Chapter 17|Lothan
Shanis had never felt as vulnerable as she did in this vast, open land, where anyone or anything could be hidden behind the next rise. In front of her, the road disappeared and reappeared as it rolled its way through the sparsely wooded hills of northern Lothan until it was swallowed by the morning mist. She missed the lush forests and tree-lined roadways of home.
“Does this whole country look like this?” she asked, looking around with barely concealed discomfort.
“Not all,” Larris said. The western part of the country looks like this. It grows hillier closer to the mountains. To the south and east, the land is very different. It’s all swamps and marsh.”
“Will you take us to some cities?” Khalyndryn asked. “I’ve never been to a real city.”
Allyn chuckled. Khalyndryn frowned at him before turning back to Larris with a beatific smile that turned Shanis’ stomach. The prince rolled his eyes.
“Don’t mind him,” Larris said. “Karkwall, the capital, is the only true city in Lothan. The nation is so torn by civil war that a permanent settlement of any size is difficult to maintain. One side burns down whatever the other side builds.”
“How long has it been like that?” Hierm asked. “The civil war, I mean.”
Shanis laughed as Oskar opened his mouth to respond, only to have Larris cut him off.
“There has always been discord between the clans, but this particular war has lasted for forty years. Ever since Badla died.”
“Who was he?” Hierm asked.
“She,” Larris said, “was a warrior queen, the last to rule a united Lothan.”
“I’ve never heard of a warrior queen,” Shanis said. The discussion had suddenly turned interesting.
“She was a rare woman,” Larris said. “Not content to sit on a throne and hand down orders, she remained in the field. Under her leadership, Lothan secured all of its outlying provinces. Any minor rebellions that broke out were quashed without mercy.”
“What happened to her?” Khalyndryn asked.
“She was killed while fighting in the mountains. That’s when the trouble started. They brought her body back to Karkwall, but the tribes could not agree upon where she should be buried. Her father was a Malgog from the eastern marshes. Her mother was Monaghan, a western highlander.”
“What does it matter where she is buried?” Shanis asked. “It’s just a body in the dirt.”
“It matters to them. The Monaghan worship Dagdar, the god of the earth. Monaghan royalty is buried in the sacred grove just west of Karkwall. Malgog worship Boana, goddess of the water. Their kings and queens are laid to rest in the waters of a holy lake far south of the capital city.”
I remember this story,” Oskar interrupted. “The tribal leaders argued for so long that sorcery was used to preserve the body until a decision was made. The civil war began when someone stole the body. Each side accused the other. The rest, as we say, is history.”
“What happened to her body?” Khalyndryn grimaced as she asked the question.
“It’s still out there somewhere,” Larris answered. “For forty years, the tribes have been stealing it from one another. Originally, the intent was to inter the body in the resting place of their choosing, but each tribe was on guard against that eventuality. Now, there is such great honor in being the chief of the clan that possesses the body that no one is truly interested in putting her mortal remains to rest. It has become something of a game to them.”
“That’s morbid,” Hierm said. He thought for a moment. “Is it truly a good idea to travel through this place, what with the war and all?
“We will certainly need to keep our wits about us,” Allyn said. “As long as we remain vigilant, we’ll be safe.”
For some reason, his self-assuredness allayed some of Shanis’ concerns. She had another question on her mind. “Doesn’t Lothan have a king?”
“Orbrad is the king, though one cannot truly say that he rules anything save Karkwall. His forces maintain some presence in the north between Karkwall and the border with Galdora,” Larris said. “He was a Monaghan clan chief. When the civil war broke out, the sai-kurs, or seekers as you might know them, tried to solve the problem by marrying him off to Kalla, the daughter of a powerful Malgog chieftain. Their own clans remained loyal to them, as did most everyone in Karkwall. Everyone else viewed them as traitors. Kalla died of the wasting sickness soon after they married, which did not help matters. His current wife is an outlander. A Rizan, perhaps?”
Shanis’ thoughts returned to the odd concept of a warrior queen. “Are women permitted to be warriors in Lothan?” Shanis asked, looking pointedly at Oskar. He had not mentioned this to her before.
Larris laughed. “Thinking about changing sides?” When Shanis did not respond, he continued. “It is not culturally prohibited, but it does not happen much anymore. The women generally try to stay pregnant.”
“Which is the way things ought to be,” Allyn said. He flashed a quick grin at Shanis to show that he was joking.
“Let me guess,” Hierm said, “they’re trying to replenish the population.”
“That,” said Larris, “and the fact that it’s taboo to, shall we say, lay hands on a pregnant woman.” After that proclamation, there seemed little to say. They rode on in silence.
Shanis tugged her cloak up around her neck and drew it tightly closed in the front. “It’s cold.”
“And damp,” Khalyndryn added. “My hair must look a mess.” She ran a hand gently over her tangled hair.
“It will warm up once the sun comes out and the fog burns off a bit,” Larris said.
Allyn, riding slightly ahead of the others, raised his hand. “Riders,” he whispered. He indicated a hill down the road and to the left. “Behind that rise.”
