by Alex Janaway
For the Harradan, the night had not gone well. Thirty men lay dead and at least another seven would not see the dawn. Seven more had wounds that would leave them useless. Cowardly mantraps laid within the forest had caused five of these. Vorgat could guess who had placed those. He had not lost any of his own troops; that cost was borne by one of the other clan leaders. But he was not blind to the damage of morale that these incidents caused. Vorgat was not a stupid man and he had been born with a degree of pragmatism; a trait often lacking in his people. This streak, combined with his innate ambition, afforded a different view of many of the Harradan traditions. Foremost of these was the desire to be first in battle. It was considered an honour to be given the vanguard of any armed force. It meant that leader would have the chance to close with and kill more of the enemy than those that followed him thus heaping honour on his name. Vorgat, as nominal leader of the combined clans, would let himself be seen as a fair-minded and generous individual, always allowing another of the clans to be first in the column. Many would then admire his political skill, but the canny amongst them might see it for what it was. As far as Vorgat was concerned, let the other clans lose their men in ambushes and surprises. That way he kept his own force intact. When the time came, his leadership would be based on strength and not concession. So until then, he would, after the usual grumbling and argument that Harridan etiquette demanded, agree to others taking the lead. He always ensured that his men were second in line, that way he could take stock and act as the situation demanded. When the trap was sprung, the Bear Claw clan had been in the lead. Fortunate in a way for they were Kron’s closest allies and now that Clan had been badly weakened. As the rest of the Claws had charged forward, Vorgat had held his men back. Too much confusion could be created in the dark. By his side at that moment was Captain Lordswood, the man had bridled at his inaction and had ordered his men forward into the crush.
Once the excitement had died down, Lordswood had returned. Vorgat was waiting for him by a newly built camp fire. Around him his men were making camp for the night. Vorgat noted the man was sporting a gash over one eye.
“Damn you, Vorgat,” said the archer on his return. “Why did you not fight?”
Vorgat regarded the man and then shrugged.
“Why did you try and fight an enemy you could not see?” said Vorgat. “From what I have heard, Shifter, you lost a man. Spitted by a Bear Claw spear.”
“Well, perhaps if you had tried to establish some discipline in your troops…”
“Perhaps. But we are Harradan. My people would rather cut you into little pieces than take some of your…discipline,” he grinned evilly. “But you are welcome to try.”
“If you were in my company…”
“Do not try to threaten me, Shifter,” Vorgat’s voice lowered dangerously. “Remember your place.”
The Shifter officer backed off a step. “I apologise, I am just…eager to ensure our mission does not fail.”
“Then perhaps, you might wish to follow my lead, Captain. My people are making camp. At first light I will send scouts forward. It would be foolish to lose more men to those traps that have been so cleverly set up. Do you not agree?”
The officer nodded his assent.
“Good. In the morning we will look to cross the river. Those that have been dogging our movements have found friends. We must learn their strength. Then we will know how to defeat them. Our captive might well hold the answers to that.”
“Then perhaps I might be allowed to question him?” asked Lordswood.
“No, Shifter. Leave that to me. Do not fear, I will tell you all that I rip from his lips,” said Vorgat smiling.
Lordswood’s face was set tight, his lips a thin line.
“Very well. I will look to my men and await your next move with interest.” He turned and strode off into the night. In fact, Vorgat already had some idea what he faced. Men had reported to him that the enemy fighters were soldiers, not trappers. And these were in some numbers, more than a score. His witch had said as much. It was she who had responded to the ambush and had created the second flash of light at his bidding. Afterwards she had used her sight to spy out the nature of the men facing them. These were proper, professional fighting men, no doubt about that. And that meant they couldn’t be Graves regulars. From what he had heard of them, they were not that good. Vorgat had concluded that the crossing was to be contested by the southern soldiers from across the sea. It seemed that they had retreated behind some kind of fortification. He had heard of them by reputation, hard-nosed and well versed in the ways of war, better than the Shifter troops who accompanied him. These southerners were supposed to have been dealt with. And more importantly, the slaves sent to build the bridge had betrayed him. The Shifter plans had clearly been poorly laid. It did not matter to Vorgat. He would act swiftly he had to if he was to maintain control of his loose alliance and win the booty he had been promised. This venture was now a matter of personal pride, if it were to go wrong his standing amongst his own people would be fatally weakened. Already he knew that Battlebane would have started to whisper against him. None of them had expected to face an armed force at the river. The losses they had taken thus far had rattled the other clan leaders. He now had to ensure that any Harradan displeasure was directed against the southerners. That they were holding the river crossing was to his advantage. It meant they could be engaged in a straight fight. Their destruction would improve morale after the hit and run tactics they had endured up until now. Standing up, he left his fire and walked to where the captive was being held.
