The slaves had never made it down. And neither would they.
The stone blocks, that each group had broken their backs to haul for unappreciative masters, were held together not with mortar of sand or mud, no.
But the mortar of human flesh.
Limbs outstretched in plea for mercy, faces contorted in final agony; the corpses of all the previous slaves that had gone ahead lay cold and lifeless atop the blocks they’d pushed into position, ready to affix by virtue of their own organs and juices, tomorrow rows of fresh blocks hauled up to these heights by unwary slaves.
Jafari stumbled backwards a couple of paces, wide-eyed with the unthinkable horror of what he was seeing, but the creak of bows made him turn, with his two fellow slaves, to the foreman who stood, flanked by Clansmen, to their rear.
Arrows loosed, but a flash of lightning bleached the scene and, powered by adrenaline, Jafari leapt to one side, even as his fellows were cut down. Amidst the deafening roar of thunder, the foreman cried out, the Clansmen reaching for fresh arrows to halt his flight, but the Nomad had fear lending him wings.
If only they had been literal.
He reached the edge of the ramp, looking down to the vertiginous drop below, the crashing ocean surrounding the island of unforgiving rock, swaying, arms flailing, as a gust of wind nearly took him over the edge. He looked about, frantic, seeking a path to flee, but seeing none; the ramp was guarded by the foreman and his warriors, with more rushing up to join. He ducked, as another arrow streaked past him, missing by inches, before turning back to the drop.
There, in the gloom of the stormy night air – a wooden scaffold, rising high and rickety, clutched to the side of the towering lighthouse like ivy to a tree. With one last desperate look at his would-be killers, the slave took a couple of steps back, before taking a deep breath, quelling his fear at the madness of what he was about to do, before running and leaping with all his might.
The comforting solidity of the ramp beneath him disappeared, in its stead the yawning emptiness of air. He fell, leaving his stomach above him, but his momentum carried him forward, foot by foot till he reached, with a crash of splintering wood and the tangling of ropes, the scaffolds he’d aimed for.
Jafari clung, like a newborn monkey to its mothers fur, to the wooden structure, laughing out loud in disbelief that he’d made the jump, before an arrow thudded into the wooden post an inch from his head and, with a gulp, he shuffled his way, precariously, further into the structure, swinging his way down, feet and hands slipping on the wood slick with rain, making use of whatever ropes he could find to keep him from falling as he made his way down, down, down into the darkness below, every rung, every handhold taking him further and further away from the arrows of the Clansmen and the cracking impotent whip of the bawling foreman.
***
The worsening rain obscured their vision, even the structure of the scaffolding tough to make out now in the storm.
“Do we pursue?”
The question was almost rhetorical, for it would be madness to climb down the wooden tower in this weather. The foreman shook his head, his rage slowly dissipating like smoke dispersing on a breezy day.
“No. He is but one slave, no need to risk Clansmen. Even if the fool makes it down the tower alive – which I highly doubt – he won’t last long on the Isle of Storms.” He grinned evilly as he extracted some satisfaction from the following observation. “If the sea doesn’t claim him, then the beasts will…”
***
Joltan narrowed his keen eyes as he scanned the darkening forest all about him, ever watchful for shadows, his bow in readiness, only one hand on the reins of his disciplined steed.
The hounds, big, burly brutes, were quiet. This unnerved him.
Two weeks now they had been here, high in the foothills of the Arragonians, the mountains of the North, seeking this hidden valley he’d heard his commanders speaking about. Two weeks of boredom and tension, with only the rabbits and deer upon which to vent his frustrations, communicating with his fellow Marzbans leading the other parties by Steppes-Falcon, messages tied to their legs. He’d sent his last Falcon two days ago.
It still hadn’t come back.
The hills here had eyes, of this he was certain. He could feel them watching him, feel the itching at the back of his neck that you always felt when someone was staring at you behind your back.
He hated this place.
Catlyn snorted beneath him, showing her disdain for the place too, and he patted her on the side of the neck, drawing comfort from the fact that she was with him, ever loyal. A Savaran had a bond with his steed that few could understand, and Catlyn, all sixteen hands of dappled grey mare, had seen him through thick and thin over the years. She had a nose for trouble, warning him of danger.
