Brothers in Arms; the re-awakening

The next morning Jac had them wakened and travelling westward again even before the first rays of light had come seeping through the trees, their path becoming gradually steeper and stonier, and now surrounded on all sides by stands of ancient pine. All was quiet, and even their horse’s hooves were muffled by the carpet of pine-needles and humus, but their guide seemed much more tense and apprehensive than on the previous day, riding first ahead, then behind, and stopping often to listen and then to go back and carefully obliterate their tracks.

Donal also was watchful, and twice turned back to critically inspect Jac’s efforts to conceal the signs of their passage; he seemed satisfied enough each time, but said little, and Ethan’s attempts at conversation were unsuccessful.

“Are the shrikes still likely to be on our trail? I thought we would have lost them yesterday,” Ethan asked Jac eventually.

“Yes,” said Jac, answering without taking his eyes from the path behind them, “They are most certainly still on our trail. Though their skill at tracking is poor, they are tireless and travel quickly; they can cover enormous amounts of ground, and even if they miss our trail once, twice, or even three times, they will not stop hunting till pick it up they do.”

Ethan listened carefully, but he could hear nothing but the whisper of the wind in the pines overhead and an occasional bird-call. After a while even the bird-calls ceased, and only the sound of the wind remained.

Jac grimaced.

“The woods are too quiet. They must be very close, very near indeed, maybe already hunting us by sight. We must go faster,” he hissed urgently.

They rode on harder, now conscious of the danger coming rapidly up from behind them. A few minutes later they reached a rocky defile, and stopped on a ridge at it’s entrance which gave some them vantage. Jac stood up in the stirrups to look around; a small deeply cloven valley with narrow stony walls and some scattered thorny scrub lay in front of them.

“The far end of the valley has a very narrow exit. When we get there one of us might be able to make a stand and hold them off - for a time anyway; at least it might allow the others a chance of escape”, he said, pointing. As he did so the howling cries they had heard at the glade broke out again with shocking suddenness, echoing among the rocks, and this time sounding much closer, and, Ethan thought, more eager and bloodthirsty than before.

Jac beckoned them closer and whispered, “Be ready, they are around us, arm yourselves!”

Donal felt for his sword, as ever reassured by its sturdy presence; whatever kind of monster these shrikes proved to be, they would not find him a willing or easy victim. His religious beliefs might have evaporated under the scorching Arabian sun, but his trust in steel and the strength of his arm remained steadfast.

Ethan held his revolver ready, remembering with a shiver that he had only one round left, and lucky to have even that; he’d only reckoned on needing enough for himself, and to be on the safe side he’d taken a spare.

“And none in the packs,” he grunted to himself. As they cantered further into the valley, he saw dark shapes slip from the rocks on either side, rushing to block their way.

Jac clapped his spurs; “They are upon us! Ride, my friends, ride for your lives!” he cried.

The others followed him instantly, whipping their mounts to a breakneck gallop. Intent on keeping his balance on the treacherous ground, Donal could only see their pursuers out of the corner of his eye. They were lean and wolf-like and ran over the rocks with an unnatural speed and agility. And they were too quick, already ahead of them. Seeing their escape route blocked, Jac reined in sharply, and they stood at bay with their backs to the valley wall. Their pursuers closed.

“Three of them, Donal, when even one might be too much for us; and they have us cornered,” said Jac, his tone flat and resigned, “We are dead men. Anyway,” he shrugged, “I’ve been looking forward to see how well you use that big sword of yours.”

“This is not your quarrel,” Donal said, “It is me they want. When you get the chance, ride for a gap, and take Ethan with you.”

Jac only shook his head in reply, and his young face was gaunt and pale.

“You’re a plucky little feller, aren’t you?” said Ethan admiringly, “Oh, and don’t concern yourself about me wanting to escape; I’m quite happy here, fighting for my life. Just dandy, ain’t it?”

Donal saw the shrikes clearly now for the first time; they were the size and shape of a large wolf, just as Jac had said, with a ridge of horn rearing from their skulls like a threat. They had no fur and their skin was black and shiny as ebony. They approached, slinking closer, bellies almost on the ground, stalking slowly now that their prey had nowhere left to run or hide, their jaws open and teeth bared, black drool dripping. With a cry Donal spurred Parsifal forward and two of the shrikes jumped at him, dodging to avoid the great hooves and lunging viciously at his heels. The huge broadsword sang in the air once, then twice, and each time there was a crash that sounded to Ethan like metal on metal; the two creatures were bludgeoned backwards, but with an alien vitality they returned at once to the attack, clearly unharmed.

“Remember the neck, Donal, behind the crest,” shouted Jac, “it is the only place they are vulnerable.”

The third shrike confronted Jac, who whipped out a slender rapier which looked to Ethan very small and surely ineffectual against such a formidable enemy. The shrike rushed in, snarling, but the well trained mare refused to be intimidated and stood her ground. The rapier licked out and dark blood gouted from the creature’s throat, but it refused to fall and continued to force Jac backwards, it’s jaws furious, foiling his attempts to slip past and attack from behind. Again the rapier licked out, but this time the shrike’s jaws closed on the blade, wrenching it from Jac’s hand and crushing it as if it were made of paper, ignoring the deep cuts it gouged as it was mangled.

