“The creature lies deep. In the dark, not knowing even what like it is, our disadvantage would be grave.”

A later adventure:  “The Gorren”

Before dawn the company assembled in the space before the stockade gate. There were ten of Garvan’s men with their horses, clad in the high boots and full-skirted buffcoats of Berithian, youthful warriors but well-armed and grim. They had looked Holt over curiously when Garvan declared he was to lead them, but his name was known to them and they seemed willing to accept his command; it probably helped that Beriths were not the tallest of races, several of these being barely larger than Holt himself. The rest of the force comprised some seventeen of the hill-folk, Kenfig’s neighbours, weaponed only with bows and short hunting-knives, but all from the ruddiest youth to the whitest elder hardy and wiry, accustomed to hardship, and determined to sell their lives, if need be, in defence of their own. Old Kenfig went among them with handclasps and gruff words, thanks and good wishes for their enterprise. Linnuis followed him with a journey-cup of hot ale-punch. Lastly, to one side stood D’Zar, his silver beard braided and tied tight for battle, mail on his back and an iron casque on his head, leaning on a huge mattock too heavy for any but a Rockman to lift.

Kenfig came to Garvan, and spoke to him earnestly. Then he turned to Holt. “I am grateful indeed for your concern in our affairs, Master Captain,” he said. “I will not deny we have need of you. Yet I will bid you have a care to yourself. I gather your task is pressing, and not to be undertaken by another.”

“That is as my sovereign lord chooses. I do as I must.”

“This venture means much to my people,” Kenfig said. “Yet the threat is less than what will be if the Devil of Ceir Mor has his way. You are his enemy, and while you live you are a thorn in his side and a doubt in his heart. Your life is a weapon best not thrown away.”

“That is the last thing I intend,” Holt replied.

Linnuis held out the journey-cup to D’Zar. “Good speed to you, Master Rockman, and a safe return,” she said. “Will you have to drink?”

“Ay, maid, in thanks for your good wishes,” D’Zar answered. “But I care not what charm you have laid within the cup. A Duergh may trust more in stout mail and his own right arm than in woman’s magic.”

“There is no magic,” Linnuis said gently. “It is but good punch, with a good word set on it. Drink.” D’Zar took the cup in both hands, drank ceremoniously, and handed it back with a stiff bow. Linnuis received it with equal courtesy, and proffered it next to Holt. He thanked her and took a draught of the hot brew, welcome in the raw morning. He gave back the heavy cup, and she brought it to Garvan.

“You are the last, my lord,” she said. “Will you drain the cup? It is said to bring good luck.”

“It is not I, but rather these others, that need good luck,” Garvan said. “With this arm, my part must be small.”

“Yet your fortune is the fortune of all, my lord,“Linnuis said. Garvan reached out his uninjured hand, and grasping one handle of the great cup lifted it without effort and drained it to the last drop.

“Strong must be your sword-arm, lord, when it is whole,” Kenfig said. “But Captain Holtworth’s arm is also strong, and these others’. Good speed to you all, masters, and success to your enterprise. We will await you.” The company began to file out of the gate, the cavalry first, led by Holt, followed by the herders, commanded by Garvan on foot. Donath and Penarc brought up the rear. Kenfig and Linnuis stood by the gate and watched, until the cavalcade passed behind a shoulder and was lost to view.

By noon they had come to the place of the beast’s last slaughter, and picked up the trail. By evening they were in forbidding moorland, but how far from the beast’s lair they could not tell. They made camp, in the open so as not to be taken by surprise, but those that watched saw nothing. At first light they moved on, penetrating into country that was still higher and more desolate.

Soon they were near. Great sloughs of the beast’s slime and filth lay all about, and the stench was such that already some of the younger herders were pale and shaking. Of them all, only D’Zar appeared unmoved. They came to a steep edge, marking the boundary of these hills. Below, dark forest stretched away westward. Apprehension showed on many faces as they gazed across the plain to where they knew, despite the haze that masked them, the heights of Elmont rose. Holt clenched his teeth as cold pricked his spine and hollowed his stomach. Yonder as a black crow flew, many leagues away yet never far enough, lay the mountainside where he had fought for his life, and more materially, for his lady’s honour and deliverance. He thought as he stood there momentarily that his instinct had been right, that this creature was drawn by Krasim for some evil purpose, perhaps even because it had, or had to do with, Cyrhision, lost so long in the wastes of the North. Yet perhaps it was not so, and this served only to turn him aside from his quest, was sent, it was possible, to distract and destroy him.

