Elspeth ran from her perch, straight through the middle of the two Salrians, to where Ealian lay injured. She stumbled as she crossed the path. Kneeling by his side, she pulled his head up. “Look at you. What have you done?” she cried. Grady didn’t know if the question was for Si’eth or for her brother.
Ealian lay unconscious. The arrow had wrenched from his stomach after he collapsed, and now a long gash lay across his side. Elspeth pushed against it. Turning to Olam, she pleaded for help.
Olam needed a nudge from Grady, his eyes still fixed on the ridge that the beast had jumped, doubtless chasing after the fleeing Salrians. He worked moisture into his mouth, shook his head, blinked, coughed, and took a step towards Elspeth. “Lay him out straight. Let me see the damage.”
Just as Elspeth began to ease her brother flat against the ground and as Olam bent to help, a howling came from behind, from back where they came, at the base of the gully. All turned towards it.
“Is that him? Come back already!” Grady asked as Elspeth moaned, “Gods, please no.”
“I do not think so.” Olam craned his head. His eyes squinted as he stared beyond the plunge pool and towards the river. “It is wolves.”
Grady mimicked his questioning response. “Wolves? Where, by the gods, did they come from?”
Presently, six wolves came into view at the base of the gully: Toban, Aleban, and four others. The wolves looked cautious, as if they could smell death. On the other hand, maybe they could smell the beast. The baying and howling couldn’t be for the Salrians; surely, they had smelled blood before. Toban eyed the travellers from the base of the gully and began to climb. The other five followed, sniffing and scouring as they went.
Olam had questions. As soon as he heard them, he realised the wolves must have known something of an attack. They were nearly twenty leagues from home. This was no coincidence. However, he chose to leave his inquisition, so pleased was he to see them.
Grady was not so forgiving. “What are you doing here?” For a moment, he forgot he was guarding Si’eth and Bre’ach. Turning to the wolves, he scowled and huffed, his fist clenched. He, too, knew the wolves must know more of this than was plain.
Toban stopped a few feet short of him. “We were tracking Salrians south of the river when we heard the whistle.”
“Why were you tracking Salrians, Toban?” Grady asked. The answer was obvious; a fool could see they had reason to follow. How could they let us be bait? Gods, was this their plan? Did they send us to this gully on purpose? To be ambushed? Just so they could flush them out.
“We don’t have time for that now!” Toban ducked the question, making a good job of surveying the carnage. He clawed at one of the dead Salrians, probably to check he was dead. “What is your condition? I see you have prisoners.”
Grady left his argument for another time. “To be brief, Ealian is injured, though I care not for that so much as the loss of Daric and Gialyn. They fell from the cliff into the water. They could be two miles downstream by now. And as for Arfael… Well, I’m not even going to start with that tale.”
“I think I can guess.” Toban turned to his fellow Rukin. “Aleban, can you watch the prisoners? Keep two here with you. I’ll take two and go to the river.” Aleban nodded. “Grady, I will find Daric and Gialyn, have no fear of that. If they are alive, I will bring them back.” Before Grady could answer, Toban and two others descended back down to the fields to begin a search for the two missing travellers.
Now that the area was secure, Olam turned his attention to Ealian. With thumb and index finger, he gingerly pulled away his shirt, trying not to disturb the cut. The first sight of it wasn’t good news; the arrowhead had forced cloth from Ealian’s shirt inside the wound. It would need removing before infection set in. The cut was long and ripped. It left a thumb-length gapping gash just above Ealian’s right hip. “This cut is deep. It must be treated, and quickly.”
“Don’t move him,” Si’eth said. The Salrian commander was leaning to the left, peering at the cut around Olam’s outstretched arm.
He straightened up when Grady clipped him with the hilt of his knife. “And why, by the gods, should we listen to you, Salrian?” Grady hissed. “And where is that scroll? I’m keeping that.” Grady fished the scroll out of Si’eth’s inner pocket and placed it in his own. Si’eth growled as he did so, thrusting his head back and to the side in anger. “I’m still waiting, Salrian.” Grady’s face was all but an inch from Si’eth’s. The Salrian looked away, still seething at the loss of his scroll.
