Another long break – too much work. Again. There ain't no such thing as an
original excuse, but can I just add – Finals. And Dissertation. Also,
there's been Elizabeth My Dear and Save for the Grace.
Oh yeah, and my Hotmail went wrong and wiped six unread messages, so if you're wondering why I haven't replied – just try again. Please. I need feedback more than chocolate.
Chapter 5: In which there is a little more backstory, a little more violence, and a little more Mad Love.
Just after dawn, the Nomad called a halt.
'What's happening?' Demanded Wisdom who, never a horseman, considered the preceding madcap ride in near-total darkness to have been one of the most unpleasant experiences of his entire life so far, including the occasion when he discovered that the only time Shaw talked openly about his plans was in the Roman-style four-seat latrine of his fortress, and had to spend three days eavesdropping.
'Rest.' Rhane told him, as close to human as she could become without being obviously naked. Wisdom reacted by falling sideways from the saddle, and it was all the princess could do to catch him. Luckily Katherine could ride a little better than her lover, and helped the wolf-girl lower him to the floor.
'The horses seem fine.' She said. 'Good for another couple of hours, at least.'
'We rest now, and they'll be good until the afternoon. We keep riding like this, and they'll drop dead before full light.' Jack told her. 'Look at them – Rhane's not ten feet away, and they're too tired to care.'
Moira, dismounted, stretched her spine and grunted.
'Remind me to put proper bedding in yon cells.' She muttered as she moved towards them.
'Hello, mum.' Rhane said, slightly nervously. 'These are my friends, Tessa and Katherine and Jack and Mr Wisdom, who you hit. And this is –'
'Teresa Cassidy.' The redhead introduced herself. 'What's going on?'
'Now there's a story.' Tessa said.
'Which can wait until we've dealt with the horses.' The Nomad interrupted. 'Tessa, Rhane – with me and Buck. We'll rub them down. The rest of you – get their saddles off and then take them down to the river one or two at a time.' He started to turn away, swinging the child down from his back, and then stopped and added, 'With your permission, your majesty.'
The Witch-Queen Moira had learned the healer's art from Nathaniel the Shaper over twenty-five years before, when his wife and son still lived, before he sold his soul to the Forever Walker and became an enemy of the Summer Country. She had been young then, little more than a girl, and fiercely determined to become the equal of any man who would be set against her. As the only surviving child of the King of the Scotii, she was expected to do no more in life than to marry a suitable, strong, nobleman and bear him a son – and, eventually, she had done that, marrying the McTaggart, Lord of Ross.
Their union had been bitter and their offspring murderous. The child Kevin had killed Moira's husband and then her father, determined to claim the throne before his time. The cat-man Colin McKay had rescued Moira then, killing her son and thereby becoming a regicide. The punishment for that should have been death, but because of the circumstances it was agreed that he should have his sentence commuted to loyal and absolute service until death to the woman he had 'wronged', now Queen of the Scotii.
McKay and the Queen owed one another life and loyalty, and would not betray either for the world.
McKay's past was unknown. Rumour had it that he had been taken by the fairies as a boy, and that the Smith-God himself, Wayland, Lord of the Forge, had created the twin blades that rested on his back, and he had never denied these stories. Rumour had it that his mother had lain with a demon in the form of a great wildcat before his birth, but such rumours always arose around even the most vaguely animalistic of Gifts. Rumour had it that he was the most skilled warrior in Scotland, and thus far history supported this last. He had served the Witch-Queen of the Scotii for six long years, and in all that time none had ever come close to defeating him while he wielded his twin blades.
Beside him rode Clint, the man called Hawk. The Hawk had been born a Saxon, but had abandoned his people when their lord took to the darkness.
Once, he had walked with the Marauders.
He had been married once, to a woman of his own people. Her name had been Morse, and she was twelve years dead. Since then, the Hawk had walked alone. He was one of the most skilled woodsmen in Britain, and probably the finest archer in the world.
Like his friend Wisdom, the Hawk did not particularly like horses.
