by Dale Lucas
Suddenly the cabin was quiet. The only sounds were the twitter of birds in the twilit woods outside and the crackle of popping fat as Brown Bon burned.
Rem had looked around him, realizing that he was now all alone, surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered by an armed orcish war band with its collective blood up.
He hadn’t been sure what to do in that instant. For a long time he’d sat there on the floor, staring, trying to get some sense of what might happen next. Little by little, the orcs, the goblin, and the big troll had all closed in around him. That troll looked particularly out of place in the shabby hovel, its big head and shoulders hunched low to keep from thumping against the uneven rafters above.
Rem counted six: there was a big, broad-shouldered, wellarmored male sporting three long braids trailing from his crown—the leader of the group, if Rem was not mistaken; the spear wielder; the female; the goblin archer; the fat, stocky orc with the battle-ax (who struck Rem as what Torval might look like if transformed into an orc); and finally the troll.
Rem was just about to offer a greeting, the silence between them persistent and pregnant, when the troll suddenly reached out, seized Rem’s shoulders, and yanked him to his feet. He also spun Rem around so that he could look right into the troll’s big, broad face. In that instant Rem thought he might finally throw up, as he’d feared doing for the past hour—though whether from fear or simply from dizziness, he could not say.
For a long time, Rem and the troll simply stared at one another. The thing studied him closely, considering him, as though he were the most puzzling of artifacts or buried treasures. Just as Rem was starting to fear that the big oaf might tire of him and crush him where he stood, ending him at last in one swift stroke, the troll spoke.
“Naca hwar izhgrafa roshe,” it said. Its voice was low, the rumble of a war drum, but something in its tone suggested concern . . . sympathy, even.
“Yashno dze djawdwornoc,” the spearman added, stepping into view at the troll’s elbow.
The female appeared on the troll’s opposite side. “Bulan,” she said. “Daco dahna. Omi ba djacla dakwu dzwar?”
“Ryudzha,” one of the others said, the word spat as though it was a curse. Rem could not clearly see who spoke, or where they stood. “Brdjawa ropowi. Wadyo zha raca kordja dze noshura?” The speaker was somewhere behind him.
“Tcha djame unta sha, tu’um?” another said. It sounded like a question.
“Ba, swa dja wardzana . . . ,” another added, the statement an intimation of an unspoken possibility. The voice was high and nasal. Rem assumed it was that of the goblin archer.
“Na,” one of them countered. “Frozhatu on.”
To Rem’s great surprise, there had been no questions. Not then, at any rate. Oh, he’d had plenty of his own, but after he’d sputtered all sorts of things at the outset—Who are you? Where are you from? Thank you, so much, for saving me. What happens now?—the female finally stepped forward and laid her hand flat across Rem’s mouth. Her flesh was dry and rough and smelled of animal musk and sweat.
“Shush,” she said around her big, protruding bottom teeth.
The leader had stepped in then—the big one with the trio of braids.
“Fought well, you,” he said, and indicated Brown Bon, body still burning on the floor and spewing sickening smoke.
Rem shrugged. “Thank you?”
The orc chieftain bent his head sideward, studied Rem again, then spoke. “Are safe, you. Come you will, with us. Talk not now. Later.”
His syntax was unorthodox—not so unusual, for orcish syntax was notoriously strange to humans—but Rem was surprised by how clearly the orc spoke a human tongue.
Rem nodded that he understood, and the female removed her hand. After that he’d been led outside under the watchful eyes of the female and the troll, while the others tossed the cabin for any useful forage. When they finally emerged, flames were visible inside, and smoke began to pour from between the wood slats and the skin-shaded windows. Clearly they meant to leave nothing behind.
Rem considered the young ones mentioned. What would they think when they returned to find this? In a way he was glad they hadn’t. He hoped to never see—to never know—what kind of young ones those monsters could have brooded.
Rem marched along with them, off into the darkening woods, having no idea where he was in relation to his companions or their camp or even the river or the ford. For the first time, he felt truly lost, deep in the wild, so far from the river that he could neither see it nor hear it. The direction of the declining sun suggested that west was off to his left.
