‘The night of the beast,’ said Llaw. His words hung in the air.
Groundsel hawked and spat. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked.
‘Of course. And so are you — I can smell your sweat.’
Groundsel chuckled and drew his swords. ‘I stole them from a Nomad merchant. Silver steel, Llaw, the finest I have ever seen. They are from the east.’
‘There’s good ore there,’ said Llaw. ‘They make impressive blades — and horseshoes that will last a year. I’d like to have gone there and learned the craft. May I?’ he asked, holding out his hand. Groundsel reversed a blade and handed it hilt-first to the former smith. ‘Yes,’ said Llaw, running his fingers reverently along the curved blade. ‘Beautiful work. Layer upon layer of fine steel, tempered with the blood of the craftsman. The hilt is held in place by a tiny sliver of ivory.’ He tapped it out and removed the blade. ‘See? Here is the mark of the craftsman. Ohei-sen. This sword is over three hundred years old.’
‘It’s worth a lot then?’ Groundsel asked.
Llaw slid the hilt back in place, locking it with the ivory. ‘Worth? Tonight you will see what it is worth. But in the east you would receive maybe 200 Raq — in gold — for each sword.’
‘That much? Then maybe I’ll go there one day.’
A movement in the undergrowth caused Groundsel to reach for his bow, while Llaw eased himself to his feet, wiped his sweating palms on his leggings and took up his axe.
The undergrowth parted and Arian walked to the fire. ‘I was getting cold,’ she said, dropping her bow to squat by the blaze and holding out her hands to its warmth.
‘Perhaps you were missing me?’ suggested Groundsel.
‘Behind you!’ yelled Nuada and Llaw swung as the beast exploded from the undergrowth, charging across the small clearing on all. fours. For a moment Llaw froze. The size of the creature was beyond anything he had imagined. Groundsel swept up his bow and loosed a shaft which glanced from the monster’s skull. As the beast neared, Llaw — realizing Arian was behind him — hurled himself forward. Arrows flashed into the racing form, but did not check its speed. Llaw’s axe hammered down to smash into the creature’s shoulder, but its weight struck him — hurling him back, the axe torn from his grip. Arian dived to her right as the beast turned towards her, its great paws scattering the fire.
Groundsel had sprinted some yards to the left and hastily he notched another arrow, sending it to punch home into the grey fur of the beast’s back. More than twenty shafts bristled from the creature. The hunter Dubarin leapt from a nearby tree and ran at the wolf-beast with a lance. As he approached the creature sprang forward, sweeping aside the weapon with a great paw. Talons raked down, ripping Dubarin’s face from his skull. Coolly, Arian loosed two shafts and the beast turned, its red eyes focusing on the slender bow-woman. Groundsel ran forward with his two swords in his hands. The creature rose on its hind legs and Groundsel ducked under a vicious sweep of its talons and buried his right-hand blade in its belly. Its forelegs swept around him, the talons lancing into his back. He bellowed in rage and pain and rammed his left-hand sword into the beast’s armpit. Then Llaw Gyffes, axe once more in his hand, leapt to the creature’s back, hooking his fingers into the shaggy mane of its neck. The axe rose and fell, again and again. Finally the wolf-beast released Groundsel, who staggered back into the arms of Arian.
Two men now ran to aid Llaw. The first died as talons ripped into his belly, the second plunged a lance into the beast’s breast. It tried to retreat back into the undergrowth, but more men ran in to encircle it… and all the while Llaw Gyffes clung to its back, hammering his axe against the corded muscles of the creature’s throat. At last it grew weaker and fell forward. Tearing a lance from the hands of a man near him, Groundsel moved in to help Llaw. The beast’s huge head came up and Groundsel buried the point of the lance in its mouth, using all his weight to drive the weapon through its spine.
Llaw stepped from the monster’s back just as the clouds cleared and moonlight bathed the scene. The creature was dead.
Snow began to fall as Groundsel pulled the spear clear of the gaping mouth and used it to measure the beast’s length. It was over nine feet long from taloned toes to gaping maw.
‘We’ll never drag this back to the stockade,’ said Groundsel. ‘Cut its damned head off.’
‘We ought to see to those wounds,’ suggested Arian. ‘You’re leaking blood badly.’
‘There’s no good way to lose blood,’ responded Groundsel and kneeling by the creature, he tore one sword loose from its belly. The other was snapped just below the hilt; he swore, and looked up at Llaw Gyffes. ‘You know, before tonight this would just have been a broken sword. Now it’s 200 gold Raq lost. There’s a moral there.’
‘You can always steal another,’ suggested Llaw. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed as in the distance an eerie howl echoed in the forest. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we go after the others. I’ll not have these creatures in my forest. Now where’s that cursed poet? I want to hear my song.’
CHAPTER NINE
Errin opened his eyes and almost wept with joy at the absence of pain. By his bed sat an elderly woman in a high-necked dress of blue wool edged with silver thread. ‘You are healed, young man. The bone is knit.’
‘Thank you, lady. Your magic must be very strong.’
‘And expensive,’ she told him. ‘But do not thank me — thank the Lord Cartain, who has paid handsomely for my services.’ She rose and walked from the room and Errin sat up. He was in a small bedchamber with two oval windows; a fire was blazing in the hearth and he could hear the cries of gulls from the roof above. He lay back on the pillows. The ride along the forest road had been a torture beyond his ability to endure; his broken leg had swollen and a fever had taken him. Vaguely he remembered Ubadai tying him to the saddle. And there were people… His hazy recollection was of a column of refugees snaking their way along the Royal Road as the snow began to fall. And weird cries in the night… the howls of wolves? It was difficult to remember anything but the grinding pain.
Ubadai entered, bearing a tray on which was a bowl of broth and a plate of fruit. ‘Better you eat,’ he said. ‘You still look bad.’
‘Where are we?’ Errin asked the stocky tribesman.
Ubadai set the tray on the bed and wandered to the window, pushing it open against the snow on the sill. ‘Pertia Port,’ he answered. ‘Our ship leaves tomorrow for Cithaeron.’
Errin finished the broth, which carried just a hint of the flavour of beef, and ate two of the apples on the side plate. With the window open he could smell the sea. He smiled and felt good to be alive.
Alive?
Suddenly he saw again Dianu tied to the stake… the flames curling up beneath her, the look in her eyes as he rode through the mob, the hope dying as he bent his bow, the flight of the arrow as it ended her life.
He groaned and Ubadai strode to him, his dark slanted eyes full of concern. ‘Old witch said all pain gone.’
‘I am all right,’ Errin told him, blinking back the tears from his eyes-
Then why cry? Not good for a man.’
‘Tears for the dead, Ubadai. That’s all.’
The Nomad tribesman grunted. ‘Leg healed; you should stand. Test it before the witch leaves.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll get up in a while. Who is this Lord Cartain?’
‘No Lord,’ replied Ubadai. ‘Nomad merchant. He is waiting downstairs. Shall I send him away?’
Errin chuckled. ‘The man has just seen to my health. Why on earth would I send him away?’
Ubadai sniffed- ‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, returning to the window. ‘Good ship. Makes Cithaeron trip three… four times a year. Good time to sail. No storms.’