Chapter XX
The Marches of the Westerlands
The night air was cool, and many fires crackled amongst the laughter and songs of two hundred drunken men-at-arms. The meat of a stolen sheep sizzled as it cooked. Somewhere a man was grunting and a woman moaned. Somewhere else, a stringed instrument and a flute were being played. Horses nickered to each other in the dim light of the moon. With head hanging, Isildur son of Elendil sat tied to a tree, arms bond by hairy ropes, all the sounds of Ser Gregor Clegane's warband behind him.
Isildur raised his eyes upwards as far as he could and searched for Earendil's Star in the sky. His search was in vain. He could not see it from where he had been tied up for the night. It made him feel abandoned.
He closed his eyes, but once again the visions came. He saw Ser Gregor's knife plunging into Cirion's throat again, the Troll casting aside his captain like a child tosses away a broken plaything. He saw his housecarls, men of old Numenor and new Gondor alike, laying slaughtered in the square of Wendish Town. Even Fleetfoot, faithful friend to the end, had been killed for his master's folly. He saw the faces of that family fleeing Clegane's burning, the people he had failed to do justice for. He saw the faces of Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom and all the others he had led to death. There was Gendry's face as well, that poor young armourer's lad who Isildur had stolen from a good life and led him to murder as a farmer leads a cow to the butchery.
"Curse me for a fool," Isildur muttered, beating his head against the tree he sat against. Dishonour was his, while he had left half his housecarls and a hundred others buried by nothing save the open sky.
We swore oaths. That I would not leave a battlefield before them, nor they before me. They remain there, and I am here, Isildur thought, with the deepest shame.
Above the sounds of the camp, a horrible laughed boomed. The Troll That Walked In the Sun seldom laughed, yet when some cruel thing had been done that Ser Gregor found amusing, his mirth thundered as a crashing waterfall.
Clegane, Isildur gritted his teeth. Would that I were free of these bonds and had Narsil in hand
For a moment, Isildur strained and struggled and sought by strength alone to break the bonds that keep him there. They creaked and stretched, but did not snap. The son of Elendil drew in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. His father's voice seemed to echo in Isildur's ears.
"We are only men, of short life and little strength in the circles of the world. Do not trouble your mind on things beyond you, but shepherd your strength for when it is needed," Elendil had said once. That had been a long time ago, when the skies of Numenor were first tainted by the black smoke of the Temple.
Isildur breathed in deeply again. No matter what, no matter what calamity or disaster faced them, Elendil had never quailed or despaired. Even when Numenor had been swallowed by churning waves, his father's face had been still and clear, and the inner fire set within him by the All-Father shone there as if there were no tempest at all. Isildur wished he had even a hint of that virtue today, one not near so dark and with greater hopes.
Wrath will do you no good now, he reminded himself. Rest and watch and wait. Some chance may yet present itself.
Behind him, there was a crunching of twigs and brush underfoot. The heavy footsteps of a man deep in his drink. Isildur pushed himself up against the tree and sat straight, looking ahead with steady grey eyes.
"Ah, now if it ain't Lord Isildur hisself, son of Elendil Kingmaker," said a cold, slurred voice. A lean, lanky man in a brown aketon and leggings swaggered in front of Isildur's tree. Wine sloshed in a skin he held in loose fingers. A dagger was thrust through his belt. His face was round, his nose a knob from many breakings, and long curling sideburns growing down his cheeks. Isildur recognized this one: His name was Ulrich. Clegane's men called him Ulrich the Gentle, jesting about his supposed gentleness with young women, and some young men.
Ulrich leaned down upon one knee and stared at Isildur. His eyes were a watery blue.
"These accommodations to your liking, milordship?" Ulrich said, chuckling at himself. "Though p'haps you'd prefer to be sleeping with your boys back in Wendish Town?"
Isildur said nothing, he just looked into Ulrich with a gaze sharp-edged as a knife. For a moment, the drunk was struck wordless and his mouth worked in the air like it was trying to find his voice again. Finally Ulrich tore his gaze away, shutting his eyes tight and shaking his head.
"Ah, Seven Hells burn ya," Ulrich swore, flailing with a hand blindly. The back side of his closed fist struck Isildur's face. His cheek and lip stung from the blow.
Opening his eyes again, Ulrich seemed to take confidence from the blow. "Heh, not so high and mighty now all tied up are ya? Just a man like the rest of us,"
He stood up and savagely drove the tip of his boot into Isildur's side with a hard kick. Elendil's son hissed through his teeth but did not cry out. Ulrich took a long swig from his wine skin.
"It's funny ya know, when you came charging in I thought we was dead for sure. You and all those Gondorish of yours, all yelling like the Warrior, cutting down our lads like they were children. Friends of mine, you know. I thought we was all dead for sure," Ulrich said darkly. He cranked back an arm and cracked Isildur a blow across the face. Still Isildur sat in silence, enduring the pain without a noise.
