She turned and caught him staring at her hair. Flushing again, she gathered it in one hand and pulled it self-consciously over her shoulder. Certain it was abysmally dirty, she wished she had a hat, even one of Versen’s that no longer fit his crooked, broken head. She breathed deeply, then set about organising her pack. Irritated with herself, the Malakasian woman had not noticed Versen was now standing absolutely still in the centre of their camp. Shoving a short knife, a length of twine and her tecan pot deep into the satchel, she allowed herself to get lost momentarily in her packing. She wanted to be angry with this man. He was the enemy, a partisan, a criminal, traitor to the Malakasian throne. She ought to kill him right here and leave his body in the grove where she found him.
And how dare he disparage what she did? Look at him, out here, days’ travel from anywhere. Did he really expect his revolution was going to begin here at the base of the Blackstones? She nearly laughed out loud – then she heard the mare whinny; she turned to see the horse pulling nervously on the reins that tethered her fast to a pine at the edge of the clearing. Brexan froze, her breath catching in her throat. Now she could see Versen standing motionless, staring into the trees. His battle-axe and dagger were drawn; his face had changed: no longer the handsome, charming woodsman, now he looked like every inch the revolutionary. For an instant Brexan hoped she would never have to face him in battle.
Rutters, she thought. The almor. Gingerly she let her pack fall to the ground, then cursed silently when it landed harder than she expected. ‘Lords, why not just stomp your feet?’ she whispered, but Versen paid no attention to her. Renna whinnied again; now the other horses began to show signs of anxiety as well, stamping nervously and pulling at their reins. Brexan considered the possibility of getting to them and slicing their leather harnesses to set them free. She didn’t rate her chances of being quicker than the almor.
Then she heard it: a twig snapping, some leaves rustling… a momentary silence – before the woods around them came alive with a cacophony of footsteps, breaking branches, heavy movement through the underbrush and a series of unintelligible grunts that came from everywhere at once. Brexan began backing away, an involuntary response to the wall of sound bearing down on them.
‘Don’t move,’ Versen commanded in a harsh whisper. ‘Stand fast, here, next to me.’
She hurried to his side. Despite the nearly paralysing fear, her senses were alive and finely honed; she caught his scent, wild herbs mixed with a distant aroma of woodsmoke. She surprised herself by inhaling deeply, in hopes of breathing him in again before the attack came from all sides.
‘What is it?’ she asked softly.
‘Seron.’ Versen’s reply was confident, and Brexan found that comforting, as if he somehow knew they would emerge unscathed.
He tucked the dagger under his arm and reached over to take her hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, squeezing her fingers tightly in encouragement. ‘They want us alive.’
‘How do you know?’ Her voice shook and she cursed herself for betraying her fear.
‘Because this is not how Seron attack.’ He dropped her hand; Brexan could feel the warmth of his grip fade with her resolve.
The first Seron came into view, emerging from the trees like a misplaced herd of cattle. The warriors hooted and grunted excitedly when they saw they had their quarry surrounded. Brexan estimated there were twenty of them; she understood immediately there would be no battle. The circle about them closed as the half-human warriors came forward. They were unimpressed by Versen’s show of force: one man, one dagger, one battle-axe. Brexan was relieved she had left her Malakasian uniform in Estrad. Had these Seron realised she was absent without leave, she would be dead already, torn to pieces by the band of foul-smelling creatures.
There were no escape routes. The circle tightened, then the Seron stopped. Many grunted aloud, spat on the ground at their feet or pounded hairy hands against leather and chainmail breastplates. Brexan reminded herself to breathe. She dared not draw her weapons, even though she knew gripping a sword would help steady her shaking fingers.
Take my hand again. She cast her thoughts at Versen and was surprised she did not feel more embarrassment at wanting to feel the big man’s touch. She was shorter than the Seron and could no longer see the forest behind them. In every direction, she could see only the black and brown leather of the Seron uniform. It was as though all Eldarn was folding up inside this clearing; she struggled even to hear the river rushing by. Convinced things would be all right if she could just capture the sound of the water in her mind, the ceaseless stream cascading over perfectly smooth rocks on its endless journey to the Ravenian Sea, she concentrated, but it wasn’t there. It had stopped.
‘Take my hand again.’ She said it aloud this time and without hesitating, Versen dropped his dagger and gripped her hand so tightly she thought he would snap her fingers like so many brittle twigs. Fine. So be it. Just don’t let go.
A huge warrior, a full head taller than Versen, strode forward and stood before them. Pounding a closed fist against his chest, he barked, ‘Lahp.’
Versen dropped the battle-axe rather than letting go of Brexan’s hand. He touched one finger to his chest and replied, ‘Versen.’ He nodded towards her and added, ‘Brexan.’
‘Glimr?’ it grunted back at them. Brexan guessed it was a question, because the creature’s voice rose slightly with the word.
‘I don’t understand,’ Versen said calmly. ‘What is Glimr?’
‘Glimr,’ the creature tried more forcefully this time. ‘Glimr.’
‘Gilmour?’ Versen asked. Brexan felt his grip tighten. The heat from his touch grew in intensity. ‘You are looking for Gilmour?’
Brexan could not remember the last time she had taken a breath. She watched in horror as the hideous Seron ran its tongue over a cracked and bulbous lower lip. Was it about to take a bite out of her?
Instead, it responded to Versen with a nod. ‘Glimr,’ it repeated.
Versen’s hand began to shake, but his face remained calm, still the grim look of a revolutionary willing to fight to the death. The fact that she could feel his fear, and she knew he felt hers, brought them closer together. All at once, Brexan felt she understood the partisans.
Taking another moment in an effort to flatten the conspicuous tremor in his voice, Versen looked the Seron, Lahp, in the eye and replied, ‘In a thousand Twinmoons, I would never tell you where to find Gilmour, you rancid, open-sored horsecock.’
Lahp struck with unexpected speed, his fist coming forward like a cudgel to land just under Versen’s chin. The thud was audible. Brexan felt the woodsman’s hand go limp an instant later as he fell. Without thinking, she reached for her sword. Gripping the hilt, its leather handle familiar against her palm, Brexan tried to draw the weapon from its scabbard, but she was too slow. Lahp’s fist took her just below the eye in a cruel blow that cracked her cheek and sent her reeling unconscious to the ground.
The first thing Brexan noticed was the breeze. It had picked up. From her vantage point in the dirt, she thought she could see dark clouds massing far to the west. Although the sun still shone, it would rain soon. Her cheek throbbed, a dull ache that resonated through her head with the flat clank of a broken bell. Powerful hands held her down, one gripping the narrow edge of her hip while the other pressed flat against her breastbone. Waiting as the blurry edges of her vision came back into focus, she watched Versen’s face take shape before her eyes.
‘What? Think you’re getting lucky, Ox?’ she managed, almost blacking out again with the effort.
‘Stay down,’ he commanded gently. ‘You took quite a shot.’