The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  “Back to the Haven!” came another.

  Des managed to stand; he drew his sword. The statue was rolling over again, tumbling to the bottom of the hill. But they were all out of the way, safe from its path, “Hold your places!” he yelled at the panic-stricken soldiers. “We are not going to run!”

  No one moved. The men kept their places but still trembled.

  “We’re all going to die!” wept someone. “The Fates have turned against us!”

  Like a great meteor came another ball of flame, right above their heads. The sky lit up like noon on a sunny day. And the men once more fell to the ground. A minute later it was gone. There was stillness in the night, at least for the moment. Marco fought off his own terror and picked up his ears. “Listen!” he barked.

  Men and wolves raised their heads. From far off in the distance, in the direction of the Plain, there came terrible shrieks and wails.

  “It’s the dogs,” panted Des, “and they’re heading this way!”

  From down along the ridge they could all see a Pack of hundreds of dogs charging down the slopes and coming right for them. Des got up; he held his sword firmly. “They’re running amok,” he said, astonished.

  “Are we expected to fight them?” asked a shivering youth.

  “We’re soldiers, aren’t we?” His question was a command. “Everyone stand — and draw your weapons.”

  The dogs were closer; they’d be upon the allies in seconds. Des gripped the broadsword with both hands, swinging it above his head. “Attack!” he called, and dashed out into the fray.

  The others gaped. Sinjon drew his dagger, letting the sheath fall to the ground. “Well?” he said. “You heard the order! What are we waiting for?” And his own hands still shaking, he ran after Des. Encouraged by this display of true courage, the others drew their own weapons and made ready to fight. If they were to die, it might as well be as men, not as whimpering children.

  The thunder rolled again, just as the band met the enemy head-on. Des swung his sword low and crippled and maimed the front-running dogs. And to his shock the dogs paid him no heed — no heed at all! They acted as though he were not even there.

  Encouraged, he boldly lopped his sword among them, left and right, right and left. And the dogs, if it could be believed, did not care. They dashed helter-skelter, in every which way.

  Mouth gaping, Des realized what had happened to them. “They fear the thunder more than we!” he called gleefully.

  And seeing this, the soldiers went at their task with a relish. They heaved the hapless enemy about like so many sheep, splitting skulls and lopping off heads. Their tunics became soaked. Blood ran over their weapons, their arms, splattered across their faces, down their backs; their boots sloshed through the blood-wet earth. They cut them down at will, and met not the slightest resistance.

  Marco saw this from afar and gathered his Hunters around him. “Are we to sit here and cower while the men do our fighting for us?” he barked. “Let’s join our friends and do our part, as Dinjar would have wished!”

  At the name of their fallen king the Hunters drew courage. Shouting his name they leapt and bounded over the hill to the slope of the ridge and met the enemy as they fled, slashing and tearing at their flesh.

  And what a merry fight this was! Men and wolves together, cutting the Master’s carefully trained army to pieces. Blades whistled; fangs shone in the moonlight. The dogs were struck down mid-flight as the brave Hunters hauled them to the earth and ripped their throats. And all through this heated small battle the ground still trembled as the awful thunder continued to roll. But to man and wolf there was no longer any fear of it. For whatever magic was about, it was obviously far more damaging to the enemy than it was to them, and they fought all the fiercer because of it.

  Soon this Pack was completely destroyed; the last of the dogs had scampered away, howling. The band paused for a moment to catch breath.

  “What next, Captain?” panted Sinjon, wiping his dagger clean on the grass.

  Des stared out in the direction of the Plain. “We still have to get to the camp,” he said. “This Pack was small compared to the Master’s whole army. And while Toland still lives we’ll never be safe.” And with that he got up and led the way again.

  They ran along the gourge, taking small cover in the undergrowth and between the thistles. An occasional orange fire-ball lit up the sky as they moved on. But by this time the men hardly noticed. More thunder broke from behind. Sinjon turned and stood in awe. “Look at that,” he called, gesturing wildly with his hands. Des looked over his shoulder, and had to shade his eyes. The Eastern-Forest was ablaze. Thousands of trees were burning, sending up huge flames. And there was a frightful wailing going on. Again the band paused to watch.

