He felt the brush of the fletching against his check and sighted down the shaft. The clouds parted for a second sending a gauzy shimmer of light racing across the clearing, highlighting Bovai, telling him as well that time was passing slowly, and that far away men were still labouring to escape.
Bovai slowed, as if his own inner voice was shouting a warning. He looked straight at Tinuva, eyes widening. Tinuva shifted ever so slightly and then released the arrow.
The bolt sang through the woods, spinning between trees and branches, and tore across Bovai’s side, scraping his ribs. Bovai staggered, falling backwards, rolling for cover. A growl rose up from those circling the two, for though not all could see, they could hear and knew the sounds, were able to identify who had shot and who had fallen.
‘Tinuva.’
It was the inner voice, a whisper.
‘Brother?’
‘You had me, didn’t you?’
‘No brother, I shot to kill.’
‘You lie. You had me. Why?’
‘It is not yet time, brother.’
There was a moment of silence.
‘I have her, you know, brother,’ Bovai’s voice whispered.
Tinuva lowered his head, body trembling. He knew this was a ploy to goad him into rage and error. After a moment, Tinuva whispered, knowing his thoughts would carry on the wind, ‘You have never had her. She will always be mine.’
‘Silence!’ Bovai’s angry reply, a scream of rage, was loud enough for all the onlookers to hear.
Tinuva stood up, shooting blindly at the source of the scream, and was greeted by a taunting laugh. ‘Waste of a good bolt, brother.’
Tinuva reached back to his quiver and felt that there were only half a dozen arrows left, but he did not care. It would only take one more to kill Bovai, just one more.
‘Come for me brother, out in the open, blade to blade.’
Bovai stood up. ‘Look into my eyes brother, come closer, look into the eyes that look into hers every night.’
‘Damn you,’ Tinuva hissed.
‘Yes brother, we are all damned are we not?’
‘No.’
‘You are. You abandoned your blood. That shame can be erased only in blood. Let me send you to the far shore, brother. There you can see the Mothers and Fathers, if they will have you.’
Another flicker of sunlight dashed across the woods and clearing.
He wasn’t sure how long had passed now, for together the two of them were drifting in another world, a world that only those of the eledhel and moredhel truly understood, where a second could stretch to eternity, or a hundred years could be but a flicker of an eye.
‘Come to me, brother. One of us is fated to die this day, let his brother look into his eyes and be the last he shall ever see of this realm.’
Tinuva slowly let his bow drop; then reaching to his belt, he drew out his dagger and stepped’into the clearing.
‘Move it, keep moving!’ Dennis cried. Stepping to the side of the road, he looked back.
The column was strung out, the rear of it barely visible in the drifting snow which came down in a hard squall, then in seconds lifted to a few flurries, then closed in again.
Men were gasping, staggering, legs pumping, all semblance of formation gone, the strongest to the fore, the weaker to the rear. No scouts were forward, all caution abandoned in this headlong rush, the column rushing along like a torrent of rage unleashed. No longer were they the hunted: now they stormed forward as the hunters.
Dennis turned to look up the road. How much further he wasn’t sure, for the ride down this path with Roxanne had been in the dark. Gregory had ridden forward, promising to wait at the turn-off into the woods and to give warning if the moredhel were advancing.
‘How much further, Hartraft?’
Asayaga staggered up to his side, breathing hard, sword drawn, the blade catching a glint of sunlight when the sun showed through the clouds for an instant.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your plan?’
‘What plan?’
Asayaga looked at him and smiled.
‘Then let’s go,’ Asayaga cried and he pressed on, Dennis by his side.
It was an intricate dance, a ballet of death, the two leaping towards each other, blades flashing, the cold sound of steel striking steel and then a backing away, the dance to be repeated again and yet again.
The watchers of the clan had drawn closer, forming a circle to contain the fight, all silent, intent, more than one muttering bitter admiration for Tinuva, the Morvai of old whom they remembered as a comrade and friend. In their eyes he was again almost one of them. A dark fury shone in his regard, his jaw was stern, a pulsing radiance seemed to form around him.
