Mage Prime (Book 2) (30 page)

Hindered by the terrain and the size and weight of the crossbow, Wyke could only advance on his target in a half crouch. A couple of dozen long paces would bring him well within a range where he could be sure of his shot. He didn’t hurry. Keeping as low as he could, and breathing slowly and steadily, he crept forward along the bottom of one of the freshly ploughed furrows, the cold light of the low moon casting a long deep shadow behind him.

He was barely within range when the patch of darkness in front of him moved. Easing down onto one knee, Wyke released the safety. Slowly he raised the crossbow for an upward shot, the stock snug against his shoulder. A stone was digging into the top of his shin, but the shadow was beginning to resolve itself. He held still, gripping his weapon firmly as a prolonged and high-pitched ear-splitting shriek of pure malice pierced the frosty air. Moonlight glistening on massive outstretched bat-like wings, the grelfon rose on its hind legs. Its saurian head snapped round, and its malevolent yellow-eyed gaze settled on Wyke’s position. With a resounding thwack, the bolt was released and the bowman dropped flat. The flight’s eerie whistling cut the frosty air and the bolt found its mark. The grelfon released one murderous long drawn-out scream as a steaming fountain of black noxious liquid spewed from its gaping mouth, splattering in gobbets over the ridges and settling in glutinous pools in the furrows.

All was still. Away in the distance a fox barked, its harsh strident note riding the pre-dawn air. Nothing moved. Cautiously, Wyke lifted his head to peer with one eye over the ridge of a furrow. The malevolent black creature glared back, the last light of the setting moon defining its pale belly and glinting on the steel bolt protruding from between its eyes. Not daring to move, the crossbow-man watched. Slowly, the massive wings began to droop, their cruelly barbed tips spearing the rich soil. With a low, almost pitiful moan, the last spark of life gave up on the grelfon. The yellow eyes closed and it pitched forward, the sinuous part-feathered body propped in a grotesque tableau by the long bones and tough membranes of the collapsed wings.

Leaving nothing to chance, Wyke scrambled on his belly over the furrow and retrieved his cross-bow. Unconcerned now about the noisy clatter of the ratchet, he quickly cocked and reloaded, leaving the safety off. The probing tendrils of dawn gave light enough to reveal the black and glutinous mass which now lay across the ridges and continued its slow and viscous drip into the furrows. Picking his way round it, Wyke approached the corpse. He wondered, rather incongruously, whether potatoes would ever grow in that place again.

His nose wrinkling at the vile stench, he stood, crossbow at the ready, alert for any sign of movement as he studied the huge and ungainly crumpled heap. As yet unaware it would be receiving no more signals from the brain, the grelfon’s stomach growled and gurgled. Foetid gasses escaped to mingle with the creature’s own disgustingly unique body odour, as it briefly continued to digest its last meal. Temporarily gripped by the morbid fascination frequently engendered by the grotesque and downright ugly, Wyke stared for a few moments. Eventually he turned away. Placing two fingers in his mouth he signalled the all clear with a piercing double whistle. Vintar and his platoon emerged from the trees around the field, a dozen or so succumbing to nausea as they entered the grelfon’s vile miasma. The three cross-bowmen strode over to join Wyke, their movements ungainly as they negotiated the ploughed section of the field.

Vintar crossed over to stand beside them. “Well done Wyke. Thank the gods there were no casualties this time.”

Wyke un-cocked his bow and slipped the leather finned bolt back into the quiver at his belt. “How many is it so far, sir?”

Disdainfully, Vintar gestured towards the corpse. “This is the fourth and, as far as I can tell, the biggest. I’d like to think it’s also the last but I doubt that very much.”

He looked around him and called out. “Sergent Darke, let’s get back to barracks. This stinking mess can be disposed of later.” He pointed towards a large five-barred gate at the bottom of the field. “Get the men formed up beyond that gate. We’ll take the main roads. Gilfric Peasemold; to me.”

The young messenger turned aside, nimbly crossing the ridges and furrows to where Vintar and the bowmen were gathered.

