Slow Turns The World (6 page)

Torrin had fired the crossbow from his hip but the Ummakil had not seen from where the bolt had come and cast around wildly for an unseen archer among the trees.   But their chieftain looked for the first time at the strange weapons that were carried and began to understand.  He shouted an order in a strange barking tongue and all the spear and arrowheads were directed again at Torrin and the hunters.  He spoke again, pointing first at the swords and crossbows, and then at the ground.

“We cannot fight them, they are too many,” said Torrin.  “Put the weapons down.”

The chieftain picked up a loaded crossbow and examined it carefully.  He smiled and nodded to himself and then looked to Dresse who stood nearest.

“Drak!” He shouted, and made a running action with his fingers.

“Drak!”  Two of the Ummakil pulled Dresse from the group.

“Drak!”  He ordered again, pointing at the empty forest.

Dresse bounded away bobbing and weaving.  The chieftain lifted the crossbow and pulled the trigger but the safety-catch was not released.  Dresse ran on while the chieftain fumbled at the mechanism.  The bolt fired, but wide of the moving target.  Another primed weapon was quickly passed to the chieftain and a second bolt missed by the slimmest measure.  It seemed for a moment that Dresse would escape, but then the chieftain nodded to his archers and flint-tipped arrows brought the fleeing figure to a bloodied, sprawling halt.   The Ummakil laughed and muttered in their strange tongue as they handled the crossbows and slashed at the tree trunks with the swords.  One pointed a crossbow at Torrin and then tried to find what action would fire the bolt.  The world seemed to slow its pace as Torrin watched the hands fumbling on the safety-catch and the steel-tipped shaft that made his breast its target.  

“Karagan.  Isdu pran!”  The chieftain shouted out the words and the Ummakil ceased their sport.  The captives were bound and led away.

They came to the settlement of the Ummakil.  Rough shelters of woolly hide were stretched between the trees while carcasses of many beasts hung from the branches, above the reach of the dogs which sniffed and squabbled around a great central fire.   Grim-faced women worked, stripping flesh from hide and bone while a group of grimy children practised their archery upon an old dog, mindless of the anguished howls that came from the wounded creature.

“Did you think to make peace with such as these?”  whispered Torrin to Valhad, as they were pushed roughly onwards by their guards.

“They live on the edge of darkness and it has crept within them, but all darkness is a journey towards sunrise,” said Valhad.

Their captors pushed them to the ground before binding their feet together.  Torrin stared upwards at pink wisps of cloud which were abruptly obscured by faces looking down into his own. Two women, one young, the other toothless and wizened, eyed him keenly.  Both exchanged words, as if arguing over some small opinion, and then moved to look at Queet who lay closest.   They looked down on the old lean body with its leather skin and did not linger, moving on to Valhad.   Now their talk seemed keener, as if in agreement, but the older woman looked into the blue eyes that gazed up and hesitated.  She murmured a few quiet words to her companion, who began to argue but then shrugged and moved on examine to Nasdal. Now they seemed to agree and called upon the guards.  Nasdal was pulled to his feet and hurried away.   Shortly after came a long and terrible scream, followed by a great cheer of harsh voices.  Before long a smell of roasting meat drifted from the fire.

The captives lay bound while the Ummakil feasted and slept.  Eventually they heard the sounds of waking and activity amongst the camp.  There was much baying and barking from the dogs and then suddenly the hunters found themselves pulled roughly to their feet.  Before them stood all the men of the Ummakil, each armed with spear or bow except for the chieftain and a chosen few who held the crossbows.  The pack of dogs strained on leashes barking and snarling as the Vasagi were led a short way from the camp to a large clearing in the forest.  Amid much eager laughter, one of their captors drew a knife and approached them. The blade cut through the leather thongs that bound them and the five surviving hunters stood freely before the horde of Ummakil.

“Drak!” Shouted the chieftain to Torrin.

“So that is the way of it.  We are to be sport for them,” said Torrin to his companions.  “Do not run yet.  Save your strength and walk slowly.  Queet, what do we know of the dogs?”

“They are swift and savage but have not much obedience, especially when meat is tasted.”

“Drak, Drak!” Came the impatient shout from behind them.

“Wait.  Walk,” said Torrin.  “For my guess is they will measure an arrow’s flight before they come; not enough to reach the trees, unless…”

There was a moment of silence before Queet spoke.

