by Martin Owton
“Sacrifices for the demon?” said Aron, the cold lump spreading.
“It looks very much like that,” said Granna.
Aron thought for a moment. “The scout, Kusso, said the only way to fight the demon was to kill the summoner.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Granna. “How do we get to him through all those clansmen and save our prisoners?”
“I’m working on that,” said Aron, measuring the distance to the circle with his eye. “He’ll need plenty of space when he’s summoning. That leaves him exposed. We have at least one archer capable of hitting him at this range.”
“What happens to the demon if we take down the summoner?” asked Granna.
“If the circle is intact then the demon cannot escape unless the summoner wills it,” said Aron. “If the summoner dies then the demon should return to where it came from.”
“Leaving a thousand vengeful clansmen between us and the prisoners,” said Granna.
“But if we break the circle before the shaman dies, the demon will be free giving the clansmen something else to think about,” said Aron. “Then we can go down and free the prisoners.”
“How do you plan on breaking the circle?” asked Granna.
Aron examined the saplings surrounding them, testing the springiness of a couple. “Can we collect some waterskins and rope? I have an idea.”
A dozen full waterskins were fetched. Matched pairs of saplings were tied back with rope and formed into primitive catapults by joined cloaks. Edith and two other archers were called forward and made ready.
Granna watched the construction with a sceptical frown on his face. “And you think this will work?”
“It did last time,” said Aron.
Granna grunted in reply.
Down in the camp a horn sounded; the clansmen ceased whatever they were doing and gathered to sit cross-legged around the circle where a large pile of wood now stood. A stocky man wearing the pelt of a bear, the head still attached as a headpiece, strode out of the cave brandishing a pair of spears.
“That’s the headman,” said Granna. “Get Kusso up here, I want to know what he’s saying.”
Aron hurried down to the rest of the company and returned with the scout.
The chieftain’s words carried easily over the river though Aron could understand not a word. Kusso listened intently but did not provide commentary.
The chieftain finished his address with a great battle cry, waving the spears over his head. The clansmen roared back a similar cry and then the drums started up.
“Shaman summon Warua then they attack port,” said Kusso. “Rest was how big warriors they are and what they do to you.”
“Not if we get to them first,” said Granna. He turned to Aron. “This needs to work or we’re not going home.”
The captives were dragged out of the cave and tied to the poles in front of the roaring howling clansmen. Aron did not recognise them, but not one of them struggled or screamed though one appeared semi-conscious at best. The chieftain stood in front of them taunting them to the enjoyment of his audience.
“I could take him now,” said one of the archers.
“Wait,” said Granna. “Your target is the shaman.”
The chieftain finished his taunting and went to sit with his warriors. The drums beat louder and the shaman stepped forward. He lit the pile of wood which blazed up immediately and began a chant to the rhythm of the drums that was taken up by the warriors.
“Get your men ready,” ordered Granna. The Saxishman left his side and moments later his men were moving forward on their bellies over the crest to avoid being sky-lined and taking up positions concealed in the trees on the slope above the river.
The breeze dropped and the air in the valley grew very still, as if everything was holding its breath. At first Aron thought it was a trick of the firelight, a twist of smoke caught in an eddy perhaps, but as he watched something began to take shape within the circle. One of the captives screamed; a thin piercing shriek that was quickly drowned by the pulse of the drums.
In the circle the twist of smoke thickened and began to glow orange-red like the heart of the fire. The glow expanded until it filled the cylinder defined by the drawn circle, then it darkened abruptly as if something had stepped into the light. The shaman opened his arms wide in welcome, and his congregation let out an awed sigh of triumph as a huge figure materialised. The fire quenched in a tower of sparks and evil-smelling dark smoke which clung to the figure obscuring its features.
“Shoot,” ordered Granna.
Edith and the other two archers loosed their first arrows as Aron and Granna laid pairs of water skins in the nearest makeshift catapults. With a prayer to Iduna, Aron loosed the rope holding back the saplings and launched the skins into the air. Granna did the same and another pair of water skins followed the first.
Two arrows struck the shaman, in shoulder and thigh. He roared in pain and toppled to his knees. The massed warriors gasped and roared in reply, the front rank leapt to their feet. Aron’s gaze followed the path of the water skins as they arced towards the demon, willing them to fly straight. A pair landed at its feet and burst washing away the sand that defined the circle.
The moment the circle was broken the demon was free. With a howl of triumph that reverberated round the valley it surged forward and seized the stricken shaman where he knelt. One huge hand scooped him up and delivered him shrieking to the beast’s mouth. With a snarl the demon took head and chest in a single bite then threw the remains carelessly away into the river. It turned and bounded forwards towards the packed mass of warriors roaring like a great waterfall. The warriors howled in dismay, broke and ran. Men trampled underfoot in the panic were snatched up and eaten by the demon as the army fled.
“Keep shooting,” ordered Granna. “Take the headman.”
Aron launched himself down the slope with a squad of company soldiers to join the Saxishmen splashing across the shallows, the waist-deep water shockingly chill. The demon disappeared around the bend in the river in pursuit of the enemy warriors. The Saxishmen formed a perimeter while Aron and other men of the company worked to free the captives as the roaring faded into the distance.
