Whispering Woods

CHAPTER 10

Gull had two obligations in life: tend his sister and tend his livestock.

Slipping his bow over a naked shoulder, snatching his axe back from Lily, he vaulted onto the chuck wagon seat. He almost bashed heads with Greensleeves, sleepily fumbling past the curtain. Palming her crown, he mashed her back inside. "Stay!" The harsh tone penetrated even her befogged brain.

Then he hopped off the wagon and ran for his other charges.

The big cats-lions, Chad called them-had pulled down that brown cob. Though hard to see in shifting moonlight and shadows, Gull thought they'd hamstrung it or broken its back: the horse whinnied in terror while staying sprawled. One kill assured, the lionesses loped to the hunt again. Evidently they'd cripple half a dozen before feeding, as a fox would tear through a henhouse, then drag one home.

The cats fanned out in a three-quarter circle. The pincer movement forced the herd back against a granite shelf, a temporary pen. Gull took note. These lions were canny.

He remembered something else. Protecting the herd during a wizards' duel had gotten Towser's previous freighter killed.

There were eight or nine beasts spread out among the charred trunks. A big male with a black mane was out of the fight, for he spun in circles, snapping and pawing at the shaft lodged behind his shoulder. There were two more males, young and scrawny, and five or six lengthy females. From what he knew of cats, Gull guessed the lionesses were the more dangerous.

All were poised to tear into his animals like pigs through corn.

Don't rush. Shoot first, he told himself. Close only if necessary.

Huffing to a halt, he nocked a long arrow. A head shot would do little-they probably had skulls like oxen. Aiming in splintered moonlight, as if shooting through water, he lined on a female's belly and loosed. He heard a tuk as the arrow slapped into her. Startled, she hopped, then rolled, hissing and spitting. Gull heard the arrow shaft snap.

That made two heart shots on these lions, he thought grimly, and neither was dead yet. They were hard to kill.

And quick to anger.

The wounded male, old and wise, had fathomed the connection between the stings and the man with the weapon. Roaring, he whirled and charged the woodcutter.

Gull gawped. The beast came on faster than a horse, almost flying in great body-length bounds.

The woodcutter could never outrun him, or even duck behind a tree.

Dropping his bow, he snatched up his heavy axe, looped it back.

Just in time.

The golden lion filled his vision. Timing, cursing, Gull swung with all his might and prayed not to miss.

Or perhaps he should.

With a sickening crunch, the axe smacked the bony skull. Like rapping a rock. Gull got a glimpse of the long blade edge biting into the lion's brow, forehead, and eye, shearing skin and hair, then bouncing free. The shock of the blow rippled through Gull's arms, numbing them to the pits.

It didn't even slow the beast.

The lion hit like an avalanche-so many blows so fast Gull couldn't begin to count them, and all knocked him spinning.

A paw big as a dinner plate slammed him half around, raking his shoulder with a trio of razor-sharp claws. Only his full quiver of thick rawhide kept him from losing meat, and the bundle was ripped clean off his back. The huge bleeding head banged into his. Whiskery jaws rasped skin from his forehead. A chest big as a barrel bowled him over. Reek of cat sweat and ammonia gagged him.

Clutching his axe, his only hope, Gull curled into a ball as he bounced on turf five feet away. A back leg clipped his rump as as the lion sailed over him. Winded by twin blows, Gull gasped for air. Rubbing his chest, he found it sticky-slick.

Why the beast hadn't dug in claws and clamped down Gull couldn't guess, unless it was dazed by the head blow. He only knew he still lived.

For a few seconds, anyway.

Wheezing, he spun for the next attack.

Even on velvet paws, the lion shook the ground when it landed. Snarling, it wheeled. Gull got his bloodied axe up. Blood poured from the beast's brow, and a flap of skin hung over the split eye. Still, Gull knew, head wounds bled like mad but rarely killed anyone. So it must be with a lion.

