by Bill Fawcett
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“How much longer, Reswen?” asked the small mrem who leaned against the lead wagon. ‘This place makes me nervous.”
Reswen answered without raising his head off the ground. “By midday we should be through,” he said. “So get used to your nervousness. It won’t get any better when the pass narrows.”
“Why don’t we just get on, hurry things a bit?”
Reswen raised himself onto his left elbow. “Because we all need a rest. We’ve been going since well before dawn, at your command. Now we’ll rest, at mine.” Angry, he sank back down.
The merchant stood up straight. “Now, look, Reswen,” he snapped. “This is my caravan, and you are under my orders. Is that clear?”
Reswen did not reply. The merchant unwisely decided to press the issue. “I said, ‘Is that clear?’”
No response.
“Answer me, damn it! I am paying you well, and I have no intention of putting up with your insolence.”
Raising himself onto both elbows, Reswen looked at Wornlen and smiled. “Fine,” he spoke slowly. “Get through on your own.”
Wornlen melted. Then he shook his head.
“I can’t,” he muttered, “and you know that damn well. But I’m paying you to lead my guard, not to make things harder than they already are. Please keep that in mind.”
Reswen lowered himself again. He knew he hadn’t heard the last of this. The situation was forcing Wornlen to be much more tolerant than usual, but payday hadn’t arrived yet. Reswen knew that collecting might be difficult.
Partly because of this, and partly because Wornlen was right, Reswen rose shortly and ordered the guard back into position. Before too long the caravan was ready to move, and Reswen touched the face of the lead uxan with his sword. The animal started his slow march, the fourteen remaining uxen pulling the seven large wagons into a creaking formation. Wornlen, according to custom, rode atop the first wagon with his two young helpers. Reswen walked on the left side of the lead uxan and watched for traps. Fralter, whom he had named his second, walked to that uxan’s right. The remaining guards, two to each wagon, walked beside their respective uxen.
Five of the wagons were filled with the winter season’s first shipment of wool and smallcloth (as it was called in Ar) from the fields of the south. Its destination was ultimately Surisa, the old city between the mountains and the Small Desert, but more immediately it would reach Ora, the town near Surisa renowned for its milliners and seamsters. From Ora, it was said, came the tradition of ornamental embroidery that graced the clothing of even the kings of Ar and Eiritu, and the brilliance of the decorative headdresses of the royal family of Ballibon to the north.
On the other two wagons were varied goods. One was entirely filled with potters’ ware, the bowls, cups, pots, huge water jars, and even (or so Wornlen hinted) a couple of clay coffins. A fifth wagon was packed with rope like fibers and thick reeds, eventually to be woven by the basketers into baskets of all types, sails for boats, and, of course, matting. Reswen knew that the cloth was the most valuable of all Wornlen’s wares, at least at this time of the year, but that the pottery would command excellent prices in such an artistic city as Surisa. The fibers and reeds were staples of every caravan, the means to a certain, predictable income.
The autumn sun rose into the sky on the right as they walked. It warmed the mrem considerably, drying out their fur after the cold dampness of a night spent against the mountainside. But Reswen’s head wouldn’t clear. He shook it several times, then clasped it between his hands and squeezed, and finally doused it in the water from a tiny stream that trickled over the rocks as they approached the narrows. Do as he might, though, the heaviness remained.
On the left cliff face he saw a cave. The entrance was tall and wide, wide enough to fit a wagon through. I’ll remember that, he said to himself, even though, like most mrem, he had no use whatever for caves of any kind. More often than not, or so he had been brought up to believe, caves housed reptiles. The mere thought of their race’s ancient enemy made him shudder.
But suddenly Fralter shouted a halt. Reswen snapped his head to the right, glaring at him. Fralter walked around the lead uxan toward Reswen and pointed into the narrows straight ahead.
“I saw something,” he reported to his leader. “Something that gleamed in the sun.”
Reswen nodded. “We’ll go on,” he replied, “but much more cautiously.”
By this time Wornlen had joined them, and he snorted in disgust.
