Shadowland (4 page)

A few barely recognisable family possessions were
scattered amongst the smouldering ashes, things that by some turn of fate, had
not burned. Blackened, trodden into the dirt and ash of the path, were items of
clothing, some pots, and the remains of the harvest spirit Usher’s mother had
made from twisted barley stalks. She had made it several weeks prior, twisting
the stalks into the shape of a man-spirit with barley heads as hair and then
hung it by the entrance to their hut in celebration of a good harvest. Many of
the villagers had commented about how fine it was and Usher remembered his
mother’s pride, now it lay broken and trodden into the blackened ground.
  

Tears streamed down Usher’s face as he gazed upon
the desolation, his mind still unable to really grasp that this was once the
home he had grown up in and that his mother and father were no more. Unable to
find their bodies, and unwilling to search too far, he gathered a few things
into his bag and, still in a daze, went in search of Cal.

He found him kneeling with his back to him in the
ruins of his former home. His shoulders were moving and although silent, Usher
could tell he was sobbing. He was staring at the remains of the fire as it still
burnt in what would have been the middle of the house with two blackened bodies
lying at its centre. They must have been Cal’s
parents but were unrecognisable as anything once human. Usher laid a hand on
his friend’s shoulder.

‘Come away, Cal.
We’ll get whoever did this, even if it takes forever. We’ll find them all and
make them pay.’

Cal
’s hand covered Usher’s as
he fought to bring his tears under control. ‘I don’t see Clarise’s body, maybe
she was one of the children they took with them. There were several, remember?
We have to go after them.’ He climbed to his feet and angrily wiped the tears
from his eyes. ‘Why, Usher? Why would anyone come up here and…’ he looked around,
unable to finish. Usher shook his head, finding no other response.

They picked their way through the village in
silence, their minds numb, unable to comprehend what their eyes were telling
them. In a half-hearted effort to do something, they collected a few things
that they felt might be useful and called out in the hope that someone had
survived the madness and would come running out from the woods, but their cries
went unanswered by the cold darkness between the trees.

Picking up the trail of the warrior band, they
headed south. Two boys consumed with thoughts of revenge, and the need to know
why.

****

The
storyteller coughed and reached for the pewter mug at his side, then glanced
across at the tear-streaked face of Calvador Craen. His friend was still lost
in the past, back at that burnt-out village, so far away and so long ago, with
the flames from that fire still flickering in his eyes after all these years.
Usher felt a shiver as the memories of that day crowded his mind. He leaned
forward and placed a hand on his friend’s knee. ‘Are you all right, Cal?’

Cal
turned his head as if
waking from a dream. ‘Why does it all seem like yesterday? Why can I still hear
the wolves and see our village dying?’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘And why
can I never get that stink out of my nose?’ Taking a deep breath, he waved
Usher to continue, and then resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and his
chin on his hands, he returned to watching the fire.

Usher Vance took a fleeting look around the room at
the silent faces, and then continued.

Chapter Two – A new dawn

A
soft warm light filtered through the trees, blessing the morning mist with an
ethereal quality as the woodland birds welcomed the dawn with their chorus of
celebration. It was cold. A chill breeze rustled through the leaves overhead,
whispering a promise of rain later in the day, but for now, dawn had brought a
sunrise. Down on the path, two boys plodded onwards, noticing little of the new
day awakening as they dragged along heavy hearts and tired minds in a pitiful,
exhausted daze.

The tracks weren’t hard to follow. The Picts
travelled without fear of pursuit and had made their way through the woods into
the lowlands; brazenly marking the trail with items they had looted, inspected
and finally discarded. Each item serving as a stabbing reminder to the boys of
the horrors visited the night before.

‘What are we going to do if we catch up with them?’ Cal asked. He kicked a
stone and it bounced along the dry rutted path. It was the first thing either
of them had said in some time and it brought Usher up with a start.

‘What?’ Usher’s mind had been unconsciously reliving
the terrible scenes of the previous night, leaving his feet to find their own
direction. He glanced about, surprised to find they were through the meadow and
had re-entered the woods, as he turned back to Cal.

‘When we catch up with them, not if and I’m not
going to forget what the horseman looked like, and when we catch up with him…’
he stopped for a moment, wondering to himself what they would actually do when
they caught up with the Picts. Neither of them had killed anything bigger than
a deer, and they hadn’t done that many times.

The tribes had a long history as warlike people,
fighting amongst themselves, protecting their shores from invading forces, and
then for many years struggling against their Roman occupiers. However, when
Boudicca’s Iceni had finally failed to drive out the Romans, the land slowly
settled and life for the tribes had changed. For over four hundred years, there
had been a relative peace in the land. The skirmishes between the tribes and
raids from the Saxons and Angles had almost become a thing of history, almost.
As the last of the Roman legions departed to defend a besieged homeland, they
left behind empty towns and houses that no Briton wanted to inhabit. Although
still unnoticed by most of the tribes, a time of violence was fast returning.

‘We’re not warriors,’ broke in Cal. ‘We can’t fight those Picts, even if we
do catch up with them.’ He slumped down at the side of the path and lay back in
a clump of bracken. ‘What are we going to do?’

Usher looked down at his friend’s face, and saw
misery and fear staring back at him.

‘We have each other, Cal, and when we catch up with the Picts
we’re going to find Clarise, and maybe some others from the village, and then…then
we’re going to get them to safety, somehow. After that… I don’t know. We’ll
have to trust in the spirits and see what they offer us.’

