Get Her Back (Demontech)

by David Sherman

  ~

  The High Desert Nomads have several types of domestic animals. First among them is a riding beast, which all of the few explorers who have returned from the High Desert claim never eats or drinks. However, its description as having a huge, hairy mass on its back, a mass which is sometimes larger and sometimes smaller, causes me to suspect that the mass is a food and drink storage mechanism, much the same as adipose fat on the buttocks and thighs is in human populations that have lived for generations in lands that are prone to frequent famine.

  ~

  The final domestic animal for which reports have reached me is something that resembles nothing so much as a rather large, feral farmhouse cat. It is believed that the function of this “cat” is the same as that of a civilized farmhouse cat. To whit, to keep down the vermin population in the camps of the High Desert Nomads. This may well be exactly the case, as there are no reports of vermin running rampant in the camps.

  THE NOMADS OF THE HIGH DESERT

  The people, for that is what they call themselves, “The People,” of the High Desert are fearsome nomads, reputed to be even more fierce and warlike than the nomads of the Low Desert. According to some of the adventurers and explorers who have encountered the nomads and lived to tell of the experience, they are so much more aggressively fierce that the only reason they haven’t descended to the Low Desert and conquered those fearsome nomads is the simple fact that the nomads of the Low Desert far too greatly outnumber them! I make the assertion ‘lived to tell of the experience’ advisedly. Several of the few who reported visiting the nomads’ camps told of seeing bound skeletons, some of which bore the remnants of clothing and armor of various civilized nations, which strongly suggested that they were the remains of other adventurers or explorers.

  The language of the High Desert Nomads is either unrelated to any other known language in all the lands of humanity, or is otherwise related to that of the Jokapcul. That is an unlikely relationship, as the Jokapcul Islands and the High Desert are separated by the entire breadth of the continent of Nunimar! In any event, the High Desert Nomads language is highly guttural, with many nomina that sound more like canid barks and growls than the more pellucid nomina of civilized tongues.

  ~

  The housing of the High Desert Nomads is rudimentary, consisting of skins stretched over a framework of sticks curved and bound into a dome shape. The peak of the dome is not high enough for a grown man to stand under without hunching over. It is unknown from whence the sticks come, as there are no trees on the High Desert that grow tall enough to provide them.

  I would say more about the High Desert Nomads and their environs, but there is too little that is known with any degree of positivity, and I am reluctant to speculate on them, or to repeat any of the outrageous tales that travelers have brought back from that mysterious land.

  ___________________________________

  Scholar Munch Mu’sk is, of course, the renowned Professor of Far Western Studies at the University of the Great Rift. The author of hundreds of scholarly papers and numerous articles in the popular press, he is the past chair of the Department of Far Western Studies at the University of the Great Rift.

  II

  THE NOMADS

  CHAPTER SIX

  When Alyline and her platoon of Zobran Royal Lancers had mounted the plateau of the High Desert three days before Haft and the Skraglander Bloody Axes fought the cats, they headed slightly south of west. Alyline didn’t know for certain the direction from which the man who’d heard the sothar player had come from, or how long his trek had been. But piecing together what little she’d heard him say, she thought he’d joined the caravan less than a day before she’d overheard him, and that he had wandered in a more or less straight line for at least three days before finding the train. So, west and a little south sounded like the right direction. She thought that meant that the Desert Nomads camp could be anywhere from two to five days ride away. If they hadn’t moved. But even if they’d moved since the man had escaped, she and the Royal Lancers could surely find the signs of their camp, and detect the direction they’d gone.

  So she directed Lieutenant Guma to lead his platoon a little south of west. On his own initiative, Guma put riders far out to the front and flanks. That was partly to expand the area that the platoon could search for the nomads’ camp, but mostly to give them the earliest possible warning if the Desert Nomads approached.

  Unlike Alyline, who seemed to feel that they would have no difficulties with the Desert Nomads, Guma believed the fearsome reputation they had. He thought it more likely that they would be met with arms than with open arms. He felt an unease, and tried to shove away the feeling that he’d made a mistake when, shortly after joining the refugee train, he had committed himself and his men to watching over the Golden Girl and keeping her safe.

  “Sir!” Lyft, one of the outriders reported as he galloped up to Guma two hours into the second day’s ride. “I spotted riders at the edge of sight, that way.” He pointed almost due west.

  “How many and did they see you?” Guma asked.

  Lyft shook his head. “They were too far for me to tell exactly,” he answered, “but there looked to be at least three, possibly more. They gave no sign of having spotted us. The sun was behind me, and I only saw them because something metallic reflected a flash of sunlight.”

  “Which way were they going?”

  Lyft pointed a tick or two north of west. “They seemed to be headed that way.”

  Guma leaned forward in his saddle, and peered into the distance where Lyft had seen the riders. He couldn’t see them, not even when he curled his fingers into tubes in front of his eyes, the trick that Spinner and Haft had taught them to help focus at a distance. He wasn’t as sure as his man that he hadn’t been seen. This was the Desert Nomads’ land, surely they were more in tune with what they might see on their plain. And, he had to admit, the light blue of the Royal Lancers’ tabards probably showed up well on this brown and green-speckled plain.

