‘It’s one of the riders,’ said Malaki as he pulled up behind Falco.
Falco barely heard him. He felt like he was looking down from a great height, staring at the body lying in the river. The rider lay trapped beneath the body of his horse. His throat had been torn out and flaps of ragged flesh rippled in the clear cold water. The veins on the rider’s body showed black beneath his skin as if he had been infected by some kind of necrosis and his eyes were open and staring, leeched of colour and frosted with cataracts, his expression frozen in a moment of terror.
‘What about the others?’ said Bellius Snidesson. ‘What if they’re all dead?’
‘There’s no sign of that,’ said the emissary, crouching down beside the man. ‘We must hope that they are still alive.’
‘And if they are not?’
The emissary silenced Bellius with a contemptuous glance but his words echoed in Falco’s mind
What about the others?
If the riders did not make it through then no one would be coming to help them. The demon would catch them in the mountains and it would kill them all. Falco looked at the line of people winding up the hillside ahead of them, the men, the women, the children.
‘By the stars,’ he thought. ‘What have I done?’
*
Anwyn kept her eyes on Gareth as the three remaining riders made their way down the exposed narrow path. To their left the mountain dropped away sharply, falling several hundred feet to the river below. But they were getting lower. Spurred on by Dylan’s death they were making good progress. The mountains were behind them; ahead they could see the green valleys and sprawling forests of Clemoncé. Anwyn glanced over her shoulder to see Godfrey keeping pace with them, a solid presence bringing up the rear. His thin face was shadowed with fear but he gave her a reassuring nod, patting Altair’s neck to steady him. The great black stallion was not comfortable at the back of the line. He wanted to be at the head, leading from the front.
She drew her attention back to the path. A few lengths ahead Gareth glanced back at her, a quick look to make sure she was all right. He was just looking away when the creature took him. It flew down so fast that she never saw it coming. Just a sweep of dark wings and Gareth was gone, torn from the mountainside, his horse screaming as it tumbled from the path.
Anwyn was almost unhorsed as Deneb careered to a halt. The terrified horse skittered towards the edge of the path but then Altair slammed into her, Godfrey driving him forward, pushing Anwyn away from the dizzying drop.
Deneb calmed and Anwyn looked out to see the winged creature rising higher into the air, Gareth dangling beneath it like a scarecrow plucked from a farmer’s field. He made no sound but she could see him clutching at the talons locked in his neck and shoulders. The dark angel stared down at them as it lifted its prey higher into the sky, but then suddenly it ripped its claws free and Gareth’s body plummeted towards the river below. The creature flexed its talons and then it let out a soul-piercing cry and dove towards them.
It was almost upon them when Godfrey drew Altair up onto his hind legs. The black stallion flailed at the air, catching the creature with a solid kick from one of his steel-shod hooves. The creature gave a shriek of pain and tumbled away, falling swiftly before recovering itself and disappearing away up the valley.
For a moment they could not move. The horses trembled with fear, ears laid flat and nostrils flared. Godfrey recovered first, reaching over to place a hand on Anwyn’s arm.
‘We’ll never make it,’ said Anwyn, her eyes glazed and her young voice choked with fear.
‘Oh, but we will,’ said Godfrey. ‘We’ll make it together.
Slowly Anwyn gave him a nod and Godfrey smiled.
‘Now, let’s ride!’ he shouted and Altair leapt away down the path.
Without a moment’s hesitation Anwyn followed after him and they flew down mountainside as if the demon itself were at their backs. As they descended, the craggy peaks gave way to grassy hills. Tomorrow they would ride for the cover of Clemoncé’s forests and the city of Toulwar.
15
Sacrifice
The people of Caer Dour walked long into the night. The Possessed were now so close that they could not afford to rest for long. It was almost midnight before they settled down to camp on a rocky plateau bordered by cliffs that fell away into darkness.