Ethan watched from the rear, trying to choose his target with care; he knew he had to make his one round count. Donal had two shrikes attacking him, but the big Irishman seemed better able to defend himself than Jac. Making a decision, Ethan aimed between the eyes, waited patiently until his selected target was still, even for a moment, waited... waited.... and then fired, and one of the shrikes attacking Donal squealed and crumpled. Donal’s stallion reared abruptly, startled by the report, and as Donal fought to regain control of his mount the other shrike leapt in to seize his right leg above the knee.

The Irishman cried out with pain, dropping his sword. Jac jumped down at once from his mount and ran over, a hunting knife appearing like magic in his hand; he drove it fiercely through the back of the creature’s neck, just below the base of the bony crest, where he had told them the creatures were vulnerable. The shrike arced backwards in a spasm of agony and death, but it’s jaws remained locked fast on Donal’s leg. Then it slumped to the ground, dragging Donal from his mount by it’s sheer weight.

The last shrike slipped past Jac’s horse and jumped at his unprotected back, howling it’s rage, jaws agape and deadly. Ethan looked around in desperation; he saw the haft of the Janissarie’s spear protruding from the saddle bag, and without thinking he grabbed it and hurled it in a clumsy overhand throw. It flew straight and swift as an arrow, transfixing the last shrike below the jaw and lifting it off the

ground before burying itself in the rock wall behind with a sound like thunder.

There was a sudden silence, marred only by the faint creaking of the shrike’s body as it swung back and forth on the shaft of the embedded spear. Jac slowly surveyed the battleground and then stared at Ethan in astonishment.

“Well, well, Ethan,” he said slowly, “You are indeed a man of many talents. Coffee, and a magnificent spear-thrower as well; and was that a thunderbolt you threw? Are you a sorcerer also?”

He walked over and tried to draw the spear from the rock, the shrike’s corpse still hanging from the shaft, but he could not remove it, nor shift it even a fraction; the spear remained fast, the blade almost completely buried within the stone. He tried again, harder this time, now straining with the effort, but again with no success; the spear would not budge.

“We’ll have to leave it,” said Jac, “A shame, for it is a fine weapon, and surely saved my life; I could almost feel that black devil’s teeth at my throat.”

“Let me have a go,” said Ethan. “I’d sure hate to leave it behind.”

He gripped the shaft, feeling again the tingle in his hand, and tugged gently, exerting only the slightest pressure, as if he was inviting the spear to leave it’s stony bed and rejoin him; sure enough, it withdrew easily, with a sound like a kiss, the blade only slightly stained with the shrike’s crimson-black blood. The shrike, eyes bulging madly in death, slid to the ground at the base of the rock.

“I’m a regular King Arthur, amn’t I? It seems we’re made for each other,” Ethan murmured.

“Stranger and stranger,” said Jac, shaking his head.

Donal grunted; “When you are ready, you could perhaps help me remove this inconvenient encumbrance.” The shrike was still clamped to his leg, it’s jaws fast, even in death.

Jac was immediately and profusely apologetic.

“I am so sorry, Donal,” he cried, running over, “I was distracted - but can you blame me? One wonder piles upon another.”

He quickly chose a short sturdy knife and inserted it, not without some difficulty, between the clenched jaws of the shrike. Then, with Ethan’s help, he prised them slowly apart.

“Be very careful,” said Jac to Ethan, “Those teeth are razor-sharp; one slip and you could easily lose a finger, and I don’t want two casualties on my hands.”

When at last they had removed the jaws, there remained two deep and ragged lacerations on Donal’s thigh. No major artery had been damaged, but the blood was oozing freely, and the edges of the wounds were black and excoriated.

“Goddamn, those look pretty nasty,” said Ethan, flinching away.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Donal reassured him through gritted teeth, and pulling himself stiffly to his feet, “They are only flesh wounds, and look far worse than they really are. I’ve had many like them before, and often much worse.”

“Even so, they could be dangerous,” said Jac, “A shrike’s bite is not poisonous; a mixed blessing, for they fight so much among themselves that there would be then much fewer of them left to torment us. But their teeth are foul and infection will inevitably set in unless the greatest care is taken and the wound is properly cleaned and dressed.”

He ignored Donal’s protests and made him sit quietly on the stony ground, his back braced against the cliff, while he opened his pack and retrieved a large grey bag and inside it a small silver box.

“Keep a careful watch, Ethan,” he called, taking some implements out of the box. These were wrapped in a thin transparent material which he unwound with great care.

“There may be more shrikes in hiding and they may return if they sense one of us is injured and vulnerable,” he continued, “Or there may be others which just haven’t found us yet and may be attracted by the sound of the struggle and the smell of blood. But it is most likely there are no others; three shrikes would be normally be accounted large enough of a pack to hunt down even the most dangerous and elusive prey. And if not for your spear and your thunderbolts, three would have certainly been too many for us.”

