"What is it? What do you see?" asked the man, hunched over the scrying globe. It was a quartz rock, shaded by his rapidly moving hands, spidery across the opaque nimbus emanating from the scrying-table. The wrinkled, bald-pated man, his skin pulled and seamed, scraggly blond beard whitish from age, and decrepitude, pulsated like the threads of the weird destinies of the Valistian hamlets and the denizens within.
The man spoke to himself, murmuring from one mouth to the tongue of a high-pitched and otherworldly voice, as if his soul had been cast from his sinewy, thin-robed body, the dark purplish material hoary with age and shadowy gloom. Viro grit his teeth, the tall warrior hunched, his great muscular arm and hand cupping his chin in bemused wonder. He detested sorcerers; though he had accomplished his arrival on horseback along the Trails of the Wending Willow, the leader of the hamlet, a rough mercenary called Eshtu was a-hunt with his retinue. Steaming with anger, Viro had drunk of the meades of the forest glades, in this outpost of the bronze-helmed ones, in the land of Valistia.
It was the reaver's intent to roam along the Trails of the Wending Willow, the fen-lands and prairie-steppes of the gladed lands of the Boar-Skulls through the festering swamps of Hael-gedda and the promising mercenary villages of the Bull-Kings of southwest Valistia, near the border-lands of the Grey Mountains of the Keep. This hamlet was known for nothing but the honeycombs of intrigue, and mead-draughts for which the secretive lot had gallons.
The fair-haired warrior's large, fearsome, leathern-gloved hand made into a fist, pumping with unspent fury. In a moment he removed the aurochs-skin and placed the other in his lap as well, focusing his mighty fingers as the myrrh-laced scents of the sorcerer's skin-tent wafted through the dank airs. His jaw muscles tensed, his noble and firm jaw and cheekbones burnt with red-life of the sun-reaver, visible even in these dusky environs.
"Viro!" the sorcerer shouted, his pale grey eyes widening with fear beneath spidery grey brows and wrinkled forehead. "It is - the destiny! I see it!"
Viro was sullen. "What - what seest thou?" he asked suspiciously.
"Three! The three of this path's branch," he murmured. "They - they come for thee!"
"When!" demanded Viro.
A shadow appeared at the tent-flap's door. The scrying-sorcerer's small, cowering figure hunched, as if a bag of bones. The sunlight streamed into the tent; Viro's hand gripped the pommel of his great battle-axe, laying by his left-side, feeling its firm and strong bear-leather.
A tall bandit-soldier, his beaten spike-armor cuirass and leathern boots wrapped tightly around his sinewy frame; his dark brown hair was long and tied into a long horse-tail, banded by a well-fashioned bronze clasp. His head was longish, stubbled with beard, and seamed with the trials of the sun; his brow was heavy as his long jaw, and his deep forest gaze bore into Viro's. He was Eshtu's man, twelve guardsmen alone in this hamlet, protected by the forests of their ancestors, the great tall pines that swept across the prairie-lands and the River of the Blood-Fane beyond which the hostile tribes dwelt.
"Viro," said the bandit-soldier, "Eshtu arrives in camp." The fearsome Kshatriya stood to his full height, taller than the man before him, regarding the swordsman with suspicion. "I shall meet him." The augured barbarian turned to the cowering sorcerer, the strange lights which emanated from his scrying-ball gone dim by the sun's burning shaft-lights. His hooded gaze met Viro's. Viro pushed the tent flap open. Beside the bone-chair was a small bag of coins. When the flap has closed and the giant reaver had gone, the sorcerer grabbed for the sack, hunching downward and praying excitedly to the god of his fortunes, for untying the small hide-sack he found a fine mix of copper and silvered pieces, and three coins of pure gold.
* * *
The portly, strong-bellied chieftain, his long mustachios trailing like hides below his cleft chin, garruled with another bandit-guard; for the clan of Eshtu had usurped the original dynasty of this hamlet and forest, slaking his thirst for their sacred groves to the gods of the fox and cave-bear, his retinue had slaughtered the earlier, bronze-skinned and aquiline-featured Brhosz-nu, those dark-haired and sophisticated travelers of the rivers beyond the Grey Mountains of the Keep; it was said they were from the rocky shores of the greenish seas beyond the Hyrlantian penninsulae, and their tongue was a foreign one. Eshtu, those near-score years ago, and posted their heads upon the sky-scraping pine-pikes beyond the river-ford, their festering skulls greeting the sailors and forders of the dark streams beyond.
