Des took a deep breath, swallowed hard. “Damned if I know,” he answered. “The dogs could be hiding in that patch, waiting for us, or they could be sneaking their way along the hedges over there and winding down along the gully. If they’re doing that, they could reach the wood before dawn.”
“And then we’d never get them,” said Sinjon, finishing the thought.
There was a rustle from the grass patch. Des jumped back and lurched his sword forward. A wolf bounded from the dark and shook his fur. It was Marco.
“I’ve been tracing on my own,” he panted. “Cut through the grass hoping to draw one of them out.”
Des’s eyes narrowed. “Well?”
Marco frowned. “Nothing. Not a sign.”
“Well, at least they’re not hiding and waiting for us,” said Des with a sigh of relief. “At least one possibility is exhausted. My guess is they’re heading that way.” He pointed over to the trees.
Marco sniffed at the air. It was heavy with the smell of dead dogs, carried downwind from the Plain. He could scent nothing. “You’re still in command,” he growled. “You lead and I’ll follow.”
It was a tricky path now, through the thorny bushes, but the men were more than adept and had little trouble. At length they came to the foot of a ravine. It was filled with weeds and thick masses of twisted shrubs. Marco stood still. He perked his ears; then, nose to the ground, followed the scent. “Blood,” he whispered, looking back to Des. “Fresh blood.”
Des smiled broadly. So even a cunning general makes mistakes, he thought. Before he had time to say anything a dog leaped from behind a juniper and bounded through a patch of honeysuckle, his tail between his legs. Like a bolt of lightning Marco gave chase, running from the ravine and cresting the hill before the startled men could blink.
The dog ran with all his strength, which was no small amount, for he was a fearsomely built beast with long muscular legs. He dodged among the oaks and looked back in fear at the racing wolf.
“Matsui!” thought Marco. “Noble lord of a thousand!”
Now Matsui was swift and sturdy, but not as swift as the young wolf at his heels. Marco bounded and leaped from a boulder, fangs glittering, saliva dripping from his tongue. Matsui turned sideways and raised his sharp toenails, which cut the wolf as its jaws closed on his throat. The mighty war-lord of a thousand wailed; his eyes stared with terror as the teeth sank into the jugular.
Matsui rolled on his side as Marco released. “Slime,” hissed the wolf. “I pay you for Dinjar!”
Matsui rolled his eyes and sighed a deep mournful sigh. What shame, what disgrace — to die by the fangs of a wolf. But he did not have much time to dwell on his fate; seconds later he was dead, slumped in his blood.
Des and Sinjon held their ground, waiting for Marco to return. The wolf was quick to come. The smile of revenge on his face told the men that his hunt had been a success. There was one less dog in the world.
They began to move again, cautiously and slowly, as they had before, making their way among the trees. Suddenly Marco hesitated. Des looked down at him and saw for the first time a trace of blood dripping along his fur. Des kneeled down beside him. “You’re hurt.”
Marco nodded grimly. “Merely a scratch,” he said. “But I won’t be able to go on much further. The enemy will pick up the scent and my being with you will only bring you danger.”
Des looked glumly about. He hated to have to leave Marco behind, but the wolf was right; the Master must not be given any warning he was being tracked. “What will you do?” whispered Sinjon.
“Go back to the Plain,” sighed Marco. “And see if I can help back there. But I am concerned for you. The Master is treacherous.”
“We’ll be all right, my friend,” said Des. “And I give you my word, Toland won’t escape.”
It was a sad parting. Marco turned swiftly and made his way along the escarpment. Soon he was gone from sight. Des took a deep breath and looked to his companions. Without speaking, they followed him silently as he swept along the grasses leading back to the gully and the path that led to the forest. Des began to despair. Was he following the right road? What if the sneaky dogs had doubled back and were heading to the wood from another direction? The more time that passed, the less was the chance they could be found. But something told him his own senses were right; Toland and his generals would be somewhere close, just as weary and exhausted as he was. But where?
Sinjon came nervously beside Des and glanced sharply to a clump of tall firs. “I heard something,” he whispered, “from behind those trees.”
