by Gwynn White
For now though, the delights of Westdale awaited him.
Finishing the strip of jerky, Alan groaned and pushed himself back to his feet. It was time he got moving. With only two weeks leave from the army, he wanted to make the most of his time in Trola.
As Alan reached for his hammer, the crunch of gravel came from below and he paused. Straightening, he squinted down the slope, covering his eyes against the harsh sun. Below there was nothing but gravel and tussock, but as he looked the sound came again.
A moment later a woman appeared. She wore a red cloak pulled tight around her shoulders and a hood protected her head from the fierce mountain winds. Otherwise though, she appeared woefully unprepared for a mountain ascent. She carried no pack or water skin, and from his vantage point she appeared to be unarmed. Her boots were thin leather that barely reached her ankles, putting her at risk of a sprain or worse.
Frowning, Alan studied her approach. As she grew closer he noticed her cloak had been torn in places, revealing bruised flesh beneath, and her movements were panicked and rushed. Her eyes remained fixed on the ground in front of her, searching for the next step between the loose stones. She had not seen him yet, but it was clear she was fleeing something.
Alan reached down and retrieved kanker. Hoisting it in his hands, he settled himself in the centre of the pass and waited.
Her eyes widened when she appeared around the corner of the pass and found him waiting for her. Fear flashed across her face as she straightened, her body tense, ready to fight or flee. But here on the mountain side, with her pursuers behind and Alan ahead, they both knew there was nowhere left for her to go.
Alan nodded as her eyes fixed on him. “Come up here, missy. Quickly.”
Wariness replaced the fear in her eyes. She stood on the lip of the pass, hesitating, the harsh wind howling around her. Stones rattled as they shook loose from the cliffs and tumbled down into the pass. Her hood whipped around her head, until she reached up and tore it back in frustration. Black hair and eyes the colour of mountain trees appeared, staring out at him from her pale face.
Finally she returned his nod and approached, until she stood beside Alan in the pass.
Alan offered his hand and she took it without hesitation. “Alan,” he offered.
She smiled, and he was surprised at the warmth that spread through his chest. “Margaret,” she turned as she said it, her mind still on whatever dark thing chased her. “I’m afraid they aren’t far behind. You should go now; there’s too many.”
Grinning, Alan hefted his hammer. It felt light in his hands now, the prospect of a fight banishing the weariness of earlier. “No such thing for old kanker. Don’t you worry, missy. We’ll see them off. Who are they?”
“Baronians,” Margaret spat the word. “A raiding party. They’ve been chasing me since last night. I cut across the foothills, but when that didn’t lose them, I thought I’d make for the pass into Trola.”
“Scum,” Alan rolled his shoulders, relishing in the adrenaline spreading through his body. “Well, don’t you worry, I’ll soon send them scurrying back into whatever hole they crawled out of.”
“There’s at least a dozen of them.”
Alan chuckled at Margaret’s doubt and shook his head. Even so, he eyed the slope beneath him, wondering at the odds. If they were as close as Margaret suggested, they didn’t have much hope now of outrunning them. He could see the woman was at the end of her strength. If she had been running since the day before, he was impressed she had made it this far.
And if they fled, and were caught on the open slopes beyond the pass, the Baronians would surround them easily.
Here though, they would not be able to use their numbers. The pass would force the Baronians to come at them two or three at a time, and that Alan was sure he could match. Not great odds, but better than twelve on one.
Glancing at Margaret, he nodded his head to the deeper shadows of the pass. “Get behind me, missy. I’ll take care of them.”
Margaret raised an eyebrow and straightened. “Thanks all the same, but I’m no damsel,” she looked pointedly at his bag. “Got anything in there a bit lighter than that hammer of yours?”
Before Alan could answer she moved past him and swept up his bag. Shaking his head, Alan turned to stare down the slope, waiting for the first tell-tale signs of movement. He prayed to the Gods they would not have bowmen, or he might have to rethink his plan.