Ulrich smiled, a cold and cruel thing. "Oh yes, I had friends in that fight same as you. Owain, Fredar, Arnulf. Friends you killed,"
Suddenly Ulrich's forearm was under Isildur's throat, pushing his weight against him. The hard bark of the tree scraped against Isildur's back through his clothes. He struggled for breath, the air stinking of wine from the drunk's closeness.
"Gregor says we's supposed to return you to Lord Tywin, alive and unspoiled. Ain't suppose to be any fun with you," Ulrich said softly. Steel whispered against leather, and the tip of Ulrich's dagger was grazing along Isildur's nose.
Ulrich's voice was hissing in Isildur's ear now. "Ain't right, if you ask me. You and yours kill more than half of our men, a lot of good lads, a lot of my friends, and we're supposed to just carry you to Tywin fucking Lannister gentle as a nursemaid carrying a babe,"
"Is that justice!?" Ulrich backed away, voice louder now, arms spread wide with the dagger in one hand and his wineskin in the other. He took a long swig and then spat it out into Isildur's face.
"ULRICH!" came the booming voice of Ser Gregor Clegane, out of sight.
The drunk swore under his breath. The Troll lumbered into view, hand set upon the pommel of the huge sword slung at his side. Clegane's face was brutish, with a heavy sloping brow and a thick chin covered by a wiry black beard. Dark, dull brown eyes stared at Ulrich impassively.
"Milord," Ulrich said, touching his forehead with the knuckle of his finger.
"Get back to the others Ulrich," said Ser Gregor.
Ulrich the Gentle shot Isildur a dark, murderous look, and then bowed his head to his lord and staggered away. The Troll stood and watched him go, and then turned his gaze down to Isildur. The son of Elendil met it with his own defiant iron-grey eyes.
"When I deliver you up to my lord, I expect you shall express your gratitude to Lord Tywin," said Gregor Clegane, voice a deep rumble. The fabric of his gambeson was stretched tight over his enormous shoulders and limbs like the trunks of young trees.
"Gratitude will not be the first thing on my lips when I meet Lord Tywin," Isildur spat.
Clegane knelt down to look Isildur in the face. "If it were not for Lord Tywin's orders, mark my words you would not be traveling in such safety and comfort,"
Behind him, Isildur heard the men roaring with laughter raucously over something. The woman's moans had become screaming, though whether it was pleasure or fear was hard to tell.
Gregor Clegane smiled. "Do you hear that squealing? You must. There are those amongst my men who would treat you with the same tenderness they would give a fair lady. They have a whole list of things they would gladly visit upon you, Isildur, for what you did to us,"
"So be grateful, son of Elendil. Be grateful that Lord Tywin needs you alive and unspoiled, my friend" the Troll finished, standing up once more.
He made to walk away, but paused a second, just on the edge of Isildur's sight. Clegane's voice came again as a low growl, bear-like and moody.
"You cut down many of my best men. If Lord Tywin did not need you, I would crush your skull right here,"
When Ser Gregor's footsteps had faded away into the noise of the camp, Isildur rested his head back against the bark of the tree. He slowly released his fists, which he had clenched so tight his nails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. He breathed out slowly, then began to recite names to himself:
"Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Little Thom, Gendry Robertion…"
The names of his housecarls were seared into his memory like the names of his own family. Cirion, Magor, Anborn, Beregond. They were men he had grown up with in the days of Numenor, men who had helped him build Minas Ithil, who had helped raise his own sons. They were more than guards, they were his own kin, of his own household. He could no more forget them than forget the faces of his sons.
The Westerosi were not his housecarls though. They were not sworn to him, they had volunteered to help him on his errand, volunteered to help see justice done. For that, Isildur had led them to death. He did not want to forget a single name or a single face. He would not let himself forget, not until he could see Gregor Clegane with an arrow in his throat.
Isildur's mind kept returning and returning again to Robert's son, Gendry. He had had every reason in the world to despise Isildur, every reason to refuse to help. Isildur had taken him from a good home and a good family, and thrust the poor boy into the battles and schemes of lords and noble houses. He wished he hadn't. Gendry had done nothing to deserve the hardships of a royal bastard, proof of a queen's infidelity. He did not deserve to need to carry such a burden.
Why didn't he run? I told him to run, Isildur thought. Perhaps he was like his father, running was not in Gendry's blood. In his mind, he saw the short sword bursting from the man's chest again, and Gendry's burning blue eyes and thick black hair appearing amidst the storm of battle. The boy saved Isildur's life, and in return Isildur had led him into a massacre.
Robert had chosen Isildur to be Hand of the King, but Isildur felt he had proven an ill choice and an ill chooser himself. Yet perhaps not all would come to ruin. For as the night grew quiet and the soldiers fell to drunken slumber, Isildur was left awake, and as he saw there he found wrath and shame draining from him and he began to think clearly on his circumstances.
