by C. M. Gray
'How far into the Bolt do we need to go?' asked Tarent, glancing from the wagon back to Loras. The small Magician was silent as he scanned the cliffs to either side of them, a frown of concentration set upon his face and apparently lost in thought. Uttering a sigh of frustration, Tarent tried again to get some sort of response from his less than talkative friend. 'Loras… we aren't going to get that wagon much further up here, even if they do talk Bartholomew into getting out. Isn't here good enough?'
'The narrower it is the better,' Loras eventually replied. 'And for what I have in mind, we'll need a high section of cliff on both sides and no convenient ledges. Sorry, but we need to go further.' Pulling his horse around he dug in his heels and trotted on, the horse picking its way amongst the rock-strewn ground, head bowed against the snow, the sound of the horse's metal shod hooves echoing from along the rocky pass. Magician Falk followed closely after.
'Can't we just block the passage?' called Tarent after the two Magicians. 'You know, just bring down an avalanche to seal it all up? That would stop them.'
Magician Falk turned around and smiled at Tarent, then looked back to where Bartholomew had reluctantly left the wagon and was now stumbling across a patch of rocky ground. 'Yes, but it would also stop everyone and everything else from coming through the Bolt. Traders, animals… even us. Thankfully, we have a much better idea, but we can't do it here. Come on, the wagon will catch up with us eventually. There's no point in waiting around. Let's go ahead to try and find a better spot, shall we?' He wheeled his horse around and he and Tarent trotted after the distant figure of Loras.
'Loras, wait for us,' called Tarent, but the young Magician had already moved out of sight, further down the Bolt.
* * *
The first glow of daylight brought sleet, on a cold northerly wind that drove through the camp with a mournful howl. It didn't seem to be dampening the spirits of the Barbarian tribesmen. A crowd of jeering warriors, gathered around the wagon where Mahra was caged, were taking turns to jab at her with sticks and swords while her jailers made only half-hearted attempts at keeping her from harm. She snarled, turning again to face another warrior who had just lunged at her with a blunt sword as he stepped back and her claw struck the cage with a clang, she felt a stab of frustration. His face changed from a look of fear to one of delight at her reaction. Keep calm, she told herself, wait for your moment, it will surely come.
Mahra had spent an awful night. After they dragged her from the net, they had pulled her into the cage and subjected her to countless hours of cruel torment. The temptation to change her shape was strong, yet she knew it was futile. If she became a cat they would catch her, same with an owl and there was no way she was going to resort to her human form. If they knew she was able to change then she would be watched even closer, so she stayed as a panther. These people had no regard for the life of an animal; she was simply an object of entertainment to lift the boredom and monotony of waiting for the spring thaw. It was only when the cage was loaded onto the back of a wagon that she realised they didn't mean for her to spill her life here for their entertainment, they were moving her.
As the wagon began its journey, squelching through the mud and out of the camp, the followers fell away, a couple staying to throw handfuls of mud at her, a Barbarian farewell accompanied by a chorus of throaty laughs.
The cage was a strong one, the bars set close together, too close for her to escape either as a panther, a cat or an owl. Resigned to her fate, at least for the moment, she lay in abject misery on the pile of stinking straw, looking out at the world through half closed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, just how she was going to get out of this.
It was midmorning when the bumping wagon came to a halt beside a rocky outcrop. The five guards accompanying her lit a small fire to warm themselves and make a pot of foul smelling brew. Mahra gazed out of the cage, studying them. They were ignoring her in favour of the warmth that the fire offered, crouching down out of the wind talking in low voices.
Each guard carried either a sword or an axe strapped to their waists with long strips of animal hide. Their armour was the usual assortment of designs with anything apparently being acceptable as long as it was stained or painted in black. Mahra felt hunger gnawing at her belly as she smelt the rabbit they were cooking and watched them tear apart a loaf of dirty bread. She let out an involuntary whine of despair and one of the warriors turned at the sound, then laughed at her.
