by Sandra Kopp
Swiftly Arris removed the heavy cape and wrapped it around himself, taking care to cover his satchel and weapons and to secure the hood over his head. Then, taking Mieter’s bow and quiver, he hastened to the road, where he gathered up the horses’ leads and set out after the others.
He did not hurry. Mieter probably would not have, were he not sleeping peacefully in the trees right now. Arris carefully paced himself, mimicking the hunter’s surly demeanor and slouching walk as best he could. The leader turned once. Noting “Mieter” had rejoined them, he faced forward and did not look back again. The others seemed not to care.
Arris picked up his pace as they neared the hilltop. He wished he could have better heard Mieter’s voice, in case someone required a response from him; but except for an occasional taunt from Laren, which Arris easily ignored, no one spoke to him. He wondered, with some amusement, what Laren had done to poor Mieter to cause him such misery.
Soon they crested the hill. The over-burdened horses lumbered down the gentle slope to the drawbridge. Arris glanced at the soldiers lining the battlements. His pulse quickened. What would he find within those grim walls?
The man in front sounded his horn and the trumpet at the drawbridge answered. Arris kept his eyes on the ground, swallowing hard as the wooden behemoth groaned down to receive them. Every step across those thick planks made a muted thud, an ominous death knell for those unfortunates who fell out of Ryadok’s favor, or who entered his realm uninvited. The murky waters churned and bubbled as scaly heads broke through. Putrid mist rose to his nostrils as the creatures hissed deadly warnings. The nauseating stench of raw sewage nearly choked him.
Averting his gaze, Arris stepped off the last plank. A dozen stares bored through him; guttural, growling speech grated his ears. Through the babble he thought he heard the other hunters say something—a single word, it seemed—to one of the soldiers as he passed. A password, or my name, I wonder?
“Mieter,” he growled as he slouched by.
The soldier snorted. “The sullen one. What have they done to you this time, woman?”
The lead hunter glanced back. “Laren’s hurt his feelings, so Mieter’s in an ill humor. But what else is new.” He threw back his head and laughed.
Laren scooped up a large clod and hurled it at Arris, who bobbed his head aside just in time to avoid being hit. Pointing a calloused forefinger, Laren snarled, “When we get inside, ponchek, I will make a man out of you or I will kill you—and I would rather kill you.”
The cheering soldiers raised their fists. “Aye, a fight! To the death!”
Laren glowered at Arris, spat, and turned away. Arris stared after him through smoldering eyes, chest heaving as he pulled the hood tighter to his face.
Soldiers hustled the party to the main gate. Bestial-looking guards brusquely shoved them aside while they inspected the loads. Finally a soldier waved them through.
Arris followed the hunters into the courtyard. As he tried to orient himself a soldier stepped in front of him and seized his throat. “Your unpleasant face annoys me! I think I will kill you myself.”
Arris coolly stared him down. “Your breath stinks,” he said and delivered a punch to the soldier’s jaw that sent him sprawling.
The courtyard erupted into a massive brawl. Hunters fought soldiers and soldiers fought anyone in their way. Arris punched and kicked, muttering Arganian spells while working his way to the outside wall. His hood had slipped back, but the melee rendered keeping it over his head impossible.
A sudden opportunity for escape appeared. Arris ran, only to charge straight into Laren, who curled his lip, exposing yellowed teeth. Curling his own lip, Arris threw a punch that broke the hunter’s nose. “That’s for Mieter,” he said, and made for the wall.
A small wooden door stood unguarded and slightly ajar. No one seemed to notice as Arris ducked inside. He found himself in a corridor lighted only by the few rays of sunshine squeezed through the archerias. Staying close to the wall, Arris crept forward, stopping when the corridor met another running across it. Rough voices came from his left, and he searched for a place to hide. In the dim light, he made out a dark spot near the floor on one wall and went to it. It was only a niche, but he squeezed into it just as three soldiers emerged through the darkness and marched past.
