The Paradise War

Chapter 30 The Battle of Dun na Porth

Tegid spoke the cruel truth when he said that we had not seen the last of the wolves. Emboldened by their victory, they followed us-slipping silently through the snow-laden forest by day, and skulking just outside the firelight by night. They did not attack as they had that first night. But neither did they abandon the trail.

«They have eaten well,» Tegid said. «They are content for now, but we must remain wary.» He pointed to the sharp peaks rising steeply before us, and close. «Soon we will leave the forest behind. When they see that we are making for the Eiigh trails, they will strike again.»

«But they will not follow us into the mountains,» I said Dptimistically. It did not seem likely that wolves would pursue us once we left the cover of the trees.

«Would you care to make a wager?» the bard inquired ;lyly. He grew suddenly grave. «I am not lying when I say I E~iave never known wolves like this.»

«This determined?»

«This cunning.»

I knew what he meant. In the days since the attack, I had Felt the eyes of unseen watchers upon us. Time and again, I Found myself looking back over my shoulder, or darting a glance to this side or that as we traversed the forest trail. Only occasionally did I see the gliding, ghostly shape of a wolf flickering in the deep-shadowed dimness.

For safety's sake we kept close to the river. And, though the waterway narrowed as the path grew steeper, the high rock bank offered some protection and the swift-moving water did not freeze. At night we banked the fires high and warriors maintained vigil from dusk until dawn. I took my turn at watch on those endless nights: huddled in my cloak, stamping my feet to keep warm, slapping myself to stay awake and alert, peering into the void of darkness for the phantom glint of a feral eye, and then shuffling back to camp and collapsing into a dull, exhausted sleep until the sun rose once more.

Not that we ever saw the sun. So cloud-wrapped and snowbound had the world become that we lived in a world bereft of light and warmth. It was as if Sollen now ruled in Albion and had banished the other seasons to eternal exile. Each dark day that I awakened, I heard again Tegid's words, The Season of Snows will not end until Lord Nudd is defeated.

The trail narrowed to little more than a rock-strewn path. The forest grew gradually more sparse, the trees smaller, stunted and deformed by the constant battering wind, and the distance between them greater, as if in their misery they shunned one another. The ice-hard sky drew nearer as we climbed towards it. Torn shreds of cloud and tattered squalls of snow obscured the uncertain path ahead. And, when we looked behind, it was into a snow-hazed bleakness of white, relieved by gray slabs of rock and boulders the size of houses. We climbed above the tree line, slowly nearing the mountain pass leading into the rock-bound heart of Cethness.

Each day the way grew ever steeper; each day the wind blew ever colder; each day the snow flew ever faster. Each day we travelled less far than the day before. And each night my shins and ankles ached from the upward strain of the trail, my face and hands burned from the wind blast, and it took longer to massage warmth back into stiff, half-frozen limbs.

We brought as much firewood from the forest as we could carry; the horses were laden with it. But the nights were bitterly cold, up among the bare peaks where the wind wails and moans without surcease, and we burned great quantities of precious fuel each night in a futile effort to keep warm.

If! had thought leaving the forest meant leaving behind the wolves, I was sharply disappointed. The second night above the tree line, as we set about making camp, we heard them once more-high up in the rocks around us, raising their eerie howls. The next day we could see them on the trail behind us. They no longer troubled to conceal themselves. All the same, the wolves did not attack. Neither did they abandon the pursuit, although they were careful to keep their distance.

I began to think that they would not attack again. Why should they? All they had to do was simply wait until, one by one, we began falling by the way. They would take the stragglers, kill and devour any who lagged behind, slaughter those too cold and too weak to go on. So that this would not happen, the king commanded the warriors to walk, last in order to aid anyone falling too far behind, as well as to prevent the wolves from drawing too close.

