Bridge of Swords (10 page)

Sendatsu rubbed his eyes. This was not helping at all. He felt tired and frustrated. He needed to sleep, and think of a new approach.

‘I am very tired. Do you have a bed for me?’ he asked Bedwin.

‘Of course — here you go.’ Bedwin handed him a bundle of stinking fur.

‘What’s this?’ Sendatsu held it at arm’s length.

Bedwin roared with laughter. ‘Your bed! Just wrap yourself up in it and you’ll be snug as a bug!’

Sendatsu could only imagine how many bugs were indeed hiding in this badly cured hide.

‘And what do I sleep on?’ he ventured.

‘The floor. Nice and soft, eh?’

Sendatsu forced a smile and, shuddering, laid the skin on the cleanest patch of floor he could find to sleep.

‘He’s a strange one,’ he heard Blodwen mutter.

‘Hush, woman — look at those ears — he can probably hear everything! Don’t worry, he’ll likely want to leave in the morning, find some autumn leaves to write a song about.’

‘Autumn leaves?’

‘Oh, elves are always doing that sort of thing,’ Bedwin said knowingly.

Sendatsu closed his eyes and tried not to think too much of his children.

He woke up to see a wolf’s head an inch from his nose and was on his knees and reaching for his sword before he realised it was just his bedclothes. He sank back down, wondering at the thin line between nightmare and reality.

Perhaps today he could find some Velsh who knew more — or at least knew what a bed was. He stood and his lower stomach gave a growl of protest. He had to find a privy. Now. He looked around desperately to see nothing but the family stirring awake, all wrapped in furs on the floor.

‘The privy?’ Sendatsu asked urgently.

‘What? Can’t you just piss in the goat pen, like me and the rest of the boys?’ Bedwin asked.

Sendatsu stared at him wordlessly.

‘We stick to the rules of good behaviour here. Men piss with the goats, women with the sheep, just like everywhere else. But I
don’t have sheep in my hall. We’re not some hovel in Rheged, you know,’ Bedwin said haughtily.

‘There’re beast sheds out the back,’ Blodwen suggested.

Sendatsu obeyed instantly, running out and sinking up to his ankles in thick mud, but he could not let that stop him. The rain was fine but insistent, making his head and shoulders damp immediately, while all around him were the sounds of animals waking up. Behind the back of Bedwin’s home was only a sea of muck, as well as several crude shelters where sheep and pigs huddled miserably. He looked desperately for something that offered some comfort and privacy but slipped over, falling in what he fervently hoped was mud. His bowels warned that time was running out so, heedless of the mess over his fine clothes, he climbed over the wooden rails keeping a trio of pigs penned. The animals backed away, grunting at him, and while he wanted to find somewhere clean to squat, there was nowhere like that. Almost beyond caring, desperately he hauled down his hakama — keeping them out of the mud was almost pointless, given what was already on them, but it was also impossible.

Just as he was beginning to relax a little, and become more aware of his surroundings, he realised two things. At home, a selection of dried sea sponges on sticks, moistened by running water, waited close at hand for him to clean up afterwards. There was nothing —
nothing
— like that anywhere near. And secondly, there was a very large pig staring angrily at him, from just a few paces away. And it might live in a pen but from its bristles, red eyes and massive shoulders, it was obviously not too far removed from the wild boar he had seen many a time in the woods — and learned to keep well away from.

‘Get out of there! Nobody shits with the pigs!’ Blodwen shouted. ‘And certainly never twice!’

He realised his predicament and began to haul up his muddied hakama — but carefully, for obvious reasons. The pig saw its chance and timed its charge perfectly. Sendatsu took one look and decided not to hang around. With one hand holding his hakama around his knees, he raced for the dubious safety of the mud
outside the pen as the pig snapped at his heels — and grabbed at his trailing hakama, ripping out a chunk as he leaped for safety, landing head-first in the mud.

He looked up to see Bedwin, Blodwen and the rest of the family doubled over, helpless with laughter. Slowly he got to his feet, looking down at the wreckage of what had been fine clothes.

