Battle for Elt: The Taking of the Wizard Bearer Page 11

  Haze broke the silence first: “Fuck. It really got me good, that one. I'd killed two. That one took me unawares. Shit, shit, shit!”

  Graff knelt by Haze's side. The left leg of his trousers was torn above the knee. Underneath, an angry wound leaked blood, like water from a spring. It looks bad, Graff thought. Damn fool. He isn't going to be able to walk, let alone fight.

  “Can you stand?” Graff said, fearing the answer.

  “I don't know.”

  Graff turned to Powel, who was still lying in the snow. “How are you?”

  Powel turned his arm, inspecting it. “Fine. Its teeth barely cut through my furs.”

  At least that's something, even though he's the least skilled with blade. “Giz, give me a hand.”

  Standing on either side of Haze, they pulled the former knight to his feet. Haze hopped, wincing whenever he tried to put weight on his left leg.

  “Get him to the sleigh,” Graff said. “We'll take a look at him there.”

  They dragged Haze, who howled like one of the wild dogs, to the sleigh and laid him next to the wizard bearer.

  “How is he?” Cassandra asked. She sounded genuinely concerned, Graff noticed. Too close, those two. Too close. “Is he all right?”

  “You’d better hope so,” Graff said. “If we happen upon anymore wild dogs we’ll need his sword.”

  “He’s bleeding badly. You need to tie something around his leg, to stem the bleed.”

  “Quite the nurse maid, aren’t we?”

  “He’ll bleed out, otherwise.”

  Graff knew the wizard bearer was probably right. He snarled at her disparagingly and then asked Powel to hand over the string from around his trousers.

  “They’ll fall down, though, sir.”

  “Then hold them up. Might make you keep your hands to yourself for a change.”

  With a look of disapproval, Powel pulled the string from around his trousers. Graff knelt and tied the string around Haze’s leg, just above the wound.

  “Tighter,” the wizard bearer urged.

  Graff had to quell the temptation to lash his hand across her cheek. “I’ll tie the rope tight around your neck if you don’t be quiet.” She didn’t answer back. Sensible girl.

  Once it was done, Giz returned to the front of the sleigh and urged the horse onwards.

  Ancel seated himself at Graff’s side. “That wound don’t look good, sir. I’ve seen men’s legs turn black and as hard as stone with bites like that.”

  Graff had heard similar tales, but he doubted they were all true. He expected the former knight to bleed out before the black took his leg. Graff wondered how much Haze weighed. It had taken two of them to lift him into the sleigh, he recalled. Broad in the shoulders and muscular. A lot of weight there. We’d certainly move a bit faster without him.

  Graff kept watch for more wild dogs.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stetland Rouger stared in disbelief at the fallen rocks that blocked their way. After waking, they’d travelled perhaps a league, riding south through the narrow canyons of The Caves towards High Hunsley’s east gate. The snow was thick and the path treacherous, but despite that they’d made good time.

  “It’s a fresh fall,” Sir John said from atop his horse. “There’s not as much snow on top of the fallen rocks. See?” He pointed

  “Do you think the weight of the snow caused it?” Marcus said.

  “It’s a possibility,” Stetland said, but he had his doubts.

  “What about the noise I heard during the night?” Christian said. He was seated behind Stetland on the horse.

  “The boy did say he’d heard something,” Gladden said.

  “What exactly did you hear, Christian?” Marcus asked.

  “It was like a clap of thunder.”

  “The cave were we slept the night is a league back,” Sir John said. “There’s no way you’d have heard these rocks fall from there.”

  “Unless it wasn’t a land slip,” Stetland said, turning his horse to face them. “Have any of you encountered alchemy?”

  “Poor man’s magic,” Gladden said. “That's all alchemy is.”

  The others were shaking their heads.

  “I have,” Stetland continued. “In the field of battle, I once saw twenty men burn brighter than the sun and then turn to nothing more than ash. Someone had used fire-water on them – an alchemist’s potion.”