Gregor Clegane, Lord Tywin Lannister's own bannerman, had been caught marauding in the Riverlands, and had assaulted the Hand of the King and the King's own banner. He had done this at Lord Tywin's own command, so Isildur judged by the fact that he was being taken to Tywin as a captive.
So Tywin does mean to make war on the Crown… he pondered.
Isildur was still alive, and uninjured. His captors could not harm him because of his value, and they still had a journey of some days left before they reached the mountains of the Westerlands. He was alive and he was the Hand of the King. The King needed to be warned.
If I can get to Ned and Robert, this crime could not stand. They have assaulted the King's own Hand.
Robert may not have recovered from his injuries yet, but at his command Isildur and Ned could lead an army into the West to bring the Lannisters to heel. The King's Host could march, with the armies of Gondor and the Starks, Tullys and Baratheons at its side.
How I wish the people could be spared further bloodletting, but these Lannister plots cannot be borne.
He thought of the fires of armies consuming yet more towns, more villages, more farmer's fields. He thought of the death and the suffering that would march behind the soldiers' tramping feet and come thundering beneath the hooves of the men-at-arms. Isildur knew well the horrors to come, but Tywin Lannister had already drawn the sword of war. What could Isildur do except draw his own?
First I must be free of this captivity.
If it was within his power, he could not allow himself to be taken into Tywin Lannister's dungeons. He could not allow himself to become a mere bargaining chip for Lannister ambitions. He had to get free somehow.
Gregor Clegane may have been a brute and a murderer, but he was no fool. Isildur's hands were bound behind his back, his torso tied to a tree trunk, and ropes looped tightly around his ankles. He had struggled in vain against the rough, unyielding cords for some time, but they were knotted well and firmly. No matter how he twisted or turned his body, they would not loosen. At length, Isildur stopped and lay still, and then closed his eyes and rested while he could.
The Wave came to him again that night, but it was not a cold, dead Numenor he found himself in. The skies were blue above him, and full of the songs of birds he had not heard in many a long year. The air was warm, not chill as Gondor's was but warm as the sun and the sea and the sands of the beaches. An ocean-scent of salt drifted about him, and he heard the music of the waves. The hills were green, and covered in trees. Isildur looked behind him, and there stood holy Meneltarma, mantled in purple in the distance, rising as a pillar towards the heavens. He looked about him and found he was in the broad streets of Romenna, paved in white stone, and to all sides there were people. His people, the Numenoreans.
Their faces were serene, and their voices fair. Their towers were proud once more, and their houses filled with happiness. The streets rang with songs and the sound of laughing children. Here merchants hawked their wares, and there a baker set out steaming loaves, and a fishmonger strung up his catch. In the havens, Isildur saw the white sails of the greatest mariners of Middle-earth, and the ships' prows were in the manner of swans and seabirds. All the roofs seemed wrought of gold, and the doors gleamed silver. Trees bloomed along the avenues of Romenna, and flowers fell all about him. He looked this way and that, and there was no sign of the Temple of the Enemy. No black smoke fouled the skies over Numenor. Here was Westernesse in the days of its wisdom and its joy, restored as it was of old.
Then Isildur saw an old man walking down the street towards him, back straight with dignity despite the white of his beard and the black cane he leaned upon. He was cloaked in grey, and his tunic was black, and his shoulders seemed to carry the majesty of high office, a magnate of the realm. The old man looked to be a man of pride and rank, yet his grey eyes gleamed with mirth as children across the road before him, and no sword did he wear, no armed guard flanked him. Isildur recognized him: Amandil, his grandsire.
"Grandfather," he said, reaching out a hand. Suddenly Amandil seemed to see him, as if Isildur had sprung up from the ground before him. Fear stole across his face, and he recoiled and stepped back.
"Who art thou that goeth about this peaceful shore in such warlike fashion?" Amandil demanded, face pale. Isildur felt the iron weight of mail upon his shoulders. He looked at the hand he reached out. It was covered in dark blood.
Isildur said "I am Isildur son of Elendil, thy grandson,"
"Thou art comest before me, blood-drenched as a murderer and clad in garb of war and thou sayest you are my Isildur? My sweet grandson? Nay, he is a boy, you are a man and a slayer of men. Thou art not he,"
"No, no truly I am Isildur son of Elendil, born of Andunie!" said Isildur, in growing desperation. He looked down and saw he was all in dark, rusted mail, soaked with blood and mud and gore. His very presence in Romenna seemed a violation of the place.
"Liar, a man of Westernesse fears no foes and carries no arms! What evils hast thou done this day?" Amandil demanded, eyes smouldering dangerously. The sky was darkening above them, thunderheads growing and casting their shadows over Romenna.
"Grandfather, it is I, Isildur!" Isildur replied. He found he had a sword in his hand, the blade red and wet.
