Actually, there was something that could be done, and Thurmond knew exactly what it was. He walked to where Grinder was sitting on a little bench with spindly legs that looked far too frail to support his enormous bulk. The young Adventurer stood before him, hands on hips, feet spread, in an unmistakable posture of challenge.
Drax’s life had been spared because he had done a worthy deed. Specifically, he had completed a difficult task that the warchief needed done but that none of his warriors could manage. Brodar saw Grinder as a rival, but he dared not kill him. He ought, therefore, to be grateful if Thurmond took care of it for him. That ought to qualify as a worthy deed.
The brute said something obviously intended as a warning, his voice sounding like the roar of a boar-hog being gutted with a rusty scythe. When Thurmond failed to retreat, the giant began to rise. The young Adventurer kicked him squarely in the balls. Taken by surprise, he grunted and fell backward, landing on the bench with such force that the legs snapped and he was thrown to the ground. Before he could rise, Thurmond kicked him in the face, hoping to stun him or at least knock him flat so he could stomp him into lifelessness.
But Grinder refused to go down. Instead of being flattened by Thurmond’s kick, he hurled himself forward with remarkable speed for a man so large, caught his attacker in a chest-to-chest bear hug, and proceeded to squeeze all the air from his lungs. Thurmond opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. His chest burned as if filled with hot coals.
Fighting back a rising wave of panic, he pulled the concealed knife from his sleeve and drove it under his opponent’s chin so that its tip was visible inside his gaping mouth. That should have at least slowed Grinder down, but it produced no significant effect. The brute only bellowed, splashing them both with blood.
Grinder tightened his grip, and Thurmond felt his ribs begin to give way. Unable to draw breath, his strength began to ebb. If he did not escape the brute’s terrible grasp, he would surely die.
The young Adventurer gave the dagger a hard shove, pushing it through the hard palate. He expected his foe to release him at once, but Grinder only squeezed harder as the blade penetrated his sinuses. With consciousness slipping away, Thurmond pulled the dagger free and thrust it at man’s face, burying the point just below his left eye. But again, incredibly, the monstrous warrior would not release his hold.
Grinder did, however, shift his grip in an effort to avoid the blade, expertly spinning Thurmond around so that the young man’s back was now pressed to his chest. This allowed the Adventurer one quick, hot breath before the crushing pressure was renewed.
Thurmond stuck wildly behind him, crisscrossing the brute’s scalp with deep gouges, opening his cheek from ear to mouth. But still the inexorable pressure continued. The point, at last, found the right eye, and with the last of his strength, Thurmond drove the blade to the hilt into Grinder’s skull.
For a moment, nothing happened. It seemed as if the huge man did not require a brain to live. But then his grip began to slacken, and he oozed to his knees as if his bones had melted. Thurmond slipped free and fell to the ground, unable to move. He was in terrible pain. His ribs felt like they had been ground between millstones. Breathing was sharp, shooting agony.
Sarah immediately ran to his aid. The Blue Horse warriors stood in awed silence. None of them, Brodar included, would have dared to challenge Grinder hand to hand.
Roscoe was not slow in exploiting Thurmond’s victory. He had understood at once what Thurmond had been hoping to achieve. He stood beside his gasping, suffering friend and proclaimed loudly.
“Was that not a worthy deed? This stripling lad has defeated your greatest champion, so he has. Who among you could have done so well? Such a lad deserves his life and freedom.”
He shot a hard look at Drax, who caught the meaning and began translating the old Adventurer’s words into the Vanarian tongue. The elders began to murmur amongst themselves until, finally, Brodar spoke aloud. Drax nodded in comprehension.
“He says this ain’t the kind of worthy deed they really wanted to see, but he has to admit that the kid’s got real courage. No matter what he’s sayin’ to his tribe, Brodar’s real happy to have Grinder dead. That’s why his men ain’t killin’ you right now. He signaled them not to.”
Brodar summoned Drax to his side. After a few moments of head nodding, he returned to Roscoe. He was smiling.
“I got great news. Seems like Thurmond solved a lot of problems for everybody by killin’ Grinder. Nobody much liked him, and none of them elders wanna see his clan takin’ over the tribe. So Thurmond done a worthy deed.
“I’m pretty surprised at how easy goin’ they’re bein’ about things. Brodar says Thurmond can go free. And he can buy the rest of your lives by givin’ him a gift that’s proper for a warchief. Somethin’ worthy. Then we can all ride on.”
Bart was immediately suspicious. Generosity was unnatural to his nature.
“What do they want?”
“Nothin’ much—only Sarah. Brodar likes her. He says she’s kinda old for him, but he’ll take her anyway. Then the rest of us can go.”
The Adventures were shocked at this announcement. Before Thurmond could object, Roscoe spoke up.
“Has your brain withered in its skull? What makes you think that we would even consider such a thing? That ain’t gonna happen, boyo.”
“You ain’t got no choice, Roscoe. You can refuse, but then they’ll just kill you and take her anyways.”
