His mother stepped forward and, seizing his arm, pulled him to his feet and put him behind her before he could say anything. Normally he would have protested at this treatment, but there was a power and urgency in his mother's hands that forbade all resistance.
Magret met the gaze of the first rider. He was a powerful-looking man with a flat, scarred face, and a beak-like nose that made him look like a bird of prey. Standing by him was a thin figure in a soiled cloak, his face hidden in the depths of a large hood.
The rider was smiling, though the smile merely increased the menace which his very presence seemed to generate. But the hooded figure was worse. Though still and silent, it sent shivers of fear deep into Magret the like of which she had never known before: fear that plunged down through nightmare into those same currents that told her and all women of the folly of men. Now they swirled and heaved and reminded her that men could be murderous fools as well.
Her eyes flicked beyond the two men. Other riders were arriving. Two, three … a group of … six … and more, many more.
They all reined to a halt behind the leader as if waiting for something. Magret felt Faren clutching at her skirts, tugging slightly. Without taking her eyes from the watching men, she reached down to comfort him.
It was not easy. She knew that both she and the boy were in danger. These men were foreigners, tribesmen from beyond the mountains. As a child she had seen their kind when they raided her father's village in search of food, weapons … women.
But they'd never been this far east before.
They'd always been routed easily enough once the villages had been raised.
But the village was empty of men. As were virtually all the others between here and Bethlar.
The villagers would have to flee into hiding in the woods until the raiders had gone. But they had to be warned before they could do that.
Suddenly the stillness was broken as the leader's horse lowered its head and began to drink from the stream. Others followed.
Moving as the horse moved, Magret bent down to Faren and whispered to him. ‘Don't be afraid,’ she said. ‘Walk away until you can't see them, then run as fast as you can back to the village and tell your grandfather what's happened. Tell him they're raiders from over the mountains and that everyone must get out of the village right away.'
Faren gripped her skirts tightly. Gently she prized his fingers free and putting all her courage into meeting his fear-filled eyes, she said firmly, ‘Go now, straight away. It's important. I'll be all right.'
Reluctantly he turned and began walking away. After a few paces he turned and looked back. Magret smiled at him, and he went a little further. Then, she bent down calmly and picked up her yoke as if nothing untoward was happening.
'Stop there, boy!'
The voice, heavy and harsh with its alien accent, rang out above the noise of the stream. Faren stopped and half glanced back at his mother.
Magret spun round. The caller was the first horseman. She held his gaze defiantly. ‘Go on home as I've told you, Faren,’ she said loudly, keeping her eyes on the foreigner.
'Stay there, boy!'
The leader turned to the hooded figure at his side, who, without speaking, mounted up behind him. Then he eased his horse forward into the stream.
Magret, too, moved forward and stood on the bank opposite him. She pointed at him. ‘Stay where you are, northerner,’ she said. ‘You've picked an ill place and an ill time for your raiding. Turn about and leave now before our menfolk find you're here.'
The leader's smile broadened, and he continued walking his horse across the stream. Reaching Magret, he bent forward towards her.
'Your menfolk have all gone to the war, haven't they, my sweet?’ he said. ‘And we've come to take back our land.’ He swept his hand slowly in a broad encompassing gesture.
Magret felt the blood draining from her face. She was about to denounce his words with scorn and derision, but she knew her voice would betray her just as her face had.
What did this man mean, take back the land? And how did he know the men were gone to the war?
She fought down her fear somehow and forced a note of maternal concern into her voice to stand in the stead of her defiance. ‘Go home, northerner. I've seen your kin before, seen them die for their foolish bravery. All you'll get of this land is your length to lie in forever. Go before the winter seals you here.'
The rider looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, then he seemed to dismiss her and turned and signalled to his men. Leisurely, they began to move forward across the stream. Magret walked backwards ahead of them, up the sloping embankment as they advanced. As before she tried to count them, her mind running to the possibility of a message to the nearest town. When she reached a point which overtopped the embankment on the other side, however, she stopped, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Beyond, were riders as far as she could see-hundreds of them! Thousands even! This was no raiding party. This was an army! A vast army of horsemen!
Scarcely realizing what she was doing, she reached up and seized the rider's bridle. He reined his horse to a halt and stared down at her angrily.
Vaguely, Magret had thought that she might find words that would somehow turn this man around, but now, against such numbers, she knew that nothing but another army could prevail. An ancient instinct took command. She might not survive this encounter, but …
'Run, Faren!’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Run! Warn the village! Run…'
Her cry stopped abruptly as Ivaroth's spear ran her through. It was a swift and skilful thrust but it was also one that nearly cost him his life. Magret's eyes rolled back in shock and terrible realization, then her lips curled into a savage snarl and the shock vanished, displaced by hatred and rage. Gripping the shaft of the impaling spear, she swung her full weight on to it suddenly, almost unhorsing Ivaroth, then she twisted round and, producing a long knife from somewhere within her copious skirts, she lunged at his thigh as he struggled to keep his seat.
It was a murderous and powerful blow that would have cut Ivaroth to the bone and probably emptied his life blood in moments, but the reflexes, born of a lifetime spent fighting and killing from the saddle, saved him as they released his grip on the spear, and pushed its shaft upwards and sideways. The action destroyed Magret's swinging balance and she staggered backwards for several paces before toppling over with a cry of pain.
As she hit the ground the knife bounced from her hand. Ivaroth watched her struggling to recover it for a moment. A timely reminder, he thought, as he remembered advice given to him by men who had raided into Bethlarii territory before. ‘Take care with their women, Mareth Hai, they're usually armed, and nearly as dangerous as the men.'
He edged his horse forward and leaned forward to retrieve his spear.
Seeing her death approaching, Magret made a desperate, scrabbling effort and at last reached her knife. ‘Run, Faren! The village…’ she managed to shout as she seized it, but even as her grip tightened about its hilt, Ivaroth's expert hand wrenched his spear free with a practiced twist, and both knife and voice slipped from her again. With a soft, almost whimpering moan, she rolled over on to her face and lay still.
Ivaroth glanced at her indifferently and sniffed. He was about to hold up the bloodied spear to his men as a sign of what was to be in this land, when a fearful scream rang out.
It was Faren. He had watched open-mouthed and paralyzed as his mother had been struck down and killed, but now something had released him and he was running across the field shrieking incoherently.
Ivaroth made a swift gesture to his companion, who slowly nodded his head in acknowledgement.
Then there was a soft, but deep rumbling, and small ripples like those across a wind-blown field of corn, ran through the very ground itself towards the fleeing boy. As they reached him, their impact knocked him into the air and he crashed down heavily.