‘Charge!’ he bellowed.
Shouts rang out all around as the soldiers dug their heels into the sides of their stallions, trying to build up acceleration as fast as possible to meet the oncoming attack. Ashere’s mount sprinted ahead and Farred urged his horse after it, trying to keep pace and not lose sight of him in the enveloping fog.
In a matter of seconds, they had engaged with the enemy, who came hurtling through the mists towards them, shouting their own war cries. These were Haskan soldiers, disciplined and well-armed fighters, not the Drobax they had got used to. Some of them held lances tucked under their armpits which they waved in his direction, trying to unseat him before continuing past to get at the ranks behind. They were like ghosts, flitting into view and then disappearing into the mist again. Farred knew that they would carve right through his force, and then they would be able to wheel around and approach from the rear, surrounding them.
A mounted Haskan soldier came at him with a sword. Farred pulled at his mount’s reins so that the beast sidestepped away, and he twisted in the saddle to avoid the blow. But the Haskan wasn’t giving up and returned for another go. This time Farred met the blow with his own sword. They held position for a while, each trying to push the other back while their stallions buffeted each other. The Haskan twisted his wrist and scraped his sword down the length of Farred’s blade, aiming to chop off his fingers. But Farred was prepared for that. In one fluid motion, he pulled his sword away and then swung it back with all his strength towards his opponent’s neck. The Haskan managed to put his sword in the way just in time, but the sudden movement and the strength of Farred’s stroke caused him to lose his balance in the saddle and he tumbled backwards. One foot came out of its stirrup and he spiralled onto the floor.
Farred saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned just in time to see Ashere’s mount going down. The Prince was surrounded by three Isharites, their crystal swords still managing to glint in amongst the tendrils of mist. Farred looked around him but no support was in sight. They had got separated from Brock and the rest of their comrades, and the fog made it impossible to see where they were.
Farred knew he had to act fast, and urged his mount straight at the group. Ashere was on his feet and still had his sword in his hand. The three Isharites circled warily, not least because the prince’s horse was still alive and writhing on the floor, kicking out with its legs. They realised that Farred was bearing down on them just in time and turned to meet him. He was unable to slow the pace of his charge, and the nearest soldier evaded him and swung out his sword. Farred sensed his mount take the impact, and he slid his feet out of the stirrups just before it collapsed under him. Their momentum carried them into one of the Isharites and they became a swirling mass of bodies until Farred was thrown off to the side. He landed badly and was too winded at first to move.
Forcing himself up, Farred grabbed his sword and looked around. The Isharite he had crashed into was trapped under his horse, not moving. Farred stabbed down to make sure he was dead.
He turned around, looking for Ashere. He forced his body to return to the location where Ashere had been brought down.
Peering through the mist, he saw the familiar figure of the Prince. Ashere was staring ahead, a vacant, far away expression on his face. At his feet lay the bodies of his two assailants. Ashere made eye contact with Farred. Something broke. He dropped his sword to the floor, and his legs buckled underneath him. Farred rushed over and knelt over him. Turning him gently onto his back, he saw a large wound where a blow had pierced his armour. The prince had fallen unconscious but was still breathing.
Farred stood up and looked around. He could hear fighting going on but it was some distance away. He presumed that they had ended up behind the enemy’s lines. He tried to fight down the panic and think clearly, but his predicament seemed hopeless.
He heard the rider approaching before he saw him. Brandishing his sword, he stood in front of Ashere’s prone body and waited.
It was Burstan.
Quickly taking in the situation, his captain dismounted.
‘Let’s get him on the horse,’ he said gruffly.
Farred had never been so pleased to see anyone in his life, but couldn’t find any words. In silence, they grabbed Ashere’s limbs and, with Burstan murmuring soothingly to his horse, hoisted him up and laid him on his front ahead of the saddle, with his legs and arms dangling over the sides. Farred wasn’t sure if it was the best position, but hoped that it might put pressure on the wound and stop the blood loss.
‘Get him out of here,’ said Burstan, gesturing at the horse.
Farred looked at him in disbelief.
‘I’m not getting on there. You get him out of here.’
The captain shook his head.
‘Burstan, that’s an order.’
Burstan turned his back on Farred.
‘I’m going back to be with the men,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘He’s your responsibility, Farred.’
Burstan walked away.
‘Burstan, get back here!’ hissed Farred at the departing figure, but it ignored him and disappeared into the mist, so that he was alone with Ashere again.
Swearing, Farred clambered into the saddle. A sharp pain in his back told him that his fall had done some damage, but his immediate concern was escape. Assuming that they had charged to the west, and that Burstan and the sound of fighting were over to the east, Farred turned his new mount to the south and hurried away.
Once he had escaped the sound of fighting Farred relaxed a little. He thought of his men back there—those who were still alive would be surrounded by the enemy. He thought of Burstan returning to the fight. But it did no good to dwell on it, and he pushed those thoughts away.
