by T P Sheehan
“I saw them in Froughton Forest.”
“Did they attack you?”
“No. They stalked me.”
Still at his back, Magnus felt Catanya shudder. “That’s even worse.”
“But they were alone. These ones look like a hunting pack.” Unease churned in Magnus’s stomach.
They continued in an easterly direction toward Thwax with their weapons drawn, always looking for stalking eyes. Magnus glanced at Catanya’s lance, curious about it.
“Here,” Catanya said. “Take a look.” She handed the bronze, cylindrical weapon to Magnus. He held it by its ends, intrigued by the red light prowling beneath the glyphic carvings in the lance’s frame. “So, you squeeze the grip and it ignites?” Magnus asked.
“Aye.”
“And it will only do so for you?”
“So they say. They became common use after Steyne’s fire-sword killed Balgur, so that never again could a priest’s weapon be used against him… or a dragon.”
“It’s like there’s a creature pacing back and forth within, waiting to be unleashed.” Magnus considered testing the lance to see if it would ignite for him, but thought it disrespectful.
“You do not wish to try it, Magnus? See if your powers can wield a lance made for another?”
Magnus shook his head. “No. It would not be right even if I could do so.”
Magnus went to give the lance back to Catanya when out of the corner of his eye he spotted a black shadow moving through the field. It was brief and silent and Magnus could have dismissed it for a trick of shadows but for the cloudless skies that cast none.
“Catanya!” Magnus warned with a stern whisper. He handed her the lance and she ignited it as Magnus reinforced the grip on his sword. Back to back, they crouched among the tall stems of wheat.
SARAH
Sarah sat atop the rise half a mile away from the abandoned chancel. Catanya was right to tell her this would provide a good vantage point, not only to look over the chancel but also westward toward Ba’rrat. If the nightmare of the previous six months were to follow her to Brindle, she wanted to be the first to know.
To an extent, it had. Sarah’s memories had come with her. Months of projecting thoughts to where freedom may take her never once hinted that she would take the nightmare with her. “Flo ena, Sarah,” she whispered to herself in the Old-Words once again. “Flo ena unna gwatter flemabee—move on and let the past be as it be.” Lamenting the past was not the gypsy way but it was raw in her mind and tragedy could still be born of it. “It is not yet in the past.”
People were arriving in Brindle at a steady pace. Sarah looked about for a familiar face. Magnus, Catanya, Bonstaph or Ganister… As the day grew old the numbers increased. Some of the Brindle townsfolk became hostile toward travellers. Sarah was not at all surprised, as some travellers were guards from Ba’rrat, no doubt fleeing the Black Capitol and the siege that was taking place. Altercations were erratic until one man in particular arrived. He was a bearded man with long, scruffy hair, dressed in rags. He organised people into groups. He had them make fortifications at the city’s western border with armed men and women barring the way. His methods were impeccable and he seemed to command the respect of the townsfolk, even with his ramshackle appearance. Sarah rubbed her eyes and stared harder, wondering whom the man could be. “Curse my ageing eyesight.”
As the sun set on her first day of freedom, something familiar came into view. It was a horse—a Wardemeer—with a Quag warrior astride his back. He shared the company of several more Quag warriors approaching the fortifications with trepidation. The warriors were of no concern to Sarah, but the horse was.
Sarah began to sprint down the hill face toward them, never taking her eyes off the Wardemeer. “Tameror!” It was her husband’s warhorse, still being ridden by the warrior named ‘Daxton’ who told her Ganister had died at his feet.
“Get ready to fight.” The young boy from Brindle handed Bonstaph a flask of water. He nodded in thanks, downed three good gulps then coughed to clear his throat. “Stand your ground and be ready to fight.”
“Yes, Commander.” The people of Brindle seemed most appreciative to have Bonstaph take the lead. He did not think much of being called ‘Commander’ after all the years of distancing himself from the Authoritarium, but it seemed to motivate them.
