by T. C. Edge
“Dashers and Mind-Manipulators too,” says Zander. “But Bjorn has powerful men of his own. The Bear-Skins are the most ferocious warriors I’ve encountered…”
He stops short and looks at Rhoth, and the fifty Fangs hovering around us.
“Erm, well equally ferocious,” he says, smiling awkwardly. “Did you count how many there were?”
He looks to Kervan and then to me.
“I thought about fifty,” I say. Kervan nods.
“A fair fight then,” comes Rhoth’s voice, clawing up his throat. He looks around to his men. “Are you ready for war?!” he calls.
The hunters lift their spears and old rusted firearms aloft, and a collective roar spreads right through the village. They begin banging their chests and baring their sharp teeth, their eyes going wild with the promise of blood and battle.
“Well, I asked for the help of the Nameless in defeating my enemies…but I had hoped for more than just the two of you,” says Rhoth, a glint in his eye.
My brother and I share a look.
“It’s a start,” says Zander, his body beginning to brim and bristle. He’s similarly inclined as the rest of these hunters, the adrenaline surging, the promise of battle such a tantalising, invigorating thing.
I suppose I can understand some of that. Right now, I feel like my veins are about to explode with the force of the blood flowing through them. I look from one face to the next and note that not a single one of them are going to take a backward step. Not the worst people to step into the breach with.
“OK, let’s not delay,” says Rhoth. “Kervan…head for the trees with your archers. Offer cover up there, and please, be accurate with your shots old man. Signal us with your whistles. Help us spot any hidden enemies. We’ll do the rest on the ground.”
His orders are taken on board and not questioned. He’s an experienced hunter, fighter, and commander, and this is his battleground. I look around the Fangs and note that not all of them have firearms, some clearly choosing to leave them back at the church and head this way with nothing but their hunting spears and knives. The Bear-Skins, as I’m well aware from our previous rendezvous, have guns as well as blades for long range and close quarter combat. And, like the Fangs, they’re used to battling among the trees.
For me, this is all new. But then again, just about everything is these days.
Zander shuffles up next to me as the Fangs get themselves in order, and the Roosters begin gliding up into the high branches, bows and arrow-filled quivers on their backs.
“The Bear-Skins aren’t Con-Cops, and they’re not even City Guards either,” he says. “They can smell almost as well as Sniffers, hear almost as well as Bats, and see almost as well as us. Our speed will be an advantage, but not as much as against others you’ve faced. And they know how to fight in these conditions. Stay near me, Brie, and don’t underestimate them.”
Ok, well that makes me feel a whole lot better…thanks Zander.
Checking his pulse rifle, he leads me over the gate, where the Fangs have gathered. Above, a signal is given for the gate to open up, and a guard begins heaving at the wheel. Wood creaks, breaking the silence, and a sweep of cold mountain air blasts through the opening.
I stare out through the trees, and see no sign of our enemy. We move beyond the gate and walled village, and the gate shuts tight at our backs. Then, as the Roosters spread through the high canopy, we wait for their signal, creeping forward and using the larger trees for cover.
With the Hawks among the Roosters’ ranks guiding our path, we move carefully but at speed, spreading out into a wide formation as the earth slopes downward. I move left with Zander, heading into a flanking position as the Fangs split into smaller units. Before too long, many have disappeared from my sight, the woods thickening like a soup the further from the village we go.
Above, the whistles guide our path. The Fangs seems able to interpret them. Those that are longer and lower in pitch seem to mean ‘move forward’. Those that are shorter and sharper seem to mean ‘stop’. The tension builds the longer this goes on, until suddenly the shrillest whistle yet slices through the air, and all the Fangs I can still see come to an immediate halt.
I peer through the darkening forest, searching for our prey. How such large men are able to stay concealed both surprises and frightens me. When I first encountered them, they sprung a trap and caught us off-guard, but that was in their woods. Here, the trees are taller, less tangled, more spaced out. And yet, they’re nowhere to be seen.
