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Chapter Twelve

Druadaen watched as several of the King’s Own Border Cavalry of Teurodn secured their only casualty to the saddle of a horse. Ironically, the rider hadn’t been killed by a pek. At least not directly.

The fleeing raider had rounded on his pursuers and struck a desperate blow with his saw-toothed polearm. The rider had flinched out of its way, but the sweep of the weapon caught his mount squarely in the side of the head. The horse went down, the rider was thrown, and he died the very next instant; his brow hit the loam and snapped his neck backward.

The pek that had struck the blow met the same fate as the others: run down and speared from behind. What followed was both understandable, if arresting. The cavalrymen casually dismounted and butchered any survivors with the same detached boredom that the bountiers had. They didn’t bother to take the ears or thumbs, however.

Their commander, who was almost as tall as Druadaen, stood observing his troops. He was surrounded by a handful of the oldest in his command, two of whom were not wearing the colors of the King’s Own Border Cavalry. Their tunics and equipment bore devices of a heraldic nature, but Druadaen had no idea what their significance might be.

He’d been grimly resolved to help them dispatch any of the pekt who’d survived, but between his exhaustion and the cavalrymen’s prompt action, his assistance had not been needed. Relieved, he lowered himself to the grass to rest, observing that he’d better do so while he could.

As the balance of the troopers checked the pekt lying within sight, three had fanned out to the south, scouting for more of Druadaen’s pursuers. Upon returning, only one had anything to report: a group of about a dozen that was running back out onto the plains. The final horn blasts of their dead fellows had probably been a warning that humans were upon them, and of all the foes that pekt feared, armored cavalry topped the list.

When no one was looking, Druadaen slipped one boot lower until he could see his heel; it was wet with blood. The heel itself wasn’t bleeding—the skin there was too tough—but somewhere on the soles or sides of his feet, the endless running had finally rubbed him raw. He smiled; blood and pain were hardly a concern after the two desperate days now behind him. Maybe, when he could find a minute away from his rescuers—

The commander sat next to Druadaen. Trying to hide his heel was now pointless, particularly since the blood was apparently what had drawn the officer over to him. “One of my men is moderately skilled in chirurgy,” he offered.

“My thanks, sir, but it is not a wound. It’s from running.”

The man frowned even as he smiled. “It appears you’ve done a great deal of running, then.”

Druadaen glanced at the flanks of the nearby horses: still lathered and slick. “I am apparently not alone in that.”

The officer raised one eyebrow, but his frown had disappeared. The new expression on his face was difficult to read fully, but it had elements of both surprise and approval. “Well, at least we can get you some bindings.”

“I would be most grateful for that. Wherever we are bound, it won’t be a short walk.”

The other’s frown was back. “You intend to walk? I recommend otherwise, unless you derive strength from pain. We mean to leave as we came: riding.”

Druadaen counted the remaining horses. “I do not see how we may all ride. Including myself and the body of your man, you have need of twenty-one mounts, but only have nineteen.”

“We have that well in hand.” The rest of his command staff—or bodyguard?—sat in a rough arc centered on him. “You and another will travel in tandem with the riders of the two largest horses. Their gear will be shared out to the rest of the troop so that we may all be mounted and travel at reasonable speed.”

“How far do we have to go?”

“Well, that depends upon your destination. Although,” he mused, his eyes flicking quickly between Druadaen’s sword, bow, and helmet, “you are a long way from where those were made.”

Interesting. “As you imply, we are indeed a long way from Dunarra.”

The man nodded but his eyes remained noncommittal. “So share your tale; what has you playing the fox to the pekt’s hounds out here upon the Plain of Grehar?”

Druadaen looked up; more than half the troop had collected around them, seated in a circle. “Fair warning: the tale is not short, and it seems our enemy could be gathering greater numbers.”

The Teurond officer waved a lazy hand toward the west. “The chance that they would return is extremely small, and the men on watch are extremely keen of eye. We need not worry about being surprised. So, please: tell your tale.”

Druadaen did. When he reached the part where, upon leaving Garasan’s pyre-pit, he began suspecting that his horse’s barrel was swollen with lethal colic, one of the younger cavalrymen guffawed. “Just what you’d expect of a Dunarran. Can’t tell sourgrass from sweet.”

The officer’s only reaction was a forced, wan smile. “So, you followed the pekt tracks you found near the pyre-pit?”

Druadaen nodded and finished his account: his shadowing of the pekt, his horse’s sudden immobility, its shrill whinnies of agony, his remorseful silencing of them, the pekt’s sudden turn in his direction, and, finally, the two-day pursuit that followed. His listeners were, by turns, startled by his intents, amazed at his stupidity, and baffled at his unwonted boldness.

