From Across the Clouded Range (44 page)

The cast-iron pot smashed into the
creature’s head, cracking its skull like an egg. It had disregarded
Dasen, and he had struck without thinking. The hand holding Teth
went limp. She jerked it away, retrieving her dagger as she did,
and spun to the side.

The creature wavered with blood
splattered across the side of its brutish face, but Dasen did not
wait for it to recover. He brought the pot around again, aiming at
the same spot. The weapon shattered what was left of the creature’s
head, knocking it into its fellows. The shear bulk of the thing
snapped one of the guide ropes and sent a wave of creatures into
the gap.

Dasen looked for Teth –
they had bought some time but was it enough?
She was hard at work with her knife and almost through the
first of the ropes that held the bridge, but the rope was strong,
weathered hemp that did not cut easily. He watched her progress for
a second then brought his eyes back to the bridge where the
creatures had already recovered their footing. He glanced at Teth
again and did a quick calculation. She would never make it. He was
going to have to face another of the creatures. Without the benefit
of surprise, he did not like his odds.

He held out the pot ready to strike
and was captivated by what he saw. A sleekly muscled woman was
standing in the middle of the bridge with flame-red hair flying
around her body as if she were walking against a gale. She was
magnificent, perfectly proportioned, fair-skinned, and barely
dressed. She swung her hips seductively as she sauntered across the
bridge with no regard for the turbulence of the walkway.

Dasen could not help but watch
doe-eyed as she closed on him. He knew that he should do something
to stop her, but he was trapped in her dark eyes and could not make
his arms move to swing the pot that hung by his side. His heart
thundered from longing, not fear. The pot fell from his limp
fingers – how could he ever think of striking something so
beautiful? The woman smiled at the sight of the pot falling and
brought her hands out from where they were hidden behind her. Dasen
thought she was preparing to wrap her arms around him and give him
everything that her walk promised. He was ready to receive her. He
held his arms out.

His heart stopped. The seductress’
hands slid out from behind her as long, distorted fingers ending in
razor points. The skin on her face drew back tight until her nose
was a bat-like point, her eyes were leering slits, and her mouth
was a gaping sneer of ragged fangs. The sudden change released
Dasen from his mesmerism, and he recovered just in time to dodge to
the side as the first pass of the creature’s claws slashed toward
his chest. The claws were followed by a diving strike from the
snarling fangs that sent him stumbling to the ground just out of
reach.

His eyes clamped shut when he hit the
ground and bounced open immediately, expecting to see the blow that
would finish him. Instead, they were burnt by a burst of flame that
sent him scampering from the bridge with his arm over his face.
When he looked up again, the woman on the bridge was a thrashing
ball of fire, and a creature was circling in the sky above with
flames licking from its blackened lips.

It had been aiming for him, Dasen
realized, and would have had him if he had not been forced to the
ground. The monster on the bridge had been hit instead, and its
flaming body now acted as the perfect barrier.

He rolled along the ground away from
the burning creature as Teth finished cutting the rope to collapse
one side of the bridge. Without the walkway for support, most of
the black shapes tumbled to the rocks. The few that held to one of
the remaining ropes tried to move hand over hand toward whichever
side was closest, but the already frayed ropes were too weak, and
it was only a matter of seconds before they too collapsed under the
strain.

Dasen did not watch the creatures
fall. He remembered the thing flying above just in time to leap
away from a fountain of fire that formed where he had been
crouched. The heat from the flames encompassed his body. He smelled
his hair crisp, but he rolled away with his arms over his head
until the heat had died.

The creature unleashed a scream of
frustration and made a loop in the sky preparing for another pass.
This time it did not leave anything to chance. It opened its
alligator mouth to blow fire and prepared its four sets of stubby
claws to finish whatever escaped the flames.

Dasen tried to predict where the
attack would focus, but the creature was not giving anything away.
He was about to jump to the right in an attempt to make the nearby
trees when a sliver of light caught his eye. It flashed through the
darkness like a shooting star and ended in the joint of the
creature’s bat wing. The creature did not seem to notice, but when
that wing came down to carry it the final distance to its prey, it
buckled. The creature lost control of its rapid descent, careened
to the side, and unleashed a column of flame into the night until
it was cut short by the chasm wall.

Dasen exhaled sharply, but there was
no time to relax. At least a dozen other creatures were circling
above, waiting their turn. He found Teth crouched near the bridge
with the bow still clutched in her hand. The quiver over her
shoulder was empty; they could not fight any longer. As one, they
sprinted for the cover of the trees and staggered through the
brush, their night just beginning.

Chapter 21

The sensation of a man kicking him
none too gently in the ribs jarred Rynn from a deep sleep. He
pulled his arms up to protect himself and yelled for the man to
stop.

Seeing that his subject was awake, the
black-robed figure looked down and nearly spat his orders. "Get up.
You have an audience with the Belab. There is some water in the
corner. Use it to clean yourself then step out of the tent. Be
quick. The Belab does not wait."

Rynn sat up and rubbed the sleep from
his eyes. He had been sleeping hard, and it took him some time
before he remembered where he was. When he finally did, he wished
that he could forget. The memories of what he had seen rushed over
him, and he shook as the horrible images replayed in his mind. At
the same time, he remembered what Ipid had told him, remembered who
he was and what he had to do. He had to be strong. He could not let
fear beat him. He repeated Ipid’s mantras to himself, pushed the
emotions deep into his guts, and kept them there like a small fire
that could warm his courage when he thought it might
fail.

