EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Here in the open, atop a wide, low hill of rock, the defenders’ position was no position at all. Yet they were outnumbered and cut off from all shelter.

  Where was Talwe? If he had already captured the other caravan, he would be hurrying here. It was a slim hope. Ever since midmorning he had said nothing to Paralan, and he seemed lost in one of his frequent, terrifying broodings. By now they all knew that he was a brilliant leader, but Talwe’s moods were so unpredictable that his warriors were constantly off guard.

  In the morning he might sing to the sun, then in the afternoon he would order a meaningless attack on a guard tower. Sometimes he would weep for the loss of a life, at others he would order the captives slowly killed. Yet Talwe himself almost never killed.

  The nights were the worst. Often Paralan awoke, and if he did not move he could spot the darkfur prowling through the shadows. Absolutely quiet and with thorough deliberateness, Talwe would slink on all fours, so slowly that it seemed his hands and feet were loath to touch the ground. Suddenly he would hear something, then turn his head from side to side, but never, to Paralan’s surprise, did he leap at whatever he heard. Finally he would rise to his feet and stride away into the night, leaving Paralan wondering how many others had seen.

  Now the darkfur was separated from him. With half the raiders he was guarding the approach to the caravan while Paralan’s detachment attacked, but the young Sleisher’s forces had entered the gap between. The young heir of Cragsclaw, Paralan thought, was becoming a much better soldier than was comfortable.

  His fifty warriors were holding well, but they couldn’t do so for long. To them went the temporary advantage of being able to stand in two lines, back to back and several strides apart, but that advantage would disappear as soon as Sleisher’s mrem began to assault the flanks. For some reason the younger Sleisher was hesitating, even though he was poised to collapse Paralan’s formation. The noble appeared to be studying them.

  “Good,” said Paralan aloud. Talwe, no doubt. That meant he was alive. The bandit was pleased to be thinking like a leader. “Now, if I can only do something to take advantage of it.”

  Glancing around, he saw that Sleisher’s weakest force stood between the highlanders and the caravan wagons. Before they had been augmented by the guards, but now less than a dozen mrem stood alone. They were blocking the way to the wagons that had been abandoned by their own guards minutes earlier. That distance to the wagons was less than thirty strides, but Paralan wondered if perhaps he was being led into a trap. More guardsmrem could still be concealed behind those wagons. Still, with the number of soldiers surrounding them, there seemed no other choice. He would draw what force he could from the main fighting lines, then batter his way back to the wagons. Once there, he could establish a much better line of defense.

  If they held out, perhaps Talwe would hear and bring the rest of the band. Paralan really didn’t believe it, but there seemed no other chance. The thought would hearten the mrem. If not, they might as well be killed in battle as beheaded afterward. For weeks under Talwe’s leadership they had been outwitting or outfighting the black cloaks. It would be foolish to expect any mercy.

  He chose twenty of his best for the task, calling their names as he walked behind the circle the band had formed. Those that remained he ordered to stand until he gave the command to retreat. He turned his head quickly to avoid the fear in those warriors’ eyes. They suspected he was deserting them. He was not, and they would see. Paralan called his twenty back to him. The others could not hold out for long. Quickly he set them in a triangular formation, the piercing formation that Talwe had taught him, and with a sharp command he ordered the triangle to charge the wagons.

  Three mrem fired from behind the wagons. If that was all, they would make it. The lead mrem, the unlucky one who formed the point of the triangle, died with an arrow buried in his neck. At such close range, the shaft drove through the fur and flesh to stick out at the back. He began to collapse gurgling blood. But before he could fall Paralan had leaped forward, catching him as he dropped and rushed forward holding the corpse in front of his own body. More arrows slammed into the now lifeless mrem, leaving Paralan unscathed.

  The bandit voiced his own version of the Cry of the Hunt. Those with him took it up. While their shriek was far less gut-rending than Talwe’s, it had the desired effect. The mrem guarding the wagons hesitated. Paralan continued to rush forward, his remaining mrem following. Their swords held straight out and their heads low behind their small shields, they charged the wagons’ defenders and forced them to step back.

