Roth Rahn awoke nauseated and confused. For his first attempt at raising his head, he was rewarded with a pounding ache between his eyes. He winced and rested his skull on the earth. His stomach clenched in the genesis of a wave of sickness; he balled his hands into deadly fists and tightened them, grinding his teeth together, eyes screwing shut, refusing to succumb to the turmoil in his guts. After several moments of breathing as slowly as he could force himself, the worst of the nausea passed, and Roth let his hands unfold again.

Roth Rahn forced the muscles in his face to relax, one at a time, letting his jaw fall slack and his eyelids to smooth over. He rolled his mind around his inner body, searching for the worst of the aches and tightness, then forcing each irritated bundle of nerves to relax in turn.

His eyelids peeled upward. The sun still sat low on the horizon; it wouldn’t be fully dawn for another twenty minutes. Roth lifted his head once more and looked down at his prone body.

It had been a lucky night: a crossbow bolt was imbedded in his thigh, his hands were torn and bleeding freely, but that was all. Roth almost permitted himself a smile, thankful his innards were not poking out of his abdomen and his limbs were intact. Rolling his head to his right, he took some measure of pride and happiness that the hobys had not fared so well.

Limbs of the bipedal monsters lay strewn about the forest clearing, their bleeding stumps steaming in the pre-dawn chill. Roth realized combat had ended only moments prior to his awakening. That was good; he hadn’t actually been unconscious all that long.

Roth inhaled deeply and pushed himself up onto his elbows to survey the carnage more clearly. Five hoby bodies were prostrate nearby: four on their bellies, one on his back—that beast’s throat was slit from shoulder to shoulder. Blood pooled around the hoby’s nearly-severed head..

Seeing the decimated bodies reminded Roth of his next order of business: his sword. Yes, there it lay, still within reach, its polished blade now awash with crimson hoby blood and entrails. Roth reached for the weapon and grasped it in his right hand, taking solace in its familiar weight.

Then: pain.

Roth shook from the sudden intensity of it, and reached for his leg with his free hand. The crossbow bolt was buried more deeply in his thigh than he had first suspected. Roth began feeling the first pangs of hunger; he needed to relieve himself; and he wished desperately for a campfire to steal the chill from his bones; but he dismissed each need in turn. The wound would have to be cared for first.

Roth allowed his sword to slip to the earth again as he reached for the metal dart embedded in his leg. He grasped what showed of the shaft and tugged experimentally at it. Searing pain lit the limb on fire, but he had braced for this, and offered no groan or grimace. The bolt was of crude hoby design; while it must have torn his muscle fairly well, it wasn’t barbed like human bolts, making extraction a relatively easy task. Excruciating, but simple. He knew it was best not to dislodge such impalement, but leaving it in his flesh would impede his travel. He had to take the risk.

There was, after all, a throne at stake.

Bracing himself again, Roth pulled at the dart with more force, hoping he would not need to wrench the thing from his body. It was no use; his thick thigh muscles had tightened around the offending metal in a lover’s embrace.

Roth yanked hard on the bolt, tearing it free of its moorings. His mouth fell open and he leaned uncontrollably forward at the bright, insistent agony, but still made no sound. There; it was free.

Roth eyed the dart with distaste and flung it aside. The worst was over, at any rate. He reached instinctively for the broad leather pouch at his belt and pulled several long strips of cotton from it, which used to expertly bind the wound.

With the wound now attended to, Roth picked his whole weight up and slid backwards along the ground until his back rested against a tree. He gazed apathetically at his conquered foes as his hands once more moved of their own volition, bringing pieces of dried meat from his pouch to his lips.

The meat was tough and salted, but blissful. Roth relished for a moment the strength that began to flood back into his battle-worn body. His mind drifted; somewhere in the forest, not far off, his quarry was still making good time away from him. For one brief moment, Roth almost allowed himself the pleasurable idea that perhaps his prey was injured, impairing his progress, but Roth Rahn did not seize the hope. No, he must assume that his target was still in full health, crashing through the brush and trees, escaping Roth Rahn’s wrath.

And the wrath of his liege.

Roth Rahn swallowed the last of the dried meat and absently rubbed his hands across his leather breeches. It was of no consequence, he decided. Even with his wounded leg, he felt sure his quarry was no match for him in combat. Much less in tracking capability, Roth thought with a small grin. By the end of this coming night, the warrior reasoned to himself, his prey would be ripped and bleeding, begging for the mercy of decapitation.

Roth Rahn would offer no such solace. Such were the orders of his liege. “Make him suffer, Rahn,” the young prince had ordered. “Bleed him well.”

