by Dale Lucas
“Devils, bloody Devils!” great-mother shouted. “Curse them, crush them, mush them, tush them! Peel all their skins and crack their bones and let their eyes pop, jellified, on the fires and feed the ants and snails! He names the Devils!”
Swifty scurried forward and bent to speak to Rem. “She hates them Devils,” Swifty said, as though in confidence. “Best not mention them again.”
“Devils, proud! Devils, pretty! Devils, pure! Devils, true! Bah! I shit on the Devils! I blast all the stinking, unholy smoke in my bum toward their groves and caves and I piss venom on their cookfires!”
Swifty threw Rem another reproving glance—Please, sir, don’t mention them again—then withdrew. The fact that Rem had just shared an intimate moment with a man wearing a mask made of human faces, that he’d seen that man’s eyes deep within the mask’s torn eyeholes, and that those eyes, though veined and rheumy, were anything but mad or inhuman, made Rem vaguely ill.
But that was neither here nor there. Clearly great-mother hated the Red Raven and the Devils of the Weald. Saw them as proud, upstart competitors, no doubt. He could most definitely use that to his advantage . . .
“And just what was it?” the great-mother demanded, moving nearer now. “What was it you blighters brought to trade with those poxy louts?”
Rem tried to think of something that might interest them. Would they be pleased to hear that it was the Red Raven himself they’d been transporting? Would they be tempted if he mentioned weapons? Would they respond to need if he suggested they’d been trading provisions? What on earth could these backward, twisted people possibly want that would, for a moment, anyway, keep them from killing him?
He opted for weapons. “You heard the booms, yes?”
Siebel and Swifty both nodded emphatically.
“Oh yes,” Swifty said. “Heard that. Loud, they was! Like ground thunder! Smelled the smoke when the wind changed, too! Was that some wonder-worker? Some magic man calling the thunder out of the sky and the fire out of the earth?”
Rem shook his head. “It was a weapon. Dwarven blasting powder. They use it underground, for making tunnels and caverns of their own.”
“Fool talk,” great-mother spat. “Ain’t no low folk here-bouts.”
“No, indeed,” Rem said, wishing his own familiar dwarf would come barreling through the door of this mean little den about now. “But the men in the armor—the strong men, the shiny men—they bought this blasting powder to use as a weapon! Against the Red Raven and the Devils of the Weald!”
“Against?” great-mother asked thoughtfully. “I thought you said trade?”
“It was a trap, in truth,” Rem said, knowing there was at least some veracity in that statement. “We came saying we’d trade with the Raven and his Devils, but we sought to eradicate them.”
Swifty tried on that word. “Eradi . . .”
“Stamp ’em, break ’em, burn them to ash!” great-mother shouted at him. “That’s what eradicate means! Now pinch your top-cunt or I’ll pinch it for you!”
Swifty closed his mouth. Despite his fearsome mask and his strong frame, he looked like a scolded little boy.
Great-mother was, indeed, intrigued now. “So you says these blasties were meant to fire the Raven and the Devils, and Swifty here says he hears ’em. Ain’t none left?”
“Indeed,” Rem lied. “Many. You’ve only to waylay my companions and steal them for yourself. I’d say neither the Raven nor his Devils nor any other pretenders in these woods would cross you after that! You’d have something none of them would have!”
“That sounds lovely, great-ma!” Swifty said. “Let’s do it! Siebel and I can go!”
“Ta woom,” Siebel said, clapping his misshapen hands. “Boddy boddy baes?”
In the distance Rem heard a hoarse barking that launched into a fierce, whining howl. He wondered what kind of beast could make such a noise—too wild to be a dog, too high pitched to be a wolf. Then he remembered: they were in coyote country.
The sound froze everyone present. Great-mother raised her head and listened. Swifty and Siebel bent close to each other. Even Fopsy and Brown Bon, by the cookpot, paused in their labors of chopping edible roots and tossing sprigs of wild herbs into the roiling water to raise their heads and listen.
The sound came again, barks becoming bays. Rem couldn’t judge precisely how far away the animal might be, but he guessed within a quarter mile.