The gilded loot and the secret chalices of the Brhosz-nu, had he kept; and the black-bearded chieftain had e'er drunk from the gilded contents his rough and heady meadow-wines, and the rustic brews of the forests of his Raj-dos homeland on the rocky hillocks of northeast marches of Zajkent; and he was not sated. The dark-haired, sinewy guards of the hamlet paced about the cavern, and stood by its only entrance, jabbering in the strange tongue of their homeland, so varied from those they kept in thrall.
"Kshatriya, thy name proceeds thee," said Eshtu, his gruff, basso voice echoing across the cave-keep. The trail to the keep was well-trapped and guarded; the last man-thief who had ventured to pillage had been dismembered and four directions, his gruesome bowels strung across the tree-branches for ruff-crested ravens and the clevern scavengers of the four-footed sort.
"Of course, for my name is Viro," the tall warrior answered. The Rajdosian drank from the skull of a young cave-bear, the ambrosia filling his pale cheeks with refreshed life; his thick cheekbones grew rosy. A'lighting his brow, he wiped his thick lips and continued, crossing his bandy, strong legs on his throne. In the faint distance a streamlet ran, further back into the cavern. Viro's battle-axe was strapped to his great back, and the summertime jerkins and leathern-armor exposed his muscular thighs and reddish-blond hair upon his sinewy, massive forearms. His thick hair was tied backward into a clasped horse-tail, and his stubble unshaven as ever.
"Drink?" asked Eshtu.
"I do not drink save for celebration," said the Kshatriya. "'tis a fine mead-cup from which thee sup."
A dark look passed over the portly chieftain; his eyes flickered. He grunted. "This? It is from the ornery family which lived in this cave before, nevermore."
"I know not of this cave," said Viro.
"Understood, tall one," said Eshtu; Eshtu's foul breath wafted. "For we have business to discuss." The heavy Rajdosian grunted, peering over a skin-map. He extended a thick finger and spoke. "The skulls of the Boar are before us, and it is thee whose services of plunder I require. Their keep is some twenty miles hence, before a swamp-land. There they hold the treasures which by the might of my ancestors, shall I have." The lands of the Trails of the Wending Willow were not mapped in a decade; and no man knew what dangers or horrors of twisted fate may lie along those shadowed earth-walks.
"Ten silvern of ingot, ten of gold," said Viro; for these could be smelted in the city-state of his choosing, or for the sovereign marks in the towns through which he wandered.
"A cry in the night!" said Eshtu, sarcastically. "What shall a young reaver do but spend his coins like the snake sips water?" Viro's grey gaze stormed; his cheeks flushed with barbaric fury. "This is my final offer to thee."
Eshtu drank, his beady gaze hooded by his heavy brow; sullen and brutal in the dusky torch-light of the dank cavern. When he drank the last of the bucolia, he dabbed at the edges of his lips and chin with a rag, inhaling and grumbling, meandering in the recesses of his savage mind. "The deed is done," he said, extending his large and scarred fist to Viro's; Viro struck his fist against the Radjosian's, and the deal was sealed.
Viro felt the sharp point of a sword, the heavy, double-blade of the bandit, sear across his thick neck. "Hm! But for twenty gold ingots, they shall have your head in the land of the Boar! And for fifty, a Kshatriyan alive!" Eshtu stood, measuring to his full height, his hefty frame and belly pushing as he put on his dark, clefted plate cuirass around his frame, pulling his spiked bandlets and gloves fitting tight; his leathern jerkins and heavy boots stomped the dusty cavern and he shouted in gruff Rajdosian as the guards clamored for the outdoors.
* * *
The forests slunk as the air grew hotter and more humid; vines heavy with growth trailed across the swamp-trees and willows along the Trails. The bandits held the reins on their horses, watching along the trail; Eshtu, be-helmed with a great buffalo-hide helm, horned and bound with iron, rode in the middle of the contingent. The hamlet held the other coterie of bandit-soldiers; but the enslavement was a pressing matter.
Viro, his blond hair lank and sweaty, was bound firmly, a leathern headband across his eyes, he could lift his head to clear his throat and swallow, though he was weak for lack of food or water. It was then that he peered from beyond his blind, and saw the wending path, and the constant drumming of the hale-horses' hooves across the ground.
The sun was overcast by clouds; and the air was spring-like, but the miasma of the swamps added a sour, heavy scent. The animals of the forest were largely quiet, and the locusts chirred intermittently. A crack sounded from the forest; and the sky was growing dimmer. A horseman shouted behind Viro, and suddenly the air was raucous with howls.
