A Different Kingdom(8)

They ate dried beef and bannock, washing it down with a mouthful of wine. Good red stuff from the tiny vineyards that men had planted in the woods down near the weald, not much spoiled by the skin. From the amphora it had been wondrous. They were down to their last quart, a cause for mourning. When he smelt the stuff it put the fetor of the dank woods out of his nose, and he was thinking of sunpale hillsides heavy with vines —places he had never seen, flagged stone hot to the touch. He smiled at Cat, knowing she too was a summer creature, a warmth lover. She was so white and pinched in the middle of her cloaks that he drew her close, feeling the spare, bird-like build of her. Hollow bones, he thought.

'We'll have peace tonight,' she said, leaning her head into his shoulder; He felt a yawn tighten her jaw.

'How so?'

'They're slow by day. They keep to the deepest woods. They'll be walking five miles for every one in our wake. It is rough country behind us.'

Indeed. They had almost killed their mounts. He wondered how much longer there would be a way for the horses to battle through the lower trees and—the brambles. Their legs were scratched and scored and yesterday the grey had come down on one knee, opening it on a vicious tree root. He was lame, and would not improve whilst their flight continued. The chestnut, Fancy, was not much better off; once a high-stepping, spirited animal, his grandfather's pride and joy, she moved now like a warped clockwork toy. Neither of them had ever fully recovered from the ordeal in the Wolfweald.

'We'll be afoot yet,' he prophesied gloomily.

'Soon, yes, but if we can win clear of the trees and hit upon the first heights of the hills then we have a chance. There are cliffs there, gullies and caves. Something to put our backs against at nights. And they don't like the open sky above them, even at night, much less the bare slopes. It's the woods they love to skulk in.'

'The damn trees.'

'Yes. The damn trees. But they don't go on for ever. And Ringbone is to try and meet us near the edge, take us as far as the Utwyda.'

'What about the Horseman?' Instinctively his voice had lowered as he asked. Cat hesitated.

'We haven't seen him for days.'

'That's why I ask. Will he be waiting for us, you think, when we break free of the trees?'

She lifted her head from his shoulder. 'Ask the moon. I am no oracle.'

'You brought me here.' His tone roughened despite an effort to keep it soft.

'And now I take you home.' Her eyes flashed in the firelight, the flames a little turning hell in each one. 'Besides, you wanted to come. And it was not I who found a quest to follow in this land, a maiden who needed rescuing.'

'I was a boy, a child. I knew nothing of what it would be like.' And I was in love with you, he thought but did not say. He marvelled that the thought had come in the past tense, and wondered if that presaged some future revelation.

'Fairy tales have teeth. Even children know that. The big bad wolf must eat.'

'Yeah, OK.' He rubbed his eyes, too tired to argue. Tension had been flickering between the two of them for days, like far-off summer thunder, and it was a wearisome thing to bear. There was so much they did not talk about, so much pushing them apart. His decision to return home. The events in the Wolfweald. All there, hanging unspoken in the air between them. And he so wanted her warmth pliant in his arms tonight, her arms around him. There were few worse things than her lying there, stiff with resentment. If she had enough energy for even that.

The fire cracked and spat as a faggot collapsed into its molten heart. He drew himself up as slowly as a geriatric.

'Need more wood.'

'Take the sword', she said automatically, eyes still lost in the flames, lids already drooping. It was plain that he would be taking first watch tonight, and the prospect made his face ugly for a second. It was marvellous what the body could bear in the way of wet and wind, injury and agony, but lack of sleep was the worst thing. It had become a physical pain to him at times to keep awake through the nights.

The sword was in its scabbard, beside it the barrel of the shotgun—useless, if it had ever been of any use. Its few remaining cartridges were soaked through and through. He patted the carved wooden stock. His name was there in copperplate, along with the date: 1899. A lovely weapon. He carried it for sentimental reasons alone now; and the prestige that the iron barrel brought amongst the tribes. Excess baggage. It was beginning to rust. He rasped the sword out of its scabbard instead. It was heavy and cold. He could make out rust on the blade, too, near the hilt, and scraped it with a nail, frowning. The edge had dulled. They had used it to chop wood; an unforgivable thing. It needed work. He knew now the difference between a strike with a sharp blade and a blunt one, the artistry in the swing. His prowess with the blade—an iron blade—was all that had kept them alive. The lead of the shotgun pellets had been good merely for hunting.