Shadowland

Chapter One – The End of a Day-2

'Pull yourself up… quick!'

'I can't…' he let out another scream, his breath coming in sobs and gasps as he struggled to hold on. 'It's got me, Cal. I can't…'

'Kick it!' yelled Cal, desperately trying to haul his friend to safety. There were several jerks as Usher kicked with his free leg and the wolf swung. Then came a high-pitched yelp as he managed to land a solid kick on the wolf's snout and it dropped away whining.

In the darkness, Usher scuttled up out of reach. He couldn't tell how badly he was hurt, but could feel that his leggings were torn and when he glanced down, could see a dark stain of sticky, wet blood, flowing down his leg. Below them, the wolves scrabbled at the tree in frustration, whimpering and occasionally growling softly.

'We have to get higher,' urged Usher, feeling above for another branch. They made their way upwards and as they did, the leaves thinned, the light improving slightly, and in the highest branches with the tree swaying under their weight, the night sky finally opened up to them. They could see the village. Too far away to call for help but still not much more than a stone's throw distant. People were strolling about and the glow of cooking fires cast a warm light between the huts where chickens pecked at the ground and a goat was calling plaintively for its kid; it all looked so inviting.

Usher shivered and tried to get more comfortable. 'We might be here for a while. I think those wolves are still down there.' He peered below through the shadows. There was nothing to see in the darkness, but he could still sense the movements. He glanced across at Cal. 'Thanks for helping me. If you hadn't pulled me up, that wolf would have gotten me for sure.'

Cal smiled at him and nodded, then stared into the village. Old Jonkey, the hunter, had finished his day and was coming home on the southern path. His bow was over his shoulder, a string of three fat ducks hung at his side. His hunting dog, an old flea-bitten hound that had long seen its better years accompanied him, its tongue lolling happily. The pair stopped to talk to someone the boys couldn't see and Jonkey handed over one of the ducks in exchange for a reed basket of vegetables.

'Jonkey!' shouted first Cal, and then Usher, trying to get the old hunter's attention. 'Jonkey, up here… Jonkey!' but the old man didn't as much as glance in their direction. With the various noises coming from closer in the village, it was obvious he couldn't hear them. They watched for a while as he chatted, then saw him turn abruptly as something caught his attention, then something strange happened. He dropped the ducks to the ground, brought up his bow and shot an arrow into the darkness of the trees. A moment later, as he was stringing another arrow, he fell to the ground clutching at his stomach with the old hound standing over him, hackles raised, barking angrily into the darkness.

Usher and Cal gazed transfixed as shadowy figures began to creep out of the forest into the light of the nearest fires. Warriors wearing rough leather kilts and loose-fitting shawls, their faces shadowed in a distinctive way that every village boy knew from fireside accounts to be painted blue.

'They're Picts,' hissed Usher, through clenched teeth, 'but they're meant to be way up in the north, what are they doing here in the village, so far south?'

The Picts began moving amongst the huts, breaking the calm of the night with howling war cries as, realising there were few warriors ready to confront them, they threw burning torches onto thatched roofs, driving the confused occupants shrieking outside, where they cut them down without thought or mercy. The fires spread quickly and the screams of the terrified villagers rose to join with the bloodlust-howls of the attacking warriors. It quickly deteriorated into a scene from some awful fevered nightmare.

'We have to get down there,' cried Cal, hysteria edging his voice. 'Those are our families!' He glanced below into the darkness, trying to decide if the wolves had gone but sounds of movement frustrated any question of descent. He grabbed at Usher's arm and began to sob.

'Usher, why are Picts attacking into the Weald? Surely, there must be a Roman villa to sack. Why an Iceni village? We have nothing!'

To sit in the tree, only able to watch their friends and family driven from their huts and murdered, was more than the boys could bear, but bear it they had to, as below them the wolves began to howl, confirming they were still trapped.

They watched as a young woman ran from a burning hut, her hair smoking from the intense heat, a baby clutched to her chest wrapped in a soft woollen fold. The woman was screaming hysterically, her baby wailing at being torn so rudely from its crib. As she ran, trying to find escape between the huts, two Picts saw her and gave chase. Catching up quickly they danced around her, hooting with glee as she continued to shriek, seeking desperately for some way to escape. With her baby clutched tightly, she kicked out, catching one of the Picts a glancing blow to the leg, which only increased their delight, then she tried to dash past. The closest Pict caught and spun her round. Both were shrieking, the woman in fear for her baby, which flew from her arms, and the Pict in excitement for the sport. Without warning, a spear took the Pict holding her throwing him back in a spray of blood. As he fell, the woman scrambled for her baby, picked it up, and dashed out of sight. The second Pict ignored the woman and ran towards the attackers that neither Usher nor Cal could see.

The round thatched huts of the village were burning fiercely now, flames and glowing embers clawing up at the cold night sky, dancing like great fire spirits celebrating their release from the depths of the earth to writhe in this orgy of madness. The roar of the blaze swept through the village moving from hut to hut, and then it began to spread into parts of the surrounding forest, illuminating every detail of the m******e and the warriors that delivered it.

Tears slid down Usher's cheeks, blurring his vision, but he wiped them away with a desperate need to witness every detail. The image of the Picts, screaming in an ecstasy of bloodletting as they chased down each fleeing villager would be, forever imprinted upon his mind.

A central figure directed the violence with a calm detached air from the back of a horse, almost as if he were overseeing the summer harvest rather than the annihilation of a people. He was dressed differently from the others, in black leather with a dark fur cloak draped across his shoulders. The horse tossed its head and one of its forelegs scrapped at the ground as if bored while the rider regarded the c*****e around him through the protection of a conical helmet with burnished side plates and nasal guard.

