Lorik The Protector (Lorik Trilogy) (27 page)

Lorik and his men returned to Fort Utlig in a cloud of despair. Every settlement and every farm they saw was destroyed. Lorik knew his people were being killed and he felt helpless to do anything about it. Along the route back to the fort they saw more and more groups of Norsik raiders hiding in the Wilderlands. The raiders had no desire to come out and fight, and at first Lorik wanted to ride into the giant forest and kill all the Norsik they saw, but after riding into the Wilderlands several times, he quickly realized that the Norsik were simply slipping deeper in the woods and hiding. There was no good way to use the speed and advantage of their horses among the giant redwoods. Any number of Norsik raiders could be hiding behind the massive trees, waiting to leap out and ambush his men.

So Lorik returned to to the fort. He rested his men and horses, while he watched the border from the high watchtower. It was there that he saw the group of captives being herded like cattle up from the south. At first Lorik thought the massive group was a returning tribe of raiders, but as the group moved closer he could see that the slaves were being dragged along behind their task masters.

“To your horses!” Lorik bellowed.

He raced down the stone steps of the massive tower, not sure what he was going to do but determined to do something.

“What is it?” one of his men yelled.

“Captives,” Lorik answered, lifting his saddle and placing it on the back of his horse.

His hand was much improved. The swelling had subsided and the pain only flared up when he tightened his grip. Looking at the back of his hand he could see a small bone sticking out at an odd angle, but there was no way to repair the damage. He flexed the hand, knowing he would need to use it in the fight ahead. It was weak and still painful at times, but his adrenaline was overcoming any pain or fatigue he felt.

The men with Lorik quickly saddled their horses and led them to the gate.

“I’m not opening the gate,” Yorn called down from the wall. “The Norsik are too close.”

“They have captives, Yorn,” Lorik bellowed. “We can’t let them take captives into the Wilderlands.”

“There is nothing I can do,” the frightened constable shouted back. “And neither can you. You’ll all be killed.”

“At least we’ll die for something,” Lorik said. “Now open the gate!”

“It’s your funeral, but I’m warning you. You ride out now, that gate won’t open again, not while there are Norsik in the area.”

“Fine, we are warned. Open the gate!”

Yorn waved at the two men by the gate. They lifted the heavy crossbeams and swung open the large wooden gate. Lorik and his men mounted their horses and rode out of the fort. The group of Norsik raiders and their captives were less than three hundred yards away. When the captives saw Lorik and his volunteers they shouted for help.

“Hit them hard and stay between that group and the Wilderlands!” Lorik shouted to his men.

Lorik’s injuries were forgotten. His battle axe was slung next to his saddle, and he carried a spear. He led the charge toward the group, which was now moving as quickly as possible across the open ground. The captives were struggling and resisting their captors, but there were forty raiders with the group, half of which left the captives and ran toward the charging horsemen.

“Hit and run!” Lorik shouted. “Don’t let them slow you down.”

The horses thundered across the open plain. Lorik and his men prepared to hurl their spears and veer away from the raiders when suddenly the Norsik raised horns and blew them. The sound was loud and jarring. It startled the horses, causing several to skid to a halt and even start bucking. Four of Lorik’s men were tossed from their saddles. The Norsik warriors dropped their horns and rushed in for the kill.

Lorik glanced up and saw that if he stayed with his men, he wouldn’t be able to stop the other group of raiders from reaching the Wilderlands. It was as if someone were ripping his heart from his chest, but he turned his horse and rode between his fallen men and the raiders. The savage Norsik warriors streamed past him. Lorik struck out with his spear, wounding one raider in the shoulder and then another in the neck. Then Lorik was forced to turn his horse.

His fallen riders were on their feet, but their horses had fled and they had only their spears to fight with.

“Retreat!” he shouted at them. “Fall back.”

Then he was among the raiders again, his hand searing with pain as he thrust out his spear. It stabbed another raider in the chest, but this time the spear was pulled from his weakened grasp as the wounded man fell. Lorik’s horse kicked out, knocking another raider senseless as Lorik pulled out his battle axe.

