by Brian Murray
Reaching into his pack, he pulled clear a small pot. Adding snow to the pot, he placed it in the fire. He put more snow into the pot until it was half-filled with bubbling water. After adding some oats and dried meat, Rayth stirred his broth. When the oats had swollen, he removed the pot from the fire and allowed it to cool. Rayth rose and shrugged off his heavy cloak. Realising his mistake, he guiltily walked to his horse and removed the saddle then rubbed her flanks, speaking softly to her. Any self-respecting horseman would always look after his horse before himself. When finished, Rayth filled a grain sack and looped it over her ears. Sitting down again, Rayth reached for his pot and using a wooden spoon tasted the broth. He wrinkled his nose—it was not right. He reached into his pack and pulled out a small packet. Adding some salt, he tried the broth again. Satisfied, he ate the warm meal. Once finished, he settled himself down for the night.
“Go and get the Kharnacks,” mumbled Rayth, trying to get comfortable. “Oh yeah, send old Fire in the Storm to go and get them. Damn you Dax, it’s cold.” Rayth slept fitfully during the night and woke shivering at dawn. He wrapped his blanket around his broad shoulders, added the last of his wood to the fire, and blew it back to life. Rising, he looked out of the cave and smiled. The day was clear, but bitterly cold. Quickly, he got his horse ready to make best use of the clear conditions. He left the cave and wandered out into the mountains.
Around noon the weather turned. He had been sensible, and already had collected wood for his evening fire. The wind started to pick up and dark menacing clouds blew in from the south. Rayth was not too far from where Dax had said the Silverswords were camped. He had to cross a high path to reach the site. Rayth arrived at the pass to find it covered in ice. The innkeeper swore loudly, stringing together a list of foul obscenities as he dismounted from his horse. The pass had a cliff face to his left and an icy scree slope to his right. Halfway down the slope, a swirling mist hid the base. Rayth stepped onto the path and immediately slipped. He regained his feet and exhaled slowly so mist formed before him hanging in the air. Unwrapping the reins from around his wrist, Rayth stepped out onto the path. His heart pounded in his chest like a caged animal.
About halfway along the path it narrowed. Rayth shuffled along, holding the horse’s reins behind him, sliding his feet carefully. The wind blew him against the cliff face and he was thankful for the aid. From behind Rayth, his horse whinnied. He could not turn around, but he heard a scraping sound over the wind. His heart leapt. He felt the reins tug. It pulled him towards the slope. Rayth had no choice but to release the reins. The innkeeper closed his eyes and turned, placing his back against the cliff face, listening to the high-pitched screams from his horse. He looked down and again cursed aloud as he watched the mare tumble down the slope in a cloud of dust and powder snow.
Rayth had one option. He had to recover his supplies or he would die. He took several deep calming breaths, then gingerly stepped from the path. He remained upright for the first couple of steps. Then his left foot struck a buried rock, he pitched forward and began to tumble. Instincts took over. He rolled himself into a ball, pulling his cloak tight around him. Rayth’s back slammed into something solid and the air exploded from his lungs. He continued to tumble in a cloud of snow, until . . . he finally came to a sliding stop. Regaining his breath, Rayth rose wearily to his feet and prodded his body. He winced when he touched one of his ribs. He removed his gloves and ran his fingers along the rib. Cracked, he thought. Nothing he could do about it in the open. He looked around and spotted his horse. The mare had broken her neck in the fall, her head twisted around to face the wrong way. Rayth retrieved most of his supplies, then trudged away, his heart heavy as his only company, his horse, was no more.
For the next couple of hours, the former axe-wielder wandered in the mountains with the wind swirling around him, tightening its grip like a lethal cloak. The snow was whipped up and his vision became reduced to a few strides. He needed to find some shelter as his ribs were beginning to ache. After wandering for several more hours in the blizzard conditions, Rayth finally found a cave. He slumped to his knees and removed his pack with a grunt as pain speared from his ribs. With great difficulty, Rayth lit a fire. Weariness weighed on the old man like a boulder and he fell into a deep slumber as soon as he rested his head.
