by Shae Ford
He slung his arm at them and his lungs filled with a howl. But they didn’t stop. The pest tore over Thanehold and beat for the mountains.
Griffith watched until the clouds swallowed them up, frowning.
“Where are they going?” one of the craftsmen hollered at him. With the warriors gone, a few of the bravest had inched their way up the rampart steps. Now they stood clustered beside him, their thin arms clinging to the walls as the winds beat against their frail bodies.
Behind him, a large crowd gathered in the village square. Most of the craftsmen waited beneath the safety of the walls, along with the folk from downmountain. All of their faces were turned expectantly towards Griffith.
“I don’t know where the pest has gone, but it looks as if our Thane is making good time.” He turned back to the Cleft and couldn’t contain his grin as he watched the warriors cast a hill of boulders aside. “The wildmen will have Midlan split wide by evening.”
Cheers sounded behind him, and Griffith allowed himself a sigh of relief.
It’d been a difficult fight. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the pillar of fire that’d erupted from the clouds. His chest froze and his stomach dropped. All the while the fires raged, he didn’t take a single breath. But Kael had kept Gwen safe. He’d thrown her from the fire’s path.
Griffith just wished the others had been so lucky.
The longer the warriors dug, the tighter he gripped his sword. He longed to charge in beside them. Heat surged through his limbs at the thought of joining their ranks. But Gwen had ordered him to stay put — and he knew he had to listen.
Still, his hand twisted tightly about his sword as he paced, his jaw set tight. Every inch of him was coiled and bunched — ready to spring over the ramparts at a moment’s trouble.
“One day it’ll be you leading the charge, young Griff,” a craftsman called from where he clutched one of the iron braziers. Though the wind tried to rip him away, his mouth still split in a knowing grin. “Just a bit more height on those legs, a bit more bulk on those arms, and you’ll be set for crushing skulls.”
“I’m set now,” Griffith insisted.
He thrust his sword in a wide arc, but the craftsmen only laughed. A few tussled his stripe of hair as he strode by them.
Several moments passed with Griffith swinging absently at the ground before a loud whistle pierced the air beneath him:
“Make way — make way, blast you!” Baird cried. A pair of downmountain folk led him gently through the crowd. Even though everyone moved out of his way, he still barked like mad. “I heard the crashing of the earth, felt the touch of a strange wind. The wretched shrieks of mages filled my poor old ears. But now silence cloaks the battlefield. Tell me, young Griffith,” he called when he reached the bottom of the rampart stairs. “Are the mages defeated? Have their spells been silenced?”
“Not yet. But as soon as our Thane breaks through those rocks, they will be.”
More cheers followed his words. Hard smiles covered the wildmen’s faces.
Only Baird seemed upset. “No, he promised me! Kael the Wright swore he would silence the mages at the very first. They can’t be left to sit, they can’t be left to think — that’s precisely how mages become trouble!”
“He’s cracked,” one of the craftsmen muttered. “If he’d seen how Gwen dealt with that first line, he wouldn’t be worried. There’s hardly a smudge left of them.”
Griffith agreed. Still, he knew how wild Baird could get. “I’m sure they’ve run off by now,” he said carefully.
“Run off?” Baird sputtered. “No, they won’t run off — they can’t run off. The King will keep them here. He won’t bear so great a slight. He won’t bear it, I tell you! Oh, he’ll think of something.” Baird’s hands twisted into the front of his robes. His head turned to the ground and his voice sounded as if he spoke to someone else: “He’ll think of something, won’t he? Yes, Crevan always thinks of something …”
Though most of what Baird said was nonsense, he spoke so grandly that many of the downmountain folk had taken him for some sort of wise man. Muttering filled the courtyard at his words; smiles fell into frowns.
As he watched them, Griffith’s middle began to squirm.
“We must stop the mages, young Griffith! We mustn’t delay,” Baird cried.
“We’ll have them stopped soon enough. There’s no point in worrying over it,” a craftsman shot back.
