The Crowded Shadows.

by Celine Kiernan.

The Crowded Shadows.

Wynter sank closer to Ozkar's neck and slowly dipped her head so that the dark brim of her hat hid her eyes. The horse side-stepped nervously under her and tried to back out of their hiding place. He could sense her fear and it was making him anxious. Wynter murmured to him and stroked his shoulder, but he shook his head, snorted and loudly stamped his foot.

The men moving in the trees ahead of her were getting close. Wynter tracked their progress by the noise of their horses, and she shrank further back into cover as the sounds grew louder. She could not believe how easily these men had escaped her attention. The trees here were so thick and dark that Wynter might never have noticed them, only that they had been foolish enough to light a pipe, and its rich tobacco scent had alerted her to their presence. It filled her with fear to realise that they may have been travelling parallel to each other for days and not known it, the sounds of the men's horses cancelling out the noises made by Ozkar and vice versa.

Wynter was just raising her head to peer though the trees, hoping for a glimpse of them, when a low whistling signal from the road sent her ducking again, her heart racing. There was a moment of silence from the men, then they whistled a melodic reply, and to Wynter's horror, began pushing their horses through the brush towards her.

They came frighteningly close and she was filled with an almost irresistible desire to lift her head and look. But it would take just one careless movement and they would spot her, so she kept her eyes shut and her head down and the men passed slowly by.

They urged their horses down a steeply sloping bank and out of sight. Wynter side-stepped Ozkar so that she could observe their descent to the road.

She found herself looking down on the tops of their heads as they passed from the shade into brutal sunshine, and they came to a halt in the road, looking expectantly into the trees on the opposite side. Wynter followed their gaze, and ducked lower at the sight of four horsemen descending the far slope. As these newcomers reached the road, the original two men shook back their dark hats and uncovered their faces. They were Combermen, their rosined hair and beards glistening in the sun. They squinted warily at the newcomers and one of them called out, in stilted Southlandast, the language of Jonathon's Kingdom, "So far?"

The newcomers called back, "And not yet there?"

There was a general easing of tension in the men, and Wynter committed these passwords, and the whistles that had preceded them, to memory.

As the newcomers pulled to a halt, the shorter Comberman asked, "I take it we face the same direction?"

"Anything is possible," said one of the newcomers noncommittally. They threw back their headgear, and Wynter felt a thrill of fear. They were Haunardii! Warriors, if their abundance of gleaming weaponry was anything to go by. She leant forward in her saddle, trying to get a better view. She had never personally met any Haunardii but they were notoriously savage and wily. Their narrow, slanting eyes were black as night and they regarded the Combermen scornfully, their flat, honey-coloured faces filled with laughing contempt.

"These men humbly suggest that you are not too sharp at keeping yourself hid," sneered the youngest. "What sort of fool needs a pipe of weed that much?"

The Combermen glanced at each other. The taller one bit his pipe firmly between his teeth and began to drift back to the trees. "Stick to thy side of the road and my smoke won't bother thee," he said with finality.

The Haunardii looked amused. They smirked at each other and began backing their horses away. It was obvious to Wynter that-like herself-all these men were travelling in secret, eschewing the relative ease of the road for the cover of the thick forest, and it appeared that the Haun's sole purpose in calling the others had been to mock them for their carelessness. As they retreated, the youngest laughingly said, "We pray that it is not your stealth you are offering at the table of the Rebel Prince!"

The Rebel Prince? thought Wynter. Alberon! She stared down at the men below. So you are gathering allies to your table. But, Good Christ, Alberon! First Combermen, and now Haunardii? Have you lost your mind?

Down on the road, the young Haunardii was still needling the Combermen, his mocking voice drifting up through the heat. "We humbly suggest you may as well dance down the centre of the road yodelling, for all the sly you have exhibited up in the trees."

"Yes, well," growled the shorter Comberman, "thy skills in diplomacy will be a great asset to the future king, I dare say. Sleep well these next twelve nights, Haun, and have no doubt, we'll see thee in camp."

The Combermen were ascending the slope even as they spoke and Wynter eased Ozkar back into the deeper shadows, listening as they snarled their goodbyes. The Combermen angled off through the trees, trailing pipe smoke and muttering as they went. The Haunardii must have climbed the opposite slope and melted into the forest there.

