“This is good,” Kairm told the captain and Jamson, gazing up the length of the twelve-foot-wide stream to the point where it curved out of sight among the trees. “It’s a tributary of the Southwhite, joins up to the south-east. It means we’re on the right path.”
“I didn’t realize we were on a path at all,” Damicos wryly pointed out, eliciting a titter from Jivenna. “Unless it was covered up by the leaves of all those giant trees we’ve been hacking our way through.”
“We’re moving in the right direction,” Kairm corrected himself, taking out a small flask and downing a swallow of its contents. “Anyway, we should reach the banks of the Southwhite about a league or two ahead, then we’ll follow it to the cliff. That ought to keep us from getting lost.”
Jamson frowned. “Lost? We brought you along to preclude that possibility, Kairm.”
The trapper held up his hands. “There’s a lot of country here, Master Jamson. This is the frontier, remember. There’s few others know it as well as I do, but the trees have a way of shifting around and filling in behind you, and distances are hard to judge. Aren’t many landmarks visible from inside the forest.”
Jamson rolled his eyes. “Then perhaps you should put away that flask and make sure we get to the river soon.”
Tarsha, a short and portly man with a dark goatee beard, belly-laughed at his friend’s comment. “Uhl, you told me you knew this terrain better than I know the back streets of Yelda’s brothel district. Clearly you were in error.”
Jamson smiled. “Kairm here will see us through, have no doubt. It will be an arduous journey, though. You and Jivenna should consider going back soon. It only gets a harder and more dangerous from here.”
“Nonsense!” Tarsha clapped the older explorer on the back. “I came to see the sights, have a taste of what Ostora really is beyond those puny coastal towns. An encounter with an oversized deer doesn’t bother me. Press on!”
Damicos made a point of waiting longer than necessary and then giving the order to move ahead, so that the man wouldn’t get the idea he was running things.
He led the way across the river once Kairm had inspected the water and declared it free of razorcrocs or muddy boas, the long olive-colored snakes that he claimed sometimes lurked along undercut banks and wound themselves around the legs of anything that ventured into the water. The river current wasn’t fast enough to be a problem, though it did get deep in the middle. The first several troops formed a temporary beachhead while the others crossed behind them, and then the column plunged once more into the green depths.
This was full wilderness that had never heard the ring of an axe. There were birds in the treetops, some flitting between the trunks. In the undergrowth, small animals scampered away from the oncoming column of soldiers: ground squirrels with black fur and gray stripes, the occasional snake or salamander, and rabbits the size of a hunting dog. Some of the skirmishers in the rear took shots at these when they came across one that hadn’t already fled, hoping for meat to supplement their rations. Lopontes Ukan hit three with his slingstones, gaining a cheer from the men each time he made such a shot. And Ica Mistshaper slew one with a well-placed arrow from fifty cubits.
Damicos also saw a lot of something Kairm called dirigi, which was like a rabbit but pranced on small hoofed legs like a miniature deer. They were spotted along their tawny backs, and had delicate noses and ears that made them almost pig-like. They seemed to favor the patches of a white flower that grew along the ground in the shadow of the larger trees, where they fed on the succulent leaves around the fragrant blossoms.
“That’s dead-man’s lily,” Kairm advised when Damicos pointed out the flowers. “Lie down in a patch of that, and you won’t rise up again. The dirigi are immune to it, but larger animals—including men—will breathe in a fume the flowers emit, and soon find themselves struggling to breathe. The bones of many a foolish creature provide meals for the lilies’ roots.”
Again Damicos was reminded of just how deadly Ostora could be. It was beautiful and invigorating, but every time a man turned around there was something that wanted to eat him. Half the time it took the fearsome aspect of a monster out of nightmare; the other half it looked as harmless as a flower. You could never let your guard down.
He instructed his sergeants to spread the word and see that no one camped among the flowers during the night.
Later they came to an open stretch of ground where the trees shied away from a series of rocky outcroppings that emerged from the ground. Damicos rode his horse up between two masses of boulders and paused to survey the area. Jamson joined him, also on horseback. Kairm had refused to bring a mount and stood atop one of the boulders, pulling at his flask.
Trees rose all around and behind, but from the rise Damicos glimpsed a lower valley stretching ahead with what seemed like a fissure running along its length, a division in the canopy’s green sea that rolled to either side endlessly.
“Do you hear it?” Kairm said, cocking his head.
Damicos cupped a hand to his ear. “A slight roaring… I thought it was wind. Is that the River Southwhite?”
“That’s it. Half a league on. There’s rapids all along this part, twisting the water into a foamy torrent that no boat could hope to navigate.”
“Then it is aptly named,” Jamson said. “This makes it easy to find our way forward. Just follow the sound of rushing water.”
They moved on, back under the canopy that closed in and shut out half the sunlight from the sky overhead. It was deep forest now, and probably would be all the way forward. But now they had a landmark, a river to follow.
CHAPTER 10: AGAINST THE SILVERPATH
The cavalry had angled away from the forest and were now headed almost due west. The plan now was to push forward as quickly as possible, reach the river, and turn north along its bank until the fort was reached. Perian judged they’d reach the White well before the sun set.
