《Mayhap Jak (Wolf Clan #1)》 Wager war "You swore!" A disembodied voice boomed out. Echoing but for a scantling of a second. Still it was long enough to spark an shudder of recognition from Modru, God of Chaos. Afore his last shiver could even subside, the gargantuan form of the God of Order had coalesced nearby. Facing off across the blankness of the aether, neither brother appeared pleased to behold his sibling. "Does thy guilty conscience prick thee?" Tynan asked, approaching at a skew-whiff angle, forcing Modru onto his backfoot. "Never," Modru barked back over his shoulder. "Praytell, what ails thee brother?" "Hmmph, our wager appears to have taken a curious turn," Tynan replied, stepping ever closer, invading his brother''s inner outer-space. "Our champions were only chosen two mortal years ago, yet in that short while a duke, a sorcerer, an assassin, brigands and even a demon have taken up your cause... Was an emperor not enough?" Tynan glared at his brother, who flinched and fleetingly flickered out of being before returning to some semblance of permanence. "Mere coincidence," Modru mumbled. "What can I say, my mortal moves in glittering circles..." "I see your hand stirring those circles Modru - yet your meddling matters not one jot. We made a pact you and I, whereupon our sworn word became an entity unto itself. You forget that part at your peril." "Stuff and nonsense, what need have I to encroach in such pismire affairs? I chose an emperor, you chose some piffling swain..." Modru scowled defiantly but Tynan browbeat him back into cowering silence with a glance. "Be warned brother mine, powerful enemies oft begets powerful allies. My boy may be beset for the nonce but beware the balance!" Glowering, Modru made a muttering retreat into the aether. Wordlessly Tynan watched his brother dissolve. As he did, his stern grimace twisted into a wry smile - he''d kept secrets too. In particular, the obscure human prophecy The Path of the Seeker: From a prince to a mage, a guard to a captain, a soldier to a general, a baron to a duke, a jack to a king, seeking ''tis the only certain thing. Mysteriously the magic dagger was already in play. Modru had assayed there no doubt, but did he truly know with what he dealt? Surely, in his hubris he would have let some tiny hint slip? Mayhap it was in sooth a "mere coincidence" ? The God of Order smiled again, almost maliciously. He loved it when a prophecy came together. So it begins... ---------------------------------- He was a good boy. Mama always said so. So why was this happening to them? Why did everybody loathe them so? For the last week his world had been caged wagon - little more than a long wooden crate on wheels. Cast-iron doors at either end swung outwards on cylindrical hinges as thick as the bars. The boy''s eyes weren¡¯t the best so beyond the bars everything was a blur. Everything baffled him, the tilting horizon shifting sideways with every twist and turn in the road. Apart from the harsh staccato cries of his captors, creaks, clangs, bumps and thumps were all he could hear. And he felt them first. Every breath he inhaled the musty smell of the dank canvas covering the roof and three sides of his world. Yet he was grateful his captors, left it there. It made the cage more like a cave, a small comfort. As was the dusty, blanket he clutched, threadbare as it was. The biggest comfort though was of course his mother. Whenever he was upset, like he was now, she¡¯d hug him close, cooing sweet nothings until he felt safe again. He burrowed deeper into the dark well of his mother''s embrace, a cavern of safety, his safe-haven. Several hours later he awoke. They had stopped. It must be night-time. Snuffling he turned into his mother again, delving into her musky scent, averting his eyes from the flickering firelight, riffling across the bars of their cage casting intermittent shadows that dazzled his weak eyes. Grunting she locked her arms around him rocking gently as his racing heart slowed, Behind his eyelids the flaming orange faded to a cool umber. The mercy of slumber''s release wasn''t granted to him though, instead a fistful of hurtful memories pounded his young mind.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. He sniffled, as the accompanying ttears welled, trickling down his stony face into his nose. It was all his fault. He was the one cast out as unclean. A half-caste mongrel they called him. That¡¯s why they had to live outside the village in the first place. One of the main reasons they were able to got snatched up. The other villagers hated him and his mother had to suffer too. It wasn¡¯t fair. That¡¯s why he always tried to be a good boy. He was big for his age and when the other boys pushed him or prodded him with their sticks, sometimes he forgot and found himself seething instead of being scared. But whenever he felt the urge to smash them into smithereens, he ran away as mama taught him to. Cause he''d been told when the red curtain comes down you run. ----------------------------- Arn rejoined the caravan in the late afternoon, literally arriving in a mad flap. Jak could feel how flustered and furious she was from a full furlong away. He watched anxiously as the giant eagle came screaming in from the south. Her huge wings were thwapping angrily against the very air. With a tap of the boot, Jak angled Star sideways then braced himself as she slammed talons first into his extended left arm. The impact wrenched his shoulder near out of it''s socket. The underside of her left wing cuffed him across the back of his head, as her hallux dug deep into his flesh drawing blood. Ouch, he really needed some sort of falconry brace for his forearm¡­ Then he off and running with the idea. It could double as a bracer for the bow as well¡­ Also as an arm guard for when sword fighting¡­ His daydream bubble was burst by the sharp rap of a beak on his forehead, The pain brought him reluctantly back to the bleeding present. A series of irate squawks and pecks put him in place, and pinned him there. Jak was shocked, the giant eagle was usually so... Well, unflappable. She''d been scouting ahead as usual and it seemed that something further up the road had upset her¡­ Bandits?! Again? Brilliant! Jak stuck the two knuckles which were kneading his sore forehead into his mouth. Eventually they produced a wavery wolf whistle, which in turn produced a panting wolf. As usual Jak was out front of the caravan, riding point on Star. He twisted around in the Family Saddle to wave back at his guard partner Erek. Jak made a circle gesture with his forefinger indicating he was foraying ahead. At a nudge of his knees Star surged forward and Arn took to the air with a bitter screech. She flew barely above tree level leading them on ¨C yet off the trail. Jak waved at Fang to run point parallel with himself and the warhorse. He was somewhat surprised at the straight southerly direction they were taking, He¡¯d been expecting some sort of ambuscade along the trade route which ran south-east¡­ An hour later it all made sense. Sort of... In a bizarre way. Bellying up to the edge of small incline, the boy beheld a nightmarish sight. He felt sick to his stomach. His head swimming in shock. Fangs fragrant heavy breathing in his ear hardly eased his queasiness, Below their perch, strung out along an old stream bed was another caravan. But nothing like theirs. Sandclans judging by their loose clothing, swarthy skin and sharp Sarkian-like features. Slavers?! They were setting up camp for the night. On the far side a string of ten spiritless prisoners were led shuffling into one of the few remaining patches of sunlight. Shackled at the ankles as one they slumped against the southern bank of the old watercourse. Heads hanging, they hunkered down in strict silence under the baleful glare of two guards. Most were large men that must have been press-ganged or simply snatched from their villages - fodder for the infamous desert fighting pits. Forty feet in front of them were several narrow wagons arranged in a half circle. Indistinct in the twilight thickened shadows of iron-bars blurry shapes far too big to be men stalked to and fro. With a lurch, Jak realised the wagons were cages. Each one of the four was housing a large animal. As he watched, a huge human shape surged into the last slivers of fall sunlight. Gigantic fists gripped the thick bars and rattle the entire cage. A silverback gorilla! He¡¯s seen pictures in Gran''s books, but nothing prepared him for the raw power... So majestic and imposing! A wave of jealously welled up¡­ Ooh, over there a tiger. Wow! He never dared dreamed he¡¯d behold one in the flesh. Silky striped flesh too and so much of it... Oh, a lion too. Must be a male with that shaggy mane... Amazing¡­ Just above the animals a fluttering flickering drew Jak¡¯s eye up. Peering through the gloom he could see several large birds had been cruelly tethered to the top of cages. No wonder Arn had been so incensed... He had to act. It wasn''t in him not to. Jak''s heart began racing, his breathing laboured. He recognised that rare feeling of fear. Dare he face it front on? Part of him wanted to turn away, run back to the traders'' caravan and just resume his guard''s life. But he couldn¡¯t, slavery was wrong. So wrong and he would stop it. Somehow... The odds were horrible however. He¡¯d counted a score of slavers, all armed and all grown men. Even if he waited until they went to sleep, the first thing he freed would likely let loose hell. Freeing prisoners was no guarantee they''d fight either, most would like as not hightail it. Anyway they¡¯d have sentries on shift for sure... He could rope Kuruk in to help, but that was still only two humans... And their three animals of course... Against 20 armed men!? Even with the element of surprise he¡¯d need the support of the other eight guards and Kennison. Dammit, there was no way the guard captain would willingly leave his caravan responsibilities to attack strangers no matter how loathsome... The key word was willingly, Jak would have to force the captain¡¯s hand somehow. He salamander-ed backwards, until he could stand uprigt unseen then headed east back to the trail. Jak needed to scout out a potential campsite for his caravan as close as possible to the reavers'' one - which gave him roughly an hour to come up with a plan of attack. Bearing up Kuruk was in trouble. So much trouble. Not that it mattered too much because he was about to die. Jak had a plan. Mayhap Jak always had a plan. And they were always crazy. And usually dangerous. Yet his mother had insisted that he and Jak were ¡°on the same path¡± and that he should heed his headstrong friend. The sandclans were the natural enemy of the Ankan anyway. Slavers especially. Every year they snatched Eagle Clan braves for their grimy pits of death. Slavery was wrong, Jak was dead right about that, yet their chances of survival seemed so slim. Especially his. He was basically bait. And everyone knows that when you stake a goat to entrap a wolf, you can forget about getting all of the goat back. Kuruk took a deep breath then began checking the fletching on his paltry few arrows - six in total. Beside him, Jak had borrowed Kennison¡¯s keys on the pretext of opening the locked supplies chest on the guard wagon and was using them to play fetch with Fang. ¡°Get the keys boy. Keys, keys.¡± He rattled the ring in front of Fang¡¯s face before flinging them into the dark. A silly game but all part of Jak¡¯s stupid "master plan". Another part was about to begin too, Kuruk and Ox had first watch. Four hours from dusk to midnight. Erek and Jak were rostered to relieve them. Jak had better be there was all he could think. A tap on the shoulder interrupted his reverie. A fist bristling with feathers was shoved in his face - his friend was gifting him five of his own arrows. Touched, Kuruk gave a rueful smile in return. Jak was a far better archer than him, better than almost everyone, he wouldn¡¯t need to check the fletching on these ones. He stood with a grunt of reluctance, gathered his cloak around him, and strapped his large bastard sword Notaku across his back. Behind him, Jak tugged at its leather strap and buckle for a final check. Tapping Kuruk on the thigh to signal all was in order, Jak turned and headed towards his bedroll. ¡°See you soon¡± he called over his shoulder. "You''d better," Kuruk replied, trudging off towards the dense brush while getting lost in deep thought His whole life had turned topsy-turvy since Mayhap Jak Foster had forced his way into barely a year ago. Fourteen year-old Jak had been the very first Pakeha he''d ever met, which had been a real eye-opener for a sheltered young Ankan brave. It had been hair-raising adventures and hairbrained schemes ever since. Hair everywhere, a Wolf Clan Jak hallmark... Lying about their age and joining a trade caravan as guards had, naturally, been Jak''s idea as well. And muggins Kuruk had gone along for the ride - albeit spurred on by his mother. Not all of it had been bad though. His caravan guard partner Ox had become like a treasured uncle to him... He had a new baby sister Mika... He''d met Marion... Jak had gifted him Notaku, his much-loved magical sword. He''d also travelled far and wide, learning so much in the process. Particularly about fisticuffs and swordmanship - Jak''s twin reasons for being. Also, Jak''s animal Wolf Clan mates were all amazing. As an Ankan he naturally honoured Arn the giant eagle his clan had been named after - although it was common knowledge the shaggy wolf Fang was his favourite. Star, the warhorse, was an impressive specimen but no dispirited palfrey. Not the friendliest creature on the gods'' green earth... Then there was Squiz, Squiz was... well... freakish. A marmot-sized squirrel that was smarter than some people he knew... Maybe most people he knew? Smarter than Snake and Karn combined... Lost in his recollections, his guard duty flew by for once. Before Kuruk knew it, it was his final circuit and time to slip away into the darkness. He¡¯d been hoping to better prepare himself for the challenge to come. Time to set his affairs in order and all that. Get things set in his own head at least. His mother wanted him to toughen up and Kuruk could think of nothing tougher than this... Even the bandit attack didn''t seem as bad. in hindsight. Sure it had been brutally chaotic but it had come out of the blue and was all over in a flaming flash. This foolhardy endeavour he¡¯d heard about hours ago. And it had been churning up his guts ever since. Dread was the difference. Death was at hand, yet while the high stakes remained the exact same, dread made a massive difference¡­ He scowled. Too much thinking, he was a fully blooded Ankan warrior he would endure. He was Kuruk Tatonka. The Bear. Fear the Bear not the other way around. With a low growl, he blended seamlessly into the tree line, heading west to kill reavers.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. A single throbbing thought echoed through his mind: "Jak better be there." ------------------------------------- Captain Kennison was shaken awake. Half awake leastwise.... leaving him at least half asleep. Blearily he propped himself up on elbows to better see who dared disturb his hard-earned repose. Ahh, naturally it was the annoying enigma himself. The problem Kennison couldn¡¯t quite solve: Jak the Lad. Unfulfilled potential in spades. Three months of intense sword training had only managed to polish up his many positives, yet not at all addressed his one glaring negative - a potentially fatal vulnerability to any straight thrust. Remarkably, the boy was equally good with either hand. True ambidexterity was a rare trait, yet when your defensive deficiency was dead centre - which was the exact same spot from either side - switching sword hands didn''t matter one whit. His instincts were skew-whiff. It seemed ingrained in him to draw his sword back to strike again, rather than employ a standard middle-guard parry. Once you were skewered though, there''s no coming back, let alone striking back... To mask this damned blind spot, he¡¯d taught Jak to go aggressively all-out on attack. To bury his foe in a flurry of flashing blade strokes lest he notice the lack of a central defence. The other guards still hadn¡¯t cottoned on. He¡¯d seen several second guess themselves but get lost in the moment. To be fair, he was so damn good at the flashier stuff that such a basic flaw stunk of a trap. Besides, he rarely gave anyone time to second guess. He was a handful and a half from the drop of the handkerchief. This hairy swain wanted it so bad too. No-one worked harder, be it wrestling, the sword or the bow. He was a hell of a huntsman as well. At merely seventeen, Wolf Clan''s pride and joy had the makings of a fine soldier. He''d certainly earned his stripes this trip, time and again in the last three months. In many ways, he''d become Kennison''s second in command. Nominally only mind, there would be no wage rise forthcoming... Not working for this company... He''d be officer material in the army though, the lad had the right stuff. He felt bad for the boy... but worse for himself, because Kennison felt sure he was missing something... ¡°Kuruk.¡± Ahh, Kuruk. Thankfully a not so problematic child... The much beloved son of his old brother in arms... From next week he''d have the burly boy using a buckler. While he¡¯d eventually become a solid, stolid and steady swordsman, his future was always going to be a battleaxe or heavy mace. After all, in the right hands, or on a strong enough arm like his, a shield could be employed as an offensive weapon too. His father had been a master of braining his foes with his own blood-spattered shield. Or he simply shunted them aside using the buckler - along with a boulder-sized shoulder - to make space... Hmm, maybe a small shield could cover over the hole in Jak''s defences as well ? ¡°Missing.¡± Jak said. Something''s missing alright... The solution was right there, on tip of his tongue... Lurking in some shadowy corner of his mouth? Or shoud that be mind? Yes, definitely mind... Wait, what? He felt his shoulder shaken again, harder this time. ¡°Hurry, Kuruk is missing,¡± he finally heard Jak say. Seven bloody hells! Kennison sat bolt upright. Hanska would have his head on a platter. Tear it clean off a man''s shoulders he could... Just using those huge mitts he had for hands... He''d seen him do once during the war - dropped his axe and dug those iron bar thumbs deep into a Sarkian''s neck, then ripped his head right off... To this day, recalling that gristle-twisting schluck sound still sent shivers spiralling down his spine... Panic logically set in, but thankfully Lieutenant Jak had a plan and wasn''t shy about sharing it. Though bells were clanging in his head, Kennison hadn''t sounded a general alarm as Jak insisted Fang could track Kuruk by scent alone. Strangely, Kennison believed him, that wonder dog could do almost anything. Ox had agreed to stay on for a second watch with Erek, so there was no need to roust the other guards. As for the caravan traders, it had always been Kennison''s policy to keep them in the dark. What they didn''t know they couldn''t charge coin for as far as he was concerned. They''d saddled up Star and Kennison''s courser and set off south, albeit at a slow amble, into the gloom of the forest. Normally, Kennison adored a forest sojourn, finding it relaxing. During the day, sparkling light danced between branches setting his soul at ease... Now though, he found it downright spooky and unsettling. In the darkness, sight was dominated by sound - a sporadic seemingly random cacophony of insects and birds of prey vaguely reminiscent of a demonic orchestra warming up... An hour later, lying face-down flat on a ridge overlooking a shallow gully he felt even worse. With a groan he rolled onto his right side to regard the stoic swain at his side. ¡°There¡¯s so many of them - must be more than thirty.¡± ¡°I think those ten with the manacles might be prisoners," Jak said. "Kuruk must be amongst them somewhere," he quickly added. What manacles? Where? Kennison squinted once again into the gloom with a darkened brow. "Gods above, it''s the Sandclans on a reaver''s raid," he gasped. ¡°Correct, you can tell by the curved scabbards the guards are wearing?¡± ¡°You can see that far?¡± What freakish senses the lad had. ¡°Can¡¯t you?" ¡°Not nearly, it¡¯s night-time you numpty." ¡°Oh right, what about the wagons?¡± ¡°Of course I can see wagons...¡± ¡°Nay, I mean yea, but what about what¡¯s in them?¡± ¡°They¡¯re covered coaches but like enough more prisoners...¡± ¡°Or mayhap," Jak paused. "...Exotic animals, lions, tigers and the like¡­ Possibly a gorilla?¡± ¡°What are you babbling about?" Was this clown suddenly suggesting Kuruk had run away to join a circus? ¡°The Sandclans make animals fight in the pits too.¡± ¡°Do they now? I did not know that¡­¡± Kennison was puzzled. ¡°How do you know so much about their pits?" ¡°From a book¡­It also said slavers couldn¡¯t fight for toffee...¡± Weird book. "What was the book''s title?¡± ¡°Never mind that, Hanska¡¯s only son is out there all alone¡­¡± ¡°Not alone, he has thirty slavers for company,¡± Kennison grumbled, feeling defeated already. ¡°Twenty and a few exotic animals." Still far too many Kennison thought, a tough knot was forming in his gut. He really was between a rock and a hard place. If he didn''t die fighting reavers, Hanska would surely throttle him... Then shluck! "So are you going to get the others now?" Lucky Jak was too young to have seen a man''s head torn from his shoulders, he probably sleeps like a baby... Wait, what he saying? "Cause I¡¯m going to attack them in three hours time..." ¡°Oh, no you''re bloody not. I strictly forbid¡­¡± He was gone wasn¡¯t he? Kennison turned his head slightly to confirm it. Yep, and somehow the huge wolf had turned into smoke too. How did this keep happening? He twisted around onto his back. Egads! The damned warhorse was gone as well. How had a two-tonne monster like Star evaporated into thin air? Black magic... Friz gets in a fight A flurry of footsteps sounded outside the shaman¡¯s shack. Seconds later a young girl burst in, all bushy-haired, bright-eyed and brimming with tidings. Hot on her heels was a fiery halo of raging red hair. It filled the doorway flooding the room with an eerie orange glow. Backlit by the afternoon sun the flame-limmed figure paused then doused herself by stalking inside, instantly becoming the umber shape of a sulky twelve year old. At her workbench, Ari ceased her weaving, flexing her fingers with a soft sigh - though not one of relief. What had her sister done now? ¡°Friz punched Alemwa,¡± the smaller girl announced cheerfully. ¡°Mika!¡± Nadie admonished. She finished pinning a clump of feverfew above the open range to dry then waggled her forefinger at the little girl . ¡°No-one likes a tattletale.¡± ¡°Aww ma, it was awesome though,¡± Mika replied. ¡°Alemwa bawled like a baby... What¡¯s a tattle-tail?¡± Ari growled. ¡°Amohia Merida Granville, please tell me you did no such thing!¡± ¡°But she did?¡±Mika¡¯s brow crinkled in confusion. Friz, meanwhile, stared defiantly at the floor, her freckled face burning at hearing her full name aloud. ¡°Bam! Broke his nose, got blood everywhere... it¡¯s all bent and everything ¡­¡± Mika''s enthusiasm tailed off. ¡°Oh, that¡¯s why we¡¯re here, Akecheta wants one of you to fix it.¡± Ari stood up, setting her half-finished flax bag down. ¡°I¡¯ll sort it out,¡± she told Nadie, before turning towards her sister. ¡°And you, little miss sulky britches, will come with me to say you¡¯re sorry.¡± ¡°What for? We were training.¡± Friz whined. ¡°And it was an accident.¡± ¡°So, you¡¯ve apologised already then?¡± ¡°No, and I¡¯m not saying sorry - he¡¯s a bully, so it serves him right.¡± ¡°She shouldn¡¯t have to,¡± Mika argued, grabbing her friend''s elbow in support. ¡°Alemwa said girls can¡¯t fight... And we can! We¡¯ve been allowed for ages now.¡± Aapparently half a season was an eternity to a nine year-old. It was true though, girls ¨C including Friz, Mika and even Ari - now fought in the inkite circles twice every seven-day. Six girls in all and several older women as well. It was also true that pudgy Alemwa was a bully, picking on those smaller and weaker than himself. Also, he often carried on after the elder had called the bout. She smiled at herself, suddenly she was an expert in a blood-sport. Jak would bust a gut. She couldn''t wait to tell him. Not long now. After forsaking the sisters and Squiz all summer, Jak and Kuruk were due back in Norwood in roughly a fortnight¡¯s time. She¡¯d speak to Nadie about meeting their conquering heroes halfway, at their Wolf Clan home of Haven. Kuruk¡¯s mother and sister would surely leap at the chance. Nadie had long overdue words to say to her son. Soft words to replace hard words spoken in haste and anger. As for Alemwa... ¡°We¡¯ll see what Akecheta says.¡± Ari tugged on her sister¡¯s tunic. ¡°Grab my herb bag, you can at least help me heal him.¡± "How? I can''t do magic like you..." Magic. The very word was cloaked in mystery ¨C conjuring up an air of esoteric secrets and exciting explosions. Myths mainly. Magic wasn¡¯t airy fairy at all... Or easy as ala-kazam either... It was not a cure-all or a shortcut... Much more about focus than hocus-pocus... How could Ari best put it? At a brass tacks level, magic was the application of will power, energy, imagination, focus and understanding of the natural forces of the world to bend or shape reality in small ways. