For some reason, her words affected the Thrules in a curious manner. There was a fierce note of passion in Jhara’s voice, and her confidence was such that stirred the dispirited hearts of these Thrules who were too used to persecution and failure.

  “Best we get as much distance from those vengeful Behundrians as possible,” advised Vetra. His warning glance was enough at the Thrules who gazed too long on Jhara. Two had limped over to rummage amongst the supplies strapped to the packbeasts. Vetra and Dunon joined to take inventory. The company had dried food and grains for a few days, several bladders of water that had not been slashed by the leaping, looting Behundrians and various other necessities: pots, loops of rope, torches, wineskins, blankets and weapons.

  Dunon pointed ahead to the waves shimmering in the heat. “East along the ridge then. The eagle ridge is north of here. First break in this ravine we branch off! We cannot reach it today, but maybe tomorrow.”

  “Then let us move,” said Vetra, “lest those fiends rout us out or try to flank us.”

  They followed a series of wild goat paths along the ridge before the desert scrub broke off and gave way into a flatlands. The road, the Great Highway, ran straight as an arrow and the last shoulder of ridge rose up from the sands to grant views of both sides, particularly the shallow bowl north and into the land of desolation.

  Vetra marvelled at the vast, breathtaking solitude of the windswept terrain. Nothing but animal paths, red dirt, tumbleweed, and the odd cluster of towering cacti or gum tree. Ridges sprawled in the distances in a sinking haze of twilight.

  The east-west road wound to their right like a ribbon of glinting silver. Then branched north.

  On Dunon’s advice, the pack followed the lesser road north. After an hour’s brisk slog up the valley, the sun was a flaming ball sinking on the horizon. They had not ventured a league when signs of human activity became apparent. The pack drew back, crouching under a stand of withered eucalyptus whose shadow cast a dusky blanket over the hot sand.

  Enemy soldiers wearing helms and glinting mail bore falchions and crossbows. They walked the perimeter like lords. A fence surrounded the compound with broken posts in places, but these had been stitched over time with wire.

  Black smoke swirled about wreckage and bodies. Corpses, mostly Thrule, lay broken and mangled, pecked by vultures which clustered upon the sand dunes.

  Dunon, Gefzad and the others crouched in restless groups in the desert scrub, grimacing in hate.

  The soldiers had irreverently set up a camp around the huge, chipped and worn dragon statue that marked yet another sacred oasis of the Thrules. It was a small Thorian mine too. The water was pumped by means not dissimilar to the last pump site, the same machinery used to control the working beasts that hauled the ore. A tall, wood-framed rig towered thirty feet high on a small mound, with thick ropes looped over its summit that a dozen oxen pulled through a clever pulley system. It was an operation designed to filter the ore dug from the ground while camels lugged wheeled drays nearby to transport the Thorian ore out to Dragonskull or elsewhere.

  Samos gazed sourly upon the enterprise. “The Behundrians blaspheme the old ones, by corrupting this site. You see, outlander, how they take our water? The dragon lords used this water for sacred purposes to lave their holy ornaments and purify their bodies. Much of the ritual is lost in time and beyond our knowledge. We revere these waters; they are life-giving. The spirit of the dragon-lords though deceased, gave us permission to use the lands that were once theirs. So it was said in dream quests by our shamans.”

  Vetra frowned at such ceremonious mystique. He had not much to say about the glorified devotion, so deigned no comment.

  Gefzad, as if he sensed the mercenary’s critical attitude, growled his endorsement. “They drain our oases! It’s our water. We were here first. The Behundrians forbid us to use our own water, for their own greedy purposes. Can you not see our frustration? Can you not fathom our hate, our anger, and why we revolt against these pigs and take command of the pipe heads?”

  Zren had shambled forth, like a moth to the flame of confrontation. His eyes burned on Vetra, who, though now unofficially an ally, he had no love for.

  Vetra rubbed his cheek with a reflective scowl. The pumps and the water gushing from the open-mouthed pipe was singular, and the three-score armed guards with their spired helms and plumes who moved about with an air of lordly arrogance, no less.

