One hundred yards away, Jerrel Rozon and his party came into view. Mathew knew he needed a signal as he crouched in hiding, filled with self-contempt at his own cowardice. This was something men talked about behind their hands in low voices. In another minute it would be too late. To him, death would be preferable.
Slowly easing two arrows out of his quiver, he cut strips of cloth from his cloak and wrapped them securely around the shafts. With his left hand, he felt around the pocket of his cloak until he located the little tin cylinder that contained his remaining match. He struck it against the side of a rock and held his breath. When it flared, he quickly cupped his hand around the flame, shielding it from the wind. The first arrow caught fire right away, and he used it to light the other. Seventy yards.
Now or never, he thought.
From behind the boulder, Mathew rose and fired the first arrow high into the air directly in front of Rozon's path. He changed his position at once, loosing the second arrow. He heard a surprised chorus of shouts as the Orlocks charged out of the trees. From the corner of his eye he saw Jerrel Rozon throw up his hand, halting the column.
His heart was pounding so rapidly in his chest now that Mathew was certain the Orlocks could hear it. Moving again, he notched another arrow, firing as he ran. An Or-
lock near him went down, making a loud gurgling sound, the arrow piercing its throat. A large shape loomed up beside him, and he barely had time to duck as an axe buried itself in the tree just where his head had been. He could feel the splinters of wood striking his face from the force of the blow. Mathew fired point-blank into the creature's chest. A pair of dead black eyes stared into his for a moment before they glazed over. There was barely time to get out of the way as it fell forward.
Got to keep moving and firing, he thought.
He intended to take as many of the Orlocks with him as he could, before they downed him. Somewhere in the back of his mind the three blasts of a horn registered. Seconds later the air was alive with the clash of steel and screams, as Jerrel Rozon and Lieutenant Herne led a full-scale charge directly into the Orlocks. At the same time, Bran's group struck from the rear like a thunderbolt, splitting into twin lines, exactly as he had instructed them.
Still moving from tree to tree, firing as he went, Mathew watched with horrific fascination as Galdus and Ivor rode by him yelling like madmen and beheaded two Orlocks. To his right he saw Bran engage a huge Orlock. Mathew's heart nearly stopped as the Orlock swung a double-bladed axe at his father. Bran neatly sidestepped the blow and struck backward at the thing's neck as its momentum carried it forward and past him. Unfortunately, the blow was mistimed, and only caught the Orlock across the back. The leather armor it wore absorbed most of the impact, though a line of red blood erupted from the wound. With a bellow of rage the creature spun and came at Bran again. Mathew drew his bow and took aim.
Too close—they 're too close.
He dared not risk a shot. Behind Bran he saw Collin's father, Askel, firing arrow after arrow from his horse. One Orlock went down with an arrow through its eye, and another took one straight into the mouth. Almost directly in front of him, Mathew saw one of them pull Ivor from his horse and plunge a knife into the soldier's throat.
Still trying to make his way to his father, Mathew nearly tripped over the body of Ben Fenton and gasped in shock. Ben lay there with blood seeping slowly from a huge gash that ran from his shoulder to his hip. His eyes stared straight ahead, sightless.
He couldn't say how long the battle went on, but slowly, outnumbered, the Orlocks were driven back out of the trees and up into the valley. From behind him, above the noise of the fight, Mathew heard Jerrel Rozon call out, "Gravenhage and Devondale, rally to me." A small force of about twenty quickly gathered behind him at the mouth of the valley and charged after the fleeing Orlocks, riding them down one by one. Despite being in retreat, the Orlocks managed to kill four of the closest pursuers with a well-timed volley of spears.
Try as he might, Mathew was only a little closer to his father. He could see Bran continuing to retreat as the Orlocks pressed forward. The sound of snapping branches directly behind him caused him to turn, and he saw twenty more Orlocks pouring out of the trees.
A pitiless white face looked into his and said, "Time to die, boy."
Mathew had no time even to register his surprise. He leaped backward in desperation to avoid the point of a halberd thrust directly at his stomach and managed to save himself. But the Orlock advanced on him, its upper lip drawn back in a snarl, exposing grayish teeth. He knew that any attempt to notch another arrow would end with him being skewered or cut in two.
Have to gain time, he thought.
On the next lunge, he sidestepped as he'd seen his father do, and swung his bow as hard as he could, breaking it across the Orlock's face. It was enough to momentarily stun it. The effect of the blow didn't last long, but it was enough to allow Mathew time to draw his sword. Strangely, the Orlock made no move toward him. Instead it reached up and wiped the blood from its face with the back of its hand, then slowly licked it off, never taking its eyes off Mathew. Almost frozen in place, Mathew watched in horror as the creature raised its weapon above
its head and charged forward. He was barely able to deflect the blow, but the shock numbed his whole hand as the Orlock wrapped its arms around him and they careened down the embankment toward the stream. Their faces were so close, he could feel its breath on his face.
