Untitled Novel

Prologue


It was the Before Time. A time of peace and prosperity. For a thousand years men, women and children had lived their lives simply and quietly. There were no wars, no poverty and no starvation. Sickness was rare and the people of Galiana lived long and happy lives. The fields were green and fruitful; the bounty it provided was plentiful. No-one went to bed at night knowing the gnawing pangs of hunger.

Across the land the hundreds of villages and towns lived in harmony. Children laughed and played from dawn till dusk and, they then gathered with their elders, below the twin moons of Galiana which continuously blessed them with their light. They had listened to the joyous harmonies echoing eternally into the velvet darkness. As soon as they reached puberty their voices would also resonate majestically into the night as they celebrated the wondrous gifts they had received, and praising their beloved Gods. They worshipped at shrines to the Old Ones. Powerful, magical beings, which had spread their seed and knowledge hundreds of years earlier, before moving away. On rare occasions special children were born, delicate and fey, with pointed ears and violet eyes, these children in turn renewed the faith and knowledge which had been gradually lost, as these children were born with the genetic memory of their forefathers. But, slowly, these children had virtually disappeared and, after many hundreds of years were forgotten by most of the land. Isolated villages on the edge of civilization became the most devout, and it was in these places that the faith remained the strongest.

The wisdom of the Old Ones had been imparted to the then simple village leaders, in mystical ceremonies, which became embedded into the depths of their psyche. They became the early priests, who, in turn taught the generations of children who followed. And, as happens with the repeated telling of the stories they became distorted and gradually the memories were slowly forgotten by all but the most faithful and dedicated of their brethren.

Many hundreds of years had past when suddenly the idyllic lifestyle was broken. Beacon fires were lit across the land. Red- coloured smoke was seen spreading across the skies. Exhausted runners arrived and word spread like wildfire of the Unbelievers who came. They were described as tall, bronze skinned alien savages, who desecrated everything which lay before them, as a plague of locusts. Convocation was hurriedly called and any priest able to attend hastened to the sacred caverns of the Gryph. For a week these priests had laboured underground trying to cast the strongest of magic to protect their people but word kept coming back of the unstoppable onslaught. Eventually, they decided they must hide their most precious relics and treasures and submit, for now, to the strangers. They needed more information before they could make any plans. Where had these savages come from? They called themselves the armies of Qol, and the peoples of Galiana had never seen men like this before.
Within six months the land was covered with the blood of slaughtered innocents. A pall of smoke covered the skies where buildings burnt in the wake of the advancing armies. After a year the land was unrecognizable, the paradise had gone and a dusty barren waste was left behind them.

Slaves were gathered and chained to follow in the wake of their new masters. Anyone who resisted was beaten viciously and staked under the hot burning sun. Few were left behind, the old and infirm, young children. Yet, the invaders realised that for them to survive they must eat, and the cultivated plantations must be maintained at all cost. So to reward their men the land was gradually divided and, as the warriors surged forth, they left behind overseers. These were usually men who had shown unswerving loyalty to their liege lords. This was to be their reward. They wrought then to maintain the fields and herds which hadn't been destroyed, and to make a stable base for their leaders, to rebuild buildings and keep order.

Markets were held and the overseers had bartered amongst themselves for the slaves still capable enough to work in either the fields, or with the making of clay bricks. New shelter must be built before winter arrived and everyone froze to death. These unfortunates then toiled from dawn till dusk, working until they collapsed into a restless slumber at the end of each day. The survivors had whispered amongst themselves in the dark. The priests who were lucky enough to have been hidden were consulted and gradually a plan was formed. It was decided to send out Seekers. To look for the Old Ones. The forgotten benefactors who had settled the people ten generations ago.

For although their signs had been disregarded and forgotten as myths and legends, there were still traces of them. No-one had followed in their footsteps for many years. The older priests had tried to urge their flock into renewing an interest in the histories, but, as children are wont to do, they had laughed and continued to play. Eventually after many moons a decision was made. Eight of the faithful were chosen. Eight because it was the magical number of the old ones. These were the strongest and fittest of the people left behind. The eight still had youthful vigour on their sides, something which they would need in the long days to come.

In the quiet depths of the hidden underground catacombs they were shown secrets which had been forgotten except by the few priests who survived and watched over them. The priests were old and wise in ways their flock knew nothing about. They chanted and sang over the largest Holy stone which had been hurriedly hidden here. The runes on the sides flared brightly and living maps appeared: writhing through the air, with a mysterious red glow surrounding them, before briefly touching their bodies. They had gagged on the cloths which had been forced in their mouths to muffle their screams, no-one must hear them or all would be lost. An enormous cover stone was laboriously pushed away from a cave which contained scrolls and the few precious relics that had survived the desecration. The scrolls were reverently unwrapped and studied carefully. Kneeling together in a circle, heads bowed. They prayed for guidance and courage. The priests stood over them chanting the Old language.

