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Chronicles of Arborell, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
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 Tomas stared at the sky above and tried to make some sense of where he was. Pain drilled at his temples and spread across his face with an intensity that threatened to topple him back into unconsciousness, but he fought desperately against it, grasping in the darkness for any thread of recognition that he might use to pull himself from his confusion. He could remember nothing of what had happened to him, just fleeting impressions of violence and movement, and of pain, a never ending agony that infected his thoughts and reduced everything about him to nothing more than mist and shadow.
From somewhere within his confusion however, a single point of light took a hold of his consciousness and the Kalborean fought to bring its soft glow into sharper clarity. As he did so he began to notice movement around him, of forms shifting in the darkness, quiet and careful in their progress, and of a smell, something rich and spicy, but alien to him.
Gradually the world around him solidified and he came to realise that he was laying on his back, facing the sky. Above him the radiance of the moons of Arborell shone out, illuminating the ground with a pale yellow glow that lightened the gloom of night and exposed his surroundings. He stiffened as he realised he was surrounded on all sides by rows of neatly ordered tents, piles of stacked equipment and ranks of sleeping Hresh Warriors. Somehow he had awoken in the midst of a Hordim encampment.
As the shock of his whereabouts settled within him he closed his eyes and feigned sleep. For a moment fear gripped him, questions running through his mind as he tried to fathom how he could have awoken within the ranks of a sleeping foe. Confusion replaced fear as cluttered images of violence and death filled his thoughts, but he could make no sense of it, his mind still a mire of broken memory unable to find coherence. Something was wrong though.
As he lay upon the cold grass he could feel something working at his consciousness. It was more than just a blow to the head that had kept him unable to awaken, a bitter taste in his mouth a clue telling him that he had been drugged, and even as he tried to clear his thoughts he could feel it potency withdrawing from his limbs, allowing him to move his fingers and toes.
Carefully Tomas checked his body, stiffening the muscles in his arms and legs and breathing deeply to find any source of pain in his torso. He was shackled by his right ankle but seemed uninjured. However, as he moved his head hammer-blows of agony raced across his forehead and down into his jaw. He was clearer of mind now and whereas before the pain had aggravated his confusion, making him retreat into a safer place and disentangling him from the dangers of the world outside, it now brought clarity, hammering his thoughts with a myriad of images and emotions.
Like a veil lifting, a torrent of memories crowded back into his consciousness. The fires of Callenfrey rose fresh in his mind, the desperate battle against the Hresh Warband, a fleeting vision of a Guardsman holding a spear, the smoke and flames, all jostled for prominence in his mind, but it was the voice of Madame Sandofel that cut through it all.
"Find my Shemwe," she had said as he had been leaving his fiancee's home, and all he could feel was an overwhelming sense of failure each time the words were uttered in his thoughts. What had happened in Callenfrey once he had been rendered unconscious was unknown to him. Whether Shemwe was still alive was a question he could not answer, but he did know one thing, he had failed to find her, failed to bring her back to her mother, and that was a failure that cut deep at his own sense of honour.
For most of his life he had owned nothing of value except his reputation, and even in the comfortable life he had made with his brother he was known as a man who kept his word, no matter what the consequences of the promise given. It had stood both of the Cael Brothers in good stead as they had built their business in the merchant community of Callenfrey, and he had never failed to live up to a pledge. At the very root of his own self-worth the knowledge that he had failed to personally bring Shemwe home gnawed at him, twisting his stomach in knots even as he lay prone within the Hresh encampment. He had been captured by the Hordim, of this he was now sure. In such a state of captivity he would not be able to find her, he could not even save himself.
For a time he lay motionless, listening to the noises of quiet activity about him. It was night and a cool wind was blowing from the north. He could hear the breeze rustling a hedgerow of high bushes nearby, cicadas calling from within the undergrowth, and he was sure he could hear running water, a cascade of falling liquid that fell from some nearby point into a pool at its base. Most importantly though he listened for the sounds of his captors. They made little in the way of noise but in the light of Elanna and Shabel he had seen dozens of them, camped about him as they slept away the night.
Carefully he opened one eye and looked about. Those Hresh that were close seemed asleep, only a few sentries stood at the outer edge of the tent-rows, silent sentinels unmoving as they focused their attention on the terrain surrounding the encampment. With no response to his movement from those around him he raised his head slightly and took a better look at the nature of his circumstances. What he found left him dismayed.
