Then he looked up and saw the Nadren at the edge of the undergrowth. One man held a bow, his mouth open in surprise. There were seven men in all – four of them with bandaged wounds to head or arms. All were standing silently, gazing at the swordsman.
Kiall stood frozen in terror, his mind racing.
That was a pretty trick,’ said one of the newcomers -a short, stocky man, with a black and silver beard. ‘I have never seen an arrow cut in flight, nor believed any man could move so swiftly.’
Kiall glanced once more at the arrow and took a deep breath. ‘I was wondering when you would show yourselves,’ he said, surprised that his voice was smooth and even.
‘I did not tell him to shoot,’ said the Nadren leader.
‘It does not concern me,’ replied Kiall loftily. ‘What do you want here?’
‘Food. That’s all.’ He saw the man’s eyes flicker to his right and glanced back. Maggrig now stood in the door of the cabin with his bow in his hands, an arrow notched to the string. An uneasy silence developed. The Nadren were tense, hands on their weapons.
One warrior eased himself alongside the leader and whispered something Kiall could not hear. The leader nodded; he looked at Kiall.
‘You were one of the swordsmen back in the town. You were with the tall one – the ice warrior.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Kiall. ‘It was quite a battle, was it not?”
‘He cut us to pieces. I have never seen the like.’
‘He is quite skilled,’ said Kiall, ‘but a hard taskmaster for a student like myself.’
‘He is your Swordmaster?’
‘Yes. It would be hard to find a better.’
‘I can see now why you find it so easy to cut an arrow from the air.’ The Nadren spread his hands. ‘However, since we must fight or starve, I think it is time we put your skills to the test.’ He drew his short sword from the leather scabbard at his hip.
‘Is this wise?’ asked Kiall. ‘There are four of you wounded. It does not seem much of a contest – and warriors should fight over something more valuable than a pot of broth.’
The man said nothing for a moment, then he smiled at Kiall. ‘You would allow us inside?’ he asked softly.
‘Of course,’ Kiall told him. ‘But naturally, as a token of good manners you would leave your weapons here.’
‘Ha! And what then would stop you from butchering us?’
‘What stops me now?” countered Kiall.
‘You are a cocky young snipe,’ snapped the leader. ‘But then I’ve seen you in action, and I guess you’ve reason to be.’ He slammed his sword back in its scabbard, loosened the buckle on his belt and dropped the weapon to the ground. The other Nadren followed his lead. ‘Now where is the broth?’ Kiall sheathed his blade and gestured towards the cabin. Maggrig stepped back inside. Kiall took a deep, slow breath, calming himself, then followed them.
At first the atmosphere within the cabin was tense. Maggrig sat back on the bed, honing a hunting-knife with long, rasping sweeps against a whetstone while Kiall ladled out the broth. It was undercooked, but the Nadren wolfed it down. One of the men seemed weaker than the others. He had a wound to the shoulder; it was heavily bandaged, yet still blood seeped from it steadily. Kiall moved to him. ‘Let me see that,’ he said. The Nadren did not complain as Kiall gently unravelled the bandage. The flesh was sliced back, the cut angry and swollen. Kiall replaced the bandage and took herbs from his pack. Selecting the leaves he needed, he walked back to the man.
‘What is that?’ grunted the warrior. ‘It looks like a weed.’
‘It has many names,’ Kiall told him. ‘Mostly it is called Fat Hen. It is used to feed chickens.’
‘Well, I’m no chicken!’
‘It also heals festering wounds. But it is your choice.’
‘You are a surgeon, too?’ asked the leader.
‘A warrior needs to know of wounds, and ways of healing them,’ replied Kiall.
‘Let him do it,’ said the leader and the warrior settled back, but his dark, slanted eyes fixed to Kiall’s face and the young man felt the hatred in his stare. He pushed the flap of skin in place and stitched the wound, then he laid the leaves on top of it. Maggrig brought a section of linen for a new bandage, and this Kiall applied.