We struggled through the snow, higher and higher, climbing steadily into the fierce, frigid air. Cold, hunger, and exhaustion united against us. Despite the king's precautions, people began to fall away. We found the stiff, gray, frozen bodies each morning as we broke camp. Sometimes we would see someone laboring on the trail ahead; they would suddenly fall, never to rise again. Or sometimes they would simply sink into the snow at the side of the trail and no one would see them again. The bodies we saw, we buried under mounds of rocks beside the trail. Those we did not find were left for the wolves.

We lost fifty before reaching the pass called the Gap of Rhon, a narrow slash between two mountains, where the trail clings precariously to the sheer mountainside far above the crashing white-water cataract of a river known as Afon Abwy. The swollen river thrashed its way to the mountain glens, sending up a fine white mist which coated the rocks and froze on them. The whole gorge was encased in ice.

On the day we came through the Gap of Rhon, we lost five to the yawning gorge. The wind gusted and the hapless climbers lost their footing on the ice and were swept to their deaths upon the rocks of the Mon Abwy. I saw this happen but once, and it is a sight I hope never to see again: the broken body falling, rag-like, striking the sides of the gorge, tumbling, spinning, glancing off the ice-covered rocks, disappearing into the mists and churning water.

I saw it only once. Yet each time it happened, I heard the short, splintered cries pierce the thin air. The mountains echoed with the scream, long after the victim had died. There was nothing to be done. We moved on.

The mountain trail was treachery itself. Sheer, slim, dangerous, twisting unexpectedly. Ice-choked and snowfilled, torturous, winding through the naked peaks with the guile of a serpent. Now we were passing under massive slabs of stone; now clinging to a sheer face of smooth rock; laboring step-by-step up an endless incline one moment, speeding headlong down a precipitous decline the next.

Our sole consolation lay in the fact that if the journey was difficult for us-and it was agony-it was no less harsh for our pursuers. Each day we could see them: sometimes far, far behind us; sometimes near enough to hit with a well-aimed stone. Behind their black leader, they paced our every movement, never tiring, never abandoning their relentless pursuit.

I grew used to seeing them, and I no longer feared them as before. But even as I grew inured to their predatory presence, Tegid became more and more wary and fearful. Time and again, Tegid would suddenly halt in the trail and spin around quickly, as if trying to catch sight of something elusive and unseen.

«What are you doing?» I asked him, when he had done this several times without explanation. I also scanned the trail below us, and the ragged line of travellers on it.

Eyes narrowed and shielded from the snow with his cupped hands, he replied, «There is something back there.»

«Wolves-as you well know,» I replied. «Or had you forgotten?»

He gave his head a sharp jerk. «Not wolves. Something else.»

«What else?»

He did not answer, but kept his eyes trained on the trail for a time. Then he turned around and began walking once more. I fell into step behind him, but now I, too, felt an uncanny sensation of deepening dread. I told myself that with a determined wolf pack dogging our every step I need look no further for the source of my foreboding-it was as close as the nearest wolf. I told Tegid as much, but the bard was not so easily persuaded. He still scanned the trail at intervals, and I looked, too; but we did not see anything except the flickering shapes of the wolves.

Our food supply came to its end. Firewood dwindled dangerously. It became a matter of speculation which would kill us first: starvation, the freezing cold, or wolves. For three days we staggered, weary and half-frozen, before hunger drove us to kill and eat the first of the horses. We stripped the still-warm flesh from the bones and ate it raw. The hides we scraped and gave to cover the children. Little Twrch greedily gobbled unlikely scraps of offal; I saved a bone for him to gnaw later, and assigned him to the care of the young girl who, with her mother, rode my horse. The woman had lost her husband to the treachery of a mountain precipice, and in her grief was grateful for some small diversion for her child. Twrch could not have had a better keeper and companion.

Always the king led the way, walking; he would not ride. Sometimes he walked with Tegid, but more often he travelled alone. Each casualty cut him like a knife; he bore the pain of each loss as his own. Yet he could not sacrifice the living for the dead. So he led on, striding stiffly, leaning into the slope, shoulders bowed, as if bearing on his own broad back the weight of suffering his decision to flee into the mountains, to Findargad, had brought about. As to that decision, King Meldryn remained resolute, despite the grumbling against him. And there was no lack of that. We might have exhausted our meal grain, but we possessed the bread of dissent in perpetual supply. When the last of the grain went, people reached for those ready loaves.

