A rustling in the undergrowth startled Ynyr.Two of those with him went to investigate, and returned with a figure supported between them.Lynog, the dark-furred youngster, bleeding from a blow to the head.
‘What is this?’Ynyr demanded of them.‘What has happened?’
Lynog peered up at him, one eye swollen shut beneath her wound, the other blinking against a trickle of blood.‘Barwon rounded on me… I’m sorry, Ynyr.’
Ice settled in Ynyr’s bones.He swept his gaze across Abal’s party, near now, so that their features might be discerned even by his tired, ageing eyes.Warriors, all, with spears and bows in hand.Abal himself carried a stranger weapon still—something like a hammer, its shaft formed from three braided strands of red crystal that twisted into a gnarled head.
Two thoughts settled at once.
They should signal the retreat, flee this farcical parley and Barwon’s treachery.
They must stay, to see this through, else Abal’s army would surely fall upon the Greenwood in a fury.
‘If the gods yet hear us,’ Ynyr whispered, daring still to hope that words might solve this without need for the sword, ‘may they touch the heart of the would-be king, and balance his ambition with compassion.’
A flimsy prayer, but there was no choice.To flee now would invite pursuit.He cursed his own naive belief in the honesty of men, even his enemies.He now only hoped that those who had hidden in the forest valley might escape, to prepare the Greenwood for the savagery to come.Its people might, at the very least, fade into the shadows of the forest and preserve some echo of what they had tried to build in Glascoed.
‘Can you stand, lass?’Ynyr asked Lynog.The hunter nodded.One of the other warriors handed her a bow, which she leaned on to keep her feet.
Abal and his twenty men-at-arms crested the hill, all on horseback.The clouds drifted from the path of the sun.Light glinted on the edges of spears, the rings of mail, the planes of helms and breastplates.The strange crystal hammer shone like a shard of fire.
One of the men-at-arms blew a trumpet.‘His Majesty King Abal of Parwys, Forgard and Cilbran,’ the trumpeter announced.‘Protector of the Westlands.Shield against the Rime.Master of the Tree and Chosen of the Old Stones.He who is armed with Thunder!’
From beneath a raised visor like a snarling bear, Abal studied Ynyr.Ynyr’s heart fell.He had treated with many men, and knew this kind of face.There was nothing open in it.No interest in the minds or thoughts of others.No willingness to see the other side of a problem, to solve it by cooperation and compromise.Only a hard certainty and brutal determination.One could more likely carve a stone by blowing on it as convince such a man of an idea he did not already believe.
‘Which of you is Ynyr of Glascoed?’the trumpeter demanded.
An emptiness had settled in Ynyr.Only the faintest candle of hope yet burned that his words might have any effect.His hands itched for Barwon’s neck, to squeeze the air from the traitorous fool.
‘I am Ynyr,’ he said, and nudged his rouncy forward a step.‘We have come, at your invitation, to parley.’
Abal studied him, his eyes lingering on Ynyr’s antlers.‘You seem every bit the warrior your reputation would mark you.From respect for what you have done against the fae of the Greenwood, I offer you this chance to surrender.Kneel to me, swear fealty, render your kingdom subordinate to mine, and I will grant you continued rule of it as Count of Glascoed on my behalf.’
Ynyr rankled at every word.He wanted to spit in the bastard’s eye, to tell him there were no kings in the Greenwood and never would be.Yet he could see in his expression that Abal wanted Ynyr to refuse.Wanted to bring Glascoed to heel at the edge of a blade, as he had conquered Forgard.This parley was some kind of performance.A gesture of peace to dilute his brutality.To make it seem that his hand had been forced to reach for violence.
‘Well?’Abal demanded.‘What say you, Ynyr?’
‘What would be the terms?’Ynyr asked.The village councils had begrudgingly agreed to pay certain quantities of tribute, if they might buy peace.
Abal barked laughter.‘Does the son negotiate terms with his father?But you are unused to civilised ways, and I must educate you.I will be your king, and you will be my subject, sworn to serve me as I will.You will owe me hospitality as I request it, warriors as I require them, and the fifth share of all the produce of your lands.Most vitally, you will dispense justice in my name according to the law of my will.’
The fifth share… twice as much as the councils had decided to offer in tribute.Far more than some of the villages could afford to pay.But what was there to do?Abal did not seem willing to yield any of his demands.
As Ynyr considered his answer—and whether it might not be best to lie, however it might disgust him, to buy time to find a path out from under Abal’s power—a figure on a black courser emerged from the trees at the base of hill and joined with the bulk of Abal’s forces.Barwon.There was some discussion, then the lad rode hard for the top of the hill.
‘I agree,’ Ynyr snarled.He swung his leg over his saddle and dropped to the ground and waved at the dozen warriors with him to do the same.‘Gods bleed us all, we will kneel.’
Ynyr went to his knees and dipped his head, peering up at the king through the tufts of his brows.
Abal, too, dismounted.He regarded Ynyr and those kneeling behind him with a twisted smile, as though he had bitten into a sweet fruit with a bitter aftertaste.‘You swear, then, to serve me loyally as the Count of Glascoed, obeying my will and command?’
‘I swear it.’Ynyr spat the words.He hated them, but he spoke them true.For now, at least, until he found a way to shrug off the yoke he knelt to receive.
Abal brought down his hammer, letting its twisted head settle on Ynyr’s left shoulder, then his right.‘Then I accept your submission and service.Rise, Ynyr, Count of Glascoed, the Greenwood, and its attendant territories.’
‘Wait!’Barwon reined in his courser, whose flanks heaved from the uphill sprint.‘They have laid a trap!’
Ynyr wanted to bolt to his feet, but the head of Abal’s hammer still rested on his shoulder.The king snarled down at him.
