by Jon Kiln
Chief Bakal sat, a hulking beast on a throne of teak, draped in women in various stages of undress. The Chief himself was shirtless, his broad chest crisscrossed with pink scars that glistened with sweat in the wavering torchlight.
“He… he rushed by us, Bakal!” stammered one of the guards.
“You are as worthless as your mothers!” shouted Bakal. “I should post two of my women outside of my door, they would be more effective!”
The sentries cowered in silence, heads bowed.
“Get back outside!” barked Bakal. Then he leveled his glare at Rothar. “What is so important that you must interrupt my leisure, soldier?”
Rothar said nothing and approached the throne. He bowed in the way that he remembered Southland soldiers revering Bakal when he was a child, putting his fists together in front of his stomach and bending slightly at the waist. He kept his face turned down and took advantage of the dancing shadows in the room, hiding his face from full view.
“I bring tribute,” he told the Chief.
“Tribute?” asked Bakal, nudging a pair of harlots off of his lap. The women pouted to his face, but seemed relieved to be dismissed of their duties and scurried to a corner of the tent.
“Tribute from where? Which errand were you sent out on?” the Chief squinted at Rothar.
“The Banewoods, my lord,” Rothar replied, and removed the head of Brath from the satchel.
Bakal’s eyes widened and he roared with laughter. The reaction made Rothar want to reach for his dagger and send the beast to his grave, but that was not what he had come for.
Bakal stood and approached Rothar, still laughing. He took the head in his hands and held it up to the light, examining it as someone would a fine work of art.
“Brath! You old dog! You finally fell to my southern steel!” Bakal was positively jubilant. He slapped Rothar on the back, still holding Brath’s head by the hair in the other hand.
“This is a great day! A great day indeed! How many men have I lost to the hand of this animal? More than I can count!” the Chief cried out.
Rothar bowed his head and gritted his teeth. “I am glad you are pleased, my lord.”
Bakal turned and went back to his throne, holding the head on his lap.
“Now what of it? You did not return to me just for this, did you? You had instructions.” The Chief stared at Rothar expectantly.
Rothar knew he had to choose his words carefully. He did not know what instructions the Southlanders had, nor where the rest of the squadron had gone.
“We lost three in the battle with Brath and his men…” he said.
Bakal was unfazed.
“To be expected, but did they find the assassin before carrying on?” he asked.
The surviving Southland invaders had never even seen Rothar. The three who fell behind were dead.
“He eluded us. We never saw him,” he told the Chief.
Bakal waved a hand in the air. “Agh. Never mind it, he’ll be dealt with soon enough. Why did you come back here instead of going to your employer with the others?”
Rothar’s mind raced.
“I was with them. The employer sent me back to you to request more men. He said he will pay whatever it costs.”
Bakal leaned forward, one elbow on the head of Brath.
“He?”
Rothar had made a mistake. He remained still, but in his mind was preparing to kill the huge old Chief.
“You were all given instructions to answer only to the woman! Not that sniveling fool!” Bakal roared.
Rothar bowed again. “Yes, Bakal, I am sorry. He told me that the order came from her.”
Bakal leaned back and eyed Rothar with something like suspicion. Grunting, he again became distracted by the head, and he called for someone.
“Taria!” he barked.
Rothar went cold.
From somewhere in the back of the tent, a small figure in a thin, hooded cloak glided forward. As she stepped into the torchlight, Rothar could see that her hands were tattooed with the spiraling designs of a Southland slave girl. Bakal handed her the massive head, and she took it without making any sounds of shock or disgust. Rothar suspected it wasn't the first skull she had been entrusted with.
“Put this in my bedchamber,” Bakal told her. “My loyal man here has brought me a precious trophy.”
The figure turned to Rothar and he looked Taria full in the face. It was unmistakably her, albeit an older, sadder, tired version of her. She looked back at him and gave a weary smile. There was no look of surprise or shock, but that one sad smile told him she recognized him.