Viro tore at his binds furiously; shards of daylight pierced the hide-bind, and he raked at his hand-binds, loosening one and ripping his muscular arm from its dominion. The forest growth crashed and the men shouted, some turning their horses as others dismounted, the rushing of their armor from the saddle and clashing of weapons shattering the stillness of the Trail.
He heard the nocking of arrows as combat commenced; and he fell from the mount, his shoulder crashing to the dirt-floor, and rolling to the opposite rocky bushes and trees. He tore at a branch, working his other arm from its bind, e'en as the leathern blinder slipped down across his neck. Viro gripped the branch mightily as the unfolding horror of the gory combat met his gaze.
A troupe of ape-men, upright, their shaggy bodies and bandy, iron-like limbs flurried savagely into the armored bandits; a spear poked clean through the body of one, the bloody shaft seeping the half-man's essence onto the forest grounds. The twisted-faced ape-men, hairy save for high cheekbones, narrow eyes and large mouths wore tunics, and some carried stone clubs or heavy branches; and the corpses of three bandits were broken, for the strength of these ancient creatures was known across the haunted Trails. Viro swore and approached the felled horse in the melee; he saw Eshtu battling with his broadsword against two ape-men; there were several more approaching from the depths of the thick swamp-jungle.
The tall, fair battler glimpsed a longsword lying by a gored horse, and he darted for it; he knew there was no reasoning with these troglodytes, for their taste for the organs of the slain humans they found was legend; and the fierce power of their dark primeval gods and rites swayed. The sword was of a decent make, and still sharp; Viro charged into the body of one, its guts spilling across the hilt; the warrior pulled it out. The sucking sound made the pupils of the ape-man dilate, and his mouth twisted in rage e'en as the tongue of his frothy moth lolled in death.
Three more ape-men charged from the forest; and the shouts of dying men and ape-men mingled unholily. Eshtu stumbled, bringing his sword-guard upward, catching the palm of an incensed ape-man upon a remorseless spike. It howled as he disemboweled it, its strong-muscled abdomen no watch for well-wrought iron. The fists of the apen-men bludgeoned him.
A stone club swung at Viro's midsection, but he parried with the thick branch, breaking it in twain with a loud snap; a flurry of fists bludgeoned the blond reaver. He shoved the sword straight into the neck of one, pushing with his great height and weight upon the sword; it snapped the creature's spine in twain, and lodged immovable in the corpse's neck bone.
The Kshatriya wrestled with two ape-men; though he was of a greater and sounder stature than they; they were of greater stature than many of the inhabitants of these lands, and the fearsome stench was enough to make many gag with revulsion. His grip battled with one, its animal-like eyes and humanoid head gritting with determination; spittle and mucus sprayed from its nostrils and it grunted in frustration and the guttural cant of its kind.
The throat-bone snapped and the ape-man's head fell to the side; a mighty arm grasped around Viro's neck, and he flipped over, landing his mighty shoulder into the ape-man's midsection. For the ape-men of the uncharted lands to the east were vicarious bandits but skilled and savage fighters. The fair-skinned warrior gave it no quarter, and his sinews pulsed and tensed.
Suddenly the ape-man was limp. Viro looked upward and saw the bloodied and bruised Eshtu, leaning to one side upon a stick. The bandit chief removed his sword from the chest of the creature. Two more men, the remaining guards, blades drawn, gathered beside him, scratched and bloodied from battle. The forest echoed with the crashing feet of the retreating ape-men.
"Fifty ingots, young reaver," grunted Eshtu. He gestured with his sword. Viro stood warily. The two bandits, their haggard features grim with battle-blood, edged toward the tall warrior. Viro whirled, catching one and locking his leg by the knee, tearing the knee-cap out of the cartilage, ripping his joints. He screamed in pain as the second brought his blade across Viro's left arm, drawing a deep wound. The warrior shouted as Eshtu brought a mailed fist into the red-locked fighter's jaw, sending him sprawling. The felled bandit was helped to a horse as the second lowed the steed for the injured.
A sharp heel-blow caught Viro again, and his face pressed to the ground. "Twenty ingots and your head on a pike will make my name all the greater, and my god greater than thine." A deep hatred welled within Viro, and with his remaining strength he crawled across the muddy trail, for it had begun to rain. His iron-grip caught the smaller man off-guard, and he fell to the ground. Viro climbed atop the haughty chieftain, his mighty hand shaking. A sharp stick caught the wicked man's bobbing throat-organ.
