by J. W. Webb
A shriek sliced the silence. Corin froze, sensing sudden movement to his left. Instinctively he ducked low. A sharp hiss whistled over his head followed by a soft thud, and the quivering shaft of an arrow embedded itself in a nearby tree.
Corin jumped to his feet, longsword ready, wishing that he hadn’t left his new bow and steel coat with Thunder.
Too late now. Corin pitched himself into the undergrowth hoping to spot the archer as he half ran half stumbled forward, but there was no sign of his assailant. He cursed as a cacophony of weird howls erupted from all directions. From somewhere closer, a man’s angry shout was joined by the sudden clash of steel.
Corin took shelter behind a ruined wall. He listened, gauging numbers and distance. The sound of fighting echoed through the ruined houses. Close to his right was the old inn; a half-open door hinted at shadows.
Corin waited as seconds passed and the ringing peel of steel grew closer, accompanied by another series of dreadful howls. From somewhere behind the inn a woman’s voice yelled something obscene. There was no fear in that voice, only outrage and disgust.
Corin waited no longer. With a yell he hurled himself through the door. Shadows leapt up as he ran headlong through the building finding nothing but another door through which he crashed amid a shower of splinters. The inn was empty, but outside, the sound of fighting rose higher.
Chapter 12: The Groil
Roman cursed and spat in disgust as he dispatched another hooded Dog Face with his broadsword. To his right the Queen held her own, cutting and thrusting with consummate skill. Roman was glad she’d bid him teach her swordplay.
Her Highness had proved an able student, after only several months proving a match for most of his men. After a year they couldn’t touch her. Even Roman got a sweat on when sparring with the Queen.
He heard Tamersane curse as a fiend lashed out at him. Instinctively, Roman spun on his heels, launching a dazzling riposte into the dog-creature’s back. The thing howled and crumpled as Roman’s sword tore into it. No meat—just teeth and gristle. Roman looked horrified, and the stink of the thing almost made him retch. Sorcery—it had to be. These things were way too ugly to be naturel. Roman gagged, took out another one with a back sweep.
Whatever these dog-things were, they were not difficult to kill, which was just as well for there seemed no end of them. They were everywhere, howling and shrieking like rabid wolves, emaciated bodies veiled behind long cloaks, with snarling snouts and lolling wet tongues, the brown-yellow teeth snaggled and long.
Roman was a seasoned warrior; he’d crossed swords with many strange folk. But what these dog-things were he had no idea. The odd glance he got beneath a hood wasn’t encouraging, revealing canine yellow eyes and pointy hairless ears the color of freshly spilled blood.
Their skin, when visible, was blackened and burnt. Worse than any of that, the things stank like Kella’s sewers in high summer. Roman blocked a wild blow from a creature and slit its belly open with a back sweep. No guts—just foul yellow gas venting out. Roman wretched. The stench was beyond description. The creature crumpled like folded paper in a fire, but others clustered and snarled around Roman until he was surrounded.
Die you honking howlers!
Roman hewed and hacked, sending skinny blackened limbs in all directions. Then something struck his head from behind and he pitched forward into darkness.
Ariane saw her champion fall and cried out in fury, thrusting her rapier into the dribbling snout of a dog-fiend. Tamersane leapt to cover her right, and behind her Galed babbled in panic and swung about wildly with his woodman’s axe.
The Queen fought on in grim defiance. It was obvious to her that they had been stalked for days, that these dog creatures were the same devils that had scared their horses. Caswallon must have got word of her movements despite their efforts at secrecy.
Now they were trapped, and more of the creatures emerged from the woods beyond the village. There seemed no end to them. Ariane thrust her free hand up at her hood, freeing her dark locks. She could see better, but what she saw wasn’t encouraging. Roman lay motionless to her left, blood oozing from his head, and the enemy surrounded the group of them. Snarling barking, some stood on two legs and others four. She felt Tamersane’s back ram against her own as the howlers closed around them.
Elanion, make it quick! Ariane shut her eyes, waiting for the inevitable searing pain.
It never came.