Rayth was awakened during the night by the sound of his chattering teeth. He made another broth in his pot dented from his fall. He cussed as he ate, for he had lost his precious salt along with his precious horse. He cleaned the pot and added more snow. When the water boiled, he added a bundle of leaves that infused to make a tisane. Rayth searched his pack for his honey crystals. His cussing was prolific when he realised he had also lost his honey. Now in a foul mood, the innkeeper sipped the bitter brew. Warmth flowing through his body did nothing to ease his temper. Outside, the blizzard continued to blow. Rayth tried to sleep again, but slumber would not come to him. So, he sat up and listened to the wind howl, his mind on thoughts of his past and his possible futures.
When dawn broke the wind still blew, howling wildly, taunting the former axe-wielder. The sun was not visible as a wall of swirling white flakes covered the cave mouth. He was running low on fuel and would have to venture out to get some more wood. Rayth rose to his feet and donned his heavy cloak. Pulling his hood into place, he stepped outside. He was almost knocked from his feet by the wind’s power. He ducked his head and leaned into the gusts. The former axe-wielder took two steps forward and looked around. He could no longer see the mouth of the cave and swore under his breath. He had a choice, but not a good choice. Stepping back into the cave, he packed his provisions. Rayth decided if he were going to get lost, he would rather have his provisions with him. Once ready, he stepped out into the blizzard.
Rayth waded through the snow, wandering in no particular direction—he had no idea where he was headed. He cursed Dax and then laughed, but the sound lacked any humour. For hours, the innkeeper wandered through the snow, not caring where he went. He had conceded that he would fail and die in the mountains. He wanted so much to see his Aurillia marry Zane, but on this mountain, that seemed a lifetime away. Rayth had travelled through the mines of hell and returned, yet here in this vicious storm he would die alone. Rayth wandered all day. He had found some wood earlier, but now the snow was too deep, reaching his waist in parts. Night threatened the mountains and the temperature began to plummet.
“Damn you!” screamed Rayth, but the only answered he received was an eerie howl from the wind. “I will not die here! Do you hear me? I will not die here.” In that moment, Rayth decided he would not let a small thing like this storm beat him. Rage fired Rayth’s tired limbs and he walked on, ploughing through the snow. He continued to cuss and curse, and forced himself on.
Stumbling, Rayth thought he saw something in the distance. He pushed back his hood and regretted doing so as snowflakes stung his face. He removed the scarf tied over his ears and listened. Nothing, nothing except the howling wind. Something flickered in the distance and Rayth moved towards it. He stumbled and fell into deep snow, knocking his head against a hidden rock. Rising awkwardly, he shook the snow from his cloak and wandered on. Blood trickled from a gash near the man’s left temple. There was something in the distance. A fire. Rayth staggered on. Exhaustion washed over his body and his mind was cloudy from his fall. He did not know if he had reached the fire, but he felt as though he now slept on a soft bed.
Rayth had collapsed in the snow.
***
The Chosen walked to the mound at dawn, confused. He found the beasts still not attacking, yet he felt quite relieved after the past few days of slaughter. He knew those days had been a test and the true battle would start in earnest very soon. How soon, he did not know. Using the lull to his advantage, the Chosen toured the mound speaking to his clansmen. He arrived at Platos’s forge and the two men talked over their plans for a few hours. Rowet wanted to be absolutely sure they had left nothing to chance.
While R
owet sipped his drink, he remembered the time he, Dax, and his friends recaptured the city after the Darklord and his son had tried to assassinate him. The sewerage system—they had entered the city through the outlet pipe. Rowet explained to Platos the possible entrance into the city from the sewers. The master armourer immediately realised the threat and had Rowet explain the layout of the underground tunnels. After much thought, Platos suggested they strengthen the gratings covering the outlets. Furthermore, men should be positioned within the sewers. As a final precaution, any inlet large enough to allow a beast through would be sealed. Now happy, Rowet left the master armourer so he could complete their plans. Making his way back to the palace, the Chosen thought of his late friend Gordonia. At times like this Rowet would seek his counsel. At times like this he needed his friend. To cheer himself up, Rowet spent the evening with his daughters, enjoying a meal. Later, alone in his bedchamber, the sadness returned. Thankfully, when he slept, he dreamt of better times and not his current dilemmas.