  “What’s your point?” Sir John said.

  “I think alchemy caused this rock fall. Or more specifically, fire-water.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Stetland turned his horse to face the rocks. “There’s a crater in the snow – there – and the rocks have fallen into it.” Stetland pointed. “I think there was fire here, the type I saw on the battlefield. You can see a pattern on the ground where the snow has been thrown clear.”

  “Who would have fire-water in these parts?” Marcus said.

  “Volk. It's my guess he gave a bottle or two to the men who took Cassandra.”

  “And they came here during the night to cause this rock fall . . .” Gladden said.

  Stetland nodded. “To block our way.”

  “What now, then?” Christian asked. “Go back the way we came?”

  “There is another way.” But it’s a place I don’t wish to go, let alone take the others.

  Sir John began to shake his head. “Not there. We should go back. We could make it back to the west gate by noon. If Volk's men have already left High Hunsley, then King Merek will more than likely let us in. We can then send a bird back to Kingstown.”

  “What is this ‘other way’?” Marcus said. “And why is he so afraid of it?” The young soldier hooked a thumb in Sir John's direction.

  “It’s called Killingwoldgraves,” Stetland said.

  “But most people know it as the Land of the Dead,” Sir John interjected.

  “Sounds a delightful place,” said Gladden.

  “Land of the Dead?” Christian said. Stetland felt the boy’s grip tighten around his waist.

  “I wouldn’t normally ask this of any of you,” Stetland said, “but we can’t afford to waste anymore time.”

  “I think we need to know a bit more about this Land of the Dead first” Gladden said.

  Stetland sighed inwardly. How can I tell this story without scaring the boy?

  “Killingwoldgraves is about half a mile east of where we stand,” Stetland began. “It was given the name because of the many battles that have taken place there over the course of history. The last such battle took place a little over two hundred years ago in the great war between the north and south. After which, no one dare set foot there again.”

  “Why not?” Marcus said.

  “There was once a witch called Emily Grouse. She hated man and chose to live a solitary life deep in the woods of Ellerker Rise. But, whenever she saw the opportunity, she liked to use her magic to inflict pain and misery on those around her. She saw the battle between the north and south as one such opportunity. During the bloodiest of exchanges, with over ten thousand men fighting to their deaths, she put a spell on the battlefield of Killingwoldgraves. The spell made those who had recently died come back to life. They say the living dead took no side on that day, they were only hungry for blood. Havoc unfolded as the dead killed the living and living became the dead.”

  “The Grouse family are well-known witches,” Gladden said. “Their magic is legendary, although it was never used for good.”

  “My mum used to say that witches eat children,” Christian said.

  “I heard that one too,” Marcus said. “Used to give me sleepless nights.”

  “Magic is real,” Stetland said. “Gladden is proof of that.”

  “So, these living dead soldiers – are they still there?” Marcus said, nodding in an easterly direction.

  “So they say,” Stetland said.

  “And I for one am not taking any chances,” Sir John said. His face had become pale.

&nbs
p; “We can't go back to the west gate,” Stetland said. “It will take too long.”

  “We should take a vote,” Gladden suggested.

  “Or ask the boy,” Marcus said. “Christian, can you help us?”

  “Christian?” Stetland said, turning to look the boy in the eye. He looked sad. He's burdened by his gift. Is it unfair to put this pressure on him?

  The boy closed his eyes. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of the wind whistling through the holes in the rocks. After a moment, the boy opened his eyes. They were wide and frightened.

  “I saw her,” Christian said.

  “Who?” Marcus said.

  “Emily Grouse.”

  Impossible. “She hasn't been seen in these parts for the best part of a century, Christian,” Stetland said. “Witches live no longer than mortal men. If she were still alive she'd be over two hundred years old.”

  “But I saw her,” the boy insisted.

  “What exactly did you see?” Gladden said.

  “All I saw was mist, at first. Then, she appeared. She was beautiful, though. Nothing like I'd expected. I mean, she didn't look like a witch, but I knew it was her. I just knew.”

