Red Sky at Dawn (12 page)

As their campfire burned down to embers, he and Leinjar sat silently and scanned the forest towards the rear. Twice Roskin thought he saw leaves rustle, but both times, nothing emerged from the woods. Then, an image came to him, a vision of a beast he had never before seen, and it was heading for Leinjar and him, not the other end. Roskin motioned to Leinjar and then stood slowly, drawing the throwing axes as he did. Without questioning, Leinjar got to his feet and readied his pike.

Stealthily, a figure emerged from the forest and moved towards them. Its head was like a dog’s, but it crept on all fours with the grace of a mountain lion. Its fur was black and shiny, and as it moved, its massive paws padded on the ground with almost no noise. Its shoulders and haunches rippled with thick muscles, and for a moment, both Roskin and Leinjar froze.

Then, the beast seemed to sense that they could see it, for it stopped and sniffed the air. It rose on its back legs, standing over seven feet tall, and while it did have a head and paws similar to a dog’s, its torso and legs looked more human when it stood. It sniffed the air again and moved another step forward. As it did, Roskin flung one of the axes and struck it in the left shoulder. As the blade pierced flesh and lodged in bone, the creature staggered backwards, howling in pain, and swiped at the axe with its right paw. The high-pitched shriek cut through the heavy silence of the camp, and within seconds, the elves and other dwarves were moving towards it.

Unable to dislodge the axe, the beast turned and lurched back into the forest, still on two legs. Without thinking, Roskin rushed into the woods and chased after it. Even wounded, the figure moved swiftly, climbing the hill in long strides, and Roskin had to run hard just to maintain the pace. Behind them, he could hear Leinjar trying to keep up and even further back the elves rushing, but as he and the beast raced over the crest of the hill, the sounds began to fade.

“Roskin, come back!” Leinjar yelled, some fifty yards behind. “Roskin!”

But the Kiredurk had set his will on catching this monster, and only death would keep him from it. Tredjards and Ghaldeons are typically not good runners, their legs being proportionally shorter than the rest of their bodies, but Kiredurks have long legs and are among the fleetest of bipeds. Roskin, whose mother was a wild Loorish elf, was especially fast, and even though the creature set an intense pace, he was able to keep up.

Deeper and deeper into the forest they ran, climbing and descending hills, crossing streams, and crashing through the underbrush that thickened as they went. Roskin’s face and arms were scratched and bleeding, but with his focus seared on the chase, he barely noticed. Patches of moonlight shone through the trees, occasionally illuminating the beast, which was beginning to labor with the wounded shoulder. Roskin sensed that it was tiring and was glad, for he was soaked with sweat, and his legs burned.

Even as they fatigued, they kept running, the beast from fear and Roskin from the need to protect his friends. As they climbed a steep slope, the creature suddenly darted into a cave, a place it must’ve known well and believed safe refuge from the half-dwarf, but Roskin barely broke stride as he followed it inside. The narrow passage descended sharply for several yards and then opened into a large room with a soft, muddy floor. The air was damp and stale, and all around them rats scurried to hide from the sudden intruders. Finally, the beast stopped near the far wall and turned to face its foe.

For a moment, they made eye contact, and Roskin saw hatred in the other’s eyes. In that instant, he knew that one of them would die in this cave, and if it were him, no one would ever find his body. The eleventh heir to the Eighth Kingdom would be lost forever, and the Ninth Kingdom would begin. Strangely, this thought gave him comfort, for he was not ready to lose the throne before he had taken it. He steadied himself, wielding the other throwing axe but ready to draw his sword, and waited for the beast to make the first move.

It raised itself to full height and bared its dagger-like teeth. Then, it charged straight for Roskin, and he had to step quickly to avoid the rush. Gathering itself from the miss, the beast charged again, this time swiping at him with its good arm. Its claws barely caught his left arm and left three scratches across his bicep. Roskin backpedaled to get a little distance between them, but the creature turned and was on him before he could brace himself.

