by Mark McCabe
Dealing with Varna was another matter. It took some effort on Mardur’s part to conceal the bitter hatred she felt for that one. To her mind, it was only that young fool’s stupidity which had forced her into the precarious predicament she now found herself in. If Varna hadn’t prompted Larnük to reveal everything to Hrothgar, Mardur would have had time to think of some other way of resolving her problems. Instead, she’d been forced to act before she was ready.
Mardur vowed that she would get her revenge on the youngster. For the moment, however, she would bide her time and continue to act as if nothing was wrong. It was essential that she do nothing to draw attention to herself.
Despite the drudgery of the women’s tasks, excitement was high in the camp. Their tents were pitched less than a score of leagues to the rear of the slig forces and word of progress with the assault on the Algarians kept trickling back to them. It seemed that everything was proceeding much as they had expected. Evidence of their success could be seen in the small numbers of wounded warriors who had returned to the camp.
Despite their successes, however, they hadn’t moved as far into Algarian territory as they had hoped. They should have been much deeper into the border province by now and nobody Mardur talked to seemed to know what was hindering the advance. Nor had there been any news of Hrothgar or his hunt.
Then, unexpectedly, just after midday, Grartok himself, along with a small escort of warriors, returned to the camp. The concern that rippled through the women dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen when it became known the First Warrior was simply seeking a replacement for his mount. It seems his horse had gone lame following a minor mishap that morning. Grartok always kept a small supply of mounts in reserve and he had returned to the camp to choose a replacement. The horse he was now riding was borrowed. Apparently, the lame mount had been put to death on the spot. It had failed the First Warrior, a fatal mistake.
Mardur realised that this was her chance. Although Hrothgar still hadn’t returned, he couldn’t be far away by now. While the First Warrior was choosing a new mount, Mardur quickly threaded her way through the camp, making a beeline for the tent that was always kept in readiness for the First Warrior. It was there that he found her a short while later.
“What’s this?” demanded Grartok, as he drew back the cover to his tent and saw Mardur seated within. She was looking up at him expectantly with a soft glow on her face. “Did you miss me that much, woman?” I didn’t come all this way just to bed you, you know.”
Despite his dismissive tone, Mardur could sense he was pleased to find her waiting for him. “I thought you would want to know straight away,” she replied, fighting to maintain her calm as her heart pounded within her breast. As she spoke, she placed one hand on her lower abdomen, gently patting it as she did so.
She waited while Grartok stared at her hand against her belly. She could see the look of confusion on his face slowly changing as the import of what she had said and what she was doing slowly sank in. When he raised his eyes to her face once more, she locked on to him with her own gaze. With the barest hint of a smile on her face, she spoke again, seductively this time, her soft voice barely a whisper. “I have something in my belly, First Warrior. Something you put there. I am with child, your child.”
Mardur fought to conceal her nervousness as she spoke. She had done it now. The die was cast and where it would take her Zar only knew.
For a moment Grartok stood there in the doorway of the tent, speechless, looking from her face to her abdomen and back again. His chest heaved with obvious excitement. Then, suddenly, and unexpectedly, he threw himself down upon Mardur, knocking her backward with the force of his body as he did so. His mouth went to hers, kissing her fiercely as one hand groped under her shift for her breast. To Mardur’s surprise, she felt herself responding to his unexpected ardour. This was like Norag, full of untamed passion and desire. It excited something within her she hadn’t known had been there. She had obviously spent too much time with that monster, Hrothgar.
What followed was frantic, for both of them. When Grartok was done, he rose and began to rearrange his clothing. The lover became the warrior once more.
“Move your belongings in here woman,” he said to her gruffly once he had regained his composure. “You’re my tent-woman now.”
“What about Hrothgar?” queried Mardur, maintaining a submissive tone despite the exhilaration she was feeling.
“What about him?” sneered Grartok dismissively. “I am First Warrior. I take what I want.”
