Farmers & Mercenaries (22 page)

The man with the stick attacked once more, this time aiming for Klain’s head. Klain threw up his forearm, allowing it to absorb the full brunt of the blow. Snatching the stick, he yanked it to him. Man followed stick, and Klain abandoned his end of the weapon in favor of grabbing the man with both paws. He locked one paw around the man’s neck, the other on his groin. The man gurgled out a scream as Klain stood and lifted him high in the air. Stepping forward on his uninjured leg, he launched the man toward the remaining two Humans. Caught by surprise at their comrade hurtling toward them, the flung man slammed into them, and all three landed in a tangled heap upon the ground.

A guttural laughter echoed through the yard. “Well, well.” The older man stood spinning a sword.

And not a practice blade either. This one holds an edge!

“Seems as if some of the stories about the kitty are true. You have got some skill.” Grinning, the man advanced. “Let us see how you fare against a real opponent, beastie!”

“Satner Timms! I will have an explanation for this!” Rohann came storming around the workshop.

Klain’s head still rang. Glancing around, he tried to locate Charver to insure the boy was unharmed. He saw the boy leaning around the far side of the workshop, eyes wide with fear and guilt. When he saw Klain looking at him, the boy bowed his head and fled. Reaching up, Klain cupped the large lump on the back of his head that had sprung up from the first blow.

This whole thing was a setup! And that little whelp was a part of it.

The older man, Satner Timms, lowered his blade and gave a baleful look at Klain. “This beast of yours attacked my men! I told you this was not a wise idea, sir!”

Rohann stopped between the two, looking at each in turn. “And before Klain here decided to attack a group of armed men—for no reason—he chose to put on mittens?”

Stuttering, Satner looked around searching for something. “Well, he… Look at my men!” He pointed with the tip of his sword to the group still tangled with each other.

“Aye! Look at your men! Six of you against one! And Master Klain without a weapon! Seems like I should look for a better class of protection for my personal bodyguard!” Rohann flicked a hand toward the man. “Clean this up and get out of my sight!”

Satner reached down to help the man nearest him to his feet.

“And if there is so much as another shouting match with Master Klain here, you will all be looking for new employment!”

Trying not to put his full weight on his injured leg, Klain stood and watched as the Humans gathered themselves and headed off.

When the last man vanished from sight, Rohann turned to Klain. “Master Klain, I apologize. It seems that some men are less tolerant than others. I will understand if you turn down my offer of employ.”

“It was not your fault, Rohann. I have found that I understand little of Humans.” Klain limped forward a step. “It will take more than this to shake me.”

Rohann smiled. “Come, then. I have some Oolant drought in the villa. Let us attend to your wounds, eh?” The man turned and headed toward the villa.

Suppressing a wince, Klain followed.

Besides, I have nowhere else to go.

D
usk settled over the foothills of the great Nektine mountain range like a scorned woman. Clytus Rillion stood gazing off at the distant snow-covered peaks. The mountains stretched both west and northeast, grazing the very sky until they disappeared into the horizon. A chilly breeze had stalked the troop since the day prior, and with the coming of dusk, it had become ferocious in its tenacity. Clytus feared a storm approached and knew it would be cold this eve.

The way thus far had been relatively uneventful, and for that, he was glad. The land, albeit hilly, held few large rock outcrops or streams to traverse. There were several copses of hardwood and pine, though these grew separated by the vast brownish-green oceans of grass, and the wagon train easily circumvented them. The troop had made good time and Clytus was more than satisfied with their progress.

If
things hold like this, we should be into the Nektine on the morrow’s eve.

Footsteps from behind alerted him to someone’s approach. Turning, he watched Alimia ascend the hill to his vantage point.

She stopped next to him, content to look off at the distant mountain range for a time. “How far do you make them, sir?”

“We should see their base on the morrow’s eve, I should think. Mayhaps the next eve will see us deep into the foothills.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Clytus returned his gaze back to the distant mountains.

“What is your plan for the wagons, sir? Surely we will not find passage for them within the jagged peaks of the Nektine.”

Looking over his shoulder, Clytus cast his gaze over the small camp nestled at the base of the hill. “My plan is to set up a base camp as deep into the mountains as the wagons will go. From there, I will take a small team and hunt for a Drakon. I expect the scouts to search as well, yet they are not to engage the beast if they find one. If, after half a tenday or so, that area turns out to be fruitless, we will relocate the base camp a few days further east along the range and start the process once again.”

“How long do you think the hunt will last, sir?”

