The Wine of Dreams

by Brian Craig - (ebook by Undead)

  “Not yet,” she murmured.

  What Reinmar inferred from that was that she had seen more in her dreams than his face. However deaf the call that she had heard might have made her to other influences, it obviously had not made her blind to other possibilities. “You have nothing to fear,” he assured her. “While you are with me, I will do my utmost to see that you come to no harm, and if there is anywhere you wish to go I shall do my very best to see that you reach your destination safely.”

  “Thank you,” she said, faintly, “but I have not so far to go, now, and time is not yet pressing.”

  Her flawless face still seemed perfect, even in the unkind light, but her flesh was suddenly startled by the fall of a raindrop, which struck her upon the cheek. As it ran away like a tear another caught her on the forehead.

  Reinmar suppressed a curse as he looked up in some alarm. The cloud directly overhead seemed as featurelessly leaden as ever, but he could see darker vapours snaking across the sky from the south in the grip of some high capricious wind, and he guessed what was about to happen. At the same time, the realisation struck his steward.

  Godrich immediately reined in the horses and looked from side to side in search of a thick stand of trees. The slope they were negotiating was not overly steep, but they had been caught on an upgrade and the ground to either side of the track was horribly uneven. They were in a wood of sorts, but the trees were scrawny and widely spaced and the terrain was dominated by a thick undergrowth of ferns and grasses.

  Sigurd and Vaedecker had already run up to stand abreast of the steward’s driving-seat. “Forward!” the sergeant said. “We must hope to find better ground ahead.”

  “You’re right,” said Godrich, quickly. We need to find a place where we can safely shelter—but we ought to raise the canopy while we roll, if we can.”

  “We can,” Sigurd said, having already ducked under the wagon to unfasten the iron bands that would serve as supports for the awning. As Godrich moved the horses forward again the giant began to bend the bars across, one by one.

  The first two flexed readily enough, but the third had become brittle with rust and it splintered as soon as Sigurd threw his weight upon it. The end that he had bedded in its slot whipped back like a spring and hurtled away from the wagon, leaving the astonished giant holding the other end like a ludicrously bent broadsword. Sigurd cursed and dropped the useless piece that he still held.

  “We must still get the canopy up if we can,” Reinmar said, having already unearthed the cloth from its lodging in the box beneath Godrich’s seat.

  “There’s a better wood ahead,” Godrich told them. “Let’s hope there’s a covert where I can roll off the road safely.” The wagon had crested the ridge, sliding slightly to one side as the ground beneath its wheels was slickened by the rain. “I think we can reach it if we don’t get bogged down,” the steward added.

  Becoming bogged down was a real danger, Reinmar realised, for the rain had thickened so much in less than a minute that it was pouring from the sky as if from a bucket.

  Ulick pulled the cloak that had served Marcilla as a blanket over her head, and told her to draw herself into a huddle, which she did. Then the boy drew his own arms about his head, while Reinmar and Vaedecker wrestled with the canopy-cloth.

  The wind had grown stronger, but it was not yet strong enough to drag the sheet from their hands, and they contrived to get it over the pair of half-hoops that Sigurd had managed to erect. It sagged badly at the back, but they pinned it down with casks of wine in order to prevent it billowing up like a sail and catching the wayward wind. The sound of the rain on the stretched cloth was thunderous—and was soon joined by actual thunder after the dimly-lit interior of the wagon was briefly illuminated by a distant lightning-flash.

  Sigurd had joined them by now, so the space was very cramped, but Marcilla was able to peep out from beneath the cloak now that the awning was in place, and she was able to move her legs to make a little more room.

  The cart moved steadily forward, although the rain blurred visibility to the point at which Reinmar could not make out the wood that Godrich had spotted—nor, for that matter, could he see the road that would take them there if all went well.

  “I think it’s all right,” Godrich called back. “There’s a gap in the trees into which the cart will probably fit, and the ground looks tolerable. We’ll lurch a bit, but… curse you, what’s the matter?”

