With a long sigh Elias reached out and closed the glazed eyes, bowing his head and saying a silent prayer as he did so. Behind him, Heather and two other Rangers stood with their crossbows. Frightened eyes darted back and forth among the dense trees, looking for signs of the ever present danger. Casca stood at the side, ears up, nose sniffing at the wind. There was a foul smell in the air. One that told of savage men, unlike any he had ever known.
Elias stood and wiped the blood from his hands. Glancing to Ashcroft, he whispered, “After they finished their games, they slit his throat.”
The sailor paled, then nodded glumly. This was not the first time one of their guards had been murdered while standing at his post at night. In the last week five such men had been found dead. Always this foul work was done at night. Never once had their unseen attackers shown themselves in the light of day.
Elias scanned the landscape. They were helpless, he knew. Whoever was out there was able to prey virtually at will. After the first body was found, the guard had been doubled. Then tripled. But no matter how many men he put on watch there was no stopping the killings. It seemed to have become almost a game — a death each night.
“Let’s bury him,” he mumbled.
“What about tonight?” asked Ashcroft. “We can’t post any more guards.”
“We won’t. We’ll all remain behind the barricade in front of the cabins. If our lurking friends out there want to get at us, they’re going to have to show themselves — and fight.”
“What makes you think they’ll show themselves?” asked Heather.
Casca growled bitterly. “Sooner or later they must. They’ll tire of this vile game they play. They’ll thirst for more blood.”
Elias reached for his shovel and began to dig the grave, tossing mounds of gravel carelessly behind.
Ashcroft started to speak, then hesitated.
Elias looked up at him coldly. “You had something to say, mister?”
The sailor bit his lip. “I...you know what I was going to say.”
The mariner threw down his shovel. “Yes, mister, I do know! Don’t you think I’ve heard the others whisper it? Don’t you think I’ve seen the looks in their eyes?”
Ashcroft turned away. “They’re frightened, Capt’n. It’s been half a winter since...since the others went into the hills.”
“You want me to set sail right away, don’t you? Not even wait until spring. You don’t care if they’re still alive somewhere — and waiting for us.”
His officer looked at him with pained eyes. “You think that? You think I wouldn’t give my own life if there were a chance they’re still alive? I’d gladly die if I knew Melinda still needed me.”
Elias sighed deeply and put his hand on Ashcroft’s shoulder. “We came into this together,” he said. “All of us. If I deserted them now, without knowing for certain if they’re dead, I couldn’t live with myself. I’d rather die myself.”
Ashcroft nodded slowly. “The crew wants to leave this place. The Brora’s just about fit. We could sail away tomorrow if you gave the word.”
“And how long would we survive on open sea in the middle of winter? We’d be blessed to make it halfway.”
“We all know that, Capt’n. We’re doomed. But isn’t it belter to fight for our lives on the sea than to stay here and be butchered one at a time? Towers of Rhonnda, Elias!” He looked at the corpse and shuddered. “We’re sailors, not explorers. If we have to die, let’s die on the sea, under the stars.”
Elias looked away, feeling miserable. If he could choose, such a death was certainly preferable. Far better the sea should claim them all than the horrors of this strange land. Staring into the distance, he saw Casca sniffing about the thick trees. Casca would give anything to go home, also, Elias knew — anything except leave his beloved Khalea behind.
Suddenly Casca turned sharply, tail between his legs, and began running and barking.
“The camp! Get back to the camp!”
Elias stared. Ashcroft bounded to his feet, mouth gaping. Running from the trees came a band of fierce wild men, wielding axes and curved swords. They scrambled across the snow, shrieking warcries in a strange tongue and brandishing their weapons above their heads.
The two Rangers knelt and put crossbows to their shoulders. Twang!
A barbarian dropped his sword and put his hands to his face. A second arrow brought him to his knees.
“Get back!” screamed Elias to the Rangers. One girl jumped up and scrambled back toward safety. The second reloaded her bow and tried to get off a second shot. A hairy arm smashed into her face and sent her sprawling into the snow. Then the Nomad was all over her. The girl kicked and tumbled, trying to shield herself from his blows.