A hush falls. I search without result. And then, suddenly, I hear the ping of an arrow loosening from a bow, and my Hawk-eyes catch sight of the dart cutting through the trees and disappearing behind a large trunk. As it does, a grunt of pain sounds, and I see a large figure stagger into view.
It’s all we need; a catalyst for the fight.
Immediately, more arrows come flying from all angles, spitting from the foliage and peppering the forest floor. A second later, gunfire begins to chatter, that of old pistols and machine-guns onto their last legs, liable to break down or jam at any moment. The forest lights up, the growing dim suddenly given new life as barrels flash in the distance, and the trees around us begin to crack and spit with flying shards of bark.
I drop behind the nearest tree as the Fangs do the same, none of them able to do anything but hide until the barrage ends. I hear Rhoth calling over the din: “Wait for the reload. On my signal…”
One by one, the guns stop firing, and Rhoth’s bellowing voice fills the air. The Fangs step from behind their cover, guiding the sights of their weapons beyond the trees and firing as one. Zander and I do the same, both of us hiding behind the same tree, our pulse rifles sending blue flame at the distant boles. Many light up and catch fire, sending billowing smoke into the forest that further obscures our sight.
Movement catches my eyes above as the Roosters displace, swinging from the smoky columns as gunfire begins cutting at the high braches where they lurk. They swing on vines or scuttle along rope bridges, hidden high in the canopy as the Bear-Skins lay waste to their soaring world.
For a little while, we take our turns to send fresh volleys at our enemy, each with limited results. As they fire, we take cover, and when it’s our turn they do just the same. I see one Fang fall, caught beyond his tree as a fresh cluster of bullets came his way. I see a Rooster fall too, taking too long to set an arrow to his bow and paying the heaviest of prices. He slips from his perch and comes clattering to the floor, connecting with a horrible crunch of broken bones and battered flesh.
I catch eyes with Kervan above, the shape of his lips suggesting he’s whistling. If he is, I can’t hear it, not above the noise of battle. But clearly his men can, the ten or so Roosters up in the branches moving out of sight once more and sending down arrows as they go. They seem to connect with a few of the Bear-Skins, several bodies now lying in heaps through the growing fog of smoke.
The fires continue to flare up, spreading to the nearby trees and forcing some of our enemy to move. We ready to fire at them as they do, but find cover being granted by a sudden barrage. It’s a stalemate that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, all of us entrenched in our spots and unable to advance or retreat.
Bjorn seems to know it. As a fresh silence falls, his voice lifts, setting a rumble to the earth.
“Enough of this cowardly form of fighting, Rhoth,” he shouts out across the forest. “It doesn’t suit either of us. Let us fight with blade and axe and spear. This is how we hunt. This is how we should fight.”
I blink through the smoke and see Rhoth’s jaw clench.
“Lay down your firearms and step out,” he calls. “Then we will do the same.”
“Ah, Rhoth, ever the manipulator. We drop our arms and step out, and you shoot us where we stand. How can we trust you, with all these nasty little Roosters dropping arrows into our backs? Tell them to retreat to their pathetic little village, and we will settle this as it’s meant to be settled. Men fighting men, wit
hout these squirrels spitting from the trees.”
The next voice comes from on high, somewhere up in the lofty branches above me.
“You threaten my village and my people, you dull-witted beast…why should we retreat when we so clearly have you on the ropes?!”
It looks like Kervan’s fears have abandoned him and been replaced by swaggering bravado. I’m not so sure that insulting the man is such a good idea right now.
“Stay out of this you tree-rat!” booms Bjorn. “Run and hide like you always do, let the men talk.”
“Men?! You are not a man, but a monster!”
Thunder-like laughter echoes from afar. “Yes, a monster I am. You come out from behind your leaves, and I’ll show you what a monster does to a mouse…”
Kervan’s reply is to send an arrow right for the source of Bjorn’s voice. I see it whistle from above and slip skilfully between a dozen trees, before disappearing into the smoke. A crack of bark indicates that it didn’t find its mark.
