Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

  Had it been left in the open, crows would gather. They would draw any scout in the vicinity like moths to the flame, and whoever had done this did not want that.

  Hruidgar spat. Theories, he knew. They were worth nothing. He must have the facts, and that meant pulling aside the branch. He had to know, for if the enemy scouts were here, then the army was not far away, and Brand would be flanked and surprised.

  He took a grip of the branch and heaved. It moved with difficulty for oak was heavy, and it was near as thick as his body.

  With a grunt, he let it fall. A faint smell of decomposition met his nostrils. And he forced himself to look inside the hollow. He knew what he would see, but he had to confirm it.

  Inside was a corpse. Ants covered it, and glazed eyes stared up unseeing. Eyes that he knew. Durnheld, a hunter the army had picked up after the battle with Gormengil.

  Hruidgar cursed under his breath. The dead man was little more than a youth, all eager for adventure. He had skill and talent, but he was also young and inexperienced. Hruidgar had sent him to scout out here to protect him. Better this than where the army was expected.

  How wrong he had been. The man’s throat had been cut, and dried blood showed on his tunic where he had been stabbed at least once. He had been killed, and then his body hidden.

  Why?

  Murder, perhaps. Anything was possible. But he knew in his heart it was an act of war. Durnheld had been killed by enemy scouts. And that meant one thing. The enemy was close. Two things, actually, and Hruidgar cursed again. The enemy was close, and Brand did not know.

  But what should he do now? Seek confirmation, or return to Brand swiftly and give warning?

  It was not an easy problem to solve. But first things first. Regretfully, he must hide the body again. Durnheld would get no decent burial. There was no time for that, and without putting the branch back up wild animals would devour his corpse.

  Hruidgar muttered a few words, long forgotten he had thought them, but they were the Raithlin funeral creed, and they came unbidden to him now.

  Well did you serve and protect

  High was your honor, low your hate

  Your love for good was a beacon of light.

  Then he reached out and pulled the man’s cloak up over his head. There would be no funeral shroud for him. No mourners and no ceremony. The hollow of a tree would serve as his tomb. But at least he would rest for eternity in the wild lands that he loved.

  Hruidgar heaved the branch back into place, and then he turned and leaned his back against it, thinking hard.

  Durnheld had not been dead that long. If enemy scouts had done this, then how far away were they? He could not know, but they might still be close. Close enough that they may have seen his coming and followed him. They could, even now, be stalking close and setting him up for a kill.

  He studied the landscape around him. He saw nothing out of place, but nor would he. Durnheld was young, but he did have skill. To kill him, the enemy scouts must be good. Perhaps very good.

  His gaze fell to the ground close by. The tracks that he had seen were from dogs rather than wolves. The middle toes of dogs were slightly larger, whereas the four front toes of wolves were the same size. The bare ground beneath the massive oak was soft from years of falling leaves, and the sun was now fully up. The dog tracks were quite clear, but he spotted more marks that he had not seen before.

  There were no human tracks, except for his own. But there were signs of disturbance, nonetheless. A leafy branch had been used to smooth over the surface. This had removed all trace of the people that had been here, but it left its own tell-tale signs. Whoever had done this was taking no chances.

  It was not reassuring. It spoke of skill and determination. Neither of which he wanted in abundance in an enemy. Nor did it make his choice of what to do any easier. Should he return now and warn Brand? Or should he discover the enemy and learn their numbers?

  It was the first that he wanted to do. He was never very brave. And as much as he hated large groups of people, the army offered safety, of a sort. At least until battle was joined. Moreover, Brand needed to be told that the enemy may be flanking him.

  But really, what good would that news do him? Was the entire Kirsch army here? Had it split into two? Was this only a small expeditionary force? These were all things that Brand would need to know. If he did not, he would be forced to send out more scouts to discover that information, and more young men like Durnheld would be killed.

  No. He wanted to go back, but he must go forward. He must find the enemy, tally their numbers and discern their intention. That was his job as a scout. That was the job of a Raithlin.

  He spotted a fallen branch, and used its leaves to hide his own boot marks. If the enemy scouts returned, and they might do on purpose to see if anyone had discovered what they had done, they would not know their presence had been revealed. But they would certainly know that he was here, for he could not hide his horse’s tracks.

  There was nothing he could do about that. His presence alone was reason enough for them to try to kill him, but if they knew he was aware of them there would be a greater sense of urgency. Far greater.

  He rested the branch down on the ground when he was done, trying to make it look like it had fallen there naturally. Then he turned and surveyed the scene. It was just as it was when he discovered it, and he could do no more than that.

  Next, he turned his gaze to his backtrail. A long while he studied it, seeking any signs that he was being followed. He saw nothing. But that did not mean much. A good scout, or even a group of them, would not allow himself to be seen.

  Still, there were no other indications either. Bird calls were one thing he listened for, and so too the sight of birds rising up from trees which might indicate something moving below them. But there was nothing like that.

  Yet the thought would not leave him that someone was there, and perhaps more than one. Instinct? Fear? He was not sure, but there was nothing else to do but get on with his job.

