Kellanved's Reach

He paced the bivouac, showing his undaunted face, clapping shoulders and making small talk. Out here, among the men and women, he was now ‘Greymane’, their leader and champion. Finished, he returned to the fire that was his unofficial camp headquarters, where among his old command he was still plain old Orjin. Here, however, smiles were even fewer. Young Prevost Jeral was showing the longest face; she was taking the silence from Purage personally.

It was Terath who finally broached the subject none other would say out loud when late into the night she announced to all: ‘We’re running out of mountains.’

No one disputed this, or everyone was too tired to argue.

‘Indeed,’ rumbled Orhan, ‘the beaters are so close I hear them night and day.’

‘Renquill must be ahead, waiting for us,’ said Orjin – stating the obvious to invite comment.

Prevost offered a sour nod. Gone now were her long braids; she’d had her hair hacked short as there was no way to care for it. ‘He’s a prissy officious bastard, but he knows his stuff.’

‘Could we make a dash for Cullis?’ Terath asked, though she did not appear hopeful.

Orjin shook his head. ‘They have no reason to take us in. Quon’s named us outlaws, remember?’

That at least raised a few chuckles.

‘In the jungle Horn,’ Yune murmured, hunched in his multicoloured rags, ‘we use lines of beaters also.’ He poked his staff at the fire. ‘But sometimes the hunted deer turns out to be a jungle cat. Many beaters are lost this way.’

Orjin peered at the fire-lit faces arrayed round the camp – none appeared to oppose the intent behind Yune’s comment, and so he nodded. ‘Very well. It’s decided. We’ll wait till the last moment then turn upon the line, try to break through westward.’ He looked to Jeral. ‘Perhaps then we’ll have word from Purage, yes?’

But Prevost Jeral would not raise her eyes.

Word spread through Orjin’s command that night and eager faces met him the next day; it seemed everyone was tired of running and looked forward to a fight. Their hill tribe guides led them eastward, and all had been briefed to keep an eye out for the best place to turn back. Towards noon word came of a wide gorge, one of the last before the easternmost slopes, and Orjin gave the order to pass through, although he, Orhan and Terath held back, since they would lead the charge.

Once the last of his troops had filed through, Orjin passed the word to halt and everyone sought cover to wait. The shadows in the narrow gorge lengthened. Thirst plagued Orjin – they were also nearly out of water – and he picked up a pebble to hold in his mouth. Some two hours later – measured by the movement of the shadows – the beaters arrived: a column of Quon Talian regulars following their trail.

Orjin offered a nod to Orhan across the way, who answered with a grin and unlimbered a huge hammer he’d taken from a Talian camp. Orjin drew his two-handed sword. He knew they’d be spotted at any moment, so he stepped out, howled his war-cry, and charged.

Momentum, of course, was all. He had to keep charging forward, shouldering men and women out of his way, not bothering with any finishing blows – those that followed would take care of that.

So Orjin cleared the trail, always pushing westward, hammering more than cleanly striking, counting on shock and surprise to help him. Eventually, however, a spear between his feet tripped him up and Orhan stepped over to take the lead, sweeping his weapon left and right. Terath pulled him to his feet and shortly thereafter they burst through the column and were outside the noose, and Orjin stepped aside, panting, waving everyone forward.

Terath stopped with him, and she offered a salute. ‘Well done … Greymane.’

Orjin gave her a face. ‘Thanks a lot.’

Troops cheered as well, and shouted ‘Greymane!’ as they passed.

Orjin straightened, raising a hand, and nodding to all.

‘They will tell stories of this,’ Terath said. ‘How you bulled aside an entire Talian column.’

‘Easy to do when you have a giant on your arse.’

Terath shook a negative. ‘You led, Orjin. You led.’

He turned away. ‘Another week of short rations and none of us will have the strength for this.’

Terath nodded. ‘We’ll see what Purage says. Perhaps a relieving force.’

‘Yes.’ Orjin agreed, for form’s sake, exhausted, leaning on his two-handed sword. But still – why the long silence?

They marched west, guided by hill tribesmen and women through the remotest and most precarious paths Orjin had ever seen; some no more than cliff trails that he thought would challenge any damned mountain goat. But they were surrounded now, with Quon Talian troops on all sides. Privately, Orjin thought they had another ten days at most.

It was three days later that Prevost Jeral joined them at the campfire and proffered a cylinder of horn, sealed in wax. ‘Word from Purage, by way of the hill tribes.’

Orjin took it, vaguely troubled by the woman’s lowered gaze – he had thought she would be far more pleased. He walked off a way, breaking the seal and reading the unfurled scroll.