Wynter stayed where she was, deep in thought, and Ozkar returned to snoozing beneath her.

Was it possible, she wondered, that the King had been right? Did Alberon actually intend to overthrow the crown? The thought of Alberon in alliance with either the Haunardii or the Combermen made Wynter's blood run cold. Did he really stand against his father now, with greedy expansionists on one hand and bigoted zealots on the other? What would become of the Kingdom if this were the case, and what kind of reception could Wynter expect from her old friend if he had truly set his face against the King?

She looked out into the forest and thought about the Haun and the Combermen, and all they symbolised. If it came down to it, and she had to weigh them on one hand, and King Jonathon on the other-Alberon or no Alberon-Wynter had no doubt who she would choose. She shook her head and looked around her helplessly. She did not want to think about the kind of choices she may now have to make. Despair threatened suddenly, out of nowhere, and Wynter sat up straight, forcing it down.

That is enough, she told herself firmly. There is no point fretting until I have found Alberon and discovered the truth. Then we shall see, all this will be easily resolved. Grimly, she set her jaw. She had sacrificed her father for this quest, she was risking her own life for it, and she was not about to fail.

The forest was now tranquil and seemingly empty of human traffic, so Wynter gave up her cautious vigil and slid from Ozkar's back. Wearily, she leant against his neck for a moment and let her head settle. They'd been travelling since just before dawn, and it was time for them both to rest. It would be safest to rest further up the hill, but first Wynter had to replenish her water supply. She decided to risk using the stream by the road to fill the waterskins. God only knew when she'd get another chance to restock.

As she undid the ties, Ozkar snuffled at her and lipped her tunic, looking for food. Wynter pushed his head away in exhausted irritation. He was rationed to one loaf of horse-bread morning and night, and it was more than enough for him, even at this hard pace. Mind you, as far as Wynter was concerned, he could have it, all of it. After five days' travel she was heartily sick of horse-bread, cheese and dried sausage. Even when soaked, the coarse bean bread was a trial to the teeth, and a torment to the bowels.

What I would not pay for a plate of liver and onions, she thought as she slung the waterskins over both arms and dropped to her hands and knees. Or, oh God bless us, a strawberry cordial... or apple pie and clotted cream. She began to slither cautiously down the hill on her belly. Her ears and eyes focused on her surroundings, her heart and stomach dreaming of food.

She reached the edge of the undergrowth and peered down at the shallow little stream bubbling its way along the bottom of the ditch. Wynter knew that with her face covered she was just another dark patch in the shifting shadows. Still, she kept her body carefully motionless as she stretched her arm down to the stream and submerged the first waterskin. It began to fill slowly and Wynter laid her cheek on the bank and scanned the road while she waited.

The first waterskin full, she was just about to submerge the second one when the sound of hooves came pounding up through the turf. She jerked back her hand and pressed into the shadows as a horse galloped past.

It was a merchantman, of middling income by the looks of him, leading a fully laden pack-mule. He was travelling much too fast for the animal's bulky load and he kept glancing behind him in a panic. Wynter regarded him with a heavy heart and wondered what the hell he had expected, travelling alone on this road. He had not even had the sense to disguise his expensive tack or the fine quality of his clothes.

There were two pursuers, galloping fast and riding low to their saddles. They quickly caught up with their quarry, flanking the pack-mule like wolves and closing in on the merchant. As he galloped past, the bandit on his left hauled back with a staff and unhorsed the merchant with a wide swing to his head.

The merchant's bright hat sailed through the air and rolled into the ditch across from Wynter. The man himself fell between the horses and was left behind in the dust as the bandits shot forward to corral his goods.

Wynter couldn't take her eyes from the merchant as he lay on his back in the road. He was utterly dazed, his face covered in dust, a thin stream of blood pooling beneath his head. She heard the bandits capture and turn his horses, and she knew for certain what this poor man's fate would be. She dipped her chin and clenched her hands as the bandits trotted into view.

One of them, the fellow with the staff, dropped lightly from the saddle and jogged to where the merchant lay. As the bandit approached him, Wynter saw the merchant raise a gloved hand to the sky, his eyes questing. He seemed to have no grasp of his situation. The bandit raised his staff high and Wynter squeezed her eyes shut as he brought it down onto the merchant's face.

