Get Her Back (Demontech) (3 page)

      “I see,” Haft said. “I sincerely hope we won’t need your talents or magics, but you’re welcome, Tabib.” Then to Farkas, “Put him in the middle of the column.” Back to Tabib, “That way you’ll be able to  respond quickly wherever you might be needed. But I still hope you won’t be needed.

      “And cover your body before this infernal wind flays your skin to the bone!”

      Tabib smiled a secret smile, gave another shallow bow and  ignored what Haft said about the wind flaying him. “It is better to have a mage and not need him than to need a mage and not have one,” he quoted sagely—or a bit self-importantly, as Haft thought.

      Haft turned and trotted his mare back to where Balta and  Jurnieks waited for him. He told them about the Kondive Islander mage as they began leading the column south, and concluded with a sour, “Like all mages, he has no lack of a sense of self-worth.”

      While Haft was seeing to Tabib, Balta had sent three riders ahead as scouts. They were clearly visible more than half a mile ahead, bent over from a wind that was striking them from the north.

CHAPTER FOUR

      It was late afternoon when the three-man point team stopped to wait for Haft and the rest of the small column to close the half mile gap between them. They had found the place where the Golden Girl and her Zobran Royal Lancers had reached the top of the High Desert’s plateau. By now, the runaway and her escort had a nearly two-day lead. Haft and Lieutenant Balta agreed it was unlikely that they’d catch up with Alyline before she reached the Desert Nomads’ camp. They also thought that the less time she spent there before they arrived, the easier it would be to extract her and any surviving Royal Lancers. The fearsome reputation of the nomads left them with no illusions about Alyline receiving a friendly welcome on her arrival at their camp.

      They turned inland, following the clear track Alyline’s party had left on the barren ground. In addition to the lead scouts they now put out flankers, two riders to each side, a quarter of a mile out from the short column, to watch for possible danger coming from the sides.

      Haft had hoped that the constant wind would die down, but  it didn’t. All it did was change from gusts to a steady northerly  wind. The wind didn’t, however, cover over the tracks they were  following—the ground was too hard for the wind to quickly shift its surface, as such wind would cover tracks made in sand or snow.

      “What are you saying?” Haft asked Jurnieks. The guide was twenty yards ahead of Haft, and had been mumbling to himself. But not so quietly as to escape Haft’s attention.

      “N-Nothing, L-L—, ah, S-Sir Haft,” Jurnieks said, startled by the unexpected question—he hadn’t realized he was talking loudly enough to be overheard. And he still didn’t know whether to address Haft as “Sir,” as the Bloody Axes did, or “Lord,” as just about everybody else in the main column seemed to.

      “Well, then, be quiet about it. We don’t need unnecessary  conversation alerting any hidden watchers that we’re here.”

      “Yes, Lord,” Jurnieks said meekly. Yes, he didn’t think he should let this young lord, or whatever it was that Haft was, know he’d been complaining to himself that he wasn’t needed as a guide. Certainly not looking at the clear trail the lady and her escorts left behind. But, “... alerting any hidden watchers that we’re here...?” If there were any hidden watchers, they could easily see the party as it moved across the barren landscape—and see it long before they could hear any mumbling.

      Hmm
, he thought,
maybe I
should
complain louder and get sent back. If there
are
any hidden watchers, one man’s mumbling isn’t going to alert them.

      But he said nothing. The huge war axe Haft carried so casually convinced him to keep his peace. As did the demon weapon the Frangerian carried hanging from his saddle’s pommel.

     “Stay close to me, guide,” Haft suddenly said as he clumsily heeled his mare to a trot. Jurnieks was just about as clumsy in  getting his horse to trot. Even though Haft hadn’t mentioned him, Balta also came along—but only after signaling the rest of the  column to maintain pace. Shortly, the trio caught up with the scouts.

      “Greetings, Sir Haft,” said Hegyes, who led the three-man point team.

      “Sir Haft! Sir Haft!” chimed in Asztalos and Halasz, the other two men.

      After returning their greetings, Haft asked, “Are you having any trouble following the trail?”

      “They left a trail a blind Zobran could follow,” Hegyes said with a laugh.

      “Maybe that’s because they
are
Zobrans, and that’s the only way they can find their way back!” Asztalos added, and snickered.

      “That’s enough of that!” Haft snarled. “We’re all on the same team here.” But he had to turn his face away so the point men wouldn’t see his grin.

      Balta had ridden twenty or so yards ahead, carefully looking at the ground and seeing how clear the trail was. After a few moments study, satisfied, he stopped to let the others catch up to him.

