Bridge of Swords Read online

  He scraped his boots once more, this time almost revealing the rich brown leather, then stepped inside.

  It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the smoke that filled the room. While his eyes were adjusting, he did not think his nose would ever get used to the assault. The smoke from the fire was actually a help, disguising unwashed bodies and clothes, dung, animals and cooking food, which seemed to coat the back of his throat. A dog snarled at him and he looked down to see a large, hairy animal crouched on the floor, eating what looked like a pile of vomit. It certainly smelled like it.

  Revolted, he blinked and looked around. This was not what he expected to find. How far had these humans regressed? Back home, a place like this would have a series of low couches, as well as statues and other artwork, beautiful rugs on the tiled floor and either tapestries or gorgeous murals on the plastered walls. A handful of elves would be talking politely, perhaps one would be playing a musical instrument or singing.

  Here, humans filled most of the room, jostled each other around a long table that was stacked high with barrels, crude mugs and horns, as well as a strange assortment of goods, from chickens to clothes to a small goat in a cage.

  The floor was filthy rushes, the walls bare yet stained with things he did not want to think about. The noise, the smells, were overwhelming. If not for Mai and Cheijun and, admittedly, the rain, he would have walked away.

  The closest humans stared at him with a mixture of curiosity and animosity. All wore crude tunics and trews, some of them bright in colour but uniformly stained with mud and worse. They had long, dark hair and matching beards, although several of the older ones were going bald.

  ‘Welcome to my hall,’ a voice boomed, the same voice that had invited him in. This man, who had a huge beard, stood behind the table, from where he and a young woman handed out mugs of strange-looking drink and plates of stranger-looking food to other humans.

  He pushed his way across to them. Time was wasting. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘Why, you’re in Pontypridd, the most easterly village in the whole of Vales, the most southerly in Gwent — and one of the finest!’ The man grinned, showing blackened teeth through his thick beard. ‘I am Vernin, headman of the village.’

  The words washed over him, meaning nothing. Instead he found himself staring at Vernin’s face, fascinated by the man’s long nose and large eyes, as well as his reddened ears that stuck out proudly either side of his beard.

  Vernin carefully wiped out one of the wooden tankards with a grubby cloth then filled it with a brown liquid from a large barrel.

  ‘Try this. My finest ale. It’ll drive out the cold,’ Vernin offered.

  He inspected the filthy tankard doubtfully. ‘Thank you. I am not thirsty,’ he said carefully. ‘Instead, I have questions for you …’

  Vernin chuckled. ‘Questions? I don’t have time for questions! I have two performers, all the way from the court of King Ward of Forland himself, and a huge crowd wanting food and drink! How about that, eh? No wonder people from all over have come here, wearing their best clothes.’

  Sendatsu looked around at the humans. Most had long tunics and some sort of woollen leggings. Everything seemed ill-fitting and baggy. There were colours but they were patchy and faded, while mud seemed to have stained everything. He hoped it was mud. He pulled the cloak around him a little tighter, to hide the fine dark blue cotton hakama trousers and kimono top he was wearing.

  ‘But I need to talk to anyone around here who knows about elves and magic …’

  ‘Listen to the show — I reckon you’ll hear all you need to then,’ Vernin promised.

  Relief flooded through Sendatsu. This was perfect! With any luck, he could be back home before he even knew it.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Oh, they’ll be out soon,’ Vernin said. ‘Show me the colour of your coin and you can eat and drink while you wait.’

  Sendatsu would normally have refused — he could not imagine anything cooked in this place would give him anything other than the need to vomit. But the thought of finishing his quest so quickly made him want to indulge this strange human. He felt in his belt pouch — below the toys was a handful of coins and he slapped one on the table.

  ‘Gold!’ Vernin whispered reverentially. ‘Haven’t seen that in a year! You can have something special for that!’

  He hurried away, going through a rough curtain into a back room.

  ‘Where are you from?’ a human with just two fingers on his left hand asked.

  Sendatsu thought it would be best not to mention he was an elf. After all, these humans had not seen one for centuries.

