The Shadow of Dread: The Bladeborn Saga, Book Six, page 32
The others had taken blades of their own that day, both basket-hilt broadswords, honed and fierce. They scratched out into the still air, misting.
Jonik shared a look with his men, as he opened his spare hand, releasing the lead rope. The others did the same, untethering their horses.
“Ready?” Jonik asked.
Two nods.
“Go,” he said.
And they ran.
They did not care to mask their tread now, did not care to creep. Jonik took the lead, the others following, dashing through the trees to where the daylight shone down. At once there was a loud, deep roaring, splitting the air, carrying far. He could hear trees crashing behind them, branches snapping, claws tearing at the ground.
“Deadfall,” Jonik shouted, spying a fallen tree. He leapt right over it, a great high bound, landed and kept on going. The clearing was just ahead. He burst through into the open, the ground softening at once underfoot. Pools glistened beneath the sunlight, frogs croaking, hopping through mounds of sedge. Damn it. “It’s a marsh!”
The others came crashing through behind him, their heavy armour sinking, boots sucking at the mud. Jonik spun. Fighting in a swamp was folly, he knew, but they had no option now. The creature was approaching, a large shadow in the gloom of the forest. He swished his cloak over his shoulder, so it wouldn’t get in his way, taking a two-hand grip of his long bastard sword. Harden was struggling to pull a boot from the mud, Gerrin helping to free him. “Hurry up! It’s coming!”
“What is it?” Gerrin shouted.
Jonik studied their foe, glimpsed in flashes through the trees. A powerful upper body. Long hairy arms with retractible, ten-inch claws. Shorter legs, squat and strong. Its face was bear-like, though the snout was longer and thinner, and from its rear whipped a long, hairless, rat-like tail, all muscle. Thick fur covered the rest of its body, a dense protective coat. By then, Jonik knew.
“Drovava!” he yelled.
The creature crashed into the glade, upper body slung low, ursine face swinging side to side on a thick, muscular neck. A lather foamed at its mouth and its eyes, a glowing jet black, shark-like, were glistening with the promise of meat. Jonik stood before it, ten metres away, the others behind. “Are you free of the mud yet, Harden?” he called.
“Was. Now my other foot’s stuck. Who thought it was a good idea to fight in a bog?”
Jonik breathed out. “Gerrin, go left. Get behind it. It’s weaker at the rear. I’ll try to keep its attention.”
The creature was watching them, studying them as they were him. It was known to be smart, cunning, and vicious. The drovara liked to eat by tearing out its prey’s guts and feasting on them while the poor creature was still alive. They are known to enjoy places like this, Jonik knew. Dark forests, damp and dingy, where they could creep through the boles and the branches unseen. For such a big creature, it was a remarkably silent stalker.
“Watch the claws,” Gerrin warned. “It’s said they can slash through godsteel.”
“You’re kidding,” Harden groaned. “And you’re going to leave me here stuck in the mud?”
“Pull yourself out, then,” Jonik told him. “I’ll lead it away from you. That’ll give you time.”
He stepped to the side, crab-walking, glancing down to make sure he didn’t end up like the old sellsword. Mostly the earth was just spongy, but here and there were deep muddy puddles that could trap a man if he wasn’t careful. The drovara turned with him, though its tail seemed to look at Gerrin, as the old knight went the other way. It’s second brain, Jonik thought. That tail was an entity in itself, some said. Like dragons. Their tails were known to protect their rear as well, whipping and slashing.
Jonik shared a look with his old master. He gave a nod that said ‘now’, and they both rushed in together.
The drovara raised a paw and slashed, five lethal daggers swiping. Jonik parried with his blade, chipping off a chunk of claw, then swung down to try to de-limb the beast. The arm drew back in time, as Gerrin leapt behind, striking down with his broadsword to try to cut the creature’s spine. That tail had other ideas. With a muscular swing, it crashed into Gerrin’s breastplate, sending him tumbling back down into the marsh with a splash.
“Knew it wouldn’t be that easy,” the old knight grunted, standing back up, swamp-water dripping from his plate. He sounded a little winded. “Gods, this thing packs a punch.”
