A silhouette climbed into view, the round, spider-like form of a many-legged crab. With a grunt, Jafari avoided its snapping pincers, kicking out with a leg, crying with triumph as the beast hurtled from the cliff to land, with a splash, in the depths below. Another crab appeared and he fought that off too, then another, until after a few minutes all his would-be devourers had been dispatched.
Regaining his breath, he chanced a look down, fighting his vertigo. With a sinking heart, he saw the shapes of the crabs clambering, slowly, yet surely, back out of the sea, resuming with dogged determination the climb to their meal.
He settled back, tears stinging his eyes as the stormy winds gusted salty brine into his face.
He recalled the journey across the causeway, days before; the storms receded during the daytime. If he could make it through the night, then perhaps he could make it back to the mainland come morning.
Not across the causeway, djinns no, that would be suicide, what with all the Clansmen transporting the never ending flow of slaves to the construction site. Although, he thought with a rueful smile, it wouldn’t be any harder than the climb to the rocky coast these past couple of days. No, not the causeway, but maybe he could swim.
The thought sent a shiver down his spine, for he was a desert man, and the sum total of swimming he had done amounted to brief paddling in the oases his tribe between which his tribe had wandered. But swim he must. He could learn on the job.
Jafari gulped as the tell-tale scratchings of the determined crabs grew closer and closer in the stormy night.
This all assumed, of course, that he could make it to the morning.
Chapter Six:
The wheel turned, as it always had. It had turned during his youth. It had turned during his father’s youth. It would turn during his son’s youth too.
The wheel would always turn.
Alann stood, eyes half-closed in the cooling mist thrown up by the rushing mountain stream as it cascaded over the wheel, a smile on his face, for he could hear the laughter of the children as they played amongst the buildings of the village, running round and round, chasing each other past the stone blacksmiths, the squat tavern and finally, the mill-house itself. The village, quiet, peaceful, its folk content, the faint sounds of industry overpowered by the melodious whistling of birdsong and the burbling of the crystal brook.
Life in the Hills was easy and Alann had no cause to grumble. His arms were strong from working the forest, his young son, Roget, hearty and hale, and, gazing up at him from the banks of the stream below, his beautiful wife, Felice, her dark curls of hair plastered to her smiling face as she beckoned him to come join her in the cool water.
He smiled, sadly, taking in the sun-dappled scene with mournful eyes; his carefree wife, his playing son. Sadly, for though he longed to join her in the stream below the mill, to call over his son and enjoy this summer as a family, he knew that he must all too soon awaken.
And when he did, the wheel would stop.
***
“My lord?”
Practiced by now at waking their reluctant leader, the young lad jumped back as he bolted upright with a start, his white-knuckled hand about the haft of his axe. As Alann cleared the sleep from his eyes, Iain regarded his sweat-beaded forehead, pondering, not for the first time, what manner of nightmare forever haunted the slumber of the woodsman.
“What time is it?”
“About an hour before dawn, my lord.”
He knew his mistake, even before the woodsman shot him a look of warning.
“Don’t call me that. My name is Alann.”
“Of course. Sorry...”
…my lord, continued his inner voice, rebellious, yet at the same time reverential. For this man before him was more than just Alann, more than the simple woodsman he appeared to be. To some, he was a leader. To others, a father, a brother, a friend. To all, he was a symbol.
For they were all orphans here, those that slumbered high up in the trees of the forest. Families, loved ones, all gone. But here they had a new family, a new purpose, a new reason to go on living. To keep on fighting.
Alann. How unassuming a name, how plain and unadorned. Even his manner, humble, reserved. Yet beneath it a steel determination. For, unwilling though he may be, he was their leader, their founder, the one who tied them all together, finding the lost, the wandering, the broken, and forging them into more than the sum of their parts.
He had turned them into the Foresters, a name they bore with a pride they never thought they’d feel again.
And what, pray tell, could be more Lordly than that?
The woodsman climbed out of his hammock, giving a stretch, his neck clicking as he leant his head from side to side.
“Rouse the men, Iain. We have a big day ahead of us.”
The youth nodded and made off, shimmying his way across the ropes from tree to tree, a dizzying height above the ground, quiet in his task for stealth was their way. Alann watched him go, painful dreams still fresh in his mind.
He would have been about that age, now.
Had it really been so long since that day? His body creaked in acknowledgement, his bones feeling every single day that had passed, his soul, every life he’d taken in pursuit of justice. Well, he told himself, not much longer to wait. Today would be the reckoning. The thought caused a shiver down his spine, not excitement, not apprehension, merely premonition.
For today marked the end.
He gazed about at the men and women who were slowly waking in the cold mists of the forest morning. What could he offer them once this was over? All he knew was vengeance. It had been easy to form this band of brothers and sisters, for each of them shared that hunger, their former lives having been taken from them by the predations of the Hunt over the years. But he was more to them than a warrior-leader, loathe as he was to admit it. He was a father, a chief and, he knew, when this was all over they would expect him to continue in the role, build a village, help them to lead safe and happy lives.
