by S J Hartland
He laughed mirthlessly. He? Doubting his skill? Had he failed? Had he ever led his men to defeat? Answer that, Kaell. Never.
And yet a stranger with a silken Isles tongue defeated him. His gods tested him with silence. And his lord …
Foolish tears wet his lashes.
His lord watched him with shadowed eyes. Afraid.
The gentle noises of darkness shifted. Trickling water. A bird’s caw. Rustling grass. The wind murmuring through leaves. Then a sound he couldn’t place.
Kaell spun.
Arn’s blade glimmered in moonlight. His captain touched a finger to his lips. “Heard something.” He stalked towards the trees, returning a moment later. “My imagination. Are you alone? Where’s your sword?”
“Close.” Kaell dragged the scabbard towards him.
“Not close enough. You didn’t hear me behind you. What if I meant you harm?”
“There’s no one here.” Just whispering trees and silent gods. And doubt.
Arn stared. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “It’s late. You need to sleep.”
“That cursed dream awaits.”
Arn dropped to his haunches. “You might dream of the girl. The one who kisses you.”
“Last night I dreamt only of the door.” Kaell shuddered. “Whatever my fate, it draws closer, Arn. The door draws closer.”
“It’s just a dream, Kaell. A dream.”
Kaell hunched weary shoulders. “I know. But it’s always the same dream.”
“It may never happen. Or it might happen years from now.” Arn frowned. “There’s no shame in fear. If you think this journey takes us towards that door, we should turn back.”
Kaell dragged his hands over the soft bristle on his jaw. “My lord taught me to face fear head on. I’m a bonded warrior. Even if I’m afraid, it can’t paralyse me.”
“And your visions? Have they returned?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t see what happens tomorrow. What we’ll ride into?”
Kaell glanced up sharply. “No. Why? Are you worried?”
Arn patted his shoulder. “I’m always worried, boy.”
Dawn broke cold, a pallet of grey and rose. Riders drew cloaks tight, their gloved hands numbly fumbling at reins.
Eelidaran and a handful of grim-faced villagers farewelled them. “Hunt well,” the elder said. “Return to us unharmed and with good news.”
The sun brightened without heat as the riders crested hills. At Kaell’s back, thin, black smoke huffed from Thom’s hall. Trees clustered ahead in a verdant, dark-trunked forest.
“A villager told me Cahireans used to raid these parts.” Arn squinted. “Maybe your vision of loveliness, Rozenn, stopped it.”
“She’s not my vision.”
“My, you’re in a sour mood. Don’t take it out on me. Not my fault you refused to sleep until near dawn.”
Kaell rubbed his gritty eyes. “I kept thinking about something before I fell asleep. Aric’s reply when I asked about a girl with a scar. Remember his words?”
“Yes, as it happens. He muttered: ‘do you think that’s funny?’ Something like that.”
“Senseless words unless—”
“Unless he knows someone with that mark. Kaell, about that girl—”
“The girl I dream of?”
Arn hesitated.
“What about her?”
Arn studied his face for a moment, then sighed. “Don’t try too hard to find her.”
“Why not?”
“You think only of her kiss, how sweet it is. But your visions are warnings. This girl might mean you harm. Think about that.”
“And sometimes they’re just a glimpse of what will happen, who I’ll meet. Like that girl. It’s some kiss, Arn. A wondrous kiss. Worth the risk.” Kaell laughed. “You know, Aric was right about one thing, my friend. You do fuss.”
No retort. Arn stared ahead, hands white on the reins.
Kaell’s scalp tingled with unease. Around him, familiar sounds; men talking, whinnying horses, the jingle of harnesses. Everything about Arn, too, was familiar. Everything except his indrawn cheeks, his clouded eyes.
“I was wrong to stop you, Kaell,” Arn said softly. “When you had doubts. When you wanted to run away to Tide’s End or the Damadar twin cities.”
Kaell forced a laugh. “I wasn’t really going to run. I wasn’t serious.”
“I’m serious,” Arn said. “Do you ever wonder, Kaell, what might be? That there could be another, different life—”
Astonished, Kaell arched a brow. “For me?”
