War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  But the long lances of the Blackhand’s guards dissuaded him from attacking. He took a last look at the great dark cavern. In the torchlight he saw a lifetime’s worth of plunder, gold and jewels and weapons in careless heaps. Three fat wenches lay on furs behind the throne, and soon all of this would belong to him. He could wait a few hours.

  Gutcrusher and his band turned about and walked through the long passages back toward the outer ruins, careless of their backs. He knew the Blackhand didn’t have the courage to try him now, and wondered that he had ever feared him. But then, he’d been a whelp, and smart whelps feared all mature ogres. The whelps who didn’t fed crows and rats.

  “You feared to remove your armor and battle him skin to skin.” Came a voice from the darkness, and Gutcrusher saw the blood boiling shape of Azha the Fury. Even cloaked in furs her scent lingered, and it filled his veins with lust. “Tell me, pretender, do you keep it on even when you lie with a she? Or do you prefer to lie with your boyos?”

  Gutcrusher laughed in appreciation of her humor. “You cunning little bitch. Tell me where you sleep and find out.”

  “I sleep right here.” She replied, indicating a cavern near the entrance. “But you will never come, pretender. You haven’t the courage.”

  The moon was full and bright and the wind had died down when Gutcrusher doffed his armor and made his way to the cavern that night. His boyos had built a fire in the shell of a building in the ruins, and none of the whelps or lesser ogres dared to approach it. His wanting of her was a fire in his veins that would not let him sleep, and she had practically invited him to come. She was full into her second heat, and her ripeness intoxicating.

  None of the torches in this seasonal camp of the Muharl were still burning, and he had only the moon to guide him, but he fancied he could smell her still, and it was maddening. He walked across the ruins with only the moonlight to guide him, but he went unerringly toward her chamber. He crouched and crept on silent feet, his stealth a thing honed of survival in the forest itself, stalking her as he would an elk.

  He carried no weapon, but he had a knife strapped to his belt. At the entrance to the caverns a lone guard snored, but these Bloodhands were grown dull to the dangers of the night and the woods, for it had been long since anyone had dared to challenge their strength. They did not hunt and they did not hunger, for the fear of them made slaves of their shes and whelps, who brought to them all they could eat. The caves were full of dried meat and other foods, and Gutcrusher was very hungry.

  Gutcrusher smiled as he slipped past the guard, and the smell of Her grew in his nostrils and loins.

  The interior of the caverns was as dark as the shadows in the seven hells when Gutcrusher passed the threshold. He came to the bend in the wall that marked her chamber and entered fearlessly, as blind as her heat could make him. He heard her move in her furs.

  “You came.” She chuckled in rich satisfaction. “I knew you would.”

  “Of course.” He replied. “You asked me to. Make room for me wench. I’ve a gift for you.”

  “I like gifts.” She whispered, and he slid into the furs beside her. Then she put her arms around his neck and clung to him tightly, and he knew he was betrayed.

  “I have him!” She yelled into the darkness, and the Blackhand came with his fearsome black sword, and seven guards with him.

  “Treacherous little bitch!” Gutcrusher laughed, then he pulled his arms inside of hers, broke her hold and punched her in the eye, laughing all the while. “Come on then, Blackhand!” He yelled into the darkness. “Come and get me.”

  The Blackhand roared his fury and came, but his roar became a choking gurgle as Balls’ spear found his throat in the darkness. His guards were confused by the noise and the sudden spray and stench of hot blood in the air, but not so Wolf. He sprang among them, his sword swiftly and accurately finding their throats and bellies. One-eye killed the guards who came blundering into the halls and chambers nearby, lurking in a corner and waiting with his sword in hand. Ogre after ogre fell, until the floor was crammed with their bodies and the stones wet and sticky with their blood and offal.

  Sharpfang, Hammers and Moonhunter lurked at the cavern’s entrance, waiting to see if any would flee. Five did, and they died there. Butthead, Splitnose and Foesmasher prowled the ruins beyond the cavern, seeking out any bold whelps, foolish bucks or full-grown ogres who might be drawn to the scent of blood and sounds of battle, but none came.