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Some people had an affinity for it. Like some people were naturally musical, artistic or had ''green fingers'' as she had. Though magic ability was a lot rarer, mayhap one in a thousand. Also the majority of those were limited in power to small magics at the hedge-wizardry level. Magic was more boring, repetitive and grim than she¡¯d imagined - draining too, perspiration rather than inspiration - especially initially. Because magical ability was a muscle you made bigger by exercising it. Strangely the sort of thing Jak should shine at with his strong mind and boundless will... He''d never had need of it though. His grandmother was the Fae Forest Witch. She''d done all the spelling for the family, supplying him with ''blessed'' items such as his hunting knife, bow, cloak, arrowheads... Objects could be charmed, imbued as it were. However, it took too much time and effort and unless the object was made from magic sympathetic materials ¨C mithril, platinum, silver and precious jewels ¨C or heavily ensorcelled by a master magicker - the energy within would dissipate over time. At different rates... Certain materials better suited certain charms too. Ari sighed. It was complicated. Magic was complicated, she should¡¯ve started her description with that key fact. Also ancient artefacts were generally more potent. A century ago, during the Age of Magic as it was known, many marvels were made. Back then the lines between worlds were blurred and the ether streamed easily between them, some creations were even touched by the god¡¯s themselves. One tangible link to that golden age was Jak¡¯s gran¡¯s grimoire. It was veritable treasure trove¡­ Of general knowledge, not a cookbook of magic with page-after-page of spells, like recipes. The Fae Witch had filled it with decades of arcane experiments and observations to complement the learnings ¨C mainly elvish in origin - that had been handed down to her. Sure there were some spells, chants and rune designs but much more of herb lore, medical diagrams, healing meridians, astrology, ancient languages¡­ The more one knew of the ways of the world the more one could affect. The more magical lore the more effects possible. Chants, runes, spell circles¡­ Could only help channel this force convert it to other forms of energy. The power was provided by the wielder¡¯s personal energies. Unless you used sorcery ¨C although only a select few magic users could. Sorcery drew power from the ether, the eternal life sustaining force from the realm of the gods. A life force that could power spells or be converted into other energies¡­ Ari hadn''t attempted any sorcery yet. She wasn''t sure she ever would. There were risks and repercussions. There was a reason rumours of sorcerers never lasted... Her musings were disturbed by a sniffing sound. They¡¯d arrived at the inkite practice area and Alemwa was being led over by Akecheta. The boy was snuffling like an anteater holding his busted nose in two hands and dragging his feet for some reason. Akecheta rolled his eyes while still managing a smile in greeting. It was a far cry from the frosty reaction she''d first received from the inkite instructor. A stern clan elder, he''d only really warmed to her when she''d shown some fighting spirit. The aggression she never even knew she had... Or maybe it was her also newfound magic? A shaman was a sacred position in Ankan culture, even a trainee like herself. There were a lot myths surrounding magical healing too. Most of it wasn¡¯t magical at all, the majority of what they did stemmed from the studies of bodies, dead cadavers, to better understand how they worked. It was what her school had called science. It was not ladylike at all and scientific medicine was strictly the domain of men Old men. Rich old men in ivory towers. And as with most esoteric practices, the great unwashed found it disturbing and creepy. Healers did not draw the foul humours of the sick and injured into their own bodies as was commonly believed ¨C in fact, Ari wasn¡¯t sure humours were actually real. The reason healers appeared haggard after the laying of hands was because a lot of actual healing used enormous amounts of energy. Over time the energy replenished. Albeit at different rates, again according to how powerful the magic ability muscle was. All a healer really did was set the body to rights according to their science then accelerate the body¡¯s natural healing process. ¡°Sit down,¡± she ordered. Broken noses she could do with her eyes closed. She¡¯d straightened three of Mayhap Jak¡¯s mishaps before she''d even considered becoming a healer. Schluck! She wrenched the cartilage back into place. "Waah!" Alemwa began howling. She stepped back in shock. What sook! He really did bawl as bad as Mika had claimed. Maybe she should have deadened the nerves first; it seemed not everyone was as stoic as their Jak. In the end, she enlisted Akecheta to hold the squirming boy so she could lay on her hands. When his skin began to feel warm she pulled away. He¡¯d look like a raccoon for a week but he''d be fine to fight in a few days. Somehow she doubted he would. She flicked her head at her sister to get back to training. The ungrateful little bully hadn¡¯t bothered to offer any thanks, so no apology would be forthcoming from Wolf Clan. ------------------------------------ Ambush in the forest Even in the inky black of the midnight hour, Jak could see the shapes of two sentries at opposite ends of the encampment. How strange? There was no moon tonight so his eyesight had to be keen indeed. Weird but welcome. Keep eating those carrots... Crouched under the first of the four circled wagons Jak ceased sawing at a wheel-spoke with his hunting knife to check his maths again - a noted weakness of his. If this first shift was the standard four hours, they were due to switch shifts any minute now. That was with three shifts, if there were only two they were just over half finished. Regardless they would be half asleep dreaming of their bedrolls. Now was the ideal time to strike. Captain Kennison and the cavalry would be coming soon... Or they weren¡¯t? If Kennison had left the ridge straight away it would have taken him an hour to get back to the caravan. Give them another hour to convince the others and get organised. Then another hour back here¡­ He was pretty sure that was three hours, and it had already been four. So they were probably in position debating a plan of attack. Hopefully they¡¯d join in once Jak and Kuruk did their bit. Or Kennison could have watched and waited half an hour for Jak¡¯s promised attack? Then another half hour to be sure¡­ In which case they¡¯d just be arriving now-ish? Bloody arithmatic would be his undoing. Or, would Kennison wrongly assume Jak was bluffing and leave things be? Too much bloody thinking. He tapped Fang on the shoulder as a signal to follow him and they scurried under the cover of the circled wagons to the farthest one. Thankfully it wasn¡¯t raining, or the guards would undoubtedly be sleeping underneath them. He held his breath until a sentry passed by then bade Fang ¡°stay¡±. Staying bent over in a low crouch he silently stalked the unsuspecting sentry until he was out of earshot of his sleeping compatriots. Drawing his hunting knife into a reverse grip he leapt up, clamping his left hand over the Sandclansman''s mouth. Nudging his knees into the back of the guard¡¯s knees, Jak bent the man backwards so he couldn¡¯t draw breath to scream. With an involuntary grunt, Jak drew the razor sharp blade''s edge across the guard''s exposed throat. Gurgling blood gushed over his lower hand. Jak stepped backwards and to the side, letting the lifeless body slump to the ground. His heart thumped wildly, he''d slit someone''s throat! He''d done it to dozens of animals over the years, but that was while hunting food. This was a human... Although some scum-bucket slaver barely qualified. He''d killed men before, 10 or more, but never this cold blooded and up close... Oh no, once he did... Sort of.... With a gulp he quelled his racing heart and quashed his burbling emotions. Kuruk depended on him. Guilt or whatever it was could wait. Crouching again, he rummaged around and found a couple of coins but no keys. He cursed under his breath - but still pocketed the coins. It was now up to Kuruk and Fang. He stood and threw a stone across the camp at a clump of boxwood shrubs to alert the hidden Kuruk. After warily surveying his surroundings once more he dragged the sticky, metallic-smelling bloody corpse behind a nearby bunch of bushes before rejoining Fang under the wagon. ¡°Keys fetch¡± he whispered, grabbing the wolf¡¯s shaggy shoulders and steering him in the direction of the remaining sentry. ¡°Shush,¡± He said staring into Fang¡¯s arctic blue eyes. "Not friend." The big wolf nodded once then slunk away into the dark. A minute later, Jak heard a muffled ¡°urk¡± sound from the direction of the second sentry. It may have been muffled but still he¡¯d heard it. Dammit. Sure enough sleeping bodies began to stir¡­ It was literally a shot in the dark but he¡¯d told Kuruk to aim for the head not the throat¡­ This was heading south for sure. Where was Fang anyway? Twenty yards behind him a spirea bush rustled then parted in the middle. It was the wolf, a large key-ring clamped in his bloody jaws he began crawling on his belly towards him. Good boy. Voices now. Urgent and raised. Some variant of Sarkian, not Jak¡¯s best language but the word ¡°wagon¡± was repeated in Perugian. As Fang neared Jak leapt out snatched at the keys. He stage whispered the word ¡±hide!¡± and shoved the big wolf back the way he came. Jak scuttled under the wagons, scrambling through the shadows barely a step ahead of the herky-jerky rays of handheld lamplight. He had the keys, now he had to get out from under the wagons. Booted footsteps and a wavering lamplight approached from the inner circle illuminating the underside of the trailers. On the far side he stepped on a wheel spoke, reaching for the top of the crate he pulled himself up, throwing a leg over before rolling over the edge onto his back. Chest heaving in exertion and relief, he breathed deeply... Relaxing¡­ Suddenly, a stabbing migraine-like pain seared into his forehead and he almost cried out. He¡¯d been head pecked! Second time today. This time by an irate Peregrine falcon. He¡¯d forgotten all about the large birds shackled to the rooves of the cage wagons. He rolled back to the edge. He didn''t want to ruffle any more feathers, not with the slavers searching about below, they¡¯d surely hear any kind of kerfuffle above¡­ The birds were waking though, slowly stretching out the wide wings which had entombed them¡­ Cheeps and chirps of discontent began to skitter about¡­ Then a shadow of silence descended upon them. Arn had arrived in all her gigantic glory, swooping down from the starless sky above. She alighted next to Jak, staring down any would-be squawkers. Ha, that showed them! Apparently there was a natural pecking order...If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Ouch, he¡¯d been pecked again. Arn again. At the moment he felt about as hen-pecked as a potato skin after his chickens Scramble and Omelette had been at it. What? She was staring at his hand. The keys. Of course. Might as well release the birds since he was up here - give him something to do while he waited. What harm could it do? ¡°Just make sure that Peregrine pecker-head keeps his distance,¡± he grumbled, fumbling around the ring for the right key. There were four birds other than the unfriendly falcon, including two hawks and an albatross. All were on their best behaviour, cowed by Arn¡¯s size and strangely fierce demeanour. After Jak unlocked the legs of all five of her feathered friends she was suddenly her old smoochy self again, cooing in his ear and rubbing her feathered head against his chin. It tickled and despite his dire predicament he smiled. With a lazy flap she ascended into the trees again and Jak''s smile froze on his upturned face. The giant eagle had cast an even bigger shadow by cutting between the campfire and the searchers carrying lanterns, instantly earning the attention of several Sandclansmen. Then the five other birds, finally realising they¡¯d been freed too, took to the air as well. Their exodus was far from orderly and more of a mad flap. It wasn''t quiet either as raucous crowing and cackling ensued. The forgotten remnants of Jak''s smile were wiped clean away. A couple of guards were pointing directly at him and shouting. No doubt the silhouette of him crouched on top of the wagon stood out like a sore thumb. He tried flapping his arms but in the sudden glare of a lamplight from directly below, he was fooling no-one. He¡¯d confused the foreigners though. Utterly embarrassed himself but confused his foes. Suddenly the lamp rudely illuminating his glowing face shattered, dropped to the ground as its former holder had been feathered. The arrow came from the camp nearside, so he had Kuruk to thank, not Kennison and the calvalry. Taking advantage of the dark again - and gravity - Jak dived down on top of the second guard who¡¯d also been checking underneath the wagons. His weight pounded the guard into the ground. Rolling aside and to his feet, Jak drew and thrust his sword through the still prone Sandclansman''s throat before he could recover. Standing over the still gurgling guard, he yanked his sword free, then double-handed he stabbed downwards again, deep between the ribs to finish him. He had to stand on the man''s chest to jerk his blade free again. By that time three guards were closing in on him. ¡°Anytime now Kennison,¡± Jak thought. glancing over his shoulder to the northern ridge of the valley. Nothing. Three foes with their wicked curved blades glinting from the firelight, advanced. The bully¡¯s smirks on their thin lips flattened out when the one nearest the fire grunted in surprise. Feathered from behind. Kuruk to the rescue! Jak thumped the starry-eyed guard in the face as he ran by. His friends paused to catch his fall and Jak sprinted off, squinting at his feet, towards the fire. Realising their compatriot was as good as dead, the two Sandclansmen dropped him and chased after Jak. But Jak was spry; at full sprint he closed his eyes and jumped into the blazing fire. It was a trick he dreamed up on guard duty. Campfires weren¡¯t bonfires and were easy to jump. Even if you went through flames it was for but a hair¡¯s breadth of time and at most you¡¯d get singed. The knack was not to look directly at the light or you¡¯d instantly go night-blind - which is why sentries were taught to always look away from the fire. His foes fell for both elements of his trap. Firstly, they couldn''t help but stare at the fire then by the time they cottoned on and ran around it, Jak rabbit was well gone... Except he wasn¡¯t. He was waiting for them approximately a chain ahead. Jak rubbed his eyes and stumbled up the embankment into the undergrowth. And then, when they pursued, he led them a merry chase deep into the forest. Finally, in a clearing, he allowed them to tree him, scuttling up four-yards high using his claw-like finger nails. They barked at him for a bit in their bastard Sarkian but he simply basked in the free language lesson. After a spell, when he was sure no others were coming, Jak cut short the impromptu study session retrieving his bow and feathering the three of them. He¡¯d never forget the look on their faces, like they¡¯d been betrayed. Reavers however, didn''t deserve righteous indignation, only arrows. Scrambling down Jak duly collected their coins and naked blades ¨C no time for scabbards, he set off into the underbrush towards his rendezvous with Kuruk. Jak arrived second, just after Fang who was already tugging at Star and Stomp''s reins trying to untie them. Jak untied them proper and lead the beasts around to face the east. "Well, that was a dismal failure!" A clearly flustered Kuruk arrived. He appeared bedraggled and was dragging his feet. Time for a Jak inspirational talk. "I disagree. It was fairly successful in my books." "How do you figure that?" "We''re both alive aren''t we?" "I suppose..." "No, suppose about it, there''s only the quick and the dead.¡± He said handed his friend Stomp¡¯s reins. "Though it''s no thanks to our miserable workmates... I thought you were more popular than that." Kuruk heaved himself aboard Stomp. "We didn''t free any prisoners though!" "Yet.¡± Jack jingled a clinking iron key-ring. ¡±Chapter two tomorrow. " "Surely you''re jest? We''re not going through that all again?" "Of course we are, should be a swim in a summer pond second time around. "Really?" "Truly - I''ll need your purse though." "How come all your shady schemes centre around my purse? Kuruk grumbled but began reaching into his breeches. "I suppose it¡¯s no use to me if I''m dead..." "That''s the spirit. Speaking of...How many kills did you get with your bow?¡± "Three I think... And I winged two." Jak counted out on his fingers. "So counting my four..." Jak held his hands up in front of his face to check his mental tally. "Overall, I make it six dead and three injured..." "Nope. Seven dead and three injured!" Making up the numbers "So overall, ten dead and five injured." "Ten? Are you sure?"Kennison¡¯s surprise was evident. Jak was indeed sure. Absolutely sure ten sounded a lot more than nine, the spurious amount he''d originally come up with. "Absolutely sure," he answered truthfully. Well, half-truthfully. Besides he was really only a lie of omission, essentially lying to himself, so where was the harm? Oh, no, hang on, on second thoughts, he was clearly lying to everyone... Lying through his teeth... "They''re down to a skeleton squad... A skinny skeleton at that." Kennison''s eyes narrowed. "You''re saying you killed ten armed men all by yourself?" Oops, he''d gone too far. "Err, no, not only me... " Gar! He''d plumb forgot Kuruk was supposedly a prisoner. He finally began to feel a bit guilty... "Er, Fang killed three... Or four. No, it was three because Star stomped on three as well. And Stomp¡­ Stomped on two¡­ Making eight. So I killed two. No, now I remember better, I killed four. Two initially in the first engagement... An arrow-based attack if I recall correctly... Then I fought and killed two more... Of the smaller ones... That''s not ten." Karn smirked from his perch on the guard wagon. "It''s eleven." "It''s twelve, thickwit." Kennison corrected. "Yes, twelve ."Jak glared at Karn. "Because... Several of the ones... that... Star and Stomp stampeded on... recovered... Not fully of course, as they now make up a few of the five injured." Kennison shook his head, disbelief etched on every feature. "Those two bloody warhorses are well worth their weight in gold in a battle," he chuckled. Whoah. That was too close for comfort. Stupid maths would be his undoing... "Yeah, it¡¯s so hard to get it all ordered in my mind¡­Such a whirl... No time for counting who did what or whatnot." "Aye verily, by the time Ox, Erek and myself arrived the whole place was in an unholy uproar with slavers scouring the forest. We barely managed to sneak away before they discovered us. We didn''t get time to count either." Phew. Jak was dodging arrows left, right and centre here, however he''d wrested the initiative back now. When Jak first returned, he¡¯d assumed he¡¯d be in hot water for deserting but Kennison just said ¡°a man¡¯s got to follow his heart¡±. It seems he''d been wavering on the verge of coming to their rescue. He just needed a subtle push. Or just a push. Subtle was not Jak''s strong suit. Maybe a shove... "The one thing I do remember is their beady little evil-eyes... And the fact none of them can fight worth a tinker''s damn."If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°Reavers are cowards by nature. Thieves in the night they are..." Ox spat at ground at his feet. Whoah again. The gentle giant must be all kinds of riled up to act out like that. He rarely even spoke... Good. Jak could count the big man in. Where is Stomp by the way?¡± Kennison asked. Still with Kuruk. ¡°Sulking in the woods somewhere. No doubt he¡¯ll come back when he¡¯s good and ready.¡± The captain nodded sagely. ¡°Temperamental beasts warhorses¡­ Loyal to a fault though...¡± ¡°We¡¯d best make a plan then,¡± Jak suggested. ¡°No, we need to put it to a vote first ¨C It¡¯s not caravan business so I can¡¯t order these men to fight.¡± A vote. That was a truly terrible idea. Democracy was a terrible idea. Any idiot got a vote. Absolutely anything could happen... ¡°Of course,¡± Jak said. ¡°We need to be fair, let''s call for a meeting. I¡¯ll round up the others.¡± But not before one of his special motivating speeches. "The one I killed was loaded, look?" Jak held his, Kuruk¡¯s and the five slavers¡¯ coins out in two jiggling hands. The silvers and coppers jingled and glistened as they caught the late afternoon sun - and the guards¡¯ eyes. ¡°How much altogether?¡±Karn asked eyes alight. Thickwit. Even Jak could count coins. ¡°Nine silvers, six,¡± Jak wildly exaggerated, snapping his fist closed over the coins. He quickly poured the contents back into his purse before anyone could get a rough count. ¡°Oh, by the bye, captain wants everyone over at the guard cart.¡± Ten minutes later, after much toing and froing the nine remaining guards had been fully apprised of the supposed situation. Tensely they circled up around their captain for the official vote. Kennison, Erek and Ox immediately voted "aye". So far so good Jak thought. Then Rocko let him down. Rocko c''mon man... Damn, he''d been counting on him. Grant shook his head and muttered "nay"as well, staring at the same patch of earth Rocko did, refusing to meet Jak''s glare. Karn smirked as he quickly added his "nay". Ellis as per usual followed Karn''s lead. All too soon it was four-all, and that was counting Jak. Kuruk''s apparent fate swung on a hung jury... Two left. Fabrice was too soft, he''d be a nay for sure. And Snake hated them both. It was all about to head south, Do something Jak. So far the order of voting had gone around the circle clockwise. Jak, on Kennison''s left, was last in line and hadn''t yet cast his vote. Needing to reverse the momentum, Jak leapfrogged ahead of Fabrice. And jumped into the middle of the circle. "I vote for my friend! I vote for life!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°I''m not afraid of a few bandy-legged, beady-eyed foreigners..." Um...What else could he add? Jak recalled his ill-fated trip to Rothswell. He''d heard a man railing against the Sandclans in the market square. His views appeared to be pretty popular amongst the old men lounging about. Even Jak was shocked at some of the despicable stuff the desert folk had been up to. No wonder he hadn''t seen any around... How did it go again? "They come to our country... Steal our women... Take our jobs... Then they have the gall to look down their hooked noses at us!" Didn''t work. Fabrice folded like a linen shirt. Four-Five and only Snake left. No wait. Jak jumped in the middle again. "You know who hasn''t voted yet?" He asked. "Snake?" Rocko replied. Thick as an anvil that one. ''And... Kuruk!" Jak said. "I think I speak for my imprisoned friend, indeed I must...¡± ¡°If young Bear were here, he''d implore you, his treasured friends, to all together come save him! He''s bravely facing a dreary eternity of slavery... A fate far worse than death! Nope. Turn it around. "...Until, that is, his untimely yet entirely imminent demise in the dismal fighting pits..." Jak added. "A death far worse than... fate?" Jak risked a glance at Snake who just snorted. Not working. New tack. "Kuruk doesn''t even care for his share of the spoils of victory," Jak said, slyly shaking his leg to jingle the purse in his pocket. "For what use are gold... silver... precious jewels... Or ancient artefacts and other priceless treasure... If you''re not free?" "So what say you Snake? Shall the ten of us, withal the two warhorses and our wolf, risk the five of them to free not only our friend but relieve our pathetic enemies of their fortune?" Snake''s eyes skittered around the circle, calculating odds and counting imaginary coins. He gave a tiny nod. "Aye..." Greedy bastard. "Good man Snake!" Jak said clapping him on the back, a lot harder than he had to. Smarmy little git. Bear back At sun-up Kuruk began shadowing the Sandclan caravan. Well, Arn did from the air... and he and Stomp ambled along after her at a safe distance. When the slavers stopped for their midday meal, she alighted in a tree and he caught up. Merging into the nearby bushes, he spied on them for ten minutes before skipping ahead through the woods. He could see that their three injured men had replaced the five freed birds atop the animal cage strapped to the shackles. As Jak predicted it had been slow going. Initially because they sought to minimise the lurching for their injured brethren, but mid-morning things went downhill even more when the wheels, literally, came off. First one then another. It took an hour and a hundred curses to exchange the first one with the spare strapped to a caravan roof. Then half an hour later a second one went on the same wagon. It appeared Jak had kept himself busy while waiting last night¡­ When it was discovered they had no other spare the same size, the finger pointing really began. The reavers were like headless chickens out there. Kuruk surmised one of the men they¡¯d killed had been the leader. Eventually with much hammering and gutteral yammering, three of them managed to mostly fix the first wheel. Then their slow progress resumed into the afternoon, albeit with half an eye on the wobbly wheel. Fang found him around four o¡¯clock, suddenly poking his shaggy head out of cluster of pine saplings, snuffling cheerfully when Kuruk jumped out of his skin. His shaggy friend was so good humoured about it that Kuruk couldn¡¯t hold a grudge. The wolf wasn¡¯t about to wait around for forgiveness anyway. Fang sat for barely five minutes, idly flicking an itchy ear with his palm-sized back paw. He lolled for another minute while Kuruk ruffled his ruff then he turned to go - pausing only to snap up the proffered deer jerky, before melting into the forest. Kuruk waited impatiently. Two hours later Fang returned with Jak - supposedly out on a scouting foray - who promptly offered him a stick of deer jerky. Kurk still had some, but it was a particularly tasty looking morsel, marbled with thin lines of fat, so he took it with a grunt. Formalities complete, Jak outlined his updated plan. Kuruk of course hated it, but held his peace. Fear didn''t rule The Bear. They ate several more sticks of deer jerky then Jak left. Best friends for life. As per the plan, Jak had taken Stomp with him. Now Kuruk had not only reavers but hours to kill. First of all he reviewed the plan to make sure it was all straight in his head. He¡¯d found from fighting brigands, that when battle began a lot of plans went out the window. It was still best to have them though, if only for the peace of mind. He checked times and timings in particular. Jak was terrible at maths... And money... Mainly Kuruk¡¯s... Speaking of the devil, Jak still hadn¡¯t returned his coins from earlier. Sure, it was only seven coppers, but still, it was the principle of the matter... In sooth he didn''t really care. Culturally he had no need or desire for coins, the Ankan always bartered for goods and services. He knew Jak didn''t care either, everything was a means to an end for him. Secretly, he enjoyed having one over his friend... Lecturing from the moral high ground... He shook his head. Don¡¯t get bogged down in the irrelevant, he chided himself. Focus on your part and doing it properly. As dusk set in, Kuruk crept his way through the woods to where the slavers had set up camp. He was still the only one on the south side, the others would all attack from the north - apart from Jak of course. He''d be slap, dash in the middle. The Sandclansmen were clearly creatures of habit and had set up their camp¨C as Jak had predicted - the exact same way as before. The wagon¡¯s were in a half circle as a wind break with everyone sleeping in the lee of the south bank of the valley - guards on the east side and prisoners on the west with the large campfire between them. Good, the bare bones of the plan were still in place... Now it was a waiting game.Stolen novel; please report. Kuruk drew Notaku and his sharpening stone. His magical sword however, didn¡¯t need honing, so he turned his attention to the two Sarkian scimitars which Jak had left him, neither of which was well kept at all. He buffed out several nicks and dents, finding a deep sense of heartsease in the menial task. Kuruk''s guard partner, Ox, had been a blacksmith. He often spoke in hushed tones about the cathartic pleasure of hammering a creation into existence. The burning fire got in one''s belly he''d said. The big man claimed he got a thrill in testing his mettle and will against the anvil. Kuruk understood the attraction; he could see himself in a smithy... Marion as his wife... Children¡­ Hmph, only if his mother¡¯s geas or Jak¡¯s schemes didn¡¯t get him killed first. He stashed the scimitars as close as he dared, in the middle of an already spiky shrub then stole away into the twilight. They¡¯d doubled the guard. Captain Jak had anticipated this too, insisting it was a good thing. He¡¯d argued that if they only had ten men, they could only cover two long shifts of six hours with four men on each. Unlike the usual three shifts of four hours with two or three men. ¡°Which means that come five o¡¯clock tomorrow morning, they¡¯ll all be dead on their feet,¡± he¡¯d said. ¡°Get it!