Chapter 11
Lessons in Holding One's Temper
January 17, 1424 S.R.
They had settled into a cave to the north of hers the day after she returned from delivering the tools to the orcs. Garlakh knew not what brought them into these mountains in the teeth of winter, a choice they had to be regretting – or would be if they had the sense of a goose, to borrow one of Gubbitch's more amusing turns of phrase. Half a dozen strong, all in beaten, blood-stained, travel-worn, woodland-camouflage leathers. One even wore one of those stars like a Ranger. She had avoided them easily enough as she could see better than they in the dark. Last evening, she'd gotten a good look at the one wearing the star from a distance, crouched behind a rock where she could see him but not be seen. She was willing to stake her life he was no Ranger.
There had been a look in his eyes more akin to that seen among her own kind than any ranger was likely to display if the Rangers she had seen in her mind in Mordor, and in the flesh at the trading glen and even at her own den were any example of true Rangers. Those had something she was trying to find. This one, though, no. He was a jackal, dangerous to his own and to anyone else who crossed his path. She had seen his kind many times. During the war they had occasionally been her allies. After, she killed them without remorse when they threatened her or anyone else.
There was little in these barren hills to hold their attention for long, and as soon as they realized how often the Rangers patrolled they would leave quickly enough. So long as they left her alone, her first impulse was to ignore them. But it was trading day. Men like these would steer clear of a large band of orcs, but a lone woman was just the prey they sought. Especially one in a wagon filled with valuable goods. If they saw Sevilodorf on the road, even with Nik and Warg nearby, they were likely to attack.
For nearly an hour, Garlakh stared at the thin stream of smoke produced by the men's fire. The insidious voice of her former master urged her to go to the men and join them. They, not the puny weaklings who allowed the tarks to treat them as lowly laborers, were her kind, and with them she could do great things. That course, Garlakh firmly refused.
But she also chose to reject the idea of going to the Rangers with her knowledge. If they found nothing, the men would leave and none would be the wiser. If she told of them, there was every chance the rangers, at least, would assume she was part of their group. For all of Bob's polite ways, they were suspicious of her, especially Captain Halbarad. She would tell Gubbitch if it looked like the men were going to stick around much longer because he, at least, would know better than that. There was no time now, so today she would tread the delicate path between the brigands and rangers. Neither fish nor fowl, she would go about her business, but be extra vigilant. No harm would she allow to Sevilodorf, the rangers, any travelers or any of Gubbitch's crew, but no alarm would she sound either. If there was any luck, the men would simply go away and take the trouble she smelled with them.
Her mind made up, Garlakh gathered her pack and tucked a certain cup into a pouch she'd sewn in her cloak. She also picked up her bow and quiver. The one with the star carried a bow as well, and it was best to be prepared.
Almost immediately, she discovered the men were more devious than she had believed. The smoke was but a diversion, for all six of the stinking tarks were on the move. Almost, she admired their woodcraft. Flitting from boulder to tangled copse to shadow, they were difficult to track except for their stench. But their failure to note her presence left her wondering about their eyesight.
Garlakh cautiously followed the six down through the hills. When they caught sight of Gubbitch's lads in the trading glen, she all but laughed at their obvious surprise. After a spirited conference involving much hand waving and a few solid wallops from the leader, the group retreated toward the road. Garlakh settled her pack in a cleft and followed them for a short distance. When they moved quickly north on the road, she broke off her pursuit. As she had thought, they were scavengers and would make no move to confront a group like Gubbitch's. Luckily enough, Sevilodorf had not yet arrived, so the tarks would not be tempted.
After what seemed hours of waiting, there came the clip-clop of horse's hooves and the rumble of wheels. Garlakh stayed in the hills above the glen until she could see the wagon. Yes, it was Sevilodorf accompanied by Warg. A quick survey of the road north and the nearby area proved the six men were nowhere around. Maybe things would work out after all.
Distracted as she was by thoughts she could not share, the trading session passed quickly. She nearly returned to her den to keep working on the tools for the lads, but that voice that had given her so much good guidance over the years since her old master's fall was bidding her to wait. Confused, she did, forcing herself to focus. She moved closer so she could hear, and it soon became obvious trading day would be cut short. She'd thought to deliver Sev's cup, which she'd nearly forgotten, but it was clear today would be a poor day to approach the woman. She could hear her and Rackler arguing now and the woman was clearly in a foul mood. Rackler had that effect on everyone, but she remembered that she hadn't seen Sev smile even once today even for the more pleasant of the band.
