Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2) (15 page)

A small crowd gathered on the boats as
The Griffin
came in. The loud, shrill cries it made as it entered the anchorage echoing enough that you would have to be deaf not to hear it and wonder what it was. Crews and passengers lined the rails of each boat shouting and pointing excitedly as the great beast, half eagle, half lion, circled overhead then came in to land, skimming over the anchored ships before alighting softly on the beach.

His feet crunching in the shingle as he stepped out of the longboat, Bartholomew eyed the creature warily, unsure of what to make of it. Previous dealings with this odd beast had all been bad, and his experiences with the demon King, Belial had made him very wary of anything unduly strange, and this creature was extremely strange.

'Nasty evil looking beak,' he muttered, to nobody in particular. 'T'ain't natural… t'ain't natural at all.' He watched as Pardigan and Mahra clambered on behind Quint, and
The Griffin
set back on its haunches and took an almighty leap, launching itself towards the sky and scattering stones in its wake. Nesting birds took to the air as it crested the top of the cliff, startled up in one great noisy flock, their angry cries echoing around the anchorage.

'
Source be true,
' shouted Loras, wondering if his friends could hear him over the noise of the birds. 'Source be true,' he repeated in a whisper, sending the words magically to his friend's ears.

Once the excitement of
The Griffin
leaving had subsided, people returned to their tasks, and the anchorage was restored to its previous calm state. Turning away from where
The Griffin
had been only moments before, Loras followed Magician Falk down the beach, raised his robes, and paddled out to the rowboat, which was already occupied by Tarent and Bartholomew Bask.

'Just in time for a spot of lunch,' said Bartholomew happily as Loras jumped in and two sailors began to row them back to
The Esmerelda
.

'If you like Mr Bask,' said Tarent, 'but we will also be leaving soon and that, of course, includes you. Our Magicians here have come up with some good ideas, and we have an army to stop.'

Bartholomew was still grumbling quietly to himself as the rowboat bumped back against
The Esmerelda
.

* * *

The Hawk gazed down through viewing goggles that were strapped to his head, acquired in the Emperor's city and studied the multitude of men, beasts and wraiths marching far below him, the dust from their progress rising high into the air, but not as high as where he sat behind Nhasic, the real skill behind the dragon's flight. When Matheus had tried to tame the great red beast, he had almost been killed; magic had no effect upon the huge creature, at least not once it was hatched. Whilst in the egg he had been able to tamper a little with its growth rate, accelerating it, but now only the little demon was able to communicate with it. The two had become almost inseparable, and as Matheus controlled Nhasic, he now also controlled the dragon.

He reached down and stroked the glossy red scales below his hands and watched with pride as the wings beat steadily, bearing him high above the cloud of dust.

'North, my little friend, take us north. We have more business to take care of in the mountains before this army will be ready to do battle.' Nhasic scuttled along the dragon's neck, bent down and chattered in its great horny ear, it roared in understanding, smoke puffing from its nostrils - it was still too young to produce fire. It turned towards the distant mountains of the Northern Massif, swiftly leaving the desert behind.

* * *

Flight upon
The Griffin
had been swift, but as always, incredibly cold. It wasn't something they could ever get used to. From their vantage point, high upon a rock pinnacle, Quint, Pardigan and Mahra gazed down upon the might of Queen Morgasta's Barbarian army. A fierce wind threatened to pluck them from their perch, so they hung on with numb icy fingers, studying the huge mass of humanity several hundred spans below them.

As far as they could see, in the plains, valleys and even scattered up the sides of steep hills, the Barbarian army sprawled, their numbers surely in the hundreds of thousands. Smoke drifted up from campfires and small groups of makeshift shelters, each cobbled together from a variety of materials scavenged from the land in a pitiful attempt to keep the worst of the weather at bay. Dogs, chickens and even goats roamed around the camp, and even from this height they could smell the effect that all those animals, both two and four legged had created. It rose up from the camp in clouds of steam, making them wish they hadn't succumbed to so much of Bartholomew's lavish breakfast, they could only imagine the misery of living in such squalor.

'I don't think I've seen so many people in one place before,' said Pardigan in awe. 'If this lot gets through the Bolt and into the Kingdom… we've had it.'

Quint glanced behind him to check
The Griffin,
who was snorting happily into a snowdrift, before answering. 'Well I don't think the others are going to let that happen. Loras has a few good ideas to stop them getting through the Bolt, all we have to concentrate on is getting the skulls back.

'Oh, that's
all
we have to do is it? All
I
have to do you mean,' replied Pardigan, wondering how he was going to hold an invisibility spell long enough to walk through the muddy camp checking into every tent for the skulls.

'Actually, I think this one will be up to me,' said Mahra pulling back from the edge. 'Come on, let's find some shelter, I'll go and have a look around tonight when it's nice and dark.

