Loss: Prequel to the Bornlord Saga Page 3
Banjee's fierce scowl must have warned the newcomer. "Hey, I been with 'em. I know 'em. Once they get their heat up, they don't stop." Rawl's narrow-faced expression was almost as belligerent as the caravan leader's.
"I've never seen or heard of any of the Traders ever attacking an expedition before," Banjee told him. "What do you know about this? What's got them riled?" he demanded.
Rawl only gave an elaborate shrug. "I don't know what's on their minds. All I can tell you is what their actions say." The stranger looked away then, out over the waterless flatland. "An' I can tell you this. They'll be back, with more of 'em next time. You best get moving." As Banjee glared at him grimly, the stranger brought his hand up and began to scratch vigorously at the peeling skin on his cheek.
Only three days later, Traders appeared seemingly from nowhere again, pounding toward them as the drivers slapped the tired packdeer into a bleating run. There were more this time, at least sixty or seventy. Like Rawl had warned, they were back with all of the tribe's warriors this time.
"Circle the carts!" Banjee screamed, hauling on the reins to pull his already flagging beasts into a turn. The armsors had leaped to the ground, and on foot, they peeled apart, bows raised, forming a tiny brave line between the howling pack of mounted warriors hurtling toward them and the rumbling carts behind.
There would be no waiting, no confusion this time. As the blur of approaching warriors coalesced into faces tasting kill, the armsors' force leader let out a clear, "Now!" Almost as one the first round of arrows flew from the six guards.
The distance was still great, and only one robed figure wavered. Another round followed instantly from the armsors, and then more arrows as drivers and businesspeople fell in with them, shooting almost randomly into the screaming cloud of horse riders. Rawl was there with them too, shooting as rapidly as he could draw bow and aim.
A few arrows from the wailing approachers began to fall at the armsors' feet. Patchy let out a cry as one nailed her arm. Then the line of horsemen suddenly broke, splitting apart as a central figure tumbled, bare legs splaying as his ebony stallion's left front leg collapsed. The animal slammed onto its shoulder, capturing the Trader and rolling over him, pinning the body into a crushing spin as another horse slammed into the first.
The caravan's arrows flew as archers shifted hurriedly to follow the encircling riders. The wails were wavering, however, and as if in communication, the lines of riders slowed and pulled back, the attention of the riders riveted on the broken figure on the ground. Other forms littered the baked wasteland too, but still the defenders kept shooting. Suddenly a voice called in the undulating Trader speech, and as one, the remaining grassland warriors wheeled their swift mounts and left.
Banjee let his bow arm drop. Wiping furiously at the sweat that stung his eyes, he issued a sharp order. "See if there's any alive. For Winter's sake, we need to find out what they want!" Unconsciously he shifted as Angel descended, tucking his wings in with a waffled snap as the bird dug talons into his shoulder.
Rawl stood not far away. "You won't find any survivors," he said calmly with a faint curl of his lips.
"What do you mean?" Banjee demanded, giving the stranger a scowl even as he strode toward the Trader who had been rolled. On Banjee's shoulder, Angel squawked. Rawl snorted and trailed the pair.
"They won't let themselves be taken prisoner. They'll kill themselves first. Keep a knife in their hair braids." A few others of the caravan followed, the five uninjured armsors fanning out ahead of them in a search for lost arrows. Most were too busy placating the terrified packdeer to worry about enemy deaths.
Rawl felt satisfaction pull at his gray eyes as he picked out the dress of the mashed form sprawling face down in the gritty dust. One leg bent in the wrong direction, nudged against the side of the still-twitching stallion, while blood seeped from an abraded forearm. A long braid of gray-black hair fell outward from the hood, which had fallen back across the figure's soiled white robes. The twisted robe was cinched by a sash woven of angled red and black stripes, and the end of the sash spilled over the man's back was tipped in bright blue tassels.
"You got their chief," Rawl said. "That's why they left. They'll go back and fight it out ta see who gets to be chief next. Then they'll be back. We got ta get out o' here." Inwardly, Rawl felt his options closing in. The bastards'd be madder 'n hell next time too.
Banjee made no reply. Instead, he bent, and with a darkly tanned age-spotted hand felt for the chief's neck. "He's still alive," the caravan leader muttered.
