A March into Darkness dobas-2

by Robert Newcomb

  It was also rumored that besides speaking Eutracian, these nomads conversed in another language all their own. Their women were said to be remarkably beautiful and intensely sexual beings, possessing notoriously free spirits. The highlanders were rumored to live in tightly knit clans that often warred among each other, usually over territory and ill-gotten spoils that none of them could rightfully claim. Still standing on the riverbank, Tristan glared into the highlander’s dark eyes.

  “Turn around,” the man said. “Put your hands behind your back.”

  Knowing he had no choice, Tristan did as he was told. He soon felt his wrists being bound. He turned back to glare at his captor.

  “What happens now?” he demanded.

  “We return to your poorly guarded campsite,” the man said. He again pointed Tristan’s dreggan at him. “A surprise awaits you. Move, dango!”

  Tristan scowled. “What did you just call me?” he demanded.

  “Dango,”the highlander answered with another smile. “In our world it means ‘city dweller.’ And if you’re thinking it’s an insult, you’re right.”

  Cursing himself for letting the Minions rest rather than sending scout patrols aloft, Tristan reluctantly walked the remaining way up the riverbank. After retrieving the dreggan baldric from the ground, Tristan’s flamboyant captor prodded the prince forward. Clambering down from the ridge, the other highlanders followed. Tristan saw no women among them.

  As they reached the top of the ridge, Tristan couldn’t believe his eyes. Although not one looked injured, all twenty Minion warriors had somehow been overcome. Their hands, feet, and wings bound tightly with harsh rope, they sat glumly on the ground around the campfire.

  More highlander men surrounded the captured warriors. Laughing at the Minions’ expense, they eagerly tested the warriors’ unusual akulee and hungrily ate purloined elk meat. All of the warriors’ weapons lay nearby in a ramshackle pile. A strange-looking heap of what looked like coarse netting lay beside the captured Minion weapons, along with a loose collection of colorful arrows.

  The highlander leader walked up alongside Tristan. “Those flying creatures are yours, I presume?” he asked.

  Tristan nodded angrily. “How did you capture them?”

  The highlander raised an arm. “Do you see that pile of netting?” he asked. “After sneaking up the ridge, my men attached arrows to the nets, then shot them over your fighters. The arrows carried the nets to the ridge’s other side, then buried themselves deep into the ground. We use the same technique to capture herds of deer. Your warriors started to cut their way free, but as they did they were told that we already had you. We described you, then warned them that if they didn’t surrender, you would be killed.” As the highlander leader turned toward Tristan, a look of respect flashed across his eyes.

  “Whatever those winged things are, they’re certainly loyal to you,” he said. “They collectively offered up their lives so that you might go free.” He let go a sudden, short laugh. “I’m not so sure I could say the same for my clansmen!” he added.

  “You’re highlanders, aren’t you?” Tristan asked. “What is your name?”

  Smiling, the man bowed sarcastically. As he did, many of his followers laughed uproariously at the prince’s expense.

  “I am Rafe of Clan Kilbourne,” he answered. “Chieftain of the clan. All told, we number just under three thousand. We are camped not more than two leagues away. Had you traveled just a bit farther, you would have flown right over us.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “And just who are you, may I ask?”

  Tristan suddenly regretted having asked Rafe’s identity. He was about to lie when another of the highlanders rushed forward.

  “I know who thisdango is!” the man growled.

  The highlander was huge-almost as big as Scars. But where Scars was muscled, this man was grotesquely fat. He was as colorfully dressed as Rafe, and at least twenty years older. A gray, downward-dropping mustache covered his top lip, and unruly gray hair graced either shoulder. His calloused hands looked the size of small hams. Smiling, he arrogantly placed them on his hips.

  “Tell us, Balthazar,” Rafe said.

  Walking closer, the highlander named Balthazar searched Tristan’s face.

  “He’s Prince Tristan, that’s who!” Balthazar shouted. “I’m sure of it! I saw him once in Tammerland. He was younger then, but there is no doubt.” Scratching his chin, he looked back at Rafe.

