CHAPTER 22
Gialyn’s Night
Dark had fallen heavy. A low cloud of mist obscured the moon, and with it any hope of light. Gialyn struggled ashore with the dead weight of his father in his arms. He stumbled and slipped his way up the shallow bank, barely a few inches at a time, the mud and shale slipping away underfoot at the slightest effort. Eventually, he came to a grassy area beneath a rocky overhang. With one final effort, he pulled his father the last few feet onto the dry ground and then collapsed, his father half lying on top of him.
Daric had remained unconscious since hitting his head in the fall. For almost an hour, Gialyn struggled to keep his head above water. Until, finally, the river had done toying with them. At the bend of a wide eddy, Gialyn had managed to place his feet on the bed and pull his father’s limp, lifeless body towards safety.
Now here they lay. The ominous attentions of the Crenach forest loomed over the river. Gialyn was freezing, though more from fear and effort than the cool breeze that swayed downriver from the valley. Now that he was safe—relatively—a sickness came over him. His thoughts turned to the others, to Elspeth. The last thing he saw as they fell was her hand outstretched towards him, desperation on her face. Then he heard her cry, “They have fallen.” He hoped someone heard her shout. Hoped someone was alive to do anything about it. Gods, what a mess! He sat up and tried to form a plan in his mind… Nothing. They would have to be alive, somehow. He decided there was nothing he could do but take care of his father.
The kindling box in his pocket was made of brass and had a tight-fitting lid. Gialyn was overjoyed to find the contents remained dry and in good order. “Thank you, Gobin!” He muttered praise to the air for the Albergeddy blacksmith who had made it so well. He pulled his father out of the wind and went to gather wood. There was plenty about, for they had paddled near two miles into the Crenach’coi, the immense forest kingdom of the Cren’dair. As imposing as it was, Gialyn paid it little attention. He scurried quickly all around the base of the trees for thirty yards about, collecting all the loose, dead wood he could put his hands on. He returned to the overhang, his arms full to the chin with dozens of dead, dark branches. He cast the flint on some dried moss and built the fire.
Once the fire was set and had strength of its own, Gialyn pulled his father in closer to the heat. He removed his boots and opened his shirt so the heat might warm his heart, rather than dry his wet clothes. For a moment, he wondered how he knew he had to do that. He laughed when he realised his father had probably told him. With that task done, with warmth restored to the pair of them, all that remained was to wait and hope. No point looking for food in this dark.
Gialyn listened to his father’s breathing; it seemed shallow but steady, as though he were asleep. He thought of slapping him or splashing water about his face. Though having just climbed out of a river, he decided that would be pointless. He wanted him wake so he could say everything was going to be fine, that Elspeth was going to be all right. Surely, they wouldn’t kill them. No. They could have done that easily without all the talk. If they were alive—they were alive!—were they prisoners? Was anyone coming to help him?
As the minutes passed, the darkness grew. What he could see of the moon remained behind mist and in the thick of the heavy leaves and branches of the Coi. Even the water seemed black, save the odd ripple reflecting the fire. Ripples aside, the forest was still; no birds sat in the trees or fish gulping and splashing. However, there was something there. Something above the familiar noises of the forest, noises he had heard back at Illeas, or in the marsh. One sound in particular worried him. And it was getting closer: a sound of scurrying. Not light, like a squirrel, but deep and determined, like a boar or hound. Gialyn tracked it in the darkness, following the invisible teaser from left to right. It never came close enough to the fire for him to see what it was. Gialyn followed the sounds for some minutes. Eventually, it moved off to the right and grew quieter. He then became aware of another sound to the left. The same sound, the same determined scurry. So there are two of you, he thought.
Another ten minutes went by. And as the fire began to die and Gialyn moved to fetch more wood, they attacked. The first came from behind, pouncing from the overhang onto Gialyn’s back, the other from the front, snapping and snarling at Gialyn’s feet and hands.
