by GARY DARBY
Amil grunts in reply, “I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m going in at a snail’s pace.”
As Cara and I are to work together, where we can, we work out a little system where she takes the left side of the boulder and I take the right. Slowly, the four of us work our way through the boulder field. Cara and I’ve not gone far when we stumble over dead Blackguards and Fire Hounds with arrows embedded in their throats.
“Whoever took them down,” Cara whispers to me, “are expert archers and knew exactly where to place their arrows.”
We reach what I assume is the midway point when sudden movement catches my eye. It’s Amil frantically waving at us to stop.
We three freeze, our heads and eyes locked on Amil. The big man takes a step or two forward, stops, and seems to be listening by the way he cocks his head to one side. After a moment, he brings a hand up to cup around one ear and points directly in front with his ax.
With Helmar leading, we silently tread over next to Amil and listen. After a moment, I hear it, a low moaning that seems to come and go. “Someone’s hurt,” Cara whispers.
“Or it could be a trap,” Amil whispers back.
“Only one way to find out,” I reply and lift my head to order, “Twinkle! Higher!”
The little sprite zooms upward before coming to a hover. With that, I step between two large boulders and following the groaning, weave between several large rocks until I hold a hand up halting my companions behind me.
Several dead hounds and a Blackguard are piled next to the rock, splintered arrows jutting from their necks. As frothy blood still foams at the Devil Dogs’ mouths, I can’t help but think that these are very recent kills and whoever, or whatever, brought them down is the one moaning and just beyond the biggest boulder we’ve come across.
I point to the right, sending Helmar and Amil that way while Cara and tread silently in the opposite direction. Slowly, we edge around the grainy rock, keeping low and creeping forward. We come to a point where Cara taps me hard on the shoulder and points, telling me that the noise is coming from just around a rocky protuberance.
With a nod, I hold up three fingers to which Cara gives me quick nod. One, two, three! I mouth and together we jump out, Cara with her bow stretched taut and me with Galondraig ready for a deadly downward slash.
Propped up against the boulder are two figures. One is either dead or unconscious by the looks of him while the other’s head is slumped down against his chest and it’s he that’s moaning.
One look at the two and my head snaps toward Cara who returns my wide-eyed stare with eyes that are big and round.
Amil and Helmar spring around the boulder’s far edge and I quickly hold up a hand to stop them from using their weapons. As the two lower their armaments, Amil runs a hand over his shiny bald head, staring at the figures on the ground. “Uh, haven’t we seen these fellows before?”
“Yes,” Helmar grunts, “but on the other side of the ocean.”
“What are they doing here?” Cara asks, “I thought they all went home.”
“Apparently not,” I reply, shaking my head slightly, “but I think we need to get Phigby and Marce up here quickly.”
“Yeah,” Amil responds, “Phigby to tend to their wounds, and Marce to figure out what’s going on with these two. I have the feeling that they’ve got an interesting story to tell and not all of it has to do with Fire Hounds and Blackguards.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
It’s not long before we have the company reassembled with Phigby, Marce, and Cara working feverishly on the two’s injuries. While they work, Alonya’s report is grim. “We didn’t find any other survivors, they’re all dead except these two. It would appear that a good number of them didn’t die just from burns but by Blackguards who gored them, too.”
With a hand gesture she motions to the two. “But for every one of them that went down, from what I can see they must have killed thrice that many Blackguards and hounds in return.”
Marce holds the head of the least injured in her lap, a young man about Marce’s age, or perhaps a bit older, and tenderly dabs at his burns with a potion-laden wet cloth that Phigby provided.
Kneeling beside Marce I ask the obvious question, “These and the others we found are Uhlan, are they not?”
“Yes,” Marce nods and before I can respond, adds, “but they are not from Nervan, nor are they from the four companies that went out.”
“How can you tell?” Tavin asks.
“Their clothing,” Marce answers. “This is of a different weave, different cut than our normal field clothing. Likewise, their boots. Ours always have rabbit fur lining. I’m not sure what lines his boots, but I can tell you it’s not rabbit.”