¡± As a hard and fast rule, Kuruk ignored all Jak''s jokes, but the rest made sense he supposed. Mayhap Jak didn¡¯t have a death wish after all? Was it even a death wish if it was aimed at Kuruk? Or was he just expendable? Jak wanted the almighty Sarkian Emperor Rakkesh dead in the worst way, was that a death wish or a vendetta? Or simply wishful thinking?Perugian was a problematic language¡­ Kuruk fell asleep. He woke to find Fang licking his face. Woozily he gazed about. It was still pitch black, so sometime before the false dawn. He yawned and stretched. Fang nuzzled Kuruk¡¯s shoulder then pawed at the ground in front of him, adding a layer of dirt to a key already covered in slobber. Yuck, however Kuruk needed the key ¨C lives depended on it. He fished it out with thumb and forefinger slapping it lightly against a sticky acacia bush. That got the bulk of the drivel off, he wrapped the corner of his tunic around the key and rubbing it back and forth between thumb and forefinger before popping it into his tragically empty purse. It wasn¡¯t like ¡®Bear¡¯ to be so dainty, but he was trying to put off what happened next. He also didn¡¯t want to think about anything that might trigger his nerves. Arriving at the ambuscade site, Kuruk strung his bow then checked the arrows in his quiver. Jak had brought him four more shafts so he had seven. The new ones weren¡¯t up to their usual high standards though, so as he arrayed the arrows out on the ground, placing the best three nearest to his hand. It was doubtful he¡¯d get all seven shots away so he might as well make them as accurate as possible. He¡¯d positioned himself on the far east of the encampment, up on the southern bank of the former stream to give himself an angle to aim. He got on one knee, twisting it back and forth in the dirt making a small furrow for stability. He selected and nocked the nearest arrow then drew back the bow with a shudder. Deep breath, deep breath¡­. Dammit. He stood up again, he¡¯d almost forgotten Jak¡¯s pride and joy, the almighty oily stick. Kuruk couldn¡¯t help but grin as he unwrapped the muslin cloth, plucking out a ludicrous stick that even Fang wouldn¡¯t fetch. And just like that the pressure building up evaporated. Their secret weapon was three feet long and Y-shaped. The stick wasn¡¯t particularly sharp or pointed but it was definitely sticky, fair dripping with cooking oil. Here goes nothing, he thought and hurled it down the hill towards the fire. He didn¡¯t even look to see if he¡¯d hit, but got back down on his knee and drew his bow again. In the end it must''ve landed at least halfway in, because he heard a loud sizzle then saw the slavers sit up and stare at their fire that suddenly was smoking badly. One of them scrambled to his feet,. In the act of turning, he presented a wide target. A gift which Kuruk took centre mass. Now the slavers were all staring in his direction, but they couldn¡¯t see squat, because they were night-blind from staring at his fire distraction. Might as well be bats.... Kuruk aimed another arrow and hit a slaver in the shoulder. He heard ¡®aargh¡± and series of equally Sarkian-sounding words straight after. Instantly the slavers took cover. Spliting up and scattering outward like waves after a stone got thrown into a still pond. The front of Kuruk''s nocked bow flowed back and forth scanning for targets. He couldn''t confidently draw a bead on anything large enough. Breathing out, he lowered the bow, loosening the tension on the string and his shoulders. But not yet in his head. It seemed the slavers had learned something after all. His foes kept low going for their own few bows which were now nearer at hand than the night before. It appeared they were still night-blind though, as an arrow whistled by six-feet wide and five high. High, wide and handsome, the miss still set his heart athumping though. Anyone could get lucky with enough tries, so Kuruk abandoned his remaining arrows and position. Wedging his bow between two nearby saplings, he retreated west through the woods towards the swords. So far so alive. Over to you Jak. Unleash the beasts.! Marriage of Inconvenience Aside from the clanking of buckles and the regular thwapping of leather straps, it was strangely silent as Kuruk''s would-be saviours saddled up. Apart from Star, only Erek appeared wide awake, alert and keen. Jak had a viable excuse. He was supposedly worried about Bear - which also explained the grim visage on the normally amiable Ox. Secretly, Jak was also distracted by his plans within plans, in particular the hidden keys that were burning a hole in his pocket. Pockets actually. An hour ago, he''d removed the four remaining large keys from the ring and stuffed them into separate pockets to stop them clinking - two in his vest and two in his breeches. What a tangled web he''d woven... It was another three hours until sun up and apparently Jak was the only one who could see Arn circling above. When they were ready, Jak lead them out - Star wouldn''t have it any other way - south east down the trail. A determined looking Kennison rode in his wake. Closely followed by Ox and Erek. The rescue party were seemingly strung out in order of keenness with Grant, Snake, Karn, Ellis then Fabrice bringing up the rear. It only took an hour to find their foe, barely fifteen minutes off the trail, due east along the same stream-bed they''d been following the day before. Jak returned from scouting ahead and halted the group before reporting to Kennison. Approaching from the rear, they staked their horses several furlongs shy then scaled the northern bank before scrambling their way into the deep woods. As they neared the encampment, Jak pace slowed and his steps became stealthier. Why he even bothered, when the rest of the herd stampeded behind him he truly did not know. Fortunately the reavers had set up as before against the far bank, with a hundred feet and a half-moon of wagons between them and their blundering rescuers. Crouching under cover of a cluster of bushes, they beheld their sleeping foes - most for the first time - some thirty to forty yards away. Jak pointed out the two pairs of circling sentries, then reluctantly handed Grant his bow. Sadly they were down to two bows with Kuruk''s supposedly captured. The third came from the guard cart. It was reserved for occasional hunting foray, a duty that Jak and Kuruk had instantly inherited, and if it was made of metal rather than wood, it would be rusty The barely adequate bow was handed to barely adequate Ellis, the third best archer amongst the group. Grant was the fourth best but Jak didn''t like or trust Ellis so reluctantly gifted him his own bow. Both guards accepted their assigned weapons without question. The pair appeared both relieved and a little guilty at being posted out of harms way of any upcoming affray. They each nodded once at Kennison then stomped off into the bushes on either side. Jak shook his head, mostly to clear his ringing ears. Did they realise their role was not actually to stamp flat the surrounding undergrowth, but to track and dispatch any sentries at Jak''s signal? One that would never come. Jak''s assigned - by himself - role was to infiltrate the camp, locate and protect Kuruk before signalling the attack. What he was actually going to do was let his friend begin the battle, while he attempted to free the animals in the ensuing confusion. Hopefully the guards would join in too. Both sets. It was a far from foolproof plan, but this battle was also far from black and white. There were many different parties in play here. Shades of grey and all had their own unique angles: Slavers, slaves, animals, good guards, bad guards, traders and them. It was a juggling act using knives. Jak and Kuruk had agreed that the other guards and traders especially could not be trusted to free the captive beasts - not when they were worth so much. They wouldn''t look a gift horses in the mouth - especially ones that came with their own wagons already. That wasn''t Wolf Clan Jak''s or the Ankan way. Freedom was what they were fighting for. Freedom for all. "So we await your signal?" Kennison interrupted his thoughts. "Uh, what will it be exactly?" "You''ll know it when you see... I mean hear it." Jak said. "Just keep your eyes down and listen - whatever you hear, don''t look at the fire." When Jak could see the pairs of guards were at either end of the encampment, he faded into the darkness. Pressing his sword to his thigh as he slid down the embankment. Rolling onto his front, Jak lizard-slithered across the creek bed toward the middle wagons, before working his way to east to the front one. He¡¯d release the beasts eastwards; hopefully they¡¯d follow the lead of the first to go. That way if everything else went south, he could flee west towards their horses. Gods above, this plan was convoluted... And it was his plan! Right this minute, he''d take to escape without getting eaten. Jak quickly slid around the corner to the far side - away from the towering campfire - of the first wagon. Seizing two bars, he squinted between them into the inky blackness¡­ GRRRR! The darkness snarled back at him, a thrumming bass that shook the whole cage. He did not want to look again - Lords and ladies he didn¡¯t - but forced himself to. Fortunate for him he did, as a striped paw the size of a dinner plate slapped at his hand. He snatched his digits back, as claws the thickness of his thumb clanged against the iron bars still wearing his fingerprints. Bad kitty! What an ungrateful wretch! ...He still secretly wanted one though... Jak ignored the booming growl, glaring daggers at the large animal, until finally it blinked and backed away. Huh? The old adage about only man being able to stare must be true... Warily Jak tried the keys again, finding success on his third attempt. Steeling himself, he flung the cage door away from him. He made sure to tug the door fully open, pressing himself back up against the side of the wagon, sealing his upper body between the barred door and the wagon. With a lurch the hidden tiger stalked forward and thrust its humongous head out of the opening. It balefully regarded Jak for a terrifying moment, but then its ears began twitching at the tumult on the other side of its cage. It sniffed disdainfully at the smoky fire before daintily lowering itself gingerly to the ground with a solid thud before bounding away. Jak breathed again, desperate gulps of air his racing heart required. One down, three to go. Thankfully the other animals only had eyes for freedom. First the gorilla then the lion ignored the melee... and more importantly Jak, preferring to plunge into the obscurity of the nearest brush. Apart from the last one.. It wasn''t an animal at all. Jak arrived at the last cage and peeked around the corner to find the battle raging ¨C he searched around for Kuruk and found him where he was supposed to be, protecting the prisoners. Two tall northroners each wielding one of Jak¡¯s seized scimitars stood on either side. Behind them five other prisoners cowered while another crouched down with his back to Jak was unlocking the shackles around the other''s ankles. The first two freed must have fled into the forest already ¨C hopefully they hadn¡¯t strayed too far ... or too east and crossed paths with the tiger¡­ As Jak watched a pair of reavers warily approached the three armed men. before concertedly attacking. There was a clash of steel and the two groups engaged. Jak wanted to charge in to help, but had one cage left.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Suddenly, an angry gorilla burst out of a cluster of rhododendron bushes above the encampment. Surprise! It thumped its barrel chest, screeching in defiance before just as suddenly disappearing again. Unfortunately it''s frantic cameo appearance, had raised an all too obvious question... And the suddenly all too obvious answer was: Jak! All Sandclan eyes turned back toward the cages. A cry of outrage let him know he¡¯d been spotted. He fumbled in his breeches for the final key. Inserting it hurriedly he tugged the door open. The creature that surged out wasn¡¯t an animal at all, but an ogre. Correction ogress, still the best part of seven foot tall though. She grabbed Jak¡¯s collar in her huge mitt, lifting his blanching face up to her flushed red one. His rudimentary language skills deserted him,... Apart from basic ogrish numbers... There was nothing for it... He began counting aloud: ¡°One¡­Two¡­Three¡­Four¡­¡± At ¡°five¡± her furrowed brow reversed. Her eyes opened wide, snorting nostrils flaring with a suspicion of understanding. With a grunt she released him... He was obviously an idiot. And everyone knew that idiots were generally harmless... Mayhap maths wouldn¡¯t be Jak¡¯s undoing after all! It almost was though. If Jak hadn¡¯t put his hands on his knees to draw a breath, he¡¯d never have breathed again. A scimitar whistled through the air where his throat had been a second before clanging against the open door bars. The ogre leapt on the attacking reaver with a fierce growl, riding him to the ground, and elbowing Jak aside in the process. He hit the back of his head on the iron- barred door, which swung fully open thrumming against the side of the wagon. A stunned mullet, Jak slumped onto his backside against the spoked rim of the wagon wheel. When his eyes could focus again, he saw the ogress was astride the slaver throttling his seemingly skinny neck. The slaver¡¯s eyes bulged grotesquely, about to burst, but just then a second slaver charged in and hacked deep into the ogress¡¯ back. She squealed in pain, but held her grip. Jak got to his knees, drawing as he lunged forward, his blade whipping out to get under the next strike. At the shock of contact, he lost his grip on his hilt, but continued his lunge, stretching his arms wide to tackle the slaver around the shoulders. Pinning the man¡¯s arms to his sides, his inkite training kicked in. He hooked his right foot between the reaver¡¯s legs, tripping him onto his back. His foe¡¯s head crashed into the corner of the wagon on the way down. In a flash. Jak had drawn his hunting knife and plunged it into the reaver¡¯s heart. He rolled away to find the ogress was battling a third foe. It was a sword against bare hands and not going well. She was slowing. bleeding out from several new slashes, plus more profusely from the gaping wound in her back. Jak leapt up out of the shadows, coming in low hacking into the reaver¡¯s calf just above the top of his leather boots. He screamed in agony and the ogress was upon him, seizing him from behind. She had two hands around his head. Twisting, his twig neck broke with an almighty crack, leaving the slavers head lolling on a crazy angle. She released the limp corpse, then slumped to the ground a second afterwards. Jak glanced about to check on Kuruk. He was safe. Erek had arrived - in high spirits apparently. He was leading four of the freed northroners in both a bawdy battle song and mopping up the remaining reavers. Kennison and Ox were also striding towards Kuruk and the other prisoners. He hoped Kuruk remembered in the heat of battle to tell them the story they¡¯d concocted. He was technically supposed to have been a prisoner too... At that moment the ogress groaned. Jak felt guilty. She¡¯d fought well and could be about to lose her life after saving his... Her freedom had lasted scant seconds. It wasn¡¯t fair, he sighed and knelt to check on her wounds and offer what comfort he could. It was a gruesome sight, sShe¡¯d lost several fingers snatching at a sword.... However, most of her wounds were superficial, an inch deep at most... Sadly, Jak was fairly sure that first strike was about to prove fatal. All sorts of awful fluids not just blood oozed out of her back. He knelt down and stroked her hair. ¡°Thank you¡± he told her in ogrish. Now his cowardly words returned... Her long arm snaked out and collared him. Again. Her eyes blazed and she drew him near with desperate strength. ¡°Kremaa,¡± she hissed. Promise. Vow. Oath. Swear. He nodded his understanding. It was definitely the imperative form of the verb. ¡°Waapa¡± she added. Unfortunately ogrish verbs were often vague and amorphous moistly defined by context. The verb could be ¡°love¡±, ¡°keep¡±, ¡°honour¡± or just plain ol¡¯ ¡°good¡±. Lords and ladies, did she want to marry him? They''d only just met mere moments ago... Anyways, he¡¯d always assumed he¡¯d marry within his own species¡­ Although he really did admire her fighting spirit¡­ Also, imagine how fantastically gigantic their offspring would be¡­But, on the other hand, she was way too old for him. The age gap would be embarrassing... Though it wouldn¡¯t be for very long¡­ It was all very confusing... Matters of the heart were currently beyond him. He didn¡¯t love her. She must know that. It would be a marriage of convenience only. And only momentary. If truth be told, apart from her outstanding size, he didn¡¯t really find her physically attractive... She may well be, to be fair to her... He wondered if other ogres would be jealous? He stopped stroking her hair while he sorted his feelings out.- it wouldn¡¯t do to lead her on. His thoughts were a whirl. Coming thick and fast. Though thicker than quicker. Should he kiss her? It would be his first - but her last... Ever. He reluctantly puckered up. Shock overcame the pain in her expression and she shoved him aside. Easily... So strong... He felt bad about being rebuffed now... ¡°Gurk,¡± she uttered. Boy. Yes. he was a boy. Had she thought him older before in the darkness? Rumours had it that ogres weren''t blessed with the best eyesight. It was a blessing for Jak though. She probably wouldn''t have leapt to his rescue if she hadn''t found him so stunningly attractive... Apparently she didn''t now though. Jak was a little wounded... He would have had words but she was a lot more wounded and got that way protecting him. "¡°Gurk,¡± she repeated. Uh, what? He put it all together... It was only three words... Promise. Love/honour/keep/good. Boy. Hmm, Promise love boy... Promise keep boy... Promise honour boy... No, none of them made a lick of sense. Promise good boy. Sort of did. For most, just not for Jak. Promise to be a good boy? She was concerned for his welfare? That was sweet. It was almost a shame the wedding was off¡­ Promise to be a good boy? Um, Jak was very reluctant to commit to that particular future. He had many plans and most of them centred around violently deposing a despotic emperor. Suppose that¡¯s good as an outcome. In a means justifies the ends way it could be construed as good... Her iron grip tightened on his collar. her eyes - quite soulful eyes, Jak noticed for the first time - pleaded at him. He couldn¡¯t say ¡°no¡±. So he said¡± yes¡±. ¡°Tak, kremaa.¡± A cool relief flooded her features then a stillness settled upon her as the last of her lifeblood drained away. Jak started as a high keening wail began. He put a hand over his mouth, but it wasn''t him. It was coming from above... It was coming from the cage. There was another one. A relation most probably... A lot shorter than the ogress. Different somehow, rounder, more boulder-like. Oh, it was a boy too... Oh gods above, a boy! The final piece of the puzzle fell into place, clanking like the bars on the cage slamming shut.. But this time Jak was the one imprisoned, because foolishly he''d made a promise. All of a sudden it dawned on him just what he''d done. He''d adopted an ogre. Jak had sworn an oath... Then their eyes met and even his sacred vow to a dying mother became irrelevant. Hollow whorls of aching loss assaulted him yet again. This boy was alone, abandoned and in agony. Which made him about as Wolf Clan as it got. The ogrish suddenly came much more naturally. "Good boy," Jak beckoned. "Come with me, I''m your brother Jak. You are one of us. One of us... ¡± Begin again --------- TWO YEARS EARLIER------------ An inky wisp suddenly spurted out of a tiny speck in the slate grey nowhere giving Modru, God of Chaos, a start. Soon swathes of smoky plumes were swirling all about him. Twirling, twisting, whirling into a humongous hooded form that loomed ominously over the now cowering god. Imperiously a voice boomed out from the beyond. "Thou hast strayed too far, brother." Tynan, God of Order''s stern expression coalesced within the still forming outline of his cowl. "Our father will hear of this!" "I know not what you mean--," Modru stammered, squirming and seeming to shrink before his brother¡¯s towering visage. "You''ve crossed the line yet again to meddle in mortal affairs." Tynan''s human features hardened, sharpening as he spoke. "Bestowing forbidden knowledge - countless men, women and children doomed through your reckless transgression!" "Ahh, that instance with the...Umm¡­¡± Modru¡¯s sputtering form flickered. "A mere misunderstanding brother, one you needn''t bother our busy father with¡­." He finally shimmered back into solidity. Sly eyes blinking back into being above the beginnings of a smirk. "I''ll bargain with you, a wager mayhap?" "Thou art in no position to barter brother. What could thou possibly offer?" "Say nought to father dearest, and I shall undo any damage done¡­ In addition I''ll scupper an upcoming plague, if...," Modru leered, meeting his sibling''s stony glare for the first time. "If your champion can outlast mine... If not, all shall proceed as planned." "Hmm..." Tynan tilted his great head, weighing the bet¡¯s merits. "''Tis agreed," he nodded finally. "Choose thy champion then, brother mine," Modru challenged. "I shall select this child." An arcane gesture and the spectral image of a ragged teen appeared in mid-air causing Modru to squint. "That trifling stripling!" he scoffed. "You may as well concede now, for I choose--." "Whom you always select,¡± Tynan interrupted gruffly. ¡°The most powerful mortal of the milieu, the Sarkian Emperor of course. You never could play fair¡­" "Chide me not brother dearest," Modru grinned. "Our champions are chosen! Now to set them at each other''s throats--" "¡¯Tis done, their fates inextricably entwined - I hast already ordained it so." "Oh Tynan, must you take the excitement out of everything?" " I will have your oath Modru, neither help nor hindrance for either contestant. " "It is given." Modru''s crocodile-smile widened. "While a fleeting distraction at most, I do so enjoy wagering with mortals. It almost lends their insignificant lives a modicum of meaning¡­" The God of Order didn''t deign to reply, rather, he leant back into the crows-feet folds of his midnight cloaks and dissipated. That went about as expected, Tynan mused, as his presence dispersed amongst the aether. For the godly embodiment of chaos, Modru was, somewhat ironically, predictable to a fault. He cared not a jot for humanity and constantly underestimated them. A trait Tynan could always count on. Yet, even stripped their undue influences, Tynan perceived the bet to be precariously poised. Over the eons, chaos and order had crossed swords countless times. Tynan waged a constant battle to just to maintain any semblance of balance. Unfortunately, the natural laws of decay favoured Modru. Fortunately, for a god, he was a moron. And a craven coward. Still, Tynan¡¯s complex schemes could leave nought to chance. So, with thousands of souls at stake, he¡¯d placed his faith an ancient human prophecy. A long shot taken on a wild card. The other gods of the pantheon poured scorn on mortal prophecies, but as God of Order he''d learned they often possessed a unique rudimentary power of their own. Even obscure ones like The Path of the Seeker: From a prince to a mage; a guard to a captain; a baron to a duke; a jack to a king; a soldier to a general; to seek, the only sure thing. Sometimes all greatness needed was a nudge, the slightest hint of a suggestion, a mere whisper on the breeze¡­. Tynan sighed deeply. It was out of his hands now. Humans, for once, would have to help themselves.