Chapter 9: Darrick, Half-Elf Cleric

Pushing back the iron cap from his tousled red gold hair, Darrick tried to rub away the ache that lurked behind his forehead. The pain had been with him, nagging, ever since he'd been stunned by the Gem's draining of magical forces. He felt old, somehow. Old far beyond his one hundred and sixty years.

No matter! He was here, following a broad river valley far beyond the maps of modern Orris Kayn. The pain would have to wait, pushed back into the limbo of forgotten fears, hopes and dreams. He would think about it later, at some far off day when he might have the time and the energy to do something about it. Now he must survive, and see that his few followers survived along with him. Five was too small a number for safety in these wild lands. Any fewer, and their chances would dwindle down even smaller, though they were already as near to zero as really made no difference.

"Hold up!" Bartan raised his hand in warning, for those at the back of the column who couldn't hear his low voiced warning. Weapons at the ready, they eased their way forward along the game trail they'd been following through the brush and scattered trees. The sky was clear, with only scattered clouds to remind them of the rains that had plagued them for so long, but the ground underfoot was damp enough that their footsteps made little sound. It was quiet, with only the sigh of a light breeze for background to the hum of insects.

Straining his ears, Darrick caught the sound of deep voices that had alerted Bartan. Guttural voices, and words in the Common Tongue, mingled with snarls but without the bursts of foul Orcish curses typical of the creatures. Peering through a screen of brush, already fully leafed out this early in the season, he thought that this might well be a tribal hunting party, though it was armed and armored as though for battle. About a dozen of them, surrounding the carcass of a deer that they'd hung up to butcher.

"Try to parley," he whispered, and Bartan nodded to show that he'd heard. With Anji and Gwinny to each side of him, their crossbows at the ready, Bartan stepped out into the clearing. A yell of warning was choked off in shocked surprise, and the hunting party froze in place.

"We come in peace." Bartan held up his right hand, empty palm forward. The hunting party, most of them hulking brutes who showed more than a trace of Orcish ancestry, began to spread apart, cautiously readying their weapons. Darrick moved forward to where they could see him, as did Elm and Tarr, and the furtive movements abruptly stopped. He could almost see the thoughts behind their coarse features; so small a party, challenging them so boldly? These strangers must be dangerous!

"Why you come?" The challenge was flung at them by one who seemed to lead the tribe, a hulking brute of a woman in plate armor who overtopped even Darrick by half a head. "What you want in Elpig Tribe hunting ground?"

"We travel," Bartan answered. "Go to PordigranCity. Not fight, if you not fight. This one Bart, of Darr Tribe."

"This one, name of Elpig. This Elpig Tribe. This our hunting place. Darr Tribe not wanted! Not know this Pord'g City! What is city?" Elpig eyed these strangers uneasily, but made no move to draw the sword that was slung across her back. To one her own size, she might even have seemed attractive, somewhat less Orcish than most of her party. By her side, an even taller and more massive fighter grunted a curse and reached for the mace that hung from his belt. Gwinny shifted her crossbow to cover the hulking monster, but before she could trigger it, Elpig whirled and struck him across the face with his open hand.

"Me not say attack! Elpig chief here, not Pe'ee!"

Pe'ee stumbled back, though he was a good half ahead taller than his chief and must have weighed almost twice as much, mumbling, "You chief! You chief."

Behind him, a much smaller armored figure scuttled out from under his feet.

"PordigranCity is large large village. Darr Tribe go there." Bartan waved his hand in the general direction that they'd been traveling, and several of Elpig's followers muttered uneasily among themselves.

"That way taboo!" Elpig exclaimed. "That way is death!"

"What kind of death?" "Not know," she admitted. "Not ever go that way. Hunters not come back from that way. Elpig Tribe Shaman, him say, demon things him call Nimmu'e. Not say what kind demon things. Him know, but him die in big storms. Elpig Tribe village huts wash away. Us find place for new village, but other tribe not want us there. Darr Tribe not live near?"

"Live far away," Bartan confirmed. "Go to PordigranCity. Not fight, if Elpig Tribe not fight. Is any way past taboo land?"

"Not know any way. Old trail, not used, only way down valley." Elpig showed her fangs, but made no move toward her weapons, and Darrick realized that it was intended to be a smile. "Elpig Tribe not fight. This Elpig swear by Gods!"

Keeping their weapons at the ready, the Company circled the clearing and moved quietly down the valley. Behind them, a gabble of harsh voices broke out and was quickly silenced.

"What do you think?" Bartan looked back at him with a raised eyebrow.

"She'll keep them under control," Darrick answered. "Sure, she knows that they could probably take us, but why should they? If they're all that's left of their tribe after the storms, they don't need to lose anyone else. If you noticed, some of the smaller ones were probably youngsters, too young to be out with a hunting party if there was any choice. I could be wrong, though, so we'd better put some distance between us and their territory."

"What about this 'taboo' land up ahead?" Elm's deep voice sounded worried, and Darrick studied him closely. He'd seemed on edge, these last few days.

"Who knows? Could be almost anything, from hostile tribes, to groves of carnivorous trees, to swarms of monsters. We'll probably find out, one way or another, so stay alert!" He grinned wryly at the small Thief. "We won't fight unless we have to, that's for sure."