Locke’s arms had been forced behind him and around the thick trunk of a tree at the edge of the Harradan camp whereupon they had been tied. Similarly his legs had been forced apart and secured by ropes around the tree. His body was torn and bruised, his face battered and he could barely see due to the blood that had almost dried his eyelids shut. His hair was slick with sweat and he was having trouble breathing. No doubt he had at least a couple of broken ribs. They had found him blundering around in the woods a short time after the fighting had ceased. Locke had not reckoned on the forest being so dense and he had quickly lost his bearings. He had damn near stumbled on a search party of these brutes. They had set upon him in a fury, he had had no chance to put up a defence and he quickly succumbed to their blows, passing out in the process. He had come to and found himself tied thus. Though guarded, his captors had made no further moves towards him and he was thankful for the respite. Every part of him ached. Locke knew that he was probably dead, hopefully they wouldn’t torture him; he couldn’t cope with that. He’d rather tell them everything; it would make no difference to the fate of the company anyway. On that note he heard someone approaching. He forced his eyes open and blinked a few times, trying to get them to focus on the man before him, another one of these wild haired brutes. The Harradan regarded him for a few moments. Then his hand lashed out and slapped Locke across his left cheek. His head snapped round to the right and a mix of sweat and blood flew from his face. Locke gritted his teeth and looked back at the newcomer. This one was obviously a leader, you could just tell from the way he carried himself. If he was to survive, the decision would be in this man’s hands. If he could try and earn some favour with the Harradan leader then there was a small chance. The faintest glimmer of hope formed within Locke.
“Speak, tell me what I face. Speak,” demanded Vorgat Stoneson. He punctuated it with another swift slap to Locke’s other cheek. Taking that as his cue, Locke shock his head to clear it of the stars that he was seeing, then he took a breath and began to speak. He told Stoneson of the plan to deny the Harradan safe passage across the Rooke and the subsequent delaying action. He also told him of the numbers and make-up of the forces arrayed against the Harradan /Shifter alliance. All the while Vorgat Stoneson’s face remained inscrutable; his eyes never left Locke’s. He asked no questions until the younger man had finished.
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“What of the slaves? Can they fight?” he asked.
Locke shook his head. “They fight with spears and wear no armour. They were captured once before, so I doubt they can do much other than their fancy magic.”
“And the hunters? Those that have bled us for days?”
“I don’t know,” replied Locke. “I think that they have already left. They did not want to get involved in the fighting.”
Vorgat nodded his head and was quiet. He cast his eyes down and appeared lost in thought. Locke waited quietly. He had spoken honestly and left nothing out. Hopefully that would be enough.
Vorgat looked up and at Locke.
“You are a coward. You would vomit all your knowledge at the merest touch. You have no spirit.” He turned and stalked away.
In alarm Locke called after him.
“Wait. What are you going to do with me?”
“Me? Nothing,” replied Vorgat as drew level with the guard. “Burn him,” he ordered.
Locke’s composure finally gave way and he howled in despair. There would be no quick death for him.
As Vorgat returned to his fire, he reflected on the turn of events. So it was true; the Bantusai had indeed turned on them. He had not been entirely sure of their treachery due to the confusion of the ambush, but now they would die along with the soldiers they had allied with. Everything came down to time. The longer they were detained here the harder it would be for Vorgat to realise his aims. The other clans would become restless and the Shifter soldiers would lose heart. He would have to finish these southlanders off swiftly. To that end he already had the makings of a plan that would see them across the river and down the throats of their enemies. He went to summon the other clan leaders.