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ----------------------------- Jaspar Al Khadin stumbled at the first step leading up towards the throne-room. The now scowling Sarkian Senior Advisor had almost fallen at the first hurdle. All because he was in a hurry. Something that should never happen. He¡¯d been sun-struck, cutting across the open square instead of skirting around in the shadows, as was his wont. Some would say skulking in the shadows. Some would die. Usually some time later, often in their sleep but they would die. Sure as the sunset. Seething, Jaspar took a moment to dust himself off and compose himself. The ice-white palace steps glared back at him. Implacable, ancient and cool. All he aspired to be. The mask fell back into place and he glided towards the imperial throne-room. And the situation. Jaspar loathed surprises yet somehow something had still sprung up unexpectedly. Something which had been buried for aeons. Something which should have stayed that way¡­ A magic artefact of legend. Albeit an obscure legend. Damnation! Ancient omens and artefacts of this ilk led to naked ambition, which led to¡­ well... damnation. And as any Sarkian Senior Advisor worth his salt knew, ambition in the wrong pampered hands could be chaotic, genocidal or worse, gauche. Pushing onwards through the hushed shade of the domed palace, Jaspar weaved between the arches atop snow-white ionic columns, waving guards out of his way. Safe again in the shadows, he stopped and leant on the throne-room door to catch his breath and think things through. Jaspar was both old and wise. You couldn''t have the first without the second amid the carousel of intrigue that was the imperial court at Arnuz. He didn''t get where he was today by simply showing up for luncheon... "Where the farrak is that camel humping advisor of mine?" He heard through the door. His Imperial Highness Emperor Ibrahaim Hetet Rakkesh the Third was furious - one of his usual four states of being... "Ahh, there you are Jaspar¡­Surprise!" Smug was another one. "I''ve found a gold-dowsing doohickey! I''m going to be rich.... finally...." Stifling a sigh, Jaspar stalked the seventy-yard swathe of red carpet. As he neared the gilded throne the bone of contention became visible. Clutched tightly in the tiny hands of the Emperor the silver dagger did indeed resemble the legendary Seeker''s Star. As if on cue, the blade fell from his greedy grasp with a clang. On the side facing up, Jaspar spied a pulsing diamond set in the hilt, sealing the deal. It was the real Mukhtar alright! Dammit, the magic dagger led to whatever the wielder¡¯s heart desired. Rakkesh¡¯s greed knew no bounds as it was¡­War would ensue for sure... Except, as the Emperor bent to retrieve his prize Jaspar could see the other side was incomplete. The all-important sapphire of connection was missing from its setting. Prophets be praised! According to the ancient and thoroughly obscure prophecy: ¡°The diamond shines on what''s sought; The sapphire shares what''s thought''. Well, the formerly obscure prophecy, now a prophecy demanding intense further investigation. Jaspar painted on a one of his patented smiles. He went for ''interested observer'' and got ''bootlicker" -'' luckily his efforts had, as per usual, gone unnoticed, "May I enquire how you came upon such a treasure, sire?¡± "Woke up this morning¡­Lo and bloody behold there it was on my bed!" Rakkesh beamed roundly down from the throne like an over-full moon. "I do love a good surprise!" Not for the first time Jaspar marvelled at how unsuitable the big baby in his high chair appeared for the role of gods'' chosen glorious leader. This recurring observation was a daily distraction, After all, it was only natural to focus on the vessel when there was no content of any interest. For the ruler of a vast empire, even in his sparkling silken nightgown, Rakkesh was not much to look at. A middle son, he was middle-aged¡­ Thick in the middle... Middle everything. A second son inheriting the emperor role only through the untimely death of his much cherished older brother in a border skirmish. Ignored for so long before being thrust into the limelight, he''d brought baggage with him. Most notably, a large chip on his shoulder. Some poor servant had neatly coiffured his oily, black hair, slicking it back to reveal a fine featured face gone to flab. Girlishly long lashes flickered above obsidian black eyes narrowed in frustration¡­ Or concentration. It was always hard to tell with his forehead scrunched up, as if every thought hurt. Jaspar didn''t doubt they did. "There was a note too, but it disappeared somewhere - damned if I can find it." Damned indeed. Damned suspicious. Rakkesh was as a child and, as such, Jaspar controlled every aspect of his existence. A magic dagger was a sharp object that could bring dire consequences. It was not on Jaspar''s agenda at all. He was reminded of the time the Emperor confiscated a guard''s crossbow. Shuddering at the recollection as much as the tantrum to come, Jaspar informed the Emperor that he only had half a treasure. He took it well, which usually meant he hadn''t understood. "If it doesn''t work then why does the little lightning bug skitter about inside the diamond then?" "It must seek its sister the sapphire," the guard captain blurted out before he could stop himself. Or Jaspar could. Jaspar had been thinking the exact same thing, except he''d held his tongue. Hence, he''d still have one come dawn ¡­ Incorrectly sensing imminent promotion, the soldier outlined his theory about the glow growing bigger, brighter and quicker the closer it got to the other stone. The light shifting within the gem to the facet nearest the target - like enough correct but was it was worth dying for? "In this case," Corporal Corpse soldiered on, "it''s pointing out the eastern window, so across the sea to Perugia. "Perugia," Rakkesh exclaimed with vicious glee. "Where all my gold and gems are!" Big Blabbermouth''s theory was eerily on the money. Things was spiralling out of control... Jaspar pasted another smile on. A poor attempt at ''enthusiastic supporter'' that barely got above seasick. In the end it took over an hour for Jaspar to talk the Emperor down from a full-scale invasion to a half-baked incursion. The advisor had his fingers crossed that it would fail, the idea die with it and all this nonsense be forgotten about. He even had some inept and expendable political enemies in mind for the mission... "I want our very best on this Jaspar, send Ashraf,¡± Rakkesh demanded. Dammit! "Unfortunately Captain Serkan is currently training your nephew Ishak--" "So? Send him too, do the fat barrel of sesame oil good to get out and about..." ¡°Oh, and Jaspar, give my new dagger to my nephew, I can trust him," Rakkesh said. "Blood is thicker than water." "Sire and nephew Ishak are truly thicker than all the other royals." Bowing and backing his way out, Jaspar went for a the tricky ''I got you good, yet you''ll never know'' and nailed it. At the door he turned the same smile towards Corporal Corpse before beckoning with his forefinger. Deliver Us From Evil Protect your teeth she¡¯d said. Jak had just confessed to being bullied by the bigger boys in Norwood. And that was all his gran had to say about it. She was correct of course. Succinct and to the point. Adult teeth don''t grow back but aught else that got broke, Gran, Mother Nature and Father Time could mend between them. Trusting her implicitly, Jak took to putting his teeth first in fights. Not going face first but protecting them, keeping his hands held up high by his cheeks and his head moving side-to-side like a snake about to strike. He''d been wise to heed her ''cause not only could he still smile completely but it turned out to be a good tactic too. One time he ducked into a haymaker and Manus Cleland broke a knuckle hitting his forehead. Receded right back into his hand. What a Manus move! Probably had his thumb inside his fist ''n'' all. Manus! All Jak got broke that time was his nose. He also got a couple of cuts and bruises but there were three of them. That was a top trip. It was also three years ago. He¡¯d take a similar result today and laugh all the way home. It wouldn''t be a win as such but he was sure that once he got his growth spurt there would be a reckoning and a half. He wasn''t far off as it was. Recently he¡¯d added the headbutt to his arsenal. Had it down pat too - the key was to instigate it. Get your retaliation in first as Gran always said. At thirteen and three-quarters years-old and "five-foot faff-all" as his gran often teased, he wouldn''t generally be considered a man yet. However, Jak felt, since he could read, write, hunt, and halfway fight he was a more accomplished man than most of Norwood''s meathead fishers and foresters. Moreover, his growth spurt was due any day now. And anyway, Norwood was a stupid name for a town that was actually west of the wood and slap, dab in the middle of the southernmost region of the country. Not where he¡¯d put a town called Norwood. Another point in his favour was his fantastic planning ability. Also, Jak didn''t drink ale, wager on nags, chew tobacco or smoke a pipe, which saved a lot of silvers. And according to his gran, they were all "filthy habits" as well... Like picking your nose he supposed. So, he thought shouldering his rucksack stuffed with herbs and pelts, if you added up the many positives and minus-ed the paltry few negatives, Jak the Lad was as useful as any man about town!...More so with his growth spurt coming on! Hold up, wouldn''t minus-ing negatives cancel out my positives?... Maths was not his strong suit. Gran would know... -------------------------------- Ashraf Serkan strode confidently out through the swinging doors of The Wobbling Goblin Inn. A ballyhoo broke out behind him, but the Sarkian captain refused to turn. He knew the kerfuffle would be his second in command getting slapped in the behind by the saloon doors. He didn¡¯t have to look, the smirks of the six other soldiers milling at the bottom of the stairs said it all. Inwardly he sighed, being beaten by a doorway was a new nadir, even for Ishak. Outwardly, as always, Ashraf maintained his keen military bearing, keeping his eyes forward. He even ignored the pawing of his shoulder as his stumbling junior officer struggled to stay upright. Instead, he descended the rickety stairway staring daggers at his men until he had the dignified silence and decorum he routinely demanded of them. Like them, he¡¯d chosen not to surrender his sword - as if he ever would - assuming the flimsy disguise of a trader¡¯s guard. He left the role of the well-financed and well-fed businessman to the bumbling Lieutenant Ishak behind him. He may have lacked the head for high finance, but the body was about right, both portly and pampered. The ugly truth was Lieutenant Ishak Rakkesh was a liability in the field, and indoors, in fact, every room except the officers'' mess where he more than excelled himself eating above and beyond the call of duty. Despite these major shortcomings, Ishak had been earmarked as a general in the making, destined for a glittering military career by virtue of his last name being the same as the Emperor''s. Ashraf had earned his own rank the rough and tumble way, but didn''t begrudge Ishak or mind being a babysitter. In fact, he hoped to coattail the clown''s inevitable, cream-like rise to the top, to advance his own cause. That was the theory anyway. In practice, Ishak was infuriating. And after five dull-as-ditchwater days trudging through Perugian sludge from Seatoun - not to mention six days and sea-sickening nights spent crossing the Capri Strait - Ashraf''s frayed temper was fair set to snap. The junior soldiers just sniggered at ¡°Lieutenant Lumpy¡± behind his back, but Ashraf couldn''t afford the luxury of alienating his meal ticket. So he ploughed on, pretending to listen and sympathise. He even posted a pair of superfluous sentries this morning at his junior¡¯s insistence. Soldier on as the saying went. After pulling Ishak out of a puddle, Ashraf gave a silent signal, other than his heavy sigh - and he and his men resumed their struggle through the cursed mud. Heading across town to get supplies before their trek into the so-called Forest of Fairies. ----------------------------------If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Arianna Granville let out a long, hot sigh like a boiling kettle taken off to the hob. She paused to swipe the sweat out of her eyes then got back to the grind mashing herbs between her mortar and pestle. Once palm oil was added to this lot, Ari would have an effective and, better still, expensive arthritis balm - a staple of their family''s business. The fourteen year-old didn''t mind or shirk the hard work, but missed her mother and father, now weeks away on their first trade caravan. When they weren''t gallivanting about the countryside, her parents ran the town''s only apothecary, or "apocathery" as it had been spelt out on their stupid sign. It was a sign of the times too. It seemed anything that could was going wrong for the family. Norwood was made up mainly of men so the apothecary business was a bear market at best. Worst of all though was Mayor Maggard¡¯s bank was leaning heavily on them via a large loan. The family were so far in the red that her parents had to travel all the way to Kortar to get them out. In their stead, her father''s cousin, Lianne Grimes had come from Kirkstead to look after her and Amohia, her ten year-old sister. From the first blush, Ari hadn''t liked her wanton aunt and apparently the feeling was mutual. Avoiding each other was easy enough though, Ari was always in the workroom or their herb garden, while her aunt manned the store. Although her aunt''s version of ''manning'' meant flirting outrageously with any and all men. Unmarried, married, promised or otherwise engaged, it mattered not one whit to her slatternly overseer. Meanwhile, Ari laboured the days away replacing the stock her mother had taken on the caravan - churning out oils, balms, pastes, potions, perfumes and medicines. Ari had quit school to assume her heavier duties. Amohia still attended, although very much against her will. Ari hadn¡¯t minded school. She¡¯d been a top student there for four years but now felt they really didn''t have much more to teach her. Also, Ari was her mother''s daughter and gladly answered the apothecary calling, enjoying everything from the exotic fragrances to the finicky recipes. She studied the boiling pot before her, dandelion fuzz or sticklewort? The recipe said the former but her instincts insisted on the latter. As usual, Ari followed her inner feelings, stirring in a pinch of agrimony. Knowing it would work somehow she shifted the pot to the hob to cool, nearly spilling the contents at a sharp rap on the backdoor that led into the garden It was Jak, the young larrikin that delivered his grandmother Imelda''s supplies. Her mother had dubbed him The Wild Child, due to his brawling misbehaviour. She''s even called him it to his face, now battered, bruised but smirking as usual. Bizarrely, the boy took the moniker as a compliment, despite being clearly well-educated and able to spout strange facts at the drop of a hat. Now he stood casually in the doorway. He actually looked a lot like the door, fully outfitted head-to-toe in shades of brown. Walnut leather boots - still on of course- khaki breeches, a thick hickory leather belt peaked from under the umber cape and cowl he''d tied around his middle. Above the waist he wore a mohair tunic with the long sleeves rolled up in blue collar fashion. A tanned sheepskin vest completed the ensemble. His underclothes were probably brown. Ari wouldn''t put it past him. Even his smooth skin was suntanned a burnished copper colour. To top it off, his unruly hair was brunette. He looked like stick insect except shorter and stockier. No, not stocky she corrected. Raw-boned with wide shoulders and thick neck and long arms. A log insect then... Or an ent? Then she noticed the other colours he was sporting, the black and blue bruising around several raised red welts "What happened this time?" "The twins," he grinned. Pleased as punch. At least all his teeth were intact. "And Girly, plus Raymond Greene kneed me in the knackers for out of the blue for absolutely no reason." She winced politely then fetched an unguent for his bruises plus a wet cloth to clean his cuts. He groused a bit but let her dab at his abrasions all the while attempting to unpack bundles of herbs, bark and sundry bits and bobs from his rucksack. "At least your eyes are both still hazel." "Huh?" Her face flushed, it shouldn''t have, he was a whole year younger than her. "Err, usually you have at least one black eye." "Oh right. I''m getting better at ducking. I didn''t know they were hazel though... Thought they''d be brown." Ari was taken aback. "You don''t know your own eye colour?" Why would I? You look out eyes, not at them. They don''t colour everything you see!" "What colour are my eyes then?" she asked turning away as she did. "Pretty... " he paused expectantly so she turned to face him again. "Are you saying my eyes are pretty?" She blurted eyelashes a quiver. "No, but I''m pretty sure you have two like everyone else! Hah! Got you!" She swatted at him with her cloth. He just laughed and leaned away. She shook her head, swiping another dab of lotion onto her fingertip. "There," she said with a final wipe. "Keep them dry until they scab up." "Ta Ari," Jak turned away and produced a bunch of pink carnations from his pack, presenting them to her with a flourish. "Found these for you on the way in." For me?" Ari blustered, her face flushing even redder than before. "They''re lovely I''ll get a vase..." "What for?" The Wild Child was puzzled. "Need crushing, not watering..." "Oh, of course..." Medicinal usage. Ari changed the subject by fetching his standard fee from under the good teapot. Jak pocketed the coins without checking. He never did. "Hey, how come those boys never steal stuff out of your rucksack or your purse?" "Hide them at the edge of town before I come in, collect it all after the fights then come here." "Oh¡­Wait, where did they set upon you?" "Fairfield Commons, where all the children play¡­" "Over by the bridge? That''s the far side of town... You know you don''t actually need to pass by there?" "I do if I want to be bullied, besides Westcott gives me sweets for ''being in the wars¡¯." "You¡¯d cop a beating for a few sweets? I''m sure he''d give you some anyway..." "Mayhap, but this way I''ve earned them!" He grinned triumphantly like he''d verbally trumped or tricked her somehow. Then with a cheery wave he left, taking his rucksack and own school of logic with him. Ari shook her head, and rummaged through the herbal supplies strewn across the bench. It was all there. Everything she needed for the next few months. Unbelievable. Un-asked for too. As if by magic... But for the bank loan at an outlandish mortgage rate they''d be thriving. Her parent''s caravan profits would put them back in the black for the time being, but, make no mistake, their long term survival was dependent on the good graces of the Fae Witch and her Wild Child. Closing In Donaldson''s Dairy the two words swinging creakily in the wind were emblazoned in Westcott Donaldson¡¯s mind for all eternity. Originally his store sign was supposed to read: "Donaldson''s Dairy, Produce & Assorted General Goods". A mouthful but an accurate portrayal of proprietor wide range of wares: milk, cheese, fruit, vegetables, herbs, and hardware. For a precisian such as Westcott, it wasn''t sufficient for his sign to simply say "store" or "supplies" or even "shoppe" yet as an erudite man of the world, he was well aware that life is lived in the margins between what you want and what you get. The proof in the pudding - an over-egged one at that - was erstwhile sign writer, Riley Fawlty. Westcott theorised his true name was Really Faulty and that he''d simply spelled it incorrectly his entire life. Proper spelling, oft considered a prerequisite of the profession, apparently lay beyond his limited capabilities. It was a small mercy Westcott''s sign said "Dairy" rather than "Diary" - he''d intercepted the simpleton scant seconds before he could dot the "i" that would spell disaster. Not that he''d left enough space to ink in "disaster". An utter absence of forethought had left absolutely no room on the board for the four other titular words - living proof that ''failing to plan is planning to fail''. In the face of Westcott''s righteous umbrage, Fawlty hadn''t given a tinker''s damn. In fact, he''d brazenly suggested that a second sign with the second half of the title could simply be tacked on underneath. That''s when the saying "as thick as two short planks" sprang to mind and almost to Westcott''s lips. To add insult to injury, Fawlty blithely insisted on charging like a wounded bull for his first failure then sought another arm and a leg to for his rough and ready remedy - refused in short order and no uncertain terms. Westcott could''ve saved himself a heap of grey hairs and silver coins if he¡¯d only beheld Fawlty''s own "shoppe" sign, prior to acceding to his exorbitant fees. "Fawltys'' sign righting and ingraving for plagues, trophys and busyness signs" was stunning in the scope of its stupidity. It wasn''t only Westcott suffering, the illiterate idiot had left his mark all over town: The butcher, the baker, the chandler, the tinker, the tailor, the cooper, the farrier, the keeler, the lederer, the milliner, the scrivener, the wainwright and the apothecarist had all suffered under his dyslexic brush. Still, a shy bairn gets nowt and Fawlty had built a small fortune by blagging his way through business. While bristling at the first impression the inept signs gave visitors, Westcott couldn''t, in all fairness, condemn it as a false indicator of its nefarious denizens. Most Norwoodians - or Norons as they were colloquially and locally known - were as thick as mince and similarly illiterate. The rest didn''t give a toss. Westcott shook his head, to clear the clinging cobwebs of his bitter memories. This morning, it was a completely different sign which had him concerned... And curious. The wily store-owner noticed goings-on outside his window, particularly people and especially strangers. Minutes ago, soldier types, travelling as trader guards, had come into his shop for supplies. Stranger still, they were Sarkian. During the last Sarkian incursion Westcott had been a sergeant. Subsequently he loathed them a good deal less than the great unwashed of Norwood''s muddy streets. They say, if you want to understand a man you need to walk a mile in his shoes. In a humanitarian effort to empathise, Westcott had slain as many Sarkians as he humanly could, picking up several pairs of their boots in the process. He soon found them to bring out blisters much the same as his Perugian issue had. Thus, had a great understanding been born - all men were equal-ish - as in equally screwed over by those giving orders. In the last invasion, seven out of every ten Sarkian soldiers were conscripted - the Emperor''s Envoys as they were dubbed were essentially slaves. They hadn''t wanted to be here at all. However, this new breed clearly did, carrying themselves with confidence and certitude. Westcott could tell their hearts were in it, making them all the more menacing. Furthermore, they all spoke Perugian passably well and out of the eight of them, only one was an obvious moron - an utterly unlikely occurrence in any collection of common men. This told Westcott they must be upper-echelon soldiers, selected especially. In a word: spies. And judging by their shifty behaviour, up to mischief - plain as a pikestaff.Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Stroking his thick beard thoughtfully, Westcott observed as six of the party headed south. The remaining two split up, heading north-east and north-west respectively. The southbound six hadn''t purchased enough supplies to suffice until Southwell. On shanks pony, as they were, it was a full four or five days away and they appeared to be on a day-trip only. Within that radius there were only a few farmsteads and a deserted forest. It didn¡¯t make a lick of sense. Still his dander was up, but he couldn¡¯t quite place why. Thrumming his fingers across the counter, Westcott considered his next move. It was a crying shame his friend Kennison was away on caravan duty. The captain and he would give them the short shrift! Just like in the good old days ... In the meantime, he¡¯d keep his eyes peeled and his ear to the ground. He reached under his coin drawer and drew out his old sword with one hand and a whetstone with the other. He''d also keep his blade sharp. There was no telling what their old foes were up to, but they''d surely flutter the dovecotes before they were done. Of that he had no doubt. "They were Sarkian weren''t they Westcott?" Wee Jak stepped out of the shadows. Westcott having forgotten all about the boy got the fright of his life. Stealthy little bugger he was. "Ooh, is that your service sword? Can I see it?" "No, it''s not a toy," He shoved it back under the counter. "C''mere let''s straighten that nose out.