Rawl felt his shaft of unease grow. He'd far rather not have Pumar alive and able to talk to Banjee. Another person had come up behind them, and Rawl turned, caught in his thought. It was Amela, one of the merchants, lean and sun-bruised like the others.
"Banjee, we got a broken axle on one of the carts," the dark-haired woman told the leader. Her voice was sharp and clear, tired now, but trained as with the other business people to move the energies of emotions when called for.
Banjee rose, and he turned to gaze back at the chaotic caravan clump. At that second, the sprawled chief jerked, a groan splitting his lips as his bloodied hand jumped to the back of his head. Banjee didn't hesitate. With a kick he sent the tiny, spike-like knife spinning from the figure's hand. Surprised and dismayed, Rawl felt his opinion of the old master jump. Damn. He wouldn't have thought the placid fellow had it in him.
The chief stifled a guttural yelp as his hand flopped back to the dirt. Face furrowed in concentration, Banjee pulled at the chief to turn him. Eyes blazing, lips clamped in agony, Pumar stared up at the caravan leader before his glaring gaze caught Rawl.
"Asta na mokeba, Rawel, trelendere ur disto. Firene molle...molle. Fir mestade gastorendo mira kiloso." Another spasm shook the chief, and a bubble of blood formed on his lips.
"What do you want from us?" Banjee demanded in desperate realization that the chief was sinking.
The chief's dark eyes caught his. "Firene molle. Molle." Then the chief's body spasmed and his eyes rolled back.
"Winter," Banjee cursed, stepping away. "What did he say, Amela?"
With shock, Rawl realized that the merchant had understood the words of the dying chief. Rawl had brought this on himself, staying here to gloat over Pumar's death!
"He said, 'There you are, Rawel, traitor and thief. You are dead. Dead. You will pay for dishonoring my people.’” Expressionless, her rounded eyes swung hard to Rawl’s.
Banjee was not so emotionless as he confronted the stranger. "You! It's you they want! What the void did you do to get them fired up?"
"Coralin. We don't need them, old man. Just get me back to Aldar."
Banjee's furious face furrowed more deeply. "Yeah, we got our coralin. And we'll need to get it next year, and the year after that! You've gotten them mad enough to attack the caravan! What if they cut off trade? Are you insane? You know how important this is! You were sorry news from the moment you joined us! Just what are you running from?"
"Rawl's eyes narrowed as Angel twisted nervously and squawked from Banjee's shoulder. "Listen you fool." Rawl's voice dropped. "Coralin. I know how ta make it. Aldar doesn't need ta depend on the Traders, not when I'm done tellin' the Aldarans how."
Sun-reddened eyes widened in the caravan leader's face. "Make it? You got that out of 'em? How?"
Rawl's mobile lips flattened. "How I found out, or how ta make it? I ain't tellin' you neither. The king will pay dear for this. Just protect me 'til we get there."
Banjee's lined face swelled. "Son of a bitch. Is this all for profit?" He near spit the words from his blistered lips. "Now you listen, Rawl. Whatever games you've played with the Traders are strictly your business. But not when it endangers the safety of this trip! Our lives, everyone in Aldar - we all depend on this! Next time they come you can just go to the Traders!"
&nb
sp; "They'll never believe you don't know about the coralin too." Rawl's words were said quietly, the corner of his mouth pulled up. “An’ now you’ve killed their chief.”
Banjee's mouth clamped shut as Rawl's words penetrated. "You freezing poldark," the curse erupted from Banjee. "You're no Aldaran. Tibernia has claimed you. You're a freezing bornlord."
Rawl's head jerked slightly. "Maybe so, old man. Maybe I spent too long there. And maybe I found what I did because I've never been willin' ta hide in some hole in the mountains! Sorry ta mess up your sweet plans. Just get me back ta Aldar!"
The leader's expression quivered in silent rage and Angel gave another hoarse croak. "You just better hope that sword of yours is as strong as your arrogance," Banjee managed to wrench out as he turned and stormed away.
Rawl watched him retreat stiff-backed, heading for the wagon that had tipped on its side, spewing coralin kegs into the sand and withered grass. Soon furious faces peered in Rawl's direction from the deer handlers and drivers who had gathered around the cart. Shrugging off their narrowed stares, Rawl strode off to the left, to wait impatiently until the wagon was fixed. They needed to get moving.
Damn. He hadn't wanted anyone to know about the coralin. Rawl had only told the geezer because he thought the old man might take a bit more interest in keeping