* * *

'What possible use I can be, traipsing round these Source forsaken mountains, I have no idea. How the Source can have fled such an honest hardworking man as I, beggar's belief, it really does. The cold is intolerable. It does nothing but rain and snow, snow and rain. There is scarce comfort to find in this wagon, which seems to be finding every bump and stone in the road and…'

'Mr Bask, will you please stop that!' shouted Magician Falk. 'You've been talking and moaning to yourself in that loud voice since we first left the ship. Nobody wants to listen to it! Is your plan to attract Barbarian warriors to us, or just drive us all crazy with your gibbering nonsense?' He pulled back hastily on his horse's reins as Bartholomew's angry face suddenly poked out through the flap at the back of the wagon.

'Gibbering nonsense is it? Nonsense! I'll have you know that this is no less than kidnapping, dragging me, an innocent merchant, up into these mountains into extremely hostile territory with some half-baked plan to turn an army around. Nonsense is right, but it's not my nonsense we all have to worry about!' He withdrew his head and continued talking to himself about the injustice of life.

'You do remember that I said we should make Pardigan take him? I suppose we could always leave him behind, couldn't we?' said Loras, peeking out from under his hood as Magician Falk's horse dropped back to where he and Tarent rode just beyond hearing range of the unhappy merchant.

'No, he has to stay with us, he's too much of a liability out on his own,' said Tarent. 'Besides, he may be driving us potty, but we're driving him back to the one place he really doesn't want to be - back to his Barbarian friends. He's entitled to moan a bit… I suppose.'

Rain began to spatter to the ground around them again, drumming upon the hoods of their oiled cloaks, which they each pulled tighter about them. Rivulets of gathered raindrops seemed to find their way in whatever they seemed to do to try and stop them, chilling them further and making life on the road even more intolerable. To their right, the open countryside consisted of small hills and rocky crags covered in thin patches of snow, mud and slush. A few stunted trees and shrubs grew, but all were bare of any growth making it a colourless, depressing landscape. On their immediate left, to the side of the path, rose the mighty Massif Mountains range, the wall of grey granite rising abruptly from the ground without any gradual increase in size, a truly colossal, impenetrable boundary to any beast born without wings.

Gazing up through the rain, Loras could see small trees and shrubs clinging to ledges, the result of windblown seeds finding enough soil in a crack to send out roots and grow - little miracles of the Source, thought Loras. Birds were nesting here too, their cries lost in the wind and rain of this awful place. Higher still, the cliff top was lost in grey, featureless cloud, leaving Loras to wonder and guess at the heights his friends had travelled over, just a few days before.

Bringing Bartholomew along meant they had to have a wagon, which had been available at the top of the anchorage path for a price. The merchant refused to ride a horse, and they couldn't find one big enough for him anyway. The wagon came with a driver, and next to the driver sat Bartholomew's personal cook who appeared to be as miserable about this journey as his employer. Riding to the front of the column were four armed guards from the
Esmeralda's
crew that Bartholomew had insisted on having along for his personal protection. He had actually been insistent on ten riders, but had finally succumbed and agreed on only four when told he would have to share the food supply with as many people as he wanted with him.

For the past two days, they had trudged through rain, snow and sleet, huddled in the saddle with their cloaks wrapped tightly around them trying to keep out the wet and cold. Loras had developed a method of heating the air inside his cloak and retreating inside, squeezing the hood closed so he couldn't see out, but no cold air could get in. He rode along vaguely trusting his horse would follow the others.

They were attacked on the morning of the third day, just after the rain had stopped, and the sun appeared to be making a feeble effort at breaking through the cloud. Bartholomew, in his wagon, was silent. Loras and Tarent were riding side by side with their hoods back, and Magician Falk was bringing up the rear of the little group. One moment all was dull and ordinary, following each other along a piece of track, much like every other piece of track since they had left, when an arrow struck the wagon with a heavy thud and a moment later another struck the cook. He leapt up with a cry his hand wrapped round the shaft sticking from his shoulder, and then fell from the wagon to the muddy path, his scream of agony a keening wail that echoed around the rocky cliffs. In an instant, Barbarian warriors were erupting from the rocks and screaming down at them from all sides.

The guards wheeled their horses, galloping back to protect the wagon and the panicking merchant within it. Bartholomew, unaware of what was happening outside, apart from hearing screams and cries, was already adding to the confusion by shrieking at the top of his voice.

'Protect me, protect me, we are attacked!
Heeeelpppp!
' A crashing sound came from inside, and the wagon rocked violently as the big merchant shifted about, then his head poked out the back, long enough to take in what was going on. Placed upon his head was a large saucepan, and in his hand he waved a carving knife. His mouth opened in a silent scream as a huge muddy warrior, dressed in rags and mismatched armour, charged towards him swinging a sword. Bartholomew drew his head back, but the edge of the sword caught the saucepan with a loud
'dong'
that sent it flying and Bartholomew's head was no longer there.

There were about twenty warriors in the Barbarian force. They must have seen the small party coming some time back and lain in wait, anticipating an easy prey. What they weren't expecting was a boy priest with twin swords that charged at them rather than turning and running as expected, and two Magicians that were eager for some distraction after two mind-numbing days of walking in the rain.