Lightly he danced, oblivious to the pain, the blood that trickled down his leg, filling his boot so that he left a slushy pink footprint with each step.
Blood flowed from Bovai as well, dripping from his slashed side, from the cut of Tinuva’s dagger to his left arm which had sliced nearly to the bone.
Again the two came together; again there was the sparkle of blades, a sprinkle of blood joining the snowflakes that drifted down around them. Tinuva jumped back, left hand going to his face to wipe away the blood from the cut across his brow which clouded his vision. The world in his eyes had gone to red: yet it was not the blood which darkened his world, but all that he had contained within himself and which had now flared back to life.
‘Come on brother,’ Bovai taunted. ‘Finish it.’
‘I will’
Bovai mockingly extended his arms wide. ‘Embrace me, brother, come on.’
Tinuva crouched.
‘Our father would have been proud of you, brother. Anleah would be proud of you.’
Tinuva leapt in and Bovai crouched to receive the attack. As he advanced Tinuva shifted his dagger from right hand to his left, and then at the last instant shifted it back again. He slashed out, feigning low, then coming in high. He barely felt the icy touch of Bovai’s dagger cutting into his left shoulder: poised to block his own blade and finding nothing, it had simply driven in.
The two staggered back, Bovai gasping, a bright line of blood cut across his face, his cheek slashed open from the edge of his mouth to his ear, which had been cut in half.
Crying out, Bovai clutched his face and a gasp rose from all who watched, for everyone knew how Bovai took such pride in his countenance, and now it would be twisted and scarred forever.
Instinct caused Bovai to turn, coming around even as he staggered. He dodged the blow aimed low for his mid-section, wrapping his arms around Tinuva as the two fell. Snow rose up like a gust of steam as they hit the ground and rolled.
Again and again the two slashed at each other with their daggers in their right hands, left hands fumbling to grab the blade-hand of the other. They rolled, kicking and cursing, the strength of each a match for the other. Both were covered in blood-soaked slush as they struggled and the watchers from their clan drew in closer, some now shouting for the kill and more than one crying for Tinuva.
Bovai kneed Tinuva, hitting the stump of the arrow driven into the eledhel’s leg. Tinuva gasped from the wave of agony but his fury drove him on. He feigned collapse, and when Bovai rolled to gain a superior position, Tinuva suddenly pressed up, using Bovai’s own momentum to roll him over yet again, and this time he drove his good knee into Bovai’s stomach so that his brother gasped. At the same instant he drove his left fist into Bovai’s face, tearing the cut so that Bovai screamed in agony and let go of Tinuva’s right hand.
Tinuva raised his dagger.
Yet again time seemed to stand still, almost to run in reverse of the banks of the eternal river. He could see his brother as he was, as both of them had once been, hunting together, sunlight drifting through the trees, standing together in the high mountains, the wind sweeping the world.
Bovai looked up at him. ‘Brother,’ he whispered.
Tinuva held the blade poised, ready to drive it
into Bovai’s heart and in that instant he knew … and he remembered as well all that he had become.
Sunlight filtered down again for a brief instant, lighting the clearing, snow sparkling like diamonds.
He smiled.
The blow came as no surprise: if there was any surprise it was that there was no pain. Just a strange inner warmth as Bovai’s dagger, driven to the hilt, pierced his stomach, slamming up under the ribs and into his lungs.
‘You’ve lost,’ Tinuva whispered as the breath was driven out of him.
Bovai looked into Tinuva’s eyes and in that instant he felt a madness, a horror, beyond any he had known before. He reached up, pushing Tinuva back. His brother, like a great statue, seemed to hang above him, then ever so slowly pitched over.
He kicked the body away, thrashing in a near panic. Then, trembling, he stood up.
All eyes were upon him.
‘It’s finished,’ he whispered.
He turned slowly, looking from one to the other and he could sense their contempt. He looked back at Tinuva.
So you have robbed me even of this, brother, haven’t you?.
