Defenders of the Valley

by K. J. Coble

  Sarcha sat back, holding the suggestion in her face but apprising the man. Perhaps the old sod was not as foolish as many had led her to believe. “A direct man.” She nodded. “Very well. Profit brings me here—” she flicked her eyebrows “—profit I’d be willing to share.”

  Vennitius’ eyes narrowed. “What sort of profit?”

  Sarcha paused, calculating how much she could afford to give away. “Through sources I must keep to myself, I have acquired a handful of ancient artifacts. Amongst them is a map dated to the early Thyrrian Republic – perhaps earlier.”

  “Earlier?” Vennitius sat up straight, breaking the contact between them. “Vullian?”

  The name of the ancient civilization hung in the air like the darkest of blasphemes. A log tumbled in the hearth with a crackle and a puffball of sparks.

  “The script is definitely Thyrrian,” Sarcha said, “but could be pre-Republic, perhaps during the last days of the Great Tyrants. Either way, it suggests ruins in the Labyrinthine Mountains of the southeastern Valley.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me when I say that I am not permitted,” Sarcha replied, wondering if she’d already revealed too much.

  “Not permitted...” Vennitius stiffened. “Who sent you?”

  Sarcha leaned back, further opening the distance between them. A dagger pressed against her left shoulder, strapped to her back and easily reached by the same motion that would appear to be her undoing her gown. But if she had to kill the Remordan Valley Strategos, here in his own sanctum, that would complicate her schemes far more than she wanted to think.

  “No one sent me,” she said in a voice suggesting hurt. “And the fools from whom I obtained the document had no idea what they had in their grasp.” She tossed her head haughtily and looked away. “Certainly, a man of intelligence understands the need for secrecy in dealing with such...controversial matters.”

  Vennitius opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes went again to her form, to a leg left bare all the way up to the hip. He sighed and the tension about him eased as he slid close to her again. “I apologize for any offense, my lady. I’m an old man, as I have said, and serving all these years in this inhospitable clime has chilled my finer sensibilities.” He slid a hand over her thigh. “What is it, then, that I can do for you?”

  Sarcha feigned momentary cool. “Other than the assurance that my activities will go unnoticed – for obvious reasons – I need a mining party, one I can trust.”

  Vennitius rubbed her leg. “Then I’d have to suggest the Norothar Dwarves. With recent economic downturns and the over-mining of the Red Hills, their numbers have dwindled and they’re on the brink of poverty. They’d be eager for any chance at new riches.” He smiled. “And those that remain in the hills show little of their ancestors’ loyalty to the finer points of the empire – they’d keep your secret.”

  “Good,” Sarcha said, allowing him to run his fat fingers along her ribs, towards the ties that would loosen her garments. “Now...what will it take for you to keep my secret?”

  Vennitius popped a tie and leaned into her, kissing her neck. “I want ten thousand in gold cisterces.”

  Sarcha shoved him back, playfully, but meeting his gaze with serious eyes. “You will have five thousand, and a percentage of the take from the mining operation.”

  Vennitius shook his head. “Ten thousand, up front, and I want no part of whatever foulness you find in those ruins.”

  “Mmmm...” Sarcha kissed him deeply then breathed into his mouth, “You should rethink that.”

  “I don’t think so,” the Strategos replied. “In fact, it’s you who ought to rethink things, my lady. Relics of the Vullian Age have surfaced among many civilizations in the ages since their fall, always to the woe of those societies. Stories abound of curses, of deviltry, and of disaster.”

  “And of riches beyond counting,” Sarcha said, her perfectly manicured nails scrawling across his stubbled cheek. “And power...”

  Vennitius offered her a little smile devoid of warmth, a tinge of melancholy filling glassy eyes. “Perhaps I have grown old and feeble,” he said, “but at my age, such things bought at the cost of my soul hold little value...”

  DODSO LEANED BACK IN his seat as he drained another ale. The gnome’s beard matting with foam, he slammed the mug down onto the patio table. Behind him, Teelee collected trays while Muddle smoked a gnarled pipe and leaned by the door. Dodso was the last of the Loving Imp’s patrons, as usual.

  Vohl pulled a cloak tight about his shoulders against the midnight cool. “You’re an idiot,” he told the gnome.