He slipped and fell on his back, his head smacking the muddy ground, and for an instant, everything went black. Instinctively, he swung the axe to guard himself, and the blade struck something solid and held fast. Then, the handle ripped from his hand. As his vision came back into focus, he saw the beast stagger backwards, the axe lodged in its left arm just above the elbow. Again, it howled in pain, and inside the cave, the noise hurt Roskin’s ears. He scrambled to his feet, drew his sword, and charged the stunned beast.

It swung at him again with its good arm, and Roskin, who had boxed for as long as he could remember, never saw the blow. The massive paw struck his cheek like a right hook, and his head snapped backwards from the impact. Again, he fell to the soggy ground, this time on his right side. He rolled with the impact and clamored to his feet, slipping in the mud.

The beast was on him in an instant, tackling him back to the ground and snapping at him with its teeth. Roskin raised his sword and blocked the bite with the length of his blade. The beast bit down on the metal and tried to rip it from the dwarf’s right hand, but Roskin held the pommel tightly and kept the beast’s teeth just out of reach of his neck and face. He was pinned to the ground by the creature’s weight and could feel its hot breath on him. With his left hand, he punched it in the ribs again and again and again, until bones snapped from the pounding. Yelping, the beast let go of the sword and rolled away from the dwarf.

As soon as he could move, Roskin got his feet and gathered himself. The creature was also to its feet, and again they made eye contact. This time Roskin saw fear in place of hate, and for an instant he considered showing mercy, but just as quickly he realized that if the tables were turned, it would not hesitate to take his life. If he let it go, in a few days it would recover enough from its wounds to resume hunting, and then Crushaw and his group would come along the old road and perhaps fall prey to it. Roskin couldn’t risk that, so he readied his sword in middle guard and waited for it to make the first move.

Both held their ground for several heartbeats, time that dragged on for longer than Roskin thought possible. His breath came in rapid gulps, and his limbs burned with fatigue. The beast’s breathing was ragged and hoarse, a feral and fierce sound that filled the cavern. Flexing his fingers, Roskin adjusted his grip and braced for the charge he knew was about to happen.

Nothing is quite so dangerous as a wounded animal. Pain and fear of death muster strength and adrenaline the healthy rarely know. Roskin had once seen a wounded bear rip through a dozen well-armed, seasoned Kiredurks as if they were frail children, so he knew that even though this animal was hurt, it was far from beaten. It charged, teeth flashing and good arm poised to strike; its speed and ferocity were more than he had ever experienced. Even prepared, he barely sidestepped and ducked the blow. Damp fur brushed him as the beast thundered by. Missing its mark, it stumbled trying to stop and then slipped in the mud. As it staggered to regain its balance, Roskin pounced and drove his blade into its back.

The animal howled again, this time a lower pitch and much more guttural, and as it slunk to its knees, Roskin withdrew the sword and swung a wide horizontal slash. The blade found its mark just below the beast’s right ear and tore through flesh and bone, severing the spinal cord. The howl went silent, and the broken body collapsed in a pile. Without ceremony, Roskin dislodged his axes and wiped them clean on the creature’s fur before returning them to their loops. Then, he cleaned his sword and sheathed it. He had protected his friends from this thing, and that was enough for him. As he made his way to the cave’s entrance, rats scuttled from their hiding places to find the fresh meal that had just been left.

A Surprise by a Stream

Three weeks had passed since Roskin and the others had left, and Vishghu was just beginning to regain her strength. The wounds themselves had not been so bad, but from the lack of proper treatment and the grueling travel across the Pass of Hard Hope, infection had taken hold. She had been lucky not to lose any limbs, for had another day or two passed, the infection would have become too much for even the most skilled healer. As it were, she had come through without any long-term concerns, and everyone was impressed with her resiliency.

