by Brad Carsten
Langton followed Quinn's eyes to Elias and shrugged. “Everyone's on edge at the moment, what with the explosion and the nightspawn and...” He tore a piece of meat off the gridiron and juggled it between his fingers.
“The wretched?” Quinn offered.
Langton grimaced. “I didn't want to come out and say it, but yes, that especially. As for Elias, I wouldn't worry too much about it. He can be a bit over eager at times. It must be a Galbrokian thing. Don’t get me wrong, these days are more dangerous than ever before, but we have the hounds, we have the pikes. What more can we do short of handing out body armour and flaming torches to everyone? Their heads are so deep in their books, they'd end up burning the camp down.” He popped the meat into his mouth and flicked his hands to cool them off. “No, nothing's getting through in a hurry.”
“I don't know. I don't know him that well, but I have the feeling that he knows something that he's not telling us. It's almost like he's expecting trouble.”
“He's always expecting trouble. Like I said, don’t worry about it. If you show any interest, he'll put you to work before you can shake a stick at a grouse. No, take it from me, you'd be better off staying out of it. That's the way he unwinds. Me, this is how I unwind.” He produced a jug of ale from an old bag. “What do you say to a game of Grubbers. Just to take the edge off? Plight knows I could use a drink.”
“Grubbers?”
“It's a game me and my mates made up back when we were working as tree fellers in Craswich. I'm hoping it'll catch on eventually, and that I'll be invited into the palace to teach the king himself how to play. I've picked out my suit and everything. How much coin do you have?”
Liam had left enough coin for Quinn to float a ship, and have a ship maid dancing every night for them, but as pleasant as that sounded, Quinn didn't want the fool's gold. As soon as he saw Liam again, he'd hand the coins right back along with a slap upside the head, but after the day he'd had, he decided that it wouldn't hurt to borrow some of it. Yes, just enough to take the edge off. He could always pay Liam back once he got a job.
“Alright,” he announced, stubbornly. “Let's do it. Let’s forget about this day and go to sleep as happy men.”
“Jolly good.” Langton rubbed his hands eagerly. “It doesn't matter if you're a king or a pauper, there's nothing like watching another man sucking on a beetle to make you feel better about your lot.”
“Wait, what?”
The game was simple enough. You shake a tub of beetles into the ale and take a swig, and whoever has the most beetles in their mouth afterwards gets the loot.
The more they drank the more difficult it became to separate the beetles from the ale until they were swallowing more than they were spitting out.
Before long, Quinn and Langton were laughing and sharing stories, but even as Quinn's head lightened, he was painfully aware of Elias circling the camp with his hounds. A man couldn’t get drunk enough to ignore that.
They played until the ale ran out.
Langton spat the last of the beetles into Quinn's lap, missing the cup entirely, and with one still sliding down his chin, he counted out his coins and got unsteadily to his feet. “You thir are a thport and a twoo patriot. It’th been an honor to thirve with you.” He saluted, his head swaying from side to side.
He stumbled off to his wagon, singing at the top of his lungs, while Quinn climbed into his blankets alongside the fire. That proved more difficult than it looked with a head full of wool.
Quinn was back at his house in Brigwell. A cup dropped to the floor with a loud thud. It kept bouncing up and down, up and down, hammering against the floorboards. His mother was screaming. She was screaming and it wouldn't stop.
The scene blurred and Quinn was left staring into a fire that had almost burned out. He tried to get up and a sharp pain bit into his head. The scene swam in and out of focus, and it took him a while to realise where he was, and that he was no longer in a dream. That wasn't the kitchen floor. He wasn't a child, and this wasn't his home, and why was his head throbbing so much? There came another spike of pain, and he winced. That's when he realised that the shouting hadn't stopped.
He turned as a man fell past him into the fire, scattering hot coals across the ground. A large shape thudded on top of him. Teeth bit into his neck, and the blood sprayed across Quinn's face.
