The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1)

by David Tallerman

  Which was precisely what Hule was doing at that moment. He was, in fact, already halfway up the bank. For a moment Durren seriously debated leaving him to his fate—until Arein broke from cover too and dashed after the errant fighter. Probably her intention had been to try and drag Hule back, but he had a good lead on her by then, and her legs were barely half the length of his.

  Still a part of Durren argued for staying where he was, or perhaps dashing in the opposite direction. It was only a small part, though; Hule could go hang, but the prospect of the dwarf girl being gnawed by ferocious rat-kind was more than Durren's conscience could withstand. In a moment he'd slid from the security of the trees and was running at full tilt to catch up.

  By then, Hule was across the mud-spattered boundary of the village, and Arein was only a little way behind. A dozen rat-kind had already frozen in the midst of whatever they'd been up to and were staring with beady eyes. Durren found it hard to read expressions from such inhuman faces, but he felt comfortable in saying that not one of them looked pleased at the sight of these three intruders.

  Durren held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding,” he suggested, though he had no idea if rat-kind even spoke Central. “We were looking for our friend, you see, but she obviously isn't here. So we'll be on our way, and you can all go back to…to whatever it was you were doing.”

  Not one single rat-kind went back to what they'd been doing—or gave any impression of having understood a word he'd said. Durren considered trying again, perhaps louder and more slowly; but he couldn't persuade himself that doing so would accomplish more than his first attempt had. Instead he found himself staring back at them, entranced by their strangeness.

  Durren didn't know if rat-kind were people who looked like rats or rats that looked like people. The question had never seemed important until now. At any rate, he certainly hadn't expected them to be quite so rodent-like. They were small, smaller even than Arein, and though they walked on their broad hind legs, they did so in a way that suggested they could as happily drop to scamper on all fours. Their hands—should that be forepaws?—were more developed than a rat's, yet at the same time not quite like human hands, with the four fingers slender and gnarled.

  Like rats, they came in a variety of shades: most were brown or grey, but a few were a snowy white, and an even rarer minority had splashes of one colour upon another. Their protruding jaws were shorter than a rat's would have been, though long enough to be called snouts. Most startling were their perfectly black and irisless eyes, the sight of which sent a shudder down Durren's spine. By comparison, the fact that they had long pink tails whisking the air behind them seemed almost ordinary.

  Durren had understood in theory that this was a village, but only now did he begin to appreciate just what that meant. He'd expected the place to be populated entirely by armed rat-kind ready for a fight, but of course it wasn't like that at all: there were children hurtling about, women with pink and wrinkled babies bundled in their arms, chickens scratching in the dirt, even the clang of a blacksmith's hammer resounding from somewhere nearby. This was these people's home, and here he and his newfound companions were, intruding without any hint of welcome.

  For all that, however, there was certainly no lack of sharp objects appearing in rat-kind paws. They were an industrious folk, or else skilled at stealing implements suited to their size. Much of the ironware was obviously intended for more domestic purposes—one grizzled rat-kind was threatening them with a hoe—but there were actual blades to be seen too, mostly knives and stubby short swords.

  Hule had had his own sword in hand since the moment he'd crossed the perimeter. Now he raised the weapon above his head and bellowed, “Tremble, vermin! Return what you've stolen or taste my steel!”

  If Durren could have crawled into a hole at that moment, he would have—not because he was afraid, though he was, but because he'd never been so embarrassed in his life. Dying was one thing, but dying in such idiotic fashion, with this loud-mouthed cretin by his side? That was something else altogether.

  He realised that, almost without his noticing, his fingers had plucked an arrow from the quiver on his back. Now they were fitting the shaft to his bowstring. This situation was about to turn very bad, for them or for the rat-kind, but most likely both—and when it did so, it would happen quickly. They weren't going to be rescuing Tia, that was for sure, and their best hope now would be to get away intact. Only, Durren suspected that they'd already passed the point where the rat-kind would just let them walk away. What they needed was a distraction—something suitably dramatic.

  He looked round for Arein, realised she was behind him, trying to stay out of sight in his shadow. “Do some magic,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth.

  “What?” She couldn't have sounded more shocked if he'd asked her to divert the gathered rat-kind by juggling live toads while balanced on one leg.

  “Magic. You do magic, don't you? You're a wizard, aren't you?” Durren realised he was no longer whispering, and tried to get a hold of himself. “They've probably never seen magic before. Can't you do something to frighten them? Just a fireball would do. A lightning bolt. Can't you do that?”

  Arein looked positively terrified now, like a rabbit that found itself staring into the maw of a wolf. Clearly there was no use expecting help from her; Durren just hoped she'd manage to run without too much encouragement, if the opportunity should come.

  But was it likely to? He was beginning to doubt. The armed rat-kind were circling around them, cutting off their retreat. The women, with their scrawny, blush-skinned infants, were retreating indoors. And even if the rat-kind weren't looking for a fight, Hule evidently was: his face was scrunched in fierce concentration, his eyes darted feverishly.

