Whispering Woods

CHAPTER 11

Gull stooped for his axe, whipped loose the reins of the captive horse, jumped to the saddle, hissed as his rump wound stung. Yet he shrieked "Hyah!" and took off in hot pursuit.

Of armored, armed, and expert knights, while he was naked but for a kilt and axe.

Well, as his father used to say, "You can but try."

The well-trained horse shot the gap between wagons and thundered after its mates. Morven shouted, "Get 'em, Gull!" The woodcutter put his head down and tried to keep the saddle. He'd ridden plow horses before, bareback, for fun.

Still, he could but try.

Ahead, the company of knights split. The captain with Lily-her white-clad fanny and legs were bright in the dark-and two riders pounded right while the others sheared off. Why, Gull couldn't say. They must be ordered back to the other wizard "Hey!" He spoke aloud, surprising himself. Where was the other wizard, the duelist? So far they'd sustained attacks by zombies, lions, and cavalry, but had yet to see who'd launched the attack. When would this mystery wizard appear?

And what sort of fiend ripped zombies from the grave?

For that matter, had this crowd made the wagon tracks Morven had found earlier? If so, where were the wagons? And why had Towser's entourage gotten here first?

"Never mind!" he chided himself. "Questions later!"

Squeezing with his knees, he spanked the black horse with the axe head. Surprised by the whap on its flanks, it spurted ahead until he neared the rearmost knight. Clear of Towser's wrecked camp, the trio had slowed.

The laggard paid for their laxity with his life.

With no finesse, only brute strength, Gull steered straight along his left side. Missing the hoofbeats in his muffling helmet, the man turned at the last moment, startled to see a half-naked wild-eyed monster upon him.

Gull swung his axe one-handed, the blow soft because his bad shoulder was weakening. Yet the sharp bit thudded into the knight's back. Spine severed, he flopped forward over the saddle pommel.

Wrenching his weapon free, Gull passed the dying knight, pounding, snorting as much as the horse.

The middle rider, sensing something wrong, turned, black against a black forest. No horseman, Gull had to approach the man's right, his saber side.

Thousands of hours of training showed, for the knight freed his weapon in a second. Out flashed the blade to shimmer in the moonlight. The man swung it flat, either to slash the horse's face or the rider's.

Gull had no protection, no idea what to do, so instinctively threw his axe high. The act saved his life.

The curved blade smacked the hickory handle, skidded, clanged off the axe head. Gull swore, glad he'd gripped low. He'd hate to lose fingers off his right hand, too.

He kicked his mount viciously, driving it into the knight, crowding, spoiling his aim. The knight spurred to gain elbow room, but Gull stayed close. Probably it was only the insanity of his attack that kept him alive.

In fact -he tossed his axe to his rein hand, stabbed with his left.

His arm bobbed to the pounding of the horse over the uneven terrain. (Where were these knights bound?) He snatched at the knight's cloak, missed, leaned from the saddle, shoved past his sword arm, caught an armor strap -and hauled.

Taken by surprise, used to battling saber to saber, not hand to hand, the knight yanked his reins to stay in the saddle. But that only pulled the horse's head around, stalling it. Gull strained like a block and tackle, shouting, screaming in the man's face, clinging like a leech.

The knight tried to bash Gull with his saber guard, but the woodcutter ducked, clutched tighter to his horse, leg muscles cramping, and yanked again, grunting with the effort.

A random bump, a space under the knight's seat, and he left the saddle.

As soon as he was airborne, Gull let go.

Riding on, laughing, he heard thumps and curses behind.

But only one rider concerned him. The captain ahead, with Lily across his saddle.

"Prepare yourself!" the woodcutter howled. Limbering up, he swung the axe to the end of the haft, slung it behind him. "Remember White Ridge!"

Despite riding hard and clutching the struggling dancing girl, the black rider had seen his comrades fall. He kicked his mount to stay ahead. Gull reckoned him a coward, or else too proud to give battle. Or maybe he wanted to escape with his prize.

Barking commands at his mount, the knight cut Gull's path, slid around a tree too big to die in the fire. The rider then slewed around another tree, making the mount dance. They approached the lip of the star crater. On more open ground, the captain would have the advantage. Pusuing a veteran horseman on a splendid horse, Gull would never catch him.

Unless he threw his only weapon.

He saw no alternative, for his own horse was foundering. The captain, on the better mount, would escape with Lily.

And if man and mount returned to whatever land they'd been summoned from (by this unknown wizard), Lily would go too, and Gull would lose her.

Suddenly Gull didn't want to lose Lily.

