by A. J. Smith
Then a shout from behind and a high-pitched gurgle of pain. A horse whinnied and then fell silent, and a fleeting black shape darted past her. A man tumbled to the grass, his head annihilated in a flash of movement, and another was flung into the air by a tentacle that was barely a shadow.
‘Form up,’ shouted Xander, pointing Peacekeeper at the black distortion that appeared to be circling them.
‘I can’t see it – what the fuck is it?’ shrieked Ashwyn, his horse sprinting desperately beneath him.
The nearest riders, unable to control their horses, could do little but flick their heads left and right, searching for the shimmering, black creature that was hounding them. Men continued to die, dragged from their saddles or turned into sudden flashes of bloody meat and torn steel.
She couldn’t see it clearly, even at a distance. Just the occasional glimpse of a cat-like distortion in the air and a sharp, elongated head. Its movements described a ghostly circle around them, keeping its distance, with Gwen, Daganay and Xander in the centre.
Everything moved so quickly. It felt as if they were on an unchangeable course, being taken north at a speed and in a direction they couldn’t control. Away... just away... that was the only direction the horses knew or the men could remember.
‘Just stay alive,’ she muttered, talking as much to herself as to her husband. In fact, she wasn’t even speaking loudly enough for him to hear her. Or maybe she wasn’t speaking at all and the words were in her head.
The cat-like creature moved closer, its circle shrinking with each man it killed. Then, in a moment that seemed to happen in slow motion, she saw the creature. It was black and sinewy, appearing to be made of the same stuff as the Dark Young, but utterly different in form and movement. It had four legs, each ending in a globe of tiny tentacles, providing it with a speed of movement that, when in motion, made it almost invisible. Its head was a thick, vertical spike, split in the middle by a fleshy mouth and a grotesque face.
‘Rham Jas,’ she muttered, seeing the misshapen face of the Kirin assassin protruding from the monster.
It broke its circle of movement and pounced towards them, its maddened face flashing with hate and hunger. She heard a hundred voices shout in alarm and a hundred faces twist into terror. The creature that had been Rham Jas leapt at Xander. It moved like a predatory cat chasing a mouse as it sprang at the king.
She wanted to be anywhere else in the world as she reached for him. She didn’t even want to be closer so that she could help – she just wanted them both to not be there. She didn’t care if they were in Haran, Tiris, Canarn or a rat-infested tavern in the back streets of Weir. She just didn’t want to watch him die – but die he did.
Alexander Tiris, the Red Prince of Haran and King of Tor Funweir, was snatched from his bolting horse and torn into three pieces in mid-air. His body was thrown upwards, twitching as life disappeared in an instant of dislocation.
Then a hand was wrapped round her shoulders and her face was pulled away from her dead husband. ‘Don’t fucking look,’ screamed Daganay. ‘Don’t you dare fucking look.’
Their horses twisted and turned in panicked lines as they fled from the creature, but it didn’t pursue. Struggling to look back through the Blue cleric’s restraining arms, Gwen saw Xander’s body, sprawled on the ground in pieces, and the beast that had been Rham Jas crouched over it... feasting. It had sought him out, killed him, and now it ate him, giving his army time to run away.
Gwen’s world turned as sharp as a blade, as clear as still water. She couldn’t experience the pain that awaited her; all she could feel were pinpoints of focus telling her to run, to live, to fight another day.
***
The hills of Narland were dark and quiet. They’d fled from the beasts with not a thought to when they should stop, but exhaustion and mental exertion had forced them to rest.
Gwen had ridden in silence, and silence was all she heard from the other riders. The bright corner of her mind that allowed a future where they could be at peace was gone. All she had left was a wall of pain and anger – and something else, maybe guilt or shame.
‘Sit down, my queen,’ said Sergeant Symon, helping her down on to a half tree-stump.
All around them, faces and bodies, too troubled to speak or act with alacrity, slumped round lazily built fires. They’d seen nothing of the creatures since leaving the duchy of Weir, but not a man thought they were safe. Even so, no barricades were raised and the army that had limped north used only the hills and endless craggy valleys of rugged green for cover.
