The Prisoner of Carronne - 23. Chapter 23

-- Chapter Twenty-three --

Dawn had not yet fully broken when the Warning Bird screamed, beneath skies tinged with a fiery red. The sound tore through the valley, and the riders, who were still climbing the pass, were snapped to immediate attention.

As one, they all looked up, but all they saw was the shadow of something huge. It screamed again. Another warning, then the shadow circled, before fading away.

‘What was that?’ asked a nervous Whip.

‘A Warning Bird,’ answered Chandar. ‘Said to provide assistance to those in peril.’

‘Is that what we are, my Lord? In peril?’

‘I don’t think so, lad. But we are not entirely out of the woods just yet. We still have a mountain to climb.’

There was light enough to see by, and as Jamal looked down into the valley below, he noticed there were only a few small fires still burning. Tendrils of smoke rose from the many piles of ash that were no longer burning, filling the valley with an acrid, heavy cloud. Glancing back along the pass they had been climbing, he could see that almost everyone had come to a halt, and were doing just as he had done.

Their trail ran parallel with the valley floor, rising only gradually over several leagues, then turning back on itself as the next section climbed higher still. It was slow going, as there were still boulders in places, which needed to be manoeuvred around, but there was no other way. When they would get closer to the top, the path would become steeper, as they approached the pass that would allow them to be clear of the dangers below.

When one of the senior knights accompanying them yelled, ‘Move on. Move on. Nothing to see here!’ the column started moving once more.

Somebody groaned. Somebody laughed. But most continued on their way, passing Jamal and Chandar and the two lads, who all remained where they were.

Noticing that Chandar was staring closely at something on the far side of the valley, Jamal looked in the same direction. For a few moments he saw nothing, apart from the drifting smoke, but then, in an opening he saw movement against the far wall, below where the eastern trail entered the valley. Instinctively, he then turned his attention to the northern trail, and after a few moments he spotted movement there as well, and then the same below the valley entrance from the western trail.

There were foot soldiers and horsemen entering the valley, and there was little doubt they would be itching for a fight.

‘Septimus’ men are stirring,’ Chandar said quietly into the cold morning air. ‘Have all our men cleared the valley floor as yet?’

‘Not as yet, my Lord. It seems there is a log-jam,’ Jamal replied, having checked where the tail of their column were still creeping forward.

‘Then let us pray that they are not too late in getting away,’ the old man said, as some more of their column passed them by. ‘Perhaps the weather gods will assist us?’ he added, before looking around him for the knights who were accompanying them.

When he spotted Erhan just a little above where they stood, he called to him.

‘Erhan! Get them moving faster, there is no time to waste with the enemy closing in below.’

‘As you wish, my Lord,’ came the reply.

He then repeated the call to the next knight below them, who replied in the same fashion, and shortly their company was moving faster, with the pass at the top of the ridge – and safety – growing closer and closer with each step.

*   *   *

At the eastern edge of the valley, a knight clad in black began his descent into the Highshaw valley, at the head of his own company of soldiers.

In all, there were more than one thousand soldiers across the three companies who were currently entering the valley, he knew. What chance would a rabble of knights, many of whom were old and had not seen action in many a year, have against such might?

Judayah was convinced that on this day victory would be his, and that the sleeping knights would offer little resistance as his soldiers put their enemy to the sword. He knew that Septimus would be proud of him, and he was already looking forward to a triumphant return to Carronne.

When the first of the screams came from the Warning Bird, shattering the silence of the predawn, he cursed, fully expecting the knights to emerge from beneath their canopies, weapons wielded and ready for battle. When that didn’t happen, however, he breathed a little easier, but when the second scream came, Judayah felt as if panic was about to set in.

‘On the double,’ he ordered, anxious that they reach the encampment before the knights could prepare, and obediently, his troops responded. A quiet and steady advance, sneaking up on their enemy, was no longer an option. The sound of boots on the ground and the jingle of weapons – and in some cases, armour – along with the hoofbeats of horses at the trot, could not be kept silent for long.

Above them, a cloud of smoke from the knights’ campfires, hung in the air, which only seemed to be growing heavier as winds began to swirl. Were there actual clouds now rolling in as well? Was that a storm brewing?

Across the floor of the valley they came, spreading out into formation as they did so. Judayah looked across and up at the entrances to the northern and western trails and could see these two companies also moving on the double. It was only then that he glanced towards the southern trail, the goat track he had discounted as being irrelevant. Something had changed there, since last he had visited, but he didn’t have time to dwell on that just now, or to look more closely.

