“The people of this land are battling for their freedom,” I say. “They have courage only because you stand in the forefront – the bravest and best. Will you creep away like whipped dogs?”
I turn my back on them and walk toward the thicket.
“Stay if you wish. But I am going forward.”
I begin slashing a path through the underbrush. Talbot and Norman join me. One by one, then in groups, all the men follow.
Part Four: Siege
35: Foul Passage
For hours we hack and push our way through the Barrens, one soggy, aching step after another. No one speaks, thankfully, for we have nothing pleasant to say.
Late afternoon, we cross a muddy, sluggish river and move into the marshes on the north shore, pulling the leaches off ourselves as we go. I slog along, as grim as everyone else. Muck pulls at my boots, and clammy water soaks my feet. The thick, rust-colored scum floating on the surface throws off a disgusting stench.
At least my mind is freed from my other worries. I can scarcely imagine any reality beyond this muddy track.
“This is surely no rose garden,” Talbot says, wiping sweat from his dirt-streaked face.
No doubt my own face looks equally bad. A large, poisonous looking snake slithers away before us. Bare, twisted trees press down. The Rebel Army flounders, horses and men together.
Finally we gain higher, more solid ground, and my aching body rejoices.
“The air improves a bit,” Norman says. “Unfouled nature seeks to enter this cursed place.”
A riot of yellow and white flowers covers the forest floor. Numerous spiky plants, three or four feet high, poke through this flower carpet bearing large purple blooms of their own.
We come to a weary halt. I stretch myself, and the bones of my spine snap back into place.
“Well Captain,” I say. “We have come thus far without the predicted catastrophe.”
My confidence is soaring, but Talbot only nods gravely.
“What’s wrong, Captain? Are things going ‘too easily’ again?”
Talbot cocks an eyebrow.
“Would that we could leave these lands before dark,” he says.
“Better if we camp in the Barrens tonight.” I brace my hand against a tree. “Afflis will be all the more confused. Do you think he will try to follow us?”
“No,” Talbot says, “his men would mutiny. He lacks Your Lordship’s ... persuasive abilities.”
Something cold and slimy covers my hand. A huge slug has slithered onto it from the tree.
“Achhh!”
I fling the horrid creature away. It slams against another tree, exploding into a burst of yellow goo.
I try to recover my dignity.
“So, Captain, what will be Afflis’ next move?”
“I believe he will patrol the south edge of the Barrens,” Talbot says. “He will expect us to come out again and try to attack him by surprise.”
“Could we?” I ask.
Talbot shakes his head. “Afflis will never allow himself to be caught napping again.”
I rub the back of my hand which is slightly numb from the slug crawling over it.
“Then we shall exit the Barrens to the north,” I say.
“But that would place us squarely in the pirate lands,” Talbot says.
“So?” I reply. “Surely these pirates are no friends of Afflis. Could we not deal with them at least as well as he can?”
“With due respect, Highness,” Talbot says, “this is either a plan of surpassing genius or a reckless gamble that will lead us to destruction.”
I raise an offended eyebrow.
“Begging your Lordship’s pardon,” Talbot says, “but you bade me to always speak the truth as I see it.”
“Quite so ... thank you, Captain,” I say. “If you have a better plan, I am anxious to hear it.”
“That I have not, unfortunately,” Talbot says.
Norman joins us. The men lounge amid the flowers, their usual grousing talk absent. The air is heavy, not well suited to conversation. Finally I break the silence.
“This isn’t such a bad place,” I say, “now that we’re out of the swamp.”
I pull off my boots and shake the water out. Norman keeps glancing about, like a rabbit waiting to be attacked by a fox. He waves a hand at the vegetation.
“Many of these things are not normal,” he says. “That tree, for instance.”
He indicates a scrawny, twisted tree from which dangle heavy growths, like stretched potatoes.
“Yes,” Talbot says, “and those jagged shrubs yonder look poisonous.”
Such ignorant superstition! My patience begins to wear thin.