  Paralan shouted again, and the sides of the triangle split off at an angle. The line of mrem who formed the back of the triangle raced forward into the opening, and so loud were their screams that their attackers fell back once again. By now the two sides of Paralan’s triangle were slicing their way through their outnumbered enemy, so the six charging mrem found the going unexpectedly easy.

  In less than a minute they were through to the wagons. The archers fled without resisting. Raising his voice, Paralan shouted for those remaining outside the wagon to retreat. Then he led four mrem back out to assist them.

  The bandits slashed at their cloaked opponents and backed toward the relative safety of the caravan. None could safely turn his back and so they retreated in the dancing open combat of the mrem. All mrem valued the freedom to dodge and maneuver more than the protection of iron. Soldiers and raiders rushed, weaved, and thrust in a swirling melee. But now the bandits didn’t just fight, they edged toward the wagons. Twice small numbers of guardsmrem saw the danger and attempted to intervene. Each time Paralan and those with him drove them back, the second time only by calling for those others in the wagons to assist him.

  No longer surrounded, the surviving raiders battled with greater purpose, their hopes renewed even as the number of their own dead mounted. The losses among the attackers mounted as well. They began to hesitate, unnerved by the strength of the opposition. Most mrem like them would long since have fled or surrendered. The discipline Talwe had forced on his band made them many times more effective in this type of battle than typical bandits.

  With a hissing war cry of his own, Keth Sleisher led his personal guards into the melee. Their black cloaks trailing, they slammed into the remaining raiders. Inspired by his example, the remaining guardsmrem renewed their attack. Step by weaving step, the bandits retreated until their backs were against the wagons. Over a dozen mrem had fallen on either side, their crumpled forms marking the path of the battle. Paralan yelled for everyone to withdraw into the wagons, and every raider hurried to gain their safety.

  Paralan stood, guarding the backs of the mrem climbing into the circle of wagons. But as these first clambered over the wagons they leaped back shrieking, some in fear and some in pain. Even as they had tried to enter, first one and then the other of the closest wagons burst into flame. The dry wood caught quickly, and the canvas covering the trade goods roared orange. Before Paralan could even turn, the flames were ten mrem high. Fur burns, baking the skin below, and every mrem dreads fire.

  And from beyond the flames came the Cry of the Kill. Upward it soared, rising with the flames, echoing off the wooded hills and the mountains beyond. Through the deepening darkness the sound tore at the air, bringing a sudden, brief halt to the fighting.

  The attacking guardsmrem fell back in dismay. If more bandits had arrived, he would be outnumbered. Keth ordered a retreat, but several of his guardsmrem either failed to hear or were too terrified to move. Still the cry shrieked across the valley, longer than any mrem could possibly have cried.

  To Paralan the cry was both terrifying and welcome, tearing into him as it never had before. He knew it meant that Talwe had arrived. With him would be the rest of the band. When the sound finally stopped, he stood up, realizing only then that he had fallen to his knees. With a roar of victory his mrem pounced upon those guardsmrem who had failed to retreat
. They surrendered meekly, too stunned to continue fighting. Seeing this, Keth and the remainder of his troop disappeared over the top of a nearby hill.

  Paralan rose to his feet and shouted the command to pursue. From their hiding places on the ground the warriors stood and found their swords and began their chase. Talwe’s voice rang from nowhere, calling them back.

  Turning, Paralan looked up the hill behind the wagons. There at the top, beside a small cluster of songomores, the darkfur looked down upon the battlefield. Paralan scanned the hill, amazed. Talwe was alone. He had bluffed the young Sleisher and won. And then, when the flames danced high and lit the darkness, he saw beside him a small figure wearing the black cloak of a guardsmrem. Beneath, it wore a gown of even darker black.

  The figure, he saw, was that of a female.

