Thankful they did not encounter any other Dortian patrols for the rest of the turn, they could not afford to get complacent, the surrounding lush undergrowth more than capable of hiding any unsavoury scouts. Sun setting, Tarmon eased their pace as a precaution to quieten the noise of their passing. Wildlife in these parts had already settled for the evening, the silence increasing.
Troubled, Tarmon did not know why. Nothing was obvious, but something was amiss. Responding to those doubts, Kifter spoke at his side.
“Do you hear that?” the Fife asked, cautious.
“Hear what?”
Reducing their speed, they stopped, searching through the half-light.
“There is a low din,” the Fife said, turning his head. “Like the sound of a thousand voices in the distance.”
Tarmon still could not hear anything definite.
“What is it?” Hallen hissed from behind.
Signalling for quiet, “I cannot hear… but do sense all is not as it should be,” the Tard whispered to his sharp-eared friend.
“I cannot place it,” the Fife admitted.
“Let us go carefully then,” Tarmon ordered. “And keep quiet.”
Travelling as if through forbidden territory, they rode dreading the worst. Night descended, the two boys struggling to see their companions amongst the trees and bush. Deep shadow seemed to close about them. Even their Kyboes softened their steps as if detecting dangers ahead. For long periods, they proceeded, tensions intensifying.
Eventually, all heard the low din Kifter spoke of. Sounding like a mass of creatures muttering, a faint orangey tinge emerged, painting the area up ahead. Suggesting the noise was in that direction, senses laboured, trepidation settling in for fear of what it could be. Edging forward to investigate, the glow increased, so too the noise.
Halting, the glow now unmistakable, “I will check,” Kifter whispered, leaping from his mount. Slipping behind a tree, he vanished into darkness.
Peering between two huge bushes obstructing their view, such tight conditions kept the rest of the group on edge. Jumping when something touched his arm, Hanor’s relief that it was Bane spoke volumes. Gesturing he was fine through the dark, he felt vulnerable, similar to those first nights when out in the open with Rainer during his training. Composure of recent times had abandoned him. Tempted to reach for the Stone for comfort, Hanor refrained, anxious its glow could ignite and give them away. Untying the knot earlier, he would not make the same fumbling mistake again.
Time dragged by, every noise heightened by the strenuous situation. Grateful when Kifter returned, the reddish hue in front revealed the Fife’s displeasure.
“Dismount,” he ordered, pulling his hood back. When all were down, they huddled close for what he had to say. “It is not good,” he whispered, frustrated. “There are…,” he stopped, looking up when strange voices behind and to the right filtered through to their position. “We best move, quickly!”
Taking the lead from his Tardanian friend, they expected him to head back towards the darkness and relative safety, but he moved closer to the glow and noise instead. Shielded by thick scrub, they followed, the warning earlier not making sense. Halting beside two adjacent bushes, Kifter ushered them back to him. The intrusive voices were gone, only the din of thousands now audible. Checking the dark again for unexpected movements, he spoke just loud enough to be heard.
“Up ahead…, is a camp of Dortians and those… Gorl things,” he said, angry they had not stopped sooner. “Their numbers are unbelievable.” If they had gone around the Treman Mountains like he originally suggested, they would have avoided this. It was too late to quibble. “I estimate five thousand are camped at the base of the mountains. There is no way through, so we have no choice but to go around.”
“Why have you brought us nearer to their camp then?” Hallen asked, disbelieving it.
“Because we have somehow slipped passed their line of scouts. There are many, so there is a good chance we would be seen leaving. They will not be looking for people inside the boundaries of their watch. Between the camp and scouts, we can make our escape.”
“This is mad,” Hallen protested. His huge frame, and that of his mount’s, would stand out against the glowing light of the camp behind.
“There is plenty of cover to do this,” Kifter continued. “My main concern is any returning scout coming in from the line.”
“That is my point. Who but a blind person would not see us with that light?”
“If you take my Kyboe, I will walk adjacent to you but further out nearer to the scouts,” Kifter said, already deciding their next step. “Tarmon’s keen sight can keep you safe. I will see any returning scout before they see you.”
“I do not believe what you are proposing,” the Hite’s mood echoed the others’.
“I agree with Hallen,” Tarmon said, dubious. “But I do accept your reasoning. There is no room for error here.”
“Leaving is no easier than what I am suggesting,” Kifter promised. “How we got in here in the first place is incredible, but here we are, and a decision has to be made. The longer we stand debating the issue, the more likely we will be discovered.”
Searching each stony face before agreeing, “Let us do it,” Tarmon said, signalling for him to move. “Be careful.” Without another word, Kifter was gone. “You know what we must do,” the Tardanian said, turning to the others. “As impossible as it may seem, there is wisdom sometimes in madness. Stay close.”