Mathew landed on his back, stunned, most of the wind knocked out of him. For some reason, the blow that he expected to end his life never came. Just to his right, the Orlock lay on its side, not moving, with Mathew's sword sticking through its back. Slowly, his senses began to return. They had fallen almost fifteen feet down the bank. Somewhere above him, he could tell the fighting had moved into the valley. He got shakily to his feet and with an effort managed to roll the Orlock over, pulling his sword free. He wiped the blood off on the snow. Even in the rictus of death the creature was frightening to look at.
The stream flowed rapidly to his left. The rushing water, fed by the recent rains and snow, drowned out most of the noise from above. Over the years, it had deeply undercut the banks on either side so that they were well above his head. Yelling for help was out of the question. For the next five minutes Mathew tried to climb his way out, but without success. Each time he managed a foothold, he lost it again on the wet, moss-covered rocks.
Think, he told himself. Going up wasn't an option, nor was going south, since the stream descended into a canyon on the other side of the valley. With no other choice, he decided to make his way upstream to where the land leveled out and he'd have a better chance of escape.
In minutes the progress became more and more difficult. The rocks along the bank were covered with lichen and snow, and he had to fight just to keep his balance. Each time he slipped, his foot plunged into icy water, and despite his boots, his toes were beginning to lose feeling. Once, he missed his footing and fell—the water was so cold it felt as if his skin was burning. After twenty minutes, exhaustion began to set in. He was cold, wet, tired, and miserable. It was worse when he estimated he had come only a half mile at best, and still saw no way to the top. Although the bank walls protected him from the howling wind above, he could tell the storm was gathering strength. Snow was coming down more heavily. He trudged on for a while longer, and to his relief, the stream bed gradually began to rise to a point high enough for him to try climbing out again.
Just ahead of him he spied an old dead tree that had fallen into the stream.
It might work, he thought.
Mathew tested his weight on the trunk—it seemed sturdy enough. He unbuckled his scabbard and started to climb. From their last dip into the stream, his fingers were still numb, and he had to flex them to get some feeling back. The spiderweb of branches and ice-coated limbs impeded his progress at first, but after one or two failed attempts he succeeded in working his way through th
em. When he was almost level with the top, the wind nearly caused him to lose his balance. Several times the hilt of his sword became snagged. With no other choice, he unbuckled his scabbard and tossed the sword up onto the bank, so he could use both hands to help him inch forward.
Finally, Mathew found himself standing on the roadside, breathing heavily from his climb. But when he looked for his sword, it was missing. He blinked and scanned the area. A short distance away, three Orlocks stood watching him through the blowing snow. They were dressed in the same white armor he had seen earlier. Given the conditions, it was an effective camouflage. He realized that they must have followed the course of the stream from atop the road, knowing he would exit where he did. The one in the middle had a scar that ran from his ear to his mouth, and was holding Mathew's sword in his hands. Oddly, they made no movement toward him. They just stood watching. The wind around them whipped the yellow hair back off their shoulders, but they seemed not to notice. In desperation, Mathew looked around for some means of escape and saw none.
Then the scar-faced one spoke. "Show us your hands, boy."
My hands? He wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Maybe they were asking for him to surrender. But remembering what they had done to his friends, he had no intention of giving up without a fight, as futile as that would be.
"Show . .. us . . . your .. . hands," the Orlock repeated.
It took a moment for Mathew to realize that the creature was not looking directly at him, but down at his hands. So were the others, which made no sense at all. All he had was his belt knife, and that was no match for a halberd and two swords. He drew it and stepped back. As soon as he did, the Orlocks spread out and began to advance on him.
Then, from behind the Orlocks, there was a loud shout. Before they could react a rider burst from the trees at full gallop and crashed into them, knocking two of them to the ground. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, Mathew dove to retrieve his weapon. Giles Nai-smith brought his horse to a halt, turned and fired an arrow directly into the nearest creature's chest. Its eyes opening wide in shock as it stared at the shaft protruding from its body, the Orlock dropped to its knees and fell face forward. A pool of blood began to form under its body, staining the snow red.
"Mat, to your right!" Giles yelled as Mathew scrambled to his feet.
From the corner of his vision he saw the movement and spun around, getting his blade up in just enough time to parry the blow.
Another inch and it would have been my head.
With the creature off balance, Mathew pivoted to the left and swung his sword, putting all of his weight behind the blow. The blade caught the Orlock at the base of its neck, severing muscle and arteries, blood erupting from the wound. The Orlock let out a terrible scream and ran forward a few paces before collapsing. Everything was happening so fast that Mathew barely had time to think before another sound caught his attention. He turned to see the third Orlock grab the reins of Giles's horse and pull him from the saddle.
"No!" Mathew screamed, dashing toward them. The thing had Giles by the throat and was shaking him like a rag doll.
Oh God, I'll never make it! his mind screamed. Horrified, Mathew saw the Orlock's dagger go up. With a burst of speed he didn't believe himself capable of, he covered the remaining ground, lowered his shoulder, and drove into the creature at full speed, knocking the Orlock and Giles down. The collision was just enough to deflect the blow. The Orlock let out an oath of some sort and started to get up. It never made it to its feet, as Mathew's sword severed the head from its body.