Vintar placed a hand on the boy’s gold-sashed shoulder. “You’re to go on ahead, the quickest way you know. Inform His Majesty that the creature has been killed. Once the corpse has been disposed of the villagers can return to their homes.” With a nod of understanding Gilfric turned. Sure-footed as a cat, he sped along a furrow, back into the trees and out of sight. As the platoon began to make their way over the field towards the gate, one of the bowmen moved towards the grelfon’s hulking corpse.

Wyke called after him. “Where’re you going Parry?”

Without turning, the thin wiry bowman called back. “You’ve left a perfectly good bolt stuck in its head. I won’t be long.”

Wyke thrust his crossbow into Buller’s hands and took off after Parry, leaving the surprised Buller fighting to maintain his grip on three heavy and bulky weapons.

The grelfon’s demise had flattened the soil beneath its massive barbed tail and muscular rear legs, the weight of its scaled and feathered shoulders now supported by the misaligned bones of the huge collapsed and twisted wings. The thick, sinuous neck curved limply downwards, the long-mouthed head lodged at a slight angle on the ridge of a deep furrow. Before Wyke could stop him, Parry had stretched out, firmly grasped the deeply embedded bolt, and pulled. With a loud hiss and thump, one of the leathery wings settled. The bulk of the grelfon’s body shifted.

Startled, Parry jumped back, turned and tried to run. Missing his footing he lost his balance, pitching sideways to land on his back with a slithering squelch, two or three paces in front of the huge lizard-like head. Almost immediately, the bowman began a hysterical, high-pitched wailing. Struggling awkwardly to his feet, he held his arms out in front of him. His face contorted with terror, he stumbled towards Wyke.

The creature’s poisonous black vomit plastered his back, from the top of his shoulders to his heels. As he had pushed himself upright, his hands had sunk up to the wrists in the mucilaginous mess. As Parry’s hysterical wails turned to lunatic screams Wyke stepped forward and took a swing, landing a swift uppercut squarely under Parry’s chin. The bowman dropped like a sack of potatoes and Wyke sounded a loud, three-note whistle through his fingers for the stretcher-bearers. They had heard the screams. With Vintar in the lead they were already on their way when Wyke signalled. Vintar knelt down beside the unconscious bowman.

Careful not to touch his hands and clothing, the captain frowned as he peered at him. “It doesn’t seem to be eating into him or burning through his clothes. It’s just stuck there.” He stood up and looked at Wyke. “Perhaps it loses its effect as it becomes colder. Let’s hope so. Only time will tell.”

A blanket was quickly wrapped round bowman Parry and he was lifted onto the stretcher, to be carried carefully, though not easily, across the ridges and furrows of the half-ploughed field.

Carter and Buller were about to un-cock their bows but were stopped by Wyke. “Happen it might be an idea to leave ‘em cocked. Just put t’safety on. It’s a fair way back and tha never knows.”

With one last glance at the huge bulk of the dead grelfon, they followed Parry’s stretcher out of the field. Taking up positions at the rear of the column, they began the long march back to Vellethen.

From the field gate to the junction where the Mudlin road met the Vellethen to Hanbrook road was roughly a mile, but Vintar didn’t anticipate anything coming from the direction of Hanbrook. There was a shorter route to Vellethen, and he was confident that once word got out there was a grelfon in Mudlin, nothing would be coming this way from Vellethen anyway.

By the time the platoon, with the stretcher bearers bringing up the rear, had reached the junction, Parry was beginning to stir. Halting his men, Vintar jogged back down the column to check on the condition of the unfortunate bowman. The stretcher had been placed on the grass verge at the side of the road, and Wyke was helping him to sit up. Parry shook his head, blinked rapidly then looked at his black-coated hands.

Immediately he began a desperate high pitched keening, and Wyke gripped him hard by the forearm. “Shut it, or happen I’ll have to wallop thee again.”