Not waiting for a response, he turned, checking beyond the large bush for movement. It was clear. With a quick nod, he made his way to another clump of bush ten strides away. The others followed, tensions soaring. Trusting the Fife was somewhere out in the dark keeping an eye on them, painstaking, they made their way from bush to bush. Sometimes running, whilst at other times they crept, this was not what they needed at the end of a long turn.
Time agonised by, the early stages going without incident. Only irregular noises escaping the encampment fired tender imaginations. Slinking along, delicate senses alert to the slightest of noise, sometimes their own movements forced them to stop. Local night creatures seemed hesitant to stray from their holes, aware of the risk.
The din fluctuated in tempo, worrying how vast the encampment was. Lights from the fires faded periodically, promising an end, only to return further along. Fighting off tiredness, the determined group kept going.
Raising a hand, the glow and din drew too close, Tarmon stopping. Peering out from behind a large colly bush, he gulped, they were now too close to the encampment’s edge. The tree-line had backslid into the forest, cutting across their path. From his vantage point, large fires were but half a stone’s throw from where they now stood. Around each fire were between ten and twenty Dorts talking amongst themselves. Stretching further, to his left he could see fires extending out onto the plane itself, groaning for there was no end in sight. Daunting sides of the mountains rose in the near distance, reflecting the firelight from below. Their peaks, hidden in the depths of night, were held aloft by curving walls extending up from this bustle of life at their feet. A great barrier between these invaders and its nested egg of Tardoc within, it would not be enough to stall them, the Five Passes promising a way through for this menace.
Looking back to where they had to go, the tree-line returned further down, continuing its arc alongside the mountain chain. They would have to deviate that was all. Signalling for the others to move right, he led the way, trusting Kifter would do the same.
Odd calls and bouts of coarse laughter roared from nearby fires, the small group astonished this was happening. Tarmon cursed. Not considering enough what they would do if faced with this situation, desires to reach Tardoc had faltered his judgement. Now stuck here worming their way through the undergrowth as if intruders themselves, they would be lucky to get out of this.
Covering the short distance, the tree line veered left again, getting back on track. The relief was short-lived. To their horror, bush and tree thinned, leaving them momentarily exposed. Bush and tree had been stripped bare to feed the rampant fires out on the planes. Alarmed that a sharp eye might see them, they scurried on, gaining some comfort when sinking back into the relative darkness in front. Bypassing the remains of a huge fallen tree, its roots spiralling in every direction, large sections were missing, chopped and burnt by these invaders. Other Dortians could come for more firewood, so Tarmon did not linger for long.
Checking on Hanor and Bane just behind him, in the half-light, their wide fearful eyes searched their surroundings, expecting an attack with every step. Admiring their nerve, especially after what they had endured, the Tardanian prayed for them to hold, hoping the end was near.
Following the line curve back towards the mountains, it straightened off, at last passing that recess. From bush to tree they scampered along, seeking cover wherever it lay, stopping and starting as was the pattern. Daring to believe they might just make it, a sudden rustling sound caught Tarmon’s attention, motioning for everyone to take cover. A voice called out somewhere ahead. Strange and throaty, someone at the forest’s edge was calling to another making his way back into the woods. Indiscernible, the hidden few knew not what was said.
Waiting for a lengthy period, ensuring the intruders had gone before daring to venture on, that was too close for comfort. Painful, that untimely interval permitted fatigue to set in like a disease. Whilst undercover, joints started groaning for respite, dry eyes pleading for rest. When the Tard motioned to continue, the two youngsters struggled to get going.
“Not long now,” Hallen whispered to both, their strength floundering.
Neither commented, hoping his words to be true. Digging deep into near empty reserves, this was insufferable.
Blending into shadow when necessary, they stopped again when other sounds came through the darkness. Dull thwacks of something soft but heavy, and a short yelp leaked to their position. Believing it was Kifter at work, if he had been caught, they were done for. The eerie silence stressed their already exhausted minds. Gladdened when the agile Fife peeped out from behind a nearby tree, words could not describe how relieved they were. Disappearing just as quickly, the Fife was at home under such extreme conditions. Out here, it was survival of the quickest.
Motioning for them to move, Tarmon dashed across a larger opening before vanishing into scrub. Following the Tard, the group stuck to the same shade of orangey red across the backdrop of trees, ensuring their distance from the camp stayed the same. Not wishing to stumble into anyone, Tarmon deduced the line of scouts followed the curvature of the trees as well. Alert, picking out odd movements on the plane, the Dortians were far from ready to settle for the night.
About to follow Tarmon and Bane into the cluster of bushes in front, Hanor stopped, a low beating noise to their right alerting him to danger. Separated, Hallen’s large hand seized his shoulder, halting any attempts to move.
