Some of the Sabrosi guards shook their heads, none prepared to argue with a lord, and the Asqueri, apparently mollified by the swift justice meted out to Kemen, began to drift apart, back to their duties, though some did cast dark looks at the Bloodbeards still formed tight around Kemen’s corpse. Biisay spat blood at the ground, cursed, and walked away.
“Do you wish to oppose my will?” Néit demanded, his aim now settled on Tulio.
The company leader bowed his head, “No my lord, I do not.”
“Good, then stand your men down and return to your duty.”
Tulio glanced at Zigor, who nodded. “Yes, lord,” said Tulio. He turned, signalling the guards to stand down. “Pick up his body,” Tulio ordered, pointing at the Kemen, “and prepare him for the Rites of Yam.”
The guards moved to follow his order but Néit stopped them.
“No!” he commanded. “He murdered the boy in cold blood, and invited death to us all through his idiocy and contempt.” Néit looked pointedly at Zigor. “He might as well have stolen food. He will get no rites and he will get no burial.” The guards looked up in disbelief. “Throw the body down the side and forget his name, this matter is ended,” finished Néit.
“My lord, surely you don’t mean that?” protested Bakar.
“He means it,” stated Ximo flatly, still looking along the length of an arrow.
“But lord Kerdhu,” said Bakar, ignoring Ximo, “you condemn him to walk the world as a shade, forever — ”
“ — forever damn to haunt the Wildwood and know no peace,” interrupted Néit. “Yes, I am well aware.” He looked down at the witch and smiled a wolf smile. “It is what he deserves,” he snarled, leaning a little closer. “I fully intend to reach Dinasdúr, and I’ll not allow any Huwan, Zaindari, Dire-beast, Puk or Demon Wite to stand in my way.” He stepped back, not waiting for a reply, lowered his aim with a gesture to the faltered caravan along the Way. “We travel in the same direction; we work to achieve the same goal. Anything else and we quite simply fail and die,” he said, looking down at the Naguali imperiously. He looked past him, over his head to the Wildwood beyond. “And I do not wish to die yet,” he added quietly, “I have far too much to do first.”
A whip crack snapped at the head of the caravan and the lead wagon lurched forward, the caravan rolling back into life all the way down the line. Bakar shook his head ruefully, stepped out of the way of their progress, and stalked over to the body of the fallen guard. He said a few quiet words over him and stood back as two of his comrades stripped him of his armour, his weapons, and all his clothes, which they dropped into a passing wagon. They lifted the naked carcass off the road, and without cast the body down the steep rocky slope into the trees tops below, silently, forming up with the rest of the Ker-Baecodán troops spreading themselves not quite equally along the caravan.
As the last wagon passed the place where Lucho lay, two of the crew picked him up and laid him next to the crewman with the broken toes. Bakar climbed on board and using the young lad’s own cloak as a shroud wrapped the body as best as he could in preparation for the funeral rites. The last two Sabrosi in line took a final look over the edge where they had cast Kemen, gave him the guards salute to the fallen, then jogged to catch up with the receding caravan, the creak of their leather armour the only sound between them.
It was morning of the fourteenth day, which according to the Boss meant they had maybe the same to go before they made it to Dinasdúr. The weather had tried to break over the past few days and to Tońa it felt as though spring had almost caught up with them; the nights were still deathly cold, but the days had a little warmth to them now and in the few places where the sun reached, the snow had begun to melt. But here on the high ground and in the shadowed hillsides, it still covered everything in a thick blanket. He pulled up the lead seeing the fog bank thrown across the Way, like a fallen tree, and the caravan came to another noisy halt behind him, and the quiet of the Wildwood enveloped them.
“What’s wrong?” asked Biisay quietly, walking up beside Tońa’s wagon.
Tońa pointed with his chin at the fog bank, “Got a feeling…,” he said by reply.
“Reckon you need a shit?” said Biisay sarcastically.
Tońa coughed a laugh. “Reckon I do.”
Biisay peered into the fog, and sniffed the air. “Colder, eh?”
“Yeah, I reckon it drops away, maybe steep.”
“Better check it out.”