A childlike helplessness crossed Parry’s face as he continued to stare at his hands. Wyke’s blood ran cold. He slipped a bolt out of his quiver, reached out and with the business end gingerly prodded at the thick, congealed mass. Surprised, he drew back a little. Before Parry could react, Wyke gave his fellow bowman’s encrusted hand a sharp tap with the flat side of the bolt. Parry snatched his hand back as dozens of tiny black shards fell in a shower over his outstretched legs. Despite the noxious black substance having removed the top layer of skin, leaving his hand red and raw, a relief laden grin spread slowly across Parry’s thin face as he flexed his fingers in front of his eyes. Speechless and hopeful, he held out his other hand. Wyke studied it for a moment, picked his spot and gave the black shell a swift tap with the bolt. A network of cracks appeared, but Parry’s hand remained firmly encased. Wyke peered closely at the damage as Vintar peered from the other side. He gave his bowmen an encouraging nod.

Wyke grimaced as he attempted to ease the point of the bolt into one of the cracks. “Looks like tha’s got more on this one. Thicker like. Hold on.”

Grasping Parry’s wrist, Wyke held it firmly and brought the bolt sharply down on the hard black crust. Half a dozen large pieces fell away, but despite all efforts to remove them, some smaller ones still clung tenaciously to his fingers.

Vintar looked closely at Parry’s sore and reddened hand. “Don’t worry. Those pieces will probably fall off, like the other ones did. Now, do you think you can march?”

Bowman Parry gave his captain a pained look. “Only if I take my clothes off. They’re as stiff as a board.”

Vintar and Wyke hauled him onto his feet. After a variety of strange contortions and much struggling and swearing, between them they finally managed to remove his outer clothes. Bonded to the fibres of his clothing, the vile black coating steadfastly resisted all attempts to dislodge it, despite much tapping, pulling and picking. Conceding defeat, Wyke bundled the hapless bow-man, shivering in his boots and long woollen underwear, into a blanket, and the platoon set off once more on the long march to Vellethen. They made good time, and by mid-day were well over halfway. The light of a feeble wintery sun briefly struggled through a thin patch in the murky purplish-grey cloud cover which had overcome the clear morning. Breaking step, the platoon eagerly began the long pull up a steep hill. Every man knew that when they reached the top, Vellethen would be visible on the horizon, its palace and tall buildings set against a backdrop of blue-grey ocean.

The first snowflake reached the ground as they crested the hill. The entire platoon groaned in dismay as their view of the city was rapidly obliterated by the blizzard rushing in over the sea. Calling out the step, the right marker marched them briskly forwards to meet the dense white curtain heading swiftly towards them. Half a mile later, snowstorm and soldiers converged, large swirling flakes rapidly covering helms and shoulders and melting in icy rivulets which trickled down inside clothing onto already chilled skin. The platoon slogged into the body of the storm, their brisk march faltering to a trudge as they pushed against the biting wind in visibility that had deteriorated to barely a pace.

As if on a whim, a sudden gust swirled the blizzard briefly to one side, long enough to reveal a small figure approaching in a stumbling run, his golden sash barely visible under its coating of snow. Vintar called the platoon to a halt. Sobbing for breath and swaying with fatigue, Gilfric staggered to a halt in front of him, his thin tunic and tabard impotent against his violent shivering. Sergeant Darke called down the line for a blanket. Trembling and exhausted, the young messenger clasped it gratefully as it was wrapped hastily round his shoulders.

His breathing ragged and laboured, Gilfric looked wild-eyed at Vintar. “I didn’t get back sir. I was going over the fields when one of those things appeared in front of me, so I cut through the woods onto the road and there was another one, sitting right on it, and another a bit further this way.”

The shivering messenger’s shoulders drooped lower. “The snow had started by then, and I don’t think they saw me. I thought it best to cut back and warn you sir.”

Vintar looked hard at Gilfric. “Well done. Now, I hate to have to ask you this. Could you lead some of my men across the fields to the first one you saw?”

Wiping his face with a corner of the blanket, Gilfric nodded. “If it’s still there. It was doing a fair bit of screeching and flapping sir, but I don’t think it was as big as the one that bowman Wyke finished off. The other two are quite a way apart. You’ll meet one of them about a mile ahead.”

