Dragongate I

As they turned and ran, a high-pitched wail, quite inhuman, rose in the glade, penetrating the dampening fog to rise eerily above it and disappear among the treetops. Ten times more horrible than a vixen’s screech it was. Drawn out agonisingly, within it was the scream of changing sounds, of meaning and intent. And it was close.

Then, closer still, rose a similar answering cry, and something crashed out of a brake of ferns towards them. All Sigird saw, from the corner of her eye, was a flash of fangs and hate-filled eyes in a hairless, yellow parchment face, gnashing, slavering, madly staring. They ran, taking fallen trees at a leap, trips and falls at a roll, letting bramble rent their clothes and flesh, but not stay them for an instant.

Whatever they were, the creatures were hard at their heels. Snarling and panting was in their ears, hot fetid breath scorched the backs of their necks. Claws snagged at their boots. Teeth tore at their cloaks. The chase was surely near its end. They must be caught. Just then, immediately ahead of them, something else was on the move, heavily crashing down the bank, pushing through the undergrowth. It was a Leopard! His ruddy, bearded face contorted, he stumbled, panting towards them. Yet his terror-filled eyes stared blankly past them, and they swerved around him and pounded onward. Seconds later they heard his screams. They were agonised and endless, and, between their insane crescendos, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone reached them. But, the pursuit had slackened for a few precious moments. They did not slacken, though their chests were bursting and their muscles were a searing fire. The sounds of pursuit were heard again behind them, and they found themselves slowing despite the goad of fear upon them. Then Sigird realised it was because the ground was rising; they were running uphill. Then she saw it, ahead on a shattered tree stump directly ahead of them, looking down the wooded ravine towards them, the fanged white face in its blood halo. If only they could reach it. The things again sounded almost upon them, and the stench of them enveloped her as the hot breath was again felt on the back of her neck. If only they could make it. If only … and then, before she knew it, they were there, and past it. They kept going yet heard no more the sound of pursuit. The westering sun struck out over the lip of the ravine and blinded them. They covered their eyes and instinctively turned away. They could see little behind them, sun-blind, as they scanned the dark interior of the wood, but no sign or noise of pursuit could they divine. All was silent once more in the darkling wood. They scrambled their way into the open and found they were looking up a gentle slope of moorland grass to a shallow flat hill crowned with brown bushy trees. At first, they thought it must be some considerable way off, for the trees looked small. Then they realised that the trees themselves were small. Nowhere in the Northlands had trees yet turned to their autumn hues, that would be some weeks off. Their plump, densely leafed canopies did not seem near to falling, yet were all brown, as if that was their colour at all their seasons. At any rate, the sun was now low behind them.

“Those poor horses,” said Sigird bent over, once she had caught her breath. The she looked up again at the low hill ahead and gasped. “Oh!” she said.

“What?” demanded Sacrissa.

In reply Sigird, of all things, let out a little childish giggle, “Don’t you see? It’s the Land of the Little Brown Trees!”

“What?” said Sacrissa, again, “I mean, you know of this strange hill?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No!” infuriating girl, thought Sacrissa, “What is this place? Is it good news at least?”

“What? Good news? Oh no, I shouldn’t think so,” replied Sigird, absently, but she was still grinning happily.

‘Impossible!’ thought Sacrissa, then, out loud, “Sigird!”

“Hmm, yes? Oh, well, don’t you see, it’s the Land of the Little Brown Trees,” then, seeing Sacrissa’s look of impatient hostility, she added “you know, like in the story, well, the rhyme really?”

Sacrissa stared inquisitively, an eyebrow at full elevation, arms folded, foot tapping.

Sigird cleared her throat, “Well, err…”, and she began:

In the Land of the Little Brown Trees

Sigird recited in a sing-song voice, standing straight, hands behind her back, as she had been taught as a child.

Oh Plodwyn the Plodling’s daughter

Fear the land of the little brown trees

Unless you would go to your slaughter

Where the horriboos chomp at their ease

Bidyes spin between each bough

Naynells haunt the hollow

No passage do their webs allow

Unless the slime to follow

Oh Plodwyn the Plodling’s own dear

Fear the land of the little brown trees

The govies will gnaw off your right ear

And the gorbies will bite out your knees!