Des spun around; he caught a glimpse of a darting shadow. Sword in hand, he inched forward.
“Ha! Is that you, Desmond?”
It was a deep gravelly voice, somehow familiar. “Who calls me?”
There was a short laugh, then: “Don’t you know me?”
The captain squinted as the shadow moved slightly ahead. But he could not make out just who, or what, it was. He stood perfectly still, pointing his sword in the shadow’s direction. “Come out quickly if you value your skin,” he said. “I have no time for games.” Sinjon wielded his dagger; he stepped ahead. “Speak fast,” he warned, “my knife is still thirsty!”
Again the laugh, “Is that you, Sinjon?”
The two startled soldiers glanced briefly at each other.
“It’s a demon!” wailed the young soldier who was with them, frightened out of his wits.
And from behind the tree the great silhouette came out into the open, a wisp of moonlight catching his long face.
Des’s mouth dropped. “Rolf!” he called, “Crafty old Rolf!”
The two men embraced and shook hands firmly. In that moment all the lurking dangers were forgotten. Sinjon ran over and slapped the burly soldier on the back. “How came you here?” he asked, “we thought you to be still in Free-Earth, with Nigel.”
Rolf tugged gently at his beard and laughed. “Well now, my friends! That is a tale that will take some telling! Such an adventure —”
“Behind you!” yelled Des.
Rolf spun, raising his club of spike. Two fierce dogs leaped at him from behind. They had been waiting for such an opportunity to strike. But ever-ready, the old veteran Rolf was not to be trapped. The club swung and caught the first attacker on his spine, squarely between the shoulders. The second dodged the blow, darted to the side, then crouched and sprang at Des. Des was knocked off balance; his sword fell from his hand. The animal pounced on him and tore at his arm. Sinjon lunged with his dagger and dug it upward through his gut. The dog snarled, then rolled over, dead.
Several other dogs watched from the shadows, then scampered from sight.
“The Master!” hissed Des, trying to stand. But he was unable to hold himself upright. Bleeding profusely, he staggered and fell. Rolf and Sinjon rushed to his side. Rolf pulled back the captain’s sleeve and examined the wound. It was a deep gash, running from his shoulder down to his wrist. “It’s a bad one, Des,” he said, shaking his head.
“Never mind me,” the soldier cried. “Go after Toland! He must not escape!”
Rolf clutched his weapon. “I’ll find the devil,” he promised. Then looking to Sinjon, said: “Send for help, and you stay here and tend to the wound until aid arrives.”
Sinjon looked at him with astonishment. “Are you going after the Master by yourself?”
Rolf nodded darkly.
“But you can’t! You’re outnumbered; they’ll murder you!”
“Go quickly,” whispered Des, fighting off the pain. But before he could say anything more he blacked out.
“Don’t despair,” answered Rolf, knowing that Des could not hear. “If the Master wants his ticket to the forest, he’ll have to pay for it with his blood!” And as mysteriously as he had appeared, Rolf was gone, alone to face the most brutal dog the world had ever known.
*
Rolf gritted his teeth; he dashed like a cat through the undergrowth, swiftly and silently. A grim smile
crossed his face; he should have known all along that this is the way it would be. And like a Dweller he moved, stalking and tracking. Toland was not alone, he knew, but neither was he; there were still a few tricks left.
It was almost dawn. The first hints of day had already begun to appear in the east. Rolf looked about. He was right on the edge of the forest; a few steps more and he would be inside. He hid among the thistle-bushes along the escarpment of a steep ridge. He had swung wide around the narrow, dung-filled path; he knew that he was now ahead of the Master who he knew would be waiting to greet him at any moment. He held the club and waited patiently.
Suddenly a twig snapped. His eyes followed the sound. A dog slunk behind a tree, over to his left. Rolf took a deep breath and raised his weapon as the animal moved closer in his direction. Then with his great strength he jumped, swinging the club. The dog was caught by surprise. Before he could snarl, the spike came crashing down on his head, splattering bone and brain in every direction. Rolf stood over the heaving body and wiped the sweat from his brow. It had been easy. Too easy.
