by D. A. Adams
“She was taken from the rear on the final watch, poor thing. There’s a little blood on the ground but no signs of a struggle.”
“It’s not orcs,” Leinjar said. “They would’ve attacked the whole camp.”
“No one saw anything?” Roskin asked, scanning the trees for a clue.
“Nothing,” one of the elves said. “It’s like the night swallowed her.”
“It had to be a panther or some other big cat,” Leinjar said. “Bears are too big and lumbering.”
“The elves want to find her, but I say we should keep moving,” Molgheon said.
“We need to bury her properly,” the other elf snapped.
“Even as slaves, we managed to show respect to those who died,” the first one added. “There have to be remains on that hill, and we must follow our traditions.”
“Molgheon, they’re right,” Roskin said. Even though these were Koorleine elves, he felt the elfish bond with them and understood their need.
“I’ll wait here for two hours,” she said. “Then, I’m off. I won’t stick around here for someone else to get killed.”
They agreed to that arrangement and called to the main group for volunteers to help search the area. Within a couple of minutes, two hundred elves were plodding through the woods searching for remains. Half went up the hill, and half went down, and they stayed within an arm’s reach so no one would get lost. They moved steadily and managed to cover over a mile in both directions, but as the two hour mark neared, nothing had been found save a few more drops of blood. Finally, they gave up and returned to the trail, where Molgheon and the others were waiting.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Leinjar said. “It must be a big cat, nearly as big as a sand lion, because there’s nothing left.”
“We need to get moving,” Molgheon said. “Let’s put some distance between us and whatever it is.”
“You’re right,” one of the elves from before said. “We’ll have to bury her possessions in place of her body, but we can do that in the forest among our kin.”
As the elf finished speaking, Molgheon motioned for everyone to start walking. She resumed the lead and, despite the terrible footing, quickened the pace from the day before. Everyone else felt the same anxiousness and was eager to match her speed, so they walked all morning, most of them on empty stomachs, and didn’t stop for lunch until a couple of hours after noon.
Throughout the day, Roskin sensed something following them, and he searched the dark fear for a vision of what it might be. However, he couldn’t get an image, only the sensation, and was frustrated by his lack of control over the intuition. Kwarck had told him that if he concentrated on it enough, he could learn to be in charge of it, but the more he tried to focus, the foggier the images became. First, there was the mistaken vision of Red in trouble, and now, he couldn’t picture what was obviously stalking them. Either Kwarck was wrong or he wasn’t yet mature enough for it, but either way, he was irritated by the failures.
After lunch, they resumed the rugged pace, and the closer they got to the mountains, the more difficult the trail became. Still, Molgheon drove forward with little regard for how often someone stumbled on the broken terrain or slipped on the loose gravel. She was obviously shaken by what had happened to the elf, and knowing that Molgheon was even slightly afraid made Roskin uneasy. To make matters worse, as twilight approached, she didn’t stop at a suitable place for camp, instead choosing to get just a little more distance between them and the predator.
When they finally did stop, darkness and the strange silence had already consumed the foothills, so they gathered wood close to the trail and lit their fires hastily. As supper cooked, Molgheon moved through the camp and organized that night’s watch. Instead of one person every ten yards, they would have two so that no one would have to face the dark alone, and she was convinced that with so many people awake no cat or bear, regardless of size, would dare approach. Roskin wanted to tell her that he didn’t think it was either of those creatures, but since he couldn’t get an image of it, he kept his thoughts to himself.
After eating a meager supper, he slept for a few hours and then woke for his watch. He was joined by an elf who didn’t speak the common language, so they sat in silence as the full moon crawled across the sky. While nothing happened during his shift, the fear stayed with him, and even as he laid back down for sleep, he was certain that they would be attacked again. Still, he was exhausted from the months of bondage, the forced marches, and the terrible nightmares of his home, and despite the dark fear, he was asleep in moments.
