Stolen

by Adam Collins

  Grik was a bad one alright. You even had to watch him with your pay. He’d jip his own men if he could get away with it, and that just ain’t right! thought Grimp, shaking his head.

  It was getting colder now and the fog was wetting him through. A large splash broke the silence. It came from somewhere out in front of his position. It was hopeless. He couldn’t see a thing. He craned his head as far forward as it would go, for all the use that it did. Turning left and right, he listened carefully. The silence was unnerving, it thundered in his ears.

  Probably a croc catching dinner, he decided. What else could it be in this hellhole? Snake, maybe? he thought. He’d heard stories about the big snakes that lived in the most remote parts of the swamp. That was one of Lanwigg’s favourite stories. How back in his home village they’d found a snake so big it had gobbled up a man and his horse together. And when they caught him and opened him up, the man was still sitting atop his mount like he was just going for a jaunt.

  Grimp chuckled to himself, Lanwigg's a lying bag of puss most of the time, but at least he can spin a good yarn. There was a crack of snapping wood out in the gloom. Grimp was feeling a little exposed so he took two paces back from the wall. The fog swirled past him. His eyes strained to see further out into the gloom. The billowing mist gathered itself into monstrous shapes that looked on the verge of attack before dissipating into transparent wisps.

  It was maddening. His palms felt slick. A dark shadow rose from the murk. Grimp took a step forward, afraid his eyes were playing tricks again. There was a darker area, within the general mass of foggy gloom, that seemed to be moving very slowly. The fog thinned and two hideous red eyes bored into his soul. In that terrible instant, Grimp’s heart filled with terror as his trembling legs sank ankle-deep into treacle. His frozen mind rebelled and ran careening away to the darker trackless recesses of his brain, while his gaping mouth issued a silent scream. An enormous serpentine head, emerged from the fog. It hung ten feet in the air, supported by a muscular body. It was a mixture of yellows and greens, except for a single black stripe that ran from the tip of its snout over its head and down its armour-plated spine.

  The Gwergar lurched forward on powerful legs. Grimp finally managed a scream just before he was torn apart. The camp became a flurry of movement as men scrambled for their weapons, running left and right in utter confusion. No-one seemed to know where or whom the enemy was. The thick fog reduced visibility to a few short strides. Grik tried to organise those closest to him, but others ran past and disappeared into the gloom never to return.

  The Gwergar was quick for such a large beast. He used the covering fog well, killing randomly, picking off those foolish enough to stray too far from the main group. The screams of the dead and dying filled the air. He would make them pay for straying too close to his nest, and for the stinging wounds he had suffered at their hands in past. The stick carriers would pay. He hated them, and now they would die. His forked tongue flicked out. He could smell the Two-Legs all around. With a roar of defiance he announced himself. His sinuous tail scythed through a line of men sending blood and entrails exploding outward to shower those slavers still gathered around Grik in chunks of blood-drenched offal. Some broke and ran in mindless panic, tripping over dead bodies and discarding weapons without care, as they fled into the darkness. Karem shook the girls awake at the first sounds of attack, ‘Quickly, we must flee this place!’

  The two women were still half asleep, and looked confused. Outside the stone walls of the little house a thunderous roar shattered the silence.

  ‘What was that?’ Anabel grabbed Karem’s sleeve.

  ‘It’s a Gwergar.’

  The two women looked blankly at him.

  ‘A Swamp-Dragon. It’s been tracking us for days,’ he added.

  ‘A Dragon! Oh sweet divinity, are we going to be burned alive?’ asked Anabel, terror etching her face.

  ‘No, Gwergar are not fire breathers. They are water dwellers, but just as deadly none-the-less. Hurry ladies we must make good our escape before it is too late.’

  The women scrambled from their blankets and followed Karem out into the fog. The ground was a mass of dead and dying men. Severed limbs littered the ground and the mud was slick with blood. Five of Karem's personal guard were waiting. ‘This way, my Lord,’ beckoned a tall Eastlander.

