by A. D. Green
Bartuk’s face paled. “Alive!” His voice trembled. “He’s a tough bastard and no mistake. I coulda sworn he weren’t breathin’.” He dropped next to Gromma.
The big urak’s face was contorted in pain, his breathe coming in short sharp gasps. Somehow, drawing on whatever strength he had left, his hand shot out clasping Bartuk’s arm.
Bartuk winced. All but dead, Gromma still had an iron grip. “It’s okay friend, I’m here,” he placed his hand over Gromma’s.
Scarface watched the exchange. Gromma was named. A renowned warrior, cousin to Mar-Dur the clan chieftain, and a champion of the fight ring. He had even fought him once, was proud to say he’d lasted a full hand against him. Now, watching Gromma bleed out, he looked… smaller, weaker.
He scowled at the little shit… Bartuk was it? Ai, he chided himself, they were clearly warrior brothers. Did Gromma not reach out and grasp Bartuk as a warrior? Did Bartuk not give comfort and bear witness as he crossed to the Death Halls of Varis’tuk.
Gromma wheezed, the breath dying on his lips. His eyes pure malevolence even as the light left them.
Scarface looked on with pride and hoped that when his time came he’d fight death’s crossing with as much rage as Gromma.
“Aghh he’s gone,” Bartuk wailed.
Scarface frowned. Bartuk’s pathetic whining tarnished Gromma’s crossing. A horn sounded, close and to the west, and all thought of Gromma fled. His urak had sighted the ilf.
Bartuk was on his feet, shouting, “Why ya standin’ round? Let’s have them cunts.”
Scarface showed his teeth. Little-shit had spirit he had to give him that. “Okay boys, let’s go hunt us some fresh meat.” Then to Bartuk, “Mar-Dur is coming out to play. He's ten leagues to the east, get urself there.”
Bartuk flinched, unsure whether Scarface was smiling or scowling. In any case he didn’t fancy telling Mar-Dur their patrol was fucked five ways to hell, or his kin Gromma had been slain by ilf. He knew from bitter experience, well No-Nose’s bitter experience, that it didn’t pay to deliver ill news.
“Send one of your boys back to Mar-Dur. I ain’t restin’ till I got the bitch that did for Gromma here,” he looked down at No-Nose, “and my brother.”
The gathered urak nodded and grunted at this, the bloody faced urak had balls and a warrior’s heart.
Bartuk saw Scarface wavering. He don’t trust me none so he’s as not stupid as he looks, Bartuk thought. Pre-empting things he pulled his knife out and smiled, it was still covered in Gromma’s blood.
“Come on, before they get away,” Bartuk screamed, charging from the clearing. He crashed through undergrowth and brushed aside foliage that threatened to snag and trip him. It wasn’t the smartest thing, running through this cursed forest with a hunting knife in hand but the effect was what counted. Behind he heard Scarface issuing commands, and then the rush and crash of many urak.
Slowing his pace Bartuk exaggerated a limp. As the sound of the river grew louder, he was caught then overtaken. Ahead he heard shouting and the thrum of heavy bows. On clearing the trees a mass of urak blocked his way. Sheathing his knife he pushed through them and took stock.
A few raiders had unlimbered bows and were launching arrows. Many more had set off, tracking down river. At the water’s edge he saw the bodies of several dogs and a lone urak hunched over them, moaning and carrying on like he’d lost an arm or some such, pathetic.
Bartuk followed the flight of the arrows. There, a hundred paces out, bobbing violently in the fast water he saw them, man and ilf. The man looked to be holding the ilf bitch. Was she dead? Arrows dropped around them but they were difficult targets appearing and disappearing in the swell and flow of the river. “Fuck me! Whats the chances they survive that?” he muttered.
Scarface suddenly pushed alongside, taking the scene in with a glance just as man and ilf disappeared round a bend in the river.
“What now Rimtaug?” an urak asked.
Scarface looked at the river. There was no way to catch them, the bank sides were treacherous and over grown in many places, the going would be too slow. The river itself was fast and angry. Icy cold too; summer had just passed but the water flowed from the Dragon’s Spine, it was likely their quarry had killed themselves.
He looked sidelong at Little-shit-Bartuk. Funny how a name sticks he thought. Little-shit was a tricky one alright, he’d smelt fear on him back at the camp but he couldn’t fault his courage and thirst to avenge Gromma and his brother. He acted as was proper, tribe was important. He knew Little-shit would insist on pursuit; it is what he would do.
“We raid south as planned. We’ll follow the river. If’n they ain’t already dead then as I see it they’ve as much chance of reaching this side ah the river as the other.”
The urak looked at him.
He flashed his teeth. “Did ya not hear me, boys. Move!”
The urak started dispersing back into the forest and following the east bank south. He turned to Little-shit. “I sent a lad back to Mar-Dur. Might be he’ll wanna talk to you hisself seein as one of his kin is dead.”
