An unfortunate fact about the Pra-Moresh: they tend to run in packs. The damned things are not only large, but they are also violent to a fault. The good news for most people is that they are rare. The bad news for Merros Dulver is that they still show up from time to time, and just at that moment, they’d decided to make their presence known.
Seventy-three days into the expedition across the Blasted Lands and they’d run across no sign of another living thing, unless one qualified the dust and the ice storms as being alive merely because they moved with such violence. Merros was many things, but stupid wasn’t among them – his present situation excluded, as he would have argued the intelligence of his decision to lead the trip to the distant Seven Forges mountain range.
Seventy-three days of bitter cold and constant twilight and the same number of nights wasted as they moved slowly through the near-complete darkness toward the stone towers in the distance, their light the only source of illumination under a near-constant blanket of clouds that spewed ice on some occasions and a bitter tasting dust on others. The parts of him that weren’t numbed by the cold were still aching with a deep and abiding chill that refused to go away. If it weren’t for the thick furs he wore, he’d have been worried about frostbite and worse. If the money hadn’t been such a sweet offer he’d have never considered this insanity.
And now Morello, the damned cook of all people, had alerted him to the howling screams of the Pra-Moresh. He wasn’t upset with the cook for noticing; quite to the contrary, he was very grateful. He was also extremely annoyed that neither he nor any of the twenty soldiers with him had heard them first.
Merros stared out into the darkness of the afternoon and looked at the shapes where they moved, slowly circling around the camp, their low moans and high-pitched cackles grating on his nerves and sickening him with the odd noises that crept past even the sharp winds that tried to snatch all sounds away.
There has been a great deal of debate among the scholarly as to exactly what the Pra-Moresh are and where they came from. There have been no definitive answers, but most people accept that they’re damned scary, damned big, and capable of eating roughly five times their not inconsiderable body weight in a single meal.
Merros had no desire to be dinner. To that end he called for his soldiers to get their asses in gear. The group had stopped for the night – day, whatever – only a little over an hour earlier and now they gathered their weapons and wits as quickly as they could, knowing by Merros’ tone that this was not a drill or an exercise, but a serious issue that had to be dealt with immediately.
They were none of them pups anymore. Each of the soldiers he’d chosen to bring along had been chosen for several reasons, not the least of which was experience. The Empire demanded service from all of the men who lived within its reach, but this was different. The men he’d chosen were lifers, the sort who’d spent ten or more years in the ranks. Some of them had even seen real combat in various border skirmishes over the years, though not many, to be fair. It had been close to a century since the last major war involving the Empire had occurred. The Empire had won, so really there wasn’t much to fight about.
Still, most of them had fought alongside him in a few bar skirmishes, and all of them had done combat in numerous exercises. He trusted them to know what end of the sword to use on the brutes that were looking at them from a distance, and more importantly, he trusted them to know how to use the crossbows. He didn’t want to get close enough to the Pra-Moresh to get himself chewed on. He’d only ever seen illustrations of the damned things and one skull on display at the duke’s palace. They were a great deal larger than he’d imagined.
“How damned long for the bows?” He was pleased that his voice didn’t crack as he feared it might. Certainly his heart was pounding well enough to break his sternum.
Wollis loped in his direction, his game leg giving a twinge that did nothing to stop the man from coming along at a hard jog. His second carried a crossbow in each hand and a quiver of bolts was slapping against each hip. “Got ’em. Just had to dig them out of the extra blankets.”
“Seriously, Wollis? Did you not think they might be a little more important than a damned blanket or two?”
The man looked at him and smirked. “You’re the one that wanted extra blankets. It’s been over two months and no encounters, so don’t go getting all bitchy with me when something finally happens.”
Anyone else and he would have been offended. Wollis knew him too well. Wollis was a northerner; he was used to the cold and to the heavy steppes that led to the Blasted Lands. He had also been on two previous expeditions into the great frozen waste, and as a result was invaluable as an asset. He had, however, never once encountered any living thing on his treks across the least hospitable part of the Empire.
Wollis looked at the shapes and let a low whistle spill from between his chapped lips. “I always figured the heads were, I dunno, properly sized to the bodies…”
The heads and faces of the beasts were large, but nearly tiny in comparison to the rest of them. The savage jaws of the things belonged to an animal the size of a bear, but the bodies? They didn’t make bears that big.