  Dodso guffawed. “Oh, it didn’t hurt Vennitius’ favorite ass-kisser any to have his feathers ruffled.”

  “He called out the guard on you!”

  Dodso shrugged. “They didn’t stay—”

  “And he brought them to my place!” Vohl leaned over the table, jabbing a finger towards the gnome. “Dodso, Vennitius is scrutinizing my affairs enough as it is and this is attention I don’t need. Damn it, you ferret, the whole reason we settled here was because we found a place where a man could make a living without the Empire suffocating us!”

  “The Empire, the Empire...” Dodso waved a dismissive hand. “You know, we don’t need them.”

  Vohl shook his head. “Aigann was right; enough of that talk.”

  “We don’t!” Dodso held his hands high, as if addressing the crowd again. “We’re nothing to them now but a source of revenue. The fat-cats in Thyrr don’t give a damn about us. They don’t give a damn if the whole frontier folds, so long as they have the cash for tribute to the Ozerians and the Khanates or can afford mercenaries to hold the capitol and the heartlands. We – the whole Valley – could strike out on our own!”

  Vohl leaned back in his chair, arms folding. “Now I know you’ve had too much to drink.”

  “Am I supposed to remain silent in the face of tyranny?” Dodso put his hands to his breast, feigning outrage that tendrils of ale-soaked beard belied. “I am the Speaker for my people, my clan, am I not?”

  “They made you Speaker because it was the best way to keep you out of Kobolon four months out of the year.” Vohl frowned. “Which reminds me: what are you doing here? The Assembly isn’t in session again until Mid Summer’s Eve.”

  “Maybe I was bored.” Dodso’s grin split the patch of froth over his lips. “Maybe I missed you, Vohl.”

  “Four wives don’t keep things interesting?”

  “Five now,” Dodso replied with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. “I got married again, this winter.”

  Vohl glanced at Muddle, who blew a puff of smoke that hid the half-breed’s snort. “Oh, I see,” Vohl said, grinning.

  “Bah!” Dodso gripped his mug and rapped it on the tabletop. “Have one of your skinny waifs bring me another!”

  Teelee glanced at Vohl who shook his head. “I think you’ve had enough,” he said.

  “Some friend, you are!”

  “The best you’ve ever had.” Vohl let his tone go serious. “So, you’re here to avoid trouble and, instead, you bring it to my front door.”

  Dodso’s smile fell somewhat, a hint of warmth leaving his coal black eyes. “You really think that rat, Aigann, means to make trouble for us?”

  “Finally sinking in, is it?” Vohl asked, perhaps a little too sharply. “Look, he has his little schemes—like the rest us—that don’t bear close examination. You returning early probably upset one of them. He’ll be watching you now, day and night.”

  Dodso stared into the empty mug with eyes gone glassy, knobby fingers playing about its handle. “Perhaps I should hit the road, then. I don’t want to be causing you boys any trouble.”

  Vohl groaned inwardly. Dodso and his theatric gestures. “It’s not like that. Really. Look...maybe you’d like to join Muddle and I.” Vohl glanced at the half-hobgoblin, saw the brute straighten up and begin waving his arms in an obvious and emphatic “no”. Another argument
we’ll have...but later. “We’re making our annual trip up the river to Threshold,” Vohl continued, “to trade wool and wine for Glittran spices and...well...various other odds and ends.”

  Dodso’s bushy white eyebrows arched. “I want no part of your black-market trade.”

  “The trouble-maker criticizes me?” Vohl laughed. “Look, we sell most of it to Jayce Zerron on our way back down, anyway.”

  “If that wizard’s involved, I want no part of it!”

  “That wizard is as good a friend to me as you are, gnome,” Vohl said, still chuckling but with a slight edge.

  “He’s trouble.”

  “As I said before, you’d know.”

  Dodso pursed his lips. “All right. But I don’t want to see or hear anything about whatever it is you reprobates do up there.”

  Vohl rocked his chair back on its rear legs, satisfied. “It’ll get you out of town a few weeks and give things a little time to cool down.”

  “Fine...fine...” Dodso lifted his mug and gave it a hopeful shake. “Now, can I have another drink?”

