Ive Bridge. A fell sight: dark forms with a dusting of moonlight upon them, gouts of steaming breath rising from the horses, bared blades. Orisian hauled himself up astride his mount.
“They’re almost there,” he said quietly to Taim Narran.
The warrior nodded, and eased his way to the front of the column.
“Go carefully,” Taim said as he rode on. “Keep your reins tight until you’re told otherwise.”
The horses were wary at first, distrusting the dark road. It made them careful and quiet, at least, but still Orisian felt the tension of possible discovery. The slightest rattle of harness or slip of hoof on a loose pebble sounded loud, punctuating the background rumble of the river. No new lights were lit in Ive Bridge, though. No alarm went up. He could see no sign of movement down there. Even Ess’yr and the others had disappeared from sight, as if they had been swallowed by the rock or the shadows.
They covered perhaps half the way down to the village before a sudden strangulated cry broke the night’s skin. Even as its last anguished echo trailed away, Taim Narran was kicking his horse on. The long blade of his sword flashed once, a shaft of captured moonlight, as he flourished it, and then he was pounding off down the road. Orisian and the others followed. After that, it was a chaos of thudding hoofs, a jolting, jarring charge in which Orisian saw almost nothing but his horse’s neck pumping up and down before him.
They burst into the heart of Ive Bridge before anticipation or fear had any chance to take root in him. The darkness made everything sudden and bewildering. Figures-men and horses-jostled all about him. Shouts and the clatter of hoofs and ringing of blades echoed from every stone surface, shivering back and forth on the cold still air until they lost all form and became a single raucous accompaniment to the slaughter. And slaughter it was, rather than battle.
Orisian glimpsed Torcaill’s little band of warriors spilling from the door and windows of one of the cottages, rushing on without pause, breaking into another house to slay those asleep-or coming blearily awake-within. Spearmen came stumbling out from a long, low building into the roadway, half-dressed, bare-headed, fumbling with weapons and shields as if still all but blinded by sleep. Someone rode straight into them, not even bothering to swing with his sword, using the weight and strength of his horse to batter them aside. Others, already dismounted, darted in behind and set to work with blades.
There was a fast and fierce efficiency to the bloody work of Taim’s men. The killing went on all around Orisian, and he felt himself strangely divorced from it, like an uncomprehending spectator at some mad and cruel revels. Indistinct forms lurched this way and that all around him. His horse turned itself about in a tight circle, tossing its head in agitation. He let it carry him, and carry his gaze in a sweeping arc.
He saw Varryn and Ess’yr, improbably perched atop the slate roof of a hut. Their Kyrinin faces seemed bright in the moonlight, almost shining, the blue swirls of their tattoos almost luminous. The arrows that left their bows were so fast that they vanished into the darkness as if snapping out of existence in the very moment they were loosed. And as his horse swung Orisian about, cloud must have taken the moon, for the darkness deepened. He saw a knot of figures running for the bridge: Torcaill, he hoped, going as intended to block any escape. He saw an unmounted horse staggering, something trailing from beneath it, and only after a moment did he realise that it had been disembowelled. He saw two men rolling across the cobblestones, punching or stabbing one another in a frenzy.
Then the moon was unveiled once more, and in its sudden, muted light he saw the point of a spear lancing up towards his face. He instinctively knocked it aside with his sword, turning it across his horse’s shoulders, then jerked his arm back to cut his assailant across the side of the head. It was a woman, he realised as she fell silently and limply away. Another figure veered towards him, another spear coming in at hip height, but then there was a wet thud and the spear was falling aside, the Black Roader pawing at an arrow in his neck. Orisian knocked him down with a single blow. He looked up. Ess’yr was there on the roof, already reaching to her quiver for another arrow. She turned away as soon as their eyes met.
