Time to move.
Drem slipped the bolts on the barn door, padded back behind the baggage ponies he’d brought in from the stables. With a great shout, he slapped one on the rump, another and another, sent them neighing and bursting through the barn doors as they exploded outwards into the yard, men turning, yelling, leaping out of the way, slipping, sliding, falling in the snow and ice.
Men went down, trampled, the sound of screams, bones splintering, the horses bolting left and right, some to the paddock, some for the yard’s gate and the track away from Drem’s hold.
Men were groaning, rising from the snow, others turning to stare at the barn. One at least lay motionless in the courtyard. Drem stood just inside, set his feet and hurled his spear, saw it punch into a man’s chest, hurling him onto his back, an eruption of blood, bright on the snow.
Men shouted, saw him. Started to move.
Still too many.
Drem reached to his bundle of weapons set on a crate beside him, gripped a short axe, hefted its weight and threw it. A man went down in a spray of teeth and blood.
He gripped a knife handle, again taking a moment to gauge its weight, then hurled it at the men crowding the open gateway. A scream, a man stumbling, another axe and knife hefted and thrown. Then they were too close and Drem was running towards the back of the barn, stopped by a barrel of lime water that had been left from tanning last year’s furs, swept up his fire iron and struck sparks.
A WHUMPH as the barrel ignited and he kicked it over, hairs singeing, the men behind him skidding, one pushed by those behind him into the flames, screeching in agony, and Drem was running on, grabbing the reins of the pony he’d left saddled and tethered at the back of the barn and kicking at the boards he’d cut partway through last evening. He crashed out into bright daylight and snow, his pony only too eager to follow and escape from the flames and screams. Drem clambered onto his mount, dragging on the reins and cantered round the side of the barn to the front of his yard. Shouts behind him, the crunch of footsteps in snow told him there were at least some that still chased him.
A handful of men were still in the yard, three or four. More staggering out from the barn. One of them was on fire, a human torch.
Six still standing in the yard, at least, and more behind me, and I’m out of tricks. Too many for me to take. Time to ride for Kergard, and get this lot to chase me. If I make it, then Ulf, Hildith and the Assembly will have to get involved, will have to protect me. It could lead to them doing something about the mine.
He put his heels to his pony and she neighed and leaped forwards, a dozen strides and she was close to a gallop, wind ripping tears from Drem’s eyes, the gateway of his courtyard looming closer.
An impact, a scream from his mount and he was falling, threw himself clear and grunted as he hit the snow, saw his pony rolling, a spear protruding from her chest. She screamed again, tried to regain her feet, but her strength was failing her, blood staining the snow pink.
Drem staggered to his feet, looked about wildly, saw Wispy and a handful of men running at him, the sound of men behind.
Some detached, analytical part of Drem’s mind hoped that the goats and chickens were all right, that they’d escaped from the fire that was now blazing through the barn, black smoke belching into the sky.
Almost made it.
He drew his sword, felt a comfort in the knowledge he’d put up a good fight, more than good. Enough to make his da proud. He just wanted to take Wispy Beard with him now. Wispy was running towards Drem, sword in his fist, screaming orders, spittle flying, almost incoherent.
‘Why don’t you come and kill me yourself?’ Drem shouted, surprising himself with the passion he felt, and he strode towards Wispy. Was pleased to see a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes. But then others were flanking him, spreading into a half-circle about Drem.
He didn’t wait for them, instead hurled himself at Wispy, startling him, slicing down with his sword as he ran. Wispy shuffled back, more stumble than swordcraft, managed to raise his own sword, deflecting Drem’s blade, though it still cut a red line into Wispy’s arm through his fur cloak. Drem swung again, a wild blow, his momentum carrying him on, his blade chopping into Wispy’s torso, leather and fur deflecting the blade, but Drem heard the distinct sound of ribs breaking, and then Drem was crashing into the man, both of them stumbling, falling to the ground, limbs tangled, Drem’s sword spinning away. Wispy cursed and spat, tried to headbutt Drem, failed, tried to bite him instead, managed to latch onto his ear. Drem felt the pain, but as a distant thing, utterly focused on inflicting as much damage upon this man as was possible before he ran out of time. He managed to connect a punch to the back of Wispy’s bald head, felt him loosen for a moment, teeth dropping away from his ear, and Drem pulled free, climbed to his feet.
Something clubbed him across the shoulders and he collapsed back on top of Wispy, felt his strength leaking away, but still managed to put a knee in Wispy’s groin and rolled away as the club came down again, missing him and driving into Wispy’s gut. Drem remembered his bone-handled knife, still sheathed at his belt, wrapped a fist around it, slashed across someone’s leg planted in the snow before his eyes, saw a spurt of blood, swung his seax wildly about him as he tried to scramble to his feet, slipping in the snow-churned mush.
A boot in his gut drove the air from him, sending him crashing back down. There was a thud in the small of his back, the worst pain so far, and he gasped, not enough air to scream. Slashed with his seax again, someone crying out, a shouted oath, a boot stamping on his forearm, his grip abruptly empty. Blinding pain in his wrist, a scream this time, breath or no breath. Kicked in the mouth, the taste of blood, kicked again in the chest, rolled onto his back. Something cold and sharp at his throat. Opening his eyes to silhouettes against the bright sky.
‘Get him up,’ a voice snarled. Wispy, he guessed. Drem didn’t care, was in a place beyond caring, he’d done his best, slain more than he believed possible. Smoke billowed in the sky above him, and Drem saw a shape highlighted by the black clouds.
A white bird, circling.
Is that death, come for my spirit? What form of bird does death take? That looks like a crow!
He heard it cawing, a raucous squawking.
Then he was being hauled to his feet, a noose wrapped around his neck.
Not this again.
He found the strength to scream, even knowing that it would not do him the slightest bit of good.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SIG