“If you don’t pack it before you move him, he will bleed to death,” he said in a righteous tone. “Is that good enough for you, Surabhan?” Si’eth turned his head and gazed directly into Grady’s eyes.
“He is right,” Olam said. “But I have nothing with me that will do the job.”
“Yellow root,” Si’eth said quietly.
“What was that?” Olam looked up at the Salrian.
“Yellow root will pack the wound. We have some.” Si’eth gestured to his son. “Give them yours.” Bre’ach looked confused, or maybe it was anger—Grady couldn’t tell. “Give him your yellow root, boy,” Si’eth demanded.
Bre’ach reached into the small pack all Salrians carried at their waist and brought out a short stick of root. He handed it to Olam. The root was indeed yellow, clammy to the touch, and soft.
Olam smelled it. “Yes, we call this by a different name: Ti’ash. But yes, this will do.” He looked down at Ealian. “Unfortunately, though, there is not enough here for this cut.”
Grady ungraciously poked Si’eth in his rib. “Do you have any more?”
Si’eth winced. “We all have it. Check the pouches of those dead.”
Grady took a deep breath. He didn’t like the thought of hunting through a dead man’s belongings, even an enemy’s. Fortunately for him, Olam had already made a move to the three that lay dead within the gully. “You should collect arrows too, Olam,” Grady said. He turned to the wolves. “How many Salrians were you tracking south of the river?”
The first wolf replied. “Six, eight, no more.”
“Good. I do not expect those chased by… whatever Arfael turned into will be returning anytime. That leaves us with their leader and only a half dozen other soldiers that don’t know the terrain,” he said. “Can you watch these two while I help Olam collect arrows?”
Aleban nodded.
Olam and Grady scavenged around those lying in the gully for anything useful. At each corpse, Olam knelt briefly and said a silent prayer. Grady waited patiently for him to finish; he wasn’t above respect for the dead, even if they were the aggressors. Olam collected any yellow root he found, while Grady picked up arrows and food. He didn’t go so far as to climb down to the two dead Salrians at the base of the waterfall, nor did they venture much farther than the top of the ridge where the three archers had been. Once they collected all they could, both went back to where Ealian lay.
“You will need a bowl to mix it into paste,” Si’eth said.
Olam scratched his head and chewed at his lip. For a moment, the old man looked embarrassed. “Exactly how do you prepare this type of root?” he asked.
Si’eth looked to his son and smiled. “You need to mix it with… what do Surabhan call it? Pee?”
“Are you joking?” Grady didn’t look amused.
“No, it makes sense,” Olam admitted begrudgingly. “The liquid needs to be acidic to dissolve the root. And I would guess they have eaten lots of berries, as have we.”
“Oh, please! Well, I’m not doing it.” Grady looked away in disgust.
“Never mind, I will,” Olam said. “I’m the one who has to mix it after all.”
Olam stepped a few paces off to mix the yellow root. Meanwhile, Grady turned to the Salrians. “So what do you think we should do with you two?” His tone was one of a soldier. He knew how to treat a prisoner, and he was no animal. However, he was quite literally troubled over what to do with them.
One
of the wolves spoke. “Sir, my name is Kaldaban. I have a suggestion.”
“Eat them?” enquired Grady sarcastically.
The wolf sniggered. “No, sir. Once Toban is back, we can send for help and take them off your hands. Get them delivered to Gieth’eire by the Cul’taris pass. It is the only place for them really. Let the soldiers deal with them.”
“Yes. Good plan, my friend.” Grady smiled and looked right at Si’eth. “Let the soldiers deal with them. I like the sound of that.”
Si’eth laughed. “I will be sent back, ignored. Your shallow king will not risk war on the plight of a few farmers.”
“More likely you will get… lost on the way to the border, Salrian.”
Olam had finished with his mixture and was administering it to Ealian’s wound. He carefully pulled loose skin up with his thumb and poured the contents of the bowl into the gaping lesion. Elspeth cringed and held her hand to her mouth. He spent a few seconds guiding the spillage in the right direction and then checked his work. “That will have to do,” he said, almost proud. After allowing it to settle, Olam turned to Grady. “You should get the Salrians to carry him. We will go up top, across the river towards the woods. There is better cover over there. And if we are lucky, we might come across one of the Crenach’dair. We could use their help, if they are willing.”
