Chapter 8
The trouble began in camp that night, and among the caterans.
Without fire, with only trail rations and canteens, the exhausted Mercadian Fifth Regiment sat in camp. They sheltered in a clearing with a natural root hollow, where the jhovalls could be corralled. The six-legged tigers slept in warm comfort in a feline pile, their saddles and packs removed and their coats brushed.
The soldiers and caterans were much less comfortable. They had washed during their river crossing, but their clothes had never fully dried. More layers of cloth only deepened the chill. Throughout the day, the forest's murk had been unnerving. Nighttime was worse. Only the cold gleam of the trees illuminated the dark. A fire would have been welcome, but Gerrard would not allow it for fear of "offending the forest." Instead, he offended his fighters. They grumbled angrily as they cleaned their weapons.
Soon around the camp appeared a circle of eyes-small, grim, glowering eyes. Minions of the Rushwood. It was more than the caterans could bear.
Their master, four-armed Xcric, had a crossbow. He cranked it quietly back, fitted a quarrel, and took bets from his comrades. "My orders from Gerrard were to command my troops not to fight unless attacked. I've done so. But Gerrard never forbade me to fight."
With a shuddering twang, the bolt launched free. It tore through undergrowth.
In the forest beyond, a set of eyes slammed shut. There came the agonized thrashing of something massive amid weeds. The beast's shrieks were piteous. Among vast, impassive trees, the cries echoed. They summoned the forest's myriad defenders.
Gerrard and his command crew came running. "What happened? What's going on?"
Xcric spoke proudly in the murk. "I got him right between the eyes."
"I ordered you not to fight unless-"
"He attacked me-looked at me wrong," Xcric replied.
"You bastard," Gerrard spat, raking his sword from its scabbard. "You've just declared war." Turning toward the camp, he shouted, "To arms! To arms! Light perimeter fires!"
In the anxious moments afterward, deadfalls were piled and sprinkled with rye spirits. Fires leaped up in an uneven ring around the camp. Orange light limned warriors as they rushed past abandoned packs. Jhovalls lolled awake and disentangled themselves from their sleeping kin.
Gerrard and his comrades meanwhile stared out into the darkness.
Tahngarth clutched a sword eagerly. "At least we have fires now. Our clothes will dry."
Sisay shook her head. "I'd rather have them wet with river water than wet with blood. What do you think is out there?"
"We'll find out soon enough," Takara said. She gestured beyond the fires, where flames glimmered in angry eyes. "They are converging."
From all sides, the beasts came. Hunched backs and stooped shoulders, twisted horns in shaggy brows, vast claws raking away undergrowth, footpads pounding ground…
"Lumbering satyrs and horned trolls," Sisay whispered in awe. "They're bigger than the books made them out. These are feral creatures-solitary. They must have been brought together by the mind of the forest."
Gerrard's face was grim as he watched the advance. The satyrs and trolls had nearly reached the outer fires. "If these are the forest's first defenses, what other monsters will follow?"
Xcric tugged on Gerrard's sleeve. "My crossbowmen are ready. Do we fire?"
"There's no sense in defending this camp. It'll be our grave. The beasts won't stop coming until we're dead or driven out. If we must fight, we fight forward," Gerrard said. "Clear a corridor. Open fire." Even as the first quarrels raced away, he shouted, "Troops! Mount up! Fight from Jhovall-back!" He turned, heading for the corral. "Ride behind me, toward the center of the wood-"
These shouts were drowned out by another roar-the death throes of scores of beasts. Cateran quarrels sank in throats and eyes and brows. Many trolls and satyrs went down in that first volley. Many more charged. With bolts sticking from mounded backs and between grappling claws, they came on.
Gerrard and his comrades reached the Jhovall corral. There was no time for saddles or packs. Gerrard yanked harness and bit from a nearby vine. He slipped the reins over the cat's head and clambered up. Caught between firelight and silver tree glow, he whirled and met the attackers.
As quickly as that, the satyrs and trolls arrived. They flung themselves over root networks and down into the corral. Two tons of muscle and claw and horn-they landed, breaking soldiers' heads and Jhovalls' backs. Roars of rage mixed with shrieks of pain.
In moments, five cats and ten warriors lay dead.
A huge monster dropped into the space beside Gerrard. His Jhovall hissed and turned. Gerrard's sword sang in the darkness. It arced through screaming air to impact a great scaly skull. Steel bit through skin and muscle, lodging only on bone.
The satyr gathered its massive legs and lunged.
Roaring, Gerrard turned his blade. The sword pivoted across the beast's jaw and slid within the collarbone. Gerrard held tight to the reins. The satyr came on, impaling itself on his sword. Blood poured forth in a steaming torrent.
Gerrard wrenched his blade free and backed his spitting mount. The satyr plunged ponderously into the space where they had been. His Jhovall reared and shrieked.
It barreled into the rump of Sisay's beast, which stood like a rampant lion. Her Jhovall's claws raked the face of another satyr.
"Win free!" Gerrard shouted. "Then grab a torch and follow my lead!"
He barged past Sisay's mount, heading toward a nearby bonfire. Gerrard leaned down and snatched up a burning brand. No sooner had he righted himself than the bonfire erupted before him. Coals and sparks leaped up in a killing hail. Gerrard reined his mount back. Something vast had plunged into the midst of the blaze, driven there by a shrieking Jhovall.
Tahngarth rode that Jhovall. His sword was sanguine, and his horns too. Though he spoke to Gerrard, his eyes were fixed on the fire. "There is no honor in this fight."
Gerrard saw why. In the bonfire, a horned troll thrashed. Fire flashed away its thick pelt, sending up acrid white smoke. Next moment, skin burst and peeled and blackened. The muscles beneath contracted moments more, until they, too, sizzled to stillness. Lids burned away from rolling eyes, which became as white and opaque as boiled eggs.
"No honor," Gerrard agreed, chopping the head from another satyr. The decapitated corpse went down sloppily before him. Holding high his torch, Gerrard drove his mount up over the enormous body. "No honor but to fight for Orim and Weatherlight. Follow me!"
Aback snarling six-legged cats, Tahngarth and Sisay fought in Gerrard's wake.
Ahead, Takara clung to the back of her dead Jhovall, which draped across the horns of a troll. The massive monster had impaled her steed and lifted it into the air. Takara lashed at it with her sword but couldn't reach the troll's bent back. It bounded toward another bonfire, ready to fling Jhovall and rider both into the flames.
"Get up!" Gerrard commanded his mount, digging heels into its sides.
The tiger-creature flung itself behind the troll. Huge feline claws sank into troll flesh, but they only propelled the beast faster toward the flames.
"Climb on!" Gerrard shouted to Takara, holding out his hand.
She sheathed her sword and rolled down the back of her dead mount, grasping Gerrard's hand. He swung her into place behind him. Gerrard reined hard. His mount reared.
Fires roared up ahead. The troll and the dead Jhovall plunged into the flames. More putrid white smoke belched up.
"Thanks," Takara panted.
"Let's get out of this deathtrap."