by Duncan Lay
‘Kacha!’ the leader boomed—or at least that was what it sounded like to Martil. Then he burrowed in a pouch and produced what looked like a package of meat, wrapped in a skin. ‘Kacha! Har?’
‘I think they’re hungry as well,’ Martil concluded. ‘We can rest here.’
In the shelter of the huge boulder sat a circle of small, blackened stones, suggesting this was a regular stop for Derthals. A pile of firewood had been set beside the circle, both thin, small sticks, and several larger chunks of wood. The leader opened a small bag, which looked like it had been made from the skin of a rabbit, and produced a handful of fine wood shavings and leaves, which he placed in the centre of the stones with due ceremony. Then the other Derthals produced a thick stick with a hole inside, and a slimmer stick. The slim stick was placed inside the hole, then one Derthal held the base steady while the other whirled the slim stick in his palms, spinning it, faster and faster. The muscles in his thick forearms bulged and writhed as he worked.
‘Geya! Geya! Geya!’ the Derthals chanted as they worked. A wisp of smoke was soon drifting out of the larger stick, while the thinner was slowly growing smaller.
Then the smaller stick was removed and the Derthal tipped glowing ash from the hole in the larger stick onto the shavings and leaves. It began to smoulder, and the leader kneeled over it, blowing gently, until suddenly the tinder flared into life. Small sticks, then larger ones, were added to the blaze until a fire was ready.
Quiller applauded and, seeing that, Merren joined in, nudging the others to follow. The Derthals grinned at them.
‘Geya! Yodum!’ the leader nodded, while his two companions speared chunks of what Martil suspected was deer meat onto long sticks, and began to roast it over the fire.
‘Fascinating!’ Quiller murmured. ‘Steel and flint would work twice as fast, but their skills are obviously advanced.’
Karia had looked outraged when she saw their lunch was being carried in the skin of a small deer, but Martil had kept her quiet with the help of an oatcake, and the smell of roasting venison soon had her ignoring her fury, and focusing on the charring meat instead.
‘Kacha?’ The leader held up several blackened sticks with their cargo of cooked meat, and offered them out.
‘I think we should take them,’ Merren said determinedly.
Following her lead, they accepted the chunks of meat, blackened on the outside but still pink inside.
‘Careful, it’s hot,’ Martil warned Karia, as she accepted a heavily laden stick enthusiastically.
After much blowing and other theatrics, Karia sat down and began ripping pieces off with her teeth. The others were already doing the same; Martil ate slowly. The venison was fresh, the meat surprisingly tender. He knew that, in order for the meat to be so tender, the prey had to be killed quickly, not chased so its muscles hardened into toughness. With no sign of bows or arrows, that meant the Derthals had killed the deer with a spear, probably from ambush. That was impressive.
He was thinking about that, and its possibilities, when he realised that Karia had wandered over to the fire, her meat already eaten, and was looking for more.
‘Can I have another one, please?’ she asked.
The Derthals, who were eating their own pieces of meat by now, looked up at her.
‘Please?’ Karia pointed to where the fire was already dying out and waving her blackened, greasy stick, on which only a fragment of deer meat remained.
The Derthals looked helplessly at their leader, who shrugged. The fire was going out, and was obviously not hot enough to cook any more.
‘Geya!’ the leader said, and one of his companions added two large handfuls of sticks to the embers and prodded hopefully. But they did not seem to catch.
Resignedly, he turned away, to where the firesticks waited, but Karia was not about to wait. She pointed at the sticks, and they burst into flame.
‘Ooo-wa!’ The closest Derthal jumped backwards in shock, and all three leaped to their feet in alarm. The expressions on their faces would have been comical, had this been a different situation.
They all started forwards at the same time and Martil was on his feet in an instant, hand on his sword hilt, but Merren held up her hand to stop him.
The leader was inspecting Karia’s fire, holding out a cautious finger, then jerking it away when it was clear this was indeed just as hot as a normal fire.
