Between the two arms lies a large stretch of vivid, green land broken by numerous rows of dirt in large, square patches. Scattered around these patches are wooden tents, each rising straight up on all sides with a slant at the top. And the people walking about in all of this are doing so without any identifiable purpose.
Grak shrugs. “They’re too far away. I can’t make out any faces.” He considers them further. “But it seems they’ve been there for some time. Too long to be Cordo’s people.” Still more consideration. “Nonetheless, we should probably deal with them before they become a threat.”
“That’s a good idea, sir,” responds Frolan with obvious caution in his voice. “Though I wonder … Well, they’re far. Far from us here and far from the river trail. With Cordo’s rebels still on the loose, I wonder if we should keep our distance from these ones for now. Just so we don’t take on too many enemies at once.”
While Grak is miffed at the disagreement, he does detect sound reasoning in the idea. “Yes, that’s where I was going. Next time let me finish. So, as I was saying, no sense making a second enemy before we’ve dealt with the first. We’ll leave them alone for the time being. But once we deal with Cordo, we’ll need to develop a strategy for these strangers.”
Everyone nods in agreement. Grak appreciates the clarity of their response.
It’s good to deal with a group that knows how to nod. So many these days are halfhearted at best.
The group slowly backs away from the ridge, standing and quickening their pace when able, and donning caps soon after. Upon reaching the base, Frolan sets the team in a protective formation with Grak at the center. After a quick inspection to confirm that all eyes and weapons are at the ready, he leads them in a brisk walk for the return trek.
Grak squints at the small shape of Brownhand on the horizon, estimating the distance.
Two … maybe three thousand paces.
He makes the necessary adjustments to account for his usual errors.
So, maybe around three hundred paces. Not bad. Should be swimming soon. Sooner if we had horses.
But alas, their poor balance and lack of grip wouldn't fare well on the steep, rocky descent from the trees to the river. In fact, it’s already difficult enough for humans to navigate, even with boots. Grak once again finds himself wishing it were socially acceptable for horses to don footwear.
I imagine a pony could pull it off. Not as self-conscio—
His thoughts are interrupted by a steadily rising noise coming from somewhere off in the distance behind them. What began several moments ago as a low, indistinct rumbling, now bears an eerie resemblance to the sound of running feet.
A thousand fearful thoughts race through Grak’s head as he turns to identify the source. His eyes widen and his stomach sinks. They must have come from the tree line. And they’re closing in fast. Grak can’t make out any faces, but he has little doubt.
“Cordo!” shouts Frolan, rage burning in his eyes.
Of course the wretch would strike now. While our forces are split. He must have been waiting for this. Probably orchestrated the whole thing with those strangers and their scum-filled smoke!
“Frolan!” Grak’s shout is unnecessary, given the man’s proximity, but urgency takes precedence. “Launch the defense protocol!”
Frolan removes the horn from his belt and gives it a single, powerful blow. The sound carries over the open terrain, likely to meet little resistance before reaching the guards on the trail.
A much better alarm, to be sure. With any fortune, the rest of our forces should reach us soon. Then it’ll be a fair fight in our favor. Turn Cordo’s strategy back on his own head. If …
Grak finishes the thought out loud. “If we can make it to Brownhand in time. Run!”
Outnumbered at the moment, reaching the river is their only hope. With the addition of those five guards, their forces would nearly match Cordo’s. But more importantly, help from the trail would arrive that much sooner.
They start into a paced run, but Frolan quickly recognizes Grak’s inability to keep up. He orders a reduction of speed, which causes several looks of frustration. Those are soon dropped, however, when Grak returns a fierce scowl.
Of all the terrible things one can do. Frustrated with their leader for having to protect him? After all the protection I’ve given them? Remember to punish them, Grak. Remember to punish them. Remember to punish them.
They reach the water’s edge, and Grak pauses to gather his wits, hoping to find some semblance of a plan there. But his mind refuses to cooperate, focusing instead on the looming threat.
