The Ramshuk (Heirs of Legacy Book 3)

by Paul Lauritsen

  Weak enough for Garnuk to step in and take over.

  Garnuk chuckled to himself and clapped his thick hands together. It would take careful planning, delicate manipulation. Cunning such as the world had never seen. And stealth, yes, stealth to accomplish what needed to be done. He would have to provide advantages to the underdog at each stage, find ways to stymie the more dominant force. All without being discovered.

  It would be a dangerous game, a desperate gambit. But if he succeeded, he would have again all which he had once possessed. He would rule his people, the Fells, perhaps the world if he played everything perfectly.

  It would not fix the hurts he had endured the last ten years. But it would help. He would have revenge, after all this time. Revenge on the humans who had laid his armies low, and revenge on the Usurper who had cast him out and had him hunted throughout the mountains. They would all pay in time.

  But to do all of this, he would need information. Perhaps a network of spies, assassins and warriors. Vertaga skilled in killing by stealth and moving about in the shadowy places of the world. He would need a base of operations, a place to call home where all of his followers could find him.

  That, in and of itself, was a risk. If any one of them betrayed him, he had no doubt that every hunting party the Ramshuk had would converge upon the spot.

  As Garnuk continued pondering the future, he realized with some trepidation just how many risks he would have to take, just how dangerous the path he was formulating could be. There was a very real chance that he would not survive this war.

  If there was any chance at all he would not come through the battle, there was something Garnuk had to do. It would take time, precious time, but the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that in order to succeed, he had to start the journey this way.

  With a heavy sigh, Garnuk cradled his horned head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. There was no other choice. He had to go. But first, rest. The next few days would be long.

  The vertag returned to the corner where his gear was piled and lay down, resting his head on his pack and closing his eyes. He slept soundly that night. For the first time in days, he had a full stomach and extra rations.

  And for the first time in ten years, he had a purpose beyond survival. He had a plan, a plan which would shake the very foundations of the world.

  Chapter 2:

  A Risky Journey

  Garnuk rose with the sun the following morning and struck out east through the mountains. Everything he owned was on his back, the rations he had stolen carefully stowed with his previous belongings. The cave he left spotless, with no trace that anyone had been there.

  It was, he reflected as he marched, a nice change to be hiking calmly, yet purposefully, through the mountains rather than running for his life. His legs were sore from first chasing the caravan through the pass and then fleeing the band of vertaga, but as he continued moving the pain began to fade as his muscles warmed up.

  He never flinched from his eastward course, marching up and down mountains, loping across valley and vale, splashing through freezing, highland streams. He knew precisely where he was headed. He was going home, to Dun Carryl.

  Garnuk had grown up in the ancient stronghold of the vertaga as a cub. He had no siblings, but his parents had been utterly devoted to him, particularly his sire. He had taught Garnuk to fight, to hunt, and many other useful skills besides. But he had died long ago, and Garnuk’s dame had passed not long after, leaving him alone.

  It was after his parents had died that Garnuk became a true force to be reckoned with in the circles of power. He joined an elite squadron of soldiers responsible for secret operations throughout the Fells. These had included raids and judicious pilfering mostly, but also assassinations and attacks on groups which were drawing too close to Dun Carryl.

  In those early days after his parents’ deaths, Garnuk had been reckless and fearless. No one and nothing could stand against him long, and he gained a reputation as a master warrior who could wade in against any number of opponents and emerge with a victory. It was only after his anger and pain had faded that he began to use his most potent weapon: his mind.

  Garnuk had taken control of his squad of elite soldiers, and with his newfound power weeded out those who would not obey him unquestioningly, replacing them with more loyal followers. Then, when he had the necessary troops, he planned and carried out a delicate series of operations that conveniently removed high-ranking opponents from his path to becoming Ramshuk.

  Those had been thrilling days, full of intrigue and excitement, risk and reward. Garnuk felt his pulse quicken as he remembered that time, and he wondered if this new mission would rival the past. It could. He would need all of his skills to succeed, and there were daunting odds against him.

  As he reflected on the past, Garnuk also planned for the future. He knew that he had no time to waste, especially with the side journey he was currently taking. Every day would have to be used to the fullest advantage, every move executed perfectly. And if he was to do that, he needed information.

  Distracted as he was with planning and remembering, the days passed quickly for Garnuk. He rose at dawn and kept moving until dusk, pausing only for a short meal around noon and a few rare water breaks. Other than that, he marched on, the stamina and strength of his kind allowing him to continue long past when a human would have collapsed from exhaustion.

  On the sixth day, Garnuk began recognizing familiar landmarks he had memorized in his younger days. On the seventh, he negotiated one last mountain and was rewarded with the first glimpse of his home.

  The sun was sinking into the west, shining on the cliffs on the western side of the mountain. Garnuk could see the mouth of the canyon that led to the front gates, but little else from where he stood. The grey heathland encircled and rolled away from the mountain, flat and desolate until it merged with the foothills of the other mountains.

  Garnuk sighed heavily to himself and paused, taking in the view. While not a beautiful place, Dun Carryl was a powerful place for any vertag. For Garnuk, it had once been home, the center of his empire, the stronghold from which he ruled. And now, perhaps, it was the seat of power that he would take back.

