The Forbidden Page 3

  “Hold your tongue, boy!” Murzuk snapped from the head of the line. “Do you want to bring them down upon us?”

  Eldrax felt the heat in his cheeks rise as the other hunters glanced his way. He chaffed for the day to arrive when Murzuk would shame him no longer. Stowing his simmering anger for another time, he took better care to control his voice. “They laugh at us because of his weakness,” he hissed to Rannac. “Because of him, they were bold enough to take the greatest prize of all from under our very nose! We hunted that creature for days after she was separated from her cursed forest and the Black Wolf seized her from our grasp. Such an insult should never have gone without punishment.” He rubbed agitatedly at his chest.

  Rannac remained unmoved. “Murzuk is patient when it comes to the long game. Such a quality is something you must learn if you ever rise to become chief. The men will never follow an angry boy over a proven man, a chief who has never failed to keep them alive.” With that parting shot Rannac drifted back to his rear guard position.

  “Huh.” Eldrax struggled not to show how close Rannac had struck to the heart of the matter. Proving his worth over Murzuk was something Eldrax had striven to achieve since he had been old enough to hold a spear. Rising quickly from a weakling boy into a hard bitten survivor, he had been fighting for his life every day since his cowardly mother had abandoned him. Now he was ready. The men respected him, the Red Bear. Nevertheless, Rannac was right; they would not support the challenge of an untried boy over a man who had led the clan since before Eldrax was born.

  That opinion would soon change if he was the one to tear the Black Wolf totem from their hated leader’s throat. Defeating the rival clan meant more to Eldrax than gaining a few hunting grounds. Their defeat would at last prove to the clan that he was one worthy of following, gaining him the indisputable right of Challenge. His eyes went to Murzuk’s back. He just had to be smart enough to goad him into letting Eldrax lead an attack.

  A soft whistle sounded from ahead, breaking him from his brooding. Murzuk raised his fist, bringing the raiding party to a halt. Their scout had signalled an alert. Eldrax gestured sharply to the warriors behind him and watched as they flanked the men carrying the spoils of the raid, flint-tipped spears bristling outward. The Hunting Bear warriors’ eyes darted as they clutched at their weapons and the plumes of mist curling on the frigid air stilled as many of them ceased to breathe. Their tension was palpable but Eldrax felt only a thrill of anticipation. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to try to manipulate his chief after all.

  Eldrax shifted his bulky frame into a ready stance, his mind alive with visions of glory and vengeance. He would cut out the Black Wolf leader’s heart and cook it on a spit tonight right beside Murzuk’s. He imagined satisfying himself with the prize the Black Wolf had stolen from them. With the Black Wolf’s fallen totem around his neck and their chief’s mate as his own, he would become the undisputed master of the Plains.

  The Hunting Bear scout appeared over a snowy outcrop of rock, running as though the ravens of death were at his heels. The Black Wolf could not be far behind.

  Murzuk caught the young boy roughly by the scruff of his neck as he barreled into them and he collapsed trembling at his leader’s feet.

  “The Black Wolf?” Murzuk demanded. “Did they see you? If you led them to us, I will make sure the debt is paid in your blood, boy!”

  The scout gasped, shaking his head. “No, no, not the Black Wolf. They’re gone.” The adolescent face was pallid beneath the rich, dark skin and his brown eyes were wide and staring. Intrigued, Eldrax shifted closer to hear the terse exchange. The boy’s quavering voice dipped in and out of his hearing.

  “Wiped out?” Murzuk’s voice held a note of disbelief, then one of warning. “Are you sure it was the Black Wolf, boy? I do not take kindly to mistakes.”

  The youngster swallowed nervously but gave one firm nod. “I am sure, my chief.”

  Eldrax scowled, wishing he’d been able to hear the whole report. The Black Wolf had massacred something or someone and now he had no idea of who that was. Perhaps another clan had challenged them and tasted the wroth of the most powerful clan of the Great Plains.