¡± The boy didn''t even wince as Westcott wrenched it back into place with a pop. Never did. Tough little bugger. He grinned wolfishly as Westcottt grabbed a handful of boiled lollies and held them out. "Skip along home now lad," he said. "Get your other battle scars looked at. Your gran will know better than I what to do. ------------------------------- Jak sucked on the barley sugar as he walked. It put a spring in his step. He had six more but he was saving them. Spread them out as treats. It would be a months before he had to go back to town again. He always ate one right away though, because he''d bloody earned it. He''d come close today. Got Girly Tong a good one. Right on the ol¡¯ snoz. He¡¯d bet Jak wasn''t the only raccoon in town with a busted beak. Should have pulled tufts of his golden locks out. That''d hurt him more. Practically in ringlets now... Caring about hair... Jak snorted in disdain, blood bubbling out his nostrils. Ahead a tranquil clearing basked in the muzzy, mustard haze of the afternoon sun. The last of his eight trap sites. He also had four supply caches spread far and wide across the forest. "You can''t be too careful..." his gran had told him time and again. "Or too thorough, " Jak finished the saying aloud. All these years she''d been preaching to the converted, Jak had seen the sense in it from the first. Again it was empty. He''d been checking them all. It didn''t add up. It was still autumn, there should have been plenty of plump, dumb bunnies bounding about. His whole forest felt off somehow. Frowning in concentration, he knelt and deftly reset the twigs of the trap, despite it not being sprung. He consulted the shadows of his stick sundial he''d constructed. He had one at each of his sites. Nearly five o¡¯clock. Best be getting back to the Grey Grove, where Gran would have dinner ready. He''d been taking his sweet time to avoid his history and language lessons but hopefully he¡¯d still be allowed out for twilight hunting. Hopefully bring back some real meat, a doe or a boar to tide them over the coming winter. He set off without further ado. It was half-an-hour home from any of his traps. Jak kept them equidistant on purpose, to provide a perimeter of his inner territory - his daily trap checking doubling as a border patrol. Named the Fair Forest for its fae inhabitants rather than any innate niceness, in Jak''s head, it was clearly split into sectors. The selfish elves held sway in the south, all the way to the sea. The goblins dogged the Dragon Spine range to the east. The Ankans, known locally as Eagle Clan, roamed the northern steppes around to N''dor, the salt lake, leaving the whole west to Norwood and the Great Swamp for Gran and him. Visitors weren''t welcome. Not that there were any prying eyes of any shape, size or colour. His gran''s wards kept the stupid men, dumb beasts and even creepy crawlies at bay. The elves by their selfish nature never left their southern sanctuary and goblins... Well, Jak had never glimpsed a goblin, but, his gran insisted, "that don''t mean they ain''t there". Gran would know... Grey Grove Three hours into their trek, Ashraf called a halt. No-one was unduly tired and the magic dagger was unwavering, their target a hundred yards or so ahead, yet he felt compelled to stop. No-one argued with him, not Sherak the scout or even Ishak, evermore the idiot. The desert dwellers merely sat in stunned wonder, enchanted by the unfamiliar and extravagant greenery. Their Captain too was captivated by the colourful foliage. This forest was so old and otherworldly, he thought, and that worried him for some reason. The previous month of October must have been one of fire, many leaves burned magma-red, hot-orange or fever-yellow. Now, in early November, the sun was wan, failing to warm the skin, sprinkling down only weak lances of light. The sun-spears couldn''t reach here in the sooty heart of the forest, eerily still in the shade of the three biggest trees, Ashraf had ever seen, still half a furlong ahead of them. As the minutes dragged on, his mind drifted a full circle coming back to the mission. It was relatively simple and safe enough - or the Emperor''s nephew would never be risked - just retrieve a single sapphire their Emperor had his greedy heart set on. Finding that particular needle in the haystack was made child splay by a magic artefact Sherak wielded, which could track the target anywhere. Ashraf signalled his scout and was handed the silver ceremonial-dagger. He stared, fascinated, at the shining stone set in its hilt. A pulsating light within the diamond glowed bigger and brighter the nearer it got to its sister stone... Distractedly, Ashraf aimed the dagger at various landmarks. As he did the light within shifted itself to the whichever facet was now nearest their original target... Apparently it was amidst the huge trees ahead... Flipping the dagger over revealed a slot for its sister sapphire on the other side and also snapped Ashraf out of his trance, spooking himself in the process. He shuddered and tossed the blade back to Sherak, glad to be shod of the evil thing. Taller than the towers of the imperial palace at Arnuz and almost as thick and foreboding, Ashraf felt the three trees could - and would- fall on him at any moment. Butted-up behind the behemoths was a steep, snow-capped conical mountain, the smallest by far of a dozen jagged peaks scarring the skyline... Yep, definitely a dead-end in that direction, despite the dagger''s glowing insistence otherwise. As time marched relentlessly on, Ashraf struggled to stay still. Antsy, every second he felt increasingly sure he should leave. So he did. He just upped sticks and left. Relieved, the rest of his troop eagerly picked up their gear and jogged after their leader. A few minutes later, he felt a lot better, but why? Everyone else was blinking as if a spell on them had been broken. Had a spell on them been broken? He called another halt. Was all that weirdness witchcraft? To find out, he would be forced to do to do something he''d never considered let alone done before. Against his every soldiering instinct, Captain Ashraf Serkan drew a deep breath and asked his subordinates how they felt. Firstly, about their new experience of forests in general, then specifically about the spot they had stopped before. The short question and answer session confirmed his long held suspicions.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. First and foremost, asking junior soldiers for their opinions about anything was simply wrong. And without question - literally - an exercise never to be repeated. Secondly, they had all been ensorcelled and there was a wall of witchy magic screening their enemy. Ordering his men to about turn and "run straight through it without bloody stopping", salvaged him a modicum of mana. Sherak was the scout. He held the dagger, so he was designated to bell the cat by leading the charge. But Ashraf swore he would be hot on Sherak''s heels no matter how conflicted he felt about it inside. -------------------------------- Jak was right. His gran did know something. She knew something was wrong. No sooner had he yanked open the front door into their lounge than her frail arms were hugging him with surprising strength and intensity. "Thank the gods you''re home," she said, smothering him again. "Evil is afoot and approaching fast." She waved vaguely at a collection of orc and goblin bones strewn across the sturdy oak table in the centre of the room. Jak snorted. As if some superstitious nonsense could prove her claims beyond any reasonable doubt . How could anything be coming? Usually Jak unstrung and hung his bow on the hook beside the door, but today he bunged everything by the fireplace to sort through later. Better keep his boots on too, until he got to the bottom of what was worrying his normally unflappable gran. They were untouchable in Grey Grove, the glade that held and hid their home. Known locally as the Lair of the Fairy Forest Witch, their home was actually a charming cottage, sitting snugly inside a trio of giant elven redwoods at the base of Goblin Tooth mountain - a chipped tooth, ending abruptly in cliffs abutting their backyard. The Foster house was hidden, fully enclosed within natural barriers and entirely safe. Or so he''d thought. His gran swept the bones into a heap with her forearm then seized them again in clawing fingers. She stared at her fist, shook it thrice then scattered the runed shapes across the table again. "Bah," she spat, scanning the face up runes one by one. "Many come...Strong magic... Portents of growth and change....Danger... Death..." Jak refused to believe a bunch of old bones, Not his gran just what she was saying. He couldn''t see how they had been found for a start... The house couldn''t be seen for their huge trees. The only three giant elven redwoods north of the elves themselves. The three trunks'' exteriors doubled as the interior walls for the front two rooms -the lounge and the kitchen-cum-workroom - of their cosy home. In the backyard behind the two single bedrooms were his gran''s gardens and an outhouse - all blocked off by the forbidding mountain cliffs. Jak stared hard at the only entrance. A heavy oak-door wedged between two of the redwoods. It didn''t move. It couldn''t even be seen within the grove itself, camouflaged and curtained-off from prying eyes by a stand of spruce saplings Jak had planted for that specific purpose. It may have been possible to see the forest for the trees but not their home Meanwhile, his gran was dashing from pillar to post plucking items in panicky snatches. Her tall angular frame rendered her actions almost risible, resembling a frantic praying mantis at times . Normally serene grey-green eyes roved restlessly. Her usually surgically-steady hands groped and grabbed in manic movements. She was frazzled. The Fae Witch was frazzled. Jak could barely believe his lying eyes. While Jak took pride in his many security measures, they were merely window dressing. The heart of their defences were his gran''s wards, spells which daunted and befuddled beasts and humans alike... His own spell was broken by his gran grabbing him by the shoulders. "Hurry along and fetch your things," she ordered, then resumed rifling through a cabinet drawer. "Only what you can carry..." Gran pointed to where she''d stacked her own stuff - her herb box and two huge books - in a pile on the corner of the table. She began sorting cutlery in the scullery when suddenly the clamour of her alarum startled them both. Now Jak couldn''t believe his ears. Grey Grove was being invaded. Suddenly, a swarthy man was darkening their now open doorway. The beak-nosed intruder pointed an ornate silver dagger with a glowing white jewel at Jak''s gran. Jak was stunned, the sneering man was as Sarkian as the carpet Jak was stood on. One from Westcott''s shoppe, the carpet and the man. He snarled at Jak and barked back at his countrymen still milling outside. The Last Stand of the Fae Forest Witch Grandmother Imelda backed Jak up against the cabinet beside the fireplace, keeping the sturdy table between them and the five other foreigners now forcing their way into the front room. His gran calmly surveyed the invaders, seemingly unafraid. If anything she seemed puzzled. "What were you thinking Rakkesh?" She wondered aloud."Sending soldiers to do a sorcerer''s job." She drew herself up, standing taller than Jak had ever seen her. Seeming to shed decades in the process, she scoffed at the six men crowding in. After a second glance at the dagger, her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Is that what I think it is?" His gran pointed right back at the intruder''s waving weapon. "I''ve been scrying half a century for that very dagger and you dare my forest to deliver me it?" "That is as priceless as the artefact itself," she threw her head back and laughed. As she did, her right wrist sizzled with white energy. Suddenly the dagger darted through the air above their table and into her outstretched left hand. Jak''s gran examined it, caressing the runes inscribed in the hilt excitedly. Giggling almost girlishly, she nudged Jak. "Finally, Jak your inheritance is at hand." The lead scout, snarled at the loss of the dagger, shaking his tingling fingers while drawing his curved sword with his other hand. He dashed around the table to slash at Jak''s gran. But she spun to face him, squeezing her still fizzing fingers into a fist. With a cry he crumpled at the waist and sank to his knees. A second later, his midriff pulsed once then soundlessly imploded leaving a smoking cavity where his belly had been. Jak could see the recurring patterns of their rug through his seared torso. His brain was similarly blown apart. Who was this woman? No hedgewitch, that''s for sure. Were those many Fae Witch rumours true? The remaining Sarkians were staring, equally slack-jawed. His gran glared daggers back at the invaders, waved again and another soldiers torso was cored. The seared meat stench made Jak retch, but spurred the remaining soldiers into motion, jolting Jak into action too. He snatched a long log from the fireplace and swung it into a charging soldier''s kneecap with a solid thud. The resultant scream broke the spell of silence that had befallen the room. One of the now galvanised soldiers grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. Jak stomped on the toes of his boot, earning a hiss of pain but the soldier squeezed even harder in response. "Release him," his gran demanded imperiously. She began to chant and bring her hands up. The air began to crackle, but in a flash, their leader leapt over the smouldering corpses, his curved sword stabbing at Jak. His gran released her spell and stepped in front of her grandson, hands held out to ward the attacker away. "Noooo!" The Sarkian''s reach was longer and his momentum slammed his sword into her chest halfway to its hilt. The world stopped, his gran''s face frozen in fury and surprise. Shadows swirled around the room, daylight flickered beyond the skylight above, then time stopped and she simply dropped, empty to the floor. Jak shrieked in animal rage, rammed the soldier behind him backwards into the mantelpiece. Then wrenching his way out of his captor''s grasp, he threw himself onto his elbows beside his grandmother and took her trembling hands in his. "Don''t worry Gran, we can fix this, I''ll get healing balm from--." "Jak," His gran gasped airlessly. "Not this time. No time. Not for me... Your time Jak...This is yours." Her trembling fingers pressed a small stone, unseen into his hand. "This is for you... Only you!" He furtively palmed the jewel into his jerkin pocket, then lunged for the dagger on the floor in front of him. But a heavy hand clasped his shoulder, dragging him flailing to his feet. A second hand joined the first, spinning him around they shoved him hard against the tall cabinet, setting him aside. Before he could attack anyone. Or tell his dying Gran that he loved her.This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Before Jak could try anything else, the leader plucked the dagger up and drove it deep into his gran''s heart. She spasmed once and was still, though bubbling crimson continued blossoming out through her white blouse. Emotionlessly the leader dug the dagger out, wiping the blade clean - both sides with a twist of the wrist - on the blouse before calmly handing it hilt first over his shoulder to the soldier standing behind him. "Shariff, hold this," he said evenly. "You''re our scout now." The leader appeared so detached that Jak couldn''t connect his own feelings to what he''d just witnessed. It felt like a dream. Any second Gran would shake him awake... Then the truth flooded over him, the horror of his emotions so overwhelming... Jak wailed, but before he could move a sword curved against his throat, collecting the tears streaming down his face. Tears of quashed rage not sadness. Those would fall later. "Shall we kill him now, captain?" the one called Shariff asked - in Perugian. "Wait until we have the sapphire," the leader replied. Captain, Jak corrected himself. Gran''s killer was their captain. Jak fumed, his frustrated fingers clenching and unclenching. They''d murdered his gran and didn''t even care if he knew he was next. He needed a plan right now or he''d be a ghost too. He wracked his brain but his mind only whirred in grief stricken circles. By the time he regained his senses he saw the remaining soldiers had sheathed their swords and were ransacking the cottage. The two with bows had hung them, still strung, on a hook near the door - obviously not planning on being long, or they¡¯d have released the tension on the strings. The tension in the room was reaching its peak too. Something had to give and give pretty soon. The assassins'' newly-appointed scout looked decidedly lost, turning to and fro, waving the dagger in random directions, before finally pointing it directly at Jak. "There," he announced firmly. "Right there." Jak''s heart stopped. They were looking for a sapphire. He had just been handed a small stone that could well be a jewel. He gulped. He hadn''t seen it yet, but if it was a jewel... The sapphire they sought... He was dead. "Move boy," the captain ordered. Jak gratefully edged away around the table towards the fireplace as two soldiers and the scout rifled through the cabinet that had been behind him. Thankfully they ignored him, intent on tipping drawers onto the cabin floor and sifting through their contents. He kept his eyes down and his hands behind his back, groping about blindly until they settled on the handle of their axe leaning against the fireplace. Stealthily Jak shuffled further along until his own bow was at his feet. He hated to do the next bit but it had to be done. He slid his right boot under the bowstring, lifting it slightly off the ground and then slid his left boot under the bow proper at the top where it was weakest and brought his right foot down next to it. It bent for a bit, then broke with a loud crack. All eyes turned toward him. "What?" he growled sulkily. "It''s an old cottage; it creaks sometimes". Appeased or simply disinterested, four sets of eyes resumed their fruitless search. Jak knew he only had seconds before they realised their dagger had been seeking him and the sapphire he was sure he''d just pocketed. He gulped again, grabbed the axe and charged the dumpy guard they''d left leaning against the door. He swung unnaturally left to right, but the guard pulled in his gut and jumped back. Jak missed by a full foot, hitting the wall where the Sarkian bows were hung. And where he''d been aiming all along. Thankfully they splintered upon first impact. Satisfied, Jak turned and swung back again, the much more natural right to left, at the reluctantly advancing searchers. The dopey guard, instead of skewering him from behind, opened the door wider and ducked outside to give himself breathing room. With an involuntary yelp, Jak released the axe and sent it spinning erratically towards the three remaining soldiers. Each took desperate evasive action, throwing themselves either onto the floor or to the side. Relief at having earned a momentary respite almost overcame him, but now was not the time for resting on his laurels. Jak lowered his shoulder and barged directly into the half open door rather than through the vacant gap. As predicted, the dimwit on the other side had hold of the handle. He was plainly about to peer around the door to ascertain the upshot of the fracas. Consequently the door smashed into his face, stunning him, spraining his wrist, bloodying his nose and knocking him arse over tit. Then Jak was outside. Free as a bird. About to become a distant memory. A blurry one at that, barely able to be glimpsed in the mind''s eye, let alone the dappled shade of Grey Grove. Forgotten in the middle of the floor the glow in the blinking dagger began to slowly shift and shrink... Follow the Leader Kicking up dust, Jak sprinted for a thicket of trees, figuring the Sark soldiers were too big to scrape through unscathed. "Think." Gran would have wanted him to go to the goblins or the elves, but without her magic, or the implied threat of it, he wasn''t confident he could convince them to help. He''d never met a goblin and the elves, well... They were elves. So that ruled east and south out. West to Norwood was no good either. A corrupt frontier town, the four assassins would never balk at killing him there. With Mayor Maggard in office they''d get away with it too, then they could flee across either of the bridges or grab a boat down to Seatoun or Southwell. He could do the same, but first and foremost he had to get rid of that thingamabob tracking his gem. That left one option, an ugly one; grimly he angled his run north toward the Great Swamp. He began sprinting again but pulled up, putting the panic firmly back in its place then settling into his regular steady lope. As gran always said, "a headless chicken is already dead..." The angry tears were back. He would avenge her. All the way to the top of the totem pole too. Emperor Rakkesh. No point getting too far ahead of himself at the moment though - or the foreigners. Thankfully they now had no bows to feather him. They would have to get hands on to nab him fair and square. Good luck with that. Jak and the Sarks were about to play a deadly game of follow the leader. Jak figured to hit the swamp just before nightfall, which gave him a couple of hours to show these Sark scum the sights. They may be trained soldiers but this was the deepwoods not the desert. Deliverance was Jak''s to dispense here. First step, these dainty debutantes needed to get their feet wet - literally. Emerging from the thicket, Jak turned east until he came upon a fast flowing stream. He stomped up to the bank at the water''s widest and shallowest point. He leapt sideways onto a large rock, then another then again into a gap in the brush. Satisfied he''d left no visible tracks, he jogged downstream into a small dell where it was much narrower. It was still a dangerous jump. In autumn the mountain streams were swollen to twice summer''s volume and speed. If Jak didn''t make the jump he''d risk getting dragged under and drowning. He backed away, hoiking out bloody phlegm to clear his air passages and took a long run up... And- carried clear by his swirling emotions as much as his legs - landed on the far side. Barely though and with a crunching sensation as the crumbling bank gave way. He flopped down on the far bank, breathing hard and snotty but when he went to get up he found his left ankle giving way slightly. Standing on it caused it to throb ominously. Grimacing, he rotated his foot. Oftimes you could shake ankle injuries off. Uh-uh,not this time. It was sprained but how serious? Twisted ankles ran a gamut... And took time to reveal themselves. He took a deep drink before heading upstream again, limping slightly. He circled around the widest point then hobbled backwards to the edge. Gingerly he stomped forward into his own bootprints to resume his trail and create the illusion he''d forged straight across the stream. Jak was a wolf, the Sarkians were sheep he told himself. The analogy not only boosted his confidence, it allowed him to estimate their relative speeds, sight unseen. At the moment, Jak calculated the Sarks to be at most a minute or two behind. Due to his dodgy ankle he sought to extend the distance between them, taking a twisty trail through a dense barrier of trees to give himself more breathing room. Leaving a trail a blind beggar could follow, Jak traversed the stream again, using large rocks as stepping stones at another narrow point to avoid getting himself wet and continued west. So far, so good. Well, not good with the ankle but adequate... By now they would be wet, he wanted them thirsty as well. Nearly a league later, Jak knelt down beside a stagnant pond going through the motions of drinking. He rose swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes and entered the cool gloom of denser undergrowth where the bloodthirsty bugs would not follow. He reduced his pace, walking for the next few furlongs. Choosing a comfortable tree stump, Jak elevated his ankle to let the foul humours disperse. He sat as still as a spider to wait, breathing slowly, trying to settle his buzzing brain as well. Cruelly, he cut-off all but the coldest of emotions. Revenge was a dish best served cold and Jak had a four course banquet to prepare. The ambling had not only conserved energy but also gave the soldiers the impression they were catching up. Like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. It was important to instil confidence so they didn''t give up the chase or worse come up with a smarter plan. These donkeys were headed for the slaughterhouse. "He''s slowing down," crowed Shariff. The dagger''s gem was indeed glowing bigger and brighter, bringing a rare smile to Ashraf''s face. Shine on he thought. "Praise the prophets," mumbled Ishak, hands on knees, sweat dripping down onto his already sodden boots. "I can''t take much more. I''m getting blisters". "He likely has the same problems," said Shariff, indicating the scuff marks by the pond. "Looks like he''s as thirsty as we are too." "Excellent," said Ashraf. "Everyone get a drink then avaunt - I want this infidel gutted and that gem in my hands within the hour."This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The parched pursuers drank deeply, despite the water''s mealy texture, also briefly bathing their various nicks and cuts. Then, in single file, they trudged up the dark trail the dagger indicated, soundless apart from the odd boot squelch or exotic swearword aimed at a snagging branch. Half an hour later, a cock-a-hoop Shariff held a hand up and the other three squished to a halt. "We''ve got him," he growled jubilantly. "He''s just around this bend." "What''s the plan?" Ayrek asked. "He''s an unarmed little boy," Ashraf scoffed. "Nothing fancy needed. Unsheath your swords, we''ll rush him, surround him and stick him." The other three snarled their assent and hurled themselves around the corner, eager to end their accurst mission. There! A shadowy figure, a mere half a chain away. Ashraf leered menacingly in anticipation. Their prey was trapped athwart the narrow trail tunnelling through a thicket. For some reason he was hefting a twelve-foot sapling that was far too heavy for him. The boy could barely raise it above his head. However, he he didn''t cower at the sight of four sword-wielding soldiers. In fact, the boy''s brow was furrowed in concentration, as if he was counting or waiting for something... It mattered not, his chosen weapon was so patently absurd. Ashraf smiled at seeing him swinging already - way too early and way too long it was. The top thwacked solidly into a branch above before he could bring it down to bear on the swarming soldiers. Sensibly the boy gave up