by Bill Fawcett
Each time Jarrinon surfaced, his lungs screaming for air, the darkfur quickly dragged him back under. For a while the clansmrem struggled fiercely, overcoming his terror of the water long enough to aim his kicks and his punches. Once he thought he had injured his opponent, but the thought was illusory. Rising above the water in victory, Jarrinon drew a deep breath and felt a sharp blow to the back of his head.
Several minutes later, he simply gave up. The darkfur fought relentlessly, fearlessly. He seemed to always be in a position to deliver another strike. As Jarrinon stopped struggling, he felt the darkfur’s hands clutch his ears and pull him to the surface. The muscles in his shoulders knotted, adding to his misery. He cried out under the water and then found he needed to breathe. He felt himself pulled to the surface and then under before he could fill his lungs. Sputtering and gasping, the clansmrem was about to cry mercy, but the darkfur covered his mouth.
“He has fought well,” the grasslands mrem announced. The highlander realized they were near the edge of the river, far below the waterfall. Most of those who followed him were clustered on the bank. “You have chosen your leader wisely.” With that, he gave Jarrinon a gentle shove to the river’s edge.
The leader of the highlanders did not move. That darkfur had lied, and now he did not trust him. He could easily have humiliated him in front of his mrem, but instead he had praised him. Never, in his five years of raiding and fighting, had he met such insanity.
Insanity, that is, to a highlander. Who knew, he thought, what the rest of the world considered useful?
“We did not choose him,” came a voice from beside the waterfall. “Crethok chose him for us.”
For a brief second the darkfur seemed to stagger. Only Jarrinon saw it for what it was, though the rest would think it was caused by the turbulent waters. But the name of Crethok had clearly jarred him. Jarrinon wondered why.
“Then this Crethok must be wise,” was all the stranger said.
The clansmrem laughed. “Wise?” he shouted. “How can you call him wise? He has detached us from the main force and sent us into the wilds to raid the trees and the fields.”
“Silence!” Jarrinon tried to yell. At first it came out a gurgle, then his throat cleared. “Our business is not this darkfur’s.”
When the darkfur stepped toward him, Jarrinon became quiet once more.
“But he has chosen your leader wisely, has he not?” The gold eyes betrayed no mockery. But again Jarrinon wondered how they could be sincere.
Again the clansmrem laughed. “Jarrinon?” he said. “A wise choice?” The laughter rose among the others. “He is no leader, dark one. He is merely Crethok’s toy. We listen to him because Crethok would kill us if we did not. That’s all. That’s the only reason.”
Jarrinon blushed and sighed. Still the warriors despised him, and still he was without their respect. But hadn’t he just trapped this mrem? Hadn’t he braved the caves of the liskash? What did they want from him?
The darkfur raised his voice above the waterfall’s roar. “Then you believe that your Crethok is a fool,” he stated, and Jarrinon looked at him in fear.
The clansmrem stepped forward, and Jarrinon could see he was speaking for them all. He hesitated and glanced at the cliffs surrounding them. After taking a deep, considered breath, he answered. “Yes, Crethok is a fool.” For a moment the only sound was the thunder of the falls, but suddenly a shout rose to the sky. Jarrinon looked, and the clansmrem were cheering their companion’s courage.
“Leave him, then, as he has abandoned you,” the darkfur suggested, and again the warriors cheered.
“No!” Jarrinon shouted, but the darkfur’s fist struck hard on the side of his head.
“Yes!” the mrem on the bank answered. “We will leave him. He has sent us away, so now we owe him no honor.”
Summoning what courage he could, Jarrinon shouted as his head throbbed. “If you leave Crethok, you go to Arklier.” He sneered. “He will teach you to dance, not to fight.” He tried to look forceful, though the water dripping from his fur and whiskers didn’t help. He was also aware of the darkfur behind him, and stood so as to keep him carefully in sight.