She goes back to tending to the young Uhlan whose clothing is charred and burnt in several places, showing seared skin underneath. Phigby works on the older Uhlan whose wounds are more severe and cover more of his body while the younger one’s seem to be only on arms and legs.
Marce peers up at Alonya and asks, “Are you positive there are no other survivors?”
Alonya nods and answers, “I’m sorry, no. We searched almost to the base of the hill and found no one alive.”
“If,” Amil grunts, “they’re not from Nervan, how did they get here? I was under the impression that your center point was somewhere far west of here, not in the eastern kingdoms and that all of your people had gathered there.”
“And you would be right,” Marce replies, “or so I thought until now.”
“So . . .” Tavin questions, “do we have a mystery on our hands? Or . . .?” he finishes, peering at Marce as if expecting an answer.
“A mystery? Perhaps,” Marce acknowledges, “but there is one possibility that may explain . . .” her voice trails off as she dabs at the seared skin of the younger Uhlan and doesn’t continue.
When she doesn’t resume speaking, Amil stammers, “Well, girl? Are you going to keep us in suspense and waiting or are you going to tell us of this possibility of yours?”
“Here,” Cara says, reaching over and taking the medicine-soaked bandage from Marce, “let me tend to him while you explain.”
“And I suggest,” Alonya chuckles dryly, “that you do so speedily before Amil explodes from holding all that curiosity of his inside.”
Marce opens her mouth to begin when just then, the younger Uhlan groans, reaches up to his head and then opens his eyes. As he stares at Marce, his eyes widen a bit and he blinks his eyes several times as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He tries to push himself away, speaking in a raspy, guttural voice, “Erdu ekte den demon?”
Marce gasps in response to the Uhlan’s demanding tone while Cara questions, “What did he say? Do you understand him?”
“A little,” Marce answers as she and Cara try to hold the young Uhlan down. “He’s speaking the old Uhlan dialect and I think he was asking if I am a demon.”
“Can you answer him in his tongue?” I ask.
“I only know a few words,” Marce replies as she struggles to keep the young man’s shoulders pressed down, “it’s a language we haven’t used in ages. Everyone speaks Common Tongue now.”
“Phigby? What about you?” I ask. “Do you know his language?”
“I’m afraid not,” Phigby replies, “it’s not anything I’ve studied.”
I turn back to Marce. “Try,” I implore, “let him know that you’re not a demon and we’re here to help.”
The young Uhlan has been listening to our words and now his eyes flash over to where Phigby is tending to the older Uhlan. He pushes Cara and Marce away, and in an instant, he’s on his feet. He lashes out with a hand and with a snarl, shoves Phigby away.
Phigby goes sprawling to one side and so quick that we hardly know what’s happening, the young man is standing defiantly over the older Uhlan with a wicked- looking knife in hand. The way he holds it tells me that he’s very familiar with handling a blade, especially in a fight.
Marce jumps to her fee
t and with both hands outstretched toward the young man. “Ingen demon, ingen demon.”
She takes one hand and lightly thumps her chest. “Ich er Uhlan.” She does it again, repeating, “Ich er Uhlan. Ich er Uhlan.”
The Uhlan slowly weaves the knife in front of him, his eyes flicking down at his comrade. Phigby stands and like Marce holds out both hands. “We’re here to help, lad. I am a healer and can help your companion. But if I’m not allowed to tend to him, he may die.”
At Phigby’s words, the young man’s eyes widen slightly, and he glances down at his companion. I stand and whisper in Marce’s ear, “From his reaction, I think he may understand us. Keep speaking in common. Tell him who you are and who we are.”
Marce nods and says to the angry-faced young man whose eyes flick between his companion and us. “Please, I am Marce, an Uhlan from Nervan but I don’t speak the Old Tongue. This is the Company of the Golden Dragon. We saw the battle and came here to help but I’m afraid we arrived too late. Everyone else is dead. Please let us help you and your companion.”
