Belly of the Beast

by Warren Thomas

  When the man started to move, Raven threw her dagger at him. He took it in an up-flung forearm. Raven followed the dagger, then cut right to let fly with a savage kick to the woman’s head. With the priestess moaning and clawing at the ground, Raven turned on the priest as he rose up to confront her.

  “You will pay for attacking servants of the one True God!” he hissed.

  “You’re a priest of Ashtar?”

  Raven smiled brightly to distract him further, and then dropped low as she spun around. Her booted foot connected with his knee, snapping it back with a sickening sound of joints separating. Her hand clamped over his mouth before his scream erupted.

  Grasping his jaw in one hand, and taking a handful of hair in the other, she jerked his head around and snapped his neck.

  Her grin was fierce. “And my father didn’t want me studying unarmed fighting techniques! Thought I’d only get myself hurt. Wouldn’t he be proud of me now?”

  Retrieving her dagger from the priest’s arm, Raven quickly dispatched the stunned priestess by slitting her throat. Strangely, her hands violently shook for a moment afterwards. That had never happened before. Not even her first kill had shaken her so. But killing priests and priestesses was unholy business, even servants to such an evil God as Dakar.

  Looking at the priestess’s discarded robes, she said, “I guess I get to be a priestess of Dakar for a while. At least until I can steal a uniform. And a sword.”

  Chapter 69

  Though dark, the benighted forest was a riot of shouts and horses. Angry shapes raced by, looking, searching. Joelle and Armin hid in the shadows, awaiting opportunity.

  “We should move,” Armin said. “We’re too close to the clearing.”

  Joelle looked about, her eyes lingering on the campfires to the south. So many. So terribly many. She was filled with despair at the sight, at what it represented. And they had to go through that hostile camp, of that she was certain. Skirting the periphery would be suicide, what with all the patrols alerted and out looking for them.

  “One will ride by soon enough,” she said. “Then one of us will have a mount.”

  The sound of horses came closer. Armin tensed, eager for a chance to fight. Joelle almost smiled. At such times he was almost as crazy as Raven. He denied any battle joy, knowing how she disapproved of such insanity. A line of twenty riders passed by, close like Joelle promised, but too many and too alert to threaten. They let them pass.

  Armin was relaxing, disappointed, when she heard another rider coming. Only one, of that she was sure. When Armin’s head rose in anticipation, she laid a hand on his forearm. He relaxed under her hand, nodding his acceptance of her request to be still.

  The rider came, alone. He was riding along the opposite side of the small clearing, and very attentive to his surroundings. Joelle cast out her magicks, gently, studying him with care. There were priests about, and she dared not let them feel her spellcastings, so had to choose her spells carefully. She found no wards upon his person.

  Closing her eyes, Joelle chanted the spell she needed. As the last word passed her lips, she pointed a finger at the man. He suddenly reined in, frantic, one hand darting to his throat, as if someone was strangling him with a garrote. Joelle clenched her fists, concentrating so hard her temples began to pound. He was strong. Maybe too strong for such a spell. She began to wonder if she could outlast him, it now being a test of will and strength between them.

  When the mercenary fell out of his saddle, still struggling, still fighting her, Armin rushed from cover. Joelle stayed put, still concentrating on her spell. She was becoming dizzy with the strain. The man wasn’t dying, or even passing out. Armin’s dagger finished his struggles.

  By the time Joelle staggered to her feet, Armin had rounded up the horse and was leading the gelding into cover. Joelle went straight to the fallen mercenary. Thankfully, Armin had been careful with his daggerwork, delivering a thrust through the eye into the brain. His black and gray uniform and cloak were unsullied by blood.

  “Carry him into cover, Armin,” Joelle ordered, already carefully hiding what little blood painted the snow.

  The mercenary wasn’t a small man, so Armin struggled under his weight. Joelle followed, covering their trail the best she could. Snow was falling, though lightly. Given enough time, their trail would be invisible. As it was, no one would see it unless looking real close, and then they would need the light of day to find it. By that time she expected to be well past the encampment.

