Excerpt from "Heroes Arise"

Laurel Anne Hill

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Excerpt from Heroes Arise

by Laurel Anne Hill

To read more excerpts from this book, please visit KOMENAR Publishing's website.

Chapter One

A Blood Alliance

Gundack glanced back into the darkness. His caravan of drivers and sandship lizards had settled for the night and now only awaited his return at Jular Plateau. He would join them again when he had concluded his business at the merchant encampment before him. Crumbled rocks encountered on the climb down irritated the webbing between his toes. Less bothersome though than the predictions of that soothsayer. A human, not a fellow kren, held vital information, if not his very future. Not a desirable situation. Humans were so unpredictable.

Scant moonlight coated the animal-skin tents at the merchant encampment. A jagged black line marred the sloped roof of one tent, the disfigurement like a claw wound festering with rot. The mental association did not bode well. This was the merchant man’s enclosure. Gundack’s transcendent associations and abilities to read fellow beings had often been the difference between success and failure, life and death. But clicked signals of alarm to his tribal kin would not span the distance between Jular Plain and the caravan. He had traveled too far to let potential danger dissuade him.

Gundack grasped the edge of a weathered hide tent flap, pulled the drape back, and ducked his cowl-covered head and broad torso. He stepped from darkness through the tent’s narrow portal into modest luminance and warmth. His shoulder jiggled an inner hide flap, and the crust on his head scales prickled. Something unusual—an object with power—must have brushed against his hood. He looked up. A braid of gut thread dangled from above. An amulet. If only a talisman’s touch could resolve his pressing matter of the heart.

Quivering light arose from a thick, white candle on the tent’s floor. The glow bathed a human’s slender form, the man dressed in a dark robe. The bearded merchant sat cross-legged on a woven mat, eyes half-closed and palms cupped over his exposed knees. He neither looked up nor spoke, as though in some sort of stupor. Mixed aromas of incense and musk filled Gundack’s nose. He scanned the tent. An ordinary walking stick tipped with a trenching spade was the only potential weapon. How unusual for a merchant to travel without a spear or long knife. Especially a human traveling among desert and mountain krens. And where were his sacks of goat hides or metal goods, the items he would have brought to this encampment to sell?

The candle flickered, raising Gundack’s attention to the shape on the hide walls. Such an insignificant shadow this human cast. Barely half the size any kren’s frame would make. A single stroke of Gundack’s claw hand could rip open the human’s belly as easily as a kreness’ blade slashed overripe melons. But no reason to harm this merchant from the northlands. At least, not yet. Attacking a weaker opponent without good cause would bring dishonor. Besides, the human with charcoal-black braids and smooth hands browner than cragweed tea would soon discover hidden knowledge. Or so soothsayers had claimed. That secret could prove more valuable to Gundack than starstone mines in the nearby Divider Mountains.

Starstones. He had more than enough of those sparkling deep blue gems to negotiate the dowry of Eutoebi, the bride of his choice. She would use those stones to support her elderly father. Her father in turn would bless their marriage, allow them to begin a life together and raise krenlings. As many as the gods would allow. No, money wasn’t the problem he faced.

“Peace be with you, brother trader,” Gundack said in the language of the Northmen. His tongue rolled into an awkward curl as he spoke. Gundack should have formed Northmen words with ease. Human and clawkren faces were similar in structure, though krens had boxier jaws and broader tongues. Yet syllables seemed to pour through his nose, even after all these years of practice.

The merchant man blinked as though awakening, then stared up at Gundack, raising his hand toward his mouth. Did Gundack’s stature and claws intimidate him? Kren skin, green and brown, blotchy as fermenting kettlefruit, made some humans uncomfortable. Their external covering was so monochromatic and uninteresting in comparison. More like the chalks among his own kind.

Gundack repeated his greeting. He extended his friendship arms, the smaller two of his four. He slumped his shoulders, bringing his battle appendages to rest against his sides. His ropy tail relaxed and uncoiled. Gundack’s speech might sound strange to this human, but his body would not project a threatening message.

