Greyfax Grimwald (38 page)

Doraki, astride the great black steed Brugnath, circled the battle in the cloak of the snowstorm, maddening all those who saw him, and the tall, powerful, iron-crowned servant who was in the form of a horse demon to bear down Doraki from the World Between Time breathed out choking grayish poisoned gases over the field, deadening men’s minds and hopes. These were the visions Mithramuse had seen when he studied the sky and storm.

“We are set upon by no less than her second-in-command,” he thought aloud. “They must indeed want this victory.” A great golden, humming dome appeared about the slouched gray figure, spiraling away upward into the disturbed slumber of night. The wizard called upon the sacred numbers of Windameir and spelled out the name of the Circle in the high tongue of the ancients, and a dazzling line of high golden hills appeared upon the battlefield, and a tall, fair man appeared, armored in silver mithra, with a huge five-colored shield emblazoned with the coat of arms of Cephus Starkeeper. At the man’s side hung a long, double-handed sword that glistened with a harsh steel fire, and at his lips a curved horn that blew forth over the din of battle. Long and unbroken the horn winded, and the sound unbearable to hear. Otter and Bear held their hands over their ears, and Flewingam beat madly at the air with clenched fists. The thick, brown-hided Worlugh and Gorgolac soldiers fell stunned and whining before the terrible notes this prince of the Circle had blown.

Doraki, hearing the horn, sent Brugnath wheeling down to do battle with this new and powerful foe, and bellowing black flames and greenish-yellow spears of light, the two towering visions joined battle above the field, where all eyes tamed upward to watch the haze-shrouded phantoms locked closely in combat.

Up one cloud mountain, then crashing down another, the phantom warriors struggled, the prince Na’tone afoot, Doraki mounted, and loud thunder dapped and rolled across western Atlanton Earth, and great geysers of fire and lightning rolled and flashed, fighting the darkness until it was as bright as full day. Time and again, the tide turned first one way, then the other, as Na’tone and Doraki fought. The black-clad armies below howled and sent up a great cay as they saw Doraki throw the white prince down, and Brugnath reared to smash the hated figure with his coal-black forehooves. The dark army swarmed enraged over the hopeless defenders, and on the small open hill where Mithramuse stood with the three friends, the air grew thick with whistling, crackling darts, and the enemy still came on, hordes of the Gorgolacs sweeping by them, around the hill, on into the very heart of the camp. Lines were breached, and the army of General Greymouse was forced to fight in small, surrounded, desperate groups. Belching black smoke, the camp was aflame, and the enemy that had come down the hill now advanced quickly upon the leaderless and broken, weary troops.

The onslaught was once again held fast, as Na’tone regained his feet and hurled the dark lord from his saddle. A last spark of desperate hope blazed in the hearts of the weary defenders, and they surged back bravely into the hordes of dark soldiers, stemming the tide once more.

Mithramuse looked on anxiously at the fierce struggle in the cloud. Na’tone at last had touched Doraki with the scalding white blade of the flashing sword, and horse and rider vanished in a great explosion of crimson black light, and the thunder rolled one last tune, deafening all those who heard, and the grayish clouds burst wide, and thick, blood-red snowflakes began falling over the battle raging below. The golden mountains dimmed, then vanished, and the tall warrior Na’tone glimmered faintly once, then was gone.

“Did the white warrior slay him?” asked Otter, eyes wide in fear and awe.

Mithramuse did not answer for a moment, so deeply lost in his far mind he did not hear Otter.

“I don’t think whatever it was was slain, Otter,” said Flewingam. “But look at the snow.” Flewingam held out a hand and caught a few of the drifting flakes. They showed up a deep crimson against the pallor of his hand.

Bear held out a hand, and looked also. “It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Red snow? What new disaster awaits us now?”

Mithramuse returned from where his thought had touched Na’tone’s.

“He is safe, where no trick of the other can harm him. He touched that unliving flesh with the Sword of Light from the White Flame of the Starkeeper. He cannot be slain by that, but he has returned to his Dark Queen’s realms for a space. Perhaps in that time, we may win through here. Her armies will be without will now, although they still greatly outnumber us.”

