Rogues of the Black Fury by Travis Heermann

Author:Travis Heermann
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2012-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 29

“Soon, brother,” said the man known as Rulf. “Soon we will be home, after all these years. Soon we will be able to call one another by our true names and embrace the Master.”

“We have indeed been away a long time,” the man known as Gusdan replied.

They stood together at the prow of Gull Wing as the small harbor that protected the town of Barmiyah from the crashing seas came into view. The land reached around the calm, still harbor like an embrace, and the arms ended in the raw, callused knuckles of thundering reefs. Only a narrow, treacherous channel allowed ships to pass into the harbor, and an inexperienced captain could easily gut his vessel on the sharp coral.

Green rolling hills surrounded the village, with chalk-white cliffs standing as a bastion against the surf about a league to the east, and the verdant patchwork of fields and stone-walled pastures rising into the hills beyond. Spring vegetable crops swelled and ripened. Fresh-plowed fields of rich, dark soil awaited the yearly seed like fecund, faithful wives. In the distance, the jagged purple peaks of the mountains, rising like a palisade separating Barmiyah from the rest of Fartha.

On the crest of a ridge beside the town, overlooking the harbor, he spotted a lone shepherd with his flock of shaggy kouns, nearing the time for shearing. A flash of memory in Rulf’s mind of his father shearing their small flock, the son looking on, frightened by the kouns’ fear. There was fear, but nevertheless a happy memory. A long-ago, almost forgotten time. He had no family now. The world was purer with his infidel mother in the grave.

“I am tired of the girl’s endless mewling,” Rulf snarled. “I hope the Master breaks her quickly. He will show her what it means to be a woman.”

“She is young.”

“I have seen the blood on her thighs. She is the ripest plum, ready to be plucked.”

Gusdan shrugged.

Rulf’s heart swelled. “To pray in a real temple. To smell the incense.”

Gusdan barked a short laugh. “Such a poetic soul. I’m looking forward to fresh nanh bread, hot from the oven after morning prayers.”

Rulf’s eyes glittered. “Yes! And fresh nanh. There is no real nanh to be found anywhere among the infidels.”

“It is good to be home.”

“Yes. It is good to be home. And best of all, we return in triumph.”

“Why are you still speaking the infidel tongue?” snapped a voice behind them in their native tongue. They stiffened, and the short, dark figure of their Shalat’bin stepped up to them. His eyes, like chips of cold obsidian, speared them from under black brows. Since they had departed Norgard, their shalat master had allowed his black beard to grow and thicken. He looked more like a true Farthi now. He stood with his linen robes of earthen browns and pale ivory rippling in a gust of sea breeze. They did not know his name. To them, he was only Shalat’bin.

Gusdan and Rulf stood straight and faced him. Rulf said, “Apologies, Shalat’bin.

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