‘You — you need to go in with the sheep,’ Blodwen tried to say, pointing towards the next pen and still laughing. ‘There’s a mess for you now!’

Sendatsu looked at his ruined clothes and the laughing family. No wonder his people had taken themselves behind the barrier. Surely anything was better than living like this. How could these humans survive? More to the point, how could he live like this?

‘Grab some moss off the roof, wipe your arse and then get back in the warm and dry. My wife’ll find something for you to wear,’ Bedwin said kindly.

Sendatsu sloshed over to the low-hanging roof, its bottom level only waist-height, and its surface covered in thick moss. It was soft, damp and surprisingly effective, although he had a few shudders while using it — and had no idea what to do with it afterwards, so left it lying by the wall. He shuffled around to the hall’s only doorway, feeling suddenly hungry.

As he avoided a puddle, it began to rain hard. Not quite as bad as the day before, but not far off it. He sighed. At least he could make some use of it. He stripped off his filthy clothes and stood there, wearing just his boots, arms outstretched in the rain.

‘You should put some clothes on and come in for food — you’ll catch your death, standing out there like that!’ Bedwin shouted at him. He stared at the elf’s rippling muscles, the huge arms, shoulders and chest.

Sendatsu was past caring. ‘Have you oil and a wooden knife, so I can clean myself?’ he asked instead.

‘What?’ They gazed at him in bewilderment.

‘I need to be clean,’ Sendatsu insisted.

Bedwin and Blodwen had a short discussion, then Blodwen disappeared, coming back with a lump of something strange and
grey, smelling not of lavender, or mint, but rather the tang of an old fire.

‘How about this soap? We use it to clean clothes,’ she explained.

He tried to work it into a lather but while it worked well enough in cleaning the muck from him, the smell seemed to linger, became more pungent.

‘What is this made of?’ he demanded.

Bedwin shrugged. ‘Just the usual. Ash, pig fat and piss.’

Sendatsu dropped it.

‘Piss? You mean …?’

‘Binds it together.’ Bedwin nodded.

Sendatsu shuddered. ‘And whose …?’

Bedwin beamed. ‘Mine, of course. Nothing but the best for you! Try it on your hair as well — it’ll turn it a lovely light shade!’

Sendatsu rubbed feverishly at his skin with his hands, trying to use the rain to cleanse himself of the soap.

‘Get in, man — I mean, elf! Bathing too often isn’t good for a man. Or an elf.’

Sendatsu thought about arguing but he was getting colder now. He stepped inside, his sopping, rank clothes held in one hand.

‘What do they do in Dokuzen, to make you look like that?’ Bedwin asked, pointing both to the rippling muscles and the scars that covered Sendatsu’s torso.

‘We train with the sword and the bow, every day of our lives,’ Sendatsu said, examining his clothes sorrowfully.

‘And the scars?’ Blodwen wondered.

‘I don’t talk about those,’ Sendatsu said shortly.

‘Blod, find him some clothes — tunic and trews will do,’ Bedwin suggested into the sudden silence.

He found Sendatsu a woollen blanket and gave him a bowl of porridge, as well as the honey pot, and Sendatsu ate hurriedly.

Blodwen returned then, bearing green shorts and undervest, a red tunic and brown trews.

‘Here you are,’ she sniffed.

‘Thank you.’ Sendatsu dressed swiftly. They fitted reasonably well, although it was tight across the shoulders and too long in
the arms. And the underclothes felt rough and lumpen. Perhaps it was just him being accustomed to cotton, he thought hopefully.

‘What are they made of?’ he asked.

‘Well, the tunic and trews are made of wool, the underclothes of nettles.’

‘Nettles?’ Sendatsu asked faintly. ‘The stinging plant?’

‘Aye, that’s them. Delicious cooked and you can make clothes out of them as well. I thought you’d like the pretty green!’

Sendatsu fought the urge to rip the clothes off, contenting himself with a careful scratch.

‘Thank you,’ he managed to say.

