by J. P. Ashman
No, Legg thought, heart in mouth, it’s a pathway to Grounding he’s found. But how?
Before the stranger uncovered anything, Legg jumped to his feet, making his presence known. Anything to distract the stranger from Grounding.
It was as if winter’s breath had returned when the man looked back.
Legg couldn’t move. He’d froze. Not literally of course, despite the chill he felt when adlets appeared by his side and took hold of him. He never even struggled. Eyes locked on the stranger, Legg was walked forward, his stare returned in equal measures. The sun warmed his skin, the light made him squint, but the chill took hold of his soul.
Soul, Legg thought, although doing so was like waking from a fast fading dream. That’s what chills me so. His eyes bear no soul.
Closing on the man, adlet to each side, Legg’s heart began to pound. The stranger hardly moved, hardly changed his locked expression, which seemed of intrigue more than anything.
Such dark eyes, Legg thought. He was released by the adlets, but stood unmoving. Empty eyes. Is he young or old? Altolnan or Eatrian? Sirretan or… I can’t make out any recognisable features…
The smile could have been a slap, for it had much the same effect on Legg. He pulled back, stepped back further still. The adlets made no move to restrain him. They seemed, elsewhere. Their eyes were glazed and their expressions vague as if the stranger affected them as much as he affected Legg.
‘You’re of the caravan?’ It was more of a statement than a question, but Legg nodded all the same.
His voice is soft, incredibly soft. Oh to hear him sing would be…
‘I apologise for what has happened to your people,’ the stranger said. It seemed sincere. ‘It was not my intention for my allies to hound you so.’ Dark eyes flicked from Legg to the adlets either side and back. They turned and walked away. ‘As soon as I arrived, I asked their clan master to call off the horrific attack. Alas, adlets do not take kindly to orders from the likes of me. It was all I could do to stop him from killing the one you returned for.’
That snapped Legg back to attention. ‘Souch Sader?’ he asked, looking about for the sorcerer.
‘Is that his name?’ The man pursed his lips, and Legg remembered.
‘You had him taken!’
‘No, I had him forgiven.’
Legg frowned, but before he could ask, the man before him held his hands out wide, slender fingers parted. ‘My apologies, friend. I have failed to introduce myself.’
Any thought of Souch Sader faded as Legg rushed to reassure the man that no offence had been taken.
‘My name is Dignaaln.’ He swept into a low bow. Legg’s cheeks flushed at the show of respect, and he tried to emulate the impressive flourish.
‘Legg, at yer service.’
Dignaaln smiled and came forward, wrapping an arm around Legg and turning him west.
‘We should talk, Legg, you and I. We are friends now, are we not?’
Legg smiled back at his new friend and nodded.
‘Excellent. Let us walk and talk, undisturbed. We can talk of retrieving the sorcerer you came back for and of an offer I would like to make you, with regards to your people. I am, after all, an emissary, and an emissary must make offers if he is to make friends for his master.’ Dignaaln squeezed Legg in close and began walking, following the trail of destruction.
‘I’d very much like that,’ Legg said, wrapping his own arm around his new friend in return. How lucky I have been to be accepted.
‘Good,’ Dignaaln said, not much more than a whisper. ‘For there is a lot we can do for one another, Legg of the Caravaneers.’
Despite the hushed tones, Legg heard every word as if it was all that mattered in all of Brisance. ‘Name it,’ Legg said, his immense eagerness lacking enough enthusiasm to please his new friend, as far as Legg was concerned. He needed to do as much as he possible could to make up for it. ‘Name it, Dignaaln, and I shall see it done.’
Dignaaln beamed and Legg practically melted inside.
Chapter 10 – Stonebridge
The square of daylight revealed the flanking adlets that ran tirelessly alongside the moving caravan. Cheung traced the scars on his face round to prod the newest one on the back of his neck as he watched the running battle.
The fast pace was paying a heavy toll on the beasts pulling the vardos and remaining carts. As the caravan slowed, the adlets caught and flanked the moving column, keeping pace with it whilst launching sporadic attacks here and there along the line, looking for weaknesses.