Slowly all became aware of the thickening of the air and a luminescent green glow began to envelop them. The living maps began to writhe on their bodies and as they stared in amazement details were filled in. A trail was marked and they smiled triumphantly that the Old Ones had given them a further sign; they believed it to be a good omen and fell to their knees to pray.

Slipping away quietly in the night, they stifled anxious whispers from their loved ones, neighbours and friends as they evaded the sentries. Fervent prayers were muttered that the invaders were too lost in drink and sleep to hear their escape. For months after the Seekers left, their friends and family were put to work in the fields. Every day they murmured 'Today we will be saved, today they will return', and at the setting of the sun as they dragged their weary body’s home they prayed for the strength to continue.

Finally the prayers stopped. The Old Ones had really gone and there was to be no rescue. Or so they believed...........




Day One
The coastal people of Galiana who had survived the initial onslaught from the invaders had fled to spread the word across the land. Initially they had stood on the beaches and watched in excitement and awe as the huge armada of sailing ships had first breeched the horizon. Massive black sails had fluttered in the breeze, an unknown to them as yet red and gold device embroidered on them all.

The elders had been advised that visitors would be with them soon and they too had wandered out to the beach, shading their eyes to view the ships which were now rapidly nearing the furthest outcropping of land. Hekti, the female chief came out to inspect them and, placing her hands on her ample hips viewed the scene before her. She smiled widely at her friends and relatives; there would be a party, a feast. She could organise a most elaborate party in no time at all and everyone would attend. There was a deadly barrier of rocks fifteen miles from the shore which had never been breached so excited discussions were held as to how they might aid the visitors. With much laughter and consulting they finally decided that praying to the Old Ones had always worked in the past and would be the best way they could help. Hekti raised her arms skywards before murmuring softly under her breath a quick blessing; they all smiled broadly again and gone back to their preparations

Eight huge fires had been rapidly built, each with eight suckling pigs placed on the massive spits; spear fishermen stood up to their waist in the warm salt water, lines stretched out behind them where they hung their catch. When the lines were full the youngest maidens had run down to gather them and take them away for cleaning before stringing over smaller fires for cooking. Coconuts, pineapples and plantains were gathered from the tallest trees by nimble lads eager to climb and see if they could distinguish any more about the visitors from the higher vantage points; a hasty feast of epic proportions was rapidly approaching,

Finally as night began to draw nearer a booming noise was heard far out on the reef, and shortly thereafter word came down that the ships had negotiated the deadly rocks and were just a few miles away. Everyone rejoiced as this was a time to celebrate. Moonrise was upon them and it was deemed to be lucky to have visitors arrive as the singing began. In a ritual as old as time the men and women separated and lined the beaches, small children as always safely in the centre where many eyes could watch them.

Gali began his stately ascent into the night sky as a lone male voice began; his pride in beginning the singing gave his voice stronger overtones which pleased the others with him. A female to his left joined in, her voice countering his and he turned and bowed acknowledging her accompaniment, gradually the night was filled with harmony. Ana peeped over the edge of the horizon as the first ship drew parallel with the singing crowd; everyone smiled their pleasure as they looked over the water at the huge craft moored there. Gradually the other ships drew near and anchored in perfectly straight lines along the coast. The Galiana' e rejoiced triumphant that they were in harmony with the world, their voices echoing and reverberating for hundreds of miles. In distant towns and villages the echoes reached them and they knew that something special was happening; this too strengthened their voices and they too carried out their singing in the most magnificent manner than had been heard in many years.

On the coast the echoes were slowly ceasing; the people were anxious to greet their guests and were disappointed they had not come ashore at the climax of the performance. Still the ships rocked gently, firmly anchored they dwarfed the usual fishing craft which sailed along the shoreline; a string of small flags was hoisted high in the air above the fleet from the central ship. A faint noise was heard from further down the coast and they castigated themselves for not anticipating that the visitors had wanted a quiet landing to get their sea legs accustomed to walking on dry land again. Laughing they began to light torches and turned to go towards them when another noise was heard upland; in puzzlement now they looked to Hekti who had raised her shoulders shrugging, the ways of outlanders were strange to them but, both groups must be greeted properly. She busily divided the people into three groups, one for down one for up and she and some of her friends would remain tending the fires and ensuring that the food did not burn.

