(Suggested listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqYZkbGtVr8 and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVxffY_Gpso and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwEFqT_A8bI and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJEcnah6TRg for sure) (Those were playing as I wrote this, among others, but those tw-- NO FOUR ACTUALLY really set the mood for me.) Frantic struggling put them apart, his muscles found new life as they sprang to action amidst his growing fear. Familiar drumming echoed all around and inside their heads, in their bones, it felt like he was going to rattle into a million pieces from that damned noise. Others heard it too, he wasn't crazy, Drond shifted in his seat to get a grip on the excited animals fighting to escape their leather and iron bondage. He had to get his clothes on immediately! Anza helped as best she could, but he wasn't dressing for strolling around. He needed his good clothes. The ones he left in. A tunic woven tight over the long winter by seamstresses to the north, it fit perfectly under his vest of hardened leather plates in the style of the horseborn artisans. A belt kept it tight to him and gave the scabbard a place to swing from, he'd mount his leather leg guards there too after the leggings were on. Catching on quickly, Anza did that job for him while he worked the boots up and over and cinched them tight over his meaty calves. Before he sprang out she gave him a deep, passionate kiss. Her tongue tasted like hot spices. Once outside he saw a neat, fat quiver of throwing spears tightly bound to the wagon. Who did that? He didn't have time to care at the moment, the twine came undone with ease and the quiver's straps tightened smoothly. "BATTLE POSITIONS! BATTLE POSITIONS, LADS!" Their own horn cried out against the rumble of the ethereal beat, a deep, forlorn wail of brass against an onslaught of darkness. Light above was scarce, the overcast and trees worked together to shadow the forest below enough to set the atmosphere to a malicious sensation. Men all around scrambled to defend, he saw Corrick and a few other footmen form a crude line while others milled aimlessly nearby. They were afraid. His sharp eyes gazed across the shallow gorge and saw why. Skeletal figures shuffled, clattered, and clicked as they waddled toward, over, down, and were on their way back on up. Their eyes were missing, replaced by dim orbs of manifested magic flickering like weakly-burning candles. Behind them quivering freaks of rotting flesh, stumbling for them, the discarded dead of forest murders and hapless travelers who wandered and never returned. Young, old, it did not matter, they moaned and grunted as they approached wielding whatever the could. An arrow whistled on by. "Thonvar, let's see that fuckin' arm of yours get to work!" cried Ruran, an orb of purple flickered and struggled to escape his grip. "Don't just fuckin' stare!" "Here, toss this one!" somebody called, the northman caught the thin shaft. Another arrow, that one embedded itself into the wagon level with his head. Despite the illness, despite the infected wounds, his muscles hummed to life with familiar strength and power as he drew back. His eyes had not yet found the archer, but Ruran didn't hesitate, the ball of magical energy splashed against the spear and made it weigh nothing to him. "Up on the rock! Throw that fucker!" There it was, a mauled hunter missing his ribs on the left side, torn free by a hungry beast. Thonvar's aim was deadly at such close range, when the spear left his hand it was the straightest throw he had ever made and struck true right where he aimed. A gout of darkness roared from the split skull of the undead archer as the body, without it's invisible strings, tumbled down. "Agzi! On me!" he called, knowing in his heart that the lizard heard him. He didn't have time to wait, the first wave was upon them, jaws open as if roaring into a heroic charge. He gripped his sword and yanked it free of the scabbard, giving it a two-handed grip as he marched forward with murderous purpose. A rusted blade whistled for him, his body did not need to be told what to do. Knees locked, his left grip broke to support his blade with an open palm against the dull flatness as steel met magic alloy with spark and debris. A thrust hard, the weak man of bones could not match his power and reeled back. Twin fists of willed destruction guided the blade down, the skull and bones shattered like pottery. Hot thumping hit his ears as his body came alive with electric excitement, muscles as tight as bowstrings to make him swing again through a formation of black-glued bone. "Thonvar!" A woodcutter's axe he had already seen was on it's way, the edge of his arm caught the handle to redirect it away. Twisting himself he brought the tip of the