‘Damn you!’ Bovai screamed.
The group surrounding him was silent and at that instant Bovai knew his brother had been right: he had lost something in this moment, the pain and anger that had driven him for centuries. For a moment, he felt as if life had lost its purpose. Softly he said, ‘But I won …’
‘No!’
It was a distant scream of anguish, of a long, pent-up rage. Bovai turned, looking in disbelief at the swarm of men closing in, white-and-grey capes fluttering in the wind as they ran, some wearing lacquered armour that caught the beams of sunlight and stood out like brilliant lanterns on a cold dark night.
The charge swarmed down the slope like an avalanche. Arrows snapped past. One of his cousins spun around, clutching his throat; another collapsed with a scream.
All stood transfixed, confused, startled, so sudden was the onset of the charge.
And then Bovai saw him. He had never truly laid eyes upon him before, but he knew his blood, the blood of his grandsire. It was Hartraft, storming forward, leading the charge, a short warrior wearing a lacquered breastplate by his side. Hartraft came in at the run, bow cast aside, both hands held high on his heavy sword.
Bovai spared a final glance at his brother even as he began to raise his dagger.
The sword arced in. There was a brilliant flash of light … and then silence.
‘No!’
Dennis turned even as he completed the blow, spinning around on his heel, watching as Bovai’s head tumbled away, striking the snow, body collapsing. Screaming, he struck again at the body, the blow nearly cutting Bovai in half at the waist. Sobbing, he drew the blade back, ready to strike again, then saw that Asayaga had raced past, had killed one moredhel and was closing on another. Behind him another moredhel was closing in, spear lowered … and his mind suddenly conjured the image of Jurgen trying to save Richard in similar circumstances, for Asayaga was struggling to save one of the Kingdom privates who was down on the ground, desperately trying to block a moredhel closing in with raised sword.
Dennis sprinted forward.
‘Asayaga!’
The Tsurani did not hear him.
He was too far off to close in time. Still holding his blade with both hands he lofted it behind his head and threw. The sword tumbled end over end, slamming into the moredhel even as he braced himself to run his spear through Asayaga’s back.
The sword struck so hard that the moredhel leapt backwards as if yanked from behind, his only sound the breath knocked from his lungs. Asayaga, killing his own opponent a second later, turned and saw Dennis standing weaponless, the moredhel between them, kicking and thrashing, Dennis’s sword stuck in his side.
Men charged past, eyes wide with lust and battle-fury. The moredhel, caught so completely by surprise, had given way in panic and were running to where the goblins and human cavalry waited over the distant rise. Few made it, many falling with arrows in their backs, or were cut down as they fled. The humans and goblins on the far side of the hill came swarming up, drawn by the loud outcry at the end of the battle between Tinuva and Bovai. After hours of bored waiting many had built fires; a few were even asleep, fewer still on the crest of the hill were in armour or even had weapons.
Within seconds they, too, were breaking in panic as a squad of Kingdom and Tsurani troops, led by Tasemu, hit their flank. The watchers on the hill broke, running back down to the camp, screaming in terror that they were being attacked by hundreds.
The moredhel’s advantage and the edge gained by having calvary vanished in an instant. Horsemen died before they could saddle their mounts, and in the first onslaught, so many moredhel, men, and goblins were killed that within minutes Dennis’s and Asayaga’s command held the edge. One more minute, and the goblins broke in panic.
More than one goblin turned on the moredhel commanders who tried to rally them, and soon men, goblins and moredhel were slaying each other in a mad frenzy as all tried to escape.
The ground was littered with the dead and dying. Tasemu marched forward, a squad of Kingdom soldiers forming a ring of archers around him. A ragged line of Tsurani crested the hill, slaying everyone in their path as they advanced, and more Kingdom soldiers fell in around their disciplined line, loosing bolt after bolt into the milling, terrified mob.
Behind Dennis, who stood in a daze, Gregory held his friend and wept.
Asayaga joined Dennis, and the two of them slowly approached the fallen elf.
