The Aebeling (2 page)

Of the three, two seemed large enough to be adults while the third was smaller, a child. They were now almost at the ridge where the assailants waited, and when he looked back towards them, he saw two of the men stand and fire arrows; resulting in one of the figures falling from their horse.

This was not a battle; this was murder. Conn reached for his bow, and kicked the stallion in action. The horse had been trained for just this kind of work and he burst from the trees and quickly stretched out into a high speed gallop. Though not a thoroughbred, the stallion would still make the distance in minutes. Conn hoped he wouldn’t be too late.

The path down the ridge was reasonably open and the stallion had little in the way of fallen trees or gullies to impede his gallop. Conn could see now that three men had leapt from their cover and tackled the two other riders, pulling them from their horses. Conn had spent his life studying martial arts, including both field archery and mounted archery; learning from the Mongols, the Hungarians and the Japanese. As the stallion galloped, Conn stood in his stirrups and readied his bow.

With the sound of his horse now echoing down the valley, the two bowmen suddenly realized someone was racing towards them, and they called out warnings to their friends. While turning towards him, they fitted arrows to their bows, but they hadn’t even sighted their bows before feeling the thud of arrows deep in their chests. With the bowmen dead, the three remaining men quickly retreated behind their shields. With the stallion snorting as he pulled it to a sudden stop, Conn dismounted in a fluid motion, and landing with a Katana in his hand.

They spoke nervously to each other, ‘Who the heck is this? He ain’t an Ancuman or a Twacuman, and he ain’t like any Priecuman I’ve ever seen.’

Conn was surprised that he was able to understand what they said – it was not any language he knew and it was as if the meanings of their words simply appeared in his head without him even having to translate them.

Another answered. ‘True, he is unlike any Priecuman that I have seen before. And he wants to be a hero!’ He addressed Conn. ‘So, hero, what are your last words?’

Conn studied them as they circled him; each was armed with a sword about two foot long; two-edged for cutting and slashing but also with a tapered point for stabbing, it was a handy weapon. They wore leather and brass lamellar breastplates over linen shirts and rough woolen pants. The lamellar didn’t withstand the force of his arrows, but would be a helpful defense against his blades. However, they were clearly not professional soldiers but brigands of some sort.

Giving them the benefit of the doubt, Conn drew his second Katana; the shorter wakizashi.

‘I don’t have any last words, and if you have any, I don’t really care.’

He didn’t expect them to understand him either but they did; stranger still. He had spoken in English.

‘He doesn’t speak any Priecuman language either’, one said as they continued to circle him. ‘And did you see his horse – that’s the most magnificent Ancuman horse I think I’ve seen – it could be worth more that these Twacuman. The Ancuman will pay a fortune for that stallion.’

‘What about his swords?’ The other asked, as they circled Conn, ‘They would be worth a lot too. We are going to be very rich men.’

‘I wouldn’t be too certain of that.’ Conn advised as three surrounded him. Conn stood still and waited; he was an experienced fighter who was confident in his abilities – he had yet to suffer defeat in any form of combat – albeit never when the stakes were so high.

Eventually they thought they had him where they wanted him and all three engaged at the same time. Confident in their superior numbers, they were let down by the inferior skill – in moments two were gasping their last words as the unseen slash of the katana severing arteries in their necks – the only target left for a quick result. Conn now faced the single survivor whose face showed a range of emotions as he watched his comrades’ fall to the ground; surprise, shock, fleetingly fear, and finally anger as he rushed at Conn in a wild but futile attempt to survive.

As he crumbled to the ground, a young voice could be heard behind him.

‘Well, that was a bit quick and boring.’

Conn turned to see a girl sitting on a bank looking at him. She had escaped her bindings. Conn cleaned his swords and returned them to their scabbards.

‘Could you not have made them suffer a bit more?’ she continued, ‘These were not nice men.’

Conn saw that she was young, perhaps twelve, though it was hard to tell. Before he had a chance to answer, her companion, also female but older, who was cradling her prone comrade, called out.

‘Caewyn, Derryth is still alive.’

Conn walked quickly to his horse, grabbed his medical kit from his saddlebag and headed to the prone warrior.

