The Haven

by Graham Diamond

  *

  A burning sun parched the earth. They awoke feeling better after a long night’s rest. Nigel opened his eyes to find Des already up and making preparations for the day’s travel. The soldier was busy shouting commands. Excess supplies were cast aside, lightening the load for the overburdened mules. Saddles were discarded from the horses. When they did get the chance to ride it would now be bareback. Harnesses were loosened, bridles fitted to give more slack.

  Old Reese handed out strong cups of hot soup, and the men drank eagerly. Nigel shook the sleep from his eyes and felt his spirits rise. Despite the agony of yesterday they had come through after all.

  Hector led the way and once more they set off.

  *

  A mule screamed. Sinjon whirled, drawing his sword.

  “Snakes!” someone yelled.

  A purple tongue flashed, a horse whinnied in terror. Sinjon’s sword whistled past and cut off the reptile’s head. The scaly body writhed. Another snake coiled, hissed, then sprang. Another mule screamed. It stumbled, threw back its head and wailed. A third snake darted from behind a rock and wrapped itself around the mule’s neck. The animal gasped, eyes bulging. Rolf swung his club of spike. The nails caught both mule and snake alike. Together they fell dead.

  More snakes lunged. Flat-pointed heads and slitted eyes glowered.

  “We’re in a nest!” cried Hector. “Keep moving! We’ve got to get out!”

  Three long scaly snakes slithered, then coiled. Des cut through them all in a single slash of his hatchet. Horses stomped at them, pounding the wriggling bodies into the ground. Hector caught one between his powerful jaws. He snapped his teeth around its head. The snake’s tail whipped furiously, then went limp. The wolf let go, spitting saliva and blood.

  Again Rolf let loose a mighty blow, smashing another head before it could strike. The horses lurched. Lawrence grabbed the reins of one. Wild with terror it snapped its harness and bolted off. Another snake leapt from a tree. The horse shrieked. It fell with a heave and moaned and writhed as other snakes darted for it, gouging at its eyes.

  “Keep going!” Des cried, gesturing for the others to get on. He and Harn stood back to back hacking at the vicious reptiles. Sinjon and Basil tried to clear a path. In their fear the mules hardly needed to be led. They trampled and stomped everything in their way.

  A great snake coiled around a branch, lowered its head and glared about. Des caught sight of it. “Look out!” he screamed.

  Harn spun. Fangs flashed, sank deep and spurted their poison. The soldier grabbed furiously at its throat, but the grip was firm. Harn groaned and fell. Des swung his hatchet, letting it fail. With lightning speed he drew a dagger and ripped the knife into the snake’s brain. The snake shook and swung its tail. Even in the throes of death it clung on. Des plunged the knife into its eyes. Blood splattered across his face. He yanked at the head and finally ripped it from his felled comrade.

  Carlo and Dal raced back and carried the glassy-eyed soldier to safety. Des picked up the hatchet and held it before his eyes. No more snakes moved. Leaping and bounding, he followed the path the others had taken and made his way out of the nest.

  He found them huddled beside a small stream. The horses were still shivering, the men trying to soothe them. A look of shock was written across all their faces. Carlo was bent over Harn and with his mouth was trying to draw the poison from his neck. He drew poison mixed with blood, spat it out, drew more. Carlo looked up at Des; he wiped his sweaty brow. Harn was already delirious, his venom-charged body burned with fever.

  Des raced over and kneeled beside him. “Will he live?” he whispered. Carlo turned away and spit another mouthful of bloody venom. “If we caught the poison in time, yes. But the bite was deep.” He gestured to the purple swelling on Harn’s neck.

  Des looked away. An injured man would slow them down, he knew. Showing his temper, he kicked madly into the gravel, sending it rippling into the stream.

  Nigel looked to Hector. “Hadn’t we better move? The snakes could follow.”

  The wolf shook his head. “You can put your weapons away,” he told them. “They won’t follow. You taught them a good lesson.”

  The men looked at one another. Who had taught who the lesson? With relief they sheathed their swords.

  “Why did they attack?” asked Nigel.