      “Sir Haft,” he said when they did, “the trail is as clear as Hegyes said. But I think it was so we could easily follow it, not for them to find their way back. I think maybe the Zobrans are hoping for reinforcements.” He stood in his stirrups and looked into the distance. “I also think they’re going slower than they could, to give us time to catch up.”

      “Are you sure?” Haft asked. He looked at the ground, but couldn’t tell much more than the direction in which Alyline and the Zobrans were going. “How long do you think it will take for us to catch them?”

      Balta shook his head. “At the pace we’ve been going, too long. But there’s another way we can travel. Canter a mile, trot a mile, and dismount to walk our horses a mile. Once an hour, stop for ten minutes so our mounts can rest. We’ll cover a lot more ground in a day that way, and not risk exhausting our animals.”

      Haft nodded sagely and seemed to be considering the wisdom of Balta’s suggestion. But what he was really thinking was that he didn’t want to be on a horse in the first place, much less on one that trotted and cantered. The one time he had tried running alongside a horse that was going at that variable pace had tired him too much, and he’d had to mount up and ride. But Balta was right, they needed to go faster. That way, maybe they could catch Alyline before she and the Zobrans reached the Desert Nomads’ camp, and turn them back before they got into trouble. And he
did
like the idea of getting off to walk, even if it was for only one mile in three. Too bad the walking couldn’t be two miles out of three, so he wouldn’t have to spend so much time on the horse.

      Haft had no illusions about the friendliness of the nomads of the High Desert, not after his experiences with the nomads of the Low Desert, who weren’t thought to be nearly as fierce. He wanted to find the Golden Girl and the Royal Lancers before the nomads found them. So trot and canter. At least he’d get to walk one mile in three.

      “Can we catch them in time traveling that way?” he asked.

      Balta shrugged. “It depends on how far it is to the nomad camp.” He looked at Jurnieks. “What does our guide say?”

      Jurnieks wanted to shrink into invisibility. Instead of answering directly, he told of his escape from the Desert Nomads.

      “When I fled the camp, the first night I used the stars to guide me seaward,” he said. “The next morning I laid low. I could still see the camp on the horizon, so I knew the Nomads could see me in that emptiness if I stood up. Nobody came my way, but I was afraid to move because if anybody in the camp looked in my direction, they might see me. Hunger hadn’t set in yet, but I was growing parched and needed water.”

      Haft interrupted him. “Suck on a smooth pebble. That’ll make your saliva flow and make it longer before you have to drink. Continue.”

      “Suck on a smooth pebble, I’ll remember that,” Jurnieks said  distractedly, hoping never to need to remember that, then resumed his story.

      “The wind raised a dust storm between me and the Nomads’ camp. Since I could no longer see them, I thought they wouldn’t be able to see me if I stood up and ran, so I did. That night I licked dew from some damp rocks I had found by touch.”

      Then he developed a routine of movement, going toward the  rising sun in the morning, and keeping the sun to his back in the  afternoon. He thought he found something to eat a couple of times, but he wasn’t sure. Almost the only drink he had was dew he licked off rocks. He was constantly on the move until exhaustion made him stop to sleep. But he never slept for long, he was too afraid of being caught by the nomads and tortured as punishment for  escaping. He repeated his movement sequence daily until he almost fell off the edge of the plateau, and scrambled down to join the  caravan he was fortunate enough to find passing on the narrow coastal plain.

      He had to say something more, something about the way to the nomads’ camp; Haft, Balta, and the three point men were looking at him expectantly. He decided on the truth; if he said anything else it would soon come out that he had lied, and he didn’t want to face the consequences of being caught in a lie.

      “I don’t know,” he said softly. “I don’t know where the camp is, how far it is, nothing. I don’t even know how long I walked and ran when I escaped from the camp.”

      Haft looked into the distance, obviously disgusted. “Then you aren’t much use to me, are you?” he snapped.

      Jurnieks cringed away from Haft’s evident anger, but thought this might be his best chance. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and said, “Then I should return to the caravan, Sir Haft. So I’m not in the way.”

      Haft barked out a sharp laugh, and shook his head, no longer angry. “You might not be able to find the camp, but you’ve been there, so you know your way around it. If Alyline reaches the camp before we catch her, you’ll be able to lead us through it.”

      Jurnieks choked back a groan—he
really
didn’t want to return to the Desert Nomads’ camp.

CHAPTER FIVE

      The wind.

      Haft hated having to ride a horse, even one as docile as the mare that was his usual mount, as it trotted for a mile, then cantered for a mile. He relished the miles when he was able to dismount and walk.

      But the wind.

      The wind, now
that
he really hated. After a time it turned from the north to the south and searched for unprotected flesh to flay from that direction. Then it became easterly, and they had to lean into it and their horses couldn’t canter at any speed. When the wind came from the west, it pushed them so they almost lost their  balance and landed on their faces.