Loudest in reproach was Prince Meidron. He, who should have been foremost in support, filled himself and those around him with complaint and quarrel. I know I got a bellyful of his snide mockery. «Whither now, Great King?» he would call out, whenever we stopped for a moment's rest on the trail. «Speak, Great King! Tell us again why we must hie to Findargad.» His taunts were cowardly; Meldron knew his father would make no reply. His geas kept him under vow: the king would not speak-even to defend himself against the unjust charges of his son.

Though it shames me to admit it, much as I trusted the king, I too began to doubt the wisdom of his decision. Were there no graves in Sycharth? It is not easy to keep the flame of hope burning in the cold, empty heart of Sollen. The Season of Snows is not the time to make bright plans for the future. One slow foot in front of the other-that was all the future I knew. Just one more step, and then one more… I cared about nothing else.

On the day we finally came in sight of Findargad-an immense, many-towered fortress, a magnificent stony crown on an enormous granite head lifted high on the shoulders of Cethness-we also caught sight of our true pursuers at last. I say that it was day, but the sky was dark as dusk and the snow swirled around our frozen faces. I saw Tegid stop abruptly and whirl round, as if to catch a thief creeping behind him. I had seen him do this countless times. But this time, I saw his mouth writhe and his dark eyes widen in alarm.

I hurried to his side. «What is it, brother?»

He did not answer, but slowly raised the oaken staff in his hand and pointed behind us on the trail. I turned to look where he was looking. I saw what he saw. My heart seized in my chest; it felt as if a giant hand had thrust down my throat to clench my stomach and squeeze my bowels in a steely grip.

«What. . . ?» I gasped.

Tegid remained rigid and silent beside me.

There is no describing what I saw. Words were never meant to serve such a purpose. For lumbering into view was an enormous, yellow, splay-footed abomination dragging a tremendous blubbery gut between its obscenely bowed legs; its splotched, ravaged hide sprouted scraggly tufts of black bristles, and its narrow eyes burned with dull-wirted malignance. The thing's mouth gaped froglike, toothless and slick, and its long tongue tolled, drooling spittle and green putrid matter; its long arms, wasted thin, dangled; its crabbed hands clutched, tearing at the rocks and flinging them as it scrambled frantically over the rough terrain.

Behind this squat monstrosity surged a swarming legion of grotesques. Scores of insanely freakish creatures! Hundreds! Each one as repulsive as the next. I saw skeletal members thrusting, bloated torsos squirming, lurid faces leering, frenzied feet rushing towards us at frightful speed. I marvelled at their pace, for the deep snow did not seem to slow them at all. Long-limbed or short, fat-bodied or slat-ribbed and thin, huge and hideous or small and abhorrent, they skittered across the snow, racing towards us in a vile, vomitous mass.

They rushed upon us, driven by a gale blast of hate. Their shocking appearance was only part of their paralyzing power-I could feel malice streaming out from them, a potent poison, blighting all it touched. They drove the wolves before them, lashing them to rage. Over the snow, fast and sure as death they came-wolves and demons. Who could stand against such a formidable onslaught?

«It is the Host of the Pit,» said Tegid, his words a murmured understatement. «The Coranyid.»

It was the Demon Horde of Uffern, whose coming Tegid had silently anticipated for many days. Demons they were, and ghastly beyond belief. Yet to say that I saw the vile Coranyid is tantamount to saying nothing. To look upon them was to behold the face of wickedness and strong evil. I saw abhorrence embodied, malevolence incarnate, putrescence clothed in mouldering flesh. I saw the death beyond death.

My hands grew weak; the strength left my legs. The will to flee deserted me. I wanted only to sink to the ground and cover myself with my cloak. This, of course, is what the demons desired. They hoped to stop us before we reached the king's stronghold-though why they had waited so long, when they might have taken us at any time since leaving Sycharth, I cannot say.