  “What is that?” whispered Marco, shaken by the horrible sound.

  Des looked at him sternly. He had heard that sound before — in the forest, at the Night-Birds’ cavern. “It’s the bats,” he said evenly. “The fire’s been lit in their hiding place.”

  “That’s right next to where we were,” gasped Sinjon.

  Des nodded darkly. The Master had brought the gift right to the edge of the Night-Birds’ nest.

  Hundreds of bats arose from the trees, from the blazing inferno below. They dodged this way and that, as great leaping flames grabbed for them like fingers, searching fingers that scorched their wing tips and brought them down, setting the wings afire. And so it was, down, down, they went — down into the Hell from which they had come.

  Those who could, flew about insanely, blinded from the light, seeking a refuge or shelter that they knew did not exist. Their lungs filled with the poisonous fumes of the smoke, and they coughed and vomited. The rising smoke encumbered them, like a blanket, ever helping to push them lower, back to the eager fingers.

  “Where are their allies now?” mumbled Des, scornfully. And then he turned away. “We can’t linger any longer,” he said. And the band snapped back to the tasks at hand and ran off into the night.

  The ground softened a bit, becoming slightly less rugged. They knew they were not far from the Plain. The band moved quickly across the hills, ever looking for signs of the enemy. At the crest of a hillock they stopped. They looked westward, over the trees and down along a tiny meadow. And there they saw a sight that no men had ever witnessed before. There was a narrow winding path that ran directly through the meadow. Des knew it well. It was an old path, one that eventually led on to the main road to the Haven. But now that path was blocked — by dogs. A hundred of them, lying in small clusters along the way, piled up literally in heaps, one on top of the other.

  The band walked among them, shocked. There were torsos without heads, limbs without appendages to cling to, skulls without brains, and brains without skulls. Bloody guts were strewn everywhere, and the place stank.

  Des looked around. There were no signs of axes or clubs of spike — no swords, no daggers, no arrows. “What could have done this?” he asked, almost in anguish. “What weapon could wreak such destruction?” It was truly a horrible sight, even though the enemy, not the allies, lay stricken.

  Sinjon glanced at him and shook his head. He had no answer for such a thing. Carlo stepped up from behind and pointed down. “Just look at the ground,” he said. “It’s blackened, as if scorched. But I see no sign of any fires, not so much as a smoldering branch.”

  There was no explanation. Des walked among the bodies and came upon a wounded dog. The animal had had its hind legs literally blown from its haunch. It sat there stunned, not even whimpering, staring blankly at the man who approached.

  Des drew back. “Look at him,” he gasped. “He doesn’t even seem to know I’m here.”

  “After what he has suffered, it’s no wonder,” offered Carlo.

  For the first time, Des showed pity on a dog. He stepped around behind it and brought the sword swiftly down over its head. Mercifully, the animal sank to the ground.

  Without speaking they continued on. They
saw more dogs, maybe a thousand, running from the Plain, their tails between their legs. Des gathered his force and spread them out. Toland’s camp was still a way off, but once more they would have to wait. These dogs could not be allowed to escape.

  The wolves set themselves along the escarpment of the next hill and waited for the racing horde to arrive. The men stood back, hid low in the tall grass and moved their weapons from hand to hand. The frightened dogs would have yet another surprise.

  And so this small army, less than thirty in all, watched as the enemy ran straight for them. As before, the dogs were too panicky to stand and fight, despite their great numbers. Within the space of a few short minutes, Des’s tiny army had rendered savage blows. The dogs’ ranks wavered, then broke entirely. They fled to the sides, to the back, on ahead. And no matter how many the band killed, there were still many that could be seen running for the forest.

  The men moved closer together, the wolves at their flanks. And they bore down among the dogs like a mailed fist wreaking vengeance. The more the enemy took no notice of them, the more they bore down. Soon even this fighting was at an end.