  One rat-kind, a large specimen with a wickedly curved knife in hand, squeaked something at the others and took a step closer. Like all of them, he'd been keeping his distance from Hule and Hule's sword. Now, however, he looked as if he might be readying for an attack.

  One or two of them would have no chance against the fighter; even if Hule was hopelessly unskilled, his greater reach gave him the advantage. But half a dozen rushing at once might just take him down before he could inflict any serious harm. Sure enough, as Durren glanced sideways, he saw that the circle of surrounding rodents was beginning to close.

  Durren made his decision. He wasn't willing to kill these people, not unless there was no possible choice, but nor was he going to stand here doing nothing. He brought his bow up, took aim—even as, beside him, Hule tensed like a cat about to pounce.

  The rat-kind who'd spoken took another half-step forward, bringing him almost within range of Hule's outstretched sword, and Durren knew that this was his last and only chance. For just an instant he wanted to miss: this would be far too good a shot, the kind that would have tipped his tutors off immediately. Then his brain caught up with the circumstances, the fact that all their lives depended on him—and he loosed.

  The rat-kind jolted backwards as though yanked by invisible cords. He crashed into the wall of the house behind him and stayed there, despite his best efforts to tear himself free. The fletching of Durren's arrow was just visible quivering beside his tufted ear, where the shaft had pierced the baggy hood of his garment.

  The other rat-kind took a collective step back. Durren had moved so fast that half of them were yet to realise why their companion had been whisked through the air. That left him ample time to draw and nock a second arrow. He aimed at one, shifted to another, hoping actions would speak more loudly than words had done: Your friend is alive because I chose to miss, and maybe next time I'll choose differently.

  Then a screech rose from far to their right, shrill and piercing. The sound was totally inhuman, and Durren realised he must be hearing some kind of rat-kind cry. As he glanced in that direction, he caught the briefest glimpse of a black-clad form vanishing between the trees. They were gripping something in bot
h hands, clutching it tight to their body.

  The figure was Tia, of course. And she was stealing back the stolen treasure chest. While the three of them had been achieving nothing except to place their own lives in danger, she had single-handedly completed their quest.

  Well, she had if she could survive the next few minutes, anyway.

  Some of the surrounding rat-kind broke off to give chase, but most didn't. There was already a group pursuing Tia, tumbling down the bank even as Durren watched, and they weren't lacking for numbers. Tia might have accidentally provided a brief diversion, but that wasn't going to save the three of them.

  Durren realised he could hear a low mumbling coming from behind him. When he glanced back, Arein's gaze was distant, and she was gesticulating at the empty air with her free hand. Just as Durren was beginning to wonder if the fear hadn't curdled her brains, he remembered what he'd asked of her barely a minute before. He hadn't had much experience with the casting of magic, but he was willing to believe it might look a lot like this.

  Sure enough, there came a gasp from the assembled rat-kind—and at the same time another sound, a sort of muted whoosh. Durren glanced about, unsure at first of where the noise had come from. Then he raised his eyes and saw the thin tendril of smoke crawling from a nearby rooftop. Even as he watched, smoke became fire: only a few sputtering sparks at first, but then, without warning, the entire dome of matted straw was alight.

  Another whoosh came from the left. Another roof began to belch smoke, and then licking flames. A third, deeper into the village, followed suit.

  Durren looked back at Arein. The impression of distance had cleared from her eyes, her hand was still, and she was staring at the now-blazing rooftops in horror.

  She wasn't the only one. Already panic was starting among the rat-kind. Suddenly, three stray humanoids were the least of their concerns. Now the question was more of choosing between their stolen treasure and their burning village. A crooked well was visible further down the mud-paved street, and the majority of nearby rat-kind were eyeing it in such a way as to suggest that stopping their homes from burning to the ground appealed more than a fight they might not win.

  There wouldn't be a better opportunity. “Run!” Durren yelled. To set an example he spun around, grabbed hold of Arein's overflowing sleeve, and dragged her after him.

  He was half sure that Hule would stay for the fight he'd seemed so eager to provoke, but then the fighter was pounding past them. Together the three of them tumbled down the slope towards the gloom of the forest. But Durren didn't need to look behind him to know that at least some of the rat-kind weren't willing to give up so easily.

  Nor was that the worst of their worries. For Durren had just remembered a crucial detail from what Hieronymus had told them, one he'd barely given any thought to at the time. Hadn't the old wizard said that the transport incantation would only work if the four of them were together and within touching distance?

  So it wasn't enough for them to survive. It wasn't even enough to escape. Unless they could catch Tia before the rat-kind did, none of them were going anywhere.

  3

  T

  hey had two things in their favour. First, the rat-kind appeared to have no ranged weapons; a couple of bows, even a slingshot, and Durren, Hule or Arein would surely have been dead by now. And second, the rat-kind were far more concerned with catching up with Tia than they were with capturing the three of them. Durren could hear the larger pack far off to their left, communicating in long, chittering sentences and ear-grating squeaks.

  Then again, since Durren was trying to reach Tia too, there was a limit to just how much that helped them.

