‘As you wish.’ Tukul reached down and slipped the leather cover from his axe. All-Father, may my arm be strong and my sword sharp. He glanced at Meical, at the longsword hanging at his hip. ‘When was the last time you used your sword?’
‘In this world of flesh? Against the wolven that gave me these.’ He ran a finger along the silver scars that raked his face. ‘Do not worry, my friend. If it comes to sword-work, I think I can remember what to do.’
The warriors rode up, pulled up before them.
‘What’s your business here?’ asked one of them, an older man, grey hair pulled back from his face.
‘We are travelling to Narvon. Just looking for a place to rest the night,’ Meical said, his voice warm, relaxed.
‘Where are you from?’ the old man asked. Men moved to their sides, curling around them.
‘Carnutan. Leaving the war behind. We’ve been on the road since midsummer. What’s the news, here?’
‘You’ve come to the wrong place if you’re running from war,’ one of the other warriors spoke up, a younger one, his beard thin with youth.
‘I heard Brenin was a peaceful king,’ Meical said.
‘Brenin’s dead. Rhin rules here,’ the young one said.
‘What about you?’ the older man said, fixing his eyes on Tukul. ‘You don’t look as if you’re from Carnutan.’
Tukul just stared at him, not sure what to say. Diplomacy had never been his strength.
‘He’s got the look of one of those that came with that foreign king,’ another man said.
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ the older man said.
‘There were Jehar here?’ Tukul blurted.
‘Jehar – that’s it. And I’m thinking you know that already. Are you a deserter? Not got the stomach for war? You should be across the water with the rest of your lot, with Rhin and Nathair.’
Tukul saw Meical stiffen at that.
‘He rode here from Carnutan, with me,’ Meical said, hiding his shock.
The old man looked at them both. ‘Think you’d both best come with me. We’ll see what Evnis has to say about this.’
‘Evnis?’ Meical said.
‘Aye. He rules here in Rhin’s place. Come along now.’
Riders closed about them.
Without a word, or even a warning look to Tukul, Meical burst into motion. His sword arced into the warrior nearest him, cutting upwards into his jaw, teeth and blood exploding. The man fell backwards, gurgling. Before any could react, Meical was turning his arm, using the momentum of his first strike to form his second, looping his blade down to crack into the helm of another warrior, denting the helm, the man slumping, senseless or dead.
Tukul pulled his axe free, threw it, and was drawing his sword from its scabbard across his back as the axe buried itself in the old warrior’s chest. Then the others were moving, shouting, yanking on reins, horses neighing, crushing together, weapons hissing from scabbards.
A spear-blade grazed Tukul’s cheek as he swayed in his saddle, using his knees and ankles to guide his mount straight towards the man with his axe in his chest. He grabbed the shaft as the man toppled backwards, wrenching it free, used the axe to turn another spear thrust and sliced his sword through the man’s throat, leaving blood arcing.
Four down, eight left. You need space, old man; don’t let them crowd you. He spurred his horse on, crashing through the loose circle that was pulling tight about him, sword and axe swirling, deflecting, cutting, another warrior toppling in his wake. Then he was in open space, turf instead of horseflesh about him. He tugged on his reins, his mount turning a tight circle, and caught a glimpse of Meical with blood on his face, his horse rearing, hooves lashing out. Riders were approaching from the village, galloping: more warriors seeing the conflict, five, ten, more.
This is not looking good.
He swayed in his saddle, leaning heavily to avoid a sword cut, slashed the man’s leg as he pulled back up, the muscles in his back straining, complaining, his axe-blade biting deep, turning on bone. He pulled it free, deflected a sword stabbing at his chest, heard the pounding of galloping hooves drawing closer, closer.
Meical, I must reach Meical.
Then horses were all about him. It took a moment to register who their riders were – holding their swords two-handed, carving through their enemy with great swooping blows, tracing crimson arcs through the air. His sword-kin, the Jehar. All of them.
Within heartbeats their enemy were dead or dying, the ground about them churned, slippery with blood and bodies. A riderless horse trotted away, stopped and began cropping when it found some grass.
Tukul saw Enkara. ‘You were supposed to wait,’ he said to her, then grinned. ‘I am glad you didn’t.’
She grinned back.
No more riders were issuing from the village, though many were milling about on foot, pointing. A horn blast rang out, answered from the fortress on the hill.