by Rob Scott
They understood now why supposedly hardened soldiers were shaking and throwing up like novices.
‘Dear Mother of Christ,’ Mark whispered in English.
Garec didn’t need a translation. ‘Rutting dogs, what these people must have gone through-’
‘Either way,’ Mark caught hold of himself, ‘we need to mourn them later. Right now you have to get me close to that grey mare.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Garec said confidently, ‘we’ll be long gone before any of them, least of all our dear Sergeant Greson, has any idea we’ve run.’ The guards would certainly give chase, but he was gambling on their current confusion, coupled with their state of mind, to provide a significant head-start. He hoped Mark would give good enough account of himself with the bow – at the risk of incurring yet more deaths – to turn their pursuers back.
He surreptitiously checked the trail ahead: the path itself was clear of major obstacles, and they wouldn’t have far to go before they were under cover of the forest. As long as he could guide the roan by the mane initially, they’d be all right; he didn’t want to reach for the reins until they were out of sight. He peered down at the tracks and froze.
‘Oh, Versen,’ Garec whispered.
‘What?’
‘I wish Versen were here.’
‘Me too,’ Mark said. ‘He’s a much better shot than I am.’
‘No,’ Garec gestured into the clearing, ‘that’s not what I meant. Look at those tracks.’
‘Well, of course there are tracks,’ Mark said dismissively. ‘There was an ungodly fight – by my count it was grettans four, Malakasians zero.’
‘The grettans would have been hunting this valley; they would have gone downhill for water overnight.’
‘Good. I’m glad they’re behind us. What’s your point?’
‘They’re not.’ Garec peered into the trees. ‘That’s my point. They didn’t move downhill.’
‘What?’ Mark’s voice rose. ‘Are you saying they’re still hunting?’
‘Ssssh, don’t attract attention. They’re still up here, somewhere.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Mark whispered. ‘All right. All right. Breathe. We still have to get the bows.’
‘Yes,’ Garec said, ‘get ready.’
Behind them, one of the horses whinnied; their roan nickered in response, shaking its mane irritably in Garec’s face. ‘Easy, easy,’ Garec said in a normal tone, smiling down at Raskin when she looked back at them.
‘They’re nervous,’ she said.
‘They’re spooked by the smell of blood, and the lingering scent of the grettans,’ Garec whispered, in mock deference to the soldiers’ suffering. ‘But they’re war horses. They’ll be all right.’
The roan’s ears pricked back and Garec closed his eyes, listening as closely as he could to the sounds of the forest: the background rustle of the light wind through the leafless branches. Somewhere off to his left he could hear a small animal moving, a squirrel or a rabbit, maybe.
There it was: a rumble, like that of a wooden cart over a log bridge. Garec tensed.
‘What is it?’ Mark whispered, afraid for his friend’s answer.
‘They’re here.’ Garec nodded off to his left. ‘West of us, maybe a hundred paces.’
Behind them, one of the horses cried out, a terrified whinny, and bolted. Another followed.
‘This is it,’ Garec said, and then cried loudly, ‘Grettans!’ He manoeuvred their horse next to the dapple-grey and pulled the reins from Raskin’s loose grip. The young woman wheeled on them, terror in her eyes. Her sword was hanging limply at her side.
Mark needed a moment to wrestle with the knots securing their weapons; he nudged Garec to keep her attention focused away from his hands.
‘They’re over there,’ Garec said, pointing into the forest. ‘Raskin, move! Get your horse before it bolts – take it by the reins, don’t try to get in the saddle. They’re too skittish now.’
Raskin stared dumbly at him, shaking visibly.
‘Get your horse, now!’ Garec’s cry slapped her back to reality and she hurried back along the path, not even looking at them.
‘Sergeant,’ she screamed, ‘they’re coming! We’re got to get out of here!’
To Mark, Garec said, ‘You have about half a breath to get those untied, my friend, because things are about to get very bad around here.’
‘Got ’em,’ Mark shouted, ‘go!’