  Sir John laughed. “That old hag was less than beautiful, from what I heard.”

  Unless, Stetland thought. He attempted to push the thought from his mind, but failed. Unless, she's been eating.

  “She said something,” Christian said. He looked petrified, like a rabbit caught in the teeth of a wild dog.

  “What did she say?” Stetland asked.

  “She . . . she said, come to me, Christian.”

  “Just your imagination running wild,” Sir John said, dismissively.

  “What did she look like, Christian?” Gladden asked.

  The boy licked his lips before continuing. “She had long blonde hair, which fell down to her waist . . . and she was beautiful . . . and that's all I remember.”

  “Was there anything else unusual about her?” the wizard persisted. “Try to remember.”

  What does the young wizard mean? Stetland had been told about witches as a child. It was common for parents to frighten their children with tales of dark woods and ugly, old women with pointy, black hats who stole children. Most children dismissed the stories as myths when they reached adulthood. But Stetland knew better.

  “That's all I saw,” Christian said. “She scared me and I broke the link. I was trying to see the future, to see what would happen to us, when she invaded my thoughts. It wasn't the future I was seeing, it was the now. She talked to me in my head, just like the Monks of the Night did.”

  “What about her eyes, Christian?” Gladden said. “Did you see her eyes?”

  “Yes.” It seemed like he didn't want to tell this part. “They were dark. Almost black. I couldn't see the whites of her eyes at all.”

  Gladden turned to Sir John, with a look of satisfaction on his bearded face. “The Grouse family were known for their black eyes. Christian is telling the truth.”

  Sir John scoffed.

  Stetland shuddered. What does this mean?

  “So what now?” Marcus said.

  “We're wasting time, that's for certain,” Sir John said.

  “Can you try again, Christian?” Gladden said.

  “We can't make him do it again,” Stetland said. The boy is scared. And I don't want the witch in his head. “I don't think we have much choice, anyway. We have to cross Killingwoldgraves. We'll ride fast. It will take us no longer than half an hour.”

  Stetland could tell by the expression on their faces that none of them wanted to follow him into the notorious Land of the Dead. Nevertheless, he kicked a heel into his horse and gave them little option but to follow. He didn't turn around to look, all he heard was the reassuring thud of hooves on snow behind him.

  His horse climbed through the canyons, its feet sinking into the snow in places, in others slipping, but never falling. As he and Christian reached the summit of the rocks an archway greeted them. It was a natural structure, Stetland knew, created by centuries of harsh winds lashing at the stone. As they passed under it they were immediately enveloped by freezing mist. The sun had become a dull glare in the sky, the temperature dipping. He slowed his mount, unsure of its footing beneath the swirling mist. He felt the boy trembling against his back; with fear or with cold, he knew not.

  “Are we here?” Gladden shouted from somewhere behind. “Is this the battlefield?”

  “How are we meant to see our way across?” came Marcus's voice.

  “No wonder so many died here,” Sir John said. “This place is a death trap.”

  A chill ran through Stetland, followed swiftly by fear. If we keep the horses at a trot, keeping the dull glare of the sun to our left, then we'll be fine. But soon the mist became so thick it blotted out the sun completely leaving it as dark as the dusk of an overcast day. Stetland pulled his horse to a walk, conscious that he could no longer see the ground. A light breeze touched his face with a chilled hand. He felt frost forming on his stubble.

  Gladden illuminated his staff, cascading cold, white light all around. But it failed to penetrate the mist.

  “Just keep the horses moving. Follow me,” Stetland urged.

  “Don't worry,” Marcus said. “We will.”

  Stetland kept vigil, looking left and then right and then left again. There were noises, way off to the left. Howling. Wild dogs, Stetland thought. Something to be mindful of. Ellerker Rise was teeming with them, he knew.

  In between the cries of the animals that stirred deep in the mist, there was the dull thud of hooves on snow. Apart from that, all was quiet and still. Too still.

