BOOK I IN THE MOOREHAWKE TRILOGY 15 страница
The Wolves were magnificent, their horses beautiful, their clothes and weaponry very fine and rich. David Le Garou’s attention was focused solely on Alberon’s quarters. But his three seconds-in-command were ranked behind him – Gérard, Jean, Pierre – and their slanting eyes scanned the surrounding soldiers, looking for trouble. The two young Arabs followed close behind, calmly guiding their sturdy little horses in their masters’ wake. The silver bells at their wrists and on their boots tinkled merrily, and Wynter felt a moment of blazing rage that the Wolves would bring them here, openly and without any attempt to hide the fact that they were slaves. Then it registered that the Wolves had only one of their three pack mules with them, and that the six dark-dressed shadow-riders that made up the rest of David Le Garou’s pack were nowhere to be seen.
‘Razi,’ she whispered, ‘where are the rest of them?’
Razi ignored her. His eyes were on the tents where Christopher had disappeared. For a moment it looked as though he would just keep standing there, staring. Then Úlfnaor went to speak again, and Razi turned, grabbing him by his shoulders, and hissed urgently into the big man’s startled face: ‘He’s gone for his sword! He means to attack them. He means to attack them at last! We have to stop him!’ He shoved the Aoire back and pushed his way past him, heading for the Merron quarters. Confused, Úlfnaor followed him.
Wynter found herself incapable of turning her back on the approaching Wolves, and instead of spinning and running, she backed slowly into the shadow-filled gap between the tents, her eyes on the brightness of the road. The light tinkling of the slave bells made itself known over the tramp of hooves and jangle of tack, and Wynter crouched slightly as the silhouette of a rider blotted the light. It was Oliver, there one moment, gone the next as he rode past the mouth of the alley. Then David Le Garou went by, his eyes ahead, his fine profile clear against the bright-blue sky. The row of Seconds came next, slowly crossing the bright space, their faces watchful. The dark-skinned Gérard was closest to her, his eyes scanning his surroundings. He turned his head, and before he could see her, Wynter broke from her trance and ran.
She caught up with Razi and Úlfnaor by the Midland quarters. The air was frantic with the baying of hounds, and there was shouting and scuffling coming from the direction of the Merron camp. Jared was herding Mary up the side of the supply tent. The lady was distraught, and she flung herself on Razi, gripping his arm in fear.
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‘The dogs have turned savage!’ she cried. ‘They have gone wild!’
Razi grabbed Úlfnaor, pushing him towards the noise. ‘Don’t let him leave!’ he yelled. ‘Take his weapons and don’t let him leave the tents!’ The big man shook his head, confusion still in his face. ‘Christopher!’ clarified Razi. ‘Don’t let him get his weapons!’
Úlfnaor ran, and Razi turned on Mary, clutching her shoulders and glaring down into her frightened face. ‘Get to your tent!’ he yelled. ‘Do not leave it!’ He pushed Mary towards Jared. ‘Do not let her leave her tent!’
Jared, appalled at Razi’s rough manner, put himself between the dark young man and the woman he was so violently shoving about. Mary still clung to Razi’s arm, so that the priest was caught between them.
‘What has happened?’ snapped Jared, his face very close to Razi’s.
‘Loups-Garous.’
The priest went still. Mary stared at Razi, her arm stretched around Jared, her fingers clutching Razi’s sleeve. ‘An attack?’ she whispered.
Razi shook his head. He pushed Mary gently away. ‘Stay in your tent,’ he urged. ‘Presbyter, I beg you, make sure she stays inside.’
Jared nodded grimly and hustled Mary around to their quarters. She gazed back, wide-eyed, until they rounded the corner out of sight. Razi dashed towards the noise of the dogs and Wynter followed.
There was deafening chaos at the Merron tents. Thoar and Surtr were struggling with the huge warhounds, heaving on their collars, trying to keep them in place while the women finished hammering tent pegs into the ground to shorten their chains. The warhounds were snarling and baying, their jaws flecked with foam, wild with desperation to get away and find the Wolves.
The soldier Alberon had sent to secure the hounds was pressed against the canvas of the Merron tent. Úlfnaor was shoving him away, yelling in Merron and gesturing for him to go. Boro lunged for him suddenly, his eyes burning, and the soldier didn’t need any further persuasion. He ran off, his duty done.