Rising in bare feet in the stirrups, bouncing wildly as the horse bounded and slewed, Gull hoisted the long, heavy axe over his shoulder and pitched it. He grunted with the effort, crashed in the saddle so as not to spill off. To lose the chase was to lose Lily.

The axe spun like ball lightning. Too low, haft first, it dinged the horse on the rump, bounced off the captain's back, ricocheted into the black-green undergrowth.

Nothing, thought Gull. His last shot gone.

But it was enough.

Touched in mid-stride, the horse crowhopped in the air. Burdened with a struggling Lily, the black captain tugged the reins, hollered to calm the animal, but confused by commands and the odd touch, it balked.

Or did it shy for some other reason? Gull couldn't see what.

No matter. For a second, the enemy was still.

Gull kept coming. And hit them.

With no weapon save his body, he steered his blowing horse alongside the captain's, plucked feet from the stirrups, hopped one foot to the saddle pad, and leaped.

An awkward leap in darkness from a surging platform toward a moving target. But again, enough.

Gull's right hand batted the captain's shoulder, slipped off, snagged his cloak. His bad shoulder banged the man's back, and Gull growled with pain, for the knights wore a backplate too. Slipping, his ribs slammed the saddle cantle, creaking and winding him. But his left found purchase on the captain's reins, and Gull hung on. He could smell the captain, smoke and manure and garlic and perfume. He heard guttural curses. Lily bleated as Gull's elbow rammed her lower back.

Thumped once more by a strange source, the horse sidestepped.

Thus Gull learned why the beast had balked.

They perched on the very lip of the star crater.

The horse lost its footing.

Three humans and one animal howled as they spilled over the edge in a tangle of arms, legs, horseflesh, black and white clothes.

The dark horizon whirled past Gull's vision. He was head up, then head down. The captain's cloak fluttered around him. Lily's white legs whapped his jaw. The woodcutter's stomach lurched, and he tasted vomit. He must be flying upside down.

And if he spilled after the captain, he might be crushed under a toppling horse. Gull let go.

Besides, he'd stopped the captain. He needed to recover first.

Slamming hard on bare feet, he skidded on his sore backside in loose soil churned by the horse's hooves. He banged a rock with his ankle, stabbed out a hand and missed the earth-he must be spinning frightfully-rapped hard enough to sprain his wrist.

Yelping, he tumbled after horse and rider. And Lily.

It was darker than ever, for the Mist Moon dropped behind shattered trees, splintering as if the moon itself cracked. But the yellow sand of the crater gave its own luminous light, as if the fallen star still glowed within the earth.

By this fitful light, Gull saw the captain and his mount part company.

The black rider kicked free of the saddle and tumbled backward over his mount's rump. Freed of the top-heavy weight, the horse didn't roll, but scrabbled legs madly, still sliding down the slope. Afraid to jump off, Lily clung to the cinch straps, jouncing like a white grain sack tied across the pommel.

The captain gained his feet, leaned on the steep slope, and snatched at his belt. Drawing his saber, Gull knew. He growled curses at the woodcutter above him.

Gull was angry enough to shout back at this seasoned soldier. "Have at you, then!" He charged down the shifting slope in a shower of dirt and gravel.

Running from higher up, he gained speed until he almost flew at each bound. He expected that silver sickle saber to swing his way, and no doubt he'd impale himself if the man raised it in time. Yet for some reason, the captain couldn't draw.

With a flash, Gull knew why. The tumble had bent the steel scabbard and trapped the blade.

Shrieking, the woodcutter leaped high and hit the struggling captain with both feet square in the breastplate.

His impetus knocked them apart. Both rolled toward the bottom of the crater.

When Gull had stopped rolling and pushed upright, he found the captain charging. From a sheath on his right the knight whipped out a long white blade, croaked a strange command.

The knife caught fire in his hand.

More damned magic, thought the woodcutter. A blade that burned. Would it hurt more or less than a normal blade?

Scars of Scarzam! but he hated magic!

Yelling a shuddery battle cry, the captain halted, set his feet, and slashed toward Gull's gut.

The woodcutter responded with the only thing he had, a handful of dirt. The gritty shower hit the captain in the face, but he'd seen Gull stoop. He opened his eyes and jeered.

Gull backed as the knife sliced the air, back and forth. Blown flat by the wind, the blade's fire dimmed to nothing, then flared again. Gull found it hypnotic.

Missing a step, Gull lurched sideways, almost fell as his bad knee buckled. Behind him was the pit where they'd dug up the shooting star-the pink stone box.

