Kellanved's Reach

‘Nope.’

‘Ah. Well. That’s a problem.’

Gregar started off again. ‘Yes it is. But it’s not one we can solve by standing around.’

Haraj followed along, stumbling and breathing loudly. ‘What about tonight? Sleeping and all?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean … what about wolves and such?’

Gregar turned to offer him a smile. ‘We’re the wolves now.’

This mollified the lad for a time, though as the night darkened he spoke again. ‘But you do know where you’re going … don’t you?’

Gregar halted to point roughly northwest – or at least what he was fairly certain was northwest. ‘I’m heading for the lines.’

Haraj blinked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m sorry … what lines?’

Gregar couldn’t help but gape at the fellow. ‘Are you a fool? The lines! The Bloorian League is trying to encircle Gris! Surely you’ve heard about it.’

The skinny fellow winced and ducked, writhing almost as if in agony, his head lowered. ‘I’ve heard about it, of course. But I’ve never – that is, I was never let …’ He cleared his throat, and finished as if in apology, ‘I didn’t get out much.’

Again Gregar had to look away. He took a long breath, squinting at the surrounding dark woods. Finally, after some time, he said quietly, ‘Something will turn up, don’t you worry.’ He gestured north once more – at least what he hoped was north. ‘Let’s go a bit farther.’

Some time later, exhausted, and, Gregar suspected, possibly lost, they halted next to a giant oak, gathered up armfuls of leaves, and covered themselves to attempt to sleep.

Gregar woke first. The sun glared down in a dappling pattern about him through gaps in the boughs above. For a time he watched the sleeping curled form of his companion, then he scanned the woods. Let him rest a while longer. He was obviously completely unused to any physical exertion. Gregar had seen dogs raised in cages. Released, the poor pathetic things couldn’t even straighten their legs. They were cripples. Unable to walk.

But to do that to a boy. To raise him in such a way.

A burning heat clenched Gregar’s chest and he found he had to wipe his eyes to clear them.

This Ap-Athlan had a lot to answer for.

Noises in the underbrush caught his attention. Animals running. A forester would imagine that meant …

Shapes now moved through the brush, upright. Gregar caught glimpses of pale sky-like blue amid the bushes. Grisian soldiery.

A loud snapping of branches jerked Haraj awake, gasping and flailing. Gregar tried to calm him but the nearby figures halted. A step sounded next to him and he spun to peer up at a Grisian infantrywoman in mail, her surcoat torn and bloodied. She held a sword on him.

‘Here!’ she called.

Gregar’s shoulders fell in despair. They’d been found.

The figures closed. ‘Who is it?’ one called.

‘Don’t know,’ the woman answered, studying them with something like distaste. ‘Outlaws, looks like. Wretched runaways.’

Gregar felt his mouth open, but no sound emerged. Outlaws?

The surrounding brush parted and a number of Grisian heavy infantry now squinted down at them. One waved a dismissal. ‘We don’t have time for this. Just kill them.’

‘Righty-o,’ the woman answered, and raised her sword.

For a fraction of an instant Gregar simply stared upward, completely paralysed by disbelief. Really? This was happening? He was to be murdered. Just like that?

Then he reacted, and suddenly everyone about him seemed to be moving in slow motion. Rising, he pushed his back into the woman, and taking her descending arm used his strength and the techniques of years of heaving stone blocks, and threw her to spin head over heels. She crashed amid the brush.

Now the soldiery gaped at him – then rushed. First came the one who’d ordered their deaths. His sword was raised and Gregar stepped into the swing, blocked the arm, and shoved his straightened fingers into the man’s throat. Cartilage popped and snapped. The man flinched in shock and pain.

Drawing backwards, Gregar slid his left hand down the man’s arm and snatched the sword from his weakened grip, then pushed him away with his right.

For a fraction of a second he admired the silvery iron length of the blade he had taken. This was the first real sword he’d ever held – not some wooden training piece he’d secretly played with until someone saw and beat him for it. Frankly, it felt too heavy in his hand; he much preferred the sticks he had practised with ceaselessly.

The next man came in, swinging. Gregar sidestepped the blow, and because they were all wearing armour and he was not, he didn’t bother hacking at the extended mailed arm but slashed downwards in passing, across the back of the man’s knee.

The fellow bellowed his pain and fell.

Something crashed into him, sending him flying; a shield-bash, he realized, as he staggered into a meadow of tall weeds and grass next to their hiding place. The helmeted heads of at least twenty more Grisian troopers turned his way.

Shit!