‘What is your name?’
the girl asked.

‘My name is Conn MacLeod.’ Conn answered. This time the girl spoke in a different language to before, but he still understood her. The language before sounded pleasant and functional – this one was lyrical and sensuous. It felt like poetry in motion. She appeared startled that he had responded. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you. What’s yours?’

‘My name Caewyn il Halani. It is unusual that you understand the language of the Twacuman. Normally we have to speak a Priecuman language to communicate with Priecuman. And you are Priecuman, aren’t you?’
she said, as she followed him to the fallen warrior, studying him intensely.

‘It depends what a Priecuman is – but I think so’. When Conn reached the victim, he asked the woman if he could have a look at the wounds. She was about to refuse when Caewyn interrupted and said ‘Let him’. Conn was surprised that the girl seemed to be in charge.

She stood back, bowing slightly; her eyes going to Caewyn in confusion.

On inspection, one arrow had stuck high in the shoulder, and as far as Conn could see, it would not be fatal if it was attended to. Another had grazed his arm, leaving a gash that would require stitches. He also had a gash in his head from when he had been unfortunate enough to land on a rock as he fell. The rock probably saved his life as the attackers had thought him dead. He was sure to have a very bad headache in the morning. As Conn assessed the wound, he regained consciousness.

Caewyn introduced her companions.

‘Conn il MacLeod – this is Derryth, and that is Elva. Please do what you can for Derryth; he will surely die before we can get him back to our village.’

Conn requested boiling water, and Caewyn sent Elva to light a fire. He told Derryth to stay still, as he cut and stripped the clothing from around the arrow head, which luckily had a straight edge. Meanwhile, using bamboo acupuncture needles as pain relief, Conn carefully pulled the arrow from Derryth’s shoulder. A deep flesh wound, there was a tear in the subclavian artery that was causing significant bleeding, and needed to be stitched. A trained paramedic, it took an hour for Conn to clean, stitch, dress and bandage all the wounds. Derryth should make a full recovery, albeit he would not be using that shoulder for some time.

Caewyn had spent the entire time looking over Conn’s shoulder.

‘For a great wiga, you are an excellent medic, Conn il MacLeod. If I can judge your work, I would think that Derryth might live.’

‘I believe so too, but he will need to rest for a day at least, so that the stitches do not tear. We do not want him to start bleeding again. How many days ride is it to your home?’

‘In his condition over three days; we have been travelling up the valley to find another Priecuman, who is a trader, and a friend to the Twacuman. His name is Abrekan. He was running late this year so I came to find him. Instead of us finding him, you found us, so it is a strange circle. But I did not expect to encounter the Rakians. I do not understand how they made it into the valley.’

‘Rakians?’

‘The Priecuman men that attacked us; they are from the south – from a land called Rakia.’

Conn feigned understanding. ‘Anyway, a day is too far with his wounds. My camp is an hour away. We should rest there, at least for tonight.’

With his work complete and Derryth resting, Conn stood; and had his first chance to look at the two females in detail. The Twacuman were clearly human – Priecuman – but they didn’t call themselves that. They were shorter than him, with slim physiques, light brown skin, dark brown or black hair and black eyes. They had very elegant and sensual faces. Elva was particularly beautiful, tall and sleek, and although dressed as a warrior, there was a lot of woman under the armor.

They were both wearing a heavy weave but loose fitted linen trousers, and a simple blouse that finished at their hips and was covered by a leather bodice laced to the front; cut low, it either compressed or promoted their breasts. A thick belt was tied around their waists, and carried a dagger and a pouch. Elva was also wearing light shoulder pads and leather vambraces.

As for their ages, he couldn’t really tell – but Elva had to be at least thirty.

They were all a huge contrast to Conn, and he found Caewyn studying his face.

‘You have the strangest eyes – they are bright blue – just like the sky or the lake’, she said, and giggled. ‘Are you sure you can see through them?’

Conn assured her that he could. He was about to return to his horse when Caewyn grabbed his hand. ‘There is something we need to do,’ and she turned him to face Elva. ‘Elva is a cempestre.’

Elva sank to one knee and bowed her head. ‘I wish to make a life pledge. I am indebted for all our lives, and I will gladly repay my debt with my life.’

