by Wayne Mee
"Erg save us!", he muttered under his breath. A Slather on foot came at him with a long 'shim'. Norgi took the blow on his iron-rimmed buckler, then, with a skill learned from months of fierce, bloody skirmishes, swung round and took off the man's helmet with his razor-sharp Kirktooth. The left side of the Slather's skull went with it.
"Seril! Get those bloody fools back to the gate!"
Seril, The Root's ale brewer and Norgi's Second, bellowed at the knot of Kirkwean that had gotten ahead of the main force.
"Erg strike them! Have those lack-wits fall back!" As Seril urged his lathered pony after the foolish Kirkwean, Norgi reluctantly smiled to himself, thinking that he was beginning to sound more and more like Timin every day.
Seril soon returned, reining in his mount. There was blood on both the brew master and his pony, yet neither seemed to notice. "I've turned them, Norgi! Some of the younger lads wanted to press on, but I reminded them with the flat of my blade!"
Norgi nodded, turned his own pony and called out. "Back, lads! Bring the wounded and head back to Goblin's Gorge! We'll sting the quiffers yet!"
Nearly four score of the original hundred mounted Kirkwean followed him back through the west gate, though far too many lay lifeless on the green grass.
"The Slathers follow, Norgi! We've done it! They've taken the bait!", Seril yelled.
"Aye," the thin little Kirkwean muttered. "But at what price?!"
The race to Goblin's Gorge continued.
***
"Do you see them?!"
"Not yet, Fern," Timin answered from his perch high up in a tree above where Fernleaf and her mounted female archers waited. "But I hear them!"
"What of Doffer and Twigg?"
Timin shaded his eyes from the setting sun as he gazed across the gorge. "Doffer's group is ready. Twigg's band is too well hidden, but have no fear, lass, they'll be in place."
Fernleaf shifted her gaze to the tall Nim-Loth who had just materialized out of the rocks. She watched as he spoke swiftly to Cynwulf, who in turn called up to Timin.
"Ye'd best come down, Master Timin. Silgwyn's eyes and ears be sharper than yours and mine combined. He says your Wee'ns are on their way, with half the Slather army hot on their tail!"
Mounted again, Timin tightened the strap on his dented helmet and pointed with his fish-spear. "Once they've past us, we're to send down as many rocks and boulders as we can to block their retreat. Then we ride back to help Thorn!"
Cynwulf grunted and hefted his pike. "Glade I'll be to see The Wanderer again. May Bal One-Eye strengthen his arm!"
"And may Erg grant us peace," Timin responded.
***
Nex swore as he bent over the sweating neck of his steed. "Curse these stinking Wee'ns!", he raged. "Their little ponies are better suited for this rocky ground than our larger mounts!"
Sagan, Nex's orderly, nodded as he rode beside his lord. Behind them thundered three troops of Dragoons that the High Gnash had ordered to chase the fleeing Wee'ns.
The thick woods all but blocked the slanting rays of the setting sun. All about them tall trees loomed, while the winding trail they followed grew ever rougher as they continued to climb. At every turn Sagan expected a Wee'n arrow or a stone from their accursed slings to find him, yet still he urged on his already laboring mount. Nex, the commander he inwardly despised, wasn't prone to awarding field commendations to those that lagged behind.
Suddenly they were out of the trees and into a narrow gorge. Shod hooves struck sparks on the shale. One man screamed as his horse went down, yet still the long line of Dragoons kept on. Nex waved his 'shim' at the retreating Wee'ns, then turned on his men.
"On, you motherless quiffers! Will you let those half-grown by-blows outrun the Sons of Slath?!"
Shamed by their commander's words, each Dragoon urged his nearly spent animal up the rocky, shadow-strewn trail, while on both sides the dark walls of the gorge rose higher and higher.
Sagan, sinking spurs into his already bleeding mount, grinned as he pulled ahead of Nex. 'Now let the 'great captain' deny me my rightful place!', he reasoned. 'He'll have no choice but to promote the man who first strikes a blow for glorious Slathland!'
Sagan died with the smirk still on his face; crushed like a bug from a boulder half again as big as the horse and rider it had just flattened.
From high above cold, cruel rocky death continued to rain down.