Hobbling on his bad knee, which he'd wracked somehow, Gull sidled to the lion's blind side. The beast coughed as if spitting a hairball. Probably drawing wind for another lunge.

"Why not-forget it…" Gull panted.

The cat squatted. Gull knew what came next. He felt like a mouse trapped in a barn.

Springing from its back legs, the lion leaped, paws up to pin him.

Heaving so hard his gut felt to burst, Gull slashed upward to catch the lion under the chin, or in the throat. But a thick forepaw deflected the blow. Off-balance, the swipe and his own momentum pitched Gull to the ground.

Pain seared as he smacked on his lacerated shoulder. Dirt blew into his nose, stinging, itching. Loam and ash stuck to sweat and blood. Hot blood trickled into his eyes from his forehead scrape. His head rang.

Never mind! he thought wildly. Where was the damned lion?

A dozen feet away, limping, was where. Gull had broken or sprained its forepaw with his swing.

"Now we're even!" he growled. Both crippled and half-blind.

The wounded paw matched the blind side, so the cat stumbled at every step. Fighting for breath, it circled, as did the man.

Then, growling in menace, the lion hopped three-legged back to its pride.

Lions are smarter than people, Gull thought. They don't fight to the death.

Yet the shrill of horses and bray of mules whipped his head up.

The lionesses had ripped into the herd, raking, biting, batting the hobbled animals with sheer talons.

The battle wasn't over yet. It had barely begun.

Exhausted, outnumbered, and overwhelmed, Gull knew he couldn't fight them all.

Yet he had to drive the lions from the herd.

Maybe a bluff would work. Animals hated loud noises.

Hefting his axe in one hand, his longbow in the other, he waved both as he charged, shouting. He hoped he wasn't attacked by a half dozen hungry carnivores.

"Yaaah! Hya-yaah! Git! Git! Git a move on! Hya-yaah!"

It worked, at least for the moment.

Lions, male and female, shied as the crazy human rushed amongst them. Horses, front legs tethered by leather hobbles, hopped and reared frantically. Lions growled, butted heads, scuttled backward. Gull pushed his luck by swatting a slow cat on the rump. Then he shoved past a gray mule, ducked under a dappled mare's head, and hid amidst panicked horseflesh.

Instinctively, Gull consoled the stock, patted noses. The horses mashed together, noses in, nudging and banging his ribs. The lions milled just outside the herd. Knothead, the mule, brushed them back by kicking a lioness. Clopped in the jaw, she recoiled.

There was a moment of deadly calm. Lions growled like distant thunder. Horses shivered and stamped like trees in a high wind.

For a few moments, Gull hoped the lions would retreat, be content to eat the brown cob: the young males already licked blood from its twitching flanks. He could use a rest: he bled in three places: forehead, shoulder, and tail. Yet the lions circled like vultures, tightening the noose. Startled horses banged one another and generated more panic.

The calm couldn't last.

If the lions did charge, they'd cripple or kill a dozen. Better to sacrifice a few. He guessed.

Cursing, Gull grasped his axe at the head. He hadn't room to stoop and untie the braided leather hobbles, and amidst skittish horses he'd only get brained by a hoof.

Knothead could fend for himself. He deserved to be eaten anyway, for as Gull bent, the ingrate nipped off a hank of hair.

The axe head dropped between the knobby knees and deadly hooves, cut through the hobble. Gull chopped more tethers. He'd be forever making new tack, he thought grimly, if he survived the night and had any stock left.

The axe thumped, horses and mules jumped, lions prowled, testing the herd's courage. Gull sweated and chopped and ate dirt and horse sweat as he fumbled in blackness amidst stamping feet. Somehow he managed not to cut his own feet, and skinned only a couple of fetlocks.

One by one, the animals discovered they were free. Snorting, they fought twin urges: to stay with the herd or to run.

