The Ramshuk (Heirs of Legacy Book 3)

by Paul Lauritsen

  The vertag moved behind an upright oak, turning side on so that his body was hidden from the direction the riders were approaching. Then, he leaned forward slightly, so that only his eyes were revealed. He could see nothing but empty forest in the direction he expected the men to appear from, a glittering expanse of snow and ice.

  He heard the voices again, and the sounds of the horses were more regular. Then, he sighted them. Three figures dressed all in drab gray to blend in with the landscape, moving slowly and carefully towards Garnuk in a nearly-straight line. Garnuk waited another moment to be sure there was not a larger party following behind, then slunk away from the tree. He moved quickly and stealthily until he had created more space between himself and the hunters, then went back to crashing rapidly through the trees.

  As he ran, Garnuk’s pulse pounded in his ears and blood surged through him. Waves of anger coursed through his veins, lending him strength and speed. He was ready for the battle, ready to rip these men apart with his claws. Ready to put an end to the hunt.

  The Exile bounded into a small clearing strewn with large boulders, the whole scene dusted liberally with snow. He ran right across the clearing, to a thick, sturdy tree. When he reached it, Garnuk raked his claws along the bark in vertical stripes, reaching high over his head to do so. Then, he disappeared into the trees surrounding the clearing, circling around to the side to lie in wait for the hunters.

  As he crouched there, concealed by the forest, Garnuk forced himself to calm down, to focus on the task ahead. The king and his guards were skilled fighters, and formidable opponents. They were not to be taken lightly, no matter how much strength his battle-madness lent him. Closing his eyes, Garnuk crossed the gauntlets over his chest and breathed deeply, clearing his mind.

  His eyes snapped open a moment later as a horse snorted and snuffled nearby.

  The riders had reached the clearing and stopped, just beyond the safety of the trees. They had not noticed the tree Garnuk had marked yet, but seemed instead to be fixated on something they’d found on the ground.

  “What is that?” one of the guards wondered aloud, leaning over in the saddle.

  Garnuk frowned, puzzled. He had not seen anything of interest in the snow when he passed by moments earlier.

  The other guard dismounted, his drawn sword in one hand. “Very interesting,” he murmured. “Your majesty, what do you make of this?”

  “It appears to be a footprint,” the king replied drily. “And a rather large one at that.”

  Garnuk cursed his stupidity. In the other parts of the forest, the snow had not been deep enough to leave discernible tracks. But here, at the site of his ambush, he had forgotten that the snow was deeper and that his boots would leave clear impressions in the powdery crystals.

  “Not the sort of tracks one would expect from a bear,” the guard on foot observed, looking around.

  “But that is,” the king countered, pointing to the tree that Garnuk had marked moments earlier. “Similar to the ones we’ve seen elsewhere if I am not mistaken.”

  “Your majesty, should we really be going after a bear?” the mounted guard asked, moving his horse beside the king’s. “It would be an impressive trophy to be sure, but with just the three of us and you armed only with throwing spears – ”

  “It may be risky, but this is the only trail that we have found all day,” the king replied brusquely. “It’s either take the bear or go home empty-handed. If it comes to a matter of life and death though, we will return, even if it means losing. You have my word, Kel.”

  “Well, as long as I have your word, your majesty” the guard called Kel replied, a little mollified.

  “What about this print, your majesty?” the other guard called, still kneeling beside Garnuk’s boot print.

  The king sighed and nudged his horse closer to the kneeling guard. “How many times must I tell the two of you that you can call me by name?”

  “A few more,” Kel said, grinning in a self-assured way. “Sorry, Orram. But like it or not, you are always king. And that is something we cannot – and should not – ignore.”

  “The tracks are fresh,” Orram observed, dismounting and touching the nearest one. “Very fresh.”

  “Less than two hours old,” the guard agreed.

  The two men were turned away from Garnuk, intent on the tracks he had left. The third guard was distracted, going through the motions of scanning the surrounding forest. This was a prime opportunity, Garnuk thought. He tensed, preparing to spring, as Orram spoke again.

