‘I would not want to go through that again,’ said Elodan at last, some colour back in his features.
‘How did you survive so long below the water?’ Lamfhada asked. ‘Are you also a magician?’
‘No - but I know nature. Between the ice and the water there is a gap of around two inches. I swam on my back, cutting across the current, looking for a place near the bank where the ice was thin. But it was the cold that almost beat me; I did not have the strength to break through.’
‘It was brave of you to risk your life against the beast.’
Elodan shook his head. ‘Do not confuse courage with necessity. When a man has only one choice, it is not a question of bravery.’
‘You could have run.’
‘The ice would not have supported me.’
‘You do not know that, sir Knight,’ said Lamfhada.
‘No, I do not. Now let us speak no more of it. Tomorrow we will seek out your wizard. But for now - I must sleep.’
The wounds in Groundsel’s back required more than forty stitches, yet still he was sitting in his chair when Nuada stood on the central table to tell the gathering of the fight with the beast. Llaw Gyffes and Arian sat beside Groundsel and the hall was silent as the poet began.
He spoke first of the heroes of the past — his words lyrical, almost hypnotic. Then gradually, imperceptibly, the tone changed. He talked of blood and death, and the horrors of the damned. Men shivered despite the blazing fires. He spoke of evil, and the works of evil.
‘Nothing is untouched by it,’ he said. ‘For it is like a plague, spreading through the hearts of men. Some it touches and corrupts instantly, others carry the seed within themselves. Only the very strong can withstand it.’ He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd. There were more than one hundred and fifty men gathered here, many having arrived that morning with their families to escape the beasts roaming the forest. ‘Only the very strong,’ he repeated. ‘Now we have heard how these Demon-beasts came among us. One was seen by a boy; he watched it appear in a flash of lightning on a hillside. Perhaps it was that very creature,’ said Nuada, pointing to the giant head impaled on a lance at the back of the hall. ‘Now in the Elder times such beasts were well known, and knights and heroes rode out to slay them, armed with magic swords or lances, their bodies encased in armour strengthened by spells. Yet last night a group of men, ordinary men, walked the same perilous path as those legendary heroes. But there were no magic swords, no sorcery - only strength, and courage. Two of those men are not here in the flesh; they gave their lives to end the terror. But they are here in spirit, honoured guests among their comrades. They stand proud. No matter what deeds they may have committed in life, in death they are forgiven and exalted. Their names, which will live for ever in song, are Askard and Dubarin. There they stand, by the fire. Let them know how much you value them.’
All around the hall men raised their weapons -swords, lances, knives and axes - and a great cheer went up.
Nuada waited for several moments, then raised his arms for silence.
‘And now my friends, my heroes of the forest, Askard and Dubarin, will hear their tale for the first time. And then they will rejoin the other heroes of history in the fabled Halls of Heaven, to drink of the Wine of Life, to savour the joys of glory.’
Groundsel leaned forward and winced as the stitches pulled at his flesh, but his eyes shone as the events of the night before came to life. The tracking and the grisly find, the bowmen in the trees, the leader and Llaw Gyffes sitting in the open by the fire. The nerves, the fear, the dread anticipation - all were recaptured by the poet, and Groundsel felt himself back by the fire waiting, waiting . . . saw again the massive jaws of the Demon-beast as it bore silently down upon him, felt the stomach-wrenching panic as its forepaws closed around him.
‘And seeing the lovely bow-woman in mortal danger, Groundsel flung himself at the towering monster. Look! Look at the fangs, and picture it in life with its dreadful talons. But Groundsel did not flinch from the danger. With two short swords he charged, burying them deep into the belly of the beast. Its talons ripped into him . . . as he knew they would. But other heroes were close by.’
The story moved to its climax and Groundsel tore his eyes from the poet and gazed at the men in the room. Their faces were shining, their eyes fixed as the tale neared its end. Askard and Dubarin had given their lives. Llaw Gyffes had clung to the monster’s back. And every man had followed Groundsel, conquering their fears, to slay the Demon-beast.
Each feverish, horrific moment blazed into life. Sweat dripped from Groundsel’s face and his heart hammered wildly within him. He felt he could take no more, wanting to run from the hall. But the tale ended, with Nuada swinging to point at Groundsel and his companions. ‘And there, my friends, are the leading heroes of the tale. The warrior maiden who stood so recklessly before the beast, the man of the axe who rode the demon, and the Forest Lord who stepped into its deadly embrace and lived. Let them hear your cheers.’
