Heartwood Page 5

  “As you all know, there has been a steady decline over the past few years in the quality of the harvests, due to several unfortunate, unforeseeable issues – mainly bad weather, with too much rain in The Shining, and The Sleep hit exceptionally hard. This has combined with a widespread crop disease that has eradicated almost half of Laxonian wheat yields. There has also been a deadly cow sickness, which has taken a good quarter of our cows in all corners of the lands. Food, my friends, is in short supply, and we can only envisage it growing rarer.”

  One of the Hanaire Council members spoke up. “We need better lines of communication,” he stated. “If we do not know this is happening, we cannot address the problem.”

  “That is not the main issue here,” said Raedwulf. “The issue is there is just not enough food to go round. There is little we can do about that.”

  The High King of Laxony, Hariman, frowned and said: “There is always something we can do. There are always those who have more and others who have less. It is a Question of evening out the provisions so they are more equally distributed.”

  Before Raedwulf could give an angry retort, Valens stated, “Part of the problem is the continuing aggression between the Twelve Lands. While there is war, trade and travel can only occur at a minimum, which means the grain from Laxony and the meat from Wulfengar are not exchanging hands. That is why we have to talk peace.”

  “We are not at war,” said Raedwulf.

  “Are we not?” Hariman’s gaze was challenging.

  Raedwulf stared at him, then looked back at Valens. “We are not at war,” he repeated, “but I can see how it might look that way. The repeated taking of our trade vessels in Laxonian waters…”

  “…by pirate vessels,” Hariman stated.

  “So you say,” snapped Raedwulf. “But what proof do we have you are not keeping the spoils?”

  “What proof do you have that we are?”

  Raedwulf glowered. “If piracy is rife off the Laxonian coast, why have you done nothing about it?”

  “We have! We have increased the manning in our shore forts, and we have doubled the Coastal Watch, but we have a very long coastline and cannot cover every inch of every beach in Laxony all the time.” Hariman was clearly exasperated. “We have spies operating in the coastal towns, trying to find out where the smugglers are working from, but so far the people are keeping quiet. And our navy is not strong like yours; we do not have your ship-building skills.”

  “That is because you can but stretch your legs and walk from Laxony to the mainland,” said Raedwulf enviously, clearly not believing the Laxonian High Lord.

  Hariman threw his hands up in defeat and looked to Valens, his face expressing his frustration.

  Valens held up a hand. “Perhaps we could talk later about measures that can be adopted by both countries to solve this problem. But for now I would like to continue to address the problem of the poor.”

  Raedwulf gripped the sides of his podium with both hands. Chonrad frowned. The Wulfengar leader looked grim, as if he were about to tell Valens that someone close to him had died.

  IV

  “We have no more food to go around, Valens. Our stores are depleted – our stock is virtually nil! We have nothing left to share. And therefore…” he paused slightly, whether for effect or whether because he genuinely didn’t want to continue, Chonrad didn’t know. “We are going to have to cease the Charitas.”

  There was a collective gasp from around the Curia. Valens went rigid. Chonrad’s heart sank.

  Everyone throughout the Twelve Lands and Hanaire who owned land was instructed to give a tenth of what they made to Heartwood and its temples throughout Anguis. This was the law, but it was also more than that; it was recognition by all to the service that the Militis carried out for them with the Arbor. Heartwood itself had no land outside its walls; it owned some milk cows and goats, pigs and chickens, but not enough to feed the whole of the Militis, and there was nowhere inside the Baillium to grow grain. Luckily the majority of their wheat came from Laxony, but Chonrad knew they would sorely miss the sacks of oats and barley, and the barrels of fish Wulfengar wagons brought to them with each new Moon.

  Hariman’s face was aghast. “You cannot do that. It is the law.”

  Raedwulf had grown pale, but his mouth was firm as he said: “This decision has not been taken lightly. And it need not be a permanent one. But we must look to our own first.”