They had only gone a few steps when a strange whooshing noise had been heard and at least twenty of the people had suddenly dropped to the floor, a bemused expression on most of their faces. The whoosh came again and more people fell, Hekti amongst them. As she landed in the soft sand she was conscious of a strange feeling in her abdomen, a slight cramp, which as she reached her hand to touch herself, coalesced into a sharp agonising pain. Embedded in her stomach was an arrow, the end of its shaft fletched with feathers dyed red and gold. Hekti has gasped at the pain before falling face down into the sand, her eyes wide open in death, as the poison in which the arrows had been dipped was very fast working. Again and again the whooshing noise came through the night air. Gradually the survivors had realised that they were under attack, and had fled screaming into the night, the huge fires now showing their escape routes to the as yet unseen assailants.

Ten minutes was all the time needed to slaughter over three thousand men, women and children. No-one was safe from the hail of death. If they remained behind then an arrow would find them within seconds. The beach soon emptied of the living; the only sign something was untoward was the smell of burning food and the mass of bodies spread thickly across the beach.

For long minutes there was nothing but silence then the sound of multiple small boats splashing in the water filled the night. They were filled with tall man; their heads and faces shrouded with black leather masks, they each held a sword and a shield; the shields were painted with the same red and gold device which as yet was unknown on Galiana. Swiftly they took their allocated seats in the vessels and watched as the oarsmen began to row; no one missed a stroke as their powerful muscles flexed in time to the beat of a small drum, hurtling the boat towards the shore. Upon reaching the shore the soldiers disembarked with their swords at the ready whilst the boat returned to the ship for more men.

All through the night the small boats ferried men to shore; they stood strong and silent never speaking, constantly alert for any sign of danger. Finally a full half of the assembled armies of the Qol stood waiting for further instructions from the High Warlord and his group of advisors. A number of the silent men had cast uneasy looks around as they landed. They had been forcibly conscripted into the military and this was their first campaign. The older, seasoned men had watched as they prepared for landing; polishing their leather accoutrements, honing their blades until a scrap of paper falling on them would be sliced cleanly in half, a testament to its sharpness. The grizzled soldiers had exchanging speaking glances before shaking their heads in dismay at the enthusiasm and naiveté of the new recruits.

It was a new campaign and was purported to be glorious. Within the first few hours of landing the virgin swords would have been thoroughly blooded; many of the greenhorns would possibly have gained injuries or passed to the other side. The veterans knew that some of their new colleagues would emerge stronger and victorious and others would fall on the way and get trampled underfoot, and be gradually forgotten. Only the highest achievers would ever gain advancement and recognition in the warlord’s armies.

Lining up on the beach Akhri had looked around him. According to his sergeant they would be under fire from their enemies as they landed; the shields were large enough to be raised overhead to hold of arrows, possibly flaming brands which would inflict grievous injuries on the unwary. There were no arrows. No flaming brands. No hostile enemy forces screaming for their blood. Something felt very wrong to him. He risked looking across at the next man, Hahmon; they had been bunk mates on the long journey. Both men softly whispering stories of their homes and families prior to their new lives as soldiers.

Hahmon felt the questioning gaze and gave an imperceptible shrug, he too mistrusted the situation. On first espying the huge fires which lit up the night sky, he had felt a shiver down his spine. There were thousands of people there and he was certain he would die as soon as he reached dry land. After a while he had become aware of the sweet singing which filled the air. That did not sound like people preparing to obliterate the warlord and his men from the face of the earth. He had looked for Akhri then but been unable to reach him through the oarsmen stood on deck. When they were in the landing boat he dared not speak out then; sounds carried further over water and he did not want to bring the wrath of his superiors on his head.

There was an undercurrent of restlessness spreading along the beach; most of the men had been fired up for battle and the sense of anti-climax was causing bitter and vengeful feelings to expand, these feelings if left unchecked would cause an internal conflagration amongst the ranks. The sergeants had stood watching their precision trained men perform beautifully then... nothing. No ravening hordes, no armies to fight. Anxiously they began to wander up and down, barking commands out about loosened buckles and unpolished leathers; discipline being the usual panacea for all that ailed them.

Aboard the central ship the High Warlord sat with his legs crossed watching his advisors as they discussed the events of the evening. His face as if carved from granite, impassive and showing no sign of the thoughts which flowed through him.