Jonik was already moving again, darting in, thrusting for the creature’s broad barrel chest. It sprung back, swiping defensively, claws raking along his pauldron with a burst of sparks.
So much for that rumour, Jonik thought. Men said that the King’s Wall could cut through godsteel plate in a single swing as well, though that was probably an exaggeration too. The drovara burst toward him, thrusting off powerful back legs, the mud of the marsh exploding around him, snapping with its elongated face. Jonik fended the claws again, slashed out at the neck. The creature fended with a paw, quicker than Jonik would have thought, snapping down again with his maw. Jonik side-stepped, swung, missed, cutting air as the drovara moved away. Gerrin came in behind, duelling the tail, which coiled and lashed out like a snake, whip-quick.
Harden was still pulling at his boot. There was a great sucking sound as it began to come loose.
Lather sprayed from the monster’s mouth, a stinking foam, thick and creamy. Jonik could smell the stench of death in it. He swung his blade, driving the creature back, taking another rake along his flank. More sparks. Thin scratches on the plate. The creature bellowed in rage. Jonik saw an opening, flew forward at speed, hacked down at the neck where it met the shoulder…
The edge of his longsword bit through the long fur, the flesh beneath, juddering into bone. The beast roared, rearing, thrashing away in an eruption of green-brown water. Sedge and swamp reeds flew about it as it twisted in a frenzy, blood spraying from the wound. Gerrin was coming in behind, leapfrogging the tail as it whipped at him. He hacked down through the meat, sending half the tail spinning away into the mud. Blood came gushing from the wound in a thick red spray.
Harden was free now too. He lurched forward, muddy up to the thighs on both legs, sword in his fist. They closed from three sides. The drovava’s eyes flitted from one to the other, judging this triple threat of foes. It took them all in, backing away, then snarled a final time…
…and turned to bolt away into the trees, blood spraying from its severed tail as it went.
“Yeah, you better bloody well run,” Harden shouted after it. “And you leave our horses alone, foul beast!”
Jonik watched it go, to be sure it would not come back. Then he wiped down Mother’s Mercy and returned it to its scabbard.
“Ought we chase it down?” Gerrin asked. “Track it to its lair? That severed tail’s not going to be enough to kill it, nor the cleaved shoulder. It’ll still haunt these woods for whoever passes next.”
Jonik gave a shake of the head. “We’re not monster hunters, Gerrin. It’s the Blades of Vandar we’re after, not his beasts.”
The old Emerald Guard shrugged. “As you say. We can pass on a warning at the next tavern or garrison we find. Tell them what’s lurking in here. We may not be monster hunters, but there are plenty of those sorts out there who’ll want a drovara’s head on his wall.” He wiped the blood from his blade on his cloak, then sheathed it. “Best go check on those horses. Might have bolted with all this noise.”
The man’s instincts turned out to be correct. They returned to where they’d left them to find all three horses gone. Jonik breathed out. It had been a poor decision to lead them through this wood, in hindsight. I should have listened to Gerrin. He’d warned against coming through here.
“Track them down and bring them back,” Jonik commanded. “They won’t have gotten far.”
It took an hour. Jonik’s steed, a handsome piebald palfrey that had once belonged to the royal stables, Lord Morwood had told him, was found nearby, drinking at a steam. Gerrin’s, a stroppy young stallion, had gone further. He was discovered in a thick tangle of brush, staring out at the old man with terrified eyes, ensnared among a drape of twisting vines. It took Gerrin a while to cut him loose and calm him, then lead him back.
The worst was Harden’s mare, though, who’d caught her leg on a hidden root and fallen. The leg was broken, and that meant one thing. “We’ll have to put her down,” Gerrin said. “It’s the kind thing to do.”
“I’ll do it,” Jonik told them, drawing his dagger. It was his duty, his fault. He loved horses, hated seeing them suffer, and knew Gerrin was right.
Harden had other ideas. “She was my mare, so I’ll do the killing. She’d want it to be me.”
Jonik could tell he wasn’t going to be dissuaded on that. He gave Harden a nod, and stepped away, returning to the other horses. Harden followed a few moments later, a grim look on his face and the content of his mare’s saddlebags heaped over his shoulder. “You’ll have to take these, lad. Your horse is the strongest.”