When he was done, the officer nodded slowly at Druadaen’s bow, his blonde locks bobbing. “You speak as though you come from the city, but you do not shoot that way.”

“You are correct. On both counts. But no amount of archery would have saved me. For that, I am in your debt. Particularly his.” He glanced sadly at the body over the back of the most distant horse. “So I must ask: By what stroke of luck”—if that’s what it was—“did you happen to be in this desolate spot to rescue me?”

“We were riding to the south and saw the buzzards.”

Druadaen frowned. “I haven’t seen any buzzards since I arrived.”

The oldest of the officer’s veterans explained. “Simple reason fer that, young si—er, fellow. A regular buzzard would starve on these plains. Not much prey and even less carrion. So Grehar vultures fly high until they’re ready to feed, so high you won’t see ’em unless you know when and where to look.”

“And you did?”

“Well, we did hear urzhen horns,” added another. Druadaen had begun noticing that they did not use the world “pekt” when referring to the Bent. “Stands to reason they might have already brought down some quarry. Or made a meal of one of their own.”

“Even when they are aboveground, raiding?” Druadaen shook his head. “But when I read about them—”

“Oh,” exclaimed one of the youngest riders, “he read about them! Bollocks! He’s been learning about urzhen from a book! Y’see how it is?”

“Is he mad?” asked another.

“Well,” the younger one observed facetiously, “that is a Dunarran accent—”

The officer spoke to Druadaen as he cut a sharp glance at the pair. “You’ll forgive the terrible breeding of some of my men, I trust.”

Druadaen shook his head. “I took no offense.”

The officer was staring at Druadaen. “You took no offense? Truly?”

Druadaen shrugged. “Since coming north of Connæar, I have learned at least this much: that when it comes to your lands and your ways, what little knowledge I have is far outweighed by my ignorance.”

He sat in a ring of faces suddenly trying to conceal various degrees of surprise and even confusion. The officer was the first to speak. “You are very tolerant, Sir…?”

“I am Druadaen. Just Druadaen.”

The officer nodded decisively, and his eyes were, in that moment, no longer guarded. “He is a Dunarran, just as he claims,” he assured his men.

Druadaen, surprised to discover that his origins had not already been a foregone conclusion, was further bewildered by the sudden torrent of strange statements and presumptions that peppered a rapid exchange with their leader:

“But, aren’t all the Dunarrans nobles, Si…er, captain?”

The Teurond captain shook his head. “You have the matter backwards, Khrefdt. There are no Dunarran nobles at all, nor do any have hereditary titles.”

“No nobles? That’s anarchy!” one blurted out.

“And still, they’re all filthy rich?” another exclaimed.

Which made Druadaen laugh. The Teuronds stared at him, one or two frowns suggesting incipient resentment. “I assure you,” Druadaen added, “we are not all rich.”

“I hear tell that none of you starve,” another put in.

“Well, I suppose that’s true, but—”

“Then you’re all rich, nobles or not.”

Druadaen thought to dispute that, but his mind was suddenly filled with images of the thin, bedraggled borderers who lived beside the Graveyard and their ramshackle villages. Perhaps this fellow had a point after all.

The officer held up a hand to still any further exchanges. “I wish to confirm what you shared regarding your orders. You were instructed to complete the mission on your own?”

Druadaen shrugged. “If need be.”

The other grunted. “It would seem success enough to return home with the Outrider’s notes and personal effects. Especially for a lone, junior Outrider.”

“I certainly see the wisdom of that now, Lord…?”

The captain waved away the attempt at discovering his title, if he had one—which Druadaen was beginning to suspect. “I am just Darauf.”

His men exchanged glances.

Darauf had not paused. “Druadaen, either you are the most dunderheaded man I’ve met, the most courageous, or perhaps the most desperate.” His tone turned sly at the end.

“Desperate for what?” asked the youngest of the riders.

Darauf smiled at Druadaen. It was not unkind, but it was decidedly inquisitive. “Why don’t we let our guest tell us?”

Druadaen sat very straight. “It has been my goal since childhood to be inducted into the Legions. That still has not happened.” He shrugged. “I reasoned that brave deeds might change that. I will never know now.” Without looking, he was very aware of the exact location of the dead horseman strapped across a saddle. “And others have paid a terrible price for that ambition.”