  “We should keep this one,” he added slyly. “Rumor has it that he commands several wizards. They would surely pay to get him back.”

  Rafe laughed. “Is that so?” he asked. “My, but thishas been a fortuitous day!”

  Looking down at the captured warriors, the highlander leader thought for a moment then looked back at the prince. “I was going to rob you, then set you and your fighters free,” he said. “But I see that you’re too valuable to release so easily. It seems you’re coming with us.”

  Rafe came closer and reached out to lift the still-wet Paragon and gold medallion from Tristan’s chest. The prince tensed. For several anxious moments the rapacious highlander eyed them hungrily as they lay twinkling in his palm.

  Tristan’s mind raced. Should he tell him about them? Or would that only pique the bastard’s curiosity and make him want them more? Hoping against hope that he was doing the right thing, Tristan remained silent. To the prince’s relief, Rafe finally let the jewel and the disc fall back to Tristan’s chest. Rafe nodded.

  “You must be royalty,” he said. “Who else would wear a medallion that carries the heraldry of the House of Galland, eh? I stand convinced. You may keep your baubles, Your Highness. I sense that they will pale in comparison with what your ransom will bring.” The highlander chieftain looked at his clansmen.

  “We ride back to camp!” he shouted. “There is much to celebrate tonight! We will bring the winged ones along, as well! Ugly as they are, they should be worth something in trade!”

  Rafe placed his face only inches from Tristan’s. “Nothing is to happen to this one,” he added quietly. “It seems he’s worth his royal weight in gold.”

  Amid his men’s shouting and cheering, Rafe prodded Tristan toward the ridge’s other side. About fifty meters away, hundreds of horses saddled with colorful tack grazed quietly on the emerald fields. When Tristan and the highlanders reached them, the prince was relieved to see Balthazar single out Shadow. To Tristan’s surprise, Rafe drew his curved dagger and cut the prince’s bonds. Rubbing his wrists, Tristan looked at Rafe curiously.

  “I’m not worried about you escaping, Your Highness,” he said. “As we ride, we will be all around you. Where can you possibly go?”

  Tristan scowled. “I see your point,” he answered angrily.

  Turning to Balthazar, Rafe heartily slapped a hand down atop his friend’s shoulder. “See to it that the winged ones are brought along,” he ordered. “Have them walk back, and be sure to bring their weapons-we can always use more. Keep the warriors bound, my friend, and do not underestimate them. We tricked them once. But by the looks of them, I would not wish to try again.”

  “On my life,” Balthazar answered.

  After grinning at the prince, Rafe said something to Balthazar in a strange language Tristan didn’t understand. Throwing his head back, Balthazar laughed hugely, his fat belly nearly popping the buttons of his riotous silk shirt.

  “Everyone mount up!” Rafe shouted. “We ride for home!”

  Under Rafe’s watchful gaze, Tristan swung up into his saddle. Shadow danced nervously for a moment before settling down. Rafe cast a greedy glance at the black stallion before mounting his dull bay mare.

  “That’s a beautiful mount!” he shouted at Tristan, his voice barely rising above the hundreds of anxiously milling horses. “I will enjoy owning him!”

  Wheeling his mare around, Rafe trotted her southeast. With hundreds of watchful highlanders surrounding him, Tristan had no choice but to also wheel Shadow around and go with them.

&n
bsp; HALF AN HOUR LATER, RAFE INCREASED THE PACE. UNFETTEREDby fences, woods, or hills, the hundreds of galloping riders struck out across an approaching field with abandon.

  Surrounded on all sides by colorful highlanders, Tristan quickly realized that Shadow was easily the equal of their horses. But even though the prince had often been called one of the best horsemen in the kingdom, he was about to be further humbled by his talented captors.

  Knowing that they were showing off largely for his benefit, Tristan watched as the highlanders started performing amazing feats of horsemanship. Some leapt from their saddles to stamp their boots against the passing ground, even as their horses kept on charging. They would then launch back into the air, easily finding their saddles again. Others took their reins in their teeth, then stood upright in their saddles to wave their swords. As Tristan watched, he noticed that aside from their other weapons, each highlander also carried a short bow and a quiver full of colorful arrows slung across his back.