“How much more cautiously can we move?” he grumbled. “We’ve taken so long now I’ll only beat the others to Ora by a day or so.”
“Wornlen,” Reswen began, “if we get killed in an ambush, you’re not going to make it to Ora at all. Even if they let you live, you’ll get to Ora with nothing in your wagons. And that’s assuming they leave you the wagons in the first place.” He paused, then looked the merchant in the eye. “So why don’t you go back to your wagon, crawl in under some cloth, and keep your mouth shut. I may be only your guard, but I’d like to stay alive.”
Shocked by Reswen’s impudence, Wornlen stood for a few moments with his eyes wide open. But then, saying nothing at all, he returned to his wagon. Fralter looked at Reswen and smiled.
“About time you took charge here,” he answered softly.
“That mrem,” Reswen whispered, “is the worst pest I’ve ever worked for. Once we get to Ora....”
A noise in the pass stopped him. Quickly he looked, just in time to see a rock fall down the mountainside to the ground below. Glancing up, he saw a figure slip out of sight behind a huge boulder. Reswen led the lead uxan in a circle back toward the cave he had seen.
When he reached it, the caravan was being pursued by bandits. He ordered two of the guards out toward them, to delay them from catching up to the caravan as long as possible without getting killed. Fralter guided the wagons through the cave entrance. Once inside Reswen ordered the guards to block the cave entrance with the bales of cloth and the bundles of reeds, making sure they kept open small slits through which to shoot arrows. Just as they finished, the two delaying guards reappeared, announcing to Reswen that they were facing thirty or more clansmrem from the highlands armed with swords, spears, and even some with axes.
“What color are their capes?” Reswen demanded.
“Green,” came the reply. “Dark green, except for one. That one’s much brighter. They all wear Peorlias’s tartan.”
Reswen nodded. “This isn’t going to be easy. We’re facing the fiercest of all the highland clans. If Crethok is with them, we may not get out of here. He’ll show no mercy.” Then he looked around. “But they’re going to take losses as soon as they approach. Ready your bows.”
He needn’t have spoken. Fralter had already organized the guardsmrem, one at each of the three arrow slits in the cave entrance, with three more mrem waiting behind them to take their places when they tired or ran out of arrows. The idea would be to fire as quickly as possible, to convince the highlanders they were facing far more defenders than they were. Fralter had watched Reswen bluff his way out of a similar predicament, and he was convinced it could work now.
Reswen wasn’t so sure.
The highlanders attacked at once. Toward the makeshift cave door they scurried, their green capes flying behind them as they ran. In a column of four they approached, knowing full well that the front four, if the defenders had arrows, would almost surely die. To either side of the columns were stationed three archers, waiting for the entrance to open to their arrows. Their leader stood at the rear, expressionless, watching his loyal mrem charge, while his leadmrem shouted orders behind him, marshaling the remaining raiders into another wave of columns.
Inside the cave Reswen waited, nothing but patience showing on his face. A bowmrem knelt before each slit, arrow notched at the ready, waiting for their leader to issue his command. Reswen s
aw the fingers of the center bowmrem twitch, and he watched as well as the eyes of the left archer opened wide. When a yell of battle pierced through the door, the leader of the guardsmrem took a step toward the back of the cave.
“Wait until I give the order,” he commanded, his voice as steady as his hands. “Shoot three times, then roll away.” Then, to the bowmrem now lined up behind them, “When they roll, you kneel and shoot. Be ready, because we’ll have no time to spare.”
Another yell, and then another. And then there came a scream whose echo reverberated from side to side around the recesses of the cave, and Reswen gave his order at last.
Nine arrows flashed through the slits. Soft thuds told of those shot in return. The front bowmrem rolled, and three more took their place. Nine arrows more flew out into the cold air, and again the archers changed places. A highlander arrow bounced through one slit and struck the mrem firing there. But its momentum had been spent glancing off the cloth and he pulled it from his bunda-hide jacket laughing. Another nine, and then another, and Reswen closed his eyes. If he had guessed wrong, the door should come crashing down now.