Bartuk eyed him warily. “Maybe so, but I ain’t given up yet. Found a crossing maybe a turn, turn and a half down river. We should check it out.”
The blood had dried in Bartuk’s scrag of a beard turning it slick and black and giving him a feral look. Staring at the river where man and ilf had disappeared he hoped fervently they were dead. The last thing he wanted was Rimtaug to find them or at least if he did, to make sure they couldn’t answer no questions.
Chapter 4
: Homestead
Marron considered Keeper’s words. Even after all this time it was disconcerting to hear him in her head, as clear as if he sat facing her. She knew he was right. She and Darion had plans in place, contingencies for just such an occasion and had discussed them with Keeper. Now that it came to it though she was finding it wasn’t so easy to leave.
She focussed on Keeper.
Marron would have bridled at being called a peasant, but more than thought was conveyed. Feeling and meaning were as much a part of the connection as words. Keeper expressed how she would be perceived, and she knew he was right on both counts.
Twyford, Ducal Lord of the Rivers had a stern, fearsome reputation and was no friend to the Order, having rescinded the accords and banned them from his province. She would not likely be admitted to see him and unlikely to be believed if she were. All this was conveyed by Keeper in a thought.
Marron, smiled. It was many years since she'd seen Master Hiro, it would be good to see him again. Whether he would heed Keeper was another matter. He was of the Order but outside it at the same time, tending to drift around to his own ends.
Keeper assured her.
Marron’s thoughts turned then to her daughter.
There was a slight delay before Keeper responded.
The link terminated, the gentle sense of warmth in her head gone, replaced by the cold cloying liquid sensation on her right hand. Opening her eyes she looked down. Her hand was inserted into an intricately carved wooden box through a small opening in the top. She carefully removed her hand pulling free of the jelly like substance within and holding it up, turning and inspecting it as she always did. Her hand was perfectly dry and clean; a little scratch from picking ommi berries earlier that morning was completely gone as if it had never been. It both amazed and awed Marron every time she used the box.
She picked up the lid lying next to her and pressed and twisted it over the opening until it clicked and sealed. Then carefully wrapping the box in a cloth, she placed it back in her travel chest.
The following morning Marron and Nihm were up at dawn as they were every day. But this day was different. Marron could sense Nihm’s nervous energy as they prepared the homestead for their departure. Her daughter was excited at the thought of travelling to Rivercross; she could see the eager glow in her eyes.
“So why are we heading to market so early and to Rivercross?” Nihm asked then promptly supplied her own thoughts on the matter. “It’s those urak me and Da found isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Nihm barrelled on. “You know I’ve seen sixteen name days. You have to stop treating me like a child. Da doesn’t!”
That stung; no less because Marron knew she was right.
“You're growing so fast I can’t keep up.” And it was true; Nihm had grown tall and slim, looking boyish in her trousers and tunic despite the unruly mess of long black hair tied in a loose ponytail.
Nihm hugged her fiercely. “I know Ma, but you aren’t protecting me by keeping me in the dark about things.”
Marron laughed. “When did you get to be so wise?”
“I have good teachers.” Nihm smiled, then added with a cheeky grin, “Besides you and Da are terrible at secrets. Let’s see,” she counted off on her fingers, “Sudden early trip to Thorsten right after we found those urak. You and Da whispering together so loud I knew something was up and now, packing like you don’t expect to be back anytime soon.” She stared at her mother suddenly serious. “Those urak were a scouting party weren’t they? And Da’s gone to find out what they’re about.”
“Sometimes you’re too clever. You’re right but all we can do is head south and try to warn those on the way of what might follow. Now stop your chatter. We have a busy day ahead of us.”
Pushing her worries aside Marron concentrated on her work. There was always so much to do on the homestead and now with the urak turning up everything just got a whole lot busier. As well as preparing the homestead for their leaving she had to pack for their journey and load the farm cart.
To start with Marron dragged the travel chest out and lifted it awkwardly onto the flatbed before pushing it under the bench seat and covering it over. Finished she took a breath, her eyes automatically searching for Nihm.
She spied her by the back of the barn. Nihm had been storing anything of worth that couldn’t be taken into the hideaway and was now stood, hands on hips, looking down in to the entrance. Her dogs, Ash and Snow, were never far from her and were play fighting near the log pile.
Feeling Marron’s eyes on her Nihm turned and gave a wave before wandering over. “I’ve packed everything I can that will fit; it just needs covering over with the woodpile.”
“I’ll help but first give me a hand loading up the cart will you?”
“Sure, are we leavin when Da’s back?” Nihm asked, as she bent to lift skins onto the flatbed.
“We’ll wait till morning and head out then. Your Da will catch us on the road,” Marron replied.
Nihm frowned. “I don’t like leaving without him.”
“Me neither, but your father can look after himself,” Marron said, hiding her own fears. “If we get to Thorsten before he finds us we’ll sell our goods while we wait. We should get a fair price even this early in the season.” Marron stood back and looked her daughter over. Her trousers and top were short in leg and arm. “Besides, it looks like you need some new clothes.”
