her sword in her hand and stepped to Christopher’s side again, her heart hammering with anger and with fear. Dear God, had it truly come to this? Must she now face loyal soldiers of the crown and kill them or die?
The Merron ordered their dogs to heel and once again pulled their longbows to full draw. A flash of sun on metal showed through the shifting leaves of the forest as dark shapes advanced upon them. Úlfnaor, his huge arms quivering with the strain, held his aim and murmured softly to his warriors. He was obviously telling them, ‘Wait . . . wait . . .’
Wynter crouched low. She brought her sword up. She had made up her mind that she would not die here. She would not die!
Christopher looked back at Razi, wanting his permission to fire.
Razi bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he snatched his sword, rose to his feet and stood ready at Christopher’s side. Christopher took aim just as the King’s soldiers burst through the trees.
There were only two of them, and they entered the ford with an almost childlike abandon. Wynter knew that she would never forget the looks on their faces when, expecting nothing more than a wounded soldier fleeing on foot, they suddenly found themselves confronted with a row of hard-faced archers.
There was just a brief moment of suspension, the smallest fraction of time, then the youngest soldier grabbed for his sword. Christopher’s crossbow bolt took him between his eyes and carried him backwards from his horse. All other sound was buried in the heavy twock of longbows, and the hiss and thud of Merron arrows seeking and finding their target. The soldiers’ limp bodies tumbled to the water with mighty splashes. Their blood washed downstream just as the rebel soldier’s had done.
Wynter’s sword-arm dropped to her side and she watched the King’s men die.
The magnificent cavalry horses staggered under a second hail of missiles. They fell, and their blood mingled with that of their riders, eddying out into the clear water to flood the river with scarlet. The stain rapidly filled the ford, swirling and flowing and stretching its arms outwards until it lapped in bright, sun-dappled wavelets on the shore and coloured the heedless stones at Wynter’s feet.
Behind her, Razi turned from this spectacle of death and knelt once again by the rebel soldier’s side. Wynter watched as he closed the poor fellow’s lifeless eyes. For the briefest of moments Christopher stayed at Wynter’s side, his arm a sympathetic warmth around her waist. Then he splashed out into the scarlet ford and began to help the Merron harvest their fallen arrows.
THE REBEL CAMP
I T WAS very late in the evening, the forest shadows already deepening to gloom, when Christopher pulled his mare to a halt on the path ahead, blocking Wynter’s way. He cursed softly under his breath. Alarmed, Wynter urged her own horse up the narrow space between them and reined in at Christopher’s side. She peered through the foliage to see what had disturbed him. Around them, the air filled with the snort of horses and the irritated jangle of tack as the rest of the Merron riders came to a stop. There were mutterings and low exclamations of concern.
Leaning forward to get a better view, Wynter felt her heart sink. Only six or so feet ahead, the trees ended abruptly and the safety of their cover gave way to a wide patch of rocky ground – a break of perhaps twenty yards between this section of dense forest and the next. The open ground stretched away on either side, a long spine of rock cleaving the forest in two for as far as she could see from her limited perspective.
‘Oh Christopher, this is not good.’
Christopher nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll be vulnerable as babes if we cross here.’
Wynter glanced to the head of the travel party, where Razi had prime position next to Úlfnaor and Sól. All three were gazing out across the gap with similar expressions of concern.
‘I not like it,’ said Sólmundr
The Merron ordered their dogs to heel and once again pulled their longbows to full draw. A flash of sun on metal showed through the shifting leaves of the forest as dark shapes advanced upon them. Úlfnaor, his huge arms quivering with the strain, held his aim and murmured softly to his warriors. He was obviously telling them, ‘Wait . . . wait . . .’
Wynter crouched low. She brought her sword up. She had made up her mind that she would not die here. She would not die!
Christopher looked back at Razi, wanting his permission to fire.
Razi bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he snatched his sword, rose to his feet and stood ready at Christopher’s side. Christopher took aim just as the King’s soldiers burst through the trees.
There were only two of them, and they entered the ford with an almost childlike abandon. Wynter knew that she would never forget the looks on their faces when, expecting nothing more than a wounded soldier fleeing on foot, they suddenly found themselves confronted with a row of hard-faced archers.
There was just a brief moment of suspension, the smallest fraction of time, then the youngest soldier grabbed for his sword. Christopher’s crossbow bolt took him between his eyes and carried him backwards from his horse. All other sound was buried in the heavy twock of longbows, and the hiss and thud of Merron arrows seeking and finding their target. The soldiers’ limp bodies tumbled to the water with mighty splashes. Their blood washed downstream just as the rebel soldier’s had done.
Wynter’s sword-arm dropped to her side and she watched the King’s men die.
The magnificent cavalry horses staggered under a second hail of missiles. They fell, and their blood mingled with that of their riders, eddying out into the clear water to flood the river with scarlet. The stain rapidly filled the ford, swirling and flowing and stretching its arms outwards until it lapped in bright, sun-dappled wavelets on the shore and coloured the heedless stones at Wynter’s feet.
Behind her, Razi turned from this spectacle of death and knelt once again by the rebel soldier’s side. Wynter watched as he closed the poor fellow’s lifeless eyes. For the briefest of moments Christopher stayed at Wynter’s side, his arm a sympathetic warmth around her waist. Then he splashed out into the scarlet ford and began to help the Merron harvest their fallen arrows.
THE REBEL CAMP
I T WAS very late in the evening, the forest shadows already deepening to gloom, when Christopher pulled his mare to a halt on the path ahead, blocking Wynter’s way. He cursed softly under his breath. Alarmed, Wynter urged her own horse up the narrow space between them and reined in at Christopher’s side. She peered through the foliage to see what had disturbed him. Around them, the air filled with the snort of horses and the irritated jangle of tack as the rest of the Merron riders came to a stop. There were mutterings and low exclamations of concern.
Leaning forward to get a better view, Wynter felt her heart sink. Only six or so feet ahead, the trees ended abruptly and the safety of their cover gave way to a wide patch of rocky ground – a break of perhaps twenty yards between this section of dense forest and the next. The open ground stretched away on either side, a long spine of rock cleaving the forest in two for as far as she could see from her limited perspective.
‘Oh Christopher, this is not good.’
Christopher nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll be vulnerable as babes if we cross here.’
Wynter glanced to the head of the travel party, where Razi had prime position next to Úlfnaor and Sól. All three were gazing out across the gap with similar expressions of concern.
‘I not like it,’ said Sólmundr
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