Thank the gods he missed.
The heavy horse, frightened by the sudden noise, reared, eyes wide. When the animal's front hooves slammed back to earth, the horse sprang into action, trotting towards Garx.
He jumped out of the way, landing on his shoulder and rolling to his feet, taking cover behind a nearby tree. He sheathed his sword. The horse swept past, closely followed by the wagon, creaking and groaning. Garx darted forward, clenched a grip on the back of the wagon and stepped up onto the rear tray. The wagon was empty. He ducked under the cream canvas flap of the canopy stretched over the rear tray in an arch the length of the vehicle.
Running in a crouch, he almost lost his balance when a wheel rolled into a pothole in the road. He righted himself and stopped at the front of the wagon. A sheet of canvas hanging from the roof, hid him from the driver. The man's voice called to the horse in soft tones, reassuring the animal, but ensuring he maintained the pace. Garx knelt and withdrew a knife. He reached out with care and pushed the canvas aside as quiet as possible. The driver sat on a bench directly in front of him. The forest whizzed by around them. But one wrong hoof fall, or a fracture in the axle, would send them careening off the road and into a tree. Sweat glistened upon the flanks of the heavy horse and still the driver pushed the animal on.
It won't keep this pace up for long.
Garx steadied himself, and then lunged. One arm snaked around the driver's face and pulled his head back, the other hand plunged the knife into his neck. The man tried to resist, attempted to break free of Garx's iron grip, cried out, and gathered his legs beneath him, but Garx held him firm. When the struggles weakened, Garx released his hold and pushed the dying driver over the edge. His body hit the ground sweeping by with a dull thud.
Garx stood, pushed the canvas sheet aside, stepped through and sat upon the driver's bench. Warm liquid imbued the fabric of his trousers and touched his skin beyond. He ignored it and picked up the reins, which had fallen onto the hitching bar below. He pulled on the reins, released the pressure, and pulled back for a second time. He clicked at the animal.
“Whoa down there, boy. Steady.” He pulled back for a third time. “Steady there.”
The animal, winded and exhausted, slowed to a walk and eventually stopped altogether. Garx engaged the wheel brake and jumped down. He strode to the animal and smoothed down the fur of its face with an open palm. “Relax, my lad, nothing to worry about now.”
The thunder of many hooves upon the road grew in volume, but Garx continued speaking in a hushed voice to the resting horse. The group of cavalry came into view on either side of the wagon and halted nearby, Rone leading them.
The Death Rider grinned. “You led us on a merry chase!”
He shrugged, thought about the words he wanted to speak and switched to the Wendurlund language. “Didn't think the stupid bastard would actually pull the trigger.”
Rone chuckled and leaned forward, resting an arm on the pommel of his saddle. “Those things are useless. I'd be surprised if they hit anything even at point blank range. Sure do make a bang though.”
“They sure do.” He patted the animal's flank. “Don't they, boy?”
The horse took a deep breath and snorted, speckles of wet snot setting upon Garx's face. “Charming.” He wiped his beard with the back of a hand. “Shall we get organised?”
Rone nodded, the grin disappearing.
Garx switched back to the Huronian tongue. “Let's go! Get rid of that driver's body. You know what to do.”
* * *
Garx had ordered his soldiers to hide the wagon at the edge of the road. The heavy horse had been disconnected and joined the cavalry herd. There'd been some bickering amongst the animals as the newcomer learned his rank in the pecking order, but within the hour they were settled, grazing in the large temporary paddock deeper in the forest set out by a group of soldiers. The boundary was created with string and patrolled by five cavalrymen. Most of the horses kept within the limits of the paddock, but there were a couple who liked to jump and explore, hence the guards patrolling the paddock perimetre.
Garx sat, back against a tree, chewing on a piece of grass and staring idly at the patches of sky visible beyond the canopy. There was an eagle up there soaring high above. He caught glimpses of it between branches and boughs. It disappeared behind clumps of leaves. Visible for a fleeting moment and then gone again. Such a powerful, graceful animal and when required a merciless killer. A boot crunched upon a twig behind him and a hand touched his shoulder. He lurched, startled from his thoughts. He spat the glob of grass out and noticed Rone crouched beside him.
