Withdrawing his sword, he jumped onto the muddy bank, slid down and hurled himself at the nearest root, slashing with all his might.
Versayr had seen him on the bank but hardly reacted, so drained was the animal.
Leeches had tasted of Ulran’s blood before; the roots, however, sucked blood in a different manner to the jungle and swamp worms. They did not merely stick to the victim’s flesh; they dug in, pressing tighter with every ingestion of blood.
But the sword, glinting dully in the starlight, was more than a match for the terrible roots. One after another was slashed, until the innman was covered in rancid lime-green sap that stung slightly.
Having hacked himself clear, Ulran splashed through chest-deep water and severed all the roots wrapped about his horse.
No sooner was Versayr free than he leaned against the teen’s current and plodded towards the bank. Haltingly, he climbed the muddy surface and stood dripping wet, too worn out even to shake his soaking mane.
Ulran waded to join him, but stopped as he caught sight of a familiar if forlorn shape – a wet floppy felt hat – hanging on a root.
He smiled: the warrior might not be too far away, then.
But what of Scalrin? If Courdour Alomar was near, the red tellar would have returned with news by now.
He wrung out the hat and tucked it in his waistband. Then he joined Versayr and examined the wicked black-and-blue welts. His own forearms were discoloured too; it would pass.
He turned away, walking Versayr up-teen.
***
Cobrora Fhord jerked awake, the preceding day’s nightmare agonisingly fresh. Dying embers crackled and caved in upon themselves and thin streamers of smoke wisped into the dawn air.
Cold and cramped, Cobrora ignored these bodily complaints and looked around, quickly, fearfully, but Sarolee and the mule were nearby, still hobbled, now contentedly chewing grass. Then, whatever it was that had been out there making those horrible noises last night, it had gone.
Shaking the damp dew-laden blankets, Cobrora knelt by the accursed teen and soaked face and hands, the icy coldness shocking the city-dweller fully awake.
As Cobrora stood, the effigies jingled derisively from their belt.
Better search the surrounding area at once. Besides, there’s no food for breaking fast, even if my stomach felt inclined. Stomach rumbling in disagreement, Cobrora saddled Sarolee and, leaving the mule, blankets and the few pieces of equipment, rode the palfrey inland, determining to wend a zigzag trail down-teen, searching as they went.
From here, the land to the dunsaron stretched quite flat, so that Cobrora was able to glimpse the vague shape of Funderem Forest’s treetops some 200 launmarks distant, peering over the horizon – tall trees of mystery. At least I can be thankful I wasn’t cast alone within their shadowy confines, Cobrora mused.
A short time after setting out, Cobrora came upon the mutilated remains of the food mule. Paw marks of at least three wildcats circled the carcass. Not satisfied with the food in the packbags, they had torn the mule apart, leaving little for the carrion.
Black shapes of crows flew out of the cave-like ribs, hovered above as Cobrora rode closer, stomach heaving emptily. Thank the gods I hadn’t broken my fast!
Flesh-eating voles scampered away into the longer grass; flies buzzed and assembled. Sun-glint showed an orb-spider’s web above an empty eye-socket.
Slowly, Cobrora dismounted. Sarolee shied away, nostrils aquiver with the odour of death. After hobbling her, Cobrora neared the carcass, and gingerly unstrapped the blanket and pack-bags containing medicaments of inedible form, a shovel, and a second quiver of Courdour’s arrows.
Cobrora would return these to the camp, then resume the search.
***
Courdour Alomar pulled in Borsalac on the edge of the teen opposite Cobrora’s camp at the precise moment that the city-dweller returned. The warrior grinned, for Cobrora was staring down, letting Sarolee take them back to the camp. Courdour cupped his hands and shouted across the roiling water, “Cheer up, for your gods’ sake, if not mine!”
Cobrora hurried Sarolee to the teen’s edge. “Courdour, you old devil! Where’ve you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Oh, what womanly consternation knits your brow, youngster,” chided the warrior, enjoying himself immensely, unwilling to admit that he was pleased to see the superstitious city-dweller.
“But... Ulran – where –?”
