Alan Foster - Krull

The boy pulled the collar of his coat tighter against his neck. It was a damp, chilly morning. The first suggestions of winter reached thin, icy fingers down from the North Country. Soon the land would sleep beneath a thick mantle of white wet down.

Nearby the flock cropped methodically at the long grass. They would work their way to the top of the gentle slope, perhaps, as far as the large boulder protruding like a giant's nose from the hillside, before it was dark and time to herd them in. The boy thought hungrily of the steaming stewpot that awaited him back in the village, of the hot tea that could drive out a day's chill as it spread outward in a steadily warming circle from his belly.

Life was not easy, his father repeatedly told him, but with a little hard work it might be made bearable. The sheep would provide meat for the coming year, their wool would give warmth, and there should be enough of both left over to trade for money in the marketplace. They might even make enough money to travel to his cousin's hometown of Banbreak, where there was much talk of uniting all the towns and villages in the region to form a kingdom. The boy's father was all for such unification. A single government could provide strength and protection from which all might prosper. There was too much division and argument among men, especially now, when they ought to join together against a common enemy.

The dominant ram let out a nervous baa and the boy stirred himself. It wouldn't do to be caught daydreaming. Standing atop the little knoll he'd chosen for a resting place, he leaned on his staff and carefully inspected the surrounding terrain. You never could tell what might be lurking out there, crouched low among the bushes or in the rustling branches up a tree. He prided himself on his watchfulness. Since the flock had been entrusted to his care, he'd lost not a single sheep to marauders, no matter whether they approached on four legs or two or eight.

The ram let out a second bleat and there were echoes from others in the flock. They began to mill together uncertainly, clustering around the mature rams and ignoring the grass. The boy's fingers tightened on the staff as he turned a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of their unease. He could see nothing. In the trees all that moved were wind-stirred leaves, on the ground nothing but rippling grass and weeds. As if to worry him further a stiff breeze suddenly sprang to life, bending the taller bushes and rattling the gravel underfoot.

Then it occurred to the boy that it had become preternaturally silent. There were no bird sounds, no digger barks, not even the buzz of omnipresent insects from the small stream that flowed nearby.

The wind intensified, swirling his cloak around him. It was rapidly growing darker. Storm coming up, he thought. Probably from behind Ignatus Mountain. But that wasn't sufficient to explain the flock's eerie behavior. They were all bleating now, crying out anxiously. Still the source of their collective distress remained hidden from sight.

No matter. He did not have any more time to hunt for invisible threats. His job now was to get the flock under cover before the storm broke. Still keeping a wary eye on the nearest clump of cover, which might conceal a lurking predator, he hopped down from his perch and began shooing the sheep back toward the village.

They refused to budge, clustering so tightly together they threatened to trample the lambs. Now what the devil had got into those fool animals?

He turned his gaze upward, the better to gauge the speed and strength of the approaching storm, and his jaw dropped.

The lowing sky was full of dark cumulus, but the largest cloud of all was not drifting southward with its billowy companions. It was falling steadily earthward. Lights flickered along its gray black sides and a dull hum came from somewhere within. The wind rose to a shriek as displaced air sought escape.

The young shepherd stared, as paralyzed as his sheep. Now he understood the source of their frozen panic, knew why they clustered helplessly together instead of trying to run to safety. The cloud that wasn't a cloud covered most of the little valley and there was nowhere to run to.

Trees snapped and popped like dead twigs as the Fortress of the Beast settled gently to the ground, obliterating anything less resistant than granite beneath its great weight. Only one had observed its unannounced arrival. Gradually the birds resumed their forays from those trees that had been spared. Insects reemerged from their hiding places to restake their claim to the world.

Of the shepherd and his flock there was only a memory.

One by one the sun made silhouettes of the horsemen as they topped the narrow ridge. It was just after daybreak, but the horses heaved and their riders' legs ached as they clutched at their mounts' flanks. Horses and men had been on the road since well before sunup.

Now they started down the steep grade, scrambling toward the next ridge. There were five, lightly laden. On the long ride heavy armor would have been a hindrance.

The last of them seemed unsure of his seat, swaying forward and back as though drunk. The swaying increased until the man's eyes closed and he tumbled from the saddle. As he rolled over and over down the slope, he left a trail behind him, crimson spotting the rocks and brush with the passing of his life.

One of the riders slowed, working hard to keep his mount from stumbling. The lead rider, who'd been picking his way down the hillside with reckless skill, also reined in and turned to look back to where their companion had come to rest against an outjutting rock.

"No, Masreck!" the leader shouted. "There's no time, and he's finished."

"But, Lord Colwyn, Eric's my cousin!"

"He was your cousin. Leave him where he's come to final rest or we're all done for. Too many lost already to risk everything for one who can no longer help. Does he move?"

The soldier carrying the banner spoke through clenched teeth as he stared dully at the motionless body. "No, m'lord. He lies still."

"Then save your regrets for later and pray for his soul as we ride. We all have regrets to pay for this journey." He turned away and spurred his horse on, down the steep grade, over the gully splitting the bottom, then up the opposite slope and into the dense forest beyond. Nearby rode an old man wearing the crown of a king, his regal garb now thick with road dirt and dried mud.

The men were tired but Colwyn dared not risk halting for a rest or a meal. The land was full of the strange creatures men had come to call Slayers. Time enough to rest when the evil had been purged from the land.

Soon they splashed into the River Eiritch, men and horses alike glad of the cold spray many hooves kicked upward. Another month would see the river transformed into an impossible torrent by Endsummer rains. But today it was fordable. Grime and filth was vanquished by the cleansing spray and when they emerged on the far side, the light of Krull's twin suns quickly commenced to dry the refreshed riders.

Before long they broke from the forest, climbing onto the High Plains. Snowcapped peaks rose still higher in the distance.

Against the backdrop of gray stone and blue sky their destination stood stark and beautiful, a cloud come to rest on the hard earth.

Colwyn stood in his stirrups and pointed. "There! The White Castle of Eirig."

"We're not there yet, m'lord," the warrior holding the standard reminded him.

"By the Shadows, we're near enough!" Colwyn looked back over his shoulder. "No sign of Slayers. They have everything a good fighter should have save initiative, for which we can be thankful."

"We're likely to find out soon enough, sir," said another of the soldiers.

"Aye," agreed a third.