Belly of the Beast

by Warren Thomas

  Starting to remove the dead soldier’s armor, Tane felt warmth first, then wetness. The man was covered in his own blood, the fabric of his surcoat soaked through. Sickened, Tane left the mercenary as he was, taking only the black cloak, and moved on southward in search of another mercenary.

  He came upon the sentries guarding the perimeter quicker than anticipated. There were six within sight, with the clanking, muttering sounds of many more to either side. He saw no way to bypass such vigilant men, so eased back into cover.

  A loud crack reverberated through the forest as his foot snapped a dry stick. Tane cursed his clumsiness as several sentries called out. Freezing in place, breath held, he listened and watched for pursuit. Three men were dispatched to investigate.

  Cursing his lousy luck, Tane pulled his sword and waited in the darkest shadow he could find without moving too far and exposing himself against the bright snow. The dark shapes grew closer and closer, spread out in a short skirmish line.

  As the mercenaries grew closer, he was relieved to see they had strayed too far to the west. The eastern-most soldier would be a good ten paces away when he passed. Tane need only remain still and patient.

  He alternated between watching the approaching threesome, and their comrades huddled at the edge of camp. There were so many he believed the perimeter guards to be spread thin to either side, maybe leaving a gap for him to slip through in the dark. He decided to try, as soon as the small patrol passed out of sight and hearing.

  Glancing around to the nearest soldier, Tane watched as he probed the underbrush and shadows with a spear. Then he looked up, straight at Tane.

  Their eyes locked.

  Tane felt an instant of trapped animal terror, then sprang at the soldier with a loud bellow. The man froze, eyes wide. It was enough, giving Tane time to skewer the hapless mercenary. But the whole forest exploded with shouts and the sound of running feet.

  The second soldier arrived, her sword held high overhead and beginning its descent toward Tane’s skull. He ducked and sidestepped, thrusting at the center of her bulk as he was taught by Corporal Pendar. He misjudged the distance, with just the tip of his sword piercing her mail. But she screeched in pain, staggering away. He advanced on her, wanting to make a fast kill and escape. Instead, she turned and ran into the forest, away from the safety of her camp.

  “He’s running north!” Tane cried, pointing and setting off after her. He pretended to falter, holding his side, he called, “I’m wounded. Get him! Fast!”

  The last mercenary in the line turned and raced after his wounded comrade. Tane held his side, kneeling down as more soldiers stomped past. Glancing back, he saw only two men guarding the perimeter.

  Staggering to his feet, he made for the two guards. One came out to help him. Tane paused in the nightshadows of a large oak. He bent over as the soldier neared, to hide his clothes under the cloak and prepare his strike.

  “Can you make it?” the mercenary asked, worry in his voice.

  Tane felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t a fair fight. He was suckering the poor fool into exposing himself. He didn’t have a chance. Then Tane remembered the man had bartered his honor and soul to Dakar.

  “Help me,” Tane groaned, lifting an arm so the soldier could slip under and support him.

  Without thought, the man hurried to help. In the last instant Tane angled the sword-point upward and thrust for the heart. The man’s mail was barely an obstacle for Tane’s strength and Bearclaw’s keen edge and temper. He pierced the diaphragm, cutting off all but a strangled groan.

  Seizing him, Tane spun them around, so it appeared his dead foe was himself.

  “He passed out,” Tane called back. “Give me a hand before he dies.”

  The other man jogged over. Tane kept his face averted, struggling to keep the dead soldier afoot. Listening to the other soldier’s approach, Tane smiled at the rasp and snap of a sword being sheathed.

  Tane released the dead sentry the moment his comrade arrived, shocking the newcomer. He was unprepared for Tane’s attack, a swift and powerful fist to the neck. Needing the man’s uniform, Tane didn’t use his sword. His windpipe crushed, the mercenary dropped to his knees. Tane seized his head and jerked it around like Corporal Pendar had taught him, hearing the snap.

