by Martin Owton
“Yes, my Lord,” said Faraz. His eyes lost focus for a moment and his lips moved silently as he sent the order out to the commanders linked to him.
“Where’s the chieftain?” asked Lord Merrek.
Faraz closed his eyes again and reached out. A moment later he gasped, his eyes opened wide and he swayed so wildly that Wiston caught him lest he fell. A shout, louder than the drums, came from all around them. Hundreds of warriors emerged from the cover of the trees and advanced towards the camp screaming war cries.
The ground shook with a rumble like the growl of some gigantic beast. From the forest in front of them a vast shadowed figure rose, taller than the trees. Wiston felt a wave of fear roll over him. Faraz moaned weakly in his arms.
“What in the name of Martis is that?” said Lord Claran.
“That’s what attacked my mule train,” said Wiston.
“How do we fight it, Faraz?” asked Lord Merrek.
“It’s too strong,” said Faraz as Wiston held him upright. “Have to kill the mage who controls it.”
The vast creature moved towards the camp through the trees like a man walking through tall grass, brushing aside those it did not snap. The enemy warriors parted before it to leave a clear path and the shadows around cleared to reveal a vision from hell. Its vast body, armoured with heavy scales, stood on legs like beech trunks. The head, crowned with writhing snakes, rose directly off the hulking mass of its torso. A vast maw filled with dagger-like fangs gaped and roared defiance to the world as it ran, its footsteps shaking the ground.
“Archers! Prepare to engage,” ordered Wiston.
The creature did not charge straight at them but veered off to approach the wooden wall around from the gap they guarded.
“What’s it doing?” asked Lord Claran. “It stinks like hell.”
“Archers shoot,” ordered Wiston as the creature passed in front of them at a distance of forty paces, the stench of it making many of the defenders cough and gag. Four dozen arrows flew and every one found its mark yet it neither turned nor slowed. A second volley produced no more effect.
The creature smashed into the wall with a deafening roar, crashing through it and uprooting or breaking a dozen or so stakes. It emerged into the paddock where the cavalry horses were corralled. The panicked horses snapped their tethers, broke through the corral fence and, driven on by the creature, stampeded through the archers and the rear of the shield wall.
Then the howling horde of wildmen hit them.
***
“I thought we were supposed to be guarding this camp, not building it,” said Maldwyn.
“That’s what I thought too,” said Aron.
“Shut your noise and keep working,” said the sergeant in Caldon livery who was in command of the work team delivering logs for the perimeter wall. “The sooner this is done, the sooner we’re secure.”
Caldon’s own men were building the wall and felling trees. It was noticeable that the Saxish clansmen had not been asked to participate. One or two of them came out to watch for a while but the majority stayed in their tents. That annoyed Aron, though he was happy enough to be nowhere near them.
They were harnessing their ropes around another tree trunk when a trumpet blew the alert followed by three short whistle blasts. All the men of the company stopped what they were doing and ran for the command tent.
“Get packed up and ready to move immediately,” ordered Granna. “Camp one is under attack.”
Aron’s heart lurched at his words.
“Edith,” said Maldwyn.
“Iduna protect her,” said Aron. They turned and ran for their tent.
A short time later Granna led the company down the track that lead to camp one followed by the Saxish clansmen and Caldon’s own troops. They moved at a brisk trot that was too slow for the anxiety that chewed at Aron and Maldwyn.
Aron concentrated on the rhythm of his steps and keeping his feet on the uneven muddy track, his mind far away praying for Edith’s safety and wondering what they would find at the camp. When a sudden halt was called he realised he had no idea where they were. Ahead of the column two figures emerged from the trees, one wearing the green and gold of the company.
Granna moved forward to meet them. As they drew nearer Aron’s heart soared as he recognised Edith clad in the green and gold. The other figure was a stocky little man clad in deerskin jerkin and trews, one of the native scouts Aron presumed. After talking Granna, Edith and the scout fell in at the front of the column giving Aron no chance to speak to them before they were moving again.
