by A. D. Green
Surveying the camp Darion took note of its arrangement. He moved past a few brown hued ilf recovering arrows. The place reeked of blood and voided bowls. The urak he observed had died from shots to the torso or finished off with a knife thrust to the heart.
Darion knew the ilf had no difficulty seeing in the dark, nevertheless it was impressive shooting. The collective speed and accuracy shown was outstanding, not one arrow appeared to have missed its mark. Whilst appreciating their skill, he felt unease too. The efficiency shown in the killing, the casualness of it, was disturbing. It had been a slaughter. The urak had not even seen their assailants. I pray we never have cause to war on them, Darion thought, it would be a blood bath.
“What will you do with the dead?” he asked Ruith.
The ilf shrugged. “Da’Mari will send Ka’harthi, gatherer’s…gardeners, I am not sure of the exact translation. Nothing will be wasted. Do not worry.”
Darion had learnt more about the ilfanum in a day than in all of his study with the Order. Wanting to hear more of the Ka’harthi he instead found himself asking if any ilf had taken injury. Ruith shook his head no.
He sensed Ruith didn’t want to talk. In fact there was very little talking by any of the ilf, although in the half light of the campfires Darion saw them signing to each other. Interesting he thought, storing the knowledge away.
It had been an exhausting few days and now the energy and excitement of battle had ebbed a deep weariness assailed Darion. There was no resting yet though. He had a fair few cuts and scratches to show from his ordeals that needed attention and couldn’t wait.
Fetching water he set it to heat over one of the still smouldering campfires, added wood and banked its flames to reignite it. He was uncomfortable around so many dead but his need to bath his wounds dictated matters. Ruith had offered to heal them earlier but Darion declined, sensing reluctance in the ilf. The offer had been a courtesy. Besides he was used to relying on himself.
Wounds cleaned and dressed Darion walked upwind to the edge of camp and set out a bedroll, commandeered from an urak no longer in need of it. Laying down Darion set the ilf bow within easy reach, and rested a hand on his sword hilt. He was asleep in moments.
It was light when Darion awoke, not much past sun up. Clouds had moved down from the north and the cold breeze carried a hint of rain.
He went in search of a cloak, having lost his own to the river. Most proved too big for his frame but he finally found one that was of a size. Trying it on he was satisfied, it was a good fit and well made. Strange he thought, fierce as they are, the urak are not so different from us.
Searching for M’rika he found her in the treeline at the edge of the river. She was eating and offered him a share.
“Thank you,” Darion said, stomach rumbling as he took the leaf wrapped biscuit and proffered nuts. Eating slowly he savoured the flavour. The biscuit tasted of oats and honey and was surprisingly filling. He nodded in appreciation. “This is very good.”
M’rika watched him eat, impatient. “We will move across the river. Rawrdredtigkah is there looking for Grold. We will join her. You can lead us yes?”
“I know where he was slain. I'll lead,” Darion said, hope flaring. “My homestead isn’t far from where he fell. I would look for my family as well.”
M’rika said nothing, dusting crumbs from her legs she stood and walked away. Darion finished his breakfast before following and by the time he caught up M’rika had gathered the remaining ilf and they didn’t look happy.
“I do not command you.” M’rika addressed a tall ilf, with leaf skin a darker brown than most with hues of green mottling. “I merely tell you as a courtesy I am going.”
The ilf bowed. “Your wish K’raal, I only ask you consider our charge.”
“What R’ell commands is between you,” M’rika replied glancing briefly as Darion walked into camp. “I will cross here now. If you choose to follow that is not my concern.”
The ilf was displeased but inclined his head acknowledging her words. “Your will,” he said. He gestured and four ilf peeled away, sprinting to the ford and wading across towards the far bank.
“Come.” M’rika called to Darion, her mouth curling in a half smile.
The water was bitterly cold, the memory of its bite still fresh in Darion’s mind. Here the river flowed fast, the bed of stone and rock worn smooth by its passage making the crossing slippery and treacherous. Its deepest part was only chest high but spray soaked Darion so much that it made no difference.