As the nervous minutes ticked by and became first one hour, then two, Farred began to accept that he had escaped. He checked Ashere’s pulse every now and again. He was still alive but showed no signs of consciousness. Farred knew that he had to get him back to the castle as soon as possible.
He thought that anyone else who had escaped would be well ahead of him, since his mount was slowed down with two riders, but after a while he caught up with other escapees. Two Middians shared a horse, and explained that they had both escaped, but one of their mounts had pulled up lame. A North Magnian gave a huge smile of relief to learn that his prince was still alive. Later on, they caught up with an injured South Magnian who looked almost as grateful to see Farred. It seemed that more had got away than Farred had feared. He supposed that the fog might have helped. But despite that, they all knew that many of their friends were dead. They travelled in silence, all nursing the same kind of soldier’s guilt that their comrades were dead and dying on the battlefield, while they were running away.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Burkhard Castle, the sun was going down, officially giving up on the most miserable day Farred had ever experienced. A party of Brasingian soldiers found them as they approached. They took Ashere away and led Farred, now totally exhausted, up to the Duke’s Keep, where the other survivors had been gathered in the main hall. They were bedding down for the night but got up again to greet Farred and the other latecomers. It was a strained greeting, sombre in mood, and yet with genuine pleasure to see others who had escaped. He was grabbed in a big bear hug, and there was Brock standing before him.
‘I heard about Ashere. At least you got him out of there.’
‘It was Burstan. He gave me his horse—’
‘You look terrible. Try to get some sleep.’
Farred nodded. His body was desperate to lie down. Brock guided him over to some bedding and a blanket. Farred turned to him.
‘Burstan? I don’t suppose...’
Brock shook his head.
No. It was a stupid question. Burstan, like so many others, was dead.
8
Dogs and Dragons
BLOOD WELLED INSIDE THE GLOVE of Gyrmund’s right hand. He tucked it under his armpit in what he knew
was a vain attempt to stop the flow. But he had no way to bandage it up, and he could not stop working. He continued to hack at the walls of the mine with the axe, now held in his left hand. His muscles ached each time he raised his arm, and each time he smashed it into the wall. But the Isharites who controlled the mine had made it quite clear that whoever gathered the smallest amount of diatine crystals would be executed at the end of the shift.
Gyrmund excavated the patch of crystals he had exposed further, chipping away the rock that encased it. The crystal itself, he knew, was incredibly strong. If he missed a stroke and the blade hit the crystal, it wouldn’t chip or crack: the danger was to the axe blade.
One further blow and the crystals came free. He breathed a sigh of relief. That, surely, put him in the clear. He looked up and down the underground tunnel. Torches placed along the walls cast enough light to see what was in front of him, but not beyond his little area of light. He could not see any of the guards so he took the opportunity to have a rest while he could.
Time was impossible to measure down in the mine. It was his first day, but it felt like he had been down there for a week. The end of the shift must surely come soon, he persuaded himself. They had been given nothing to eat or drink since breakfast. The oxygen down in the tunnel wasn’t sufficient to fill his lungs, and with the heat, cramped conditions, and hard, physical work, he had felt like he was going to faint more than once. He held his right hand up in the air to try to slow the bleeding.
After a while he heard footsteps from down the tunnel. One of the guards was approaching. As he came into sight Gyrmund bent down and carefully picked up the chunk of crystals, placing it in the wheeled metal box which he would take back up to the surface. The guard kept watching so Gyrmund began hammering at a fresh patch of wall, making sure he put enough effort in to keep the guard happy. Bored, the guard moved on. After he was sure he had gone out of earshot, Gyrmund stopped again.
Eventually the sound of whistles blew throughout the mine. The other miners began heading to the exit tunnel, and so Gyrmund fell in with them, dragging along his box, and making sure that none of the others filched any of his crystals. He looked at what they had collected. Some had more than him but some had less. He knew that he would have a physical edge over many of the miners, because the conditions down here would clearly take their toll on those who had been here longest. But he had worried that they would have the advantage of experience. In the end, he had done enough.
As they reached the exit tunnel, the miners had to crawl on their hands and knees to get out, hauling their precious cargo with them. The walls pressed in on Gyrmund. He tried to keep his breathing steady. The truth was he couldn’t stand the confined space, but if he began to think about where he was he would lose control.
After Moneva had been led away towards the fortress at Samir Durg, their Isharite captors had led them further along the wall until they approached one of the towers that were spaced along it. They had reached their destination, and unpleasant thoughts had begun to enter Gyrmund’s mind. His sense of foreboding had risen further when Soren, still enclosed in his box, had been led away elsewhere. Gyrmund had exchanged nervous glances with Herin and Clarin. They didn’t need to say it but they were all thinking the same thing: was this the time when their captors decided to kill them? And if not, what did they intend to do with them?
In the end, it was nothing much. They had been shoved in a room on the ground floor of the tower and left. All day and all night they had sat in a cold room, with nothing to do but wonder about their fate. Even Herin and Clarin had been quiet. There was, in truth, little to say. They had dozed away the time. It had felt terrible, but it had been easier than being trapped underground all day. Gyrmund would now have grabbed the chance to be allowed to go back to that room in the tower.