“True, this is an odd place,” I say, “but we are making progress, the enemy does not pursue. What more do we want?”
My commanders do not reply.
Be tolerant of these men, I tell himself. They do not enjoy the advantage of a Sopronian upbringing.
From the distance comes a fierce barking and howling. Men clutch their weapons, and horses whinny with terror. Then, just as the racket seems almost upon us, it veers away.
“A pack of wolves, or maybe just wild dogs,” I say. “Nothing to worry about.”
***
The going becomes easier as dusk nears. We enter an area of tall, fragrant evergreens. No underbrush grows in this pleasant glade – very quiet and peaceful, except for the rather eerie creaking of the trees.
But the men grow not a whit more cheery. They walk in nervous silence, backs bent, as if bearing some crushing burden.
“What’s wrong with them, Talbot?” I say. “You’d think they were marching in a funeral procession.”
“Does Your Highness not feel the soul of this place?” Talbot replies.
“All I feel is a blister on the sole of my foot,” I say.
“Perhaps Your Lordship has closed his mind too tightly against the peril,” Norman says.
“What peril?” I scoff.
We come to a wide trail. Underbrush intrudes along the edges, but the original passage must have been wide enough for a large carriage to ride through.
“Someone has been here before!” I exclaim.
“So it would appear,” Talbot says.
“See Captain?” I say. “The worst is behind us.”
The road leads past a gouged-out hillside atop which sits a large ruin, as of some ancient palace. The men speak in hushed whispers and jam themselves tightly together.
“How interesting,” I say. “Let’s investigate.”
“No, my lord,” Norman says. “Leave such places to the ghosts.”
“Ghosts, bah!” I say, more severely than I intended. “Can’t we at least have a quick look? It might prove to be a favorable bivouac spot.”
“As Your Lordship wishes,” Talbot says.
He picks several men to accompany us. They creep forward, glancing about with fear, their weapons clutched tightly.
“Buck up men,” I say. “This won’t take long.”
36: Encounter with the Soul
We begin to ascend the road up the ruined hill, Talbot and I in the lead, the troopers flanking us.
“What do you suppose this place was?” I say.
“I don’t know.” Talbot’s face is hard and grim. “The tales do not speak of it.”
“Tales, legends – a plague on all such ignorant jabber!” I say.
The road levels out and approaches the ruin under a dense canopy of trees. The last trace of daylight vanishes into a gloomy murk. A large gateway yawns before us, behind it all is darkness.
Foreboding suddenly grips my heart.
I want to retreat, but the gaping entry draws me like a magnet. It seems to be coming at me on its own – while I just stand in place shuffling my feet.
I become aware of a presence lurking inside the ruin. It beckons to me, craftily trying to penetrate my mind. I glance at the men. For all their fear, they do not seem to share my impress
ions.
The gateway continues its approach. My senses become unbearably sharp. I hear a loud, dripping echo coming from inside the ruin. Behind this noise lurks a gibbering voice, a mad ape chatter. I see faint, dead sparks within the gloom.
I suddenly feel the evil soul of the place, oozing out in all its foulness. How could I have been so blind?
“Let’s get out of here.” I cannot raise my voice above a strangled whisper.
“Back to the main body, men, on the double,” Talbot orders.
But the words have scarcely left his mouth when a small, fuzzy creature drops from the trees onto his neck.
“Captain!”
Talbot screams in agony and swats the spider-like thing. It hits the ground running, but I stomp it hard. Its legs spread from both sides of my boot sole.
“Die!”
I throw all my weight onto it. The monstrosity bursts with a sickening Pop! Greenish-black slime explodes from it. Talbot sinks to the ground, barely conscious. From inside the ruin comes a buzzing roar.
“Hurry, bear the Captain away!” I command.
Two men hoist him up just as a cloud of hornets the length of a man’s finger comes vomiting out of the ruin. We rush downhill, barely regaining the main body before the insects are upon us.