  ‘Nowhere you’ve been,’ he said evasively.

  ‘I asked an honest question. The least you can do is give me an answer,’ the man growled, straightening up from where he leaned on the table.

  ‘Now that’s enough — I want no fighting in my hall, especially not this night!’ Vernin bustled back, bearing a small barrel and a plate of strange-smelling food.

  ‘What is this?’ Sendatsu asked as the two-fingered man subsided back into his drink.

  ‘This is the finest honey mead, all the way from Powys.’ Vernin poured some into a horn.

  Sendatsu had no idea what mead was, or where Powys was. But it felt like everyone was watching and the height of bad manners not to drink. Besides, the liquid smelled sweet; his nose recognised honey, which was the first familiar thing. He took a sip. It tasted like honeyed water but, when he swallowed, it first tingled his tongue, burned down his throat and then sent warmth to his stomach and out beyond. He tried it again, amazed at the effect, and felt the tension slip away from his muscles, while his head felt light and even the smell seemed to lessen.

  ‘Good, eh?’ Vernin grinned and he found himself smiling in return, holding out the horn for more.

  ‘Try this. Bacon, fattened on acorns in the woods, and eggs laid this morning.’

  The eggs, golden and mostly white, he instantly recognised but the thin slices of something pink and brown were a mystery.

  ‘Bacon? What is that? I’ve never heard of a fish like that.’ Sendatsu was intrigued. Where was the rice? Where were the vegetables? Was bacon perhaps the human word for some sort of shellfish? Surely it was not octopus. He picked up a strip, heedless of the heat and bit into it. The sensation on his tongue, the initial crunch, then the chewiness, the salty-sweetness and smoky flavour, burst into his mouth and he almost gasped aloud.

  ‘Is bacon a fish? Skies above, where are you from? Bacon comes from pigs!’ Vernin chuckled.

  Sendatsu choked on his mouthful. ‘Pigs? Like wild boar? You mean I am eating their flesh?’ he gasped.

  Vernin roared with laughter. ‘Stranger, surely you are having sport with me! Of course it is from pigs! Would you prefer some roast mutton? I have half a sheep on the spit …’

  ‘I think I’m going to spit.’ Sendatsu took a huge mouthful of the mead to wash his mouth out and then coughed as it burned the back of his throat.

  ‘Easy there — you’ll be face-down in the rushes before the show starts if you keep drinking like that.’ Vernin smiled.

  Sendatsu looked in the horn. ‘So what’s in this?’ he asked, dreading to think of the answer.

  ‘Well, that’s just fermented honey, to make you feel good.’

  ‘Fermented … this is alcohol?’ Sendatsu gulped. He knew the esemono drank a rice wine to dull their aches after a hard day of labour but none of the nobility would dream of befuddling their senses with alcohol, nor devouring the flesh of a beast. His head felt like it was spinning, while his stomach was heaving.

  ‘Do you want more?’ Vernin offered.

  ‘No, I’ve never drunk alcohol before, nor eaten animal flesh,’ he admitted.

  ‘No meat?’ Vernin’s eyebrows seemed to disappear into his hair. ‘What do you live on then?’

  ‘Rice and vegetables mainly, with fish,’ Sendatsu said weakly.

  ‘Skies above! I’ve never he
ard anything so revolting!’ Vernin gasped. ‘And what in the name of the night stars is rice?’

  Sendatsu did not think he could explain without vomiting. ‘Can I have some water and a plate of vegetables?’ he asked faintly.

  Vernin and the two-fingered man exchanged horrified looks. ‘Well, we have some turnips out the back that the pigs eat. Or I could put some pease pudding in the pot. It’ll be ready soon,’ Vernin offered.

  ‘Whatever. Just give me some water and let me sit down,’ Sendatsu groaned.

  ‘Go sit by the fire — they’ll be out soon,’ Vernin said.

  Sendatsu staggered through the crowd of humans until he found an empty wooden stool — just a sawn-off chunk of trunk really — close to the fire but, best of all, away from the main crush of humans. His head was spinning and he breathed deeply — then wished he hadn’t. A young woman pushed her way through the crowd towards him, holding a plate and wooden cup. She was wearing a purple, sack-like dress, tied at the shoulders, while her dark hair was braided and hung over her shoulder.

