Bloodfire Quest

8

Still trapped on the plateau with the others waiting for Khyber Elessedil, Railing Ohmsford levered himself up on one arm and tried to get to his feet. Seersha had announced that they had to get out of there before nightfall to avoid an impending attack, and he wasn’t about to waste time doing so. Broken leg or not, he wasn’t going to let those sharp-clawed creatures in the deep woods below get to him again.

“Here, here!” The Druid was bearing him back down again, her grip surprisingly strong. Her rough face pressed close, her good eye fixing on him. “I said we had to move to safer ground. I didn’t say you had to walk there.”

He started to make a retort, but then thought better of it and simply nodded. “Don’t forget,” she added, “you have the use of magic. You can protect yourself better than most. Stay calm. I will likely need your help when they come for us.”

She turned away, all business now. He felt better knowing she depended on him, that she expected him to do more than lie there helplessly. For a moment, he had panicked. Redden wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. His brother would have pulled himself together and prepared for a fight. So Railing would do the same.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t try to pretend their situation wasn’t desperate. They were trapped on this ledge somewhere in the middle of the Fangs, too far away from their airship to make a run for it, the surrounding countryside awash with creatures waiting for a chance to tear them apart. There were few enough of them left as it was—Seersha, Skint, Farshaun Req, the Speakman, a handful of Trolls, and himself. Everyone was still recovering from the last attack, and there was every reason to think another would be mounted soon enough—likely right after it got dark. The Ard Rhys and those who had gone with her had left only hours ago, but it seemed like days.

Railing tried not to think about how vulnerable his broken leg would render him when the next attack came.

“Skint!” Seersha called. The Gnome Tracker, who had returned by now, came over at once. “Go back up into those rocks and look around until you find a place where we can make a stand. Make sure those creatures can’t get to us once we’re in place. Don’t rush. There’s plenty of time. They’ll wait until dark to attack.”

Skint left without a word, heading into the woods behind them, back toward the cliffs where Redden and the others had gone earlier. How long had it been now? Railing tracked the sun—what little of it he could distinguish—across the gray, hazy sky, a whitish blur sliding westward. When night fell they would be left in complete blackness unless the moon broke through. Farshaun Req came over and knelt beside him. “How is the leg doing, boy? Is it giving you much trouble?”

Railing snorted. “Only if I try to walk on it. Which I’d better learn to do fast if I want to get out of this. I can’t just lie around hoping someone can carry me everywhere.”

The old Rover clapped his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well said. Wait here. Don’t go away.”

He disappeared into the trees, leaving Railing to peer after him in confusion. The boy glanced over to the edge of the plateau to find the two remaining Trolls from the Druid Guard in heated conversation with Seersha. They were still keeping watch where she had left them, making sure no fresh attack caught the little group unprepared, but they seemed decidedly unhappy about something. Railing found himself wishing that Khyber and those with her, especially Redden, would return from wherever they had gone so the brothers could be together again. He was being selfish, but he didn’t care. He hated having been left behind. Farshaun had explained why the Ard Rhys had insisted Redden must go with her, but that didn’t make Railing feel any better.

There was a clear sense of urgency now, even though Seersha had told Skint otherwise. She moved away from the Trolls toward the Speakman, who huddled with his legs drawn up to his chest in a clear attempt to make himself less noticeable. She knelt next to him, and while Railing couldn’t hear what she was saying, he could tell that her words were having a calming effect. The long, scarecrow body gradually dropped its defensive posture, and the Speakman eventually got to his feet and went to join the Trolls.

Farshaun reappeared from the trees bearing a heavy staff cut from a tree limb. He had fashioned one end to form a cradle, its wooden surface wrapped in cloth.

“Take this,” the Rover said, handing it to Railing. “You can use it as a crutch to help you walk. In a pinch, it will make a good weapon. In my opinion, a cudgel is worth a dozen swords.”

Railing took the cudgel, glanced over to see if Seersha was looking, saw she had disappeared into the trees, and held out his hand to Farshaun. Using the Rover’s firm grip and the solidity of the staff, he raised himself to a standing position. His leg pulsed with sudden pain and he grimaced in response, but kept his feet. He wished he had taken the time when he had it to learn how to use the wishsong to heal injuries of this sort.