McKay and the Hawk rode at the head of a force of nine Clansmen, the rest of their small force having been unable to keep up due to poor horsemanship or poor mounts. Behind them trailed half a dozen Leignsmen, escorting Black Tom. His wounds hastily bandaged, the Irishman had been sent to make sure that Clint and Colin did not uncover the Frost Queen's deception – and if they did, to make sure they did not bring the word back to Scone.
Even during the night tracking their prey had been easy for the Champion's party – five fast-moving horses leave a clear trail even under normal circumstances, and in the thick snow that still covered the ground they could have walked to Wisdom's party blindfold.
It was simply a matter of time, and not exhausting the horses.
Parallel to the pursuers, and slightly ahead, the Dead Man rode on a horse with muffled hooves. He was clad in dull grey chain and leather the colour of old blood and his black and crimson mask hid eyes that had long been leeched of all colour.
There were many stories about the Dead Man. Most of them seemed improbable. Most of them were true.
He did not make a sound as he rode, despite the many weapons he carried.
Teresa was the daughter of the Cassidy by his first wife.
She did not know this, but from her age and from the fact that her kinship to Sean was written clear on her face and in her Gift her companions were able to piece this fact together in short order. When Wisdom first served the Cassidy he had had a wife and an infant daughter; in his absence his home had been attacked and burned to the ground by his brother.
Teresa had been raised by Black Tom, who had treated her almost like his own. Always he had told her that her true father had rejected them both in his arrogance, and also that he was working to have her recognised by the Cassidy as his child. Moira herself could assert that no such thing had ever happened; even now, happily married to her, Sean daily mourned his lost family – or he had, before the Frost Queen came. Teresa had been unaware of Frost's identity and plans, and when they told her of the layers of deception to which her uncle had been party she was shocked.
Before Scotland she and Black Tom had worked often in partnership with the man named Cain, and she had seen what she had thought was a normal comradeship. Looking around now, she saw another kind of group dynamic.
Being helped stumbling to his feet by his lover was the man called Wisdom. She had heard his name spoken by her uncle a few of times, usually accompanied by violent curses, and if she had had an image of the man would have expected an imposing figure, dark cloaked and dangerous. Black Tom had called him a serpent and a parasite. Here she saw a small man, below average height and built thin. He moved with the stiffness of hours in the saddle, and did not seem remotely threatening. His clothes were scruffy, his face haggard, and his black hair gave the impression it had never been tidy in his lifetime. He seemed far too young to be an enemy of her uncle, though older than her. Looking at him, though, she found herself remembering the citadel, his swift, decisive movements and absolute calm as he faced the Leignsmen, and looking again she could see the cold courage in his eyes and wiry strength in his limbs. A man easily dismissed, and all the more dangerous because of it.
His lover seemed very different from him. She wore her strengths upon her sleeve, plain for all to see, from the plain, unadorned sword at her side to the steel in her warm brown eyes. She was dressed as a woodsman, and moved like one too, with an easy grace and poise. Despite their massive dissimilarities, Katherine reminded Teresa of an old ally of her uncles, the Dead Man. However, Katherine's eyes contained warmth as well as hardness. In her smile and in her tone she was kind and welcoming. Teresa had been taught to see such attitudes as a sign of weakness, and she found the other woman confusing.
And then there was the Witch-Queen. Clad in the stained wreckage of once- fine clothes, holding the head of one of their horses to make sure it did not drink too much, Moira looked nothing like the magnificent woman whom she had seen from afar over the past weeks. Even now, though, tired, dirty and on the run, she managed to project poise and authority. She was very much a Queen, at home in her own country.
'It takes real authority to rule the Highland Scots.' Wisdom muttered beside her. He had seen the direction of her gaze. 'Do the rest of us meet with your approval?'
'I thought ye'd be taller.' She replied. Beside him Katherine smiled and, embarrassed, she felt a faint stirring of anger. 'And what makes ye think the Scots are any tougher than. . .'
'I sent to Ireland for a man to help my rule, did I not?' Interrupted Moira. She smiled at the younger woman. 'You have a lot of your father in you, girl.'
'A lot of her mother, too.' Muttered Wisdom, and then turned away.
'How did she die?' Demanded Teresa. The Briton ignored her, instead simply snatching the bridles of the three watered horses and starting up the bank. Katherine caught his arm and pulled him round to face them once more.
