by R. T. Kaelin
For Rhohn and Tiliah, however, this year’s rainy season was more curse than blessing. For over a week, storms came at least once a day, drenching the world—and them—in steady, driving downpours. Rhohn’s clothes had not been dry since the day he found Tiliah. His damp skin had been rubbed raw in a half-dozen places, chaffing with each plodding step of their horse. Tiliah had fared better than he had, her thin dress drying quickly once the rains stopped.
For Rhohn, though, the worst part of the daily storms was the fact the rain kept the ground moist, soft, and ripe for tracks. He squirmed with each squish of horse hoof sinking into the mud, confident the slavers were trailing them in an attempt to retrieve the black gem. Rhohn had wanted to be rid of the stone by now, but they had yet to find any place where they could trade it. The two villages they had come across were deserted. If Tiliah were to be believed, their luck might soon change.
Yesterday afternoon, she announced with certainty that they were now in the Marshlands Duchy. As he had never been this far east, Rhohn had no way of refuting her claim. The land certainly looked different. Waist-high brown grass still dominated the landscape, yet strange bushes—some the size of their horse—dotted the area as well, their thick stems sticking straight up like a staff from the bush’s center and covered with white flowers the size of his fist.
Mu’s orb hung high in the sky behind them, doing its best to dry the land before the next storm arrived. If the past few days’ pattern held true, another round of rain would come this evening. The towering, voluminous clouds filling the sky were still white. The heavy gray ones would come later.
Rhohn stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the eastern horizon. Neither he nor Tiliah had said much of anything since midday, their weariness muting any conversation. He had set a hard pace, doing his best to keep distance between him and the slavers. They stopped to sleep only when they were in danger of falling off the horse.
His eyelids were drooping closed when Tiliah shifted her weight behind him and broke the afternoon’s solitude.
“I’m hungry.”
Rhohn sighed. He had known this was coming.
Despite careful rationing, their supply of dried meat had run out last night. The burlap bag was still tucked snuggly into Rhohn’s belt, holding only the leather pouch and black stone.
He remained quiet, praying the single mumbled complaint might be the end of it. His silent plea would go unanswered.
“Hey. Did you hear me?”
Leaving her left arm wrapped around his midsection, Tiliah lifted her right and jabbed him sharply in the ribs. He winced, but kept his mouth shut. He did not want to talk. Tiliah proceeded to tap her finger on his sternum.
“Are you asleep?”
“No,” grumbled Rhohn. “And stop poking me.”
She complied, dropping her hand back to his thigh.
“Did you hear what I said, Mud Man? I’m hungry.”
“I heard you just fine. I was ignoring you.”
She placed her chin on the back of his right shoulder.
“Surely you’re hungry, too?”
Rhohn gave a noncommittal grunt in response. He had been trying hard not to think about his empty stomach.
Tiliah asked, “Does that mean you’re hungry or not?”
Rhohn groaned inwardly. Unless he had something important to say, he kept his mouth closed. Tiliah had proven to be the opposite sort of soul. If left to it, she would talk all day. Worse, she expected him to engage and forced him to converse, clawing words from him when he had none to give.
Tiliah asked casually, “What’s your favorite dish? Mine is—”
“Hells, Tiliah!” exclaimed Rhohn, his patience cracking. “I don’t want to talk about food! Yes, I am hungry. But I am trying to ignore it. So, just this once, keep your blasted tongue to yourself!”
A moment of quiet passed, long enough that he was starting to think she might actually comply. Then she spoke.
“I’m curious, Mud Man. How hot was the fire?”
His brow furrowed, he twisted halfway around in his saddle.
“Pardon?”
“The fire that did this—” She reached up and ran her fingers over the scars on his cheeks, lightly brushing the hole where his ear had once been and causing him to yank away. “Was it so hot that it scarred your heart as well as your skin, searing away your ability to be pleasant?”
Her words were like a punch to the gut, knocking Rhohn’s irritation right out of him. This was the first time she had ever acknowledged his deformities. Dropping chin to chest, he stared blankly at the grass as it passed.