***
How quickly word travelled surprised Zane. At each waterhole, clans would be waiting, ready to volunteer their warriors to help the Chosen. Unbeknown to Zane, it was a matter of clan pride. If one clan sent warriors, the others would be shamed if they did not. Zane, Dax, and Thade met with each clan chieftain and enjoyed good food, drinks, and humorous stories. Only when they left at dawn did thoughts of their quest return. During the quiet ride across the Steppes, the three friends had time to think—to think of the future and what it possibly could hold.
CHAPTER 14
RAYTH SLOWLY OPENED his gritty eyes and peered up into swirling blue smoke. With a grunt, he eased himself into a sitting position and looked around. He sat inside a tent, the fabric walls shuddering from a gusting wind outside. He stretched his back and winced. He touched his ribs and found they had been neatly bound. The flap of the tent opened and a large man stepped in. He turned his back on Rayth and removed his cloak, carefully shaking off snow. Then the man faced the Rhaurn and beamed a smile.
“Well met, Fire in the Storm,” said Maldino, stepping into the light from the central fire.
“Maldino, my friend, it is good to see you.”
“And you. Lucky for you one of my warriors tripped over your body or you would still be sleeping in the snow. Rest now and when you wake we will eat, drink, and you can tell me what you are doing wandering alone in my mountains.”
Rayth nodded and lay back down. Safe, sleep came quickly to the innkeeper.
***
Rayth woke again feeling refreshed but weak. The tent was empty, so he rose from his blanket and dressed with a series of uncomfortable grunts. He stumbled to the tent opening and pushed aside the flap. The cool, crisp air drove any remnants of sleep from Rayth’s body. He looked around. He was standing in the middle of a large Kharnack camp.
A hooded man rose from a large fire and walked towards the Rhaurn. “Rayth, my friend, join our fire.”
Rayth walked out and greeted his friend. “Well met, Maldino. Thank you for the save,” said the innkeeper in broken Kharnack.
“Ah, and it is true. One of my warriors thought he saw a fire in the storm. He went out to look and tripped over your body. So, you are indeed Fire in the Storm. It was the orange colouring of your cloak hood lining that he had seen.” Another clansman by the fire smiled a gap-tooth smile and nodded.
Rayth offered the clansman his hand in thanks. “How are you, Cloud Rider?”
“Never better. We now have enough food to last the snows and my enemies are few and far away. Come, let’s talk. Have you seen Violet Storm? He was here last season.”
Rayth joined Maldino by the fire and was handed a goblet of hot tisane. He thanked the woman and sipped the sweet liquid. “I have just come from Violet Storm.”
“Is he well?”
“Yes, very well.”
“So, what brings you here wandering my mountains alone, my friend?”
Rayth looked around at the men and women who sat around the fire.
“If you prefer to speak in Rhaurien, we shall.”
“Thank you, Maldino.” Rayth had forgotten Maldino’s father had him tutored by Rhaurn priests and he therefore understood and spoke the language fluently. “I have come here with a request. The Darklord, who your people followed, has succeeded in resurrecting the base beast known as the Dark One. With him, the Dark One has brought his army. It’s an army of beasts the likes of which you will never have seen, even in your foulest nightmares. They are currently camped outside Kal-Pharina, holding the city siege. King Zane is leading the Rhaurien army to his aid. We believe the threat is not only to the Phadrine but to the Rhaurns and eventually the Kharnacks.”
“So, you have come seeking aid from my clan to fight this army of beasts?”
“Not just your clan, Cloud Rider. We will need the combined forces of the major clans to fight the Dark One and his beasts.”
“I would have ridden my warriors to your aid without question, but as for the other clans, I cannot speak for them.”