A couple of hours later, he was awakened by a great commotion and clamored to his feet and grabbed his sword. Not bothering to strap it on, he raced towards the upheaval, which again was at the rear of the camp. There on the ground, one elf lay dead, his neck broken, and dozens of others were organizing to chase the predator up the hill where someone had seen it flee with the body of the second sentry. In the middle of this throng, Molgheon was shouting for them to hold their ground and not enter the dark woods.
“Don’t be fools,” she yelled.
“Catch this beast,” an elf responded. Her statement was echoed by dozens of terrified and enraged elves.
“You can’t catch it in the dark.”
“Avenge these deaths,” a different elf called. Again, dozens affirmed the statement.
“We’re on its terrain at its hunting time. What chance do you stand?”
“We are many...”
“Molgheon’s right,” Roskin interrupted. “If you chase this thing in the dark, more will die tonight. Hold your ground.”
“The dwarves are right,” another elf said. “We have to keep our wits.”
Slowly, the crowd settled down and listened to Molgheon as she repeated the need to stay together near their campfires. Whatever had attacked them was cunning, possibly even sentient, for it had on each night waited until the last watch and had attacked them at their weakest point. More importantly, it had done so without being noticed until after the fact. If they went after it at night, there was no telling how many might fall. What they needed to do, Molgheon explained, was to set a trap for it.
Roskin agreed with her. This predator was smarter than any wild animal he had ever encountered, and unless they remained calm and used their heads, the creature would continue to outwit them. When she finished soothing the elves, he added that they needed to get organized and rest throughout that day, for the coming night would be long and arduous as they waited for the next attack. They would remain at this location until the beast was caught, which might take a few days, and the more organized and comfortable they were, the easier the task would be. Once the elves were occupied with breakfast, he and Molgheon returned to the front where Leinjar and the other dwarves waited restlessly.
“Tonight,” Molgheon said. “Two of you should go to the back and two should stay up here. You see better at night than any of us and have a better chance of spotting this thing.”
“Me and the tall one will stay up here,” Leinjar said.
“Fine by me, but you’d better rest up,” Molgheon returned. “We need fresh meat, so I’m going hunting down the hill. I’ll take a few elves with me for protection. Don’t go into the woods alone for any reason. None of you.”
“Understood,” Roskin said, sure that the comment was meant mostly for him.
“Sharpen your weapons,” she added. “Tonight, you may need a good edge.”
With that, she grabbed her bow and arrows and left them. Roskin watched her move among the elves, picking a handful to protect her in the woods. Seeing her this scared wasn’t very reassuring, and for the first time since they had left the Marshwoggs, he wished that Crushaw was with them.
***
For the third night in a row, as nighttime came upon the foothills, the sounds of the living forest gave way to an unnatural silence. Roskin had eaten and rested well all day, and now, with the threat once again near them, he was prepared for batt
le. Even though he and Leinjar were on the opposite side of where the attacks had come, he had made up his mind that once the beast was spotted, he would chase it for as long as needed. His friends had risked everything to free him, and now, whatever stalked them had put Molgheon in immediate danger and would threaten the others whenever they came across these mountains. It was his turn to protect them, so his sword was strapped to his waist, and the throwing axes were on his back, all three sharpened to deadly edges. Other than the weapons, he carried no tools or supplies and wore only one layer of clothes and the new boots, which would make him light and fast and allow him to run all night.
As their campfire burned down to embers, he and Leinjar sat silently and scanned the forest towards the rear. Twice Roskin thought he saw leaves rustle, but both times, nothing emerged from the woods. Then, an image came to him, a vision of a beast he had never before seen, and it was heading for Leinjar and him, not the other end. Roskin motioned to Leinjar and then stood slowly, drawing the throwing axes as he did. Without questioning, Leinjar got to his feet and readied his pike.
Stealthily, a figure emerged from the forest and moved towards them. Its head was like a dog’s, but it crept on all fours with the grace of a mountain lion. Its fur was black and shiny, and as it moved, its massive paws padded on the ground with almost no noise. Its shoulders and haunches rippled with thick muscles, and for a moment, both Roskin and Leinjar froze.