“He’ll be angered if he returns and finds that I’ve moved from his tent, especially when he hears where I’ve gone. I fear him.”
“Mmmm. You’re right. It’d be like the dog to do something rash, too. I’ll leave a guard. Don’t worry. Grartok protects what is his. Forget about Hrothgar. He’s nothing to you now.”
“Yes First Warrior.”
With that Grartok turned and left. Mardur allowed herself a smile. It couldn’t have gone better for her. She wasn’t out of trouble yet, but another important hurdle had been crossed. The gods were smiling on her, she could see that now. Surely they wouldn’t desert her after she had come this far. Now, if they could just help her to get pregnant, then she would be truly safe.
She could fake it for a while, but not for long. No matter. Certainly, now that she had spoken to Grartok, the sands of time were running, but she had also bought herself a bit of breathing space, and some much-needed protection from Hrothgar. Everything now depended on Norag. Mardur hoped that the youngster was as fertile as he was eager.
~~~
“It doesn’t look very impressive,” snorted the slig leader as he looked down on the walled town nestled on the floor of the valley below the two riders. Despite the lengthening shadows as the sun slipped inexorably towards the horizon, their position on the crest of the ridge gave them an excellent view of both the valley and the town that it harboured. “They didn’t even have the sense to fortify this ridge,” Grartok continued, his eyes still assessing what he could make out of Kurandir’s defences. Shifting casually in his saddle, he turned to look at the warrior next to him.
Brorgar swallowed in an attempt to moisten his parched throat as the First Warrior’s gaze fell upon him. Although his throat was dry, his armour seemed clammy and uncomfortable and he knew that his brow was beaded with perspiration. For the moment, he was safe. The First Warrior was in a good mood. If he hadn’t been, Brorgar’s head would already have been lying in the dust at Grartok’s feet rather than still atop the broad shoulders of the hunt leader to whom it belonged. How long this mood would last was another thing.
Although Brorgar could see that luck was on his side for the moment, he knew that his position was a tenuous one. He prayed to Zar he would somehow make it through this interview with the foremost warrior of the Sagath tribe with his head and shoulders still connected to each other. Unconsciously he twisted his neck, rubbing it absently with one hand as he did so. He wondered if the First Warrior was toying with him, like a desert scratcher playing with its prey before it moves in for the kill.
“They fight like sligs, not like Algarians, First Warrior,” he explained to Grartok, forcing the words from his dry throat and trying to sound as composed as he could. “I’ve thrown everything I’ve got at them and they still haven’t cracked. It must be some élite garrison.”
“Elite garrison!” scoffed Grartok with a sudden roar that startled the hunt leader. “I don’t think so, Brorgar. Just a pack of dogs that aren’t ready to die yet more likely. You’ve had two days. Take the town by sunset tomorrow or I’ll replace you.”
Brorgar winced as he nodded silently, unable to induce his vocal cords to produce a reply. He knew exactly what ‘replace’ meant.
“Now,” continued Grartok, as if they had just been discussing the weather, “how about some of that corn liquor you said you liberated? You can help me celebrate, Brorgar. I’ve just learnt that I’ve sired the next leader of the slig nation
.”
As Grartok wheeled his horse away from the ridge, Brorgar allowed himself a momentary glance skywards. Zar was known to be capricious but he sensed that the god must have smiled on him this day. He knew he would do well not to waste this chance to redeem himself. Gods didn’t bestow those kinds of favours more than once in a lifetime.
“Grartok is a great leader.”
Brorgar pulled his eyes away from the flickering flames and looked up at the retreating back of the slig leader as he made his way off into the darkness, in the direction of the horse corral. “Yes,” he grunted to the warrior seated beside him, his voice devoid of any emotion. “He’ll lead the Sagath to greatness before he’s done.”