They continued to walk until late afternoon,
emerging once again from the trees of the Weald, the great rambling forest that
stretched across the width of Britain.
They must have been climbing as they had been walking because the view that
presented itself as they passed through the last few elm and beech trees was
from high on a hill and breathtaking in the afternoon light. Grassland spread
across a valley in a pattern of hedged cultivated fields, appearing before them
like some huge sleeping-mat thrown down by a giant of legend. Usher took it all
in, studying the small communities that dotted the valley. A Roman road ran
straight and true from one end to the other, and smaller, local paths snaked
between the settlements. He studied the road and surrounding land, eager for
any sight of the Pict raiders,
but could
see little movement of any kind, and certainly no column of marching warriors.
For Cal’s
sake, he suppressed his feelings of disappointment.

There appeared to be a Roman villa dominating the
far end of the valley, and the closest tribal huts were just a short walk
further down the path. Smoke trailed up from a group of familiar round dwellings
and they could just make out a few cows grazing, with chickens pecking the
ground round their legs. By the largest building, an old man was chopping wood.
The sound of each strike only reaching them up the hill as the axe was raised
to the top of each stroke. With a sigh, they lifted their packs and walked down
into the valley.

The path from the forest was well trodden and led
past the closest settlement. It was only as they got closer that someone
noticed them. ‘Get away, leave my chickens alone!’ The cries of a woman broke
through the calm of the day as they neared the closest hut. She was running
towards them with skirts flying, bringing the boys up short, confused as to why
she was screaming at them. A clod of mud landed close to Cal and they watched in amazement as she
stooped to gather more stones and lumps of mud to throw at them.

‘We’re not after your chickens,’ called Usher
indignantly. Standing his ground, he turned to Cal. ‘Maybe we should just move on, she
doesn’t seem too happy to see us.’ The woman stopped running and began pelting
them with anything she could lay her hands on. Finally, a stone hit Cal on the leg and he
gave a cry.

‘She’s mad!
’
he
yelled, clutching at his leg, but before they could either run or stop her from
throwing anything else, another figure joined the exchange.

‘You’re not really after them chickens now, are you,
boys?’ The old woodcutter came out from between the huts and the woman halted
her attack. With a scowl towards Usher and Cal, she moved back to her chickens,
apparently satisfied the threat was being dealt with. Usher shifted his pack on
his shoulder and tried to decide whether they should just turn and run, but
then swallowed nervously, as he realised that running from the drawn bow that
the old man was holding wasn’t really an option. It was no ordinary rough
hunting bow either. Its dark wood gleamed in the warm afternoon light, hinting
at a weapon built for more than merely hunting deer. Staring at the tip of the
arrow aimed towards him, Usher decided he was as close to death as he had ever
been. The archer gradually eased the pressure off the bow; the hemp string
singing softly as the strain released and the arrow pointed to the ground. With
a hiss, Usher let go of the breath that he hadn’t realised he had been holding.

‘Well, you don’t look much like raiders.’ A slow
grin crept across the archer’s grubby face. He was old, but not as old as they
had first thought. Long grey hair tied back from a heavily lined face with
bushy eyebrows that drooped down over dark eyes seeming to lay all inner
feelings bare. From barely restrained violence a moment before, they now
reflected amusement. ‘I see you wear Iceni colours, but you’re not from round
these parts, so where are you from?’ He scanned the surrounding hedgerows and,
seeing no others ready to pounce, unstrung the bow with a smooth practised
motion.

‘North ways,’ said Usher, finding his voice and
waving back towards the woods. ‘We didn’t mean any harm.’ This brought another
smile to the archer’s face.

‘I believe you didn’t, boys. The name’s, Meryn Link,
and that over there,’ he pointed towards the woman who was now crouched back
down clucking at her chickens, ‘that’s Bretta. She don’t mean no harm neither,
just loves them chickens, is all. This has been a busy road over the last few
weeks, an’ any party of raiders that comes past here has seen fit to take a few
of them chickens. Reckon she’s just about had enough.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Not
the brightest of flames is Bretta, but she means well. Anyhow, I can at least
offer you shelter for the night, if you want it that is. I try to keep a
traditional hearth of welcome in my home; an’ if truth be told, I could do with
the company. So please, be welcome.’ He waved them towards the biggest of the
huts then set off with the boys trailing behind.

The hut was dark, warm, and clean, smelling of the
fresh hay strewn across the floor and the smoke rising lazily from the low fire
in the centre. It immediately reminded the boys of home and each choked back a
momentary reminder of their loss. Meryn dropped some chopped wood onto the fire
and it was soon crackling merrily, the glowing embers and flames bringing light
into the dark space, showing few possessions, but a neat and tidy home. The
boys slumped down and watched dreamily as the smoke rose, curling towards the
thatched roof before escaping through the centre hole of the thatch of cut
rushes. Usher hadn’t realised until entering the warmth how utterly exhausted
he was. The last day and a night without sleep had all but drained him of
energy.

‘Please… we’re tracking a group of Picts, led by a
horseman,’ said Usher, rousing himself. ‘They... ’

‘Picts? This far south?’ The old man glanced across,
and then smiled kindly when he saw their anguished expressions. ‘Well anyway,
there’ll likely be plenty of time for questions and then maybe for answers
later. Sit and rest or you’ll not be tracking anything or anyone. You look bone
tired, the pair of you.’

Meryn took his bow and placed it close to the door.
As he did, Usher prodded Cal
and motioned for him to look. The bow now leaned against the wall alongside a
spear and sword. The sword was big, half as long again as any normal blade of
the Iceni. They exchanged puzzled frowns and glanced up to see the archer
smiling at their reaction.

‘
Tis
a warrior’s blade.’
Meryn went back and picked it up, pulling the blade from its sheath with a
flourish that made them both draw back, suddenly unsure of their smiling host’s
intentions. The old man slammed the blade back into its polished black scabbard
then held it up in a beam of sunlight that had found its way past the door. The
sword’s half-moon finger guard gleamed yellow as they all admired the weapon.