  “Return to your position,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Alert the other outriders about what you saw. Let me know immediately if you see anything more.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lyft started off, intending to travel in a wide arc to reach his position, so he could tell other outriders about the distant people.

  “Come back here!” a female voice cracked sharply.

  Lyft yanked on his horse’s reins and looked back, to see Alyline cantering toward Guma. He returned to the side of his platoon commander.

  “You saw something,” the Golden Girl snapped at Lyft. “Tell me.”

  “Yes, Lady,” Lyft said, with a bob of his head. He repeated what he’d already told Guma—and repeated Guma’s orders to him.

  Alyline jerked her head toward Guma. “Why keep going in the same direction we’ve been going?” she demanded. “We should go where Lyft saw the people.”

  “Yes, Lady,” Guma said.” But the riders Lyft saw probably aren’t on their way to the camp, but rather they’re coming from it.”

  “They could just as well be on their way to a new camp,” Alyline said, and added firmly, “Lyft, lead the way to where you saw them.”

  Lyft looked uncertainly at Guma; he was supposed to obey his commanding officer’s commands, and Guma had told him to keep the same course.

  Guma repressed a shrug. He was beginning to think that perhaps he should rethink his allegiance to the Golden Girl. He was a soldier, a professional. An officer, a leader of men. When you got to the nub of it, Alyline, the Golden Girl, whatever her other attributes, which did not include military expertise, was just a temple dancer. They were in his arena now, what he said should be law. But...

  He and the Zobran Royal Lancers were sworn to care for and guard the Golden Girl. The Royal Lancers were so designated because they took care of royalty and, after all, in so many ways, Alyline was the closest they had to a royal personage.

  “Do as the Lady says,” Guma ordered. “I’ll se
nd someone else to tell the other outriders to follow you.” And to draw close, he added to himself. He was certain that they would soon come face to face with the fierce nomads, and he didn’t want any of his men to be in isolated positions.

  Guma was right about the light blue of the Royal Lancers’ surcoats being easily visible on this plain. They’d only gone a mile and a half when suddenly, as though sprouting from the ground, four-score riders appeared on all sides. Each of them had a wicked recurve bow near to hand, and carried a lance in loops that angled under his thigh that was longer and thicker than the lances carried by the Royal Lancers. They all had a long knife or sword on their belts. They wore furry cloaks that gave off faint whiffs of improperly cured skins. All had shaggy beards, and unkempt hair stuck out from under the stiff leather helmets that protected their heads, many adorned with eagle feathers or the horns of grazing animals. They weren’t riding horses, but rather were mounted on beasts that resembled the comites of the Low Desert: bulky of body, with a large hump that rode their spines. These animals were more heavily furred than the comites, and their humps rose higher. They also looked like they had a tendency to bite, or at least spit at, people who came too close to the heads on the ends of their long necks.

  One man, obviously the leader, heeled his mount forward a couple of steps. He was accompanied by a very large man armed with a lance so big it was more properly called a spear, and a standard bearer. The standard was an eight-foot-long pole festooned with skulls; a human skull was uppermost on the pole. He barked out what were obviously words, but not in any language Guma or the others had ever heard.

  Guma bowed, and began speaking in Frangerian, the common trade language on the two continents. “Lord,” he began, “we are peaceful travelers—.”

  “Do you have a sothar player?” Alyline broke in. “I heard there was a sothar player in a nomad camp. Mine is missing. If you have him, I—”

  The Nomad chief slashed a fist across his front, a silence! command. He looked so fearsome that Alyline’s mouth involuntarily snapped shut. He spoke one word loudly in his own language, and a fourth man broke from the surrounding circle to ride to his side. The chief barked and growled without removing his eyes from Alyline and Guma. The newcomer listened attentively, then spoke when the chief was through. His words were Frangerian, but his voice was one more accustomed to the barks and growls of the language used by the chief.

  “You are interlopers in our land,” he said. “We do not welcome interlopers. If you turn around now and leave, we will grant you safe passage. If you do not, the consequences will be severe.”

  In his peripheral vision, Guma had seen the nomads closing in on his men. The Zobrans were outnumbered more than three to one and, if the nomads were any good with the weapons they were carrying, seriously out-armed as well. He opened his mouth to order his men to begin withdrawing, but Alyline beat him to it.

  “I must see the sothar player,” she said. “We are not leaving until I do.”

  The chief made a gesture and the nomads fell upon the Zobrans.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Three of the Bloody Axes were badly enough injured that they couldn’t maintain the pace—one of them was a litter case. Haft hated to reduce the size of his already small force, but he had to send them back. With an escort. Balta had lost enough blood that he should have returned with the other badly wounded, but he refused to go. Haft complained, but he was secretly glad that the Skraglander officer stayed, even though it meant they had to go a little slower than they had the day before. The Aralez, a healing demon that Tabib had brought in one of his spell chests, had done a good job of stopping the bleeding and beginning the healing process. Even wounded and somewhat faint of mind, Balta was still an excellent tracker should his skills be needed.

