Silver moonlight dusted the boughs of trees and painted the meadows with spurious frost. It bathed the upper slopes of rolling hills, as though snow had fallen, despite the temperate climate.
Burnished rivers and shimmering lakes were fleetingly sighted. Flocks of birds took wing at the approach of pounding hooves. Swarming insects lit the heart of brooding forests with their mottled fireglow. All was fresh, vibrant, teeming.
Above hung a glorious array of stars, crystalline in the virgin night sky.
'Don't you see?' she called. 'Don't you see that all is as it should be?'
He was too intoxicated by the undefiled air, by the sense of innate rightness, to reply.
'Come on!' she cried, and urged her horse to greater effort.
Her mount surged ahead of him. He spurred his own ride to match the pace.
They raced, exhilarated, the wind buffeting their faces. She laughed at the sheer joy of it, and so did he. It was a long time since he had felt quite so alive.
'Your land is wondrous!' he shouted.
'Our land!' she returned.
He looked to the way ahead.
The way ahead was barren.
It was cold. The trail was rocky. Nothing stirred. The moon and stars were visible, but dingy in the clouded sky. Stryke was riding alone at the head of the column.
The chill hand of fear caressed his spine.
What in the name of the gods is happening to me? he thought. Am I going insane?
He tried to be rational. He was exhausted and under pressure. They all were. All that had happened was that he'd fallen asleep in the saddle. Fatigue had conjured the pictures in his mind. They were vivid and realistic, but only pictures. Like a story the wordsmiths told around winter fires.
It would be comforting if he believed that.
He unclipped his canteen and took a gulp of water. As he replaced the stopper, he caught a familiar bouquet on the breeze. A whiff of pellucid. He shook his head, half convinced the smell had carried over as a sort of olfactory memory from his dream. Then it came again. He looked around.
Coilla and Alfray were riding behind him. Their faces were tired and passive. His gaze travelled beyond them, down the lines of sleepy grunts. He saw Jup, slumped with weariness. A place or two further back, near the column's end and riding alone, was Haskeer. He seemed furtive, turning his head in an obvious attempt to avoid scrutiny.
Stryke swung his horse out. 'Take the lead!' he barked at Alfray and Coilla.
They reacted and at least one said something. He didn't hear it, and ignored them anyway. His attention was focused on Haskeer. He galloped his way.
When he reached him, the rich odour of burning crystal was unmistakable, and the sergeant was making a ham-fisted job of trying to conceal something.
'Give it up,' Stryke said, icy menace in his voice.
With lazy insolence, Haskeer opened his hand to reveal the tiny clay pipe he'd been hiding. Stryke snatched it.
'You took this without permission,' he growled.
'You didn't say we couldn't.'
'I didn't say you could either. You're on your last warning, Haskeer. And think on this.' Lightning fast, Stryke leaned in and swung his fist at the sergeant's head. It landed on his temple with a meaty smack. The blow knocked Haskeer clean off his horse. He hit the ground heavily.
The column stopped. Everybody was watching.
Haskeer groaned and got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment it looked as though he might retaliate, but he thought better of it.
'You'll walk till you learn some discipline,' Stryke told him, gesturing for a trooper to take the reins of Haskeer's mount.
'I haven't slept,' Haskeer complained.
'Never leave off bellyaching, do you, Sergeant? None of us have slept, Wolverine, and none of us are going to till I say. Got it?' Stryke turned to the rest of the band. 'Anybody else feel like defying me?'
They let silence answer for them.
'Nobody touches the crystal until, and if, I say so!' he told them. 'I don't' care how much there is, that's not the point. It might be all we've got to bargain for our lives with her. Jennesta. Particularly if we don't get that fucking cylinder back, which right now looks pretty unlikely. Understood?'
Another eloquent silence spoke for them.
Coilla eventually broke it.
'Looks like we'll get to find out about the cylinder any time now,' she said, nodding at what was coming into sight as they rounded a bend.
A vast outcrop of granite sat by the trail, squat and contorted, as though melted by inconceivable heat. It was an unmistakable landmark even to those who had never set eyes on it before. Whether by chance or some design of the gods, the likeness it bore was true enough to have been carved by a titanic sculptor.