Far to the south, on their left, they could see the wall of the forest. So vast was the burn that this close to its southern edge they could not see the northern edge, on their right. It was still open country they passed through: flat, thick with tall grass and dead standing skeletons of fire-killed trees. Here and there across the tangled plain small islands of trees had escaped the ravages of the ancient fire, some no more than a spear-length in diameter, others much larger.
Perian led the men from one island grove to the next, wary of being seen from afar in this open land, and it was this wariness which saved their lives.
They had just rounded one of the copses when the barbarian woman stopped in her tracks and held up a hand. Shading her eyes with her other hand, she scanned the horizon southward for a moment. Then, with a hiss, she motioned Pelekarr to dismount.
“Armed men coming,” she muttered. “Get your soldiers back into the trees, quickly.”
This was accomplished with hurried orders given by the sergeants and quick maneuvering by the men, to get behind the thicker wooded patches. The cavalry dismounted and muffled their horses’ mouths as best they could. The body of the troops hung back, deeper in the trees, while Perian and Pelekarr slipped to the edge where they were screened by foliage. Together they looked out at the open country, watching the approaching figures.
“Hunters, I think,” Perian said at last. “Still half a league out.”
“How many? Your eyes must be keener than mine.”
“A score. Coming toward us.”
“They can’t have seen us.”
“They didn’t, else they would not be approaching like they are.”
“Then perhaps they will pass us by.”
“You know little of hunting, Captain. The great elk feed in the early morning. Then they seek cover to lie up during the heat of the day. This grove at our backs is one of the largest around here, and the hunters will search it for game. They won’t pass us by.”
They watched in silence. The approaching hunters were less than a quarter-league away now. Perian was t
ense, and her unease passed quickly to the captain.
“They are Silverpath,” the woman confirmed, her voice tight.
“On this side of the river?”
Perian nodded, her eyes blazing with vindictive ire.
“Very well. A show of force should scatter twenty hunters with ease, and we can—”
Perian cut him off with a withering look. “If we let even one man live, they will send runners to every village within five leagues and by nightfall we’ll have their entire clan after us. A warpack that will get larger by the hour and harry us until the last man falls. Do you not remember your own defeats of ten years past—how entire regiments of your soldiers were swarmed and destroyed in the forests this way?”
Pelekarr frowned.
“There is only one thing to do,” Perian said. Her tone was quieter, but grated with deadly malice now. “Cut them off. Let none escape alive, not one!”
Pelekarr scowled deeply, but there was nothing to say. He had overruled his guide before, and now he faced consequences he’d hoped to avoid.
Watching Perian’s fierce expression, though, he wondered how much of the woman’s certainty rested on her hatred of a rival clan, on her desire to use the soldiers she traveled with to strike a blow against her people’s enemy. And yet, if they became entangled in a conflict with the barbarians, they might never reach the settlement. The entire campaign would end before it had begun.
There was, as she had said, only one thing to do. A thing which the mercenaries under his command were eager for, and which they had trained at many times.
He gave swift orders to the sergeants. Skirmishers were called to the front where they crouched out of sight in the tall grass. The cavalrymen left their horses well back of the main grove and joined the contingent of foot soldiers in forming two wings of a broad V, hidden just inside the trees where they could quickly sweep out and around. Every man in the company hunkered down and waited with the almost painful anticipation of imminent action.
The hunters appeared alert as they fanned out in a wide semicircle due south of the grove, downwind of the hidden mercenaries.
“If the breeze picks up,” Perian whispered, “they will smell the horses. You pray to your wind-god to hold his breath, and I’ll see to mine.” She began a muttered chant under her breath.
Pelekarr rolled his eyes at the witchery, but mouthed a prayer to Felevus to keep his weather to himself for another quarter of an hour.
He counted twenty-two men in the Silverpath band. They were heavily armed with bows, arrows, spears, and stone knives, but their clothing was light. They were brawny young men, and they walked with the easy pace of people used to covering long distances on foot. Pelekarr admired their graceful economy of motion, even as he gripped his saber and prepared to shed their blood.
They drew closer in utter silence, a perfect stalk, moving like ghosts among the taller bunches of fieldgrass. But they would soon find out that there was no elk in this stand of trees. The last thing they expected was a large body of Kerathi mercenaries waiting in ambush. It would be a slaughter; the only question was whether any could get away to alert their people.
When they were close enough that Pelekarr could see the whites of their eyes, one of them suddenly came to a halt. The rest tensed up.
Pelekarr gave the signal.
Instantly the hidden skirmishers rose, picked their targets, and loosed their missiles. At this range there was little chance of missing. Slingstones, arrows, and a few javelins hissed to their targets and knocked them down hard—six men. The female archer Harnwe hit a man in the eye, dropping him instantly.
It nearly took the captain’s breath away. How had they come so far as a company without archers and peltasts to support them in attacks like this? It made a world of difference.
