Mace continued. “But for what’s worth, I’ll be joining the Watch tonight to see for sure.”
Tork clenched his fists against the numbness sweeping across the skin of his knuckles and on into his fingers. It was a feeling with which he was familiar.
“You still doubt me, don’t you?”
Tork chuckled, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Aye, I do more than ever, now.”
“What’s wrong?” Mace stared at Tork’s hands.
“Nothing, just a sixth sense I’ve had since before I attempted selection for the King’s Own.”
“Really? How so?”
Tork shrugged. “Just a strange feeling I get in my hands when things are about to go horribly wrong.”
Mace grinned. “Have you seen a head doctor for that?”
“It’s served me well so far. It once saved my patrol from a Huron ambush.” He fell silent, staring into the horizon, his eyes losing their focus.
“And?”
Tork flinched and took a deep breath.
“What happened?”
He let the breath out slow. “We survived. That’s what happened.”
Mace nodded. “Well, here we are. I’m going to ask some questions around the place and see what I can find out.”
Tork appraised the distant western gate, stretching seventy feet tall and thirty feet across. It was wide open, allowing citizens and merchants to come and go at their leisure. Incoming merchants were stopped for a cursory check of their cargo and identity papers by guards of the Watch.
“Enjoy that. I’m off for a ride in the forest to smell the fresh air. The stink of the city becomes a bit wearisome after a while.”
Mace nodded. “Fair enough. See you in the war room on the morrow.”
He nodded. “That you shall. Good luck!” Tork nudged his heels into Might’s flanks, and the destrier accelerated into a smooth canter towards the huge gate.
He weaved through the slower traffic, no longer having the patience to wait behind slower travellers. Citizens either slogged along on foot, or merchants, without the capacity for agility, bumbled along on their wagons. Tork passed them all in quick succession. In no time at all he was dwarfed before the western gate.
“Good morning to you!” he called to one of the guards.
The guard, perusing the papers of a merchant, glanced up at him, looked back at the papers, and then he paused. His head snapped back up, and the guard’s eyes bulged. He dropped the papers and snapped to attention.
“Sire! Good morning, sire! My apologies, I did not expect to see you.”
It wasn’t every day the commander of the King’s Own came wandering through the gate.
“Stand easy. Don’t mind me, I’m just passing through.”
“Aye, sire!” But the guard remained at attention.
Within moments, he was on the other side of the gate and felt more at ease as the huge expanse of the rolling plains opened up before him. Tork clenched his fists again as the numbness intensified through his fingers. He pushed Might into a gallop and steered him off the road so he could pass the stream of meandering traffic wandering along at a sedate pace. The warhorse snorted in satisfaction as the ground streaked below them in a blur.
Within a short time, they approached Five Ways. Tork reined the destrier in, staring at Five Ways. Two wide roads peeled off to the left, another pair to the right, but it was the road stretching before him that held his interest. It was the path to the Waning Wood, and if the reports were to be believed, more than likely where the attacks originated.
“I once ventured into the outskirts of the Waning Wood when I was a boy.”
Might’s ears flicked back at his master’s voice.
“Scared the shit out of me.”
Tork frowned as he stared at the leaf littered road.
Not much traffic has passed this way in some time that much is obvious. But someone has come this way in the last few days.
“Hold!” he commanded.
The warhorse snorted and pawed at the ground.
Tork stepped out of the saddle and landed lightly upon the ground. Might would hold his position unless threatened, at which point he would attack before returning for Tork.
The commander of the King’s Own clasped the hilt of his sword and adjusted it so he could kneel comfortably without the scabbard digging into the ground. He gently pressed a gloved hand into the wagon track.
“Fresh sign.” He brushed aside leaves for a better view and found a second set of tracks he’d almost missed.
Either two separate wagons, or one travelling into and out of the Waning Wood.
His frown deepened, eyebrows meeting together above the bridge of his nose. He’d often been berated by his wife, Yeshira, for just such a look. In truth, he was thinking, or simply curious, but to onlookers, it seemed as if he was a hair’s breadth from violence.