Hearing this, Sarah’s mind began racing at full speed, seeking an alternative. Then she had an idea.
“How about a fine weapon? A man like Brodar can surely have any girl he desires. And I’m seventeen. Like he said, that’s far too old for a man of his standing. A weapon is a much more fitting gift for such a great warrior. Tell him that, Drax.”
Drax translated, sending the elders off into another screaming, jabbering argument. They poked fingers into each other’s chests. Clenched fists were waved beneath noses. The warchief was right in the middle of them, waving his arms and yelling as loud as he could. It was a typical Blue Horse discussion.
Then, inexplicably, the clamoring came to an abrupt halt. Brodar spoke to Drax, who rendered his words into the common tongue.
“Brodar says he accepts your offer, but he will choose for himself the weapon he wants from among our pile of gear.”
This presented a whole new problem. The weapons of the Adventurers and mercenaries were nothing more than plain, soldierly tools. The only exceptional piece was Torgul’s axe.
It was a truly magnificent weapon, a masterpiece of dwarven workmanship. The highly polished head was inlaid with silver and gold in a complex pattern of interlaced figures. If the Vanarian chief tried to claim it, there would most certainly be trouble, for Torgul would fight to the death before surrendering his prized possession.
Brodar began searching through the pile of weapons and armor. He examined a couple of the better pieces but quickly rejected them. Then he picked up the axe.
Torgul gave a tight-lipped little grin, the dangerous expression he reserved for the moment just before committing an act of extreme violence. Roscoe saw the look, understood its meaning, and would have restrained his friend, but he was too far out of reach. If the dwarf launched himself at the warchief, they would all be slain.
Then something else caught Brodar’s eye, prompting him to drop the axe as if it were no more than a simple wood-chopper. He grasped instead the hilt of a sword projecting from the heap of nicked and rusty blades. It was the finest sword the warchief had ever beheld.
The dome-shaped pommel was resplendent with gems and lavishly embellished with knotwork cast in gold. The ends of the crossguard took the form of savage horse heads. The long, double-edged blade was heavy enough to sheer through the stoutest mail, yet remarkably light and agile in his hand.
Brodar’s heart leapt up! Here was a sword worthy of a Blue Horse warchief! He signaled for Drax and spoke to him in his barbaric tongue. The latter again translated.
“Brodar made his choice—he’s takin’ that sword.”
Roscoe wiped his brow in relief.
“We’re free to go then?”
“We are. But we still got a problem. When Grinder’s brothers find out what we done to him, they’ll come ridin’ hard and fast.”
Roscoe looked grave.
“How many?”
“Five brothers, but they’ll bring their whole clan. I dunno…dozens…scores maybe.”
“How long ‘til they get here?”
“Somebody’s already gone to tell ‘em what happened. They’ll be here by sometime tonight.”
Bart scowled.
“What happens then?”
“You gotta understand—you’re in a blood feud. We all are. Grinder’s brothers won’t care which one of us actually killed their kinsman. They’ll see us all part of the same clan. We gotta get outta here, and we gotta do it right quick.”
Bart remained unmoving as if he failed to comprehend these words. Drax, his voice rising, continued to prompt him.
“We’re gonna die if they can catch us, count on it. And Brodar will stand by and let ‘em kill us—that’s the custom in a feud. And our deaths ain’t gonna be easy ones like Thurmond give Grinder.”
The rest of the company understood and sprang to the pile of gear. Mercenaries and Adventurers began strapping on armor and belting on swords. Brodar’s warriors brought forth their horses, saddled and ready.
Sarah did her best, but she could not manage to drag the nearly insensible Thurmond to his feet. He seemed to have no strength, and his breath was coming in terrible rattling gasps. Wat and Tuck came to her aid. Taking him gently beneath the arms, they lifted him into the saddle.
They rode through the night. Fortunately, the moon offered enough light to prevent a madcap plunge into an unseen gorge or unexpected river. Following the map, Roscoe aimed them at the constellation called the Coupling Goats, specifically at the tip of the left horn of the uppermost goat.
Grinder’s squeezing had left Thurmond in a terrible state. Every breath he drew was a moment of torment, every jolting hoofbeat brought a surge of pure misery. Roscoe gave him frequent swigs of Torgul’s energizing potion, but it did little for the pain. They dared not stop, for the pain, as bad as it was, was preferable to what he could expect from Grinder’s kin.
At daybreak they could go no farther. The horses were as exhausted as their riders. A low, rocky hillock offered the only high ground in the otherwise flat landscape. Its defensive value would be minimal, but better than nothing at all. They could not light a fire lest their pursuers spot the smoke.
While Torgul and Drax kept watch for approaching horsemen, most of the others fell into a deep sleep. Bart sat glum and brooding, as if angry about something. Finally he rose and approached Roscoe, who was sitting with Sarah. Thurmond lay beside them, either asleep or unconscious.
Bart assumed his typical haughty manner.
“When I answered Asmodeus’s summons, I never expected anything like this. I was told to keep you safe while you talked to some wizard. Nothing was said about tangling with barbarians.”
Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck as if giving Bart’s words careful consideration.
“I see what you mean, milord, so I do. I’m none too pleased myself, and that’s a fact. These Vanarians are a rough lot, I’ll grant you that.”
These words were especially displeasing to Bart. The old Adventurer was agreeing with him when he had hoped to provoke a confrontation. Frustrated and afraid, he needed an outlet for his inner turmoil.
“Maybe it didn’t occur to you, old man, that even if we get away for now, we’ve still got to come back through these parts going home. Those bastards will be waiting for us, you know they will be.”
Roscoe remained cordial despite Bart’s insulting tone.
“Aye, you’ve the right of that as well. Like yourself, I’ve been givin’ that problem a lot of thought. Don’t be worryin’ overmuch, sir knight. Many things can change between now and then. Maybe the magician will kill us all, so we won’t be goin’ home. Or maybe he’ll like us so well that he gives us some magic charm to bring us through safe.”
Bart was irritated by Roscoe’s attempt to sooth him. He wanted an excuse to pick a fight.
“You’re not the only one who thinks, old man! I’ve been thinking too—thinking like, where did that fancy sword come from? I never saw it before, but there it was in our pile of gear. So tell me, where did it come from?”
Sarah gave him a satisfied smile.
“I can answer that. It was my sword, a light one with a narrow blade and a simple hilt. Didn’t look special at all until I put a glamour spell on it. I knew there’d be trouble if Brodar tried to take Torgul’s axe.”
Bart had never liked his half-sister, even before he learned that they were blood kin. Smart women annoyed him in ways a man never could. At this moment, he liked her less than ever before.
“I thought you were too injured to cast spells. That’s what I was told.”
“My arm is getting better, so my psychic energy is returning, and it was just a little spell. It’s probably worn off by now, so Brodar no doubt hates us, too.”
Bart’s response oozed sarcasm.
“And that doesn’t worry you even one tiny bit?”
“Of course, it worries me, Bart, but we needed to get away from those people, and that was the only way. And like Roscoe says, we have lots of time to try to work things out.”
Getting nowhere, Bart threw up his hands and returned to his brooding. Roscoe and Sarah turned their attention to Thurmond. Ever so gently, they lifted his tunic to examine his damaged ribs. A wide band of black bruise extended around his chest and sides where Grinder’s arms had so mashed his flesh so that the veins had burst beneath the skin.
Even the lightest touch made him squirm and groan, though his eyes remained closed and he said nothing.
Roscoe spoke in a low voice.
“His ribs is likely busted or at least cracked some. Ain’t much I can do for that. You can’t splint ‘em like you does for an arm or leg. They just need time to heal. At least there ain’t no bones poking through the skin—that’s somethin’ anyway.”
Sarah was not reassured.
“Those bruises look really bad. And he’s in a lot of pain. Don’t you have something to give him?”
“Only uisge or some more of Torgul’s special elixir. But I’m thinkin’ neither one of them is gonna do the laddie any good right now. He needs sleep more than anythin’. Don’t be frettin’ about them bruises. They’ll heal up all by themselves. Why don’t you take a wee nap yourself? I’ll keep an eye on him while you do.”
They decamped a little before midday. By now, Thurmond’s injuries had stiffened, so mounting his horse became even more painful than before. He gulped down a generous slug of uisge from Roscoe’s flask and gave his friend a silent nod of appreciation. It hurt too much to talk.
By Drax’s best reckoning, it would take another day of steady travel to reach the seacoast. They would then have to find some landmark to determine their exact location before heading either east or west toward Malachai’s castle. It was assumed that the Vanarians, aware of their destination and familiar with the area, would try to cut them off before they reached their goal.
They stumbled along, hungry, bleary-eyed, and drooping with fatigue. Their mounts on the point of collapse. There was a brief stop in the dead of night for the sake of the horses, but it was not nearly enough to restore their strength and spirits. They had to keep moving or fall prey to the pursuing horsemen.
The shore was still somewhere up ahead, but they knew they were getting close. Gulls soared overhead and, after a time, the air grew tangy with salt. The breeze carried the brisk chill of the sea. All of this was new to Thurmond and Sarah and most of the others, who had never before seen an ocean. Roscoe recognized the signs. So did Drax.
And then, spreading before them like a gray mass of fog, was the Cold Sea. Wind-whipped waves battered the jagged rocks of a desolate and inhospitable coastline. The tide was out, exposing a stretch of pebbly beach. Several riders dismounted and made their way down the cliffside to the water’s edge, drawn, as men have always been, to the sea’s cold embrace.
Under normal circumstances, Thurmond would have joined them, but he was in no shape for such endeavors. Sarah was highly intrigued by the sea’s awesome power, but elected to remain with Thurmond. Roscoe, Torgul, and Bart studied the map, trying to determine some specific feature that would give them their bearings.
When no likely point was found, they decided to head east along the shoreline, hoping to come to the long, narrow foreland on which Malachai made his home. If that failed, they would have to reverse direction and head west.