This is measured. This is planned. Cheung watched the co-ordination in the attack taking place.
Arrows and atlatl launched spears – of all things – came first, the short and long missiles sailing in from the hills to one side, then the other. Shortly after came the runners, blades held high. They ran in at sharp angles, heading straight for a small stretch of vardos towards the front of the caravan. Horns blew and pony traps clattered by, arcing out from the line to meet the raiders.
The pass they now travelled was shallow but wide, and this gave the traps a chance to intercept flanking groups of adlets. Cheung watched on in appreciation as the young lads launched arrows, and stones from slings, at the approaching raiders. Many struck, as they always did, but this time was different. Cheung slowed his breathing and tried to calm himself as he saw the maille and plate armoured adlets that approached. They emerged from gullies winding through the hills, with polearms and falchions and hatchets, and shields. I’ve never seen adlets use shields, he thought, pulling down his hood and tracing the scars under his black hair.
An arrow struck the door of Cheung’s vardo and he pulled back, replacing his hood. A head lowered itself into view and the boy asked if Cheung was well.
‘Yes, thank you,’ he shouted as someone from above screamed. A raider’s arrow had found its mark. The boy nodded then tumbled soundlessly from the vardo, an arrow taking him too.
They’re going for this section, Cheung thought. He moved back to the window and watched as a trap overturned on poor ground. The lads rolled free; fell to the brutal efficiency of the armoured adlets amongst them. Heavy bladed weapons rose and fell once or twice before the raiders continued, closing on Cheung’s vardo.
Arrows flew from the line, but even those that struck now had thick padding and plate to contend with. Some of the adlets even wore looted helms; all of their armour was looted, that was now clear to Cheung. They’ve taken somewhere bigger than the norm, or won against those sent to hunt them, to be wearing such armour. A thrown spear split the wood to the side of the window and the chickens were all flapping and feathers at the loud impact, but Cheung didn’t flinch this time, he’d seen the atlatl-hurled spear coming.
A pony trap came alongside before turning out, heading straight for the nearest armoured adlets. On its back stood an older Caravaneer, his back broad and his arms thick. With roars and streams of curses, the man swung Pounder about his head, letting the heavy mattock thud and clang into every adlet he passed, pulverising insides with each impact. He took many down, some literally leaving the ground through Pounder’s impacts, but as the biggest threat away from the caravan itself, it wasn’t long before Pounder’s wielder was brought low by arrows. When he fell, so did the surrounding adlets; they fell upon him with blades and hammers of their own.
Moments before the rest of the visible raiders reached the caravan, the incoming arrows stopped. The outgoing arrows continued though, one punching through iron links to drop the adlet nearest to Cheung.
Cheung reached for his kamas as a body swung through the window on the other side, but he knew from the movement of the cab that it was one of his protectors from above.
‘We need move ye to the trap out here, Priest,’ the boy said, opening the door on his side.
‘I can’t leave my things,’ Cheung said, but the boy had already snatched the satchel and thrown it onto the bouncing trap alongside. Cheung followed it without another word. Landing on the shifting
wooden bench besides another boy, Cheung turned back for the lad inside. He barely saw the lad disappear as the adlet entering the far side of the cab pulled him back in. The guttural cry that followed tore at Cheung’s insides.
I can’t fight, he reminded himself as the trap slowed and let the defending section pull forward and peel off to the left, three vardos in total. I can’t reveal myself, no matter what. Those are my orders.
As the adlets leapt aboard, climbed on top of and slaughtered the remaining Caravaneers of the three vardos Cheung had been part of, the rest of the caravan accelerated to fill the gap, and Cheung’s trap accelerated too, heading towards the front of the column, and Master Couig.
Cheung managed to look back before they reached the front, and what he saw stunned him. The pass was long and wide, and as far as he could see, vardos and carts were scattered here and there, many on their sides, many more swarming with adlets. Screams and howls filled the shallow pass.
