Prologue ( title of work in progress!)

This is a prologue to a longer piece of writing I am working on, I haven't yet come up with a title unfortunately

Prologue

Robert’s legs were hurting. Sharp stones had put holes in his great boots and in his feet too, but he wouldn’t give the two men either side of him the satisfaction of seeing him limp. The track was growing rougher by the minute and Robert could see that in the distance it petered out to no more than a dark imprint on the grass. Usually this wouldn’t be a problem. Only last week he had boasted whilst in his cups that he knew this land better than any man alive.

“Better than the lines on my own hand!” He’d roared, slopping ale down his front “And I’d like to see the man who could beat that hand when it has hold of steel!”

Robert tried not to think about that now. Rather he concentrated on his surroundings, took careful note of the dead tree they stopped at and the waters where they filled their skins. It was further north than he had been before, and he thought perhaps that was why the ferns grew a little wilder and the heather a more vivid purple. Sheep still scattered the hills though. Wherever you went there were sheep.

He had tried asking where they were going, but all it had earned him was a dirk against his ribs and a few terrifying moments when he thought that the Grayhams would run him through there and then and be damned to their own lad in the hands of his kin. They did not, of course, do any such thing. Instead he was marched wearily on, and all the while the sun sank lower behind the burnished hills.

It was only when the ground beneath his feet began to rise and keep on rising so that soon he was gasping for breath, that he realised where he was headed. Darkness had almost fallen so it was hard to be sure, but Robert thought that he could just about make out the top of the incline, and the shadows that guarded it. Soon, his suspicions were confirmed. Crannog Pass – feared by travellers in daylight, never mind the long, cold nights that settled over these hills. Either side dropped down into a steep gully and the single path that ran along the ridge was treacherously thin, framed by the two Staines that gave the pass its name - the Crannogs. Almost as tall as a man, but twice as wide - built from rocks as sharp as a north-wife’s tongue, and far less forgiving. Despite himself, Robert shivered. His Nan used to tell tales of ancient sacrifices, that the great mounds of stone were splashed with the blood of innocents to appease some old god over a thousand years ago.

“Nonsense.” His father had snorted. “Nothing survives a thousand years up here, least of all a precarious pile of pebbles.” Even so, they were a grim sight and as he drew closer Robert sketched a quick cross in the air, as best he could with his hands tied. The moon was riding high now and all about the sky shy stars were beginning to show their faces. The light cast long shadows on the ground.

Suddenly, one of them rose up and became a man, his face hidden by a hood. Two strides and he was upon them and Robert saw from beneath the cloak a proud, jutting chin and nose – Guy. The young man showed no fear as he faced the Grayhams, all of whom had unsheathed their weapons and were directing them at his heart.

“Robert.” It was a statement, not a greeting. As Guy pushed back his hood it became clear there was no more warmth in his eyes than his voice. He turned back to Robert’s captors.

“He’s up there.” He jerked his head at the taller of the two Crannogs.

“How many with?” It was the burliest of the lot that spoke, but he was hoarse and Robert noticed that he licked his lips repeatedly as the taller man stared at him.

“Four.” Came the reply. “As was agreed.” Guy’s sharp gaze took in all six Grayhams.

They shuffled their feet.

Abruptly, he turned away. “Follow me.”

As they neared the Staine, Robert found himself wishing that it had been anyone else who had come to his rescue. He thought he would even have preferred his mother (god rest her soul) and her iron fist, to Guy. He didn’t know if it was the polite but disdainful manner with which he carried himself, or the way his eyes sometimes looked in the half light – beetling and brutal – there was just something about him that set Robert’s teeth on edge.

Technically, Guy had been speaking the truth when he had said that there were four men standing at the summit, but any fool could see that the brutes were more than a match for the Grayhams, who seemed to be physically quaking in their boots. Robert could not blame them, though he noted wryly that the men looked no happier to see him. Come to think of it, he didn’t actually recognise them, but his village was not small and it was hard to file every face to memory. Still, he didn’t think he would have forgotten these men. They were tall, and built like oaks with broad chests and arms that looked used to swinging the large swords they wore at their sides. An ugly lot, Robert noted. They didn’t say anything, just stood strong and silent, with Guy a little ahead of them, his black cloak rippling in the wind. Robert was pushed forward, though his hands were still tied and one man kept a hold on the rope.

“Here he is. Now, where’s our Grant?” It was the bravest of the Grayhams that spoke, after a long pause. Robert had been wondering that himself, and turned to look at Guy. For an answer, the man nodded at the four giants. Confused, he craned his neck, wondered if they were hiding the lad in their pockets. But then they stepped aside and he felt his stomach lurch inside him.

He was tied to the Staine. A thick rope bound his arms and legs, stretching all the way around the huge pillar. The boy’s head lolled forward, but what he could see of it was pale…too pale. And then Robert noticed the knife in his chest. Everything seemed to happen at once then. The Grayhams gave gasps of horror and outrage, hands flying to sword hilts, while he turned his head and vomited onto the ground. Silver flashed as men rushed forward and were met by the blades of Guy’s men. Robert’s captors quickly abandoned him to join the fray, and he stumbled, falling to his knees. They were quicker, the Grayhams, and they outnumbered their opponents six to four, but it soon became all too clear that speed would not be enough. He watched as one thug brushed away a sword as if swatting a fly, before dealing its owner such a blow to the head with his own that the top of the man’s skull was swiped clean off, spraying all around with blood. Robert had nothing left inside to heave up. Two more Grayhams were finished off by another, their stomachs slashed open and their insides spilling out. Robert edged backwards, wishing he had freedom for his hands. Questions bounced around inside his head – What? Why? An unspoken law had been broken here tonight. Oh sheep were stolen, cattle were rustled – even the odd village was raided, the inhabitants robbed of their valuables and the girls of their maidenhoods, but no-one was killed. It just wasn’t done! Prisoners were taken and exchanged, perhaps the odd threat would be made, but no-one died. And to tie the poor lad up like that, as if he was some sacrifice…There would be blood for this, Robert knew. The Grayhams would want revenge for Grant and they would come in their thousands, streaming down the hills as they did so many centuries ago, when the world was younger and more wars were fought. He couldn’t believe that this was Old Robesham’s work. The chief was a hard man, but never cruel and his sense of justice was legendary. There was no way he would endanger the safety of his people in this way. No, Robert thought, this had something to do with Guy.

Where was Guy? He could not see him anywhere, had he slunk away when the fighting had begun? Robert had always had him down as a coward. He edged even further backwards, hoping that if he kept low he would not be seen. There was only one Grayham left now, the boldest of the lot who had negotiated with Guy. He was backed up almost to the Staine, almost to where his murdered kin lay. His sword moved like lightning, but the four men were closing in. Still he fought, twisting and turning this way and that. A brave man, Robert thought, but soon to be a dead one. I should get out of here while I still can. Old Robesham would need to hear of this. He was just pushing himself to his feet, unsteady without his arms held out for balance, when he felt a hand at his throat. He froze.

“Tell your maker.” Guy hissed behind him. “That the Old Gods are back! And this time, they are here to stay.”

The last thing Robert saw was the Grayham fall beneath the giants’ great swords, perfectly silhouetted against the skyline, before he felt cold steel slide into his back.