  It took Reinmar a second or two to work out that this last remark was addressed to the horses, which were whinnying, and trying to pull themselves up.

  “Not now, you fools!” Godrich protested. “That’s shelter—for you as much as for—oh no! In Sigmar’s name, no!”

  The terror in the steward’s voice made Reinmar sit bolt upright, and caused Matthias Vaedecker to go scrambling for his weapons.

  Reinmar was wearing his own sword but Sigurd had stowed his staff and he too had to go grubbing around in the cargo, his huge shoulders lifting the badly-secured awning. Even Ulick reached down reflexively to snatch up the broken end of the iron strut that Sigurd had dropped at his feet, which he took in hand as if it were a dagger.

  Reinmar contrived to get far enough forward to look over the back of Godrich’s driving-seat, but it was difficult to see anything at all through the driving rain, except for the backs of the horses. The animals, normally so placid and willing, were rearing up on their hind legs, struggling against the collars and harnesses that bound them to the struts of the cart.

  There were straight-boled trees thirty or forty paces away, whose high crowns vanished into the low-lying cloud, but it was difficult to discern exactly what it was that was moving between the boles.

  The shadows looked almost human—but not quite human enough. Reinmar remembered all too clearly what Ulick had said about “beastmen of a wolfish stripe”.

  Vaedecker cursed as he took up a position parallel to Reinmar, resting his crossbow on the wooden ridge of the seat to steady his aim. “Sit still!” he muttered, to Godrich, as he placed the dart and made ready to fire. He took careful aim before doing so, and that interval gave Reinmar the chance to peer a little more intently at the faces of the figures emerging from the wood—the faces that should have been human had they been fitted to the general gait of the creatures, but were instead hairy and elongated and full of bestial cruelty.

  Forewarned by Ulick, Reinmar was able to put a name to what he saw, and the name was “Beastmen!”

  Then Vaedecker released the string of his crossbow, the bolt flew true to its target—and all hell broke loose.

  Chapter Eleven

  The beastmen came forward in a group, although it was impossible for Reinmar to tell exactly how many there were—at least seven, he thought, and perhaps as many as ten. Some came to the left of the horses and some to the right but one actually leapt up between them, pausing for balance on the yoke that connected their collars before using their rain-slicked backs as stepping-stones to launch itself at Godrich.

  The steward had dropped the reins, but he had not had time to release the string tying his sword into its scabbard, and the beastman was upon him while the weapon was still undrawn. He tumbled over the back of the driving-seat, his head catching the top of the iron arch which Sigurd had set in place to support the awning. All of a sudden, the beastman was in the wagon with them, and there could be no further doubt as to its monstrous nature.

  The creature’s arms, though very hairy, were fundamentally humanoid, and its shaggy legs too, although its huge feet were massively clawed. Its head was not quite the head of a wolf, although it was certainly as furry; it had the fangs and the slavering jaws, but its eyes were set further forward than a wolfs and its ears were more like a cat’s. Its snout was more like a pig’s and it had two vestigial horns set atop its furrowed brow.

  Had it only had claws and teeth for weapons the beastman would have been a formidable opponent, but it also had an artificial weapon in each hand—a thick-bladed knife
in the right and a club in the left. Perhaps that was not entirely to its advantage, though, because as Godrich sprawled, knocked silly by the blow to his head, there might have been time enough to rip his throat out with those awful teeth—but instead of doing so, the creature raised its knife ready for a disembowelling blow.

  That was all the interval Sigurd needed.

  The beastmen had not made a sound, but Sigurd let loose a howl far longer and far louder than any mere animal could have contrived, and his hand shot out to seize the beastman that had invaded the wagon by its hairy throat. As he took the creature’s neck in his grip Sigurd straightened his body, standing upright.

  The canopy burst as the giant’s huge head and shoulders went through it, the jagged rip spreading back and forth along the taut cloth to rend it in two—and there was sufficient elasticity in the release to send both halves whipping outwards into the faces of the beastmen who had run to either side of the wagon.