Could that southern trail be the one flaw in his plan? There was no time to think about that, however. His forces were committed.

‘Cavalry, charge the tents!’ he ordered, and obediently they did as commanded, galloping down on the campsite from their direction, while other two cavalry units charged in from the other two sides.

From above, Jamal and Chandar looked on with some amusement at the sight of the cavalry reaching the tents, then slashing at them with swords, only to find no resistance.

‘It seems they are fighting only shadows, my lad,’ Chandar quipped.

‘But they haven’t seen us yet, my Lord. And they have longbow archers. Surely they would have the range to reach us, would they not?’

‘Only in the correct conditions, lad . . . and I don’t believe this day will prove favourable. Still, our company needs to make haste and complete this difficult climb to safety,’ Chandar replied.

In the valley below, the cavalry came up empty-handed. There were no knights in sight and confusion reigned.

‘Search the ruins! And the forest,’ Judayah ordered. ‘Archers, be ready to make formations!’

‘Aye, Sir,’ their leader replied.

Judayah was confused. How could the knights have vanished so easily?

Then he remembered the southern trail and the changes he noticed. Looking again in that direction, he followed the lines of the trail, coming from the top down, and it was then that his heart leapt in his chest.

The knights! They had escaped him! They were climbing from the valley after all.

A column of riders was spread out along the full length of the trail. There must have been one hundred riders! Where could they all have come from?

As the weather rapidly closed in, Judayah bellowed, ‘Archers! In formation! Facing the south wall! And get closer!’

After a moment’s confusion they looked up, and it was only then that they noticed their targets. They began to trot closer, before fanning out into a formation of three straight lines.

Under normal circumstances the archers had extremely long range and could take down an enemy from quite a distance. With the weather closing in, however, some doubted their ability to reach that far, but Judayah, who was now cantering back and forth behind the three companies of men and barking the same orders, was insistent. They set their formation and the first row of archers drew arrows from their quivers, nocked them and took aim, as the weather grew wilder still.

The wind was now lashing them and clouds were billowing. It came in low, unnatural gusts that tugged at cloaks and fingers, as though testing them. As though feeling them. And in this pale morning light, with visibility extremely poor, and their commander bellowing at them, the task of the archers was made even more daunting.

As the first row of archers drew back their bows, waiting for the command to let loose their arrows, a strangeness swirled above them.

‘Hold!’ Judayah bellowed. ‘Hold!’

Above them, the sky thickened, gurgled. The clouds did not drift, they gathered, they folded in on themselves. Layer upon layer, like something was breathing, just beyond sight.

And then a sound followed. It wasn’t thunder, or wind. It was something . . . else. A wet, shifting murmur, like voices heard through water. Like words almost forming, then slipping away again. Like people speaking in tongues.

Archers daring to look skyward even imagined they were seeing faces in the mists and the clouds, but then came the screams from above, as those imagined faces did emerge; ghastly, slashed, with features missing, their mouths open – from which the sounds appeared to be coming – bore down on them. When the mouths closed and the sounds kept coming, the archers realised that they were coming from the pass, from high above the caravan of knights they were about to attack.

Jamal and Chandar could hear these screams as well, and could sense they were coming from somewhere behind them. When Jamal looked towards the top of the ridge all he could see was the streaming of mists and clouds pouring over the pass and down into the valley. Daring a glance at Chandar, he could see the old man had dismounted and was now standing at the edge of the drop-off.

‘My Lord! What are you doing?’ he screamed, trying to outdo the sounds of the weather.

Chandar just looked at him and smiled, his long, grey hair blowing about him, as were his robes, then he raised his arms to the storm, as it bent around him.

‘Can you feel the power, my lad,’ Chandar called to him. ‘Embrace it! Let it embrace you, and carry you to greatness!’

He was smiling at Jamal now. Not broadly. Not warmly. But with a quiet recognition that sent an unexpected chill through Jamal’s chest.

‘Do you feel it?’ Chandar called, though his voice seemed oddly untouched by the storm. ‘The breath beneath the wind?’

Unsure of what exactly was being asked, Jamal dismounted and took his place beside the great man, letting the storm rage past him. Indeed, there was a power he had rarely ever felt. The air felt different . . . thicker somehow, pressing against his skin, seeping through cloth and bone alike. And it was invigorating.