“I can’t say as I’d risk it for this child,” Grady slurred with disdain.
“He’s still my brother!” Elspeth growled. “And if it were you, if you had been possessed, should we leave you to die, alone? Mr. Daleman!”
Shame came over Grady as he realised the shallowness of his judgement. He bowed to Elspeth. “You are right, of course, Elspeth. I’m sorry!” You low, weak-minded fool. How could you say something like that?
Grady ordered the Salrians to pick up Ealian. Together, they all climbed to the top of the gully and then continued down the tributary. Crenach woods lay a mile to the east.
“We will cross up here and find a camp. And then work out what is next.” Grady didn’t sound convinced of success.
CHAPTER 21
Brea’s Lot: Part Four
Brea dropped the cloth she was holding to her mouth and ran towards the tunnel. Halfway there, she cursed, realising she didn’t have her lantern. Quickly, she turned back to the table and picked it up. Once lit, she set off again, mindlessly charging up along the passageway to the inner cavern. She didn’t care that her feet were getting wet in the stream, didn’t even care when she grazed her elbow on the rock wall. As soon as the cavern entrance was in sight, she began to shout.
“Tor, Tor!” she bellowed. Wheezing from the climb, she put the lantern down on the rock shelf and began to look about for any sign of the dragons. “Tor… Tor, are you here?”
“Yes, child. I’m here. What is it that has you so flustered?” Tor’s booming voice came from the upper entrance.
“I saw it, Tor, the Cinnè’arth. I saw it in the Lier’sinn. It was awful.” Brea began to pace from side to side, one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide and panicked. She patted her chest and coughed as she tried to gather herself.
“Slow down. What do you mean you saw it? What has happened?” Tor lowered himself from the raised platform. Brea saw the concern in his eyes, which was unusual; he was always so stoic with matters of duty. “Child, please, you must calm yourself and explain.”
A cold, sharp chill gripped at Brea’s throat. She began to cough; the damp of the cavern and her breathless state were becoming too much for her. “I need water first,” she said through short breaths.
“There’s water by the steps. You can use that silver goblet. Don’t worry, it’s clean.” Tor nodded to his right, where a small spring bubbled up from a crack in the rocks next to the “stairs.” It was one of many fed by the Moon Pool.
“Thank you,” Brea said. She filled the goblet and then sputtered as she tried to gulp it down.
“No so fast!” Tiama said. Brea felt the warmth of her breath as Rek’s mother moved down from where she slept to investigate. “Child, please, you must calm down. You will make yourself sick.”
Brea sat on the step and settled herself, sipping at the water now. “There was a fight, in a gully”—she spoke between long draws of breath—“by the Crenach’coi. The Salrians attacked them. All seemed lost … I think two of their friends died. At least… I saw them… fall! I don’t know, maybe they—” Brea put her head in her hands, unable to continue. The vision she’d seen was cloudy and sporadic at best. What stuck in her mind most was the fear in their eyes. Especially the girl. Her face turned ashen grey when she saw her two friends fall into the water. And the monster…
Rek jumped off the platform and came to her, his head bowed low, when he saw her state. He nudged her knee with his nose. Brea lifted her eyes and hugged him tightly to her chest, stroking his cheek. “I’m worried for all of you now. What if… What if our plan doesn’t work? It is an animal!”
“What do you mean ‘it?’” Tor asked.
“The Cinnè’arth, it has no control. It ripped four men asunder! And fast! I have never seen anything like it. What If I cannot control him?”
Tor looked to Tiama. “My child,” she said, “if we are prepared, all will be fine. The Cinnè’arth’s condition is not unexpected.”
“You sound like my mother,” Brea said. “But you didn’t see it. If I bring him here and our study of the lore is wrong… you will have to kill him before he kills you, or my precious Rek.” She put her cheek against Rek’s. Tears began to well up in her eyes.