They crested a ridge and had their first sight of the camp. The column halted and stared in horror. The tents were all gone and the logs of the palisade were strewn around the crest like scattered twigs, only the bank still stood. A dozen men were sent ahead to scout giving Aron and Maldwyn the opportunity they had been waiting for to talk to Edith.
“I was trying to get to the port,” said Edith. “Kusso was taking me through the hills away from the road. But we ran into the enemy army and he decided to make for your camp.”
“How many enemy?” asked Aron, delighted and relieved that she was unharmed and happy to talk to them.
“I don’t know. It seemed like an endless stream of them.”
“It must be a lot to overrun a fortified camp and destroy it like that.”
“Big priest bring Warua,” said Kusso. He sniffed the air. “I smell it.”
Aron sniffed at the air; there was a lingering whiff of something like burned hair that caught at his throat. “I can smell it too. What is Warua?”
“Bad fighting spirit. Priest bring it. Big magic.”
“A demon?” said Maldwyn.
“Sounds like,” said Aron. “If it is, that’s a huge problem.”
“How do you fight it?” asked Edith.
“No fight it,” said Kusso. “Only kill priest.”
“Not so easy if he has an army around him,” said Maldwyn.
“Better than fight Warua,” said Kusso.
“That’s the way I’ve heard it,” said Aron. “Unless you’ve got a powerful mage on your side.”
“So where’s it gone?” asked Maldwyn.
“Gone back,” said Kusso.
“Back where?” said Edith.
“Back where priest call it from,” said Kusso.
Whistles blew from the scouts at the camp. Granna called the column to order. They advanced down from the ridge then climbed the low hill and entered the ruined fortress. Seen close up some of the logs, thicker than Aron’s thigh, were splintered and snapped in two. Bloody corpses lay all around, stripped of weapons, armour, boots and anything else useful. Some had been mutilated after death, their scalps taken. Stray limbs and dismembered torsos were scattered randomly. Clouds of flies rose from them and buzzed around the living as they passed by, horror-struck and nauseated. The stench of the Warua hung heavy in the air mixed with smoke from the burned tents.
“There are no enemy dead,” said Maldwyn. “Did they kill none of them?”
“They must have removed their dead and left ours,” said Aron.
“This is terrible,” said Edith. “Is it always this bad?”
“I don’t know,” said Aron. “This is the first battlefield I’ve seen.”
“This is the bit the bards don’t sing about,” said Maldwyn.
“Not glorious is it?” said Aron.
A whistle blew and Granna called on everyone to gather round
“You’ve all seen how bad it is, and it is bad,” he said, the senior Caldon sergeant and a Saxishman standing beside him. “There is no evidence of any survivors, and it looks like they’ve taken Lord Merrek, Lord Claran and the other commanders, and Faraz the mage. Everything suggests a large force, maybe as many as a thousand warriors. We can’t stay here while there’s the possibility they may return. The camp we left is less defensible than this was so we can’t go back there. We’ve decided to march for Cuiport.”
There was a mutter
of disapproval in the ranks about leaving the dead unburied.
“We haven’t the tools or the time to deal with them, and we’re badly exposed if we stay here,” said the Caldon sergeant. “We’ve agreed on this. We march through the night to Cuiport.”
A brisk wind cleared the clouds and, for the first time since they had arrived, they had a clear sky for the march. They marched a little way down the road then paused to fill their waterskins and eat such rations as they had with them, though few were truly hungry. Then they set out for Cuiport, glad to leave behind the carnage and worried about the now vanished enemy force. Once night had fallen, there was enough moonlight to see the road and make slow progress though not to avoid the puddles. They marched in silence, each one seemingly absorbed by their own thoughts of the destruction they had seen.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lady Alice faced Glynis across the solar as night lay over Nandor.
“You may make all the sour faces you like, Glynis,” she said. “But it has to be done. I’ve heard your objections, but my mind is made up.”