“That was harsh.”
“Well, you were being boorish. So, I thought I’d give it a try.”
He stewed a moment or two longer before realizing Tiliah had a point. Without looking up, he muttered, “I apologize for my outburst.”
“Good. You should.”
He waited, expecting an apology in response. When none came, he lifted his head.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Will you say you are sorry as well?”
An amused chuckle slipped from Tiliah.
“For what? Teaching you manners? I’m waiting for a thank you.”
The corners of his lips curled up a fraction.
“Yes, well…you will be waiting awhile.”
Patting him on his back, she said, “That’s fine, Mud Man. As it turns out, I have little else to do but wait.”
Rhohn turned his head forward and stared east.
“I was starting to think you had not noticed my scars.”
“I would have to be blind not to.”
Grimacing at her bluntness, he said, “You did not stare when we met. Most people do.”
“Most people have not spent weeks treating maimed soldiers in Gobas. Your scars are nothing. Be grateful you have them.”
Rhohn’s eyes narrowed.
“If that is a jest, it is a poor one.”
“It’s no jest,” said Tiliah. “Thank Greya for your fate, Mud Man. You are alive.” A sad, hollow note entered her voice. “Many are not.”
Rhohn stared at the eastern horizon, where azure and white met dusty tan. After a few moments, he asked, “You are thinking of your brother again, aren’t you?”
A long pause separated question and answer, filled only by the rustle of wind in the grass and squelching of hooves in wet mud.
“Perhaps.”
Tiliah had shared how her older brother had journeyed west, planning to help repel the invaders. While Rhohn respected the man’s bravery, he found Zecus’ action to be a foolish one.
Tiliah was quiet for another dozen steps of their horse. When she spoke again, her tone was wistful, quiet.
“I wish you could have met him, Mud Man.”
Rhohn pressed his lips together and, for some reason, he found himself offering encouragement.
“Do not speak of him as though he is passed, Tiliah. He could very well be alive.”
The prospect was unlikely, but he did not like hearing Tiliah so despondent. Fully aware that he was spreading false hope, a tiny, bemused grin touched his lips. Were Silas here, his friend would not hesitate to point out his hypocrisy.
A sad, dejected huff slipped from Tiliah. “I saw the army outside of Gobas, Mud Man. If Zecus faced that…” She trailed off and went quiet.
Rhohn did not know what else to say, so he chose to remain silent. Several dozen plodding steps of the horse later, she shifted again, her hair tickling the back of his neck.
“You know, in some ways, you rather remind me of Zecus. My father, too.”
The realization almost sounded as if it bothered her. Twisting around, he said, “I shall judge for myself when I meet them.” He stared ahead again. “Perhaps your father will have returned from his pilgrimage by the time we reach Demetus?”
“I very much doubt that.”
Rhohn frowned. Tiliah was growing more despondent by the moment. He was not helping matters in
the slightest, yet he pressed on.
“War has not yet reached the east, Tiliah. The lands there are still safe. Your father will return and find you.”
“Sorry, Mud Man. Too many things have gone wrong for me to believe any could go right.”
Summoning forth a false sense of confidence, he said, “Tiliah, look at everything you have been through since you left Demetus. Through it all, you persevered. You survived. I have to think that the man who sired such a determined soul can manage to ride a horse to Freehaven and back.”
He expected a response, but none came. Their horse trod into an extended puddle of muddy slop, splattering their legs with even more of the wet, dirty muck. Rhohn’s boots were already covered with the gunk.
As they emerged from the puddle, Tiliah reached up and patted him lightly on his chest.
“You are a good person, Mud Man.”
Rhohn smiled.
“I don’t know about that, but I will—”
He cut off as their horse suddenly lurched sideways while loosing a low, panicked nicker. Rhohn instinctively gripped their mount’s sides with his knees and yanked on the makeshift rope reins. Tiliah squeezed his waist, let out a short, startled cry, followed quickly with a worried question.
“What is it?”