Quinn cried out in alarm. He scrambled for his spear, but something twisted around his ankles, pulling him to the ground. He kicked out at it waiting for those teeth that would end it all and realised that his legs had been caught up in his blanket.
It was just his blanket.
He reached his spear, and the creature leapt. He swung and those teeth snapped around the spear shaft. He fought to keep its head away from his face but it was too strong. He shouted, but his shouts were drowned out by many, many others.
It leapt across him, and its teeth snapped at him again and again, trying to reach him, trying to get past his spear. He reached for a rock to hit into its snout when something swept by, taking the creature with it and ripping the spear out of his hands.
He rolled to his feet; his heart drumming so hard it felt like it was about to break through his chest.
One of the lumbrocks was on top of the cursed thing but was struggling to keep it down. The creature was large and shaped like a wolf, if wolves could grow to that size. The last time he had seen one of those things was the night he first met Kaylyn in the Dourbern forest. She had somehow decapitated it without touching it. If he knew then what he knew now, he would have turned and ran without looking back.
A second hound swept past, locking its jaws around the creature's neck.
The creature’s eyes bulged. It fought but the hound had a good grip. The hound thrashed its head, and the creature's neck snapped. Blood bubbled out of its nose, and it collapsed into the dirt.
Quinn retrieved his spear in the ankle length grass and spun trying to point it in all directions at once. What in light happened? How did they get through the defences?
People were running, fighting, with massive shapes darting between them. One leapt onto a man's back, dragging him to the ground.
“Are you okay?” Fayre shouted. Her hair had been tied back earlier, but now it hung in her face, and she was breathing hard.
“I—I think so. How did they get through? I thought the defences were iron tight?”
“They were, but there were just too many of them.
Fluffy. Cuddles. Come here.”
Flames engulfed some of the wagons, and others lay on their sides, but the circle was mostly intact. There were only a handful of places that the nightspawn were getting through. The scribes that weren't already fighting with their hounds, were gathering around the openings to force the creatures back. They clutched axes and shovels and tools, but almost no-one wore armour, and some even ran without a shirt, or were barefoot. The attack had come too quickly.
Quinn ran to add his support, but his legs felt numb, and his head was swimming from too much ale. Something leapt at him from the side, and Fayre's hound took it down before it reached him. Plight, he hadn't even seen it coming.
“Be careful,” Fayre shouted. “Don't let them sneak up on you like that.”
After having so much to drink, his instincts weren't as sharp as they should be. He shook his head to clear it, and to get his eyes back into focus. He had to concentrate.
All around him people were screaming and dying. Ahead, a wagon lay burning on its side.
Quinn saw the shape lying in the grass before he realised who's wagon it was.
“Landton!” Blood covered his back, and a hand was reaching lifelessly towards the box of grubber beetles lying just out of reach.
Quinn's body went numb. “Oh no, no, no.” He rolled the lanky fella over, and the head flopped to the side. Blood ran down his chin. There was so much of it. Quinn checked for a pulse, hoping, praying for something, but there was nothing there.
If Landton was sober, he may hav
e stood a chance, but in this state, he would have been cut down in seconds.
All around them, gaps were opening in the wagons. Those who weren't defending the entrances were fighting in small groups, dying in small groups, and he didn't know what to do.
Across the way, a wagon door burst open and a large-bellied man scrambled out, screaming that something had hit into the side of his wagon. He must have been hiding in there—who could blame him?
The wagon jolted, tipping him into the grass.
With another crash the wagon tipped away behind him as though the outer wheels had been cut out from under it, and the nightspawn poured through the gap.
The large bellied man tried to get up and run, but they cut him down with an axe before he had taken half a dozen steps.
Through the haze rose a horse and rider. The horse writhed like it was made from ropes twisting together.
“That's their leader,” Fayre shouted. “If we can kill him, we can end this.” She gave the order and her hounds took off after him.
“Wait,” Quinn shouted. “That's a hunter. Call them back. Call them back.”