His face twisted in pain as the weight of the heavy weapon forced him to tighten his grip. He swung the axe, and the raiders around him fell back to avoid the weapon. The other two volunteers who were still on their horses dove into the fray, slaying two more raiders as they passed through the group.

The Norsik were adapting to the fighting tactics of Lorik and his men. They spread out, continuing the pursuit of the fallen men. One of the volunteers who had been bucked off his horse had hurt his leg and was unable to run. Two others limped, but the first volunteer was hopping on his good leg and using his spear to help him balance.

The first raider caught up to the volunteer and ducked under the man’s swipe with the spear. The raider gutted the injured man with a savage thrust of his sword that stabbed into the volunteer’s groin and sawed up to his ribcage. The volunteer bellowed a horrible death cry, then fell dead at the raider’s feet.

Lorik spun his horse around and tried to maneuver to intercept the raiders chasing his men across the plain, but three raiders jumped out in front of Lorik’s horse. The first one screamed and waved his arms, but the horse smashed into him kept moving forward. The second raised his sword just as Lorik swung his axe down. The heavy axe batted the sword away easily and severed the raider’s arm above the elbow, but the vibration from the blow hurt Lorik’s hand so much he almost dropped the axe.

The third raider crossed in front of the horse and attacked from Lorik’s weak side. With his hand hurting so much, Lorik was unable to bring his axe to bear and the raider slashed his sword across the horse’s thick hind leg.

The horse bellowed in pain, its gait immediately slowing and becoming irregular. Then the horse toppled backward. Lorik fell out of the saddle but managed to roll clear of the horse’s writhing. Almost before Lorik was back on his feet the raider attacked with an overhand chop from his short curved sword. Lorik raised the shaft of his axe and caught the blade before stepping into a kick that caught the raider between the legs and lifted him off his feet.

Lorik didn’t wait to see the result of his blow. He turned to see another of his volunteers caught from behind and dragged down. He ran to help, but he was too far away to keep the raiders from hacking the young volunteer to death. Nearly half of the attacking raiders had now turned back and were running to join the group that was leading the captives toward the Wilderlands.

“Stop them!” Lorik shouted to the two men still on horseback and pointing toward the group of retreating raiders.

Five raiders still chased his men, and Lorik ran to help them. He was panting hard when he caught up with the first raider and swung his axe at the raider’s back. The young Norsik warrior anticipated the blow and slid to the ground, under the slashing axe. Lorik ignored the fallen raider and kept running.

The third injured volunteer had turned now and was attempting to hold back the raiders with his spear. There were four raiders, and one feinted forward, causing the volunteer to flinch the wrong way while another raider jumped in on the lone fighter’s other side. The raider slashed his sword across the volunteer’s forearm, causing the man to scream, drop his spear, and stumble backward. Another raider rushed forward and sliced his sword through the volunteer’s throat while the other three rushed off after the fourth man.

Lorik was an explosive fighter, quick for a man his size and very strong, but he couldn’t run fast enough to save the fourth volunteer. The man made it back to the fort, but Yorn wouldn’t open the gate. Rocks rained down on the raiders, but they were so focused on their prey that nothing could stop them. The volunteer turned and stabbed the closest raider, jabbing his spear into the Norsik warrior’s stomach. But he couldn’t pull his weapon free of the dying raider’s body fast enough, and the other three raiders tackled him. On the ground, the volunteer struggled, but soon three swords were stabbing into his body. Lorik caught up to the three frenzied raiders and buried his axe in the back of one man. The other two scrambled to their feet as Lorik used his left hand and right foot to pull his weapon free.

They tried to attack Lorik from opposite sides. Lorik spun to his left, swinging the heavy axe as he did so. It whistled through the air before hacking through one raider’s arm, nearly severing it at the shoulder. The raider cried out and fell back as Lorik turned to face the other man.

“Bastard!” Lorik shouted, feinting to his left before attacking from his right.