Bjorn’s bellow, however, suggests it got rather too close for comfort.
“Stop with those little darts, you coward!” he roars. “Rhoth, what say you? Fight like men or let this vermin have his way?”
I’m so invested that I’m shaking my head, praying for Rhoth to do the same in verbal form and tell Bjorn to stick the arrow Kervan just sent where the sun don’t shine. I look at Zander, standing next to me and quietly studying the exchange, and see in his eyes that he knows just what’s coming.
“He’s going to agree?” I whisper.
My brother nods.
“With such men, a challenge like this cannot be turned down.”
At that moment, Rhoth’s voice trails down the forested hillside once more.
“Kervan, head back to the village,” he calls out. “Bjorn is right. This quarrel is between the Fangs and the Bear-Skins.”
“No…” begins Kervan.
“DO IT!” roars Rhoth. “If Bjorn should win, he will leave this place and never return. You village is safe. Bjorn, confirm.”
“I confirm,” calls Bjorn. “I have no interest in your overgrown tree house, Kervan. Go running back home. This is no place for people like you.”
The jibe must be hard to ignore, but Kervan seems to suck it up. I see him descend suddenly from the canopy above and slip to a lower branch. He guides his eyes straight at Rhoth’s.
“You kill that beast, Rhoth. Make him suffer. Make them all suffer.”
With those words hanging quietly in the air, he slinks away through the trees, and I hear a rustle of noise above to suggest the rest of the Roosters are going with him.
Then, as if some silent order has been given, I listen as guns are dropped to the forest floor, all the way along our lines and in the distance too. The wind picks up, sweeping through the hills, blowing away the gathering smoke as the fires seem to calm.
In the distance, stepping from behind their trees, I see the Bear-Skins come, drawing axes and clubs and knives from their leather belts and fur backs.
And in their centre, the towering form of Bjorn appears, standing well over seven feet off the ground. He sets his eyes ahead, marches forward, and Rhoth does just the same.
27
The ground between the two tribes is quickly eaten up.
Following alongside Zander, I slip right in behind the nearest Fangs and begin to think I’m quite heavily out of my depth. After such a long day, and so little sleep in recent nights, I’ve barely the energy for this sort of fight. And while these large men hold axes and spears and daggers as long as swords, I have nothing but the short, six inch knife I used to dispatch the leader of the Voiceless.
Really, the only thing that I’ve got going for me are my Dasher powers, and given my state of fatigue, I doubt they’ll last too long. Sure, my brother can go all night, but I certainly can’t. And given my earlier assessment of his own lack of sleep, I suspect his powers might well be muted too.
He sets his eyes to me as we approach, and can clearly see the many concerns splashed right across my expression.
“This isn’t the fight for you, Brie,” he says. “Why don’t you return to the village as well? You’ll be safe there.”
Despite the appeal, I immediately fix a glare to my face and say: “No way!”
“Brie…I’m serious…” he continues, before being cut off as Rhoth appears.
“Yes, girl, this isn’t your fight. And it isn’t yours either, Zander. We will fight, tribe on tribe. That is how it must be.”
“But…you might all die! We can help!” I say.
“No. Not this time. Return to your people, return to your war…”
He marches off quickly, re-joining his men. Only about fifty metres away now, the Bear-Skins come, larger and fiercer than the Fangs, a force of beasts who have lured my adopted tribe into a trap.
“They won’t win, Zander,” I say. “They’ll all be killed.”
Zander seems conflicted too, yet I know his primary concern here is in keeping me safe, and getting back to the city.
“Zander, we can’t let them die. We can’t.”
He lays his hands on my shoulders to calm me, but I thrust them away and set off after Rhoth at a run. As far as I’m concerned, I’m part of this tribe now.
And I’m going to fight alongside them.
Zander comes straight after me, pulling me back again. The Bear-Skins are now close, moving through the nearest trees. Spears are being lifted and ready to be thrown. Axes are being threateningly waved.