any attack, backing up the trail a yard. He managed to disentangle the heavy stave and slanted it across his body protectively. His arms shook, obviously tiring from supporting its weight. The soldiers couldn''t surround him in such close quarters so packed together to at least present a unified front of four darting swords. In the initial flurry they pinked the boy twice and Ashraf heard a rib crack... It was a only a matter of time. Then the buzzing began. Puzzled, Shariff held the dagger up to his ear. The other three warily eyed each other. But only the boy, wedging his large branch across the trail as a barrier between them, looked up. And above was where the wasp nest fell from. ----------------------------------- Broken, was better than bruised when it came to ribs. A strange but true fact that Jak could attest to from painful experience. Painful but not debilitating, cracked ribs had never gotten him out of any chores. Or any sympathy he could recall. They always healed up well in a few weeks with the right herbs but were a bloody distraction he didn''t need right now. Slowing him right down. Worse than the throbbing ankle. He''d been stabbed too.. Once on the side and once in his left thigh. Getting cut was creepy but he''d live... Or would he?...If the Gods willed it... Ignoring the pricks, Jak parted the sticky, pine-needled branches for another gander... Damnation! Definitely a Sark leaning on the Swamp Bridge, Jak could see his hooked nose nudging out of the cowl on his cloak and the curved outline of a sword on his side. "Think!" He could circle around west to Norwood, cross the bigger bridge to the mainland...Maybe head for Kortar and give the dang gem to King David. He''d keep it safe and secure. He plumb hated Sarkians, rumour had it they were behind the current war with Vraven... No, it was too far to the capital, they''d haul him in for sure using that magic dagger-thingy... Stars and stones. It had dawned on him that, if they had a guard at the godsforsaken Swamp Bridge, they definitely had one at the Fairfield, the thoroughfare townsfolk actually used. Think...So there are six of them left alive - four soldiers and two guards....At least. With a wince, he sat back on his haunches to hatch a plan. He, the wolf, still had a little time. His sheepish pursuers had to retreat to work their way around the wasp nest... So hopefully still a half a league or so behind him. The quarter hour gap had allowed him to deviate off his own path to one of his four hidden caches. Each was stocked especially for emergencies and this clearly constituted an emergency. His first ever. And hopefully his last. In a good, live long and prosper way... Anyways, he''d applied lotions to his cuts and nicks. Moreover, a fishing line, swads of deer jerky and a water bladder had been added to his meagre possessions. And, most importantly of all, a bow and a quiver with nine arrows. All he''d had on him when he''d bolted was the contents of his leggings and jerkin pockets, his purse with a couple of coppers, more jerky and his hunting knife. Damn, he''d forgotten about his knife, could he have defended his gran? She''d only have needed a second or two... He dabbed at his eyes, pushing these dark thoughts aside. He''d deal with all his deserved guilt later. Sadly the new items didn''t alter his plans much. The swamp was still the best and probably only option. Maybe he could feather the guard before he recognised him...Hellfire! Of course he could. He could do a bloody jig before the guard recognised him. The stupid Sark had never bloody seen him before! Brilliant! Simple then. He''d just strut by the spy into the Great Swamp and end this. Simple sure, but his feet seemed made of lead, somehow reluctant to move forward. Why? What was happening to him? He shouldn''t have stopped is what... His injuries and painful emotions had apparently caught up and were threatening to overwhelm him. Jak didn''t want to shift from the tree line or even stand up. If he had his druthers, he''d stay put permanently. He felt safe here, although deeper down he knew he wasn''t. Was he scared? He slapped himself, hard. "Your gran was murdered by these sons of jackals so pick your raggedy arse up and get this done," he scolded. "She can''t avenge her bloody self." Jak stabbed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the sapphire his gran had bequeathed him, promptly swallowing it. He was well and truly committed now, there was no way he was gonna give up what Gran had died for. She deserved better. To get their precious gem the Sark scum would have to kill him... And gut him... With their shiny scimitars... Like a flopping fish... On second thought, that sounded a truly terrible way to go... But somehow he couldn''t bring himself to throw the thing up. It wasn''t for lack of trying though. Nothing noble. Desperate fingers thrust down his gullet didn''t work. Only panic rose up. He stilled himself, willing his mind to settle too. Jak couldn''t summon up the stone, but maybe, just maybe, he could summon up the stones to get this done. Aye, that sounded splendid, like some heroic slogan or somesuch. There was no going back now, the Great Swamp would be his last stand! Last man standing, he grinned weakly. Jak steeled himself and sprang to his feet... Ouch bloody ankle! He also backtracked down the trail a little bit - to be on the safe side - so he could emerge unseen. So much for his glorious last charge. He used those two minutes to compose himself even more. "Focus Jak," he chided hinself. This next part was tricky requiring a little acting... And some whistling. Rock Bottom Rock bottom. Sergeant Tarak Karam had hit it, with a muddy splat . He was actually, "guarding a stinking swamp in gods-forsaken Perugia". The exact threat he''d heard daily from dear old drill Sergeant Emil. Every day that ultimatum had pushed him on-and-on until he''d passed. Top cadet in his class. He was a sergeant himself, so this shouldn''t be happening. Not to him. He was a success story. A winner. He should not be shivering his arse off in this backwater dunghill. Technically, he was a spy on a secret mission, deep behind enemy lines. It sounded impressive said like that. So that was how they phrased it when he signed up. It was why he signed up. But the oh, so cold and harsh reality was so far from what was promised. For the last six hours he''d been the solitary sentry at a small swing bridge, over a smaller stream, leading to a massive swamp, that no moron would ever willingly visit. It was pointless, boring and basically a job Ishak could do. It was, in fact, Lieutenant Ishak''s idea to post him here "in case they made a break for it". Which had begged the question... "How would I possibly recognise him, her, them or it?" he''d asked. "Will they be waving a tiny sapphire around like you do that dagger?" Laughing outright at Tarak''s "act of gross insubordination" had gotten Corporal Saidah assigned the other - albeit bigger, busier and better - bridge back in the town. It was all fun and games until someone has to guard a Perugian swamp. Tarak shook his head ruefully, he had no-one to blame but himself - and Ishak of course. He understood Captain Ashraf couldn''t directly countermand Lieutenant Ishak''s idiotic orders; it would undermine the chain of command. The Captain''s usual trick was to get in first with his own comprehensive and sensible orders. Normally, he got the jump on the Lieutenant Lumpy, but no-one had seen this one coming. That was the problem with second-guessing stupid... "There''s no accounting for idiots," as Sergeant Emil used to say. Tarak had tried to leverage his sergeant status to swap shifts with Saidah... Pulling rank but to no avail. At least in Norwood there were those shameless unveiled harlots to ogle. Though he fancied most would be easier on the eye fully veiled. Pasty, no-nosed blobs the lot of them. Tarak''s daydream was broken by a din coming down the trail from the east. Soon the noise sorted itself into tuneless, yet strangely cheerful whistling. Finally, some action. Tarak''s wide smile was subsumed into shadow as he tugged his hood lower to hide his plainly Sarkian features. Patting his hidden sword to keep it in place, he slouched back against one of the stone blocks anchoring the southern side of the swing bridge. He had half a mind to kill whomever it was, sight unseen, simply for something to do. Burying the body would be something else to do. Perhaps that''s where the phrase "killing time" came from? But it was only a beardless, sword-less boy who rounded the corner half a furlong away. Probably on his way to scoff swine flesh with the brazen hussies in the infidel town. But no, the boy made a beeline for the bridge. Tarak studiously ignored his approach and curiously felt the boy returning the favour. Why would he do that? It seemed a tad suspicious. As the boy drew near, Tarak stole a second, furtive glance and got a fuller impression - an experienced soldier''s estimation. Fourteen or so. Average height. Solid build. Suntanned for one of the chalk children. Lean yet healthy, though needing a good growth spurt to fill out the frame. Unruly auburn hair hung to the shoulder, half-hiding intelligent hazel eyes. Slightly feral features including the usual snub Perugian-nose and a slightly jutting chin hinting at an aggressive demeanour. Maybe this kid was worth killing after all... Tarak considered quizzing the boy, but wasn''t confident he could hold a full conversation in Perugian. Also, his accent would be a dead giveaway... For one of them at least. The boy had a bow slung over a shoulder. Clearly on a hunting foray, he''d be out of the way for hours - so not a threat. As he passed by, the boy looked set to say something, but an icy glare from Tarak and the moment was gone. Instead he gave a stiff nod and started across the swinging walkway. Tarak cocked an ear listening carefully to the steadily retreating footfalls slapping against the slats of the bridge. Satisfied the boy hadn''t stopped halfway, he settled back against his block. "Well, that''s as about as dangerous as it''s going to get today," he thought. The others were already late. Naturally he wondered what Ishak had done wrong now. -------------------------------------- Jak came out of his crouch, having snuck back behind the northern bridge support. He''d resolved two things in the last three minutes. One, to nod at the guard rather than make any attempt to exchange pleasantries, and two, to come back and kill him while he could. Behind him The Great Swamp, as the name suggested, was immense. Several leagues wide and twice as long. It was as dangerous as it was large. The Ankan called it the bayou, but all locals avoided it like the plague it likely contained. For good reason too. The middle of the marshy everglades was a morass of mosquito and water-borne disease - patrolled by snakes and alligators inside, and either Ankan braves or bandits on the outer fringes.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. On the positive side, many rare plants and herbs made their homes there... he''d argued to his gran. However, his eleven year-old self had been told to "never ever venture there" - not even when he''d turned twelve. Or thirteen when he tried again. Consequently, he''d only made half as many trips as he wanted to over the years and only knew the first few furlongs from the southern edge with any certainty. Maybe he could lure and lose three or four foreigners in the sweaty fog? A big maybe. But losing five, Jak arbitrarily decided, was way too big of an ask... A bridge too far¡­Which brought him back here, huddled behind a bollard. He needed to thin the ranks and had been gifted a golden opportunity. Like shooting fish in a barrel, his gran would have said. Except this barrel was across a bridge. And it was a big scary fish, with a sharp sword that made it more like a shark. Nevertheless, it needed doing. Unhooking his bow Jak notched an arrow from the quiver at his feet. It was the quiver of his hands that was the problem. He wondered how many warriors got their first kill with a bow shot. Probably a fair few, but he bet a lot less had shot their foe in the back. Fewer still would admit it. It wasn''t even wartime... The circumstance were so rare that this could be one in a thousand shot! He shook his head to shut it up. He drew a bead, but couldn''t still his shaking hand or sight along the arrow shaft. He sat back on his heels, heart hammering in his chest. How could he shoot someone in the back? Especially with this, his third best bow and that brisk cross-breeze flowing down the Torrence? The only thing likely to be shot here was his confidence. "Snap out of it Jak! Stop finding excuses and start finding your pride," he chided himself. "You''d make a twenty-five-yard shot at a rabbit nine times out of ten." "Eight times out of ten," he countered, "and I''m not worried about the eight. I''m worried about the two times I miss and a pissed off assassin comes charging over." Good point. That bridge guard was no fluffy bunny either. "Jak Bannor Foster, you''d have time to shoot again at pointe-blanc range with a secondary option to scarper," he scolded. It was getting heated. "This is a two shot, skedaddle deal that even a coward would take. And Grandmother Imelda didn''t raise no cowards." Those were the cold hard facts he required for cold hard action. Jak could do this. Jak would do this. Because this was for Gran. In one smooth motion, he stood, notched, drew and let it fly with an emphatic thwack that brought the panic fluttering back. His stinging fingers were scrabbling around his feet for a second arrow, half expecting to be skewered at any second when the silence hit him. Slowly he stood up but could see nothing. No charging Sarkian. Nothing. A good sign? He nocked the bow, holding it pressed against his thigh as he tiptoed across the bridge. As he neared halfway and his perspective shifted, he could discern a leather booted leg sticking out from behind the far support... Why was he tiptoeing? Especially on a throbbing ankle? Veering wider as he approached, details of the prone form became clearer with every sidling step. Soon he could make out the contorted face of the corpse. His arrowhead sticking up six or so inches out of the Sark''s gullet. As he stood over his foe''s body, it twitched, causing him to drop his bow, draw his knife and dive wildly at the torso stabbing desperately into the chest. The man gave a last gurgle and seemed to shrink. Jak frantically disentangled his rubbery limbs and wobbled to his feet. He half-expected to be set upon by the guard''s comrades, but the valley was eerily quiet. Deathly quiet. Bully for him, because Jak needed to sort out his next move. The others would be breathing down his neck soon. Should he roll the body into the stream to dispose of it? No, it served better as a signpost of his flight and a spur to pursue. The sword. Take the sword. Even if he didn''t know how to use it, it was an upgrade over the hunting knife and gave him two weapons. Three when you counted the bow. The bow, of course. They still didn''t know he had it... That opened up possibilities. Although the arrow through the throat would have to go. He took the Sarkian''s sword, scabbard and belt, fumbling with trembling hands to undo the buckle. He patted the corpse''s pockets and found a small purse, which he stuffed into his leggings. Next came the worst part, retrieving his arrow. Normally, when Jak killed something he''d try and save the arrow shaft but not today. He hunched down and used his hunting knife, sawing as close to the arrowhead and as far from the accusing face as possible, until he could twist it free. He dropped it in his quiver, then gently rolled the corpse over, before viciously yanking the headless shaft free by the fletching. Releasing the body onto its back, he realised the hole glaring up at him looked an awful lot like an arrow wound. As it would. That was no good. This was going to be grisly. Jak threw the shaft in the stream then drew his new curved sword. He shoved the sharp end into the gory hole, working the squishy gristle around, widening the wound. Gagging, he got shakily off his knees, collected his bow and set off for the swamp. Jak noticed one of his boots was leaving bloody prints on the wooden bridge slats, but at this stage it was probably a good thing. After all, he wanted them to follow. Regardless of what happened to him now, he''d at least struck a blow for gran. A mortal one at that. Now, the hunt was well and truly on and he was the wolf once more. Three minutes later and the Great Swamp lay basking before him in all its boggy glory. The quagmire was a throwback to a prehistoric time and all who entered were dragged down into the primordial ooze in some way too. Centuries-old trees with sprawling limbs sheltered the darkness, blotting out any sunlight. Their bark was mottled and splotched, as if bubbling soup had been frozen in time on its surface and clumpy combs of wet moss dangled from their rotten boughs. Jak dragged in a fetid breath of muggy air. This was the dodgy bit. It was important to maintain a straight course for as long as possible. His grand plan hinged on it. His gran''s vengeance hung on it too. He squeezed between two black-trunked cypress trees dripping with algae and stepped out onto the boggy marsh. Nothing much happened, the stifling silence broken only by a burp of trapped air breaking the surface and the croak of an absent frog. His boot sunk an inch into the mushy, grey mud and reluctantly squelched free with his next step. He willed himself on. One foot in front of the other, as Gran always said, "was the only way to get anywhere in life". He held his bow in two hands out in front of him, adjusted his balance and began jogging ignoring the sucking sounds and sensations as best he could. On the far side, he took a deep breath - hopefully making himself lighter in the process. "Three of these," he told himself, and he''d be there... Swamp Meet Ashraf crouched over the still warm corpse of his trusted sergeant yet couldn''t believe it. Not only that his compatriot had been killed, but how¡­ And by whom. Tarak had a knife wound in his chest and a nasty sword strike through his neck. The Tarak he knew was a more than capable swordsman, seldom bested. Nevertheless, it appeared he''d been disarmed and stuck with his own sword by a stripling boy barely half his age. It had to be the boy? The dagger pin-pointed him being only a hundred or so yards ahead of them across the bridge. It did but didn''t add up. His head was fuzzy and he couldn''t figure it out. After ransacking the body for booty, the young grave robber had hightailed it into the marshes. It didn''t matter if he had a sword, they had the dagger. Still, he was missing something important. This didn''t make sense. A panting Ishak arrived. Peppered with wasp stings, abrasions, and injuries - including a half closed eye and bloody nose - he was lumpier than ever, but still as effortlessly annoying. "What happened to Tarak?" he gasped, heaving for air. Ashraf wished he knew, but just shrugged and turned towards the bridge. "Leave the body, no time." They slowed to cross the shaky swing bridge and Ishak got his breath back. "You know he probably shouldn''t have been posted here by himself, something like this was bound to happen." Ashraf gritted his teeth and thought positive thoughts of promotion and bloody revenge. "I mean, how was he supposed to identify the boy? By guessing?" Ishak held his hands out wide, palms up. " He was a sitting ibis if ever I saw one." In lieu of maiming his lieutenant, Ashraf looked away, staring instead at the diamond sparkling in the gloaming gloom. Although he really didn''t need to. Any idiot, even Ishak, could track half submerged bootprints in mud, ploughing straight ahead. Unlike in his horrible forest, the boy was fleeing heedlessly without thought. Obviously out of ideas and energy and they were catching up. Ashraf smirked. Sarkian soldier training regime had given them stamina far and above that of your average Perugian peasant - surely his death was nigh. He was going to skewer his Perugian piglet and revel in its squealing pain. He savoured the thought as he wiped the sweat out of his eyes. It was dusk in autumn, he shouldn''t be sweating, this accursed country was far too cold for that. They all were though. Ishak, as usual, was the worst. He really didn''t look well. Could their umpteen stings and cuts be infected already? Unlikely. By the prophets, he was thirsty though. They should have drunk back at the stream, but he''d never even considered it in his vengeful rage, not with their quarry so close. Definitely on the way back though. Here in the swamp there was water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Such a waste. Sludgy puddles of mosquito-infested liquid were not on the menu unless you wanted a bug buffet as well. As a Sarkian, he hated this country by default. Now he hated it even more. Much more. The swamp was worse than the foreboding forest. This was a trek through a Sarkian''s idea of hell. Oppressive air, tainted and humid, bore the humming insect silence that seemed to push and prod at his every pore. On every side snakes skulked through the shadows, while alligators, stood still as stone statues, jaws agape jagged rows of nightmare teeth un-gnashed. Maybe he''d hand feed bits of the boy to the hideous creatures. The idea raised his spirits momentarily. An exultant cry shattered the steamy silence, scattering a murder of skulking crows, smearing their black blight across the slate grey sky. Shariff! Swiping aside a nimbus of whizzing gnats, Ashraf waded into the brushwood boscage separating him from his scout. Squeezing between two fungi-clad birch, he finally laid his eyes on the fugitive, flushed out into plain sight at last. The boy stood stalled upon a slight hillock only a score of yards away, hands on knees, chest heaving. Ahead of him a steep bank with a tangle of trees at its crest blocked any forward progress. Trapped! The brat was stuck - figuratively and about to be literally. No orders were necessary, swords drawn, they charged feverishly at their quivering quarry, leaning weakly on a rotten tree stump. As scout, Shariff was in the lead, Ayrek three steps behind, with Ashraf closing fast. Ishak, finally forcing his way through the thicket behind them, brought up the rear. Hence it was Shariff who fell first, forward onto his front - sword in one hand, sacred dagger in the other - his left foot sinking in sludge up to his ankle. Beside him, Ayrek half-turned to help but fell backwards onto his rump as his heel dug deep into the mud. Ashraf stopped dead in his tracks and it kept him alive.