His rock sped through the air and struck the rider full in the face. It passed through as if piercing smoke, but the rider flinched, pulling up with a startled cry.
‘The wolf!’ shouted Dasher. He picked up another rock and hurled it just as Kaspar unloaded his rock with as much strength as he could right at the creature’s muzzle. The wolf-like mount snarled, a distant hollow sound, and the rock bounced off, causing it to falter.
Dasher hurled a rock at the creature’s foot, causing it to stumble and collapse on the trail. The rider might have been immune to Kaspar’s rock, but he seemed to abide by the same rules as any mortal rider when his mount stumbled for he flew over the creature’s haunches.
Kaspar shouted, ‘Run!’
He had bought those ahead of him mere seconds, but those seconds were the difference between safety and destruction. He saw Dasher scoop up one last rock, turn, throw, and then run. Realizing that the young thief was faster and not wanting to be the only one who failed to reach the gate, the former Duke of Olasko dug deep inside himself and found just enough strength to reach the threshold stride for stride with the younger man.
They leaped into the courtyard of the fortification and heard a howl of outrage from their pursuers, but while the gate was still open, the demonic creatures did not follow. The elf magicians hurried up ramps to the battlements above and when they were in place, raised their staves as one.
A thrumming sound filled the air, much as it had down on the beach when they destroyed the elemental creature, and a wave of white light pulsed from the walls. Instantly the creatures on the road retreated, their angry shouts and cries reduced to hollow echoes on the evening wind.
Kaspar’s men sat on the ground, many near exhaustion. Several were now unconscious, wounded men who had succumbed to the demands of the retreat. Kaspar forced himself to remain on his feet, but even the resourceful Jim Dasher gave in to the need to sit down. Jommy and Servan looked at Kaspar expectantly, waiting for their general to tell them what was next.
As the elf leader came towards them, Kaspar said, ‘Well, then, we are here. We are your prisoners. What is to be done with us?’
‘You will see our leader.’
‘When?’
‘Now,’ he said, motioning for Kaspar to follow. ‘The others wait here.’
As Kaspar fell in behind the elf, ‘What am I to call you?’
The elf glanced over his shoulder. ‘Is that important?’
‘Only if I live and have reason to address you.’
The elf smiled slightly. ‘I am called Hengail.’
‘Why were there no archers on the wall to cover our retreat?’
Hengail hesitated, then said, ‘All our archers were with us. Only children and women were within the compound.’
As they climbed a path to a large building which dominated the community, Kaspar quickly took in his surroundings. The buildings were astonishing. There were swooping lines of wood beams supporting arching roofs, rather than the straight timbers he would have expected. Wood faces to buildings had been glazed and polished until the evening’s torchlight was reflected from every flat surface as if they were mirrors. Under the glimmering reflections, Kaspar could see that the wood had been allowed to age to deep hues of many colours, mostly deep reds and browns, but with unexpected shades of grey and even a hint of blue here and there. There were more than a dozen buildings scattered around this very large plateau, but most of them appeared empty. The doorways were all open. He glanced upwards at one arching high above his head as he passed into the largest building.
The floors were also of highly polished wood, lovingly cared for from their appearance. The walls were as they were outside, magnificent in their simplicity, yet elegant as well. The building appeared to be laid out in a large cross, with a huge fire-pit of stone dominating the centre. High above, a large hole in the roof permitted smoke to exit, while a sheltering roof above it, supported by large beams at the corner, protected the hole from all but the most violent rainstorms.
Before the fire-pit sat three elves, one obviously of great age, for among the ever-seeming youth of the others, this one bore the ravages of many years: deep lines etching his face, hair white as snow, and a stoop-shouldered posture. Yet his eyes were bright and regarded Kaspar with suspicion.
Slowly he stood up. ‘Who are you to come to the land of the Quor?’
‘Kaspar, formerly Duke of Olasko, now in the service of the kings of Roldem and the Isles, and the Emperor of Great Kesh.’
The old elf was silent for a long moment, then he chuckled. ‘Something dire must be afoot for those three vain princes to be in harmony.’ He studied Kaspar, then said, ‘Tell me why three mighty rulers of the human lands send soldiers to the Peaks of the Quor, and tell me true, for your lives depend on what you say.’
Kaspar looked around the room. Two other elderly elves sat nearby, watching intently, and the elf named Hengail stood silently at their right hand. Two other guards stood by the door, but otherwise the large cross-shaped hall was empty. ‘What do I call you?’
‘I am called Castdanur. In your tongue it means ‘caretaker against the darkness’. I had a young name, once, but that was so long ago I fear I do not remember it.’
Kaspar took a moment to reply, ‘Perhaps we may be of some help to you. It wouldn’t do to kill out of hand those who would be your friends.’ He looked the old elf directly in the eyes. ‘You do appear to need friends.’
Castdanur smiled. ‘Now, why do you suggest we are in need of friends?’
Kaspar said, ‘Only a blind man or a fool can’t see that this once was home to hundreds, and now there is only a handful. You need help. You are a dying people.’
MAGNUS DIVED BEHIND THE WALL.
Three humans and three Lessers all crouched down behind a low wall, more of a boundary than a barrier. One of the Deathknights turned his varnin – a cross between a big lizard and a horse – and started towards their place of concealment. Pug threw himself behind the wall too, landing next to Magnus.
He risked discovery by rising just high enough to gain a clear line-of-sight to a point behind the approaching riders and cast a spell, hoping it would function here on Omadrabar as it had in his own native realm. He had spent so much time learning how to adapt magic that it was almost as much second nature to him in these alien conditions as it was at home. Most of the time he judged correctly, but occasionally he had had unexpected results.
This time things went as desired, and a sudden commotion behind the riders caused them to look around. A particularly fine illusion appeared some distance away: that of women and children fleeing in the opposite direction from where Pug and his companions hid. The Deathknights reacted in true Dasati fashion, howling their war chants and giving chase.
Pug signalled for everyone to wait until the Deathknights were safely gone. In most confrontations with a small band of armed men – or Dasati in this case – Pug had little concern for his own safety. He could easily dispose of the dozen or so riders who were now chasing the mirage. But he had no desire to take Dasati lives unnecessarily, even those bent on killing every member of his race – they were a people bent by dark forces which were beyond their power to control. And he knew that tonight was not just a circus of random slaughter, but a planet-wide ceremony, a massive ritual of blood and that death and each killing gave more power to His Darkness. Even if he could deny only half a dozen lives to the Dark God, Pug would do it.
Pug