  Stetland's breath turned to mist in front of his face then hung there, motionless. The boy spoke, disturbing the silence. But what he said chilled Stetland more than the icy air around him.

  “There's something here,” Christian said.

  Stetland controlled his breathing before speaking, hiding the fear that would have made his voice quiver. “What's here, Christian?”

  “Something.”

  Stetland glanced over his shoulder at the others. They were following in a loose line: Marcus first, Gladden second, Sir John last. Their horses' feet were hidden beneath the mist, making it appear like they were floating.

  “I need a little more than that, Christian,” Stetland said, quietly. “What can we expect?”

  “It's dead. It has no thoughts, no feelings. It exists purely on instinct. But it can smell.”

  Quietly and discreetly, Stetland unsheathed his sword. “Which side, Christian?”

  “I don't know. I'll go deeper into my mind.”

  “No. I need you conscious, stay with us.”

  “I think there's more . . . yes . . . there's more . . . hundreds more.”

  Stetland kicked his heels into his horse's side and then shouted over his shoulder: “Go, go, go.”

  He heard the sound of swords being unsheathed and the thud of galloping hooves. He prayed to the gods for the ground beneath their feet to be even and free of holes. No broken legs, he thought. A man without a horse here is a dead man. Then, from out of the mist, came the shape of a lumbering man. Surprised, Stetland's horse reared up. He clung to the reins, fighting to keep in the saddle. By the time the horse dropped onto four legs, the man-shape had cut through the mist and was standing in the cold light of the wizard's staff. Stetland regarded it with horror. It was no man, but a monster in a tattered soldier's uniform. The motif on the breast pocket showed the peaks of three mountains with the sun rising between the last two points. This was the uniform of the south men, not seen in these parts for two hundred years. Not since the Great North South War. The monster who wore the decaying attire snarled like a dog. Its flesh was dark green, its teeth yellow, its eyes black. Stetland kicked his heels into his horse again, sending his frightened mount towards the abomination. Christian screamed. Stetland brought his blade up high and swiped it down into the monster's shoulder. It went in like a knife
through warm butter, cutting deep. But when Stetland withdrew his sword, the once-soldier merely stumbled backwards and then snarled again, unconcerned for the deep gash in its shoulder. Stetland circled it on horseback.

  “What is it?” Marcus yelled.

  “The dead,” Sir John said.

  The monster followed Stetland's horse as he circled it.

  “Kill it!” Marcus said.

  “It can't be killed,” Sir John screamed.

  But I'll try, Stetland thought. He moved in close and swiped his sword through the monster's neck. Its head fell from its shoulders, just like Tarquin Gains's head had done, and disappeared into the river of mist below. But the monster's body remained standing.

  “This is evil,” Marcus said. “Pure evil.”

  “Let me,” Gladden said, moving forward. He banged the end of his staff into the mist below. From the tip of his staff came forks of blue-white light, like lightening. The forks moved through the air in jagged lines towards the headless monster, which was searching around with its arms outstretched, fingers twitching. The forks of light plunged into the thing's chest. The headless, walking corpse tensed. On the battlefield, Stetland had seen a mortal man die by wizard’s magic– that man had stopped mid fight, holding his chest like his heart was full of pain, before collapsing. The headless monster fell just like that soldier had done and disappeared into the knee-deep swirling mist.

  “Thank the Lord,” Sir John said.

  “It's not finished,” Christian said, in a small, quivering voice. “You can't kill something that's already dead.”

  Stetland looked to where the monster had fallen. Mist swirled like searching hands. Somewhere, something howled. Then the headless torso of the monster emerged like a dead man climbing from his grave. The thing was back up and ready to fight.

  “Let's get out of here,” Marcus pleaded.

  Stetland concurred, but before he could turn his horse and lead them away, arms and faces appeared from out of the mist. A chorus of ghostly moans floated on the air. There must be hundreds of them, Stetland thought. They could handle one or two, he knew, but if the mist was hiding an army of them . . .