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Christopher was just ducking from the Merron tent, his katar in his hand, his face set. Sólmundr ducked out after him, his sword also in hand. As he emerged from the tent, Sól shouted to Hallvor and flung her a sword. It sailed across the air between them, its long blade shivering slightly in the sun, and Hallvor rose smoothly to her feet, catching the weapon by its handle.
Sólmundr gestured that she follow.
Úlfnaor yelled something and Sól paused, shocked. ‘Cad é?’ he said.
Christopher kept striding purposefully towards the road.
Razi yelled, ‘Stop him!’ and Thoar and Surtr stepped into the young man’s path. Christopher simply swerved and dodged gracefully past. The warriors glanced uncertainly at Úlfnaor. ‘Stop him,’ repeated Razi, and Úlfnaor nodded.
Surtr sidestepped and put his hand on Christopher’s chest. ‘Cosc ort nóiméad, a luch,’ he said.
Christopher came to a surprised halt. He blinked up at the red-headed warrior for a moment, then looked around the ring of uncertain faces.
‘Come on,’ he said, as if they’d forgotten what they were meant to be doing.
No one moved. Their eyes hopped from Christopher to Razi.
‘Come on!’ urged Christopher, gesturing impatiently that they should follow. Then he caught sight of Razi’s hard face, and Wynter saw his certainty fall away into dismay. ‘Oh no, Razi,’ he whispered.
Razi would not look at him. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘I need to know why they are here.’
‘No!’ Christopher launched himself forward, and the redheaded brothers lurched in surprise then leapt and caught him under his arms, stopping him in his tracks. ‘No, Razi!’ he cried. ‘Not again! Not again.’
Razi, his eyes down, pointed to the Merron tent, and the two huge men began to manhandle Christopher back towards the door. Christopher howled with despair and disbelief. ‘No!’ he wailed again. ‘Noooooooo!’
Razi would not meet his eye and that seemed to enrage Christopher. More than anything, that seemed to tip him over the edge. He went mad then. Snarling and screaming in rage, he struggled against the two brothers so that they almost lost their footing and stumbled under his thrashing weight. He raised his katar, meaning to smash it down onto Surtr’s head. Hallvor leapt forward and grabbed his upraised arms, twisting them so that he was forced to release the weapon. Christopher howled again and kicked out at her, his face vicious.
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Wynter lurched to help him, but Razi jerked her violently back.
‘Let him go!’ she cried.
Christopher snarled at her, his face unrecognisable. The brothers dragged him to the tent, and as he was borne backwards into the dimness he released an animal howl. The door fell closed and, out of sight now, Christopher’s inarticulate rage stormed on. Surtr and Thoar roared at him, trying to calm him down.
Furious, Wynter struggled free of Razi’s grip and shoved him away. She ran for the door, determined that Christopher should be released.
‘No, Wyn!’ yelled Razi. ‘Wait! Wait!’
Suddenly the dogs stopped barking, and their abrupt stillness froze the humans in their tracks.
All sounds of the struggle within the tent had ceased.
Wynter clearly heard Thoar say, ‘Coinín?’
The hounds backed to the ends of their chains, whimpering, their tails between their legs. Boro whined in fear, his sharp ears swivelling to catch the sounds from within.
Sól took an uncertain step forward, then he and Razi simultaneously dashed for the door. Wynter went to follow, but Razi pushed ahead of her, literally shoving her aside and dodging under the flap before she could get past. Within the tent, Surtr screamed. There was a rending, splitting sound, and just as Wynter went to duck inside, the red-headed warrior flew past her, propelled backwards from the tent as if flung from a catapult.
The huge man flew ten or more feet before landing with a whoomph in the dust. His tunic was torn open, his belly scored with claw-marks and scarlet with blood. He immediately tried to roll to his feet, his face creased with concern for his brother.
‘THOAR!’ he yelled, falling back in pain. ‘Thoar!’
Wynter ducked into the tent and was confronted with a frenzy of noise and movement. Sólmundr and Thoar had thrown themselves onto Christopher, trying to pin him down. Razi, in turn, had flung himself onto the warriors, trying to pull them away.
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‘No!’ he shouted. ‘He does not mean it! Give him a moment.’
Razi kicked Thoar away, at the same time heaving backwards on Sól. The three men tumbled back, propelled by a violent shove from Christopher.
‘Give him a moment!’ screamed Razi as Thoar went to draw his sword. ‘He doesn’t mean it!’
