“Of course.” Rangvaldr drew out his pendant. He muttered the words of power and the stone flared to life, bathing the pond-side clearing in a soft blue glow. When he pressed the gleaming stone to the horse’s leg, the wound closed quickly, the flesh re-knitting in a matter of seconds.
Rangvaldr straightened, but before he could move on to the next horse, Noll strode toward him.
“Check their hooves, too,” the scout said, lifting the horse’s hoof. “I saw one limping and, yeah, look.” He pointed to the hoof, which was packed with a large, frozen lump of ice and snow. Drawing out a dagger, he set about scraping away the snow, talking as he worked. “The snow gets crammed in there and freezes, so it hurts them to walk. We need to wrap something around their hooves. Probably their legs, too.” Once done, he lowered the horse’s hoof and gave the beast a reassuring pat. “We’ll get you all fixed up in no time.”
“How about the furs?” Belthar pointed to fur pelts slung behind the eight empty saddles.
Captain Lingram’s eyes darkened, but he nodded. “Good thinking.”
Aravon recognized that look; he felt the sorrow at the loss of his men, but he pushed it aside. They had no time for mourning. Now, only the mission mattered. They could grieve later.
“Do it,” Aravon said. “We need to get them ready to ride as soon as possible.”
The Grim Reavers fell to the task of slicing the pelts to use as wrappings for the horses’ legs and hooves, moving quickly and with the efficiency he’d come to expect. But to Aravon’s surprise, Zaharis didn’t bend to the work. Instead, the Secret Keeper turned away from the horses and slipped toward the edge of the scummy pond. He crouched beside the murky water, his gaze fixed on something Aravon couldn’t see.
Curiosity flared within Aravon. There was something unnatural about the water—doubtless that had drawn the Secret Keeper’s interest.
“Zaharis?” Aravon called out. He moved toward the Secret Keeper. “Everything—”
Before he could take two steps, Zaharis whirled on him. “Silence!” he signed.
Aravon froze, his voice dying mid-sentence. But he alone had seen the urgent gesture. The rest of the Grim Reavers went about their task of caring for the horses, talking among themselves as they worked.
Fear flared in Zaharis’ eyes as he gave a loud hiss. All eyes turned toward him, and at his frantic hand gesture, the rest of the Grim Reavers immediately fell silent and went rigid.
“Nobody make a sound,” Zaharis signed, his fingers forming the words slowly. “Stay very, very still.”
“What is it?” Colborn signed with his left hand, his right gripping the hilt of his sword.
Zaharis thrust a finger toward a patch of bright green-and-white flowers growing along the edge of the pond. “Rankblossom,” he spelled out the letters to form the unfamiliar word. “A flower I’d only heard about in the legends of Fehl before now. It’s said to grow in only one place: near a gulon’s warren.”
Aravon opened his mouth to ask what a gulon was, but the question died on his lips as low, growling snarls echoed from all around the scummy pond, and hideous creatures appeared from the marshlands.
Chapter Forty
The monstrosities that emerged from the dark swamps were things of nightmare: four-legged beasts with the long, lean bodies and snouts of hounds, but with the thick, shaggy fur of a wolf and a line of spikes running down their spines. Foul green saliva oozed from their slavering jaws and dripped from razor-sharp canines. But where wolves and dogs had eyes, these had only unbroken fur. Their ears twitched up and their black noses lifted, sniffing and testing the air for the taste of their prey.
With a terrified yip, Snarl leapt off the rotting log and took to the air, flapping his wings to climb quickly into the thick-leaved trees. At the sudden movement, the gulons’ eyeless heads snapped toward Aravon and the Grim Reavers. Howls far more bestial and savage than any wolf’s shattered the eerie stillness of the marshlands. Gulons by the dozens burst from the shadows of their warrens and charged in a furious pack of snapping jaws, long claws, and spiked backs.
Aravon had a split second to act before the first monster reached him. The creature leapt toward his throat, saliva-coated jaws opened wide, three-clawed toes outstretched. Aravon whipped his spear around and dropped to a kneeling crouch in one smooth motion, driving the iron butt into the ground. The flying monster spitted himself on the sharp steel head of Aravon’s spear. Momentum punched the tip so deep the gulon’s ribs cracked against the crossbar. The eyeless creature’s howls cut off in a whining, gurgling bark, its writhing, thrashing body pinioned on the end of Aravon’s spear.
