by Sandra Kopp
Atop a knoll situated about a mile east of the North Fork Angyar sat astride his horse, scowling at the approaching Wyar caravan toiling over a neighboring hill. The midafternoon sun, unusually warm for so early in the spring, beat upon him but Angyar took no notice as he studied the band, silently estimating their numbers. At least a hundred sheep descended the slope, followed by a dozen horsemen. Soon a wagon crested the hill. Another followed, and then another. Angyar narrowed one eye and cocked his head. Twenty-four wagons in all, most with two or three horses tied behind, and probably seventy people walking beside them, along with however many rode inside. Angyar’s scowl deepened as he recognized Ramsha, a bearded heavy-set Wyar elder, trudging ahead of the first wagon.
Brood of liars! Angyar’s lip curled. No one embellished a tale like Ramsha and his five sons. The most insignificant occurrence turned dramatic and even supernatural as the account poured from their lips. Why—according to Riko, Ramsha’s eldest—cumah stood six feet high on all fours and belched fire, incinerating everything within twenty feet! The swaggering talebearer had terrified the entire camp. Angyar snorted in disgust at the memory.
And yet he had to consider that Ramsha and his sons cowered behind no one. When disaster struck, regardless of the threat, their clan marched to the forefront to meet it. They stood in the breaches when no one else would.
Angyar sighed and stroked his chin. Liars, perhaps, but indomitable fighters and proven allies. He hated the thought; but he needed their help.
But on my terms! Elder or underling, I’ll abide no insubordination! Angyar set his jaw and watched their advance.
The sheep and horsemen moved to the north, keeping to the lush foothills while the remaining Wyars with their wagons ascended the knoll toward Angyar. Ramsha maintained a steady but unhurried pace. Angyar slowly dismounted, chafing at the wagons’ plodding progress. Nevertheless, he managed an amiable expression as Ramsha reached the top and ambled toward him.
“My brother.” Ramsha clasped Angyar’s hand. He smelled of rawhide and sweat. Dirt caked his weathered face and smudged his clothing. A boche hung at each hip from the narrow belt encircling his thick waist. A quiver hung from his right shoulder and in his left hand he held the short curved bow favored by Wyar herdsmen. His piercing, hawk-like eyes detected the smallest detail—much to Angyar’s chagrin—and now rested upon Angyar.
“I trust you are pleased to see us.” Ramsha cocked his head and peered into Angyar’s face. “You are not so pleased, I see.”
Angyar squeezed Ramsha’s hand and released it. “Pleased, yes, but puzzled. I thought we had agreed you would remain at Teptiel until I sent for you. I’ve not completed my preparations and your early arrival hinders them.”
Ramsha brushed a rough calloused hand across his stubbly chin and frowned. “We received disturbing news from my cousin Berthol in the Wyar province. The woodsmen and Little People invaded Barren-Fel to plunder their herds. The Rauths drove them back but now Marcos San-Leyon has allied himself with Liedor.” Ramsha heaved a sigh. “We’ve lost a strong ally, while our enemies increase.”
Angyar’s breath whistled through his teeth. He stared past Ramsha a moment and then clapped his arm. “We don’t need the stinking woodsmen or their runt-sized lackeys. As for the Liedoran swine, my plan will send them scurrying into the Ashgard, and Marcos San-Leyon can join them there. However, I need a little more time. Until I am ready I ask that you come no farther than the Ashgard River. As long as you keep distance and your numbers small, the invaders will suspect nothing. If all of you appear above Rauwyar they will suspect an attack and turn on us before we can act. I know we have sufficient numbers to overpower them,” he finished as Ramsha began to protest, “but why should their blood pollute our land? Give me two days—” Angyar held up two fingers—“two days and the blackguards will flee, never to return, without us shooting a single arrow and without a single Wyar death. We have only to tear down and burn their cursed buildings and fences.”
Ramsha eyed him skeptically. “You can accomplish this?”
“Yes!”
Ramsha nodded slowly. “No bloodshed. . .no death. Appealing, indeed.” He pursed his lips and then continued, “Very well. Half our band will wait here. The other half will travel as far as the Ashgard.”
Angyar smiled. “Thank you, brother.” He turned and mounted his horse. “I’ve work to do. You will hear from me in two days.”
