by Jon Wilson
proximity to the door.
“There cain’t be this many,” someone
was saying. Holt recognized the voice and nearly tripped in his sudden effort to reach
Gar’s side. “They cain’t be, not here.” “Gar! Gar, what’s happening?” Holt
started at his own unfamiliar voice. He
sounded hoarse, as if he’d been screaming
for hours.
“An’ the imps,” Gar said. “No imps in the
north. And no imps with trolls. Never.” “Gar!” Holt found himself touching the
old man’s coat, tugging at it. “Gar, my
mother…” And then his voice broke apart
completely. The old man continued to berate
himself with the impossibility of their situation. “Where did he go?” A woman was
kneeling behind Jal. Holt could not see her
face and her hair was a wild mound of burnt
and oily tangles. She was pulling at Jal’s
trouser leg. “Why did he leave us?”
“He went to the temple.” Jal did not
spare the woman a glance. He held an ax—a
tool fashioned to attack wood, not trolls. Even
from his distance, Holt could see the wet stain on the blade. He gazed up at the young man’s eyes. They were black, as if the pupils had expanded and eclipsed the irises. Black and wet, like Holt’s despair. Not the eyes of a
farmer.
“Why?” The woman was mad, Holt
decided. Why didn’t she leave the men to
guard the door?
Finally, Jal turned and pushed her away
with a nudge of his leg. “There’s folks there!”
he screamed at her. “Keep quiet!”
Other voices rose. Someone caught up
the woman who had begun to writhe on the
floor. “You didn’t have to kick her!” An
argument broke out. Both men turned to face
the others, demanding silence. The
cacophony of voices rose.
Fools, Holt thought. They would get
themselves killed and him too. He tried to
move toward the door, but Gar held his arm.
“There ain’t no trolls with imps,” the old man
said. “Never.” Holt grabbed the pudgy wrist; the ease with which the offending grasp was broken surprised him. He scampered along
the wall toward Jal’s side.
“He told us to guard the door!”
The argument showed no signs of
abating, and Holt peered beyond Jal’s knee.
Three troll bodies were piled just over the
threshold. A scattering of others lay further
out. The ranger was nowhere to be seen. Holt
strained to scan the square. Fighting
continued around the great hall, but seemed
to be lessening. Screams came louder and
more terrifyingly anguished, but with less
frequency than before. And then a dark shape
detached itself from the shadows to the north
of the fire. It seemed impossibly alien at first,
hobbling around the perimeter of the hall.
Then it appeared to notice the storehouse
and grew steadily larger as it approached. This must be what Gar called an imp,
Holt decided. The same sort of horror that
had murdered his aunt. The same as the thing he had watched hack away at his brother Gabin. He looked quickly up at Jal. Both men¾both door guardians¾were as yet explaining to their charges why they needed to do as the men bid them. Gazina actually asked them how they thought themselves
qualified to give orders.
“He told us to guard the door,” Wyn
repeated.
“Shut it,” someone else said, and Holt
realized it had been himself. But the men
showed no sign of hearing. He directed his
gaze back out onto the square. The imp had
stopped, and was looking purposefully in all
directions. It gave a loud call, punctuated by
hisses, and then started forward again.
“Close the door!” Holt screamed. “Shut it!” Jal looked down, annoyed. “Get back!”
He took Holt by the hair and tried to shove
him away.
Holt grabbed at Jal’s wrist, twisting
frantically. “There’s something coming! Shut
the door!”
Jal continued to wrestle Holt away, but
Wyn turned to look back over his shoulder.
“He’s right!” Holt felt the hand release his hair,
and tumbled forward against Jal’s thigh. Jal
fought to turn, trying to lift his ax.
The imp leapt, striking Jal’s chest with
all four of its limbs. The man stumbled back
as the women began screaming in terror. The
occupants of the room scattered, and Jal and
his attacker crashed to the floor. Holt,
staggered by the kick he had been dealt as
Jal fell, watched the scene swim dizzily a
moment. When he looked back up at Wyn, he
saw the man was torn between aiding Jal and
facing the two trolls also approaching. “Shut the door!” Holt tried to rise, found
he couldn’t, and crawled toward Wyn. “Shut
the door!”
“Hesaidtoleaveitopenincasemorepeoplecome.”
Wyn’s words tumbled out all as one. He was
staring at the advancing monsters in absolute
terror.
Holt turned his attention back to the
interior of the storehouse. Jal had somehow
managed to throw his attacker off, but not
before the imp had successfully slashed his
face with its talons. The monster now
crouched in the corner, confronting the
terrified women with threatening hisses as it
appeared to coil for another attack.
Jal was tossing about on the floor,
holding his face in both hands. Blood was
flowing over his fingers. His ax lay just beyond
him, abandoned.
