by J. Thorn
They would be his prey. Those smaller packs that were too busy watching the Walking One road and waiting to ambush the greater pack would not even know that he and his kin were coming.
He sniffed at the wind, frowning at the scents that drifted to him from over the miles. Far in the north, carried by the wind, he sensed many new Walking Ones coming. How far, he could not tell, but they were coming. These were different folk, and the scent that drifted on the wind smelt wrong to him; sick, somehow.
The Brother watched the convoy leaving the ruins, one by one pushing their rusted bitter smelling nests behind them. He smelled things on those moving nests that he wanted, things his pack would relish if they could only just get to them. But the danger was too great.
He turned and headed back into the trees, slowly pacing his way down the slope and into the hidden valley among the bushes to where the pack lay. He looked down on them. The numbers were fewer by five now. First the leader and his sons, then that wretched half-grown female that none of the others liked, whose mother had died giving birth to her. And then last night, the final claw in his side, the strongest of the remaining warriors.
He had hoped that SharpToothed would join him, and recognize him as the new leader, and maybe not challenge him, but it was not meant to be.
The Brother licked his haunch where SharpToothed had managed one nasty bite before falling. It would heal in time, he thought, but right now it hurt.
At least none of the other males would try anything now. They were all too young and they had seen SharpToothed fall to him.
He sniffed and paced through the gathered wolves, and then he started out of the valley and farther into the forest. The rest of the pack rose and followed, the young ones kept between them. There was little in the forest for them to fear, except for maybe the occasional grizzly, but they were uncommon on this side of the mountains. He would not lose one of the young to an angry bear.
He decided to move swiftly along the valley, following the trail of the Walking One path, but also to keep a good distance so they would not be detected.
Maybe one will leave the path and we shall have it, he thought, and if not, then we will move on and find one of those smaller packs.
But then The Brother stopped, sniffing the air and listening. It was distant, but it was there. Movement in the forest far ahead, over the hill and deeper into the woods where the undergrowth was thickest.
Another pack was on the move and heading right in his direction.
Chapter 6
“Well?”
Shykar pulled the branch down with one hand, peering at the old highway as if he could see through the black velvet cloak of night.
“Southbound.”
“Aye. As I thought,” said Gerth. “They’re headed for an east-west crossing.”
“Eighty-one?”
“Doubtful. Most likely one-five-three. The northern clans have left signs on that path for decades. It is the path they’ve used most often. I suspect this chief will take it this time as well.”
“Do we attack tonight?” Shykar asked.
“Definitely not. I have yet to fully assess their wares. What more of the scouts?”
Shykar dropped the branch and turned back to Gerth, who was sitting on the edge of a weathered rock. Even in the blackest of night the man wore his mask.
“The numbers of the clan, the Elk, have swelled. Long Coat said they were inexperienced.”
“Long Coat lied,” said Gerth. “Gaston thought he could push us into a fight with this clan. One that would weaken or eliminate us. I have long since given up listening to the words from a serpent’s tongue.”
Shykar turned his head sideways. He kicked at a rock near his foot. “So what do we do now?”
“We get closer and see what the Elk is taking to Eliz. We decide what we want. We identify and claim our spoils. We wait for the right time.”
Shykar stood, the fire of his obscene passion reignited by Gerth’s emphasis on the last word.
“Have Irix and Jaz set up camp and secure it. You and I need to recon.”
Shykar leapt into the dark forest and moments later gave orders to the warriors with muffled barks. He pushed through the underbrush and stood before Gerth, his axe in hand. “I am ready.”
Gerth pulled at a strap on his mask, stood up, and reached for the axe on his left hip. “Follow me.”
The two warriors moved through the trees while the moonless sky held silently above. The stars glittered on the black canvas as they always had, regardless of the activity on the world beneath them. Shykar kept two paces back from Gerth. The masked leader dipped and swerved, stepping around thorny briars and rotting logs until he could smell the roasting meat from the Elk’s camp.