  Valens began arguing with him, the two of them coming down from their podiums to face each other across the floor as the first drops of rain began to fall on the cloth roof. Most people’s attention was fixed on them, everyone realising this decision by Raedwulf marked a new low in the relationships between Laxony, Wulfengar and Heartwood.

  However, Chonrad’s attention was suddenly distracted by Procella. She wasn’t watching the rapidly escalating argument that was ensuing. She was watching the ring of water around the edge of the floor and frowning. What was she staring at during this crucial moment? Chonrad’s eyes flicked back to Valens impatiently, but he couldn’t help looking back at where she stood transfixed at her podium.

  Suddenly she looked up, and to his surprise she stared straight at him. “The water,” she mouthed, pointing at the ring.

  He looked behind him into the channel.

  The water, which usually moved slowly, its surface with barely a ripple, was bubbling.

  Looking closer, he could see shadowy shapes under the surface, the same as he had seen earlier, only this time there were more, crowded together. Was it just the reflection of the people in the Curia? But immediately he knew that wasn’t the case. Apprehension rose inside him.

  Turning, he saw Procella leaving her podium and, one eye on the channel, moving down towards Valens. So far the Imperator hadn’t seen her; he was almost shouting at Raedwulf now, the two of them standing so close you couldn’t walk between them.

  “Valens,” she said cautiously, backing towards him. He ignored her, continuing to shout at the Wulfengar High Lord.

  “Valens,” she said more urgently. Around the Curia, other people had started to notice the movement in the water and voices began to rise.

  “Valens!” she yelled. With one fluid movement, she drew her longsword. Chonrad sucked the breath in between his teeth – it was not a good move in a place where tempers were escalating and the Wulfengar lords flinched as she drew her weapon, sensing they had been betrayed.

  But even as he wondered at her action, he saw what she had seen, and his hand quickly went to his own sword. He slid the steel blade out of the scabbard, yelling, “Raid! Raid!”

  If he had not seen it with his own eyes, he would not have believed it. Out of the water, figures were rising, huge figures, taller and broader than any he had seen in his life, and Chonrad was not small for a Laxonian. Yells echoed around the Curia as everyone finally realised what had caught Procella’s eye in the first place, and he heard rather than saw the singing of steel as all weapons were drawn.

  He stared at the warrior in front of him as he stepped out of the water onto the floor of the Curia. Towering over him, the warrior’s skin was green as grass in sunlight, although his hair was darker, the colour of a forest river, where it curled beneath the bottom of his helmet. This looked as if it were made of gold, although that metal was too soft for such a piece of armour.

  His arms were bare, but his chest was covered with a huge breastplate made from, it seemed, tiny shells interlinked with thread, and underneath he wore a short tunic made from some sort of thick cloth. His legs and feet were bare, but the size of his thigh and calf muscles made Chonrad blink.

  The warrior came forward quickly, and Chonrad had no time to think. On the defensive immediately, he raised his sword to counter the other’s slicing cut across his body, the steel blades meeting with an ear-piercing ring. Up close, the warrior’s eyes shone through the visor like two glowing green jewels. Through the helmet he heard the warrior say something angrily, but he couldn’t understand
the words and he grunted in reply, using all his weight to throw the warrior back. With his left hand he quickly reached up and pulled his mail hood over his head. He was immediately glad he had done so; the warrior’s next parry glanced off his own upraised sword and struck the top of his left shoulder, jarring the bone, but failing to break through.

  Combat was rarely won on the defensive, and Chonrad knew he had to step up his game. All around him he could hear the sounds of battle, and briefly wondered if any had fallen, but there was no time to dwell on the matter, for the warrior was coming for him again. This time, however, he planted his feet firmly and was the first to swing, a right-handed thrust at the warrior’s left side. It was parried neatly, but Chonrad followed it with a quick swing to his left, and the blade cut into the warrior’s upper arm, sinking deep into the flesh. Chonrad waiting for the howl of pain, but to his amazement none came; the warrior pulled himself back so the blade sliced free, and looked down with what Chonrad could only call interest as thick, dark, green-blue blood oozed out of the wound.