  Armin began stripping the man next to the horse. Joelle used a little of her precious life energy to cast a calming spell on the skittish gelding. She made him not notice the scent of blood pervading the air.

  “An ill-fit, but good enough,” Armin said, claiming the uniform for himself. He now had good mail and an iron open-faced helmet. Once he donned the uniform, black cloak hanging from his shoulders, he asked, “Should I try to lure a suitable prospect to you?”

  Panic filled Joelle. To be left alone, here, at such a time, was more than she could bear.

  “No, we can wait,” she said, hiding her fear from him. It would do him no good to know the fear that gripped her heart. It would be a distraction for him, weighing heavily on his mind when he needed all of his wits razor keen. “But maybe we should move. I think we’ve spent all our luck here.”

  They discussed the merits of moving closer or further from the camp. Where would they be most likely to find a suitably reckless mercenary? Did they grow more and more wary as they rode further from camp, or vise-versa? They finally decided that the mercenaries would never consider the possibility that their enemy planned to pass through the camp, so would be more open to ambush nearer the perimeter, where they would feel the safest.

  Moving out of the tangle of underbrush they had hidden inside, Armin stopped to check the saddle in the dim light available through the cloud cover. Joelle drew close, downwind, for a moment’s respite.

  “Are you scared?” Armin said, his voice hushed and almost drowned in the wind.

  “Me? Scared?” she said, her voice teasing. “You don’t know this, but I’m half Tyrian. Maybe more. I wouldn’t know fear if it spit in my face.”

  “Maag protect!” Armin cried softly to the heavens. Then giving her a stern look, “That’s it. No more talking with Raven for you, young lady.”

  “Killjoy.”

  “For your own good.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, holding tight a long moment. He returned her hug just as fiercely, giving some of his warmth up in the bargain. She didn’t want it to end.

  “Hey! You! Declare yourself,” a voice called.

  Joelle saw a dozen horsemen approaching from the south, another five from the north. Surrounded.

  “Bastard!” she cried, and raked Armin’s face with her nails. “Get off me! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you if you touch me!”

  Shocked by the mercenaries’ untimely arrival, and his wife’s strange behavior, Armin was unprepared to defend himself. He never saw her booted foot aimed at his groin.

  Joelle turned and ran as Armin fell to all fours, retching in the snow. She hated herself for what she did, but if he kept his wits, then no one would suspect him of being anything but one of Dakar’s mercenaries. He would be safe, but she had no such guarantee.

  Racing for the tangle of underbrush, where no horse could go with any speed, she prayed to Maag for Her divine aid. The Goddess proved deaf to her pleas.

  Two of the five riders coming from the north cut her off, swords drawn and faces grim. Cutting left, she tried to bypass them, cursing venomously all the while. All she needed was a brief respite from their attack, enough time to cast a spell or two. A dozen helpful spells tumbled about her mind, taunting her into frustration. Another of the southbound riders cut her off, forcing her to dive to the cold, wet ground to avoid his sword. All but a handful of the northbound riders rode her way as well, victory shouts on their lips. A horse sidled close as she dashed for cover, so ter
ribly close, the rider wielding a club. She ducked, taking the blow across the shoulder blades.

  Gasping for breath, Joelle lunged under the horse and struck at the rider beyond. He reined about, presenting the horse’s rump to her. In an instant she realized her mistake, hurling herself to the snow-covered ground. The horse’s brutal hooves flashed over her, one hoof striking a glancing blow off her back.

  A pair of horsemen fell off their mounts atop her, stealing what wind her lungs still claimed and pinning her down. She tried to break free, but only managed to anger them further. Countless fists drove into her belly, her face, pounding her until darkness gathered behind her eyes and threatened to claim her as well.

  Jerked to her feet, Joelle’s wrists were bound behind her back and strong men held her arms. A dozen others crowded around, their grim faces baleful in the scant light. Then Armin thrust through them, his face a mask of rage at what had been done to her.

  “Bastard,” she spat, kicking him in the groin again before he could betray himself.