"I am the King's Counsellor, and not cowed by thy harness nor deceived by thy words! Begone! Or confess to thy crimes!" Amandil's voice grew loud, and deep, and terrible. Behind his shoulder, Isildur saw the seas begin to swell.
"No, grandfather!" Isildur pleaded, the sword clattering to the white stones and staining them with a streak of red.
"Killer! Slayer! Murderer!"
The wave came then, swift, cold and dark and overwhelming. In one moment, in a cry of helplessness, Isildur and Amandil and all Numenor were drowned beneath the wrathful waters.
The son of Elendil awoke with a boot suddenly digging into his side painfully. Even cruelly yanked from sleep with a kick, he would not cry out and only hissed through his teeth.
"Hiss all you like, one day before too long I'll have your scream, my lord," said the low, hateful voice of Ulrich the Gentle in his ear, and then there was the crunching sound of Ulrich trampling down the undergrowth back to the camp.
The world was damp and dim as the morning light gathered in the east before the dawn, the sky lightening to herald the sun. Dew glistened and silvered every leaf and blade of grass, and birds sang tentatively to each other. Isildur felt a shudder of cold run through his body. He breathed deeply of the fresh air. It was another day, perhaps a chance for escape would come.
The camp was rousing itself from sleep, slowly and with a great deal of its men still groggy and stinking of wine. After he had been fed, Isildur sat and waited. The sun crept higher in the sky, drying out the morning dew, and a fly insistently buzzed about Isildur's ear. Behind him he could hear conversations of men, laughter, the crackling of cooking fires, the nickering of horses, yet there was not the slightest sound of haste or hurry in any of it. The men seemed more preoccupied with their morning meals than with the errands of war they had been assembled for.
It was quite late in the morning when the warband was finally ready for its march. A strong guard of men-at-arms, clad in their gambesons and girt with swords and daggers, came over to Isildur's tree while another of the men untied his bounds. The armed men were to be his guard of honour. The son of Elendil smiled mirthlessly. Here was the famed chivalry of Westeros. These men would burn and rape and murder as they willed across the Riverlands, yet because Isildur was a lord and the son of a great lord he would be unbound and unharmed in their presence. He would be given a horse and would be 'free' within his captivity, although he was unarmed and so to flee would be death.
Isildur rubbed his wrists and worked his sore joints as he walked towards the waiting band of fighting men from the edge of the encampment. The horses were saddled and pawing the ground. Clegane's men stared at him with hard, discontent eyes. They fingered the pommels of daggers or the staves of pole-arms. He was flanked on either side by men-at-arms with hands on sword hilts. Before him, Ser Gregor Clegane stood next to his enormous black courser, clad in aketon and riding leggings.
"My lord Isildur," Ser Gregor greeted with a mocking bow "I pray you spent your night restfully,"
Isildur said nothing. His eyes gleamed, hard and dark, as he passed Ser Gregor by. Despite the lingering coolness of the morning air, a single bead of sweat rolled down Clegane's head at the passing of the Son of Elendil. The Troll clenched and unclenched his hands and then wiped his brow when Isildur turned his back to him.
Behind Clegane's horse, there was a brown rouncey, one of Ser Gregor's own horses, that was given to Isildur. It was saddled and bridled, with another armed man holding the reins. Setting his hands upon the saddle, he swung himself up smoothly. To left and right, his honour guard did the same. All around him, leather creaked and shifted and horses stepped and tossed their heads as the whole company mounted. At the head of the column, Ser Gregor shouted the command and swung his hand forward, and the hundreds of hooves rumbled and churned up the grass as they rode away.
Their course bore them north and west, yet there was little speed or urgency about it. The company rode through the border marches of the Westerlands and the Riverlands. Foothills marched away towards the gray and purple mountains which loomed closer and closer, and the music of small streams running over rocky beds was heard along the many valleys and ridges. Long ridges covered in trees and pastureland rose in gradual undulations like the slow swells of the sea. It was a fair hill country of beech and rowan, and here and there were villages or single farms. Villages which swore loyalty to the Riverlords still. Ser Gregor's men wore the smiles of wolves.
The village before them was a small, nameless place when they rode out of the trees and looked down into the valley. A handful modest houses crowded around a crude sept. Sheep and goats bleated on the side of the hill, and Isildur saw the distant, tiny figures of people moving to and fro in the village. There was cruel laughter amongst the raiders behind him, and he heard the sliding whisper of steel on leather, the rattle of men pulling on mail shirts, the creak of harness as others tightened straps on armour or helmets.
"What a little shithole," Isildur heard one of the raiders say.
"Aye, but I bet you the septon of a little shithole like this has some stash buried in his yard. They all do," another answered.
"Keep your gold, I mean to find meself a girl today. 'Aven't 'ad one since Wendish Town," said a third.
"Ain't no whores in a town like this Philip,"
"Nah, 'ust girls who don't know they be whores yet," Philip replied, and his companions laughed.
