Finally, the Warlord said, “I want you to lead the attack on the House of Lahar. I want it destroyed, once and for all, Jakkem. My spies tell me that the navy is still at anchor. You should be able to catch up with my ships before they leave Cralock Bere if you hurry.”
Jakkem hurried from the tent, and boldly commanded one of the few surviving horses to be brought to him. By the time the Warlord found out, Jakkem reasoned, he would be far away. Besides, the Warlord would probably approve. Jakkem did not like the expanse of the Rolling Hills, the scorched blackened earth of the fire, the exposed desert of the Desolation. He wanted to move through it as quickly as possible. He preferred to have something close in around him at all times. Some kind of wall—of stone, of wood, it did not matter, as long as it protected him. That is why he had been a Quarrier, why he liked the Warrior’s ships so much.
Things were not working out the way he had planned. The Warlord was not invincible; the Warlord made mistakes. He had seen this with his own eyes. He doubted he would survive the long journey to the Sea of Dead anyway. Jakkem was feeling the cold for the first time in his life. The once protective layers of fat had slowly shrunk from him. He felt no satisfaction in his new slimness. He was aware that his, at that moment, worthless life, depended on the-final destruction of the House of Lahar. The Warlord had made that clear. Toraq obviously thought that too much had gone amiss, and that most of the annoyances seemed to be emanating from the small island on the River Danjar.
The burning of the forest continued, until both sides of the river had been destroyed altogether. But only the three, already captive, Companions had emerged from the inferno. Not one of the Little People had chosen to escape the deadly fire, and the heat had been so intense that all signs of their bodies had burned. Frustrated in not seeing the victims of his revenge, the Warlord had some of his men sift through the ashes for some evidence that the genocide had worked. Nothing could be found.
The Warlord finally commanded his army to march onward to the north. Soon his frustration was transformed into a livid anger, as the slow progress of the Qreq army became more and more trying. The Qreq grew nervous as his anger grew; making more mistakes that delayed the column. They began muttering among themselves at Toraq’s display of human weakness. Perhaps their master did not know all! Perhaps he could be defeated! The forest phantoms—and they must be spirits for none had emerged from the hellish fire—had destroyed a large measure of their comrades in the massive war horde.
But Toraq was not concerned with this loss. He had anticipated and had prepared for much worse. Nor did he care particularly what the thoughts or feelings of his Qreq were. Discipline had been bred into his minions—they may question him, though even this was unheard of until now, but they would never disobey him. The armies of Kernback would not be able to withstand the numbers of even those Qreq remaining. But Toraq was impatient with the ponderous advance of his horde.
There was nothing unusual about the Rolling Hills, nothing unusual about the brown grass, the sweep of the hills. Yet the limitless expanse of never changing terrain, gave an effect more alien than anything the Companions had yet seen. It took an instinctive grasp of where the knolls met, to find a suitably level path. None of the Qreq seemed able to avoid dead ends.
Jonla and Sanra watched the Warlord’s growing anger from their place at the back of one of the creaking wagons. At first they had been tied painfully at the wrists, and were pulled by the cart. The old, almost fondly remembered cage, had been shattered in the attack within the forest, left behind in the holocaust. But after many miles, neither Sanra or Jonla could stay on their feet. It became impossible for their muscles to continue to adjust to the jerky motion of their machine. They were half-dragged, their wrists bleeding from the cruel pressure.
Finally, the Lashitu, who had at last woken groggily from the seat of the same wagon, objected to this treatment of his Companions. With ironic grace, Toraq acceded to the demand, if only to keep his new servant happy. The two prisoners were thrown brutally on top of the jagged cargo in the back of the groaning wagon.
By now, Jonla and Sanra had endured more than they would once have thought possible for any human to endure. Yet, they lived still, perhaps only because the Warlord still wished them alive. Sanra had forgotten what Kenlahar even looked like. Jonla was her world now—both a protector and someone to protect.