"Two coppers, Rackler. That's all they're worth," Sevilodorf stated bluntly. "Take it, or leave it."
"Good stowans these are." Rackler shoved a grubby paw in the trader's face. "Jest like tha ones last week. Four coppers yer paid then. Ah wants four today."
"I've already explained." Sevilodorf jabbed at the stones in Rackler's hand. "They are not the same. The others had stripes of red. The jeweler will pay more for the ones with stripes."
The enormous orc snarled and bent down to glare into the woman's eyes. To Garlakh's astonishment and delight, Sevilodorf glared right back.
"Get out of my face. Gubbitch warned you before about such behavior. And I'm telling you now, either take the two coppers or this will be the last trade I make with you." Sevilodorf's face had gone red, and she waved her arm toward the road. "You can walk to Henneth Annûn and deal with the blasted jeweler yourself."
Rackler swelled like a dead toad in the sun, but Lugbac and three other orcs jumped between him and the trader-woman. Ignoring his howls of protest, they pushed him to the other side of the glen and promptly sat on him. Warg rose from her place by the fire pit, stretched and scratched behind one ear, then sauntered over to stand before the trader who was clenching her fists and muttering curses that made nearby orcs step slowly away.
"Is that any way to treat your customers?" Warg asked with a yawn.
For an instant, it looked as if Sevilodorf would launch herself at the warg. Then through gritted teeth, she said, "Trading is done for the day."
Sevilodorf stomped to the lean-to and began to toss items into crates and bags.
Titch rolled his eyes with a disconsolate sigh as he trudged over to Warg.
"I'll be 'earin' it from Gubbitch for Rackler showin' his hind end. 'e'll set 'im straight though."
"It's not your fault, Titch," Warg offered in consolation. "She's in a bad mood. There's still been no word of her missing loverboy. She has less patience than even her usual with all of us, and she had such a loud argument with the captain this morning that the hobbits are sure the hens won't lay for a month."
This earned Warg an icy glare, for Sev wasn't entirely out of earshot, but Warg was unphased. She'd been the recipient of plenty of those lately. Garlakh frowned as she overheard that Sev's man was missing. That explained the lines around the eyes and mouth of the woman. Sadness, indeed, Garlakh thought with a pang for the woman she didn't realize was called sympathy, sadness enough to break a heart. Orcs weren't meant to care for people, or so she'd always been taught – though she thought she was beginning to do so anyway, but humans could and did care, and clearly this man was very dear indeed. She watched as Sev packed with far less than her usual care. More than half the band remained holding small bags of stones or hides, both cured and uncured. All glared balefully at Rackler, who was sullenly rolling his apparently inferior stones between grimy fingers.
"I give up my day to follow you here and then you don't even stay." Warg grumbled in an attempt to distract Sev.
"You're more than welcome to go off into the woods and hunt for that blasted pig of yours," Sev snapped as she slung a bag into the rear of the wagon. Warg winced at the sound of breaking glass, but Sev merely shrugged and turned to lift a crate of stones. Lugbac got there first.
"Let me, missus. Tha's 'eavy."
The huge orc lifted the box as if it were empty and placed it with far more care than Sev was taking with other things. The pungent scent of mingled ointments pouring from shattered bottles set Lugbac's eyes watering. Warg gave a snort and moved upwind of the wagon.
Titch approached with a pile of rabbit skins. "Can take th' trade next week, missus, but Warg might like knowin' ah saw a pig wi' a bow 'round its neck las' neet. Din' give it much thought cause ah were pretty smashed at th' time."
"Where?" Warg did a most undignified dance that she would deny if anyone ever mentioned it again.
Titch scratched his head. "Ah was standin' at the pool. Not the one by the den. The other one by the big pine. Ah like that pool cause the stream trickles and makes a reet nice sound. Sort of like Celebsul playin' his flute."
Lugbac nodded. "And when the wind is blowin' the trees sound jest like …."
Sev rolled her eyes and blew out a long breath. "Tell you what. Titch, you take Warg to the pool and show him where you saw her pig. I'll take Lugbac and go."
Warg looked from one orc to the other, then to Sev. "You'll go back to the Troll?" Her tone was emphatic. Though the words were phrased as a question, it was closer to a statement or an insistent reminder, Garl thought as she watched unnoticed by the others.
"Where else would I possibly go? Hal threatened to..." Sev stopped, obviously aware of the many listening ears. "Never mind. Leave it at, yes, I will go back to the Troll."