The task would have happened as early as yesterday afternoon, Roth continued thinking, were it not for the damned hobys, lizard-like mock-human vermin who clothed themselves in parodies of human raiment. They were almost as disgusting to him as the traitor he hunted.

The damned hobys slowed me down, Roth Rahn’s mind repeated dully. The damned hobys . . .

Roth Rahn’s eyes narrowed. His head swung slowly around in a predatory arc, studying more closely now the carcasses nearby. A long, rusted dagger lay beside one hoby; Roth quickly assessed his other minor wounds and decided he hadn’t been struck by it.

Roth moved on to the next vile beast, and marked this one as having carried a bent saber, doubtless stolen years ago from some passing gentry, when sabers were all the impractical rage of the kingdom.

The third hoby reposed eternally near a shortened pole-arm; the fourth, next to a small hand axe. The fifth and final hoby still clutched a simple wooden club in his gnarled hand.

Roth’s warrior mind sped through the dim memory of the battle, and after appraising the past situation, felt his bowels loosen terribly and his heart begin to trip in his chest.

Roth Rahn knew he was correct in his assessment when a crossbow bolt thudded through the morning air and split open his sternum.

The warrior’s final thoughts were of shame and disgust, knowing in his final moments that he should have realized during the night’s melee that none of the five hobys had carried a crossbow at all.

As his life force slowly dripped out, Roth cursed himself one final time for having pulled himself such a distance away from his sword, leaving him weaponless beneath his killer’s silent attack.

Roth Rahn, Prince Fodd’s most loyal and trusted knight-hunter, died.

* * *

Durga Fortier remained motionless until the sun was clearly visible, a shining full circle in the east. His gray eyes fixed on Rahn’s slumped form, waiting for some indication of breath. There was none. Finally Durga extricated himself from the thick thorn bushes across the clearing and approached his former pursuer.

He loaded his splintered and less-than-ideal crossbow—acquired from a small hoby raiding party several days past—with the last of his bolts as he moved closer to Rahn’s new corpse. Durga almost felt pity for the hunter, thinking perhaps he should have shot the man before he bothered to bind the wound that Durga had dealt him during Rahn’s fight with the hobys. Durga had aimed for his chest, but the darkness and combat with the five hobys had reduced his aim to random chance.

It was of no consequence now, Durga decided. One more threat had been dealt with, and times being what they were, Durga hadn’t the time to feel remorse. Derro was waiting for him.

Still keeping the crossbow leveled at Rahn’s body, Durga reached out and dug one hand into Rahn’s pouch. Empty. Durga swore under his breath; yes, if he had taken the fatal shot just a few moments earlier, he would now be eating Rahn’s rations. Instead they were floating uselessly in Rahn’s pale belly.

Durga’s ears twitched, and he twisted around, detecting the smallest of noises behind him.

Crouching for so long in the thicket had stiffened his reflexes; a coil of rough rope fell precisely over his head and tightened around his neck. Durga hurtled off his feet, the crossbow flying from his hand and discharging its bolt.

Durga groaned and looked up. At the other end of the lasso, Saffir sahn Blodwyn stood proudly, his teeth shining brightly in the morning air, his clear visage wrapped in mocking sorrow and certain pride.

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“Too bad, Durga,” sahn Blodwyn said to his prone captive. “Too, too bad.”

Durga realized his hands were still free; he quickly moved to grab the offending rope that stretched from his neck to sahn Blodwyn’s hand . . . then froze as his enemy revealed a small, fantastically-designed crossbow of his own.

Saffir clucked his tongue at Durga. “Don’t move so quickly, friend,” he admonished. “Believe it or not, I have no immediate desire to kill you.”

“Doubtless the bounty will not pay so well.”

“Yes. True.” Saffir tugged mightily on the rope, momentarily choking off Durga’s wind and sending him facedown in the dirt and flora.

“On the other hand,” Saffir reasoned caustically, “having your life in my hand presents such a great temptation.”

“I am pleased to know I’m worth so much to you,” Durga gargled, moving himself to his hands and knees but making no gesture indicating escape.

“Not so much to me,” Saffir admitted, “as to the prin . . .”

Durga threw himself forward in a roll. Saffir jerked reflexively on the tether but could not compensate for the sudden slack. In an instant, Durga had seized Roth Rahn’s sullied blade from the ground and whipped it across the rope. Bisected, the rope fell, Roth Rahn’s prize weapon serving his enemy now as well as it had served its master.

Saffir screeched and pulled the trigger of his tiny crossbow; the smaller, barbed dart shot forward and smashed through Roth Rahn’s dead skull. One fatal breath later, Durga plunged the sword into his belly. The blade exited the bounty hunter’s back, puncturing the hunter’s fine linen tunic. Saffir, Durga was sure, was all too aware of the scraping of metal against his spine.