blade down in a powerful strike, the skeleton crumbled from shoulder to hip. Bones resisted succumbing to death at first, the one good arm reached out for him, but his heavy foot came down and bashed the weathered skull in. Evil hissed and evaporated beneath his heel, a primal sense of satisfaction-- Sharp pain bit him as he twisted away, his attacker tried to jab the pitchfork again. Rage. Pure rage boiled in him as he wound back and punched the skull off and into the rocky gorge below. A rusted tine had snapped off and embedded itself between the laces of his armor, so with a grunt he fought through the pain and yanked the metal out. Just in time too, another rattling opponent clamored up with a butcher's knife. Ruran wouldn't of seen it coming, so as it ran past he sliced down the back from head to hip. Movement to the side. He didn't look as he readied the swing, it split corroded armor in two and bit deep into the rotting mass before clearing out the other side. A hiss left the crumpled body, he kicked it back to delay the onslaught of snarling undead. Screaming caught his attention, one of the spearmen thrashed and flailed as a pair of maggot-infested wolves dragged him down. "Help me!" he cried, kicking and trying to claw his way across the cobblestones. "Gods help me please!" Southern gods had no agent in the north. Thonvar volunteered to be their avatar of mercy. Determined he sprang forward and over a throng of living dead being held back by a pair of dagger-armed kobolds. A slain boar was moving in to break the siege, a loud grunt heralded his mighty blade hacking the fat pig's blackened brain in two. Decayed hands fondled and groped for him, bits of flesh and fingernail clung as he fought his way to the man. Before he knew it his head had bounced off a wagon and struck the worn stone. What happened? Unnatural feline noises came with pain as the beast bit down on his shoulder, a loose eye whipped around by a nerve and kept batting him in the face. There was a time when that would have terrified him, just like the man, but he felt only wrath. His blood boiled. He wanted the cat off of him. The cat kept biting him. He fought it, the teeth gnashed and snapped as he pulled on the scruff. Fur and fat came off in his hands. Teeth on his face as he wriggled, almost biting, almost there. His hand went in once more, deep in putrid meat, holding back the cat by it's struggling spine. His body was hot. An inferno. Pure fire of an insatiable temper roared through his veins. "GET OFF!" His vision rattled and his ears blocked the distortion his outburst made. He yelled in anger again as the cat thrashed and clawed, his muscles screamed as they lashed out. What might have been too heavy to swing one-handed sober became feather-light as he surrendered to the intoxication of raw fury. Bones crushed in his hands. He was red with effort and emotion. Discarding the sack of festering rot, he grabbed his sword and stormed for the terrified foreigner. Looking down, Thonvar's heart was hard as the man looked at him with wide-eyed shock. Be afraid all you like, southerner, but do it somewhere else. Bloody hands grabbed the nape of his surcoat and yanked him free, the wolves snarled and snapped at the northman. His body roared back, deep from his toes, from below, from the earth itself as he swung and brought the sword down to stick in one. Vulnerable, he barely caught the chattering muzzle with both hands. A growl of stench and gas and pestilence hit him, maggots flew out and covered his face as he yelled loudly. Human fingers broke wolf resistance, one hand on a jaw and the other on a snout, pulling and peeling until it snapped and twisted. In his right hand he held the mandible high like trophy. It was not a trophy, not in his mighty grip, it was a weapon. That skull resisted one strike, then another, but the third came with a harsh crack. A fourth drove into the soft gray and vanquished the beast. "GET UP! FIGHT!" he commanded with wild blue eyes. Horses cried as he took control of the sword again, guts spilling all over his boot. A carriage rattled on cobblestone, hooves clacked as the riders spurned their mounts into a gallop. Arrows from the dead peppered the wood, but they did not all escape unharmed. One man fell of his horse, but it was the kobold in robes and a tall crown of bones that caught his attention. Blood sprayed from the neck as he struggled. "They're runnin' away! Oh gods we're fucked! We're so fucked!" "WAIT! WAIT PLEASE!" "PLEASE COME BACK!" Kobolds cried out for their chief, wailed in pain as they were cut down by the dead. They were abandoned! Those damned knife-ears betrayed them all! Gods damned the elven race. Gods damn them all. He couldn't... he didn't... Fists. His fists screamed at him to stop. He could not stop. He barely noticed the graceful figure