The Panting Dangazone, my child

There lurks within its lair

His teeth are sharp, his breath is vile

And he stinks like a blandiblare!

“Oh, for the Heavens’ sake!” answered Sacrissa, “That’s enough of that! While I deplore the impoverished minstrelsy of your childhood, let us, for the Powers’ sake, get on!”

So, they trudged up the rise to the flat hill with its stumpy dun trees, Sigird seemingly oblivious to the possibility of danger, was humming contentedly, apparently happy to see a favourite faerie tale come true. It didn’t seem to matter to her, thought Sacrissa, that it was a typically gruesome tale, portending a bad end.

Just then they heard cries behind them. Looking back, they saw that five Leopards had emerged from the dark wood below. One was pointing at them.

“Out of the frying pan into the fire,” remarked Sigird, equably, and Sacrissa wondered if Sigird meant the ‘fire’ was their pursuing enemy, or whatever lay now before them.

“So, five survived the terror of darkling wood!” cursed Sacrissa, “Come,” she added, pointing to the line of brown trees, “we’ll deal with them in there!”

***

One of Ebban’s men cantered up the line to Elle, “My lady,” he hailed, “We see the far tower!”

“At last!” she cried, not caring to hide her relief.

“But wait, Lady, there is more,” replied the scout, “Leopards are ahead of us.”

“Damn!” she swore. The Leopards they had fought at the ford had lately been seen again, dogging their steps, albeit from a respectful distance. Now their intent was clear; they were waiting for the column to run into their compatriots. It was what she had most feared ever since they had encountered Leopards in the dale, and now, it could not come at a more perilous moment with the sun sinking below the western horizon and with the column set to clear the dale with minutes to spare.

“How many?” she asked.

“Some two score,” replied the scout.

“Caught between the jaws of the Leopard at last, M’am,” remarked Trum, grimly.

“The sun is all but lost,” replied Elle, “We have no time to stop and fight. Trum, you take the strength of all our arms to the head of the column and drive through those who face us. I will stay here, with those sworn to me and we will keep the Leopards behind us from interfering.”

Trum, who knew better by now that to debate with the Huntress, nodded, “Aye, m’lady,” and, motioning to Ebban’s man, the two of them cantered forward.

“So,” remarked Amora, “there is more blood to be drawn before this day is done, the Powers forgive and preserve us.”

“We may yet daunt them with our show of defiance,” answered Elle, “they may decline to close and trade blows with us.”

“Happy that would be,” agreed Amora, “but just in case their valour should exceed their discretion, might I send for Conan to join us?”

“Aye, do so,” agreed Elle, “but quickly.”

Trystan immediately spurred forward to find the librarian.

“Those Leopards are closer now than at any time since we drove them off,” remarked Elyssa, “they know they have friends ahead and that this is their time.”

Elle suddenly felt a wave of bone-weariness almost take her, then grunted assent, shook herself free of fatigue with some final reserve, “They will find their time has run its course,” she replied.

“I will stay here with you, sister-archer,” replied the Elf, “and we will see what practice our bows may make in the fading light.”

Moments later Trystan returned. With him were Conan and Ebban, who looked a little sheepish and said, “There is no longer any need for scouting ahead, my Lady, and my men will do service for me with the main force.”

The tail of the column was already some way off, and they now sat alone on their tired steeds in the gathering gloom.

“So, then,” said Elle, “we are half a dozen against two dozen. I’ve had worse odds”.

“As have I, Huntress,” replied Elyssa. And they smiled.

***

They noticed the change as soon as they stepped among the trees. This place was different. It was as if they had passed through a vale into another world. Behind them they could see the moorland grass sloping down to the darkling wood, with stones and tufts, and trudging, sweating Leopards all picked out golden in the last rays of the failing sun, yet, somehow, they knew that all this belonged to a different world, one that they had now left.

The trees were, indeed, little and brown. Dense bushy foliage, a slightly coppery brown, formed a round and bushy shape, tapering a little toward the top; not unlike a pear, in fact. Below this the trunks were straight and smooth and a greyish brown. Around them, short greyish grass grew, and some short straggly grey ferns. There was no sign of leaf litter, or fallen, mouldering trees. There was no path, in sight, but there was space to walk among the little trees, and no riot of brambles, nettles, nor any tall growth to impede them.