Their voices and footsteps quickly died away. Slowly Arris crawled out. Stifled and sickened somewhat by the stink of Mieter’s cape, he pulled it off, rolled it up, and stuffed it back into the niche. It had served its purpose. While the soldiers outside might have seen his face, they had not seen his Nimbian clothing or his own weapons, skillfully hidden beneath the cape.
He stood and paused to listen. Through the heavy stillness he sensed human and animal cries emanating from somewhere in the direction from which the soldiers had come.
Arris closed his eyes and prayed silently. Breathing deeply, he turned left and hurried down the corridor.
MARCH TO A DRAGON’S NEST
Twilight’s purple gloom settled over the forest. Arronmyl led his weary host off the trail and into the shelter of a steep-sided, tree-filled gorge. The maidens set about preparing supper while the men unloaded the horses and unpacked the blankets and oilskins needed for the night.
Charles and Hans joined Arronmyl near the riffling creek that tumbled off the mountainside and down a pebbly bed near one side of the campsite.
“Good water. Nice and cold.” Arronmyl filled his cupped hand and scooped it to his mouth.
“At least the horses can drink.” Charles noted the line of tired mounts, many of them gaunt with thirst, and together with Hans gathered the reins of several and led them over. The horses jogged to the welcoming stream, and soon the sounds of eager sipping rose above the laughing waters. The men tied their mounts where they could both graze and drink and then settled down to their own meal.
They spoke little. Exhausted beyond endurance, most of the men fell asleep as soon as they had eaten. Nedra, Elvia, Tabitha and Raina moved among them, changing bandages or cooling hot faces with kerchiefs dipped in the stream. Charles administered more of the healing powder, of which even Arronmyl now partook.
“I may have judged the Nimbians too harshly,” Arronmyl quietly told Benno as the two sat near one end of the camp smoking their pipes. “An enemy would have left us poison rather than medicine.” He exhaled a gray cloud and waved to Charles and Hans to join them.
Charles smiled as he approached. “You chose a good place, well hidden, off the path with everything we need.” He sat down beside Arronmyl and groaned. “How my bones ache.”
“I’ve been feeling mine since we left the hollow.” Hans plopped down beside Charles. “And not because I’ve grown soft in my old age.”
“We all feel the strain of these past weeks.” Arronmyl thoughtfully puffed his pipe as he watched Nedra tend a wounded comrade.
She stopped, raised her head as if listening, and wandered to the farthest end of the camp where she stood still, posed like a doe about to flee.
Arronmyl straightened. “Nedra!”
She did not answer. Hans noted the worried frown clouding Arronmyl’s face and quietly cleared his throat. “If you would allow me, sir.”
Arronmyl pulled the pipe from his mouth and gestured toward Nedra as he grunted assent. Hans rose stiffly and lumbered away. Arronmyl clamped the pipe between his teeth again.
Charles stared after Hans, wishing he could overhear the conversation. Hans finished speaking. Nedra smiled and answered, and Hans smiled, too, as he dug his toe into the ground. Charles sensed more than a simple inquiry concerning her actions taking place.
They talked for a while, and then Nedra laid her hand on Hans’ elbow and followed him to her father and Charles.
“What have you to say?” Arronmyl asked.
They sat down across from him. Nedra leaned forward, motioning them closer. “We sit very near to the main stronghold—surpassed in strength and numbers only by the castle itself.”
Ch
arles pulled in a nervous breath and glanced at the enervated bodies scattered around them. They lay as dead men, motionless except for their rhythmic breathing. Elvia, Tabitha, and Raina slipped quietly among them, carefully laying blankets over those too weary to cover themselves.
“Shall we set a watch?” Charles asked.
Arronmyl nodded as he scanned the surrounding mountainsides. “The maids can watch the ridges. Those of us still awake will spread ourselves across the mouth here.”
The mouth of the gorge in which they camped faced the road. Four would watch there—or perhaps five, judging from the way Nedra shadowed Hans now. Charles hoped she would join her friends in watching the ridges. However, Arronmyl would surely believe her special power could detect an enemy’s approach well in advance—even before any watchmen did. Charles itched to know what she had discussed with Hans, but Hans disclosed nothing and Charles thought it best not to pry.
