Greyfax Grimwald (37 page)

“What demon has you, sir?” cried Cranfallow, rushing to the little man’s ride. Ned was dragged struggling away by the terrified horses. Broco removed a pointed-toed shoe and stood hopping about on one foot to try to dislodge the icy finger that trickled slowly down his leg, then out.

“I’m soaked and frozen, you ass, and almost trummled to my end by those infernal beasts, and now you stand there asking what’s amiss?” sputtered Dwarf, drawing a quick gasp of breath as the freezing wet cloak fell solidly against his back.

“I thoughts you was attacked by some enemy, sir,” apologized Cranfallow, laying his rifle aside and trying to help Dwarf stand while he replaced his soggy boot.

Where has that ninny Ned gotten off to? Are we left afoot?” glowered Dwarf. “Well, don’t stand there with your jaw in your shoes, do something. Start a fire, or find me dry clothing.”

“Yes sir, yes sir,” moaned Cranfallow, sure of his horrible doom at the hands of the dwarf witch. “But I don’t thinks we should tarry here to builds our fire, I don’t. We’s only gone a few leagues or so, so we’d best waits to warm you out at the next settlement, sir, if that’s not too much my saying.”

Ned returned with the snoring horses.

“What’s been at us, Cranny?” he asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Nothing’s been at us but your lame-headed friend here,” grumped Dwarf. “Now help me back up on that beast and let’s find a fire to dry me.”

“Yes sir,” said Cranfallow, and they helped Dwarf back onto the high back of the near horse. Feeling weight again, and still shying, the animal broke away at a fast gallop, the flying figure of Broco clinging madly to the beast’s mane and neck, shrieking horrible dwarfish oaths that scalded the ears of Cranfallow and Ned Thinvoice.

The horse’s crazed flight was taking Dwarf back exactly in the direction they had come, and for an hour or more since dark, the three companions had heard, and seen, the heavy battle lighting up the dark fields behind them.

“Ride after him, Cranny, or he’s done for sure,” wailed Ned.

Cranfallow, terrified of being caught up in a battle, but more afraid of what would come upon him from the dwarf witch’s anger, mounted quickly and spurred his horse after the wildly galloping Dwarf.

Broco’s mount grew more crazed still, hearing the Dwarf’s frightened oaths and feeling the terror-gripped hands upon his neck and the bouncing weight on his back. Nostrils flared, eyes starting, he put on more speed to throw off this thing upon him, and the two, horse and Dwarf, raced onward toward the evil, red-glowing darkness before them.

Cranfallow, not much of a rider, but desperate now, finally began overtaking the runaway, and just at the moment he was reaching an outstretched hand over to grasp the bridle of the fear-crazed animal that bore Dwarf, his own mount stumbled over the sprawling corpse of a fallen horse directly in the middle of the road. As his horse struggled to keep his feet, Dwarf’s mount reared once, shuddered, and snorted a long, blowing, rushing breath, and stood frozen. Cranfallow kept his seat by releasing the reins and clutching blindly at the horse’s neck. After a few more stumbling near falls, the horse regained his footing, and standing at rest, quivered, lowered his head, and shook his mane.

Cranfallow dismounted, and leading the tired beast, rushed to where Dwarf still clung wildly to the runaway’s neck.

“Is you all right, sir? No bones broken?” Cranfallow reached up a hand to help Broco dismount.

The ugly, mean click of a safety being let off startled Cranfallow into looking down into the ditch near his feet, only a few paces away from the corpse of the dead animal.

“Who’s there?” snapped Cranfallow, peering into the dark confines of the ditch.

“I might ask you the same,” gasped a thick voice. “Before I blow your black life back to where it came from.” An unsteady, reeling shadow rose from the edge of the ditch. “But I’ll take the use of one of your mounts first,” it croaked, and the stumbling shadow figure approached nearer.

“Quickspur,” said Dwarf and Cranfallow in chorus.

“What’s happened, man, what hurt have you taken? It’s Broco who’s found you.”

“Master Dwarf,” gasped Quickspur. “You’ve come too late, I fear, for my wound bleeds badly, but at least I’ll die in the presence of friends, instead of at the hands of those .cowardly dogs.” The man, gravely wounded by a bullet through his ribs, collapsed before the two.

“What’s happened, sir?” asked Dwarf, trying to cushion the man’s head with his soaked cloak.