“Get off me!” Gialyn wailed as the creature on his back scratched ferociously at his neck, repeatedly butting its teeth against the back of his head. Gialyn managed to stand. Guarding his face against the sharp claws and teeth, he ran to the overhang. He turned sharply against the rock, and after three attempts, managed to peel the creature from his back.
The creature jumped to the floor. It was some kind of giant rodent, rat-like but with longer legs, about the size of a dog. Gialyn kicked at it, picked up stones to throw at it, and took hold of a stick to stab it. The rat kept dodging, diving left to right, snapping at the stick, not really attacking. Gialyn realised he was fighting the decoy as two other rats had taken hold of his father by the trouser leg and were trying to drag him to the water. Gialyn leapt over the fire, took a long stride, and kicked the larger of the two rats square in the stomach. It turned on Gialyn, snarling and biting. Yet it was injured; it limped away and slid into the river.
The remaining rats backed off, as though deterred by their leader’s surrender. They, too, jumped in the river, gone for now.
Gialyn grabbed as much wood has he could find from around the “camp” and placed it all within easy reach. He knew he couldn’t keep the fire going all night but had to stretch it out for as long as possible. He couldn’t risk leaving to find more wood now, not knowing what the rats had in mind for his father. He would have to sit and hope—pray—that help came before too long.
He wondered for a moment whether the rats were river animals, whether it would be worth dragging his father farther into the woods. It might work. Then they could just as easily be forest rats, and maybe the river was his best means of escape. Maybe they weren’t good swimmers? No. They wouldn’t have tried to drag him into the water. Gods, I cannot just sit here. Gialyn looked with dread at the dwindling fire. The wood was dry and old and burned quickly. Enough left to stoke it maybe one more time, and then it would be darkness.
The tap, tap, tapping sounds of the rats came back, more this time, or at least it sounded like more. Gialyn dragged his father behind him and put the rest of the wood on the fire, saving the largest of the sticks to defend against the attackers. The rats appeared to be toying with him. He followed the sounds in the darkness as they crossed paths behind and to the side. Every so often, one would come to the flank, run in close enough to “take a look” and then dart off again. The creatures called to each other, their shrill cackle echoing from side to side in repeating patterns, as though instructions were being given. Once in a while, a loud cry would tear through the darkness. One of the creatures would come closer, testing the area from another direction, as if to see what Gialyn would do. They were pack hunters, and they were very good at it—too good for rats.
Gialyn became frantic. He clutched at the thick branch in his hand, not knowing whether to turn right or left. He forced himself under the overhang and stabbed at the most meagre rustle of leaf or grass.
The fire had all but gone out. Any minute now, Gialyn thought.
The first attack came from the left. Three of the rats ran straight for Gialyn. He fought in frenzy, beating them off. His eyes might as well be closed for all he could see of them. He spun the stick round his head, darted, and jabbed at every noise. The rats’ cackles sounded like mockery to his ears. Every few seconds, he would feel a nip at his ankle or his knee, always the same side and as regular as clockwork. They were trying to separate him from this father.
Four more rats came from the right.
Gialyn was desperate and on the ground now. The smallest ember from the fire highlighted his plight. The rats were pulling his father away. He felt a large creature on his legs. He swatted it off
, but it came back all the harder, biting the back of his arm, then at his neck. Gialyn had no strength. His limbs became numb. His body surged with fear. A sickness came upon him. He felt lightheaded, as though about to pass out.
Then the wolves came. Hurtling down the bank, they bowled the rats over without halting their charge one iota. One wolf—he couldn’t tell who—wrenched the rat from Gialyn’s side so quickly that its neck snapped with a sickening crack. Another wolf pulled at the hind leg of the rat by Daric’s feet, spinning it against the rocky outcrop, crushing its skull. The other five rats regrouped, and for a second there was a standoff. Wolves howled and rats chattered and squealed. Lips curled as teeth snapped on both sides, heckles raised, both wolf and rat testing the ground between them. The wolves were much bigger but still outnumbered. And there was no telling if more rats were waiting in darkness. The rats attacked first, ignoring Gialyn for the time being. The wolves ripped and shredded their way through them. The rats had no answer to the ferocity of the wolves, nor to their strength and crushing jaws. Two rats were down almost immediately, once more literally torn limb from limb. The remaining two ran off. The wolves left them to tend to Gialyn and his father.
