Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  He shared the details of his faith with the young ranger, who listened attentively. Kylor had always believed on some level that the stories of the One Lord were true. The world was so magnificent, and there were so many races and animals and plants, whose complexity and variety was witness enough of a creator. The vastness of the stars and the sea spoke of a maker whose power was beyond comprehension. Truly, anyone beholding the wonders of creation while denying a creator was without excuse. Duncan’s sharing from the Great Book of Writings, which was the collected writings about the One Lord by all the prophets and holy men, had deepened his understanding and his conviction over this past week.

  Kylor believed now more than ever that the One Lord was real and that he must follow Him. When he shared this news with Duncan, he thought the stout Durgak might truly burst apart at the seams.

  “Why laddie that is fantastic news! At the first river we come to, I personally will perform the ritual of The Washing as a witness to your accepted faith in the One Lord.”

  Kylor began to look forward to this event, but the nearest river would be beyond the western end of Dragon Pass and, thus, beyond whatever trouble had been intercepting the caravans. Kylor hoped that he would live to experience The Washing.

  The last wagon was, for the first time on this journey, the quietest. Goldain had asked Rarib to forego the traveling song, which had graced and sped their journey thus far. First off their travel from this point on would be very slow and deliberate, giving ample time for Sable to spot and report anything unusual ahead but even more so to make sure the marching troops were battle-ready whenever trouble reared its head. On top of this was the consideration that in the narrow valley, the bard’s song would carry far and likely give more warning and advantage than they could afford to whoever might be lying in wait ahead. Rarib was in deep thought as to how he even wound up on this dangerous journey, and Cookie was in a particularly grim mood and not very talkative, so the two passed the time in silence; each locked into his own thoughts.

  With Sable scouting ahead and Xyer Garan guarding the rear of the caravan, most of the rest of the troops felt fairly at ease. Their biggest challenge was staying limber and battle-ready in the cramped wagons. Since they would not be able to show themselves outside the wagons until it was time to battle or until they reached the western end of Dragon Pass, each wagon had been equipped with a couple of chamber pots should the need arise. Arreya, feeling quite caged and restless, thought that the Durgak and Adami troops in with her were odiferous enough without the reality of a partially filled chamber pot to add to the mix. This not to mention that the small hatch, which allowed access to the drivers, brought wafting her way the strange scents of the Shade and the as yet unidentified but definitively not-Adami smelling Melizar. She had not yet mentioned her observations about the aroma of the mage to anyone else, but certainly, she would be looking for an opportunity to find out exactly what type of being carried that particular scent.

  Gideon continued to wrestle with the mystery of the Parynland shields they had discovered in the raider’s lair. Were they related to the missing caravans? Was someone from Parynland truly behind this as Garan had suggested? What was truly behind Garan’s attitude? Was this man what he appeared to be, or was there something more? So many questions and so few answers. Whatever else lie ahead, Gideon hoped that beyond whatever conflict they encountered were answers to at least a few of them.

  Goldain sat nearest the back door of the second wagon. The northerner loved to enjoy life, ale, women, and song, but what he loved most was the thrill of battle. He was raised to be a warrior as all of his brothers were. The heat of battle, however, had forged this young prince into a human weapon. Despite some being stronger and all being more experienced, none of his brothers could best him with a blade. He was the warrior’s heart that beat in the chest of the Wolf Clan, and his father had faced some stern opposition at the decision to send Goldain to the south as an ambassador.

  Truth was, however, that there were no politicians or diplomats among the Qarahni. The strongest warriors negotiated terms of peace with foes, usually at the head of a large contingent of battle-hardened barbarian warriors. Diplomacy by superior force was the general rule for the clans, so Goldain understood his father’s decision to send their best representative warrior to negotiate treaties of trade. Goldain believed, however, that his brothers played no small part in convincing their father to send their little brother, who was constantly showing them up on the battlefield, far away from them.

