EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  And then he saw.

  From out of the east, from out of the darkness, a host of mrem raced toward him. They were armed, they were carefully deployed, and in the approaching night and long mountain shadows their black cloaks made them almost invisible. They were clad identically; each also wore black knee-length pants and small bunda-hide helmets. Even their cross belts had been dyed a glossy black and glistened in a way that told of careful polishing. Their sergeants, and even a few of the swordsmrem, wore vests covered with fist-size bronze plates. Crethok counted over two hundred, far outnumbering his own tired and depleted band. And his own mrem were running, running wild and hard, away from this enemy that had suddenly sprung upon them.

  Yelling, Crethok gave orders for them to stand. Screaming until his voice broke, he battered those close by with the flat of his sword. As soon as he turned his back the clansmrem began to back away once more, but at least he prevented a rout.

  They would pay for this, Crethok thought. No matter how many enemies were coming, their duty was still to him. Once they regrouped, away from this battle, many would wish they had stood and died.

  Some stood by him. Twenty at first, but soon fifteen, for as the black-cloaks ran nearer their numbers seemed larger. Crethok himself felt panic in his breast, and with a single shout he ordered a retreat. Turning where they stood, the clansmrem began the long run down the valley to the relative safety of the mountains.

  Suddenly they stopped. Far ahead, Crethok heard the screams and shouts of his men, and those ahead of him had halted. Pushing himself through the others, he faced to the front to learn the shouting’s cause.

  When he looked up, he saw it. There on the cliffs, high above a narrows in the small valley they had felt so ideal for trapping the caravan, a host of archers stood with bows at the ready. Fifteen clansmrem lay dead on the rocks, and all the others were afraid to move. Like their attackers to the rear, the archers wore black.

  Trapped, thought Crethok.

  “Cwinyd!” he shouted, and the word echoed off the cliffs.

  “Cwinyd!” again, but the magician did not appear. Crethok spun, searching, but the wizard could not be seen.

  “Where is Cwinyd?” he demanded, his voice spitting and angry. “Who has seen Cwinyd?”

  Only one mrem stepped forward. “I saw him earlier,” he said. “But not since the black-cloaks came. He was beside me at the wagons. He’s not here now.”

  Crethok raised his sword to the clansmen’s neck. “Is that true?” he snarled. “Has the magician gone?” Pressing slightly, he drew blood. “Or has he paid you to say these things?”

  The mrem trembled, his tail drooping. “He hasn’t paid me, Crethok,” came the response. “I am telling you the truth.” He closed his eyes.

  At this point the black-caped warriors that had pursued them from the wagons stormed into the other end of the canyon. They spread out and stopped, obviously awaiting the order to attack. Their fur was pale under their cloaks.

  Crethok drew back his sword. Turning, he raised his voice for the clansmrem to hear.

  “We are trapped, my warriors,” he said, “and there is no way for us to go. If we fight, we die. If we surrender, we might live.” He paused, then announced. “We have no choice but to surrender.” Throwing his sword to the ground, he sat down and waited for the others to follow.

  “You may surrender, Crethok,” a deep voice offered from high up on the hill. “But I won’t.” It sounded strangely like Arklier, but his brother was far away. More importantly, Crethok realized these were Lord Sleisher’s men, and they did not take prisoners.

  The black-cloaks stopped. From out of their ranks strode a tall, lanky mrem, his black cloak lined with silver that danced in the fading light. On his head he wore a helmet, and it too was black and silver. His fur, Crethok saw, was streaked with many colors.

  “I am,” he announced, “a Sleisher of Cragsclaw, son of Lord Sleisher whom you have met in battle many times. You have committed crimes on his land, and you will be tried for your offenses.” He paused, waiting for silence. When it came, he said, “Who leads this band?”

  Crethok stood up. “I do,” he replied, his voice firm and controlled.

  “Then order your mrem to leave all their weapons and follow willingly. If they do not, we will knock them unconscious and drag them to Cragsclaw. If they resist, we will kill them.” He stopped, and the clansmrem shuddered at his voice.