‘So what were your old clothes called?’ she asked, sorting through the muddy pile.

Sendatsu sighed. ‘These are called hakama. The top is a half-kimono and the belt is called an obi.’

The children took over then, pushing forwards and picking up his old clothes, chattering and asking questions, all at once.

‘Amazing!’

‘Where do they come from?’

‘Why do we not wear them?’

‘Where do the names come from?’

Sendatsu paused. ‘We’ve always worn such things.’ He shrugged. ‘Our history records that we came from across the sea to this land. We must have brought them with us, as well as the names for them. It is from a language we do not speak any more but we keep the words as a reminder, I suppose … that is part of my mission. I believe you had a different language as well. I need to find it.’

‘Another language? Why, we have enough trouble with this one!’ Bedwin chuckled.

‘Have you perhaps heard of humans who can do magic …’

The pair of them roared with laughter. ‘You have more chance of finding a goat who can dance and sing,’ Blodwen snorted.

‘Well, there was word of that goat down in Rheged …’ Bedwin began.

‘Oh, don’t believe everything you hear,’ Blodwen sniffed. ‘Tell us of Dokuzen! Is it true you live in amazing houses, built out
of the trees themselves, reached by staircases made from living wood?’

Now it was Sendatsu’s turn to smile.

‘No, we live in stone houses, which we call villas. They are all much the same. In the middle, each has a beautiful garden, with living areas around the outside, while servant quarters are at the end of the house, along with the kitchen. We bathe every day, in hot water, use oil and a wooden knife to scrape the dirt from our skin. We also have a toilet, where you sit on a stone seat with a hole in it and running water carries away your waste …’

‘You are making fun of me!’ Blodwen accused.

‘Not so. It is all true.’

‘And do you make everything by magic? Do the birds and animals of the forest help you, sing for you?’

Again, Sendatsu could not restrain a smile.

‘We live in harmony with the birds and animals but they do not play a part in our lives. We do everything for ourselves. To the north we have the mines and quarries, the fishing villages and the huge rice and cotton fields that keep us fed and clothed and housed. But Dokuzen itself … the city is built around a huge park, with a lake in its centre. Everywhere there are beautiful gardens, statues, music playing. Only beautiful things are allowed there.’

‘I can imagine,’ Blodwen breathed. ‘And is everyone always singing, or making up poetry?’

‘No — we sing and dance at special occasions, but that is it. Most elves work during the day, everything from fishing to mining to making clothes and furniture …’

‘Why, that sounds just like humans. That doesn’t sound amazing and beautiful at all,’ Bedwin protested.

‘That is what it is really like,’ Sendatsu said firmly.

‘Well, what about magic? How do you use that?’

So Sendatsu tried to explain, tried to remember the lessons from years ago, in Sumiko’s villa.

‘Life is like one great circle. Everything needs a spark of magic to be born, uses it to grow and thrive then, when we die, we release it back into the world. This energy, this power
is all around us but only some people can feel it and use it for their own. But anything you use must be replaced by your own energy — the greater the task, the greater the strain on the Magic-weaver. I don’t have much ability but there are those who can change the world around us …’

‘Well, is one of them going to visit?’ Blodwen asked hopefully.

Sendatsu sighed. He had to move on — he was getting nothing from this couple, pleasant as they were. ‘Sadly, no. Now, I thank you for your kindness but I must continue my search for answers.’

They gave him food and a bag to carry it, then waved him goodbye.

‘He was strange,’ Blodwen muttered, when she thought the elf was safely out of earshot.

‘Aye. I don’t think I’d like to live in that Dokuzen.’

‘Me either,’ Blodwen agreed. ‘Now, we’ve wasted enough time on him. You need to re-plaster the back wall with pig dung, then fertilise our field.’

‘I always get the shit jobs,’ Bedwin grumbled, swinging a shovel over his shoulder.

If they had not died, would everything be different now? That question is too hard for me to answer, and impossible anyway. For they did die. One moment they were there, strong and confident, unchallenged, the next they had crumbled into dust, as if wiped away from the pages of history.