All the captives were free and they were making ready to carry away the most injured when a growl pulsed through the air around them. The Saxishmen came running from the perimeter as the stink of the demon assaulted their throats.
“Into the cave,” cried Aron as the demon reappeared around the bend, swooping on the slowest of the Saxishmen. Aron would not have reached the cave but for the man who stumbled in the monster’s path and died shrieking in its jaws. He tumbled inside then, with a dreadful snarl, the demon filled the entrance behind him. It stretched out a huge arm reaching for him with a clawed paw that carved grooves in the rock floor as he scrambled back. The demon screeched in frustration as the low roof prevented it reaching its prey who cowered as far away as possible, ears ringing and gagging as the demon's foul breath washed over them.
Seven men sheltered in the cave along with Aron; the four freed captives, one laid out on the floor with a large dark stain across the front of his tunic, and three company soldiers. One former captive wore the tattered remains of a mage’s robes.
“What do we do now?” Aron asked. “I thought these things were supposed to go back to wherever they come from if they got free.”
“All the books are so old, and no-one really knows,” said the mage, his face ghostly pale. “But my guess is it won’t go while it is hungry and has something to focus on.”
“We need to get my cousin out soon if he is going to survive,” said another of the captives, a man in his mid-thirties with a commanding air; Lord Merrek, Aron presumed. “I feel a fever is growing in his veins. Is there anything you can do, Faraz?”
“I’m afraid not, my Lord,” said the mage. “The presence of this creature sickens me and drains all my power.”
“Then we’re caught here until it grows tired o
f waiting?”
“That could be a long wait, my Lord.”
“And by then the enemy could have regrouped.”
A thought occurred to Aron and, remembering his days as a child exploring the crags around Darien castle and town, he went to investigate the gloom at the back of the cave. There was a stack of cut firewood, but he could not make out if there was anything beyond. He started moving the wood aside and paused; he could swear he had felt a breeze against his skin. He shifted the rest of the wood to reveal a low opening dark opening. He reached into the darkness with a length of wood and it met no resistance. He unfastened his sword belt then, dropping to hands and knees, he crawled forward, wincing at the sharp gravel on the uneven surface, using the wood to probe ahead. He was certain now there was a breeze across his cheek. The passageway began to rise and then, after a stretch of darkness, he could see a gleam of light above.
The crawl became a climb up towards the light, but the passageway widened until it brought Aron out in what had been a wide cavern before the roof collapsed leaving it open to the sky. Water dripped from the walls and a pool of clear water filled much of the floor. A tumble of rocks to his right provided a route up to the lip of the hollow. Bringing up the injured captive would be a challenge, he thought, but they had a way out. He filled his lungs several times over with fresh air to purge the stench of the demon then turned to retrace his steps.
The cavern still stank and the demon still snarled and clawed at the floor in a vain attempt to reach the trapped men who turned to look as he regained his feet.
“There’s a way out,” said Aron. “It’s narrow but passable, even carrying a man.”
“Thank Martis,” said Lord Merrek. “Let’s waste no more time. Here Wiston, help me.”
He went to the prone figure of his cousin and lifted him to his feet; Wiston came to support him. The half-conscious man sagged between them.
“What about the demon?” said Wiston. “What's to stop it coming after us once we’re outside?”
“We’ll be out of sight,” said Aron. “The cave comes out in a hollow on the top of the hill.”
“But once we’re gone, there’s nothing to hold the demon here,” said Wiston. “It’ll be loose in the countryside.”
Aron thought of Edith and Maldwyn; they would still be on the hill on the other side of the river. “You’re right. So long as it can see its prey it’ll stay here. But we may be able to trap it.”
“What’s your idea?” said Lord Merrek.
“If there’s enough loose rock on the slope over the cave, we could start a landslip that will trap the demon here in the cave mouth.”
Lord Merrek nodded. “I like that. Who stays behind to hold its interest?”
No-one spoke. Aron looked at the three company soldiers; not one would meet his eyes.
“I will stay,” he said.
“Brave man! I’ll see you’re well rewarded for this,” said Lord Merrek.
“I’ll see you on top, my Lord,” said Aron. “Just keep going. I found no side passages. You’ll see daylight in no time.”
Wiston and Faraz both shook his hand, the three company soldiers did not. Then they moved to the back of the cave and, one by one, crawled into the darkness, finally dragging the injured man after them.
The demon still filled the cave mouth and scrabbled its claws mindlessly on the floor and walls trying to grasp him. Aron settled himself against the wall of the cave by the passageway to wait out of reach. He had faced danger and death many times before, but always the outcome had turned upon his own resources. Whether facing a swordsman in single combat, or climbing a sheer rockface, his fate was in his hands; sitting shivering in a gloomy stinking cave waiting for the roof to fall in tested his nerves in an utterly different way. There was nothing to do except wait and worry about how much damage the rockslide would do: would he be able to get out, or would he share his last moments with an entombed demon? Would they even be able to trigger a rockslide? Cold fingers of fear gripped his stomach and refused to be dislodged.
