by Martin Ash
They sat in the shade of a wild fig. Gully leaned with his head against the trunk, his eyes closed, humming to himself. Sildemund watched the road, but no more travellers passed. Picadus kept his own counsel, a trouble frown upon his brow. Presently they set off again.
An hour passed and they met no one on the road. They came to an intersection where the way branched northward in the direction of Tulmua. Unofficially this crossroads was acknowledged as the point marking the end of Dazdun’s Despair, though the land remained harsh for some miles more.
Half a mile past the northern road Gully raised his hand and once more brought them to a halt. Sildemund did not have to ask why. He had already spotted the plume of smoke curling skywards on the road ahead. The source could not be identified, for the way was obscured by rising land and massive clumps of rock.
‘What do you think it is?’
Gully pushed back his hair, squinting into the distance, the sun full on his tanned face. ‘I’m not sure.’
The area they were in was one of sparse scrub, dotted with the occasional stunted cypress or uncultivated olive tree. A rubbled plain gave off to one side. To the other, a little way off, a long, sheer scarp rose.
Gully was watching the rocks that flanked the road ahead. ‘Did you see anything? A movement by that turret of rock?’
Sildemund shook his head. ‘A wild goat or something?
‘Perhaps, but I’m not happy. We’ll advance with caution. Keep your eyes peeled, and have weapons ready. Pic, watch the rear. Pic! Snap out of it!’
Picadus looked up as if the effort cost him.
‘I sense danger, Pic. Watch our rear!’ Gully spoke gruffly.
Picadus barely nodded. Gully clenched his jaw. ‘You too, lad. Picadus seems to have little concern for his life today.’
They advanced, the road descending, entering the shadow between two boulder-crowned elevations. They kept single file, Gully at the fore, then Sildemund, with Picadus a few paces behind. Sildemund glanced up, scanning the towering rocks, then swivelled to check the rear. Picadus was also looking back but seemed hardly interested in what he saw.
They rounded a curve. Ahead lay the burning hulk of a wagon. Three bodies littered the road. Sildemund recognized the merchant who had earlier declined their offer of company. He lay on his back, his mouth open, plagued by flies, blood from a mortal wound on his chest clogging the dust beneath him. The other two corpses were guards, arrows studding their flesh.
A low groan came from off to one side. Beside a boulder a guard knelt – the same man they had spoken to at the roadside. His hair was matted with blood. One hand rested on the boulder for support. He stretched the other towards them, his mouth open but forming no words. He seemed unable to walk, or even to see.
Gully’s eyes were still on the surrounding rocks. He gave a yell. Something flew past Sildemund’s unprotected head and embedded itself in the dirt beside the road. A second missile raised dust in front of his horse.
The horse shied. Sildemund brought it under control. More arrows rained down. He glimpsed figures among the boulders. Three, four, more.
‘Back,’ Gully shouted. Already he had loosed two arrows at the men in the rocks. Sildemund yanked on the reins, wheeling his horse around and spurring it into a gallop. Picadus, a little slower, had his sabre drawn. There were whoops and shouts. More men were leaping down from the rocks towards the road.
Sildemund bent low, urging his mount on. He glanced behind him, saw Gully close by loosing arrows as he rode. Picadus, his lips set in concentration, had brought his mount around and was following close in their wake.
But now, fifty paces back along the road, mounted men bore down on them. They were armed with sabres or slim lances. Sildemund cried a warning to Gully, who pointed to their right. ‘Off the road! We’ll try to outpace them!’
They veered their mounts onto the rough, swerving between hulking boulders. A bandit leapt from an overhang into Sildemund’s path. Sildemund, sabre drawn, slashed at him. The man jumped back and the weapon missed. As the brigand recovered his balance he was cut down by Gully.
On the gallop, Sildemund re-sheathed his blade. They broke out into the rocky plain. More of the robbers were coming at them now from the right, several on horseback, forcing them to veer left. Caught between converging groups they could take only one course, out further into the wild.
They weaved between the scrub and rock, their path taking them upwards. Foam flew from the mouth of Sildemund’s horse. He urged her on with anxiously whispered words. The footing was treacherous and he could not give her her fullest speed. Even so, her passage was becoming laboured on the incline.
