T Lain - City of Fire

The rat was Krusk’s first food in five days, and its blood his first drink in nearly two. He hadn’t wasted time once he reached the cover of the rocks beyond the desert, but the gnolls pursued him as if Hextor’s own flails drove them. He’d moved as only a barbarian could, but he was weak with hunger, thirst, and lack of sleep. The gnolls were still relatively fresh and their leader was a masterful tracker.

Krusk’s conscious mind didn’t consider any of this as he quickly downed the rat, but he was aware of his danger. His heavy brows twitched constantly as he sought the cavern for enemies, but he saw nothing. Still, he felt them. They were out there.

The canyon was coming to an end. After a week’s hard march, Captain Tahrain had told him, the canyon would begin to grow more and more shallow and after another day it would end entirely. Rough scrub would give way to low grasses and he should turn west when he came to the first sign of trees. A village lay there. A village was someplace he could get help.

Krusk touched the packet the captain gave him. Not just help, he knew. He needed help that he could trust.

Standing up and flexing his tired legs, he peered back toward the way he’d come.

A week’s hard march, his captain had said. Krusk had made the trip in fewer than five days. The barbarian couldn’t figure the math, though, and didn’t even try. If Tahrain estimated the village lay a little more than a day away from the edge of the canyon, Krusk would reach it before the next nightfall. He thought of the pursuit and knew he’d have to.

Leaving the rat’s broken bones and a few bits of hide under the bush, Krusk started off into the growing night.

“Grawltak!” The name started out as a rumble in the gnoll’s well-muscled throat and ended in a bark. “Captain!” he called out in the common speech.

To a human, it might have sounded like a dog barking, but a gnoll in the center of the canyon looked toward him. Crouching behind a small, scrubby bush, the gnoll waved his paw to attract his leader’s attention.

Ten of his gnolls prowled the dark cavern. The darkness of near-midnight didn’t trouble them; they sniffed at the ground like dogs and their coal-black, pupil-free eyes made much of the terrain.

The leader, the gnoll with the white patch and the notched ears, sniffed the air and slowly strode over to his subordinate. He approached the small bush warily; he’d had to put down one of his followers already after a trap, set by their prey, broke the fool’s leg.

No trap this time, Grawltak thought. He picked at the bones and found the tiny noose. Not for us, anyway.

“The half-orc’s hungry,” Grawltak pronounced, also in the common tongue.

The younger gnoll seemed to find their quarry’s hunger amusing and he cackled. Grawltak cuffed him with the back of his paw but didn’t put enough in the slap to make the scout yelp.

“Good work,” he growled.

Another, older gnoll joined them. He got down on all fours and sniffed around the bush and the bones.

“No more than four, five hours,” he reported.

The old gnoll’s speech was almost as clear as any human’s, from long practice. The human woman who led them insisted all her servants use the common tongue in her presence, and Grawltak knew the punishments she dealt out to those who disobeyed her. He ordered his pack to speak common all the time so they didn’t slip up when she walked among them.

“He’s finally slowing down,” Grawltak said.

The older gnoll nodded. He reached around his hunched back and drew out a leather bottle. Pouring water from it into a wide cup, he offered it to his chief. Grawltak shook his head and the older gnoll lapped at the water quietly.

“What’s out there, Kark?” Grawltak asked.

His voice came harsh as ever, but there was respect there. Most gnolls who reached Kark’s age were turned out of the pack, or if they were lucky, killed in a challenge fight. Grawltak saw his old pack leader’s value, however, and kept the wise gnoll close.

The younger scout cocked his head and bobbed it obsequiously. The leader growled and the scout stepped back, bowing, then turned to join the others.

“Humans…” the older gnoll said as he sniffed the air.

“Close enough to scent?”

“No,” the scout barked, almost chuckling. “Not for this old nose, anyway. At least another day’s run.”

“Then we can catch him.”

“It’ll be close.”

Grawltak bared his teeth and snarled, “If it is, I’ll tear someone’s throat out. Get those pups moving, Kark.”

The others knew not to tempt their leader’s temper. They’d listened, though, and even before the old gnoll jumped toward them, barking, they returned to pack formation and those on the points started forward.

Krusk squinted into the dawn light as he rose up out of the end of the canyon. The fire in his legs matched that on the horizon, he thought, but he continued to ignore it. A stream trickled nearby, and after a quick glance around revealed no signs of danger, the half-orc fell on his chest in the dirt and sank his face into the water.

Guzzling the cool, fresh water, Krusk felt the fatigue in his body start to claim him. He hadn’t slept for more than a few minutes at a time since leaving Tahrain’s killers and somehow the lack of water and food kept him from thinking about his exhaustion. Now, though, with more water than he could drink and its coolness splashing across his face and neck, he felt his eyelids droop. Rising slowly, painfully to his hands and knees, he cupped the cool liquid into his filthy paws and splashed it into his face.

Krusk sagged by the stream on his knees. His arms hung limply by his sides. Shallow breaths of exhaustion turned to deep inhalations of slumber that nearly drowned out the sound of the riders. By the time Krusk awoke, bleary-eyed and struggling, his greataxe was gone and his arms and legs were bound behind him.

“Are you hurt?”

Naull looked up. The clouds were breaking and she was amazed to see light glinting off the knight’s armor.

Dawn already? she thought.

She shook her head and the knight started to dismount.

“No, no,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’m all right.”

How long have I been out, she wondered?

Looking around, she judged it couldn’t have been long. The ogre’s wound still seeped blood and both Early and Ian lay unconscious by the road.

She found herself staring at Regdar, who was staring at their savior—a true “knight in shining armor”—as she stepped away from her horse. The knight was obviously a woman, judging by both her armor and her voice.

As soon as she hit the ground, the knight turned and walked toward Early, who lay by the side of the road. Regdar seemed to snap out of whatever trance he and Naull shared and he hurried after her. The wizard couldn’t help but notice how different the two suits of armor seemed—Regdar’s was dark, dirty, and dented, while the knight’s shone in the sunlight of the new day.

Naull heard Early groan and she followed after the other two. Regdar was in front of the knight and had crouched in front of the big man. Early was sitting up and rubbing his head.

“You all right?” Regdar asked the big man.

“Yeah,” Early answered feebly. “What ’bout Ian?”

Early blinked then started, seeing the knight for the first time. His eyes fixed on the knight and didn’t leave her as she spun on her heels and strode back across the path toward Ian’s unconscious form. Early and Regdar followed slowly but Naull beat them all there. What she saw didn’t look good.

The half-elf’s shoulder was smashed. His chest rose and fell feebly, but blood from his scalp wound covered his face. Naull bent toward him.