Bridge Between the Worlds Page 35

  “No, instead I sent them a Minotaur commander. One who would not lose his head so easily. I must say, the Hartiani were not overly pleased.

  It appeared to be working. There were no escapes while he was there.”

  “However, I gather my Lord that the problem was not truly resolved?”

  In fact, Demeron already knew the answer to this but he was too wise not to play the game for his master’s entertainment.

  “Not at all. You see, we faced the same problem as before after the commander was found down the eastern slopes. In a rather ironic twist, it was the new commander who lost his head this time.”

  “If it was the eastern slopes then he was likely hunting down his enemy, whatever that might have been.”

  “Oh, I am quite sure he was. I meant that he lost his head rather more literally.”

  Gorhoth’s eyes glimmered in a very dangerous fashion. He showed absolutely no signs of remorse or caring for his lost commander. In fact, something in his voice might have been construed as humour but this was mixed with a strong dose of anger.

  “You see Demeron, I have grown overly weary of the problem with our slaves. The constant disruption to our mining operations cannot be tolerated any further. It is hampering our war effort and it is giving the slaves hope. A more dangerous weapon could not possibly fall into their hands.

  You have proven yourself to be an exceptional problem solver Demeron. I want this problem dealt with.”

  Demeron bowed low before his master. His orders had been given and he was clearly dismissed.

  “I will bring the Hartiani back into line Lord. They will not be allowed to fail you.”

  Demeron turned on the spot with every intention of leaving while Gorhoth was still thinking of him favourably. Furthermore, he had just seen a shard of lightening shoot through the air, form a bizarre orb of liquid light where it hit the wall, only to then be sucked into a vacuum seconds later. Gorhoth was right, it would be suicide to stay exposed to the perilous, untamed energy.

  He had not even managed to take two steps before Gorhoth called him back.

  “Demeron, you disappoint me. A problem solver like you should have been able to read between the lines. I have no intention of wasting your skills on controlling a flock of birds. Captain Torth has already been given that responsibility.”

  “Lord?”

  “You said that our late commander must have been hunting enemies. I agree and I am sure you would agree with me when I say that any enemy who can cleanly relieve commander Torth of his head without leaving any sign of a struggle requires investigation.”

  This made Demeron’s head spin must faster metaphorically than it did literally as he turned back around.

  “Commander Torth? I did not know of this. He was one of our finest warriors!”

  “I am afraid ‘was’ is the critical word here. I am glad that you recognise the true issue at hand this time Demeron. Now do not fail me.”

  This time the conversation really was over and Demeron left as fast as he could without appearing fearful or anxious. In truth, he was genuinely concerned. Surely no human could have bettered Torth in combat. He had been like Demeron himself, a veteran of the old wars with the elves. They were much worthier opponents than humans and Torth had slain many.

  His dark thoughts were like a cloud looming over him as he made his way to his personal quarters. Gorhoth hadn’t set a time limit on his duties and he was exhausted. His head was still swimming with dark thoughts as he finally stretched himself on his hard shelf. He fell asleep easily but was visited by unpleasant dreams of an old enemy. Still, fitful rest was better than no rest.

  Chapter 15

  The sky was crystal clear above the mountains as Demeron stopped to sniff fervently at the air. He was in an incredibly foul mood, not helped by the stench of the bird creatures filling his nostrils. Though they can endure it, Minotaurs disliked the sun and open spaces. Demeron was completely exposed to it as the fiery ball wheeled to its midday peak. Then a shape crossed over the sun casting Demeron in shadow momentarily. A screech was heard, then the Hartiani flapped ahead towards the camps to deliver its message.

  Demeron let out a dismissive growl. At least they had noticed the new arrival and were following their orders. He strode on up the path. The stones laid roughly along the way were clear of any obstruction, still situated on the western slopes where the deathly effect of the citadel still left the earth utterly barren. The further Demeron proceeded however, the more living plants started to dot his surroundings. Fir trees started to make their appearance, climbing up the great slopes until it finally got too high and they couldn’t grow anymore.

  In the distance he started to hear the sounds of one of the mines. There was occasional yelling, the sound of rock being unloaded above ground and screeches from the Hartiani. Demeron half expected a posse of the birds to come and see him into the camp but was pleasantly surprised to see the old kitchen master striding begrudgingly towards him. This was pleasant because it meant that the Demeron would have a chance to gloat. Gorhoth had in fact done Demeron a favour. He would not be laughed at as he had feared. He would be the one doing the mocking. A satisfied grin broke out on his face as the master drew closer.

  “Demeron, not coming to relieve me of my duty I hope?” his tone could hardly have made it clearer that he was hoping for the opposite.

  “Certainly not, do not fear.” Demeron savoured the moment as he carefully chose his words. “Unfortunately, Gorhoth did not see fit to… honour me with the responsibility of our winged comrades.”

  The kitchen master snorted disdainfully. He wouldn’t let Demeron rub this in further than he had to and got straight to the point to try and steer the conversation away from the shameful topic.

  “Well, if you are not here to help control the vermin, what is it exactly you have been sent for? I suspect you did not journey from the Citadel for relaxation.”