As soon as Bonstaph had ridden into Brindle on a horse—requisitioned from a Quagman—he could see trouble escalating. With Ba’rrat emptying of its townsfolk and guards, a good portion were heading eastward to Brindle. The town was an obvious target. Just twenty miles from the Black Capitol, the townsfolk were a mixture of gypsies, fisherman and assorted others who had long suffered under the dictatorship of the ruling Quag. With the Quag now desperate, Bonstaph knew Brindle’s townsfolk would feel the brunt of their desperation. It was a simple, tactical reality to the retired Knight Commander—Without an organised defensive unit prepared to counterattack, they will perish.
Without review or consultation, Bonstaph took the initiative to organise the town of Brindle. Within an hour, fortifications were underway from the poplar-strewn northern river to the Neverseas. With swordsmen and archers at the ready, Bonstaph made it clear—“None cross this line unless a friend to Brindle.”
Then Bonstaph saw Tameror.
With a white-knuckled, left-handed grip on the Quag blade he had acquired in Ba’rrat’s arena the previous day, Bonstaph climbed over the hull of a fishing boat that formed part of the fortifications and walked toward Ganister’s warhorse.
“Commander!” a voice shouted in warning. Bonstaph was not listening. Ganister had lost his life only the day before and the very Quagman who stole his best friend’s Wardemeer was within sight. The Quagman led three of his own kinsmen. No doubt to assess the patency of Brindle’s defences.
Bonstaph shouted over his shoulder—“We are now an ‘offensive’. The leader is mine. Archers, sight his companions. They don’t dismount and they don’t advance within fifty feet of our fortifications.” He heard the smooth sliding of arrows being drawn from their quivers and the sinewy stretch of bowstrings. As a young Knight of the Realms, these two sounds were disconcerting when heard from behind, but years of battle changed that—they gave him reassurance.
Just as Bonstaph suspected, the Quagmen drew to a quick halt fifty feet short of the fortifications. An age of warring with the Quag had taught both sides not to breach the fifty-foot line until sure they were ready to fight. Bonstaph was breaching all etiquette, still walking with intent thirty feet from the Quagmen. They grew skittish except for Tameror and his rider. Bonstaph expected nothing less from Tameror, knowing he would choose to fight long before flight. He was unsure what to expect from his Quag rider, but then, he did not give a damn.
With Bonstaph twenty feet out, Tameror’s rider alighted and drew his two black blades. It was what Bonstaph expected. Bonstaph threw his own blade to the side, continuing his assertive advance with no weapon in hand. The Quagmen’s knuckles began to roll nervously about the pommels of his blades—a sign of apprehension Bonstaph also expected.
Ten feet out, Bonstaph broke into a run. The Quagman hesitated before raising his blades—the third thing Bonstaph expected. He knew the hesitation was born of unease, giving him the advantage he needed. The Quagmen’s blades were raised a moment too late. Bonstaph tucked his head low, parried to his right, then back to his left, bringing his right shoulder into the Quagman’s chest. The Quagman had pushed a heel back and braced well for the impact. With Bonstaph too close for a blade attack, the Quagman sunk a heavy elbow into Bonstaph’s back, losing the patency of his grounding in the process. Bonstaph swept his right arm up between the Quagman’s legs and lifted him, throwing him over and onto the ground. Bonstaph fell with him, quick to place the Quagman into the vice-grip of a headlock. Reinforcing the grip with his spare arm, Bonstaph used his legs to fend off the enemy’s flailing blades. The Quagman tensed his thick neck muscles, making a clean snap of the spine d
ifficult for Bonstaph.
Out of nowhere, a flash of purple swept across Bonstaph’s grimacing face accompanied with a harrowing yell. The brute-strength of the Quagman waned and so Bonstaph rolled away from the chaos, springing to his feet to face the confusion.
The purple flash was Sarah. Dressed in a torn, weathered dress, her billowy blonde hair twirled about in a murderous dance with the red blood of the Quagman whom she was stabbing repeatedly with the blade Bonstaph had discarded moments ago.
Offside, Bonstaph saw the remaining Quagmen dismount horses and draw blades. Bonstaph shouted, but not to Sarah—“Release!”
Back at the fortifications, a volley of arrows was released. There was a moment’s silence then dull thuds as three arrows apiece struck each of the remaining Quagmen, killing them.