“Chew on this,” Farshaun said, handing him some leaves he had extracted from a pouch.

“Deadens the pain?” Railing asked.

The old man shrugged. “Something like it.”

He turned away, moving over to join the Speakman. The two stood at the edge of the precipice with the Trolls, all four of them peering down into the woods below, watching the lengthening shadows cast by the cliffs. Railing stayed where he was, conserving his strength for the trek to the cliff and the likely climb that waited. He was thinking how badly things had gone on this expedition, and how little success its members had found. A handful of them were already dead or injured, and for all he knew the group that had gone with the Ard Rhys might have suffered losses, as well. But he didn’t want to think that Redden was at risk, so he brushed the matter aside.

Seersha returned, scanning the group swiftly before coming over to Railing.

“I see you took my advice about staying off your feet,” she deadpanned.

Railing shrugged. “I don’t like feeling helpless. I don’t want anyone to have to worry about me.”

“Well, it’s your choice. Just don’t hold us up by being too proud to ask for help. You stumble, you call out. Understand?”

“Don’t worry, I can do this.”

“You’ll get your chance to prove it.” She began rummaging through her pockets. “Shades and shadows, where did I put it? Ah, here it is.”

She pulled out a thin metal coin stamped with the image of Paranor and held it up so he could see. “We’re not waiting any longer on the Ard Rhys. We’re getting you and the seer and your Rover friend out of here. One of these was given to me; Mirai Leah has the other. Once I break it, Mirai’s will shatter as well and she’ll know to come to us.” She studied the coin. “I don’t know how long Khyber expected me to hold off, but I’m out of patience.”

Without waiting for his reply, she snapped the coin in two and shoved the pieces in her pocket. “The coin will lead Mirai here. Now we have to hope that she comes soon.”

It happened too quickly for Railing to object, which he might otherwise have done. He didn’t want Mirai to come into the Fangs, even if it was to save him. Or maybe especially if it was to save him. It was bad enough that she had come on this expedition in the first place. But he had taken some comfort in the fact that the Ard Rhys had chosen to leave her behind with the Walker Boh, where she would be comparatively safe.

Now, thanks to him, even that small reassurance was gone.

“Seersha!”

Skint reappeared from the woods, trotting toward her. “I’ve found what we need, but it’s not easily reached. We should go there now, at once, while it’s still light enough to see the trail clearly.”

She nodded her agreement and walked over to the precipice, motioning for the Trolls to remain where they were. Then she rejoined the others.

“Show us,” she said to Skint.

The Gnome took them back into the trees, winding through heavy grasses and scrub for several hundred yards and then farther on through a series of rocky outcroppings and ravines. It was a slow, difficult slog, and it took everything Railing had—even with help from Farshaun now and again—to make the journey. By the time they reached the base of the cliffs, the boy was sweating heavily and his leg was aching badly enough that he had to sit down.

“Where do we go from here?” Seersha asked.

Skint pointed upward. “A short distance away, there’s a series of cuts in the rock where you can find footholds to climb. About a hundred feet up, there’s a wide ledge and an overhang farther back that offers shelter. The ledge can’t be reached any other way than by climbing unless you can fly. There’s no way in from the sides or down from the top. At least, none that I could see. I think we can hold off just about any attack from up there.”

“All right. Well done.” She glanced at Railing and his companions. “Take these three up with you. If the boy can’t make the climb with his leg, use a rope to haul him. I’ll go back for the Trolls. We’ll wait until twilight and then we’ll slip away to join you. With luck, those little monsters hiding out below won’t know we’re gone until it’s too late to stop us.” She held up a warning finger. “Wait. How far is it from here to where the Ard Rhys went through the cleft in the cliff wall?”

The Gnome glanced ahead. “It’s close to where we’ll be. You want me to have a look?”

“As soon as these three are safely up, see if you can find sign of the others. Any sign. But don’t get caught down here after dark.”

She gave them all a sharp glance and hurried away.

Skint spent the better part of the next hour getting first the Speakman and Farshaun and then Railing Ohmsford up the cliff face to the ledge he had discovered. Railing required the most help. He could not put any significant weight on his injured leg and had to make the climb by planting the foot of his good leg in one foothold and then pulling himself upward by using his hands and arms to the next. It was slow going, and his strength was quickly depleted. Skint, who was much stronger than he looked and patient with his efforts, pushed from below and kept Railing steady on the rock face. He made the boy pause often to rest and insisted he drink water when he did. Several times Railing began to slip or sway out from the wall, and each time Skint was there to help him.

