The Forgotten War (163 page)

But the rider did not stop. Vorfgan’s man or no, he spurred his horse on straight to the manor house, kicking up dust in his wake.

‘Damn him, I’ll have him flogged for his impertinence!’ Vorfgan’s temper almost got the better of him as he watched the man disappear. Then he felt Einar’s arm on
his shoulder and turned back to the road into the town.

The other two horsemen were equidistant from the crest of the hill and town gates when something rose high into the sky from under the hill line. Thirty feet tall at least, a serpent with wings
and claws and the face of a lizard with a mouth full of jagged yellow teeth. It saw the horses and the soldiers inside the town and shrieked, a keening, discordant sound that made everybody stop up
their ears. Another of the beasts followed behind it. The two of them looked at each other, even hissed at each other before flying towards the horses at a murderous speed.

They took a horseman each, snapping their steeds in colossal vicelike jaws before tossing them casually into the air. They could hear the screams of both man and horse as they plummeted back
down to the ground. Einar heard the sickening, bone-crunching thuds as they landed, and then both man and horse were lost to view as the creatures pounced on them, rending flesh and splintering
bone as they fed. They were messy eaters; gore soon pooled around their great clawed feet and their narrow, arrow-shaped heads were bathed in crimson. Einar watched fascinated, as everyone around
him wailed in terror, fleeing for the sanctuary of the manor house. He looked at the walls they were building, a more ineffectual defence he could not envisage. Then more of the great winged
monstrosities hove into view, making directly for the town and its people.

Vorfgan had not moved either. He seemed equally entranced by the horrible spectacle and perhaps at last the extent of his folly was being laid bare before him. It was Einar who came to his
senses first.

‘Vorfgan! The manor house. Now!’

Einar turned and ran, expecting to hear the great beating of wings behind him at any second. He made it to the house gates, and the courtyard. The door was barely ajar and men were inside it,
calling him. If he made it, he would be the last to do so.

Bursting his lungs, he put on one last terrific spurt. The monsters were close; he could hear them screeching, a deafening, blood-freezing sound. He gained the door. Just before he slipped
inside, so the door could be closed and barred, he looked behind him. Several of the beasts were hovering over the town, squawking and snapping at each other. More still were bearing down on the
manor house; they would be in the courtyard within seconds. And then he saw Vorfgan. The man had not run as he had; instead, he appeared to have found a horse. The time it took for him to mount it,
though, had cost him, there was no way he could get to the manor house now without being devoured. Instead, he saw him ride into a side street. Einar knew that it had a road that soon became little
more than a dirt track which led southward, joining on to the main rode to old Thudig’s lands. A great lizard was pursuing him, two in fact. Einar ducked inside the house, hearing the great
wooden cross piece being slammed shut to bar it. Vorfgan was on his own.

Within seconds those people sheltering in the great hall had been forced to flee again, as one of the windows shattered. A great lizard head reached through it, grabbed some poor hapless man and
was gone in a trice. It was time to flee again. And so that night was spent underground in the servants’ quarters. People huddled together in terror. The ancient priest, Sidden, gave a
service and did his best to comfort those he could. But the monsters were prowling. Their cries could be heard from the courtyard, or the manor house roof, on which some of them seemed to be
perched. Einar gathered the soldiers together, told them to protect the civilians and reassured them that these beasts could not dig through solid rock, though how he knew this, fortunately no one
asked him.

That was yesterday. And now here he was, back in the great hall where he had spent many an hour with Wulfthram, drinking, talking, planning, carousing. Only the one window had
been shattered. As Einar suspected, the beasts were too large and ungainly to clamber through. It was fortunate indeed that they did not have forearms like true dragons were supposed to. As he
walked slowly over the floor, crunching glass under his great boots, he heard someone enter the room behind him. It was old skullface himself, Baron Rosk.

‘Why are you here?’ Rosk asked. A simple enough question but one he could not fully answer.

‘I have hazarded a look outside,’ Einar said. ‘It is strange. They are in the courtyard, on the roof, but they are leaving the town alone. Why is that do you wonder?’

