The Shadow Isle (34 page)

Gerran heard men behind him turning out of line to vomit off to the side of the gates. Prince Voran himself had gone dead-white, and drops of sweat beaded his face.

“Your Highness,” Gerran said. “Is the high priest one of these men?”

“He’s not.” Voran swallowed heavily. “Let’s look in the temple. He might have taken refuge at the altar.” He turned and called out to his men. “Get these poor bastards down! We’ll bury them properly out in the oak grove.”

The prince allowed Gerran to take the lead. They skirted the impalements and walked around the circular temple to reach the west-facing door. It, too, hung smashed from its hinges. Inside, a few shafts of sunlight streamed from the tiny windows up near the roof, plenty of light to see the remains of the statue of Bel, lying ax-hacked and scattered around the floor. On the stone altar Govvin lay stripped and gutted. The Horsekin had cut him open a few inches at a time and placed his internal organs in tidy lines on either side of him, bladder, guts, kidneys, stomach, and lungs, everything but the heart, which was missing. Ants crawled thick over the corpse and the altar, black with old blood.

“Just what I was expecting,” Gerran said.

The prince dropped to his knees and vomited like a commoner. Gerran turned his back to give him some privacy, but Voran recovered himself quickly. Together, they walked outside to watch as the men lowered the spears and removed the pitiful corpses. Most stuck and had to be pulled free. Gerran couldn’t begrudge the men the black jests they voiced to make the job bearable. “Like pulling pork off a spit” was the most common one.

By the time they’d finished, the wagons of the baggage train were creaking to a stop at the foot of the hill. Some of the men hurried off to fetch shovels. The prince watched them go, then turned to Gerran.

“I’d say that everyone’s been dead about three days,” Voran said.

“I agree, Your Highness,” Gerran said. “We’re going to find more carnage along the road to the north of here, I expect. I wonder how many more raiders there are?”

“I wonder where they are, too. What about Honelg’s old dun? The gwerbret left a fortguard there.”

“So he did, Your Highness. Let’s hope they’re standing a siege.”

“Or standing at all?” Voran’s voice turned grim. “Let’s hope, indeed. ”

“Here comes Caenvyr. Looks like he’s found somewhat.”

The prince’s captain came hurrying up, then bowed to the prince. He handed Gerran a bit of wood that had been cut and smoothed with an ax from the look of the marks left behind by the blade. It also carried two crude symbols carved with a dagger point: a drawing of a piggish creature and then a letter.

“I don’t know letters,” Gerran said. “Do you?”

“Just enough to know that’s an A,” Caenvyr said. “As in apred, perhaps?”

“Truly, that drawing looks like a boar to me, too,” Gerran said. “What does this mean?”

“I have no idea, my lord.” Caenvyr held out both hands palm upward. “I was hoping that you or his highness knew. I found it nailed up on the temple wall, so it must mean somewhat.”

Murmuring apologies, bowing to the prince, Nicedd joined Gerran. “I heard the captain mention Boars, my lord.” He looked at the scratched marks on the wood. “It’s them, all right!” Nicedd turned away and spat on the ground. “I might have known, my lord! They’re just the sort to murder a lot of helpless priests.”

“Here, what’s this?” Voran said. “Now look, silver dagger, Clan Apred was wiped out during the Cerrgonney Wars, or so I was told.”

“If Your Highness says so, then.” Nicedd ducked his head in an excuse for a bow.

“None of that!” Voran snapped. “If you know differently, tell me.”

“Well and good then, Your Highness. I come from up north in Cerrgonney. Those bastards of Boars live just over the border, between us and Dwarveholt. They’ve got a couple of duns up there, and they raided us whenever they could.”

Voran’s jaw dropped in surprise. He recovered himself with a quick nod. “Some of them must have escaped my ancestor’s justice, then,” Voran said. “And so you recognize their mark?”

“I do, Your Highness. I’ve always been told that they worship that Horsekin goddess, Al-what’s-it.”

“Alshandra,” Gerran said softly. “Well now, this is all starting to make sense.”

“True spoken, my lord,” Nicedd continued. “She’s their excuse for raiding. The lord I used to ride for caught one once and got some information out of him before he hanged him.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Voran said.

“Well, um, Your Highness.” Nicedd began studying the ground. “I couldn’t say for certain, but Cerrgonney lords like to keep their troubles to themselves, if you take my meaning.”

