by William King
Gilean turned, stood side on, and fired off a shot. One of the pursuing elves fell. She fired again and then sprang to one side, leaving a spear quivering in the ground on which she had stood a heartbeat before.
“Run,” she shouted at Kormak. “I can catch up with you.”
In the forest, he did not doubt she could move faster and had a better chance of slipping away. He put his head down and sprinted through the trees, glancing around to take stock of his surroundings occasionally, knowing how easy it would be to get turned around and lost in the wood lands.
A half-dozen elves pursued him, giving whooping calls. They had tossed their spears now and were armed only with their knives. A few spiders ran at their heels, legs moving with eye-blurring speed. Kormak bounded over a fallen log, felt his feet skid on the mulch beneath them, and stuck out his hand to regain his balance. It slapped off a tree with palm stinging force, and he raced on. Low branches slashed at his face. Thorns tangled his clothing. He entered a clearing, lengthened his stride and raced across it. The elves continued to pursue. In the distance he could hear the sound of battle rising from the doomed village. At least he had some idea of the direction not to run in.
Sweat ran down his face, his heart pounded and his breathing was becoming ragged. He raced over a small rise, found himself in a low depression, just out of sight of the trail and threw himself against a tree. He could feel his sweat-soaked jerkin sticking to his back and the coolness of the bark transmitting itself to his skin.
Faint noises told him the elves were near. As one passed, Kormak stepped out and slashed with his blade, beheading the elf. He leapt in among the others, killing with every blow. In heartbeats, he had slain three of them and the other two were fleeing into the distance. He bent over the ones he had killed and took up one of their knives, thinking it would do no harm to have a spare weapon.
One look at the obscene runes carved into the razor-edged obsidian convinced him otherwise. He dropped the blade, turned and moved away, taking a path that would, he hoped, curve back towards the main road.
As he walked he sought to come up with a plan. He could either try and bring a warning to the other villages or he could retreat out of the Settlements altogether and bring word of what was happening here to his Order.
He might possibly be able to save some lives by warning the villages, but the longer he remained the more chance there was of him being caught or killed. He had been blessed by the Sun so far. He could not rely on that continuing. With the civil war in Taurea, it might take months for word of what was happening here to get back to the Order, and by then the stain of the Shadowblight would have spread further and Weaver’s raiders would add more victims to their forces.
He thought about what had happened back at Silas Springs. He and Gilean had most likely provoked a massacre. Better that than having hundreds more taken by the Shadow. Every villager killed now was one less foe they need face later. It did not make him feel any better— there were women and children and babies back there and he had most likely got them killed. He told himself it was necessary but the guilt still gnawed at him.
What was here could just be the stone that started an avalanche. In the ancient texts there were tales of Shadowblights that had started as tiny corrupted groves and spread until they had swallowed entire kingdoms before dying off.
What killed those Shadowblights, he wondered? Was it a sickness that ended up destroying even itself? Scholars and wizards had argued over this for millennia and were no closer to an answer. Blights were not something that rewarded study. They corrupted scholars.
He wondered whether Gilean’s shot had killed Grogan. It would be for the best, he decided. The man had gone over to the Shadow; only luck, the intervention of Mayasha and his Elder Signs had prevented the same thing happening to him.
Or had it? Was his callous abandonment of the village, his willingness to provoke a massacre, a sign that the Shadow had settled on his soul. Would he even know now if it had?
His hand sought the Elder Sign. It did not burn when he touched it so he could not have gone that far down the dark path. He told himself that he could go mad thinking about such things, that it was not worth it; he had other problems, closer to hand, better worth concentrating on. Like the fact that he was lost.
Kormak was experienced enough to know how easily people got lost. In the woods, in the dark, everywhere looked similar. Unless you were following a trail your sense of direction was easily confused, particularly if you had been moving randomly as he had when he sought to avoid pursuit.
He fought down a sense of panic. He did not have time for this. He needed to get out. He had a mission to perform and a limited span to accomplish it in. He stopped walking and leaned against a tree, trying to take stock of his position. He could not rely on Gilean finding him and guiding him. For all he knew the elf woman might already be dead.
Think, he told himself. He was in the New Settlements. It would be impossible for him to stay lost for long. The Settlements were essentially an island between the two rivers. He could walk in any direction and eventually he would come to water. He could follow that water and, given time, even if he had to circumnavigate the island he would come to the bridge on the road back to Westergate.
If he waited long enough the Sun would rise and he could tell then in what direction east lay. If he moved that way he would eventually come to the river that bounded the border with Taurea properly. Logic told him that he should be able to find his way clear of this place easily.
Night and his own uneasiness whispered arguments to the contrary. It was all too easy to wander off-course in the woods, and if he was pursued he might find himself driven in circles as he tried to elude those chasing him. He told himself that that had not happened yet and he should worry about it when it did.
At least he was not in a Shadowblight. He could eat the nuts, berries and mushrooms he found. He could drink the water. He was not going to starve or die of thirst.
