The Strength of the Few by James Islington - 7

A FIRM HAND SHAKES MY shoulder, stirring me from a deep, dreamless slumber. I move to swat it away. Nothing happens.

Heavy remembrance comes, and I open my eyes.

Ruddy torchlight illuminates a thatched roof above the face of the burly stranger staring down at me. His nose is squashed, blond hair worn up and spiked like the warriors from the boat, though this man is unfamiliar. He grunts as he sees I’m awake, then straightens from his crouched position by the fur-covered bench I’m lying on.

“ Tar .” He jerks his head toward the door, where another warrior waits, spear in hand. No need to guess what he’s saying.

I struggle upright, bracing for pain but pleasantly surprised to find it largely gone. My shoulder is freshly bandaged. I’m in clean clothes, a simple tunic covered with a green cloak. Parched, but the feebleness I felt when I arrived has completely receded. How long have I been asleep? It was mere minutes after Cian left that I closed my eyes, dawn barely on its way. Now only torches break a blacker darkness outside the door.

Vek . Anxiety races through my veins as the memories return. Cian said tonight was our only chance to get away.

“Do you have anything to drink?” I make the appropriate motion, though the rasp of my voice probably conveys what I want just as well. Delaying in order to gather my wits, as much as anything else. The blond man tosses me a waterskin that I only barely manage to catch. I slake my thirst as slowly as I can, thinking furiously.

“ Tar .” Impatient. Cian also said not to cause trouble. I reluctantly nod, take a quick last mouthful, and hand the skin back before trailing after him.

The blond man retrieves his spear from by the door and prods me out into the darkness. It’s raining. A steady, miserable drizzle. The other warrior, lithe and dark-haired, watches me warily as I pass and then takes up position behind me too. Neither man’s weapon is raised, but there’s no mistaking their role.

We walk in silence. Torches placed at regular intervals fizz and hiss as drops of water hit. The muddy paths between huts squelch underfoot, treacherously slippery at points as I try to adapt to my missing arm. There’s nobody around but there are voices in the distance. Laughter. Faint strains of music. Some way farther up the gentle slope I can see a wooden structure that’s much taller and longer than any of the others, torches on poles arrayed around it, light spilling from within. A barn, next to any of the towering architectural wonders of Caten, but notable in its current surrounds. I think that’s the source of the merriment.

We’re heading obliquely to it, though. I don’t know whether to be pleased about that or not.

There’s a mutter behind me; I risk a glance over my shoulder to see the blond warrior straighten from where he’s stumbled. The other laughs something in response but the sound is too loud. A slur to it, evident even in the language I don’t know. Are they drunk? I didn’t get that impression a couple of minutes ago. But perhaps this is an opportunity.

“ Stad .” The word is growled; I turn to see both men stumbling at me, expressions a strange mixture of anger and torpor. The latter abruptly wins for the dark-haired one and he collapses into the mud. The other’s eyes go wide and he looks at me. Clearly blaming me for whatever is happening.

“ Conas atá tú ag déanamh …” He goes to his knees. Lip curled in a snarl, barely able to summon the words.

Then he’s slumping forward and lying still, too.

I stare at them. They’re breathing, I think. Just unconscious.

I have to run, obviously. Stupid not to. Really stupid. But I don’t understand what’s just happened here, I don’t know where I am or what I’m up against or where I would run to .

Vek .

“Traveller.” The quiet voice comes from behind; I spin in alarm to find Cian striding calmly toward me, using his symbol-covered rowan staff as a walking stick. He is alone. “Assist.” He grabs one of the men by an arm.

I quickly take the other arm; we drag him off the path and into the shadows between two huts. I slip twice, my strength and sense of balance frustratingly diminished for even this simple task. “What… harmed them?” I dredge the words. Much easier to translate what I hear, than to remember how to say something.

“Not harmed. But they will sleep, for many hours.” He either misunderstands or ignores my question, speaking Vetusian and, like before, enunciating each word carefully. Whether for my benefit or because he’s also not comfortable with it, I don’t know.

We repeat the process with the other warrior. By the end, I’m breathing heavily.

Cian assesses our work, then me. A gentle condolence in his look. “Walking?”

“I can walk.” I hesitate. “My talking is not good, but I understand your words well.”

He accepts it. “Speak, if you need rest. There are horses. Not far. We need only reach them.”

“We go to meet my… person I know?” No way to verify he was telling the truth about that, but I cling to the hope of it. Academy or Caten, friend or simply acquaintance, just someone I can query without a language barrier will be a relief.