Garec jabbed his heels hard into the roan’s side, kicking it into a gallop, ignoring Sergeant Greson, who was reaching out a mittened hand to grab their reins. Mark reached over and slugged the man, tumbling him into the horse’s severed head. ‘Grettans are coming,’ he shouted at the soldiers, ‘and if you don’t move, you’ll be as dead as them!’
‘Come on,’ Garec urged their horse, ‘come on. You can do it – let’s go, Roan, let’s go!’ Awkwardly at first, and then gradually faster as the big horse eased into its stride, they climbed the slope at a run.
You’ll kill him if you keep up this pace,’ Mark said.
‘Just a bit further,’ Garec replied, ‘we have to make the ridge before we can ease off. Anyone behind?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Mark said.
As if in response, a horse screamed and the unmistakable sounds of a grettan attack reached them through the trees. Both men shuddered as they visualised the beasts falling on the small party. Human cries came now, a shrill call for help that was cut off so suddenly their minds were filled with images of throats being torn out mid-plea.
‘Maybe Raskin will escape,’ Mark said quietly, knowing it was a forlorn hope.
The horse missed its footing for a moment, jouncing its riders badly, reminding them both that they had been shot the previous day.
‘Sonofabitch,’ Mark shouted, ‘watch the road, will you?’
‘Sorry,’ Garec said, ‘I have to get the reins. We won’t make it far steering with a handful of hair.’
‘Well, slow down and grab them,’ Mark said. ‘We can spare a moment.’ He grimaced and muttered to himself, ‘I do hate riding these things.’
Garec eased the roan to a trot while he leaned forward and slipped the reins effortlessly over the horse’s head. Garec grinned. ‘Easy,’ he announced.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mark groaned, ‘just watch the potholes.’
Garec heard a rumble, an echo of the growl he had caught back in the clearing. This was not the scream of a grettan attacking, this was a grettan stalking. It was coming for them.
‘Gods of the Northern Forest,’ Garec said. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Shit, Garec. Is there another?’
‘At least one.’
‘Get us out of here, quick!’
‘We can’t outrun them, believe me. I’ve tried – and on my Renna, who’s twice as fast as this old carthorse.’
‘What do you propose we do?’
‘Get ready to shoot. Draw several arrows, tuck them in my belt. Put four or five in there, no more. If you can’t stop them with those, we’ll be dead anyway.’ The growl came again, closer this time but still off to the west. ‘Hurry!’
They had covered another hundred paces before Mark caught sight of the creature, coming at them through the trees, its great hindquarters propelling it forward at high speed.
Mark’s stomach felt as though it had been filled with concrete; his arms went numb with fear. Coming towards them was something out of a nightmare, a beast unlike anything he had ever seen. He had only glimpsed the grettan Nerak had sent against them in the Blackstone forest, but that animal had been fleeing into the trees, one leg severed, shrieking in pain. This grettan was in rude good health, and coming for them full pelt, crashing through the undergrowth as if there was nothing there. It had small black eyes, set wide apart over a short snout and a snarling mouth of spiked canines. Its fur was dense and black, covering the corded muscles propelling the beast towards them.
It was coming too fast; he wouldn’t get a shot off, there was no way –
and even if he did, it would be a token gesture, nothing good enough to stop or even slow the grettan. Garec’s voice woke him from his stupor.
‘Shoot the rutter!’ he screamed, ‘can’t you see it?’ Garec was fighting to keep the horse under control as the scent and sounds of charging grettan drove it wild.
Mark’s hand shook as he tried to nock an arrow but it finally gripped and he drew, took aim and felt the shaft slip off the bowstring. ‘Hell,’ he barked, lowering the bow and starting again, ‘I can’t ride a horse! I can’t shoot a bow! Sonofabitch!’
Garec shouted back at him, ‘Breathe. Take your time. Aim, breathe and release. You’ve practised, Mark, now make the shot.’ Garec soothed the horse, urging the animal on. ‘Make it count, Mark. You won’t have many chances.’