Darauf’s voice was surprisingly mild. “Druadaen, we patrol these wastes to do exactly what we did today: kill the Bent and save fellow humans who are about to run afoul of them. Your intent—to learn more about your enemy—is commendable. Indeed, as I reflect upon it, it might well be a wise—if unintended—indictment of a dangerous complacency in us.” His men snapped straight, frowning, perplexed. “We have fought this enemy for so long that we presume to know him so well that there is no point in further study of his ways. Yet history and aphorisms alike tell us that such arrogance is a frequent path to ruin.” The Teurond commander, who was apparently not much older than Druadaen, glanced around the circle of faces. Their deference and respect was immediate and absolute.

“Sir—” Druadaen began.

“Darauf,” the other corrected with a mild smile.

“Darauf,” Druadaen repeated, “I realize that Dunarrans may have a, well, a mixed reputation in these lands, but I was not aware that others would try to imitate us.”

“It is not frequent,” Darauf affirmed with a nod, “but it does happen.” His face darkened. “Some unscrupulous blaggards go to great and murderous lengths to secure the trappings of your Outriders and so invite individuals to assume that they are Dunarrans. A handy disguise for those with basest treachery in their hearts.”

Druadaen nodded. “You have been to Dunarra, then?” Darauf shook his head. Sadly, Druadaen thought. “Then you have met many Outriders?”

“You are only the second,” he answered.

“Then you are to be congratulated on your rapid identification of my gear,” Druadaen said with a long, deferential nod.

“We were on the lookout for ’em, anyway,” chirped the dimmer companion of the youngest rider.

The veterans stared at him; his rank-and-file comrades stared away. Pointedly.

“I do not understand,” Druadaen said. And waited.

Darauf sent one cross glance at the hapless and loose-lipped cavalryman and then turned toward Druadaen. “In point of fact, we were informed of Garasan’s presence shortly before he arrived. Then recently, we received word that he had gone missing and might be dead. We were given special orders to venture further out into the plains to see if we could find any trace of him and be ready to render assistance to any other Outriders who might mean to join—or search for—him.”

Druadaen nodded. Superficially, it sounded plausible…except that it took weeks for conventional communiqués to make their way from Dunarra to Teurodn. So the arrival of the messages Darauf was referring to had either been incredibly fortuitous in terms of both speed and timing, or the message had been conveyed through more unusual means. Means involving miracles or mancery. Which would in turn suggest that Garasan’s mission possessed a level of urgency of which Druadaen had not been apprised.

“So,” he asked casually, “if you had not run across me in such a timely fashion, where were you headed next?”

“The sod house you have mentioned. It was, after all, the last known location of your predecessor.”

Which was a true enough answer. But it was also an extremely unrevealing answer. It would have been Darauf’s next logical destination whether he was searching for Garasan or Druadaen. But there was one other inquiry that might shed light on which of the two Outriders had been the main focus of his mission: “I see that I was doubly fortunate, then.”

“How so?”

Druadaen effected a casual shrug. “Well, firstly, you just happened to be at the southernmost extent of your patrol circuit. Otherwise you would not have been here to save me today.”

Darauf nodded, a small grin starting on his lips. “And secondly?”

“Why, that you were traveling so far out upon the plains that you were able to see the high-flying buzzards at all…and so, find me.”

Several of the cavalrymen, including two of the veterans, exchanged what they obviously meant to be surreptitious glances, but Druadaen had been watching for them.

Darauf replied with a shrug. “You are right. It is not customary for us to range so far from the border itself.”

“So your own borderers tell me. And speaking of the borderers down at this end of your patrol circuit, did you by any chance come across an old nativist while you were there?” The new flurry of glances among the riders were not only less subtle but frankly surprised.

A slow smile spread across Darauf’s face. “Why, no, we did not chance upon such an individual. Why do you ask?” His smile continued to grow.

“No particular reason,” Druadaen answered with a matching smile. And you even managed not to lie about meeting the nativist, because if you specifically went looking for him, then you didn’t “chance upon him.” “So it seems that your timely appearance was merely fantastic luck.”

“The world is full of fantastic twists of fate and fortune, good and bad. And who can say why they happen as they do?” Somehow, Darauf’s wide smile had grown still wider. “Now, as I have some small experience fighting urzhen, I would be pleased to answer any questions about them you might have.”

Druadaen thought, then gestured toward the bodies scattered beyond them. “Is this typical of their raiding parties?”

Darauf nodded. “Unless they are nearing horde-mass”—Druadaen noted his use of the same term scholars typically used—“the Bent rarely send out bands larger than a dozen males.”

“Why no more?”

One of the veterans leaned in. “Because they don’t like to share, young sir. Until they come out in force, that dozen or so is providing for as many as six to ten females and a dozen young. Varies by season, though. Might be as many as thirty if it’s summer. Elsetimes, they’re busy dying from hunger, disease, or fighting.”