‘Do you feel it?’ Chandar asked again.

‘I feel the storm, my Lord!’

‘What you are feeling, my boy, is power. The power of the Ancients! The old currents. The things that were here long before we ever thought to name them.’

The wind surged. Not past them, but through them.

Jamal turned sharply toward the crest of the ridge, expecting to see riders, or perhaps wraiths, or the great bird returning – but there was nothing there but the spill of cloud, pouring over the pass like a breaking wave. It did not drift. It fell, slow and heavy, as though the sky itself had begun to sink, and poured itself into the valley.

The wind struck him then – hard enough to stagger him a step. Yet Chandar did not move.

‘Yes . . .’ the old knight murmured, almost too softly to hear. ‘Yes, I remember you.’

Jamal turned sharply at that.

Remember?

Before he could speak, the clouds above the pass twisted once more – not blown, not scattered, but drawn inward, spiralling as though gathering around an unseen centre. For an instant – no more than a heartbeat – Jamal thought he saw shapes within it.

Not faces. Not clearly. But forms.

Something vast, shifting just beyond sight.

He stumbled back a half-step.

‘My Lord . . . this is . . .’

Chandar’s hand shot out and caught his arm.

The grip was iron. Stronger than Jamal would have thought possible.

‘Stand, lad,’ Chandar said, and now there was command in his voice. ‘Do not turn away from it.’

Jamal froze. Not because he wished to obey. But because, suddenly, it felt as though turning away might be . . . noticed.

Below them, faint through the roar, came Judayah barking orders behind his troops, the archers were holding their formation and awaiting their orders. All three rows in each formation had arrows nocked and ready to fire, one row at a time.

‘Archers at the ready!’ Judayah bellowed into the winds as he held one arm high. ‘And . . . release!’ he added, while dropping his arm, so that the other two companies could follow his orders.

The archers in the first rows of each company released their arrows, with hundreds of the deadly missiles flying into the air.

‘Release!’ Judayah bellowed once again, signalling for the second row of archers in the formation to do the same, and moments later, he ordered the same for the third row of archers.

Knights and soldiers alike, anxiously watched the flight of three layers of arrows as they soared high, buffeted by the winds.

For a heartbeat, their flight seemed true – clean, strong, rising into the air. But then . . . they slowed. Not as arrows normally slow. Not by distance, nor by failing strength. They simply . . . hesitated.

They hung. Suspended against the sky as though caught in something unseen.

A ripple passed through the clouds, and then the faces came once more. Emerging from the bubbling and broiling mass. Contours pressed outward through the vapour – forming cheeks, hollows, sockets where eyes should be. Mouths stretched too wide, or not wide enough. Some half-formed. Some torn open.

They were not screaming, this time. But all were watching.

Waiting.

And then the faces twisted, their mouths finally forming perfectly, ring-shaped. Cheeks puffed, and then they blew. There were no voices, yet the skies screamed, as a blast of icy wind flew towards the faltering arrows.

And the arrows – three flights of them – held in the air, but then, something mysterious happened. They turned. Not sharply. Nor violently. But deliberately . . . as though guided. As though they had been called back.

For a single, terrible moment, no one moved. No one even breathed, because no one understood. But by the time that they did understand, it was almost too late.

Several archers turned and started to run. One of these men came close to Judayah, and was struck down by the former knight’s sword.

And then the first arrow fell. It struck a man clean through the throat.

The second followed . . . striking another in the back and dropping him dead.

Then ten. Then fifty. Then all at once. The sky returned just what had been given to it, finding backs, eyes, limbs. Finding gaps in armour. Striking man and beast alike.

Amidst the confusion, Judayah screamed at his men.

‘Hold your ground!’ he roared. But the ground no longer belonged to them. It belonged to the gods.

And the screaming did not stop when the arrows ended. Because something still lingered above. Watching. Waiting. And it was not on the side of the forces of darkness.

The screams of dying men now filled the air, along with the sounds of horsemen galloping away, while from their vantage point on high, the knights could only look on in shock at what they had just witnessed, through the swirling mass of clouds and smoke still churning heavily in the valley.

‘What, in the name of Majid, has just happened?’ Jamal asked, breathlessly, before turning towards Chandar.

The old knight, however, was gazing not at Jamal, nor down into the valley. Instead, he was gazing into the skies above, which had somehow now settled. As the weight of them began to clear, and while the valley below was still clouded, the cries of men below those clouds could still be heard.