And right now, her nostrils were flaring, streamers of breath misting the cold forest air.
The Clansmen behind him were spread out in the traditional arrowhead Hunting pattern, each man keeping an eye on the warrior in front, with the two stragglers riding side by side, keeping look out for each other. Despite his paranoia, nothing could happen here; they were veterans.
The dogs prowled the forest floor, darting off here and there out of sight, noses asniff for any scent that might be out of place, a hint of man that might lead them, finally, to their goal. Not for the first time Joltan wondered where the Huntmaster himself might be; respected as he may be by the Clans, Joltan and his fellow Marzbans had seen neither hide nor hair of the Councilman since the expedition had departed from Pen-Argyle, a fortnight ago.
Their bearded leader was probably up to his neck in Plains-women, thought the warrior, ruefully. Pen-Argyle, the wooden city rising up, like a sore, like a wart, from the smooth, green grass of the Northern Plains. A base for the Hunt as it roamed the northern lands, plundering the villages of its peaceful inhabitants to be taken back to Merethia to be sold as slaves, to be hunted for sport, or to be forced to participate in the Games.
He could picture now the huge chariot of his master parked outside the Hall of Argyle, the immortal and his corps of Huntsmen feasting and drinking, partaking of the slave-women that abounded the sorrowful city of once-proud Plainsmen, his slavering hounds sitting loyal at his side, snarling their rage at any servant who dared venture too near.
Why was there leader not here, with them, hunting their quarry? Were they the vanguard? The… bait? Perhaps that was it; the Huntmaster was scared, frightened off by the tales, the rumours of the killer that stalked these woods. Men snatched away in the night, only to be found, dismembered and strung about as warning to trespassers. Entire raiding parties, vanished, their steeds returning, riderless, to the gates of Pen-Argyle.
Joltan snorted in forced humour, as much to convince himself that they were fairy tales, as anything else. Stories made up to scare the children.
But Clansmen weren’t children. And parties did go missing.
He quashed the thoughts before they could unsettle him further. Besides, Kurnos was a Councilmember; could one of the Immortal Few even feel fear such as an ordinary man could? What scares an immortal, one who languished in the presence of a God-King?
No. The Lord of the Hunt would have his reasons for holding back, staying his hand. Of that he was sure. He frowned for an instant. Where were the hounds? He pushed the thought aside; they would be back when they saw fit.
They entered a clearing in the woods and the Marzban turned to Nong, his second, riding behind him and to the left.
“Nong, the light is fading. We stop here. Get the men to set up camp.”
His lieutenant nodded, opened his mouth to reply. Then was gone.
In shock, Joltan span his steed about, even as the other Savaran burst into action, circling the spot where the rider had vanished, horse and all. The Marzban dismounted, running over, skidding to a halt on the frosty ground at the edge of the pit that had been hidden with expert care beneath a thin layer of branches and snow, gazing down into the darkness to spy his
friend and comrade of ten years lying, impaled and still, on sharpened wooden stakes at the bottom of a ten foot drop. His horse yet lived, whinnying its fear and pain, but its legs were shot through with splinters and its lifeblood slowly spilled out to stain the frozen earth of its tomb.
Anger and grief wracked the Clansman, but he was a warrior of the Steppes and such things happened on the Hunt. He quelled his pain, nodding over at a soldier standing opposite.
“End the beast’s suffering.”
The Barbarian took his bow in one hand, reaching over his shoulder to his quiver to fetch an arrow. He paused, a puzzled look on his face, before bringing his hand back in front. His fingers were stained with fresh, crimson blood.
Even before the Savaran had fallen, face first to the floor, an arrow protruding from the back of his neck, Joltan was roaring his troops into action.
“Ambush! To your steeds!”
A hail of arrows as the Clansmen bolted, climbing with practiced ease back into their saddles and drawing forth their own bows to return fire.
