by Mark McCabe
Nargal. He was one on whom the First Warrior knew he could count. Better that he was Second Warrior than that treacherous cur Hrothgar. And where is my pox-ridden brother, thought Grartok, his anger rising as his thoughts turned to his sibling.
Grartok knew that the time of reckoning had come between him and his overly ambitious brother. As his thoughts turned to Hrothgar, he gave full vent to the malice that simmered within his breast. When he returns to the tribe, I will remove that sneering head of his and string it from my lance for all to see. Mardur is mine now, and so is the child growing in her belly. As for that bawling spawn of Hrothgar’s, I’ll see his head dashed against a rock before I listen to its caterwauling one more time.
~~~
Krarsht knelt beside the stump of the tree, busying himself with the ropes that had been wound around and around its base. He had already recognised the gait of the approaching warrior and knew that his best strategy was to keep his head down and keep working until his hunt leader had passed. He could only hope that his wrath would be directed at someone else this time.
Broag, a harsh leader at the best of times, was rarely in a fouler mood than he was today, and all of the men knew why. The timetable Third Warrior Nargal had set them was a demanding one. Woe betide Krarsht and his companions if the ropes weren’t ready when the army arrived for the crossing in the morning.
Krarsht watched surreptitiously as the mud-stained boots carried the hunt leader past him. Broag was headed in the direction of the second of the work groups, which was working but a short distance away. Though it was dark and the hunt leader’s back was now to Krarsht, his rasping voice could still be heard as he picked up his stride. Krarsht cringed involuntarily.
“What kind of work is that Grashnir? Those ropes have to hold the weight of many warriors. My camp dog could do a better job than that. Why am I the only hunt leader with prondor’s spawn instead of warriors to lead?”
Krarsht shook his head and returned to his own work. He was wet and tired but he knew better than to even think of taking a break. There would be no respite for any of them until they had finished. “Let’s check those knots again, Dramcra,” he whispered to his companion. “Broag is very close to losing it. Remember what he did last time that happened.”
“Yah,” his companion grunted in reply as they put their weight against the rope. “Sardoc was a good fighter. The hunt is the weaker for his loss.” Dramcra spat on the ground as if to emphasise his disgust. Krarsht knew that Sardoc and Dramcra had been friends. He wouldn’t thank Krarsht for reminding him of his comrade’s fate.
The knots were strong, as they should be. The tangle of strands they had been working on was easily thicker than a warrior’s arm. They had done their work well and even with both of them putting all of their strength into the effort, the ropes wouldn’t budge.
“It’ll take axe work and plenty of it to bring that undone,” said Dramcra, standing up and wiping his ridged brow. Both of them stood there quietly for a while, admiring their handiwork with some satisfaction.
“Well,” said Krarsht when he could see his comrade wasn’t about to make the first move. “Only one more and then we’re done. A flip of the blade to see who takes the ropes across this time?” Krarsht knew that neither of them relished going back into the freezing waters of the river. They had each had a turn already and this would be the last.
“You’re on.”
“Ever the gambler, hey Dramcra.” joked Krarsht as he picked up his axe from its resting spot and spun the haft as he tossed the blade gently into the air. “Call,” he cried as the blade reached its highest point in the arc of its flight.
“Horn.”
They both stepped forward and peered down at the shiny metal face as the blade fell to the turf with a soft thud.
“Ahhhhh. Claw. How do you do it? May your father’s bones rot in Fradnor,” Dramcra cursed as he turned and headed towards the water, stripping off his vest as he made his way down to the coils of ropes that lay at the river’s edge.
Krarsht watched impassively as his companion looped the ends of four of the coils about his waist and edged his way out into the water, taking a hold of one of the existing ropes as he reached deeper water to keep him from being swept away by the swift-flowing current. Dramcra’s strong arms moved him along the course of the rope steadily. Krarsht knew that, though the water was bitterly cold, Dramcra would have little difficulty in quickly reaching the other side.
This crossing was a different one to his first, earlier that evening, before any of the ropes were up. On that occasion, the strong current had swept Dramcra a considerable distance downstream before he had reached the further bank. If he hadn’t been as strong a swimmer as he was, he might not have made it at all.
Krarsht had to admire the shrewdness of Nargal’s strategy. Though summer had barely arrived, this river was still young and vigorous here in the north; it hadn’t yet flowed far from its source in the snow-capped peaks of the Giant’s Teeth. Its currents were swift and treacherous and only the foolhardy would spend any more time than was absolutely essential in its icy waters. A warrior in full battle gear would have no chance of crossing it, no matter how strong a swimmer he was. Nargal’s plan eliminated these risks.
Third Warrior of the Sagath was Nargal. Only Grartok and Hrothgar stood higher in the tribe’s reckoning. Krarsht could see why he was held in such esteem. Like all good plans, this one would catch his opponents flat-footed. The Algarians would be caught unawares and the sweet sound of axes separating heads from bodies would soon echo across the northern plains. Krarsht could almost taste the sweetness of it now. He was proud to be Sagath and he would vie with the rest for the number of heads that would fall to his blade in the coming battles.
