The Red Knight

The warrior tried to hit him in the ear with the tip of the bow but Peter caught it and, in a single turn of his arm, he had Ota Qwan’s right arm in an elbow lock that threatened to dislocate the man’s shoulder.

‘I wasn’t born a slave,’ Peter said. ‘Don’t fuck with me.’

‘They are deserting me!’ Ota Qwan watched the two men running off.

‘You hit Skahas Gaho when you needed to reason with him.’ Peter wanted to laugh to hear himself explaining basic leadership to Ota Qwan. But he had the arm lock, and he wasn’t letting go.

The other man stiffened, and then went limp. ‘He was about to disobey. To disobey Skadai!’

Peter let the black painted man go. ‘I’ve only been Sossag for three days, but it seems to me that’s Skadai’s problem, not yours. I think you thought like an Alban, not a Sossag.’ Peter shrugged.

The other three – Pal Kut, Barbface, and Mullet, watched them warily.

‘You will be loyal to me!’ Ota Qwan hissed at Peter. ‘Will you?’

Peter nodded. ‘I will,’ he said, finding that the words made him feel queasy.

Pal Kut called something. The line, well-spread, was moving rapidly forward, almost at a run. Most men had an arrow on their bows.

Peter sprinted to make his place in the line, fumbled an arrow and dropped it, and turned back to get it – he had too few to lose one. He bent, and in that moment, the world exploded.

To the front of the line, off amidst the drover’s herd, a bull gave a long, low growl. And suddenly the air was full of arrows flying both ways. And the Sossag gave a great cry, almost like a scream . . .

. . . and charged.

Peter had his arrow on his bow. He ran forward, saw Pal Kut take an arrow in the gut, an arrow so big and so powerful that it emerged from his back in a gout of blood, and the head was shaped like a swallow and gleamed with a horrible red-blue malevolence.

Peter ran forward, following Ota Qwan.

He saw his first enemy – a tall blond boy in ring mail who coolly rose from behind a bush and loosed an arrow into a warrior he didn’t know – shot him from so close that the man was knocked off balance by the arrow and stumbled like a beheaded chicken before collapsing in death.

But Ota Qwan leaped at the man with a dire scream and loosed his own arrow at arm’s length, and the barbed head drove through his ring mail at the shoulder. A dozen warriors converged on the wounded boy and he was dead and scalped in a few heartbeats.

Ota Qwan took the boy’s sword – four feet of shining steel – and brandished it, and all of the warriors who had seen him attack gave a great cry, and then they were pelting forward again.

Otter Creek Valley, East of Albinkirk – Hector Lachlan

As soon as the scouts reported, Lachlan knew he was in serious trouble. North of the Inn, in the Hills, the Wyrm of Erch kept the Outwallers at bay. It cost him animals to keep the Wyrm happy, but that was the way of the Hills. For a thousand years or more, the Wyrm had kept the Wild out of the Hills, to the benefit of generations of clansmen and drovers.

Here in the south, the king was supposed to keep the Outwallers away. Otter Creek was taken by some to be the border between the Green Hills and the Kingdom of Alba. But for Lachlan, whoever’s territory it was, Otter Creek was safe ground. Not battle ground. Otter Creek ran down into the Albin. Albinkirk itself would be visible from the height of the next ridge but one – even if there was still a long day to drive the beeves to get them to the ford at Southford.

But the point was that they were almost there.

But now – he had scouts, and they knew their business. The clansmen and drovers knew the Outwallers. Outwallers were fierce, savage, and expert in arms. And they’d set an ambush for his drove, which meant they had scouted his herds, knew his strength and felt that they could take him. That meant three to four hundred warriors.

Hector didn’t hesitate. It was a situation he’d imagined many times, although he’d never had to face it.

He turned to his tanist, Donald Redmane ‘Go back to the drag guard. Take every animal you can, turn them, and run for the Inn.’

Donald was a good man – loyal, dogged. Not the smartest, but a wonderful man in a fight, with a beautiful voice and clever hands that made things. ‘You go, Lachlan. I can hold them here.’

Lachlan shook his head. ‘With your bruised ribs and all? Go. Now.’

Redmane shook out his hair. ‘By the Wyrm, Hector. We’re just a day’s march from Albinkirk. Let’s stampede the cows at the bastards, and put the survivors to the sword.’

Hector looked at the woods under his hand. ‘No. My word on it, Donald. They’re two to one or more against us, and scattering the herd in these woods-’ He held his peace, lest he lower spirits more than he had to.

He turned and looked at the scout. ‘Ride clear all the way to the Inn. Take two horses so that you can change. Ride like the wind, yunker – they may already be in the High Country. Don’t come back unless you can bring a hundred swords with you.’