But before the first’s jerking stilled, the rest of the gulons leapt to the attack. Aravon shoved the dead monstrosity off the tip of his spear and spun it around to bring the iron-shod butt cracking down onto another’s head. The hound-sized creature gave a little yelping cry and fell, stunned. With a vicious thrust, Aravon drove the tip of his spear into the gulon’s spine-ridged back, just beneath the base of its canine skull. The beast’s panicked, agonized yowling fell instantly silent.
The howling, screeching cries of the gulons echoed all around Aravon. Whirling, he found four more of the creatures emerging from their warren on the western side of the pond, and another handful rushing around the eastern side, clawed toes digging into the soft, scummy mud as they raced to join the two dozen already launching into an attack on the Grim Reavers.
Arrows hissed past Aravon’s head, streaking toward the nearest gulon. One buried to the hilt in a creature’s shoulder, but did little to slow it down. The gulon simply howled louder and bared green-dripping fangs as it leapt toward Zaharis.
Crunch! The spiked mace in the Secret Keeper’s hands smashed skull bones and tore a massive chunk of furry flesh from the gulon’s face. The impact hurled the creature away, sending it splashing into the murky water of the pond. Filthy water sprayed Zaharis’ legs, and he leapt back, away from the reeking slime. Just in time to bring his mace swinging around to crush another monstrosity’s skull.
Even as Aravon raced to join Zaharis near the water’s edge, the rest of his comrades raced past, charging the oncoming monsters. Skathi and Noll’s arms never stopped moving as they drew, nocked, and loosed their arrows at anything that moved. Gulons fell in twos and threes, shafts buried deep in their furry bodies, but far too many rose and raced onward, barely slowed.
Those that survived the rain of arrows hurled themselves onto the warriors that now met them in a solid wall of shields and flashing steel. Colborn, Rangvaldr, and Captain Lingram stood between the gulons and the archers, hacking and chopping at any creature that drew within striking range. Aravon threw himself into place beside Captain Lingram and lent him the support of his spear. Sharp Odarian steel carved through gulon flesh and shattered bone with every strike, drawing dark green blood. The foul ichor oozed from the wounds and mingled with the scummy water of the pond. The muddy ground squelched and clawed at Aravon’s boots, as if trying to drag him into its murky depths.
With a growl, he leapt forward, onto solid ground, and drove his spear into a gulon’s wide-open mouth. The spear punched through the soft pink flesh of its gums and pierced the creature’s brain. It was dead before it fell limp at his feet.
Then, suddenly, the gulons seemed to retreat. The attack broke off so suddenly Aravon almost staggered. No more of the creatures charged him, but instead raced off around the edge of the pond. Their howling, yapping cries thundered through the trees as they fell back.
But not far, barely twenty yards, back to the safety of their warrens. Then they gathered themselves for another charge.
“They’re coming again!” Belthar’s shout echoed from where he stood beside the archers, axe in hand.
Before the words left his mouth, the gulons came on again. Moving fast, darting from side to side with the speed and agility of a mountain wolf. Jaws open and claws digging into the muck, the creatures raced toward the Grim Reavers en masse. More than twent
y of them, their yowling cries filling the air.
Noll’s arrow zipped just above one’s shoulder, and Skathi’s loosed missile skittered off a spiny back as her intended target leapt to the side. The creature bounced off a tree and hurled itself, claws outstretched, onto Captain Lingram. Lingram braced for the impact and slammed his shield into the gulon’s mouth, and Aravon’s spear finished it off a heartbeat before the next gulon leapt to the attack. Only to meet Captain Lingram’s sword, a hacking blow that nearly removed its canine head.
Then the gulons were attacking, pressing Aravon so hard he had no time to think, to worry about Captain Lingram at his side. It was all he could do to keep his spear whirling, weaving a wall of steel and wood between him and the snarling, drooling fangs and sharp claws of the gulons. He thrust, slashed, stabbed, and sliced with every shred of speed, yet the gulons were too fast, too canny to let him get within striking range. They seemed to dart toward him but back off as he struck at them, opening his guard for another to dart in from the side. Only Aravon’s skill and battle-honed reflexes kept them at bay, but he could feel his strength flagging.