'She has a right.' She told her lover quietly. He looked at Teresa for a long moment.
'Black Tom's power burned her, almost beyond recognition.' He said. 'Burned up a child, too. We thought it was you, and that must have been what he wanted us to think.'
'He killed a child to help steal me?' Teresa had known her uncle was not a good man, but she had always believed that he was a little better than he liked to seem.
'Looks that way. Black Tom's done far worse that I know of. He and Frost never saw eye to eye when I knew them, though.' He turned away, leaving Teresa filled with directionless anger.
The horses were watered and rested, and the small party were preparing to depart when Tessa's head snapped up and she looked sharply to the skyline.
'Riders?' Asked Wisdom.
'One man.' She muttered, her eyes closed. 'He's not from Frost. He's looking for us, though.'
'One of your people?' Katherine asked the Nomad.
'We don't normally ride.' He muttered, swinging Buck onto his back with one hand as he hefted his staff in the other.
As they watched, the Dead Man rode over the horizon, and started towards them, his hands in plain view.
'Wade!' Whispered Teresa.
'What did you say?' Moira asked quietly.
'Nothing.'
'Don't you 'nothing' me, girl. That's the Dead Man. Is he a friend of yours?'
'The Dead Man killed all his friends a long time ago.' Wisdom said, in similarly low tones. Behind them, Rhane and Kitty exchanged glances.
'Who is he?' The princess asked.
'Pete says he's a warrior, and a very dangerous one too.' The older woman told her.
'Dangerous. Men like McKay and the Hawk and myself are capable fighters, but we're not dangerous as the Dead Man is.' Jack interjected. 'He'll kill you without a thought, and then forget you ever existed. The Dead Man was driven mad when he died, and the Gods cast him from the afterlife. Worse than that, he's clever, as clever as they come.' The horseman was close now, less than twenty feet away, and he dismounted smoothly. He pulled the reins forward as he moved away from his horse, and the massive beast lowered its head and stood patiently waiting.
'Terry?' He said, sounding slightly hesitant. There was an odd, grating edge to his voice, the only relic of the many times his throat had been cut. Behind the leather mask he wore his eyes were friendly and hopeful.
'Wade.' The Irishwoman replied. She sounded glad to see him for a moment, and then a frown marred her features. The Dead Man did not seem to notice as he moved forwards.
Then she screamed, and he hurtled backwards past his startled – and untouched – horse to slam into a tree with bone-breaking force.
'Yow.' He muttered, levering himself upright. Opposite him, Wisdom raised his hands, ready to attack, and on his cue Katherine drew her sword. 'Don't tell me you're still angry, Terry?'
'Why are you here, Wade?' She demanded.
'There's twenty armed men and the world's most overprotective uncle riding hard after you. They're less than half an hour away. I thought maybe I'd swing by, see if you needed some help, check whether you're still going to let Tommy boy pick your boyfriends for you.'
'You'll be coming along with us, then?' The Witch-Queen asked him.
'Got nothing better to do. And I always did love annoying Black Tom. He gets so untidy when he's angry.'
'Then ride.' She ordered him, turning to her horse and swinging into the saddle. There was a pause for a moment as her companions watched the warrior, and then Wisdom turned to his own and Katherine's mount and started climbing awkwardly astride it. The Dead Man grinned, and then leaped into the saddle, heading over to where Teresa was similarly mounting up. Glaring at him, she pulled her horse away.
They'd been riding barely ten minutes when their pursuers became visible. Glancing back over his shoulder Jack saw a score of horsemen crest a ridge, less than two miles behind them.
'Tessa.' He called.
'I see them.' She replied, without looking round.
'Can you reach them?' He asked. She shook her head; the men were hunting, focussed, and as such extremely hard to dissuade from their purpose.
Taking his cue from them, Wisdom had glanced back, rather more awkwardly.
'How'd they catch up?' He demanded.
'They'll not have been resting their horses as we have.' The Witch-Queen told him, riding easily.
'So they shouldn't be able to catch us?' Asked Teresa.
'In this snow they don't need to.' Pointed out the Nomad. 'And when we hit the hills, the horses will slow down. We'll do better abandoning them.'
