Defenders of the Valley

by K. J. Coble

  Vohl took a steadying breath. “Just...just haven’t had to do that in awhile.” He wiped flecks from dry lips and managed a nod and a smile for his friend. “Yeah...I’ll be fine.” It was a lie; but it was what the gnome wanted—needed—to hear.

  “Skinners,” Dodso said, shaking his head and sinking to his knees beside Vohl. “Brutish, brainless scum...what...what are they doing so far south?”

  “I don’t know.” Dead faces from a past he’d thought buried haunted Vohl momentarily. He bit down hard and forced the tide of memories back.

  Muddle tromped down from the bow and knelt before the two of them, looking as calm as if they had just negotiated a sandbar rather than fought for their lives. Only the quivering of his batwing ears hinted at any reaction. “I’d say we know what happened to those fishermen now.”

  Vohl nodded. “We’ve got to keep going.”

  “We’re not going to turn around?” Dodso’s voice cracked.

  “The river’s too narrow at this point,” Muddle said. “It doesn’t widen again till we reach Edon Village.”

  “And we’ve got to go at least that far,” Vohl said, cutting off Dodso’s further protests, “to warn Jayce.”

  “What if these creatures are already at Edon Village?” Dodso asked.

  Vohl exchanged a look with Muddle. The half-breed’s eyes offered no advice or assurance. Vohl groaned with the pain of muscles strained in ways they hadn’t been in years and staggered to his feet. He nodded at the barbarian dead sprawled across the deck.

  “Let’s get this garbage cleaned off my ship.”

  PAIN FLASHED THROUGH her ribs as Illah managed to sit up. With her fever broken and the fog of illness and shock fading, strength coursed back into her body, as had an urgent need to get moving. Through the walls of the wizard’s tower, she could hear the Skinners’ drums pummeling their frantic thunder.

  Illah rose from the bed, sheets brittle from dried sweat falling away. Toes curled at the bitter chill of floor stones. She ignored discomfort and moved across the shadowy chamber to where her sword leaned against the wall beside a neat pile of her clothes and battered armor – the clothes apparently cleaned and the leathers oiled.

  She reached out and nearly sagged in relief at the touch of her sword grip, the joy of being able to take care of herself—defend herself—again. Releasing the handle, she fumbled through her things and pulled out her tunic – tears stitched, she was pleasantly surprised to see, the bloodstains mostly scrubbed away. She ducked into the garment, glad for the security clothing instinctively brings.

  A presence moved outside the chamber. Illah lunged for her blade, drew the weapon and came to a ready stance as the door swung open.

  A slender man with light ebony skin stood in the doorway, the light of the candelabra in his fist glimmering over a cleanly-shaved skull. He half-smiled as he met her gaze, a friendly crinkling at the corner of silver-gray eyes that seemed too old for his otherwise vaguely youthful face. He wore a black-gray tunic of expensive cut, cinched at the waste by a polished leather belt, clasped at one hip with a pewter buckle fashioned in the likeness of tangled serpents. Silver-thread runes at the collar, cuffs and hem, and the brooch at his throat, featuring a shimmering ruby-like stone, made him a wizard.

  Illah eased her grip on the sword ever so slightly. “Zerron?”

  He stepped into the room and set the candelabra on the table. “You may call me Jayce. And Danelle tells me you are Illah.”

  “Ilanahl Aloicil,” she replied, “of the Yntuil.” She shrugged. “Illah is fine.”

  He grinned and nodded at the naked blade. “I’m not terribly fond of swords. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Illah said with a shake of her head. She returned the weapon to its sheath and leaned over her belongings. She glanced back at Zerron and managed a wisp of smile. “Do you mind?”

  “Certainly not,” he replied, still grinning, and turned his back to her. “I see you’re feeling better.”

  “Thanks to you, yes.” Illah stepped into her riding hose, dragging them up her legs and drawing the ties tight. She reached for her leathers, ignoring continued twinges of pain in ribs still tightly bound by a sheath of bandages about her torso. “Whatever wizardry you worked upon me has been most effective.”

  “It was part magic, part knowledge of sciences most have forgotten,” Zerron said. “And it was our pleasure. Though, I must add—” he glanced over his shoulder at her, in the process of drawing the lamellar corslet over her shoulders “—I don’t think you’re ready for that quite yet.”