For a time there was silence. But then one clansmrem who had stepped closer to the water spoke. “We need not go to either. Our village chiefs sent us away, we owe them nothing.”
“You fear this darkfur,” a voice accused.
Jarrinon started to protest, but before he could speak the darkfur’s paw swept upward and, without thinking, he cringed away.
A different voice shouted. “We will ask the darkfur to lead us.”
Stunned, the warriors did nothing for several long heartbeats. Then they moved back from the river. He started to follow, but the darkfur placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. Jarrinon fought the urge to expose his neck, to acknowledge this stranger as his better.
Jarrinon saw them talking among themselves, and in less than a minute they turned and cheered the darkfur. He turned to run down the river, to warn Crethok, but they caught him within a few steps.
“Skartu!” he beseeched as they pulled him down, and he covered his face with his hands.
RESWEN MADE NO effort to disguise himself when he returned to Ar. He even waved at Jremm as he passed through the River Gate late that fall evening. He had chosen to enter knowing that the brickmaker would be on watch. He wanted it known he had returned. Settling himself in the least vermin-filled room they had at Arbunda’s Rest, the mercenary waited.
His first caller came before dawn. It was Draldren, excited and concerned. There had been no mention of Sruss’s death. Had he been cheated? Reswen nearly threw the foolish noble out, but then thought better of it. It took nearly an hour of reassurances before he left.
The next caller was a merchant, hiring guards for a trip south to cities along the sea. His presence was a tribute to the merchants’ grapevine in Ar. Reswen was tempted to accept the commission. He had never enjoyed Ar’s cold winters, and the southern cities had been at peace. It would have been an easy journey, but he refused. This season his skills would be needed here.
Mithmid arrived third, boldly identifying himself as a member of the H’satie. Reswen probed until he could be sure this bureaucrat really knew what had occurred. Then they were able to relax over wine as Reswen reported on what he had heard in the east.
“To begin,” the mercenary reported, “the highland clans are restless. Something is stirring them into a liskash brew. Peorlias was a calming influence and he is dead, some say mysteriously. His sons battle for the Clan. I hear they hope to settle accounts with their grandfather’s enemy, Sleisher, though his son seems to be doing a good job of holding them in check.”
There was a slight sound in the hall outside the room and both mrem froze, their ears lying flat. Without speaking, Reswen crept to the door and pulled it open.
No one was there.
When he turned, the mercenary captain was not surprised to see a long, curved dagger in Mithmid’s hand. Both mrem smiled.
“The spice caravans from the eastern desert have not reappeared.” Reswen continued once he was seated again. “It has been three winters now since they stopped coming.”
“Is there any talk of the Eastern Lords?”
“Mothers frighten their children with them.” There was amusement in Reswen’s voice. “Otherwise just silence. No one who enters the desert returns.”
Mithmid stared at the wall where the clay was crumbling onto the bricks below. “This place was new the last time the Eastern Lords were a threat. Now we hear rumors of their name everywhere, but not where I’d expect to. Sometimes what you don’t hear means much.”
“The merchants are all nervous. Many will travel south and wait. They do not like to take chances,” Reswen cautioned.
“You have sworn on your sword to be loyal to Andelemarian. There are many ways to serv
e our king,” Mithmid started abruptly on a different topic. “Some you would not suspect, some even he would not.” The H’satie’s tail jerked once and then was still.
Reswen didn’t answer. His eyes were suddenly cautious.
“I’ll not ask you for any commitment,” Mithmid assured the mercenary quickly, “but I have been told to request you meet tonight with others who share your purpose. But by a different route.
“They would like to show you another way in which we can aid our king.”
“May I set the place?” the mercenary asked cautiously.
“A quiet room in the outer palace?” Mithmid countered. “If there is any sign of betrayal, you can simply call for the guard.”