He almost opened his mouth to ask questions once or twice, but thought better of it. They’d marched for a long time, until well after the sun went down and twilight gave way to night. Without even the last, purpling light of the sun, Rem could barely see, but the female had laid her hand on his shoulder and begun to guide him, holding him back to grunt one order or another when they came to a slope up or down, a big root that had to be stepped over, or the like. She clearly had good night vision and proved a handy guide. After a rather long march over treacherous ground, Rem noted a faint light off in the woods far ahead of them. It turned out to be the orcs’ camp, a small fire still burning, a bent and crusty old orc sitting beside that fire, turning a great haunch of meat spitted on huge sticks above the flame. Another orc—a young male—sat nearby, scouring chain mail with sand and coagulated animal fat. The haunch over the fire looked and smelled like wild boar, but Rem wouldn’t swear to it.
The old orc looked up and squinted to study them as they filed into the little clearing. When he saw Rem, his beady, deep-set eyes grew wide.
“Djha da hrovo?” he gasped.
“Prisoner,” the leader said.
Rem thought it telling that the leader had used that word—a word Rem would understand—instead of a word in their own orcish tongue.
The old orc studied Rem as Rem was guided into the little circle of stones and logs that surrounded the firepit. He got a look on his face as if he smelled something foul.
“Bah,” he finally said, dismissing Rem with a wave and bending back to his cook’s duties.
The female thrust Rem down onto a log. She sat on his right. The short, fat one sat to her right. The spearman took a seat opposite to Rem’s right, while the top-knotted leader sat to Rem’s left. The goblin and troll settled in beside one another to the chieftain’s left. For a long time, they all sat in silence, staring at one another. Occasionally one orc or another would grunt and mutter in their own tongue, but the leader’s eyes never left Rem. Rem did his best not to stare back—he would hate to provoke the creature, after all. It seemed, however, that no matter how long he kept his eyes averted, no matter how infrequently he tried to steal a glance, the leader kept on staring.
“May we speak now?” Rem asked sheepishly, the silence grating on him.
“Spoken have you,” the leader said. “Begin.”
Rem stared at him, puzzled. “Let what begin?”
“Speaking,” the leader said.
Rem looked at all of them around the fire. “Do you all speak a human tongue?”
“Not they,” the leader said. “I.”
“I me,” the troll said suddenly, then held up two fingers, closely spaced. “Small little.”
“Corrected am I,” the leader said. “Speaks a little, Hrozhna.”
Rem looked across the fire at the troll. What was that curious expression it wore? He couldn’t quite tell if it was a friendly smile or a hungry snarl.
“Hrozhna,” Rem said, addressing the troll. “Is that your name?”
The troll nodded. Now, the smile was clear. “Name me,” he said, looking to the others, as though no one had ever spoken his name before.
Rem turned to the leader. “And you? If I may—”
“Gnusha,” the orcish commander said. He sat straight backed on his log, big hands on his knees, shoulders squared. “These”—he indicated the whole of the band aro
und the fire—“are blades, of mine. Ushrakha ub Gnusha. Gnusha’s Blades.”
Rem let his eyes move over each in turn. They all stared at him, studying him, scowling as if suspicious or just disgusted. Or maybe that was just their natural expression?
“I’m Rem,” he said, placing his hand on his chest. “I come from Yenara. You know Yenara?”
“Know Yenara I,” Gnusha said. “Know the free cities all. Know the duchies and north Marches all. Range far and wide, we. Trade steel for coin, blood for treasure, we.”
Steel for coin? Blacksmiths? No. Steel for coin, blood for treasure. “You’re mercenaries,” he said.
Gnusha nodded. “That word. Yes.”
Rem considered carefully just what he should ask them—if anything. Would he offend them if he asked the wrong question?
“So,” he said slowly, “you are in these woods to earn coin?”
Gnusha nodded. “Yes.”
“Hunting something?” Rem asked.
“Hunting men,” Gnusha said.
Rem did his best to remain calm. “Oh. All right . . .”
Gnusha suddenly shook his head and waved his hand. “No. Not all men. Stealers. Bleeders. Takers.”
“Thieves?” Rem asked.