Even as they assessed the creatures in the distance, the rest of the soldiers followed years of practice and loaded their crossbows, set their shields in the ready positions, and laid out spears and swords alike. None of them looked the least bit confident in their actions, which made perfect sense, really. The Pra-Moresh hadn’t even attacked yet and their voices were making every last one of the trained veterans edgy. The creatures – whether they were smart enough to be called intelligent or not – had uncanny voices that called out in different tones and seemingly from different locations. One of the damned things sounded like a room full of people crying and laughing both. Several together sounded more like a small gathering of the damned.
From almost fifty yards away one of the things reared up onto its hind legs and let out a roar that warbled and shook through the air, calling in a dozen voices, challenging and demanding and weeping all at once. Even from that distance, Merros could feel the bones in his chest rattle with the sounds.
And then the damned things charged as one, their heavy claws carving trenches into the ice, allowing them purchase, whereas the soldiers had to balance themselves carefully or kneel in order to use their crossbows.
“At will! Take out their vile eyes!” Merros’ voice was calm and loud despite a desire to hide away and do whatever he could to avoid being noticed. It was automatic after the years in a position of command. He was very grateful for the ability to sound like he wasn’t ready to piss himself as he took careful aim and fired.
He watched the heavy wooden missile cut through the air, noticed how the feathers gave just the right spin to the shaft, allowing the bolt to stay true and go farther than he’d have hoped in the bitter winds. The metal tip of the bolt drove into the wrinkled fur of the creature’s muzzle, driving deep and cutting through the muscles before stopping against the bone of the skull underneath. The Pra-Moresh shrieked-wailed-screamed and shook its head, but did not stop charging.
“Oh, shit.” It was all he could think to say.
Wollis’ missile took the creature in the eye and it reared back, the screaming noise replaced by a different sound, a single note of pain that was loud and clear and almost deafening.
There wasn’t time to celebrate. The damned things were still charging. They moved hard and fast and lowered their heads, showing mostly the thick hide of their skulls and their impossibly broad backs. There would be no time to reload the bows. Instead it was down to using the spears.
The spears were designed to take down horsemen, and the soldiers knew how to use them. They braced the long poles in the hard-packed ground, digging in with the short spikes designed to help on the icy surface, and waited, holding to the places where they knew they might well die. Running would be a guarantee of death, something they’d all been taught in the army. More than one fool had tried and been executed for his troubles in the time that Merros had been with the army. He’d killed a few such men himself, a sad side effect of being an officer.
Damn it, they were big creatures. The ground shook as they came closer and every last one of his men was looking as nervous as he felt. “No one moves! No one runs, or I’ll kill you myself, do you hear me?”
“Aye! Ho, sir!” The answer was automatic and belied the fear he saw on their faces. They would not run. They had never been trained for cowardice.
The first of the Pra-Moresh hit the line three soldiers away, and the spear that Kallir Lundt held drove in deep, puncturing flesh, cutting meat and stopping only when it reached the shoulder blade on the monster’s other side. The beast shrieked – a sound that made Merros’ teeth ache from this range, and his eyes vibrate in their sockets – and slapped one gigantic paw across Kallir’s face and chest, carving his face away in one stroke. Kallir lived through it, which only made the situation worse.
And then there was only time to look at the nightmare in front of him, the enormous wall of charging teeth and claws that filled his entire world with a cacophony of screams that seemed designed solely to drive him mad. The spear in his hands shuddered with impact and then, damn every imaginable imp of ill fortune, broke in his grip. The splintering oak stung his fingers and shredded his gloves and the flesh on his palms as the beast drove forward, the wide, yellowed teeth snapping shut scant inches from his face. Wollis was there again, his spear pushing the beast back as it sank deep into the thing’s side. It looked toward Wollis for a second, shriek-cry-roaring, and then lunged for Merros a second time.
He was a dead man. Nothing to be done but accept it. He had lived a good life, with women and friends and the occasional special moments that made everything feel right for however fleeting a time. He would miss the world; he would certainly miss not having raised a family, but it was alright. This was at least a worthy death, better than dying in a pool of his own vomit like that fool lieutenant he’d known when he was just starting his training.