Symon wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and eased open her clenched fists, taking each of her leaf-blades and returning them to their scabbards.
‘At least say something,’ mumbled the sergeant. ‘Any words will do.’
She’d tried to speak several times since the sun disappeared over the horizon, but nothing got as far as her mouth. Everything she could think to say was hijacked by the recurring image of Xander being torn apart without even the chance to swing Peacekeeper. Defeat was difficult enough, but to have been routed so completely had sapped each warrior of energy, conviction – even hope. All Gwen felt was a heightened version of what each of them felt. Was her loss of a husband truly so profound next to so much death? But still she could conjure no words.
‘Please, my lady,’ said Symon, tears rolling down his face as he made sure she was wrapped up. ‘We need... I don’t know what we need.’
‘It’s okay, lad,’ said Brother Daganay, plonking himself on to the grass, next to their small fire. ‘I’ll take over. Go and have some food and check the south. We still need guard detail; you see to it.’
‘Aye, Brother, thank you, Brother,’ replied Symon, hastily standing and leaving them.
Daganay leant in and warmed his hands. ‘You don’t need to say anything, Gwen. Brennan’s got things in hand. We’re clear with good visibility south. We’ll see if anything appears.’ He let out a hoarse cough and patted his stout chest. ‘Sorry, I think I might be getting old.’ He took some deep breaths and wheezed with each intake. ‘As I was saying, you can stay silent as long as you want. I’m not going anywhere. In fact...’ He looked around the wooded valley they sat in. ‘I might just stay here. I could build a house and raise chickens. I’d have to hire some hands to keep the Gorlan away, but it could be a nice life.’
It did sound nice. A simple farm, a simple life, maybe some peace. It was good country, with rich brown earth and thick trees that had stood for a hundred years. At least, it had been good country before the Dead God started a war. Now it was a graveyard, from Cozz to the gates of Weir, streaked with retreats, advances, battles, skirmishes and, most of all, death.
‘If we do choose to leave,’ continued Daganay, ‘will you be coming with us, my queen?’
She didn’t reply. She wanted to, but she still felt oppressed by the spectre of her dead husband. It was making her throat tight and refusing her the luxury of speech.
‘That’s okay,’ said the Blue cleric. ‘You can decide when we leave. I’m sure you’re not the only one who doesn’t want to think right now.’
A signal bolt was fired from the north, indicating something approaching, and both of them looked up from the campfire.
‘Shit,’ exclaimed Daganay. ‘Stay here, I’ll see what it is. It’s the wrong direction for the Hounds and their beasts, so don’t panic.’
She threw him a sardonic stare, indicating that panic was not really in her nature, dead husband or no dead husband.
‘Very well,’ conceded the cleric. ‘I won’t be long.’
He stood, wheezing heavily and flexing his back. Within a moment he’d left her small globe of light and joined other men, those with enough strength left to answer the warning bolt. Something was happening to the north. The valley opened into a wooded depression in the green expanse of Narland and more bolts were aimed skywards from the trees. Then shouting, fearful from her own men, and calm from whoever was approaching.
Symon rushed back to her side, his longsword held at the ready. ‘Men approach,’ said the young Hawk sergeant. ‘From the trees.’
She heard, but didn’t respond. Then Daganay appeared, his drawn face gliding into the firelight. ‘My queen, come with me.’
She paused, but her stupor did not extend to her legs, and she rose to join them. Her movements were faltering and she required Symon’s steady hand to walk in a straight line. Outside of her isolation, Gwen saw a long camp of deathly pale faces, each man yet to come to terms with what they had seen. It didn’t make her feel any better to see that she was not the worst affected. Some cried, others shook uncontrollably. One man repeatedly sharpened his blade in a compulsive frenzy; another just wandered back and forth, muttering to himself.
‘My queen,’ said Major Brennan, coming to meet her. ‘You are well?’
She still couldn’t speak, but Daganay nodded to him and indicated that they should keep moving.