  Illah hid a wince of discomfort as she tugged the armor snug about her. “I’ll be the judge of what I’m ready for, thank you.”

  The wizard chuckled and turned to fully face her again. “Danelle said you were stubborn.”

  “It’s the only reason I’ve survived,” she replied.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Zerron’s smile faded, eyes cooling to seriousness. “What is it that happened to you? Is your Order aware of—”

  “I’m the Order now!” Illah snapped, faces of the dead staring accusation from the recesses of her mind. She winced and looked at the floor, couldn’t meet the wizard’s strange, silvery gaze. A deep breath chased back some of the ghosts and kept the one face—his face—from leering out of every darkened corner. “I’m sorry.”

  “Quite all right,” Zerron said softly. “Take your time.”

  “The Watch Tower has fallen. I saw it. There were a few Yntuil not there, ranging in other parts of the Valley. But, seeing how thoroughly we were surprised, I can only assume the rest are wiped out.” Illah licked cracked lips, her throat going suddenly dry. “We were betrayed by one of our own.” She nodded towards the wall, resounding with the rumble of Skinner war drums. “He—the traitor—is probably with them now, following me...the last.”

  “I see,” Zerron said quietly. “Then it is as I thought; this is no simple barbarian uprising.”

  “That is why I must go!” Illah said, her voice going ragged with desperation. “I bring great danger to you all!”

  Zerron shook his head. “There must be more to it than that. I have never heard of the Skinners concentrating in such a way. They are as apt to fight one another as to attack the civilized Valley. What can have unified them so?”

  “I have told you why!” Illah snapped. “For a wizard you’re pretty slow on the uptake!”

  Zerron arched an eyebrow at her. “One Yntuil draws the wrath of all the tribes? Unlikely. And why attack the Watch Tower and the Order, at all? There are certainly easier nuts for the Skinners to crack. No, there is something else behind this rampage.”

  Illah opened her mouth for a retort but held it in check as something she’d heard in a conversation with him stirred in her memory. “There...had been some talk that the Skinners had found a new religion, new gods.”

  Zerron’s features hardened, something that might have been a touch of fear crystallizing in his eyes. “New gods...something your Order has always monitored with an eye out for the resurgence of...darker things.”

  Illah’s guts chilled, left her hovering on the edge of debilitating despair. Oh, Lonadiel...what have you done? She shook herself and picked up her sword, girded it to her hip. “I must go.”

  “You’re going nowhere,” Zerron said, stepping towards her.

  “You plan on stopping me?”

  The wizard gave a nervous chuckle. “Not I. But I think the thousands ringing this tower might have something to say about it. And they have a sorcerer with them.”

  “They had one at the Watch Tower, too.”

  Zerron nodded. “A magic-user of some crude talent, instructed in—or at least familiar with—the Verraxian teachings of an Acolyte of the Sun.”

  Illah considered this. “Can you slip me by this wizard?”

  “Maybe,” Zerron said, “but it’s not just you or I or Danelle. There is an entire Village outside, counting on my aid. They have no other—” Zerron paused, looked to the walls
.

  The drums had stopped. Horns sounded.

  “They come again.” Zerron nodded at the sword on Illah’s hip. “Well, I hope you are as ready to wield that as you think you are.”

  A FULL MOON ROSE OVER Edon Village and the wizard’s tower. Rays of warmthless, silvery brilliance lit Londaiel’s way as he stepped to Ango Morug’s side, atop the ridge and looking down along bristling barbarian lines. Their drums halted and thousands of barbarian warriors waited in uncharacteristic silence.

  “Ready,” Lonadiel said to the wizard.

  Morug sat cross-legged before a small fire, yellowy flickers painting strange, lifelike shadows in the Verraxian’s smirking features. Leaning on his staff, he rose to his feet. “Then what do you wait for?”

  “Lookouts have spotted a river boat coming up the Talos,” Lonadiel replied.

  Morug frowned. “I thought the river had been interdicted south of here?”

  “It had. Whoever they are, they must have broken through the ambuscade.” Lonadiel fingered the grip of his sword. “The runners say she bears the markings of Eredynn.”

