Kos-kosio Begulne’s head snapped forward, the powrie’s bony forehead crushing Roger’s nose and knocking the man over backward.
Roger sputtered and tried to roll away, but the cords held his arms fast behind the chair back and he could get no leverage. A pair of powries were beside him suddenly, roughly pulling him back up.
“Oh, ye’ll tell me,” Kos-kosio Begulne declared. The powrie smiled evilly and raised one gnarly hand, snapping its fingers.
The sound jolted poor Roger’s sensibilities; he could only groan as the door to the small room opened and another powrie entered, leading on a short leash the biggest, meanest dog Roger had ever seen. The dog strained in his direction against the powrie’s strong pull, baring its formidable teeth, growling and snarling and snapping its powerful jaws.
“Craggoth hounds eat lots,” the grinning Kos-kosio Begulne said. “Now, boy, ye got something to tell me?”
Roger took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself, trying hard not to panic. The powries wanted to know the location of the refugee encampment, something Roger was determined he would not divulge, no matter what torture they exacted.
“Too long,” said Kos-kosio Begulne, snapping his fingers again. The powrie dropped the leash and the Craggoth hound came on, leaping for Roger’s throat.
Roger threw himself over backward, but the dog only followed, its fangs scoring the man’s cheek, cracking at his jawline.
“Don’t ye let the beast kill him,” Kos-kosio Begulne instructed the others. “Just make him hurt real bad. He’ll talk to us, don’t ye doubt.” With other matters to attend to, the powrie leader left the room then, though he was surely enjoying the spectacle.
For poor Roger, all the world was blood and snapping jaws.
Belster O’Comely eyed the approaching torches with the greatest fear he had known since leaving Dundalis. According to the returned scouts, the powries had Roger, and now the appearance of so large a monstrous force in the forest, moving unerringly to the north, led the portly man to believe that Roger had been forced to give them up. Maybe Jansen Bridges had been right in his disdain for Roger’s nightly antics.
There was no way that nearly two hundred refugees, many very old and many very young, would get away from such a force, Belster realized, and so he and his fellows had only one apparent option: the able-bodied would go out and fight the powries in the woods, occupy them with hit-and-run tactics until those who could not fight could get far, far away.
Belster wasn’t thrilled with the prospects, and neither was Tomas or the other leaders of the refugee band. Hitting at an organized and prepared group of monsters would cost them greatly and probably spell the end of any real resistance in the region. Belster suspected that any humans surviving this night would have to move farther south and try the dangerous maneuver of slipping around the monster lines to get into Palmaris. Many times over the last couple of weeks, Belster and Tomas had considered just such an option, and each time had dismissed it as too perilous. There simply wasn’t yet enough pressure being exerted on the monsters from the forces of Palmaris; the monster lines were too thick and too well-entrenched.
Still, the innkeeper had suspected all along that it would come to this, and in fact had known that the primary mission for him and his fellow warriors was to get the noncombatants far from the field of battle. The run to Palmaris would be fraught with danger, but the summer wouldn’t last forever, and many of the old and young would not likely survive the cold nights of winter in the forest.
Belster blew all those thoughts away with a profound and helpless sigh. He had to concentrate on the business at hand, on directing the coming battle. His archers had already gone out to both the east and west of the advancing monstrous horde.
“The eastern flank is ready to strike,” Tomas Gingerwart said, moving near the innkeeper.
“They hit hard, and retreat fast,” Belster explained.
“And those in the west have to come in hard and fast as soon as the monsters make their turn to the east,” Tomas replied appropriately.
Belster nodded. “And then comes our job, Tomas, the most critical of all. We must assess the strength of our enemy at once, and determine if they are weak enough, and disorganized enough, for a full assault. If so, then we send our fighters straight in, and signal for east and west to close like the jaws of a wolf.”
“And if not,” Tomas interrupted, for he had heard all of this before, “those in the west flee into the forest and those in the east come back in hard at the rear of Kos-kosio Begulne’s turning line.”
“While you and I and our fellows go to the others and begin the long circuit to the south,” Belster finished, his deflated tone showing he did not like that prospect.