  “We intruded into their home,” Hector replied evenly, “so they considered us an enemy. But now that we’ve gone they won’t bother us again.”

  “But what about Harn?” cried hot-blooded Sinjon, lusting for revenge. “They might have killed him.”

  Des stepped between them. “We’ve got to worry about ourselves,” he barked. “We’ve no time to waste fighting snakes. We’ve got a job to do, or have you forgotten?”

  “But —”

  “But nothing! Our duty is clear. We have to keep moving!”

  Carlo looked at him with surprise. “We can’t move Harn, Captain. He has to rest. It could take days before he’ll travel.”

  Des gritted his teeth, cursing the day Elon had charged him with this assignment. “We’ve got to keep moving!”

  Lawrence’s eyes widened, his jaw dropped. “But he’s one of us! He’s our friend. We just can’t leave him!”

  Des peered at the inexperienced commander through slitted eyes. “To stay only endangers all of us. Scouts will hear of this, you can be sure. If we linger here we’ll have a whole Pack to contend with. Would you prefer that?”

  Lawrence lowered his gaze.

  Nigel stared at his friend. This was a side of Des he had never seen before, the cool calculating soldier, with ice in his veins.

  “Captain Desmond is right,” Hector said grimly. “Harn knew the risks when he volunteered to come.”

  “Can’t we put him on a horse?” asked Nigel.

  “Or carry him?” said Basil.

  Des rubbed the side of his nose and sighed.

  “We can’t leave him here to die,” said Rolf, putting his hand on Des’s shoulder.

  “All right,” whispered Des, “we’ll try it. But only try it, mind you!”

  The men sighed with relief, but Hector shook his head sadly. A wounded creature would be a great burden, he knew. And they would not be doing poor Harn any favor by dragging him along. Still, this was not his decision to make.

  Des looked about; he changed the subject. “What were our losses?”

  “Two mules and one horse,” said Dal. “Your own horse.”

  The captain scowled.

  *

  The roots of the trees intertwined, interlocked, into a scrambled maze. The scent of parsley and hemlocks was about; the grass was thicker, even greener, and stalks of giant plants hovered at their sides. It was almost as hot as it had been the day before; clouds were thickening above their heads. This time the thought of rain sent a shiver along Nigel’s spine.

  The band weaved their way down a steep bank and plunged head-on into the steamy landscape ahead. They stayed hard to the left, slanted through the firs and followed the trail along the eastern side of the hill. Once again brambles and thistles stung at their sides. Nigel realized his tunic was torn in a hundred tiny rips from his legs to his shoulders. With great effort they pushed the shrubs aside and negotiated their way. The hill became broad, then narrow. And in front were more hills, endless, dreary, rising higher and higher.

  Blissfully the sun fell behind the horizon and the air cooled. Harn was lifted from his horse and laid upon a blanket; his skin was white, his lips blue. He mumbled incessantly, often crying out and begging for water. Carlo kept close and bathed his head with herbs and compresses, but it was of little use. If anything, his fever had become worse.

  The night fell black, moonless. The band huddled close to the tiny fire. The yellow and orange flames danced in front of their eyes and sent long shadows bobbing along the sides of nearby trees. There was no talk, no noise, save for the moans of Harn.

  Just then there was a rustle in the bushes. Des ju
mped up, grabbing at his sword. Two sleek silhouettes darted from behind the trees.

  Dane and Sesto moved cautiously, suspicious of the fire.

  “Welcome back!” said Hector, rising to greet them.

  The wolves nodded, looking about.

  “How’s the trail ahead?” asked Des, putting his sword back in its sheath.

  “Rugged,” growled Sesto, “but that’s the least of our problems.”

  Des furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. Hector cast a sideward glance at him, then turned to his comrades. “What’s wrong?”

  “The enemy is close,” growled Sesto. “We scented Scouts this morning.”

  “Where?”

  “They were scouring the wood east of here. I found a dead buck. Its throat was ripped open.”

  “Do you think they know about us?” Des asked breathlessly.

  Sesto gave a curt laugh. “They know about you, you can be certain. But trying to find you is a different matter. It’s easy for us to become lost from sight, at least until they’re gone.”