“It is the last of the mushrooms, my Lady,” said Glynis. “And the wrong time of year to be trying to get any more.”
“That cannot be helped. Maldwyn and Aron need to know what has occurred.”
Glynis paused as if about to speak then moved to the door. “Yes, my Lady.”
Lady Alice turned from her to the narrow window that looked over the courtyard. Half a dozen men, Tancred’s mercenaries, lounged around the barrack entrance playing dice by lantern light. She held no strong grudge against them; they were just doing what mercenaries do. Her anger was reserved for those men of the Nandor garrison who had taken Tancred’s side; they would pay dearly for their treachery. If she could remove Tancred then the whole revolt would collapse. Not an easy task though. Tancred was never alone and always armed and armoured on the infrequent occasions he was in her presence, so a direct assault was out of the question. She ground her teeth in frustration. She could happily poison the lot of them; except she could not. She was confined, with no access to the kitchen and the threat of harm to Mara looming over every option.
Glynis returned with a small charcoal stove, pan and muslin bag. She emptied the contents of the bag into the pan, added water and set it on the stove then sat on her stool watching it. Lady Alice ignored her and continued looking out of the window. She wondered where Maldwyn, Edith and Aron were, if there were any closer to finding Celaine. The mercenaries dowsed their lantern and turned in for the night leaving the fortress in darkness except for the gatehouse.
The contents of the pan boiled and Glynis poured off the dark liquid into a wooden cup. “It is brewed, my Lady.”
“Leave it down there thank you, Glynis. You may go.”
“I think I should stay and keep an eye on you, my Lady.”
“Very well.” It was not worth arguing about. She picked up the cup and, steeling herself against the taste, drained it. After rinsing her mouth with clean water, she settled herself in her chair and waited for it to begin.
She had begun to think it was not going to work when the edges of her vision began to blur. Mist rose from the floor, obscuring Glynis perched on her stool. Lady Alice stood up and, fixing the image of Maldwyn as she had last seen him in her mind, stepped forward. The mist swirled around her as she walked but nothing darkened or solidified. She kept walking, concentrating on her image of Maldwyn but still saw only white.
Fear pierced her for a moment as she remembered Glynis’s warning before she thought: he must be awake. She smiled as she pictured Maldwyn standing sentry, before changing the image in her mind to Edith. She walked on and still the white swirled around her with no focus developing.
Is she awake too?
She changed the picture in her mind to Aron and nothing altered, the mist continued to swirl around her.
Alas! I have chosen the wrong night to walk in search of them. She wondered what they were doing that they were all awake and then filled her mind with an image of Celaine. To her relief the mist darkened and solidified then she stepped out in a small room with rough wooden walls. On one of the two beds a figure huddled under a blanket.
“Celaine,” she called. The figure stirred and mewed like a sick kitten.
“Celaine!” she wrapped the figure in her arms, horrified by the hollowed –eyed face that looked up at her.
She held her a long time simply grateful that she was alive before the anger built. There was only one person responsible for this and she was determined to see him pay. The mist rose around her as she thought of Tancred and darkened until Celaine was gone and she was in another larger room hung with rich tapestries.
This room she recognised; until recently it had been her own. Now Tancred lay in the big bed. She stared balefully at him, wondering what harm she could do him in this form. Nothing physical regrettably, but I can scare him.
She walked to his side and leaned over him.
“Tancred, she called. “I’ve come to kill you.”
Her hand brushed his cheek. Tancred sat up eyes wide, mouth open.
“Alice?” he gasped.
“Time to die, Tancred,” she said and smiled at him as she imagined herself back with Glynis. The mist rose around her and Tancred’s horrified face faded from view.
She opened her eyes and was back in her chair with Glynis looking at her. She breathed deeply and let the anger subside before facing her.
“Celaine still lives though she has been harshly used,” she said.
“Has Lord Maldwyn found her yet?”
“No. I wasn’t able to reach Maldwyn or Edith. I couldn’t find them in the mist. They may be awake. I hope nothing has happened to them.”