Without a thought, Holt jumped over Jal
and picked up the ax. He rose, lifting the
weapon in both hands. It had looked heavier
than it felt now that he held it to his chest. The
imp spied him and redirected its hissing. Holt
wondered how imposing he might be. He
was, in fact, taller and heavier than the imp,
and now he was armed. He wasn’t sure how
best to wield the ax, but the imp had no way of knowing that. He stood off against the monster for what felt like a painfully extended
length of time.
The sounds of battle drew his attention
back to the door. Wyn had engaged the trolls.
Holt wanted to turn and assist him, but the
imp hissed again, as if to remind him of its
own threat. He leapt forward, amazing himself
with the bestial grunt that issued from his
chest. He swung the ax up. The imp’s eyes
seemed to glisten in panic, and Holt allowed
himself an arrogant moment of pride thinking
he could not miss. That was quickly replaced
by frightened vexation as the blade buried
itself in the wall amid a flurry of splintering
wood.
As he set about desperately attempting
to pry the weapon free, Holt gave little
thought to the whereabouts of his former
prey. It wasn’t until the imp hissed, that he
turned, just in time to see the monster spring
toward him. Holt twisted his back to the wall. The ax came l
oose and he raised it as if it were a shield. His eyes screwed shut; his jaw clenched. He felt the imp crash against him and then twist to the side. He congratulated himself for a narrow escape until he opened his eyes and saw the imp hobbling on the
floor.
Holt decided the monster must have
somehow struck the ax-blade. There was a
terrific, purple rent in its fur. It scrambled to
face him again. But even as it managed to
ignore its wound, Gazina attacked it from
behind. Three other women quickly joined her,
utilizing whatever equipment they could find. Again a flurry brought his attention back
to the door. One troll had already succeeded
in maneuvering its short legs onto the
barricade of its comrades’ bodies, though
somehow Wyn had managed to strike it a
good blow on the back. It sprawled now, as if
trying to decide how best to add its own
carcass to the mound. As Holt watched, Gar lifted a heavy stone, already splashed with blood, and brought it down on the back of the
monster’s head.
Wyn was struggling with the remaining
troll, wrestling for control of the ax. He fell
backward into the storehouse, pulling the troll
in atop him. Holt sprang forward, heaving his
own axe, but Jal knocked him roughly aside.
He had a small crate in his hands which he
crashed down upon the back of the troll’s
head. Wyn managed to throw the creature
off, and it lay, dazed, as once again the
women swarmed over it, striking with
whatever weapon they could find.
“Where’s that blasted ranger?” Jal
shoved Holt aside and moved to regain the
doorway. His cheek bore a thick coating of
mottled blood.
Wyn climbed to his feet. “Maybe they
ran into trouble.” He took hold of the shaft of
his ax, still locked tightly in the dead troll’s
grasp, and yanked it free.
It seemed apparent to Holt that his aid
was to be overlooked. The men clearly
wished him out of the way. He pushed
forward, realizing, when Jal turned on him,
that he stood nearly as high as the man’s
shoulder. “Did he go to the temple?” he
asked, somehow managing to keep his voice
from cracking.
“Get back there with the women!” Jal
thrust out his hand to shove Holt in the
indicated direction.
Holt twisted, letting Jal’s bloody palm
slide off his shoulder. “There are people in
Fitts’ cellar!” He moved to squeeze between
the two men, hoping to reach the doorway
before it was secured again. Jal caught his
arm and gave it a vicious twist before hoisting
him back against a shelf of supplies.
“They’re damned dead now, you can
bet! All the houses over there are burning
bright.”
Holt, staggered by the violence with which he had been thrust aside, stumbled to one knee and then settled on the floor. He reached up and felt the back of his head. His fingers came away damp, but the lighting was too poor to make out what coated them. It looked black.They’ll kill me as surely as any troll, he thought, scowling up at the men’s backs. He had to get outside; it was his only
hope.
Someone touched his shoulder, took
hold of his shirt and gave it a tug.
“We need to get those out.” Gar
indicated something beyond Holt with a nod of
his head.
Holt turned. The dead imp lay folded
near the far corner of the chamber; the troll
sprawled almost in the center of the room.
The women, finished with them, had moved
as far back as possible, and huddled
together, whimpering.
Holt could muster no concern for their
comfort and was about to object, when an idea occurred to him. He got quickly to his
feet. “Come on then.”
They hoisted the imp’s body easily; Holt
guessed it weighed no more than his brother
Gabin. As much as Gabinhad. He distracted
himself from those thoughts by concentrating
on the foul smell of the creature, on the
coarseness of its fur. He had forced himself
to take the upper end, grabbing the scrawny
arms just below the shoulders, and he looked
down into the battered face. It was nothing
near human, he discovered—just huge black
eyes, which appeared no more nor less
sightless now that the creature was dead.
