Exiles of Forlorn

by Sean T. Poindexter

  Success!

  “No, no it’s not fair,” he said. His old, wrinkled neck trembled as he shook his head. “It’s not fair at all. I owe you all my life, and I will repay you. I swear.”

  I doubt any of us believed him. Even Blackfoot, who usually believed anything you told him if you said it with a smile.

  We were wrong.

  11.

  It was three days after our little fight at the lagoon that I was woken with a shake to a great clamor in the colony.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, my eyes adjusting poorly to the dim, blue rays of morning light filtering into our yurt.

  “There’s been a raid,” Antioc explained. “We’ve been summoned to the square.” He was already up and dressed. I groggily roused myself and did the same.

  Uller, Reiwyn, and Blackfoot met us at the edge of the crowd that had gathered in the square. In its rumbling cacophony I discerned a woman crying, a man cursing, and an oath of vengeance being sworn. On the covered porch of his hut, the Sand King stood above them, his golden hair hanging over his face as he hunched to speak privately with Ferun and Sharkhart. As if sensing our presence, Sharkhart’s head rose. He tapped Arn’s shoulder, and the Sand King turned and nodded to us. He gestured us close to the edge of his hut, raising his hands to call for silence once we’d pushed our way past the masses.

  There we found Stree, the one-eyed miner from Bronta, and the Volteri, with Hratoe standing in Gargath’s shadow, as always. One of the Plainsfolk named Front-Strider, and a pair of Mormentish guards holding spears with rusty tips stood off to the side.

  “They’ve taken three,” Arn said when we were close. “Fire-Braids, of the Plainsfolk and two others, Friyesse and Ezfette.”

  “I know them,” I said with a nod. “Except for Ezfette.”

  “Ezfette is a child,” replied Blackfoot. I saw rage on his face unlike anything I’d seen from the little urchin before. “She’s nine, at most. Her mother is dead. Friyesse adopted her, so they shared a yurt.”

  I felt a chill running through me. They weren’t above taking children. Why should I be surprised? They had to call them Scumdogs for a reason.

  “We’re going after them.” Antioc stepped forward, holding up his big stone-headed maul. He’d spent some time carving and painting the handle. The wood just below the black finish was a light enough green that it looked white, making the warrior runes he’d adorned it with look particularly impressive.

  “You’re right we are,” said Ferun, his eyes passing from Antioc to Reiwyn before landing on me. “And you three are coming with me.”

  “What me?” I almost said that, until I made eye contact with Arn. I could see he wanted me there. I didn’t know why, I wasn’t much good in a fight. They’d be better off taking Blackfoot. Speaking of whom . . .

  “I’m going too!”

  “We’re not taking a child into battle,” answered Ferun with finality in his voice as he turned back to Arn to discuss tactics and what all.

  Blackfoot slipped past us and up onto the platform. With a swift but silent motion of his hands, he pulled an old dagger from Ferun’s belt. He spun it around in his hands, making it dance across his fingers like a street juggler before tossing it in the air, grabbing it by the blade, and throwing it across Ferun’s face. It struck the wall next to his head. Ferun stood, aghast, reaching up to his face to feel the sliver of hair the urchin had taken from his little chin-patch of a beard.

  “Alright, you can go.”

  “I’m going, too,” said Uller. “I have skills that could prove inval─”

  “Fair, fair . . .” Ferun waved his hand and pulled his dagger from the wall. He tossed it gently, handle first, into Blackfoot’s hand. “Let’s just get on the way.”

  “I can go,” said Gargath. Hratoe tugged on his feathered robe and gave him a distraught look. He touched her cheek and smiled. “I’m no use in a fight. I’ll be there to patch any injuries,” he said while making gestures to her.

  “Let me get my sword,” said Arn. Sharkhart grabbed his shoulder and shook his head. “No, I’m going. That’s not up for discussion.”

  “Your place is here, sir,” said Ferun.

  “We are the hands of Forlorn,” said Sharkhart. “Our lives are expendable. You are its heart. Without you, it dies.”