A mighty roar went up and Arian could feel the timbers vibrating beneath her feet as men stamped and cheered. Groundsel stood, but his legs were weak and he staggered. Llaw Gyffes rose beside him, supporting his arm. The crowd surged forward, knocking over tables and chairs; seizing Groundsel, they lifted him high as the applause thundered around the hall. Arian took Llaw’s arm and led him out into the open air.
‘He told it well,’ she said, ‘but not like it was.’
‘Where was he wrong?’
‘Groundsel did none of it for pure motives. He wanted to be in another tale of heroes - and he wanted to show me how brave he was.’
‘Is that so terrible? Did he not save you from the creature?’
She hooked her arm in his and led him to the stockade wall. The forest was dark and menacing, but there was no howling to be heard. ‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘he saved me. So did you. What I did was foolish, and I too enjoyed being part of the new forest legends. Will we have some peace now, do you think?’
‘Peace? We will kill all the beasts, but that will not bring us peace. Why are they here? What force sent them? No, we will have no peace, Arian. I think this is the beginning of a war.’
‘You believe the King is sending these demons to the forest?’
‘No, not the King. One of his sorcerers.’
‘Then maybe you are right. Maybe we should leave the forest and head for Cithaeron.’
‘We?’ he asked, drawing back.
‘I want to be where you are, Llaw. You must know that I love you.’
He took her by the shoulders, holding her from him. Her eyes were bright with tears, and her hair shone silver in the moonlight.
‘The last woman I loved was brutally murdered. I am not ready, Arian, to suffer such pain again. I think I will never be ready.’
And he left her there, alone on the ramparts.
CHAPTER TEN
As she sat in the cave, feeding the fire, Sheera knew she had made a terrible mistake. The two men had been courteous and respectful when the innkeeper introduced them, but once into the forest they had changed subtly. Strad, the taller and more gregarious of the two, had become silent and almost sinister, while Givan had taken to openly staring at her, letting his eyes linger on her breasts and hips. Neither of them had touched her, and outwardly they remained eager to please, but the journey through the winter forest had begun to worry Sheera. They had sheltered through two blizzards, yet when the skies cleared she had seen from the sun, and the later stars, that their route was curving like a crescent moon back towards the sea.
Last night she had wrapped herself in her blankets and pretended to sleep, straining to hear their conversation. After a while Strad moved over to her and softly asked if she was comfortable. She did not stir and he returned to Givan.
‘Only a couple more days of this foul weather,’ said Givan. ‘Then it is warm beds and warm women. By the Gods, I’ll be glad to see the back of this forest.’
‘You and I both,’ agreed his friend.
Sheera’s mind raced. A couple of days? How could that be? It was at least a ten-day march in good weather! She should have listened to Cartain, who had urged her to come to Cithaeron and aid him in gathering the exiles together to form an army. But her anger was great, and the thought of leaving Okessa and the others unpunished could not be tolerated.
Now, stretching her long legs out before her, she pushed her back against the wall. She was a tall girl, with close-cropped, tightly curled black hair and dark almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth was too wide to be considered beautiful, but her lips were full and her teeth white and even.
‘Thinking of some man, are you, princess?’ asked Givan, moving to sit near her. He was short and fat, and a widening bald patch on the crown of his head gave him the look of a lustful monk.
‘I was thinking about my sister.’
‘Yes? Sad business. Very sad. I saw her once in Mactha, riding to the hunt. A well-made woman. You remind me of her, save I think you are taller and maybe a shade slimmer.’
‘How soon will we reach the southern valleys?’ she asked.
‘Oh, about eight days, more or less. Do not worry, we have plenty of provisions.’
‘The provisions do not concern me, Givan; they are your responsibility. I understand there are outlaws in the forest?’
‘Don’t worry your head about them; they’ll not be out in this blizzard. And anyway we’ve got nothing worth stealing - though I dare say there are those who would consider you a prize worth taking.’
She forced a smile. ‘How sweet of you to say so, but then I have you and Strad to protect me. It is a very comforting thought.’
