The Haven

by Graham Diamond

Nigel and Dal came bounding along the track and rushed to the others. Panting, wiping sweat and mud from their eyes, Des and Basil rested along the track. Dal and Nigel picked Sinjon up and half dragged, half carried him to the other side. Sinjon vomited as they brought him to safety. His face was hollow, his eyes wild with terror, but he was alive and they knew he would be all right.

  That day they tried to go no further. Camp was set at the far edge of the flat; the band washed and cleaned themselves in a nearby brook. This had been the most hazardous experience yet and at last they were beginning to understand what was meant by hidden dangers.

  *

  “What was that?”

  The black dog froze in his tracks and strained his ears.

  It sounded like an owl, but was it? He stood immobile for a while, ears forward at a sharp angle. The dim noise came again. The wire-haired dog snarled. Something odd was about, something was watching them.

  Silence returned.

  The black dog squinted hard through the black moonless night and took careful note of nearby shrubs and trees. Suddenly a whip-tongued lizard dashed before his eyes, then darted under a mossy rock. The black dog smiled, relaxed. An owl indeed! “We’re too jumpy,” he told his companion.

  “Well, we could use a little sleep,” replied the wire-haired dog. “We’ve been at this business for I don’t know how long: Why can’t we rest for a while?”

  The black dog shot a menacing glance and wagged his long tail furiously. “Do you think those damned Hunters are sleeping?” he barked. Then he answered his own question: “They’re not, I can tell you that! These Trackers never sleep. They’re like rodents, slinking about, always alert. It’s uncanny, I tell you. They may even be tracking us!”

  “Well, I told you to send for assistance,” snarled his companion. “But no, you insisted we find them first. Well, bright one? You put us in this predicament, now get us out.”

  The black dog shook his head incredulously. Had he heard right? “Why do I always get such slouches for partners?” he asked himself. This wire-haired mongrel was a poor excuse for a Scout, probably had received his training with some provincial bumpkin who was used to relying on Warriors at the first hint of trouble.

  “Look,” he said, “if you want to go back for help, or take yourself a long nap because you’re tired, it’s all right by me. Why don’t I just leave you here and find the wolves by myself? You’re not much good anyway.”

  The wire-haired dog stepped a few paces back and growled. “You Deep-Forest mutts are all alike, aren’t you?” he hissed. “You think you’re a bloody one-dog Pack. Now let me tell you something, where I come from they take pups like you, chew them up and spit them out! Now stick that in your gullet!”

  The black dog’s eyes bulged. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” he snapped, lips curling at the corners. “Why when this war is over —”

  Both dogs whirled, jaws open. Dane and Sesto leaped from their hiding place along the escarpment, fangs aimed at jugulars. The dogs were pounced upon before they could protect themselves and seconds later it was all over. They lay dead in dark pools of blood. The black dog writhed in spasms for a few moments. His throat was cut, his neck broken when his head was snapped back viciously by Sesto’s weight.

  Dane rolled the corpse over and glared into the glassy eyes. “They made it easy for us,” he mumbled.

  Sesto smiled contentedly, saliva dripping from his tongue. “We were just lucky,” he answered. “If the wire-haired one had had his way they’d have brought a whole Pack down on us.”

  Dane grunted. “Do you think that’s it, then?” he asked, looking about. “You don’t think there might have been a couple of others that broke away from these two to search for us on their own?”

  Sesto shook his head. “I doubt it. Scouts like to stick together. I’d be very much surprised if we haven’t seen the end of them.”

  “Good. Then maybe we can rest a while. I’d hate for the dogs to know it, but even a Seeker has to have some sleep.”

  Sesto laughed. “All right. But we’d better be on our way before dawn. We’ve lost too much time already.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rolf kneeled down, put his club on the ground and gently nudged at Dal’s shoulder. The youth stirred.

  “It’s your turn to stand watch,” whispered Rolf.

  Dal pushed the blanket from his face and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “How close to dawn?” he asked.

  Rolf shrugged as he scratched his chin. “Not long, just a couple of hours.”