As he finished speaking, something crashed on to the ground outside, smashing into pieces. Rosk flinched. Einar remained unmoved.

‘The roof tiles – they are pulling them off one by one; they could be in here very soon.’

‘Then let us return to the servants’ quarters and quickly! You are needed there, Einar, not up here. I doubt you can persuade those ... things to join your cause as you did
me.’

Einar nodded and walked over to the other man. ‘No one knows that I turned you, not even your own men.’ He put his hand on Rosk’s shoulder.

‘When the southerners finally come here, tell them nothing of our former conversation. You are still the Grand Duke’s man, imprisoned by the filthy rebels – remember that. Do
that and there will be no reprisals against you.’

Rosk’s relief was audible. ‘And will you not tell them?’

Einar laughed as another tile smashed on to the floor outside. A shaft of light shone on to the great dining table in the gloom. A hole had appeared in the roof. They were almost through.

‘Back to the servants’ quarters, Rosk. These creatures are a punishment from the Gods. If they are given what they want, perhaps even now they may leave others unmolested.
Go!’

Rosk beheld the other man’s face and saw the resignation in his eyes. He slowly shook his head and then, without another word, he turned and ran back down the corridor, leaving Einar
alone.

Einar shut his eyes for a moment. Another tile fell and the shaft of light broadened. A great red eye appeared through the gap in the roof. The monsters started to screech in excitement.

As with the halls in many such great dwellings, the walls displayed a great variety of shields and weapons, the Baron displaying the coats of arms of those loyal to him. Einar walked over to
them. Under his own great red shield emblazoned with a black boar were two great crossed axes. In old Kibil, fighting with such weapons was the ultimate discipline of a true warrior. Einar pulled
them loose, holding a mighty axe in each hand. He swung one, then the other, enjoying the sound they made as they swooshed through the air. He had wanted to die a hero not a traitor; redemption was
no longer possible for him but he was still Baron Einar, and he was not going to die like a rat in a hole.

He went to the door, put his axes down, lifted the bar and slammed back the bolt. Another tile fell from the roof and this time the creature could push its head all the way through the gap,
hissing venomously at him. Einar picked up his axes again.

He kicked the door open. It creaked back on its hinges and Einar blinked as he adjusted to the light.

Two of the great beasts were in the courtyard directly ahead of him. When on the ground they were awkward, ungainly; they sometimes even slithered along like snakes. The courtyard itself was a
charnel house; they must have been bringing victims here to feed. There was not a square foot that was not coated by blood, faeces, entrails or body parts. Of what he could glean from the remains
he could see that they all seemed to be soldiers. The villagers were not being targeted. Further proof that these were creatures sent by the Gods to punish those that dared question the order of
things.

‘Look at me!’ Einar shouted at the top of his formidable lungs. I am Baron Einar of West Osperitsan. A warrior of Kibil! A soldier of Syvuhka! This house belongs to a friend of mine,
one I betrayed in my stupidity. He is with the Gods now; he will not be damned as I will be, so what is his is now my responsibility, and I say to you leave this place and do not come
back!’

The wyverns turned to look at him, craning their long necks in his direction, hissing and spitting at him. They started to move towards him on their squat, ungainly legs. Einar heard more noise
above him – more of the beasts were looking down from the top of the manor house – and finally he heard a great thump and crash behind him as the animal pulling off the tiles had made a
large enough space to climb through the roof and had fallen into the great hall where it screeched in triumph.

‘So you will not leave,’ said Einar, feeling the battle wrath surge inside him. ‘Then it is time you were taught to respect your betters.’ He raised his axes to the
skies. ‘Syvuhka!’ He roared, a noise fit to match that of his enemies. And with that he charged straight for the nearest wyvern, both he and it screaming in their rage.

Vorfgan had run all night. He was exhausted. Hot and exhausted, as he contemplated the dawn. At least it had stopped raining now, though the gorse and furze of the open country
here was still wet – the aroma of damp ferns, brittle wood and browned heather was inescapable. As the early light turned the sea a fiery red, he looked about him. Here the land sloped
towards the sea, ending in sharp precipices and sheer cliffs. The scrub made such land uninhabitable to humans and, apart from the odd cluster of sheep and occasional inquisitive rabbit, it was
completely deserted. He stopped running, feeling a sheen of sweat freeze on his face and brow. Time to take stock.