  “We have heard,” Crethok said, “that Sleisher shows no mercy. Why should we obey?”

  “To you,” came Keth’s reply, “my father will be called Lord Sleisher. As for your rumors, they have no substance. My father is not weak, but neither is he cruel. He rules his land in the name of Andelemarian of Ar, and at mighty Cragsclaw, built by my ancestors to guard against the Eastern Lords. He keeps watch over the valleys at the edges of the kingdom. He has no time—nor has he any need—to practice the cruelty you believe.”

  The Eastern Lords! Crethok thought. So Cwinyd was telling the truth. But where was the magician now, when he needed him most?

  “We have no choice,” Crethok said loudly.

  “We can fight!” shouted one of his men. Three arrows sang through the air. The highland mrem crumpled where he stood.

  “You can fight,” said Keth. “But you would die before you took a step.” His eyes focused on Crethok. “What is your name?” he demanded.

  “I am Crethok, son of Peorlias,” the clansmrem announced. “I march for my father, who lies dead at Sleisher’s hands.”

  Keth only smiled. “Not at my father’s hands,” he said. “But his passing is a sad one, for he was a great leader. He was an enemy, but he was not mad or wasteful.” Silence, and then, “And now, Crethok, will you order your mrem to follow?”

  Crethok spat, but he gave the command.

  Then suddenly he heard a yell. Down the hill on his right streamed a hundred or more warriors, and the last light showed that their cloaks were not dark. Toward Keth’s band they ran, shouting as they raced, and they hit the black-cloak’s line at an angle on their rear. Through Keth’s back ranks they slashed their way, and the son of Cragsclaw’s lord turned his mrem to face the assault.

  Crethok shouted. “Attack!” he commanded, and the highland clansmrem drew their swords and obeyed.

  From above them a hail of arrows killed four, but suddenly the archers themselves began to fall. Crethok looked up the hill to his right, and he saw bright-cloaked archers where the black-cloaks had stood. Their bows sang, and the archers on the cliff plummeted down, clutching their hands to their chests.

  And then Crethok heard, rising above the roar of battle, the clan’s ancient Song of War. He raised his head and searched the hill, and there on the top stood a figure he knew. It stood tall and proud, and in the settling darkness its bright green cloak caught the first light from the largest moon.

  “Arklier,” he said aloud. “For once I am glad.” He turned to the task at hand, as his mrem fought their way through their stubborn opponents in black.

  An hour later, it was over. Shouting, and running from side to side, Keth ordered his warriors to retreat, keeping them always precisely in his command. Crethok suddenly admired this mrem, admired his calm even in defeat. When the black-cloaks began to back away, he shouted to his own mrem to stop their attacks. Exhausted, and filthy with the spatterings of blood, his band obeyed gladly. Only forty remained.

  Arklier, too, let them go. His losses were fewer, and Crethok saw perhaps ninety give way to the hundred who retreated. Still, some chance act could again swing the tide of the battle—better not to take a chance. Crethok knew Keth would not attack again tonight, but he knew, just as well, that the black-cloaks would be back.

  And the next time, Keth would not be surprised.

  Arklier strode toward his brother. Crethok stood still, the smile now a smirk, forcing his brother to mak
e his way through his band of raiders. Grudgingly they opened for him, but Arklier’s stride simply adapted to the room they gave him. When he had left, Arklier had not yet adjusted to his new-grown height. Crethok had not seen his brother since he had returned from the Dancers, and was surprised at the grace with which he moved.

  “Welcome, brother,” Crethok said, as the ClanSon drew closer. “We are grateful for your help.” He said the last as loudly as he could, so all could hear the mockery in his voice.

  Arklier stopped. “You had more than help,” he announced. “We saved your lives.”

  A cheer went up from the ClanSon’s warriors.

  Crethok merely smiled. “Hardly,” he said calmly. “We were waiting only until we cleared the pass, when the archers could no longer threaten us. Then we would have turned on them, and your aid would not have been needed.” Murmurs of assent sounded from the clansmrem.

