The Quest for the Lost Shards of Power

by F M Andrews

  This peaceful scene gave Turrin hope. They were a very strange mix of people from vastly different backgrounds but they all had a common goal now and each, in their own way, appeared to want to succeed. With a start Turrin realised just how attached he had become to them all, and that he was really going to miss them when they went.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dissan cursed, rubbing his forehead.

  The alarm announcing an imminent invasion had woken him from a deep exhausted sleep and he had sat up so suddenly that he had banged his head with the orderly who was just coming to wake him. Now they eyed each other with mirror image rueful grins, rubbing matching red marks on their heads. Dissan was so weary. Every muscle seemed like it had been pounded by a butcher’s mallet and his eyes felt as if his tears had turned to sand. So far, he and his men had managed to survive the relentless onslaught of trolls, but only just. Feld had never before had a cause to use its knights in anger. There had never been any battles or even skirmishes. The only reason there were knights at all was because Rill, in his wisdom, had realised that it would be prudent to be prepared for anything the wild magic might throw at them, and besides, it gave adventurous young men an outlet for their energy. The knights were the royal guard. They were really muscle for hire, helping out wherever they were needed. As there had never been an actual enemy to hone their skills on, tournaments had been set up. The knights would travel throughout the provinces competing, providing entertainment, breaking hearts and gaining new recruits. These tournaments had become the social highlight of the Turn for the lucky town that hosted them. As a result each knight was skilled in the art of combat but none had been battle fit when the time had come to face an actual foe.

  The first few skirmishes with the trolls had been a brutal learning curve. Dissan had lost five men and he had vowed that he would not lose another. They had reassessed their strategy and adapted. The trolls were huge, skilled with both bow and sword, but they were unorganised and fought as individuals rather than as a unit. They loved inflicting pain and would sometimes come to blows with each other over the right to kill a victim. Fortunately they had only one tactic – attack! – and it became abundantly clear to the knights, even in the very first encounter, the best way to win was to pick them off one by one as the trolls did not came to each other's aid. This strategy took many forms, the most successful of which was the ambush.

  Hunters with powerful, recurved bows fitted with arrows that could punch holes even through a troll’s tough hide were seconded from within Feld. Using an ambush went against all the knights’ previous code of honour but it was surprising how quickly they put these aside when faced with death. The death of a fellow knight and the death of the innocent people of Feld. At first everyone thought that because the trolls came from outside the boundary they were immune to the wild magic storms but then reports began to come in from the enhanced communication network recently set up between the Guardians along the boundary that the trolls were just as susceptible to it as anyone else. It was a game changing piece of information. Ironically, Feld’s mortal enemy for centuries had suddenly become its greatest ally. The tactic now was to not only pick off as many trolls as they could individually but to ensure that they were prevented from crossing the boundary for as long as possible.

  To this end the Guardians had extended their network with every person capable of sending a message, no matter how short or far, recruited to constantly patrol the boundary. Each troop of knights had their own Guardian assigned to their base to receive and send messages. Once the trolls were sighted an alarm would be sent to the troop stationed closest to the invasion and they would ride to intercept the trolls before they could reach the boundary.

  It was a constant game of cat and mouse. So far their strategy was working but only just. On huge factor in their favour was that the trolls all seemed to be originating from the same general area and although they spread out before they reached Feld, they had only ever been seen along a ten-league stretch of the boundary.

  Very little information had been gleaned from the captive troll but Surrin was still working on it, determined to gain something useful to help the fight. As far as she could tell the trolls’ main motivation for invading was a promise of endless killing, bountiful food, a land full of riches beyond their imagination and, oddly, vengeance of some sort. She hadn't found out who was making these promises, where the trolls were coming from or, indeed, how they were traveling to the wilderness just outside Feld’s boundary. The main obstacle in her way was the fact that the troll seemed to have a completely different thought process. It was so egotistic that it was almost as if the rest of the world only existed to amuse him and satisfy his needs, so it was hard to get answers about other trolls or about anything that did not interest him. It was slow and unrewarding work for Surrin but Dissan hoped that one day it might give them a missing piece of the puzzle.

  Giving his head a final rub, Dissan buckled on his sword and strode for the door. “Fill me in on the way,” he threw to the orderly who hastened to keep up.

  “The alarm came from two leagues to the East, Sire. A large troop, at least fifty and all unharmed by the wild magic.”

  Dissan reached his horse, nodding to his tired but determined knights, already mounted and ready to ride. Fifty trolls was more than they had encountered before and he couldn’t help a worm of doubt eating away inside, telling him that they might not be able to win against these odds.

  He shivered involuntarily and not just from the cold, although winter was well on its way now. It was miserable weather, freezing rain, low grey clouds and heavy mud underfoot. A quick glance at the sky confirmed what his frozen nose suggested: snow was on its way. In fact, small feather-light flakes began to fall as they set out, swirling behind them as they raced towards the boundary.