That was not a promise he could keep.
Kurnos, the Master of the Hunt. Immortal or not, Alann’s rage would take care of him. Justice could only be evaded for so long. But what after that? What, after the Hunt had been chased away, the Hounds to lick their wounds? Would the God-King simply nod, in his far off tower of stone? Well done, Alann. You’ve bested my man. Enjoy the rest of your lives in peace.
Bullshit. Only once the deed was done would the real battle for survival begin.
Small raiding parties sent out whilst the Hunt languished in the halls of Pen-Argyle were one thing, easily isolated, trapped, ambushed. But entire armies? Legions of Clansmen with war-machines, laying waste to tracts of land, burning the forest to ashes in their purge? He shook his head at all the unimaginable horrors the King could unleash on them.
Khrdas? Could they hide, even in the treetops of their home, from the King’s subtle-blade?
One chance, one hope for his men that he had heard; Invictus’ Hunters were under orders from the Seeress to track down a valley, far up in the mountains, a valley of Shamans and their accomplices. This was why the forest swarmed of late.
Alann knew nothing of Shamans and their ways, for the art had died off under the persecution of the Seeress, the wandering healers of his grandfather’s day nought but a distant memory. But what he did know was this; the Clansmen were failing in their mission, the valley remaining undiscovered, likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.
If they survived this day, then that is where they would go. Hit and run. Find the valley, using their skills, using their knowledge of the land. Find the Shamans, offer their aid in return for shelter. For they would be facing the wrath of King either way, so why not join together, safety in numbers.
A voice broke him out of his contemplation.
“The Foresters are ready, Alann.”
He nodded.
“Then let’s end this.”
***
The haunting call of the Hunter’s Hor
n reverberated through the clearing. A challenge. A taunt. For the Master of the Hunt was sick of playing games, fed up with wasting his men. He wanted an end to the charade.
An end is what he would get.
“Scouts report movement in the forest, Lord Kurnos. The natives are coming.”
“Good!” boomed the rotund Councilman from high atop his chariot of bone and iron. “Let them come, these so called ‘Foresters.’ Let us see the spirits of the forest for what they really are; a ragtag bunch of desperate men.”
His black steeds reared and stomped their hooves, clawing up great clods of frozen earth in their anxiousness to race into battle, for as the Hunt assembled, a great, palpable tension would always fill the air; a bloodlust, an urge to chase down prey, undeniable, that sang through the veins of each and every man and beast there.
And many were the Hounds of Kurnos; a hundred chariot, each with three men, charioteer, netter and archer. In amongst all of these, the Once-Savaran, horsemen who had heard the call of the Horn in their hearts and left the Clans to join their rightful master. Infantrymen, trappers, bola-throwers, netters, by the score, topknots shaved off to show their new allegiance. And, running here and there, under the chariots, threading their way through the legs of horse and man, the hunting hounds, bred large and swift.
Together the massed hunting party waited, Kurnos at their head, a thousand keen eyes scanning the wall of trees that stood, dark and foreboding, even in the early morning light. Adrenaline soared, but was contained, hearts hammering yet denied, their discipline overruling their urge to bound forward. An army like a coiled spring. Waiting.
There, a glint, a speck, a signal that gave away the enemy and, with a ferocity that shattered the peace of the forest, the Hunt began.
“At them, my Hounds! Take them, bind them, lash them and grind them! Today we have our sport!”
A blast of the Horn that never seemed to fade, as the tumultuous call was answered by the rumblings of the chariots that thundered forwards, the baying of the bounding hounds and the war-cries of the sprinting Slavers.
“At them,” hissed the Huntmaster to his charioteer. “For I can smell their leader and my whip hungers for the taste of his flesh…”
***
In the forests of the Hills, numbers counted for little and cunning for much. The trees confounded the chariots, more suited to the flat plains. The undergrowth hid death for the interloper at every turn. Traps, pits, tunnels, ditches. Attack from above. Attack from below. Hit. Flee. Hit again. Only the damned dogs held any real threat, for against their noses the very best camouflage was rendered null.
Arms burning, Alann swung his axe for what felt the hundredth time, each swing having ended the life of a foe. Another dog yelped as it was riven in two, showering the forest floor with nourishing blood.
The trees would sup well this day.
The woodsman’s sixth sense saved him again, falling flat to the ground, a lasso skimming his head as yet another chariot thundered past, kicking up leaves and stones in its wake. He grinned, the Slavers having fallen for the bait of him being in the open, the racing war-machine galloping past the bush where Foresters thrust out with a wooden pole, locking the spokes of its wheels and causing it to catapult upside-down, the three riders crunching and smearing as their spooked steeds dragged them screaming into the depths of the wood.
Rising to his feet, a rustling of leaves behind him and he turned. Iain came out of the undergrowth, battered, bruised, a vicious slice from a Barbarian Scimitar across one cheek, his tone weary as he spoke.
“We’ve exacted a heavy toll on them, but there’s just too many. We should flee, take to the trees. We can finish it another day when we will have surprise on our side again.”
Alann shook his head.