Glynis’s mouth twitched; Lady Alice waited for her to say something about wasting the last mushrooms.
“That can’t be helped,” said Glynis. “It was worth doing to know Celaine is alive. Now you’re back safe and sound I’ll wish you goodnight, my Lady.”
She collected her stove and pan and left the room. Lady Alice prepared herself for bed and blew out the candle, but sleep was a long time coming.
***
Wiston looked out of the cave mouth at the morning he never expected to see. The narrow valley was filled with clansmen; many still sleeping off the excesses of their celebration, but some now tending cooking fires.
“What do you see?” asked Lord Merrek from where he lay at the back of the cave.
“A victorious army,” said Wiston.
“Martis blast the lot of them,” said Lord Claran. They and Faraz were the only survivors of the six hundred or so men that had defended the camp. The clansmen had overwhelmed them by sheer numbers after the panicked horses broke the shield wall. But rather than cut them to pieces as they had everyone else, they had been spared, bound and carried away. Clearly the clansmen had known who they were.
The tattooed warrior guarding them growled at him and Wiston retreated slowly back into the cave, hobbled by the sinews binding his ankles, to sit beside Faraz. The mage had begun to recover from his sudden weakness as soon as the demonic creature had vanished, but his eyes were still bloodshot.
“How are you, my friend?” said Wiston.
“I still have the grandfather of all headaches,” said Faraz. “I’ve been trying to contact Master Tabian with no success, but I have been able to contact the junior mages at Cuiport and one of the commanders from camp two. The garrison from camp two are on the march towards us. They’re outnumbered eight to one though, and that’s without considering the demon.”
“Is that what it was?”
Faraz nodded. “A big one too. It takes a very powerful mage to summon and control something that large.”
“More powerful than Master Tabian?”
“I think so.”
“Then how do we stop them?”
Faraz shrugged. “We don’t. Nothing short of a circle of masters can oppose a demon that big.”
“Then we’re all in a
lot of trouble,” said Wiston.
“Oh yes,” said Faraz. “There’s nothing between here and the Holy City to stop them.”
***
“I wanted your opinion on this because I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” said Granna. “You’re not an ordinary soldier, and you know a lot more than you’re letting on.”
They had marched through the night along the road and shortly after dawn Granna had unexpectedly called the column to a halt. After consulting with Kusso and the other scouts he had taken them off the road following a narrow path into the forest. Now Aron looked down from a vantage point above the clansmen’s encampment within a bend of a river that flowed through a steep-sided valley. Smoke from a multitude of campfires rose from the level area beside the water. The dark mouths of several caves gaped from the rock of the opposite hillside.
“They’re in one of the caves,” said Granna.
Aron surveyed the scene; the best part of a thousand warriors occupied the area, completely covering it, save for a portion before one of the caves where a dozen men were erecting four poles. A man, shaven-headed and even more tattooed than the rest of the warriors, walked out of the cave carrying a bucket.
The Saxish clansman who had come to watch with them spat out a curse.
“What?” asked Granna.
“Our shaman,” said the Saxishman. “Chief Tentra and him break our honour in Darien. We kill Tentra. Bad luck to kill shaman, we send shaman away.”
“And that’s where he’s finished up,” said Granna.
Aron listened intently to the Saxishman’s words; he had not considered that they might have disagreed with their chief over the betrayal of Earl Ivo. That they had disagreed enough to kill Tentra over it was a revelation. Tentra had been high on Aron’s list of people he hoped to face blade in hand. If he was out of reach then the shaman would take his place. Aron looked again at the shaman; he was pouring sand from the bucket marking out a circle.
“Looks like he’s making a summoning circle. I’d say he’s about to call the demon again,” said Aron, a cold lump of fear in his stomach. “I’ve no idea what the posts are for.”
“They hold four prisoners,” said Granna. “Lord Merrek, Lord Claran, Wiston and Faraz the mage. Faraz reached me at dawn.”