by Mark McCabe
As he prepared to launch himself out from the rock wall, he miraculously found the support he’d been desperately groping for. It was Sara’s hand. Looking down, he could see the girl straining to push him up, supporting his boot with her outstretched palm. “Hurry up,” she grunted. “I can’t do this all day.”
With Sara’s help, he managed to find a rocky outcropping for one foot and in moments had secured himself once more to the cliff face. It had been a close call. He’d been only seconds away from jumping to avoid crashing down onto Sara. After a few moments’ rest, he moved on, glad to be away from that section of the precipice.
After what seemed an eternity, they finally neared the top. Rayne slowed, alert to the prospect of attack from above. Although he still had his knife in his belt and had noticed that Sara had hers, he didn’t relish the idea of needing to use them. Rayne had no delusions; these men were killers. He knew he’d been lucky to bring down one of them so quickly and doubted they’d be so lax a second time.
Still seeing no sign of their attackers above him, and aware of the pressing need to get off the cliff face before they appeared below, Rayne levered himself up over the final rock. There was no one in sight. After a furtive look around the immediate area, he reached back and helped Sara to climb up beside him, quickly moving them both away from the edge as she joined him.
With a sigh of relief, he saw that his plan had worked perfectly. In their haste to be after them, their attackers hadn’t bothered with anything here at the top of the falls. Nell still stood tethered where he had left her and his bow lay right where he’d dropped it. He’d lost most of his arrows from the quiver on his back but had more in his saddlebags. Silently, he gathered his bow and motioned for Sara to follow him.
They were both wet and uncomfortable and he could see that she was exhausted from the fall and the climb that had followed. He pressed on, however, knowing there’d be time for them both to recover once they were mounted and gone. Untethering Nell, Rayne helped Sara to mount. As he led the horse toward the body of the man he had shot, Sara leaned down and placed a tired hand on his shoulder.
“That was pretty impressive. Thank you.”
Rayne grinned back in silent reply, basking in her admiration. He saw no need to explain where his idea had come from.
The smile left his face as he looked down at the stranger he’d killed. Stopping for a moment, he gathered the dead man’s bow and removed the quiver of arrows strapped to his back, passing them up to Sara who averted her gaze from the body beside him. Fighting to conceal his own emotions, Rayne realised that this was the third dead person she’d seen in what must have been for her a terrifying few weeks. Knowing there was no time to comfort her now, he climbed up behind her.
As he turned Nell onto the path that led back along the stream, he was startled to see another and more unexpected windfall ahead of them, just a short distance away. The dead man’s horse stood between the trail and the stream, peacefully cropping some tufts of grass that had sprouted out from between the rocks. Dismounting quickly, he cautiously approached the horse.
“This gives us a chance,” he called out excitedly to Sara, as he grabbed its reins and quickly slipped into the saddle. “Follow me,” he said unnecessarily, as he kicked the horse into a gallop, back along the trail that had led them to the falls.
Chapter 5
Cool fingers of chill night air crept over the collar of Hrothgar’s heavy cloak and slipped under his padded vest to glide icily across the gnarled skin below. The slig warrior shuddered as he made his way through the camp, wondering if anything could keep out the infernal cold that seemed able to penetrate the thickest of clothing. Arriving at his own tent and pushing aside the hides that concealed the opening, he stepped inside, immediately relishing the warm, smoky air that enveloped him.
As Hrothgar entered, he threw off his cloak, absently casting it in the direction of a pile of garments that lay to one side of the entrance. Turning to the large wooden barrel that flanked the opposite side of the opening, he pushed back its cover, revealing the fluid within. Lifting the ladle that hung from its side, Hrothgar took a long draught of the clear mountain water.
The tent, made from the hides of three or four brugon, the large, horned beasts that roamed the plains to the east in great numbers and provided the sligs with so much that they needed, was a sizeable one, as befitted the Second Warrior of the Sagath tribe. Its floor was covered in furs of varying sizes and types, strewn haphazardly around a central hearth, while the top, with its slight opening to provide venting for smoke and other smells, was supported by three long poles, each propped against the other in a triangular configuration.
