The Sword of Darrow (17 page)

W
hoooowhip! Whoooowhip! Whoooowhip!

The snake owl cried from a nearby tree. And when a dozen species followed, their voices formed a dark overture that spoke of events to come.

Three weeks ago, Darrow and his band had arrived at Quinderfill’s cabin. And on this morning, they sat on the dirt floor to consider the enormous challenge ahead.

Three weeks of rest, food, and exercise had made new men of Hugga Hugga and Timwee. Timwee’s shoulder had almost healed. Hugga Hugga now walked with firm, steady steps. Naark was as strong as ever and aided the group by taking on all the heavy tasks around the cabin. In the meantime, Darrow had made daily hikes to the edge of the forest to plan their first attack. Now he explained his plan.

“Each day, about an hour before sundown, a goblin wagon enters the forest bringing supplies to the fort. The same driver, the same guard at his side. Both are armed with swords. Sometimes, there is a passenger or two but mostly just the driver and a guard.”

Hugga Hugga motioned with his hands and Timwee interpreted.

“What about the patrols? How often do the horsemen or foot soldiers go by?”

“Usually once or twice a day, mostly in the mornings. But these soldiers do not travel with the wagon.”

Hugga Hugga and Timwee nodded. Naark still eyed the window, giving the conversation not the slightest thought.

“Is there a hiding place near the road?” Timwee asked.

“Near the bridge that crosses over Frenngravel Creek. We’ll have cover about a hundred feet away.”

Hugga Hugga spoke frantically with his hands. “Can we block the bridge? Are there logs?”

“Better. There are large stones in the creek.”

“So we block the road with stones and charge when the wagon stops,” Timwee surmised. “Hugga Hugga will take the driver. I can take the guard. Darrow, you and Naark empty the wagon.”

“No,” said Darrow firmly. “I will take the driver.”

The two old warriors exchanged nervous glances.

“But the driver . . .” Timwee began.

“I have been practicing for two weeks,” Darrow interrupted. “A sword is just a piece of metal. I will take the driver.”

The afternoon shadows stretched along the ground. It had rained early in the day and the water in the creek flowed high under the bridge. Darrow looked down the road. They were late. Perhaps the wagon had already passed.

Darrow inspected the road. “No fresh tracks. Let’s move!”

Hugga Hugga was the first into the creek, lifting a small boulder and carrying it to the road. The rocks were heavy and only Naark was strong enough to lift a large one from the ground. The others carried smaller rocks and rolled them up the high banks. Darrow looked nervously down the road.

Suddenly, Naark shouted, “The supply wagon!”

The four warriors raced to their hiding place.

From behind the bushes, Darrow looked out at the road. Their stack of stones barely covered one side. So pitiful was the pile that the driver noticed nothing at all. The single guard slept in his seat.

A loud battle cry rang in the air.

Darrow turned to see Naark charging from the woods, far too early, waving a wooden club.

The driver’s reflexes were quick. In a split second, he cracked a strong whip over his horses and charged the bridge. When he spotted the stones ahead, he veered hard to avoid them, and came careening back onto the road. Unfortunately, his wheel struck the pile and the left side of the wagon rose in the air, landed on its side, and went skidding across the bridge. The contents spilled out directly into Frenngravel Creek. The panicked horses strained against their harnesses, unable to move the wagon. Seeing the group charge from the woods, the guard bolted for the woods. Hugga Hugga gave chase. Darrow approached the driver, holding the fellowship’s only sword. The driver did not run.

The driver was a small man, no taller than Darrow, but with a broad back and strong arms. His face was marked with scars and crevices that spoke of experience in battle. Facing Darrow, he drew his sword and waved it with a confident flourish.

Darrow did not wait; he lunged forward, swinging his weapon in a broad looping stroke that missed its target and sent Darrow stumbling to the ground. He looked up. The goblin stood above him, grinning widely, his sword falling like a hammer toward Darrow’s head. Darrow rolled to the side with less than a second to spare.

Springing to his feet, Darrow faced his foe. Both swung their swords, but Darrow’s stroke was weaker. Helplessly, he watched his sword fly from his hands.

Again, the driver smiled and reared back to strike the finishing blow. Darrow was backed against the wagon with nowhere to move. Barely a minute into his first battle, he faced death a second time. The goblin turned to bring the sword with full force against his target. Darrow closed his eyes.

But before the weapon could make contact, the goblin’s head jolted forward and his body went limp. The sword fell wide of his mark, dropping from the driver’s hands.

Darrow looked down. The goblin lay motionless at his feet. His skull was crushed like an eggshell; a rock as large as the goblin’s own head lay to the side. Darrow looked up to see Naark, his fist in the air, issuing a cry of triumph. Once again, Naark’s powerful right arm had saved the day.

Darrow looked at Timwee, who was standing waist-deep in the middle of the creek, trying to salvage something from the wagonload. He looked up at Darrow.

“One knife. An axe. A short sword.”

Hugga Hugga returned from across the field, frantically waving his hands. Far behind him, Darrow saw a party of ten goblins on horseback.

“Run!” he cried as he grabbed the driver’s sword and fled. The four of them scrambled through the forest through brush and briars where they knew no horse could follow. After an hour, they stopped to listen. There was no sound of pursuit.

T
he water gurgled softly in the stream. At either side, the four warriors made not a sound. For four hours, they had moved through the forest, putting distance between themselves and any goblins that might be in pursuit.

Now, night had fallen. Sure that they were safe, they lay exhausted in odd poses across the ground.