An argument erupted. Their voices sounded like screams inside Griffith’s ears: the words sharpened until they lost their meaning, the voices melted into a pile of mush.
Soon, his head rang so fiercely that he could no longer tell who spoke. The screams swirled around his ears until they plunged inside his head — where they erupted into a storm.
Can’t do anything … must do something … the Thane needs … skin our hides if we go … must go … be killed … we’ll all be killed … he’ll think of something … always thinks of …
The screams dulled and the voices began to quiet. Griffith ran his fingers across the smooth surface of his marble — an orb made of stone-ice from the summit. Its flesh cooled his burning ears. He rolled it between his fingers, trying to untangle the knot of voices inside his head.
Every dip and turn followed the path of a different voice. He traced each one carefully, pulling it apart from the next until he could hear them all. But through the crowd inside his ears, one calm utterance rose above the rest:
“You must trust me, young Griffith. The wildmen need our help.”
When he opened his eyes, he saw that Baird stood within an arm’s reach. He’d crawled his way up the frozen steps. His knobby hand reached out. The pads of his fingers were worn as smooth as stone.
“I can stop the mages … but I lack the strength to battle the winds, to cross these frozen lands. You must lead me out,” he pleaded, his bandaged face lined with deep cracks. “I need your strength.”
The bard’s words calmed him: they cooled his heart like the stone-ice cooled his flesh — ringing clearly above the others. Griffith always followed the clearest voice. The words that struck him loudest would lead him onto the best path.
The marble just helped him see it.
“Keep watch from the ramparts —”
“But, Thane-child —”
“I’ll be back before you have time to worry,” Griffith said firmly.
He sheathed his sword and took Baird by one of his knobby arms. The bard’s hands latched onto him tightly. Griffith tried to ignore the muttering as he marched through the crowd. The downmountain folk sounded relieved, but the craftsmen thought him a fool.
Still, Griffith kept his chin high. He tried to walk the way Gwen did: straight-shouldered and with heavy steps. “Craftsmen, let us out,” he demanded when they reached the wall.
They obeyed — though several grumbled as they worked.
The craftsmen peeled the wall away, careful to stand to the side as winter came blasting in. Baird’s hands dug in tightly as the wind tried to knock his body away. Griffith braced him with an arm and bent his head against the gales.
It was an angry wind, the last breath of winter — the time that Thane Evan had called the Wailing Week. He remembered how winter used to shake the summit with its dying gasps. It’d blown so fiercely that Thane Evan had ordered them all to stay inside the walls during the Wailing. But here, the cold’s fury wasn’t nearly as fierce.
Griffith dropped his shoulder into it, dragging Baird along. He grinned when he felt the angry winds give way.
It was only when the walls had closed behind them and they’d marched halfway across the frozen field that Griffith’s heart began to pound. Something like webs of ice snaked their way up his legs. Gwen really would be furious with him for leaving.
Even from a distance, he could see how she stalked back and forth before the pile of rocks inside the Cleft. He could tell by how much snow sprayed up from her boots that she was furious — and she hadn’t even seen him
yet.
He could only imagine how much angrier she’d be when she caught him dragging a blind man through the wind …
“Courage,” Baird called, as if he could sense how Griffith’s chin twisted back. “You must trust me as you’ve never trusted another soul. My words must be your anchor, your mighty sword. I cannot stop you, should you choose to turn back. But the whole fate of your people rests squarely upon your shoulders. Are you prepared to carry it?”
“Yes,” Griffith said, though his throat tightened around the word.
The way Baird gripped his arm assured him. He clung to Griffith as if to let go would send him rolling across the fields and smack into the castle walls. Surely he wouldn’t have risked stepping out if there wasn’t any danger.
Surely he was doing what was right.
“Courage now, young Griffith,” Baird called again. “No matter what you hear or what you see, you must carry me towards the fight. You must be my strength. We must not turn back.”
Griffith nodded and plunged ahead.