  By the time they reached the map reference that had been sent to them, large, heavy, flakes were falling straight down, settling on the branches overhead and dusting their shoulders. The world was slowly losing its sharp edges and morphing into a soft, white, unified entity. They halted, searching for the Guardian who had sent the call.

  “Well met, your Highness,” a soft voice called.

  Dissan glanced around but could not see anyone.

  “Up here, Sire.”

  Dissan pushed his hood back and looked up to see the Guardian scout perched on a branch above him, wrapped in a long, great coat, nervously glancing past the boundary out into the open land beyond.

  “The trolls are moving fast. I was not sure you would reach here in time. They seem to be more organised than usual and it looks as if they have shields.”

  Dissan’s heart sank. Shields would take away the advantage of the recurved bows. “Thank you, um, actually I don’t think I know your name.”

  “Nyssan, Sire.”

  Dissan smiled up at the man. “Thank you Nyssan. Not the news we wanted to hear but best to be prepared.” Dissan wondered what had changed. Up until now there appeared to be no communication between the different groups of trolls they had encountered, which meant that they could use the same battle plan over and over again and because of this the knights had taken the art of dispatching trolls to a very high level. The shields were the first indication that the trolls might be adapting. Dissan squinted through the steadily falling flakes, trying to discern the murky shapes out beyond the forest edge. With a bit of luck, they could use the snow to hide them long enough until the trolls crossed the boundary and they would then be sufficiently close be able to charge the enemy before they reached the trees. The fact that the knights were mounted and armed with lances might be all that was needed to tip the scales in their favour. But fate was not always kind, and even whilst Dissan was formulating a plan of attack in his head, nature played a surprise card of its own, and the snow began to slow until, eventually, it ceased altogether. The sky was still low and heavily pregnant with more snow to come but at this precise moment in time, it was incredibly easy to see every dark sh
ape for leagues around. The fifty or so invaders were clearly visible as they churned their way towards the tree and this in turn, of course, meant that the knights were now in plain sight for the trolls.

  A quick decision needed to be made. If they did not mount and charge, they would lose the advantage the horses gave them and there would never be as good a time as right now. It would mean leaving the safety of the Boundary, something that they had never done before, something every fibre of his being screamed against doing, but he realised he had no options left.

  Dissan stood in his stirrups and surveyed his men waiting, stoically for his order and with a few well practiced hand signals the knights lined up, facing out towards the domain of the wild magic. Lances were at the ready, swords loosened, horses snorted at the tension, the odd one stamping impatiently with the cold. Although several of his men looked positively green at the thought of leaving that safety of the Boundary he knew none would falter and this realisation brought a lump to his throat, he was so proud of them. Dissan sent a silent plea to lady luck, took a deep breath and gave the order to charge.

  The snow muted the thunder of the hooves but the creaking of the leather and the horse’s harsh breathing carried in the white stillness. A cloud of snow kicked up by the horses filled the air behind and a dark swathe of uncovered earth appeared beneath them, leaving a wide trail in their wake. Oddly Dissan felt time slow as his senses heightened. He was able to take in every aspect of the foe before him, especially their faces full of feral excitement. They were not intimidated at all by the thundering line of horses bearing down on them; rather, they were gleefully anticipating this encounter. Dissan shuddered. What kind of being were they? They had assumed a defensive line facing the advancing knights. There seemed to be more than fifty, all carrying large shields. The odds were definitely not in his men’s favour. Dissan needed to break this line. The best way to do this would be to form a wedge, but to achieve this the trolls needed to be distracted.

  Dissan gave a series of hand signals that told the archers to loosen a rain of arrows to fall straight down on the enemy so they would be forced to raise their shields above their heads and the riders to form a vee formation, with Dissan at the point, to break the line.

  Timing was everything. If the arrows fell too soon the trolls would have time to recover and lower their shields again but if the arrows fell too late they would fall amongst his own men. Dissan had unwavering faith in his archers, he had trusted them with his life so often now that it did not even occur to him to doubt them.

  Inexorably the gap closed. Arrows flew, rising into the sky before, almost gracefully tipping, to begin their deadly fall back to earth. Seamlessly the troop reformed into the wedge formation, lances bristling along its flanks. Arrows thudded into flesh and upturned shields, a split moment before Dissan’s lance drove home, through the broad chest of the centre troll before him. Once again time slowed. Dissan left his lance in the fallen troll, drew his sword and began dispatching any who came within range. Surprisingly he was still moving forward and from the commotion he could hear behind him, his men were following. His world narrowed to a small circle of vision. His whole life reduced to striking before being struck, to surviving the next moment. The smell of blood and troll made him gag. Cries of agony interspersed with the clash of steel filled his ears. He was gasping now. Each stroke felt like it required more strength than he possessed. A horse screamed. He could not afford to look, he just hoped that, with grace, there would be time for grieving later.