“I have had a long journey,” said Queet looking back at the milling warriors, understanding what Torrin had left unsaid.  “Long enough for any man.”

Torrin nodded and then spoke. “I have known no better man than you, Queet.”

“May you run swiftly, Torrin.”

“May you rest well, Queet.”

“Run!”

A great roar rose behind them and the barking of the dogs became frantic.  Arrows hissed through the air and pierced the ground beside them.   They bounded away towards the forest's edge.  Queet ran too, but not away from the Ummakil.  He turned, and rushed to meet the pack of dogs that charged yelping and snarling towards him; snatching a stone from the ground and swinging it within his clenched fist to meet the pack’s leader as it sprang.  Queet screamed his last words with pride and defiance; the ancient hunting cry of the Vasagi.

“Barakanda!  Baraki!”

The dog fell with its skull smashed apart.

“Barakanda!  Bara…”  Queet managed one more blow and brought down a second animal; then the pack overwhelmed him and frenzy followed as the dogs ripped apart both the hunter and the two of their kind that had fallen.

The sound of the dogs fell behind but the shouts and footfalls did not diminish as the hunted ran on together; arrows hissing past as they reached the trees.  Torrin urged them faster and flashed a look back over his shoulder.   He glimpsed a line of figures running in pursuit as an arrow impaled a tree beside him.  They crashed through the undergrowth and leapt the narrow stream gullies crossing their path.   There were horn blasts behind and in the distance another sound; the frenzied barking that grew louder as the dogs were whipped back to the chase.   Then an arrow pierced Dirg between the shoulders and he fell.  Torrin heard his scream of pain, his sprawling fall and the fading anguished voice begging not to be left.   But they had to run on; just three now; only Valhad and Grelle still beside him.  He could see a thinning of the forest ahead and urged himself onwards, concentrating on a patch of red sunlight between the trees that shook and bounced before him with every desperate footfall.   They were nearing the beach where he had left the Vasagi.  What had become of them?  Even at this moment running and stumbling, lungs a burning agony, with the shouts and arrows flying from behind, even now, Torrin sought to know what had become of his people, his kin and his wife.

Emerging from the trees, feeling the sand beneath their pounding feet, their eyes were full of dazzling sunlight.  The beach was empty except for the rafts of the Vasagi which lay unused upon the sand.  Why were they abandoned?  Where were their people?  They ran on into the shaft of sunlight that was a deeper red than ever before and cast long shadows of their running bodies like dancing black threads upon a pool of blood.   The Ummakil burst onto the beach behind them and the dogs bounded across the sand.   With nowhere to run but the sea, the end of the chase was drawing near.  

“Torrin!” Gasped Valhad.  “Look! What lies there?”

Torrin saw three figures lying on the sand ahead, and guessing at once what awaited, he shouted:

“Go to them!”

There upon the sand was the body of Nagul, eyes closed as if sleeping, with bow, arrow and spear placed across his breast.  Beside him lay an old woman that Torrin had known, and a small child that sickness had taken.  The three had been laid together and scattered with the few sad flowers that bloomed before darkness came to the world.  Torrin snatched up the weapons, fitted the arrow to the bow and crouched, watching the figures running towards him.  He chose a target; the arrow flew and found its mark.  The nearest Ummakil fell writhing to the sand.   

“Run! Run quickly!”  He shouted to the others.  Then he ripped the leather jerkin from the bloated stomach of Nagul and slashed the belly open with the spearhead.  Foul air bubbled forth as Torrin ran again.  The dogs bounded across the beach towards the hunters who glanced around, desperately seeking some path of escape.

“Torrin! Look at the sea! Look at the sea!”  Valhad pointed as he shouted and Torrin saw what the cold winds had done; the sea was frozen.

A margin of ice extended from the shore and offered a passage around the northern headland.   As they ran onto the silver grey plain of frozen sea, slipping and stumbling, the yelping of the dogs grew nearer but quickly changed to a louder quarrelsome barking as the three corpses were discovered and the stench of carrion caught their noses.  

By now the mass of the Ummakil had reached the beach and were running in pursuit across the sands shouting excitedly.  The gorging dogs, kicked, lashed, and driven from the dismembered corpses, were sent again to chase the three fleeing figures.   Torrin, Valhad and Grelle ran on towards the headland, past the rotted body segments of the barak, now nearly stripped of flesh by maggot, claw and beak.   Towers of rock carved by the sea stretched forth from the headland and between them a great archway offered a swift route to whatever lay beyond.   The barbarous clamour of the Ummakil and their pack of dogs sounded ominously louder; the gap was closing.