A rider ventured off, away from the group, scimitar raised high as he charged an enemy that stood, unmoving in his path, curiously out in the open. The Clansman was smashed to a pulp by a log that swung from a rope, tethered high above them in the forest canopy. One second there, the next not, steed and rider a smear across the clearing, beneath the log that gradually slowed its pendulum swing, its grisly work done.
Another Savaran, caught in the throes of terror, urged his steed to a gallop, hoping to flee the battle. A fence of spikes swung, as though propelled by a spring, from the other side of a tree as he passed, leaving him stuck and screaming as the spikes pierced through his chest and out his back, his horse fleeing into the darkness of the woods.
Circling the pit, Joltan stared into the depths of the forest about the clearing, hoping to distinguish some glimpse of their attackers.
There, by a tree; a shape, cunningly disguised in a shroud of white fabric and leaves.
He loosed an arrow and was rewarded with a yelp of pain, the white fabric slowly spreading with crimson as the shape rolled on the forest floor. He grinned, turned to his men, roaring his triumph, hoping to encourage them to victory despite the cowardly tactics of their foe.
His exultations fell on deaf ears, for about him in the clearing, his men lay dead, their horses wandering riderless. Like a scene from a fairy tale made up to scare Clansmen to sleep.
Heart pounding in fear, an emotion he was unused to feeling, the Marzban kicked Catlyn into action, the steed powering him from the clearing in great thundering bounds, his eyes peeled for trickery and traps. If he could escape the ambushers, if he could make his way back to Argyle, he could tell his superiors the truth; the forest was indeed haunted, but not by spirits. By men. Vengeful, skilful men.
He looked over his shoulder, back the way he came, fearing that every moment would be his last as a missile would streak from the half-light of the dusk and strike him betwixt the shoulder blades. But death would not come from behind. He was catapulted forwards, out of his saddle, his ankle breaking with an audible snap as it caught in a stirrup, before he landed, painfully, rolling across sharp branches and hard, frosty ground till he came to a halt.
Rising, dazed and concussed, his mouth fell open as he saw his steed fallen and crippled, the rope that had been tied between the thick trunks of two trees having taken her by surprise and sending her crashing to the ground. She raised her head, looking at him with pitiful eyes that spoke of confusion and his heart broke to see her pain. He tried to rise, making the mistake of putting weight on his shattered ankle, the joint grinding with a sickening crunch like gravel as he collapsed to the ground with a gasp of agony. Slowly, determined, Joltan dragged himself across the hard ground, till he was close to his faithful steed.
He held his hand out and she muzzled it, intimately, as she was wont to do for years and years. He looked down to her legs, smashed and broken like dry twigs, the hooves pointing the wrong way. With tears pricking his brown, almond-shaped eyes, the Steppes warrior drew a knife from the belt at his waist, wrapping his arms about the thick, muscled neck of his horse in one final embrace.
He whispered, low, hushed, comforting in the dark of the woods, even as the sound of approaching boots crunched through the frosty undergrowth.
“Rest now, faithful steed. You’ve done well. I shall see you again, soon enough, when we ride the fields of our ancestors.”
With that parting promise, he drew the blade across her neck, cutting deep and quick so as to sever the major arteries making her ending as swift and painless as possible. The hot, coppery life-blood gushed out to soak his hand and he whimpered, not realising till now that grief like this was even possible.
A moment of pause, out of respect, before he pushed himself upright, once more, taking care this time to keep his weight off the broken and useless ankle. The sounds of men were drawing ever closer now, so he turned, away from his steed, not looking back, and hobbled his way through the gloom, hoping, trusting to his sense of direction that he was going the right way.
The cold air singed his lungs, the effort of hopping taking its toll, so after a minute he stopped for a second to catch his breath, making to lean against the trunk of a tree. With a start, he pulled his hand away, as searing pain shot through his palm. With incredulous eyes he gazed at his hand, riven with needle fine droplets of blood, hissing through gritted teeth as he glared accusingly at the spiny tree that befouled this region, but not for long; as he hopped back a step from the tree, to keep his distance from its accursed bark, he felt a subtle crack beneath the sole of his good foot and, with sickening resignation, he knew his fate was sealed.