'Demon's Claw,' Stryke declared, though none of them needed telling. 'We'll be in Black Rock in less than an hour.'
11
Stryke knew that if the Wolverines were to function properly, if they were to survive, he had to put the disturbing dreams out of his mind. Fortunately, the prospect of a raid into enemy territory was more than enough to keep him occupied.
He ordered a temporary camp to be struck while they prepared for their assault on Black Rock. Several troopers were sent to rendezvous with the forward scouts spying the land. The rest of the Wolverines set about checking their kit and honing their weapons.
Stryke decided that no fires were to be lit, in order not to betray their position. On this, Alfray asked him to think again.
'Why?' Stryke said.
'We've got a problem with Darig. He took a leg wound when we fought the Unis. Fact is, it's in a worse state than I thought. Gangrenous. I need a fire to heat my blades.'
'It's got to come off?'
Alfray nodded. 'He loses the leg or he loses his life.'
'Shit. Another wounded trooper to move. We don't need it, Alfray.' He nodded at Meklun. 'How's he?'
'No improvement, and there are signs of fever now.'
'At this rate we won't need to worry about Jennesta. All right, a fire. But small, and covered. Have you told Darig?'
'He's guessed, I think, but I'm about to spell it out to him. It's a damn shame. He's one of the youngest in the band, Stryke.'
'I know. Anything you need?'
'I've got herbs that might dull the pain a bit, and a little alcohol. Probably not enough. Can I try some crystal?'
'Have it. But it won't block the pain that much, you know.'
'At least it should take his mind off it. I'll get to work on an infusion.'
Alfray went back to his patient.
Coilla took the field surgeon's place. 'Got a minute?'
Stryke grunted that he had.
'You all right?' she said.
'Why ask?'
'Because you've not been yourself lately. Kind of distant. And then piling into Haskeer back there—'
'He's been asking for it.'
'You can say that again. But it's you I'm talking about.'
'We're in a mess. What do you expect, a song and a dance?'
'I just thought that if you're—'
'Why the touching concern for my state of health, Corporal?'
'You're our commander, it's in my interests. All our interests.'
'I'm not going to crack, if that's what you think. I'll get us through this.'
She didn't reply.
He took a different tack. 'Heard about Darig?'
'Yes. It stinks. What are we going to do about the kobolds?'
Stryke was grateful that she wanted to talk about tactics. It made him feel more comfortable. 'Hit them when they least expect it, of course. That might be in what's left of the night, it might be at daybreak.'
'Then I want to get up there with the scouts and check the lay-out for myself.'
'Right. We'll go together.'
'Black Rock's big, Stryke. Suppose the kobolds we're after are right in the middle of it?'
'From what I've heard, the raiding parties cam
p around the main settlement. They keep the females and young at the core. The raiders can come and go more easily like that, as well as guard the place.'
'That sounds a dangerous set-up. If we're walking into some kind of defensive ring—'
'We just have to be careful how we do it.'
She regarded him with troubled eyes. 'You know this is insane, don't you?'
'Can you think of another way?'
For the briefest instant, he hoped she was going to say yes.
An hour flew by while the Wolverines busied themselves with the countless tasks needed to make a fighting unit combat-ready.
With everything in hand, Stryke went to the makeshift shelter used as a medical tent. He found Alfray tending an oblivious Meklun, stretched at the far end of the shelter, a damp cloth resting on his forehead. Most of the remaining space was taken up by Darig, also lying but somewhat more animated. A vacant grin on his face, eyes glazed, he rolled his head from side to side, mumbling incessantly. In the flickering candlelight, Stryke saw that the blanket covering him was twisted and blotched with sweat.
'Just in time,' Alfray said. 'I need some help.'
'He's ready?'
Alfray looked down at Darig. He was giggling.
'I've given him enough crystal to poleaxe a regiment. If he's not ready now he never will be.'
'Mahogany elbows bushels of songbirds tied with string,' Darig announced.
'Take your point,' Stryke said. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Get somebody else in here. It'll take two to hold him down.'
