|
Day One – Part Three
Narrin’Tim threw himself down on the sand. His muscles ached, his back was throbbing, and his shoulders felt like they were on fire. He stared down at his hands: there were fresh calluses on the palms and little black slivers, oozing blood. He plucked one out feeling the sharp prick and pain that went with it. But then was too tired to do more; he let his head collapse on the top of the dune and just lay there. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the others were similarly sprawled about.
But it was done – the Eagle Claw was up and assembled. Or at least it was put together in the best facsimile they could manage with the parts they had. And now he just wanted to lie there….
Sometime during the lugging the rain had stopped (which was a gift from Loec! The beam had been hard enough to handle!), but now that they were at the top of the dune the wind was coming in raw off the sea carrying its own icy moisture. So he lay there in a conflict of feelings – hot, sweat soaked, exhausted; and yet the wind brought a freezing chill to his bones. He moaned and rolled over, sat up and pulled his cloak up and over his frame.
Soon everyone was seated in a rough circle next to the Eagle Claw, too tired to move, and too unsure of what to do anyways. Tim could see the activity still going on back in the camp, but he had no place, no responsibilities. It was strange. His entire life he had been a part of a village, with elders everywhere, always ready to yell at him and tell him what he was doing wrong. That was when his father wasn’t taking him on a hunting trip…and telling him what he was doing wrong. Or his mother wasn’t grabbing his ear and making him redo the work in the garden. He had always hated the constant feeling of surveillance. All those hooded gazes watching and quick to criticize. But now that it was gone, he felt oddly directionless. Surely someone would be along shortly to tell him what to do….
“Enough with the drudgery already! Bring on the battle!” Willem said with a chuckle and a cough, he alone continued to lay on his back. He rolled onto his side. “And while you lot were sitting on your duffs that’s what we heard. We are off to battle.”
None of the others seemed to share his enthusiasm. The Easterners just sat and stared while the Lowlander just shrugged. “I suppose it was inevitable,” he said.
Tim eyed him again. If it wasn’t for the Lowlander’s great strength they might still be trying to move the thrower up the hill. And he had a hammer! The most amazing thing. When the time came to assemble the wooden frame, metal into grooves, posts into holes, they had first used their hands and knife butts to try to get the recalcitrant pieces in place. But the Lowlander had produced a hammer from his satchel and set about pounding things into position. Now the Eagle Claw was whole – mostly – and sat at the top of this dune, facing the vast greyness of the northern ocean.
Tim turned and looked at the camp once more. Then he turned the other way towards the ocean; below them at the wet sandy beach, devoid of any life except stringy garlands of seaweed and a pair of sand pipers that skittered in the waves passing. “This is a strange place for a battle,” he said at last. “There is nothing but marsh and sand and forest behind it. No villages for miles and miles. At least from what we passed.”
The Easterners chuckled. The smaller of the two shook his head and said, “There is nothing here Romani. Nothing for leagues until the Great Divide in the east and the fractured lands about Anlec. This place has been marched and fought over by so many armies that anyone who bothered to put spade to earth would soon be exhuming corpses. Plows would catch on broken blades and sundered shields.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Our father owns land here and he has been unable to sell it for over a century.” Another shake of the head. “No one will buy it.”
“Your father?” Willem asked and eyed the Easterner curiously.
“Yes. I am Quill,” he said. Then he gestured to the taller Easterner lying on his side nearby. “My brother Quinn. Of House Talyn. Our father’s estate is in the Easterling, near the border, but still he has titles to some old holdings here in the north.”
Titles? Holdings? Estate? Tim felt uncomfortable and sent a look to Willem. But the other Romani already had an amused expression on his face. “I am Kol’Willem. And he’s my cousin Narrin’Tim.”
There were some nods. Tim sent a glance to the Lowlander, but the figure just sat there, clamp jawed.
“It is said,” Quill continued, “That the Druchii built a war camp here during the last invasion. They held it for some years. And then when they were finally driven out, the witches of their covens poisoned the earth so that none would be able to claim the land again.”
“Bastards,” Willem commented and lay back. Tim was still frowning.
“Then why are we camped here?” the boy finally asked, perplexed.
The other Easterner, Quinn, spoke up in a soft voice. “Well while you two were off running about this morning, we were listening to some talk and heard that we are waiting for a ship to come and take us…to wherever.”
