by Sandra Kopp
Angyar faced forward again and nudged his horse back into a trot; but before they had traveled a quarter mile Patuka snorted and tried to bolt.
“Whoa!” Angyar pulled her in, turning her sideways across the trail as he peered through the gathering gloom at the hillside. At first glance he could discern only the scattered copses dotting the terrain; but amid Patuka’s nervous snorts his keen ears caught a low growl followed by two sharp barks. A few seconds of silence followed after which the growling resumed, louder and more threatening, and intermittently punctuated with short yips and barks.
“Easy, Patuka,” Angyar breathed. He stroked his mare’s quivering neck, then slowly dismounted and drew his boche from its sheath. The boche, a short-handled knife with a straight twelve-inch blade, had proven his most reliable weapon. Like most Wyars, Angyar threw so accurately he could drive the blade into a predator’s heart from several feet away.
“This beast smells fear but we give him nothing, understand? That’s my brave girl.” He patted the horse and then, boche in one hand and the reins in the other, crept up the hill toward a small fir growing just below the crest. He tied the horse and, gripping his boche tighter, continued to the top, keeping low while scanning the terrain for a glimpse of the beast.
An inky form slinked across the hilltop and stopped some thirty feet away, its right side facing Angyar. Catching his breath, the herdsman dashed to a nearby bush and knelt behind it. Cautiously he peered over the top. The creature sniffed the wind and then turned its shaggy head to look at him. Angyar stared, transfixed. The creature indeed resembled an enormous black wolf, comparable in size to a full-grown bear, but much skinnier. Long, gangly legs made it seem even taller. Behind its neck rose a prominent hump, made even more pronounced by its bristling fur now standing straight up. Vicious red orbs above two rows of bared fangs glared back at him.
Angyar’s eyes gleamed. Cumah!
For what seemed an eternity they stared each other down, the cumah’s thin lips curled back tight as its growl transformed into an ugly snarl. Body tensed, it turned to face Angyar, who half stood and raised his arm, boche ready. A snap of his wrist would have driven the blade straight into the beast’s heart; but something stayed his hand and he lowered the weapon and waited. The cumah’s snarl softened and then ceased. Its curled lips relaxed a little, but almost immediately drew back, again exposing those cruel fangs. Angyar raised his boche, braced for an attack; but the cumah merely barked a warning and then turned and streaked over the hill.
Angyar’s shoulders relaxed. He lowered his arm. “We will meet again, my friend,” he whispered and, sheathing his boche, slipped down the hill to his waiting horse.
As he deftly descended through rocks and scrub, he muttered, “I must catch the beast, alive. Only, how do I keep it? How do I make it obey me? What can I accomplish with it?” He sighed, his weathered brow wrinkled in thought as his brain squirmed with ideas, mostly incoherent. “Mire from Sorcerer’s Pond would lend it a supernatural glow. The Liedorans might think it a Baugonril. And if I captured several. . .no. I will need only one, at least to start with. But how do I keep it from consuming us? I must think on this.”
He reached Patuka, untied her, and mounted. A new thought warmed him. “The beast could have killed me, but did not. Perhaps, unwittingly, we have formed a bond.” He clicked his tongue and the mare stepped out. They returned to the trail, Angyar’s mind churning with scenarios for the cumah’s capture.
Two hours later, with a plan in mind, he topped the hill overlooking his camp. Night had long since fallen. A breathtaking expanse of glittering stars filled the cloudless heavens. A thin crescent moon hung in the southwest sky, its pale light nearly invisible against the glow of its astral neighbors. With suppertime long past, groups of Wyars lounged around the welcoming fires that dotted the camp, the men smoking their pipes and telling stories while the women mended clothing or made blankets and quilts. Although he could not see them, Angyar knew that Wyar youths tended herds of sheep and cattle in the outer pastures. He smiled to himself. Soon his people would dwell in Rauwyar, their rightful home.
But first they had work to do, work he could not accomplish here. While situated in the foothills well above Teptiel, the Wyar camp nevertheless suffered scrutiny from time to time particularly, Angyar suspected, from Arris Marchant.
“No matter,” he muttered. “I have prepared for him as well.”