He risked a look back. Their pursuers had not gained on either side but were riding on a course that would bring them together a little way to the rear.
The ground steepened, then they broke out onto the lip of a low ridge. Beyond, Sildemund looked out across the desolation that was Dazdun’s Despair. The land shimmered in the heat-haze, all dark scars and ragged declivities, with occasional small black clots of stunted trees, stretching as far as he could see beneath a blinding yellow-white sky.
They followed the crest of the ridge, the only way they could go, taking them back in a vaguely westward direction. Sildemund was dismayed to see the bandits divide again into two groups. One followed their path, climbing the slope to the ridge. The other galloped along the base of the slope, keeping a course more or less parallel to theirs. Steadily, being on less exacting terrain, the second group was gaining ground.
Sildemund and his companions were outnumbered by at least five to one. He peered ahead, trying to descry a path. Were they heading into a cul-de-sac? Would they be forced back down, directly into the path of the second bandit group?
Gully pointed, grim-visaged, sweat gleaming on his cheeks. The land rose steeply ahead of them, all loose, rotten earth and shale. The three urged their mounts upwards.
The earth slid beneath Sildemund’s horse’s hooves. She stumbled, struggling to find a hold on the uncertain slope. Both Gully and Picadus had pushed a little way ahead, their mounts finding better purchase. Sildemund’s horse found her footing and thrust on gamely on the firmer ground.
Then suddenly she stumbled again and went onto her knees. Sildemund was pitched violently forward. He was almost thrown but managed to cling on. But now, as his mount rose, her rear legs gave way and he, throwing himself back to counter the initial forward motion, slid over her haunches.
He landed off-balance and sat down hard. Out of control, he rolled and skidded down the slope. There were great whoops from the bandits behind. Sildemund struggled to arrest his motion and scramble frantically upwards, but he was on shale and earth that was little more than powder, and he made scarcely any ground.
Sudden panic rose in his breast. He heard air through a horse’s nostrils as death bore down on him from the rear. He twisted to face his assailants, groping for his sabre. The nearest bandit was almost upon him, his mount struggling up the slope, his sabre raised. The man’s eyes gleamed, his teeth bared in a grimace of savage triumph.
He leaned low and struck. Sildemund rolled. The blade sighed past his head. With a wild yell the bandit was off his horse and leaping down upon Sildemund. Sildemund’s sabre had caught in his scabbard. He wrestled to free it. The bandit was over him, lofting his weapon in both hands. Sildemund knew a moment of sheer, mind-numbing terror, waiting for the blade to slice through his flesh and bone.
There was a flurry of movement. The bandit staggered, throwing back his head. Blood blossomed suddenly on his tunic. Behind him Gully stood, yanking free a bloody sabre.
‘Up!’ yelled Gully, thrusting the dead man aside before he could even fall. The others were almost upon them. ‘To the rocks!’
Sildumund grasped at bushes and rocks, gasping, hauling himself upwards to a tumble of boulders a few yards higher. Picadus stood there, blankly staring down. His bow hung loose in his hands.
‘Shoot, damn you!’ Gully roared
, and Picadus half-heartedly raised the weapon. Gully grabbed Sildemund by the scruff of the neck and dragged him the last couple of paces into the rocks. There was no time to catch their breath. The bandits, seven of them, were almost upon them again and Picadus had not let fly a single shaft. Further down, the second group had begun its ascent. Sildemund’s spirits plummeted. His reprieve had been brief. They were hopelessly outnumbered.
He was aware of sounds in the distance: the muted drum of hoofbeats, the blare of a horn. His heart fell further. How many more could there possibly be?
He gripped the sabre, ready to defend himself, and saw the second group suddenly halt their ascent of the slope. They veered away, to gallop back along the line of the ridge.
On the plain below, emerging from behind a bluff, there came a cloud, flecked with glints of bright metal. The faint jingle of harness reached Sildemund’s ears.
‘Soldiers!’ Gully, his bowstring taut, shifted his eyes to squint down onto the plain.