When he finally reached the ledge, the Gnome patted his arm, told him he’d made a good job of it, and went back down in search of the mysterious waterfall.

Farshaun sat down next to him and shook his head. “We’ll be well out of this business when Mirai comes to get us. This was never a good idea.”

“Do you think she can find us?” Railing asked, gesturing toward the low ceiling of mist and haze.

Farshaun shrugged. “She’ll find us. She’s resourceful, that one. But she won’t get here until morning. She won’t bring the Walker Boh into this mess under darkness. We’ll have to hold out until it’s light.”

Railing looked over the edge of the precipice to the rocks below and the dark smudge of the trees beyond. “Maybe we can do that,” he said doubtfully.

They sat without saying much, looking out over the bleak countryside from their elevated vantage point, waiting for either Skint or Seersha and the Trolls to appear. Every so often, Farshaun would leave the boy’s side to talk with the Speakman. He didn’t say anything about his reasons for doing so, but the boy could tell that the Speakman was in need of constant reassurance. It made him wonder how the man had survived out here alone for so many years. But he supposed that if you hid in a cave and pretty much kept yourself out of sight, you could survive anywhere. Or maybe it was just that you could survive in surroundings you knew well enough to avoid the things that would do you harm, and that being taken out of those surroundings made you vulnerable.

He spent most of his time thinking of home. He would not have joined the expedition if he had known what it was going to be like. He wouldn’t have come if he had thought he would be separated from Redden. He wasn’t all that different from the Speakman. He was removed from familiar surroundings, and his own fears and insecurities were being exposed as a result. What he wished now was that he and Redden and Mirai were back home, flying Sprints or scavenging pieces of downed aircraft or doing anything but what he was doing here. What he wished was that things could be put back the way they had been.

It was almost dark when a scrabbling sound on the cliff face announced the arrival of Seersha and the Trolls. They hauled themselves up the cliff face and onto the ledge, where the Druid set the guards at immediate watch and ordered the Speakman and Farshaun into the shelter of the overhang. She kept Railing out in the open, positioning him about six yards in front of the other two.

She looked ragged and spent, and her face was smudged with dirt. “From here, you can see most of what happens when we’re attacked. I want you to do two things. I want you to watch our backs. If anything gets behind us, anything we don’t see but you do, your job will be to send it back over the edge. Second, I want you to protect Farshaun and the seer. And yourself. Can you do all that?”

Railing nodded. “I can do it.”

“It’s a lot to ask.”

“I know. I won’t let you down.”

Seersha gave him a flash of her crooked grin and clapped him on his shoulder with her strong hand. “I don’t expect you will.”

Afterward, when she had gone back to the edge of the precipice and was repositioning the Trolls to her left and right and putting herself in the middle, he found himself wondering if he was being overconfident. He had use of the wishsong’s magic, but was that enough? He had used it only once in a fight, when the company was attacked coming into the Fangs. The attack had happened without warning, and he had reacted instinctively. But this time he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t sure if knowing and reacting were the same and would produce an identical response. Sometimes thinking too much about something or even anticipating it for too long caused you to freeze at the crucial moment.

Hesitation in this case would likely be the end of him. So he must remain clearheaded and focused when the time came. He must not fail his companions.

He sat there in the darkening of the light and told this to himself over and over, all the while trying very hard not to panic. At one point, he stopped fretting long enough to wonder what had become of Skint. He had been gone an awfully long time now—far too long for Railing to feel comfortable about it. The boy didn’t like just sitting while someone who had done so much to help keep him alive might be trapped out there in the dark. Seersha, crouched at the lip of the ledge, had shown no apparent interest in the other’s failure to return. Railing thought to ask her what she intended to do, then realized there was no point. The Druid would not risk the safety of the others by leaving them to look for the Gnome. Either Skint would return on his own or he wouldn’t return at all.