“Could take moons.” He gestured down at the wagons. “Thus the reason for so many supplies.” He squared his shoulders on the leftenant and took a stern, hard look at her. “I should not have to state the fact that
that
area,”—he jabbed a finger toward the distant mountains—“is infested with O’Arkin. And I speak not of the Morlis Mountain creatures that often frequent Mocley. The O’Arkin found here are much larger. A wild and barbaric race unaccustomed to outsiders. They will not be kind to strangers in their domain. I expect everyone on guard at all times. The scouts are to travel in groups of no less than four. I want a double watch set around the base camp at all times. You will be responsible for things while I hunt. The supplies are critical to my success. I have not the luxury of returning to civilization for more.”

Crossing her arms below her breasts, Alimia nodded her head, her expression serious. “How do you plan on felling the creature, sir?”

A sly grin crossed Clytus’ face. “I spent a near fortune procuring a toxin that should do the trick. I hope to kill it with a single bolt—if I am lucky. A Drakon is not a thing to toy with.”

“Have you ever seen one, sir?” He took note of the queer tone in her voice. Many tales of woe and doom accompanied the word Drakon.

“In art, aye, and story. Never known anyone to actually see one of the creatures. I am not sure I believe all the tales said of them.” He smiled broadly. “We shall soon see if the legends are true, huh?”

Without returning his mirth, Alimia dipped her head and walked back to the camp.

They traveled north the following day, and the gentle rolling hills gave way to steeper, rockier terrain. This slowed the caravan down, and caused on one occasion an aurn’s delay when a broken wagon wheel needed to be changed. Still, that eve saw them camped deep in the foothills of the Nektine Mountains. Ominous, snow-covered peaks towered overhead, causing even the heartiest of the troop to stand in awe of their mighty visage.

Alimia gave orders to park the wagons in a tight clump under a massive natural outcrop of rock. Clytus hoped this would give some semblance of protection from the storm that hung overhead preparing to unleash its fury upon the land. The men drug out more tents than they had on the previous eve, setting them up in spots to take advantage of any natural cover they could find. Several barrels were also placed around the camp to collect fresh rainwater.

The mood of the men is as dark as the clouds in the sky. Many of the superstitious fools will see this storm as a bad omen to start a hunt. Not that the trip has not already been plagued with problems!

Thinking of the lost wagon of supplies the Artoc had claimed, he walked over to Trilim. The man was busy raising a tent for him. Bending over, he picked up a few wooden support rods. “I will worry with mine own, Trilim. You get busy with yours. It shall not be a pleasant eve.”

Trilim handed over a pole he held. “Aye, Master.” He glanced up to the sky and pinched his lips tight. “That it will not.”

Bending his mind to his task, Clytus set about pitching his tent and arranging his sleeping area in a manner to his liking. Once done, and not wishing to allow his mind occasion to drift and linger on thoughts he knew it would, he pulled out a Silrith’tar and sat down. Rolling the semi-translucent, bluish Memory Crystal in his fingers, he stared off to the south and all he had left behind. Placing the stone to his forehead, he let the Essence of it Meld with his mind.

— —

He stood in a field of wildflowers. A gentle breeze blew, and a myriad of colorful butterflies raced around in their frantic search for food. No sun was evident in the bright blue expanse overhead, nor did any shadows fall onto the ground. Sky and field swept off into the distance to merge at some infinite point. The surroundings set his spirit at ease. He had created this place with his mind many times, and used it when he composed messages for his wife or son.

Conjuring up an image of Sindian standing before him, joy spread through his core. Though, on this occasion, the presence of his son filled his heart and body with longing and grief as well. Smiling, Clytus bent down on one knee. Pausing, he forced the pain away and gained full control of his voice before he spoke.

“Sindian, my son. I am not sure what to tell you.” He gave a shallow laugh and shook his head. “I am not even sure if you will ever draw upon this message. Yet, I felt I needed to create it.” He reached out and brushed his son’s cheek, the cheek that would be there if ever his son drew upon this Silrith’tar. “You will not appreciate a father’s love until such time as you hold your own child in your arms. Mayhaps not until then will you be able to forgive me for what I have done to you and your mother. My only hope in making this is that you will understand why I did what I did.” He sat down cross-legged amongst the flowers and rested his arms on his raised knees. “I always thought I was a strong man, stronger than anything that could be thrown at me. I never expected that your birth, holding your small body in my hands, could change me so. Yet it did. I simply wanted you to know that…” Clytus trailed off, staring off into the distance.

To know what? What could I possibly say that will make him understand?

“I want you to never forget how much I love you.”

— —

Dark clouds, the sounds of men milling about, the smell of horses and unwashed bodies, all ripped back into view as he yanked the Silrith’tar from his head.

Damn you for a fool, Clytus Rillion!

He shoved the Crystal into a pouch that hung from his waist. Standing, he headed for the cook fires.

