Chapter 17 Venim
Another evening, another scene of destruction.
This one is smaller than the wreck we encountered yesterday, but no less grisly. I see the longstriders from the air, and signal to the others to land. Once my thrumwing is down, I dismount and inspect the carnage.
A convocation of screechers has gathered to feast upon the bodies. They scatter at my approach, flapping away with bellies full of gore.
I remove my helm and stoop to examine the first of the bodies.
I know him. Qelth’s his name. One of Pharod’s better caravanners. His face has been gnawed to nothing by the screechers, but his scent is unmistakable. It was a blade that ended him. The wound gapes across his throat like a second mouth.
Another body lies nearby, equally mangled. That would be Lotan, Qelth’s second. It’s rumored the two are lovers, though I do not concern myself with such things.
What I do know is this: Lotan was also murdered, also with a knife.
The other two I do not recognize. One’s a Slorrax with an ugly vertical mouth. The other’s a Gathnarii, probably handsome before the screechers got to him.
Both are dead; both by blade.
“What d’you think, boss?” One of the other riders has come up behind me. Grindal. He is squat and gray, with a protruding jaw and tusks. “Unfettered?”
I pause, think.
The Unfettered would be the likely culprits, but the attack is lacking the usual hallmarks of a raid. The longstriders are still here, still alive. Raiders would have taken those, along with all the cargo strapped to their shells.
But if not the Unfettered, then who?
I flick my tongue out, tasting the air. The scents come to me, one by one: Qelth, Lotan, the Slorrax, the Gathnarii…
And one more.
“Hassaith.”
Grindal snorts, incredulous. “A Hassaith did all this? One?”
“Don’t underestimate the Hassaith,” I answer. “They may not be the strongest warriors, but they are cunning. And quick.”
I stand and survey the scene.
Why did I come here, I wonder? This location is on the furthest outskirts of the region where the escape pods could have fallen, but I felt something calling me to this place, pulling me like a magnet. I’ve had intuitions before, but this…
I think of the scent. The one I smelled last night at the wreck. The female.
The female.
Over the past day, my men and I have found more than half a hundred lost concubines. Humans, they’re apparently called. Soft, fleshy little things who come in a variety of colors and shapes.
And scents.
None of them were the female I tasted back there in the ruins of the Scarlet Ship. Part of me was hoping I might find her out here.
An absurd idea. Utterly absurd.
And yet…
I look around at my men. When we set out from the crash site, there were a hundred and twenty of us.
Now we’re down to a mere dozen. The rest have all been sent back to Mount Bolguz in pairs, escorting the human females we’ve found.
Each time, I tried to choose the men who seemed the least likely to “tamper” with the goods.
The eight who are left are a rough bunch indeed. Not quite as rough as Sleezl, perhaps, but rough nevertheless.
I turn to Grindal, who is silently awaiting my command.
“Select three men to guide these longstriders back to Mount Bolguz. Pharod will want his goods, and he’ll want to know about this raid, if that’s what it was.” I lower my voice. “Select the three who are least likely to control themselves around females.”
Grindal grins, understanding my meaning.
“Aye, boss,” he says. “An’ the rest o’ us? What’re we gonna do?”
I motion toward the four dead bodies lying on the ground at our feet. There’s still plenty of meat left on their bones.
“The thrumwings are hungry,” I answer. “We’ll feed them.”