Journey into the Void (45 page)

“No, sir, not them,” said the scout contemptuously. His face split in a wide grin. “Something better, sir. We found gigs.”

“Taan?” Klendist said with interest. “Where? How many?”

“Looks like several tribes of the fiends, sir. They're camped about twenty miles from here, off over there.”

He pointed to the west, where the shapes of rolling hills were silhouetted against the twilight.

“How many, do you estimate?”

“Not many, sir. We could take them.”

“We figure we could attack them at night, sir,” said another. “Catch them off guard.”

“Gigs don't like to fight at night, sir,” one reminded him.

“They may not like to, but they're still damn good at it,” said Klendist. “Did it look like they were expecting trouble?”

“No, sir,” said the scout. “They had posted their pickets, but just the usual number. It will be easy enough to shut them up.” He drew his finger across his throat.

“We lived with the gigs, Captain,” one reminded him. “We endured their stink and their filth for months. Now it's time to get some of our own back. We know their ways. We know where to find their chief's tent, and we know where the big muckety-muck warriors sleep. We can sneak in, take them by surprise.”

“We can wipe 'em out, sir. See to it that their little gigs don't grow into big ones.”

“By the time they wake up, they'll find our spears in their bellies. What do you say, Captain?”

Klendist was tempted. True, he was working for Shakur, but the Vrykyl himself had said that their quarry was not due to arrive for days yet. Having lived side by side with the taan for months on end, Klendist had come to hate them every bit as much as his men did. He hated their stink, hated their beady little eyes, hated their superior attitude. He thought of what they did to the humans they took prisoner—the torture, the rape, the butchering, and after that…Well, what the taan did after that didn't bear thinking about.

“Saddle your horses,” Klendist ordered, adding in a shout, to be heard above the cheers, “Try not to kill them all. Let's keep a few for sport. We may be stuck here a long time.”

Laughing, the mercenaries rode out into the night, taking along several wineskins to lighten the tedium of the ride and fire their blood for the coming slaughter.

 

The night deepened. Raven crouched in his tent, his eye to the tent flap. Dur-zor knelt behind him, her kep-ker in her hands. The other half-taan were hiding in their tents, watching, waiting. Raven had taught them an old Trevinici trick used when fighting at night. They had smeared their faces and bodies with mud so that they blended into the darkness.

A half-moon shone, low in the sky. The starlight was bright. Shortly after midnight, Raven saw the hulking shapes of six taan warriors lope
into camp. They did not even bother to sneak in quietly, but came laughing and chortling. Roaming carelessly through the half-taan encampment, the taan kicked over drying racks and sent cooking pots rolling. One taan snagged a tent post with his toe, bringing the tent sagging down. The taan chortled. Raven held his breath, hoping that the tent's occupant—Gar-dra, one of the more militant half-taans—did not spring the trap prematurely. Raven heard a grunt and a muttered curse coming from the tent, but Gar-dra remained inside. The taan did not even hear that much. Their eyes were fixed on the boar meat that hung from the branch of a nearby tree, to keep it from the ravages of coyotes and wolves. The taan smacked their lips and talked of how well they would dine that night.

“Slaves do not deserve such strong food,” one said loudly.

“I am amazed the slaves managed to bring down such a fierce animal,” said another. “Probably the animal was old and weak, unfit for a warrior's feasting.”

“Then we will give it to the children,” said a third, and they all hooted with laughter.

The taan headed for the tree that stood some distance outside the camp. In their arrogance, none bothered to look behind. Padding soft-footed, Raven crept from his tent. A wave of his hand brought the half-taan slipping out after him. Gar-dra emerged from his wrecked tent, his face twisted in a scowl, his eyes glittering with anger. The half-taan had heard the insults. Even the meekest were roused.

They were so roused that Raven started to worry. All the half-taan carried weapons. He wanted to show the taan that the half-taan could fight and fight well, but he didn't want any taan killed, and he was concerned that, in their current mood, the riled half-taan might cave in a skull or break someone's neck.