The warg narrowed her eyes and tipped her head. "I'll trust you then. Titch, let's go."
Titch whispered to Lugbac, "Look after 'er real close. Ah'm sensin' trouble, but ah can't nail down where it is."
With one last shattering crash another bag was tossed in with less care than it required. Lugbac winced and blocked Sev's path to the remaining items. "Ah'll do it, missus," he said firmly. He knew the woman wouldn't be happy with herself once she calmed down and realized what a mess she'd made. "Yer go hitch up Dysig."
With a few sharp commands, Titch ordered the other orcs to get Rackler back to the den and to explain to Gubbitch where he had gone. Within moments, the trading glen was emptied of all save Sev, Lugbac and Garlakh, who was as convinced as Titch that trouble was close at hand.
Garlakh swore quietly, but lengthily and inventively when she saw the wagon turn north along the road rather than south toward the inn. Whatever errand sent her that way, the woman was driving right into trouble. Though the scavenging pack of tarks was out of sight, Garlakh knew they had disappeared northward. An unfortunate change in the wind meant they were out of smelling range, so there was no way to tell if they were close by. She plucked up her pack and hurried through the trees to shadow the wagon.
As she came even with the wagon, Garlakh studied Sev's angrily determined face briefly from her spot within the trees, and wondered just what the woman thought she was doing. She'd clearly lied to Warg. Warg would not be happy, and Garl thought she'd be glad not to be around for that argument, unless there was no argument because Sev had no intention of going back to the Troll at all. Where was that daft chuff, Lugbac? She couldn't see him on the other side of the wagon because he was directly opposite Sev, who was several feet taller by virtue of having a wagon seat. Moving quickly, she managed to get slightly ahead of the wagon in order to scout for the men she knew were near at hand.
Save for the steady clip clop of Dysig's hooves and the rumbling of the wheels, all was quiet. It was too deep into cold weather for many animals to be foraging, and those who didn't have to be moving were staying buttoned up tight in whatever holes, dens and inns they could find to keep warm and dry. Well, anyone or anything with sense was. Garlakh bent to examine each broken branch or print in the hard-packed earth and nodded. At least one had come this way, but he had crossed the road. She cursed and nocked an arrow, just in case. Those men could easily get the drop on Sev. They'd had hours to set up for anyone coming this way., She'd try and stop that, but if she couldn't, she vowed they'd get no more, and they'd pay in blood for any harm they inflicted.
A fickle breeze caused a branch across the road to sway and drew her eye just in time. The man with the star was visible behind the branch, his bow drawn and pointed in Sev's general direction. Garlakh swore yet again and got into her own stance, firming her aim on the man.
A sudden shout of "Halt!" and simultaneous twang-thunk indicated that not all who were in the area had the sense to keep to their own business, and the ambush was sprung just as Garlakh dreaded. Luckily, the man's aim was not true. A black-fletched arrow stuck in the seat of Sev's wagon, half a foot from her right leg. Before the arrow had stopped quivering in the seat and before Sev had time to do more than blink, it was answered by another twang-thunk and a shriek of pain as the one who sent the arrow learned too late that he was not unmarked. But the first arrow had been the bandit leader's signal and Sev found herself surrounded by the other five. Garlakh, who had of course been the source of the second arrow, sighed. She couldn't shoot now, lest an arrow go astray. Melee, it would be, then.
Before the bandits could do more than draw weapons and demand Sev's money and possessions,a blood-chilling battle cry sliced through the cold air as a furious whirlwind hurtled out of the woods and into their midst, weapons flying. The element of surprise could go both ways in the span of an instant. Lugbac, who was just about to attack the brigands himself in Sev's defense, froze for an instant in shock at the chilling howl, looking around to see whether there were others and who they might attack. The shriek was answered by five human cries and a startled neigh from one shocked horse. The white whirlwind ducked as Sevilodorf proved she was not as helpless as she appeared, drawing a six inch blade from a sleeve and throwing it toward the nearest bandit. The man went down with a knife in his throat, but there were still four.