Seeing the slope remained empty, Alan straightened and stretched out his arms. Breathing out, he moved slowly through a series of simple drills. He had learnt them from an older Plorsean swordsmen a few years earlier, and while he’d never taken to the sword, he still found they helped prepare his mind and body for combat. That, and they kept his large frame supple and loose, something he had been grateful for on more than one occasion.
Moving through a series of swings, blocks, and parries, he fought his way across the mouth of the pass. His arms began to throb with the sudden exercise, and his chest burned in the thin air, but he pressed on, determined to keep warm in the frigid winds. After a few minutes the pain faded, until he finally came to a halt.
Turning, Alan found the young woman staring at him. His face flushed as their eyes met, but he only reached up to scratch his beard, struggling to appear unperturbed.
“My father would be impressed,” she offered.
“He is… a soldier?” Alan asked, stumbling over his words.
Margaret grinned and moved to stand beside him. She carried his hunting knife loosely by her side. In her hands, the blade looked more like a short sword than a knife, and from the way she moved, Alan guessed that was how she planned to use it.
“Of sorts,” she replied.
“Well, I hope he trained you well,” Alan grunted back.
Below, the first of the Baronians had appeared. They spread out across the gravel and tussock, their black cloaks fluttering on the breeze, staining the peaceful mountainside with their presence. Dark eyes turned up towards them, seeking out their quarry in the pass overhead.
“He did,” Margaret replied, her voice calm now. “Although he generally suggested I run when the odds were twelve to one.”
“What about twelve to two?”
She shrugged, flashing him a grin. “Depends on the two.”
Alan retuned the grin and then turned to face the Baronians. He couldn’t see any bows amongst them, but most of them carried axes or longswords, and he wondered how Margert would fair with her hunting knife. The Baronians were a warlike people, nomads who wandered the Three Nations without rule or allegiance, the worst dredges of society. Each wore the black leather armour of their people, and were used to taking what they wanted.
But it was clear they had not expected to find the girl standing next to a giant Lonian warrior. Alan grinned as the men paused mid-stride and turned to look at each other. He doubted they would turn back, but at least their confusion bought them a few extra minutes rest.
Shrugging his shoulders, Alan cursed himself for leaving his chainmail behind. Without it he felt exposed, naked to the blades of the men below. He would have to move quickly if he wanted to survive this fight. Even so, he had no intention of running. The woman was relying on him; it wasn’t in him to abandon her.
After a few minutes of consultation amongst themselves, the Baronians finally came on, stopping only when they were some twenty feet below the mouth of the pass. There they halted again as one moved ahead, approaching with his sword sheathed at his side.
Alan stepped forward to meet him, kanker grasped lightly in one fist.
“That’s close enough, Baronian,” he growled.
The man raised his hands to show they were empty. “Peace, sir,” he replied in a soft, velvet voice. “I only wish to talk.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed the man’s face. His eyes swept past Alan to where Margaret still stood between the cliffs. “You have heard lies then.”
; “Oh, I see. I suppose this is all a simple misunderstanding?”
The man spread his hands. “Of course,” he eyed Alan closely. “You see, my wife and I have had but a small disagreement. I only wish to help her see my point of view.”
Silence settled on the mountain slope as the echo of the man’s words faded away. Then Alan threw back his head and laughed. The boom of his voice rattled from the cliffs behind them, ricocheting back in a crescendo that sent the leader of the Baronians back a step.
When he was done, Alan lowered his head and fixed the man with an icy glare. “Go back to your men and return to your tribe, Baronian,” he growled. “Or today will be your last day on this earth.”
The man’s face paled, then brightened to a scarlet red. Alan tensed, and for a second he thought the man would charge him alone. Then the man released a long breath and shook his head. “I am sorry to hear your violent words, Lonian. You leave us no choice,” he waved a hand, and the black-garbed men behind started up after him. “One way or another, we will have the Magicker’s daughter.”
Alan glanced at Margaret “Magicker’s daughter?”
