Roger Taylor: Valderen

He dashed aside the persistent question. It didn’t matter who they were. His first impression remained: whatever else they were, they weren’t fighters, and that was what mattered. But they’d still have to be dealt with, and dealt with tonight; there was little point in forming a defensive enclave and holding, as he definitely had no reinforcements to draw upon. And any delay might prove disastrous if indeed some other force were heading towards him. He must move out and attack before matters deteriorated.

Few changes were needed to the positions that his men had already taken up, and he noted with some satisfaction that many of them, anticipating a return by the riders, were hacking down long branches to use in lieu of pikes.

Within minutes of his decision, his men were mov-ing into the darkness in the direction that the riders had taken. They retained their small, tight groupings, and many were carrying burning brands.

The news reached Derwyn almost immediately and he suddenly found himself the centre of a fear-laden silence. He knew that all eyes were turned towards him in the darkness. He watched the lights of the enemy moving towards him; a flickering, firefly tide, spreading out from the fires of the distant camp. Fighting men, Farnor had called them, and for the first time in his life Derwyn felt the peculiar terror of knowing that someone was intent upon seeking his life; his life.

Yet he must lead his men against them, or they would be scattered about the fringe of the Forest here and perhaps lost for ever, and who knew what conse-quences would flow from that? Images of Angwen and Edrien and the other women they had left at their camp came to him, chilling him.

But what did he know about fighting? Nothing.

But…

‘Do as they did,’ he shouted urgently. ‘Do as they did. Stay in small groups. Six, eight. Keep moving. And keep together, whatever happens. Protect one another. Drop your lances if you’re pressed and use your machetes.’

‘And if you’re downed, then climb. They won’t be able to do that like we can.’ It was Marken who finished Derwyn’s hasty battle order. Derwyn felt his men’s spirits lift as some strained laughter greeted this.

Thus it was that the Valderen began to avenge their first fallen. Guided by the brands that Nilsson’s men were carrying, they burst out of the darkness, sharp-pointed lances and keen-edged machetes taking their toll, until they vanished as suddenly as they had appeared.

Almost all of the groups of Nilsson’s men took some losses, but while one or two broke and scattered, to be cut down or trampled underfoot, the majority closed about their injured companions and held.

Nilsson swore silently to himself, but no sign of his feelings showed on his face except his characteristic snarl. Had these people launched their initial sacrificial charge just to lure him into an ambush? Surely not. It made no sense. But the alternative held little comfort for him: they had learned from their first mistake.

‘Retreat to the camp,’ he ordered, his voice icy. ‘We’ll see how well they fight when we can see them coming.’

As the groups withdrew, the Valderen pressed on with their swift assaults, though these became increas-ingly less effective and more dangerous as they drew nearer to the bright glow of the fires illuminating the camp. Then there was silence, save for the sound of the fires and the awful cries of the wounded and dying.

Nilsson’s men retrenched, more of them hacking down branches either for use as pikes or to be driven into the ground to form defensive hedges. The Valderen walked like sinister shadows around the dark edges of the firelit circle, lance points glinting in the firelight.

The two leaders pondered fretfully, Nilsson on the identity of these mysterious attackers and the possibility of a further force arriving before dawn; Derwyn on the impossibility of attacking this increasingly entrenched group and the difficulty of maintaining the spirit of his men now that the fury of the action had ceased. And too, he was beginning to consider the possibility that there might be other groups of these outsiders nearby, ready to come to the aid of their companions. And what of the creature? And Rannick?

Neither man dared wait. Neither dared move.

Both were spared.

From the south came a sound. Everyone seemed to hear it at the same time, though none could have said how long it had been there. At first it was like the irritating buzz of some tiny trapped insect. Then it grew louder and louder, its tone tearing into its hearers like that of fingernails drawn down glass, but worse by far.

None, either in or around the camp, could do other than concentrate on it in deepening fear, and each forgot their sudden foe totally.

Even Nilsson found his mind drawn from his di-lemma. Then he heard a quality in the sound that he recognized.

‘It’s Lord Rannick,’ he shouted, though as much in fear as in anticipation at what must be their relief. It was of no consequence however, for no one heard him. He pushed his way through the front ranks of his men. Vaguely he was aware of the circling Valderen, strug-gling to control their mounts as the sound grew. ‘Their horses are panicking,’ he roared. ‘Get ready to attack.’ But though he was bellowing directly into the faces of his men he could still scarcely be heard. And too, they seemed paralysed by the sound.

Then Rannick was on them, crashing into the belea-guered camp at a speed that no normal mount could attain, and with a sound like thunder and a howling wind tumbling in the wake of his dreadful scream. The wind snatched at the watching men and made the fires roar and blaze triumphantly.

Nilsson, like his men, was now transfixed, for though the figure on the horse was indisputably Rannick, he was not the man he had chosen to follow, even thought to manipulate to his own ends. He was something that radiated a malevolence that was beyond anything Nilsson had ever known. About him ran streams of a strange fire that crackled and flared, consuming everything it touched, save Rannick. And his mount. For the thing that had been a horse was as evilly transformed as its master. Its head strained against Rannick’s fire-laced restraint, its eyes gleamed, and a steaming foam poured from its mouth and nostrils. Both rider and mount seemed unaware of the scene they had entered. They were swaying from side to side, as if scenting for something.

The sight banished all coherent thought from Nils-son, save one: the appalling wrongness of Rannick. The power that his erstwhile master had used had been greater by far than Rannick’s, but its use had been rare and sparing. The thing he saw before him now was without any semblance of restraint, and beyond all controlling. What had been Rannick was, perhaps, quite destroyed, and what was left was not merely death, it was the antithesis of life.

A sensation passed through Nilsson that he had not known in many, many years. A sensation whose birth pangs had perhaps begun with the violent jolt he had experienced when he had thought the approaching Valderen were his long pursuing countrymen come to call him to account.

Guilt.

This abomination was his fault.

It menaced everything! – everything! It could not be allowed to live.

A life in which immediate and cruel action had been the inevitable solution to most problems, took inexora-ble command of him. Aware of nothing now, save the flickering figure swaying before him, Nilsson stepped forward. The word ‘Lord’ formed in his mind as he drew his sword. Rannick’s swaying stopped abruptly as if he had heard the call, and he turned to look at Nilsson.

‘No!’ Nilsson bellowed into the thunder of Rannick’s presence, and taking his sword in both hands, he swung it up in a whistling curve for a blow that would have cut Rannick and his awful steed in half.