  “Not at all. Did you hear what happened to your predecessor here?”

  “Torth? Of course. I had to arrange the proper burial of his… pieces.”

  “Well I am here to guarantee that some other captain does not have to perform the same duty for you. Torth was ten times the warrior you are and the reports say that he was killed without the faintest sign of a struggle. You would be easy prey indeed.”

  “Clearly you have not read all of the reports then. Torth was a fool!”

  The kitchen master spat this last sentence out haughtily.

  “There are a number of Minotaurs stationed here and they still have their heads. If you look closer at all the reports you will notice that the agent running the escape missions never kills directly. The stupid birds kill each other by accident when they pursue the demon and his freed captives but otherwise confrontation is avoided. Torth sought out a battle with an enemy clearly far more intelligent and tactical than he ever was and he suffered the consequences for running headlong into battle without thinking first.”

  “Torth was a great and capable captain! I hope his killer gets a chance to pay you fairly for your insolence before I get to deal with him! It is only a shame I cannot punish you myself!”

  The Minotaurs stared each other down with hatred etched into both their faces but neither of them was stupid enough to start a fight. Eventually Demeron moved first.

  “Take me to the place where Torth’s body was found. I will start searching there.”

  “As much as I would take great pleasure in seeing his blood soaked into the ground again, I am not your servant, nor do I have the time. One of the winged rats will show you to the site. Now, I have my orders to attend to.”

  He walked away in the direction of the military quarters situated on the south side of the pass. The slave’s accommodation, if it could be called such a thing, consisted of poorly made wooden shacks huddled together on the northern slopes close to the mine entrance. Partially this was because they were only used to stop the slaves freezing to death when they got a rare moments res
t and sleep, and partially because the northern slopes formed a crescent moon which hindered any potential escapes without returning at some point to the path which divided the camps.

  Demeron had only been here a few times before and only briefly on those occasions. He took in the lay of the terrain, the positioning of the camps and the circling flight of the Hartiani guards. All in all, he was shocked that any humans should have escaped even once, let alone consistently. Where could they possibly get out of the pass unseen? Certainly not to the west where the barren mountain side would leave them utterly exposed. To the east there was a formidable garrison of Hartiani who hated humans as much as Demeron did. Their talons alone would have ripped the flesh off an unarmed slave with ease. Nevertheless, the humans were still escaping.

  Before Demeron had any more time to consider the seemingly miraculous feat, a Hartiani guard fluttered out of the air and landed beside him.

  “I take it you will show me to the place where commander Torth was slain?” he asked.

  The reply was difficult to understand through the clicking of the Hartiani’s beak and Demeron only half attempted to cover up his muttering of, ‘winged vermin’.

  The reaction from the creature was immediate and startling, even to Demeron. It drew its wings in tight to its body and began to let out a long, seemingly painful cry. As it did so its wings actually melded into its body, its beak shrunk away into a fleshy nose and arms proceeded to fold out from its sides. It only took moments before the image of a beautiful human woman stood before Demeron. There was only the faintest sense that something about her was wrong. Perahps it was that she was almost inhumanly attractive. Demeron had never before seen a Hartiani shift shape, nor had he even heard of such a thing happening. The look of surprise he gave her evidently gave this away.

  “Better, earth dwelling fool? Those bound to live in darkness are always envious of those that can fly and call the open sky their domain. How little you know of us. If ignorance really is bliss, your race must be eternally content.”

  “How did you change your form?”

  “My my, surprised are we? Never seen a Hartiani change shape before? Or perhaps you were simply too blind to notice until now that we could do such a thing?”

  “Why fly about like mindless beasts if you can take another shape?”

  “Only a mindless beast would choose fragile beauty over the power and the joy of flight.”

  Demeron could not find a fast remark for this and decided to get back to business, now that the shock of a Hartiani challenging his wit and wisdom was starting to wear off.

  “Are you to show me where commander Torth was found?”

  “Yes, if you are ready.”

  Demeron nodded his approval quietly.

  “This way then please.”

  She set off with surprising levels of agility and dexterity on the ground. Demeron needed to lengthen his strides to keep pace with the rapid steps of his guide.

  A group of slaves was being driven along the path in the opposite direction but as it drew closer the front two men stopped dead, staring gormlessly at the half naked, beautiful woman in front of them.

  “My lady, what is the beast doing with you?”

  From the back of the column came a series of shrill shrieks which clearly indicated more Hartiani, in this case laughing at the human’s terrible mistake.

  “Nothing that you need to concern yourself with, slave!”

  She lifted the man easily off the ground with a hand on his throat, choking him mercilessly. The laughter died down enough for squawked words to be exchanged with the woman who let go of the unwitting slave. The column moved past them.

  “Pathetic man must be new here. The older slaves would have been sensible enough to realise I was not one of them. He is lucky fresh slaves are needed for the digging of new tunnels.”

  Demeron was by no means changed by the experience but his respect for this particular Hartiani had certainly risen. He could at least see why Gorhoth would employ them. They had useful skills and a pleasingly bloodthirsty approach towards humans.