I glanced quickly over my shoulder to Findargad towering above, estimating the distance. «The fortress is too far. We will never make it.»

«We must,» Tegid spat. «If we can reach Dun na Porth, we have a chance.»

We hastened to the king. Meldryn did not seem dismayed, or even much surprised, by the news. He turned his tired eyes towards the mountain pass, then raised the signal horn to his lips. An instant later a shrill blast cut the chill wind with the sharp note of alarm. Even as the first warning echoed and re-echoed among the cold rock crags, people instinctively responded. Other warning blasts were sounded down the line, and within the space of three heartbeats everyone was running, staggering, slipping, sliding, floundering through the snow towards the protection of the fortress above.

The pass that Tegid had indicated was just ahead: Dun na Porth, Gate of the Fortress-a steep-sided notch through which the trail passed before rising to the eyrie whereon Meldryn Mawr's mountain stronghold perched. I entertained scant hope that we could reach the sheltering walls. Indeed, as the people hurried by, struggling in haste, Tegid-at the king's command-summoned the warriors to arms.

I threw off the cloth wrap protecting my sword and strapped the chill metal to my hip. Wrapping stiff fmgers around the cold shaft of my spear, I ran down the trail to join the other warriors at the rear, pausing only to lift to their feet those who stumbled and to set them on their way.

Prince Meidron scowled at me as I fell in with the other warriors, but he was soon too busy to begrudge me a place among his own. Once the last of the stragglers had passed by, we formed a tight wedge, blocking the trail from one side to the other. To reach our kinsmen and the king, Lord Nudd's infernal warband would have to slay us first. I did not know whether demons could be killed, nor even if they could be fought with sword and spear. Still, if a demon could feel at all, it would feel the bite of my blade.

As the battle line formed, I found myself near the center in the second rank of warriors. We held our spears at the ready, over the shoulders of the rank before us. As Tegid and the king led the main body of our people upward into the pass, we advanced slowly back down the trail towards the onrushing enemy.

At the sight of our tight-formed ranks the demons raised a weird, unearthly cry: plaintive and furious at the same time, a cry of demented wrath and torment intended to breathe despair into the most resolute will. The numbing wail assailed us on the wings of the wind, yet we stood our ground; and, as the Coranyid drew near, we welcomed them with taunts, banking our courage high with loud battle cries.

Few of the demon warriors wielded formal weapons; I saw only an occasional sword or spear gripped in claw-like fingers, and some carried fire-blackened clubs. Most came on empty-handed-but not for long. For, as they swarmed nearer, they tore rocks from the trail and from the mountainside and pelted us with stones. We were thankful indeed for the protection of our shields.

The demon battle leader sent the wolves before them. Whether the Coranyid bad been using the wolves all along, or whether they had merely turned the beasts' natural ferocity to their own purposes, I do not know. But the starving, fear-maddened animals, driven to frenzy by their inhuman masters, rushed upon us without heed. There was no sport in the killing. We met them with the points of our spears as they leapt, and they died snapping their cruel jaws at the blades that pierced them.

Behind the wolves came the main body of the Coranyid. Warriors hardened to battle, fearing neither pain nor death, trembled to see Lord Nudd's fell warband. Truly, this was a terrible array: skull-headed, swollen-bellied, spindle-limbed loathsome deserters of the grave; misshapen monsters each and every one. Naked, malformed, half-human fiends they were, malicious servants of an even more abhorrent master. More than one man shrank from the sight, and it was not accounted to their shame.

Though I searched the teeming throng, I could not see their loathsome lord. I little doubted that he was near, however, directing the onslaught from some unseen vantage. For I felt the waves of sick dread break over me as the horrid helispawn advanced. Instinct told me this feeling was more than the repulsion inspired by the enemy's gruesome appearance. Lord Nudd was near. I could feel him, feel the despair and futility his presence inspired.