It was not until this morning that, still with no explanation, they had been led to the crystal mines, and turned over to the guards who ran the mines with slave labour. One of the reasons they had been kept alive had at least become clear. Strong men were needed to man the mines, especially since the attrition rate was so high. In a brief welcoming speech, it had been made clear to them that at least one miner was killed at the end of each shift to ensure that they all worked as hard as possible. As Gyrmund made it to the last stage of the journey up to the surface, he was about to find out if that was true.
The route up to ground level was the same as the route down he had taken this morning. The miners crammed into a rickety metal lift and a pulley system was used to raise it to the surface. At the mine entrance a pack of mules were taking the weight, and by walking from one end of the yard to the other they pulled up the ropes attached to the lift. The ropes strained and squeaked as Gyrmund and the other miners shuddered and jolted their way to the surface. When Gyrmund shoved himself out of the lift and took a proper, full breath of air into his lungs, a wave of emotion came over him and he had to stop himself from crying.
He noticed that the other miners were handing in their specially made protective gloves to one of the guards. He waited his turn and handed his over. The guard looked at the ripped gloves and at Gyrmund’s bleeding hand. With no warning the guard struck him hard across the face, muttering angrily in words that Gyrmund didn’t understand. Gyrmund turned away quickly, fighting to control himself so that he didn’t strike back.
He noticed Herin and Clarin standing next to each other a few feet away, and walked over to them. They must have come out on an earlier lift. They had placed their boxes of crystals in front of them and had joined a loose semicircle of miners that was forming opposite a group of Isharite guards, who were observing the activities with apparent boredom at the far end of the yard. Gyrmund joined in the line next to Clarin. Both brothers had mean looks on their faces, and Gyrmund felt grateful that he was in with them rather than on his own.
‘What the hell did you do to your hand?’ asked Herin, leaning over to look at him with a disgusted expression on his face.
Gyrmund assumed that it was meant as a rhetorical question.
Clarin peered into his box.
‘I got more than you,’ he said, looking inordinately pleased with himself.
They waited for a while and then, gradually, the atmosphere changed and there was a quiet hush. The guards were walking along the semi-circle, looking at how much each miner had brought out. One of the miners was pulled out into the middle of the yard. He was grinning and almost laughing to himself hysterically. It was horrible to watch.
The guards emptied his box onto the ground. There was next to nothing in there. It was as if he had slept all day. But Gyrmund thought he understood. He had just given up.
He was pulled over to a tall wooden post with a horizontal bar at the top. A piece of rope was fetched over and a noose placed around his neck. He was still grinning manically. Gyrmund looked at the expressions on the faces of the other miners. They suggested that what they were seeing was the normal procedure. Herin and Clarin looked on impassively. The rope was fed through a metal hook attached to the bar, and then three guards pulled on it, dragging the unfortunate victim up by the neck. He hardly fought it. By the time they had finished and were winding the rope around some hooks half way up the post to keep him hanging there, he was already dead.
The guards began shouting and Gyrmund and the other two followed the lead of the other miners. The individual boxes of diatine crystals were emptied into larger containers, and then the boxes were carefully stacked along the wall of the yard for the next day. The miners were then led out of the mine yard along a path, presumably towards their sleeping quarters.
They walked through open, unused land, but they were still behind the main walled enclosure which was visible in the gloom ahead of them.
The path took them to a large, fenced area. They were led through a flimsy looking gate. There were no buildings, suggesting that they were supposed to sleep in the open air. The idea was bearable in this weather, but would surely see them all off in the w
inter.
The guards stayed inside with them. Herin and Clarin marched over to the far side and Gyrmund kept close to them, looking at the height of the fencing and imagining escape. They stopped and stared out through the fence in the direction of the main fortress, too far away to be visible.
‘I’m surprised they don’t get escape attempts over this fence,’ said Gyrmund. ‘I know we’re still behind the wall, but—’
Herin frowned at him and nodded over to their left, the section of the area closest to the wall. And Gyrmund saw them. Pits. Big metal grates at ground level covered the entrance which was why he had missed them. Only the handles stuck up slightly. They were kept underground during the night. He looked around at the guards and the miners who were pacing up and down. They were being given a bit of time above ground before being sent down.
Gyrmund shook his head, panic rising in him.
‘No,’ he hissed, ‘I can’t do it. I can’t do this.’
Herin turned on him angrily.
‘You’ll have to do it. We do it until we get the chance to escape.’
‘How do we do that?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I’m not going to die in this shithole. I’m going to get out of here. So, Gyrmund, you’re gonna go down into that pit, you’re gonna work in the mine tomorrow, and you’re gonna keep on doing it until the day comes when we get out of here.’
Gyrmund nodded. He hated Herin at that moment. He hated him because he was being so much stronger than he was. Lost in the wild somewhere he would have coped with: no, he would have been in his element. But this was not something he was coping with. He needed Herin and Clarin to get through it. He didn’t like it, but there it was.
The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set Page 45