A guttural snarling came from directly behind him, and a scrabbling noise. As Raven scrambled to his feet, hands grabbed him from behind, sought his throat.
The taan’s hands were powerful, his fingers strong. Seeing the purple and yellow stars that meant death burst in his eyes, Raven used what the Trevenici call the gods’ own fear to find strength. Grabbing hold of his assailant’s hands, he bent forward and flipped the creature over his head.
The move broke the taan’s hold on him. Now the taan was the one lying on the ground, blinking up at the stars.
Gasping for breath, Raven fumbled for his sword. The taan regained his feet with speed and alacrity and Raven got his first good glimpse of the thing that had attacked him. The face was the face of a beast with a snout for a nose and rows of sharp teeth and the gleam of intelligence in its baleful eyes.
Raven drew his sword, fell back on the defensive, for he was still trying to catch his breath. A quick and agonized glance around him showed him the Trevenici were surrounded by hundreds of the taan. He could not look longer, for he dared not take his eyes off his attacker. The taan held his sword, but did not immediately attack. Instead, the creature pointed at Raven and, shouted something in his uncouth language.
Raven heard feet crashing through the grass behind him. He halfturned, ready to face this new enemy when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, his opponent hurl something at him. A net made of thick, heavy rope dropped over Raven’s head and body, knocked the sword from his grasp. He fought to free himself, but the taan pulled the net tight around him, so tight that he could no longer move his arms. Raven continued to struggle ineffectually until the taan pulled his feet out from under him.
Taking hold of the end of the net, the taan dragged Raven through the grass like a cow going to slaughter.
Raven fought to free himself, but his struggles availed him nothing, except to annoy his captor. The taan halted, kicked Raven in the head.
The blow stunned Raven. The last thing he felt, before he lost consciousness, was the ground moving beneath him.
Raven drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of pain and a heavy weight around his neck. Bright orange light from a raging fire hurt his eyes, voices that sounded excited made no sense. Every time he woke, he tried to seize hold of consciousness and hang on to it, but the pain was too great. He let slip his grasp and sank beneath the darkness.
Consciousness came with daylight and with it the hazy memory of what had befallen him. He remained lying still with his eyes closed for long moments, taking stock of his situation. First, his health. His head hurt, but he was not sick to his stomach, nor, when he opened his eyes a tiny bit, was his sight blurry. The kick had done little permanent damage, seemingly. His body was a mass of bruises and welts, his skin rubbed raw or missing altogether in places, a result of being dragged brutally over the ground. Even the smallest movement caused him to wince in pain.
The heavy weight turned out to be an iron collar locked around his neck. Opening his eyes another slit, he saw an iron chain running from the collar to a stake driven into the ground. He reached out his hand, grunting at the pain caused by the movement, and grasped hold of the chain, gave it a yank. The chain was secure, thick and strong.
Raven fell back, exhausted, eyes closed. Despair overwhelmed him. He was a prisoner. The events of the previous night were a blur, but the one thing he remembered clearly was the sound of the death cries of his people. Why, why, why had he not died with them? To be taken prisoner was the worst disgrace that could befall a Trevenici. To their minds, a prisoner of war was one who had not fought well enough or courageously enough. Raven would be shamed, his family dishonored. Added to that, he had failed in his duty to the tribe. Failure might have been forgiven him in death, but he still lived. There was no excuse.
He could only hope that someone of the party had survived to carry the word to the Trevenici people that they were in danger. If any had survived, he hoped they had not seen him being hauled off like a deer carcass. Let them report his death. Better his tribe think him dead than a prisoner.
As for death, he trusted it would come to him soon. He had no care for his life anymore. He would not kill himself. To take by one’s own hand the life the gods had given was the ultimate offense to the gods and would cause them to turn their faces from him. Raven would find solace in death, but he would die fighting and, the gods willing, he would take one or more of these creatures with him.
