by Wayne Mee
"Quiff! Where 'n how far?!"
"Not far. Less than a hundred heartbeats behind."
"Mounted?"
"No."
"Did they see you?"
For an answer Kel's left eyebrow shot upwards.
"Well," growled Erin; "I had to ask." He turned to Timin. "Smother that fire! Thorn, you 'n Kel help me hide the horses, then take up positions on the far side o' the stream. Timin, run back down the trail 'n warn the others. Tell Mithdar, Nob 'n the women to stay hidden there!"
Timin started to move but Erin grabbed him. "If you see Flynn 'n the bard, tell them to be haulin' their asses back here right quick! Go on now, skat!"
Timin emptied the contents of his beloved pans onto the fire, kicked dirt over the wet coals and then, snatching up his little three-pronged fishspear, ran back down the trail.
They had been travelling north and east for more than a week now, and had met neither friend no foe on the way. They had passed several deserted farmsteads, but word of the 'Winter War' had driven all inhabitants out of the mountains to the relative safety of the small villages down below. Once during the night someone or something had stolen part of their supply of food, but no attack had come. The morning showed a few barefoot tracks and a poorly cured leather pouch containing three colorful stones left where the food had been. Old Nob had said it belonged to a strange group of primitives called the Hill People.
"Harmless, most of the time," he had explained. "But don't rile 'em or they'll cut of yer third leg! Use little arrows dipped in some kind of sleeping drug. The stones be what they use for money."
Mithdar had tucked the pouch of stones away in his bag. "Strange that the People of the Hill should be so far south," he mused to himself.
Thorn had asked him to explain, but the old mage had just grunted and moved his mount on up the trail. Since that time there had been no other sign of these 'People of the Hill'.
But now they had run into a score of Balikie.
Pausing by the stream to scoop up a handful of stones for his sling, Thorn looked up the winding path, from which any moment now a group of fierce killers would appear.
They had stopped in this little glade for their mid-day meal while Onooga and Zoean had remained to bathe in the shallow pool a bend in the stream had created. Nobert and Mithdar had offered stay as guards. Flynn and the bard, Roary, were out hunting. Erin and the two Kirkwean had gone ahead to prepare food and tend the mounts. Kel, as usual, had left to scout the trail.
"What if they don't see us?", Thorn whispered to the silent Chin. "Do we let them pass?"
Kel's eyebrow rose once more as he looked over at the little Kirkwean. "All Balikie are honorless dogs, but even dogs can smell woodsmoke and horse dung."
Thorn sighed and fitted a smooth stone into his sling. He could see nothing of either Erin or the horses on the far side of the stream.
Voices. Talking calmly. The Balikie obviously hadn't smelt anything yet.
Then two of them appeared at the edge of the little glade, their dark eyes darting right and left. They came cautiously down the trail. Both carried lances and small, round bucklers; both had short, curved bows slung over their shoulders.
"Scouts," Kel hissed. "If they start to shout a warning, kill the one on left."
Thorn began to sweat. 'Maybe they won't smell anything,' he said to himself. 'Maybe they'll just walk right by us and we won't have to kill them!'
A noisier bunch followed. Four. Six. A dozen. And still neither scout had given the alarm. Three came down to the stream and began to fill goatskin water bags. Others lay down their packs and sat. One barked out some guttural commands and three began to gather fallen branches.
"Erg strike me!", Thorn muttered. "They're going to set up camp!"
The small glade was filling up now and still they came. Thorn counted almost two score in all! He looked over at Kel, but the Chin was calmly drawing a bead on the lead scout. The Balikie warrior had moved over near where their own fire had been. Thorn breathed in deeply. He could neither smell nor see any tell-tale smoke, but then his pounding heart skipped a beat; for there, left out in the open for all to see, were Timin's pots and pans! The afternoon sun caught their gleaming surfaces and cast out a beacons of light that a blind man could see!
"Kel, the pans!", the little Kirkwean began to say, but Kel had already let fly and was nocking his second arrow. The first scout stiffened, then crumbled. The second one took a stride towards his fallen comrade when the Chin's bolt took him in the neck, cutting off both his life and his scream.
With no choice left him, Thorn whirled his sling and loosed. The stone took the one who had barked the commands square in the temple.