sprinting by him, her beautiful scales the color of golden wheat. Blood arced out as the arrow found purchase. She fell. She did not get up. No... No! NO! NOT HER. GODS NO. GODS DAMN IT. NO! NO! NO! NO! His mind went blank as the darkness ate him whole. An ancient one. The lick of the Trickster on his neck as madness set in. A little flag poked up high to mark where she lay, three feathers fletched around the little flagpole of wood and twine. His lungs opened wide to scream and... He screamed louder than he ever did. Louder than anyone ever screamed before. "Thonvar, gods above what the--" The man's voice was cut off by a sharp breeze from the west, it overpowered the one from the west and became lord of the forest. All stopped before it's mighty gust. On it was a scent carried from far away; of steppe grasses and churned earth, of furious men, of blood, sweat, and tears of the people, of the land, of the wilderness, of fall's harvests, of stones, of worked leather, of kinship, of love, of hurt, of pain, of sorrow, of regret, of anger, of hate, of hate, of hate, of hate. Hate became his new name. Thonvar died. Hate was born. Wind swirled around and around and went into him, so deep, into the bottom of his haggard lungs and gave them a new life to soothe his grief. It could not, but it did try. Hot tears stained his cheeks, blown free to become lances of death amidst the storm from the west. A black figure stood proud there, flanked by his minions, he sneered with smug pride at his glorious shot. Somebody screamed in terror behind him, a crowd of fearful voices begged him to relent. He could not. He did not recognize the name Thonvar. He was born anew. He was Vengeance. He was the Reach. His incoherent, raw wail sounded over the wind and crushed all before him. Bones shattered and twisted, becoming ammunition for his storm. His sword sang as the wind licked it, whining loud as it yearned to kill again. Down the gorge he walked, the black figure watching him, smirking, laughing, cackling as he drew his mighty bow again to slay the fool in the open. A screaming man swirled by, bits of bones, kobolds, wood, rocks, stones, and countless needles from the forest floor. Yet still, the demon would take his shot. A swing faster than an eye could see batted the missile into splinters. Losing his smile, the demon scowled. Vengeance glared. Come to me. Obliging his request, the black figure sprang through the wind and landed in the eye of the storm. He was upon the demon, a mighty swing crashed Skyfired steel against black. Drums echoed loud in the storm, but it did not soften his heart, the demon tried to lick his mind, but his mind was gone. He was nothing but fury, he made the demon taste pain, the wind carried his form like a maddened spirit and made the blade bite deep into otherworldly flesh. A scream of pain hissed high, the wind carried it far and wide. Swinging the black blade, the demon tried to catch him while he was vulnerable. It did not work. They both moved with fluid grace, circling, dancing the steps of single combat, a twist of his body to avoid demon's blade before making his own sing loud into a waiting shoulder. Fear was in the black eyes as it scrambled back, he sang his downed lover's hum loud and bore into his enemy's brain. It cried. It never knew tears before, but it cried and cried, it begged him to stop. He did not. His voice destroyed the demon's ears and wind carried it's screams again, swirling around and around, up high to the trees and beyond where the true sky could hear evil's wail. His sword sang too, vibrating as the wind plucked it's length. Terror made the demon flee. A fist gripped a spear made of magic steel and the Song of the Reach sent it flying true, the demon's thigh did not work. Another spear came as it crawled, the thick muscle retreated out of the way as the metal bit between flesh and bone to impale the prey still. Wind guide me. Another spear, it hissed with the demon's scream and ebony blood gurgled free from the fresh hole. He was upon the demon then, standing tall and proud. He was the Reach, gripping his northern blade tight, the wind kissed him softly and gave him his guidance. Haggard sobbing amidst begging, the demon did not want to be ended this way, it served a greater master. It did not deserve this! An apology came, a whisper into his mind of Truth. Even the demons knew it and could speak it, showing him the strike. Showing him the world around the tornado of death. Life still was out there, but not for long, he... Thonvar gasped. Could it be? That he would end it all for hollow vengeance? All those around him, screaming, begging him to relent, pleading for yet another day! His storm died down, his knees grew weak, his throat was so tight as his voice relaxed and let go of the war song. That demon twisted to look at him, a