“Better had….”
Biisay turned slightly to Tońa. “You’re the lead, mate, that’s down to you, no?”
“I thought you’d say that,” he said, handing the reins to his second.
“C’mon, I’ll go with you.”
Tońa climbed down to stand beside Biisay, his eyes fixed on the thick fog before them and Biisay checked back along the line of wagons winding through the trees on the crooked Way. Zigor stood high in his seat three wagons back, his arms raised in a silent question. Biisay signalled “unseen path and searching” with a palm over one eye, lifting the palm like flap, and Zigor nodded, waiving him on. Biisay hooked a finger to Mika and he came forward to join them.
“Lead the way,” he said to Mika.
“Bloody hells,” grumbled Tońa, “I should’ve had that dump.”
“Ha…that’ll have to wait. Go on…and tread carefully,” warned Biisay.
Tońa moved off, following Mika’s lead, the fog as thick as soup mere yards from his shins and he followed the slope dropping steeply within yards of the head of the caravan and Tońa felt as though he were wading into a lake without substance, his feet, legs and hips hidden beneath surface, a chill like that of deep water seeping into his flesh. He cast one last glance back to his Asqueri comrades, the faces he could see above the rise of the slope all on him, and walked on, feeling the way with the soles of his boots until his head was below the fog line and the party of three disappeared from the view of the rest of the caravanners entirely.
“Kind of dark ain’t it?” muttered Tońa, as he crept forward through the still murk, his voice muted by the fog all around them.
Biisay nodded, “Fog should burn off, once the sun rises fully.” He spoke in a whisper, despite the close proximity of the caravan and its customary sounds.
Mika turned to them, his heavy brow furrowed in a scowl, blue eyes glaring, and hissed for silence. Biisay exchanged a glance with Tońa, who shrugged, one eyebrow raised in mock query but he nodded back to Mika and they moved on, careful and quiet in the fog, the lack of light seeming to make them crouch lower, as though they crawled down a tunnel. After many steps, each one taken carefully to avoid kicking stones, or slipping on slick patches of night ice, they found the Old Way levelling off beneath the layer of fog, the slope flattening in the cold air below the fog bank, the light of the late dawn only a mere glow above them, and yet their vision clearer here than it had been above.
Mike stood in the middle of the Way, sniffing the air, and both Biisay and Tońa came alert, their hands settling on the hilts of their long daggers.
“What’s wrong?” whispered Biisay.
Mika didn’t respond, but crouched low and sniffed again, peering into the gloom on either side of the route, trying to pierce the trees all around with his narrowed gaze, until, his gaze still on the fog-shrouded trees, he stood.
“There is a smell on the wind….” he offered by explanation; his voice low but strong. “Not beast I know…but something.” He closed his eyes, as though trying to remember that shape or face of the odour, sniffing once more as he tried to recall, but he shook his head. “Gone, like leaf on wind.” He looked back up the way they had come, into the sullen fog overhead. “Maybe us…?” he shrugged.
Tońa groaned aloud. “You got me all wound up for nothing?”
“Maybe….”
“Mother’s bones, man, you scared the shit out of me!”
Mika grinned. “You said you needed dump, no?”
Tońa shot Mika a scowl, but nodded. “You stay here; I’m goin” behind that tree now we’re here.”
“Sure,” replied Biisay, “but don’t hang around, the Boss’ll get jumpy if we’re too long with no word. He’s likely to send half those fucking Bloodbeards down here just to check we haven’t wandered off.”
“A man can’t get a peaceful crap anywhere these days,” grumbled Tońa, stepping off the path.
“Just be quick about, Tońa, we’ve the whole day yet.”
And so here he sat atop his wagon, feeling much relieved, looking down the path he knew fell away before him, just able to make out his old mate Bikendi through the whorls of morning fog gathered in the deep hollow below sat atop his own wagon as it made its way down the dangerously steep decline.