Instead she heard a heavy crash and thump. Someone shouted something obscene. Ariane opened her eyes and blinked. A severed dog-head flew past her ear, spraying her face with stinking ooze. She gagged at the stench then gaped in surprise.
A stranger had entered the fray; hacking and slicing like a man possessed, with a massive sword. Ariane had never seen such manic violence. Yet for all his lack of grace, the longswordsman was lethal.
Wild eyed and shaggy-haired, rangy and tall, he ploughed into the back of two dog-heads, dispatching them with a savagery she’d not witnessed before. Three more lay motionless at his feet before the others realized they were being attacked and turned in snarling rage to confront this new antagonist.
Ariane found her strength again. She launched herself at a hooded hound with renewed passion. Silon’s mercenary had arrived just in time. And what a warrior he was!
***
Corin felt the familiar rage soar through his veins. He slew and slew, venting his wrath, hewing the hooded dog-creatures surrounding the young woman. There she stood, small and defiant, shouldered by a fair-haired warrior. A second fighter lay motionless on the ground and a third, smaller man, flailed about with two hands gripping a small ax.
They were garbed as Silon had said they would be, in the tattered green robes of Elanion’s travelling priests. The Queen was pretty in a sharp-nosed angular sort of way. Her body (those bits showing, which weren’t many) seemed well put together, her motions fluid, lithe like a dancer’s, and her dark eyes hinted at a hell-cat temper.
Corin had managed a quick study whilst awarding a warped grin in her direction, just before dispatching another fiend with a backhanded sweep from Clouter—a practiced blow, that one. It caught most his enemies unawares.
But the bloody things kept coming.
It was proving monotonous. Corin sliced and stabbed, lunged and clubbed. Dark stinking blood and doglike limbs flew everywhere, but it was useless. They kept coming out of the trees. Thirty? Forty? Hard to tell. Lots, anyway, and every one reeking like last month’s leftovers.
More of the creatures turned toward Corin, demanding his full attention. These newcomers carried curved, serrated blades in their claw like hands and commenced swinging them hungrily, aiming for his throat. Corin dived and ducked, lashed out and kicked, whilst Clouter claimed two more bodies.
And still they came—some on four legs some on two. It didn’t seem to matter. Corin could see the smaller man, clearly no fighter, was panicking as he tried vainly to protect his Queen. The fool actually appeared to be more of a hindrance to her. The fact that he was still alive was something of a miracle. The Queen fought on in desperation whilst the fair-haired warrior battled skillfully beside her.
The ground beneath Corin’s feet was slippery with the stinking blood of the dog-fiends. He’d lost count of the dead. Corin cursed under his breath. He was tiring fast, and his brief glimpses of the others showed the exhaustion on their faces.
Clouter whirled full circle, cutting clean through three dog-things and spraying gore in all directions. Mid-swing Corin stole a glance at the Queen. She looked shattered, and her priest’s cloak was covered in dark blood.
It’s not ending like this.
Corin channeled his rage and tapped into his reserves, ramming his wolf’s-head pommel hard into the snarling face of a dog-creature. He jumped back, blocked a clumsy thrust from another one with his forearm. Then one grabbed his leg from behind. Corin swung round, reaching for his knife with his left hand, but he lost his footing in the slippery mud.
Dog Face stooped over him, snarling and dribbling with serrated blade held ready. Corin winced at the foul stench of the creature’s rancid breath.
Get on with it, you pile of dog shite!
Dog Face obliged, closing in to finish him. Corin’s desperately searching left hand eventually freed the dagger in his boot. He stabbed upwards hard in the general direction of Dog Face’s groin, hoping that region actually housed something worth puncturing.
The fiend shrieked as the knife tore into its blackened flesh. It fell backward, but then another took its place, towering over Corin, a double-headed axe grasped in its leathery paws.
Welcome to the party, stinky.
The weapon rose up and Corin strained to lift Clouter, but it was useless.
Bugger you, Silon….
Corin tensed for the deathblow. But the creature let out a strange grunt and dropped the axe, pitching snout first to the dirt. Protruding from its back was a grey fletched arrow.
Corin rolled free, seizing Clouter with blood-slippery hands, his strength renewed with having cheated death yet again.