Nihm cheered and they laughed. Chatting idly they began loading the cart first with hare, deer and beaver skins from the summer’s hunt, then with smoked meats carefully wrapped, jars of wild honey and finally a chest containing herbs and plants. It was a valuable load.
The afternoon passed quickly, the sky darkening to a perfect cloudless evening as they worked. After loading the cart they moved the woodpile over the hideaway. The hidden cellar was dug under the barn and was ordinarily used to store skins and meats, this was the first time Nihm could recollect using it to store anything else. There were no folks round these parts to worry about and their proximity to the old forest and ilfanum lands guaranteed their isolation. But the urak were out there now and that changed everything.
Marron sent Nihm to bring the ponies in from the meadow. She looked distantly to the north west and twisted her heart ring, before turning and disappearing into the house.
Chapter 5
: The Lesson
The camp fire spluttered angrily as the boy threw wood on it. He waited for the fire to settle then moved a pan of water over the flames. Two old men sat to the side, warming themselves. They were silent, happy to watch and wait.
The boy took a long thin knife out and filleted the fish. He’d caught them earlier in the Oust and had already gutted and washed them clean in the river. Finished, he set the knife aside then deftly wrapped the fish in broad leaf before skewering them on sticks and placing each on a stone at the fire’s edge.
He fetched bowls and mugs and arranged them on a log before turning and opening a small satchel. It was, in his opinion, their most important possession, after their weapons of course. The satchel contained many pouches, vials and small leather bound sacks and he took several of these out. From one he took some leaves and dropped them into the pan. From others he took seeds and a pinch of crushed spice. The water infused as it heated and a delicious aroma wafted over them all. Satisfied he repacked the bag and returned it to the travel pack. He then scrapped the remains of the fish bones, tail and head into the steeping water.
“Ah Renco, you make an old man very happy. Who knew you had such a talent eh?” said one of the men. His hair, silver and long, was bound and tied in a queue down his back. He wore a hooded brown robe with a symbol over the left breast of three circles entwined inside a larger one.
Renco glanced at him but made no reply, keeping to his task.
“He should be a cook, don’t you agree Mao?” the old man asked, turning to his companion.
Mao snorted. “Maybe so. Maybe Mao teach boy how to sew and read poetry. Then Master get rid of old fool and replace with young one, neh?” He spoke with an accent, his words clipped and precise.
Renco listened to their familiar interplay in silence. Maohong, or Mao as they called him, was very different to Master Hiro. They were both small and slight but the similarities ended there. Maohong was bald and wrinkled and looked much older for one thing. For another his skin was a different colour, not as dark as the southerners and not as pale as the kingdom folk. He’d come from across the Great Expanse, a feat all in itself. A story he’d asked to hear but not been told. Maohong was dressed in plain brown hose and shirt with a tattered looking black cloak and hood. In truth he looked impoverished.
Hiro laughed. “Ah Mao, Renco is no fool, not even a young one, so how could I possibly replace you eh, old friend?” He slapped Mao on the shoulder. “No, I’ll always have need
of you, never fear. This is just part of Renco’s training. We do him a disservice if he can’t cook or clean for himself, don’t you agree?”
“Whatever you say,” Maohong shrugged dismissing the subject. He cast a worried glance towards the road. “Do you think they’ll be back Master?”
“Who can say? It depends on the men, neh?” Hiro replied.
Renco listened keenly. Mao referred to their pursuers. Earlier that day they’d left the road and hidden in a copse whilst the men hunting them rode by oblivious. Renco thought it unlikely they would realise their mistake and turn back, at least for tonight. Renco stirred the pan and turned his skewered fish over as he considered.
They were two days out from Rivercross and had joined the road north to Thorsten. It was a well-travelled road; they’d be hard to track and too they’d been careful not to stay in any of the villages. They were an odd group, two old men and a boy, a man he corrected himself. They’d be remembered at any inn, so Master decided they wouldn’t stay at one. That was fine as far as Renco was concerned. He didn’t mix well and was not comfortable in crowds. Maohong, on the other hand moaned about his aching back and joints every morning. But then he usually found something to moan about.
Renco looked up at the darkened sky to the west whilst waiting for the food to cook. The moon, Nihmrodel, was low on the horizon. Higher and to the right was Ankor, larger and yellower than its companion. Kildare, the red moon, he knew lay behind him. The night sky was a panoply of stars and his eyes sought out the bear and the ram following them to the Lodestar. Maohong had taught him how to navigate using time, the Lodestar and the constellations. It had both amazed and confounded Renco at how accurate it was.
Renco felt a disturbance. He jerked back then spun, his arm snapping out as he snatched a stick from the air. He looked at it, grunted, and threw it onto the fire before turning to the old men. Master Hiro sat motionless, legs crossed, eyes closed, a slight spasm playing across his eyelids. Maohong, in contrast, stared right back as he tucked his arm back under his cloak, then inclined his head towards the fire.