31
ON THE HUNT
Bardon and Leetu Bends rode with the bisonbeck merchant through a pass between two high hills and into a valley. At the bottom of the incline, Latho stopped to hide his two passengers, not disguising them as barrels, but stuffing them into two barrels designed to carry dried longfish. The containers stank, and the rough insides scraped against them in spite of the thick blankets Latho had given them to wrap up in. But the staves had gaps between them, sufficient enough for them to breathe easily and to peer out. The wagon bumped over every hole and rock in the road.
When they got to the camp, Bardon heard harsh voices loudly inquiring about Latho’s business.
“We aren’t expecting supplies until next week,” hollered one.
“Have you got papers to verify this shipment?” asked another.
Latho was correct, thought Bardon. These men are bisonbecks, not grawligs.
“Can you see anything?” asked Leetu Bends.
Not a thing.
“I have one tiny crack, but I’ve picked some slivers of wood out of it to make it bigger.”
The wagon jolted and moved.
I guess they accepted Latho’s papers.
“He’s also known among the soldiers. Some of them show a great amount of disrespect for ‘the bisonbeck coward.’ Others have just heard his name, because it’s so unusual for his kind not to be in some type of fighting force.”
The wagon lurched to a stop.
“Now we’ll see if this plan works.”
At Leetu Bends’s words Bardon’s mind leapt to the last time he’d seen Kale. Her mouth had puckered in a pout, her eyes welled with tears, and she’d looked altogether adorable in a spoiled-princess sort of way. Wulder, give me the chance to make her smile again.
Several grawligs gathered around the wagon.
“You,” said Latho, “take these crates over to the captain’s quarters. You, unload these baskets and take them to the cook.”
Latho kept the workers scurrying. Bardon listened intently, trying to determine what was going on around him. The big bisonbeck merchant ordered the grawlig recruits to unwrap some of the bundles and carry off the goods. He unpacked some of the merchandise himself and handed it to one of the grawligs to carry off.
After a few minutes of observation, Leetu Bends said, “Aha! Very clever.”
What?
“He’s directing them to different sides of the wagon. When a grawlig comes back, he doesn’t know what has been moved or which containers have already been emptied.”
Bardon remembered his puzzlement when he saw the dried fish wrapped in canvas. Now he understood. So Latho can claim he already unpacked the longfish from our hiding place. I agree, very clever.
The problematic point in time passed with Latho distracting the workers and maneuvering the six-foot-long dried fish into position as if he had just taken them out of the barrels. He directed the rest of the unloading with no incident and haggled with a bisonbeck officer about the bill.
“Fine,” said Latho, when he finally got his money. “I’ll be leaving at sunup.”
“We don’t want you around here tonight,” said the officer.
“I’m not going into those hills after dark. I won’t be in your way.”
The man left, and Latho busied himself around the wagon but never came near the barrels containing Bardon and Leetu Bends. They had food and water in their hiding places, so he didn’t have to provide anything for them. Latho had done everything possible to keep from drawing attention to the supposedly empty cargo crates left on his wagon.
An hour after dark, two soldiers came to the wagon.
“You’re to come with us,” one said.
“Why?”
Bardon heard one of the men growl. “Come and don’t give us any trouble.”
Bardon and Leetu remained silent.
“Bardon?”
Yes?
“Don’t worry. I’m keeping track of them. I’m mindspeaking with Latho. He’ll let me know if he needs us.”
Well, let’s hope he doesn’t. This place is getting crowded with grawligs. I can smell them over the stench of the longfish.
“You’re right.” She paused. “Oh my!”
“What?”
“They’re expecting Pretender himself to be here. He’s going to talk to them.” She paused again. “I don’t like this.”
I’m hoping we get to stay in our little cocoons and aren’t asked to join the party.
“I won’t be able to mindspeak with you. I don’t want Pretender to pick up on our being here.”
Can’t you cover your mind the way Kale does? She asks Wulder to protect her thoughts and keep them guarded.
“I can, and I will. You better do the same. And keep repeating it. There’s going to be a lot of evil going on here tonight. I don’t want us vulnerable for even a moment.”