* * *
Gialyn did indeed pass out, but only for a few minutes. When he opened his eyes, he saw the friendly silhouette of Toban standing by him.
“Get up, Gialyn,” Toban said. “You’re injured. You need to clean your wounds.” The wolf’s tone was patient and very matter-of-fact. He repeated himself, and again and again.
Gialyn struggled to comprehend. The shock had left him cold and lightheaded. Cold sweat beaded about his palms and forehead. For the moment, he had little idea of his predicament.
“Gialyn, can you hear me?” Toban raised his voice.
“Yes… I can. Yes,” he mumbled. He raised himself to his elbows and looked around. He saw the two other wolves coming back with branches in their jaws, dropping them onto the fire. Toban sat beside him, patiently waiting for him to come to his senses. Then he remembered.
“Father!” he shouted. He twisted his body to look.
“He is going to be all right, Gialyn,” Toban said. “In better shape than you, I’d say.”
“What happened? Is everyone all right?”
“Yes. Do not concern yourself about others. Please, you must wash your wounds before they are infected. Those rats didn’t look particularly clean.”
“Yes, of course. I will.” Gialyn struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the river. He knelt by the bank and cupped his hands in the water, splashing it over his face.
“No! My boy, you need to scrub! If you can bear it, you should get back in the river and soak. The back of your neck is cut, so is your forehead and your arms and legs.”
Gialyn sighed. He was so utterly tired that he thought he might just roll over and sleep where he knelt. He leaned on his side and rolled his feet into the fast-running water. Slowly, he inched himself farther, until he could submerge his head. He made the best of his limited strength and scrubbed hard at his wounds for five long, painful minutes.
By now, the wolves had a roaring fire going. “That will do,” Toban said. “Now come, sit by the fire and take off your clothes.”
“Not that again.” Gialyn laughed, though not for the humour of it.
He did as asked and sat knee to chest a few feet from the fire. Two of the wolves lay by his back to help keep him warm. Another twenty minutes saw him feeling much better.
“I think your father’s waking up,” Toban said.
“Thank the gods,” Gialyn whispered. “Can he talk?”
“He is mumbling. Maybe in a few more minutes.”
Gialyn’s clothes were near dry after hung within two feet of the fire. He dressed quickly and came over to his father’s side.
“Father, it’s me, Gialyn.” He put his hand on his father’s shoulder and shook a little.
Daric moaned, still with eyes closed. He slowly lifted his hand to his head. A fair bump had risen where he’d hit the rocks. “Where am I? What has happened?” he asked.
“You’re down the river a way, Daric,” Toban said. “Your son is here with us, and all was well when I left the others a few hours ago.”
“What?” He opened his eyes. He lay there, puzzled by his surroundings. It was half a minute before he could recall the events that brought him to the riverbank. “You say all is well. What of the Salrians?”
“Some are dead, some have run away, and two are prisoners.”
“Dead…” Daric turned on his side and lifted his head towards Toban. “How?”
“Arfael.”
“And…” Daric shrugged his shoulders and waited for more.
“Arfael killed maybe four, from what I could make out. One more died from a fall and three or maybe four ran off,” Toban said.
“By Ein’laig, how is that possible?”
“Things with Arfael are not quite as they seem, Daric. I will explain more later. For now you must rest, my friend”
“Agreed, but please, I need water first.”
“You will have to go to the river. Your packs are back at the gully.”
