On the morning of the fourth day, as they breasted a small hill above thick woods, Serbitar held up a hand to halt the column.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Rek, drawing alongside.
‘I have lost contact with Menahem.’
Trouble?’
‘I don’t know. He could have been thrown from his horse.’
‘Let us go and find out,’ said Rek, spurring the mare.
‘No!’ called Serbitar, but the horse was already on the move downhill and gathering speed. Rek tugged at the reins to bring the animal’s head up, then leaned back in the saddle as the beast slithered to the foot of the hill. Once more on firm ground Rek glanced about him. Amongst the trees he could see Menahem’s grey standing with head down, and beyond the warrior himself lying face down on the grass. Rek cantered the mare towards him, but as he passed under the first tree a whisper of movement alerted him and he flung himself from his saddle as a man leapt from the branches. Rek landed on his side, rolled and regained his feet, dragging his sword free of its scabbard. His attacker was joined by two others, all wore the flowing white robes of the Sathuli.
Rek backed towards the fallen Menahem and glanced down. The warrior’s head was bleeding at the temple. Slingshot, Rek realised, but had no chance to check if the priest was still alive. Other Sathuli now crept from the undergrowth, their broad tulwars and long knives in hand.
Slowly they advanced, grins splitting their dark, bearded features. Rek grinned back.
‘This is a good day to die,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you join me?’
He slid his right hand further up the hilt of his sword, making room for his left. This was no time for fancy sword-play; it would be hack and stand, two-handed. Once again he felt a strange sense of departure that heralded the baresark rage. This time he welcomed it.
With an ear-piercing scream he attacked them all, slashing through the throat of the first man as his mouth opened in astonishment. Then he was among them, his blade a whistling arc of bright light and crimson death. Momentarily stunned by his assault they fell back, then leapt forward again screaming their own war cries. More tribesmen burst from the undergrowth behind him as the thunder of hooves was heard.
Rek was not aware of the arrival of The Thirty. He parried a blow and back-handed his blade across the face of his assailant, stepping over the corpse to engage yet another tribesman.
Serbitar fought in vain to establish a defensive ring that could include Rek. His slender blade swept out, kissing and killing with surgical precision. Even Vintar, the oldest and least capable swordsman, found little difficulty in slaying the Sathuli warriors. Savage as they were, they were untutored in fencing skills, relying on ferocity, fearlessness and weight of numbers to wear down a foe. And this tactic would work again, Vintar knew, for they were outnumbered perhaps four to one with no avenue of retreat open to them.
The clash of steel on steel and the cries of the wounded echoed in the small clearing. Virae, cut across the upper arm, disembowelled one man and ducked beneath a slashing tulwar as a new attacker stormed in. Tall Antaheim stepped forward to block a second slash. Arbedark moved through the battle like a dancer; a short sword in each hand, he choreographed death and destruction like a silver ghost of elder legends.
Rek’s anger grew. Was it all for this? Meeting Virae, coming to terms with his fears, taking the mantle of Earl? All so that he could die on a tribesman’s tulwar in an unnamed wood? He hammered his blade through the clumsy guard of the Sathuli before him, then kicked the falling corpse into the path of a new attacker.
‘Enough!’ he yelled suddenly, his voice ringing through the trees. ‘Put up your swords, all of you!’ The Thirty obeyed instantly, stepping back and forming a ring of steel about the fallen Menahem, leaving Rek standing alone. The Sathuli slowly lowered their swords, glancing nervously one to another.
All battles, as they knew, followed the same pattern: fight and win, fight and die or fight and run. There was no other way. But the tall one’s words were spoken with power and his voice held them momentarily.