Elk riders omnibus, p.97
Elk Riders--Omnibus, page 97
“Come on,” she said, spit flying from her clenched teeth. “We have to ride with him.”
She barely waited long enough for Darid to mount another free horse, then she was off, following the flow of soldiers and riders back down through the city, after the king. She finally understood the power of royalty, of leadership, its ability to inspire hope and action. In her, all the more so, for she knew this man, this king, knew his vulnerabilities. He had been human before her, and so she was in awe of him all the more for it.
She kicked her horse harder. This was redemption. She cursed as her own brothers, Karrithian and Antan, blocked her way in a bottleneck of streets. Brothers, she thought. She never had felt such solidarity with her fellow Anthorians. She was reborn and like a child, she was impatient and knew no restraint. She pulled on her horse to the right, down a side street. She no longer worried whether or not Darid followed her. She was connected to something bigger now, a tide that carried her away into the final, decisive battle.
The side streets were not made for taking at a gallop. She did so anyway, her horse slipping on a few short corners and Gail ducking and narrowly avoiding striking her head on a number of balconies and hanging signs. Streets were still blocked with barricades, but already townspeople were pulling them down, making way for the growing counterattack from their own soldiers. Gail turned onto a street running through the disassembled buildings of the lower city. Citizens cheered from rooftops. Old women handed out fresh arrows. Gail snatched a bunch and jammed them into her own quiver.
King Talamar had just passed through the newly opened city gate. The other side was a nightmare of dead Maurvant bodies, pools of smoking oil, mixed with blood, so much blood. But better it be their enemies’ than their own. Across the no-man’s-land the Maurvant lines were reforming: ready to make another stand, this time not in siege but in an open field of combat. War chariots rolled up before phalanxes of foot soldiers, their battle flags still snapping in the air at the corner of their formations.
“Rally to me!” King Talamar cried out and the men of Karrith and Antas, brothers in the realm of Anthor, did so. The king waited for a spell, lining the men up in ad hoc companies, delaying as long as he dared to form some type of order without losing momentum. At some point, after some last rider joined at the rear, Talamar raised his sword, kicked his horse, and led them into the field.
They were a javelin hurled by a giant, or so Gail felt. She pushed her horse toward the front and center of the charge, keeping the king in her sight. The sense that nothing could stop them, righteous defenders of their homes, loyal followers of the king, compelled her forward like madness. She welcomed the clouds of dust from the enemy chariots, the nearing of a decisive end.
The forces met, the vanguards sweeping past one another with the ringing of steel and the thud of horses and bodies colliding. Men who rode too fast and let go of their spears too late were catapulted from their saddles into the air. A chariot overturned, its wheels spinning. Maurvant were rushing to reinforce their chariots, Anthorians to the aid of their combined cavalry.
Gail did not lack for targets to swing her sword at, but in the chaos and bumping and tumbling it was hard to tell if it was a Maurvant who crashed against her or a fellow Anthorian. A green clad Karrithian ranger drove two Maurvant foot soldiers towards her and she took her opportunity to behead one and stab the other deep in the neck.
“Good fighting brother,” the ranger said just before the bolt of a crossbow caught him in the head. His eyes rolled back and he tumbled off his horse. Gail moved to help him, but hearing the sharp clicking sound of more crossbows, she instead ducked low on her saddle—for one time in her life she was grateful for her small stature. It saved her, for she felt a bolt whip past her collar from behind before it lodged in her horse’s neck. He twisted beneath her, wild. She had no hope of controlling him. He tottered into a line of Maurvant spearmen and they rushed forward, impaling him further with their spears.
The horse lost, Gail rolled off his back, drew an arrow and had it nocked back before the horse hit the ground. She let fly and took one of the spearmen out with a shot to the neck. Another close to her charged. She was not about to take him on, big as he was, so she turned and ran. Answering cavalry almost trampled her. She dodged an Antan rider who swept past and dispatched the pursuing spearman.
“Kevin,” she yelled out, recognizing her friend.