  “Kel, take a look at this, will you?”

  The third guard began to dismount, and in that moment Garnuk made his move.

  With a savage roar the vertag burst from cover and barreled across the clearing, trampling the bushes and small saplings that had concealed him. The three horses whinnied and panicked, prancing in crazed circles as they tried to evade the charging vertag and each other. Kel, caught halfway between the saddle and the ground, was thrown off balance. He landed awkwardly on his right ankle, and Garnuk heard an audible crack!

  The king and his other guard turned immediately, readying their weapons. The king had a light throwing spear in hand, with three more tied to his saddle, if he could get his horse to hold still for a moment.

  The guard, though, was armed with a sword. He stood to face Garnuk, shouting for the king to run, to ride, to get to safety. Garnuk swiped at the guardsman with his right hand and missed by a hair’s breadth. He brought his left hand up almost immediately to counter the return strike from the guard, batting the sword to one side with a screech of metal on metal. Then, he drew the claws on his right hand across the guard’s chest in a backhand blow.

  The claws did not penetrate the man’s armor, instead scraping against it with an otherworldly screech. Garnuk cursed and lunged forward with his other hand, punching the gauntlet straight through the man’s breastplate. The guard gaped in astonishment at the claws buried deep in his chest, gasping in pain. Garnuk ripped the gauntlet free, in the process widening the rents in the breastplate into long slashes. Then he struck again in the same manner, punching through the breastplate and tearing it apart. The guard slumped sideways in the snow, curled up around his wounds, his blood staining the snow around him.

  Garnuk turned then to find his next opponent, trying to keep track of all three of the hunters. The second guard was attempting to get to his feet, hobbling and hopping. But his sword was still in its sheath at his side.

  With a terrible smile, Garnuk advanced on the soldier. The man clawed at his sword, lost his balance and fell again. He looked up at Garnuk from where he lay, mouth sagging open, eyes bulging with horror. The vertag leered unpleasantly and struck without mercy, slashing him multiple times with both gauntlets before leaving the warrior for dead.

  Now, with the two guards out of the way, Garnuk just needed to deal with the king. A horse whinnied in consternation nearby and he swung around, raising the gauntlets to defend himself.

  He need not have feared. The horses were still riderless, dancing in circles and refusing to be ridden. The king was darting among them, trying to swing into any of the three saddles. His throwing spear was still clutched in his hand, a light, flimsy weapon made for hunting, not the rigors of battle. The king made eye contact with Garnuk, saw the vertaga advancing, and redoubled his efforts.

  Garnuk howled and crossed the distance between them in a few short bounds. The horses panicked again, turning in circles and lashing out with their hooves, completely unpredictable. In the confusion, one of them ran into Garnuk and sent him staggering, windmilling his arms to keep his balance. By chance he fell against one of the other horses, his claws carving terrible gashes along its flank and neck as he flailed. The horse whinnied in pain and shied away, only to crumple moments later.

  The Exile turned to locate the king once more and heard a low hiss. An instant later, there was a heavy impact on Garnuk’s right shoulder and a sudden, burning pain. The throwing spear dragged at the Exile
, the point lodged deep in his flesh. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Garnuk tore the spear free, angrily hurling it to one side.

  Then, the vertag turned and found the king, who had managed to wrangle the other two horses into some semblance of calm. He had also retrieved another throwing spear, and was holding it aloft in one hand. The spear did not concern for Garnuk. He charged recklessly, gauntlets held ready to strike the spear out of the air if need be.

  But the king had other plans. With a yell, he slapped one horse on its rear, startling it into movement. The beast ran straight into Garnuk, knocking him off his feet. Garnuk snarled as he hit the ground and rolled in the snow, turning it up and mixing it with mud and dirt. Before the horse could take another pass at him, Garnuk struck it down with his claws, ripping its soft flesh to pieces and savaging it mercilessly. A few meters away, the king was attempting to mount the final horse. He had just succeeded when Garnuk, running at the speed of a charging battle horse, rammed his shoulder into the king’s steed.