As the startled Balikie gawked at their fallen leader, a piercing war-cry split the silence of the little glade and Erin, astride his mount and driving the other nine beasts before him, burst into them from the forest edge.
Caught totally unawares, the Balikie war-band literally tripped over each other in their haste to get clear of the charging horses. Hooves flayed and men screamed as several tons of hosreflesh slammed into them.
Erin, his longsword in one hand and his shield in the other, let his mount run with the others, cutting broad swaths through the startled Balikie.
Then the horses were through them and vanished into the forest --- all save the one bearing the tall rider dressed in glittering black ringmail. Yanking his stead around, the weapons-man from distant Loamin prepared to charge them again.
"He'll be cut to pieces!", Thorn yelled.
For an answer Kel swiftly began sending shaft after shaft into the knot of swarthy men from far-off Jarlish-Xyx. Thorn, running out into the open, let fly a stone at one who had jumped into the stream and was attempting to scramble up the far side. The man fell back into the stream, screaming and clutching his leg.
Erin charged into their rear, his sword and shield striking out on both sides as his wild-eyed mare trampled its way through the press of bodies. Thorn, his pouch of stones empty, quickly strung his small bow and readied a shaft. Kel, now on his second quiver of arrows, had never stopped shooting.
Erin had charged through them again and was now at the far end of the trail. His mare had taken a long slash in its flank and was dancing around with the pain. Erin had to use his shield arm to quiet the animal.
Three Balikie saw this as their chance to move in. One had his teeth kicked in by Erin's heavy boot, another lost an arm to his sword and the third was trampled under the terrified mare's flaying hooves.
Several others, on seeing the fate of their companions, hastily backed away. Erin swore at them and prepared to charge yet another time.
Well over a dozen of the Balikie lay dead or badly wounded. A heroic number for just three defenders, but the problem was that there was still a score or more left
alive. Realizing that only two bowmen and one mad fool on horseback stood before them, they were organizing to attack rather than just defend.
Spears and throwing weapons replaced swords as they prepared for the rider's next charge, while half a dozen, their shields held before them, began to advance on the two bowmen.
"They're coming for us!", Thorn yelled as he loosed his last shaft. Kel, his second quiver already empty, tossed away his great longbow and drew his two glittering a-sa.
"Be at ease, Shawma Thorn," the Chin grinned. "Today we have earned our Death Song."
With that he launched himself down the slope, taking two Balikie and himself into the gurgling little stream. There was a blur of movement and only one man rose.
"Erg save us!", Thorn shouted, even as he drew Shard and followed Kel into the thick of the enemy.
Erin, seeing yet another blade slide harmlessly off the strange red circlet he wore in place of a helm, dug his heels into his quivering mount and bolted forward. A thrown spear lodged in his shield and began to drag it down. With a deft flick of his wrist, he lopped off the heavy haft, his blade Glenrig slicing through the hardened wood as thoug
h it were a twig.
A well tossed axe struck him in the chest, rocking him backwards, but his Raven Armour held and the momentum of his stead carried him on towards a wall of planted spears. Something seemed to bite him on the back of his left shoulder. Almost like a beesting it was, yet he had little time to bother with such trifles. Sawing on the reins and clinging to the saddle like it was the rolling quarterdeck of a Loamin sloop, Erin could do little but curse and watch as half of the remaining Balikie formed a circle around his twirling, kicking mare.
Then a horn sounded and the air was filled with tiny, flint-tipped arrows. The cloud of deadly darts descend on the Balikie like a swarm of buzzing insects. Few struck deep, but even a slight scratch was enough to cause the sleeping mixture coating the jagged points to work.
Erin, dizzy from the swirling ride his mount had given him, looked up to see Flynn standing on a ridge overlooking the glade. All around him were thirty or so odd looking creatures, each one sending shaft after tiny shaft into the surprised Balikie.
From the enemies' rear came yet another familiar sound; that of Zoean Ithilian screaming the ancient battle-cry of the Nim-Loth of Gareth-Withrin. Through eyes rimmed with pain from the many cuts and bruises he had taken, the weapons-man saw both Zoean and the golden-haired Onooga charge into the rear of the Balikie. The bard, Roary Ol'Heath, and the old Dryfallen, Nobert, ran by their side, each one cutting and slashing their way through the panic-stricken enemy. Even Mithdar was there; his hat gone, his silver hair flying in the wind, using his carved staff as though it were a club!
