Daric pouted with a playful, childish expression. “So that is the way of it; nobody likes my fish! Fine, that just leaves more for Gialyn and me. Isn’t that right, son?” he said, with a wide grin on his lips and an arm round young Gialyn.
“Well, actually, I will be waiting behind Grady.” Gialyn ducked at the inevitable swipe and backed away from his father, laughing.
“Traitors, the lot of you, and I suppose you’ll join them, too, Ealian,” Daric said.
Ealian didn’t answer. Instead, he looked at Daric with a vacant stare that passed right through him, as though including him in their joyful parley was an insult. Daric turned a gaze towards Olam, who was watching intently. Olam raised a brow at Ealian’s ill-mannered actions. He knew all too well what Daric was thinking. He shook his head faintly, trying not to make too big a message of it.
“Anyway,” Daric said. “Let’s not waste time. We’ll make camp by the river for rest of the day and night, and th—”
Arfael let out a sharp, earthy groan. He fell to the ground with the thud of a man already unconscious. The large rock that struck the back of his head rolled to Olam’s feet.
For a second that felt more like a minute, Olam stood with his mouth wide, unable to comprehend what was happening. Slowly, he raised his gaze towards the top of the sandy-coloured cliff. Two men appeared with bows pointed at the travellers. They each let an arrow fly. Olam couldn’t help but flinch as both arrows sank head deep into the fallen tree that lay between their camp and the cliff.
Daric shouted and the travellers split off in all directions. Olam shepherded the youngsters into the trees. Ealian seemed reluctant to move. Gialyn was hiding already, behind the thick bole of a birch tree. Elspeth followed him and knelt down so she could see what was happening. Olam waved her back, but she stayed put, fool girl. Daric followed. He knelt where Elspeth was and pushed her back into deeper cover. Olam managed a grin as Daric shook his head at him. He must have thought she was a fool, too.
Grady crouched behind the fallen tree trunk. He peeped up at the two on the cliff and then looked back at Daric. “My bow… Where’s my bow?” he shouted.
Olam scoured the camp, but Elspeth already held it in hand. He tried to grab at her before she ran from cover. “No, Elspeth, just—” Olam huffed, and Gialyn cursed. “Gods, Elspeth, you’ll get yourself killed.”
Elspeth ran, stooped, with hands all but dragging along the ground, the few paces to the fallen tree. She slid into cover and crouched next to Grady.
“I said the bow, not you!” Grady took an arrow from the quiver and nocked it. He primed the bowstring tightly against his chest. “Carefully, Elspeth, look through that branch.” He nodded farther along the downed tree. “Let me know if they are standing up.”
Olam could barely hear what he was saying. Why was he endangering her? He could have asked me that.
Elspeth shuffled along until she crouched below the branch and carefully peeped through. “Yes, they are!” she said nervously. She quickly squirmed back under cover.
Grady pulled the bowstring to full and quickly spun where he sat. Olam didn’t think he had enough time to aim, but he loosed anyway. The archer stood on the left fell forwards, gripping Grady’s arrow, which was now sticking out of his chest, with both hands. The dead man—Olam assumed he was dead; he made no noise—landed face up. His bones made a sickening sound as they snapped and shattered around the rocks at the base of the cliff.
Daric had joined them by now.
Olam watched as the second archer backed off to his right, just as five more came around from the north, charging over the lower edge, where the cliff disappeared into the grass verge. Daric, Grady, and Elspeth still lay in cover, talking—or rather, arguing, probably with Elspeth—to one another. Olam whistled and Gialyn threw a pebble to get his father’s attention. Both waved and frantically pointed to the north. They could have shouted, but who knew where more might be lurking.
“Who are they?” Elspeth asked in a nervous tone. Even in that state, she still managed to ask the only obvious question.
Daric leaned to the side of the fallen trunk and peered through the upturned roots. “Gods, it’s the bloody Salrians, again!” He eased away from the edge of the trunk and sat with his back to it. “What do they want? Why follow us this deep into Aleras?”
“Never mind the questions. They’re here and they’re not happy.” Grady counted his arrows and gestured to Olam to look for more.