Isildur's grip on his reins tightened. He glanced to either side. He was escorted by Ser Gregor's own men-at-arms, and a dozen sets of eyes were upon him, and a dozen swords surrounded him. He was unarmed and could make no move. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
Sword edges gleamed, lance points caught the sun and twinkled, the horses snorted and their hooves pawed the ground. Ser Gregor Clegane watched his men with a bored, bemused smile. He had ridden next to Isildur all day, towering above all and speaking nary a word to anyone.
"Men!" he said in a loud voice. "This village swears loyalty to the Riverlords. Burn it and take all you can find!"
Suddenly there was a cacophony of hoots and howls, and neighing horses, and the thundering of hooves. As the pack of wolves descends suddenly from snowy hills in the depths of winter to sow death amongst the herds and flocks of men, so did Ser Gregor's raiders spring out of the forest and pour down the hillside.
Soon the valley was filled with screams and fire.
Orc-men, in their orc-play, Isildur thought bitterly, and said nothing.
By the time Ser Gregor was able to regain control of his men, the village was naught but a burnt-out husk, filled with death. Much of the day had been wasted in looting and wanton acts of depravity. The septon hung from the steeple of his sept. Here and there lay the bloodied bodies of men and children, hewn apart. The raiders were burdened down with what rude wealth they could extract from this village: Pigs, goats, a few modest sacks of coin, bags of grain, even the clothes and boots of the villagers. The jeweled and gold-inlaid leather cover torn off the sept's worship-book made a particular prize.
A cool, pale evening was closing in now, and dark clouds from the south foretold a moonless night to come. A biting wind pawed and grabbed at Isildur's cloak, and fanned the burning thatch of rooves till they blazed like a forge fire. The screams were gone now, now the village was silent as a crypt. Only the crackling of the flames was heard.
"Well done my brave boys, well done. Went through the bastards like an arrow through a goose," Ser Gregor said as his men filed past him back to their horses. He sat upon his huge black stallion, hunkered over the saddle horn. The men returned his praise with laughter and smiles, clapping each other on the back.
The dark of night lay heavily upon the hills, and the moon and stars above were shrouded by veils of thick cloud, when the company finally halted for the night. Clegane ordered the halt in a clearing atop a hill, a meadow of grasses and low shrubs and bushes perhaps once used for pastureland. The men spread out across the field, each seeking a comfortable spot to unroll their bedding for the night, while some quickly kindled a blazing fire, and others set to slaughtering some of the animals they took in their raid for an evening meal. Soon wine skins were being passed from hand to hand, and coarse voices were raised in slurred song.
Isildur found himself tied to another tree for the evening, a gnarled old elm.
The son of Elendil rested his head against the tree's rough bark. The Star of Earendil was nowhere to be seen this night. The ground was cold, but dry. His seat was at the edge of the clearing, right where the hill began to slope down, and in the distance his Numenorean eyes could pick out the shapes of other hills and valleys rolling away into the distance, indistinct in the dark gloom. A cold wind was rustling in the boughs of the trees, with a sound like the forest was whispering to him. Far off, he could see the dull red glow of the burning village they had left behind, like a baleful eye staring at him out of the night.
Is that what these fools war is? He thought. They put unarmed old men and screaming babes to the sword and think themselves great warriors.
The leaves of nearby trees were edged with a faint red light from the distant flames. The same light caught and reflected in Isildur's grey eyes, till it seemed like his eyes themselves had a fire deep within them.
They will learn what war truly is, they shall see its true face, and the lesson shall be hard.
Isildur thought of the people of Sherrer, begging him for justice. He thought of Ban and Tasie and Cailan, fleeing the ruin of their homes. He thought of Beric Dondarrion, and Thoros of Myr, and Little Thom, and Gendry, following him on his errand and dying for it. He thought of his housecarls, his own kinsmen, bleeding in the streets of Wendish Town. He thought of the Lannisters, of all their wealth, and all their power, and the vastness of their hosts, and all the blood that stained the hands of Tywin Lannister.
In Numenor ere its fall, princes and magnates from the colonies would visit to pay homage to the King of Numenor. They were tall and hard, skin burnt deep by sun and wind, swaggering about the court in crude finery. At the banquet-table, they would boast of their victories over the wild-men of the hills of Middle-earth, and they would tell tales of how many villages they had put to the sword, how many lands they had subjugated to the glory of Numenor. They thought themselves great and puissant captains and lords of men, and Ar-Pharazon had smiled upon them as he had once been amongst them.
It went ill for them in the end, Isildur remembered, with a grim smile.
