by C. M. Gray
Rain began to spatter to the ground around them again, drumming upon the hoods of their oiled cloaks, which they each pulled tighter about them. Rivulets of gathered raindrops seemed to find their way in whatever they seemed to do to try and stop them, chilling them further and making life on the road even more intolerable. To their right, the open countryside consisted of small hills and rocky crags covered in thin patches of snow, mud and slush. A few stunted trees and shrubs grew, but all were bare of any growth making it a colourless, depressing landscape. On their immediate left, to the side of the path, rose the mighty Massif Mountains range, the wall of grey granite rising abruptly from the ground without any gradual increase in size, a truly colossal, impenetrable boundary to any beast born without wings.
Gazing up through the rain, Loras could see small trees and shrubs clinging to ledges, the result of windblown seeds finding enough soil in a crack to send out roots and grow - little miracles of the Source, thought Loras. Birds were nesting here too, their cries lost in the wind and rain of this awful place. Higher still, the cliff top was lost in grey, featureless cloud, leaving Loras to wonder and guess at the heights his friends had travelled over, just a few days before.
Bringing Bartholomew along meant they had to have a wagon, which had been available at the top of the anchorage path for a price. The merchant refused to ride a horse, and they couldn't find one big enough for him anyway. The wagon came with a driver, and next to the driver sat Bartholomew's personal cook who appeared to be as miserable about this journey as his employer. Riding to the front of the column were four armed guards from the Esmeralda's crew that Bartholomew had insisted on having along for his personal protection. He had actually been insistent on ten riders, but had finally succumbed and agreed on only four when told he would have to share the food supply with as many people as he wanted with him.
For the past two days, they had trudged through rain, snow and sleet, huddled in the saddle with their cloaks wrapped tightly around them trying to keep out the wet and cold. Loras had developed a method of heating the air inside his cloak and retreating inside, squeezing the hood closed so he couldn't see out, but no cold air could get in. He rode along vaguely trusting his horse would follow the others.
They were attacked on the morning of the third day, just after the rain had stopped, and the sun appeared to be making a feeble effort at breaking through the cloud. Bartholomew, in his wagon, was silent. Loras and Tarent were riding side by side with their hoods back, and Magician Falk was bringing up the rear of the little group. One moment all was dull and ordinary, following each other along a piece of track, much like every other piece of track since they had left, when an arrow struck the wagon with a heavy thud and a moment later another struck the cook. He leapt up with a cry his hand wrapped round the shaft sticking from his shoulder, and then fell from the wagon to the muddy path, his scream of agony a keening wail that echoed around the rocky cliffs. In an instant, Barbarian warriors were erupting from the rocks and screaming down at them from all sides.
The guards wheeled their horses, galloping back to protect the wagon and the panicking merchant within it. Bartholomew, unaware of what was happening outside, apart from hearing screams and cries, was already adding to the confusion by shrieking at the top of his voice.
'Protect me, protect me, we are attacked! Heeeelpppp!' A crashing sound came from inside, and the wagon rocked violently as the big merchant shifted about, then his head poked out the back, long enough to take in what was going on. Placed upon his head was a large saucepan, and in his hand he waved a carving knife. His mouth opened in a silent scream as a huge muddy warrior, dressed in rags and mismatched armour, charged towards him swinging a sword. Bartholomew drew his head back, but the edge of the sword caught the saucepan with a loud 'dong' that sent it flying and Bartholomew's head was no longer there.
There were about twenty warriors in the Barbarian force. They must have seen the small party coming some time back and lain in wait, anticipating an easy prey. What they weren't expecting was a boy priest with twin swords that charged at them rather than turning and running as expected, and two Magicians that were eager for some distraction after two mind-numbing days of walking in the rain.
Raising his staff, Loras sent bolts of blue energy slamming into the attacking warriors that threw them back off their feet to land several paces away in steaming heaps howling and thrashing in confusion. Beside him, Magician Falk raised both hands in the air and brought them down sending cracks of lightning from the clouds above that sought out metal swords and axes, turning them white-hot. Screams and cries rent the air as several warriors dropped dying and smouldering to the muddy ground.
When the attack had first come, Tarent had jumped down from his horse and was now moving amongst the attackers on foot in a long, fluid dance of death. His arms were a blur as the twin swords hissed, each cut and strike finding its target, with no movement going to waste while behind him, he left a trail of dead and dying. He twisted and turned, dropped and leapt, all the time his swords blocking, striking and cutting, into the much larger Barbarians. Bartholomew's armed guards had formed a defensive ring around their paymaster's wagon, but their services were almost unnecessary. They stood in awe witnessing a display of swordsmanship and magic they would never forget as the far larger Barbarian force was sent screaming in retreat by one old man and two very lethal young boys.
Within his meditative state, Tarent's world had slowed to a crawl, the warrior's moves were easy to see, and he was able to move amongst his enemy without wasting any motion or fear of injury. He saw each and every detail of the warriors he struck, every tiny white scar on each rough unshaven face. Open mouths with teeth every shade of yellow and black as they bellowed their battle cries into his face, the contortions of rage and battle frenzy, and then ultimately of fear, pain and the certainty of death.