“You must be Gundack of the Red Sands,” the human said in Sandthardian, the dialect of Gundack’s desert tribe. Mistimed tongue clicks and ineffectual throat growls punctuated his words. His pink lips spread in a crooked smile between his mustache and whiskered chin. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Gundack pushed back his hood and studied the human’s odd smile. The merchant man had known he would seek him out? Whispers certainly traveled with speed in the deserts and mountains of Thard. Or, had this human used mottleflower in recent days and received visions from the gods? Gundack’s ears tingled and flattened against the top of his head, an instinctive reflex when something felt wrong. Did mottleflower intoxicate the human now?

The merchant man leaned forward, arms spread, and rose from his cross-legged position to standing. What remarkable balance. Even Eutoebi, a most graceful kreness, could not have accomplished this agile maneuver. He also had great strength in his upper legs, although human muscle power could not match a kren’s.

Gundack’s ears tingled again. He tightened his stomach muscles. His friendship arms remained extended. This human’s help was essential to close a tent flap on the past and open another to his future. Gundack must not demand information before the right time. Water dripped into desert wells at its own rate. He gave the customary hand signal that they should each speak using their own native language and encouraged the man to begin.

“Let me introduce myself properly,” the human said.

The merchant rested his rough, callused palms against Gundack’s upturned friendship hands. How unusual. He offered to open his mind to transcendent perception, the way a kren would. Gundack grunted. He read the human through body warmth, odor, and movements of his hazel eyes. Yes, the man understood and welcomed this custom. Gundack slowed his breathing and felt the man’s wrists for his life pulse. How easy it was to find a human’s pulse. Krens had thicker skin, like leather in comparison. Gundack concentrated, stretching his mind, flowing with the man’s blood to that deep well of thoughts behind the eyes.

This human was not on a journey to buy or sell wares. No wonder sacks of merchandise didn’t crowd this tent. A flash of images. Tarr, the raider kren. Tarr, Gundack’s enemy. Another kren, a young male reminiscent of Kan, Eutoebi’s brother. Wretched Kan. Such fleeting images. Were these visions distorted, or had they arisen from the depths of Gundack’s own mind? And the merchant man guarded many of his thoughts. Still something more. Strength. Focus. Love. This human, too, had a mission. Perhaps one of honor, as well.

“What’s your name?” Gundack said. “And what really brings you here?”

“I am Rheemar,” the merchant said, his voice low and nasal.

He added no name of his home city or village. Was this human more nomadic than the wandering tribes of the desert clawkren? Gundack tightened his friendship hands around Rheemar’s. The human’s crooked smile returned.

“Like you,” Rheemar said, “I have a vow to fulfill.” The man’s pulse pounded against Gundack’s touch. “I seek to destroy Tarr of Larmon.”

Gundack’s heartbeat quickened. His perception had been correct. Tarr. The one who could vanish at will in mountain mist. Now an image from his own life—green and chestnut flesh engulfed by funerary flames, the body of Gundack’s slain wife. Tarr had murdered Talla ten years ago, during a raid of her tribal encampment. Gundack had hunted him ever since, on every trading foray. But Tarr had evaded him. Three moon cycles ago, soothsayer krens had foretold a merchant man would soon discover Tarr’s winter hiding cave. That was why Gundack had traveled here to Jular Plain, where merchants often gathered.

But the soothsayers had mentioned nothing about the merchant’s own desire for vengeance. Something they had not noticed in their visions? Or, something that simply wasn’t there. Tension coiled his tail. Rheemar could be part of a trap set by Tarr or another mountain kren with a grievance against desert tribes. Gundack studied the amber lines in Rheemar’s pupils and felt the texture of his palms.

“What is your quarrel with Tarr?” Gundack asked.

The human’s pulse throbbed with a steady rhythm, neither too fast nor slow. And his odor contained no hint of fear. Yet calmness could be feigned.

“Three years ago,” Rheemar said, “two moons before the season of sandstorms, Tarr raided my village.” He glanced down, toward the woven mats on the tent’s hide floor, then up at Gundack. Fury appeared in the human’s deep-set eyes, like flames leaping from a runaway fire. “Tarr carried off my younger sister. I know not where she is now. Where he is, either.”