***
From his position in the bow of the lead boat, Spangle cursed under his breath and pointed urgently at the rapidly approaching shore. His crew, laboring behind him with paddle and pole, did their best to move the odd little flotilla across Goose Lake, the largest body of water in The Root. Everything that could float had been commandeered to get Spangle's two hundred Del-Lingus Kirkwean across the still, clear waters.
In the growing dusk the far shore loomed closer.
Suddenly a paddle slipped and struck against a hull, filling the silent flooded valley with a booming sound that Spangle thought must surely wake the dead!
All movement stopped as the crews held their collective breath. Archers squinted into the twilight for signs of the enemy while Spangle the Spike nervously fingered the jeweled hilt of his shortsword.
Moments passed, yet no alarm had been risen. Then, floating over the timeless silence of the lake, Spangle caught the distant sounds of battle. "It's begun, lads!", he whispered fiercely. "Now, put your backs into it, you fatherless whoresons! It's time to earn your pay!"
Raft, boat, dory and punt surged forward. Several hectic minutes later the craft were abandoned as two hundred sea-hardened Wee'ns waded ashore. Weapons ready, they faded into the long grass around the charred remains of the burnt boathouse.
Rat, Spangle's First Mate, crept up to where his captain and best friend lay overlooking The Root.
"So them be these quiffin' 'tree-'ouses' I've 'eard so much about! Erg sink me, Spike! These distant cousins of ours be set up right smartly 'ere!"
Spangle sent his old friend a withering look. "Tis not the houses we're here for, fool, but to kill Slathers! Look there, by that newly raised stockade. The prisoners must be inside."
"Aye!", Rat grunted. "And there be a fair sized crew of Slathers guarding it too! Are you sure this 'Wanderer' n' 'is crew can be trusted?"
Spangle grinned, the gap from his two missing teeth clear to see even in the fading light. "Aye, the lad's a might odd, but he'll keep his word. Those be his people down there, Old Salt, and they've more reason to hate Slathers than even we do." He jabbed his long-time sailing companion in the ribs. "Be your rod not hard enough for the task, laddie-buck?!"
Rat spit and grinned back. "It be 'arder than yours, you old quiff! Let's get to 'er!"
Spangle gave the soundless signal and slowly the shadows from the shore began to wash down towards the stockade.
***
"It be time, Thorn," Erin grunted.
The two of them had crept to the top of a pine studded hill just behind The Forge. The 'Rolling Hill' Thorn and his young friends had called this place, for, in the care-free days of their youth, he and Timin had often wrestled and rolled their way down the grassy slope to the stream below. Now two Slathers stood guard on the arched stone bridge that led to The Forge.
Thorn's hand strayed from the green cloak-pin above his breast to Shard's black hilt. The gentle slope suddenly seemed awash with blood and bodies. The sight both frightened and sickened him, yet a part of him longed for it just the same.
"Not yet!", Thorn hissed, fighting off the urge to draw Shard and begin the slaughter. "Spangle's people haven't had enough time to land!"
The rasp of Glenrig, Erin's Twain-made longsword, the larger mate to Shard, made the Kirkwean's teeth grind as it came free of the weapon-man's scabbard. Thorn's heart pounded in his chest; his knuckles turned white round Shard's hilt as the blood-lust welled up within him.
Erin's wolf-grey eyes took in the two guards on the bridge at the foot of the hill. As yet there w
as no sign of Kel, but not for a moment did Erin doubt that the silent Chin was about his deadly trade.
"Then they'll be a wee bit late for the feast, laddie! But late or early, we must away! Gluck 'n his lads have already done for most o' the sentries, 'n Kel's seein' to those two on yonder bridge. We must go now!"
In a sudden panic, Thorn turned to the old mage that had silently worked his way up behind them. Mithdar, seeing both the blazing light of the cloak-pin and the wilder look on Thorn's eyes, quickly covered the Nim-Lothian broach with a fold from Thorn's cloak.
"I know it is hard, Thorn, but you mustn't give up. You have carried your burden a long and dangerous way. Time and again you have resisted Shard's evil power and, though it has greatly tortured your soul, you have not given in. You must not do so now!"