“Long story,” she breathed, raising the hunting knife before her like a sword.
He nodded, unhappy with the answer but knowing he wouldn’t get any more out of her then. He laughed as he saw the leader waiting on the slopes while the other Baronians overtook him. If a coward led these men, all the better for the two of them. It would not take much to break their courage.
First though, they had to even out the fight. Grasping Margaret by the shoulder, he drew her backwards into the pass, to its narrowest point. Now no more than two Baronians in their bulky leather armour could approach at a time. He just prayed to the Gods the girl could hold her own.
“Ready?” he whispered as the first Baronian topped the rise.
“Always,” he caught a flash of the girl’s fiery grin as she leapt to meet the man.
Cursing, Alan moved after her, raising kanker to protect the girl’s flank. The Baronian’s eyes widened as he found himself caught in the open, isolated from his comrades. He had drawn ahead of the others, clearly not expecting his quarry to abandoned their position, and now found himself outnumbered two to one.
The man faltered as they bore down on him, then he staggered to a stop and twisted to face Alan, raising his sword to protect himself. Alan tensed, preparing to smash the sword aside, but before he could move, Margaret stepped in and drove her knife beneath the man’s guard and up into his armpit.
Blood drained from the Baronian’s face as his mouth widened. Then Margaret wrenched back her blade and retreated into the narrow stretch of corridor. She watched coolly as the man toppled to the ground, her lips drawn tight with satisfaction.
Alan stared as he drew back beside her, a new found respect flowering in his chest. Together they turned and watched the remaining Baronian’s approach.
They were weary now, pausing in the mouth of the pass, their heavy breathing audible even over the howling wind. The man who had spoken arrived last. He came to a stop behind his men and stared across at where Alan and Margaret waited, his eyes hard. They were down to eleven men now, and given the skill Margaret had shown, Alan was liking their chances more and more.
His only worry was if they could outlast them. The Baronians had the numbers to wear them down, and if they were unable to hold the narrow section of the pass, they would quickly be overwhelmed.
Looking at the cluster of Baronians, Alan again found the man who had spoken earlier. Their eyes met, and Alan flashed a grin.
The man’s face darkened and he raised his sword. “Kill the man, but take the girl alive!”
Together the Baronians surged forward, almost tripping over themselves as the narrow cliffs funnelled them together. In their rush they became an unwieldy mob, and it took a minute before two men managed to step up to meet the two defenders. They approached cautiously, their eyes flicking to the body of their reckless comrade.
Standing to the left, Alan faced a man almost as large as himself. He wore thick leather armour and carried a wicked two-handed axe in one hand. Hefting it, he flashed Alan a grin, no doubt expecting an easy victory. Baronians were used to picking on the weak and defenceless, and without his chainmail Alan looked the same as any other civilian.
Alan smiled as the man came on, studying the placement of his feet on the loose ground. The man moved with confidence and held his axe with a practiced grip, but it was obvious he relied on brute force to overwhelm his opponents.
As the Baronian moved into range, he dropped his shoulder and came at Alan in a rush. Shifting his feet to brace himself, Alan watched him come, kanker held loosely in his right hand. At the last second, he leapt forward to meet the man, his hammer swinging out to smash aside the axe blow. Then his fist crunched into the Baronian’s face, sending his foe staggering backwards.
Resisting the urge to abandon his position and finish the man, Alan stepped back beside Margaret and risked a glance in her direction. A second axeman was swinging wildly at the girl, attempting to knock her from her feet, but his bulk was hampered by the narrow cliffs and Margaret slid past each blow like a fish in water. The hunting knife flickered in her hand like a living thing, sliding out to deflect a blow with the lightest of touches. Then Margaret leapt forward, catching the man unawares, and the knife sliced through the Baronian’s wrist like butter.
The axe clattered to the ground as the man swore and staggered sideways. He gripped his arm, staring at it in disbelief as blood trickled between his fingers. Raising his hammer, Alan finished him with a blow to the face.
