“They are not coming.”
Horses snorted, breath steaming in the cold morning air. Riders patted them and then blew on their own hands. The morning sun rose out of cloud-cloaked hills. In a few hours, these highlands would be sweltering.
“We should go, Fogrim,” said the rider, a tall, tanned man with an iron helmet. Strapped beside him was a longbow six feet long. “We can make good time before the heat, and we can rest the horses at Dunharan.”
“Gorol will come,” Fogrim replied, eyes on the horizon. He wore a fur-lined cloak. His horse was a giant, grey mare with white spots. It stamped on the ground with giant hooves - a war breed. “He will not refuse my call.”
There were thirty horsemen with us. All were farmers, all warriors. They were armed with the giant, Darfuri longbow, a beast of a weapon that needed great strength to draw. On their backs were leather shields and they carried wide, stabbing spears, and axes. All wore either leather or linen armor. Ten of them rode warhorses like Fogrim’s and carried lances at the ready. Skull charms and feathers hung from the lance shafts.
In the center of our group were two cage wagons drawn by ochre-skinned, cart lizards. They carried our supplies and our slave girls. The men had brought around twenty, split between each wagon. They huddled for warmth, their collars chained to the iron bars. Fogrim and I left our slaves at his farm, where we had gone after Zatander’s. However, I had brought Haley, Ashtala, and Galena with me. Galena was ‘Galena’ no more; I had taken that from her. She was now Ina: the Darfuri name for a highland flower with both red and corpse-white flowers. I thought it fitting.
“Gorol knows the way,” the other warrior folded his arms. “If they are coming, then they can follow-”
“I see something!” I leaned forward in my saddle, squinting.
From over a hill came a pack of dots.
“I told you he would come,” Fogrim grinned. “Let us meet them.”
A horn blew and our riders began down the hill. The wagons followed, jerking the slave girls about as they went over rocks. The cart lizards brayed and grumbled. From the approaching dots came an answering horn.
We met the other riders down in the valley, fording a fast-flowing stream. There were twenty of them and another cage wagon. They wore wooden masks and had red and black hieroglyphs painted on to their chests. The man in the lead’s mask was black and ringed with fangs. His chest markings were made over raised scar patterns.
“Is that a priest?” I asked Fogrim riding up alongside him. “A Yoggite priest?”
“Yes,” he replied. “That is Gorol.”
“That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
He didn’t answer.
“Fogrim?”
“I want my son back,” he replied. “If worshiping a false or worthless god brings us good men of arms, I will hold tongue and give no cause for quarrel - for now.”
He urged his horse forward towards the bone-helmed priest. The man made the sign of Yog to him. Fogrim ignored it and clasped his arm instead.
“Forgive us Brother,” said Gorol, lifting up his mask. He was brown-haired and pale, like an Armanean. His accent was as Darfuri as any local highlander’s. “The streams are swollen with melting snow, we had to retrace our steps to find a safe route for the wagon. But, we are here now, Yog be praised!”
“And so you are, Brother,” Fogrim smiled. “I knew nothing would keep you from my call.”
“You flatter me, and yourself. This is a reckoning past due my friend; these weak city-folk: they can worship whatever insects they choose to fear, but not in our lands they won’t. Let no stones of their temples be left standing!”
A lot of the men cheered him. I noticed others of them had scar markings. Some wore ‘maw tooth’ necklaces or had prayer beads woven into their horses’ manes. Gorol’s men weren’t farmers defending their lands. These were crusaders.
The two forces merged and made their way through the valley. Some riders rode ahead to scout. The lancers formed a mass in the center, the three wagons were our baggage train.
I fell back and went to one of the carts.
“Master!” Ina clutched at the bars as I approached, the chain at her collar swinging. Her red hair shone like fire in the morning sun. Her large, purple eyes were imploring.
I rode alongside the cage wagon. Naked slave girls watched me, their eyes wary. Ina reached through the bars at me.
“Contain yourself, whore,” Haley smacked her across the shoulder. The purple-eyed beauty glared at the blonde but drew her hand back.
“I see you two are getting along,” I smiled.
“Of course,” my lovely Siberian blonde answered, shifting her long, tanned, legs. “You have commanded it, after all.”
“There will be work for you when we get to Aymund, Slave. I do not know what we will find there, but busy men will give a prying slave girl no heed. If there possible, I will send you to infiltrate and learn what you can.”
“I will do whatever it needed, Master,” her blue eyes were filled with purpose. “I will not fail.”
“That’s my girl. I know you won’t.”
“And me, Master?” Ina pressed her head between the bars. “What would you have me do?”
“You will do nothing.”
“Yes, Master,” she looked down, the wind leaving her sails.
Haley blew me a kiss as I rode away.
“The purple-eye is an abomination!” a horseman called out, riding up to me. He was of blended skin tones, his accent part Darfuri and part Shemite. Bone charms painted black and ochre were tied in his beard. “She is the offspring of foul things in dark places, crossed with craven demon worshipers. Those eyes are windows into madness!”
“I can assure you she’s all woman,” I replied, “every, fine, moaning bit of her.”
“You should cull it and burn it.”
I gave him a hard look. He looked away and rode off.
I looked back at the wagon. Ina had already sat back down, her back to the bars. Haley though had been watching.
Be careful Master, she mouthed.