Chapter Thirty-One Guthnyr #3
Until now, he had thought this woman a parcel of ambition and vengeance.
But, looking into her intent, unblinking eyes, he realised this was the first time he had seen her truly afraid.
He liked to think it arose not just for herself, but for Ryma, Lohra, and the others she had marched with on this trail.
But with Deyna, Guthnyr knew it was impossible to say for sure.
Still, he was grateful for her fear. It made her at least human.
“Tell me more,” he said, sitting up and shifting closer to her. “About these Ventra.”
The following morning, Guthnyr woke to a clamour of alarm from the portion of the camp occupied by Torfyn’s band.
Assuming some quarrel had erupted with their neighbours, Guthnyr made no rush to investigate, hoping the argument would settle without his intervention.
However, the continuing chorus of raised voices, pitched in concern rather than anger, drew him closer.
He found Halvor with sword in hand despite the absence of enemies.
The youth roved the undergrowth nearby, peering into every hollow.
“Some fecking beast’s taken him!” he raged, gaze frantic as he scanned into the gloomy wall of trees. “A bear! A wolf! I’ve felt eyes on us since we entered this shitting forest.”
“Taken who?” Guthnyr asked.
“You need to rouse the entire camp,” Halvor demanded, though his voice held more worry than command. “My father is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“How the feck should I know? If I did I wouldn’t be talking to you, would I?”
The outlaw chieftain usually slept among his band, but they had woken at dawn to find his bedroll empty and no sign of him nearby. His own concern mounting, Guthnyr organised a thorough, if rapid search of the camp, but Torfyn was nowhere to be found.
“No blood,” Tirohk reported, having scouted the ground closest to the outlaws’ encampment. “No tracks beyond those of a man. He wasn’t taken.”
“He wouldn’t just walk off!” Halvor snarled. “How do we know one of your lot didn’t do it? Morvek savages can’t be trusted…”
“Still your tongue!” Guthnyr snapped, fixing the youth with a stare of sufficiently dire warning to bring his diatribe to a halt. “Did he leave a trail?” Guthnyr asked, turning back to Tirohk.
“Leads towards a stream,” the war chief said, pointing to a narrow avenue through the trees. “Harder to track after that.”
Guthnyr looked to Deyna. “Can you think of any reason why your uncle would choose to wander off?”
“No one in their right mind walks the Green Run alone,” she said. “My uncle is many things, but mad is not among them. All I can think of is a cache, some old store of loot he doesn’t want anyone else seeing. Perhaps he went to find it and something stopped him coming back.”
Shifting his gaze to Tirohk, Guthnyr said, “Without this man we are lost.”
Nodding, the war chief called out in Morvek, summoning a dozen Vehlkasa hunters to his side.
They promptly set off towards the stream at a run, quickly followed by Halvor.
“I’d best go too,” Guthnyr said, shrugging off his cloak and handing it to Deyna.
“No one else is to take a single step in any direction until I return.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I hope your mother told you enough about this place to allow you retrace our steps. Wait until nightfall. No longer.”
He expected to have to labour to catch up to the Morvek, but their pursuit of Torfyn slowed considerably after crossing the stream.
Finding a track when hampered by the shadows that never seemed to fade from this forest required much scouring of the ground.
Finally, one of Tirohk’s hunters discovered a patch of mud disturbed by recent footprints.
“Running not walking,” Tirohk said, crouching to inspect the tracks.
“Didn’t want to be seen,” Guthnyr surmised.
If Torfyn had indeed gone in search of old loot, it was in keeping with his nature that he wouldn’t want others to know where it was hidden.
Still, despite the man’s greed, Guthnyr hadn’t thought him so lacking in responsibility as to abandon the army when he remained their sole guide.
Either the treasure he hoped to claim was considerable or he had another purpose.
The Morvek tracked Torfyn’s trail through dense ferns and a series of ravines, each one deeper and more sheer sided than the last. Soon it became clear to Guthnyr that they had entered a new and distinct region of this forest, the close-packed trees giving way to a labyrinth of interlocked gulleys.
Eventually, they converged into a high-sided canyon where a fast-running river frothed over moss-covered rocks.
It was thanks to the disturbed greenery atop the boulders that the Morvek were able to continue their hunt.
The canyon continued for nigh another mile, its flanks diminishing in height until they once again walked beneath the tight, occluding weave of the forest canopy.
Here the river traced a meandering course through the trees, the keen-eyed hunters spying more tracks along its moistened banks.
They had covered another hundred paces when Tirohk came to a sudden halt, sinking into a crouch and unlimbering his bow.
“What is it?” Guthnyr whispered, keeping low as he moved to the Morvek’s side.
Tirohk surveyed the foliage to his right, brows furrowed in puzzlement. “I…” he began, shaking his head. “I see nothing. I smell nothing. But something is wrong here, Kirah-Var.”
“Father!” The shout came from Halvor. The youth stood nearby, face lit with relief. Rising, Guthnyr saw a solitary figure kneeling in a small clearing some fifty paces off. Torfyn had his back to them and gave no indication of having heard his son’s greeting.
“What are you about, you daft old sot?” Halvor said, pushing his way through the undergrowth. “Been at the good stuff, have you?” Guthnyr watched him come to Torfyn side, noting the way the outlaw chief’s head slumped lower by several inches. But he continued to say nothing.
“Don’t!” Tirohk hissed as Guthnyr started forward. Pausing to scan their surroundings, he saw no sign of danger, but the warning of a Vehlkasa war chief was not to be ignored, even if he couldn’t name the threat.
“Stay here,” Guthnyr told Tirohk, drawing Kohrvayl. “Keep watch.”
Resuming his approach, he heard Tirohk mutter commands to his hunters. The creak of their bowstrings seemed unnaturally loud in the otherwise still air.
“Well, get the feck up then,” Halvor told his father as Torfyn continued to kneel, head bowed and mouth closed. “I’m sure our great leader will allow you an hour or two to sleep it off back in camp.”
“That I will,” Guthnyr said, halting at Torfyn’s side. “Though, given the dance you’ve led us, I’d guess you’ve taken something stronger than drink.”
Once again, Torfyn didn’t answer, his eyes were now tightly closed, as if he suffered some form of anguish.
His right fist was poised in front of his chest, the same gesture he adopted in times of danger or indecision.
Except this time, Guthnyr saw that, instead of clutching his jerkin, he held something on a cord that looped around his neck.
“What is that?” Guthnyr asked.
Finally, Torfyn consented to look at him. Swallowing hard, the outlaw revealed features set in an expression of abject apology. Blinking wet eyes, he spoke in a thick croak. “Don’t worry. She’ll keep you alive.”
Guthnyr began to demand clarification, then stopped when Torfyn’s hand opened to reveal a small silver trinket in the shape of a knot.
Guthnyr whirled, raising the sword in expectation of an attack, but instead was baffled at the sight of a slender woman in a hood stepping clear of the trees a few paces away.
She appeared alone and unarmed, causing Guthnyr to whirl again, fearing a distraction from a rush at his rear.
“So, this is the Tielvik general.”
His gaze returned to the woman, finding her drawing back her hood. The unveiled face was unfamiliar and undeniably beautiful. Still, the predatory cast to her eyes as she stepped closer caused him to raise Kohrvayl. “Who are you?”
She ignored the question, halting to angle her head in scrutiny, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You’re prettier than I expected. Possessed of a certain savage charm, one might say…”
“Answer his question, woman!” Halvor barked, drawing his own blade. “Who the feck are you?”