Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1) Read online

  “He’s got a point,” the spike-haired urak said. Walking to the bundle of rags he gave it a kick. A groan emanated from within. “Mar-Dur will not thank you I’m thinkin for stirring up this hornet’s nest. He’ll fuck us good. Probably wish that bear had done us in.”

  “Whining too Bartuk? Must be contagious,” Gromma growled back. “I’m a warrior; I don’t like this sneakin’ in the forest. Besides he’ll thank me for bringing him this prize.”

  Bartuk laughed. “You think? Mar-Dur told us to scout to the ilf lands and not be seen. So you attack an ilf and its bear, leaving a great big fuck you sign.” Bartuk shook his head scowling at Gromma. “And just in case the ilf have any doubts you leave Motaug’s body so they don’t even have to fucking think about it. No-Nose may be a whiny little shit but he’s right. You go marching up to Mar-Dur with your prize and our lives won’t be worth a piss. We’ll be gutted and heads spiked afore you even open your mouth.”

  “AARRGHH,” Gromma shouted. “Why does Mar-Dur have to hide like this? Our war host could crush the ilf.”

  “Kill the cunt,” Bartuk said. “Tell Mar-Dur nothing.”

  Gromma rubbed his chin thinking and finally conceded. “Okay I’ll kill her. Ilf’s ears are mine though. For my collection.” He jiggled his necklace. It was full of desiccated ears in various shapes and states of decay but dominated by a pulpy mass of brown matted fur.

  “You can’t go taking no ears. You’re as stupid as you are big.” Bartuk shook his head. “Kill her but no ears, no prizes, no nothing that could get us killed. Fuck it, I’ll do it myself.” Bartuk drew a vicious serrated knife from his belt.

  Gromma grabbed Bartuk’s shoulder. “She’s mine. I do the killing.”

  As Gromma pulled him about Bartuk drove his knife hard into Gromma’s gut ripping upwards. He pushed the big urak hard and sent him crashing to the ground.

  Gromma moaned in agony as blood and intestine spilled out. He tried pushing his guts back in but failed. He convulsed. Hands, slick with his own blood, clenched uselessly at the forest floor as he sobbed in pain.

  Bartuk watched through pitiless eyes as he bled out. “You’re to fucking stupid to live meatbag.” He kicked Gromma hard in the back. There was a shriek of agony then silence.

  No-Nose backed away, his hand reaching for his own knife. “What the fuck Bartuk? He’s Mar-Dur’s kin. He’s gonna kill us for sure.”

  Bartuk glared. “Maybe, if you open your fat trap.” Then more conciliatory, “Gromma couldn’t help himself. He’d have mouthed off about killing that bear. This was only gonna end one way with Gromma and that was with us dead. You think Mar-Dur would kill his kin? Probably, he’s mean enough, but he liked Gromma, more as like it would be us taking the fall for this cock up.”

  “I, right enough I s’pose,” No-Nose still held his knife out.

  “Besides brother he was for leavin’ ya. You heard and he weren’t meaning in the breathin’ way.” Bartuk held his hand out. “Savin’ your ass is getting to be a full time job.”

  No-Nose grinned. “Yeah, I saved your butt plenty of times too. So can I kill her?”

  “Sure, but be quick, we’ll eat on the run. Just let me do the talking when we get back.” Bartuk bent and whipped the blanket off the bundle on the floor.

  The distinctive form of an ilf sat up. She wore a belted skirt of woven fibres and a cloak that seemed to flow from her shoulders. She rose slowly, graceful despite her hands being tied behind her.

  No-Nose raised his knife. “Dyin’ time, maybe get to seein’ if you taste good too,” he hissed, blood trickling from the hole where his nose should have been. His eyes widened suddenly as an arrow punched into his chest knocking him from his feet. His right leg kicked briefly then he was still.

  Bartuk was moving the instant No-Nose went down, instinct taking over. Running hard he tucked and rolled coming up behind a tree, putting its thick trunk between him and the attacker. Fear gripped him. Options were few and all bad. Resolving to run for it Bartuk baulked suddenly as a wolf stepped from the bushes. Hackles up it gave a menacing growl and padded towards him. Bartuk gripped his knife, his eyes darting looking for a way out.