  The effect was not as Crethok desired. Arklier did not show anger, surprise, nor even humor. He simply stated, with a calm assurance Crethok had not heard before, “We have come to claim our prize. By the law of the clans, we claim three-fourths of all of your and the caravan’s goods.” Another cheer.

  “Three-fourths?” Crethok shouted. “Had you said one-fourth, brother, I might well have agreed. But three-fourths, I’m sure you understand, is well beyond....”

  “It is the law,” Arklier said. “Even you, Crethok, should understand that.”

  “He is right, Crethok,” another voice broke in. “Because he saved your lives, he is entitled to three parts of the bounty. You have used that law yourself many times in the past.”

  Cwinyd. The bastard. Gone when he was needed, here when he was not.

  “You have no right to speak, Cwinyd.” He spat out the words, his fur bristling at his shoulders. They had fought for weeks to gather that loot. He summoned his courage. “You have already proven yourself a coward, and now you have become a traitor.”

  A bolt seared through his brain. Clutching his head in both hands, he dropped to his knees and screamed. No mrem approached him.

  “I disagree,” was Cwinyd’s calm reply. “Now, move your mrem aside, that these who have won the victory may claim their spoils. If the law were mine to write, Crethok, I would give your brother even more than he will claim.”

  Baring his teeth, Crethok gave the order. The clansmrem stepped aside, and Arklier stepped with Bodder through to the wagons. Ten other mrem joined them.

  They chose the wagons they wanted most, adding several bundles from the sacks Crethok had ordered hidden among the rocks above the pass. These wagons they led away from the mountain wall. At a word from Arklier the warriors turned and marched, and Cwinyd walked slowly to Crethok’s side.

  “He has made a fool of you,” the magician said, loudly enough for all to hear. Then in a lower voice, “None would follow a ClanSon who failed to give his saviors their due.”

  Crethok spat. “You have made a greater one of me,” he snarled. “Crethok does not forget these things....”

  Another bolt, and this time he fell. Before the blackness hit, he saw Cwinyd’s face inches above his. He heard the magician whisper, “Remember the power of the Eastern Lords,” and then he fell, into a long, harsh, nightmarish sleep.

  VICIOUS AND unforgiving, Talwe’s mind was filled with restless dreams. He dreamed of all the bundor he had killed, dreamed that they had risen against him from their deaths and surrounded him as he stood with his back to a huge old songomore.

  In his sleep Talwe moaned. Sruss, curled under the same bush a few feet away, slept too deeply to notice. Only a small insect, poised near his whiskers, heard and scurried away.

  The tree towering above him swayed in the wind. This was an ancient tree, and through its leaves there came a song that summoned him and made him want to weep. It was a song of death, of the glory and wonder that death would hold. As branches slowly wrapped themselves around him, he looked at the bundor and suddenly understood. Their look was one of awe.

  But then the tree became the liskash from the cave, and the hunter choked on the reek of the lizard’s green-black arms. Lurching backward, he tried to pull himself free, but the arms held tight and he felt vomit rise. For a long, long time he struggled, until the moon changed its face and the stars began to break loose and sail past one by one. The liskash tore Talwe’s clothes from his body, and then when the hunter stood naked it threw him to the ground and fell upon him. Talwe’s brain reeled, and he tasted blood and bile in his throat.

  Then a voice said, “Stop!” and the liskash rose.

  “He is but a beast,” a gold-cloaked liskash said, and Talwe felt as if he had been struck. Turning, Talwe’s assailant stepped toward the other, and the gold-cloak swung his fist toward the other lizard’s head. The first just stood there with blood flowing from his mouth. Then he followed the gold-cloak away.

  Into the clearing stepped Morian, dressed in a soft yellow robe. She cradled Talwe’s head in her arms, and the hunter felt her tears fall upon his face. When she rose, he tried to follow, but the pain in his chest was great and he fell back to the ground. It was bright now, though no sun had risen.

  Then he saw a castle, its high walls gray and solid. In his dream, Talwe walked through the gates as mrem bowed down toward him. Filled with wonder he walked on, watching as the path before him opened and a white-robed priest strode toward him bearing a staff. When the priest bowed at his feet, Talwe took the staff and held it aloft. The mrem of the castle shouted their songs of joy.