He had no place left to go but into the hole Though unfamiliar with the ground, the captain saw the black hole yawning at his opponent's feet. Hollering, he rushed to knock Gull back bodily.

Instead, the woodcutter ducked low as a toadstool. But the captain stamped and stopped too. And swiped.

The white-hot blade kissed Gull's already-shredded shoulder. A crackling was his skin burning. He smelled charred flesh. The wound felt ice-cold and yet raging hot. Gull cried out, stabbed with his hands. He batted the captain in the knee, only brushing him aside.

If he spilled backward into the pit, he'd be trapped like a mouse in a flour barrel. If he tried to crawl or run, he'd take a blade through the back.

Groping for purchase, his knuckles cracked on hardwood. Smooth, shaped long, worn.

The handle of a pickaxe, left that afternoon by the tired diggers.

Grunting, grabbing, Gull hopped toward the captain to confuse him. The man leaned back, prepared to strike, then stabbed straight down -and yelped in surprise as Gull swung at his legs with a mysterious and heavy tool.

Awkward, Gull hit with the wooden haft, not the iron head. But the captain was bowled over. He rolled away quickly, half-entangled in his own riding cloak.

Gull leaped, aimed in a second, threw the weapon over his shoulder like an axe, and struck as hard as he could.

Pointed like a bird's beak, the heavy iron head punched through steel armor, skin, flesh, organs, bone, more armor, and finally dirt.

Panting, spent, Gull clutched the pickaxe haft. Shudders from the dying man traveled up the wood, through Gull's arms, seemingly straight to his heart. But the woodcutter hung on relentlessly.

Gradually, the shudders quieted, then stopped.

The flames on the long knife, still clutched in a black gloved hand, flickered out.

A gasp made Gull whirl. A ghost charged him. Instinctively he jerked at the pickaxe handle, but it was stuck fast in armor.

Then the ghost leaped into his arms with a sob. Musk and- perfume filled his nostrils.

"Lily," he crooned.

Hot body pressed against his, the dancing girl clung, shuddering. She cried like a little girl, begging to be held, but Gull had to pry her off. "We must get back. The others will need us."

"Kem? Chad?" she pouted. "Why risk your life to rescue them?"

"Greensleeves. Felda. Stiggur," he countered. "Come."

He had to keep moving anyway, he knew. If he stopped for a second, all his bruises and wounds would seize up and he'd be helpless.

Stumbling across the crater slope, he caught the captain's horse. It backed, but Gull crooned and snagged the reins and it obeyed. Too sore and tipsy to mount, Gull caught Lily's hand and smacked the horse so it towed them up the slope.

Atop the rim, Gull searched for the horse he'd jumped from, but didn't see it. With the moon gone, the night was black. Only ghostly birch stumps glowed, their scorched trunks gray stripes against blackness. He could barely see his hand by starlight. They'd have to creep back to camp.

Despite the dancing girl's protests-she didn't want to mount again-Gull climbed painfully into the saddle and hauled her in front of him. Upright, this time. Clucking, he set out west. Blown and carrying double, the horse would only walk. Blown himself, Gull let it.

Camp was perhaps a half mile off. Through twisted trunks and some brambly screen they glimpsed light. "The campfire!" Lily chirped.

Gull muttered, "Could be piled high as a signal for us."

"You think the battle's over?"

He shrugged. The moment's rest had recalled all his injuries, and each burned and twinged and itched and ached. Wherever his skin touched Lily's baggy soiled clothes, sweat and dirt and blood stuck. Yet she pressed close for comfort.

"Mayhaps," he said, "but that may be bad, too. If Towser gets himself outnumbered, he might flee, as that brown-and-yellow wizard fled the duel at White Ridge." The name of his lost village pained his heart. Angrily he shook his head. "That's why we must hurry back. If Towser disappears, he might take everyone with him, including my sister. She's the only one I care about."

"What about me?" Lily pouted.

Pained and worried, Gull was now irritated. He clucked and nudged the horse to a faster walk. "You too, of course. But we've got to-"

The horse whickered and stopped, as if it'd hit a wall. Gull swore, nudged, but then sensed something before them in the blackness. The slight breeze that had washed them stopped.

Carefully, he slid down and walked forward, hand out. And pricked his hand. He sniffed a familiar green-bitter smell.

"Balls! It's Towser's wall of thorns again. Now what?" He cast right and left, snagged his tangled hair in grasping thorns, swore. "Can you see a way around?"

Higher on the horse, the dancing girl craned. "Off to the right is something white. That wouldn't be thorns, would it?"

"Who knows?" Gull sighed. "Once they loose magic, there are no rules. Nothing makes sense."

