Piercollo, unarmed, hurled himself at the beast, meeting its charge. He was swept aside like a leaf in a storm, but his attack caused the creature to swing its huge head, seeking out this new enemy. Patch coolly shot an arrow into its throat and it screamed again, its ghastly jaws opening wide.
Jarek Mace sent a shaft into the open mouth… it vanished from sight, feathers and all.
Piercollo rose from the water, raising a jagged boulder above his head and crashing it down upon the beast’s skull. I heard the bone splinter and the creature’s front legs folded. Without a further sound, it died.
The Tuscanian dragged himself over the crest of the bank, Patch nimbly following him.
Mace notched another arrow to his bow, his keen eyes staring back down the trail. Without a word he swung back to the west and set off through the forest.
We followed him in silence.
And the howling began again.
The night has a capacity for terror that the day can never match. Often in my life I have woken in the dark to hear some sound, some creaking of a shutter, or the soft whispering of the wind through dry leaves. In the dark it is easy to picture a stealthy assassin, an undead Vampyre, stalking through the house.
But in the forest the power of the dark swells. Silhouetted trees are eldritch giants with waving arms and sharp talons; the rustling of the undergrowth becomes the stealthy slithering of giant serpents. The hoot of an owl, the fluttering wings of a bat, cause icy fingers to pluck upon the strings of the soul’s fears, unearthly and threatening.
I shall never forget that midnight run through the dark of the forest with the beasts from the pit upon our trail, the fickle moon hiding often behind thick cloud and forcing us to halt, standing stock-still, blind and terrified. Then she would shine again and our trembling legs would carry us on, following the narrow deer trails ever west.
Piercollo suffered most for his enormous bulk, despite its prodigious strength, was not made for running and he began to fall behind. I shouted to Mace to wait for him, but he ignored me — until the next eerie wail sounded from some way ahead of us. Only then did he halt. Another cry shattered the silence of the night — this time from our left.
Piercollo staggered up to us. ‘I… can… go no… further,’ he said, the breath wheezing from his lungs.
Mace swung, his eyes raking the trees. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a circle of oaks. Forcing our way through the undergrowth we reached the trees. Mace climbed the first, ordering Patch to scale the tree opposite; since Piercollo and I were unarmed he ignored us and we climbed a gnarled oak at the edge of the circle, seating ourselves on a broad bough some fifteen feet from the ground. Piercollo leaned back against the trunk of the tree and wiped the sweat from his face.
‘This is not to my liking, friend Owen.’
‘Nor mine,’ I admitted. ‘But the creatures cannot climb.’
‘Piercollo sighed. ‘He is not what I expected.’
‘Who?’
‘The Morningstar.’
‘He is what he is,’ I told him. He nodded and closed his eyes.
The moon disappeared once more and darkness descended. A cool breeze fluttered across me, causing an instant shiver, for sweat had drenched my clothing. I cast a Warming spell and relaxed a little.
Then came the sound of bushes being uprooted and cloven hooves beating upon the soft ground. Leaning back I took hold of a branch, gripping it with both hands and hugging myself to the tree.
The moon eased herself clear of the clouds and I glanced down to see the monsters come to a halt, their great heads angled up, staring at Jarek Mace as he sat in full view of them. His bow bent back and a shaft slashed through the air to bury itself in the throat of the lead beast. It reared high, then charged the tree; the oak was old and firm, yet the vibration almost dislodged Mace. Patch loosed an arrow which sliced into the hump of a second beast. While the first circled the oak which Mace had climbed, the remaining four rushed towards where Patch was hidden. There was a tremendous crash as two of the creatures butted the oak and Patch lost hold of his bow, which fell to the ground; he grabbed at a branch to stop himself from falling. Now the beasts moved slowly against the base of the tree and began to push. At first the oak withstood the pressure, but soon I saw one root appear above ground, then another.
Suddenly the tree yawed. Patch’s legs swung clear and he was now hanging by his hands some twenty feet above the ground. An arrow from Mace slashed into the side of one of the beasts, but it showed no sign that it felt any pain.
With a wrenching groan the oak gave way, tumbling Patch to the ground. He hit hard, rolled, and came to his feet running towards the nearest tree.
The beasts set after him…
Taking a deep breath, I concentrated hard. The spell of Light was not easy, though neither was it the most difficult. But what I wanted now was not just illumination. Forming the spell, I held it for several heartbeats, letting it swell until I could control it no longer. My hand flashed out.
The spell sped from me like a flash of lightning, bursting in the space between Patch and the pursuing monsters, blinding them and causing them to swerve away from their victim. For one brief second I was exultant. But I had forgotten the first beast, the one which had been circling Jarek Mace. Unseen by me, it had cut across the small clearing and, just as Patch leapt for an overhanging branch, it caught him, the taloned arms dragging him back, the awful jaws closing on his waist. With one dreadful cry the bowman died, his corpse ripped into two.
The other creatures gathered round and began to feed. I could not watch, and I tried to close my ears to the sound of ripping flesh and snapping bone.
‘Fire! We need fire!’ shouted Jarek Mace. ‘Can you do it, Owen?’At the sound of his voice the five beasts moved away from their grisly feast and rushed at the oak in which he had taken refuge. Hurling their huge bodies against the trunk, they sought to dislodge him as they had the unfortunate Patch. But this tree was old, and firm, and it did not budge.
Two of the beasts then began to pound their hooves at the base of the tree, digging away at the roots, exposing them, then ripping at the soft wood with their fangs.
‘Fire, Owen!’ bellowed Mace.
I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate. To create a fire was a variation on the spell of Warming, but the power was condensed, focused on a very small point, usually a fragment of dry bark or shredded leaf.
I stared intently at the twisted hump on the back of the nearest monster, concentrating on the mass of black, matted fur- holding back the spell, allowing it to build, feeling the pressure grow within my mind. When I could hold it no longer I threw out my arm, pointing at the beast. Blue flame crackled out, lancing down to strike the hump. Smoke billowed from the fur and the monster reared up, screaming, the sound almost human.
I had expected a few small fingers of fire, but what followed astounded me.
Flames roared out, blazing with white light — more powerful than any beacon fire, brighter than daylight. The creature rolled to its back, but nothing could extinguish the blaze. In its panic and pain it ran into the other beasts and the flames spread to engulf three of them; then dried leaves on the ground ignited beneath the hooves of the fourth monster, whose legs caught fire, sheets of flame searing around its body.
An unholy glow filled the clearing, and the heat was so intense that Piercollo and I eased our way around the tree, putting the trunk between us and the scorching flames. Even so the heat was almost unbearable, the light so bright that both of us squeezed shut our eyes.