Chapter Eleven

The beastmen came forward in a group, although it was impossible for Reinmar to tell exactly how many there were—at least seven, he thought, and perhaps as many as ten. Some came to the left of the horses and some to the right but one actually leapt up between them, pausing for balance on the yoke that connected their collars before using their rain-slicked backs as stepping-stones to launch itself at Godrich.

The steward had dropped the reins, but he had not had time to release the string tying his sword into its scabbard, and the beastman was upon him while the weapon was still undrawn. He tumbled over the back of the driving-seat, his head catching the top of the iron arch which Sigurd had set in place to support the awning. All of a sudden, the beastman was in the wagon with them, and there could be no further doubt as to its monstrous nature.

The creature’s arms, though very hairy, were fundamentally humanoid, and its shaggy legs too, although its huge feet were massively clawed. Its head was not quite the head of a wolf, although it was certainly as furry; it had the fangs and the slavering jaws, but its eyes were set further forward than a wolfs and its ears were more like a cat’s. Its snout was more like a pig’s and it had two vestigial horns set atop its furrowed brow.

Had it only had claws and teeth for weapons the beastman would have been a formidable opponent, but it also had an artificial weapon in each hand—a thick-bladed knife in the right and a club in the left. Perhaps that was not entirely to its advantage, though, because as Godrich sprawled, knocked silly by the blow to his head, there might have been time enough to rip his throat out with those awful teeth—but instead of doing so, the creature raised its knife ready for a disembowelling blow.

That was all the interval Sigurd needed.

The beastmen had not made a sound, but Sigurd let loose a howl far longer and far louder than any mere animal could have contrived, and his hand shot out to seize the beastman that had invaded the wagon by its hairy throat. As he took the creature’s neck in his grip Sigurd straightened his body, standing upright.

The canopy burst as the giant’s huge head and shoulders went through it, the jagged rip spreading back and forth along the taut cloth to rend it in two—and there was sufficient elasticity in the release to send both halves whipping outwards into the faces of the beastmen who had run to either side of the wagon.

The beastman Sigurd held was as big as Reinmar, and more sturdily built, but the giant lifted it off its feet with contemptuous ease, and crushed its throat with his fingers. By the time his arm had straightened above his head he was holding a mere trophy aloft, displaying it to the rain-filled sky and to the beastmen which had recoiled from the whiplashing fragments of the canopy.

It was a truly awesome sight, but Reinmar could not help thinking that its dignity was more than slightly ruined by the fact that the slain beastman’s slackened bowels released a cargo of stinking shit, which showered Matthias Vaedecker’s back as well as a dozen rattling casks. Vaedecker did not respond as Reinmar would have; he was too busy taking aim with the second bolt that he had fitted to his crossbow.

Reinmar had no doubt that the shot would have been a second hit had all else been equal, but the terrified horses had realised by now that the source of their fear had moved from front to flank, and they were determined to take the opportunity thus presented. No one was holding the reins, but it would have done no good had Reinmar managed to snatch them up. It would have taken more than merely human strength to stop the horses bolting.

Godrich had lined up the wagon with the gap in the trees into which he had intended to move in search of shelter, but the steward had not had time to ascertain whether the ground was flat enough to be safely traversed. It now transpired that it was not.

As the horses fled and the wagon followed, the whole assembly lurched into a hole and out again, bouncing the casks of wine so vigorously that the ropes holding them in place creaked under the strain. Reinmar, Ulick and Marcilla bounced too, far more freely and far more painfully.

Matthias Vaedecker’s shot went wild, and even Sigurd lost his balance. Had the cart been unladen the giant might have recovered his balance with a single adjustment of his stance, but both his feet were planted in narrow spaces, with casks and boxes to one side and fallen bodies everywhere. He lurched, he staggered, and in the end he accepted that he could not stay where he was.

Rather than fall where he stood, the huge man threw the corpse of the beastman over one side of the wagon and made use of what leverage he had to move to the other, leaping into the air. He obviously intended to clear the side of the cart and land two-footed, but the wagon’s lurch had cost him too much co-ordination. His foot caught the side of the vehicle as he jumped, tripping him, and he went over flailing his arms, obviously knowing that he was bound to fall.

The wagon continued its forward course, the wheels hitting more ridges and potholes, and not in any kind of order. Reinmar knew that it would be a miracle if none of them broke—but he saw that there was a more urgent danger as the horses careered into the trees. With no one to steer and no native understanding of side-margins and turning arcs, nor anyway of communicating that would have allowed them to change course in unison, the panic-stricken animals dragged the left side of the cart against the bole of a tree. The tree’s rough bark scraped the wagon along its entire length, splintering several of the timbers and tearing away the fragments of the canopy that had flopped to that side. Both of the remaining iron bands were dislodged from their sockets.

The iron struts rebounded like springs, soaring away in the opposite direction before the runaway horses contrived a second collision, more brutal than the first, between the right-hand side of the wagon and another tree-trunk.