“Yes.” He sees I still have qualms, seems to sympathise. “King Fiachra and his warband now feast, and plan how to negotiate your death with Ruarc. Who will arrive to collect your body before first light. In this moment, only this moment, most of the Caer is occupied.” Calm, but an undercurrent of urgency to the explanation.

I gesture for him to lead the way.

We leave the two unconscious warriors and angle downward, away from the lights and laughter. My heart pounds; Cian moves with swift purpose but never anxiously, pausing now and then but confident in his leading, despite the sound of voices echoing to us a few times from uncomfortably nearby. We pass more rudimentary huts, straw-filled pens of pigs and fowl. Faint, flickering light filters from a few windows, but most are dark. The occupants either asleep or at the feast, I assume.

We hurry for several minutes without interruption before the inside of the wooden palisade presents itself up ahead. We’re in the narrow space between two huts, still a hundred feet to the wall. I can see a gate built into it. Unmanned. Twenty more seconds and we’re out.

Cian pulls me to a stop.

We stand there in the shadows for almost a minute; I want to ask, feet itching to keep moving, but it’s clear Cian is watching for something. I don’t see anything but suddenly he puts a hand on my chest, glancing back at me meaningfully.

“Trust,” he whispers, then strolls into the open torch-lit space between the huts and the log wall.

Moments later there’s movement and three large, curly-haired dogs trot up, surrounding him as he scratches behind their ears. They’re calm, tails wagging. Evidently at least passingly familiar with Cian, but also well trained. I carefully sink further into the shadows.

A door opens somewhere I can’t see, and then there’s a voice calling out. Questioning, but cheerful rather than suspicious. Another man in a white cloak appears. He’s older than Cian by at least twenty years, tall and thin, a tired shuffle to his gait. He has a staff similar to Cian’s, too, leaning on it heavily as he wanders over in unhurried fashion.

I mentally urge Cian to do whatever he’s doing faster. Those two guards were taking me somewhere; surely they’ll be followed up soon enough. If someone realises I’m missing before we’re past the walls, I doubt we’ll make it far.

Cian responds to the newcomer’s hail with a friendly wave and grin; the two greet each other with an embrace and then proceed to chat in what seems to be frustratingly idle fashion. The dogs have settled onto the ground around them but are still in my line of sight. Still seem alert. I do all I can not to move.

A tense minute passes as I watch, both men appearing completely relaxed, the older at one point saying something that makes Cian bark a laugh that feels like it would be audible for miles. I can hear their conversation well enough, but aside from the genial tone, I understand none of it.

Then, at last, the other man is clapping Cian on the back, scratching each dog affectionately on the head as he prepares to depart. Cian gives the animals a pat too, and then embraces his companion again in farewell. The older man makes his way with painful lassitude up the slope away from the wall, finally rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.

The dogs, worryingly, remain.

Cian looks in my direction. Beckons. I emerge from the shadows, eyes fixed on the animals at his feet. They’re even larger up close. They see my approach and wag their tails agreeably.

“Ruarc’s men have arrived. Our time is limited.” Cian starts toward the gate, more urgency to his step this time.

We make it halfway to the wall before the command rings out behind us.

“ Stad! ” No doubting the meaning of the word, or who it’s intended for. I turn to see a redheaded young warrior hurrying toward me, spear half raised. Cian steps smoothly in front of me. Into the path of any potential attack.

The man stumbles to a confused halt, recognition in his eyes. He says something to Cian, who just shakes his head, stepping forward. He says it again, a little more forcefully. But he’s backing away and Cian is advancing calmly. Hand outstretched. He’s twenty feet away. Ten. The warrior is tall and muscled and armed. Cian has only his staff.

The other man turns to run, only to be brought up short by the dogs that have circled behind him. They remain eerily mute, but their lips are curled back, revealing a healthy number of teeth.

Cian’s staff takes the stranger in the back of the skull. He crumples to the ground.

“Come.” The white-cloaked man sounds frustrated as he leaves the man in the mud. The dogs remain around the motionless figure, ignoring our departure.

Silence as we stride for the gate. Slip through it. I wait for shouts of discovery, but still the only sounds from the township are the faint strains of music and raised, exuberant voices. We hurry away from the torchlight down a black trail that splits a field rippling with wheat.

After a minute, the gloom reveals two sable horses tethered beneath a lone tree. Neither has bridle or saddle. Cian unties them and indicates one.

“I will not be able to… direction.” I whisper it, despite the distance between us and the town now. I don’t know the Vetusian for steer.

“You just need to stay on. Can you?” He sees my hesitation. “Honesty only.”

I chew my lip. Shake my head. I was always a competent rider, but I know what it will take, especially bareback. I am still weak, and my balance is barely good enough to do more than walk.