Even the air was different. No chill wind, like the dale that autumn day. No stultifying fug, like the darkling wood they had passed. The air seemed rarer, the light, thinner, and a little silvery. It was very odd. Yet, it was growing dark there too, and so they kept going. Ominously, at least Sacrissa thought, there were wispy webs to be glimpsed among the dense brown leaves, and wide trails of silver slime flattened the low grass in places. Yet, there was no hint of movement, the creatures responsible for these strange signs seemed nowhere about. Once they passed a gaping black hole in an earth bank. It could have been merely a badger sett, thought Sacrissa, but here it could be something a good deal less wholesome. Sacrissa preferred not to think that Sigird’s homespun nursery tales might be true. The ground sloped down for some distance, and then began to rise as they stepped into a clearing beyond which a tall earth and stone bank, topped with more little brown trees, curved round to close off the clearing, save for one gap between it and the trees to the southwest. The bank was concave, sculpted like a frozen wave, its top jutting out to mirror its base. Roots and ferny tendrils hung down from its grey grassy lip. Little brown trees leaned over it. It would afford some shelter, if necessary. Their immediate thought, however, was that here was a clear space in which to wield a weapon, with the bank to guard their backs. Here two women such as they might face five Leopards without too much cause for concern. So, without need for speech, Sacrissa drew her sword and Sigird unhitched Mail-piercer, and they waited.

They did not have to wait for long. The Leopards stepped into the clearing together in a curving line an ox horn, with fighting space between. They were ragged now, their long grey quilted gambesons were torn and stained. Only one still had a shield, only two still a helm. They all had their swords, though, and three of them had knives in their left hands. They were speckled here and there with blood splatters. Their faces were dirty, and their hair and beards matted with sweat or blood. Their expressions were grim and set. Their chins jutted angrily, and their eyes burned with hatred. To be fair, thought Sacrissa, they’d been having a pretty bad day. If they hadn’t been when day had dawned, now at least they were grizzled veterans. It was vital, however, that they should not live to be pensioned off.

Crouching ready to pounce, the women eased their positions, transferring weight from one leg to the other and back. The Leopards came on. One or two Leopards might be engaged by each of the women, but not all of them at once. That was the danger. Mind you, thought Sacrissa, if Sigird had it in her for another of the berserk rages in which she’d fought in the column’s fierce first battles …Yet, the girl looked as haggard and done-in as Sacrissa felt. The Leopards edged forward. The women edged backward. They could not be trapped too close to the bank. They cast about for a means to gain the advantage. Glancing back for an instance, they both understood what to do. The Leopards, as one, stepped forward again. Sacrissa and Sigird nodded to each other, turned and ran at the bank. Running up its sides, they used it to push off, back towards the startled Leopards. Flipping round in mid-air, they landed with a clash of arms amid the Leopards, pushing them back stumbling and off balance. To the right and left they hewed them until four prone bodies lay unmoving around them. One Leopard, wounded, had run off. They didn’t suppose they’d see him again. They stood back, catching their breath and grinning at one another. They cleaned their blades on the short grey grass and stood straight to adjust their belts and buckles. It was now very certainly dusk, and darkness was falling rapidly on this low, windless hill.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Sacrissa.

“I don’t know, it’s nearly dark. What if we press on?”

“Well, we may see how far to the end of the dale,” answered Sacrissa, striding to the gap in the clearing to the southwest. Sigird followed. The land rose too much about them, so they turned to their right and zig-zag up the slope until they stood upon the bank under which they had fought the Leopards. Westward they could see between the trees beyond the edge of this queer little wood. They saw a far-off glint, as if of the river, and the sunset bordered by the break in the hills that must mark the end of the dale. And, as they shifted to peer between the little grey tree trunks, they saw the failing sun glint off the top of a tower that otherwise they might not have seen, black against the darkening grey of the hills.

“It is not far,” said Sacrissa, “yet it is too far. We would not get three furlongs beyond the wood before the darkness closed in upon us.”

“Then,” said Sigird, slowly in reluctant conclusion, “we are better to face whatever night in this haunted dale may bring here, rather than out in the open.”

“Agreed,” replied Sacrissa, “so let us make camp quickly here. We’ll move the bodies out of the way, settle ourselves with our backs against our friendly little cliff, and set a fire before us.”