Conn had no real idea what a cempestre was, but he assumed it was some kind of warrior – later he would learn that it was a term for female warriors. The males were called wiga. As Conn watched, Elva withdrew a dagger from her waist and cut a small incision on the end of her finger. As the blood oozed out, she held her other hand out to Conn and he instinctively gave her his hand. She turned it over and with the blood she drew a symbol on his palm.

‘That is the symbol for life; a heart, and you now hold mine in the palm of your hand.’ She let go of his hand and stood and they studied each other.

Conn didn’t really know what to say so he nodded. ‘I should deal with the bodies.’ Digging a shallow grave, he stripped the corpses of valuables, and buried them in their linens. The Rakians were shorter than the Twacuman, or at least these five were. Whilst they also had black hair, they had lighter, narrower eyes, and their skin color was more Asian than African.

Elva found their horses hidden in a nearby thicket – ten in total, five being pack horses, and she brought them for Conn to load the “booty”. Conn then constructed a travois from bamboo and rope, fitted it to the Lusitano, and had Elva help him load Derryth onto the frame. The stallion then calmly headed back to camp. It was slow going; the travois by necessity would bump its way over logs and rocks; each jar causing Derryth pain.

By the time that they arrived “home”, it was getting late and although he tried to warn Caewyn about his dogs, she walked straight up to them and didn’t get bitten.

Conn was nonplussed; ‘Some guard dogs’, he muttered.

She fussed with the animals. ‘They are so beautiful – are these some kind of white wolf? – they are huge!’

‘I suppose some kind of distant cousin to the wolf. They are called Maremmas – I have yet to hear any wolves.’

‘There are few – but they hunt on the other side of the mountain. We did not want them to eat our goats so we agreed not to kill them if they agreed not to hunt in our valley.’

She said it so nonchalantly that Conn chose not to react in surprise. All he could think to say was ‘Well, that would be why then.’

They put Derryth to rest in the yurt, and Conn went to take care of the horses. The girls followed him over.

They stopped suddenly. Conn looked back and then followed their gaze.

‘You have an Elfina? How is that possible?’

Conn looked confused. ‘What is an Elfina?’

Caewyn didn’t answer but walked forward to one of his horses. Conn had four pack animals – three horses and one donkey. One of the horses was a black and white pinto mare of just over 15 hands. The mare stuck her nose out to Caewyn as she arrived, and Caewyn hugged her. She turned back, her face sad.

‘She isn’t an Elfina – but she looks like one.’ She looked at Conn in his confusion. ‘The Elfina is a special horse –said to have been created by the Gyden for the Twacuman. For hundreds of years we rode them – but they have all died out in Halani. Perhaps they have returned.’

‘The Rakians called my stallion an Ancuman horse. What did they mean?’

‘Just as the Elfina is only ridden by Twacuman, the Ancuman have always ridden horses like your stallion – golden horses. No-one else is allowed to ride them on pain of death – but I doubt that any will be brave enough to ask you to hand over your stallion.’

As well as his buckskin Lusitano and the pinto mare, Conn had three young stallions; a steel grey Anglo-Arab, a dun colored Poitevin, and a tall Mammoth donkey that was taller even than the Pinto; they represented a diverse genetic pool of talents to be exploited.

With the ten extra horses – helpfully all mares – to be settled for the night, it was quiet late when he finished, despite Elva’s help. The
cempestre
seemed very unpleased with the whole turn of events – and hardly spoke to him, whereas Caewyn seemed surprisingly unperturbed about it all.

When Conn and Elva finally returned to the fire, it was almost dark. Conn prepared a meal for them all from a rabbit that Caewyn had caught, and they sat and ate in the flicker of the iron box. Caewyn sat to face the grove behind them, now pitch black, and she wondered out aloud.

‘Why did you choose this place to make your camp?’

‘No reason’ he replied cautiously, ‘it provided protection from the wind – and the winds are cold. Have I done something wrong?’

‘No. I think that grove is what is called a holtwudu; I have never seen one before, but I have heard of them. They are very special. Perhaps there is a reason…’ she stopped before continuing. ‘I didn’t know that there were four kinds of people.’