The Long War 02 - The Dark Blood (43 page)

The mercenary knight had his hair tied back and his groomed beard spoke of a man trying to look more noble than his station allowed. He carried a metal shield, along with his Ranen war-hammer, which he swung over his head, signalling his men to attack.

‘The Ghost is mine!’ shouted the mercenary.

The hounds drew their scimitars and charged.

‘We are not alone,’ repeated Vasir, looking at the black hawk. He threw his head back and, in a deep and echoing voice, shouted, ‘Tyr Nanon... we need your help.’

Utha and Randall looked at him, momentarily turning from the charging hounds. Their eyes flitted quickly upwards. The black hawk began to dive and, still high in the air, transformed into a human-like figure. They gasped as it dropped several items among the approaching hounds, before turning back into a hawk and pulling out of the dive.

Three explosions nearly threw Randall off his feet. Something detonated in the midst of the charging enemies and a dozen hounds were blown to pieces. The remaining men lay in crumpled heaps on the ground, many with missing limbs.

‘That’s black wart,’ said Utha, with an amazed smile. ‘We
are
not
alone, it would seem.’

A loud cry from above, almost humorous in tone, made them look to the sky again. The hawk was flying in a tight circle above their heads and the Dokkalfar were staring at it with knowing reverence.

The hounds didn’t recover from the explosive black wart, though a handful were dragged forward by Pevain and his dozen mercenaries as they took up the charge. With the best part of thirty hounds either killed or incapacitated, the odds had evened out and Randall sensed a change in Utha. The Black cleric was no longer on the defensive, and an expression of violent anticipation had come over his face.

Pevain was a large man and stood out in the middle of the approaching rabble, his eyes focused on Utha. A few of the bastards glanced upwards, terrified that the hawk would strike again.

The hawk came in to land next to Vasir. Once again, the transformation was quick. One moment, a black hawk was standing on the grass, the next, a short-statured Dokkalfar stood by them with a Ro longsword in his hand. The forest-dweller was smaller than others Randall had seen, and he had a much more highly developed human smile than Vasir.

‘Hello,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re Utha the Shadow... pleased to meet you.’ The Dokkalfar called Nanon extended his hand enthusiastically to Utha.

‘Perhaps we should shake hands later, but thanks for the help,’ was the dry response from the albino cleric.

‘You’re the boss,’ replied the newcomer, crouching down, ready for combat.

‘Let’s kill some mercenaries,’ said Randall, with more bluster than he knew he was capable of.

Moments passed in slow motion as the two forces neared each other. With no call for surprise now, Vithar Xaris and the Dokkalfar stood on the grassy rise in full view of their enemies.

Randall saw faces he recognized among the mercenaries. The blonde twins, Parag and Broot, and the man Utha had floored in Cozz. Sir Hallam Pevain stood out as the most dangerous-looking. He was well over six feet tall and his muscled arms flexed as he ran.

Utha took two large strides forward and the two groups clashed, the cleric’s mace the first weapon to be swung. Pevain parried the blow with his shield, but was taken aback at Utha’s strength. Randall was face to face with Parag and only a last-minute sidestep prevented the mercenary from barrelling into him.

‘Time to die, Ghost,’ spat Pevain, his war-hammer whistling over Utha’s head. He lashed out with his shield, trying to make some forward momentum.

Randall used the reach of his longsword to keep Parag at bay, though he was not used to fighting a man wielding two short swords and was forced to give ground backwards. All around, Dokkalfar fought against men, swinging their scimitars with grace and speed. They lacked strength but used bewildering movements to confuse and disorient the mercenaries. Vasir was as dangerous as ever, staying low to the ground and using his speed to avoid multiple attacks while lashing out with his leaf-blades, causing deep cuts and severing arteries. The real surprise was Tyr Nanon, and Randall had to force his eyes away as the nimble newcomer cut through the mercenaries with his longsword.

Randall received a deep cut on his forearm and lashed out at Parag, grunting with exertion. His blade connected with a short sword and the shock sent the blonde mercenary backwards. The squire followed up quickly and delivered a feint to the man’s side that allowed him to kick him in the groin.