At the same time, I remembered the hope which Tegid and I had discovered in the ashes of Sycharth: the enemy was not omnipotent. Far from it! Nudd's only weapons were fear and deceit. Surrender to those and he would win. Defy him and his attack would founder. He could not fight against men who did not fear. This was his weakness-though perhaps his only weakness.

The first of the Demon Horde reached us, shattering the air with their appalling shrieks. The forerank of warriors stumbled backward as the screaming battle host threw themselves– headlong onto our weapons. Black bile and curdled blood gushed from their wounds and we were suddenly engulfed in a sickening stench. The stink was almost stupefying; a stomach-churning fetor that caused the gorge to rise in our throats. Strong men gagged and puked, tears streaming from their eyes. Vile as the sight and sound of the hateful creatures was, the stench was worse– overwhelming the warriors' mettle. The forerank faltered, sagged, and then broke, as brave men turned their backs and ran from the fight.

Within moments Meidryn's dauntless warband was in full rout, streaming back up the trail towards the pass, with the demons and wolves in howling pursuit. Prince Meldron strove mightily to turn his men, crying, «Hold! Hold, men! Stand and fight!» But they could not hear him above the drumbeat of panic in their own hearts.

I ran, too. Hemmed in on all sides, I could do nothing else, lest I be trampled in the crush. We reached the pass of Dun na Porth. I looked up at the sheer rock face of the stone gate and paused, thinking that here a few might hold the trail against many. I stopped, and turned to face the oncoming flood.

One black wolf carried a screaming demon on its back as it leapt, snarling, on the heels of a fleeing warrior. As I thrust through the streaming throng, the animal saw me and veered to the attack, mouth agape and foaming, teeth bared. I let the beast draw near, then lowered my spear and thrust it down its open throat. The wolf reared, clawing the air, choking and gagging on its own blood. The demon made to leap upon me, but Prince Meldron rushed forward, and, with a quick downward chop of his sword, parted the demon's skull in a single stroke. Both demon and wolf expired in a heap at our feet.

Another demon skittered close, swinging a gnarled root around its flat, reptilian head. The prince struck aside the club, severing the demon's arm in the same blow. His next thrust pierced the foul creature through; it toppled backwards with a gurgling of exuded gas and pus. Meidron laid low another of the repugnant creatures with a single stroke, as it made to leap upon him. And, with as many strokes, I sent two more back to the pit whence they came.

«They slaughter more easily than sheep!» exulted the Prince. «There is no skill to it. We will have to work twice this hard to earn our glory.»

It was true. The demons displayed no knowledge of warfare, or skill at arms. They could swarm and overwhelm, but they could not stand toe to toe against a warrior; they could hurl rocks and swing clubs, they could rip with their tusked teeth and hook-like claws, but they could not present an ordered attack. Still, there were hundreds of the demonspawn and only the prince and myself to hold them. We must quickly succumb to their numbers. We stood in the gap, meantime, hewing at them, stroke on stroke, razing them like weeds before the scythe.

The wolves were more dangerous. Their strength and speed, their ferocity in the fight, made them more than a match for a man. But the demons had roused them to such frenzy, they forgot their natural instinct and simply hurled themselves at us. I had only to let one come close and thrust my spear and the wolf either died or fled-tearing at its wounds in maddened fury.

I heard something behind me, and spun around ready to strike. «Stay your hand, brother!» came a loud voice. It was Paladyr, leading Prince Meidron's Wolf Pack back to the fray. Simon-Siawn Hy-stood next to him. They had seen our stand against the enemy and had returned to join the fight.

«Now that the battle is won, you come to claim the victory,» scoffed the prince. «Leave us! We are all but fmished here.»

«Nay, prince. Did you think we would let you steal all the glory for yourselves?» answered the champion. «Come, there is more than enough for all.»

«Prove it, then,» replied the prince. «But with your sword-not your tongue!»

