The Songs of Slaves (47 page)

“They are preparing to move out,” Connor mouthed. This was good, for the longer the
bacaudae
had waited to deploy the longer Valia’s men would remain in hiding. And the more likely he and his friends were to be caught, Connor mused as he looked up to see the corner of the watchtower above them to the right. He could see the arms of a single sentry on the wooden
platform; but the sentry’s gaze was naturally turned out, scanning the mountainsides that rose around them. He was not watching the base of his own wall
–
though any movement would certainly attract his eyes. Tuldin motioned for Connor and Henric to follow him, as he took up a position in what would be the best blind spot for the tower sentry. Nonetheless, Connor felt very exposed as he tried to melt from one place to the other. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening hard. He could hear the voices of the women as they carried water from the stream. They were talking animatedly about something, but Connor could not catch the words. On the other side of the wall two men walked by, laughing. The
people within the
enclave seemed to be in a good mood this morning, and why not? They had caught some rich Visigoths yesterday and got a big pay day out of it; and today they were expecting more.

Connor guessed that the men would not leave until at least after the water had been brought in. It seemed like forever, but within what was probably a short time the women had come
back
into the enclave. Soon the three spies heard what could only be the men assembling by the gate. There were no trumpet calls or orders barked, but the sounds of conversation and spear
butts and shields clattering carelessly together told of a large group gathering. Any doubt that they were expected vanished from Connor’s mind. They would not be contending with the few watchmen on either side of the ravine that Connor had seen two days before. They would be dealing with these
bacaudae
in strength.

The large group of men hushed their voices as they began to move out. Connor had heard Henric and Gaiseric disparage their kind before, but this was the
bacaudae’s
game and they knew how to play it too win. There was no telling how long this thieves’ den had been out here or how many parties of travelers – innocent or otherwise – it had deprived of wealth or even life. Connor gripped the hilt of
Archangel
and muttered a quick prayer under his breath.

Carefully, Tuldin crept towards the corner of the palisade. The sentry would be looking out towards the men deploying, naturally, but it was still a great risk. They were close, and could turn back to kill them with one call. But despite the fact that Valia seldom used Tuldin for foot reconnaissance, Connor saw that the dark man was gifted at it. Clothed in black and dark brown leathers, his lank black hair tied back for once,
and his curved sword strapped to his back, the Hun moved like a ghost. Though it was now full morning and there was neither shadow nor foliage to conceal them, no one could sense this assassin drift by. Tuldin took to a knee and peered out from the corner. Looking swiftly in the other direction, Connor saw a group of men making their way along a small trail, several hundred yards away, heading towards the other side of the gulley. In that group alone there must be fifty men or more.

“The thicker the grass, the easier it is mowed,” Henric whispered.

Tuldin signaled as he moved back towards them. It was time.

Connor produced the pile of tinder
–
sticks that had been finely shaved, with some down feathers worked in. He built the pile up in a mound in front of them. It would not take much. Henric took out his flint and drew his knife. This was the dangerous part, because it was impossible to do it without some noise, yet the guard never noticed as the sparks flew to the tinder below him. The tinder caught, and an eager flame began to climb. Tuldin already had his bow bent across
his hip, employing the muscles and weight of his whole body to fit the string to both ends. He emptied eight arrows from his first quiver on the ground between Connor and Henric.

“Hurry,” the Hun said. He stood up tall, fitting an arrow from his second quiver to his bow string as he looked at the watchtower. His voice had been at a normal level. He no longer tried to move slowly. He did not care if the sentry saw him; in fact it would only make it easier. Tuldin pulled the bow, drawing the arrow fletching back almost to his ear. As Connor took up one of the spilled arrows and held the wrapped head in the fire he realized that Tuldin had already mentally made the shot. The sentry turned towards them as he registered motion in his peripheral vision. Connor saw the look of alarm as the man’s mouth opened. But no cry came as the flying arrow took him through the left eye. Without looking down, Tuldin reached for a lit arrow. Connor handed it to him as he lit another. The small fire they had built was already fading. They needed to work faster. Tuldin launched the flaming arrow almost straight up, not using too much force. It came down again, burying deep into the thatch of the nearest longhouse on the other side of the wall.

Henric handed him an arrow and Tuldin repeated the shot. Connor was amazed by the precision, but Tuldin had a bow in his hands every day since he was old enough to stand, and this was not the first village he had burned. The sentry was dead and three arrows burned in the roof of one of the buildings, but no one yet seemed to have noticed.

“The thatch is wet,” Henric said. “It isn’t going to burn right.”

“It will burn,” Tuldin said, adding some force to his pull and launching a fourth arrow. He was now targeting a second building. Their tinder fire had all but burned out, but Connor and Henric were lighting each arrow from the last one. On the other side of the palisade the thatch of the first long house smoldered and spat up thin white smoke. But then Connor saw a red glow spreading within the thatch and heard the crackle of flame. Within the enclave a woman screamed. Another took up the call, and then another.

“Fire!”

The h
eat of the thatch fire met them
as the smoke started to billow an angry gray. The second roof
was catching. Screams of panic sounded everywhere, and Connor was suddenly very afraid, not for himself, but that some child or infirm person might be trapped. Tuldin was pulling back the last of the flaming arrows. Connor put his hand on his arm.

“Stop!”
Connor urged. The Hun looked at him blankly. “It’s just a distraction – we don’t want to burn these people completely out in the winter.”

“I can’t waste the arrow,” Tuldin said, and released it nonchalantly into a third building. There was no time for either of them to say more. Tuldin slung his bow over his back and followed Henric towards the corner of the palisade. It was time to go. 

