“Then, is it true Kormish Warriors have infiltrated into every strata of Floreskandian life?”
Ulran laughed. “You’re asking the wrong man, Fhord. Honestly, the way you go on, you’d think I was the country’s accredited expert on Kormish Warriors!”
The city-dweller sighed. “I was just curious to learn–”
“No harm in learning, Fhord. But, alas, I can’t give you answers I don’t know, now, can I?”
“No, I suppose not.”
***
They bivouacked beside a small copse of plains-trees in the brightening light of the moon. After eating two well-cooked voles, they sat around the low fire.
Fhord once again mentioned the Kellan-Mesqa: “I know you’re not an expert, Ulran,” she began, “but you seemed to evade my earlier question about–”
“Crossing swords with the Kormish Warriors?”
“Yes, seeing as you were a captive once.”
The innman grinned, lifting his hand. “You have it wrong, Fhord. But, to answer your question first – there are no known recorded cases of such confrontations. But in the Kellan-Mesqa folklore, mention is often made of the hordes fighting with and against the fabled warriors. Does that answer your –?”
The tree snake had moved so stealthily in the foliage of an adjacent plains-wood, that even Ulran had not detected any sound until too late.
Its huge sinuous weight fell across his shoulders and draped into his lap and down his chest.
Fhord let out an involuntary gasp and cringed.
Courdour withdrew his short-sword but a censoring look from Ulran stayed the immortal’s hand.
The innman sat, cross-legged, his body crying out in panic, impelling his legs to run, for his hands to thrash out at the alien thing draped about him. But his mind was in complete control. He recognised the tree snake for what it was: “Bane-viper,” he whispered, unmoving, unblinking.
Though his pulse raced and sweat soaked his brow already, he was succeeding in shallowing his breathing, calming his nerves and primordial fears.
“If it bites me,” he said, addressing Fhord, “you must catch it, use the fluids inside its eye-sacs mixed with salt and some pounded herbs in my saddle-pouch – the grey-green dust.”
Afraid to move, Fhord nodded very slightly. Then, frantic at the realisation that they must catch the bane-viper she began to tremble and looked sharply at Courdour for support and guidance.
“Can we kill the thing before extracting the fluid?” asked Courdour.
“Yes – but it must be extracted within a dacorm, by all accounts.”
As they talked, the tree snake slithered only a little across Ulran’s broad cloaked shoulders. It was possible that the cloak might absorb the venom completely. “I suggest you prepare the other parts of the anti-venin now – just in case,” he said levelly.
Slowly, noiselessly, Fhord rose and edged back towards the saddles and bedding.
Courdour Alomar made to follow, but his armour – which he purposefully left on even at night in case of an attack – chinked and rattled at the slightest movement. He froze immediately.
Ulran whispered: “They have no ears but detect sounds or movements by vibrations.”
The immortal’s look implied Are you sure?
“I’m risking my life on it, Alomar.”
The immortal turned, nodded and went after Fhord. But his foot came down upon a thin layer of dried dust over a weasel-hole and the giant warrior tripped.
The weight of his armour carried him noisily forward a few paces then he righted himself and swore, his ankle slightly twisted.
He cast a hasty glance at Ulran and froze again: the snake had obviously been disturbed by the footfalls. It sank its gaping mouth into the innman’s right arm and seemed loath to let go. Incredibly, Ulran sat unmoved, staring directly ahead.
Courdour raced forward, unsheathing his sword. “Fhord, bring that stuff! Quick, lass!” He ran on till he came to an abrupt halt before the still tableau of man and snake.
Decapitation was the only way, but how could he accomplish it without hitting Ulran?
Yet, to hesitate brought the innman closer to complete paralysis, coma and death.
He swerved round, indecisive for the first time in countless years.
Fhord was racing across the dusty ground, avoiding the pot-holes and in her arms were bundles of salt and other potions from Ulran’s pack.