Casca did an abrupt about-face and leaped on the barbarian. With fangs bared he tore at the barbarian’s throat and brought him shrieking to the ground.
Elias wielded his shovel with abandon. One barbarian staggered, then reeled back as the shovel struck and tumbled him to the ground.
Elias ran to where the girl had fallen. From the corner of his eye he saw Heather leading six more Rangers, firing volleys from behind. With deft speed that amazed him, he swept up the injured Ranger into his arms.
“Run back!” called Heather frantically. “I’ll give you cover. There’re more of them behind the trees! They’re surrounding the camp!”
Elias was aghast. More? More of them?
Two sailors sprang from behind the hill and relieved him of the burden of the Ranger. He let her go reluctantly, his head still spinning from his near brush with death. He heard the whizzing of crossbows all around and was numbly aware of screams and warcries of more barbarians lunging from the thickets. Ashcroft’s voice shrilled above the others as he barked commands to the running sailors. Swords clanged against axe blades, daggers flashed. For every barbarian that fell to the ground, three more sprang from the trees to take his place.
Elias snapped out of his haziness, now aware of the full force of the fight. A girl named Rhia fell before his eyes, her body crumpling under the gruesome weight of a flying axe. Their band in disarray, Ashcroft and his group were pinned down ahead by a small party of savages hurling long spears. Two sailors fell under the torrent, moaning as they tugged at the razor-sharp sticks embedded in their bellies. Everywhere was mayhem — men dodging and scrambling, barbarians sweeping from all sides.
Elias pushed his way forward, swept up the sword of a fallen soldier and hewed it left and right among charging Nomads, creating a wheel of bloodied chaos.
“Behind you, Elias!”
He swerved as the blade whistled by. Heather’s bow sang; the barbarian slumped and thudded.
Slowly and painfully they fought their way to the crest of the closest hill and looked down on the bare cabins of the camp. The barricade was less than fifty meters away — but it would be the longest distance they had ever covered.
From behind the barricade, sailors and soldiers let loose a torrent of arrows. “Move!” Elias shouted to his staggering companions. They stumbled their way through heavy snow, spears hurtling above their heads.
The wall was low, no higher at any point than a man’s chest. But it afforded a triangular barricade from which they could put up a good fight. The only exposed side was the one to the sea.
Amid the tumult most were able to fight their way back. Casca and his wolves forced open a path, and the wounded Rangers, followed by Heather and Ashcroft, managed to get behind the wall. Elias led a rear guard at the farthest outer point as a number of Nomads slipped through the torrent of arrows and swung widely around the ridge to attack from the side.
Heather rounded up her Rangers and set a line at the outermost position. Casca snarled, then poised his wolves along the top of the wall while Ashcroft led the Valley troops into a tight band around them all. Nomads charged with reckless abandon, whooping, screaming, eyes fiercely ablaze. Mindlessly they pressed on, right into Heather’s line of fire. Warcries turned to howls as barbarians
stumbled and fell in the snow. But a shrill horn blast brought another band of Nomads racing from the other side.
Elias swung his group to meet this new onslaught, as the wolves and Rangers continued to deal with the first assault. Nomads flooded to the wall like a grim wave of mauling death, axes and swords heaving and glittering. Leading the group was a huge warrior, full-bearded and fierce-eyed, his axe swinging above his head. Elias rushed to meet him, sword horizontal to blunt the blow of the vicious blade. The axe descended. Elias blocked the downward thrust, then with a sharp hammer-like blow his sword plunged deeply into the barbarian’s chest. The Nomad careened forward. Elias drew his sword out and thrust the tip high. It caught the wild man under the chin and tore straight up through his mouth. The barbarian tumbled backward, reeling in a ghastly pirouette.
