“I see four, no five men, coming this way. Fifty paces and closing.”
“Well, don’t let too many by for the horsemen to play with. Arrows out!”
Argaf raised his bow, drew string to ear, and chose a target. All around him the archers of Dura did likewise. Even Meldus, leaning against the trunk of the nearest tree, got his bow up and stretched to its limit.
“Here they come… loose!”
Outlaws screamed and died, sprouting arrows as they dashed through the water in the dark ravine. Bodies soon choked the stream, but others came on and ran past, desperate and half-blind in the night. Arrows kept coming, zipping out of the foliage and taking men down. The fallen never saw who assaulted them or from where.
More and more of the bandits came, picking themselves up at the bottom of the cliff trail and running this way and that, anywhere to escape the hail of shafts. Sloshing through the creek and spraying droplets everywhere as they ran, a large knot of them rounded a bend of the stream—
—and stopped dead.
Mounted horsemen barred the way from bank to bank, lances out in the pouring rain.
“Charge,” Captain Pelekarr said.
CHAPTER 16: A TREE IS FELLED
In the camp, Black Tur was lying in the mud, bleeding profusely, swearing wildly at two hoplites with light wounds who had remained to keep him pinned at their mercy.
How could it all go so wrong so quickly, he wondered—what had become of the shaman who had promised him supernatural aid?
The outlaw chief’s heart would have leaped had he known how close Loku actually was.
The Wolfsbane shaman and his acolytes ran swiftly through the trees, eastward, gusts of cold wind pushing at their backs. The storm wasn’t over, and they used its wild power to whip themselves into a frenzy.
Onward they loped like lean wolves in time of famine, and in truth there was something of the beast about them. An observer might have noted long arms dangling too close to the ground, with pointy-nailed fingers that touched grass and twig as they moved, feeling their way through the forest. Nostrils always flaring, testing the swirl of rain-spun air.
And their eyes were set too deeply in their gaunt heads, the irises flecked with yellow. None could say whether the bulges around their mouths were the points of small tusks emerging, pushing at cheek and jowl—the acolytes themselves did not dwell on it. In return for the ancient power, there was always a price to be paid.
Loku alone among them retained a grip on humanity, despite the embellishments of his own wild appearance. What else were acolytes for but to take some of the load upon themselves? It was a great honor to bear that strain for their master, and his acolytes paid the price devotedly.
The forest whipped past them, tree and leaf and branch, dim in the gloom. The only sound was the pad of bare feet, the whuff of breath from many open mouths. Loku drove them without uttering a word. They all felt the urgency.
The noise of battle echoed through the forested hills. The clash of bronze, and shouting that traveled far despite the howling wind—far enough for wolf-like ears to pick up the unnatural tones. And Loku had to get there, to see how the bandits fared. If they were killed by a superior force, if the victims were stolen away… it would be a small setback.
The larger risk was a wagging tongue, words that could spread and sow seeds of fear before all was ready. For Loku had long plans, deep plans, and although fear must come and do its work in time, it could also move men the other way—inspire them to swift retaliation. If that happened before Loku’s dark intentions bore fruit, he could be driven back into the hated mountains again, for another decade of solitary brooding.
Worse, if it became widely known that Loku of the Wolfsbane was alive and in the region, certain forces might be set in motion that could ruin all. Not Kerathi forces, nor the pitiful efforts of these settlers on what they termed the Ostoran frontier. If his own people knew he’d returned, if the clans came against him, all might be lost. Mighty shamans and earth-bound warriors who knew what he was would hunt him down and leave his skin hanging in a tree. They would never let him survive if they knew he’d returned to the coastal rangeland.
The clans must not learn of him, not yet. And so, if any of the bandits were captured, they could not be suffered to live and tell what they knew.
They came within sight of the outlaws’ camp then, crouching in the trees on higher ground and watching as the rain fell from the dark sky. Torches were congregating in the middle of the camp, and spearmen were returning from one edge of the bluff. There was no sign of remaining bandits, only these hoplites in Kerathi gear.