  Deep inside, a small sliver of fear embedded itself in his stomach. He thrust at the warrior’s chest, but the sword glanced off the hard shell breastplate. He could find no weak spot in the warrior’s torso, but his uncovered arms and legs were an obvious target. Flipping his opponent’s weapon to one side using the hilt as a lever, he swung the blade round and up, and with all his strength brought it across his body. This time the steel did more than sink into the warrior’s flesh; it severed the arm just above the elbow joint, the limb falling to the floor with the sword still clutched tightly in its hand.

  The warrior looked at his side, seemingly confused. Chonrad steadied himself, then aimed his blade at the gap between his enemy’s breastplate and arm socket, and thrust it in. The blade went in deep, almost up to the hilt. The warrior screeched and shuddered. Then Chonrad watched in shock as the body melted – it just dissolved into water, falling in a pool at his feet.

  It was only as he looked down that he realised what he had not noticed before: the water level had risen from above the top of the channel to cover the whole floor of the Curia, and he was currently ankle-deep. He turned to cast a quick glance over the scene, his first real look at the battle since it had started. Procella was right in the middle and was clearly in control; feet planted firmly, she swung her blade at the warrior in front of her, and was in no immediate danger. Protecting her back was Valens, and the mighty Imperator also looked dangerous in spite of his war wound. A fierce grimace on his face, he lopped off the head of one of the water warriors even as Chonrad watched, the warrior’s head – its helmet still intact – rolling on the floor before it, too, dissolved into the water sloshing around their ankles.

  The twins battled it out fiercely to one side, and just in front of him stood Beata, her mail hood still in folds around her neck, her beautiful face flushed and strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead as she thrust and parried. The warrior with one arm was fighting admirably, wielding his sword with practised ease.

  Some of the Laxonian lords were visible, but he could not see Hariman, and he wondered if he had fallen. Raedwulf still stood, as did Grimbeald, the Wulfengar lord putting up an excellent fight in spite of his short stature. There were other figures on the floor though, their faces beneath the water, and it was too early to tell whether they were winning or losing the fight.

  Briefly, he wondered where Fulco was. Surely if his bodyguard had heard the sounds of battle, he would have come running. Were these water warriors also outside in the Baillium?

  It was then he saw Dulcis off to one side of the Curia, defending herself valiantly against a huge warrior, his enormous frame towering over her as he slashed down continuously with his mighty sword. Chonrad ran over to her, but he was too late – even as he leapt onto her podium, the warrior lifted his arms back and, with a two-handed blow, slid the tip of the sword into her stomach. She wore only light armour, and the point of the weapon passed easily through the padded tunic and into her body. The warrior pushed until her body touched the hilt and then, with a final and probably unnecessary move, twisted the blade before pulling it out.

  Dulcis fell to her knees, her face white, and stared blankly at Chonrad as he ran towards her, only just managing to catch her as she fell to the floor.

  V

  His battle fury now truly engaged, Chonrad let out a blood-curdling yell before swinging his sword at Dulcis’s executor. The warrior had barely enough time to turn round before Chonrad rained down blows upon his body. In spite of the fact that he was several inches taller than Chonrad and a good deal heavier, Chonrad managed to push him back until the warrior tripped on Dulcis’s fallen body and toppled backwards, landing with a splash in the water. Chonrad knelt on top of him and, rage giving him extra strength, forced the blade down through the gap above the warrior’s mail and below his helmet into the soft flesh below. The warrior shuddered, went rigid and then, with the same strange gurgling scream deep inside him, melted into the water.

  Chonrad stood, soaked now from the waist down, but furious and ready to kill. Sword swinging, he went into the fray, knocking aside blades and warriors alike as he sliced a path through the battling bodies.