A second volley was in flight almost immediately, but so accustomed were the barbarians to a life of ambush and war that only two more men were hit in the second flight. The others flung themselves down and disappeared in the waving grass.
Pelekarr shouted an order, and the foot fanned out in a sprint. The broad V grew as the mercenaries dashed through the grass, leaping over fallen logs, swords drawn and shields out, to get the jaws of the trap fully around the enemy’s flanks.
No one spoke but the sergeants. Now the skirmish line slowed, moving inward, picking its way carefully through the tangle, stepping over or stooping beneath the crisscrossed logs, moving slowly so that the line could re-form after each obstacle navigated. The archers waited with arrows nocked at the base of the V while the two jaws narrowed, closing inexorably upon each other. Thirty paces to the central point of the area where the Silverpath had disappeared. Twenty paces.
Contact was made by an infantryman near the center of the line, one of Damicos’ best men that had been selected to accompany the cavalry on this campaign. The hulking fellow, nicknamed The Yak, suddenly gave a shout, aiming a heavy chopping blow downwards at the grass before him. There was a scream, and a yellow-bearded barbarian clad in furs staggered upright, blood spraying from a horrific cut at his collarbone. He cried one word.
“Pawtoon!”
The infantryman struck again before his target could raise a weapon, and the barbarian sprawled limply across a log. He did not move again, and the burly soldier rejoined his comrades in the line, which continued forward.
“Why do they call us that?” Pelekarr murmured to the woman at his side.
“Shell-man,” answered Perian. “He warns the others who it is that hunts them.”
The Silverpath men hidden in the grass decided to risk the swords of the pawtoon rather than wait and be found one by one. They rose in unison, flushed like a covey of birds, and sprang to get clear of the advancing line of soldiers. Thirteen desperate men.
The archers loosed on the instant, and four more barbarians went down. Sojac took one right through the throat with a javelin. The fleeing men now saw that the skirmish line was not a single line but twain—two arms swinging shut upon each other, driving whatever lay between towards one or the other. The archers completed the triangle at this end, and the men at the other end were now within a few strides of each other. There was no escape.
The barbarians bared their teeth and raised their weapons, preparing for a desperate charge. But Pelekarr had placed the heavily armored infantrymen at the forefront, with solid shields and long spears up. He knew his tactical doctrine, and the Silverpath were about to feel it effectiveness.
The archers now dared not loose; the triangle had narrowed too far and the barbarians were rushing too close to the soldiers. Each archer dropped his bow and drew a short bronze sword in case any enemies came their way. The remaining nine Silverpath, who had changed from hunted men to blood-mad berserkers in a single breath, screamed their defiance as four went one way and five leapt toward the other line. They were now focused entirely on killing, seeking only to close with their ambushers and slay before being slain in turn.
The first hunter reached the western arm of the skirmish line and, howling, threw himself forward with dagger raised. He was beaten down by three swords at once and skewered with a spear for good measure. None of the others got as far. Despite their war-skill and desperation, they simply weren’t given the chance to close fully with their enemy. The Kerathi excelled at this kind of war, meeting a head-on charge in closed ranks. Ordinarily their foe would be armored, with a shield and spear to match theirs. These unarmored, bearded opponents with stone weapons were no more difficult than a training exercise for new recruits.
One of the hunters set his feet and threw his spear with a mighty heave. The targeted infantryman raised his shield just in time. The spear’s stone tip shattered on the bronze and the spear haft caromed out into the grass. Such was the power of the throw that the soldier staggered backward, almost losing his balance. The hunter, grasping at a desperate chance, sprang forward with dagger drawn, but the soldiers’ comrades on both right and left stepped forward and struck as one. The spear-
caster died with a savage scream as heavy bronze spears pinned him down.
It was over almost before it began, and none of the company had suffered serious harm.
“Captain, this one’s still alive,” a sergeant called out as the men advanced over top of the fallen Silverpath warriors. “Kill him or keep him?”
“How badly—” Pelekarr began, but stopped as Perian shouldered past him, drawing her knife from its sheath with a soft whicking sound.
Sergeant Keresh watched her approach, dubious. He glanced past her at Pelekarr. “Captain?”
“Perian, stop. We may be able to learn something from him.”
Perian ignored the order. She was attempting to step around the sergeant to reach the figure sprawled in the grass beyond.
“Perian, stop!”
The barbarian woman gave the sergeant a sharp shove, and he staggered aside. She raised her knife.
“Sergeant, stop her!”
The sergeant gripped Perian’s arm, halting the downward stroke, and quickly found himself fending off an enraged attack from the woman. Her knife was still held fast in the sergeant’s burly fist, but her knees and other hand were employed to savage effect.
Keresh suffered it stoically for a moment, and then decided he’d had enough. With a wrench, he tore the knife from Perian’s hand and threw her from him in the same motion. She rolled to her feet and faced him, eyes wild, teeth bared.
“Kutoh! Lay another finger on me, and I’ll—”
Pelekarr reached her, grabbed her shoulders, and spun her to face him. “I want him alive, Perian!”
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