Although Hrothgar found it warm and inviting after the chill of the night air, the stifling interior presented an assault on the senses from which anyone other than a slig would have recoiled in disgust. The thick air stank of the brugon dung the sligs used as fuel for their fires, the smell even quenching the stench from the two mangy camp dogs that lay huddled, unwashed and flea-ridden, to the rear of the tent. The rotting meat that hung from the pole was now on the bad side of rancid, but no one had bothered to discard it, nor probably would for some time. The small vent in the roof of the tent did little to alleviate any of this stink, its purpose being only to allow the smoke from the fire to escape, which it did adequately if not efficiently. And yet none of these observations would have occurred to Hrothgar. For now, this was home, and it was warm.
“What did he want this time?” came the sleepy voice of his tent-woman, Mardur, from beneath one of the furs.
“It seems that the wizard needs my brother’s help sooner than he’d expected, curse his fetid bones,” spat Hrothgar. Despite his disgust for the stink the human exuded, he’d maintained a calm and attentive look as Grartok and Golkar had spoken. Hrothgar was impressed by his brother’s apparent ease in the presence of the wizard. Although he had striven to emulate it, he saw no need to maintain the façade here in his own tent.
“I’ll be leaving first thing in the morning,” the warrior grumbled, warming himself beside the still glowing fire. “Another errand to run for the great Grartok.”
Mardur rolled over, careful not to disturb the baby that nursed at her breast and keeping as much of her body under the warm furs as possible. “He is the First Warrior. No use getting upset over it. Don’t worry, your chance will come, he won’t rule forever and he has no sons.”
“Hmmmph,” muttered Hrothgar grumpily in reply, sliding his weapon from his belt and carefully placing the double-handed axe beside the wooden barrel to one side of the spacious enclosure. He knew Mardur was trying to soothe his anger. She knew only too well what to expect when he was in such a mood. She hadn’t rolled over to find a more comfortable position. She was simply protecting the child should he lash out with boot or stick, as he quite often did after a session with First Warrior Grartok.
Amused by her fear, Hrothgar let her lie there, not knowing what might come next. Although he knew such cruelty would probably dissipate the malice he felt for his brother, he wasn’t in the mood for such pleasures tonight. Besides, he wouldn’t do anything to endanger his son, it was Mardur that would take the brunt of his anger when he was ready to vent it.
With another grunt and a half-whispered curse that made even Mardur blanche, Hrothgar slipped under one of the big furs, turning his face to the smouldering embers of the fire. He watched Mardur’s tight form relax as she sensed the danger had passed. I might be Second Warrior, thought Hrothgar, but she is the Second Warrior’s tent-woman. Every dog has its place.
Hrothgar, however, had no intention of keeping his current position in the hierarchy for much longer. Before returning to his tent from what had been an unexpected second meeting with Golkar that day, he had paid a quick visit to his cousin, Norvig. By now, Norvig would be on his way with yet another message for Kell. Norvig was under strict instructions. The price for this information would be much higher than ever before. Hrothgar knew it was wo
rth it.
The gold crowns the wizard would pay would be safe with Norvig; it wasn’t wealth he hungered for. Hrothgar understood his cousin’s fascination with pain, its use as a tool was after all deeply embedded in slig culture. For Norvig, however, it had become an obsession, one that Hrothgar was only too happy to indulge. As Second Warrior, his access to prisoners gave him the means to satisfy Norvig’s needs. In return, Norvig had become a willing and loyal confidante. It was at times such as these Hrothgar was glad he had fostered that relationship.
Grartok wasn’t the only slig who intrigued for a chance at more power. While his brother angled for the Sagath to replace the Ghorant as First Tribe, a move that would make Grartok overlord of all of the sligs, Hrothgar was busy with his own schemes. Selling information to Kell was just one of the stratagems by which he was rapidly accumulating the gold he would need to buy loyalty from the other Sagath chieftains. Dealing with the old wizard had the dual benefit of ensuring that Grartok’s tactics didn’t advance the Sagath too quickly.
