Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [149]
On the field that had once been the site of the Festival of the Spring Equinox, Laric let his gaze linger upon the steep slope, almost a sheer cliff, that stood between him and the quarry he so desired. The palisade atop the slope had burned to ashes, and now a line of Ffolk stood along the crest of the knoll, weapons ready.
The prisoners – mostly elder Ffolk who had not fled before the advancing enemy – were pushed toward the Bloodriders, who set upon them with complete mercilessness. Few of the prisoners even had time to scream, or turn in horror, and none escaped the quick and killing blows. Rich, red blood welled forth, to be trapped by the eager cupped hands of the Bloodriders.
Each of the Riders spread a leather pouch below a bleeding body, quickly gathering a deep, crimson pool. Laric could barely control the trembling in his skeletal hands as his pouch drained the life from a frail old woman. He turned slowly to his gaunt black mount, kneeling at the steed’s flank.
Carefully, Laric held the pouch open and lifted the stallion’s foreleg. He dipped the black hoof into the warm blood, relishing the aroma that wafted upward when the two met. As the hoof emerged, it pulsed with a glowing vibrancy. Slowly, deliberately, he anointed each of the stallion’s hooves, while each of the other Riders of his company did the same to their mounts.
As each hoof, thus enchanted, struck the ground, a sharp crack of noise broke upon the field. Should the hoof happen to strike a stone or the tip of a sunken boulder among the soft loam of the field, then the crack was amplified tenfold, and a shower of sparks burst across the grass.
Prancing eagerly now, the horses of the Bloodriders awaited their masters. Leaving the drained corpses sprawled about the commons, Laric’s creatures leaped into their saddles, turning the snorting heads toward Caer Corwell. Laric drew his sword and held the black, tarnished blade in the air before him. Its tip indicated the breach in the palisade, high atop the looming cliff. The cracking and sparking of the enchanted hooves shot across the battlefield like the bursting of lightning, drowning out all other sounds.
Quickly the great horses broke into a trot. The clattering noise of their hoofbeats rose to an unbelievable din.
As the Riders picked up speed, Laric saw the world slow around him. Men turned to watch the Riders, and they moved as if suspended in molasses. Balls of pitch, launched by the catapults, seemed almost to freeze in the air, inching forward finally like puffballs balancing on a light breeze. The dark enchantment speeded the Bloodriders far faster than mortals, and the rest of the world slowed to a crawl.
And now the Bloodriders began to gallop, charging straight for the sheer wall. Laric, in the lead, pulled his stallion into a mighty leap. The creature’s hooves now left a blazing trail of fire every time they struck the ground, and this fire extended onto the slope.
Quickly, impossibly, the horses of the Bloodriders thundered onto the sheer slope leading up to Caer Corwell. To watchers, they were a blur of shadow and fire, leaving a land black and tortured in their wake.
To the Riders, the rest of the world was a mosaic of stunned observers and slowly tumbling fireballs.
*****
Newt buzzed lazily among the groves of aspens along the shore of crystalline Myrloch. The summer day warmed him and made him sleepy, yet he felt propelled by a strange uncertainty.
Flitting like a hummingbird through the trees, Newt blinked into invisibility for a second, before reappearing and again disappearing. In his agitation, he continued to pop in and out of sight, unconsciously hurrying through the forest, ever southward.
Finally, the summery air grew rank with the stench of decay and death. Flies and gnats buzzed heavily in the still, humid air. Newt realized that he had flown to the Fens of the Fallon.
The knowledge brought a sudden memory