Under him Patuka danced, eager to get home. Hearing the call of his own comfortable bed, Angyar let her out. The horse’s smooth gallop swept them down the hill and up to the first wagon. Angyar reined in and almost immediately found himself thronged by his brother, Aron, and a group of Wyar elders.
“What said the Shepherdess?” Aron demanded.
Angyar dismounted and handed Patuka’s reins to a lad. “Rub her down well and then let her loose to graze where she wishes.” The lad nodded and led Patuka away.
Angyar turned to the group. “She would have us join her to regain Rauwyar for Barren-Fel.” He paused and glanced around the faces encircling him. “We will join her, but on my terms. While journeying back I devised a plan to drive out the invaders with no hurt to ourselves and with no—” He caught himself and stopped abruptly.
Aron regarded him narrowly. “What is this plan?”
“I will reveal it in the coming days. But now—” Angyar raised a dismissive hand. “—I am very tired.”
He started to turn away, but Aron persisted, “Can you tell us nothing more?”
“Not tonight. I’ve many more details to work out.”
“Can you tell us at least what the Shepherdess proposed?”
Angyar sniffed. “She took great pains expounding her royal pedigree and right to a throne but offered little else.” He paused and set his jaw. “She declares herself one of us and claims to act on our behalf. Expect treachery, however, for this ‘Shepherdess’ is not the benefactress she would have us believe. ”
He waved the group away. “Enough now. I must get some rest. We’ll talk again later.”
The men dispersed, murmuring among themselves as they melted into the night.
Angyar clasped his brother’s arm and the arm of another young man and pulled them aside. “Aron! Jovah!” he whispered. “I need your help.”
“Of course,” Aron whispered back.
“Over here.” Releasing their arms, Angyar led them across the camp to a secluded grove near the stream and beckoned them to sit. Leaning closer, he whispered, “Tomorrow we must go to Barren-Fel and gather as much red rhododendron as we can find; two sacksful, at least. My plan—and our future—require it.” Aron and Jovah exchanged puzzled glances and Angyar continued, “I’ll explain along the way. Only trust me. I believe we shall soon possess the only weapon necessary to drive the Liedorans—and the Shepherdess—from our valley forever.”
Jovah caught his breath and glanced at Aron.
Aron looked dubious. “You can tell us nothing more?”
“Not now. The very air listens and I cannot risk this knowledge falling on enemy ears.”
Aron pursed his lips and slowly nodded. “Very well. Jovah and I will be ready before sunup.”
CHAPTER TWO
Overshadowed by sullen gray clouds heavy with rain, a dozen woodsmen of San-Leyon emerged from the forest onto the lush grass surrounding Dewey Hollow. Hunger had whittled their six-foot frames almost to skeletons. Their tattered buckskin clothing hung limp and shapeless. For over a month they had scoured in vain mountains and forests once teeming with game. Finding nothing they had turned north in hopes the hollow’s succulent meadow had attracted a herd. To their dismay, the sweet grass stood tall and untouched, and not a single track marred the soft earth.
Enervated and disheartened, they trudged to the pond and knelt to drink. The youngest hunter, a strapping youth in his early twenties named Royce, sat down and wrapped his arms around his knees as he stared across the hollow. “I so hoped for roast venison this noon. I don’t understa
nd. We’ve seen no monsters in months. Where are the herds?”
“Not in San-Leyon, that’s certain.” Marcos, son of Arronmyl and ruler of San-Leyon, wrung water from his matted beard and sat back, ruefully regarding his worn sleeve. “We’ve got to find them soon. We’re half-starved and these old clothes are rotting off our backs.”
An elderly woodsman with a weathered face and gray hair pulled into a long tail approached. “Some witchcraft draws them away or renders them invisible.” He paused. “We’ve found elk around Kapras Rock before. Maybe we should try there.” He sighed then and muttered, “Another two days journey.”
“But we’ve no other choice.” Marcos wiped a hand on his pant leg and glanced around at his weary band. “I agree with Benno. We must journey into Barren-Fel. We’ll camp tonight on the Lost River, hopefully catch some fish, and get some rest. Who knows, we may not have to go all the way to Kapras.”
“Maybe we should ask Nedra to send some herds south,” Royce ventured.