Her hounds covered the distance in seconds.
The hunter raised a sword, casually, and yet quickly as though time was moving differently for him. The first hound leapt, and his sword struck out, three, four, five times in a heartbeat like a viper's tongue. The hound’s head was severed before it hit the ground, and the hunter turned without much effort on the other.
Fayre's eyes widened in horror. Her mouth opened in a scream. She fired arrow after arrow, but as with Quinn's, her arrows simply vanished halfway only to appear back in her quiver a moment later.
The second hound fell and Fayre screamed after him. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. She discarded her bow and drew her hunting knife.
Quinn grabbed her arm, but she wrenched it free. “You can't fight it. Fayre, listen to me.”
A creature charged towards them on hind legs like a man, like those cursed things that attacked Brigwell.
Quinn swung his spear, slicing up into its neck. It fell back, and he thrust, pinning it through the chest.
For a moment, his vision blurred and images flickered by.
He saw the creature charging through the long grass towards the wagons with the sweet scent of blood in its nostrils. It was animal like, but there were human thoughts in there as well. Thoughts of hatred and murder and greed.
Hooks bit into the top of the wagon and the creatures pulled back on the ropes, while others hacked at the wheels. The wagon hit the dirt, blowing up a cloud of dust.
Men scattered and men died. Quinn pulled the spear free, and the images cut off abruptly.
“Fayre!” In the seconds it took him to deal with the nightspawn, she had taken off after the hunter. “Wait Fayre, wait. Stop.”
The hunter turned his head towards her, casually. He stepped past a scribe that was lying on his back with a spear pinning him to the ground. He was still writhing, as the hunter wrenched the spear free.
Quinn shouted for Fayre, over and over. He ran after her, but she was too far ahead, and he couldn't do anything.
The hunter raised the spear.
Quinn screamed and waved his arms to distract it, but it was like blowing into a storm, and about as useful.
The spear hit, and she was thrown back.
The hunter turned away from her, as though she was of no importance.
Quinn scrambled down alongside her. He cradled her head in his arms with the same feeling of helplessness he had felt in Brigwell. “I've got you. I've got you. I'll get you somewhere safe.” He didn't want to look at the wound and how badly she was injured, or he knew he'd lose his courage.
He gathered her up in his arms, and then her father was there to help carry her. “Get her to the archive. Here,” he pressed the Sage's key into Quinn's hand. “Take the wagon and go.”
Quinn's mind was all over the place, and it took him a moment to understand what Elias was saying. “Take the archive, and get to Luthengard. She needs help. Get her to Luthengard. Don't stop. Just keep going until you reach the city. Protect her, and protect the wagon. There are secrets in there that could end the war. She'll know what to do with it.” He leaned over and kissed her forehead, and his face twisted in pain.
“Come with us,” Quinn said, “I can't look after her and steer the oxen...” but Fayre’s father had already started after the hunter with all six of his hounds spreading out behind him like a pack of wolves.
The wagon was already hitched. Elias must have prepared it as part of his rounds. Was he the only one who saw that far ahead? Thank Fate for that. Quinn laid Fayre carefully inside the wagon. Her back arched in pain, and fresh blood bubbled out around the spear.
Quinn wrenched off his coat to plug the wound. He tried to put her hands on it, to hold it in place, but they slid off limply. His mind was screaming that she wouldn't make it unless he helped her first, but by then, the camp would be overwhelmed. No, this was the only way.
Using his belt, he tied the cloak in place, and when he shut the door, he wondered if he would ever see her again.
The oxen fought against their restraints. They flicked their heads, and the whites of their eyes were showing. Quinn unhooked the restraints and swung into the driver's seat. Within minutes, the fog had swallowed the wagons behind them. He tried to block out the sound of people fighting and people dying and the guilt at leaving them all behind, but he had to get Fayre out. That's what he told himself anyway. Plague, he was no hero, but no man liked to admit that he was a coward.