“Alex, quick get up!”
She leapt onto the hind quarters of his horse, gripped the beast as best she could with her thighs, and began to loose one arrow after another, providing Kevin cover as he rode deeper into the fight. The ground was awash with blood, the desolation and horror of the fresh battlefield. At the horses’ feet were the red and severed limbs and the colorful organs of disemboweled men. Mouths stretched in rictuses of pain. She watched two men struggling hand to hand, one biting the face of the other. Horses ran wild, their sides sliced open to expose rows of ribs.
“There!” Gail cried, hitting Kevin on the shoulder. “The king is there. Ride to—”
But her last words did not emerge. They caught in her throat, as did the voices of so many of the warriors, Maurvant and Anthorian alike, as a vision from fireside tales or nightmares stepped into view.
The creatures came from the Maurvant side: three beasts, four-legged, black with yellow eyes and blue-black nostrils on snouts that were cross-hatched with wolf-like fangs. They were not horses, not deer, but somehow Gail knew them to be elk, twisted, perverse, dark specimens, but elk nonetheless—some cousins of the one she had seen accompanying Derrick and Katlyn—for each one bore a sterling crown of metallic antlers, each branch ending in sharpened points. The monsters trampled Maurvant and Anthorian alike, but it was clear they moved towards the king, meeting his outriders and slaying their horses, opening their necks with gashes from their antlers, only to impale the riders themselves or toss them end-over-end into the air.
The Maurvant knew the beasts and fell in behind them, slaying the riders and foot soldiers they left wounded in their wake. Antan and Karrithian captains, civilians, regular infantry soldiers, all that was left of the Anthorian charge circled the king but their numbers soon dwindled as the beasts savaged them.
“Come on, we have to help,” Gail cried out. But Kevin’s horse spooked, catching whiff or sight of the foul creatures; then reared, and tossed them both. Gail landed on a dying man, his chest deflating with a groan, air bubbles bursting out of a bloody wound on his side. She drew an arrow and let fly at one of the beasts nearest the king. It struck a Maurvant, but not the elk.
She tripped forward over bodies, over broken weapons, while the ring of defenders around Talamar grew smaller and tighter. The king was unhorsed, dueling man-to-man with a Maurvant captain. Gail stopped, nocked another arrow, and dropped the Maurvant spearman who was rushing towards them. The king rounded a swing on the captain, struck him down, giving Gail cause to cheer. But it was short-lived. Talamar was alone and the three fell beasts were suddenly upon him.
“No!”
But her cries did nothing to stop the execution that took place. As one, the three beasts converged on the king, the crowns of spears punching through his armor, finding his flesh and digging deep. She watched as his sword slipped from his hand, clattered through the antlers of one of the monsters, then dropped to the ground.
She was so focused on the king that she did not see the Maurvant raider come up beside her until it was too late. He swung his mace into her shoulder and she crumpled, her side exploding with such pain that she was sure she was mortally wounded. She fell back, stared up at the sky, noticing the way buzzards were already circling and could do nothing but wait for the next blow to come.
It didn’t. Instead a sword flashed across her vision and lodged in the sternum of the Maurvant as he lifted his mace overhead. Darid appeared, drew his spare short-sword from his back, and finished off the Maurvant with a hack to the head, spinning him downward in a spray of blood.
It was from Darid’s shoulders, flung over them like a child, that Gail looked back to see the king fallen, Kevin, even her friend Patrick rushing to him as she fought Darid to let her go.
I should be there too, at his side.
Then came a cry to end them all. It spread like a bloody wound over them. Even the three beasts, withdrew, as if frightened by the note it struck. The voice was not of a dying man, yet it was pained as if all the weight of the world’s loss was bearing down on a single soul.
There was a clamor among the Maurvant. They were rushing to regroup. Fresh horns were blowing from the north; under a cloud of dust, another charge was coming. A new company had materialized, more Karrithian rangers, fresh to the fight, and at their lead—Gail had to blink to make sure—was a rider, an elk rider.
