by GJ Kelly
“Unless the Ahk-Viell’s navigation is worse than mine, Longsword. Do not forget he is a Viell of the Toorseneth, and unlikely ever to have set foot outside of Elvendere before.”
“True,” Gawain conceded, “And a good point. Our own navigation may well have suffered recently too. For all we know, we may have crossed the border already, but I doubt it. Come then. Let’s pursue, and finish the job, and Kanosenn with it!”
With that, Gawain pulled on a pair of gloves, strung an arrow, and gently pressed Gwyn forward. The gallop was out of the question for now, but she moved easily from the walk to the trot, and sensing her chosen’s intent and the freedom he gave her, accelerated to the canter, picking her way comfortably between outgrowths of ice-encrusted shrubbery. Behind him, single file and close together as ordered, his companions followed, and dutifully behind them all, the packhorse. And all of them pleased for the heat of their blood pumping warmth through and around night-stiff and aching joints.
Considering the distance between the two overnight camps had been estimated at a mile, Gawain was taken aback when they cut across the enemy’s trail and turned due south to follow it and still without sighting the elfwizard or his sole surviving escort. He wondered if it were possible that the ToorsenViell had discovered some means of extending their new elvish Cloak of Quintinenn to encompass horse and rider, and were thus shielded from his sight, but cast the thought aside as too great an advance even for an insanity born of Morloch. Not even Morloch himself had such devices as the Toorseneth now seemed to possess, or they would have been deployed long before Far-gor.
No wonder Morloch had struck at the Toorsengard in the corridor. No wonder Morloch’s rage was turned now upon the creed of his own making. But for Allazar’s immense tree of lightning, sent up once the binding had been broken and the six lesser Viell destroyed by Gawain’s grey fire, those three Graken riders might well have brought their black fire to bear on Gawain and Allazar. Or perhaps not. Gawain didn’t know whether Morloch understood the value of the Dymendin sceptre to the Toorseneth; if so, then the dark lord would not wish it to fall into the creed’s hands any more than did Elayeen and the ninety-five.
One thing was certain. The ToorsenViell were advanced beyond the knowledge Allazar possessed, and had developed tools the like of which perhaps even Morloch was unaware. And now, one wielder of those tools was riding faster than good sense might permit and quicker than good husbandry of animals would otherwise dictate.
Gwyn accelerated a little, and Gawain considered drawing her back a little. But she was following a path safely blazed by two other horses, and had sensed the importance of speed and reacted according to her Raheen nature. They didn’t need Venderrian’s Sight to guide them now, not with a trail so clear before them. But the trail now so obvious in the white-frosted ground of the plains would not remain so for long once the sun had climbed higher and melted the frost and ice away. Worse, the sun was low and shining into their eyes from the southeast, making horse and rider squint.
Still Gawain refused to slow Gwyn. He’d told his friends to trust their instincts, and in spite of the risk and in spite of the mystic strength of the enemy they pursued, it felt good to trust in Gwyn’s again.
oOo
37. Grey Light
There was no disguising the sound of horses’ hooves moving swiftly across frozen ground, and so it came as no surprise that when Gawain heard the two enemy horses, their riders heard his five. The Ahk-Viell and his lone escort had been slowing, their steeds tiring quickly; those two poor beasts had probably last eaten well from what meagre supplies had been laid up at the camp by the copse, and for the four days since crossing the river had probably been subsisting on nothing but forage here in the wild.
Gawain’s horses, though, had been cared for with professional attention, and most of the supplies borne by the packhorse were for the animals’ consumption, frak and now freenmek carried in personal saddle-bags serving the needs of the kindred riders. They were not slowing, and if anything at all now that equine ears knew what was up ahead and what they were now about, were increasing their pace. Far ahead, through a terrain of green and white and shadows, Gawain glimpsed for a moment the enemy, and felt a thrilling rush of blood.
They had been in pursuit for perhaps three hours, maintaining a fast trot and pausing only briefly to water the horses and themselves at a fast-flowing stream. It was difficult to say if the enemy had done likewise or paused only briefly before continuing their inexplicable southerly flight, but Gawain was Raheen, and the pause for the horses was, he knew, essential. The animals could keep up the trot all day if needs be. But they, like kindred runners, needed both water and fuel to keep them going.
