EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  So calm was her voice, so certain and so empty of feeling, that Jremm simply turned on his heel and left. When he came outside the sun was high and warm, but he felt like a dead thing whose soul has been lost.

  FOLLOWING THE path marked on Cwynid’s map, Crethok and his highlanders hurried to catch the caravan. The wizard had cryptically informed the highlander that it carried things worth more than gold to Sleisher. They caught sight of the lowlanders as they climbed toward the last pass before emerging into the valley sheltering Cragsclaw. This represented a dilemma, as there was no other route up the side of the mountain. The self-proclaimed chief wished for the first time since he had left that the wizard was still accompanying them. He would have thought of some other way than a mad dash to catch the lowlanders. There was a guard post not too far beyond, and from there a dozen mrem could hold the trail against an army. He had been stopped there once before on his first raid.

  Unused to making his own decisions, Crethok hesitated. Behind him the mrem grew restive. Had he badgered them across miles of rough trails just to watch their prey escape? They were anxious about venturing so close to the lair of their old enemy and also not to lose the treasure. Crethok had hinted of its worth earlier to encourage his mrem to greater haste. Their murmurs rose as the wait continued.

  Finally, spurred as much by his followers’ expectations as by any real plan, the highland leader signaled a pursuit. Behind him were over two hundred warriors, many experienced in battle, all that had been in the camp the night Cwynid had appeared with the map.

  Crethok tried to count the mrem walking beside the wagons. It was a dreary day, warning of the cold that would soon follow. Patches of the snow that had fallen the night before remained on the shadowed places of the gray rock. The caravan was not that large. It would have at most fifty guards. Strategy was not needed; they merely had to catch up and overwhelm its defenders.

  Having decided this would be an easy raid, Crethok extended his stride, pulling to the front of the highlanders. They could easily move many times the speed of any wagon over this broken trail. They would reach the back of the caravan in less than an hour, sooner if the guards abandoned them as soon as they saw the size of the force pursuing them.

  Out of habit, Crethok began to hope there would be a few beautiful females among the captives. Then, with the stirring this thought brought him, there was a jagged pain. Once again he cursed the eastern wizard. They would not need him this day. That fool thought him a tool, Crethok spat bitterly. Cwynid would be surprised at what was planned for him when once he had made Crethok ClanMrem. His dying would be long and pleasurable, to Crethok at least.

  The guard who first spotted the long snake of mrem winding up the mountain trail behind them let out an inarticulate yell. Even so, every mrem knew what it had to mean. Reswen hurried to the rear, Mithmid following. When the wagon started to slow, he bellowed for the drivers to speed up instead. They grumbled that the grade was steep and the old trail narrow. Even so, they were in no more hurry to fight the highlanders than Reswen was. Whips snapped as the teamsters tried to urge their protesting uxen to a faster pace.

  “They will catch us in less than an hour,” Mithmid calculated nervously. “There’s a lot of them.”

  “Over two hundred,” Reswen confirmed his appraisal.

  “Well?” The wizard was becoming visibly agitated. His tail thrashed the dusty trail and his ears were tight against his skull.

  Reswen said nothing. He just stood completely still and stared as the dark smudge crawled up the trail behind them.

  “We are less than fifty.” Mithmid tried to get some response. The mercenary didn’t even glance at him.

  “Trail’s too narrow for an ambush.” After an awkward silence Mithmid attempted to make some positive contribution. For the last three miles, the old mountain trail to Cragsclaw had been cut from the mountainside. On one side a flat gray rock wall extended forty feet overhead. On the other there was a sharp drop of hundreds of feet.

  “I suppose we could abandon the wagons?” the wizard tried again. This time he got a response.

  “Not to them,” spat the mercenary. Hate filled his tone. His ears were pulled back now and he made no effort to sheathe his claws.

  It was Mithmid’s turn to stay silent.