I grab a stick and swat several hornets before one gets through and stings my left forearm. A bright flash of pain explodes in my head. I fall and roll away, crushing hornets beneath me. Men scatter in panic.
Then a ferocious howl streaks through the woods. I stagger up and draw my sword. The air has cleared of hornets, but a far worse threat faces us now.
“Stand your ground, men!” Norman shouts.
Several huge beasts explode from among the trees. They look like dogs, only much larger, with humped shoulders and flashing red eyes. They tear into the troops, bringing down fleeing men and savaging them with terrible yellow fangs.
Hornet venom slows my reactions, my eyesight dims. My sword feels as heavy as an iron pole.
“Norman,” I mumble through my numb lips.
A butcher dog leaps at me.
Gripping my sword in both hands I stumble back. Fangs slash at my face as I fall backwards. The beast crushes me down, but I hold firm to the sword hilt. The blade pushes slowly into the animal’s belly.
With a hellish screech, the butcher dog rolls away. It lies gasping, a look of pure hatred on its face.
WUMP!
A blade flashes, and the beast’s head disappears. Norman’s face swims into view. A strong hand hoists me up.
All around, chaos reigns.
37: Enter the King
The Sopronian army, 400 strong with a tough edge of former bandits leading the way, gained the summit of Windy Gap. A warm and fragrant breeze sweeping up behind aided their ascent, and the chill gusts gave way before it. A great bird circled high above, but no one paid it heed.
The garrison commander saluted. “Sire, the eastern slope is only lightly defended now. Most of the bandits cleared out a few days ago.”
“Excellent,” the King said.
He turned toward General Colfax.
“Prepare the assault!”
“Aye, Your Majesty.”
As General Colfax organized the men, Bertram withdrew to a less hectic spot and beckoned to a lad astride a chestnut mare.
“Yes, Sire?” Clyde said.
“Are you sure you wish to go on?” the King asked. “You are not fully recovered from your ordeal.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Your Majesty,” Clyde said.
“Very well,” Bertram said. “Our people owe you a great debt.”
Clyde felt immensely proud, but all that showed on his face was a melancholy smile.
He’d come a long way in the weeks since a goat herder found him sprawled half dead on a mountain slope. For days he’d lain helpless and raving. Even when the terrible fever broke and Clyde was in his right mind, nobody paid him any heed.
He was just a strange boy with a pack of wild stories, and no one could read the letter he bore from Prince Rupert. Finally, he’d struggled out of bed and made for the capital city.
“Why do you look so sad?” Bertram asked.
“I’m thinking of Niels, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, yes,” Bertram said. “Such fine young people we have today ...”
The King’s mind turned toward his own son, lost somewhere in the Eastlands. Did he yet live?
General Colfax approached and drew the King away with urgent business, leaving Clyde alone to mull over his own plans. As soon as possible, Clyde meant to abandon the army and strike out on his own to find the prince – wherever the trail might lead.
***
A shock force quickly drove away the bandits at the base of the pass. The whole army poured into the Eastlands now, the warm Sopronian breeze still following. The chilly dampness burned off, and sun poked through the clouds.
38: Lost Survivors
Pale sun rays end our long night of horror. The moans of injured men quieten, and the ghostly howls of butcher dogs fade. Vultures observe us from the branches. I sit propped against a tree trunk, my left arm numb and useless. Nearby sprawls the unconscious figure of Captain Talbot.
Why haven’t the dogs carried me off? Any fate is better than the utter misery I now feel. Lieutenant Norman approaches across the soggy ground.
“What are our casualties?” I manage to utter.
“We have lost 37 men, my lord, and all the horses.”
His matter-of-fact tone makes the news even more terrible. Grief crushes me down.
“How many have escaped the hornets’ stings?” I ask.
“One man in three,” Norman says, “myself included.”
I sag back, and a world of pain explodes inside my head.
“This venom attacks the spirit as well as the body,” I say.
I gesture toward Captain Talbot.
“Worst of all, my strong right arm is broken.”