“I’m afraid I do, but as justiciar, I’ll have to look into this further. ” He waved the wooden plaque in Gerran’s general direction. “Why would the raiders go out of their way to tell us who they are? It seems foolhardy.”

“Good question, Your Highness.” Gerran had been wondering the same thing. “They may have been leaving that bit of wood for the Horsekin, not for us, to show they’d done their part of a bargain. Or maybe they had a prisoner who wanted someone to know where she’d gone. I’m assuming it was a woman.”

“It might have been a castrated lad. If it was a woman, why would they have brought her along on a raid? She couldn’t have been taken captive here. The priests of Bel don’t allow so much as a mare or a hen inside their compounds.” Voran handed the plaque to Caenvyr. “Keep that in a safe place, Captain.” He turned back to Gerran. “Be that as it may, let’s get the dead buried. Then we’ll send out scouts.”

The scouts came back with grim news indeed. They’d gone a few miles north toward the Black Arrow’s old dun and on the way found a farm.

“Burnt to the ground, Your Highness,” the scout said, “and we didn’t find any corpses.”

The prince swore under his breath.

“We found a lot of hoofprints, too, Your Highness,” the scout went on. “Some were fresh, heading north. I’ll wager they were the scum who fled from us. But there were old prints, too, and a lot of horse droppings. Everything was pretty confused, but the tracks mostly pointed north.”

“It was hard to tell how many riders there were,” the second scout joined in. “Though I’d say there were a cursed lot more than we faced today, Your Highness.”

“Well and good, then,” Voran said. “Go rejoin your units, men.” He turned to Gerran. “Let’s see, we sent out messengers in mid-morning. They should ride straight through to Cengarn. Let’s hope the night watch lets them in.”

“It will, Your Highness,” Gerran said, “since they’re riding in your name.”

“Most likely, indeed. How long do you think it will take Ridvar to reach us with more men?”

Gerran had been unaware that the prince had asked for reinforcements, but he was pleased to hear it. “Another day and a half, Your Highness,” he said. “They can’t risk tiring their horses with maybe a battle waiting at the end of the ride.”

“True spoken. I’m thinking of making our night’s camp in the temple. As you remarked, it’s defensible, even without its gates. We can pull the supply wagons into the opening to block it.”

“Good idea, Your Highness. I can’t see the Horsekin dismounting to attack the compound. That’s assuming they don’t have spearmen with them, of course.”

“Of course.” Voran allowed himself a thin smile. “But I think it’s a safe assumption. It’s a long way to walk from their country to ours.”

“That’s one of the things that’s going to save us, Your Highness. In the long run, I mean.”

Voran winced. “True enough. One more thing. I want your honest opinion, Gerran. No agreeing with the prince just because he’s the prince. I’m thinking of staying in our fortified camp on the morrow to let those reinforcements reach us. Will we be safer, or is it a death trap?”

“Well, Your Highness, since we don’t know how many Horsekin are waiting up the road, riding out could be a death trap, too.” Gerran glanced back at the stone walls. “I spotted a couple of wells inside the temple grounds. There’s plenty of water, and we’ve got supplies left. I’d say we camp and hope Ridvar gets himself here fast.”

“Done, then.” He turned to a waiting servant. “Go find Caenvyr.”

Gerran kept his darker thoughts to himself. They were assuming that the messengers would reach Cengarn safely. What if they’d been ambushed on the road somehow? It wasn’t likely, since they’d headed south and the fleeing Horsekin north, but it was possible if another squad of raiders were prowling the roads.
It’s in the laps of the gods
, he reminded himself.
And we’ll know soon enough.

Once everyone had set up camp inside the temple walls, and the carters had pulled the supply carts across the broken gates, Gerran had the leisure to attend to his injury. With Clae’s help, he removed his mail and pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and the padding underneath.

“There’s ever so much blood on them, my lord,” Clae said.

“Hold them up, and let me see.”

A fresh bloodstain the size of a soup bowl soaked the padding. The blood had oozed through onto his shirt, as well, to make a smaller stain.

“Is the wound still bleeding?” Gerran said.

“It’s not,” Clae said. “It looks like a peach or suchlike when it’s really ripe and the skin splits.”

“Not a deep cut, you mean.”

“Just that. But you’ve got a bruise the size of my hands put together. ”

“What color is it?”

“Red, mostly, and purple.”

Gerran raised his left arm over his head. The shoulder throbbed and a line of fire ran down his back, but the pain was bearable. “I must be in one piece still,” Gerran said. “Well and good, then. Hand me my shirt.”