Huddled once more on the stony ground Falco watched as the emissary came to speak with Simeon and the other leaders. They were all exhausted but veryone was busy; everyone had a job to do. Malaki was tending to a horse that had thrown a shoe, Heçamede moved from one needy patient to the next, while Fossetta was busy brewing another infusion of Corros pine.
Things were looking grim and Falco could hear the leaders discussing their plans for making a stand. The army could not win but they might be able to survive long enough for help to reach them. Falco heard the deep voice of his master.
‘I should be able to hold the demon back for a while,’ said Simeon. ‘But I do not have the strength I once had.’
‘Then we must make it count,’ said the emissary. He turned to the captains of the army. ‘Simeon is the key,’ he told them. ‘If he falls then we are all lost. We must protect him. And in turn he will shield us from the worst of the fear.’
He turned to address Morgan, asking if there was anything that the magi could do to help but Falco did not want to hear it. He sank down into his cloak. Fossetta had almost finished the infusion and soon he would be choking and retching once more. He was just closing his eyes for a few minutes rest when he became aware of a commotion moving through the army.
Wincing at the pain he raised himself up to a seated position and looked out over the people sitting round the scattered campfires. A group of riders was moving through the camp, picking their way towards the leaders. Malaki suddenly appeared beside him, wiping his hands on a rag.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Riders from the rearguard,’ said Falco.
Malaki reached down to help him up as Falco struggled to his feet. Something was wrong. As the riders drew closer they could see that there were several shapes slung over the saddles of the horses... bodies.
A sudden sense of horror swept over Falco as he looked at one of the bodies draped over a horse. Malaki saw it too and, still wiping his hands, he took a few steps forward. A hubbub of whispers rose up from the soldiers in the army and slowly they turned, looking at Malaki with veiled eyes.
Malaki began to walk forward, his steps becoming quicker as the light of the moon glinted off blue-steel armour.
‘No!’ thought Falco, even as the murmur of a name began to settle on the air. ‘No!’
‘De Vane.’
The wave of hushed whispers spoke the name, de Vane.
Suddenly Falco recognised the figure standing beside the body in blue-steel armour. It was Sir Gerallt Godwin, Bryna’s father. Cords were cut and Sir Gerallt lowered the blacksmith’s body to the ground. Eyes followed Malaki as he took a few more steps through the crowd.
Sir Gerallt moved to intercept him but Malaki pushed him aside, stumbling forward to look down on the body of his father. The smith’s armour was battered and torn, his face awash with blood. Malaki did not notice the injuries, it was the grief that crushed him. He slumped to his knees, gathering his father’s body into his arms, his strong muscles bunched as if he could somehow squeeze the life back into his father’s corpse.
Sir Gerallt knelt beside him.
‘He never succumbed to the fear,’ he said as if this were of critical importance. ‘Some of the men had become trapped in a gully and your father led a charge to break them free. His horse was injured and Balthazak was cut down, but he didn’t succumb to the fear.’ Sir Gerallt laid his hand on Malaki’s broad back. ‘The Possessed will never claim his soul,’ he said. ‘Your father is at peace.’
Finally the tension went out of Malaki’s body and his broad shoulders heaved with great silent sobs.
Falco could not
bear it. He looked down at his friend holding the broken body of his father. Malaki had loved him dearly but so had he. Like Simeon, the blacksmith had always been kind to him, never judging, never suggesting that Malaki should forego his troublesome and sickly friend. Falco had always been welcome in the forge, and always found it comforting, the warmth, the smell, the sound of the hammer and the bellows. The grief tore at his soul. And if so great for him, how much greater must it be for his friend.
Falco could not bear it.
Blinking through his tears he turned away, stumbling through the camp, desperate to escape the waves of despair that swept through his mind as the voice from his nightmares mocked him.
You would never have the courage.
You would never have the strength.
People cursed as he stumbled past them but Falco did not care. He barely saw them, barely heard their protestations. No matter what the voices said, he would have the courage to end this pain.
‘Ballymudge!’
Somewhere in the distance Falco registered Tobias’s voice as the crippled boy saw him staggering past. And then there was the voice of Merryweather, filled with concern.