***
Elias moved along the row of wagons, circling the hunter. He was vaguely aware of the tainted ones turning on him and being torn apart by the six lumbrocks. All his attention was on the Hunter. Liam had said it may attack, but he hadn't expected the attack to come so soon. There were so many dead. Old man Jediah who couldn't stand ink on his fingers. He was constantly washing his hands whenever he had to write a report. There was Talbot, and his daughter. Both were working on a tincture that could reduce a fever, and there was young Nadi—shy but unbelievably intelligent. She was killed in the first wave. When the husks broke through, she turned and ran, and a spear pierced her through the back. Those thoughts flickered through his mind in a heartbeat, before he forced them out again. He would mourn the dead once this was over.
He didn't know what the husks were doing here. Tall, lanky creatures that stood on hind legs like a man, they carried spears like the one that Quinn managed to get his hands on.
Pierce that into a man's flesh and they could learn everything they needed to about him, including his plans or where he was headed. It was far more accurate than an interrogation, and not nearly as drawn out. There was more to this than just a raid for supplies though or a pocket of death to sleep in. Hunters didn't raid, and they wouldn't waste husks unless they were after something specific. No, the hunter was here for something, and Elias would bet his boots that it was the wretched.
When Elias left Galbrok for this kingdom, he thought they'd be getting away from war, but war had a way of following a man. After the things he had done, and the things he had seen, he knew that violence would overtake him eventually, but he never wanted it to reach Fayre. He thought of her lying in Quinn’s arms, the spear through her chest, and his shirt suddenly felt too tight around his neck, like it was squeezing the life out of him. He couldn't breathe.
No! She would make it. She would! As soon as he had dealt with the hunter, he would ride after her, but first, he had to make sure that this animal would pay for what it had done to her.
Drawing his sword, he spun it in his hands and thrust it into the side of a burning wagon. Leaving it in place, he swung up onto Canna, the quickest of the lumbrocks.
He circled the camp, never taking his eyes away from the hunter.
A trikahn rushed at him from the side and a husk, and his lumbrocks took them down without breaking their stride.
The hunter swept through a group o
f scribes: Jackdin, and Farrol and young Harwin, all three carried bucklers, and had taken down at least half a dozen nightspawn between them. The hunter’s sword flickered like the tongue of a serpent, thwack, thwack, thwack, with each strike finding flesh and bone. It swept past leaving all three men dying on the ground.
Another group turned towards it, but Elias shouted for them to stay back. He would not see anyone else dying this night.
As he swept around, he tightened the circle. His hounds were snarling and their hackles rising, but he kept them back.
The hunter turned those cruel eyes on him, and Elias drew and nocked an arrow. The first disappeared mid-flight. The second and third as well.
The hunter stepped that cursed mount towards him. It held its sword loosely at its side. Its face held no expression.
“Cluster,” he called and the lumbrocks rushed forward and fell back, forward and fell back. The hunter advanced as quick as lightning for one of the hounds to test it, but it too was quick and kept out of reach.
Elias fired another arrow and again it disappeared mid-flight.
Sweat ran down his face, and he had to blink to keep it out of his eyes.
The hunter darted towards him, covering the distance in a heartbeat.
He drew his long knife.
Its sword struck and he managed to deflect it, but almost lost his blade in the process.
He kicked his heels into Canna's flanks and the sword whistled past his head.
The lumbrocks were quick, but the hunter was quicker, and it ran in from the side.
The hounds were snarling, barking, spittle flying from their mouths.
“Take,” he shouted, as he deflected the hit.
The Lumbrocks charged. Elias dropped off the back of Canna.
The hunter’s blade turned mid-strike, slicing down his chest.
He hit the ground and rolled and when he came up, he wrenched the sword from the burning wagon and threw it. The sword disappeared into the hunter's middle. Its horse reared and it was thrown off. Grog hit it from the side and its sword flickered back, taking the hound by the throat. Torin and Aura were on the ground already and Mashael had a gash across its snout.
