The Ramshuk (Heirs of Legacy Book 3)

by Paul Lauritsen

  A few minutes after the last group was gone, Tarq looked in on Garnuk.

  “They have gone,” he reported unnecessarily.

  Garnuk nodded. “I heard,” he replied quietly. “It all went smoothly? Everyone understands their instructions?”

  “Yes.”

  The Exile blew out a long breath, staring up at the roof of his tent. “And now we wait. I shall rest, Tarq, as you have instructed. There is little else to do now.”

  Tarq grinned to himself, baring his fangs. “You will recover, general. You will see.”

  “Yes,” Garnuk murmured as Tarq ducked back out of the tent. Today he would rest, and the next day. Maybe by the third day or the fourth he would be strong enough to resume his normal duties. If he was not fully healthy by then . . .

  Garnuk shook the thought aside angrily and closed his eyes. He would recover, he told himself firmly. The alternative was not worth considering.

  Chapter 36:

  The General ’s Strength

  As Garnuk had promised, he slept the remainder of the day and into the night. The camp was quiet and peaceful, with little to disturb his rest. The remaining two warriors who had stayed with Garnuk and Tarq patrolled infrequently. There were not enough of them to maintain a constant watch around the camp with the others gone. Still, the site was well-secluded and had good visibility in all directions. Even with only a few patrols, they would be able to spot any unwanted guests long before they arrived.

  Tarq woke Garnuk twice throughout the day, both times to deliver food to keep his strength up. Other than those few minutes, Garnuk spent the entirety of his time lying down, wrapped in furs, sleeping as much as he could, lying still when sleep would not come to him.

  By the following morning, he had recovered much of his strength, enough that Garnuk considered going back to his usual business of planning his next moves. The dull monotony of lying in his tent doing nothing was getting to him, and it was only with an iron will that he was able to keep his mind from mulling over the complex problems facing him. He had just started mulling over the problem of infiltrating Dun Carryl when Tarq poked his head through the front of the tent, extending a steaming bowl towards his general.

  “Breakfast,” he said gruffly. “Then rest more. Nothing has happened yet, and the first reports won’t come in until next week at the earliest.”

  Reluctantly, Garnuk accepted the bowl. Breakfast was a thick stew, hot and nourishing, though not as palatable as the one Tarq had made just after they left Banta Kodu. The Exile suspected that one of the other warriors must be handling cooking duties to pass the time.

  When he had finished his meal, Garnuk lay down again, even though he desperately wanted to leave the tent and consult his maps and notes. There were questions he had, things he wondered about both the Sthan and his vertaga enemies. He also wanted to look over the maps, to be sure he had placed his eight squads most effectively.

  But, in the end, he stayed put, knowing he was not strong enough yet to go back to the way things had been. If he ever was going to get back there, he needed to take things slowly and give his body time to heal.

  The third day, Tarq allowed him to leave the tent and move into the pavilion, where all of Garnuk’s maps and notes remained exactly as he had left them a few days earlier. Tarq had rolled in two large boulders with relatively smooth and flat top sides to act as chairs, and thrown a fur over each for comfort. He stayed with Garnuk throughout the day, keeping an eye on him and making sure that he did not overexert himself. The other two warriors stayed away, except to report in after completing patrols around the camp.

  Days passed, one after the other. Garnuk quickly became frustrated with the lack of activity and the fact that he was confined to either his tent or the pavilion throughout the day. Sometimes, if the day was warmer than usual, Tarq would let him sit outside by a fire and enjoy the crisp mountain air. But for the most part, he forced Garnuk to stay inside. The general was not even allowed to patrol around the campsite.

  Though he chafed at the restrictions and grew increasingly annoyed, Garnuk respected Tarq’s opinion and followed his orders. He knew his friend had his best interests at heart, and Garnuk also knew resting was the most important thing for him to do. Until the first group of spies reported in, there was no new information to act on or strategize around, no strange events to interpret or enemy movements to study. All that could be done was to wait, in a seemingly endless cycle of inaction, boredom, and isolation.