If her eyes did not deceive her, she realized it was Derrick, mounted on that same elk as before, as if her mind had conjured them from her own memory. The howl came from Derrick and no other. Spear shafts, helmets, swords came apart as he brought a gleaming blade down upon them. He was followed by a cavalry draped in Karrithian green: rangers. The elk rode up to the fallen king’s side. Even Darid now turned back, carrying Gail in his arms, the Maurvant falling back before the charging rangers.
The vision was true. It was Derrick and on horses about him rode the mercenaries, Val, Cody, and even others. They formed a defensive wall around the boy and the king. Gail watched in confusion. What claim had Derrick on the king? His hands trembled as he reached out and took Talamar’s.
Darid pushed through the gathering crowd. Gail slipped out of his arms and moved in close. Derrick did not notice her.
“Father,” he said, his eyes filming.
But if father saw son, it was not apparent. Talamar reached out for the face before him and said softly, “Airre’Soleigh.”
Then his hand dropped and Derrick was looking into a face that was blank.
“No, no, no—” she said, falling against Darid’s side, at which point the man named Cody caught sight of her.
“Red?”
But no more was said. A horn sounded. This one from the west, as the last rallied troops and citizens marched out from the direction of the city, crossing into the battle plain moving with precision, rank after rushing rank. The remaining cavalry joined by the new thundered past them into the Maurvant who had too few fighters left to reform their phalanxes. Flags waved in the arms of city dwellers running out into the field and climbing up upon the walls. More trumpets blaring. Wild drums were beating. The Maurvant lines were breaking.
In the center of it all, warriors had turned to mourners, for King Talamar was dead.
To RaRu, Max & Jojo
Elk Riders
Volume V
The Magus
By
Ted Neill
Chapter 1
The Visitor
Nathan remembered the figure standing in the doorway, the light at his back, his face dark, the line of the horizon behind his knees. He remembered white towers of clouds resting on the blue bed of the sea; his parents’ faces, drawn with worry, resignation, or was it the shame of their humble fisher’s hut before this powerful foreign visitor? The nets drying on the wall, the cries of seagulls, the tinkle of the wind chime fashioned from seashells, even the first words of the foreign man as he stood in the doorway, all were still so clear in his mind.
“Is this the boy?” the visitor asked, dispensing with any greeting, introduction, or other pleasantries. Nathan remembered this slight to his people, his parents, even if he could not remember their names.
Nathan had had a name—a full one, first and surname—that day the visitor came to take him away. He was sure his parents had given both to him. Every child received both on their name-day and he was far beyond his name-day when the visitor came. The fact that he had memory of that last day with his parents was proof enough.
But his surname had slipped away, along with so much else, like dreams upon waking or a ghost seen out of the corner of the eye—once glimpsed it was elusive.
The visitor was accompanied by the chief. Nathan had forgotten the chief’s name as well, but his face, round, crowned by a balding pate, was long familiar to him and his presence was a comfort that morning when the visitor came.
Nathan’s own parents waited at his back, his mother’s hand possessively on his shoulder. His father was left to answer the visitor’s question.
“Yes, this is our boy.”
A silent pause followed wherein the visitor waited without moving. Nathan’s father cleared his throat as if to speak but before he could, the chief nodded and gestured to the bare table waiting in the center of the room.
“You may begin,” the chief said.
His father acquiesced, opening and closing cabinets with gentle efficiency. He gathered a bowl, a spoon, a spool of fishing line from the corners of the room and placed them on the table.
“Go ahead,” the chief said with a tentative smile.
Nathan felt his mother’s hand on his shoulder. For a moment he was confused whether to act or not. He understood what was wanted, but it had been so hard to tell when to move things without touching them and when it was forbidden. The power had always been in him, but often his parents had reprimanded him for using it. He’d never forget the flash of terror on their faces when he had sent a bowl of gruel across the room or a sweet zipping to his fingers at a whim.