“Quick, into the bush!” the Hite ordered, shoving him in, pulling their Kyboes behind.
Desperate to stay quiet, rustles from entering the huge looping shrub cracked like a whipping stick. Whoever was there must have surely heard them. Waiting for a shout to break the quiet, but instead, the heavy sounds of marching feet emerged, drowning out everything else. Peering through thick leaves, Hanor could see the sizeable bush on the other side of the gap where Tarmon and Bane were hiding. The stomping got louder. Heavy pants from the Hite proved the big fellow’s own misgivings about this affair. Their Kyboes, boxed in by broad leaves and branches, did not move.
Exuding confidence, Dorts filed passed their hiding place three abreast. Well-travelled, a strong odour panged the air, grunts signifying tiredness from a long march. Disciplined, there manner serious like the dead they had found earlier, this patrol was of a similar size.
Bewildered but wholly grateful, they had not been seen or heard. Gorl creatures were walking alongside the Dortians as if in charge. Gulping, one halted directly in front of their position. The skinny wretch, with long gangly arms and legs, was too preoccupied with this procession to suspect anyone was hiding close by. Its rank body smelt like something given up for dead. Gaunt features upon a tapered head were cunning, as if prepared for the unexpected. Huge teeth in a gaping mouth yawned below fierce bulging eyes. Taking it all in due to the light from the camp, Hanor was as fascinated as he was appalled.
The last row of Dorts passed like a mighty arm snaking its way through to the camp beyond. The creature standing in front seemed to savour the power it had over such a force. A glint in its eye sparkled, its glee felt. Hideous, longing to inflict pain on those crossing its path, much was revealed in that frosty stare. Fiendish, it started after the others.
Behind Hanor, a loud snap cracked, the weight of his Kyboe splintering a branch. Horrified, the creature halted and looked their way. One call for help and they were in trouble. Praying the foul creature was too tired to investigate, silhouetted against the orangey red glow, it scanned the huge bush they now dwelt in. Glancing over its shoulder to where its troops were disappearing, considering whether to rejoin them, but Hallen’s Kyboe shifted this time, the rustling sound too tempting to ignore.
Instinctive, the creature crouched like any would be killer of the night. Squatting before edging forward on its hands and feet, nimble and silent, it stopped just short of the bush. Sniffing the air, it turned its head, listening for further movements. Foul stench returning, the evil with it, desires for a meal drew it closer. Snuffling again, it knew something was inside, but what?
A rasping call from behind drew its attention, one of its kind was waiting. Not responding for fear of alerting its prey, still crouching, it leant towards the enormous leafy bush. Easing its scrawny head between leaves, black pitch eyes readjusted to the dark, searching for its prey.
Sudden and sharp, Hallen’s arm swept down passed Hanor’s ear, taking leaves and branches with it. Short and terrifying, a shrill squealed at their feet before falling silent. Causing a considerable racket, the big Hite tried dragging the corpse into the bush, but an awkward branch was in the way. Risking an even greater noise to get it in, the creature’s companion heard it and started back towards them. Soon locating the limp form half-protruding from the bush, wretched and terrible, a squawking cry pierced the setting, the Gorl calling to those now disappearing out onto the plane.
That cry did not last long. A swish nearby was followed by a dull thud, the impact of Kifter’s knife staggering the creature. Gurgling, shocked by the strike, any hopes of survival were dashed a few moments later. Without mercy, from the shadows a nifty Fife leapt feet first at the faltering creature’s back, breaking its scrawny frame.
Giving the hiding group no time to wait, breaking cover, numerous calls erupted from others further along the track. They had been spotted! Retrieving his knife, Kifter rushed over to his friends, leaping up onto his Kyboe. “No point hiding now,” he said. Others were coming their way fast. “Follow me!”
Pandemonium broke loose, growls echoing as more Dortians and Gorls arrived on the scene baying for blood. Kicking their Kyboes into action, the fleeing group charged through the gap where the Dortians had first arrived. Taking out the first two arrivals with a mighty sweep of his sword, Hallen’s ruthless actions generated further howls from those coming up behind. Cries erupted further out on the plane, hundreds of Dorts and Gorls rising to the battle cry. With an unseen foe, their surge into the forest was blind and hopeful. Out towards the centre of the grasslands, others stood watching the first wave crash into the woods, wondering at the cause.
Leading them on, adrenalin pulsing, Kifter kept it tight. Deafening cries meant the whole camp was rousing. Far-reaching, the growing disturbance heaved like a wave of calling. But the advantage was theirs, nobody at this end knew what was happening. Imperative to outdo that cry, Kifter checked again to ensure everyone was present. Scanning the plane earlier, he estimated the end of the camp was near. Once clear, there was no way their enemy could keep up on foot. Needing to reach the Emor River before certain of safety, wide but shallow, their escape looked promising.
