Chaos Storm (The Flight of the Griffin Book 2) (17 page)

Quint merely smiled, stepping neatly to the side when the warrior stabbed forward with his sword. The warrior made several more attempts to strike Quint who happily dodged out of the way, turning in circles around the bigger man as the other warriors' calls of encouragement, turned to cries of insult and laughter.

Unseen, Pardigan approached Mahra's cage and started to work on the lock.

'It's just a boy, Orm. Have we lived in the camp so long, you can't even kill a boy?'

'Maybe his sister is around here someplace, you might want to practice on her first.' The group fell about laughing.

'
Uuurgh!
' The warrior, Orm, sent a stinging strike towards Quint's head but once again his sword met nothing but air, which sent more ripples of laughter through his companions. He spun around completely unbalanced and was sent sprawling to the muddy ground as Quint's boot kicked his behind. The laughter around the fire dropped when Orm looked up and glared at them. With guilty glances, they reluctantly left the fire and fanned out around Quint, joining their leader.

'Who are you boy?' asked Orm, before sending a slashing strike at Quint's head. Quint finally drew his sword with a flourish and parried first this strike then another as a smaller skinny warrior tried to stab him from behind.

'I'm the boy teaching you a lesson in swordsmanship. The one behind you will explain the finer points of knife throwing.' The Barbarians all looked behind to see a grinning Pardigan waving at them from beside their fire. 'If you ask him nicely that is,' continued Quint, 'but the one you really want to worry about is the big black pussycat that's about to jump on your back.'

The warrior, Orm spun around just in time to see the Black Panther, the same one they had thought was safely locked in the cage, leap at him with claws extended.

The frigid air filled with the deep shrieking roar of all Mahra's pent-up frustrations suddenly releasing. Orm's legs turned to water as the panther landed on him. The Barbarian warrior stared up at white fangs and yellow eyes and felt his bladder empty. He thought he had reached the final edge of terror until the panther spoke, and his mind took that final step.

'Your friends have run away, and your future is in my… jaws.' Orm watched in a fascination of horror as the panther's mouth contorted to form human words. 'I dreamed of sinking my teeth into you, Orm… and now I can. Do you wish you had been nice to me?' The panther's head cocked to one side as if inviting an answer, so Orm nodded enthusiastically. The panther appeared to think for a moment as she studied him. 'Tell my friends what they need to know and I may leave you alone.' With a last sniff of his face, Mahra walked away, leaving the stricken warrior gasping for breath. Quint crouched down beside him.

'Now, you heard what the nice pussy said, so answer me this… where are the crystal skulls that were brought to your camp?'

'Morgasta has them,' answered the broken Orm without any hesitation. His eyes darted about, trying to see where the panther had gone.

'And where did she take them?

'Bedlam… where's the… ?'

'Shhhh, I'm asking the questions, and I'm asking, where do you think she would have placed them?'

'I don't know… really, I don't… please believe me, I…' His pleading was cut short as something large passed overhead, Quint saw the warrior's eyes widen in fear. 'Oh, great Lord of Chaos… please… whatever it is, please…'

Quint looked over to see
The Griffin
land and Pardigan and Mahra clamber on, he took one last look down at Orm. 'Tell your friends to be scared, Orm. There is magic in your land, and it will find every last one of you.' He patted the warrior's face then ran to
The Griffin
and pulled himself up in front of Mahra. With a loud, '
Kaauuw
,' the great beast launched itself into the sky, leaving the Barbarian warrior named Orm, a lost and broken man.

* * *

The knife entered Loras's back, just below his left shoulder blade, and he let out a high-pitched shriek, his body arching back as the muscles around the blade went into spasm. It felt like fire. Like a white-hot needle had punched deep inside of him, it drove the air from his lungs in a scream that echoed along the Bolt. His legs gave way, and he felt consciousness wavering. Stones and dirt rattled from the cliff-sides as if the mountain itself had shaken when the blow struck, and he was vaguely aware of the ground flying up to meet him as his body fell. Darkness tried to envelop him, and he fought against it, his vision wavering and blurred, he was aware he had been injured and his attacker must be close, but it was no good, consciousness slipped away.