They were a hundred paces from the Cleft when he heard it: a mass of voices twisted together, chanting along the path of the wind. The voices grew sharper, louder. Their strange words grated against Griffith’s ears.
“Courage,” Baird bellowed. “Courage!”
Griffith ground his teeth against the magic and pressed on, pulling Baird close behind him. A shadow covered his boots, scraped across his head. Then all at once, he felt the earth tremble. Swears erupted inside the Cleft. The warriors closest to the wall toppled over; the rest struggled to keep their balance.
A monster rose from the drifts before him — a beast with its flesh made from the rocky earth. Snow rolled from its back in a mist. Its head burst from the ground and charged towards them, crashing through the warriors as if they were no more trouble than dust.
Griffith grabbed Baird as the monster charged towards them. The way the earth shook beneath its coming made him realize that the mound they saw was merely the monster’s head — the rest of its body was far beneath the surface.
He ran as far as he could and held Baird tightly as the monster passed. The earth jolted him, made his vision bounce and ached his head. Still, he managed to keep his footing until the monster was little more than a rumble in the distance.
“What was —?”
“Closer! Bring me closer!”
Griffith marched a few paces more before panicked screams filled the air behind him. He turned and saw with a jolt that the monster hadn’t disappeared: its great head struck against Thanehold.
The rocky mound of its head was pressed against the outer walls while its body kicked the earth beneath the village. Their walls shook, their towers swayed. Above them, the cliffs seemed about to collapse: massive sheets of rock cracked and fell from the mountain’s flesh, shattering just outside the castle. White clouds raced down from the snow at its top.
As more rock broke from its base, the cliff top leaned dangerously over Thanehold. The screams were swallowed up for a moment as the mountain groaned. It crushed the whole castle beneath its shadow. Griffith had known warriors who were killed by much smaller rockslides. If those cliffs fell upon Thanehold, the castle and everyone in it would be crushed.
His heart slammed as he watched several tiny figures fall from the ramparts — thrown from their posts by the castle’s shaking. He kept waiting for the walls to open, for people to start coming out. But if the warriors in the Cleft couldn’t even hold their footing, he knew the craftsmen had no chance.
They were trapped.
A band of warriors peeled from the Cleft and charged for the field. Silas led them with a roar, snow churning up from the beat of his powerful legs. Gwen sprinted close behind him. Her eyes widened at the sight of Griffith and her voice went sharp:
“Get back to the castle! You can reach it — get our people out!”
Her words frightened him; the panic in her eyes froze his legs.
Then Baird’s hands bit forcefully into his arm. “No, we haven’t the time, we mustn’t stop — we must reach the mages! Bring me closer!”
Gwen’s face burned red. The golden axe hissed as she cut it through the air. “Run!”
Every part of him wanted to turn back for Thanehold. The cliffs screamed, the castle groaned. In moments, his people would be crushed to death beneath the rocks. Griffith turned …
“Press on!” Baird cried from behind him. “Courage! Courage!”
Ahead, Gwen lashed him with a furious howl. The warriors began to scream:
“What are you doing?”
“Your people need you!”
“Come on, Griff — run!”
Their voices hurt his ears. He didn’t know what to do. Silas charged by and the warriors burned him with their glares. Gwen was growing steadily larger. He could see the fury wrought in each line of her eyes, felt his limbs begin to shrink beneath it.
There were too many glares, too many screams. They danced before him and shook his head with the force of that monster’s flesh. Even Baird’s voice was lost to it. Snow stung his eyes. He reached blindly for the marble.
As it rolled between his fingers, one word cut through the fog:
Courage.
“Get back to the Cleft — move the stones,” Griffith bellowed.
The warriors at the front paid him no heed. He numbed his ears to Gwen’s roar and the others’ furious swears and locked eyes with the warriors who charged behind them.
Their legs froze for a moment, unsure.
“Move the stones,” he said again. “We have to stop the mages!”
That seemed to do it. They spun and fell back upon the shattered wall, their hands moving more furiously than before — their strength bolstered by panic.