“That’s Cobby, south side,” Swifty said.
“What do you know?” great-mother hissed. “All those beasties sound the same.”
“Not true, great-ma,” Swifty countered. “I can tell! Each one’s got his own bark, his own larf, his own howl.”
“We should cook ’em,” Brown Bon muttered.
“We can’t and you won’t!” Swifty shouted, looking suddenly agitated by Brown Bon’s suggestion.
“He’s just baiting you, Swifty,” Fopsy said. She returned to chopping whatever twisted root she’d been peeling, tossing chunks into the stew cauldron.
Once more the coyote barked, but its call was altered this time. Barks devolved to a howl . . . but the howl was suddenly cut off. In its wake silence reigned.
“Oh no,” Swifty said, rheumy eyes widening within the darkened holes of his human skin mask. “You hears that?”
“Those flea-bitten beasts are your problem,” great-mother grumbled. “I’s with Brown Bon. Shoulda cooked ’em long time ago! Thieving things!”
“They’s the guards!” Swifty said, and moved toward the far side of the room now, out of Rem’s field of vision. What was he doing? “I’s gotta go. Siebel, you come, too.”
Siebel shuffled to follow.
“Siebel, stay!” great-mother snarled. “Swifty, too!”
Swifty appeared to Rem again. He was carrying a big, unwieldy weapon now—a hammer of some sort, the handle long and thick, the head small but clearly heavy, probably pure iron. It looked like a comically enlarged version of the maul Torval was so fond of carrying.
“They bark because someone comes,” Swifty said desperately. “I’s goin’ to sight it.”
“They barks ’cause they’s dog-rodents, that’s why!” great-mother said. “Now put that hammer down! We’s ain’t done with supper yet!”
“Supper can wait,” Swifty said, sounding for all his height and bulk like a whining child eager to go out and drop his fishing pole in the stream one more time before dark.
Great-mother opened her mouth to respond, but the words were swallowed by the sudden thunder of the door to the vile little cabin being torn off its rusted hinges. Hanging there, helpless and topsy-turvy, Rem wondered just what could do that—what could tear a door right off its hinges and cast it aside. He thought he saw a big shadow outside—something broad and hulking—but the setting sun poured in from beyond, igniting the cloud of stirred-up dust that accompanied the ruin of the door and making it opaque.
The big shadow responsible for the door’s removal stepped aside then, and new forms rushed through the door, one after another. The first was small and low, walking in a strange, side-sliding, crab-like manner.
Rem had never seen a living goblin before, only drawings and mummers’ masks made to resemble them. This had to be one, though: the long, pointy chin, the sharp cheekbones, the flashing, recessed little eyes, and the broad, toothy grin. It looked no taller than Torval—four feet at the most—but of much more slender cast.
The fleet little creature had a small compound bow in its knotty hands. As he scurried into the cabin, he nocked an arrow and drew, aiming the point toward the largest target, which was Siebel. He did not, however, loose.
Following in the goblin’s wake: orcs. They hurried through the torn-away door, one after another, filling the large single room of the shabby little cabin, fanning out and brandishing their cruel weapons with relish.
Swifty shouted something—Rem could make no sense of it—and shook his big hammer in threat.
Great-mother shouted, as well, yamm
ering at Swifty and Siebel and the two hunched over the stew pot.
One of the orcs started barking orders in its own tongue.
Everything was noise and shuffling feet and rattling weaponry. Threats, orders, confusion.
Another rattling: some other door on hinges. It was coming from just behind Rem. He tried to crane his neck round to see what was happening. He heard before he managed a clear view; whatever strong, large creature had yanked the front door off its hinges now did the same with its counterpart at the rear. Rem heard heavy boot-falls rushing forward. He was at a terrible angle to see clearly, but what he did catch from the corner of his eye gave him no comfort.
More orcs. The one in the lead had an enormous, curved saber . . . and breasts.
A female?
Indeed, a female. And she was charging right at him.
Cack, Rem thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Torval winced as Galen drew the catgut taut, closing the gash on his right bicep. With practiced efficiency the scout knotted the stitch—bringing another wince from Torval—and bit off the excess thread. Torval studied the dressed wound and offered a cursory nod.