Cal noticed him first and quickly pointed him out to Usher. They screamed out threats and curses, but of course, the rider couldn't hear anything above the noise of the slaughter surrounding him. After a while, they stopped and lapsed into an angry silence, watching as the warrior took the nose guard and lifted his helmet in one swift motion to consider the activity about him. It gave them their first opportunity to look upon the face of their enemy.

'Remember that face. He is the man doing all this,' muttered Cal.

'Remember, him? I doubt I shall ever be able to forget him,' hissed back Usher.

Everything about the rider appeared black. He had long black hair, gathered at the side of his head in a warriors' knot, and eyes that were merely dark hollows within the shadows of his skull. More black hair grew upon his upper lip that he now stroked and teased while directing his men at their deadly harvest. Even the rider's horse was black, and appeared blessed by the same disregard for mindless violence as its master. It stood unflinching while flames licked close to its haunches.

Turning in the saddle, the rider snapped out an order in the strange Pict tongue, directing three warriors towards the west of the village where he had seen something. To the observers in the tree it appeared he would not be satisfied until the whole village had been destroyed, his Picts working like a pack of dogs, picking off each running figure as they fled for the trees. Each figure a person that was a friend, neighbour or family member to Usher and Cal.

The largest beams of the huts began to give way. Loud cracks and crashes rendered the air, sending embers and sparks high into the night sky in great sparkling clouds as what was left of the roofs collapsed and the walls caved in.

Then in one glorious moment, the boy's spirits rose as three village men and one of the women came into view swinging swords and spears before them. As a group, they began beating back several of the attackers, however, the stand was short-lived. When the rider in the centre saw the threat, he simply directed more men to come in and attack the defenders from behind and they were swiftly overwhelmed and butchered.

The longhouse was now the only building still standing. It was the largest hut, the meeting hall of the village council, and the home of Elder Borin Torney. Its thatch was still blazing fiercely, and parts had dropped down setting the interior alight, the flames reaching out through the small shuttered windows and past Borin who now lay dead in the open doorway.

The Picts gathered around their leader's horse and roared their approval as the great central beam of the house finally gave way and the whole building collapsed in on itself.

Their task complete, the black warrior turned his horse and led his party out of the village by the southern path, herding a small group of wailing children ahead of them, leaving only the smoking deathly remains of the empty village to the spirits of the night.

The boys watched as the group strode out of sight. They heard their laughter echo through the forest as the Picts celebrated their venture, not realising they had left the cold heart of vengeance behind them seething in the heights of an old oak tree.

The remainder of their night passed sitting in silence; cold, uncomfortable and deeply shocked by what they had witnessed. Tears of sorrow, frustration and a deep sadness aided their survival, coupled with a burning anger and need for revenge.

Tentatively lowering themselves from the tree in the pre-dawn glow, they were relieved to find that the wolves had gone and they were able to push through the trees and find the path.

Walking into the village was like re-entering a nightmare. As dawn first painted the sky to the east with fingers of orange light, Usher and Calvador sought out the burnt husks of their family homes and wept.

A few barely recognisable family possessions were scattered amongst the smouldering ashes, things that by some turn of fate, had not burned. Blackened, trodden into the dirt and ash of the path, were items of clothing, some pots, and the remains of the harvest spirit Usher's mother had made from twisted barley stalks. She had made it several weeks prior, twisting the stalks into the shape of a man-spirit with barley heads as hair and then hung it by the entrance to their hut in celebration of a good harvest. Many of the villagers had commented about how fine it was and Usher remembered his mother's pride, now it lay broken and trodden into the blackened ground.

Tears streamed down Usher's face as he gazed upon the desolation, his mind still unable to really grasp that this was once the home he had grown up in and that his mother and father were no more. Unable to find their bodies, and unwilling to search too far, he gathered a few things into his bag and, still walking in somewhat of a daze, went in search of Cal.

He found him kneeling with his back to him in the ruins of his former home. His shoulders were moving and although silent, Usher could tell he was sobbing. He was staring at the remains of the fire as it still burnt in what would have been the middle of the house with two blackened bodies lying close together at its centre. They must have been Cal's parents but were unrecognisable as anything once human. Usher laid a hand on his friend's shoulder.

'Come away, Cal. We'll get whoever did this, even if it takes forever. We'll find them all and make them pay.'

Cal's hand covered Usher's as he fought to bring his tears under control. 'I don't see Nineve's body, maybe she was one of the children they took with them. There were several, remember? We have to go after them.' He climbed to his feet and angrily wiped the tears from his eyes. 'Why, Usher? Why would anyone come up here and…' he looked around, unable to finish. Usher shook his head, finding no other response.

They picked their way through the village in silence, their minds numb, unable to comprehend what their eyes were telling them. In a half-hearted effort to do something, they collected a few things that they felt might be useful and called out in the hope that someone had survived the madness and would come running out from the woods, but their cries went unanswered by the cold darkness between the trees.

Picking up the trail of the warrior band, they headed south. Two boys consumed with thoughts of revenge, and the need to know why their world had shattered and burned.

* * *

The storyteller coughed and reached for the pewter mug at his side, then glanced across at the tear-streaked face of Calvador Craen. His friend was still lost in the past, back at that burnt-out village, so far away and so long ago, with the flames from that fire still flickering in his eyes after all these years. Usher felt a shiver as the memories of that day crowded his mind. He leaned forward and placed a hand on his friend's knee. 'Are you all right, Cal?'

Cal turned his head as if waking from a dream. 'Why does it all seem like yesterday? Why can I still hear the wolves and see our village dying?' He shook his head in wonder. 'And why can I never get that stink out of my nose?' Taking a deep breath, he waved Usher to continue, and then resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin on his hands, he returned to watching the fire.

Usher Vance took a fleeting look around the room at the silent faces, and then continued.