  “They wear different colors,” Reswen explained in controlled tones. The highlanders’ kilts and cloaks were a mixture of colors, though nearly half were Arklier’s followers’ green. “That has to be Crethok, Peorlias’ second son. Rumor is he was outlawed by his own brother. I’d thought him ahead of us, or in the western edge of the valley, still ravaging villages.” The mercenary’s tail flared full and his claws extended once more. His jaw tightened as he watched the highlander approach.

  The magician found himself calming as if balancing the other mrem’s agitation. There were no enchantments he alone could do that would be effective against so many. He had been warned the Council was busy in Ar and would not be able to help him.

  “We can’t let these wagons fall into his hands.” Reswen sounded most determined, almost as if saying it made a difference.

  “So what do we do?” There seemed only two options; to fight or to flee. But with the slow wagons, they could never get away.

  “If you have no magic that will help, we fight.” Reswen sounded almost resigned. “If we can hold them for three hours, there is a watchtower. There should be guards there, a dozen or more. It stands five mrem tall and has thick stone walls. Even if it is now unmanned, these clansmrem could never drive us out.” With this, Reswen turned and trotted after the caravan. Once again Mithmid followed.

  •

  From the guard’s drooping whiskers and sullen comments, Mithmid realized there was little chance they could hold out against the highlanders. Reswen was checking each mrem’s weapons and giving each guard a few encouraging words. Still the mood was glum. Even though they would be helped by the fact that only four mrem could fight abreast at one time on the narrow roadway, eight if they would sacrifice their mobility, they would be quickly overwhelmed. To hear the guards there seemed no way they could hold long enough even to allow the caravan to escape.

  The teamsters, knowing they would lose their wagons, and probably their lives if caught, drove their animals as hard as they dared. One wagon wheel had slid over the edge, and only the quick thinking of a guard saved the wagon from falling off the ledge. He jammed his sword into a crack in the rock roadway, and this stopped the inner wheel as it slid after the other. When they had recovered the wagon, the sword was bent beyond use, but Reswen plunged into a different wagon and emerged with a new one to replace it.

  But they had lost ten more minutes doing this.

  By now the screams and taunts of the approaching clansmrem were easily distinguishable. Mithmid joined the teamsters in cursing the narrowness of the trail. Suddenly he smiled. There might be another way. They had been thinking that the only way to delay the highlanders was to fight them. But to fight would mean to lose.

  Reswen was visibly annoyed when Mithmid called him over, but this annoyance slowly faded as the wizard outlined his plan. By the time he had finished, Reswen was almost smiling.

  Most of the wagons in the caravan had been sent by the city to carry cargo for Lord Sleisher. Three contained trade goods owned by the merchant who traveled with them. Among these were bales of cloth and six amphorae of lamp oil.

  Once they were unloaded, two bales nearly covered the trail where it curved around a jutting block of granite. One guard made a joke about putting out welcoming mats for the highlanders. This earned him the duty of hauling one of the large amphorae back to them as the wagons continued crawling up the steep trail.

  When their pursuers were within seconds of reaching him, Reswen scurried back to where Mithmid and the “volunteer” waited with lit torches. He had barely cleared the bolts of cloth when they lit with a loud whoosh.
The last few hairs of his tail were caught by the flames.

  None of them needed any encouragement to run faster up the trail. Arrows clattered against the rock wall as they fled. Behind they could still hear the roar of the flames as the oil-soaked cloth burned behind them. More arrows landed around the fleeing mrem, one grazing Mithmid’s harness. He found he could run faster.

  Mithmid caught up to Reswen just as they rounded a curve in the trail and were momentarily safe. As they slowed, he reached forward to put out the last smoldering hairs on the larger mrem’s tail. Reswen had his sword drawn and was swinging at whoever was pulling his tail when he realized what the magician was doing. The blade stopped well short of his companion.

  All three mrem laughed as they gasped for breath, more from relief than at the humor of the situation.

  The frustrated shouts of the highland mrem were still clearly audible. One shrieked when he tried to push aside the burning cloth and instead his own fur caught fire.

