Drus II

  Drus thought the Goddesses had smiled upon him when he caught word of the sorcerer and some of his followers leaving the camp without the permission of the War Master; but as he hid behind the trunk of a wide tree with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, his breath short and rattled by grunts of pain, he realized they might have cursed him instead.

  Earlier in the day, Krast had called him up to his tent and, with a smirk pulling on his pinched little face, ordered him on a useless solo patrol along the perimeter of the camp. All around the tent, Drus’ own former lieutenants mocked him with their smiles, and like a good lower warrior, he’d swallowed down his pride, saluted his supposed superior, and marched out to follow his orders.

  Even before being stripped of his rank, he had grown more and more disillusioned with their expedition after they left their home. He knew that the men who joined the War Master in this venture were not the foremost warriors in the Great Valleys, but he’d told himself when he signed up that, as one of the band leaders, he could whip the men assigned to him into shape. By their example, the others would be shamed into following these new standards.

  That had not come to pass. The warriors under him had grown some measure of discipline in the months they traveled, but he had underestimated the rot that had settled in their camp. Or perhaps he had overestimated himself as a leader of Kruwals. His mother and older brothers would certainly say so. This had only grown worse in the week following his demotion.

  As he left Krast’s tent to aimlessly traipse into the woods, he couldn’t help but grimace at the growing chaos of the camp. With the War Master increasingly isolated after a sudden bout of sickness, the warriors no longer followed any of the established field codes in tent organization or perimeter setting. Trash was heaped everywhere, giving the camp a foul smell, and campfires were often left lit but unattended dangerously near to canvas tents.

  Some of the band leaders and lieutenants had taken captured humans as personal servants, but Drus saw it for what it was. Slaves. It would be one thing to have the humans act their part as thralls as was right, but there was no dignity or honor to their treatment here, despite what all tradition dictated. Krast, especially, treated his servants like the lowest of dogs, for he didn’t feed them even the scraps from his table.

  More than a few humans had been beaten to death in plain view too, and not for murder or insurrection, but for simply displeasing their masters in the slightest of ways. Drus had tried to report this, but he’d been barred from meeting with War Master Lutten since the day of his demotion. After falling ill, Lutten’s orders only came from band leaders and handpicked guards now. Krast took great pleasure in being this middle man, more often than not.

  Warriors whose clans battled the Sovereign’s low creatures, fought off the Kingdom’s powerful legions, and at times even the old man Second himself, reduced to mere brigands in a matter of months. It was all a disgrace to the Kruwal race. Krast giving out orders being, perhaps, the worst of the indignities.

  So as he stalked across the forest, placing a careful foot in front of the other in case of jutting roots and moss-covered sinkholes, Drus almost didn’t mind spending time away from camp. Perhaps he should have been a good lower-ranked warrior and obeyed his orders to the letter, but he saw something too odd to ignore half an hour into his patrol.

  One of the men sent to watch Holdenfor was returning from duty in a mad rush through the forest. Only instead of going to report whatever had him hurrying like that to the War Master, he was heading to the campgrounds of the witchmen.

  Following from a distance, Drus stopped when the warrior met with one of the witchmen halfway to their camp by a clearing. Unused to these woods, he inched his way slowly to avoid making any noise, and was rewarded by catching most of the exchange between them.

  The chasers in Holdenfor were setting a trap for the warriors waiting in ambush by the west road. They’d be dressed as merchants and guards, indistinct from the other merchants who’d already tried fleeing the town and even now sat captured in one of their human pens.

  His first instinct was to turn around and notify the War Master, but he knew he wouldn’t even get past the guards on his tent. It was no use. His voice was no longer heard at camp. And the more he thought about it, the more it dawned on him that this was the opportunity he needed.

  So a few minutes later, when the witchman returned with a group of Kruwal warriors that had been permanently staying with at their camp along with the sorcerer, he followed after them. The sorcerer didn’t rush, as was his wont, and the fanatic warriors pledged to him made no move to change his mind.