  Dal frowned and gazed into the blackness. His eyes adjusted and he was able to make out the silhouettes of nearby trees and bushes. “Very well,” he mumbled, picking up his sword, “see you then.”

  Rolf watched him take his post beside the edge of the camp. Then he covered himself with the blanket, closed his eyes, and fell soundly asleep.

  Mustapha, at his post in the trees, yawned as the soldier went by. Hector lay snoring, curled beside the roots.

  There was an unearthly shriek. The men woke startled, grabbing at their weapons. The first dim cracks of dawn were spreading above.

  “What was that?” rasped Basil, clearing his throat.

  Again came the terrible sound, this time followed by deep, resonant growls that made them shudder. Hector bounded up. “A bear!” he shouted.

  Des spun around. “Where’s Dal?”

  Rolfs eyes went wide; his heart leaped into his throat. “He’s not at his post!”

  The wolf ran out past the camp, following the cries. Des and Lawrence bounded after him, weapons in hand.

  “Eiiiii!”

  The scream was close, yet far off. Des was lost between the dense trees. Lawrence wiped his brow, panting. “Which way?” he moaned.

  “There!” shouted Des, pointing to his left. Both men stood in shock. A great bear, easily twelve feet tall, stood squeezing the life from the young soldier’s body. The bear caught sight of them and growled. He let Dal fall from his hug and strode for them.

  Des lunged ahead, slashing at the beast’s feet. Blood gushed over the ground. The bear wailed in pain, then swung his paws low. Des rolled on the earth. The paws missed by inches. Just then Hector leaped from behind, biting deeply into its leg. The bear spun around, kicking wildly.

  Hector dodged, ran around and attacked again from the other side. It was classic wolf-tactic: hit and run, hit and run, slow the enemy down until he drops.

  But the bear was not to be an easy prey. He picked up Dal’s limp body and heaved it with all his might. Hector barely got out of the way in time. He could hear bones crack as the body smashed clumsily against a tree.

  Lawrence pursed his lips and charged forward. He plunged his dagger into the bear’s groin. The animal staggered, then howled. Torment was etched across his broad hairy face. Des picked himself up and dug his sword into the bear’s back. The bear stood upright again, grasping at the wind. But still he did not fall. He stomped ahead, arms trying to catch hold of the wily soldier. Des backed up, but hit against a tree. The bear crouched, his eyes blazing. Des tumbled to the earth, rolling between the massive legs. Blood from the bear’s groin splattered across his tunic.

  The bear spun, reaching low to crush Des. As he did a bow sang out. It was Basil, taking dead aim. The arrow smacked into the bear’s right eye. Again the lumbering beast howled, putting its paws to its face. He pulled the arrow from the socket and threw it. Oozing bloody pulp ran down the side of its face. The bear raced forward, insane for vengeance.

  “Again!” cried Des. “Hit him again!”

  With shaky hands Basil reloaded his bow. There was a twang as it hit the bear in the neck, ripping off a large chunk of flesh and emerging from the other side.

  Basil stood in disbelief. The bear still stood! And now it was coming for him!

  Basil dived out of the way as a hairy paw pounded against a tree. He strode sideways, drew a dagger, slashed as the bear turned. The beast opened its mouth, a huge gaping cav
ern that could swallow a man’s head. It was laughing! Basil thought. Mocking them! A broadsword was stuck in its back, it was half-blind, its neck was torn apart, its groin spewing blood — yet it was laughing!

  The big beast suddenly reeled. Rolf slammed his club of spikes in its ribs. The bear bent over. This was his chance, Rolf knew. He swung wildly and smashed the nails into its brain. The beast’s eyes rolled, staring at his latest assailant in disbelief. Then, with a low growl, the bear fell dead.

  Everyone stood paralyzed for a moment, then raced to Dal. The body was lifeless; virtually every bone had been crushed.

  Sinjon ran from the camp and kneeled beside his friend. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “This mission is suicide!” he cried. “I won’t go on! I don’t care if you kill me yourselves, I won’t go on!”

  Des slapped him across the face. Sinjon put his head in his hands and sobbed as Lawrence led him back to camp. All morning he cried, even as young Dal was buried.

  “He’ll be all right,” said Carlo. “Sometimes it’s good for a man to weep.”