  The horse fell on its side, the king just managing to kick free of it on the way down. The monarch rolled away from Garnuk then sprang to his feet, spear clutched in both hands, eyes fixed on the vertag. Garnuk calmly silenced the horse, knowing the king had no chance of escaping him on foot, then turned to face his final adversary.

  He faced down the king with a cold detachment, the gauntlets held out to either side to reveal the slashing claws. The Sthan king eyed the blades warily, shifting his grip on the light spear, setting his feet more firmly in the snow.

  The Exile suddenly bounded forward in a reckless charge, watching the spear the whole time. The king tried to jab at Garnuk, but the vertag swiped at the spear with his right hand. The gauntlet smashed and splintered the flimsy weapon, breaking it into pieces and scattering splinters across the ground. The king stumbled backwards, half of the spear still clenched in his hands.

  Garnuk continued his advance, invading the king’s space, punching through his armor and ripping at it with his iron claws. The king beat at Garnuk’s head and shoulders with what was left of his spear. The shaft cracked against Garnuk’s horns, stunning him for a moment and setting his ears ringing. But then the vertag continued the frenzied attack, shredding the king’s armor and gouging bloody trenches in his body.

  Finally, the king fell to the ground, lacking the strength to rise and fight on. He lay there, still clutching the spear, staring up at Garnuk in horror. The man knew he was dying, Garnuk could see it in his eyes. Even now the light in his eyes was fading, and in moments it would be extinct.

  The Sthan king’s lips moved, but no sound escaped them. Garnuk frowned and leaned closer, cocking his head. He was curious what final words his defeated foe had for him.

  The king took a deep, shuddering breath, then froze. Garnuk watched him, waiting, then the breath escaped from the king in a long, drawn out sigh and the Sthan monarch lay dead on the forest floor.

  Garnuk sighed as well, relieved that the ambush had been successful. Now that it was over he slowly surveyed the scene, making sure that every man and beast was accounted for. The two guards lay where they had fallen, still and cold, as dead as the king they had been tasked with defending. Two of the horses still kicked and stirred feebly, but one more look at the wounds they had suffered told Garnuk they would not long survive.

  Satisfied that all witnesses to the battle had been silenced, Garnuk started to leave, then stopped as his shoulder throbbed dully. Grimacing, he twisted his neck around so that he could see the wound. It was deep, but not too serious. The pain was not even distracting. But it was seeping blood constantly, and Garnuk did not want to leave a trail for others to follow. He quickly bound the wound with a rag, then mopped up the black blood that had trickled down his muscled arm.

  His wound treated, Garnuk started to leave again, then stopped. Black blood. As only the horned vertaga were known to possess.

  The Exile turned back and looked around, brow furrowed, conscious of passing time. There were spots of his blood here and there, droplets flung off during his brief, one-sided duel with the king. These signs he erased by the simple expedient of churning up the snow and dirt in the area, making it look as though an actual battle had taken place rather than a slaughter. Garnuk kept searching though, until he found the throwing spear.

  It was in good condition still, and in one piece. But the tip was coated in Garnuk’s blood, black against the gray metal. Altogether too obvious of a clue to leave behind. Thanking the spirits that he had thought of this detail, Garnuk wiped the spearhead clean. Then, he crossed to the nearest guardsman and rolled the spearhead in the blood welling in his wounds until it was daubed red. Then, his task complete, Garnuk returned the spear to where it had fallen. Now, with any luck, if anyone ever found the king and his guards they would think one of them had managed to wound the bear.

  Garnuk surveyed the clearing one last time, trying to see it through the uninformed eyes of a search party. The claw marks on the tree would help, and the trampled undergrowth. The slashes on the horses and men were close enough to those of a bear not to arouse suspicion. And he had eliminated all traces of his blood. His boot prints were scattered all over the clearing, but there was not much he could do about that. Besides, the king and his men had died on foot. Hopefully, the tracks would be attributed to them.