He looked around the small tent and
found a bowl of water in the corner. His stomach growled with
hunger, a sharp pain lancing through him. He had not eaten in over
a day now, and he wished that he had something, anything to fill
the hole in his middle. As it was, he drank deeply from the water
then used what remained to wash his face and hands. As he wiped the
water away, he thought back trying to remember who he was being
summoned to meet.

Following that first night in the
sheep’s pen, he had spent the next day huddled with the villagers,
sparsely guarded and largely forgotten. He remembered wondering why
he had not been separated the others – his father would never pay a
ransom, but he should have at least been worth the effort. He
remembered other strange things about the bandits as well but had
been too busy worrying about his neck to piece them all
together.

Then, in the afternoon, a cadre had
come and separated the young villagers from their families. The
villagers had clung to their children, men had tried to fight, but
it was pointless. The bastards showed no mercy or remorse. They
killed the parents and pulled the children away sobbing. With no
one to fight for him, Rynn had offered no resistance. He had
watched the slaughter from the side of the pen, unable to divert
his eyes as men and women were cut down for the simple act of
clinging to their children.

When enough blood had been spilled to
drown the nascent uprising, the village children, boys and girls
alike, were herded away and lined up in front of a large tent. One
at a time they entered the tent and came out looking dazed but
otherwise unhurt. The girls and small children were then returned
to their weeping families. The boys were led to the opposite side
of the village outside of Rynn’s view.

Rynn had been one of the last to enter
the tent. He had been terrified, certain that, for better or worse,
these men would realize who he was and make him part of their
ransom requests. He had repeated what Ipid had told him, told
himself over and over that he was too valuable to hurt. Inside the
tent had been an old man in black robes sitting on a small stool
with two similarly attired men standing on either side of him. The
standing men’s features were hidden inside voluminous hoods, but
the seated man had his hood cast back. Rynn’s eyes had come to rest
on the old man.

His memories stopped
there. Try as he might, Rynn could not remember anything past that,
could not even remember what the old man looked like or how he had
come to lie in this tent. He guessed that he had fainted during the
questioning.
Had there had been
torture?
He shuddered at the thought then
assessed himself, realized there was no pain, and dismissed the
idea – certainly he would remember something as traumatic as
torture.

Exiting the tent, he heard the man
outside mutter something about his being slower than a frost slug
in a snow bank. Despite the man’s harsh tone, Rynn could not hold
back his questions. “A frost slug? So you must be Morgs, though I
have never heard of a frost slug and you don’t look nearly big
enough. I also thought Morgs never rode horses. But I suppose if
you are resorting to kidnapping and murder, minor cultural
infractions are probably the least of your worries. I can only
imagine . . . .”

“
Shut up!” The black-robed
man turned on Rynn and glared at him through his cowl. In the
darkness, Rynn could only see his sparkling black eyes and the tip
of his long nose. The play of shadows on his face suggested
something gruesome – possibly some kind of childhood accident – but
before he could look closer, the man turned and led him across what
remained of the village.

“
So I struck a nerve, did
I? My father always tells me that I talk too much. Of course, he
doesn’t think. . . .“

“
Silence!” the man
seethed. “If you speak another word, I swear it will be your last.
I don’t care how important the Belab thinks you are.”

That was enough for Rynn. It was
obvious that these criminals knew who he was, so it was unlikely
that they would hurt him. Still, they had proven to be brutally
unpredictable, and he didn’t want to take any chances. So, despite
the incredible difficulty, he kept his mouth clamped shut for the
remainder of the walk.

Stuck with his own thoughts, Rynn’s
mind went over what the dark man had said, and he suddenly realized
that the man had not spoken in any language that he knew. His words
had been totally foreign, but he had somehow understood them. The
immensity of that discovery quickly overpowered his oath of
silence. He opened his mouth, but his escort seemed to know what he
was thinking. The man turned before he could get a word out and hit
him with a stare that withered even his ability to
speak.

They walked on in silence, so Rynn
turned his attention to the remnants of the village and found that
it had become a huge camp. That afternoon there had only been a few
tents; now there were hundreds of long, low canvas or hide
structures stacked in rows so close that they were almost touching.
Rynn could not hope to understand the meaning of the structures –
even if every villager had their own tent, it would be too
many.

Before he could think on it, their
journey ended. They stood before the same large tent he had visited
that afternoon. His guide pulled the flap aside and motioned him to
enter. Rynn took a deep breath, stepped inside, and was blinded by
a bright light. Squinting and blinking, he searched for the source
of the light, but it just seemed to exist in the tent without any
variation in its intensity. It was as if the very air glowed around
him. He searched the tent but found no lamps, candles, or
explanations. Beyond the light, the scene in the tent had not
changed from the one he had witnessed that afternoon. In the middle
of the tent was the same old man, sitting on the same collapsible
stool, with the same men flanking him in their still-wrinkled black
robes.

Rynn moved so that he was in front of
the man on the stool – he was obviously the leader. He stood with
his chin high as his father had always told him to do, but his
hands were shaking, his heart was beating out of his chest, and his
eyes ached to study his shoes. Normally, his mind would have been
full of questions, but facing the strange old man, he could not
seem to think of a single word, let along speak them.

"So you are still proud,” the old man
said with distaste. “I like pride, but only in those who know how
to use it. Your pride is because you were told to have it, not
because you can earn it, not because you believe it. You will be
broken of it, and then someday, perhaps, you will earn it back.”
The man's voice was like the hiss of sandpaper across wood and the
edge in it was so strong that Rynn did lower his chin. His knees
trembled under the pressure of a devious smile.