by Peter Grant
“I hear and obey, Master!” The younger man turned to leave.
“Not so fast!” His superior’s voice was stern. “You may not fail in any part of this mission. If you do, you will answer for it to our full assembly. Do you understand me?”
Karikan gulped. The red of his eyes faded to a pale, washed-out color. Clearly, he understood all too well. He nodded wordlessly, and stumbled out of the stone circle, his gait suddenly unsteady.
“Should we not entrust so important a mission to someone more experienced?” one of the elders asked.
“The only more experienced people we can fully trust are ourselves, the last surviving Master Sorcerers of Karsh. Consider what the Champion achieved, fighting alone against four Graben and two gruefells. He will no longer be alone at Brackley’s camp, but supported by two score men-at-arms. We five are irreplaceable. We dare not risk one of us being killed while leading an attack against so formidable an opponent, even if our absence increases the risk of failure. Nor can we employ our full powers in the attack, lest we alert the priest-mages at Atheldorn to the true nature of their enemy. They would move against us at once, and our numbers are still too small to stop them.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the other four. Another asked, “Do you think your threat will be sufficient motivation for Karikan?”
“He witnessed the punishment we meted out to Torrda, five years ago.”
The other nodded. “That would have produced a suitably lasting impression, I think.” The rest laughed grimly. There was no humor in their tone.
“A second sorcerer would be useful insurance against failure,” another observed. “Why not instruct Margash to follow the attack force on another gruefell, hanging back to observe developments? He can reinforce Karikan’s spells with his own if necessary, take over command if anything happens to him, and serve as a witness against him if we need one.”
“A good idea. I shall do so at once.”
VII
“It’s sorry I am that you had to see me like this, my lord. I’d rather have come before you on my own two feet, like the troop sergeant you remembered.”
The Baron of Brackley regarded Diava with compassion mixed with unease. “Seeing you at all is a gift from the Gods. I’m sorry it cost you so much pain to get here, and sorrier still to hear what caused it. Life can be damnably cruel sometimes, particularly to those who don’t deserve it.”
Diava struggled to his feet, ignoring the helping hand offered by the Baron. “It’s always been that way. No use farting against thunder. At least I’ve made it this far, and been some use to Owain; and the journey brought me the unexpected pleasure of meeting you again, my lord. I can’t do much to aid you in regaining your patrimony, but I can at least wish you luck in the fight – and curse Elspeth’s name, both here and, soon, in the hereafter, if that’ll be any help.” He picked up the mug on the low stool by his bedside and drank the last of the hot tisane. “That’s good. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been missing a hot drink in the morning. It wakes up a man properly.”
“That it does. Now, if you’ll excuse me for a while, I must attend our morning stand-to. It’s our unvarying discipline to be up, armed and ready, just in case.”
“And who taught you that discipline to begin with?”
Brackley laughed. “Yes, come to think of it, you did. What – you’re surely not planning to join us? You’re not well, man!”
Diava was attaching his sword to his belt. “I’ve been a soldier most of my life.” He settled it in place, checked the dagger and quiver on the other side of his body, then picked up his crossbow. “If I can’t stand to at dawn, you may as well bury me right away. I’ll already be dead, even though I may not smell that way yet.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“Huh! I pull his young arse out of more tight spots than he can shake a stick at, then he repays me with insults in my old age!”
Laughing, the Baron snuffed the candle, then pulled back the blackout curtain over the door. The two old comrades went out into the pre-dawn chill, shivering as they exchanged the warm fug of the hut for the bitingly fresh air. It was still dark, but the faint glimmer of the first light of dawn was visible above the trees.
A group of men-at-arms were gathering beneath a large tree, and the Baron led Diava towards them. “We gather in four groups at the cardinal points, North, South, East and West,” he explained. “Each group has up to a dozen men-at-arms, enough to hold off a local threat while the others move to assist it. This way we avoid the risk of a big central group that’d be easier for an enemy to surround and pin down. Also, it’s easier for the men if their groups are closer to their homes. They don’t have to find their way too far in the pitch dark before dawn.”
“That makes sense, my lord. You’ve archers with each group, I suppose?”
“Aye, an arbalestier plus two or three more with crossbows and recurve bows. I’ve trained my men-at-arms to protect the archers while they keep any enemy at a distance. Meanwhile, the other groups will move in around and behind the attackers. We’ve too few men to risk them in close combat unless we absolutely have to.”
“And what will the rest of your people do while that’s happening?”
“When the alarm is sounded, the women will gather the children and head deeper into the forest. We’ve established two well-hidden assembly points, with shelters and emergency rations. Everyone will make for them, including any men-at-arms who become separated from the rest of us. It’s not an ideal plan, but I think it’s realistic given our numbers.”
“I’d say you’re probably right, my lord.”
“I’m glad you think so. It means a lot to me to have my old troop sergeant put his seal of approval on my plans. It’s just like old times.”
They grinned at each other as Diava spanned his crossbow with a powerful heave on the cocking lever at the side of the tiller. He felt for the quiver at his waist, making sure the three Graben bolts the Baron had given him the previous evening were separate from the others. Briefly he thanked the Gods that his illness had weakened his legs, not his arms. He could still wield a weapon if he had to, even if he couldn’t carry it very far or very fast.