The cold and wet of freshly falling snow falling on the exposed skin of his face roused him. He became aware of small movements, the sound of a stone dislodged and a boot sliding on wet rock by his side. A wave of nausea and pain swept through him and again he lost consciousness.

It was pain, once more, that dragged him into the world as someone placed a foot on him and pulled the knife roughly from his back. He heard a cry, unaware that it had come from his own throat and wavered on the edge once more.

'Is he… dead?' the voice was dry and rasping and spoken very softly.

'Not dead, not yet,' came the lilting reply. 'The poison shall claim him soon enough, he is weak… be silent, others approach.' Loras tried to concentrate on the voices, separating from the pain, which began to withdraw to an agonising throb. A dribble of blood tickled as it rolled down his forehead; he must have cut it when he fell. Summoning his will, he began to concentrate healing energy into the wound and felt the throbbing lessen slightly. It would take some time, but he wasn't going to die as the strange voice had promised, not just yet anyway.

Tarent pulled his horse to a stop when he saw the prostrate form of his friend. Leaving his staff strapped to the saddle of his horse he unclasped the bow and slung a quiver of arrows in front of him. Magician Falk drew up beside him. They had heard Loras's cry and come along the pass as quickly as their horses would allow over the loose rocks. The old Magician stopped and placed a restraining hand on Tarent's forearm.

'Hold still, my young friend. Loras has been attacked, that much is clear, but by what?' He scanned the rocky sides of the Bolt seeing nothing. The wind had died down, yet the snow still fell in large floating flakes, it was eerily silent. 'It seems that whatever, or whomever it is, they have the ability to become invisible. I think we may find we're dealing with wraiths again. They attacked the castle and may well be here. Why they should be here is beyond me, unless they are perhaps hunting us?' He held his staff high in front of him and bellowed out an incantation that echoed along the bolt.

'
Sambares har et bredt kareen!
' A white flash erupted from the Magician's staff, and for just a moment, three ghostly shapes became visible, the one closest to the fallen Loras turning with a drawn out hiss of alarm, eyes reflecting the flash as it stared at them. Tarent smoothly unslung his bow and brought an arrow up ready to fire, but the figures had already faded. Magician Falk dismounted.

'If we can see them, we can kill them. They have no other defence save invisibility.' He walked closer, his staff held out moving from side to side. 'Are you ready, my friend?'

'I am. I just wish I were as good a shot as Quint with this thing.'

'You will do fine.
Sambares har et bredt kareen!
' White light erupted once more from the Magician's staff and two of the wraiths became visible as watery shadows flitting across in front of them some twenty paces away. Tarent's first arrow struck the wraith closest to Loras, and it fell without a sound. The light faded, and as the wraiths disappeared again, they saw one move towards them with a hurried, ambling gait.

'Quickly, boy!' Falk screamed out the incantation once more, the staff flared, and Tarent shot at the closing figure. The arrow missed, but flew close enough for the wraith to throw its hands up hissing in alarm before turning away.

Frustrated at missing, Tarent took another shot at where he thought the wraith might be, but the arrow merely clattered against the cliff wall. Hastily restringing his bow, he waited, heart pounding in his ears as all became silent again, the snow slowly drifting down onto the wet rocks of the Bolt.

'They move fast,' he mumbled.

The sounds of several horses came from behind them, and Tarent swung round in his saddle to see three of the guards coming up towards them, looks of concern on their grim faces. '
Hold back
, don't come any closer,' he called. 'There's magic involved here. You'd do best just to go back and protect the wagon.' With a glance at the fallen bodies, the guards reined their horses and quickly returned the way they had come. Once again sensing movement, Tarent turned back in time to see Magician Falk swing his staff and connect in mid-air with something unseen. Bringing his bow up, he loosed another arrow, only to see with dismay that it met no resistance and clattered once more to the rocky ground.