There was a bite to the old man’s voice. He too had suggested going through the woods was the wrong idea. The other option was a circuitous route through the hills, a much longer way, though open and in places tracked with dirt paths and wagon roads. This creepy old woodland was not large, but the going would be slow, Harden had said, especially with the horses. I should have listened, Jonik thought again.
“I’m sorry about your mare, Harden,” he said. “We’ll find you another horse at the next stables we pass.”
It was an empty promise. Horses capable of bearing full-armoured Bladeborn were hard to come by. Harden only nodded, choosing not to get into an argument. The gods knew they had enough of those over their long months up in the Shadowfort, bickering over the fate of the boys.
“The light is fading,” Gerrin said, looking up through the twisting canopy. “Best we be gone from this wood by the time dusk falls. I’d rather not sleep here if we can avoid it.”
The gloaming was upon them by the time they escaped the last of the trees, moving out onto the top of the hillside that gave views across open plains, fields and thickets that clothed this part of Southern Tukor. Jonik breathed in the clear cold air, a long deep draught to freshen his lungs. Far away to the south, the faint shadow of the twin statues of Tukor’s Pass could be seen on the horizon, marking the border with Vandar, still long leagues away. Three hundred metres high those statues soared, cloaked in mist and myth. At their base, Jonik spied a soft blur of light, saw tiny little fingers of smoke swirling and twisting up from the Valley of the Gods.
“Do you think we’ll have trouble crossing?” Jonik asked.
Gerrin didn’t think so. “You have the royal seal,” he said. “They won’t deny us.”
Jonik was not sure how much power words held in these times, nor wax seals for that matter, bearing the princess’s mark or not. But he nodded, hoping Gerrin was right.
The stars were coming out, cold and distant, the moon veiled behind a silken cloud. There was a chill in the air that felt odd for this time of year. Jonik drew his cloak about himself, then climbed into the saddle of his horse. Gerrin did the same with his young stallion. Harden did not move an inch.
“I’m not riding double with you, Gerrin,” the gaunt old sellsword grunted. “I’ll walk till we find me a horse.”
That would slow them even more, but what could Jonik say? He swung his leg over the saddle, dropping to the floor. “Take mine, Harden. I’m young enough to be your grandson. I’ll walk.”
“Aye.” The Ironmoorer nodded his thanks and mounted up. “Don’t worry, lad. We’ll find you a horse at the next stables we pass.” He gave Jonik a grin from up there, tapped his spurs and trotted on.
They wended a route down the hillside, the hooves of the horses silenced by the soft grasses that draped its slope. They grew up to Jonik’s knees here, swaying in the breeze, crickets and critters moving and buzzing between the stalks. Tiny fireflies awoke from their slumber, dancing in their shades of green and blue. It was pretty, peaceful. Further off, a farm track cut through a copse of trees, and beyond them Jonik saw a roadside inn, with a puffing chimney, and the glow of fire behind the windows.
“We should stop there,” Gerrin said. “Ask some questions.” He knew the inn, it turned out. “It’s called the Crabby Onion. Silly name, I know, but there’s a story behind it.” He waited for someone to ask. When no one did, he told it anyway.
Jonik was only half listening. They grew onions here, apparently, and once before there was a grouchy old onion farmer the local people called ‘Crabby’ for his regular foul moods. When he died - of a heart attack, it was said, brought on by one of those fearsome moods of his - his wife sold the farm and built the tavern instead, naming it in his honour.
“One of his great-grandkids still runs the place,” Gerrin finished. “Guy called Burt and his wife Betty. Leastways that was the case when last I came here.”
“And when was that?” Jonik asked him.
The old knight gave a shrug. “Few years, I suppose it must be. Come, let’s see if they’re still around.”
The inn was sat alone in a field beside the road, the crops gone to rot around them. There was an unpleasant scent of decay in the air, of withered plants and death. Not far from the inn, Jonik saw the cause; a great hulking bull lay on its side, its belly opened up, innards eaten out. Crows covered the carcass like flies, screaming and flapping away as they neared, then landing as soon as they’d gone by, resuming the feast.