  Dragging the last man deeper into the shadows, Tane quickly stripped him. The uniform and armor fit well, if not a bit oversized. In fact, he was glad for the greater size of the uniform, allowing him to wear it over his own clothes. More layers meant greater warmth in the unseasonable cold.

  The helmet was another bonus. It was fur-lined and would help retain more of his body heat, at least that was what Raven claimed. She thought most body heat was lost through the head. Neither the Vikon nor Quinn argued the point, so Tane felt compelled to give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, Tyrians grew up in the bitterest winters known.

  After burying the stripped guard under a mound of snow, deep in the shadows and underbrush, Tane made for the camp. There was no one to contest his passage. He paused only once, to gaze back at the dark forms of the other dead, praying he never had to do that again.

  It’s becoming too easy to kill, he thought.

  Chapter 72

  Numbing cold. Burning cold, seeping into her clothes, her very bones. Joelle had never felt such cold, such misery. Then the pain made itself known. The pain of bruises and too cold skin.

  Opening her eyes, Joelle found herself laying face down in wet snow and mud. It was early morning. The eastern horizon was just beginning to lighten from dark blue-gray to a lighter gray. Voices surrounded her, mostly male and angry.

  “She’s awake,” a voice said, male and hoarse.

  Rough hands seized her arms, jerking her upright and setting her on her knees. With a jolt of fear, she realized her arms and feet were bound. Strangely, her fingers were free and her mouth not gagged. She suppressed the grin that threatened, for the fools would pay for their inexperience in handling magic-users.

  Searching for her hoard of life energies, Joelle was struck speechless. There was nothing. Nothing at all, not even the hoarding spell that held the energy until needed. Then she realized that it was another spell hiding her energies, depriving her of her magic.

  She felt something tied around her throat. Concentrating on it, she discovered it to be a medallion of some sort. An amulet.

  “Where are your companions?” the hoarse man asked.

  Startled by the question, she looked at him for the first time. He was tall and slim, wearing the gray robes of a priest. Leltic Tribal Tattoos covered his face, partially obscured by reddish-brown stubble. His bearing and speech indicated a high-born Lelt. The golden torque wrapped around his thin throat backed up that assessment.

  Ignoring him for the moment, she looked around wildly. There was a tent behind the priest, gray and filthy. The burnt out remains of pines jabbed up at the heavens all around her, broken off at varying heights. The places where the snow was churned into mud was also blackened with ash and coals from the fire. Zombies uncounted milled around beyond the mercenaries surrounding her, deathly quiet in a way that always chilled her bones.

  Her husband was nowhere to be seen. She searched the faces of her guards, no Armin. His absence was a hammer blow to her soul. She had expected him to stay with her, use some excuse, any excuse, to stay by her side. If he’d been assigned as her guard, then they could escape when the interrogation was over. But he wasn’t with her anymore.

  Had his disguise been discovered? Had he attacked them for what they did to her? Was he dead? Wounded? Did they have him prisoner elsewhere?

  Then she noticed the look in the eyes of her guards.

  Dark, hate-filled eyes regarded her. Some few looked eager. Eager for her to refuse to answer questions, so they could beat the answers out of her, so they could start breaking things. She knew their type. She understood why Dakar’s service appealed to such men.

  Joelle was alone. All alone. And a prisoner of men who h
ad reason to hurt her. She had never truly been alone before. There had always been someone, some friend or family member. Then Armin, loyal and loving husband, came into her life.

  “I’d advise you to be cooperative, witch,” the priest said. “You and your friends hurt a number of these men’s friends. They are eager to return the favor, though I fear they might be a bit too zealous in doing so. My fear that they will accidentally kill you is all that holds their wrath at bay. If you fail to cooperate, fail to satisfy my curiosity, then...”

  He looked meaningfully at the mercenaries surrounding her. Joelle felt her throat tighten. There was nothing she could tell them that they didn’t already know, even if she wanted to “cooperate.” Dakar had sifted through all their thoughts and knowledge, or so they believed. Tane, at least, was convinced of it, and she saw no reason to argue the point. Dakar was a God, and quite capable of doing far more than reading their minds.

