The Exile drew close enough to the village to begin making out details. There were two guards standing at the end of the main road, spears held loosely in their hands, the butts planted firmly in the ground. They would not be much of a threat to Garnuk if he chose to engage them in battle. But it would be better to avoid them altogether.
While the last rays of daylight were fading, Garnuk circled the town, collecting as much information on its size and layout as he could. He located the inn, the only two-story structure in the whole collection of buildings, as well as a few small businesses. He did not see a smithy though until he had circled all the way to the north side of the village. There, some distance from the other dwellings, was a sizeable forge with all the necessary equipment laid out in neat rows. The fires had burned low, seeing as it was the end of the day. Garnuk would need to stoke the flames if he intended to get any work done this night.
Once he had scouted the village as best he could, Garnuk settled down just inside the edge of the Midwood, waiting for midnight so he could slip into the village and forge the tools for assassinating the Sthan king. The vertag positively trembled with excitement at the prospect. It had been many years since he had last worked at a forge. The last time, he had made the sword and shield he now carried into battle, tools which had served him well for twenty years. He hoped the gauntlets he made tonight would prove just as useful.
Several hours after dusk, Garnuk finally made his move. Silently, he crept across the intervening flatlands to the forge, moving into the darkened structure. Garnuk could see just fine without light, navigating the cluttered space easily until he stood by the forge. He quickly began shoveling charcoal onto the dying fire, then pumped the bellows a few times to get it going. In minutes, the forge was roaring again, ready for work. Garnuk smiled to himself and pulled a heavy leather apron from a hook on the wall. It was small for him, but would still protect most of his body from the flying sparks.
As he went to begin work, Garnuk drew his sword and set it close at hand. If he was surprised or came under attack, he would need to access it quickly. That done, he looked around the smithy, searching for scrap metal to begin working with.
His eyes found not a box of scraps, but a tub of spearheads standing to one side. Garnuk picked one up curiously, examining it. They must be for the town watch, he mused as he studied the sharp, wedged implement. He went to put it back, then frowned and picked up several more, letting them spill through his fingers.
The biggest problem he’d had with his idea to this point had been that he was uncertain whether thin, slashing blades would penetrate armor. But spearheads were designed to pierce plate and mail, and were stout besides. Curiously, Garnuk held one between each of the fingers of his left hand, four in all. It looked a little like a bear’s claw, but there was not much potential for the powerful, slashing swipes which were a bear’s trademark. He could always file them down a little and sharpen the inside though . . .
Still thinking to himself, Garnuk continued rummaging around the smithy, occasionally giving the bellows an extra heave as he passed by. Here were some small sheets that he could shape to fit over his lower arms, some stout rods that would be a good grip on the inside of the gauntlets. And other odds and ends that would fill in the gaps, help him put all the pieces together and make two deadly metal paws.
Finally, when Garnuk was convinced he had the metal he needed, he laid everything out on the workbench closest to the forge and began arranging things to his liking. He started with the pieces which would fit on his hands and arms, heating them in the roaring forge and then gently shaping them over the anvil, giving them a slight curve. Then, he bent one of the rods into a flattened U shape to form a handgrip and joined it to the first piece. When the unified piece had cooled, Garnuk tried it on, pushing his fingers between the rod and the sheet and then wrapping them over the rod, forming a fist. The sheet protruded an extra few centimeters, just enough space to attach the spearheads which would form the claws.
Satisfied, Garnuk placed one of the gauntlets back in the flames to heat up, while he began busily arranging the spearheads on the workbench in two groups of four. How best to attach them, he wondered. Cut slits in the gauntlets and slide them in? But then he would need to bind them somehow . . .
The gauntlet was glowing orange-red so Garnuk pulled it out of the flames and set it on the anvil, taking up a small chisel. He hesitated for a moment, then dragged the sharp, heavy tip of the tool in a straight line some eight centimeters long. The metal of the gauntlet creased, folded, then split in a thin line.
