Chapter 14: The Army of Vurkhatan

 

The Army of Vurkhatan: Chapter 14

“Excuse me,” Skinner approached the ranking Diahlarite officer at the Vurkhatan docks.

“What?” The man stared down at Skinner. He was a head taller and looked twenty years younger. Skinner guessed him at six-four, around two-twenty. His armor was a cumbersome jumble of plates and chain.

“I’ll take that,” Skinner pointed to the documentation the officer held.

“Scribe?” The officer gave him a confused look.

“Nope,” Skinner shook his head. “General of the Vurkhatan Resistance.”

“Oh, really,” the young officer cocked his eyebrow and smirked at the older man. “There is no Vurkhatan Resistance.”

“Is now,” Skinner nodded, keeping his expression bland. “As you are in our sovereign territory, I am afraid I must confiscate your supply train here.”

“You and what army?” The officer laughed scornfully and motioned his guards to close in.

“No army,” Skinner shrugged. “Don’t need one.”

“Then how do you propose to enforce your eviction of the Urgatha’s Ninth?”

“Figured I would appeal to your sense of fairplay?” Skinner offered him a quixotic smile.

“Buttonhead!” The officer shoved Skinner, but his hand slipped past as Skinner twisted to avoid it.

“Let’s not be rude about it,” Skinner clicked his tongue. Kandor suddenly filled his right fist.

“Parlor tricks?” The soldiers drew their swords. “I’m losing my patience, old man. Now leave my docks or I’ll have you put in stocks in the square.”

“Gentlemen.” Skinner swept them with a withering sapphire stare, then smiled genially. He spoke expansively in a voice intended to carry to everyone near enough to hear. “I have no desire to embarrass or cause you undue pain. However, I must insist that you forfeit your arms, armor, and supplies to the Vurkhatan Resistance forthwith.”

A crowd of sailors and tradesmen gathered to witness the spectacle. As more soldiers arrived, more of the dock workers joined the crowd of spectators. Several watched with flinty gazes, muttering to their fellows and questioning the right of Diahlar to rule them. Sensing the crowd’s growing tension, the officer paled and advanced on Skinner.

“We’ve had enough of your crazed raving.” He signaled to his men. “Arrest him!”

“By what authority?” A tall, broad shouldered man stepped from the crowd. His clothing suggested leadership by wealth, but no insignia bespoke rank.

“Arrest this man, too!” The officer shot a menacing look around the crowd. “Anyone else care to question my authority?”

“No question.” Skinner smiled madly now. “You have none here.”

“Well said!” A rough looking group surrounded the man who had stepped forward.

“There will be no arrests on my dock,” the man said quietly. “You and your men are here on my welcome.”

“As commanded by the Urgatha!” the officer snapped, urging his hesitant soldiers forward.

“Colonel Kyvethae,” the man stared calmly at the officer, ignoring the advancing soldiers. “Kyvethae. You are hereby evicted from the city of Vurkhatan. Take your horses and your soldiers and leave.”

“Draxmor,” the officer stepped forward, pointing his sword at the other. “I hereby claim the city of Vurkhatan as the property of her Worship, the Urgatha of Diahlar. You are my prisoner.”

A moment of silence like a death knell fell over the docks. And then mayhem exploded along the waterfront. Draxmor suddenly had his fist clenched around Kyvethae’s windpipe, the young officer pale and unmoving. Several soldiers who had moved to enforce Kyvethae’s will were either fighting for their lives or lying on the dock in various states of injury. Others of the soldiers threw their swords down and stripped the insignia from their uniforms, realizing too late that the milling crowd had clogged the docks to the point of making swordplay nearly impossible. Skinner stood over three unconscious soldiers, a maniacal grin on his face and a bright red line on his chin slowly dripping blood.

“Enough!” Skinner’s voice reverberated over the waterfront. Everyone stopped to stare at him.

“I am Skinner,” he bowed to Draxmor, using sorcery to augment the conversation for everyone to hear. “The Daughter of Sunset, queen of the griffons, has sent me to raise an army in defense of the Vurhk and its clans. Who among you will join us?”

“Skinner, is it?” Draxmor nodded. “Heard of you.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance,” Skinner bowed, his smile boyishly mischievous.

“Draxmor of Vurhkatan.” He nodded only slightly, his eyes shadowed with suspicion. “What makes you think we want anything to do with your war?”

“What has just transpired tells me much,” Skinner looked around at the still rapt crowd. “I came here today from the Island, and all throughout the town I have heard dark murmurs against the City of the Sun. I witnessed no fewer than thirty misuses of power by these soldiers. It takes little genius to conclude that the atmosphere is rife for rebellion.”

