Simon Hawke - The Seeker

At least they were finally quit of the cursed Stony Barrens. Torian felt a great sense of accomplishment. Not only had he trailed the elfling and succeeded in wresting the princess back from him, but he had crossed the barrens and survived, the first man ever to have done so. The mercenaries, of course, did not really count. Besides, they would have turned back long before if he had not been there to instill fear in them and drive them. For generations to come, bards would sing songs about his feat. In fact, as soon as he returned to Gulg, he would commission a bard to compose an appropriate ballad. “The Quest of Lord Torian.” Yes, that had a noble ring to it.

As the mercenaries gathered fuel for the campfire from the surrounding countryside, Torian pulled Korahna from her kank and carried her to a nearby pagafa tree. The stunted, blue-green tree with its multiple trunks and scrubby branches provided little in the way of shelter, but it would serve to keep his captives secure. Korahna did not move or protest as he carried her over to the tree and propped her up against one of the trunks. Her eyes were closed, and she uttered only a small moan as he began to tie her to the tree. Once he had her firmly secured, he then went to get the priestess.

She seemed worn out, offering no more resistance than Korahna as he took her down, but as he was carrying her over to the tree, she suddenly began to thrash and squirm furiously in his grasp. Torian lost his balance and fell, dropping her to the ground. However, he instantly regained his feet and, as Ryana was struggling to rise, he rushed up and kicked her in the side. She collapsed with a muffled groan, and Torian added one more kick for good measure. This time, she lay still.

“I am much too tired to be forbearing, Priestess,” Torian said. “And when I am tired, my temper grows quite short. I remind you that you are of use to me alive, but not necessarily in one piece.”

He then reached down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her by it to the tree. Once there, he bent down and took her by the shoulders, then jerked her hard, smashing her head against the trunk. He repeated the process three times more, until her head lolled forward on her chest. Then he bound her securely with her back against the tree trunk, next to the princess.

Straightening up, he breathed deeply several times, rolled his neck and shoulders to get out some of the kinks, then went over to his mount and took a long drink from his water bag.

“Could we have some water, too, my lord?” asked Rovik, coming up behind him.

“Have you gathered enough fuel to keep the fire fed throughout the night?” he asked.

“Not yet, my lord,” said Rovik, moistening his lips nervously, “but we have enough to keep it going for a while. We shall gather more, but the work would go easier if our thirst were slaked.”

“Very well,” said Torian curtly, “but be quick about it. And keep your eyes open. That cursed elfling is sure to be around here somewhere.”

Rovik did not like the sound of his voice, but he said nothing as he went over to his mount and untied one of his water skins. He took a long drink as Gorak came up beside him to wait his turn. When Rovik finished drinking, he handed the skin to his companion.

“Lord Torian’s nerves are drawn tight as a bowstring,” he said softly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Torian went to sit beside his captives, his sword held ready.

Gorak took a pause for breath. When he spoke, he carefully kept his voice low. “If you ask me, we should just slit his throat, take the women for ourselves, and be done with it.”

“And be hunted for the remainder of our lives for killing an aristocrat?” said Rovik. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Who is to know?” asked Gorak. “There are no witnesses save for the women. And they are hardly in a position to give testimony.” “What would you do, kill them?” “After we have had our pleasure. Why not?” “And have nothing to show for all that we have gone through? Are a few moments of pleasure enough to make up for all of that? Besides, Torian would not die easily. He has trained throughout his life with master swordsmen. And then, don’t forget, there is still the elfling.”

“Aye, I have not forgotten,” Gorak said, “but there has been no sign of him. How do we know he has not simply given up or been killed by some damn beast?”

“He is much more at home out here than either you or I,” said Rovik. “And it is no easy thing to kill a master of the Way. No, our best chance is to stick with Torian. Three are much stronger than two, especially with the women as our hostages. When we reach Gulg, we shall be well rewarded. And then I shall quit Torian’s service with no end of pleasure.”

“Enough!” shouted Torian from his resting place by the pagafa tree. He waved his sword toward them. “Get back to work! And keep alert for that damned elfling!”

“It would almost be worth it to cut his throat and return the women to the elfling,” Gorak said. “It might leave our purses empty, but there would still be satisfaction in the deed!”

“I might be tempted to agree with you,” said Rovik, “if I thought the elfling would be satisfied with that and would let us walk away. But I have no illusions about that, my friend. Even if we manage to complete Torian’s commission and leave Gulg never to return, we would still be looking over our shoulders for the remainder of our lives. I would rather die a quick death than live a lingering one. One way or another, it ends here.”

They returned to collecting more fuel for the fire, all the while keeping a wary eye on the countryside around them.

Sorak had decided not to wait. He would make his move tonight. Three more days at most and Torian would reach Gulg. And the closer he came to his city, the more the odds favored him. Torian had pushed hard to be clear of the barrens by nightfall. He and his mercenaries would be tired, and that worked in Sorak’s favor.

However, Torian undoubtedly knew that, too, and so he would expect a rescue attempt.

Sorak’s only chance for success was to perform the rescue in a way that Torian would not expect.

He slipped back slightly and allowed Screech to come forth. Screech never spoke except to beasts. If he knew the language of humans or elves or halflings, he had never given any sign of it. But Screech knew how to communicate with beasts. On the rare occasions when he came forth, he preferred animal company, speaking only to them and never to any of the others in the tribe. Screech was more animal than humanoid, but he possessed the cunning of a halfling.

As Sorak gave way to him, not ducking under completely, but sharing consciousness with Screech, their body under-went a subtle change in attitude.

Screech crouched down very low and began moving on all fours, with a flowing, sinuous, catlike motion. The rocks and boulders of the barrens had given way to desert tableland, rising gradually toward the foothills of the Barrier Mountains, looming in a dramatic silhouette against the night sky. The countryside here consisted of sandy, rocky soil, dotted with desert scrub brush and the occasional small pagafa tree. Here and there, a spreading broom bush or a large barrel cactus offered a place of concealment, but for the most part, it was open country, offering good visibility even in the dim light of the quarter moons. Screech stayed very low, moving with agonizing slowness as he approached the camp, ensuring that their position would not be given away by any swift movements.

A human moving that slowly, in such an uncomfortable position, would have been in acute discomfort from cramped and spasming muscles. His knees would have been sore within moments, and his hands would have been torn and bleeding from being abraded by sand, small rocks, dry thorny twigs, and cactus needles on the desert floor. However, Sorak’s hands were hard and thickly callused, and his knees had built up thick layers of skin from years of crawling through the underbrush. He disregarded the tiny insects that crawled up his arms and legs. Their stinging bites would have maddened a mere human, but Sorak was accustomed to them.