M’rika awaited Darion as he strode from the water dripping wet and shivering. The ilf bow he’d held high was damp and Darion wiped it down on a discarded bedroll worried the damp might damage it.
The encampment here was much the same as on the west bank, although smaller and without the dead. Apart from the one Darion corrected. Wandering over he looked at the urak. It was big, seven feet he judged. An old scar marred one side of its face. Darion hadn't seen the arrow fired that felled it but had heard it screaming into the night. Seeing its result now and looking back to the far side of the river he marvelled at the shot.
Wandering the camp Darion heard a sudden cry. Turning, he saw M’rika on her knees before a guttered and dead fire. Rushing over he saw her shoulders shake. Then as he neared she bent gathering something from the ground. It was a skin, a large skin of dark matted fur left to cure by the fire. M’rika buried her head into its spikey rough and Darion heard a muffled sob.
Darion stopped, unsure. If it was Nihm crying he would comfort her but for an ilf? He looked about. The only ilf were their guard detail and all studiously looked everywhere but at M’rika. Ruith, standing at the edge of camp caught his eye and signalled he should move away.
Intuitively Darion realised the ilf were giving M’rika the only privacy they could and Ruith was indicating he should do the same. Glancing back at M’rika his heart went out to her as he stepped away.
Moving to the fringes of the camp Darion found a space and knelt lost in his own thoughts, triggered by the emotion of the moment. It had only been six days since Nihm and he had found the bear but in truth it felt an age had passed since then. He wondered what Marron and Nihm were doing, hoped they were alright. He absently twisted his heart ring its faint warmth giving comfort.
Darion thought on the urak. They were here in numbers, the urak encampment several hundred strong, but his feeling was this was just a probe, skirmishers or raiders looking for food or targets or both. His mind drifted. He could be home in a few hours. He wondered if the homestead still stood. Marron and Nihm should be at Thorsten by now or on the road to Rivercross. At least they should be safe.
To Darion’s frustration they spent the rest of the morning at camp. He was eager to head home and onwards to Thorsten; if these urak were an advance party there’d not be a better chance to get ahead of them. He was impatient to tell M’rika his intentions. The other ilf had been unwilling to hear him or let him walk free from camp and Darion was not yet willing to test their resolve.
M’rika knelt still. Paying honour to or mourning Grold’s memory Darion was not sure which, maybe both and so he waited. Morbidly she still clutched Grold’s skin holding it tight to her chest.
Whilst waiting, Darion filled a backpack with various items scavenged from camp; rope, skinning knife, bedroll, water skin and a myriad other bits and pieces that might be of use. He even found some line in a forgotten pack and fished the river just down from the Ford.
All the while M’rika sat unmoving and Darion’s impatience grew. In the end it was Rawrdredtigkah that broke her vigil. The bear entered camp from the forest to the east and made straight for M’rika.
Darion watched from a distance as they conversed. He could not hear them, heard no words in his head, but he saw their affect. M’rika rose to her feet, letting Grold’s fur drop to the floor before stepping back.
Relinquished, Rawr padded over to all that was left of her son and tugged at the skin. Satisfied she stood upon i
t and began an eerie high pitched growl.
The air felt charged and Darion sensed power brush over him. There was a sudden flash and he was blinded, covering his eyes too late to protect them.
Darion shook his head, pain stabbing into his skull. Black dots swam before him as he blinked his eyes to clear them. As his vision came into focus again Darion saw M’rika on her knees leaning back against her heels. Head thrown back she stared into the sky arms outstretched. He watched Rawr’s massive bulk pad to M’rika dwarfing her. She fell forwards suddenly, prostrate before the bear.
Lifting a giant paw Rawrdredtigkah rested it gently on the ilf’s shoulder. At the touch M’rika looked into the bear's eyes then turned her head. Rawr moved, sudden and fast. Darion took an involuntary step towards them, unsure why or what was happening, as a bright green line appeared on M’rika’s cheek.
