The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (30 page)

“No!” Daric cried. “I can’t hold on, son. Let me go. I’ll be fine.” Gialyn refused. Daric held on with his last morsel of strength, but his fingers were burning with pain, the sharp edge of the rock cutting into them. “Please, son! Let go!” he shouted.

Gialyn was crying, “No! No! I will not.”

Daric fell to the waters below, pulling Gialyn along with him. They landed square in the water’s flow, around the midpoint of the falls.

Elspeth let out a scream. “They have fallen! They have fallen!”

*  *  *

Olam peered out from behind the boulder where he was hiding. He had his “apple” ready, but had nowhere to throw it. Keeping Bre’ach busy by throwing rocks at the Salrian was all he could do, and that only worked three times out of five. Bre’ach was beginning to move free of his aim. The situation was desperate, he knew that much. Gods, a fool could see that: Arfael trapped, Grady pinned, Daric and Gialyn had fallen, and Elspeth all alone. And he could do nothing with the archers still on the western cliff. He feared them the most. Thankfully, no one else was hit, or worse.
Thank the gods
. But it wasn’t going to stay that way, not for much longer.

He turned his gaze to Arfael. The big man was still fighting against the ropes, growling, cursing and kicking at his captors. Olam shouted for his attention. Once given, Olam nodded. “You have to, Arfael! You have to!”

Arfael stopped struggling. His shoulders sank, but not as much as his eyes. He worked his mouth soundlessly. Blinking, he shook his head. “No! No, Olam, I must not.”

Olam nodded again. His chin was firm and his eyes were set. “Please, my friend
. There is nothing else. We will die!”

Arfael bowed his head and laid his hands upon the ground. For a long moment, calm appeared to wave through him; his breaths deepened as he slowly rocked back and forth. Abruptly, his huge arms began to shudder as he grasped frantically at the rock by his feet. He clenched and clawed at the earth, as though he were suddenly in great need of something hidden beneath the packed rock and shale. Then, just as suddenly, silence. He crouched as still as a statue, until a long
, low moaning came forth from deep within his chest, a sullen, woeful moan, an ancient lament, a warning of things to come. The shaking became heavier, the clawing more fanatic; the moaning turned to a rasping, gurgling growl. Then suddenly he craned his head forward and let out an unearthly roar, a screaming, deafening, mournful roar.

The Salrians near to him dropped their ropes and quickly put hands to ears. Indeed, all in the gully stood in silence, frozen to the spot it seemed, watching Arfael, waiting for what would come.

“Drop your weapon, Grady,” Olam whispered. Grady looked at him, puzzled. “For the love of Ein’laig, please drop your weapon!” Olam forced the words through his clenched teeth, as if he’d rather be screaming a command. Grady put down his sword, as did Si’eth the Salrian commander. Olam looked up at Elspeth and bid her to get down and put away her weapon.

Arfael crouched again, still shaking. He raised an arm, and taking hold of his cloak at the nape, he quickly pulled it over his head and threw it to the side. He punched his fingers into the rocky ground; they cut through the hard earth like a red-hot knife through a bale of hay. Smoke and steam rose as the earth around his fingers melted like molten lead, pooling and spitting as he stirred his fingers around. The liquid rock began to rise up his arm like dirty water pulled though a bilge pump. As it rose, scales, like shiny granite leaves, formed around his wrists and arms. He pushed his arms out wider. More rock melted, more scales formed, up to his shoulders now. When his arms had taken all they could, he lunged towards the rock face, pushing his shoulder into it. There, too, the rock melted away. More scales cascaded along his neck and shoulders as he pushed his way along. Rocks fell from above the hole he had made; they fell onto his skin like drops of water onto a pool, spreading outwards, peeling off more scales as they rolled down his back. In little more than a quarter minute, he was covered, head to foot, in a bristling, sandy-grey armour.