"For mine, thee art worth none but the glamor of battle," replied Viro grittily, his battle-wounds sending waves of pain across his body.
"The life of the bandit-king is not for the meek," answered Eshtu. A boot kicked Viro's stick from his hand, but his other hand gripped the throat of the humongous bandit; his face turned beet-red, and pools of purplish blood welled at his temples. In a moment he breathed not; upon his neck wrapped a small quartz sphere, flecked with blood.
The last bandit of Eshtu's horde was ashen, and his long, aquiline face and narrow eye a mask of fright; he backed away steadily, limping, among the blades and corpses. "Eshtu," he wept, and fell to his knees, imploring the bare-skulled gods of his ancestors. Viro stood with a branch, wrapping his left arm, covered in scarlet gore, with a wrapping torn from his tunic. He grasped a branch and made a swift gait toward the bandit. "Where is my armament?" demanded Viro, whacking the bandit with the stick, as heavy as a grown-man's two arms. The bandit moaned in pain, spitting harshly. He pointed to a horse's pack.
The Kshatriya swung again, nearly breaking the stick against the nape of the bandit, and he fell to the ground. He made for the horse, whinnying and flickering its ears in terror. The fair warrior patted the horse's scruff in the custom of his homeland, of the forest-wisdom of his homeland, and the horse settled. He tore open the pack-buckles and found his armor and battle-axe wrapped beside the sturdy steed's back, and dressed quickly.
* * *
The dusk reddened and Viro heard the baying of the steppe-wolves, the large and vicious grey ghosts of the night, as the hamlet approached. His armor fit well, though the glamor of battle had faded, his wounds were in need of poultice and proper treatment. The guards called and the torch-lights of the glade burned; the Trail rose and the outskirts of the battlements came into view. Beyond the clever crooks of the great pines was the town, beyond the earthen ramparts and tall walls camouflaged from the traveler's sight.
"Hark!" cried Viro, his legs slapping the sides of the steed. The tall bandit guards peered into the darkness.
"Who goes?" called one, shouting into the eve. The fair warrior could feel the gazes, the honed arrows and remorseless spear-points of the unseen defenders. "'tis I, your leader," he responded. The fortress was silent and Viro trotted his steed closer; the pine scents wafted, freshly. The horse whinnied and Viro pulled its reins firmly.
Iron and shafts clinked, and two guards tread outward; within fifteen feet of the forest-reaver. They saw Viro, daubed with the mud of the Trail of the Wending Willow, seated nobly, upon the battle-wearied steed; and the dangling head of Eshtu from the saddle. Viro whirled the chain of the head of Eshtu and threw it; hurtling to the feet of the bandits.
"For ten ingots of gold, each, shall ye be my riders."
The deep howling of the forest-wolves rattled the timbers of the pine-ways, and the encampment was silent. Dark movement swirled beyond, and a figure - a small figure, hunched and steady - appeared. "For twenty shall ye leave us," said the voice, the wizened voice of the light-footed old man of the hamlet.
"Bee-Sorceror! What destiny seest thou?" asked Viro, impatiently, gripping his battle-axe petulantly.
A heavy bag flew from the ramparts thunked in front of Viro's steed. He dismounted, leaning slightly on the neck of the horse, looking about the forest swiftly, smelling, gritting his teeth in the ignobility of blood-gold. The tall figure, armored and cast in a dark cloak, struck fear into the bandits, and they gripped the pommels of their long-swords and spears in fear. The sorceror, his unhealthy sight narrowing in anticipation, clutched his knobby walking-stick.
Viro kicked the bag, and something stirred. With a mighty arm he poked at the hide-bag in the flickering torchlight of pine-night, and the bound broke. An unholy sound moaned and stirred, and a flurry of bees sang, their cloud of confusion flying across the warrior. He swatted the cloud and felt their sting, rubbing his arms free of their pestilence.
Not an arrow-shot fired, for among the insect-muck and honey, was a pile of forty gold ingots. Viro grit his teeth and spat, the bear-fury a' lighting his grey eyes. The small figure met his gaze, and in a moment returned to the darkness. As he turned, Viro took up the quartzite necklace Eshtu, and crushed it into his fist. His temples reddened and his great jaw moved in ire as the force of ten blacksmiths slowly broke the thing into fragments. With more effort, into powder.
A wan cry and cursings emanated from inside the gates as Viro hauled the twined-bag of gold onto the horse, and with a harsh cry, turned the steed by rein and galloped into the wolf's night of the forest Trail, toward the steppe-lands of the Boar-Skulls.
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