  “We’ll rest for a couple of minutes,” panted Des, leaning exhausted against a juniper. This fighting was too much, he knew. They had already slain so many, hundreds and hundreds. But where was Assan? Where were the Royal Guards and the cavalry? Would Des and his men have to do everything alone?

  There was less thunder now, only the occasional rumble from far off. Even the fire-balls had stopped. The sky was darkening again. Just then Carlo nudged Des and pointed to the sky. From the north, a mass was beginning to blacken the sky. It spread out swiftly, descending with each second.

  Sinjon squinted. “Night-Birds,” he said tensely.

  Des bolted up and prepared to meet them head on. The black mass was closing in fast; it was flying toward the Plain he saw. There could be no doubt of it. Toland had probably ordered one last desperate attack on the Haven itself. Des gritted his teeth.

  Suddenly Marco began to laugh. A deep laugh from within.

  Des shot him an angered look. “Do you think it’s amusing? The Night-Birds are almost upon us!”

  “Night-Birds, indeed!” scowled the wolf. “Look closer, my friend. It’s Corin and his fighting birds!”

  The men leaped to their feet and cheered. The hawks and falcons dove in low over their heads and swept past swiftly, flying west, to the Plain. But one bird lingered. He spread his massive wings and swept in low next to Des.

  “Ho, Captain!” he called, fluttering his feathers.

  “Corin! What a welcome sight you are! We thought we’d have to fight the entire dog-army by ourselves.”

  “Hardly,” chuckled the falcon. “We fly to the Plain now. Gather your band and follow.”

  “Hold on,” said Des. “I have some questions that need answering. What caused the terrible thunder? And weren’t you also frightened by it? And the balls of fire — where did they come from?”

  Corin shook his head. “There is no time to answer all that now,” he said, smiling slyly. “But you and your band were our greatest concern. We’re glad to see you’re still alive.” He began to swoop upwards.

  “But the thunder!” shouted Des. “Where did it —”

  “No time now, good friend,” called back Corin. “But be assured that the thunder is our ally. But now I must fly to the Plain! The Master still lives, and tries to gather a force about him to escape to the forest We must stop him.”

  And with that, the bird was gone, leaving Des and his companions more confused than ever.

  “What’s he talking about?” mumbled Carlo, scratching his chin.

  “What matter now?” replied Des. “You heard him; the Master is still alive. All our questions will have to wait. Quick! To the Plain!”

  And off again the brave band dashed. At length they found themselves looking straight down at the soft flat lands. Corin and his birds were swooping down in columns, creating havoc among the confused, embattled last legions of the dogs. The birds clawed and dug into their eyes, causing whole companies of the enemy to reel. And as the first group of birds flew back up, another came down to take their places. But from somewhere within the fray, Des and the others could hear the sharp barks of commands. All the dogs, it seemed, were not ready to run. Some were preparing to counterattack.

  Des again drew his sword and made ready to charge his troops among them. All of a sudden Sinjon began leaping up and down. “There!” he cried. “Over there!” Des looked hard across the Plain. From the new road he could see a swirling of dust rising high into the air. It was too dark to make out the cause.

  But the enemy did not have the same trouble. Kicking their more frightened companions aside, a large group of dogs broke into battle formation. Five hundred strong, they set a solid line, ten deep, and charged in the direction of the dustcloud.

  It was the Royal Guard. Two hundred men strong, mounted on fine steeds, they galloped right for the waiting phalanx. The riders crouched low in the saddles, heaved their swords. The front line of dogs stood firm, scratching into the soft underbellies of the horses. A dozen men fell. Before they had time to hit the dirt they were torn at by a hundred snarling Warriors. But the Royal Guardsmen did not flinch. More horses came, trampled over the dogs, and cut deep into the phalanx. The Warriors began to waver as the cavalry drove a large wedge between their force.

  And right through the center of the battle came Tagg, wielding his broadsword over his head. He swung the weapon low and sliced through a dozen dogs that blocked his path. “For Sean!” he cried. “For Dinjar!” And those behind him took up the call. “For Sean!” they shouted as they hacked and slashed. And a host of the enemy swooned at their feet.