Arfael staggered and flinched throughout, grasping a breath and holding it firm against his gritted teeth. He lifted his fists towards his eyes and slowly opened his palms, shaking his hands violently. With each whip, talons sprouted another half inch from where his fingernails once were. Blackened and thick they grew, until they were almost palm length. He placed his clawed hands over his face and stood hunched for a moment, whining and moaning like a wounded animal. Slowly, he lowered his arms to his sides. Leaning forwards, he spat out teeth and blood upon the ground. Then, finally, he lifted his face to the slowly darkening sky, and with jaw wide, he cried out. The gaping holes left by the missing teeth began to fill. Others pushed their way through the bleeding gums—fangs of silver grey, long and sharp, shining like steel, three inches at the top, two at the bottom. Once fixed, he let out a second deafening roar and crashed back to the ground, settled—so it seemed—on all fours. His back legs had twisted, his ribs had rounded, his spine had thickened, and his shoulders widened. It was no longer Arfael.

The beast stood on all fours, searching left to right. For a moment, nothing stirred in the gully. Until, up on the ridge, one of the Salrians raised his bow. The beast coiled and pounced, jumping ten feet to the midpoint of the eastern wall. Then, using that as a platform, he spun quickly and launched himself to where the archer stood. With a single swipe, he threw
down the archer. The beast fell back into the gully, twisting in mid-air so as to land clean on his feet. It did so, right among the four Salrians that stood higher on the slope. He lunged forward, taking hold of one about the waist and then casting him back behind as though he were a doll. The Salrian flew a clear five paces on to the ridge above. It was the end for him.

There were six Salrians left: the three now in front of the beast, the last remaining archer, and Si’eth and his son. Si’eth and Bre’ach had long since dropped their weapons. They were standing by Grady and Olam. No thought of fight remained. Grady passed a glance towards them and both raised their hands on their heads and knelt in surrender.

The last archer dropped his bow and ran away, back from the edge of the cliff and out of sight. The other three dropped weapons and followed. The beast now stood in the centre of an otherwise empty gully, growling like a mad dog. It breathed deeply as it slowly turned towards the travellers. Olam immediately got to his knees.

Grady, buoyed by the Salrians’ cowardice, raised his hand and cheered. The beast lunged towards him. Grady backed off and knelt, covering his head with his hands. All four now were prone before the beast, as though praying to it. They stared silently at the ground before them, not daring to raise an eye forward.

The beast paced slowly towards Grady, its head low as if stalking. It came close, within three feet, and then stopped. Slowly, it raised a hand and with an outstretched finger, pushed against Grady’s shoulder. The black talon burnt through the cloth and scorched the skin. Grady flinched. The beast moved its hand away, growling at Grady’s movement. Grady made the best job he could of settling himself and bowed his head. Again, the outstretched finger came, this time to Grady’s forehead, he could do nothing but let it be and watch as the scorching black blade that was the beast’s talon came closer. He saw the top was flattened and smooth. Upon it, a ripple of dark purples and yellows swirled around the surface like oil on water. The nail touched the skin at his cheek. Slowly, it ran down the side of his face, scalding and cauterizing in a single move. Grady braced against the pain, making no noise or movement.

The beast lowered his hand back to the ground and turned to the side, as though it had finished with Grady. It looked at the other three; all were in the same pose, all with heads bowed with hands clasped behind them. The beast turned, as if having no interest or perceiving no threat. It walked a few steps and then in two leaps, it was over the top of the ridge and away. Gone for now, praise the gods.

CHAPTER 20

The gully stayed silent for a long while after the beast’s departure. Grady wanted to rub the burn on his cheek, but no one so much as moved a muscle. Until, after about a minute, Si’eth began to stand. Scrambling for his sword, Grady pointed it at the Salrian’s neck before he had a chance to straighten. “Stay down!” he growled. Si’eth submitted. Bowing his head even lower, he returned to his knees without so much as a sideways glance.

Elspeth ran from her perch, straight through the middle of the two Salrians, to where Ealian lay injured. She stumbled as she crossed the path. Kneeling by his side, she pulled his head up. “Look at you. What have you done?” she cried. Grady didn’t know if the question was for Si’eth or for her brother.

Ealian lay unconscious. The arrow had wrenched from his stomach after he collapsed, and now a long gash lay across his side. Elspeth pushed against it. Turning to Olam, she pleaded for help.

Olam needed a nudge from Grady, his eyes still fixed on the ridge that the beast had jumped, doubtless chasing after the fleeing Salrians. He worked moisture into his mouth, shook his head, blinked, coughed, and took a step towards Elspeth. “Lay him out straight. Let me see the damage.”