Day Two
Banya ran until his feet bled; his eyes blurred with fatigue and his parched tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, the cowrie shell necklace he wore rattling with every step he took away from the beach where he had just fallen over the bodies of his friends and family.
The long grass hid him from sight now he was away from the huge fires. He twisted his neck and looked around hastily for any sign he had been seen and was being followed. Silence from all around let him eventually slow his pace and finally halt, bending over at the waist to ease the cramps in his belly.
Seconds later he vomited the food he had happily consumed earlier that evening, vomited until his legs gave way and he collapsed near the noxious liquid. His throat burned as he forced air into his tortured lungs, striving to decide on his next course of action. Dry racking sobs shook his slender frame; the youth was just turned seventeen and had never seen death before.
Moaning in anguish he jumped to his feet and after looking around to get his bearings set off again, his pace more temperate but no less urgent. The trail was faint, originally started by an animal perhaps but he was happy to follow anything which led away from the nightmare behind him.
Occasionally a large furry moth flew across him causing his arms to break the pattern as he waved them out of his face. Tiny insects flew up from the vegetation his feet disturbed, attracting huge bats eager to consume their dinner.
Gryph. He had to get to Gryph. The Council of Elders and Priests was due to hold the annual Convocation within the next week. If he could get there before it was over they could warn the rest of his people. He stopped again and looked around; he needed to go further to the west if he was to reach Gryph in time. He had been taken there once before to visit his uncle Finn, a trainee healer. It was less than two years since that journey so he was fairly certain he could find his way again.
Running at a steadier pace Banya kept to the clearer paths; as yet there was no sign the invaders had seen him and were following. At each small croft or village he would beg food and drink whilst explaining what had happened at the beach.
Most people had laughed their disbelief at first, but Banya was a clever youth and had pulled one of the strange things out of Hekti’s lifeless body to prove that what he said was truth.
A strange long thin piece of wood with dyed red and black feathers at one end led to a sharp metal piece at the other. Covered in Hekti’s blood it silenced the most skeptical of his people.
When he left these places the people were packing whatever belongings they could onto wagons or handcarts, moving towards the higher ground which they hoped would protect them. They also lit warning fires; these were usually lit to signal floods or fires, now they burned to signal a disaster they had never seen the likes of before.
Finally as the sun began to set he realised he would have to rest, tend to his bleeding sore feet, sleep if at all possible. He had been awake for over twenty four hours, his eyes were gritty with tiredness and he knew he could not go any further.
A clearing ahead drew him and he sank gratefully to his knees, and then leant on a small rocky outcropping as he caught his breath. Sipping from his waterskin he tried to blank his mind to the memories of the evening before. His mother, father and sister all dead; sightless eyes staring into the night sky. Hekti his aunt and elder, her long flaming locks spread over the sand, he had rolled her onto her back and gaped at the thing buried deep in the ample flesh of her belly. Forcing himself to pull it out he had put it into the pack he always carried.
Scavenger by nature, many things abandoned by their previous owners found their way into his pack every day; this instrument of death was necessary for people to believe him. A sob choked him and he ruthlessly pushed the memories away. When he reached Gryph he could grieve only then and not before.
Rolling onto his side, too tired to attempt making a fire, too frightened to make one anyway in case his escape had been noticed Banya closed his eyes trying to sleep. So many images flashed through his mind they stopped him from getting even ten minutes rest. He reverted to his uncle’s advice for falling asleep and began to count backwards from one hundred. By the time he had restarted twice his body was beginning to relax and on the third attempt eventually drifted off. It was not a restful sleep and the demons he fought were faceless and at the moment nameless.