“They laid for us in ambush, and Cinch was slain before he could escape. All the others taken too. The filth,” he gasped, coughing. “But you must fly,” he said, opening his eyes again. “Leave me, and save yourselves. They can’t be too far behind. I would have been gone clean, hut the first volley got my mount, and he only could run this far before he died.”

“Quickly, Cranfallow, help me get him to the horse,” said Dwarf, and the two men placed Quickspur upon the runaway.

“Is you strong enough to sits, sir?” asked Cranfallow.

“I was born to saddle, so I just as easily may die in one,” gasped Quickspur. “But you should leave me, now. I’ll only slow your escape.”

“Nonsense, old fellow,” broke in Dwarf. “We’ll have you away from here in no time at all.”

Cranfallow mounted and Dwarf jumped up behind him, holding the reins of the horse that Quickspur was upon. Riding slowly away in this fashion, to keep from jostling the wounded man, they at last made their way back to Thinvoice, who was crouched low behind the shelter of the willow tree.

“Ned,” Cranfallow called. “Is you there?”

“I thought the bloody bunch had you for sure,” he said, coming out upon the road. He stopped short; seeing the slumped figure of Quickspur riding behind.

“Who in bloody blazes is that?” he asked, approaching the injured man.

“Sergeant Quickspur,” said Dwarf, tumbling down from behind Cranfallow. “We found him wounded on the road back there. His friend and he were set upon from ambush, and Cinch and the others slain or taken.”

Quickspur lay unconscious upon the saddle.

“We must get aid, and quickly,” said Dwarf. “How far is it until we reach the next settlement, Ned?”

“A two-hour ride, if we was hurrying.” Looking up at the wounded man, he went on. “Four, if we has to go easy.”

“Then you mount and hold him, Ned, and I shall go on behind Cranfallow. We’d best be off now, if we’ve so far to go. I fear he has a grievous hurt.” Dwarf struggled up to his perch once more. “Don’t spare me, my good Cranfallow. Go as quickly as you can. I take no pleasure in this battering you give me, but we must make all haste.”

“We’ll has him there safe, just you wait, sir,” said Cranfallow, relieved that the dwarf’s anger was turned by the discovery and rescue of the wounded Quickspur.

Occasional groans from Quickspur told them he yet lived, and the miles ran on until Broco thought they would never reach their end, but at last, after a time he could not count, they neared the crest of a rolling low hill and looked down on the other side at the distant glow sent up by a great army camp around a small village. He made out the outlines of many tents by the fires that burned about them, and hoping it was the camp Quickspur had been making for, the four wound away downward toward the flickering fires.

Soon a challenge was given, and after advancing so they could be seen, the four were passed on, and after another mile’s ride were in the teeming heart of the war camp. A sentry directed them to the hospital tent, where medical orderlies helped to take the unconscious Quickspur inside to a well-lighted, clean operating room.

“Will he be all right?” asked Dwarf anxiously of the grim-faced doctor that had gone in to examine him.

“Your friend is still unconscious, and has lost much blood. He was lucky, in a way, though, for the bullet passed through clean. He’s a strong fellow. He has an even chance of recovery.”

The doctor walked quickly away, leaving Dwarf pacing about in front of the tent.

“Gribbit,” muttered Dwarf. “Ask a simple thing like is it day or night, and all you get is, ‘well, perhaps,’ or ‘that’s still a question.’“

“He’s a big one,” said Ned, trying to reassure Dwarf. “He’s as stout as an oak, and it would takes more than whats
they
could do to him to slay him.”

“We’ll makes for the inn in the village, and gets our supper, and you dried off, sir, and come again in the morning. We won’t be able to learns anything tonight if the fellow you just spoke with is any sign of whats they’re like.”

Dwarf paced a moment more, halting to look at the closed flap a moment, trying to see inside to where his friend lay.

“He’s shown us great kindness, this fellow, and I shall long lament it if we can do nothing for him.”

“You has done bravely, sir,” said Ned. “Why, we carried him all this way for help. If them what’s in the white coats can’t mend him, no power in heaven could.”

“I guess you’re right, Ned.” Dwarf looked around at his two companions. “And I’ve forgotten my two loyal friends are hungry and cold and tired, too. Food and sleep is the aid we need, if we’re going to be of any further use to our friend in there.”

Dwarf mounted once more behind Cranfallow and Ned followed wearily behind, and saddened and afraid for their wounded friend, the three made their way slowly to the small inn that bordered the camp’s edge and was the single structure in that dark village that still showed lights in its windows, a warm and welcome sight to the three travelers.