Gundack grunted. A young sister taken. But Rheemar hadn’t yet discovered Tarr’s hiding cave. Too bad. Not the news he sought. Gundack’s own hunt for Tarr was widely known. After all, even breezes had carried the tale of Talla’s savage murder to all provinces of Thard. No wonder the merchant had waited for Gundack.

The backs of Gundack’s ears tingled again, even more than they had before. Something about this human and his story didn’t match. Gundack’s friendship hands released their grip on Rheemar. He had perceived all he could by touch tonight. Time to read the human’s words.

“I suspect,” Gundack said, “you’ve heard what Tarr did to my Talla. How I vowed to avenge her and must do so before I remarry.” Should he confide more? No, details would only heighten Rheemar’s concern for his sister. “I understand your loss and fears. We must discuss our needs kren to kren, according to customs of the Red Sands.”

“Do you mean for me to speak in your own language, after all?” Wrinkles pleated the human’s forehead. He tilted his oval head to one side, his expression like that of a krenling puzzled by addition and subtraction.

“Continue speaking in your tongue of comfort,” Gundack said. “But let your lips form words of truth.”

“Oh,” Rheemar said. “Now I understand. We need to share tea.”

Gundack glanced around the tent. A metal water pot sat on heating stones in one corner. No steam seeped from under the lid. The human gestured toward the vessel. Rheemar knew another important clawkren custom. In the Red Desert, all serious discussions began with sharing tea.

“You take care of the water.” Gundack patted the tea pouch tied to his money belt under his robe. “I’ll ready a leaf.”

Rheemar grasped the water pot. Both pot and stones would need warming in the campfire outside. The human’s black braids swung as he ducked his head through the tent’s portal and exited. Gundack removed his hooded cloak and laid the linen on the tent floor. He extracted his tea pouch from under his robe and arranged the medley of pungent, dried leaves on the light brown cowl.

Cragweed would not do today. Cragweed was prized by desert clawkren but often sickened humans. And black nodule sprout might be too bitter. He fingered a curled, yellow leaf with sharp, jagged edges and a faint sweet aroma. Sugarthorn from the northland, larger and more robust than the mountain variety. He would offer this one when the merchant came back with hot water.

