‘We cannot risk an encounter with a gaoler,’ repeated Lanista Magnus. ‘Not without Falco or another battle mage.’
The older commanders had heard of these particular demons. They scoured the land for victims that were either particularly strong or filled with deep feeling: powerful warriors, parents, children, lovers - anyone who could be made to experience a greater amount of suffering. They did not kill or possess them, they took them alive and bound their tortured bodies into bags made from chains. These bundles of human suffering were then attached to the gaoler’s belt, trailing after the demon like reservoirs of devotion that could be delivered to a greater demon, or used for some unholy purpose of the Possessed.
The thought of leaving the refugees to the mercy of such a fiend was too horrible to contemplate, but they could not risk the entire army to save a hundred refugees.
‘It makes little difference,’ said Lanista Deloix. ‘We would need to go back thirty miles to find a road that connects the two valleys.’
‘There are smaller routes,’ said the Irregular’s scout and the man from Ville de Pierre nodded in agreement. ‘Narrow gullies. Hard to find and prone to rock falls but passable with care. There is one such path just a few miles downriver.’
Lanista Magnus looked round at the eager faces of the cadets. They now shared the responsibility of commanding an army, but the cadets were too young to know that many a force had been led to disaster by the naivety of good intentions. He glanced at Lanista Deloix before Malaki directed a question to the scouts.
‘The walls of this route, they are unstable, you say?’
‘They are, my Lord,’ replied the scout.
‘They could be made to collapse?’
‘I should imagine so.’
Malaki nodded and Quirren smiled as he guessed what Malaki was thinking.
‘We could send a small force with a scout to guide them,’ said Malaki. ‘If it is safe to do so we could direct the refugees to safety and collapse the gully behind them.’
‘We cannot risk a demon coming close to the army,’ said one of the older commanders.
‘We won’t,’ said Malaki and for all his youth no one doubted the strength of his resolve. ‘If the refugees cannot be brought to safety then we will collapse the gully and return.’
Malaki’s use of the word ‘we’ was not lost on the cadets.
‘The Exiles will help,’ said Alex. ‘There may be people known to them among the refugees.’
Malaki nodded.
‘And the Dalwhinnies will guard the mouth of the gully,’ said Bryna. ‘In case any of the Possessed should break through.’
Around the command tent there was a general murmur of agreement. The finer details were yet to be decided but the outline of a plan was formed. They would send a scout to rendezvous with the refugees and guide them towards the gully that connected the two canyons. There they would be met by a small force to bring them safely through. Not enough to oppose the Possessed, just enough to fend off a forward scouting party. Finally Malaki turned to one of the aide-de-camps standing nearby.
‘Find the captain of the engineers,’ he said. ‘Tell him to find twenty men with experience of quarrying or mining. Have them gather hammers, picks and prising bars and meet us at the eastern end of the camp in one hour.’
With a nervous nod the young boy raced away and the commanders began to disperse. As Malaki made to leave the tent Lanista Magnus caught his arm.
‘This is a risky move,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it requires more strength to avoid the enemy than it does to attack.’
‘We can’t just abandon them because Falco isn’t here,’ said Malaki. ‘We have to try.’
‘Yes,’ said the Lanista, a grim expression on his scarred face. ‘We do.’
*
All through the night Falco flew north, only stopping to let Sidian rest or to check the direction of their flight. After the force of the initial challenge the sense of the Slayer’s location had faded and Falco needed to concentrate hard to discern just where in the world it had re-emerged. But as they continued north it became clear that the Slayer had returned to the place where Nathalie had driven it from the world. North and slightly east they flew, straight towards the Illician city of Hoffen and Falco wondered if Nathalie was still in the city, if she too had sensed the demon’s return and was, even now, preparing to meet the Slayer’s might once more.
Falco could not believe that the Slayer had grown weaker in its absence. He had no idea if he would have the power to damage it. All he knew was that Nathalie, or whichever battle mage now lay in its path, must not face it alone.