“Good work,” he said, then rose from where he sat, took up his maul, and made for the road. They were camping west of it; he had a long walk ahead if he was going to resume his search for Rem.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the lord marshal demanded. “I should think one bloody encounter with an orcish war band enough for one day. Don’t you?”
Aye, one encounter was enough. But it had struck Torval as strange that the orcs had retreated so quickly after the fight was joined. Steel had rung, blows had been traded, wounds had been gouged, and blood had flowed, but in the midst of the melee, when things were just getting savage, the orcish chief had called off his warriors, and they’d retreated into the woods.
Why would they do that? That wasn’t normal orc behavior, by any stretch. War bands fought to the death when they engaged . . . unless they had specific orders to do otherwise, a larger goal that a small conflict could interfere with.
So what was that larger goal? What was so important that it kept those orcs from fighting to the death?
“I asked you a question,” the lord marshal pressed. “Have you been struck dumb suddenly, master dwarf?”
Torval turned slowly and stared at the lord marshal. He’d grown to hate the man in an astonishingly short time. He didn’t discount strength, or honor, or the necessity of command, but there was something in this Harcta Kroenen that set his teeth on edge—a hard-nosed, overbearing pride that threatened to crush the man and all around him. There was, likewise, the issue of his presumption. For the better part of a week, during the first half of their journey, the man had made it clear how much he did not want Rem and Torval along, how little he respected them, what a drain on resources they were. And now that half the company was dead and Rem was missing? Suddenly the lord marshal claimed command over everyone—including Torval—and the right to decide who was worth searching for and who wasn’t.
If he persisted, he would have to be taught a lesson. Torval would be happy to teach him.
“There’s still light,” Torval said. “I plan to return to where we were attacked and resume my search. If night falls, I’ll just camp where I find myself and keep searching in the morning.”
“I’ve given you no leave to do so,” the lord marshal said.
“I’ve asked none,” Torval answered through clenched teeth.
Captain Tuvera stepped in. “Lord Marshal, the dwarf is concerned for his mate. Let him search.”
“Aye, let me search,” Torval said bitterly. “I ask for no companions, no assistance. I just want to be left alone. Carry on to Erald for all I care.”
“There is still the matter of the Raven,” the lord marshal said. “Have you forgotten?”
Torval couldn’t help himself. He stalked up to the lord marshal and snarled up into his smug, frowning face. “Keep. Your. Fucking. Gold.”
“I’m not talking about gold, master dwarf,” the lord marshal countered. “I’m talking about duty. You and your foolish young companion had one task to complete on this journey: to keep the Red Raven locked in his cage. Now that he’s loose, you would simply abandon us? Abandon your duty?”
“My duty,” Torval countered, “is to my friend and my watch. I owe you nothing, Lord Marshal Kroenen, nor anyone else here.”
“Perhaps you were working with him, then,” the lord marshal said, a sneer forming at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps, as I’d suspected all along, that outlaw managed to bribe you and your companion into helping him escape. I was not present, after all, when he was freed from his cage. You claim it was one of his own, but it would have been easy enough for you to set him free—”
“The Lady Tzimena knows the truth,” Elvaris broke in. She had just finished re-dressing her wounded leg and now stood on it, clearly in pain. “I do, as well. If you accuse Torval of lying, you’re accusing me, also.”
“And who are you?” the lord marshal asked, swinging his gaze toward her. “One more sword-strumpet in your lady’s company? You rode at the rear, as well. Could you, also, not have been bought?”
“That’s enough,” Tuvera said coldly. “You won’t accuse my soldiers of treason, Lord Marshal. So much as suggest it again, and we’ll settle it right here, steel to steel.”
The lord marshal’s hand fell to his sheathed sword. His smirk became a cold smile. “Try me, you braying cunt.”
Tuvera’s sword was free of its scabbard in a breath. Elvaris drew her own, though doing so forced her to shift her weight onto her good leg and risk being thrown over by a light shove. Galen was up, arms out in placation, trying to calm everyone. The wounded Croften and Wallenbrand had their weapons out now, as well. Everyone was shouting, hurling challenges, warnings, insults.