“Rebellion,” Draxmor nodded, waving to his fellows to cheer the idea on.

“Yes,” he said after a moment of chanting from the crowd. “Rebellion—but that is not served by running off to the Vurhk.”

“Is it not?” Skinner opened his eyes wide, as though in astonishment. “Do you think the Urgatha will hesitate a moment to send her armies here?”

“We’ll be waiting,” Draxmor said, accompanied by cheers and leers from his fellows.

“Bad strategy.” Skinner shook his head as though considering this for the first time. “See, with the clans, you have at least three advantages.”

“What would those be?” Another man in dress similar to Draxmor’s stepped forward.

“First, the Vurhk is stony and rough—excellent for a smaller force to overwhelm a larger one.” Skinner rubbed his chin, turning his focus inward as though seriously considering the things he had spent the afternoon mulling over carefully from numerous perspectives. “The city here is built to welcome folks, not to keep invaders at bay. Then there’s the Vurhk themselves; leave them to themselves and they’ll be destroyed. But go to them as allies, and you’ll remain allies into perpetuity.

“Then there is the fact that I march with you,” he smiled hugely.

“So?” Draxmor glared at him through narrowed eyes.

“So.” Skinner looked around as though there were anyone to overhear. “So I’m guessing that the Urgatha is not going to turn her pet drastyn out to the wilderness as soon as she finishes the clans.”

He gave the idea of a drastyn time to settle in before continuing.

“I can handle the drastyn,” he said, scratching his chin again. “Unless anyone else around here cares to try.”

“What makes you think—” Draxmor was looking doubtful now.

“No, Drax,” the other gentleman put a hand on Draxmor’s arm. “He’s done it. He killed one up there on the island. A crawler, too. Wingless.”

“That right?” Draxmor looked at Skinner with far greater respect—and equal distrust.

“Yes,” Skinner nodded. “I was young and foolish at the time. But I know now just how to handle them.”

“How’s that?” Draxmor leaned in close to hear his answer.

“Banish them to the Molliandran,” Skinner nodded curtly as though it were undeniable.

“Maybe you’re a liar,” Draxmor stepped forward now to look down at Skinner with the same kind of intimidation Kyvethae had used.

“Of course I am,” Skinner cackled. “I’m a buttonhead, too. That’s the truth. But the question you have to ask yourself is this: am I wrong?”

Draxmor looked around suddenly, losing track of the older man. Skinner took two steps left and two forward, using sorcery to disguise the movement, and then tapped on Draxmor’s shoulder with the head of his staff.

“You have a resident sorcerer?” Skinner asked casually.

“He was called back to Diahlar,” Draxmor frowned.

“Did he go?” Skinner was taken aback.

“We heard—” the other man cut in, but Skinner stopped him with a swift motion of his staff.

“Name yourself,” Skinner snapped.

“Orexmor of Vurkhatan,” he said, and bowed. Skinner noted now that he bore the same high cheekbones and stony chin as Draxmor, as well as sea-blue eyes and muscular frame. “We heard that Savan disappeared mysteriously on his return to Diahlar.”

“Figures—but enough chitchat,” Skinner smiled. “So. Who’s to be commander of the Vurkhatan Resistance?”

“Thought you were the General,” Draxmor said quietly, astonished.

“I’ll lead a vanguard,” Skinner told him. “But we need someone here to organize the main force and lead them to the Vurhk.”

“Right,” Orexmor smiled brightly, slapping Draxmor on the shoulder. “My cousin here is obviously the only one suited to it. Way to go, Drax.”

“Fine,” Draxmor drawled, gazing around and collecting his thoughts. “Rexy, you lead the vanguard with our esteemed liberator here.”

He sprang lightly to the top of a stack of cargo where he could address the crowd.

“Gentlemen of Vurkhatan,” he called with a strong voice, one given to command. The crowd cheered. “I need every able-bodied man to make his way—HOLD!

“Here’s how we’re going to do this: veterans and mercenaries first, beginning with defectors from the Urgatha’s armies; then men not already commissioned on vessels; and, after the second candle, boys of sturdy construction able to carry supplies and tend a camp.”

With a quick word to the two leaders, Skinner left to find his own supplies. On word from Orexmor, he sought out a merchant named Garrathol of the Dark Tribes. He found the man’s shop easily enough, but it was closed when he arrived. He beat on the door with the butt of his staff until a light came on in an upper window.

“Cease that incessant racket!” Shutters slammed open and a gnarly haired head popped out, white eyes shining in the candle light.