As the eastern sky began to lighten, he leaned down over Sidian’s back and flew on.
*
In the city of Hoffen an injured battle mage rose from his sickbed and limped out onto the crenulated walls of the citadel. The sun was rising behind a bank of cloud and he narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the light. With his left arm in a sling he struggled over to the wall as a young man in healer’s robes emerged from the tower behind him.
‘My lord!’ protested the healer. ‘The chief physician said you were not to put weight on your leg. I was to make sure you stayed in bed.’
The healer spoke the truth but the battle mage waved him away. With a worried frown the young man went to find someone who could talk some sense into their strong willed patient, but the battle mage barely noticed his departure. Despite the healing draft they had given him, his sleep had been troubled but now, as he walked out onto the battlements, he realised that the shadow in the night had not been a dream. There really was something out there in the wilds.
A gap in the clouds allowed the sun’s light to fall across the man’s pale face and he raised his good hand to shield his eyes, wincing at the sudden pain that pulsed in his temples. Perhaps the young healer was right, maybe it was too early for him to be up. Leaning on the wall he let out a sigh as the pain subsided then he glanced to one side as a tiger striped dragon emerged from the canvas shelter that the healers had erected for it. With its left foreleg held up against its body the dragon limped across the open space. There was an air of concern in its gaze as it came to stand beside him.
‘You don’t look so good yourself,’ replied the battle mage casting his eyes over the dragon’s injured body.
Like him, the dragon displayed a number of recently acquired wounds, including one to its left foreleg that prevented the dragon from walking properly. There were burn marks on its wings and a deep gash to the wing muscles on its chest, but the dragon simply curled its lip and gave a dismissive snort.
With a grim smile the battle mage placed his hand on the dragon’s neck and together they stared out over the mist shrouded moors, each trying to perceive what it was that had disturbed their sleep. The dragon’s scaled brows drew down over its vibrant orange eyes and a low growl rumbled in its throat.
‘Yes,’ murmured the battle mage. ‘There’s definitely something out there.’
The battle mage’s name was Lysander Müller, a man of thirty-four years from a rural town in the heartland of Illicia. It was now eleven years since his hometown had been overtaken by the Possessed, eleven years since his parents and sister had died in despair while he was away completing his training at the mage tower of Vaidas.
The pain of that loss still burned in his heart but he tried to console himself with thoughts of all the lives he had saved since then. Only last week he and Feurig had brought eight hundred people back to the safety of Hoffen. Like so many remote communities they had been cut off by the rapid advance of the Possessed.
It had taken twelve days, and some fierce fighting, to bring them out of the Forsaken Lands, but finally they had made it. However, the fighting had taken its toll and there was no way they could return to the front just yet. Lysander had worried about the gap their absence would leave, but Nathalie Saigal had insisted that she and Ciel would cover his region while he recovered. They too had been injured in a recent confro
ntation, but they had recovered well and there had been little evidence of Ciel’s damaged wing as the dragon flew out of the city.
That was four days ago and Lysander knew that they would now be back in the thick of it, flying from one battle to the next, slowly exhausting the strength they regained in a few weeks’ rest. Now it was his turn to recover and the frustration was worse than the pain.
Until he reached the city he had not realised just how close to death he had come. The demon’s claws had opened his thigh from knee to groin and his depleted healing skills had been unable to stop the flow of blood. Leading a column of traumatised refugees, they had stumbled into the city and it was only Nathalie’s skill, and the swift action of the healers, that had saved his life.
Now his shield arm was much better and his thigh was tight with scar tissue. Likewise, Feurig’s damaged leg and lacerated chest were beginning to heal but it would still be several weeks before they could return to the front. But now, gazing out across the moors, Lysander had the terrible feeling that the enemy was coming to them. Beside him Feurig began to snarl.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lysander as the dragon gave him a questioning look. ‘I’ve never felt its like before.’
