Tides of Blood and Steel (21 page)

Finally she answered, “No, we follow first. The demon will want to know where the Humans are going.”

“But the Murdes Mountains are not safe, even for our kind. Let the demons deal with these creatures themselves,” Brom cautioned.

Freina flared angrily. “We follow the Humans.”

The Harpies leapt into the air. The hunt had begun.

* * * * *

Rekka Jel abruptly stiffened in her saddle. Her senses warned of a latent danger moving closer, as if stalking them. It was a familiar feeling. The sense had developed when she was still a child. Strange beasts often came from the depths of the great jungle in search of an easy meal or just to cause carnage before disappearing back into the thick canopy. This time felt much the same. She knew they were being hunted.

Maleela was the first to notice. “Rekka, what is it?”

The diminutive warrior woman had a faraway glaze. “Something is coming for us.”

“More thugs from Praeg?” the princess automatically asked.

“I do not believe so. Those men weren’t dangerous despite their numbers. This is a feeling of something far worse, sinister. We must be cautious until we know what it is.”

Maleela suppressed an involuntary shudder. Rekka’s warning combined with the looming Mountains of Death churned her stomach. The world she had grown up reading about closed in on her. Invisible walls made her feel small. Too much death and despair danced ever out of reach yet close enough to torment her dreams. She wanted to be back in Aurec’s arms. The singular thought of him already being dead because of her father brought tears to her eyes. Her father. The man was a menace to all of Malweir. She struggled inwardly to keep from screaming at the top of her lungs.

Forcing herself to stay focused, Maleela asked, “Have you ever been in the mountains before?”

Rekka shook her head. “No. I followed the river almost all the way north before crossing overland to your kingdom.”

“How far away is your land?”

“Almost a full moon cycle provided the weather stays agreeable. The jungles of Brodein are far away.”

Maleela suddenly had romantic notions of what the green jungle must be like. “Is it beautiful? I would very much like to see a world where the cold of winter does not kiss the lands.”

“The jungles are beautiful and dangerous. It is green and humid. Snow never comes. Even if it did the canopy of branches and leaves would catch it and keep it high enough for the sun to melt. There are flowers of every color and beasts that are best left unmentioned.”

Rekka fell silent, leaving Maleela to daydream about an alien world.

Boen took a seat on a small tree stump, humming as he pulled out a sharpening stone. The crisp crackling of the fire provided all the company he needed as he began sharpening his sword. He, like all Gaimosians, was a relatively solitary man, neither needing nor craving the company of others. Some considered this to be a severe social dilemma though he cared less. Boen lived the life his people had been forced to live for all the generations since the fall of Gaimos.

He often wondered how his blood had fallen so low. Gaimos had once been prosperous. It was called the jewel of the west, filled with a proud people who saw war as a profession while the rest of Malweir struggled sluggishly through petty conflicts. It was the combination of that pride and prowess that sparked a mighty coalition of nations to gather and make war on Gaimos’s very steps. When the smoke cleared, his people were scattered, his kingdom ash. Gaimos was no more. Those who survived went on to become the world’s best mercenaries. Some were also the founders of the order of Mages so long ago. A wild form of magic ran through their veins, allowing their select few to rise above the misery of the world around them and make a positive difference. He snorted. Magic. It was a useless tool that had burned itself out of Malweir. Today the few Gaimosians remaining in their bloodline were known as the Vengeance Knights.

Soft footsteps made him pause and look up. “You should be sleeping.”

Skuld eased into the light. “I have too much on my mind. I can’t sleep.”

Boen grunted and resumed sharpening his sword. “You are much too young to carry so many worries.”

“I can’t help it. All I ever wanted was a better life than what I had. This isn’t it. There has been so much killing that I do not think I can go on.”

“Malweir is not the world in the romance stories. It is dangerous.”

Skuld looked up expectantly, hopefully. “How do you do it?”

Boen held up his mighty broadsword. The blade was made from lost technologies. The integrity of the steel was far superior to the weapons produced now. He admired the way the melted snow dripped down the length of the blade.

“This blade gives me the strength I need. This blade and fire in my blood,” he answered mystically.

Skuld had no idea what he was talking about. The spell of warrior and combat had broken in Praeg when he saw the true face of battle, though it surely was more of a slaughter than a battle. His thoughts drifted to what little Boen had said of his ancient homeland. He was amazed at the inner strength the Gaimosian constantly displayed. He was quite sure he didn’t possess that same kind of strength. He’d only fostered dreams of greatness, not attempted to realize them. Sneaking aboard the
Dragon’s Bane
was perhaps the most important and foolhardy thing he had ever done.

He looked into the flickering flames. “How much of that strength is the sword and how much is what you have inside?”

Boen was impressed by the boy’s wit. “We are different people and cannot be so compared. You have much ahead of you, young Skuld. I think this life has more in store for you than what you are willing to believe. Do not abandon hope. The past cannot be undone.”

“I wish I could be so sure.”

“Patience, lad. A flower does not bloom in a single day. You have already learned much of the path, but not enough just yet.”

Skuld cocked his head. “The path?”

“Aye. The path is the way of the warrior. It is the unending road that we forever follow. The only way to leave the path is through death’s gates where you will be judged by your ancestors. If they deem you worthy, you will be accepted into their mighty company.” A twinkle entered his eyes. “I shall be glad when it is my time.”

Skuld had raw potential. Boen and the sell swords took turns trying to refine it into a useable tool, but it took years to make a warrior. Any fool could swing a blade, but it took an artist to use it properly.

He smiled as the boy yawned. Cold ate away at their strength, making them more tired than usual. “Go and get some rest. The hard part has not even begun yet.”