‘My Lord?’ Jamal ventured.

Finally, Chandar turned towards him. ‘My boy,’ he said. ‘The world is filled with mysteries that often cannot be explained.’

From below, they heard the sounds of a horse galloping and as they looked down at the trail they had been climbing, they found Luther cantering up the slope on Majid.

Stopping on the level directly below Chandar and Jamal, he looked up and called to them. ‘Are you all well?’

‘We are, my knight. But I fear we must wait for the clouds to clear below before we will see the full effect upon the valley.’

‘Agreed,’ Luther replied. ‘I suggest our party should continue over the south pass, until we can be certain of what we will find below. The danger to the Order is over, for now, I believe.’

‘We shall just have to wait and see,’ Chandar replied. ‘We need to regroup on the high plain beyond the pass, where we shall be out of reach of any threat, and where we will plot our next steps. Leave their forces to deal with their dead. And in due course, Judayah will receive what is coming to him.’

*   *   *

The caravan of knights and followers crested the pass by mid-morning and set about making camp. Old habits were coming back to those who had campaigned before this, while new habits were being learned by those who were new to this.

Additional forces had now also joined them . . . the mountain clan, those men who had been hiding and training these past years – waiting for the time when they would surely be needed. They were greeted by the knights and thanked for their efforts with securing the trail, but they were largely keeping to themselves and had set up their own camp a little distance away from the others.

Chandar now stood near the edge of the ridge, looking down over the valley that held so many memories for the Order. He had never expected it to become a battlefield, but by the same token, he wasn’t particularly surprised.

Around him, and alongside him, stood a dozen knights; Jamal, Luther, Garrett and Raemande amongst them, all gazing down into the valley below.

The storm had passed as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind an eerie silence that felt foreign to this place. Not the calm of a battle ended, nor the quiet of dawn settling into day, but something heavier. As though the valley itself held its breath.

Below the knights, the clouds had thinned. Not lifted. Not cleared entirely. But thinned – just enough so that shapes could be seen through them. Dark shapes. Still shapes. The scattered remains of a portion of what had once been a force that might have overwhelmed them.

No one spoke of going down there. At least, not yet. There were remnants of the Dark Lord’s army that lingered still, though it did not appear that they were tending to their departed.

A little way off, Whip sat astride his horse, his usual restless energy gone. Devon stood beside him, one hand on the reins, the other hanging loosely at his side. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked at the other.

Both stared into the valley, almost as though they were afraid that if they looked away, it might all change again. Or worse . . . begin again.

Further along the trail, other knights had gathered in small clusters. Men who had once stood in battle lines, who had faced steel and fire and blood without flinching . . . now stood in quiet, murmured conversation, or in silence altogether.

One man crossed himself. Another removed his helmet and held it against his chest. A third simply stared upward, long after the sky had cleared.

The mood was sombre. No one laughed. No one boasted. There was no victory here that any of them truly understood.

What they did understand, though, was that the Ancients had spoken.

Slowly, Jamal became aware that Chandar had not moved. He turned and stared at the old knight, who still stood at the edge of the drop. His arms were now lowered, his shoulders no longer held with that same quiet strength. For a moment, Jamal thought he saw a tremor pass through him – subtle, but there.

‘My Lord?’ he asked, quietly.

Chandar did not answer at once. His gaze was no longer on the valley. It was distant, as though fixed on something far beyond.

At length, he drew in a slow breath and released it, and then turned to face Jamal, and also Luther, who was now standing beside his former squire.

‘There is no sign of Judayah,’ Chandar answered them. ‘And yet some cavalry remain.’

‘My guess is that they have been left there to tend to their dead and dying. Or perhaps they have deserted their posts, while the remaining troops have retreated. It remains to be seen if they are preparing to return to Carronne, or preparing to come after us. Let us see what the morning brings, then we may survey the scene,’ Luther remarked.

‘That seems prudent. In the meantime, we make camp to regroup, and seek council with the mountain clan, and all those who have joined us on this new crusade.’

‘Agreed, my Lord.’

Jamal gazed down into the valley once more and for a brief moment, a clearer view opened. It was just enough to see the scattered bodies, the broken formations, the ruin of what had been an army.

Then the mists closed once more; as though drawing a veil.

Jamal felt something shift within him. It wasn’t fear. Not entirely. But an awareness . . . that the world he thought he was just beginning to understand had just . . . widened. And that whatever lay ahead, whatever war they were walking toward, it would not be fought by steel alone.

