Stone was silent as he rushed toward the group of mercenaries, and Lorik saw only the blur his friend created. He was so fast that three of the mercenaries had fallen victim to the young warrior’s deadly knives before the others realized they were under attack. Ulber turned, a look of disappointment etched on his face as Stone slashed one knife across an opponent’s throat, ducked under the hasty attempt to cut him down by another, and jammed a second knife into his attacker’s stomach.
There was no time to appreciate Stone’s speed or deadliness. Lorik charged forward, pulling the two stunned mercenaries who were holding his arms. This time Ulber fell when Lorik crashed into him. Lorik fell too. One guard let go to keep from falling, but the other went down with Lorik and Ulber. Lorik twisted his body as he fell, so the mercenary fell on Ulber’s knife hand. He heard a gurgle and guessed correctly that the blade had found a home inside the mercenary, but Lorik was already kicking both legs toward the remaining guard. His boots landed against the man’s thigh and hip, sending him sprawling into the fire. He fell, screamed, and then ran into the night with his clothes and hair ablaze.
Lorik felt Ulber pushing him up, so he shifted onto one knee, then slammed his forehead down into the burly soldier’s face. The bones of Ulber’s nose crunched with the impact. Lorik rolled away, using his momentum to get back on his feet. Stone was behind him as he came up, and Lorik heard the whisper of steel as a knife blade slipped between his wrists and sawed at his bonds. It only took one section of the rope to give way, and then Lorik’s strength burst the rope apart. His hands were still numb, but it wasn’t the time to stay and fight. They needed to get away as the rest of the mercenaries regrouped.
“This way!” Stone said, running past the fire and away from the mercenaries.
Lorik saw a look of crazy fury on Ulber’s bloody face, then he too turned and sprinted into the darkness.
Chapter 18
It took longer to get everyone into the inn than Quinn had hoped. There were more attacks, all from different parts of the village. And once again, the victims weren't eaten, at least not right away. Quinn felt guilty, but he knew he had been right in getting everyone together. No one could have predicted that the animals would attack so viciously, or that there were so many of the wretched beasts. He couldn't help but wonder if hunting them earlier that day had somehow focused their attention on the village.
Inside the inn's common room, families were huddled together. Quinn had never seen the large open room so crowded, not even during the winter when most of the village took shelter at the inn to ride out the worst storms. The bench tables had been moved against the walls, so that men could stand and look out the long, narrow windows that were just below the inn's low roofline. Buck was one of the last villagers to return. Vickry was with him, urging his family to greater speed as they outran the overweight innkeeper.
Quinn was at the door to the inn, spear in hand, ready to take up a station outside the protection of the building's stout walls if necessary. Buck wouldn't have survived if it weren’t for a volley of arrows that rained down on the two creatures chasing him. A few arrows even managed to strike into the oversized wolverines' flesh. Their shaggy, white fur was almost like armor, and only a direct hit would penetrate their tough hides.
"Get inside!" Quinn bellowed. "Quick!"
The distraught family raced into the common room, followed quickly by the huffing and puffing innkeeper. Quinn slammed the door. Two other men dropped a heavy crossbeam into place, locking the door up tight. Now, Quinn knew, it was up to the archers on the roof to pick off the vicious creatures. It was still an hour or two before dawn, and Quinn hoped they could hold out that long. The daylight would even their odds a little against the wild animals who seemed so intent on wiping the town of Brighton's Gate out of the Great Valley.
"Looks like your plan worked, old man," Kurchek growled from one of the tables. "You've got us all here while your hell spawn robs the village dry."
"Ignore him," Quinn said. "We have no idea what these creatures will do next."