‘Yodum! Yodum!’ he gestured, pointing from the small girl to the blaze, then the three of them burst out laughing.
Martil walked over, although he kept his hand away from his sword, as the leader speared more meat on a stick and began cooking it, grinning up at Karia all the time.
‘Well done. But perhaps next time, ask me to get it for you?’ Martil said softly, keeping a smile on his face.
‘But they’re nice! They’re friendly!’
‘So far,’ Martil agreed. ‘But next time, ask!’
The grinning Derthal handed the cooked meat to Karia, then smiled at Martil. He picked up his firestick and pointed from it to himself, then pointed from Karia to Martil and back again. Then all three Derthals laughed.
‘I think he is suggesting that you bring Karia along as your firestarter.’ Quiller smiled. ‘They seem to think the notion is amusing.’
‘Very funny,’ Martil grunted, face aching with the effort of keeping a smile on his face.
Further around the boulder a drip of water formed a small pool that trickled away in a stream down the hillside. The Derthals scooped water from the pool, while Jaret refilled waterskins for the humans to drink. The water was both chilly and refreshing. Martil had grown so used to the leathery taste of water stored in a skin, or in a barrel, that this fresh water almost took his breath away.
‘Yodum, har?’ The leader nodded at Martil’s expression.
‘It is good,’ Martil agreed.
The food and drink had improved everybody’s mood considerably, as well as eased Martil’s tension. The atmosphere had definitely relaxed; even the Derthals seemed happier as they walked along. They still kept up a good pace but the terrain was getting harder and Martil was beginning to wonder if they should leave the horses.
The trail dipped a little, going through a small valley, at the centre of which was a thick wood. The Derthals pushed on ahead, although the humans had to dismount, as there were too many low branches.
‘Wait!’ Martil called.
The Derthals had got a good twenty yards ahead of them by now, but turned at Martil’s cry. The leader waved, to acknowledge he heard. Martil turned to help Karia down, then a scream made him whip around again.
The ambush had been planned perfectly. A score of Derthals hidden in the trees and undergrowth pounced on the unsuspecting guides. Martil had wondered how they would fight with the spears and he was about to receive the perfect lesson. He had to admire their skill, not only with the spears but in springing the ambush. He had been spotting ambushes for years—was only alive because of this talent—and he had not noticed anything unusual.
The attacking Derthals, these ones wearing a different type of skin, used their spears in an underhand grip, thrusting upwards, rather than down. It was horribly effective. The broad spearheads smashed through skin and bone, and when they were ripped out they sent blood spurting high into the air.
Two of the three guides were dead in a heartbeat but the leader dodged the blow aimed at him and slammed his own spear into the chest of his attacker. Before he could even draw it clear, two more Derthals had plunged their spears into him.
Then Martil had the Dragon Sword in his hand.
‘Barrett! We’re going to need you!’ he called. ‘Jaret, Wilsen, with me, we’ll cover your retreat!’
But before they could do anything, a Derthal with a headband made of what looked like wolf fur ran forwards, waving his arms. Unlike his fellows, he did not hold a spear.
‘Do not fear! We come in peace! We are friends!’ he roared.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
Martil ignored what was being said. Actions spoke louder than words and, anyway, the vicious ambush was all he needed to see.
‘Wait!’ Merren commanded. ‘We cannot just leave. Let us hear what he has to say.’
None of the other Derthals was moving forwards; they stood patiently, except for the ones dragging the four bodies off the narrow track.
Martil hesitated. His instincts were screaming for them to get out of there, although there was no obvious threat.
‘I am Chief Rath, adviser to High Chief Sacrax,’ the Derthal continued, still holding out his hands to show he had no weapon. He was now closer to Martil than he was his warriors. ‘Those three we killed were leading you to death. When I saw what they were doing, I had to stop them.’
‘You speak our language well,’ Merren called. The situation was certainly strange, but hearing words she could understand was reassuring.
‘I learned your words from your priests, like the one you have there,’ Rath called, pointing towards Quiller.