Fortunately, Frolan remains calm. “Sir. They’re coming in too fast. They’ll catch us before we reach the trail. And it would be perilous to have our backs turned when they arrive. We need to face them. Make a solid defense. It’s our only chance.”
Grak considers this proposal. A sound idea in most respects.
If I lose these guards, I’m too weak. My remaining forces would barely outnumber Cordo’s. Wouldn’t be a fair fight then. And chances of holding off a second strike would be low. Especially if we lost Frolan. Morale would plummet if that happened.
Grak nods. “My idea exactly. You hold them off here. I’ll fetch the remainder at the trail.”
“No need, sir.” Frolan pulls the horn to his lips and lets out another long, deep call.
That wasn’t the answer Grak wanted. He ponders the situation.
I have thirty here. Four fewer than Cordo. Could be worse. I should be safe enough. And I suppose it’s better to be seen fighting than running. Just stay in the rear and you’ll be alright, Grak.
Frolan’s commands come quick and crisp. No time can be spared for bows to take aim, so he orders the guards into a tight line with axes at the ready.
Grak breathes deep in a vain attempt to force his heart to a steadier pace. His enemies close in. He can make out their faces now, full of wrath and vengeance. Closer. He measures their steps in heartbeats. Closer. He locks eyes with Cordo, trying desperately to will some courage into his glare.
The two forces collide, with Grak’s side taking the brunt of the impact. Fortunately, only one of his guards loses his footing. Grak watches in desperation as the man is quickly overpowered.
Down by five now. Curse Cordo and his treachery! Curse Jafra and Grok—
Someone crashes into him from the left, and they drop together in a tangle. Grak frantically reaches for Slicer, but recognizes Mazo and breathes a sigh of relief.
Too soon, as it turns out. Itha takes the advantage, lowering her ax hard and fast toward the man’s chest. Mazo sweeps his own weapon with blurring speed, knocking hers aside. She struggles to maintain balance while he scrambles to his feet. Too slow. She’s already regained her footing.
The sound is terrible. Worse still is the sight. Mazo’s face contorts in an instant of overwhelming pain and uncontrollable fear. He crumples to the ground with the woman’s ax buried deep in his skull.
Itha draws her knife and turns to Grak with a cold, yet remorseful, look. She advances with caution, though the effect is more menacing than anything else.
Grak crawls on his back, even dropping the staff for convenience, but soon realizes it isn’t fast enough to hope for escape. Remembering Slicer, he unsheathes it in awkward desperation. With less than a breath before she’ll be on him, he searches feverishly for the best angle of attack from this position. Too slow.
Itha’s head snaps back as an arrow pierces her right eye. She drops the knife and crumples to the ground. Grak scrambles to get clear, but the woman falls on his leg, pinning it. He pulls free without much effort and climbs to his feet, looking around for immediate danger. None. His people have the enemy occupied, even doubling up in some cases.
But none are using bows. Curious.
Another arrow flies by, causing Grak to turn about in response. His heart leaps. Their forces from the trail have arrived: three are firing from the slope while the rest are heading down to join the
fray.
The remainder of the tribe seems to be here as well. Though it’s unclear whether they came to lend support or simply to watch the spectacle for amusement.
Either way, better look good now, Grak. For your children.
He pulls Slicer back with a flourish and drives it into Itha’s body. Grak follows this with two more superfluous stabs, then finishes with an exaggerated brow wipe to show fatigue. Pretending to just notice the crowd, he raises his blade in the air, eliciting a loud cheer. But this turns into a gasp an instant later, which is his only warning.
Grak spins around just in time to duck under Cordo’s swing. He backs away with haste, alarmed and upset that his protectors would allow the man through.
Cordo closes the small space, eyes ablaze with vengeance, deep and terrifying. He pulls his ax overhead, and as it drops, Grak reacts. Drawing from Mazo’s successful move, he swings at the weapon. His motion isn’t as swift as the guard’s was, but it does the trick, knocking Cordo’s ax to the side and pulling his momentum along with it.
