The Godlost Land (8 page)

“Maybe one day you'll be ready to hear the truth.”

With that she turned back and headed off into the forest, never giving him a backward glance. And he knew from the set of her shoulders that she was upset with him. Disappointed and angry. But that was life. There was plenty of that to go around.

In the meantime he had to decide what to do. A simple decision really. Should he stay or go? But the decision was not an easy one. Did he trust her not to reveal his location? She was a dryad, a friend to the Huntress. But maybe she was telling the truth when she said the temple had turned against her and her people? Maybe she would not reveal where he lived. And he would like to stay in this crude smithy. It wasn't much but it had become a home.

On the other hand she could be lying. Even now large numbers of beasts could be heading for him. Not that she would need to send so many against him.

But the decision aside, long after she had left and he stood there wondering what to do, one thing continued to play on his mind.

The tears of a woman crying for her sister.

Chapter Five

Harl sat in the long grass on a bank alongside the major trail leading north to Midland Heights, listening to the distant sound of horses pulling wagons. And all the while as he sat there and heard the sound of the wagons drawing closer, he kept asking himself the same question over and over again.

Why? Why was he here? Why was he even thinking of doing this? Was he crazed?

He could be somewhere else. He should have been anywhere else. A long, long way from here at the least. Perhaps on his way out of the five kingdoms. Even had he chosen to stay he could have been in his home, preparing some food or crafting his next blade. He should be anywhere but here. And yet here he was, waiting to go into battle with a convoy of Artemis' priests and their beastly defenders. All because a dryad had shed a few tears. It was madness.

And yet he felt good for what he was doing. Finally, after five long years of running and hiding he was doing something, however stupid. He was taking a stand against the temple that had murdered his family and destroyed his home. So maybe it wasn't about rescuing the dryad's sister. Maybe it was about vengeance. Whatever the truth of it he was ready. He was finally going into battle instead of running away.

The brigandine felt warm and solid. Protective and yet still loose enough where it needed to be to allow him the movement he wanted. And it was heavily spelled. It would take the blow of an axe with ease, turn aside the sharpest sword, deflect the head of a good steel arrow and blunt most spells. It should since he had spent nearly a month crafting it. The fine leather gauntlets would do the same. And as for the boots, they would lend him speed.

Half a dozen of his most deadly knives hung from the belt he had looped around his chest like a sash. Each of the knives would kill a beast with even a minor wound. They were spelled for sharpness and to release an enchantment of fire-blood with a cut. The beasts would burn as had Rickarial before them. The priests and their soldiers too. It was a deadly spell. One as dangerous to the user as it was to the enemy. But as an arcane smith he had one advantage that made the blades far less dangerous to him. He could not burn.

And then there was his sword. A true ice blade, and normally the only weapon he carried. It had taken him months to forge. The metal had been beaten hundreds of times. He had infused the magic of sharpness to its edge. Given the strength and suppleness of the gods to the three feet of thin diamond steel.  And yet it was still light enough that even as a great sword he could wield it one handed if need be. It was a true masterpiece. When it sliced through the air it actually cut it, singing as it did so. When the sun caught it just right the edge sparkled with a blinding light. And when it met bone or leather or even steel, it cut right through it. With it in his hand he almost believed he could take on an army.

He might have to.

Once, five years before, he had taken on an army. Standing beside the most powerful wizard in the land and with scores of others beside him, all with swords in hand, they had tried to stand. They had lost. He had been forced to flee, wounded and with nothing of his old life remaining to him. He had lost everything that day. Maybe it was time to finally fight again and maybe even to win. If only against a small caravan of soldiers. Of course, everything depended on how small.

Eventually the first of the wagons rounded the distant corner of the track and he got his first look at the caravan. By Hera, he wished it were smaller!

It was a good sized caravan. Six horses and riders led it, the temple's holy guards by their uniforms. Soldiers in truth. Dark green tunics with polished black leather belts. Mercenaries by another name. They were skilled soldiers as he understood it, but not the elite. He could defeat them with some preparation. Behind them six minotaurs walked, and as usual the sight surprised him. How could that be? The creatures were wild, and yet there they were walking calmly behind the soldiers as if it was the most normal thing in the world. They also did it in the towns when the priests walked them around like pets. But then the priests sometimes did the same with the leonids and with their lion like natures they had to be even more difficult to control. But somehow the priests controlled them.

Behind the minotaurs was the first wagon. A supply wagon with two priests up front and a huge iron cage full of cerberi in the back. At least half a score of the two headed nightmare hounds. Harl knew that they could be released in the blink of an eye by the pull of a chain, and when they were they would immediately attack him. They might seem like slavering two headed hell hounds but they were well trained war dogs.

And the priests themselves would be dangerous. For weapons he suspected they would have only crossbows and knives. But it wasn't their weapons that he had to fear. It was the magic that their miserable Goddess granted them. Priestly spells were dangerous. They would have to be killed quickly.

Behind that was the wagon he knew held the prisoner. A high priest with a gold collar on his green and black robe rode up front with a driver beside him, while the cage in the back was far taller than it needed to be to hold more cerberi. It was tall enough in fact to hold a man standing upright. Or in this case a woman. He couldn't see her. Partly because they were still too far away, but also because the cage was covered with a large burlap cloth and ropes. Perhaps they didn't want the prisoner to see where she was being taken.

But the worst threat he could see as the last of the caravan came around the bend was the manticore calmly following it. Seeing it there, calmly following the rest of the caravan, came as a shock. A bad one.

