Blood Of The Wizard (Book 1) Page 16

  Something wriggled in the rocks. The horse rose on his hind legs, wrenched the rein from my hand and just after I pulled Cullie from its back, scampered up into the rocks across the pitted black hills. I pulled back my bow, and nearly sent a shot into the dark when I heard a sudden snarl and a scurrying through the night air around us.

  “Wolf!” Cullie shouted.

  “Pretty damned bold wolf!” I said, still not seeing it. “And I never saw a horse act that way over a wolf before!”

  Suddenly, I was gripped by Cullie. I might have well tried to catch the horse as to pry the lad lose, and I realized then I was being too open and honest, for my words sent the lad to trembling as he pressed against me.

  I offered him a little lie, saying, “Oh! Or perhaps it was! A dangerous horse-wolf! Good thing for us, they’ve no taste for man or dwarf!”

  The lad let go, gripping me with only a single fist, so I walked on. Suddenly, in the silver-white of a starry sky, I saw what had terrified the animal. Close to some burnt shrubbery lay the stark form of a dead goblin, knees drawn upwards and arms spread out like the bars of a cross. Was that one of the one we had killed? I rushed towards the corpse—but just as quickly turned away. From downright lack of wits, I forgot that the sight of such a creature, even in life, much less mutilated beyond semblance to dwarfdom or humanity, would send cold chills down the lads back.

  Would that I had the strength and skill to be a father to the lad in this awful place: No child should ever have to see beneath the glory of the epics, to see the truth in the shedding of blood, the dead in their shame; for them, the pageant of war must not be stripped of all its falseness, revealing carnage and slaughter in their revolting nakedness.

  I could not look back to know if that were one of the goblins, but walked with the lad aimlessly around it toward the camps. As we approached, there was a great flapping of wings. Up rose buzzards, scolding us in angry caws and hisses at our interruption. A pack of wolves skulked a few feet off and eyed us impatiently, boldly waiting to return to their goblin-meat as soon as we passed.

  The impudence of the wolves, the way they eyed the lad, enraged me. I let go a pair of arrows, shot together, which sent them to a more respectful distance.

  I pulled the lad close, but we walked past yet more bodies like the first. I counted eight within a stone’s throw, and there were twice as many scattered here and there as we continued to walk, so many that it soon became obvious that we had not killed them all. Had it been the work of the warmaids before we met up?

  I hoped so, and my hope was so great that I did not even care to go have a look and find out if their wounds were by axe, arrow, or claw. Where they lay, I could tell only that they were dead, for carrion wheeled with harsh cries overhead and there was a vague movement of wolfish shapes along the ground.

  What possessed me to get back to the creek bed, I cannot imagine, unless it was the fear of those creatures returning. But I carried a thing or two to end them easily enough.

  At any rate, Cullie and I scampered back, and it was in seeking that hidden little way that I thought I distinguished the faintest motion of one the goblin figures. It was clothed like a man or a dwarf, though, and lying apart from the others.

  Then it moved.

  With the ghastly dead and the ravening wolves all about, the movement of that wounded man was strangely terrifying. The sight riveted me to the spot. But surely it was a mistake. The form could not have moved. It must have been some error of vision, or trick of the shadowy starlight. But I could not take my eyes from the prostrate form.

  Again the body moved—distinctly moved—beyond possibility of a trick of the eye, the chest heaving up and sinking like a man struggling to stand but unable to rise. I dared not show it, but my heart thudded with fear as I ran to his aid. The form was the dwarven shaman who was, or had lived as, an elf. One hand staunched a wound in his head and the other gripped a knife with which he had been defending himself. I stooped to examine him.

  At first, he was unconscious of my presence. Gently, I tried to remove the left hand from his forehead, but at the touch, out struck the right hand in vicious thrusts of the hunting-knife, one blind cut barely missing my arm.

  “Hold, sir!” I cried, “I’m no foe!” and I caught the right arm tightly.