A score more of Nomads lunged ahead. Heather swung her forces and arrows rained, decimating the ranks of the staggering warriors. Wildly the first ranks threw down their weapons and began to flee. Casca leaped on a straggler and brought him down into the snow, biting cleanly through the jugular. Head low to avoid sailing arrows, he began to chase other fleeing Nomads. Other wolves were quickly behind, catching wild men by the calves and bringing them down viciously.
“They’re beaten!” shouted Ashcroft gleefully. He sheathed his weapon, watching the barbarians dash helter-skelter for the thickets.
Bodies were strewn across the field of battle. Barbarians in the throes of death wailed and moaned. Some crawled and whined, clutching their bleeding wounds. Elias stood with bloody sword in hand, breathing hard. He looked around at his companions. The enemy had been stopped — this time. But neither Elias nor any of the others deluded themselves. The wild men would be back. And next time they would be better prepared.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sky was dull and overcast. Aleya blew cold. Stacy walked alone in the swirl of snow, trying to make her way down the steep mountain to the Lowlands. Her heart cried out with her failure. She had counted on the wolves and had been certain that they would understand — and help. But no, like everyone in this strange land, they were too filled with countless years of mistrust.
For hours she had negotiated her way down the ledges, through drifts and pockets of treacherous ice, ever making her way lower. Aleya seemed to mock her, beating against her face, turning tears into cold icy streams down her cheeks. What could she do? How could she possibly find her way clear to the ship? Had she been wrong? she asked herself. Was her true fate to have stayed with Remus?
She came upon a low bluff filled with snow-burdened trees and bushes. Below, there was a deep gorge, a sheer fall of hundreds of meters. How easy it would be for her to end this agony, to do what was forbidden by both men and Dwellers: take her own life. Faces flashed before her: Casca, Cicero, and Melinda and Heather, Alryc and Trevor — and then there was Elias. She remembered him that night in the snow, his face and beard flecked with white, his deep worry for her. I don’t want a good girl, I want a smart one.
For the first time she admitted to herself the feelings she had for so long ignored. It was Elias who had made her strong; it was he who had made her see the difference between girlish dreams and the desires of a woman. And right now she wanted him to be with her more than anything else she could imagine. To be there to cradle her in his arms and wipe away her tears. “Elias,” she wept, “will I die without telling you that I love you?”
No tears came to her eyes now, though. Not even tears of bitterness. The dark times had returned. Her visions were lost.
A sudden sound drew her from her thoughts. Her eyes shot to the left, then to the right. She whipped out her dagger and swung around. Dark was closing, and she could see nothing. Again the sound — from behind the bushes. Nomads, she told herself. It had to be! Who else would be lurking on the ledges?
Shadows grew; eyes stared. Stacy gasped. It was a wolf!
“Suli!” She cried with surprise.
The wolf grinned sheepishly, wagged his tail and came running to her. Kneeling, she hugged him tightly, kissed him and ran her fingers through his fur. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to help you, Khalea.” He looked around.
From the other side of the ledge two more wolves stepped out of darkness. And behind them were many more. Within moments the entire ridge was filled with young, bold white hunters.
“You...you want to help me?” she asked, bewildered and excited. “You want to fight? But the sage — and the warlord?”
From somewhere among the milling pack the sage himself stepped forward, his head lowered humbly.
“Before dawn,” he said, “I consulted Balaka. And the stars wove a tale my heart could not deny. Tell me, Khalea, can it be sheer coincidence that brought you to us? Were Garth’s words ordained by Fara herself? I pondered these matters long and hard, Khalea. I know not it you are indeed Fara’s messenger, but I do know I cannot let your long journey be ended with your death.”
“Then you would fight for men against other men?”
The sage bowed his head. “We will fight for you, Khalea. Lead the way and we shall follow.”
And a great howl arose from the pack. “Khalea! Khalea! Lead us, Khalea!”