They camped that night in a secure spot, a tumble of boulders atop a low mound. He thought that there might once have been a building here. If so, there was nothing to prove it, one way or another. The stones shielded the light of their fire from casual observers, and nothing bothered their rest. They ate the last of the fresh meat from the birds they'd killed a couple of days before, but the meat they'd smoked would last them another ten day or so if they were careful. Only someone who'd foraged through hostile territory could realize just how much solid food it took to keep a party like this on its feet and moving. The food they'd each eaten this last ten-day would keep a hard working city man going for a month or more.

They moved cautiously on down the broad river valley all the next day, and the day after, staying under cover by moving cautiously from one grove of trees to the next. Game was plentiful, if they'd needed fresh meat, as tame as though they'd never been hunted. Elm's sling brought down enough small game to supplement what they carried, without slowing them. As they marched along, under skies that remained blue and clear, the feeling gradually grew that the land itself was watching them with eyes that peered, and measured, and weighed their worth. By the time they made camp, they were all edgy, glancing over their shoulders, and jumping at any sudden noise.

"No! I don't want to!" Gwinny snapped at Elm, who glowered at her as he sought his blankets. Tarr stepped between them, and said something that Darrick didn't catch.

Elm looked down, refusing to meet her gaze, and she moved closer to him, her hand resting on his arm as she moved with him farther from the fire. Darrick watched this bit of by play, relieved. He'd wondered just what had been bothering the small Thief, and wasn't too surprised. Kletta had been a disrupting force on their way to the Monastery, but she'd also done her part by keeping other tensions down. He wasn't surprised that Gwinny clung so close to Bartan, but it had been hard on Elm. Tarr's way of handling Elm's problem was the only right one, but he was a little surprised that she'd been willing, or even thought to do so. Most Spell Casters wouldn't have noticed, or bothered if they had. He moved to the edge of the camp, taking the first watch.

Gwinny had the second watch, and it was her cry of alarm that awoke him. He tried to struggle to his feet, only to be brought down by clinging webs. Surrounded by flapping wings, his struggles only wound the webbing more tightly about him, and he couldn't even draw his dagger! By the light of the dying fire, he could only see vague forms, as of tiny bat-winged men. A choking dust caught at his throat, and the strength drained out of him like water from a broken gourd. He was only vaguely aware that he was being urged to his feet, prodded into movement by sharply pointed weapons.

Morning found them far down the valley, and as the sun rose his head began to clear. He watched with growing interest as his captors fluttered about. They were man like enough, but not men. Standing no higher than his knee, their bodies were lightly furred, slender and wiry, with protruding breast-bones that anchored massive flight muscles. Chittering voices called back and forth, but in no language that he'd ever heard. One of them swooped past, its inhuman face peering at him with beady eyes set close together on either side of a pointed snout, and reacting to his sudden movement with a chittering laugh. It landed lightly in the trail ahead of him, and flowed easily into a different form.

Now it was the size and general shape of a long tailed sewer rat, but with six legs. He'd never heard even rumors of such creatures, or had he? Darrick strained to remember, sifting in his mind through tales he'd heard in the nursery. If only his mind wasn't clogged with their damned dust! They were intelligent, of that he was almost sure!

They carried tiny spears, and now that it was lighter he could see some of them, in their six-legged form, slipping easily through the brush. The front pair of legs ended in tiny hands, and while their winged fellows swooped and fluttered, the ones on the ground seemed seriously intent on their task of shepherding the prisoners. He glanced around, and sighed. Yes, they were all here. At least, that meant that they were all alive. So far. But nobody was free to try to rescue the rest of the party, either. Not that he could think of anything that they might be able to do to help.

His legs were aching, and he realized that they'd been moving at a steady pace for more than half the day. The ground was rising, and he could see cliffs ahead. The netting that held his arms was woven from some natural fiber, and gave slightly as he tried to work one had free to reach his canteen. One of his captors, running along beside him, abruptly changed into its winged form and launched itself into the air. It swooped down onto his shoulder, clinging with hand-like paws as it changed back. It chittered shrilly in his ear, and he realized that he was hearing words!

"Not far, now," it squeaked. "Not try get free."

"Water," he husked, after trying several times. "Thirsty!"

"Not far, now," it repeated. "Have water soon. Not need water for long. Not talk, now!"

It leaped from his shoulder, changing in mid-air to its winged form, and swooped about him with shrill laughter that set his teeth on edge. Behind him, Elm's curse as he stumbled was cut off by a yelp of pain. One of their captors swooped past Darrick's head, laughing, its spear tipped with crimson.

The sun was low in the sky by the time they reached the cliffs, and he was plodding along in a daze of fatigue and thirst, moving slowly in spite of the prodding spear points. When sharp edges cut the netting from about him, he stood for long moments before seizing his water flask from his belt. The tepid water revived him, cutting layers of dust and foulness from his throat, and he looked about with interest. The cliff, of some smooth-grained reddish rock, was riddled with openings. Most were tiny, no larger than his head, but a few were of respectable size.

He noticed that the ones near the base of the cliff were rounded, while the upper ones were high and narrow, lipped by narrow ledges. An open area at the base of the cliff was surrounded by an ancient wall of stone, the individual blocks fitted closely enough so that nothing could squirm between. Sharp spears prodded them forward, forcing them to climb over the wall into the level space beyond.

A staccato chorus of chirps and squeals brought forth an answer from within the cliff. A section of the stone swung aside, revealing a fair-sized tunnel whose farther reaches were lost in shadows. A pair of the six-legged creatures appeared from the darkness, followed by a train of others. The two mounted a low stone dais, and waited.