Suddenly, a loud shrieking scream echoed from up the incline, a few yards from their position. The sound sent a chill down Aravon’s spine. The horses!
He managed to tear his gaze away from the gulon for a heartbeat, long enough to glance at their mounts. Horror twisted in his gut. Nearly a dozen gulons encircled the chargers, darting in and leaping out as they slashed and snapped at the huge warhorses. The mounts, bred for war and battle, lashed out with flailing hooves—catching three of the beasts with bone-shattering kicks that hurled them away—but the gulons moved too quickly. They darted in at every opening, slashing claws across the horses’ legs or leaping onto their backs to sink fangs into their necks. One horse, the mount with an arrow in its shoulder, couldn’t keep the creatures at bay. It went down, shrieking and screaming, four gulons clinging to its back.
Aravon turned back to his own battle—just in time to cut down the gulon that leapt at him. He slashed his spear across the beast’s face with a blow that would have cut out its eyes, had it had any. The creature howled and retreated, spiky hackles rippling as it darted away, opening the way for one of its fellows to leap at Aravon. Far too many came on too quickly. He couldn’t break the line, leave Captain Lingram vulnerable and fighting alone. But he had to do something—they needed the mounts to get them to Praellboer.
“Belthar!” Aravon shouted. “The horses!”
“I’ve got ‘em!” The big man burst free of their little circle and raced the ten steps toward the horses. His huge axe flew with terrifying speed as he chopped at the gulon that raced toward him. Cutting his way through, he charged at the monstrosities attacking the mounts.
Again, the gulons pressed Aravon and Captain Lingram hard. Four of the beasts darted in, two leaping high and the other two attacking low. Aravon jumped to the side, evading a hurtling creature, and drove the iron-shod butt of his spear into its skull as he spun. He landed with the tip of his spear thrust downward. Steel punched through hard bone and the brain beneath.
Captain Lingram’s grunt of pain snapped Aravon’s head around. The Captain had evaded the slashing claws aimed at his legs but, caught off-balance, had no time to brace for the impact of the high-leaping gulon. He staggered backward with a snarling, snapping creature clinging to his wooden shield. Sharp claws digging in for purchase, the gulon tried to swipe at Captain Lingram’s face. Lingram ducked but another low-attacking gulon forced him to fend the creature off with his sword.
Aravon crossed the distance to the embattled Legionnaire in one long step and brought his spear swinging around in a two-handed blow. No finesse or control, but a strike backed by all the power of his muscles and the weight of his spear. The iron-shod butt crashed into the gulon’s side with bone-shattering force. The impact tore the creature free of its perch on Lingram’s shield and sent it sprawling in the muck five feet away.
But instead of leaping to its feet and attacking again, the wounded gulon gave a little yowling cry and retreated once more. Its comrades joined in, howling and yapping as they darted into the shadows of their warrens once more.
Aravon sucked in a breath. Every muscle in his body ached and fire raced through his right arm, but he’d escaped injury.
“Anyone hurt?” he called out.
“Nothing bad,” Colborn shouted back. “My boots have seen better days, though.”
Aravon tore his eyes from the marshlands and glanced down at Colborn’s feet. Three long slashes had opened his boots, but it appeared the claws hadn’t drawn blood. He’d been lucky to escape that. They all had—none of them bore grievous wounds.
Yet something told Aravon they weren’t in the clear yet. Low growling echoed from within the dark gulon warrens. At any moment, the beasts would emerge. Though more than a dozen gulon corpses littered the ground, far too many remained alive, enraged, and doubtless hungry for human flesh.
“Go, join Belthar!” Aravon hissed at Skathi. The archer darted up the incline toward where Belthar stood panting, his broad chest heaving, bloodstained axe in hand. She fell in behind him, taking up a defensive position to protect the horses.
Aravon scanned the marshlands, searching for any sign of movement. Nothing. The swamp appeared as eerily still and motionless as before, with only the low growling of the gulons to break the silence.
“Anyone see them?” Noll’s harsh whisper echoed from behind Aravon.
