by Mark McCabe
But if, he claimed, rather than try to fight their way out, the Algarians defended the town and forced the sligs to fight for every street, almost for every house, then the trained warriors would be out of their natural element and the odds would be evened up considerably. He didn’t think they could win the battle, but he did think they could hold the sligs up for days, precious days that would help the rest of their countrymen.
The sligs had entered through the merchant’s quarter, that part of the town nearest the main gates. The goal was to slow their advance through that section. Once that was lost, it was every man for himself. The best chance then would be to slip out over the walls after dark and try to evade the slig patrols. At least some of them should be able to make it back to wherever it was the defensive line was now being formed. Captain Sulyok was insistent that one was being formed. They all knew they had to believe that. If not, then what was the point of their stand?
And so they had been at it like that all day. Dain and Bardor had no idea how anyone else was going any more. The last time they had seen any of their companions had been over an hour earlier. They had been too busy looking after themselves since then. Sulyok’s tactic seemed to be working, though. They were retreating into the town with each house they abandoned, but at a cost the sligs wouldn’t have anticipated. And they hadn’t retreated far despite almost a day of fighting.
The sligs no longer knew what to expect, an empty house, booby traps, or some Algarians lying in ambush. They were confused and had no answer to the hit and run tactics the Algarians were employing. They had also found that their own tactic, brute force applied in large numbers at any weak point, simply couldn’t be applied under these conditions. Nevertheless, they were progressing, and Dain and Bardor both knew that many of the men they had talked and shared a meal with the night before would be dead by now.
A movement at the corner of the alleyway pulled Dain’s attention back to the job at hand. “Hssst,” he whispered to Bardor. “Could be sligs in the alleyway.”
Bardor stayed where he was for the moment. Dain knew that he was waiting on his word. If he said ‘go’, they would both make a run for it, to the rooftop would be his choice, and, as the lookout, it was his call.
Cautiously Dain edged out of the doorway again, just far enough to see if anything was coming down the alley. His stomach flipped over as he spied three slig warriors running right down the middle of the alleyway, straight towards him, with their murderous axes at the ready.
In one movement he turned and shouted out the word he knew that Bardor was dreading. “Go. Go. Go.” As they scrambled for the staircase, they heard the front door of the house crash open. The thump of booted feet on the floorboards of the front room indicated that they were caught in a pincer. Somehow the sligs had located them and they were coming at them from both entrances at once.
The staircase was their only hope. A small flight of stairs led to the second storey and from there a smaller set led through a trap door to the roof. The trap door was open, or at least it should be. They had left it that way for just this eventuality.
Dain reached the stairs first. He was closer than Bardor and somehow he managed to ignore the pain in his knee for the moment. The cooper was only a heartbeat behind him. As Dain reached the top of the first staircase, he turned to help his companion. Just at that moment, the first of the slig warriors reached the foot of the staircase. It was the only portion of the room Dain could see from his position at the top of the stairs.
Before he could yell out a warning, the slig in front grabbed a hold of Bardor’s leg and with one powerful tug yanked him bodily back down into the room. Dain saw the look of shock on his friend’s face as his upward motion was swiftly reversed. His feeble attempt to arrest his descent by grabbing hold of the railing was to no avail. The prodigious strength of the slig was too great to resist.
As Dain drew his sword and prepared to go to his companion’s aid, he saw that he was already too late. The room below was filling with sligs. As Bardor hit the floor at the bottom of the stairs, a scaly hand grabbed hold of his hair and cruelly jerked back his head. Just as quickly, the swinging blade of an axe sliced into the cooper’s throat, decapitating him in one vicious stroke and spraying blood all over the wall and the lower stairs of the staircase. Everything seemed to slow down. Bardor’s body slumped to the floor, blood pumping from the neck and onto the boots of the warrior that stood beside it. The head, which had fallen in a lazy arc from the shoulders, offering up a fleeting glimpse of the shocked grimace on its frozen features as it turned, thudded sickeningly to the floor beside the body. As Dain looked down, unable to avert his gaze, rooted to the spot as if his feet had turned to stone, a slig warrior stepped into the opening.
