Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [186]
But when Rackhir tried to question them further, they would tell him no more. One or two of the farm people clearly wanted to talk, but others forced them to silence. The idea of a forest which could uproot itself and travel where it willed was so nonsensical that Rackhir gave it not a minute of his thoughts. He himself had seen trees sliding down a loose embankment, seeming to march, but he knew that had to do with the shallowness of their roots. He shook his head at these credulous provincials and longed to be back in some familiar city, even in the Young Kingdoms.
Thus it was before sunset the Red Archer mounted his refreshed horse, tipped the ostler handsomely, tied a bundle of food and beer to his saddle-bow, and continued the journey east, up the shallow flank of the valley towards the distant ridge which, he’d been told, marked the highway to the coast. The moon was full when he crested the peak and looking back he was surprised to see no lights. It was as if the village had vanished completely from the valley and where it had stood was the thick foliage of summer trees. The moon was high in a cloudless sky. He knew a sudden thrill of superstitious fear. There was no doubt that it was a wood he saw. Somehow, he decided, he had lost his bearings. Search where he could, he saw no village. He needed sleep more than he realized. Rackhir decided he could afford to rest for a couple of hours before moving on. He lit no fire but, wrapping himself in a blanket, was soon snoring gently in a shallow slumber, one hand on his sword-hilt, the other on his bow-staff.
CHAPTER TWO
Reivers in Green
Out of that surrounding forest they came, shrieking through the moonlight, their faces painted with indigo dye, their bodies clothed in fur. They had big, round wooden shields. Their fists were full of bronze and iron. Moonlight glanced off axeblade, sword and spear. Rackhir had time to note with astonishment that he had somehow made camp in the middle of a forest glade, when he had been sure he had settled on a bare hillside, then he was fighting for his life, bow used as a quarter staff, slender sword darting in and out, quick as a cobra, to send another soul to hell.
Outnumbered as he was, Rackhir the Red Archer had been trained from childhood in the arts of war and even as he stabbed his second man he reached forward to grab the war-axe from a now-useless hand. The bow-staff was dropped. The axe split a head from crown to jaw. For a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he recognized the face of the man he slew. Though this one had no warpaint, his skin bore a green tinge. Rackhir was sure he had seen the man at the tavern in that last village where he’d rested. And there were others, now he realized—all with faintly glowing green complexions! Had they posed as honest country workers to deceive him, to discover where he was headed? Was it those apparent cow-herders who had brought the forest to him?
There was no time to consider any of these questions as the men pressed closer. For one of Rackhir’s subtle skills this was butcher’s work. He sheathed his slender sword as he fought, snatching up a well-balanced claymore and using it one handed. Axe in the other fist, he swung them together and two more barbarians died, yelling their terror as death engulfed them. To his horror, eerie green blood spattered his skin, drenching his archer’s clothing, making the turf slippery beneath his feet. His terrified disgust gave him still greater strength. He ducked and swung, severing limbs and slicing into necks and thighs until the attackers had become little more than a pile of green, writhing meat. But, however many of them Rackhir slew, more kept coming at him. Weariness, if nothing else, must eventually defeat him. Still his heavy axe and sword rose and fell. Streams of blood gushed and glittered in the yellow light of the full moon.