The High Warlord, Azhmel, looked down at the body on the deck; blood had ceased to flow when the heart had stopped beating and was now congealing thickly on the highly polished boards. The robes had changed from green to brown in colour with the staining that ensued. No sense of the distaste he felt was seen by the rest of the onlookers; as always the dark eyes were hooded and impassive. Fastidiously while wiping his blade on a proffered cloth, he snapped his fingers; within seconds the body of his former Chief Mage was removed and on his instructions, thrown overboard to feed the strange fish which occupied these waters rather than have the honourable burial which all men desired.
Azhmel beckoned to the younger mage stood trying to merge with the walls of the cabin. He was not as successful at hiding the horror he felt and his skin had taken on a sickly grayish cast. Pulling his emerald robes tighter to avoid their dragging through the gore which had not yet been cleared the man forced his feet to move until he was stood within four feet of him.
“My Lord, Sire, how…” his voice was barely a whisper; he cleared his throat ready to try again.
“I know you,” the Warlord spoke his voice cold, authorative not the sort to be contradicted.
“Yes Sire, I was able to assist with developing a small piece of equipment before the mission.” Nodding his agreement as he recalled the occasion Azhmel decided to remove the young mage away from the bloody scene, it was obvious the coppery scent of the spilled blood was nauseating him and Azhmel did not want the scent of vomit on his boots either.
Leading the way up to the top deck he watched as everyone took deep breaths clearing their lungs whilst at the same time studying him out of the corner of their eyes wondering what he would do now.
“You have by process of elimination become my new Chief Mage,” Azhmel noted how his face altered, this thought had not yet occurred to him. Straightening he cast another small bow at the Warlord,
“My thanks Sire; I had not considered myself worthy of…”
Azhmel interrupted before the youths enthusiasm got into full flow,
“Never mind your worthiness, you … what is your name?”
“Terrill, Sire,” the youth spoke swiftly eager for the Warlord to continue.
“Well then Terrill, you are now my Chief Mage and I would like to know how you are going to rectify this situation.” A look of sheer terror crossed the youth’s face and he took a step backwards colliding with Azhmel’s private servant, Geron.
“Rectify… Sire, I would need some time to look at what Master Gwinn has written before I could give you any answer. You may not be aware by Master Gwinn was a most secretive man and did not include me…” his voice tailed away at the expression which had settled on the High Warlords face.
“You don’t know how this happened?”
“Well… Sire… erm… I have to say… not exactly… erm… no.”
Turning away and moving to the prow of the boat the Warlord silently watched the scene on the beach before speaking still with his back to the Mage,
“We are here now so may as well make the best of a bad situation. I will take my men as if on a normal mission. You , you will remain behind with the rest of your acolytes; you will read every note, every scrap of paper left behind by that old fool and you will find out what went wrong and how to rectify this so we can return to our homes,” his voice never varied in tone and Terrill felt a shiver up his spine as the Warlord spoke. Before he could answer Azhmel had turned and was holding his blade directly under his chin, the sharp edge pressing into the thin skin covering his jugular vein.
“If you fail in this I will have no compunction in killing you too. Do you understand?” the last was ground out and Terrill nodded vehemently afraid to move in case the sharp blade cut deeper.
“Begone,” Azhmel waved him away and he found his legs were shaking too much to move. Someone grabbed him and encouraged him to descend with a firm push in the middle of his back. He reached out and managed to save himself from falling down the steep staircase.
Trembling violently he made his way to the lower decks, bypassing his own quarters he opened the cabin usually occupied by his former Master. A branch of candles stood in the centre of a desk illuminating numerous manuscripts and scrolls. He picked first one up, scanned a few lines and then dropped it to pick another and do the same.
None of it made any sense, he had never heard of these theories before and his heart began to pound as he realised the full enormity of the task in front of him.
Opening the door he raised his voice to get the other remaining trainee’s attention; they too were going to have to work harder than ever before to prevent the High Warlord’s wrath falling on them. Seconds later five youths even younger had assembled in front of him. He divided the papers and bade them all study the contents carefully. He would give them two hours and then question them. Any references to how Master Gwinn had brought the fleet here and how he proposed to bring them back home let him know immediately.