He shook off the disheartening thoughts as soon as they struck him, Shean practicality and sense driving out pointless introspection, and urged the others onward along the cliff. A mile further on, within a rearing scar of pallid rock, they reached what they had come to find. They halted above the jutting buttress, while two of Garvan’s men scrambled down to see what lay below. After a few words with Garvan and Penarc, Holt followed them across the sticky rocks. As they came in sight of the place, a huge black wormhole opening among the crags, one of the men turned sick and faint, unable to go on. Holt ordered him to make his way back as he could, and pressed on with the other. Soon they were going more on all fours than walking, not entirely because of the terrain. They came to the entrance and remained there some minutes, but did not enter. Then Holt signed to his companion and they returned. The way seemed long, and both were staggering as with weariness when they gained shelter once more beyond the scar.

Garvan was seated on a stone, with the rest of the company, set at ease, lying or sitting about him. Several were by the young knight of Berithian forced to turn back, who sat with his head between his knees. Holt’s other companion saluted, then sank thankfully to the ground at Garvan’s signal. Holt remained standing, but he wiped his hands and took a mouthful of water before he spoke.

“We believe the creature is within, sir, and probably asleep,” he reported.

“So we might take it sleeping,” Garvan said. “But you have been close. What do you recommend?”

“Not to go in, sir,” Holt replied. “The creature lies deep. In the dark, not knowing even what like it is, our disadvantage would be grave. That is, even if any of us could come to it. I shouldn’t care to answer for myself in that place.”

“It must be worse than Krasim’s gangrel-pits, then,” Garvan observed.

“Worse even than his sewers,” Holt replied. “It must be a sink of venom.”

“We must force it into the open,” Garvan said. “Penarc?”

“Old Hamar, here, sir, has smoked out as many foxes as I have shorn sheep,” Penarc said.

“Then Hamar shall direct us,” Garvan decided. “Let us make haste, to draw the beast out in daylight.”

They gathered grass, brushwood and green fronds of bracken, placing them in two great piles below and to the windward side of the cavern, according to Hamar’s instructions. The old man could bear the place better than most, after a lifetime breathing his noisome smoke, but many were overcome, some unable to carry even one load to the cave-mouth. These Garvan sent on Hamar’s advice to search for other exits, but all returned within the hour having found nothing within two miles’ radius. So all was done at the one entrance.

“We shall trust the beast will find no other way of escape,” Garvan said to Holt. “If it does, I daresay we shall know of it before long.”

Soon all was ready. They kept the horses above the rock-buttress, blinkered and tethered fast. It was already plain they would be no use in the combat, for the stench had set them shivering with fear. Holt would have trusted Brandysnap, but decided not to mount alone. The horses might prove useful later, to pursue the beast if it showed speed in flight.

They took up their positions under Garvan’s direction. Those that could bear it were stationed near the cavern, to turn the beast downhill and prevent it gaining the open ground of the plateau above. The rest were stationed further down the steep slope, among great slabs that had fallen from the cliff. All had wound scarves about nose and mouth, save the Rockman who scorned such protection, saying it would be shame for one of Duergh race to falter at a bad smell. Holt hoped he would not have cause to regret his decision later. From a ledge high above, Minx watched the dispositions; she had come with them, but kept well out of the way. This prey was too much for her to harry. When all were in their places, Hamar kindled his fires. At first they burned with a clear flame and little smoke, but once the green bracken was added began to produce choking fumes. Blown by the wind and fanned by Hamar’s cloak, these began to penetrate the tunnel to the beast’s lair.

For some time nothing happened. The smoke billowed up and was swallowed in silence by the black hole. Then the stones began to shake at a distant sound. The noise grew, until the crags trembled, rocks began to tumble and bushes shivered like aspens. Several of the herders threw themselves on their faces and covered their ears. Suddenly the cave-mouth was no longer black, but filled with hideous light. With a trumpeting scream that emitted a cloud of venom, the beast came. It poured from its hole like some huge obscene slug, greenish-black above like mouldered walls of a decaying house, toadstool-pale beneath. It had no legs, but moved upon its belly like a snake. Its mouth opened wide to show the cruel grinding plates and glutinous black tongue ready to grasp its prey; its eyes were furled upon two jointed horns. As it emerged the horns began to lengthen.

“It is a Gorren!” Donath shouted. “Now Tiryn preserve us! Beware its eyes!” The men scattered, all but three who remained in its path, transfixed with horror perhaps, or overcome by its vile breath. Lightning rent the air as the Gorren unsheathed its eyes. Brilliance unbearable glared upon the rocks, and even those that fled stumbled. The three who stood near fell blasted to the ground. The Gorren gave a hissing roar, as though a serpent might have acquired the voice of a lion, but did not pause to seize any of the fallen. It sought not prey, but vengeance to annihilate these vermin that had dared pollute its rest. There would be time for feasting when all were slain. It ploughed on, crushing the body of one man that lay in its path, pursuing those that fled, covering their eyes, in among the crevices of the rocks.