  “He’s right,” I added, for whatever it was worth. I really just wanted to get this moment over with. It was making my teeth hurt. I looked over my shoulder at the gathering crowd. Somewhere I heard crying, followed by muffled queries being answered with hushed rumors. It wouldn’t be long before the whole colony knew. “Besides, someone has to stay and tell these people what happened and that all will be fair.”

  Arn looked me in the eyes again, then back at Sharkhart before nodding.

  “May the Daevas be with you,” he said before stepping back. We turned to leave, all of us but Arn, including Sharkhart.

  “Where are you going, Tallman?” asked Ferun, placing his bow across the savage’s broad chest. “Your place is with the Sand King. If he stays here, you stay here.”

  “You will need me,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. I watched the exchange closely.

  “What if this is a trick?” asked Ferun. “What if they have assassins waiting here, thinking sure Arn will send his best man in pursuit of the kidnappers, leaving him vulnerable to attack?”

  They stared each other down for several seconds before the tall savage relented.

  “It’s fair,” completed Arn, touching Sharkhart’s shoulder. “They’ll be fine. Come.”

  Sharkhart nodded but didn’t look away from Ferun. Not once.

  Ferun pretended he didn’t notice and pulled his bow over his shoulder. He gave the signal for us to depart. I watched Sharkhart as we left. I could tell there was something more there, and it didn’t have one fig to do with Ferun’s concern for the “heart of Forlorn.”

  “Take one alive,” were Arn’s departing words. “If possible.”

  We made our way swiftly down the beach. A little more swiftly than I would have preferred. While colonial life had undoubtedly improved my fitness, it was the middle of the night, and I wasn’t completely recovered from the day before. We moved in the darkness, the three moons of Eios glimmering on the night-black sea our guide. We ran in silence, which was easy for Reiwyn as she hadn’t spoken to any of us save Blackfoot since our fight.

  Of the others, Stree had accompanied us, as well as the two Mormentish fighters with spears. Their names were Boran and Jortin. I’d seen them with Ferun before. Like Stree, they were part of a small group of guards and workers who seemed loyal to Ferun. I’d been paying attention to that group as well. They were soldiers, but they were his soldiers. It was an important distinction. One that had won and lost wars for commanders in the past. Whatever else Reiwyn’s one-eyed lover might be, he certainly was no fool.

  Even having three moons, the night got pretty dark when they weren’t all full. That only happened once or twice a year, though, and the Daevas hadn’t deigned to let us be raided on one of those nights. Fortunately, we had a little help. Uller put some spell on each of us, drawing a rune on our chests (he especially relished doing this for Reiwyn) and muttering an incantation in a language spoken only by spellcasters. Once complete, our eyes adjusted to the darkness. It wasn’t perfect, about as good as standing a little ways from a campfire, and it made everything shades of black and gray, but it was better than fumbling about in the moonlight or hauling torches. Which, fortunately, was exactly what our quarry had done, making them even easier to locate. A good thing, too, as Uller’s spell would only last a couple of hours.

  We crested a sandbreak almost an hour into our trip when Front-Strider returned, like a ghost. He’d volunteered to act as scout, and I quickly learned how he’d gained his name. He was the best scout I’d ever seen. He quickly informed us what we were up against. The Scumdogs had moved northeast along the beach, making no effort to cover their tracks as they went. Just as well, ther
e was only one way they could have gone, lest they wanted to take their chances in the forest with its gluttons and walking gars. They had a head start, but they also had prisoners to contend with, two of whom they were carrying. They’d stopped for a breather, and Front-Strider reported they were sucking grot—a tropical liquor made from exotic tree sap—and arguing about building a camp or making the rest of the trip before dawn.

  “Do they know we’re following them?” Ferun asked with a breezy whisper as we drew closer to the Scumdogs.

  Front-Strider shook his head slowly. Ferun patted his shoulder and turned to us. He pointed at his eyes to let us know to watch him. He crouched and drew a quick diagram of the Scumdog’s stopping place in the sand based on Front-Strider’s intelligence. Ferun gave all the orders with some kind of bizarre military sign language that I’d never bothered to learn while I was in the King’s service. When he was finished, he gave two quick chops to each side of the sand crest and everyone started to move.

  Fortunately, Antioc knew what it meant and explained my part in it rather succinctly, “You’re with me.”