“I smell them,” said Shykar.
Gerth ignored his lieutenant’s whisper and kept a steady approach, maintaining a fifty-yard buffer between them and the first glimmers of light coming from the campfires. He crawled behind a massive boulder perched upon the top of a slight rise. Gerth peered out from behind it, counting three fires. He used the first two fingers on his right hand to point at his own eyes and then at the fires. Shykar understood the signal and nodded. Gerth crept to the other side of the boulder and darted across an area free of brush or trees. Shykar followed, the two moving through the silent forest like death’s shadow.
Shykar followed Gerth toward the largest of the fires, knowing the clan leader would undoubtedly be seated at it. They hid behind an ancient oak, spying on the four figures seated around the flames. Gerth quickly identified them as a family with two children, a son and a daughter. He heard Shykar sigh at the sight of the boy.
Gerth turned and whispered directly into Shykar’s ear. “Must be Jonah.”
When Gerth turned back to face the fire he saw her for the first time. The firelight lit her face from the bottom, bathing her olive skin in warm tones. She had long, black hair, pulled back, with renegade wisps caressing her high cheekbones. But it was the woman’s dark, almond-shaped eyes that captivated Gerth, pulling at him like an unseen rip-tide in an otherwise calm ocean. She smiled and the flames danced on her face. Jonah leaned over to kiss his wife on the cheek, and Gerth felt as though the campfire was burning the mask from his face.
“Now what?” Shykar asked.
Gerth spun on him, the glare in his eyes hidden by the darkness. He raised the first finger on his right hand and turned his gaze back to Sasha. When he did, he saw nothing but her back as she got up from the fire and walked deeper into the camp.
“Fuck,” said Gerth. “She will be mine.”
“When do we ambush?” Shykar asked, careful to keep the volume of his voice as low as possible.
“Tomorrow night,” Gerth said, without hesitation. “I will have her tomorrow night.”
A slight cracking sound echoed in the distance, well beyond the perimeter of the Elk’s camp and beyond where Gerth’s warriors waited. Shykar and Gerth froze and then faced each other.
“C’mon.”
Shykar followed Gerth as they rushed back across the open space and behind the boulder on top of the hill.
Another crack.
“Tis not a fawn nor forest creature,” Shykar said.
Gerth began to sweat, the chilly autumn air forcing a shiver. He looked back in Sasha’s direction and then toward the phantom sound.
“There are others,” he said.
Shykar nodded and waited for Gerth’s next move.
“We must see who it is.”
Gerth darted for a copse of trees well beyond the fires of the Elk’s camp. Shykar followed him deeper into the lonesome forest and in the direction of the noise. They came upon a struggling creek, running ankle-deep through a soft, shallow gorge no more than two feet across. Gerth felt the water chill his feet and a second later inhaled the stench of urine. He shivered and piss ran down his leg when he saw the sigil tacked to the tree above the creek. Shykar stood in the water, sensing the trepidation building within Gerth.
“Not what but who,” said Gerth. “The flag there. You know it?”
Shykar squinted and shook his head. “I do not.”
“You will. They have already soiled the water with their foul piss. There must be dozens, if not hundreds, converging here. We must hide.”
“No man will frighten—”
“Shut the fuck up, Shykar. You know not of what you speak. Your foolish bravado will result in your blood running over these rocks. We must retreat and hide. Now.”
“But why?”
“It is the Cygoa. They have come down from the north and will bring a deadly reckoning like you have never seen. Pray to whatever powers you believe in to save your rotten soul.”
Chapter 7
The trees shivered and yet the wind remained hidden in the valley. A wolf let loose a howl and followed it with a low whine. The clouds hid what little of the moon was in the sky and covered the stars like a dirty wool blanket. Even the insects, which had not yet succumbed to the changing season, burrowed deep into the earth, hiding still and silently.
