They left the company behind, with Othniel about fifty yards to the right. Together they entered a zone of thistles and bur-bearing grasses. Joash groaned inwardly. At the next rest stop he’d be busy picking burs out of horse and dog-hides, and thorns out of the paws of the hounds. They passed a grove of trees and a field of chariot-sized boulders, and came upon the rut of a dry riverbed. It slowed the chariots as the drivers eased their vehicles in and out of it. In the distance stood a tall field of stalks, and a slow walking herd of steppe ponies. Somewhere beyond the horses lay the beach and the green Suttung Sea.
Herrek gave an order.
Joash jumped down and whistled for the dogs. They trotted over. He took up a position halfway between Herrek and Othniel’s chariots. Joash’s stomach tightened at the thought of being in the most exposed position. Tarag surely must know by now that his sabertooths had failed. Would the First Born return to slay them? Joash hoped not, but he kept a sharp eye out for sabertooths.
Not much later one of the dogs, a big brown one, swiveled his wedge-shaped head from side to side. He smelled or heard something. Two other hounds trotted toward the first one. The white-headed hound tested the air again. The wind shifted, however.
Joash readied his spear. Should he call Herrek or investigate this? He didn’t want to stumble onto sabertooths by himself. He whistled to the dogs. They looked at him.
“Come here.”
Dutifully they did. Then, surrounded by five big hounds, he cautiously moved in the direction that the white-headed dog had headed. One of the hounds barked at a thick clump of thistles. Joash froze. He saw a thistle frond shift. It moved in the opposite direction as the wind. For a sick instant, he was certain a sabertooth was going to bound out of hiding.
Herrek shouted.
Joash didn’t hear the warrior’s words, although he recognized the tone of command. A whip snapped and horses whinnied. With a quick glance over his shoulder Joash saw the chariot surge toward him. Another dog barked at the thick clump of thistles. The hackles rose on the other hounds. Joash aimed the spear at the thistles, but didn’t advance.
He saw movement. His gut clenched. He was about to give the attack order when out from behind the thistles rose a nearly naked man. Joash stared in amazement. The man was shorter than he was, but was incredibly stocky, almost misshapen with his thick, crooked limbs. The man had massive shoulders, and long arms knotted with muscles. A giant dwarf was Joash’s impression, a man who should have been tall and powerful, but instead, was twisted and thick, like a gnarled oak-root.
Joash rubbed his eyes.
Nothing changed. The man was beetle-browed, had a blunt nose, wide cheekbones, and a coarse swath of long black hair. From underneath the tangle, the man’s dark eyes gleamed fiercely. He wore a wolfskin loincloth and beads around his neck. Several eagle feathers dyed red at the tip had been affixed around his head. He wore no sandals or shoes, but was barefoot.
Joash could only gape. What was a Huri doing here? They were forest folk, and infested the forbidding forests that surrounded Elon. Huri and Elonites were born enemies. They had been ever since Lord Uriah cleared the plains of them. The Huri were a strange and savage race that still used stone tools. This Huri, this giant dwarf, had a scant black beard. It meant he was older, for only the older men among them could grow facial hair.
Herrek shouted again. From the other direction, Othniel roared. The dogs growled, but they hadn’t been given the attack order.
The Huri raised his heavy black bow. The notched arrow was tipped with flint. Joash saw at a glance the crude shield of hide-covered wood on the Huri’s knotted forearm, the short barbed sword at his waist, and the stone-headed mallet. Joash didn’t know the Huri’s clan, for the man wore no woad, the blue paint they usually tattooed themselves with.
“You Lord Uriah’s man?” the Huri grunted.
“Yes,” Joash said, his wonder growing.
“Hold your dogs, or I kill.”
Joash blinked. Although he was taller, the savage was heavier. On the plains, despite their heavy bows, the Huri fell before the charioteers. But in their dense forests, the tables were often turned. Many Elonites had been slain in the forests, their skins used for the war drums so loved by the Huri.
“Heel,” Joash ordered the hounds.
The hounds glanced at him with their hackles still up.
“Heel. Sit.”
Reluctantly, the dogs obeyed.
The Huri eased tension from his bow. “Tell them, I friend.”
Joash frowned. Why was a Huri here?
“I from Captain Maharbal,” the Huri said, as if reading Joash’s thoughts. “I am free-fighter with message for Lord Uriah.”
Joash understood, or thought he did. Captain Maharbal, the Further Tarsh merchant who had given them passage to Giant Land, had hired free-fighters in the past. The citizens of Further Tarsh seldom become warriors. They were too busy trading for profit. Thus aboard their ships, especially when sailing into dangerous waters, they carried a contingent of free-fighters: warriors who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Incredibly, Captain Maharbal had hired Huri.
The Huri’s blunt features hardened with determination. He pulled his bowstring, and aimed his arrow at Joash. “Speak, or die.”
The threat of death cleared Joash’s thoughts. He turned, and held up his spear. “He’s from Captain Maharbal.”
Both warriors had a spear over their shoulders and a shield before him and his driver. Both warriors looked determined as they raced at the dark-haired Huri.
“Stop!” Joash shouted, running to put himself in front of Herrek’s chariot. “He’s from Captain Maharbal.”
Gens yanked the reins. Othniel’s driver did likewise. Joash repeated his message, and it seemed that finally Herrek understood. Soon, so did Othniel, although the twist to his lips belied any peaceful intentions.
The Huri lowered his black bow. But he warily eyed the Elonites as they approached until they were less than ten yards apart.
Othniel scanned the distance. From his actions, he seemed certain an ambush was being set.
“Who are you?” Herrek asked.
“I am Sungara. I am free-fighter for Captain Maharbal. I not need to tell you, therefore, my clan or tribe.”
Joash knew Huri were proud of their clans and tribes. Perhaps Sungara was an outlaw, or an outcast. That would explain how he’d become a free-fighter. One seldom found Huri in such a position. They loved their forests and their feuds, and they loved to raid.
“Why was a Huri sent?” Othniel spat. “Does Maharbal insult us?”
Sungara glared at Othniel.
“No,” Herrek said. He eyed the stocky free-fighter. Huri, above all else, were trackers and hunters of supreme skill. They could slip into a camp like a fox. Their prowess in such matters was legendary, and their dark deeds haunted many an Elonite home.
“Something bad has happened,” Herrek said.
Sungara grunted.
“Maharbal sent a Huri because he wanted someone who could travel without being seen,” Herrek said.
“You right, chariot-man. I bring bad tidings.”
“What’s your message?” Othniel snapped.
“Is there peace between us?”
Herrek glanced at Gens, then put his spear and shield away. Herrek stepped out of the chariot and advanced on the bow-armed Huri. “Yes, there is peace between us.”
“And him?” Sungara motioned his head at Othniel.
Othniel needed only half a second. “There is peace.”
Sungara grinned and put away his bow. He spat onto his wide palm and shook Herrek’s hand. Herrek towered above Sungara, although their shoulders were as wide, which made Sungara seem thicker. The Huri was like some crude and gnarled earth-spirit in human guise, very much a creature of foliage, dirt, and the hunt for survival. He made Herrek seem polished, over-civilized.