'So will they.' The Irishwoman pointed out.
'Waitaminute. Bear-boy, these people are chasing you kids, not Terry here, right?' The Dead Man interrupted, yelling above the sound of hooves.'
'He's right.' The Nomad said quietly, and then louder, 'Go with him, girl. The two of you should be able to make good time out of here.'
'But . . .'
'Don't question the big guy, Red, just take the escape route.' The Dead Man gestured ahead and to the right, where a spine of trees ran up from the forest to the south. 'We hit there we stop and hide.'
Snarling with frustration and pain, Black Tom urged the pursuit on. Strings of blood-flecked foam hung from the nostrils of their horses, but they had nearly reached the head of the valley. Their quarry was trapped.
Four horses thundered across Alanbridge, and then the Nomad pulled to a stop. Sliding to the ground he literally dragged Wisdom from his mount and then on to his feet.
'The bridge.' He pointed. 'Burn it.'
It took Wisdom, reeling from the brutal ride and half-blinded by the spray of the nearby waterfall, a moment to register the command, but then he raised both hands and sent lances of pure heat scything into its pilings. Water steamed and wood charred, but the sodden timbers failed to catch light.
'Higher!' The Pict snarled. Behind them their four companions moved up, and he glanced back at them angrily. 'Be ready to climb.' He told them, gesturing towards the steep cliff-face.
Flames licked around the far end of the bridge now, and Wisdom moved his aim closer. As he did so, the leading horsemen crested the hill.
'Stop them.' McKay snarled at the Hawk, and then urged his horse forwards. The woodsman pulled his horse up short and dismounted, stringing his great longbow. Eyes sharp as those of his namesake observed the six figures gathered three hundred feet below – long range, but an easy shot for him. As he nocked his first arrow, the last of the horsemen thundered past.
Thirty miles away, the Frost Queen watched through the archer's eyes. As he raised his bow she spotted the Sage, standing amidst the rest.
'Her.' She whispered, in his mind and her own. 'Kill her first.'
Tessa turned to the Witch-Queen.
'They're going to . . .' She began, and then a yard-long arrow drove straight through her right bicep, nailing it to her body as the wedge- shaped head tore through her lungs. Her eyes widened and she collapsed soundlessly into the older woman's arms.
Spotting the archer Katherine grabbed her lover, using her gift just in time as his next two shafts sliced through the space they occupied. Beside them the Nomad ran forward to stand at the end of the burning bridge, waiting for an attack, but the horses had balked at the flames. Colin McKay slid from his saddle and rushed forward to challenge the Pict, swords leaping into his hand. Behind him his men started towards the flames.
'Get Tessa out of here.' Wisdom snapped at the Witch-Queen. 'You and Rhane, do it.'
The princess moved up beside her mother and helped lift the dying woman.
'Quick now, mum.' She said to Moira, who was frowning in concentration as she completed a spell. As she did so Tessa's formally frantic, choking breathing slowed, and the older woman looked up.
'We'll have to stop soon if she's to live.' She said simply, and then the three of them moved up the hill.
On the bridge Colin McKay walked through the growing flames to face the Nomad, who waited with his staff held ready in one hand. On his back the Buck began to grizzle at the heat and, noticing the child, the champion of Scotland hesitated, but then moved forwards, his blades dancing in an attack that should have eviscerated the dark-clad man. Moving with startling speed Jack fended off the champion's blows before counterattacking with swift thrusts of his weapon. Retreating, McKay felt his back fur beginning to char, and he moved left, trying to circle his opponent in the narrow space. Above, the smoke and spray obscured the Hawk's vision, while behind the warrior his followers were retreating from the flames.
Steel tore splinters from wood as the two warriors duelled frantically in the narrow space. Behind them Wisdom stood, hands raised, waiting for a clear shot at the orange-furred swordsman. On the far side Black Tom picked up a nearby hunk of dead wood and raised it, similarly hoping for a chance to unleash his gift on the enemy. Between them the two stood, chest to chest almost, flames licking at their clothes, their weapons locked.
And Katherine ran forwards on to the bridge, reaching out to snatch Buck from Jack's back before retreating.