With the sound of drunken revelry and song at his back, and the sight of burning homes before him, Isildur sat and brooded upon war. In his mind, he conjured up great visions of armies and fleets, of armaments and campaigns. He envisioned the White Fleet sailing down the coastlines of Westeros, and the wasting of the Westerlands, and the fall of Lannisport and Casterly Rock. He saw the Westerland armies trapped between the King's Host before them and the hosts of Gondor behind. He saw the Lannisters in chains, and Robert sitting in judgment before them. The war would be swift and terrible, death flowing freely amongst the falling leaves of a bitter autumn.
The All-Father may not cast them down, but the hand of Gondor shall suffice. My hand!
Then a shiver ran through Isildur as the cold wind stole down his neck and back, and the shadow passed from his thought. The vision retreated from his sight, and he was Isildur once more, just a mortal man, small and alone in the wilds of Westeros.
The night wore on, and the sounds of the company grew quiet till there was only the noises of sleeping men, and the whickering of horses. Isildur's eyelids grew heavy, and despite the cold and the discomfort he almost felt sleep coming for him. That was when he was jolted into wakefulness by the clear, loud crack of a twig snapping under a heavy tread behind him.
"Milord Isildur," hissed the low voice of Ulrich the Gentle in Isildur's right ear. "Our talk was left unfinished last night,"
Isildur's eyes were accustomed to the darkness by now, and he could see the hunched outline of Ulrich stepping around the tree and into his sight, kneeling before him.
"I thought I'd wait till the others slept, so we could talk more freely, you and I," said Ulrich.
"I have naught to say to the likes of you," replied Isildur. "Men do not speak to orcs,"
There was the slither of steel against leather, and Isildur knew that Ulrich had drawn his dagger. He felt the cold graze of the dagger's edge against his cheek.
"If my fathers were a little higher, or yours a little lower, you wouldn't dare talk down to me. Not when yer the prisoner and I have the dagger," said Ulrich. His voice was not slurred by wine this night, but was low, cold and hateful.
"Ser Gregor says we ain't to spoil you before handing ye over to Lord Tywin, but I know ways to have my fun with you that they'll never know about," Ulrich went on. The tip of his dagger scraped slowly over Isildur's chin, down his throat.
In that moment, the clouds broke and a shaft of bright moonlight fell upon them. The iron blade of the dagger gleamed dully. The trees became clear, jagged silhouettes around them. Ulrich smiled coldly.
There was a hiss in the air, and a wet thud, and Ulrich gasped suddenly. A dark, wet arrowhead projected from his throat. His hand grasped at his throat, his eyes went wide and wild, disbelieving, and then with a strangled cry he fell.
"Fucking Hells!" came a hoarse whisper from the trees.
"Damn you Anguy, you nearly hit him!"
"Bastard had a dagger!"
Out of the brush came the shapes of men, hooded and cloaked, crouched low and moving as silently as haste would allow. In the moonlight, they looked like dark, shapeless shadows quickly stealing through the swaying grasses.
"Just our luck, that bastard's croak will have woken the whole lot of them," said one of the voices, drawing closer. It sounded familiar.
"Nay, they drunk themselves stupid, just like I said they would," replied another, sounding more familiar yet.
"Who goes there?" Isildur said, loudly as he could without raising the alarm.
"Friends, my lord," said a voice with the sound of Gondor in it. Isildur's heart leapt in his chest at the familiar noise.
The cloaked men stole in close to Isildur. He heard a blade drawing and the sound of sawing at his bounds. The closest of them pulled back his cloak, and the moonlight fell on a face Isildur knew.
"Beregond!" Isildur said.
"My lord," replied the housecarl, bowing his head. "Forgive my absence, we came as swiftly as we could,"
"There is nothing to forgive, good Beregond!" Isildur replied, feeling the ropes slacken as they were cut.
"Are you hurt, my lord?" asked the housecarl.
"Only my pride. Oh, loyal Beregond, it is good to see you! How many of the others have come?"
Beregond did not answer, and the silence told Isildur what he already knew. The pain in his heart that had dulled away to a faint throb stabbed fresh again. Isildur steeled himself. There would be time for mourning to come. Now they had work to do.
"We shall talk later," Isildur said, grasping his housecarl by the shoulder. "How many men did you bring?"
The last of the ropes were cut and Isildur sprang to his feet. He was sore, and hungry, but blood was pounding in his veins and he was free again.
"We are seven, my lord, but we have a plan,"
Isildur turned and looked at the clearing behind him. Clegane's camp stretched across the meadow. In the moonlight, they saw two hundred men sleeping amongst weapons and saddle bags, and scattered wine skins. The faint reddish embers of their cooking-fires still glowed. Here and there there were the looming shapes of tents and pavilions. They heard the sounds of steady snoring.
"Drunk themselves stupid, true to fashion," said one of Beregond's men, crouching by Isildur's shoulder. "It's good to see you well Lord Isildur,"
He glanced down and beneath the hood spotted the bearded, smiling face of Thoros of Myr.