Then, the beast seemed to sense that they could see it, for it stopped and sniffed the air. It rose on its back legs, standing over seven feet tall, and while it did have a head and paws similar to a dog’s, its torso and legs looked more human when it stood. It sniffed the air again and moved another step forward. As it did, Roskin flung one of the axes and struck it in the left shoulder. As the blade pierced flesh and lodged in bone, the creature staggered backwards, howling in pain, and swiped at the axe with its right paw. The high-pitched shriek cut through the heavy silence of the camp, and within seconds, the elves and other dwarves were moving towards it.
Unable to dislodge the axe, the beast turned and lurched back into the forest, still on two legs. Without thinking, Roskin rushed into the woods and chased after it. Even wounded, the figure moved swiftly, climbing the hill in long strides, and Roskin had to run hard just to maintain the pace. Behind them, he could hear Leinjar trying to keep up and even further back the elves rushing, but as he and the beast raced over the crest of the hill, the sounds began to fade.
“Roskin, come back!” Leinjar yelled, some fifty yards behind. “Roskin!”
But the Kiredurk had set his will on catching this monster, and only death would keep him from it. Tredjards and Ghaldeons are typically not good runners, their legs being proportionally shorter than the rest of their bodies, but Kiredurks have long legs and are among the fleetest of bipeds. Roskin, whose mother was a wild Loorish elf, was especially fast, and even though the creature set an intense pace, he was able to keep up.
Deeper and deeper into the forest they ran, climbing and descending hills, crossing streams, and crashing through the underbrush that thickened as they went. Roskin’s face and arms were scratched and bleeding, but with his focus seared on the chase, he barely noticed. Patches of moonlight shone through the trees, occasionally illuminating the beast, which was beginning to labor with the wounded shoulder. Roskin sensed that it was tiring and was glad, for he was soaked with sweat, and his legs burned.
Even as they fatigued, they kept running, the beast from fear and Roskin from the need to protect his friends. As they climbed a steep slope, the creature suddenly darted into a cave, a place it must’ve known well and believed safe refuge from the half-dwarf, but Roskin barely broke stride as he followed it inside. The narrow passage descended sharply for several yards and then opened into a large room with a soft, muddy floor. The air was damp and stale, and all around them rats scurried to hide from the sudden intruders. Finally, the beast stopped near the far wall and turned to face its foe.
For a moment, they made eye contact, and Roskin saw hatred in the other’s eyes. In that instant, he knew that one of them would die in this cave, and if it were him, no one would ever find his body. The eleventh heir to the Eighth Kingdom would be lost forever, and the Ninth Kingdom would begin. Strangely, this thought gave him comfort, for he was not ready to lose the throne before he had taken it. He steadied himself, wielding the other throwing axe but ready to draw his sword, and waited for the beast to make the first move.
It raised itself to full height and bared its dagger-like teeth. Then, it charged straight for Roskin, and he had to step quickly to avoid the rush. Gathering itself from the miss, the beast charged again, this time swiping at him with its good arm. Its claws barely caught his left arm and left three scratches across his bicep. Roskin backpedaled to get a little distance between them, but the creature turned and was on him before he could brace himself.
He slipped and fell on his back, his head smacking the muddy ground, and for an instant, everything went black. Instinctively, he swung the axe to guard himself, and the blade struck something solid and held fast. Then, the handle ripped from his hand. As his vision came back into focus, he saw the beast stagger backwards, the axe lodged in its left arm just above the elbow. Again, it howled in pain, and inside the cave, the noise hurt Roskin’s ears. He scrambled to his feet, drew his sword, and charged the stunned beast.
It swung at him again with its good arm, and Roskin, who had boxed for as long as he could remember, never saw the blow. The massive paw struck his cheek like a right hook, and his head snapped backwards from the impact. Again, he fell to the soggy ground, this time on his right side. He rolled with the impact and clamored to his feet, slipping in the mud.