  Fists found her again, pounding her into the darkness. This time, nothing kept her from succumbing to sweet oblivion.

  Chapter 70

  “Blessed Maag, what have I done to deserve such misery?” Armin said, coming back to consciousness.

  “Hey! Are you crazy? Don’t ever call out to one of the Arisen. If one of them priests hears you, we both get our hearts cut out,” a burly man in black and gray said. “They’re just itching for reasons to lay someone, anyone, across their bloody altars. Damnation, boy, the best I figure, they sacrifice one of their own every day or so.”

  Armin looked around. He was in a tent, well-warmed by a pair of braziers. He was still in the black and gray of Dakar. His lone companion was a wounded mercenary, a big gray-beard with a missing ear. Joelle was nowhere to be seen.

  Sitting up on the fur-covered cot, he said, “How did I get here? Where am I?”

  “They hauled your ass in here about an hour ago, boy,” the gray-beard said, laying back in his cot and staring at the dark ceiling. His leg had a terrible wound, a bone deep cut from knee to groin. Someone had stitched it up, doing a haphazard job of it. “Best I understand it, one of them folks we was after north of camp laid a hard boot into your jewels, twice. Second one put you out, so they brought you here.” He patted his wound gently, “I feel for you, boy, ‘cause one of them vixens ripped me open, but good. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the same one. Bitch stole the best horse I ever had.” He looked Armin’s way hopefully, “Did she have a horse? A big gray, with three stockings?”

  “No,” he said.

  Where was Joelle? Was she alive? He understood why she did what she did, but wished she hadn’t kicked him the second time. Obviously she hadn’t realized that he was on to her plan. She only accomplished getting herself separated from him, maybe for good.

  That last thought left him soul-sick. How would he live without Joelle? He couldn’t. She was his life. He couldn’t go on without her, and he couldn’t leave her to her fate in Dakar’s hands. He had to save her, but didn’t have the faintest idea how to find her.

  “Old man – “

  “OLD! Boy, I’d kick you clean back to Kestsax if it weren’t for my leg,” he cried, face sudden beat red. “You call me old again, and you’ll never get to be my age.”

  “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Armin said. “But do you know where they took the prisoner that kicked me? I’d like to...uh...meet her again.”

  “Ha! I wager you would, boy,” he laughed. “I wager you would. And they might give her to you, too. They gave me and my squad this baron’s daughter that killed one of our boys when we captured her. Wasn’t much left of her when we gave her back the next day, but she was still fit for the altar.”

  Armin wanted nothing more than to slit the bastard’s throat and watch him die. He wasn’t fit to live. His foul life was a curse upon humanity. Once Dakar was vanquished he prayed the Arisen had a way to discover the treacherous bastards that supported the Old One.

  “But I don’t know where she is,” he admitted. “They don’t keep much in the way of prisoners around here. Just turn them into brainless slaves. But if she ain’t a slave, then your captain will be able to find her for you if they hadn’t laid her across their bloody altar yet.”

  “My thanks,” he said, though would’ve preferred answering the beast with naked steel. “I’m well enough, so better report for duty.”

  Outside he found it brutally cold after the warmth of the tent. But he quickly drove all concern with the cold out of his mind. Somewhere, within all those thousands and thousands, his wife needed him.

  The realization terrified and shamed him. It was the first time she ever really needed him, and he was helpless. He had no idea what to do, where to start.

  Quinn, he thought, and Raven will know what to do.

  Quinn was ancient, living the life of a mercenary all his life. Armin suspected that the half-elf had forgotten more than the rest of them combined would ever know. He didn’t brag, like Raven, but just did the job needed, and more competently than anyone else. If anyone could help him save Joelle, it was Quinn.

  Raven also invaded his thoughts, despite his best efforts to keep her at bay. She would doubtlessly have a dozen schemes, all exceedingly dangerous to them all. Stealth and subtly was not in her nature, though she could be exceedingly good at it when need be. She knew what she wanted and went for it. If she got it, she’d brag for a month on her deed. If she failed, she’d keep her own council and plot her next try at the thing. She was relentless, her spirit unconquerable.