The raider held his sword up with one hand on the hilt and the other on the end of the blade, hoping to block Lorik’s axe, but the sword shattered and the heavy axe blade caved in the side of the raider’s chest. Lorik had to wrench the axe back and forth to work it free of the man’s rib cage. Then he was running again, his side aching with the effort, his hand throbbing miserably. He held onto his axe with his left hand and circled around the fort, only to see the last remaining volunteer pulled off his horse. The raiders had halted their mad dash for the Wilderlands and turned on the two horsemen, striking down both horses and their riders, too.

The reality of Lorik’s loss struck him like lightning. He had led his men into battle, and he alone had survived.

He started running again, but it was obvious that the gesture was futile: he could never reach the group of raiders before they entered the Wilderlands. But that didn’t stop him. He ran on, his grief like an open wound. The men he had ridden with and fought with were gone now. Cut down before they really had a chance to live. And he could see the captives, weeping as their captors tugged and pushed them on. Most were women, and Lorik strained to see a face he recognized.

His breath was coming in ragged gasps now, the stitch in his side aching like a stab wound. He pressed his forearm against his side and kept moving. Tears and sweat mingled on his face, blurring his vision. He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist and looked at the captives.

One voice seemed to rise above the others. He could have sworn that it was calling his name, but he couldn’t be sure—his ears were ringing and his gasps for breath were loud. He kept moving even as the raiders reached the tree line. The towering redwoods made the group seem tiny, and Lorik felt helpless. But still he ran. He could see the raiders laughing and cheering, as if they had won a great victory.

“I won’t stop,” he said between gasps. “That forest . . .won’t . . . stop me.” He mustered his strength, then, and shouted into the trees, “I’m coming!
I’m coming!
”

He didn’t know if the captives heard him. The raiders pulled them into the shadows of the forest and they disappeared. Lorik slowed his pace. He knew he wouldn’t be able to catch up to them soon, and when he did reach them, he would need to have a plan to rescue the captives. He couldn’t fight all the raiders—there were at least thirty of them now, and it was likely that the group would grow in number as lingering Norsik joined the march to take the captives back through the Wilderlands.

Lorik slowed to a walk and focused on catching his breath. He felt weak, and when he reached the body of one of his fallen volunteers he stopped and cried. Part of him wanted to go back and bury the bodies properly, but he couldn’t wait to pursue the raiders and their captives. He knelt beside the fallen man, his body and face mutilated from multiple stabs and slashes by Norsik blades.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “I will avenge you. I will do whatever I have to. I won’t stop until those captives are free and the savages that killed you are dead. I swear it.”

Lorik put his hand on the shoulder of the fallen man, then he stood up and wiped the tears and sweat from his face. Blood from his fallen comrade stained his checks as more tears trickled down in crimson streaks. Then Lorik started walking again. He stopped at the edge of the Wilderlands and gazed into the dim interior. It had seemed like a daunting place the other times he had entered the massive forest. The giant redwood trees still towered like living mountains, their canopies lost in the gloom far overhead. But this time, the forest felt more like a tomb, and Lorik was death’s instrument. This time, the Wilderlands felt like home.

Stone had ridden hard for days. He didn’t push the horse too fast. His leg ached so badly at times that it was all he could think about. He walked occasionally, but never for very long, so he let his horse conserve energy and walk rather than trot or canter. He couldn’t stand the jolting anyway. His leg should have hung down easily, bent at the knee, the foot supported in the stirrup. But with his knee injured and the splint keeping it from bending, he was forced to let it stick out straight, and he was constantly adjusting the way he sat in the saddle to relieve the pain.

He rode straight through the first night and late into the second day, but never caught sight of the party of raiders. He slept the second night and started again early the next day. On the sixth day, just before sunset, he came to Fort Utlig and found Yulver’s ship docked at the long wooden quay. His men were standing near freshly dug graves. He rode straight to the ship captain and didn’t dismount.

“What happened?” he asked.

“The Norsik had captives,” Yulver said. “Lorik fought them, but they were slaughtered.”