The beast was on him in an instant, tackling him back to the ground and snapping at him with its teeth. Roskin raised his sword and blocked the bite with the length of his blade. The beast bit down on the metal and tried to rip it from the dwarf’s right hand, but Roskin held the pommel tightly and kept the beast’s teeth just out of reach of his neck and face. He was pinned to the ground by the creature’s weight and could feel its hot breath on him. With his left hand, he punched it in the ribs again and again and again, until bones snapped from the pounding. Yelping, the beast let go of the sword and rolled away from the dwarf.
As soon as he could move, Roskin got his feet and gathered himself. The creature was also to its feet, and again they made eye contact. This time Roskin saw fear in place of hate, and for an instant he considered showing mercy, but just as quickly he realized that if the tables were turned, it would not hesitate to take his life. If he let it go, in a few days it would recover enough from its wounds to resume hunting, and then Crushaw and his group would come along the old road and perhaps fall prey to it. Roskin couldn’t risk that, so he readied his sword in middle guard and waited for it to make the first move.
Both held their ground for several heartbeats, time that dragged on for longer than Roskin thought possible. His breath came in rapid gulps, and his limbs burned with fatigue. The beast’s breathing was ragged and hoarse, a feral and fierce sound that filled the cavern. Flexing his fingers, Roskin adjusted his grip and braced for the charge he knew was about to happen.
Nothing is quite so dangerous as a wounded animal. Pain and fear of death muster strength and adrenaline the healthy rarely know. Roskin had once seen a wounded bear rip through a dozen well-armed, seasoned Kiredurks as if they were frail children, so he knew that even though this animal was hurt, it was far from beaten. It charged, teeth flashing and good arm poised to strike; its speed and ferocity were more than he had ever experienced. Even prepared, he barely sidestepped and ducked the blow. Damp fur brushed him as the beast thundered by. Missing its mark, it stumbled trying to stop and then slipped in the mud. As it staggered to regain its balance, Roskin pounced and drove his blade into its back.
The animal howled again, this time a lower pitch and much more guttural, and as it slunk to its knees, Roskin wit
hdrew the sword and swung a wide horizontal slash. The blade found its mark just below the beast’s right ear and tore through flesh and bone, severing the spinal cord. The howl went silent, and the broken body collapsed in a pile. Without ceremony, Roskin dislodged his axes and wiped them clean on the creature’s fur before returning them to their loops. Then, he cleaned his sword and sheathed it. He had protected his friends from this thing, and that was enough for him. As he made his way to the cave’s entrance, rats scuttled from their hiding places to find the fresh meal that had just been left.
Chapter 10
A Surprise by a Stream
Three weeks had passed since Roskin and the others had left, and Vishghu was just beginning to regain her strength. The wounds themselves had not been so bad, but from the lack of proper treatment and the grueling travel across the Pass of Hard Hope, infection had taken hold. She had been lucky not to lose any limbs, for had another day or two passed, the infection would have become too much for even the most skilled healer. As it were, she had come through without any long-term concerns, and everyone was impressed with her resiliency.
Crushaw had stayed by her side through the worst of it, only leaving to see off Roskin and Molgheon and to walk during the day. With the care of a father, he had attended to her, fetching water and food, changing bandages, and applying ointments. Few would have believed that he had once been feared by her kind as a bloodthirsty murderer. Even Vishghu, who once hated him, now had trouble believing that he and Evil Blade were the same person.
As she recuperated, Vishghu got to know the Marshwoggs and their culture. They and ogres rarely encounter each other, for because of extremely low body fat, Marshwoggs need temperatures above freezing to survive. On the other hand, from thick layers of fat, ogres don’t often travel too far from the arctic north, so for her the experience among them was completely foreign.
Like Roskin, she was struck by the richness and variety of their economy. Every Marshwogg she met was a partial owner of the business where they worked, and from this motivation, they were the best workers she had ever seen. Ogres rarely acknowledge that another race is better than them at anything, for the elements they live in are the harshest in the world. From the ruggedness, ingenuity, and diligence it takes to survive on the ice plains, ogres have developed a sense of superiority. No other race could endure their climate, so no other race could be as strong as they are, but Vishghu had to admit that the Marshwoggs were better and more efficient in their businesses.