  “Not the Legion?” Morug met Lonadiel’s gaze, quicksilver eyes stilling to a metallic cool.

  “I don’t see how it could be.” Lonadiel glanced over the Skinners’ preparations. While certainly not siege works, their solid mass had kept the villagers in. “We had reports that the ambush had netted the only boats that had escaped. No, it has to be some trader.”

  “A trader tough enough to break through,” Morug said.

  Lonadiel shrugged. “I wanted you to be aware.”

  “Thank you,” the wizard said without inflection.

  “They will witness this,” Lonadiel pressed. “Word will certainly spread now.”

  “It matters little at this point.” Morug glared at Lonadiel. “You have an attack to lead.”

  Lonadiel began to say something but held it in. Uncertainty swirled in his chest. Nothing seemed to have gone as smoothly as planned, small defeats that seemed to build together, signaling a larger defeat on the horizon. And what of Lonadiel and his plans if that were the case?

  “I’m waiting,” Morug said with an impatient sigh. If he had misgivings, they remained veiled behind those strange eyes.

  Lonadiel turned and strode downhill toward the front of the most powerful Skinner clan. He drew his saber to the howled acclaim of the barbarians. Below, in the moonlight, the pitiful tatter of the villagers’ line quivered behind their low stone wall. Lonadiel raised his blade high.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Lonadiel saw Morug unfurl his cloak like a great black bird shaking out its wings. Cyan witch fire gathered about the winged skull head of his staff.

  Lonadiel brought his sword down with a chop. The Horns of the Hunt blared and the barbarian horde surged forth. The sky crashed with wizardry overhead.

  A NERVOUS, HEAT-LIGHTNING flicker silhouetted Jayce Zerron’s tower, the shriek and crash of magic and the rumble of drums carrying across the still waters of the Talos. Widened to a couple hundred yards at this point, the river gave the Imp ample room to pass the conflagration by.

  Vohl stood at the bow, Muddle chomping his pipe stem at one side and Dodso leaning on the gunwale at the other. Behind them, Tev and the lads waited in silence, flickers from the shore lighting tight faces.

  “That’s bloody war, out there,” Dodso said.

  “And a friend trapped in the middle of it,” Vohl replied quietly. He looked at Muddle.

  “What are you thinking?” the half-breed asked.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Muddle shrugged. “It’s like you said; Jayce is our friend.” He scratched a notched ear. “Hell of a risk, though. We might ground on the shallows. We’re loaded heavy for Threshold.”

  “You’re not serious.” Dodso put his hand on Vohl’s forearm. “We barely got through that ambush.”

  Vohl yanked free of the gnome. “There are a hundred or so in the village. We’d have to dump the cargo.”

  Muddle grimaced. “Costly. We’d be flirting with bankruptcy.”

  “I could petition Vennitius for the losses, in light of our service to the state.”

  “You really think you could pry Aigann’s purse strings loose for a settlement?” Dodso asked with a derisive snort. “And what if the rat asks just what it was we were hauling?”

  Vohl glared at the gnome. But Muddle nodded, saying, “The little one makes a good point.”

  “So, you just want to sail by while that is going on?” Vohl asked, looking back and forth between his friends.

  Both looked away.

  Vohl cursed under his breath and turned to pace aft, passing through the ship’s crew. Tev glanced at him and Vohl could see naked fear, even in the old oarsman’s eyes. They don’t want to do it. Vohl pinched the bridge of his nose as he neared the aft cabin. Hell, I don’t want to do it. He looked again to the shore.

  Memories awakened by the fight earlier that day surged to the forefront again. Vohl remembered a hellishly hot day on the edge of the Ythengar Steppes, years ago, a third of the army cut off by the Horse-Lords, the rest of the Legions waiting, watching the slaughter helplessly—then the order to withdraw, leaving thousands to their doom. They had marched a thousand miles home after that, guilt and shame bleeding away their ranks more than the elements or the harrying of the barbarians.

  I can’t do it, Vohl thought with his guts drawing themselves into knots of nausea. He turned slowly. The eyes of the crew and his friends drilled into him.

  “Look,” he said slowly, “I know it’s not what you all signed on for, but we’ve got to do something.” He gestured across the river. “There are people dying out there.”

