Honored Enemy (13 page)

‘We seem to be lucky for once,’ Gregory announced. ‘The storm’s driven them all back to the old mine but that’s no reason to let our guard down. It might even be a trick. Space out, a man to every thirty paces, and don’t get lost. Keep a sharp watch. I’m going forward and please don’t kill me when I come back in.’

The men chuckled grimly.

‘Move!’

The squad started into the woods, moving just below the top of the crest. Richard made to follow, but Gregory motioned him back.

‘You’re going forward with me.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Something wrong with your hearing, boy?’

Richard swallowed hard, saying nothing.

Without another word Gregory started down the slope, drifting from tree to tree, Richard struggling to keep pace. Looking to his right he caught a glimpse of the pass below, the glow of 75

firelight shimmering from the top of the chimney, and wished he was back inside, sitting by the roaring fire, or better yet curled up and asleep by it.

He lost sight of Gregory for a moment and felt a surge of panic when he tore his gaze away from the fire and realized he couldn’t see the Natalese Ranger. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and stumbled forward, startled when the ice cracked beneath his feet. An instant later a hand snapped around his throat. He started to cry out, but then the hand released him and he found himself staring into Gregory’s eyes.

‘First lesson. Never lose contact with your partner when scouting at night,’ Gregory whispered. His voice was calm, there was no reproach in it. It was as if the two of them were simply having a pleasant chat while strolling through the woods.

‘You looked at the fire glowing, you were wishing you were inside, you forgot about me.’

Richard nodded, and suddenly realized that behind the calm words he could see a dagger in Gregory’s other hand.

‘Yes, I could have killed you as easily as a baby asleep in a cradle.

Remember that, boy, for that’s what they’ll do to you.’

Not sure how to react, Richard could only nod.

‘Second lesson: never look at a fire when you’re on night patrol.

It robs you of sight in the dark. Look to one side or the other.

On watch, stand with your back to the fire. Blind yourself for even just a moment, and it can cost you your life. Now get your own dagger out. This isn’t a night for archery or sword-play.’

Gregory turned and continued forward and this time Richard stayed close, trying to mimic his movements, the fluid glide to his steps, noticing a certain rhythm . . . half a dozen quick steps, a pause, head turning, then forward, though at a slightly different angle; again, the pause. Once he stopped, pointing down and Richard looked, seeing footsteps in the frozen mud and a stain where someone had relieved himself.

‘Troll,’ Gregory whispered. ‘You can tell by the smell.’

Richard nodded. The forest trolls of southern Yabon where he had been a boy were barely more than animals, without language 76

and little more dangerous than a bear or lion. They were scarcely a nuisance to a party of armed men. Mountain trolls on the other hand had language and weapons and knew how to use them. And now they were in the woods around him. He gripped his dagger tightly.

‘Night watchers,’ Gregory whispered. ‘The moredhel call them allies, but treat them like slaves; so do the human renegades who travel with this kind of group. They’re all inside the mine staying warm while the trolls are out here freezing.’ He was quiet for a moment, then softly he added, ‘It’s a stupid choice; trolls don’t have the discipline needed for a night like this.’

Gregory pushed forward. They pressed down a low rise and then started to climb to the next ridge, moving parallel to the road they had run along earlier in the day. Richard even recognized the place where the group had broken off from the road, spotting the cleft boulder with a tree growing out of the middle that marked the spot.

Gregory stopped and held up his hand. He then pointed to the side of the boulder, the downwind side and held up his hand, two fingers extended.

Richard felt his heart trip over. Two forms were huddled beneath the downwind side of the boulder, hunched over a small flickering fire . . . two trolls.

Richard started to reach over his shoulder to pull out his bow and string it. Gregory shook his head. Motioning to the dagger in Richard’s hand, he then drew a finger across his throat.

Richard felt his knees go weak. This madman was telling him they were going up to the trolls to cut their throats!

Gregory remained still for several minutes as if frozen to the earth.

Richard crouched behind him, limbs trembling. To his disbelief Gregory stood up and ever so casually started forward, walking in the open. Richard didn’t move. Gregory, without looking back, motioned for him to follow.

Richard, barely able to walk on shaky legs, followed. The trolls were a scant thirty paces away.

The two approached. One of the trolls finally stirred and raised its head. Richard suddenly realized that the two of them had been asleep and Gregory knew it. The first troll started to say something, Gregory 77

responded in a guttural tongue, and then sprinted the last half dozen paces until he was on the troll, dagger flashing in the firelight.

‘Come on boy!’ he hissed. ‘Kill the other!’

Richard remained frozen in place, watching, terrified as Gregory’s dagger slashed down. The other troll started to stand up.

He was not even sure how he got there but suddenly the troll was in front of him, filling his world. Shorter than a man, the creature was wider at the shoulders by half again. Its misshapen forehead was dominated by a massive black brow, from under which tiny black eyes glinted. Its massive jaw jutted out and it displayed its teeth in a snarl, large pointed incisors extending beyond the upper and lower lips. A leather helmet was tightly pulled down, covering the large, pointed ears.

The troll slammed into Richard, pushing him up against the boulder, driving his dagger into the beast’s stomach. There was a gasp of pain, fetid breath washing over him, claws tearing at his face. Richard tucked his own chin down and crouched and the lethal claws raked across the stone of the boulder behind him.

‘The throat boy, the throat!’

Richard yanked his dagger free and tried for the throat, stabbing upward, but the troll, fighting in blind panic, blocked him. Instead he slashed at the beast’s arms, cutting it again and again. Even as he tried to kill the troll he felt horrified, sickened, sensing the agony and terror of his victim.

