A few meters from the top, he stopped to regain his breath and to consider his next move. There was a thick-trunked shrub growing out of the face of the cliff. He tested its firmness, tugging on it, and gradually placing all his weight on it. It held firm, so he swung one leg over it and straddled it, leaning back against the hard granite.
A fine mist of rain began to drift down. As he’d seen earlier, the plateau had its own weather system, probably due to the damp sea air that blew in from the southern and eastern sides. Clouds seemed to hover over the flat-topped mountain, forming solid gray banks, whereas to the north, the sky was clear and blue.
The rain was cool on his head and face after the exertions of the long climb. But after several minutes, he began to grow cold. He pulled his hood up again—he had tossed it back when he left his vantage point over the pass—and huddled under the cloak. The wool material, impregnated with natural oils, kept the rain running off it. It would be some hours before the water soaked into the cloak.
He had no idea what awaited him beyond the rim of the cliff. He knew that Morgarath had left Gorlan with about one hundred and fifty troops. Presumably, most of them had stayed with him. There was every chance that Morgarath might have set guards along the cliff edge—either from the troops who had accompanied him or the new additions to his force.
“Wargals,” he said softly. It was an ugly word and it conjured up an unpleasant picture of the half men–half beasts Morgarath had recruited. Halt wondered how many of them there were, and how Morgarath had suborned them to his will. There was so little he knew about the rebel baron’s forces and intentions. He might be facing ten of these creatures. Or one hundred. Or more.
Halt shuddered at the thought.
He pushed back the cowl and listened, turning his head from side to side to catch the slightest sound. But he heard nothing beyond the pattering of rain on the rocks. That raised another thought. His bowstring would be wet, and that would cause it to stretch, reducing the power of his bow. Of course, he kept the string liberally coated with beeswax to stop it soaking, but even beeswax couldn’t keep it totally dry. He kept spare strings inside his jerkin, but he mightn’t have time to restring the bow once he reached the top. And he certainly couldn’t do it here.
That meant he had lost the use of his most potent weapon, so stealth would be his best tactic. He’d have to move slowly and silently, looking carefully over the top of the cliff to see if the way was clear.
But what if it wasn’t? What if he found himself face-to-face with one of these bearlike creatures?
“What if I’m struck by lightning or eaten by a lion?” he muttered. He knew he was only raising these thoughts to delay the moment when he started out for the top once more. He was rested now, and ready to move. His bow might be less than efficient, but he still had his saxe and his throwing knife.
He looked to his left, then looked upward, seeking out the handholds he would use and tracing his path over the next few meters to the top of the climb. Then he swung his left leg over the shrub, turning his body and reaching out with his left hand for a handhold. There was a tiny ledge a meter below him that would give his left foot purchase. He set his boot on it, seized hard on a rough obtrusion with his left hand, and swung his body clear of the shrub, then set his right foot on it to give him a substantial point of support. He straightened his right knee, hauling himself up with his left hand, and let his right hand trail across the rock face until he felt a narrow ledge of rock beneath it. It was barely two centimeters wide, but it was enough to give him good, solid purchase. He tested it, putting more and more weight on it, but refusing to relinquish the support he had from his right foot and left hand. Deciding it was solid, he committed his weight to it and slid farther up the rock wall.
To anyone watching, he thought, he must look like a giant gray spider, spread out on the rock. Except no spider ever moved so slowly. He continued, searching alternately for handholds and footholds, testing them for security, then committing his weight to them and heaving himself up, half a meter at a time.
His face was pressed against the rough, wet surface of the rock. Thank goodness it hadn’t become slick and slippery with the rain. The granite was pocked and flawed and roughened, providing a nonslip surface for him.
A meter to go. The top of the cliff beckoned him. He paused, letting his breathing steady, and listened intently.
Nothing.