Eager to help four of the five left immediately but the fifth hovered in the open doorway,
“Yes Glinn, how may I help?” the youth was chewing on his lip watching him closely for his reaction.
“Might I ask Master what you are going to do now,” his tone verged on impertinence and Terrill wanted to slap the youth down but couldn’t as he didn’t know what he was going to do and advice from any source could be considered.
Leaning back in the chair he steepled his fingers before turning and watching the boy carefully,
“Have you a suggestion Glinn?” Nodding his head and entering the room the youth carefully pushed the door to before speaking,
“Down in the hold is something. I don’t know what,” he spoke quickly noting the unspoken question,
“I helped the Master bring some large crates on board the day before we departed. He bade me not to mention them but in the circumstances I thought…”
Terrill secretly agreed that this needed further investigating but not yet. Not tonight when they were all verging on exhaustion, nerves shredded anticipating their demise at the Warlords hands.
Standing he stood at the side of the youth resting his hand on a thin bony shoulder, noting an imperceptible tremor going through his body.
“Glinn, can I trust you to keep this between us. As Master Gwinn asked you to keep your silence I too need you to remain silent for a while. When the Warlord has gone I will fetch you and we can investigate together,” the younger boy nodded in agreement and finally left Terrill to his dark musings. He caught sight of his image in a mirror and stared at it, the green robes shimmered under the candlelight and his eyes, black on black no other colour showing, they made him shudder.
A necessary evil at the moment he could not wait until the strong magic which held the image in place could be dropped and his true identity revealed. Sighing he drew a large scroll from the pile left behind and unrolled it, reading slowly to ensure he did not miss anything important.
On deck Azhmel stood watching the macabre scene on the beach. His soldiers were searching everybody, retrieving arrows for his elite bowmen and looking for anything out of the ordinary. Only when they had finished were the bodies cast into the sea; the tide was going out and taking the booty to feed the great leviathans of the deep.
Geron had been on shore once and returned reporting no resistance but signs that a handful of people may have escaped. Footprints led away in all directions so he had instructed that the horses now be unloaded ready to follow, hunt down and eliminate any that would report their arrival.
Geron also reported that certain of his soldiers had been seen once more consorting with dead nubile female bodies; necrophilia was one of the few crimes he thought abhorrent and he had punished the last transgressors himself by whipping them soundly.
“Is there anything special about these women?” he drawled the question and Geron shook his head,
“No Sire,” Azhmel drew a sharp breath,
“Very well, hang the first three men you find with a body and flog the rest, ten lashes each.” Turning away he heard Geron deliver his instructions and waited until he returned.
“Get my quarters ready, I want to bathe and rest and be ashore by dawn. Ensure Fury is ready and waiting for me,” he turned back to the scene once more before leaving the deck to the rest of his retinue. His military advisors were still arguing about tactics; this world not being their intended target they were working in the dark so had to prepare for every eventuality.
Geron held his grimace back until the Warlord had gone down the stairs. The horse Fury was crossed with daemon spawn; he was convinced of it and had hoped to avoid any contact with it this time. He sent a message with a passing deck hand for the horse to be carefully unloaded before he too retired to the pallet spread on the floor outside the Warlords cabin.
He had slept outside the Warlords quarters since he had first been able to raise a sword to protect him. At eighteen he had defeated the previous protector to gain the coveted position. He was now thirty and had been unchallenged for the past four years. A chest under his bed was full from the fruits of his labour and he hoped now for a challenger so he could retire, purchase a small acreage of land and breed horses and hounds.
A wife to tend his other needs was also required and he planned that every part of him would be in good working order; to ensure that he did not go down to supervise the unloading of the horses and risk any injuries.
It had been a long day, his body was weary and it took a short while for him to lie down and close his eyes. He too was troubled though. The old mage had made a mistake and they were on the wrong world. How this had happened he did not know but a knot had settled deep inside him; would they be able to return home? The Warlord had always triumphed in the past but this – this was different and for the first time in his life a strange feeling accompanied him as he drifted into sleep. A feeling of fear.