Bracing himself, Courdour kicked at the bane-viper, first on its glistening green back. But that had no effect. Then he kicked even more viciously at the base of its triangular skull. The response was instantaneous and frightening.
The creature darted round, so sharply that it snapped one fang, leaving it imbedded in Ulran’s forearm.
Venom and blood left a thin spray as the snake darted from Ulran up at Courdour, straight for his unprotected face.
No shield: he raised his sword arm protectively and the first attack blunted upon his lacquered wood-plates.
The bane-viper hit the ground, zigzagged incredibly fast, and suddenly leapt out again, like a spear.
But this time Courdour was prepared and side-stepped, bringing his sword sweeping down upon its back as the thing passed in mid-air.
Little resistance, a dull thwack, some crunching cartilage, and the bane-viper dropped to the ground, head falling some distance from the mindless body.
Fhord gaped as the headless body writhed and swerved and covered the ground in red and green outpourings in its nervous death-throes.
“Now!” Courdour discarded his sword, grabbed up the severed head.
The reptilian eyes blinked twice before going an opaque white. He withdrew his poniard and pierced the eye-sac beneath the staring eye.
Fhord was by his side, a terracotta bowl offered, and the sac-fluid dribbled in. Courdour repeated the same technique on the other sac and then threw the head into the tall grass. Her stomach threatening to disgorge, Fhord busily mixed the ingredients.
Courdour Alomar knelt by the innman, studied his eyes: they were not as deep a brown as before. Sweat lathered the innman’s face. A pulse in his forehead indicated sluggishness – but, he reminded himself, that would be Ulran’s doing: reducing the blood-flow by whatever arcane means he had at his disposal would at least slow down the movement of venom within his system. The sheer control of the man: still sitting cross-legged; immobile.
The immortal glanced down at Ulran’s forearm. Using a cloth and his poniard he extracted the fang and washed the wound thoroughly.
At that moment Fhord came up with the sickly-looking thick paste.
But Ulran had neglected to explain how the anti-venin as he called it should be administered.
And time was of the essence. “We’ll try more than one way, Fhord.”
“Right. Alomar...”
Alomar spread the paste liberally on the open wound, pressing it deep within the cut he’d made. “Right, you bandage that up quickly while I treat him elsewhere.”
The city-dweller looked puzzled but did as she was bid.
Alomar shuffled across to the innman’s other side and having heated his knife in the fire he cut into the flesh of Ulran’s upper arm near the muscle. Fhord was about to protest when the immortal silenced her with a scowl and began applying more of the unguent to the fresh wound.
It was a messy process, packing the mixture in with sticky blood gushing over the wound, but at last he had packed it well and stemmed the blood-flow. By the time he had done this, Fhord was finished on the other arm and took over the bandaging of this one. Alomar was then free to roll the remains of the anti-venin into a small mushy ball and drop it into Ulran’s mouth. “It should dissolve in time – it may help, may not.”
Then, their efforts completed, for better or worse, they stepped back.
“We can but wait now,” said Alomar.
Unable to take her eyes off the statuesque innman, Fhord nodded and a lump came to her throat.
That night, lying in her bedro
ll or whilst on watch, Fhord prayed very fervently indeed to all her white gods: “Please don’t let Ulran die!”
It was as though the animal kingdom bore them a grudge. “The animals we’ve encountered – they are as lethal as any assassin!” she railed aloud.
Alomar must have heard. “Man has no especial right to walk this world with impunity, Fhord. I think Ulran would agree – we’re one with the animals and the earth we tread on. That’s all.”
For the next two days they remained in the camp and Ulran continued to sit cross-legged, unmoving.
Repeatedly, they checked his breathing, so shallow, and his heart-beat, so slow, and kept him warmly wrapped in blankets during the night and well aired in the reinvigorating sun of the days.
The ground about the innman had taken on a sort of crystalline appearance with the outpourings of sweat, the moisture having dried in sunlight, leaving only the salt content.
The third night was half-gone when Fhord took over from Alomar as lookout.