There were not many blows after that and Wynter lay very still and quiet, her face hidden in her hands, while the bandits stripped the body. They chatted amiably as they went about their business, obviously well used to each other and comfortably at ease with their work. There was much talk of the inn, and of Jenny, and of which of them she liked more. There was speculation as to how much they'd get for this haul. They came to the conclusion that they should get quite a bit. Perhaps so much that Jenny might even like them both at once, if they played their cards right. There was a lot of good-natured chuckling, and Wynter pressed her fingers hard into her temples and bit her lips.

Finally, their voices moved back in the direction of the horses and Wynter risked turning her head and looking at the merchant.

The bandits had carried him to the side of the road and laid him neatly at the base of a tree, as though politely disinclined to block traffic. He was curled on his side with his back to her, and once she'd looked at him, Wynter found it impossible to look away. This was somebody's father maybe, somebody's son. Until a few moments ago, he had been alive and breathing, full of thoughts and plans. And now he was nothing but meat, cast aside and abandoned, carrion for the badgers and the foxes, with his family never to know what became of him.

That could be me, thought Wynter, snuffed out and gone in the blink of an eye.

Suddenly the bandit with the staff came back into view. He walked to the side of the road, knelt and leant into the ditch across from Wynter, stretching to reach something far in the brambles. He sat back, grinning, and displayed the merchant's hat for his companion to see.

Wynter should have dipped her head, but she was filled with such hatred for him at that moment that she just watched as the bandit knelt there and whacked the hat off his knee to dislodge the dust.

He was about to get to his feet when he lifted his eyes and spotted her in the shelter of the brambles. Wynter saw him blink under the shade of his hat, saw him frown and her heart froze as he rose slowly to his feet, squinting into the shadows where she lay, his face uncertain.

"What is it?" asked his companion, who was already mounted and ready to go.

The man didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the road and hunkered down in front of Wynter's hiding place, gazing across the dancing brightness of the water and staring straight into her eyes.

Everything Wynter had ever been taught, everything she knew she should do in such a situation, fell out of her head. To her absolute horror and dismay, she just lay there, frozen and helpless, as the man took his time looking her up and down.

His eyes travelled the length of her and she saw him register her curves and hollows, her distinctively womanish shape. When his eyes came back up to meet hers, they were calculating and hot. He bared his teeth, and Wynter felt a shrivelling, horrible fear in her belly at the hunger in his grin.

"Oy! Tosh!" called his companion. "What is it?" He had pulled his horse around and Wynter could hear him starting to drift towards them.

The bandit stood and waved him back. "Nothin'," he said, strolling casually back to the horses. "Nothin' but a badger hole! I thought 'twas a person lying there! Sun must a got into my head!"

A wave of nauseating relief washed over her, and Wynter clamped her hand over her mouth, certain that she was going to vomit. As the bandit remounted his horse she heard him say, "Lookit, Peter. Once we settle a price with Silent Murk, you go on ahead and take Jenny to yourself tonight. I got some business of my own to tend to."

"Business?" cried his friend in disbelief. "Instead of Jenny...? What kind of business?"

"Ach, naught interestin'. Just fancy a bit of huntin' is all."

"Huntin'?" echoed the other man, clearly baffled. "Instead of Jenny? Tosh, I ain't complainin', God knows! But are you mad?"

The bandit chuckled. They began to trot away, but before they got out of earshot, Wynter heard his good-natured reply.

"I ain't mad," he said amiably. "I just find myself with a sudden craving for fresh meat. That's all." And he laughed again, a warm laugh that made Wynter tremble and her throat close over with fear.

Travelling Alone.

After a while Ozkar began to stumble, but still Wynter drove him mercilessly on and on. She had lost all sense of stealth or caution, and simply shoved forward through the heat and dust, hardly paying heed to her direction, only striving to get away.

Her father had taught her well about travelling alone, and up until this moment Wynter had conscientiously followed all the advice he'd ever given. She had been disciplined, she had been careful and she had been totally in control. Now, panicked beyond reason, Wynter fled through the sweltering heat of midday with nothing on her mind but that man's hot eyes and the fear that he might someday look at her again.