“The bull died recently,” Gerrin said. “Looks like the work of our tail-less friend.”
Jonik nodded.
The inn was two hundred metres further on. Outside, there was a stable occupied by a pair of malnourished horses. One stared at them, blind in one eye; the other was turned away, looking at the wall, scratching at the ground with a hoof and swishing its mane. There was a cat, too, which startled at seeing them and scrambled away into the shadows. A dog sat tied up outside a stinking outhouse, a large mastiff, with nary the energy to even bark. He looked thin too, beaten and bedraggled.
“Which one of those horses do you want then, lad?” Harden japed. “The mad one or the blind one?”
Jonik ignored him. Something didn’t feel right. He walked up to the mastiff, scratching the big dog beneath the chin. “Not much of a guard dog are you, boy?” He looked over at the inn, frowning. He could hear voices in there, the clutter of cups, drunken chatter, laughing. The others dismounted their steeds, tying them to a post, and stepped over to join him.
“Do you know this dog, Harden?”
The old knight nodded. “I do.” He reached down and stroked his head with a gloved hand. The dog cowered at his touch.
“Someone’s been mistreating him,” Jonik said.
“Not Burt and Betty. They love this dog.”
“And those horses?”
Gerrin looked over. A few spots of rain were starting to fall, pattering gently against their cloaks. “They always kept a couple of them for getting about. Those two haven’t been fed in a while, though.”
Harden stepped over from the inn. He’d been peeking through the frosted window, getting a look inside. “There are eight men in there. All at one big table. Didn’t see anyone else.”
“No one behind the bar?”
“Not that I saw.”
Jonik stepped toward the door to the inn, moving beneath the covered awning. A pair of chains rattled above him, chains that would once have borne the inn’s swinging sign, which now lay aside in the mud, its painted image of a grumpy old man with an onion in his mouth cracked and broken. There were flower pots in little alcoves to either side of the door. Those too had been smashed, the flowers scattered and dead.
Jonik was sensing the worst. He raised a fist and rapped hard at the door.
The voices inside hushed. A short pause, and then he heard the sound of boots stamping over, a heavy thud of steel on wood. The door was unbolted, one and two and three of them, then opened up, a wash of firelight pouring out, the scent of smoke and spices, piss and rum and mead and roasted meat. A man in a coat of godsteel ringmail stood before him, framed by the glow, a large man with a large beard, a thick black tangle of iron wire sprouting from his cheeks and chin. He wore steel about his legs as well, and a half helm on his head in the likeness of a stag, with a pair of antlers twisting off to left and right. There was a scratch beneath his right eye, and his nose was hardly recognisable as a nose anymore, a great lumpen thing that had probably been broken a dozen times before.
He gave Jonik an appraising look, then did the same to Gerrin and Harden, standing behind in cloaks and cowls. The rain was falling harder.
“What do you want?” the big man grunted. “Got no food here for you, no beds to sleep in neither. If you’re looking for ale, you can piss off. That’s ours, and running low.”
“We’re not looking for ale,” Jonik said.
“What then?”
“Information.”
The man gave Jonik another long look, all the way up and down. “The inn is full, boy,” he said. “Now off my porch if you know what’s good for you.” He went to slam the door.
Jonik slid his foot forward, stopping him. “This isn’t your porch. Where are Burt and Betty?”
The man sneered down at Jonik’s foot. “Who?”
“They’re the proprietors of this inn,” Gerrin said, behind. “Old friends of mine.” He gripped the handle of his blade. “Where are they?”
“I’m damned if I know.”
He’s lying, Jonik thought. These men are deserters, or worse. He looked through the gap, saw another seven of them sitting about a pair of tables dragged together, all in bits of armour and mail, boiled leather and wool. There were jugs and flagons, pewter cups scattered about, some overturned, ale stains and wine stains and rum stains on the wood. He saw trenchers of carved bread, soaked in soup and stew. At the hearth fire, some meat was being roasted by another man sitting on a stool, and he saw two others appearing from a stair at the back, swelling their numbers to eleven. But no Burt, no Betty. They’re dead, Jonik thought.