"Lord Beric is up that ways, preparing my little surprise for our friends. I am quite proud of it, I must say. Some of my best work, given the circumstances" Thoros pointed off to the eastern edge of the clearing, on their right. The pasture was just beneath the crest of a hill, and sloped gently upwards from south to north, surrounded by trees and brush.
"Of course it's easy to make such things work when the grass is as dry as this," Thoros commented.
"Anguy, give the signal," whispered Beregond.
The young archer set his longbow against the tree, and then put both hands to his mouth and made three owl-hoots. Three came in answer from the eastern side. The archer seized the bow again and nocked an arrow. Another of them produced a crossbow from within his cloak and set a bolt on it. They both aimed into the camp.
"When we charge, remember to yell 'Riverrun'" said Beregond, slowly and quietly drawing his sword. The cold steel gleamed in the moonlight. Then a veil of dark clouds fell over the face of the moon again and put them into utter blackness.
"Five shots each, just like we said," Anguy murmured to the crossbowman.
Out of the darkness, they saw three lights spring up on the east, small but fierce. The lights moved into the pasture quickly, and Isildur perceived that they were torches in the hands of cloaked men. The three of them thrust their burning brands into the dry grass at their feet, and began to drag them along in a line. Suddenly the grass was burning, starting slowly, but getting quicker and fiercer and brighter with each moment. At first there were three small fires, growing as they consumed grass and deadfall around them, but soon they became one fire, sweeping as fast as a running man towards the camp, sending up thick, acrid smoke, and the sound of roaring and crackling. Soon the whole clearing was filled with the flickering orange and red light of a wild grassfire.
"ALARUM! ALARUM! ALARUM!" yelled one of the cloaked men with the torches, voice echoing across the hillside.
Still besotted with drink, Clegane's raiders awoke to the grassfire's heat on their faces.
"Fire! Fire!" came wild shouts from the awakening soldiers.
"Now!" roared Beregond.
With deft hand and sharp eye, Anguy began loosing arrows into the confused mass of foes, as they struggled out of their bedrolls. The crossbow rattled as its bolt ripped through the air. The distance was short, and the missiles flew flat and true and unerring. Screams of pain and fear rent the night air. From the east, another crossbow rattled and more missiles poured into the camp. There were shouts of confusion. Drunk men-at-arms were tripping over each other as they groped for weapons to meet the sudden attack. A few of Clegane's men were futilely slapping at the grassfire with their cloaks.
"CHARGE!" bellowed the powerful voice of Beric Dondarrion. "FOR RIVERRUN!"
Through the flames leapt the Lord of Blackhaven, bare sword turning in the air above his head, and he shouted again.
"COME ON LADS, WE HAVE 'EM SLEEPING!"
Immediately there was a great sound of crashing and stamping in the underwood, as if of many men charging, and there were raised voices.
"RIVERRUN!"
"REMEMBER SHERRER!"
Then Isildur saw the trick, and smiled and laughed, and stood and cried out as if to a strong company at his back.
"HA! HERE WE FIND THEM! UP NOW AND SLAY ALL!"
Arrows and bolts were tearing through the air, Gregor's men were shouting, the fire was roaring, and into the confusion and the chaos charged Isildur, Beregond, Beric Dondarrion and all the others. Bare swords flashed in the firelight. They roared and bellowed as they came on, from south and east, shouting the name of Riverrun. Clegane's warband stood stricken, addled by wine, confusion reigning, their comrades crying out in pain as missiles buried themselves in bare flesh, their horses screaming, the heat of the flames on their faces, and now suddenly they were assailed by fighting men with steel in hand, shouting the war-cries of the Riverlords. A chorus of fearful voices rose above the clamour.
"The rivermen! The rivermen are upon us!"
"Flee for your lives lads!"
"Run! Run!"
Beric and Beregond and Thoros and their companions only cut down two or three, yet soon the whole band of Gregor Clegane's raiders was fleeing before their faces, as if charged by a whole army. Order disappeared. Fear took the once brave Clegane men-at-arms, and they turned and fled, abandoning their camp and their companions both. They scattered in all directions into the hills and forests, howling fearfully as they went.
"Alain, Hugh, get the horses! Quickly!" Beric Dondarrion commanded, then he brandished his sword and ran roaring towards the ragged line of fleeing Clegane troops.
Two of the hooded men quickly ran off towards the picket line where the horses of the warband had been tied for the evening. The horses were panicked, some were neighing, others screaming.
Isildur's eyes were on the ground, scanning amongst the baggage and detritus of the camp for something he could not leave behind.
"I must find Narsil," he said to Beregond. The housecarl nodded his understanding.
"Milord," said the crossbowman "Is this your blade?"
Isildur turned and behind him the young crossbowman stood holding a sheathed sword, hilt first towards him. By the steel crossbar and the engraved pommel, Isildur knew it to be Narsil. It must have been plucked from amongst the loot and piled weapons of the encampment.