Slowing his breathing and retrieving his satchel from the back of the trap, Cheung took in the faces of all those he and the lads about him passed by. Many stood on the rampart-like roofs of the remaining vardos, many more hung out of windows, stood on platforms or clung to the sides or backs of whatever vehicle they could.
The caravan had been halved in the time it had taken to travel the length of the pass. Looking forward, Cheung saw the River Minor and the fortified bridge that spanned it, and potential safety from the relentless onslaught that continued behind him.
Reaching the front, he saw the blood-stained faces of Belcher and Jevratt turn to him. They’d taken many wounds by the looks of things, but they looked back as if wanting more. As Cheung’s trap came alongside the vardo they perched on the back of, Cheung asked the lad guiding the pony to pull as close as possible. He didn’t know why, but satchel in hand, Cheung hopped across onto the platform, next to the two men, and all three sat there, glaring at the bloody scene the caravan was finally leaving behind.
The last thing they saw as they approached Stonebridge – the Altolnan fortifications that guarded the River Minor – was a beast of an armoured adlet holding a bardiche high. Next to him stood a tall, unarmoured adlet, with what looked like a man strapped to his back.
Belcher spat off the back of the rocking vardo. ‘If you’d killed that big fecker, Jevratt, the bitches would’ve fled for sure.’
Jevratt turned to the battered man by his side and pushed him off the platform. Bouncing once and rolling, Belcher managed to dive out of the way of the next oxen pulled vardo before shouting his threats and curses Jevratt’s way.
Jevratt sighed. ‘Ye don’t think I know that, Belcher,’ he said, to no one in particular.
Cheung watched Belcher climb onto a slowing trap, but the assassin’s eyes turned back to those colourful but broken-wheeled homes and the people left behind. He wasn’t familiar with the feeling assailing him, but he was quite sure it was called guilt.
A swollen and bloody hand took his shoulder. ‘You’ll shed the tears, Priest, it’s what you do, for us all.’ Jevratt paused, his hand remaining. ‘But don’t let it pull ye down, for there was nothing ye could’ve done for any of ’em.’
The hood moved up and down as the hand moved away, and the tears fell for real.
If only that were true.
The initial pain of wire cutting into flesh was overtaken by a constant throb and numbness. Souch didn’t know how long he’d been strapped to the back of the stinking adlet, but it had been long enough for him to fear for the recovery of his legs. The beastly raider carrying him stopped along with its companions when the sight of the fortified bridge came into view. The tail end of the caravan were crossing it as the adlets massed. Shortly after, Stonebridge’s garrison sallied forth. They wore the green and black of the Marquess of Suttel and were seasoned veterans, that much was known to all; the adlets moved no closer.
Souch willed the adlets to advance, knowing they stood little chance against the fortified bridge and its Altolnan defenders. He felt sick from the constant pain the adlets’ movements caused him. He held no hope of an escape. And he feared what was to come.
The grunts of the guttural language was lost on Souch, but he could tell arguing when he heard it. The armoured warlord and his bodyguard stood nearby. Weapons were pointed to the men forming across the road, whilst others pointed back the way they had come. Souch knew the raiders were intelligent, to a certain degree. They weren’t the mindless beasts many made them out to be. Never had he heard of such numbers though. It was clear clans had come together, judging by the mixed markings and natural groups that seemed to gather when they stopped.
Altolnan archers with tall war bows filtered out into scrub to the north of the road, whilst two score mounted men-at-arms formed up on the road itself. They were headed by three knights, one of them richly armoured and caparisoned. Souch squinted over the fur covered shoulder of his carrier, but couldn’t make out the device on the commander’s shield or surcoat.
One of Earl Bratby’s sons? Souch thought, trying to forget the pain enough to concentrate on the man shouting orders. Possibly, although—
Souch gasped as the adlet slapped both clawed hands back, onto Souch’s swollen legs. The raider grunted something and turned, following adlets who were running from the scene. Each bounce brought burning and lancing pain alike. Souch screwed up his face and squeezed his eyes shut, doing all he could to fight the fear and helplessness the pain accompanied. A human cheer went up behind him, and it hurt more than anything he had experienced thus far.
