by Wayne Mee
"Rod big!", Fang snarled. "Kill now! Kill all!"
Lucfelian allowed himself a rare smile. Success was close and the smell of it was oh so sweet. "Yes, my pet. Soon we'll kill all. But not these two, for they are nothing. But there! Those others down by the big trees! They are the ones I want! After them, my beauties! After them!"
A tiny voice deep inside him began to wail out a warning, but Lucfelian silenced it savagely as he dug his spurs into the bleeding flanks of his mount. Fang, clinging to the stirrup, began to howl and gnash his filed teeth, his limited brain already tasting the warm blood of his victims.
Without a backward glance Lucfelian led his troop on down the hill, leaving Ragnol to deal with the two on the wall. He hardly gave a thought to the score or so Wee'ns struggling back up the slope. Thorn's broach-pin flared beneath his tattered cloak as the Shadow Lord passed, yet neither he nor Lucfelian noticed it, so intent was each on reaching their separate goals.
***
Erin looked out at the mass of men and horseflesh all around him and thought indeed that his time had come. For almost eight long years he had cheated Death. Ever since he had killed a rich man's son in a duel and been banished from Loamin he had laughed in the Grim Reaper's face. As a pirate and a mercenary he had cheated the Old Whore time and time again, but always before there had been a way out; a 'back door' through which he could somehow escape.
But not this time. The Slathers had him ringed round with cold iron. Nob was down. Having killed a foe that was about to strike Erin from behind, the aging veteran of a hundred battles took a thrown spear in the chest. A part of Erin's brain hoped the old Dryfallen was dead, for these Slathers dearly loved to 'play' with those that defied them, and Erin had liked the old warrior too much to see him tortured, even if he had been a pain in the ass with his constant guarding of Zoean's 'virginity'!
Zoean. Her face rose up before him even as he stabbed a Dragoon in the throat. He doubted not that he loved her; yet he had loved many a long haired lass before, and always he had left them to go 'a-rovin'. If he had lived it might have been different this time --- but somehow he doubted it.
For one thing she was a Nim-Loth; and, like the Rill of his own isles, she was damned near ageless. Time passed much slower for her than it did for him, and though it might be nice to have an ever-young lassie to lie with, he somehow couldn't see himself, bent and grey, doddering along behind Zoean's shapely arse, wondering what young buck she was letting sneak a hot hand under her skirt!
"Faith!" he swore out loud, kicking an eager Slather in the face and ducking under another's lance. "I'll not be cuckolded by an ageless piece o' quiff, no matter how shapely she be!"
The 'Yiffrin' took him then, the blood-rage coursing through him as never before. He fought with shield and blade and foot and tooth. So fiercely did he slay that all backed away from the snarling thing dressed in man's clothing. Then three Dragoons leapt on him from the rear and dragged him off the wall. Landing heavily on one, he drove the pommel of his sword into the groin of the second and butted the third with his head. Colors flashed before his wolf-grey eyes, but he came up cursing, the first starshine catching the light off Glenrig's raised blade.
To his utter surprise however, there was no-one left to fight.
"Ho there, you great fool! Put up your blade before you kill one of my lads!" The voice of Spangle the Spike cut through the berserker rage that was fast draining away.
"Who ---? How ---?", he gasped, using his blade now as an old man might use a cane.
Spangle's face swam before his gaze, the two missing teeth making the Wee'n's grin all the more grotesque. The short pirate took in the carnage all about. "You ply your trade well, manling; a might 'too well' some might say! Still, if you ever seek a birth on the wide seas, I'll gladly find you a place on my own ship!"
Ignoring the banter, Erin forced himself to his feet, a part of his mind even then searching for Thorn. He spied him a little distance down the slope, wrapped in Fernleaf's arms. Apparently she and her warrior maidens, along with Timin and his mounted band, had cut their way through the slaughter at the West Gate and come upon Ragnol's troop from the rear. At the same time Thorn and Spangle's group had attacked the Slather's front. Caught in the middle, Ragnol and those Dragoons not killed, had fled into the tall pines seeking Lucfelian.
Weakened from wounds and bruises, Erin began limping towards Thorn and Fernleaf. Cynwulf came to embrace and aid him, and soon the 'Watcher' and the 'Wanderer' were reunited.