“Daric reached inside his jacket and pulled out his spirit bottle. “Empty that and fill it with water. Please. It is nearly all gone anyway. Also, it’s Grady’s, so…”
Gialyn took the bottle from his father. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Son, you’re here!” Daric said. “Oh yes! Now I remember. You wouldn’t let go.”
Gialyn looked down at the floor, disappointed in his father’s reprimand. He sulked off the fill the bottle.
“He saved your life, Daric,” Toban said. “You were attacked by wild animals. Your son fought off seven of them with a stick until we arrived to aid him. He nearly died.”
Daric closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the ground. “Idiot! Why do I…? Thank you, Toban. I only said it because… Gods, I do not know why. I didn’t want him to risk his life for me.”
Gialyn came back with the bottle. Daric grabbed his arm and pulled him close. “Thank you, son. I’m so proud of you!”
The two sat in an embrace for a long minute until Toban interrupted.
“We should decide what to do. It would be my suggestion to wait until morning before we travel.”
“You won’t get an argument from me.” After taking a drink, Daric lay back down and closed his eyes.
Gialyn lay by him. He was about to drop off to sleep, too, when a plume of fire rose in the eastern sky. Daric didn’t wake, but Gialyn sat up quickly.
“What was that?” He looked to Toban for an answer.
“I’d guess… but… No. That is impossible.”
“What is impossible, Toban?”
“Nothing, Gialyn, you go to sleep. It is probably just the woodsmen.”
Gialyn lay back down. Sleep came quickly.
CHAPTER 23
The Hollow
With night falling in, it was proving difficult for Grady and the others to find a safe place to cross the tributary. It was by no means as wide or deep as the river, but its flow was fast as it cut through the bedrock on its way to the waterfall. They would need to walk some to find a safe crossing. A mist hung over the trees to the east, obscuring the near-full moon. The western sky bled into a deep-purple hue. It wasn’t long before all but the wolves would be fumbling and tripping over their feet.
Eventually, they found a shallow area near to a bend that looked as though it may be navigable. Along its western edge, the banks of the river lay all but level with the grass, and on the east, just a small step to find firm, dry footing again. The wolves crossed first, and then the Salrians carried Ealian between them, flanked by Grady and Olam. Both of whom had their swords unsheathed and pointing towards Si’eth and his son. Still, the water was fast here. Grady found himself having to relinquish his sword in favour of aiding Si’eth. He supported his arm while the Salrian—maybe on purpose, maybe not—gingerly hunted for secure
footing.
Once back on dry land, they found themselves at the edge of a wide, sloping field that lay between the tributary and the edge of Crenach’coi, less than a mile away. The group walked slowly. The wolves constantly sniffed the ground and pricked their ears at the slightest sound. Grady and Olam stayed at their station either side of the Salrians, while Elspeth walked just in front, continually looking back at her brother. She held his hand while they walked, which made it all the harder, but she refused to let go.
Before too long, they reached a hollow, a small dip in the grass about thirty feet across, set at the edge of the forest. Trees lined up to the north and south, and a small mud bank to the west completed their cover—a perfect campsite. Grady ordered the Salrians to carefully take Ealian down into the hollow and lay him in a nook of large oaks’ roots. Si’eth and Bre’ach sat, as ordered, on the other side of the tree. The wolves nodded in agreement at Grady’s request to guard them.
Olam knelt by Ealian. He tried to fish through his bag to see if he had anything that might help. “We need a fire, Grady,” he said. “We cannot help Ealian without some light. None of us, save the wolves, can see what we’re doing.”
“As you say, my friend,” Grady said. “Elspeth and I will sort a fire. You stay by Ealian.”
Olam felt he had failed. It was his suggestion to take the southern path out of the Am’bieth Marsh. He was the one who attacked the Salrians in their camp. And he didn’t check the rocks for the Dead Man’s Vein, when, of all people, he should be aware of the threat. Now he had an injured child lying in front of him, a child who may die before another day done. How was he to fix this? Could it even be fixed? And where was Arfael? The questions kept coming.
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 28