  Smoke billowed up over the low-lying trees to the east. Vetra frowned. Another mine? Doubtless the smoking ruin was that of a site that had been attacked and overrun by invading Thrules, if Cthan’s informants were to be believed. Such signs meant that Cthan and his vigilantes would be coming to avenge the mine’s capture. Whether they would venture on and track their steps and attack from the rear was another matter. Vetra recalled the wild look of fury on the sheriff’s face while he battled him tooth and nail; also his boasts back at the trader’s post that he would end the Thrule’s little rebellion once and for all. He doubted much he was a man who would give up his vindictive duty.

  “Let us storm in and attack the soldiers,” suggested Lehundr. Vetra caught the sly look in his eye, as if it were a covert way to ditch the headstrong Thrules and secretly make off to the tomb.

  “Best not rile them,” urged Besu. “We are tired and wounded. The eagle ridge lies yonder.” He gestured beyond the guarded mine.

  “They’ve killed our people!” raged Gefzad.

  Samos silenced the argument with a jerk of his stave. He gave an imperial rattle of his neck amulet.

  Slinking amongst pulpy flowering aloe vera, they skirted the miners’ camp, Vetra leading, next Lehundr and Jhara, masking the jingle of their weapons.

  A wild, angry shout went up in the compound. Vetra turned. A glint off a Thrule sword had betrayed them.

  Vetra gave a scathing curse. They burst out of their hiding place, crouching low to the ground. Bolts came spraying from the fenceline as bowmen on their high perches took aim. There was a loud thunk then a groaning as a Thrule fell flat, throwing his hands up, a chunk of iron through his back. The skulkers fled like dogs, and the defenders of the mine sent horsemen out to ride them down.

  The packbeasts ran amok and some of the retreating Thrules halted, kneeling and took aim. One bolt caught a rider in the throat and he tumbled from his mount in a gurgling mess, clutching at his neck. His body lay splayed in the red dirt. Two others came crashing down with their black steeds through the knot of scrambling Thrules, and more Thrules fell.

  Vetra and Besu rushed in and struck up at the horseman. Besu hacked from one side while Vetra ran his crimson blade in a fierce uppercut and caught an exposed leg. The rider screeched and bent over, gurgling in pain, his upper thigh streaming blood.

  Jhara had the foresight to snatch the reins of the terrified horse. Any extra mount would give the rebels advantage.

  The last rider kneed his horse round after the quick deaths of his peers, then turned in a cowardly retreat, deciding that the small band was not worth dying for.

  “Into the scrub, before they send more riders after us!” screamed Aus.

  “Frightened sheep!” called Dunon, shaking a fist.

  “Never mind them,” Vetra growled. Though his brows lifted in surprise, thinking that from the enemy’s perspective they too were little more than cowards.

  No retaliation came from the guarded complex. Too few of an enemy for the Behundrians to make the effort. The Thrules gathered themselves in a tight knot, death hovering over them like a black cloud.

  Vetra wiped the sweat from his face. “A bad turn of luck. We lost five back there. The Behundrians spotted us. Now they have an indication of our presence, and may come after us, if they think us a serious threat.”

  “Easier now they know the direction we’re heading.”

  “And the packbeasts have fled,” announced Besu sourly.

  “We’ll find them,” assured Aus.

  “Our pal Cthan will come seeking revenge for the loss of the mines,” panted Dunon.

  “Are you forgetting the havoc you created back at the pipe?” Vetra questioned in wonder. “They would have to split their forces to repair the pump and defend it while charging us.”

  Reluctantly, the Thrules left the bodies where they were and melted into the wild foliage ahead of them, a low-shrubbed panorama forming a vast net to the north. The scrub thinned; the weary fighters moved from island to island of sand, along worn trails between strands of brush.

  A keen-eyed scout, following a trail of broken vegetation and hoofprints, caught sight of a swish of tail, then he gave a muffled shout. Vetra caught a glimpse of two beasts wandering aimlessly. A moment later a group of Thrules came bursting out of the shrubbery to retake the packbeasts. To their relief the supplies were intact.

  Twilight was almost upon them. Many leagues had they to cover before an organized pursuit caught up with them.