«Watch me!» shouted Paladyr. And with a great cry, he lifted his sword and thrust into the midst of a dozen demons advancing in a knot. He was a wonder to bthold! Every movement honed sharp, flawless as gold, and lethal as the blade in his strong hand. He slew with every stroke. He was the millstone and the enemy was the grain he crushed, their tangled bodies heaped around him, like shapeless husks.

Siawn gave a piercing, ear-shattering scream and leaped after the king's champion, matching stroke for stroke and thrust for thrust. Wherever Paladyr strove, there was Siawn at his shoulder. Their quick-flowing blades rose and fell as one. Lest we lose place to them, Prince Meldron and I redoubled our efforts. Together we hewed a wide swath through the onrushing demon tide, wading into the battle with reckless courage.

Seeing how accommodatingly the Coranyid perished, more warriors rushed to meet the foe and soon Dun na Porth was filled-not with snow, but with the odious bodies of the Demon Host. We bent our backs to our labor, and a mighty work it was. Despite the cold, the sweat of battle ran from us; our breath clouded the air, and steam rose from our wet heads.

The stink made the tears run from our eyes and flow in rivulets down our cheeks. But the warriors steeled themselves against it, and encouraged one another with bold words and shouts of valor. Shoulder to shoulder we stood against the squirming, writhing, noisome onslaught. Stroke by stroke we bettered them. We might have overcome them completely, but there were too many, and darkness was coming on.

As the light began to fail, it became more difficult to see the wretches. Yet they seemed to experience no trouble seeing us.

Indeed, their strokes became more accurate as ours grew less so. Their assault strengthened while our defenses began to falter.

The reason was obvious: Darkness was their element. They could see in the dark. They had attacked Sycharth and the other strongholds in the dead of night. They could strike us in the darkness before we knew thз blow was coming. Even so, we fought on long after it was foolhardy to do so. And we suffered for it.

As the deep Sollen darkness finally claimed the mountain pass, and the howl of the wind drowned out the cries of the Coranyid, Paladyr turned to the prince. «I am no coward, but I cannot fight what I cannot see.»

«Nor can I,» Prince Meldron replied. «By all means, let us save some to fight tomorrow.»

Retreat on the twisting mountain path in the dark was difficult. We struggled upward, feeling our way towards the stout gates and high stone walls of Findargad. Never .was I more grateful for a heavy gate at my back than on that night as I tumbled into the fortress yard, to be met by kinsmen bearing dry cloaks and cups of steaming ale. They pried the weapons from our stiff fmgers and pressed warm cups into our hands, helping us to swallow the first gulps of the soothing drink. Those who could not stand, they carried into the hail. Those who could walk, they led.

Findargad was well stocked and provisioned. Those who had gone before us had readied everything, taking all that was needed from the fortress stores. The hail was ablaze with the light of scores of torches, and warm from the blaze of three enormous hearths. The boards before us were laden with food-though many of us were too exhausted to eat. We sat on benches before the hearth, hunched like old men over our ale, clutching our cups to our chests, sipping the lifekindling liquid.

The king moved among his warriors, Tegid by his side, lauding their bravery, praising their skill, offering each the word required to restore strength of arm and renew courage of heart. Meidryn Mawr had not fought beside his men, but he had watched the battle from the rampart until darkness stole the sight from his eyes.

When they caine to me, Tegid said, «The king wishes meto – –tell you that he marked your courage. It was the saving of many lives.»

«Great King, I am sorry I could not do more,» I answered, for truly I never felt less like a hero than I did then. «Perhaps, if 1 had not run with the others, we might have prevailed against them. As it is, I did nothing your own son did not do.»

King Meldryn whispered something in Tegid's ear, and the bard spoke it out to me. «Though you may not know it, you have done something the prince did not do. You have stood by your king in all loyalty when others did not. Even the prince cannot boast as much. This is accorded to your renown: you have never dishonored your king through disobedience.»

They moved on. I was too tired to take in the full meaning of the king's words then, but soon I would have cause to brood long over them. And I would learn to rue every syllable.