Bonstaph came to Sarah, who was still stabbing the Quagman. He was dead at least three times over. From behind, Bonstaph wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. “It’s over, Sarah. He is finished,” he spoke gently.
Heaving for breath, covered in the Quagman’s blood, Sarah let the blade slip from her reddened hand. Her body continued to shake as she fell back into Bonstaph’s chest, Bonstaph letting them drop to the ground together.
“It’s over,” Bonstaph repeated twice more.
Sarah tempered her breathing. Bonstaph released his embrace and stood, helping Sarah to her feet. She turned, wiping a smear of blood from beneath her nose with the back of her thumb, eyes fixed on Bonstaph. She reached for Tameror’s reins, drawing the Wardemeer closer, her gaze still fixed. Bonstaph looked to her—he had too much respect for the wife of his best friend to do anything else. Eventually, after a good long moment had passed, words escaped Sarah’s mouth—
“He is dead, isn’t he?”
BLACKSMITHS
Silence…
Magnus curbed his breathing and scanned the field at waist height. Catanya did the same. The wind blew steadily across the heads of wheat making them rustle in a rhythmic manner. But there was something else—something not at all rhythmic. “To my left.”
“I hear it,” Catanya said. The black creatures were on the move and they were doing so with purpose. “We are being hunted,” she murmured, confirming Magnus’s suspicions.
Magnus released a long breath through flared nostrils. To his left, the black shadow moved again and then another to his right, and then another. “I count three so far,” Magnus said. He thought back to the creatures in Froughton Forest. The first was encountered when he entered the forest. Its ghost-eyes had stared out at him in the darkness. The second was in the Valley of Shadows. The stalker had followed him until the dragon youngling—Thioci—killed it, tossing its tasteless carcass aside. Magnus was haunted by these memories and here they were again.
The first creature to attack bowled through the stems of wheat with an open jaw targeting Magnus’s face. With a horrible screech it was thrown off its path and fell to the ground. The creature to the right came next—it too was thrown off course, screeching just the same. Both creatures lay mortally wounded at Magnus’s feet with long, steel bolts protruding from their necks.
Magnus and Catanya danced about one another in a state of confusion. Three more came out of nowhere—two at Catanya and one at Magnus. Magnus’s sword tore through the underbelly of one while Catanya’s lance stabbed at the head of another. She raised a forearm to the third black beast. Its scissor-like fangs—two upper and two lower—locked around her vambrace. Catanya pulled her head clear of the fangs that tried to chew through her arm to get to her, yet the armour held strong.
Magnus was over the creature, driving his sword through the sinuous muscles between its front shoulder blades. The creature’s thick neck muscles tensed as it reinforced its bite. Catanya grunted through gritted teeth. Magnus drew his sword back so he could thrust it again but before he had a chance, the beast fell dead to a crossbow bolt to the head. Catanya pulled her arm free of the creature’s slack jaw. She and Magnus spun about, looking for anything that may attack. Then Magnus heard voices.
“There!” Catanya said, pointing her lance. Magnus stood beside her, poised. Two men pushed through the tall stems, each armed with an oversized crossbow.
“You’re okay then? Nobody hurt?” The elder of the two men asked, looking from Catanya to Magnus. Magnus eyed them both. The second looked to be the elder man’s son—dressed in a similar brown tunic that flowed to the knees with simple leather boots suited to farming more than fighting. Both wore oversized hats that dropped lazily at the neck. Magnus imagined he and his father used to look much like this, farming the Western Margins. The elder man looked closely at Catanya.
“Young Miss Semsü. Fancy seeing you in these parts.”
Magnus looked to Catanya who was frowning in thought.
“I remember you,” Catanya looked to the younger of the men. “Dale and…” she looked back to the elder man. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”
“Willem is my name,” the man replied. “I don’t recall ever telling you my name back in the Romghold, Semsü. But I’m sure Dale is most pleased you remember his!” The younger man rolled his eyes and shook his head as if embarrassed.
Magnus studied both men and equally as much their weapons. They were both loaded with bolts ready to use again and so he remained wary, particularly since they were clearly adept at using them.