Stacy stood, amazed at the sight. In her possession was an army — as fine an army as anyone could raise. Fierce hunters, cunning trackers, swift seekers as silent as the night. Her heart began to beat wildly. Her bitter prayers had been answered, as only Fara could answer them. Head thrown back, hands on her hips, eyes wet with tears, she cried, “Then to the tunnels! All seekers to the Lowlands to follow the enemies’ tracks. Have our trackers find the quickest route to the shala.”
Even as she spoke, dozens of wolves began to scatter, obeying her commands. Stacy cried at the sight. She would teach the Nomads a lesson they would never forget! They wanted war, they would get war! And the name Khalea would ring in their ears like the howling wind. She wept softly. Cloak flowing behind her, she held her dagger high. “Onward to Satra!”
It was an awesome sight to the wolves, her silhouette black against the glittering stars. The sage watched and shuddered. What he had read in Balaka was true; she was the one. AnaFara, the one who would alter their destiny forever; Khalea, the bridge between sun and moon — and much more.
Khalea — the wolf queen!
Chapter Thirty
Sinister quiet now prevailed across the dim cavern where only an hour before the screams of battle had been deafening. The stench of death hung heavily in the air.
Prince Sumavand paced solemnly across the battle scene. His face was dirty, his tunic and mail splattered with blood. All around lay corpses of hideous things, fallen in combat. The battle was over, but the price of victory had not come cheaply. Mingled with the slain enemy lay hundreds of his own troops, brave and valiant men who had given their lives to keep the gates of Satra clear for yet another day.
For three days this fight had raged, and Sumavand had been there every moment, in the thick of battle. Now he was tired, drained, bone-weary. But even more than that, he was sick of heart. The word of mighty Kuba’s fall had struck him like the blow of a hammer despite the old antagonisms that had existed between the two shaleen. For with Kuba fell the last hope of reaching an alliance, some bargain that might yet have been struck to keep both their cities free of danger. Now Satra, as always, would have to stand alone. And most likely fall alone. For even as he stood here, word had come of the new attack from across the Black Canyon, that vast wasteland beneath the earth that lay between Kuba and Satra.
Yet even all this was not to be the final blow, he realized. His last patrol above had barely evaded the massing army of Nomads who even now were crossing the Thunder Plain and making breathtaking speed toward Satra. It would be no more than twenty-four hours before both armies converged. Satra would not be able to withstand such a shattering dual blow.
He crossed the battlefield flanked by several of his captains, also grim-faced and glum. “Reinforce the sout
hern gate,” said the prince, “and send out a troop of our best archers to fortify the inner wall. The Nomads will press the south first, I fear.”
“And attack the shala head-on?” asked a captain. Slowly, Sumavand nodded. “They know too well our situation. While we are pinned in the tunnels, they will waste no time in trying to batter down our doors.”
They made their way from the bleak cavern and headed toward the tunnel that led to the palace. An aide came running, crossed his arms and swept low before the prince.
Sumavand glanced down at him wearily. “Well? Speak.”
The soldier looked frightened. “The river, my lord. The enemy has crossed the river!”
Sumavand sighed. This was sooner than expected. His hastily fortified defenses across the river had been smashed. “Do we still hold the approaches to the canal?” he asked apprehensively, strong hands upon his hips.
“Yes, my lord. But the waters run muddy with Satrian blood.”
The prince cursed softly under his breath. The locusts were swarming as never before, and Satra lay defenseless before them.
“We are forced to commit more forces along the Black Canyon,” said a captain.
“We dare not!” replied another. “If Nomads sweep upon our southern flanks, we shall need every able-bodied man in the shala to help fend them off!”
“And do what down here?” cried the first captain. “Let the dark beasts run amok through our tunnels? I tell you the Black Canyon must be defended!”
Sumavand raised his hands to cease the argument. “And what is the news of the Nomad army above?” he asked the frightened messenger.
“The Thunder Plain has been crossed hours ago, my lord. By morning they will have entered the High Cavern.”
“Then my guess was right,” despaired the prince. “It will be a direct assault upon the southern gate. Gods below! They will have us pinned like a vise!”
Lady of the Haven (Empire Princess Book 1) Page 33