  ‘Quickly now ladies, stay low,’ Karem instructed, as he lead them towards his men.

  Out in the courtyard Grik and his dwindling band of slavers were fighting for survival. There were only fifteen left alive. They formed a circle, back to back, with spears pointing in all directions like the spokes a giant rimless wheel. The Gwergar lunged forward out of the mist grabbing one man by his torso. He screamed in agony and terror as razor sharp teeth sliced through his leather armour.

  His comrades jabbed and stabbed with sword and spear, but the dragons scales were like steel. Again the monster disappeared into the fog taking the screaming man with him; there was a sickening crunch and the screaming stopped. They could hear the monster as it moved. It’s deep rasping breaths echoed all around, but of the beast itself they saw nothing. It was a game, and they were playthings to be toyed with. Grik noticed one of the heavy crossbows lying on the ground not far from where they stood. ‘You! Grik pointed to one of his men and shouted, ‘Get me that crossbow!’

  The poor follow looked petrified and didn’t budge. Grik kicked the man hard in the back and sent him sprawling along the ground towards the weapon. There was movement in the fog. A dark shadow darted quickly from right to left.

  ‘Pick it up you worm!’ roared Grik.

  The man fumbled with the weapon. It was covered in blood and slick to touch. As he stood to run back a giant head appeared through the fog looming over him. The Gwergar grabbed hold and dragged the slaver backwards into the murk. The crossbow slipped from his hand and dropped back down into the ooze.

  ‘You! Grik picked another reluctant volunteer, ‘Get me that piggin' weapon!’

  The slaver didn’t wait to be kicked. He took off running at a sprint and grabbed up the crossbow. But just as he started to run back, the dragon burst from the fog behind him and charged towards the small knot of men sending them flying in all directions. More died in a blur of teeth and claws. Grik lay in the mud stunned. The creature was biting and slashing anything that moved. Some managed to scramble away, but most lay dead.

  The dragon looked down at the one who had led the other stick-carriers. It’s eyes blazed red. Grik turned away. Not wanting to see the killing blow. Beside him in the mud lay the crossbow. He rolled and grabbed up the weapon and loosed a shot at the dragon’s soft neck. The bolt breached the smaller scales there and punctured the flesh. The dragon reared backwards, roared in pain, turned and disappeared into the mist. Grik knelt on the blood-soaked ground and listened as the beast crashed through the undergrowth. The sounds of snapping wood getting fainter the further it fled.

  A mile up the trail, Karem lead the women away from the scene of the massacre. As their small party struggled through the foggy darkness, knee-deep in sticky ooze, Anabel was struggling to keep up. In the rush to escape they hadn’t noticed that the deep mud was quickly sapping her strength and she was steadily falling behind. Stopping to catch her breath she leaned against the roots of a large mangrove tree. Ahead the others kept moving. Anabel filled her lungs to call out but a strong hand clamped her mouth shut and dragged her backwards into the undergrowth. The others, hearing no sounds of alarm, continued moving ahead. Within a few short steps the fog encroached, and they were gone.

  14. Eastgate

  The new defense line was much reduced, sandwiched, as it was, between the Anvil Mountains to the South, and the Kilgor Marshes of mid-Jarro. The marches were an impassable quagmire of quicksand and sinkholes, located along the middle swath of the eastern border. The Eastgate bulwark bridged the hill and scrub filled lands between. Three hundred years had passed since Hummak the Great - High King of Anvar - had tried to circumvent
the wall by crossing those fetid wastes. He failed, miserably, and lost more than half of his army on the dismal retreat back to Anvar. The stone walls, dikes, and earthworks of Eastgate had successfully protected Jarro from Anvar aggression for four hundred years and now it would be put to the test once again against the largest army the world had ever seen.