But now the enemy which had been slowing spurred their tired animals onward, and their poor treatment of their horses was but another offence to be added to the growing list which would lend a certain satisfaction to their destruction when that time came.
Another glimpse, longer this time, the two riders cresting the slightest of rises and for a moment appearing in silhouette against the pale blue sky. Gawain refused to allow Gwyn to gallop. There was no need to tire the hunters, not when the quarry was fading.
“MiThal!” Venderrian called, “More lights! Far! Southwest!”
Gawain flicked a glance behind and to his left, and saw the ranger pointing urgently. More lights? His heart hammered. Reinforcements? A patrol sent to bar the way into Arrun?
“Are they moving?” he called over his shoulder, “Ven, are they moving?”
“Slow, to the east!”
A patrol then, riding the east-west line which Byrne had said the enemy wished to prevent them from crossing. He couldn’t allow the Ahk-Viell to make contact with that patrol. Perhaps, if they were at the extent of Venderrian’s range, the elfwizard hadn’t seen them yet. But it likely wouldn’t be long before ordinary eyes and ears detected the patrol’s presence. With a sigh, he raised a hand and thrust it forward, and let Gwyn surge forward, hooves kicking up chilled clods not yet thawed by a morning’s winter sunshine.
They thundered forward, only the packhorse maintaining its measured pace, trying to keep up but ill-equipped for such speed and wisely electing to follow its eyes and ears and equine common sense. The gap was closing, though the difference in pace between hunter and quarry wasn’t great. The enemy were driving hard now, keenly aware of their pursuers.
On they raced, weaving around larger bushes and shrubs, splashing through gravel-bedded streams, shattering ice in some of the shallower ones, hooves pounding, horses snorting, cloaks and hair and eyes streaming.
And then Kanosenn turned to the southwest. Whether he’d seen the distant patrol slowly advancing eastwards, none could say. But the manoeuvre was a desperate one and Gwyn’s head turned to take a sharper, more westward track, one which would intercept the enemy quicker than the straight pursuit.
Hunter and quarry could see each other now, disappearing from view only briefly when larger outcrops of gorse intervened or they combined with slight dips in the terrain. But the gap was closing much more quickly, the Tau’s horses were struggling, and the inevitable conflict drew closer. At three hundred and fifty yards, Venderrian loosed a hopeful shot, and although the arrow flashed harmlessly wide of the mark, it was seen by those it was aimed at, and they turned again, further to the south once more.
“Lights, miThal! They move quickly now! Perhaps ten!”
Vakin Dwarfspit, Gawain thought to himself. Assess! Assess what? Ten unspecified lights? It could be Kindred Rangers, or it could be ten of Morloch’s Black Riders. Assess when seen.
“Ride on!” he shouted, and ride on they did.
Venderrian loosed another shot, the gap closer to three hundred yards now and diminishing. The arrow slid over the enemy’s heads and they knew they were in range. But their horses were labouring, eyes wild, running through pain and misery and slowing in spite of their horse-hearted desire to answer their riders’ calls for speed.
At two hundred yards the quarry jinked to the southwest again, and Venderrian loosed another arrow. By great misfortune it raked a gouge along the right hindquarter of the trailing horse, ridden by the Ahk-Viell’s escort, and the sudden shock of pain was too much for the poor beast, which squealed, and stumbled, and fell, sending the rider flying from the saddle to roll head over heels along the rough and scrubby ground and into a small shrub.
Dazed, the elfguard staggered up onto one knee, dragged off his helm, and then perhaps realising what had happened, looked up in time to see Gawain leaning from the saddle thundering towards him, longsword drawn.
Gawain swung the sword and cut the downed rider of the Tau practically in two, sending a great arc of blood spraying forward. Venderrian loosed again, and the arrow flashed over Kanosenn’s right shoulder. But then came the sight and sounds Gawain had been waiting for with increasing concern. Riders, a group of them, thundering towards them, perhaps a dozen, perhaps ten as Venderrian had asserted, it was difficult to tell from five hundred yards and that distance closing rapidly. They were elves and riders of the RJC in equal numbers. The RJC bore lances, points presented, and the Tau, of course, bows.
Assess. Done. Don’t think, do.
