Gog by Vaughn Heppner

Author:Vaughn Heppner [Heppner, Vaughn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
Published: 2010-06-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Spoor

“Deliver my life from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dogs.”

-- A prayer of Shurite Raiders

The clang of hammers thundered in Vidar’s skull. For hours, he had hidden in a smithy, spying on the rat hunter. As he peered through a crack, he crushed charcoal in his fist. She sat again, tossing pebbles under the bridge.

“That’s the last warning,” growled Vidar.

“Wait,” said Naaman. “Notice those two.”

Vidar squinted through the crack. Two Jogli strode toward the bridge. Scarlet bands held their headgear. Ah, Naaman had spoken about possible disguises. The nomads halted at a piling and adjusted their veils. One hailed Tamar.

Vidar charged through the gloom. His brushing hip overturned an anvil. Coals sprayed. Then, the half-giant exploded out of the smithy. With the bulk of a bear, but with the grace of a leopard, he bounded across the plaza, clawing out his battleblade.

Naaman puffed after, signaling hidden men.

People screamed, scrambling out of Vidar’s path. The nomads glanced at the charging Enforcer. They looked about, perhaps wondering whom he charged. Then, it must have occurred to them that he charged them. One desert warrior threw up his hands, crying, “Peace, peace!” The other swept out his scimitar, a glittering blade.

“FATHER JOTNAR!” roared Vidar. He hewed with his giant blade. The scimitar shattered. With a wrench, Vidar freed his sword from that nomad’s face. Blood dripped from the blade. He whirled, smashing his fist into the second nomad. That man crumpled, choking on broken teeth.

Naaman and his men arrived, wide-eyed and pale.

“There,” said Vidar, “it’s finished.”

Naaman bent over the gasping Jogli and removed the veil, revealing an old man with a bloody beard and smashed nose.

Vidar clapped Naaman on the shoulder. The force of it staggered the smaller man. “You can depend on me to mention your name to Gog. Your skills aided in this capture.”

Naaman pursed his lips. He glanced at his bewildered men. “May I speak with you, Enforcer?”

“Speak, speak,” said Vidar. He was expansive. He smiled as he held onto the mighty battleblade.

“Could we talk on the bridge,” said Naaman.

Vidar noticed the growing crowd. People cautiously crept nearer. All kept a respectful distance from the blade, and no one would meet his gaze. He clumped up the bridge, and began to wipe his gory sword clean. “Well?”

“It isn’t him,” said Naaman.

“Bah.”

“The old Jogli is Ben-Hadad, of Midian Clan, a caravan master. I suspect you slew his son.”

Vidar slammed the giant blade into its scabbard. His eyes were hard. His wide mouth tightened. “It doesn’t matter. This Keros will never escape Shamgar, certainly not into the swamps. He’s as good as dead. So it might as well be him.”

Naaman nodded cautiously. “What about the caravan master?”

Vidar curled the bloody rag and dropped it into the canal. “Bury the bodies in the swamp. Get rid of them.”

“The visiting Jogli might take exception to that. Ben-Hadad is their chief.”

“All the more reason to rid ourselves of him,” said Vidar. “Or do you want them complaining to Gog?”

“Sown lips are silent?” Naaman asked.

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