Angyar touched his hat, then turned and galloped away. Ramsha stared after him until he disappeared over a neighboring hill, then motioned to two lanky dark-eyed youths to join him. They stepped up beside him and one asked, “Do we follow?”
Ramsha nodded shortly. “Yes, Riko,” he said through gritted teeth. “We follow. I don’t trust that ponchek.” He bobbed his head toward one of the wagons. “Get our horses. I will leave instructions with Tiya and Phara, and then we leave.”
CHAPTER TEN
Aron had just fastened the last arrowhead onto its shaft when Maracca, riderless, puffing, and dripping with sweat, careened into camp. Hastily he stuffed the finished arrows into his quiver, rose, and hobbled to the trembling steed. Maracca snorted and shied as he approached, but Aron’s soft voice calmed her enough to enable him to grasp her reins. His old heart pounded; his mind swirled with questions. What happened to Jovah? He must ride out and find him.
But first Maracca needed a drink. Aron led her to the stream and as the horse plunged her nose into the cold water he noted the bloodstained saddle. Alarmed, he tied her lead rope around a low branch, leaving enough slack for her to continue drinking, and hurried to saddle Bat-Karr.
Had Angyar, in a fit of pique, attacked Jovah? But were that indeed the case, surely Angyar would not have left Jovah alone and injured. A Rauth attack was also unlikely, for Nedra still sought Wyar aid. There remained but one other possibility, and the very thought sickened him—Cumah!
Aron gave the cinch a final tug and secured it, then returned to Maracca and untied her. He worked mechanically, his mind numbed, not wanting to think of the grisly discovery that might await him along that road. Rising adrenaline quickened his aged body, prodding him ever faster. Aron seized his quiver from a nearby branch and slung it over his shoulder, grabbed his bow, and mounted. Leading Maracca, he started for the trail.
Angyar might have turned on Jovah. Given his obsessive mental state lately, that possibility did exist. But a cumah attack seemed even more likely, in Aron’s mind. Despite what Angyar believed, cumah was no friend of man. Rocks, trees, and shrubbery along the trail provided ample cover for a beast stalking prey; and cumah, a wild beast, would prey on any creature it could catch—including man.
Angyar! You fool! This beast not only consumes you, it has possessed you! And now it may have killed one of your closest friends!
Murmuring a prayer, Aron kicked Bat-Karr into a gallop.
For twenty minutes he rode, one eye watching the trail while with the other he scanned the foothills. The trail, rising and dipping over low grass-covered hills, resembled a red ribbon floating on the gentle swells of a verdant sea. The tranquil scene should have calmed him, but dread grasped his throat with an icy fist, and even the warm, abundant sunshine could not dispel the chill invading his very core.
A small wood crowned a higher hill just ahead. Aron slowed his mount, allowing her to climb at an easier pace. Topping the hill, they threaded their way through the trees and followed the gentle S to where the road leveled out. Aron urged Bat-Karr into a gallop. With each step his apprehension—and the lump in his throat—grew. Each step made his blood run colder and the flesh along his spine tingle as if pressed between icy thorns.
They crossed the long stretch, finally reaching the higher hills. The trail followed a dry creek bed for several yards before widening into a smooth, hard-packed road meandering among the hills. Aron pulled a shaky breath. Steep hills replete with trees and rocky crags reared high on either side. The very air reeked of unspeakable evil. Bat-Karr crow-hopped ahead, h
er normally smooth gait tense and jerky. Ears erect and neck arched high, she punctuated the air with loud snorts. Maracca, equally uneasy, balked, nearly pulling Aron from the saddle, but his low, soothing voice—harder to maintain now—coaxed her onward. They passed between two groves and rounded a curve—and Aron cried out in horror.
Jovah—what little remained of him—lay sprawled across the road. Cumah, huge, black, and malevolent, its shaggy fur matted with blood, straddled the hapless youth. Already it had eaten away Jovah’s entrails, and only bare, gnawed bones remained of his arms and legs. Dazed, horrified, and helpless, Aron could only watch as the beast’s cruel fangs sank into the young man’s throat. The massive head reared back, tearing off a ragged piece of flesh. It swallowed without chewing and then fixed its blood-red eyes on Aron. A low growl rumbled from deep in its throat as its thin black lips curled up into an ugly snarl, revealing razor-sharp fangs dripping with blood.