smile of relief came. It felt like it had been spared. "Th-thank--" It had not. The head bore a shocked expression as it rolled, Thonvar fell to a knee and watched the life leave those black eyes. ------------------------------------------------- ... (Sad, huh? Well, we're not done yet, I just quit right about here. Well, it's been a bit, I came back to finish.) (I hope you were paying attention earlier.) ... ------------------------------------------------- The kobolds didn't like burying their dead. Reachfolk didn't either, but sometimes it had to happen. Honored dead went into tombs, some cut right through the rock and stained with the blood and sweat of the dead's kin, and some were sold that nobody could remember who built them. They were in touch with their ancestors on a deep level and visited as often as they could, the vast tombs were built in such a way that visitors could simply walk in and spend time with the dead. Some were mummified and wrapped in linen imported from lands that could grow flax, but a few were mummified by the open air and shamans calling the breeze to keep the bodies. These men were imbued with the magic of the wind, they became draugar. Guardians of the dead. Sometimes tombs were robbed in the fjordlands and in Rangvaal, or so the stories went, and pacts had to be made with spryggans to protect them. Tombs under the vast steppes of the Reach went untouched, their dead were quite active in their slumber. Sometimes foolish conjurers from the southlands would attempt to enslave the free dead, their rotten bodies found impaled on ancient spears, they would be dragged off behind the horses and scattered. Kobolds just burned their dead. Young, old, big, small, they went on pyres and were torched by friends and loved ones. Ashes and bones were gathered from the site of the fire to be put in urns, this was a very important step. Southerners talked to stones marked with the names of the dead, placed over their grave, and then it was said that as time went on they forgot to keep visiting. Northerners couldn't understand that, their dead were a vital part of their lives, and it turned out that kobolds felt the same way. A little urn filled by a child's ashes. A bigger one filled by father and daughter. Brothers filled another. Black horns and bits of bones fell into a wooden cask, tiny plates of armor with it. A clay pot held the remains of the poor washmaid. Then another held Uzkrig. Thonvar was instructed by several kobolds to say nothing as he passed by that one, his hand on it for silent reverence of their slain chief. He had no love for the old fool, but there were still things to thank him for, he could not have a heart hard toward Uzkrig even if he wanted. As he passed on he looked back, looked at daughter and heir touching the urn with regretful tears, he waited to be the source of comfort she needed. As Anza cried in his arms, he looked around at the poor kobolds that survived. Leaderless. Abandoned. Scared. They had little time to mourn, night would come soon and they would need to prepare for it's horrors. They would need to move, and they had no elves to guide them. A few humans were there as well, watching the kobolds in sadness, they had dead of their own and wanted to bury them soon. A few wagons were starting to unpack and make ready for the night, some were shut tight in fear of what lay outside. She looked up at him. His eyes told her their future, she looked around at her kin. Without words he knew of her sadness, of the hopelessness that washed over her, she saw through his eyes for the first time and he bitterly wished he had torn them out long ago. Truth was something he could not protect her from, it would be a lie and lies were dishonorable. No, all that was left was to move forward. To survive. "They need somebody," he whispered. Peeling herself away with reluctance, she gave him an encouraging shove with her one good arm. "Husband strong, go protect." "You are right, as usual," he replied softly as he stood. "Go see to Runa." "Yes, husband." She left him to do what was necessary. Now it was his turn. Steel formed in his veins as he looked around, his heart becoming harder and harder with each step, harder than the stones beneath his feet. These people were his people now. By right the title of chief had passed from Uzkrig to Anza, and by marriage to Thonvar, son of Kargruuf. Now he was Thonvar, chief of the Kozakrim. A human from the Reach, witch-born bastard, lord of a no-name kobold clan roped into a scheme by deceitful elves and a naive, but ambitious, chief. His boots made heavy beats as he climbed a wagon. "Who told you to make camp?" he asked, eyes on a pair of battered kobolds. "Answer me now." They blinked and looked around. "No day? Camp for dark time?" "Uzkrig's ashes fill that water pot there, the title of chief