The man moves like a ghost!
“There's a wagon heading down the road towards us.”
“Heading to Lisfort?”
Rone nodded and stood.
Garx rose to his feet and followed the King's Own warrior. The road was perhaps one hundred yards to their front. Rone'd been lying in wait, watching for any supply wagons. They brushed past a few saplings and stepped over thick roots protruding through the leaf litter. The road appeared through the forest, and Garx stopped, crouching beside a thick bush.
Rone pointed to their left. “Coming from that direction.”
He remained silent, ears taking in the natural noises of the forest. Insects buzzed overhead, others clicked and chattered to each other in high-pitched pops. Tiny birds scudded around the canopy twittering to one another while lizards and beetles scurried through the leaf litter.
“You hear that?”
“What the birds and bloody ear-piercing insects?”
Rone chuckled, teeth flashing beneath his beard. “Wait for it,” he whispered.
The muscle of Garx's thigh burned. He shifted his weight onto his opposite leg. It was only then he noticed several of his soldiers kneeling or squatting in the forest behind logs or shrubs on the opposite edge of the road. One of them nodded at him.
He returned his focus to the road. “Nope, all I'm getting is insects assaulting my ears.”
“Patience.” Then Rone glanced at him, humour glinting in his eyes. “Are you sure you're not becoming deaf?”
A clop-clop, ever so faint drifted to him. Then the soft, wooden creak of the wagon swaying upon its axles. The gentle rumble of the wheel turning upon the road.
His brow relaxed. “I hear it.” He shifted his weight again. “Want me to stand in the road again and bring him to a halt.”
Rone smirked. “Didn't work too well last time, Garx. Didn't really matter when the wagon was heading away from the battle. But if this driver makes a break, he's heading towards the fight. If he gets way, he'll spread the word, and we'll have a hunting force on us before we can sneeze.”
“True. So, what do you want me to do?”
Rone patted his shoulder. “You sit here and relax.” The Death Rider grinned and moved away in a crouch towards the growing wagon sounds.
Garx grunted and shifted closer to the bush. Through the narrow gaps in the shrub, the wagon came into view around a distant bend. This vehicle moved much slower than its predecessor, hinting at the load the animal hauled. His stomach rumbled.
Hope there's some fresh food on board.
The driver sat relaxed upon the bench just behind the horse. He held the long reins in one hand, while the other relaxed upon a knee. The man was not suspicious or nervous in the slightest. Closer the wagon came, near enough the whites of the driver's eyes shone from beneath his short-brimmed hat.
Garx shuffled back from the road with slow, deliberate movements, ensuring he remained behind the thick bush. Soon, the wagon would pass them, the opportunity lost.
What in hells is Rone doing?
He glanced across the road, but his soldiers had gone to ground. Invisible. Garx returned his attention to the wagon. The driver clicked at the horse and offered a few soft words of encouragement. Movement in Garx's peripheral vision caught his attention. Rone sprinted out of cover, leapt onto the driver's bench and delivered a powerful kick to the man's mi
driff, which lifted him clear of the bench. He sailed through the air and landed on the far side of the wagon. One of Garx's men dashed out of cover and finished the man struggling to his feet with a powerful sword thrust.
Rone pulled back on the reins, slowing the animal to a halt and applied the wheel brake. He looked at Garx and winked.
Smart arse.
The driver's body was dragged from the road and stripped of his clothes. The horse was coaxed to tow the wagon off the road and out of sight. Rone parked it alongside the first wagon. Then the soldiers opened the rear canvas flap and inspected the contents of the supplies.
Garx stood, leaning against the wooden tailgate peering in at the pair of soldiers rummaging through boxes and ripping open hessian sacks.
“Any food?”
The soldiers paused and looked at their commander, grins splitting their faces. “It's all food, sir. Fresh bloody food.”
