“Aeden,” a girl’s voice shouted. He thought it sounded an awful lot like Fahtin, but he couldn’t see her.
“What’s that?” Darun said. “You want our young visitor to tell us a tale of the clans?” He turned to Aeden. “What say you, boy? Do you have a story, one of your clan myths or histories? Something we have not heard before?”
Aeden felt warmer than the fire would account for. The sour taste in his mouth made him want to slink off silently. He had to answer, though. These people were his gracious hosts, had saved his life. He owed them at least that much.
“I am not much of a storyteller,” he said.
“Oh, come now,” Darun said. “Surely you must have something we have not heard. We are all friends here. No need to be shy.”
Aeden was not shy, exactly, but neither was he prone to long speeches. Or conversations. “I…”
Fahtin moved around some of the other girls and stepped up to him. “Aeden, would it help to pretend you’re just telling the story to me? We have talked about your clan and your homeland. It will be nice to hear something of that.” She sat on a folding stool in front of him, put her elbows on her knees, and laid her chin in her palms, looking up at him expectantly.
“I…can try,” he said. He had no recourse and tried to think of something suitable. When with the clan, he had enjoyed sitting with the other trainees or with his family and listening to stories of heroes and monsters, of great battles, and of quests for magic. He had never been the one telling them, though. Which one could he tell them? A short story, certainly.
He cleared his throat and looked out at all the faces cast in the flickering firelight. They were waiting patiently, but some eagerly, it seemed. “There is a story told by my clan, one about the hero Erent Caahs—” some of the younger boys and girls oohed at that, and it made Aeden feel a little more comfortable. Everyone loved stories about Erent Caahs, arguably the greatest hero in living memory, and the most famous.
“It is a story that you may not have heard, one about him early in his career, one that may have been solely responsible for the man, the hero, that he was to become.”
Jehira, the old soothsayer, hunched in what looked to be the most comfortable chair in the camp, a place of honor. Her eyes were fixed on Aeden, her wrinkled face emotionless. A young boy of no more than ten years of age came up beside her from behind to get a better look at Aeden. He sat on the ground, and his shadowed brown eyes also locked onto Aeden’s.
Aeden wasn’t sure how to start the story. He had thought about it many times, telling it over and over to himself, but a story in your own mind was different than speaking it. He paused and looked to Fahtin. She smiled warmly at him and nodded. It was probably best just to get it over with. He began.
“Erent Caahs had always been special, from the time he was a boy. He learned the bow at an early age, hunting with his father in the Grundenwald, at the far southern edge. Even then, he had an uncanny knack for being able to hit his target no matter how it moved. No one could match him.
“As he got older, his feet itched to leave his home and explore the world. He was not sure what he would do or what he would find, but the thought of the unknown excited him. So it was that he began to roam. As he did, he passed through areas that were less civilized, more dangerous. That is when he first got a taste of real battle and what it was like to be a hero.”
Aeden cleared his throat and took a gulp of water from the cup beside him. Why did he feel so tired, and why was he sweating? He looked to Fahtin, took a breath, and continued.
“There are stories of his first heroic acts and how he came to have the habit of helping those in need. I don’t need to speak of those. But few of the stories tell of his best friend and companion in those early days, a man named Raisor Tannoch, a Croagh Aet Brech, of Clan Tannoch. From Raisor comes this tale, as told around our fires at festivals. I heard it once from Raisor himself, and so I tell it to you.
“Erent and Raisor were traveling the land, on their way from one place to another, on a quest to help others, and they passed through a village called Delver’s Crossing. As they did, they noticed the villagers wore downcast looks, as if they had been carrying a heavy weight and could stand it no more. Some were openly weeping. It tugged at Erent’s heart.
“’What tragedy has befallen you?’ he asked a middle-aged man and woman sitting on a bench in the village square, weeping.
“‘It is our daughters,’ the man said. ‘Two days past, they, along with other young women of the village, were stolen away by slavers. They killed two of our men and injured others, snatching eight of our girls to sell as slaves. They were too powerful for us to stop.’
“Rage began to build in Erent Caahs. ‘Did you gather up your men and chase after them to bring the girls back?’
“‘Alas,’ the woman said. ‘We cannot. One of those killed was the constable, and there are a mere handful of men who have weapons, let alone know how to use them. There were at least twenty of the slavers, well-armed and experienced in fighting. We have sent to Villen for help, but it is two days’ travel, and even if they send aid, it will be several days before they arrive.’
“‘Which way did these slavers go?’ Erent asked through gritted teeth.
“‘To the north,’ the woman answered, turning her red eyes in that direction. ‘They didn’t seem concerned about being followed. They took the road.’
“Erent looked to Raisor. His friend nodded. ‘We will get them back for you, if it is possible.’
“The man sitting next to the woman laughed. It was a mocking, hurtful laugh, but Erent knew it was not meant to offend. The hurt was from the inside, not meant toward him. ‘You are only two. If you follow those men, you will be killed before you get within eyeshot of the girls. We appreciate your concern, but do not throw your lives away.’