The grettan broke from the trees some hundred paces behind them, turned up the hillside and began closing the gap. Mark turned as far as he could in the saddle, ignoring the pain as the hole in his knee broke open and began bleeding again. Watching the monster come up behind them was like watching a train coming down the track: he needed a rifle, a hand grenade, an RPG to stop this thing, not an arrow.
‘This isn’t going to work, Garec,’ he said despairingly.
‘Just breathe, aim and fire. You can do it.’
Mark wished he was back in Idaho Springs teaching history, telling his students about the Parthian shot: the great bowmen were famous for the feat of turning in their saddles while retreating and shooting surprisingly accurate parting shots at their enemies. Instead, here he was in a fantasy land, about to try the same trick himself. He drew a deep breath and, timing his shot to the creature’s rhythmic stride, released the arrow.
The shaft took the snarling monster in the right shoulder, sinking deep into the muscle and slowing the grettan for a moment as it reared back and howled into the treetops. But the injury stopped it for only a moment, long enough for the roan to make up fifteen or twenty paces, then it was after them again.
Emboldened by his success, Mark drew and fired a second time, screaming obscenities at the beast. This arrow tore through the thin flesh between the grettan’s eyes and flopped up and down in time to its leaps, a grisly metronome. Mark shouted a victory cry, but it choked in his throat when he realised the direct hit had done nothing to slow the creature down.
His hands trembling again, he struggled to prepare his third shaft, aiming and releasing a scant moment before the grettan, its face stained with blood, leaped onto the roan’s hindquarters, spilling him and Garec into the snow.
Mark rolled head over heels, crashing through the rotten wood of a fallen tree trunk. His injured knee was bleeding badly now as he slipped and slid down the hillside, bouncing off trees and through brambles before coming to rest against a rock protruding out of the frozen ground. From above, he heard the roan wail several times like a frightened child and then fall silent. The horse was dead.
Trying to regain his composure, Mark cleared the snow from his face. His knee was a mess; the bandages Raskin had applied that morning had disappeared during his precipitous descent. He had a sharp pain in his shoulder, the damaged knee was throbbing badly and there was a steady, dull pain in his lower back, but he felt as if he could manage to walk. He could hear the grettan, snarling and tearing at the carcase of the horse, and he looked around for a tree he might climb to elude the creature long enough for it to lose interest or wander away. The nearest looked to be fifteen yards or so up the hillside, one he had slammed into moments earlier.
He searched around for Garec, but there was no sign of him. He shook himself and began trudging back up the slope, calling out, ‘Garec!’ – and immediately realising how stupid he’d been. Instead of Garec’s voice, Mark heard the snarling and growling come to an abrupt halt; a palpable stillness fell over the forested hillside.
Mark took another few steps, just far enough to see that instead of feeding on the horse’s carcase, the grettan had lifted its head and was staring down at him.
‘Ah, hell,’ Mark groaned, unsure whether to run, freeze or pray for a massive heart attack. He measured the distance to the nearest branches. ‘There’s no way.’ He glanced around, hoping someone had passed through the forest earlier that morning and accidentally forgotten their machine-gun. Apart from a stocky length of rotten oak, there was nothing. He bent down to pick up the stick, hoping that, like Steven, he might choose the one branch in the entire forest imbued with enough mystical energy to blast this grettan into pixie dust, but the branch just crumbled in his hand.
The grettan moved down the hill, like a jungle cat stalking its prey. Mark thought for a second about running, but he didn’t much fancy the idea of being hamstrung, so instead, he froze.
His legs buried calf-deep in the snow, Mark Jenkins stood his ground, trembling, and waiting for the monster – that’s what the grettan was, a monster from a child’s nightmare – to pounce on him and tear out his throat. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes, but nothing happened; all he could think about was when the creature would leap, and how quickly it would tear him apart. He started to cry. This was not how he had ever imagined he would die.
‘Come on, then,’ he sobbed. ‘Come and get me.’
The grettan moved down the hill, low to the ground, sliding like mercury between the rocks and trees, the consummate hunter.
‘I’m right here!’ Mark looked for a stick, a rock, anything he might use to land one decent blow. Maybe he could blind the creature, or crack its skull… but there was nothing nearby but snow and the rotten branch lying in a crumble beside his feet.