For those of us who saw it, the world would never be the same. The foundation on which not just our people but our whole way of life was built was swept away.

Some of us, like myself, tried to hold on to it, tried to fulfil their last wishes.

But many others saw them fall, and saw their opportunity.

Rebellion, which had only been whispered about behind closed doors, now became their ambition. Never openly, of course, for I would have heard that. But the seeds of my own betrayal and death were planted that day, watered with the tears of a people for their lost fathers.

It was just before dawn, with the first light streaking through the sky, when Earwen of Patcham rolled out of bed and stirred the fire into life. He had dreamed of his son, Huw, last night and woke feeling alone. Huw was down in the Forlish capital, living his dream of becoming a bard, and Earwen missed him terribly.

It was the culmination of Huw’s life. For years he had been ridiculed by his whole village. His reputation had even spread to
other nearby Velsh villages. The crazy boy who sang to sheep, who dreamed of being a bard. They had mocked him, jeered his dream and told him to his face he would fail and be forced to slink back home to be the subject of jokes for the rest of his life.

In the face of such opposition, Huw offered to give up and become a farmer, like everyone else, but Earwen had not let him. He had protected him, encouraged him and guided him. He had lost his wife in childbirth but taken no other, instead raising the boy as well as running the farm — something that by itself had excited much comment in the village. After that sacrifice, his son would be given the chance to follow his dream.

Although Huw had fretted about heading south and his Velshness being found out.

‘The Forlish will never know you come from Vales.’ Earwen had smiled. ‘They see so few of us, they wouldn’t know a Velshman if he bit them! They think we are all hairy monsters who live in muck and eat mud. Besides, after what we have been through these past few years, I would have thought that a few Forlish sneers would mean nothing.’

But when Huw still fretted, Earwen had taken a more serious tone. ‘Look, once you start playing your lyre, singing your songs and telling your riddles, they won’t care where you are from. I didn’t raise you to live in fear. The Forlish have stone buildings, a king and his court and are growing an empire, but that does not make them better than us.’

Huw had smiled.

‘There is no call for a bard in Vales,’ Earwen told him. ‘Well, that is not true, we need to hope and dream as much as any man and we love songs and stories and riddles more than most. But there is no money in it here. The Forlish have money aplenty to spend on such things. Money stolen from those weaker than themselves, but money nonetheless. To earn that honestly is no shame. Earn enough so that you can come back here and put food on your table. It is your dream and you deserve the chance to live it. I’ve done all I can to make it possible. The rest is up to you. But do me one favour.’

‘Aye, Dad. Anything!’

‘Well, two things. First, never forget who you are and where you come from. And second, never offer a promise so lightly! At least listen before agreeing to do anything!’

They had both laughed then.

When it had come time to say goodbye, nobody in the village had waved Huw off, although almost all had had something to say the previous day, along the lines of Huw was a fool and Earwen doubly so, to indulge him. Several of the elders had predicted Huw would be back within three moons, and would then have to do some real work, not swan around like a moonstruck calf.

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment. They had never been short of a word before but neither could find anything to say now. Earwen could not get anything past the huge lump in his throat, while he could see the tears in his son’s eyes.

‘Come back safe,’ he managed to say.

‘I’ll come back rich. Don’t work too hard on the field,’ Huw said awkwardly.

Unable to say what he really felt, Earwen held out his hand and Huw shook it carefully.

‘Better get moving. You’ve a long way to go.’

Huw looked as though he was about to say something, then simply nodded.

‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said hoarsely.

Earwen could not watch his son go. Firstly because his cursed eyes kept leaking but also because he had been struck with a terrible certainty he would never see his son again. That memory was thick within him as he downed a bowl of oatmeal and then walked out into the dawn, ready for another hard day in the fields.

Broyle led his men into the village at the gallop. The village was bounded by a low fence, suitable for keeping animals in — or out — but little more. It also had a wide opening, easily big enough for four men to ride abreast through, and completely unguarded.