Marcos managed a tired smile. “You ask her, Royce; but I wouldn’t hold much hope.” He struggled to his feet. “We’re all tired, but the Lost River flows very near. If we leave now, we can camp early and get a good night’s rest. Come, lads, take heart. I’m confident we’ll find a herd. Now take what water you need and let’s be off.”
The woodsmen finished drinking and filled their waterskins. Mustering their remaining strength, they rose and doggedly trudged into the forest. By four o’clock they reached the Lost River, where they made camp and caught enough perch and trout to satisfy their empty stomachs and allow them a decent night’s rest.
Shortly after dawn they awoke and immediately set off to fish. But the Lost River withheld her bounty, and after several fruitless attempts the despondent woodsmen gathered their gear and continued their journey, munching on whatever edible vegetation they could find along the way.
Early that afternoon they rounded the bend beyond which lay the first of several Rauth settlements scattered along the river. A handful of villagers fishing nearby put their poles aside and thronged together, eyeing the hunters suspiciously. Every fish in the river must have been summoned to this spot, Marcos thought as he beheld row upon row of finned specimens hanging from the trees.
Royce edged closer to Marcos. “They look even meaner than last time we saw them.”
Marcos nodded curtly, remembering that during their last encounter before the Great War the Rauths had taken Ryadok’s side and slaughtered several woodsmen. After a crushing defeat, however, they had rallied to Arronmyl, accepted Nedra as their ruler and, by all accounts, now held her in high regard. But—had the volatile Rauths turned again?
As stable as an aged moose on rolling logs. Marcos set his jaw. “Stay behind me,” he whispered and, raising a hand, walked slowly toward their sullen hosts. “I greet you in the name of my father and your friend, Arronmyl San-Leyon.” The Rauths remained silent and he continued, “We come to ask your—”
“Arronmyl is dead.” A tall gaunt man with a hawk-like face and piercing black eyes advanced and planted himself midway between Marcos and the Rauths. “I perceive you have come to hunt our game and fish our rivers. Is that not true, son of Arronmyl?”
Marcos gestured toward the hunters. “It seems the herds have forsaken San-Leyon. You see that we hunger and our clothing is worn. Our people are dying. Nedra, who rules at Rama-Rauth—”
“Is your sister.” The Rauth regarded him haughtily. “We know, son of Arronmyl, and we remember the covenant between your father and our elders.”
“I surmise from your manner, however, you no longer honor our agreement and now deem us enemies.”
“Nay, but we do honor our father’s covenant. We are still allies, are we not?” The gentle feminine voice emanating from amid the surly Rauths caught the woodsmen off guard. Nedra emerged through the crowd, smiling seductively. “Welcome, dear brother.” She paused, pitifully clicking her tongue as her gaze traveled down his unkempt frame and up again. “Ill times have befallen you indeed.”
“And the reason they befell us evades me,” Marcos returned. “San-Leyon offers abundant forage, and the monsters that once devoured our herds no longer exist. Yet we find nothing.”
Nedra shrugged. “We suffer no shortage.”
“Since you enjoy such bounty, will you allow us to hunt here?”
Nedra drew a slow deep breath and raised her head, regarding him haughtily. “To whom is your allegiance, Marcos?”
Marcos blinked in surprise. “San-Leyon stands by our father’s treaty. My armies—”
“Your armies?” Nedra gaped. “Our covenant binds San-Leyon to Barren-Fel as one kingdom. Barren-Fel must regain Rauwyar. I know how to accomplish this. San-Leyon and Barren-Fel must unite under my command.”
“Not true. Given their remoteness and the distance dividing the people, our father never combined the two,” Marcos returned bluntly. “San-Leyon stands with you, but under my rule.”
“You shall command San-Leyon as my captain.” Nedra stepped closer. “You have no choice. As you say, your people suffer. Would you bring greater calamity upon them? Relinquish your rule and the herds shall return.”
Marcos’ breath whistled through his teeth. “I see. You took the herds to usurp me. You would starve your own people to bend them to your will. You dishonor our father. Tell me, by what power do you command the beasts? What have you become?”