‘Falco... Falco, are you all right?’
Falco ignored them, these were phantom voices, they held no meaning for him. All he knew was pain and grief.
‘Fossetta! He’s over here,’ called out Merryweather.
Falco staggered on until he reached the edge of the camp but he did not stop, instead he struggled on into the night. The ground continued for a while but then the shadowy rocks gave way to a yawning blackness. That was where he needed to be. Maybe in the darkness he would find some peace.
Feeling as if he were floating rather than walking Falco moved towards the darkness. He was almost upon it when something slammed into him and pulled him to the ground. His shoulder screamed with pain but that was nothing compared to the frustration he felt at being denied the darkness. With desperate strength he lashed out at the thing that held him. His fists made contact with flesh and bone and slowly he heard someone crying.
‘Falco, stop!’ the voice was crying, a woman’s voice, a voice he knew. ‘Please, stop.’
It was Fossetta.
All the strength went out of Falco’s body. He slumped back on the ground, Fossetta’s arms still locked around his waist, shoulders hunched against the blows that Falco had rained down upon her. Light bloomed around them as people arrived with torches. In a daze Falco felt himself raised into the air. Beside him yawned the edge of the cliffs and he made one last lunge for oblivion but strong arms held him fast.
‘No,’ said the voice of the emissary. ‘You will find no redemption there.’
The emissary carried Falco back to his bedroll and laid him down. They offered him water but Falco turned his head. They tried to make him breathe the Corros fumes but he overturned the bowl. He did not sleep, he only drifted in and out of a nightmare where Malaki stood over the body of his father with Darius and the dead rider from the river. There were flames in the dream and a shadowy figure that might have been his father or it might have been the demon coming to claim his soul.
Falco could not tell.
The morning dawned misty and wet, but nothing had changed. Falco still sought the oblivion that would end his pain. They had tried to make him eat but he refused and now they were trying to make him take the fumes once more.
‘You will die if you don’t,’ said Fossetta, kneeling down to beseech him.
‘Let him die,’ said someone nearby and Fossetta hung her head in despair.
‘What’s the matter?’
Falco stiffened at the sound of Malaki’s voice.
‘He won’t take it,’ said Fossetta. ‘He won’t breathe the fumes.’
Slowly Falco peered upwards. Malaki’s shoulders were bowed. His brown eyes were red-rimmed and the crimson birthmark on his face stood out starkly against his deathly pale skin.
‘Won’t take it,’ he repeated menacingly.
‘So what!’ said a nameless voice.
‘It’s all his fault anyway,’ said another.
‘Let him die.’
Malaki’s jaw bunched as people called for Falco’s death. Then suddenly he started forward. Falco lurched back in alarm but Malaki reached down and grabbed him, hauling him out of his bedroll and dragging him across the rocks to where the Corros infusion simmered by the fire. Then, throwing him down, Malaki crouched behind him, clamping one massive arm round Falco’s skinny chest. Finally he grabbed a fistful of Falco’s long black hair and thrust his head forward.
‘Bring it!’ he snapped.
Heçamede hesitated while Fossetta stood clutching the blanket. They had never known Malaki behave so harshly. Slowly Heçamede nodded and reached for the steaming pan.
Falco began to struggle as they came forward but Malaki held him fast. Heçamede set the pan down and Falco would have dashed it aside but his arms and legs were pinned. Malaki gave Fossetta a nod and she threw the blanket over Falco’s head as Heçamede removed the lid from the pot.
Falco went limp as the fumes engulfed him but slowly he began to squirm. Finally he could hold his breath no longer and he began to buck and thrash but there was no way he could break free of Malaki’s strength. He coughed and gagged but Malaki did not let him go. Fossetta and Heçamede exchanged anxious glances. Falco had never stayed under as long as this.
‘Malaki,’ said Fossetta at last, but still the blacksmith’s son held on.