The axe ripped past his head in a savage arc, cleaving the air hard enough to make a sharp whistling note he heard even over the demented noises of the Pra-Moresh. An instant later the animal that was about to end his existence was throwing itself back, trying to escape the blade that took out both of its eyes and drove deep into its brain. The haft of the weapon vibrated in the monster’s ruined face and Merros looked at the thing as if he’d never seen an axe before. Mostly because this one was nothing quite like what he’d seen in his years of training. The metal was thin and black; the design spoke of a weapon meant to be thrown like a knife, despite the grip. Even as he took in the sudden save – Alive! How the hell? – and considered the odd-looking weapon, he saw another of the monsters fall, driven down by his men. The pain in his hands stopped him from attacking anything. Instead he looked at the heavy splinters which had pierced his flesh in a dozen places and tried to wrap his mind around being alive.
A second axe whistled past his head close enough for the blade to almost part his hair, and crashed into the face of another beast that had been turning toward Wollis with every intention of biting his second in half.
Merros frowned. One axe was strange. Two was simply crazy. He finally put the thoughts together and turned his head sharply, assessing where the axes had come from.
The rider hurled a short spear past him and Merros stared at the long cord that trailed from the thing back to the rider and the strange mount he rode. Everything was happening too damned fast, and he didn’t like it. He stared at the rider for only a moment and then looked at the long streamer of rope that led past him and toward something behind him where the monsters were. Where he should have been looking all along if it weren’t for the axes moving past his shoulder. Too much to see, to take in. He didn’t like it at all, damn it.
The spear was buried deep in the neck of one of the monsters, which was roaring-shrieking-sobbing as it tried to get away from the barbed point that refused to come free.
Rider and mount backed up abruptly, and the beast let out a louder series of noises as the cord drew tight and then tighter still. The Pra-Moresh tried to get away, but the hooks in its neck were stubborn. As it started to slash at the tether leading back to the rider, the man pulled a preposterously long bow and drew back with a strength and speed that was unsettling. Merros didn’t much like bows. He preferred crossbows because he felt the accuracy was better and the lack of range was easily compensated for by the ability to steady the weapon, even when mounted and riding. The man behind him apparently did not agree. The arrow he fired buried itself in the screaming thing’s eye, and the creature fell hard and fast, very likely dead before the arrow had finished its journey.
While he watched the single rider slaughtering his enemy, four of Merros’ soldiers died horribly at the hands of the Pra-Moresh. Tardu, Hanliss, Mox and the southerner, Alcard Hammil, were torn apart, the creatures hungrily shoving mouthfuls of their bleeding flesh into mouths that snapped and slavered. How long had it been since the creatures had eaten? Even with all of the supplies they’d brought with them, he and his men had to be careful. The beasts had brought nothing. For all he knew they’d been starving for weeks.
Merros drew his sword and held it tightly, looking from one fallen beast to the next. His men had killed three of the things. The single man behind him had killed three more. No. Four. The arrow whizzed past his ear and took out the last of the things as it came from up from behind the supply wagons. He prayed it hadn’t gotten to the women. He hadn’t even had a chance to think about them. Everything had happened too damned fast.
The rider again. Merros turned back toward the stranger just in time to watch him pull three more of his short spears from a strange-looking holster on the saddle of his mount. The spears were all barbed, much like the first one had been, and with unsettling accuracy he launched them hard and fast, each slamming into the thick fur and fat of the Pra-Moresh the man had killed.
“Wait! What are you doing?” The words left his mouth without any conscious thought. He damned near flinched at the hostile tone he found himself using. The rider had to be part demon. He’d killed four of the things and never even entered the combat save at a distance.
Also, frankly, he looked very, very large sitting atop the odd beast he was riding. It could have been the creature itself, which was substantially larger than any of the horses, even those bred for hauling the supply wagons.
The rider ignored him completely and turned his mount, which began moving slowly forward, the thick claws on its feet getting purchase on the slick, icy surface before it began pulling the four dead beasts behind it.
Wollis, faithful, sturdy and sometimes a little stupid, pulled his spear from the side of the dead nightmare he’d impaled and held it at the ready. “Captain Dulver asked you a question! You’d do well to answer it!”