Otter looked around, and it was true. All around them the battle still raged, more fiercely now, for the dark armies were vicious and cruel, and knowing not bravery, they yet knew bitterness, and all about they fought on.

“Can’t you do something more, sir?” asked Bear, hoping his renewed faith in the slouching gray figure of the old man would not be deflated again.

“I grow tired, Bruinlth. I called Na’tone from a sphere far removed from ours, and the cost to me to do so was dear. I must rest first”

“Watch out” cried Flewingam, casting Mithramuse to the ground as a flurry of rifle fire burst over their heads.

“They’ve seen us. Quick, Bear, you hold that side, and Otter, stand closer there that you may cover the approach.” Flewingam crawled over the general and began firing rapidly down the slope of the hill Otter, trying to find which end of the man weapon the lead darts came out looked downward and saw the running, crouched black shapes below him. They fired as they ran, and were coming straight for him. Behind him, he heard Bear’s rumble-growl as he fussed with his own unfamiliar man weapon, then a loud report and Bear’s stunned cry of pain. Otter pumped the trigger of the rifle twice, and felt the sharp blow against his chest as the thing jumped alive in his hands. Bear had had the butt of his rifle against his jaw, and the sharp blow it had given him stunned him for a second.

“I’d rather use my own paws,” he mumbled over the din. “No chance of losing your teeth from them banging in your face.”

Otter looked over to where Flewingam lay, and trying to copy the way he held the weapon, he began firing jerkily again. After a few terrifying moments, the hill was clear of attackers. Otter looked down at two fallen black shapes that by sprawled at the bottom of his side of the hill.

“You’ve done well,” said Flewingam, crawling over to him. “For waterfolk, you do passing’ well as a soldier.” Then laughing grimly, he touched Otter’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it friend. And don’t look at them if you can help it” He crawled back to his position.

It was too much for Otter’s whirling mind to associate his firing the jumping thing in his hand to the dead Worlughs below, so he simply lay, waiting, and hoping Mithramuse would be rested enough for another magical trick to help them escape the noise and fury of the battle.

Bear turned, and moving slowly, crawled beside Otter.

“This man thing has broken my jaw, I know it,” he complained, putting a hand gingerly to feel the swelling lump on the side of his face.

Otter looked at it, then moved his own hand over the swelling to see if he could feel a break. “It’s just a bruise, Bear.”

“I know it’s broken, I tell you. How in the name of Bruinthor will I be able to eat? If I can’t chew, I’ll be forever sucking mush through my front teeth to stay alive. Eek, but what a sad fate, starved to death. Bear groaned, thinking of the still unfinished loaf in Otter’s tent. He groaned again when he saw the whole camp burning below, and knew the food lost forever, burned to a blackened char.

A great volley of heavy firing and shouts broke out farther away, toward where the road led into the main camp. They all strained to see what new aid or assailants the noisy stir brought, but it was too far away to make out plainly any more than two horsemen galloping through an angry swarm of dark-clad soldiers, passing through the great glow of the fires out of sight.

Above, the snow had stopped, and the sky began to lighten faintly, with a pale, teardrop-shaped glimmering light that appeared to be approaching swiftly from away over the high peaks of the mountains.

“What new deviltry is this?” said Mithramuse aloud, rising and turning to face this new threat wearily.

B
y far the most dangerous of the enemy armies—more deadly and cruel than the Gorgolac half-man beasts, or the thick-hided Worlugh soldiers—Dorini had fashioned in her grim halls were the tall, well-shaped, handsome men of the northern realms who had fallen into her treacherous web of destruction. Once they had been a proud race, seafarers and horsemen, and the now darkening lands where they dwelled still showed the beauty and strength their hands had once wrought before they turned to warring and slaying the neighboring inhabitants that yet lived in peace. The Urinine, as they were called, were, promised wealth and great power by Doraki, who after a time drew the once wise ruler of the strong race into his malignant plan, and Dorini, as she had promised, bestowed great wealth and power upon all those of the Urinine and their minds were filled with greed and lust, and all other thoughts were lost under long years of disuse. As their treasures grew, their minds sought still more, and the handsome dark heads of Urinine warrior clans turned from their sea and their pastures to destruction and chaos upon others of Atlanton Earth, and they ranged far and wide, pillaging and burning, forever in search of gold or jewels to fill their coffers.