Raven had no thought of trying to escape. He must avenge his dishonor, though no one would ever know of it except himself and the gods. To do that, he must defeat the enemy who had bested him.
He sat up painfully and stiffly. The iron collar was heavy and chafed his skin and dug into his shoulder muscles. He grimaced at the thought of how much pain he would be in by nightfall. He would bear it, though, without a murmur. This was his punishment. He deserved no less.
Raven had been hauled back to a taan camp, where the taan were in a high state of excitement. A circle of tents formed an outside perimeter, inside which was a large open area. Another smaller circle of tents stood in the center. Fires burned and the smell of roasted meat filled the air, making Raven’s mouth water. He could not remember when he’d last had a good meal.
Most of the taan appeared to be warriors, wearing armor and carrying weapons. Inside the circle, Raven could see taan who wore no armor. These tended the cook fires and what must be children, for there were younger and shorter versions of the creatures wandering about.
Raven wasn’t the only prisoner. Other humans—both men and women—were held in a crude pen made up of spears driven into the ground in a circle. The prisoners were Dunkargans and they had been recently captured, to judge by their appearance. Horrible screams came from inside the tents of the monsters; other prisoners being tortured, most likely. Realizing what this meant, Raven shifted his gaze to the city walls that stood about a mile distant.
No sounds of battle came to him, borne across the prairie grass. The siege engines stood where they had been standing last night. Lines of soldiers could be seen marching into the city. The great iron gates stood wide open.
Dunkar had fallen.
Hearing shouts, Raven looked back. Most of the prisoners were women and girls, but there were a few men—most wearing the uniform of the Dunkargan army. One of the creatures, clad only in a loincloth, strode up to the spear-haft prison. He dragged behind him a human woman. Her face was bruised and battered, her clothing torn almost completely off. She was covered in blood and more dead than alive. Two of the taan stood guard over the prisoners. Looking at the woman, they made comments that caused her captor to grin. He shoved aside two spears and dumped the woman into the circle. Then he looked over the other terrified human women with the air of a man judging cattle.
Satisfied, he reached out his hand and seized hold of one—a girl of about sixteen. The girl cried out in terror and tried to pull away. A Dunkargan soldier caught hold of her and appeared to be pleading with the taan to let her go. The taan back-handed the soldier a brutal blow that felled him. Grabbing the struggling girl by her long black hair, the taan twisted her hair around his hand and hauled her off to his tent. Now Raven guessed who was screaming and why.
Some of the female prisoners seemed to be trying to help the injured woman, dressing her with what clothing they could spare and soothing her hurts. She was listless, seemed unaware that anything was being done to assist her. At the sight, the Dunkargan soldier snapped. Snatching a knife from his boot, he lunged through the circle of spears, intent on plunging the knife into the taan’s back.
The taan guards were not in the least disturbed by this. They even paused a moment to exchange comments again, both of them snickering. Then, in a leisurely movement, one raised his spear and hurled it at the Dunkargan. The spear caught the man between his shoulder blades. He let out a cry and pitched forward onto the ground. The taan who had been his target glanced around without much interest and continued to walk back to
his tent, which—Raven saw—stood in the inner circle.
Two of the taan who were not wearing armor hurried over to where the corpse lay. The two looked up questioningly at the guards and one of the taan motioned toward the cook fire. The two taan dragged away the corpse. Raven looked from the dead man to the meat roasting on the spit and he knew then what the creatures planned to do with the body. The smell of roasted meat that had set his mouth to watering now sent waves of nausea through him and he heaved and retched.
His retching sounds attracted attention. The taan guards glanced his direction—he was off to himself, staked out about six feet from the other prisoners. One of the guards gave a bellowing shout. A taan warrior inside the camp lifted his head, looked in Raven’s direction.