Then his vision began to blur and he felt himself slipping from the saddle. Vainly he tried to right himself, but his great strength was swiftly leaking away, mainly through the hole in his back from the slender crossbow bolt that was still embedded in his shoulder. Even through the famous Raven Armour the odd, little 'beesting' had taken its toll!
Thorn also felt his head swim, for he had just received a savage yet glancing blow on his helm. Finding himself sitting in the small stream, a large form suddenly reared up before him, the sun's rays catching the sheen of a raised sword. A grunt followed. The dark form stiffened, bent slowly forward, then sagged to its knees. Timin, planting a small foot on the fallen Balikie's shoulder, yanked out his fishspear. The body slumped forward to fall at Thorn's feet.
"Timin!", Thorn gasped. The pudgy Kirkwean helped his cousin to rise.
"You know me!", Timin exclaimed, his eyes fixing on the black shortsword in Thorn's hand. "You used Shard and still you know me! It didn't 'carry you off' this time!"
Thorn looked down at the bloodied blade, then back to his cousin. The two Kirkwean suddenly hugged each other in mid-stream, while all about them the 'Battle of Cooking-Pot Creek' came to an end.
***
Erin slowly floated up to the surface of reality, there to bob like a cork, in and out of consciousness. It seemed pleasant to float in such a way, while visions of the past flitted by like seabirds on the wind. He felt again the roll of a stout ship beneath his feet, smelled the tart, salt air of a freshening breeze.
Then the scene changed and he was standing on the wall of his foster-father's home. All around him went on the pleasant, rustic life of a 'dunn' or fort-farm. Women fed chickens in the yard while children ran barefoot over the ripening fields. Older ones tended the half-wild horses and thick-fleeced sheep that the Rill Isles were famous for. The harsh yet welcome sound of iron on iron reached his ears. Looking down at the courtyard he saw weapons-men practicing the ancient art of warfare, yet over it all someone was speaking.
At first it seemed to be his foster-father; that hard, strict man that, in his own way, had been kind to a son not of his loins. Then it changed to a woman's voice. Low it was, and lyrical as a babbling brook, yet at the same time soft and pleading. In his slumber he recognized the beautiful face of the only mother he had ever known, the Rill maiden that had first brought him as a wee babe to his foster-father's dunn. Against all advice to the contrary, his father had kept both the maid and the babe, gaining both a wife and a boy-child, but loosing the esteem of many of his old friends, for the 'Rill' were considered a dark, sinister race, and shunned by most of the 'good folk' of Loamin.
As a child he bathed again in the limpid depths of his mother's fathomless eyes, as old as the hills and soft as a summer breeze. He heard his name spoken and he listened all the keener.
"Oh, Sweet Mother Quent, I pray thee, gather him not to you just yet! Short have been the days of Erin son of Conn, for, though he be only a heathen manling and not one of Oma's Children, still the Sky Father, Great Lear your husband, in His vast wisdom has seen fit to choose this manling to wear the Raven Armour and the Cirith Dragonus. Surely great things be in store for him in the future!
I pray thee, cut not the slender thread that binds him to this mortal coil, for he is destined to a greatness far beyond my ken --- and --- " Here the lilting voice dropped to a hesitant whisper. "And I, though I have not told him so, have given him my heart."
Erin drifted off into a deeper slumber, and, when he awoke much later, it was neither the dark, cascading hair of the Rill maiden nor the jet black, flowing locks and shining green eyes of Zoean that he saw, but the hairy, mud-spattered beard and painted face of one of the savage Hill People. Twigs, burs and feathers matted his shaggy hair and beard. A small ring of bronze pierced his wide, flat, nostril and, as he grinned down at Erin, the largest, whitest teeth he had ever seen gleamed in the firelight.
"Who the quiff be you?!", Erin demanded with a start.
The hairy savage, still squatting beside the half prone weapons-man, struck his bare, painted chest. "Me Gluck. Chief First Folk. You luck quiffer not die. Big hole 'n back. Shit Faces plenty many. Dead all. Gluck see White Beard. Friend longtime White Beard. Gluck see Shit Faces. Gluck help White Beard kill Shit Faces. You luck quiffer! You got burn water?"