Behind her, the bridge collapsed, and the Nomad and McKay plummeted into the plunge pool of the waterfall.
Oh yeah, and my Hotmail went wrong and wiped six unread messages, so if you're wondering why I haven't replied – just try again. Please. I need feedback more than chocolate.
Chapter 5: In which there is a little more backstory, a little more violence, and a little more Mad Love.
Just after dawn, the Nomad called a halt.
'What's happening?' Demanded Wisdom who, never a horseman, considered the preceding madcap ride in near-total darkness to have been one of the most unpleasant experiences of his entire life so far, including the occasion when he discovered that the only time Shaw talked openly about his plans was in the Roman-style four-seat latrine of his fortress, and had to spend three days eavesdropping.
'Rest.' Rhane told him, as close to human as she could become without being obviously naked. Wisdom reacted by falling sideways from the saddle, and it was all the princess could do to catch him. Luckily Katherine could ride a little better than her lover, and helped the wolf-girl lower him to the floor.
'The horses seem fine.' She said. 'Good for another couple of hours, at least.'
'We rest now, and they'll be good until the afternoon. We keep riding like this, and they'll drop dead before full light.' Jack told her. 'Look at them – Rhane's not ten feet away, and they're too tired to care.'
Moira, dismounted, stretched her spine and grunted.
'Remind me to put proper bedding in yon cells.' She muttered as she moved towards them.
'Hello, mum.' Rhane said, slightly nervously. 'These are my friends, Tessa and Katherine and Jack and Mr Wisdom, who you hit. And this is –'
'Teresa Cassidy.' The redhead introduced herself. 'What's going on?'
'Now there's a story.' Tessa said.
'Which can wait until we've dealt with the horses.' The Nomad interrupted. 'Tessa, Rhane – with me and Buck. We'll rub them down. The rest of you – get their saddles off and then take them down to the river one or two at a time.' He started to turn away, swinging the child down from his back, and then stopped and added, 'With your permission, your majesty.'
The Witch-Queen Moira had learned the healer's art from Nathaniel the Shaper over twenty-five years before, when his wife and son still lived, before he sold his soul to the Forever Walker and became an enemy of the Summer Country. She had been young then, little more than a girl, and fiercely determined to become the equal of any man who would be set against her. As the only surviving child of the King of the Scotii, she was expected to do no more in life than to marry a suitable, strong, nobleman and bear him a son – and, eventually, she had done that, marrying the McTaggart, Lord of Ross.
Their union had been bitter and their offspring murderous. The child Kevin had killed Moira's husband and then her father, determined to claim the throne before his time. The cat-man Colin McKay had rescued Moira then, killing her son and thereby becoming a regicide. The punishment for that should have been death, but because of the circumstances it was agreed that he should have his sentence commuted to loyal and absolute service until death to the woman he had 'wronged', now Queen of the Scotii.
McKay and the Queen owed one another life and loyalty, and would not betray either for the world.
McKay's past was unknown. Rumour had it that he had been taken by the fairies as a boy, and that the Smith-God himself, Wayland, Lord of the Forge, had created the twin blades that rested on his back, and he had never denied these stories. Rumour had it that his mother had lain with a demon in the form of a great wildcat before his birth, but such rumours always arose around even the most vaguely animalistic of Gifts. Rumour had it that he was the most skilled warrior in Scotland, and thus far history supported this last. He had served the Witch-Queen of the Scotii for six long years, and in all that time none had ever come close to defeating him while he wielded his twin blades.
Beside him rode Clint, the man called Hawk. The Hawk had been born a Saxon, but had abandoned his people when their lord took to the darkness.
Once, he had walked with the Marauders.
He had been married once, to a woman of his own people. Her name had been Morse, and she was twelve years dead. Since then, the Hawk had walked alone. He was one of the most skilled woodsmen in Britain, and probably the finest archer in the world.
Like his friend Wisdom, the Hawk did not particularly like horses.
McKay and the Hawk rode at the head of a force of nine Clansmen, the rest of their small force having been unable to keep up due to poor horsemanship or poor mounts. Behind them trailed half a dozen Leignsmen, escorting Black Tom. His wounds hastily bandaged, the Irishman had been sent to make sure that Clint and Colin did not uncover the Frost Queen's deception – and if they did, to make sure they did not bring the word back to Scone.