Dain blanched as the brute turned his cruel face upwards, spying him standing there, waiting, at the top of the stairs. For a few brief moments their eyes locked, then the slig threw back his head and opened his mouth. The roar from his throat sent a shudder racing down Dain’s backbone. It was the roar of a beast that has sighted its prey and is ready to spring. The axe the beast held in his gnarled hand was dripping with blood. Dain looked down at the creature, wanting to move but unable to do so. He watched in horror as the slig lifted one foot and slowly began to ascend the staircase.
Chapter 3
Try as she might, Sara found that she couldn’t form a clear mental picture of what might lie beyond the wilderness. It was as if the continuous canopy of the forest was acting as some kind of barrier to her imagination, like a stone wall rather than the cluster of leaves and branches it actually was, suppressing all but the vaguest impressions of what might lie outside of her current field of view. Even with her eyes closed, all she could picture was bark, branch and leaf, or combinations thereof, which wasn’t surprising given her experience in Ilythia thus far. From the day she had first arrived in the place, other than the term in her cell and their brief stay in the cave, she had seen little else than endless trees.
And so, that morning, when she and Rayne emerged from a thick clump of underbrush to suddenly find clear sky above and open fields in front of them, her first thought was that she had fallen asleep and was dreaming of home. The change of scenery was so abrupt and so unexpected she couldn’t believe it was really there.
Only a few strides behind them lay the towering beech trees she’d become so familiar with. In front of them, as far as the eye could see, lay rolling hills, dotted with trees and traversed, in a reassuring display of imposed order, with hedgerows, stone walls and wooden fences. Behind them lay pristine wilderness, all but untouched and unspoiled, with barely a hint of the existence of humanity. In front of them lay cleared pastures and tilled fields, unmistakable signs of habitation and the impact of sentient life. Only a short distance away, a small flock of black-nosed sheep stood idly cropping a grassy slope, mute testimony to the dramatic change of environment the two travellers had suddenly experienced.
Despite the evidence before her, Sara found it difficult to accept what she saw. Looking around from her position astride Nell, she blinked once or twice, quite purposefully, wondering if it might all disappear when she re-opened her eyes. But it didn’t. It wasn’t a dream. Her heart soared as the realisation struck home. They had made it. They were finally out of the interminable wilderness.
Sara felt a surge of hope well up from deep within her. If this, something she despaired they would never achieve, was possible, what more might they now accomplish? Could she dare to hope they might yet find their way through to the other Guardians, she wondered. Maybe there was even a way home. At the very least, they weren’t done for yet. The fat lady still hadn’t sung!
“So, what do you think?” asked Rayne, interrupting her thoughts.
With some reluctance, Sara drew her eyes away from the panorama before them. She smiled as she noticed that Rayne, though he had broken the silence, was still staring at the open fields in front of them. From the look on his face, he seemed just as enraptured
by the sudden change as she was.
Turning her own eyes back to the scene ahead of them, Sara found herself reminded of a painting she had once seen in a book, an old master’s portrait of an idyllic rural scene. She half expected a pair of centaurs to come trotting over the nearest hill while they stood there gaping.
“My God, Rayne,” she finally managed to reply. “It’s glorious, it’s . . . I don’t know, it’s just wonderful. Words seem inadequate to describe it.”
Josef had told her she had not yet seen the real beauty of Ilythia but she hadn’t appreciated the full significance of his words at the time. Neither their circumstances nor their surroundings had been conducive to her giving his statement much credence. Now she understood at least a little of what he had meant. If this was a taste of what lay beyond the wilderness, then she couldn’t wait to see more.
“There’re sheep here, too,” she continued, gushing excitedly at the sight of something so comfortingly familiar. “Real sheep, just like at home.”
“Well, where else did you think we’d get wool from?” asked Rayne with a chuckle. “From birds maybe, great big woolly ones that fly into the barn once a year and wait patiently for the farmers to shear them.”