  “That won’t hold them long,” Reswen observed, peering around the edge of the cliff. He was pleased to see the highlanders were waiting for the fire to burn itself out before trying to clear the obstruction. “We had better move on,” the mercenary observed, turning up the trail.

  “Let’s set the next one up closer to the next curve,” the volunteer mrem suggested ruefully. An arrow was still lodged in the leather armor protecting his back.

  •

  Six more times, they waited until the highlanders were close and then blocked the trail with fire. This way they bought the caravan an additional two hours, holding the highlanders virtually in place. The volunteer finally was hit in the leg by an arrow, leaving only the mercenary and the wizard to complete the last three barriers. Each time they were stopped, the clansmrem’s screams of frustration grew louder. One voice, sounding, if possible, more frustrated than the others, bellowed a stream of often conflicting orders. Mithmid suspected this was Crethok, but there was never time to ask Reswen.

  Finally one of the mrem who had been shuttling the cloth and oil as they were unloaded from the moving wagons appeared empty-handed. This would be the last barrier.

  They had delayed the highlanders for longer than anyone had hoped. They had gained two hours, but they needed three.

  “I guess we fight after all?” Mithmid inquired unnecessarily.

  Reswen’s weary shrug was his answer.

  Lighting the last barrier, they hastened after the caravan. The last wagon was halfway up a steep, straight stretch of the trail when they saw it. The trail was slightly wider here, where it cut through softer rock. Both mrem knew that only a few minutes behind them were the highlanders, their mood hardly improved by the last two hour’s events.

  By the time the first highland mrem appeared at the bottom of the long slope, the first of the wagons was just topping the highest point in the pass. They would move more quickly now, as the rest of the way was downhill. The clouds were a gray ceiling only yards above the trail at its highest point.

  Both Reswen and Mithmid were panting, nearly exhausted, when they reached the caravan. A few of the guards cheered; but most were too entranced by the sight of the clansmrem behind them to react. To ensure it wouldn’t set the others on fire if it burned, the last wagon of any mountain caravan always carried the lamp oil. Mithmid dragged himself into this one and lay there panting. Reswen lay beside him for a few breaths, then jumped out once more.

  Several minutes later, the wizard was able to breathe normally again and ready to leave the wagon when it stopped. Surprised, he sat up.

  The first thing he saw was that the clansmrem were now just out of arrowshot. They were at the top of the trail, and behind him they could see that the rest of the caravan was already far down the pass. From here on the trail was wider and its edges less abrupt. There was a second empty wagon a few paces down the trail, its uxen gone. He gave Reswen, who had walked up beside him, an inquiring glance.

  “Here we fight,” the mercenary answered simply. “I recommend you get back a short distance or take a bow.”

  Mithmid had to admit he was unskilled with the weapon, and hurried to crouch behind the wagon as the first highland arrows thudded against the trail and cliff a few paces short of the waiting guardsmrem. Since they were higher, their own arrows could reach the highlanders and the first volley dropped two clansmrem.

  Even so, the highlanders gave a cheer as they increased their pace. They had finally brought the guards to bay and knew that with their greater numbers they must win.

  Having the wagon for cover added to their higher elevation, so the guards had a considerable advantage in the exchange of arrows. Over a dozen clansmrem fell in the next few minutes, and only one guard. But all this time the mass of warriors continued to advance. Watching them from beneath the wagon, Mithmid found he had to admire their courage. The mrem he suspected was Crethok had retreated into the safety of the pack. A tall warrior in a red cape now led the charge up the trail.

  In the next volley, two more guardsmrem fell, and several more highlanders. It was hard for the wizard to tell how many, since the others advanced over those that had fallen, hiding them from his view.

  More arrows flew and the leading clansmrem began to hesitate, visibly shying away from the first of the arrows. The red-cloaked mrem turned and, with blistering curses, rallied them. Three more guardsmrem were down; one had fallen near Mithmid with a sucking wound in his chest. He watched helplessly as the mrem died.

