George Martin - Rogues

He left the cord hanging and returned to the edge of the clearing, Fulferin’s wallet heavier by the weight of several pebbles, ranging in size from the size of his thumbnail to almost the breadth of his fist.

Staying within the tree line, he circled stealthily around the clearing until he found a tree that would best suit his purposes. He climbed until he found a comfortable crutch between two branches with a good view of the two camps. Then he composed himself to wait.

Night eased itself down over the clearing. The Vandaayo fires burned low and were refreshed. Then they burned down again. By now, all of the anthropophagi were curled or sprawled on the grass, save for one from each group. Raffalon noted that these sentries did not face the outer darkness and whatever threats might lurk there. They kept an eye on each other.

He waited until he saw one rise and go to fetch a new log for its fire. As the hunched figure bent to pick up the length of wood, the thief whispered to the deity, “A little luck would assist us now,” and lobbed a pebble out into the darkness. The missile arced across the dark air and he heard a satisfying snick as it connected with the Vandaayo’s hairless pate.

“Ow!” said the injured sentry, adding a stream of gobbling gutturals directed at its opposite number. The other group’s sentry peered across the open space and, though it could not ascertain the cause of the other’s pain, it recognized an occasion for mirth.

The head-struck sentry went back to its position, tossing the new log onto the fire. It squatted, rubbing its injury, and stared through slitted eyes at its counterpart, muttering what Raffalon took to be dire vows of retribution.

The thief waited until the second sentry saw that it was time for fresh fuel. As it stooped to lift a log from its group’s supply, he tossed another stone. He heard the same noise of impact as with the first, a similar cry of pain that was met with a hoot and jeers from the other side of the clearing.

The newly injured Vandaayo stalked to the edge of the open ground between the fires and addressed several remarks to the mocker, accompanied by juts of jaw and shakes of fists. The recipient of these attentions replied with words and gestures of its own, including the revelation of naked green buttocks and the sound of their cheeks being slapped by hard hands.

It was while the thief’s first Vandaayo target was thus bent over with its back turned to the second that Raffalon sped another pebble—this one larger—on its way through the darkness. It landed with a solid crack! on the butt-slapper’s head, bringing a new howl of rage and pain.

The freshly wounded Vandaayo spun around and charged across the neutral zone, its hand reaching for a cudgel thrust through a strap that circled its waist. Its opposite number drew its own weapon, a club ground from gray stone, and, bellowing its own war cry, rushed to meet the assault. They came together in the middle of the clearing and went at each other with all the fervor and indifferent coordination—compensated for by great strength—for which Vandaayo warriors were renowned.

The noise and tumult awoke the others, who sat up or got to their feet, blinking and staring about. Raffalon launched several missiles in rapid succession, including his largest. Aided by the luck of the small god, each found a target among one of the two clusters of sleep-fuddled part-men. One rock came down with sufficient force as to lay out the leader of the six that had snatched Fulferin. When his fellows saw their superior stretched out on the ground and their sentry doing battle, they took up their weapons and, ululating, charged the foe. The enemy, smarting from their own hurts, raced to meet them.

Raffalon descended lightly from the tree and turned to skirt the clearing to where Fulferin lay bound. But his legs disobeyed him and turned in the opposite direction. At the same time, the voice in his head said, We may need something to delay pursuit, while an image appeared of himself and the rescued devotee fleeing along a trail while some hapless and ill-defined person was left behind for the pursuing Vandaayo to squabble over.

“You are a cruel god,” he whispered as he headed for the other captive.

I am, by nature, a kindly sort of god, came the answer, dispensing what small blessings are within my power. But now I do as I must.

Raffalon made no further comment but skulked along the edge of the clearing until he came to the recumbent form wrapped in a stout net that had been snugged tightly with braided leather cords. He found his knife and cut through the restraints, whispering, “Hush! Here is a rescue. Rise and follow me in silence.”

He could not see the figure clearly, this far from the fire, but he recognized the motion of a nod and heard a grunt. He set off around the clearing toward where Fulferin lay, aware of the released captive slipping through the bushes behind him. He found the god’s man awake and struggling against his bonds, muttering something that sounded like a cantrip.

“Easy,” he whispered. “I will cut you loose and we will flee while they are busy battering each other.”

“Hurry!” said the bound man. “I see only six left standing.”

Raffalon worked with his knife, looking up to see that the fight was indeed reaching its conclusion. Two Vandaayo of Fulferin’s group were standing back-to-back, surrounded by four of the opposition. It was only a matter of time before matters were settled and the victors came to see what prize they had won.

“This way,” he said, as Fulferin rose to his feet. Though both captives must have been stiff and cramped from their confinement, they came along after him as he skirted the rest of the clearing to find the trail back toward the forest road. As they plunged back into the darkness of the night forest, he could hear grunts and impacts. Moments later, the ugly sound of Vandaayo crowing triumph came to his ears, and he said over his shoulder, “Faster!”

They reached the little brook where he had chosen the stones and he turned to lead them upstream to the knotted rope..

“Climb!” he said to Fulferin. The god’s man had recovered his strength because he swarmed up the rope like a well-conditioned acrobat. Raffalon turned to the indistinct figure of the second captive, and said, “Now you.”

But this one, though smaller, was in poorer condition and struggled to make the climb. Now the thief heard new sounds from the Vandaayo camp, howls of anger and outrage. He reached out in the darkness and seized the other’s torso in both hands, intending to supply extra lift. The effort was successful and the person, now able to apply feet as well as hands to the knotted cord, began to ascend.

He waited until the feet had passed above his head, then he took hold of the hemp and followed, fretting at the slowness of the climber above as the slap of Vandaayo footsteps came from the direction of the clearing. He came up onto the branch around which the grapple had snagged the rope, and said to the figures beside him, “Higher, quickly but quietly.”

He heard the rustle of their ascent while he freed the grapple and drew up the rope. Then he turned and silently climbed into the tree’s sheltering canopy, finding two blobs of darkness against the slight shimmer of the foliage, sitting on stout branches, their backs against the trunk.

“Absolute silence,” he whispered as he found a perch for himself and froze. Through the leaves, he could see the glow of torches. The Vandaayo were coming along the stream, bending over to sniff at either bank. They passed beneath without looking up.

Time passed, then the searchers came back, shoulders slumped, addressing each other in tones that Raffalon took to be accusatory. One shoved another so that its torch fell into the stream with a hiss. Grumbling, they went downstream to the trail and back to the shambles of their camp.