Raising his staff, Loras sent bolts of blue energy slamming into the attacking warriors that threw them back off their feet to land several paces away in steaming heaps howling and thrashing in confusion. Beside him, Magician Falk raised both hands in the air and brought them down sending cracks of lightning from the clouds above that sought out metal swords and axes, turning them white-hot. Screams and cries rent the air as several warriors dropped dying and smouldering to the muddy ground.

When the attack had first come, Tarent had jumped down from his horse and was now moving amongst the attackers on foot in a long, fluid dance of death. His arms were a blur as the twin swords hissed, each cut and strike finding its target, with no movement going to waste while behind him, he left a trail of dead and dying. He twisted and turned, dropped and leapt, all the time his swords blocking, striking and cutting, into the much larger Barbarians. Bartholomew's armed guards had formed a defensive ring around their paymaster's wagon, but their services were almost unnecessary. They stood in awe witnessing a display of swordsmanship and magic they would never forget as the far larger Barbarian force was sent screaming in retreat by one old man and two very lethal young boys.

Within his meditative state, Tarent's world had slowed to a crawl, the warrior's moves were easy to see, and he was able to move amongst his enemy without wasting any motion or fear of injury. He saw each and every detail of the warriors he struck, every tiny white scar on each rough unshaven face. Open mouths with teeth every shade of yellow and black as they bellowed their battle cries into his face, the contortions of rage and battle frenzy, and then ultimately of fear, pain and the certainty of death.

Tears slid from his eyes as he fought, and yet knew the source was guiding him, his was just another blade in the battle against chaos. These men and women had chosen to be warriors, had chosen to attack them, and had planned and sought their deaths. As the last Barbarian dropped, Tarent spun to survey the field; flicked blood from his blades then replaced them with a flourish. A little to his left the two Magicians were also calming from their exertions.

Loras ran to the cook who was groaning from the pain. After a brief examination, he gently eased out the arrow and began healing the wound. The cook looked on with large fearful eyes at the blue glow that surrounded his arm, and then the fear turned to amazement as the pain subsided. Loras smiled as the cook thanked him with tears streaming down his face, and then both glanced up as Tarent came over.

'We must be close to the Bolt. We may have to fight our way in and then do whatever it is you have planned as soon as possible… will you be ready?' Loras nodded.

They mounted the horses again and continued along the path, leaving behind a scattering of bodies, cold, alone and very dead, and hoped the noise of the encounter wouldn't draw in more barbarians.

* * *

Cold drizzle drifted down from a dark featureless night sky as the Barbarian camp slept. It would be at least a turn of the glass before dawn would bring any form of light. Pardigan had assured Mahra that this would be the best time to enter the camp, the time when most would be in their deepest sleep and any guards at their lowest ebb of vigilance, the hour of the thief, he had called it. The camp was silent save the sounds of running and dripping water, and several dogs, fighting over scraps of food, hard found in this camp of scavengers during the bitterly cold night.

Mahra soared unseen on soft silent wings, looking down over the incredible mixture of tents, shacks, dogs, rats and men that made up the encampment. The dampness and smoke was doing little to disguise the aromas of human waste and rotting rubbish strewn everywhere; if she could have held her nose she would have.

Her sight, when in the form of the owl, was excellent, even in this near darkness she could see almost every detail and wasn't having any trouble finding the tents she wanted to search. The three friends had studied the camp at dusk while perched on the cliff high overhead, and had agreed upon several possible locations where the skulls might be,
if,
of course, they were still here. Two of those locations she had already dismissed; one had just been full of damp firewood, the other, on closer inspection, had turned out to be an armoury. She was now approaching the third and, what had been thought, the most likely location.

There were several fires dotted about, a few still offering an enticement of warmth to the huddled figures of guards as small flames licked at larger logs not yet completely burned through.

Rising higher to avoid coming too close to another small pack of squabbling dogs, she spotted the tent she was looking for, circled once, and then landed on the top for a final look around.

This tent was larger than most of the others, roughly circular in design, and with a smaller square section attached to the rear. Pennants hung limply in the still, damp air; they didn't look as if they had fluttered in quite some time. Below her, two guards were sprawled in the mud beside the entrance, their heads propped on folded arms and a deep heavy snoring filled the night air - an empty bottle lying as testament to their drunken vigilance.

A last look about for any other sight or sounds and Mahra dropped from the top of the tent and, changing into the form of the grey cat, slipped in past the sleeping guards.

The interior was unlit, but Mahra's eyesight as a cat was almost as good as when she was an owl. Shaking water from her fur with an exaggerated shiver, she wondered, not for the first time, what she was doing out on a night like this, and then gazed about with renewed interest as she took in her surroundings.

She was in a large reception area, empty of anything other than an impressive metal throne set on a high platform which dominated the far end; obviously Morgasta's throne. She padded across the sodden muddy carpet, past the throne, and towards the private quarters that she guessed must lie beyond. As she approached the curtain, her senses began to warn her that there was at least one person behind, possibly more. Hesitating a moment, she stretched her senses to their limits before finally slipping silently through.