“You must be very brave,” she said to him.
Rothar’s throat was dry and he sounded raspy when he finally replied.
“I am not.”
There was a long moment of silence before Bakal clapped his hands and Taria turned and disappeared into the darkness, lugging the head of a giant.
“Rest for the night,” the Chief told Rothar. “Depart in the morning with a fresh squadron and tell our Duchess that the price is double.”
Rothar bowed once again and slowly turned to leave the tent, glancing back over his shoulder into the shadows where Taria had vanished. He knew he was leaving her here again, there was no other way about it. He would not rest and could not stay here. He must take what he had learned and continue to search for Esme and the others.
He was about to step out of the tent when a deafening clap of thunder shook the desert.
“Finally!” Bakal shouted from the throne. “We haven't had rain in ages!”
Chapter 17
The desert wind increased, rolling across the settlement from the west, carrying a welcome chill and the smell of rain. The western sky began to flicker, the night-time clouds glowing intermittently. Rothar grimaced and strode out of Bakal’s tent and into the night. He had no time to waste.
The first droplets of rain speckled the searing sand as Rothar hurried down the row of dwellings that led away from the chiefs tent. A roar arose from the arena, and he wondered whether the revelers were celebrating the rain or the fight. Rain in the southern desert was uncommon, but not unheard of. A few times a year the sky would break and give respite to the parched land. The Southlanders relied on underground springs for their water, and they built their settlements around them. If any man were forced to rely only on the sky for water in this wasteland, he would not live long at all.
As Rothar hurried through the village, he heard raucous voices drawing nearer. The nightly tournament had been broken up by the rain, and the Southlanders were coming back into town.
Rothar ducked his head and trudged on as the downpour increased. He wished he had worn his hooded cloak, but it was not a typical piece of Southland garb, and he had feared it would make him stand out. Still, that would be less suspicious than the color of one’s skin streaking off in the rain.
He rounded a corner between two huts and saw that the pathways were filling with people. Among the women and elderly were armored mercenaries, most of them drunk, and all of them wild eyed with bloodlust brought on by the fighting in the arena.
Two of the mercenaries began to grapple in the middle of the lane, and Rothar had to swing wide to skirt the fracas. One of the combatants looked up to see him passing by and grabbed him by the ankle. Rothar pulled away and hurried on, but the men stopped fighting and called after him angrily.
“I challenge you!” one shouted out.
Rothar continued on without looking back. Suddenly he was seized from behind and a strong hand spun him around to face him. The southern devil glared at Rothar, who kept his head bowed.
“I said I challenge you,” he hissed at Rothar.
“I have someplace to be,” answered Rothar, measuring his words and his accent carefully.
The second mercenary had approached and was now holding a torch. The first man suddenly grasped Rothar by the throat and lifted his face to the torchlight.
The wind whistled through the sandy street and
the torch flickered and struggled, casting odd shadows on the faces of all three men.
“What kind of warrior are you, to decline a challenge?” the man asked.
Rothar was relieved, they still did not suspect him and believed that he was one of their own. The only way to keep up the ruse, however, was to act like one of them.
With a vicious downward stomp, Rothar kicked the man in the knee. The surprise attack worked, and the Southlander bellowed and released his grip on Rothar’s neck. The second mercenary hurled his torch at Rothar and reached for his sword. Rothar ducked the flying torch and came up with his dagger drawn. He closed distance on his opponent with lightning speed and cut the man on the wrist before he could strike a blow. The man’s sword fell from his hand and landed in the sand noiselessly.
Rothar knew he had not the time to kill these men, only to slow them down. They were attracting too much attention on the busy lane, and more warriors were closing in out of curiosity.
The man who Rothar had kicked now came down on him with a mighty hack, as though he sought to cut him in two, from head to groin. Rothar deflected the blow with his dagger and let the man’s momentum carry his upper body down. When the man’s head was momentarily bowed, Rothar struck him at the base of his skull with the pommel of the dagger.