Through the low vista of silent warriors, a few still moved with a purpose, escorting a group of men into their isolated camp. The newcomers wore tarnished leather armour, but appeared to be something more than simple mercenaries. Especially their leader. He was a tall swordsman with a greatsword sheathed across his back and a subtle air of power about him.
‘Identify yourself, stranger,’ demanded Brennan, not thinking to chastise the rearguard for letting the men into their camp. ‘This is not a good night to be wandering around in the dark.’
The group of warriors numbered two hundred or so, but their swagger conveyed more strength and confidence than their numbers alone suggested. The tall man who led them had a sureness of foot and a solidity of bearing that made him appear larger than any other man she’d seen, but still his eyes showed concern for the thousands of stricken men around him.
‘My name’s Fallon,’ said the leader. ‘What happened here?’
She’d heard of him; they all had. Fallon of Leith was a Red Knight, reputedly the best swordsman in an order of master swordsmen.
The rest of his company crouched down next to crying Hawks and shaking guardsmen, lending a comforting hand and a calm word. They hadn’t seen the waves of Dark Young and had no comprehension of what could have cowed so many warriors.
‘What happened,’ muttered Brennan. ‘We ran away, that’s what happened.’
Next to Fallon, a hawk-faced warrior with a crippled hand spoke. ‘Where’s King Alexander?’
‘Dead,’ she replied, speaking for the first time in several hours and making Daganay move next to her protectively. ‘He died at Ro Weir.’
‘We had no choice but to fall back,’ offered the Blue cleric. ‘Staying there would have been a simple waste of life, with or without King Alexander Tiris.’
She couldn’t make them understand or show them what she’d seen, but it felt good to speak again. If only to state that Xander was dead.
‘Well, we need to get you moving,’ said a third newcomer, a gruff man with serious eyes and the snarl of a sergeant major. ‘You can’t stay here.’
Brennan glared at the man. ‘Do you know who I am?’ asked the Hawk.
‘Don’t care,’ said the gruff newcomer. ‘It doesn’t change anything; you still need to move.’
‘Easy,’ said Fallon. ‘I know who you are, Major Brennan. This is Sergeant Ohms and this is Captain William of Verellian. We are Knights of the Grey and we’re here to help, but you’re being surrounded.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Daganay. ‘Not now – we need to rest. These men cannot fight, they need to calm their minds after... what they’ve seen.’
‘I don’t think the Hounds care,’ replied William of Verellian. ‘They’ve been moving into position since the sun went down, a fair few, but not their full force. Keeping far enough back that you wouldn’t see ’em.’ He glanced around the army of broken men. ‘Not that it appears you’ve been looking.’
‘Watch it, Captain,’ spat Daganay. ‘Don’t judge what you don’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t think of it,’ replied Verellian.
‘There’s something else,’ said Fallon, narrowing his eyes. ‘Something dark... I think it’s circling you. We need to get this army north, into the trees.’
***
It took so much time to muster the army of Ro. Men refused to stand, some clinging to the ground as if it was their only chance of survival, others wandering blindly out of the gully and into the darkness. Brennan and a handful of officers carried on giving orders, but they were followed only reluctantly, as if every movement involved climbing a mountain. Tents that had only been half-assembled were slowly packed away, and the remaining horses were saddled, though the majority of the men simply stood around in silent clumps, reacting to commands only slowly.
Gwen stayed with Symon at the edge of the trees, watching Daganay assist a startled group of Montague’s yeomanry. A few companies had managed to move north into the trees, but the retreat was happening far too slowly for the Grey Knights.
Fallon’s men did the best they could to help, but two hundred men could only make so much difference to twenty thousand. Especially when most of those twenty thousand were struggling to stand. The hawk-faced knight, William of Verellian, stayed on the high ground, keeping a watchful eye on the eastern plains. They believed that the Hounds were surrounding them, and with the extreme slowness of the army’s withdrawal, they were being given plenty of time to get into position.
‘Too slow, too slow,’ grumbled Verellian, whenever he looked back down into the gullies. ‘You, cleric.’ He pointed at Daganay. ‘Get those men moving.’