At the same time, Olam noticed Gialyn gesturing to his father, pointing farther up the slope, towards the end of the rock ridge. Daric moved back to the roots and looked through at what Olam could already see. He didn’t look at all surprised that Si’eth, the Salrian captain, was walking towards the travellers’ camp.
“What in all the land does he want so bad that he would risk following this deep?”
Olam was only a few paces from where Daric sat, but he had to strain to hear what the man was saying. He thought his mumblings were as much for himself as for anyone else. It was a good question, though. Why would they follow all this way?
“It makes no sense. The man is risking everything, all-out war,” Grady said while sticking his arrows in the ground for easy access, “and for what, to teach us a lesson? He must be mad.”
“It can’t be us.” Daric pointed at Elspeth’s bow and then gestured for her to give it to him. “There must be more to it than that. Gods alone know what.” He took Elspeth’s bow, and with a reassuring smile…
“When it starts, you get back to the trees. Take Gialyn and your brother and run south to the river. Turn east and hide in the rocks.”
Elspeth’s look was indignant. “But we’re not going to le—”
“No argument, Elspeth. That first shot was a warning. They mean to make trouble and they outnumber us. I cannot pretend to know what they’re planning, but I don’t want you—or my son—anywhere near.”
Elspeth gulped and blinked before nodding her agreement. She obviously didn’t like the idea of running, or perhaps the thought of leaving them alone was bothering her.
Si’eth walked with his son Bre’ach down the slope until he was level with the other Salrians. “Are you there, old man, old man with the tricks and magic? Come out where I can see you.”
Daric and Grady looked quizzically at each other and then to the trees at the other travellers. Raising his hands, Olam shrugged his shoulders. He no more understood what the Salrian wanted or what they meant by “magic.”
“What do you want of him, Salrian?” Daric shouted, waving Olam down.
Olam wasn’t about to volunteer, at least not until he knew more. They can’t have come all this way just because he let off one of his bangers and scared their horses.
“I would speak to the old man, Surabhan, with your leader!” Si’eth passed up and down behind his line of men, hands on hips, staring at the ground in front of him. Something was amiss. He looked like a man stalling. “This need not go badly.” Si’eth continued. “I simply wish to talk.”
“If talk was what you desired, you wouldn’t have shot first, Salrian. Don’t think me a fool, for I’m not!” Daric certainly could play the soldier when needs be. Maybe a show of defiance would slow them down enough, give them some thought. If Si’eth was playing for time, though, Daric was playing right into his hands.
Olam turned to Gialyn and Ealian. “I think your father is stalling. If I were him, I’d be looking for a way to allow your children to escape. We should be ready. Gather your weapons, if you have any, and pack only what you can fit into your pockets.”
“I’m not leaving!” Gialyn protested. “Not without Elsp—uh, not without the others.”
Olam smiled. “Child, there is a time for bravery and a time to run. You will live longer if you can figure out which is which. I’m sure your father has a plan, so be ready for anything.”
Gialyn nodded, if reluctantly. Ealian, on the other hand, sat eating some breakfast, seemingly oblivious to events. The doubts
in Olam’s mind concerning the boy and the Black were diminishing by the hour—not that he had many left.
* * *
Bre’ach gazed down the slope at where the fool Surabhan hid. Why didn’t they just surrender? They were outnumbered. Turning to his father, he whispered, “Why not just ask them for the scroll?” He didn’t understand what all this business was with the older man. It was that idiot boy, the one travelling in a good shirt, who saw him looking at it.
“Fool of a boy. And have them place greater importance on it, should they escape, knowing that it is the reason we gave chase?” Bre’ach’s shoulders sank as his father looked down on him with that expression of his, the one that said he would never be good enough. His father was good at that look. Sometimes, Bre’ach wondered if it was his only one. “If you’re to make leader one day…” Si’eth broke away from staring down at the Surabhan to give him that look again. “If you make leader one day, you must use what is in your head as much as what is in your hand. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father. Sorry,” Bre’ach said, but it wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to say, “Stop treating me like a fool,” or “How am I supposed to learn anything when all you do is complain?”—something like that.