Cian nods with calm acceptance, swinging himself up on the larger of the two animals and then offering me his hand. I scramble awkwardly up behind him, clutching tightly with my knees and wrapping my arm around Cian’s waist.

“Ready?”

I brace myself. Even with Cian to cling to, this is going to be exhausting. “Yes. How far?”

Behind us, there is a commotion from the town. Shouting. A clanging of some kind of bell. I see new torches flare along the walls.

Cian spurs the horse to motion. “Far.”

We gallop into the night.

THERE IS A UNIQUE, BUILDING fear to knowing you are being hunted. Some distant part of me still remembers playing hide-and-seek in the palace at Suus. Running the hidden passageways and expansive halls, fleeing my giggling sisters. Heart hammering as their footsteps drew nearer, balled up behind some couch or pressing myself flat against a wall, hoping they would somehow pass by without noticing. It was just a game and yet there is nothing that induces anxiety more than wanting to be hidden, and knowing you are about to be found.

It is the years after which made me familiar with the true dread of the feeling, though. Which allow me now to press past it and think .

I spend most of those first few wretched hours doing just that, struggling with every thumping jolt of our steed, turning everything I know over again and again, until I finally have to admit I simply don’t have enough information for conclusions. My thighs burn. My arm feels heavy and the other still feels as though it’s there, begs me to reach around and secure myself properly. The questions I have for Cian, I have no breath to ask.

Not that he appears to have idle time to talk, either, with his attention clearly consumed in getting us away from our inevitable pursuit. I am inclined to let it be.

I have little spare focus of my own to take in the countryside as we ride; it passes in a vague blur of rolling hills and vast meadows and rustling forests, all muted and obscured by the constant drizzling damp that beats miserably down upon us. No cities or towns, only the torches of one small village that we’ve passed through almost before I realise what it is. Not even many farms, as far as I can tell. The road is mud and little more than a worn track at points.

Some part of me keeps watch for a landmark. I see nothing I recognise. Still no telling where I am, how far from Caten I’ve been brought.

Finally, just as another downpour eases and I’m certain my aching, freezing muscles are about to give out, Cian slows our lathered horse. We pull a little way off the road to stop in a copse by a brook. Cian dismounts and I try to follow without thinking, only remembering halfway through that it will be a far more awkward process without my arm; my rescuer was already moving to assist, but I fall far more than alight, slipping clumsily in the mud and pulling Cian down with me.

I lie there and groan as he uses his staff to regain his feet, staring down at his mud-stained cloak. Then he offers me his hand.

“Graceful,” he observes solemnly.

I allow the ghost of a smile. Nod ruefully, and accept the help. “How long… we rest?”

“Minutes.” Cian checks I’m alright and then leads our heaving horse to the water, patting it reassuringly. “They will track us, if they are not already. We need to reach the border before they catch up.”

“It has been… raining. Hard raining. These roads are… have lots of tracks… from other horses. And we have… crossed?… several streams—”

“It will not matter.” He cuts off my awkward attempt.

“Why?”

“Because Ogan, the man I spoke with earlier, is skilled—and he knows I am helping you.” His mouth twists at that. “I will say when we have to leave. Now drink. Dry out. Stay silent and rest while you can.”

He takes his own advice, sipping water from the stream and then moving a small distance away to sit on a fallen log, not quite out of sight but clearly chasing privacy. After that, he spends some time wringing out his cloak before settling into an almost meditative pose, head bowed and eyes closed. I find a seat where I am and start methodically expunging the water from my own clothes, grateful for the pause, however brief it might be.

Not more than a minute later, I hear the distant sound of hooves.

“Cian.” I hiss it; when the man doesn’t stir, I scurry over. We’re hidden well enough here in the darkness of the trees, but we haven’t encountered a soul on the road in either direction since we set out. “Cian, someone comes!”

He doesn’t react. I shake his shoulder. When there’s still no movement from him, I frown, crouching down. His eyes remain shut.

“Cian. Are you well?” I shake him again, then carefully pry one of his eyes open.

Even in the shadows, I can see it’s completely black.

“Vek.” I let the eyelid flop closed. He’s using Will, but I’ve never seen anyone unresponsive like this before. The riders—there’s more than one, from the sound—are close now. Nothing to be done about it.

I crouch low, praying our horse won’t snort or stamp or neigh. The outline of three cantering warriors appears; I’m too far away to make out faces in the dim, but there’s no mistaking the distinctive, spiked horse-mane hair on all of them.

I barely breathe as they approach, but I needn’t have worried. The men pass heedlessly, splashing through the stream and looking neither to the left nor right. Intent on a destination. If they’re after us, they don’t expect to find us around here.