In their dazed condition they did not question the Lashitu’s treatment. It was inconceivable to them that the shaman could turn traitor as well. Now their feet as well as their wrists were tied in the constricting bonds of sharp ropes. They hovered in the delirious region between sleep and painful awareness.
Another of the massive wagons suddenly collapsed near the Sorcerer King. The Qreq, aware of his observation of his impatience, scurried to replace the giant wheel. As the rest of the army began to slowly bypass the crippled wagon, Toraq angrily strode down upon the obstruction, as if by his anger he could make it fly into smoke. He ordered it pushed, or pulled, or lifted—whatever it required to remove the obstacle immediately from the path. The wagon was turned over with a crash, and it rolled down a gully, slowly and ponderously at first, and then with increasing momentum. Some of the Qreq warriors looked at the crushed provisions that lay strewn over the hillside hungrily, but none of them dared to pick up any of the food while the Warlord still watched.
By the next morning the horde had fully invaded the rolling grasslands and hills that marked the southern borders of the kingdom of Kernback. Yet, they sighted few people, and none of the few inhabitants they did find, were men of fighting age. Confused by this mysterious absence, the Warlord sent out advance parties to slay all those who might report the presence of the Qreq army. The patrols had an easy job—the land was emptied of life, fallow of cultivation. They encountered only a few lonely, decrepit shepherdesses. One of the hapless residents was brought before the Warlord.
The elderly, frightened captive howled out her belief that all the ancient legends and prophecies were coming true. Toraq saw that the old women had been so frightened-that she had gone out of her mind. Still, he was able to glean some truth from her ravings. All of his opponents were now clustered before the gates of Kernback engaged in civil war, he discovered. He would crush all his foes in one battle, he thought with satisfaction. His victory was assured. Until he arrived, let them murder each other!
Then, once again calamity struck the Qreq. The strong, sure flow of Shallowspill, which the massive horde had so far followed and survived on, suddenly ceased. There turned out to be little other water to be found. As they came across small springs in the grassland, fighting broke out among the Qreq who would gather around those few wells—each one with enough water for only a few men—and that they would forego all intentions of marching on Kernback for a sip of water. Only by moving onward, striking for the very source of Shallowspill, could the Warlord save most of his army. Even then it would be a race before they all succumbed to thirst.
Toraq ordered all the wells poisoned but one. The remaining spring he surrounded with his strongest and most loyal followers, with the duty to bring him a steady flow of water. It was the most severe test of loyalty he could have given his warriors, but he had wrought well. Even when the Warlord stooped to drink his fill from the last well, the Qreq did not object. “To Kernback!” he cried. Since the moment they had been conceived every Qreq warrior had heard this war cry. “Behind its walls you will find the water you need!” This added motivation sent the Qreq onward at a desperate pace. Even the Qreq were quick to realize that their only hope of surviving was in reaching the city. The Sorcerer King would show no mercy, they knew. “To Kernback!” became a forlorn rallying cry for the dying Qreq.
One by one, the weaker ones began to fall as they marched, and the Warlord watched his once magnificent army whittled by the harsh and glaring sun. It was infuriating to be beaten by a mistake, by an action not even meant for him. Impossible to foresee! Without fighting one real battle, the Warlor
d had lost almost half his warriors.
The trail was specked with bodies, which seemed to feed all the scavengers of all the far-flung lands. Yet the Qreq horde was still the largest of armies ever assembled under any banner. In his fury, Toraq ceased sending out scouts, ceased watching his rear. He no longer cared if he was sighted. All he wanted was to engage with the people who had so disrupted his carefully wrought plans. He would overwhelm them with the desperate thirst of his numberless Qreq creations!
He pushed his men to a faster, harder pace—before all of his imposing army dropped dead from thirst. He sent out the giant Qreq of his personal guard with whips and staves to drive them onward.
For the first time, Jonla and Sanra were glad they were prisoners, for they did not have to march like their captors. But they received no water. Then, they saw a strange thing. A frightened messenger rode up to the Warlord’s column and jumped from his horse. Though the Companions could not hear what news the man bore—they saw the look of fear that passed momentarily over the angelic face of the Sorcerer King.
