The Vitalis Chronicles: Steps of Krakador (7 page)

“
Get my gear.” Cid wasn't sure if he was slurring or not. He worked to stand, needing less help than he had a moment before.

“
It's all here, Captain.” The brown man gestured to his gear. At further inspection, even the man's skin was brown, a deep leathery tan that made his olive complexion that much darker.

“
Get your people...” Cid wavered a moment. He had never wanted to fall asleep so badly in his life. “Get them moving to those mountains to the south. Tell them to run, all of them.”

“
It will be chaos.”

“
There's no hope if they stick together here in the flat. If you want anyone to be saved... if anyone is to survive... they have to run.” He picked his head up to stand straight, the world spinning around him with the motion. “Once momentum is lost... if they get surrounded... they'll never have the chance to run again.”

The brown man didn't move immediately. His hand stroked his short black beard, salted at the edges. He was considering the plan. Or maybe he was considering Cid. Cid had no idea. He didn't care. He had to get his gear on. He stooped over, nearly falling as he reached for his armor. Hands were there to help again.

Now the hands had arms attached to them. Faces began to appear. Haggard and old. Weak and frail. Each of their eyes betraying wisdom that their appearance belied. Each of them aged beyond their time. Dark. Truans. Possibly the last of their kind. He had to do what he could to save them. Even some of them.

The brown man's hand dropped. He shouted something in Truan over his shoulder, then took a step closer to Cid. “If we do this, we will lose thousands of lives. Some are too weak to run. Many can barely walk.”

“
God save 'em.” Cid looked the man in the eye as he clasped his chestpiece in place. “If those are really hoppers comin' for us... the Granhal... if they're anythin' like I remember, they'll be catchin' those that can sprint the whole way. It's not so much that they hop... they gallop. There's never hope in runnin' from the Granhal. All you can do is stand and fight. But there ain't no fight to be had in this lot. So there ain't no hope. Not really. The only shot we've got is to run. Now.”

“
I know.” The brown man turned and waved his hand. In response the cry of a horn went out, three short desperate tones followed by one long blast.

The sound made Cid's heart sink.
Take flight you Truan bastards.
“
How will they know to head south?”

The brown man bowed down as he took Cid's hand. He placed Cid's arm over his shoulders to steady the wounded man as he stood and turned him about. “We've been ready for this, Captain. In fact, most of our people wanted to make for those mountains this whole time. It will be a welcome change in our plans.”

The camp sprang to life around them. Men and women grabbed what they could carry and began to move south. Some walked, others ran. Cid envied those that could run.

“
The Greatbow had no great love for the Truan people; this was known. It was expected he would abandon us at the first sign of trouble.” The brown man laughed haltingly under Cid's lumbering weight. “To be honest, we were surprised he took us this far. But to their credit, the Islendans have done far more than we ever could have asked.”

“
Who are you?” Cid's blood was moving again.
The wound must be closin'.

“
No one.” The Truan smiled. “No one of importance, at least. You, however, must live if we are to survive.”

“
That's seemin' more likely here. Me livin' at least.”

“
The salve we put over your wounds.”

“
Aye?”

“
Old Thranish magic.”

The words sent unbidden shivers through Cid's chest. “Thranish magic?” He'd seen how the Thranish people made their sacrifices, seen the blind and deaf gods of wood and stone they worshiped. Even the majority of that had been lost to the Demon's influence. For generations they had worshiped him only as one god among many, but in recent history they had regarded him as supreme. Of all Truan people they had been most corrupted by the Relequim's malice and lust for power.

“
It's giving you your strength back with every passing step, is it not?”

To be fair, Cid was feeling stronger. He took his arm back. He wobbled a bit at first, but he could walk on his own. “What was in it?”

“
I think you should take more interest in gaining speed, Captain. We're short on time.”

More and more people around them were running. The brown man was right; there wasn't much time to waste in getting well. If this stuff was going to get him there faster, it was necessary. His whole left side was sticky with his own blood, but the pain was subsiding. It was boiling down to a fever-like heat in his shoulder. Aside from a throbbing soreness, he felt almost himself again.

It certainly wasn't too soon. The majority of the moving masses were already well past them. Those that were falling behind, he feared, would serve as little more than a buffer between himself and death. For their unintended protection he was sadly grateful.

Cid hefted his broad, square sword on his back and began to run. His head grew light with the effort, but he knew he had little choice. He could do little good in the open. He needed his back protected. He needed his sides closely hemmed in. He needed the rocks in those mountains.

He looked around at those who were moving along with them as he lumbered forward. The brown man kept up well enough, but everywhere he looked men and women struggled to run. Many were finding it difficult even to walk.

The sight gave him little hope for any of them.
God help anyone caught in these plains.

The Greatbow knew it would only be a matter of time before the Granhal were upon them. His scouts had seen them for days now. Rumor had spread among his men that the Granhal were coming. The end was at hand.

His own fears were piqued by their arrival, his suspicions upheld. The Woads were merely meant to demoralize and harry the masses. The hairy black monsters posed little threat in their depleted numbers; the real trouble was about to begin.

Granhal.
He tightened his grip on the reins of his horse.
To think I would live to see their kind reborn. They swore this day was never possible.

But the Magi had been wrong. Clearly, it was possible. If the Granhal were alive, anything could have been remade. He kept his thoughts to himself as they rode hard for the Bastard's Ring. His men knew only myths, too young to remember the Demon's scouts.