As Marce speaks, the Uhlan slowly straightens and seems to relax a bit though he still holds the knife out. He licks his lips and in a hesitant voice asks, “Everyone else dead?”
Marce nods. “Yes, I’m sorry. We came as fast as we could, but we were too late to help the others. You and your companion are the only survivors.”
The young Uhlan swallows and for a moment, his eyes turn sad before he motions with the knife toward his comrade. “He . . . is not just my companion, he is my father. You . . . you truly are the Company of the Golden Dragon?”
“Yes,” Marce replies, “and thank goodness you speak the Common Tongue because I think I used up all the words I know from the old language.”
She smiles a little at her fellow Uhlan. “Phigby really can help your father, please let him.”
The young man’s eyes narrow and take on a suspicious expression. “How do I know you are who you claim to be? You could be imposters or demons pretending to be—”
Just then, there are familiar wingbeats overhead and blasts of air push down at us. We peer up to see Golden Wind hovering just above the rocks. Scamper pokes his little face over the side and starts chittering at me. Aaarrriitte? he asks.
I wave a hand up at the two. “We’re fine, Scamper.”
At that, Golden Wind wings a bit higher, turns, and disappears into the darkness.
“Now do you believe us?” Marce asks the Uhlan.
The young man, his mouth open and still staring upward, slowly straightens to his full height and nods. Slipping the knife into his waistband, he goes down on bended knee beside his father and extends a hand toward Phigby. “Please, your help would be appreciated as we are far from our own healers.”
Phigby doesn’t hesitate and practically springs to the man’s side. On one knee, he grabs several bottles, green, white, and brown colored out of his bag along with a handful of bandages. To Cara and Marce he directs, “Watch what I do and then you do the same. Each of you take an arm and work toward his chest.”
Phigby takes a handful of bandages and first pours from the white bottle, then the brown, and then green. He squishes the cloths together until they’re wet and then pulls one out to lightly press the fabric over the man’s torso wounds.
He hands the other moist cloths to Marce and Cara. Swiftly, the two follow his lead and gently press their cloths to his arms. As they work, I ask, “What are you called?”
“I’m Borm,” the Uhlan answers and then motions to his father. “My father is Ralos, Jelani of the Kall family.”
Marce cranes her head around to ask, “Did you say the Kall family?”
“Yes. What family are you?”
“The Weim family.”
“Weim . . .” Borm replies, shaking his head. “I am not familiar with that family.”
Marce gives him an odd look, shaking her head a little. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t as I’m from Nervan.”
“Nervan . . .” Borm murmurs and he stares at Marce for a long moment before saying, “there are the old stories told of Nervan, but few actually believe that they could be true.”
“I can’t speak to your old stories,” Marce replies, “but I can assure you that Nervan does exist. I’m here, aren’t I?”
Borm shakes his head and from his expression, I’m not sure he believes Marce. Just then, Phigby straightens and stares at Ralos for a long moment. “My father,” Borm asks, “he will be all right?”
Phigby doesn’t answer right away and then says, “His burns are not as bad as I feared and my medicine, along with your father’s strong disposition should see him heal quickly.”
He reaches up to Ralos’s head and gently spreads some of his potion over one spot. “He must have hit his head on the rock and knocked himself out.”
“During the fight,” Borm explains, “when those demons rushed us. So, he will be all right? Will he wake soon?”
“In time, I believe so. How soon your father will waken, that I cannot tell and once he does, his burns will be painful.”
Phigby gives a little shrug and says, “After that, we’ll see.”
Borm peers intently at his father for a long moment before he seems to come to a decision and stands. “Then I must speak for him.”
His eyes sweep across the company before they stop on Amil. “From your stature, I assume that you must be Hooper Menvoran, the leader of the Company of the Golden Dragon.”
“Me?! No, I’m—” Amil snorts and starts to go on but before he can, Borm turns to Helmar. “Then you are Hooper Menvoran.”
