and had fasted and chanted with the shaman for three days and nights. The shaman had reported the Master had said, ‘I will return, soon,’ then had vanished in smoke and flame. Word had spread like a prairie fire that the shaman had had a prophetic vision, hailing the return of the moredhel’s greatest hero.
A month later the Master came to Murad, and in a dark and bloody ceremony had bound him to his service. As a pledge, Murad had cut out his own tongue, so that he would never forswear his oath to the Master. The Master had appeared before the Clan Raven Council of Chieftains with Murad at his side, and took the paramount seat, with Murad at his right hand, and a strange, robed creature with scaled hands and burning eyes at his left.
Now word was spreading that there was to be a huge gathering of clans the next Midsummer’s Day, and the matter of a grand alliance to drive the humans out of the Kingdom was to be discussed under the holiest of truces.
Bovai kept his voice low. ‘No, this shall be a gathering not seen in many lifetimes and if we fail here, Murad will not permit either of us to sit at the first circle of chieftains around the council fires; when the war against the humans comes, we shall be relegated to guarding baggage trains and herding goblins.’
He nodded back through the open gate to the column of wood goblins. They were obviously afraid, uneasy. What had been promised as an easy raid with plentiful booty had been marred. They were simple creatures, and their thoughts were filled with barely-suppressed terror. If they had been back in their homelands the column would be melting away, deserters running off to hide and spread word of this humiliation.
Bovai added, ‘Assuming he lets us live. If we do not stop this fear growing within us, no honours will come to our families, no glory for our band, no sharing of spoils. We shall be forced to remain content to glean what we can from the debris left behind by those in the van, those selected to stand with the Master and Murad.’
‘We can change all this in a day,’ Tancred replied hurriedly. ‘Hartraft and the aliens are trapped north of the mountain passes. They must press up the trail to the bridge at Vacosa, it is the only way across the Broad River this time of year. Our garrison there is well fortified and will block them.’
‘Ah, so now you know their strategy?’
Tancred gulped nervously. ‘It is their only hope. Seize the bridge, destroy it, then swing eastward and outrun us. The garrison, however, will hold and we shall come upon them from the rear.’
‘Thank you for that advice,’ Bovai whispered.
He turned away from Tancred and walked into the barracks hall. The air within was thick with the stench of their bodies, their musky sweat, the strange scent of the spices the aliens were so fond of in their food. Half a dozen bodies were in the corner: five moredhel, and a Tsurani, his throat cut. The way his corpse was arranged indicated that he had been killed by his own comrades rather than being left alive. Bovai took a small measure of enjoyment from that. It amused some moredhel to torture humans to death, but he had little patience for it; he preferred a quick, artful kill in battle. Besides, they were in a hurry and he would have cut the warrior’s throat in almost exactly the same fashion.
He walked over to the fireplace, taking off his gauntlets, extending his hands to warm them. It was an interesting dilemma and with all such dilemmas an opportunity might emerge. How best to turn this setback into an advantage, he wondered silently. Fear had driven two enemies into each other’s arms and he smiled at that thought. They fear me more than they do each other and that is good.
This had started as nothing more than a raid, a training for things yet to come, to give his brothers a taste of blood and to bring home booty. Since the coming of the alien Tsurani all had changed along the frontier, the constant pressure of the humans, the dwarves and eledhel had dissipated, their attention focused instead on containing the invaders. If ever there was a moment to regain all that was lost, it was now. That was what his master had sent him to ascertain, and he knew that this was the moment to strike.
As he looked around the barracks he felt a twinge of doubt. Could Tsurani and Kingdom forces perhaps seek a permanent truce and turn against them? Doubtful, but then who would have believed only a day ago that thirty-two brothers of Clan Raven would fall in an ambush, that a Tsurani warrior could decapitate two of his finest, then unite with Kingdom troops and go marching off to the north? Only a genius might have foreseen such a turn; Bovai had a high opinion of his own skills and ability, but stopped short of considering himself a genius.
What will the humans’ next move be? Now they were over the border marches and into lands which we have reclaimed. Whatever our mission was in this land, it is now changed, Bovai thought.
Taking the fire poker he tapped absently at the shimmering coals so that sparks swirled up. In the rising embers and dancing flames he sought some vision, an inspiration that would seize him and tell him what to do next. After a moment, he stopped disturbing the fire with the poker. The vision in flames was a shaman’s gift, and he was no mutterer of holy words.
To seize victory from chaos, that was his challenge. All such challenges, no matter how grim, could be turned to advantage if met head on and conquered. Tsurani and Kingdom troops together. It had a certain amusing quality to it, and if it hadn’t been over their border it would almost have been entertaining to follow, to watch and observe, waiting for the moment of the falling out.
He knew enough of Hartraft to understand that this alliance would be short-lived. Even beyond the border marches stories were told of the fall of the Hartraft Keep, of Dennis Hartraft’s madness and his oath of revenge against the Tsurani. The vengeance visited upon the Tsurani by Hartraft’s Marauders would do credit to a Lesser Chieftain of Clan Raven. Hartraft held Bovai’s grudging admiration; he was a worthy foe just as his grandsire had been: Hartraft One-Eye, a fierce enemy. They had met in battle almost fifty years before, leaving Bovai with a scar on his left arm from a blow which had nearly severed the limb. The, ‘One-Eye’ was the gift given in return. The spawn of One-Eye had the same fiery blood and thus killing him would be a great honour, and a worthy vengeance for all the havoc wrought against his people.
He could hear orders being shouted outside the door by Golun. A small detachment would have to be left behind to carry the dead to one of the mines where their remains could be concealed.
If Hartraft was north of the mountains he must die. Honour demanded it and the Master would expect nothing less. It would be a good hunt. Killing him would still forever the fear his name engendered not only amongst the wood goblins, but even amongst the moredhel.
Golun entered. ‘We are ready, master.’
Bovai nodded, but his retainer did not depart. He turned and looked at his loyal companion. ‘What is it?’
Golun leaned over and said confidentially, ‘Tancred would not tell you, but he is certain the Ranger with Hartraft is Gregory of Natal.’
Bovai stiffened, a difference in posture only one of his own race would notice. ‘Gregory!’ he whispered. If Gregory of Natal was with Hartraft, then Tinuva would be close by. He almost grimaced with suppressed rage.
Of any mortal on this world, Tinuva was foremost on Bovai’s list of those who must die at his hands. His very existence was an affront to Bovai, a stain on the honour of his family and clan. Perhaps now would come the opportunity to confront him finally and to settle the blood feud which had burned in his soul across the centuries.
If it was Tinuva that Tancred had met on the trail ahead, then he knew why Tancred would not say the name. No member of Clan Raven would dare speak that name to Bovai, save Golun.
Bovai