“Nothing untoward,” the immortal reported and lowered himself into his blankets. He cast a look at the sitting figure of Ulran, blanket-swathed, and shook his head. “It’s uncanny,” was all he said, and then pulled down his hat’s brim to rest his eyes.
Over the last couple of days Fhord had not slept much, worry about Ulran constantly gnawing at her, until now she was drowsy and close to exhaustion.
She fell into a deep dreamless sleep, leaving the camp unguarded and vulnerable.
***
Alomar heard their approach, but by the time he had raised himself with the cumbrous weight of his armour, he was surrounded by a ring of spears.
His first angry reaction was to seek out Fhord.
The city-dweller lay by the dull embers of the fire, one hand stroking a bloody patch at the base of her skull. The attack had been soundless.
Then he thought of Ulran, wondering what the Kellan-Mesqa would make of the innman’s immobility.
But Ulran wasn’t there – only a heap of blankets.
“Where is the third member of your party?” asked one of the Kellan-Mesqa who sported a rush helmet.
Fhord shook her head and shrugged. The Devastator was speaking in the Common Tongue but his accent made it difficult to understand.
“What third member?” Alomar asked.
A Devastator with a bear-hide headband eyed the old warrior. “You cross our path dressed for war, old man. What is your purpose here?” He paused, strode over to the immortal. “Tell me, before I, Wolderiq, decide on your fate.”
“These plains are free. I’ve trodden them for many more years than you’ve seen Nikkonslor’s Eye. We but pass through, intent on reaching the Sonalumes.”
“You lie! Now tell me, where is the third–?”
His query was answered: Ulran leaped to the ground immediately in front of the apparent leader. The branch above rustled and was still.
Alomar was as surprised as the Devastator who stepped back in amazement.
Fhord breathed a sigh of relief.
The innman assessed Wolderiq. Talk would be of little use; he was obviously a man of action. “I challenge your ability to lead!” Ulran spoke in their language and was faintly amused by their reaction.
“You are a Furdhar, you have no right to challenge.”
“If you are afraid, I will fight one who is not. One who is worthy to lead.”
The Devastators round Ulran put up their spears. Wolderiq had been challenged according to tradition, so whoever the Furdhar was he at least knew their ways. The men relaxed slightly to watch the verbal play before the actual fight. A few took bets on who would lose face by attacking first.
“Furdhar! I, Wolderiq the bear slayer, will make you beg for your life!” A bear slayer was held in high esteem in most hordes but not in Ulran’s eyes.
“How many bears have you killed?”
“Two,” Wolderiq said proudly.
“You will have to be careful next time. The cubs’ mother could be around.”
Fhord could not understand what was being said but things appeared to be working out, for the onlookers were laughing at Ulran’s remarks.
“Furdhar! You will be glad to crawl into the dung heap you call home when I have beaten you and torn out your vile tongue.”
“Be careful, bear slayer. I am not a cub. But to give you a chance I will fight only with one hand.”
Wolderiq’s face grew bright red.
“What’s the matter? Are the odds still too much for you?” Ulran had him hooked. The Devastator was on the verge of exploding. He sent home the final barb. “I will turn my back.” Ulran began to turn, adding, “Even a Nameless warrior would have the–”
Wolderiq’s scream of fury pierced Fhord’s nerves as the bear slayer leaped at Ulran’s back.
The innman continued his turn, brushed aside the attack and sent the Devastator rolling across the fire.
“Did you trip?” Ulran asked innocently.
Wolderiq rushed again and the innman side-stepped at the last possible instant.
Six times the Devastator rushed and each time his opponent seemed to disappear. “Stand still and fight, Furdhar!”
Which was exactly what Ulran did the next time.
Wolderiq, in his anger, left his guard open when he rushed in. Ulran’s foot came up and hit the Devastator three times before it touched the ground again.
The challenge was over.