Just when he thought he had won, the mercenary’s twin brother, Broot, tackled him from the side and forced him to drop his sword as they rolled down the grassy incline. As he fell back, Randall saw Utha take a vicious blow to the chest from Pevain’s war-hammer. Utha answered with a powerful thrust, but the cleric was clearly struggling against the mercenary.

‘That’s my brother, little boy,’ grunted Broot, punching Randall in the face and trying to pin him to the ground. He struggled, sensing the rotten breath of the mercenary on his face as Broot punched him again and elbowed him in the ribs. He kicked out, but couldn’t get leverage and felt his strength beginning to wane as a third heavy blow struck his jaw.

On either side, Randall saw dead men and forest-dwellers tumbling down the rise, and he could hear roaring from both Pevain and Utha. Then his vision became misty as Broot continued to strike him. It was a fleeting idea of last resort, or perhaps an inkling of his newly acute survival instinct, but Randall managed to draw the small dirk he kept at his belt and drove it into Broot’s neck.

Now the pressure on him was relaxed, Randall shook his head and rolled the mercenary on to the ground. Broot stared at the squire with wide eyes as he clutched at his throat in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood. Randall did not pause before retrieving his longsword. He was dazed, but focused enough to plunge the blade into Broot’s chest.

Unsteadily, he made his way back to the top of the grassy rise and was met with a sight of gruesome slaughter. All pretence at duelling had gone and the remaining combatants were hacking at each other, desperately attempting to strike before being struck. The hounds and mercenaries had grown used to fighting the non-humans and the Dokkalfar’s lack of physical strength was now all too apparent. Speed would only get you so far against a skilled fighter. Randall breathed heavily and wiped the blood from his eyes. They were losing.

Utha had lost his mace, but was not giving an inch against Sir Pevain as they hammered down on each other. Both were bleeding and the two large warriors had looks of determination on their faces. Utha’s arms flexed tightly as he drove his shoulder upwards into Pevain’s ribs, using his strength to unbalance the mercenary knight.

Randall couldn’t see Vasir, though two dead Dokkalfar lay near to where he had been fighting. Nanon was alive, but in some distress as three hounds surrounded him, and the other forest-dwellers were being whittled down. He turned back to Utha and saw that Pevain had lost his grip on his hammer and received a knee in the face. The Black cleric didn’t stand on ceremony and drew his sword across the mercenary’s throat. Pevain convulsed and grabbed at the deep cut in his neck, but he was still alive. Utha’s urgency to move on to other opponents had allowed the knight to survive.

‘Randall, get to the trees,’ Utha roared in a dry growl. ‘You... Nanon,’ he directed at the short Dokkalfar, ‘fall back.’

Randall was tired, dazed and bleeding, but he grabbed hold of the nearest forest-dweller and turned from the fight. He was joined by others and, in moments, their company was fleeing southwards. Vithar Xaris was running close by. The shaman had lost his right arm below the elbow. He was clenching his teeth and holding the stump across his chest, but he showed no other sign of pain as he ushered his fellows away.

Nanon and Utha covered their escape, as the remaining mercenaries and hounds attempted to swarm over them. Parag was giving the orders now. Nanon had picked up a short sword and whirled his two blades in controlled circles, keeping their enemies from mounting a swift pursuit. Utha was roaring insults and challenges at the top of his voice and brutally throwing aside any man who dared to approach him.

‘I am Utha the Ghost,’ he roared. ‘You’ll remember that or you’ll die... your choice.’

His words became distant. Randall ran unsteadily, weaving a chaotic pattern across the grass, trying to focus on the nearest copse of outlying trees. He could sense the others running with him, but was too dazed to identify their faces. The sounds of combat still rang in his ears as he saw a hazy image of trees appearing before him across the plain.

‘Randall, stop,’ roared a shaken voice from behind. He reached a tree and swung himself round it.

Looking back, he had expected to see Dokkalfar rushing to join him and the remainder of Pevain’s force in pursuit. Instead, he saw two dozen men and Dokkalfar standing, staring in wide-eyed terror beyond where Randall stood. They were no longer fighting and even the wounded stood dumbstruck. A few of the forest-dwellers had dropped to their knees and were muttering indistinct words.

‘The priest and the altar, the priest and the altar.’ The words echoed from Vithar Xaris and were picked up by the other Dokkalfar.

The tree behind Randall began to move.