  •

  “It happened,” Talwe agreed, trying to keep his relief from showing. “They fled.” He had been surprised at his own concern for Paralan and the mrem with him. He had to remind himself they were just tools, to be used for his revenge.

  “I promised that they would,” the black-robed woman replied. Her tone was pleased. “I make few promises, but those I make, I keep.”

  Talwe snorted. “Magic does not always work as expected,” he said flatly. “You could not know the precise effect.”

  For a moment the female said nothing. At last she turned to the darkfur and claimed, “I could, because I knew precisely what I was working with. Magic is untamed only for the most powerful and the least practiced. I am neither. I know what my incantations will do.”

  She paused, then looked down again at the field. “I intensified the flame and your voice. The rest had nothing to do with me.”

  “But they fled,” Talwe protested. “Keth Sleisher’s mrem do not flee, not in the face of victory.”

  She shook her head. “Your voice, Talwe,” she said. “The Cry of the Kill was the answer. When you shout, it echoes with all of the pain and despair you have known. It is a wonderful, terrible sound. All I did was expand your voice. The fire was simple. Since mrem instinctively recoil from fire, I knew they would run from a huge one.” She looked at the darkfur. “Is that so hard to understand?”

  He did not answer. She could almost see his mind working, but if he understood what she had said, he gave no such indication. To him, it was clear, magic was beyond comprehension. Perhaps he had been forced to hide his own magic for so long that it had become its own mystery. Perhaps, over time, she could help him overcome that prejudice. Maybe not, but it was certainly worth a try. His potential was great. He could be almost as strong as she was.

  Above all else, this Talwe was fascinating. She wondered now why she had balked at seeking him out.

  He touched her shoulder. “You have not yet told me your name,” he said, his gold eyes boring through her. “You promised me that you would.”

  Shaking her head, she replied, “I didn’t promise, Talwe. I said I would consider it.” She smiled. “There’s a difference.”

  He did not return the smile, but she thought she saw his eyes glitter. She couldn’t be sure if this was in amusement or annoyance. He was right; he deserved to know her name. For the time being, though, she felt it was wise to keep her real name to herself. Perhaps, for some reason she could not see, he was not to be fully trusted.

  “Free the guards and I will give you an answer,” she bargained. He hesitated and then signaled his assent. Nothing would be gained by killing them. If each swore to return to Cragsclaw, it would be enough.

  “You may call me Rhesa,” she said, and she smiled at the darkfur’s slow nod.

  “I will,” he replied slowly, “but that is not the answer I want.” He felt cheated.

  “What do you want?” she asked, surprised.

  “Your true name. Not a made one.”

  Startled, she looked at the ground. He was quick, this bandit; he would not be easy to deceive. But her name was too well known in Ar, too familiar to the members of court and Council alike. Bad enough it was that Felior would soon be found missing. If Ar knew she was wandering in the highlands, too many people would become far too suspicious. When the time came, she would be Felior once more. She smiled at Talwe, letting him know without words that she had said all that she would say.

  For now, she would be Rhesa.

  He didn’t argue further.

  •

  Jremm knocked on the door. The house towered high above him, but it was scarcely as large as the three that surrounded it. Somewhat in awe he stared at it, wondering how anyone, no matter how important, could afford the huge number of baked and colored bricks that made up its sides. He wondered, too, if Errlo had been responsible for the baking. If he had, he couldn’t possibly have charged enough.

  After he gave his name, and showed his note from the king, a servant admitted him into the entryway. Four portraits lined the wall that led to an ornate stairway. One was of Draldren, certainly in his younger days, and a second showed Rennilan’s beauty even as a child. Another was of a female mrem, and a fourth of a young mrem. Jremm recognized neither.

  Rennilan appeared. Her robe was a pale gray, setting off her deep gray eyes perfectly. Her fur, light brown, shimmered with the rays of sun that came into the house through the openings. She was, in a word, beautiful.

  She was also visibly unhappy to see him.