  “What do you want to know?” she asked, unable to keep the quiver out of her voice.

  She had no intention of helping them, but if they were foolish enough to believe her lies...

  “Where are the others?” the priest said, squatting in front of her.

  “I don’t know. We split up when your patrol attacked us. I was trying to escape, to get away.”

  “Where are you to meet them? Where will they go when you don’t show up?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t been planning that far ahead,” she said. “We didn’t anticipate breaking up like that.”

  “What was your destination?”

  Did he truly not know? Was it a trick question? Was it a question meant to test her, to see if she was telling the truth? If they did know, and were only testing her, then she could buy her friends some time by revealing their ultimate destination and then add some lies about route and such that would lead pursuit astray. But if the priest didn’t know they were bound for Caeren, then she would seriously jeopardize their safety by telling the truth.

  The subtle tightening of fists alerted her to growing anger among the mercenaries. The priest’s jaw tightened as well, a coldness entering his eyes. Undoubtedly their thoughts concerning her options were following the same the same path.

  “I see we’re going to do this the hard way,” the priest said.

  Chapter 73

  Her leg sinking knee-deep in the icy mud, Raven grumbled another curse upon the countless “feeble-minded” zombies that had caused the problem. Stripped of their wits, zombies didn’t have the personal initiative to build fires. Instead, they milled around and stamped their feet in near fruitless attempts to stay warm. All that their efforts accomplished was to churn more and deeper mud. In the few short hours since sneaking into the encampment, she had seen scores of dead zombies, killed by exposure.

  Bulling her way out of the mud hole, she sloshed onward, towards their next rally point. She could see the cleft in the tree line above, and across a sea of icy mud and brainless humanity.

  She stepped into deep puddle of slush and mud. Icy water and mud splashed over the top of her thigh boots, saturating the lower half of her priestly robes, and elicited more muttered curses. The boots were soaked through, and now half filled with water. Even when she came across the occasional dry patch of ground, she still sloshed on. In truth, though, she was glad for a reason to forsake the tall boots. Thigh boots were for riding, not marching. She had made a mistake (though would’ve sworn vehemently to the contrary if asked) and her feet had become blistered early on.

  Raven was intent on acquiring a pair of marching boots from one of the mercenaries before she left the encampment, even though she planned to ride the remainder of the trip. One never knew when she would be forced to abandon her mount for stealthier walking.

  “Make way!” a woman’s strident voice demanded.

  Raven only had time to glance behind her before a huge bay destrier splashed by, flinging water and mud all over her.

  “Halt!” Raven demanded.

  The rider, a blonde woman in the black and gray of Dakar’s mercenaries, reined in before her. She tried to act unperturbed, but Raven noted the fear in her dark blue eyes. Seeing that, Raven leveled blazing green eyes on the hapless woman.

  “Dakar damn you, woman! You did that on purpose!” Raven cried. “Get down off that horse this instant!”

  The woman all but fell off the horse in her haste to comply. Raven secretly smiled, seeing the woman’s hands tremble slightly. Her accent said she was a city born Jarlander, probably from the northwestern region.

  “Your Grace, I beg forgiveness,” she stammered, looking around for salvation of any sort. Suddenly, anger swelled up from deep down. Pointing at a nearby clump of zombies, she blurted, “Those damnable, brainless bastards spooked my horse. I tried to warn you – ”

  “Enough,” Raven growled.

  With the woman just two paces before her, Raven was able to determine that they were of a size. She had a fine destrier, and a better than average set of armor. And she wore marching boots.

  Spying a nearby tent, Raven pointed and said, “Get inside.”

  Fear engulfed the woman’s face, but she tied off her horse and entered the tent. Raven followed her in, hoping the tent was unoccupied. It was.