To Bikendi’s rear, two teams of crew hauled back on thick ropes lashed to the chassis, adding their weight and muscle as a brake to the heavily laden wagon as it ponderously made the treacherous descent. Tońa could barely see the fog obscured Muskies but their frustrated snorting echoed clearly across the hollow, held on their own tight rein against the downward momentum of the wagon, which he knew might overpower their combined effort at any moment and career off down the slope, taking them with it. It made for a tortuous spectacle. He sucked cold air though the gap in his stained teeth and spat a mouthful of dark Tabaco juice into the snow, his eyes never leaving the slow progress Bikendi was making.
Suddenly one side of the brake crew slid on a patch of mud or ice, losing their grip on the heavy line and the wagon began to slew to its left across the path. Tońa stood in alarm. The boys scrambled to their feet, grabbing at the line, leaning back once more, digging their heels into the packed snow, and finding purchase on the rock below. Carefully they eased the wagon back onto the straight, and lowly they edged their way down, the mist finally enveloping them completely and they disappeared from sight.
Tońa listened intently, straining to catch sight of their progress and moments later, his reward was the muffled sound of a cheer from the brake crew. He sat back onto his seat, breathed out a heavy sigh of relief, and wiped a little sweat from his brow. It had been a difficult morning so far and having watched the other teams down in turn, he was not looking forward to his own.
“I didn’t think they’d make it down,” said one of the two guards, turning away as they heard the cheer below them.
“Me neither,” replied the other with a hint of sarcasm.
“Bikendi’s one of the best drivers in Gearlynn,” boasted Tońa, clearly annoyed. “He was always going to make it,” he added, dismissing their worries with an off-hand gesture as they passed by him.
He tightened his grip on the reins as the Muskies stamped impatiently, the lead cow butting her neighbour in the shoulder with a sideswipe of her massive head.
“Easy now girls, hold up there now,” he cajoled gently. “I’m not looking forwards to it either; no doubt it’ll come out right.”
The old trail driver spat the spent Tabaco into the drifted snow beside him, steadied his nerve, went to flick the reins, and blinding agony lanced through his chest from back to front. He coughed involuntarily, spattering his legs with blood, seeing the tip of a spearhead protruding from a punctured hole in his parka. His eyes rolled up into their sockets, his head flopped back onto his shoulder, and with a rattle of blood in his throat, Tońa pitched back and sideways, off the wagon and into the snowdrift where he had just spat his final pleasure. The guards turned to make another joke, only to see the driver lying in the snow, a long heavy spear shaft protruding from his back like a flagpole, howling cries from all around shattering the quiet.
Zigor, trying to slow the progress of the lead wagons with a few choice curses aimed at the drivers, heard cries of alarm ringing out above, and his blood ran cold. He sprang up in his seat, mind racing with the myriad plans he had for dealing with each possible encounter on the route and found, as is often the case, plans mapped in the mind are rarely realised on the ground.
Not good, he thought, glancing around, his heart racing as his hopes sank into the pit of his stomach, not good at all.
The caravan lay split; two thirds down in the fog-hollow, the other third still on the rise above them, the whole strung out over several hundred yards from head to tail, and the crew all over the place. He looked back up the way and could just see through the haze the brake crew dropping towlines and start running uphill towards the last two wagons at the top. The guards who had been ambling alongside the main body of the train were swinging shields into place, eyes darting around looking for an enemy beyond their spears tips and everywhere he looked, men were reaching for weapons or leaping from wagons to rush to the aid their mates.
“You lot!” he bellowed at the brake crew. “Get down here, now!”
Some of them span round at his orders, but several simply stopped, gesturing up the hilltop, and calling, but he could not hear them over the rushing confusion of panicked men and echoed howls from the fog above.
“Leave them!” he screamed in fury, slashing at the air with his fist. He twisted round, just as the sounds of combat erupted from the mist-shrouded hilltop above him. “Tulio — shield and spear — now!”
“You heard the man!” bellowed Tulio, above the growing noise of fighting. “Shield Ring on his wagon — move!”
The guard rushed into action, leaping around the other wagons and milling crew to form a ring of bristling spears and heavy shields around Zigor’s wagon.
“Grab your weapons!” bellowed Zigor at the crew mixed along the caravan, all looking for direction or staring wide-eyed into the trees around them, looking for an attack that was fully expected, but seeing nothing, “Up on the wagons, you fools!”