He did not know how he had survived the nightmare of the previous day. Seeing the loose horse and clambering on to it had been a terrible mistake. Before he had known it, he was surrounded by
monsters, blocking his route to the manor house. His mount was proving impossible to control so terrified was it – it bucked and reared and it was only the sight of a wyvern directly overhead
that finally compelled it to move. They had shot down a side street at breakneck speed, hotly pursued by two of the terrible beasts. They had left the village and were hurtling southwards down a
tiny path when they were finally caught. A great head appeared to his immediate left and swung against them like a battering ram. His horse fell, throwing him, and he heard its terrified snickering
as its legs snapped under it. Vorfgan leapt to his feet as quickly as he could, watching in horror as one wyvern fell on to the screaming horse, ripping it to pieces with its bloodied jaws. More
disturbing was the sight of a second creature landing beside the first, for it was looking directly at him.

Vorfgan froze. There was no possible escape for him. The wyvern looked at him, as though sizing him up wondering what sort of meal he would make. Then it looked at its companion, which was
evidently relishing its meal. It seemed to prefer this second option.

It lunged at its fellow, screeching as it tried to steal what was left of the horse from it. As it did so, it swung its vast tail, inadvertently directing it at Vorfgan. The Baron turned to
run.

Too late. The monster’s tail glanced his shoulder, sending him flying into the air. He felt a sharp, agonising burst of pain before he landed on to the soft earth, the bracken cushioning
his fall. He lay still watching the two wyverns as they fought over the horse’s carcass. Finally, the one that had made the kill drove off the other, which, frustrated, hissed its annoyance
as he flew into the air before turning away and flying back to the village, now only discernible as a black smudge in the distance.

Ignoring the eye-watering pain in his shoulder he watched the remaining creature finish its meal. It was now crunching bones for their marrow, something it seemed to find very tasty. Vorfgan
remained as still as a statue, not daring to move, watching the creature slobber, great streams of wet spittle dripping to the ground as it finally finished. Did it remember him? Vorfgan held his
breath, wishing his heart would slow down or at least not beat so loudly. The wyvern looked around, its red eyes beady and inquisitive, then with great sweeping beats of its veined translucent
wings it was off, following its predecessor back to the village, although flying not nearly as quickly.

Vorfgan waited until it had dwindled to the size of a bat, then cautiously got to his feet. Without thinking, or stopping to consider the logic of his decision, he turned in the other direction
and ran. Southwards, towards the sea. And now after a wet night that had banished the last flecks of snow from the countryside he stood near to the cliffs, regarding the ocean in all its dull
leaden glory. Below him he saw a hollow in the ground; it was unusual because it was covered in grass, not bracken, and a couple of flat grey slabs lay at its edge. He made for it. He needed
somewhere to rest and think and he also needed to check his shoulder. The pain there had dulled but the entire shoulder throbbed intensely. He needed to loosen his leather jerkin, if nothing
else.

Once in the hollow, he sat resting his back against one of the flat rocks. Pulling out his knife, he twisted his head and looked at his shoulder. He recoiled in shock. Unbeknown to him,
something was sticking out of the back of his shoulder, something he was completely unaware of. Feverishly he started to cut away his jerkin and woollen undershirt, exposing his skin. It took him a
while, but eventually he could pull enough of his garments away so that the whole shoulder was left exposed. As he looked at it, he fought back a wave of nausea.

His entire shoulder was black. Gritting his teeth, he gingerly took hold of the foreign object that had invaded him and pulled. He screamed in pain as it came free releasing a jet of hot yellow
pus that splashed on to the damp rock underneath. Whatever it was, it was now out of him.

He looked at it. It was some kind of spike or spine, thin, pointed and made of something akin to cow horn. Obviously it had come from the tail of the dragon creature. He had run with it stuck in
him all night – how by the Gods had he not noticed? He still felt hot. He lay back and adjusted himself, so his head lay on the flat stone. His temperature was raging and the cool rock felt
good to him.