Rhohn ignored her as he labored to bring the horse under control. The mare was strong, however, having had a steady diet of grass and water, and fought Rhohn, breaking into a trot on her own accord. Scanning the ground around them, Rhohn looked for what had spooked her. Nothing stood out. He studied the nearby grass, praying that another razorfiend had not found them. Still nothing.
He was about to attribute the entire experience to a skittish horse in a strange land when a lone, wolf-like howl cut through the air, shredding the afternoon’s peace and sending a shiver up Rhohn’s spine. He recognized the call in an instant and Tiliah’s shouts confirmed it.
“Mongrels! Mongrels are behind us!”
No longer interested in slowing their horse, Rhohn kicked his heels into the beast’s sides. The gesture was unnecessary, however, as the mare was already accelerating into a full gallop, her instincts a step ahead of his order.
The howl rose and fell before cutting off. An instant later, a second cry answered the first, coming from a decidedly different direction. Looking over his left shoulder, Rhohn searched the surrounding countryside.
“Do you see them?!”
“Two! To the southwest!”
As he twisted back around to look, he caught a blur of dark brown behind them and to the north. A third mongrel was rushing through the grass, heading straight for them.
“Hells!”
As he stared at it, the third beast opened its jaws and howled. Their horse swerved abruptly to the right, nearly tossing both riders in the process. He gripped the mane of the horse to hold on, eliciting a sharp whinny of pain from the mare. Tiliah squeezed him just as hard. As he righted himself, he spotted a fourth mongrel—this one a shadowy gray—charging them from the northeast. It howled, forcing the horse to change direction again.
A sick, sour taste filled Rhohn’s mouth as he realized what was happening: they were being herded. Facing straight ahead, he scanned the grasses and shrubs, studying every large bush, every grass thicket. It only took a moment before his gaze settled on a green and white variegated bush a few hundred paces ahead. His heart climbed into his throat.
A fifth mongrel was waiting patiently, squatting beside the bush, its brown fur peeking through the leaves. Rhohn tried tugging on the ropes, hoping to turn the horse away from the bush, but the mare was not going to take direction from him. Blind fear of the mongrels she knew about was driving her straight to the one she did not.
Tiliah called out from behind, “Gods, they’re fast!”
Looking to his right, he saw that the first two were less than a few hundred paces from them, loping on all fours, teeth bared. The ones to the north were even closer, especially the gray one.
Unable to do anything else, Rhohn wrapped the rope around his right hand and gripped the hilt to his Dust Man blade with his left. Somehow, despite the horse’s jarring gallop, he managed to draw the sword free from the scabbard without cutting or stabbing himself.
Tiliah screamed, “What are you—” Her cry cut off sharply, only to be followed a moment later by a sickened, “Oh, Hells.”
Rhohn guessed she saw the hidden mongrel. Squeezing his sword tight, Rhohn readied himself. To do what, he did not know. Riding at a full gallop toward one mongrel while being chased by four others had never been covered in his Dust Man training.
He kept his gaze on the mongrel straight-ahead while his mind sought a solution to an impossible situation. As he stared, the mongrel behind the bush pulled down a branch and glared back, its yellow eyes peering over a brown and white muzzle.
For a brief moment, it was as if time stopped.
“No…”
Rhohn told himself it was impossible, but the markings were identical. It was Okollu.
Suddenly, the mongrel bolted from the bush and charged them. The terrified horse finally spotted the lurking beast, whinnied sharply, and attempted to stop but ended up sliding through the mud and slick grass. Rhohn toppled forward, lost hold of the rope, and tried to grab the neck of the horse as he flipped over the mare’s head. He failed and flew through the air, dropping his sword in the process.
He heard Tiliah scream before he crashed to the softened ground, landing hard on his right side. Air exploded from his lungs, his face smacked hard into a shallow mud puddle.
The horse loosed another frightened squeal, one that came from right above him. Looking up, he saw the mare—its back bare now—towering over him, reared on its hind legs. Just before the front hooves crashed into the earth, he rolled away, tumbling through grass and mud. After a few revolutions, he stopped, ending on his back and staring into the cloud-strewn sky. A blur of brown fur rushed over him and something hard struck him in the chest.
