Stories » The Gorren 1
“The eye-horn came down toward him as he leapt… he struck up at it with the krist, and felt the Lantean blade bite deep.”
Before dawn, the company assembled in the space within the stockade gate. There were ten of Garvan’s men with their horses, the troopers clad in the high boots and full-skirted buffcoats of Berithian, youthful warriors but well-armed and grim. They had looked Holt over curiously when Garvan declared he was to lead them, but his name was known to them and they seemed willing to accept his command; it probably helped that Beriths were not the tallest of races, several of these being barely larger than Holt himself.
The rest of the force comprised some seventeen of the hill-folk, Kenfig’s neighbours, weaponed only with bows and short hunting-knives. But all from the ruddiest youth to the whitest elder were hardy and wiry, accustomed to hardship, and determined to sell their lives, if need be, in defence of their own.
Old Kenfig went among them with handclasps and gruff words, thanks and good wishes for their enterprise. Linnuis followed him with a journey-cup of hot ale-punch. Lastly, to one side stood D’Zar, his silver beard braided and tied tight for battle. He wore mail on his back, an iron casque on his head, and he leaned on a huge mattock too heavy for any but a Rockman to lift.
Kenfig came to Garvan, and spoke to him earnestly. Then he turned to Holt. “I am grateful indeed for your concern in our affairs, Master Captain,” he said. “I will not deny we have need of you. Yet I will bid you have a care to yourself. I gather your task is pressing, and not to be undertaken by another.”
“That is as my sovereign lord chooses. I do as I must.”
“This venture means much to my people,” Kenfig said. “Yet the threat is less than what will be if the Devil of Ceir Mor has his way. You are his enemy, and while you live you are a thorn in his side and a doubt in his heart. Your life is a weapon best not thrown away.”
“That is the last thing I intend,” Holt replied.
Linnuis held out the journey-cup to D’Zar. “Good speed to you, Master Rockman, and a safe return,” she said. “Will you have to drink?”
“Ay, maid, in thanks for your good wishes,” D’Zar answered. “But I care not what charm you have laid within the cup. A Duergh may trust more in stout mail and his own right arm than in woman’s magic.”
“There is no magic,” Linnuis said gently. “It is but good punch, with a good word set on it. Drink.” D’Zar took the cup in both hands, drank ceremoniously, and handed it back with a stiff bow. Linnuis received it with equal courtesy, and proffered it next to Holt. He thanked her and took a draught of the hot brew, welcome in the raw morning. He gave back the heavy cup, and she brought it to Garvan.
“You are the last, my lord,” she said. “Will you drain the cup? It is said to bring good luck.”
“It is not I, but rather these others, that need good luck,” Garvan said. “With this arm, my part must be small.”
“Yet your fortune is the fortune of all, my lord,“Linnuis said. Garvan reached out his uninjured hand, and grasping one handle of the great cup lifted it without effort and drained it to the last drop.
“Strong must be your sword-arm, lord, when it is whole,” Kenfig said. “But Captain Holtworth’s arm is also strong, and these others’. Good speed to you all, masters, and success to your enterprise. We will await you.” The company began to file out of the gate, the cavalry first, led by Holt, followed by the herders, commanded by Garvan on foot. Donath and Penarc brought up the rear. Kenfig and Linnuis stood by the gate and watched, until the cavalcade passed behind a shoulder and was lost to view.
By noon they had come to the place of the beast’s last slaughter, and picked up the trail. By evening they were in forbidding moorland, but how far from the beast’s lair they could not tell. They made camp, in the open so as not to be taken by surprise, but those that watched saw nothing. At first light they moved on, penetrating into country that was still higher and more desolate.
Soon they were near. Great sloughs of the beast’s slime and filth lay all about, and the stench was such that already some of the younger herders were pale and shaking. Of them all, only D’Zar appeared unmoved. They came to a steep edge, marking the boundary of these hills. Below, dark forest stretched away westward. Apprehension showed on many faces as they gazed across the plain to where they knew, despite the haze that masked them, the heights of Elmont rose. Holt clenched his teeth as cold pricked his spine and hollowed his stomach. Yonder as a black crow flew, many leagues away yet never far enough, lay the mountainside where he had fought for his life, and more materially, for his lady’s honour and deliverance. He thought as he stood there momentarily that his instinct had been right, that this creature was drawn by Krasim for some evil purpose, perhaps even because it had, or had to do with, Cyrhision, lost so long in the wastes of the North. Yet perhaps it was not so, and this served only to turn him aside from his quest, was sent, it was possible, to distract and destroy him.
He shook off the disheartening thoughts as soon as they struck him, Shean practicality and sense driving out pointless introspection, and urged the others onward along the cliff. A mile further on, within a rearing scar of pallid rock, they reached what they had come to find. They halted above the jutting buttress, while two of Garvan’s men scrambled down to see what lay below. After a few words with Garvan and Penarc, Holt followed them across the sticky rocks. As they came in sight of the place, a huge black wormhole opening among the crags, one of the men turned sick and faint, unable to go on. Holt ordered him to make his way back as he could, and pressed on with the other. Soon they were going more on all fours than walking, not entirely because of the terrain. They came to the entrance and remained there some minutes, but did not enter. Then Holt signed to his companion and they returned. The way seemed long, and both were staggering as with weariness when they gained shelter once more beyond the scar.
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Stories « The Gorren 1