  “Lord Haft!” the voice came faintly on the westerly wind. Ahead, one of the point men was waving.

  Haft didn’t try to yell against the wind, instead he waved to the point man to let him know he’d heard. “I’ll go,” he said to Balta. “You catch up in good time.”

  Balta nodded—it was less tiring than trying to speak against the wind.

  Haft heeled his mare into a rocking-horse canter and quickly covered the quarter mile to the point team.

  Corporal Kaplar, who had called to Haft, silently pointed at the ground.

  Although he wasn’t very good at reading sign on the trail, and the constant wind had finally erased some of the traces, Haft could see what had made the point team stop and call for him: Alyline and the Royal Lancers had, for unknown reasons, changed direction a mile and a half back. At this place they had stopped—and a large number of other riders on beasts that had three toes rather than hoofs surrounded, then closed on, them.

  “Do you see any blood?” Haft asked, peering closely at the ground. He’d wonder about the three-toed beasts later; finding out about casualties came first. He knew how to read blood on the ground to determine how many casualties there were, and even how a battle had progressed and ended.

  “No, Sir Haft,” Kaplar said. “My men haven’t seen any blood either.” The other three in the point team also said they hadn’t seen any signs on the ground to indicate there’d been much of a fight.

  “I don’t think there was a fight, Sir Haft,” added Ember, another of the men on the point.

  Haft looked at Kaplar for confirmation. The leader of the point team nodded.

  Haft looked back at the ground. He saw the direction the hoof and toe prints went and looked after them into the distance.

  “How long?” he asked the corporal.

  Kaplar shook his head. “It’s too dry here to tell,” he said. “And the wind confuses everything. It could be hours, it could be three days. I can’t tell how long it’s been.” He paused, then added, “It’s too bad we don’t have a Borderer with us. A Borderer would certainly be able to tell.”

  The Borderers were scouts who watched over the borders of Skragland, and trailed trespassers and possible invaders. They were excellent trackers, and read sign possibly better than anyone else in the entire world.

  Haft made a face. He’d thought that with Jurnieks as their guide to the Desert Nomads’ camp they wouldn’t have any need for a tracker. But Jurnieks was worthless as a guide, and was no better as a tracker than one could expect of a sailor. He rose in his saddle and turned to face the rest of the column, which was approaching at a brisk walk—the fastest pace that Balta could stand.

  “Tabib!” he bellowed.” I want Tabib!”

  A faint reply came to him, “Tabib, yes, Sir Haft!” He could see the word being passed back to the Kondive Island mage, until he finally saw the mage turn his donkey out of the line and trot forward.

  “Lord Haft,” Tabib said when he reached the point, touching fingers to forehead, mouth, and chest, and bowing so deeply that Haft momentarily thought he was going to fall from his donkey. “I am honored that you have singled me out of the line to come to your side. Is there a way in which I might be of assistance?”

  Haft stared at the funny-looking little man for a brief moment, wishing that Spinner had sent Xundoe, the mage who’d joined the band in its early days when they were still in Skragland, to join his small force. Xundoe sometimes babbled, and often seemed to think more highly of himself than his rank warranted, but Haft had never—seldom, anyway—heard the sarcasm in his voice that he almost constantly heard in Tabib’s. He didn’t say anything about it, though. Instead, he waved a hand at the ground.

  “Can you divine what happened here?” he asked.

  Tabib slipped off his donkey and squatted flat-footed to examine the ground up close. He murmured softly as he brushed his fingers lightly above the prints, barely avoiding contact with them. After a couple of moments he straightened his back and looked up at Haft.

  “The three-toes, they are the prints of comitelots, cousins of the comites of the Low Desert. It is said the nomads of the High Desert use them as riding beasts.” He glanced about at the ground. “I
do not imagine that a herd of wild beasts would so perfectly encircle a band of mounted and armed men, as did these.” He looked back at Haft and cocked his head questioningly.

  “Yes?” Haft gestured for Tabib to continue. When the mage didn’t, he asked, “So the High Desert Nomads surrounded Alyline and the Royal Lancers. Then what happened?”

  Tabib shrugged. “Then they went off in that direction,” he said, pointing due west.

  Haft threw his arms up. “I know that much!” he shouted, exasperated. “What I want to know is what happened!”

  Tabib looked at the ground, looked to the west, looked back at Haft. “Sir Haft, I don’t know, but it looks like they parleyed and the nomads agreed to take the Golden Girl and her escort to their camp.”

  Haft looked at Tabib in disbelief, then realized that was exactly what had happened. There hadn’t been a fight, and they all rode off together. Was it possible that the nomads had somehow managed to take the whole party prisoner without any fighting? That sounded too improbable.

  Balta arrived just then, and Haft took a moment to tell him what the point men and Tabib had divined from the signs. The Bloody Axes commander didn’t dismount, but leaned forward to look at the ground. Shortly, with a grimace of pain, he straightened up.

  “I believe they’re right, Sir Haft,” he said. He looked in the direction the party of nomads and lancers had gone. “We should follow them.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Haft said. “Lead on,” he added to Kaplar.