“You would begin that at once?” Tomas asked, somewhat surprised. He had thought that they would finish the night, however it was to be decided, in the forest, and wait for the revealing daylight to lay their plans.
“If we mean to go southand if this force is on to us, then we have few optionsit would be better that we go while the monsters are preoccupied with our archers,” Belster decided.
“We have to get word to them, then,” Tomas replied. “When they finally break ranks, they must know where to find us.”
Belster considered that for a moment, then shook his head, his expression grave. “If in their fear they turn directly to the south, they will be chased, and thus we will be chased,” he reasoned. “They have already been instructed to flee into the forest if the attack is routed. They will find their way from there, wherever they choose to go.” Those were indeed the most difficult words Belster O’Comely had ever spoken. He knew the reasoning to be correct, but still felt as if he was abandoning his comrades.
Tomas’ first reaction called for an immediate protest, but he sublimated it quickly, seeing Belster’s pained expression, and, because of that, taking the moment to consider the wider situation. He found he had to agree with the decision, and understood that no matter how difficult the situation might become for the archers, it would be no less so for Belster’s retreating group, for by all reports they would have to cross miles and miles of land even thicker with monsters.
Another man came running toward them then, from the south. “The powries and goblins have four giant allies,” he reported. “They’ve just crossed Arnesun’s Creek.”
Belster closed his eyes and felt weary indeed. Four giants, any one of which could probably wipe out half of his warriors. Even worse, giants could return the arrow volleys by hurling huge stones or spears the size of tree trunks.
“Should we change the plan?” Tomas asked.
Belster knew it was too late. “No,” he said gravely. “Send the eastern flank into action. And may God be with them.”
Tomas nodded to the scout and the man ran off, passing the word. Barely ten minutes later the forest to the south erupted with screams and roars, with the sound of zipping arrows and the thunder of giant-hurled boulders.
“Powries, goblins, and giants,” Juraviel explained to Elbryan and Pony when he caught up to them northwest of Caer Tinella. “A strong force, heading north, with purpose, it would seem.”
Elbryan and Pony exchanged concerned looks; they could guess easily enough what that purpose might be.
“Up with us,” Elbryan bade, lowering his hand to the elf.
“Three on Symphony?” Juraviel asked doubtfully. “He is as fine a horse as ever there was, I do not question, but three is too many.”
“Then run, my friend,” Elbryan bade the elf. “Find where you might best fit into the battle.”
Juraviel was gone in the blink of an eye, scampering through the forest.
“And keep your head low!” Elbryan called after him.
“And you, Nightbird!” came the already distant reply.
The ranger turned to Pony, giving her that prebattle expression, a look of sheer determination she had come to know so well. “Are you ready with the stones?”
“Always,” Pony answered grimly, marveling at the change in the man. In the span of a few seconds he had gone from Elbryan to Nightbird. “You just remember all that I taught you with the hematite.”
The ranger chuckled as he turned back and kicked his great stallion into a run. Pony had a diamond out, calling forth its magics to light the way, and as they rode she removed the cat’s-eye circlet from around her head and set it on her companion’s. Then she let the diamond light die away. Nightbird would guide Symphony, for with his telepathic connection to the horse through the magical turquoise, it was almost as if the horse could see through his eyes. Even with that guidance, though, the ranger found the trail difficult, with thick brush and tightly packed trees, and paths that seemed to always lead him farther to the west instead of directly north, and so it was Juraviel, cutting a straighter course than the riders, for trees were hardly an obstacle to the nimble elf, who actually got within hearing distance of the battle first. He saw the monsters soon after, running hard left to right, to the east, apparently in pursuit.
“Giants,” the elf said grimly, spotting the huge forms. Even as he watched, one of the behemoths launched a heavy stone through the tangle of trees, smashing branches.
A man came tumbling down hard from that tree. A host of goblins and the stone-throwing giant made for him, while the other monsters continued their chase.
Juraviel glanced all around, hoping that Nightbird and Pony would come onto the scene. Alone, what might he do against so powerful a force?