‘Why did you kill them? Why not just stop them and talk to us?’ Merren asked.
Rath smiled. ‘They all had spears. As soon as they saw us, I knew they would attack. I could not risk it. We are a people who fight better than we talk. You must have fear but please, listen.’
‘Go ahead, Rath,’ Merren instructed.
‘Word of your arrival has created much talking, much anger among my people. There are those who say you are not to be trusted—you drove us out of our land before; your deeds drip with the blood of Derthals. Others say that was many, many moons ago. That we should listen to you, it could be a new dawn for the Derthals. High Chief Sacrax wants to listen to you, but there are many who would like you dead. I found out those three traitors were meeting you. They were taking you in the wrong direction. So I brought my picked warriors to ambush them. Now I can take you to High Chief Sacrax.’
‘What of Father Alban?’ Quiller asked sharply. ‘Does he know you are here?’
Rath stared at him. ‘Father Alban is with High Chief Sacrax. He says we should listen to you, that you will bring great benefit to Derthals. But how can he see where I am now?’
‘It seems he speaks our language relatively well, but does not grasp all the complexities,’ Quiller said quietly to Merren. ‘Nevertheless, I cannot detect him telling a lie.’
‘Come with me. I will take you to High Chief Sacrax and Father Alban,’ Rath repeated. ‘We won’t let any more traitors get near you.’
‘I don’t trust him,’ Martil glowered. ‘Those three Derthals could have attacked us at any time, but didn’t.’
‘You don’t trust anyone,’ Barrett sniffed. ‘And how could three of them defeat us all? No doubt they were leading us into an ambush. But this Rath and his warriors—they could attack us, and are not doing so. They mean us no harm.’
‘They might want us in those trees, where we can’t escape or use magic,’ Martil hissed.
‘We have to keep going. We cannot give up. The Derthals are our last hope,’ Merren told them coldly. ‘We must see where this goes.’ She raised her voice so Rath, who was standing patiently a few yards away, could hear. ‘Which way are we walking?’
‘You were going in the wrong direction. We need to go over there.’ Rath pointed to the west, away from the trees.
‘Could you not just give us directions to the High Chief?’
‘I could,’ Rath admitted. ‘But then you would probably meet more traitors. There are no roads here. I cannot take the risk. High Chief Sacrax would not want me to do this.’
‘Quiller? Is he lying?’ Merren murmured. ‘Can you tell?’
Quiller kept his head very still. ‘Aroaril allows me to detect when someone is telling a lie. And what he just said was no lie.’
‘We have to keep going,’ Merren told the others quietly. ‘Failure is not an option here. And if he gets us to High Chief Sacrax, it does not matter if he has the blood of others on his hands.’
‘This feels wrong,’ Martil insisted.
‘There is no other way,’ Merren said bleakly. ‘You told me so yourself.’ Again she raised her voice, to include Rath. ‘Lead on, and we will follow.’
Rath grinned and then waved to his warriors. ‘This is the right choice for both our people.’
His warriors had used bunches of leaves to clean their spears and faces of blood, but some still had blood spattered on their skins. Unlike the three deer-clad guides, these warriors looked to have plenty of wolf fur decorating their crude tunics.
‘I will walk with you so you know we are not going into another ambush. I am unarmed,’ Rath offered. ‘Also, we can speak about our people.’
Even Martil grudgingly admitted that they were unlikely to be heading into a trap if Rath was offering to stay with them.
The Derthals led them off in a different direction, creating their own path until, after a few miles, they struck another, running more west than north. Like their previous guides, the warriors marched in silence, most of them not even bothering to look over their shoulders at the curious humans riding behind.
Rath, however, was eager to talk. He was fascinated by Karia and charmed her; he smiled often and was obviously friendly. Martil disliked him immediately.
‘When I learned to speak your words, I told my father it was useless, that I would never use them.’ Rath smiled. ‘I did not dream that one day I would need all these words, and more, to speak to you!’
‘Was your father a chief, also?’ Quiller asked.
