Star Axe

by Duncan McGeary

  Kenlahar held his breath. But the man stopped directly in front of his hiding place and, still whistling, bent to the ground. Then the stranger smiled. “Come on out, son.”

  Kenlahar disentangled himself from the thorny bushes without taking an eye off the man. Though the stranger had not drawn a weapon, by now Kenlahar did not trust anyone. He made ready to run. He did not believe he could overcome this opponent in any kind of fight!

  “Relax, son. I am a friend. Probably the only friend you have, right now. There is a big bounty on your head.” The man’s voice was soft, and brought back memories of the short struggle between the two talkers the night before. He stood relaxed, but Kenlahar knew that the stranger could be dangerous.

  “How do I know that?” Kenlahar asked.

  “If you could not trust me, you would be dead by now.”

  Kenlahar was forced to admit the truth of that, and he was inclined to trust the lop-sided grin that the man gave him.

  The brigand laughed. “All I ask is that you do not try and knock me over the head when I am not looking. Meanwhile—” Suddenly he was very serious. “I think we had better leave. The Queen’s soldiers are becoming much more adventurous lately.” He turned and set a brisk pace back up the hill.

  Kenlahar did not remember much of that journey. His wound soon started to bleed again, and his legs began to give out on him. Before, he had been urged on by fear or thirst. Now he just wished to rest and sleep—or die. The stranger had no sympathy. He said nothing, only whistled. But the urgency in his pace pushed Kenlahar to his limit. The last thing Kenlahar remembered was the scrawny, white-haired man putting him over his shoulders. Then he blacked out.

  When he awoke, he was comfortable for the first time since he had left Kernback. The stranger was hunched over a fire, stirring a stew that smelled good enough to persuade Kenlahar to move from under his blankets. But he was learning. This time, before he moved or made his consciousness known, he surveyed the camp.

  It was a small glen, bounded on one side by a steep embankment. It was level for just a few yards before it dropped off into the dark. The little plateau was named Misty Vales, he learned later. Through the ever-present fog, he could make out the distant lights of a small town or outpost of the kingdom below. On either side, the campfire illuminated the lower branches of tall trees, and in the middle, a few short steps away, was the campfire. Finally, he yawned loudly and grunted, “The stew smells good.”

  The outlaw did not turn around, or seem surprised. “Glad you did not try to get away. I should hate to kill you after all the trouble you have put me through.” He dished some of the stew into a large bowl and brought it over to Kenlahar.

  The well-worn blade of the man’s knife was easily accessible, he saw. But Kenlahar had no intention of attacking the brigand. For some reason, he trusted the man. He started eating, put off a little at first by its heat. But he was too hungry to care if he burned his mouth. After a couple of bowls full, he finally sighed and leaned back. Now he noticed that the man was looking at him with a grin.

  “I’m glad you can eat like that. I had thought the injury was more serious. Now, son, let me take a look at that wound. I do some of the curing up here in the hills.”

  Kenlahar remembered back to the night before and the voice saying “son” just before the fight. “Do me a favor and don’t call me “son.” I remember what you did to the last man you called that.”

  The man didn’t blink an eye, but continued to peel away the crusted bandage. “I had a feeling you were nearby. That is why I had to kill him.”

  “I was close enough to hear the blood flow! I thought you killed trespassers to the mountains.”

  “You were that near?” the brigand asked companionably. “Well, son, you keep very quiet. Not many escape my attention. But do not worry—we harm only those intruders who mean us harm.”

  “Who are you?” Kenlahar asked. “Is it true what you said about the Mountain Tribes?”

  “They call me Whistler. Your other questions will have to wait until I finish bandaging your wound. Now quiet.” The Whistler seemed to have some skill. But the potion he used burned, and Kenlahar winced from the pain. He wondered if he had once again fallen into the hands of someone who could help him. It seemed that at every stage of his journey men of goodwill, who could just as easily have been enemies, had helped him along. It was almost as if someone or something was guiding his quest for the secret of the Star Axe, and watching over him in times of danger.