“One way or another, we end it today.”
He could see the younger man was torn. One side wanting to flee, recoup and fight again another day, for that was the sensible thing to do. But revenge was rarely sensible, his darker side thirsting for blood, hounded by memories of his screaming brothers, carted off to the far south, only two years ago.
“How? Do you have a plan?”
The woodsman narrowed his eyes, gazing deep into the woods.
“How do you catch a forest viper, my friend?”
Iain thought for a moment, before answering.
“You grab it by the head, so it can no longer bite you.” His eyes widened as he grasped the import of his leader’s words. “How are you going to find him?”
“It’ll happen,” replied the woodsman, a grim smile on his face. “Either I’ll find him, or he’ll find me. Either way, I shall have my justice.”
“What if you don’t? What if you fail?”
“I won’t.”
“But what if you do?” the youth pressed. “What shall the rest of us do?”
Alann looked up, north, to where the mountains rose high above the foothills.
“Go north. There, somewhere, there’s a valley where shamans live. They’re enemies of the King, which by definition should make them friends to us.”
The youth stared at him, not knowing what to say, before nodding.
“Good luck, my Lord.”
The woodsman didn’t rebuke him, allowing him this moment.
“I don’t need luck, my friend.” He grasped the haft of his axe, moving off, pausing for one second as he spoke over his shoulder. “I have my hate.”
***
Such sport! Kurnos roared his glee as his sweating, trembling charioteer steered them around yet another cunningly hidden pit in the forest floor. Such deception, such trickery. Now this was a Hunt! This was a prey!
A flash of motion from between the trees. His barbed tooth-whip lashed out, wrapping itself about the ankle of a fleeing Forester, the teeth digging in, painfully, to the flesh. With a heave of his augmented muscles the Councilman tugged on the whip, sending his prey to hurl, fifty feet across the forest, his flight halted by a violent crash against the sturdy bough of a tree. The man struggled to right himself, head spinning, but Barbarian infantry descended on him with nets and cords, to bind him and drag him off to the waiting carts.
Aye, such sport! The Master of the Hunt dominated the battle from atop his chariot, lashing out to rend and capture here and there, unstoppable, a bellicose god of war, his laughter echoing from tree to tree. Yet still his prize eluded him.
Where, the orchestrator of this resistance?
A cold, prickling sense of awareness, yet another Dark Boon filtered down from Invictus, and Kurnos turned with a grin as he bade his charioteer to stop. For there, in the centre of the clearing, clad in simple peasant’s garb and wielding a humble woodsman’s axe, his man.
The two regarded each other across the distance, the titan and the mortal, before the Huntmaster spoke out, his booming voice resounding clear over the din of frantic battle.
“Why, woodsman? Why do you persist in this struggle, when you know that all you succeed in doing is rushing to your own demise?”
The woodsman’s face was impassive, but his eyes were dark. His voice, deep controlled, yet trembling with the effort of holding in his rage as he gave his reply.
“Why? Because I seek justice.”
The Lord of the Hunt laughed, a bellowing, hearty guffaw that startled the birds from the trees.
“Justice? I don’t even know you, man! Enlighten me; for what perceived wrong do you run so willingly into the arms of your doom?”
The side of the woodman’s lip threatened to curl into a snarl at the words, but his self-control was unbelievable; the discipline of a man who had waited long, lonely years to finally get what he desired.
“My name is Alann. And ten years ago, you stole my life from me. You took from me everything.” His eyes narrowed, pits of eternal hate that caused the Huntmaster’s charioteer to all but whimper in fear. “I have drawn you here,” he continued with a grim smile, “to return the favour.”
Ten years? Kurnos wracked h
is brain, thinking of when he had been in the Hills ten years before. So many hunts, so many villages burned, so many faces screaming. He recalled a mining village, where the folk were black faced with soot from the pit. An ancient temple, sacked and burned, where shaven-headed monks had once worshipped the spirits of the mountains. A mill, with its water-wheel ripped down to the ground, the village built up around it burning to ash. So many places. So many raids. So much pleasure. How could he remember but a single one?
“I’m afraid I don’t recall the particulars of the raid in question, woodsman.”
With a bestial roar of pent up rage at last released, like the cataclysmic explosion of a volcano after millennia of mounting pressure, Alann spat his vengeance:
“Then allow me to refresh your memory!”
The woodsman sprinted across the clearing, unassailed by the fighting Huntsmen, for this was their master’s battle. With a cry of glee, Kurnos bade his charioteer charge with full haste, the heavy chariot with its scythed wheels rumbling, shaking the clearing as it lunged forwards, closing the gap between the two combatants, with the inevitability of a crashing wave upon the rocks.
Alann ran, his tired limbs infused with the limitless energy that came with vengeance close at hand. Justice was his for the taking and he would not be denied. The rumbling, massive form of the chariot with its two nightmare steeds, black as night, loomed larger and larger as it bore down on him, but his heart pounded with anticipation, not fear. The roaring figure of the Huntmaster cracked his vile whip in the air as he grew closer.
Closer.
The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 11