It was too late to halt them now. The half-taan had almost caught up with their former masters, whose eyes were on the boar meat. Something, either a rustle of the grass or a warrior's sense, alerted one of taan. He glanced around. Before he could shout a warning, Raven leapt on him and bore him to the ground.

Dur-zor let out a war cry. The other half-taan joined in and fell upon the taan in a rush. Fists swung, clubs thunked. The air was filled with the
sounds of grunts and snarls and gurgling laughter from the half-taan. The occasional yelp came from the taan.

Raven smashed his fist into his taan. The warrior lay on the ground, stunned, but not unconscious. Before the taan could recover, Raven grabbed hold of the taan's wrists, bound them securely with a length of sinew. He did the same with the taan's ankles. By then, the taan had come to his senses. Struggling futilely in his bonds, he glared at Raven with fury.

Raven looked around the field of battle to find that the fight was over. The half-taan had done well. All six taan lay tied up on the ground, snarling and snapping and making impotent threats. The half-taan laughed and poked at them with their clubs or sticks. The half-taan were pleased with themselves, proud of their accomplishment. Raven was pleased with himself. He'd given his people confidence, and he'd also given the taan something to think about.

“Don't worry, friends,” Raven said to the angry taan, through Dur-zor, “we won't let anything happen to you. We'll take you back to your camp.”

At that, the taan were so enraged that they began to foam and froth at the mouth. Being hauled back to their camp in ignominy and shame, prisoners of their former slaves, would make them objects of ridicule and shame. The half-taan tied ropes around their chests, preparatory to hauling them bodily over the ground. Remembering how he himself had been hauled in the same way, when he was captured by the taan, Raven basked warmly in his revenge.

With their taan prisoners trussed up like pigs going to market, Raven and his half-taan started their triumphal procession toward the taan camp.

 

Topping one of the many rolling hills, Klendist could see the taan campfires. His men were keyed up, excited. They'd gone a long time without action and were spoiling for a fight. They laughed and made vows as to what they would do to the “gigs” when they caught them.

They were close enough to see the occasional figure moving about the camp. Most of the taan were asleep in their tents, for the hour was late. The scouts had reported that there were two main camps and one small camp, set off by itself. Klendist figured they would hit the two main camps first, destroy them, then ride down on the small camp.

The sight of the taan whetted the appetites of the raiding party. The
men spurred their horses and rode wildly toward the camp, each man wanting to get in the first kill. Klendist rode at their head.

A taan rose up out of the long grass, practically underneath the nose of Klendist's horse. The taan let out an eerie howl that split the night wide open and caused the horse to rear in panic.

All around Klendist, taan leapt up out of the grass, howling and moaning like fiends of the Void in their final torments. Horses bucked and reared. Several ran off with their riders, who fought desperately to bring them under control. By the time Klendist drew his sword, the taan had dashed off into the night, running to warn the camp.

Klendist cursed roundly. They'd lost the chance for a sneak attack. Still, he figured, he and his raiding party were mounted, while the taan were on foot. They would be on the taan before they had time to form an organized resistance.

“Jonson!” he yelled, when all had recovered. “Take half the men, attack that big camp over there. I'll deal with this one. We'll meet back here!”

He galloped forward.

 

“The taan will have to honor us now,” Raven said in satisfaction as they dragged their prisoners to Dag-ruk's camp.

“Either that or they will kill us,” said Dur-zor. “It will be worth it, though.”

“They won't kill you,” said Raven. “They can't. We bested them in a fair fight. Well, an almost fair fight.”

“We are slaves, Raven,” Dur-zor reminded him. “And to them we will always be slaves—slaves who dared raise their hands against their masters. For that, we must die.”

“You're serious, aren't you,” Raven said, coming to a stop. “Do they all think this? Do all the half-taan believe the taan will kill them for this?”

“Oh, yes, Raven,” said Dur-zor complacently.

He looked back at the half-taan, laughing and chattering happily over their victory.

“And they did this anyway?” he asked.

“As I said, it will be worth it.”