A single branch snap brought Jonah upright in his bedroll. He looked at Sasha and the kids, all sound asleep in the tent. A cold sweat broke on his forehead, and he reached out to touch each of them in hopes of reassuring himself they were still safe. At least for now.
He slid out from the warmth of the blankets and reached for his axe next to the pillow. When Jonah slipped from the folds of the tent he saw two figures waiting for him. He had expected to see one of his Right Hands, and therefore was not surprised when Gunney’s beard preceded the man through the darkness and into the orange glow left by the fire’s embers. It was the presence of the other man that made Jonah stop and cock his head sideways.
“Logan?”
“Ya think an old man sleeps like an infant? Little do you know, chief. The older you get the less you sleep and the more you ache.”
Jonah ignored the sarcasm dripping from Logan’s words and looked at Gunney. “You felt it, too.”
“I did,” Gunney said. “I suspect the old man did as well.”
Logan huffed and spat but did not respond.
“What do you think it is?” Gunney asked.
“I know,” said Logan.
“I don’t know,” Jonah said, ignoring Logan. “But I felt it.”
Logan gripped his axe in both hands and Jonah spun to face the vast, empty forests surrounding the camp. The forests that felt empty, until the unseen threat had awoken him.
“Should we get the warriors?” Jonah asked.
“For what? For a twig snap or the hunch of a crooked geezer?”
Logan swallowed the insult, standing still with his arms folded across his chest. Jonah looked at Gunney and then at the tent where his family lay sleeping.
Vulnerable.
“C’mon. Let’s take a look.”
“Could be anything,” Gunney said, as if trying to talk himself out of what was about to be. “Deer. Coon.”
“It ain’t, and you both know it.”
Jonah stepped up to Logan and was knocked back by the odor. The old man reeked of piss and spoiled meat.
“Why don’t you drop the sulking child act and tell us what you know?”
“Your father never would have never let this happen to us.”
“What?” Jonah asked, his hands shaking and his eyes darting back and forth. “What are you talking about?”
In the following seconds a number of things happened simultaneously, or so it seemed to Jonah. A single scream punctured the night and a sea of war cries flooded the camp. Jonah saw Logan drop to his knees, his hands raised above his head in supplication. Gunney’s axe blade whistled through the night, swinging at a threat he could not see.
Jonah dropped to his knees and crawled to the flap of his tent where Sasha was already pulling the children to her. To his right, Jonah saw who he thought were Solomon and Declan, standing still, their axes clutched to their chests and their eyes wide and white. The shouts increased and came with a measured precision that Jonah would come to recognize as the commands of war. Tents ignited. Flames licked the low-hanging branches of the camp’s cover and set some of the trees alight. They burned like wicked skeletons, their bones cracking and hissing in pain.
Elk warriors began to appear, some half-naked and dizzy with sleep. Jonah watched as a dark figure cut down two of the Elk a mere fifty yards from where he sat in the dirt. He stood and began to run toward the center of the conflict, while Sasha’s cries echoed in his ears. Jonah felt as though he were running through water, his legs unable to propel him as fast as mind believed they could.
“Jonah!”
He turned left at the sound of his name and saw Declan approaching. The boy bled from a gash beneath his left eye.
“Ambush.”
Jonah turned away instead of chiding Declan for grabbing his attention only to speak the obvious. He saw a mass of darkness moving through the camp, a shadow of pain passing over and around the tents. Several bodies lay motionless in the dirt, and Jonah had a feeling that they all belonged to his clan. A few men shouted and two called out his name.
Declan caught up and grabbed Jonah by the arm. “They’ll kill us all.”
Jonah shrugged off the boy’s grip and spun. Gunney was coming toward him.
If they wanted to destroy us they would’ve killed me first. Cut off the head to kill the beast. This is only a message.
