The Crowded Shadows (47 page)

The blond lord cried out in fear, throwing back his head as the flames flared around him. At his voice, Embla snapped her head around. She saw the rising smoke and she howled, pressing herself back into the shadows, turning her face away. Christopher froze in the darkness of the undergrowth, his eyes fixed on the now crackling heart of the pyre.

Suddenly Ashkr began to scream—high and uncontrollable. His voice seemed to break a spell and Christopher spun with a cry, diving behind a tree. Wynter leapt to fly after him, thinking he was trying to escape. But, instead of running, Christopher fell to his knees, scrabbling at the base of the tree. He almost fell over as he surged back to his feet. He had something in his hands. He was struggling with it. Wynter saw that it was his crossbow. Suddenly everything fell into place for her.

Oh hurry
, she thought, pushing her way through the bushes towards him.
Christopher, hurry!

The drums still beat out their violent rhythm, but Ashkr’s screams seemed to have shocked the men into stillness, and they stood, motionless and staring, as he thrashed against his bonds. The women, too, had stopped singing and they stood, wide-eyed, their faces turned to the pyre. High above the drums and Ashkr’s agony and the vast rush of the flames, Embla could be heard howling and weeping in torment at her brother’s pain.

Christopher, hidden in the trees, fumbled the lever on his crossbow. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it, but, as Wynter pushed towards him, he finally engaged the bolt. He jerked the bow to his shoulder. He took aim. Then his eyes overflowed, obscuring his vision, and he had to lower the bow again and dash his arm across his face.

Abruptly, Ashkr’s screaming turned to shrieks and Wynter had to clap her hands to her ears. Within the pyre, the flames had eaten their way up Ashkr’s body. His tunic and his beautiful hair were alight. With a cry of revulsion, Christopher slapped the crossbow to his shoulder and fired.

Wynter understood now why Úlfnaor had shooed his people to either side of the pyre. He had been leaving a space for Christopher to fire through, a clear path straight to the heart of the flames. Wynter saw the bolt’s dark shadow speed between the ranks of men. There was a hard thud, and Ashkr’s cries ceased. The sound of drums and fire rushed in to fill the void.

There was a moment of stunned stillness amongst the Merron. Wynter crouched, terrified, expecting them to see the bolt sticking from their Caora’s chest, expecting them to turn as one and fix their eyes on Christopher
You know what they do. You know what they do if they catch you
. But Ashkr was hidden by a sudden wall of fire as the kindling to the front of the pyre began to burn in earnest, and the Merron just stood in silence, listening to the flames rush upwards to heaven.

Christopher staggered backwards, the crossbow dropping to his side. High above, Embla still howled her anguish to the stars, mourning her brother and everything else she’d lost. But even as Wynter began to push her way through the bushes and crawl towards Christopher, the Merron began to sing, and the lady’s grief was muffled beneath their voices and the incessant drums. Numbly now, almost without thought, Christopher reloaded the bow, took staring aim, and fired. The high thread of Embla’s despair cut off in mid-wail.

Before Wynter could reach him, Christopher staggered away into the darkness, muttering and sobbing. All his numb restraint, all his tenacious self-control seemed to have fled, and his progress through the undergrowth was clumsy and carelessly loud.

Wynter, equally careless, flung herself after him. “Wait!” she sobbed, rushing blindly forward, her eyes unaccustomed to the darkness. “Wait!”

She staggered into him unexpectedly, and the two of them almost fell. Christopher spun and flung a punch. He was not anticipating so small a target, and he missed. His fist whistled through the air just above her head, and Wynter ducked. Thank God she was short! Christopher’s punches were swift and fiercely directed. Had Wynter been taller, she would no doubt have had the bones of her nose smashed up into her brain. Christopher’s momentum toppled him into her, bringing them both to the forest floor, and he raised the butt of the crossbow, intending to smash her across the head with it.

“It’s me!” she cried. “It’s Wynter!”