For a solid hour the creatures attacked, first coming from one direction, then retreating under a hail of arrows. Then coming from another direction. To the people inside, it seemed like an endless onslaught by the savage animals, but to Quinn it was a systematic test of the village's defenses. He didn't share his fears with the others, who were already whispering about him in quiet little groups. The distrust angered Quinn and made him sad. Perhaps Zollin had somehow attracted the dragon that attacked the village, but he had nothing to do with the Skellmarians that had almost overrun the small town when the dragon arrived. It could just as easily have been the king's army, which was camped not far away at the time of the attack, that drew the foul creature. Quinn wanted to remind the villagers that it was Zollin who single-handedly drove the dragon away, but they were in no mood to hear reason. Quinn, Mansel, and even Zollin had worked hard to help the village, but it was becoming evident to Quinn that they would never have a peaceful home in the Great Valley.
Shortly before dawn, Quinn's fears became reality when small groups of the creatures attacked all at once from different directions. The men on the roof had to divide their attention, and while they were all good shots with their bows, none were fast. They were hunters, not warriors, and they were used to spending hours waiting for one good shot.
"Come on!" Quinn told the few men who would still listen to him. "There'll be more coming from the rear."
"What's this? You can predict where the beasts will attack?" accused Kurchek.
Quinn didn't reply. He just ran through the twisting hallway that led through the kitchen, wash rooms, and storage areas of the inn. Finally he came to the rear door, which was guarded by three men.
"I'm going out there," Quinn said. "The animals will be coming soon, sneaking around the barn. I'm sure of it."
"How can you know that?" asked one of the hunters.
"Simple tactics. They've been testing our defenses all night. They know the rear of the inn is the weakest spot. The barn blocks the line of fire from the rooftop. They've got the archers distracted, and so they'll come at us from the rear."
The hunters looked at each other with a kind of terror that Quinn had rarely seen. It came from facing creatures that made no sense. These weren't wild animals, but rather some type of intelligent, magical beings that shouldn't exist. At least, Quinn thought to himself, they died normal enough.
"We don't have time to debate," Quinn said. "Open the door!"
They had to lift out the heavy crossbeam that had been set in place. There were four hunters with Quinn. Each had a makeshift spear that was little more that a long pole with a sharpened point on one end. They had hardened the points in the common room fire, but the spears were no substitute for steel.
When the door opened three of the white-furred creatures were slinking around the barn.
"Watch out for more of them from that direction," Quinn said, pointing toward the other side of the barn.
Three men fell in beside Quinn, who was facing the three oncoming beasts, while two others waited to see if more were coming. Quinn recognized the lead animal. Its muzzle, neck and forepaws were stained crimson, and it was larger than its two companions. In its eyes Quinn saw recognition and cold fury.
"Whatever you do, don't drop your spears," Quinn said.
He held his spear straight out in front of him, ready if the animals charged at them. But his right hand pulled a simple, black throwing knife from the hidden sheath in his belt at the small of his back. He pulled his throwing arm back slowly, guessing that the animals wouldn't recognize it as a threat. The alpha growled in a deep rumble that made the hair on the back of Quinn's neck stand up. He knew what to expect in a fight, and how to defend himself from an armed assailant, but fighting wild animals was different. They were fast and deadly, not to mention completely unpredictable. Quinn hoped that if he could take out their alpha, the others would retreat.
He threw the knife
as hard as he could. Years of training in the King's Royal Guard had made him an expert marksman with the throwing knives, and he always carried at least two in the hidden sheath on his belt. The knife flew true, straight at the alpha's chest, but one of the other animals dashed forward at the same instant, and the knife punctured the beast's throat.
The second creature charged in the wake of its fallen pack mate, who was writhing on the ground, trying to bark or roar in pain, but accomplishing only a grotesquely wet gurgle. Quinn met the second beast's charge with a slash from his spear that scored a cut across the creature's foreleg. It yelped in pain, but continued forward, its narrow muzzle snapping madly at Quinn. The other hunters moved forward as Quinn fell back.
The animal pawed at one of the spears, knocking it from the hunter's hands. It would have jumped on him and finished the kill, but two spears from the opposite side were rammed hard into the beast's side. Neither point went deep enough into the creature to kill it, but Quinn heard ribs breaking, and the creature was left with two massive flesh wounds that soon flooded the beast's white fur with its own blood.