He was in the middle of a very large group of Hordim that numbered in the hundreds. The ground in all directions covered in the forms of sleeping Hresh, a nearby ruined temple crowded with creatures, each of its crumbling levels packed with quiet warriors. To his right he could hear the rush of a waterfall, pouring its shimmering waters down into a wide lake, and in the breeze he felt the closeness of a forest to his left. The temple was unknown to him. He had no idea where he was.
At all sides he was surrounded, and in the dark he lay still, his thoughts a melee of competing ideas as to how he might escape. There was one problem though, the shackle at his ankle held him tightly, and a leash of plaited leather led from his leg into the closest group of warriors. He could not doubt that at the other end of the leather strap lay someone who was responsible for his captivity. The hopelessness of the situation did not escape him but he was not a man who let Providence guide his destiny. Tomas would not spend one day as a slave, and if that was to be his fate then he would take matters into his own hands and take as many of his enemies as he could with him to the grave. He did not know however, if he had the courage to do so. It was then, in a moment of bravado, that he determined to find out.
Tomas carefully arose from the ground and sat hunched in the dark. For a moment he could do nothing, his head afire with red-hot needles that skewered their way along his nerves, but the pain lessened quickly in its intensity. Whatever drug had been administered to him was wearing off, and rather than keeping him asleep was providing a measure of relief to the ache at his temples. For that at least he was thankful. When he had regained some clarity in his thoughts he grabbed at the leash and slowly began to pull its length towards him. He wasn't completely sure what he should expect. The tether was long, and as he pulled in its length he found no resistance until it suddenly became taut. None of the sentries had raised an alarm at his movements, all had their attention focused into the surrounding forest and hedgerows. The Kalborean knew he was about to do something foolhardy, but he could not conceive of any possible future as a captive of the Horde except slavery. There was simply no other reason he could think of for his capture. For Tomas that was unthinkable. He would rather die.
With both hands he grabbed the leash and wrenched it with all his might. From out of the huddled forms came a cry of surprise and then a shout of outrage, followed by the rising of a huge form from the darker mounds of the Hresh. Like a ripple the Hordim came to life as each was awakened by the next. Tomas took the moment of confusion to rise to his feet and start shouting like a madman, but he did not wait for the Hordim to quell his cries. With the loose tether in his hands he ran to the nearest Hresh and grabbed at a scimitar that lay at the creature's side. In one swift rise and fall of the huge sword he threw its sheath out into the awakening encampment and then cut cleanly through the leather at his ankle. He had determined that he was not going to be anyone's slave.
In those first few moments Tomas realised that there were no avenues of escape open to him. The sentries were the first to react and they came for him at a rush. He wielded the scimitar with both hands, swinging it recklessly from side to side in an attempt to hold these few Hordim at bay. Then he turned and ran. Rather than try and fight a pitched battle he forced his way deeper into the encampment and started hacking at anything that moved. The effect was instantaneous. In the dark of the night Tomas stabbed and cut at any target that presented itself, and in the sudden confusion brought down three of the warriors as he weaved between tents and piled equipment. The retribution of the Hordim would be swift but that was expected, Tomas knew his resistance could only end in a violent death, but blood was pounding at his temples, his desperation fuelling his muscles as he ran into the midst of the still awakening warriors and hacked at them with all the strength he could muster. In his wake he left a mounting toll of injured Hresh, some of whom lay badly wounded, their cries of pain adding to the confusion that allowed him to cause so much damage before he was finally contained.
In a chorus of cries and alarms the encampment erupted into life and the Kalborean immediately found himself on the defensive. Warriors came at him from all directions and his sword sliced from left to right as he cut them down, but still they crowded in about him. It was only as he stood fast, cornered against the crumbling stone of the Temple that he realised that none of the Hordim had drawn weapons against him. In their eyes however, he could see only death and his hope was that it would be quick.
Then, from the crowding Hordim came a single command that rose clearly above the taunts and insults of the crowding warriors.
"P'arj! P'arj Hresh'na, ha'es mar vehmin!"
The Hresh immediately stopped their advance and looked to the back of their number. The tone of the command compelled obedience, and they fell back, opening the way for a huge Hresh Chieftain who strode through the parting throng and stood before the young Kalborean. For a moment Tomas froze, his scimitar held above his head as he watched the advance of the Hordim. The Hresh was tall and well-muscled, his face scarred by more than one blade, his skin darkened by years of harsh exposure to the suns of Arborell. He was dressed in blackened battle-armour and wore a blue coloured tunic beneath his breast-plate. All who stood before him fell away as he stopped an arms-length in front of Tomas and crossed his arms.