Rudnak nodded thoughtfully in response, then turned to look at Brorgar as Grartok disappeared from view. If the look of awe on the young warrior’s face wasn’t a clear enough indication of the impression the slig leader had made on him, the words he spoke next confirmed his adoration of their leader. “It’s an honour to serve him.”
“Mmmm,” grunted Brorgar unconvincingly, turning his eyes back to the pitted metal in his gnarled hands and running the whetstone across the face of his blade once more. “It’s not one I’ll have for much longer if we don’t take that accursed town when the sun rises.”
“Aieee, but they fight like demons, don’t they?” The mention of battle brought a sense of excitement back to Rudnak’s voice. “I didn’t think I would ever say it. I thought they were all soft. But these ones, they are truly warriors, and they fight with courage and skill. They are fitting opponents for us. It would be an honour to die fighting the likes of them.”
Brorgar looked up at Rudnak through slitted eyes. Nothing seemed to diminish the youngster’s enthusiasm, not even the carnage they had both witnessed a few hours earlier. “That’s all very well, Rudnak,” he replied after a brief pause, “but I’d like to see the end of this war. I too want to die with honour, but not just yet, thank you.”
Brorgar knew that Rudnak was young. Time would change him. The hunt leader also knew that honour meant nothing when you were lying in the hot dust with your blood pooling around you and your life slowly ebbing away as the battle raged above you. That kind of death was all very well for campfire stories on winter nights, but Brorgar had found the older he got the more jealously he clung to life. Like all sligs, it was important to him that his prowess in battle be seen and acknowledged by all; but he also had a fine tent-woman and a strapping young son and he wanted to see them both again one day. A lot of warriors would die on both sides before that could happen.
At first, Rudnak offered no response to his comment. He sat there silently, gazing into the crackling fire, apparently uncertain as to how he should respond. Then, suddenly, he broke the silence.
“I too want this war to end. But my blade has tasted Algarian blood and it thirsts for more. It won’t let me return home until it has sated its needs. Isn’t that the true way for a slig warrior?” As Rudnak finished speaking he looked across at his hunt leader. The blank look on his face hid whatever concerns had been left unvoiced.
Brorgar was no fool, however. He knew what the unspoken words were. Why don’t you feel this way too, hunt leader? Rudnak was thinking.
Well, let Rudnak think what he wants, he thought as he continued to stroke his blade with the whetstone. He could sense the turmoil in his young companion’s mind and he knew that he would be wondering now if his hunt leader had gone soft, or if he had lost his nerve following the setback at the gates. Like most of the young warriors in Brorgar’s hunt, Rudnak had never seen battle before and his notions of war were naive and simplistic.
That was Brorgar’s problem. His hunt had never been blooded in battle prior to this assault on Kurandir. Apart from some minor raids and the unopposed sweep across the Algarian eastern frontier that had brought them here, Brorgar was the only one in the whole hunt who had any real experience of note. He knew that for many of his warriors their idealistic concepts of war would be shattered before the current campaign was over. Brorgar also knew that he would be lucky if he didn’t pay for their inexperience with his life.
“No matter,” said Brorgar, brushing aside his fears for the moment, “your blade’s need won’t go unquenched.” He would never guide his hunt to victory if they lost their faith in his ability to lead them. “We have them now,” he said, trying to sound positive. “With the gates open our next assault should finish them.”
His words belied what he really thought of their situation. They had battered their way into the town only hours earlier that day, in the final assault before night had fallen. With their deadly crossbows keeping all but the foolhardiest of the Algarians away from the parapets, a small group of warriors had borne the ram they had fashioned right up to the walls and commenced to batter away at the huge wooden gates. It had taken some time and they had lost a number of warriors, but eventually, the timbers had begun to crack and splinter and finally they had won their way through. With a huge roar, they had rushed in through the breach, hurling their war cries and brandishing their weapons with deadly intent, ready to slaughter their opponents to the last man, only to find the cursed Algarians had laid a trap and were there waiting for them.