Just as Elspeth began to ease her brother flat against the ground and as Olam bent to help, a howling came from behind, from back where they came, at the base of the gully. All turned towards it.

“Is that him? Come back already!” Grady asked as Elspeth moaned, “Gods, please no.”

“I do not think so.” Olam craned his head. His eyes squinted as he stared beyond the plunge pool and towards the river. “It is wolves.”

Grady mimicked his question
ing response. “Wolves? Where, by the gods, did they come from?”

Presently, six wolves came into view at the base of the gully: Toban, Aleban, and four others. The wolves looked cautious, as if they could smell death. On the other hand, maybe they could smell the beast. The baying and howling couldn’t be for the Salrians; surely, they had smelled blood before. Toban eyed the travellers from the base of the gully and began to climb. The other five followed, sniffing and scouring as they went.

Olam had questions. As soon as he heard them, he realised the wolves must have known something of an attack. They were nearly twenty leagues from home. This was no coincidence. However, he chose to leave his inquisition, so pleased was he to see them.

Grady was not so forgiving. “What are you doing here?” For a moment, he forgot he was guarding Si’eth and Bre’ach. Turning to the wolves, he scowled and huffed, his fist clenched. He, too, knew the wolves must know more of this than was plain.

Toban stopped a few feet short of him. “We were tracking Salrians south of the river when we heard the whistle.”

“Why were you tracking Salrians, Toban?” Grady asked. The answer was obvious; a fool could see they had reason to follow.
How could they let us be bait?
Gods, was this their plan? Did they send us to this gully on purpose? To be ambushed? Just so they could flush them out.

“We don’t have time for that now!” Toban ducked the question, making a good job of surveying the carnage. He clawed at one of the dead Salrians, probably to check he
was
dead. “What is your condition? I see you have prisoners.”

Grady left his argument for another time. “To be brief, Ealian is injured, though I care not for that so much as the loss of Daric and Gialyn. They fell from the cliff into the water. They could be two miles downstream by now. And as for Arfael… Well
, I’m not even going to start with that tale.”

“I think I can guess.” Toban turned to his fellow Rukin. “Aleban, can you watch the prisoners? Keep two here with you. I’ll take two and go to the river.” Aleban nodded. “Grady, I will find Daric and Gialyn, have no fear of that. If they are alive, I will bring them back.” Before Grady could answer, Toban and two others descended back down to the fields to begin a search for the two missing travellers.

Now that the area was secure, Olam turned his attention to Ealian. With thumb and index finger, he gingerly pulled away his shirt, trying not to disturb the cut. The first sight of it wasn’t good news; the arrowhead had forced cloth from Ealian’s shirt inside the wound. It would need removing before infection set in. The cut was long and ripped. It left a thumb-length gapping gash just above Ealian’s right hip. “This cut is deep. It must be treated, and quickly.”

“Don’t move him,” Si’eth said. The Salrian commander was leaning to the left, peering at the cut around Olam’s outstretched arm.

He straightened up when Grady clipped him with the hilt of his knife. “And why, by the gods, should we listen to you, Salrian?” Grady hissed. “And where is that scroll? I’m keeping that.” Grady fished the scroll out of Si’eth’s inner pocket and placed it in his own. Si’eth growled as he did so, thrusting his head back and to the side in anger. “I’m still waiting, Salrian.” Grady’s face was all but an inch from Si’eth’s. The Salrian looked away, still seething at the loss of his scroll.

“If you don’t pack it before you move him, he will bleed to death,” he said in a righteous tone. “Is that good enough for you, Surabhan?” Si’eth turned his head and gazed directly into Grady’s eyes.

“He is right,” Olam said. “But I have nothing with me that will do the job.”

“Yellow root,” Si’eth said quietly.

“What was that?” Olam looked up at the Salrian.

“Yellow root will pack the wound. We have some.” Si’eth gestured to his son. “Give them yours.” Bre’ach looked confused, or maybe it was anger—Grady couldn’t tell. “Give him your yellow root, boy,” Si’eth demanded.

Bre’ach reached into the small pack all Salrians carried at their waist and brought out a short stick of root. He handed it to Olam. The root was indeed yellow, clammy to the touch, and soft.