'Hungry are you? Like to eat me, wouldn't you?' the speaker threw his head back in a long deep cackle of amusement. 'You must wait to meet Morgasta. She will like you, and then maybe feed you with people in her pit.' He threw a piece of bread that struck the side of the cage and fell away into the mud. This brought laughter from his friends, and a decision for Mahra on just who would die first when she did finally get out of this cage. She turned away from them, shivering in the icy wind and then smiled to herself as a shape moving through the falling sleet resolved into a familiar figure.
'Hello,' called Quint as he got closer. 'You haven't seen a big black pussycat around here have you? Only mine went off last night, and I can't find her anywhere.' He walked in a little closer and stood with his hands on his hips in the middle of the track about twenty paces from the crouching Barbarians. His sword remained in its scabbard on his back, and he appeared wet but relaxed.
The warriors came warily to their feet casting about them, looking for anyone else that may be about to pounce. When nobody appeared, the big one who had thrown the bread at Mahra took a step forward.
'Who are you boy? Why do you come here seeking your death?'
'I told you, I'm looking for my cat.'
The warrior walked towards him as the others called encouragement. 'Your pussycat is now ours, and I think you might as well join it in the cage. Where did you get that sword boy? Did you steal it from your daddy? Are you a man yet? Can you use it?' The warrior drew his own sword and cut left and right with mighty strokes, trying to intimidate Quint.' He frowned when Quint refused to be baited into drawing his sword.
Quint merely smiled, stepping neatly to the side when the warrior stabbed forward with his sword. The warrior made several more attempts to strike Quint who happily dodged out of the way, turning in circles around the bigger man as the other warriors' calls of encouragement, turned to cries of insult and laughter.
Unseen, Pardigan approached Mahra's cage and started to work on the lock.
'It's just a boy, Orm. Have we lived in the camp so long, you can't even kill a boy?'
'Maybe his sister is around here someplace, you might want to practice on her first.' The group fell about laughing.
'Uuurgh!' The warrior, Orm, sent a stinging strike towards Quint's head but once again his sword met nothing but air, which sent more ripples of laughter through his companions. He spun around completely unbalanced and was sent sprawling to the muddy ground as Quint's boot kicked his behind. The laughter around the fire dropped when Orm looked up and glared at them. With guilty glances, they reluctantly left the fire and fanned out around Quint, joining their leader.
'Who are you boy?' asked Orm, before sending a slashing strike at Quint's head. Quint finally drew his sword with a flourish and parried first this strike then another as a smaller skinny warrior tried to stab him from behind.
'I'm the boy teaching you a lesson in swordsmanship. The one behind you will explain the finer points of knife throwing.' The Barbarians all looked behind to see a grinning Pardigan waving at them from beside their fire. 'If you ask him nicely that is,' continued Quint, 'but the one you really want to worry about is the big black pussycat that's about to jump on your back.'
The warrior, Orm spun around just in time to see the Black Panther, the same one they had thought was safely locked in the cage, leap at him with claws extended.
The frigid air filled with the deep shrieking roar of all Mahra's pent-up frustrations suddenly releasing. Orm's legs turned to water as the panther landed on him. The Barba
rian warrior stared up at white fangs and yellow eyes and felt his bladder empty. He thought he had reached the final edge of terror until the panther spoke, and his mind took that final step.
'Your friends have run away, and your future is in my… jaws.' Orm watched in a fascination of horror as the panther's mouth contorted to form human words. 'I dreamed of sinking my teeth into you, Orm… and now I can. Do you wish you had been nice to me?' The panther's head cocked to one side as if inviting an answer, so Orm nodded enthusiastically. The panther appeared to think for a moment as she studied him. 'Tell my friends what they need to know and I may leave you alone.' With a last sniff of his face, Mahra walked away, leaving the stricken warrior gasping for breath. Quint crouched down beside him.
'Now, you heard what the nice pussy said, so answer me this… where are the crystal skulls that were brought to your camp?'
'Morgasta has them,' answered the broken Orm without any hesitation. His eyes darted about, trying to see where the panther had gone.