Some of the spearmen sank to their knees, exhausted. Others stood, their breath coming in great heaving gasps that steamed in the humid air, as they leaned on their spear hafts. The battle was clearly over, and the sounds of a few last bandits dying in the ravine below were carried up on the wind.
The carnage of battle was particularly thick around the barricade at the southern edge of the bandits’ camp. Well-concealed by ferns and the dark of night, Loku quietly laughed, long tongue lolling from his red mouth. He loved to see men die, especially those from across the sea. There was power in it, and below, deep in the earth, he could sense things stirring. Restless things that would one day emerge to spill even more blood across the land. Every drop that was shed now brought that day sooner.
All around him his acolytes watched breathlessly, chests still heaving from the long run. It was too late to aid the outlaws, far too late even had they wished to. The camp was entirely overrun, some of the tents trampled. A shame that he would have to search elsewhere for victims suitable for his needs. But these pawtoon, the little turtles below who encased themselves in bronze, had done his work for him. They had exterminated men that would have had to die at Loku’s hand eventually.
The storm wind shook the trees. The spearmen atop the bluff came together and raised a cheer as their captain stepped forward, smiling. “Well done, Storm Furies!” he called out above the wind. “We have put an end to them.”
The eyes of the shaman watched carefully to see that the man’s words were true; even one prisoner was too many. And it did seem that the outlaws were wiped out completely now; between the phalanx on the hilltop and the cavalrymen and archers he could see congratulating each other below, there had been no attempt to surrender and no quarter given.
The bandits had no doubt proved savage fighters at bay, defending their fortified camp. But when faced with the disciplined wall of bronze their resolve melted, and they had run like frightened rabbits. Loku despised them; they deserved no mercy.
Suddenly an acolyte hissed. “Master!”
Loku looked where the acolyte pointed and saw a man kneeling in the mud, disarmed. By his dark hair it was unmistakable: Black Tur was still alive. Pale fires rotted in the shaman’s eyes as he cursed by the names of dark gods.
Then he turned his contorted face up to the swirling clouds and began to murmur, deep in his throat, the words of a dangerous call. The acolytes around him sank long fingers into the dirt, and they began to rock back and forth, foreheads touching the grass and then swinging wildly up again. Beads of sweat popped out on their temples.
Loku’s hand shot out and gripped the throat of the acolyte next to him. The young man’s face turned purple, but he remained in place until he fell sideways, unconscious. The others groaned on in unison.
The shaman raised his own hands to the sky.
As the horsemen made their way up the slope with the Durans, Damicos’ men were busy tearing down the barricade so the horses could get through. As Keltos rode in behind his captain and Makos on their pristine horses, he saw nearly as much blood as mud on the armor of the hoplites he passed.
There weren’t nearly as many of the hoplites standing in the camp now as there had been during the planning phase of the battle earlier that evening. Looking around, he wondered if even half of Damicos’ troops were moving about.
Pelekarr hailed the in
fantry captain, who stood with wild hair and dented armor streaked in red. But Damicos replied heartily, and stood proud.
“Did you receive the gifts we sent you, down there in the stream?”
Pelekarr nodded. “Every one of them. I’d begun to think you weren’t going to leave anything for us to do.”
A jovial reply died away on the infantry captain’s lips, and he bowed his head.
“We sustained heavy losses before they finally broke. Too heavy.”
“But they did break—your men broke them, and they are all dead.”
“All but one,” Damicos replied, swiveling to face the man kneeling at spearpoint a few yards away.
Pelekarr dismounted, and Makos took his reins. Keltos dismounted and stood by his captain.
“This, then, is the vaunted Black Tur. Bandit lord, king of his own little empire in the hills.” Pelekarr examined the defeated man, and the sodden camp surrounding them. “I must admit, it is no small operation, disgraceful as it is in defeat and ruin.”
“Hm, wait ‘til you see the stores they have under tarps in the back,” Damicos said. “Methinks this fellow was amassing an army of his own, with arms and supplies for taking and holding an entire countryside.”