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. A desert dweller, Ashraf knew the great devourer well. He threw himself bodily backwards before his boots got engulfed too. Finding firmer ground under his torso, he twisted, clawed and crawled his way out of the sucking muck. Slowpoke Ishak plodded to a halt beside him. "Get branches," Ashraf barked. "It''s farrakin quicksand!" "How did I not see it?" he lamented. Although the desert scourge appeared to be a vastly different beast here. A predatory chameleon - in Perugia it wore a crust of a mucky marsh, rather than the shifting sand cloak of its Sarkian brethren, but both were deadly. They had been set-up. A puffing Ishak returned, bowed over and proffered a leafy five-foot branch at Ashraf. "Not me lackwit, Ayrek and Shariff," he screamed. Ishak shrugged and repeated the process with Ayrek, who reached backwards, barely managing to get a grip on the topmost twig. Ishak pulled, but it achieved little but slow down the sinking process. Meanwhile, Shariff had somehow rolled onto his side, he managed to kneel attempting to get to his feet, but his knees began to sink too. No branch could reach him, Ashraf realised. With no rope nearby, Shariff was dead but didn''t know it. Although, judging by his bug-eyed expression, he held his suspicions, "Throw me the dagger and I will avenge you brother!" Ashraf promised, though not sure Shariff had even heard him. Unlike the soldier himself, the vow of vengeance seemed to take an age to sink in. All the while, Shariff''s unfocussed face was swivelling back and forth, his lips gasping soundlessly like a landed fish. Floundering wildly, he sunk beyond his waist and cruelly the submersion seemed to speed up. As the tip of his elbow touched the treacherous skein of sludge, he snapped aware, locked eyes with Ashraf and shucked the dagger limply in his direction. It fell short but settled on the crusty surface and stayed there. Instantly, Ashraf fell to his knees, pawing at the dagger with the nearest of Ishak''s leafy branches, sweeping the precious artefact ever closer. Just as his hand grasped the hilt, he heard two things: a muffled gurgle that must have been Shariff dragged under and a thrumming reverberation. The hum was followed a heartbeat later by searing pain as an arrow embedded itself rigidly in his right shoulder. "The farakking boy has a farakking bow!" Ashraf howled. And I''m a sitting ibis, it struck him . Seizing his impaled shoulder with the far hand, he rolled to his feet and sprinted for the cover of the copse, sidestepping as randomly as his injury would allow. He heard another thrum as he ran, but felt nothing. "Praise be, he''s missed!" Behind him Ishak bellowed like a stuck pig. Well, he missed me at least. A third arrow whistled past his ear as he dived for cover behind a large fallen log. When the pain subsided enough to see, he risked a peek and was rewarded with a spray of wood chips as a shaft skidded off the log inches to the left. The glimpse had been enough. The demon spawn was standing on the sodden tree stump for extra elevation and, pretty as you please, taking pot-shots at them. Thwack! Aargh... Ashraf snuck another peek to see half-sunk Ayrek, an arrow through his right eye. A decent shot and a decent thing to do - a mercy killing. Meanwhile, Ishak made use of the momentary reprieve, limping to the cover of the log and collapsing a few feet to Ashraf''s right - a feathered shaft sprouting out of his thigh. "I''ve been hit," he cried. "It''s the boy! It''s an ambush!" Wan with pain, sporting hundreds of nicks, a swollen eye and beautiful bee-stung lips, Lieutenant Lumpy looked like something the cat dragged in and would have got sternly scolded for. We must make a pretty pair Ashraf thought. He wrenched the arrow out of his shoulder, nearly throwing up in the process. Night was falling, but the sun wouldn''t rise for two more of his men. His own prospects were far from rosy too. He was alive but injured, and would wake somewhere in a fetid swamp, deep behind enemy lines with an idiot for an accomplice and a child prodigy for an opponent. Things couldn''t get any worse... Or could they? Night fell before anyone one else did. Of his estimated eight enemies, Jak was down to three - two of whom were wounded. Five dead already - two his gran had scorched and three he''d hushed himself. Satisfied for the nonce, he let his standoff with the shafted twosome become a stalemate - reluctantly surrendering the upper hand his killing field gave him rather than risk a night out on open ground. Under the wan light of a waxing moon he managed to scrabble up the northern bank then warily trod his way over to the nearest large tree. It was a cottonwood, but Jak was more concerned with cottonmouths, the slithering sort. Serpents, he knew from his studies, were averse to ash and reverberations, amongst other things. He shook the lowest branches violently for a few seconds. Thankfully no snakes fell out, nor did any sidle away when he stomped around the base. Content, he hauled himself into the tree, climbing as high as his weight would allow. After removing his bow and quiver and hanging them on twigs above, he wedged himself carefully between two thick boughs. He kept his ankle elevated in the branch above so as to heal it quicker - basic medical science letting the foul humours drain or disperse into the air. Painfully mindful of his own ribs and assorted other injuries, Jak doubted the wounded duo would have the wherewithal to attack him during the night so he chewed the last of his deer jerky and drifted off to sleep. He was dead wrong. Swamp Fever Like a worm, Ashraf''s luck had turned. He''d successfully second-guessed the fluky boy''s next move. And banking on the brat''s complacency had paid off big time. Two of his soldiers were sucking in sand, buried alive just behind him. Did the little devil really believe Captain Ashraf Serkhan would curl up in a ball and cry? Ishak instantly had. But not him. Because not ten yards away, was the demon child, sleeping like a baby. Albeit a baby bird. The problem was the boy. Yes, of course the boy. The problem with the boy... Was?... While he was only a score of yards away, they were all up. Up yards. Normally, this was not a problem, but with his right shoulder crocked he couldn''t climb up and kill him like he really, really wanted to. Kill him.... Brilliant idea! Admittedly Ashraf was having a crumb of trouble focussing... However... On the other hand, he did feel fortified from the stash of food he''d found before. The stupid boy, in his idiotic haste, had dropped a wrapped packet of mushrooms and dried meat. Man hunting was hungry work. Reluctantly Ashraf had split his salty prize with Ishak, but still felt invigorated. Ishak was no use at all. Worse now with the arrow through his thigh. He''d left him with the log, talking to it deliriously. Neither even noticed when Ashraf left. "What to do?" he thought feverishly. Too feverishly. He tried to assemble his wandering thoughts into coherent order and keep them in place... And his temper under control. His temperature needed control too. Sometimes he was cold, sometimes he was hot, and sometimes he was not. He wished he was at home, where good holy men would simply stone an infidel like this devil child to death. To death... Cheers! Stoned. "Clink, clink, aaarrghh! That was it! The answer...I''ll take a short nap. No, get rocks. No rocks. There are no rocks! aargh!" ---------------------------------------- A hunk of bark glanced off Jak''s head, mussing his hair. Happily away with the fairies, he swatted at the air irritably, trying to drift off again. He was almost back, but a second block grazed his shoulder and he sat bolt upright. Gazing down, he got a bleary eyeful of the Sarkian captain''s arse as he bent to retrieve another chunk to chuck. His could see his adversary had accumulated a small pile of branches, along with averagely large arse. At least it isn''t snakes. Lacking arms snakes couldn''t throw anything and it appeared Sarkians shared the same difficulty. Jak actually smiled as the captain''s third attempt fell well-short and at least four-feet wide. Sighing, he stretched his arms out luxuriously, ignoring his stinging ribs. "You throw like an orc," he observed archly. "It''s my left hand you insolent whelp!" Came the furious retort. "Hmm... Perhaps," Jak offered helpfully. "...You should try using your right?" The lengthy response wasn''t in Perugian but Jak, who had a knack for languages, got the gist - not even utilising his gift, just using good ol'' fashioned guesswork. He grinned down at the deranged Sarkian zealot hell-bent on slaughtering him feeling surprisingly calm. Or was it drowsy? No, his lack of panic was logical he reasoned. Both his remaining foes were hurt, tired and infected. Also, judging by the captain''s co-ordination - even adjusted for the injury-enforced left-handedness - he was high as a kite. They must have found the magic mushrooms he''d left behind. No matter how high they got, they couldn''t reach him up here. It was nearly dawn and by the dusk of the coming day they''d be as weak as kittens. Their leader was already ''''armless" to him. "And now legless to boot!" He chuckled at his own puns. This was almost fun. As the furious captain''s fourth hurl flew by and Jak hooted and laughed out loud... Until he stopped. He found himself staring in slow-motion disbelief as the innocuous wooden projectile caromed off another branch and snapped the twig he''d carelessly hooked his bow over. The bow, of course, didn''t hook itself over one of the many lower offshoots, of course not... It clattered an unlikely path through a thousand other branches to the ground. A complete clanger and a total game changer. Down below, the Sarkian snorted in exultation and swaggered over to collect his prize. "Drats!" That bow was his biggest asset. Hang on, was the Sarkian dancing? Peering down from his lofty perch far above, in the gloom of the false dawn, if you squinted, it did resemble a drunken reel of some description. Jak was not having it. "Bow''s no good without arrows," he crowed, as annoyingly as possible. He made a great show of waving his quiver in the air then knotting its strap firmly around a strong branch. Much like he should have done earlier with the bow. But that was done now and was only a minor setback. He had water... He wasn''t infected... He could wait all week if he had to. They would be sick as dogs tomorrow and he''d steal away and leave them to it.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Oi, where''s he going?" Jak was puzzled. The Sarkian had smiled evilly and staggered off, back the way he had come. Eventually, after a couple of false starts. Oh, hells above. Did the dumb one have arrows? Oh no, his misses. How many was it? Two or was it three? It didn''t matter. He''d be a sitting duck sprouting sticks in a few minutes. Jak abandoned the tree, not attempting to untie his quiver; he was the only one that could retrieve it anyway. Dropping off the lowest bough, he went to flee in the opposite direction of the Sarkians, but stopped short. Think. As things stood, they had a bow and arrows and a sure-fire way to track him with the dagger gizmo. He could lead them deeper, but they really had no need to follow,. They could regroup with reinforcements and find him anytime they wanted. Logically, his best bet was actually to attack. After all, Gran said it was the best form of defence. It also suited his demeanour. If he could confront the captain before he retrieved an arrow, it would make the bow redundant. If he could either steal back or break the bow or the dagger, then the odds would shift dramatically back in his favour again. Anything he achieved at this point would be a positive. If Jak couldn''t confront the captain now, when the man was wounded, infected, and delirious, he''d never be able to. Now or never. He spun around and sprinted off after the Sarkian. There would be scant seconds in it. ------------------------------ "Farrak," the brat was correct, Ashraf conceded. He had a bow, but needed arrows and didn''t have time to make any. No wait, the whelp was wrong. He had arrows back at the log. Two or three of them. Holy joy. He''d shish-kebab the brat with arrows and spend a happy day slicing his twitching remains into teeny-tiny pieces." Wallowing in titillating thoughts of torture, Ashraf almost lost his head. He heard the familiar whoosh of a blade, sluggishly began to turn then stumbled over a half-buried stump, which saved him. Instead of being decapitated, he took an inch deep, seven-inch long, slash across the meaty part of his back. The brat had stabbed him in the back! A low blow! Lower than it was intended for sure. Luckily! Painful, but far from fatal or even debilitating. Almost an ideal injury if there was such a thing. The boy swore as his follow through went further than he had balanced for and forced him to a knee. Instinctively, Ashraf rolled to his feet - ignoring the strange twinge stretching across his back - his right hand reached for his blade. Except it wasn''t there. Pain was. His right shoulder screaming bloody blue murder at him. "Farrak. Focus," Ashraf cursed and clumsily drew his sword from the sheathe on his left hip with his left hand. He had to lean forward to earn enough leverage. Their respective errors had given them both enough time to get their feet under them and their swords wavering uncertainly in unfamiliar hands. Still he was no novice. Ashraf flung the bow behind him and lowered his centre of gravity into a wide arm stance. Not knowing what else to do, the boy mirrored him. And that was the problem. The left-hand versus right-hand combination meant they couldn''t really face-off. Facing the same way they were reduced to warily circling. This could have gone either way, but with Ashraf assuming the role of the aggressor, they were wheeling clockwise, driven by his left hand. At last, Ashraf thought, this was what he wanted. Granted he wasn''t at his best, but this was his wheelhouse. He winked at the brat, but the boy didn''t bat an eyelid back. like enough thinks time is on his side, facing an injured foe, feverish with fuzzy thoughts. Arrogant pup. "Time is on my side whelp. I''ve forgotten more than you''ve learned," he announced out of the blue. Twenty-one years of military service. Hard yards of campaign experience, that even the Emperor''s scion''s coin couldn''t buy. Got twenty plus years on the boy too. Thirty-pounds of muscle, plus four-inches in height and two in reach. Most importantly Ashraf had killed before. Hand to hand; face-to-face. This very sword has hacked apart many enemies. Nothing prepares you for killing, like killing. Time would tell, as always, but Ashraf was confident his old friend would find in his favour once again. ----------------------------- Jab, jab, jab. Jak jabbed his sword at the captain''s blade just keeping it at bay. Trying to get a touch every time so he could locate his opponent in space and time. With his left hand he slid his hunting knife out of his leggings. Though he''d no idea what to do with it. They were both standing side-on facing the same bloody way so their blades could touch, and tap out their tentative tattoo. It made his knife a million miles away from the captain''s throat. The swaying Sarkian, seemed equally frustrated at fighting left-handed, and was struggling to make the necessary adjustments. Jak had a decided speed advantage, offset by the Sarkian''s strength, reach and experience. Maybe a wee bit more than offset. Neither was earning any style points, circling slowly left at arm''s length, like a couple of wallflowers who didn''t want to dance together. They had reversed their starting positions and Jak suddenly realised the bow was now behind him. He could snaffle it and sprint back to his tree and be in the catbird seat again... But something wouldn''t let him. He was in this now. He had the scum that slaughtered his grandmother in cold blood swaying, two sword lengths in front of him. Damned if he''d let him go. Then what would his gran say? Actually, what would his gran advise? What would she tell him to do? She''d actually tell him to get back up the tree with his bow, in this specific case... But in general, Jak thought, she''d advise him to "do the unexpected". Pluck an idea from the aether. So he did. He screamed as loud as he could and lunged forward hacking down. His hazy opponent reared back in surprise and bent his elbow, bringing his arm around and inside to block his down-stroke crosswise. However, in the momentary meantime, Jak had leapt to his right and was now outside his opponent''s arm. Following through his original stroke, it smashed into the outside left elbow, slicing deeply. "Ughh!" Captain Serkan dropped his sword with a grunt. Jak closed-in burying his hunting knife to the hilt in his foe''s neck, before stumbling back in shock, letting his own sword fall from his fingers. Eyes-agog the captain fell to his knees, trying to claw at the knife but neither arm would work. He slumped onto his right side staring accusingly at Jak, spasmed jerkily for a few seconds then fell still. Yards away, Jak stood up again, shakily, surprised to find he''d been sitting. With trembling hands he picked up his sword and bow, leaving the knife impaled for the time being, and went looking for the last one. Getting Ahead A demented wail brought Ishak back to the land of the living, but it was the stabbing pain in his thigh that kept him here. An incessant throbbing, that was like trying to read with someone constantly tapping you on the shoulder... With a sharp knife. Still, it was almost a relief to evade his vivid dreams of wasp pits and witches. He hated this country. He would beg his uncle to invade Perugia all over again and let him personally oversee the sacking of Norwood. He couldn''t wait to get home. He just needed a glorious story to go with his new war wound. His brothers would be so jealous. Not right now though they wouldn''t. His nose was blocked with bloody mucous, his eye was glued shut, and many of the wasp stings had turned into weeping pustules. His gut ached and what was that smell? Oh gods. Sometime in the night he must have soiled himself. He shouldn''t have drunk that water. Or eaten that deer jerky that came with the mushrooms, it must have given him the weird dreams. Stabbing the wasp nest was not his finest hour either. Though for a moment he really thought it was. A definitive strike against the, albeit tiny, enemy. In retrospect, he should have run like the others did. Craven cowards. He had twice as many stings as most of them. They say life was full of little regrets like this. His life certainly was. What was it Captain Ashraf called them? Learning opportunities. The others laughed but they were only stupid soldiers. Ashraf didn''t laugh, as a fellow officer they were kindred spirits. All these other problems could be fixed. Where was Ashraf anyway? He needed him to take Ishak back to Norwood to recuperate. Some protector he was, wandering off. Then he heard footsteps approaching. "Over here," he called out. And over here he came. But it wasn''t Ashraf. It was the brat. And he was wielding a bloodied sword. "Where is Captain Serkan?" Ishak asked in Perugian. "Serkan is dead," came the sombre reply. "They''re all dead "In that case." Ishak stalled, leveraging himself up on his log. "I surrender". "No surrender," growled the boy. "Wait, wait..." Ishak implored, holding his hands up defensively. "I''m Emperor Rakkesh''s nephew Ishak, spare me and I''ll fetch a fine ransom." "Emperor''s nephew eh?" The feral teen leered malevolently. "Excellent! You can deliver him a message from me." "Uh, sure," Ishak nodded. "I''ll tell him the very moment I see him. What''s the message?" "Next time you see him..." The boy whispered, drifting closer. "Say hello uncle..." Then he pounced, his sword pounding into the back of Ishak''s exposed neck. And, finally, Ishak thought he heard: "Welcome to hell!" ----------------------------- Jak gagged again, then gave up and just let it all go. When the retching subsided, the tears started and wouldn''t stop. He crawled away from the pasty corpse and his greyer vomit; curled into a ball in the cool mud and lay still letting his mind drift away. Did he feel bad for killing those men? Murderers he corrected himself. He wanted to sneer "no" , but deep down yes, a part of him did. A tiny part he couldn''t put his finger on or mentally corner. Yet it was big enough to summon a queasy dread every time he tried. Logically, he had no problem killing scoundrel assassins who attacked his home and murdered his beloved grandmother, but logic didn''t apply to this evasive feeling as it simply squirmed aside. It was as if a whole new world of doubt and dismay had been opened unto him. All the rules, structure and surety of his upbringing had been a fairytale... A loving fib told to keep a child safe...You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. He''d crossed a line into another world. One of the seven circles of hell. Opened a cage and let something loose he shouldn''t have. He may not be a man yet, but his childhood was clearly over. Sucked down into a swamp. Moving forward, he figured to lean on his good friend logic. He would make a sensible rationalisation about the deaths, something about defending his domain, and stick to it. Time would eventually erode the emotion and only the rationalisation would remain. Jak supposed that''s what everyone else did in the end so he might as well get on with it. They didn''t deserve mourning; only his grandmother did. He''d have to toughen up to become a soldier anyway. As a hunter he was hands-on familiar with life and death. And that helped. He''d killed hundreds of animals for food and that gave him a natural tolerance to bloodshed, but this was definitely different. Apples and oranges different to him, not chalk and cheese like it would be for a town boy. From now on, the approach he''d take was to treat all his enemies as animals. That way he could slaughter them without second thought. Though this was easier said than done. It was the buzzing that brought him out of his reverie. The back of Ishak''s neck was getting fly blown. The front of his face had settled on his own chest still held by a flap of skin and gristle. The Sarkian looked like he was slumped in slumber, but smelled like shite. Jak didn''t care he was washed out, every sense had long since been overloaded. He fetched his arrows and felt around until he found both soldiers purses. He took their swords, scabbards and sturdy leather belts too giving him a total of three of each. Both cloaks and sets of expensive leather boots as well, even if they were too big. He had a growth spurt coming and it was going to get cold. Winter was coming. He put captain''s Serkan''s cloak on and lay the other one out on the ground to gather around the booty. Finally, he ripped most of Ishak''s shirt off. Now came the gruesome part he thought grimly. " Do I saw it from behind or chop at it from the front?" ---------------------------------- The churning, surging Wakatu had Corporal Saidah Tozfek transfixed - transported to another time and place. Another life. One never lived. All that water under the bridge. Wasted. He scowled. If only they''d such a source in Sarkia, think of all the lives saved. His family farm flourishing. Farming for his livelihood. Aaleya as his wife. A family. Sons. Without water, crops fail. Now he was a solitary soldier, tossed overseas without a second thought by the powers that be - like a bone the Emperor was done with. Thrown to the dogs. Ten-times bigger than the tiny swing-bridge Tarak got stuck at, the stone Fairfield Bridge spanned the river at its narrowest point for leagues, though still sixty-yards long and wide enough for two wagons to pass. Not that any ever did. Saidah saw seven wagons all day. Otherwise there was only the occasional rider on horseback. Once a flock of sheep herded by equally ovine locals on foot. Perched astride a bridge bollard, Saidah swivelled to survey Norwood. Erected on the eastern banks, the township was surrounded south and west by the Fae Forest with the Great Swamp its northern border. Nearby, the town''s only stone structures hugged the riverbank: the mill, the squat bank, four shops, three taverns, a large grainery and the keep, balefully guarding the bridge. The remaining buildings were a hastily thrown up shanty town of shacks taking advantage of the adjacent forest. The three thousand townspeople were mainly transient, and mostly male. The majority made up of millers, keelers, dockers and lumberjacks. Little point settling down best to dodge Duke Roth''s steep taxes avidly administered by Mayor Maggard. The venal bank owner was infamous for high interest rates and impatience with overdue payments. Any problems, they''d been told, Maggard was your man. Just have your purse handy. And heavy. It was only a hop skip and a jump from his perch to the town proper and a score of children played their afternoon games in the disembarking area known as the Fairfield Commons. It was from two of the more inquisitive imps, that Saidah gleaned his only intelligence of the day. An unexpected boon. According to his chit chat, the only forest denizens in the direction the team had gone were a feral teen named Jak Foster and his grandmother Imelda whose hedge-witch status was surely just hayseed superstition? Though with only two obvious suspects to interrogate the squad should have returned by now? Still, he had a name at least. The rest of their conversation had centred on his "Sarkiness" unleashing a series of gross generalisations, extreme exaggerations and complete fabrications. Thankfully, Saidah was saved from slapping a seven-year-old by the start of bullrush. The peasant game proved a pleasant distraction, with several spectacular tackles, two hissy-fits and three crying children. Best of all, it ended in a small brawl - sadly, broken up by several bigger boys. It was a shame adults had forsaken the game. Smashing pug-nosed Perugian hillbillies had real appeal. As the shadows lengthened, his thoughts darkened too, drifting back to the witch and his absent companions. After another hour, in his mind, his compatriots were now officially missing. With only two suspects to speak of, the witch loomed ominously. They¡¯d not planned on magic. Tarak. Of course, he''d consult Tarak. They could come up with a plan together. It was too late now he realised, and headed for the nearest inn. First thing in the morning, before his shift he''d go see Tarak. He really should have thought of it earlier. Heads Will Roll Disturbed, Jak poked a stick into his still steaming scat and gave it a good stir. Where was it? The small sapphire he¡¯d swallowed yesterday should be in his excrement somewhere. Was it too big to pass? Perturbed, he set aside the potentially painful thought, and the dirty twig, before burrowing beneath the snarl of vines obscuring the opening to a rocky alcove. With a sweaty heave he rolled away a large rock, revealing a crevice, the northernmost of his four forest caches. As close to the Ankan lands as Jak dared get, it was like enough the western-most cache too, only a short hike east from his final swampy stand. Satisfied he was out of sight; Jak dropped his bundle and unfurled the bounty his battle had won. The crevice contained another bow, a quiver, and a sack containing a coil of rope, a small pouch of herbs for cooking and healing, plus several swads of deer jerky. He chewed a salted-venison stick as he emptied both his sacks on the ground. Jak placed a pair of boots, a belt, the dagger and Ishak''s bejewelled sword beside the bow in the hidey-hole. Then he hefted his three purses - Ishak''s by far the heaviest - onto a rock shelf and counted the contents. Zounds, more coins than he¡¯d ever seen before. Over thirty pieces, including two goldies! Even though only gold-plated, Jak had never held one and now he owned two! Jak had little concept of the value of money, having no need of it in his daily life. He only knew that each gold coin was worth ten silver ones, and each silver worth the same amount of copper coins. He added the two coppers in his own purse and had thirty five pieces altogether. Although several were Sarkian senarii, they were still legal tender and spendable though not of the realm. To make trade between the empire and the kingdom easier, Perugia had based their own pence on the Sarkian system casting their coins with the same weight, composition and value. However, no-one ever said "pence" except Westcott. Everyone else, the common people, referred to them by their colour. Jak divided his ill-gotten gains into three piles of pelf, approximately the same worth - one gold, two silvers, with either five or six coppers - then put them back in the purses. He dropped Ishak''s ornate purse into a boot in the crevice, the second into a sack to be deposited at another cache, and pocketed his old purse. The one his gran had made. It didn''t have a gold piece but twelve silvers instead and only five coppers. No point getting greedy all of a sudden. He recollected one particular town trip when he was eleven, seeing a small sword, just his size, hanging in the smithy. It cost three silvers six and he''d craved it so badly. When he told his gran later, she just laughed. "Of course you want a sword," she said, hugging him. "It''s in your nature. But that blade''s not meant for you." "Can''t we afford it?" he''d asked forlornly. "No, that''s not it at all," she smiled, pulling him closer. "A tradesman needs a tool not a toy. An artist uses a brush, not a broom. When it is needed, a fine sword will be in your hand. For now, if you behave, I''ll teach you the elven sword dance.