  At the sound of my voice, the left hand swung out, revealing a frightful gash. The next thing I knew, his left arm had encircled my neck like the coil of a strangler, five fingers digging into the flesh of my throat. All the while, the shaman was making frantic efforts to free his right hand and plunge that dagger into me. The shock of the discovery threw me off guard, and for a moment there was a struggle, but it was brief. The wounded dwelf fell back, writhing in pain, his face contorted with agony and hate. I do not think he could see me. He must have been blind from that wound. I stood back, but his knife still cut the air.

  “Shaman!” I said.

  The right arm fell limp and still.

  The thin lips moved. He was saying, or trying to say, something.

  “Speak louder!”

  The lips were still moving, but I could not hear a sound.

  “Speak louder!” I shouted. “Why are you here? How many of you followed us into the Fell-Riding?”

  I put my ear to his lips, fearful that life might slip away before I could hear. Suddenly, there was a snarl through the glistening set teeth. The prostrate body gave an upward lurch. With one swift, treacherous thrust, he drove his knife into my coat-sleeve, grazing my forearm. The effort cost him his life. He sank down with a groan. The sightless, bloodshot eyes opened.

  The shaman would never again share his visions.

  I jerked the knife from my coat, hurled it away from me. Then I sprang up and fled with the lad, never looking, for the superstitious dread of the dead shaman’s evil spirit seemed to look at us from somewhere in the night sky. Little Cullie and I tore on and on till, exhausted, we threw ourselves on the ground and caught our breath for the night.

  Chapter 38

  I suppose there are times in the life of every man, even the strongest—and I am not that—when a feather’s weight added to a burden can snap their endurance. I had reached that stage long before encountering the shaman.

  With the events of the quest south, and the long, hard trek northward still weighing on my head, the past months had been altogether too hard packed for my well-being. The madness of the Merry Cutters no longer amazed me. And though I am loath to admit it, the lad and I wept in each other’s arms. Yes, we cried. We cried hysterically. At first, the lad reeled, threw up his arms, and fell. Then with a sharp, broken draw of breath, and with a high-pitched wailing on his lips, Halvgar’s lad joined me as I cried.

  What happened next I can no more set down consecutively than I can distinguish the parts in a confused dream: All of a sudden there were goblins everywhere. One was a female, a red-eyed fury with breasts like twisted vines and teeth like shards of bone. All the rest were just naked beasts, brandishing crude clubs, flashing dark teeth. The pack of them were like wolves, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces and I could only stand there, pale-faced with horror, with a little curly headed lad at my feet.

  Now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave a man may be, they cannot stand off a horde of savage goblins. I let go my bowels, which sent the greenish demons to a distance. Then overhead came a swelling wind, and up from the direction of the shore rushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamor of savage goblin wrath. The wind grew more boisterous. Behind them, the cries died faintly away; and with a strength that was not my own, I looked to the sky and screamed as if I saw the thunderwyrm.

  I intended dashing off with the child them, but they did not cower from my ruse. I had forgotten they do not fear it, else they would not have lived in its shadow.

  They came clawing at us with hands that tore clothing and flesh from head to feet.

  I wish I could say that this was the worst part of the journey,
that fear fueled my limbs as I grabbed up the child and ran—for at least folk would understand as much. But that would be false. I was simply running. There was no emotion to it, no real fear, for perhaps I was too exhausted to emote, run, and carry the child too.

  Poor Cullie had already come to expect a certain playful undercurrent to my presence; so the dull look in my eyes as I ran with him must have been doubly unnerving.

  “Run, uncle!” he squalled.

  I rose with him up one hillock, then another. Rising throughout the forest of stone, goblins were emerging from their unseen pits and cavities among the hills. All the while, other forms scurried in the dark, much larger than the goblins. They were similar in shape, but not size. I had not enough of an idea what they were to even venture a guess.

  All I knew was that the goblins growled a low symphony of curses as, around us, the darkened dreamscape became alive with motion. I looked back, and five goblin warriors stared at us as they followed. These were like elves, no doubt a blend of goblin and elf. Their eyes were sullen and deep with something in them that calculated me as more than a danger.