Crushaw had stayed by her side through the worst of it, only leaving to see off Roskin and Molgheon and to walk during the day. With the care of a father, he had attended to her, fetching water and food, changing bandages, and applying ointments. Few would have believed that he had once been feared by her kind as a bloodthirsty murderer. Even Vishghu, who once hated him, now had trouble believing that he and Evil Blade were the same person.

As she recuperated, Vishghu got to know the Marshwoggs and their culture. They and ogres rarely encounter each other, for because of extremely low body fat, Marshwoggs need temperatures above freezing to survive. On the other hand, from thick layers of fat, ogres don’t often travel too far from the arctic north, so for her the experience among them was completely foreign.

Like Roskin, she was struck by the richness and variety of their economy. Every Marshwogg she met was a partial owner of the business where they worked, and from this motivation, they were the best workers she had ever seen. Ogres rarely acknowledge that another race is better than them at anything, for the elements they live in are the harshest in the world. From the ruggedness, ingenuity, and diligence it takes to survive on the ice plains, ogres have developed a sense of superiority. No other race could endure their climate, so no other race could be as strong as they are, but Vishghu had to admit that the Marshwoggs were better and more efficient in their businesses.

As her strength returned, so grew her readiness to return to Kwarck’s. While she liked the Marshwoggs, this was not her land, and as spring stretched towards summer, the warm temperatures were becoming uncomfortable. Between the heat and humidity of the swampy peninsula, she often felt as if she were smothering, and even though the temperatures on the plains could get just as hot during the summer, the drier heat was more bearable. To her, the Marshwoggs could keep the stifling mugginess.

Crushaw also seemed ready to travel. The enormity of the past year had taken its toll, and he was ready to return to Kwarck’s and live out his exile. From the years of sleeping on the ground, marching through every kind of weather, and punishing his body in battle, his joints had become stiff and sore. Old injuries flared up and ached from time to time as if they had just happened, and his memory had begun to erode. In short, at seventy-six years old, his age had finally started catching up to him, and he was ready to rest.

He had told Vishghu all of this as they sat through the long days of her recuperation, and while the picture he painted was of a frail old man, Vishghu knew that for the most part his health was still good, especially for someone who had endured as much as he had. She had seen him on the battlefield and had fought against him once herself, and while he might have lost some strength and quickness, he was still as skilled with a sword as anyone.

On this day, three weeks after Roskin and Molgheon had left, she, Crushaw, and a handful of Ghaldeons were preparing for their own journey. The freed Tredjards had collectively decided to settle in the mountains that belonged to the Marshwoggs and establish new mines, and the elves too badly injured or too old for the flight to the forest had decided to live out their days on this peninsula. That left only the small party to follow after Molgheon and Roskin, and secretly, Vishghu was glad to have so few with them. That way, they had a much better chance of reaching Kwarck’s without attracting attention.

She and Crushaw sat with the five Ghaldeons inside the same tavern where Roskin had eaten on that first day, and as they finished their meal of fresh venison and spring greens, Crushaw described the route they would take from the mountains to Kwarck’s. Roskin and the others would have to follow Lake Vassa in order to reach the Koorleine Forest and then turn north, but since Crushaw and Vishghu wouldn’t need to visit the forest, they could cut diagonally across the Great Empire. If they avoided settlements and traveled swiftly, they might even reach the hermit’s before Roskin and Molgheon.

Since Ghaldeons and ogres were enemies of the Great Empire, they would mostly travel at night, and Crushaw would wear his fake insignia in case they were discovered. He would claim Vishghu and the dwarves were his slaves, and with a little luck, no one would question the story. When he finished describing the plan, he asked Vishghu when she thought she would be ready to travel.

“I feel good,” she said. “Maybe a day or two, just to be careful.”

“Check with the healers. If they approve, we’ll plan on leaving in two days.”

“It’s been many years since I saw home,” one of the Ghaldeons said. “It’s almost too good to be true.”

“We’re not there, yet,” Crushaw said. “A lot can go wrong between here and there.”

“True, but we trust you’ll lead us home.”