  Thousands of retreating men now clogged the road to Eastgate. Captain Preem and his two hundred Pathfinder cavalry would be among the last to enter the gates. He accepted this dangerous duty, as he always did, with steadfast grit. Someone had to protect the stragglers and wounded, and who better than the Pathfinders. Thus far the retreat had gone well. They were almost within sight of the wall. They would be fighting on home territory for the first time since pushing back AL-Imri’s rampaging hoards during the early years of the war. Though not very picturesque, the low tree-lined hills and scrubby grassland, that made up The Velt, mirrored the lands of south-western Anvar precisely. So alike were they, that an unaccustomed traveller to the area could be forgiven for being unable to tell them apart. Preem peered up at the sky. The clouds were back again, low and dark. He prayed the rain would hold off for another day or two. The road to Eastgate was hard baked clay and stone. A heavy downpour would turn it into mud in a very short time, reducing the already pitifully slow column to a snail’s pace. They had burned the bridge at Farrow. That at least should buy them some time. Thankfully the River E’Ben was in full flow and would be a formidable obstacle to cross, slowing the Eastmen’s advance considerably.

  Preem looked back over his shoulder. His two hundred horsemen stretched back into the distance enveloped in a cloud of orange-brown dust. Beyond them the empty hills stretched on to the horizon. Though surrounded by friendly troops, he felt exposed. There was an itch in the middle of his back. It was the same feeling that he got whenever danger was close. Death’s bony fingers rested lightly upon his shoulder. He recognised their familiar cold touch. They were being watched. He could feel hidden eyes appraising every weakness. He faced forward again. One hundred heavy pike were bringing up the rear of the retreating column. At least half had an injury of one kind or another. They looked tired and bloodied. His own men sat hunched in their saddles. There had been no time for rest since the retreat had started. They had travelled day and night without stopping once. Those who tried to stop were kicked by the sergeants until they got up. The shout of, Rest in Eastgate or Hell! rang out all along the road. It was an effective spur to flagging minds and bodies.

  A ripple of noise ran the length of the rearguard. Preem turned but saw nothing through the haze of dust. Suddenly one of the senior sergeants came galloping towards him from the back of the line. Preem pulled his horse to one side and turned to face him.

  ‘Sir, beg to report!’ The sergeant wheezed, trying to catch his breath. ‘Dust clouds to the rear, sir.’

  ‘Cavalry?’

  ‘Hard to know sir, but most likely.’

  ‘Damn!’ Preem cursed under his breath and paused while thinking.

  The road was bordered on both sides by wooded hills that caused a natural funnel. Spurring his horse he ordered his men to follow. They quickly rode to the head of the line of heavy pike. The officer in charge was a young lieutenant.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ called Preem.

  The young dark-haired officer ran to the captain’s side and saluted, ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ve got a problem. My scouts have spotted dust to the rear, most likely cavalry.’

  ‘Sir, my men are at your disposal.’

  Preem looked along the line of bedraggled pike-men. ‘How many can you muster? Mind you no heroics, Lieutenant, I only want those who are fit enough to fight.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Somewhere in the region of seventy I would guess. The rest are just too far gone to be of use.’

  ‘Good, it will have to do. Form a loose line behind my men across the neck of this road,’ Preem pointed to the narrowest point of the funnel.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The lieutenant saluted and half turned away. But then turned back to face Preem with a confused look on his face. ‘Excuse me, sir. But did you say, behind, your men?’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant. What’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s just that…well…the normal position for heavy pike is in front of the cavalry, sir.’

  ‘That’s correct. Position your men as ordered, Lieutenant. But space them wide enough apart so that there's enough room between each man for a horse to pass.’ Preem wheeled away from the young officer, and called two of his sergeants to his side.

  ‘Sergeant Brasko, you take fifty men and to the woods on the left flank. Sergeant Fruro, you take fifty to the woods on the right. Keep out of sight until you hear the call for a charge. Then come out and hit the enemy from behind. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly clear sir,’ nodded Brasko

  ‘Okay then go!’