The warrior motioned with his hand and said something to two of his fellows. All three came to stand in front of Raven. The taan looked down at him with their small, glistening eyes. Raven tensed, watched them warily, wondering what they planned to do to him. The warrior began to speak and, after a moment, Raven realized that the warrior was telling the tale of Raven’s capture. The warrior told the story in words and in gestures, acting out what Raven had done, how he had flipped the taan warrior over on his back. The warrior did not appear to be embarrassed by this, but actually played up Raven’s heroics.
Of course, the strength and cunning of his enemy made the taan warrior look good when he described how he had defeated Raven. He went through the motions of tossing a net over Raven’s head. The two taan regarded their fellow with admiration, slapped him on the back and eyed Raven with undisguised envy.
Raven glared with fury at his captor, who appeared to take the glare as a tribute, for he looked inordinately pleased with himself as he walked away. Raven stared at the taan for as long as he could see him, taking care to memorize everything about him so that he could distinguish this one from all the others.
The taan warrior was about six and a half feet tall, with dark gray skin that was scarred and lumpy. At first, Raven thought the lumps were boils or welts, but, as he looked closely at the creature, Raven saw that the lumps were not natural. Some of them flashed or glittered as the sun caught them and Raven realized that the creature had shoved rocks underneath his flesh. The taan’s hair was long and lank, the color of baked mud. He wore a breastplate made of metal with a symbol on it that Raven did not recognize. The taan had three teeth missing in the front of his mouth.
Raven kept the taan in sight as the warrior returned to camp. There, the taan spoke to another, smaller creature—one of those without armor—and gestured in Raven’s direction. The smaller taan nodded quickly, cringing as if afraid a blow would follow. Snatching up a bowl, the smaller figure filled it with something from a bubbling pot and walked toward Raven.
The creature with the bowl came up to Raven and halted in front of him. He paid no attention at first. He was too busy watching his captor. But when his captor disappeared inside a tent, Raven shifted his gaze to the creature who now squatted near him, silent and patient as a dog waiting to be noticed.
Raven noted two things about this creature, noted them with shock. The first was that the creature was female. She wore only a loin cloth, her breasts were bare. The second was that although she had a nose similar to the snouts of the taan, her skin was smooth and brown. Her eyes and her mouth, her ears and the structure of her body were those of a human. Her age might have been around sixteen. She carried with her a crude bowl filled with a steaming liquid, and a bucket.
“Food?” she said to him, holding out the bowl.
He was surprised to hear her speak Elderspeak. He looked into the bowl, saw chunks of meat floating in broth. Almost gagging, he averted his head.
“Deer meat,” she said, seeming to know what he was thinking. “Slaves like you are not given strong food to eat. Slaves eat weak food. Only the warriors eat strong food. Qu-tok would have eaten you”—she spoke hurriedly, as if fearing Raven might feel offended—“for you bested him in battle. But you are too valuable. Our god, Dagnarus, would be angry.”
She set the bowl and the bucket on the ground within Raven’s reach, taking care herself not to come near him.
“Water,” she said, pointing to the bucket.
“Wait,” said Raven. His head ached, his tongue felt thick and swollen. “Don’t go.”
The bucket was made of wood. He reached stiffly for the dipper, wincing at the pain. The girl stayed to watch him. Lifting the dipper, that was a hollowed-out gourd, he sniffed at the liquid, hesitantly tasted it. The water was tepid, but he noted no strange smell or flavor, other than that of the wooden bucket. He drank thankfully, gulping down huge drafts. When his thirst was slaked, the girl nudged the bowl of broth closer to him.
“My gods will be angry if I eat human flesh,” he told her.
“I know,” the girl said, nodding and squatting back down near him. “My mother told me this about humans, that they will not eat another of their own kind, no matter how strong the food is. The taan think this a sign of weakness and scorn humans for it. But our god says that this belief of humans must be honored and so the taan do as our god says. Besides, they would not feed you strong food anyway. You are a slave.”