passed to Anza when he took his last breath. Or it would have if she had been unmarried, but she is not. What does that make me?" "... Thonvar chief now," the kobold mumbled, withering under the human's blue-eyed gaze. "We sorry, my sir, very sorry." "I don't want your sorry," he growled with a wide-eyed glare. "Pick what you can from the dead, pack the wagons, and make sure the urns are secure." One of the humans was standing there with a blank expression. "What are you waiting for? Strip the dead men of their arms and armor and get ready to burn them," commanded the northman, a firm glare at one of the men who had resisted the idea earlier. "If you want them buried you stay and do it yourself, but you shall bury them in pieces. Am I clear?" "It's wrong, what about their families!" Before Thonvar could bite the man's head off, Ruran held up a hand. "Aye, but I think their ma an' da would rest easy knowin' their boy ain't wanderin' the fuckin' forest servin' a Dauva that come up to feast on the livin' folk. Do as the man says, if any of you fucks got a problem there's the fuckin' road." "Aye, Thonvar's the one shot we 'ave for gettin' 'cross tha' fuckin' river," Corrick added. The men that had survived nodded, including the poor spearman that he saved. Outnumbered and broken, the mercenary fell to his knees and started sobbing. Thonvar hopped down and fell to a knee, hand on the man's shoulder. "What's your name?" "Jonor, sir," he mumbled, wiping his eyes. "My name's Jonor, I come from Marerick. It's south of here." Of course it's to the south, he thought. "You need to pull yourself together, Jonor. They need your help." "Yes, sir," he gasped, nodding firmly. "I'm okay. I'm just, I'm scared, sir. I don't--" "Jonor, go help the wagons get ready." "Yes, sir." Thonvar gave him an artificial smile, patting the man on the back as he left. It's what his father would have done, encouraged the man to keep going forward. Vadgar would have done it too, and Rangvald would have sent the man off to drown his sorrows in mead so he was out of the way. That wasn't an option, he needed everyone working. "Agzi!" he called. A big figure bounded up from the gorge with her spear in hand, he met her half-way. "You are the strongest I have, I need you to help the men. We cannot linger to burn our dead." "Yes, this one helps," she replied, moving off to do as he said. Good. Unsurprisingly the kobolds had already taken to robbing what they could from the mass of twisted, busted corpses and bones. He finally got a chance to take stock of the battlefield and... think about what had happened. What a mess, an absolute, gods-damned mess. When he saw Anza drop he lost it, he had never experienced such raw anger like that before and simply had no means of dealing with it. Normally he kept a tight lid on his temper, all of his kind had to, and only when it was appropriate did they release their hot-blooded rage in a productive manner. What he did was mystical. He had no way of explaining how he yelled a storm into existence, but he had noticed... things... happening earlier. When he yelled. Khezde said something about how he shouted louder than she had ever heard, it almost made her drop everything. Yet that was nothing compared to what happened before him, it was just complete chaos. His sword sang too. That was new. Wind had whispered to him before, had pushed him, signaled him, guided him, but it had never filled his lungs with infinite breath. He had never sang like that before, it was incredible to remember the absolute power coursing through his body and radiating from himself. A demon had been killed too, a dark warlord that did not belong in his world, and his sycophants had wisely fled the moment he was slain. No doubt they ran back to tell whatever darkness about the ill-fated battle. Battle? No. No, this was an assassination attempt. On him. On Anza, too. Why else would she be targeted like that? His little wife had been wounded by the dark warrior's arrow, but her arm got in the way and saved her life. He wouldn't take another chance like that again, if she was in danger he would find some way to protect her. He had to, if not for his own sanity then... A glance over at a wagon filled him with shame, the kobold was gravely injured from being tossed into a tree trunk. A man had been bruised badly as he was bounced along the ground, Ruran had been battered somewhat as well before catching hold of a wagon. One of the mules had taken an old rusty knife square to the head, miraculously it survived with just a lameness in it's one eye. Bones were still falling from the trees, earlier a corpse of a deer had splattered against the road with a loud bang and sent viscera and blood everywhere. Snow and ice were still on it's rotten hide, everyone had looked at Thonvar with wide-eyed shock and