  Chapter Two

  Shadows and Saviors

  Having reached a wood-shrouded creek at dawn, Illah brought bloody Whisper to a halt and slid from the saddle. Touching the ground sent lances of agony up her battered legs and drove a groan from split lips. She sagged to her knees and finally let the pain and horror she’d suppressed for nearly two days rush over her, quiet sobs lost in the babble of the water.

  After a time, Illah dragged herself to the creek and cupped her hands into it for a drink. Fresh blood streaked the surface. She ignored it for a moment and sipped, the spring-fed brook tasting of purity and life. Taking strength from its unspoiled chill, she sat up and splashed her face. With a sleeve she wiped away black-brown clots, hissed as the motion set her broken nose and battered cheek to throbbing. She put a hand to the bandages bound about her torso and lifted it away, the fingertips spotted with bright red. The slash across her ribs needed cleaning and fresh rags.

  Whisper nudged her shoulder and neighed in soft concern.

  “It’s all right,” Illah told the animal, patting her velvety muzzle. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  The horse backed away, snorting as if she didn’t believe, and nosed about in the undergrowth for something to eat. Illah winced as she appraised Whisper’s wounds. The fighting had been bad enough, but their flight through brambles and briar-choked forest had left the mount’s foamed flanks cross-hatched with blood. She struggled to her feet to see to feeding the steed, wincing again as the pain of dozens of minor injuries merged into a single ache that nearly sent her to the ground again. Mastering her body, breathing Yntuil mantras of relaxation and focus, Illah limped to Whisper’s side and fished into a saddlebag.

  With Whisper munching feed, Illah returned to the creek and began peeling away soiled strips to clean her wounds, starting with the cut on the side of her head and moving on to the gash on her torso. Fresh sunlight speckled dew-damp leaves and tree trunks, glimmered across the water in flecks that pained Illah’s blurred vision. She’d lost much blood and could feel the light-headedness that warns of blackout. She paused to center herself again, whispering the chants of calm drilled into her by mentors in the Order.

  The faces of the dead came to haunt her numb thoughts and drive home questions and disbelief. Why? Why did he do it? Why did he betray us?

  Lonadiel’s visage, cold and mocking, obscured the others. He’d never been happy with the directives of the Order, had always argued that the strong should lead the weak, not protect them—coddle them, as he had put it. She’d heard the whispers when he was not around, that he’d been posted to the backwater of the Remordan Valley as punishment for his outspoken and reckless ways.

  Illah wondered what the others would’ve whispered behind her back had they known about the two of them, the forbidden things they shared.

  Maybe they had known.

  Illah sucked in a breath. Had they? Had someone found them out and this had been Lonadiel’s way of protecting me? By Hyrus and the other gods, had he done this for me? Was it my fault?

  The air hissed. Whisper reared with a shriek of pain. Illah spun in time to see the blur of sling-cast bullets punching into the horse’s side, one glancing off her muzzle in a spray of pinkish blood-mucous. The steed twisted in midair and fell.

  Illah erupted to her feet. A stone warbled past her ear, ricocheted off a tree in a speckle of bark. Whisper rolled away from her, hooves clawing the air. The packs came loose but tangled under the horse’s mass. Illah leaned in, reached for her saber, still sheathed, and got her hand about the grip. A stone crashed into her left shoulder blade, spun her halfway around. One of Whisper’s flailing legs slammed into her head, rocking her completely about, but with the saber drawn free.

  Skinners burst from the forest. One charged straight in, thinking to catch her as she was still wobbling. She blocked the overhand chop of the brute’s hand-axe and pivoted as his reckless motion carried him past, slashing right and low, her blade passing through the rear of his knee. He flopped onto his back with a scream of pain, lower leg dangling from the rest by tags of sinew.

  Out of the corner of her eye Illah saw a second barbarian looming behind her, sword raised for a two-handed hack. She flipped her saber and stabbed under the crook of her left arm, the Skinner’s wild approach impaling him upon its point. In front of Illah, another Skinner emerged from underbrush with his arm whipped back, ready to cast another sling-stone. She dropped as he released and the bullet zipped over her to take the gut-stabbed barbarian in the forehead with a thock of caved-in skull.