His mood grew darker when the young Shaper, Jintrill, came strolling up to him. The boy had not said word one to Clytus since his threat back at the stead two eves past. He did not feel he missed neither the boy’s wisdom nor his council.

Yet, I must admit the boy did well in healing Tylin. And having a Shaper along has raised the men’s morale.

“Mir’am Rillion, sir?” Jintrill wrung his hands as he approached. “Might I have a word, please?”

“Aye. What is on your mind, Sier?” Clytus had not meant it to come out as a growl, and felt a pang of guilt when the boy flinched.

“Well, sir. Um, the Order did not equip me with the items it seems that I need.”

“And?”

“I do not have a tent, sir. I was told I would need nothing other than a bedroll and warm clothing.” Jintrill waved a hand at the sky. “I am not prepared for this type of weather.”

Wiping his hand across his mouth and chin, Clytus took a moment to feel the growth of a few days facial hair. It felt good.

The one thing I do enjoy about traveling away from home is being able to grow a manly beard without Lilaith hounding me to shave!

He almost laughed aloud watching Jintrill’s nerves get the better of him. “Come with me.” He led the young Shaper over to the cluster of wagons. Trilim worked at one unpacking his cooking gear. “Could you please show this young man where he might fetch a spare tent?”

Trilim looked up from his pans and over at the wagons. Gazing at each in turn, he finally pointed to one. “There! Nestled in with the sacks of grain on the third wagon, see?” He glanced at Jintrill.

The young Shaper walked in the direction Trilim pointed and put his hand on a burlap sack. “This?”

“Nix, lad! That
is
the grain!” Clytus knew Trilim would have never spoken to a Shaper that way, even one so young, if he had not seen Clytus do it on their first meeting.

I will need to correct that. Even a young Shaper has more power than most. The Gods forbid if
this one holds a grudge. That could mean trouble later for a common man like Trilim.

Clytus gave Trilim a warning glare and walked over to the wagon. He pulled out a cream canvas sack wedged between several bags of grain and pushed it into the hands of the Shaper. “Here, you may pitch this next to mine. I think it is time for us to converse about why you are here, lad. And mayhaps a few ways you might be able to survive this little adventure we are on.” Without waiting to see if the boy would follow, Clytus headed back to his tent.

For more than half an aurn the young Shaper’s struggle to put up the tent entertained Clytus. When it became apparent that he would miss lastmeal if he continued to do nothing, he helped the Sier finish the task.

With Jintrill’s tent in place, Clytus led the way to the cook fire where Trilim stood stirring a large pot and ladling out its contents to any man who approached with a bowl in hand. This eve’s lastmeal consisted of a hearty stew heavily laced with barley, dried jerky and hard rolls. “Enjoy the rolls while you can, lad.” Trilim spoke to the scout he served who was there before Clytus. “They will be gone before the second tenday passes. Then it will be flat biscuits for the duration.”

Once they had gathered their food, Clytus and Jintrill returned to their tents and sat down. Clytus ate in silence. He guessed that Jintrill was not in too great a hurry to begin the conversation. Setting his empty bowl down, he turned his attention to the young Sier. “So, why do you think you were sent with me?”

Stuffing the last of his bread into his mouth, Jintrill took a moment to chew and swallow. “The Council only said that an expedition was leaving on the morrow and it was in need of a Shaper who held a gift of healing.”

“On the morrow? They gave you only one day to prepare?”

I have long believed the Council to be idiots, yet this?

“One eve, actually.” Jintrill set his bowl down next to Clytus’. “I was summoned to the Council just before sundown.”

Clytus studied the boy for a long moment. “Tell me of that meeting.”

“Well…”

Raising a hand to forestall Jintrill’s answer, Clytus kept his voice low so no one passing would accidentally overhear him speak down to a Shaper. “And I do mean for you to tell me all that was said. Do not be the fool and have a false tongue with me now.”

“Aye, then.” Jintrill paused, seeming to collect his thoughts. “A message boy came to my room at dusk. He informed me that the Grand Elders had summoned me to the Ques’lian to appear before them. Except, when I arrived, only Grand Elder Blanch sat in attendance. He told me that I was to meet a caravan led by you at the main gates first thing in the morn. When I asked where the caravan was headed, he told me that you were heading into the Nektine hunting a Drakon for a need the Council has.”

“Did he not inform you as to what to bring nor how long you would be gone?”

“Nix. I tried to ask a few more questions, yet he simply said that it was Council business and for me to do as I was told for once.” Jintrill shrugged his shoulders.

“It sounds as if you and the Grand Elder do not get along.” Clytus could not stop the smile that grew on his face.

Mayhaps this young lad is not so bad after all.

Jintrill wore a sheepish look. “Well, to be honest, I had several run-ins with a few of the Elders during my days as an Initiate.”