“You mean, against bountiers?”

Darauf shook his head. “No. Rival tribes. Or sometimes among their own, if food is scarce and there are a good number of young or weak ones.”

Druadaen’s revulsion was overtaken by wonderment: How the hells do they survive? Then he realized he’d muttered his amazement aloud.

One of Darauf’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I believe I just answered that.”

Druadaen waved a negating hand. “No, no: I understand what you have explained. But there is a larger question, one for which the bountiers had no real answer. If the Bent do not grow their own crops, and if the food available in the Under cannot even sustain minimal numbers of them, then how do they ever attain horde-mass? Where do they get all the food that is required to amass that population?”

Many of the cavalrymen gave him the same kind of stares that the bountiers had. But Darauf and one of his veterans regarded him quietly, carefully. “You ask interesting questions,” Darauf murmured. “Should you once again find yourself on these borders, or in Teurodn itself, ask for me.”

Druadaen smiled. “Teurodn is a large realm, so where should I seek you? And, assuming your name is not unique, by what title should I ask after you?”

Suddenly wide-eyed, two of Darauf’s men stifled guffaws at the question, as if it was a jest. Their captain merely smiled as he shifted his body to face in the direction of that pair. Their flawed efforts at self-control became instantly and fully effective. “Just ask for Darauf. The borderers will know where to find me.”

He rose. “We should be on our way. We will see you safely to the sod house and provide you with a mount. Not so precisely trained as yours, but spirited and strong. And once we part ways, I know of a fellow who might have the information you seek about the Bent. Or, if he does not, I suspect he might prove to be a very helpful guide, should you return to find definitive answers to your questions.

He stared into the west. “The sun is coming to the end of its daily work. No reason to be abroad in the dark. The Bent might be tempted to once again try cases with us on terms more favorable to them. We ride.”



Journal Entry 141

13th of Snowbird, 1798 S.C.

Tlulanxu

It has been three weeks since I crossed the snow-dusted border back into Dunarra, and about two since arriving back in Tlulanxu. And once here, I learned the deep truth of the axiom often used by the Keepers of the Ar: “You never put your foot in the same river twice. That is because the river is always changing. As are you.”

As best as I can tell, nothing has changed in this city or the nation around it. Everything looks and sounds the same. In part, I have always appreciated Tlulanxu because of how safe it felt. Even the S’Dyxan raid didn’t change that. But now it feels too safe.

I have looked at that last sentence for a full minute, trying to determine why it feels incorrect. It isn’t untrue. It isn’t even inaccurate. But it is lacking. It is not the degree of safety here that feels excessive; it is the sense that while many Dunarrans are well trained for many emergencies, they rarely experience any of them. And so, I am no longer like them in that regard.

It is even true of the Legions. It has been centuries since a true Dunarran army has marched into battle against a foe which has any hope of defeating it. So our foes no longer try. As a result, not even half of all Legiors see combat, even in small border incidents.

So now, when I pass Legiors in the street—their faces serious, competent, alert—I cannot help but wonder, but have you ever been so far beyond the boundaries of human society that you have no idea how best to stay alive just one more day? Or if it is even possible? Because I have. And in ways I do not yet fully realize, that has changed me.

What has not changed are the habits I picked up during my years at the Archive. Such as: when confronted by a problem, seek the wisdom recorded by others who confronted it before you. And so I have come full circle, back to the Archive and Shaananca.

She was glad (although unusually unsurprised) to see me, and without so much as a frown or a tsk, she escorted me down to the very place I had spent a decade trying to enter: the Reserved Collection. Now, she simply smiles, waves a hand at the many strange shelves and glass-protected cases, and leaves me to my researches. Unattended.

As I said, it is the same Tlulanxu, and yet, it is entirely different.

The sources on urzhen were greatly varied in both style and substance. However, what the collection lacked in cohesiveness it amply made up for in diversity, ranging from dry, learned (and often unintentionally amusing) tracts by scholars to utterly accessible (but likely exaggerated) firsthand accounts. A small number of the writers combined both insight and readability in tolerable measure. The best was a campaigner whose career included both service beneath national banners and in the company of free-spirited bountiers. He was also a keen observer of the urzhen traits that seem to predispose them to become the scourges they have been to what he calls “the civilized lands”:


Unfortunately, the patience required for farming is neither native nor congenial to the Bent. Most of them are not even particularly good hunters, just as few of them are good archers. Their impulses lead them into lives of scavenging and marauding, no matter the community in which they are raised. Rather than track difficult prey or snare small game, they invariably prefer the larcenous titillations of stealing kills and raiding other sapient creatures for what they possess.

