The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1) (28 page)

“Where’s Owen? Did Marian find you boys?” “Are you alright son? What happened?” “Where’ve you been boy?” (That last from farmer Stanton.), and several other questions all came at Jack at the same time. His first response to the onslaught was to just grin.

“I’m okay, dad. Owen and Marian are together back at the castle. When I left them, they were okay too.”

That quieted the group somewhat until will Stanton said, “Castle, what castle?  This is no time to be makin’ up fairy tales, boy.”

“Let’s move off of this hill and get out of the wind,” interrupted Matthew McMichaels. “Judging by the condition of Jack’s horse, I’d guess he’s got plenty to tell us, and personally, I’d just as soon be a little less exposed while I listen.” Jack noticed him glance up the hill along his back trail, and knew what he meant.

Matthew led the way until they reached the modest protection of a small stand of trees then they dismounted and clustered around Jack again.

“Now start at the beginning Jack, but give us the short version first,” Dan Farrell, Jack’s father, directed.

“Well we started out after the raiding party, as you know, and followed them for several days but they were moving fast and we could never quite catch up.  We finally tracked them all the way to the old castle of Carraghlaoch. It really does exist. They seem to be settling in there for now. They are keeping our people behind the walls out of sight, but we have seen a few of the older girls out carrying water from the river. We think they’re probably mostly okay so far.”

“Could you get a feel for the size of the force that took them, and where they came from?”

“Somehow, they seem to have built a bridge across The Wizard’s Moat.  That exists too, by the way,” Jack added, glancing at Wil Stanton.  “We’re not certain, but Owen figures that there are a couple dozen soldiers, and maybe half again as many gorn.”

“Not with the gorn again, boy,” Wil interjected.  “I’ve had about enough of that nonsense from this lot.”

“There’re gorn alright. Stick around a while, and you’ll get to meet them yourself. About 30 of them are maybe three or four hours up the trail behind me, and they’re headed this way.”

“I asked for the short version, and I reckon that’s what you’ve given us,” Dan said, “but maybe you better tell us a little more about these gorn. Where do you think they’re headed, how are they armed, anything else you can think of. You say there are about 30 of them?”

“That’s right, near as I can tell. Owen, Marian and I saw them leave the castle about four days ago, and once we were sure which way they were going, I got ahead of them to sound the alarm. Owen and Marian stayed back near the castle to keep an eye on the soldiers and see if there was any way that they could help the villagers.

“The gorn are headed right back down this trail, either headed for the village or for the farms. We didn’t see any horses or wagons with the soldiers, so they must not have brought too much in supplies when they came over the bridge. The gorn are probably a raiding party for food and materials; I doubt there is much in Carraghlaoch to sustain all of the soldiers and villagers. They might be after more captives too, but we haven’t figured out yet what they want with those.

“We managed to get a pretty good look at a couple of gorn, and they seem to match the old stories pretty well. They’re big, with very broad shoulders and almost no neck. They have long hair, and wear little clothing. They can move pretty fast, which is why I figure they are only a few hours back despite the way I’ve been pushing, but the only weapons that we’ve seen them carry are heavy clubs.” Jack wasn’t yet ready to tell his dad and the other men just how close he and his friends had gotten to a small group of gorn—the four they had killed at the old tower—nor did he think this a good time to mention Owen’s magical experiences (he almost choked on a stifled laugh when he pictured Will Stanton’s reaction to the tale of Owen flying around in the body of an owl).

“Alright,” Matthew said, “there’s more I want to hear, but first I think we better decide what we’re going to do about the gorn that are headed this way.”

The discussion became even more serious then.  Jack was pleased to note that only a few of the farmers were for withdrawing back to South Corner and the Campbell’s farm. He didn’t blame those few, really. They were just farmers after all, not knights or even soldiers, but Matthew and Dan both argued that they had the chance to choose their ground, control the action, and to ambush a significant fraction of the enemy force. They knew where the enemy was and where they were likely to be in a few hours, and they might not ever get such an opportunity again. Finally, it was agreed.

“We’ll need someone to scout up the trail to make sure they’re still coming this way, and to give us a little warning,” Matthew said.

“I’ll go,” Jack volunteered, followed closely by Evan McMichaels, Owen’s younger brother.

“Thank you, son,” Dan responded to Jack, “but both you and that horse look pretty played out.  Samuel, you’re about the best stalker in the parish would you and your boy mind going out and taking a look?  Evan, we need you here.”

“Happy to,” Samuel answered.

“Try to go unnoticed, but if they spot you, just lead them down the middle of this valley. We’ll have a little surprise waiting for them at the far end.”

A little over two hours later, Samuel and his son crested the hill that Jack had last passed when he first spotted the farmers. They were riding down the middle of the trail, and they were riding hard. Moments later two more men joined them, one from either side of the trail from just behind the hill.

“They’re coming, and they’re coming fast,” Samuel shouted. “We let them see us about a quarter mile back. I never expected anything on two legs could run that fast.”

The four lookouts converged on a small gathering of men in a U-shaped depression at the north end of the valley. A camp fire had been laid, and it looked like a pot was on the fire for supper. As the horsemen reached the camp, the men there looked up and saw a wave of gorn just cresting the hill behind them. In a seeming panic, they ran to their horses, and joined their fleeing comrades, racing for the next ridge a hundred paces up the trail to the north.

As soon as they were over the hill, they jumped from their saddles and tossed their reins to the youngest man of the group. Bows and quivers were waiting for them, and a dozen men took up position just out of sight over the hill from the gorn.

Suddenly there was a piercing whistle and they strode back to the top of the hill, each standing behind a half dozen broad-point shafts sticking ready in the ground with a stout wooden quarterstaff in the grass at their feet.