Now the Qreq were beginning to look behind them in dread, and by listening to their fearful murmurs, the prisoners were able to lean’, the cause of their dismay. Something—no one could say what or who—had overwhelmed the Qreq Company guarding the Warlord’s private spring of water. The only supply of water in all the grasslands was poisoned! It seemed the Qreq had enemies in back of them 3.s well as in front, enemies who had slaughtered Toraq’s strongest and most trusted men!
The two prisoners exchanged glances and began to whisper hopefully again. The Lashitu overheard and shushed them from his perch on the wagon. “The Warlord seeks peace!” he angrily lectured them. “Such incidents can only annoy Toraq.”
The two bound captives looked at each other in dismay. The shaman had gone mad at last. They said no more that could be overheard, as the Qreq horde continued on to Kernback—now spurred by the Warlord’s own thirst as well.
CHAPTER XVIII
Kenlahar woke with blurry - sight and couldn’t remember at first where he was. Then the realization of his danger shot through his body and he woke completely. He was set against the embankment of Misty Vales, his hands and feet tied securely. As his head cleared, he found that some kind of celebration was going on in the glen. For the first time he saw the women of the mountains, dancing with the men. One of the men came over and tilted his head back roughly, pouring a vile tasting fluid down his throat. Kenlahar gagged on the strong wine, with a violence that made the man laugh. The man walked away, and Kenlahar noticed for the first time that Sar Devern was still beside him.
Sar Devern was wrapped in a blanket, shivering feverishly though it was a warm night. It did not look to Kenlahar as if the soldier would live through the night. The Mountain People had done little for him, perhaps all they could do, but it would not be enough. He spoke the officer’s name once, then again, but the man would or could not answer. If he only had his potion of Cormat’s blood and some herbs! Kenlahar thought. Some medicinal herbs would undoubtedly be growing in these parts. Kenlahar made up his mind to try to help the injured man.
“Ohmaar!” he shouted, though the man was nowhere in sight. Someone else came over and demanded what he wanted. “I think I can help this man. I’ve had some training.”
“Why should you?” the man asked suspiciously.
“It is what I have pledged my life to,” Kenlahar said simply. “Do you not want him to survive? Do you want to take me in yourself?” Just then Sar Devern groaned, and the man crouched over him, to stare at him dispassionately.
He apparently saw the Kenlahar could do no harm, for he muttered his approval. He shouted out to one of the men to find Ohmaar, and bent to untie Kenlahar. Several other men came to stand over him, watching him with speculation. Kenlahar knew that it would be impossible to escape, but he had not been intending to try. He asked for a few things, in increasing importance, until he asked for a knife.
There was some argument and discussion among the men about this request, but he was finally given it. As Kenlahar hoped, his request for the jug of Cormat’s blood, which he saw tossed aside, only a few feet away, was not even questioned. The men had left his feet tied, so he hobbled over to the injured man, and collapsed beside him. He drew himself into a position where he could move freely.
“Roll him over,” Kenlahar ordered. Just then, Ohmaar entered the clearing.
“What are you doing!” he demanded. The man who had given Kenlahar the knife hastily tried to explain, but Kenlahar interrupted.
“I am going to heal this man. I need the knife to remove the splinters from the shaft of the arrow. And I need to clean his infection.”
Ohmaar looked at him, considering this. Again Sar Devern cried out in pain, though he had not been touched. As with the other man, this seemed to decide Ohmaar. He gruffly gave his assent, though he cuffed the other man for not consulting him before giving Kenlahar a knife.
The soldier’s wound was minor, once the bleeding was stopped and the infection cut away. Kenlahar poured a little of his precious Cormat into the wound to stop further infection and speed the healing; by the time he had finished, some of the color had returned to Sar Devern’s face and he was breathing evenly, without the unconscious moans he had been uttering before. Kenlahar could see that Ohmaar was impressed by the rapid recovery of the officer. He had pretended not to watch, crouching by the fire some distance away, but he kept glancing sideways into the corner where Kenlahar worked.