"Erin!", Thorn cried, disentangling himself from his love and grasping the tall mercenary by the hand. "When I saw you and Nob on the wall I thought I was looking at dead men!"
"Faith, laddie! I can't help but agree! Though Nob's sore hurt back yonder!"
Timin and several others rushed to where the old Dryfallen lay, while Fernleaf began to bind up Erin's many wounds. The black and scarlet Raven Armour he wore had held fast, yet many a nick and scrape he had taken on leg and forearm, and his ribs and chest were badly bruised. The Raven Circlet he wore in place of a helm had also served him well, for there was nary a scratch on his long, black locks.
"What of that bastard, Halfhand?!", Erin called out. "For t'was he that led this lot! I've an old score to be settlin' with that quiffer!"
"All that yet live have fled into the trees", Thorn called back. "Yet perhaps he is among the slain, but it is too dark now to see."
Erin cursed, then staggered, righting himself with the aid of Glenrig.
Cynwulf, seeing the weakness in him that comes after the 'Yiffrin', urged him to rest. Erin refused, saying that he had seen Lucfelian ride by with a host of Slathers and Brakarns.
"When he finds not Thorn in yonder great trees, he'll be back here breathin' fire n' blood!"
Cynwulf, scanning the corpse-laden field by the pale light of the newly risen moon, motioned with his pike towards the distant shadow of the Forge. "Gather those still alive and hasten to that stout building yonder! Good, solid stone will turn the sharpest blade and we'll be able to hold out till Arthdain and my lord Dingle's combined hosts arrive on the morrow!"
All found that wise council and within moments they were heading for The Forge. Erin and Thorn went to aid Timin with the wounded Nobert, but when they got thereTimin was reverently covering the body with his own cloak. The old Dryfallen would rise no more.
The three friends stood facing each other. There was nothing to say, for each new that war was a cruel, heartless whore, who gobbled up friend and foe alike. Nobert had died the way he had lived and all they could do now was to go on.
Together they made their way down the dark slope.
***
"Well met, friends!", Mithdar called down to them from the open window of The Forge's loft. "Long will this day's deeds be sung of, though I fear it is not yet over! Make haste, for the Shadow Lord's host is hot on your heels!"
The mage's words proved to be all too true, for no sooner were they inside and the stout oak door shut and barred than a great clamor was heard from without. The moon had drifted behind a bank of clouds, yet the large field seemed lit with hundreds of stars that had somehow fallen to earth --- blazing torches of the enemy. The din of weapons on shields mingled with the cries of blood-lust assaulted their ears as the maddened remains of the Slathland army assembled outside for the final battle.
The Defenders looked about them at their own small number. Gluck and a score of his First People; Spangle with Rat and the few remaining members of his crew; a cluster of wide-eyed yet determined Kirkwean; Fernleaf and several of her maiden warriors; the Delgi Cynwulf and Silgwyn, the tall, silent Nim-Lothian archer; and of course, those that remained of the original Wanderer's band. Pitifully small when compared with the number of those outside who clambered for their lives --- but, however small, it would have to do till Dingle and Arthdain arrived.
Zoean, upon seeing Erin's wounds, rushed to him, catching him in an embrace that made his battered body wince.
"Easy there
, darlin' girl, or it's squeezin' the last o' my life's blood out o' me you'll be doin'!"
The Nim-Lothian princess paled and gently helped him to a bench, all the former haughtiness gone from her manner. As she fussed over the bandages Fernleaf had hastily made, Zoean's blue eyes sought his grey ones.
"Nob?"
Erin shook his head. "Gone, lass. But he went down fightin', guardin' my back till the bitter end. It's proud o'Nobert the Dryfallen ye should be, for he died like a true warrior."
Zoean drew herself erect, her beautiful face regal and stern. "I am proud of him. I only wish that I had told him more often."
Erin pulled her gently to him, cradling her sleek, dark head on his mail-clad chest. "He knew, lassie. He knew."
Suddenly the noise outside stopped, and an eerie hush settled over their little world. Those inside glanced nervously about, anxiously clutching the weapons that Cynwulf had handed out from the Slather arsenal at the rear of the Forge. Then, cutting through the dark silence like a rumble of distant thunder, an all too familiar voice called out.