  A full nine days passed before the first team of two returned. They had been deployed to the foothills almost directly north of Shadow Squadron’s camp, and the area this group was responsible for included the entrance to the only real pass through the Fells, the one which the road to Ishkabur passed through.

  “General!” one of the warriors said by way of greeting as he entered the pavilion. A second warrior followed behind him silently. “Squad seven reporting in.”

  Garnuk rose from his boulder immediately and stood over the table, consulting his notes. “Squad seven? Very well, what do you have to report?”

  “The meeting point is established, general,” the warrior announced, glancing at his companion for confirmation. “We scouted the mountains between here and there both ways. Nothing else to report.”

  The Exile blinked in surprise, then straightened slightly. “All right,” he said at last. “Well done. Get some rest and then make your next round.”

  “Yes, general,” the two warriors growled. They ducked out of the pavilion and went to set up their tents for the night, hailing the two warriors detailed to stay with Garnuk and Tarq.

  Tarq looked up at Garnuk and chuckled quietly. “You look terribly disappointed, my friend.”

  Garnuk nodded ruefully. “I don’t know why, but I expected their return meant that I would get to do something for once. But instead – ”

  “Nothing to report,” Tarq said, chuckling again. “Ah, well, news will come eventually. For now, we should continue to rest up and recover our strength.”

  “Our strength?” Garnuk asked sourly. “I’m the one who nearly died, remember?”

  “That is true,” Tarq agreed, “But I have the unenviable task of looking after you.”

  Garnuk scowled and turned away from the table. “I’ll be in my tent,” he snarled.

  “Good decision,” Tarq agreed, nodding. “I think I’ll go and sit with the others for a bit. I’ll let you know if I hear anything interesting.”

  Garnuk snorted, but made no reply.

  It was a further two days before the next group reported in. After that, the remaining six squads reported back in quick succession. Every single one had the same message for Garnuk: meeting point established, nothing unusual to report between here and there. The lack of information was frustrating for Garnuk, but he forced himself to be patient. With time, the reports he anticipated would come.

  But in the meantime, he could rest and focus solely on gathering his strength. Every day Garnuk felt stronger, despite the profound sense of uselessness that came with doing nothing all day. The cold no longer bothered him as much, he was able to stand for long periods of time with no ill effects, and whenever he woke in his tent each morning he felt rejuvenated rather than weary. He even patrolled around the camp twice during the second week, though Tarq insisted on going with him every step of the way. To keep him company, of course.

  Garnuk knew better. Tarq was keeping an eye on his general’s health, being his usual meddlesome self.

  As he rested, the thought occurred to Garnuk that when he did get his strength back, and if the reports continued to come in as slowly as they were right now, there was something else he and Tarq might do. At the moment, none of his patrols were passing close to Ishkabur, which lay a mere two days to the west and was under siege by the Usurper. He had little information on how the siege was going, and how each side fared. He mentioned the situation to Tarq on the twelfth day, and was met by a flat, empty stare.

  “No,�
�� the captain said before returning to a carving he was working on.

  Garnuk scowled. “No what?”

  “We’re not going to scout Ishkabur ourselves. Not yet. You do not have the strength.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because I know you, general,” Tarq replied, frowning with concentration as he shaved a curl of wood from his carving. “You are bored, and used to action. The real reason you wish to go is so you will have something to do. The information we would gain could be useful I suppose, but until I am convinced you are healed, we will stay.”

  “And when will you be convinced that I am healed?” Garnuk demanded.

  Tarq considered this, his head tilted to one side, staring at the carving in his hands. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally. “But the longer you rest, the more convinced I am you will someday return to full strength.”

  Garnuk cursed and turned away. What he wouldn’t give for his old strength, the power that used to course through him, the ability to run all day without tiring. He was a vertag, and one of the greatest warriors to ever live. Yet here he was, confined to his own camp like some sort of invalid.