  Darion walked into the campsite. The ilf watched him with dark eyes. She was very obviously human in form and size but that was where the similarity ended. The ilf was covered in what looked like soft green scales that hugged the contours of her body. Her head, similarly covered, gave the impression she’d been moulded out of some material.

  The ilf looked on, wary as Darion pulled his knife out. A dark green blemish marked one side of her face; crusted and dried blood. Her eyes locked on his. They were piercing, brown almost black and unreadable. She inclined her head before turning away.

  Darion slipped the knife between her bound hands and swiftly cut the ties.

  Immediately she removed her gag before bending to pick up No-nose’s knife. She looked over her shoulder at Darion “Thank you friend.” Her voice was croaky and dry, “Call your hound. This one is mine.”

  Darion whistled and Bindu lay flat, her eyes not leaving her prey.

  The ilf stretched out then winced holding her side. Grimacing she hobbled towards the tree the urak hid behind. Stopping suddenly she lifted her head. At the same time Bindu’s hackles went up and the wolfdog stared back into the forest.

  The ilf glanced at Darion. “Trouble comes.”

  “Aye” Darion replied, his bow ready in his hands.

  The ilf looked at the tree standing between her and the urak, torn. She sighed before quickly turning and rummaging through the campsite. In moments she’d retrieved an ilf bow and long dagger.

  Horn’s sounded followed by a distant baying of dogs. It was hard to judge sound and distance in the old forest but Darion knew instinctively they were closer than it seemed.

  “You better run bitch! I’ll hunt you down. And you manling, I’ll be coming for you,” the urak shouted, peering furtively around the tree’s trunk, emboldened by the sounding of the horns.

  Darion launched the arrow without thought. It was twenty paces to the tree and the urak yelped pulling his head back too late as the arrow sliced his brow opening a shallow furrow.

  “Let’s go,” the ilf set off towards the river.

  Darion backed away before turning and running after her giving the recall whistle to Bindu. It was obvious to Darion after only a few strides the ilf carried an injury. The urak would close on them quickly at this pace. The saving grace was the Fossa. It was not far and the ilf made straight for it. They had a chance.

  Behind them came sounds of pursuit. It will be a near thing, Darion thought as the noise of baying dogs crashing through the undergrowth grew ever closer. They stumbled on, the rumble of the river growing louder until finally they burst out onto the banks of the Fossa. Here the river was wide and fast.

  A large mastiff followed, leaping for Darion. The ilf stepped between them spinning and slashing low. The knife found the soft under belly, the dog’s own momentum ripping it through and it neatly gutted itself. Its feral growl turning to a high pitched squeal, as it crashed into Darion’s shoulder before collapsing on the ground, spasming in agony.

  Darion was a big man but the force of the impact drove him to his knee. He turned in time to see another mastiff bound from the undergrowth and without thought drew and fired. The arrow whipped by the ilf, narrowly missing her head, and buried itself in the dog. It crumpled to the ground, dead.

  A third broke through snarling. The ilf was knelt clutching her body and grimacing in pain, an easy target. A streak of fur struck the dog mid leap, teeth flashing. The fight was savage but brief as Bindu gripped the mastiff’s thick neck in her jaws. With a shake of her head and a crack it was over, throat crushed. Bindu shook her head and howled her defiance at the trees before limping over to Darion. A flap of skin hung from her left flank and Darion knelt to examine her wound.

  “Ah my brave girl, so strong,” he patted her proudly, glancing at her wound. It would need st
itching.

  “Man, we must cross here or die,” the ilf said. A horn blew as if to make her point.

  “Come on girl,” Darion called, encouraging Bindu as he stood and walked to the river’s edge. He took his pack off wading with it into the river, wincing as cold water washed around his legs. The ilf hobbled beside him gasping as she lowered herself in and started to swim.

  Darion pushed his pack out in front, stumbling under as the river bed fell away. He spluttered to the surface. He’d lost his bow and looked frantically for it, but it was gone to the river.

  He kicked for the far bank and the current took hold sweeping him along like flotsam. Ahead the ilf was struggling, clearly in pain. Darion watched her disappear under the water before bobbing up again a few anxious heartbeats later.