‘Oh, we’ll protect you, princess, don’t have no worries on that score. I wouldn’t like to see nothing happen to you; I’ve grown quite fond of you, I have.’
‘I think I will sleep now,’ she said, turning her back on him and pulling her blankets over her. For a moment she could feel his presence close to her, but then he moved back to where Strad was sitting in the cave-mouth.
‘Best forget that sort of stuff,’ whispered Strad.
‘There’s plenty of women available in Pertia -especially after we get paid.’
‘She’s in my blood, boy. I’ve got to have her. Will they care that she’s soiled? All they’ll see is another filthy Nomad. No, I want her worse than anything I can remember.’
‘She doesn’t want you,’ Strad pointed out.
‘That’s what makes it sweet, boy.’
Sheera waited until both men were sound asleep and then slipped from her blankets. Swiftly she rolled them into a bundle and moved through the cave to the entrance. Outside the blizzard had died, but the wind was bitterly cold. She wrapped herself in a sheepskin cloak and pulled on a second set of woollen leggings. Glancing back at the sleeping men she hooked her pack to her shoulders, gathered her bow and quiver of arrows and stepped out into the night.
The stars were bright and she headed along the line of the Spear Carrier.
She walked for almost an hour, then searched for a camping place, finding a small hollow out of the wind. There were several fallen trees and one of them had crashed down upon a group of boulders. Sheera clam-- bered under the snow-covered branches and found herself in a snug, shallow shelter — the foliage making a thick roof and the boulders a wall around her, save to the west. She gathered tinder and cleared a space for a small fire, which she lit at the first attempt with the tinder-box her sister had given her at the last Solstice feast. With a tiny blaze giving warmth, she settled back in her blankets to sleep.
Awaking to the sound of curses, she cast an anxious look at her little fire. It seemed completely dead.
‘Damn that last snow shower,’ snapped Givan. ‘But she cannot be far away.’
‘I don’t know why she ran in the first place,’ complained Strad. ‘You think she knew . . .’
‘Shut up you fool, she might be close.’
‘More likely died in a drift. We’ve lost a fortune -and all because you couldn’t keep the lust from your eyes.’
‘It was nothing to do with me. I think she knew more about the direction than we gave her credit for. Twice I saw her checking the stars.’
Sheera edged her way to the west of her shelter and bellied down to peer under the branches. The first man she saw was Strad; he was searching the ground.
‘Found anything?’ asked Givan.
‘No. But I can smell smoke. Can you?’
Sheera swivelled. The fire she had thought was dead was beginning to smoulder.
Just as she prepared to turn and deal with it, a terrifying scream came from outside and she pressed her face to the branches in time to see a huge shape bearing down on Strad. It seemed to be covered in white-grey fur, but she could see only the thick legs and a part of its hide. Something splashed on her face and hands and looking down, she saw that it was blood. Strad’s body fell close to her, the head torn from the shoulders.
She could hear Givan shouting, ‘No! No!’ But this was followed by a low snarling growl and the sound of bones being crunched and split.
Sheera eased her way back into her shelter and, as silently as she could, fed twigs to the smouldering fire, blowing it to life. The branches to her left quivered, and she heard the beast snuffling beyond them. Forcing herself to stay calm, she continued to work at the fire. A small finger of flame licked at the wood, then gathered itself; she picked up a dry branch and held it to the flame. Snow tipped into her shelter as the beast beyond pushed its snout forward. With great care Sheera took the smoking branch from the fire and turned, lifting it to where she could almost see the beast’s head. Acrid smoke curled into the creature’s nostrils and it snorted hard, pulling back abruptly.
Sheera returned the branch to the fire and waited. She could hear it feeding beyond the shelter.
But would it return?
Nuada was awakened close to dawn by a rough hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up, his eyes bleary, his body aching from the intake of ale. A lantern had been placed on the table by the bed and he recognized Groundsel’s squat figure sitting beside it.
‘What . . . why are you here?’ asked Nuada. His mouth was dry and he reached for the tankard beside his bed; it contained flat beer, but even this was welcome. He shivered. Outside the snow was falling fast and a cold wind blew through the gaps in the rough-hewn door-frame. He pulled a blanket around his shoulders. ‘Is something wrong, Lord Groundsel?’