Knothead decided them by suddenly wheeling and loping off, ungainly as a cow. Flossy followed, then one horse, then another. Soon all were running free, and Gull had to clutch bridles to cut the last four hobbles. The stock thrummed south, the shortest distance to unburned forest, and Gull swatted the last gelding to fire it along.

Sweating, he mopped his face with a bloody hand.

And realized he was alone with hungry lions and no cover.

But the lions dispersed. Four lionesses bounded after the horses, seeing which would fall behind and die. The young males had ripped open the brown cob's side, strewn liver and lights and guts that glistened in the moonlight. They squabbled over chunks of the poor beast like piglets at the teat. The big lion Gull had shot and axed had collapsed, flat on its side like a rug.

Gull hunted his bow, found the string broken. He'd lost his quiver anyway, so tossed the bow. Wasting no time, he slipped around a ravaged birch copse, then dashed for the wagons.

Where the noise had increased. Screams, shouts, curses, the clash of steel on steel.

A troop of black-clad cavalry attacked the wagons.

Horses, tack, cloaks, visored helmets-all were black. The visors were raised to reveal the invaders' black-bearded faces. Only their shields sported color, half-silver with a laughing demon's face at the center.

There were, Gull puffed and counted, ten or twelve, ahorse, armored, and armed. Towser's four fighters were children by comparison. Curved sabers rattled at the black riders' sides. Yet what they wielded were ropes tipped with steel grapnels.

The knights thundered in a tight circle around the train-Gull was reminded of the lions' attack-black phantoms against a black sky, hooting orders or taunts or encouragement to fellows. They spun the lines overhead. The grapnels rattled and hissed, proving the last three feet to be chain, impervious to sword cuts.

Most of Towser's retinue must be cowering in the wagon, for only the four bodyguards braced for attack. Oles lined up his crossbow and shot, but the quarrel thudded into a shield. (The woodcutter surmised the shields were some very hard wood: hickory or rowan or iron wood.) A swinging grapnel either clipped Chad in the head, knocking him down, or he'd ducked violently. Kem scooted under a wagon, slashed with his short sword at a horse's leg, but the prime animal skipped aside without jostling its rider. Without losing a swing, that knight whipped out his saber and slashed for Kem's head. The bodyguard dived backward as the heavy blade chipped oak.

Only Morven was effective. Veteran of rolling battles on the high seas, the sailor calmly perched on a wagon seat, aimed his crossbow, timed his shot. The whirling marauders made confusing targets, but one suddenly whooped, bowled out of the saddle by a bolt slamming his face.

Helpless alongside a tree trunk, Gull fumed. He lacked his longbow, couldn't attack with his axe, couldn't get to the wagons. He scooted for a rock to heave, found none. Shivan Dragon, what to do?

And what were the horsemen after?

With a shout, three riders hooked their talons into the men's wagon. Cinching the lines to saddle pommels, they barked at their horses, who backpedaled neatly. One grapnel ripped loose of the canvas and skittered across the ground. But the other two bit deep.

The wagon jerked, creaked, rattled, tipped on two wheels.

The bodyguards shouted to get clear. Oles shot again, low, and a horse shrilled.

With a heave, the wagon crashed on its side.

It left a gap in the circle. Two invaders took it, charging in abreast.

Gull grabbed dirt, swiped grit up and down his slick axe handle.

Now came the killing. Of Towser's people, like fish in a barrel.

Two knights and chargers was a lot of man and horse. The riders found themselves in a tighter hole than they'd envisioned. Despite the heat of battle, Gull's flesh crawled. These strange-croaking men wheeled their animals like one flesh-like the centaurs Helki and Holleb.

Good thing, Gull thought, he was too busy to be scared.

For he charged the circle himself.

The two knights, brave, stupid, or glory-mad, spun their chargers, forcing back the bodyguards, chivying them to hide under the wagons. Flailing with long, curved sabers, they slashed canvas, wood, ropes, everything with their steely touch.