  The water seemed to be coming in waves now, the strength of the liquid making him struggle to keep his feet. However, as in all the battles he had fought in, he became aware of a sense of victory even before it became clear they had won. The number of huge green warriors seemed to be diminishing, and a renewed sense of energy swept through him as the people fighting beside him pushed the enemy back towards the channel of water at the edge. To one side he could see out of the corner of his eye Procella, Valens and one of the twins battling valiantly, and to the other side Grimbeald, a couple of Militis and a Hanaire lord, all sensing the warriors were in decline.

  Eventually there were only half a dozen of the water warriors left. They hurriedly exchanged words as they scanned the room and realised their reduced numbers. They seemed to be pressing for a withdrawal. Together they all jumped in, melting into the water before Chonrad’s eyes. Within seconds, they were gone.

  The Militis, Laxonians, Wulfians and Hanaireans who were still standing watched as the waters around them began to recede, the water withdrawing into the channel, although the floor was flat and there was no obvious gradient to cause the water to flow back. Within about a minute, the floor was clear, and the river channel flowed merrily along in its usual manner.

  “Roots of the Arbor,” swore one of the twins, his voice loud in the sudden silence that had fallen on the Curia. “What in the name of Animus were they?”

  Chonrad gradually lowered his sword to the ground. Everyone did the same, turning to view the floor of the Curia and see what damage had been done.

  Immediately, Procella saw Dulcis and, with a cry, ran over to her and knelt by her side. Chonrad walked over to them. “I am sorry,” he said. “I saw her go down but I could not get there in time.”

  Procella bent her head over the Abbatis, and he thought she was crying, but when she lifted her face he saw that anger and not grief was her emotion. Slowly she pushed herself to her feet. Marching into the centre of the circle, she sheathed her sword as she looked about, counting the dead. Chonrad joined her. Hariman had fallen, as he had feared, and two other Laxonian lords had not survived. Wulfengar had fared little better. Raedwulf, though not yet dead, had received a deep wound to his stomach, and from experience Chonrad knew he would not last the night. Kyneburg and Leofric lay where they had been killed. Only Grimbeald still stood, blood running freely down his face from a cut he had received on his temple.

  Of the Militis, Chonrad spotted four knights on the floor. Apart from Dulcis, none were known to him. The twins and Beata were still on their feet, and so were half a dozen others, although several were wounded.

  “Has anybody got even the faintest idea what just happened?” asked Valens, looking at the survivors, his hands on his hips. No answers were forthcoming. Eventually
he held up his hands in defeat. “We can debate the whys and wherefores of this later – for now we must assess the damage and stop it happening again.”

  “We should close the culvert outside the walls,” said Procella, “stop the flow of water into the Baillium for now. And we should raise the drawbridge – if it has not been done already. That way they will have to attack Heartwood the old way – by siege.”

  “Good,” said Valens. He walked over to the entrance and pushed aside the screens. Chonrad saw the look on his face before he saw the view outside. It was enough to make him run over to look out at the scene.

  The rest of the Baillium looked as if a tidal wave had hit it. Tents had been flattened, buildings were in ruins, horses lay dead where they had drowned, and there were bodies all over the place. Rain continued to hammer down on the scene, washing it in a dull grey light.

  The rest of those still standing in the Curia joined Valens at the door. They looked out at the detritus, frozen for a moment in shock. Chonrad stared at a limping figure coming towards them and recognised Fulco. He ran towards him, and the two knights clasped hands. “I am glad you are safe,” Chonrad said.

  Fulco signed something and Chonrad chuckled.

  “What did he say?” asked Procella.

  “I cannot repeat it here,” Chonrad said wryly. “Let us just say it involved a swear word or two.”

  The knights around him laughed, clearly as relieved as he was that they were alive. Their laughter died away, however, as they continued to survey the scene, seeing the number of people dead or injured. “Why?” Chonrad found himself saying, his brow furrowed as he thought of how devastating the attack had been. “Why did they do it?”

  And then, suddenly, Procella jumped as if she had been struck by lightning. “The Arbor!” she shrieked and, before anyone could stop her, she leapt over the dead bodies lying nearest the Curia and sprinted down the road towards the Castellum.