He had just about convinced himself it would be the latter when he sensed a stirring from those who kept watch at the edge of the cliff, and suddenly the Gnome Tracker hove into view atop the ledge, scrambling up hurriedly and flattening himself against the rock. He immediately motioned for the others to crouch down, gesturing them away from the edge. Seersha bent close, speaking quickly to him, listening to his rushed reply. She turned to where Railing was sitting, motioning for him to stay put, pointing out into the darkness to indicate something was coming.

Seconds later they were attacked.

Their assailants had returned for another try, scaling the walls of the cliff face like ants. They swarmed over the edge of the precipice, clearly not in need of the footholds that Railing and the others had required, bodies hunched over and skittering across the ledge, claws and teeth flashing. They were all over the two Trolls in seconds, flinging themselves on their armored bodies, tearing at them. Seersha held firm at the center, using Druid Fire to fling their attackers away, keeping most from getting past her.

But from either end of the ledge, where there were no defenders, the crookbacked little monsters gained the precipice unchallenged and came at Railing in droves.

Skint had dropped back to stand with him, knives held in both hands, and he was even quicker than his attackers. Blades cutting and slicing, sharpened metal edges flashing, he tore into them. In seconds, bodies lay heaped all around him.

But he couldn’t be everywhere, and the rest charged the boy out of the dark, squealing and hissing like cats.

By now, Railing was on his feet, leaning on his crutch and summoning the magic of the wishsong. He reacted smoothly and calmly even though his stomach was roiling, standing his ground more because he had no choice than because he was brave. The attack came from three sides, but he stopped it cold, sweeping the magic in a broad swath that tumbled his attackers backward. He advanced a step at a time, taking the attack to them. Fire ripped across the ledge first one way and then the other, catching up the snapping, screeching creatures and flinging them away. One or two got around him by keeping to the darkness of the cliff face, but Farshaun was waiting with his heavy staff and put them down with swift, solid blows.

The members of the little company fought hard until the attack was broken up and their assailants driven off.

In the aftermath, the defenders stood panting for breath, ready for a fresh assault, waiting for it to come, and knowing it would. Skint moved over to Railing and put a hand on his shoulder, saying nothing. At the edge of the precipice, Seersha spoke quietly with the Trolls and glanced back to where Railing and Skint were standing together, giving them a satisfied nod.

Railing took deep breaths, his heart racing. He didn’t feel good about any of this.

“Above you!” the Speakman shrieked.

Down from the cliff face behind them dropped several dozen fresh attackers, springing off the rocks like cats. Railing had only seconds to realize what had happened—they had used the screen of the previous attack to come up from behind—before they were all over him. He caught a glimpse of Farshaun going down, felled by a blow to the head. Beside him, Skint whirled away, quicker than he was, knives flashing. Then Railing’s crutch was knocked out from under him, and he was swarmed over by coarse, hairy bodies and borne to the ground.

But the wishsong saved him once more, reacting to the danger faster than he could think to command it, surfacing on its own to explode out of him and throw his attackers away. It happened so swiftly that it took him a moment to realize he was free again. Ignoring the pain in his broken leg, he scrambled up, using the crutch for leverage, and lashed out at the crouched forms. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Seersha’s magic ignite her attackers in bright blue flashes, setting them afire and sending them screaming into the night. A crush of the gnarled creatures had overwhelmed one of the Trolls. It fought to get free, veering dangerously close to the edge of the drop, then lost its balance and tumbled over the side, carrying its attackers with it.

The creatures were climbing up onto the ledge again, attacking from the front as well as dropping from the cliff face behind. The defenders were surrounded. Railing saw Seersha sweeping Druid Fire all along the edges of the cliff, trying to turn back these new attackers, to purge the entire front ranks. Skint and the last of the Trolls were standing shoulder-to-hip on his right, blocking the few who slipped past the Druid.

He swung back toward the overhang and found Farshaun on his feet again, struggling to break free from a pair of the attackers that had come down off the cliff face. They had his arms and were trying to wrench the staff from his hands. The boy dispatched both with quick bursts of the wishsong, his voice a hoarse shriek by now, his throat parched and raw. Quickly, he limped through the tangled bodies to stand next to the old Rover, reaching him just as a fresh wave of attackers scrambled over the cliff edge to his right and came at them.

“Stand fast,” he heard Farshaun say.