‘Malaki, that’s enough,’ said Heçamede. She was just reaching out to remove the blanket when Malaki released his hold. He cast him aside and Falco collapsed, choking and rasping for breath.
Everyone was shocked. People looked down at the pitiful figure writhing on the ground. Fossetta was crying but Malaki seemed not to care. He stood there, staring down at Falco and then, in a harsh throaty voice, he spoke.
‘They might want you dead,’ he said, stabbing a finger at the nearby townsfolk. ‘But I don’t.’ Finally his composure broke and his words gave way to tears. ‘I don’t.’
Fossetta reached out to comfort him but he waved her away and stumbled off into the camp. The housekeeper knelt beside Falco, who was crying like a child, and even his tears were red with blood.
*
Anwyn and Godfrey were galloping at full stretch. After so long picking their way through the mountains it was a relief to maintain such speed. Anwyn was just beginning to believe they would make it when a shadow passed over the fields ahead of them.
‘Just ride,’ shouted Godfrey keeping pace beside her.
They rode together through a grassy meadow. Ahead of them, barely half a mile distant, was the edge of the forest.
If they could just reach the trees...
‘We’re not going to make it,’ cried Anwyn, craning her neck to scan the skies. She could not see the creature but she knew it was there. She could feel its presence. She glanced across at Godfrey and it was clear from his face that he could feel it too. They knew the creature was about to strike and Godfrey’s head seemed to droop in resignation. Then he steered Altair a little closer.
‘Ride for the trees,’ he called out suddenly. ‘Anwyn,’ he shouted, waiting until she looked across at him. ‘Ride for the trees.’
She nodded, confused. They were already riding for the trees. But then Godfrey spoke a command to Altair and the great black stallion sprang away, leaving Deneb in its wake. For a moment Anwyn felt betrayed, abandoned, then she saw the shadow of the creature rippling over the grass and she knew what Godfrey was doing.
‘No!’ she called out. ‘Godfrey, no!’
Godfrey pulled away from her, racing towards the safety of the trees. He knew that the creature would try to stop them. And he knew it would take the quickest one first. At least this way he might buy Anwyn enough time to reach the forest. Then away from the right the creature streaked towards him, sweeping across his path with terrible speed. With the talons of its feet it grabbed Altair’s head, the mom
entum of its attack breaking the horse’s neck as it was yanked aside. The creature swung around, beating its wings as Altair went down. Godfrey was thrown from the saddle. He landed badly and did not get up.
Anwyn could not breathe, her chest felt tight with fear. For a moment she closed her eyes trying to focus on nothing more than keeping Deneb riding straight. Behind her she heard a chilling shriek and glancing back she saw the creature surge into the air, beating its wings, driving towards her. Her heart was racing and her eyes were awash with tears. Ahead of her the trees looked blurred and indistinct. She could not tell how close they were.
‘Faster Deneb! Faster my love!’ The words came out as a breathless sob but Deneb seemed to sense the urgency in her voice and somehow the chestnut mare found an extra burst of speed.
Suddenly the fringe of trees was growing larger, rising up to meet her. Anwyn’s heart soared but then she heard the whistle of something scything through the air towards her. With desperate strength she yanked the reins to one side and Deneb snorted in protest as she tried to react. It was only the perfect union of horse and rider that saved her.
The dark angel screamed in frustration as the horse jinked to one side and its talons slashed at nothing but air. But the creature of darkness was surprisingly agile. It swept round and gave chase once more.
Anwyn glanced back to see it closing fast. She would not surprise it a second time. She braced herself for the attack then blinked as something whipped across her face. A shadowy darkness engulfed her and branches whacked against her body as she plunged headlong into the forest. She had made it to the trees and the cries of the creature’s frustration sounded suddenly muffled and distant.
Slowly the terror subsided and Anwyn drew back on the reins as she picked her way through the trees.
‘Thank you,’ she wept, leaning down to place her cheek against Deneb’s sweating neck. ‘My brave, brave girl. Thank you.’
Battle Mage Page 14