“Yeah,” said Ethan, “Three shrikes and you’re out.”

While Jac tended Donal’s wound he jumped up on a rock to look around; the little valley was now quiet and still and behind lay the low hills of rolling forest that they had crossed. Ahead lay the mountains, with the noon-time sun glinting off their snowy tops. There was, at the moment, no sign of any threat. But then, he reflected, if it had been up to him alone, the shrikes could have had them for breakfast before he would have noticed anything. He shrugged off the feeling of inadequacy; after all, he had killed two of the creatures - not too bad for a beginner. He glanced back at his companions, then started in surprise. Jac was already putting away his materials and Donal was getting to his feet again, looking rather bemused.

“Finished so quickly?” Ethan said, quite amazed. Jac only smiled.

“My profound thanks,” said Donal, flexing his knee experimentally, and testing it this way and that, as if unable to believe the speed of the cure, “I would not have thought it possible to treat such a deep wound with such ease. You show great knowledge and skill.”

“We were fortunate in that there were no major arteries or nerves cut; if they had been damaged, the wound would have much more serious, maybe even impossible to treat, and you might have lost the leg. But you have fine strong bones, Donal,” Jac said modestly, “And there is a great vigour in them; it is that which makes the healing easy.”

“I know there is far more to it than my own vigour,” said Donal, “You have had much practice in tending wounds, I deem.”

Jac raised his head proudly.

“True, my friend, very true,” he said, “And I thank you for your compliments. Seven years ago I left my home to study the healing arts in the famed monastery of Kathay. There I learned to cure, and if I could not cure, to offer comfort always. But I also learned other things; other things, Donal,” he said, more distantly.

“Like how to use that sword?” asked Ethan, “I’d guess that’s not the first time you’ve had to defend yourself.”

“A man needs many skills to survive and prosper in a perilous world; and the art of defence is by far the most important of these skills,” Jac said, looking uncomfortable, “To be able to help others, you must first stay alive yourself.”

“But what about you, Ethan?” he continued, “Where did you learn to cast a spear so mightily? I am almost as astonished as I am grateful.”

“Yes indeed, Ethan,” said Donal, “You have been hiding your light; I had not realized you were such a doughty warrior. I think that next time we will put you in the front line.”

“Believe me, I’m even more surprised than you guys are,” said Ethan, storing away the spear in his kit again, although this time with much greater care than before.

“And please let us see how you threw the thunderbolt,” asked Jac, “A weapon that could slay a shrike so easily could be of great value to the Free Nations.”

Both Donal and Jac were rather disappointed by the revolver, unconvinced that something so slight and unimpressive could have caused an explosion of such great violence, but their disappointment was even more pronounced when Ethan admitted that it would fire no more thunderbolts.

“Rather small, isn’t it?” said Jac, “I would have expected something more impressive.”

“You got a dead shrike lying there at your feet instead of the other way around, haven’t you?” said Ethan, irked by the criticism, “How impressive can you get? Handsome is as handsome does, as we used to say back home.”

Before they left, Ethan checked all the shrikes to make sure they were dead. The one he had shot was still alive, but obviously dying, it’s breath stertorous and uneven, and it’s body twitching, dark blood pulsing slowly from the side of it’s mouth. It made a weak effort to raise it’s head, and Ethan heard a barely audible snarl.

“Boy, they never give up, do they? Hey, Donal, take a look at this one,” he said.

Donal came over to look and then, without a word, fetched his sword and rammed it in the vulnerable spot behind the neck. The rasping breaths stopped at once, and the shrike’s head jerked, then lolled to the side, now thoroughly lifeless.

“Why did you do that? It was going to die anyway. They might have killed us,” said a surprised Jac, “I told you how evil they are.”

“No living thing should suffer needlessly,” said Donal, “These shrikes only act according to their nature - as do we all.”

“Yeah,” said Ethan, looking at Jac sharply, “It ain’t right to leave any creature in pain, or didn’t they teach you that at medical school? Looks like you still have a lot to learn, kid.”

Still cautious, they travelled slowly for the rest of the day, from habit stopping often to watch and listen, but now even Jac was satisfied there were no more signs of pursuit. As darkness came, they made camp beneath an over-hanging crag that offered at least some shelter from the elements.

“Those mountains look pretty grim,” said Ethan, “I hope we don’t have to climb the whole way to the top.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jac, “We shall take a narrow path that skirts the peaks. It will be just a good stretch of the legs, though it gets very steep later on and the horses will have to be led for most of the way.”

“Have we seen the last of the shrikes?” asked Donal.

“I think so,” replied Jac, “If we weren’t found while Donal was injured they won’t find us now, but I must warn you that we remain deep in hostile territory. The Dran, the mountain folk, do not take kindly to trespassers. At one time they were more hospitable to travellers, but the coming of the Mfecane has made them wary and suspicious of strangers.”

“Real friendly country you’ve got here,” drawled Ethan, pulling his hat over his eyes, “And I thought the Appalachians were bad. Now it’s my turn for a snooze; call me for the last watch.”