A ship? Tim thought. It was a strange feeling. All his life he had longed to go to sea, to sail the breadth and might of the ocean the same way his clansmen sailed the breeze…. But it was something he hadn’t even considered. When he joined the army he had imagined that he would be fighting for Nagarythe. In Nagarythe. In the woods and hills of his homeland. He hadn’t considered that he would ever need to go to sea. But then…perhaps that was what would happen? Perhaps war had come to some distant part of the Ulthuan. Maybe Chrace? Or even Cothique? So far away as to be almost legendary. But perhaps they had sent out the call for aid and Nagarythe was responding? Of course Nagarythe would respond. They would honor Aenarion’s pact no matter what.
“Do you know where we are going?” Tim asked, seeming the most pressing question of the hundreds that percolated through his thoughts.
The Talyn brothers shook their heads. “Well,” Willem chimed in. “I hope wherever we are going it is a glorious battle. I hope against the Druchii bastards. Many will fall to my arrows, you wait and see,” he finished with a wink.
Quill snorted. “Is that why you joined, Romani? For glory?”
“Of course. And to serve Nagarythe. But to be a Shadow Warrior in the Host! Not some common archer. But a Shadow Warrior! Is there more glorious a calling?” He rolled over and looked at the Easterner. “Why? Why did you Talyns join?”
Quinn shook his head and said nothing, but Quill’s face simply went hard. “The recruiter wanted our older brother,” he explained. “But he is to be married in the spring. And is due to inherit the land and titles of our house. So our father made a deal,” he said, an unpleasant smile crossed his face. “Two for the price of one.”
Tim frowned and then looked from brother to brother. Two for the price of one? They couldn’t mean….
“You didn’t compete for the position?” he blurted out. Among the Romani clans there were tournaments. Contests. It took over a fortnight! The winners were awarded positions within the Host!
The unpleasant expression on Quill’s face continued. It looked like he had been sucking on something sour. “Yes, of course you Romani would be like that. You are a simple people. Among the Great Houses of Anlec…it is just a quota to be filled.”
Tim’s mind was reeling at those words. Just a quota? But…to serve…!!!
Willem was still watching them with cool eyes. “The Great Houses of Anlec,” he said in a slow languid voice. “You mean, the ones that didn’t go North.”
The two Easterners reacted as if they had been struck across the face. Both sat up with their hands on the pommels of their knives. “Why you Romani….” Quill started with a hiss.
But just then the Lowlander spoke up, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “Oi….look at that,” he commented as if nothing untoward was happening among the others, and pointed down the beach.
The conflict momentarily forgotten all eyes turned to follow the lowered index finger. Tim squinted. He saw the curve of the beach as it stretched out to form a wave-break; just a jut of rocks protruding like a finger out into the rough waters of the northern ocean, and beyond that only mist and more turgid sea. No wait. His eyes were sharp, counted the best among the Romani, but this Lowlander must see as well or better than even he! For there, out there among the rocks, among the shadows and tossing waves, he saw a figure. A solitary elf stood at the end of the jut, stripped to the waste; the figure just stood upon its precarious perch, naked feet to stone, facing the roaring waters of the ocean.
“What is he doing?” Willem muttered.
“He’s got something,” the Lowlander muttered.
Tim squinted. “A sword? No, a staff.”
“No,” Willem corrected, “It’s a boat oar!” he muttered the last as if scarce believing the words.
Tim could now see that he was correct – he could see the pole in the figure’s hand fatten and broaden out at its end. A heavy ship’s oar, twice as tall as any elf, and meant to be pulled by two or more sailors. The figure was holding it upright upon the rocks as the waves rolled in cresting over his perch, battering his half clothed body.
“What’s he doing?” Willem repeated.
The oar went up and over the figure’s head, held up by the tiny hands so that it towered like a tree above him, and then….down and about in a whirling swing that whipped the air so fast that they could hear the crack of wood from even this distance! Down and about again and again, and then up with a slash that roared across the waves carrying water in a rippling crest! The figure spun about and the oar, all twelve feet of it extended from the tips of its fingers, came up and about and slashed through the oncoming wave!
“Whatever he’s doing, he’s a nutter,” the Lowlander muttered. “This time of the year, that water is cold as ice. It’ll freeze an elf to the bone.”
Tim could see the waves come up and roll over the stony perch time and time again. The rock would disappear and the heights of the waves would smash into the torso of the near naked elf, and sweep past him in a geyser of mist and spray. He saw the figure stagger under the ocean’s blows, time and time again, knocked down, sprawling on the edge of the rock, he would stand again and take up his oar. And swing it back and around and around again. Until, smashed once more he disappeared beneath the wave. When the water receded Tim could see the figure, completely drenched and plastered now, forced on all fours, clinging to the rock with fingers and toes. It got to its knees, took up the oar again, faced the ocean, and screamed. A long drifting cry of anger and anguish, it echoed from the roaring ocean waves and carried across the shore, faint and enmeshed within the sounds of the sea’s motions.