  The beastman Sigurd held was as big as Reinmar, and more sturdily built, but the giant lifted it off its feet with contemptuous ease, and crushed its throat with his fingers. By the time his arm had straightened above his head he was holding a mere trophy aloft, displaying it to the rain-filled sky and to the beastmen which had recoiled from the whiplashing fragments of the canopy.

  It was a truly awesome sight, but Reinmar could not help thinking that its dignity was more than slightly ruined by the fact that the slain beastman’s slackened bowels released a cargo of stinking shit, which showered Matthias Vaedecker’s back as well as a dozen rattling casks. Vaedecker did not respond as Reinmar would have; he was too busy taking aim with the second bolt that he had fitted to his crossbow.

  Reinmar had no doubt that the shot would have been a second hit had all else been equal, but the terrified horses had realised by now that the source of their fear had moved from front to flank, and they were determined to take the opportunity thus presented. No one was holding the reins, but it would have done no good had Reinmar managed to snatch them up. It would have taken more than merely human strength to stop the horses bolting.

  Godrich had lined up the wagon with the gap in the trees into which he had intended to move in search of shelter, but the steward had not had time to ascertain whether the ground was flat enough to be safely traversed. It now transpired that it was not.

  As the horses fled and the wagon followed, the whole assembly lurched into a hole and out again, bouncing the casks of wine so vigorously that the ropes holding them in place creaked under the strain. Reinmar, Ulick and Marcilla bounced too, far more freely and far more painfully.

  Matthias Vaedecker’s shot went wild, and even Sigurd lost his balance. Had the cart been unladen the giant might have recovered his balance with a single adjustment of his stance, but both his feet were planted in narrow spaces, with casks and boxes to one side and fallen bodies everywhere. He lurched, he staggered, and in the end he accepted that he could not stay where he was.

  Rather than fall where he stood, the huge man threw the corpse of the beastman over one side of the wagon and made use of what leverage he had to move to the other, leaping into the air. He obviously intended to clear the side of the cart and land two-footed, but the wagon’s lurch had cost him too much co-ordination. His foot caught the side of the vehicle as he jumped, tripping him, and he went over flailing his arms, obviously knowing that he was bound to fall.

  The wagon continued its forward course, the wheels hitting more ridges and potholes, and not in any kind of order. Reinmar knew that it would be a miracle if none of them broke—but he saw that there was a more urgent danger as the horses careered into the trees. With no one to steer and no native understanding of side-margins and turning arcs, nor anyway of communicating that would have allowed them to change course in unison, the panic-stricken animals dragged the left side of the cart against the bole of a tree. The tree’s rough bark scraped the wagon along its entire length, splintering several of the timbers and tearing away the fragments of the canopy that had flopped to that side. Both of the remaining iron bands were dislodged from their sockets.

  The iron struts rebounded like springs, soaring away in the opposite direction before the runaway horses contrived a second collision, more brutal than the first, between the right-hand side of the wagon and another tree-trunk.

  This second collision stopped the wagon dead, and the pins to which the horses’ harnesses were secured were ripped out of their wooden beds, disconnecting the animals from the cart. One of the wagon’s shafts fractured, and the horses disappeared into the wood, separating as they went. The ragged remnants of their harnesses were not strong enough to bind them together.

  For a moment, Reinmar was relieved, not merely for his cargo—which was still secure—but for the four bodies that would have been very badly battered and bruised had the headlong ride continued.

  Then he remembered the beastmen.

  Temporarily left behind when the horses lurched forward, the beastmen were less than thirty yards in arrears, and now they were coming after their prey. Their first target was the fallen Sigurd, who still had not risen after his heavy fall.

  Reinmar heard Matthias Vaedecker curse again, but the sergeant did not hesitate over what needed to be done. With Godrich also out of action, at least for the moment, there was no way that three of them could hold off eight or nine beastmen. To stand any chance at all they needed Sigurd—and that meant they had to defend Sigurd while he was down, until he had time to raise his huge bulk up again and start lashing out with those massive fists.