Orisian kicked his horse towards the largest of the buildings. It must, he thought, be a tavern of some sort. His warriors were rushing in as he drew up before it. He heard screams and feet pounding on wooden stairs. There was a crash of splintering wood and a figure tumbled from one of the upper, shuttered windows, blurring down and hitting the ground a few paces from Orisian. He heard the crack of leg bones break in the impact. The man howled, but began to crawl at once, seeking shadows. Orisian dismounted and walked over to him. The man rolled onto his back. His face was contorted by pain, but he had strength and sense enough to curse Orisian in a northern accent so thick the words were almost unintelligible. There was venom in the voice, hatred and bile. Orisian hefted his sword, began to raise it. The man did not shrink away. He bared his teeth through his short dark beard and spat out vitriolic contempt.
Orisian hesitated, suddenly thinking of Ive. There had been an abandoned, almost accusatory, air about Erval as the Guard Captain had watched them ride out. The town had been a shell by then, all but empty. Only a few dozen left behind, likely to soon follow all the others who had already scattered into the east, into the frigid wilds. If they had been too slow to flee, this same terrible thing might be happening in Ive even now, Orisian thought. Killings in the street, the abrupt, unthinking ending of lives.
Someone came in from the side and planted a spear firmly into the chest of the Black Roader, who growled and cursed and coughed as he died.
It did not last long. Those who had held Ive Bridge were not, it turned out, the ferocious, faith-inspired warriors Orisian had expected. They were instead the drunk, the sick and the hungry; gaunt and frail many of them, others injured. All dead, soon enough.
“I’ll take Ess’yr and Varryn, Torcaill and three men back to fetch Yvane and the others,” Orisian said, watching with Taim as his men dragged the corpses to the river’s edge and heaved them into the torrent.
“Be quick,” Taim said. “These were just deserters or looters, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing worse around.”
“I doubt it,” Orisian murmured. “There’s nothing here for anyone. The lowlands, the towns; that’s what they’ll want. But yes. I’ll be quick. Don’t let anyone get too settled. We should press on as soon as I’m back.”
“Nothing to settle with,” Taim grunted. “There’s hardly enough food here for a quarter our number.”
They went more slowly back up the trail, Ess’yr and Varryn running ahead, disappearing into the darkness. Orisian watched them go with a twinge of regret. He had wanted to thank Ess’yr for her arrow, but there was a strange lassitude in him now. He felt faintly dizzy, and when he blinked saw inside his eyes the spittle-flecked lips of that hate-filled, broken-legged man working over crooked teeth.
He rode beside Torcaill. The warrior’s head dipped lower, bit by bit. His hands rested loosely on his horse’s neck. The animal began to slow.
“There’s something I want to ask of you,” Orisian said quietly.
Torcaill jerked upright and blew out his cheeks.
“Forgive me, sire,” he said.
“It’s all right. We’re all tired. Listen, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“Whatever you command, of course.”
“No,” Orisian shook his head. “I’ll not command you in this. Only ask. It’s… it will be difficult. I’d like you to try to reach Vaymouth. Just you and a couple of men: whoever you’d want to choose. If you stay away from the main roads until you get into Ayth-Haig lands…”
The words trailed away as he became guiltily aware of how inadequate they were; how blandly unequal they were to the magnitude of what he was asking.
“Of course, sire,” Torcaill said levelly. “If it’s what you wish.”
“I want… I’d like you to try to find my sister, if you can. I’m not sure what’s going to happen here, to me, but I think… I think Anyara might need help. Protect her. Get her out of Vaymouth, if you can. And give her a message from me.”
“I’ll do everything — ”
“Rider!” someone shouted, and a moment later Orisian could hear it too: the hammering of hoofs coming wildly, dangerously up the road towards them.
“Spread out,” Torcaill hissed, drawing his sword.
“It’s all right,” Orisian said. “Whoever it is, I doubt they would have got past Ess’yr and Varryn if they were a threat.”
It was one of the warriors who had remained hidden in the copse. He was fraught and dishevelled. There were wounds on his face, the blood black in the gloom. Orisian felt a dull dread in his gut.