  Looking ahead, Tristan saw Rafe leering back at him. Well aware that even the best Royal Guard cavalry officers had never been able to perform such feats as Rafe’s clansmen, Tristan scowled. Laughing loudly, Rafe faced forward in his saddle again then started leading the hundreds of riders in a gentle turn toward the west. Not to be outdone, Tristan dug his heels into Shadow’s flanks.

  After a few more minutes of hard charging, Tristan saw a small rise looming up ahead. Rafe headed straight for it. As they reached the top of the rise, the highlander chieftain held up one hand. Tristan and the clansmen came to an abrupt stop, allowing their horses some rest. Saying nothing, Rafe pointed toward the shallow valley lying below. As Shadow stamped and snorted beneath him, the prince looked down.

  Hundreds of highlander wagons stood quietly on the fields below, their colorful wooden wheels and canvas tops stretching far across the moonlit plains. Campfires seemed to burn everywhere, the light from their orange-red flames lighting up the night sky. The smell of pungent food came to Tristan’s nostrils, causing his stomach to growl. Seeing the camp’s huge size, he could easily believe Rafe’s claim about being the chieftain over three thousand men, women, and children.

  Turning in his saddle, Rafe waved one of his clansmen forward. Strong and fit, the fellow looked younger than most of the others. As he rode past the prince he gave Tristan a hard stare.

  “Lead them down,” Rafe ordered. “As usual, no one gains entry to the camp unless his arrow finds its mark.” Looking over at Tristan, the highlander chieftain smiled. “The prince and I will stay here and watch,” he added cryptically.

  With a nod, the young highlander wheeled his horse around to start leading the others down the slope at a full gallop. Hearing the hundreds of pounding hooves, highlander men, women, and children eagerly poured from the campsite to walk out on the plains to watch their comrades approach.

  Curious, Tristan spurred Shadow up alongside Rafe’s mare. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Rafe leaned one arm down on his saddle pommel. His eyes continually locked on the galloping clansmen, he smiled.

  “Watch and learn,” he said. “You are about to witness an old highlander custom-one designed to keep our skills honed. Any of my men who miss the target will not be allowed to eat tonight, or to sleep with his woman. It is a test of both the horses and the men. There is an old highlander saying, dango. ‘A clansman can only be as good as the horse he rides.’”

  Fascinated, Tristan watched the riders charge down the opposite side of the rise. Then he noticed something odd, lying in the distance. Narrowing his eyes, he saw what looked like several dozen straw scarecrows standing in a long line before the camp. Each one was attached to a pole that had been plunged into the ground. Between the incongruous scarecrows and the approaching riders lay a deep ravine, its depths dark in the twinkling moonlight. Such deadly ravines were not uncommon on the Farplain fields, Tristan knew. Even so, he found it odd that Rafe would choose to make camp near one.

  He watched the thundering highlanders suddenly fan out into long, disciplined lines like charging cavalry regiments, one line following behind the next. As the lines formed, the riders reached over their backs to retrieve their deeply curved bows. Then each one removed an arrow from his quiver.

  The scene bathed in the magenta moonlight was captivating. As the lines of hard-charging highlanders approached the deep ravine, each put his reins between his teeth then notched his arrow onto his bowstring. With no regard for their safety, they kept galloping onward. Should anyone’s horse fall short in his jump, death would come quickly to both horse and rider. Mesmerized by the scene, the prince couldn’t help wondering how many brave riders would die, simply because Rafe had ordered them to do this bizarre thing.

  The idea was simple enough, but would also be very difficult to accomplish. As each rider jumped the ravine, he would loose an arrow at one of the scarecrows. If his horse successfully finished the jump and the arrow found its mark, both horse and rider had proven themselves. Holding his breath, Tristan watched as the first wave of riders thundered onward.

  Dozens of arrows flew through the air as the horses leapt over the gorge. Amazingly, not one missed its mark. Flying through the air, the horses crashed down on the other side. The first wave had been successful, but there were many more to follow. Surely they could not all be so skillful, or their horses so sure, Tristan guessed.