Sildemund peered hard. He saw banners in the dust, red, gold and blue. About forty mounted soldiers were pounding towards the slope, galloping to intercept the fleeing bandits.
‘The Queen’s men!’ Gully’s bowstring snapped. He flung the bow aside and drew his sabre. He let loose a great yell and leapt from the rocks at the nearest bandit.
Sildemund went after him, his sabre free. For all his exuberance, Gully was still outnumbered.
The bandits were in disarray. Seeing their companions on the run and a detachment of Darch troops turning to ascend the slope, their one thought now was of escape. Gully’s sabre bit into the flank of the nearest, who spun his horse around with a bellow of pain and made off without retaliation, clutching his wound.
Sildemund lunged at another, but he too wheeled away and was gone, his mount kicking dust in its wake. Sildemund fell, sprawling head first and slid helplessly down the slope on his belly, his mouth filling with dust and grit. He thudded into a jutting rock and came to a halt. He climbed to his feet, coughing.
Gully arrived at his side, laughing, and threw an arm around his shoulders. ‘Never mind, lad. It was a good try! You’ll get your bandit next time!’
Sildemund spat muck from his mouth. They stood together and watched as the Darch troops pursued the enemy along the ridge.
Five soldiers split from the chase and walked their mounts to the base of the ridge. Sildemund, Gully and Picadus led their horses down to meet them.
Sildemund addressed their leader, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with long dark hair confined by a flowing white silk fillet, stained with sweat and grime. The lower half of his face, like those of his men, was covered by a heavy cloth faceguard to keep the dust from mouth and nostrils. He wore a lightly laminated surcoat of high quality, elaborate in design, which marked him as a man of some prominence, quite possibly a noble.
‘Sir, I thank you. Without your intervention we would surely have died here today.’
The officer surveyed him with a keen and searching gaze. ‘Where are you bound?’
‘Dharsoul, sir, where I have business to conduct in the name of my father, Master Atturio Frano of Volm.’
‘We are returning to Dharsoul.’ The officer unclasped his faceguard and let it fall to on side. ‘Ride with us if you wish. The remainder of your journey, at least, should be trouble free.’
The main body of his troop was returning at a leisurely pace across the plain below the end of the ridge. The officer was swinging his horse around. From behind Sildemund came Gully’s voice, raised in exclamation. ‘My lord! Prince Enlos!’
Sildemund turned. Gully had dropped to one knee, his head bowed. Picadus, with a somewhat bewildered expression, was following suit. Gully signalled with eyes and hand for Sildemund to do likewise.
Sildemund turned back to the horseman. He saw the arresting, begrimed features of a man aged perhaps twenty-five or six. The skin was brown and weathered, the jaw strong. His mouth was wide, perhaps too wide, with full, deep ruddy lips set now in a quizzical smile. He sported a neatly trimmed black moustache which drooped to the edge of his jaw. The nose was straight, the brow broad and intelligent. The eyes, alert, blue and appraising, had a vaguely perturbing quality. A small scar in the form of an uneven cross was set high upon his left cheek.
Sildemund was at first too stunned to react. Then he sank like his companions to his knee, stammering, ‘S – sire! Please, forgive me! I could not have known it was you.’
Prince Enlos’s eyes shone with amusement. ‘Plainly one of you has seen my face before.’
Gully raised his head. ‘Many times, my lord! You won’t recall – and why should you? – but I was privileged to ride with your guard years ago.’
Prince Enlos peered hard with a puzzled expression, then his blue eyes lit up. ‘Radath Gully! By all the demons!’ He swung one leg over his saddle and slid to the ground. ‘Radath Gully! It is you! Up off your knees, man! This is a pleasure, a wonderful surprise and pleasure!’
Gully rose. Prince Enlos clapped him heartily on the shoulders, shaking his powerful frame. ‘It’s been a long time! Gully! Gully! My brave and faithful man, it’s good to see you! What’s your business now? And what brings you here?’