Hrothgar knew that with Golkar’s acquiescence the Sagath would soon overrun much of the Algarian western frontier. It would be a stunning victory and one which would enhance Grartok’s reputation mightily among all sligs. Should the campaign falter, however, then Hrothgar would be ready and waiting. The Sagath didn’t endure defeat well. In the recriminations that would surely follow such an outcome, heads might roll. Hrothgar intended that his brother’s would be one of them.
His thoughts turned to the so-called ‘mission’ his brother had entrusted him with. He and twenty of his warriors would leave at first light, to capture a human girl child. Hrothgar felt his anger returning. He, Second Warrior of the Sagath, was being sent to capture a human child. He had almost called for Shüglac right there, in front of Golkar and the other warriors. He had only restrained himself by thinking of the plans that he’d laid and how much he would enjoy seeing the hunt leaders calling for his brother’s head. He would see it on the end of his spear yet.
Having accepted Grartok’s orders, Hrothgar determined to make the most of them. The gold Norvig would extract from Kell would be useful, but just a start. The girl was important to Golkar, that much was clear, and Hrothgar had no intention of meekly handing her over to Grartok, or to Golkar for that matter, once he found her. He intended to put a price on her head, a very large one. His cousin should have caught up with them by then. Rather than return her to Grartok, he would offer the girl directly to Golkar. If the wizard wouldn’t pay, then Norvig could have some fun while they bartered.
Hrothgar knew the line he walked was a dangerous one. While no one would blame him for plotting the downfall of his leader, that was after all the stuff that slig politics was made of, his treachery to the Sagath would not be so easily forgiven. Should that come to light, there would be no one who would side with him. He would count himself lucky if his death was both swift and painless. For the sake of security, it would be best that he silence his cousin before much longer. As Hrothgar’s father used to say to him and his brother, “a dead slig will never betray you.”
The Second Warrior knew sleep would not come quickly. He would amuse himself for some time planning a particularly exquisite death for little Norvig. Not an accident this time, he thought, he wanted his cousin to know it was him. Something slow and deliberate would be best. Hrothgar knew how satisfying it could be when his victim begged, either for life or for death, it didn’t matter; the result would be the same, regardless.
When Hrothgar finished with his plans for Norvig he moved on to those for his brother. As he finally drifted off to sleep some time later, his last thought was of his brother’s bloody head, grinning down at him from the end of his spear. It was a pleasant thought and one that helped him to sleep.
~~~
Grartok smiled as he watched his brother ride off, he and his twenty companions quickly disappearing into the morning mist. Hrothgar is a fool, thought Grartok. He will never be First Warrior, no matter how much he schemes.
Grartok was well aware that his brother was selling information to Kell, and that he had been doing so for some time. Far from being angry when Norvig had first come to him, Grartok had immediately seen the advantage for himself. He had long known of his brother’s desire to replace him as First Warrior. Hrothgar had never been good at concealing it. He was, nonetheless, just a little impressed at his enterprise in this more recent move, his attempt to undermine both Grartok and Golkar by selling information to Kell, impressed but unconcerned.
As long as Norvig continued to keep him informed of everything Kell was told of, Grartok was happy to lend his brother as much rope as he needed. All the more fun he would have when he reeled him back in. Grartok certainly intended to make that a memorable day. Humiliating his brother in front of the rest of the Sagath would be both fitting and amusing. He had promised Norvig the honour of inflicting the ritual dismemberment all would support once Hrothgar’s treachery was revealed in assembly.
Turning back to the camp, Grartok strode purposefully through the tents, watching the other slig warriors that had risen with the dawn. Here and there, groups of warriors sat around fires, sharpening and repairing their weapons, preparing their morning meals, eating and chatting as all warriors do. The sligs were customary early risers, often attacking an enemy just before dawn, favouring the dim early light that preceded the rising sun.
Grartok knew the Sagath were a formidable foe. Standing taller than either elf or human, their scaly skin daubed with paint and bared from the waist up when ready for battle, their mere appearance was enough to daunt any but the hardiest of opponents. Wielding double-handed axes, they would charge into battle en masse, screaming blood-curdling oaths and striking terror into any who dared to withstand them.