The broth certainly smelled like venison. Raven wasn’t all that hungry after his bout of retching, but his body needed the food and he forced himself to take a sip. His hunger returned and he ate the entire meal. Between mouthfuls, he questioned the girl.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Dur-zor,” she answered. “You?”
“Ravenstrike.”
“You are not like them.” She glanced at the Dunkargans and back at Raven.
“No. I am Trevenici,” he said. “There were more like me. More warriors. Do you know what happened to them? Are they prisoner somewhere else?”
Dur-zor considered, regarded him thoughtfully. “I am not sure, but I think that they are all dead. Qu-tok and the other warriors spoke of a good fight against worthy warriors, not whimpering dogs like these.” She cast the Dunkargans a scathing glance. “Kroq said they slew a great many. Qu-tok was lucky to take such a strong prisoner.”
Raven could not grieve for his people, who had died as warriors. He felt a brief flicker of hope that some had managed to escape, but the hope was snuffed out almost immediately, for no Trevenici would run in the face of the enemy.
“You call them taan,” he said, speaking the word tentatively. “Is that what these creatures call themselves?”
“Yes, taan,” she said.
“And you, Dur-zor?” He spoke the name haltingly. “You are not taan.”
“I am half-taan,” she returned.
“What is the other half?” he mumbled, chewing.
“Human,” she replied.
Although his eyes had told him that already, he still could not believe it. He shook his head. “Elves and humans cannot breed. Dwarves and humans cannot breed. Snakes and humans cannot breed. These creatures and humans…” He cast the taan a look of loathing. “How is it possible?”
“I do not know how it is possible,” the girl answered, shrugging. “I only know that it is so and has always been so. The taan say that long ago in their world of Iltshuzz-stan human slaves sometimes bore children that were neither taan nor human. In Iltshuzz-stan, half-taan children were slain, but here in this land our god forbids it. Such as me are valuable, he says, because we can speak the tongue of the humans and of the taan.”
“The taan cannot speak human language?” Raven asked, thinking this information might be of use to him.
“No, although some of the taan shaman can understand it and write it.” Dur-zor gestured to her face. “The mouth of the taan will not permit them to form the words of the humans and the throats of most humans cannot make the sounds of the taan. Elderspeak is the language of Dagnarus, our god, and also the language of many of the humans who fight for him. Thus there must be those of us who can carry the words of one group to the other and make ourselves unde
rstood.”
A god who spoke Elderspeak. Raven mulled this over. He had never thought much about what the gods spoke. He supposed he had always assumed that gods had no need to speak. They could hear the words of the heart, the songs of the soul. They could make known their will through the whispers of the wind and the booming of the thunder. A god who was reduced to speaking with a human voice must not be much of a god, in Raven’s opinion. He did not say such thoughts aloud, for he feared to offend this girl. He was glad to have found someone who could give him information.
“What will happen to me, Dur-zor?” he asked.
“You are to be given with the other valuable slaves to our god. In exchange for you, our god will give Qu-tok many wonderful gifts that will raise him in the eyes of the tribe. That is why you will not be killed. Not yet, anyhow.” She said the last off-handedly.
“When will this occur?” Raven demanded, fearing that it might happen at any moment, before he could have a chance to avenge himself.
“Whenever our shaman deems that we celebrate a god day. On such a day, we pay homage to our god and, if we are fortunate, he walks among us. At that time, Qu-tok will present you to our god.”
“When will this god day happen? Soon?” Raven persisted.
The girl shrugged. “Maybe soon. Maybe late. We do not know. That is up to the shaman.”
Raven breathed a bit easier. He had time, apparently. “What of the others?” He glanced toward the circle of spears and the Dunkargans imprisoned within. The ravished girl lay with her head in another woman’s lap, sobbing harshly.
“The females will be used as slaves around the camp and they will bear more half-taan, for that pleases our god. The men will be used for sport and, if they die well, the taan will honor them by eating their flesh. If they die poorly, their bodies will be fed to the dogs.”
Guardians of the Lost Page 24