“Oh! It is one of the robed . . . and I see you have a glorious stick! One moment, my friend.”

“Wonderful collection . . .” Skinner picked up a small box that looked at first like a compass.

“That is junk” Garrathol said apologetically, taking it smoothly from Skinner’s hand and replacing it with a bone wand. “This, however, is very strong magic for you. You—”

“Nonsense,” Skinner tossed the wand aside, picking the compass back up. “I’m not looking for wands, thank you. I need weapons—”

“What do you seek?”

Skinner looked up from studying the compass, smiling brightly and shrugging. “Actually, I have no money . . .”

“No . . .” the dark little man stared at him as though he were crazy for a moment. “Money. Who needs silly little disks with suns and moons on them? What can you barter?”

“What do you want?” Skinner moved to a table and sat down with the gadget, searching a moment through the motley clutter until he found a tool that sufficed.

“Oh . . .” Garrathol nodded his head back and forth as though trying to think of what he might be able to barter from him. “Hey! Don’t break my . . .”

He reached to grab the box from him, but Skinner knocked the greedy hand away.

“You want it to work?”

“Work?” Garrathol recoiled as though he had been cuffed. “What mean you by this? ‘Work’?”

“You know,” Skinner shrugged. “Work. Function. Carry out its purpose.”

“You know this device?” Garrathol held his hands out together in supplication.

“Invented it.” Skinner nodded, searching his pockets, eventually finding the small stone he wanted. He reached another tool and began to work the stone into a double pyramid. “Some yahoo put the wrong stones in the wrong order.”

“I was told . . .” Garrathol accepted the newly repaired arcameter with reverent hands. “I was told that this would guide me to great items of power.”

“Is that what led you to the bone wand?” Skinner pondered the thought.

“Yes,” Garrathol nodded adamantly. “It did. And has not since moved—as it does so strongly toward your staff just now.”

“Here,” Skinner walked over and picked up the bone wand again. “Given a clear stone, a polished button of amber, and a sliver of silver to core this with, I can make something of this wand.”

“What?” Garrathol was mesmerized.

“A lie detector,” Skinner chuckled. Garrathol crowed, racing to a storage room and then back with a clear crystal, then making the trip twice more to offer Skinner what he had requested.

“Half my shop,” Garrathol nodded adamantly. “Make this for me and up to half my possessions are yours.”

“I don’t think I’ll need that much,” Skinner held his hand out to the little man.

“What do you seek?”

“Simple, really. Short list . . .” Skinner handed him a list written with charstick on worn lizardskin.

“I shall find these things,” Garrathol nodded, patting Skinner affectionately on the shoulder and then kissing him excitedly on the cheek. “Truth finds friends, my good man. And you have found a true friend in Garrathol Wanderer.”

Skinner smiled wearily as Garrathol left to fill his list. He took a deep breath and applied himself to the infusion of Garrathol’s Wand of Truth. He worked the magic in as he polished the stones, rushing somewhat to coax the strands of silver up through the hardened marrow and weaving his sorcery throughout to bind the properties.

“Skinner?” someone was poking him in the ribs. Skinner raised his head to find a worried Garrathol staring at him. “Some things I have had to substitute, but all that you requested is here.”

“Substitute?” Skinner tried to clear his head. “Not the herbs and such?”

“No,” Garrathol shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Being of the Dark Tribes, I know about these things. Too great a danger in mixing what should not be mixed.”

“Well,” Skinner smiled wanly, “some of these are for things that should not be mixed.”

“As we say in the desert forests, poison is the tall-maker,” Garrathol grinned.

“And your folk call me a savage.” Skinner stood and stretched, looking for the goods Garrathol was supposed to have for him.

“They are outside,” Garrathol said. “Loaded on two good riding ponies and led by two of my favorite slaves.”

“I don’t cotton to slavery,” Skinner growled, frowning at the little merchant.

“Will they not prosper by your acquaintance?” Garrathol argued amiably. “They were my slaves; now your freemen servants. They have no path upon which to set their feet but yours.”

“Ponies?” Skinner groaned. “I hate traveling on horses . . .”

“Well-mannered, I assure you,” Garrathol pushed him toward the door. “You must go now. Garrathol needs his sleep, and Captain Orexmor summons you to ride with the vanguard.”

Skinner made his way out in the darkness to his waiting entourage. He handed his staff to Garrathol, explaining that the staff would come to him when he needed it, and that Garrathol would know by its disappearance that Skinner had met the enemy. Along with his two slaves, he made his way to the greater caravan of the vanguard of Vurkhatan’s first army.