I see Bjorn appear through the thin veil of smoke, his large silhouette taking form. He stops, and his men stop too. And so do all the Fangs, lined up alongside each other. Fifty on fifty. As fair a fight as you’ll get.
Standing head to head about ten metres apart, the two tribes spend a couple of moments glaring at their opposite man. In the middle, the two leaders plant their feet, both standing higher than all of the men under their charge. But it’s Bjorn that cuts the more intimidating figure, standing a foot taller than his counterpart and benefiting from a similar width advantage too.
“We fight to the death,” booms the great bear’s voice. His eyes sway from side to side, looking upon the force of Fangs ahead. “None of you will leave this place today…”
As his eyes take us in, through the line of men they stop. Standing behind with Zander still clutching at my arm and willing me to go, Bjorn’s dark eyes catch fire as they find me.
“So, the girl-cub is here,” he growls. “And what’s this…the famous Zander, the twin. The boy who comes and hunts my lands and takes what he wants with his band of thieves. I knew not to trust you, Rhoth. You are in league with the enemy. And now you will die with them too.”
“They are non-combatants,” growls Rhoth, lifting an arm to shield me. “This is a fight between tribes, not…”
“NO, RHOTH!” breaks in the roar. “Your tribe do not deserve the honour of the clash. We give you no such rights. You are a traitor to the tribes, to all outerlanders. You have made your bed with these people, and I will see them burn alongside you. Well…not all. I will take the girl for my own.”
His eyes narrow and lips thin. I feel the energy in Zander pulse and take flight, washing through his veins.
Rhoth turns to us, and we all exchange looks. Both men draw smiles up their faces, the devilish grins of men who know that their enemy has just made a fatal mistake.
Rhoth turns back.
“If that’s the way you want it, Bjorn, then on your head be it,” glimmers his voice. “You are as dull-witted as you look. You won’t live to regret it.”
Bjorn takes exception to Rhoth’s words, the fury of the Brute blood within him being set loose. He lets out a thunderous roar, lifts his giant battle-axe above his head, and begins stamping forward.
His men come with him, those with short range weapons pouring from the trees as the lingering smoke whirls around their bodies. The Fangs with long daggers and blades do the same. Those with spears lift their
arms and thrust with alarming efficiency and precision. Before the Bear-Skins even make it a half dozen metres forward, several have been struck through the neck, gurgling as they drop to the forest floor, clutching at the lances that impale them.
A return volley of spears comes from the other side, but the Fangs are too swift. Their smaller size and more nimble skills have them moving around trees, shifting and shaping through the fog as they seek to outmanoeuvre their opponents. Those who have thrown their spears seek to retrieve them, drawing sharp knives from their belts as they surge into the centre of the battlefield to meet their enemy.
It all happens so fast, and with such brutality, that I merely stand and watch and feel too frightened and awed to engage. My eyes stick to the centre of it all, where Rhoth and Bjorn size each other up like lions hunting their prey. They seem to have eyes for no one but each other. As Bjorn hurtles forward with impressive speed for such a beast, Rhoth lifts his spear and sets it loose. The big man is just quick enough to lift a mighty paw in front of his head, the tip of the spear embedding itself into his forearm.
No bellow of pain leaves his chest. He draws his arm down, reaches across, and rips the lance from the bone. Dark blood mingles with dark hair, trickling down his arm and into his palm, before dripping from his fingers and into the dirt. His eyes blare with freakish intensity and he sets his tongue to the blood, smearing it across his lips and face in a manner that mimics the wild savagery of the feral denizens of these woods.
Rhoth appears slightly cowed by the scene, perhaps expecting his skilled and accurate throw to make its mark. The speed of Bjorn’s reactions, however, is enough to have the great Fang stopping in his tracks and drawing out another weapon; a ragged-edged dagger about two feet long. He takes a breath and presses on, as Bjorn lifts his mighty axe aloft, ready to strike.
I’m unable to do anything but gaze upon it all, until suddenly I feel myself being dragged away towards the safety of a nearby tree. A spear comes hurtling at where I stood, Zander seeing it early enough to move us away to safety.