Margaret nodded her thanks and turned to find her next opponent. Blood now dripped from her knife, staining the ground beneath her feet.
The crunch of stones reminded Alan of his own opponent. Spinning on his heel, he raised kanker in time to deflect the swing of his opponent’s axe. Sparks flew and metal shrieked as the force of the blow sent a shock down his arm. Staggering, Alan retreated a step as the axe blade swept past his face. Fear raised the hackles on his neck, but he pressed it down and pushed forward again, refusing to lose ground. Then, wrenching hard on the hilt of his hammer, he brought it around in an arc.
The Baronian’s eyes widened as kanker swept beneath his guard and smashed into his chest with a sickening crunch. The man staggered back, raising his axe in trembling hands, before a sudden cough tore through his body. The axe slid from his fingers as he clutched at his chest, as though his will alone could mend the damage.
He slid to the ground as blood bubbled between his lips. By the time he hit the ground, he was already dead.
Turning away, Alan looked for his next foe.
Three down, he thought with satisfaction. Nine to go!
The clash of steel rang in the narrow pass and a surge of adrenaline swept through him, feeding strength to his limbs. Cool air rushed down his throat, thin and draining, but he pressed on nonetheless, determined to finish the Baronian thugs.
Another man leapt at him. Alan drew back and laughed as he caught the man’s longsword on his hammer and knocked it sideways into the cliff. The close quarters were no place for such an unwieldy weapon, and he had long seconds to draw back and send kanker crashing into the man’s chest. The hammer gave a satisfying thud as it sent the man toppling backwards. He did not get back up.
Four.
“Five!” A wild shout came from his left and he glanced across in time to see a Baronian staggering into the wall, clutching at his throat. Blood bubbled between his fingers and a low gurgling sound came from his chest as he fell.
Margaret twisted as the short sword of the next man flashed towards her, then stabbed out with Alan’s knife. The man dodged backwards, avoiding the blow, and paused just out of range. The two stood still for a second, studying each other warily.
Grunting, Alan hefted his hammer and smashed aside the axe blow of the next Baronian. Quick as lightning, his free hand swept out to grab the man by the collar. He sc
reamed as Alan dragged him forward into a bone crunching headbutt. As the man sagged in his grip, Alan dropped kanker and hefted the Baronian above his head. Turning, he hurled the Baronian sideways into Margaret’s opponent.
The two went down in a pile of tangled limbs, thrashing on the gravel-strewn ground. Before they could recover, Margaret dodged forward and finished them with quick jabs of her hunting knife.
Then she retreated back to his side, while Alan swept up his hammer and turned to face the remaining Baronians.
“Seven,” he breathed.
Sweat beaded his forehead, but he did not spare the time to swipe it clean. Their black garbed foes eyed them across the bodies of their comrades. The hatred in their eyes had faded, giving way to the beginnings of fear. They had just watched half their number fall, while their quarry remained untouched. It would not take much for them to break now.
But even as he grinned, he could feel the exhaustion creeping through his body, robbing him of strength. His stomach swirled and he clinched his teeth hard to keep his breakfast in its place. Black shadows crept around the edges of his vision and he blinked to clear them, sucking in another mouthful of mountain air. Kanker felt unusually heavy in his hand.
Casting a glance at Margaret, he could see from her pale face she was fairing little better. They had to finish this fight now.
Straightening, Alan waved their foes on, not trusting his voice to hide his wariness.
“Come on boys, come and get me!” Margaret added beside him, and he smiled at her courage. The girl had fire.
“Five to go,” he breathed.
The Baronian leader stayed at the rear, but now he raised his fist and shouted for his men to charge. They glanced back at him, hesitant now, and Alan could see their anger at his cowardice. But the Baronian leadership was a close-knit group, and betraying it was not an act worth contemplating. Together, the four remaining men pressed.
Alan glanced across at Margaret. “Got another two in ya, missy?”