“They’ve stopped!” shouted the center bowmrem. “They’re pulling back.” He leapt to his feet, but Reswen motioned him back down.
“They are highlanders,” he intoned. “Highlanders from the clan of Peorlias. Their leader may be Crethok, or it may be another. Whoever it is, these mrem will return.” He paused, then muttered, “I have fought them before.”
Suddenly the cave was filled with foul air. Reswen whirled to the rear, and turned again to the door. The bowmrem fidgeted, and from one a weak moan escaped. Reswen stepped forward and stood in their midst.
“Keep your bows ready,” he commanded, his voice now hushed. “Do not move, not until I command it.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “That is an absolute order.”
Then he grabbed the merchant’s arm. “Wornlen,” he whispered, “I want you to ask for a truce.” The merchant frowned and started to speak. Quickly Reswen clamped a huge right hand over the other mrem’s mouth.
“Say nothing out loud, my friend,” he warned. “You may well be afraid to leave this cave, but you will shortly be far more afraid to stay inside it. Don’t you notice that smell?”
The merchant nodded, Reswen’s hand moving up and down over his mouth.
“Do you know what it is?” The guardsmrem’s eyes shone in the dim light. The merchant’s head shook tensely.
Reswen’s voice was both mocking and stern. “That, my fat friend, is a liskash. We have entered the cave of a reptile.” The last word was less a word than a hiss. He pointed out a large gouge in the floor. If it was a partial track, the liskash was gigantic.
Some of the guardsmrem visibly trembled. Others caught their breaths and closed their eyes. The archers in front let their bows grow slack, their arrows all but falling from their fingers.
Reswen released Wornlen. The merchant was sweating, his own smell mixing with the stronger reek of the unseen liskash. Backing toward the entrance, he stared back into the cave.
“A liskash,” he whispered hoarsely. “They don’t exist. We’ve always been told that we slew them all.”
Reswen smirked. “Of course you’ve been told that, you fool. Do you think any mrem from a city would ever admit such a thing? Ask these highlanders, though, or some of the tribesmrem from a village far from any city, and they will tell you the truth. They will give you stories that will make your fat little tummy throw its food all over your soft, flabby arms.”
The merchant backed further, his fur bristling, and Reswen continued his assault. “They will tell you of liskash that could burn you to death, of larger liskash that could snake out their accursed forked tongues and draw you into their slimy, reeking mouths. One gulp and you are no more. And they can tell you of liskash that want only your precious, priceless fur, liskash who will pull it from you, piece by piece, and eat it while you watch. And they will tell you, too, that you can never get away once a liskash has a taste for you.”
By now his voice had risen, and the merchant dropped to his knees. Reswen ignored the moans from his guardsmrem and grasped Wornlen’s shoulders. Pulling him to his feet, he looked into his eyes and commanded, “Now go out of this cave and make some kind of deal. For once in your life, do something useful with your god-given talents.”
Fralter opened a hole in the door, and Wornlen the merchant crawled pathetically through it.
Reswen did not smile.
Arklier saw the fat little mrem tumble outside. He saw, too, one of his archers raise his bow and draw back the string.
“Wait!” he cried. “This one cannot harm us.” Hesitantly, the bowmrem lowered his weapon.
The ClanSon stepped toward the intruder. At his side, Bodder grasped his arm. “Wait,” the lesser mrem said. “It might be a trap.”
“It might,” Arklier replied. “Or it might be other things. I’ll take my chances.”
He was hoping for a truce. Eight of his warriors had fallen to the enemy’s arrows in the first charge, and he did not wish for any more blood. Three lay moaning too close to the entrance to retrieve and too badly hurt to crawl to safety. Whoever were behind that door of cloth and reeds, they were well-skilled in archery. He did not know if he could penetrate their defenses, and even if he could, his losses would be unacceptable.
Again Bodder stopped him. “Look at him,” he commented to the ClanSon. “He is fat, and he is frightened. What better bait for a trap?”