Helmar shakes his head. “No, I’m Helmar Stoudtman.” He points at me. “He’s Hooper Menvoran.”
The young Uhlan turns and his eyebrows rise noticeably as he seems to study me from head to foot. I don’t think he quite believes that Helmar pointed to the right person as he stammers just a bit, “You . . .? You are Hooper Menvoran . . . the leader of this company and friend of Golden Wind, the great golden dragon?”
“Well,” I reply, “friend to Golden Wind, yes. Leader? No.”
Borm still seems unsure as he stares at me for several heartbeats, surprise and uncertainty on his face, but then slowly, says, “We were sent to find you. My father was to be our spokesperson, to plead our cause.”
I exchange a glance with several of the company and then Amil questions, “You were looking for us?”
“Yes,” Borm replies, “the Vinderfangen sent three companies out from Hidden Haven to search for you. My father led this company but before we could find you these creatures ambushed us.”
“How did you know where we would be?” Alonya demands.
“The Vinderfangen told us to search,” Borm answers, “between these hills and the coast. Our other two companies are farther south.”
“This Vinderfangen,” Tavin queries, “is your leader?”
“In a way,” Borm nods, “but mostly in spiritual things and those matters dealing with the gods.”
“Vinderfangen . . . ” Marce at first whispers and then louder asks, “Doesn’t that mean someone who listens to the wind?”
Borm looks at her sharply. “I thought you said you didn’t speak our tongue.”
“I don’t really,” Marce answers. “But some of our elders still practice it and I’ve heard them speak to one another. I guess I picked up more than I thought.”
“The Vinderfangen,” Borm asserts, “listens to the whispers of the wind.”
“Someone who listens to wind whispers,” Phigby repeats in a gruff tone. “And these whispers told your Vinderfangen where to look for us?”
“I’m sorry,” Borm replies, “But I cannot say more than that. I only know what my father told me—that we had to find you and quickly.”
Phigby tugs at his beard, eyes Borm for a moment. “And you don’t know why?”
“No, or I would tell you,” Borm replies before he again glances down at his sleeping father. “Please, just return with us and I’m s
ure the Vinderfangen can explain it all. All I know is that it’s imperative that you do.”
“Hmmm . . .” Phigby rumbles low in his throat before he turns to the company. “Perhaps we should discuss this among ourselves.”
“To that I would agree,” Amil is quick to reply.
“Discuss what?” Marce challenges. “We should do as he asks and go with them.”
Phigby takes Marce gently by the arm. “Don’t you think we should go over here where we can speak candidly without offending?”
Marce hesitates, flicks her eyes toward Borm before she nods. “All right.”
As he leads us away, Phigby says to Borm, “Watch over your father, he’s merely sleeping but call if you notice any change.”
We march a short distance away and stop behind a grouping of rocks. Looking around and not seeing the little ones, I ask Alonya, “The pixies?”
“Asleep with the sprites,” she answers, “on Regal’s head.”
“They worked hard,” Cara smiles, “they need their sleep.”
“I worked hard,” Amil asserts. “Can I get a few winks in too?”
“Well,” Phigby begins, ignoring Amil’s jibe, “finding Uhlan here is certainly a surprising turn of events.”
“Yes,” Marce huffs at Phigby, “and I don’t understand why we have to discuss this in private. They’re Uhlan who fought off the Blackguards! What more is there to know?”
“Your point is well taken,” Phigby returns, “and under normal circumstances I would agree, but we don’t live in normal times and so I urge us to be cautious in all things.”
“And with all that we meet,” Helmar states bluntly.
“Indeed,” Phigby agrees, “a hard lesson won at great cost. Now tell me, Marce, you seem to have some idea of who these countrymen of yours are.”
“That’s just it,” Marce replies, “they’re not my countrymen, not in the sense they’re from Nervan. I may not know everyone in Nervan, but I can name every Uhlan of the four companies that recently left Nervan and Borm and Ralos are not of those companies. And as I said, those two are not of Nervan . . .”