“Aiiii! Kindari, my brother! What have they done to you?”
Rolf crouched and turned. Ahead, standing frozen in shock, stood a large, sleek dark-furred animal, as fearsome a dog as he had ever seen. Its eyes were insane with rage and grief, its fangs were long and sharp. Its mouth was twisted in a cruel snarl.
Rolf held firm; he studied his adversary carefully. There was no doubt; standing before him was Toland.
“So, we meet at last, Master.”
The dog’s cunning eyes looked long and hard at the giant of a man. He knew he would probably die, indeed he had no desire to live. But he would not fall before his brother’s murderer was taken. “Worm of a man,” he snarled. “Yes, I am the Master. I am Toland.”
“I have looked forward to this moment,” growled Rolf, evenly. “And the thought of running my spike through your guts excites me, like a doe excites a young buck.”
Toland raged at the insult; he reacted the way Rolf had hoped he would. He began to pace around the soldier, preparing to strike.
Rolf shifted his weight and wielded his weapon slowly from hand to hand. “Come, Master, let me kiss you with my club.”
The berserk animal leaped. Rolf swung high; Toland dived. The club sailed by harmlessly. Paws outstretched, the razor-claws slashed broadly, cutting a dark swath along Rolfs chest. Then he landed evenly on his legs and stalked around the man. The tunic began to stain with red.
“You’ll die slowly, worm of a man,” barked the Master.
Rolf laughed. “A cub could do more harm than that, Master! Come! Show me the cunning that brought ten thousand Warriors to fight under your banner!”
Before the words were done Toland jumped high again. Suddenly the powerful jaws were closed around Rolfs biceps. The man reeled and cried with pain. Clumsily he brought down the club, catching Toland between the shoulders. The animal groaned, but did not let go. The club of spike fell to the ground. With his good arm Rolf grabbed Toland’s throat and squeezed. The Master wriggled and squirmed, trying to slash at Rolfs face. Together they tumbled to the earth and rolled about. Rolf reached for the club, but could not grasp it; the dog bit deeper, right to the bone. A wash of pain made Rolf almost lose consciousness, but he fought on as hard as he could. Pitching forward, he grabbed at Toland’s snout, tore at his nose. The dog squealed and was forced to release. As soon as he did, Rolf brought his half-severed arm about and with all his remaining power squeezed Toland’s throat with both hands. The Master lowered his head and bit hard at Rolfs face. Blood gushed from his cheek; his eyelids were torn to shreds. The fangs stayed deep within his jowls no matter how hard he squeezed, and he knew he could not hold on much longer. He felt himself weakening; the pain was too much, more than any man should have to endure, but yet he must. “Die, you bastard!” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Yet his grip had succeeded, even if he did not know it. The Master’s eyes bulged from their sockets, his lungs gasped for air. With one last thrust he ripped at the man’s face. Rolf wailed. Seconds from death he cried out to the Fates: “One more minute of life, I beg you! Just give me one more minute!”
*
The sun was bright and warm that morning, the breezes soft and gentle, blew peacefully through the Valley. It was Basil, crossbow slung over his shoulder, who discovered them first. He kneeled beside his fallen companion, shook his head sadly, and said a silent prayer. It was strange, he mused, but they both seemed so peaceful, these two fearsome fighters dead in each other’s arms. Then with his head low and his heart heavy, he followed the path back to the Plain to give the news: the Master of the Dogs was dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The room was awash in golden yellow sunlight Outside the windows you could see the trees, orange and red, as autumn leaves blew gently to the ground. And from somewhere there was an incessant tap-tap-tapping of a woodpecker busy at his work.
Des blinked and opened his eyes.
A host of smiling faces were peering at him.
It took a few minutes for things to focus. By the door opposite was Tagg, his hands behind his back. Over by the window on the other side was Sinjon, whittling at a piece of wood with his knife. Beside him was Basil, his mandolin slung over his arm; he was whistling to himself. At the side of the bed was Bela. The young Counsel winked. Hector was sitting next to him, licking his paws; his fur glistening in the light.