“I won't let them—” Raven began angrily.

An unearthly sound split the air. The sound came from far away, echoing among the hills—howls rising from many taan throats.

The half-taan froze, listening. The taan prisoners ceased their cursing and threats. They twisted in their bonds, trying desperately to see what was happening.

“What is it?” Raven demanded. He'd never heard anything like this terrible sound.

“An attack!” Dur-zor gasped.

The ground shook beneath their feet. Raven had been in countless battles against mounted troops, and he recognized the pounding made by horses' hooves. A force—a large force—of mounted men was riding down on them.

The taan do not ride horses. Taan have no use for horses. Taan warriors fight best on the ground, even against a mounted foe. The hoofbeats came closer. Shouts and cries carried on the still night air. Raven could hear other shouts, as well, and recognized the voices—humans.

His heart lurched in his chest. His eyes stung with sudden tears. He could not remember the last time he'd heard a human voice.

This is salvation, he realized. This is rescue. This is a return to my homeland, my people.

“They are human, Raven,” she said, her face pale. She knew him so well, knew what he was thinking.

The half-taan looked to him, wondering what to do. The taan prisoners looked at him, crying for him to set them free.

“Cut them loose,” Raven ordered, drawing his knife.

The taan were up and running almost before the half-taan had finished slicing through the tough sinews. As they ran off, the taan stopped, looked back.

“Bgrt, taan-helarrs,” he said harshly, then he turned and dashed off toward the sound of battle.

Dur-zor's eyes glimmered with tears.

“You will stay, Raven?” she asked.

“I will stay. You are my people,” said Raven. “What did the taan say?”

“He said, ‘Join us in glory, warriors,'” said Dur-zor proudly.

 

Klendist galloped into the taan camp—Dag-ruk's camp, though he couldn't know that. Although he had lived in proximity to the taan, he knew nothing about them. He expected to find in the taan what he would find in humans caught in the same situation—panic, confusion, maybe
some resistance, but nothing that he and his men couldn't handle. They had the advantage. They were mounted, they had superior weapons. They were humans, not beasts.

Klendist rode his horse over taan tents, smashing them, trampling them. He had hoped to catch taan slumbering in those tents, taan who would be crushed beneath his horse's hooves. He was disappointed. The tents were empty.

He cheered up when he saw a taan with a young child in her arms go running out of another tent. Klendist dug his heels into his horse's flanks and caught up with her in a bound. He sliced off her head and the child's in a single stroke. He laughed heartily. Waving his bloodied sword, he looked back to see if his men had seen this neat trick.

They cheered and laughed. Klendist galloped on toward the center of the camp, where the taan warriors would gather to protect their chief.

One of the men rode up beside him.

“The boys want to know what we do if we find any human women?” the man shouted.

“Kill them!” Klendist shouted back. “They've got taan seed growing in their bellies. We'll be doing them a favor.”

The man nodded and rode back to spread the word.

The half-moon had set by then, but they had full advantage of the lambent light of the stars. The taan stood together in a single mass. The light gleamed here and there on a weapon. There were children among them.

Klendist felt the first twinge of unease.

These taan were not warriors. Warriors would not be saddled with the care of children. Much as Klendist despised the taan, he knew that the warriors would not have run off to leave their children to die. Where, then, were they?

A shriek was the answer to his question. The warriors were behind him, all around him. They came running through the darkness, running in for the kill. He'd led his men straight into an ambush.

Taan warriors came out of nowhere, their mouths wide-open in slavering grins, screaming and howling like accursed souls being dragged into the Void.

Klendist turned his horse's head, yanking the beast about so fast that it nearly foundered. He turned just in time to see a taan catch one of his
men. Reaching up, the taan caught hold of the mounted man from behind, dragged him off his horse. The taan drove his spear through the writhing body, then set off on foot in pursuit of another rider.

Klendist was not one to fight against overwhelming odds for the sake of honor or heroics. He knew when he was whipped. Wielding his sword with savage efficiency, he fought back the taan who had him surrounded.