'Pretty string,' Darig added. 'Pretty . . . smitty . . . pring.' Alfray crouched next to the patient. 'Take it easy,' he soothed.
Stryke peered out of the tent and saw Jup nearby. He beckoned him. The dwarf jogged over and sidled in.
'You're in luck,' Stryke told him drily. 'You get to hold one of the bits that's coming off.' He nodded at the grunt's legs.
The tent was about as crowded as it could get. Jup edged gingerly to the end of the trooper's bed. 'Wouldn't do to step on him,' he explained.
'Don't think he'd notice,' Alfray said.
'There's a weasel in the river,' Darig confided knowingly.
'He's been given some crystal as a painkiller,' Stryke explained.
Jup raised an eyebrow. 'Some? To use an old dwarf expression, I'd say he's ripped out of his crust.'
'And it won't last forever,' Alfray reminded them, a mite testily. 'Let's get on with it, shall we?'
'The river, the river,' Darig chanted, saucer-eyed.
'Take hold of his ankles, Jup,' Alfray instructed. 'Stryke, bear down on his arms. I don't want him moving when I start.'
They did as they were told. Alfray pulled aside the blanket, revealing the infected leg. The angry wound was drenched in pus.
'Gods,' Jup muttered.
Alfray dabbed gently with a cloth. 'Not too pretty, is it?'
Stryke wrinkled his nose. 'Or very sweet-smelling. Where are you going to cut?'
'Here, across the thigh, well above the knee. And the trick is to do it fast.' He finished cleaning the affected area and wrung the cloth in a wooden bowl. 'Hang on and I'll get what I need.'
He ducked out of the tent. A small fire was burning in a pit a couple of paces away. 'You!' he snapped at a passing grunt. 'Stand here and hand me what I want when I tell you.' The trooper nodded and padded over.
Alfray tore the damp cloth into two pieces and gave him one. He used the other to grasp the hilt of a long-bladed knife protruding from the fire. Its blade glowed cherry-red. A hatchet he left in the flames. With his foot, he nudged the business end of a shovel in beside it.
Back in the tent, he knelt again, pulling from his jerkin pocket a scrap of thick, sturdy rope, about equal to a hand's span.
Darig smiled beatifically. 'Pig's riding the horse, pig's ridinnwtnph.'
'Bite!' Alfray ordered, jamming the chunk of rope into the trooper's open mouth.
'Now?' Stryke said.
'Now. Hold him tight!'
He brought the scalding blade into play. Darig's eyes widened and he began struggling. Jup and Stryke strained against his writhing limbs.
With several rapid, skilful strokes, Alfray excavated the wound. He folded aside flaps of skin and began digging through the flesh beneath. Darig struggled the harder, and spat out the rope. His agonised yelling had Meklun stirring restlessly, but was short-lived; Alfray rammed the restraint back in. Holding it in place with the heel of his palm, he carried on working one-handed. In short order he had the bone exposed.
Darig groaned and passed out.
Tossing the knife aside, Alfray bellowed, 'Hatchet!'
It was passed in over Stryke's head, stock wrapped against the blistering, near-white heat of its cleaving end.
Alfray grasped it two-handed and raised it high. He aimed, took a breath and brought it down with all his might. The blow landed with a muffled thunk, dead on target. Stryke and Jup felt the grunt's body buck under the impact. But the leg was only half severed.
Darig snapped back into consciousness, a wild expression on his face, and resumed thrashing. He spat out the gag again and commenced shrieking. No one had a hand free to stop him.
'Hurry!' Stryke urged.
'Hold him still!' Alfray demanded. He disengaged the axe and lined up another swing.
The second blow also struck true, and if anything had greater force behind it. This almost finished the job, save the last remaining threads of sinew and skin. A third weighty chop parted them, carrying the cleaver through the horse blanket Darig lay on and into the hardened earth below.
The screaming continued. Stryke ended it by landing a smart punch to the side of Darig's head, knocking him cold.
'We've got to stem the flow of blood,' Alfray told them, pulling away the amputated leg. 'Get me that shovel.'