  Drus felt anger boiling inside of him as he thought of all the warriors who might perish due to their delay, so after figuring out roughly where the ambush was being laid, he took off on his own, intending to circle wide due east and attack the chasers from behind.

  Perhaps this way he could earn enough glory that the War Master would be forced to reinstate his rank, then he could start setting things to right. Capturing and dropping the chasers at Lutten’s feet would be irrefutable proof of his strength, and Krast would be no match for him in the consequent duel for band leader. The sorcerer and his foolish followers could take their damn time, for all he cared.

  It took him another hour and a half of trekking through the thick forest, batting away errant branches and stomping on shrubbery until he finally saw the edges of the road through the foliage. He’d overshot east and could just make out something on the road a few miles west. If the fake merchant caravan had already stopped, then it was likely the chasers were already fighting the Kruwal ambushers. He had to hurry.

  A few minutes later, an arrow punching into his left shoulder broke his run and he nearly fell. A growl escaped him as sharp pain radiated from the spot where the arrowhead had torn the muscle, but with his battle senses screaming at him, he quickly rose and jumped behind a large tree. A heartbeat later, a second arrow whistled past where he stood, followed by another hitting the tree trunk broadside.

  Drus cursed himself. It was the rushing that screwed him. He’d been hurtling through the forest, uncaring for how much noise he made or how much attention he might be getting.

  Panting, he decided he could blame himself later. He didn’t remember the chasers having an archer in their little group, so it was likely just a townsman with a knack for the bow and arrow. What kind of Kruwal hid from a regular human?

  But before going on the offensive, he needed to be able to use his arm. The arrow hadn’t gone too deep, so he simply bit his tongue, curled his right hand around the shaft, and yanked on the arrow. Blood and bits of flesh came with the arrowhead, tinging the grass beneath him red. He grunted, but the pain wasn’t so bad.

  Then he was moving. He fainted right, having his whole body showing for a second before he jumped back behind the trunk and went left. An arrow split the air behind him a moment later, but he was already running.

  The archer cursed loud enough for him to hear it and he smiled, eyes swivelling toward the source. A flash of gray amidst the greenery was all he needed. The man might be a fast shot, but he was clearly an amateur in a real fight. He hadn’t known where he was until then, and now his advantage was gone.

  Drus moved like a panther through the brush, and for once the denseness of the forest helped him. Arrows thunked on trees as he passed by them or zipped through the air an inch away. He never ran in a straight line, always ducking behind trees, weaving around thick foliage, changing direction whenever he heard the faintest twang of bowstring.

  His blood roared with the thrill of the fight. Nothing felt like putting your life on the line in battle. He was within ten yards of his opponent when he got his first glance at him after one of the arrows drew a thin, bloody line across his cheek. It was a young human man with strange red hair and red scars on his face. The face of the red human roused something in the back of his mind, but it mattered not. They looked much the same to his eyes, though he wouldn’t forget the chaser who’d thrown him in the river.

  Glaring, Drus noticed Red had a cheeky smile pulling at his lips even as he drew his bow for another shot. He snorted, but he could respect someone who knew how to appreciate a good fight, even a human.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The muscles on his leg grew taut just as the bowstring did the same, then they both exploded. He dashed to the side, ready to eat the last of the distance between the two of them. Except unlike any of the shots from before, he only saw a flash of blue light before an arrow tore through the air and hot agony lanced across the same arm as before.

  Drus fell, forcing himself to swallow down the scream of pain that threatened to tear through his lips. He rolled on the ground and used his good arm to crawl across the leafy undergrowth until he could put a tree between himself and the archer. His breath came loud to his ears, and for the first time in his life, looked down at an injury with worry in his eyes.

  A few inches one way and the arrow would have punched straight through his left arm, taking bone and everything with it. Instead, it had sliced cleanly through skin and muscle, leaving red, pulsing flesh exposed in the air. He could barely move the arm now, and when he did, the pain would spike until he felt like tearing the whole limb away.