He wanted to yell a loud no, wanted so much to stop Wollis from being so damnably efficient before it cost the man his life. Because while the facts weren’t adding up for his second, Merros was having no trouble at all doing the math. The rider was a terror. No one should be that fast, that good at killing. No one.
The rider turned his head slowly to look first at Wollis and then at Merros. He wore a helmet, which in turn was partially covered by a thick fabric hood. The night was almost upon them and the little light that existed was fading, until they had only their torches and the distant Seven Forges to grant them meager illumination. That meant Merros couldn’t truly see the face of the rider, but he saw the eyes clearly enough. They gave off their own light: a dead, gray color that shone out from under hood and helm alike, letting each man see clearly when he was being stared at.
Merros stood his ground. Wollis did too, but he looked a bit like running seemed a fair notion.
Before either of them could have done so, the rider’s hand lashed out and a long line of leather unfolded like a frog’s tongue. From seemingly nowhere the man had found and unfurled a whip, which cut the air. Had Wollis moved he would surely have regretted it. The whip caught the head of the spear and the rider tugged. Wollis squawked as the spear sailed away from him, his hands obviously stinging from the strength the rider used.
They stood that way for several heartbeats, Wollis staring at the rider, Merros doing the same, while the dark figure and his unnatural mount stood their ground and waited.
When no more words were forthcoming, the rider turned his odd mount around and they moved, pulling the four cooling corpses along as their prize.
“What the hell was that?” Wollis’ voice was subdued.
Merros stared at the retreating figure, watched as it moved toward the distant Seven Forges. He took his time answering, seriously considering everything that had just happened.
“I have no idea. Gather the men. Gather the dead. Do it quickly. We’re going to follow that rider until we get some answers.” It was the sort of response he hadn’t planned on giving. Not really. He’d have preferred to say something wiser, perhaps to have suggested that they forget all about the strange rider and his preposterous mount. Instead he’d said something that bordered on responsible.
Damned if his training wasn’t going to get him killed.
Wollis looked at him for another long moment and responded. “Aye. Ho, Captain.”
Damned if Wollis’ training wasn’t going to get them killed too.
Naturally they couldn’t merely get on with what was planned. That would require participation from the people who’d hired them, in this case the three women who worked for Desh Krohan. Krohan was a legendary sorcerer. According to the stories he was not only old enough to remember the third Emperor, he was also powerful enough to kill his enemies from hundreds of miles away. The annoying thing about those sorts of claims was that they were damned hard to disprove. Maybe the wizard had killed an enemy in another part of the world and maybe he was just saying he had. What was known for certain was that a few people who’d angered him had died under unusual circumstances. Also, just because the books of lore claimed that a wizard named Desh Krohan lived four hundred years back didn’t guarantee it was the same man. Merros was hardly the only soldier to have borne his name, and yet no one mistook him for his great grandfather or his second cousin. Hard to prove.
What Merros knew for certain was that the alleged sorcerer paid in gold, and that whatever the hell was hiding under the cloak had offered him a very large sum of money and paid him enough in advance to supply the wagons. What he suspected was that the man was probably adept at certain magicks and had built a reputation for himself that was at least half false claims. In any event the money was good and it was best not to refuse a man who could just possibly destroy your entire bloodline with little more than a few drops of blood and the very large cauldron he’d seen delivered to the sorcerer’s domicile.
Even if that meant dealing with the three women who were now heading in his direction, while the surviving soldiers and workers gathered their dead and their belongings.
They were distractingly attractive women. Even dressed for the cold as they were, the soldiers turned and looked as the three approached Merros. He set his jaw and did his best not to look into their eyes. Despite extremely shapely forms – shapely enough that the furs seemed only to emphasize rather than detract from them – it was when he looked at their faces that he tended to forget how to think and to reason without wanting to–
Enough of that.
The brunette, Pella, spoke to him, her voice clear despite the wind. “Desh asks that you gather the bodies of the Pra-Moresh and take them with you as you follow the rider.”
“What? How does he know about the beasts? About the rider for that matter.” He didn’t mean to be curt, but he’d seen and heard nothing from the sorcerer in over a month, and had only encountered the women who served the wizard when they left their wagon to tend to nature’s call or to eat.