Slowly, he looked up. All sound seemed to be drawn from the area, as a dozen or more Dark Young reared up from the ground. The copse of trees had looked to be nothing out of the ordinary, but now he stood amongst them the darkwood trees planted their thickest branches to the ground and their trunks slowly left the earth.

‘Run!’ roared Nanon.

The mercenaries and hounds fled north, forgetting the urge to kill Utha.

Randall tried to move his legs, but they didn’t respond. All he could do was watch as the nearest of the beasts shook earth from its needle-filled maw and tilted its trunk forward. The other trees did the same and, shrugging off their dormant state, the Dark Young scuttled together, using some of their branches as legs and others as reaching tentacles. The texture of their skin was less bark-like than the creature Randall had seen in the oubliette of Ro Tiris and he guessed that they had only recently been birthed from dead Dokkalfar.

Utha had frozen and the forest-dwellers were prostrate on the floor before the beasts, though Tyr Nanon seemed less afraid than the others of his kind.

‘Don’t move, boy,’ Nanon shouted, running towards the Dark Young.

Just as the beasts began to realize that a virtually paralysed man was standing in their midst, Tyr Nanon let out a deep, echoing cry and loped forward on to all-fours. The Dokkalfar had transformed into something else, larger this time. The cry didn’t stop, but melded into the roar of a large animal. The creature that had been Nanon was both beautiful and terrifying, with the body of a lion and the head, talons and wings of a giant eagle. Stories would call it a gryphon, but Randall had never believed such a thing could actually exist.

Nanon continued to roar and again took to the sky, flying directly at the Dark Young, flapping his great wings and baring enormous talons on each paw. The beasts flailed in the air as the gryphon pounced, pecking violently at the nearest of them and wrenching it to the ground. Its talons tore into the darkwood tree and the frenzied assault left the Young deprived of tentacles and unable to rear up again. The gryphon sounded a deafening roar and flew out of reach of the other Dark Young.

Randall closed his eyes and was jostled violently by the monsters as they scuttled after Nanon, reaching skywards with their black tentacles and needle-filled maws. After a moment of raw terror, the squire opened his eyes to find himself alone on the grass, with the forest of Dark Young in swift pursuit of the taunting gryphon.

‘Get up,’ shouted Utha, running to pull Randall to his feet and whisk him away to the south.

Neither of them looked back. They had only the continued sound of Vithar Xaris chanting to tell them that the remaining forest-dwellers were also running to the Fell.

* * *

The forest was dark. The light provided by the minimal remaining daylight was barely enough for Randall to see those clustered around him. Utha had just stopped breathing heavily as he looked back through the trees and listened intently.

The six remaining Dokkalfar, minus Nanon and Vasir, were crouched within the scrub a short distance away. They were silent enough to be hard to make out in the rising darkness. Vithar Xaris had guided them into the deep woods of the Fell, away from the burning forest, the torpid darkwood trees and the hounds.

Tyr Vasir was likely dead, though no one could testify to having seen him fall and Randall maintained a faint hope that his companion would have found a way to escape in the confusion. If he had been wounded and remained on the ground as the mercenaries fled from the Dark Young, he could still be alive.

They waited in silence, with fevered glances and twitchy, agitated eyes. Randall’s head was clear now. Though his jaw was aching and his spirit shaken, he was still alive and he had high hopes that he would remain so, at least for the short term.

‘Xaris,’ Utha whispered over his shoulder. ‘Seems we are not going anywhere. Why don’t you tell us about your friend... the short one that can turn into animals?’

The Dokkalfar shaman tilted his head, seemingly finding the question a fair one. ‘He is of the Heart of our people, from the north of your lands of men.’

‘And the hawk, and the gryphon?’ Utha prompted, speaking of the second animal with incredulity in his voice. ‘I flatter myself that I know much of your people, but I did not know that.’

Xaris and the other forest-dwellers exchanged wary glances. Randall sensed that they might not be able to answer, even if they wanted to.

‘Tyr Nanon the Shape Taker is old... maybe one of the oldest Dokkalfar that yet exists,’ said Xaris. ‘He has spent much of his forever travelling. He has seen the distant east, where the Jekkan still walk. He has taken counsel with the Volk of the northern ice, and he has flown with the gryphon riders of Imrya.’