“Then rely upon me as your strong left arm, my lord,” Norman says.
“Thanks, Lieutenant, but what’s the use? I have already lost the war for us.”
“Begging Your Lordship’s pardon, but that sounds like the venom talking,” Norman says.
“Perhaps,” I say, “but let us face the truth. It’s my fault that we are in this sorry condition.”
“A man makes many mistakes in his lifetime,” Norman says. “Can anyone know how the future will unfold?”
I slam my good fist on the ground.
“How could I have been so stupid?” Tears well up. “So reckless with other people’s lives!”
“Your Lordship never asked us to do anything you were unwilling to do yourself,” Norman says.
He seems a pillar of strength amid so much ruin. His words are a soothing balm. I wipe away tears with my sleeve.
“Please help me rise, Lieutenant.”
Norman pulls me up.
I feel unsteady on my feet and brace myself against the tree again. Through my darkened vision, I can barely make out the shapes of our men. They lie in ragged heaps, as feverish and broken as myself. A few of the healthier ones creep about silently, like undertakers. I spot something in the branches.
“There it is,” I say, “my old friend has returned.”
“Beg pardon, my lord?” Norman says.
“The Pit-Eyed Thing,” I say. “In the trees, among the vultures. It’s laughing at me.”
Norman cocks an eyebrow and surveys the tree tops.
“Please calm yourself, my lord. Only carrion birds befoul the branches.”
“Of course you can’t see it,” I say. “It hasn’t come for you.”
My vision narrows to a dark tunnel. I can scarcely see anything except the cruel eyes of the Pit-Eyed Thing. They glow with mockery.
Though I am nearly blind, my hearing seems unnaturally sharp – enough to hear the low, spiteful giggles of the Pit-Eyed Thing. And something else .
.. a distant rushing sound.
“What’s that noise, Lieutenant?” I ask.
“Noise?” Puzzlement fills Norman’s voice.
Several seconds pass, then he also hears it.
“A wind approaches from the south, my lord.”
The roar grows louder. The trees bend; men shift about fitfully. The butcher dogs cease their infernal howling and the whole Barrens cringes.
Then the wind strikes with great force, driving me back against the tree. It batters my face and pushes into my mouth. I shut my eyes tight against the onslaught.
The air forces its energy into me. I exhale, and a dead rottenness leaves my body. I inhale; vitality surges into every nerve. I stand entranced, bathing in the glorious wind until it finally passes through. I open my eyes.
I can see clearly again!
All around, soldiers begin to stir, amazement on their faces. The shadow of terror lifts from my heart. Norman’s usually impassive face breaks into a wide grin.
I grasp his arm. “Come with me!”
All around us men are struggling to their feet. We approach a large group.
“Take heart,” I say. “This healing breeze is the sweet breath of my homeland.”
“It drove away the Death Angel!” a soldier cries.
“There’s only one way it could have got here,” I say. “The King has finally arrived, and with him a mighty army for our deliverance!”
The men give a ragged cheer.
I release Norman’s arm and move back toward Talbot. The captain stirs under his blanket as I kneel beside him.
“How do you feel, Talbot?” I say.
He rolls onto his side.
“I feel like a draft horse has trodden over me.”
Joy surges through my heart at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, a mighty ‘draft’ indeed! Did you recognize it, Captain?”
“Of course, my lord.”
Talbot braces himself on an elbow. His face is hollow and gray, but his eyes are clear.
“It heralds King Bertram,” he says.
“Yes!” I practically shout.
Talbot recoils from my outburst. I lower my voice.
“Afflis surely understands this, as well,” I say. “What’s his best move?”
Talbot massages his temples wearily.
“Please forgive me for pressing you,” I say.
“Afflis should leave a screening force behind to keep us in check,” Talbot says. “Then he should take his main army south to fight the King.”
“Will he do that?”
Talbot shakes his head. “I think not, my lord. We are within Afflis’ grasp, and that maddens him. He will pursue us.”