  Eldrax’s mind worked quickly. If the Black Wolf had just put down a challenging clan, then it was impossible that they themselves would have walked away unscathed. They would have lost men and their remaining warriors would be battle weary. A feral grin spread over Eldrax’s face. The Black Wolf were licking their wounds and his clan was now in the perfect position to strike. The Nine Gods had smiled upon him at last.

  “Chief Murzuk,” Eldrax pushed forward, cutting off Murzuk’s exchange with the scout.

  “You dare interrupt me!” Murzuk rounded on the younger man.

  There had been a time when Eldrax would have wisely lowered his head and backed away but that time was gone. It had been many seasons since he had had to bend his head back to look upon that dark countenance. A fierce thrill rippled through him as he discovered that he could look his towering chief in the eye as no other man could. I am finally your equal.

  Murzuk saw the realisation glitter in Eldrax’s black eyes and aimed his fist at the younger man’s jaw. Eldrax set his feet. In the very moment his chief had bunched his muscles to strike, his mind flickered through all the ways he could block the strike and kill Murzuk before his fist landed.

  But he did not move. He held still and let the blow connect, same as he had countless times before. Now was not the time to challenge and cause division in the clan. Now was the time to go after their biggest rivals and prove himself. Once he defeated the Black Wolf, then he would be able to take his ultimate revenge.

  Even so, Eldrax did not stumble or bow down beneath the strike; he remained unbent, letting his posture speak. His chief was still the leader… for now.

  He saw Murzuk’s blue eyes flicker as he read Eldrax’s message before the coarse features arranged themselves into an expression he had rarely seen on his chief’s face: grudging pride.

  “You will make a formidable chief. One day the other clans will tremble at the sound of your name. But today is not that day, pup.” The glow of pride vanished. “Now get back in line where you belong before I gut you and leave your entrails for the crows.”

  Eldrax gave ground but kept his gaze level. Soon.

  Murzuk returned his attention to the scout at his feet and gestured for him to lead the way forward.

  “No!” The boy grovelled. “Don’t make me go back there. It is cursed! The gods have cursed this place! It is against their wish that we should be here.”

  “The gods abandoned us here a long time ago, boy.” Murzuk gave a sneering laugh. “They turned their backs and left our people to perish during the great Winter of Sorrow. If we hadn’t turned our own backs on their wishes, we would no longer exist, boy. Now take us there, otherwise I will make you beg for a so-called god’s curse!”

  Whimpering, the scout pushed himself to his feet. Eldrax’s lip curled in disdain. The boy was a coward. Once this foray was over, perhaps Eldrax would have some sport with the child before teaching him the penalty for cowardice.

  The scout led them on north through the snow. They were drawing nearer to the Mountains of the Nine Gods. Their great peaks pierced the clouded sky above the vast, dark forest that skirted their borders, forbidding and impenetrable. The foothills began to rise up on all sides. Eldrax wondered idly if the gods who had made the Peoples of the world still resided in those rocky towers, their dispassionate gaze looking down on the creation they had abandoned.

  The scout’s eyes darted continuously to the shadowy trees at the base of the Mountains as they loomed larger and larger on the horizon. His steps grew ever more reluctant until, finally, he refused to move any further. The boy simply stood, pointing ahead with one trembling finger. No matter how Murzuk threatened retribution, the boy would not take another step towards the Mountains. The Hunting Bear chief gave up with a snort of disdain.

  Eldrax stepped up next to the
scout. He did not threaten. In the time it took the boy to draw breath, Eldrax had pulled his flint blade and cut the air short in his throat. The scout’s eyes bulged in surprise as his mind caught up with his death. His hands flew to his neck in a futile effort to keep his life’s juices within. With a wet gurgle the boy collapsed into the snow. Without a second glance, Eldrax stepped over the convulsing body, leading the rest of the men forward over the undulating hillocks behind their chief.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” Rannac’s voice was once again disapproving in his ear. “He was just a boy.”

  “He was weak,” Eldrax replied, dispassionately. Rannac couldn’t seem to grasp such a simple concept. “You know as well as I that weakness leads only to death.”

  “Your mother would not have liked it.”

  Eldrax’s breath caught as his vision hazed to red. “Mention her to me again and I will rip out your tongue with my bare hands! Did Murzuk not order you to hunt her down and do exactly as I have just done to that boy? You know better than anyone the price of weakness, Rannac!”