Dogs barked at them and for a moment Broyle thought they had made a mistake, for these were big, powerful beasts, bred to drive off wolves — then owners called them back and he breathed again.

Men, women and children looked out of houses, curious but not yet fearful of the men on big horses, dressed in plain tunics and trousers.

‘Who is the leader of this village?’ Broyle bellowed, reining in his horse and letting his men spread out behind him, so they were not all bunched in together.

After a pause an older man, his dark beard shot through with grey, strode forwards.

‘There are no leaders here. We have no need for them. We are a community and work together,’ he began.

‘Well, you can work together on this! My men and I have just moved into the area. We have had a long ride and are in need of food and drink …’

‘Which you may purchase from us, at a fair price,’ the Velshman interrupted back, his voice big and booming. ‘If you are good neighbours, you shall be welcome …’

Broyle ignored him. ‘We don’t pay! Now, bring us food, and drink, and any gold or silver you might have!’

The Velshman stepped closer.

‘Who are you? Forlish?’ he demanded. ‘Did the Crumliners hire you to threaten us?’

‘Where?’

‘The next village over. Did they hire you?’

Broyle was about to deny everything when he remembered his orders in time.

‘We are Balian,’ he boasted, certain this ignorant Velshman would not know the difference.

‘You sound Forlish. And how could Balians make their way through all of Forland to reach us?’ the Velshman declared. ‘You are a liar. Now leave our village! You are not welcome here!’

Broyle’s hand went down to his sword.

‘Don’t cross me, old man,’ he warned softly. ‘For I shall kill you and your people if you do not obey me. Now, tell your people to get out their food and drink and gold, and we shall ride out of here with smiles on our faces, and you get to keep your head. Be sensible, man. You know who we are, what we can do. The rest of your people are hiding, not standing behind you. Walk away, tell your people to do what we say and you’ll get to sleep with your wife again tonight, hold your children.’

Earwen looked up at the big Forlishman without fear. He heard the truth in the man’s words and knew his life hung by a thread. For a moment only he was tempted. He wanted to see Huw again, wanted to see the boy grow into a man. There was still so much he needed to tell him. But he could not stand before Huw if he did not live up to his own code. Death would be preferable to betraying everything he had lived by.

If only he could see Huw once more …

‘Wolves do not go away if you feed them,’ Earwen shouted. ‘Brothers! Sisters! We are many but they are few! Rally here!’ He looked around, waved to the men he saw standing in their doorways. This village had more than a hundred men of fighting age. If they stood together, the Forlish would run. ‘If we stand together, then they cannot …’

He never got to finish the sentence. Broyle knew the truth of his words and spurred his horse forwards, sword leaping into his hand. With a battle cry, he hacked down viciously.

Earwen tried to dodge away but the Forlishman had been fighting for too long and was a step ahead. The last thing Earwen saw was the sharp sword whistling towards his head, the last thing he thought was an anguished hope for his son to be safe.

A cry of horror went up from watching villagers as the Velshman collapsed, his head all but severed, and Broyle signalled to his men, his blood-covered sword held high. They fanned out in all directions and that was enough for those watching.

Instinctively they backed into houses, trying to seek shelter and cover, rather than rushing out and fighting. Broyle was relieved to see it. He did not have the men to fight a whole village — there
were enough men here to drive him away, did they but realise it. He had to use fear to make up for his lack of numbers.

‘Get into those homes and get us some plunder!’ Broyle roared at his men, gesturing with his bloodied sword.

Cheering, his men sprang into action, working as a team, as they had learned to do in a dozen Balian villages. One in four held their horses, while the other three raced off to the closest houses. One kicked the door in then the other two burst inside, weapons drawn. Shrieks and cries followed, as the house was ransacked and the occupants terrorised. Then the trio emerged, carrying sides of bacon, legs of lamb, bread and cheese, barrels of ale and, sometimes, small pouches of coins.

A couple even emerged with a screaming woman over one shoulder, often followed by one or two crying children, although those were silenced with a blow if they got too close or the noise got too much. As for the man of the house in that case, the only sight of him was blood on a Forlish sword, although one came out swinging a wood axe — only to be cut down in the open. Together the villagers might have stood a chance but one Velshman was no match for three veteran Forlish warriors.