Immediately Garnuk snatched up a spearhead with a pair of tongs and wedged it into the gap, tapping it with a hammer until it slid all the way to the back of the notch he had created. He examined his handiwork for just a moment, then moved on to the next claw and the next, spacing them out as evenly as he could. When all four spearheads were roughly joined to the gauntlet, he heated a thin metal band in the forge. Then, he wrapped the thin, malleable length of metal around the place where the spearheads joined the rest of the gauntlet, hammering it flat and welding all the pieces into a whole. This done, he pivoted neatly and quenched the gauntlet in a nearby barrel of brine, wincing at the violent hissing sounds that erupted from the barrel.
When the piece had cooled, Garnuk examined it critically. It was not beautiful or graceful, nor was it perfect. But the gauntlet was functional and deadly. It would serve his purposes. He pushed on the spear blades with a hammer curiously, testing their bond with the rest of the piece, but they held with not even the slightest flexing or bending.
Pleased with this early success, Garnuk reached for the second gauntlet. As he did, a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He swayed backwards and jerked his hand back, just as the studded head of a massive war club thudded into the space where his hand had been. If he had not moved, the blow likely would have broken his arm.
In the same movement, Garnuk scooped up his sword from where it lay, leveling it at the newcomer. It was a human, he realized. A bulky human, layered in muscle, yet visibly uncomfortable with the weight of the club in his hand. The smith, no doubt, come to see who had broken into his work area and was using his forge. Garnuk saw the man’s eyes widen in fear as he caught sight of his gleaming horns.
“Stay back!” the man shouted, waving his club threateningly. “I’m warning you.”
Garnuk chuckled to himself. The man’s club held no fears for him. But the smith did present a problem. Night would be coming to an end all too soon and he was delaying Garnuk’s work. The vertag considered what to do about this, then lowered his sword calmly, looking the man in the eyes as he searched for words in the human tongue.
“No . . . trouble,” he ventured finally. “Just repairs.” He nodded to the workbench. The smith followed his gaze, noticing the pile of scraps and other metal. Fortunately, the smithy was dark and it was unlikely that he could make out the shape of Garnuk’s new gauntlets.
“Move along,” Garnuk added, making a shooing motion with his hands. “Done soon.”
The smith backed away warily. Garnuk could see the indecision in his eyes. The smith wanted to deal with this monster, wanted to drive it from his forge or kill it, whichever came first. But he was not a stupid man, and could almost certainly see that Garnuk was not an easy victim. Definitely not a run of the mill thief who could be driven off with the element of surprise and a few swipes of his club. Uncertainly, then with growing conviction as Garnuk did not follow him, the smith backed out of the smithy, turned, and ran.
Garnuk snorted and went back to his work. “Hornless coward,” he muttered to himself. In all likelihood, the smith was now rousing the town watch, spreading the word that a vertag had broken into his smithy. Garnuk needed to work quickly unless he wanted to kill off the whole of the village.
The second gauntlet went much faster, now that Garnuk knew what he was doing and had seen the first procedure succeed. But the second completed piece had j
ust barely been quenched when he heard shouts and the clank of weapons and armor from the direction of the village. He scowled to himself and dumped the gauntlets into his pack. Then, he snatched up his sword and began his retreat from the smithy, leaving the forges blazing. Let the smith try and convince the others a vertag had been here only moments ago.
He was only a few meters beyond the walls of the building when the first of the town watch appeared, a lantern held in one hand, a spear in the other. The man skidded to a halt in comical fashion when he saw Garnuk, nearly dropping his weapon.
“Stay where you are!” he shouted, raising the spear to throw it.
Garnuk hesitated, then slowly turned and faced the man. The villager might not be a trained soldier, but at this short of range he could hardly miss.
The watchman relaxed as Garnuk obeyed, lowering the spear fractionally. “Good,” he continued pretentiously, drawing himself up. “Now, surrender your weapons. You will be tried and executed for your crimes.”
Garnuk smiled grimly and flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword, held with the blade flat against his right leg. In this uncertain light, the villager probably couldn’t see it.
