by Louis Emery
His large opponent grew frustrated with his failed attempts at cutting his enemy in half. He charged forward, pushing into Malcolm’s body. Malcolm, despite his size, stumbled backward and ducked as the axe narrowly missed cleaving off his head. Malcolm swung his sword in the same instant before his large attacker could shift his stance for a second try. The head flew from the body, and both axes hit the ground along with the corpse.
Malcolm turned and saw Orbist clumsily fighting a Gull with a sword one of the Farmington men had lent him. Ethlin was behind him on the ground looking on, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. Malcolm strove to reach Orbist, but it was too late. The tribesman swatted away Orbist’s blade with his own and made for the killing thrust. Before the blade met flesh, Ethlin ran over and plunged a dagger in the attacker’s heart. Orbist’s eyes widened in alarm and relief.
The next instant Malcolm was there beside them. “Are you okay?” he asked Ethlin.
“I’m fine,” She rasped, catching her breath. “Just a slug to the face.”
Orbist bent down and took the sword of the dead Gull. “There’s more coming.”
He was right. Down the slope and up the trail, more and more tribesmen swooped forward. They couldn’t keep this up for very long. Malcolm saw Artemis and Ser Royce struggling against three warriors each. He ran to their aid while shouting to Captain Halarn, “There’s too many! We can’t defend ourselves!”
Captain Halarn looked around falling back with his own men, a quarter of them already slain. He appeared confused, not knowing how to reply.
Malcolm hacked at one of Artemis’s attackers. The Gull backed away noticing his new opponent’s superior size. To his left, Malcolm saw a tall, tattooed warrior slay one of the Farmington guards. Two other foes already lay lifeless at his feet. This man looked to be the leader of the raiding party.
The second wave of attackers came forward as Malcolm and the others backed away. The Gulls had formed a circle around them. Captain Halarn and his men had also retreated away from their attackers. Now their journey had seemed to come to an end. They were surrounded by warmongering Gulls bent on bloodlust. The fighting had subsided for now, the clatter of blades replaced with the panting of all participants.
“We have no choice but to surrender,” Halarn said, breaking the silence. “We won’t survive another onslaught. Let me speak to them. I know some of their tongue.”
The captain said something, which to Malcolm sounded like nothing he’d ever heard. Harsh vowels spewed from Halarn’s lips followed by clicking and smacking noises. The tall, tattooed warrior donning an enormous beard strode forward. The muscles of his long inked arms bulged. In one hand, he carried a battle-axe, in the other a jagged sword. Both dripped crimson.
The Gull’s leader spoke in a harsh booming voice. Malcolm wondered if it was a death sentence to him and his companions.
“This is Fersh, leader of the Band-Gulls,” Halarn said, looking to Malcolm and the others. “He says he will spare us for now if we drop our swords.”
“For now?” Ser Balliol spoke up. “And what about later? Are we to be their evening meal?”
“If you want to live, you’ll do as the chieftain says. Presumably, we’ll become slaves—which is better than dead.”
Ser Balliol let out a breath and tossed his sword. Halarn turned back to Fersh, made a sort of salute, and dropped his sword. “All of you, follow my lead if you want to live.”
Malcolm looked at Artemis and nodded reluctantly. They both dropped their swords and knives. Malcolm turned to Orbist and Ethlin, “This is all we can do. For now.”
Fersh strolled around the party weapons in hand, as if assessing a new prize. He muttered something, and the rest of his men emitted a series of guffaws.
Malcolm caught his attention, and the tattooed chieftain walked over to him, hatred in his eyes. Fersh thrust his face so close to Malcolm’s he could smell the foul mutton the leader likely had for breakfast.
In a grating voice, the chieftain said, “You kill cousin. No forget.”
Malcolm could see a slight resemblance in the face of Fersh to that of the double axe wielder he felled earlier.
Fersh brought his axe blade up, showing it to Malcolm. It gleamed in the morning sun, along with a layer of blood on its edge. Malcolm eyed his sword, laying a few feet from him. He remained calm under the glare of this new enemy. Fersh raised the axe as if to strike. Malcolm froze.