Even during the night tracking their prey had been easy for the Champion's party – five fast-moving horses leave a clear trail even under normal circumstances, and in the thick snow that still covered the ground they could have walked to Wisdom's party blindfold.
It was simply a matter of time, and not exhausting the horses.
Parallel to the pursuers, and slightly ahead, the Dead Man rode on a horse with muffled hooves. He was clad in dull grey chain and leather the colour of old blood and his black and crimson mask hid eyes that had long been leeched of all colour.
There were many stories about the Dead Man. Most of them seemed improbable. Most of them were true.
He did not make a sound as he rode, despite the many weapons he carried.
Teresa was the daughter of the Cassidy by his first wife.
She did not know this, but from her age and from the fact that her kinship to Sean was written clear on her face and in her Gift her companions were able to piece this fact together in short order. When Wisdom first served the Cassidy he had had a wife and an infant daughter; in his absence his home had been attacked and burned to the ground by his brother.
Teresa had been raised by Black Tom, who had treated her almost like his own. Always he had told her that her true father had rejected them both in his arrogance, and also that he was working to have her recognised by the Cassidy as his child. Moira herself could assert that no such thing had ever happened; even now, happily married to her, Sean daily mourned his lost family – or he had, before the Frost Queen came. Teresa had been unaware of Frost's identity and plans, and when they told her of the layers of deception to which her uncle had been party she was shocked.
Before Scotland she and Black Tom had worked often in partnership with the man named Cain, and she had seen what she had thought was a normal comradeship. Looking around now, she saw another kind of group dynamic.
Being helped stumbling to his feet by his lover was the man called Wisdom. She had heard his name spoken by her uncle a few of times, usually accompanied by violent curses, and if she had had an image of the man would have expected an imposing figure, dark cloaked and dangerous. Black Tom had called him a serpent and a parasite. Here she saw a small man, below average height and built thin. He moved with the stiffness of hours in the saddle, and did not seem remotely threatening. His clothes were scruffy, his face haggard, and his black hair gave the impression it had never been tidy in his lifetime. He seemed far too young to be an enemy of her uncle, though older than her. Looking at him, though, she found herself remembering the citadel, his swift, decisive movements and absolute calm as he faced the Leignsmen, and looking again she could see the cold courage in his eyes and wiry strength in his limbs. A man easily dismissed, and all the more dangerous because of it.
His lover seemed very different from him. She wore her strengths upon her sleeve, plain for all to see, from the plain, unadorned sword at her side to the steel in her warm brown eyes. She was dressed as a woodsman, and moved like one too, with an easy grace and poise. Despite their massive dissimilarities, Katherine reminded Teresa of an old ally of her uncles, the Dead Man. However, Katherine's eyes contained warmth as well as hardness. In her smile and in her tone she was kind and welcoming. Teresa had been taught to see such attitudes as a sign of weakness, and she found the other woman confusing.
And then there was the Witch-Queen. Clad in the stained wreckage of once- fine clothes, holding the head of one of their horses to make sure it did not drink too much, Moira looked nothing like the magnificent woman whom she had seen from afar over the past weeks. Even now, though, tired, dirty and on the run, she managed to project poise and authority. She was very much a Queen, at home in her own country.
'It takes real authority to rule the Highland Scots.' Wisdom muttered beside her. He had seen the direction of her gaze. 'Do the rest of us meet with your approval?'
'I thought ye'd be taller.' She replied. Beside him Katherine smiled and, embarrassed, she felt a faint stirring of anger. 'And what makes ye think the Scots are any tougher than. . .'
'I sent to Ireland for a man to help my rule, did I not?' Interrupted Moira. She smiled at the younger woman. 'You have a lot of your father in you, girl.'
'A lot of her mother, too.' Muttered Wisdom, and then turned away.
'How did she die?' Demanded Teresa. The Briton ignored her, instead simply snatching the bridles of the three watered horses and starting up the bank. Katherine caught his arm and pulled him round to face them once more.
'She has a right.' She told her lover quietly. He looked at Teresa for a long moment.