Gnusha pointed, indicating that was it. “Thieves,” he said. “Yes.”
Rem stared, amazed. “You were hired to hunt bandits?”
Gnusha stood and stepped nearer. He drew something from a pouch at his belt. “To hunt men, hired by men,” he said, and produced a rolled scroll that he placed in Rem’s hands.
Rem studied the scroll, then studied Gnusha, then glanced at the female orc beside him. She stared back, looking about as impatient and annoyed as possible. Rem looked away from her and unrolled the scroll.
The wording was fairly typical of a bounty agreement and warrant to enforce a lord’s will. What surprised Rem even more was the ducal seal at the bottom of the warrant. Had he not already seen it, only days before, he might not have immediately recognized it.
“Let it be known,” it said, “that the orcish war band presenting this to any human authority who challenges it operates with my express authority and permission, and has been retained for the purpose of enforcing law and order in the Ethkeraldi Wood and its environs. Vouchsafe and extend to it every courtesy.
“Attested and avowed, by my decree, Verin Lyr, Duke of Erald.”
Rem blinked.
What in the sundry hells had he stumbled into?
They’d eaten after that, the old orc tearing portions from the roasting boar above the fire and handing them off to the various members of the company. Gnusha was served first, followed by the troll, Hrozhna. After that the portioning out proceeded according to size. Rem was offered a portion second to last, just before the little goblin archer.
The needle-toothed, bat-faced archer scowled at him through the fire. He was small and wiry, but Rem hoped he never had to tangle with him. He looked the sort who might casually bite an ear or a finger off during a scrap.
Rem did his best to suppress just how thankful he was for the meat. He said thank you, of course, but what he didn’t want them to know was that he was starving. He hadn’t eaten anything since those bitter and unsatisfying fiddleheads and a handful of sour hurtleberries that morning. The boar was unseasoned, but rich and delicious nonetheless. His body felt better the moment he began to digest it.
As they ate, Gnusha introduced his company. The big troll, as Rem already knew, was Hrozhna. The imposing spearman who’d skewered Siebel was Otha, the female warrior Tludjaba, the fat ax wielder Budash, the little goblin archer Wudji, the old cook Tadj, and the young buck scouring chain mail when they’d arrived Thuwat. The soldiers continued to chat among themselves in their own heavy, sibilant tongue as Rem and the chieftain ate in silence, only occasionally speaking with one another.
As the first portions were eaten, the old orcish cook, Tadj, withdrew from the fire and went rooting around in a giant sack sitting nearby. After drawing out several unwanted finds—a frying pan, some smaller sacks whose contents remained a mystery, some dried meat wrapped in cheesecloth—he finally laid hands on something big and squidgy waiting at the bottom of the sack. This he drew out and held high for all to see. It was a sealed goatskin that clearly contained something liquid, for it sloshed and jostled as it was displayed. The cook offered it to the chieftain first. Gnusha politely refused and indicated Rem.
“Brwo gu,” Gnusha said quietly.
Tadj turned and offered the sack to Rem. Rem stared, wondering just what sort of vile orcish brew might be sloshing about in there. What did they drink, for that matter? In Yenara they always seemed to be beer-and-ale sorts, but out here in the wild, was that what they were like to carry with them? Or was it something else? Maybe they had a taste for wine? Or mead?
Apparently he’d hesitated too long.
“Take,” the old cook grunted.
Rem must have made a face that betrayed his trepidation, for Gnusha spoke an instant later.
“Mare’s milk,” the orcish chieftain said. “Good. Fills belly. Kills hunger.”
Mare’s milk. Really? Out here? In a wineskin? Wouldn’t it spoil and sour? If he drank the stuff, it was like to make him vomit.
“Drink,” Gnusha said, more insistently. “Offer first to you. Refuse is insult.”
Rem nodded and snatched the big, heavy skin from the cook and uncorked it. That settled it. Vomit or no, he didn’t care to offend these excellent orcs, who thus far had been disinclined to slay him, cook him, and eat him for supper. As he drew the skin to his mouth, he smelled the brew within: yeasty, pungent, a smell somewhere between an overripe apple and a cold-cured sausage.