All the things Lorcan had ever taught her about self-defence swam incoherently through her mind. Your thumbs hard into his eyes. Your knee or your fist to his balls, the heel of your boot to the tops of his feet. All of his detailed instructions, should a man ever try and assault her, repeated endlessly in her head. Do not turn your back unless he's incapacitated. If he is incapacitated, then run like hell to the nearest population. If you are alone and with no hope of company, kill him where he lies. Stamp on his head. Gouge out his eyes; slit his groin or his throat. Wynter had heard this so many times-Lorcan's unflinching list of ways to keep her alive and her enemies powerless or dead. And most important of all, the one thing he had told her over and over. Fear will paralyse you, baby-girl. Fear will kill you. You must not let fear win. If it wins, you've lost the fight.

Well, there was no doubt but that she had lost the fight down by the stream. When that man had looked at her across the glittering light of the water, Wynter had quailed like a cornered rabbit and she had been filled with nothing but fear. Fear had won. That man had won. Had he chosen that time to strike, Wynter would have been useless against him. He and his companion would have taken her as easy as picking berries from a bush.

Ozkar stumbled and Wynter kicked him on, her teeth bared. She would keep going forever, she would never stop moving. The thought of stopping now, anywhere near that man, and the possibility that he might be able to find her, filled Wynter with terror.

The memory of Christopher rose up suddenly, sharp and clear and unexpected; his quick smiling eyes and his grin, his reckless bravery. Christopher! she thought, with genuine grief, Christopher! How could she miss him so much when she hardly knew him? But she did. She missed him and she admired him, both for his bravery and for his laughter in the face of all that had been taken from him. Not like you! she thought bitterly. Nothing was even taken from you! Nothing done to you but a look cast your way. And you are destroyed by it! You snivelling coward. You big baby!

Wynter pulled back with a silent, self-loathing grimace and hauled on the reins. Ozkar came to a relieved halt and stood panting, his head down. The heat pressed around them, and Wynter, crouched in her saddle, listened for sounds of pursuit. Apart from the incessant singing of insects, the forest was silent and still.

Breathing deeply, Wynter straightened and pressed her hand to her chest, urging her heart to calm itself. Razi's note whispered against her palm. Her guild pendant settled against her breast. The forest slumbered placidly around her. She laughed. All right then, she thought shakily. All right. That's over.

Without wasting any more time, Wynter turned Ozkar and urged him up the hill. She let him carry her far into the high trees, and there she quickly chose a site, slipped from the saddle, and set up camp.

Within half an hour Ozkar was fed and watered, rubbed down and tethered, contentedly snoozing against a tree. Tiredly, Wynter crawled under her bivouac. She lay with her head on her saddle, looking up into the light spattered canvas, and she tried to empty her mind of everything but the calm buzz of the forest. She said a prayer for Lorcan, a prayer for Razi and a heartfelt prayer for Christopher, wherever he might be. Sleep claimed her suddenly, a dark abyss opening soundless and vast, and sucked her under without warning.

Thunder cracked in the sky above the trees and Wynter startled at the sound, trying to get her bearings. She was lying on her back beneath the shelter. It was almost dark. She must have been sleeping for hours. The air was heavy with storm heat, the small space under the canvas steamy and too close, and she was glad that she had made an open-sided shelter. Blinking, she turned her head to stare out into the clearing, waiting for her eyes to adjust.

Lorcan was standing in the forest by her camp, anxiously scanning the dark trees. "Listen," he said.

Wynter swallowed at the sight of him glimmering there in the twilight. "Dad," she whispered. "I'm scared."

Lorcan tutted and shook his head. "I've done all I can about that," he said firmly. "You're on your own now, baby-girl." He glowered out into the darkness. "There are Wolves out there," he said. "They're coming."

"Dad," she pleaded, but Lorcan had drifted away already, his white shirt a pale shape in the lowering gloom. He looked back at her, his features indistinct, and put his finger to his lips.

Wynter cried out as lightning imprinted the trees against the canvas of her tent, and she came fully awake to the sound of thunder booming directly overhead. Ozkar whickered unhappily, and she heard him stamp his foot and shift in fear, pulling against his tether. She turned her head sharply as something moved in the not-quite-dark of the woods.

The bandit was standing just within the circle of trees, hardly fifteen feet from where she lay. He stood sideways on to her, a thick staff balanced in his hand, watching her through the open side of her shelter. He must have seen her eyes gleaming in the dusk because he settled his grip on the staff and grinned at her, his teeth flashing in the shadows.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "It's just me... you left me a lovely trail. Very considerate."