Giles was lying on his side just a few feet away, one of his legs twitching spasmodically. Mathew quickly went to him, knelt down and gently rolled him over. A dark red stain was slowly spreading across his chest. He tore open Giles's shirt and quickly found the wound. Though he'd deflected the blade, it wasn't enough. The dagger had gone in just below the collarbone, and the wound looked to be a deep one. A small trickle of blood ran from the corner of Giles's mouth. Deliberately, Mathew forced himself to slow down and think about what to do. First, stop the bleeding and clean the wound, he thought. He grabbed up a handful of snow and cleansed the area
around it.
"Not much of a rescue, was it?" Giles said, looking up at him. His voice sounded weak and hoarse, though he managed to prop himself up on one elbow.
"Stay still, will you? We're going to have to get you back to a doctor, quick. Where is everybody?"
"Your father and a few others are out looking for you. Jerrel went on to Gravenhage with the rest of our people. He didn't want to, you understand, but his family is there. You should have seen him, Mat—he charged right into the middle of them. No hesitation at all."
"I saw."
Giles paused for a second as his face contorted in pain. "That fire arrow—it was you, wasn't it?"
Mathew nodded, cutting a piece of cloth from the bottom of his own shirt and pressing it against Giles's wound. Giles grimaced again.
"I thought so. Collin told me you went'down to warn us. If it wasn't for that signal, we'd have been caught from both sides," Giles said, gripping Mathew's arm.
"Stay still," he repeated. "What about the others? Was anyone—"
"You lost five people from your village, I think—don't know their names. Calthorpe also left for Mechlen as soon as it was over."
"Did they find Thad Layton or his wife or Stefn Darcy?"
Giles shook his head and started to cough. "There wasn't any sign of them. The farm was ransacked and burnt to the ground—nothing left. Snow's covering everything. I'm sorry, Mat."
"It's all right," Mathew said. "We did what we could. Let's see about getting you back. Now where's that horse?" He looked around.
Giles tried to get up, but Mathew restrained him. "For the love of God, lay quiet, will you? You're hurt."
Giles nodded weakly and sank back down again. Not seeing the horse, Mathew looked up and down the road in both directions, expecting to spot it a short distance away, but it was still nowhere in sight. After a brief search, he found its tracks heading directly back toward Devondale.
Wonderful.
Despite the cold, his mouth was suddenly dry. The distance to the village was better than five miles, and in this snow ... A small moan from Giles made up his mind.
Well, it can't be too hard to construct a litter, he thought. He had seen people do it before, and he berated himself for not having paid more attention. He found two saplings and used his sword to cut them to the correct size. A length of creeper vine would be sufficient to lash his cloak to the poles and act as a harness of sorts. He remembered that if you braided several strands of the vine together, it made a solid enough rope. He and Collin had once tied some to the limb of an old tree by the lake and used them to swing out over the water.
With some effort, he managed to transfer Giles on to the litter. Giles tried to assist but lacked the strength to help. Once Mathew had him securely in place, he hoisted the poles onto his shoulders and tentatively tested the rig. It seemed sturdy enough, and so, looping the vines across his chest as a harness, he began to trudge forward.
Though he had on a heavy woolen shirt, he was sweating after only a few hundred yards. The wind began to cut through him. After a half a mile, he was breathing heavily and his shoulders ached from the effort. Every so often, when he took the time to rest, he checked on Giles. What he saw scared him. Something told Mathew it would be best for Giles to remain conscious, so he kept up a steady conversation, though Giles was plainly weakening.
After an hour, Giles stopped speaking or responding to Mathew's questions and his eyes remained closed. The blood near the wound turned black and crusted over, and the skin around it seemed warm to the touch. Another hour later, when Mathew checked again, he noticed a distinct odor coming from it. Even the slightest touch caused Giles to groan.
He couldn't begin to count the times he had been over the South Road
. If someone had asked him, he would h
ave told them that it was flat, but each little grade now seemed like a mountain. Toward the early hours of the morning, the snow began to let up and streaks of orange appeared on the eastern horizon as the sun rose. Mathew's vision was swimming by then. He was no longer even aware of the cold, and his shoulders were so numb he couldn't feel them any longer. He knew the sun would be fully up soon, and that would help. It was a grim realization that both their survival depended on his ability to remain alert. Watchful, Mathew peered into the gray shadows and forest around him as he pulled the Utter.
He had no idea how long they had been going, and he began to measure their progress by yards and minutes. If
he had to drag Giles one step at a time, so be it. Every so often, Mathew tried to fix how far he'd come in his mind, but for some reason the answer kept eluding him. He thought that odd, that Devondale couldn't be so far away. Soon, he played a game with himself, looking at an object in front of him and counting down the distance to it. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards .. . rest... try to recover. Despite his tone deafness, he hummed a tune his mother had taught him between gulps of air, though he didn't know why he was reminded of it just then.
Mathew swayed on his feet, steadied himself, and looked back. The trail the litter left in the snow looked like a drunk had been pulling it. Straight was better, he told himself.
Shortest distance between two points, or something like that, he remembered, which struck him as funny. He started to laugh, but something in the back of his mind told him what he was doing was dangerous. With an effort, he gathered his will, fixed on a tree ahead of him, and began all over again. Fifty yards, forty yards.. .
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 10