He went limp and they lay tangled for a moment, their hearts thundering in the darkness. Behind them, the Merron shouted in unison, a long rising “
HaaaaaAH!
” There was a monstrous
crack
, and a pained creak, like a big door opening. Wynter turned to look, but the clearing was no more than a patch of flame in the darkness There was a loud, yawning groan, then the ground leapt beneath them as a huge
boom
shook the forest floor. Ravens surged from the trees above, cawing in alarm.

“Embla,” moaned Christopher. Wynter pushed herself from him and crawled forward, staring through the trees. He curled immediately into a tight ball, muttering.

They would have done that to her
, thought Wynter numbly.
What an awful way to die
. She thought of that rushing plummet downwards, and the great smacking pressure; tons of wood crushing you into the mud, and she thanked God for Christopher, and his recklessness and his bravery in saving Embla from such a death.

There was silence from the Merron, and for a moment only the harsh calls of the ravens cut above the angry noise of the fire. Smoke and the pleasant smell of roasted meat drifted through the darkness. Wynter knew the smell would become awful soon, as all human burnings did. The smoke would turn oily, carrying a wretched stink that would not leave the nostrils for days. It was a stench she had hoped never to endure again.
They will smell of it
, she thought.
When we travel with them. They will stink of Ashkr’s death
.

Christopher moaned again. Wynter could hear him scrabbling softly in the dirt as he crawled through the bushes. Then another sound rose up through the flame-roar—the Merron, yipping and whooping, breaking from their shock and coming to life, celebrating the final, the most precious sacrifice of their
Caoirigh an Domhain
.

Christopher staggered to his feet and Wynter turned to find him dimly outlined in firelight, leaning against a tree. “Women go to the earth,” he rasped. “Men to the fire.” His eyes flashed as he turned his head to stare at her. “Despite what they say, it ain’t what we do. I ain’t never seen it before… Only
…”
He shook his head, his face creased in pain. When he spoke again, his voice was too harsh, too loud as if to counteract his tears. “Only the old religion still worship this way, and only when they are desperate, and frightened.”

He sobbed and covered his mouth to hold back his distress. The light subsided a little, and Wynter crouched in the darkness, staring at him in the dimness. Only the flaring outlines of his cheekbones, the glitter of his eyes and the bright tracks of his tears were visible. “She chose them specially, didn’t she? To support everything she says about my people. She chose them, knowing they’d never be understood.”

Behind Wynter, figures moved against the flames and music was rising, joyful and wild. These people, who had been so kind to her and so generous, were dancing now and singing as they celebrated the murder of their own. Wynter nodded, and scrubbed her wet cheeks. Yes, Christopher was absolutely right. These people confirmed every malicious thing the Shirkens had ever claimed about people of difference. Their vicious campaign against the pagan Merron would be very difficult to argue against after this, and with them, all the others—the Jews, the dissenters, the Musulmen, the reformists—all would burn in the same fires.

“Razi will never understand,” she whispered. Embla once again rose to her mind, all that beauty and all that kindness wilfully slapped down into darkness. Wynter put her hand to her mouth, the firelight trebling and doubling as her eyes filled again.

“She spared Razi,” whispered Christopher. “He, too, was destined for the pyre. Everything they love… everything they love should go with them to
An Domhan
. Sólmundr and Boro—and Razi—should have burned.” He closed his eyes. “All the Caoirigh had to do was ask, but they didn’t. They spared them. Razi will never understand, Iseult! He’ll—” Christopher turned abruptly, shoving his way through the dark undergrowth, disappearing into the blackness of the trees. Wynter turned back for a moment to the firelight and the singing. Then she stumbled to her feet and pushed after him, following the sound of his clumsy progress until she caught up. She slipped her arm around his waist, and they staggered together through the darkness, heading for the tent.

The dogs were howling. Wynter could hear them scrabbling and running to and fro, their barks coughing to abrupt silence as they hurled themselves to the ends of their chains. Christopher dropped to a crouch in the shadows at the tree line, and Wynter hunkered by his side, silently scanning the empty camp. There was no sign of intruders. After a moment of wary surveillance, they darted across the moonlit space between forest and tents, then slunk around the shadows until they could observe without being seen.