“You could turn away from it all. Find a girl—”
“Or a queen, like Rozenn.” Kaell grinned, trying to lighten the tension.
“Find a girl, settle somewhere. Or find a ship in Tide’s End, sail to Veniva or beyond the Ice Sea. Fight for some fat, greedy lord you don’t like for a lot of gold. An entire world awaits. Freedom.”
“This is strange talk, Arn.” Kaell scratched an itch beneath his shirt. He shook his head.
“What other life? Why? Freedom, you say? I don’t feel trapped. Even on the Downs when I had doubts, that was just mindless fear. How can I turn from what’s expected of me? The gods chose me, Arn. My duty is to them, to my lord, to the men we ride with. To Telor.”
“Says who? Vraymorg?”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“No reason,” Arn said. “Forget it.”
Kaell studied Eelidaran’s map with Arn. “This is the forest.” He stabbed a finger at the cloth. “Here. And the caves. We’ll wait for the outriders to return before going on.”
“As you say. Best to be careful.”
Arn moved off to spread the word: a short break, then weapons ready, be on your guard.
Iron jangled as men dismounted beside a glazed stream rolling through a muddy, fern-swept gully. Twisted, light-barked trees swept low branches, their leaves bronzed and curled.
The wind’s soft voice carried a feathery scent of mud and the sharp prick of rain. A single sodden grey cloud shadowed land then surrendered to dull sunlight.
Kaell put the map in his saddlebag and trod to the stream. As he knelt to splash icy water on his face, men nibbling dried meat or cleaning swords watched him. Some curious. Others wary.
Remembering the shadowed glances at Dal-Kanu, he wanted to shout: You know me. Yes, my hair, my eyes aren’t like yours. I might not marry or have children like you. I’m born to fight and die, probably soon. But I’m not so different. I belong here.
Arn was wrong. He could live no other life.
“Cold enough to shrivel a goat’s balls.” Olier offered chunked bread. “The outriders are back.”
“And?” Kaell bit into the bread.
A shrug. “All quiet in that forest. Empty. Dark though and dusk falls soon.”
“We must be quick. Make use of the last daylight.”
Olier chewed a lip. “We’re close to the Waste Mountains. Too many ghouls there.”
“We won’t go into the mountains.”
“No. But we could find more than eight ghouls in those caves.”
“I’ve thought of that.”
“At the Hall of Rollo, we faced thirty ghouls.”
“We’re a match for thirty ghouls.” Kaell drew his knees to his chest to check cords fastening knives to his shins, then tightened the strap holding a blade to his upper arm.
Olier grimaced. “Three knives. One, I understand, but three? I’d leak like a broken bucket from the stab wounds.”
“You adjust.” Kaell forced a laugh. A shadow nagged in a recess of his mind. Eelidaran’s manner last night? Arn’s strange words?
Olier watched him. “You’ve seen nothing?”
“Nothing. Dreams yes, but not visions. Do the men know I’m, well, blind?”
“They know.” Olier’s frown deepened. “It was that witch, wasn’t it? The sorceress from the Isles. It’s unnatural magic they use in the Isles. That’s what I’ve heard.”
He signalled caution and led the line of riders beneath canopied leaves and vines. Gloom cloaked the wood. The sunlight that did fall only speckled shadows. Men twitched. Uneasy hands strayed to sword hilts.
No bird sang; nothing chirred, nothing rustled except a low branch Kaell brushed aside. Olier clutched a neck amulet. Kaell did not blame him. The woods shouted with silence.
“This is the right path?” Arn brought his horse up.
“The outriders say it’s the only path,” Kaell said.
Soon embracing branches shut out even dappling, fading sun. Sharp-pronged bushes swished as horses crushed past. Tree limbs rattled against helms and swords. Carpeting pine needles concealed the thud of hoofs. No one spoke.
Daylight sped its retreat as the trees fell away into a lush, grassy clearing. Kaell gestured to Arn and drew his blade.
Arn signalled along the column. “I don’t like this,” he said as men slid swords from scabbards.
Kaell shivered. “It feels wrong. And we lost the light. Give the word to turn about.”
Leaves rustled. Within shadows, a shape moved.