A chant rose from the gathering. A drum beat a steady rhythm, and Bardon surmised a wild dance had begun. He squirmed around until he could get out his small dagger. With the point, he broke open a niche between two staves, so he, too, could have a peephole.
He placed his eye against the crack and sighed with frustration. A row of mountain ogres stood in a line, obstructing his view of the main participants. He could see the taller grawligs within the circle and those who leapt high enough during their chaotic celebration.
A clap of thunder stilled the grawligs. The loud crack indicated a nearby lightning strike and should have been preceded by a flash of lightning.
As if they understood this as a signal, the grawligs sat on the ground in a large circle. Bardon could see more but had no way of estimating the number. I hope Latho has an idea when we climb out of these stinking barrels. No reason to think we won’t get out of here. Hopefully in one piece. Wulder, order our way.
The hush that fell over the throng seemed unnatural. Bardon found he was holding his breath and deliberately let it out. The sound of his heart beating echoed in his ears. A murmur ran through the gathering, and then that unnatural silence again. Bardon recited the words that would keep him connected to Wulder and protected from evil.
A cloud formed in the center of the grawlig circle. Lights sparked within, sending off refracted flashes of different colors. The flickers ceased. The cloud pooled on the ground. In the center stood a man, twice as tall as any bisonbeck, covered with a shimmering black material, and producing a constant outpouring of vapor that sunk to swirl around his feet. Coarse dark hair covered his bulky head, including the face. A hefty nose like a bull’s; a mouth, giant but looking like an o’rant’s; and enormous eyes with undersized, black pupils combined to make a hideous visage.
Quite a show. I’m sure the grawligs are impressed. Bardon swallowed. I think I’m impressed. Wulder, guard me as I seek Truth.
The figure raised his arms and lightning streamed from his fingertips, spreading out into the night sky.
Now, that was spectacular. I wonder if he’ll rain brimstone for an encore.
The performer turned and looked Bardon’s way. Bardon caught his breath. The man’s prominent eyes sparkled for a moment and seemed to focus on the wagon, then on the barrel where a shiver spread through Bardon’s chest.
Wulder, protect me, for I am a dolt. Keep me ever mindful of Your strength, Your honor, Your presence.
The man looked away and lowered his arms to his sides.
“I am Lord Ire.” His announcement boomed over his listeners. The grawligs cowered. “I have chosen you for my subjects. It is your honor to serve me. Together we shall dominate the world. You will be revered, not spurned. You will be great, and those who pass before you will cower and cry with fear.”
Bardon expected a mighty cheer. But the awed grawligs only mumbled in their throats and nodded their massive heads.
“This will be my challenge to you.” Lord Ire drew from his pocket a red cloth that dripped scarlet drops onto the ground. He held it above his head. “Do you smell it?”
His audience grunted and growled and stirred in their seats.
“It excites you, doesn’t it? The smell demands that you run. The smell insists that you hunt. You are urged to your feet.”
The mass of grawligs rose as one. They fidgeted as if they could not keep still, nor could they move from the spot until released by the speaker. Their feet shifted in the dirt.
“You need to hunt. You need to track. You need to ferret out all those who carry this smell. You need to kill.”
Bardon felt the swelling desire churning among the grawligs. They craved to be set free, to break loose from this confining circle.
Lord Ire waited just one moment longer, restraining them, making them all the more eager to be off. He allowed the cloth to drop. When it hit the ground he said, “Go.”
The wagon shook as the multitude stampeded away from the camp. Dust rose in the air. Bardon peered through his small crack and watched. The air became still. The cloud of grime settled. Lord Ire stood for a moment and then vanished.
The bisonbeck soldiers started as if awakening from a trance. They moved around, straightening overturned barrels, putting out the fires, and collecting cooking utensils and abandoned food supplies. Soon even that activity stilled.
Bardon waited.
He listened.
He heard a whimper and then a sob.
“Leetu?”
A mangled word came back to him through the staves of the barrels.
“What is it?” he asked.
She choked and moaned and managed to speak. “Kimens. He has sent them to hunt kimens, as hounds would track down a fox. They will tear apart each kimen they find with their teeth and their claws.” Another sob escaped her. “He has commanded it so.”