“How many?” Larris asked.
“I saw movement,” Allyn said, “but little more.”
“Have they realized that we’ve stopped?” Larris looked very serious, but not alarmed or afraid.
“I don’t think so, but if we sit here much longer they will.” Allyn was equally calm.
“What if we attack them first?” Shanis asked, gripping the hilt of her sword. She let go suddenly. What was she becoming?
Allyn nodded at Shanis and reached for his bow.
“No,” Larris ordered. “I would avoid conflict if possible. Perhaps they are hiding from us and mean us no harm, but we cannot be certain of that. We will try to avoid them.”
Wordlessly, Allyn wheeled his horse to the right and led the group off the road. They wound their way between two small hills before turning south to move parallel to the road.
Shanis was startled by a loud curse from Allyn. She leaned to her right in order to see around the blond youth. A small cluster of riders was charging directly toward them.
“There are more behind us,” Hierm called.
Over the muted sound of hoofbeats on the soft turf Shanis could hear the cries of their pursuers. To her chagrin, more shouts arose from her left. The first group Allyn had spotted must be in pursuit as well.
“Up the hill!” Larris shouted. He broke away from the group and plunged his mount up a steep embankment on their right. The others followed. Shanis leaned forward and gripped her horse’s mane in one hand as they galloped up the precipitous slope. She hoped Oskar and Khalyndryn would be able to remain astride their mounts.
When they reached the wide, flat hilltop, they dismounted quickly. Oskar took charge of the horses, giving two over to Khalyndryn. Allyn held his bow at the ready. Larris unslung his own shortbow and hastily strung it.
“Give it to her,” Allyn ordered, inclining his head toward Shanis. “She’s better than you.”
To Shanis’ surprise, Larris immediately handed her his bow and quiver before drawing his sword and moving to stand back-to-back with Allyn. Hierm, his sword at the ready, moved behind Shanis.
She quickly surveyed the scene. Groups of riders, about a half-dozen in each, appro
ached from the east, the south, and the northwest.
Allyn took aim at the man who appeared to be the leader; a corpulent man with a massive red beard and a long tangle of coppery hair. Like the other riders, he was clad in a loose-fitting tunic, dark in color and decorated in an odd pattern of interlocking lines, and a deerskin cloak. What made him stand out was the high, conical headdress that he wore. It was made of some sort of hide, and decorated with red hawk feathers. Allyn let fly. The arrow sliced through the center of the headdress, sweeping it from the man’s head, and burying itself in the shoulder of a trailing attacker.
The leader reined in his horse, and the others of his band did the same. They fanned out, encircling the base of the hill.
“You be a fine shot, boy!” the man called. His heavy accent made boy sound more like buy. “But even if the Malgog girl be as good as you, you can’t take us all down.”
Shanis frowned. “Malgog girl? What is he talking about?”
“Perhaps not,” Allyn replied in his ever-calm voice, speaking loud enough for his words to carry “but I’ll surely put the next one through your throat. That I can promise you.”
The large man involuntarily put his hand to his neck for a brief moment.
“We can take them, Horgris.” The man who had been shot rode up to the leader’s side. He was lean, with greasy strawberry blonde hair and a pockmarked face. The arrow had obviously not wounded him deeply. He, or someone, had pulled it out, though blood still stained the sleeve of his injured arm. He handed Horgris his headdress back.
“You want to be leading the charge then, Garmon?” Horgris asked. He donned his hat, and returned his attention to Allyn, whom he obviously took to be the leader. “You’ve got a strange crew with you boy. I see a Kyrinian boy,” he pointed to Hierm, “and a Halvalan girl,” he indicated Khalyndryn, “but it’s the Malgog girl traveling through Monaghan territory that I be most concerned about.”
Shanis was about to protest when Larris spoke up.
“We are Galdorans,” he said.
“Mongrels, then,” called one of the Monaghan. The laughter elicited by his comment died when Shanis trained her arrow upon the man.
“We have business with King Orbrad,” Larris continued. The mention of Orbrad inspired more laughter.
“Lothan has no king.” Horgris’ face twisted as if the very title was distasteful to him.
“Be that as it may, we have business in Karkwall. There need be no bloodshed here today.”
“You be right,” Horgris replied. “There need be no bloodshed, provided you have protection on the road.” He grinned, displaying a gapped smile.
Allyn cursed, and for a moment Shanis feared that he would loose another arrow, but he remained calm.
“That can be arranged,” Larris said flatly.
“Good,” said Horgris. “But you be leaving the Malgog girl with us.”
“I have already told you…” Larris said
“I know what you be telling me, boy. The others I might believe, but that one,” he pointed to Shanis, “be a black-headed Malgog if I ever be seein’ one.”
“She is not black-headed,” Khalyndryn shouted. Releasing the reins she was holding, she grabbed Shanis by the back of the neck and pulled her head down. Shanis was too surprised to resist. “We colored her hair black. See where the red hair is growing…” her voice trailed away. Everyone stared at her in incredulity.