Day Three
Banya diverted to run over a tract of land usually avoided at all costs. A dead swamp covered with a miasma of black biting gnats which made the hardiest person wish they had followed the longer route; these gnats would burrow into any orifice they could find and breed in. Once they were buried in the damp and the warmth they would hatch; after a day of frenetic feeding they would emerge into daylight and then, their host would die. The carnivorous insects were the least of his worries for, if his feet strayed too far from what was tentatively described as a path, quicksand would clutch at his limbs and pull him underneath the swampy surface. In less than five minutes all traces of any unsuspecting traveler would be eliminated.
If Banya took the shortcut through the swamp he could save at least a day of hard travelling. He was willing to sacrifice his own life so his people could prepare some form of defence against the invaders.
Bidding the family at the last croft farewell he hastily rubbed a foul smelling concoction over every inch of exposed skin. The lady of the house had assured him it would deter the gnats and other biting insects as well as protecting his skin from the burning midday sun. Her husband bid the youth to bend and fastened a thin kerchief over his face, it would give him some slight protection but not for long. He took a single waterskin and small amount of food; unable and also unwilling to carry more as the weight would slow him down.
Within half an hour he was wishing he had taken his chances with the gnats instead of the preventative potion he had been given. His skin itched and burned due to the contents of the salve rather than natural causes. He could not afford to waste the water he had left, so was forced to endure skin blistering and then festering as the sun drew higher in the sky.
He paused and sank onto a large weathered boulder which wobbled alarmingly as his weight spread across its surface. It was incongruous in the swamp; most rocks would be swallowed up within a few weeks and this looked as if it had been there for some time; his added weight became enough to dislodge whatever had been holding it up and it too sank from sight.
Taking a small sip of his precious water he held it in his mouth for long moments, moistening every surface before swallowing. A swarm of gnats besieged him and he tiredly beat them away before his eyes and nose became blocked with them. Already they had invaded his ears and he could feel them tickling as they settled and lay their eggs.
He had now less than twenty-four hours to get to safety and let a healer tend his ears. After then it would be too late; first his hearing would fail as the nymphs hatched and latched onto the rich blood supply there. Then they would rest in miniscule cocoons until they turned into the savage creatures that were now mobbing him, and then they would eat their way out, killing him in the process.
Picking his pace up he was now imbued with a sense of urgency which had not been there before. His feet once more burned and bled at the last bandages disintegrated and were lost. Overhead a bird screamed once, he cast a quick look but could not determine what it was. His eyes too were covered with the carnivorous gnats, now as his vision failed he would have to be doubly sure of where his feet were going unless he wanted to end up sucked underneath the soft swampy surface.
******
The ships cabin boy Col crept on bare feet to where Geron lay sleeping. He had been given the task of waking the big man at a specified time and was terrified of being late. The last cabin boy had disappeared after repeatedly waking everyone late and the whispers on the ship told of his being cast overboard in a fit of temper. Col sniffed anxiously; at seven years old he couldn’t swim and had a mortal fear of the vast sea outside. His father had sold him to the ship’s captain for the price of a barrel of grog two weeks earlier and this was his first official day on duty.
If he did his work properly here then he had been told it wouldn’t take him long before he worked his way into the ship’s galley. A proper kooshti job by all accounts. He sniffed again and wiped his nose on the grubby sleeve of his shirt, leaving a silvery trail behind. His eyes were gritty but he was determined to stay awake until the first grey fingers of dawn appeared.
Outside on the top deck the guards were pacing, bored as there had been no surprise attacks by the enemy, tired and hungry, it wouldn’t take much for a fight to break out amongst them.
Below decks seasoned warriors lay in hammocks, drinking their allotted share of rhum whilst they too were talking of ill-omens. Never before had they been able to land without being under attack from people intent on defending their families and homes from the High Warlord and his army.
The soldiers of Qol were legendary and had never been defeated in battle. Master sergeants had stirred their men to battle readiness for nothing and the resulting sense of anti-climax was causing bitter recriminations all around.
Akhri and Hahmon had come back on board and were huddled with the other new recruits, whispering of what had happened.
The bowmen had done their job perfectly from high in the rigging of the ships. The people on the beach had not stood a chance against the rain of death. This was where things had gone wrong though. They were supposed to have turned and counter-attacked then instead of just standing around waiting to be annihilated.
The sergeants had told them this, the captains had told them this and even the pontificating generals had told them this.
“Bad things will come of this, ver’ bad things,” Hahmon spoke softly and they all agreed with him.
Warned of an early start they had repolished their kit, honed their blades even sharper, eager to meet and test their skills against other soldiers.
Deciding that he could not sleep any longer Akhri made his way to where the horses had been stabled for the long journey. Although he was a foot soldier he had helped with the daily mucking out as every man on board had, and found that he enjoyed working with the beasts.
******
Banya risked rinsing his eyes clean he blinked tiredly, how long he had been running without rest he could not have said but he knew that his energy was almost gone. He ate the last of the bread and cheese he had been given. The insects were not interested in that which was why he had also refused the offer of cold fowl or goat meat.
The path underfoot moved and he paused and bent lower to the floor carefully examining the surface. Taking a step backwards he heaved a sigh of relief as he avoided a small patch of quicksand.
The sun had moved from overhead and was now behind him, dropping below the horizon to make way for the night. He had been running for around eighteen hours and his legs had long since lost all feeling in them. Fireflies now flew around his head their gentle glow making it easier for his poor eyes to see where he was. He realised that his nightmare journey was almost over. He stepped forwards faster now and suddenly the floor disappeared beneath his feet. The small patch he had just skirted was not the only piece of quicksand!
Cursing softly under his breath he tried to remember what he had ever heard about quicksand and how to escape its sticky clutches. The best advice he had been given was from his Uncle Finn he realised with a rueful grin. Avoid it at all costs and then you won’t get stuck.
Thanks Finn, he murmured the words as he cast a look around. He was now down to his knees and a sense of panic was building in his chest. He could not fail now, once he cleared the swamp it would only take an hour and he would reach Gryph.
Struggling to move backwards the sticky sand now moved past his knees and the very real threat of drowning caused him to flail his arms reaching for anything to try and pull himself free.