  A trace of old pain crossed Rannac’s face but he held his tongue.

  They mounted the last rise and Eldrax saw the land open up into a great flat expanse; leaving the view unbroken until it reached the roots of the brooding forest. Midway between where he stood and the looming tree-line, he spied an extensive camp. The familiar shapes of skin shelters were easy to identify even at this distance. The jumbles of dark shapes strewn around the dwellings were not so simple. Eldrax’s best guess was that they were rocks, though why anyone would set up camp on such rough ground he could not understand.

  Eldrax’s black eyes flickered over the plain. Aside from the shelters billowing softly against the stiffening breeze, no other movement could be detected. It was unnaturally quiet. Not even the birds were singing. Something… something tasted wrong.

  In spite of himself, the hairs lifted on the back of Eldrax’s neck. The scout’s cries echoed in his ears: It is cursed! The gods have cursed this place! He shook off the ridiculous notion but he was too experienced a hunter to ignore such a primal warning. Bringing his spear into a ready position, he signalled to the strongest men to once again fan out in a protective ring around the rest of the raiding party. He had no idea what sort of trap the Black Wolf had set but he was going to be ready for it.

  “Keep alert, boy,” Murzuk hissed. Eldrax was surprised to see that his chief’s face was pale beneath the rich skin, just as the scout’s had been.

  “If the Black Wolf are waiting, they will regret setting such a cowardly trap!” Eldrax did not bother to keep his voice down this time. If the Black Wolf knew they were here then there was no further point in stealth.

  “Your arrogance will be your downfall one day,” Murzuk warned. “It is not the Black Wolf that makes my blood run cold. The Black Wolf lie before you, boy. Dead men are no threat to the living.”

  5

  Fallen Enemies

  A wave of shock rippled through Eldrax’s chest. Not rocks. Bodies. The frozen corpses of the Black Wolf clan were lying strewn about the abandoned shelters.

  No! His gut wrenched. It could not be. But as he stared down, the first flickering of flame began to lick at his plans for the future, threatening to burn everything to ash inside his chest. If this was the Black Wolf clan lying vanquished before them, then everything he had spent his whole life preparing for had come to nothing.

  Bitterness saturated Eldrax’s tongue as Murzuk set out across the exposed plain. Some of the men hesitated to approach the killing field but one glare from Eldrax and a flash of his still bloody knife had them falling obediently into line. They knew his moods well enough to know he would welcome killing something right now.

  Eldrax’s fury and disappointment was mounting with every breath, the flames of destruction in his heart growing greater. At the edge of the camp, Murzuk ordered five of the men, including Rannac, forward. The rest he left to guard their kills on the outskirts, ready to flee if needed. The chosen five bunched closely together with Rannac at their head as they walked among the frozen corpses.

  The totem of the Black Wolf could be plainly seen about the camp, leaving no doubt as to the identity of the fallen. The flames in Eldrax’s chest peaked then burned away leaving nothing. He kicked savagely at the snow which, like his plans, lay desolate and bloodstained at his feet. He vowed to find who was responsible and destroy them. Deadened inside, he prepared to search the killing field for clues to the enemy.

  Nothing could have prepared him for the reality of what he saw. The hairs standing on the back of Eldrax’s neck quivered again, sending an unaccustomed chill down his spine. From a young age, he had seen men slaughtered, many by his own hand. He had seen their blood flow, their eyes glazing over in the absence of life. He had both seen and caused horrific wounds. But not even he had ever been able to inflict the sheer brutality he was witnessing now. It wasn’t so much bodies he was walking through as body parts. He saw torsos cleaved in two, heads absent from shoulders and limbs separated from joints. Gripping his spear, Eldrax crouched down to take a closer look at the nearest headless torso. The head had not been removed by any butchering blade. It had been ripped off by some immense force.

  What in-

  A shadow fell across the ground, making him start. Murzuk stood above him and Eldrax growled angrily at his lapse. His chief’s blue eyes were wary. Eldrax could almost smell his fear. Coward.

