He glanced behind him into the depths of the cave, seeing two glowing points of orange, the last embers of the dying campfire. He turned back towards the cave mouth, and was somewhat surprised that he could still see the same glowing points of fire, as if their images had engraved themselves upon the back of his eyes. They would gradually fade, of course, and again he would have nothing to focus on.
Suddenly he stiffened, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Those points of light were not fading, but were now moving about in front of him. A cold fear rose in him, and he blinked hard. When he opened his eyes again, the lights were gone.
He eased his stiff frame carefully and silently over to the dying fire and blew softly on its embers. He was suddenly very afraid of the night now, stuck up here in this alien cave on the roof of the world. As he coaxed the glowing embers, he assured himself that those two points of light were merely a trick his tired mind was playing on him. Either that or they were eyes belonging to some unnameable horror prowling just outside the cave mouth. The thought frightened him so much that he blew even more urgently on the brightening embers.
He even considered waking up one or two of his companions, but as quickly as this thought occurred to him, he rejected it. What would he tell them: that he had imagined a pair of eyes staring at him, and wanted someone to hold his hand? No, that would definitely not do, so in the meantime he continued to rebuild the fire, carefully and skilfully encouraging the whitening embers, until before long his eyes were greeted by the welcome sight of dancing tongues of flame.
All the while he pushed from his mind the prickling sensation that ran continually from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, warning him how exposed he was.
Once the fire was alight again and burning merrily, the esquire paused and breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes more and he would awaken Methuselech to take over the watch. Then maybe Gapp could sleep peacefully until morning. This night had lasted too long already.
All of a sudden, Gapp went cold. It was not a sensation felt externally, but rather from deep inside him, spreading outwards from his heart to his extremities, as if his soul had been plunged into a pool of icy water. His neck-hairs bristled like the hackles of a dog, and the odour of his own sweat wafted up into his dilated nostrils, as panic threatened to overtake him, though still he knew not why.
Then came the growl, so low it was more like an unspoken thought deep inside his mind than a vocal sound. Hardly daring to look, the boy slowly turned and forced himself to behold what lay behind him.
His heart stopped, and his whole body froze. For there, just outside the cave mouth, a whole pack of dark, wolf-like forms now stalked backwards and forwards.
It was like a scene from his darkest nightmare manifesting itself into reality. There were at least a dozen large and shaggy forms out there, with lips curled back to reveal horrendous snarling fangs, and featureless eyes that smouldered like the burning coals of hell. They prowled barely within range of the firelight, like a melee of bestial mountain-spirits whose thick fur, reflected in the flickering flames, took on the hue of running blood.
And beyond them stalked a larger, more evil shape, a creature that was not of wolf-kind, but one which must occasionally seek out their company. This monstrous hunchback form seemed to be covered in poisonous bristles, and in its massive head a pair of glowing eyes fixed on the stricken lowlander with such malevolence that he nearly passed out from fear.
But the paralysis evaporated as soon as he noticed these horrors were eyeing his sleeping companions, as if picking out their targets with cold calculation. He hurled himself at the nearest mound of blankets and frantically tore at the man’s bedroll.
‘WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WE’RE BEING ATTACKED!’ he cried, though his shrill warning was nearly drowned by the sudden ferocious snarling from without. Pel-Adan, he prayed, deliver me from this night!
Immediately there was movement from the back of the cave as Bolldhe flung himself from his bedroll, leapt to his feet and grabbed his axe in one swift, fluid movement, before even he was fully awake.
The next moment Nibulus, Paulus, Methuselech and Wodeman were on their feet, reaching about in bleary-eyed confusion for their weapons. It was only as Gapp leapt to his master’s side to hand him his Greatsword, then scuttle to the back of the cave, that the two mage-priests stirred.