Gercha! Corin hewed and hacked, skewered and sliced, driving the creatures back; he was happy—in his element.
More arrows whistled from the trees, striking the hooded dog-things with deadly accuracy. The creatures howled in fear, gaping about in search of this new foe. Corin felled two more, pausing when a gruff voice barked approval and another sword joined with his own.
It was the wounded man back on his feet. Corin grinned, recognizing Roman Parrantios, the famed Champion of Kelwyn, who he’d once seen at tournament in Wynais.
The champion still bled profusely from his earlier blow, but he fought with skilled tenacity. Within moments most of the enemy lay butchered at their feet. A remaining few fled on all fours into the woods, but the arrows followed them with mortal precision. Soon the yapping and howling ceased. None survived. This archer, whoever he was, was thorough.
Corin wiped his sword on the nearest creature’s cloak. Breathing heavily, he looked around for a sign of the hidden archer. He saw nothing. There was nobody there. Even the bracken and nettles around the old path lay undisturbed. It was as though the archer were a phantom from the forest.
“Whoever you are, thanks!” Corin called out breathlessly, scanning the trees. His new companions were panting and sitting a way off, nursing aches and bruises. They were worn out, but Corin had got his second wind. He stomped about for a moment and then wandered over to join his new friends. They viewed his approach from the inn’s drafty courtyard as dusk settled in the glade.
The woman caught his eye as she fastidiously wiped filth from her cloak.
“You must be Corin an Fol,” she said, her voice clear and confident. “We are in your debt, longswordsman. I thank you, sir.”
“A pleasure,” Corin mumbled, awkwardly aware that this was the first Queen he’d encountered. She didn’t look like a Queen in his opinion, more like a hell-cat—with fierce black eyes and sharp feral features. Pretty, though, in a hungry, pouncy sort of way.
“May I introduce Squire Galed,” the young woman continued, gesturing toward the sweat-soaked, balding man who still gripped his tiny axe with both hands as if he expected to see at least another twenty dog-fiends re-emerge from the murk. The man blinked at Corin, who grinned back.
“And these valiant fighters are two of my finest warriors. The noble Tamersane of Port Wind, my cousin.” The fair-haired warrior grinned as if he’d heard something amusing.
“Hello mate.” He smiled at Corin and thrust out a gloved right hand. Corin shook it. “That’s a big tool you carry.” Tamersane’s eyes were on Clouter.
“And my stalwart champion, Captain Roman Parrantios,” the woman said after awarding Tamersane a pained expression. Corin turned to where Roman stood leaning on his broadsword. The champion’s bearded face was streaked with blood, most of it his own. Roman grinned horribly at Corin.
“Greeting, longswordsman,” Roman said. “Good fight, eh? I was just breaking into a sweat!”
Corin grasped Roman’s hand in friendship. “Me too,” he replied, eyes smiling, and Squire Galed looked at him with a mixture of disgust and bewilderment.
“Warriors,” Galed grumbled under his breath. “You’re all mad as bats.”
“And I,” continued the woman, flashing her fierce dark eyes in his direction, “am Ariane san Kelwyn.”
Corin nodded. He sank to his knees before her, not quite knowing the right thing to say or do. He eventually managed, “I have been asked to aid Your Highness, to find the Oracle in the forest.”
“On your feet, good fellow. Kneeling doesn’t suit your kind.” Her tongue was sharp, but an impish smile accompanied it: Corin realized he was going to have problems with this Queen. He felt a fart coming on and held it back betwixt his buttocks, now not being the time.
“Here we are and in one piece, though barely.” Ariane wrinkled her nose with distaste at the mass of doglike bodies strewn around the inn. Corin was impressed by her calm manner; she appeared unshaken by the fight.
The Queen was not very tall, quite short in fact, but she carried authority as one used to commanding armies of men—very confident for one so young.
She was, he decided, very pretty, if one could describe a Queen as pretty. Not beautiful but definitely worth a go were he to get the chance—unlikely as that surely was. But you never know. He’d got off to a good start, showing up when he did. That had to count for something.