      When the wind didn’t come from a cardinal point, it gusted and swirled and spun upward and twisted downward. It changed its  direction and force frequently and without warning, so that Haft and the men with him never knew from where the wind would next buffet them. The three Bloody Axes half a mile forward on point, the pair a quarter mile distant on each flank, and the other pair riding rear point a quarter mile behind, all had their difficulties maintaining proper contact with the main column. Haft knew, because he and Balta frequently checked and had to reposition them.

      Once, Balta had to gallop forward to bring the point team back in line when they had begun wandering from the trail left by the Golden Girl and her escort. Another time, Haft galumphed off to find and bring back a flanker team that had briefly gotten lost because the wind and grit blowing in their eyes kept them from watching where the rest of the platoon was.

      “If you can’t maintain contact with the main column because your eyes are closed,” Haft roared at them, “how can you expect to spot a danger before it’s on you?”

      “We’re sorry, Sir Haft,” one of them said, abashed.

      “It won’t happen again, Sir Haft,” said the other.

      “See to it that it doesn’t,” Haft snarled. “If anybody attacks and I get killed because you weren’t watching, I swear I’ll hunt you down in hell and kill you again!”

      “Yes, Sir Haft,” they said. “We’ll do better, Sir Haft. Starting right now, Sir Haft.”

      Haft grunted, then snapped, “See to it that you do!” He gave them a stern look, and wheeled his mare about to rejoin the  column.

      Before he reached it, he saw the mage Tabib in his assigned  position in the middle of the column. Tabib still wore the colorful scarf around his head, and the colorfully patterned cloth that wrapped around his waist and hung almost to his rope-sandaled feet. And nothing else.

      Haft turned his mare toward the mage, mouthing the words he was going to use to flay the Kondive Islander for not covering up to protect himself from the wind.

      Whatever he had in mind to say, though, remained unspoken.

      “Lord Haft,” Tabib cheerfully called out when the Marine drew near.

      “Why aren’t you covered up!” Haft roared.

      “Covered up?” Tabib waved a hand and grinned, indicating his clothing. “But I am covered, Lord Haft.”

      By then Haft was close enough to see that the mage’s skin was unmarked by the biting wind and the grit it blew about, grit that scratched what skin it could reach on everyone else. Haft turned his mare to trot alongside Tabib’s donkey.

      “Why isn’t the wind bothering you?” he asked in wonder.

      Tabib laughed and lay a finger alongside his nose. “I am  protected,” he answered, and chuckled.

      Haft nodded slowly. “Ah, yes, I can tell that much. But how? What are you doing? And can the rest of us do it?”

      “Oh, I am so sorry, Lord Haft. I am using a magic—”

      “I figured that much on my own,” Haft grumbled.

      “—spell to keep the wind and its effluent off of my body. Alas and alack, the spell will not work for any person other than me! So, you see, I cannot use it to protect you and the platoon of Skraggish axemen, worthy of protection though you and they are.”

      Haft looked off, his mouth twisted in a scowl. Then he jerked his view back to Tabib.

      “Are you sure?” he demanded.

      “Indeed I am, Lord Haft,” the mage said, offering a shallow bow. “Look like this: You have used the Lalla Mkouma, have you not?” He went on without waiting for a reply. “She is a most wondrous demon, and protects you from the vision of other people. True? But she can only confer invisibility upon one person at a time. True?” This time, he cocked his head and waited for Haft to speak.

      Haft twisted so the back of his head was to the wind, and spat. “Right,” he acknowledged sourly. “One person at a time. Like a Lalla Mkouma.” He shook his head.
Except if two people are in close contact, she can make both invisible. “
Just be careful that you don’t anger any of the ‘Skraggish axemen.’ They might react badly.” He tapped his mare’s flanks with his heels, nudging her into a reluctant canter, so he could return to his position at the head of the column.

      “Oh, no, gollygee, let the axemen not react badly to my protective spell,” Tabib murmured, his voice lost in the wind. “Wind, sand, and dust are not the only things this spell protects me from.”

      The wind died down at sunset, and the air was calm enough to allow the Bloody Axes to erect low-slung sleeping tents. Haft didn’t allow the men to light cooking fires, instead they ate their jerky and biscuits cold. He let Lieutenant Balta set the watch, three men at a time for one-hour shifts. That way, nobody lost much sleep, and a few didn’t lose any sleep at all. Once the rotation was set, Haft instructed the third watch to wake Balta, and the sixth to wake him. He and the Bloody Axe’s commander would each check the perimeter during the night and assure that everything was all right.

      The night was uneventful. The first surprise of the High Desert came when they were halfway through their morning meal of cold jerky and biscuits.