Climbing to her feet M’rika bowed then embraced the bear. To Darion it was an incongruous sight, the massive bear and the slight form of M’rika. It was for but a moment then M’rika was stepping away.
Darion felt an icy knot in his belly as Rawr turned and ambled towards him. Ignoring the fear and the rational part of him that screamed at him to run, Darion held his ground and waited. The bear stopped a few strides from him, the eyes deep and intelligent.
“She is broken still manling, have a care. She is your charge now as much as you are hers.” Rawr’s voice sounded in his mind.
“I’ve a family; they’re charge enough,” Darion said out loud, not sure why but feeling the need to articulate it. All the talk of duty and honour and owing, first from the ilf and now the bear was wearing on him. He had his own responsibilities.
“I sense many things in you Darion. A strength and a goodness; even an intelligence, although you hide it well at times,” Rawr said. “Tell Keeper the old enemy is awakened. Go with speed manling.”
“How do you know Keeper?” Darion replied.
But Rawrdredtigkah made no sign she heard. The great bear moved to the ford and crossed the river, effortless. Shaking herself dry on the far bank she vanished into the depths of the forest.
Chapter 30
: Blue Eyes
Greenholme was a small market town on the Great North Road two days ride south of the Reach. It being the harvest season it was bustling and business was brisk for the stallholders and traders.
Hiro found a buyer for the spare horses they’d acquired, selling them cheap with no questions asked to a trader of dubious character.
No longer pursued and having a need to resupply for the journey ahead, Hiro decided they would stay at an inn for the night and it hadn’t taken long to find one, Greenholme had three. The largest and best kept was on the market square, the Black Stag. It was full and rowdy inside and Hiro passed it by with hardly a glance, settling instead on the Golden Cask.
Situated on the edge of town it was a thatched two story inn with low beams and a friendly feel. It was quiet this time of day with few patrons. Renco didn’t much like crowds and the fact it was mostly empty suited him just fine. The cider turned out to be pretty decent as well.
He was sat in the inns common room with Maohong for company. It was unusual seeing Maohong smile but Renco guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised; the old grump had a stein of cider in his hand after all. He sipped from his own, pleased at the taste, the flavour was crisp and sweet.
“Nectar of life Renco, Mao swear.” The old man took a long pull of cider and smacked his lips.
Renco said nothing, as was his way, but he couldn’t disagree with Mao on that. He smiled to himself. Cider always tasted better after abstinence and it made Maohong more agreeable too. His grin broadened at the thought.
Maohong stared back suspiciously before leaning over and peering myopically into Renco’s tankard to see it was half full still. He grunted. “Why Renco grin like idiot? Only drink one and half stein. Maybe Renco drunk,” he slurred, shaking his head and chuckling to himself.
Still grinning, Renco raised his tankard to Maohong in salute before taking a large mouthful. I’ve never been drunk, he thought. He rarely drank to excess as a rule but even when he did he never got the wobbles, or slurred speech and over friendliness like some; or the bravado and trouble that plagued others.
Mao raised his mug in return. “Sometimes Renco not big pain in Mao’s ass,” he cackled. “No, sometimes Renco little pain.” Mao slapped his knee as he chortled, very pleased with himself.
Mao had uttered those self-same words on at least three occasions in the past year alone but Renco laughed despite that. A happy Mao was always a cause for joy. Hearing a few notes being played both Mao and he turned, drawn to the sound.
A man sat at the back of the commons plucking the strings of a lute. He fiddled with it as he plinked, turning screws on the end of it. Renco found it fascinating. He had watched bards perform before but had never actually seen one preparing, before taking centre stage.
The man too was intriguing. Tall and thin he looked of middling years judging by his eyes and the grey flecked goatee. His long blonde hair was pulled back and bound in leather ties. For a bard his clothing was unassuming; brown homespun trousers, a short tunic and a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up. His boots were painted yellow and a similar coloured jacket hung from the back of his chair. Perhaps because of the ordinary drabness of his attire the yellow really stood out in contrast. It was effective.