“We’ll see.”

“I trust that, too,” Vishghu added. “You’ve gotten us this far.”

“Go see the healers,” Crushaw said, rising from his seat and strapping on his sword. “I’m gonna stretch my legs.”

With that he left the tavern and disappeared down the street. Vishghu finished the last few bites of her meal and then also excused herself from the Ghaldeons. She left the tavern and headed for the main healer who had tended to her, a tender Marshwogg whose hands – even webbed - were as adroit as any elf’s. She had taken excellent care of the ogre, and Vishghu trusted that she would give sound advice on when to travel.

***

Suvene didn’t like the way the Marshwoggs lived. Their culture had little social structure and no division between masters and workers. In orc culture - the only civilized way to exist - the lines were clear and defined. Masters managed affairs and arranged deals; soldiers protected the lands; overseers kept the slaves in line; and lowly orcs performed labor that slaves couldn’t be trusted with. That made sense. What he knew about the Marshwoggs struck him as anarchy.

Nonetheless, the phantom had led the slaves into these lands, so he had followed. Now, he had tracked them to this small town between the mountains and the swamps, and he had been watching the phantom’s routine for several days. After lunch each day, it walked through town and into the surrounding forest, stopping beside a small stream to nap for half an hour. Then, it would return to town and sit with the ogre until supper.

Since the only time the phantom was alone was during the nap, Suvene had hidden in the trees near the stream and would wait for it to fall asleep. Then, he would catch it unaware and have his revenge. He was well hidden in the middle branches of an ancient chestnut oak, his gray skin blending well with the thick bark. To keep himself quiet and light, he only had a sharp knife and his sword with him; the rest of his equipment and the horse were hidden downstream nearly a mile. All things considered, even the keenest of elves would have had trouble detecting the trap.

The aroma of the tree’s catkins - a thick, sweet smell that drenched the air this time of spring - was almost too powerful, but he stayed still against the bark and watched for the phantom. Despite his boredom and the distractions of birds fluttering and furry rodents scampering from tree to tree, he focused on the clearing where his enemy would emerge, and his attention did not waver, not even for a few moments. Finally, the phantom appeared on the trail and walked to its usual spot beside the stream. The ground was thick with plush clover, and the phantom’s footsteps left deep impressions in the fertile land. Then, it unstrapped its sword, laying the weapon on a smooth rock, and stretched itself out on the soft ground.

Suvene waited until he was certain it was asleep before moving. Slowly, he climbed down from the branches and slunk over to where the phantom lay. For several moments, he stood above the monster and savored this moment of victory. The phantom’s face was flecked with scars of all sizes and patterns, and asleep it looked much more frail and less fearsome than when he had first fought it. For a moment, he forgot just how fiercely it had battled him at the Slithsythe.

Standing over his enemy, Suvene remembered how as a child he had watched the Masters lavish their children with awards and accolades while he and the other commoners stood in the background. Knowing that he was as talented as any of them, he had promised himself that one day he would earn their praise and rise above his humble station, so he had trained until the blisters on his hands bled. With time, the tender blisters calloused over, and as he grew, his hands hardened like a good piece of hickory. Even though he had never officially won a tournament, every orc he had ever fought agreed that he was the most skilled swordsman in the civilized world. Now, he would kill this outlaw and claim his place among the great orc heroes. His dedication and training were about to pay off.

As he thought this, he straddled the phantom’s torso and positioned himself above it. Then, he drew his knife and pounced on its chest, pinning its arms to its side with his knees and grabbing its hair with his free hand. It opened it eyes in shock but didn’t scream as he had hoped. Suvene spat in its face and pressed the blade against its throat. It stared back at him, its eyes cold and unyielding, its face a mask without a hint of fear.

“It seems I won this time,” Suvene hissed, gripping the knife’s handle more tightly.

“Seems so,” the phantom returned, its voice as cold as its eyes.

“Now, you pay.”

“Ask yourself one question first,” it said.