“It’s all right, Nathan,” he heard his father say. And so he did. Nathan began with the spoon, lifting it up on its end. He turned it. It was difficult to see the face of the visitor, for he still stood silhouetted against the doorway, but he did not gasp, cower, or make a sign to avert evil. Quite the contrary he did nothing, as if what he witnessed was ordinary and mundane. Nathan felt more confident. He placed the spoon down and lifted the bowl into the air, levitating it in the middle space between ceiling and table. Now the stranger moved, reaching up to the bowl to pinch it and set it spinning. The sensation of dizziness that emerged in Nathan’s mind surprised him. Uncomfortable, he willed the bowl to slow and it did.
“Good,” the visitor said, now taking control of the proceedings. “The spool.”
Nathan obeyed, concentrating on the spool, turning it on its side, and unraveling the fishing line. As it collected in a pile he thought he heard his mother choke back a sob. The visitor put his hand up, singaling for Nathan to stop. He did.
“Tie it.”
This was novel: someone who was not only unafraid of Nathan’s abilities but wanted to explore them. Nathan studied his father and mother, unsure as how to respond. He looked down, scrutinizing the laces of his own boots, and swallowed.
“He cannot tie yet,” his mother said, her voice thick with emotion. “I still tie his boots for him.”
“He is very young,” the chief said.
The visitor nodded, pushed his cloak over his shoulder, and strode across the room, pulled a candle from its stick and pressed its end down onto the table so it balanced there amid the spoon, bowl, and unfurled fishing line.
“Light it,” the visitor said.
He might as well have asked Nathan to tie the line again. He was not allowed to play with fire. So many times he had been admonished to remain clear of candles and the cooking fire. But now Nathan was curious. Was this something he could accomplish with his mind?
Not alone, he knew, out of some unnamable instinct. Instead, Nathan lifted his hand, reaching for the candle, but stopping well short of it. He concentrated on the wick, blackened, cold, and bent, imagining a blade of light balanced on it. He imagined heat, burning even. The tips of his fingers felt warm. He moved with the sensation, almost like balancing a drop of water on the pads of his fingers until it felt most intense between thumb and forefinger. His digits became rigid just as a string of smoke twisted into the air above the candle, a speck of orange glowing on it like a tiny star.
A seagull cried as if to remark upon the breeze that had inexplicably grown weaker. There was a soft flutter, like a butterfly beating its wings, and the flame was suddenly there, burning merrily, cutting into the darkness.
Nathan dropped his hand, aware of how stiff his muscles had become and shook out his arm. His father’s and the chief’s eyes were wide and lidless. It was the look of alarm he was accustomed to when he used his powers. His mother’s fist was against her mouth, her eyes shut tight.
“I’ve seen enough,” the visitor said. “Have him sent to my ship. He is not meant for this place. Where I take him, he will be safe.”
“Praise be,” his father whispered. His mother sobbed. As if eager to be done with the place, people, and the whole business, the visitor turned on his heel and stepped out into the sunlight. The chief reached under his jerkin and produced a bag that jingled with the sound of coins. His eyes, brows, and mouth all seemed to bend with a sympathetic frown. His mother wept aloud now and reached out to clutch Nathan, but his father drew her hand away to his chest, wearing the same sad expression as the chief. The chief swept Nathan up from the floor, into his arms, and carried him to the door. Something was terribly wrong with it all. Nathan cried out, “Mama!” but at the sound of his voice his mother convulsed, burying her face deeper into his father’s shoulder. His father took one last look at him, his eyes glistening in the light of the candle on the table and said, “Go.”
Nathan cried out, fighting against the chief, this man he knew to be gentle and kind, so he felt no fear in striking him and struggling against him. But the strength of an adult was absolute and although Nathan screamed, reaching for the hut as it receded from his outstretched hand, the chief did not waver. Instead he made a shushing sound, much like the sound of the waves that was ever present on the island. “Remember, Nathan. Remember all of this.”
Nathan. That was his name. He remembered that at least.