'Black Tom's power burned her, almost beyond recognition.' He said. 'Burned up a child, too. We thought it was you, and that must have been what he wanted us to think.'
'He killed a child to help steal me?' Teresa had known her uncle was not a good man, but she had always believed that he was a little better than he liked to seem.
'Looks that way. Black Tom's done far worse that I know of. He and Frost never saw eye to eye when I knew them, though.' He turned away, leaving Teresa filled with directionless anger.
The horses were watered and rested, and the small party were preparing to depart when Tessa's head snapped up and she looked sharply to the skyline.
'Riders?' Asked Wisdom.
'One man.' She muttered, her eyes closed. 'He's not from Frost. He's looking for us, though.'
'One of your people?' Katherine asked the Nomad.
'We don't normally ride.' He muttered, swinging Buck onto his back with one hand as he hefted his staff in the other.
As they watched, the Dead Man rode over the horizon, and started towards them, his hands in plain view.
'Wade!' Whispered Teresa.
'What did you say?' Moira asked quietly.
'Nothing.'
'Don't you 'nothing' me, girl. That's the Dead Man. Is he a friend of yours?'
'The Dead Man killed all his friends a long time ago.' Wisdom said, in similarly low tones. Behind them, Rhane and Kitty exchanged glances.
'Who is he?' The princess asked.
'Pete says he's a warrior, and a very dangerous one too.' The older woman told her.
'Dangerous. Men like McKay and the Hawk and myself are capable fighters, but we're not dangerous as the Dead Man is.' Jack interjected. 'He'll kill you without a thought, and then forget you ever existed. The Dead Man was driven mad when he died, and the Gods cast him from the afterlife. Worse than that, he's clever, as clever as they come.' The horseman was close now, less than twenty feet away, and he dismounted smoothly. He pulled the reins forward as he moved away from his horse, and the massive beast lowered its head and stood patiently waiting.
'Terry?' He said, sounding slightly hesitant. There was an odd, grating edge to his voice, the only relic of the many times his throat had been cut. Behind the leather mask he wore his eyes were friendly and hopeful.
'Wade.' The Irishwoman replied. She sounded glad to see him for a moment, and then a frown marred her features. The Dead Man did not seem to notice as he moved forwards.
Then she screamed, and he hurtled backwards past his startled – and untouched – horse to slam into a tree with bone-breaking force.
'Yow.' He muttered, levering himself upright. Opposite him, Wisdom raised his hands, ready to attack, and on his cue Katherine drew her sword. 'Don't tell me you're still angry, Terry?'
'Why are you here, Wade?' She demanded.
'There's twenty armed men and the world's most overprotective uncle riding hard after you. They're less than half an hour away. I thought maybe I'd swing by, see if you needed some help, check whether you're still going to let Tommy boy pick your boyfriends for you.'
'You'll be coming along with us, then?' The Witch-Queen asked him.
'Got nothing better to do. And I always did love annoying Black Tom. He gets so untidy when he's angry.'
'Then ride.' She ordered him, turning to her horse and swinging into the saddle. There was a pause for a moment as her companions watched the warrior, and then Wisdom turned to his own and Katherine's mount and started climbing awkwardly astride it. The Dead Man grinned, and then leaped into the saddle, heading over to where Teresa was similarly mounting up. Glaring at him, she pulled her horse away.
They'd been riding barely ten minutes when their pursuers became visible. Glancing back over his shoulder Jack saw a score of horsemen crest a ridge, less than two miles behind them.
'Tessa.' He called.
'I see them.' She replied, without looking round.
'Can you reach them?' He asked. She shook her head; the men were hunting, focussed, and as such extremely hard to dissuade from their purpose.
Taking his cue from them, Wisdom had glanced back, rather more awkwardly.
'How'd they catch up?' He demanded.
'They'll not have been resting their horses as we have.' The Witch-Queen told him, riding easily.
'So they shouldn't be able to catch us?' Asked Teresa.
'In this snow they don't need to.' Pointed out the Nomad. 'And when we hit the hills, the horses will slow down. We'll do better abandoning them.'
'So will they.' The Irishwoman pointed out.