  Finally, the Whistler looked up at him with a crafty speculation in his face. “You heal quickly, son.”

  “Do you know who I am?” Kenlahar asked abruptly, not wishing to reveal the miracle of the Cormat’s blood.

  “Well, son,” the Whistler said, bemused by the question. “I know the Queen’s Guard are after you, and is all I need to know. But I also think that you do not come from these lands.” The older man looked at the young man and warned, “The outlaws do not like foreigners much. But if you are an enemy of the Queen they will accept you as brethren.”

  After awhile, when the Whistler did not volunteer any more information, Kenlahar prompted, “Is it true what you said about the outlaws?”

  “Most of it I made up,” the Whistler said, and Kenlahar’s face fell. The Whistler watched the effects of those words on the young man. “There was some truth in what I said yesterday. These mountains are full of others like me, who have run from the madness of the Queen. We have even organized into the Seven Tribes of old. But that is mostly for show; we are an independent lot. Barely able to communicate with each other because someone or the other soon feels uncomfortable talking longer.”

  As the Whistler fell quiet again, Kenlahar saw to his surprise that the old man was genuinely upset set the state of affairs. “But you are the Whistler!” he said. “You are their leader, aren’t you?”

  “If you can call me that!” the Whistler said in a discouraged tone of voice. “Oh, we get together for our own defense, but it is every man for himself even then. We can’t seem to agree to stay together for any length of time—or for each other’s benefit.” Now his words took on the flavor of a fanatic and he leaned forward to look Kenlahar in the eye. “If we had someone to rally behind, we might be able to lay down our differences. We all know we should, but our pride always gets in the way.”

  Kenlahar looked away uncomfortably. Why was the Whistler telling him these things? When the Whistler once again spoke he was almost pleading.

  “We have to throw off the yoke of the Queen. All of us have suffered her lash, and most of us have been conscripted into her armies. Her armies always need men, for one dies fast under her rule.”

  Kenlahar remembered the prince’s pride and boasts of the armies of Kernback, and he contrasted Molnar’s professed love of war—whether for honor, or wealth—with what he was hearing now.

  “They fight for glory, these nobles of Kernback,” Whistler said. “They fight for honor! And at the end of the day, the lords decide who had the most wounded, and dead, and that army retires from the field of battle. And when night falls, they go to their manors, while all the land between burns—our crops, our homes. We are the men who face their cavalry charges, and the lances point for our hearts. It is no wonder that we seem cowards when we break and run. But the day will come when we shall rise. Someday soon we will destroy their manors and pull apart their walls and armor piece by piece!”

  Kenlahar was astonished by the intensity in the man’s voice. The Whistler had seemed so cynical, that he had not suspected the depths of feeling in the old man. Suddenly the Whistler got up and walked to the edge of the precipice. Kenlahar got up to stand beside him. Below he could see the flashing of torches, and soon became aware of the sound of distant horns. Looking farther down he saw a small army of blue-cloaked soldiers. They made no attempt to be quiet, but marched confident in their numbers. They did not see what Kenlahar saw.

  On either side of the column of soldiers a line of dun col
ored shapes lay concealed. Then he saw the column disintegrate into a disordered mass, and a few seconds later the shouts reached him. Kenlahar could not see the arrows flying, but he saw the soldiers dropping and firing toward the hills around them.

  Beside him, the Whistler cursed. A small remnant of the column was escaping in an orderly retreat. Kenlahar saw the figure of their commander shepherding the last remaining soldiers together. They were intent on backing out of the trap. One by one, the retreating troops were falling, but others closed ranks. Kenlahar saw now that the bandits had left the rear of the battle open. Despite his hatred for the Queen, Kenlahar felt respect for the small figure of their commander circling the troops and waving them on.

  And then he leader was down, and the others broke and ran—to be chased and killed, one by one. The Whistler let out a sigh from beside him. “That was close!”

  Kenlahar realized that the entire skirmish had taken place in just a few minutes time. The Whistler had returned to the fire and was piling green wood onto the flame. Soon the hollow was full of smoke, and Kenlahar’s eyes burned from the haze. But the smoke never seemed to reach the Whistler.