Ethlin whimpered. The chieftain’s eyes shot to her, and a slow sneer spread over his face. Malcolm bided his time, poised to duck and go for his sword if need be. His eyes on Ethlin, Fersh brought back the axe as if to attack again. His sneer turned to a wide grin showing dark-stained teeth. He looked back to Malcolm, who showed the least bit of emotion, remaining still.
Lowering the axe, Fersh grew serious and repeated, “Kill cousin. No forget.”
Having spoken his share, the chieftain strode away while barking orders and gesturing to his newly acquired captives. Gulls rushed forward with rope, binding everyone’s hands.
Grime-covered tribesmen thrust and shoved the party through the woods. Fersh was leading the way. They made it past the place where Malcolm first saw the group of Gulls in their makeshift camp. After that, they passed through what seemed like an endless maze of trees and jutting, rune-covered bedrock. Malcolm hoped the runes would make the trees attack their captors, but he figured they wouldn’t have led them down this path if they knew the markings were of ill magic.
For hours, they tread on foot, growing weary. Malcolm could see Ethlin and Orbist stumbling from the exertion, and even Ser Royce was limping. His own legs ached from the running and fighting he’d done earlier, and hunger jabbed at his stomach. As afternoon crept in, Malcolm noticed wisps of smoke rising through the pines ahead.
Before long, he began to make out the beginnings of the Band-Gulls village. At the entrance were two towering pines that had been bent to crisscross each other. Skulls of blue, red, and black colored ash dotted the bark of the two trees.
As they passed underneath the entrance, Malcolm noticed the scattered huts and lodges that were the Gull’s living quarters. He and the others were prodded and paraded down the center of the village as tribesmen, women, and children emerged from their dwellings, staring and glaring at them from the shadows of their thatched roofs and eaves of their pine lodges.
The tribespeople bowed fealty to their enormous chieftain as he triumphantly displayed his captives. Fersh raised his bulging arms and gestured to the exhausted party, shouting insults at them in his foreign tongue, and occasionally raising his weapons and enacting a mock execution seemingly intended for his new victims.
They turned a corner as a couple of dogs ran by skittishly as if first noticing the small caravan of newcomers. Ahead stood a commodious lodge made of pine and oak, undoubtedly the residence of the chieftain. Guards were posted at the entrance. Next to it were what seemed to be pens for animals, but looking closer Malcolm could see there were rival tribesmen inside—prisoners being held in the wooden cages. Four malnourished men stared back at him with sunken eyes. They looked lean and haggard, and their furs sagged on their frail bodies, which at one time must’ve been robust.
Malcolm’s attention was distracted when he noticed someone exit a large hut to the left of the lodge. As the Gull strode forward, Malcolm saw Fersh motion for their party to stop. The newcomer was a woman with filthy hair, covered in trinkets of threaded hide and metal necklaces. She wore furs splashed with white and red dye, making her stand out amongst her people. Behind her were two female servants who emulated her attire, but hadn’t quite reached her level of disheveled appearance.
The dye-splashed woman spoke to Fersh inquiringly. She spoke in a serious tone, occasionally appraising Malcolm and his companions with a side-glance.
Malcolm inched closer to Halarn, whispering, “Who’s she?”
“A witch,” he replied. “A sort of sorceress.”
“Shhh.” One of the near
by Gulls cuffed Malcolm and the captain on their heads.
Meanwhile, Fersh and the witch prattled on, appearing to debate the fate of their captives.
Malcolm spoke softer this time, “I thought we were to be their slaves.”
“That’s usually the case,” Halarn replied, uncertainty in his voice.
Just then, the witch’s head jerked in their direction, but Malcolm realized she looked beyond him to Ethlin. She strode forward in loud authoritative steps. The surrounding Gulls scattered in her wake, letting her pass with ease.