  “I should lay you across the altar,” Raven said as soon as the flap was lowered. “But I have a better way to punish your insolence. Strip.”

  The woman gawked at her a moment, made some feeble protest about preferring men, then began removing her armor and clothes. Raven waited patiently, but kept the anger in her own eyes. It wasn’t hard, since this woman had betrayed Raven’s beloved Arisen Gods. Most woman warriors were devotees of Ashtar, meaning she had forsaken Raven’s own personal Goddess.

  “Kneel,” Raven commanded when the woman was naked.

  The woman fell to her knees without question or hesitation.

  Raven promptly kicked the mercenary between the eyes, hard. Pulling her dagger, Raven made to slit the unconscious woman’s throat. Witnesses left behind were all too frequently fatal mistakes. But Raven hesitated, strangely horrified by her own intentions.

  “Shining Gods, what a lousy time to develop a conscious,” he muttered. “But dammit...”

  She quickly bound and gagged the mercenary. When they destroyed Dakar, the woman and her comrades would be taken care of by the local authorities. And if they managed to escape justice, then the Gods would tend to their eternal punishments.

  Shucking the priestly robes, Raven quickly stripped out of her cold, wet clothes and donned the dry uniform and armor. Raven thanked Ashtar for her bounty, for she received a pair of woolen tights and a pair of leather trousers that fit over the woolens and cut the wind. Likewise, there was a woolen undershirt and leather over-shirt. The armor was an iron cuirass, polished to a mirror finish, and the straight sword was fairly good steel. The saber in the saddle sheath was of even finer craftsmanship. She also gained a belt knife and five more throwing daggers.

  Even more than the uniform, Raven admired her new mount. The mare was in excellent condition. She was of that breed of destriers bred for use guarding caravans. They were known as much for their endurance as for their fierceness in battle. The bay mare was no match for one of the big destriers that knights rode, but could move faster and for longer periods, and could subsist on rougher fare.

  With the priestly robes over her new uniform and armor, Raven mounted and rode toward the hilltop that the road disappeared over. From her higher position ahorse and on the hillside, she looked back over the encampment. There was still no sign of her friends. That was good, real good.

  Raven felt she had watched for her friends too long near the perimeter. She was afraid they had all already rallied, and left without her. But she would rather have to catch up than know one of them had fallen to their enemies.

  Chapter 74

  Tane trudged through the quagmire toward his goal. He was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Twice, he had been called upon to help one g
roup of mercenaries or another. Another time, a priest had him guarding a tent for three hours with another man. There were times he didn’t see how he’d ever get away and escape.

  And still he had not found the opportunity to steal a horse.

  Screams of rage and surprise startled him. Whirling around, he spotted some twenty mercenaries chasing another mercenary. Smoke rose up from the spot they had been.

  Shrugging, Tane started to turn back to continue when he spotted something amiss. A lone figure knelt in the snow and mud, facing away from him. A woman, though it was difficult to be sure from that distance. Red hair spilled down her back. Her hands were bound behind her back.

  Twice he turned back to continue on, but stopped. It couldn’t be Joelle. It couldn’t be. Her magic would’ve allowed her to make short work of mere mercenaries. But he had to know for sure.

  Heading her way, he spotted the priest and three other men. Except for the prisoner and the priest, all wore the black and gray of Dakar’s mercenaries. And it was the clothes that stopped him short, for now he knew it was Joelle kneeling there, head down.

  Gathering his courage, Tane marched over to Joelle. The priest looked up as he stopped. Tane swept the area with his eyes, noting the three wounded men and blood splattered about.

  “What happened, Your Grace?” Tane said, glad his voice sounded strong and confident.

  “The witch’s mate tried to free her,” the priest said, scowling toward the sounds of pursuit.

  “She’s one of the people we ambushed last night?” Tane said. When the priest nodded, giving him an odd look, Tane persisted with rising anger, “Have you informed anyone? I have just left the...commander. No one up there is aware of any prisoners. In fact, they are furious! And Dakar is even more so!”