¡± He immediately promised to behave, but hadn''t really, he suddenly realised. He wished he could go back. She''d taught him anyway. He was so sorry. "In the meantime, what we can do is carve some wooden swords that you can swing to make your wrists strong." She did and they were. Now he had three steel-forged swords. All foreign though, and one far too fancy for his tastes. Even after two years of daily sword-dancing, alternating right and left until his arms failed, he still needed a teacher. All his doubts were confirmed by his bout with the crippled captain. Gods above, he''d stabbed him in the back and still almost lost. It wasn''t physical prowess he lacked, it was technical skills and tactics. Now that he thought about it, he should have fought with his left hand as well. At this stage in his career, they were interchangeable for him¡­Unfortunately he was equally inept with both. Basic bloody tactics... He sighed and shunted the boulder back in place with a grunt. He put his bundle back in the sack, the jerky in his cloak pocket, and slithered back under the vines into the forest. Next stop a stream to fill his water sack, then the Swamp Bridge. Hopefully the coast was clear, so he could chuck the corpse into the Torrence and make his way to his next cache.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. ------------------------------------- Saidah slept-in. He''d tossed and turned all night then overslept. Probably for the best, he reasoned. Let a few hours pass to make sure Tarak was actually on duty. Despite its greasy foreignness, he scoffed his tavern breakfast. No bacon, of course, but eggs fried in rancid lard wiped up with grainy bread. He also refused the ale. It was barely ten o¡¯clock in the morning. Anyhow Sarkians didn¡¯t drink or partake of swine. The barkeep still, of course, charged him full price. This country! The foggy morning was an unfamiliar and unsettling occurrence for him. Saidah didn''t fancy standing around in the spiralling cold, alone, waiting for Tarak to show up. If he was smart, he''d be sleeping-in too. He straightened his sword, shouldered his backpack, and set off across town towards the Swamp Bridge trail. It was near eleven by the time he could hear the thrum of the Torrence, but the fog still hadn''t lifted its icy grip. Chilly wisps of white whirlpooled in all the low points, particularly settling over wet spots like the stream. "Sergeant Tarak?" he called, all overly formal for some reason. "Tarak are you there?" To his ear his voice sounded subdued and weak. Hopefully it was the fog dampening it down. No reply. The mist swirled and shifted and he thought he glimpsed the shape of a prone form. He peered again and there it was, still. Could he be asleep? He drew closer recognising the standard issue soldier''s cloak. At that moment, he wanted nothing more in the world than for his sergeant to be sleeping, but for some reason he couldn''t raise his voice beyond a whisper to wake him. "Tarak are you okay?" Dead silence. Saidah took another step and gave the shape a gentle prod with his boot. When the dead-weight didn''t give, he knelt and flicked the cowl back revealing Tarak''s pallid features locked in a death mask. He forced himself to inspect his former friend for injuries and could find only two. A vicious sword strike through the throat and a second deathblow to the heart - no other sword nicks were evident. All the appearances of an efficiently ended and strangely lopsided duel. Sergeant Tarak was highly trained, "top of his class" - as he always told them - and twice the swordsman Saidah was. Only the very best of blades could have done this. Or a demon. Saidah shivered. Tendrils of mist curled hypnotically around his boots mimicking the queasy dread circling his insides. An eerie creak came from the bridge, startling him. He spun around, trembling fingers feeling for his sword. The misty shadows coalesced into a hard-eyed spectral teen carrying a sack - standing straight in front of him. "Who goes there?" the corporal croaked. The ghost stalled... Then answered: "Zak". Filtered by the fog, to his Sarkian ear, "Zak" sounded a little like "Jak" with a soft "J". Was the demon boy toying with him? Teasing him? He frantically searched his memory for the proper Perugian pronunciation, but in seconds was drowning in obscure semantics, confusing himself further. Frazzled and afraid, he looked up to find the devil child was furtively feeling around in his sack. No doubt for some foul magic. ----------------------------------- Spooky! Somehow, Jak''s honest attempt to threaten Emperor Rakkesh had gone awry. The messenger had actually balked at accepting his mission. He had, in fact, fled. Would the message still get through? Better safe than sorry¡­ Jak resolved to keep the severed head until he heard something more. He supposed he was lucky to be alive. A fresh soldier was a far cry from Captain Delirious, who, even hamstrung by serious injuries, still had his measure. Hence, Jak''s plan had always been to duck any fight. And duck he did when the spy first called out. Halfway across the bridge, caught betwixt and between, he''d dropped into a crouch under cover of murk. Hearing nothing more, he''d crawled forward, keeping the blanket of fog between them, hoping to disappear up the trail into the mist. He''d made it across, but was betrayed by a swirl of fog, skittering aside at the last second, and was spotted. And questioned. Why he said his name was "Zak", he would never know. He must have mixed the truth and a lie together, forming a stillborn half-truth. The spy appeared almost as confused as he was. They were still a score of yards apart, enough of a gap to scarper or draw his bow. So with a safety net in place, he''d decided to deliver the nephew''s noggin and be done with it. The Sark stared suspiciously as Jak reached into his sack. Having retrieved the cloak-wrapped package, he bowled it underarm toward the startled soldier. The cloth chose to unravel as it rolled, and stopped a yard shy, revealing the grisly winking visage of Ishak. The stunned spy gave him a slack-jawed look of horror, eyes agog, then turned tail and took off towards the town. Perturbed, Jak re-wrapped his gory prize and plopped it back in the sack. He almost set off himself, before the soldier changed his mind and came charging back or worse brought reinforcements, but decided to ditch the body to be safe. Maybe no-one else had seen it? It had been foggy, and few if any ever travelled up the Terron Trail, so he gritted his teeth and dragged the stiffened corpse towards the roaring Torrence. Theatre of War Willingham Amateur Theatre, centre-stage. "''Tis a tragedy to be sure," Westcott boomed. "Why, just last week, we Norwoodians wallowed in ignorant bliss, having no Sarkian inhabitants whatsoever." Saidah watched. And waited, as the wordsmith paused for effect. "Now, it seems, we have lost one of these stalwarts of society, mayhap six more, and are down to our last precious one!" He waved, with a flourish at Saidah sat on a crate in the far corner of the warehouse. Snickers came from several of the crowd - emboldened the storekeeper continued. "Egad, they''re a dying breed!" He exclaimed. "Now, I miss those swarthy buggers as much as the next man! But..." He winked conspiratorially. "But that''s far from the worst of it." The snickers spread in anticipation of a punch line to come. Saidah squirmed for the same reason, earning a splinter in his behind, but it was the storekeeper proving to be the real pain in his arse. "Worst of all, notorious Jak Foster is at large! Well, as large as a wee twelve year-old can be!" The audience exploded. Jeers aimed at Saidah and cheers and chuckles everywhere else. "Now, now Westcott," said Mayor Maggard, entering stage left, his sweaty hands held up for order. "This gentleman has discovered his dear friend murdered and another six of his associates are missing presumed murdered too." "And," he added, confidence and volume rising. "Master Saidah has clearly identified Jak Foster as the culprit." A mix of incredulous and surprised murmurs rose from the floor. Music to Saidah¡¯s ears. "Yes, Master Saidah of Sarkia, claims..." replied Westcott. "Claims young Jak, the snot-nosed lad I sold sweets to earlier in the week, is a dual-sword wielding maniac!" "Our budding assassin, it seems, has slain one swordsman and driven Master Saidah off to boot." More murmurs rumbled. Saidah''s name was being bandied about too liberally for his liking. "In his peculiar account of events, he also claims our preteen terror assaulted him with the head of a third associate.¡± Westcott shook his own head, as if to show how hard they were to remove. "Alas, for reasons known only to himself, Master Saidah didn''t retrieve either his friend''s body or said head, so it''s, somewhat conveniently, at large too! Perhaps they''re in it together? Two heads are better than one are they not? But let''s not get a-head of ourselves...¡± A couple of chuckles, but mostly groans. And one scowl, coming from the corner. "He also suspects this child has killed his five other associates," Westcott continued. "Slaughtered seven armed men... Ex-soldiers by the look of them. Yet, only one body part has purportedly been found... Then promptly lost again!" "What business are he and his so-called associates in anyway?" he asked the room. "Traders? I think not - forsooth they''ve brung a cartload of pine to a forestry town!" Murmurs grew into mumbles. In the dunces corner, Saidah''s shoulders slumped. "You!" Westcott glared at Maggard. "You are taking the word of a foreigner over one of our own. Ludicrous charges against a child you haven''t even questioned!" The mumbles became grumbles. Maggard''s face flushed red, but he stepped forward. "If you''ve finished --" he began. But Westcott was not one to be upstaged. "Just one final question. - how many?" "How many what?" Maggard replied warily. "How many senarii did the Sarkian pay you?" Confusion reigned with several of the crowd booing or hooting with others hushing them in turn. "Nothing..." Maggard managed, stepping back into the shadows. "...Much. Merely a small contribution to my re-election campaign, a smidgeon really¡­ Plus a few coins to hire a team of hounds..."Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The booing grew louder and many men wheeled about and left, Westcott included. Saidah sighed but simply sat on his crate and waited. There were too many people speaking Perugian too fast for him to keep up. Plus, he''d paid the piggy little man plenty for what he wanted. Anyways as the Perugian idiom said: ''fine words butter no parsnips''. Gold and silver, however, spoke every language known to man. Sure enough, his confidence in human weakness was well-placed. Eventually, the pernicious banker had glad-handed enough wastrels, that they had a posse. Vindicated, Saidah slept easily that night but rose too early as it turned out. They were supposed to set off first thing in the morning, but it was closer to third thing in the mid-morning by the time the last of the motley crew were scraped off various tavern floors. "Pay peanuts; get monkeys," Mayor Maggard had lamented. He''d know, Saidah thought sulkily of his long-gone gold. I crossed his palm with plenty of coin. Most of it must have slipped straight into his gaudy pockets. Saidah spent the bulk of his waiting minutes, weighing-up whether the pudgy mayor looked more like a peacock or a piglet. Peacock today, he decided. Prancing about in his spanking new hunting attire that Saidah was pretty sure his purse had paid for. It made sense to start the search at the Swamp Bridge, so Saidah was a fairly surprised when that''s what they actually did. He was not surprised that it all went downhill from there. The bank manager had paid-off eleven ruffians with Saidah completing a baker''s dozen of dubious citizens. For form¡¯s sake, the mayor decreed they needed at least a shred of evidence, before he could upgrade his unruly mob into a lynch mob. Hence the search party started looking for signs of Saidah''s missing compatriots using hounds. The dog species was not familiar to Saidah, nor likely any Sarkian. They were certainly not the effete lapdogs Sarkian noble women favoured nor the sleek afghan''s the Emperor bred. This lot were squat, solid and scarred all over with boxy-jaws built for locking-on. The hired hound-team were led by a man named Ronk. The old adage "you don¡¯t get a dog and bark yourself" came to mind. They also say people resemble their pets and Ronk was no exception. Short, stocky, stupid and brutishly ugly, he barely had his four underlings under control. Saidah figured the five of them had drawn straws to select a leader and Ronk had lucked-in. Having fingers like enough helped. Maybe they''d held a vote, he mused, and botched it. Sometimes everyone''s second choice wins. In his infinite wisdom, Ronk reckoned "all Sarkians smelt alike" so gave the dogs Saidah''s scent, struggling to hold his hounds in check. Saidah was unimpressed with this theory. And even less impressed with the idea in practice. Because the moment Ronk released the baying hounds they bailed him up the nearest beech. The only impressive thing at all was how fast a desert lad had climbed his first tree. It took him a lot longer to come down though, dishing out death stares as he did. "Well," Ronk concluded to his four hounds. "That didn''t work." Ronk only spoke directly to his dogs. A crying shame Saidah thought, since he was clearly a master of understatement. Ronk''s sparkling wit and conversational skills would be sorely missed on this sortie to be sure. --------------------- Jak was immune to his gran¡¯s wards, but sure didn¡¯t feel like it today. Every step closer to Grey Grove he took, the deeper his dread became. It was the finality of facing Gran¡¯s body he feared - a horrific reality he wasn¡¯t ready to accept. His grieving brain had been arguing a range of unlikely scenarios where she was still alive. It was all only a nightmare¡­ She''d healed herself with magic¡­ The elves had acted against their selfish nature and saved her¡­ Anything but the worst which had already happened. Looking up Jak found he¡¯d arrived. His hand gripped the doorknob tightly, but he just couldn¡¯t turn it. He clung like lichen to the fact he''d almost avenged her murder and flung the door wide. And saw nothing. Well, not nothing, more like everything. Everything was there, except his gran and the two soldiers. Everything was actually in order. The furniture was righted, the floor spotless. All the odds and ends were each in their place, as if by magic. His heart leapt. Jak charged through the house, heart thudding, hope burning bright again, yet he dared not utter her name. His frantic search came to a shuddering stop at the backdoor. Outside in the grotto there was a new grave mound, already grown over with grass somehow. His hopes fell a final time. Not dashed, just deflated. Instinctively, he knew it was his gran interred here - in her favourite spot surrounded by her blooming flowerbeds. The fact she wasn¡¯t lying on the floor and that someone had honoured her appropriately softened the blow... Or deflected it... It lessened the hurt somehow. Jak owed someone an honour debt. He inspected the headstone for a clue as to whom. At the top, in large letters was inscribed: "Imelda Morgana Sylvari" followed by ¡°Loving mother of Aroha Eowyn Sylvari and grandmother of Jak Bannor Foster". For some reason, the tears streamed down after reading his own name and he could barely make out the dates:11th of May,1380 ¨C 12th of November,1489. Wait, he sniffed, that can¡¯t be correct. He counted to himself. Egad! Those dates would make her over a hundred. There was no way his sprightly gran was over sixty. She''d regularly beaten him in swordplay. Could it be true? If so, he had severely underestimated the Fae Forest Witch. Sure, he''d seen glimpses of her witchcraft growing up, but he''d accepted it as just another facet of Gran. He never thought anything of the odd spell or incantation, until he saw the raw power she''d unleashed two days ago. Hells, he even thought her wards were normal. To him, Gran was many things: herbalist, healer, teacher, confidante and, as the headstone said, a mother. Were all the town rumours true? No, of course not. Anything coming out of Norwood had to be taken with a grain of salt, yet there seemed to be some basis to the stories. Perhaps the forest had lost a powerful force? A protector? What would become of it now? For the time being, he set his uncertainty aside and resumed reading, scrutinising the runes underneath the Perugian. Thankfully they appeared to be goblin. Something, something, probably her name. Friend of the forest. Good, that was in goblin. Keeper of secrets, something, something, possibly saviour? Something. He gave up. Definitely goblin runes. Thank the gods not elves; he¡¯d hate to owe owt to any elf. He leaned against the grassy mound and let the relief run over him. You Cant Return Home The gift of the gab. Jak had it. A gift for languages his grandmother put to the test regularly. And severely. She, herself, spoke fluent Elvish and Goblin, so they often conversed in those. Each of those came from a structurally-related linguistic family, making them great gateways into other languages. Elvish was useful for all the faery folk, while Goblin had a lot in common with Gnomish, Orcish, Ogre and Troll. Jak, of course, detested elves and, by extension, their fustian language. Early on in his education Elvish insults were stricken from the curriculum after his gran caught him spouting streams of Elven invective at a clump of redwoods just beyond their border. Jak got a clip around the ears, but it was worth it. The elves had copped an earful too, of that he was certain. In contrast to flowery Elvish, Jak enjoyed the growling tones and harsh barking consonants of the so-called ''greyskin'' languages. He even had a smattering of Sandclan, Sarkian and Norse, which were also harsh on the back of the throat. Dwarven he found the most challenging to master, even though it shared some gnomish tropes and vocabulary. He''d even developed his own method. A shortcut. In the course of his historical studies, he often came upon foreign greetings, forms of address etc. So when he learned a language, he targeted the question words: Who, what, when, where, why and how. Which Gran had, for some reason had labelled the "Six ''W''s". Only five started with "W" though, he''d counted. Twice¡­ Jak found if you could ask questions, you would get answers. Conversation starters. Once two people were committed to communicating - with a little filler noun and verb vocabulary - you were away. Often, he and Gran would have language immersion camps at home. All other languages would be banned. He could still picture the two of them - hefting heavy textbooks - nattering back and forth, trying to live their lives as normally as possible. Although normal never lasted very long. Invariably, their conversations deteriorated with increasingly ridiculous questions being asked. Each strove to keep a straight face while trying to force the other into laughing first. And laugh they did. Gales of it would be whipping around Grey Grove. Happy tears streaming down their faces... A laugh he''d never hear again. Jak woke and his world came crashing down all over again. He''d spent the night graveside, reminiscing with Gran. His weary wake intermittently broken up by bouts of weeping. And the odd strangled laugh. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep. Dawn found a dew-covered Jak dozing with his arm across the grassy grave. He stood up and shook his head with a shiver, like a shaggy dog spraying dewdrops every which way. He felt clean and cleansed. It was time to go. He had work to do... Then he saw the note. Pinned to the door. It hadn''t been there before. Bloody goblin must have snuck by him. Unbelievable. The little sneaks... Now he''d never see one... The note Jak focus¡­ Strangely it was from Gran. He''d recognise the slant of her spidery scrawl anywhere. He held the note up above his eyes so tears wouldn''t smudge the ink. Jak love, if this note finds you, I have finally gone on and the goblins have tracked you down wherever you may be... Hopefully you''ve followed our dreams for you to full fruition. I expect you''ve graduated from the Kortar academy and are in the midst a glittering military career... Sadly my sunshine, it''s time to come home, your skills are needed here. Find a partner; raise a large family like I raised you. Ever better, ever prepared. The forest is now yours to protect. You must be strong but not alone. Forge allies to help, strengthen our bond with the Ankans if you can. You can trust goblin queen Phaedra but ever respect her borders. In an emergency you can even seek out the elves - ask for Tr¡¯lloyd he owes us both. Don''t fight them unless you have to. Forgive her if you can Jak.. As for your father, you''ve never asked and he doesn''t know anything about you either. He''s Northron, his name I¡¯ve forgotten but fortunately for us both he was a big brute as far as I recall.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! Your future remains murky and mostly uncertain to me. Though there are brilliant glints, glimpses of greatness shining through. There is also an ancient prophecy I dare not explain for fear of it failing. Just keep the jewel safe. Grab every opportunity like it''s your last. Give it death, my little soldier and know well this old witch loves thee. He folded the note into precise squares and slipped it into his tunic ¨C it had given him a lot to think about. Reluctantly, he re-entered the cottage. It may have been clean and orderly again, but the gruesome events of only two days ago had stained it forever in his mind. Out of the corner of his eye he could still see Sarkian-shaped shadows carrying out their dark deeds. In an infernal loop, his inconsequential shadow-self could never stop them. With a shudder he started collecting his things. Staying would only taint his many happy memories. Almost all of them involved Gran and she was gone. The cottage was his childhood home, and his childhood was over. The truth was, at heart, this was his gran¡¯s place not his. From the minute he was able to walk, he¡¯d adopted the forest, roaming restlessly far and wide. Now he needed to go even further afield and find a new home. Gratified his gran was where she was appreciated, he could move on. Jak filled two sacks with the bare necessities, plus two cherished possessions of his grandmother''s: her grimoire of spells and her glossary of plants and their uses. The leather-bound treasures represented her lifework and her legacy to him. Both were priceless. Painstakingly produced over many decades, hand-Illustrated and suddenly very personally precious to him as well. Ignoring the many well-thumbed textbooks and other thick tomes of knowledge, he made a last sentimental selection, plucking a battered collection of fairytales off his own bookshelf. Stowing it in the second sack and slinging it over his shoulder, he set off. At the door, he turned back to see if he¡¯d forgotten anything. With a grim nod to an empty room full of regret, he shut the door on his old life. He''d remembered to kill Emperor Rakkesh. Nothing else mattered. ----------------------------------- The Not-So-Great Swamp, Saidah decided, had been a bitter disappointment. Quite the feat, considering he''d not been looking forward to it at all. While Ronk held the leashes, pulling the strings so to speak, he was anything but the puppet master he purported to be. He''d idiotically insisted on leading the group in single file through the marshes. The hounds cheerfully sniffed and scuffed muddy bootprints that Saidah and everyone else could clearly see from their place further and farther down the line. Half-an-hour later, the tracks ended abruptly. Now the hounds will prove their worth, Saidah thought. But they didn''t. Let loose, they went wither and thither, though thankfully not hither, obfuscating the already obscure tracks. "Look, Ralf," Ronk spoke, waving a waxen broadleaf in one hand. "Might''ve been a fight here, but someone done dragged some branches around, like enough those branches over there," he said, pointing at two broken and partially denuded boughs lying in mud a dozen feet to Saidah''s right. "Oi, Sark," a particularly ugly ruffian shouted back down the line. "If you want to see your friends again, go git them branches!" "How will that help find them?" "If you fetch them branches, I bet you anything you''ll unearth at least one of your lot," Ugly replied, nodding confidently at the others. A nod''s as good as a wink to a blind man, and soon everyone but Maggard was egging him on. Against his better judgment, Saidah took a tentative step toward the branches. Then another. Behind him, the crowd crowed with a chorus of "oohs" and "ahhs". He took a third step, teetered on his front foot then tumbled forward into the muck and started to sink. Farrakin quicksand! He panicked, frantically thrashing about as his torso began to be swallowed. This was it! He was going to meet the maker. He held up his hand to hurl a death curse, and felt a thick cord slither across his palm and thud into the mud behind him. Desperately he grasped around and got a grip on the braided rope. A prolonged sucking sound, of reluctant mud relinquishing its prey and he was pulled free. Hoots of derision greeted his mud-caked form. Saidah was beyond furious. The Perugian scum had played a farrakin prank on him. And by the prophets, they found it funny. Several were in fits, rolling on the ground. Yet, none of them were sinking into a stinking sandy-grave. None of them knew the terror he''d just faced. How many of his fellow soldiers did? Fuming Saidah sloughed clumps of mud off with the backs of his hands. He simply had to survive this accursed country. "I will die in Sarkia," he vowed to himself, "amongst my own kind, my own kith and kin." "Well, girls and boys," Ronk bleated at his bitches and two male dogs. "That''s why we don''t try and walk over quicksand!" The whole horde laughed like a drain - apart from a shaken Maggard and a seething Saidah. It wasn''t funny at all, he fumed. Not in Perugian and definitely not in Sarkian.