"You have my thanks," Isildur said, taking the blade. The light of the fire flashed into the shadows of the hood, and for a moment Isildur had a glimpse of a familiar face and dark blue eyes.
"…Gendry?" he said, but the young man was interrupted even as he opened his mouth to respond.
"ISILDUR!"
Ser Gregor Clegane was not as easily taken by shock and surprise as his men were. His wits were not dulled by drink or sleep. Even if the whole hosts of the Tullys had fallen upon his company then and there, he was not one to flee. He stood with his back to the spreading fires, bare-chested, longsword in hand. His form was an immense, dark silhouette against the raging flames. He saw through the ruse, he saw the fewness of their attackers' true numbers, and he saw his prisoner escaping, slipping through Tywin Lannister's claws even as the Lion reached out to grasp him.
Nor was he alone. A few of the boldest and the most cunning of his own men-at-arms had stood by their lord, and now they took their stand to either side of the Troll. One bore a pole-ax, another a mace, and a third readied a sword and buckler.
Anguy's bow creaked as he drew back an arrow and trained it on Ser Gregor. Clegane was unarmoured, not even clad in his gambeson, and Anguy's aim was sure. Gendry whirled on him and quickly spanned and loaded his crossbow.
"I shall deal with Clegane," said Isildur in a hard voice. In one smooth motion he drew forth Narsil. A pale white light shone from its edges. Though he was weary and hunger gnawed at his stomach, the feeling of Narsil's hilt in his hand gave Isildur fresh strength. He stepped forward boldly.
Anguy's bowstring sung, and the pole-ax clattered to the ground, its wielder grasping at the dart in his eye. Gendry's crossbow rattled, but the bolt went wide above the heads of the foes. Then with wordless shouts of hate and fury, the foemen came rushing on, and Gregor Clegane foremost amongst them.
Beregond and Thoros met the Clegane men-at-arms with bared blades in hand, and soon the camp was filled with the clang of steel on steel. Isildur paid no heed. He met the Troll alone.
From the ground, Gregor seized a burning spear and cast it at Isildur, who swiftly stepped to the side as the missile passed him. Then the Troll was upon him, swinging a savage cut for his head. Up came Narsil, parrying the blow, and Isildur met Gregor strength for strength. The son of Elendil bore into Clegane with his shoulder and beat him bodily back with a kick. Razor-edges whirled and turned in the air, clashing in binds which lasted mere moments. Both were unarmoured. Death swung in every stroke. Cuts became thrusts became cuts again as they strove and fought against each other back and forth.
A tent blazed suddenly as the tongues of flame licked and consumed it, and collapsing it forced Isildur and Clegane apart. They circled each other, glaring past their sword blades and the fiery conflagration. The heat struck their faces like a dragon's breath. They stepped to the side into open ground, yet unburning, and then rushed together once more. The clash of their blades rang above the crackling of the fires.
Gritting his teeth, Isildur cut and slashed and struck again and again and again. Narsil whirled and turned above his head, and beside his body, and beneath his arms, striking for Clegane first from this angle, then that, then a third. Back, back, back was driven Ser Gregor Clegane, step by step, parrying in every direction.
Suddenly then Isildur brought his sword low. He saw his chance. His ancient blade swept up as Gregor brought his arms up for the stroke.
Narsil's edge bit deep, drinking blood, cleaving flesh and sinew and muscle.
Ser Gregor Clegane howled in pain, his right arm spurting dark blood beneath the elbow. His sword-hand lay upon the ground, cloven from his body by Narsil's cut. With a final snarl, Clegane tried to finish his blow one-handed, swinging for Isildur's head with all his rage behind his longsword.
Narsil was faster, and swiftly it whirled around and its razor-edge bit and sunk deep a second time.
Clegane's head rolled from his shoulders, and his body slumped to the cold ground. The Troll was dead.
For Cirion, Isildur thought. There had been no trial, no sentence, but justice had been done, and Gregor Clegane had perished for his crimes at last.
Beregond ran up to Isildur, breathing hard, face grim. His blade was red with blood.
"My lord, we have to go now!" the housecarl said frantically. "Alain and Hugh have the horses ready, but Clegane's warband is regaining their wits,"
In the distance, they heard shouts and the rattle of arms and the tramping of many feet through the brush.
"Aye, lead on Beregond," replied Isildur.
Eight of the company's strongest horses awaited them by the picket-line, saddled already. The others were already mounted, reins in hand, waiting. They heard the calls of many men. Arrows and stones whistled through the night. They heard captains shouting commands, Clegane's lieutenants barking for order. In the brush there was a great crashing and clamour as men of company returned to their camp, weapons in hand, wild-eyed and looking for blood.
Isildur swung up into the saddle of the largest steed. He set his heels into the horse's flanks and it sprang away down the hillside. Beregond and the others followed. The cold night air stung their eyes, and the ground soared away beneath them, and they disappeared into the shadows of the forest.