But the most cheery face of all was Nigel’s. Grinning from ear to ear, he sat relaxed in the large wicker chair, legs crossed, eyes fixed on Des.
“Good morning,” he said merrily.
Des cleared his throat. “Er, good morning, Milkskin.” He tried to prop himself up on the bed but was stopped by a sharp pain that shot down his arm. It was only then that he noticed the heavy bandages wrapped from his shoulder down to his right hand.
“That was a nasty scratch you got,” said Nigel, “but the wound will mend. The physicians reached you in time. You lost a lot of blood.”
Des grimaced and tried to wiggle his fingers. They were stiff.
“Oh, you’ll be almost as good as new, Des. But I’m afraid you’ll never be able to handle a sword again.”
The captain leaned back and sighed. “I guess I’m lucky just to be alive,” he said. “But never mind this scratch. How long have I been here?”
“Just a couple of days,” said Bela. “Gwenn has been nursing you.”
“A couple of days?” repeated Des, “Then the war is over? All this fighting’s done?”
“All done,” said Nigel.
Des sighed. “Well,” he said, “maybe now someone can tell me just what’s been going on around here?”
Nigel laughed and leaned forward. His silver dagger looked deep blue as it glittered in the sun. “There’s quite a tale to tell,” he said.
“Well, what caused the thunder? And what about the bails of fire?”
“One thing at a time,” said Nigel, holding his palms forward, gesturing for Des to slow down in his questions. It was a strange tale and he wanted to tell it from the beginning.
“It all began a few days after you left Free-Earth,” he began, leaning back again and half closing his eyes. “We were unexpectedly visited by Naftali. The way he came slinking, with his long face down, we were sure he was angry with us. We thought we had done something to upset him. But that was not the case at all. It was sad news the great python brought. Word had just arrived from the forest of Sean’s defeat and the siege of the Valley. Clearly Naftali was deeply upset.
“We sat there stunned, too dumbstruck to even speak as he related all that had transpired since we had left the Valley. And what a shock it was, as I know you can imagine. Our hearts cried to return home as fast as possible. But what could we do, three men and one wolf? The Master had beaten our entire army; of what use would we be? But nevertheless, home is still home, and we were eager to make haste.
“ ‘I have been in Council with the ot
her lords of Free-Earth,’ Naftali told us, ‘and we are agreed. We know the Master will not rest even with the destruction of the Empire, and we know that his lust for power will one day bring him to our own land. Therefore, we are prepared to assist you in your fight.’ ”
“Of course we were all grateful for this kind offer, but what, we wondered could the snake possibly do for us? Had he hidden legions that were ready to march? And even if he did, it would take at least a year for us to make our way back with a host of crawling vipers. But this was not what Naftali had in mind, as you will soon see.
“ ‘There are other Ruins,’ he said at last as we listened, ‘Ruins that I had not planned to tell you of.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. The python lowered his head, as if still in some doubt and took a deep breath. It was clear that he considered us to be the lesser of the evils in this war, but he was not positive that what he was doing was for the good of his land. ‘You must tell us whatever you can,’ I implored. And at last Naftali agreed. ‘Beyond our river there is another place where men once dwelled,’ he said. ‘And within it are weapons of destruction, fearsome weapons that belonged to your ancients. They have been silent for lo these many years, but now I will show them to you.’
“And so he took us there. It was a sight such as no living man has seen before. What these weapons were, I cannot say. It frightens me even to think about them. But there they were, gutted and rusted, monsters of iron and steel.”
“Never mind all this detail, Nigel,” said Des, impatiently. “I can hear all that later. Get on with the story!”
Nigel smiled, made a pyramid with his hands, and continued. “Of all we saw there seemed to be nothing of value, except of course, the black-powder.”
Des stared at him, bewildered. “Black-powder? What’s that?”
“I’ll try to explain. Actually it was Naftali who showed it to us. And it was literally what I called it: black-powder, so fine that it melted into your pores as you rubbed it with your fingers. And there was tons of it! Mountains, all buried in carefully constructed containers under the earth. All of its elements and properties I have not yet discerned, but it does have a very high proportion of quick-burning sulphur.”
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