He offered up a prayer to Iduna and remembered the last time he had prayed to her at the shrine in Keshan; how Edith had glared at the priestess asking if they had come to ask Iduna’s blessing on their wedding. I’ll make that come true if she wants me to come back to Nandor. The thought warmed him a little amid the gloom and stench. He wondered if Iduna was listening, but the presence of the demon saturated his senses so that he doubted he would be able discern any sign she gave.
Aron felt the rockslide before he heard it. The rock trembled around him and the demon howled in response; the rumble drowned the howl and ended in a crashing roar. Then there was darkness and silence broken by a couple of small stone slides.
Aron crawled into the passageway, probing ahead with his sheathed sword. At the noise of his movement, the demon burst out in an ear-splitting fury and attacked the rocks that blocked the entrance, but even its strength was not enough to shift the barrier.
Aron moved cautiously forward, fearing loose rocks but finding none. Creeping along in the dark with the demon’s howls for company, it seemed to take much longer than he expected until he saw the gleam of daylight. From there it was a short climb until he stood beside the pool gratefully breathing lungfuls of clean air.
A voice called out from above and he turned to see Wiston waving to him from the top of the slope. Aron scrambled up to meet him and the knight embraced him.
“I’m so glad to see you safe,” he said. “You have saved us all.”
Aron followed Wiston to where Lord Merrek watched as Faraz attempted to treat Lord Claran. Lord Merrek looked up as they approached and a smile spread across his face.
“Good to see you alive,” he said, offering his hand. “May I know the name of my saviour?”
“Aron. Aron of Nandor.” Aron took his hand. His grip was firm.
“Very glad to make your acquaintance, sir. I owe you my life, as do my companions. We will speak of this again when we get back to Cuiport. Now, ‘tis time we were gone from this sorry place.” He turned to Faraz. “How is he?”
“I’ve done as much as I can out here, my Lord,” said Faraz. “We need to get him back to Cuiport.”
Lord Merrek called the three company soldiers to bring the litter they had built and Lord Claran was lifted onto it.
“Now we need to find a way off this hill,” said Lord Merrek.
Aron and Wiston went out ahead of the others to try and find a way they could comfortably bring the litter down. They quickly came across a path that led down a steep but navigable slope to the river.
They found the first body on the path; by the time they reached the river there were dozens. Most of the corpses were incomplete; arms or legs torn off, many were headless. It reminded Aron of the slaughter at the devastated camp. Just before they reached the area of the camp they found the chieftain’s body, still clad in the bearskin, minus his legs.
Aron looked to where the cave mouth had been; a large pile of boulders and earth five or six times his height completely covered it.
“The demon is gone,” said Faraz as they approached the summoning area. “I cannot feel its presence any longer.”
“Never to return, I hope,” said Aron.
“I share that hope,” said Faraz with feeling.
Granna and the remainder of the company met them as they crossed the shallows. Aron was greatly relieved to see Edith and Maldwyn among them, and as soon as he had waded out of the river Edith had her arms around him.
“I was so scared when I saw that thing chase you into the cave,” she said, hugging him fiercely. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought it would eat you.”
“I don’t ever want to face a thing like that again,” said Aron, relishing her embrace.
“That was far far worse that watching you fight in the Holy City,” said Edith. She reached up to kiss him and they held the kiss as the company assembled.
Their embrace was ended by Granna’s order to move out an
d they set about climbing the steep slope up to where they had launched the water skins from. From there Kusso led them along paths through the forest so narrow that they had to proceed in single file; slow progress with them having to move at the pace of the stretcher-bearers.
As he walked, Aron went over the events of the day and tried to put his thoughts in order. The wait in the cave had given him ample opportunity to reflect on his life and own mortality. With the shaman dead, it was clear that the Saxishmen who marched with him were no longer his enemies. They had paid whatever debt they owed by the way they had dealt with the oath-breaker Tentra. Now he had saved the life and shaken the hand of Caldon’s heir; the man who would one day rule Darien. It was time to put that feud behind him and concentrate on where his life was going. Now, with Lord Merrek’s gratitude, they had the chance to free Celaine and take her back to Nandor. Then Aron would face a decision, but in truth that decision was already made. Edith, it seemed, had put aside her anger, and if she wanted him to stay in Nandor then that is what he would do.
There could be worse fates. Despite the rain, Nandor would be comfortable compared to the chancy existence he had been living. He had been miserable enough in Laranda that he did not want to go back to that life. Even Maldwyn, marching in front of him, was showing signs of developing some sense. That left poor Celaine. Aron had no expectation that she would not be deeply scarred by what she had endured, possibly completely broken. She would need years of care but there had to be some hope recovery was possible. He had heard at first hand tales amongst the exiles of horrors survived worse even than Celaine’s by people who seemed to be living and functioning well enough. There were, however, at least as many whispered stories of poor hollow-eyed wretches whose shattered lives were ended by a rope or river. That would be almost as bad as not rescuing her.
They reached Cuiport late in the day; the heavy clouds building in the west bringing premature gloom and promising a wet night. For Aron the last stages of the march had felt like wading through waist-deep water so he was deeply grateful that the company cooks had a hot meal ready for them when they finally arrived at their compound.