  Within a few minutes, another man entered the glen. This man was dressed in animal skins as was the old man, but these were greasy and dirty. The man was dark under his even darker filth. Every person Kenlahar had seen since leaving the House of Lahar seemed to have dark, swarthy coloring. The tall blond warriors of the House would stand out among these people. Perhaps it was best for him that he had been born dark after all, he reflected.

  The two outlaws crouched and whispered for a while, and Kenlahar saw the man squinting at him curiously. Then the man hurried from the campsite. A few minutes later, two men carried a body into the hollow and tossed a wounded soldier in front of the fire. They backed away and joined a circle of men that had appeared to surround the glen. Kenlahar ignored the intent glances in his direction and went over to crouch beside the Whistler.

  He began to ask the man a question, but the Whistler waved him silent. Kenlahar realized then that the wounded soldier was conscious.

  “Why have you entered the Mountains of Sanctuary?” the Whistler said in a surprisingly harsh, and menacing tone.

  The officer sat up and Kenlahar knew that this was the gallant leader of the escaping troops. Kenlahar recognized Sar Devern with a shock. Though the wounded man answered the Whistler’s question, he was looking at Kenlahar with steady eyes.

  “I was looking for a fugitive of the Queen’s justice.”

  | “Well, you have found one, rightly enough,” the Whistler chuckled. “You have found an army of them!”

  “There is a rich bounty on his head,” Sar Devern said.

  “You are in the Mountains of Sanctuary,” the Whistler said angrily. “We would kill any man who would take such an offer.”

  “There will be more soldiers,” Sar Devern warned. ‘ “As long as Kenlahar is free.” The crowd began muttering at that.

  “There will be other soldiers even without Kenlahar,” the Whistler answered, frowning fiercely at the whisperers.

  “No, there will not,” the officer began to say, and then coughed. A line of bloody spittle ran down his chin. “I am authorized to grant amnesty to people of the mountains.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  The soldier did not answer, but nodded toward Kenlahar. The old man grunted and looked sideways at the young man. The man with the dirty leather skins entered the circle of fire. “We should accept, Whistler.” Kenlahar heard others sound in agreement.

  “Oh, you think so, do you?” the old man said disdainfully. “Have you forgotten what they did to your wife, Ohmaar? And you,” he said turning sharply and interrogating the circle of listeners. “Have you forgotten how they have hunted us like animals?”

  A calm voice came from the anonymity of the crowd. “No, we haven’t forgotten, Whistler. And that is why we want to accept while we can.”

  “I call for a vote of the chiefs of the Seven Tribes,” Ohmaar said. Others quickly took up the call.

  “There is not need,” the Whistler said. “We shall do as you say, Ohmaar, though there is nothing to go back to. You will be back here if you live for you have known freedom too long. You were not fit for the life of a Queen’s subject or you would not be here now! I for one, will wait for the ones who come after you have left. This place will always have its outlaws. If not you, then someone else. I will not barter my life for another!” Kenlahar saw that the Whistler’s words were having some effect, but Ohmaar broke the spell. “You will not sway us from our decision, Whistler. Do you follow our wishes or not?”

  The Whistler turned to Kenlahar with a look of despair. “I am sorry, Kenlahar.”

  Then he turned and asked, “How are we to deliver him?”

  Sar Devern replied eagerly, “I will take him back.” He tried to stand but fell back with a moan.

  The Whistler smiled without much mirth, “I don’t think so.”

  “I was to return within a few hours or the deal would no longer be recognized.”

  “Where is the rendezvous for the exchange? I will go to tell them of our decision before anyone else is killed. I will tell them that you are coming with your charge as soon as you have recovered.”

  “I was to deliver him to the outpost at Sige Tomar,” the officer said through his pain. The old man nodded and walked from the clearing without looking back. Ohmaar mentioned something to a couple of the nearby men, and they came over to bind Kenlahar.