expression. As if he had intended to make the undead stag bounce off the sky! Shaking his head he kept walking to where the site of his victory was, joining Khezde as she carefully plucked things from the dead demon's body. His armor had been pulled free and set aside, no doubt for hoarding by her kin, all she cared about was the task of butchery that she tended to with a certain happiness. His meat and flesh were put aside for careful preservation, skin cut into long strips, testicles pulled free and hung by their cords from a makeshift drying rack, the eyes sat nearby and stared up at them. She was busy knocking out teeth and pulling claws, everything was collected. "What of his manhood?" Thonvar chuckled. She paused and looked at it before slicing it off. "You want? Squeeze male essence out, good potion." "I was not--" He sighed. "I will leave such matters up to you." "Good, this good, Uzkrig forget how shaman work," she muttered as she went back to the dental work. "Forget old Khezde know many thing. Thonvar chief now, not make mistake of Uzkrig, yes?" "Your counsel is always valued, I will need it." A pleased smile was flashed up at him as she knocked out the last of the teeth. "Khezde counsel for big wagon, hehehe!" "Had I wagons to spare, I would agree. We have wounded and need to travel far and fast, expect the road ahead to be harder than before." "Yes, yes, Khezde know. Thonvar worry of sky, worry, worry, worry! Smells cold, smells mountain, wind friend of Thonvar. Powerful magic, very powerful, old magic from before time. Khezde know, Khezde see magic. Hear drums, know the black wants Thonvar. Wants his life seed." His body froze. She looked up at him with a serious expression. "Thonvar make big enemy. Mate with Anza, daughter of mountain, the black hates when his maleness fill her cave, put the seed there where it not grow. Khezde warn Thonvar, it want seed now. Jealous of Anza. Hate Anza. She steal Thonvar heart, take his wantings and use for herself, now the black has to fight two hearts. This? This demons? Sent to kill. Forest Mother know it come, know black want Thonvar seed." "What did you just--" "Shh. Chief listen now. Chief must know. Thonvar with Anza when see the secret, Forest Mother worry many, many night Thonvar not make it to her. When he come? When they come? She take their essence in trade, give her gift, kiss sword to give her power. Not important, trinkets for human, real power from before. Forest Mother open Thonvar heart, whisper old secret out." "Old secret, what do you mean?" he asked. She waved him away. "No more talking. Take demon things, not evil, just things, can have for self. Take sword, strong sword, not as strong as kissed sword. Old Khezde work now, much work, not much time! Dark come, see? Go now. Chief needed many times." A voice from up on the road called to them, he looked up and nodded to Corrick. When he looked back, Khezde had gathered her new ingredients and was walking away. He frowned, but understood it was the shaman's way to plant wonder in the head. ------------------------------------------------- They left the carnage behind as the sun began to dip in the sky up ahead, his place in the wagon chain had shifted right up to the front. Their route ahead couldn't go along the same path, he broke them off to the northern route that was far faster and more direct to their mountainous destination. A lone horse had survived the battle and became his mount, her black coat was interrupted by brown and white flecks that looked so odd to him. From the start he could tell she was smarter than the others, he tested the mare and she performed as necessary; whoever had broken and trained her was quite skilled. He thought of her original rider, what had he called the horse? Miranna? He experimented with the name and her ears perked up, apparently that was it. She seemed like a good horse, attentive, but with a playful streak. There was no bond there though, they were just a team, they weren't real companions like rider and mount should have been. Maybe that would grow? "Drond, where do you think we should make camp? You've been on these roads longer than I." Thinking for a moment, the driver looked around and shrugged. "Drond not know, my sir, elfe teach bad way." "We need a wide open spot, the best is atop a hill, enough for the wagons to circle tightly. We will never outrun, so we must make a stand." "Chief big smart, know best for kobold." Thonvar politely nodded in thanks, but he wasn't so sure they should put their trust in him. Leaders like him were fine from time to time, but he did not have the skill necessary to be a permanent lord and master of their clan. These thoughts weighed on him and burdened his movements, he felt stiff carrying such responsibility and the more he thought about it the worse it got. Even if he told them