“No,” Skathi hissed back, fingering her bow. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not waiting to—”
She never finished the sentence; her words cut off as she drew her bow and loosed, so quickly she didn’t even seem to aim. She didn’t need to. Her arrow slammed into the gulon that suddenly leapt from the scummy pond, hurling it backward with a loud splash. It didn’t come back up.
But so intent was she on the threat behind Noll she failed to see the gulon slinking through the shadows behind her.
Aravon opened his mouth to shout a warning. “Ska—”
Too late. The gulon leapt at her throat, fangs bared and dripping foul saliva.
Belthar’s huge hand closed around the creature’s neck, stopping it mid-air. The gulon gave a surprised yowl and twisted toward the big man, jaws snapping. Belthar simply dropped his axe, gripped the gulon’s skull in his other hand, and heaved. A terrible crack and the creature hung limp.
Suddenly, gulons burst from new holes in the ground. They raced from behind the Grim Reavers, darting through the thick dark grey-green trees and hurling themselves onto Aravon and his comrades. Aravon barely had time to bring his spear around to his right before a gulon popped out of a concealed warren opening and slashed at his legs. Sturdy wood shuddered beneath the impact as Aravon blocked, then brought the sharp spearhead slicing upward. Steel tore through the gulon’s throat and sent dark green blood spraying.
Another leapt at Aravon from his left with a savage swipe of its three-toed paws. Aravon threw his head back and the sharp claws raked along his leather mask, leaving a deep furrow. Before Aravon could counterattack, a third gulon leapt at his throat, fangs bared.
Desperate, Aravon threw up his spear. The gulon’s dripping jaws closed around the ash haft, snapping tight. Its weight collided with Aravon’s chest and it dug sharp claws into his armor, scrabbled at his belt, tried to slash at his throat. Aravon gripped his spear in both hands and tried to shove the creature off, but it clung tight, clawed toes digging in for a hold.
Something sliced through the air above Aravon’s head and six deep cuts burst open on the gulon’s eyeless head. The creature howled, loosing its grip on Aravon’s spear haft. Just enough for Aravon to spin and bring the spear slashing across the beast’s throat. The gulon fell back, gushing dark green ichor from the wounds on his head and the gaping tear in his neck.
Snarl swooped down to slash at a gulon leaping toward Skathi, then disappeared into the trees once more. Aravon shot a silent thanks to the brave
Enfield and turned back to the battle. A gulon leapt toward him, claws flashing. Aravon’s spear took the creature in the chest, shattered ribs, and drove through hard muscle, tearing a massive hole in its heart. Spinning, Aravon sent the dying creature flying into two of its comrades. Killed a fourth, then leapt onto the two struggling beneath the weight of the now-dead monstrosity. Skathi’s arrow punched into the first’s neck a heartbeat before Aravon drove his spear through the second’s skull.
Loud shrieks echoed from Aravon’s right, accompanied by the sudden thunder of hooves. Aravon snapped his gaze around in time to see three of the Kostarasar chargers racing out of the marshlands and across the icy tundra. Six gulons clung to their backs, digging claws and sinking fangs into horse flesh carved to ribbons.
Aravon whirled back to the fight, but he found no more enemies to kill. Belthar’s axe crushed one’s skull and severed its neck in one fierce blow. Captain Lingram spitted another, and Noll’s arrow found its mark in a gulon’s open mouth. The last of the creatures fell with Colborn and Rangvaldr’s swords hacking through the spines along its furry neck.
Silence descended over the marshlands. If any gulons had survived, no more appeared to renew the attack. Survivors would doubtless be back in their warrens, licking their wounds and cowering from the two-legged invaders that had slaughtered so many of their number.
Aravon counted nearly thirty gulon corpses, many strewn around the horses. His gut clenched at the sight of the downed mounts. Three of the Kostarasar chargers had gone down beneath those flashing claws and snapping teeth. Flesh torn to ribbons, throats opened, and bellies torn open to reveal coiled intestines. One of the beasts still lived, just long enough to give a final terrifying scream that answered the cries of the mounts racing off into the tundra with the gulons clinging to their backs. One of the fleeing horses had a familiar wooden chest strapped to its back.
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