The blonde this time, her hair almost as white as the snow, her eyes so light a blue as to make him want to stare. Her lips full of promises and temptations best not thought about. Her name was – he looked away from that mouth with an effort – Goriah. “Desh has seen the battle with the Pra-Moresh. He has also seen your meeting with the rider.”
“Really? Would you care to tell me what happens then?” Even he heard the skeptical tone in his voice. He believed in the abilities of wizards. It was sorcery that had destroyed the land he stood on, magic that had raised the City of Wonders from the ashes of old Canhoon. Still, the claims of seeing the future always left him doubtful. How could it be proved after the fact? He had heard far too many claim they could see the future.
The red-haired one responded, waving one delicate hand dismissively. “What has been seen will come to pass. Your inability to believe in the Sooth does not change it.”
“So he knows nothing then?” Merros shook his head and damned near bit his own tongue. What had he been saying to himself ever since he took the commission? Angering mages is a wonderful way to end a life or twelve.
The redhead, Tataya, stared at him with hazel eyes that glittered in the cold. “You will lose your hand, find your fist and gain an ally. You will also meet your enemy face-to-face.”
Without another word the woman spun away, heading slowly back toward her wagon. He stared for a moment, cursing her shape for being distracting, cursing his tongue for asking questions and his mind for immediately trying to interpret the riddle of her words.
“Wait. What does that mean?” His voice was harsh, bordered on demanding as he looked to the other women.
Both of them lowered their eyes, lowered their faces, and then stepped back toward the wagon, not quite as dismissively as the redhead, but their postures told him he would get no more answers.
He gave thought to spitting, but it was cold enough that the damned stuff would likely freeze to his skin. Instead he pulled his scarf back over his lower face and moved to join the men as they readied the horses.
Fifteen minutes after the rider had left the campsite, Merros and his people did the same, following behind the stranger as best they could in the near-darkness of the late afternoon. They’d have surely lost him but the bodies of the Pra-Moresh left long trails to follow and even the constant winds of the Blasted Lands weren’t enough to scour away the heavy marks left in the occasional drifts of snow and ash.
The ride was long, and better men than Merros were in charge of following the trail and taking care of poor Lundt, who was sobbing softly as he fought to keep his life for himself and not for the great darkness. He left them to it. Instead he reflected on exactly how he’d come to this point and what it meant.
Retirement from the army meant a stipend. Not enough to live comfortably, but enough to eke out a living. As Merros had hired on when he was barely of age, he’d retired while young enough to do other things with his life. The sad fact was, however, that there was little he was good at aside from being a soldier. Little that interested him for that matter. So when the three women came to him and made their offer on behalf of the wizard, he said yes. There was a real possibility that he might not have said yes quite as quickly had they not been very attractive women, but the odds were still that he would have. The money was good and he was on the edge of going out to the pubs and looking for fights to join into, or worse, signing on with the City Guard to keep himself from getting too bored. The City Guard: as far as he was concerned they were the worst sorts of rabble. Most of them couldn’t make it as soldiers and so they had signed up as local enforcement and bullied their way around, believing that made up for their lack of actual skill. He’d lived in a dozen towns and as far as he was concerned it was the same in all of them.
He didn’t know why the wizard wanted to examine the Seven Forges. He didn’t much care, either. He understood the reasoning well enough. There were, according to the legends, numerous treasures just waiting to be recaptured: great war machines, cold and sorcerous weapons lost during the great Annihilation that founded the Empire of Fellein, hundreds of years ago – possibly more than a thousand, though, of course, no one could say with certainty any longer. Too many years, too many wars and catastrophes had happened to guarantee the accuracy of anything written in the history books.
All he needed to know was that gold was involved. If that sounded mercenary, then so be it. The fact was simple: he was taking on a very dangerous assignment and he had every intention of finishing it as quickly and efficiently as he could.
The rider they were following, however, did not go with any of the ideas he’d had for how this would play out. There were expeditions that had not come back in the past. Some did; Wollis was a perfect example of successful expeditions. He’d spoken with his second at length regarding what to expect and so far they’d encountered exactly what was supposed to be out here. Nothing.