She hollered something foreign and came up to Ethlin and Orbist. Malcolm noticed the witch kept a curvy bladed dagger at her belt hiding beneath all the baubles she wore. The witch stared hard at Ethlin and the similarly clad Orbist. She reached forward, and Ethlin flinched. Grabbing the sleeve of Ethlin’s robe, she probed and assessed the fabric. Turning to Orbist, she completed the same inspection. Both Ethlin and the Mage-Counsel kept their heads down and eyes lowered. Malcolm could see the young Seer shaking under the scrutiny of the witch’s gaze.
Suddenly the witch began muttering to the chieftain in an accusatory manner. She pointed a dirt-smeared finger at Ethlin and Orbist, revealing twisted overgrown nails. She drew her finger up to Orbist and in crude rasp said, “Priest.” In the next instant, her focus was on Ethlin, and she pointed and called out “Priessstesss,” sounding like the hiss of a snake. Malcolm did not like the tone of it.
“No,” Ethlin pleaded, shaking her head. “Not a priestess … I’m not a priestess.”
“It’s going to be okay, child,” Orbist said, unconvincingly.
The witch went back to Fersh, rattling off a series of punctuated interjections and gesturing to the two robed members of the party.
There was a pause of silence. Fersh looked back at them as if contemplating. He said something that angered the witch, outlined in the scowl she gave him. Fersh, in turn, shot her a look. She replied with a quick retort and stormed off, marching to her large hut while being followed by her two witch apprentices.
Fersh barked out orders, and they were led to the wooden pens.
“I fear the witch has it out for Ethlin and Orbist,” Malcolm said to Artemis who’d sidled up beside him.
“Philosophical differences,” Artemis replied matter-of-factly.
“I don’t like it,” Malcolm said, glancing back at Ethlin’s worry-worn face.
37
Their accommodations were rugged, to say the least. Straw littered the pen they’d been herded into. Malcolm wouldn’t have been surprised if it had been used as a former stall for Fersh’s pigs. The smell was rank, undoubtedly from the animals who’d previously occupied the space. In patches where the scattered straw did not lay were mud puddles.
After being shoved inside, each member of the party did their best to find a spot to sit that wouldn’t cake their backside in slimy mud or scat. Taking a seat, Malcolm scanned around searching for weaknesses in the timbered cell. The wood serving as bars was thick, and the gaps between them were too small for even a slender man to squeeze through. What made matters worse was they’d been completely disarmed, and not one of them carried any type of blade to slowly carve through the robust pine.
“Wonder why they’re here,” Malcolm said, nodding at the Gulls in the cell adjacent to theirs.
The four reeking imprisoned Gulls glared at the new prisoners, their misery evident on their thin, sallow faces. Halarn went over to the side separating their cell from their neighbors and said a few words in their tongue. The four looked at each other, astounded this foreigner knew their language. They seemed to confer on the question raised.
A hoarse, weak reply met Halarn’s question. A look of concern crossed the captain’s face, and he asked another question. Another forlorn answer came back, and Halarn sighed, saying words of encouragement to the four dejected prisoners.
Halarn walked back and sat next Malcolm. “They’ve been here three months. They were members of a rival tribe, the Pox-Gulls. A bitter feud grew between their people and Fersh’s. One day, Fersh led a surprise attack on their village slaughtering most everyone, including their best warrior—their chieftain. A few women and children were spared and are serving as slaves. Six men including them were also spared.” Halarn glanced back at the somber group.
“There’s only four of them,” Malcolm noted.
“Two of their companions already died of illness. They’ve been doing hard labor, but have grown weak. He said they’ve been surviving on gruel—thick broth of the Band-Gulls’ leftovers. He says they’ll soon die from lack of proper sustenance.”
Now Malcolmed sighed. “What of the witch? What did she want with Orbist and Ethlin?”
“She’s threatened by them. She was trying to persuade the chieftain to let her interrogate them. Something about finding out if they’re bad magic.”
“Bad magic?”
“The Gulls are notoriously superstitious. Seems the witch wants to decide whether your Seer and mage are worth keeping alive. The chieftain wanted to think on it.”
Malcolm looked over at Ethlin, huddled in her robe in a corner on a patch of straw. Orbist was offering words of comfort, but Malcolm didn’t see any in her fear-stricken eyes. He’d seen fear such as that when he was younger—in his little sister’s eyes.