As if in answer, Scalrin swooped down and landed on the bank near Courdour.
“I think he’ll be on his way.” The warrior smiled.
“We’ve lost our food! And wildcats killed one of the mules!”
“No matter – I still have my bow – and I see you’ve got a spare quiver of arrows. We won’t starve!”
“But how will I get across?”
Courdour held up a hand. “Simple, boy, just simple. But stay there, till we learn of Ulran – if he’s on your side of the teen, we might as well wait.”
***
Versayr had recovered his strength during the night and Ulran had ridden on, with the dark shape of Scalrin guiding him in the dawn sky. Now, the midsun warmed his back, lent him new vitality. He came upon Courdour shouting across the teen.
Ulran simply handed over the floppy hat. Courdour Alomar grinned.
Though joking at the city dweller’s expense, Courdour had not been idle; he had unravelled thread from a blanket. He now fired an arrow across the teen and it sank into the turf at Cobrora’s feet. Attached to its flight, the thread. “Pull with care, Fhord!” he called.
It took time and patience. Courdour sat astride Borsalac and paid out the thread, and then the rope attached to it. Its weight brought it close to the frothing water – one wavelet would be enough to snap the tenuous link of thread and rope.
Cobrora sat astride Sarolee and pulled in the coils of thread and then rope, mumbling to the white gods; this time it seemed they answered, for at last the rope was across, grasped in both hands.
“Right, boy, you know what to do,” the warrior urged and, in an aside to Ulran, “I briefed him while waiting for you.”
Ulran nodded, not thinking it strange that Courdour should have known he too would have survived and found his way back. The innman watched with interest.
The scabbard was passed through the bridles of Sarolee and the mule, and tied securely there, so that the scabbard formed a kind of yoke between the two animals. Now, Cobrora secured the end of the rope that spanned the teen to the scabbard’s centre. As an added precaution, though not instructed by Courdour, the city-dweller decided to fasten the reins of each animal together as well.
Having collected all the equipment and evenly distributed it between the two animals, Cobrora gently walked them forward to the teen-bank, holding the scabbard which jogged at chin-height and sloped to the left as the shorter mule was by that side.
At the edge, Cobrora hesitated. Against better judgement, the effigies were in the pack-bags and the city-dweller felt immeasurably vulnerable. All that was left were prayers. Invocations tripped from trembling lips.
“Go on, boy!” chided Courdour not without impatience.
Whether the slight had been intentional or not, it served its purpose. Goaded, Cobrora urged the animals into the turgid water.
There was a high-pitched whinny from Sarolee on the right.
The icy coldness sent teeth chattering. The sun was past zenith now, but had not warmed the fast-flowing waters that coursed from the snows of the Sonalume range. Cobrora’s heart leapt and fluttered at the very powerful force of the current, tugging at thighs and torso.
Spray clogged nostrils and Cobrora, suspended between the two animals, was soon drenched.
Shakily whistling out of tune to the two animals, Cobrora tentatively eased them forward, feet chilled and hardly capable of feeling their way across the submerged stepping stones. In an act of preservation more than an offer of guidance, Cobrora desperately clasped the scabbard that join
ed the two horses.
With reluctance, Sarolee and the mule, whites of eyes showing behind their blinkers, stepped through the teen. Courdour Alomar had had the forethought to suggest improvised blinkers, sensibly restricting the violent view about them and thus reduce their excitability. Could have done with some myself, Cobrora thought.
All the while, Ulran and Courdour – both mounted to provide more purchase – pulled the rope towards them, steadying Cobrora who was now wading up to neck height.
After about a mark or two of unsteady, tense moments between the two animals, Cobrora’s arms ached, growing weaker while gripping the lifeline and the scabbard. Had I been an accomplished horseman, or so Alomar said, I could have ridden Sarolee across, leading the mule behind. No chance!
Fortunately, Sarolee had swum teens before and was now coping well, her attitude helping the mule. It was only the abnormally swift running current that had alarmed them.
“Not much further!” Ulran called encouragingly and Cobrora could detect the beginnings of weariness in the innman’s voice. To a less perceptive person the change would not be noticeable, such was Ulran’s incredible control, a will-power that never ceased to amaze.