Now Pra-Moresh came out of the damned shadows and strange riders came along to kill the monsters and take the bodies. He looked behind the last wagon and saw that the remaining carcasses were still chained to the end of the wagon, as they should be. Wollis had another rider with him, both trailing behind the wagons, and his second nodded before moving forward. He hadn’t meant to summon the man, but didn’t much mind the company.
Wollis pulled up next to him, the horse under him looking as calm as could be, despite the way all of the animals had acted earlier when the Pra-Moresh came for them. That was good. The animals being skittish would have made everything worse.
“Do you think we’ll catch him?” Wollis’ voice was brusque. It was always brusque.
“Maybe not for a few more hours.” He squinted and looked toward the distant smear on the horizon. “Whatever that thing is he’s riding, it’s faster than the horses.”
“Damned well should be. Did you see the size of it?”
“It’s pulling four Pra-Moresh. Our best horses are struggling with the weight of three.”
“Well, they’ve also got a wagon.” Wollis looked back at the team of four horses. “Alright. And his mount is pulling four…” The man looked from the team toward the distant shape. He let out a low grunt of disbelief.
“So you can see why I think he might outdistance us with ease.”
“I don’t suppose we could take half the soldiers and catch up with him?”
Merros shook his head. “Much as I would like that, I don’t feel we can safely leave our supplies and our charges undefended.” Wollis opened his mouth to protest and Merros countered before he could. “We have just survived an attack by seven particularly large beasts. I don’t want to take a chance that there are more of them out there. Also, I don’t want to offend that rider without having a great deal of back up.”
“But–”
“He killed four of the beasts. Four. Think that through. We lost six men. Seven if you count poor Lundt. We killed three of the damned things.”
Wollis nodded his head and sighed. They rode in silence for a while and finally Wollis spoke up again. “I’ve been out here twice and never seen so much as a shrub growing. In one day we’ve seen more than I have seen in over a year of my life spent out here.”
“What do you suppose that means, Wollis?”
The man looked out at the distant mountains. The glow from the Seven Forges was lighting the sky in that direction a dark, angry red. Even from miles away the light from each mountain was distinct. There were seven red stains on the underbelly of the clouds.
“Honestly? I think it means I was lucky.”
“Why’s that?”
Wollis reached into his saddlebag and pulled a stick of dried meat from its depths. He brushed it clean of lint and dust and then clamped it between his teeth before he answered. “Either it means I’ve never had the misfortune of running across the Pra-Moresh before, or I’ve never had the misfortune of running across the sort of man who hunts them.”
“Hunts them?” Merros looked hard at him.
Wollis chewed on his dried meat for a moment while his eyes scanned the horizon. Best to be careful, a lesson they’d almost forgotten earlier. “Hunts them.”
“Why the hell would anyone hunt those things?”
“Merros, why would anyone come out to this gods-forgotten land and kill those things and then take the bodies with them? They wouldn’t, unless they were actively hunting them down to kill and keep.”
Merros stared hard at the distant shape. The shape they were following, because he’d ordered it.
“Well, that’s… that’s…”
“Insane? Maybe.” Wollis finally had the meat softened enough to actually tear a chunk free. The rest he put back in his saddlebag. “Now tell me, Captain, what does that say about the sort of fools who then follow the man who goes hunting after that sort of creature?”
Merros had no answer to that. Wollis drifted back to the end of the caravan, and Merros let him. He had to think. He had a lot to think about.
They kept riding, not quite immune to the cold, the ash and the wind, but close enough that they seldom noticed unless the winds gusted. Merros didn’t like to think about how long it had been since he’d had a proper bath. Back in the capital city of Tyrne he had bathed nearly every day, and when he was younger, before the army moved him to a different place, he had bathed every day in the river at the edge of the family farm. A smile crept across his face as he thought about a few of the encounters he’d had with Delih, the girl who’d lived just down the road from his family back then. He didn’t let himself dwell on those memories for too long, however, as the only women he’d seen in far too long were decidedly unavailable for his needs.
Not married. Never married. He told himself he was fine with that, but sometimes there was that little ghost of a voice that wondered how different his world would have been with a family of his own: a wife, children, possibly even a son among them.
Enough. The dot in the distance was growing a bit larger. Either the rider had stopped to rest, or he was waiting for them. Either way, he wanted this done.