Holt, positioned further down the slope, signalled to his men to remain in cover until he saw which way the beast was headed, then led them out to assault its flanks. Garvan, seeing what he was about, heaved a sigh of relief and betook himself to the wounded. Shortly, those that had fled found their way back. A few that were hurt or shocked past recovery he kept with him. The rest he sent after Holt, now pacing the beast as it raged onward. Of the three men who had fallen, one was dead, crushed under the Gorren’s onslaught; the others were past hope, the skin burned off their faces, and both were blind.

Something over an hour later, Holt took stock of the situation. They still pursued the same tactics, harrying the Gorren on all sides but the front, each group in turn retreating as the beast made toward it. So far, they had managed to contain it in a small, scrubby valley below the scar. Here, with its movement restricted, Holt had hoped to make some impression on the beast. But truth to tell, it could many times have escaped them; even as they harried it, it hunted them in turn, sensing perhaps that if it slaughtered these, it would not be troubled again for many a year.

In all the beforehand discussions between Holt, Garvan, old Kenfig and his sons, they had none of them conceived how helpless they would prove to be before the powers of a monster such as this. The Gorren’s hide was smooth and slippery, so that neither sword nor arrow could penetrate it. Even Holt’s krist skidded harmlessly off the creature’s exuding slime. Several times now they had tried for the mouth-parts, which seemed the only vulnerable place, one party trying to draw the beast’s attention while the other slipped in beneath. But the Gorren’s eyes could move independently, and its venom burned like fire. The last, most desperate attempt had cost them dear: three men blinded and two killed. Holt gave a bitter sigh at the recollection, and tried to think what was to be done. Unless they could somehow damage the Gorren, it was unlikely to tire before they would; and if they continued as they were, then one by one, weary, distracted or with luck run out, all would be maimed or slain. Retreat could be attempted, but he doubted this was an option, since they could not outrun the angry beast. Some might get home, if others sacrificed themselves; but to no avail, for no herder’s cot would then be safe. It was a grim prospect.

Holt called to Penarc, and voiced his thoughts to the cool-headed herder. Penarc agreed with his assessment, but had no fresh ideas to offer. D’Zar saw their anxious frowns, and came over.

“It is time, methinks, for one to attempt the Gorren’s eyes,” he said, leaning on his mattock and thrusting out his underlip.

“That would be certain death,” Penarc protested.

“To face death is sometimes necessity,” D’Zar said.

“I don’t dispute that,” Holt said slowly. “But such an attempt would be futile. A man would be blinded before he came within striking distance.”

“Not a Rockman,” D’Zar said. “Our eyes are strong. In my forge I can bear the blue fire of fusing metal, whose secret only we know, and I wear no mask. I will go.”

“That is a noble offer,” Penarc said.

“Maybe,” D’Zar grunted. “What says the Captain?” He looked keenly at Holt, who stood silent, wishing the choice were not his. But Garvan was above the scar, less than half a mile as a black crow flew, but a half-hour’s scramble up there and back from where they stayed; and many things might change in half an hour.

“You know why I hesitate, D’Zar son of Zerin,” he said. “The death of your kinsman is already laid at my door.”

“Not by me,” D’Zar said. “I know now he chose freely, as do I. Give the word, Captain, and I will go.”

“Go, then with all our thanks,” Holt said. “We will be close at your back.”

D’Zar stumped off to a vantage-point a short distance away. Here the rocks they had relied on for shelter were fewer and smaller; though there were more trees, spindly rowan, straggling elder, crooked thorn. The Rockman hotched up into the low fork of one of these, peering from behind a branch to see what went forward. It was a thorn-tree, but its vicious spines were apparently beneath his Duergh notice.

Holt called to him the men on his side of the beast, and sent Penarc to work his way round to those on the other, to explain the plan. He set marksmen, the best, to shoot for the beast’s mouth as it turned toward them. The rest he gathered together to follow D’Zar in along the beast’s flank. Looking out cautiously he caught glimpses of Penarc making similar dispositions. But the Gorren had become impatient and suspicious at the lull. Its head swung from side to side, questing, and those closest cowered down and hid their eyes as the Gorren’s fell glance flickered over them like the flash of some deathly beacon. Suddenly the creature gave out its thunderous hiss and made for the Rockman.

D’Zar saw his chance. “Now!” he shouted, and leaping down pounded it seemed straight into the monster’s jaws. The stones shook and echoed to the war-cry of the Duerghar, an ear-shattering, guttural shriek to make the strongest adversary quail, as D’Zar raised it in a great voice and drove in to the attack.

The Gorren did not quail. It lowered its head to deal with this impudent assailant, uncurling its prehensile tongue. But this was what D’Zar needed. He sidestepped the groping tongue, swung his mattock like a hammer-thrower and smashed it into the Gorren’s eye upon its lowered horn.