Numbed and in shock, Aron scarcely noticed the wrenching pain when Maracca, neighing in terror, tore free and fled, nearly pulling his arm from its socket. Under him, Bat-Karr reared and lunged but Aron, now beside himself with grief and rage, held her down.
“Fiend! Devil!” he shouted. “Damn you! Damn you to hell!”
The fur on the cumah’s prominent hump stood straight up. With a growl that seemed to rumble straight out of the abyss it leapt off Jovah, stamping its front legs as it alit. It shook its head, unleashing a roar more terrifying than anything Aron had ever heard before, and then crouched and crept ever so slowly toward him. Bat-Karr bucked and bolted. Aron fought to hold on, but the horse’s sudden jump sideways threw him from the saddle and he fell on his back in the road. Gasping, he rolled on his side facing the cumah and groped for his bow and quiver, both of which had landed a few feet away.
“Die, you murderous—” Gritting his teeth, Aron lunged for his bow and quiver. Somehow his trembling hands retrieved both and he yanked an arrow from his quiver and put it to his bowstring. He fired the shot but the cumah leapt aside and, still roaring, began to circle. Aron shot another arrow, and then another. Cumah deftly evaded each one and, slavering, continued to circle.
Nearly paralyzed with fear, Aron fumbled for another arrow. The cumah, however, suddenly veered north and bounded up the hillside. Aron loosed the shot but the arrow arced high, striking the mountain several feet above the departing beast. Within minutes the cumah disappeared into the trees.
Weeping, Aron ran to Jovah’s mangled body. Only half of the youth’s face remained whole; otherwise, the cumah had reduced him to shreds of flesh loosely attached to gnawed and broken bones. Strangely, Jovah’s one eye showed no fear; neither did the terror and anguish of one facing violent death contort the unmarred half of his face.
Aron knelt and reached out to touch Jovah’s cheek, but instead put both hands to his head and clenched his hair, shoulders shaking as tears streamed down his weathered cheeks. “Cut down in your youth! The last of your clan and your father’s line! Why did I send you after that—” He spread his arms and raised his face to the sky. “Have mercy on his soul and also on me, for I delivered him to this fate!”
Amid his wails, Aron heard the drumming of rapidly-approaching hoofbeats. Collecting himself, he wiped his face and peered in both directions, for he could not discern the sound’s origin. A moment later, less than a quarter mile to the west, a horseman rounded the bend and galloped toward him. With bated breath, Aron scurried behind a nearby bush and readied an arrow. The rider came closer. Aron peeked over the bush and recognized Angyar, riding Patuka. Shoving the arrow back into the quiver, he rose and stepped into the road.
Angyar reined in, brows raised in alarm as he surveyed the carnage. “What is this?”
“What is this?” Aron retorted. “Rather, you should ask, ‘who is this?’ This is Jovah, and he died at the jaws of that creature, that demon beast you strive so hard to befriend! Jovah, the last of his line! The youth you saved in order to avenge his brother and carry on his father’s name! The—” His voice broke and he sank to his knees, sobbing. “I should not have sent him after you.”
“Indeed. I did not need him.” Angyar’s face fell and he cupped a hand over his mouth. “Ah, Jovah, my son. Why has this befallen you?” Abruptly he dismounted and, leading Patuka, strode to Aron and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Such a tragedy, but this was neither your fault nor mine. We face evil times. Jovah’s suffering has ended. His sister yet lives and will carry on the line.”
Aron bristled. “Angyar, his father’s line does not concern me. Jovah lost his life—perhaps his soul—to your beast!”
“Cumah did not kill him!” Angyar glowered down at his brother. “Maracca threw him. He died ere Cumah found him.”
“What!?” Aron struggled to his feet. “You saw, but did nothing?”
“I did not actually see—I was far ahead and riding hard.” An explosive sigh escaped Angyar’s lips. He shook his head. “I cannot explain how I know. I just. . .that is what my heart tells me.”