The crew responded well to the order, despite their fear; scrambling onto the wagons nearest to them, readying a hasty defence, bronze axe or cleavers in hand. Lord Kerdhu and Ximo were on top of the wagon, directly behind, Ximo standing with his bow drawn, and Kerdhu looking directly back at Zigor with an expectant tilt to his head. Their eyes met and Zigor nodded once.
“See what you can do,” he said over the sounds of the nearby crew and the distant clash of combat.
Lord Kerdhu tapped Ximo on the shoulder and vaulted over the side of the wagon, Ximo quickly following and together the two companions began sprinting up the hill as best they could, into the fog, leaving the train to its own ministrations.
It took them far longer than they hoped to reach the top of the incline, and there they slowed to a cautious walking pace, weapons drawn, breathing hard. Before them stood the two wagons in the morning sunlight, their contents scattered across the slush and mud, arrow shafts protruding from their timber sides. The two Muskies still yoked to the nearest wagon were obviously dead, long spear shafts embedded in their thick necks. The other two stood behind them, but even to an untutored eye, it was easy to see they were on the verge of panic, eyes wide, nostrils dribbling clear snot into the blood-flecked snow at their feet.
Ximo moved to the right-hand side of the Way, his bow half drawn, steering clear of the two wide-eyed Muskies. He found the body of one of the guards pinned to the far side of the wagon by a spear, its shaft broken short, stripped of his weapons and armour, leaving his corpse in a ragged woollen smock wet with blood. One of the dead man’s ears was missing. Ximo shuddered and turned away, slipping around to the rear of the wagon, to peer cautiously over the tail. There was little of value left inside, he didn’t know what they’d been carrying precisely, but it was all gone, the Kota poles nothing but wet firewood lying in the dirty snow at his feet. He scanned the other wagon, his eyes flicking to the trees all the time, bowstring taught against his fingers. The second wagon seemed to have fared worse; both wheels completely hacked to pieces, the body of the wagon resting at an angle on what remained of the left-hand wheel, its timber sides smashed in or hanging off, depending on which side he looked at.
Néit stepped out from around the other side of the wagon, spear held low and to one side, catching the low sunlight on its white tip.
“Looks like we missed the fun,” he said ruefully as Ximo lowered his bow.
“Any still alive?” asked Ximo in a hushed tone.
“None,” replied Néit. “The drivers are over there in a drift, and there’s a guard lying at the foot of a tree; looks like he tried to run.”
“Who did this?”
“Zaindari hunting party perhaps,” replied Néit, gesturing to the ground around the wagons. “The tracks seem to be soft soled boots. I count eight sets on my side and there is likely to be a similar number on yours.” He pulled a long, thick shafted, unfletched arrow from the side of the wagon and weighed it in his hand, “Crude, bone tipped, but heavy. They took the time to strip every bit of metal they could find…” he added indicating the semi naked corpse of the guard pinned to the first wagon, “so yes, I reckon Zaindari.”
Ximo looked back down the Old Way, the signs of their own passage clear in the snow. “They waited until the best moment to attack, didn’t they? When we were strung out…the ground against us.” He looked around at the trees. “They might be out there now, watching us.” He looked back to the wreckage, to the very one-sided assault. “They think we’re weak. Shit, seeing this I think we’re weak,” he added eyes on the trees again. “They’ll want more….”
“Yes, and where there’s one hunting party, there’s always another. Let’s get back down to the others,” said Néit turning away from the scene of carnage.
“Zigor won’t be very happy?” ventured Ximo as he followed his lord back down the slope, glad to be in the mist again.
“No, he won’t,” replied Néit, “but he’s a miserable bastard, so there’s nothing new in that.”
“You don’t like him, do you?” asked Ximo brightly.
“He’s a liar and a coward; what’s to like?”
“So…if the honey bucket hits the wall?”
Néit didn’t hesitate, his answer clear and confident. “We look to ourselves of course.”
“Just so I know,” said Ximo as the caravan emerged through the fog. “You know how I like to be prepared.”