Durga rose, his hand still clutching the sword. He pushed on the weapon, driving the sharp edge further through his opponent. Saffir’s eyes widened in horrific shock and dismay.

“You’ll have no bounty this day, Saffir,” Durga whispered, and pulled the weapon out of sahn Blodwyn’s body. Saffir stared at Durga for several moments, his clear blue eyes filled with agony and disbelief before finally falling heavily to the ground.

“I’m sorry, my old friend,” Durga said, kneeling and shutting Saffir’s eyes with two grimy fingers. “May the gods give you grace.”

Durga collected Saffir’s crossbow. A fine replacement for the abysmal hoby design. He sheathed Roth Rahn’s sword in his belt and lit out toward the rising sun, determined to meet his lord before nightfall.

Whether by grace of the almighty gods, or by the sort of luck bestowed upon veterans such as he after years of allegiance to a king, Durga encountered no hobys or other terrors during his flight. Daylight provided some measure of protection; the kingdom’s more unsavory fauna favored moonlit nights. Apart from a many segmented basilisk reposing after a noontime meal, Durga saw no creatures that might sway him from his destination.

Destination—and destiny, he thought grimly. If the information he was about to pass on to Derro caused the elder warrior to respond the way Durga expected, it would effectively elevate Durga’s rank to “savior.” Or near-savior, at any rate; Derro, not Durga, would lead the fight to recapture the throne, but years of soldiery together would no doubt ensure his place at Derro’s side.

The sun was setting at Durga’s back when he reached the river Hagin. Durga, famished and dry, knelt at the river’s edge and scooped its clear water into his mouth. Mercy poured down his throat, and he lapped anxiously at it. His strength did not surge, but rather warmed slowly. Without food for two days, the knight’s strength was waning, but the cool Hagin water compensated for some of it.

A low whistle caught in Durga’s ear, and he nearly wept for joy. Turning, he spied his exiled comrade approaching cautiously from a stand of monstrous pine trees.

Derro, like Durga, had forgone traditional armor and garb upon his exile. He wore the simple linens of his former Ra’talion clan, a village far to the north who—except for Derro—cared little for the politicking of kingdom life.

Derro grinned at him, tossing a leather satchel at Durga’s feet. Durga burrowed into it, and munched happily on fruits he did not recognize, but which revitalized his flagging body instantly. Perhaps they were native plants to the Ra’talion village.

Derro squatted down beside him and placed a meaty palm on Durga’s shoulder. “Slowly,” he warned. “You’re no good to me drunk.”

Durga laughed, and Derro’s grin widened in response. It was true; the fruit’s juices already were having an intoxicating effect. No wonder Ra’talion wines were so prized.

“I didn’t have time to prepare a proper kit sack,” Durga said between slurps. “The prince unleashed his hounds the moment I made for the gate.”

Derro gave him a thump on the back and stood. Despite the years of familiarity, of back-to-back combat they had endured together in the service of the king, Durga was yet impressed by Derro’s bearing. The traditional two braids that ended at Derro’s waist, hallmarks of a Ra’talion Ranger which the king had graciously allowed Derro to continue to wear, were thick and dark; they matched thinner twin braids in the older knight’s tangled beard. Derro’s crystalline blue eyes shone mightily, fearing nothing.

Yes, Durga remembered; though he would never speak it aloud, nor would Derro tolerate such a proclamation—in truth, his allegiance was to this man before the king.

“Were you detained?” Derro inquired. “I expected you yesterday.”

“Roth Rahn and Saffir sahn Blodwyn tried,” Durga recited. “I am afraid I had to—”

Derro brushed the comment aside. “Many men will die before this nightmare has passed. They were fine hunters, but dim and arrogant. Perfect followers for our mock-prince.”

Durga grunted a laugh. Derro spoke true; the two hunters shared Fodd’s sinful proclivities.

“So?” Derro asked, folding his powerful arms across his chest. “Is everything as I feared?”

Durga pitched the core of the fruit into the Hagin River, where it tumbled excitedly for a moment before being swallowed up in its delicious azure waters. He pulled another fruit from Derro’s satchel and climbed to his feet, nodding.

“It is as you said,” Durga replied, biting into the fruit. He fought brief dizziness at its fine nectar. “Prince Dodd has assumed authority. He has declared the king . . . dead.”

Derro shook his head and spat to one side. “Foul urchin. His own father!”

Durga nodded his agreement and sucked pulp between his teeth, wondering absently if some day, when order was restored, he might visit Ra’talion himself. If the women were even half as delectable as the fruits . . .

“Is it true?” Durga asked softly, wiping juice from his chin and licking it from his palm. No drop of the precious food should be wasted, he told himself giddily, amazed he was able to maintain some semblance of military bearing as the fruit warmed him.