Olam smelled it. “Yes, we call this by a different name: Ti’ash. But yes, this will do.” He looked down at Ealian. “Unfortunately, though, there is not enough here for this cut.”

Grady ungraciously poked Si’eth in his rib. “Do you have any more?”

Si’eth winced. “We all have it. Check the pouches of those dead.”

Grady took a deep breath. He didn’t like the thought of hunting through a dead man’s belongings, even an enemy’s. Fortunately for him, Olam had already made a move to the three that lay dead within the gully. “You should collect arrows too, Olam,” Grady said. He turned to the wolves. “How many Salrians were you tracking south of the river?”

The first wolf replied. “Six, eight, no more.”

“Good. I do not expect those chased by… whatever Arfael turned into will be returning anytime. That leaves us with their leader and only a half dozen other soldiers that don’t know the terrain,” he said. “Can you watch these two while I help Olam collect arrows?”

Aleban nodded.

Olam and Grady scavenged around those lying in the gully for anything useful. At each corpse, Olam knelt briefly and said a silent prayer. Grady waited patiently for him to finish; he wasn’t above respect for the dead, even if they were the aggressors. Olam collected any yellow root he found, while Grady picked up arrows and food. He didn’t go so far as to climb down to the two dead Salrians at the base of the waterfall, nor did they venture much farther than the top of the ridge where the three archers had been. Once they collected all they could, both went back to where Ealian lay.

“You will need a bowl to mix it into paste,” Si’eth said.

Olam scratched his head and chewed at his lip. For a moment, the old man looked embarrassed. “Exactly how do you prepare this type of root?” he asked.

Si’eth looked to his son and smiled. “You need to mix it with… what do Surabhan call it? Pee?”

“Are you joking?” Grady didn’t look amused.

“No, it makes sense,” Olam admitted begrudgingly. “The liquid needs to be acidic to dissolve the root. And I would guess they have eaten lots of berries, as have we.”

“Oh, please! Well, I’m not doing it.” Grady looked away in disgust.

“Never mind, I will,” Olam said. “I’m the one who has to mix it after all.”

Olam stepped a few paces off to mix the yellow root. Meanwhile, Grady turned to the Salrians. “So what do you think we should do with you two?” His tone was one of a soldier. He knew how to treat a prisoner, and he was no animal. However, he was quite literally troubled over what to do with them.

One of the wolves spoke. “Sir, my name is Kaldaban. I have a suggestion.”

“Eat them?” enquired Grady sarcastically.

The wolf sniggered. “No, sir. Once Toban is back, we can send for help and take them off your hands. Get them del
ivered to Gieth’eire by the Cul’taris pass. It is the only place for them really. Let the soldiers deal with them.”

“Yes. Good plan, my friend.” Grady smiled and looked right at Si’eth. “Let the soldiers deal with them. I like the sound of that.”

Si’eth laughed. “I will be sent back, ignored. Your shallow king will not risk war on the plight of a few farmers.”

“More likely you will get… lost on the way to the border, Salrian.”

Olam had finished with his mixture and was administering it to Ealian’s wound. He carefully pulled loose skin up with his thumb and poured the contents of the bowl into the gaping lesion. Elspeth cringed and held her hand to her mouth. He spent a few seconds guiding the spillage in the right direction and then checked his work. “That will have to do,” he said, almost proud. After allowing it to settle, Olam turned to Grady. “You should get the Salrians to carry him. We will go up top, across the river towards the woods. There is better cover over there. And if we are lucky, we might come across one of the Crenach’dair. We could use their help, if they are willing.”

“I can’t say as I’d risk it for this
child
,” Grady slurred with disdain.

“He’s still my brother!” Elspeth growled. “And if it were you, if you had been possessed, should we leave you to die, alone?
Mr. Daleman
!”

Shame came over Grady as he realised the shallowness of his judgement. He bowed to Elspeth. “You are right, of course, Elspeth. I’m sorry!”
You low, weak-minded fool. How could you say something like that?

Grady ordered the Salrians to pick
up Ealian. Together, they all climbed to the top of the gully and then continued down the tributary. Crenach woods lay a mile to the east.

“We will cross up here and find a camp. And then work out what is next.” Grady didn’t sound convinced of success.