“This is Magnus.” Catanya extinguished her lance and turned to Magnus. “These gentlemen forged my weapons back in the Romghold.”
“Much obliged,” Willem said, taking a step closer and offering a hand to Magnus. Magnus shook it then looked to the younger one named Dale who stepped forward and did the same.
“This is your handiwork?” Magnus looked to the dead creatures lying beside him.
“Aye,” Willem answered. “Worgriels… More often now, they venture into these lands.”
“Five in one day though, father?” Dale remarked. “There’s never been that many scouting at once.”
“It is vexing, Dale.” Willem frowned.
Catanya sheathed her weapon and so Magnus did the same. Relaxing a little, Magnus spoke freely. “Worgriels… I saw these in Froughton Forest.” Willem was listening intently to Magnus, but Dale seemed distracted by Catanya. He withdrew his gaze once he caught Magnus looking at him.
“Froughton Forest, you say?” Willem asked.
“Aye. One to the west and one again in the Valley to the north.”
“They venture south, they venture north… What draws these creatures from the darkness of the Caves of Cuvee and into the summer sun?” Willem rubbed a wrinkled nose.
“The Caves of Cuvee?” Magnus repeated. “They are beneath the Corville Mountains, are they not?” He looked to Willem for an explanation, for between the Corville Mountains and the Black Cliffs were the Southern Wastelands. An arduous journey for anyone—let alone a creature that shies from the sun.
“They are,” Willem replied. “And such caves are countless and connect with a labyrinthine network of tunnels that time has pushed a long way south.” He pointed his crossbow northward to the Black Cliffs themselves, spanning from west to east. “There are three known exits along the face of the Black Cliffs. One at Ba’rrat, one north of Brindle and one north of Thwax. It would seem they perhaps exit into Froughton as well.”
“These tunnels were not carved by nature,” Dale added. “The worgriels carved them with tooth and claw.” Magnus looked at the granite cliff face once again—another reason to despise it.
“How far deep does the granite run?” Catanya asked.
“All the length of the Southern Wastelands,” Willem said. Magnus and Catanya looked at him. Dread shuddered through Magnus.
“Back home in the Uydferlands we mine sandstone and have done for generations,” Catanya said. “It’s toilsome work. Are you saying these creatures carved tunnels through granite all the length of the Wastelands with tooth and claw?” A look of revulsion washed over her face.
; “Over the three ages of Allumbreve—yes. A creature of such resilience leaves one pondering what else they are capable of.” Willem handed his crossbow to Dale then knelt down to retrieve the bolts from the worgriels bodies. Magnus reached for the one beside him with the bolt through its head. He looked closer at the creature. Even dead, its large pearlescent eyes held a haunting stare. Magnus put a foot to the creature’s head and pulled the bolt free. The crimson blood smeared across the bolt turned black before drifting into the skies as a pungent black mist.
Black blood, black blades, black magic… Magnus was reminded of the black substance the healers drew from Lucas’s wound back in the Uydferlands after the wyvern attack. He thought of the waiter at the Hugmdael Inn and how Crugion’s right-hand-man—Briet—had killed him with his dagger, but not before torturing him slowly with the infected blade. His arm turned black and a mist oozed from his wounded neck. He thought of Lucas again and the black mist he used to defend Delvion, to quench flames and Catanya’s throwing knife. There was black magic at play here—Magnus was sure of it. But what is its source?
Magnus handed the bolt to Willem who paused, appearing to examine the expression on Magnus’s face. “I’m guessing you two have been through worse than this of late,” Willem asked directly.
“We have,” Catanya answered. “Far worse. What of you, Willem? Do you live around these parts?”
“No. And quite frankly, we’ll be glad to get back north to the realms,” Willem confessed. “We’re too close to Ba’rrat for my liking. Alas, we go where our skills are needed.”
“You’re making weapons in Brindle?”
“We’ve spent the past month in the farmlands here, building new tillage ploughs and, well, putting components of the old ploughs to good use.” Willem pointed to the crossbows. “These are Dale’s design.”