  After the clash of arms the chambers grew silent, and Gutcrusher asked Balls to light a torch. Azha lay nude in her furs, wide-eyed and staring. The Blackhand was dead on the floor, his throat at the center of a web of blackened and putrescent flesh that disfigured his face and chest, for the venom in Balls’ spear was very potent, and the steel collar had availed him nothing.

  Gutcrusher chuckled and took his armor and spiked mace from Balls’ hand. “To answer your question, wench, I screw with my armor on. And I’m from the deep woods. We can still see in the dark, unlike you torchblind fools.”

  He ripped her father’s belly open then and danced in his guts as promised, singing out the savage war cry of his terrible people. His companions joined in and none dared interrupt. Then he threw her to the rough stone floor and took from her what he needed while she scratched and bit and screamed in vain. When he was done the first time, he put his clawed face next to hers and laughed. “Azha the Fury, you are a tricksome little liar and as sneaky as a bluesnake. You will make me a fine queen.”

  Beneath the bloated moon the Summer Camp of the Bloodhands waited in sepulchral silence while Gutcrusher sated his desires through the balance of the night. By morning Gutcrusher’s band were gathered in the dead chieftain’s chambers, and they divided his riches among them. Wolf took the Blackhand’s sword for his own, and the lesser ogres plundered his armory and the bodies of his guards, finding and equipping themselves with long spears, knives and hammers. Thirty grown Bloodhands, twenty bucks and seventeen whelps went to a knee and swore allegiance to the king, now grown bold and deadly in his strength. His queen smiled beside him, for here at last was one worthy of the sex of Azha the Fury. She might murder him one day, but today she glowed in his reflected glory like a pale and poisoned sun.

  He knew instinctively that if he bred any other shes while Azha was around, she would kill them, so he gave the three fat wenches to his three most loyal captains. Gutcrusher’s band ate their full and mated and lay fat and content among the wealth of their conquest.

  They awaited the coming of the chieftains with dire anticipation.

  Chapter 49: Tuchek, on the Northcraven Plain

  During the night they silently killed the six picket guards with precision fire from many bows and advanced under the cover of darkness. Torches conveniently placed illumined the horselines for the archers, but the horses did not die as silently as the men had. Their screams filled the night and the Auligs allotted to this task were forced to withdraw, running in the night to hide in bushes and hedges, or in the rushes at the sides of creeks and streams. Armor clad knights and lancers cursed the Auligs and the night, and ran a few down in the darkness, but this placed even more horses at risk. The horsemen were forced to pull in their picket lines and spend a sleepless night defending the rest of their horses.

  In the morning Tuchek took an accounting of their losses. ‘They kill the horses,’ he had said. ‘Kill the horse and you’ve most likely killed the man.’ These Auligs knew this, and over a hundred horses lay dead at the picket lines or had been killed during the lancers’ fruitless night time pursuit of the raiders. Celdemer walked beside Tucheck as they reviewed the slaughter, and retainers and lancers were stripping the dead animals of their tack and harness. Tuchek squatted, retrieved an arrow and spoke.

  “Cthochi arrows.” He said, examining the fletching and the stone arrowhead. “These arrowheads were all knapped by the same man.” The sun was rising and spreading golden light across a flat field of grass that extended as far as the eye could see
in every direction. The Mortentian cavalry were still packing up their tents, but the Godsknights had already done so. Well, their retainers had. As they had put them up the night before and as they had prepared breakfast for the knights.

  “And what does that tell you?” Celdemer demanded. When it had first grown light enough to see, Celdemer had been the first to walk among the dead horses, and he had silently wept for the poor beasts, angry at the Auligs for killing defenseless animals.

  “It means the raiders were all from a single band.” Tuchek replied. “I don’t know who their arrowsmith was, but these are broad tips. They use them to hunt deer. They are designed to cut skin and make the animals bleed to death, but no good against armor. Not the same as the arrows they make for killing men.”

  “You mean they killed the horses on purpose?”