The counterweight flew down the side of the tree, the noose about his ankle tightened, whipping him upside-down in an instant, suspending him head-down, three feet above the ground. The blood rushed to his head so that his pulse began to throb in his temples, blurring his vision, his eyeballs feeling as though they had weights attached, trying to wrench them from their sockets.
Helpless, broken, beaten, the Hunter swung there from the trap. The Marzban of the latest raiding party to disappear in the dark of the forest night.
Through the rippling blur of his swimming vision, a figure approached, upside-down, and the Clansmen struggled to right his head with burning neck muscles in order to get a better look of more than just his boots.
The stranger was of average height, fair-skinned and fair-haired, with a stubbled jaw and everyman eyes that wouldn’t have stood out in the crowd. His attire, that of the humble woodsman, with leather jerkin and furs to keep him warm as he worked the hard, frozen trees of the forest. By his side, he held an axe, unassuming, workman, no different from any other, save the iron head was polished to a sheen with a keen and proud edge. An edge streaked with fresh red.
Joltan frowned at the figure, for surely this was no leader of men; this was no more than a peasant, a worker, a nothing. He wracked his brain for what little he knew of Hill-Speak.
“Who are you?”
The man crouched down, so that he was level with the Marzban’s head.
“Alann,” he stated, simply.
“What you hope achieve, Alann?”
The woodsman smiled.
“I will drive your kind from our home.” He continued, his eyes glistening with some deeply rooted hunger for vengeance, “and I will have the head of your immortal Huntsman.”
The Clansman threw back his inverted head, laughing heartily and mockingly at the absurdity of the claim, for what mere labourer of the Hill-People could stand against the emissary of a God-King? What use a woodman’s axe against the Huntsman’s Hounds? The scythes of his chariot?
He would never know the answers to these questions.
The plain and unadorned axe swung up, then down, and the moustachioed face of the Marzban flew off to roll across the forest floor till it rested, stuck against a spiny tree, its face still locked in its rictus grin of mirth.
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***
Dreams again. He can tell, because though he’s there, it’s also as though he’s an observer, watching a re-enactment on a stage, part of the experience, yet also separate. This place. Where was he? Ah yes, he remembered now. The Western Deserts.
So many years ago.
Invictus strode up the dune, his officers following close behind, before reaching the crest, gazing out upon this latest target of his campaign; Lanakah, Jewel of the Desert, the sole city of any real permanence in a land of Nomads, scorpions and ever-shifting sand.
A wind was blowing, warm and steady, and his keen eyes pierced the hazy distance, reaching out, despite the glaring sun to look beyond the horizon. Ceceline, clad in a gossamer-thin white dress that flapped in the desert breeze, was by his side, looking up with questioning eyes to her King.
“Sandstorm,” he told her. “Approaching from the West, behind the city.”
The Seeress nodded.
“I feel the work of the desert sorcerers,” she replied, “the Sand Lords; they have set the djinns, the spirits of the desert against us.”
“It will be an annoyance.”
“Don’t worry, I can counter whatever cloud of dust the spirits send our way.”
The looming Barbarian King looked down on her, smiling.
“Very well, I put my trust in you, my dear.” He reached behind his back, grasping the hilt of Dexter, raising the titanic, stone glaive high above his head, the obsidian facets refracting the desert sun into a myriad dazzling rainbow arcs. “Men! Follow me to victory – we win this town for Merethia!”
Behind him, behind his officers and their sub-officers, an army of five thousand Clansmen roared out in reply, weapons thrust high into the air.
“For Merethia!” they cried. “For Invictus!”
He smiled, then charged forwards, his army following behind, struggling to keep pace with the seven foot God-King whose long, tree-trunk legs powered him with ease over the sucking sand. Seconds, before the blurred form of Invictus slowed, coming close now to the sealed front gates of the sandstone town, noting with amusement the ranks of dark-skinned archers lining the ramparts. They fired, but he ignored them for now, the few arrows that struck him rebounding harmlessly off his leather-tough skin.
The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 8