  Dane stared at the fire. “You invite them,” he grunted.

  Des nodded. “Put it out!” he commanded.

  The men covered the fire with dirt, stomping until the last ember was gone. Rolf twinged. Everything was black, as if he was blind. Nigel stroked Antonius’ feathers, trying to hide his own fear.

  “That still might not be enough,” muttered Hector. “The scent of smoke will carry for miles. Scouts are sharp. Their senses will pick it up in a second.”

  Des slumped down, crossed his legs, and rested on his elbows. “There’ll be no more fires,” he said glumly, “at least until we’re far from the dogs. Anything else?”

  “The Scouts can smell you from a mile,” muttered Sesto with a frown, “but you can’t do anything about that. Best that we seek them and kill them before they reach their Pack.”

  Hector nodded, grunting something in his own language. Dane and Sesto nodded, then scampered from camp.

  Amazed, Nigel asked: “Can they see in this dark?”

  Hector smiled. “Not as well as dogs,” he answered, “but they can see.”

  *

  The Scouts moved cautiously, noses to the ground. Lithe, almost catlike, they crossed the stream with hardly a ripple. Men had been this way, there was no doubt. A drop of found man-blood stood out like a blazing torch. But when had they passed? Today? Yesterday? They could not be sure. But they were still close. And they would track them until they were found.

  “Over here,” snarled the black dog.

  The brown wire-haired one slinked closer. “I smell it, too,” he growled, then raised his snout. “Wolves.”

  “Hunters!” barked his companion. “These men have Seekers and Trackers!”

  “We should get help.”

  “Not yet, you fool! We must find them first.”

  *

  It was a windy day with a gray, overcast sky. Hector led them down a gully, then angled to avoid a sharp ridge. Paces behind he could hear the swish of hatchets, clearing the path.

  The hill crested, then curved gently to the flat land below. Hector stared hard at the brown-caked dirt. It was soft, too soft. He signaled for the others to move slowly.

  Why was the terrain soggy? It should have been bleached dry since the last downpour. He sighed and moved on, wishing Dane and Sesto were close by to set the trail instead of being off somewhere seeking Scouts.

  The men sloshed about in the mud, trampling weeds underfoot. Des put away his hatchet. It wouldn’t be needed for a while, he knew, at least while they were crossing the flat. He looked over his shoulder and made sure the others were close behind. But they had slowed, he saw that right away. Sinjon, Reese and Basil were once again tugging at the mules, who were clearly reluctant to cross the flat. Perhaps they sensed something, some danger; but what? The way was clear, even open, for at least half a mile.

  His mind began to click; trees were sparse, only a few hugging at the sides. Even the grass was scattered. He signaled for Hector to come back.

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” he said. “Nothing seems to move here. It’s strange.”

  The wolf nodded. The muddy earth made him uneasy, too.

  “Is it possible to go around it?”

  Hector thought for a moment, then said: “Only if you’re willing to climb.” He gestured toward a steep craggy hill to their left that circumvented the flat completely.

  Des made a long face as he stared at the hill. Sharp rock jutted from every direction. He knew it would cost them at least a day’s time.

  With a wave of his hand, he signaled for Rolf to come over. The old soldier listened and nodded while the alternatives were explained.

  “We’ll have to do it one at a time, step by step,” he said. “But I still don’t understand just what you’re afraid of.”

  Des breathed deeply and glanced sideways at the wolf. “Quicksand,” he said, “quicksand.”

  Rolf grimaced and tugged gently at his beard. He now understood why the horses were restless.

  “We can’t afford to lose a day,” Des said at last, “so we’ll have to chance it and hope I’m wrong.” He looked at Hector. “Will you be the first?”

  “My duty is to guide you,” said the Counsel.

  Des smiled gratefully. He knew that without Hector and the others none of them would have made it even this far. “Line the men up, Rolf,” he ordered, “one man, one horse. You and I will lead the mules, last.” Then he glanced at Hector and whispered: “Good luck.”

  Hector turned and put his head low to the ground. He walked on ahead following his tracks to where he had already been, and there he stopped. He put one paw forward, scratched at the earth, took a step, waited.