Tightening his resolve, he did so, summoning the magic of the wishsong one more time. But he was weakened from the struggle and the effort drained him of the last of his strength. There were too many of them. Then he saw Seersha mount a counterattack, flinging herself into the heart of this fresh assault, and he responded with a wild cry and a counterattack of his own. Magic flaring, he tossed aside the crutch and began advancing toward the spidery attackers in a steady shuffle. The pain in his leg was intense, but it caused him to focus on what he was doing, generating a raw strength of will that would not let him quit. Fire burned across the ledge from both directions as the Druid and the boy struggled against this fresh surge, hammering into it, slowing it, stopping it, and finally throwing it back.

The attackers broke and scattered the way they had come, leaving the ledge smoking and ash-clouded and littered with the dead.

Railing staggered awkwardly, barely able to stand. He scanned the precipice for signs of movement, then for signs of life, and found neither.

Seersha reached him a moment later and braced him, waiting for Farshaun to place his crutch back in his hands. “Better hold on to this,” she whispered. “We need you strong enough to stand and fight, Railing Ohmsford.” She exhaled sharply. “Without you, I think we’re lost.”

Farshaun helped steer him to where he could sit down, one arm around his shoulders. The old man was bleeding heavily from a head wound, and his clothing was ripped and bloodied. “Wicked little monsters, aren’t they?” he muttered.

“Have we beaten them?” Railing asked, leaning on his crutch as the old man helped support him.

Farshaun shook his head. “I don’t know, boy.” His eyes were vacant as he stared out at the darkness. “Have we?”

Time slipped away, and no further attacks came. The smells of death and dust cleared, and the night’s wildness faded into silence. The bodies of their attackers littered the broad surface of the ledge, but the defenders were too exhausted to clear them away. Their strength drained, they sat hunched over in small groups—Seersha and the Rock Troll at the edge of the precipice, Farshaun and the Speakman at the back of the outcropping, and Skint and Railing midway between—conversing in quiet tones and waiting for the inevitable.

“You did well,” Skint said to the boy. “You showed real courage.”

Railing shook his head. “I was too scared even to think about being brave. I was just trying to stay alive.”

“Which is the point.” The Gnome’s wrinkled face tightened in what might have been a grimace. “Maybe it’s always the point.”

They were silent for a moment. Railing was thinking, That’s right. That’s the point exactly. That’s all we’re doing now. Trying to stay alive. All that stuff about searching for the missing Elfstones is gone. No one cares about that anymore.

“Did you find any sign of the Ard Rhys or my brother?” he asked Skint impulsively, remembering he had never heard the other’s report.

The Gnome gave him a look. “I didn’t even find the opening they went through. That’s why I was gone so long. I was searching for it. Everywhere. I knew where it had been, but when I couldn’t find it there, I started searching the cliff walls, thinking I was mistaken.” He shook his head in disgust. “I never found anything. It was as if the opening just disappeared, and everyone who went in disappeared with it.”

Railing stared at him. “You couldn’t find anything? How can that be possible?”

“Couldn’t say. Seersha thinks there’s magic at work. Someone else’s magic. But there’s nothing we can do about it. Not until we’re out of this mess.” Skint looked away. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

Railing was stunned. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” he managed. “I’m not leaving Redden.”

Skint nodded. “No one said anything about leaving anyone. Calm down. Maybe you should try to sleep a bit.”

He got up and moved away, leaving Railing alone. The boy stayed awake, trying to come to terms with what he had been told, unable to believe his brother could just be gone and no one know anything. It didn’t make any sense.

The night faded into morning, and still their attackers did not return. They sat together and watched the sunrise, faint gray light filtering down through the haze and mist, the stark world of the Fangs slowly revealing itself. They ate a little food and drank some ale, and then they cleared the ledge of bodies, throwing them over into the precipice and onto the rocks below, where they lay in crumpled heaps.

No one came for the bodies.

No one came for them. Not Mirai or the Walker Boh or the Ard Rhys or any who had gone with her or the fierce little creatures that had attacked them during the night.

No one.

Finally, darkness approached with a thief’s silent cunning, the shadows lengthened in a cool hush, and the stillness that comes with day’s end deepened with night’s soundless fall.

Reluctantly, the little company prepared for a fresh onslaught.