  He had not come just to see Dun Carryl though. Carefully, wary of patrols and lookouts, Garnuk began circling around on the south side of the mountain city, making for a bluff at the southeast edge of the plains. From there, he would be able to see the south and east portions of the flatlands easily.

  He encountered no patrols or sentries as he moved. There were only the rocks, trees, and bushes for company. To his right, the surrounding mountains towered over him, watching his slow progress.

  Garnuk continued working his way around the heathland, climbing and descending the foothills of the mountains, always keeping an eye towards Dun Carryl. As he moved, more of the lands to the east became visible. On the east side of the mountain, the land had been cultivated by the vertaga and fields of rugged grain and hardy vegetables covered the area. Many vertaga were working in the fields, trying to gather in the harvest before winter truly set in.

  The exiled Ramshuk continued moving east until at last he was at the top of the bluff he had targeted. From this vantage point, he could see the fields quite well, and he was close enough to see the field workers clearly. Conscious of the fact that this meant he might be visible to them as well, Garnuk dropped to his stomach at the edge of the cliff, watching and waiting.

  The field workers were the lowest of the low, vertaga who had no use elsewhere. No skill at forging or mining, nor as a warrior. No unique craftsmanship abilities, no special talent for organizing or managing the mountain stronghold. The only tasks they could perform were the mundane, the repetitive. The dull and grueling. The menial. There was no respect for these vertaga. To the rest of Garnuk’s war-oriented race, they were mere drudges and disgraces, nothing more.

  But a few of the field workers were different. They were not weak or incapable. They had just angere
d the wrong people and been sentenced to this menial life. It was two vertaga like this who Garnuk was searching for now, scanning the vast fields with his eyes, never turning his head or making even the slightest movement to betray his presence. There would be no flash of light reflecting off his armor, no spot of color in the otherwise drab landscape. Garnuk was invisible, as he had trained himself to be these past ten years.

  The sun sank lower in the west, drawing ever nearer to the horizon. When its lower edge touched the tops of the mountains, preparatory to sliding behind them and darkening the world, a wailing horn sounded from the direction of Dun Carryl. If Garnuk hadn’t known precisely what the horn represented, he would have flinched in panic, thinking he had been discovered.

  As the cry of the horn faded, the vertaga in the fields straightened and turned towards the mountain as one. They began trudging slowly past, headed for their homes and caves, some stumbling from weariness. A few lower-ranking warriors acting as guards herded them along, making sure none tried to run away into the mountains.

  Garnuk continued his search desperately, eyes darting every which way. Then, a sharp smack followed by a feeble cry drew his attention. He found the source of the noises and he stiffened angrily.

  Not twenty meters away, a warrior was herding two figures along, an adult and a cub, both females. Their clothes were in tatters, their feet bare. Their hides and hair were dirt crusted and Garnuk could see half-healed cuts from multiple beatings. Even though they had suffered so much, he recognized them.

  The adult vertag snarled at the warrior, which elicited another blow. The cub cried out in fear, and immediately the dame subsided, cradling the little one close and shepherding it out of harm’s way. The warrior followed, but did not strike again.

  Garnuk sighed to himself. His mate’s resilience was impressive. She had been from a strong and powerful family, one of the foremost at Dun Carryl. The last ten years had made her stooped and battered, but not beaten. She still held her head high, her horns gleaming where they were not coated with dust, her sharp, fierce face flashing when she lost control of the emotions stirring within her.

  The exiled Ramshuk turned his attention to the cub and his heart stuttered painfully. He had not seen the little one since she was two years of age. Now, at twelve years, she was already the lowest of the low, living out a meager existence. Garnuk could only imagine the horrors she had seen. That both of them had been subjected to.

  All as a result of his failure.

  Garnuk watched them all the way to the mountain, until they were hidden from sight within its walls. Then he laid his horned head down, staring at the dirt in front of his nose, trembling from head to toe.

  He had known that they were here, known that they had become slaves. The fact they were both still alive meant they had not yet been discovered. They were safe, for now. They had obviously suffered beatings and would likely endure many more, but they were alive. For a moment, Garnuk toyed with the idea of rescuing them, helping them flee Dun Carryl. The cub was older now, stronger, maybe strong enough to run. They could hide in the mountains, or Garnuk could hide them away in many of his secret places and continue on his own. Still hunted by his enemies, but with his family rescued and given a new opportunity for the life they deserved instead of this bare existence.

  The last part of that thought brought a scowl to Garnuk’s face. Existence. This drudgery was barely that. It was an insult, a disgrace, and a cruel imitation of true life. He would suffer it no longer. Garnuk started to rise, began preparing to race down the slope of the mountain and confront the guards and free his oppressed family. He caught himself at the last moment and lay still.

  This was a trap. Garnuk knew it was. Even if he was not caught at Dun Carryl, any rescue would end badly. His mate and cub could not travel as fast or as far as he could. Nor could they move stealthily from place to place or easily live off of the land. And if they ever tried to settle in one place, they would soon be discovered. The Fells just weren’t big enough to hide in when every vertag in the region was on the hunt.