However, if they are not careful—and as a rule, they are not—many, if not most, of these raids become deadly debacles. Lacking the organization and discipline to pillage with anything like speed or efficiency, the Bent are frequently overtaken by human riders, who harry and delay them until overwhelming force can be brought to bear. It is not uncommon for every last one of the Bent to be slain.

However, every decade or so, one or more great orc leaders can bring together the fragmented tribes by appealing to the one thing they all have in common: seething hatred (and envy!) of the prosperous humans who have dealt them so many defeats. Using this sentiment as a rallying cry, those leaders can whip the ranks of the Bent into a frenzied wave of slavering marauders who are also very hungry. This is due to the periodic surge in numbers that also seems to quicken an instinctual drive to go a-hordeing. Or as countryfolk whisper (while making warding signs), it causes them to burst forth in a massive “Pekt-tide.”

This wave of urzhen is the bane of frontier existence. They emerge from their mountain warrens like a raging flood that swallows up everything in its path. Until, that is, that tumultuous flume of bestial humanoids runs into a truly fortified position. The patience required to mount an effective siege, along with the ever-mounting threat of retaliation by organized human troops (whose cavalry strikes terror into them) typically undermines whatever modest coherence the host possessed.

And so the Horde is eventually reduced to ever-smaller bands that eventually drift back up into the hills from whence they came. Indeed, their cowardice is so complete that the fast-moving warriors often abandon the dependents who traveled with them (since those who remain behind in their warrens may starve before the raiders return). Consequently, the females and young who were the Horde’s scouts, throat slitters, porters, etc., are found by the pursuing humans, who are obliged to stop long enough to dispatch these troublesome vermin and burn them en masse. A most annoying interruption of their avenging pursuit of the remains of the Horde!!!


As were many of his contemporaries, this chronicler saw the Bent as little more than animals and evinced excessive excitability in both his diction and punctuation (!!!).

However, out of all the treatises and accounts I have read, only a handful have ever mentioned the perplexing speed with which the Bent reproduce. Considerations of how that phenomenon occurs are rarely touched upon. Most dismiss the quandary the same way the bountiers did: they presume it is effected by whatever deities the Bent might worship. A few do admit it is a puzzlement, but only one went so far as to attempt to discover its cause. Indeed, his last entry declared his determination to solve the mystery or die trying. As that was the very last page in the very last of his journals, it seems that—sadly—he was as good as his word.

Which means that after more than a millennium of accumulated accounts, two critical questions remain unanswered: By what miracle of reproduction do the Bent recover from near decimation every ten years to flood forth in yet another Horde? And, if it is not the work of the gods, then from whence comes all the food that fuels and sustains such growth?

I had hoped that the Reserved Collection would hold some useful clues or insights. Of clues there were none, and of insights, only one that was useful: that we do not know enough about the lives of the Bent to even hazard a reasonable guess. Leaving me with but one option: to seek the answer myself.

I once again hear Darauf’s voice wondering if I am brave, mad, or desperate. I know I am not brave, for I am no stranger to terror. And my desperation to join the ranks of the Legions, while no less powerful, has become less urgent; if it takes longer than I hoped, so be it. Lastly, insofar as madness is concerned, more than a few have wondered that, and I sometimes wonder if they are right. But when all those explanations for my commitment to this investigation are put aside, the real reason I want to answer the mystery of the Bent becomes clear:

Insatiable curiosity. If the sudden surge that leads to a hordeing is the act of gods, I wish to know, because then we are indeed little more than their playthings. And if it is not, then what strange and undiscovered truth has shaped their existence for these many centuries, hidden in their dark and distant warrens?

It seems as if fate is trying to smooth my start upon that journey of discovery. I have now accumulated a full year of leave from my duties. Also, upon my return, I was specially commended for my attempts to recover all of Garasan’s effects and reports and, as a reward, have been given permission to travel as I wish during my leave. Lastly, while I am hardly wealthy, my accrued stipend will allow me to fulfill any needs that my Legion-assigned equipage does not address.

Now, if only I can locate the fellow who both Darauf and Fronbec mentioned. His last known whereabouts are in the free city of Menara, not far over the border from Aedmurun. I do not know if I possess enough coin to pique his interest, but no other course of action presents itself.

However, finding him may prove easier said than done. He is just one more itinerant sell-sword of questionable reputation in a free city notorious for its black market, double-dealing underworld, and constant churn of persons from the furthest corners of Arrdanc. And my only lead is a name, which I must hope is uncommon enough to be distinctive on those unpredictable streets:

Ahearn.


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