“Now things be getting stranger,” Horgris said. “What do we be making of this?” He fixed Shanis with a look of puzzlement.
For the first time, Shanis noticed that to a man, the Monaghan had hair that was some shade of red. Burn it all! Now he probably thought she was one of them. She was about to roundly curse Khalyndryn’s grandparents when the drumming of hoofbeats sounded from the south.
A column of riders materialized out of the fog. They were clad in capes and tunics of deep green, chain mail, and polished silver helms. They approached from the road, coming in behind Horgris.
The leader thrust his fist in the air, and the riders spread out, forming up in two rows of ten. The man removed his helmet, and surveyed the scene with a look of detached amusement.
“And what sorts of games are we playing today, Horgris?”
“This no be your concern, Martrin,” Horgris replied. His voice oozed with contempt.
“What happens on the King’s road is the King’s business,” the newcomer replied. He seemed unconcerned that Horgris’ numbers were nearly the equal of his own.
“We be off the road,” Garmon protested.
Horgris cuffed the skinny man absently with the back of a meaty fist, knocking him from his saddle. Garmon fell to the soft ground and lay there, rubbing his arm and scowling at Horgris.
“We be negotiating with these travelers,” Horgris said. “Leave us to our business.”
“Unless the rest of your clan is somewhere nearby, you haven’t the men to stand against us,” Martrin said.
“One Monaghan warrior do be worth five of Orbrad’s armored jesters,” Horgris retorted.
Martrin’s complexion flushed until his neatly trimmed red beard seemed to fade into his face. He sat ramrod straight and his voice lost its amused edge.
“Perhaps we should put your theory to the test,” he said, pushing his helmet back down onto his head. “Or mayhap you would like to try me man to man?” He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Ah Martrin,” Horgris replied, hefting the sword he had not bothered to sheath when Allyn had shot at him earlier, “I always knew ye’d be dying young!”
A sudden chill ran through Shanis. An otherworldly scream pierced the air, and shouts of alarm rose up all around her. She whirled around to see a blur of silver fly across a nearby rise, and hurtle into the riders flanking the hill’s western side. The cat creatures!
Horgris, his view obscured by the hill on which Shanis and her companions stood, kicked his horse into a gallop around the base of the hill. His men followed, all thoughts of Martrin apparently forgotten.
The cats tore through the surprised Monaghan, many of whom fled, or were thrown by their frightened mounts. The beasts surged up the hill, nine in all. Allyn dropped one immediately, a feathered shaft protruding from between its eyes. He was not as fortunate with his subsequent shots, but he and Shanis managed to slow their approach with several well-placed shots. Beside them, Larris and Hierm stood, swords at the ready.
With a roar, Horgris rounded the hill and charged up the slope in pursuit of the silvery creatures. Two of the cats turned to meet his charge. The Monaghan clan chief met the first with a vicious swipe of his sword that nearly cleaved the monster in two. The second beast hurtled into him, knocking him from the saddle. Horgris, still bellowing like a wounded bear, wrestled with the creature as they tumbled down the hill in a blur of red and gray.
Shanis lost sight of the combatants as Martrin and his squad galloped past them, meeting the final three beasts head-on. The eerie cries of the man-like monsters blended with the angry shouts and pained exclamations of the soldiers, the fearful whinnying of the horses, and the sickening sounds of swords meeting fur and bone, and claws rending flesh. Dropping the bow, she drew her sword, seeking comfort in its familiar weight and feel.
The fight raged on in a flurry of fog, fur, dirt, and blood. Soon, the sheer weight of numbers carried the day. Most of the beasts lay dead and the others had fled. Four of Martrin’s men had also fallen, along with five of the Monaghan. Several of the soldiers nursed injuries. Of Horgris and the beast he had fought, there was no sign.
Larris walked over to one of the creatures and nudged at it with his boot. He turned back to Shanis.
“You asked me once about such creatures. They are called ice cats and they are minions of the Ice King. One of his many foul creations.” He fixed her with a penetrating stare. “How is it that you know of them?”
“Two of them attacked our camp not long before we met you,” Shanis said.
“
People live their entire lives without ever seeing one of these, and you are attacked twice in a few weeks?” Larris shook his head. “The world is becoming a frightening place. We must succeed.”
Martrin approached them warily, his sword still in his hand. “Dare I ask how you have knowledge of such creatures?”
Larris did not answer.
“You would do well to answer my questions,” Martrin said. “Either way, you’re likely going to the dungeon until this is all sorted out, but it will speak well of you if you cooperate.
Larris sighed deeply, reached into the collar of his shirt and withdrew a fat signet ring tied to a leather cord.
“My name is Larris Van Altman,” he announced in a voice steeped in authority, “son of King Allar Van Altman, and the Second Prince of Galdora.”
Shanis did not know if it was the name or the signet ring that affected the soldiers, but each snapped to attention as they were able. Martrin made a fist, brought it to his forehead, then snapped his arm down to his thigh in what Shanis surmised was a type of salute.
“Your Highness,” Martrin said, “we must get you to the King.”