It was a small troop of these Urinine that Cranfallow, with Dwarf behind and Thinvoice following, broke through in their mad flight to enter the general’s heavily besieged camp. A moment before, the three had looked down upon the great battle from the confines of a tree-sheltered hill, and Dwarf at last had spoken.

“There’s no use going back, for they do battle there, too, and if we ride on, what shall we find beyond? This is no small skirmish by the looks of it. We either fight through, and’ hope to win out, or perish. Our choices are none too pleasant, but all we have.”

Thinvoice looked up from where the burning camp lay, covered with a thick shroud of black smoke.

“If this Greymouse has them powers too, why isn’t he after using them? It don’t looks so good, to my way of thinking. I gets out of one stew pot, and rides until my backsides is blistered well enough to suit the taste of one of those filth, just to get off my horse and jumps into another one.”

“It looks bad,” said Cranfallow, “but what fight don’t? We can’t sees nothing for sure, until we knows how they stands. We might as well tries to go on, like Master Dwarf says.”

“I don’t likes it, I says, but I don’t wants to go back neither. My good sense says run, but my bottom says no, so I guess we might as well gets on with it. At least in a fight, I can gets off this bouncing nag.” Thinvoice paused, and gravely held a hand out to Dwarf and Cranfallow. “If we doesn’t shoot through, then well met, and we parts as friends.”

“We’ll do it, Ned. Just hang on tight, and I’ll see if I can’t stir tip a spell or two to help us along.” Dwarf shook Thinvoice’s trembling hand.

“Can you makes us invisible, sir?” asked Cranfallow, having second thoughts about riding down through the whining, flying storm below.

“No, my good Cranny, I can’t do that, or at least I could if I remembered the verses, but they’re long, and we’d most likely as not be here all night while I tried to remember them.”

“Well, that suits my fancy fine, sir,” said Ned, hopefully.

“No, we can’t wait. I’ll see what I can do with this one, then be ready to ride like you’ve never ridden before, Cranfallow, and don’t worry about losing me, I’ve got a grip like a good vise.”

“I knows that, sir,” replied Cranfallow. “But if the bullets don’t do me, I’ll be squished clean, sure.”

Dwarf laughed. “That’s a worry I shouldn’t entertain, good Cranfallow. A dwarf hug is strong, but I don’t think it’s fatal”

“If all your kind is as strong of hand as you is, sir, you never needs to fret over dropping your supper plates, I’ll says that, and no harm meant, sir.”

“I’ll see about that the next supper I have, Cranfallow, and we’ll continue our talk about a warm fire. Now we must move. It seems to grow quieter down there.”

Dwarf removed his hat, spun it, called the secret sign forth of that ancient dwarfish king Brion Brandagore, and set forth before them a great horde of pale, glimmering figures of dwarfs with great bladed battle-axes, and helms with the fierce masks of griffin heads upon them, causing their horses to rear and shy from the ghastly, shimmering vision.

“Ride on, stout Cranfallow. On, Ned. Brion Brandagore,” bellowed Dwarf, and the crazed horses flew headlong through the glowing images of the advancing dwarfish army, onward, until the reeling lines of Gorgolacs before them parted, panic burning in their half-lidded yellow eyes, onward still until the three had crashed past all alike, defenders and enemies fleeing aside from the terrible vision of the swarthy dwarfs with the flame-gleaming great axes and death-filled eyes. The two horses neighed and pulled up suddenly near a cavalry troop that seemed to be standing by in reserve of the battle.