  “I mean killing horses is the only reason they came.” Tuchek replied. “They didn’t come to kill us, only to cripple us.”

  “That’s impossible.” Celdemer replied hotly. “Killing one hundred horses won’t cripple us. Why would they want to do that? It was cruelty to no purpose. We still have enough horses to hunt them down.”

  “They know that.” Tuchek replied patiently. “And Ghaill Earthspeaker does nothing without purpose. They don’t mean to stop us hunting them down. I think they want us to. What they want is for us to be forced to camp here and send horsemen after them. They killed just enough of our remounts so that some of our lancers are horseless.”

  “But they’ve only killed six men, Eskeriel. We killed a dozen of them during the night, and we will probably kill another fifty today in the daylight, no matter how they run. They can’t hide from us in this.” Celdemer waved his arm around, indicating the seemingly endless grassland with almost no cover. “It makes no sense.”

  “They are Cthochi. They can hide anywhere. Besides, I don’t think they want to kill us, at least not right now. What they want is for us to stay here and chase them. There is somewhere else they don’t want us to be. Think about it. Yesterday we rushed out of camp and rode hard toward Northcraven Deep. On the way we saw farmsteads, right?”

  Celdemer agreed.

  “And goodwives and farmers in the fields. Children playing in the yards, cattle in the barns and in their pastures. Those farmers hadn’t seen an Aulig since the last war. But every one we talked to said that farms were burning to the north. So what did we do? We rode north, as fast as we could, until darkness came. Twelve hours we’ve ridden since Walcox, and not an Aulig to be seen. It’s always just a little farther north that the trouble is.”

  “Yes, and so we ride north to their relief.” Celdemer replied. “Pursuant to the King’s orders.”

  “But if the Cthochi could hit us in our camps here, why didn’t they hit the farms we passed on the way here? The last one we passed was less than two leagues from where we stand.”

  “Perhaps we’ve just now reached them.” Celdemer said testily. “Probably as we go north we will encounter more of them.”

  “I am sure we will.” Tuchek replied. “That’s what I’m telling you. They want us to keep going north.”

  “Then why bother the poor horses at all, Tuchek? Meanness, that’s why.” Celdemer’s voice was a trifle petulant, and still reflected his outrage.

  “Not meanness. They want us to go north because they are attacking south. That’s what I told you after Aelfric brought me the arrow two days ago. They mean to attack Walcox. They probably already have.”

  “And again I say that is impossible.” Celdemer replied. “There are some five thousand foot at Walcox, if you count the mercenaries. Two full musters, and more coming through.”

  “And no horse to support them.” Tuchek said, repeating an argument he’d had with Celdemer at least twice before, but the result was the same. Nothing.

  They finished surveying the camp and Tuchek mounted a fast-looking brown pony, then circled outward from the dead horses until he found the tracks of the Auligs. This alone gave him some pause. In this grass, green and regularly cropped by cattle, it would be easy enough to leave few tracks, but he found many, and these easily seen from horseback. The Auligs had lined up, probably forty of them in little bands of five or six, shot the guards first, then shot the horses. He followed their tracks for half an hour while the Godsknights and lancers breakfasted and set up a day camp. The little band he followed had circled outward from the camp and then turned north. He’d be willing to bet they had all turned north, deliberately leaving a trail that even Mortentians could follow.

  The trail was quite obvious to Tuchek, for the dullest Cthochi child could have followed it, but then the Cthochi hadn’t known he would be along. If they had, the tracks probably would have been made harder to find. Unfortunately, convincing Celdemer of this would be next to impossible. With a sigh, Tuchek left the trail and rode back to the camp.

  An hour later Tuchek was in the saddle and they were again following the Aulig trail. Celdemer rode beside him, and twenty Godsknights behind in full regalia. The remainder of the Godsknights and lancers were still in camp, sorting out the disposition of horses, for mounts were being assigned according to status. Many officers had lost their horses, and they were getting them from the signors and retainers.