This second collision stopped the wagon dead, and the pins to which the horses’ harnesses were secured were ripped out of their wooden beds, disconnecting the animals from the cart. One of the wagon’s shafts fractured, and the horses disappeared into the wood, separating as they went. The ragged remnants of their harnesses were not strong enough to bind them together.

For a moment, Reinmar was relieved, not merely for his cargo—which was still secure—but for the four bodies that would have been very badly battered and bruised had the headlong ride continued.

Then he remembered the beastmen.

Temporarily left behind when the horses lurched forward, the beastmen were less than thirty yards in arrears, and now they were coming after their prey. Their first target was the fallen Sigurd, who still had not risen after his heavy fall.

Reinmar heard Matthias Vaedecker curse again, but the sergeant did not hesitate over what needed to be done. With Godrich also out of action, at least for the moment, there was no way that three of them could hold off eight or nine beastmen. To stand any chance at all they needed Sigurd—and that meant they had to defend Sigurd while he was down, until he had time to raise his huge bulk up again and start lashing out with those massive fists.

Vaedecker threw his crossbow aside, drew his sword, and leapt down from the back of the wagon. Then he charged, without waiting to see if anyone was following where he led. As he charged he let loose a fearsome battle-cry, which would certainly have give pause to a human enemy but did not seem to impress the beastmen at all.

“Come on,” said Reinmar to Ulick, as he leapt down behind the soldier and followed him into the fight. Like Vaedecker, he did not wait to see whether Ulick would obey his summons, but he saw from the corner of his eye that the boy had indeed followed him, even though he was only armed with a twisted piece of rusty metal.

It was touch and go whether the beastmen would reach Sigurd’s fallen body before Vaedecker did, and both parties put all the effort they could into the winning of the race, with the result that it was a virtual tie.

The beastmen had numbers on their side, but Vaedecker had training, and a far better weapon than any of the beastmen. The sergeant was already sweeping his sword across in a broad horizontal sweep as he arrived by Sigurd’s side, and the beastmen were sprinting too hard to stop and jump back. The best they could achieve was to peel away to either side, and neither of the leading two could do that fast enough to avoid the blade. Both were cut about the torso. Although their ribs protected them from fatal damage, the long cuts fountained blood.

It was not so easy to reverse the sweep as the second wave of beastmen arrived. One of them was able to duck inside the soldier’s guard, throwing itself upon him as if to wrestle him to the ground. Had he recoiled reflexively, Vaedecker would indeed have gone down, but he had the trained responses of an infantryman, schooled to hold his line no matter what. Vaedecker body-checked the beastman with brutal stubbornness, and smashed his fist into the ugly animal face.

The beastman was far from frail, but it had not bulk enough to win that kind of match and it lurched away. There were two more ready to leap in after it, but Reinmar and Ulick had arrived by now and they each lashed out at a different target.

Reinmar’s sword was short and light, built for stabbing rather than sweeping, and he remembered his schooling well enough not to attempt any move for which the weapon was not designed. Although the beastman he targeted managed to avoid his move, it had to throw itself sideways to do so, losing its balance and sprawling on to all fours.

Ulick’s piece of iron was not designed for any kind of thrust at all, and the boy was slighter than Reinmar, but he too enjoyed success of a sort. He fetched his enemy a very painful blow upon its upraised arm, and not only made it squeal but caused it to raise its other arm defensively, ruining any blow it might otherwise have aimed at Vaedecker.

When these thrusts had been made, however, the cart’s defenders had done what they could for the moment, and there were still three beastmen coming forward.

Reinmar realised that he simply had not time or space to fence with these opponents. The weapons the beastmen carried were meagre, but there were simply too many of them. Three men could not stand against them for more than a matter of minutes.

But four could, if the fourth were Sigurd.

The giant must have been winded by his fall, and probably bruised, but he was not the kind of man to worry about bruises. Once he had managed to suck air back into his evacuated lungs he was ready to rejoin the fray, and all he had to do in order to accomplish that end was to stand up.

That was not as easy as it sounded, given that he had defenders standing over him and attackers eager to displace them, but mere convenience was not an issue. Sigurd was obviously intent on standing as soon as he could stand, and he left it to his friends to get out of the way as soon as they saw him make a move.

Unfortunately, that was not as easy as it sounded either.

Sigurd stood up in the very heart of the brawl, forcing his massive bulk into a space that was simply not there. His fists shot out in two directions—aiming, of course, for beastmen—and he shrugged as he stood, as if to clear the space he needed. No less than three beastmen were sent tumbling—but so was Reinmar. From the corner of his eye he saw Ulick duck under a flailing giant arm, and he saw Vaedecker move with an awesome sense of purpose to a new position, but a fast-moving fist clipped him under the chin and sent him flying.

The sword flew from Reinmar’s hand and he just had time to think, as he was taken off his feet, that when he landed—flat on his back—he would be wide open to attack by a plunging dagger or flashing teeth. It would be even worse for him if he struck his head and was knocked unconscious.