  There was a cry from behind and Darion turned to look. He was surprised how far they were down river. Six urak stood on the bank a good sixty yards away.

  They were spotted, one pointing them out and moments later thick shafted arrows started falling. Here the river was their friend. Constantly moving in the river’s embrace, they were difficult to see let alone hit. Some of the urak scrambled following the river bank but the undergrowth and terrain were against them, they couldn’t hope to outpace them.

  Darion was cold and tired and his clothes, heavy with water, tried to drag him down. He was forced to shrug his cloak off, then his coat. Where was the ilf? She’d disappeared. Panicked, he swam to where he’d last seen her. But the river was a living thing that ebbed and flowed to its own rhythm. She was there no longer.

  Twisting, frantically searching he spotted a shadow to his left. He lurched towards it and reached out grasping into the water’s depths. He felt her and made a grab but his hands slide off, unable to find purchase. The green scales of her skin were soft and slick in the wet. Thrashing about, he snared an arm and, managing to lock a hand around it yanked her roughly to the surface.

  Her face was pale its green hue weak and leeched of colour. He clasped her to him, relieved when suddenly she spluttered, coughing out a mouthful of water, before gasping in a ragged breath.

  Darion briefly wondered if he could save her. The cold was mind-numbing and sapped the energy from his limbs. Their lives were on a knife’s edge. If they did not make the far bank soon they’d not make it at all.

  Anger kindled in Darion. He had to survive, had to get to Marron and Nihm. He didn’t know what was going on but whatever was happening they were in the wrong place. He knew he could make it but could he make it with the ilf. It would be easy to let her slip away. Whatever she’d been through the last few days had clearly taken a toll. He suspected she had a cracked rib the way she’d winced and clasped her side back on the river bank. If they have ribs, the banal thought flittered through his mind.

  Manoeuvring behind Darion clasped a hand across her chest and kicked for the far bank. Her head smashed against his face bloodying his nose. Adjusting his grip he tried again.

  As he dragged her through the water Darion let his anger burn, let its fire energise him. Time stretched, it seemed an age when finally the river’s edge loomed before him. But the embankment was overgrown and steep and the river carried them past sweeping them around another bend.

  An opening appeared. Darion struggled to reach it. The current was not so strong this close in but he saw they wouldn’t make it. Kicking out in desperation his foot struck the bottom. He managed to anchor himself and push off. It was not much but the river was shallower with each precarious step. Somehow, half swimming, half walking he dragged the ilf until finally they collapsed on the river’s edge.

  Darion wanted to curl up and sleep. He was exhausted and so numb with cold he couldn’t feel his hands or feet. He crawled to his knees. Instinctively he knew if he slept now then he would not be waking again.

  Summoning his strength he dragged the ilf up the bank. Then, picking her up, carried her under the eaves of the encroaching trees. She was heavier than she looked, her form was slight but she was solid and he struggled, his body shaking violently.

  He was near collapse and she a dead weight in his arms as he stumbled deeper into the forest and out of sight of the river. Finally, reaching a small glade, he fell to his knees spilling her lifeless body onto the ground. He didn’t know if she lived still. He felt too close to death at that moment to even worry about it.

  Focus. One thing at a time he always told Nihm. Focus on what you can do and do it, not on what you can’t. Darion swept up twigs and leaves scraping them into a rough pile and placing some larger branches over the top. His teeth chattered so loud he thought the urak would probably hear them. He bent down to the pile, there was no time for finesse.

  “Ignatituum forus arctum.” He shivered words of fire, his lips trembling and blue. Darion avoided magic. Magic could be felt and seen by those with the knowledge. And when he did use it, it would only be a tiny trickle, like when starting a fire. A tiny nudge was usually all he needed to make a spark take.

  The kindling ignited in a burst of flame so sudden it singed his beard. Maybe a little too much he winced, jerking his head back. Feeding branches to the fire warmth washed over him. Skin and bones aching, he rubbed his hands holding them to the flames.

  He’d lost his bow to the river and his pack although he could not remember when and too there was no sign of Bindu. All he had were the clothes he wore, his long knife and the sword still strapped to his back.