  A quality that might be Joelle’s salvation, he thought.

  With the possible exception of Tane, he believed Raven would be the most tenacious when it came to rescuing a friend. Quinn’s heart had grown hard, having endured too many decades, centuries, of too many painful losses. Tane and Raven were young, full of youthful ideals and passions. And Armin loved his wife more than life itself, so could never give up trying.

  Joelle would not be abandoned, of that Armin was certain.

  Chapter 71

  Tane eased through the forest, toward the fires peeking through the trees. He was no warrior, like the others, but knew he had no chance at all of looping around the camp. Even if he did try, and made it, the trip would take so long that the others would not wait for him. He would be all alone.

  From what Dakar said, and from his dreams now that he thought on the subject, his friends had importance in the quest other than companionship and defense. The blood of Gods was required in the making of a Sword of Power. Raven and Joelle were absolutely required if he was to succeed. Quinn was half elf and half Lelt, with no blood of Gods in his body. Like Joelle, Armin was Vikon, a Tyrian clan long driven from their homeland. But Dakar’s disinterest in him made Tane believe his blood too diluted to be of any help.

  The snap of a twig sent his heart to hammering. He ducked into the shadows of underbrush, waiting and listening. He feared his dark form against the bright snow would betray him, so swept as much snow over him as possible without making any noise. Another snap, then another, came to him and stopped further efforts at camouflage. The man was growing closer.

  A single cloaked man appeared from the north, moving stealthily, or at least trying to do so. By the noise he made Tane knew it wasn’t Quinn, the one person he most wanted to be with at that moment. Quinn’s woodcraft was second to none.

  A dim beam of moonlight shafted down through the thick forest canopy and gave Tane a look at the man for a bare instant, revealing the black and gray uniform of Dakar’s mercenaries. He was intent on the trail before him.

  He’s tracking me, Tane thought, hands starting to tremble.

  The dark soldier grew closer and closer, constantly stopping to study the ground and brush around him. Twice he examined broken bits of brush along Tane’s trail. And Tane thought he’d been so terribly careful, too. He fought the urge to ease deeper into the shadows, knowing the soldier was too
close now, and began worrying that his clothes weren’t dark enough to blend into the night shadows.

  Tane slowly drew his belt knife as the soldier came within ten paces. He bunched his leg up beneath him, ready to spring at the man when discovered. Then the man was on the trail next to him, studying the ground.

  He took another step, then another. Stopping, he surveyed the trail before him. Tane waited, heart hammering, breathing shallowly lest he be heard, hand so tight on the knife’s hilt it began to ache. The soldier took another step.

  Tane held his breath when the man looked back down the trail he’d just covered. He knew the soldier was more wary now, having lost the trail.

  He suspects, Tane thought. He knows I am here somewhere.

  The soldier pulled his sword, turning to retrace his steps. Tane lunged at him, before the soldier could prepare himself. The sword leapt at Tane’s face. He ducked, cut left, then right, thrust his knife at the soldier’s throat. An armored arm parried the knife, then backhanded Tane across the mouth. Tane spun around, then stamped down on the man’s foot in a move he saw Joelle do against Quinn once.

  “You fight like a woman,” the soldier snarled.

  “And you die like a mad dog,” Tane said, throwing his knife at the soldier’s face.

  The soldier ducked. Tane whipped out his sword and swung at the crouched soldier in one smooth move. Both were equally surprised when the blade thunked deep into the soldier’s neck. Sliced cleanly through the spine. Tane saw the man’s eyes grow wide, shocked, accusing, then they rolled up as he collapsed.

  It wasn’t his first kill, but the first he’d had the luxury of looking into his foe’s eyes. He knew the fear and accusation in the man’s eyes would haunt him for some time.

  Hands shaking, Tane cleaned Bearclaw in the snow, then dried it off on the soldier’s black cloak. All the while he listened intently to his surroundings. There was shouting and arguing all around, but no indication that anyone had overheard their fight. If the patrols were quieter, he surmised, they wouldn’t have missed hearing the fight.