Turning to face the other man, who was bleeding profusely from his wrist and holding his sword in his weak hand, Rothar said, “Enough,” and started to walk away.
The mercenary must have decided not to try to fight such a skilled opponent without the use of his sword hand, for he did not pursue, and the original aggressor was unconscious.
Rothar had only made it a few steps when another Southlander stepped in front of him. The huge mercenary raised his arms and said, “Brother, why don’t you finish them? After all, they challenged…” the man trailed off. He was looking queerly at Rothar, and Rothar knew why.
The rain was thundering down from the heavens, and the sandy streets were rivers of mud. Looking at his hand, dagger still gripped, Rothar saw the cinnamon paste running in rivulets down his fingers. He knew his face looked the same.
The mercenary’s face registered confusion, then disbelief and finally anger.
“Northerner in camp!” the man bellowed just before Rothar plunged Esme’s dagger into his side.
Withdrawing the blade, Rothar was at a full sprint. The clanking of armor to his left sent him dashing to the right, and when long shadows ahead showed the approach of more men, Rothar ducked into a dark tent, hoping with all his might that it was unoccupied.
His wish was granted, and Rothar knelt in the darkness of the empty tent until he could hear the shouts of the mercenaries hunting for him in the distance. Slipping out, Rothar went back the way he had come. There was no chance for him to escape on foot, the devils would have the entire perimeter of the city patrolled in minutes. Instead, Rothar headed for the corral.
Slinking through the darkness and avoiding any sign of approaching torches, Rothar made his way to the stables at the edge of the settlement. Arriving, he ducked through the crudely made fence and began searching silently for a horse to steal.
“This one,” whispered a voice from somewhere in the darkness behind him.
Rothar spun and drew his dagger. Squinting in the darkness, he could vaguely make out the shape of a small woman leading a large horse towards him.
Taria.
She spoke so softly that her words were nearly lost in the sounds of the wind and rain. Her voice had become small and meek from years of servitude to Bakal, but behind it there was still a strength and ferocity that Rothar recognized from when they were young.
“This is our fastest horse. He is Bakal’s own,” she said, approaching Rothar with the reins of a stallion the same color as the sand.
Rothar found himself staring down at Taria’s feet, somehow unable to meet her gaze. An unfamiliar feeling of guilt and regret swelled in his chest.
“You have no obligation to help me escape this place, Taria,” he finally said.
Taria smiled the same weary smile that she had in Bakal’s tent. “I know that, Rothar, but I would still help you a thousand times over. If they catch you, they will tear you apart. Knowing that you were alive and free all of these years has brought me some sense of peace. If you are killed, my only comfort will be gone.”
Rothar’s jaw tightened and he finally raised his eyes to meet Taria’s. “Then come with me,” he said. “I will take you back to the King’s Town with me and have you put up in the Castle Staghorn. You will never have to lift a finger for that filthy bastard again.”
Taria laughed faintly, the sound seemed forced and alien coming from her sad countenance.
“Me, a Southland whore, in Castle Staghorn?” There was a touch of venom in her words, and it stung Rothar to hear them. “I hardly think that his Highness would permit such a thing… besides, you need me here.”
Before Rothar could ask what she meant, they heard voices outside of the stables.
“Here, quick!” Taria whispered, and handed him the reins. Rothar swung himself up onto the horse’s back and said to Taria, “I will return.”
“Then you are a fool,” was all she replied.
Taria ran to the far end of the stable and swung open a large door. In the near distance, Rothar could see torches approaching, and someone shouted at the sight of the opening door. Kicking the Southland steed in the sides, Rothar urged the horse ahead. Taria had not exaggerated the stallion’s speed. Horse and rider bolted out of the stable at a sprint.
