The Iron Grail by Robert Holdstock Read Free Book Online Page A

heard of it. It’s where those who die at peace cross to the Land of the Shadows of Heroes; to the islands. Yes, if we could learn how to block that ford…’
    Did the crow fly over him at that moment? If it did, I failed to see it.
    He spoke again with his grandchildren, then despatched them with the other horsemen back to the valley of the exiles. He and I then rode steadily along the river, keeping to cover, alert for sound and movement. The land was so still it might have been what the Greeklanders called the fields of Elysia, a bright, unspoilt place; or a land called eden , which would have existed during my own life, but which I had never found on my long travel, though I had heard tales of it.
    I became so lulled with the tranquillity and emptiness of this foray through the woodlands and sunny riverside meadows, that when the arrow came out of nowhere it was several moments before I realised what was happening.
    The weapon struck Ambaros squarely in the chest, piercing his bull’s-leather jacket, sending him tumbling back over the haunches of his horse. He crashed to the ground, doubled up, the shaft snapping. A second arrow thudded into my saddle, and a third struck my shoulder, but didn’t penetrate through my own protective clothing.
    I could hear the sound of horses, and gradually the eerie war cries of a skirmishing band. I opened my eyes—I should have done it before—and the tranquillity of the land fell away. And there, before us, was the ford, heavily guarded and very busy.
    In that moment I glimpsed the between-world.
    They had fortified the crossing, throwing up high banks of earth on each side of Nantosuelta, constructing towers and rings of the hewn trunks of trees, on each of which crouched a menacing figure, staring down at the approach from the land of the living. There was activity in the river herself, and a great bustle of ethereal figures, human and animal.
    From this hive of activity, two men were riding towards us, one with a fourth arrow nocked and ready to shoot, the other with a long spear held ready to throw. I waited for the arrow, but the horseman lowered the bow and drew his sword. Ambaros had risen to his feet and had his own light javelin ready, the other hand on the dreadful wound in his chest.
    I resorted to my own tricks of defence.
    The hawk that stooped and struck at the nearer of the ghost riders knocked him from the saddle. The other man charged down on Ambaros, who ducked below the sword blow and tripped the horse with his spear. Shadow warrior that he was, on our side of the river he was evidently vulnerable, and Ambaros pushed the point of his knife with finality into the gap between helmet and wood-scaled cuirass. A dead man died again. But he had left his world and he would have known the danger.
    It was only then that I realised how very like a Greekland helmet was the headgear of the fallen man; and on his shield: the image of Medusa.
    Ambaros struggled back into the saddle, groaning loudly. He kicked the horse to a gallop, clinging on for his life as he rode back the way he had come.
    I despatched the hawk, took a last look at the ford and the watchtowers that guarded it, curious and concerned by what I had seen, and followed the old warrior, away from danger.
    *   *   *
    The spirit boat had already gone, returning to the evergroves by Taurovinda, where she would wait either for me or for the return of Argo that the Three of Awful Boding had foreseen.
    Now Ambaros faced a two-day ride to the valley. He was obstinately redoubtable. ‘The breastbone is cracked,’ he announced airily, ‘but the heart still beats. If I ride carefully there will be no further damage.’
    He wouldn’t allow me access to the wound. Better to keep everything in place, he advised. The leather, the cloth, the bronze of the arrow, better not to move them until he could be properly attended to.
    ‘Are you in great pain?’ I asked him, thinking I could help ease it if he were.
    ‘Yes.