Torrin led them under the arch and saw at last what lay beyond.  Another bay swept in an arc to a distant headland, flanked by a strip of beach.  On the sands, far away, were many tiny walking figures; they had found the Vasagi.  There was a plain of ice stretching across the bay but it appeared dark and weak.  Closer to the shore it looked firmer and was surely where the Vasagi had walked to make their passage.   But they had no time to skirt the thinner ice; the Ummakil were nearly upon them.  Behind them running footfalls thundered ever closer; an arrow hissed past and skidded across the frozen surface.   The pack of slavering dogs burst barking and snarling through the archway.  They ran on, across the thinner ice, over the dark, deep water.  In the distance the Vasagi heard the faint commotion, then stopped, turned, and watched as the drama played out its final act.

They were all but finished; no matter how hard they pushed themselves onwards their pace was slowing and their pursuers drew closer.  Exhausted, Torrin stopped and turned, clasping Nagul's spear.  The horde of the Ummakil were halted at the arch and seemed unwilling to tread the thin ice; a horn blared out from them and the dogs slowed their pace.  It sounded again. The dogs stopped reluctantly and turned back to their masters.   Torrin stood sweating, gasping, supporting his weight on the spear shaft.   He looked back at the Ummakil and saw their jeering, grinning faces.

Valhad stood close by while Grelle still jogged painfully onwards.   Why were the dogs called back?   Why did the Ummakil stand watching, waiting, and laughing?  There were more ripped and torn barak carcasses strewn upon the sand of the bay and partly encased in the ice of the shallower waters.  He heard faint, distant, urgent shouts from the Vasagi; he saw their tiny figures waving spears, gesturing wildly, and pointing towards the shore.  Why had the Ummakil chased them this way, but then given this chance to escape?  Did they know something about this place, something that the Vasagi had now discovered that urged them to cry out the faintly heard desperate warnings?   

Was there was some hidden menace here, some other sport expected for those that outran the dogs and arrows.  There was danger... somewhere… where?  There was a jolt below his feet and the sound of ice cracking.  He looked down through the misted window of frozen water no thicker than two clenched fists and saw huge jaws rushing up towards him.  The ice heaved and splintered into a web of fractures below him as great scimitar teeth lunged, scythed and silently snapped shut, carving long grooves on the underside of the icepack.   

“Run!”  He shouted to Valhad.  “Run to the shore!”

Valhad looked about him not comprehending what new danger threatened.  Grelle stopped and turned, stood for a moment confused by Torrin’s cry, then the ice beneath him erupted.  A great scaled head, glinting silver, with jaws gaping wide burst upwards sending a tumult of water and broken ice high into the air.  Grelle was cast aloft and then caught between the curved fangs that pierced him through.   The creature dropped back through the broken hole clutching the writhing body in its jaws and vanished beneath the bloodstained water.  A great cheer rose from the Ummakil.

Horrified, desperate, Torrin spun around wildly, searching for a safer path; some other choice between the spears of the Ummakil and the lurking predator beneath, but the shore was still far off and all around the ice was cracked and thin.

“Torrin!” Valhad screamed, “over there!” He pointed towards the open sea where a white pyramid, an iceberg, was lodged on the boundary of the ice.

“Come quick!” Valhad led the way, one last desperate sprint towards a hope of sanctuary.   Torrin sensed that in the depths great reptilian eyes looked up and watched the track of their running feet.  He felt the ice quiver again as if dealt a violent hammer blow from beneath; the way ahead cleaved apart and the sea-beast burst forth.  Now they saw the shape of the animal, maybe a huge fish with neither spine nor fin, or perhaps a serpent that had made the sea its home and grown hideously beyond the measure of its land-locked kin.  The silver body, scales glistening wet, was as wide as a bull barak, but many, many times longer.  There was a narrowing at the neck, a broader wedge-shaped head, and black diamond eyes set within unblinking discs of gold.  It lunged towards them across the ice, body snaking and twisting, a predator’s gaze fixed upon them.  The jaws opened and made a hideous cavern as tall as a man, framed by rapier fangs still flecked red with the blood and gristle of Grelle.