Tinuva looked up at them and smiled. ‘Foolish, you should have gone over the bridge,’ he whispered.
‘We would not leave you here,’ Asayaga said.
‘Bovai?’
‘I killed him,’ Dennis replied, voice trembling.
Tinuva sighed. ‘Bury him beside me: we were brothers once.’
Dennis nodded.
Tinuva sighed. His eyes flickered and then he looked back at Dennis and Asayaga. ‘Fate has made you enemies, now let honour turn that fate.’
As he started to slip away he began to chant softly. Dennis recognized the words as eledhel, but did not know their meaning.
Gregory, sobbing, spoke the words with him and at last Tinuva’s voice fell silent, his spirit slipping away to the distant shore of the Blessed Isle.
Dennis reached down and gently touched Tinuva’s forehead. ‘Go in peace my friend,’ he whispered.
Asayaga did the same, touching Tinuva’s blood and anointing his forehead with it.
The two looked at each other in the grim silence, then together went to finish the fight.
• Chapter Seventeen •
Parting
THE EVENING WAS QUIET.
Cresting the ridgeline, Dennis stopped and shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun. Gregory was riding up the slope, trailed by the half-dozen scouts who had been walking point.
‘It’s clear ahead,’ Gregory said. ‘Another mile we’ll cross the river and be into the dwarves’ territory. I dare say they already know we are approaching.’
Dennis nodded. Turning, he looked back at the column. Kingdom and Tsurani troops advanced at an easy pace – more than one had a woman from Wolfgar’s fort at his side, and children were chattering, dodging back and forth. In the middle of the column was a line of a dozen horses many of them taken from the enemy dragging palanquins which bore the wounded who had been carried out from the battle. No one had been left behind this time.
Asayaga, who had been walking by Alyssa’s side, broke away and came forward. As he did so, all eyes followed him and the group slowed, coming to a stop without orders. In the clearing at the top of the ridge the men gradually started to break apart from each other, Kingdom troops to one side, Tsurani to the other.
Asayaga reached the crest and nodded to Gregory.
‘I take it the dwarf realm is just ahead.’
Gregory nodded.
‘Then you are home safe. I
doubt if they would welcome us.’
‘No, Asayaga, they wouldn’t.’
‘Then Hartraft, our truce is at an end. We have reached the lines where our war resumes.’
Dennis nodded, his hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. Asayaga’s did the same.
Tsurani and Kingdom soldiers slowly moved to take up positions behind their respective commanders. The women and children felt something coming and retreated into a small knot in front of the horses.
The two leaders stared at each other. Dennis could sense the expectant hush, and knew that everyone was waiting for what had to come. He thought of his duty, for here were thirty-one surviving Tsurani – enemies who, if he let them go today, he would undoubtedly face again come spring; enemies who might slay other Kingdom soldiers, for they had learned their skills well in the last month and would be the nucleus of a formidable unit.
‘What are you thinking, Hartraft?’
‘I am thinking that if I let you go now, you could do considerable damage to my side come next spring.’
‘Just as much damage as you will do to us, no doubt.’
Dennis looked past Asayaga. Roxanne and Alyssa were standing nearby, watching, both silent. Behind them he could see so much more – his burning keep, Gwenynth dying, Jurgen in his cold grave, and others as well, young Richard and Osami, the look in Asayaga’s eyes as he cradled his nephew and then knelt by Tinuva’s side. Tinuva, buried in the woods thirty miles to the north, resting beside his brother … He wondered if somehow the two would find peace together in their afterworld.
Dennis smiled. His hand fell away from the hilt of his sword and he extended it to Asayaga. ‘Honoured enemy,’ he whispered.
Asayaga, not sure if this was the start of the challenge, or something else, grasped Dennis’s hand. ‘Honoured enemy,’ Asayaga replied, repeating the words in his own tongue.
For a moment no one moved on either side, then Kingdom and Tsurani soldiers approached each other and repeated the gesture. Men who had bled side by side embraced and the phrase ‘honoured enemy’ was spoken many times.