“Lorik’s dead?” Stone said, his breath catching in his throat so that he almost couldn’t ask.

“No, the damn fool followed the raiders on foot into the Wilderlands alone. All his men were killed and so was his horse.”

“I’ll find him,” Stone said, turning his horse and starting to move past the captain.

Yulver caught Stone’s bridle.

“That horse is about to drop from exhaustion and you don’t look like you’re in any kind of shape to help anyone.”

“Vera was in that group of captives,” Stone said evenly. “I’ll go after her if I have to drag myself on my hands and knees.”

“What about supplies?”

“I have some.”

“You think you’re going to rescue Vera from an entire tribe of Norsik raiders all by yourself?”

“No,” Stone said. “I think I’m going to catch up with Lorik, and together we’re going to rescue those captives.”

“You’ve both lost your mind,” the sea captain said. “You need supplies. It’ll be dark soon and Lorik said it’s as dark as a cave in that forest at night.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Stone said.

“No, wait, damn it!” Yulver insisted. “Lorik doesn’t have any rations. He’ll need food and water and you’ll both need torches, and maybe more weapons. Just let me see that you’re outfitted before you ride off. Let your horse rest a few minutes, please, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“Fine,” Stone said. “I’ll get supplies at the fort. Then I’m going.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Yulver said.

Stone rode through the open gate and found Constable Yorn with a smug look on his face just inside.

“I told him,” he said with a sneer. “I told Lorik he and his men would all be killed.”

“Why didn’t you help him?” Stone said, slowly dismounting from the horse.

It was a difficult process since he couldn’t put weight on his injured leg, but he managed it. He pulled the crutch from where he kept it slung beside the saddle and hobbled over to a water trough to let his horse drink.

“My priority is to hold the fort,” Yorn said with a tone of superiority.

“And the fort was under attack?” Stone asked.

“Well, no.”

“Then you should have helped him. You should have done everything in your power to save those captives.”

“That’s not my priority,” Yorn said, standing a little too close and speaking a little too loudly.

Stone grabbed the constable so suddenly that the older man didn’t have time to react before Stone slammed him into the wall of the stable and held a knife to his throat.

“You’re a damn coward, Yorn!” he shouted in the man’s face. “You know it and we all know it. Go hide in your hole and don’t ever speak to me again, or this blade will taste your blood. Do you understand that?”

Yorn, wide-eyed and trembling, nodded.

“Good, make that your priority, you pompous old fool.”

Stone slung the man to the dirt and turned to one of the other volunteers nearby.

“I need food, two canteens of water, and torches.”

The volunteer hurried off, as did Yorn.

“You didn’t have to humiliate him in front of his men,” Yulver said quietly from just inside the gate.

“He’s lucky I didn’t kill him,” Stone said. “And his men already know he’s a coward. Now Yorn knows that I know it.”

“You lost one of your knives?”

“Unfortunately,” Stone said. “When this is over I’ll have to get a new set made.”

“Take a sword with you. And you should take Lorik’s bow and quiver, too. I’ll get them for you.”

Half an hour later Stone was mounted again. He had new supplies, including two blankets, a spare cloak, torches, and enough food to last two men a week. He also had a longsword and Lorik’s bow and arrows.

“You tell Lorik to be careful,” Yulver said. “I have plans to take him home for drinks at Chancy’s Inn.”

“I will,” Stone said, shaking the old seaman’s rough hand.

“And bring Vera home.”

“I will,” Stone said. “You can count on that.”

Then he rode through the gate and made his way across the dark plain toward the Wilderlands. The night sky was alive with stars, but the forest was as dark as a tomb. Everything in Stone told him to wait, that the giant woods were no place for a man, but he rode in anyway. Soon it was so dark he couldn’t see anything at all. His horse refused to keep moving and Stone was forced to dismount.

It took him the better part of an hour to light a fire in the total darkness and get one of the torches lit. When he finally did he could see his horse’s eyes, opened wide in terror.

“There is nothing for you to fear in this forest,” Stone told the horse as he patted its neck. “There is nothing in here scarier than me.”