At the same time, two dozen more men came over the hill from either side. Together they began to rain arrows down on the gorn caught in the center of the ambush. The gorn stopped their advance when the men came over the hill, but quickly resumed their charge, fanning out to meet the broad line of archers.

Arrows poured into the gorn. Every one of the farmers was also a hunter, who was practiced at putting down a wolf or great-cat in defense of his herds and who routinely supplemented his provisions with wild game. Varying in skill, every man there knew where to place a shaft to have the desired effect. But something was wrong. A good quarter of the gorn should have gone down with that first withering volley, but although many lost a step, only a few actually dropped.

From his position on the east ridge, Jack watched in alarm as a gorn that he had struck squarely in the chest at less than a hundred paces faltered then resumed his charge. The broad-point shafts were just not able to pierce completely through the massive muscle of the gorns’ chest and shoulders.

Suddenly remembering their success at the tower, Jack shouted as loudly as he could, “Aim for the throat! Aim for the throat!”

He figured he only had time for two more arrows before the gorn would be upon them, so he took a half second longer to place his shot just where he knew that it would be effective. The gorn he had selected pitched forward in the dirt as his shaft buried itself below its chin, while Jack snatched another arrow and selected another target. This shaft was not as well placed, striking the gorn off center in the neck, and his opponent continued to charge but after a few steps stumbled and sagged to its knees.

By that time, Jack and the other men near him had dropped their bows and snatched up quarterstaffs. Many of the gorn were down now, Jack’s call had helped, but there were still many coming on, and something else was screaming for Jack’s attention. He ignored it though, he would have more time for it later when he wasn’t confronted by a tall, rampaging mass of muscle wielding a heavy iron-studded club.

Jack stood with staff in hand in guard position, feet firmly planted, waiting for the gorn that had slowed and with a grin was advancing toward him, club held out to his side. Jack was good with a staff, not as good as Owen, perhaps, but good; but most of his experience was sparring with friends, or attacking old tree stumps. He had no practical experience against a living foe who was intent upon crushing his skull.

When the gorn was in range, still grinning at him, Jack made a lightning quick lunge for the gorn’s throat with the end of his staff.  To his surprise, the gorn easily knocked the staff away with his left arm and brought the club around with a mighty swipe at Jack’s head.  Jack had never seen anyone move with such speed and power.  The only thing that saved him was his lack of experience. Between the force of his thrust and the defensive swipe of the gorn, Jack was completely off balance, and when he saw the club coming for his head, he ducked and fell rolling to the ground. His enemy’s grin just widened, as it moved in again while Jack jumped back to his feet.

Fortunately for the men there on that day, the gorn were now outnumbered. The archery, while less deadly than had been expected, had taken a toll, and although many of the arrows that had reached their mark had not put down their target, gorn with two or three heavy shafts sunk deep into chest or shoulder did not move quite so quickly or with as great a force as they would have otherwise.

Jack found himself steadily retreating, taking hard short thrusts and snapping swings at his enemy’s head, knees, and even one hard stab to the gorn’s instep. Most of these had been effectively blocked by his opponent, and one hard swing by the gorn’s club sent a shiver down the staff, stinging into Jack’s hands. The blows that actually landed, just seemed to make the gorn more angry.  At least it had stopped grinning at him.

The fight had taken on a rhythm of its own.  It was lasting much longer than Jack had expected, and he was beginning to get a little winded when he broke the pattern and tried one more hard lunge to the gorn’s face.  His blow caught the gorn hard on the left cheek, and Jack felt bone crunching through his staff.  His enemy took a step backward, then raising its club above its head with both hands, began to rush toward Jack with a roar.  While Jack took a couple of quick steps back to try and reset his defenses, Jammie Campbell, who’d been fighting next to him suddenly entangled the gorn’s legs with his staff, sending it crashing to the ground.  Lightning quick, Jammie drove the end of his staff down on the gorn’s spine while simultaneously stamping on the back of its neck.  Jack heard a distinct cracking sound, and the gorn lay limp upon the ground.

Panting and leaning on his staff, Jack looked up to thank Mr. Campbell for saving him, but Jammie had already moved on to team up with another farmer to defeat another opponent.  Taking the hint, Jack sighed, lifted his staff with weary arms and did likewise, attacking a gorn from the side that was wearing down Cory Stanton.  He could hear someone screaming something in the background, but tried not to let it distract him.

As quickly as it began, it suddenly ended when those gorn still fit to run broke as one and dashed for the nearest trees. Jack had stopped tracking time somewhere during the battle. If asked, he would have been completely unable to state how long the brief but bloody fight had lasted, how many foes he had faced, how many times he had come to the aid of a man nearby, or been saved in turn from imminent, crushing death. It seemed to have lasted for hours, but he could only account for minutes. With the way that he felt, gasping for breath and with most of the muscles in his body aching from strain, he thought that it must be the former, though he suspected the latter.

Leaning heavily on his staff, he could not prevent a huge grin from spreading across his face. They had done it. They had faced a legendary foe, a hated and feared enemy from the great stories, and they had survived. Not only survived, but won the day. A cheer went up as all of the men on his hill realized what they had done.

The feeling was short lived, however.  The little voice in the back of his mind that Jack had put off for later consideration finally broke through.  There weren’t enough gorn.  He knew that there were at least thirty all together on the path behind him the morning before last, but there couldn’t have been more than two dozen in that charge, if that many.  Startled with the realization, Jack snapped erect and spun around looking for lurking enemies. It was then that he scanned the hill opposite and realized that every man on that flank was down.