That combination of smells gave him no pleasure, but what could he do?
He drew a deep breath, laid the cork-hole of the skin to his mouth, and drank a long, deep draught of what lay within.
It was surprisingly light for something made from milk, but on his palate the stuff was just as bizarre as his momentary whiff of it had suggested. There was sourness, acidity, more of that strange taste of a browned apple coupled with something meaty and funky, halfway between the cured sausage he’d smelled and an aging cheese. It was frothy, too, full of bubbles.
And there was alcohol in there, clearly. It wasn’t just milk; it was a fermented brew.
He finished his deep swig and drew the skin away, hoping that he wouldn’t immediately throw it all up. The bubbly mixture burned a path down his throat and thumped unceremoniously into his gut, where it gurgled and roiled and burned.
“Good,” he said, positive that his face betrayed that he lied. “Very good. Yes. Thank you.” He coughed and gagged a little.
The cook handed the skin back to the chieftain, Gnusha. Gnusha took the skin, gulped down several mouthfuls of the stuff, then handed it back to the cook. The cook started around the fire, offering the skin to each warrior in turn, starting with Hrozhna the troll.
Rem hastily chewed the rest of his roasted boar, hoping that maybe the taste of the pork would banish the strange stain of the fermented mare’s milk on his tongue and throat. After a few minutes, when all his boar was gone and the milk-skin had made a round through all gathered, Rem knew the mare’s milk wasn’t likely to come burbling back up through his esophagus. Feeling this, he relaxed.
Even stranger, when Tadj took the milk-skin from Wudji the goblin and offered it once more to Rem, Rem decided he wanted more.
Why? he wondered as he accepted the skin and put the cork-hole now wet with orcish saliva to his own mouth and squeezed out another mouthful of the vile stuff within. Why should I want more? Didn’t it almost make me sick before? Wasn’t I sure it would all come back up?
Truth be told, he didn’t really care why. He only knew that the stuff in that sack, odd as it was, was also eminently satisfying, settling his hunger more thoroughly than a whole joint of that roasted boar could.
And the way it affected his thought processes didn’t hurt, ei
ther. For the first time in the last day and a half, Rem actually felt at ease. Comfortable. Unworried.
He looked to Gnusha after the orcish chieftain had enjoyed his own swig again. The chieftain smiled, his fangs and tusks flashing savagely. Rem smiled back and nodded in salute.
“My thanks, Gnusha,” Rem said. “Sharing your food, your drink . . . You are a most generous host.”
“Not generous,” Gnusha said, shaking his head. “Fair. Give to you do we. Give to us do you.”
“Give to you?” Rem asked, suddenly worried. “What could I possibly give to you?”
“Seek in these woods,” Gnusha said, eyeing Rem carefully to seek out any prevarication or attempt at trickery. “Called Devils, they are. Slay them we would. All.”
Rem stared, not sure what he had to offer.
“Tell us all will you,” Gnusha said gravely, his tone making it clear there was no room for negotiation. “Help us find.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Torval had, more than once in his life, considered becoming a mercenary. The life would have suited him, he thought, had he not had children he loved who needed his attention. If it were just him, alone, he could happily live on the march, drifting from place to place with his unit, collecting pay purses that he never got around to spending, most of his money going to improve his weapons, his armor, to pay for new tattoos or the occasional coupling with a camp follower, just to break up the monotony. He suspected, when wistful (which was a rare state for him), that such a life might have agreed with him, right down to his bones. No fixed home, following orders, slaying enemies, then carrying on to the next job. There was simplicity in it. Honor. Elegance.
So he’d thought, before they’d spent the better part of a day, a night, and a morning trying to locate some sign, some trail, that could take them to the hidden redoubt where the Devils of the Weald made their beds. Before they’d seen the camp, folded into a deep recess in the hills, with rocky outcroppings and stone bluffs hemming it in on three sides like a fortress. Before they’d waited and waited for hours for a report from Galen and Croften regarding possible approaches. Before they’d arrived at their deadly plan and closed their cordon on their unsuspecting prey. Before they’d used fire and smoke to sow discord and killed, injured, or captured a few dozen in the subsequent chaos.