“Sergeant Calathon, call the roll,” the Baron ordered.
A tall, strongly built man-at-arms rested the head of his battle-axe on the toe of his boot, leaned its shaft against his leg, and began to call out names from a list in his hand.
—————
Karikan swallowed nervously as his gruefell arrowed towards the clearing. He’d never before led troops into action, and had therefore been forced to rely on the patrol commanders to turn his plan of action into workable orders. He resented their competence, their half-veiled contempt when he’d asked them to do things that seemed logical to him, but were apparently unsound militarily. Who did these common Graben think they were to look down on him, a qualified sorcerer? His annoyance, added to his inexperience and his fear of the dire consequences of failure – which was infinitely greater than his fear of the enemy – combined to make his stomach queasier than he could ever remember it being before.
He looked around, his spell-enhanced eyes seeing clearly despite the gloom. Five more gruefells followed his, in arrowhead formation, each carrying two armed riders. He could only trust that the other three groups, each with six gruefells and twelve Graben riders, were moving towards the clearing as they were supposed to, one from each of the cardinal points.
His eyes narrowed in annoyance as he recalled how the patrol commanders had wanted to attack in a single group, to allow their riders to form up quickly once on the ground. They’d emphasized the importance of what they referred to as ‘concentration of force’. He’d overruled them, stressing the need to search for the Champion around the perimeter of the clearing, which would inevitably mean dividing their forces. Furthermore, he’d been ordered to preserve the gruefells from harm. Why offer a massed target for their arrows to any enemy who happened to be
awake? They could hardly miss so large a group, even if they fired blindly into it without aiming. Their arrows would be bound to hit something. Even if a gruefell wasn’t killed, if it was hurt badly enough that it couldn’t fly – an arrow in a wing root, perhaps – it would be as good as lost.
“How long now?” he asked the rider in front of him.
“We’re less than a minute away. The others will land while we circle overhead, as you ordered, so you can see what’s going on and issue any orders that may be needed.”
“Very well. Let them get ahead of us. Don’t get too low.”
The man didn’t answer, but must have transmitted mental commands to his mount. Karikan felt the angle of the gruefell’s body change as it beat its wings harder and faster, rising clear of the others as they swept past beneath it.
—————
Calathon had reached the sixth name when a hunting horn blared a strident call from the far side of the clearing. Everyone stiffened in shock; but even as they looked around in the half-light, trying to see what had caused someone in the southern group to sound the alarm, horn calls sounded from east and west as well. Dark shapes suddenly materialized overhead, dropping fast towards the grass beyond the trees.
Calathon dropped his list and grabbed his axe. “Gruefells!”
“They’re coming from all directions!” the Baron shouted.
Even before he’d finished speaking, the man-at-arms beside him had slapped a bolt into the track of his arbalest and shouldered it. He aimed at the nearest immense shape, black against the pre-dawn sky as it back-winged before touching down, and squeezed the firing lever. His arbalest twanged loudly, steel prod snapping forward with immense force, and his bolt vanished into the gloom. The beast shrieked in sudden agony, jerking its head back, and its back-winging faltered. It crashed the last few feet to the ground, crunching on the frozen grass, and the two figures on saddles astride its neck were hurled to the ground.
Diava automatically, instinctively slotted a bolt into place and nocked its notched end to his bowstring. He belatedly realized he hadn’t selected one of the poisoned bolts Owain had left for him, but that didn’t matter against a human target. He aimed at the nearest figure picking itself off the grass, no more than twenty feet from him, and triggered his weapon. The bolt flashed low and flat over the grass and slammed into the man’s chest, piercing his mail coat and all the way through his torso at such short range, its bodkin point and half its length jutting out of his spine. With a shout of agony, the Graben raider fell backwards.
“PROTECT THE ARCHERS!” the Baron bellowed. “Keep the enemy away from them!”
Diava was dimly aware of his new-found comrades forming a screen ahead of them, crouching low so as not to obscure their aim. He couldn’t take time to focus on them as he yanked hard on the cocking lever, spanning his weapon, then grabbed one of Owain’s poisoned bolts and slapped it into the track. Two archers near him, armed with composite bows, were firing as fast as they could snatch arrows from their quivers, sending their light, fast missiles at the raiders on the ground as they dropped from their gruefells. They couldn’t penetrate mail surcoats at longer ranges, but one of the figures stumbled, clutching at his unarmored leg. Another shouted in pain and dropped his sword as a shaft suddenly sprouted from his wrist.
The other raiders charged towards them brandishing swords, spears and maces. Calathon stepped in front of Diava, expertly dodging a wild blow from a mace as he swung his double-headed battle-axe in a short, economical chopping motion. The arm holding the mace flew away from the raider, who shrieked and clasped the bleeding stump for an instant before Calathon reversed his swing, the blade carving into the man’s neck with a meaty thump. The head lolled to one side, almost severed, the stump of the neck fountaining blood as the attacker collapsed.