  As this was happening, the less brave of the dogs had begun to run for shelter along the broad field of wheat and corn. In there they could hide, they were sure. But they were wrong.

  From within leaped the Hunters, growling and snarling. They had chosen their hiding place well. The dogs were stricken from all sides; those that somehow could, turned about and ran off in the other direction. But they fared little better; for coming from the old road were hundreds of Assan’s newly trained troops who had hidden in the tunnels. And what they did not have in experience they made up with courage. Many flashed flat-pointed axes and clubs of spike. They cut through the dogs’ ranks like a hot knife through butter. The enemy soldiers sought to flee, anywhere; many looked with envy to the trees and wished they could fly like a bird. Yes, even to be a lowly bird; anything to take them from this misery.

  Along the length and breadth of the Plain the battle raged. From the edge of the foothills Des and his band watched with cheery hearts as a hundred archers took up positions in rows and fired. Bows sang with a lusty twang as the arrows sent dozens of the enemy sprawling. Des smiled. At this rate, he knew, the battle would not last long. It was a rout. The greatest victory ever — one that would be told in stories for as long as the Haven stood.

  But his hope was soon shattered. The last dogs of the phalanx had formed a tight circle, and closing ranks, they pressed back toward the foothills, bringing down any brave soldier or Hunter who blocked their path. In a few more minutes they would be close to the hills, and safety. There was only one dog who would have been capable of such a determined ploy after all that had happened. The Master! And right now, Des saw that he and his small band were the only ones blocking their path to escape!

  A group of wolves leaped from behind the ridges of the first hills and tried valiantly to break the circle. The fight was hotly contested as fangs met fangs in deadly combat. “After them!” shouted Des, seeing the wolves were being pushed back, with many already lame and injured. His men charged bravely and met the dogs head-on. It was a short fight, but a costly one. These dogs were unwilling to yield. Des brandished his sword and led a small contingent toward their center, from where orders were being given. He felled several, but also lost several of his men along the way. The enemy was be
ing slowed, to be sure, but not stopped. It was a welcome sight indeed, as Tagg and a handful of cavalry closed in from behind and lent a badly needed hand. The two soldiers grinned at each other, Tagg on his black stallion, Des in his dirtied tunic and blackened face. But there was no time for talk. Too many of the dogs still lived.

  After some time the circle began to give way. The Hunters, Marco in the lead, broke through to the center. But as they did a group of dogs broke ranks and dashed along the slope. Des winced. There was one among them that was somehow different, somehow more radiant. His heart leaped into his throat. The Master and his generals!

  “Follow me,” Des called to a few of those beside him, and while the others spit fire and steel, this tiny group gave chase to the hills.

  It was almost black now, the last of the fire-balls having long since died. Even the moon was shaded by a sudden haze of thick clouds. Panting, the men slinked quietly over the crest of the hill down to a large thicket. Des cursed under his breath. The dogs could hide in this maze for hours, he knew. They could even sneak back to the forest.

  It was quiet. The raging battle on the Plain was far away and all but over. But here, deep in the thicket, the war was only beginning.

  Des wound along between the trees, eyes darting, noticing everything about, the way he had learned from Hector. Save for his own breathing, heavy and laborious, there wasn’t a sound. Behind him was Sinjon, and behind him, another soldier: the three of them to face five or six of the most cunning dogs the world had ever known.

  They approached a weed patch, filled with jutting rocks and thorn bushes. Des stopped and waited for the others to catch up. There was a field below, with thick grass, high as a man’s belly. An ideal place to have a trap sprung on them, Des knew. Fear crept into his heart like a worm, slowly inching its way to the center. To his left there was a long hedge of bramble and berry bushes, and behind them a few rows of oaks, like giants, casting long shadows across the anxious men as the moon peeked from behind the clouds.

  “Which way, now?” whispered Sinjon, nervously thumbing his dagger.