The Southlanders scattered and cursed as Rothar flew right at them. Ahead, Rothar could see that the wide gate had been left open. As he sped through the opening, he noticed the thundering sound of countless other hooves behind. He glanced back, expecting to see a cavalry of mounted Southlanders bearing down on him. What he saw was dozens of bareback, riderless horses following his lead. The entire herd of Rama was following him out of the settlement. It was then that he knew that Taria had left the gate open in a premeditated effort to prevent him from being pursued on horseback.
Rothar pushed the horse to breakneck speeds along the foot of the mountains, looking back to see a gathering cluster of torches moving towards him. Southlanders moved fast on foot, but no man could match a horse. As long as he kept moving, they wouldn't overtake him.
Arriving near the place where he had left Stormbringer, Rothar whistled. Stormbringer immediately burst out of a thicket and fell into stride with the sandy colored horse. The rest of the herd had thinned out behind them, some running off into the desert, some stopping to graze on the sparse green things that grew at the foot of the mountains. From the sound of it, at least a couple of horses were being lassoed by the following mob, their whinnying carrying through the darkness.
Upon entering the pass, Rothar dismounted Bakal’s horse and set it free.
“The King thanks you for your service, fine beast,” he said to the horse before giving it a hard slap on the rear. As the horse ran back towards Rama in the white moonlight, Rothar could see the cinnamon brown handprint he had left of the stallion’s rump. It gave him some satisfaction to think that the animal would return to it’s owner with just such a marking.
Chapter 18
The devil’s from Rama never caught up to Rothar, and he knew that Taria had very likely saved his life. Riding into the Valley of Mourning, Rothar turned to look back over the desert once again. He told himself he would return for her, just as soon as he had found Esme and the other children. He would come back and take her away from this place. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Castle Staghorn was not the place for her. It had certainly never been the place for Rothar, so he understood that sentiment well. The huntsmen would take her in, though. Peregrin had known Taria for as long as Rothar had, and he would certainly see to it.
Rothar and Stormbringer made their way through the valley as quickly as possible, with only moonlight to see by. The valley was soundless besides the clicking of Stormbring
er’s hooves and the occasional hoot of an owl.
Suddenly, a faint whistling sound moved the air next to Rothar’s head. The arrow missed and clattered off the rocks ahead of them. Rothar clicked and Stormbringer lunged ahead, scrambling over the loose, rocky terrain. The second arrow found it’s mark and plunged into the back of Rothar’s left shoulder. He growled in pain and hunched forward to lower his profile, wrapping his arms around Stormbringer’s neck. The horse sensed his owner’s distress and ran faster yet through the moonlit canyon. No more arrows sought them through the darkness, and the night returned to silence.
Rothar grimaced in pain and pushed his horse forward through the night, his strength waning more and more as the sky lightened with the coming day. At daybreak, horse and rider exited the Valley of Mourning on the north side of the mountains. The Banewood stretched out before them.
Rothar halted Stormbringer and slid off, landing painfully in the grassy clearing. With his last remaining strength, he reached his right hand over his left shoulder and snapped the shaft of the arrow in his back, leaving the arrowhead buried inside his shoulder. Laying on his side, he examined the arrow, and saw it was one of his own. The two arrows shot at him in the darkness of the valley were the very arrows he had used to dispatch two of the rebels who waylaid him in his way into the desert.
Pondering the meaning of this, Rothar began to feel faint. He knew he could not ride, for he could no longer sit up in the saddle or hold himself from sliding off. He could try to send Stormbringer into the King’s City with written instructions on where to find him, but there was always a good chance that the horse would be commandeered by a Banewood gang.
The light began to fade at the edges of Rothar’s vision, and he stared up at the pink morning sky. A falcon sliced through his frame of focus and Rothar opened his eyes wider, scanning the sky for the bird. The falcon circled and passed over again, closer this time, and Rothar thought he caught a glimpse of a glistening band around the raptor’s thin leg. Finally, the bird settled on the ground near Rothar and looked at him quizzically, almost expectantly.