A swishing noise flew past his ear, a knife had been thrown or worse, a slinger. Dreading the latter, sharp star-shaped stones could be fired from a small contraption fastened to the forearm. A nasty tool used by specialists, the fact these Dortians had them was shocking. Searching through the dark, a lone figure standing next to a tree was preparing to aim again. Taking out a throwing barb, a short dart with a weight attached, in his saddle Kifter twisted and threw it back. As another slinger whizzed past his chest, the silhouette lurched to the right, Kifter’s blade hitting its shoulder.
Turning back to what was in front, the Fife kept checking every shadowed recess of this wooded landscape as they went. More scouts were sure to come, sounds of their passing far from quiet. Speed was paramount. Out on the plane to their left, curious figures were stretching, inspecting the upheaval back towards the Five Passes. Fortunately for the group, the vile creatures had no idea who was riding nearby.
Through a gap in the brush, Kifter’s heart leapt, at last seeing the camps end up ahead. Gladdened, for beyond the final line of firesides lay a silver carpet of open wild-grass touched only by moonlight, they were nearly there!
Rounding a large thicket of bush, in error, they strayed too close to the wood’s edge, veering back into the forest. Their passing however, caught the attentions of a sharp-eyed Dortian by the nearest fireside. Craggy and unusual, the indiscernible call was enough to get those at this end of the camp moving.
Entering with a mighty roar, a sudden flood of bodies came whooshing into the dark. Cracks and snaps of trampled bush flushed the shadowed arena into disarray. Unforgiving blades slashed and glinted, the fleeing five outmanoeuvring the assault. Hideous cries sent shivers down spines, Bane and Hanor struck dumb with fright. Convinced they were at death’s door, this seemed far worse than the Valley.
More swishing sounds from knives and slinging stones came whistling through the pitch. Hallen yelped, clutching his waist after being hit. Growling in a fit of rage, blood now seeping through his torn overcoat, he swerved towards a small group of Gorl’s charging from behind an oversized bush. Observing Kifter first, they did not see the Hite behind, the bush hiding his approach. Huge and foreboding when at full speed, his Kyboe smashed right into them. Flashing his sword to take down another two, a large Dort ran into his path to its ruin. Returning to the rear of the group when satisfied, the cut in Hallen’s side throbbed.
Breaking from the trees, a trail of growling figures swarmed out of the forest. Many continued to run, too engaged to realise their foe was going to escape. Those worthless cries echoed under the stars, the remaining moon uninterested by the happenings below. Sweeping down to their right, the tree line followed the undulation of the land, giving the five a clear headway on the upper plane. Up ahead, the river ran like a black groove, cutting across the terrain from the mountains to the trees. Coming up fast, they doubted their foe would continue the chase once across. Determined shrieks continued behind, fierce but hopeful. Not until that pursuing noise took on a different sound did the group grow suspicious. Glancing behind, the creatures were still baying for blood, the heinous noise heightening as if their group was running into a trap. Searching ahead, but only open grassland waited.
Reaching the river, Kifter halted. The water looked wider and deeper than he remembered.
“It is to be expected at this time of season, and is safe enough to cross,” Tarmon assured them, urging his Kyboe on, the water lapping at his boots.
Cries of glee kept coming, everyone following the Tardanian.
Urging his mount on, but Hanor’s Kyboe stalled, gawping up and down river as if a Bovern was ready to strike. Sympathising by patting its neck, he tried words of comfort, but it seemed to have little effect. Time was running out. The river was manageable for a Kyboe, the others bounding across. Panicking at being left stranded, when his Kyboe did move, by the time he reached the middle, the others were already exiting the river. Disbelieving the Dorts and Gorls were still coming, Hanor’s Kyboe faltered, pulling up as if terrified by an approaching danger.
A shiver juddered Hanor. Searching around, but nothing was there. About to push on, an unexpected whooshing rush of a breeze swirled, a flapping noise accompanying it.
“Hanor…!”
Hallen’s cry was drowned out by a sudden heart piercing shrill, arresting the boy from Manson where he sat. Recognising that terrible cry, terror paralysed him, his mind blurring with fear. That dreadful shriek echoed again into the vastness of night, Hanor realising what it was and where. Trembling, his poor Kyboe cowered, head bowed down, petrified eyes gawping skywards to what was there.
Another shriek above rendered the area cold like an icy dagger slaying the courage of any would-be defender. A flash of memory at Ags Ole splayed across Hanor’s vision. The Nyshifter that had desecrated the enclosure was here!
Shaken from weariness by its arrival, he dared to look to where it hovered, falling limp when discovering it was barely twenty hand-spans above. Four sets of dagger-like claws flexed, its long scrawny arms and legs preparing to strike. Spanning wider than his chest, each mighty claw could grip and shred