You took Andhun?’
‘Not exactly.’ Duvakh laughed, shook his head and got up, leaving Dansukh to pick up the story. Outside, he walked around the farmhouse in case someone was out there but he couldn’t see anything except the dying flames from the barn and the shadows they cast. He belched loudly and stamped away from the embers for a piss. The forkbeards had come out from behind Andhun’s walls. Duvakh reckoned the ardshan had had the numbers by about two to one and everyone who’d fought with them said that the forkbeards knew squat about fighting against mounted soldiers; then again everyone who fought with them knew they were crazy too. Well, there wouldn’t be any Vathen coming back from Andhun saying the forkbeards knew squat about fighting horsemen any more. Turned out they knew perfectly well with their wall of shields and their long spears and their Marroc archers. Still crazy, though.
He sighed as the pressure in his bladder eased. Say one thing for the Marroc – their beer tasted rotten but it did the trick. Oh, and say another thing for them – they could shoot. An arrow had torn through his gauntlet and ripped open the skin across the back of his hand. He counted himself lucky it hadn’t been a lot worse. The forkbeards, when they’d charged, had hit the ardshan’s lines like a battering ram. The ardshan’s foot-sloggers had simply folded and crumbled. Duvakh wasn’t sure the forkbeards had ever actually stopped moving.
He kicked the dead Marroc farmer one more time, wondering why this one hadn’t run like the rest when he’d seen Vathen coming over the hill. Marroc always ran. That was the joy of them.
Quiet footsteps came up behind him.
‘Suppose we’ll have to cross the hills or make our way back to the coast and the Weeping Giant,’ he muttered to whoever it was who’d come out to join him. He laughed. ‘And then listen to the foot-sloggers’ jibes and taunts.’ He spat. ‘Maybe we should stay out here on the edge of the wild, helping ourselves to whatever comes our way. Tempting thought, eh?’
Some sixth sense suddenly made him wonder if the footsteps behind him weren’t another one of his ride out for a piss after all. His sixth sense was right too, just not quick enough. By the time he turned the axe was already coming down.
The Vathan turned at the last moment. His mouth fell open and he reeled back in surprise. Gallow’s axe blade went straight through his face, opening him from cheek to cheek and smashing his jaw. He made a hooting noise and then the backswing caught him cleanly on the nape of his neck. Gallow caught him as he fell. He dragged the dead Vathan into the shadows and crouched beside him, listening. There were five horses tethered outside the farmhouse. Four more Vathen inside then. With luck the others were drunk too.
The house fell quiet. A voice called, ‘Duvakh?’ Gallow crept back around the walls, bent almost double as he passed each window, to where the Screambreaker stood with an ear pressed against the stone. He held up four fingers and pointed inside. Trying to get Corvin to stay a half-mile away with the horses was like talking to the tide, asking it not to ebb and flow. He’d given up.
The Screambreaker shook his head and held up another finger.
‘They heard me,’ Gallow whispered.
The Screambreaker yanked him close and hissed in his ear. ‘Didn’t they just. Clumsy oaf. Should have let him go back inside.’
‘I want to take them where there’s space.’
‘And
I
wanted to hear what happened at Andhun.’ He spat. ‘Still, too late for that now. They heard something and now they’re nervy as virgins in spring. Get on with it and call them out!’
‘No.’ He wished he’d kept some of the Vathan arrows now. When they were on their horses, the Vathen preferred bows or their javelots, spears light enough to throw but hefty enough to run a man through. The quivers on the horses here were empty. ‘They’ll come out soon enough,
‘Not exactly.’ Duvakh laughed, shook his head and got up, leaving Dansukh to pick up the story. Outside, he walked around the farmhouse in case someone was out there but he couldn’t see anything except the dying flames from the barn and the shadows they cast. He belched loudly and stamped away from the embers for a piss. The forkbeards had come out from behind Andhun’s walls. Duvakh reckoned the ardshan had had the numbers by about two to one and everyone who’d fought with them said that the forkbeards knew squat about fighting against mounted soldiers; then again everyone who fought with them knew they were crazy too. Well, there wouldn’t be any Vathen coming back from Andhun saying the forkbeards knew squat about fighting horsemen any more. Turned out they knew perfectly well with their wall of shields and their long spears and their Marroc archers. Still crazy, though.
He sighed as the pressure in his bladder eased. Say one thing for the Marroc – their beer tasted rotten but it did the trick. Oh, and say another thing for them – they could shoot. An arrow had torn through his gauntlet and ripped open the skin across the back of his hand. He counted himself lucky it hadn’t been a lot worse. The forkbeards, when they’d charged, had hit the ardshan’s lines like a battering ram. The ardshan’s foot-sloggers had simply folded and crumbled. Duvakh wasn’t sure the forkbeards had ever actually stopped moving.
He kicked the dead Marroc farmer one more time, wondering why this one hadn’t run like the rest when he’d seen Vathen coming over the hill. Marroc always ran. That was the joy of them.
Quiet footsteps came up behind him.
‘Suppose we’ll have to cross the hills or make our way back to the coast and the Weeping Giant,’ he muttered to whoever it was who’d come out to join him. He laughed. ‘And then listen to the foot-sloggers’ jibes and taunts.’ He spat. ‘Maybe we should stay out here on the edge of the wild, helping ourselves to whatever comes our way. Tempting thought, eh?’
Some sixth sense suddenly made him wonder if the footsteps behind him weren’t another one of his ride out for a piss after all. His sixth sense was right too, just not quick enough. By the time he turned the axe was already coming down.
The Vathan turned at the last moment. His mouth fell open and he reeled back in surprise. Gallow’s axe blade went straight through his face, opening him from cheek to cheek and smashing his jaw. He made a hooting noise and then the backswing caught him cleanly on the nape of his neck. Gallow caught him as he fell. He dragged the dead Vathan into the shadows and crouched beside him, listening. There were five horses tethered outside the farmhouse. Four more Vathen inside then. With luck the others were drunk too.
The house fell quiet. A voice called, ‘Duvakh?’ Gallow crept back around the walls, bent almost double as he passed each window, to where the Screambreaker stood with an ear pressed against the stone. He held up four fingers and pointed inside. Trying to get Corvin to stay a half-mile away with the horses was like talking to the tide, asking it not to ebb and flow. He’d given up.
The Screambreaker shook his head and held up another finger.
‘They heard me,’ Gallow whispered.
The Screambreaker yanked him close and hissed in his ear. ‘Didn’t they just. Clumsy oaf. Should have let him go back inside.’
‘I want to take them where there’s space.’
‘And
I
wanted to hear what happened at Andhun.’ He spat. ‘Still, too late for that now. They heard something and now they’re nervy as virgins in spring. Get on with it and call them out!’
‘No.’ He wished he’d kept some of the Vathan arrows now. When they were on their horses, the Vathen preferred bows or their javelots, spears light enough to throw but hefty enough to run a man through. The quivers on the horses here were empty. ‘They’ll come out soon enough,
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