Chandar turned then, finally, though the movement seemed to cost him more than it should have. As he stepped back from the edge, his hand brushed briefly against a boulder, as though steadying himself.

It was only a brief touch, but Jamal saw it. And Chandar noticed that Jamal had seen it.

‘I am an old man, lad,’ the knight remarked. ‘And I shall not tell a lie, this journey has taken its toll . . . but I am not yet done for. There is still much I must do!’

‘Of course, my Lord,’ the order’s newest knight replied.

‘Now, why don’t you help an old man find a place to rest, while the camp is established?’

‘As you wish, my Lord.’

*   *   *

The sombre mood of the morning lasted throughout the day, as the pages and squires set about creating a comfortable camp for their masters. Sticks and branches were gathered for a bonfire, which was set alight just on sundown.

From the high pass, the valley below still lay half-hidden beneath drifting veils of cloud. Now and then the mists parted, offering glimpses of the ruin left behind – still shapes strewn across the valley floor, broken lines where formations had once stood. Here and there, riders still moved among the fallen.

‘Survivors,’ one knight muttered.

‘Or scavengers,’ another replied.

No one spoke further on it.

The leader of the mountain clan, whose labours had cleared the pass, joined them as the light faded. He was a broad-shouldered man with wind-cut features, named Bull, and he stood beside Chandar as the knights gathered in a loose circle about the fire. Faces glowed in the flickering light; thoughtful, uneasy.

‘The Dark Lord will not ignore this,’ Raemande said at length. ‘Whatever force turned the battle today, it will not deter him. It will only enrage him.’

‘He will turn his eye elsewhere,’ added Enoch. ‘Toward a prize he can still claim, before the Order can gather enough strength.’

‘Jeebath,’ Chandar said quietly.

A murmur passed through the gathered men, as their gaze turned towards Raemande. His face gave away nothing.

‘The Golden Crown,’ said one of the older knights, his voice low. ‘If he takes it . . .'

‘He will not claim the throne,’ Raemande finished, with some resolve.

‘Can it be prevented?’ asked another.

Chandar regarded him for a moment. ‘We stand where we must,’ he said. ‘As we always have. Until our last breath.’

Before any could reply, a call rang out from the edge of the pass.

‘Riders! From the valley!’

The gathering broke at once. Knights rose, hands on weapons, moving swiftly toward the narrow approach. Jamal followed close behind Chandar, Luther and Rae, his pulse quickening.

Below them, three horsemen could be seen climbing the winding trail. The middle rider was carrying a lance, and tied to it, a strip of white cloth fluttered in the evening wind.

They came on slowly, cautiously, until the guards at the pass called out.

‘Who goes there?’

The foremost rider raised a hand.

‘I am Artemis Ortense, captain of the Seventh House Guards of Castle Carronne,’ he called. ‘I seek parley with the leaders of the knights. We come under truce.’

‘Then show yourselves fully,’ came the reply.

The three riders urged their mounts forward, crossing onto the pass. When they halted, each man dismounted in turn. Then, one by one, they cast their weapons to the ground.

The line of knights stood before them, unmoving, before eventually they parted, upon a gesture from Luther.

Chandar stepped forward. The wind stirred his robes as he regarded the three men in silence.

‘Speak, then,’ he said.

The captain stepped forward, removing his helmet. His face was drawn, his eyes hollow from what he had seen.

‘We do not know what happened here on this day . . . something beyond what we have ever seen. Something more powerful than what we have ever seen,’ he said. ‘The Dark Lord is no master we will serve further. Not after this day. My men have made their choice . . . we can follow him no longer.’

‘And your company?’ Chandar asked. ‘Where are they now? And how many strong are you?’

‘We number forty, my Lord. They are waiting below. And I believe more will follow, given the chance.’

A murmur passed through the knights.

Chandar studied the man for a long moment, as though weighing more than his words alone.

‘And are you prepared to swear your allegiance to the Order, and to the true King?’

‘We shall, my Lord.’

At last, Chandar gave a single, measured nod, then simply said, ‘Bring them to us,’ before turning away and starting for the fire.

As he walked away, Chandar spoke once more. Softly. So softly that Jamal almost thought he had imagined it.

‘Now, it has begun,’ the old man said. ‘And we shall finally see which dragon rises . . . and which shall fall.’

~ FIN ~