Finally, the man came over and extended a bloody hand, grunting, “Can you heal this?” Kenlahar gingerly peeled back the filthy bandage. Two of the fingers would always be useless, he saw, and Ohmaar was in danger of losing them all to infection. The hand had a serrated cut across four knuckles.
Kenlahar was reluctant to use any of the remaining Cormat on a man who was willing to sell his soul, for a life under the Queen. Still, he produced the flask and poured another precious capful into the wound, and bound it up in a clean bandage. “The pain is gone!” Ohmaar exclaimed in astonishment. Then a greedy look crossed his face and he extended his hand. “Give me the potion!” he demanded. “You will not need it any longer.”
Kenlahar stuffed the flask under his shirt. Angrily, Ohmaar struck him across the face with the good hand. Only a commotion further down the trail saved Kenlahar from a further beating. With a final menacing glance, Ohmaar turned on his heel and vanished from the glade. A few minutes later, the keening of women drifting up the ledge warned Kenlahar of a tragedy. A dozen men entered the clearing, carrying a body.
Kenlahar knew who it was before he saw him. He forced his hobbled legs under him and staggered to the body. He grabbed the flask and bent over the form of the Whistler. He lay with a long arrow piercing his chest—dead. Kenlahar forced himself to think clearly, and touched the body. Angrily, one of the men of the mountains began to push him away. “Wait!” Ohmaar’s deep voice commanded. “Let him be.”
The body of the Whistler was still warm. He had been dead for only a few minutes! Kenlahar shook the flask, trying to measure its contents, and really trying to gauge its power. Could he restore life to a dead man? The potion had done miraculous things in his hands. And it was doubtful he would ever have a chance to use what was left of the Cormat.
He poured half of what was left onto the wound—and most of the rest he poured down the lifeless throat. At the last moment, by instinct, he reserved a few drops and tilted the flask back to catch the dregs in his own mouth. As before, the potion seemed to explode in his head, and he was suddenly certain of how to proceed.
Not really aware of what his hands were doing, he clasped the dead man’s head between both hands and began to will the life back into the mountain leader. It seemed to him that he could see inside the soul of the Whistler, but nowhere was there any spark of life. He was witnessing the disintegration of the body. Soon there would be nothing to revive.
He drew back in frustration, and explored his own mind for
a clue to the life he found there. He felt, or saw, the fragile spark they called life deep within himself, and called forth much of it—sending it spinning down into the dead body. Life and death fought for what seemed an eternity. Then death seemed to win, and darkness fell on him.
When he awoke it was morning. For a minute he kept his eyes dosed and savored the sounds of birds and of a fire crackling. Life seemed sweet that morning, no matter what happened next. Then he remembered the night before and sat up.
The ledge was full of busy, happy people. An old lady tending the fire saw him and fell to her knees. The others quickly followed her example. Kenlahar was astounded, and Ohmaar’s voice barely pierced his surprise. “May I approach, Kenlahar?”
Dumbly, Kenlahar nodded. Ohmaar approached with a deference Kenlahar would never have thought f possible, and thought embarrassing at this moment. A few feet from him, Ohmaar fell to one knee and bent his head. “Forgive me, Kenlahar. I did not know who you were!” The man produced the Star Axe from behind his back and laid it at Kenlahar’s feet. “I thought to save you with more of the potion,” he explained. “I searched your pack and found this instead.”
“You know of Alcress?” Kenlahar asked, still surprised by the reverence with which the man had handled the talisman.
“It has been the hope of my people, of all the people of the kingdoms, that you would come,” the man said. “The Whistler knows the ancient tongues, and translated your name to us. Why did you not reveal yourself to us before, Son of Lahar?”
“Whistler!” Kenlahar reacted at the name.
“Yes—he is well, and has even begun to walk. He is now calling the Seven Tribes together.”
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