to find somebody else it wouldn't work, it was he who married the chief's only daughter, his duty was with his new people. Some back home would laugh and chuckle at the notion, they thought it an oddity that he even married the kobold in the first place, but some would have their minds changed by his new title. Chief Thonvar, son of Kargruuf, great-grandson of Brynjar the Tombcaller; one of his famous ancestor's many appellations. He wondered if that was the old power that the shaman spoke of, hidden deep inside his very being and wanting to come out. Could he be a fabled wight-whisperer? Able to soothe the angry dead? Command a tomb's many draugar to rise up and join him? He had the wind on his side, but everyone thought that might have been Brynjar's mage allies. When he shouted it made the undead recoil in terror, when he sang they shrank away and withered into lifelessness once more. What he did know for sure was his voice, his singing voice, had changed and became better. Testing it, he let his throat rumble as he did before, the beginning of a chant. Miranna's ears swiveled and she tried to turn to face him, but he soothed her excitement and let the horse feel him with their necks together. Nothing could be done for the mules, they gave him a wide berth as he sat back up with a higher sound and greater volume. Wind crackled as it whipped by him and distorted, it broke against him in an unnatural way that was not like the way it was before. What was it? What was he doing wrong? He tried again and just felt exhausted, as if the very life had been sapped out of him. "It seems I am not so magical after all," he remarked to none one. "Chief need rest? Not sleep, no sing when tired," Drond suggested. "Perhaps, but--" Movement. Up ahead. Drond's eyes grew wide. "Deer!" Crying out in a loud, ululating wail of a hunter he spurned the horse forward to give chase. Maybe it was the shock of the noise, but she was already bolting in a hard gallop down the open road and needed little encouragement. Whoever had owned her before took care of her, better than those two other idiots, her hooves rattled on the stones with short bursts of fours as the steed practically flew over the flat land. A white flag bobbed as his prey fled in terror, graceful bounds high to clear fictional obstacles as it tried to decide where to go. A primal scream left his lungs as he rode for the buck, a javelin ready in his fist for it's upcoming flight. Every fiber of his being wanted to make a kill, his bones fantasized about jumping on Miranna's back and taking flight himself. Then it changed direction, springing off into the woods where it might have felt safer. Miranna didn't need to be directed, she knew what they were doing, the loud clattering changed to the bass drumming of hoof on tough soil as she surged forward. Weaving between the trees was hard, his sensitive thighs were tight on her as he screamed again in a lean where she wanted them to go. Horses were creatures of the hoof, she knew how to chase, how to flee, she took the necessary path in their weaving pursuit. Inside him his heart raged with excitement, his brain did a million things all at once over and over and his senses came alive to feel, see, smell, hear, and sense his mount's frantic mass in relation to that deer just out of range. Three hearts, three lives, two intertwined in the way only the horsefolk and horse knew how, chasing their crafty opponent. A gorge! Stop! STOP! Miranna had gone this far, she wasn't going to stop. Oh no. If that furry thing could make it, so could she. He knew her desires! From the twin wells of their souls his voice found the power to sing high to the sky, his lips parted and the melody of rider and horse echoed off the trees. Her hooves left the ground and she sailed with such speed, such grace... His body floated up, feet ready, knees prepared, when she landed he squeezed her tight and came down without harm to her tired back. Hoofbeats became almost a single strum, their hearts, gasps, souls pulsed in league with it. Throw. She felt to him the command. It was their only shot. Taut muscles twisted and made the sinew puppet strings of his arm twang and groan, the moment in time almost frozen as it all played out. His eyes grew wide as the spear sailed forth from his fingers as the buck turned, the slowness of it all fell away with a flash of intense action. His pounding ears didn't hear the thud over his ragged war cry and the equine scream, but he saw the spear sink deep before the noble creature fell in a heap of stillness. Two hearts remained, intertwined. By the gods she was fast! He circled around and hopped off her back, face pressed to hers as they fought for breath. He could feel it. Feel her spirit radiating forth, like a lamp in the woods, it was intoxicating to be around such raw power. Her