“What in the hells does a merchant want in the Waning Wood?”
Has to be a merchant. He scratched his chin and stood. What other reason for a wagon to come this way?
Placing a boot into one of Might’s stirrups, he swung into the saddle and pushed the warhorse forward. The horse lunged into a trot, keen to be underway again. Soon, Five Ways was behind them and the road less travelled had become decidedly darker. The forest huddled closer as Might trotted on. It wasn’t long and the thick canopy blotted out the sun and what felt like the light thrown at dusk quickly became night.
“Steady there, boy.” Tork pulled back on the reins, slowing the destrier to a walk. He hissed against the near unbearable numbness emanating through his hand.
“At ready!” he commanded. He immediately felt Might’s powerful body tense beneath him.
Tork had let the warhorse know they may be under imminent attack and the destrier was ready to respond. Tork craned his neck and looked at the various dark trees towering above, seemingly hunched over horse and rider like giant, grizzled old people. Tork swallowed but refused to be cowed. A sudden rustle in the undergrowth to their immediate left brought the warhorse to a halt. Might turned towards the noise, mouthing the bit. He stamped his foot as if in challenge.
Without taking his eyes from the area the noise had issued, Tork reached across and slowly unsheathed his sword, the weapon sliding free with a dull hiss.
If I’d thought about it, I would have brought my damn musket, blunderbuss and spear.
Small lizards and tiny ground-dwelling birds often caused intermittent sounds amongst the forest’s undergrowth, but whatever had caused the commotion was not small.
All movement ceased and Tork sat like a statue, eyes wide, staring up at the forest canopy. There, dangling from several branches was a number of adult-sized, human-shaped forms encased in thick spider’s silk.
“Ho there!” he bellowed. “Can you hear me?” He stood in the stirrups, sword clasped tight in his master hand. “Is anyone alive up there?”
The cluster of humanoid shapes remained dangling. None of them moved, not even slightly. No voices replied to his urgent questions.
Tork clicked and pulled gently back on the reins. Might stepped backwards, giving them room to disengage were it necessary. Another crash exploded on the opposite side of the narrow road behind them. Tork sat down onto the saddle.
“Time to leave, boy!” Tork turned the warhorse back towards Five Ways and urged him into a canter, which didn’t take much coercion. He heard a deep growl and ear-shattering bark. Venturing a glance over his shoulder, he saw two wolves, half the size of Might, explode into view and give chase. Jowls peeled back to show razor sharp teeth, strings of saliva hanging in long tendrils.
Gods, they’re fast!
He kicked Might into a gallop and whipped another look over his shoulder. The wolves were even closer, snapping at the horse’s heels. We’re not going to make this.
Tork tilted forward in his saddle as Might released a powerful double-barrel kick. The commander heard
a dull thud and one of the wolves shriek in pain.
“Good lad!”
He couldn’t push the destrier on any faster. They were at full pace, and whilst it was a blistering speed, Tork knew Might would be unable to maintain it for any length of time. Keeping a low profile, he leaned over the warhorse’s mane so his face was close to the animal’s ears. Flicking a glance rearward, he noticed the distance between themselves and the wolves hadn’t opened much. They were almost as fast as the destrier at full flight.
“We’re going to have to fight, I’m afraid, my boy. There’s no other way.”
Might was blowing hard as the powerful animal attempted to maintain the pace. If they didn’t slow and turn to fight, the warhorse would have no strength for combat at all, and Tork didn’t fancy his chances facing the wolves on foot.
He slowed Might and pulled him around in a sharp turn. The wolf on the left was closest, so Tork steered towards it and tightened his grip upon the sword hilt, before urging the destrier into a counter-charge. Did that bastard wolf hesitate? Tork’s teeth flashed as his lips separated and widened in a death’s head grin. Probably not used to his prey running towards him.