  The trail had been clear for a while, for all of the little groups of Cthochi who had not been chased by horsemen in the night had rejoined each other about two miles south of camp, then made a clear trail northward. Tuchek’s opinion that it had been deliberately made was ignored. They followed it, against Tuchek’s advice, as it gradually disintegrated into about thirty-five separate trails, each individual Aulig taking a separate path toward the Redwater, about five miles to the west. These trails were not obvious, for the Cthochi were trying now to hide them, but Tuchek found one he felt he could follow, probably the trail of a young and inexperienced warrior.

  “Hold it.” Tuchek held up his hand for silence and turned his head into the wind to listen. Celdemer, riding behind, was about to speak when he heard it, too. Somewhere in the direction of the Redwater a distant drum echoed in the morning stillness. Tuchek listened, his face turning grim and pale.

  “What is it?” Celdemer demanded when the drums had ceased. “I don’t know Aulig drumspeak.”

  “It was in the common drum. What they use when one band seeks to speak with another. The Sons of the Bear are telling the Cthochi that Walcox has fallen.” The drumbeats sounded again from much farther away, the message being repeated up and down the western shore of the Redwater.

  “What do you mean fallen?” Celdemer demanded. “They’ve defeated our army there?”

  “No.” Tuchek’s face was grim. “The message was that the Sons of the Bear are victorious, the stonecutter’s city has been burned and they are hunting down survivors in the forest.”

  Celdemer looked again at Tuchek’s face in disbelief. “But that’s impossible, Eskeriel.”

  “You keep saying that.” Tuchek replied, glaring at the godsknight. His anger showed in his face for the first time that morning.

  Upon hearing the news from Tuchek, Celdemer abandoned the pursuit of the raiders immediately, and the twenty two riders turned back toward the camp, riding their horses hard. An hour later they found the camp more or less as they had left it. Half of the tents were still standing, and lancers and other godsknights were still bickering over who should have horses and who would have to march. It took another hour for Celdemer to relay the news of the fall of Walcox to the other captains and to convince them that they needed to return. By then it was noon, and the knights decided it would not do to forego their luncheon, as the cooks had taken such pains to prepare it.

  Tuchek did not have the authority to command any of these men, but he did so nonetheless, harrying their retainers into packing up the tents and preparing the army to march no later than an hour after noon. Apparently he ruffled a few feathers, for Rioman D’Stellin, the pink-cheeked knight from Fyrbig, felt it necessary to admonish him against ord
ering the knights’ retainers about. Tuchek had to sit in his saddle and take it from the man, but by the time the knights began moving toward Walcox he was fuming.

  “How about we take half of the horsemen ahead and ride back as soon as we can?” He asked Celdemer, but Celdemer would not agree.

  “I had the devil’s own time convincing them to turn around in the first place, Eskeriel. Half of them think you are in league with the enemy, and that this is some trick to keep them from relieving Northcraven. Another group thinks that if Walcox has fallen it is of little moment, and that we must still press on against the raiders between here and the city. Convincing them to divide their forces would simply be impossible.

  The column of men and horses moved at the pace of an armored man walking, with periodic breaks for various and sundry reasons, so that when dusk came they had been marching for seven hours, and had covered no more than four leagues. At this pace they would not reach Walcox for two more days, Tuchek complained to Celdemer, but there was little the godsknight could do, or would do.

  When the survivors of the battle of Walcox saw the last of the Sons of the Bear retreating, jogging northward in small bands of five or ten, most simply collapsed where they were, sitting or even lying flat and closing their eyes. The elation of victory very quickly gave way to exhaustion, and most of the soldiers closed their eyes, gave thanks to Lio that they were still alive, and slept right where they were. Aelfric asked several of the townspeople to gather what they could of the wounded and see to them, and he asked a large and imposing white haired man in the livery of Walcox to see what he could do about getting an accounting of the dead. “If you can affix names to bodies, it would be a great service to their families.” He explained. He then located the surviving members of his fyrde and they made camp. They were careful to arrange their sleeping quarters far from the Privy Fort, because it stank of burned flesh and pitch.