of the gamekeepers.

  “Five wounded, one slain, sir. Prince Halvdan’s page lies dead. Their royal highnesses are unhurt.”

  “Tend to the wounded.” The knight slid his weapons into their scabbards, one to each side of his body.

  “This is a great pity,” said W
alter of Narngalis. “Garth Carter was a fine lad. His mother will grieve.” The prince’s voice sounded hoarse; he was indeed deeply moved by the death of the youth. Swiftly he crouched beside one of the injured men, who had been groaning in pain, and began to give him water from a flask.

  Kieran of Slievmordhu was leaning on his sword, breathing heavily. “Where is Halvdan?” he asked.

  The huntsmen looked about. King Thorgild’s second son was nowhere in sight. It came to Gearnach like a stone hitting him in the heart: he had not set eyes on the flaxen-haired prince since the incident in which Halvdan had saved his life.

  “I saw him over there, near that fallen tree swathed in moss,” Walter said, but there was doubt in his voice. Raising his finger, he pointed.

  Almost before the words had left the prince’s lips Gearnach had hastened over to the spot, and was kneeling on the greensward. “There are tracks,” he said urgently. “Many marks of boots in the soft ground, and long grooves, as if something has been dragged along.” Next instant he was off again, leaping over fallen boughs and tussocks, heading in the direction indicated by the grooves. Before his companions fully understood his purpose he had disappeared into the birch-wood.

  “He’ll need support. I shall go after him,” said Kieran, picking up his sword.

  “I too,” said Walter. He jumped to his feet.

  Kieran’s equerry made protest to his lord. “Nay, Your Highness, begging your pardon,” he said, “ ‘Twould be folly. We no longer have the advantage of surprise. In those woods ambushers might pick off any man with ease. Your father would not forgive me, were you to be harmed. I am somewhat skilled in healing, which may be of use. I beseech you, let me go in your stead.”

  The gamekeepers volunteered to join him, but Kieran, his eyes alight, would not be swayed. “I will aid Halvdan!” he cried, quickly tucking a full water-flask into his belt-pouch.

  Moving closer to his lord, the equerry murmured rapidly, and in low tones, so that none might overhear, “Sir, I pray, look about you. Your brother’s face is milk-white, and I fear he feels somewhat faint. Prince Gunnlaug wishes only to find more heads to break. Prince Walter is concerned for our wounded, and I ween he would thank you, were you to take charge for now, in place of Prince Halvdan. Gearnach and the gamekeepers are woodcraf ty. If they cannot discover the son of Thorgild, then no man can.”

  Reluctantly, Kieran acquiesced. Gunnlaug, who had flung himself down on a carpet of ground-ivy to rest, said, “Two-Swords knows what he is at. I daresay he will rescue my brother and soon return with him. But if you fellows are so keen on this mission, then hie hence.” Not to be outdone, to his own equerry he said, “You, Riordan, accompany them.”

  Unaware that several of his companions were following him, Conall Gearnach careered through the canting woodlands. The light was fading, but he was tracing a conspicuous trail of broken twigs and crumpled vegetation. The sweet fragrance of crushed mint-bush scented the air, and the dainty rich purple petals of royal bluebells flew up from his running feet.

  Presently the trees opened out, and he burst into a glade. He slewed to a halt. Before him two lumbering Marauders, as tall as horses, were hauling the limp form of Prince Halvdan between them in a strenuous effort to cross the clearing and reach the shelter of the trees. The moment they spied the avenging knight they let fall their burden, but it was too late. Whipping out his knife, Gearnach fearlessly leapt upon one of the brigands. Locked together, they crashed to the ground, tumbling over and over in a desperate struggle until, with a lightning movement, Gearnach slashed his throat. Confronted by this apparently berserk fiend, the other fellow made off in reckless haste.

  “Are you alive?” Gearnach said, dropping to his knees beside the prince.

  Halvdan, barely conscious, nodded weakly. He lay spent but living, amongst the prickly spears of alpine crowthistle. Crashing noises issued from the woods behind them, and Gearnach jumped up. He whirled to face whatever new danger threatened, this time drawing his swords. On spying the three retainers who emerged into the clearing he sheathed the blades once more, barking, “Tend to his highness. Do not wait for me. I will meet you at the lodge.” He dashed off again in the wake of the fleeing Marauder.

  “Bide!” Halvdan weakly called after the knight, but to no avail. Gearnach, moving at speed, was already out of earshot.

  “Your Highness!” exclaimed the Head Gamekeeper.

  “I am hale,” said Halvdan, dismissively waving a hand. His appearance belied his words; he was spattered with ichor and grime, his garments ripped to tatters. “It is Two-Swords for whom you should be concerned. Darkness is nigh, and the woods wallow in shadow. To pursue a lone brig-and is not only perilous but also bootless. I would have stopped him, if I could. It is sheer folly.”