The spade was carefully delivered. Its flat was crimson-coloured, and when Alfray blew on it, a patch shone sparkly yellow-white for an instant. 'Should be hot enough,' he decided. 'Keep holding him. This is going to be another rude awakening.'
He laid the shovel against the stump. The tangy odour of burnt flesh filled the air as the heat did its work and cauterised. Darig was dragged into wakefulness once more, and emptied his lungs in protest, but the shock and blood loss had taken their toll. The clamour he sent up was faint compared to the noise he'd made moments before.
Jup and Stryke kept pressing down as Alfray sprinkled alcohol over his handiwork, then applied dressings smeared with healing balms.
Darig fell to low, repetitious muttering, and his breath took on a regular, if shallow rhythm.
'His breathing's even,' Alfray pronounced. 'That's something.'
'Will he pull through?' Jup wondered.
'I'd give him a fifty-fifty chance.' He bent to the amputated leg and rolled it in a square of fabric. 'What he needs now,' he said, lifting his load, 'is rest and good nourishment to help rebuild his strength.' He tucked the bloody bundle under his arm.
'That's a tall order,' Stryke told him. 'We're only carrying iron rations, remember, and I can't spare anybody to hunt.'
'Leave that to me,' Alfray said, 'I'll take care of it. Now get out, the pair of you. You're disturbing my patients.' He shoved at them.
Stryke and Jup found themselves outside the tent, staring at the lowered flap.
The last of the night would soon give way to dawn.
Stryke had mustered a group of twenty for the raid, including the scouts already positioned on the outskirts of Black Rock. A skeleton crew would be left to guard the camp and the wounded. Needing to talk to Alfray about this, he made his way to the medical tent.
Meklun was as far gone as ever. Darig was sitting up. His eyes were bleary and his skin pale, otherwise he seemed to be doing well after such a short time. And the effects of the pellucid had all but worn off. Alfray was serving him a platter of stew from a black iron cauldron.
'Got to keep your strength up,' he ordered, handing over the st
eaming dish.
Darig spooned a tentative mouthful. His uncertain expression vanished at the first bite and he tucked in with relish. 'Hmmm, meat. Tasty. What is it?'
'Er, don't worry about that now,' Alfray told him. 'Just eat your fill.'
Stryke caught his eye. 'Needs must,' Alfray mouthed, then looked away, uncharacteristically sheepish. They sat in slightly awkward silence as Darig cleared his plate.
Then Haskeer stuck his head into the tent and provided a distraction. 'Something smells good,' he said, staring hopefully at the cauldron.
'It's for Darig,' Alfray replied hurriedly. 'It's . . . special.'
Haskeer looked disappointed. 'Pity.'
'What do you want?' Stryke asked pointedly.
'We're waiting for the order to move, chief.'
'Then wait a bit longer. I'll be out soon.'
The sergeant shrugged, gave the cooking pot a last, hankering glance and left.
'If the stew's special in the way I think it is,' Stryke remarked, 'you should have given him some.'
Alfray smiled.
Darig looked from one to the other, baffled.
'Rest now,' Alfray said, taking his shoulders and easing him back to a recumbent position.
'It might be a good idea if you stayed to look after him and Meklun,' Stryke suggested.
'There are grunts who can do that. Vobe or Jad, for instance. Or Hystykk. They're capable.'
'Just thought you'd prefer to be here with them.'
'I'd rather be in on the action.' Alfray's furrowed chin jutted stubbornly. 'Unless you think I'm getting too old for that kind of—'
'Whoa! Age is nothing to do with it. Only giving you the choice, that's all. Come. Glad to have you.'
'All right. I will.'
Stryke made a note to tread carefully with Alfray when it came to the question of age. He was getting damn prickly about it.
'I'll finish here and follow on,' Alfray added.
As Stryke went out, Darig stirred. 'Sir?' he ventured. 'Is there any more of that stew?'
The band had gathered fifty paces distant. By the time Stryke reached them, Alfray had caught up with him.
'Report, Coilla,' Stryke ordered briskly.
'According to our scouts, the group we're after seem to be at the western edge of Black Rock. Direct heading from here, in other words.'
Bodyguard of Lightning Page 10