No. There was one option he hadn’t considered. The rider was coming back. He gestured over his shoulder and a moment later Wollis pulled up beside him again, not the least bit inconvenienced by the change of plans.
“Is it me? Or is he coming back our way?”
Wollis stared long and hard and finally spat a wad of dark phlegm into the snow. Wollis was from a people that spat to show their dissatisfaction. In this case, however, he was merely clearing his mouth of the ash that constantly blew through the air of the Blasted Lands.
“It’s not you. He’s definitely coming back.”
“Right then. Alert the others and be ready.” He looked at Wollis long and hard. “I’m going to meet him.”
“Do you want company?”
“No.” He looked back at the Pra-Moresh being dragged behind the last wagon. “But I want those bodies. Have Lomma catch up with me.”
“He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.” The sarcasm was obvious, even through the winds. Lomma was not a fighter. He was a whiner. He’d been damned near crying at every opportunity since they’d started this fool’s expedition. That was the problem with hiring civilians for a trip, but in this case the man also owned the wagon and the horses. He had come along to protect his property.
“He’s not that bad, is he?”
“He is, and you know he is. I swear he whines more than my wife did when she gave birth to our ass-first son.”
Merros chuckled and shook his head. “Does Nolan know you call him that?”
Wollis rolled his eyes. “Gods no. If he did he’d have slit my throat in my sleep.”
That was probably true. At fourteen the lad was constantly in a bad mood. “Get on with it and wish me well.”
“Oh, I wish you very well. Make a friend, not a foe. I should rather not die today.” Wollis turned his horse and rode back at a fast trot, while the captain shook his head, checked his sword and weapons, and then charged forward, quickly moving past the caravan. He spared one look behind him to see that Lomma was indeed following, though not quite as quickly.
He had long enough to consider what he wanted to say to the stranger. Having seen the man kill four of the fiercest creatures he’d ever seen in motion, he wanted very much for their meeting to be friendly.
The wagon lurched to a halt next to his horse, and Lomma looked toward him, a worried sneer on the lame man’s round face. Lomma had been a soldier once, but hadn’t fared well in a border skirmish to the south. The end result was a right foot that was missing all of the toes, and a knee that refused to hold him in an upright position unless he was bracing himself with a cane. To that end, the man seldom left his wagon if he could avoid it.
“That the one I saw earlier killing all those things?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I just wanted to make sure.” He very calmly reached over and held up his crossbow: a massive thing, with a bolt large enough to take down a bear. It was also only good for one shot, because to reload it required the use of a pulley system.
“You plan on using that, don’t even raise it unless he attacks me first.”
“Don’t plan on using it at all, but if he kills you, I’ll give it a try.” Lomma didn’t even bother looking at him. Instead he focused on the rider coming closer. Merros took the time to look the rider over again as well, and was not made more comfortable on the second assessment.
The man was large. Not gigantic, but decidedly large. Though like everyone else he was bundled up against the cold, his forearms were exposed to the elements, and even from a distance Merros could see the muscles moving smoothly under the skin as the rider casually moved the reins and rested one hand near the hilt of a well-worn sword pommel. His face was still covered by both a veil to protect from the ash and by the heavy helmet he wore under the hood of his cloak.
The thing he rode, first taken for a horse, was anything but. Closer up he could see the thick fur of the thing, the heavy, padded feet and claws designed for gripping the rough, icy surface, and the metal latticework over the face that both helped protect from the elements and, unfortunately, hid away the features of the thing. Merros thought he’d imagined the claws on the feet of the beast earlier, but now knew better. What the hell was he getting himself into?
Merros might well have continued staring at the man, but motion at the edge of his vision caught his attention and made him look to his left, where the three women of the mage were walking closer, their cloaks whipping in the strong winds.
“Why are you here?” His words were demanding. They were not here except to report to their damnable wizard. He didn’t like that they were suddenly comfortable walking where they pleased after so long keeping to themselves.
Their faces were too well-covered, but he recognized the blue eyes of the blonde woman. “In case you cannot speak his tongue. In case you need someone to speak on your behalf, Captain.”
“You know about this man? About the thing he rides?” The notion was preposterous. How could they know of him when they’d never been out here before?