“Here it is, my lord. Shouldn’t you see a chirurgeon?”

“The prince didn’t bring one along. Everyone thought we were just delivering a summons.”

Once he’d dressed, Gerran went looking for Mirryn. He found the Red Wolf men back by the stables where the priests had kept their riding horses—stolen by the Horsekin, along with the temple’s herd of white cows and every other scrap of food in the complex. The men of the warband were tending their own horses while Mirryn stood and watched. This time no one slacked off; every man jumped to when his captain spoke to him; now and then someone glanced Mirryn’s way with admiring eyes. When Gerran joined him, Mirryn turned to him with a grin.

“What was that you were telling me before the scrap?” Mirryn said. “About not getting separated from my men?”

“I knew you wouldn’t let that slip by,” Gerran said.

“Of course not. But still, I’m cursed glad we got there in time.”

“Not half as glad as I am.” Gerran considered congratulating Mirryn on his first battle, then decided that if he did, he’d be reminding everyone that it had been the first. “Here, Caenvyr’s going to set a night watch. Don’t let him take my silver dagger for it, will you? Nicedd did the morning’s scouting. That’s enough extra duty.”

“Done, then. He can have his night’s sleep.” Mirryn looked away. “If any of us can sleep well, that is. Think the Horsekin will try a night attack?”

“I don’t. But why take chances?”

Just as the sun was setting, Gerran and Vantalaber climbed up the rickety catwalks to the top of the walls. Since the compound had once been a lord’s dun, merlons topped the walls, good cover for archers, as Van remarked.

“How many arrows do your men have?” Gerran said.

“A quiver each of unused ones. We retrieved as many as we could from the field, as well. The shafts are mostly broken, but the points are sound, and we carry feathers with us for the fletching. That hacked-up statue inside the temple itself? How will you Deverry men take it if we whittle some of the bits down for shafts?”

“We won’t care one way or the other.” Gerran started to shrug, regretted it, and winced with a choice couple of oaths for the pain in his shoulder. “I doubt if Bel will, either. They say he’s a warrior himself.”

“Splendid! It’s good oak. I hate to waste it. Those shit-sucking Meradan cut the statue up pretty thoroughly. Kind of them to spare us the hard work.”

They shared a laugh.

“Now, when night falls,” Van continued, “tell whoever’s setting the watch to make sure that there’s a couple of Westfolk on guard at all times. We see a fair bit better at night than your folk do.”

“True spoken. I’ll make sure the prince’s captain knows it.”

“Too bad we don’t have one of the Wise Ones with us.”

Gerran himself had been wishing that Salamander had come with them. Had he been there, he could have perhaps used his mysterious craft to see what the Horsekin were up to.

“I’m beginning to understand,” Gerran said, “why the Westfolk honor their Wise Ones so much.”

“They’re going to make all the difference out on the grass. The Horsekin won’t be surprising us, not with them on watch.”

With a cheerful wave Vantalaber climbed back down to rejoin his squad. Gerran lingered, staring off to the west, where the last spread of sunset flamed in the darkening sky. He was tired, he realized, with his shoulder aching like fire in the bone, and his mind wandering, but he couldn’t shake the odd feeling that once before he’d been in a situation like this, penned up by an unexpected enemy, waiting for help that might or might not arrive in time. Yet he couldn’t remember such an incident, no matter how carefully he searched his memories of war.

“My lord?” It was Clae’s voice, calling from below. “My lord, I’ve brought a lantern.”

Gerran turned around and saw the lad standing at the foot of the ladder in a little pool of candlelight. “I’ll come down,” Gerran called back. “Sure enough, it’s getting dark.”

Yet before he climbed down, he paused to look off to the south, where Voran’s messengers were riding hard for Cengarn.
May they
get there safely!
He could only hope that Great Bel had heard his thought.

Gerran’s shoulder hurt so badly that he slept little that night. Without the weight of his mail pressing upon it, the bruised flesh had swelled and turned sensitive to every movement. He woke before dawn, squirmed in his blankets in a futile attempt to get comfortable, then admitted defeat and got up. He pulled on his boots—he’d slept in his clothes—then picked his way through the sleeping warbands and climbed up to the catwalks at the top of the outer wall. He made his way round to the area just beside the broken gates and found Prince Voran there ahead of him. In the east a pale arc of silver announced the rising sun.