Reswen thought quickly. The palace should be safe. This was too elaborate to be simply a plot to expose him. And if it were, they would not pick the palace to do so. If this was a trap, they would have to be in control of the palace guard. If that was so, all was lost anyhow and perhaps the ruckus he could cause might warn the king.
“I’ll go. At midnight,” he agreed. The guard changed at midnight and so there would be twice as many about.
“Excellent,” Mithmid sounded relieved. “Now tell me about the mood of the people you met. How do they feel about the king? About the new taxes?”
“Oziltor seeks to have me work for his baron....”
•
Cwynid squatted in the center of the abandoned inn. The only brightness came from shafts of light that reflected the dust motes as they leaked through holes in the ceiling. The sandy-furred mrem’s eyes were clenched shut. His mouth curled back from the strain, but still it retained some portion of a satisfied smirk.
“They fear and obey,” he spoke to the empty room.
There was a pause.
“Yes, he too has been broken,” Cwynid answered the silence. “No, we do not move too fast.”
The evil magician started as if slapped.
“I don’t need help, not his,” he protested.
Silence again.
Cwynid’s voice was adamant. He half-rose as he spoke the next time. “Now is the time to strike. Never were our enemies so divided, so unaware. I can lead it all.”
Cwynid’s body suddenly contorted, as if wracked by terrible pain. He gasped out his next reply, “No, I only serve the Lords.” There was a whine in his tone.
Again silence, but Cwynid was again relaxed and then shivered slightly.
“The Lords are all pain and pleasure.” This last was in the dull tones of an often-uttered formula.
Cwynid’s eyes opened. There were tears at their edges. He moved slowly at first, as if recovering from an ordeal. After a few paces there was more energy in his step. By the time he pulled free the board that he had used to jam the remnants of the door closed, his wicked smile had returned.
Just before leaving he stopped in the open door. A rodent the size of the wizard’s fist was creeping into the far side of the room. Cwynid stared at the beast and then made a quick series of gestures with his fingers. The rat squeaked, finding itself unable to move.
When Cwynid squeezed his right hand into a fist, blood poured from the hapless creature’s mouth. The tan wizard released his grip on its muscles so that he could enjoy the rodent’s death throes.
TALWE STOOD ON a rock at the edge of a deep pool. To his left, only a few steps away, the waterfall thundered. The roar echoed off the cliffs on either side. His fur glistened in the spray as the sunset lit the river valley.
For a passing moment the dark-furred mrem was aware of how he must look to the mrem gathered several steps further from the falls: fierce, barbaric, powerful. Then he didn’t care. He was not here to impress these highland bandits. They were not even mrem, just barbaric animals that looked like mrem. Like any animals, he would use them. If they all died, so much the better. But a pack of animals can be dangerous....
So intense became his thoughts, Talwe ceased to hear even the crash of the falls. He failed to see the mrem who had just chosen him as their leader back away as his expression became even more driven and fierce than it had been.
“I give you this present, Inla. You and the goddess of this river.” He lifted what was left of Jarrinon over his head. Blood ran down the still-wet fur of Talwe’s arm and dripped into the swirling water below.
“I give you the body of this mrem. They have slain him, those who once followed him, for now they would follow me.
“I do not want them.
“But I will use them.
“The one called Paralan has pledged his service to me, and the others will now pledge theirs as well. Together we will follow the hills to the mountains, eastward past the river and toward the dry end of the world. There at the end we will find the place called Cragsclaw, and there I will find the ones that I hate.
“Crethok.
“Cwynid.
“Ondra, who once was my friend.” Thinking this last, the mrem felt alone. There was strength in the feeling, but also pain. He sought the image of others to fight the solitude inside himself.
Morian must suffer no longer. She has suffered much more than enough.
Talwe then promised the gods he had called to make these hated ones suffer in her stead. “We will torture them as they have tortured her. Tear their loves from them as they cost me mine. We will slash at their minds until they can no longer think.
“And then I will bring them to her, for her to do with as she wishes.