Wynter lay still as a mouse and watched as he sidled across the clearing, the staff held out from his side. Lightning flickered briefly again, and Wynter clearly saw a knife in his other hand. There was a moment of blindness after the flash, then Wynter's night-vision cleared and the man was standing beside the shelter, looking down at her. His grin had disappeared and his face was wary.

"Now," he said. "I won't hurt you. Understand?" He sank to his knees, his staff held up, the knife held lightly in his other hand. His eyes were locked on Wynter's and his head was tilted back slightly. His voice was low, as if talking to a snarling dog. "You give me what I want, and I won't hurt you. All right?"

Wynter said nothing and did not move.

He knelt there for a moment, assessing her intentions. Then he let his eyes slip down her body, lingering on her breasts, dropping between her legs, running back up to her breasts again. Wynter saw his face become heavy, and his lips parted. He looked her in the eyes again and let her see the knife.

Then he stooped in under the tent.

Wynter waited until he lifted his leg, meaning to straddle her, then she punched hard between his legs. The air left him in a soundless wheeze and, as he doubled over, Wynter threw her head forward and butted him between the eyes. Blood gushed from his smashed nose and Wynter drew up her feet and kicked him in the chest, sending him rolling out from under the canvas.

She dived after him, scrabbling for her knife, hoping to kill him while he was still incapacitated. But he must have had the constitution of an ox because he instantly rolled to his feet, his knife raised, his free hand pressed to his groin. Wynter met his eyes, and they told her everything she needed to know about her fate should she allow this man get the better of her. Behind them, Ozkar lunged and heaved and kicked, struggling to free himself from his tether. Lightning seared the sky and thunder roared.

Slowly Wynter rose to face the bandit. His attention dropped to the knife in her hand, and he grinned through the blood that drenched his mouth.

"You drop that potato peeler now, girl, or I'll lose my temper."

Wynter brought the knife up. She crouched in readiness. "Leave now," she said, "and I'll allow you keep your manhood."

The bandit's face darkened with cruel amusement. Knife or no knife, he knew Wynter had little hope against him. He was heavier, taller, stronger than she, and probably well accustomed to fighting men of his own size.

"Come on now," he crooned. "Let's be friends."

Wynter held her ground, and the bandit laughed. Lightning flickered silently again, and Ozkar stamped and threw his head against his tether, backing up as the rope stretched to its limit. The bandit lunged, and Wynter flung herself forward, her knife low and ready to strike.

They collided. The bandit caught her knife hand and mercilessly twisted her wrist. Wynter turned with the pressure, saving herself from a broken arm, but her fingers went instantly numb and her knife tumbled to the leaves. Still, she wouldn't submit, and the bandit had to struggle to keep a hold on her as she thrashed and kicked and bit. Cursing, he shifted his grip. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back in a flash of blinding pain. Wynter saw his fist raised against the sky. This blow would knock her senseless. I am lost! she thought.

A huge shape emerged from the dark and Wynter was jerked from the man's grip. She fell, slamming into the leaves, the breath knocked from her as the great thing loomed above them. The bandit spun, looking up into living darkness, lifting his arms. Then he was catapulted through the air, to land with a loud thud on the other side of the clearing.

Wynter scrambled for her lost knife, ready to defend herself against this new threat. Then the warm smell of horse filled her nose and she realised that it was Ozkar who was looming above her, stamping and pawing in the dark. Wynter fell back onto the cold ground, overcome with relief as the horse stood by, his great, strong body a living shield between her and the man that he had just kicked into unconsciousness. "Good boy!" she rasped. "Oh, good boy, Ozkar. Good boy!"

She dragged herself up by the frayed end of his tether. All the time repeating that he was A good boy. Such a good boy. She couldn't seem to stop saying it, and she couldn't seem to let him go.

She packed her camp with one hand knotted in his tangled mane, always keeping him between herself and the crumpled body lying amongst the shadows of the trees. When it came time to leave she couldn't bring herself to take to the saddle. She found herself afraid to raise herself above the level of the horse's neck. She had this horrible fear that if she did, the bandit would leap through the air and tackle her, bringing her finally and irretrievably to the ground. So she walked from the campsite, keeping Ozkar solidly between herself and the bandit. And it was only when the clearing was far from her sight, far from earshot, that she managed to break her death-grip on the horse's mane and heave herself into the saddle.

The Mourning Pennant.