And what says her husband to this? Even as Marcos finished the thought he spied the bloody scrap of scalp and lock of red hair dangling from Nedra’s belt. Nausea seized him and then terror as he beheld his sister’s cruel expression. One side of her lip had curled back and something like flames ignited in her eyes. At the same moment he glimpsed a line of Rauths bearing bows and quivers slipping through the trees to form a semicircle around them. For a split second he felt paralyzed, his voice frozen in his throat.
Flee or die! Marcos whirled and forced his buckling legs into motion. “Run!” he bellowed, but already his comrades fled into the forest.
“Kill them! Kill them all,” Nedra cried.
Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Three woodsmen crumpled and lay motionless as the Rauths’ deadly arrows found their marks. Marcos ran to one of them, but Benno seized his arm. “Leave them! They’re gone,” he hissed, and pulled Marcos into a thicket just as another barrage slammed into the surrounding tree trunks. The forest resounded with their pursuers’ whoops and cries.
“We can’t outrun them,” Benno panted. “Make for the river.” He gasped then and shoved Marcos aside. A flaming arrow sang past, singeing Marcos’ cheek before embedding itself between the shoulder blades of another woodsman. The woodsman dropped, shrieking and thrashing as his clothing ignited.
“Tonio!” Benno raced toward his stricken comrade. Tonio struggled to his feet but another arrow impaled his throat, killing him instantly.
Cursing, Marcos fitted an arrow to his bowstring and let it fly, bringing down the black-eyed Rauth. The remaining woodsmen joined the fight, killing several Rauths, but their foes answered with a volley that felled two more. Marcos jerked an arrow out of the chest of a fallen Rauth, but as he put it to his bow swarms of Rauths streamed out of the trees.
“Get out of here!” Marcos shouted, and with the arrow still clutched in his hand, turned and ran.
With all the speed they could muster, the woodsmen plowed through the undergrowth, ignoring the thorny branches whipping their faces. Once through, they darted and dodged, barely evading the arrows streaking past, some within a hairsbreadth of their heads.
Searing pain shot through Marcos’ shoulder as another Rauth arrow found its mark. Grunting and gasping, he jumped a log, only to stumble over a large rock that sent him sprawling down a gravelly slope. Before he could regain his feet the ground gave way and he skidded headfirst some thirty feet down a steep bank, finally landing in the dense rushes lining the river. Rough hands pulled him to his feet. He started to struggle but ceased when he saw, not Rauth capto
rs, but Benno and Royce. Three other woodsmen plunging down the slope landed nearby and jumped to their feet.
A horde of Rauths with Nedra at its head appeared atop the bank. “Don’t be a fool, brother!” Nedra cried. “It is over. Only half your band remains and one of my arrows protrudes from your shoulder. You cannot prevail; but even now I will spare your lives. Bow to me, brother, and I will let you live. Bow to me, all of you, and your people shall live.”
Marcos stood and defiantly stared her down. “Go to hell!” he spat. “You disgrace our father! You’re no sister of mine!” With his men close behind, he floundered into the rushing river and dove beneath the waves.
Arrows flew as Rauths pursued along the shore. The woodsmen struggled for gulps of air amid the roiling current. Marcos noted a Rauth taking aim and ducked back under. His head spun. A simple quest for food had become a massacre and his beloved sister now hunted her own people like animals. Even if the woodsmen eluded their foes a far greater danger lay ahead. Less than a mile downstream lay the treacherous rapids that dashed to pieces any boat endeavoring passage through. Unless they reached the opposite shore they risked being battered to death on the jagged rocks.
And if we survive the rocks we plunge into Gonor Canyon. God help us!
Someone cried out beside him. The water turned red and then cleared as a foamy whitecap churned past. Marcos swam toward the cry only to find one of his comrades bobbing lifeless on the waves, his neck impaled by an arrow that had gone all the way through.
“How much blood do you require, witch?” Marcos bellowed, but even as the words left his mouth something twisted his legs and he went under as though pulled down by a weight. Panic seized him as he realized he must have hit an eddy. Kicking and thrashing, he finally worked free and, just as he felt he would black out, managed to break the surface and fill his collapsing lungs.
The current flowed faster. Choppy waves heaved and tossed. The hapless woodsmen tried swimming to shore but like a raging vortex the river sucked them in and held them fast.
