Chapter IV
The rope was rough between his hands and fraying, small brown fibres coming loose against his sweat-slicked palms. He wound it round his fingers, drawing in the length until he felt a tug and heard a strangled cry behind him.
‘Quiet down,’ Dunstan called, half-turning over his shoulder to fix the elf at the end of the rope with an iron glare. The elf glowered but dropped her eyes, directing her anger at the arid ground beneath her feet.
They had taken nine in all, and left seven dead bodies bleeding into the track, where they would no doubt lie until they were picked apart by crows and their bones kicked into the ditch. Nothing would be done, no burials would take place. Nobody cared about a few goblins.
There had been some resistance, to begin with, but a quick reminder of what had become of their companions put paid to that. Now they trudged, weary and heavy-footed, each bound by rope about their necks and hands. Some of the men had grumbled at their slowness, how it would be faster just to kill them, cut their throats and leave them at the roadside. But Ormand had assured them that the rewards would be worth it; elven slaves could fetch a high price in certain parts of the land, and servants for a lesser profit, particularly the young, whose strong backs and limbs guaranteed years of labour. And Ormand knew well that little ensured a man’s loyalty like the sight of gold pieces in the palm of his hand.
‘My Lord,’ Dunstan said, increasing his pace to ride up beside Ormand. He heard the elf behind him stumbling to keep up. ‘At this speed we shan’t make Fennering this side of nightfall. Where do you intend to rest?’
‘We do not rest, Dunstan. We travel until we reach the city.’ Ormand turned in his saddle to scan the following elves. ‘The sooner we get them sold, the better.’
‘My Lord, the forest is bandit country –’
‘There isn’t a bandit this side of Northall foolish enough to attack us.’ Ormand looked to his sergeant with a wry smile. ‘Are you worried, Dunstan? I thought the prospect of bandit lowlifes might rouse your spirits some.’
‘Not worried for myself, My Lord. Merely concerned that the goblins might see it as an opportunity to escape.’
‘Then keep a weather eye on them.’ He raised his voice and called over his shoulder. ‘You hear that, elves? Any attempt to escape and you’ll be ridden down and slaughtered. Dunstan, keep them at pace.’
‘My Lord.’ Dunstan inclined his head in acquiescence, and turned to rejoin the main party. The elf on his rope rose to a jog to match him, lest the fetter on her neck pull and chafe any more than it already had. She was an unusual looking creature, Dunstan thought, slowing a little so she wouldn’t fall. Shaven-headed, her bare scalp accentuating that strange point to her ears. A young thing, no longer a child but not far off, with strong shoulders and a courage some of the others lacked. She hadn’t cried as they were taken, had fought, but when the situation became hopeless she had refocused her energy into aiding her comrades. Even now Dunstan saw her touch a young man by the shoulder and mutter some low words of quiet comfort, her care and stoicism evident in her round, violet eyes.
Towards the rear of the group, side by side, walked Raiwen and Tevin Dale, their shoulders brushing on occasion, the only contact they’d been able to manage since they were taken. Their talk had been rare and stilted, not only because the soldiers pulled hard on the ropes if they heard anything, but because they feared the truth of what they had to discuss. Their eyes were red with recent tears, not for themselves, but rather for their son. In a snatched moment of fleeting conversation, they had learnt from Gwyn what had become of him, struck by a horse, fallen out of sight, though whether he was dead or alive no one could tell them.
‘At least he isn’t here,’ Tevin had said in an effort to comfort his wife, but his tone told her he didn’t believe his own words.
‘But I want him here, Tevin. I want to know he’s alive, that he isn’t hurt, and on his own. If he was here then we’d at least know he was alright. We’d know he wasn’t dead.’ She didn’t want to but she couldn’t help imagining it, a terrible picture of him lying in the ditch, dying, his head bleeding out until his heart stopped beating. He would be lost, forever, and she would never have the chance to hold him again, to tell him how much he meant to her, just to look into his beautiful blue eyes for a moment longer. ‘We were meant to keep him safe, Tev.’
Her husband had tried to take her hand but the bindings made it hard, so instead he brushed her fingers with his own and said her name.
‘Raiwen,’ he sighed. ‘I’m scared too. I wish there was some way for us to know what’s become of him, if he’s ok, but for the moment there’s nothing we can do. Arrian isn’t a child anymore. We couldn’t keep him safe forever.’
‘But he’s our child!’ she cried, too loud, and the horsemen leading them dragged on their ropes so that they stumbled forwards, tied hands out to catch themselves from falling. She lowered her voice, not through choice, but simply because the strength was no longer in her. ‘He’s my little boy.’
As the sun sank slowly into the west, their shoulders and their spirits fell with it, feet sore and empty stomachs groaning. The evening was still warm but it wouldn’t last; even at this time of year when the days were long, the moon brought a chill that would hold until daybreak.
It didn’t matter when the sun rose. This night would go on forever.