“What’s that?”

“Can you live not knowing?”

“What?” Suvene asked.

“If you could’ve really beaten me.”

“I did beat you.”

“That so?”

Suvene looked at the sword on the rock and then back at the monster’s face. It stared at him as if they were discussing the weather.

“All right,” Suvene said, removing the knife from against its throat. “I’ll prove it again.”

He leapt to his feet and jumped away, putting a few feet between them. The phantom rolled onto all fours and then slowly rose, groaning as it did. Suvene drew his sword and readied himself in high guard, but the phantom stood in place and stretched its arms above its head and yawned.

“Get your sword, or I’ll run you through.”

“I’m old. Give me a moment.”

“Hurry.”

“You have another appointment?”

“Just get your sword.”

The phantom strolled to the rock and took the worn pommel in its hand. Then, it turned to Suvene, holding the blade in middle guard, and spoke in a voice that chilled the young orc:

“It’s been a few weeks since I tasted orc blood, but today, I’ll drink my fill.”

Suvene stepped forward one step, and the phantom moved slightly to its right, keeping distance between them. They circled twice, each watching for the other to make the first move, and finally, the phantom stepped forward. When it did, Suvene brought down his sword with a powerful stroke, but the phantom blocked the blow and turned the block into a rake at Suvene’s left forearm. He had to move quickly to avoid the ploy, stepping back and raising his sword back to high guard. The phantom also stepped away and returned to middle guard.

Again they circled each other a couple of rounds, but this time, Suvene moved first, rushing in with a horizontal slash. The phantom sidestepped the attack and countered with a thrust, but Suvene, anticipating the move, parried it and swung again. They fought in this manner for several minutes, feeling for a weakness and setting up a counter.

The first time they had fought, the phantom was already fatigued, but this time, its blows came faster and with more impact. Suvene was impressed, even more so than before, but was still certain that he could find his opening. Then, he would strike it down and not leave any doubt as to who was better.

In the distance, a bell sounded, the resonance low and steady. The guard in the watchtower must’ve heard the fight and summoned the town’s militia, so Suvene didn’t have much time left to win. He drove forward with a series of quick thrusts, but the phantom easily parried each one. As they continued to fight, the sounds of soldiers approaching grew louder.

“That’s my cue,” the phantom said, grinning.

Then, it swung at his sword with quickness Suvene had never seen before. When the blades collided, the impact jolted his hands so much that he released his grip and dropped his sword. As if in a nightmare, he watched as his weapon fell harmlessly onto the clover and the phantom aimed its blade at his chest. Although it wasn’t possible, he had lost, his skills falling short when victory had been within reach. Like a gambler realizing the coins are all gone, he closed his eyes and waited for the sting.

“You’re good,” the phantom said, breathing heavily. “But your grip is weak.”

“Just end it,” Suvene returned through pursed lips, but when nothing happened, he opened his eyes and saw a platoon of Marshwoggs emerge from the trees.

“You’re subdued,” the phantom returned. “By their laws, if I kill you now, I’m the criminal, so they can have you.”

“If you don’t kill me, I’ll keep hunting you.”

“If we meet again, you’ll die. Go home and grow old.”

Then, it spoke with the Marshwoggs in the barbaric tongue, and the crude sounds were poison to his ears. He wasn’t scared to die and considered going for his sword, but if he fell here, the phantom would escape again, this time for good. He couldn’t let that happen, so he stood still and waited for the Marshwoggs to bind his hands and lead him to town.

***

After the orc had been led away, Crushaw sat on the worn rock to catch his breath. He had almost just died, and for someone who had never feared death, the sensation he now felt disturbed him. Had the orc not been so vain, it would’ve slit his throat and been done with it, for Crushaw had not even suspected the ambush. That fact let him know for sure that his days as a warrior were at an end. In his youth, he would’ve at least smelled an orc nearby and been ready for it. Now, his senses had dulled to the point that he no longer trusted them.