  Besu, the old Thrule, suggested that they find a place to camp.

  On Vetra’s lead they crossed a low ridge, placing more distance between them and the enemy who guarded the mine.

  A soft blue haze hung over the gumtrees and cypress, casting the lands in muted shadows. Samos, versed in such things, selected a cleared area to camp for the night, protected by spirits and barred on the east by tall gumtrees.

  They unpacked their supplies and tended to the wounds of their company, wrapping cloth around bloody arms and cut thighs, disinfected scratches and gashes with dampened cloth sprinkled with herbs and potent grasses that Aus and Samos had gathered.

  The tenting gear was unravelled and laid out on a flat sandy area near the trees. The extra horse Jhara tethered to the tall gumtrees by the packbeasts. Both beasts hung their heads in gloom and swatted tails at the last few flies that buzzed in the dusk-laden air. There was some argument over whether they should light a fire. In the end, they decided light one, Dunon believing the Dragonskull men would not venture out for a night attack, or even face the hazards of the desert at this hour. His feeling was the Behundrians had suffered enough losses, and had not the Thrules’ instinct or skill of surviving the desert. A watch was posted on the hills, to look for sign of invading enemies.

  Several Thrules under Samos’ direction laid stones down around the campsite while the magician sprinkled drops of sacred water in the four directions, North, South, East and West—an offering for protection, as was Thrule custom. Water, precious as it was, was the life-blood of the desert gods. The Thrule magician, sinister in his jingling, bone-sewn garb and his mud-caked hair, dug an inch-wide trench and poured sparing drops in ritual fashion from his canteen. A long flexible sapling was arched over to create a crude portal under which everyone ducked to cross the trench and enter the campground.

  By a small fire they dared to cook broad beans and mutton. Others still, created crude lean-to style shelters, with hides and blankets strung overtop, using the trees as braces.

  Losses had been heavy. Despite the lack of gaiety amongst this group, they sat around the glowing embers, humming folk songs and staring into the gloom.

  Dunon raised his hands for attention. He gave encouragement to their flagging spirits: “Stand tall, you doom-mongers! A score of us are left, so let us be happy for that. We’ve survived an onslaught and where others fell, we live and should rejoice at our fortune. Do not forget that we are Thrules and hold the map to gain us Dragon Forge!”

  Vetra lips curved in a smile as he saw Lehundr squirm in his seat on the fallen log. Jhara squinted in boredom.

  Murmurs of approval rose amongst the surviving Thrules. Only a few retained their solemn and gloomy faces, amongst them Zren who did not feel uplifted in any way by the lecture.

  The discovery of the map had prompted a lighter mood. Many wished to forget the death of Zaln, their leader. Camaraderie and a united purpose made the Thrules come alive while the night deepened and the whine of night insects grew. Even Dunon believed they had lost pursuers and no enemy roamed within leagues of their hidden camp.

  Some wineskins were passed around, and the stiff kick of the desert mead burned hot trails down their throats. They did not stint on it. Before long, tongues were loosened and feet and hands began to move.

  The half moon was already a golden globe rising over the low ridges and the desert glowed with an eerie light. Akin to the gloaming on the misty downs Vetra recalled, of his native Tolizia; it was a moving sight. One Thrule brought out a small battered zither from a saddlebag and strummed a few tentative, plaintive chords. Others soon joined up in a refrain and a slow dance. Men were whirling in high-kicking dances, toe to toe. Vetra wondered what it was like when their women were with them.

  The mercenary gazed around him. These nomads were people who were always prepared for transit, in grief or celebration, with ponies laden with supplies and cured hides ready to become rude shelter or whisked back on a pony when enemies came upon them. The nomad’s life was one that few dreamed of, sleeping under the stars, moving from place to place, locked in an endless movement of caravan and packbeast, seeking out food and shelter, water and safety, never having any designated place to call home.

  Vetra smiled gamely. How was he any different? The last time he had stayed more than three days in any one place had been back in Trallgate and that had been brief, on recalling the altercation with Rufus the smuggler and the scandal which ensued with a certain noble’s daughter. He frowned at that and brushed the memory aside. True to form, here he was in a band of vagabonds in the middle of a war...