The noble elf shook those thoughts away. Whatever he might do, he had to try; he could not stand idly by and watch a man be murdered. Up a tree he went, running along a solid branch.
The fallen man was still alive, his head lolling, groans escaping his lips. On came a goblin, spiked club in hand.
Juraviel’s first bowshot took the creature in the kidney.
“Blimey!” the goblin howled. “I been stuck!”
Juraviel’s second arrow took it in the throat, and it fell over, gurgling, clasping futilely at the mortal wound.
The elf wasn’t watching, though, after having seen the giant’s tactics. Sure enough, a heavy stone came slamming into the tree, where Juraviel had just been standing.
The elf, far to the side in another tree, giggled loudlygiants hated that. “Oh, big and stupid is not the way!” Juraviel sang out, emphasizing his point by shooting an arrow right into the giant’s face.
Even so perfect a shot had little physical effect, though, the behemoth waving the tiny arrow away as if it were no more than a stinging insect. The emotional toll, however, was more to Juraviel’s liking. The giant roared and charged blindly, smashing through trees, ordering the goblins to follow.
Soon the elf was running, skipping lightly along high branches and stopping every so often to hurl a taunt, or, when the opportunity presented itself, to shoot an arrow, just to keep his pursuers on course. He doubted he would kill the giant, or would even get enough of a clear shot to bring down a goblin, but he figured that having the behemoth and half a dozen goblins chasing him far from the field of battle was a solid contribution.
The elf’s keen ears picked up the sound of battle again soon after, but it was far to the north now, or at least he and the pursuers were far to the south, closer to Caer Tinella than the spot where the man had fallen.
Juraviel meant to keep them running all night if need be, past Caer Tinella and all the way to the south of Landsdown.
“Oh, well done,” Elbryan congratulated when he saw the second band of human archers moving east, behind the monstrous force.
Pony looked at him curiously.
“I know this tactic,” the ranger explained. “They hit side to side, trying to confuse their enemies.” A smile widened on the ranger’s face.
“I know it, too,” Pony agreed, catching on. “And so does”
“Belster O’Comely,” the ranger reasoned. “Let us hope.”
“And let us see where we might fit in,” Pony added, kicking Symphony’s flanks. Off the great stallion surged, thundering along the path, closing ground to the second wave of Belster’s army. Elbryan took care to guide Symphony to the south of the opposing forcesexcept for one monstrous group that, for some reason Elbryan and Pony could only guess at, had gone charging off far to the south. Pulling up behind the cover of a line of thick pines, the ranger slid down from the horse and handed Pony the reins.
“Stay safe,” he whispered, reaching tip to touch the woman’s hand. To his surprise, Pony handed the small diamond over to him.
“I cannot use it without drawing too much attention,” she explained.
“But if they get close” Elbryan started to protest.
“Do you remember the copse in the Moorlands?” Pony replied evenly. “They were close then.”
That image of carnage quieted the ranger’s concerns. If the monsters did get close to Pony, pity them, not her.
“You take the diamond and mark out targets for me,” the woman explained. “If you can use the hematite, you can also use the diamond. Seeking out the magic of each stone is much the same process. Put a glow on a band of powries, and then run clear.”
Elbryan grabbed her hand more tightly and pulled her down to the side, going up on tiptoes that he could give her a kiss. “For luck,” he said, and started away.
“For later,” Pony replied slyly just as Elbryan moved out of sight. She remembered their pact as soon as she had spoken the words, though, and gave a frustrated sigh. This war was getting too long for her liking.
For Elbryan’s liking as well. With the cat’s-eye, the ranger could see well in the night. Still, when Pony’s teasing reply drifted to his ears, he almost fell over a log.
He took a deep breath and put aside any images her comment had inspired, bringing himself fully into the present, to the situation at hand. Then he was off and running, using the sounds of fighting to guide his movements, to bring him closer to the action. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; he fell into that almost trancelike state, the warrior incarnate, the same perfect balance and honed senses that he found inbi’nelle dasada, his morning sword-dance.