From the sentry that guarded the checkpoint on the road to town, they had learned of the looming battle, and that dread phantom of thought hung heavily over the pleasures of fire and food and a warm, dry change of clothes.

“T
his indeed, my friends, is a dark tide running. My army is split upon two fronts, and the enemy has fresh troops to throw up for battle. I little doubt they are guided by the foul hand of the dark lieutenant. I mention not his name for his nearness is everywhere.” Mithramuse spoke clearly, without emotion, as if he were quietly away in a study, gazing at stars. “Still, I shall be able to do something to check the assault, although I am far too weak to hold long, alone. If the aid I have summoned reaches us in time, we may hold. If not ...” The old gray-cloaked figure stooped.

“What aid might that be, sir?” asked Flewingam. “I know of no other armies closer than a day’s march. By then, all they shall find is our charred bones.”

“I speak of a much swifter army, my good fellow. One you would perhaps find most startling.”

“You mean witchcraft,” said Flewingam, looking steadily into the wizard’s eyes.

The old man looked to Otter, who sat blushing to his ears, then back to Flewingam.

“Yes,” Mithramuse laughed, the clear gray eyes twinkling from unfathomable depths, “witchcraft, although it is called by another name.”

“My two companions gave me a brief display of their powers earlier,” explained Flewingam, his desire to see more of the wizard’s work growing.

“Ah yes, that. A simple device known to all of lesser powers. Mere child’s play when you know what you’re about.”

A great roar filled the air with hideous screams, and the heavy rattle of many firearms exploded through the night.

“Whatever you have in mind, sir,” broke in Otter, “I fear it must be quick. The battle closes nearer.”

“Yes, my little friend, too near, it seems. We must set to our work.” Mithramuse moved from behind the desk, once more in the guise of Greymouse, general of the army. “Olther, and you, stout Bruinlth, and you, my faithful Flewingam, shall serve as my personal guard. If all looks as grave as it sounds, I pray you serve me well.”

“To the end of the worlds, and farther,” said Flewingam, bowing.

“Greymouse, Greymouse,” chorused Bear and Otter, raising the clumsy firearms.

“Then let’s set our plan to action,” said Mithramuse, and the four men went out into the red-glowing darkness, toward the advancing lines of the black-covered enemy. Running soldiers hurried about, shouting orders and curses, and a mud-splattered, exhausted captain passed closely by Mithramuse and his three guards.

“Sir,” cried the captain, “we’re hard pressed at the perimeter. I’ve sent for a battery of cannons to use, but they take too long. We may have to give up the line and retreat farther back to hold them.”

“Very good, sir. Then carry on. Help is coming.” Greymouse touched the weary man’s shoulder. “Stout heart and steady hand, Captain. We must not fall.”

“The men are so tired, sir. They’ve fought all day, and have had no sleep. The villains have us to advantage there.”

“Fight on, sir. We shall do what we can.” General Greymouse smiled grimly at the man, and the captain saluted smartly and was gone, swallowed up in the throngs of soldiers hastily deploying to strengthen the faltering defenders of the outer perimeter.

Great; low clouds skidded over the mountains, and a storm announced its approach with a renewed icy wind. Mithramuse looked long at the ugly grayish undersides of the clouds as they caught and reflected the glow of the battle fires below.

“It looks not of nature to me,” he said aloud, and repeating a quick rhyme in stanzas of three, a single, swift-flying shadow of pale, shimmering fire shot upward from the wizard’s hand. As it neared the cloud, it grew, and soon covered the entire sky above where the armies of General Greymouse battled for their lives. As the shadow light reached a great height, it burst into a brilliant pale blue shower of arrows, raining down among the enemy like a deadly torrent of screaming, fiery hailstones. A great wail went up among the Worlugh ranks, and many fell back, dropping their weapons and cowering before this sheet of bluish terror. The defenders, equally amazed and terrified, soon took the advantage to fight forward a few moments, but soon the sky darkened once more, and a fresh wave of enemy flowed over the field, sweeping their comrades in front back into the fray, and they joined battle once more, howling fiercely. The thinning line of defense crumbled, fell back, and regrouped, held, then fell back again. The fighting grew heavier upon the enemy hill to the front, and soon they, too, advanced down the slopes, eyes blazing, and shrieking over the volleys of rifle fire. The siege troops, now the besieged, staunched the tide after a time, but their supplies were low and their relief as sorely pressed as they, so no aid came, and they began slowly retreating back toward the inner defenses of their camp.