“No,” the Exile replied calmly.
The villager’s eyes widened and he took a half step back. The other voices were getting closer now. Garnuk only had a moment before reinforcements would be arriving.
“I – beg pardon?” the watchman stuttered.
“I said,” Garnuk replied, rolling his shoulders and tilting his horned head back and forth, “NO!”
He roared to wake the dead and shake the foundations of the world, then sprang at the watchman, slamming the spear aside with his round shield. The villager bleated in fear as the weapon was sent spinning, end over end, into the darkness. He dropped the lantern, which shattered on the ground. Fortunately, the ground around the smithy was hard, packed dirt or it would have started a fire. As it was, the flames weakened and died except for a single vibrant tongue floating up from a puddle of lantern oil.
Garnuk brought his sword up and around, striking the villager between neck and shoulder. The black iron blade bit deep into his opponents flesh and the villager gave a strangled, gurgling cry as he fell, never to rise again. As he was collapsing, the rest of the watch arrived, a half dozen men in various states of dress, all equipped with spears.
They took in the sight of their downed comrade and dropped into crouches, menacing Garnuk with the points of their spears, fanning out to encircle him. One of them shouted at the Exile, likely demanding his surrender. Garnuk declined.
Instead, the vertag swept three of the spears aside with his shield and smashed another with his sword. The blade, with Garnuk’s massive strength behind it, shattered the spear just behind where it joined the head. The spearhead whistled off into the night, leaving the villager with a splintered, useless pole.
Before Garnuk could follow up his advantage though, the other villagers had circled him, needling him with their spears. One even pricked Garnuk’s hide, just below his ribs on the right side. Snarling, the Exile sought an escape route but could not find one. Beyond the circle of spears he could see the smith, his club held casually over one shoulder, smiling triumphantly.
“Kill the beast!” a watchman shouted, lunging forward.
Garnuk swayed to one side and the spear grazed him instead of dealing the killing thrust that the watchman had hoped for. But now Garnuk was furious. His blood began to boil at the audacity of these mere villagers, challenging a vertag warrior. A former Ramshuk no less!
Another villager lunged at Garnuk, and the vertag reacted with the speed and grace of a serpent. He dropped his sword, seized the spear by the shaft, and yanked it from his opponent’s grasp. The villager stumbled forward and Garnuk ended his life with a vicious swing of his small shield. Then, the Exile spun with the spear, lashing out with both ends at the other villagers. Splinters and metal flew as spears were shattered. Men cried out in pain as Garnuk carved long, shallow wounds in their flesh. The disciplined circle disintegrated as they stumbled away, and it was child’s play for Garnuk to finish them off after that.
The last watchman had barely fallen when Garnuk heard a whistling noise behind him. He turned and caught the smith’s club in mid-stroke, then snarled at the frightened man, savoring the fear in his eyes.
“You fool,” Garnuk growled, baring his fangs. “Do you not know death when you see it?”
The smith released the club and ducked, scrabbling for a knife at his belt. But Garnuk simply tossed the club in the air, caught it by the handle, and smashed the metal-studded head into the smith’s skull.
Breathing heavily, Garnuk looked around at the carnage. All the witnesses had now been taken care of. He could move on. With any luck, the rest of the villagers would think that a roving band of brigands had raided the smithy. With a satisfied grunt, Garnuk turned and lumbered back into the forest, the two clawed gauntlets in his pack clanking rhythmically.
The Exile had what he had come for. Now, it was time to hunt down the king.
Chapter 21:
Into the Midwood
Garnuk ran through what remained of the night and into the next day. Throughout that time, there was no sign of pursuit. He had not really expected the villagers to set out after him, but there was always the chance that soldiers could be dispatched from larger towns nearby. Eight murdered villagers was hardly a common tragedy.
For this reason, the Exile decided to forego the main road through the Midwood. Instead, he lumbered through the forest, stumbling over roots and through small streams, crashing through bushes and snapping branches. He knew the road was somewhere to his left and the sea somewhere to his right. As long as he kept them there, he could not wander astray. He would reach the capital of men, and would spoil their hunt with one of his own.