      “What was that?” Haft asked, looking up from the biscuit-wrapped piece of jerky he was gnawing on.

      “It sounded like a pussy cat,” Balta replied.

      Haft grunted. “A really big pussy cat.” Sweat popped out on his forehead, and began dribbling down his sides. He and Spinner had had a run in with a gray tabur, a very large cat, before they’d begun accreting their refugee train. He had no desire to fight another big cat.

      Most of the others in the platoon also heard the low yowl, and many of them were on their feet, looking around. Some had taken their weapons in hand and were nervously turning them. Haft  didn’t know whether to draw his axe, or ready his demon spitter.

      “Tabib!” Haft called. “What can you tell?”

      “I have no bees, Lord Haft,” Tabib called back from where he was rummaging through his chests.

      “Bees?” Haft asked nobody in particular.

      “Some magicians use them as scouts,” Balta told him.

      “Really?” But Haft wasn’t really interested in an answer about bees. He wanted to know what had yowled.

      The yowl came again, but from a different direction.

      The small door on the side of Haft’s demon spitter cracked open. “Wazzoo goam doo abou tha’?” the tiny demon inside the tube  demanded.

      “About what?” Haft asked, straining to keep fear out of his voice.

      “Tha’.” A twisted, gnarly arm poked out of the door and pointed.

      Haft looked where the demon indicated and swore. He could barely make out a feline form slinking through the sparse growth toward the camp. It wasn’t nearly as big as the gray tabur that he and Spinner had managed to kill before Spinner nearly bled to death from the gash the big cat had sliced into his leg. But it was huge compared to the house cat that its form resembled.

      The feline wasn’t where either of the yowls had come from. Nor was the yowl that came right after Haft saw the cat.

      “There are at least four, Sir Haft,” Balta said softly.

      “At least,” Haft agreed. Then loudly, “Listen up, people! We’ve got some big cats closing in on us. Not big like taburs, but big enough to kill a man. So get ready to fight!” He tapped on the demon’s door on his demon spitter.

      “Wazzoo whanns!” the demon piped, opening its door only a crack.

     Having seen that the demon didn’t open its door all the way when it asked what he was going to do about the cats, Haft was ready for a lack of cooperation. He held a small pellet where the demon could see it, but couldn’t reach it without coming halfway out of the tube.

      “Givvum!”

      Haft kept the pellet out of reach.

      “Can you spit at those things?”

      “Zurr ‘nuff mee kin. Naw zwetz.”

      Haft held the pellet closer. The demon snatched it from his fingers, ducked back inside, and slammed the door closed. The sound of crunching came from inside the tube, followed by wet swallowing noises, and ending with a very satisfied burp.

      Before Haft could say anything more to the demon, there was a chorus of yowls and screeches, and several cats bounded at the men, claws extended and fangs reaching to rip into flesh.

      “Aim mee!” Haft’s demon shrilled in a voice so high that he felt it in his teeth rather than heard it with his ears.

     A cat was already in the air, stretching for Haft’s shoulders  and neck, too close for him to have time to aim. He swung the  tube in the direction of the cat. The impact knocked the cat to the side so it leaped past Haft, but the animal still had so much  momentum it staggered him back several steps before he caught his balance.

     Next to him, another cat was flying lower, extending its forelegs and claws to their full length, going for Balta’s lower belly and groin. The lieutenant already had his axe in his hands. He swung it up, over, then downward to catch the cat in its head and shoulders. But the cat was faster than the man, and the axe head slammed into the beast’s lower back, slicing through fur, flesh, sinew, and bone almost separating the tail and left leg from the rest of the cat. The beast screamed in agony and tried to twist away from the pain. The twisting threw its aim off just far enough that its claws ripped into Balta’s hip, rather than into the soft tissue of his belly and eviscerating him. Balta swung his axe a second time, and his blade
chocked
into the cat’s shoulders just behind its neck. It quickly died.

      “Wach wazzoo doon!” Haft’s spitting demon squealed from inside his tube. “Oo kin brek’um owzz! Aim mee!” Haft wasn’t sure, but as he brought the tube up to his shoulder, he thought he heard the demon mutter, “Gottum cragg.” To his right, he saw several of the cats squabbling over a downed man, who was struggling against them. He pointed the tube and asked, “Can you get the cats without killing the man?”

      “Dry mee,” the demon snarled.

     Haft pressed the lever, and recoiled slightly from the thunderous blast of the demon spitting. When he looked, he saw three cats bleeding and hardly moving. Another was broken, and being tossed aside by the man who managed to painfully rise to his feet.

      Haft looked for another target. “Spot for me,” he told Balta.

      “Yes, Sir Haft,” Balta said, agreeing to help Haft find targets for his demon spitter, and protect him from cats that got too close.