Pelekarr paced in front of the captured man as he surveyed the line of tents beyond. “Cockiness was ever the downfall of robbers and thieves. You stepped too far, Black Tur. Took one more thing that wasn’t yours, and this time you misjudged how it would be missed.”
Tur’s face oozed hatred and defiance despite the pain that had to be radiating from a blood-soaked bandage hastily wrapped around his upper arm. His long black locks hung limp across his shoulders and his mighty chest heaved, but he remained silent.
A sharp gust of wind rocked the bluff top, and the trees creaked and moaned as more rain fell. Pelekarr’s cloak flapped about his legs.
“Well. Let’s take refuge in these tents the outlaws are so kind to have lent us. We can make him talk once we’re all out of the—”
Though none had lit the sky in several minutes, a lightning bolt larger than any yet suddenly flashed down. It connected with the towering top of a pine that loomed over the camp, with a trunk thicker than a horse’s belly at the base and a massive spread of branches that now burst into flame.
The noise sent horses and men reeling, blasted nearly off their feet. Blind and groping in the mud, Keltos felt as well as heard another earth-shaking thump and the crackle of splitting wood.
As the thunder rolled away, he pushed himself up and tried to find the captain. Everyone was shouting. Men from farther away ran over to help.
The huge tree had fallen right through the center of the open area, narrowly missing Keltos and Pelekarr. Damicos, several feet to one side, had leapt away just in time to avoid the crushing branches which now smoldered in the rain. Makos was gone, desperately trying to keep the horses from galloping away from the bluff top.
Keltos looked around at other men nearby, shaking slightly. None of them seemed to have been hurt, though one hoplite had been thrown to the ground by a branch and had a new dent in his helmet. Others were bleeding from scratches or beating out sparks that landed on their skin.
“By Mishtan!” Pelekarr swore. He was pointing at the huge trunk that lay on the earth now, half-sunk into the mud.
Under it, the outlaw chieftain Black Tur lay with eyes staring and lifeless. His neck and back were broken, crushed to pieces under the huge weight of blackened wood.
The earth in the newly torn pit where the tree had stood now smoked and steamed. Keltos stared at the dark sky and felt the cold wind.
He shuddered.
CHAPTER 17: PLUNDERED PROVISIONS
They spent the night in the outlaw camp. None of them enjoyed camping in the filthy place, a noisome lair before and now a fresh battlefield with all the grisly sights and smells that entailed. But the storm was washing away the worst of it all, and no one wanted to begin the long ride to Dura through the night rain.
As the blood and filth filtered down the hillside and the stream below the bluff carried it away from the camp, the men congregated in the tents and made a cheerful enough supper on the rich supplies of the bandits they’d eradicated. There were cheeses, smoked meats, and even some bread and crackers. A barrel of apples was emptied, and of course there was ample ale to be drunk in victory toasts.
The Durans mourned the loss of their elderwoman. And Ica Mistshaper was near death, along with another of the scouts who’d taken an arrow near the barricade. Meldus was wounded but would recover. The rest were grateful to have come through the ordeal almost without injury, and they rejoiced at having all six hostage women returned to them.
They celebrated along with the horsemen, who had enjoyed a swift and entirely successful action at the end of the battle. But the infantry were preoccupied with grimmer realities. Nearly a third of their number had fallen in the fierce fighting around the barricade and beyond. Not all of the casualties were dead yet, but even with care and rest in the tents it was unlikely that many of the wounded would survive until morning.
The spearmen who had come through the fight with life and limb intact took comfort in the totality of their victory. Not a bandit remained alive to harass or continue pillaging the countryside, and they had gotten the hostages back as promised. Cormoran and Fieron were held up as heroes among the infantry, though they admitted it had been the two young cavalrymen that got the prisoners out safely.
