Stolen

by Adam Collins

  'Yes, awfully sorry about that, old boy, we've been a little preoccupied lately. War does that.' Tam grinned and picked Brinn up in a bear hug. The others gathered round, back-slapping and laughing. Lom stayed on his horse. He was a man of few words. Brinn reached up and clasped forearms with him as all warriors do. Lom nodded, leaned forward a little, and farted loud and long.

  'Ah, that one was a, "Good to see you again," fart. I recognise the tone,' Rat smiled.

  Lom also smiled and, nodding his approval, farted again, but just a little one this time.

  'Sorry to be a bore, but time presses. We'll have time enough for this on the road,' said Brok.

  Brinn eyed his old commander. 'What's up?'

  'It's a long story. I'll tell it as we travel.'

  'Which direction?'

  'Gantu.'

  'Leave me a horse, I'll catch you up.' Brinn carefully touched his bruised face.

  'What gives?'

  'I have something to take care of first. That conniving toady Warden still has my gold medallion.' Panther sprang at the prison wall and was quickly over. Soon muffled cries of alarm and conflict marked his progress through its inner halls.

  6. Dark Deeds

  The Offering stared blankly ahead. She was a pretty young thing, and pure as was required. Prepared for days in the correct way by the temple priests; she would fast, bathe in scented waters, and be anointed with holy oils by her attendees, in preparation for the joining ceremony.

  Only then was she allowed to eat and drink a small amount. The water was drugged, but the girl would be so dehydrated, she would not notice its subtle bitter taste. As Prolat, it was Aalil Dulva's job to bring her to the temple. A simple task, she would not resist, her mind was almost blank now. It was a long walk from the bowels of the citadel to the Joining Chamber. Flickering torches lit the way through dark and empty corridors.

  Once the seat of the old kings of Anvar, Mabak-Var would now play host to a new master. Sulan AL-Imri intended making the city his bastion in the West. Now, with the exception of the Great One's personal guard, and priests of his temple, the castle lay empty.

  The large arched double-doors of the Joining Chamber came into view. Beside the doors stood two priests resplendent in black robes with red sash. Each holding a large black candle before them, cowls hiding expressionless faces. A large bronze gong was struck as the door opened and the procession started to move forward. Priests of the order lined both sides of the aisle of the ancient throne room. As the sound of the gong died away, they chanted the prayers of transference. The gong reverberated once more and as its shuddering oscillation abated the chants returned yet again. The slow walk continued, the girl staring blankly.

  Ahead stood the Great One, Sulan AL-Imri, waiting patiently at the altar at the upper end of the hall; arms tucked inside the sleeves of his black robe, face hidden in the shadows of his hood. Another deep shuddering boom filled the chamber as the gong was struck again. The girl was placed on the alter face up. The chanting increased in volume and rhythm as the Master stepped up to the dais.

  Sulan stared down at the young girl, her eyes the most beautiful blue. Extending his arms to the roof he called upon the dark god Badur to bless the ceremony. Aalil noticed something strange as the sleeves of his master's robes slipped back, exposing his arms. The skin looked coarse and dry. Sulan placed his hands upon the young girl, a shimmering haze formed.

  When finished the girl was dead, her body reduced to a shrivelled deformed husk. The gong boomed once again and the chants returned as the Great One turned and slowly retreated to his private chambers. His body recharged, new energy coursing his veins, euphoric satisfaction etched upon his revitalised countenance. But it would not last long. It never did. A few days perhaps, at the most. These young women were somehow lacking in the strong essences he needed to sustain himself. Better candidates were required; a pure heart and body was not enough; she also needed to be strong of mind and spirit. With that he would get a month, if she had royal blood, he would get three. The old bloodlines being the strongest.

  Aalil followed Sulan into his private chamber and shut the door. 'It went well, Great One?'

  'Yes, to a point. I am disappointed with you, Prolat. Standards have dropped, the quality not what it once was...I require better!' he snapped. 'These wretches suffice for the time being, but they are deficient, they lack any measurable reserves of spirit. Have you scoured the land?'