“True?” Derro barked. “The king dead? No. Not at all. He rides with his detachment toward—”

Here, Derro hesitated. Durga squinted up at him.

“Derro?”

“—the enemy,” Derro finished, his eyes wandering around the forest. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

Durga belched softly and squared his shoulders. “It isn’t hobys, Growing an army to invade?”

“An army indeed, but not hobys, my friend.” Derro tugged thoughtfully on his braided beard. “I’ve seen it,” he said in a low voice that worried Durga. “When last I spoke with the king. It is . . . darkness. Darkness not of this world. Like a cloud of smoke, impenetrable, and moving this way. What it conceals, I do not know. Nor did the king’s advancemen, those who returned at all. But there were stories. Whispered over campfires. The cloud does conceal an army, that much is certain. Something wicked.”

Durga stifled another belch as the fruit in his belly began to tingle his insides. He’d never seen the older man so worried, and it worried him in turn.

“What must we do?”

Derro grunted. “Depose his scoundrel of a son, that is the first step. The king must have acces to all his resources, and Fodd’s ascencion makes that impossible. The boy my be deposed by assassination, I fear. Fodd is an overweight toad of a child, in no way prepared to defend the kingdom from this threat. How did the people respond to his proclamation?”

“Poorly,” Durga said, wondering if perhaps he’d eaten too quickly. The fruit seemed to expand in his stomach. “Fodd has instituted martial law, and his knights, if one can call them that, rule with impunity in the streets. They steal and call it taxes, drink and call it salute to their new king.”

Derro nodded, and stepped toward the Hagin, his back to Durga.

Durga, with no uncertain sadness, let the second fruit in his hand tumble to the ground. He was satiated. More than that, in fact; bloated. He marveled that such a tiny, ripe fruit could so easily fill him. Perhaps his stomach had tightened since he left the city.

“It was perhaps a mistake for the king to leave such a small cadre of his loyal knights behind,” Derro said, folding his hands behind him and still facing the Hagin. “I warned him Fodd was capable of treachery, but he dismissed the thought. Now Fodd’s personal and like-minded fools will run the kingdom into the very earth.”

Durga only nodded, aware that Derro could not see the gesture, nor needing to. He passed a hand across his abdomen; the delightful stinging there had begun to take on a more noticeable burn.

And Derro’s words were true. Fodd’s personal detachment now ruled the kingdom, and they were every bit as vile as Fodd himself, given to lechery and drunkenness—perhaps even on Ra’talion wine imported from Derro’s homeland—more than to maintaining order. Durga had been witness to Fodd’s elaborate celebrations himself, orgies of self-gratification that left the veteran sick to his stomach. Much as he was feeling now.

“I never thought I would see the day,” Derro said softly, “when it would become necessary to assault royalty for the sake of the kingdom. Fodd cannot sit long on the throne. If he is not dealt with quickly, whatever lay beyond that black cloud will overtake us. Then all is lost.”

Durga fell to the ground silently, gripping his stomach. He craned his neck up at Derro, who at last turned and looked down at him, his eyes damp, face pained.

“And when it is done,” Derro went on, “the king will have no choice but to quarter the murderers of his son in the city square, no matter how just their cause. That will only be after the prescribed tortures dealt to traitors. I wish I could mete out such punishment on Fodd himself, but a poison will have to do.”

His words echoed hollowly in Durga’s brain. A poison will have to do.

Durga groaned and rolled onto his back. There was no pain exactly; he felt vaguely nauseated, perhaps bloated to some degree, but nothing more. And the sweet juice of Derro’s fruit still tasted heavenly in his mouth.

Durga reached upward for his old mentor, who knelt and grasped the outstretched hand in his own.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Derro said, and even in what he know knew were his own death throes, Durga was shocked at how the knight’s lips trembled. “Where I am going, you cannot follow. You have done well. So very well, my friend. I am proud to have served with you these long years. But what happens now is a feat for cowards and traitors, no matter how well intentioned. You have helped save the kingdom. Rest with that knowledge. May the gods give you grace.”

Durga’s eyelids fluttered. He struggled to pronounce the knight’s name with his dying breath, but exhaled his last without the ability to control his lips.

* * *

Derro gave Durga Fortier a military burial by the banks of the Hagin, hands clasped processionally over the hilt of Roth Rahn’s sword resting on his chest.

When it was done, the prayers offered, and a small ceremonial cut self-inflicted over his heart, Derro washed in the Hagin, redressed in linens stained midnight by echoberries native to Ra’talion, and began the long trek back to the kingdom’s borders to commit his necessary treason in the name of the king.

And for the wasted life of Durga Fortier, Derro would make the faux-king pay dearly.

THE END