  As they proceeded westward through Dragon Pass, they noticed the walls of steep mountains drawing closer to the north and south. Duncan and Donovan had told the caravan that there was a fairly narrow bottleneck about two hours west of Stonehold. That place had multi-leveled cliffs above the pass and was a place where it would be nearly impossible to defend against a coordinated attack from above.

  They paused several hundred yards before the part of the pass known as the Narrows to allow Sable, Duncan, and Donovan to scale the cliffs and scout for activity. They even asked Arreya to slip out of the wagon to join the efforts. After about half an hour of scouting the cliffs above the Narrows, all reported no signs of activity on the cliffs above, so Arreya took her place back in wagon three, and the caravan proceeded carefully through the Narrows. What took the swift and sure-footed scouts a half an hour to scout took the caravan nearly three times that long to traverse as the Narrows continued for nearly three miles before the pass widened again.

  All breathed sighs of relief when it was announced they were safely through the Narrows. From this point on, there were a few other places where there were higher trails along the mountainside, which paralleled the pass, but the pass itself would continue to gradually widen until at the western mouth, which exited the mountains in the plains of Parynland, the distance between the northern and southern peaks would be nearly a half mile.

  Gideon was chatting with Tropham and Donovan through the small hatch connecting the front of wagon one with the rear area when Sable came trotting back to the caravan shortly after midday.

  “Captain,” she said addressing Donovan, “I don’t like the looks of the stretch ahead. There is a wide but gradual incline on the south slope leading to a trail above. There is a raised ridge on the north side of the trail obscuring sight. From one angle I swear I caught a glimpse of what may be part of a cave entrance. There is also a similar high ridge on the northern mountain. That ridge may or may not be hiding a trail, but there is no easy egress to the pass from the north side.”

  “Does this northern rise look man-made?” inquired Donovan.

  “It looks like the ridges may be worked stone but hard to tell without getting closer. If we scout it, and it is the ambush site, whomever we send up will die, and we are already close enough to be in range of any ambush. The pass is still just narrow enough to prevent an easy turnaround. I were setting an ambush somewhere other than the Narrows, this would be it.”

  “Good work, Sable,” Donovan answered.

  “Well, Captain Gideon,” Tropham spoke gently through the hatch between the driver’s area and the rear of the lead wagon. “What do you think?”

  Tropham, the veteran commander, looked quite grim. He had been through many battles in his long career, but he had never been in a position to be the bait in a trap. It was dangerous tactically and a hard order to give to his men as a commander.

  “Sable,” Gideon answered, “as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible go pass the word to the other wagons to be ready for action at a moment’s notice.” The Fenratu nodded and slipped quietly off to carry out this order.

  “Captain Tropham, we came all this way to lure an ambush. If this is the place, scouting it would lose us a scout and fail to accomplish what this plan was designed to do by tipping our hand. There is no way now but through the fire. Once Sable has returned from warning the other wagons, send her no more than fifty feet ahead and have the caravan move out slowing and casually behind he
r. The only good news is, if we can’t see them, they likely can’t see us well either, so give all the drivers the signal for weapons at the ready and let’s do what we came to do.”

  Tropham gave two short bird calls, “Whip-o-whill, whip-o-whill,” which was the signal for all wagons to ready weapons and prepare for battle. Soon, he heard six answering calls, “Too-twee,” which meant the other wagons were ready. Sable returned to the front and, after receiving her orders, she slung her bow across her back, readied her sword and shield, and headed out.

  As they rolled slowly through the pass ahead, all eyes fixed on the raised rock walls above them to the north and south, which may be hiding countless bandits or worse. The easy, wide ramp leading up the south slope to an obvious trail above seemed to mock them like the outstretched tongue of a taunting youth.

  As the first and then the second wagon rolled slowly past, every muscle in the Gideon’s body tightened in anticipation of what might at any moment come pouring down the ramp. As the second wagon passed the ramp and the third began its move past the taunting tongue of stone, it seemed as if the attack they expectantly awaited might not come at all. Gideon’s breath loosened in his chest. Whatever was causing the disappearance of the caravans was still somewhere ahead.