For half a moment, Griffith moved surely through the drifts. He dragged Baird behind him and kept his eyes fixed upon the warriors’ work. But then the rumbling didn’t stop. The screams only grew louder. The mountains began to howl.
When Griffith looked back, he saw the cliffs were only moments from breaking. Everything would be gone in an instant — crushed to death beneath the fall. It didn’t matter how furiously the warriors worked: there was still a hill of stone between them and the mages.
The realization stuck him like a boulder across his back. Griffith crumbled to his knees. “We’ll never reach the mages! We’ll never stop them.”
His throat twisted and tears brimmed inside his eyes. He’d been a fool to go marching out here. He’d been such a fool.
Baird’s frail hands pulled desperately on his arms, but it was his words that brought Griffith back to his feet: “We don’t need to reach them. We’ll slay them without the fist or sword. Courage, young Griffith!” he bellowed over the rising storm. “Steel your legs and carry me on.”
They were too far to save Thanehold, too far to stop the mages. And so Griffith had no choice but to do as he was told — begging Fate for mercy at every step.
Three paces, the three longest moments of his life, and then Baird roared:
“Silence, mages! I am the voice of the mountains, the great refuge against all spells. Your powers whither beneath my shadow.”
His words burst inside Griffith’s ears — a loud boom of a summer storm, more forceful than a river. It thrust his legs forward and bolstered his strength. He bared his teeth, his legs charged hot by the power in Baird’s words.
“Your voices are swallowed up by my mighty winds. See how I carry them away? See how your magic rolls like water from my sides? You have no power here.”
At first, Griffith thought he was only imagining it. But soon it became too clear to doubt: the mages’ voices shrank beneath Baird’s words. The cliffs slowed their trembling.
But as the earth stilled, it was the bard who began to shake. It was as if he’d taken the whole spell upon himself, as if that stone monster had rammed through his skin.
Griffith slowed for half a pace before Baird rasped:
“No, don’t stop! No
matter what, you mustn’t stop.”
So Griffith didn’t. He dragged Baird against his side, all but carrying him to into the Cleft. His eyes stayed fixed upon the rock wall in front of them. He pushed at the warriors with his gaze, silently begging them to dig on.
“My peaks fall down upon your bodies, worms,” Baird cried. “They bend defiantly from your spells. You feel my voice inside your bones — your blood freezes against my spirit. You knew from the moment you stepped beneath my shadow that you would not live to see the setting … setting of …”
Baird clutched desperately at Griffith’s arm. His legs shook too badly to move. When he turned, Griffith saw with a shock that he was bleeding. Scarlet tears rolled from beneath his bandages, gushed from inside his ears. They stained the edges of his beard.
Griffith knew what was happening — he’d seen this once before. “No —!”
“You must! We’ve nearly got them, young Griffith. We’re nearly … but I can’t … can’t do this alone.” Baird’s knobby fingers went taut across his arm. He bared his teeth in a defiant grin. “Courage, now … courage.”
It took every ounce of Griffith’s courage to move. He scooped Baird into his arms and marched for the Cleft. The earth stopped its trembling, but only because Baird shook. The warriors had begun to beat the hill aside with their fists; the sound of Baird’s chant stoked their strength to frenzy.
Gray light burst through from the other side — the faintest glimpse of hope. They were nearly there.
Though Baird couldn’t see it, he must’ve sensed that they were close. Griffith lunged ahead when the bard roared: “Yes, you knew from the moment you stepped beneath my shadow that you would not live to see the setting of the sun. Your spirits quake against this truth. You see Death coming towards you, now — his great sword leveled at your throats!”
The warriors threw their bodies against the last line of rock. They burst through and went after the few remaining soldiers that waited on the other side.
Even as his limbs swelled beneath the power in Baird’s voice, hot tears streamed down Griffith’s face. He felt the wet warmth of Baird’s blood against his chest. As he stepped through the rubble and into the battle beyond, he kept his eyes fixed upon the robed men cowering behind the soldiers’ backs.
