A hand touched her shoulder. As she turned, an arm encircled her neck and she felt her hot cheek pressed against an even hotter one. It was Aaren, leaning down precariously from her horse.
‘Bravely done. Bravely done,’ she said simply, her voice hoarse with smoke and her eyes shining wet in the light of the burning castle. ‘We’re in your debt.’
Before Marna could reply, however, she had pulled away, and the four were galloping off into the darkness.
Chapter 26
Derwyn peered into the darkness at the men around him. The sound of the horns had succeeded in extricat-ing most of them from the carnage of the camp but, dimly lit by the distant glow of the campfires shining through the trees, they were milling about him in considerable disorder. Their behaviour vividly reflected the emotions that were tumbling through him: a numbing mixture of shock, fear, and choking guilt; and an urge to flee from this now terrible fringe of the Forest, back to the safety of his lodge and the ways he knew and had always known. Yet, it was combined with an equally powerful urge to charge back amongst the men who had done such harm, to work some dreadful vengeance on them.
But, despite this turmoil, the qualities that had made him the quiet leader of his people were subtly asserting themselves, calming the ancient racial frenzy in which he and his men had tried to hide from the alien strangeness of the quest that Farnor had brought on them. In its wake came a clearer, if no less troubling, knowledge. Warrior he was not, nor any of his men. But they were hunters, and their ancient ancestors had been warriors. It was surely not beyond their resources to find some way of dealing with these intruders?
It occurred to Derwyn briefly that, Farnor’s assess-ment of these men having been so fearfully accurate, his assessment of the creature was probably no less so, and that they might indeed find themselves contending with it as well as Nilsson’s men. And, of course, there was the man, Rannick, with his mysterious powers.
With an effort, he set the thoughts aside. One thing at a time. He had first to bring his men back into some semblance of order. Standing high in his stirrups he bellowed out, ‘Be quiet, all of you!’ His powerful voice rose above much of the noise, but he had to call out twice more before it was quiet enough for him to speak and be heard.
He wanted to ask who had been injured, who killed, who had gathered around the frantic horn calling, who scattered into the trees, but a panic-stricken voice nearby focused his thinking sharply. ‘This is dreadful. Let’s get away from here while we can.’ It was a young voice, but echoes of it sprang up in the darkness.
His eyes reflecting the distant lights of the camp, Derwyn turned grimly towards the speaker. He could not allow time for the leisurely niceties that normally decorated their decision making.
‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Maybe it was a madness that drew us into that reckless charge, but it would be a greater madness if we forgot our duties as Valderen. If we fly now, how can we ever look to the protection of the Forest again? And how could any of us sit at peace by our hearths knowing that we betrayed both our ancient obligations and those who’ve just fallen to these outsiders?’ He waited for no reply. ‘Like it or not, we’re warriors now, and we stay here until this evil’s been driven from the Forest.’
‘It was that black-haired devil of an outsider who brought this on us,’ someone shouted.
Derwyn pushed his horse forward in the direction of the voice. ‘That black-haired devil was chosen to visit the most ancient, I’d remind you,’ he replied furiously. ‘It was he who warned us about these people, if we’d had the wit to listen. And without him, who can say how much harm they’d have done before we knew of them?’
There was no answer. Derwyn seized back his peo-ple.
‘Melarn,’ he shouted. ‘Take a dozen men and move back towards that camp, carefully. We need to know what they’re doing.’
Nilsson leaned forward earnestly, hoping to catch some indication of what the distant shouting meant, but it was too far away and there was too much noise about him. The blasting horn calls that had drawn the riders back into the trees had startled him. Were there reinforcements out there? Was there indeed some infantry force making its way towards them right now? And, again, who were these people?
He dashed aside the persistent question. It didn’t matter who they were. His first impression remained: whatever else they were, they weren’t fighters, and that was what mattered. But they’d still have to be dealt with, and dealt with tonight; there was little point in forming a defensive enclave and holding, as he definitely had no reinforcements to draw upon. And any delay might prove disastrous if indeed some other force were heading towards him. He must move out and attack before matters deteriorated.
Few changes were needed to the positions that his men had already taken up, and he noted with some satisfaction that many of them, anticipating a return by the riders, were hacking down long branches to use in lieu of pikes.
Within minutes of his decision, his men were mov-ing into the darkness in the direction that the riders had taken. They retained their small, tight groupings, and many were carrying burning brands.
The news reached Derwyn almost immediately and he suddenly found himself the centre of a fear-laden silence. He knew that all eyes were turned towards him in the darkness. He watched the lights of the enemy moving towards him; a flickering, firefly tide, spreading out from the fires of the distant camp. Fighting men, Farnor had called them, and for the first time in his life Derwyn felt the peculiar terror of knowing that someone was intent upon seeking his life; his life.
Yet he must lead his men against them, or they would be scattered about the fringe of the Forest here and perhaps lost for ever, and who knew what conse-quences would flow from that? Images of Angwen and Edrien and the other women they had left at their camp came to him, chilling him.
But what did he know about fighting? Nothing.
But…
‘Do as they did,’ he shouted urgently. ‘Do as they did. Stay in small groups. Six, eight. Keep moving. And keep together, whatever happens. Protect one another. Drop your lances if you’re pressed and use your machetes.’
‘And if you’re downed, then climb. They won’t be able to do that like we can.’ It was Marken who finished Derwyn’s hasty battle order. Derwyn felt his men’s spirits lift as some strained laughter greeted this.
Thus it was that the Valderen began to avenge their first fallen. Guided by the brands that Nilsson’s men were carrying, they burst out of the darkness, sharp-pointed lances and keen-edged machetes taking their toll, until they vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.
Almost all of the groups of Nilsson’s men took some losses, but while one or two broke and scattered, to be cut down or trampled underfoot, the majority closed about their injured companions and held.
Nilsson swore silently to himself, but no sign of his feelings showed on his face except his characteristic snarl. Had these people launched their initial sacrificial charge just to lure him into an ambush? Surely not. It made no sense. But the alternative held little comfort for him: they had learned from their first mistake.
‘Retreat to the camp,’ he ordered, his voice icy. ‘We’ll see how well they fight when we can see them coming.’
As the groups withdrew, the Valderen pressed on with their swift assaults, though these became increas-ingly less effective and more dangerous as they drew nearer to the bright glow of the fires illuminating the camp. Then there was silence, save for the sound of the fires and the awful cries of the wounded and dying.
Nilsson’s men retrenched, more of them hacking down branches either for use as pikes or to be driven into the ground to form defensive hedges. The Valderen walked like sinister shadows around the dark edges of the firelit circle, lance points glinting in the firelight.