A voice, thick and wet, whispered, “Stand up, smooth-face! Quickly!”
Glancing down, Rhohn saw his Dust Man blade lying across his stomach. Thoroughly confused, he grabbed the hilt and scrambled up as their horse screamed. Looking over, he found Okollu in the midst of clamping his jaws on the animal’s neck. Blood rushed from the bite, coloring horse and mongrel crimson. The muscles in Okollu’s neck and back bulged as it ripped backwards, tearing a chunk of flesh from the horse’s throat. The beast turned his head and spat the mouthful of meat to the ground.
Spotting Tiliah lying in the grass, dangerously close to the dancing legs of the doomed horse, Rhohn pushed himself from the ground, ran over, and grabbed her arm with his maimed hand. Backpedaling, he dragged her limp body through mud and grass, keeping one eye on the gray mongrel racing ever closer from the northeast. When the beast was only a couple dozen paces away, Rhohn dropped Tiliah’s arm, faced the monster, and raised his sword, his heart thudding in his chest.
Moments before the mongrel reached Rhohn, Okollu abruptly sprang back from the horse, reached out, and grabbed the beast’s furry, gray scruff along its neck. It stopped almost instantly, its head snapping backward to expose a lone stripe of white running from jaw to chest. Quicker than a lightning flash, Okollu drew a hand across the mongrel’s exposed neck, a bone-handle dagger gripped in its hand. A torrent of bright red blood poured down the beast’s chest.
Rhohn stared, stunned, as Okollu shoved the wide-eyed mongrel toward him. The beast, its hands clasped over its bloody throat, stumbled toward Rhohn. Recovering from his shock, Rhohn lashed out with his thin blade, jamming the tip into the mongrel’s chest. The sword bent slightly, piercing flesh, slipping past thick chest muscles, and bursting through the beast’s back. Blood from the neck wound spurted over Rhohn. It was hot and smelled like a freshly sharpened dagger blade.
As the mongrel collapsed to the ground, Rhohn tried to yank his sword free but found it stuck. He stumbled forward, holding onto the hilt as the beast crumpl
ed over to land beside Tiliah. Rhohn stepped on its chest and, with both arms, ripped the sword free.
Whirling around, he watched Okollu take another bite from the horse’s neck. The mare—no longer whinnying—took two last, unsteady steps before its legs buckled. Collapsing to the ground, the horse rolled to its side. She was not dead yet, but soon would be.
Okollu turned to face him, standing upright, the dagger from before jammed into a leather harness around the mongrel’s waist. The beast’s yellow eyes locked onto Rhohn and it spoke in a low, gruff voice.
“I will end the two males. The female is yours.”
As Rhohn stared blankly at Okollu, baffled as to what was happening, the mongrel drew back its lips, bared its teeth, and began growling. The ferocious snarl sounded sincere, but the threat in Okollu’s voice never reached the mongrel’s eyes.
His gaze shot back to the remaining three mongrels. Two approached from the left—one gray and the other brown like Okollu but without the white markings. Rich auburn fur covered the third monster’s body, a black patch on its face. Rhohn repeatedly glanced between the three, trying to mark which one was female. They all looked the same to him.
As they neared, the three mongrels joined Okollu’s growl. The auburn one stopped by the dying horse—ten paces to Okollu’s left—bent down, and sniffed. The other pair halted on Okollu’s right, further away. All three stared between Rhohn and the corpse of the dead mongrel, unadulterated hate filling their eyes. It took him a moment to realize that the mare must have blocked Okollu’s attack from their view. They blamed Rhohn for the gray mongrel’s death.
Okollu, eyes flaring wide, barked, “You have something that does not belong to you!”
Other than his sword and his clothes, the only thing Rhohn had in his possession was the pouch with the stone. Glancing down at the bag tucked into his belt, he pulled the bag free.