Then, plotting his next three handholds and footholds, he swarmed up the remaining distance until his head was just below the rim. He hung by his hands, his fingertips clawing into the cliff face, with his right leg supporting most of his weight, his knee bent.
Then, with infinite care, he straightened his knee, pushing himself upward, the rough rock clawing at his clothes, until his head rose above the level of the cliff rim. He paused with just the top of his head and his eyes visible above the edge and swept a look around the plateau as far as he could see.
Nothing.
A tumble of wet, glistening rocks. A few stunted, gray-leafed, twisted trees and shrubs. No men. No bearlike Wargals.
He let go a sigh of relief, then heaved himself up and over the edge, making sure that he kept low in case, somewhere, unfriendly eyes were watching. He rolled onto the stony ground, feeling sharp pebbles digging into him, and gained the cover of a large boulder several meters away.
He came to his hands and knees, then slowly raised himself behind the boulder, his eyes flicking from side to side, his ears alert for the slightest sound of danger.
Still nothing.
Rain pattered softly on the rocks. There was a wind blowing across the plateau. But no sign of any living being. Slowly, he came to his full height and surveyed the land around him.
It was a desolate, depressing place. Boulders and large rocks were strewn willy-nilly—some individual, others piled into outcrops that stood higher than his head—interspersed by shrubs. Their twisted trunks and distorted limbs were covered in gray bark, lined and patterned with cracks and splits. None of them were taller than three meters. Many of them were dwarfed by the rock outcrops. All of them were tilted to one side—the same side. Obviously, this was due to the prevailing wind that blew in from the south, bringing the wet smell of the sea with it.
There was open space among the rocks, but nothing that resembled a track of any kind. Halt moved from behind the cover of the outcrop where he sheltered and began to pick his way among the scattered boulders, zigzagging as his path was blocked but always returning to a base course that led him due south. It was hard going. Even where the way seemed clear, the ground was littered with rough, uneven stones, some as large as apples, that turned under his feet, threatening to twist and sprain his ankles at any incautious step.
Every few meters, he would crouch in the cover of one of the larger boulders and scan the way ahead—and behind. As he progressed, his shoulders contracted and his skin crawled with the fear that someone, or something, was moving up behind him. But whenever he stopped and whirled about, there was nothing to be seen.
Then he heard the sound.
Guttural. Deep-throated. Rhythmic.
It was the sound of many voices grunting, or growling, in unison. He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. There was something intrinsically alien, intrinsically threatening, in that sound. It was coming from the south, beyond a line of rocks at the limit of his vision. The ground rose gradually here. He hadn’t noticed it earlier but now he realized that, as he was making his way through the jumble of rocks, he was moving upward, to a horizon only fifty meters away.
The grunting, rhythmic but toneless, grew louder as he continued, setting each foot carefully in the rocks and sand. And now he could hear another sound, in time with the chanting.
Footsteps. Boots or sandals slamming down in unison and in time.
“Urrgh!” Crash! “Urrgh-urrgh!” Crash! “Urrgh!” Crash!
So it continued, growing in volume as he reached the line of rocks. Constant. Unchanging. Menacing.
It dawned on him that he was listening to a group of people—or things—drilling beyond the line of rocks ahead of him. In the last few meters, he dropped into a crouch, then to his hands and knees, and scurried forward. He headed for two rocks that were standing close together, with a V-shaped gap between them. The bottom of the V was only a few centimeters wide and he placed his eye against it and peered through.
Beyond the line of rocks, the ground sloped away for thirty meters, then leveled into an open plain, some four hundred meters square. To the south and west, it stretched away to another jagged horizon of jumbled rocks. To the east, it was dominated by the solid wall of a low mountain. As Halt studied it, he could see fissures in the face of the mountain—at ground level and then higher. Watching, he caught a glimpse of movement at one of the openings and realized there were men, or creatures, in there. Smoke rose from several fires in the foreground, and he could see canvas shelters and awnings stretched out from the rocks. Living quarters, he realized. But it was the open plain that drew his attention once more. One hundred meters from his vantage point, a group of dark figures stood in formation. He estimated there were eighty of them. They were squat and powerful looking, covered in long, shaggy black hair. They stood a meter and a half tall on short hind legs. Their arms were long and apelike, with large, fingered hands and opposable thumbs that allowed them to grip the weapons in their hands—short, heavy spears for the most part, but some jagged-edged swords as well.