“‘We will rescue them,’ Erent said. ‘You’ll see. When your help arrives from Villen, tell that Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch have gone to retrieve the girls.’
“At this, the man’s eyes became larger and he sputtered, ‘Erent Caahs, the hunter of men? Erent Caahs, the hero?’
“‘I don’t know about this hero nonsense,’ he said, ‘but yes, I have been known to hunt men who needed hunting. I will hunt these and I will give them what it is they deserve.’
“So, Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch set off after the slavers, the fire of his anger giving strength to his legs.
“Within ten miles, Erent stopped. ‘They left the road here,’ he told his friend. ‘Maybe they cared more about being followed than the villagers believed. They seem to be careful men. We must be wary of traps and ambushes.’
“‘Aye, but they better be wary of my sword and your bow.’ Raisor slapped Erent on the shoulder. ‘We’ll find the lasses and bring them back. And we’ll give those blackguards the drubbing they deserve. You can count on it.’
“Now everyone knows about the tracking ability of Erent Caahs. It is said that he can track yesterday’s wind over stone while fighting an army. It is not too much of an exaggeration. The trail through the Greensward forest showed him that his prey were accustomed to such travel. They moved quickly and left few signs, but he picked their trail out as if it was painted on the ground.
“The end of the first day brought them to the first trap. Raisor was walking beside Erent when the hunter put the back of his hand on his friend’s chest, stopping him. ‘Stay here for a moment,’ he said, and stepped carefully and slowly ahead.
“He bent down and gently moved a fern frond to the side. ‘It’s as I thought,’ he said, stepping back to Raisor. He directed his friend to follow him as he backtracked twenty feet. Then he turned, nocking an arrow and drawing it to his cheek. He let a slow breath out and released the shaft.
“There was a snapping sound and two large tree branches, one on either side of where they had been, rushed inward and met exactly where the fern was, where Erent had shot the arrow. Anything standing near the tripwire at the fern wo
uld have been impaled by a dozen sharpened spikes, attached to the branches.
“‘Let’s move on,’ Erent Caahs said, as if out for a stroll on a sunny afternoon. His friend shook his head and laughed.
“There were other traps, all of which were detected and disarmed by Erent. Over three more days, the pair tracked the slavers through forest and on roads, and then to a vast, grassy plain. Then it was that they finally caught sight of them off in the distance.
“Their enemies rode horses toward a structure on a distant hill. Erent knew he and Raisor would not catch their prey before they reached that hill, not with the pair afoot and the slavers mounted. He wondered where they had gotten the horses. The hoof tracks had started the day before at the intersection of two roads. Someone had either brought them horses, or they had left them there earlier to await their return.
“‘Do you feel like attacking a fort?’ Erent asked Raisor.
“The Croagh laughed. ‘Aye. It’s been a while. Sounds like just the thing for an evening’s exercise.’
“Late the next day, the duo reached the hill and looked up at the structure in the fading light of dusk. Sharpened stakes twelve feet high with a serviceable gate consisting of double doors made of logs attached to each other with ropes, almost indistinguishable from the wall itself, loomed in front of them. The two heroes lay in a depression just out of eyesight of any who might be watching and waited for darkness to fall.
“Two hours after sunset, Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch moved to the wall. It was roughly made, intended to be used to delay attackers so archers along the wall could strike at them. The two chuckled softly at it.
“They easily climbed over, using the gaps in between logs to wedge their feet and hands. The two soon swung their legs through the gap between two sharpened ends and landed softly on the platform on the other side.
“It was obvious the slavers did not expect attack. The torches set on the wall did not light the area well enough to spot intruders, and only two sentries patrolled the section of the wall where Erent and Raisor had climbed. Two well-placed arrows, and the guards dropped soundlessly to the platform without time to sound an alarm.
“Erent left Raisor crouching on the platform while he scouted the camp. The Croagh was a fine warrior, but could not move as silently as his friend. It didn’t take long.
“As he made a circuit of the fort, the hero found the main building. He counted the windows and created a mental layout of the structure, where the doors and rooms were most likely situated. There were noises inside and, looking around for sentries and finding none, he moved closer to listen.
“‘That’s right, boys,’ said a deep voice, ‘take your pleasure with these seven. We’ll sell them for labor, so it won’t matter much in the price if they’re a little messy. This one, though, she needs to be kept pure. We have a buyer for one exactly like her, but only if she is untouched. We’ll get more gold from her than the others combined.’
“The hunter almost charged the building right at that moment, but was able to control his rage. He took three deep breaths and let them out, then he went to collect his friend.”
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“When he returned with Raisor, they estimated fourteen men in the main room of the building, and a few more scattered about in the other three rooms that shared the walls. Erent’s abilities let him know where people were, how many were there, and how they moved.
“On his signal, they opened the door to one of the smaller rooms and darted inside. Two men were there, one standing at a washbasin and the other lounging in a chair. The whip of two arrows zipping through the air and then a wet squish were the only sounds, followed by the thump of the standing man falling to the floor. Erent retrieved his arrows from the men’s eyes and nodded to Raisor. They went to the next door, the only room left between them and the main room with all the slavers.