  The two men sped off while shouting orders for fifty to follow each, and quickly disappeared into the undergrowth. Preem took the remaining one hundred and stretched them across the road. Behind them the seventy heavy-pike crouched out of sight in the long-grass. All was ready. Ahead the dust cloud was getting closer.

  ‘Lieutenant, when I give you the order you may stand and form your pike, but not before I give the order. Is that clear?’

  The young lieutenant lay on the ground just behind Preem. ‘Yes, sir. At your order, sir,’ he nodded.

  Preem stared ahead and adjusted his helmet to fit more snugly as five hundred light cavalry of AL-Imri’s eastern army came into view one thousand yards in front. They immediately saw Preem’s one hundred horsemen blocking their way. They stopped and surveyed the scene. Officers, wearing golden breastplates, ordered over-eager men into a rough line ready to charge. Preem could hear their drums thumping and strange eastern horns wailing, as they built themselves up into frenzy. At first they came forward at the walk, their officers to the fore of the dark mass waving curved swords and shouting. Then they started to trot. The line wavered a little as small clusters of men, unable to contain themselves, lurched ahead of the main body.

  They were closer now, almost six hundred yards. Preem looked over his shoulder at the retreating column. They hadn’t gotten far, less than half of a mile, he estimated. They would be helpless against an attack from the rear. Thousands would die if he failed. He looked back at the steadily advancing eastern cavalry. He could see their faces now. They looked excited at the prospect of battle. One or two were standing upright on their cantering steeds. They were truly amazing horsemen. Then they charged, galloping wildly towards his waiting line of men.

  Preem snarled, ‘Swords!’

  The Pathfinders unsheathed swords and stood ready for the onslaught. The Eastmen were only three hundred yards away. Then two hundred. Blood curling screams filled the air. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves. One hundred yards. Preem could see wild-eyed frenzy on their dark faces. Fifty yards. They powered forward, swords pointing, leaning out over their horses necks. Preem roared at the top of his voice.

  ‘Retire to the rear!’

  The Pathfinders spun as one, and looked to be running away from the charging enemy cavalry. The Eastmen lost all composure as they sensed an easy victory. The enemy was fleeing the field. With a joyous roar they prepared to follow and slaughter the cowards.

  Preem stopped his horse, ‘Pike forward!' he roared.

  The hidden pike-men stood and quickly formed an impenetrable wall. The charging eastern cavalry couldn’t stop and ran straight onto them. In a matter of moments the charge turned into a confused mass of horses and men. Those at the front of the charge were all dead. Men and horses alike fell dying, as the skilled pike-men moved forward jabbing and sticking any who tried to pass. The cavalry at the back of the host could not see what was happening and pressed forward into the backs of the middle ranks; who, caught between the dead in front and those pushing from behind, floundered and turned in confused circles.

  Preem knew it was time, ‘Bugler
, sound the charge!’ he shouted.

  At the sound of the shrill bugle-call, Preem’s one hundred men charged forward into the fray, hacking and slashing at the confused and demoralized Eastmen. At that same moment Sergeant’s Brasco and Fruro emerged from the woods on either side of the battle and charged into the exposed flanks of the foe. That was the final straw. What was left of the eastern cavalry turned and fled. The battle was won. The men of Jarro stood and cheered as their enemy, now few in number, retreated back across the valley and out of sight. It had been a great victory against heavy odds.

  Brasco and Fruro approached Preem, ‘They won’t be back in a hurry, sir,’ laughed Brasco.

  ‘How many did we lose, Sergeant?’ asked Preem.

  ‘Twenty-two dead, thirty wounded, sir.’

  ‘And the pike?’

  ‘Thirteen dead and eighteen wounded, sir,’ answered the young lieutenant.

  ‘My compliments to both you and your men. That was an admirable job of work.’ Preem said to the young officer of pike.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’