* * *
Si’eth repeated his shout. “I would speak with your leader, Surabhan. Not with his henchman.”
“He is not our leader,” Daric replied. “We don’t have a leader. But if any were to take the mantle, then it would be mine to hold.”
Olam searched right and left, craning his neck to see over the stream and beyond the trees to the southeast. There was nothing that spoke of ambush. What were these Salrian’s up to? As competent as Daric was, Arfael still lay unconscious, and this… talk appeared to be heading for stalemate. “Can’t wait here all day,” he whispered and then calmly walked out from under the trees. Slowly, he crossed the few paces or so to where Daric and the others were under cover. “I believe I’m the one of whom you speak, sir,” he shouted up towards the Salrians. “Whom am I addressing?” Of course, he knew very well what the man’s name was, but the Salrian wouldn’t know that—a chance to catch him in a lie, maybe.
The Salrians immediately took aim at Olam. “What are you doing?” whispered Daric, who was now barely half a pace in front.
“Looking for answers, the same as you, my friend,” Olam said. “I assume you have a plan to get the children away. The other two are ready.”
Daric smiled. “Just you get ready to duck. I don’t think this man came all this way to talk with you. When it starts, if it starts, Elspeth will join the others and run south.” Daric shuffled between Olam—who was nodding surreptitiously at his plan—and the tree trunk, ready to pounce forward should an attack come.
Olam raised his chin to the Salrian. “So, my friend, as you are not willing to start, what would you like to talk about on this fine morning?” Olam said.
Daric coughed and held back a laugh.
“I was curious about your little exhibition, Surabhan. I was wondering how you came across such a trick.” Si’eth continued passing back and forth.
Olam suspected a trap. No, he knew there was a trap, but from where. For now, he could think of nothing else to do but play along. “I’m not Surabhan, good sir. I’m of Eurmac and of Moyathair and take no man as my leader.” Olam stood tall and defiant in the face of the Salrian. “Again, I ask you, sir. To whom am I speaking?”
The Salrian shuffled and folded his arms; he didn’t appear to like Olam’s tone. “What is your purpose, old man? Why are you travelling through Illeas’cu?
“My business is my own, sir. If this is parley, then my title I will give freely. I’m Olam O’lamb, Emissary to Arlenoch of Illeas’den, fourteenth Alpha of the Rukin, and guardian of the truth.” Daric looked up at Olam with a creased brow and more than a puzzled gaze. Olam held back a smile and whispered. “I made up that last part.”
Made up or not, Si’eth seemed to ponder Olam’s words. “I’m Si’eth Uldmae, captain of this troop. Other than that, I have no titles. I am, however, impressed with yours. Are you here for duty or pleasure?”
“And there he goes again, talking about nothing. This is going nowhere. What is he planning?” Olam whispered. Daric shrugged.
Olam opened his mouth to speak but closed it again when he heard, “Get off me,” and “Leave me alone,” shouted from the trees. Gialyn and Ealian walked out into the open, hands raised, with the points of three Salrian swords at their backs.
“About time!” Si’eth groaned loud enough so even the travellers could hear. “All right, then, whoever you may be, let’s have done with this. Lower your weapons and stand at surrender.” Si’eth raised his hands in the air, as if complaining at the time it took his men to capture two children. Grinning in triumph, he edged around his line of men and began to walk down the hill. He hadn’t taken three paces before the sound of distant howling broke from the cusp of the grass verge.
Near on a mile away, Olam saw the grey-black silhouette of two dozen wolves set against the bright white of the northern morning sky. All at once, as though commanded by the howl, the wolves began to run at pace, still in a line, down the slope towards their camp.
Si’eth backed off. “Hostage! Take the old one hostage! He is known to them.” He bellowed at the three Salrians guarding Gialyn and Ealian.
The three, who had not long dragged Elspeth from behind the fallen tree, took a step towards Olam. Elspeth drew a blade from her thigh-sheath and cut one of them across the face. Daric and Grady where already stood. In a whirl of frantic thrashing, they disarmed the other two. Olam clubbed the last one over the head. The short Salrian dropped his blade and fell to his knees. Moaning, he didn’t know whether to rub his head or mind the cut on his cheek.
