‘Be silent. I wish to see your man fight against a Daroth warrior.’
Drawing his sword the leader tossed it to the smith, who caught it expertly by the hilt but then sagged under the weight of the weapon. Instantly his opponent drew his own sword and attacked. Yordis blocked the first blow, and sent a two-handed sweep that hammered against the
warrior’s shoulder, cutting deep into the white flesh. A milky fluid began to stream from the wound. The smith attacked again, but the warrior ducked under a slashing cut and rammed his own blade deep into the smith’s belly, wrenching it up through the heart. Blood and air hissed from Yordis’s open lungs, and his body fell to the earth. The wounded warrior sheathed his sword and drew a curved dagger; with this he cut a strip of flesh from the smith’s forearm, and ate it. Blood staining his ghost-white face, the warrior turned to his leader. ‘They taste of salt,’ he said. A hissing staccato sound came from the other warriors, which Barin took to be a form of laughter. Yordis had been a dear friend, but the farmer was too shocked and frightened to feel despair at his parting. In that moment all he felt was relief that it was not him lying on the soft earth, with blood pooling beneath him.
The leader took Barin by the arm. ‘Mount your pony and follow us,’ he said. ‘We need to speak further.’
‘What of my friends?’ he asked.
The leader barked out an order, whereupon the warriors drew their serrated swords and closed in. The villagers tried to run, but the circle of horsemen hemmed them in and they died screaming. Within the space of a few heartbeats all the villagers were slain, the grass stained red by their blood.
Barin stood by, mesmerized by the slaughter. ‘We meant you no harm,’ he said. ‘They are . . . were . . . peaceful people.’
The leader loomed above him, his huge dark eyes staring down unblinking. ‘They were nothing, for they were not strong.’
It took Barin three attempts to mount his gelding, his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. The leader stepped into the saddle of his enormous stallion. Around him the
Daroth warriors were dismounting; they ran to the bodies and began to strip away the clothes.
‘Your friends’ lives will not be completely wasted,’ said the leader. ‘Salt flesh is a great delicacy.’
Chapter Five
Duvodas was troubled. Eyes closed, he stroked the harp strings, sending out a fluted ripple of notes. ‘That is very pretty,’ said Shira.
‘It is wrong,’ he said, opening his eyes and looking at the girl. Dressed in a skirt of russet brown and a blouse of cream-coloured wool, she was sitting on the round wall of the well. Putting aside his harp, Duvodas walked to her and kissed her cheek. ‘I am not good company today,’ he told her.
‘You are always good company, Duvo. And what do you mean, it is wrong? What is wrong?’
‘I don’t know – exactly. I saw a painting once of three women on a castle wall, staring down over the sea. I remembered it for years. But when I saw it again one of the women was wearing a green dress, though I had remembered it as blue. Suddenly the picture looked wrong to me, as if an artist had changed it.’ He paused, then returned to his harp. Balancing it to his hip, he played the chorus notes of the Love Song of Bual. When he had finished, Shira clapped her hands. ‘I love that,’ she said. ‘You played it the first night you were here.’
‘Not like that,’ he told her. ‘The music has changed.’
‘How can music change?’
He smiled. ‘I draw my music from the magic of the land. Either the magic has changed, or my ability to
channel it has altered. The first time you heard the love song you wept. Tears of happiness. That is the magic of Bual. But you did not weep today. The magic touched you differently. Your reaction is more of the mind than the heart.’
‘Perhaps that is because it is no longer new to me,’ she suggested.