Might accelerated into a gallop, snorting as the gap between horse and wolf rapidly diminished. At the last moment, the destrier swerved slightly away from the threat, exactly as he’d been trained.
“OBRAGARDA!” Tork roared the King’s Own war cry, leaning almost horizontal in the saddle, using every muscle in his shoulder and arm to swing the sword in a powerful sweep. The steel sang through the air. He felt the razor-sharp metal bite deep and rip free, and then a moment later, the wolves were behind them. He heard the shriek of agony but was too busy slowing and turning Might.
He felt the massive hooves slipping and sliding for grip beneath him, and then they were charging back towards the wolves. One of them sprinted towards Five Ways, heading straight for a merchant’s wagon loaded with wares bound for Lisfort. It was a double-axel vehicle being drawn by a mighty highland draught horse. The merchant wore a wide brimmed hat and was staring in horror at the fast approaching threat.
“Oh shit!”
The other wolf cowered on its haunches, nursing an amputated leg. Tork swung the sword, sunlight flashing from the steel as it rent the air in a mighty underhand cut. The blade sliced clean through the wolf’s neck, severing the head. The beast was dead before its body came to rest upon the ground. They gave chase to the giant animal almost upon the beleaguered merchant in the near distance.
“Jump clear!” roared Tork, gesturing for the man to run.
The merchant clamped a hand onto his hat, leapt from the driver’s bench and ran, his screams barely audible to Tork as wind rushed past his ears. Might’s rapid strides ate the ground, but it wasn’t fast enough. The harnessed horse shrieked in terror as the wolf slammed into it, and they both went to ground in a mess of flailing hooves, clumps of dirt, and noise.
Tork pulled back on the reins, and Might sat on his haunches, coming to a sliding stop. He jumped clear and sprinted towards the preoccupied wolf.
“Hold! Hold!”
Tork was almost upon the wolf when Might brushed past him in a canter, reared on his hind legs, and brought his front hooves crashing down upon the wolf with powerful strikes. The canine cried out and turned from the bleeding horse to face the new threat. In that short time, Might turned to present his rump to the huge predator. Tork ran around the fighting animals and winced as Might’s rear hooves slammed into the wolf’s face. Blood exploded from the massive maw, several fangs flying clear. Tork noticed the canine’s powerful rear legs bunched as it prepared to leap onto Might. Launching himself, Tork landed upon the canine’s back and grabbed a fistful of fur with his left hand to steady himself.
He snarled. “Nice try!”
Holding the scalpel-sharp sword in a reverse grip, he stabbed the canine, a shuddering vibration emanating up the weapon and through his hand as the steel ground along the edge of a rib. Using all his power, Tork stopped when the hilt touched the thick hide. Before he could withdraw the blade, the animal screamed in agony and turned, bucking against the fresh pain assaulting its body. Try as he might, Tork couldn’t maintain a grip and found himself sailing through the air. The ground rushed to make his acquaintance and all air departed him in a rush. Then the wolf was upon him.
Pinned to the ground by the weight of the animal, Tork was helpless, watching as the mighty fang-filled maw came within inches of his face. One bite and he would be without a face. The muzzle slowly rested upon his chest, the weight of the canine’s head making breathing almost impossible. Then the last vestige of life fled the wolf’s eyes.
Tork looked beyond the dead beast and focused upon Might standing above him. The warhorse snorted and stamped a hoof.
“How are you, my boy?” Tork spat dirt from his mouth and grunted as he pushed the wolf’s mighty head clear.
Might simply stared back at him and snorted again.
“Alright, alright, I’m getting up.”
He clambered to his feet, took a hold of his sword, and pulled it loose from the wolf with a grunt. Bright red blood oozed from the mighty wound, painting the fur around the injury claret. Might took a step forward and sniffed his master’s face.
“I’m uninjured, my lad.”
He cleaned the sword on the wolf’s hide and sheathed the weapon. Moving around Might, he checked for wounds, passing his hand along the flanks, across the rump, looking at the warhorse’s legs and hooves. The destrier was uninjured.