  No one spoke. No one met his gaze. One of the lads, the one shoulder-injured by the sling-stone, shifted, causing the bench beneath him to groan. It occurred to Vohl that they might refuse, might even mutiny. He could only count on Muddle and Dodso, at that point. Maybe not even Dodso.

  “We can get in fast,” Vohl rushed to continue. “We ditch the cargo and slide in, dock at the piers, load up everyone we can. We won’t stay any longer than we have to.”

  Still no response, though Muddle puffed himself up, his decision obviously already made.

  “Anyone who doesn’t feel they can do this can board the launch—” the tiny rowboat tied to the after deck “—but, they’ll be missing out on the bonus.” Ears perked up at that. Vohl forced a nervous smile. “I’d say this definitely qualifies as activating the risk-clause in your contracts. It’s gold cisterces to any who come.” And if dumping the cargo doesn’t bring me to the edge of bankruptcy, Vohl thought, this may very well push me over the edge.

  The crew looked about at one another, some life coming to them now. Tev broke the silence, pounding his quarterstaff to the deck. “Well why didn’t you say so?” he barked. “Come on, lads! There’s gold on that, there shore!”

  The crew hustled to their feet, even the injured ones, scrambling to begin the cargo dump. Vohl stepped through them, clapping Tev on the shoulder, relief making the friendly blow perhaps a little too hard. He rejoined Muddle and Dodso at the bow.

  “Pretty speech,” Dodso said. “I don’t suppose I qualify for that bonus?”

  Vohl shot the gnome a weary look. “The launch is waiting. I think you could manage it alone.”

  “Yeah, but could I be certain you’d pick me up afterwards?” The gnome was smiling, despite the glum tone.

  Noticing that Dodso had tucked the carpentry hammer into his belt, Vohl patted him on the shoulder. “You know, Jayce isn’t the only good friend I have.”

  Dodso scowled. “Shut up.”

  WIZARDRY HAMMERED DANELLE’S aura, pulses of coherent light rippling around Jayce like the hot breath of dozens of wild animals crowding in on him. The aura held and Jayce summoned another spell behind it. An instant later, the sky birthed streaks of fire that sped down on the source of the magical attacks, seeking the unseen ene
my wizard. The assault on the tower top abated as shafts of lightning blazed on the ridge top, blasting Jayce’s animate flames as they snapped about the wizard in a hornet’s swarm.

  That will buy a few seconds, Jayce thought as he mopped sweat from his brow. The rogue sorcerer had pulled out all the stops, pinning Jayce and Danelle down with a storm of magic that left Jayce wondering at the source of his foe’s strength. Time’s wasting, he reminded himself and looked down from the battlements.

  The surviving villagers had used the days-long lull while the Skinners mustered well, reinforcing the wall with a crude palisade of sharpened stakes. A few of the more industrious or brave had ventured out to the lower slope to dig holes and leave traps normally meant for animals.

  All of these contributed to the disruption of the barbarian wave, now staggering and stumbling to get to grips, savaged by arrows, rocks, and even thrown garbage as they labored to reach the wall. But the weight of a thousand-bodied avalanche was on the Skinners’ side and while the main force ground uphill, a second group shifted to the left again, seeking the weaker defenses near the river bank.

  But booby traps were not all that the villagers had strewn in the barbarians’ path. Jayce, with Fletcher’s help, had mustered a few hardy souls to carry specially-prepared packages out onto the field, packets wrapped in oily, rune-inked paper that if one looked closely enough appeared to contain knots of rubbery fish-matter. As the Faces gathered their momentum for the last rush, Jayce fanned his fingers over the battlefield and whispered a carefully-memorized passage.

  Barbarians shrieked in terror below as inhuman motion boiled in their midst. Tentacles of shiny blue-black something blossomed forth, writhing amongst the barbarians, clenching limbs, throwing bodies or pounding them into pulp against their fellows. Skinners scattered, many, recalling the horrors of the first assault, stampeding for the rear with no thought of shame, only mindless terror. Some stood their ground, hacking as the tendrils serpentined among them, chopping tentacles—and sometimes one another—that dropped to the earth, only to birth new snake’s nests of magical abomination.