“Line! Line!” he commanded, and he eased Gwyn back a little until all four of them were riding in line abreast.
“Shield when ready, Allazar!”
“Heard!” the wizard called back, and eased his Dymendin forward.
“Through their centre! Through their centre!”
Gawain sheathed the sword and drew an arrow, Ognorm to his right already carrying one strung, beard, hair and eyebrows flying and a mad grin on the dwarf’s face. To his left, Allazar, and left of him, Venderrian, hunched low, his weight off the saddle the better to aim his next shot, features set with grim determination. This was no squadron of Raheen cavalry he was commanding, Gawain realised, though for the fools charging towards them, it might have been better if it were. If it were, the fools thundering towards them might have turned, and run.
Ahead, the line parted briefly to allow the Ahk-Viell to pass safely through and then promptly closed again. Ten there were, then nine when Venderrian’s arrow blew an elf clean out of the saddle, the body first rocking wide-armed backwards and then flung high into the air by the horse’s galloping hindquarters, tumbling like a ragdoll out of sight behind the enemy line.
Then eight there were, when Ognorm’s hurled shaft struck a horse in the chest and the shock of it brought the charging animal down, sending the RJC rider tumbling to a broken necked death on the unforgiving ground, not feeling the crushing of ribs when the tumbling horse rolled over the body. Seven, when Gawain’s arrow took an elf in the face and knocked him backwards out of the saddle, the rider-less horse continuing the charge, and then the world blurred as Allazar summoned a great shield, and three arrows shattered against it.
There was no time to string or nock more arrows, the line of seven closing upon the line of four much too quickly for that. Allazar leaned forward, screaming in the wizard’s tongue, and the immense disk of the shield Surged forward into the four lancers of the Royal Jurian Cavalry and the three stunned riders of the Tau, blasting riders from saddles, and sending horses tumbling into the ground.
It was a catastrophe. Men, elves and animals screaming, charging headlong at the gallop one moment, and then slamming as if into a solid wall the next. Gawain closed his eyes, blotting out the chaos of flying hooves and men, something struck a glancing blow to his head above his right eye, a shattered piece of a Jurian lance. And then he opened his eyes, finding Allazar still mounted to his left and Ognorm to his right. But Venderrian was down, his horse taken from under him by the flailing hooves of another’s tumbling steed. Ahead, the Ahk-Viell’s was running on foot, his horse collapsed and dying, exhausted, run into the ground.
“Ven!” Gawain shouted, feeling the warmth of his own blood sliding down the side of his face, Gwyn thundering to a halt and turning, “Ven!”
Behind them, survivors, all dazed and some upright and staggering, desperately fought to regain senses. Venderrian was one of them, sitting upright, his right leg a bloody mess where a quiver of broken arrows shattered in the fall had been driven into his thigh, the remains sticking like a porcupine’s quills from the blood-soaked leather of his trousers. A rider of the Greys, head bleeding and helm dented, was making a steady, foot-dragging advance through the carnage, approaching Venderrian with a crossbow when Gawain’s warning cut through the eerie stillness of the air around them.
“Ven! Ven!” Ognorm screamed, drawing Nadcracker and galloping forward into the mess Allazar’s mystic power had made of the enemy force. “Ven!”
But Gawain could see it was too late. He hurled an arrow as Gwyn surged forward, saw it speeding to strike the Jurian in the man’s right hip, but saw the dazed elf ranger turn too late to see the threat lurching towards him. The Jurian raised the crossbow, and pressed the trigger, and Gawain saw Venderrian jolt with the impact of the heavy steel bolt. Then Ognorm was screaming and leaning out of the saddle, and swinging the Meggen mace into the Jurian’s head with such force the iron shaft bent under the impact.
“Ven!” Ognorm screamed again, leaping from the saddle to smash the mace into another survivor’s face, blood and brains spattering the already blood-soaked ground in the middle of the mass of downed riders and horses.
“Ven,” Gawain whispered, leaping nimbly from the saddle, and kneeling by the fallen ranger’s side. “Ven…my friend…”
It was hopeless, of course. The steel bolt had burst through the ranger’s chest at the bottom of the breastbone, his heart nicked and bleeding, life ebbing away.