An angry murmur rippled through the gathered platoon. The wind had ceased its ferocious onslaught, reducing the blizzard to a steady fall of large soft flakes which promised deep drifts and blocked roads. Vintar started to detail the men who would follow Gilfric, hoping against hope that the snow would at least turn to rain.

A long, muscle-stretching uphill walk took Slanvir and Karryl through a large wood of silver birches which whispered constantly as they nestled against the foot of the mountain.

Coming to a halt, Slanvir turned to Karryl. “A little way ahead is where I have seen him. He stands on the side of the mountain above the trees.”

Karryl looked up into the canopy. The birches were mature, their silvery white trunks tall and straight, towering far above his head. “That’s a long way up.”

Slanvir grinned and shook his head. “No revered Keril, not up. Down! Come, you will see!”

He hurried on ahead, his short, muscular legs carrying him at surprising speed. Karryl lengthened his stride. Rounding a curve in the path he saw Slanvir a little way ahead of him. The stocky islander stood peering over the slender trunk of a half-grown tree which had fallen across the path, blocking their way. Karryl put down his bundle and joined Slanvir in peering over the trunk. He could see almost immediately what he meant. A few paces beyond the fallen tree, the ground supporting the rest of the woodland had broken away to slide neatly and vertically into a narrow gorge. The domed crowns of the still-growing trees now displayed their delicate winter tracery just below ground level of the escarpment on which their erstwhile companions now stood.

Slanvir turned to Karryl, his hands clasped. “We thought the gods were angry with us when they spoke from the mountain last winter and split the sacred wood. Then Quaxlor appeared and nothing else happened. We decided that it is not for us to know why the gods do what they do.”

Karryl nodded in agreement. “Very wise. It baffles me sometimes.”

Lifting his gaze above the sea of treetops, Karryl studied the rugged, fissured face of the dark grey mountain beyond, thrusting powerfully upwards until it was lost in the white and gently swirling mist high above.

Tentatively placing a hand on Karryl’s arm, Slanvir pointed to a small opening just visible on the mountain face, slightly to the left and well above the displaced trees. “It is there that Quaxlor appears, in the entrance to the home of the gods.”

As if something had suddenly occurred to him, he looked at Karryl and frowned. “Was this why you came out of the sea? Is there another entrance in the forbidden cove?”

Karryl had no chance to answer. A familiar figure appeared in the opening and a welcome voice entered his mind.
“Are you going to stand there all day?”

After raising a hand to acknowledge the new arrival, Karryl turned to Slanvir. “Is this the one you call Quaxlor?”

Slanvir clasped his hands to his chest, gazing in awe at the figure on the mountain. His voice was little more than a whisper. “It is, revered Keril. It is the Golden One.”

Karryl called up a mental image of the cave, fixing on the carved and painted wooden figures.

“Yes, I’ve seen it. It isn’t me, but I do know who it is.”

“Don’t you think you ought to have let these good people know the truth? They think I’m Keril and that I walked out of the sea.”

“Why didn’t you tell them yourself?”

“By the time I realised who they thought I was, it was too late, and I didn’t like to disillusion them.”

“Well, they’ll know the truth eventually. Now, it’s time for us to get back.”

Karryl looked at Slanvir. He still gazed across the chasm at Dhoum, hands clasped, a look of near rapture on his weather-beaten face.

“I have to go now Slanvir.”

The stocky islander unclasped his hands as he tried, and failed, to hide his disappointment. “I thought perhaps you would. It’s just a little sooner than I expected.” He gestured towards the bundle of clothes beside the fallen tree trunk. “You have told Selira?”

Karryl nodded and bent to pick up the bundle. As he hoisted it over his shoulder, Slanvir looked up into his face as if trying to think of something.

Eventually he found the words. “Forgive me if I offend, revered Keril. Do you have something she can… she can… remember you by, in case you don’t come back?”