  CHAPTER XVII

  On the morning of the forest fire, three surviving Companions were found sprawled on the fields. They were dragged into the Qreq camp at the break of the smoky dawn. One by one, the prisoners were brought forward and thrust into the Warlord’s tent. They faced the Sorcerer King with their hands tied in front of them, and their heads hung in weariness, to answer to their crimes.

  Jonla stood numbly, listening to Toraq’s angry ranting, defiantly silent. Sanra, in turn, was impassive and her mask of unconcern and resignation did not break, even in the brunt of Toraq’s insults. The Warlord seemed to find no satisfaction in the provocation of these two unresponsive prisoners. They had been captive before—too long captive—and both knew enough not to answer back. They could gain nothing but their own destruction by anger. Already, they had won a great and unexpected victory over the Warlord, and they were content to die with their part played out.

  The Lashitu, however, did not understand this. The Warlord did not greet this prisoner with abuse, but with honeyed words. He responded just as Toraq hoped he would respond. Proud and unbending, the shaman accepted the hospitality without question, as his due. He did not realize the hazards of his new status. From the moment he was brought forward, the Lashitu had begun to create the means to his own—horrid—doom.

  Whatever happened to the Sorcerer King would happen to him the moment he drank the magic wine and the seasoned cakes that were brought before him. Then began an echo, though the Lashitu did not know it, of the dinner that had taken place in the fairy castle of the Warlord’s Haven.

  Whereas the other Companions had seen through the Warlord, the Lashitu foolishly believed the fair countenance and words of the Sorcerer King, and could not see the base spirit that lay seething beneath. Believing that no one so beautiful could also be evil, the shaman bowed before the Sorcerer King. Thus did the Lashitu fall under the spell of Toraq.

  “At last! One of the Companions understands that I only wish to help them,” the Warlord smiled. He was reclined on a throne cushion, across a table full of food and drink.

  “I apologize for what my friends have done,” the Lashitu said, his tongue loosened by the tainted wine. “But all they have done, they have done for the sake of the Axe-bearer.”

  “I should like to meet this Kenlahar as well,” the Warlord replied. Toraq was making little effort to show sincerity, and malice sparkled in his dark eyes. “All need not be lost to the ruin of war, Lashitu. You and I under
stand that. If I could but meet with the Axe-bearer but for a moment, I am sure that we could come to an agreement—perhaps to save the House of Lahar? Can you help me in this, good Lashitu?”

  The Lashitu could not see the evil in the Warlord’s eyes, the contempt in his words. All he could focus on was the bewitching smile, on the impossibly handsome face of the Sorcerer King. At the urging of Toraq, the Lashitu took another long draught of wine and began to relate the travels of the Companions. He told all he could remember, unaware of the danger to his friends. Toraq let him ramble on late into the night, satisfied to hear even the trivial and patient with the repetitions. He prompted the Lashitu for any information the shaman forgetfully omitted.

  Finally, the effects of the drugged wine began to wear off and take their toll. The shaman grew sleepy, and his words slurred and slow, his head dropped to his chest.

  The Warlord spoke scornfully to his unconscious guest. “You are forever mine, Lashitu. Our futures are bound together from now on. My fate is your fate, and you will know this. But you will not be able to help yourself, for when I command, you will obey!” With this he spit on the sleeping form and called for Jakkem.

  “Take him and put him on the seat of a wagon. Watch him, but do not hinder him. He is mine now, just as you are mine, Jakkem.”

  After the Lashitu had been carried roughly from the tent, the Warlord called Jakkem back to his presence. The traitor stood uncomfortably before the reclining Warlord, while he devoured what remained on the once laden table. None of the warriors of the Warlord’s army had eaten for almost two days now. Toraq was aware of his new servant’s hunger, and relished the torture.

  For a few seconds, the thought of killing the Warlord and redeeming himself passed through Jakkem’s mind, but then Toraq looked up at him with an amused smile, as if he understood the man standing in front of him. The traitor froze, and the Warlord let him think for a while that he had undone himself.