  The struck barbarian’s fall having freed her saber, Illah charged the sling-armed Skinner. This one, too young to have claimed an enemy’s face to sheath the scrabble of his first beard fumbled for the club dangling at his animal-hide belt. Yntuil steel punched through his sternum to cleave his heart and ensure peach-fuzz would never thicken into the traditional babarian mane.

  Another Skinner flashed across Illah’s left flank. She turned, at the same time sensing a yet another attacker coming at her back, and parried the barbarian’s cut with a swing that spun her around to meet his comrade’s lunge. Her saber sang against notched steel and directed its point into a tree, leaving the man open for a disemboweling swipe.

  A blow hammered Illah’s spine, the Skinner at her back having driven the pommel of his sword down on her. She dropped to her knees, air blasting from her lungs. She had an instant to see the second barbarian’s Thyrrian-style boot blur towards her face before her world flashed momentarily into shades of alternating white and red.

  Illah lay gasping for breath on her back, choking on blood from her freshly-hemorrhaging nose. One of the Skinners ground his boot on her chest, compressed her lungs until she saw spots and her body writhed of its own volition as it starved for air. She tried to turn away, wished she hadn’t; saw Whisper twitch as the Skinners finished her off.

  Through glimmering curtains of pain, she thought she saw Lonadiel’s face amongst the trees.

  Shouts of alarm rent the air. Suddenly the boot was off her chest and Illah beheld shapes diving in amongst the barbarian mob. The newcomers seemed to be mounted men wielding lances of carved wood, but they were all wrong, torsos of men flowing into the bodies of horses. A Skinner horn sounded but was drowned out by deeper notes and roars of fury that only huge animals can make. Running feet hammered the ground.

  Illah slipped into unconcousness.

  SHE’D BEEN CLOSE ENOUGH to touch, and then everything went wrong.

  A wave of centaurs burst from the woods, leapt the creek and crashed into the Skinners, bawling deep war cries. The war party chief, twenty yards from where Lonadiel crouched amongst underbrush, had enough time to lift his foot off Illah before a centaur lance splintered through his chest, nailing him to the tree at his back. The other barbarian who’d helped subdue Illah turned to run when the impact of a spear arched his back, point jabbing through h
is chest, pink-red blood jetting from his nostrils.

  Everywhere Lonadiel looked he saw the same. The massive beings showed the Skinners—bitter rivals who considered mounted fighting cowardice and creatures that were half-horse something beyond unholy—no mercy. Their initial momentum gone, the centaurs cast aside shattered lances and clenched clubs fashioned from tree boughs, flailing about, crushing skulls at every swing. Even worse for the Skinner war party, fresh centaurs fanned out to either flank and began picking off stragglers, the air twanging with the deadly song of horn and sinew short bows.

  An arrow buried itself quivering in the tree beside Lonadiel. The renegade ducked. Turning to the Skinner at his side he barked in the gutturals of the man’s crude tongue, “Sound the retreat!”

  “Coward elf!” the brute spat back.

  “That’s the better part of a tribe out there,” Lonadiel replied through gritted teeth. “We cannot win.”

  “Coward!”

  Lonadiel shook his head, cursing bravery that has no brains behind it. The woods whispered with the approach of third and fourth groups, filtering through the trees to get into the war party’s rear and cut off their line of escape. He looked into the forest behind him, towards where he’d left Fearless tethered, two hundred yards away.

  “Stay here and die, then!” Lonadiel told the Skinner.

  The barbarian blinked; having his doom pronounced so bluntly apparently rattled some sense into him. He peeled back the rotten-pink, poorly-stitched leather that had been another man’s face and put a horn to his lips, sounding the mournful, rarely-used call to fall back.

  Lonadiel burst into a sprint, passing shadow-like through the woods. He cast a single glance over his shoulder. Illah’s form sprawled amongst slain Skinners, still but with a centaur bending its forelegs to kneel over her.

  I’ll be back for you, love, he thought to her. I will make you understand!

  SARCHA TUGGED HER CLOAK about her and tried not to shiver as she waited alone at the head of a chipped marble table. Ripples of light from a blazing hearth, fashioned to resemble the fanged maw of a dragon, painted the Norothar Feasting Hall in alternating hues of yellow and red. But shadows flitted life-like in dusty corners and little warmth pierced gloomy stone walls cut from the living rock of the dwarves’ holdfast, deep below the Red Hills.