The defenders had built a huge wall made up of wagons piled one on top of another around the open square the gates led into. They had perched archers atop the ring of wagons and on the surrounding rooftops and as soon as the square had filled with sligs they had rained arrows down on the ‘killing field’ they had created below. The hunt had lost a great many warriors in the confusion that followed, until eventually they had broken and fled.
It had been a sight that Brorgar was unaccustomed too, that of slig warriors routed in battle, unable to get at their foe and falling over one another in their desperation to escape from the deadly hail of arrows that was raining down on them from above. Thank Zar that Grartok didn’t hear of that.
Despite the debacle, Brorgar’s experience told him the wrecking of the gates should mean that the end was now in sight for the defenders of Kurandir. Their last tactic had taken the sligs by surprise, but Brorgar wouldn’t allow himself to underestimate either their wiliness or their courage again. The gates were irreparable and with the walls breached the next assault should be the final one. Brorgar knew that it had to be. His own life depended on it.
Chapter 2
The door to Tu-atha stood closed. Kell had a clear view of it from across the small clearing that surrounded the entryway. From there, he could easily make out the wooden beams and thin metal bands of the large door that gave entry to Golkar’s manse. He stared down at the construction intently, as if he might somehow see through it and into his colleague’s abode. His mount moved nervously beneath him. The surrounding forest was unnaturally quiet.
“Steady, Thyfur,” Kell crooned softly to the beast beneath him. “He’s there, I sense it now. Soon he will sense me as well. It’s time I removed the masking spell.”
In an instant, Kell was aware of his companion’s reply. Silently he cursed himself. It was hard to get used to telepathic communication when he hadn’t used it for so long. Thyfur’s message was curt and to the point. I long to be at the brute, mage. The deep rumble that emerged from the beast’s throat conveyed some sense of the mood that accompanied the thought.
The wizard resisted the urge to stroke the flanks of his mount. He had always found it hard to accept that the creature could feel anything through its metal plumage. Although, like any other winged beast, its feathers rippled and moved as it shifted its weight from one clawed talon to another, even after all this time, Kell’s mind still resisted the knowledge that the gryphon responded to tactile contact like any normal creature of flesh and blood.
For normal it certainly was not. None, not even Kell, knew the tale of where the creatures had come from, though few that had seen them doubted their genesis was elsewhere than in Ilythia. One look at the beasts was enough to confirm their alien origins.
The cre
ature was huge, for a start. From his position astride its neck, Kell looked down on the door from at least double its height, if not more. Its wingspan was equally awesome. In flight, the gryphon would spread its immense wings like those of the great eagles its upper body so closely resembled. From tip to tip, when fully extended, they covered a distance of more than a score of paces. It was its appearance, however, more than its size, which made it such a daunting sight.
Its head and wings closely resembled those of an eagle, albeit a huge one at that. Its hooked beak, given its size, was an intimidating weapon in its own right and the steely eyes that glared out from beneath the tufted feathers of its brow gave it a look that was both cold and menacing. The feathers themselves were equally off-putting. Metallic in nature, yet strangely flexible nonetheless, they dully reflected the bright sunlight of the cool forest morning. Similar plumage adorned the rest of the creature’s upper body. Although its wings were folded at the moment, tucked back along the length of its massive body, razor-sharp talons could be seen, if one looked closely enough, nestling beneath the feathers of its forequarters.
In utter contrast, its lower body was akin to that of a lion or some such similar beast of the earth. Tawny fur covered its powerful, muscular hindquarters. Its talons gripped the forest floor tightly, carving deep wounds in the grassy surface upon which it stood. Thyfur, for that was its name, was clearly a formidable being.
Kell had tamed the beast long, long ago. Circumstances had led him to take a leading role in rearing it from the time it had been barely a chick; not an easy task and one he doubted any human had ever attempted before. He’d had no choice, really. Having been forced to slay its mother he couldn’t bring himself to leave her chick to die as well.