  There was only one way a rescue would be successful. Only if the world changed so that Garnuk was no longer hunted would they be truly free. He would have to be sure it was safe for the three of them to be a family again, before he risked all of their lives by rescuing them from the fields and their pitiful lives of drudgery. He had to succeed in this new venture he had undertaken, had to undermine the race of men and his own kin. He had to win the war he had lost as a Ramshuk, though he was only a lone exile now.

  This was what he was really fighting for. Not revenge, although the sight of his mate and cub being mistreated had made his blood boil. Garnuk just wanted his old life back. His family. The security, safety, and power he had once held. He wanted it for himself, and for his mate and cub. And he would not rest until he had won that fight.

  “I’ll be back,” he murmured, glancing down at the now empty fields. Slowly, he inched back from the edge of the cliff, careful not to dislodge any stones, and rose to one knee. He went to stand, then stopped and bowed his head, overcome with emotion. He took a deep, shuddering breath, wondering what had come over him.

  “I’ll be back,” he murmured again, gazing over the rapidly darkening fields. “I promise you, we will have our family whole once more.”

  As he got to his feet and retreated into the mountains south of Dun Carryl, his vision began to blur. Startled, Garnuk brushed a hand across his face, wondering what ailed him. His hand came away wet, streaked with the first tears he had shed in many long years.

  Chapter 3:

  The First Trial

  Garnuk stumbled quickly uphill in the gathering darkness, searching for a safe campsite where he could lay low until the following day. He had originally planned to travel through the night, but the sight of his mate and cub had taken more out of him than he had thought possible.

  Soon after night had fallen, Garnuk found a sandy space half-sheltered by a rocky overhang. It was not an ideal camp and it was too exposed for him to light a fire, but it would do for one night. Wearily, he slung his pack onto the ground. As he made to sit though, a rough hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around forcefully.

  Garnuk snarled and shook his assailant off, backing away quickly. The attacker came after him, a large war axe in his right hand, crouching behind an enormous round shield. Moonlight gleamed off the warrior’s horns.

  “Leave me,” Garnuk growled menacingly. “I’ll only offer you this chance once.”

  The vertag facing him said nothing, merely shuffled forward a step or two, booted feet crunching and scraping on sand and rock. A slight gleam of moonlight ran over the blade of the warrior’s axe, rippling along its keen edge.

  Garnuk scowled and drew his sword, leveling it at the other vertag. “Stand aside,” he said. “I’m warning you. If you don’t heed my command you will not return to your Ramshuk at all.”

  The vertag tilted its horned head, seemingly puzzled. Then it shuffled forward another step, lowering its shield slightly.

  Garnuk saw the slight lapse and rushed forward, seeing an opening. He struck with his sword, but the vertag caught the blade on his shield and retaliated with a swipe of his axe. Garnuk had to jump back to avoid being cut in half as the heavy weapon whistled past. Belatedly, he shrugged his shield onto his left arm, eyes narrowed as he studied his opponent.

  The vertag remained where he was, half crouching behind his shield, eyes fixed on Garnuk’s.

  The former Ramshuk rushed forward with a snarl and slashed at his opponent, only to be foiled again by the oversized shield. Then the axe was on the way again, but this time Garnuk was able to deflect it easily. He followed up by ramming his small buckler into his opponent’s chest. The spike at the shield’s center did not penetrate his opponent’s armor, but the impact caused the other vertag to stumble back.

  “Yield!” Garnuk shouted fiercely. “Or I swear by all the spirits I will kill you. You cannot best me alone. I am t
he Exile! None of the Ramshuk’s forces have taken me and you will not either.”

  The other vertag froze, surprised. Then, slowly, he lowered his axe and shrugged his shield onto his back. This done, he stepped forward, his free hand held up, palm outward.

  “If you are indeed the Exile,” the vertag said slowly, his words guttural and rough, “Then we have no quarrel. In fact, we may be able to help each other.”

  “I work alone.”

  “You did not always.”

  “Things have changed. Or haven’t you heard?”

  “You are not the only one who lost everything, Garnuk.”

  Garnuk frowned, the point of his sword dipping slightly as he peered at his opponent’s shadowed face. “Do I know you?” he asked quietly, taking a step closer.

  “You did,” the other vertag replied bitterly. “A very long time ago. Before the Usurper took everything from both of us, and many other good rams besides.”

  The other vertag’s face was familiar, now that Garnuk took time to study rather than attack. He couldn’t quite place this vertag in his memory though, the name he was searching for hovering just out of the reach of his grasping mind.

  “My name is Tarq,” the other vertag said, watching Garnuk carefully. “Do you remember now?”

  Garnuk did remember. Memories came back to him from the war, memories of marching day after day at the head of his army, his best officers around him, discussing the next attack. There had been four or five of them. But there was one who was a better fighter and a better thinker than the rest. A ram who was closer to Garnuq’s equal intellectually and physically than any other he had encountered.

  “Tarq,” Garnuk repeated, smiling slowly and lowering his weapons. “It is good to see you are alive. But why did you attack me when you saw me?”