  He loosed the reins of his horse from where they were tied, and mounted swiftly. If need be, he could gallop now and cover a lot of ground, but that was the last thing he would do. Only an attack would bring that on. Otherwise, it was best to move slowly and carefully. In that way, he might escape detection. But the horse would make it harder.

  He knew he left tracks, and he could not hide them. But he moved ahead, being careful to change direction often so that he took no predictable path. He avoided good places for ambush too, and tried to keep himself from being highlighted on open ground on a rise.

  Everything he did was designed to avoid being found, but deep in his heart he knew the enemy were out there, and they were good. He had sufficient skill to avoid them, but that alone was never enough. He needed a touch of luck too.

  So he moved through the day, and though he saw nothing out of place nor heard anything out of order, his anxiety only grew.

  The land about him began to change. There were less pines and more oaks. It flattened too. This was, perhaps, an advantage. Without high points that would serve as lookouts, he would be harder to see from a distance.

  If he had the opportunity, he would have hidden during the day and traveled only at night. That would have been safer, but there was no chance for that. Time pressed, and the sooner he found out what was happening, the sooner he could return to Brand and give him an opportunity to develop a counter strategy.

  Brand was a canny man, and a war leader the like of which the Duthgar had never known. He snatched victory from the hands of defeat, again and again. What was to come though, that would be a greater test than all that had gone before. All the more reason that he must have accurate knowledge of what the enemy was doing. Without it, he was doomed.

  Hruidgar guided his black mare down a slope at an angle. And when he was halfway down, he changed direction. This sort of maneuvering was costing him time, but being predictable could cost him his life.

  To the west, the s
un sank low on the horizon and shot the scattered clouds through with pinks and reds. The oak trees, scattered across the land like the clouds scattered in the sky, cast long shadows.

  Night was coming, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He had not liked traveling through the day, but it had been necessary. Now, he would travel through the night. It would be safer. But it would be a long night without rest. He was too old for this kind of work, but there was no one else to do it for him. If one of his scouts had been killed, likely enough the others had too. Durnheld was the best that he had sent out this way.

  He reached the bottom of the slope, and angled south again through a small cluster of trees. The light was fading fast now, but even so he saw the track in the grass.

  It was a boot mark, and it was fresh. Very, very fresh. Even as he watched, he saw a blade of grass within it spring upright again. It was only minutes old. Perhaps not even that.

  17. Ambush

  Hruidgar knew he was a dead man. Only chance had taken him at this angle down the slope, but it had caught his enemy by surprise. Had he not come this way, he would never have known the danger.

  But knowing the danger did not necessarily help him. Not much at any rate. If more than one scout was stalking him, he certainly was dead. But, perhaps he had a chance if there was only one of them.

  He lifted his gaze off the boot mark. It was best just now not to give away any indication that he knew the man was somewhere close by. If he did so, the scout would be twice as wary. If he thought that he remained undetected though … that would make him complacent. Hopefully.

  It was a chance Hruidgar had to take. He had no others.

  He moved ahead slowly, letting the horse pick its own way forward. The option was there to kick his heels in and gallop. That might swiftly take him away from danger. Or straight into an ambush.

  No. It was best to continue just as he was, and to allow himself an opportunity to see the ambush that would be sprung on him rather than gallop blindly into it.

  Dusk was covering the land in a shadowy blanket, but there was still enough light to see by. If an ambush was coming, it would likely be soon. No scout would want to try tracking him in the dark. It would be hard to do except by staying close, and at night that meant a much higher chance of stepping on a branch in the dark that would give away his presence.

  No. He would be ambushed, and it would happen very, very soon.

  He moved ahead slowly, trying as hard as possible to show no sign of anxiety. All the odds were in favor of his enemy, but at least one thing might work to his benefit. The enemy would expect him to be surprised when the attack came, but if he was ready for it, he just might be able to turn that surprise around by acting quickly.

  Another thing was advantageous too. Durnheld had not been killed by arrows but by blades. It seemed the enemy scouts carried no bows, and that was a stroke of good fortune. Had they done so, he likely would already be dead.

  He tried to determine where the ambush would be laid. He had seen where the enemy scout had been, so he put himself in the man’s position and tried to work out where he would go.

  There was lower ground ahead and to the right. A man could lie there unseen, and then rise and attack with sword or knife when his target came closer. It was a possibility.

  But ahead and to the left was a clump of straggly trees. That too was a good hiding spot. But which would it be?

  His life depended on guessing correctly, for he could not guard well against both sides at once. And things would be even worse if there was more than one enemy.

  He made his choice. Had it been him, he would have avoided the lower ground to the right. The grass was taller there, and the chances of leaving a visible trail were higher. The clump of trees to the left offered shorter grass that would leave no trail, and also the chance to remain standing behind a tree rather than lie down. This would mean a quicker attack when it was time to act.

  Hruidgar let out a slow breath. He wished with everything he had that he dared to string his bow and notch an arrow, but then his element of surprise at not being surprised would be lost.

  He licked his lips. An irrational urge to laugh came over him, for the idea of surprising someone by not being surprised suddenly seemed ludicrous. But on such a situation his life now turned.