“Nutter,” the Lowlander repeated with a shake of his head.
“Wonder what he’s doing out here in the wasteland,” Quill said curiously.
“Another mad elf,” his brother commented, “wouldn’t be the first in Nagarythe.”
The figure was leaving the rocks now, and coming back to the shore. Even from here Tim could see the smears of blood upon his hands and bare feet, a gash upon one shoulder. He was beginning to be inclined to agree with the Lowlander: the injuries self-inflicted - this elf must be mad! The figure walked gingerly across the sand, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in its wake, until it came to a small pile of clothing lain atop the dry beach. Tim watched as the figure took up an old tattered cloak and used it to wipe the blood off its feet and hands, then towel dry its torso. It pulled on a pair of worn leather boots, and a heavy belt across its waist. And then….
“No,” Willem sat up.
The figure was pulling up a shirt of chain and iron bands. An ancient armor jerkin, so weathered and battered as to be scarcely recognizable. But Tim could see from here…the black lacquer on the chains, the golden thread and watermarks mixed into the bands.
“The Shadow Lord!” Willem said in disbelief.
“Yeah,” Quill said. “That’s him. He’d be the third in as many years. The last two passed the Shadow Door beneath the ruins of Anlec.” His eyes probed the figure and his mouth was a hard gash. “The Elder Council doesn’t tolerate failure,” he finished grimly.
“Now we’ve got this one,” the Lowlander said stonily. “A nutter.”
“Oh horse dung!” Quinn called out in a girlish voice marking his youth. “That Islander is back!”
Tim turned and could see the scarred elf in the accompaniment Caleb come striding up the landward side of the dune.
“C’mon, look busy,” Quill said and stood up.
“Why bother,” Willem said from his back. “We did what they asked.”
The two Easterners were standing uneasily on their feet. Soon the Lowlander stood to join them, so with a beseeching look to his cousin, Tim got up as well. Willem stayed in his repose.
Tim tried to ignore him. “Why did you say he’s an Islander?” he whispered to Talyn’Quinn.
“Can’t you tell? The braids in the hair,” the Easterner whispered back. “He’s one of them lot that lives north of Nagarythe. Sea rovers and scavengers.”
“Crazy the lot of them,” Quill commented in a low voice. “Poor as dirt and beggars to boot.”
But the two elves were almost upon them and so conversation died out. The scarred Islander’s eyes swept across them, saw the Romani upon the ground, and said, “Get up. Or stay down… permanently.”
Willem, an expression of annoyance on his face slowly got to his feet. “We did what you wanted. The bolt thrower is all set up. For what good it will do in a battle,” he finished grouchily.
“Good, pats on the head for the lot of you,” the Islander said with a sarcastic grunt. “Onto the next task.” He turned and pointed to the east side of the camp, where the marsh stretched out and climbed up towards a forested hill. “We need a line of dead traps and trenches over there. So you lot get to grab some picks and spades and make ‘em.”
Tim’s arms still felt leaden from the last task. He could barely suppress the groan. Some of the others weren’t as lucky, and could hear the moans around him.
“But we heard we were shipping out soon? Why dig fortifications now?” Willem protested.
The Islander raised one tattered eyebrow at that. “Oi Caleb,” he turned to the youth next to him. “Why are we digging fortifications over there?”
With a slight smile on his face the Shadow Warrior stepped forward. “Why in case a force of Druchii cavalry slip past the pickets and come over that rise there, Walker.”
“And what happens if we don’t have the trenches in place?” the hideous Shadow Walker continued with a grim smile in place.
Caleb answered, “Why custom is that we take the newest recruits and give them some cuts with the knife across their arms and bellies… and send them running naked towards the Druchii lines.”
Tim’s eyes went wide. He was sure the others were just as shocked judging from the stiff postures around him.
“And why do we do that?” the Islander pressed, his eyes gleeful.
“Cause the smell of blood might confuse the Druchii war beasts, Walker. Send em into a feeding frenzy that will break up their lines…and give us time to form ours,” Caleb answered, face as calm and expressionless as if he was discussing the weather.
“Now who are the newest recruits in the Host?” the scarred figure said, black eyes now as hard as ice.
“Why, that would be this lot standing before us, Shadow Walker.”
Turning to Willem, the Islander said, “There’s your explanation, Romani.” He scowled at the lot of them. “Now go grab your damn picks.”
***
|
Login
Register
FAQ
Search
He's currently in the process of trying to prevent Ulthuan from sinking... So thanks for those 