Wynter went to run forward but came to a halt at the sight of Christopher’s terrible face. Utterly transformed, his eyes flashed yellow in the gloom, and he growled and snarled about him like a dog at bay. He was writhing in the shadows at the back of the tent, as if in battle with some unseen demon, his scarred fingers gouging deep claw-marks into the earth.
‘Christopher,’ she whispered.
He made no effort to attack, just remained where he was, struggling on the dirt floor, his body twisting around itself as he tried to overcome his rage. The noises coming from his distorted mouth were not human – they were anything but human – but Wynter understood fear when she heard it. She understood pain.
‘Oh, Christopher,’ she whispered again and knelt on the ground just out of his reach, her hand outstretched as if to comfort him. He continued to thrash and struggle, apparently unconscious of her presence. Razi crawled to her side, his face intent, but he, too, came to a halt just out of reach of his friend and knelt there, doing nothing.
In the end, it was Sól who went to him. He crawled straight past Razi and Wynter and, without hesitation, rolled Christopher onto his back.
Christopher’s yellow eyes widened at the contact; his lips pulled back. His distorted hands shot to Sólmundr’s shoulders. The too-long fingers dug into Sól’s flesh, and the warrior gasped in pain. Gritting his teeth, Sól grabbed Christopher’s face in his hands and jerked the young man’s head around, staring into Christopher’s inhuman eyes.
‘Coinín!’ he cried. ‘Is mé atá ann! It’s me! It’s Sól!’
Christopher opened his mouth, those long, sharp teeth only inches from Sólmundr’s throat. His fingers tightened brutally on Sól’s shoulders and, to Wynter’s horror, blood welled up beneath his fingertips.
Sólmundr’s face tightened in agony, but he did not pull away. Instead he shook Christopher’s head between his hands and yelled, ‘You freeman, Coinín! You not hurt me! You know who you are!’
Christopher’s yellow eyes locked with Sólmundr’s. His fingers abruptly relaxed their grip on the warrior’s shoulders. His face softened in recognition. Then he was Christopher again, just Christopher; his scarred hands clutching the fabric of his friend’s tunic, his fine, narrow face appalled and painted with despair.
‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no!’ He lifted his hand from Sólmundr’s shoulder and stared at the blood that reddened his fingers. ‘Oh no!’ he cried. ‘Iseult! Iseult! ’
Wynter shook her head, her hands pressed to her mouth. She couldn’t speak. Christopher struggled to sit, calling for her and groping blindly about him as if unable to focus his eyes or coordinate his body. Sólmundr drew the young man to him, stilling his frantic attempts to rise, holding him close.
‘Iseult!’ croaked Christopher.
‘Iseult is good,’ murmured Sól shakily, patting Christopher’s shoulder. ‘You not hurt her.’ He looked out through the door to where Thoar was helping Surtr to stand. Hallvor had joined them. Surtr gingerly pressed his fingers to the long, deep gashes on his bloodied stomach. ‘You not hurt her,’ whispered Sólmundr.
By Wynter’s side, Razi rose slowly to his feet. Sól looked up at him. Razi met his eye and the warrior’s dazed confusion iced over to cold disapproval. Wynter did not look up into Razi’s face. She could not take her eyes from Christopher.
Breathless and shaking, obviously in pain, her friend drew in his arms and legs and laid his head against Sólmundr’s chest. He squinted up at Razi through the tangled mess of his hair, and, at the look on Razi’s face, Christopher’s expression filled with bitterness and despair.
‘You will stay here,’ said Razi flatly.
‘You promised me,’ said Christopher, ‘you promised . . .’
‘You will stay here,’ commanded Razi. Úlfnaor’s dark shadow filled the door, and Razi turned to him. ‘You will keep him here,’ he ordered. ‘That is my wish. As your Caora, that is my command.’
Úlfnaor, his expression lost in shadow, bowed his head in obeisance. Christopher groaned.
‘Stay here, Wyn,’ said Razi, ‘I mean it.’
She turned her head, glaring up at him from the corner of her eye. He was nothing but a black shape against the light. He ducked out the door, and she saw him briefly in the sunlight, striding away between the tents. Then he was gone.
‘He promised,’ rasped Christopher. ‘He said never again. He promised.’
‘Why the Wolves here, a luch?’ asked Sól, searching Wynter’s face. ‘What they have to offer the Prince?’
She shook her head. She glanced sideways at Christopher and the corners of his mouth turned down as he read her expression.
‘Oh, no, lass,’ he whispered, ‘not you too.’
‘There must be a reason,’ she said.