On the road, he was happy to find that Garrathol had outdone himself. The little merchant had actually found Skinner a kulu-horn bow of adequate pull. He found also that he had not one but three spears of excellent workmanship—Dahlish ironwood hafts with quarter-tang Kota-Ruhu steel warheads. Skinner explained to his two young companions, Garrathol’s former slaves, that these warheads were superior to the one he had used to kill Tang Jan Dun because the steel was harder overall despite being lighter—and held an edge better.

“Remind me to shave these wicked barbs,” he told Klem, the younger of the two. “Too cruel. If I can’t get a clean kill . . .”

“Do you think your enemy will consider how clean is his kill?” the older, Koryn, asked.

“You people need a serious course in ethics and civilized war,” Skinner huffed, rummaging through his packs to see what else he had for supplies.

“When we stop to brush the horses down,” Klem told him, “I will size and tailor your armor while Koryn tends all else.”

“Armor?” Skinner looked him a question.

“Master . . . Our former master tells us that you prefer guweg hide to clanging metal,” Klem nodded.

“Klem,” Skinner beamed at him, “you are indispensable already. Why do you think I might prefer guweg to earthbone, as you of the Tribes call it?”

“Simple,” Klem shrugged. “It conceals better. It moves better. It costs considerably less . . .”

“It makes less noise,” Skinner said gruffly. “I hate the clanging of steel armor.”

“It is also considerably cooler,” Koryn commented sagely. They had come to the lowest point of the plains immediately west of the Vurhk, and the still air clung to them with warm moisture. Skinner nodded agreement, fanning his robe to cool himself.

“Does either of you know your way around a weapon?” He asked, knowing the answer.

“We were told you knew of the Tribes,” Klem looked at him, confusion battling affront on his features.

“I spent a summer there,” Skinner said, shrugging, coy. In truth, he had spent more than a dozen years with various tribes, learning their lore and history as well as isolating himself from Diahlar.

“Then you know that slaves—”

“Southern or northern?” Skinner glanced at him, adjusting his butt in the saddle again to keep his seat.

“Oh,” Koryn laughed tensely. “Of course. You do not differentiate the Tribes from the Wanderers.”

“Of course,” Skinner said sardonically.

“We of the Tribes have true traditions,” Klem was serious beyond his years. Skinner guessed the two at twelve and fifteen, but age was always hard to guess with the Tribes and Wanderers. “Every slave is taught to wield the reaper and volfang. And Koryn here can match anyone with a tsuda.”

“Tsuda?” Skinner looked him a question.

“Tribal long spear—like yours but thinner and half again as long,” Koryn explained. “A reaper is a curved blade like the sun-worshipers use to reap their grain, and the volfang is one side axe and one hammer—like this one. And they are all of bonewood and stone. No metal. Master . . . he gave me this volfang for my Leaping day; it has a crystal and riverstone head.”

Skinner nodded sagely, trying not to recall the bizarre rites of passage he had witnessed with the Tribes and Wanderers. Koryn’s reference to his Leaping day nauseated Skinner, who had seen too many such rites end in disaster. The Tribes valued unconcerned courage, and to prove themselves the young men dared the most outrageous rites their families or masters would allow. The Leaping ceremony was one of the most dangerous. Not that it needed be so, but because there was a great deal of intoxication involved. Family members or fellow slaves were responsible for weaving the ropes used in the rite, but they engaged in the weaving after moonset on nights replete with marlbutton and a sort of liquor made from cactus fermented with half-chewed fruit pulp and saliva.

“Lucky you didn’t split your fool head—” he began darkly.

“Oh!” Koryn crowed. “But I did. See!” He held his hair up to show Skinner a scar that ran from his squinty left eye up the bronze flesh of his scalp to trail off into a thick cluster of cocoa colored hair.

“May I see your volfang?” Skinner reached his hand out for it and Koryn pulled the pony he and Klem rode over close enough to make it a risk-free handoff. Skinner inspected it in the moonlight, which was falling off as the moon tilted toward its resting place beyond the horizon. He hummed to himself, kneading the head of the weapon in his hands and working spells through the materials.

“Very impressive,” Skinner smiled, handing the volfang back to its owner. “Now we just need a good supply of tsudas.”

“Tsuda,” Klem chuckled. “No tsuda-s; one, two, or ten tsud-a.”

“Do you have one?” Skinner asked, his expression neutral.

“No,” Klem pouted.

“Then shut up about it,” Skinner snapped, kicking his pony into a gallop so that they would not see his smile.

Reviews

[Calibaster]

That ... was a lot of dialogue, but I liked it! very good descriptions, way better than the ones in my book!