“Hold still lad we will be there momentarily,” a soft burr came to him and for a moment he believed he was hallucinating.
“Anjii” the man’s voice called again and was answered by softer feminine tones on the other side of Banya.
“One moment husband,” a new scent touched Banya, different to the sour smell of his own stale perspiration, floral and feminine it gave him a sense of hope.
“Canst see enough to catch yon rope?” the man’s voice was aimed at Banya and he croaked an affirmative reply.
He couldn’t see anyone and now the quicksand grabbed at his waist. No-one had ever told him it would be tight around his body, clutching him as if it would never let him go.
He heard the whistle of rope going through the air and the man counted to three before he released it. Banya stretched his arm out to its limit but his fingers just skimmed the rough prickly surface. The effort of moving caused the quicksand to belch before moving up to his chest where it began to crush his ribcage, forcing Banya to gasp breathlessly.
“Try this one lad” the woman, Anjii spoke and he heard another rope, this time he managed to catch it firmly and listening to the instructions softly spoken managed to drag it over his head and down to his waist. Another rope whistled through the air and this too he caught.
With both ropes securely fastened to his middle Banya waited patiently until the man spoke and told him to hold tight, and try to get onto his back and spread his weight out by lying spread-eagled on the surface.
Banya managed to move a fraction but it was not sufficient to evenly redistribute his weight. He knew that one rope had been anchored to something, its length foreshortened to prevent him sinking any further down. The other rope was to pull him out but, if they were not careful with the weight and pressure of the quicksand it could be too tight and rip the top half of his body away from the bottom.
He waited for what seemed like hours and suddenly as he was convinced he had been deserted he heard the creak of the rope before he felt it pulling on his waist. It bit tightly into the tender flesh and he held back a scream of pain. The rope stayed tight and he could visualize what they were doing; pull him up six inches and anchor the line six inches further. It would take them hours to do it that way, hours he did not have.
Another voice called out and this time when the rope bit in he moved a good eighteen inches.
“Gods, it must be a giant,” he thought the words before another pull came on the rope. This time he came clear down to his hips and finally managed to spread out, scant seconds later he was safely on the surface of the path.
******
A country boy at heart Akhri was used to working with the larger shires that were used for ploughing fields. Most of them, shires and the ones on board were gentle creatures and looked at him for a piece of carrot or apple when he visited.
Only one horse would not react to his overtures of friendship. The High Warlords own horse, Fury. If the stable master had not warned him never to turn his back on the horse then he would surely have been trampled to death, or savagely bitten.
Turning the corner his senses were assaulted from all angles. His ears registered angry shouts from sailors more used to fighting mountainous waves than terrified horses, who with one blow from a sharp hoof could split a skull open and spill a man’s brains all over the deck.
A shrill scream behind him warned of danger and he hastily turned and avoided the sharp hooves of a horse that was usually quite calm. His keen eyes saw the dangling leading rein and he lunged to catch them. It took him moments to force the horse to a halt and into the stall it had just escaped from. He was breathing heavily and the horse watched him through dark eyes before snorting gustily at him.
“Blurry fool animal,” he panted out of breath, watching as it delicately walked over to him, lipping at his hands for a treat. He produced a large carrot and snapped it feeding half to the now calm animal.
The stable master beckoned him over and thanked him for his help.
“Would you care to help with the unloading? We need as many men as possible so the animals don’t get injured,” the question was posed and he quickly agreed, it would take his mind off things and help to alleviate the boredom.
The sun was just peeping on the horizon as they looked at the shore and contemplated how to achieve the task without stressing the animals too much. In an ideal world there would have been a pier large enough to moor the ships to before leading them down a gangplank. This however was not an ideal world.
He wandered around the stern of the ship, occasionally climbing onto the sides before hanging precariously down to look below at depth of the sea. He was hanging like this and his body temporarily blocked the porthole where the boy Col was keeping watch.
Alarmed he cried out loudly waking Geron who swiftly came to his feet with his sword already drawn, prepared to defend his master from any assailants.
Looking down at the child he raised his eyebrows interrogatively and was directed to the porthole by a grubby finger. Akhri was still blocking the light examining the rear of the ship when he became aware of sharpness near his belly. Looking up he saw the tip of a blade resting just above his navel.
“Speak now or die,” Geron held his sword firmly ready to plunge it to the hilt if the answer he received was inadequate, many an assassin had been known to try and achieve his aim via windows in the past.
“Master, I be lookin’ for a way to get dem dere horses ashore widout dey be getting’ injured,” Akhri kept his voice as calm as possible, a task made all the more difficult by the blood rushing into his head causing him to go dizzy.
The blade withdrew and Geron spoke again, ordering him to wait on deck. Col had stood silently hoping he had not brought the soldiers wrath on his head and was surprised when Geron had sheathed his sword and reached a hand out tousling his hair,
“Well done boy, well done,” the praise went over Col’s head, unaware of how he had managed to please Geron he decided to remain at his side in the hope that he could again please him and avoid either a severe beating or worse.
On deck Akhri was castigating himself for getting involved in another man’s work. If he had left the stable master to solve the problem then he would not be facing the Warlords personal servant. He had recognised him immediately and could feel his bowels turn to water at the thought of his impending punishment.
Geron paused only to relieve his full bladder before making his way to where the soldier stood waiting on deck. Col followed at a discreet distance prepared to run and get help if it was necessary.
“Explain,” Geron was terse and waved his hand at the stern of the ship.
“Well Master, we’m dun need to get dem dere horses ashore quick like and widout dem getting’ hurt and stressed like,” Akhri moved back to the stern and pointed at where the ship had been patched in the past.
“I was dun thinkin’ dat if’n we dun get dem ship’s carpenters to tekk dis piece of wood outen ‘ere, den we could get dey horses into de sea and dey could swim acrosst to de beach widout getting’ hurt, sir,” he added the last hoping that it would please the man who was stood, arms crossed listening to his simple explanation.
Geron pulled on his lower lip pondering the man’s explanation, it was probably the best suggestion they were going to get and if the Warlord wanted to ride today then they would have to get started.
Beckoning for Akhri to follow he stalked off, his long legs soon eating the distance to where the stable master was still contemplating his task. He hid a groan when he saw who preceded Akhri but was clever enough to accept the solution given to him.

Copyright Protected February 2008