The outer riders, the woodcutter saw, resumed their circuit, grapnels whirling. So, he presumed, the centermost knights were to discourage crossbow shots as the others-what?-latched to another wagon further to destroy the train?

What did they want? Towser? And where was he, the cowardly bastard? This was his beknighted troupe!

Timing his rush, Gull dashed for a gap between a horse's head and the end of the flopped wagon. He hoped his throbbing knee didn't kick out and flop him.

But, like magic, a black horse rushed, slid next to a wagon close enough to brush a feed bag, and cut him off. Gull gasped. These knights could almost make their horses fly!

With a slither, the man drew a saber. He shouted something: a challenge? taunt? Other riders sheared off, widening their circle.

Trapped between walls of horseflesh, Gull cursed. He had his dirty axe and nothing else.

The knight glared down, the whites of his eyes bright above a black beard, snapped the reins to halt the horse almost on top of Gull. Maybe the horses were trained to trample infantry, yet another killing method. Either way, the rider hoisted his saber to the sky. From that great height, he'd split Gull like a chicken.

Ducking instinctively, Gull jumped close by the horse's head. As he hoped, the knight was reluctant to swipe near his mount's ear, so slashed for Gull's exposed shoulder.

Gull threw up his axe, sideways, to catch the blow on the haft. Instead the saber clanged on the steel head, so loudly it was painful. Sparks flew, blinding in the blackness. The impact made Gull's fingers tingle. With a curse, the saber flashed up, silver in the moonlight, poised for another swipe.

Needing to do something, the muleskinner punched the horse in its big brown eye. It squealed and flinched. The rider jiggled in the saddle, lost his upthrust. Encouraged, Gull rapped the horse's sensitive mouth. The beast flipped its head aside. Again the rider was jostled.

Why not? Gull thought. He dropped his axe and lunged.

With a forked hand, he banged the rider's boot at the ankle, straight back, brushed it clear of the stirrup. The man shouted in surprise, and Gull jerked savagely on the ankle, his wounded shoulder burning like fury. The knight smashed down his saber guard at Gull's head, but he had to twist or dislocate his ankle. Stiff-legged, his rump left the seat -and Gull heaved.

With a squawk, then a rattly crash, the knight slammed the turf.

Gull could have crowed with battle lust and laughter, but a circling rider cut his humor short. The woodcutter ducked a sizzling stroke that would have decapitated him. He snatched up his axe. The fallen knight scrambled up on the far side of the horse.

What now? A saber-axe duel in the dark? With an expert?

"No, thank you!" Gull called.

Fumbling, he gathered the black horse's reins, clucked encouragingly, then backstepped through the gap in the wagon train.

With the horse as a shield, the black riders outside couldn't close. In black silhouette, Gull saw the felled man call, grab his comrade's hand, swing up behind the saddle. They were fine riders, Gull had to admit.

The woodcutter hauled the skittish horse into the middle space. He called, "It's Gull! Gull!" so he wouldn't get shot.

"Who needs ya?" came a surly growl. Kem, welcoming him home. Gull could have laughed. But there was a tremendous thrashing in the center of the wagon train. Images tumbled in Gull's mind: he tried to recall the danger.

Hurriedly, he lashed the dark reins to a chuck wagon wheel. Instinctively, he talked to the animal.

A cooing came to his ears. Hearing his voice, Greensleeves had shoved aside the wagon curtain. Gull shook his axe, hissed, "Get back inside! Inside! It's too-oh, my…"

Three more riders shouted, whirled and flung grapnels. Steel talons bit deep into painted wood, snugged tight.

The chuck wagon rocked. Inside, Felda screamed. Curious, Greensleeves craned out even farther.

Then she bleated like a lamb. The wagon tilted on two wheels.

"Nooooo!!!" howled Gull.

Gull snatched for his sister's arm and missed. The girl was bumped from behind as Felda, the fat cook, fought to jump out. Greensleeves tumbled into the footwell of the wagon seat.