"You inside the stone hovel! I crave speech with your leader!"
"Skatha!", Erin growled, starting so that Zoean was rudely bumped aside.
"The Nar-Graith?", she asked, too frightened to notice she now knelt at Erin's feet.
"None other, Lady", Cynwulf said from his place by the shuttered window. "Lucfelian's dog come to yap at us in the night!" The Rif-Dag pulled down his war-mask and hefted his double-bladed axe. "I slew one of his kind some time back. Now it seems I can complete the task!"
"Hold, good Cynwulf!", Mithdar commanded from atop the winding stairs. "We may yet have need of your stout axe before this night is out, but let us first see just what the Shadow Lord wants of us, for each moment we hold out bring's both Zoean's brother and your own kin all the closer!"
"'Wants'?!", Fernleaf repeated from her place beside her betrothed's side. "We all know what he wants! Thorn! My Thorn and that accursed black blade he carries!" She gazed fiercely about the room, her wide eyes wild, her voice trembling. "Well, he'll not have him, do you hear?! Never!"
"Of course not, Fern", Mithdar said soothingly. "We but buy time for help to reach us." He made a small gesture with his hand and Fernleaf's fierce gaze melted away, replaced by a look of relaxed contentment. The wizard then turned to the others and bade them follow him up to the loft. Thorn, reaching Mithdar's side, looked back at Fernleaf, still sitting as though caught in some peaceful dream. The half-score of her followers were likewise entranced.
"She but rests, Thorn", the old mage reassured him. "She and her maidens have been through much, and the mind needs rest as well as the body. But come, our time for resting is not yet here, for there is still much to be done if any of us are to see the morrow!"
Pushing open the casement window, Mithdar, Thorn and the other principle players gazed down on the sea of blazing torches. In their midst a tall form, dressed in what seemed shimmering armour, sat astride a dark horse. Though others still saw the 'glamour' Lucfelian had wrapped him in, Mithdar and the Companions saw the real thing: Skatha, first and last of the Nar-Graith!
Yet though he knew full well who stood before him, the old mage sought to irk Lucfelian's lap-dog all the more by pretending to not recognize him. "Who calls out so rudely, and comes to this peaceful hamlet in such a war-like manner?! Speak, for I have little time to waist yelling into the night at barking dogs!"
Mithdar's words rang out through the still darkness like the peal of a bronze bell, and none of the defenders that heard him were not strengthened by the sound.
Skatha's horse was led forward into the torchlight by a bent and twisted figure --- Shag the Karn, who had somehow survived the slaughter at the West Gate!
"You know me full well, old bag-of-bones, just as I know you! Long and long I have waited for this hour, Mythdarian, and now that it has finally come, I would savor its sweetness!"
"Savor it well then, Skatha-son-of-Sharta, for the taste will soon enough turn to ashes in your foul mouth! For once, though, you speak the truth, for I DO know you full well! Long ago I visited your father in his hovel in the distant Hot Lands. He was a vile and petty king, ever-grasping in his ways and never-trusting in his manner. You, I see, have surpassed him in vilness."
Caught off guard by Mithdar's intimate knowledge of his long dead father, Skatha's cool facade melted away. "Enough of this useless chatter, old fool! I come to parley, not prattle on like an old woman before her fire! My Lord Lucfelian, whom I believe you are also well acquainted with, has graciously consented to offer you terms of surrender!"
The mage turned to Thorn and winked. "Gracious indeed, Skatha-son-of-Sharta. Your 'master' must be greatly afraid if he comes so quickly to offer us his surrender."
Skatha burst forth in a red rage, his haughty accent lost amid ancient, vile curses. Shag was hard-pressed to hold the mount from bolting.
"You doddering, weak-brained old fool! It is my Master who demands YOUR surrender! Send out the thief and that which he has stolen and you may yet escape with your pitiful lives! Refuse and you and all in this pathetic little village of runts will be worm-meat by morning!"