But Grak hesitates a moment too long. Cordo recovers with alarming speed and turns, swinging his weapon side-armed. Grak ponders how to counter that one. But he’s at a loss.
In a moment that seems unending, he waits … and watches. His death creeps closer. He can make out the nicks in Cordo’s ax now. Closer. Darkness consumes Grak’s world.
Grak wakes slowly. Frolan’s face is hovering overhead, bleeding from several shallow cuts. The man gives a slight smile and extends a hand. Grak takes a shaky hold, and the brute hoists him to a sitting position.
“How are you, sir? Feeling alright?” Frolan sounds relieved.
Still too dazed to offer a response, Grak surveys the area instead. Though part of him soon wishes he hadn’t. The ground wears deep crimson, twenty paces in all directions. Strewn about, in no particular order, are numerous still bodies with matching stains.
The tribe’s remaining able-bodied members are occupied in bringing resolution to the day. Many are busy stacking wood for a pyre. The rest are occupied with gathering the fallen to lay at its feet.
But no matter their task, all are filled with a deep sadness that permeates everything in reach. A few who can no longer bear it have even resigned themselves to a quiet, yet agonized sobbing.
But that all pales in comparison to what snags Grak’s attention. A lone figure is gagged and kneeling by the river several paces away, surrounded by nine guards.
Grak smiles. “Cordo. You saved him for me.”
Frolan fails to partake of the joy. “Yes sir. When you fainted, I—”
“Fainted? I didn’t faint!” Grak realizes his tone is harsher than it needs to be. “I ducked. And must have hit my head.”
Frolan nods. “Yes sir. When you ducked and hit your head, one of our people put an arrow in his shoulder. That gave me time to disarm him. Since he was the last enemy, I thought it simple enough to detain him. In case you wanted to question him further. Or what have you.”
Grak pats the brute on the shoulder. “Well done, Frolan.” He uses it to pull himself up. “Well done.”
One by one, the tribe members notice Grak and pause to watch his next move. Many continue to show deep sorrow, but most seem relieved that he’s alright. Even the weeping has subsided.
Good to see I have that effect. Still need something big, though. To lift their spirits. To give them hope … and something to be happy about. I’ll need to make this good then. Better than last time.
Grak picks up Slicer and searches the area for Lago. There, by Itha’s body. He strolls over and grabs the staff, taking a moment to fix Lago’s hair and clean the man’s cheek.
Oh, my apologies, friend. I thought that was dirt.
Grak puts the skin back in place and looks around. All eyes are on him now, many even filling with hope. Infused with confidence from this, he dons his most stately demeanor and walks over to Cordo.
Appearances and all. Very important for these public events.
Grak reaches the captive and raises his voice for the crowd. “No escape for you this time, rebel!”
Some of the sorrowful faces turn relieved. Some of the relieved ones shout their approval.
Grak takes this as an indication to add more extravagance to his words. “Cordo … for your attacks against our people … and for your hatred of our ways … I hereby revoke my mercy!”
He waits out a new round of cheering. “Let it be known to you and to all traitors or rebels that anyone who defies me or threatens our peace will meet with defeat! They will feel my vengeance! And they will rue the day they set their faces against me!”
Now the whole crowd takes up the cheer. Many, in fact, even seem fanatical about it.
And I don’t blame them. That was an incredible speech.
Grak scans the crowd for Opa’s face. He finds the woman a moment later and gives her a nod. She returns the gesture, then pulls dry clay from her pouch and sets about mixing it.
Good woman.
He turns back to Cordo. “And so it is with no sadness in my heart that I end your pathetic, treacherous life this day!”
Grak pulls back, gathers his full weight, and thrusts Slicer straight into the man’s chest. Not hard enough. It bounces off, eliciting a gagged scream from Cordo as his eyes open wide.
The tribe looks on with mixed emotions. None are sure how to respond, though all show obvious discomfort.
Grak looks at Slicer. Then at the wound. Aside from the fresh tear in the man’s tunic, a trickle of blood is the only indication of damage.