“As they opened the door, Erent Caahs pushed his friend to the left, out of the way, and then spun away off to his right. Three arrows whizzed through the doorway and embedded themselves in the wall on the other side of the room, quivering. Somehow the men had known they were there.
“The hero darted through the door, dodging two more arrows as he did so, twisting his body unnaturally to allow the sharpened missiles to pass within an inch of him. He drew back the arrow he had nocked on his bow, and one of the three men dropped, arrow shaft protruding from his throat.
“Quick as thought, Erent drew, loosed, drew, and loosed again. He didn’t bother looking at the result, instead scanning the rest of the small room. The sound of the other two archers dropping to the floor told him all he needed to know.
“The portal on the other side of the chamber was open, and he could see through it that the men were ready for them, weapons drawn.
“‘Are you ready?’ he said to his friend, who had sped into the room just in time to see the archers fall.
“‘Aye,’ Raisor said. ‘Let us be about our business.’ He hefted his broadsword and shook the small buckler attached to his other arm to make sure it was tight.
“No other words were needed. The two rushed through the door to meet their enemies.
“There were three more archers among the throng, and Erent targeted them first, the last just before he released his bowstring to fire an arrow at Raisor. The arrow spun crazily and skittered across the floor, embedding itself in a table leg. His friend had already bowled into a knot of four men with swords, slashing with his broadsword and batting aside attacks with his buckler.
“Erent took two more slavers with his arrows before they surrounded him, too close for his long-range weapon. He laid about him with his bow stave, knocking aside cudgels, knives, swords, and maces. As many as there were, they could not seem to strike him. He was in one place one second and in another the next, too fast and slippery for them to touch.
“The hero dropped his bow when the crush of men was too close for him to swing it, and he drew his long knives in a fluid motion, slashing at one man’s arm and one’s neck as the blades left the sheaths.
“The abductors were no match for either of the two heroes. The pair cut through them as if harvesting wheat with a scythe. Before long, there were only four people left standing in the room: Erent, Raisor, the one who had to be the slavers’ leader, and a young woman. The man had a knife to the woman’s throat.
“‘You will let me go,’ he said, ‘or I will kill the girl.’”
“‘Go ahead,’ Erent Caahs told him. ‘I am here to kill you, not to save anyone.’
“The man’s eyes widened. It was the last thing he ever did. Erent’s long knife flew through the air and rooted its point in the man’s eye. Lifeless fingers dropped the knife, and as it fell to the ground, his body joined it. The girl had not flinched.
“‘I’ll check on the others,’ Raisor said, heading toward the other girls huddled in the corner of the room.
“Erent didn’t answer him. He was staring at the young woman standing before him. She wore simple commoner’s clothing, a blue dress with a tight-fitting bodice and sleeves of an unadorned shirt coming through it. Her long dark hair fell in ringlets to the middle of her chest, framing a heart-shaped face and dark eyes that looked straight into his own. Her chin was raised, as if in defiance, and her lips were set in a line. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“They stared at each other for a moment, an eternity and yet the blink of an eye, and then she let loose a breath and slumped as if to faint. He was there in an instant, arms around her, guiding her to sit in a nearby chair.
“‘You are safe now,’ he told her, when he could speak.
“‘I know.’
“Erent gave her water from the pitcher on the table, scanning her to see if she had been hurt. She seemed uninjured, so he left her there to help Raisor.
“The other girls had not fared so well. They had been used by the men and beaten, so they were a mass of bruises and welts. The damage to their minds was probably worse. Some did not re
spond at all to questions, while others drew in on themselves as if they would be beaten again. It was a pitiful sight.
“The two heroes gathered up the girls, took what food and supplies they might need from the slavers, and left the fortress. As they departed, Erent set fire to the entire thing. They could see the light of it for miles as they made their way to a sheltered clearing in which they could camp. There was no question of spending the night in the structure before leaving. The sooner the girls left that place, the better.
“Erent and Raisor had eaten from their own ration of foodstuffs as they pursued the slavers, supplementing it with a few wild vegetables they snatched in passing when they saw them. The girls would need something more substantial. While the Croagh watched over and soothed the seven, with the help of the eighth woman who had not been violated, Erent hunted a stag and brought back meat to cook. Some wild potatoes, onions, and a few handfuls of mushrooms completed the meal. He even found some berries for dessert. It was difficult to get some of the women to eat, but they were able to get food into all of them, though for some just a few bites.
“It took them four days to travel to where they met the men from Villen coming toward them on the main road. In that time, Erent got to know more of the girl he had saved.
“She tried to protect the other girls, to prevent the men from doing what they did, and for that, they beat her. Never on the face—they did not want to mar her beauty—but she moved like she had bruises all over her body. Erent did not ask to see them, and every time he suggested that she put on the salve he had created from herbs they foraged, she declared the others needed it more.
Wanderer's Song (Song of Prophecy Series Book 1) Page 10