"But it calls to me, Mithdar!" The words were torn from him in a ragged whisper. "It calls to me! Even now I can hear it! 'Cirimoth nui sith! - Death to all'!"
"Speak not those words here!", the old mage said, his gnarled hand biting deep into the Kirkwean's shoulder. "The Lord of the Shadows is nigh, and he may hear! Even now he probably senses that the blade is close at hand, though in that we may yet have some luck."
"How so, Mithdar?", Erin's voice was as sharp as his sword's edge.
Mithdar sighed. "The Green River-Stone Thorn carries may still confound him, for it was made for just such a purpose. Whether it can mask Shard's evil presence at this close range I cannot tell. One thing I do know, there is nothing he would not do to retrieve the blade, for it is the one thing that he needs to make him whole again --- and it is the one thing that he must never obtain!"
With an effort of will that left him gasping, Thorn tore his hand away from Shard and buried his face in Mithdar's cloak. The wizard held him to his breast and rocked him like a baby, the gnarled hand now gently stroking the back of Thorn's head. Sobs racked the frail Kirkwean's body.
"Soon, my young friend, soon you shall be able to lay your burden down." Mithdar's soothing voice mingled with the wind whispering through the tall pines. "I'm very proud of you, Thorn. You have done exceedingly well; much better in fact than even I dared hope --- for you see, though I carry it not, I too feel Shard's evil pull."
Thorn looked up with tear-stained eyes into the old man's weathered face. "You -- you feel it as well?!"
"Yes, Thorn, I too feel its pull, though, since you are the 'sword-bearer', it's hold on you is far greater. Yet together we can resist its mindless evil. Together we can put an end to the Shadow Lord forever!"
Thorn pushed himself erect, yet Mithdar still held his two hands. When he spoke the old mage's voice had in it the silent strength of iron. "One way or the other there will soon be an ending. We can but try our best to see that we each do our part. Now come. Your brave friends down below have great need of you, and I know you will not want to disappoint them."
Thorn slowly placed his helm on his head, then turned and embraced the old wizard. "Since the very beginning you have been like a father to me." His gaze turned to include Erin as well. "And you have been like a brother. Yet despite your love I have often felt lost and alone. Somehow --- somehow I no longer feel that way."
He gave Mithdar's hand a reassuring squeeze, then unslung the small bow he carried at his shoulder and lifted it high. His other hand went not to the hilt of the black sword that hung at his side, but rather to the glowing cloak-pin on his breast.
"I am Bramblethorn Ni Higgs," he said proudly. "Born of Hawthorn and Rosewood Higgs of The Root in the Land of The Kirkwean. I am The Chosen One, The Wanderer Returned, and I have come home to stay. And, I am not alone!"
Then he was away, striding boldly down the hill towards his long awaited destiny, while all around him the shadows that came with the night closed their black grip over rock and root and bush.
Erin and Mithdar glanced quickly at each other, then hastened to follow, the tall weapons-man inwardly cursing Thorn's brave but foolish move --- for two Slathers still guarded the bridge at the base of the slope, and Thorn was walking straight towards them!
***
Kel's left eyebrow rose as he saw Thorn coming down the hill. The Chin had been slowly making his way to the base of the stone bridge, planning to silence the two Slather guards one by one. He had left his longbow behind, trusting his Ja~Din training to get him close enough without being seen or heard. A quick thrust of his razor-sharp a-sa and his knowledge of Tanj-Ka would do the rest.
Thorn's sudden appearance on the hill now forced him to change his plan.
Breaking from cover, he silently ran towards the bridge. The two guards, talking quietly at the center of the span, didn't see him coming until he was nearly upon them. The first one turned just in time to see a dark form flying through the air. Then a foot struck his chest and he was knocked back into the second guard. The heel of a bronze colored hand slammed into a jaw and the man dropped to the ground.
The second guard leveled his spear. Like a dancer, Kel swirled around, bringing his bare hand down in a sweeping arc. The guard was left holding a severed pole. Tossing it at the slant-eyed apparition, the guard drew his shim and aimed a stroke at Kel's neck. The gleaming blade swished through the fading twilight, striking sparks on the stone bridge. Of the slant-eyed phantom there was no sign. Suddenly the guard's head was yanked back and the point of Kel's a-sa entered under his chin, passed through the cavity of his open mouth and came to rest in the base of his startled brain. The body was dead before the legs even began to sag.