Out there, in the morning mist they could feel the presence of a demon. Normally the enemy’s minions would avoid a confrontation with a battle mage, but this one seemed to be getting closer and Lysander’s eyes narrowed as he remembered the fearless assassin that Nathalie had spoken of.
The noise of the tower door opening broke the battle mage’s thoughts and he turned to see the chief physician striding onto the battlements while the young healer hovered in the doorway.
‘I thought I told you to stay in bed!’ said the physician, a white haired man with a stern face and keen eye. ‘How do you expect your leg to heal if you...’ The chief physician was clearly angry, but his scolding was brought to a halt by a bellowing roar that broke over the city.
Lysander turned back to the battlements and he did not need a dragon’s sight to see the dark shape emerging from the mist not half a mile from the city’s walls. His brow gathered and he gave a heavy sigh as he looked down upon the assassin that Nathalie had described.
‘Fetch my armour.’
‘What!’ cried the physician. ‘Your armour isn’t repaired and your wounds are barely closed. You’re in no condition to fight!’
The chief physician’s voice was shrill with fear and the junior healer was now cowering in the doorway. Even as the morning mist lifted from the moors, so a dreadful fear settled on the city. From the watch towers the alarm bells began to ring. They were designed to bring the city to arms, but Lysander Müller could feel the strength of the demon that had come upon them and to him the bells were like the tolling of doom.
*
The Slayer drew a breath as its challenge rolled out over the city. It was now so close that it could see the Defiant and the wyrm standing on the wall of the citadel. It was clear that both were badly injured and the Slayer felt a pang of disappointment that the satisfaction of this victory should be diminished by their weakness. But then it heard the alarm bells, the screams and the cries of panic rising up from the city. The Defiant and the wyrm might offer little gratification but a city of twelve thousand souls would provide some consolation. The first day of its return to the charnel world would not be without reward.
*
Flying low over the misty moors Falco could just make out the vague shape of a city in the distance. With no sleep and little rest both he and Sidian were exhausted but they would not let up now. They could both feel the tension mounting ahead of them, the fear in the city and the sadistic anticipation of the Slayer. Suddenly a distant roar disturbed the morning stillness. And then the far off sound of tolling bells. The city of Hoffen was going to fall and two great souls were about to die.
89
Mina
Malaki and the members of the rescue party slept little during the night. They had left the army shortly after the meeting and huddled under campaign blankets through the darkest part of the night. By sunrise they were in position. It had taken several hours to traverse the narrow gully and another two for the quarrymen to scale the cliffs and prepare them for a controlled collapse. The scouts had not been lying when they said the walls of the canyon were unstable and there had been several occasions when they needed to stop and take cover as loose rocks clattered down into the gully.
‘How the hell did they find this route?’ whispered Alex.
‘They’re scouts,’ replied Bryna. ‘It pays to know every twist and turn of the land.’
After some discussion it had been agreed that Bryna would bring a small contingent of Dalwhinnies into the gully, rather than waiting back at the entrance. Another scout had come forward to say that he knew routes leading to the summit of the crags where the archers could get a good vantage point without being vulnerable to attack. So Bryna and the Dalwhinnies climbed up to the lofty heights where they could cover the retreat of the people on the ground.
All in all the rescue party numbered almost a hundred. Malaki, Quirren and Huthgarl led a score of heavy infantry. Alex had brought a small company of Exiles and then there were Bryna’s Dalwhinnies. The rest were sturdy, callus-handed men, bearing ropes, climbing spikes and various quarrying tools. They looked nervous but resolved, for they knew that lives might depend on the skills they had to offer.
But now, as the sky above the canyon began to lighten, they were ready.
