Realms of War

In the gloom of the cave Gethred lay listening, straining to hear beyond the sound of his own panicked breathing.

The first words he heard were in one of the Tuigan dialects, calling from a near distance.

Then the voice of the massive man-'Speak a tongue a man's ears can bear to hear, not your slathering steppe speech.'

The other speaker replied in hesitant Rashemi, 'We ride from the horde of the Yamun Khahan. We ride from victory at the Citadel Rashemar. For five days we ride, hunting spies of the west who escaped the vengeance of the Yamun Khahan. Two days before now, we caught them. We fought. Three of our warriors died killing the spies. But one escaped. We followed his trail to a valley a few miles from here. Then we followed larger tracks. Yours, I believe, now that I see you.'

'And what is this to me?' said the man. 'I have no hospitality for beggars off the steppe. Go back to your Khahan.'

'We do not ask for your hospitality. We seek the spy.'

'Why?'

'We will take him back to the Yamun Khahan. Our lords wish to question him.'

There was a long silence. Gethred thought he might have heard a horse whicker, then stomp the snow. The man spoke again. 'I know of no spy. I have only one thief. And he is mine.'

'This thief,' said the Tuigan, still speaking a hesitant Rashemi, 'our spy he might be.'

'Your spy? You have nothing but those nags upon which you sit and the stink that follows you.'

A longer silence followed. Gethred wondered how many Tuigan were out there. It couldn't be too many for one man to speak so boldly to them.

'We ask that you let us see this thief,' said the Tuigan.

'No.'

'The Yamun Khahan asks you to let us see this thief.'

'Then let him come and ask me himself.'

'We ask in his name.'

'After my meal tonight I will piss your Khahan's name in the snow.'

Shouts-two that seemed genuinely surprised at the man's effrontery, then many raised in anger-followed by the sounds of hoofbeats. No careful approach this time.

This was a charge. Gethred could feel the ground shaking beneath him.

He thought he heard a brief shout of surprise, fear even, then a roar so loud that dust fell from the cave ceiling. After that, the din was so deafening and so many sounds mixed together that Gethred could not separate them-the cries of men, the all-too-humanlike sound of a dying horse, bodies running, and over it all the roaring of some great animal.

The clamor slackened, then died off into a deafening silence, the only sound that of dirt and grit raining down upon Gethred. Then something else. He actually felt the approach of footsteps before he heard them.

The door was wrenched back so hard that one of the hinges tore free. Two Tuigan, both holding swords, one bloodied, slunk into the cave. Their eyes were wide with fear and their skin flushed with exertion. The one with the unbloodied sword pointed it at Gethred and said something in his native tongue. Gethred could not understand their speech, save for one word: 'Cormyrean.'

The Tuigan dragged Gethred from the cave. The bright light of midafternoon blazed off the snow pocketing the valley. He winced but forced his eyes to stay open to survey the scene.

The cave pierced the base of one of the hills that ringed the feet of the Sunrise Mountains. Many boulders had been strewn about through the ages, and pines blanketed the slopes. The past night's snowfall lay heavy everywhere except under the boughs, making the world a blinding white-except for the bodies.

A horse lay sprawled not fifty feet from the cave, its head hanging on by only a few strips of flesh. Blood had fountained out ten feet in every direction. Three Tuigan warriors lay nearby. Two were missing limbs, and one seemed to have run a good forty feet before death took him. His entrails were spread the final twenty feet behind him. More Tuigan-half a dozen at least, all mounted-milled around, two of them holding spare horses. Of the massive man who had held Gethred captive, there was no sign.

The two Tuigan dragged Gethred over the ground, heedless of the stones cutting him and the snow seeming to find every crevice and gap through his clothes. They threw him over a spare horse, not even bothering to cut his bonds, and in moments the entire troop was galloping east for the open steppe.

By the time they stopped, Gethred could no longer feel his face. They'd fled at full gallop for what seemed like a dozen miles at least, with Gethred tied lengthwise and facedown over the back of a horse. Had he eaten anything over the past three days, he surely would have lost every bit of it. The Tuigan horses had a smooth gait, but the land so near the mountains was rough and broken by many gulches that would fill with water come spring. Gethred was jostled, shaken, and seemingly beaten over every mile, and the ropes holding him into the saddle bit into his skin. But the Tuigan did not slow, and the wind flowing over his exposed face froze his skin to numbness. He felt sure that the only thing holding the frostbite out of his nose and ears was the thick heat given off by the horse.

Their leader called a halt as the sun slipped behind the mountains and the snow-covered steppe took on the flower-petal blue of evening. They made camp in a wide gully that ran north to south and would protect them from the wind off the mountains.

As the rest of the Tuigan made camp, one of them-Gethred recognized him as the one who had come in the cave bearing the unbloodied sword-came to the horse, loosened the ropes binding Gethred to the saddle, and threw him to the ground. He led the horse away, leaving Gethred bound in the snow. Something hard-a rock or an old root-jabbed between his shoulders, but he was too exhausted and sore to move.

The Tuigan warrior returned with another. They grabbed the ropes binding Gethred's ankles and dragged him to the nearest fire. The warriors had lit only three, and they took Gethred to the smallest.

The two warriors stood over Gethred, glowering down. Both had knives in their hands. Gethred heard footsteps crunching through the snow, then a third warrior came into view. He was taller than the other two, and two braids descended from his fur cap. His features were younger and leaner than his companions', and Gethred thought he saw the last curls of a tattoo protruding from the collar of his wool kalat, the large knee-length tunic worn by many of the Tuigan.

This third warrior knelt and spoke in Common. 'I am Holwan, of the Khassidi. My brothers here are of the Oigur. They do not know these lands, nor your tongue. I speak for us.'

Not knowing what else to say, Gethred said, 'Brothers?'

One of the two Oigur said something to Holwan. It sounded harsh, and Holwan flinched. He returned his attention to Gethred and said, 'Since the coming of Yamun Khahan, it is said that all Tuigan are brothers.'

'Do you say this?'

Holwan's scowl deepened and he said, 'How did you come to be in the house of the shu t'met?'

Gethred swallowed. His mouth felt dry as windswept rock. He said, 'Shootemet?'

'The large man in whose house we found you.'

A shudder began in Gethred's chest and spread outward till his teeth were chattering. 'H-he. . captured me. Y-yesterd shy;day, I think.'

'Captured?'

'Please,' said Gethred. 'Water.'

Gethred had fled the sack of Citadel Rashemar with four others, all Cormyreans sent by King Azoun himself, for word of the gathering Horde had reached even Cormyr. Melloren had died before they were out of sight of the citadel, a Tuigan arrow lodged in his eye. The survivors fled. But all of that Gethred left out of his tale. Likely Holwan and his companions knew or suspected much of it already. True or not, Gethred wasn't going to confess. He had little doubt he was a dead man. If not today, then certainly when this lot returned him to the Horde. But he would not betray the memory of his companions, nor their mission. He would not stand before Mielikki in the afterlife a traitor and coward.