“Stop it,” cried Sara, turning her head away in mock indignation. “You don’t have to make fun of me. You might have got it from llamas . . . or alpacas.”
“From what? Alpackers? What in the name of Martan’s teeth is an alpacker?”
“Never mind. Suffice to say that where I come from you can get wool from things other than sheep, smarty-pants. Not from birds, though. I can’t say I’d fancy the idea of being a shepherd under those circumstances. I’d certainly want a very broad-brimmed hat.” Sara’s broad grin showed she was enjoying the mood that had come over them.
“Now you are being silly,” laughed Rayne. “Anyone would think you were happy. Come on.” With that, he gave Ned a gentle nudge in the ribs and moved out into the sunshine, away from the shade of the trees. Sara was only too happy to follow along in his wake.
As they ambled their horses down the gentle slope, she sensed a lightness in her heart the likes of which she had not felt in many a day. The day was a glorious one. From the warmth of the morning sun that beat down from a cloudless sky, Sara guessed that spring had almost run its course. If the weather in this land was anything like at home, they would probably be in for a long hot summer.
Looking about her, she could see that the lush green grass of the hillside was dotted with what seemed to be thousands of wildflowers over and among which flittered a delightful parade of brightly coloured butterflies and what seemed to be endless battalions of bees. The low hum that drifted up from the latter into the warm morning air seemed to bewitch the senses into a mesmerising indolence. After the continual tension of the last few weeks, Sara was only too willing to submerge her thoughts in this uncharacteristic peacefulness. It wasn’t long before she found her thoughts drifting.
The slope they crossed could easily have belonged in the hills that surrounded her own hometown. It all seemed so reassuringly familiar. On lazy summer days like this, she and Gemma would often go riding together, and for one brief moment, she thought it was so. The gentle clip-clop of the horses' hooves, the soft summer breeze on her face, she had been here so often before.
It didn’t last long, though. Her mount wasn’t right. Dear Nell, as sweet as she was, could never be mistaken for Freya. Her colouring was wrong for a start. Shaking off her reverie, Sara lifted her head and considered the broad shoulders of her riding companion as he swayed back and forth on the horse in front of her. It wasn’t just Nell that was out of place, she realised. Rayne, cherished friend though he was, could never be mistaken for Gemma.
Cherished friend? Is that what he’s become, she thought? They’d come a long way since that night in the tent. Their first kiss! She still remembered it. But what should she call what had grown between them since? How should she label him now?
Boyfriend? No. It was more than that. Lover, then? No, not that either, she wasn’t ready for that. Though . . . why not? she wondered. What they felt for each other was love, she was sure of that. They seemed so close now, as if they were bound to each other, as if they had known each other for years rather than weeks. Everything about him seemed so right to her. And she knew that he felt something for her, too. She could see it in his eyes, and in the need they seemed to share, the need to be close, physically, that is, to be constantly touching each other in some small way, be it a hug, a gentle caress, a brief touch of their hands, or a soft kiss.
She thought of his kisses. They were those of a lover, of that she was sure, as was his touch. When they lay down together at night and he held her in his arms with his firm body pressed up against hers, there were times then when she longed to tell him, what? Not to stop? That his kisses weren’t enough any more? That when he turned her face to his and gazed down into her eyes, that she felt a desire for him then that was so powerful it threatened to consume her?
She didn’t dare tell him those thoughts. It was all too daunting, too confusing, too frightening. Who knew what would happen if Rayne knew the feelings that stirred within her? She had never known a boy like him, never felt this way before, didn’t know what to do, didn’t dare break the spell that held them together. It had all happened too quickly, leaving her no time at all to fathom it out. She wasn’t sure where one went from here and there was no one to ask, no friend to confide in. She dared not take the wrong step now, not with so much at stake.
Was it always like this, she wondered? Did all lovers feel this way? Was he going through the same torment? Should she ask him if that was what he wanted? And what would she do if his answer was yes?