Skuld barely heard him as he stumbled back to his bed roll. Boen ensured the boy tucked himself in before going back to his sword. Neither of them noticed the three birdlike figures drifting in high circles overhead.

Nothol Coll rode hard back to camp shortly before dawn. A worried look strained his face.

Bahr pulled up his breeks. Steam rose from where he had just relieved himself. “What news?”

“We are in for a fight.”

Dorl reached up and took the reins. “You always say the nicest things in the morning.”

“How many?” Bahr asked.

“Twenty, maybe thirty with scouts.”

Bahr winced. It was not what he needed to hear so early. Reservations from their battle in Praeg were returning to haunt him. Worse, they had been gone from that town for more than a week now. Being chased so far was troubling.

“I thought we would have lost them by now,” he said and frowned. “How much time do we have?”

Nothol slid from the saddle. “An hour at the most.”

The Gaimosian, disturbed awake, drew his sword with a wicked grin. Old fires flared back to life at the prospect of battle. Maleela stared back at him, an incredulous look of fear etched on her face.

“What?” he asked after noticing the others all staring at him.

She said in her most diplomatic voice, “We should be running, not fighting.”

“No. That is what they want us to do. If we run they will hunt us down and set upon us like wolves once we exhaust ourselves. We fight now or get slaughtered later.”

Dorl ducked to the back of the wagon and returned with a long bow. “Let’s be about this if there is no choice. I don’t like to feel hunted.”

Bahr reluctantly agreed. His old nerves could only stand so much and he was well past the breaking limit. The mountains were still a few days off and with the wagon and building snow; he knew they would never make it. The choices had all been taken from him.

“Take Dorl and Nothol,” he told Boen. “Slow them enough and get back here before dusk.”

“What about the rest of us?” Maleela asked.

“There is still a defense to be prepared. Boen is right. This is the only way.”

She glowered as the trio quickly saddled and raced off.

The snow fell a little harder once the sun rose. It was heavy and wet, just foul enough to make the day miserable. Heavy flakes landed in Boen’s grey hair and instantly melted. He failed to notice. His hawkish eyes focused on the path ahead. An arrow hung loose in his bowstring.

“Shhh,” he hissed. “They are coming.”

He halted the line and directed them into the thin tree line. The first few riders came into view moments later. Boen snorted. There was no order amongst their enemy. Men moved in a disorganized rabble that suggested no formal military training, or common sense for that matter. The Gaimosian smiled brightly. Advantage was his. He patiently drew back and took aim as the unsuspecting riders came on. Boen slowed his breathing. He let fly when the first rider was fifty paces away.

Boen wasted no time in seeing if the arrow struck his target. He renocked and fired again. A pair of thrums joined him from the right and four enemy riders toppled from their saddles. There was a natural pause as horses bucked and men tried to figure out what just happened. Boen fired again. A high-pitched cry told him his aim was true.

“Over there! Get him!”

The Gaimosian pushed his mount hard, not waiting for the sell swords to fire one last salvo and follow. The ambush worked better than expected. It was a simple “L” shape, a tactic used by most civilized armies and perfected by Gaimos. The success of it against a score and a half of peasants heartened him. More than ten men were dead before the three defenders disengaged and scampered off into the light forest. The first raid proved more successful than Boen had hoped. He led them towards the second ambush position.

Boen dumped cold water on his head. Blood and water ran down his armored shirt. His breathing was erratic. The muscles in his arms and back spasmed uncontrollably. The big man reluctantly admitted that he was finally growing too old to swing his sword with much regularity. He even felt old. Damn. But at least he wasn’t dead. Five corpses lay steaming in the snow, growing pools of blood cooling in the early winter chill. A quick glance showed him that Nothol and Dorl were in the same position, more or less.

“That was too close. Is anyone injured?” Boen asked.

Dorl cursed and spat. “One of the bastards got my thigh.”

Bright red blood oozed from the top of the muscle. Nothol pulled out a field bandage from his pack and began treating the wound.

“Relax, it’s just a scratch,” he chided as Dorl jerked at his touch.

Dorl narrowed his eyes menacingly. “Easy for you to say.”

“I’ve seen you cry more from a tavern whore’s bite. Keep quiet while I dress this. I’d hate to tie it too tight,” Nothol laughed.

It was an easy sound, one that lightened the mood.

“If you two are done flirting, we should leave now,” Boen grumbled.

Dorl looked over the battlefield. More than a dozen bodies lay at broken angles in a wide circle. Arrows littered the tree trunks and the ground. A broken spear shaft dug into the ground less than a foot from where he stood. Dorl shook his head ruefully; seemingly amused any of the three were still alive.

The enemy had come into them with a thunder of hooves and violent intent. Earlier losses spurred them on and fueled their hatred. Vengeance stained their eyes as they collided with Boen and his fellows. The battle was hard-fought and furious. It lasted just a handful of minutes. The survivors not only broke contact, they fled. All of the fight had been drained. Twenty-two of the thirty brigands lay slaughtered across a little more than a league.

“Do you suppose that is the last we’ll see of them?” Dorl asked. He was still in mild shock from what they had done. He, Nothol, and Boen butchered their enemies without remorse. And for what? All for the revenge of one man, a man who happened to be one of the first ones killed before anyone had left Praeg.

Boen shrugged. “It is hard to tell. We bloodied their noses well enough to make most men quit. They might have given up or they could be on their way back with every man they can possibly find. Either way we should get back to Bahr.”

“We should fleece the dead. Take what we need and leave the rest,” Nothol suggested.