Karryl thought for a moment then something tickled his memory. Resting his bundle of clothes on the birch trunk, he loosened the belt which secured them and fumbled in the pocket of his jacket. They were still there. Carefully he drew out the three oak leaves on their little twig and placed them on the trunk. As he re-secured his bundle, something caught his eye.

Picking it up, along with the oak twig, he sent out a thought. “Give me a little longer Dhoum. There’s something I have to do.”

“I understand.”

A short distance away, through a gap between the tall slender birches, Karryl could make out an open space created by the fairly recent fall of an old birch, its horizontal trunk and battered crown pointing towards the woodland’s edge. With Slanvir close on his heels he walked towards it, his feet sinking a little way into the recent leaf-litter and soft rich leaf-mould which carpeted the woodland. Crouching down in the middle of the space, Karryl scraped the leaf-litter to one side, revealing the dark humus-rich soil beneath. In and around the oak twig’s three dark green leaves, he wove the long pale blonde hair he had picked off his jacket. Making a closed shell of his hands, he held the twig inside. Next he drew in power and wove a spell of his own devising. He waited for a few moments until, feeling a movement against his palms like the wings of a captured butterfly, he opened his hands. He held them out for Slanvir to look. Two tiny rootlets had appeared near the base of the twig, but it was not those which held Slanvir’s gaze. Across each of the three leaves two fine diagonal lines of pale gold had appeared, shining out from their green background. Choked with emotion, Slanvir nodded his approval. Kneeling beside the little scrape he had made, Karryl dibbed a hole with his finger and gently settled the newly rooted twig into it, crumbling fine soil around it before firming it carefully. Satisfied, he stood up. Solely for Slanvir’s benefit he made a slow lifting gesture with his hand.

“Would you appreciate a little help?”

Slanvir’s eyes opened wide and he sniffed appreciatively as the delicate scent of primroses and honeysuckle filled the air around them.

Karryl turned his head to one side, allowing himself a little smile as his thought responded. “I’m sure it will grow much better with your tender ministrations Detelia.”

“Aaah! Thank you, Karryl. I hope you’ll enjoy this as much as I will.”

As her signature perfume gradually faded, the little twig slowly but steadily grew, the tiny stem lengthening and thickening, putting forth small green nodes which slowly burst open to produce miniature green leaves. Each emerging leaf delicately marked with a double diagonal line of pale gold, the sapling continued to develop until eventually it stood as tall as Slanvir. Proudly bearing the unique and magically marked leaves, the juvenile branches trembled in the gentle breeze which sighed through the surrounding birches.

When it was clear that its magical growth had halted, Karryl looked at the delighted, though somewhat overcome, Slanvir. “Nature will take its course now, with Selira’s care and attention. It is a particularly special tree, not only for the way it was grown, but it is also the only oak tree on the island.”

Slanvir looked up into Karryl’s face. “That beautiful perfume. Was that the magic?”

Karryl placed a hand on the stocky man’s broad shoulder. “It was part of it. I was privileged to have a goddess assisting me.”

With that, he turned and made his way back to the place where he had left his bundle of clothes. Slanvir gazed after him, holding the shoulder where Karryl had placed his hand. Dhoum was still waiting. Karryl gave him a little wave as he picked up his bundle and hoisted it once more over his shoulder.

Slanvir came trotting up to stand beside him. “You are going now?”

Karryl looked across at Dhoum. “Yes, I must. There are things happening in the world that have to be dealt with.”

Slanvir looked out over the crowns of the trees to the mountain ledge where Dhoum was standing. “How will you cross over? Can you fly?”

Karryl chuckled. “Not in the way you mean.” He held out his hand. After hesitating for a moment, Slanvir took it in his own wide and calloused one. “Goodbye Slanvir. I hope we meet again.”

Slanvir nodded, his eyes glistening, and stepped back. Karryl turned and after briefly studying a nearby spot on the ledge where Dhoum stood, drew in power. A column of sparkling silver and blue motes swirled briefly and disappeared, to reappear and resolve themselves a second later on the mountain ledge. Raising their hands in farewell to Slanvir, Karryl and Dhoum turned and were gone into the mountain.