The warhounds were in a frenzy of distress, all their attention focused on Ashkr’s tent. As Wynter watched, Boro flung himself to the end of his chain and scrabbled desperately against the earth in a futile attempt to reach the door. Christopher rose to his feet and lowered his crossbow, listening. From within the tent, barely audible above the noise of the hounds, came sounds of a muted struggle. Something clattered softly and there was a faint cry, choked off almost immediately. Boro howled and flung himself once again at the tent.

Wynter and Christopher took off in a run, heading straight for the door. Sliding to a halt, they pushed their way through. Christopher dived left, Wynter dived right, and both came to a frozen halt—in similar attitudes of shock and despair.

“No!” shouted Wynter, rolling to her hands and knees and shooting forward.

With a choked cry, Christopher flung his bow aside and scuttled forward to join her. “You
bastard
,” he screamed. “You bloody
…”
His words were lost as he shoved his arms under Sólmundr’s shoulders and heaved upwards, taking the warrior’s weight. Wynter scurried around behind the tether pole and struggled to free the belt by which Sólmundr was attempting to hang himself. It wasn’t hard to do, the pole was only about four feet high, and once Christopher had shoved Sólmundr upwards and supported him against the wood, Wynter found it easy to slip the tether pin free of the belt and let the loose end slip back through the tether ring.

She staggered back, and Christopher and Sólmundr slithered down, coming to rest in a tangled heap at the base of the pole. Christopher scrabbled at the man’s neck, digging his fingers underneath the tight leather, and worked the buckle free so that Sólmundr could breath. Sólmundr gasped and heaved air into his lungs, howling in despair.

Flinging the belt to one side, Christopher spun back around, his face scarlet with rage. “You
bastard
!” he screamed again. “Don’t you
dare
!” The warrior slid to his side on the scattered cushions, sobbing, his arms coming up over his head, and Christopher instantly curled around him. He knotted his scarred hands in the rich fabric of Sólmundr’s tunic and in the tangled waves of his sandy hair. “You
owe
me!” he sobbed. “You
owe
me.”

Wynter’s legs started to shake and she let go, sliding her weight down the tether pole until she was kneeling on the cushions, her forehead resting against the smooth wood. She closed her eyes and listened to the men weep. Then she turned and crawled across the mats and the furs until she got to Razi.

Still unconscious, and untroubled now by his former discomfort, Razi slept innocently on. Wynter laid her forehead against his temple, trying not to think about the morning, and about what they would tell him when he woke. After a while, she pushed the cushions to one side and lay behind him, her head resting between his shoulder-blades, her hand on his neck. His pulse thudded steadily beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and for the rest of the night she just lay there and listened to him breathe.

“G
et your hands
off
him!” snarled Wynter. The look on her face must have been unmistakable, because Hallvor stepped back immediately and moved aside so that Wynter and Christopher could help Razi to his feet.

At the door, a warrior stared in, her eyes wide with curiosity, and Christopher snarled at her, “
Croch leat! Agus ná bí ag stánadh
.”

Razi, startled at Christopher’s sharp tone, turned to blink uncertainly at him. Christopher glanced up into his shocked face and adjusted his grip on Razi’s waist. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “We’ve got you.”

“What happened to me?” slurred Razi, his voice thick.

Christopher looked away. “It’s all right,” he said again, miserably. He glanced across at Wynter who was supporting Razi from the other side. She nodded and the three of them began to make their way to the door.

Razi stumbled and groaned, overcome again with nausea. He had remained unconscious for the entire night, and when dawn began to break and they still could not rouse him, Wynter and Christopher had reluctantly called for Hallvor’s aid. To Wynter’s dismay, the healer had administered yet more drugs to counteract Embla’s initial dosage. Even then, it had taken Razi an alarming amount of time to regain his senses, and he had been confused and distressingly vulnerable ever since.