'Well, I gave him a headache anyway,' said the old Magician with a smile. 'I can sense them… when they're close to us, be ready, they come again.' He raised his staff.
'Sambares har et bredt kareen!'

Loras could hear noise. He moved his hand a fraction and immediately wished he hadn't. The healing was working, the pain had subsided to a dull ache, but he felt incredibly stiff and bruised, almost as if a family of howlers had been hugging him. Putting his hand to his head, he was surprised to find there was no actual clamp strapped across his temples, however, his head felt as if it were about to explode. Accompanying this was the almost overwhelming desire to sleep. He tried to rouse himself and finally managed to draw back from the brink. For the first time in what seemed an age, he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings only to find he was gazing into the dead sightless eyes of a wraith. It wore an expression of shock, the pink eyes wide amid the white, translucent skin and the lips forming an 'O' as if just drawing a surprised breath; snow was slowly covering it.

Something rattled across the stones. Moving his head slightly, he glanced across and saw an arrow lying at the base of the cliff. Very slowly, he turned to see what was happening behind him.

Noticing something close to where he had aimed his last arrow, Tarent stepped forward and crouched to investigate still keeping his eyes up intent upon danger. He rubbed his fingers together, testing the feel of what appeared to be a stain before glancing down. The vivid red of blood freshly spilled covered the tips of his fingers; standing back up, he wiped them on his cloak. 'I hit another one it seems, but I don't think it's dead, which means there are at least two more of them, that we know of, still around here somewhere.'

A slight rustling sound alerted Tarent to an attack and he spun towards it, raising the bow, but whatever it was knocked it to the side, leaving him unbalanced. Regaining his feet, he glanced about, searching desperately for the wraiths, bracing for the attack he felt sure was about to come. But it was Magician Falk that cried out. Tarent spun to see the old Magician struggling, clutching his shoulder, eyes wide in shock sinking to the ground as he struggled with a Wraith. Both the Magician's hands were now clamped in mid-air, over an arm that slowly came visible to reveal a knife pressed to the old man's throat. A moment later, and the Magician appeared beaten; standing unmoving while the white sickly features of the wraith became complete.

'
Stand still, or I kill him!
' it hissed at Tarent, who had already taken a step closer. 'This old one struggles but he weakens and will die unless you do as I say.' The second wraith appeared, clutching its side, blood flowing through its fingers from where Tarent's arrow had sliced into it. It limped over to stand by the other.

'We… appear to be at a… stalemate,' gasped Magician Falk. The wraith's red eyes glanced from Tarent to the old man it held at the edge of death and then, without warning, Magician Falk gave a mighty heave backwards and the wraith toppled into the other losing its grip on the old Magician in the process.

It landed heavily but immediately jumped up with a scream and raised its knife.
'No stalemate, you now die!'
It leaped forward, but its cry was cut short as, with a loud 'pop' a bubble trap surrounded both wraiths and a limping Loras staggered forward. For a moment, they ignored the struggling wraiths as both Magicians combined their healing energies.

'What by the love of the Source have yer got there?' Bartholomew Bask, feeling it was now safe to come close, waddled down the slight slope, stepping carefully over the loose rocks in his path. He peered at the wraiths with a look of disgust. One was standing, the other slumped and obviously dying from its wound. 'Ugly little brutes, ain't they?' he glanced down at the two Magicians kneeling together, eyes closed as they continued the healing, then back at the wraiths. He smiled. 'These two little…' he waved his hands about trying to sum up a word, '… things, nearly bested yer?'

Loras opened his eyes and struggled to his feet. He ignored the grinning merchant and turned instead to the wraiths. Passing his staff in front of the bubble trap, he smiled as the magic worked. The ragged breathing of the injured wraith could suddenly be heard, and the expression on the other's face showed that it could also hear the world outside of its bubble prison.

'I can help your friend, maybe heal him completely,' said Loras. 'I will help, but first… why did you attack us? Who sent you?' The wraith glanced down at its fallen comrade then back at Loras. A wet, pink tongue darted out to moisten dry, cracked lips.