  “Lord, it is our duty to bring you safely back to the hunting lodge,” said Gunnlaug’s equerry, Riordan. “Come, let us bear you to your comrades.”

  The retainers half-carried Halvdan back to the scene of the skirmish, where the rest of the hunting party waited. Joyously they greeted the prince, but their delight turned to dismay when they heard of Gearnach’s grim and reckless quest.

  “Alone at this time of the evening!” exclaimed Walter. “Unseelie wights will soon be out and about.”

  “In the darkness a man might easily lose his footing,” said Ronin of Slievmordhu.

  “Let us hope that common sense prevails,” his brother Kieran said, “and Gearnach soon abandons this mad mission. Halvdan, my friend, let my equerry bandage your wounds. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you!”

  “There is no need for fuss,” said Halvdan, swaying as he stood.

  “Lo, this one is still somewhat quick!” cried Gunnlaug. He began to kick one of the dying Marauders in the ribs and skull, until Walter of Narngalis pushed him aside and with one clean blow of his sword severed the ill-proportioned head of the suffering colossus.

  “We are not unseelie wights,” he said coldly to Gunnlaug. “We do not torment our enemies. It is the duty of honorable men to grant mercy. We owe our fellow men a clean death, at least, be they ever so ill-made.”

  “It was only sport,” the Grïmnørslander retorted sourly. “Let’s go hunting the rest of these filth. That was the best amusement I have had since I speared that big boar in the Forest of Svalbard.”

  “Nay, Gunnlaug. Darkness falls, and they are gone,” said Ronin.

  “In that case, let us hunt game!”

  Walter said, “There are some few injured men here, in addition to Halvdan, and we must bear them to shelter. Besides, with all that shouting, the quarry will be far away.”

  “Then let us bring our wounded to the village down there in the valley,” Gunnlaug said. “We might get us some beer and enjoy some wenching.”

  Wearily, Halvdan clapped a scored and bloody hand on his brother’s shoulder. He shook his head. “Come away, Gunnlaug,” he said. “Come away, come back to the lodge. This night’s work is done.”

  Gunnlaug sneered and scowled, reluctantly acquiescing to the decision of the majority.

  Prince Kieran’s equerry, skilled in healing, bound the bleeding cuts of the injured men. The other attendants fashioned makeshift litters from birch-boughs to carry their dead and wounded.

  The sun had set, leaving a pale orange smear across the roof of the ocean. Lit by the soft radiance of afterglow, the burdened men trudged back to the hunting lodge. The Steward of the Lodge and his staff rushed out to meet the returning party, proffering aid.

  Halvdan, who had managed to stay on his feet, his arm across the strong shoulders of Kieran, said, “Send messengers to my father and Hrosskel at Trøndelheim, and to the village of Ødegaard beyond the Fiskflød. Tell them Marauders roam in these parts.”

  By the time they reached the threshold there had as yet been no news of Gearnach. He had not returned. White stars blazed over the sky-stabbing crags, and still there came no sign of the avenging knight.

  While the rest of the wounded were bein
g doctored, the five princes bathed and put on fresh garments. Afterwards they dined together in a long room warmed by a bright hearth-fire. Lost in their thoughts and their exhaustion, they conversed very little. The only sounds to be heard were the clatter of cutlery, the roar of the blaze in the fireplace and the eerie cries of the wind careering in from the ocean, which plucked at the eaves and rattled the panes. Once, Walter of Narngalis broke the silence.

  “I cannot help but wonder why those cave-dwellers traveled so far west.”

  “ ’Tis not out of character,” replied Kieran of Slievmordhu. “Marauders prefer to prey in regions they have previously left alone, where villagers are unsuspecting and unwary. It is known also that some amongst them are wont to travel and explore, perhaps in search of new lairs.”

  Following this brief exchange, silence again stole over the fellowship. As they hearkened to the wind’s lonely lament their thoughts fled into the darkness beyond the lodge’s thick stone wralls. Somewhere out there in the distance was a lone knight, perhaps wandering lost, perhaps lying dead. They listened for any hint of Gearnach’s return, but all they could hear was the incessant wind, and the scrape of a twig against the roof-shingles, and the sudden sputter of sparks exploding in the grate.

  Evening dragged into night. The heads of the royal youths began to nod, and, wearied by their exploits of high adventure the princes took themselves to their couches to rest. Still no tramping footsteps echoed on the steep path leading up to the lodge, signaling the return of a weary knight. Throughout the lightless hours there came no knock at the door, no voice calling out from beneath the windows; only the screech of a passing owl, the disquieting high-pitched laughter of eldritch wights and the sobbing of some mortal sleeper in the lodge, trapped by evil dreams.

  Beyond the walls, mighty breakers pounded the cliffs all night, and the wind barreled in over the brine, sharp with salt and ice. When the princes awoke at first light there was yet no word of their missing comrade.