  He growled, pushing himself up against the tree. There was no doubt the archer was a chaser, not anymore. For the second time today, he cursed his hubris. Glancing down, he looked at his family’s vambrace sitting on that same arm, silver metal gleaming under the fingers of sunlight that streamed past the canopy. Gushing hot blood spilled down to mar its shining surface.

  Had he taken the red archer seriously, he might’ve been fast enough to use the relic in stopping the worst of the blow. The vambrace wasn’t as effective against physical attacks, but it would have absorbed the power infused in the arrow while being able to block the iron tip itself.

  Tearing a chunk of his pant legs, he wrapped it tightly around his slashed arm until he saw stars in his vision. He thanked all the Goddesses who had made him a Kruwal instead of one of the fragile races. A wound like this might kill a human, but he would be hale and whole again in a few days.

  A whistle came from behind him “Didn’t expect that, huh?” Red said. “It’s alright, not everyone can be as awesome as me.”

  Drus couldn’t hear any crunch of footsteps despite the abundance of branches and growth below, but the voice had gotten closer as he spoke. Again, the human’s inexperience told him more than he could deduce himself.

  He’d left the camp in such a rush after Krast’s orders that he didn’t bother strapping up his sword, so he would have to get close enough to grapple with the red archer. The human would expect an attack like that to completely cripple someone, so he turned sideways against the tree, preparing to launch himself out of hiding and blitz him.

  But before either of them could make a move there was movement in the forest. From his position, Drus could see through the foliage flashes of the group of fanatic Kruwals rushing toward the road to join the ambush. They were moving fast, abandoning all pretense of stealth, but he didn’t stop the sorcerer among them. Was he hanging back or had he gone ahead already?

  Behind him, closer than he expected, Red gasped. Drus was moving before he could think, jumping away from the tree and hurling himself against him.

  “Guys!” the archer managed to yell, but then he was already reaching out to punch the human on the stomach.

  Quicker than he expected, Red dodged back out of reach, nimble on his feet. The longbow whirled on his hands and he swung it in an arc, aiming to hit him on the head. Showing his canines, Drus lifted up his right arm and blocked the strike with his forearm without even a grimace of pain appearing on his face.

  When would the humans learn they weren’t dealing with one of their own?

  Red’s eyes widened and he tried to pull back his bow. Drus didn’t let him. His good hand reached out quick as the claws of a hawk, snatching the bow from the air and yanking it to him. The force pulled the archer with the bow, who only had time to open his mouth before Drus drove his shoulder against his chest.

  Red cried and sprawled on the ground, gasping for air. Drus threw the bow some distance away and followed after him. He needed to finish this quickly if he wanted to help out on the road. With the archer trying to crawl away he lunged, lifting up his feet. A good stomp on one of his legs would keep him from moving too much.

  But again the human proved slippery, spinning away just in time. Still on the ground, he pulled an arrow from his quiver and wheeled back to punch it into his leg. Drus let it happen, the arrowhead kissing his skin like a bee trying to sting him. Red glanced up at him, fear stamped on his face.

  Drus smiled down at the human. “Weak,” he said in their strange tongue.

  Instead of pleading like most humans, the archer opened his mouth to yell, “Guys, run!” one last time before a kick in the face finally shut him up.

  Irritated and in pain, he struggled to carry the human chaser through the forest with only his right arm, and when he finally got closer to the ambush spot, he spotted only the fanatical warriors still fighting against some human guards and a skilled woman with. She would be trouble if he tried to jump into the battle without one of his arms.

  But more interestingly, he caught the sorcerer saying something to a human surrounded in a bubble of dirty water. He couldn’t hear what was being said, nor could he see who the sorcerer was speaking to, but it all culminated in a bright flash and a loud crack.

  Drus flinched for a moment, dropping the human on the ground. By the time he reoriented himself, the fanatical warriors were carrying their precious sorcerer from the road as he lay unconscious in their arms. The sight of such cowardice had him grinding his teeth, and it was made worse that it was done for the sake of a human.