  Vaedecker threw his crossbow aside, drew his sword, and leapt down from the back of the wagon. Then he charged, without waiting to see if anyone was following where he led. As he charged he let loose a fearsome battle-cry, which would certainly have give pause to a human enemy but did not seem to impress the beastmen at all.

  “Come on,” said Reinmar to Ulick, as he leapt down behind the soldier and followed him into the fight. Like Vaedecker, he did not wait to see whether Ulick would obey his summons, but he saw from the corner of his eye that the boy had indeed followed him, even though he was only armed with a twisted piece of rusty metal.

  It was touch and go whether the beastmen would reach Sigurd’s fallen body before Vaedecker did, and both parties put all the effort they could into the winning of the race, with the result that it was a virtual tie.

  The beastmen had numbers on their side, but Vaedecker had training, and a far better weapon than any of the beastmen. The sergeant was already sweeping his sword across in a broad horizontal sweep as he arrived by Sigurd’s side, and the beastmen were sprinting too hard to stop and jump back. The best they could achieve was to peel away to either side, and neither of the leading two could do that fast enough to avoid the blade. Both were cut about the torso. Although their ribs protected them from fatal damage, the long cuts fountained blood.

  It was not so easy to reverse the sweep as the second wave of beastmen arrived. One of them was able to duck inside the soldier’s guard, throwing itself upon him as if to wrestle him to the ground. Had he recoiled reflexively, Vaedecker would indeed have gone down, but he had the trained responses of an infantryman, schooled to hold his line no matter what. Vaedecker body-checked the beastman with brutal stubbornness, and smashed his fist into the ugly animal face.

  The beastman was far from frail, but it had not bulk enough to win that kind of match and it lurched away. There were two more ready to leap in after it, but Reinmar and Ulick had arrived by now and they each lashed out at a different target.

  Reinmar’s sword was short and light, built for stabbing rather than sweeping, and he remembered his schooling well enough not to attempt any move for which the weapon was not designed. Although the beastman he targeted managed to avoid his move, it had to throw itself sideways to do so, losing its balance and sprawling on to all fours.

  Ulick’s piece of iron was not designed for any kind of thrust at all, and the boy was slighter than Reinmar, but he too
enjoyed success of a sort. He fetched his enemy a very painful blow upon its upraised arm, and not only made it squeal but caused it to raise its other arm defensively, ruining any blow it might otherwise have aimed at Vaedecker.

  When these thrusts had been made, however, the cart’s defenders had done what they could for the moment, and there were still three beastmen coming forward.

  Reinmar realised that he simply had not time or space to fence with these opponents. The weapons the beastmen carried were meagre, but there were simply too many of them. Three men could not stand against them for more than a matter of minutes.

  But four could, if the fourth were Sigurd.

  The giant must have been winded by his fall, and probably bruised, but he was not the kind of man to worry about bruises. Once he had managed to suck air back into his evacuated lungs he was ready to rejoin the fray, and all he had to do in order to accomplish that end was to stand up.

  That was not as easy as it sounded, given that he had defenders standing over him and attackers eager to displace them, but mere convenience was not an issue. Sigurd was obviously intent on standing as soon as he could stand, and he left it to his friends to get out of the way as soon as they saw him make a move.

  Unfortunately, that was not as easy as it sounded either.

  Sigurd stood up in the very heart of the brawl, forcing his massive bulk into a space that was simply not there. His fists shot out in two directions—aiming, of course, for beastmen—and he shrugged as he stood, as if to clear the space he needed. No less than three beastmen were sent tumbling—but so was Reinmar. From the corner of his eye he saw Ulick duck under a flailing giant arm, and he saw Vaedecker move with an awesome sense of purpose to a new position, but a fast-moving fist clipped him under the chin and sent him flying.

  The sword flew from Reinmar’s hand and he just had time to think, as he was taken off his feet, that when he landed—flat on his back—he would be wide open to attack by a plunging dagger or flashing teeth. It would be even worse for him if he struck his head and was knocked unconscious.