By now the night was filled with noise and fear. The cave echoed with the confusion of men shouting, horses screaming from the side chamber where they had been secured, metal ringing upon stone, and above it all the snarling of their assailants rose in volume and ferocity. A stench of such sickening corruption that it might have come from an overflowing cemetery now wafted in from the hump-backed, abominable monstrosity that ran with the wolves on this night. It stood now on its hind legs and cackled insanely as the frightened humans stumbled over themselves in panic inside the cave.
The other beasts were advancing now, poised to attack, their eyes slitted with malice, powerful shoulders hunched, and hind legs tensed like coiled springs. With a suddenness and a speed that none would have believed possible, they launched themselves into the cave. Claws extended and jaws snapping, they piled headlong into the startled company, hurling them backwards or bowling the slower ones over. A chorus of panic went up as someone trampled through the fire, scattering the burning faggots across the floor in a shower of sparks that lit up the cave in a sudden frenzy of dancing light and illuminated the walls in a furious, moving pattern of orange and black.
The battle lasted only a few moments, but exactly what happened during that time was anybody’s guess. Of all the company Gapp probably had the clearest idea, as he cowered at the back of the cave.
Bolldhe, who retained his sharp wits even after sudden arousal from sleep, met the initial onslaught with the instinctive, swift reactions born of years of experience of sudden night-time raids. He stood his ground until the last moment, then sidestepped with the speed of an adder and in the same movement brought the blunt edge of his axe-head up in a sweep that hurled his startled and yelping adversary back out through the cave mouth.
Nibulus, Paulus and Methuselech, bearing the brunt of the attack, were now all on the ground in a confused tangle of flailing limbs. Nibulus hurled two assailants from him in one mighty lunge, then, free of his armour, scrambled agilely to his feet and brought his blade fully to bear. A fierce light burned in his eyes and, wholly possessed by the thrill of combat, he would not be denied the chance to vent his pent-up anger now after the fiasco of Estrielle’s Stair.
Then the night grew even darker and more evil as the huge humped leader battered its way in. Massive and deformed, with a mottled and ragged pelt that was riddled with maggots and hung in tatters about its ravaged frame, in its eyes burned the fires of the Abyss of Pandemonium.
It was Paulus, already beset by a particularly large wolf, who was singled out by this night-horror. It swept the wolf aside and leapt upon the grounded mercenary with its jaws opened ridiculously wide. Almost unbelievably, Paulus showed no panic, seeming almost to take everything in his stride. He seized a firm grip on the beast’s windpipe, and while he held the snapping jaws away from his face he delivered several savage kicks to its underside.
Of the three, only the desert man was foundering. Two of the wolves had him pinned on his back, with no chance to get to his feet, and had inflicted several deep and nasty wounds to his hands and forearms as he desperately tried to fend them off.
Over against the cavern wall Finwald and Appa stood side by side, striking back at their attackers from the comparative shelter of an arched opening leading into another section of the cave. Finwald brandished his sword-cane, already bloodied from the deep gash he had scored on one attacker’s shoulder; while Appa now felled his own opponent with one sharp blow of his Crow’s Beak staff to its skull. Clearly he had some experience in dealing with wild animals and, with his cloak thrown back to reveal skinny but wiry arms, he suddenly did not appear quite so frail.
But more of the beasts still came loping into the cave, while yet more yammered hysterically outside. The situation was becoming desperate, and Methuselech was in the direst straits of all. With his neck, arms and chest lacerated, his shirt torn and blood-soaked, he was rapidly weakening and crying out in fear.
Bolldhe, too, was in trouble, beset now by three adversaries lunging and feinting on all sides, waiting for him to tire and his defences to weaken. His back against the wall, the traveller was growing more desperate with each wasted effort.
Only Paulus seemed unharried, as yet. Still on the ground with the monster atop him so that no other beast could reach him, the Nahovian was slowly strangling the life out of the wide-eyed, gurgling monster he held scrabbling helplessly in a vice-like grip.