The question sobered her. It wasn’t the first time she had arrived at that point and she still wasn’t ready to go there. With a slight pang of regret, she wrenched her thoughts back to the present. Best not to dream too much, she thought, of home, or anything else for that matter. No good would come of it. “Que sera, sera,” as her mother was so fond of saying. “What will be, will be.”
With a gentle squeeze from her knees, she urged Nell forward. They had fallen slightly behind and that wouldn’t do. Best to press on and get where they were going. That was her best chance for happiness now, thought Sara. They had a job to do and it wasn’t just their own survival that depended on their getting it done.
They continued slowly down the hill and when they encountered a worn path they turned and followed it for a while. Eventually, they struck a road of sorts. It was definitely a track for vehicles; the two ruts for wagon wheels were ample proof of that, though from the way the ridge between the ruts was overgrown with weeds it seemed unlikely too many carts had come this way for some time. They followed it nonetheless. It headed eastwards and that was the direction they were taking, away from the wilderness, away from pursuit, away from Tug and away from the sligs.
Sara knew a little of the land that they had entered. Josef had told them that once they were clear of the wilderness it would be less than six or seven day’s ride to their goal, to the Forest of Annwn and the two Guardians, to her only real chance of finding her way home, to the only hope now of stopping Golkar.
She remembered that he’d told them of the narrow swathe of farmland that ran between the wilderness and Annwn. To the northeast, he had said, the rolling hills flowed out into the broad sweeping plains that constituted the heartland of the Algarian nation. Far away east, across those plains, lay the Giant’s Teeth, a jagged mountain range that ran almost the length of Tenamos. To the south lay Kardonia and the Southern Marches. The isthmus of land in between held the most southerly of the Algarian provinces. The river that ran through its midst ran right down to the Gulf of Felar and out into the Sarrowmine Sea, names that meant nothing to Sara, exotic though they were. Rayne had told her that he had heard that country comprised some of the richest farming land in all of Tenamos. The little she had seen thus far confirmed what he had heard.
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They followed the road they found for some time, noting with reassurance the increasing signs of habitation as they moved further and further away from the forest’s edge. The track they followed soon joined another more worn path and then, not long after that, to Sara’s great delight, they spied a man.
He was standing in a field some distance from the road and seemed to be watching them closely, as if intent on ascertaining what two strangers were up to riding so brazenly across his land. Sara waved to him. It seemed the polite thing to do and she longed for a friendly voice after all they had been through. To her chagrin, the farmer ignored them, not even deigning to acknowledge such a simple attempt at communication with a nod of his head.
“The natives are friendly, aren’t they?” she muttered to Rayne, who was peering back intently at the farmer.
Rayne hesitated a moment, then let out a raucous laugh that rocked him back on his saddle. “Why, it’s a bird-chaser!” he cried. “No wonder he didn’t wave back. He’s full of grass.”
“A bird-chaser? Oh,” cried Sara, her consternation turning into a smile as she suddenly realised what he meant. “You mean a scarecrow. We call them scarecrows. I’ve never seen a real one. I guess we won’t get much conversation out of him.” Although she was disappointed, she took the sighting as a good sign. People made scarecrows. In fact, farmers made them. She doubted if sligs did, nor draghar for that matter.
Her disappointment didn’t last long. They didn’t go much further before they encountered a real farmer, and there could be no doubting that this was no scarecrow. For one thing, he didn’t stand still. In fact, he was coming their way. Better yet, he was herding a flock of sheep along the dusty road directly towards them.
As the animals neared them, Sara and Rayne halted their mounts and both sat quietly, drinking in the rural simplicity of the scene. The little black-nosed sheep swept forward without missing a beat and were soon swarming around their horses. Like a swift-flowing stream that encounters some immovable object, the little bundles of dirty wool swept around them, combining once more as they passed with a fluidity that suggested the obstacles had been forgotten as quickly as they had been dealt with. The old farmer strolled along behind them, idly waving his crook at an occasional straggler while his ebullient work dog ran frantically back and forth, nipping at the heels of the sheep as if his next meal depended on his keeping every single one of them in strict formation.