Broyle watched with approval, only needing to help once, when a couple of men tried to attack one of his laden parties. But by the time he had galloped over there, the Velshmen were dead, their children and wives fleeing and his men had picked up their booty and carried it back to where the horses waited. After each group had been to two houses, and the pile of goods looked more than enough for the horses to carry away, he called halt. ‘That’s enough, lads. We have to leave these sheep with enough fleece so it’s worth another visit!’

His men, all of them carrying valuables, and a handful with blood on their swords, cheered in response as they mounted up.

‘How easy is this going to be?’ Broyle grinned, helping himself to a loaf of fresh bread and tearing off a huge chunk. ‘We’ll find somewhere to store this, then see what other pickings are around.’

He looked back at the village, at the Velsh emerging from hiding and wailing over their dead.

‘The king knows what he is doing. They’ll run to him after a few more visits like that,’ Broyle declared.

His men, laden and looking forward to enjoying the spoils they had taken, grinned in agreement.

Broyle had been on raiding missions before, many times, when his regiment needed supplies and they had outpaced the wagons. Living off the land was almost second nature. He pushed the men hard, making sure they put plenty of distance between themselves and the village. He was sure there would be no pursuit but refused to get complacent. He had kept his men alive by being careful.

It was late afternoon, the setting sun casting long shadows across the ground when they found a patch of woods on a hill, seemingly a long way from any villages, and the ideal place to base themselves.

‘Take what we picked up this morning and make camp up there,’ he instructed one of his corporals, Cenred. He had brought two with him and trusted Cenred far more than the other, Ricbert. Ricbert was a good fighter but a poor corporal. Cenred was the steadier man.

‘What about the women?’ Ricbert protested, as Broyle had expected him to.

‘Will be waiting for us when we return. We shall sweep around the area, see who our new neighbours are.’

‘But …’

‘There will be plenty for all,’ Broyle said warningly. ‘Another word and it could be your last.’

Ricbert subsided and Broyle watched Cenred lead ten men with laden horses, as well as the four captured women, up towards the woods.

‘Come on. The king doesn’t pay us to sit and watch,’ Broyle said harshly, leading the rest of his men off to the south.

Sendatsu had made himself a rough camp in the woods. He had failed at another village, this time one with a handful of elven buildings at its centre. These were not villas, nor halls but what
looked like barns or storage huts. Still, they stood out from the Velsh buildings and were being used as homes by what looked like a dozen Velsh.

But while these buildings were full of Velsh, the Velsh were empty of answers — and less friendly than Bedwin and Blodwen. They had endless demands for magic to save a prize cow or heal a sick child. Sendatsu tried to explain that magic was not that simple, and healing magic best left to a priest of Aroaril, for it took too much energy — but they would not listen, instead accusing him of keeping the magic to himself. At the very least they wanted him to tell them what to do, to ‘lead them back towards the light’, as one had said. They would not listen to his questions, nor believe him when he said his magic could not do all the things they wanted.

Like the other village, he found himself in the middle of a knot of angry humans, all trying to pull him in a dozen directions. He tried to reason with them but they would not listen. When one grabbed hold of his pouch it was the last straw and he broke clear and ran for it.

Now he was huddled next to a small fire, wondering miserably what his children were doing, back in Dokuzen, and how he might find answers when the humans would not even stop and listen to his questions. Then he heard the voices. They were close. The speech was different to that of the humans he had met in the villages, their voices lacking the lilt and singsong quality of the Velsh, being harsher and cruder. Mixed in with the harsh calls of the men were cries from women, and these seemed to be Velsh. He kicked dirt over his fire then grabbed his pack and his bow and faded back into the trees. Night was falling, and he had been staring into the fire for long enough that his eyes were struggling to help him tell where to go. Luckily his little stumbles and breaking of twigs underfoot were lost in the noise of the humans’ approach.