Once they’ve passed, I go back to Cian, squatting down in front of him and reaching my hand cautiously out toward his face again. Just before I touch him, his eyes snap open.

I flinch backward, almost overbalance. “Rotting gods.”

“Is something wrong?” Cian frowns at my cursing in Common, then stares around.

“There were… men. Men ,” I repeat, squaring my shoulders to indicate a warrior’s build and pointing toward the road.

“They were not after us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because those coming for us will have dogs leading them. And they will not miss us in the trees.” He stands. “It is time we kept moving.”

“What were you… doing?” When he looks at me questioningly, I scowl. “You would not… speak.” I point to my eyes. “Black.”

“It is of the draoi .” He says it firmly. “It is sacred. Not for your knowledge.”

Draoi . I dredge the vaguely familiar word from my time in Letens’s Bibliotheca. What the druids of the area called themselves, before they were wiped out. “I know this… strength,” I say impatiently. “I have spent… year… learning. In the… place you took me… away from?”

The druid eyes me consideringly. Surprised, I think, despite his attempt not to show it. “I will speak of it with the others, then,” he allows. “We will not be far from where you could be tested. But for now, you are not draoi , and my vows have not changed.” He swings up onto the horse. “We do not have time to talk of it further. They are no more than an hour behind.”

The certainty in his voice chills me. “You are sure?”

“Yes. But we are not long from the border.”

“That is where we go?”

He nods. “Rónán’s lands. King Fiachra will not risk war by pursuing us there. And Rónán has no love of Ruarc, either. We will be able to meet in safety.”

The slightest of hesitations to the answer. He’s not telling me everything.

My mind races and thighs scream in protest as he helps me up behind him again. He was using Will to check on our pursuers, somehow. An imbued object on one of them? That would allow him to determine direction and distance with reasonable accuracy. But that’s just a mental process, not the act of imbuing itself. His eyes shouldn’t have turned dark.

“The one… trying to kill me. Ruarc. Who is he? Why do you… fight him?” While I have the energy, I want to understand at least that much.

Cian’s lip curls. “He is a powerful new voice within the Grove. That is the draoi High Council,” he adds, guessing I won’t know the term. “His influence these past years has become too great, too quickly. He asks the Grove to ignore the Old Ways, and they do. It is his hand that guides their deal with King Fiachra. Do you remember the tempeall albios ? The… white place?”

He’s speaking faster and using more complex words than he was—from anger at the subject matter, I think—and it takes me a moment to catch up. “Yes. There were… two others. A man and a woman. Like you.” Memory still hazy of the bloody chaos of the white rotunda, but clearer than it was.

“The Grove is intent on killing all who come to the tempeall albios in the way you did, because Ruarc has convinced them to. And they hide this shame from the other draoi . He asks them to kill without trial or explanation, and they obey, against all sacred duty.” The disgust in his voice is thick as he urges the horse beneath us to motion. “He has made them fear where you come from, what you may mean, what you may be able to do. He has made them so fearful of the unknown, of what may be, they have abandoned what should be. It is a corruption of all the draoi are meant to be. And so, I fight.”

I try to parse what he’s saying but it’s almost too much, too quick and indignant, for my exhausted mind to properly grip. “They think I am… a threat, to them?”

“Yes. No. It is…” He grunts. “The ancients’ tongue is difficult, to tell this well. Better, easier, if the one we are to meet explains.” He scans the way ahead. “Who we will not reach if we do not keep moving.” He presses our horse to a canter.

I silently agree with the first part; he’s been using increasingly sophisticated language, and properly translating is getting harder by the second. “What will… happen to you if… Fiachra’s men catch us?” A last, breathless inquiry, already weary again from the tension of clinging on one-armed.

“To me?” Cian seems surprised by the question. “They will escort me back to Dun Bhailcnoc. Hold me until the Grove passes judgement on my actions here.”

“But they will not… harm you?”

Cian stiffens, his horror unmistakeable even from behind. “I am draoi .” As if that settles a matter that should never have been raised.

Silence after that; though the rain has stopped, the sheer effort of staying on the horse saps my ability to think properly, let alone pose more questions. We ride for at least another two hours. The light of a false dawn brightens the east.

We stop one more time, and again Cian moves off by himself, eyes closed. When he returns, he is grim.

“No time to rest,” is all he says.

A half hour later, we’re splashing our way across a river ford; when we reach the other side, Cian glances behind him.

“That was the border. We are in King Rónán’s lands,” he says quietly.

“We are safe now?” I peer over my shoulder, across the water. There’s no sign of pursuit.

“Yes.”

He’s facing away from me, but I can hear the doubt in his voice.

He urges our horse back to a gallop.