  “Welcome, Jremm,” she said mechanically. Jremm flinched. Surely this was how she greeted her father’s least welcome associates.

  The young mrem nodded. “You look very well,” he said, and a faint smile crossed her face.

  “If you have come for my father,” she said, “he is not here. In fact, I have not seen him all night.” Harsh and unfeeling, her voice tore at his heart.

  Shaking his head slowly, he replied, “I haven’t come for your father, Rennilan. I’ve come to see you.”

  Puzzled, she smiled. “I thought we had agreed not to see each other,” she said, almost cruelly.

  Ignoring her mocking tone, Jremm countered, “I didn’t agree. You simply demanded.” Before she could answer, he added, “But that’s not important, and it’s not why I’m here.” He paused. “I come,” he announced, “as a messenger from the king.”

  For an instant her brows knitted, the smile disappearing from her face. But then with a quick breath she regained the mockery in her look, and what she said was meant to hurt. “Is Andelemarian in the habit of sending brickmakers now? Why didn’t he send one of his precious nobles?” she asked. “Goddess knows, I’ve seen enough of them lately.”

  Again Jremm ignored her. “I have a note of passage from him, if you want to see it.”

  She shook her head. “No need,” she said. “I have no reason to believe you would lie.” She paused. “Now, what is your message? Please be quick. I have much to do.”

  He looked at her, a sudden sympathy washing through him. “Maybe you should sit down,” he suggested, but expressionlessly she shook her head.

  He took a deep breath. “Your father is dead,” he said softly.

  “What?” she exclaimed. The grief in her voice was real.

  “It is true,” the young mrem added. “His body lies in the palace.” He saw a tear form in her eye. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “If there’s anything....”

  “You can do nothing,” she said coldly. “Except one thing. Tell the king to send his body here. Immediately.”

  “If that had been possible,” Jremm explained calmly, “the king would have done so already.”

  Her brows knitted in anger. “Why isn’t it possible?” she asked slowly.

  Jremm hung his head. When he had insisted on going to Rennilan himself, he had known it would finally come to this. But somehow he knew the news was his to take, because in a way Draldren’s death had been his fault. If he’d only arrived sooner, if he hadn’t wasted so much time, he could have t
old the king that Draldren was not responsible. The guards could have captured him, without having to kill him.

  “His body will not leave the palace,” he said, “because there it will be burned.” Burning was used only for the bodies of the diseased. It was also a sign of disgrace.

  “Burned?!” she shouted. “Why should it be burned? What has he done that deserves fire?” Her breathing was heavy now, and her head shook slightly with barely controlled rage. Soon she would attack, Jremm knew, as all cornered mrem attack. Soon her claws would try to find his neck. Already, they were extended. He fought to keep his fur from bristling. Only by concentrating could he still his tail.

  “He tried,” Jremm managed to say, “last night, to kill Andelemarian.”

  “No!” she screamed, and leaped toward him. One claw found his arm as he ducked away, but the other hand missed entirely. Whirling to face her, he raised his arms to block her swings, then backed away and stood perfectly still. Dropping his arms to his side, he stared into her eyes and said, “I will not fight you, Rennilan. If you want to kill me, I will not oppose you.” Then he closed his eyes and waited for her claws.

  They did not come. Nor did she move. When he looked at her, she had her face buried in her hands, and then she ran her fingers to the top of her head and pressed them together hard. Her whiskers and tail wilted. Falling to her knees, and then to the floor, she gasped for air and then started to sob.

  He did not approach her, because he knew she did not want him, though he wanted to hold her very badly. Instead he waited, as her sobs rose and fell. When they finally stopped, he went to her and took her hand and helped her stand. She raised her face and looked at him, and her voice was quiet when she spoke.

  “I will come to the palace,” she whispered, “and I will plead for my father.” She turned away and said, “Now go from here, Jremm, and do not come back. When I arrive at the king’s, please do not be there. I do not wish to see you anymore.”