In the next few days, now that Golkar had agreed, they would sweep down from their mountain camps in great numbers to strike at the ill-prepared Algarians on the plains below. The Giant’s Teeth made for cold camps, but the high mountain passes were a perfect staging ground for the war they waited to wage. Assembling here in the last few weeks of winter had ensured their preparations had gone unnoticed. With the snowline receding, it was time to launch the assault. The hammer blow the Sagath would now deliver would send the under-trained Algarians reeling back in retreat. Then, when they rallied, as they inevitably would, Grartok’s old friend, Third Warrior Nargal, would bring the remaining Sagath down from the northern passes, opening a second front that would seal the Algarians’ doom.
Grartok was satisfied he had overlooked nothing. What he intended could only be achieved by one of the two largest of the slig tribes, the Sagath or the Ghorant, or by a number of the smaller tribes acting together. The latter had never been done. The sligs were no nation, merely a collection of tribes.
He, First Warrior Grartok of the Sagath, would change that. With victory over the Algarians, all would acknowledge the right of the Sagath to be First Tribe; the Ghorant would have no choice but to acquiesce. Once that was achieved, Grartok intended to weld all of the tribes into one mighty force, a force that would sweep over the whole of Tenamos. With the Algarians out of the way, there would be no one with the power to withstand them. Golkar would ensure that the Guardians were silenced. Any other resistance would be buried under an avalanche of slig warriors. Tenamos would burn from one end to the other. Grartok would be the greatest leader the sligs had ever seen.
It was a mighty dream, but one Grartok intended to make a reality. Beside it, his brother’s petty jealousies were like the bites of a marsh-gnat, annoying but easily dealt with.
But not just yet. He would wait till Hrothgar had outlived his usefulness. Grartok knew a day of reckoning would come between himself and Golkar. Hrothgar’s collusion with Kell would forestall that day and allow Grartok time to achieve his own goals first. Then he would see what could be done with the wizard. In the meantime, if Golkar got wind of Hrothgar’s intrigues with Kell, then he’d simply feign ignorance and offer his bother’s h
ead by way of recompense.
Grartok had no illusions. He knew Golkar’s magic was strong. If the price to be paid in the end was to be obeisance to Golkar, then it was a price he would be prepared to pay. Grartok would bend the knee to Golkar as long as all of the sligs bent their knee to him. And if some other opportunity arose, then he would take that just as readily.
Meanwhile, Golkar’s aid was essential. It was his acquiescence which would make what had hitherto been an impossibility possible. The wizards were powerful. The magic they wielded had kept all but the foolish in their places for centuries. Grartok himself had seen Golkar destroy a band of Ghorant warriors with a mere pass of his hand and a few mumbled words. He had felt the dry air crackle with energy and then watched in horror as the Ghorant warriors’ clothing had burst into flames. The sligs had fallen from their horses, screeching in agony. Some had run off screaming as the flames had enveloped them, others had writhed on the ground, desperately trying to beat out the flames that quickly spread to their hair and their skin. It had been an edifying sight, watching mighty warriors felled so easily, with no more than a gesture and some words.
But now, not only had Golkar agreed not to hinder the Sagath invasion of Algaria, he had also undertaken to deal with his fellow Guardians. Before they could act to forestall the slig advance, he intended to destroy the other two wizards. He’d told Grartok that he had gained access to magical power from another world. By tapping the power residing in its inhabitants, he would be able to overcome his two colleagues, leaving the sligs with unfettered opportunity to sweep all before them as never before.
Grartok now knew that the first of these otherworld creatures, a human girl child, had escaped from Golkar. Although she should be easily recaptured, the possibility of her gaining help from either of the other two Guardians had to be eliminated. Such an outcome could be fatal to both Golkar’s and Grartok’s plans. Grartok had readily agreed to assist and had chosen his brother to lead a small force that would plunge deep into Algarian territory. Hrothgar’s warriors would split into two bands. One group would intercept any attempt to reach Tarak; the other would block any move towards Kell. Both groups would close in, intercepting the girl should she avoid Golkar’s own men.