  They crossed what remained of the plateau quickly and passed through the eastern garrison. In bird form the Hartianis’ expressions were difficult to interpret but Demeron felt, if not saw, that the creatures were viewing his guide with disdain as she passed. Her comment about the choice of form they took floated through his mind and he realised that to the other Hartiani, taking human form was probably perceived as weak and pathetic. She seemed to take no notice.

  The difference in scenery over just a few hundred meters was astonishing. Past the mining camp fir trees sprawled in thickets to either side of the winding path, which itself was broken and rough. There were no operations further east. Even birds were more abundant here, away from the circling range of the Hartiani guards. Whilst the pass itself was short and narrow, the undulation of the earth to the east meant that there were steep ups and downs in the path before it finally started to make a consistent descent. The air was clearer too.

  “How far is it to the place?” Demeron’s voice was deep and even.

  “By wing, but a few minutes. As we are on foot it will take us some hours. The path rises, falls and twists a lot to the east which wastes a lot of time. Your old comrade managed to reach the edge of the eastern descent before he caught up with his quarry, or was caught by it I should say.”

  Something about her slightly cracked human voice was uncomfortable in Demeron’s ears.

  “You know the area fairly well?”

  “I was the one who found Torth’s body. That is why I was chosen to lead you there.”

  Demeron followed on in silence for a time before venturing to ask another question.

  “Do you know why he hunted his prey alone? Surely if the Hartiani could travel the distance in minutes they could have come to his aid?”

  With these words the woman stopped to stare intently at Demeron as if she was sizing him up metaphorically.

  “How much do you think you know of our race, Minotaur?”

  “Enough by the standards of my own kind.”

  “Which is to say, very little. You did not even know we could shape shift. Well, let me enlighten you. We do not live off flesh or plants, we live off the life essence of other beings, off magic as it were. We absorb magical energy when it is released and it prolongs our life. You eat flesh and therefore are born to track prey by the scent of their flesh. How then do you imagine we track our prey?”

  The question was almost rhetorical when she put it like that.

  “By sensing the life force within them, the magic that binds them together.”

  “Exactly. Now try to imagine tracking prey through this landscape, even if you could do so from above, without any scent to follow. A prey that had no smell. Could you do it?”

  “It would be difficult. Not impossible, but difficult. Prey may leave other signs.”

  “Well to the Hartiani, this enemy has no scent and therefore leaves no traces for us to follow.”

  “How is that possible? All living beings have life magic within them. The human slaves surely-”

  “Have been shielded whilst they escaped. We cannot feel their presence any more than the one who is helping them.”

  “But only an exceptionally powerful magic wielder could…” Gorhoth fell silent as realisation dawned on him. The Hartiani smiled grimly and continued walking.

  “Why has this never been noted in any of the reports?”

  “There could be a number of reasons. Perhaps because it would spread fear among our master’s subjects. After all, the race is supposed to be extinct. Or perhaps it is because your kin are slower of wit than you. The Hartiani did not write the reports, nor is our opinion ever sought by Minotaurs. However, we know, and we are not foolish enough to make a stand without greater support than we have been given here. They are the ultimate predators, as immune to magical assault as we are when they are experienced. We cannot absorb our own magic and they know how to turn i
t against us. Even if magic is not used at all, I personally am not stupid enough to believe I could best one in physical combat. Such fighting is best left to your kind, I freely admit.”

  Elves, thought Demeron to himself. It was strange to hear them described this way. The Minotaurs did not underestimate their ancient foe but nor did they consider them as predators. Rather, they were considered equals in battle, worthy opponents. They had powerful mages and were never known to be defeated by magical means.

  He remembered the battles well. The Minotaur’s own sorcerers would simply ensure that magic could not safely be used against them so that the elves were forced to face them blade to blade. Small consolation. They were strong far beyond the suggestion of their appearance, lightning fast and every bit as battle thirsty as the Minotaurs themselves once they were roused. Demeron knew that they were not extinct, yet, but he had not expected one to show itself so close the Gorhoth’s realm. Furthermore, Demeron realised it could only possibly be one elf in particular. The thought caused hatred to boil up inside him. Now the elf had yet another of Demeron’s kin to answer for.

  “Arnorial.”

  The name was spoken like a curse as Demeron followed behind the Hartiani like a menacing shadow.

  “Is that an elvish word?” asked the Hartiani.

  “No,” he answered, “an elvish name.”

  Demeron spent the rest of the journey brooding. It was indeed some hours before the Hartiani suddenly left the beaten path and led him into the forest that dominated the mountain side. It was not far to the site where dried blood could still be seen on the ground. The trees here were particularly dense. Not a good place for an open fight, thought Demeron. Minotaurs relied on their strength in battle and room to swing a weapon was very limited here. He searched the area up and down for more clues but none were readily forthcoming. The ground had already been trampled by previous visitors who had removed Torth’s body making it impossible for Demeron to distinguish any clear path taken by escapees. The only real evidence was the smell. Unmistakable amidst the various forest aromas was the faint reminder of an elf. It had been years since Demeron had smelt it last but that made it stand out all the more.