  I crouched and followed my hulking friend as he made his way silently around the sandbank. A cool, salty breeze wafted off the ocean, kicking up sand and making my sweaty arms and neck tingle. It passed me into the trees, making the leaves shudder. I squinted and scanned the beach ahead of us until I found the Scumdogs.

  “Twelve of them,” I whispered, expecting that any sound I made would be dismissed by the raiders as wind noise.

  Antioc nodded and whispered, wryly, “They should have brought more.”

  “Oh, someone’s confident—”

  “Shh!” I was hushed by Reiwyn, who had taken a perch directly above us on the crest. How she’d gotten there without me hearing her was beyond me, but not surprising. She had such a graceful way about her, I thought. Like a swan in the water . . .

  Stop that. Stop thinking about her that way. She’s not talking to you, remember?

  I remembered.

  Uller was right behind me. I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but I guessed that made it my job to keep him safe. No sign of Blackfoot, but that wasn’t surprising either. He could vanish easier than Reiwyn. The others were gone, too. Not being able to see them was disheartening, though somehow I had faith they’d not abandoned us.

  Without warning, a fight broke out between two of the Scumdogs. A portly bearded one and a tall skinny one with no teeth, presumably over whether to camp or not. The skinny one pushed the portly one, which resulted in him falling on his back in the sand. A second later, the skinny one had a knife in his hand. His plans were cut short when the portly one rolled away with surprising alacrity, dodging a knife that went deep into the sand. He grabbed a crossbow from a pile of gear nearby, spun about, and fired. The bolt went in one side of the skinny man’s neck and burst out the other in a splatter of blood that looked black in the magic-tinted night vision. The doomed man grabbed his throat and gurgled before falling on his side to drown in his own blood. One of the prisoners screamed while the other Scumdogs laughed.

  “Maybe if we give them long enough, they’ll all just kill each other?” I observed. I couldn’t see it, but I could tell Antioc was grinning.

  That seemed to be what Ferun was waiting for, as an arrow promptly streaked out of the night and found a home in a spine. I heard Reiwyn’s bow twang, and another Scumdog went down with one in his heart. They came to life then, and with purpose; nothing like a couple of arrows in the night to bring a group together. True to their nature, they ran. Half went up the White Road, where Ferun and his cadre were waiting with spears, clubs, and daggers. The others came to us, and met Sir Antioc. He swung low from the shadows, bringing the stone head of his club into the knee of the first one. A wet crack was followed by a clumsy fumble as the Scumdog went down, too fast to scream. He still wasn’t screaming when Antioc brought the maul down on his face, crushing his head into pulp and sending a shower of blood over his muscular body.

  No sooner had he dispatched the first one then did he engage the second. This time he had the fat one who’d killed the other Scumdog. He stepped back and drew a dagger with one hand and a hatchet with the other. He flourished and laughed as Antioc approached, stone-maul held defensively across his chest.

  I would have loved to have watched how it played out, but no sooner had the two combatants met then I had a problem of my own. A young Scumdog came at me with a cutlass. He seemed unsure, maybe shaken by seeing his friend’s head get crushed like a melon and wondering if I were as tough as my friend. Those fears vanished from his face when he saw the clumsy manner with which I handled the stone-headed spear I’d been issued. He leapt at me and brought the cutlass down and across. I brought up my spear to block, but found it hacked in half. It was all I could do to fall back and avoid a bloody slash across my chest. I hurled the stone-tipped end at him in a desperate attempt to finish the fight from a distance. He deflected it with an effortless swipe and came at me again, laughing. I stepped back to avoid a lunging stab, and tripped backward over the headless corpse. I hit the sand hard enough to blast the air out of my lungs and send waves of pain up and down my body.

  Uller stepped in then, weaponless as usual. He said a few words and directed a burst of fire from his palm at the Scumdog, who was fast enough to dodge the brunt of it but still got his chest hair and filthy shirt singed. He swung at Uller, clumsy, still disoriented from the sight of magic being used. His blade took Uller in the arm and drew blood, and a scream, from the lanky mage. He responded with a burst of energy from his hands that hit the Scumdog like a wind gale, knocking him back several feet. A second later, the wizard collapsed.