  The seemed to be actually thinking.

  Lacking any weapon but their fists, they came, hobbling like mad on all fours along the bank, squalling. With each step closer, they glanced at each other. They could feel the ancient blackness of my fear, I sensed.

  I dashed into a low stand of gnarled timber that traced a long, low hill, cut through by a trickling brown stream. For a moment longer, I continued on. Then I halted, the elvish goblins coming still. I sat Cullie down. The first goblin tripped over him. Then the elvish-looking thing stood, confused. It was shockingly young. I rose and brought my dirk into its panting chest. The young monster just sat. I yanked it out then ripped it across the throat, and as the creature rocked back and forth, rubbing his head as the others caught up, I could see the doleful pleas looming inside his head, but the sounds it made were frozen in the excruciating replay of a snake, hissing.

  When the others came, I rolled around on my heel and jabbed the first of them on the neck. With surprising strength, the beast fought back. Rattling at the others to grab me, it grabbed me by the face, putting a rock in my eye. Together, we rolled into the water. I stabbed it in the back, then ripped the blade in a deep awkward gouge through its liver. The body seized and fell away. It was jerking as it rolled with the slow current.

  I rose, grabbing my axe.

  Before I could turn again, another came with its claws raised. As I ducked, I planted my foot and swiped with my great axe across the creature’s stomach. The move was off and weak. Too slow. The beast’s claws came down on top of me, and as I fell backwards into the water, my lips were curled in pain. I scrambled to stand. The goblin was grabbing at its own stomach, so I turned, tackling the last of the group. As we dropped, I stabbed backwards, severing the creature’s spine before I turned and grabbed the gutted goblin once again. I gripped its matted hair, shoving it into the water. I looked around, holding the beast’s face underwater, and I saw an army out there in the rocks.

  Thousands of goblins were gathering. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that some were but a couple hundred yards away.

  The creature under my hand shook terribly, undulating as it grabbed my wrist and tried to snap it. I growled as the body flopped and rolled, fish-rolling like mad. When it finally ceased, I stepped out of the water.

  Then I halted again. And winced.

  A certain brunt of the army was making its way toward us. Several had spotted me, or heard Cullie’s cries. While dread of our eminent doom danced in my brain, I grabbed the lad and ran alongside the creek again.

  A pair of goblin warriors emerged in front of us. I kept running. Then I leapt. As I barreled sideways into the warriors, Cullie leapt from my arms, and one of their shoulders felt like a stone mashing into my sternum. My shins slammed into the face of the other. We rolled nearly to the water. I slashed my blade wildly. I missed the first one, but recoiled quickly. Stabbing the second goblin in the jaw, I saw the first one had jumped away, acting strangely, swatting at a burning feeling he seemed to feel, as if the wound that I had stabbed through his leathery face was a mere annoyance and some grander ache had descended on him.

  I turned to discover a shock that is still difficult to put to words: It was Cullie. His little star-shaped hand was outstretched, sending through the creature before it some pain that I could only attempt to imagine. Whatever the miserable goblin felt. The source was obvious.

  It was magic.

  Little Cullie was a mage… a dwarven wizard!

  The massive army was emerging now into the black of the rocks. The horde seemed to heave a moment, then the great mass rushed toward him. Wild dogs scattering before them now, the crazed noise of it all was pulsating and flooding over us.

  I grabbed Cullie’s hand. Both of us panting, we skirted nimbly, impossibly fast, through the rocks. Suddenly we were in another tree-fill section of the rock, this one practically a small forest with blackened alleys of stone and wood. The lad was utterly encased in panic. Which was good, in so much as terror in a young lad can be, for we skirting along at a terrific rate. I had no idea he could run so fast.

  Still, a pair of runners was closing in.

  More and more goblins were gathering in from the second arm of the horde, veering toward us. Shocked at the size of the army, I squeezed Cullie’s wrist and led him from the into a thick brake of dead maple on a hill. Retreating as best we could through the trees, the runners were coming yet. Now they were gaining.