'Waitaminute. Bear-boy, these people are chasing you kids, not Terry here, right?' The Dead Man interrupted, yelling above the sound of hooves.'
'He's right.' The Nomad said quietly, and then louder, 'Go with him, girl. The two of you should be able to make good time out of here.'
'But . . .'
'Don't question the big guy, Red, just take the escape route.' The Dead Man gestured ahead and to the right, where a spine of trees ran up from the forest to the south. 'We hit there we stop and hide.'
Snarling with frustration and pain, Black Tom urged the pursuit on. Strings of blood-flecked foam hung from the nostrils of their horses, but they had nearly reached the head of the valley. Their quarry was trapped.
Four horses thundered across Alanbridge, and then the Nomad pulled to a stop. Sliding to the ground he literally dragged Wisdom from his mount and then on to his feet.
'The bridge.' He pointed. 'Burn it.'
It took Wisdom, reeling from the brutal ride and half-blinded by the spray of the nearby waterfall, a moment to register the command, but then he raised both hands and sent lances of pure heat scything into its pilings. Water steamed and wood charred, but the sodden timbers failed to catch light.
'Higher!' The Pict snarled. Behind them their four companions moved up, and he glanced back at them angrily. 'Be ready to climb.' He told them, gesturing towards the steep cliff-face.
Flames licked around the far end of the bridge now, and Wisdom moved his aim closer. As he did so, the leading horsemen crested the hill.
'Stop them.' McKay snarled at the Hawk, and then urged his horse forwards. The woodsman pulled his horse up short and dismounted, stringing his great longbow. Eyes sharp as those of his namesake observed the six figures gathered three hundred feet below – long range, but an easy shot for him. As he nocked his first arrow, the last of the horsemen thundered past.
Thirty miles away, the Frost Queen watched through the archer's eyes. As he raised his bow she spotted the Sage, standing amidst the rest.
'Her.' She whispered, in his mind and her own. 'Kill her first.'
Tessa turned to the Witch-Queen.
'They're going to . . .' She began, and then a yard-long arrow drove straight through her right bicep, nailing it to her body as the wedge- shaped head tore through her lungs. Her eyes widened and she collapsed soundlessly into the older woman's arms.
Spotting the archer Katherine grabbed her lover, using her gift just in time as his next two shafts sliced through the space they occupied. Beside them the Nomad ran forward to stand at the end of the burning bridge, waiting for an attack, but the horses had balked at the flames. Colin McKay slid from his saddle and rushed forward to challenge the Pict, swords leaping into his hand. Behind him his men started towards the flames.
'Get Tessa out of here.' Wisdom snapped at the Witch-Queen. 'You and Rhane, do it.'
The princess moved up beside her mother and helped lift the dying woman.
'Quick now, mum.' She said to Moira, who was frowning in concentration as she completed a spell. As she did so Tessa's formally frantic, choking breathing slowed, and the older woman looked up.
'We'll have to stop soon if she's to live.' She said simply, and then the three of them moved up the hill.
On the bridge Colin McKay walked through the growing flames to face the Nomad, who waited with his staff held ready in one hand. On his back the Buck began to grizzle at the heat and, noticing the child, the champion of Scotland hesitated, but then moved forwards, his blades dancing in an attack that should have eviscerated the dark-clad man. Moving with startling speed Jack fended off the champion's blows before counterattacking with swift thrusts of his weapon. Retreating, McKay felt his back fur beginning to char, and he moved left, trying to circle his opponent in the narrow space. Above, the smoke and spray obscured the Hawk's vision, while behind the warrior his followers were retreating from the flames.
Steel tore splinters from wood as the two warriors duelled frantically in the narrow space. Behind them Wisdom stood, hands raised, waiting for a clear shot at the orange-furred swordsman. On the far side Black Tom picked up a nearby hunk of dead wood and raised it, similarly hoping for a chance to unleash his gift on the enemy. Between them the two stood, chest to chest almost, flames licking at their clothes, their weapons locked.
And Katherine ran forwards on to the bridge, reaching out to snatch Buck from Jack's back before retreating.
Behind her, the bridge collapsed, and the Nomad and McKay plummeted into the plunge pool of the waterfall.