When Cobrora’s knees thumped into the firmness of the opposite bank the city-dweller was surprised. Almost automatically, feet stumbled up the muddy edge and Cobrora fell, arms on fire, chest heaving spasmodically, legs numb.
Ulran handed the rope to Courdour, jumped from Versayr and slid down the bank. He helped the horse and mule up, talking gently, and led them onto firm ground, where, blinker-free again, they shook themselves dry and grazed.
“Your clothes need drying out, lad,” Courdour Alomar said.
“No, the sun will do that.” Cobrora trembled, as with ague.
Ulran leaned close. “How are you feeling?”
Feeling like a survivor from Below, Cobrora felt like responding, my whole body seems to rebel, disgusted with the constant abuse heaped upon it! Sensation slowly stung back to lower limbs. “All right. I think.” Cobrora’s head shook, as if to deny those brave words and re-focused eyes. Then the city-dweller’s stomach rumbled loudly.
“I’ll forage for some food.” Courdour Alomar grinned.
It was well past midsun already. “No,” Cobrora said, “hadn’t we better go on? We’ve lost almost two days crossing this accursed teen!” Body-ache and hunger berated Cobrora for being a fool even to suggest it. “You could hunt ahead, perhaps?”
“Aye, why not?”
“Then, let us ride on, even if slowly,” said Ulran, helping Cobrora up, careful not to show he was impressed with the city-dweller’s attitude. “At least we will be covering ground.”
With more help Cobrora mounted Sarolee; they trotted beside Ulran.
Courdour rode ahead, soon out of sight in a depression, scouring the land for small game.
As they travelled, the sun dried their clothes and eased Cobrora’s aches.
The day was nearly done when Courdour Alomar rode back with the carcass of a small gazelle slung over his horse.
“We’ve ridden enough for today,” said Ulran and they made camp.
After the meal, Courdour insisted on treating Ulran’s wounds with some ointments he procured from a concealed pouch. “Their efficacy has been vouched for more years than I can remember – though, alas, you can’t obtain the haemoleaf in Floreskand.”
“Then – how –?”
The warrior coldly eyed Cobrora. “When you’ve aged, youngster, you’ll know better than to ask such questions.”
On completing his ministrations he gave a small portion of the haemoleaf to Ulran and Cobrora. “I have a feeling we may need to use it again, before we’re done with this quest.”
They were pleased to share the only surviving skin of wine that Ulran broke out from the meagre provisions. All three toasted the First Sidin of Fornious – a day none would forget, “Least of all you, boy, eh?” said Courdour and laughed.
As much to change the course of the conversation than anything else, Ulran turned to Cobrora. “Back at camp yesterday you again referred to Kormish Warriors.” The innman looked into the flames. Rumours about him had persisted for many years; but he was continually on the alert lest he should by some foible or accident give credence to such fanciful whispers. “What do you know of them?”
A summing look flickered in Cobrora’s brown eyes; the city-dweller shrugged dismissively. “Only what fable tells me – though I have a feeling you could enlighten me – if you had a mind to.”
“Riddles, you persist in speaking in puzzles!” remonstrated Courdour.
Cobrora turned. “Have no fear, Courdour Alomar, I don’t pretend to believe all the tales of Kormish Warriors! I’m not entirely as simple and childish in years as you make me!”
Ulran released an amused bark.
“I know they’re far from being invulnerable.”
“Aye, they’re not that,” Courdour conceded with a scowl.
“You’ve known one, then?” darted Cobrora as Ulran leaned forward, attentive.
“Two, I think – though it is often hard to know one when you see one.” Courdour Alomar eyed Ulran curiously, as though seeking corroboration. But finding none, he went on, “And I saw both die. Deaths that not even I would envy – no, in no way would I choose their manner of going, albeit they had no choice in the matter! Mind you, attractive...” At this point Courdour lapsed into silence. Then: “Must be getting old, rambling now, you see,” he mumbled almost to himself and, as if amused at that idea, he burst out laughing.