Gapp stared in disbelief, too terrified to move. His companions were locked in mortal combat, while all he could do was cower there and watch them being gradually torn to pieces . . .
. . . At which point he would be alone.
It was this thought that finally goaded him into action. His hand slipped down to the hilt of one of his throwing knives and he felt the smoothness and firmness of its grip. Drawing upon the seed of courage that swelled within him, he yanked the little blade free, aimed it at the nearest wolf, gathered every ounce of fierceness he could muster, and threw . . .
It was a desperate shot, but the boy was well practised, and the deadly projectile buried itself in the shoulder of one of Methuselech’s attackers.
Howling in rage and pain, the wolf broke away from the bloodied desert-man, then spotted Gapp and, with a snarl of pure hatred, leapt towards the wide-eyed squire.
Before he even realized what he was doing, Gapp whipped out the shortsword and aimed it before him. A deep, liquid cry broke from the wolf’s throat as it bore him to the ground – then the beast fell away from him lifelessly, the blade thrust into its gullet up to the hilt.
Gapp stared at the quivering animal at his feet in dumb surprise. He had made his first kill!
Suddenly there was a terrific roar as of a mighty wind, and a blinding explosion of golden-red light banished the darkness of the night utterly. A great wall of fire had sprouted from the floor where the barrier of dry firewood had been placed only hours earlier. The sulphurous flames blazed like a beacon, sealing off the cave mouth with a searing sheet of fire. All turned as one to stare at this terrifying spectacle in shock.
All, that is, except Finwald, whose eyes glittered fiercely in the reflected light his spell had ignited.
Immediately the fight drained out of the wolves. They broke off their attack and ran panic-stricken about the cave, snapping at whichever men threatened them, snapping at the flames that held them here, even snapping at each other in their frenzy. Paulus momentarily loosened his grip and the monster tore itself free.
Their assault gone to pieces, they were now easy prey for the humans. Paulus, his deformed features livid with bloodlust, wasted no time in springing over to retrieve his black sword, then falling upon the two panicked beasts nearest him . . .
Nibulus, following the Nahovian’s lead, kicked away the remaining wolf savaging Methuselech so hard that the snapping of its spine was audible. Bolldhe succeeded in ridding himself of his three assailants by cleaving the head of one of them, which sent the other two bolting away from him in such terror that they hurled right through the wall of fire and ran smouldering and howling off into the night.
The remaining predators followed their example, for the choice was clear. Stay here and die or endure the discomfort of a singed pelt for the next few weeks. Even their choking, staggering leader managed to collect its wits enough to hurl itself through the flames.
Screams of agony and rage rose into the night, echoing horribly throughout the gullies and crevices of the Blue Mountains as the fleeing wolf pack sprinted madly down the path, or toppled over the precipice to plunge, burning, like shooting stars in the night sky.
For the next few minutes the cave rang with disorder. The sudden attack had left them all shaken, and in Methuselech’s case only half-conscious. To be awoken to such a vicious attack was bad enough; to be subjected to a display of such arcane magic from one of their own number was downright unnerving. A strange look, almost of sadness, or nostalgia, shone in Finwald’s eyes as he peered out from under the straggling mane of hair that had fallen across his face. He was back in Qaladmir now, the acrid smell of chemicals filling his brain. It would be a while before he was fully back amongst them.
Dazed they were, to be sure, but not over-confused. No one argued as the Peladane barked out a torrent of orders. Paulus hurriedly built a new line of firewood across the cave mouth, in case of a fresh attack. Bolldhe was put on guard just outside the entrance, for clearly he was far more suited to this task than the boy, who remained skulking in the deeper recesses, ‘tending to the horses’. Had he not felled one of Methuselech’s attackers and possibly saved his life, Nibulus might have thrown him out of the cave along with the dead wolves. As it was, he was keeping well out of everybody’s way.