  'Yes, Great One, but it is a difficult task. The royal blood is all but gone and the nobles hide their daughters. They serve now only through fear. At least the commoners are still compliant.'

  AL-Imri balled his hands into tight fists, 'Then perhaps it is time the nobles were taught a lesson!' he snarled. 'One they will not easily forget!'

  ***

  It was a cold morning in the Hyrnn Forest, twenty miles north of Kan-Ta. Brinn stared into the small mirror examining his whisker-less face with a degree of satisfaction. It felt good to be free of the thick unkempt beard. The bruising had somewhat subsided and he could see out of his left eye again, though it was still an unsightly mix of black and blue.

  They had travelled for most of the night and made good progress. Only stopping late on to rest the horses and grab a few hours sleep. Satisfied with the results he placed his shaving razor back in its pouch and stowed it with the rest of his belongings. They were still in Jarro so there had been no need to set a guard while they slept. That would soon change he knew. Harder days lay ahead. But for now the company slept soundly.

  The forest was quiet. It was that transitional time, just before dawn, when night creatures sought their burrows and day creatures ventured forth. Somewhere to his left he could hear a family of field mice scratching and chewing in the hollow of a fallen tree. While high up in a giant spruce, a large Barn Owl scratched its head, stretched, and fluffed. The black of night was slowly giving way to lighter shades as morning paled the eastern sky. Brinn rose and quietly walked towards the dying fire. Brok's eyes opened as he approached.

  'Sleep well?' inquired Brinn.

  'So-so.'

  Brinn threw a few fresh sticks on the fire. Flames and sparks gently rose and the wood crackled in the heat, 'What's the plan?'

  'Simple. Get up to Gantu and try to pick up her trail.'

  'You make it sound easy.'

  'Nothing's easy.'

  'What are we up against?'

  'We think slavers, though not confirmed. At least we know, they were involved.'

  'Attacking a heavily armed escort's not usually their style.' Brinn sat down.

  'No. Hired muscle, most probably. The puppet-masters remain hidden at present. Ten to one, that trail leads east.'

  Brinn stared into the flames lost in thought.

  'Brinn, I was sorry to hear about Sherii. She was...' Brok trailed off.

  Brinn nodded but didn't reply. The pain all too evident in his eyes. A long silence followed before he finally spoke again, 'I hear things are bad at the front.'

  'It's worse than you can imagine,' said Tam, as he yawned and peeled his blanket back. 'Can't last much longer. We're already beaten, but just too proud, stubborn, and stupid to admit it,' his shoulder length dark-blond hair fell forward hiding much of his rugged good looks.

  Brinn stared into the flames again, unconsciously running a finger along the ridge of a small scar on his neck, 'How are Brasco and Bull?'

  'Dead.' sighed Tam.

  'What about Tunbro?'

  'Crippled. He lost an arm and a leg last month.'

  'Most of the old troop are gone,' added Brok.

  Another long silence ensued before Brinn spoke again.

  'What about Sergeant Preem. Surely that old warhorse is still alive?'

  'Well actually, yes he is. Except it's Captain Preem now since his commission. Last I heard he was in the northern section of the line.' Brok threw two logs on the fire. Again the flames and sparks shot skyward.

  'I've missed so much. It's hard to believe they're a
ll gone.'

  'But at least the best are still here, eh?' Rat was finally awake and sitting up stretching his arms. 'What you think, Lom?' Rat smacked Lom on his backside. Lom grunted and broke wind.

  'He agrees wholeheartedly,' Rat grinned mischievously. 'I'm starving. What's for break-fast?'

  ***

  Hyrnn was a vast forest that stretched northward from the city of Kan-Ta to the middle of Jarro, and eastward from the coast to Archer's Way. It's dirt roads were never busy, most folk did their damndest to avoid the place. It had a reputation for being a bit on the lawless side. Nothing major, just the odd murder or hold-up. Its isolation a draw for those with a reason to hide; deserters, bandits, criminals. It was a foolish man who travelled this place alone.