Erin, unable to follow the savage's broken use of the Common Tongue, looked up at Mithdar standing behind him.
"Faith, man! What be this little quiffer goin' on about? 'N have him move downwind a bit! He smells worse than a three-day old corpse!"
Mithdar smiled and sat down on a log. "This is Gluck, chief of his particular clan of Hill People, or the 'First Folk' as they like to call themselves. And though I can't say for sure, they may just indeed be what they claim!" The old mage gently touched the grinning savage's matted hair, a far away look in his old eyes. Soon he roused himself and went on.
"He was saying that you are lucky to be alive and that he and I are old acquaintances. When he saw that my friends were being attacked by the Balikie or 'Shit Faces' as he so quaintly calls them, why, he quite naturally came to our rescue. Very civilized of him I'd say! That last bit was him asking if we had any ale or wine to give him in payment for services rendered."
Gluck nodded, still squatting close to Erin. With a cat-like movement he pinched a flea out of his hair and cracked the hard shell between his fingers, then held it out to Erin.
The old mage chuckled. "It's considered quite an honour to accept food from a chief's hand."
Erin shook his head and watched in utter disgust as Gluck, shrugging, popped the remains into his mouth. "How be the women? Anyone bad hurt?"
"Just you. Thorn has a lump on his head and Kel's limping but won't let me have a look. Gluck's people did most of the work at our end, though Zoean was the first to win through to you. She got there even before your faithful Chin and has stayed by your side all evening. Just a short while ago I persuaded her to get some rest."
Mithdar sighed. "You were lucky, you know. We all were. If Gluck and his group hadn't come along ---" He let the words trail off into the night, then, from under his robes he brought out a strange looking device. It resembled a crossbow, but small enough to be a child's toy. "Kel found this under the body of the Balikie leader. He says it is remarkably strong, almost as powerful at short range as that giant thing he uses. The bolts are fitted with a narrow iron tip, small enough to pass
through even your famous ringshirt!"
Erin slowly sat up. His body was a mass of aches and bruises and his shoulder hurt a great deal, but he was determined to get to his feet.
He made it half way before sitting down again. Gluck offered him yet another flea but Erin called for something to drink. The two Kirkwean appeared out of the gloom, Timin with his little spear and Thorn with a near full wineskin. After a long pull, the weapons-man handed it to Gluck, who quickly scampered off into the night.
Mithdar watched him go. "They really are like children you know. Kind, simple, deadly children. He'll take it back to the others, mix it with their own concoction of fermented something-or-other, and get pleasantly drunk. Not a care in the world about tomorrow. Doesn't know and doesn't bloody well care. Absolutely marvelous!"
"If ye be finished goin' on about the 'noble savage', let me see that wee crossbow!"
Mithdar handed the strange little weapon over to Erin, along with a quiver of the deadly little quarrels. Erin touched the thin point of one of the bolts, then tried to string the tiny weapon. In his weakened condition he couldn't.
Mithdar chuckled.
"I told you it was powerful. Keep it. I've noted that, for a weapons-man, you shun the use of bow or spear. Where we are going you may have need of something that works at a longer range than your sword. Besides, it might just stop you from being so foolish! Really, Erin! Charging well over a score of Balikie was sheer folly! Magnificent folly to be sure, but folly just the same!"
The manling from Loamin snorted, patting the wicked looking throwing knife at his hip. "It's blades I be good at, Mithdar, not shooting bits o' wood or stones! Besides, I was taught to face a man, not to be seekin' out his life cowering from behind root 'n rock!"
Timin grunted, his large eyes narrowing into a frown. Erin, seeing that his words had caused some offense, smiled up at the glowering Kirkwean. "Faith, laddie, I meant no slur to you or any that use bow, spear or sling! More than once you 'n Thorn were after savin' my hide with your distance weapons. Aye, 'n the sour-faced Chin with that great monstrosity he carries has kept red death off all our hides! Why, even Mithdar's hairy little friends helped win the day for us, 'n them with bows no bigger than a wee baren uses to kill squirrels back in Loamin!"