  He could not string his bow, but he did have throwing knives up the sleeves of both arms. Surreptitiously, he let the one on his right inner forearm slide out of its sheath and into his hand. That would enable him to throw better to the left. But if he was wrong, and the attack came from the right, he would be disadvantaged. He wished he could feel the hilt of a knife in each hand, but he had to control the horse, and when the attack came that might be needed for the horse would surely shy at sudden movement.

  He drew close to both likely ambush places. His heart raced, but nothing happened. Had he been wrong about them? Was the man somewhere else?

  He had nearly gone past the places when a man rose suddenly from the grass on the lower ground to the right. Hruidgar had chosen badly, and yet had his knife been in his left hand he would now have to try to turn back and throw, which would be too slow. As it was, he was able to fling the knife in his right hand in a quick backhand motion.

  But the other man was throwing too. Hruidgar dropped low in the saddle, and the horse leaped forward in surprise. One of those things saved his life.

  He did not even hear the noise of the passing knife. It must have missed him by a good amount, but his own had struck home. The man, fully behind him now, reeled backward.

  Hruidgar pulled hard on the reins, turned his horse around, and kicked in his heels. He would charge his attacker down.

  The scout staggered, and then he leapt to the left, but the black mare’s hooves caught him, and Hruidgar, still bent low in the saddle, drew his short sword and swiped.

  He hit nothing. It was too short for a cavalry blade, and not meant for striking a man while mounted.

  Cursing, Hruidgar leapt from the saddle. He could not let this man escape, for then he could give warning to his comrades and a whole group of them would be after him.

  He hit the ground running, but the scout had no intention of fleeing. Blood showed on his tunic, but whatever wound he had did not seem to slow him down much. He charged himself, and the two of them met in a crash of steel blades.

  It was not a pretty fight. Neither were great swordsmen. Hruidgar wished he had a tenth of the skill with a blade that Brand had, but he had to settle for what he possessed.

  What he possessed might be enough. Maybe. He hacked and blocked, and the other man did the same. There would be no fleeing now. To turn was to invite a sword blade through the back.

  The other man was younger. Much younger. But he was wounded, and his breath came in ragged gasps. It evened out the age difference.

  Suddenly the other man stumbled back. Hruidgar drove forward, his blade seeking the scout’s life, but it was a ruse. The man had drawn a knife and he flung it hard.

  Hruidgar dodged to the side. This time, he heard the knife pass close to his head and even felt the wind of it. He moved to attack again, but he had been thrown off balance and the other man leapt forward, his blade thrusting at Hruidgar’s heart.

  Hruidgar stumbled back in his haste, and while he escaped the killing stroke, he also lost his balance. He fell down, landing badly.

  The sword came for him again, this time a wild slash at his neck. Somehow, Hruidgar fended it away, and the smash of steel on steel was loud in his ear. But the other man was standing over him, and Hruidgar kicked him in the groin with all the strength he possessed.

  The enemy scout groaned and staggered back, bent over. Hruidgar rolled to his feet and struck. The man was little able to defend, but grunting and lurching backward he fended off the blows. Most of them, at any rate.

  One slash hit his left shoulder, and there was the grating feel of metal against bone. Hruidgar had hoped for a killing stroke, but this was not it. Nor was it debilitatin
g, for it was not his opponent’s sword arm.

  A moment later, the tip of Hruidgar’s sword nicked the man’s thigh. It drew a yelp of pain as well as blood, but again it was not a killing blow.

  Hruidgar pressed forward. He had the advantage now, and he tried to take it. But the other man was facing death. And he knew it. He fought back with tenacity born of desperate fear.

  Once more Hruidgar nicked him, this time a shallow slice across his stomach, and it seemed to enrage the other man. Either that, or the desperation of his situation drove him to one last attempt at victory. He crashed forward, screaming and slashing wildly.

  Hruidgar was forced to retreat. This time he kept his footing, and blow after blow smashed against his sword until the hand that held the hilt grew numb. But he blocked all the attacks, and the other man grew weary. A great lethargy seized him. And Hruidgar realized his enemy must have lost a lot of blood. Death was creeping up on him, and that had lent the man desperation.

  But it was nearly over now. The man swung slowly, and the power of his blows was much reduced. Yet still determination set his face in a grimace, and he advanced with a fierce expression that did not match what his body was able to deliver.

  Suddenly, Hruidgar felt sick. He was going to kill this man, and he did not want to. Not like this. But he steeled himself. The man had probably been the one who killed Durnheld.

  Before he knew what was happening, his own blade turned from defense to attack. It drove forward and up, slipping into flesh and seeking toward the heart.

  The blade tip found it. Blood sprayed from the man’s mouth, splattering over Hruidgar’s face. He wanted to jump back, but instead he stepped closer, forcing the blade higher and twisting it.

  His enemy fell, dead, and Hruidgar reefed his sword free, with difficulty, and then turned and vomited.

  For some while he emptied his stomach, and in moments between he used a rag he carried to clear the blood off his face. But all the while he kept his sword drawn, and his gaze swept the countryside seeking other scouts.