“Ven! Ven mate!” Ognorm, pleading, falling to his knees and resting one blood-spattered hand on the elf’s shoulder, the other holding his dying comrade’s hand.
“Oggy my friend,” Venderrian managed, and then his pupils narrowed to pinpoints, looking over the dwarf’s shoulder towards the southwest. “Light, miThal. Grey light…” And then the pupils snapped wide open, and the elf sighed, and died.
“Ven…” Ognorm whispered, rocking back and forth.
Gawain sniffed, and followed the line of the ranger’s dead gaze. A dot in the sky, far off, slowly becoming a hyphen.
“We have to go,” he announced, and put a hand on Ognorm’s shoulder. “Oggy, we have to go. Graken.”
Ognorm nodded, and sniffed, and wiped his eyes and his nose on the back of his sleeve while Gawain reached down to close Venderrian’s sightless eyes.
“Allazar!” Gawain called, and pointed, the wizard striding through the carnage and ending the suffering of horses and men, denying any of the survivors the chance to kill another of his companions.
The wizard nodded, and then called back. “This one lives, Longsword!”
Gawain’s features darkened, and Ognorm’s too. Together they stood, and strode through the wreckage to the cloaked and bloodied Jurian, the downed man lying with his leg pinned under a horse.
“Arm’s broken, and a leg,” the man said.
“You did not ride with Bek at Far-gor,” Gawain declared, his voice cold, steaming breath hanging in a cloud about him, not a whisper of a breeze stirring the air. “Yet you wear Grey.”
“No. Queen’s man, through and through. Once o’ the townguard. Volunteered for the Retribution.”
“You rode against me and mine.”
“Yer wanted! All o’ you! And I obey ‘er majesty’s command, and that of ‘er Consort!”
Gawain bent at the hip, bringing his face down close to the pinned Jurian. “You should have remained a townguard.”
Then he stood, and with Allazar, walked away to the horses, leaving the wide-eyed Jurian gazing up at the broad-shouldered fury staring down at him that was Ognorm of the Ruttmark.
Ahead, still running and clutching his stick, Kanosenn of the Ahk-Viell, and away to the east, the Graken, which rather strangely seemed to be flying a northerly track. They saw Kanosenn paus
e and glance back towards them, then turn and raise his staff towards the Graken and its rider.
“Dwarfspit, Allazar, that bastard must not escape!”
“Nor shall he, Longsword,” the wizard replied, dragging himself up into his saddle. “Look yonder, on the far horizon.”
“What am I looking at?” Gawain demanded, distracted only momentarily by a brief scream and the thudding impact from the battlefield behind them.
“That rise. Atop it unseen from this distance lies the Hallencloister. We are in Arrun.”
With that, Allazar rode forward, face grim, eyes fixed upon the figure of the running elfwizard who, from time to time, seemed to raise his staff and shake it towards the Graken.
Perhaps it was that stick-shaking, or perhaps it was the two riders cantering away from the battlefield that was the movement which attracted the Graken-rider’s attention, but it turned, and began flying towards them, leathery wings flapping and growing larger. Gawain heard hooves over the sound of their own progress, and a quick glance behind revealed Ognorm hurrying to catch them up.
Ahead, they were gaining on the elfwizard so quickly they could probably have dismounted and caught up with him on foot before the Graken arrived, but Gawain had no intention of testing the theory.
“Do not fret, Longsword. Neither Kanosenn of the ToorsenViell nor his brethren on the wing shall leave this place.”
When they’d closed to within twenty yards of the desperate elfwizard, Allazar loosed a small Surge, enough to send their quarry tumbling but nothing like the immense blast which had stopped the enemy patrol’s charge almost dead in its tracks.
They dismounted quickly, and Gawain allowed the glowering wizard to move forward, striding towards the fallen Ahk-Viell, the better to defend against any mystic defence Kanosenn might unleash towards them.
Perhaps the Graken-rider mistook what he was seeing, or required some kind of confirmation before landing, but the great winged lizard drifted lazily overhead at a height of some thirty feet, the rider holding his Rod of Asteran outstretched and waving as if signalling to them. The Graken began circling around to come in for a second look. Gawain could see the heavy clothing the rider was wearing against the freezing air, and the woollen mask, and the Rod of Asteran still outstretched as if ready to summon black fire.