The shadows deepened and a distant coughing roar reminded him that even if he was not in the Blight there were other dangers in these woods— giant serpents, sabretooths and other creatures. It would do him no good to elude Weaver’s elves only to end up in the belly of a hunting beast.
He sat himself down with his back to one of the trees. He kept his sword near at hand. It was cold and sleep would not come. He had spent most of the day asleep so that was not surprising. He found his thoughts circling back to the events of recent days. He thought of the elf woman and her weird beauty, of Weaver and the strangeness he had seen in the dreams Mayasha had sent him.
He had a sense of being caught up in an ancient conflict that was not his. He was a servant of the Holy Sun and he had fought in the Sun’s wars for all his adult life but the struggle between the Trees and the Shadow predated the coming of men to this world and it seemed to him that after all these long millennia the Shadow was winning.
That was not a pleasant thought to have while sitting alone in a dark wood on a cold early autumn evening. Small things scurried through the undergrowth. All around were the noises of brush moving, branches settling, the wind moving through the leaves. Those sounds could all cover the stealthy approach of something hunting him. He considered starting a fire, but that might just give away his position to any elves hunting him. He knew their eyes were far keener in the darkness than his own.
Perhaps he should try walking further, but an odd lassitude had settled on him along with the idea that it would do him no good until he could see where he was going and know he was headed in the right direction.
He sat there, running over his options in his mind, trying to come up with a plan. He fancied that he heard scuttling in the distance, coming closer. He reached out and grabbed his blade but the sound receded. Perhaps it was nothing he told himself, but he doubted that.
He came to a decision. He would wait for the Holy Sun’s rise, snatch some sleep and be off in the morning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
<
br /> KORMAK STRETCHED THEN ran through some exercises to get his blood flowing. He gathered some berries from nearby bushes. His confidence of the night before had vanished. They were along the border of a Shadowblight here. It was all too possible the fruit was tainted. Still he needed to eat, to keep his strength up. He could not keep running and fighting indefinitely without sustenance.
Having quieted his belly’s grumbling temporarily, he studied the angle of the sunbeams filtering through onto the forest floor and set out in the direction he decided was east, knowing that sooner or later he was, hopefully going to come to a river.
If it had not been for his knowledge of what was happening behind him, he could almost have enjoyed the walk. The air smelled clear after the loathsome stench of the Blight, the trees here looked tall and healthy. There were even birds singing.
He wondered where Gilean was. If he had got away, surely she should too. She was more skilled in woodcraft than he. Of course, it was not so simple -- he had been lucky. All it would have taken was a good spear cast from one of Weaver’s people or a spider dropping from a branch at the wrong time and she could be captured or killed.
He wondered if Grogan was alive or dead. He hoped it was the latter. The man he had known had been a good one. How was it possible he had gone so quickly over to the Shadow? Had there been some weakness in him? It was most likely living in close proximity to the expanding Blight for so many years that had done it. All of the villagers would be in that position, which would make them vulnerable to the temptations of the darkness.
He thought about the Blight. It had grown huge and it had grown strong. Perhaps the only way to stop it now was to torch the whole forest and he did not think that was possible. It was not high summer. The tinder was not dry. The Order could deploy sorcery and alchemical fire but he doubted there was enough of the latter in all the Sunlander kingdoms to cleanse so great an area. They might have to be content with clearing the boundaries of the Blight and trying to contain it. That would take men and money and magic, and he was not sure there was enough of any of those now. If every brother in Taurea was put to the task it would most likely not be enough.
He told himself it was not his problem. He merely had to live long enough to bring word to the Chapter Master at Westergate. It would be for that august individual to decide policy.
Behind him now he heard the sound of an elvish hunting horn. It was echoed moments later by one to the south of him. Were the elves on his trail once more? It seemed safest to assume so. He lengthened his stride until he was jogging along. It was hard to tell but it seemed like the sound of horns was getting closer.
It seemed to him like he had been running forever. Part of him longed to turn at bay and give his hunters cause to regret their perpetual hounding of him, but he knew that they would most likely have gotten his measure now. He doubted that half a dozen elves with knives would be blithely chasing him. He had to assume that they had set warbands on his trail and they would no longer underestimate him.
He considered the various tricks of woodcraft he knew, doubling back on his trail, taking to the trees, finding a stream and running along its bed but he doubted that it would fool the elves for long if at all. They were ancient creatures with far more practise at this than he had. His best bet seemed just to move as fast as possible in the direction he wanted to go, and hope that he could stay ahead of the pursuit.
If anything got in his way, he would kill it.
Kormak ran between the trees, trying his best to keep moving always in the right direction. It wasn’t easy; bushes and thickets blocked his path, necessitating changes in course. The horns from the south sounded ever closer, forcing him to keep his line moving north. He was not alone in this, clouds of birds rose into the air and circled before fleeing. Deer, foxes, and other beasts ran ahead of him. Some were startled by his presence, others were spooked by the noise.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a huge tawny shape. He paused. It was a dire wolf, a beast the size of a pony, with fangs that could have brought down a mastodon. He paused to let it run on.