As he fell, the arbalestier beside Diava fired again, producing a shriek of pain from a gruefell further out in the clearing. Calathon ducked as he heard the twang of the bowstring behind him, then stepped back between the two archers as another gruefell screamed in fury and charged towards them. Shoot at the soft parts, Diava mentally reminded himself as he snapped the reloaded crossbow to his shoulder. He aimed right into the creature’s mouth as it screamed again, and fired. The bolt streaked across the rapidly closing space between them and disappeared into the gaping saw-edged beak. The gruefell gave a strangled, choking, gargling cry as it reared up, wings beating frantically, head back as if looking straight up at the fading stars. It toppled to one side, heavy body crashing down on top of the first raider Diava had shot, and lay there, kicking and struggling, its movements already growing feebler.
The arbalestier frantically cranked his weapon’s cocking lever. Its weakest point, offsetting its immense power, was that it took fifteen to twenty seconds to re-span the steel prod and reload. Diava’s crossbow, with its less powerful composite prod, was faster to reload than an arbalest, although it could never equal the power of the latter, or match the rate of fire of a recurve bow. He hauled on the cocking lever again, the bowstring clicking into place over its catch, and moved to his left to put more space between himself and Calathon, so the latter would have room to swing his battle-axe. He reached for another poisoned bolt as the Baron yelled a warning, pointing skyward.
—————
Karikan admired the precision with which the four groups of gruefells touched down at the cardinal points of the clearing, just inside the boundary of trees – then gasped in horror as first one, then more of the animals in each group staggered, screamed, and began to fall. How is this possible? his brain yammered at him. They were ready for us! Who betrayed us? The Council will blame me for this!
He stared down at the group he’d accompanied to the clearing. Already one of its gruefells had collapsed to the ground, landing hard, throwing its two riders clear. One of them tried to stand, then fell backwards as something slammed into him with vicious force. His companion rushed forward, waving his mace, but was intercepted by – an axeman!
He yelled at the rider in front of him, “That’s our target! Take us down, straight at him! Tell your gruefell to kill him!”
“You’re mad! They’ll hit us for sure! They’ve got arbalests in the treeline!”
“I’m a sorcerer! I’ll take care of the arbalests! Get that man with the axe! That must be Owain!” He watched in horror as the axeman slaughtered the Graben with almost nonchalant ease. He knew the only way he might possibly earn forgiveness for the casualties among the irreplaceable gruefells was to lay the Champion’s head at the Council’s feet, along with all he had stolen.
The rider sent a mental command to his gruefell, which screamed its anger aloud as it saw another of its kind rush towards the axeman, then rear up and fall. It seemed to pivot on a wingtip as it banked steeply over the center of the clearing, then plummeted towards the action. Karikan began the incantation that would hurl a killing spell at the treeline as soon as he could see a target.
—————
Diava looked up to see a gruefell diving towards them, beak agape, eyes rolling in the fury of battle lust. It seemed to be aiming directly for Calathon. The rearmost of the two riders astride its neck half-stood in his stirrups and pointed at the arbalestier. He seemed to be shouting something, but Diava couldn’t hear his words over the cries and yells of other fighters. The archer stiffened, dropped his arbalest and collapsed backwards.
Calathon braced himself, hefting his axe, shouting “For the Baron and the King!” as the gruefell bounced to the ground ten yards ahead of them, then charged, its riders still on its back. Diava threw his crossbow to his shoulder and aimed at the beast’s raised neck, but it stabbed its head down at Calathon as he fired. His bolt skimmed over the animal’s neck and slammed into the belly of the foremost rider. He croaked in agony as he was shoved back by the impact into his passenger, who also shouted in pain and clutched at his chest. My bolt must have gone right through the front rider and hit the second, Diava realized instant
ly. His hands were already re-spanning his crossbow as he stumbled backwards, cursing his slow, unresponsive legs, still sore and aching after yesterday’s exertions.
Calathon launched a blow at the massive head as it lunged at him, but it was useless. The gruefell ignored the axe as it bounced off its iron-hard beak, then bit down hard on his midriff. The man-at-arms was bisected at the waist. His legs and hips collapsed to the ground in a shower of blood and torn intestines, while his head and torso were lifted off the ground, the battle-axe falling from his lifeless hands. He was dead before he could even cry out.
With a shout of fury, Brackley charged forward. As the gruefell shook Calathon’s body to and fro, he threw himself upward and lunged with his sword. Its point pierced the creature’s plate-sized right eye, producing a rush of ichor that splattered all over the Baron as he fell back to the ground. The gruefell squalled in agony, dropping Calathon’s torso as its beak opened. It tottered for a moment, off-balance as it reeled, then recovered itself, turning its head towards its riders as they lay collapsed in their saddles at the base of its long, sinuous neck, almost as if it were pleading with them. Getting no response, it spread its wings and launched itself frantically into the air.
Diava slid the last of his poisoned bolts into the track of his crossbow. He ran forward, seized the Baron’s arm and hauled him to his feet, thrusting him back, then stepped in front of him as he lifted the weapon. His battle fury was tinged with sorrow for Calathon as he tucked the tiller into his shoulder and aimed almost vertically at the beast as it left the ground. He pulled the lever, and the bolt sped straight and true.