Loud cries continued to come from within the enclave, but Connor heard none that were of pain or despair and was thankful for that. It was a terrible thing to start a fire, and he felt as if he had let lo
o
se a demon from its cage.  As the three turned the corner they found dozens of men and women running to get more water from the stream. He had made a mistake, Connor realized – they should have gone the other way, maybe even following the trail that had taken the other
bacaudae
to the far side of the ravine. It was too late
now. Several people saw them and screamed as they recognized them for what they were. Tuldin and Henric drew their swords and screamed a war cry as they started to run. This was enough to scatter the throng away from them, as many of these were still unarmed. Tuldin whipped his curved blade across the belly of one older man who held a knife then, spinning, took another who tried to grab him, all without losing momentum. Henric sliced his blade across the thigh of a would-be attacker. Then they were through, leaving the men and women fighting the fire in further disarray. Connor followed, sword in hand. He had no desire to engage the villagers, whatever their allegiance. His fight was with the armed
bacaudae
at the ravine – and as all hundred or more of these came running, drawn by the flames and black smoke and the screams of their comrades, he knew that their fight was now with him.

More than fifty men were coming on this side of the ravine, racing over the rolling ground of winter-brown grass and gray stone that Connor, Tuldin, and Henric had crossed in the dark hours. They had expected to be the ones making the demands to a trapped adversary that day, possibly even to fight from the safety of their perfect positions above their foes.
The outbreak of the fire had taken them completely off-guard. But as one by one they saw the three armed men running towards them, their surprise turned to blind rage. Connor had no difficulty picking out their leader – a huge, dark-haired man with shoulders like the span of a bull’s horns, decked pretentiously in gold chains and jewels over his
rusty
mail. Th
is man was soon in front
, raising a sword over his head and sounding a battle cry that could have struck fear in the hearts of a Rhinelander. Behind him his men came, raggedly dressed and scantily armored, but all armed and all capable. They charged towards their village and towards Connor and the others. Connor shuddered knowing that an equal force was approaching from his flank across the back trail. But he had to run straight forward. If he paused even for a moment, any enemy near the palisade could shoot him in the back. Connor had no shield with him. The old coat of mail – armor he was now well used to after wearing it every day s
ince they had left Montevarius’
estate – was his only protection besides luck, speed, and the two warriors by his side. But what was that to fifty men?

“They’re coming,” Henric said, but he did not mean the
bacaudae.
From the tree line Valia and his
men broke cover and ran towards the
bacaudae
like wolves descending upon sheep. Valia was a
t their lead, his oval shield in his left grip
and his drawn
spatha
in his right, the horsetail on his helmet trailing and his wolf mantle making him seem even bigger than he was. But he did not scream a battle cry, nor did any of the others, but came silently. The
bacaudae
did not hear them, so intent on Connor and the others and on their burning longhouses. Within moments, the Visigoths were within a spear-throw of their enemies. Connor looked to Tuldin and nodded, then took a deep breath and prepared for contact.

The Visigoths hurled their spears and javelins as they ran. At almost the same moment, the
bacaudae
became aware of the larger trap. Some in the rear of the pack turned to see Valia’s men – just as the missiles found their targets. There was a great scream as men went down, impaled by the
iron heads and wooden shafts. L
osing no momentum, the Goths tore into their prey, with Valia striking the first blow. But Connor had no time to admire t
he fighting skill of the Visigoths, for the
bacaudae
– many still unaware that they were under attack from behind – was upon them.

Connor deflected the swing of the lead
bacaudae’s
sword and immediately cut towards the big man’s head. The leader snarled as he slipped just to the right, making Connor miss. But in doing so he had not seen Tuldin dart low, sliding past a man who sought to skewer him with a spear. The Hun caught Connor’s adversary across the back of the knee, slicing tendons, ligaments, and arteries with a spray of blood. Instinctively, the
bacaudae
stabbed at Tuldin, but the Hun was behind him and the man crumbled on his useless leg. Connor ducked the spear swing from the man who had attacked Tuldin, striking the man in the arm with
Archangel
before grabbing him with his free hand. He pulled the spearman into him as the
bacaudae
chief swung his sword from his knees, throwing the spearman in the path of the blow. Connor came over the top, driving
Archangel
down into the exposed space between the chieftain’s neck and collarbone, punching through flesh and lung, and the severing the great vessels of the big man. The chief tried to cry out, but no air came and he died looking up to the sky.

But as Connor tried to pull his sword free another warrior slammed his shield into his back, knocking him down on top of the chieftain’s body.
Connor pulled his arms in protectively and the warrior’s sword swing missed, burying into the corpse of his leader. Connor struck from his knees and the man screamed as
Archangel
bit
onto his calf. Connor was instantly up, his sword rising up with him – wedging behind his enemy’s shield and piercing through the bottom of his jaw. Connor kicked the
bacaudae
clear of his blade. The man fell to the ground, still choking on his blood as Connor turned to face the others that stampeded towards him.

“Shoulder to shoulder!” Henric called. “Shoulder to shoulder!”

Connor heeded, joining the Visigoth at his left side. Henric’s face and hair were already splattered in the blood of their enemies. His blue eyes were bright with battle fury as he flung the weight of his tall, powerful body into every hacking blow. When Henric’s
spatha
failed to find flesh his
pugio
short sword was right behind, searching into the weaknesses of his attackers. Tuldin joined them at Henric’s right, carving the foemen with his curved blade. Connor could sense that fighting in place was an impediment for the Hun, who was used to rushing through his opponents whether
he was on horse or on foot; but Tuldin stood fast in their small line, protecting their flank from the warriors who bore down on them.