Gunney opened his mouth to shout at Jonah when a low, vibrating sound rumbled through the camp. Jonah had to believe a human had blown that horn but the sound felt slimy and evil in his ears. The horn reverberated through the valley and the shouting ceased. A few seconds of silence followed before the cries of the injured and dying filled the void.
More Elk warriors emerged from the chaotic darkness, some limping and others bleeding. Jonah scanned the camp, assessing the damage as best as he could in the aftermath. Gunney appeared on his right and shook the blood from his axe.
“I think I got one,” he said.
Sasha cried, and Jonah’s children hid their faces in her robes. Declan threw dirt on one of the burning tents and Jonah had not yet seen Solomon.
“How many are dead?” Jonah asked. “How many are missing?”
“A few warriors dead and a few children taken.”
Jonah turned as Solomon approached from behind, answering the questions as he walked.
“Why ambush us but then retreat? This makes no sense.”
Gunney shook his head in agreement with Jonah but could not think of a sufficient answer.
“Double up the tents, position guards at each one,” Jonah said to the Elk warriors within earshot. “We only have a few hours until dawn, and I do not want to bury any more of our people tonight.”
Jonah put his arm around Sasha, drew a deep breath and then pulled back. He nodded at the tent and then held up his axe. She gave him a weak smile and ushered the children through the fold and into their bedrolls, where they would lie awake for the rest of the night.
He shook his head and began walking toward one of the fires when an image of the old man flashed in his head.
“Logan?” he asked.
Jonah saw a lump of tattered rags face down in the dirt next to a collapsed tent. He ran over, tossed his axe to the ground, and put his hand on Logan’s back.
“Logan,” he said with a thin whisper.
The old man coughed and rolled over. “Get off of me you damn queer.”
Jonah smiled and leaned back to give the man and his stench some space.
“And wipe that fucking smile off your face. We’re all dead. All of us.”
Jonah grimaced, his face twisted and red. “Don’t you talk to—”
“I told you I knew, and you wouldn’t listen.”
Jonah felt the blood rush to his face and his fingers tingled. “Who was it, Logan? Who just attacked us?”
“An attack?” The old man laughed which triggered a we
t, broken cough from deep within his diseased lungs. “That was a mere dance, young fella.”
“Who?” Logan asked again.
“That was the Cygoa, shithead. And they just sent you a friendly greeting.”
Chapter 8
Jonah paced the ground in the clearing, unable to control his anger. Three kids had been taken during the raid and an equal number of warriors killed. He was surprised how few, considering how many Cygoa he thought he’d seen during the raid. But it had been dark. There may not have been as many as he had thought.
The elders of the clans stood nearby, watching him nervously. And this was another thing that surprised him. Just how weak and pathetic the leadership of the other clans was. Two out of the three dead warriors had been from the Reed Clan, those led by Corrun of the council, but the old man stood looking dumbfounded among his fellow council members.
Jonah turned to the sound of approaching feet in the forest, as did a number of the gathered warriors. A trio of figures burst through the foliage surrounding the outside of the clearing, and all three paused for a moment to scan the gathered crowds, spotted Jonah and jogged toward him.
“What news?” demanded Jonah.
The first of the scouts bent over, heaving, out of breath, but the second seemed to be less tired. The shorter, younger man looked to the bent over old man, who nodded.
“The trail leads a few miles into the forest and then down into a valley. We heard noises down there. It’s a camp, we think, but they were packing to move on.”
They are still here, though, Jonah thought. So damn arrogant at their own ability to scare us that they haven’t hurried away. Well, maybe they won’t expect us to do anything.
But they’re wrong.
Now is the time to be decisive, he thought. Logan already pointed out that my father wouldn’t have let this happen, but did he ever have to deal with the people of the far north during the journey to Eliz?
The old tales of the T’yun endlessly attacking and raiding Cygoa lands were often the talk at clan gatherings, but that was long before the Elk, and before the T’yun imploded on itself, breaking into the bickering, squabbling clans that mostly still existed today.