“But you can call a meeting with the other chieftains, you have the power.”
Maldino looked into Rayth’s eyes and held his gaze. The chieftain’s voice hardened. “You ask for a lot, Fire in the Storm.”
“I know, but the threat we face calls for desperate measures. Maldino, in this I do not exaggerate. The Dark One will wipe out all races, only keeping alive those he needs for feeding. The rest . . . let’s just say the rest is game. Men mean nothing to him.”
Maldino sat very still for a while, deep in thought. “I will do as you ask. And I will pledge my warriors to your cause. Chahar!” called Maldino. The Silverswords champion swaggered over to his chieftain and bowed deeply. “Send out riders to the Roundstones, Crossbones, Tallpeaks, Whitecats, and Snowrats. Tell their chieftains Maldino of the Silverswords calls them to his peace tent. Tell them there will be safe passage granted and I welcome them to my camp in peace. Make sure each does not know the others are coming or some may refuse.”
Chahar did not question his chieftain, but bowed again and ordered warriors to ride to the clans’ camps.
“We will wait and see what happens.”
“Thank you, Cloud Rider,” said Rayth.
“Don’t thank me yet, my friend. I don’t know what their answer will be as most of those clans hate each other and have blood feuds.”
***
It took a couple of days for the first chieftain to arrive. In the meantime, Maldino had erected a huge meeting tent positioned away from the main clan camp. A large peace banner of white with a circle of gold in the centre was placed by the flap of the tent, where it fluttered in the light breeze. The clanswomen rushed around preparing for the guests’ arrival and the warriors went hunting for fresh meat. The weather had continued to remain fair but blustery. Rayth had spent most of the time talking with Maldino, regaining his strength. He had helped chop down some trees and joked with the Silverswords warriors. The warriors were at ease with the Rhaurn for he was not a threat; moreover, he was their chieftain’s friend and spoke their language.
The first chieftain to arrive was Monetar of the Crossbones Clan. The chieftain arrived with twenty warriors, a number deemed polite for such an invitation. The warriors rode up to the main tent. Monetar and his champion dismounted from their mounts and ducked into the tent. The rest of the warriors rode into the Silverswords camp and enjoyed the Kharnacks’ hospitality custom. But a tension hung in the air.
Maldino greeted the Crossbones chieftain. “Well met, Monetar of the Crossbones, welcome to my camp. Please join me at my fire.” The thickset chieftain bowed and sat down by the fire. Monetar gave no other greeting. Behind the chieftain stood his champion, a powerful-looking man with tree-trunk thick arms and legs. The champion looked across at Chahar, who stood behind Maldino. The warrior nodded to his counterpart and Chahar returned the subtle greeting. Food and hot drinks were brought for Monetar and he picked at the food, his eyes not leaving Rayth. O
f all of the clans who were summoned, the Crossbones were the smallest.
Rayth sat next to Maldino and was instructed not to say anything, until told he should. The next clan chieftain to arrive was Dnambi of the Roundstones. Maldino greeted the chieftain warmly. Dnambi was a large man with a round pot belly. His champion, a squat powerful man, had deep scars on his face and arms. Dnambi sat away from Monetar, placing himself close to Maldino. The Roundstones had lost most of their men in the first conflict at Kal-Pharina. His clan’s land had been to the northwest of the Great Mountains, close to the Grey Castle but since the battle, they had moved farther west.
Fresh food and drink were brought for the chieftain, who unashamedly tucked in. “Good food,” said the large chieftain, forcing a large slab of seasoned meat into his mouth. Monetar grunted and Dnambi threw him a venomous glare but said nothing. Then things got interesting for the Rhaurn.
Renai of the Whitecats clan arrived next. The Whitecats were sworn enemies of the Crossbones and they still had an unresolved blood feud. Neither clan could remember what had started the blood feud between them, but for generations it had remained unsettled. If any Whitecats clansman saw a Crossbone, he was to kill him without question and visa-versa. The Whitecats chieftain entered the tent and stopped at the flap.