  Smiling to himself, Garnuk retreated from the clearing and turned south, stepping on roots and rocks until he was well clear so as not to leave tracks. He had accomplished what he came to do. Now, it was time to return to the South.

  Chapter 23:

  Lun’s Report

  The weather turned cold once more as Garnuk began the long journey back to the south. Winter, it seemed, had finally decided to settle down for a long season. Trees were bent under the weight of ice on their branches and trunks. Every so often one would snap with a mighty CRACK, crashing to the ground and kicking up shards of ice and bits of bark. The first time this happened, Garnuk drew his sword and shrugged his shield around as though twenty men had jumped out of the forest. But after this first false alarm, he took the intermittent interruptions to his journey in stride, calmly running among the trees, staying off the roads and away from towns and villages.

  On the eighth day after the king’s death, Garnuk sighted the first of the rolling hills which marked the edge of the Basin. By nightfall, he was running among them, searching for any familiar landmarks which would lead him to the camp that he, Lun, and Vars had set up near the West Bank. In the gathering darkness though, the land looked strange and unfamiliar.

  Finally, as he was exploring a narrow ravine in hopes that it was the gully leading to the camp, a voice hailed Garnuk.

  “You’re a long way from anywhere.”

  Garnuk stiffened slightly. The words had been in his native tongue, but even this did not guarantee the speaker was a friend. “A long way from anywhere is a good place to hide. Especially after three weeks of traveling.”

  “Turn around slowly,” the voice replied. “I think I know who you are, but I have to be sure. Hands away from your weapons. Or you die.”

  Garnuk turned slowly, hands slightly raised until he was facing the direction the voice had come from. But there was no one there. He frowned, peering into the darkness, then a bulky figure rose from behind a nearby boulder.

  “Greetings, general,” Lun said, inclining his head respectfully and crossing his arms in salute.

  The Exile inclined his horned head as well, dropping his hands to his sides. “Well met, Lun. It is good to be back in the South once more. Is our camp near?”

  “Yes,” Lun replied, gesturing slightly to the east. “Not far at all. Was your hunt successful?”

  Garnuk nodded. “The Sthan king has been dealt with. He will trouble our people no more.”

  Lun smiled broadly. “The spirits favor us, general. This is most excellent news.”

  “It is progress,” Garnuk cautioned. “There is still much work to be done before all of thi
s is over.”

  “Much,” Lun agreed.

  Garnuk moved closer to Lun by a few paces. “What of your own mission?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Were you able to deal with our problem?”

  Lun chuckled deep in his throat. “My mission is complete, general. Vars and I were scouting around the West Bank fortress, trying to overhear useful information. Vars went to move closer, but was taken by a band of horsemen patrolling the hills. He did not survive,” Lun added with a mournful air.

  Garnuk rested a heavy hand on his subordinate’s shoulder, guiding him out of the ravine. “Alas, it is a dark day, Lun. A member of Shadow Squadron, fallen. On our return, we must commend his spirit to those who have gone before.”

  “Yes,” Lun agreed as they set out for the camp. “He was a great warrior. It is a shame Vars did not live to see the end of this fight.”

  The two vertaga hiked in silence for the most part until they reached the camp. Garnuk was loath to discuss further details of either mission until they were in a more secure spot, and Lun seemed content to wait as well. Once they had returned to their hilltop campsite though, Garnuk got right to business.

  “Besides Vars’ unfortunate demise, has anything else happened around here?”

  Lun nodded solemnly. “Much. Many more villages have burned. A week after you left, the Ramshuk’s forces stormed the West Bank.”

  Garnuk frowned. “And?”

  The other vertag leaned forward slightly. “I watched the fight from a distance, so I do not have many details to give you, but here is what I know: Roughly a hundred warriors attacked the fortress, about a score of them riding varloug prans.”

  “A score?” Garnuk interrupted, scratching at his horns thoughtfully. “That is most interesting. Apparently, the Butcher has managed to train some of his comrades to ride the beasts. Was he among those fighting?”