'And where did she take them?
'Bedlam… where's the… ?'
'Shhhh, I'm asking the questions, and I'm asking, where do you think she would have placed them?'
'I don't know… really, I don't… please believe me, I…' His pleading was cut short as something large passed overhead, Quint saw the warrior's eyes widen in fear. 'Oh, great Lord of Chaos… please… whatever it is, please…'
Quint looked over to see The Griffin land and Pardigan and Mahra clamber on, he took one last look down at Orm. 'Tell your friends to be scared, Orm. There is magic in your land, and it will find every last one of you.' He patted the warrior's face then ran to The Griffin and pulled himself up in front of Mahra. With a loud, 'Kaauuw,' the great beast launched itself into the sky, leaving the Barbarian warrior named Orm, a lost and broken man.
* * *
Chapter 12
Streets of Bedlam
The knife entered Loras's back, just below his left shoulder blade, and he let out a high-pitched shriek, his body arching back as the muscles around the blade went into spasm. It felt like fire. Like a white-hot needle had punched deep inside of him, it drove the air from his lungs in a scream that echoed along the Bolt. His legs gave way, and he felt consciousness wavering. Stones and dirt rattled from the cliff-sides as if the mountain itself had shaken when the blow struck, and he was vaguely aware of the ground flying up to meet him as his body fell. Darkness tried to envelop him, and he fought against it, his vision wavering and blurred, he was aware he had been injured and his attacker must be close, but it was no good, consciousness slipped away.
The cold and wet of freshly falling snow falling on the exposed skin of his face roused him. He became aware of small movements, the sound of a stone dislodged and a boot sliding on wet rock by his side. A wave of nausea and pain swept through him and again he lost consciousness.
It was pain, once more, that dragged him into the world as someone placed a foot on him and pulled the knife roughly from his back. He heard a cry, unaware that it had come from his own throat and wavered on the edge once more.
'Is he… dead?' the voice was dry and rasping and spoken very softly.
'Not dead, not yet,' came the lilting reply. 'The poison shall claim him soon enough, he is weak… be silent, others approach.' Loras tried to concentrate on the voices, separating from the pain, which began to withdraw to an agonising throb. A dribble of blood tickled as it rolled down his forehead; he must have cut it when he fell. Summoning his will, he began to concentrate healing energy into the wound and felt the throbbing lessen slightly. It would take some time, but he wasn't going to die as the strange voice had promised, not just yet anyway.
Tarent pulled his horse to a stop when he saw the prostrate form of his friend. Leaving his staff strapped to the saddle of his horse he unclasped the bow and slung a quiver of arrows in front of him. Magician Falk drew up beside him. They had heard Loras's cry and come along the pass as quickly as their horses would allow over the loose rocks. The old Magician stopped and placed a restraining hand on Tarent's forearm.
'Hold still, my young friend. Loras has been attacked, that much is clear, but by what?' He scanned the rocky sides of the Bolt seeing nothing. The wind had died down, yet the snow still fell in large floating flakes, it was eerily silent. 'It seems that whatever, or whomever it is, they have the ability to become invisible. I think we may find we're dealing with wraiths again. They attacked the castle and may well be here. Why they should be here is beyond me, unless they are perhaps hunting us?' He held his staff high in front of him and bellowed out an incantation that echoed along the bolt.
'Sambares har et bredt kareen!' A white flash erupted from the Magician's staff, and for just a moment, three ghostly shapes became visible, the one closest to the fallen Loras turning with a drawn out hiss of alarm, eyes reflecting the flash as it stared at them. Tarent smoothly unslung his bow and brought an arrow up ready to fire, but the figures had already faded. Magician Falk dismounted.
'If we can see them, we can kill them. They have no other defence save invisibility.' He walked closer, his staff held out moving from side to side. 'Are you ready, my friend?'
'I am. I just wish I were as good a shot as Quint with this thing.'