The wagon tilted higher. The black horse lashed to the wheel snorted, then squealed in terror as its jaw was hoicked into the air. Gull grabbed the wheel to throw his weight on this side, but freed, the wheel spun and he fell.

At the end of the wagon, Morven caught canvas and hung on, stalling the tipover. A rider barked at his own mount, no doubt to pull harder. Hampered by his heavy axe, his shoulder burning as if lightning-struck, Gull caught hold of a side and clung desperately, dragging the wagon back down.

But a saber blade slammed wood near his head, and he had to drop.

He'd forgotten the two knights inside the circle.

It was too late to dodge, for the saber descended again, a silver sliver like a new moon. Gull raised his axe.

Too late.

Instead of striking, the knight arched and twisted, flailed his arm wildly, pitched half out of the saddle. His blade slammed the canted wagon wheel, whacked an iron chip from the rim.

Supported by only a stirrup, the knight hung in the saddle. He seemed unable to grab anything, as if palsied. His head twitched from invisible slaps. The other knight in the cramped circle acted the same.

Gull stared. Whence came this affliction? And where had Gull seen it before?

Then he remembered. It had happened to him!

Quickly, he cast about. Towser's wagon. The magician was framed against the silver sky, stripes burning white and black. In one hand was the scepter he'd used on Gull, that which "turned attacks aside."

Gull knew how. It spasmed your muscles.

For a short time.

Even now, the knight jerkily dragged himself back into the saddle. But he'd lost his saber. The other marauder kept his seat. But neither man was attacked, and Gull wondered if Towser had also palsied his bodyguards.

No matter. He whirled to grab at the chuck wagon again.

Too late.

Despite the weight of Morven and the lashed horse, the wagon creaked, shuddered, then crashed onto its side.

Felda's scream ended as something crashed atop her. Greensleeves spun, light as thistledown, and rolled in the dirt. The three knights had dropped their lines, but the girl's sudden appearance underfoot spooked the black horses, who shied.

With the wagon flopped over, Towser had a clear line of sight. Waving his wand, he shot his spell.

A rider howled as muscles cramped. Even the horse threw its head, and the knight toppled from the saddle. Another's arm cramped so hard he dragged his horse half 'round, and the beast bolted as if from bee stings. The third man, seeing the silhouette of a wizard pointing a wand, reared his horse for partial protection, backed it expertly.

"Use the rock hydra!" shouted Gull. "It'd terrify the horses!"

"Hydras are day beasts! They need sun to fight!" Towser snarled, "Keep your advice, pawn!"

The backing knight let his horse drop to all fours. Out of the wand's range, he called some garbled phrase, an insult. The wizard shrilled back-the first time Gull had seen him angry. The knight laughed. Behind Towser, a vision in white poked out its head: a dancing girl, too curious for her own good.

Knights had scampered out of range to regain their saddles. With a mock salute, the laughing horseman, their captain perhaps, barked to his comrades. Kicking their heels, they made to ride off.

"We just let them go?" Gull asked the air.

Then he ducked.

Rather than circle the wagons, the boisterous knights charged the gap. Hooting, laughing, they thundered through the center as bodyguards scrambled. One snatched the reins of the lashed horse, but failed to jerk them loose and let go.

Towser jumped for the safety of his wagon interior. Gull heard the canvas curtain tear.

Someone was too slow.

The ghostly white figure stood abandoned on the wagon seat.

As the black captain's horse vaulted the wagon tongue, the man hooked the dancing girl.

With a squall, she slammed across the saddle, belly down. She kicked and squirmed, but a gloved fist bashed her neck and stunned her.

Laughing, the black captain rallied his troops. Like a murder of crows, they flocked together, he with a prize, the rest with bruises and wounds. Chopped loam dotted the air behind them.

By then Gull had realized.

"Lily!"