Howls followed the cheering, but even they faded as Souch allowed himself to fall from consciousness once more.
Chapter 11 – Silent flight
The gag was dry. Souch’s saliva was so thick it did little to wet the wool stuffed into his mouth. He opened his eyes and attempted to blink the dryness away. They ached, the balls in his sockets; they ached along with his jaw which he tried to stretch to little effect, and the throbbing hit him once more. The wire dug into his flesh of his legs now, matted with dried blood. He looked past the side of the adlet’s head that carried him, but failed to see anything but the faded green of the hill his mount was now crossing. Each jerk hammered another throb through his legs, although below the knee was numb. Small mercies, if he didn’t think to the future of those limbs. The pain across his back remained, his arms unable to move to ease it, but it paled when compared to everything else.
The adlet crested the hill and stood before a column of its kin, trotting along as they do. Souch watched them pass, taking in the myriad of weapons and armour they carried. A group passed him pulling sleds full of cut wood. If he had been himself, he would have seen it for the siege equipment it was.
Over the barked orders and distant howls, Souch heard softer voices, approaching from behind as his carrier joined the column. He did his best to block it all out, the noise and the pain and the wet dog smell from the sweaty, matted fur he clung to, so he could listen to those voices.
‘You think you can do this for me?’ The higher voice said. He was either very tall, or mounted on a beast bigger than an adlet.
‘Oh aye, Dignaaln, I reckon so.’ A familiar voice came from lower down.
‘That would please me, and my master, of course.’
‘Well that’s what counts now, isn’t it, me friend?’
‘It is, yes. We have an accord, you and I.’
‘And how shall I be moving the sorcerer, with his legs bound as they are?’
Souch stiffened and tried to turn, which pulled at his back and legs. The gag disallowed the cry of pain that movement sought.
‘You may take the adlet carrying him, I am sure. After I have spoken to the warlord.’
A clap of hands. ‘That’s that, me man, we have it sorted.’
‘Indeed we do, Legg. You have negotiated the protection of your caravan and the freedom of Souch Sader. You should be proud of yourself. I am sure your caravan master will be.’
There was a p
ause, filled with shifting feet and grunting adlets before Legg replied.
‘Aye, well, me uncle may well need some sense talking into him on the matter, but I’ll be sure to do that without a fuss. And I’ll be doing it before anyone else knows the plans.’
The adlet carrying Souch jolted as he jumped over a rock on the path. Souch missed what was said next, but as the pain subsided to the usual, a rider passed on the left, the white tail and golden flanks of his horse a glorious sight in the sun; if it weren’t for the pain and situation.
Souch tried to look around his adlet, to catch a glimpse of the rider rather than the eye drawing palomino. The height of the column’s adlets scuppered that, and all it did for Souch was to pain the strained muscles bunching and stretching around his neck and shoulders. He could feel mucus in the back of his throat, after sniffing back his tears countless times since his capture. He swallowed, which made little difference, and rested his head back on a shoulder that was becoming all too familiar as a pillow.
‘How fair ye, Master Sader?’
Souch jumped. More pain. Opening his aching eyes from the wince forced over him, he turned his head to look at the young man by his side.
‘Egg?’ It was more of a grunt through wool than anything else.
The young man grinned. ‘Aye, it’s me. I came back for ye, so I did.’
And secured a deal it seems. I dread to think.
‘Here, me man, let me take this from ye mouth. The emissary gave me a water skin.’ He laughed. ‘Can ye believe it?’ Legg eased the woollen rag from Souch’s mouth, who coughed as he tried to swallow one too many times.
‘Here, here,’ Legg said, holding the skin up to the dry opening. ‘Stop bouncing so, will ye?’ he said to the adlet carrying Souch. The raider growled, but pulled to the side of the moving column and stopped. Legg poured some of the surprisingly cold water into Souch’s mouth, little by little.