Quinn drew his other knife, but the alpha was pulling back, and two more creatures were racing forward from the other side of the barn. He hated to let the leader of the pack go, but he didn't want to see any of the hunters hurt, so he turned and threw his knife at one of the charging animals. It fell, the knife punching deep enough to kill, though not right away. The mortally wounded animal picked itself up and limped away, just as the two hunters thrust their spears into the face of the last attacker. One of the spears glanced harmlessly off the beast's shoulder, but the other rammed straight down the creature's throat. It's death was slow and painful, but Quinn sent the hunters back into the inn.
The sun was just coming up and he was flooded with relief. He wasn't sure if they would survive the night, but they had. Nearly a dozen of the creatures were dead or wounded. Quinn knew they needed to hunt the pack down and kill them all while they had a chance. Everyone was exhausted, especially Quinn, but they really had no time to waste if they were going to take advantage of their victory in the night.
"Let's get back to the common room," Quinn said. "This isn't over yet."
***
Mansel's torch was nothing more than a half-burned log. It was as long as his arm and almost too big around to hold, but he managed it until the sun came up. He had been riding west, across the vast plain that made up the floor of the Great Valley. Had the mountains been arranged differently, it might have been another hour before he could see in the dawn light, but the sun rose directly behind Mansel, sending his shadow out before him. The young warrior was warmed by the sunlight on his back, but the dark shadow in his path felt like a bad omen.
Nycol's trail wasn't difficult to follow. Once he was away from the cabin, the tracks were easier to see. Nycol, on her horse, was running along a well traveled path. The grass was pressed down and wet with dew from the cold night. There were also animal tracks in the soft earth. The wolverine like creatures left distinctive tracks with long marks where their claws dug into the ground when they ran. Mansel had ridden over a mile from his cabin when he saw something in the distance that shouldn't have been there. He had no illusions about what it was or what it meant. He could still see the saddle that had been on the horse. The vicious creatures had torn into Nycol's horse the same way they had attacked Quinn's, and with the straps slashed, the saddle had flopped over from where the horse lay on its side.
His hands were shaking when he reached the remains of the poor animal, but to his relief Nycol wasn't there. In fact, he almost immediately saw her footprints leading away from the horse. Mansel circled the gruesome carcass and pressed on, hoping against hope that Nycol was still alive. He hadn’t ridden far before he spotted another set of tracks besides Nycol's. He kicked his horse into a gallop, but somehow he knew he was already too late.
He found her body nearly half a mile from her horse. She was so small that he was almost on top of her before he saw the body. In a wretched twist of fate, the animals had torn out Nycol's stomach and her intestines were pulled out. Her face was untouched, and Mansel screamed as he dropped off his horse, which was nervous around so much blood. His mind was so flooded with emotions—fury, agony, fear, and remorse—that it was like he was being burned alive. He wailed as tears ran in hot rivulets down his face and into his beard.
He picked up her head and cradled it to his chest as he rocked back and forth on his knees over her body. Nycol was the one thing in his life that was right. He loved her so much. When he had been at his lowest, both emotionally and physically, she had saved him. All he’d wanted was to give her a good life, and he thought he was doing that here. Now she was dead, and all because he had gone to help the superstitious, ungrateful villagers of Brighton's Gate. His fury was so intense that he pulled out his own hair, leaving hideous patches of bleeding scalp.
It wasn't until he had calmed down a little that he realized smoke was boiling up from his cabin. For an instant he felt regret, and then the emotion changed. He was losing everything all in one day and that was as it should be. He wanted nothing else but to die in a savage, bloody fight. And he knew exactly where to find that death.
He picked up Nycol's body after securing her entrails and wrapping her frail body in his cloak to cover the savage way she had died. Then he carried her back to the cabin that had been their home, leading the horse and forcing himself to endure the burden of her lifeless body.