Daganay frowned. ‘Bloody knights,’ he muttered, doubling his efforts to get the yeomanry into the trees. ‘They always think they know best.’
Fallon appeared through the army, his face a beacon of calm and tightly controlled anger. ‘You’re Gwendolyn, yes?’ he asked. ‘The queen?’
She just nodded.
‘A lot of people are worried about you,’ he said. ‘The Hawks particularly. They want you to know that they loved their king, and they grieve with you – but they’re simple soldiers and they don’t know how to tell you. So I will.’
She looked at Symon, and saw the young Hawk fighting back tears. ‘It’s true, my lady,’ he murmured. ‘A piece of me died when I saw King Alexander fall. I don’t know who or what I fight for any more.’
She was too sad to cry, too tired to scream, but she heard every word. If only she could reply. If only she could summon words of inspiration for the young Hawk – for all of them.
‘Queen Gwendolyn,’ said Fallon, dropping to his knees, ‘I pledge myself and my knights to you and to Tor Funweir. Know that the One God is not dead, though he is weak. In the years to come, remember that he blessed you as his queen and me as his exemplar.’
‘Fallon!’ shouted Verellian from the high ground. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
The tall swordsman rose and made his way to the side of the gully. The hawk-faced knight offered his hand and helped the larger man to the dark grass above them.
‘Hounds,’ said Fallon. ‘Does that mean they’re attacking?’
‘I think it might mean just that,’ replied Verellian. ‘South and east.’
Gwen couldn’t see the Hounds, but a corner of her mind had heard every word Fallon had spoken. Many nearby warriors had heard as well, and looked at her with silent conviction.
Sergeant Ohms arrived from the south, with other members of Fallon’s company. ‘They’re coming,’ said the gruff knight. ‘A lot of them.’
‘Get these people moving,’ shouted Verellian, frustration showing in his words. ‘Do they not care that they’re being surrounded?’
Fallon looked down, casting his dark eyes over the faces of Xander’s broken army, until he locked eyes with Gwen. She echoed every hopeless sentiment felt by the army of Ro. All of their angst and grief could be seen on her drawn features. Again, she wanted to speak. To make him understand. But she couldn’t.
Fallon turned to
Verellian, placing a hand on the old knight’s shoulder. ‘We need to cover them,’ he said gently. He dropped his head for a moment, as if thinking deeply. ‘Wait.’
In two long strides, the swordsman was standing at the edge of the gully. He addressed Gwen directly. ‘My queen, if you have an ounce of survival instinct left, I invite you to take my hand. You too, cleric.’ He leant down and stretched out his arm.
She looked around, but found herself taking his hand and allowing herself to be lifted to the grass above. A sharp breeze of cold night-time air stung her face for a moment, before she managed to focus on the eastern darkness. All along the rugged plains of Narland were globes of firelight, travelling as a broken worm of movement above innumerable Hounds. Her eyes moved slowly, without a flicker of fear or murmur of alarm, across the distant line of Karesian warriors. They filled every corner of the dark plains, advancing in lockstep. There were so many of them... but all she could think of was how blank they appeared.
Verellian clicked his fingers in front of her face. ‘Are you seeing this, my queen? Or are you still in a trance?’
She ignored him, finding nothing in the dark corners of her mind to tell her how to react. At that moment, watching a slow advance of men – too many men to fight – all she wanted to do was die. She swung her head back to look at the ghostly shell of the army, and saw thousands of faces that thought the same. Though a sharp feeling of doubt entered her mind, as if she should maybe not carry on fighting.
‘My queen,’ snapped Fallon, forcing her eyes back to the dark fields and endless column of Hounds.
Then the murderous distortion appeared, darting from one shadow to the next. It was harder to see in the darkness, with its black flesh barely displacing the shadows as it moved. If it hadn’t been for the Karesians’ torches and the imprints left in the grass, she might not have seen the creature that killed her husband. She nearly screamed, but anger took the edge off her rising panic. All the other men who saw it, aside from Fallon’s company, reacted with fear and alarm, hastily pulling themselves back into the relative safety of the low gully.