The stream was an hour’s walk from Quinderfill’s cabin, at least in the daytime. In the darkness, their return would be a blind man’s journey of groping for landmarks they could not see. Bedding down for the night was out of the question. Nearby lay the wretched bogs from which the griesonauts roamed, and no corner of the forest was safe from bat spiders and their silent strikes.

Darrow looked in the direction of the cabin. Above the stream was a clearing, lit bright by a full moon in a cloudless night. Fortune had smiled on his band. Maybe the journey back would not be so bad.

Darrow rose and dusted his pants while his band lay motionless on the ground. A noise broke the silence.

Dogs.

It began with one bark, not far away, but others followed and within seconds the howling, snarling, and yelping of bloodhounds came ringing through the trees.

“Up! Up! The goblins are closing in!” Darrow implored in a voice strong but soft, fearing that shouting might alert the dogs to their position. But sleep masks all danger and Darrow was forced to shake his comrades one by one to get them on their feet. And when they finally stood, the barks and howls ringing in their ears, Darrow pointed to the clearing where a fallen tree offered the only defensible barrier.

Frantically, they charged across the clearing. As they approached the tree, they could hear the dogs, quieter now, sure in their pursuit, running close behind. As they reached the barricade, they turned to greet their foe. A dozen dogs entered the clearing and the sight of the men launched a new eruption of their wretched noise.

“Get ready,” Darrow shouted, lifting his sword.

But just as the hounds approached, Naark issued a blood-curdling cry. For a moment, the dogs froze in their tracks. Suddenly, the troll lumbered forward to face the dogs, clutching a log as long as he was tall.

The first wave of hounds leaped upward, biting at Naark. He swung his makeshift club, filling the air with flying, screaming dogs. The others reeled and scattered to a safe distance.

A pair of dogs stepped forward, feigning attack. Naark swung his log. They scurried back. Three more dogs circled to the back, nipping at his heels.

“Get back here,” Darrow screamed. But his order was too late. Naark was surrounded.

From behind, a sharp cracking noise filled the air and Darrow turned to see Hugga Hugga pounding his axe against a large tree.

“What are you doing?” he cried, but the Minotaur continued his axe strokes against the tree.

Meanwhile, Naark wheeled and swung at the dogs behind him. At the other side, dogs charged his back. He turned in a circle, shaking his log. As he turned, more dogs attacked. Naark’s eyes widened. His hands shook. His swings became bigger, more desperate. Sensing their victory, the beasts grew increasingly bold.

Darrow rose to come to Naark’s rescue, but Timwee pulled him back, shaking his head.

As the first few goblins appeared in the clearing, Hugga Hugga scrambled back to the barrier, but for Naark there was no return. He charged forward, dogs now hanging from his sides. He lifted his mighty club and swung with all the great power of his body. A great screech arose as the goblin stepped back. Now Naark’s opponents were too many. Dogs and goblins charged at once. Darrow turned from the scene, unable to watch. When he looked again, Naark was dead.

Darrow turned to his side to discover that Hugga Hugga was once again gone. Then he heard the axe strike one more time.

A sharp cracking noise rang through the clearing. A giant pine was falling, right into the mob of goblins and dogs. The goblins scattered, but for some it was too late. When ten thousand pounds of pine tree struck the earth, seven goblins were crushed beneath it.

Now the dogs leaped onto the barrier. Timwee and Hugga slew two of them with sword and axe. Again, the dogs retreated.

Darrow counted. Seven. Eight. Ten. And then two more. There were still twelve goblins that he could see.

Darrow considered his situation. There was no hope of victory. What mattered now was how he would die. And he was determined that, in his final moments, he would take as many goblins as possible with him.

Realizing their victory was certain, the goblins took their time to regroup. An officer signaled with his hands, directing the remaining soldiers to the edge of the fallen tree. Clumsily, they stepped through the branches to form a line.

The officer raised his sword and shouted the order. The twelve goblins bolted forward, swords held high, screeching their battle cry.

Darrow tightened his grip, his body tense, eager for the attack.

At the barrier, Darrow attacked, but a goblin blocked his stroke. Again he swung, but this time he lost his balance and found himself on the ground. He cursed himself with the worst words he knew, lying on his back, unable, even at his death, to damage his foe.

Meanwhile, Hugga Hugga, holding the axe, took a broad swing at the first wave of goblins. Darrow looked up at Timwee dodging weapons from every side.

Fire in his eyes, one goblin lifted his long, curved scimitar high into the air, prepared to claim Darrow as his prize. But just as the goblin sword quivered above him, ready to fall, another sword appeared, slashing across the air and cutting the sword and the hand that gripped it from the goblin’s arm. Darrow looked up. What he saw made him shudder. It was a face so hideous that he covered his eyes.

Towering above the goblin line stood a monster with the large shoulders and arms of a man but covered with a hard outer shell. Half man, half scorpion, this creature fought like no creature Darrow had ever imagined. Simultaneously swinging his gigantic sword and his darting tail, the scorpion man cut down three goblins at the edge of the line.

The goblins wanted none of this battle. At the monster’s first appearance, one cried out, “Scorpion man!” and the others turned to run. Even the dogs fled. Soon the only sound that remained was the crash of panicked feet against the forest floor.

Timwee cried out, “Scodo!”

Hugga Hugga opened his arms to embrace him, and Timwee leaped forward, offering his hand. But Scodo gave only a nod of recognition and slipped quickly back in to the forest. But just as he left the clearing, he stopped and turned again to face the three surviving warriors.

“Bless you, my friends,” Scodo said softly.

Then he was gone.

“Who was that?” Darrow asked, bewildered.

Timwee answered, “The finest warrior Sonnencrest has ever known.”

Then the three warriors, heartbroken and weary, buried their friend Naark and hiked back to Quinderfill’s cabin.