  Vetra sat like a carven idol, grim and moody in his restless thoughts while the Thrules and their blood-grimed companions drank. His eyes roved constantly in the desert, alert for shadows and movement where every clump and bush looked like some cutthroat creeping from the wilds ready to leap out and hack out his throat. He sighed. His muscled strength lay dormant under the tattered, grimy desert garb of his, but he was ready to uncoil at the slightest sound of danger. Such wariness had kept him alive for more years than he could remember...

  Jhara had come to sit by him and he shifted with grudging welcome. His eyes stared in moody intensity into the fire and fled off into the moonlit knolls.

  Jhara’s voice intruded on the peace. “So many weak men in Dragonskull. You’re strong and noble.”

  Vetra grunted. “If you want noble, think of Bekr the Berserker. He fought the Brusites across the Rouge banks at Brine-Halt at the cost of their own lives.”

  The girl chuckled and clicked her tongue. “What do I care about Bekr? You were noble enough to save my brother. Fight a war that is not yours. I think that’s noble.”

  Vetra grumbled at that and rubbed his jaw. “Why do you care anyway?”

  “Decent men are hard to come by these days.”

  “Come,” he muttered. True to his word he fetched swords and positioned her in front of him, moon over his shoulder, the dying fire to one side. It was time to teach the girl some art of swordplay.

  “Like this,” he said, coming behind her and taking the hilt in his hand and placing his hands over hers. He lifted the sword, blade pointed down. “Watch your flanks, protect your vitals with a strong block.” He swung with authority. “Watch for feints and quick flicks, like this!—” He twisted sideways on the balls of his feet, facing her, letting shimmering steel batter her sword. It nearly knocked it out of her grasp. “Develop a rhythm, girl, don’t waver!—” He sped back behind her and crossed over nimbly. She stumbled, trying to keep up with his feet that moved like those of a panther.

  By Dergath, she was going to be a force to be reckoned with, thought Vetra. But he didn’t want to let her know. He knew, give her too much praise, and somewhere it would sabotage her growth, perhaps end up getting her killed.

  He remembered his own trial-by-fire training by the old Grayhurst, master and soldier in his own right, whose bloody campaigns had been without number, and at whose hands he had faced trials at best gruelling. His father had taken Grayhurst into his company to train his son—or knock some sense into him. The many bloody bashings and thumpings he had received at that badgering hand—to ‘temper his stubborn pride’...he preferred not to tell.

  She fixed him a coy glance. “Do you find me fair?”

  Vetra narrowed his gaze.

  Pressing herself close to Vetra’s muscled girth, she smirked. Vetra, slightly taken aback, could feel the warm pulse of the girl’s heart in a completely unexpected turn of events. Without warning she pushed her lips full on his.

  Vetra loosed a gusty breath. Without preamble, he grabbed up the quivering girl and herded her into the bushes, much to the surprised exclamation of the Thrules. The mercenary found a cleared area not far away. He spread her on a matt of sand and leaves. Before long, the sounds of their passion rose to animal heights, raking the stillness with its primal beat.

  Jhara’s languorous moans and cries of laughter burst upon the glade as she followed his muscular shoulder, along his rippling arm, to his strong hand that moved from naked thighs to buttocks.

  There came a skullish face peering through the folds of foliage, then the rattling of beads and murmuring curses that spoke of outlanders soiling the protection on the very soil he had blessed with magic. The shaman lurched back on a snarl from Vetra’s lips. The mercenary’s gleaming blade flashed violently. The shaman disappeared back in the shrubs, and Vetra went back to his pleasures, his passion undiminished. Nor the girl’s, whose pale skin gleamed in the soft moonlight streaming through the twisted branches of the gumtrees. Their passion escalated to a new rhythm in tune with the distant howls of the desert animals.

  The moon rose a notch higher. Two flush-faced figures finally emerged from the brush. The shaman was nowhere to be seen, nor was Zren. Facts which did not bother Vetra.

  A feverish heat rose from Jhara’s sweaty skin and sultry curves. Her dark, burning eyes had the potential to enslave a man.

 

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