“Thank the gods. Crack open a set of rations and let's eat our fill before we head on our way. It may be the last meal we eat in a while.”
One of the soldiers threw a box towards the tailgate with a grunt. “Might be it's the last meal we ever eat, sir.”
He lifted the box down and dumped it on the ground. “Where we're going, quite possibly.”
* * *
Garx was the last to step up onto the tray of the wagon. He sat, eight soldiers at his back. He nodded at Rone standing outside looking up at him.
The King's Own warrior lifted a few boxes of supplies into place on the very rear of the tray, hiding the soldiers from view and making it look like the wagon was fully loaded with supplies. The view out the rear of the wagon disappeared behind crates, boxes and baskets of root vegetables not prone to fast perishing. Then he heard the canvas flap pulled down and tied in place.
Rone would then move onto the next wagon and secure a similar group of Huronian soldiers. For all the army would know, two supply wagons were making entrance into the encampment.
A cavalryman, wearing the bloodied clothes of the dead driver, sat on the driver's bench at the front. His click and gentle urges pierced the evening air. The wagon jolted a little, and it rumbled forward. A similar noise followed them and Garx knew the second wagon was underway.
“Damn that food was good,” a gruff voice said. Then a soldier, presumably the speaker, broke wind behind Garx.
Garx sniffed the air. “It was. Strange though. I don't remember eating a fucking half-rotten ferret.”
A few chuckles greeted his words. The original speaker hushed them with a hiss. “You all hear that?”
They fell silent, no noise breaching the darkness other than the wagon's creak or the horse's occasional snort.
“What?” Garx whispered.
“Listen carefully.”
Garx closed his eyes, and then the same soldier broke wind, the sound like thunder in the enclosed space. “Ah, that's better, lads!”
“In the name of the gods!” one man roared.
A soldier dry-retched and groaned.
“You shit yourself, didn't you?” another asked.
Garx smiled and withheld a chuckle. Then the stench reached him. He closed his mouth and winced.
When the volume of the cannons and clamour of battle increased, the soldiers quietened, their demeanour more serious. The wagon lurched over a rock in the road, and the wheel slammed back onto flat ground on the other side of the obstacle, sending a jar straight up Garx's spine. He stretched his back, adjusted his sword to avoid the pommel driving into his hip and waited. The small group of soldiers remained silent, their good humour tucked away for the time being. They ignored the distant crackling scream of incoming enemy cannon shot, said not a word when the dull thud of the massive lead balls slammed into the ground. Listened to the shouts and cries of panic when the chaos of the enemy guns was fully realised. Then the next series of booms and another chorus of crackles, rapidly growing closer. All the while, in the background, the relentless wave of noise as the Huronian Army struggled to gain a foothold upon the walls.
Garx could now hear the clash of steel on steel or clap of steel on wood when an attack was thwarted by a shield. Soon, they would stop and it would be time to get to work. Or it would be time to die trying. One or the other.
A hand touched his shoulder. “Luck, sir,” the man muttered.
“You too.”
XI
Word spread throughout the highlands like wild-fire. Hushed whispers shared by villagers around crackling fires. A warlord had united the highlands and defeated one of the cruellest clans in living memory. He'd brought Firestorm to heal permanently. Maybe hurt them so bad they may never recover.
Tiny clans all over the highlands learned of the altercation and memorised Vyder's name. No longer was the Shadolian Highlands a land dotted with many individual tribes. They were now a nation. And the smaller clans wanted to see Vyder with their own eyes.
Vyder sat by the campfire, staring into the flames, vaguely aware of the coming dawn. All around him slept men and women from the various tribes who'd joined him. They hailed from the mainstay of the larger highland clans and had been with him for the long term. But much smaller ones had joined them, eager to travel south and join battle as a unified Highland Army. To prove just how powerful the highlanders really were.
Hyglak flicked a twig into the fire. “We'll reach the port this time tomorrow. Then we sail into fate's arms.”