"I do not know your name vehmin, and I do not care who you are. You stand before Ansolon'Denmar, Chieftain of the Denmar Kraal and master of your destiny. It is only one word from me that holds back my warriors. It would be in your best interest to put the sword down."
Tomas raised the scimitar higher and made no move to relinquish it. Instead he struck out at the Hresh Chieftain with his sword, a heavy blow that would surely have left a lethal injury on the Hordim if it had been allowed to hit its target. Ansolon'Denmar was not about to take the blow willingly. With a swift movement of his huge arm he hit the blade of the scimitar away with a mailed fist, then pulled the weapon straight from Tomas' hands with the other. In that instant the Hresh warriors closed in about their commander but he waved them back.
In the ensuing silence the Chieftain threw the sword into the ground at his side and turned back to the Kalborean. Tomas shrunk back against the cold stone of the Temple and awaited his death. At least, he thought, he had achieved his objective, some of the Hresh would be following him to the afterlife. Ansolon'Denmar however, had other plans for the Kalborean and he was not about to give his enemy what he wanted. In his eyes was a smouldering fury, his mailed fists were gripped tightly by his side, but he did not retaliate.
"You will find my friend that a warrior's spirit holds great value here, but it will not save you from your own stupidity. Do that again and I will cut you to pieces, then feed you to my Voercats."
Ansolon'Denmar turned again to the assemblage of his warriors and called into their number.
"Trem'Alindae, M'aarj!"
Again a tremor ran through the warriors and the chieftain waited as a huge, but aged Hresh was brought before him. Two warriors forced the creature to its knees and then retreated. Tomas got the impression that discipline was about to be enforced against the old Hordim, and it had a lot to do with the trouble he had just caused.
"Trem'Alindae, heyt da vehmin yo carum?" The Chieftain pointed at Tomas and the Hresh nodded. The Kalborean could see that the Hordim was not cowed. There was pride in the old warrior, and as he watched the scene play itself out in the gloom he could sense the Hresh was simply waiting for whatever punishment fate might deal him.
Ansolon'Denmar did not hesitate. With a punch that would have killed any man he hit the kneeling Hordim with his mailed fist, striking him squarely across the side of the head. The force of the blow toppled the Hresh to the ground but the creature picked himself up and stood, although groggily, before his commander. Then the Chieftain addressed his warriors.
"Hresh'na dof Kraal Denmar, behuldes Trem'Alindae, ne'es vidut honorum. Spehka nuht hem'nema untat hem redem'na. Par Hresh'na raltah honorum e bellum!"
With these last words the Hresh stood to attention and then returned to the re-ordering of their encampment. Tomas was left alone, only Ansolon'Denmar and the old Hresh standing by him. The old Hresh had his head bowed but the look in his eyes told Tomas that he had been humiliated, and that it was to the young Kalborean that he looked for revenge. The Chieftain spoke quietly to the Hresh who then disappeared into the darkness, before again turning to the Kalborean.
"You have caused Trem'Alindae to lose respect within his Kraal, and this will not be forgotten by him vehmin. It is fortunate for you that the orders I must follow require you alive, or else I would have had you killed out of hand. You are a captive and you will comply with orders given. Do you understand my words?
Tomas looked the Hresh directly in the eyes and felt the unrestrained violence that such a creature could perpetrate, but he did not retreat. "A swift death would have been far more preferable to another day of breathing the same stinking air as your warriors."
Ansolon'Denmar bristled but stayed his hand. Instead he grabbed Tomas roughly by the neck and dragged him through the camp until he had him at the entrance to a large tent that had been erected beyond the Temple. Behind him the waterfall cascaded down from the cliffs above and over the crash of its waters the Hresh Chieftain spoke into Tomas' ear. There was a vehemence in his words that left no reason for doubt.
"There is more at stake here than you could possibly know boy. You will comply with my wishes or I will kill everybody in this tent, of this you can be absolutely certain."
With that he threw back the covers at its entrance and pushed Tomas into the tent's dark interior. Only a small lamp flared in the gloom but it was enough for him to make out the huddled shapes of three people sitting upon its cold grassy floor. The young Kalborean drew in his breath as he struggled against the iron grip of the Hresh. One of the shapes was Shemwe.
"Tomas?" A voice whispered in the darkness, its rasping call nothing more than a breathless expulsion of hope. Tomas recognised her, but he was held tight by Ansolon. Before he could reply the Hresh forced him back outside and then threw him to the ground. He had seen that the Kalborean had recognised one of the captives and he was going to use that to his advantage.