Gundack slipped the other leaves into his pouch, holding the cragweed longer than the rest. Cragweed tea was served to seal marriage contracts. Eutoebi would prepare it for him if he succeeded and survived this ordained pilgrimage. And if she continued to honor her vow. But would he return to his home tribe in time for the day of marriages this year?

~~~~~~~~

Gundack knelt on a straw mat, his legs parted. He leaned back against his heels. His tail uncoiled and stretched straight. A ceramic bowl of sugarthorn tea warmed his friendship hands. His claw hands rested beside his knees. This was the customary stance when those with honor discussed issues of leadership, strategy, alliances and customs.

Rheemar knelt and faced Gundack. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other and back again. Tea sloshed in his bowl, like incoming tides against a shoreline. He grinned and shrugged, then reassumed his earlier cross-legged position. As potential allies, Gundack and Rheemar needed to speak as kren to kren. But to do so, the human would have to sit in his own way. Gundack clicked a command to the young merchant, and the man settled.

“When I close my eyes,” Rheemar said, “I keep seeing Jardeen, my sister. She’s brushing her night-black hair, the way she did when I last saw her. Her pupils gleam like starstones in sunlight. So beautiful.”

The human spoke well, not the way men from isolated villages often did. Gundack grunted to show he listened, that he cared what Rheemar said. Such a tragedy to lose a beloved sister. Or a wife.

“Did you search the pleasure dens of Nath and Blane?” Gundack asked. “Raider krens frequently sell their captives in those port cities.” Gundack lifted the tea bowl toward his mouth, bending his short neck down to reach the warm, sweet liquid. “I once rescued a kidnapped krenling in Blane. Not even old enough to know her letters and numbers.”

“Those were the first places I looked,” Rheemar said, squinting his hazel eyes. His slender hands tightened around his tea bowl. “The first of a thousand.”

Rheemar shifted his body and again rose to a kneeling position, facing Gundack as a fellow kren would. His eyes smoldered, as though his pupils were tea leaves pressed against lumps of charcoal.

“To find Jardeen,” Rheemar said, “alive or not, I must find Tarr.”

Gundack nodded. This merchant spoke with sincerity. Yet why did Gundack’s ears keep tingling? He would propose a plan, then see what he could learn when Rheemar responded.

“Clawkren, whether of desert or mountain tribes, are most vulnerable during the season of sandstorms,” Gundack said. “We often sleep for several days at a time. I’m sure you know that. If you find Tarr’s winter cave, you can bind him while he sleeps. Amputate his claws. Put out his eyes. Give him no water until you learn where he put your sister.”

“I can’t hold off until this winter.” Rheemar sipped his tea, then placed his bowl on the mat. His upper teeth dug into his lower lip. “Too much time has passed already. I need your help. No one else will do.”

“Please elaborate,” Gundack said. “I’m not the only kren who seeks to bury Tarr alive.”

“Please don’t ask me to explain,” Rheemar said, his eyes wild, face lit with youthful uncertainty. “Not yet.”

Gundack sucked the last of his tea from his bowl with a slurping sound. This conversation was not productive. Only two moon cycles remained until the day of marriages, only three until the season of sandstorms. How could their search of the mountains this year prove fruitful, even if they worked well together?

“You said you didn’t know where Tarr is . . . now.” A tension spread through Gundack’s body. “Might you know where Tarr will find shelter before the sandstorms begin?”

“Perhaps,” Rheemar whispered. His gaze darted around the tent, as though he feared someone hid within the shadows. “Yes, I think so.”

“You think so?” Gundack clicked, rasped, growled and grunted a string of unflattering remarks. “Why, by the Red Sands, didn’t you tell me before?”

“The location of Tarr’s cave is dangerous information.” Rheemar’s voice was unsteady. “Many krens have said you are honorable, but I don’t know you. Maybe you would betray me. How can I be sure? We have no pact of loyalty.”

“You want a pact?” Gundack flared his nostrils and laughed. “Pacts are made when two warring tribes make a peace agreement. This is not the same situation. There are some odd things called friendship and trust in the Red Desert. Through the years, I’ve found them quite useful.”

“But both take time to develop,” Rheemar said. “Would you trust me with your life right now?”

“I know I wouldn’t trust your judgment.”

“A pact,” Rheemar said, “would force the issue.”

Did Rheemar have any idea what he was asking? Gundack had been kneeling too long. He stood, then stretched his battle arms above his head. His claws tapped the wooden rod supporting the tent’s ceiling. A pact—a blood alliance—with a brother kren was one thing. But between a kren and a human? That could displease the gods. Was this merchant crazy?

“Do you know what will happen,” Gundack said, “if our blood runs into each other’s veins and something goes wrong with our bodies? We would be better off dying by the claws of Tarr.”

“I understand the consequences,” Rheemar said, his expression one of small, squeezed eyes and vertical lines between the brows. “Consequences fill my life.”

A desert pact. Sealed in front of witnesses. If one lived through the process and later betrayed the trust—even accidentally—the punishment would be a horrific death. The betrayer buried alive in sand, the soul unable to travel to the Cave of Spirit Echoes until the corpse decayed to dust. Ordinary alliances based on family or friendship were better. Each allowed room for mistakes and forgiveness. This pact that Rheemar wanted was better suited to those who were young—and filled with desires to become heroes.

An image of Eutoebi crept into Gundack’s mind. Her green and crimson head scales gleamed like polished jewels. Her sensuous spotted lips beckoned him toward her tent and into her four arms. He had no illusions about becoming a hero. He only sought to slay Tarr and soon, then travel to the Mountain of the Dead to obtain Talla’s blessing. After that he could make the long journey home to Eutoebi. Honorable actions would be rewarded with an opportunity to again enjoy a loving wife.

“Let us sleep on our thoughts.” Gundack rested his friendship hands upon the merchant’s shoulders. “And, if a blood alliance is the only solution to both of our dilemmas, we had best pray hard at sunrise.”