He towed the horse toward the white whatevers, one hand up to shield his face in the pitchy darkness. The thorn wall meandered like a wild hedgerow, and he was tagged on the shoulders and hands by thorns, stepped barefoot on more, often banged into trunks and had to circle them.

As time dragged on, he fretted more and more. He had to get back to Greensleeves before some disaster struck the camp.

Nearing the white barriers, Gull found them to be-teeth?

At first the thorn wall intermingled with the white teeth, then gave way to them entirely. The teeth were all sizes, from finger height to taller than a man could reach. Gull felt a tooth, found it slippery-smooth, sharp enough at the tip to pierce skin. Testing, he snapped a slim one in his hand like an icicle. But any thick as his thumb were unbreakable.

"I've seen these," said Lily. "They grow in caves, from the ground and the ceiling. People call them stone spears. Smell? The earth is covered with bat guano."

Gull wrinkled his nose at the dry acrid smell. The earth was gray-white, and from the gunk came the chit-tering of a million insects living in the stuff. Another distant chunk of the Domains, thought Gull, ripped from the floor of some mammoth cave and dropped here, into the western reaches of the Whispering Woods. What wonders these wizards pissed away for their greedy ends!

White by starlight, the wall of swords waggled this way and that through the charred stump forest, as if sown by a drunkard. But it was no more two hundred feet wide anywhere.

There came another surprise.

With a clear line of sight, they could see the fire they'd glimpsed.

Not their own camp, but another wizard's.

It was not a pit for a cooking fire they saw, but a large heaped bonfire.

It was a few hundred feet off. I've gotten turned around without the moon to guide us, Gull thought. Between tree trunks like black bars he could make out little. Black knights encircled the fire, some mounted, some dismount. At the center walked a large figure-very big, he realized. Almost as tall as the mounted men. That figure stalked around and around, probably haranguing his troops, dangerous as the lions. Light gleamed from the man as if he were armored all over. Beyond the circle were curved ridges like distant hills: Gull finally decided they were covered wagons with the canvas painted dark.

So these were the wagons whose trail they'd cut weeks ago.

But where was Towser's camp? And the zombies? And what form would the next attack take? Something worse than undead?

Lily whispered his name, pointed. He followed the white curve of her sleeve.

Way over there was a glimmer of a sheltered fire. A suggestion of moving bodies and a hoop shape-the bow of a toppled wagon.

Hissing for silence, lest they draw down the black riders, Gull covered the horse's nose to prevent its snorting to its mates. Gingerly he towed the beast amidst the field of swords. In the murky nonlight, he shuffled his bare feet lest he step on a spike, and hoped the horse did the same. Bat manure squished between his toes. The crunching of insect shells was loud and sickening.

Soon they stepped clear of the cave floor to soft black loam. Gull wiped his feet, swung up behind Lily. With the tiny glimmer to guide them, they could ride to camp. They might have to flee if the riders came.

A thunder of hooves suddenly drummed on the ears, but not from the distant bonfire. From the direction of Towser's camp.

Gull reined alongside a thick trunk. Lily asked, "Who's-"

"Shush!"

Two riders, driving hard, swerving between trunks. A hallooing went up, a weird ululating war cry that split the night and sent shivers up spines.

Gull barked in surprise. He knew that cry.

"Helki! Holleb!"

Sweaty bronzed skin glistened by starlight. The centaurs were naked, without armor or helmets or warpaint, only their armbands and feathered lances. Ratty hair sailed behind them, grown almost long as their tails. What had happened? he wondered. Formerly they'd been so tidy and soldierly, with their gear painted and polished and stowed neatly on their harness. Why now so mangy and unkempt?

And why were they here? Why not home in their steppe country?

As they surged by, Gull called their names. Holleb only shouted his bloodcurdling cry. But Helki whinnied as if in fear or shame.

"Gull! We must attack! We are captives! We cannot-uh!" She interrupted herself to shout her cry, and the two leveled lances.

By the distant bonfire, black riders scrambled to mount. The big central figure waved gold-gleaming arms.

But Gull could only sit stunned at Helki's words. Captives? Again? The brown-and-yellow wizard had abandoned them. Towser had returned them home. So… had he summoned them himself, enslaved them for his own purposes? He must have, for they traveled from his camp toward the enemy.

Was Towser indeed as bad, as callous and cold-hearted, as any other wizard? Was Gull a gull to work for him?

"Oh!" cried Lily. "Look to the sky!"

A bright flash blinded Gull, made him blink.

Sizzling into the air, coming from the far wizard's camp, glowing like a rocket, soared a horse afire.

"Nightmare!"