Arklier whispered, “I don’t think so. Bait would be much less obvious. If an armed warrior stood there, then I would think of bait. This mrem, I think, is nothing but a sloppy merchant.” Gently easing himself from the other mrem’s hold, he strode to face the mrem who now knelt on the ground.
Reswen watched from within. He had to hiss the word “liskash” at one bowmrem who looked ready to fire at the approaching highland mrem. After that the mrem could barely hold his bow, much less fire it. The merchant’s hands also shook as he held them to the sky, while his tail twitched nervously. “I wish to offer peace,” the fat mrem pleaded when the leader of the highlanders stood before him. “I wish for no more bloodshed.”
Arklier looked puzzled. “Why would you ask for no more bloodshed,” he asked, “if it was the blood of my warriors that was being shed?”
Despite himself, Reswen smiled. The green-caped mrem’s answer was the expected one, but Crethok would never have thought of it. He was beginning to like this highlander, and he was also beginning to fear him. Crethok was fiercer, but he was also far less smart.
“We are not many,” the merchant pleaded. (Idiot! Reswen thought to himself.) “And my caravan is in haste.” (Better. At least it doesn’t give anything away.) And now the merchant began to jabber. “You see, my lord (Arklier’s eyebrows raised at the title), I have to get to Ora before my competitors do, or else I have no advantage over them. We all have the same goods, so the first one there gets the best prices. Once the other caravans come in, there’s too much to offer for the price to stay high, and when the prices drop we all lose. And so I came through the mountains to arrive first, even though I knew this pass might be dangerous.”
Good, thought Reswen. The merchant was much more convincing when he dropped the pose of intelligence.
“And of course,” Wornlen continued, “I knew that the warriors we would face in the pass would be the greatest warriors of all, although I must admit I didn’t expect them to be your warriors, my lord. Had I known, I would never have come this way, because the stories of your ferocity are told to all the children in all the cities.”
Spare us, Reswen spat.
“No more,” Arklier boomed, a smile creeping across his face. “Had I known of your speechmaking, I would have let my archers kill you.” He paused, then spoke again. “You said you wanted peace. How badly do you want it?”
“I do no
t understand, my lord,” the merchant blurted.
“You understand well enough.” Arklier looked sternly at the little mrem, who cowered under the glance. “If you want peace, you must pay. What do you offer?”
The mrem at his back gasped. “What is he doing?” he heard one of them say, and he turned and silenced them all with a stern, unyielding stare. When he turned his head back to the merchant, Wornlen was on his feet.
“If you give me but a short while, my lord,” he began, “I will calculate a compromise. Perhaps then—”
“I have seen the compromises of merchants,” Arklier shot back. “If I let you do this, I will leave here with nothing but my cape, and I will feel that I’ve won a victory. Back to your knees, thief.” He raised his hand, claws extended, and the merchant trembled and knelt twitching as if he was about to expose his neck.
“Since you come to me for peace,” the ClanSon continued, “I will say what will be done.” A pause, then, “Think about this, merchant, and take it back to your guards. I will take from you one part of every three from all of your wagons, and then I will take you through the pass.” He stopped and stared at Wornlen. “If you do not agree, I will take it all and kill you now. Now go, and decide. And tell your guards that if one arrow is fired, no matter how far it flies, my clansmrem and I will fall upon your flimsy gate of straw and then tear their flesh from their bodies.”
Back toward the cave Wornlen slunk, withering under the ClanSon’s fearsome stare. Within seconds he disappeared inside, and Arklier turned toward his mrem. His shoulders thrust back, his eyes and mouth defiant and filled with challenge, he walked quickly toward them. Bodder moved aside, watching as the ClanSon stopped and prepared his address. He could feel the tension in the warriors’ stares, and he knew that his leader’s task was far from easy.
“I know your thoughts,” Arklier began. “I know that you are wondering at my cowardice, angered at the deal I have suggested.” He looked from side to side, his eyes resting on each mrem in succession. “But I will say only this. I am the ClanSon, and unless the ClanMrem is present I speak for all the clan. All of you now wish to speak, but I will have none of it.”