Mark decided to go out in a flurry of noise and anger, to leave Eldarn a raving wild man. He started bellowing, whatever came into his mind, his last testament a loose collection of words and phrases, the stream-of-consciousness farewell of a condemned man.
Pffft! The arrow took the grettan in the throat. Pffft! Another sank deep, inches from the first, until only the fletching protruded. The grettan shrieked, rose up on its hind legs and growled. Pffft! Thud! Another hit. Pffft! Thud! Yet another, and this one was a miracle shot, into the soft flesh behind the animal’s ear and below the curve of its skull; there weren’t a handful of people in the world, any world, Eldarn included, who could have made that shot.
Garec kept the arrows coming, but they were unnecessary, for the miracle shot had finished the grettan. Only adrenalin kept it coming at Mark, dragging its injured legs, screaming at each new arrow that pierced its hide, determined to kill, even in its final moments. Finally, just a few paces away, the creature slumped to the ground and lay still, growling a warning as its life drained away.
Mark wisely gave the dying grettan a wide berth as he climbed back up the hill to join Garec, who was standing by the ravaged carcase of the roan horse, his rosewood longbow still drawn.
‘Here,’ Garec handed him the bow. ‘You finish it.’
Mark shook his head. ‘No. It’ll be dead in a moment anyway.’
‘You don’t want a shot?’
‘No.’
Garec understood; shouldering his bow, he offered a hand to Mark and laughed. ‘What did you say earlier? We have two good legs between us?’
‘Something like that.’ Mark took his arm. Together they pulled themselves up the hillside.
THE BARSTAG RESIDENCE
When Orindale fell to Prince Marek, the imperial gardens surrounding the Barstag family residence became a tent-camp for the occupation forces maintaining order in the city. Tidy rows of delphiniums, larkspur and hollyhocks were trampled to the ground; lilac and buddleia bushes, full to bursting with sweet-smelling blossom, were chopped down for the watch-fires, and thousands upon thousands of rosemary and lavender plants were used to soften the ground beneath many a soldier’s blankets. The fragrance of the bruised stalks perfumed the air for weeks.
The civil unrest that marked the early Twinmoons of Marek’s dictatorship gave way to a more prosperous era. The busy seaport saw a decrease in Malakasia’s military p
resence, especially as commerce and trade recovered. For hundreds of Twinmoons following Marek’s takeover the imperial palace served as a barracks for the soldiers charged with patrolling the city and overseeing customs and shipping along the wharf.
Orindale was the natural choice for those supervising the steady export of goods and taxes to Malakasia, and most of these officials chose the upper floors of the opulent Barstag family palace for their private quarters. On the few occasions when a significant threat to the Malakasian hegemony rose in the east, the old structure became a command centre for the officers deploying troops to put down whatever grass roots uprising was taking shape in the Eastlands. When civil war broke out, the imperial gardens – a city park in more peaceful Twinmoons – reverted to its former guise as an encampment for foot soldiers securing the city and once again whatever flowers and shrubs had reclaimed the greensward were trodden into the mud, burned in campfires and used to soften the ground where soldiers slept.
Sallax, approaching the imperial grounds from the south, noticed that the broad, tree-lined park was full of square eight-person tents, wooden carts, fire-pits and buried latrine trenches. A half-rotten, half-eaten mound of hay lay abandoned beside a ramshackle corral, though none of the soldiers still quartered on the palace grounds appeared to have been assigned horses, and the army’s work-horses were stabled in a far larger enclosure out near what remained of the eastern pickets.
‘A Moon ago, this whole park was tents,’ Brexan said.
‘They don’t know what they’re doing,’ Sallax replied. ‘Malagon’s carriage hasn’t moved all Twinmoon. Most of the generals probably think he died in the explosion.’
‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’
‘They must be bickering about what to do by now.’
‘But surely it must be obvious to them that no major attack is coming?’ Brexan wondered. ‘Why stay dug in now that it’s so cold?’