He used his torch to light the way, hobbling on his crutch and letting the horse follow along behind him. He didn’t even need to hold onto the horse’s reins: the big animal followed the light, refusing to be left alone in the darkness.

After an hour, the torch began to sputter, and fatigue once again got the best of Stone. He tied the horse’s reins to his wrist, wrapped his cloak around him, and sat back against the giant roots of one of the massive redwood trees. Then as the torchlight shrank down, he slept.

Morning was nothing more than a dim, ghostly light that made the forest look more like a shadowy nightmare than reality. The bark of the massive redwood hung down like hairy skin peeling off the trunks of the giant trees. The ground was bare earth with a scattering of evergreen needles and the occasional bush with wide serrated leaves.

Everything in the forest was damp, and Stone noticed that his horse’s hooves made hardly any noise at all. There were no tracks to follow, no way to know for sure which way to go, so Stone followed his instincts and got moving. He ate a little bread as he rode. His leg seemed slightly better. The swelling had gone down in the night and he had to tighten the straps of his splint.

The day passed in total silence, with Stone straining to hear any sound of Lorik or the raiders with their party of captives. He guessed that there were close to a hundred women and children taken as slaves. He knew that many people should make enough sound that he would probably hear them before he saw them, but he heard nothing.

Late in the afternoon a mist began to rise up from the forest floor. It was ghostly and made visibility even worse. Stone stopped and gathered tinder so that he would be ready to light his torch when night fell again.

He was discouraged that he hadn’t caught up to Lorik yet. His friend was on foot and he had hoped to make up the distance between them, but now he couldn’t help but wonder if he was even going in the right direction. Who knew if the Norsik traveled straight through the forest? And if he was being honest, he didn’t know if he was still traveling north or not. He felt like he was, but winding among the trees as he was, he couldn’t be certain.

The redwoods were so massive he felt like a child crawling around the legs of adults, their bodies lost in the gloom overhead. Night fell and the forest shifted from gloomy to hopelessly black so quickly that Stone could scarcely believe it.

He had ridden all day, so he dismounted, kindled a fire, and ate his supper. Then he lit a torch and continued moving on foot. There were beds of thick moss on the ground now, and while he hadn’t seen or heard any animals in the Wilderlands, occasionally a moth would flutter around his torch.

He walked for an hour, testing his leg occasionally to see if it would bear weight. He could put a little more weight on it than before, and when his torch started to die he spent some time massaging the area around the the injured knee.

For six days he journeyed in the Wilderlands. After the fourth day he accepted that he was lost. He had no more torches and half of his food rations were gone. There was very little foliage for his horse to eat and the poor animal was growing weak and slow.

Fear and isolation began to play tricks on Stone’s mind. He thought he heard whispers high above him. At other times he felt like he was being watched, but no matter where he looked he couldn’t see anyone or anything. Only his adamant will to find and free Vera kept him going. His leg grew progressively better, although he doubted that it would ever have the flexibility it once had. The pain was replaced by stiffness and the crutch became less necessary, even though he was walking more and more to keep from putting too much strain on the horse.

It was late on the sixth day when Stone stopped and decided to make his camp for the night. He had come to a patch of the flat-leafed bushes and was letting his horse eat its fill. The horse had been reluctant to eat the plants when it had first entered the Wilderlands, but hunger had overcome its caution and it was eating heartily, although the plants didn’t offer enough sustenance to really meet the animal’s needs.

Stone was resting in a crook of one of the massive trees’ roots, sipping the last of his tepid water in one of the canteens. He was thankful for Yulver’s insistence that he get the supplies. Stone had seen no water in the Wilderlands, no streams or springs, despite the fact that the ground always seemed damp and every afternoon the mists rose up to give the forest its haunted reputation.

Stone was dozing when a shadowy form began to move through the forest toward him. It was the shape of a man, but bigger and taller. It was surrounded by mist, and Stone strained to see the shaggy countenance but before he could, darkness fell over the Wilderlands and Stone, half in fear, half in frustration, screamed.