  When it was done they grimly packed the mules and prepared to leave. Sinjon came out of his grief but still refused to talk. Harn was once more strapped to his horse as they set off again. Nigel studied their faces; he saw the deep shock of death hanging heavy upon them. Dal was dead. That was history. What they all wondered was who would be next.

  *

  By midafternoon they were greeted with badly needed good news. Dane and Sesto were back; the Scouts were dead. A flask of wine was passed among them and the bitter memory of the morning’s events began to recede. And with the Hunters back they felt assured again; the gloom was gone.

  A mile or so up they found themselves on a steep descent. The path was wider than before, but treacherous, filled with boughs of sharp thorns that cut their faces when they weren’t careful.

  Des looked up; the nearby trees were filled with buzzing.

  “Hornets,” warned Hector uneasily. “We must step cautiously. This is their nest. We don’t want to disturb them as we did the snakes.”

  The memory of that encounter was still fresh in the men’s minds.

  The sun was stifling. Breathing became difficult. And another time they found themselves slowed down.

  Mustapha combed the skies, seeking some sign, anything that would tell them they were close to breaking out of the forest. It was frustrating. Where did it end?

  Nigel was tense again. They had only been gone two weeks. Two weeks! It felt like a year! Dal was dead, Harn perhaps near death. And why? Only because he had convinced them of the glory of this expedition. For the first time he asked himself if he should go on. One word from him and Des would gladly have them all turn for home. The thought nagged at him and refused to leave. Gwenn, he thought, Gwenn. Was I a fool not to listen? Her face danced before his eyes, sweet and soft, eyes begging him to give up his dream. Nigel shuddered. It was too late. They were here, perhaps close to success. They had come so far, why give up now?

  That night Harn died peacefully. His close friend, Nevil, carried the body beside a gentle pond and buried him in the soft earth. There was no chatter that night, no soft music from Basil’s mandolin. This journey had made them all like brothers, and now, another brother was gone. The Fates would lift his soul to the heavens and there it would flicker brightly, another countless star to help light the dark.

  *

  Days passed uneventfully, almost uncounted, blending together so the men could hardly tell when one ended and the next began. But they learned quickly, now, how to live and survive in the forest. They heard the cries of the Dwellers and recognized them, understood what was said. They had come here as children, but now were men. Nothing could set them back, no creature could instill the fears they had when they came. They had entered the forest and would never be the same again.

  *

  Hector came racing back, excited. Des turned and signaled to stop. “Captain Desmond! Lord Nigel! You must follow me!”

  The two men glanced at each other with surprise. “What is it?” asked Nigel, rubbing the side of his newly grown beard.

  “Just come,” panted the wolf, “there’s something you must see!”

  They left the others resting and ran off ahead. Hector led them off the path to a tiny clearing. Sesto stood waiting for them.

  “Well? What are we supposed to see?” said Des, annoyed at losing time.

  Sesto gestured to a large oak tree. Nigel stepped closer, then froze. Partly covered by weeds that sprouted between the roots was a skeleton — a man’s skeleton. The man’s garments were little more than rags, yet clearly identifiable; a dark blue tunic, belonging to a Royal Guardsman, a soldier of the Haven.

  Nigel kneeled down beside the bones. There was a badly rusted sword and a leather pouch. He picked the pouch up and examined it. It was soggy and torn but basically intact. His fingers fumbled to open it, and a tiny notebook fell to the ground. Nigel excitedly scooped it up. The pages were yellowed, much of the ink smeared, but a part of what had been written was clearly legible.

  “Come on, man!” gasped Des breathlessly. “What is it?”

  Nigel stared for a long time at the first page, then mumbled: “I don’t believe it.” He handed it to Des. “See for yourself.”

  The soldier scanned the page, then blinked, then looked again to make sure he was seeing right. He cleared his throat, waited until the lump had gone, then read aloud: “An Account of the Expedition of Lord Ciru.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The sentry wiped the sweat from his brow, drew his flask and sipped some water. His body ached and his feet were swollen and blistered. Nearly a week they had been in the forest, and they had yet to sight a single dog, much less see the enemy camp.