  His relief was short-lived. As Gideon watched in tense anticipation out the back of the first wagon, the sound of splintering wood and the scream of panicked horses exploded from the rear of the caravan. Just like that, the supply wagon was gone under the impact of a flying boulder nearly half the size of the wagon with only the sturdy braces flanking the team of horses, the driver’s seats, and the front axle remaining intact. The impact threw Cookie off the left side of the wagon and into the dirt, his readied cleaver still in his hand. Rarib’s terrified death-grip on the reins of the team was the only thing that kept them from bolting forward with the shreds of the front of the supply wagon wagging behind them.

  The sound was enough to propel Goldain, who doubtless had been waiting like an over-coiled spring, out of the back of the second wagon just as a second boulder obliterated it. The two troopers and four berserkers in the wagon were crushed beneath the splintering wood. The mass of flying rock that had disintegrated the second wagon also sent both Thatcher and Kohana flying forward and to the south of where they had been sitting. Their mule, now freed from the encumbering wagon, brayed and bolted westward, fleeing the terrifying carnage that had devastated its former burden. Only the dexterity and skill of the young rogue and the islander allowed them to make a rolling landing and avoid injuries beyond the cuts and scrapes from the floor of the rocky pass.

  Seconds later, as Gideon and the other troops in the first wagon tumbled out into the pass to prepare to meet the impending attack, he saw a third boulder bring a gruesome end to the mule leading the wagon driven by Jeslyn and Bardrick. The force of the flying stone snapped the braces, connecting the wagon to its beast of burden and pulverized the poor mule. The impact of the blow carried the animal’s carcass several yards to the south where it landed in a bloody heap. The westward-bound wagon spun around in its tracks, leaving the young archer and the braggadocios warrior facing south near the mouth of the southern ramp. The wagon wheels shattered in the spin. This wagon would not move again.

  By the time the third boulder ended the life of the unfortunate mule, there was a macabre outpouring of beings from the mouth above the taunting tongue of stone. It was answered by a rapid exodus from the rear of the remaining intact wagons. If an observer had been on the slopes far above the pass, it would have looked like two warring armies of ants pouring forth from their burrows to lock themselves in deadly combat with their enemies.

  The boulders, which had come from the hidden northern trail, were hurled by three huge Eben-Nephilim, a sub-race of giants who lived in high mountains and had skins the color of solid granite. Upon seeing the long-term enemies of the Durgak, Donovan shouted to his troops in the Durgak language, “Bezrek alka az Nephilim!”

  As one unit, all of the sixteen remaining berserker troops, war axes in their right hands and the wicked-looking toothed and curved long daggers, which were the signature weapons of the Berserker Corps, in their left hands, turned and sprinted to the northern slopes and toward their ancient enemies.

  There were few warriors indeed who could behold a Nephilim and not have their hearts melting in their chests. This sub-race was not the largest of the Nephilim, but the Eben-Nephilim were nearly eleven feet tall and as strong as an entire company of men. They were fearsome foes from which the most common tactic was to flee and pray that one could outrun them. This was not the case for the Durgak, however.

  The Durgak had been at war with the Nephilim since the time of the making. The ancient foes knew each other as intimately as any lovers knew their mates. No other race on the face of Ya-Erets was better equipped at slaying the Nephilim than were the Durgak. Mutazz, the leader of the Ayabim and patron of the Nephilim, had chosen size and strength for their prowess mirroring his own nature. But Hadaram, the armorer of heaven and patron Malakim of the Durgak had chosen stout frames, stout hearts, and the toughness of the very earth itself with which to have the One Lord imbue his servants.

  “Donovan,” Gideon cried, “leave the Nephilim to your men. We will need you on the southern ramp.”

  Donovan nodded and turned southward. The two commanders saw the southward slope vomiting forth a hoard of humanoids and mounted human cavalry. The bandit horde would soon break upon the crippled caravan like waves of the ocean crashing upon the shoreline.