"These vehmin are nothing but civilians, cattle fit only for slaughter. I will kill them the moment I believe they are of no further value to me. Give me any reason to do so and I will have them killed. Do you understand that their safety depends completely upon your compliance? Raise a hand against any of my warriors again and they will all die. Do you understand?"
Tomas nodded, the shock of seeing his beloved huddled in fear in the dark leaving him speechless. In that moment he found a new focus to his existence, one where he must do everything to stay alive. His Shemwe had been caught in the same net as himself and it would be up to him, and only him, to see her back to safety. Without thinking he tried to re-enter the tent but was stopped by the emergence of Trem'Alindae out of the shadows to his left. The old Hresh had a new tether in hand and he quickly fastened it to Tomas' leg. Ansolon'Denmar grabbed Tomas by the shoulder and squeezed his collar-bone until the pain forced the Kalborean down on to one knee.
"Trem'Alindae is your keeper. You are his responsibility until such time as you meet your fate. Do everything he says and do not attempt to escape. Any trouble on your part will lead to the death of you all!"
The commander left Tomas outside the tent, tethered to his keeper. He wanted to get inside and talk to Shemwe but Trem'Alindae had other ideas. He had been given the task of controlling the captive and had been humiliated by his commander for not doing so. This time he was going to take no chances. Without warning the Hresh punched the Kalborean across the jaw, knocking him senseless and toppling him to the ground. As Tomas fell he could hear the Hresh laughing quietly and then everything was again black.
Days passed and Tomas remained unaware of their passage. In a progression of day and night the Kalborean felt nothing, his mind struggling to counter the effects of a foul liquid that the old Hresh forced into his mouth at every rest the Warband took. It kept his mind addled and his vision confused, incapable of thought or feeling, unable to recognise where he was being taken. To the Kalborean the world was a disorderly march of shadows from which he could not escape, and in this state Trem'Alindae kept his captive quiet, unaware of his surroundings and compliant.
For Tomas however, captured within the vague walls of his potion-induced prison only one thought found its way to coherence. Out of the veils and mists of his dreaming he took hold of the one thought that he could use to fight against the power of the drug that coursed through his system. And like the light of the moons before he found himself rising from an ocean of confusion, gripped tightly by a promise that he had made, and one for which he had no intention of breaking.
"Find my Shemwe" came the words once again, pounding into his mind, obscuring all other considerations. The look of despair on Madam Sandofel's face burned its way back into his consciousness and there he once again found something to hold on to. In his prison he began to harden his resolve and fight the effects of the Hordim's soporific liquid. As the days passed he came to realise that it was slowly losing its effect upon him.
As the potion's power receded he once again found himself able to discern the nature of the world around him. Although he was almost paralysed his mind had again become active and his vision returned. The shadowed forms that had been his company for days on end coalesced into the images of Hresh warriors, running at his side as he was carried upon a makeshift stretcher by Trem'Alindae and another Hordim called Fhans'Garoth. Beyond the circle of these warriors he could manage only the fleeting glimpses of a huge Warband, somehow much larger than he had seen before, passing through country that he had never travelled and could not recognise.
He spent his days thus, staring at the passing cycle of night and day, watching cloud and star move across his vision as he was carried to an unknown destination, and to a fate that he could only imagine in his wildest nightmares. This time he did not spend idle however, there was much to think about and much to plan for.
Whatever the purposes of his capture Tomas was not about to make anything easy for his captors. With time to think he came to realise that he did not believe the Hresh Chieftain's threats. He had no reason to doubt that Ansolon'Denmar was capable of killing all his captives without a second thought, but his assault upon the Hresh camp should have left him dead. The warriors had made no move to do anything except subdue him, even though he must have seriously wounded at least a dozen of their number. Such restraint could only mean that they needed their captives alive. His simple logic saw no purpose in them being alive unless they were meant to be, and he used this thought to begin formulating a plan for his escape and the eventual freeing of Shemwe. First though he would need to regain the use of his body and that was going to take time.
The effects of the liquid that was regularly poured down his throat spread through his body, numbing his arms and legs but then dissipated quickly. Whatever the intent of his keeper, the potion's only lasting effect was to put a feeling of overwhelming fatigue into his limbs. Once his mind was clear he began to work against these lingering effects, flexing his arms and legs as he lay in the stretcher and testing the resolve of the potion to keep him immobile.
He was not sure but by the eighth day of his capture, as best as he could reckon it, he had overcome the effects of the potion and lay ready to take advantage of any opportunity that might allow his escape. The Warband had left an area of marshes and spent most of the day travelling west across a wide grassland when they encountered an old ruin, a farmstead, long abandoned and crumbling from exposure to the elements. It was here that they camped for the night and it was here that he heard an argument erupt between the Hresh, a lethal confrontation that almost had the entire Warband in an uproar.