She shook her head. “Desh Krohan has suspicions about the rider. He believes we might be able to translate if the need arises.” Her words were a lie. He felt it in the beating of his heart. Still, he had no choice in this. What if the rider wanted to speak and they had no common tongue? What then?
“We can aid you or leave you with your rider, but decide now, Merros Dulver.” There was no anger or recrimination in the woman’s voice. She was merely stating a fact. “Your rider is almost here.”
He looked away from her and was startled by how much closer the man was. The great beast under him stopped moving and the rider swayed softly as he compensated for the change. Beyond that he was motionless for a long moment.
Lomma made a noise in his throat that could have been a cough or a worried note.
The rider slid from the saddle and landed with ease, the armor and leather on his body jostled and the cloak covering him opened enough to reveal that he was carrying still more weapons.
One of the other women spoke; Merros didn’t have the inclination to look away from his opponent to determine which one. “Captain? What is your decision?”
“Speak to him.”
Before any of them could attempt it, the rider came closer; his stride was efficient, but not overly cocky. He stopped well within reach of the blade he wore on his hip, a fact that Merros did not miss.
The rider’s voice was low and harsh, the words a nonsensical blend of sibilance and barking noises that obviously formed language, but one completely unknown to the captain. The tone was dark enough that Lomma’s hand moved toward the crossbow and Merros stopped him with a gesture.
“He demands to know why you follow him.” The woman’s voice was not completely confident.
“Is that a guess or are you sure?” He made himself look at the woman. It was the redhead speaking this time. He could see the dark red curls of her hair flowing from the edge of her hood.
“A near certainty.”
“That’s not comforting.” He was aware of the rider, knew the man was staring hard at the back of his head, could damned near feel the man’s eyes looking for the best place to bury the blade of his sword.
“It is what it is, Captain.” He forced himself to look away from her eyes and whatever secrets they might be holding.
“Then tell him we wish to offer our thanks for his assistance, to gift him with the kills he left behind.”
The brunette spoke, calling out in a strong, steady voice that was easily heard over the sound of the winds. The rider tilted his head, listening to her words, and Merros wished again that he could see the face buried under shadows, to know what the man was thinking. The eyes that looked him over still shined with that odd gray light, but gave away nothing, no hint of what the rider might be thinking.
Another exchange, the words that snapped from the rider’s mouth were harsh, guttural, and had an undercurrent of odd sounds that made him think of the Pra-Moresh, as if more than one voice was being heard. He felt the fine hairs along his neck rise at the very thought.
All three women spoke at the same time, their voices spiraling around each other in an odd harmony that once again brought the savage beasts to mind.
This time, when the rider answered, it was with laughter, loud and rough. He lifted both of his hands over his head and waved them almost daintily, and though he had no correlation to the gesture, Merros understood it was a sign of humor, simply because that notion fit.
The redhead turned toward Merros and sidled closer. He lowered his head until he was closer to her level, despite still being on his horse.
“He has invited us to join him in a meal.” She paused for a moment. “I offered him the beasts and he accepted.”
“What did you say that made him laugh?”
“Initially he was offended. He took insult to the notion that we thought he could not kill his own dinner.”
They eat those things? The thought was slightly sickening.
“What made him change his mind?”
“I told him he caught you and your men on the chamber pot. For that reason you felt you did not deserve the kills.”
“So, you insulted me to the rider?”
She nodded slowly but shrugged at the same time. “No. I insulted you on your behalf.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about that.” Merros frowned as he stared at the rider. The man was a brute, and it was best not to be fighting him. Still, it was hard to accept.
“You should feel very good about it. Had I not allowed humor to take the place of what he saw as a challenge, he had every intention of challenging you to a blood match.”
His eyes took in the arsenal of weapons surrounding the rider. “Fair enough. Please thank him for the hospitality and accept on our behalf.”
Her eyes smiled and she nodded again. “Consider it done.”
A few moments later the caravan began moving, led by the rider. No one moved very quickly as the winds grew stronger. The women who served the wizard walked across the landscape, seemingly unfazed by the elements, while Merros and his men huddled in their cloaks and did their best not to be blown from their horses.
Magic. Maybe the women were protected by it. Whatever the case, they seemed far more at ease than he felt as they rode ever on toward the Seven Forges in the distance.