Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [104]
The rain finally ceased at sunset, but Grunnarch’s army was then compelled to spend the night where it had halted. Heavy, lowhanging clouds blocked out any hint of light from moon or stars, and to attempt to march in the dark would have been sheer folly. Thus, it was not until the day after the storm that Grunnarch’s army finally managed to resume its pace.
But as they embarked on the sodden and muddy trail, a swarm of biting and buzzing insects erupted from the woods, stinging the northmen like a scourge. The army scattered to avoid the plague, but not before many a soldier had been stung to death.
As Grunnarch tried to assemble the force, vines and creepers that bristled with thorns sprouted from the ground between his men. They laboriously hacked through the imprisoning vines, but their progress was further hindered. And they began to whisper darkly of magic, and their step slowed further.
As the king ordered the army to move again, a wall of hot fire sprang from the ground in its midst. Dozens of men died from the searing heat of the flames, and the rest broke in panic to race headlong down the trail.
All along the trail, that day, strange disasters befell his men. A group, walking across a slab of solid bedrock, suddenly found themselves sinking in a bog of mud. Before a man could escape, the sucking mire pulled the little band under. Grunnarch watched, sickened, as the dying men’s hands reached above the mire, twitching and grasping before they finally grew still.
“It is the druids of Myrloch Vale,” explained Trahern, paying little attention to the calamities suffered by the northmen.
“How can we stop them? Where are they?” growled the Red King. He hated this unseen enemy more than any normal foe, no matter how fierce.
“They could be anywhere,” shrugged the traitor. “Perhaps there is only one – the great druid could muster such power by herself!” Trahern looked around. “She could be in the guise of the tiniest mouse or insect along our trail. There is no way to tell.”
“We must stop these attacks! How, man? Tell me!”
Again, the druid shrugged. “Simple. We have to leave Myrloch Vale.”
Cursing the useless advice, the Red King turned back to his army. The attacks seemed to lessen and the panic gradually gave way to fatigue among the raiders. They trudged listlessly until at last they emerged from the wilderness empire of Myrloch Vale. Ahead of them, once again, lay the kingdom of Corwell.
Grunnarch allowed his hopes to rise slightly. The skies, by the end of the day, had cleared.
Slowly the winding column moved south. Through the mud and mire of the ravaged trail, the Bloodriders led the way. Grunnarch watched them pass, these curiously altered warriors that he had once known. He could see that they staggered with fatigue. Riders and mounts both looked haggard and emaciated. Though the troop had been given plenty of food, Grunnarch realized with a shudder that the Bloodriders required a different kind of sustenance.
The army on foot, slogging through the mud in the wake of the Bloodriders, covered ground steadily, yet the men seemed fearful and nervous as they looked at the deadly Riders ahead of them, or at the band of Firbolgs behind. No longer did Grunnarch’s army have any heart to complain.
And finally, the Firbolgs plodded past. They seemed to pay no attention to the sucking mud that reached halfway up their massive calves, nor did they acknowledge the presence of the Red King as they slogged by.
More worried than ever, Grunnarch fell in with Trahern at the rear of the long column. He fervently prayed for the weather to remain kind during this day. If it did, he felt quite confident that they would reach, and block, the Corwell Road before it was too late.
Suddenly, an urgent