He wished he hadn’t done so.
Ahead, he saw a cliff of water, rising so high it seemed to kiss the very clouds.
Oh, Prince Robbert Lukar thought.
Then he closed his eyes and prayed.
15
He peered into the trees, narrow-eyed, listening.
“Quiet,” he said. The word was a whisper, but the men behind him heard. At once both of them stopped in their tread, freezing. No crackle of leaves and twigs underfoot. No sound of squelching mud. Even their breathing seemed to still, and grow silent. And in the silence, Jonik heard. The rumbling of breath, the stalking movement, the unknown creature, closing.
He turned sharply to his men, standing with their horses. The woods were thick about them, the branches deeply knotted and tangled. A hundred years of humus had formed underfoot, softening their tread, and all else too. “Something stalks us,” Jonik mouthed, quiet as a crypt.
“Where?” Gerrin mouthed back.
“There.” Jonik raised a finger and pointed, away to the right of the way they had come. He had sensed something lurking in this old wood, some fell creature, though had refused to go around it. That would have only added precious time, and time they did not have. Months, he thought. A year at best. That was how long the world might last before it fell to unrecoverable ruin, he deemed.
The trunks were tightly packed, the canopy dense. Roots as thick as Jonik’s thigh wrestled for room beneath the earth, snarls and juts poking out from the undergrowth. This was no place to stand and fight. “We go, on my command,” he whispered. He had sighted a clearing ahead, where the trees seemed to thin out a little bit, forming a glade. “Follow me. Draw swords. We leave the horses here.”
Harden frowned. “We need our horses,” he hissed.
“We’ll draw the beast away from them,” Jonik said. Thus far the horses hadn’t so much as raised their eyes, or turned their heads. They were munching as the men spoke, unaware of the threat. This creature is silent, Jonik thought.
He pulled his bastard sword from its sheath, a weapon taken from the refuge, a pristine blade of Tyrith’s forging, made with the Hammer of Tukor. Double-fullered, double-edged, with a long, two-hand grip and wide, thick cross guard, it was not the Nightblade, no Blade of Vandar, but he would deal death with it just as well. Mother’s Mercy, he had decided to name it. He had taken it the day Cecilia died.
The others had taken blades of their own that day, both basket-hilt broadswords, honed and fierce. They scratched out into the still air, misting.
Jonik shared a look with his men, as he opened his spare hand, releasing the lead rope. The others did the same, untethering their horses.
“Ready?” Jonik asked.
Two nods.
“Go,” he said.
And they ran.
They did not care to mask their tread now, did not care to creep. Jonik took the lead, the others following, dashing through the trees to where the daylight shone down. At once there was a loud, deep roaring, splitting the air, carrying far. He could hear trees crashing behind them, branches snapping, claws tearing at the ground.
“Deadfall,” Jonik shouted, spying a fallen tree. He leapt right over it, a great high bound, landed and kept on going. The clearing was just ahead. He burst through into the open, the ground softening at once underfoot. Pools glistened beneath the sunlight, frogs croaking, hopping through mounds of sedge. Damn it. “It’s a marsh!”
The others came crashing through behind him, their heavy armour sinking, boots sucking at the mud. Jonik spun. Fighting in a swamp was folly, he knew, but they had no option now. The creature was approaching, a large shadow in the gloom of the forest. He swished his cloak over his shoulder, so it wouldn’t get in his way, taking a two-hand grip of his long bastard sword. Harden was struggling to pull a boot from the mud, Gerrin helping to free him. “Hurry up! It’s coming!”
“What is it?” Gerrin shouted.
Jonik studied their foe, glimpsed in flashes through the trees. A powerful upper body. Long hairy arms with retractible, ten-inch claws. Shorter legs, squat and strong. Its face was bear-like, though the snout was longer and thinner, and from its rear whipped a long, hairless, rat-like tail, all muscle. Thick fur covered the rest of its body, a dense protective coat. By then, Jonik knew.
“Drovava!” he yelled.
The creature crashed into the glade, upper body slung low, ursine face swinging side to side on a thick, muscular neck. A lather foamed at its mouth and its eyes, a glowing jet black, shark-like, were glistening with the promise of meat. Jonik stood before it, ten metres away, the others behind. “Are you free of the mud yet, Harden?” he called.
“Was. Now my other foot’s stuck. Who thought it was a good idea to fight in a bog?”
Jonik breathed out. “Gerrin, go left. Get behind it. It’s weaker at the rear. I’ll try to keep its attention.”
The creature was watching them, studying them as they were him. It was known to be smart, cunning, and vicious. The drovara liked to eat by tearing out its prey’s guts and feasting on them while the poor creature was still alive. They are known to enjoy places like this, Jonik knew. Dark forests, damp and dingy, where they could creep through the boles and the branches unseen. For such a big creature, it was a remarkably silent stalker.
“Watch the claws,” Gerrin warned. “It’s said they can slash through godsteel.”
“You’re kidding,” Harden groaned. “And you’re going to leave me here stuck in the mud?”
“Pull yourself out, then,” Jonik told him. “I’ll lead it away from you. That’ll give you time.”
He stepped to the side, crab-walking, glancing down to make sure he didn’t end up like the old sellsword. Mostly the earth was just spongy, but here and there were deep muddy puddles that could trap a man if he wasn’t careful. The drovara turned with him, though its tail seemed to look at Gerrin, as the old knight went the other way. It’s second brain, Jonik thought. That tail was an entity in itself, some said. Like dragons. Their tails were known to protect their rear as well, whipping and slashing.
Jonik shared a look with his old master. He gave a nod that said ‘now’, and they both rushed in together.
The drovara raised a paw and slashed, five lethal daggers swiping. Jonik parried with his blade, chipping off a chunk of claw, then swung down to try to de-limb the beast. The arm drew back in time, as Gerrin leapt behind, striking down with his broadsword to try to cut the creature’s spine. That tail had other ideas. With a muscular swing, it crashed into Gerrin’s breastplate, sending him tumbling back down into the marsh with a splash.
“Knew it wouldn’t be that easy,” the old knight grunted, standing back up, swamp-water dripping from his plate. He sounded a little winded. “Gods, this thing packs a punch.”
Jonik was already moving again, darting in, thrusting for the creature’s broad barrel chest. It sprung back, swiping defensively, claws raking along his pauldron with a burst of sparks.
So much for that rumour, Jonik thought. Men said that the King’s Wall could cut through godsteel plate in a single swing as well, though that was probably an exaggeration too. The drovara burst toward him, thrusting off powerful back legs, the mud of the marsh exploding around him, snapping with its elongated face. Jonik fended the claws again, slashed out at the neck. The creature fended with a paw, quicker than Jonik would have thought, snapping down again with his maw. Jonik side-stepped, swung, missed, cutting air as the drovara moved away. Gerrin came in behind, duelling the tail, which coiled and lashed out like a snake, whip-quick.