nose pressed to his face and they breathed together, hard panting as he stood with her, eyes closed to feel her presence in the world. She wasn't his companion, he did not feel that bond as strong he he would have liked, but he knew she recognized him as the leader. She showed trust for him, inviting him to trust her. His heart sang that he did. Their bodies were worn down by the intensity of it all, he gave her a nuzzle and she nipped his shoulder. Okay, we can be friends, he thought. He needed that. He really, really needed an animal companion after everything that happened. "Now to get our prize back," he sighed, peeling away to get to work. "They'll need this after today." ------------------------------------------------- He caught them just as they rounded a bend in the last hour of daylight, there was a small spot in a clearing that was just a bit higher than everything else. Drond responded to his waving spear, driving the wagon over the unbroken ground and through the trees to where Thonvar wanted. More important wagons were put toward the center, the very middle of the camp had a fire built that would be their last bastion in a fight. Animals were penned together between two of the bigger wagons, one technically a carriage with the top missing, and ropes were strung tight and woven with sticks to provide temporary fencing. All the others were put outside in a big circle, a big rope wove through hastily-cut stakes pointing outward and connected wagon to wagon. If there would be a fight it would be from a vantage point that favored them, he was hard at work trying to figure out how to erect a tower on wheels. They enjoyed a meal of venison in silence, when night fell the lanterns and torches were put out to keep the darkness at bay. Yet nothing happened. Nothing stirred, just the wildlife of the night milling about. Good thing too, because their water wagon was empty and needed real repair from the holes poked through the giant strakes. Thankfully they had an adolescent kobold on hand, and Runa was stripped down to a loincloth before being stuffed inside the long cask. Anza was wounded and recovering, so she was given the task of talking the girl through the process and passing her supplies. Meanwhile Thonvar and Corrick replaced the wheels, they would need to stop at the first wheelwright they could to try and get their growing stack of broken wheels repaired. Other wagons were fixed up, but they were running out of space and it was clear they needed at least another cart with a donkey or mule pulling it. An option to make one had long passed as their dwindling supply of spare parts were exhausted, any more serious break-downs and they would need to rip up somebody's transportation to keep the others going. Night passed by and they managed a few hours of good sleep, the morning meal came at the break of dawn and Thonvar ignored the grumbling and complaints to press onward. By the time the sun had finally crested the eastern horizon they were on the move, Sardag was ahead and would be within a day's travel if they kept the pace up. He had almost allowed himself to feel complete relief as they put road behind them, but in the afternoon he had noticed a few of the trees were splattered in somewhat fresh blood. How wonderful. "Anza, get me my bow," he commanded, slowing his horse down and taking off his quiver of spears. "I think I shall need it." "Yes, husband," she said from her concealed position, untying the bits of twine keeping the cover on their wagon. Yet she didn't quite pass him exactly what he wanted, he looked down at the black strips of otherworldly material woven together. They were spaulders to cover his unprotected shoulders and upper arms, the wicked points of the demonic style pulled off to give it a more traditional look. Was that how she had been spending her time? He turned it over and saw she used strips of leather and sinew woven together in a wide braid, it matched the style of the other kobolds. Of course her eye for beauty made it look more professional than it ought to have, the decorated bits of leather connecting the pieces had little beads embroidered here and there. Their straps fit better if he put them underneath the leather vest that she tried to copy, and once he was strapped and laced up again he twisted his torso and rolled his arms. "This fits nicely, did you do these yourself?" "Zan help, Drond..." she glanced up at the driver and smiled. "Find good beads for Anza." "Do I look good?" "Husband look of strong chief, war chief," his wife said with pride as she got his bow. "Husband like?" "Yes, it fits well. Tell them to be aware, I feel--" Screams up ahead. "Drond, slow the wagons down. I'll scout ahead, have the men form up and get ready." Tightening the strap on his quiver he spurred Miranna forward into a cautious gallop.