At midmorning the following day they came upon what remained of Mox and Denny and the two soldiers dispatched to assist them at Sandcliff. Mark and Garec were riding one behind the other on a large roan which was quite comfortable carrying both men as long as it didn’t involve galloping. They were still groggy with the lingering effects of querlis, and in pain, even though the poultices had reduced the swelling and speeded the healing process. Raskin had visited several times during the night to make sure they were drinking enough water and, in the aven just before dawn, to change their dressings for the ride back to the palace. Garec didn’t believe they would have received such attention had Rodler’s name not been mentioned; he suspected transporting a few bandoliers of fennaroot was the least of the young man’s crimes north of the Gorskan border.
They had been riding for nearly an aven, the roan’s reins securely attached to Raskin’s pommel, when they heard the sergeant cry out. A flurry of activity as soldiers dismounted and ran forward preceded screams of horror. One of the guards leant over and vomited repeatedly in the snow.
Raskin remained in the saddle, her sword drawn. Neither Mark nor Garec made any move, both watching their guard carefully: it was obvious something nasty had happened to her colleagues.
Garec wanted to sympathise, for Raskin had been good to them. He had lost Mika and Jerond, Versen and Sallax – he knew what was going through Raskin’s mind as she listened to her fellow soldiers crying out to the gods of the Northern Forest. He set his jaw, determined not to feel sorry for the border guard: she, like the rest of them, was Nerak’s servant, and thus his enemy.
He gave her credit for being a steadfast soldier; maybe if she’d grown up in Estrad she might now be fighting for the Resistance.
‘It was grettans,’ Garec said.
‘Shut yourself up,’ Raskin scowled. She sat straighter, trying in vain to see what was happening ahead. After a bit, she said, ‘What makes you think it was grettans?’
‘Look at where we are,’ Garec said. ‘This is a game trail, running from the pond we passed near your encampment. Every animal in this forest probably comes down here for water and I imagine grettans hunt back and forth across the trail, waiting for the opportunity to attack downhill. They would be deadly fast downhill.’
The soldier, despite her discipline, began to shake. ‘Oh, gods, Denny-’ she whispered to herself. ‘Poor Mox-’
‘Go and see for yourself, Raskin,’ Mark said in a kindly tone. ‘We aren’t going anywhere – neither of us could even get off this horse without help, and it would be suicide for us to try and outrun you with two of us in the saddle. We’ll be here when you get back.’
Raskin pulled herself together and put her shoulders back. ‘I’m fine. Sergeant Greson will get everything in order.’
‘Raskin,’ Garec hoped using her name would soften her, ‘those were your friends. Mark and I would be crushed if we knew four of our friends were lying mutil- well, you know, just up the path. Go ahead. We will be here when you get back.’
‘He’s right,’ Mark said. ‘You know we can’t ride far.’
‘Or take us with you if you must,’ Garec went on, ignoring Mark’s hard poke in the ribs. ‘You can’t get up there with both horses; so dismount and lead ours along.’
Her eyes grew distant for a moment. ‘Maybe that will be all right – it’s not like I’m leaving you alone.’
‘We’ve both lost friends, Raskin,’ Garec said soothingly. ‘We know how difficult it is.’
‘All right,’ she said, ‘but any move and I swear I’ll run you both through.’ She untied their reins from her pommel and slid from the saddle, never taking her eyes off the two prisoners. Walking backwards through the snow, she led the big roan by the bridle. After a few paces, and nothing untoward from Garec or Mark, she relented and turned her attention to the trail ahead.
As soon as she did, Mark whispered, ‘Are you insane? She was going to leave us.’
‘I wanted to get up the ridge,’ Garec said. ‘Being down there does us no good – we could run headlong into another patrol without seeing a thing.’
‘Can you ride?’
‘It’s going to hurt. You?’
‘Same, I’m afraid.’
‘Our bows and quivers are tied to the back of the sergeant’s saddle. If they stayed in line, his horse will be second from the front, the dapple-grey mare with the braid in her mane.’
‘You get us close enough and I’ll get the bows.’
‘Can you turn and fire?’
‘Like a Parthian.’
‘Does that mean yes?’
‘It’s going to hurt.’
‘We’ll deal with that later. If they’re scattered all over this clearing, we’ll have one chance to break away. The ever-charming Sergeant Greson won’t lose control of this group for very long. If they’re on their knees or huddled together, that’ll be our only chance.’
‘I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts their discipline returns as soon as they see us.’
‘Right. So you’ll have to be quick.’
As they neared the clearing, Garec numbered off the remaining soldiers: two were bent over a fallen tree. The sergeant was pushing his way through deeper snow off to one side of the trail, pushing back branches and peering into scrubby patches of brush. At first, Garec couldn’t work out what he was doing, then he realised he was collecting the pieces of his men left by the grettan pack. The sergeant was muttering inaudibly to himself: the worst thing that could ever happen had come to pass that morning: he had lost half his squad, young people he had taught, disciplined, and most certainly loved.
Finally Mark spotted the fourth, a middle-aged man of perhaps three hundred Twinmoons who knelt in the snow clutching an unidentifiable limb resting across his lap.
A squad this tight-knit was closer than family, and with four men lost, and so gruesomely, the Malakasians had forgotten – just for the moment – that they were soldiers, with prisoners. If they were to escape, Mark and Garec had one brief window of opportunity.
Raskin’s boots crunched through the snow as she approached the scene. Shaking noticeably, she brought her hands to her face, still holding the roan’s bridle, and covered her eyes. Mark hadn’t known the dead men; he’d used a whole quiver of arrows trying to kill them… but he winced when he saw the carnage left by the grettan pack.
The trail was awash with blood, staining the trampled snow, pooling in beastly footprints, coating trees and bushes – drops had even frozen into jewel-like icicles. And strewn about were sundry pieces of men and horse and bits of accoutrements: a hunk of shoulder, arm partly attached, still sporting epaulettes and the insignia of the Malakasian border guard; half a hand adorned by a flattened ring with huge tooth marks in the metal; a horse’s head, intact save for a torn ear, rearing up out of the ground, the bridle bit gripped between bloody teeth: a war horse even in death.
They understood now why supposedly hardened soldiers were shaking and throwing up like novices.
‘Dear Mother of Christ,’ Mark whispered in English.
Garec didn’t need a translation. ‘Rutting dogs, what these people must have gone through-’
‘Either way,’ Mark caught hold of himself, ‘we need to mourn them later. Right now you have to get me close to that grey mare.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Garec said confidently, ‘we’ll be long gone before any of them, least of all our dear Sergeant Greson, has any idea we’ve run.’ The guards would certainly give chase, but he was gambling on their current confusion, coupled with their state of mind, to provide a significant head-start. He hoped Mark would give good enough account of himself with the bow – at the risk of incurring yet more deaths – to turn their pursuers back.
He surreptitiously checked the trail ahead: the path itself was clear of major obstacles, and they wouldn’t have far to go before they were under cover of the forest. As long as he could guide the roan by the mane initially, they’d be all right; he didn’t want to reach for the reins until they were out of sight. He peered down at the tracks and froze.