  He looked at the ilf, comatose on the ground. She had dark green bruising marking one side of her face. The crusted and dried green blood had been washed away by the river.

  Up close he could see the tiny scales on her body were more leaf than scale. Small, overlapping and soft like a fine fur. The leaf scale looked roughed up giving her a dishevelled appearance, but even so there was an elegance to her, a perfection of symmetry and shape.

  In the urak camp she’d looked at him, weighing him with her almost black, inscrutable eyes. He wondered idly what she saw. There’d been deadliness in her stance too, injured as she was, that reminded Darion of the big panthers found deeper in the forest. Not now though. Now she looked wan and cold.

  Darion stripped off to his smalls and placed his clothes on the surrounding bushes and nearby tree branches to dry out. Moving to the ilf he dragged her closer to the fire. She moaned in pain but was otherwise unresponsive. “Alive at least,” Darion murmured.

  He checked her for injury, quickly and expertly. The most obvious one the lump and cut on her head was washed clean already by the river. Superficial, Darion thought. His hands moved over her body prying and testing. The small leaf scales overlapping and covering her body were smooth to the touch. She did have ribs he noted, as he pressed gently in on them, eliciting a wince and a groan. It was the right-side probably cracked. Her right ankle too was tender and swollen, a bad sprain exacerbated by her run through the forest. Nothing immediately life threatening he judged other than the cold.

  Despite the heat from the fire the ilf shivered uncontrollably. Darion moved her as close to its warmth as he dared as carefully as he could but was clumsy at best; weary beyond belief he was close to collapse.

  With the last of his energy Darion gathered wood and dried leaves piling them nearby. He stoked the fire building it up and checked his patient one last time. She felt warmer but still trembled, clearly suffering still. He gave a sigh and settled his bulk behind her. Placing his dagger and sword in easy reach he laid down pulling her into the crook of his body. What a pair we would make if the urak found us now, Darion smiled at the thought. Then, eyelids heavy with fatigue he fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 3

  : The Chase

  The gash on Bartuk’s forehead throbbed, his head pounded from his brush with death and he was irritable as hell. He ripped a strip off No-Nose’s cloak to bind his wound, but by the time it did its job his face was already a bloody mess.

  He greeted the lead elements of the raid party as urak and war dogs, mastiffs tr
ained for fighting, entered the clearing.

  “Through the bush, headin’ for the river,” he gesticulated in the direction man and ilf had disappeared. “Fuck me. Don’t stand there, after ‘em.”

  One look at the blood covered urak and the two lying dead was all they needed. At Bartuk’s shouted command they set off in pursuit, their dogs racing ahead baying excitedly.

  A large urak entered camp. His black hair was pulled into a top knot and bound with a red leather tie. “Who the fuck are you? What’s happened here?”

  Bartuk looked the raid head up and down. He was seven feet more or less, livid scars marred his cheeks, his teeth were filed to points and half his left ear was missing. All in all Bartuk didn’t much like the look of him. He stepped back out of reach of any immediate violence.

  “Name's Bartuk, we was scoutin’ heading back to report to Mar-Dur when we was attacked.” He indicated about the camp.

  “Bartuk eh? Never heard of you,” Scarface said. “How many?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” Bartuk lied.

  Scarface narrowed his eyes.

  “Several attacked us in camp and there was more in the trees but I ain’t sure how many on account I was fightin’ for me skin.”

  The brute nodded, unconvinced. The little shit wasn’t telling all that was for sure and the blood he wore was his own. He cast his eyes about assessing what he saw.

  An arrow stood from the chest of one urak and the other, a big fella by the looks of him, lay soaking in his own blood with his guts spilled out. He wandered over to the big one, he seemed familiar.

  “Fuck me, Gromma Gutsplitter? He’s been gutted like a boar.” He glared at Bartuk.

  “Aye that’s Gromma alright, good friend ah mine. The ilf bitch did for him good, with his own knife no less.”

  “Hold.” The brute ducked low over Gromma’s corpse, “He breaths still.”

  Gromma moaned as he was rolled onto his back. His eyes locked with Bartuk’s and went wide, nostril’s flaring.