  But then he saw the castle again, and this time it was battered and crumbling. Smoke stung his eyes, and as he ran he stumbled over the bodies of mrem that bled at his feet—the same mrem who had welcomed him. Leaping over them as well as he could, he reached the castle wall and looked through an enormous breach. There, outside, stood an army of black-green liskash, and on their catapult sat a blazing ball of fire. He watched it fly high in the air, and as the first sparks brushed him his fur caught and burned. He fell to the ground and rolled and rolled and rolled....

  “Wake up,” a voice commanded. Talwe cringed as he opened his eyes. But it was Sruss, not a liskash, who looked down on him with worry.

  “You were rolling,” she said, “and muttering something about fire. I thought you’d be better off awake.” Her voice was gentle, beautiful after the horror of the dream.

  He nodded. “You’re right,” he stammered. “It is much better to be awake.” But despite her searching eyes, he told her nothing more.

  “I will lie here with you,” she said, “until you fall asleep.” He did not resist, and she lay down and cradled his head on her shoulder.

  For a moment he was motionless, his muscles relaxing after the tenseness of the dream. But then in his mind he saw the beauty of her body, and his left hand began to caress her neck. She was so relaxed he thought that she was asleep, but then softly she purred and drew herself closer to him.

  Down her arm his hand now stroked, and again he heard a purr. He swung his leg gently over hers, his knee falling between hers as her legs slowly parted. Her own hands were busy, too, the tips of her fingers dancing through the fur on his face and his arms. Lifting his face, Talwe licked at her neck, and for a moment she pressed closer.

  But suddenly she stiffened. “No,” she said sharply, and she moved herself away. “We can’t do this,” she insisted, turning to look into his eyes.

  Talwe shook his head.

  “One day I will explain,” she said gently. “One day when I am where I belong. But until that day comes I can have neither you nor any other mrem. That is my fate, and I have known it since I was old enough to know anything at all.” He felt her eyes searching him. He tried to hide his frustration.

  “I don’t understand,” he muttered.

  She nodded. “Sometimes, Talwe,” she said, “I don’t understand things either, they just are. This, my frien
d, is one of them.” She smiled, and Talwe smiled back.

  “Now lie here,” she said, “and rest. I have said I will stay beside you until you sleep. Do you still want that?”

  When he nodded, she took his head on her shoulder again. Quickly she fell asleep, but Talwe did not. Throughout the next hours he knew only the closeness of her body, and in the brief moments he dozed he dreamed of her nakedness. Finally he too slept, and their exhaustion held them through all that afternoon and night.

  When the dawn came, his eyes opened fully, and when he looked at the Dancer he was filled with sudden anger. She had been kind, but somehow that kindness had been cruel. He wanted her, but he also wanted an end to his frustration. Whomever it was she was promised to, he would find one day and kill. For that sleepless night he had just been forced to spend, he vowed that someone would dearly pay. He was a hunter of the arbunda. He was not a thing to be played with.

  Slamming his fist to the ground, he rose and walked away. If the Dancer was awake, she did not show it.

  •

  The warmth of the sun on his whiskers woke Talwe. He quickly searched the valley for sign of the bandits, but all was quiet. He realized their exhaustion had been an ally, hiding them unmoving in these bushes while the raiders sought to find them. Mostly he admitted that they had been lucky.

  They skirted the edges of the valleys, staying near bushes and among the hills for greater concealment. The pair encountered no one and saw no signs of life. Several times the hunter climbed the slope to scan their back trail, but it remained empty. The few herders’ shacks they saw had been burned.

  Just before sunset they killed a goat, Sruss driving it up the slope until Talwe could jump out and kill it. It was hardly an honorable kill, but it filled their bellies. They risked a small fire against the wall of a burned-out hut. Tired and having eaten his fill, Talwe looked forward to the night’s rest. They had debated standing watches and agreed both were too tired and the chances they were being followed too remote to merit the effort.