  Towering Ash and Oak reached skyward, knurled twisted pillars beneath a swaying roof of green. The myriad intertwined branches and the overhead carpet, combining to block most of the available light, rendering the forest floor a dark sombre quality.

  Brinn was front man, and a little ahead of the others, when he suddenly stopped his horse. His skin prickled. It felt like hidden eyes were watching from the gloom. He listened carefully but heard nothing beyond the normal forest chatter of squirrels and birds.

  Brok spurred his horse and stopped beside him, 'What is it?'

  'Not sure yet. It could just be my imagination.'

  'Did you see or hear something?'

  'More a feeling.'

  The others fanned out and scanned the brush. Brinn sniffed the air. It had a strange quality. Like that metallic smell often left behind after a lightning strike. He couldn't quite fix it. After a few more minutes he gave the signal to move forward and they set off again checking all around as they went. The road forked a little further ahead marking the turnoff for Gallo. Between the two roads sat a white-haired old man clutching a knurled blackthorn walking stick. His long grey handlebar moustache drooped well past his bare chin. His robes were dirty and had signs of being mended on more than one occasion. Behind him, a mule stood tethered to a tree. Brinn stopped his horse and stared down at the stranger. The old man did not move or speak, but stared back intently.

  'Greetings old--'

  'You're late!' The old man growled, cutting Brinn off mid-sentence.

  Brinn looked at Brok, but the big man shrugged his shoulders.

  'Late for what old timer?' asked Brinn.

  'You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago!' A frown creased his wrinkled old brow.

  Brinn scratched at his head in confusion, 'I'm afraid you have us at a disadvantage old man. Why are you waiting for us, and how did you know we were coming?'

  'No time for questions now! We have many miles yet to travel today. I can explain as we go.' The old man rose, untied his mule and dragged him out onto the road.

  Brinn was amused and perplexed by this rather eccentric old fellow.

  'He's lost his marbles,' Rat had come forward to better see the holdup.

  'Explain yourself or eat our dust, we don't have time for riddles!' insisted Brinn.

  'Don't be ridiculous! All in good time,' the white haired old man belly flopped onto the mule and slowly, and very awkwardly pulled himself onto the saddle.

  'Enough of this! Brinn, spurring his horse into a gallop.

  'Not too fast boy, Bru will not be able to keep up!' The old man extended his stick and a small ball of light flashed towards the young warrior.

  Brinn flew backwards and landed with a sickening thump on the hard ground.

  Tam raised his bow and loosed a shot at the wizard. But the arrow deflected, as if it had struck an invisible wall, and shot straight up into the sky. The rest of the Pathfinders immediately went for their weapons.

  'Hold friends! I mean you no harm! I am here to help you,' The wizard held up his hands in supplication.

  Brinn wheezed and huffed as he sat up. It felt like he had been gut-kicked by the old man's mule.

  The enchanter walked over and extended a hand, 'I am Balzimar,' he smiled. 'I was sent by Askert the King's high wizard.'

  'To what end?' asked Brinn.

  'To lend a hand, boy, what else?' Balzimar huffed, and blew the ends of his long moustache forward in exasperation.

  7. A High Cost

  The Front Line: South-west Anvar

  Captain Benjamin Preem inspected both, men and ramparts under his command for the fifth time that morning. The bulwarked collection of palisade topped earth-works and booby-trapped trenches, ran in a meandering line from the Kilgorn Marches in the north to the Anvil Mountains in the south. Constructed in haste, over a number of years as the war slowly turned against Jarro, it was a poor makeshift substitute for a real defensive fortification.

  His orders were clear; hold for as long as possible and give the enemy the impression that the lines were fully manned. Which, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. More than half the army had been stripped away and sent to the rear to Eastgate. A stone bulwark built in ancient times to defend Jarro against numerous, and bloody, incursions by their aggressive and militaristic neighbour.