Taking their weapons, Daric and Grady pushed Elspeth and the others into the trees. Olam followed.
For a long moment, the three disarmed Salrians looked at them, as if wondering what to do now. Grady bared his teeth and raised his bow. The three turned on their heels and ran up the slope towards Si’eth, who was currently dividing his attention between them and the advancing wolves.
“Well done, Elspeth!” Grady said.
“It’s not over yet, you two,” Daric said.
Olam felt a hand on his shoulder. He’d been watching the wolves’ progress, wondering what, if anything, he could do. As if hearing his thoughts, Daric said, “I fear it is up to you my friend. Are these beasts truly known to you?”
“Not exactly,” Olam said. “I met a leader of theirs once, called him friend, and learnt some of their custom and greetings. I was expecting to address them at length, not in a running battle. Little can dissuade a wolf from a chase.”
“Oh dear!” Daric pushed his fingers through his hair. Obviously, it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
“They won’t kill without reason, Daric. We should have time to explain ourselves. Just don’t provoke them.” His look took in Grady, too. This was going to be hard enough without the old soldier grinding his teeth at them.
Both men nodded, if reluctantly, and Olam turned his attention back on the wolves. The Salrians had broken formation and were desperately climbing up the sandstone ridge. Olam gave a short chortle. “I wonder if wolves can climb,” he whispered. The question was answered immediately. Half the wolf pack turned and ran back up the sloping verge, doubtless to a point where they could continue their pursuit of the Salrians—it seems they couldn’t climb. The rest, twelve in all, continued their advance on the travellers’ camp.
“Arfael,” Elspeth suddenly shouted, as if Olam hadn’t already considered him. “Arfael is still out there. We can’t leave him.” She certainly was an honourable sort, if a little inexperienced.
“He’s too big to drag,” Daric said, “but she’s right. We can’t just leave him there.” Grady nodded. Olam was already squeezing past him, making for his friend. The other two followed. “Hope you’ve got something up your sleeve, Olam,” Daric w
hispered when they were away from the others. “We won’t last long against these beasts.”
CHAPTER 15
The Rukin
The three took position around Arfael: Grady to his left, Daric to his right, and Olam stood square in front of him. Daric was going to take that position, but Olam felt he must. Arfael was his friend, after all.
The wolves were close now, barely two hundred paces away. Close enough to hear their padded footfalls and wrenching growls.
Olam knelt. He pushed his fingers into the hard turf and tried to open his mind. Waves of colour flashed across his eyes. Silver-grey silhouettes darted from a misty curtain: a running wolf, a staring eye, a jarred vision of Daric, the trees, and back to the curtain. The colour dissipated. He tried again. A slap cracked the link at the back of his mind. The eyes closed, the curtain fell away into darkness—and then, nothing. Olam didn’t need fifty years of experience to know the link wasn’t going to work, not on these wolves. He stood, raised his arms wide, and shouted, “Em wra ach ulf!”
Olam heard Daric and Grady gripping hard on the weapons in their hands. They both looked nervous. By the expressions on their faces, neither had a clue what Olam was attempting, never mind understanding the words he’d shouted. He would have explained, but there wasn’t time.
However, Olam was pleased to see the head wolf’s ears pricked up—which was surprising. He wasn’t even sure he remembered the words correctly. The beast slowed down, and the others followed his lead. The pack trotted the last thirty paces in an almost prancing step. Each one of the twelve scanned diligently left and right and made a good job of staring into the trees, from where Gialyn and the others were probably watching. They stopped three paces in front of Olam and began to spread out. The lead wolf took a step forward. Then, to gasps from Daric and Grady, the wolf began to speak, in common, no less. Olam supposed it was one thing to hear of wolves talking and quite another to see it for yourself.
“Who are you to call yourself ‘friend?’” the wolf asked. He began pacing round the travellers, eyeing up the camp. “Who are you to make the welcome of Illeas’cu? And di—did you try to… calm me, wizard?” The wolf exaggerated the last in a none-too-friendly manner.
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 17