Her face was oval with a slightly pointed chin, and her pert, sharp nose showed a faint dusting of freckles. It was her eyes that demanded Corin’s attention. Those wicked jets could render a man witless.
Queen Ariane’s hair was cut at shoulder length, black as raven’s wing and glossy thick. She caught his questing eye, and her small mouth tilted upwards slightly. Corin reddened, feeling a stirring below.
Ease back, trigger…
“We need to decide our next move first,” Roman Parrantios was saying. He was on his feet again and restless. He stooped to kick the lifeless body of one of their attackers. “There may be more of these dog-things about.”
Corin reached down and pulled the hood from the nearest figure. The canine face beneath was hideously scarred and deformed, with twisted snout and gaping yellow dead eyes.
“What manner of beings are they?” Corin asked, incredulous that such things actually existed. They reminded him of the thing in the courtyard the other night.
“They are called Groil, if I remember my history correctly,” answered Ariane. “They were servants of the Urgolais who used to haunt these lands before the coming of King Kell. Caswallon must have grown powerful indeed if he sent these creatures to slay us.”
“That bastard has a lot to answer for,” growled Roman. He thanked Galed. The squire, finally convinced that their enemies were all dead, had stowed the wood axe back in his belt and stood wiping the champion’s bloody face with a damp cloth.
“You’ll mend,” he ventured after fussing and tutting for a nonce. “Your head’s as thick as an ox.”
“Thanks,” replied Roman dryly.
“Caswallon has been given great powers by the Urgolais,” the Queen was saying. “These Groil creatures must have been awakened by their dark wizardry. May the Goddess curse our enemies!”
Galed finished with Roman’s face and sloped off weary. Corin exchanged glances with Roman. The big fighter appeared a cheerful soul, perhaps forty, darkly bearded with broken nose and three missing teeth. Despite that, the Champion of Kelwyn was still a handsome man, and Corin, like many others, had heard of his colorful exploits among the ladies of court at Wynais.
Tamersane appeared rather aloof and distant, a bit in love with himself. And this Galed character was an irritant, Corin decided. The scrawny squire had more hair on his face than on his head. He seemed to be constantly complaining, and Corin took an instant dislike to him.
“We must flee from here, Queen!” Galed was whining. “Let u
s make for the forest; it will be safer under cover.
“No!” snapped Corin with a sudden venom that turned all faces in his direction.
Even the bored-looking Tamersane raised a quizzical brow.
“Why ever not, friend Corin?” he asked with his winning smile. Tamersane was much too handsome for Corin’s liking. Beneath his green cloak, he was garbed like a peacock. He wore a superior look on his patrician features, and a mop of thick yellow hair—as blonde as his Queen’s was dark— thatched his broad shoulders. Those clear blue eyes sparkled with sardonic humor. A smug git, this one, Corin thought.
“Squire Galed here can get overexcited upon occasion, but for once his words appear sensible enough.” Tamersane studied Corin with shrewd eyes behind his easy smile.
Corin shook his head. “Evening is upon us. The forest is dangerous even in daylight, but in the dark it is perilous indeed. Let us stay within these crumbling walls tonight and regain our strength. Tomorrow at first light, we will enter the forest.”
“But this is madness, Queen!” Galed tugged at her sleeve like a pleading puppy. “Who is this wild man to advise us, this mercenary from the backwoods.” Corin’s eyes narrowed dangerously at that. “We could be attacked in the night,” Galed continued, “and this place has a very bad feeling about it. I—”
“Shut up, you little prick!” Corin cut in. “We stay put tonight. I may be a northern lowlife, but I know this country, ‘Squire’ Galed. And I know that friggin’ forest! So shut up. Please.”
Both the Queen and her champion were looking at Corin curiously whilst Tamersane grinned like a tomcat.
“He’s a smooth talker, this longfellow.”
“Shut up, Tamersane.” That from the Queen.
“But the enemy knows we are here!” grumbled Galed, refusing to quit, his face furious with being addressed as both “prick” and “little.” To his right, the Queen was smirking slightly. Galed saw her expression and looked wounded. He persisted as one under siege.