  The soldiers were not removed in one mass exodus, that would have been foolish, and encouraged an all out attack by the enemy. It had been carried out in dribs and drabs. A few men from one battalion and a few more from another, over a number of weeks and generally under the cover of darkness. It had been relatively quiet in his sector due, in part, to unexpectedly heavy rain sweeping down from the north. Rain was the defenders friend. It dampened the attacker’s enthusiasm and the mud stopped cavalry in its tracks. But now that ally had deserted them as well.

  The sky was clearing and the ground in front of the wooden palisade was quickly drying. Preem knew that it wouldn’t be long before an attack was mounted. His men could sense it too. There was an uneasy quiet all along the rampart. Out in no-man’s land hundreds of dead bodies lay strewn, in groups and alone, evidence of the last attack a few days earlier.

  The smell was hellish. Flies swarmed all over the bodies, now that the rain was gone, attracted by the stench of putrefying flesh. A disgusting and disturbing sight to the uninitiated, but a normal fact of life for Preem and his men. A bugle call far off in the distance confirmed his worst fears. It was soon followed by the familiar thump-thump of the war drums. The enemy were not yet in sight, but he knew that they were on the way. Fear etched the faces of his men. ‘Hold fast!’ he roared. ‘They die as easy as the next man!’

  The first lines of enemy soldiers crested the distant rise. Fear and panic gripped the defenders hearts.

  ‘Easy men. I know you’re anxious to be at 'em. But seeing they've gone to all this effort, 'tis only polite we let 'em bang out a last tune or two, unmolested.’

  A ripple of laughter ran along the palisade. Preem smiled, the spell was broken and the dread had dissipated. Now his men could function as soldiers should, calm, efficient, merciless. He raised his looking glass and immediately recognised the dark-armoured battalions of Anvar heavy infantry. But there were also uniforms of the East. Men clad in white with odd oblong shields and impossibly curved swords, riding strange beasts that looked like horses at a distance but up close had funny long necks and a clumsy gait. Preem hid his concern, his men were going to need all of their courage today.

  ‘Archers ready!’

  Every man with a bow pointed an arrow to the sky.

  ‘Hold!’

  The enemy stepped along in perfect time to the thump-thump of the drums. The men of Jarro stood fast against the human tidal-wave that was threatening to engulf them.

  ‘Hold!’ ordered Preem, standing with sword-arm raised.

  They were half way across now. Preem could make out individual faces. He could see detail; those who had hastily shaved before battle, those who had not. It was time. ‘Loose!’ he ordered, making a chopping motion with his outstretched sword, and watched as hundreds of arrows took flight. ‘Reload!’

  The archers automatically placed a fresh arrow on the bow and pulled strings tight, fa
cing skyward. They stood with faces to the heavens awaiting the order to release.

  ‘Loose!’

  The second projectile wave took flight, darkening the sky with its heavy pall of murderous rain.

  ‘Reload!’

  Out on the field men died as volleys of arrows struck home. ‘Loose!’ he ordered again and again, and again.

  Outside the palisade the bodies mounted. Finally, as if tormented beyond the limits of endurance, they charged. Running forward like men possessed into a hail of arrows and spears. Slipping and sliding on pools of blood and screaming with hot frenzy. Ladders appeared and were placed against the walls. Above them, Preem and his men fought valiantly to throw back the Horde. Men scrambled up and were hacked to death on reaching the top. Below, more died as they were crushed to death pinned against the wooden wall by the weight of numbers of their own comrades trying to get forward.

  Preem saw that the odds were against them. There were just too many attackers and too few defenders. It was only a matter of time now before they would finally gain control of the rampart. He gave the order and buckets of pitch were poured down on top of the enemy. The ground became slick. Soldiers slipped in the ooze. All along the lines for miles the order was repeated and then fire was added with deadly effect. The flames exploded upward and outward, as the highly flammable liquid ignited, roasting everything it touched. The screams of the dying carried for miles as thousands of men were instantly turned into human torches.

  The army of the East broke and ran leaving their dead and wounded behind. A great cheer went up among the defenders. They had won the day, but the cost was high. Now there was too few left to hold the line. It was time to retreat.

  8. Order Restored