Hmm, yes, the bone there. Should have thought of that one. Though I do seem to recall having a harder thrust than that. No matter. It shouldn’t be too difficult.
Grak pulls back for another attempt, then pauses. “You know, this would be much easier if he were on the ground. Then I could better use my weight.” He makes a downward thrusting motion to demonstrate.
Frolan looks around awkwardly, then leans in and whispers.
Grak shrugs. “Well, I suppose you’re right. But it was so messy last time.”
Frolan nods. “True. But easier.”
Grak shrugs once more. “Very well. Though maybe I’ll just pierce through the throat. Seems cleaner that way. Reduces the squirting and such.”
He turns to Cordo. “Close your eyes. I won’t have you staring at me as you die. Too creepy.”
With nothing left in him, Cordo obeys. His eyelids fall in peace, accepting his defeat. And his fate. Grak feels a tug of admiration for the man, but quickly shakes it off.
No. He’s a fool! A traitorous fool! And now he’ll die like the fool he is!
Grak extends his hand, pressing Slicer’s point to Cordo’s throat. He pauses for a moment to focus on the sensation of bound leather in his palm. The hilt feels proper. It feels good. He clenches his arm, basking in the strength flowing through him. The control he possesses in the moment.
Grak yields to it. He leans in and drives the weapon hard, producing disquieting sounds of tearing and snapping as flesh gives way. Cordo’s eyes open suddenly at the sting, his whole body straining in shock as the blade slowly drives deeper. Layers of bone and muscle resist, but Grak responds with greater force. Ignoring the familiar gurgling and wheezing, he adds more weight to the thrust until metal rips through the other side.
He releases Slicer and steps back, watching Cordo closely, entranced by the emotions. Far fewer than Lago showed. Fear, yes. Pain, of course. But mostly just peace. It fades much faster this time. And in an instant, his enemy is gone.
Grak closes his eyes and breathes deep, savoring the moment.
No more defiance. No more need to be on guard at all times. Except for Jafra, of course. Still need to be on guard until we find her. And the strangers over the hill. Can’t rest until we take care of them.
The list of tasks requiring his attention floods back in. Grak sighs.
He opens his eyes and looks around, hoping to find appreciation from the surrounding trib
e. But it never comes. Most are terrified. Many even appear nauseous. Worse still, numerous parents are trying in vain to soothe their crying offspring.
Grak shakes his head and sighs again.
Leading is agony. Always something else to deal with. Can’t even enjoy my victory properly. Can’t even find time for a quick swim.
He looks longingly at the water. At his rock. At the mouth drinking from the river.
Well, not quite drinking. Actually, not even close. The water’s a good foot lower, in fact. No, surely it wasn’t like that before. Was it?
That starts a thought—a curious tickle in the back of his mind that grows into a nagging feeling.
They were discussing that earlier. It was something important, I seem to recall. Do you remember what it was?
He looks to Lago.
Yes, you’re right. It was Hambo. He was saying something abou—
Oh dear …
The memory roars into focus along with all of its implications. Grak scans the crowd and finds the man a short distance away.
“Hambo!” he shouts in his most urgent voice.
The theorist turns and looks around in stunned confusion.
Grak ignores the man’s erratic behavior. “What were you saying about the water disappearing?”
Grak regrets those words the instant they leave his mouth. He can almost see them now, rippling through the crowd, inciting a murmur as they pass. The murmurs, in turn, breed worry. Worry soon grows into terrified shouts. Deep panic sets in.
16 - And Water Shortages
Grak begrudges this water shortage. And all water shortages, if he’s being honest. Although, for the sake of transparency, he’s willing to admit that this is the first one he's ever experienced.
But despite the clarity of his emotions, he’s having trouble identifying what he hates most about the ordeal. A definite contender would be that it’s delaying their travel. And by no small amount, either. It’s been fifteen days since the Heroic Battle against Cordo’s Villainous and Idiotic Rebellion.
Things Grak Hates Page 25