Fhord’s sigh of relief was choked off in mid-stream as another Devastator jumped in front of Ulran and levelled his spear at the innman. Fhord began a prayer to Osasor but that too was interrupted by a voice crying out from the darkness, “Hold!”
The Devastators froze and Ulran smiled. Out of the gloom stepped another group of Kellan-Mesqa and they were led by a man with a birthmark on his forehead.
“Solendoral!” exclaimed the innman, clasping the Devastator’s arms.
The gathered Kellan-Mesqa were taken aback and a couple were all set to let loose their throwing spears when Solendoral said, “Ulran? Could it be? Why, you have altered so much.”
“It is many years.”
At this point Alomar interrupted. “You know this Devastator?”
“Aye, we are adoptive brothers. This group is a montar of the Hansenand tribe.”
“Alas,” interjected Solendoral, “this is almost all that is left of the Hansenand. I can count the numbers of other montars on one hand. Times have grown grim since you left us, Ulran.” Solendoral stood as tall as the innman, but more lean and sinewy. His long narrow face did not smile.
Solendoral eyed Wolderiq; a couple of his men were helping him to his feet. “I watched your challenge, Ulran. I have never seen anyone fight in such a manner.”
“As I said. It is many years and many experiences since we parted.”
“It is good to see you recovered,” interrupted Alomar, “But why did you not warn us of the Kellan-Mesqa approach?”
“There was no–” Ulran was interrupted by the sound of jeering.
Wolderiq, the bear slayer, was a broken man. He had lost face – beaten by a Furdhar. He was now a serf, little better than a slave. Ulran stopped the baiting. “What is happening here?” he asked. The warriors fell silent. “Who are you to ridicule a bear slayer?” No one answered.
The innman strode up to Wolderiq and spoke for all to hear. “I give you my life.”
Fhord was confused by these events but later after setting up camp Alomar explained that Ulran had given Wolderiq his face back by giving him the highest honour available – that of entrusting his life into the Devastator’s hands.
“Which reminds me, Ulran,” said Alomar, “when did you come out of your trance?”
“Just after the forward scout had seen us.”
Solendoral looked puzzled. “Trance, brother?”
“Yes.”
“He was bitten,” supplied Fhord, nursing her head. “By a bane-viper. Three days ago.”
The Devastator stepped back a
pace, eyes widening almost in awe. “And you still live?” he said, echoing his men’s thoughts.
“During years of study I learned much about the body, Solendoral. After that, I studied the mind. The trance situation is essential to the process of removing the snake’s poison. It is not unlike your own abilities or those of your Tangakols.”
“We must talk more of such matters.”
Ulran smiled. “I would like to – but we must get to Arisa.”
“We are heading manderon also,” countered Solendoral. “We go to a Giving Feast.”
“Then we shall travel together,” declared the innman.
At this, Solendoral and his men grinned, content to travel with their leader’s brother and these two strange travellers.
Clasping a bare arm round Ulran’s shoulders, Solendoral patted the innman’s chest. “Where’s your armour?” He slapped his own lightweight lacquered wood platelets covering chest and thighs and then nodded at Alomar’s.
“I find it too constricting. You saw how Alomar had difficulty in rising.”
“So that is the fabled Courdour Alomar?”
“Indeed. It is fortunate your men had him pinned down before he could rise or wield his broadsword.”
“I believe you!” Solendoral paused, called some instructions to one of his men.
Shortly afterwards, six wagons trundled into camp with the rest of the montar.
There were about fifty Devastators, all busily erecting tents and transferring lighted fuel from their ironwood fire-wagon for the camp-fires. Of that number, about two-fifths were women.
Both Alomar and Fhord, Ulran was pleased to see, mixed with the Kellan-Mesqa and pitched in to help the formation of the camp. Fhord had certainly picked up the guttural tongue with astonishing speed; possibly her psychic ability had helped in some way. He looked around again. A mere thirty men. And, according to Solendoral, the other Hansenand montars numbered just as few. Ulran’s eyes glazed with remembrance.
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