He found a fallen log outside the camp where the trees thinned and he could better detect an approaching foe. To his surprise, Hans took his station alone a few yards east. Nedra had disappeared. Charles left his bow and quiver and joined Hans.
Charles glanced at the starlit sky. “Looks like a clear night.”
“Aye, a welcome change. Pity there’s no moon, though.” Hans pulled the quiver off his back and propped it against a tall rock, upon which he promptly settled himself. He grinned at Charles. “I’d offer you a seat, but I seem to occupy the only one.”
“I’ve a softer perch yonder.” Charles grinned back. “You look like a nesting hen.” He sobered. “What did you learn from Nedra?”
Hans shook his head. “I told you: she speaks in riddles using very pretty words. So she did tonight.” He leaned toward Charles and whispered, “She would have me believe that I alone will rout our enemies at Rissling.”
“Rissling?”
“The stronghold she spoke of.”
Charles frowned. “She knows its name?”
Hans rolled his eyes. “She has the gift.”
“Of course.” Charles looked down, biting his lip.
“You suspect an ambush?” Hans whispered.
Charles wiped one hand on his breeches and nodded.
Hans nodded back. “Aye,” he said softly. “I do, too.”
“We can only hope the Nimbians can draw the sorcerer’s attention away from us. In the meantime, stay sharp.” Charles turned back to his post, but Hans caught his arm. “Have you any more of that Nimbian dust?”
Charles drew the pouch from his pocket and handed it to him.
Hans nodded his thanks and took a pinch. “It’s just. . .I need—”
“We all will before the night ends. We’ve a long watch, but it can’t be helped. These lads need their rest.” Charles placed the pouch back into his pocket, then clapped Hans on the shoulder and returned to his log.
The night passed uneventfully, but shortly before dawn Charles saw a slim figure stealing through the trees toward the camp—Nedra! He jumped to his feet and raced toward her, but Hans had also seen and reached her first.
Hans grabbed her arm. “Where have you been?”
Nedra scowled and pulled free. “Let me go! I’m not a child. You can’t order me about.”
Charles rose to Hans’ defense. “It’s not safe to go off without telling anyone. I don’t care if you regard the whole forest your friend!”
“What’s going on?” Arronmyl had slipped up beside them.
Nedra haughtily threw back her head. “I have spied out Rissling.”
Arronmyl’s eyes narrowed. “And?”
“We can reach it by noon if we leave now.”
Arronmyl’s shoulders slumped as he looked about the camp. “Let these lads sleep another hour at least. You and the maidens have food ready when they arise. We‘ll leave immediately after.” Arronmyl returned to his place.
Nedra cast Hans a triumphant smirk and sauntered toward her companions.
Hans stared after her, incredulous. “What do you make of that? Last night she. . .” He awkwardly waved a hand. “And now this morning she acts like a wild cat, and I’ve become her enemy.”
“I can only surmise she is bewitched,” Charles returned.
Nedra reined in and pointed. The path curved sharply to the left beside an old, shaggy-barked cedar standing alone near the middle of a wide glade. “Around that corner you will see the gate,” she told her father quietly.
For several minutes Arronmyl said nothing. The old cedar swayed and creaked in the errant breeze, filling the air with pungent fragrance. Hans and Charles exchanged glances.
Finally Arronmyl motioned Benno and Nedra to him, and after a whispered exchange they rode back through the ranks, repeating in low voices what Arronmyl had told them. The woodsmen immediately melted into the trees.
“The abler men will spy out this stronghold and bring us word,” Arronmyl told Hans and Charles. “The wounded and those of us who watched all night will rest here. Come.”
Hans and Charles followed him into the trees. The four maidens had already dismounted and taken up their quivers and bows. Followed by a contingent of woodsmen, they stole through the forest toward Rissling. The wounded and more battle-weary of Marcos’ group sat or lay down, gathering their strength for the greater battle ahead.
“Wasn’t Nedra gone all night?” Hans demanded as he and Charles selected a spot and wearily removed their quivers. “Why doesn’t she rest?”
Charles shook his head and cast a wary look after the last of the departing scouts. “I only hope she does not betray us.”