  The Exile exited the pavilion, leaving Tarq to his carving. Growling to himself, he ducked into his tent and rummaged among his belongings until he found what he was looking for.

  He drew out a long bundle shrouded in canvas and quickly tore away the wrappings. Inside were his weapons, the claws he had fashioned in the Sthan village and the sword Chief Carh had given him. His shield lay at the back of the tent somewhere. He had stopped carrying his weapons since arriving at the camp, as they were just one more painful reminder of what he had lost since his battle with Hunon.

  You thought you won, the traitor’s voice whispered in his ear. But you have not. My assignment was to remove your meddlesome interference. And I succeeded.

  Garnuk scowled, reaching for his sword, his hand nearly touching the hilt. Then, he hesitated. His strength was not fully back yet, he knew. Would it ever return? Did he have the strength to fight, even now?

  You can’t do it, Hunon’s voice taunted. The once mighty Ramshuk laid low.

  Garnuk closed his eyes and set the bundle aside, his will to fight draining out of him. Instead, he lay down among the furs and drifted into unconsciousness, ashamed of what he had become. A general, a warrior, who could not fight.

  For the next two days, Garnuk largely kept to his tent. Reports came in from three more squads, but Garnuk let Tarq handle the messages. He did not wish to stir himself only to find more disappointment when his scouts brought only the most inconsequential of news. Tarq looked in on him a few times, but Garnuk heard his footsteps approaching the tent and feigned sleep whenever his captain drew near.

  On the third day, Tarq visited him at dawn. Garnuk was already awake, but still lying down, his eyes closed, willing Tarq to leave him alone.

  “General?” the captain said tentatively.

  Garnuk made no reply, did not even stir. He simply kept his breathing deep and even, ignoring his long-time friend.

  Tarq reached out a clawed hand and shook Garnuk roughly. “I know you can hear me, Garnuk,” he snarled.

  Garnuk remained as he was.

  “Arise,” Tarq growled. “You are needed.”

  Still, the Exile made no move to get up. Tarq sighed in frustration and left the tent, muttering under his breath. Garnuk relaxed, smiling slightly to himself. Then, there was a ripping noise and the back of the tent, where his head was, was suddenly cut open by a gleaming blade.

  Garnuk’s eyes snapped open and he scrambled for his own weapons, before remembering that he had packed them away. As he fumbled around the tent, Tarq stuck his massive horned head through the rent, glaring at Garnuk. The general sighed heavily and stopped searching.

  “What do you want?” he asked sullenly. “Can you not see I am trying to recover my strength?”

  Tarq shook his head vehemently. “I don’t know what you have been doing these last two days, but I can confidently say you have not been trying to recover your strength. You are changed, Garnuk. The vertag I once knew would never neglect his duties to his warriors.”

  “I haven’t neglected anything.”

  “There are three reports waiting in the pavilion for you, unread.” Tarq withdrew his head for a moment, glancing towards the entrance to the camp. “And soon to be a fourth,” he added grimly.

  “What do you want?” Garnuk asked again. “Can’t you see I have nothing left? I will never be what I was, Tarq. My strength is gone.”

  “No it is not,” Tarq replied sharply. “Your body may not be what you are used to, you might not be able to run all day and fight all night, but your strength is not gone. Our role in this war is not about our ability to face down thousands of warriors, Garnuk. It is about playing both sides and tricking our opponents into eliminating each other for us.”

  Garnuk scowled and looked away. Tarq didn’t understand. The Exile knew his mind was a powerful weapon, but it just wasn’t the same. And hadn’t Garnuk’s ability to fight been critical in a number of situations already?

  “You still have what you need to win this war,” Tarq continued, his voice low and furious. “But you need to find yourself again. Remember what we are fighting for, Garnuk. Not for you. Not for me. For all vertaga. For your mate and cub. For the survival of our race.”

  Garnuk growled and shook his head. “I can’t . . . I can’t be the warrior I was.”

  “Then be a leader,” Tarq said shortly. “But whatever you do, don’t give up on us. On Shadow Squadron. On your people. We all need you, Garnuk. If you walk away from it all or stay in this tent lamenting your losses, then we will never win and in all likelihood the vertaga will be no more.”