  So Durren used those back-and-forth calls for guidance and plunged into the forest, heading for where he believed the main horde to be. For the moment at least, he appeared to have become the party leader: Hule seemed content to sprint along beside him and when Durren looked over his shoulder he saw Arein close upon their heels.

  He had thought Arein would be the death of them, but she was a surprisingly good runner. She'd hitched up her robe with the hand not clutching her staff and was managing to keep up a steady pace without any sign of flagging. Obviously there were at least some advantages to a dwarfish constitution. She didn't have much of a lead on the half dozen rat-kind that had chosen to pursue them, but at least she was managing to keep it.

  Durren's lungs were already beginning to ache. He could feel himself slowing. His vision was blurred, the speed of the chase whipping tears from his eyes, and he was afraid that he'd put a foot wrong and go tumbling. For the forest was growing denser as they penetrated deeper, the trees clustering more closely, roots jutting beneath a blanket of mould. Whenever he dared glance back, Durren could see that the rat-kind were negotiating such hazards easily, sometimes skipping to all fours to manage a particularly hazardous stretch. Yet they were starting to flag, too—just enough to keep them from closing the last distance.

  Only Hule seemed immune to fatigue. He had taken the lead now and was running with easy strides, his breathing steady and measured. Yet nothing suggested that he knew where he was going. If anything, he gave the impression that he was sprinting for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Only by chance was he following the course that Durren had chosen for them, the one that led towards the greater accumulation of rat-kind squealing and so, presumably, towards Tia.

  But how long could they keep this up for? And what could they hope to achieve? Even if the four of them should manage to get away, there were more than enough rat-kind on their trail to comb these woods until they were found again. Hadn't Hieronymus also said something about being out of danger? Perhaps the transport incantation wouldn't even work so long as their pursuers were nearby.

  Then, finally, Durren saw Tia—though he could easily have missed her. Somehow that cloak of hers found shadows even when there were none to be found; though she was dashing at full tilt, she still managed to pick out brief patches of concealment.

  However, she'd come to a spot where her options for cover were limited indeed. Where she was, the underbrush thinned, the trees formed an inconsistent line, and the ground appeared to reach a definite end. As Durren drew nearer, he realised that beyond Tia the land fell away; he guessed there must be a slope or even cliffs. The drop could only be a short one, for the tops of trees jutted into view, but it was enough to severely reduce her options. Having reached that edge, Tia could only continue beside it or swing back into the forest and risk severely narrowing her lead.

  At any rate, only her sheer stamina and agility were keeping her ahead of her pursuers. Tia was an excellent runner, better even than Hule. She moved with light-footed, long-limbed grace. Even now, when surely she must be past the point of exhaustion, she seemed to glide across the ground. The rat-kind would never have stood a chance of catching her, were it not for the treasure chest she carried.

  It was more of a casket, really, but its weight was hindering her—though not by much. Whatever its contents, it certainly wasn't laden with gold. More likely gemstones, Durren thought, and for a moment he found that the part of him that was his father's son had taken over, busily estimating the coffer's potential worth. A great deal was the obvious answer; no wonder the rat-kind were serious about recovering their pilfered treasure.

  It took nearly all the strength Durren had left to catch up with Tia. Even then, she barely paid him any notice. Her expression was one of total focus. She looked as though she intended to keep running for exactly as long as she needed to, whether that should be another minute, or an hour, or the entire rest of the day.

  For all Durren knew, maybe she was even up to the task—but he had his doubts. Whatever she might believe, she couldn't maintain this pace forever, and even if she should somehow outrun the rat-kind, that wouldn't be the end of their problems. No, there was only one solution, and he knew she wasn't going to like it.

  “You're going to have to…” Durren huffed, “have to…” He felt as though his lungs wer
e ready to burst. His heart was a solid knot of pain. Yet, from somewhere he managed to dredge the last words: “Drop it!”

  The look she turned on him was murderous. She couldn't have appeared more disgusted if he'd asked her to fall back and sacrifice herself so that the rest of them could escape.

  “It's our only chance!” he managed.

  Tia's only response was to pick up her pace.

  The cramp in Durren's side was threatening to double him in two now. But if he gave up, then at the least he'd probably never see the academy again, and he might well end up on the point of a rat-kind sword. Tia wasn't going to be persuaded, though, that much was clear. He felt that she was running, now, as much to get away from him as from their pursuers.

  They were almost out of options. In fact, Durren could see only one—and however little he liked it, he knew Tia was going to approve even less.

  Durren dredged up some final reserve of vigour. He was half sure that his burning muscles would simply refuse him, but nevertheless he matched her pace—and was certain he saw a hint of surprise in Tia's face as he drew alongside her once more.

  That was nothing to her expression when he lashed out at the casket.

  She realised what he meant to do—only a fraction of an instant too late. Even as she tried to tighten her grip, he had knocked the chest from her hands. She flailed, nearly caught it, fingers scrabbling at the polished edge. But by then Durren had managed to grasp her sleeve, and she faltered, almost slipped. The casket twisted free, struck a rock with a crunch, and even as Tia was slowing to recover it, went rattling over the edge of the cliff.