Another knife whiz-thunked. Make that three. Lugbac was looking for an opening, but he found he couldn't predict where the white whirlwind would be from one moment to the next and set himself to at least making sure he was positioned between Sev and the threatening men, and just in case the whirlwind turned on them when it was done with the bandits. Meanwhile, Garlakh used mace and knife to good effect, gutting one man with the dagger and cracking another's skull with the mace. The last had a long spear, and she had trouble getting to him. As she parried, dodged and weaved trying to get inside his guard, he thrust the point at her again and again. His blow was first to land, going along her ribs and tearing through the edge of her new cloak, worn mail hauberk and the leather beneath to score flesh. The rusty hauberk absorbed a goodly portion of the blow's force even as its links gave, though, so the spear did not go as deep or as true as its wielder intended. Had she been wearing anything less than mail, she'd be dead even if she managed to take him with her. She ignored the fiery blossom of pain and stumbled forward as he brought his spear back for another jab, smashing his face in with a howl of pain and fury so that he, too, dropped to the ground, dead or dying.
That accounted for five. It was over in less than a minute, though it seemed longer to Garlakh. The silence that followed was all the more profound for its suddenness. She gritted her teeth against her pain and warm blood poured down her side. The spearman had clearly scored a serious blow. No time to worry about what had been cut or broken, though. Where was number six? Cursing quietly, she sheathed her weapons, traipsed off into the woods and found him where he had dropped. He was still alive, but he wasn't going anywhere without help. Her arrow had gone into the side of his knee and clear through, ripping the inner workings to shreds. Try though he did, and he doubled his efforts when he saw her, he couldn't get up. She retrieved the bloody arrow and swore. She'd gone for a kill shot. He must have moved immediately, but not quite quickly enough. This was the one who wore a Ranger's star. Maybe it was as well this one was still alive. Someone who was better on his worst day than this man would be on his best must be missing. Garlakh dragged the man by his greasy black hair back to the wagon, doing her best not to show any weakness from her growing blood loss and her difficulty breathing. She knew broken ribs and that spear must have slammed bone on its way through her side. The man hurled curse after curse at her. Though she was impressed with his vocabulary and inventiveness and made a mental note to remember a few of the more creative curses, it did him no good.
Exhausted, she dropped him in front of the now skittish horse, then looked up to Sev. Focused on the fight at hand, she didn't see Lugbac staring at her agog, nor hear him muttering admiration for "the berserker".
"Last one. Dead or alive? Your call, mistress."
A breeze blew her hood back, and only then could Sevilodorf and Lugbac clearly see who had provided such timely, unexpected and costly aid. As Lugbac's eyes widened in further surprise, Garlakh put her knee on the man's chest and knelt, hunching and pressing a hand to the wounds in her side to stem the bleeding. She could count it a blessing her lungs didn't appear to have been pierced, though a flash of pain in her side proved at least one rib was definitely broken. She wasn't coughing up blood, but the wounds from that keen spear were no joke. Some weaponsmith knew his trade well. The man writhed frantically beneath her, jarring her constantly. She gritted her teeth and drew her dagger, letting it rest against his throat as she waited, its touch feather-light, but no less ominous for the iron control with which it was wielded. She looked at the man under her, and for just a moment let the look in her eyes remind him she was born and bred an orc and had no compunction about taking his life if the woman on the wagon seat told her to do so. She was definitely angry enough not to give two pins. Though he wore a Ranger's star, he was a coward at heart and went very still at the look of murderous rage. Garlakh put more of her weight on him, partly because it was getting harder to keep upright and partly to make her point with the man that he was in her power and at her mercy, which hung by a thin thread.
"You're going to let some silly weak human make your decisions for you? Kill him and eat him. How long has it been since you had that tark delicacy you like?" the insidious voice purred slyly.
She ignored the suggestion and swayed as she received a fresh jolt of pain for her trouble. The pain in her ribs paled in comparison, but she refused to yield.
She did not realize she was starting to lose color from blood loss, for although she had managed to slow the flow somewhat with her hand, the mechanism her old master used to cause her pain also took a toll on any other weak point the body had, and freshly-inflicted spear wounds and broken ribs definitely counted. The flow increased again along with the pain. She looked back up to the trader. It was still her call.
The pain increased as her master tempted her with the scent of a certain fried delicacy only possible to get from the tark males, a delicacy she had preferred during the war but forbidden herself after it. Again and again she refused. Her white cloak was turning black with blood now. Sevilodorf said something, but there was a roaring in her ears now in addition to her master's voice and she couldn't hear the woman's words clearly. The last thing she saw was the eyes of the tark as she pitched face-first onto him, banging his head. Somehow, just before she passed out, she managed to turn the dagger blade so only the flat was pressed against the man. The last thing she heard was a cry of dismay – or was it two cries? She knew no more for many hours.