  As wave after wave of highlanders followed, few of their arrows missed their marks. Mesmerized, Tristan could only sit atop Shadow and marvel at the plainsmen’s skill. Finally the last line charged headlong toward the ravine. Not to be outdone by the others, the highlanders shouted wildly through their clenched teeth as they chased toward the abyss. Their arrows notched and their bowstrings pulled, they started leaping their horses over the dark gorge. Just then one of the horses went down, taking another mount with him.

  Stepping into a hole dug by some burrowing plains creature, the stallion’s front leg snapped in half like a dry tree branch. Screaming wildly, the horse tumbled to the grass headfirst. Another horse stumbled over him and also went crashing to the ground. They hit hard, horses and riders skidding across the dewy grass and toward the gaping ravine. His heart in his throat, Tristan watched helplessly as the drama played out before his eyes.

  As he fell, one rider managed to dig his boot heels into the turf, slowing his momentum. He skidded to a stop at the ravine’s edge. But the other rider and the two horses weren’t so lucky. Tristan watched in horror as he realized that the second rider’s boot was caught in his saddle stirrup. His horse’s momentum carrying them unerringly toward the ravine, they tumbled over the side. Unable to regain his footing, the other horse followed.

  Tristan and Rafe heard the highlander’s distant screams for a time, then all went silent. As their horses pawed the ground and the spectators from the camp anxiously rushed toward the ravine, the once-cheering highlander riders respectfully went quiet.

  Tristan’s admiration quickly turned to anger. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was unnecessary loss of life. He glared at Rafe.

  “Tell me,” he growled. “Was it worth that?”

  Sighing, Rafe did not turn to look at him. “It is our way, dango, ” he said quietly. “If there is a need to explain it to you, then it is something you would never understand.”

  Finally Rafe turned, his dark eyes pouring into Tristan’s. “Follow me,” he ordered simply.

  Without hesitation Rafe started galloping down the hill toward the highlander who had been spared. Tristan followed. With one fluid movement Rafe grasped the man’s outstretched hand, then hoisted him up onto his horse’s back, just behind his saddle. With his last clansman secured, Rafe led Tristan safely around the ravine’s far end.

  Slowing their horses, they trotted quietly into the highlander camp. Before every wagon, a campfire burned cheerfully. Black pots hung over many of the campfires, their steaming contents sending delicious aromas into the air. As Tristan looked around he sa
w Rafe’s horsemen return to their wagons to be eagerly greeted by their loved ones. Pleasant but odd-sounding music filled the air, sometimes interrupted by the squeals of playful children. Although he was Rafe’s captive, Tristan found the carnival-like atmosphere fascinating.

  Aside from their exotic clothes and jewelry, most of the women he saw looked quite ordinary. But some were positively ravishing, with dark, seductive eyes, hourglass figures, and long, dark hair hanging to their waists. As he rode by, several of them gave him glances that clearly spoke of sexual curiosity, mixed with an animal-like wariness.

  As Tristan accompanied Rafe deeper into the camp, the happy children stopped playing. The highlander men and women looked warily at him from their seats around their fires and from the shadows formed by the canvas wagon tops while the camp elders talked among themselves urgently, using the hushed, guarded tones of their secret language. Greed showing in their eyes, some pointed brazenly at the shiny silver bits adorning Tristan’s black saddle and bridle.

  Who is this person Rafe has brought into our midst? Tristan could almost hear them asking. Aside from his saddle, he does not look rich. No outsider ventures willingly into a highlander camp, unless he wants to be robbed. How can he be so stupid?

  Turning his mare left, Rafe led Tristan toward the camp’s center. The cleared area was large and encircled by wagons. The wagons’ stern ends faced the clearing’s center, and their doors had been lowered, their insides showing bedsheets, blankets, and pillows. More tasseled pillows lay on the ground before the wagons, with highlanders reclining on them. A large bonfire burned merrily in the area’s center. The highlanders eyed Tristan warily as they watched him ride into their midst.