It was a pity, for if he had dared to look up at his master he might have noticed a grudging respect in the man’s eyes. Gapp had, after all, notched up his first kill, but Nibulus was not about to let him off too easily. The esquire had seriously failed them, and would therefore strive all the harder to earn his master’s respect. That was just how the Peladane liked it.
But first there was the more pressing matter of Methuselech. Of all the party, only he had received serious injury. Appa and Wodeman busily cleaned his lacerations and applied sutures and bandages, while Methuselech himself lay back, groaning, with his eyes shut fast and teeth clenched stoically. After Appa finished bandaging him, he spread his outstretched hands over the man’s wounds. A faint, orange-yellow glow shone from his palms, and Methuselech sighed comfortably as he drifted into sleep.
‘Maybe you should try this sort of thing occasionally, Finwald,’ the irate priest admonished darkly, ‘instead of dabbling in your firework displays – I thought you grew out of that sort of thing twelve years ago. I’ve warned you before, it’s not right, especially for a follower of Cuna. You play with fire, and fire will end up playing with you . . .’
Finwald responded by dismissing his elder with a wave of his hand. (Some of the others flinched in case some new burst of magic should accidentally fly from his fingertips.) He grinned, and did not retaliate. He did, however give Bolldhe a long, meaningful look, as if to say: ‘Remember! We’re not going to get very far by healing our way to Drauglir.’
Nobody noticed the cloaked figures staring down at them.
High up on the ridge on the other side of the gully they stood, a line of watchers, most dressed in grey, and one in yak-skin. Elemental forces surrounded them, tugging frantically at their impenetrable cloaks, and danced around them in a howling discord shrill with the sounds of night. Silent and unmoving, the watchers stared down at the cave and its inhabitants. Had anyone ventured nearby they would have still gone unnoticed, for these were a part of the night itself, intangible, imperceptible – save perhaps for the two glimmerings of reddish light that glowed from deep within the yak-kirtled one’s eyes.
He turned to gaze at the line of watchers alongside him, still and silent as standing stones.
‘Eight weeks old is the game now, Lord,’ finally came a voice that cut effortlessly through the shrieking wind. ‘Two moons since those pieces were set in motion.’
‘Yes, eight weeks,’ he replied. ‘Eight weeks, eight moons, eight years . . . ’Tis of the meagrest importance so early in the quest. It is
what befalls them at the very end that matters. Mistakes made now can only be for the good, for they serve as lessons for the final resolution.’
‘But surely it is at the beginning that the direction of all journeys is set. Have you not heard the maxim: A river cannot flow back on itself?’
‘A river has no choice whither it flows. Bolldhe however is a man of the road, so can backtrack at will.’
The line of watchers did not waver. ‘Let us hope for your sake he can, for so far he shows little sign of taking the path you set for him.’
‘He is being led astray,’ Red-Eye protested hotly. ‘Other forces are interfering which I had not envisioned. These are ills I had not foreseen!’
A hiss almost like laughter issued from the vocal watcher’s hood. ‘You mean the sorcerer?’ it whispered gratingly. ‘Indeed, sundry factions have come into play, it would seem. And what does Bolldhe himself make of it? Erce-sent and armed with potent reveries, the Torca comes to lure Bolldhe to the Way of the Earth-Spirit, and already fertile seeds have been sown in his mind. Your man even wonders if he is indeed a tool of Erce. And, look you, his dreams have not yet even commenced!’
But Red-Eye refused to manifest his frustration on hearing the Syr’s galling words. He knew the entity to be totally impassive, yet that hint of mockery in its tones could be sometimes so . . . He often wondered if the Skela had been granted a sense of humour by the One that came before.
Refusing to be drawn, he continued: ‘The treachery that lies within the company is as a mormal upon a shinne, and it engenders a humour most adverse in him. He is being lured along as though by a serpent with many heads. Were the mage-priests united to their aims, things might develop as I had planned. But now we have the sorcerer to contend with, and that was totally unforeseen.’
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