“Well, I’m too tired to think of that now.” Hans sat down and propped himself against the trunk of a nearby pine. “I trust someone will wake me at our time to move; if not, please be so good as to remain here with me. I don’t relish picking my way through this wilderness alone.” Hans pulled his cap down over his eyes and fell asleep.
“I won’t leave you.” Charles found a small log to use as a pillow. Hunger outweighed fatigue, and he pulled out a piece of jerky and leaned against the log as he chewed, gazing into the woods through half-closed eyes. The sun’s position told him it must be noon. The air had turned quite warm, and he appreciated the cool shade along with the ample cover the forest provided. . .
Charles awoke with a jerk. He did not remember dozing off, nor had he dreamt, but the sun now hung low in the west. A small piece of jerky lay cradled in his hand, and something hard lodged between his bottom gum and lip. Charles spat out the half-chewed morsel and sat up. Hans, still propped against his tree, slept on. Most of the other men who had not joined the spies also lay sleeping. There was no sign of Arronmyl.
Charles crept to Hans and gently shook his arm. “Wake up,” he whispered.
Hans jerked awake. His cap fell into his lap and he picked it up, fumbling to orient it on his head again. “What? Have they gone?”
“The wounded remain. Arronmyl left, and I don’t see Benno, either.”
“Oi!” Hans rubbed his eyes. “I had the strangest dream—dark, maniacal faces around and above us. . .leering, laughing.”
Charles glanced about the camp and rose. “We must find Arronmyl.”
Groaning, Hans struggled to his feet. “Surely they wouldn’t leave us.”
“They didn’t.” A nearby woodsman opened his eyes. “Nedra came with news. Arronmyl left with her but will return soon.”
Charles noted the blood-stained cloth around his head. “How do you feel, lad?”
The woodman chuckled and rose up on one elbow. “Well enough, thanks to that yellow dust of yours.”
“I didn’t concoct it, but wish I had the skill.” Charles held out his hand. “I’m Charles Bordner, and this is my comrade, Hans Ogilvie.”
“Ah.” The woodsman sat up long enough to grasp the hand Charles offered and then leaned back on his elbow. “Charles. . .Hans. . .a pleasure, though I wish under pleasanter circumstances. I’m Royce, son of Arronmyl, though not by birth. My parents died when I was t
wo. Arronmyl took me in.” A blue-eyed, fair-haired man of about twenty, he had not yet attained the weathered, leathery look of his elders.
“So Nedra’s your sister,” Hans observed.
Royce laughed. “Aye, tougher than any brother. She’s agile and she’s quick, both in her temper and with her bow.”
“And gifted,” Charles ventured.
Royce’s smile faded. “Not until recently.” His voice trailed off as he looked away. “Late last autumn she said things that didn’t make sense.” He clicked his tongue and lay down again. “I’m so tired,” he whispered.
“You’d better rest.” Charles rose and, motioning for Hans to follow, walked toward the horses.
“Odd,” Hans said. “He acted perky enough until you mentioned ‘gifted’.”
“And then his energy fled.” They had reached the horses. Charles glanced around. “I suspect Arronmyl went toward Rissling. Nedra said we would see the gate once we passed the corner. Let’s ride up a piece and see if we find them.”
But even before they reached the bend, they met their comrades-in-arms. Arronmyl rode toward them, his face troubled. “We wanted to see this place, and so we have. Never could we have imagined such horror! A fortress filled with unbearable stench and the most perverse and ugly creatures I’ve ever seen. Men with the heads of pigs, bulls and goats. Monstrous wolves and vultures. Fanged horses. All with blood-red eyes and hateful faces. And their keepers. . .” He grimaced. “Unconscionable men—and women! Pure evil! Here you cannot hear the noise of the place, but the very stones of it howl and cry.”
Charles felt his mouth go dry. “How many do you estimate—without the beasts?”
“Well over a thousand,” Arronmyl returned. “But you know the beasts will fight for them; and I could not even begin to count those.”
Charles thought a moment. “Are the beasts penned?”
“Aye.”