The accolades didn’t get the brave young cavalrymen any special treatment, though. Having been debriefed at length by both captains, who were set up nicely in the outlaw chief’s personal tent with his private wine stores at their disposal, Keltos’ and Makos’ troop was finally dismissed. Together with Arco, Somber Dom, and Velzar, the two weary cavalrymen began to search through the camp for a decent place to sleep.
All the upright tents had been claimed, those that weren’t filled with crates or barrels of supplies. Here and there a lamp or torch glowed invitingly amid the rain, but the mercenaries inside invariably chuckled at the derelict troop’s hard luck and shut the tent flap again.
Keltos’ group finally found a good-sized tent, overlooked thus far due to its proximity to the latrines and the fact that half its poles and lines had been torn free and were flapping in the wind. Someone said the new infantryman called The Yak had smashed through it during the fighting.
They heaved the collapsed poles upright and used ropes and old bridles to secure it to nearby tree trunks and stacks of rain-soaked barrels. Then they plunged within, eager to get out of their wet gear and lay down.
A broken lamp was found on the floor, and they lit it after several attempts with a tinderbox. The wan, smoky light filled the tent’s interior. Rainwater leaked in under the sides of the canvas, and a dead outlaw’s arm could be seen just outside, fingers clawing silently at the air as they stiffened.
Arco kicked at a pile of soiled clothing. “I miss the Tooth and Blade Inn.”
Somber Dom shrugged. “We’ll be there tomorrow. Make the best of things, or they’ll make the best of you.”
“I knew you’d say something like that,” Makos scoffed. “If soldiering doesn’t work out, you could always be a philosopher, Somber.”
“Or a priest,” Velzar laughed.
Keltos rooted through a stack of things in one corner and came up with a sack full of dried apples and plums. He looked further. “Hey, there’s some decent food in here. This cheese smells fresh enough.”
Velzar had brought some dried beef from his saddlebags. They stacked their armor and weapons near the tent door, threw some old blankets on the ground, and prepared for a well-deserved meal. Keltos’ limbs felt shaky, as much from the mental strain of the fighting as the physical. Long sighs were heard all around as they men finally rested.
Keltos was still rummaging in a huge wad of spare tent fabric, looking for more provisions. “The fellow whose tent this was liked food, and he liked sewing tents.”
; “Lucky for us,” Arco replied. “The tent canvas will keep us off the ground tonight, and I doubt a crumb will be left of the food.”
Keltos pulled out a small earthen jug which sloshed invitingly. He uncorked it, smelled, and then grimaced. “We won this fight because these fools poisoned themselves. Get a sniff of this dogbrew.”
He tossed the jug to Makos, who carelessly caught it and lifted it to his lips, grinning. “It takes a man to appreciate aged liquor, Kel.”
“Perhaps you’ll meet one some day, Princess Vipirion.”
Makos swigged, then spat viciously. He clawed at this throat. “Mishtan’s mercy!” he croaked. “That’s not drink, it’s raw vinegar!”
He threw the jug at a sagging corner of the tent. The jug shattered against a canvas-covered lump, filling the air with a pungent tang.
The lump squeaked with the impact, and moved.
The mercenaries exchanged startled glances. Swiftly converging on the tent corner from two angles, they readied swords and fists.
The area was a mess; The Yak had pushed over a pile of chests in his bull-like charge through the tent and dragged the intact canvas inward at a warped angle. Here also lay more tangled tent fabric, and beneath this a large shape now quivered.
Makos had retrieved his saber and raised it for a killing blow if needed. At a silent hand signal, Keltos tore the pile away in one swift motion.
The plump man hiding beneath the canvas screamed, cowering. Makos arrested his sword swing well before impact, seeing that the man cowering at his feet appeared nothing like an outlaw. He stumbled off-balance in his effort to keep the sword from biting into the man’s body, and this was all the opening the fellow needed.
He launched himself at Makos with a high-pitched roar. Makos fell backward with a curse, and the hefty little man gripped the young trooper’s leg and bit at it with feral snarling noises. Makos screeched, beating at the man’s head with both fists, while Keltos and the others piled onto the attacker and wrestled him free.
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