Perhaps he had enough presence of mind to react to this awareness, or perhaps it was only blind luck, but in the end he fell upon his shoulders, without whacking the back of his head against the ground. He was indeed wide open to attack, but he did not lose consciousness. He retained full possession of his faculties.

He saw a beastman make as if to fall upon him, and for a split second thought he was doomed—but Sigurd was well aware of the fact that he had just knocked over the man to whom his safety had been entrusted, and the good servant was not about to let his mistake become fatal. As the beastman leapt, Sigurd’s arm lashed out in a great horizontal arc, the palm of his hand held flat—and as it impacted with the beast-man’s neck Reinmar heard the snap that broke the creature’s spine.

And as soon as that, it was over.

Suddenly, there were no more enemies to fight. No more beastmen were leaping forward with murderous intent. Save for the one that had just fallen and would never rise again, all eight or nine of them were in full flight, scattering in every direction. They had been eager to fight three men, though two of them had swords, but they were not willing to face three and one fallen if one of the unfallen were Sigurd.

But it was not a victory. Although none of the cart’s defenders had been seriously wounded, and all were now ready to renew the fight if necessary, they were stranded. The horses had run off into the driving rain, and the wagon had taken such a battering that it would be a virtual miracle if it were still road-worthy. It would almost certainly require repair, and the horses would require recapture—which could not be achieved without dividing the party.

Now there was no possible room for doubt that there were monsters abroad in the hills; for once, the rumours were true. Had Reinmar’s world not turned upside-down already, it would have turned upside-down then—but as things were, he felt grimly unastonished. He had set out on this expedition determined to make discoveries of his own, and he had made them. He suspected that he now knew more than any of his companions, including Vaedecker, about what was happening and what it might signify. He was proud of that, and firmly intent on keeping the advantage.

“Why did they attack us?” Ulick asked. The question presumably sounded more innocent to Sergeant Vaedecker than it did to Reinmar, given that Vaedecker had not been party to their earlier conversation.

“They didn’t,” Vaedecker said, scowling as he used the toe of his boot to turn over the second of the two monsters that Sigurd had killed. “Strictly speaking, we attacked them. They must have taken shelter in the wood when the rain began—and then we came along, driving at them like madmen. If I hadn’t fired that first bolt, they might have run away without a fight but once I’d killed one, they had to react. So we had to kill two more, and leave at least three wounded. Now, they’ll either be too terrified to come within half a mile of us, or so angry that they’ll be after our blood with real determination. We’ll have to hope for the first. The real question is: why are they here? I take it that the woods in these parts aren’t normally home to packs of beastmen.”

“No,” said Reinmar. “They aren’t.”

“You may not have liked the idea of rough soldiers coming to your nice, prosperous little town, Master Reinmar,” Vaedecker said, with a certain relish, “but I’ve got a shrewd suspicion that you’ll soon be grateful that we came. I think we’re going to be needed. This expedition is hereby cut short—we return direct to Eilhart as soon as we can. But first, we have to get the horses back.”

“And the wagon fixed,” Reinmar said. “Let’s hope Godrich is well enough to lend a hand—he’s the only one with the knowledge and the skill to get it moving again.”

“But first we need the horses,” Vaedecker insisted. “We need to get to them before the beastmen do, and we need to get them back here safely. Sigurd!”

The giant was not supposed to be taking orders from the soldier, but he did not so much as glance in Reinmar’s direction for confirmation. “Yes,” he said, “I’ll go. You’ll have to guard the wagon.”

Reinmar knew that Sigurd didn’t really mean “the wagon’. He meant that he was trusting Vaedecker to look after his master, and his master’s other servant.

“Take the boy,” Vaedecker commanded. “You might need more than one pair of hands.”

Ulick was under no one’s orders, and Reinmar expected him to protest that he had to stay with his sister, but in fact the boy nodded meekly. He too appreciated the need to regather what they needed with the maximum possible speed, before the beastmen could regroup and plan another attack.

Sigurd immediately strode off in the direction which the horses had followed, with the gypsy boy hurrying after him.

“What do we do about that?” Reinmar asked, pointing to the beastman whose neck had been broken.

“Nothing,” Vaedecker replied. “The one we have to attend to is Godrich. As you say, he’s the one whose knowledge and skill will allow us to patch up the wagon, if it can be patched at all.”

As if the bleakness of his tone had not lent a keen enough edge to the import of his words, lightning flashed upon the mountain peaks far to the south, then flashed again and again as a whole chain of strikes extended across the range. The sky was filled with the crackle of distant thunder, and when it finally died away the steady hiss of the rain that fell all about them seemed twice as loud as it had before.

“This is it, Reinmar,” Matthias Vaedecker said. “This is where it begins.”

“Where what begins?” Reinmar wanted to know.

“Reality,” the sergeant retorted. “The dream is dissolving, and the nightmare is free. This is when you begin to find out what the world is really like.”