Tiama stepped over to the hearth and lit the fire. “Come, sit over here. Your hands are shaking. Come on, bring your drink with you and sit by the fire.”
“Thank you, Tiama.” Brea slowly got to her feet. Half at a stumble, she made her way to the now well-lit fire. She set her goblet down and sat on the edge of the hearth. Despite the warmth, she embraced herself and rubbed at her arms while gazing vacantly into the flame.
“You must not worry, my child. We have time. We can prepare ourselves.” Tiama noticed Brea was shivering. She nodded to her right. “There is a blanket there, if you want it,” she said.
With that, Rek rushed forward to the blanket, carefully picked it up with his teeth, and brought it over for Brea.
“Thank you, my darling boy,” she said.
“At least one argument is settled.” Tor raised himself up, as if ready to run for the door. “I must fly to Kirin’thar tonight. The Salrians could destroy all our plans before we have even begun. I must ask Kirin to get him to safety—show him the way to Bren’alor.”
“Crenach is only three days’ walk,” Brea said. “They could be here by week’s end.”
“Yes, but if he is by the river, then they have another two days before they reach the edge of the Coi,” Tor said. “But you are right. We must start preparing now.” Tor sat up on his hind legs, picked up a leather cowl, and pulled it over his eyes. “Tiama, can you see that the others know what has happened? Maybe they have ideas that we have yet to think of. It will be dark enough soon, and I saw clouds that will cover my flight. I will leave in half an hour, flying east along the spur. I should only be in the open for an hour or so. And once over Crenach—”
“Even so, be careful,” Tiama said. “We do not want our enemies to learn of us just yet.”
“What should I do?” Brea said.
“I’m afraid it is back to the books for you, child,” Tiama said. “I will send for Altor. He knows much. He will be of great help.”
“Oh no… not Altor the grump,” she said.
Rek let out a low hoot and bounced his head up and down in agreement.
“Grump or not, he’s forgotten more than I know about ancient lore.” For a second, Brea thought Tiama looked remarkably like her mother. “Just be patient with him. You know he is likely to test you.”
“Yes, I do. And by test, I assume you do not mean he will be asking me questions.”
Br
ea began to feel better. The snug blanket and warmth of the fire did the trick. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and started to make her way towards the platform. At the top of the steps and to the left, there was another curtained-off nook where all the “old” books were stored: books of ancient lore and the journals of past guardians. She took a deep breath as she stared around at the seemingly endless array books, scrolls, and letters. “So, where to start?” she said.
“The blue ones,” Tiama said. “They’re from the Madden, back before the Eiras turned them. There should be something of the curse in there. If not, then the large yellow one is the journal of Aleria Loian, your great-great-great-grandmother. She was wise and doubtless knew a thing or two about calming spells. If nothing else, we can at least make him feel that there is no threat here.”
“To be honest, that makes the most sense,” Brea said. “I doubt we would have the means to perform a Madden spell, even if we knew which one to use.”
“Yes, you may be right. Anyway, you get started, and I will go fetch Altor and tell the others of Tor’s plan.” Tiama sighed and shook her head. “This should be interesting!”
* * *
Tor made his way to the top ridge above the high entrance of Aldrieg. He stood a moment, nervously looking down. A hundred years had passed since he had flown beyond the vale. With his keen eyes, he could see his route. He could almost see the Crenach border, though it was little more than a dark haze. He backed up a few steps and then lunged forward over the cliff edge. He glided first, tipped back his wings, and skipped along the treetops. Then, with a few huge wafts of his mighty wings, he rose. Slowly, he circled the valley until he reached high enough to clear the southern ridge. Once over it, he made his way east. It took a little under five minutes to fly to the Spur. Once there, he turned south again.
The joy in his heart at being airborne and free near made him howl with excitement. Keep to the plan, he thought. He rose higher and higher towards the clouds; he wanted to be certain no passing traveller would even have the vaguest hint at who he was, or what, or where he was going. On the far horizon, he could see the outline of the kingdom of Crenach’coi. Couple of hours maybe, he thought. He fixed his sight on the horizon and settled to an easy glide.
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 27