For a while, the listless captives sat in silence. Malcolm had shut his eyes and dozed for a bit, as did some of his companions. When he’d opened his eyes, he noticed Orbist had now sat next to him and Halarn.
“I’m afraid I must apologize, Ser Malcolm,” the old man said.
“What for?”
“You must think me an ill-equipped Mage-Counsel, not conjuring up some method of distraction and escape, some form of magic to subdue our captors and vacate this foul forest.”
“Not to disappoint you, but I know you’re not a wizard. I didn’t expect much. You’re here to look after and mentor your pupil, not combat barbarians.”
“Aye, true enough, I’m no wizard—but that doesn’t mean I didn’t carry spells with me.”
Malcolm and Halarn both shot him a glance.
“Alas. I was carrying a spell book, with a certain spell that could distort the very wood containing us. But it fell out of my robe pocket in today’s fight. I saw one of the Gulls confiscate it as we were being tied up.”
“You think the Gulls would know what to do with the book?” Malcolm asked Halarn.
“Not the warriors. But if they gave it to the witch, who knows what she’d make of it. I hope it wouldn’t give her the proof she needs to get Fersh to agree on executing us all on adherents of outlander magic.”
Malcolm and Orbist stared at each other, their faces grave.
Their situation was dire. Malcolm had been in tough predicaments before, but this one was like no other. The stakes were higher than ever. If Ethlin were to be killed, he’d failed in his mission to the Backlands. He wouldn’t just be failing his comrades—his fellow Kingsguard, his captains, his generals. He’d be failing the people he’d sworn to protect—the citizens, the royal court and family, the queen, and the king himself. And he’d be failing Ethlin.
“Captain,” he said, turning back to Halarn. “Is there anything we can offer Fersh and his war chiefs to barter for our release? Perhaps a promise from our kingdoms—a ransom from the Backlands and Farmington, granted by our kings.”
Halarn shook his head. “They wouldn’t go for it. They are a proud, war-starved people, for it’s all they know. But …” He hesitated, coming to a thought.
“What is it?” Malcolm leaned forward.
“There is … another option.”
“And that is?”
“A challenge,” Halarn replied. “The Gulls are a people of symbols and strength, warriors who rule by military might and fear of the sword. If one of us were to challenge their leader to combat and be the victor—then they’d possibly grant us passage out of here.”
“So if I challenged Fersh to a duel and won, then th
ey’d release us?”
Halarn sighed and nodded. “I’ve heard a story of a man escaping that way before, yes. Though each tribe is different when it comes to their views of releasing captives.”
“Well, it’s worth a shot.”
“You’d likely be at a disadvantage, however,” Halarn warned. “I hear tell combat trials amongst the Gulls tend to be mismatched affairs. Most often the challenger fighting for his freedom is given a shabby weapon, whereas the fighter who represents the tribe is allowed multiple weapons throughout the fight.”
“That’s not very honorable,” Orbist said, listening in.
Malcolm rubbed his face. “So they don’t fight fair.”
“They’re barbarians,” Halarn said. “Who said anything about fighting fair?”
For the next week, Malcolm and the others sat around doing nothing in their confinement. Guards would escort them in groups of three out of their pen twice a day to relieve themselves in the woods. More than once Malcolm had thought of taking the guards by surprise, but the odds were stacked against him. The guards outnumbered them typically two to one and were armed and carried shields. All Malcolm had was his brute strength, which wasn’t as robust as usual.
Fersh fed his captives the same gruel as the neighboring prisoners. For what it assuredly lacked in taste, it was also devoid of nutrition. As far as Malcolm could tell, the slosh they ate was mostly the fat of goat, sheep, or chicken with the rare scrap of actual meat and occasional leaf of cabbage.
Malcolm noticed other slaves besides the ones locked up next to them. These must have been better-treated prisoners, for they appeared healthier and spryer than the four lean Gulls in the adjacent pen. Perhaps, the rivalry between the Pox-Gulls and Band-Gulls was much worse than that of the feud between the Band-Gulls and the other slaves’ tribes.