The gully joined the main canyon at a wide space where a shallow tributary ran through an area of scrubby woodland and weathered rock formations. On either side of the canyon floor there were dense banks of heather, fern and birch trees that concealed the entrance to the gully. All they needed to do was guide the refugees into the gully and retreat before the Possessed arrived. With luck their escape route would be overlooked, but if necessary the quarrymen were now ready to block it just a short way back into the gully.
Malaki glanced to one side where Alex’s Exiles were hunkered down behind a series of rock buttresses. Their black surcoats blended with the deep shadows and these sombre men had a natural capacity for remaining quiet and calm.
Glancing up, Malaki could see no sign of the Dalwhinnies who were now in place on top of the cliffs. He was glad they were out of danger, although he did not envy them having to traverse the overgrown summits of the surrounding crags which were riven with cracks and crevasses.
‘Psst!’
The small noise caught his attention and Malaki looked down to see Quirren pointing across the open space where a scout was making his way up the shallow river towards them.
‘He looks nervous,’ said Quirren and Malaki nodded.
The man was constantly turning in the saddle to look back the way he had come. As he drew closer Malaki stood out from his hiding place and gave a short whistle. The man saw him immediately and quickly crossed the canyon floor.
‘What news?’
‘The people are close, my Lord. But the enemy is not far behind.’
‘Have they been spotted? Are the Possessed pursuing them?’
‘Not pursuing,’ said the scout. ‘But it won’t be long before the people are overtaken.’
‘Can they reach us before the Possessed?’
‘Yes, my Lord. They are pushing hard but some of the children are struggling.’
Malaki bit down on his anxiety.
‘Go back to them,’ he said. ‘Bring them to us quickly and maybe we can disappear before the Possessed arrive.’
The scout gave a determined nod and urged his horse back down the canyon.
‘This is going to be close,’ said Huthgarl as they watched him disappear.
Malaki gave a thoughtful nod. Turning back towards the gully he was relieved to see that it was almost invisible, hidden by undergrowth and a convenient fold in the cliffs. So long as they did not leave a clear trail they should be okay.
The minutes stretched out and the tension
mounted but presently they could hear people approaching. The sound of shuffling footsteps, the crying of an infant and the occasional cough echoed off the canyon walls.
‘Here they come,’ said Quirren as the refugees appeared around a bend in the canyon.
Throwing caution to the wind the three of them moved into the open and waved the people forward.
‘Come on!’ they hissed. ‘This way!’
The people spotted them and surged towards the gully that might see them safe.
‘So many!’ said Alex, who had come to stand beside them.
‘Where’s the scout?’ asked Huthgarl.
‘Probably checking on the Possessed,’ said Malaki.
‘By the stars, but those scouts have some courage,’ said Quirren and they all nodded.
It was one thing to stand and fight in the ranks of an army. Quite another to roam the countryside alone, tracking the enemy and gathering information, while trying all the while to avoid discovery and capture.
‘Alex,’ said Malaki as the first of the refugees approached. ‘Have the Exiles guide them through in small groups.’
Alex nodded and began to move away.
‘Keep them calm but keep them moving.’
‘Hot soup and warm blankets,’ said Alex with a smile.
‘Exactly,’ said Malaki.
Quirren looked at his brother with fondness as Alex met the first of the refugees.
‘Grüße madam,’ said Alex. ‘Dies weise für die heiße suppe und warme decken.’
The woman’s face cracked with emotion at the sound of such kind words spoken in her native tongue. Taking Alex’s hand she kissed it warmly before ushering her children to follow this young soldier in the shining armour and black surcoat. At his command, more of the Exiles emerged from cover to bring their countrymen into the safety of the gully. They spoke to them in calming tones, resisting the urge to ask questions about where they had come from and who they might know. Such things could wait until the danger had passed.
Slowly the line of refugees came on, but Malaki could now see that they were quite strung out with some of the oldest and youngest bringing up the rear. As the last few dozen came into view the canyon was filled with the sound of approaching hooves. Suddenly the scout appeared, riding fast. He did not shout but his frantic waving made the situation clear.
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