  “No other clan did this,” Murzuk spoke in a low tone. “It is a bad omen. The scout was right. This is no place for man. We should leave quickly.”

  Eldrax muffled his snort as Rannac gave a soft whistle of alert from the other side of the camp. Eldrax rose away from the disturbing corpse and walked with his chief to see what the other raider had found. He kept his eyes moving as they waded through the gore, taking in every detail. No one had been spared. Not even the women and children. The bitterness on his tongue swirled again and he swallowed it down with an effort. Even the spoils of battle had been denied to him.

  “What have you found?” Murzuk grumbled as they neared Rannac.

  “I thought you would like to see, my chief.” The grizzled warrior pointed into the snow before him. His dark face was a mask of conflicting emotions.

  A tall man was lying prone in a pool of his own frozen blood. The furs that covered his body were tattered and torn from multiple wounds though he seemed to have escaped the mutilations that had befallen so many of his people. His tortured face was turned to the side, partially revealing his dark features.

  Eldrax saw the fear in his chief’s eyes transform into a fierce, gloating joy as Murzuk rolled the corpse over with his fur-wrapped foot.

  “So, Juran, you finally confronted an enemy that even you could not defeat. Perhaps the gods still deliver justice after all.”

  Eldrax stared down at the dead man with fresh understanding. This was the feared Cro chief of whom tales were told and rival clans learned to fear. Juran of the Black Wolf, the man Eldrax had spent most of his life hoping to one day defeat, was finally before him lying dead at his feet. A life time of preparation and now he would never know who would have walked away alive, who would have been the true alpha wolf of the Cro clans. The emptiness spread further through Eldrax’s chest.

  Rannac crouched down and touched the frozen face. “Farewell… brother,” he muttered, bowing his head in a last sign of respect.

  Ignoring the older warrior, Eldrax scrutinised the body. The chief had been tall, taller perhaps even than Murzuk, though he was nowhere near as heavily built. Eldrax’s lip curled. Juran might have been a quick, agile warrior but so too was he and he would have far outmatched the Black Wolf chief in brute strength.

  Wrestling with the feeling that he was now without purpose, Eldrax turned away as Murzuk crouched beside his old rival, drawing his sharp flint knife from his fur boot. He did not watch as his chief cut three fingers from Juran’s cold, stiff spear-hand as a prize. To the gods with a few f
ingers. He had been hoping for bigger rewards. A glance at Juran’s throat told him that his totem was gone. Claimed by another.

  Sick with bitterness, Eldrax let his eyes wander over the still camp. The breeze swirled in the snow and ruffled the abandoned shelters. The clouds overhead lowered as the wind herded them across the sky. No totem and not even Juran’s prized mate had been spared for him to prove himself a victor. A victor worthy enough to become a chieftain.

  The thought gave Eldrax pause. Not even the prized mate… In his mind’s eye, he ran through everything he had seen since entering the camp. Nothing but bodies. But maybe it was not what he did see but what he didn’t see that should have interested him.

  “That witch Juran snatched from you all those seasons ago. He claimed her as his own mate, did he not?”

  “Yes.” Murzuk’s face darkened at the reminder. “Though no stories have been told to say whether he managed to breed successfully with her.” The chief’s lips twisted as though this fact gave him some small comfort. “Why?” he growled.

  “Because she is not here. All the bodies here are Cro.” Eldrax did not wait for a further response, he stalked the camp searching every tent, studying every body part. Some of the corpses were too mangled to even identify as Cro. It didn’t matter, they were all far too large to be the creature that he sought.

  She was not here.

  With burgeoning hope Eldrax began to scan the snow. Inside the camp and the immediate area, the ground was too churned by the struggle of battle to be read by even his expert eye. Eldrax began to range further out, circling the camp until he found what he was looking for: two sets of human tracks running from the killing field. One set had the size and distinctive shape of a Cro man but the other prints were half the size, the stride much shorter. A child perhaps, but something told him that was not the case. The shape of the tread did not ring true. A triumphant grin crept over his broad face as he whistled for attention, continuing to track as he did so. Perhaps all was not lost after all…