Kellanved's Reach by Ian C Esslemont

Author:Ian C Esslemont
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781473510609
Publisher: Transworld
Published: 2019-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The range that began at the coast to run eastward of Quon Talian lands was rugged, but unfortunately very small as mountains went, and Orjin Samarr was beginning to think he and his troop had hiked over every square league of it. They had survived to date by keeping to the roughest, most uneven ground available to better keep the Talian cavalry at bay, a strategy that could only work for so long, as they were running out of ground, and steadily being forced eastward.

The Quon Talian commander, Renquill, had indeed been recalled from his assault upon Purage, and had since dedicated himself to chasing down Orjin Samarr and his ‘band of outlaws’, as Quon would have it. So far Orjin had managed to stay ahead of his pursuers, all the while waiting for word from Purage command. For surely they would dispatch a relief force; after all, he’d ended the siege and drawn the invading force out of Purge.

This evening he made the rounds of his forces huddled at shared fires – wood at least was plentiful, and Renquill knew they were up here anyway. No, the real limiting factor was food. The isolated hill tribes had been grateful enough to offer what they could, but they did not have the resources to feed both themselves and another four thousand hungry men and women. And nor would Orjin expect them to.

He paced the bivouac, showing his undaunted face, clapping shoulders and making small talk. Out here, among the men and women, he was now ‘Greymane’, their leader and champion. Finished, he returned to the fire that was his unofficial camp headquarters, where among his old command he was still plain old Orjin. Here, however, smiles were even fewer. Young Prevost Jeral was showing the longest face; she was taking the silence from Purage personally.

It was Terath who finally broached the subject none other would say out loud when late into the night she announced to all: ‘We’re running out of mountains.’

No one disputed this, or everyone was too tired to argue.

‘Indeed,’ rumbled Orhan, ‘the beaters are so close I hear them night and day.’

‘Renquill must be ahead, waiting for us,’ said Orjin – stating the obvious to invite comment.

Prevost offered a sour nod. Gone now were her long braids; she’d had her hair hacked short as there was no way to care for it. ‘He’s a prissy officious bastard, but he knows his stuff.’

‘Could we make a dash for Cullis?’ Terath asked, though she did not appear hopeful.

Orjin shook his head. ‘They have no reason to take us in. Quon’s named us outlaws, remember?’

That at least raised a few chuckles.

‘In the jungle Horn,’ Yune murmured, hunched in his multicoloured rags, ‘we use lines of beaters also.’ He poked his staff at the fire. ‘But sometimes the hunted deer turns out to be a jungle cat. Many beaters are lost this way.’

Orjin peered at the fire-lit faces arrayed round the camp – none appeared to oppose the intent behind Yune’s comment, and so he nodded.

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