“Stop it! The lot of you!”
Torval’s voice split the commotion like one of those blasting sphere explosions. As they all suddenly fell silent, turning their wondering gazes upon the dwarf, Torval felt his own face twisting into a contortion of disgust, his own fell gaze sweeping over them all, tired of their bickering.
“You lot can kill each other when I’m gone,” Torval said. “I don’t give a grizzly fart for all your quarrels. And you, Lord Marshal—any other man who’d impugned my honor in the way you have would, were I in my own city, already be dead on the ground, his skull split by this maul in my hand. Since we are in a rare predicament here, however, I’ll honor my partner’s memory by forgoing the righteous killing I’d like to visit upon you now. Even if Rem’s dead, at least he’ll be proud of me for exercising a little restraint.”
“Threaten me again, dwarf,” the lord marshal said.
“Shut up,” Torval answered. “Now, I’m going to find my partner, dead or alive, and when he’s found, we’re going home. We’ll walk all the way—keep your gods-damned horses. If I need to, I’ll carry the boy on my back. But as I live and breathe, you shall not stop me.”
“Let me convince you otherwise,” Captain Tuvera said, still holding her sword toward the lord marshal.
“There’s no convincing,” Torval said, shaking his head. “I wish you well, Captain. You’re brave and true, and your swordmaids should be honored to serve under you.”
“We need you, Torval,” Tuvera said then. She let that sink in as she slowly withdrew from her guarded stance and resheathed her sword. She faced Torval now, and he saw the look of need on her face.
“We only had one task on this journey, as well. That was to protect the Lady Tzimena, to see her delivered safely to her new husband and her new home. As of now, we’ve failed in that mission. But I think we can still find her.”
“I think so, too,” Torval said. “So you should go after her.”
“But we need every hand,” Tuvera said earnestly. “You know the Red Raven will have a great many outlaws in his camp. And finding that camp will be hard enough, though not impossib
le, seeing as we’ve got two first-rate trackers with us.” She indicated Galen and Croften. “If we’re to stir up that nest of snakes, we need more hands to cut them down.”
Torval could sense her need, feel it, even. Under other circumstances he would have aided them happily. The Lady Tzimena was, after all, a victim in this. Wasn’t that Torval’s job? To protect innocents from the predations of evil?
But Rem was out there somewhere, lost and alone.
“My partner needs me,” Torval said quietly. “Were it not so I’d stand by you.”
“Consider,” Wallenbrand broke in. “You almost reached the ford in your search, and with our aid. We found no sign of him—not even a corpse. All we did find was that orcish war band, and they very nearly tore us to bits.”
“That’s why it must be me alone,” Torval said. “I won’t have anyone else hurt or suffering for my partner and me.”
“That’s not my point,” Wallenbrand said, moving forward.
“Leave him, Wallenbrand,” the lord marshal said. “He’s nothing to us.”
“Pardon me, sir,” Wallenbrand said, “he may be nothing to you, but he drove aside an orcish spear aimed at my beating heart. From where I stand, this dwarf is a boon companion. So, with all due respect, shut your mouth and let me finish.”
The lord marshal was stunned into silence.
Wallenbrand continued. “We looked for him and didn’t find him, Torval. Rem could be anywhere. But the Lady Tzimena—we know where she probably is. We can track her and recover her. Help us do that. Let’s all get that one thing right, and then maybe everything else—Rem, the Red Raven, your reward—will fall into place.”
It was a sensible argument, Torval knew, but he was still loath to agree to it. As Wallenbrand said, Rem could be anywhere. He might have survived and pulled himself out of the river on the north bank. He might simply be sleeping under a fern somewhere and he hadn’t heard them searching for him, calling for him. He could also, just as easily, be alive and wounded. A bone broken. An ankle twisted. Even a nonfatal injury could become fatal if left to fester too long in these accursed woods, or simply because it would keep Rem from finding his way back to them and getting the food and water he needed to survive.