Broag had explained it all to his warriors before they had left camp. First, Nargal had bid the outriders keep a close eye on the scouts the Algarians had sent up into the mountains. They made no attempt to capture or kill them. Instead, their every move was closely followed. Everything they were allowed to see was carefully orchestrated to make it appear as if the sligs were intending to unite their scattered forces at one spot, the ford on the great river.
The success of that strategy had now been confirmed by the sligs’ own scouts. They reported that the Algarians were quickly moving the majority of their troops to defend the ford. They even seemed to be making some effort to conceal that intent by conducting their troop movements at night; though that only made it easier for the slig scouts to venture far enough into Algarian territory to see what the enemy were up to.
Once Nargal was sure that the Algarians had taken the bait, Broag had been given his orders. While a small force would attack the Algarians at the ford, he and his handpicked group were to secure a spot where the major portion of Nargal’s army could cross the river without the use of either bridge or ford. These ropes they were now stringing across the river would be used to secure safe passage for both men and horses across the swiftly flowing river. It would be slower going than using the more traditional crossing points, and they wouldn’t be able to get supply wagons across this way, but it would be totally unexpected by the Algarians.
Once on the other side, they would be free to attack the enemy at will. While the majority of the Algarians were being kept busy at the ford, the Sagath would pillage the remainder of the province. Eventually, the Algarian commander would face a difficult choice, stay where he was while the Sagath sent the whole of the province up in flames, or abandon the ford and attempt to bring the invaders to battle. If he chose the latter, as he surely would have to in the end, then the sligs would not only be able to bring their supply wagons across the river by way of the ford but they would be able to choose the field of battle. Nargal had heard of the slig debacle at Kurandir and knew how difficult a task it could be to dislodge defenders from a fortified town.
Yes, Krarsht thought, you have to hand it to the big ones, Nargal, Grartok, Hrothgar, they were great leaders. It was a good time
to be a Sagath warrior.
~~~
“Keep ya thieven eyes off it,” snarled Dain as he shot a furtive glance over his shoulder. The small canvas bag he clutched in his hand was as good as gold to a starving man and he meant to share it with no one. “Ya got to that bread afore me an ya ain’t getting this lot. It’s mine.”
Withdrawing the contents of the bag, he quickly and feverishly stuffed the small cubes into his mouth, paying no heed to the thin film of green that had formed on their surface. He couldn’t see the thieving scumbag who had beaten him to the last cache of food, but he knew he was somewhere close by. Dain knew that he had beaten them this time though.
What a find, he thought, as he savoured the tangy taste. Cheese. How long had it been since he had tasted cheese? How long since he had last tasted anything for that matter? Was it yesterday? Or the day before that? He couldn’t remember.
What he did remember was all the times he had found the sure signs that someone had beaten him to it. They were mocking him, he knew that, leaving tell-tale little signs, like a few stale pieces of bread, gnawed around the edges to make it look like rats had eaten it, or dried and cracked bones, stripped bare of every morsel of meat. Oh yes, they were clever, and they wanted to taunt him, wanted to drive him crazy. But he wouldn’t crack. Not him. Not Dain.
As he knelt in the rubble, Dain ruefully passed his hand along his torso, feeling once more the distinct ripple of his ribs just below the surface of his skin. Much more of this and that’s all there would be left of him, skin and bones and nothing else. At least today had been one of his better days.
He had been digging through the rubble of what had once been the home of one of the inhabitants of Kurandir, scrabbling among the ruins like a dog searching for a long lost bone, when he had stumbled on treasure. Prising open a metal container that had lain buried beneath a pile of charred timbers and shattered roof tiles, he had found a small canvas bag within. The smell had told him instantly what the contents were and he acted quickly, gobbling down the food before anyone else could beat him to it. This was one cache they wouldn’t get before him.
There had been precious little of it, though. Dain’s stomach was still grumbling and he knew it wasn’t complaining about the quality of its most recent offering. It wanted more, much more. He was ravenously hungry and hoards like this were becoming harder and harder to find. Soon he would have no choice but to venture out of the town and take his chances in the countryside.
That’s probably what they want me to think. Get me out of here so there’s one less to share with.
Dain didn’t relish the prospect. It was a choice he had been actively avoiding. Here in the ruins of Kurandir he was safe. After the sligs had sacked the town they had abandoned it. He could see no reason why they would be likely to return. The countryside might be another matter.
He still remembered the dangerous game of cat and mouse he had played with the sligs while the beasts swarmed through the buildings, plundering everything worth having. From the occasional screams and cries, he knew others had also played, and lost.
Somehow, he had survived, always managing to stay one step ahead of them. Then the cutthroats had torched the town. He had seen out the inferno up to his neck in a sewerage pit. He still stank of the stuff. But at least he was still alive, hungry, weak, tired, but still alive. They hadn’t got him yet.
And they won’t get me. I’m too quick for them. Too damn quick for the murderous bastards is old Dain.
Sure that he’d seen a flicker of movement out of the corner of one eye, Dain picked up a piece of rubble and flung it violently in that direction. “I’d be fine,” he shouted. “I could live ‘ere forever if it weren’t for you stealin me food, you thieving scum.”