Tears slid from his eyes as he fought, and yet knew the source was guiding him, his was just another blade in the battle against chaos. These men and women had chosen to be warriors, had chosen to attack them, and had planned and sought their deaths. As the last Barbarian dropped, Tarent spun to survey the field; flicked blood from his blades then replaced them with a flourish. A little to his left the two Magicians were also calming from their exertions.
Loras ran to the cook who was groaning from the pain. After a brief examination, he gently eased out the arrow and began healing the wound. The cook looked on with large fearful eyes at the blue glow that surrounded his arm, and then the fear turned to amazement as the pain subsided. Loras smiled as the cook thanked him with tears streaming down his face, and then both glanced up as Tarent came over.
'We must be close to the Bolt. We may have to fight our way in and then do whatever it is you have planned as soon as possible… will you be ready?' Loras nodded.
They mounted the horses again and continued along the path, leaving behind a scattering of bodies, cold, alone and very dead, and hoped the noise of the encounter wouldn't draw in more barbarians.
* * *
Cold drizzle drifted down from a dark featureless night sky as the Barbarian camp slept. It would be at least a turn of the glass before dawn would bring any form of light. Pardigan had assured Mahra that this would be the best time to enter the camp, the time when most would be in their deepest sleep and any guards at their lowest ebb of vigilance, the hour of the thief, he had called it. The camp was silent save the sounds of running and dripping water, and several dogs, fighting over scraps of food, hard found in this camp of scavengers during the bitterly cold night.
Mahra soared unseen on soft silent wings, looking down over the incredible mixture of tents, shacks, dogs, rats and men that made up the encampment. The dampness and smoke was doing little to disguise the aromas of human waste and rotting rubbish strewn everywhere; if she could have held her nose she would have.
Her sight, when in the form of the owl, was excellent, even in this near darkness she could see almost every detail and was
n't having any trouble finding the tents she wanted to search. The three friends had studied the camp at dusk while perched on the cliff high overhead, and had agreed upon several possible locations where the skulls might be, if, of course, they were still here. Two of those locations she had already dismissed; one had just been full of damp firewood, the other, on closer inspection, had turned out to be an armoury. She was now approaching the third and, what had been thought, the most likely location.
There were several fires dotted about, a few still offering an enticement of warmth to the huddled figures of guards as small flames licked at larger logs not yet completely burned through.
Rising higher to avoid coming too close to another small pack of squabbling dogs, she spotted the tent she was looking for, circled once, and then landed on the top for a final look around.
This tent was larger than most of the others, roughly circular in design, and with a smaller square section attached to the rear. Pennants hung limply in the still, damp air; they didn't look as if they had fluttered in quite some time. Below her, two guards were sprawled in the mud beside the entrance, their heads propped on folded arms and a deep heavy snoring filled the night air - an empty bottle lying as testament to their drunken vigilance.
A last look about for any other sight or sounds and Mahra dropped from the top of the tent and, changing into the form of the grey cat, slipped in past the sleeping guards.
The interior was unlit, but Mahra's eyesight as a cat was almost as good as when she was an owl. Shaking water from her fur with an exaggerated shiver, she wondered, not for the first time, what she was doing out on a night like this, and then gazed about with renewed interest as she took in her surroundings.
She was in a large reception area, empty of anything other than an impressive metal throne set on a high platform which dominated the far end; obviously Morgasta's throne. She padded across the sodden muddy carpet, past the throne, and towards the private quarters that she guessed must lie beyond. As she approached the curtain, her senses began to warn her that there was at least one person behind, possibly more. Hesitating a moment, she stretched her senses to their limits before finally slipping silently through.
The snug interior of this new room was warm and lit by a flickering orange glow cast from a brazier of glowing coals. It appeared to be a sleeping area, possibly the private room of Morgasta herself, but the person snoring softly in the silken sheets wasn't Morgasta, it was a man. Treading cautiously, Mahra peered up at the unfamiliar face, her whiskers twitching. Whoever he was, he was in his middle years, clean-shaven, and didn't look to have the build for a warrior, especially a Barbarian warrior; he was in a deep sleep. She decided he must be either an extremely close friend or a servant to the absent Queen. He mumbled something important to his dreams then turned over, pulling the blanket tightly around him before going back to the deeper breaths of sleep. With a flicker, Mahra resumed her human shape and began to search the room, keeping the unknown man in sight at all times. She opened boxes, rummaged among piles of material and found some interesting things, but no crystal skulls.
The fighting dogs were at it again, closer this time… she froze. The sound of several splashing in the mud, panting heavily from their night-time exertions as they passed the tent, eager to join their squabbling kin. Mahra sighed in frustration; the skulls weren't here. She cast around again, looking for anywhere she hadn't yet explored and then reluctantly returned to the shape of a cat. Padding past the sleeper, she passed the curtains and retraced her steps across the muddy carpet to the main entrance, the distant rumble of thunder coming from the mountains sounded just before a renewed patter of raindrops began falling upon the canvas roof.