The cabin was a raging inferno when he finally stumbled into the yard of the small structure. Nothing was salvageable and the roof was already falling in. Mansel knew in time the walls would weaken until they too collapsed. There would be nothing left but ashes and the husks of some of the bigger logs. He ignored the burning cabin and went instead into the stable. He laid Nycol’s body on a thick pile of straw. Then he piled wood around the straw. He was exhausted by the time he was finished, and his mind was numb with grief, but there was only one thing left to do.
Walking out of the stable and getting a burning stick of wood from the raging cabin fire wasn’t easy. Just getting close to the home made Mansel feel as if his skin were blistering from the intense heat, but he was determined. When got back he was weeping again, but he felt no shame. It was as if part of himself had died. He knew he had lost something so precious he would never fully recover. All that was left was to say goodbye.
“Nycol,” he said, his voice breaking with grief, “I’m so sorry. I should have been here to protect you. I should have died with you. I failed…”
He fell to his knees, his whole body shaking.
“Forgive me,” he cried out, then he tossed the burning wood onto the straw.
It kindled instantly, filling the stable with smoke. Soon flames were shooting upward and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. Mansel stayed as close to the fire as he could, but the wood caught fire quickly. Unlike the cabin, which was made of thick logs, the stable was constructed of thin milled timber. It caught fire and collapsed in whoosh of flames and smoke. Mansel fell to his knees, choking on smoke and wishing he could die with her. But he couldn’t; he had work left to do. The creatures that killed Nycol couldn’t be allowed to live. He would hunt them down and kill each and every one of them. Then he could die, but not before.
Chapter 19
Zollin had almost abandoned the dwarf caverns and fled back to the surface, but his conscience simply wouldn’t let him turn his back on the people under the mountain. They had helped him more than once, and returning to the forest would only be a painful reminder that Brianna was gone. So, he’d marked another tunnel and continued his search.
There were signs of the oremites everywhere. Zollin wasn’t sure if their chipping and scraping of the tunnel walls was some kind of directional marking or if they were searching for something, but he passed dozens of small piles of rock that had been gouged out of the tunnel walls by the insectoid creatures with their shovel-shaped blades. But the mo
st discouraging fact was the lack of any sign the dwarves were still in their caverns.
Zollin passed through two more larger caverns that he recognized as clan homes. Each was completely abandoned. The only relief he felt was in the fact that there were no more giant snakes. He did stumble upon what looked like a nest of anacrids, but it too was abandoned. It was nothing more than thick layers of silky webs tangled around the large round husks that looked like spider egg sacs.
His food and water were running low, and he’d been forced to find another torch along his journey when he finally heard what sounded like whispers. Zollin stopped in the middle of the tunnel he was in and listened hard. He could hear voices not far ahead, even though the speakers were trying to be quiet.
Once again, Zollin left his torch behind and crept forward into the darkness, using his hands to guide him along the tunnel. After a short distance he saw light ahead, but this time the light was very dim and red in color. He could hear shuffling, almost like the sound of dozens of brooms being used all at the same time, their straw bristles swishing across the stone floor. He didn’t see the dwarves until he was almost on top of them, and they didn’t see him at all. They were hidden behind a pile of stone, watching as a group of oremites worked to extract something from the far wall of what appeared to be a smaller cavern.
It wasn’t unusual for the dwarves themselves to dig through the mountain’s roots, looking for gold, silver, and jewels, or making new pathways or homes for growing clans. But unlike the oremites, they used all the stone they removed, never just leaving it piled around behind them.
“Don’t be afraid,” Zollin whispered.
There were two dwarves in front of him, neither moving other than to make the occasional whispered comment. But when they sprang into action, it was incredibly fast and with surprising strength. Zollin whispered his warning one moment, and the next he was knocked backward by a powerful blow to his chest. His arms were pinned and a small, calloused hand was pressing hard over his mouth.
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