“Your heart? Have you a heart anymore? Angyar, I witnessed the beast devouring him! It would have devoured me, for it dodged my arrows as I tried to kill it. I had all but lost hope when suddenly it fled; otherwise, you would have found us both dead.” Aron spat. “Look at you. No grief; not so much as a single tear. I’ve never seen one so callous! Instead, you defend your beast. We both know Jovah rode that horse like he was part of it; yet your heart tells you he fell off and died.” Aron regarded his brother with a smoldering mixture of horror and disgust that pierced Angyar like a knife. “You care nothing for the lad.”
“Don’t look at me like that!” Angyar shouted. “I do care! I’ve just not the words to bewail him; but Jovah should not have followed.” He looked askance and slapped his thigh. “Why can no one listen to me? Why can they not do as I ask?”
Aron fell silent and for several seconds simply stared at his brother. When finally he spoke his voice softened but carried an impact that jarred Angyar. “Angyar, this beast has possessed you!”
Angyar glared at him. “Don’t be a fool,” he sniffed.
“You are the fool! You are one with this beast and with the power that drives it.”
“Take care, brother.” Angyar tried to stare Aron down; but the older man did not flinch. Finally Angyar dropped his head and sighed. His shoulders sagged. “I am not possessed,” he said quietly, “neither do I know what happened to Jovah. I merely tried to comfort—nay, there is no comfort.” Angyar turned to Jovah. “But see, his face shows no terror. Death came swiftly.”
“Never mind. It’s not important now.” Aron threw up his hands. “I’ve lost my horse.”
“She’s right behind you.” Angyar pointed past Aron, who turned and sighed with relief as Bat-Karr approached and nuzzled his arm.
“Good.” Aron picked up Bat-Karr’s reins and absently patted her neck. For several seconds he stood silent, staring at the ground before looking at his brother again. “I will bury Jovah and then return to camp. You—” he waved a hand —“go and tend to your preparations.”
“We both will bury him. Believe me, I mourn Jovah also. Indeed, I deemed him my son.” Angyar squinted toward the west. “We must hurry. I warned Ramsha to remain where I met him but believe he follows, regardless.”
“You would hide this from him?”
“We have complications enough without that liar and his sons spinning tales and inciting the people against us.” Angyar scanned the northern hillside a moment and pointed to a collection of rocks and trees nestled into a pocket less than halfway up. “There. We will bury Jovah there. Now hurry!”
Carefully they gathered Jovah’s remains onto Aron’s poncho, then hastened to the spot. Using sticks and their hands, they dug a shallow grave in which they buried their fallen comrade. They covered the grave with dirt and stones while uttering prayers and the Wyar funeral chant. Then, their grim task finished, Angyar turned to Aron. “Thank you. Now. . .you said cumah ran. Did you s
ee the direction he took?”
Contempt filled Aron’s face. He gestured toward the mountaintop. “I saw it go into the trees yonder.”
“Good. Return to the camp. I have an errand and then I will join you.” Angyar caught himself. “If Ramsha comes, tell him nothing. Understand?”
Aron nodded shortly and turned away. “We might just as well have buried a dog,” he muttered as he mounted Bat-Karr and descended the hill to the trail.
Angyar watched until Aron disappeared and then turned his attention back to the grave.
“Rest easy, my son,” he murmured. “I swear I shall avenge your death. I promise you have not died in vain.” He sighed. “Would that you had stayed behind. Would that I could bring you back! Alas, I cannot.”
He must find Cumah. Angyar gathered Patuka’s reins and prepared to mount. But as he placed his foot in the stirrup he heard voices and withdrew it again. Leaving the horse, he stole to some bushes near the edge of the trees and peered at the road. Ramsha and his two eldest sons, Riko and Risa, had dismounted at the spot where Jovah’s body had laid and now inspected the blood-soaked earth.
Angyar’s shoulders slumped. If only he could hear them! He shifted to a more comfortable position and then caught his breath as he realized he heard them perfectly.
“Something made a kill.” Ramsha knelt, and Angyar grimaced as he remembered that his and Aron’s tracks, along with those of their horses and the cumah, remained in the softer earth along the road.
“Aye.” Riko pointed toward the edge of the path. “A cumah, I think. Or maybe a bear. Whatever it was, it accosted at least two horses.” He pointed to two different places, one on each side of the gore. “These prints are not from the same horse.”