  ‘Here you go. Fresh turnips and water,’ she said flatly.

  Sendatsu looked at the wooden platter. She had placed two raw turnips on it, still with mud crusted on them. He hoped it was mud, for it looked like one of the pigs had taken a bite out of it already.

  ‘Just the water, thank you,’ he said, taking a deep draught. This would settle his stomach.

  ‘Are you sure this is water?’ he spat a moment later.

  ‘Fresh out of the well. There was a frog in the bucket …’

  ‘A frog?’ he croaked.

  ‘You are a strange one. Would you rather eat the frog? I hear the Breconians like such things …’

  ‘I shall just sit here,’ Sendatsu said hastily.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The young woman walked away, leaving Sendatsu to lean back against the wall and groan. He hoped the show would begin soon and he could find the answers he sought. The less time he spent here, in this mad human world, the better.

  4

  How did I come to be chosen by my forefathers? Why was I chosen by my forefathers? These are questions I have pondered many times in the past few moons — and none more so than now. What did they see in me that was missing in others? Unfortunately it was my own fault that I came to be chosen. I could see the forefathers were distracted, unaware of much that was going on in these lands. After all, when you are an immortal, the everyday happenings of rice production, of mine tallies, seemed unimportant. I was the one who suggested we have a Council, one from each of the twelve clans, who could supervise and then report back to the forefathers, as necessary.

  They thought it a wonderful idea — and then made me head of this new Council. My old friend Naibun jokingly referred to me as the Elder Elf because of this. It was a jest — but strangely I found the name stuck. I had a title but their respect was something else.

  ‘Do I look ready?’ Rhiannon asked, twirling around.

  Huw could not think of words suitable enough. Back in Ward’s castle, the king’s dressmakers had laboured night and day to create new dresses for Rhiannon. Most had been both impractical to wear and impossible to pack, so he had grabbed a handful at random. Rhiannon had chosen this one, a glorious strip of green linen, which stretched only to her knees and was split in a dozen places along the hem, so she could dance freely — but every time she moved, it revealed more of her legs. She had used the powders and berry stains to accent her lips and cheeks and eyes, and Huw could only gaze in admiration. Once again he was torn. She was so beautiful and yet he knew she just thought of him as a friend. In the first few days after they left Cridianton, she had been in such a mess, he could have persuaded her to do anything. So he had done nothing. He had tricked her out of Cridianton, he would not trick her into bed. He would not try anything until he could tell her the truth — although skies above knew when that would be.

  The whole thing seemed almost like one of the sagas he would sing. If it had not happened to him, he would have barely believed it.

  He had left his home in Vales, travelled south to the court of King Ward in far-off Cridianton and persuaded them he was a Forlishman called Hugh of Browns Brook and won the right to perform for the king. That was exciting enough but then he had fallen, head over heels, for a fellow performer, the beautiful but remote Rhiannon of Hamtun. Her father tried to keep her away from the rest of the court but Huw had been able to first perform with her, then talk with her — and finally sneak her out of the castle to see the city. He had learned there was a network of servants’ passages that guards and nobles never used and he had found his way through them.