Dain knelt for a while, darting quick looks to his left and his right and listening attentively for the faintest sound, waiting for his adversary to betray his presence with a slip of his boot on the rubble. The ruins were silent. He could neither see nor hear anything other than his own laboured breathing. Satisfied that he’d discouraged the thief for now, he rose and scrambled away.
Clever. Very clever.
Dain muttered and cursed to himself as he continued his search. It would be night again soon. He hated the nights.
Chapter 7
The bright sun shining down onto Sara’s back, welcome though it was, did nothing to lift her spirits; she knew that her fate was sealed. Having recaptured her after such a long and arduous chase, Tug was unlikely to let her escape from his clutches a second time. As the motion of her mount forced her to twist awkwardly in her saddle she couldn’t help but grimace. The sharp pain in her side was an ugly reminder of what she could expect if she attempted to make another bid for freedom. The effects of the beating the draghar had given her once they were out of sight of the Rangers still hadn’t worn off.
All in all, that wasn’t an experience she would like to revisit. For the moment, at least, she couldn’t even think about another attempt at escape. The thought of another hiding like the one she had just endured was too horrible to contemplate. Where would it get her, anyway?
Look at the debacle their attempt to escape from Novistor had turned into. Even after that long chase through the wilderness, she and Rayne had still underestimated Tug’s determination to catch up with them. Who would have thought that he would follow them right into Novistor, or that he would be so easily able to enlist the support of the Rangers in capturing her?
Sara wondered if Tug and his friends had somehow gotten ahead of them in those few days when they had been holed up in the cave with Josef. Maybe the draghar had been scouring the province for a sign of them for days. After all, with all of the confusion the slig attack had engendered, he and his men wouldn’t have attracted much attention. Then again, perhaps they had simply been watching when she and Rayne had entered the town and had followed them all the way to the inn. She, for one, had been so intent on gawking at the marvels of the city she hadn’t even considered the prospect of being followed or watched once they were inside of Novistor.
She hadn’t really given too much thought to Alys’ story either. The young maid had told them that the guards believed her and Rayne to be runaway lovers. That alone should have been enough to alert them. How else could they have got such an idea except from Tug, or someone else in Golkar’s employ? Instead, she and Rayne had been too busy with their plans for getting away to think about who might have started such a story, too busy running yet again to contemplate what or who it was they were running from.
Not that they would have been able to do much about it, she realised. Novistor had proven to be one big trap. Once the Rangers had got onto their trail they probably never really stood a chance.
Sara was still coming to grips with just how much the Guardians were revered in Ilythia. The name of Golkar had clearly been all that Tug had needed to gain the cooperation he had wanted. The Rangers had obviously accepted his story at face value. Unfortunately, her and Rayne’s actions must then have only seemed to corroborate what he had said, what with their trying to sneak out of the town under the cover of darkness, and her having no credible story of where she had come from to counter that of Tug’s.
Poor Rayne, though. She had to fight back the tears at the thought of him. Surely he would be okay now that she was out of the picture. Though she knew from the Rangers that he was on his way to Keerêt, she hoped that the matter would end there. Golkar would surely have no further need to press the issue now that Tug had recaptured her.
She couldn’t bring herself to think about the prospect of Rayne languishing in some gaol. Still, it was hard to see how what he had done could be considered more than a minor misdemeanour. Perhaps they would impose some minor penalty and then set him free. Then he could get on with the life she had so selfishly disrupted, assuming there was going to be a life for anyone here in Ilythia once Golkar fulfilled his plan.
Sara just wasn’t ready to think about that last bit too much. She knew
she would have no chance of keeping her head together if she allowed herself to dwell too deeply on what was to come. It was hard enough coping with her current circumstances without looking ahead.
At least she hadn’t had to endure seeing Rayne die defending her from Tug and his henchmen. She hadn’t even been sure where they had taken him the night they had been captured at the gates. She had been marched off in one direction and him in another and that had been the last she had seen of him. She could still picture his face now, with its look of concern as he had looked back over his shoulder at her when they had frog-marched him off into the darkness. It was only the kindness of one of the Rangers the next morning that had enabled her to find out he had been sent to Keerêt.
Sara had to blink back the tears that came to her eyes at the memory of their friendship. She had never experienced its like before, and now . . . now it was gone, taken from her before she had been able to fully appreciate its value, like a beautiful, crystal vase that is suddenly knocked to the floor; one minute, an exquisite and valuable piece of craftsmanship, a tribute to its creator and a source of pride and wonder to its owner; the next, nothing more than fragments of broken glass, scattered across a dirty floor.
Of course, her denial of Tug’s story had proved useless. The draghar had played his part well and her talk about sligs and conspiracies had only made her own story sound all the more unbelievable. The Rangers were clearly convinced she really was the daughter of one of Golkar’s man-servants. Nor did they doubt his assertion that she and Rayne had run off together when her father had forbidden her to see him any more.
Though that was no major crime in itself, Tug had made it clear that Golkar had promised his man he would see to her safe return. He made it sound as if Rayne had taken advantage of her inexperience and induced her to run away against her own better judgement.