“No, my friend. Then we sail into history. Our story will be remembered for a thousand generations by both Wendurlund and Huronian alike.”
“Fate is gentler than history.”
Vyder nodded. “Aye, she is that.”
Hyglak stretched his back and groaned. “How many do we have with us now?”
The assassin touched the black brooch around his neck given him by Agoth so long ago. “About seven thousand at last count. Made up from near a hundred clans. Some clans have contributed no more than five or six warriors.”
“There is a tiny group, Clan Thunderstrike, who have no more than fifty souls in their entire clan. For them five or six would be a fair portion of their fighting force.”
“Oh, you'll get no complaint from me, Hyglak. I appreciate every contribution, no matter how small. If the Huronian Army is not stopped at Lisfort, they'll be infecting Shadolia before we know it.”
Something small and wet touched his leg, breaking Vyder's thoughts. Saigh sniffed his leg again. She looked up at him and wagged her tail.
“Good morning my lass, I see you are awake.” He stroked her broad head. “And did you sleep well?”
Saigh licked her jowls, groaned and rolled on her back, tail still thumping upon the ground. “Aye of course you did.” He patted her belly, and the tail thumping increased in speed and power.
Hyglak shifted into a kneeling position and stared out over Vyder's head. “More are arriving, my lord.”
Vyder twisted. A small, dark smear, nigh-invisible in the dim light moved down the path towards the outer edge of the encampment. Another small highland clan come to join the Great Highland Army as it was now known.
You are becoming quite popular, little brother.
I see you are awake, Gorgoroth.
We should go to greet these little humans.
Aye.
He repeated Gorgoroth's suggestion.
“A fine idea, my lord.”
The pair stood. Saigh did likewise, she leaned into Vyder's leg, a soft growl rumbling in her throat. She stared at the distant newcomers, occasionally sniffing the air. Some people roused, packing away their bedrolls or preparing breakfast. Others tended to their horses, cleaned and oiled weapons while a group sat talking quietly amongst each other. When Vyder and Hyglak passed, they called soft greetings so as not to disturb others still sleeping around them.
They reached the outer edge of the highland camp. Vyder raised a hand. “A fair morning to you,” he called.
“And to you,” the woman leading them replied. She was tall, perhap
s thirty summers of age with flaming red hair and piercing green eyes. She wore deerskin clothes, a round shield strapped to her back and sword sheathed at her hip. A spear was clutched in her right hand. About forty men and women followed her. The strip of tartan cloth worn diagonally across her chest was adorned with a colour pattern with which Vyder was unfamiliar.
She noticed Vyder staring at the tartan. “We hail from Clan Wolfmoon.”
“I've heard of your clan.” He gestured at the clan colours. “But I've never before seen your tartan. If I'm not mistaken you come from a small number of islands north of Shadolia?”
“You'd be correct. The Katakornias is the group of islands from which we originate.” She placed the butt of her spear upon the ground and leaned upon the haft. “Judging by your oddly coloured eyes, you'd be Vyder?”
“Aye. Welcome to the Highland Army. This is Hyglak, one of my officers.”
Hyglak nodded.
She stepped forward and offered her hand. “I'm Hilka, and this is a quarter of my fighting force.” She gestured at the warriors behind her. “Our swords are yours. We wish to be part of the Great Highland Army.”
“You have my thanks, Hilka. Have you eaten?”
“We haven't yet broken our fast, no.”
“Then you are welcome to join us.”
And then there were forty more. It appears my forest, or the Waning Wood as you call it, will be safe after all.
Vyder turned from Hilka and led them back towards the encampment.
Don't be so sure, Gorgoroth. We may be too late for all we know. Don't misjudge the Huronians either, they are a force to be reckoned with.
Are they human, little brother?
Of course they are.
Then they can be killed. The smile was evident in Gorgoroth's voice.
* * *
An hour after the sun had broken the horizon and commenced its ascent towards afternoon's summit, the Highland Army broke camp and marched south. Vyder sat upon Storm, Henry and Ahitika beside him on their own destriers.
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