  We halted. I knelt and turned to him.

  “Run, lad!”

  Little Cullie grabbed me. “No. No! If you don’t come, you now I’ll die!”

  I stood, watching the goblins run toward him. I thought of how the child’s death would be like sitting still amid the gathering of a million evils. I wouldn’t bear that, I couldn’t. I roared silently and shook my head, then tore with him into a swimmy and complete blackness.

  We were partly disappearing, but the horrific beasts had black eyes, eyes that even the simplest soul could tell were built for the night. They would not lose our trail. Without words, we ran alongside a narrow black path with little forks that careened from it into creek beds or deer trails, winding between encroaching roots. Soon we were going up a hill, then edging along its slope. Then suddenly we stood amid impossible terrain, wondering how we had even emerged so deeply into the thick brush. Behind us, they could scarcely move without stumbling.

  Despite a sensation of complete ruin, I found it almost laughable when we halted, huffing and spent atop briar-filled hill.

  The army had halted.

  I could see them through the greening trees below. Most were gathering back toward the queen. The lofty hill dipped again in front of us. I turned and watched the little one struggling for purchase down a root-filled hill, which was slippery with moss.

  “They’ve stopped,” I said.

  Little Cullfor rushed upward and yanked me down toward him. I was too weak to resist the oddly powerful magic that coursed through him. The shove sent me sliding, and together we collapsed and tumbled into the unseen, thorny black brambles at the bottom. The vines seemed to grab at us until graceless and jerky thrashing ensnared us both.

  We struggled there for a moment, completely stuck.

  I had dropped the axe and had to bend down through the thorns to pick it up.

  “By thunder, what a mess.”

  At which I heard the little fellow actually laugh, and together we began running through briars as woven and chaotic as a drunkard’s tale.

  Chapter 39

  An old wetnurse of my young days, whom I remember chiefly by her bulbous backside and wickedly large breasts, used to say, “Balls! Balls! To get through life, wee Fie, ye’ needs nothing but ye’ balls!”

  Indeed, madam.

  Though the female form was still a mystery to me then, I had my doubts that this woman had any balls to speak of. But I was aware, as I drag
ged Cullie and myself out of the Fell-Riding out onto the prairie, that there was a courage in the lad that was lost on me.

  I had caught the pack horse again. It was a lucky grab. I snatched it just at the end of a trailing bridle rein. I should have felt better. I should have felt lucky just to be alive. But Something haunted my thoughts.

  Now, Cullfor smiling and riding along, I had a feeling that something was seriously out of tune. It was daylight of our third day out when I caught it, and no weak-kneed coward ever shook more as I vainly tried to vault once again into the saddle. After a dozen false plunges at the stirrup, gave up the attempt, let Cullie ride, and footed it.

  There was a daze between my eyes, which the overly weary know well, and in my brain there was a whirling exhaustion that would only let me distinguish two thoughts.

  The elvish camps had been abandoned.

  And the grasses were blackened but not burnt.

  There was no one around, and hardly a sound in the still air as I pushed the Feisty-Goat back into the Trollwater River, and as Cullie and I launched slowly downstream, even these last two thoughts left me. The storm in my mind had driven all concerns away. We did not encounter a soul. In a stupefied way, I was aware that the elvish dogs were still there, but not any of the people, but it was merely a flash of distant lightening in my head.

  As the dogs came barking, scrambling at us, growling from the banks, I merely steered the vessel, half-laughing as the dogs began to fight among themselves. There was something almost evil in my laugh, I know.

  I think, perhaps, I had broken though the point where the brain counts things either good or evil. I had a brief thought: It may be that the reason good quests fail so often where evil ventures succeed is that the hero blunders forward tirelessly, trusting to the merits of his cause, where the villain proceeds warily as a cat over broken glass. So apart from these random thoughts, another notion arrived. I understood then that we had to kill a deer or a pig, sit, and have us a good meal. And just rest for a week or so.