Sildemund watched slack-jawed as the two chatted like old friends long parted. Picadus beside him was equally impressed. Sildemund was aware that Gully had at one time served in the Darch army, had been a junior officer, a radath, in the cavalry – but that he was on intimate terms with the heir to the throne? This was something new.
‘Come!’ said Prince Enlos, at length. ‘We should leave this heartless place. You and your two companions will ride beside me. We can talk as we go.’
At the head of the troop they made their way slowly across the barren plain towards the Dharsoul Road. Gully pointed, ‘It was there that we were attacked, my lord. They came from the high rocks. There is a gutted wagon and the bodies of a merchant and his guard on the road. One may still be alive.’
A thin wreath of blue smoke could still be seen above the rocks.
‘The brigands have become more daring of late,’ growled Prince Enlos as they approached the wrecked wagon. ‘Until recently they would never have dared come so close to the capital. They kept well to the borderlands in the north. We may have to consider policing the road. Still, I’ll wager there’s no one lurking here now.’
The bodies still lay in the road, flies buzzing while vultures hung overhead. The wagon was a burned-out husk. The guard who had clung to life when Sildemund and his companions had been attacked, was now dead.
Prince Enlos had his men bury them. Others took up positions in the rocks to guard against the unlikely prospect of the bandits’ return.
‘Those you pursued, did they escape?’ Gully enquired.
‘Our arrows brought a couple from their saddles, but the terrain is difficult for prolonged pursuit. Those men know the land better than any. They can vanish like spectral things.’
Prince Enlos’s company included no prisoners. Sildemund wondered what had become of the bandits that had been shot from the saddle.
They rode on for Dharsoul. Sildemund could barely contain his feelings; this journey had turned into a high adventure more thrilling than he could have imagined. To have seen and listened to the song of the hill-ghosts; to have been attacked and almost murdered by bandits, then rescued by the crown prince himself; and now to be riding beside Prince Enlos at the head of a troop of the Royal Guard!
Prince Enlos leaned across to address Sildemund. ‘You’re in good company, to have Radath Gully here as your guardian. I take it you are familiar with his exploits?’
‘I had thought so, my lord, but plainly I was wrong. Gully has never told me that he knew you.’
‘Ah, he is a modest man. Has he told you that he was decorated for his services to me? That he helped save my life?’
‘No, sir. Is this true?’ Sildemund stared at Gully, who appeared uncomfortable at the turn the conversation was taking.
&n
bsp; ‘It is, indeed,’ said Prince Enlos. ‘You’re too young to recall, but perhaps your parents or others have told you of the rebellion here in Darch, ten years or more ago?’
‘I’ve heard, my lord. A band of treacherous nobles turned against the throne. They tried to oust your mother, Queen Lermeone, from the throne.’ Sildemund recalled his father having referred to the event once or twice. There had been rumours of some sort of scandal associated with the rebellion, something involving the Queen. All knowledge of the event had been suppressed though, and plainly it would have been inappropriate to make mention of it now.
‘And failed,’ said Prince Enlos. ‘I was fifteen at the time. Just prior to the outbreak of the rebellion I was sent on a state journey from Dharsoul to Trore, in Thonce. Gully’s company was assigned as part of my guard. On the return journey we were attacked by rebel soldiers who lay in wait for us close to the Darch border. In the ensuing battle many brave men were killed. We took refuge on a hilltop but were surrounded by the enemy and unable to break free. For almost two weeks we were trapped there. The enemy assaulted our position many times. Each time we successfully repelled them, but with the loss of good men. We sent out messengers, but had no way of knowing if they’d been caught by the enemy. In the final days we were reduced to a mere twelve tired and hungry men. Radath Gully was one of them, and with the deaths of my own faithful officers he became my second-in-command. That I can stand here today is testament to his unswerving loyalty and courage.’
Sildemund was spellbound. ‘How did you escape?’
‘A relief force finally arrived, alerted by a messenger who had managed to sneak through the enemy lines.’ Prince Enlos shook his head, his features drawn. ‘Too many good men…’
Sildemund looked again in admiration at Gully, who kept his eyes cast down as if embarrassed. Prince Enlos leaned across and slapped Gully’s thigh. ‘I’m in his debt!’