“Not a scratch, boy!”
He patted the horse’s shoulder. “Good to see.”
He looked at the merchant’s horse, which had managed to stand up, although it was holding its nearside rear hoof off the ground. A mighty wound ran the length of its leg, blood streaming from the injury and trickling to the ground in a puddle.
A shame the same cannot be said for that one.
Might nuzzled his chest. Tork stroked the soft nose and pushed past the warhorse.
“I’m sorry I could not be of more help.”
The weeping merchant stood before his wounded horse, holding the animal’s head in his hands.
“If it weren’t for you, we would have been killed.” The merchant sniffed, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
He recognised the accent. “You are Huronian?”
The merchant nodded.
If it wasn’t for me, you’d both be fine. I led the wolves to your door.
Tork clenched his jaw and swore.
“What’s that you say?” blubbered the merchant.
He stopped beside the distraught man and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, my friend.”
The merchant nodded and gestured towards the terrible wound. “He won’t survive this will he?”
“No.”
No point lying.
The man burst out crying and crumbled to the ground. Tork knelt beside him.
“I’m truly sorry. I can harness my horse to your wagon and pull you back into town. I will speak to my superiors and see if the king cannot replace your horse with another.”
Looking up through tear-filled eyes, the merchant’s eyebrows furrowed. “Would he do that?”
“Oh, our king is one of the most generous men around. When he learns of the circumstances, he won’t hesitate.”
More generous than your bastard dictator.
“Who are you?”
Tork heard movement nearby and noticed a newcomer approaching with musket in hand, a merchant wagon of his own parked nearby. “I am a member of his majesty’s King’s Own,” Tork answered.
The newcomer stopped, shrugged and nodded. He held the weapon out towards Tork. “I think you might be in need of me musket.”
Tork nodded. “I think so.” He stood and appraised the man. “Help me unharness the horse.”
“Right y’are.”
Together, they unharnessed the horse from t
he wagon and slowly led the injured animal away.
Tork returned to the merchant and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You might want to move away, my friend. You won’t want to see this. Rest assured, your horse won’t feel a thing. Hold to that thought.”
The merchant burst into fresh waves of distress. He nodded and stumbled away, keeping his back to the scene.
Tork held the injured horse, and the newcomer cocked the musket and brought it to bear.
The gunshot blasted around the countryside, the noise rolling across the plain in ever-dissipating echoes, until silence once again reigned.
* * *
Jad leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess, your report is all normal, no change?”
Tork sighed and looked at his hands resting on the table. “Would that it were, sire. Sadly, no.”
Jad’s eyes narrowed. He licked a finger and turned a page. Dipping the quill in the small inkpot, he began scribbling. “Go on.”
Tork recounted his tale. As he spoke, he became acutely aware as Blake ceased his fidgeting and turned to him, listening intently.
Jad paused, placing the quill into the inkpot and leaning back. “So the townsfolk weren’t lying. Those that were taken must have been subjected to a horrible fate. As for the wolves. They don’t sound like ordinary wolves at all.”
“They didn’t look like ordinary wolves either, sire. Let me tell you.”
The king’s advisor clasped his hands together and remained silent, looking beyond the men sat around the table.
Tork was wise enough not to speak when Jad was deep in thought.
Jad finally broke the silence. “Gentlemen.” He rubbed his bearded chin and closed his eyes. “We have a problem. Where is this merchant located? I’ll seek his majesty’s approval for a replacement horse.”
“The White Swan over in the third eastern quarter, one street back from the wall.”
“I know the place. They brew a nice ale.”
Tork smiled. “That they do, sire.”
“Let me guess, you have more to add?”
Tork looked across at Mace. The commander of the Watch looked exhausted, bags under his eyes, skin pale. The splatter of dried blood painted upon his armour was not lost on Tork. Nor was the fresh dent in his chest armour.
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