  A sharp pain lanced through thigh. With one fluid motion he reversed his sword and thrust backward and down. He was rewarded with a meaty connection and a strangled cry. Taking a quick glance at his leg to make sure the injury was not life threatening, he looked up just in time to block an incoming axe with his sword then seizing the chance given, he stabbed into the exposed chest with the knife in his other hand. The troll and his axe were quickly left behind and forgotten as a new foe presented himself.

  A stray arrow suddenly sprouted from his saddle. He pulled it out and used it to stab an upturned face in front of him. He was so focused that it was a complete surprise when the melee of bodies vanished and instead he found himself looking at a trampled field of snow and lowering clouds. He had broken through. His lungs were screaming for air. Holding onto the pummel of his saddle for support he turned to assess the battle.

  To his relief the troll troop had been effectively cut in half and even as he watched he could see his men isolating individuals and cutting them down. A swathe of blood, bodies and weapons littered the ground and, to Dissan’s dismay, not all the bodies were trolls. Anger replaced fatigue and Dissan charged back into the thick of it, selecting a huge, hairy troll, wielding a double sided axe, calling out a challenge to him to ensure he had its full attention.

  His men were still outnumbered and weary but with each troll killed their confidence was growing. Dissan hoped fervently that the weather would not close in again as this would make everything so much more difficult. He glanced quickly at the steely grey horizon assessing the conditions and noticed something odd. About a league away the sky appeared to be travelling towards them at an alarming rate. He froze. “No,” he breathed. It couldn’t be! “Please, no,” he repeated to himself even as his sinking heart told him that, yes, it was true, he was witnessing a wild magic storm and it was heading their way.

  Snow was flung into the air, the ground rippled, the air shimmered and plants sprouted and died. Even heavy boulders began to float and dance. “Shit!” he spat in disbelief, shaking his head as he forced himself to look away from the mesmerising image and act. Taking the shortest, most direct route through the carnage he raised his sword above his head and screamed, “Storm!” Urging his horse into a full gallop he raced for the shelter of the boundary. It was terrifying. The stuff of nightmares. Peeking backwards, under his arm, he could just make out several horses galloping flat out behind him. He could not tell how many of his men were there, but this was no time for heroism. He needed to survive to fight another day and he knew that each man would be thinking exactly the same thing.

  Gasping, he peered forward again past his terrified horse’s tossing head at the line of mature trees that marked the boundary and safety. He could hear the call of the storm screaming on all sides. They were not going to make it! The storm was speeding towards them faster than any horse could gallop. This would be a disaster. Losing a whole troop of battle fit, experienced knights would cost Feld dearly. The snow had begun to fall again, confusing everything, making it hard to differentiate between storm and the snow kicked up by fleeing horses, but a terrified scream and a horse's squeal told the story only too clearly. Squinting through the thick flakes, Dissan thought he saw a dark figure detach itself from the line of trees ahead. It appeared to be a lone rider and it was heading towards him, away from the boundary. Dissan closed his eyes and shook his head. Surely his mind was playing tricks on him. Who in their right mind would ride towards a storm in full flight? When he opened his eyes again the rider was still there, close enough now that Dissan could make out their long coat tails flapping in the wind. He recognised that coat. Dissan blinked. Of course it was Nyssan the Guardian scout that had been up the tree. A kernel of hope took root in his heart, glowing weekly in the darkness of his despair. If this courageous man could reach them before the storm overtook any more of his men they might all be saved.

  The race took on a whole new level of desperation. Each step, each breath, was an agonisingly small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Another scream was cut off as if a knife had passed through it, followed by a ground shaking thud as a boulder landed just behind them. Dissan flinched then frantically searched ahead looking for any sign of Nyssan, questions racing through his mind. How big was his range? How close did he have to be to save them from the storm? Dissan’s gaze locked onto the lone rider, willing him on but he could see that his horse was beginning to flounder, and he silently pleaded that it would not stumble on the
uneven ground. Dissan yelled encouragement and Nyssan looked up, his face set into a picture of grim determination.

  After an eternity, the two riders met but rather than slowing Nyssan raced past Dissan towards the men who were still struggling to flee the raging storm behind them. Dissan slowed his horse and taking huge gulps of precious air he turned and watched as one by one his men rode to safety.

  When the Guardian finally came level with the last struggling knight, an injured man who was barely managing to keep his seat, he also slowed and turned. The storm continued to batter against an invisible wall only a couple of lance lengths beyond him but thankfully it would not claim any more victims today.

  Wearily, the battered knights picked their way back to the boundary. Dissan had a chance to count heads and asses injuries. Eight were missing and, tragically, they would never know if they were alive when the storm hit or not. No bodies would ever be recovered either and this weighed heavily on Dissan’s heart as he knew that this would make it so difficult for the grieving families. Six knights were severely injured and would not be able to fight for a couple of moons at least but the rest of them had only minor cuts and scrapes. A miracle really. Dissan’s leg needed a few stitches but was nothing too serious. On the whole, they had got off remarkably lightly but lessons had been learnt. Time was running out. They needed Errin at full strength as soon as possible.

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