'You will let us go?' Its head tilted questioningly to one side. Loras nodded. 'You will heal my companion?' Loras nodded again.

'We should squash the little runts, that's what we should do,' growled Bartholomew.

'Be quiet,' cautioned Tarent in a low voice. Magician Falk pulled himself up with the help of his staff and put a finger to his lips, indicating that Bartholomew should indeed remain silent. The merchant appeared to be about to retort, but thinking better of it, clamped his mouth shut and frowned at the wraiths instead.

'We were sent to… intercept a small party that would be travelling the Bolt at this time.' The wraith glanced nervously about him. 'You will let us… leave?' Loras nodded.

'Who sent you?'

'We were sent by a human who is known as The Haw….' The wraith's answer was cut short as Tarent shouted a warning.

'
Loras, look out, avalanche!
' As the group scurried out of the way, huge rocks and boulders rained down upon the unfortunate wraiths, hitting the ground with an ear-splitting explosion of noise and dust, knocking all of them from their feet.

Smaller rocks and stone continued to fall for several beats as everyone lay helpless, and then, as they realised that it was over, they clambered to their feet, glancing to each other for signs of wounds. Tarent had been hit by a rock on his leg and was limping as he stood, but other than that there were, quite surprisingly no other injuries.

'That was awfully convenient for someone,' said Magician Falk, peering up through the dust and snow. Nothing could be seen save the cold hard face of the mountain disappearing into the clouds.

'Did you hear what the wraith said, just before the rock fell?' asked Loras. 'I'm sure he said the Hawk sent them, which makes sense. Maybe he's up there now, and he dropped those rocks to silence them?'

Bartholomew scowled up into the swirling snow.

'I'll find you and make you pay, ya filthy…' he screamed, and then added as the thought suddenly occurred to him, 'that rock could have hit me!' He took several steps backwards in case his shouting provoked more rocks to fall. 'Not that you give a damn about
me
though, do you,' he mumbled.

As the wagon crested the rise, they moved to the opposite side of the Bolt and made camp; a fire, a warm brew and the chance to rest, which was needed by all.

* * *

Matheus Hawk took one last look at the figures below him and smiled in delight at the display he had just witnessed. He had learnt a great deal. The Magicians were both gifted, the old one had shown himself to be especially so when confronted by the wraiths. The boy Magician shouldn't prove too much of a problem, the wraiths had taken him down easily enough, and it appeared that his healing powers weren't as strong as Matheus had thought. For a moment or two, he had actually thought the boy was dead. Now that would have been a welcome end to the day.

That the wraiths might be successful was a thought that had never actually crossed Matheus's mind, but they had managed to get quite close, almost killing one and injuring another. It was almost a shame to have had to drop the rock on them, but then there were countless more wraiths.

Getting to his feet, he smiled to himself as he recalled his surprise at seeing his former employer amongst the group. Bartholomew Bask was now conspiring with
The Griffin
brats, 'How wonderful!' growled Matheus. He reached into his cloak and pulled the struggling Nhasic out into the cold. The little demon, its ears folded back, shivered as it gazed up at him.

'Call your big red friend, Nhasic. It's time to go back to the warmth of the desert.' With a shriek of delight, the little demon scuttled to the edge of the outcrop and opened its mouth, trembling with the intensity of its silent cry. Matheus watched with interest. He couldn't hear the sound, but he knew from experience that the dragon could and would soon be here for him to command. He felt a flush of pride at what was his to control and clearly saw the destiny set before him. A storm was coming to this world, and he would be riding at its head - to rule, command and conquer all in his path.

* * *

The twin cities of Bedlam and Mayhem weren't hard to spot, even with the weather as foul as it was.
The Griffin
had been flying through heavy rain for some time with the three friends huddled, wet and cold, staring down from on high above green forests and fields, tracing the flow of a great river as it wound its way inland from the coast. When they saw the twin cities they first appeared as darkness on the horizon, a large grey sore in an otherwise green expanse. They were squatting over the river, poisoning its flow, and corrupting its waters.