  Then all had come crashing down when he discovered Ward was looking to enslave his people. He wanted to rush home but Rhiannon persuaded him to stay, just a little longer. He had, willingly, under her spell. Until the day he had sneaked into her room, found it empty — and overheard how she was to be sold off to the king. She would not believe it if he told her now. He barely believed it all himself. So it was easy to put off the day when he was forced to explain everything. Better yet, it allowed him to hope, and put off the day when he suspected she would simply reject him. After all, he knew he was not a worthy companion for her. He was only average height, with the typical Velsh dark hair and pale skin, a dark beard that would grow thick and curly if he let it, but kept it shaved in the Forlish way, using oil and a short blade to scrape the whiskers off each morning. It was a losing battle, for he always had a dark shadow about his jaw, but at least it stopped him from looking as though he was wearing a small bush beneath his face, like every other Velshman. His father, Earwen, had always told him he was handsome but the lack of interest from the Velsh girls made him think that was a lie. Of course, that could have also been because they all thought him a fool for dreaming to be a bard, not working to be a farmer. Still, he had a strong smile, with good teeth that he took care of every day — for his mouth would be his fortune. That meant avoiding bread, which often had scraps of rock inside from the grinding stones used to make flour. He also brushed them with green twigs and even salt, when he could get it. And his brown eyes could melt a room while he was singing, even if they did not melt the clothes off the village girls the way he daydreamed they might. He was slim, beneath the wide shoulders he had inherited from his father, for years of playing the lyre, rather than slaving away on the farm, had not added muscle to his frame. No, he was not the man Rhiannon deserved. The way she looked, she needed a hero, someone from one of his legends or saga stories, not the son of a farmer. But he could say none of that.

  ‘They will love you,’ he promised.

  Rhiannon smiled and nodded. ‘Then I am ready.’

  Huw stepped out first and stroked his lyre, a pure and high note that effectively silenced the room, people nudging each other to be quiet.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Direct from the court of King Ward himself! I present to you, Rhiannon of Hamtun!’ he bellowed. His voice made them all look, for it was a true Velsh voice, as rich and rolling as the hills themselves — even stranger because it came out of such an ordinary-looking man.

  Sendatsu sat up at the introduction. He even forgot the way his stomach was complaining. The voice was rich, powerful and smooth. This was what he had come here for. The young man walked among the crowd, playing a tune that was both familiar and strange to Sendatsu. It had echoes of songs he had heard before but, over the top, was something different, as if he was hearing two songs, not one — or perhaps half of each.

  The humans pushed back, creating space for the bard — and then all eyes switched from him to a young woman who sprang into the open area, spinning as she did so. Tall, lithe, dressed in a green linen dress that shone in the smoky hall — and showed off her long legs — she began to sing with the man, while her dancing …

  Sendatsu could not take his eyes off her. It transported him back to Dokuzen. The dancing was an imitation of the elven dances he had seen more times than he could remember. The human girl lacked pr
oper techniques, did not flow properly from one step to another, but she was a head taller than any elven girl he had seen, and the way she could extend her legs, could hold the poses, sing as well … surely these two would hold the answers he sought. He watched, entranced.

  Huw was both delighted and horrified to see every eye in the place fixed on Rhiannon as she danced. It was exactly the reception he had hoped. Although his eyes kept being drawn to a man by the wall to the left. There was something strange about him, the way he sat, the way he held himself — and the thin staff leaning next to him was also weird. His face was shadowed by a hood but the light from the fire kept flickering across his face and there was something about his eyes, a hunger in his expression, which sent a shiver down Huw’s spine.

  Finally the dance was over, and the hall erupted with cheers and applause. Huw let Rhiannon take the bows, then began to play again, traditional Velsh tunes all knew, everything from lullabies to tales of Velsh heroes past. He had taught several of these to Rhiannon in the afternoon, so she often joined in — as did many of the audience, although, as Huw watched, not the strange man to their left.

  Finally he finished, letting the last note trail off into the distance.

  ‘Men and women of Vales,’ he began. ‘I have an important story to tell.’

  The drinking had died down and while a few were still more interested in Rhiannon’s legs than what he was saying, he was confident he had the room in the palm of his hand.

  ‘As I said, we have come direct from the court of King Ward, where I, Huw of Patcham, was the first Velshman to play for the Forlish king!’ he could not resist saying.

  He paused and the expected applause came.

  ‘But I have returned home because of what I learned there … the Forlish king seeks to conquer Vales. He looks at our freedom, at the way we live our lives, and he wants to rule us. But he is not sending his armies north — because they are too busy down south, trying to destroy the other countries there. No, instead he plans something far worse. He will send several hundred of his most vicious soldiers here, to raid, to burn, to rape and to kill. He thinks to terrify us, to force us to bend the knee to him. He thinks we shall happily exchange our freedom for his tyranny, in order to save our wives and children …’