‘I’M SICK OF HIS REASONS,’ screamed Christopher suddenly, making Wynter jump. ‘I’m sick of them.’ He lurched in Sól’s arms so that the warrior almost lost his grip. ‘I want them dead!’ howled Christopher. ‘I want them dead! Like he promised! Like he said! I don’t want this anymore! I want them deaaaddd!’
His howling became less than human again, and Sól was no longer cradling him but holding him down. The warrior looked sadly to Úlfnaor, and the Aoire came forward to help restrain the young man as he battled the hatred within him.
Without rising, Wynter backed slowly to the door, her eyes fixed on her thrashing friend. Sólmundr said something to Úlfnaor, and the big man put his hands on Christopher’s shoulders, murmuring. Wynter thought he might be praying.
Wynter knew that Christopher was no longer a danger to these men. ‘There ain’t no pain,’ he had told Razi. ‘Not when you do it on purpose. It feels good.’ And Wynter could see the pain in him. She could see him fighting to quell what he called his dark power. She had no doubt that this was a battle Christopher would win.
She knew she should stay with him. She knew she should be there for him when he emerged from this fight, weary and sore and needing comfort. Still, she backed for the door.
Sólmundr met her eye as she rose to her feet, and his own eyes widened at the realisation that she was leaving.
‘I need to know,’ she said.
Condemnation flared in the warrior’s face, but Wynter held his gaze. After a moment, Sól deflated and looked away. Having spent his life protecting the man he loved, only to then allow his people to sacrifice him to their god, Sólmundr was in no position to point accusing fingers at those who put duty before love.
‘I shall bring him his answers, Sól,’ she promised.
Sólmundr just shook his head and turned his attention back to Christopher, who thrashed and snarled and struggled beneath his restraining hands. The dogs had resumed their baying, and Wynter strode from the tent, pushed past Hallvor, and kept walking until the sounds of their howls were indistinguishable from those of the man she loved.
Once free from the accusing eyes of the Merron, Wynter paused. Standing in the dusty sunshine, she breathed deep and clenched her teeth and her hands as she tried to get herself under some control.
Razi was striding towards the foot of the slope, his eyes on Alberon’s tent. He passed the knot of older Haun, who were staring up the hill, murmuring anxiously among themselves. He passed the Wolves’ beautiful horses and the slaves who tended them. He didn’t so much as falter at the base of the hill, just strode purposefully upwards as if he had always expected this meeting; as if he had planned for it all his life.
Wynter lowered her chin and dashed after him, dodging the Haun and the horses and the patient slaves. Running to Razi’s side, she fell into step with him, her eyes fixed ahead, her hand on her sword. He came to a halt and she strode on, not looking back.
‘Wyn,’ he said flatly, ‘go back to him. I do not want you here.’
‘Don’t bother, Razi,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not about to waste my time arguing with you.’ She kept walking, but Razi did not follow, and she was forced to stop and look back at him.
His face was utterly hard. ‘You will not meet these men.’
‘Yes, I shall,’ she said. ‘I shall most certainly meet these men. I want very much to meet the men who stole his hands and enslaved his family. I want very much to look into the faces of the ones who hurt those poor girls at the inn. I want to know why it is they still wander about Algiers day after day without you baying for their blood, Razi. I want to know why it is that our brother has called them to his table. I will not sit on my arse like a good woman and let this go on without me. If Christopher is to be once again denied his vengeance, I shall be there to find out why.’
‘This is not the time for childish displays of defiance,’ he cried. ‘I have had the weight of these creatures hung around my neck since I was fourteen years old, Wynter. Christopher’s life has been blighted by them for as long as he can recall. Do not step in now and act as though you understand a whit of what we feel.’
Wynter didn’t bother to reply. She simply stood with her hand on her sword, waiting for Razi to start up the slope again. Razi snarled and looked away. His eyes slipped to the tents behind which the hounds still voiced their frustration and rage.
‘Do not expect me to go in there with my sword drawn,’ he warned quietly. ‘I doubt Alberon’s plans will afford me the luxury. This world is not simple, Wynter. One cannot always have the blood one wants.’
The dogs howled again, and Razi’s furious mask slipped a little. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.
‘Oh, do not fret, brother,’ said Wynter coldly. ‘It is only the warhounds. Christopher is a good man, and strong. I have no doubt that he has already regained his self-control. I wager he has grown uncommonly good at suppressing his feelings. He has, after all, been associating with the likes of us for long enough.’
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