Pushing through the tent-flaps, she left the carpet behind, felt her paws sink into the cold mud, and let out an involuntary meow of irritation, and then quickly glanced at the sleeping guards hoping they hadn't heard. Relieved to see they were still sleeping, she readied herself to transform into the owl, but then a noise made her turn and a huge black dog leapt out of the night, teeth bared and eyes glowing with excitement at finding a live cat.
She turned just as its jaws snapped, clamping onto her tail making her shriek in shock and pain, then with a twist of its head it dragged her back and a huge paw pinned her, struggling in the mud. A moment later, the jaws opened, just enough to get a better hold and it was suddenly the dog's turn to be surprised as the cat unexpectedly became a panther. It yelped in alarm as the panther turned and its claws slashed out, tossing the startled hound across the path to land in a yelping heap.
The night immediately filled with barking, snarling and howls as more dogs poured out from around the tents to investigate this new disturbance. Mahra found herself caught with her back to the canvas wall of the tent, her paws deep in mud and rain pouring down upon her. As another flash of lightning banished the darkness, she saw several more large muddy dogs dash in to surround her. They took it in turns to slide forward, barking with excitement as they tried to get past her razor sharp claws; ears back she snarled in frustration and searched for escape.
Sensing more movement to her side, Mahra turned to see that one of the guards had awoken and was backing away, a fearful look on his face as he tried desperately to shake his companion out of his drunken stupor. More voices rose from the darkness as the noise about them increased and the camp began to awake and Mahra found herself forced to edge along and then back inside the tent. There had to be twenty dogs baying and snapping at her now, the smell of blood from those that had been tempted too close was already thick in the air which drove the rest of the pack into an even greater frenzy.
Her options were limited; they were overwhelming her as a panther. Changing into the form of an owl was an almost desperate desire, but she knew the moment she did, the dogs would be on her long before getting the chance to fly. Indecision and panic tugged at her as she searched for escape, snarling and slashing her claws to keep the pack at bay. For every dog that she sent away yelping, another three took its place, and now several of the warriors had woken up to join in with the sport. They jabbed at her with spears, swords and burning torches, spurring the dogs on, yelling a confusion of commands.
All question of escape or transformation was crushed as she reached the foot of the throne and a thick heavily weighted net landed on top of her, forcing her to the ground. The dogs rushed forward, baying with excitement only to be beaten back by their laughing masters before they could tear her to pieces.
Mahra lay panting and growling, yellow eyes reflecting in the light from the burning torches, gazing out through the net as her captors made sure she was secure. Several warriors were congratulating the beardless man, the one who moments before had been sleeping in Morgasta's bed. They slapped him on the back in praise as he explained how he had seen what was happening and thrown the net.
Mahra crouched, unable to move and more scared than she had ever been in her long life.
* * *
Matheus Hawk shivered as he studied with interest the tiny shapes moving far below him in the pass; he was anticipating quite a display, a display he had looked forward to for some considerable time.
One of the greatest lessons he had learned during his time with the Lord of Shadows was how important it is to know your enemy. His enemy was amongst the small shapes below him, and he had arranged this display so that he might get to know them better. When it next came time to meet, he planned to be well prepared.
Lying flat with his arms and legs outstretched on a cold rock ledge, Matheus Hawk was exposed to the cold, bitter elements of the Bolt. It was a natural place for the wind to be funnelled through at any time, but right now it howled through the Bolt with such force that, at times, it was almost peeling him from his perch. About him, driving snow danced in patterns as the blizzard ebbed and flowed, the noise almost deafening. Doing his best to ignore the constant shivers that ran through his body, he muttered a spell, pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders then wrapped his hands i
n its folds. From this height, the steady fall of snow was obscuring his view a little, but at least, he reasoned, they would never know he was here. Once the worst of the blizzard finally abated, and the snow flurries became less, his vantage point would offer a fine view of the Bolt. Close as it was to the entrance on Morgasta's side, he hadn't had to wait too long before the appearance of the wagon and riders signalled his patience was to be rewarded. He settled down, created a bubble of heated air over him and readied himself for the drama of confrontation that would soon play out below. Feeling movement inside his cloak, he smiled. Nhasic was sulking because he had sent the dragon away while he was forcing the little demon to stay and suffer the cold. The dragon had to be a complete surprise when it was unleashed in battle, and he didn't want to risk The Griffin's crew of brats seeing it too early.
The wind calmed a little, allowing sounds to come drifting up, echoing in the strange closeness of the Bolt. Leaning out a little he watched as the wagon came to an abrupt halt, the scattering of riders wheeled their mounts around and surrounded it, waiting while the driver tried to get it moving again over the uneven terrain.
'No, I will not get out again!' The angry voice of Bartholomew Bask echoed from the towering walls of the Bolt as the driver tried to explain the necessity of getting out to his indignant employer.
'But, Mr Bask,' he whined unhappily. 'This isn't a proper road. There are rocks and holes that are going to break the wheels, we have to lighten the load, just for a short while, please, Mr Bask.'
'No, no, no!'
It was obvious to the gathered riders that Bartholomew was going to hold things up again. Several of the guards dismounted and started rummaging through their packs standing on the sheltered side of their mounts as they searched for food or drink.