“Come with me, Inla. For we have found blood together and there will be more. Take this fool’s body as my payment. And guide me as I lead the others.”
•
“Have we done the right thing?” Tarrin asked.
Paralan lay quiet, watching the stars in the cold night sky. “Yes,” he said, but he was far from certain.
“He’s strange, Paralan,” the other whispered. “He goes off in the night, and I do not think he sleeps.”
Nodding, Paralan returned the whisper. “He has gold eyes,” he muttered. “Perhaps they need no sleep.”
The other laughed quietly. “Perhaps,” he said, but then his voice was serious. “He is leading us east,” he said softly. “We will pass close to our homes there. If Crethok finds us, or even if Arklier finds us, we will be killed before we can explain.”
“Why?” Paralan countered. “Crethok is paying no attention to us. He sent us away to get rid of Jarrinon. And he succeeded, though he would be surprised how.
“Jarrinon sent no messengers back, and we need not either. If Crethok doesn’t know what we’re doing, he will have no reason to kill us.”
“But he will find us without Jarrinon.”
“We can say he was killed in a raid. Crethok thought little enough of him, so he should believe that easily.”
“How do we explain the darkfur?” came Tarrin’s question. Paralan nodded. “That will be hard,” he said, “if it ever comes to that.” He paused. “But the darkfur, I think, will not let us be seen by any mrem, unless he knows there is something to gain. No fool leads us now, Tarrin.”
“I pray you’re right,” was Tarrin’s only reply.
Besides, thought Paralan, it won’t be for long. Sooner or later the darkfur will make a mistake, and he himself would lead them from there. He should have been leader all along, not Jarrinon, and had Crethok not feared his cousin, he would have been chosen. Then perhaps Crethok had realized his value and sent him with Jarrinon to be rid of two threats. The thought appealed to his pride, but aroused his anger.
When Arklier became ClanMrem, Crethok was as good as dead.
•
Talwe, Paralan thought, was not an easy taskmaster. His demands were many, and most of the time he seemed to want to be alone. Never was there warmth in his voice. Not once had he joined them as they danced. He had placed Paralan more or less in charge of the warriors, except i
n times of battle, when the darkfur would take command for himself.
Unfortunately, the clansmrem regretted, such times had been few. Talwe neither sought battle nor relished it.
More than anything else, this seemed to bother the warriors. They were, after all, highlanders or those who had taken refuge in their mountains. All were trained in the arts of raiding and of battle. Most had in them highlander blood, and with it a driving instinct to fight for their food and their lives. What they could not find they stole, and what they stole they treasured.
What they had stolen lately, since the coming of Talwe, had been very little indeed.
That the dark-furred mrem differed from Crethok wasn’t the problem. Crethok’s leadership was based on fear, while Talwe’s was based on strength, and perhaps mystery. There was something about this new leader that had prevented any of them from approaching him. Crethok led openly, harshly, while Talwe preferred stealth and secrecy, even a kind of fear, but something subtler than the crude threats with which Crethok drove the clansmrem. Both differences were good. Less good was the other change: where Crethok raided indiscriminately, Talwe saw no gain in ravaging the farmers and herders.
In fact, he demanded that the villages not be raided at all. This could mean hungry times, something no clansmrem would tolerate when weaker mrem had food.
Six times the band had come upon villages. Three were in the grasslands west of the Targra, the other three scattered along the mountainsides as they passed. As Crethok had taught them, the warriors had prepared for the raids, and Paralan had gone about ensuring that all was in order. But when Talwe’s orders came, they came as a complete surprise. Rather than raid, they were to enter as visitors.
They were, first of all, to pay for what they took. Talwe explained that the villagers were too poor to steal from, that a raid would serve no benefit except for mrem to die from both sides, and that a band as small as this could well use the help of the villages as they passed through the grasslands and the foothills. It was from the caravans, he said, they could gain gold and goods. With these things they would buy what the villages had to offer.