‘How could we?’ Another voice broke the stillness. This one was further away and sounded younger. ‘What with Grunmir ready to crack the whip at every turn.’
There was the sound of a water skin being opened as, above her, the tree creaked and pitched forward as if somebody had leant on it. ‘One fine day somebody is going to show that Grunmir a thing or two.’ She was getting used to the voices now. This one sounded rougher than the others, older perhaps.
‘And that would be you?’ the younger voice mocked.
‘Name me any who’s better with spear work?’ the older voice said, taking a gulp from the water skin. There was a strange smell in the air; a sticky, sweet scent like the traders’ vodka. Often, once their trades were done, they’d sit round the clan fires, their lips reeking with the stale scent of drink. Then they’d stagger half blind and talking nonsense, as if a demon had plucked out their brains. After that they’d fall down and go to sleep. Maybe the vodka will make them as foolish and sleepy as the traders, Iwa hoped as, above her, the bracken shifted.
‘Spear work on the practice field is fine enough,’ one of the younger voices said, ‘but Grunmir’s used to slaying.’
‘I’d challenge him all the same, and I’d gut him like a spit-roast boar.’
Slowly Iwa inched her hand towards Tomaz. Carefully she grabbed a foot and felt the baby stir. If only he were dead. She closed her eyes, half-expecting him to cry as, above, the voices continued. Breath held, she dragged Tomaz to her and held him, half starved, in her arms. She’d been so caught up with the baby that she hadn’t noticed that the voices had stopped. Finding warmth once again, Tomaz kicked out, his limbs recovering as he felt Iwa’s hands upon him. No. She stifled a cry as she held him tightly to her, as if to squeeze the life from him.
‘You were supposed to watch the river.’ A new voice had joined the others, older this time, the words rasped and raw as if the owner had bitten into something sour. This one moved quietly, with only the scuff of grass to give him away.
‘As if there’s anything to see,’ the first older voice replied.
‘Well, maybe you should climb up on that ridge and find out? Duke Stanislaw’s whole fleet could sail right past and where would you be, skulking with your tails in the forest?’
‘As if Duke Stanislaw would bother with a dump like this,’ the younger voice said. ‘He’s got more sense.’
‘Dukes lose their sense quick enough, when there’s vengeance to be had.’
‘The duke keeps well enough to his hearth,’ the older voice laughed. ‘Home will give him plenty of troubles without having to scour for so meagre prey as us.’
‘I would not count on that. He’s always been very prickly about his honour, this duke of ours. So why don’t you make for that ridge double quick? The krol will not take kindly to having his word challenged, or would you rather argue it out with him?’
There was a pause, and then the steps began to recede into the forest. Iwa relaxed and, feeling her grip loosen, Tomaz gave a stifled cry. In an instant she was upon him, her hand tight on his throat. Around her the forest was quiet; not a sound from above, not even a hint of birdsong.
Iwa’s body sagged with relief. That was when she was caught. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound never came. With an almighty snap of dead wood and twigs, a hand grabbed her leg. The figure had been so quick to jump down and reach into the hollow that there was hardly time to kick out as she was hauled through the bracken by her ankle.
‘Please!’ she yelled, kicking out once more, the grip so tight that she thought her bone might crack.
‘So, what do we have here?’ the man who held her bellowed, mailed fingers cutting through her skin. ‘A spy, no doubt. So it has come to this – the noble Stanislaw has taken to hiring children.’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ she stuttered. ‘Leave me alone. I didn’t hear a thing.’
‘So not a spy, then.’
‘No.’
He raised her foot, dragging her forward in one savage motion. Desperately she tried to struggle, but there was no escaping that grip as she was pulled round the bush and into the clearing. She lay there, panting, all thought of fight drained away.
‘Well then, what is it that I’ve caught here?’ The voice seemed puzzled, but his grip was tight as ever. Behind him there was a chuckle. ‘Let’s take a closer look at you. At least then we can find out what kind of a creature is bred in these forests.’
With an almost contemptuous gesture, the man flung her ankle from his grip. Around her the others moved in. Only now did she recover her senses enough to look at her captor. He was a huge man, well over six feet tall, clad in a mail tunic that reached past his knees. Here and there she could make out the ragged marks in his armour where some weapon had hit. It was a wonder he’d managed to walk so silently. Underneath the mail he wore a thick padded jacket that stunk of blood and sweat. He carried no shield but wore an iron battle helm ridged with silver. Dark eyes watched from behind hooded slits. A strip of silver in the shape of a horse’s head reached down to make a nose guard, whilst his mouth and lower jaw were covered by a veil of mail, which