A woman approached the bard and Renco found his eyes drawn to her. She was young, a similar age to his own. Her dress was yellow and brown to match the bard's colours.
She must be his daughter Renco judged. Not only did their colours match but her blonde hair had the same tone as his, her eyes the same shade of blue. She must have felt his look for she turned, her blue eyes locking on to his. Renco felt himself sinking into them. She smiled pushing a loose strand of hair back over an ear before turning away.
“Hah, did you see Renco,” Maohong exclaimed. “Girl look right at Mao. I think she like old man,” he chortled. Renco grimaced at the thought and glared at his friend. Too late, he caught Mao’s smirk and the twinkle of his eye and realised the old man was teasing him, again. Grunting Renco took a slug from his tankard.
Mao stood suddenly and, placing his hands on his hips flexed his back.
“Ah, these old bones,” Mao grimaced. “Mao go for stretch.” Then smiling a toothy grin he wandered towards the bard.
Renco watched him the whole way wondering what mischief Mao was about; the old man was a rogue.
A bottle of wine thumped down on the table as Hiro sat, sparing a quick glance at Maohong.
“How many has the old goat had?” Hiro asked.
Renco held three fingers up.
“Ah well, that means he’ll be getting his flute out,” Hiro stated pouring himself some wine. Raising the glass he sniffed at it before quaffing a mouthful then smacking his lips in satisfaction.
Just like Mao, Renco thought as he finished his stein, wondering who had started the habit and who followed it.
Renco looked at his empty tankard.
Hiro flicked a copper bit up, end over end. Renco snatched it from the air, catching it expertly between thumb and forefinger before it struck the table.
“May as well get the old fool one whilst you’re about it,” Hiro said, sitting back with his wine as he watched Maohong chatter to the bard.
Renco grabbed the empty steins and, pushing his chair back with a rasping grate, ambled to the bar.
The inn keeper was a large portly man with ruddy cheeks and a paunch that threatened to burst his apron. He finished serving a customer before turning to Renco.
“Same again lad?” he asked reaching for the empty tankards. Renco held two fingers up and he nodded. “Two it is then.”
Renco smelt a waft of elderflower and felt the air move to his left. Glancing he saw the young woman draw up alongside him. Looking back she smiled.
“Hello, I’m Letizia,” she said. “But you can call me Lett.”
Up close she was even prettier; her nose delicate and pert with a hint of freckles showing on her cheek bones.
“Thought I’d come over and say hello,” she said. Her eyes were a sky blue and unsettling, feeling his colour rising Renco looked away.
“So do you have a name?” Lett prompted.
The landlord placed a stein on the counter in front of Renco and looked between the two of them.
“The lad don’t talk none miss. Might be he's a bit simple.” He turned, ignoring the scowl Renco sent his way, and started to fill the other tankard.
I’m not simple; you’re the idiot, Renco thought loudly, flushing red in anger and embarrassment. He stole a look to his left. She was still there.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not,” Lett said, smiling. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Renco couldn’t help staring back. Even her smile is damn nice he thought, noticing that one side of her mouth quirked a little higher than the other showing a flash of white teeth between parted lips.
The second stein banged down next to the first and Renco slid the copper bit across the counter in the direction of the landlord. Gathering a drink in each hand he turned in relief back to his table. He tried a smile on Lett as he passed but felt self-conscious about it; sure he looked like the simpleton the landlord accused him of being. She grinned back as if knowing something he didn’t and laughed when he stumbled, spilling cider over his hands.
Renco felt her eyes all the way back to the table, but sensed others watching him too. Glancing about he saw the bard assessing him, eyes sharp and cool. Then there was Maohong. Strangely the old man looked a little sad; not the usual smugness he’d expect. For some reason this angered him and Renco clunked the drinks down sloshing cider on the table.