by Kris Kramer
~~~~~
The var did not take kindly to Folik. Gruesome was not surprised. The shaman led them at a fast pace through the forest, first north, then slightly west. The Honorless did not linger at Willowbrook, as if they wished to put distance between themselves and the village. The warrior wondered what they had seen. Tarac rode behind Pjodarr. He had apparently never ridden anything before, not even a horse. His dead man was far behind them. The necromancer seemed more nervous without his "guardian", but swore that Folik would catch up to them eventually when asked.
What bond did the boy share with the corpse?
Pjodarr stopped them just after midday. He studied the ground carefully before remounting his var.
"We are getting closer. And the wind comes from the north. That's good."
"Can they smell us?"
"Not us, Tarac. The var. And var would mean a dwarf patrol to them." He grinned back at the necromancer. "The one thing we don't want is a pack of hungry havtrols on edge. Stealth is going to be our key." He urged the var on.
The hours passed quickly. Gruesome's stomach tightened as he knew they drew ever nearer to battle. His arms longed to swing his hammer and axe again, to feel the crush of his foe's bones beneath their weight. But he knew this would be no simple fight. Eight or nine of the beasts. It would be a struggle. But he had honor and friends at his side. He looked back at Tarac. And whatever he was.
The shaman halted them again as the sky above turned orange with the waning sun. The var were restless. "We'll lose the light soon; I'd rather not go rushing right into them." He scratched his mount behind one big ear. "What's got you so, boy?"
Gruesome took a deep drag of the wind. The smells of winter entered his senses. Dried leaves, the crispness of snow-filled air, and something else...
"Blood."
Pjodarr's masked face spun around. "You smell it?"
"Faint, but it is there. Must be fresh."
"Then they are close indeed." The old man dismounted and began helping his master down. "We will leave the var here for now."
Tarac fumbled his way off the smaller var. "We will attack them now? Can't we wait for Folik? We'll need his sword!"
"We're not going to just walk up and challenge them, boy! I will go and get a look at them. We don't know if they've found someone or killed another of their own. But you all must stay here. I can't have the rest of you trampling about like a herd of bison!"
The boy nodded. He was afraid. Gruesome doubted the young necromancer had the strength to survive the Honorless; but they needed to fight them now, before they moved on. Pjodarr wasted no time and left while Gruesome tended to the var. Tarac paced back and forth while the havtrol removed the kits from the raucous animals. He was not gentle with them like the shaman and they nipped and growled at him. When he was done, he faced the necromancer.
"If your pet is not back before Pjodarr, we will not wait for it. Every moment we let them live is a blight on my oath to Jaga."
Tarac said nothing.
They waited in silence. The night grew dark. Gruesome knew the shaman was clever and did not fear for the man's life, but each moment saw the boy becoming more fidgety. A true warrior had to be calm before battle. There was no time for short nerves when your enemy was upon you. The female perked up her ears before Pjodarr stepped from behind a tree.
"There are eight of them," he spoke quickly. "Another died and one of the eight looks badly wounded."
Gruesome felt relieved. "So, they fought amongst themselves then."
"No." The shaman did not look at him. "They found a party of humans, a small caravan of some sort. The men were able to kill one and hurt another, but they stood no chance. Couldn't have been more than thirty in their group."
"Eight havtrols killed thirty men?" Tarac's eyes were wider than a dwarf's shield.
"Some of them were women." He looked up through the thick net of limbs. "The men's fates were kinder." The old man turned to Gruesome. "They feast now. With their bellies full, they will want sleep. They will be slower."
The var all jumped to their feet and faced the way they'd come, hackles raised. Gruesome's weapons were in his hands before any of the big hounds could snarl.
The Folik creature raced between two trees, sword on its back. It sprinted in full armor, and then came to an abrupt stop at Tarac's side. The necromancer pressed his left hand against the things chest and sighed. He smiled at Gruesome, and the havtrol saw him fully composed. So, it was not the shaman that bothered him.
"Good," Pjodarr spoke low. "We're all here. Let's prepare."