  The red-cloaked clansmrem fell moments later with an arrow in his eye, but it was too late. The highlanders were close enough now to be sure they would reach the surviving guardsmrem. With a bloodthirsty roar, they charged forward, exchanging swords for dropped bows.

  “Into the other wagon!” Reswen shouted, dragging Mithmid from beneath his shelter. When the magician was clear, three guardsmrem turned the wagon toward the charging clansmrem and shoved. It rattled down the trail, gaining speed as it rolled. The first highlanders slowed, then turned to run, at the sight of the heavy wagon rolling at them. Those behind, unaware of the danger, pushed them forward. As Reswen climbed in to join the others, Mithmid saw the wagon slam into the first of the highlanders. Some were crushed, a few pushed over the edge to fall screaming. The freight wagon plummeted off the trail after passing through nearly a third of the charging mrem. Three clansmrem were clinging to it when it went over.

  Mithmid didn’t get a chance to enjoy this last, or the confusion that followed. He was too busy watching the cliff face rush past and invoking the mercy of more than a dozen different deities. Reswen had started the wagon rolling with a gentle shove. As they rolled downhill it had gained speed. Before they had traveled a hundred paces, the side of the trail streaked past. Two mrem pushed on the wooden brakes until smoke rose where they ground against the wheel’s iron-clad rims. Nrether, the largest of the guards, stood in the front and tried to steer them using the wagon’s tongue.

  They were halfway down the slope when the front wheels slammed into a waist-deep ravine that decades of rain had cut across the trail. Nrether lost his grip on the tongue and was thrown from the wagon. The brakemrem lost their footing as well, one also falling over the side. As the runaway swerved for the cliff on their left, mrem dived from the wagon.

  Fortunately the ravine had also slowed their speed sufficiently that none were seriously hurt. Minutes later, a mrem Reswen had ordered to climb the cliff yelled down that he could see all the way to the top of the pass and there were no highlanders in sight.

  •

  Crethok shook with anger and frustration. Over thirty mrem killed, and that many again hurt. His mrem had panicked at the carnage caused by the wagon and fled down the trail. Six were yet to be found, and thought to have been thrown off the cliff. There were mutterings about how he had led them into a trap. Crethok understood their discontent; he could barely contain his own anger.

  It took
him over an hour to get the clansmrem back into some sort of order and convince them to follow him into the pass once more. This time they met no resistance. From the crest he could see the caravan miles ahead. They would be at the guard tower before he could catch them... if he could persuade the clansmrem to even try. They would camp here tonight.

  •

  Arbunda’s Rest was filled with mercenaries. No formal system told them where the gold would flow next, but they gathered, sensing that gold would soon be available to buy their blades.

  Jremm hung carefully in his almost familiar perch on the crossbeam. Berrilund had shown him how to use the power to obscure himself, and he was enjoying the chance to practice the enchantment. He still found it difficult not to sneeze from the acrid smoke that filled the area below the inn’s high ceiling. Below him, the tan outlander was meeting with three mercenaries. By their looks, they were not too concerned with how they earned their gold.

  In the center of the room, a massive warrior clad in bundor hides was dancing drunkenly with one of the serving maids. He couldn’t hear what they were saying over the raucous laughter of the dancing mrem’s companions. From their gestures, it was clear a deal had been struck. A small bag was passed across the table. Nothing unusual enough to be noticed in the Rest. From the assuring gestures the ostentatiously clad mercenaries were making, it was the price of someone’s death.

  Then one of the mrem made a mock hat with his hands, the claws extended upward like the tines of a crown, and was cuffed by their leader. All of the mrem in their group became silent and glanced guiltily around the Rest. Jremm realized that they were going to assassinate someone who wore a crown. They intended to kill the king. Almost forgetting to maintain his camouflage spell, he scurried back through the broken grate and into the darkness. There was no use watching the tan mrem any longer. He had to warn Mithmid. Andelemarian was in danger again.