Hairs shot up along Kaell’s arms. He yelled, “Ambush!” just as whooping ghouls surged from the trunks. Men wheeled horses to meet them.
For a heartbeat time stilled, as though men and ghouls froze in an eddy of eerie, breathless suspense. Then steel clashed in a mighty shriek; swords, axes, flesh tangled in a thunderous chaos of clanging, whirring metal, of howls and curses.
“Stand firm,” Kaell’s shout competed with ringing blades and screeches. “Archers to the side. Find cover then find targets.”
Arrows thrummed. Ghouls fell. But more stormed out to fall upon the men. Kaell struck down two with one sweep of steel, straining to see in the gathering darkness. More ghouls than he could count. Too many.
A knowing shudder whipped his back. He would die today.
With a bellow of rage, Kaell rode into the tide of ghouls, his hungry sword streaming blood as he cleaved limbs and heads. The blade hummed a terrible, lustful song, a familiar song. A death dance gripped him—his dance—and he savagely swept ghouls from his path.
Rented, mashed bodies heaped in Kaell’s wake. His sword, his hair, his face darkened with blood. Sweat ran hot; his heart clamoured. Battle fever braced his sagging muscles, stiffened his resolve.
His men outnumbered. Curse them. Curse them!
“I’m here, cowards,” he cried. “Kill me if you can.”
Hands groped his legs. He kicked, swept his blade. Ghouls plunged back. One leapt in, jabbing. Kaell parried. Stabbed. His foe jerked and died.
Olier crashed from his horse. A ghoul rushed the fallen man, sword raised.
Kaell rode in hard. He slashed. The blade sheared bone and flesh. Blood choked chill air. Olier scrambled up, touched hand to brow and leapt into a tumult of convulsing figures, shuddering blows, wailing iron and screams.
Everywhere swords hunted, harried, struck. Men and ghouls howled in pain. Amid bloody disarray, horses whinnied.
Kaell tore into seething bodies and slashing, hacking, cutting blades. His sword mashed limbs, pulped guts. His horse’s hooves crushed bones. A dark melody beat in his skull. Thought distilled to one intent. Kill.
Death coated his tongue, its sludge at the back of his throat as he pulverised flesh. Ghouls convulsed, screamed and died in pools of blood and earth sodden with gore.
A horse bolted into the forest, a body slumped against its neck. Arrows twanged. Some pierced flesh. Others rattled to the ground. The king’s man Ricker substituted bow for sword to hack at three ghouls. Kaell rode to help. His blade carved bone. A head spun.
As spouting blood blinded him, instinct screamed a warning. Unseeing, Kaell parried low against thrust steel. He blocked a blade. Swung. Killed.
Swiping his eyes, he shouted his defiance. “Attack me, cowards!”
An arrow whistled. Air swished his scalp. A voice cried, “Fool. Aim lower.”
Pain jagged through his shoulder, toppled him from the saddle. Kaell tried to rise. A sword hilt smashed into his head. The blow spun him into blackness.
He came to dazed and nauseous, his cheek in blood, his shoulder a fireball. Touching fingers to the source, he found an arrow’s fletching and pulled. This time the agony ripped a scream up his dry throat.
Teeth clenched, Kaell thrashed in pain. Shock numbed his mind. He couldn’t think properly. Couldn’t understand where he was.
Firelight chinked through branches, their groaning limbs naked against a dark satin sky. Tiny, white alyssum bobbed near his head, weaving their honey into stinging air.
Noises rippled. Fragmented, uncertain. Meaningless. Was that the wind scurrying dead leaves into buttressed shadows? Was that a brook’s murmur? Maybe. Did he hear voices?
Nothing seemed real. But it didn’t feel like a dream, either.
A man sobbed. Kaell knew he heard that. It cut through him with horror, exploded the block in his tormented mind. In grotesque flashes, memory slammed into him.
The darkening forest. Trap. Ghouls. Too many of them. Dying men. His men.
On elbows and knees, he dragged his broken body through mud, through the sickeningly sweet alyssum towards the flickering light.
Between trunks, a fire’s distorting glow fell on a ring of figures, on strewn steel, on bodies dumped in a pile. He would not look at faces.