As Ulran settled back to give the warrior’s cryptic disclosure some thought, Cobrora was quick to see a chance at retaliation: “And you accuse me of speaking in riddles!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
PRESENTIMENT
“Fast through the land approaches the foe!”
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow
And when the sun sank on the Valley of Saronvale,
He turned his back on her shallow grave of shale.
– Romantic ballad: Fiel of Erejhur
For the next three days they rode manderon and come First Durinma they sighted firelight some distance ahead.
Ulran and Courdour were reluctant to make their party’s presence known to whosoever might be abroad. But, after Cobrora’s surprisingly vehement and convincing argument, they agreed that it would be advisable to identify the camp and its occupants. Though they had discovered no sign of any Devastator horde this side of Saloar Teen, it was well known that this area was one of their favourite raiding grounds, as evinced by the very few plainsland housesteads that still survived here.
Ulran suspected Cobrora’s keenness stemmed from anxiety; for all the commendable control over rank superstition and fear of the outdoors, Cobrora still betrayed signs of disturbance when in the company of Courdour and him.
He had tried curbing Courdour’s acid tongue. But it was difficult, for if the rumours about him were true, he’d had more cause to be short-tempered with youngsters like Cobrora and even himself! For his own grandfather had told tales of the peregrinations of one Courdour Alomar and even then he had been Legend. It was possible that Courdour came from a close-knit family who inter-bred, continuing the line of legend, one inheriting the other’s looks and mien. But although he knew very little to be impossible either in Floreskand or beyond, he doubted if that could explain the myth that surrounded the figure of Courdour Alomar. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the warrior was a renegade Korm! But that too seemed impossible: the Overlord wouldn’t permit one of His own prime movers such free-roaming leeway. Yes, indeed, Cobrora must be very eager for the company of more normal mortals.
With the horses hobbled, the three stealthily skirted the camp in the darkness. Courdour veered left, Ulran right, and Cobrora brought up the rear, not being versed – as Ulran put it – in the art of no-noise.
Remains of two fires quite close to each other smouldered with wisps of thin smoke curling upw
ards. A little silvery illumination was offered by the beginnings of the first quarter.
Now the shapes of four wagons loomed out of the blackness, dark brown smoke hovering about their gutted superstructure.
Distinctively fletched arrows stuck out at all angles from the bodies strewn about. Severed limbs and heads gruesomely indicated that the Devastators were abroad.
While Courdour clung to cover with a brace of arrows ready to loose, Ulran stepped among the reeking carnage. Judging from the tacky consistency of the blood and the horse-droppings, he estimated the horde had left just over four orms gone.
Through slit eyes Ulran scoured the dimly lit place, crouched low and still: the only sounds were those of the settling embers, the creaking of fire-ravaged wood. But he could be patient.
From days of old, he knew the Devastators: any unproven warrior could volunteer to remain behind after the raid in the hope of taking fresh travellers by surprise. A trial of manhood, one that Ulran had frowned upon.
Slowly, continuing to search the shadowy places, he raised fingers to lips and uttered a low-pitched night-warbler’s cry that told Cobrora to stand stock still. For he had detected the faintest of movements. It could be a survivor. Though he had never known the Devastators leave even one.
If it was indeed a novice out for manhood, he was very good. Even now he had no real idea where the youth was hiding: only the slimmest inkling of – there! Quite young, then, he thought. The waiting was beginning to tell; now he could detect the Devastator’s desperate attempts to regulate panicky breathing. He managed it, too, but not before Ulran had identified his whereabouts. Second wagon in, to the left of the fire.
With no sound Ulran trod across the dusty earth, stepping over corpses that resembled porcupines, and approached the wagon. The burnt wood glinted jet black in the slice of silvery moon; the wooden sides, reinforced with ironwood struts, had only partly burned, leaving the thick wooden bars intact. From these hung the roasted corpses of what had been men, chained to the struts.
He was glad he had warned Cobrora to stay back. On his way across he had located the huddled shape, behind an iron chest. It was fortunate for the Devastator that the floorboards were of ironwood too. Carefully, he levered himself up onto the backboard and the whole frame creaked under his weight. He peered about the interior, inwardly sickened at the stench of incinerated flesh.
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