'You will do fine. Sambares har et bredt kareen!' White light erupted once more from the Magician's staff and two of the wraiths became visible as watery shadows flitting across in front of them some twenty paces away. Tarent's first arrow struck the wraith closest to Loras, and it fell without a sound. The light faded, and as the wraiths disappeared again, they saw one move towards them with a hurried, ambling gait.
'Quickly, boy!' Falk screamed out the incantation once more, the staff flared, and Tarent shot at the closing figure. The arrow missed, but flew close enough for the wraith to throw its hands up hissing in alarm before turning away.
Frustrated at missing, Tarent took another shot at where he thought the wraith might be, but the arrow merely clattered against the cliff wall. Hastily restringing his bow, he waited, heart pounding in his ears as all became silent again, the snow slowly drifting down onto the wet rocks of the Bolt.
'They move fast,' he mumbled.
The sounds of several horses came from behind them, and Tarent swung round in his saddle to see three of the guards coming up towards them, looks of concern on their grim faces. 'Hold back, don't come any closer,' he called. 'There's magic involved here. You'd do best just to go back and protect the wagon.' With a glance at the fallen bodies, the guards reined their horses and quickly returned the way they had come. Once again sensing movement, Tarent turned back in time to see Magician Falk swing his staff and connect in mid-air with something unseen. Bringing his bow up, he loosed another arrow, only to see with dismay that it met no resistance and clattered once more to the rocky ground.
'Well, I gave him a headache anyway,' said the old Magician with a smile. 'I can sense them… when they're close to us, be ready, they come again.' He raised his staff. 'Sambares har et bredt kareen!'
Loras could hear noise. He moved his hand a fraction and immediately wished he hadn't. The healing was working, the pain had subsided to a dull ache, but he felt incredibly stiff and bruised, almost as if a family of howlers had been hugging him. Putting his hand to his head, he was surprised to find there was no actual clamp strapped across his temples, however, his head felt as if it were about to explode. Accompanying this was the almost overwhelming desire to sleep. He tried to rouse himself and finally managed to draw back from the brink. For the first time in what seemed an age, he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings only to find he was gazing into the dead sightless eyes of a wraith. It wore an expression of shock, the pink eyes wide amid the white, translucent skin and the lips forming an 'O' as if just drawing a surprised breath; snow was slowly covering it.
Something rattled across the stones. Moving his head slightly, he glanced across and saw an arrow lying at the base of the cliff. Very slowly, he turned to see wha
t was happening behind him.
Noticing something close to where he had aimed his last arrow, Tarent stepped forward and crouched to investigate still keeping his eyes up intent upon danger. He rubbed his fingers together, testing the feel of what appeared to be a stain before glancing down. The vivid red of blood freshly spilled covered the tips of his fingers; standing back up, he wiped them on his cloak. 'I hit another one it seems, but I don't think it's dead, which means there are at least two more of them, that we know of, still around here somewhere.'
A slight rustling sound alerted Tarent to an attack and he spun towards it, raising the bow, but whatever it was knocked it to the side, leaving him unbalanced. Regaining his feet, he glanced about, searching desperately for the wraiths, bracing for the attack he felt sure was about to come. But it was Magician Falk that cried out. Tarent spun to see the old Magician struggling, clutching his shoulder, eyes wide in shock sinking to the ground as he struggled with a Wraith. Both the Magician's hands were now clamped in mid-air, over an arm that slowly came visible to reveal a knife pressed to the old man's throat. A moment later, and the Magician appeared beaten; standing unmoving while the white sickly features of the wraith became complete.
'Stand still, or I kill him!' it hissed at Tarent, who had already taken a step closer. 'This old one struggles but he weakens and will die unless you do as I say.' The second wraith appeared, clutching its side, blood flowing through its fingers from where Tarent's arrow had sliced into it. It limped over to stand by the other.
'We… appear to be at a… stalemate,' gasped Magician Falk. The wraith's red eyes glanced from Tarent to the old man it held at the edge of death and then, without warning, Magician Falk gave a mighty heave backwards and the wraith toppled into the other losing its grip on the old Magician in the process.