‘Die! Just die, damn you!’ he cried, continuing to slash until the point of his dagger went in below the troll’s chin and up into its brain. The beast sagged down with a groan and collapsed. Richard stepped back, sobbing, turned away, and vomited.

‘Don’t ever hesitate, boy.’

Richard, still bent double, looked up. Gregory was standing beside him, half-turned away, watchful gaze scanning the trail.

Richard realized that Gregory had finished his victim within seconds and rather than help had simply stood by, watching as he made his own kill. He felt a wave of anger and also of shame.

He scooped up a handful of snow to wipe his mouth and hands 78

clean. He was trembling, suddenly afraid that he might lose control completely and soil himself.

‘It’s all right,’ Gregory whispered. ‘Its one thing to kill in the heat of battle the way you did two days ago. This is different, even if it is a troll. It may be war, boy, but this is as close as a lawful man gets to black murder.’ He put a reassuring hand on Richard’s shoulder.

‘You did just fine, son. More than one man’s turned and run the other way.’

Even as he talked he continued to scan, carefully watching the trail and the surrounding forest. After a few moments of checking the signs to see if the struggle had alerted others, he said, ‘Good.

They’re spread out too thin, hunched over fires and falling asleep from exhaustion. No one saw us. Come on.’

Gregory stepped back, picked up the feet of one of the trolls and dragged it away from the fire, hiding it on the far side of the boulder.

Richard hesitated then finally reached down and dragged his own victim. The body was heavy, he could feel the warmth of it even through the foot wrappings. He laid the body down next to the other. Gregory had rolled the troll half over and was stripping off the heavy blanket wrapped around its shoulders.

‘Take his too.’

Richard tried not to look at the body but did as he was ordered, imitating Gregory as he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and over his head. They stepped around the boulder. Picking up a handful of broken branches he tossed them on the fire and sat down, pulling the troll cloak up over his head and face, motioning for Richard to do the same.

‘No sense in blundering around any more. You can see the mine they’re hiding in.’

He motioned across the trail and as the snow fall slackened, Richard caught a glimpse of a flickering glow, the entry way to the mine, several guards silhouetted at the opening.

‘Might as well stay comfortable as we watch. The relief for those two will come up at some point and we’ll deal with them the same way.’

Richard swallowed hard, nervously scanning the woods and trail.

The storm continued to thunder around them, throwing down an 79

icy mix of rain and sleet. The trees creaked and groaned under the load. Occasionally a branch snapped, the crack echoing above the roar of the storm. At times the mist closed in, the glow from the mine disappearing, then lifted, revealing the encampment where the enemy waited out the storm.

‘If we didn’t have the Tsurani to worry about, I’d be tempted to try and turn the tables,’ Gregory whispered, breaking the silence.

‘How is that?’

‘Set up an ambush. Tough thing to do, though.’ He glanced around, as if seeing the hills in the blackness. ‘Mines in this area are all the same – lots of veins of iron, silver, some gold – there are certain to be several other entrances to cover and they must have an inner circle of guards watching. Still, it would be good not to leave this nest of murderers alive.’

Gregory reached over to the pile of firewood, and tossed another branch on which flared up.

Richard stiffened.

‘Don’t worry, boy. Just keep that cloak up over your head, they’ll think we’re with them.’

Richard nodded.

‘You’ll do fine.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the young man, barely above a whisper.

‘It’s difficult the first time you have to get close to kill another.

You see their eyes, see the light in it go out. Even a troll’s eyes have that light. I’d be worried if you didn’t feel something after that. I don’t like hunting with a man who’s a killer without that feeling.’

‘They’re the enemy though,’ Richard offered, trying to sound harder than he actually felt.

Gregory sounded thoughtful as he asked, ‘Are they?’

‘Trolls and moredhel? Of course; they’re the enemy.’

Gregory nodded. ‘Well, they were created by the gods, the same as we; that’s a fact. Maybe if one was born in our towns or villages, raised with us, maybe they’d be our friends. I don’t know.’ He chuckled.

‘Moredhel, maybe. Seem a lot like elves, though to say that aloud to Tinuva is to invite a cold reply. Trolls, though, I don’t know. Can’t imagine one taking the cows to market, if you see what I mean.’ He poked at the fire with a stick. ‘Some folks say their hate for us is in 80

their hearts from birth. Either way, learned hate or instinct to hate, we sure have to fight them often enough. But never become like them, Richard. Never think taking a life is easy. Do that and in a way they win.’

Richard was startled. In his brief time with the company he had thought of Gregory as nothing more than a man of the woods, a scout who was respected for his skills and his seemingly inexhaustible strength; but a philosopher?

‘You sound like my old mentor.’

‘Brother Vasily?’

‘You know him?’

Gregory chuckled.

‘Remember lad, I know your family. Fought beside your father when the Emperor of Queg tried to capture Port Natal. Vasily and I raised many a glass together. Ah, now there was a rare fine thinker.’

Richard said nothing. His father. Gregory knew the Squire. And what would he say?

‘Lad, if you don’t mind me saying it, your father is one fine soldier, but I wouldn’t want him as my sire. He’s a hard man.’

Richard lowered his head. The beatings. That seemed to be the only way the old man knew how to treat his sons. If they did well, there was, at best, silence; but fail in anything and there would be a beating. As the eldest surviving son, he felt that the old man would never be satisfied. Too often there was mention of Quentin, twenty years older, from the Squire’s first marriage, killed in the last war. Always the Squire spoke of him as the worthy son who should have inherited all, and that Richard was the weak second choice.

‘Quentin was a good man,’ Gregory said.

Again there was the disturbing sense that the Natalese scout somehow had the ‘sense’, the ability to read the thoughts of others.

‘I see the same in you.’