‘My father was a mighty chief; he could have been High Chief, except Chief Sacrax was the stronger of the two.’ Rath shrugged. ‘So now I work for my people.’
‘So do most Derthals hate us?’ Merren asked.
Rath seemed to think about that for a moment. ‘Do you hate the snow? The wind? You do not like them, for life would be sweeter without them, but Derthals do not hate others. We do what we must to survive up here, to keep our people alive.’
‘How bad is it in winter?’ Martil asked.
‘Snow covers the ground; prey is hard to find, the old and the young die easily,’ Rath said coolly. ‘But we live.’
‘Tell me,’ Barrett said, ‘what is the meaning of the word “kacha”?’ He stumbled over the guttural sounds.
‘Hunger, a desire to eat,’ Rath replied casually.
‘And “yodum”?’
‘Something yodum is good.’
‘“Geya” would be fire?’
‘Har—yes,’ Rath agreed.
‘It is a fascinating language,’ Barrett marvelled.
‘It is words for hunting, for fighting and for survival,’ Rath dismissed. ‘Your words are so much more, words that do not always mean the same thing. It allows the speaker to say one thing and mean something else. It is good to have these words but is also why many Derthals do not trust you.’
‘But will those Derthals obey the High Chief, if he orders them to help us?’ Barrett asked.
Merren tried to silence him with a glare but it was too late, the words were out.
‘So you seek our help?’ Rath said wonderingly. ‘I thought as much. I could not believe you were here to right old wrongs.’
‘Will they obey the High Chief?’ Merren pressed, hoping to at least get that answer.
‘Of course. We do not disobey the High Chief. But he has not said we are to help you yet. He has only said you must be brought to him, so he can speak to you. That is why you are in danger.’
Barrett opened his mouth to ask another question but this time Merren’s glare struck him before he could speak, and he subsided. They rode on in silence, rounding a bend in the trail to see another patch of thick wood below.
‘How much further is it?’ Martil asked. He had been watching their progress against the mountains. Unlike their previous guides, who had taken them towards the high peaks, Rath was leading them no closer. He spotted another of those giant birds, swooping away in the distance. Or perhaps it was the same one. He thought of asking
Rath about it, but decided not to.
‘Not far,’ Rath said casually. ‘There is a test you must pass before you can go and see the High Chief.’
Now they were riding down through the wood; it was not large, perhaps the size of three fields, but Martil was comparing it to the forest where Rath and his warriors had prepared a brutal ambush.
‘Test, what test?’ Merren demanded.
‘I will show you.’ Rath gestured to his warriors, who loped off through the wood.
Martil noticed they moved almost silently through the undergrowth. But the hair on the back of his neck was up, and the Dragon Sword was in his hand before he thought about it.
‘If you plan another ambush, you will not live to see the result,’ he growled.
‘I plan an ambush, but not on you. I need you to help me do something before we see High Chief Sacrax,’ Rath said simply.
‘Tell us what you want,’ Merren commanded.
Rath pointed through the wood, to where a trickle of smoke could be seen.
‘There is a small village of traitors in there. I am going to attack it, and you will help me.’
‘What?’ Merren exclaimed.
‘After killing and burning my people out of their homes, making us live here, you come now, saying you want our help. That you will give us back what you stole from us in the first place, if only we will do something for you. Forgive us if we do not trust those words, or rush to help you. We know you can say pretty words. We want to see if your actions meet your words before the High Chief decides if we will help you.’
Martil felt they were seeing the true Rath now. His eyes blazed and he seemed taller than his actual height.
‘So help me destroy this settlement, then we shall travel to see the High Chief and he can judge for himself the value of your words against your actions.’
‘Destroy a village?’ Martil spat.
‘Do you want our help? I tell you this village must be destroyed before you see the High Chief. He must know what you are prepared to do!’
Merren glanced towards Quiller who shrugged. ‘Not a lie,’ he mouthed. She glanced at Barrett, who closed his eyes. She hesitated, then the mage nodded.