The day passed slowly, the sun wheeling overhead. Garnuk took two breaks to eat and drink, but not to sleep. He would not do that again until he sighted Etares. The Exile knew that he had plenty of time before the hunt was due to begin, several days yet, but he wanted to be sure he had reached the lair of his enemy before he stopped for any length of time. It would not do to miss this opportunity.
Finally, on the fifth day since he had entered the forest, Garnuk noticed that the undergrowth was beginning to thin. The gray, frost-bitten trunks were spaced further apart, and he could see more of the land ahead. Quickening his pace, Garnuk hurried through the trunks, darting and weaving, instinctively moving in a half-crouch. As if it would conceal his approach from any unexpected watchers.
Then, suddenly, he was on the edge of the forest, a wide-open plain stretching before him, running all the way to distant walls and the city of men.
From this distance, it appeared to be a cold, dead place. All gray walls and dirty buildings, the palace lording over it all at the southern end of the walled city. Slightly north of that magnificent structure was another, taller building. Garnuk had only to look at the silhouette to know precisely what it was. A stronghold, built purely for defense, its sharp lines and considerable size indicating it would be a tough objective. Maybe even impossible. The vertag shuddered and thanked the spirits that he was not here to attack the city. Not this time anyway.
His gaze drifted south, past the palace, to the harbor. And then, to the Furnier Sea, taking up the entire eastern horizon. It had been many years since Garnuk had traveled so close to such a large body of water. He remembered the Southern Sea as a hostile place, full of roaring, icy waves and menacing swells. It was an unpredictable, uncompromising force of nature. One which attacked without mercy whenever the living failed to respect its power.
This northern sea was different on the surface, Garnuk thought as he surveyed it. The water was calmer, with only small waves to disturb its smooth, slate-gray surface. But on the shores of the sea he could see frost and ice coating the rocks. And there was ice crusting the barrier men had built to protect their harbor as well, formed from the spray the wa
ves had kicked up. This sea might appear calmer, Garnuk reasoned, but it was more similar to the Southern Sea than it first appeared. Shuddering at the thought of the cold, gray waters, Garnuk quickly retreated into the fringes of the forest, seeking a campsite for the coming days.
He found one not far from the forest edge. Thankfully, it was out of sight from the sea, though the road was not far off at all to the west. There was a little hollow here though, at the base of a spreading oak which had grown at an odd angle. Around the little glen were several winter-blasted bushes, their leaves gone, their branches rattling in even the slightest breeze. In spring, the clearing would be almost completely hidden. Despite winter’s best efforts, it was still an excellent hiding place.
Garnuk ate a light meal of meat and water, too distracted to really taste the food. Already he was planning, working out how he would go about killing the king of the Sthan and taking his revenge for a ten-year-old wrong.
When he had finished eating, Garnuk rummaged in his pack and pulled out the two gauntlets he had fashioned in the village several days earlier. He had not looked at them since that chaotic night, nor spared them much thought. Now he tried them on, sliding his hands through the gaps and gripping the handles with his thick fingers. The claws on each gauntlet extended another foot from the end of his clenched fists, the blades glinting slightly in the uneven forest light.
But they weren’t blades, Garnuk remembered with a flash of irritation. Not yet. He still needed to sharpen them, and add the slight serrations that would complete the resemblance to the claws of a bear.
The Exile glanced up at the sky, broken by the grasping branches of trees, and sighed to himself. Night was falling, but as much as he would like to rest, he knew he would sleep much better with the gauntlets finished, the blades readied for the battle to come.
Grumbling to himself at the oversight, Garnuk dug in his pack again, searching for his whetstone and a file. He found both and began slowly grinding away at the metal, putting a slashing, tearing edge on each of the narrow blades. The rasping sound of metal against stone rang through the clearing. Every so often, Garnuk paused and took a long look around, listening and observing lest any foes sneak up on him.
The Ramshuk (Heirs of Legacy Book 3) Page 21