"Kel!"
The Chin thrust the lifeless form from him just as the first guard lunged. The Slather's dagger passed through his cloak and grated on his light scale armour. Kel hardly felt the pain as he twirled, taking the man's wrist and dagger with him. There was a sharp snapping sound, followed by a muffled scream as Kel's other hand closed over his mouth. Then Kel twisted suddenly to his left. This time the snapping sound was distinctly louder. A moment later another body sagged to the ground.
The sound of a bowstring sent Kel into a defensive crouch. His upturned eyes saw the running form of yet another guard take an arrow in the throat. Carried on by his momentum, this third guard continued towards Kel, who easily sidestepped the falling body as it toppled onto his lifeless comrades. A quick thrust through the ear reassured the Chin that his enemy was truly dead, then, after cleaning his blade, he turned to bow to his savior.
Thorn nodded curtly as he passed, stepping over the fallen guards and continuing boldly across the bridge.
***
Chapter 57:THE RESCUE
Nex yanked his mount hard left to avoid the large boulder that had crushed his aid. He had never really liked Sagan; too hungry for power, too eager to kiss-ass; yet being squashed like a bug was no way for a Slathlander to die --- even a forked tongued piece of grinning slime like Sagan.
Nex fought to steady his mount as more boulders crashed around him. Arrows rained down from all sides. The screams of dying men and horses mingled with the dirt and the dust, assaulting both his eyes and his ears.
Then his mount reared, a feathered shaft having suddenly sprouted from its neck. Even as he fought for control, another arrow glanced off his armour. At the same time a hail of rocks cascaded down on him, the largest of which struck his terrified mount squarely on the head. The beast crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Falling, Nex threw himself from the saddle. Dust and grit blinded him; screams of pain washed over him. A jagged piece of ground smote him in the ribs while another boulder pounded his back. His face pressed into the churned earth, he smelt something vaguely familiar, almost like his mother's garden, mingled with the repugnant aroma of his father's stable.
He had always hated the stable, for that was where most of the beatings had occurred. Nex, it seemed, had not been a very dutiful son --- and now the beatings were about to begin again.
***
Ragnol Halfhand drew his gold-hilted shim and held it aloft, his hawkish gaze taking in the battle before h
im. Led by Lord Skatha, two-thirds of the forces ordered to guard the road into the Root were already committed. Great slaughter on both sides was taking place, yet still the foolish Kirkwean kept coming. The High Gnash himself, shielded by a cohort of Dragoons, sat on a black charger a bowshot or so back from the fighting. His personal guard of a dozen Brakarns ringed him as he calmly watched the battle. Ragnol had but to lower his arm and the remaining Dragoons he himself commanded would gallop in to join Skatha and the others.
Then, in the swiftly fading light, Ragnol's eye caught movement off to his left. Shifting his gaze, he saw several score of Kirkwean moving down the slope towards the prisoner's stockade. Years of military training, learned in the unforgiving school of the mercenary, caused him to react instinctively.
"Dragoons! To the left! Wheel!"
Startled, yet too well trained to hesitate, over one hundred of Slathland's elite horsesoldiers turned to face away from the battle at the gate.
"At a walk, move!"
The sound of leather and harness mingled with the distant screams and clash of iron.
"Dragoons! At a trot!"
The wave of men and beasts surged forward, all now clearly seeing their targets, all eager for the kill.
***
Lucfelian, astride the High Gnash's prized black stallion, tore his gaze away from the slaughter at the gate and looked off to the right. From there Ragnol would come from --- the 'killing thrust' in his plan to wipe out these annoying little Wee'ns. When he saw Halfhand leading his men away from the fight, Lucfelian began to curse in a very old language. Suddenly he saw the reason for Ragnol's change of plan. Wee'ns! What looked like hundreds of them! Coming in from across the lake in a variety of boats and rafts!
Hissing orders to have Lord Skatha sent to him immediately, Lucfelian sank his spurs into the black's ribs. The animal bolted towards the stockade, blood streaming from its flanks.