Their faces were grotesque—bearlike, but with a hint of ape as well. Heavy brows overhung their close-set eyes and their lips were curled back from yellowing teeth. Long fangs interspersed with grinding molars. They were equipped with what appeared to be black leather armor and each one wore a metal skullcap.
As he looked through the gap in the rocks, the chanting and stamping had ceased, and for a moment he thought they must have detected him.
But then they began again. They raised their spears and thrust forward as one. They emitted that terrifying grunt that he’d heard, then stamped forward so that eighty right feet slammed down onto the plain, raising a cloud of dust. Then they repeated the action, stamping, grunting and thrusting their way forward, heading for the line of rocks where Halt crouched in hiding.
Then a strange sensation came over Halt. As he watched Wargals drilling, he felt a featherlight intrusion into his consciousness.
It was faint and fleeting, but he had the vague impression that somewhere, someone was trying to speak to him—although he could hear no words. As he tried to focus on the sensation, it faded. Then, a few seconds later, it drifted back.
At least, he thought it was back. It was so ephemeral that he couldn’t really be sure that it was there at all. He shook his head to clear it and the feeling disappeared once more. This time, it didn’t recur.
“I’m imagining things,” he muttered to himself.
Unsettled, he turned away from the V-shaped aperture and leaned his back against the rocks he was sheltering behind.
And saw a quick flash of movement behind him as someone, or something, darted into the cover of a group of rocks.
9
IN AN UPPER-LEVEL CAVE IN THE CLIFF WALL, ABOVE THE ROWS of tents and awnings, Morgarath stood by a large break in the rocks that formed a natural observation window.
The drill field stretched out below him. Several hundred meters away, the squad of Wargals was drilling. Morgarath leaned against a rock shelf at waist height, studied the Wargals for several seconds, then closed his eyes and concentrated fiercely.
In his mind, he created a picture of the Wargals advancing four paces in line abreast, then wheeling to the right and advancing another ten paces, stabbing out with their spears as they went.
His brow knitted in furrows with the intensity of his concentration. He held the image in his mind, seeing the action again and again, his breath coming in short gasps with the effort he was expending. He opened his eyes, and a slow smile formed on his features.
The Wargals had wheeled to the right and were advancing, as he had directed them.
There was a wood and canvas camp seat beside him and he collapsed onto it, exhausted. He had been developing this mind control since he had first recruited the Wargals and was gradually becoming more adept. He still hadn’t learned to focus his mental commands tightly, but he was becoming more skilled.
The Wargals came to the end of the ten-pace advance he had envisioned and stopped, awaiting further direction. He took a deep breath and stood at the roughly shaped window once more. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
• • •
The boulder where Halt had seen the movement was forty meters away from him. He sat, unmoving, his head hunched low on his shoulders, resisting the temptation to lean forward and look more closely.
The watcher in the rocks—if it were a watcher—would see no sign of reaction from him, no sign that he had noticed movement and was now achingly aware, senses tautened like lute strings.
Of course, he thought, it could have been a small bird or an animal flitting into the shelter of the rocks. But he had seen no birds since he had arrived at the top of the plateau. There was no sound of birdsong anywhere in the vicinity.
A small animal then? A rabbit or a hare. Or even a large rat?
But the movement had been a meter and a half above the ground—about the height of a kneeling or crouching man.