The Granhal had served as the eyes and vanguard of the Relequim's forces in the wars a generation before. They looked much like men in that they had two legs, two arms, and a torso to match, but their heads had grown into grotesque masks. It was said they had been men once, as many of the Demon's forces had once begun. Their skulls had been broken apart and grafted into helmets with ornate masks on their faces.

In time they bred to have the deformed skulls; the females of their kind invariably died from each birth, though some maintained they were never born, but crafted in the depths of the earth. The masks themselves looked like square-tipped horns sprouting from the temples. Small spikes outlined the space between, others curled out down to the cheeks. One often looked wildly unlike the next in the details, but the harsh bone structure and long sharp teeth made each look like a demon itself. The pronounced brow and cheek bones grew around the helmets of old to hide their eyes from view in dark empty sockets. Only when the madness of their bloodlust was upon them could the red gleam of their master be seen in their eyes, like the embers of a fire coming to new life.

To look on them was to look upon the damned. Their faces never changed; they were ever unmoved. Implacable. The vacuum of their souls stood only to warn against their thirst for the blood of the untainted. The blood of mankind.

In time their thick, spiked armor also sank into their hardened exterior. Their nakedness stood fully armored against any attack. Their blackened skin shone red in patches, but from a distance they looked like charred wooden soldiers. Wooden soldiers that bounded.

Hoppers.
That's what many had called them when they had first been spotted on a battlefield. The very motion of their movement inspired derision in place of respect. Laughter in place of terror. But after the initial skirmishes, it was clear that they were no joke. Able to leap successively in ten foot bounds, the Granhal could cover ground as quickly as a horse at a gallop. And that was a better way to look at it, they had realized. The Granhal galloped. Their thick legs, packed with twitching twisted muscle, churned up as much ground as a fox digging a den with each successive launch.

They carried axes whose heads were as big as their chests. Maces as large as their heads. They never had shields. They never needed them; both hands were put to wielding the shafts of their weapons. They bounded and they galloped and they crashed through your line. The Granhal were the elite of the Demon's forces. The Granhal were to be feared.

When the throaty blast of their horn was heard, the hearts of men wavered. Mounted cavalry were better able to combat them, but the Granhal were known to take horses down at the neck before fighting the rider. They were ruthless. They were efficient. They were after him.

The Greatbow took another look over his shoulder, the haze of his vision frustrating his efforts. The west receded from him as the light stretched out to claim it. The sun cast long shadows in his horse's wake, shadows that moved erratically to say the least. His mind was playing tricks on him, he was sure, but he couldn't shake the feeling that the Granhal were in those shadows.

He looked ahead to the rising sun. The heat of the day was already on the move against him; soon his horses would be embattled with it. They wouldn't make the trip in the heat. He had started out later than he had intended. Cid had proven far less willing to join him than he had hoped. He had wanted the old man to see reason, to come along easily. There was no point in trying to convince him now, not if he didn't see the truth of things from the beginning.

His horse's hooves churned the soil below. Over and over they connected. Shrubs flew and dust grew. He had nearly four hundred men with him, more than enough to defend one of the bastions in the Bastard's Ring.
More than enough to bring hell down on us too.

There was too great a chance of discovery now, the dust clouds they were throwing up visible for miles against the rising sun. He had waited too long. He had let the risk grow too great.

His heart skipped a beat as his sharp ears perked up.
What was that noise?
Then he heard it again.
Dear God, no.

The Greatbow looked to his left, his men close behind in his clearer peripheral vision. The horn sounded again, like gravel and grit in the throat of the world's largest ox. His resolve withered.

They're here.

“
Ride!” He screamed as though his very escape depended on it. “Ride, you fools! Ride!”

The Greatbow kicked his horse into a full gallop. He hadn't seen the Granhal yet, the motion of the dim world around him too great to pick out their dark forms from the corners of his eyes. But they were there. They had sounded their call to attack. They were coming.

The wind rushed past in streaks as his horse's mane reached out to touch his face. He could feel them; he knew they wouldn't be long. He could smell them too, the rot of their living flesh. They were coming.

He pulled his head up and looked back. They weren't behind. He looked to the south on his right, but there was no sign there either. His men shouted, their young eyes better in the morning light, that the Granhal were coming from the north. He could see them now too, bounding in long ranks over the lip of a low hill to their left. That's where they had been hiding.
They were ready for us... oh God, they were ready.

He dug his heels in, knowing his horse had little more to give but demanding it anyways. If she didn't, neither of them would make it out of this alive.
Turn and fight.
Part of him couldn't take the running. Part of him had to face his enemy.
Turn and fight, you fool. You can't run.

But he had to run. He would be safe in the Ring, he knew that much to be true. They could fight there. They would have no other choice if they made it.

The sun broke its contact with the horizon, lofting into the sky. The Greatbow watched it go, squinting against the pain of the burning light.
Curse my old eyes, but this is the last sunrise I'll ever see.
He knew it to be true, too. And then in the gap between the sun and the earth, even his old eyes could see them. Silhouettes. The thick frames. The horned helms. The small studded spikes and the massive double-headed axes. They were lined up and waiting, less than a mile ahead. The Greatbow's heart stopped dead at the sight.

There would be no fighting both lines of the monsters at once. He had to make his move now if he was to escape this. He shouted his war cry, exalting the Spring Vale, and careened to his left. The Granhal to the north were close now. It would only be seconds before he reached them. Better to fight while they were divided than to let these bring up the rear and flank him. He would show them what battle was. He would die with one on his sword.