Someone laughed. A man begged for mercy. Kaell jolted. Oh gods, some of his friends, his companions lived. He had to help them, draw the ghouls away from the wounded at least.
Through dizzying, knife-hot pain, Kaell forced himself to his knees, then to his feet. “Cowards,” he screamed into the night. “Vile beasts. Face me!”
Blurred shapes turned, sneering. No one challenged him.
“Face me,” he cried, brushing branches aside as he stumbled towards the clearing.
About the fire, ghouls feasted on wounded men. Some moaned, others briefly struggled. A dark stream washed into the earth. Wings beat overhead. Crows circled, cawing.
Frozen in horror, Kaell could only stare at this sick nightmare, at ghouls discarding dead prey, laughing as they grabbed others to feed upon.
Then fury raged through him, his sight dim with it. He had no thoughts of running, surviving. Only of how to kill. He would destroy them, reap every ghoul.
Tearing a sword from a corpse, he staggered forward, screaming, “You foul beasts. Leave them alone. Face me. It’s me you want.”
Anger became puppeteer to his arms waving the blade, his mind shut down to all but that fury. That need to kill. Bloodily.
An arrow whirred, puncturing flesh above his knee. Kaell screamed but did not stop. His lips stretched back from his teeth. Destroy them in a harvest of death.
Figures surrounded him, silhouettes against the fire. He whipped the sword about in a half circle, then stabbed, hearing a satisfying howl.
Shadows rushed along the ground, rising up, taking form. A blow from behind knocked him to his knees. A boot flew at his head. Kaell plunged back, drifting towards darkness, haunted by the fading cries of dying men.
He surfaced into blinking torchlight. Rope bound his arms to his side, his shoulders cramped. Dispersed starbursts of pain blurred together; his thigh, his back, his skull, his throat as he gasped for air. The gods only knew where else he hurt.
Get free. The thought hammered. Get free. Then get revenge.
Kaell squirmed, arched his back, limbs contorted as he fumbled with his bound hands for his blades. All gone but one. He wriggled it loose from his forearm, took it in shaky fingers to hack and saw at the ropes, gashing his wrists again and again in his haste.
The ropes fell away. But into a terrible silence. No more voices begged for mercy.
Too late. He was too late. Kael
l’s sobs wracked his broken body like a sickness. He crawled. Not knowing where, only far from the bloody clearing.
Beneath the trees, alyssum crushed against his blood-caked tunic, he retched, his body purging what his mind could not.
His men, his friends. Dead. He buried his head in his hands, moaning. Only a handful of ghouls, the villagers said. Yet scores hid in the forest, waiting.
A trap, surely. But why?
Faded blossoms trembled on trees. A boot scrunched dead leaves. Close. Voices drifted and gathered like wind: “Find him. Spread out. Find him.”
Panicked, Kaell stumbled up and lurched through menacing trunks, through shadows. Starlight lit the edges of banking clouds, the air sharp as winter in his lungs.
His pursuers thrashed the underbrush, taunting in sing-song voices. “Kaaaaelll. Where are you? You can’t hide from us, Kaeeelll.”
Kaell stumbled over a root. Fell. Pain ripped through his injured shoulder. He choked off a cry, found his feet, staggered on. Keep moving. Just one more step.
Rasped breath burned his throat. Sweat drenched his bloody tunic, clammy on his skin.
Thought condensed to survival. Do not stop. But his strength drained fast and his wounds bled an easy trail.
Crooked trees with knife-sharp twigs rent his skin. New gashes dripped unchecked.
He fought off slapping, needled boughs only to slip to his knees in soggy ground.
Kaell didn’t want to rise, wanted only to surrender to despair.
Why bother running? His dream unfolded. Surely it began like this, his desperate flight, ghouls hunting him. No matter what he did, where he ran, fate led him to that ruined castle where torch flames slapped cool air in the passage leading to the door.
A man might escape death once—he had survived Aric’s poison—but twice? No, they would have him. Soon. When he could no longer crawl. At least here, now, he died with his men. With Olier. Arn.
Arn … What would he say if he knew Kaell cowered here? What would his lord say?
Shame flushed through him. His lord would want him to fight, to seek vengeance for his fallen comrades. Not huddle in self-pity.