  Garnuk stayed where he was, not meeting Tarq’s gaze and making no move to leave the tent. The captain was right, he realized, shame filling him. He had given up. This fact frightened him more than his lack of strength.

  Tarq withdrew for a moment, then ducked back in briefly. “I have to go and collect the latest report,” he said finally. “Someone has to keep things under control.”

  Then, he withdrew without another word. The ruined back panel of the tent flapped and swung in the light breeze, doing nothing to keep out the chill of winter.

  Garnuk did not move for a long moment. Then he sat up, placing his hands on the ground to either side to steady himself. As he did, he heard a clank of metal from his left. He lifted his hand reflexively and saw the bundle he had been searching for earlier. His weapons.

  The gauntlets lay there, useless without his massive strength. But the sword . . . the sword was a weapon which required more than brute force. It required skill, and technique. The blade had slipped partway out of the scabbard sometime during the last few days, exposing a few gleaming centimeters of metal. Garnuk studied the weapon, frowning.

  It was not the sort of weapon that most vertaga carried. Most used axes, clubs, or spears, weapons that complemented their massive size and strength, and extended their already long reach. In the hands of any vertag, these were fearsome weapons. A fair number carried swords of course, but they were a minority. And those who did carry swords wielded long heavy blades, blades made for slashing, hacking, and crushing. Blades a vertaga could easily cut a man in two with.

  But Garnuk’s sword was not like these others. It was heavy and long and razor sharp. But it was not so wide as other vertaga blades and was graceful in a way that they were not. It was slimmer at the guard, suited for thrusting just as much as slashing. A blade that required finesse, not overwhelming power, to be used effectively.

  Cautiously, Garnuk reached out and picked up the sword in its scabbard, treating it not unlike a wild animal that might bite at him unexpectedly. Then, he gripped the scabbard firmly with his left hand, the hilt with his right. And, inhaling sharply, jerked the blade free of the sheath.

  He held it in front of his eyes, admiring the glittering edge and the deadly beauty of the w
eapon. It was perfectly balanced, light and swift in his hands. He smiled at the familiar touch of the leather grip, running his free hand over the spine of the blade. He did not need his massive strength to fight with such a weapon. Only his nimble mind, the thing that had always been his greatest weapon.

  A fire began to build in Garnuk once more, growing from embers which had burned so low that they had nearly died out entirely. Each of those embers had a name, whether it was the names of his mate and cub, or the name of baser motivations such as revenge. The individual sparks became a flame, the flame a fire, the fire an energy that rippled through his being in a powerful and consuming wave.

  With a sharp, decisive movement, Garnuk buckled the sheath to his belt and slammed his sword into it. The gauntlets he left where they were, but his shield he slung over his shoulder, feeling its familiar weight on his back. It felt right. The shield was as much a part of who he was as the sword. Small, slightly curved, mobile and quick. Not like the massive constructions of wood and metal most warriors used.

  Garnuk ducked through the gap in the back of the tent, and made his way quickly to the command pavilion. As he moved through the camp, he noticed that the warriors assigned to him and Tarq were watching. He nodded to them curtly, then gestured to the perimeter.

  “Take a patrol around the area, make sure the latest scouts weren’t followed.”

  The two vertaga scrambled to their feet and saluted, then moved to the edge of the camp. Garnuk straightened, holding his head high and his shoulders back as he lumbered purposefully towards the pavilion. He threw the entrance flap to the side and stepped into the shelter.

  The two scouts had been giving their report when he entered, but they stopped abruptly when they noticed him. Tarq looked up as well, surprised. He met Garnuk’s gaze, and must have seen something there, for his eyes widened slightly before a triumphant grin crossed his face.

  Garnuk smiled as well and stepped up to the table, clapping the nearest scout on the shoulder. “Sorry about the delay,” he said to the warrior. “Can you start from the beginning and tell me what you found?”