A scream rent the air like the cry of many tortured souls. The Gorren reared up, thrashing, and a foul stench arose, choking even those who had become something accustomed to its vile odour. Pale viscous fluid began to ooze from its shattered eye. Its tongue lolled. Now was the moment to drive in for the kill. But the creature’s second horn was flailing this way and that, dealing its lethal sparks in all directions, while D’Zar lay upon the ground where the Gorren’s violent spasm had thrown him. Before he could rise the beast gave another dreadful scream, and its tongue had seized him about the waist.

From the shelter of the Gorren’s blind side Holt saw, and was sick. But a thought came.

“Give me your scarf,” he demanded of the the man next to him. The man stared, then quickly unwound the scarf from his mouth and put it into Holt’s outstretched hand. Holt bound it hastily about his brow, pulling the thick folds down over his right eye. Then, before any had guessed what he was about, he leapt in after D’Zar.

The eye-horn came down toward him as he leapt. Even as its terrible light seared his own exposed eye he struck up at it with the krist, and felt the Lantean blade bite deep. Then he stumbled, for he could not see, and fell into a stream of venom that burned his hands and face. The Gorren howled as though to wake the dead stones with its agony, but Holt lay still, and D’Zar half in the Gorren’s jaws lay still, and mist began to gather above the valley-wall like a cloud of death.

But the others who fought were valiant. When they saw that both the Gorren’s eyes had lost their power they swept in from each side, finishing the work the two heroes had begun, hacking at the foul tongue until D’Zar was freed, pulling Holt away from the pool of venom. Both were carried swiftly to a distance of a few yards, their venom-soaked scarves and clothing torn off and all traces of the vile stuff wiped away. Both were burned, D’Zar the worst, for he had lain many minutes in the Gorren’s jaws. Both were unconscious, their eyes closed. None doubted but that both were blind.

They drew off when the Gorren lay, its vast bulk twitching a little, unable to move. It was not yet dead, but powerless for the moment to do any harm. One was sent for Garvan, but he was found close at hand, making his way down to see what was afoot. When he saw Holt lying senseless among the wounded, his cat crouched by him crying, he momentarily covered his face with his hand. But there was much to be done. Once the wounded were made comfortable, and those at the scar brought down, he set all who were fit to felling a young pine, and trimming it to make a great stake. This they heated in the fire until it began to burn, then thrust it in between the Gorren’s jaws until only a few inches were left protruding. So the Gorren was slain, and carrion birds from miles around began to flock in black clouds to that place.

No more could be done that day. It was decided to return later, when the carcass had rotted, and roll down stones until the remains were covered. For the time being, they removed some distance and camped for the night, bearing the dead and wounded on stretchers of woven branches. By morning another man was dead, and several in poor case, Holt and D’Zar among them. They had not wakened, though sometimes they cried out in their sleep.

The next day they wended home. Some decided to make for their own steadings, bearing their dead and leading their blind with them. But most returned first to Kenfig’s dwelling, for he and his daughter were noted healers. At evening they came to the farmstead. Linnuis stood at the gate, wrapped in a sheepskin cloak and bearing a lantern. She looked on the face of each one that was borne through, and over some she made the sign that the herd-folk gave to the dead, but the others she touched with her hand; those that were conscious smiled at her, and some of the others seemed eased. Last but one came Holt, with Garvan walking by his stretcher.

Linnuis laid her hand across Holt’s brow, holding her lantern high, then looked up into Garvan’s troubled face.

“Can you do aught for him, mistress?” he said. “This is my fault. How shall I face his lady, if he dies, or if he is blind?”

“’Tis pity you did not weigh that, my lord, before you persuaded him to an enterprise of such hazard,” she answered, falling into step beside him. The prince flinched at her words as from a blow.

“But I did not,” he said. “The act that brought him to this I did not order, nor would I have. I had asked him to lead before I knew him my Lady’s choice, and could scarcely withdraw the commission. Not that I thought we should end in such straits.”

“Yet some will believe you took this chance to bring down your rival.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But Amrielle at least will not. True Fir Domnan pledge only once, and she is not one ever to slight her word, though given in secret. I know it, and she knows I would know it. You do not understand me well, mistress, if you think me likely to harm her Chosen from hope for myself, or from spite.”

“I do not think so,” she said. “I know you better, my lord, than you credit.”

“Then you know what I would ask of you,” he said.

“Ay, my lord. I know all you would ask me.”

“I will give you any fee.”

“I would seek to save the Captain for his sake, and for the Jewel of Loigris, who has taken herself a true man, recking nothing of rank or race. But I will do it also for your fee, Lord Garvan.”

Weary and distracted the prince went to his pallet, unaware of the price that might one day be levied by the craft of Linnuis, the herder’s daughter.

Those that were whole or not too badly hurt were lodged in their former hut, the dead in another. But those sorely wounded, some seven, Linnuis directed to be brought into the main hut, where she and old Kenfig tended them all that night, and for many days afterward.