It eyed him as it passed and he could not help but feel it was considering attacking him. Kormak kept his hand near the hilt of his sword. The creature probably weighed five times as much as he did, and it was all muscle, fang and claw. Its eyes were fierce and mad. Kormak met its gaze levelly for a long time. Its mouth dropped open and its tongue lolled out and it looked for all the world as if it was laughing at him. He remembered old tales of how such creatures were sacred to the moon, could change into men. He had known Old Ones who could take the form of wolves and other things, but he felt sure that this was not one of those but a natural beast.
Kormak did not want to provoke the great beast but he knew he could not remain here for long. The horns were coming closer. Its ears pricked up at the sound and it turned and bounded away, its movements a thing of lithe beauty. Kormak ran after it, hoping that his path did not cross with the great dire wolf again. He wished that he had a bow or crossbow. He would have felt safer being able to shoot such beasts at a distance.
No matter how fast he ran, Kormak could not seem to leave the elves behind. The horns always sounded, sometimes dropping away into the distance, always returning and often closer than before.
Worse than that, more horns sounded from the east and west so there were at least two more groups of hunters. He was also beginning to see a pattern in the sounds and notes that the hunters were using. He would have bet a bronze penny to a golden solar that the horn-blowers were communicating in some way, that the sounds represented signals with coded meanings and it seemed all too likely that those meanings concerned him.
It looked as if Weaver was determined that he was not going to escape. Kormak supposed it made some strategic sense. Weaver would not want him bringing word of what was happening here to the Guardians. The longer that could be put off, the stronger Weaver’s position became. Looking back over his shoulder, Kormak caught sight of a tall slender figure.
The elf saw him at the same time and raised its spear for a cast. Kormak raced ahead, zig-zagging to keep from being hit. He would have preferred to stand and fight but he could not tell whether the elf was an out-runner far in advance of his hunting party or had a score of friends within easy call. He noticed now that spiders were bounding along the branches between the trees. The eerie thing was the way they twisted and turned to exactly match his path. It was as if his scent was a road they were compelled to follow exactly. The frightening thing was that they could.
He skidded down a muddy slope, almost overbalanced and found himself careening towards a stream. He slammed his hands down into the cold water, skinned them on a stone and pushed himself upright. He ran along downstream, for a while, till he saw a branch dangling from overhead. He pulled himself up out of the water and into the overhanging branches.
He heard voices from back the way he had come, talking in the liquid speech of the elves. Splashing downstream told him that the elves had studied the far bank, seen his tracks had not gone up it and were now following the stream. A few moments later, he saw elves below him, moving slowly studying their surroundings. They looked cruel and calm and competent; they had bows in their hands. There were no spiders with them. Maybe they did not like the water.
Kormak hung among the branches, waiting. His limbs ached from the effort of remaining absolutely still. He did not want the slightest swaying in the branches to give away his position. His legs were wet. Water dripped from his boots and britches. Some of it splashed on an elf below, a few droplets falling like rain into his long, black silky hair.
Kormak held his breath, waiting to see what the elf would do. Slowly the elf’s head tilted and he looked up, peering into the shadows of the branches above. His eyes narrowed and then widened and he began to bring the bow up.
Kormak dropped. His wet boots landed directly on the elf’s shoulders, driving him into the water. Kormak tumbled free, blade already in hand; he struc
k left then right, killing two elves. He kicked the fallen elf in the head, sending blood and teeth flying into the stream. As the elf struggled to rise, Kormak drove his sword into the body. A quick glance around told him that no other elves were in sight, they were lost round the curve of the stream.
He began running downstream again, hoping to put some distance between himself and the pursuit. He doubted the three he had killed were the only ones looking for him. The sound of horns blaring from nearby confirmed this. He scrambled up the bank, in search of more secure footing and began running along as fast as he could, water squelching in his boots.
Nearby he saw a brown shape bounding along. It took him a moment to realise it was the dire wolf. It seemed like the great predator was stalking him.
Shadows lengthened and exhaustion deepened its grip on Kormak. All day he had run, turned at bay and struck at his pursuers. All day the dire wolf had dogged his steps. It did not attack. It came no closer but he knew it was watching him. Perhaps it was waiting for night, or for exhaustion to take him, before it attacked him. For some reason it seemed wary of attacking. Perhaps men had taught it to be cautious in the past.
Kormak kept an eye on it as he ran, knowing that sooner or later he was going to have to face the beast but wanting to put that off for as long as possible. Even if he could kill it, there was every chance he would take wounds while doing so and that would only slow him down.
Night came on; he forced his weary legs to keep moving. Overhead he heard the flap of wings and looking up he saw Ghostwing. The owl flew closer and circled, then flew directly north again. The message was clear, he was expected to follow. In the absence of any better plan on his part, he saw no reason not to do so. He hoped that eventually the owl would lead him to Gilean.