  Gideon assessed that the greatest threat, which would also be the first to reach the caravan, was the mounted riders. A dozen men on light horses, their faces covered by black-cloth masks secured to the earguards of their helmets were wielding shining scimitars and screaming fearsome war cries as they rode ahead of the descending hoard. They would never reach the caravan.

  Ohanzee the Shade leapt from the front of the third wagon as the horsemen started their charge down the stone ramp from the southern raised trail. His crossed chest belts, containing a dozen daggers each, began emptying as the rogue extracted them from their scabbards and hurled them with deadly accuracy and blinding speed into throats and eyes of half a dozen of the warriors. Three more of the riders fell to quarrels from Thatcher’s repeating crossbow. The young rogue had recovered his precious armament as soon as he had regained his feet. Gideon was impressed that the youth had also recognized the serious threat posed by the riders. The last three riders fell from their horses struck by masterfully crafted, emerald-colored arrows with fine raven-feather fletching. The zeal of the riders in exposing themselves ahead of the advancing humanoid hoard had been their undoing.

  Before the warring sides had even engaged in close combat, a half dozen of the caravaneers crushed beneath the pile of splintered remains of the second wagon, a dozen mounted raiders, and one very unlucky mule were dead without ever having struck a blow. Now the forces had closed and the battle would begin in earnest.

  As Gideon, Tropham and Donovan advanced toward the southern ramp, the paladin captain noticed Kylor repaying the easternmost Eben-Nephilim for its destruction of the supply wagon. Before the portion of the Durgak berserkers scrambling up the northern slope headed for that Nephilim had reached halfway, the young ranger emptied half his quiver into the giant. It roared in pain, slumped forward, and toppled from its perch on the northern cliff to roll down the steep mountain and land in a pile on the trail of the pass. It did not stir again.

  Like a flock of birds winging behind an unidentified leader, the berserkers heading for the center Nephilim split in two, with half now heading toward the westernmost giant and the other half being joined by those who had been running toward the one Kylor had just felled. With sixteen Durgak berzerkers heading for the two remaining giants, their hearts already burning with rage at the death of their four companions in wagon two, Kylor needn’t fire another arrow at the Nephilim. They were going to have their giant hands quite full with
the Durgak berserkers. Gideon sighed in relief as Kylor, without needing to be ordered, turned his attention to the hoard just now reaching the bottom of the southern ramp.

  Melizar’s wagon had stopped right at the bottom of the southern ramp. Seeing Ohanzee’s flying daggers ripping through the onrushing hoard, he dismounted and reached into his belt pouch for a handful of tiny, white crystals. This simple-looking black leather pouch was his most useful magic item. In some ways it was similar to the dimensional pocket he had used to bring out the collection of Parynland shields from the raider lair. The similarity was that it held considerably more than its outer dimensions would bear witness to, but this pouch had the added bonus of being tuned to his mind and bonded to him.

  It held only the materials he needed for his kashaph spells, but whatever component he was thinking of when he reached into the pouch would jump to his waiting hand. Such a prize meant he could use his powers much more rapidly than any mage who had to search for his components. These bags, known in mage circles as Pouches of Readiness, were extremely rare and so highly prized by master mages that had he chosen to sell it, it would be worth the price of a kingdom.

  Now, however, the tiny bag would prove its worth and the reason he would never willingly part with it. The few moments it saved in readiness to use his powers could well mean the difference between life and death. As a mob of Orcs and Hobgoblins rushed at him, he took the tiny crystals in his right hand, spoke the words of power, and blew the crystals in a cloud in front of him. Eight Orcs and two Hobgoblins were instantly engulfed in a cloud of ice, freezing them to their core. They became like icy statues and as they were bowled over by the rush of their companions behind them, they shattered upon the stony ground in front of wagon three. The rush of advancing goblinoids in front of Melizar stopped with looks of shock and fear on their faces.