  There was a flurry above his head. The soldier ducked. Great claws swept by, inches from his face.

  “Vandor returns,” the sentry shouted. ‘The King of the Hawks returns!”

  Sean raced from his tent, wiping the sleep from his bloodshot eyes. The wings glided down; the bird came to rest at his feet.

  “What news?” asked the General eagerly.

  The hawk caught his breath and smiled slyly. Sean’s face lit up.

  “We’ve sighted a large camp, less than one day’s march south.”

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Sean.

  Dinjar, sleeping beside the tent, opened one eye. “Is it the main camp?” he asked.

  Vandor shook his head. “No, but it is a large Pack en route to the main camp. We can easily catch them off guard.”

  Sean clapped his hands, “This is more than I could have hoped,” he said. “Let us deal with them separately, before they can join forces with their king.”

  “How many are there?” asked Dinjar, eyes gleaming. The scent of battle flared in his nostrils.

  “About five hundred, maybe more. It was too dark to make an accurate tally.”

  Sean and Dinjar smiled at each other. “A perfect number,” said the Commander. Dinjar nodded. “Enough to deliver a heavy blow to the still-gathering army, but few enough to be quickly dealt with by our superior force. This king will think twice when he hears of it. But tell me, Vandor, are you certain that you were not observed?”

  The bird was insulted. The question need not have been asked. “We lay well concealed in the treetops. The dogs suspected nothing, I am sure.”

  “Good!” Sean said with a laugh. “We’ll move at dawn.”

  “We must move fast,” said Vandor. “They will not tarry in this place; by tomorrow they will be long gone.”

  “We need only one day,” said Dinjar. “By dawn there will be none left to leave.”

  Sean kneeled beside the bird. “Can you draw us a map of the terrain?” he asked. The hawk nodded. With his beak he drew a diagram in the dirt.

  “The Pack rests beside the banks of a shallow river,” he-said. “To their backs is a large knoll, to the sides many large boulders beside a ravine.”

  Sean smiled. “Then
we can surround them on three sides. It will be a perfect trap.”

  “And don’t worry about the fourth side,” added Dinjar. “My Hunters will halt any retreat across the water.”

  Sean stood, hands on hips. “Then let’s not waste time. By nightfall I want to quench my sword’s thirst with blood.”

  The night was black, murky. An occasional glimmer of a faint half-moon peeked from behind thick clouds. Several Hunter-wolves slowly moved forward, darting sharp eyes. Suddenly they stopped; ahead patrolled three Scouts. The lead-wolf nodded to his companions. One moved forward on his belly. “Help me, brother,” he said, feigning pain, “I am hurt!”

  The wily Scouts froze in their tracks. Red eyes glowed. “Who speaks of pain?” he growled.

  “I am injured,” the wolf repeated. “Will you not help a comrade?”

  The Scouts frantically looked about but saw nothing. “Where are you?”

  “Here,” croaked the wolf in his best dog-language. “Come closer. I am here!”

  The dogs looked at each other suspiciously; they edged toward the sound. Danger, they realized. The enemy was afoot! But it was too late. From high in the trees four archers released their arrows. A dull twang was the only sound. The Scouts lay dead. Silently the wolves dragged their corpses behind the bushes and moved on.

  From another direction the trick was repeated on other Scouts. Inch by inch the allies crept closer, until they stood on the camp’s perimeter, so close that they could hear the sleeping sighs of the slumbering Pack.

  At the top of the knoll one hundred archers drew bows. Tagg held his sword and waited for the signal. Halfway down the hill, another hundred had already taken aim. Breathlessly they waited. Flanking them stood the two hundred foot soldiers, weapons drawn, while across the river Sean and the cavalry made ready to charge. Every tree in sight hid fighting birds, talons at the ready; and along the ravine and banks Dinjar and his Hunters panted in anticipation. In the blackness of the far side of the river, well behind Sean, waited another hundred and fifty wolves. These reserves lay crouched in silence, poised to pounce upon any fleeing dog. The moon came out again. Sean turned to his bugler and nodded. Nervously the youth put the ram’s-horn to his lips and blew.