The Vitalis Chronicles: Steps of Krakador (12 page)

F
LEEING WAS AMONG THE THINGS THAT
C
ID HATED MOST IN THE WORLD
. The idea that he must run from something meant that he was vulnerable, less powerful than whatever it was that pursued him. He didn't mind the threat; he simply hated being reminded that he wasn't as strong as he could be. As he should be. More than that, it meant that he was again in a position where he could not protect those he had sworn to.

As the hills to the south drew near and the screams to the north began, he cursed himself under his breath. This was no one's fault but his. He should have seen the betrayal coming. Should have done something to prepare for it in any case. And now he was out of options and barely able to carry his own weight.

The Thranish salve on his wound was working wonders, but he was still wounded. Badly. He needed rest, time to heal. He needed to be the one protected for once, yet he must be the one to protect.

One final time,
he told himself gloomily.
Once more into the haze, and if I make it through that, I'll have earned my rest.

The brown man never left his side, encouraging him and pressing him onward. The Truan even carried his gear, Cid realized. His pride on the issue died down as quickly as it was piqued.
Let him,
he thought.
I have enough to carry as it is.

To Cid, the world consisted of the ground before his feet. The rest was a blur at best. Every time he shook his head to clear it, the resulting imbalance almost threw him to the ground. He was exhausted, keeping a pace that in any other circumstance would have left him ashamed.

There was no shame here, however. Not now. There was only survival, and down to her bones, survival rarely looked pretty. He coughed and continued on. Less blood came when he coughed, though his throat still burned and iron laced his tongue. He didn't want to know how much he had lost; ignorance may well have been his best friend at this point.

The screams rose again, killing the new friendship far too soon. The Granhal were finally catching up to them. The Greatbow's treachery had served to distract for a while, and may have been enough to save lives, but it was over now. The shepherd was dead; time to fleece the sheep. Cid coughed and didn't look back. He didn't need to know what was happening. He shuddered to think what must have become of the Greatbow and his men.

He had first faced Granhal just north of here. When the Magi had landed to begin their counter assault, the Granhal were one of the first forces they had encountered. It had been demoralizing to say the least. He had only fought them two other times, once to gain entrance to the Valley of Albentine, and again at the defeat of the Relequim.

He had hoped that was the last time. He had prayed as much. A generation later, the Granhal still haunted his dreams, and now the nightmare was real again.

The ground began to shake. The stampeding masses were causing some of that already, but he could feel a new rhythm begin under his feet, one that didn't match the regular footfall of a running crowd so much as the well-spaced impact of heavy feet falling in unison. If he looked back, if he could even see that far with clarity, Cid would see rows of black soldiers advancing in leaps and bounds, rising and falling in unison across the landscape like the waves of some lethal sea.

The thought made him pick up the pace. The refugees were reaching the base of the hills ahead, running up through a narrow draw that would lead them... to where, exactly? He realized that he had no idea what they were now careening towards so carelessly.

“
What...” He coughed against the burn in his chest that rose with the words. “Where does this lead?”

“
There is a path through these hills.” The brown man was right beside him. “It leads through a cleft higher up that we can block with stone. If that can buy us enough time, the path leads out and into plains beyond that will take us to the sea.”

That won't buy us near enough time.
Cid's thoughts remained as grim as their barren surroundings.
They'll hunt us down 'n skin the lot of us.

“
We'll have to be droppin' some mighty stones in their path then,” was all he said. “Will yours know the way?”

“
There are those ahead who can guide the rest, yes.”

The draw was already proving to be a bottleneck for the mass of people pressing into the hills. Their progress slowed substantially, even though they pressed on with determination. It struck Cid as impressive that they weren't trampling each other in the press.

“
Just get me to that cleft,” he said as they reached the entrance. “I'll do what I can to buy you some time.”

They slowed to a walking pace, joining the crowds as they pushed forward. The fear among them was electric, running like a current from and through each individual. It amplified Cid's own heightened sense of urgency. Thousands of people streamed up between the hills before their path twisted to the left and led them out of sight. The brown man turned to look the way they had come before putting his hand on Cid's shoulder to turn him.

“
I don't think we are going to make it to the cleft.”

Cid turned in place, still taking each breath like he was running a race. The sight before him took what breath he had left and dashed his hopes along with it. The Granhal were barely a mile behind them and closing quickly. The deep, gravelly boom of their war horn could be heard as they opened into a full gallop.

“
They're coming.” The brown man sounded resigned. “We can't stand against this.”

Cid's mind raced. “Have ye got any boys with weapons? Any warriors at all?”

The brown man shook his head. “To be truthful, no. We have men that could fight, but of weapons we have none. What we could present to fight, none would put so much as a dent in the skin of the Granhal.”

They'll be here in four minutes.
Cid's eyes darted around the steepening hillside and rolling plain that led up to it. Straggling clusters of people were still running towards them, but each one that the Granhal caught was immediately destroyed in a flurry of carnage. The monsters barely even lost the form of their lines.
Five minutes at most.

“
You do have some good strong lads, though, don't ye?”

“
Yes.” The brown man turned to face him. “Most are guiding along the path or helping the weak.”

“
We'll need to put 'em to better use. Send 'em higher along the sides of the draw, take whatever high ground they can find.” Cid reached for his gear, the strength returning to his fingers at the touch of his sword. “Have 'em gather stones, as big as they can toss. Set an ambush, because once I'm dead, there ain't nothin' else that's gonna buy you time.”

