Kingdom's Fall

Chapter 7

They reached their destination at the close of the longest day. The decision to steal a cart had paid off as Einar was not up to the task of walking ten steps let alone marching cross-country. It took the combined efforts of Aiden, Siv, and Kara to get him over the backboard and into the cart. With the cart, though, they were limited to travelling barely faster than walking pace, and they were forced to stick to the road. Aiden was unsettled by that, constantly expecting a messenger or an attack to overtake them from behind. Siv and Kara had tried to ease his concerns by relaying their experience of the village inn, but the reassurance was hollow. There was more than simply being overtaken to worry about. The road - what road there was - took them in the right direction, looping round and through the forests to the north-west and winding down towards the coast. At times they travelled on little more than forest track, and the cart bumped and swayed as they picked a cautious path along the uneven ground. The days were stretching out long in front of them. The longest day, Kara had said, and the long, bright evenings swelled up ahead, full of the chirping and sizzling of insects. Midsummer was not far off. Aiden pushed as hard as he could, and as hard as Einar, rattling around in the back, could take.

On midsummer morning Einar rallied, struggling to his feet while the others were asleep. Aiden had come awake to a morning light still blue with the night it left behind it to witness the man swinging his mace back and forth in hesitant, experimental sweeps. They had travelled much faster that day, the two Islanders less troubled by the miles that lay ahead than they were by the thought that they might not make it. As the evening cooled and the light was faded slowly to dusk, Kara had pointed out the black silhouettes of the standing stones that marked the faery-hill.

“There,” she said. “That’s where it is.”

Siv and Einar unburdened themselves of food and water and readied their weapons. Aiden followed suit. He loaded his pistol and tipped it over to make sure the wadding held the ball securely. Once he was sure of it, he thrust it into his belt and drew his sword. He made a few short passes in the air - chopping, diagonal cuts - and gauged the tension in his shoulder. The muscles felt tight, reluctant, and if he moved too quickly a flash of pain swept across his chest. It felt more natural to hold the sword right-handed, though, and he resolved to keep it there as long as he could. His left hand felt empty, and he found it opening and closing as though missing something. He looked over at Kara, who was holding his knife.

“I don’t suppose anyone’s got a spare blade?” Aiden asked.

Siv pulled a short, stubby knife from a sheath at her belt and tossed it underhand for Aiden to catch. He snatched it out of the air without thinking and marvelled at how close he had just come to losing a finger. “I want it back,” Siv said. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s a good knife.”

Aiden held it cross-wise in his left hand, the blade extending downwards from his fist. A quick sweep through the air - an arcing, stabbing motion - was enough to confirm how unnatural it felt. He turned the blade round and held it point-first, his thumb running along the line of the hilt. Stab, parry, stab again. He went through the motions, and was encouraged by how correct it felt.

“Ready?” Siv asked.

“I’m ready,” said Aiden. Einar simply heaved his mace onto his shoulder. The giant Islander was wearing a mail shirt that hung past his thighs. He was bare-headed, but had put on a pair of gauntlets so black they looked like they had been made of cast iron. He doesn’t even need the mace, Aiden thought. The man is an army by himself.

“I’m all set,” said Kara. The three others turned to look at her. She had stripped off her jacket and was standing with her arms half-bare, no armour, and only a knife for protection.