There was a gaping maw scattered with
jagged teeth, but no nostrils, nor ears. The
imp looked even more alien than the trolls. “Here,” Holt called as they carried the
imp toward the door. “Let’s add this to the
others.” He tried to deepen his tone, to make
it more authoritative, less likely to be denied.
He was surprised when the voice of his father
issued from his lips.
Jal and Wyn stepped aside with
disgusted sneers, as if even after everything
they had experienced, touching the mangled
imp was not to be borne. Holt swung his end
of the body up toward the top of the
monstrous barricade. Gar, slower, released
the legs too late and the imp failed to reach
the top. Holt stepped forward to push the
corpse the remaining distance, crossing the
threshold, actually past Jal and Wyn. He
shoved harder, and heard Jal laugh at his
plight. He continued to shove, even when the
body had settled atop the mound, until it
began to slip down the other side. Then,
under the guise of trying to pull the imp back
into position, he stepped up onto the shoulder
of the first troll and sprang to scale the
barricade.
Wyn made an abortive effort to catch
him, but Holt was too eager. He tripped, felt
himself sliding out of control, and rolled over the topmost troll. He slid down the far side of the mound, becoming entangled in the slack limbs of the imp, and fell onto his back. He kicked his arms and legs wildly, groaning in revulsion. The imp’s face seemed to rise over him, and he heard a gasp and smelt its fetid breath. It was still alive! Holt struggled even more recklessly, but the body felt much heavier than it had only moments before. It felt as if it were actually being pushed down
on top of him.
Abruptly, the corpse grew lighter. He
thrust it away and looked up to see the ax
blade that had buried itself in the creature’s
back rising over him. They were trying to kill
him! He rolled clear and scrambled to his feet.
He spared just a quick glance toward the
storehouse. Jal was screaming obscenities at
him, but making no move to follow. Holt
stumbled on toward the square.
The chapel was north of the square, up
a broad lane. Holt had recovered enough of his senses to keep close to the edge of the path, if not to veil himself completely in the shadows. Fewer figures lurched along the avenue, but he could see the lights of the chapel ahead, and hear the carnage behind him. His chest was burning with the narrowness of his escape, and he moved
slowly, not wishing to get caught again. When he felt the powerful grip on his
toward the dark wall to his left, he would have
screamed if he had possessed the breath and
had not another hand clamped itself over his
mouth.
“Perhaps just stupid after all.”
Holt went rigid in the ranger’s arms, and
then abruptly began to struggle. He
immediately felt the futility of his fight, but
could not bring himself to submit.
Kawika strengthened his grip. “Enough.”
His voice was little more than a whisper, but
as undeniable as any shout. Holt’s thrashing subsided. “I’m bringing some others. I’ve just cleared this path and I won’t have you hollering and calling another horde ofjirran down on us.” The ranger had been studying the darkness all around them, but abruptly brought his gaze back to Holt’s face. “Am I
understood?”
The hand left Holt’s mouth, but he limited
his response to a nod. Kawika straightened
up, maintaining his hold on Holt’s shoulder.
The ranger was staring back toward the
chapel, poised like a hound testing the air.
Suddenly he scooped Holt into his arms and
sprinted northward, navigating the darkness
as if it were day.
Chapter 5 Holt fought to contain the whimper that was threatening to erupt from his chest. After all that had happened, so many tumultuous events he could not even begin to sort them out, to be carried like a child was proving more than he could bear. He tried to will himself to be strong; he had never cared what the villagers had thought of him before. They were huddled within the chapel, weren’t they? And they had hidden all morning. But Holt had braved the hayloft; Holt had witnessed the ghastly spectacle on the east bridge. Holt had made his way to the storehouse alone. Holt had fought an imp. And Holt had escaped from his fellow human beings, intent upon killing him. Holt had come to the ranger’s aid.
The cry broke free. None of it was true. He wasn’t brave; he was stupid. He was terrified. And he had always cared what the others thought of him. He began to tremble.
When they emerged into warm torchlight, Holt felt himself dropped unceremoniously onto his feet. Two armed men were beside them, posted on the main entrance to the chapel. They resealed the breech which had allowed Holt and the ranger ingress. The powerful grasp returned to Holt’s shoulder. He was led quickly through the chamber.
Sounds of battle arose from the back doors. Somehow, Holt realized, the ranger had managed to shift the monsters’ attack to the rear, opening the avenue toward the square and the storehouse. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a handful of terrified faces, huddled near the front. He thought they must be awaiting passage to the storehouse, but the ranger strode purposefully by them, toward the rear and the melee there.