And with that, he drew the Cleaver and began the downhill trek to his final battle.

What little Cid knew of magic needed to come back to him, immediately. His mind wasn't cooperating, but there was little choice left to him. He had to do something, anything to save these people.

The Granhal slowed, the number of stragglers increasing the closer they got to the hills. Cid could see them hacking and stomping and biting their way through the Truans. It made him shudder in a violent combination of revulsion and rage. These people had been freed from their slavery only to be slaughtered like fleeing rabbits. Their safekeeping was in Cid's charge. He would die to do what he could to fulfill that duty.

He picked his rifle out of his pack, pulling the wrappings from the lock and releasing the slide with a clack. He figured he had three minutes left, maybe a little more. He pulled a cartridge out of his sack, the long brass casings glinting in the sunlight as if glad to see the day. He shoved the square magazine into the bottom of his rifle with another click. He pulled back on the slide, releasing it to shove a round in the chamber.

Hoisting the gun to his good shoulder, his arms remained remarkably steady. He took aim. The Granhal were within his range. As rusty with a gun as he may have become, he could hit them from here. Better to pick a few off from a distance and lighten the load.

He took his time, finding targets not engaged with any refugees and aiming for their broad chests. He adjusted as best as he could for the wind, but he wasn't so sure it would matter any more. The crack that came with the first shot left his ears ringing. Moments later a Granhal spun midair and landed on its face.

“
One down,” he said to no one in particular. “Only a few hundred left to go...”

The next round was already in the chamber. He picked another target, aimed, and fired. Another Granhal spun mid-air, catching itself on a knee as it fell. “I guess I can't win 'em all.” He fired again, this time catching it in the back of the head with a spray of dark blood. “But neither can you.”

Cid picked up the pace, finding new targets, shooting, and searching again. Each time a Granhal fell, and each time he felt a growing sense of futility. Ten shots came and went as the magazine ejected itself from the gun with a twang. He grabbed another from his sack.
Two minutes tops.
It was amazing how quickly time could disappear when it was moving so slowly.

He unloaded ten more rounds, and ten more Granhal went down. They were slowing significantly as they churned through more and more refugees. Cid had hardly realized how many were still out here, his blood boiling at the sight. As if in response to his anger, the salve on his wound tingled afresh. He could feel his chest pressing what was left of the Thranish muck back out of his body. Then the enchantments came back to him, what few he knew. They all came flooding back.

“
I can't let you do this alone.” The brown man appeared next to him carrying a long ashen staff. “It wouldn't be right for you to die for my people while I fled.”

“
Go on with yer people.” For all of the pain and weakness, Cid felt unbelievably sharp. “They've got a long ways to go yet.”

“
They won't go anywhere if they aren't given the proper opportunity.”

Cid looked over at the man and was startled to find the irises of his eyes glowing red. A mark of the enemy. “Who are you?”

“
In the Truan tongue, my name is the same as your word for thundercloud. The kings of the west knew me as Hevetican. I was chief magician and counselor to the kings of Trua. The last of my office.” He looked at Cid with his burning eyes, all humor drained from his dark face. “I was once the sworn enemy of the corrupt west, but now I see the true enemy for who he is. I will fight alongside you, Cleaver. And together we shall stand, or together we shall fall.”

Whether or not he should trust the man was a question that only flitted past Cid's mind for a moment. Every instinct he had said to kill him on the spot; but Hevetican had healed him, and brought him this far alive. Now he was offering to stand and fight an impossible battle at his side. He had little choice in reality but to trust the Truan.

The Granhal were howling now, overpowering the screams of their victims with their cries of hate and pleasure. It was built into them to destroy, written on their very bones to slaughter the weak. In moments like this their rancid joy was complete.

“
Stay here.” Hevetican began to walk forward as his ashen staff slowly turned black in his hand. “They will ignore me so long as I call on the power of their master. When I turn it against them, come to my aid.”

There were hundreds of them, Cid realized. Literally hundreds. Perhaps more. It was impossible to tell as they came bounding towards him. They were only hundreds of yards away now.

“
If you can call upon your magic,” Hevetican shouted over his shoulder. “That would serve as a wonderful distraction.”

He didn't need to ask twice. Cid was already feeling the urge to put on the protection of the Magi, to use the tricks they had taught him long ago to guard and empower himself. He uttered the words, making the motions in the air he had been taught would manipulate the atmosphere. First his shield. A purple glow emanated in front of him and then washed over his armor, binding to the inlaid enchantments and coating it in a shimmering light that was almost invisible to the naked eye.

Instantly, every Granhal in the front line turned their attention towards him. He could sense it, but even more he could see it in their stances. Their trajectories changed, their focus was set.
I need my second sword.
He made more movements with his fingers, the words rushing out of him as his need grew in urgency. He held up the Cleaver to the sun. It flashed blue. As he swung it to the side, an ethereal blade trailed in its wake.

The Granhal were closing in now. The first row was approaching Hevetican and beginning to pass him. They were indeed ignoring the old man, who turned to watch them go with his blazing-red eyes.

Cid the Cleaver uttered one final incantation, drawing extra strength into his body as a flash of green swirled around his legs and up to his head. The rush that came with it was exhilarating. The Granhal screamed their bloodlust in unison. Cid grinned at his death. In that moment, Hevetican swung his staff, sending a shockwave across the backs of the advancing Granhal and knocking a number off their feet. The rest regained their balance and turned, surprised at the sudden attack.