Mithdar leaned forward through the open window and pointed an accusing finger at Skatha. "I know who and what you seek, though you name them not! And I also know that without it your so-called 'Master' is like unto a great tree whose roots have been cut away --- tall and mighty to look at, but weak and without the strength to withstand the slightest breeze! This message and none other I charge you to deliver to your lifeless-lord; that these Kirkwean and all the free people of Oma-Var utterly reject him and all his evil works! That we are like unto the wild wind that blows across the land, and that we will topple him and all his foul followers and scatter them to the far corners of the world! Now, Skatha-son-of-Sharta, get ye hence from my sight, and take these abominations with you!"
Skatha, his dead eyes glowing like living coals, hissed something in an ancient tongue and yanked on his steed's rein, lashing out with his quirt so that Shag's upturned face received a slash across his hairy cheek. Then, with a cry that was far from human, the last of the Nar-Graith fled into the night, leaving a slight shimmer in the air where he had been and an eerie echo on the rising wind.
***
Chapter 59:THE SIEGE OF THE FORGE
When Skatha passed on Mithdar's sharp words, they brought forth a seething red rage from Lucfelian. So demonic was his fit that all fled trembling. Two only remained to face the brunt of his wrath; Fang, the leader of the bloodthirsty Brakarns, and Skatha. Fang stayed because he enjoyed the look of killing-lust in his master's eye; Skatha because there was no place left to go.
Both stood before Lucfelian, his scalding curses washing over them. At last, when the worst of the fury was over and Lucfelian was once again in control, he ordered Skatha to pour him wine.
As the Nar-Graith bent to retrieve a jewel-encrusted cup from the remains of the splintered table, Lucfelian suddenly began to laugh. The hideous sound grew in magnitude until the very air itself seemed to howl. Other sounds were there too; faint at first, but rising rapidly. They hovered at the edge of awareness, strangely familiar, like the pain from a tender tooth. Suddenly, in a perverted twist of blinding insight, Skatha recognized them for what they were; the agonized wails of each of the 'past hosts' the Lord of Shadows had possessed.
And it was then that Skatha, leader of the un-dead, for the first time in his prolonged, evil life, knew true fear.
Fang, puzzled by the oddly chilling sounds, cocked his shaggy head sideways. Pain, fear, lust; all these things his limited brain could grasp, yet the concept of this demonic laughter was beyond him. All he knew that death hung in the air, and that soon the 'storm' would break and the sky would rain blood. Fang felt himself becoming aroused by the thought.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the wailing-laughter stopped. Lucfelian spoke to them with his back turned, and though the tone was casual, even flippant, it seemed to
come from the very bowels of the earth.
"You wonder, comrades, how I can laugh in the face of adversity? How I can scoff at the tangled web Fate weaves for me?" The Shadow Lord's voice became even softer, almost wistful. 'So near and yet so far' I believe is how the poet put it."
Lucfelian turned suddenly and leaned over the shattered table, the High Gnash's face a twisted mockery of all that it once was. "Because, dear friends, I have something that these thieving runts treasure far more than their precious 'Wanderer'; something that they will gladly trade both Shard and the thief for!"
Skatha, though still inwardly trembling, attempted a face-saving smile. "And just what, Dread Lord, is that?"
Like a gloating, black spider, Lucfelian moved swiftly to the far end of his tent and pulled back the tapestry --- and there, gagged and tied spread-eagled to the four corners of his bed, lay the naked form of Narya, beautiful and beloved Erg-Leath of the Kirkwean.
***
"The Erg-Leath?!", Timin demanded, rushing to the shuttered window. Light from the late afternoon sun turned the battlefield into a golden nightmare. "They've --- they've got the Lady Narya out there!"
Mithdar, ignoring the little Kirkwean, went on reading the message the enemy had just delivered. His voice, when it came, was low and terrible.
"It says if we want to save Narya we must send Shard out immediately --- and that Thorn must be the one to bring it."
"But he can't go out there!", Timin cried. "They'll hack him to pieces!"
"Aye, Timin", Roary added sadly, striking a mournful chord on his harp. "N' they'll be hackin' yonder lassie if he dinna go."
Spangle snarled into his empty mug. "The quiffers will probably gut the lass even if he does go out!"
"Be silent, all of you!", Mithdar ordered. "I must find a path through this maze!"
Thorn, who had stood as one turned to stone, now stepped forward. Fernleaf tried to hold him back, but he gently eased her aside. "There is only one way, Mithdar, and we both know what it is. I must go."
