‘Oh, Versen,’ Garec whispered.
‘What?’
‘I wish Versen were here.’
‘Me too,’ Mark said. ‘He’s a much better shot than I am.’
‘No,’ Garec gestured into the clearing, ‘that’s not what I meant. Look at those tracks.’
‘Well, of course there are tracks,’ Mark said dismissively. ‘There was an ungodly fight – by my count it was grettans four, Malakasians zero.’
‘The grettans would have been hunting this valley; they would have gone downhill for water overnight.’
‘Good. I’m glad they’re behind us. What’s your point?’
‘They’re not.’ Garec peered into the trees. ‘That’s my point. They didn’t move downhill.’
‘What?’ Mark’s voice rose. ‘Are you saying they’re still hunting?’
‘Ssssh, don’t attract attention. They’re still up here, somewhere.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Mark whispered. ‘All right. All right. Breathe. We still have to get the bows.’
‘Yes,’ Garec said, ‘get ready.’
Behind them, one of the horses whinnied; their roan nickered in response, shaking its mane irritably in Garec’s face. ‘Easy, easy,’ Garec said in a normal tone, smiling down at Raskin when she looked back at them.
‘They’re nervous,’ she said.
‘They’re spooked by the smell of blood, and the lingering scent of the grettans,’ Garec whispered, in mock deference to the soldiers’ suffering. ‘But they’re war horses. They’ll be all right.’
The roan’s ears pricked back and Garec closed his eyes, listening as closely as he could to the sounds of the forest: the background rustle of the light wind through the leafless branches. Somewhere off to his left he could hear a small animal moving, a squirrel or a rabbit, maybe.
There it was: a rumble, like that of a wooden cart over a log bridge. Garec tensed.
‘What is it?’ Mark whispered, afraid for his friend’s answer.
‘They’re here.’ Garec nodded off to his left. ‘West of us, maybe a hundred paces.’
Behind them, one of the horses cried out, a terrified whinny, and bolted. Another followed.
‘This is it,’ Garec said, and then cried loudly, ‘Grettans!’ He manoeuvred their horse next to the dapple-grey and pulled the reins from Raskin’s loose grip. The young woman wheeled on them, terror in her eyes. Her sword was hanging limply at her side.
Mark needed a moment to wrestle with the knots securing their weapons; he nudged Garec to keep her attention focused away from his hands.
‘They’re over there,’ Garec said, pointing into the forest. ‘Raskin, move! Get your horse before it bolts – take it by the reins, don’t try to get in the saddle. They’re too skittish now.’
Raskin stared dumbly at him, shaking visibly.
‘Get your horse, now!’ Garec’s cry slapped her back to reality and she hurried back along the path, not even looking at them.
‘Sergeant,’ she screamed, ‘they’re coming! We’re got to get out of here!’
To Mark, Garec said, ‘You have about half a breath to get those untied, my friend, because things are about to get very bad around here.’
‘Got ’em,’ Mark shouted, ‘go!’
Garec jabbed his heels hard into the roan’s side, kicking it into a gallop, ignoring Sergeant Greson, who was reaching out a mittened hand to grab their reins. Mark reached over and slugged the man, tumbling him into the horse’s severed head. ‘Grettans are coming,’ he shouted at the soldiers, ‘and if you don’t move, you’ll be as dead as them!’
‘Come on,’ Garec urged their horse, ‘come on. You can do it – let’s go, Roan, let’s go!’ Awkwardly at first, and then gradually faster as the big horse eased into its stride, they climbed the slope at a run.
You’ll kill him if you keep up this pace,’ Mark said.
‘Just a bit further,’ Garec replied, ‘we have to make the ridge before we can ease off. Anyone behind?’
‘Nothing yet,’ Mark said.
As if in response, a horse screamed and the unmistakable sounds of a grettan attack reached them through the trees. Both men shuddered as they visualised the beasts falling on the small party. Human cries came now, a shrill call for help that was cut off so suddenly their minds were filled with images of throats being torn out mid-plea.
‘Maybe Raskin will escape,’ Mark said quietly, knowing it was a forlorn hope.
The horse missed its footing for a moment, jouncing its riders badly, reminding them both that they had been shot the previous day.
‘Sonofabitch,’ Mark shouted, ‘watch the road, will you?’
‘Sorry,’ Garec said, ‘I have to get the reins. We won’t make it far steering with a handful of hair.’
‘Well, slow down and grab them,’ Mark said. ‘We can spare a moment.’ He grimaced and muttered to himself, ‘I do hate riding these things.’
Garec eased the roan to a trot while he leaned forward and slipped the reins effortlessly over the horse’s head. Garec grinned. ‘Easy,’ he announced.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mark groaned, ‘just watch the potholes.’
Garec heard a rumble, an echo of the growl he had caught back in the clearing. This was not the scream of a grettan attacking, this was a grettan stalking. It was coming for them.
‘Gods of the Northern Forest,’ Garec said. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Shit, Garec. Is there another?’
‘At least one.’
‘Get us out of here, quick!’
‘We can’t outrun them, believe me. I’ve tried – and on my Renna, who’s twice as fast as this old carthorse.’
‘What do you propose we do?’
‘Get ready to shoot. Draw several arrows, tuck them in my belt. Put four or five in there, no more. If you can’t stop them with those, we’ll be dead anyway.’ The growl came again, closer this time but still off to the west. ‘Hurry!’
They had covered another hundred paces before Mark caught sight of the creature, coming at them through the trees, its great hindquarters propelling it forward at high speed.
Mark’s stomach felt as though it had been filled with concrete; his arms went numb with fear. Coming towards them was something out of a nightmare, a beast unlike anything he had ever seen. He had only glimpsed the grettan Nerak had sent against them in the Blackstone forest, but that animal had been fleeing into the trees, one leg severed, shrieking in pain. This grettan was in rude good health, and coming for them full pelt, crashing through the undergrowth as if there was nothing there. It had small black eyes, set wide apart over a short snout and a snarling mouth of spiked canines. Its fur was dense and black, covering the corded muscles propelling the beast towards them.
It was coming too fast; he wouldn’t get a shot off, there was no way – and even if he did, it would be a token gesture, nothing good enough to stop or even slow the grettan. Garec’s voice woke him from his stupor.
‘Shoot the rutter!’ he screamed, ‘can’t you see it?’ Garec was fighting to keep the horse under control as the scent and sounds of charging grettan drove it wild.
Mark’s hand shook as he tried to nock an arrow but it finally gripped and he drew, took aim and felt the shaft slip off the bowstring. ‘Hell,’ he barked, lowering the bow and starting again, ‘I can’t ride a horse! I can’t shoot a bow! Sonofabitch!’
Garec shouted back at him, ‘Breathe. Take your time. Aim, breathe and release. You’ve practised, Mark, now make the shot.’ Garec soothed the horse, urging the animal on. ‘Make it count, Mark. You won’t have many chances.’
The grettan broke from the trees some hundred paces behind them, turned up the hillside and began closing the gap. Mark turned as far as he could in the saddle, ignoring the pain as the hole in his knee broke open and began bleeding again. Watching the monster come up behind them was like watching a train coming down the track: he needed a rifle, a hand grenade, an RPG to stop this thing, not an arrow.
‘This isn’t going to work, Garec,’ he said despairingly.