  “Is he dead?” I asked, scrambling to his side. Uller shook his head. I looked around, hoping to find help. Antioc was still exchanging blows with the fat man, who was far quicker on his feet than he looked. Reiwyn was firing arrows at a couple of raiders taking cover behind a rock. I wondered why she’d waste her time until I looked beyond and saw Blackfoot creeping up behind them in the dark. A second later he jumped on one of them, wrapped his legs around his chest, and drove the point of his dagger into the Scumdog’s throat like a viper biting its prey. The other one screamed and jumped up, only to get a chest full of arrows. She quickly turned her attention to other matters, reinforcing to me that I was the only thing standing between Uller and me and our quarry.

  I grasped at Uller’s belt for a dagger. Of course he had none. Why would a wizard need a weapon? He wasn’t going to be much use now, with blood pouring from him like a fountain. He knew enough to put pressure on the wound. I turned to face our enemy, who was finally getting to his feet; albeit still disoriented. The only thing between us was the headless corpse on the beach. In his hand was his sword. Short, flat and thin, almost like a needle. I rolled forward and grabbed it, prying it out of his hand just as the Scumdog got his bearing. I stood and brought the blade up, point first, haft and hilt at an angle with my arms and legs bent. Just as I’d been taught in fencing instruction as a child . . . though, I was never very good at it. Something about practicing more, or at all, that kept me from realizing what my instructor referred to as my true potential. I prayed to the Daevas that whatever training remained was superior to his.

  I felt a hand on my leg. I looked down and saw Uller muttering words I didn’t understand. When he was finished, a rush of energy coursed through my body. It didn’t feel unpleasant, but it was new, so it was disconcerting. He met my concerned eyes with weak ones and said, almost in a whisper, “I made you faster.”

  He certainly had, though it didn’t seem so to me. Rather, everyone else seemed to be moving just a bit slower. The combination of my training and Uller’s spell proved formidable. I deflected blows and landed a few of my own. With a downward swipe, I knocked the sword from my opponent’s hand and brought the tip of my blade up, pressing it to his throat just hard enough to bring a trickle of blood. He swatted my blade away and spun round, drawing a hatchet from hi
s belt. His arm came back, exposing his chest to me for what should have been the briefest of moments, too brief to be of any use to me under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances, however. In a flash, I drove the tip of my sword forward, piercing his chest. He screamed and went rigid. His insides moved like they were trying to escape my blade as it punched through. I was halfway up to the hilt when Uller’s spell expired.

  There I stood, dumbstruck, holding a bloody sword with a dying man at the end. He looked at me as blood bubbled up to his lips. He stared, shaking his head like he could somehow convince me to take it back, withdraw the blade, and let him go about his business. I opened my mouth to speak, but found I had nothing to say. He looked down at the wound, then back up at me again. His eyes were big, wet and bloodshot. Only then did I realize how young he was. Barely my age, if not younger. He was just a boy. What was a boy doing out here, raiding for slaves? What had brought him here? To this place? To Forlorn? Was he an exile, like me? Or had he been raised in this life, knowing nothing but to plunder and kidnap for survival? Whatever the case, it was over for him now. He gave me one last look, with tears streaming from his eyes before falling back, taking the sword from my hand as he landed. On his back. Dead.

  That was all of them on our end, except for Antioc’s portly adversary. As soon as he saw that all his friends were dead, he stepped back from their melee. His arms went up and his hands opened, dropping both weapons to the sand. I saw a few bruises on his body, and a couple of small cuts on Antioc, but neither had managed to overwhelm the other. I was impressed: I had finally met the man who could go toe-to-toe with Antioc for more than a few seconds and escape without a broken limb or crushed skull.

  “I yield,” he said, lowering his head. “You’ve bested me, young sir—”

  An arrow appeared in his neck. The fletching hung out one side, the bloody headed tip out the other. He gurgled painfully and fell, grasping at the wound until another one took him directly to the back of his skull. That was all it took to send his lifeless corpse to the sand, nerves causing trembles up and down his body as he colored the White Road with his blood. I looked up and saw Ferun step out of the darkness with his bow.