  For a moment, he thought of jumping out of the tree line and facing the remaining humans by himself, but he’d been foolish enough for the day. He had a chaser to deliver to the War Master, and the story of the Kruwal warriors fleeing the field for the sorcerer would be enough that even a rat-hearted bastard like Krast would feel obliged to intervene.

  Even if Drus didn’t get his rank reinstated, this foolishness with the witchmen and the sorcerer would finally be at an end.

  xxx

  He should’ve known better than to trust things would turn out the way he wanted.

  Drus didn’t get to speak with the War Master. He didn’t even make it to camp. Surrounded by some of his lickspittles, Krast met him in the forest and shattered all of his plans.

  For his disobedience in going away when he should’ve been patrolling their perimeter, he’d been permanently reassigned to guard the witchmen’s camp instead. Two other warriors would go with him and be under his command. A show of trust, Krast had said, befitting of his clan and lineage.

  Inside, Drus raged at the implication. He knew this for what it was. Men to follow him and watch his every step. Not only that, but somehow Krast had known that the unconscious human on his back was a chaser. With a smirk on his rat face, he’d ordered Drus to take the human chaser to the witchmen for them to do with as they pleased.

  Perhaps they’ll do to him what they did to the sorcerer, Krast said. Drus had known of the new tonic the witchmen had created, something completely different than the ones used to make the captured humans more docile during their stay in the Great Valleys. But as he walked closer to their camp, he realized had no idea what had truly been behind it.

  The smell of it was the first thing. It assaulted him even before he broke into the clearing. He would have felt it in the air from a mile away if he’d been downwind from it. And it wasn’t the stench of trash and barely-washed clothes like their own camp. It was the scent of death. It was rot and gore and something else that burned at the nostrils.

  He stopped dead the moment he set foot into the clearing where the witchmen had their strange peaked-roof huts. The source of the smell lay evident on both sides of the large hut dominating the center of the clearing. On one side, cramped in a large cage of rough wood tied together with hemp and staked into the grass, a dozen or so humans crouched shoulder to shoulder like livestock, naked and dirty and glassy-eyed.

  The soil beneath them looked muddy and smelled of piss and feces. Flies crawled over the humans as if over corpses, but they made no move to be rid of the insects. They had been drugged to indifference. A barrel of stagnant water sat just outside the cage, and one of the fanatical warriors walked over to it and began using a ladle to distribute the water.

  With the humans completely dazed and unmoving, Drus watched in horror as the warrior had to manually open their jaws to pour the contents of the ladle into their mouths. The whole scene was a complete perversion of anything he’d ever seen happening at home, and he could not for a moment believe that the War Master knew of what was truly happening here.

  Another cage lay empty on the opposite side of the path in the middle of the clearing, and the smell emanating from there was somehow even worse. Humans had died there, he was sure of it. And they hadn’t died clean.

  Even the warriors sent with him by Krast seemed unsettled by the scene before them, and they stood planted at the end of the clearing long enough that one of the witchmen emerged from their large.

  Growing up, Drus always thought the witchmen were an odd bunch, wiry and puny and always bent over their scrolls. Kruwal men were meant for iron and battle, but he understood they had a part to play in their society. Their tonics not only served to appease the captured while in servitude, but were also essential conduits for the blessings of the Goddesses to take hold.

  The man that walked toward him now looked nothing like the usual witchman. He was of height with him, and wider still around the shoulders, with powerful arms corded with thick muscle.

  The witchman stopped in front of him, and Drus shifted the unconscious chaser on his shoulder so he could more easily drop the human in case he needed to fight. Despite his warrior appearance, something about this witchman made him uneasy.

  “Welcome to our camp lower-warrior Drus, Son of Evelsa, Matriarch of the Bloodstone Clan.” The witchman smiled, showing blue-tinted teeth. Drus narrowed his eyes at him, but the man only smiled wider. “I’m called Sarsk, and this…” he turned and gestured around the clearing, “this… is the future of the Kruwal race.”

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