Manticores were true hell beasts, and as to how anyone might control one he didn't know. Harl imagined that they must go through a lot of trainers before they managed to stop them killing everyone that moved within range of their stingers. They were even less intelligent than the other chimera. The manticore was the size of a bear, had the body and head of a lion, and a fifteen foot long stinger that curved up and then back over its head like a cat's tail. The stinger was the creature's most dangerous weapon. It could lash the thing out like a whip, and though it might carry venom that probably didn't matter much after it had punched through a man's chest like a spear. What mattered was that the stinger could strike so fast that it could pass right through a man's chest before he even saw it move. You never approached one.

Normally they were used as guard beasts. Placed in the entrance way to somewhere important; there to kill anyone foolish enough to approach. So what one was doing in the caravan he didn't know. But at least it seemed calm. Somehow Harl doubted that when the battle began the manticore would remain that way. Or that the long chain tying it to the back of the wagon would hold it for even a heartbeat if it became upset.

Was this really a smart thing to do? Was it worth losing his life for some damned dryad's tears? Harl kept asking himself that question as the caravan – and most especially the manticore – drew closer. And he couldn't think of a single reason why he should do it. Except of course for a worried sister's tears.

But she wasn't even his sister. His sister was dead. Why? He could just remain hidden behind the tree as the caravan passed him by and no one would ever know. That was the smart thing to do. And who would really expect one man to take on an entire caravan by himself?

And yet still he held the spelled rock in his hand. In fact his fingers were tightening on it.  And then abruptly he threw it as the caravan came within striking distance. After that it was too late to ask questions.

Someone yelled out a warning as the rock came crashing down on the track between the horses, but then the spell was released and it didn't matter. Instantly a brilliant white light filled the world, blinding everyone. It would have blinded Harl too were he not hidden behind a tree with his eyes closed tight, his arm in front of them and wearing a heavily spelled brigandine. As it was a few seconds later when the light passed, he was the only one who could still see, albeit with a few green and red spots glowing in front of him.

That was his cue and he knew he had to be quick. He had to strike from the front and work his way down through the caravan before any of the enemy could recover their sight. Because as long as they were blind, they were vulnerable.

Harl ran out from behind the trees and charged the soldiers, none of whom had even drawn a sword as they all sat on their horses rubbing their eyes and shouting in confusion at one another. He cut all six of them down even as they sat on their horses screaming about the pain – the sword dancing from left to right. They stopped screaming quickly as they fell in pieces to the ground. He felt no sorrow for their deaths. These were mercenaries who took the temple's coin and killed the innocent. Death was the true coin they deserved.

Before they'd even fallen he was on the minotaurs – but they were a tougher foe. They too were blinded but that hadn't stopped them from running. Scattering in all directions. He killed two of them as for some reason they had started running in circles, but the others were in the trees before he could catch them. They would be back once their vision cleared. But he didn't have time to chase them. This was a sprint, and he had to keep running the length of the caravan.

Abruptly the cerberi attacked and his troubles grew. The priests in the front wagon must have released them, and for whatever reason – perhaps they had been shielded from the light by the front of the wagon, perhaps because they had four eyes to go with their two heads – the hounds could see at least a little.

Two of the vicious, snarling beasts were upon him in a heartbeat, and as they leapt for him he had to dance aside and strike out with his blade as fast as he knew how. One fell in pieces, the other was only lightly wounded. But when four more were charging him that didn't matter. He ducked back between the terrified horses, hoping to limit the angles the hounds could attack him from – and it worked – for half a heartbeat.

One of the hounds leapt straight for him, both mouths open wide and spraying saliva as it sought to tear him to pieces. But he laid the sword down between its necks and slit the beast in half lengthwise. It fell beside him in two bloody heaps. Then the horses abruptly bolted and he was exposed again.

But if he was exposed, so were the beasts and he charged them, felling another cerberi in front of them while screaming at the top of his lungs. That actually worked. Cerberi, whatever else they were, were hounds. And like all hounds they knew fear. They saw him coming, bloody blade in hand, and quickly scattered, running like panicked wolves. They too would be back he knew, once they'd regrouped, but he had a few moments to breathe. Except that he didn't.

Suddenly a crossbow bolt found him and he knew he didn't actually have any time at all. One of the priests had somehow managed to hit him, even though the robed man was still sheltering his eyes with an arm, unable to see clearly. Still, the bolt bounced harmlessly off his armour, while another went sailing past. After that both priests began frantically reloading and he knew they had to die before they finished reloading. Quickly Harl threw a pair of knives at the two of them, striking them deep in their chests and then watched them burst into flames, screaming with all the strength they had.

That was too much for the horses yoked to the wagon and they reared up on their hind legs and bolted, somehow snapping the yoke to the wagon in the process. Blindly, they started chasing the other horses down the trail, while their masters screamed and burnt behind them. In time he guessed, the wagon would burn with them. But at least they wouldn't scream for long.

Harl leapt aside, just in time to let the frightened horses pass him at a gallop, and almost immediately found himself facing a minotaur just when he knew he should be racing for the last wagon. But it was staggering around with its arms out in front of it and he knew that it couldn't yet see him. So he used that advantage to quickly step forwards and cut it in half before running on.

That left him with one wagon, one high priest and driver and one very confused manticore. But the high priest could see. In fact he could see well enough to start waving his hands around and start casting a spell of some sort.

That was bad. He had to die quickly and the knife was already in his hands and then hurtling toward  the high priest before Harl even thought about using it.

The priest was fast though. Faster than he should have been. And he'd been far enough away from the blinding light that his vision was recovering. He could see the spinning knife. He struck like lightning, his hand moving, knocking the knife off course as it spun through the air racing for his head.