A larger animal then? His skin crawled as he realized that it could be one of those fearsome Wargals stalking him. Even the brief sighting of the beasts drilling on the plain had imbued in Halt a sense of their implacable menace. One could be there now, watching him from a crevice in the rocks, much as he had observed the drilling force on the plain behind him. He took a deep breath. Whatever it was, whoever it was, it was essential that he showed no sign that he had seen it. He took his canteen from his belt, unstoppered it and took a deep drink of water.
He didn’t really need it, but it struck him that a man who was aware that someone was watching him wouldn’t relax and take a drink. He replaced the canteen in the holder on his belt. His head was tilted down but he kept his eyes up, shadowed in the cowl of his cloak, searching the spot where he had seen the flicker of movement.
And there it was again. Half a meter to the right of where he had first seen it, a face emerged from behind the rock, moving slowly. He could see the pale oval shape and felt a sense of relief. At least it wasn’t a black-furred, long-fanged Wargal. It was a man. For a moment, he wondered if it might be one of Morgarath’s human followers. Then he discarded the idea. If that were the case, the newcomer would surely have challenged Halt and raised the alarm. After all, he had plenty of reinforcements close to hand. But his stealthy manner indicated that he was as keen as Halt to remain unseen by the Wargals. The face slid back behind the boulder. Halt waited. Several minutes later, it appeared again, sliding out to stare at him. He remained motionless, seemingly uninterested.
The face withdrew behind the boulder.
He began counting. He had reached thirty-five when the face became visible once more. Whoever was behind those rocks, he was taking great pains to keep an eye on Halt. Perhaps emboldened by the fact that he had seemed to remain unnoticed so far, the watcher remained in the open for a period of ten seconds this time. Then, slowly, he withdrew.
And as he did, Halt acted. He grabbed his cloak, wrapping it around him, and rolled to his right along the ground. As he rolled, he angled his body so that he could see the rocks where his observer was hiding. He covered some ten meters, then froze in place behind a row of boulders, his face hidden deep inside the shadows of the cowl.
He counted to fifteen. Then, slowly, the face reappeared from behind the rock. This time, Halt thought he could detect a sense of surprise from the watcher. The figure rose slightly,
seeking a better vantage point.
Halt smiled grimly. To all intents and purposes, he had simply disappeared. Halt was skilled in the art of remaining unseen and he knew that the gray-and-green-mottled surface of his cloak would break up the outline of his body lying on the ground, making it merge into the gray jumble of rocks and boulders and dark green bushes.
Trust the cloak. Pritchard had dinned that message into him hundreds of times when he had trained with the old Ranger. Movement would be the only thing that would reveal his presence. He lay as still as the rocks around him, making his breathing shallow to reduce any movement to an absolute minimum.
The head had remained exposed for a full half minute, turning from side to side as the watcher tried to discern where his erstwhile quarry had gone. Now Halt was sure he could make out a sense of desperation and nervousness. Belatedly, the face dropped behind the rocks again as its owner sought to take stock of the situation. Halt tensed his muscles to move, but some sixth sense warned him against it and he remained where he was.
Ten seconds later, the face appeared again, turning from side to side as the watcher scanned the rocks and trees.
And withdrew once more.
Halt reasoned that this time he would have longer to act. The watcher had been surprised by his apparent disappearance. He had withdrawn, then reappeared to check once more. Now, Halt thought, he’ll be thinking over what to do next—whether to move or stay put. Either way, he would remain in hiding longer than before.
And with that thought, Halt was on the move once more, staying low and scrambling on hands and toes across the rough ground. He slipped behind a tumble of rocks some thirty meters from his original position. He stopped and crouched, peering from the shadows of a large boulder toward the spot where he had seen the face.
Now the watcher appeared again, tentatively. There was a definite air of desperation about the movements now. He rose higher, so that he was head and shoulders above the rocks, peering at the spot where Halt had disappeared. Then, baffled, he sank back into hiding, and Halt was moving once more.
The Battle of Hackham Heath Page 6