Tomas had become aware that two groups of Hresh travelled the grasslands together and both held great distrust between them. At first he had seen the iron control that Ansolon'Denmar held over his warriors. He could have nothing but contempt for the barbarous creature that had led the attack on Callenfrey but he had seen also the absolute proficiency of his crue. From the vantage of his stretcher he had the time to observe the daily routine and the incredible stamina of the Hordim, and could not escape the conclusion that they were indeed a formidable force, one that was held together by their commander's unquestioned authority and the cold dedication of the warriors themselves.
That changed quickly as a new commander took control of the warband. Tomas could not say why but he felt the tone of the march change. The Denmar Hresh had been allowed to maintain custody of their captives but had been pushed into the background, a much more numerous group of yellow-marked warriors taking control of their leadership. The Kalborean could see it in the eyes of Trem'Alindae and his companion-bearer that distrust and anger festered between the two groups. It was only a matter of time before it became personal.
In the dark of night Ansolon'Denmar and his sub-commanders forced their way towards the Warband's command tent. Tension had been rising within the camp through the preceding hours and it was evident that some major disagreement on strategy had developed between the two opposing factions. Tomas could see nothing of what happened but within minutes fighting broke out between the Hresh. As the commanders argued their disparate views inside the tent, their subordinates who remained outside were not as restrained. In the melee a number of the Hordim were cut down but the superior numbers of yellow-banded warriors ensured the fight was short. The fighting ended with both commanders forcing the warring groups apart, but the dispute was not settled, new reasons for animosity had been forged in the heat of the brawl and the Denmar Hresh withdrew, taking four wounded brethren with them.
In the dark Tomas had entertained the idea of using the uproar to escape, however Trem'Alindae did not leave his side and instead he was left to determine the play of events by what he could hear, and be content with the thought that such rivalries may well give him the opportunity he would need to escape.
Dawn broke with the Warband on the move again, this time forging its way northwards, across an undulating landscape of open plains and isolated copses of acacia. To the north-east a line of mountain summits cut the horizon, to the west the dark shadow of a great forest bordered the grasslands. Through the slits of his eyelids Tomas watched the world pass by and wondered where Shemwe might be amongst the mass of running Hresh. The Warband was moving quickly, its warriors spread out across a wide area, taking advantage of the open spaces that gave them the room to move freely. Across this grassland the Hresh ran without rest, conscious of their exposure to attack. By midday the Warband had travelled deep into the plains, and it was at the juncture of two dry creek beds that the warriors then split into two separate groups, one falling back as the other picked up its pace.
Ahead a series of steep hills rose to the right and this forced the warriors to veer towards a narrow pass, concentrating their numbers as they turned to avoid the steeper slopes. Tomas took little notice of the change of direction, in the warmth of the day he tried to sleep, but as he was about to fall into slumber a strangled gurgle of surprise roused him back to wakefulness. He opened one eye only to find himself falling, the stretcher collapsing to the ground, an arrow protruding from the neck of the Hresh at his feet as he slumped down into the grasses. Quickly Tomas rolled from the stretcher and dug his way into the grass. Trem'Alindae was nowhere to be seen, all the Kalborean could hear was the unmistakable sounds of mounted troops thundering down a slope to his right.
In the bright light of day he pulled the stretcher over his body and waited for what was to come. Somehow mounted units of the Kalborean Army had found the warband and there was no chance that the Hresh would surrender, no matter what the cost in their own lives. There was going to be a battle, and it would be a fight to the death. From ahead of his position he heard commands being shouted and the sounds of warriors quickly arranging themselves in formation. Against the thunder of the approaching cavalry the Hresh were remarkably quiet as they formed a series of defensive positions, then as the Kalboreans closed in, began a chant that was followed by the pounding of war-drums and the blaring of horns.
Before he had any chance to retreat from the field a large group of Hresh formed an extended line only a few metres ahead of where he lay. Beneath him he could feel the vibration of charging cavalry, and the shouts of the Hresh as they prepared for battle. It took only seconds for the two forces to meet headlong on the plain and Tomas did not dare move. From beneath his flimsy covering he watched as the world about him erupted once again in lethal combat, the dark shapes of the Hordim overshadowed by the larger forms of lance-wielding cavalry charging down upon their positions. In a crash of steel and bone the combatants met and the battle of the Surgis'Ka began.
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Chronicles of Arborell, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
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