  “Well, we know we can make it that far,” Des mumbled.

  Lawrence pulled gently at the reins of his horse and crossed the mud, retracing Hector’s tracks as closely as possible. By the time he reached the spot where the wolf had been, Hector was already a hundred paces ahead.

  Nevil went next. Where Lawrence had stepped, he stepped. Even the horse seemed to understand what they were doing and tried to do the same.

  Nigel swallowed hard and went after him. Again the steps were traced with little trouble. By this time Hector had almost marked the trail to the other side, and he sighed with relief.

  Harn was strapped securely, slung over the horse. Carlo took the reins and led him off. After him came Dal, then Sinjon.

  A hundred paces apart all had successfully started to cross. Hector and Lawrence had already reached the relative safety of the other side. Sinjon wiped his brow. He was halfway. The horse bolted; he grabbed at the reins. “Whoa!” he shouted. The horse lurched off the path, dragging him along.

  “Let him go!” Des shouted frantically.

  Sinjon rolled in the mud trying to pull the animal to a halt. The horse yanked to be free, straining every muscle. Sinjon held on. Just then the horse’s legs buckled; his body slumped and fell deeply into a pool of thick slime. He kicked and screamed, tried to squirm loose, but the more he moved, the quicker he began to sink. Sinjon let go and tried to roll away. But it was too late! He felt himself sinking into the quagmire, slipping slowly.

  “Don’t move!” cried Basil. He let go of his horse and ran ahead, leaned far over from the track and tried to grab the youth. But he was too far away.

  Sinjon’s eyes began to roll in terror. The jerking movements of his horse were dragging him deeper and deeper. Already his belly was covered and he was being pulled down faster and faster.

  Des scrambled ahead and unbuckled his belt. He threw it to Sinjon, still clutching at his own end. Sinjon tried to reach it; his fingers came within inches.

  “Please, Captain!” he cried. “Help me!”

  Des thought fast, kept cool. “I’m going to crawl over there,” he said to Basil. “Grab my legs and don’t let go!”

  Without waiting for a response he dropped to his belly and inched his way forward. Th
e earth under him felt like slime, growing spongier and more sodden. He felt himself beginning to sink under his own weight. He thrust out his arms, flexing his fingers above the mud. Sinjon reached as far as he could, his own arms aching and straining.

  “Take hold, man!” hissed Des. “Take hold!”

  “I can’t! I can’t reach you!”

  The mud was up to Sinjon’s chest. Wildly, in desperation, he flayed his arms almost as if he were swimming. The horse sank from sight behind him — a low gurgling sound arose from the depths of the mire.

  “Try harder!” cried Des.

  Sinjon panicked, no longer realizing what he was doing.

  Des wiped mud from his eyes and inched closer, dangerously closer. He was on the very edge of the mire itself. Suddenly he felt a yank at his feet. Basil was pulling him back, stopping him from getting near the pool.

  “Let go!” shouted Des. “I need more room!”

  “You’ll kill yourself!” yelled Basil.

  Des turned and looked back over his shoulder. Waves of anger shot through him. “I need more room! That’s an order.”

  Basil fretted; he looked about. Nigel and Dal were running to help, but they were far away. By the time they reached him it would be too late. Nigel was frantically shouting something, but Basil couldn’t make it out.

  Again Des squirmed to get loose.

  “Help me!” cried Sinjon. “I’m going under!”

  His head had all but sunk; only grasping fingers could be seen. Basil let go of Des’s feet. The soldier dived forward and grabbed hold of the hand. With every muscle he pulled and tugged but it was not enough.

  Basil, knowing fully what the risks were to both him and Des, decided to take them anyway. Sinjon was a friend, a comrade, and he must help save him if he could. Without a thought he plunged ahead, landing with a muddy splash at Des’s side. Together they groaned and struggled, and bit by bit managed to grab Sinjon’s head from the mire. Des wrapped his arm about the soldier’s neck and yanked. A shoulder showed, then part of his arms, then his frame. And at last his legs. Sinjon was pulled to safety. But it had been close. Seconds more and he would have been gone.