The Road to Death

18

Kandler grunted in pain as the clawfoot beneath him leaped over a rivulet and came crashing down on the other side. Bound as he was with his hands around the creature’s neck, he had no way to cushion the impact other than to hold his breath and grit his teeth every time the creature bounded into the air. It did this often as it ran in a straight line over what Kandler could only guess was the same damn stream that kept meandering back and forth across their path.

The halfling riding behind Kandler—a scrappy, deep-tanned hunter who wore little more than a loincloth and an eagle’s feather braided into his hair—laughed every time the justicar hurt. Kandler would have thought he’d have gotten tired of it by now, but the small hunter never seemed to tire of the joke.

Kandler glanced to his right at Burch, who lay strapped to the mount of the halfling riding alongside him. The shifter looked like he might try to take a bite out of the scaly hide of the creature in front of him, just from sheer spite. He watched Burch’s claws extend from the tips of his fingers and start to worry away at the fibrous rope binding his wrists.

Kandler did not doubt the shifter would be free soon, although Burch would choose to reveal this fact in his own time. The thought of the resulting mayhem to come put a smile on Kandler’s face, and he felt glad that the halfling behind him couldn’t see it.

The justicar shifted his head to the left and spied Sallah atop the clawfoot racing along on that side. He marveled at the creature’s raw power and grace. For a moment, their surrender stopped galling him. If they’d tried to fight the Talentans, their mounts would have torn them apart. Having a giant carnivorous lizard feasting on his liver was not how Kandler wanted to go.

Sallah scowled at him. She and Brendis—especially Brendis—had been all for fighting to the last, but Kandler and Burch had overruled her by giving up on their own. When Xalt had followed suit, the two knights had no choice. Even they weren’t foolhardy enough to try six-to-one odds against the hunters and their deadly clawfoots.

“Where are they taking us?” Sallah shouted over the pounding of clawed feet.

Kandler noticed that the creatures’ vicious middle claws on each foot dug into the ground as they ran, making them as sure-footed as any warm-blooded mount. They also tended to spit out dirt behind them as they ran, which explained why the hunters moved in a wide-swept line rather than single file.

“Why don’t you ask them?” Burch said.

The one astride Kandler responded in a grave voice and a thick accent. “You’ll find out soon enough.” Then he rattled out a long set of orders in what Kandler recognized as the native halfling tongue. The riders all dug their heels into their clawfoots’ sides, and the massive lizards sprinted on even faster.

“What did he say?” Xalt called from the other side of Burch.

The clawfoot he was strapped to labored hardest of all.

Not only did the warforged weigh more than anyone else, but his rider was the pudgiest of the halflings too. Their nomadic life made most of the hunters into lean, muscular mites, but this one seemed softer than the others in every way.

Burch bared his teeth. “Literally? You don’t want to know.”

“I do not fear their words.”

Burch chuckled. “Halflings like to hear themselves talk. They use a dozen words where one’ll do.”

“So what did he say?” The warforged’s curiosity would not be denied.

“ ‘Hustle!’ ”

The halfling riding behind Burch smacked him in the back of the head.

“I don’t know,” Kandler said. “Seems that one prefers action.”

“We are taking your soft, worthless hides to the Wandering Inn,” the halfling behind Kandler said. “There, we and our elders shall determine what fate shall befall you each.”

“The wandering what?” Kandler asked. He stretched his neck around to see the halfling sneering down at him. The hunter jerked his chin out before him as they topped a large hill.

“The curious can see for themselves,” the halfling said.

Kandler craned his neck around the clawfoot and saw a small city of colorful tents sprawled out in the plain before him. They came in all colors and sizes, from a green and gold specimen large enough to house a platoon of soldiers all the way down to tattered brown sleepers that even a halfling couldn’t stand up in.

From high up on the hill, Kandler could pick out some sort of order to the place. Paths wove their way through the tents, some wider than others but none of them straight enough to let a rider stampede through the place unimpeded. The largest tents collected in the central part of the town, clustered around a large open space that served as a public square. Farther from there, the tents grew progressively smaller until they reached a series of eight tall, thin tents that surrounded the town in a rough circle. A halfling warrior stood on each of these, facing outward, scanning the horizon and the sky for friend and foe.

Overhead, a flight of leather-winged, long-headed lizards circled in the sky, riding thermal updrafts like living kites that might never decide to come down. Kandler spotted tiny heads peeking out over the edges of those wings, prodding the creatures to greater heights. Then one of them spun out of the formation in an acrobatic swoop that brought it gliding down to land in front of the green and gold tent that faced the main square. Kandler guessed the rider had to be strapped in or would have fallen to an untimely death.

As the clawfoot riders neared the camp, the halfling on the nearest lookout post sounded three long blasts on a horn that looked like it had been taken from the skull of a massive beast. Halflings of all sorts poked their heads out of their tents, looking south toward the riders, to see who or what approached their homes.

When the clawfoots reached the edge of the tent city, the riders brought their mounts to a canter and fell into single file behind the mount on which Kandler rode. Many halflings stood along their path and stared up at the hunters and the newcomers. Most of them wore the same nomadic clothes as the hunters, but some of the fatter ones were dressed in more civilized garb.

The clawfoots threaded their way through the tents until they reached the main square. A phalanx of halflings awaited them there, standing before the largest tent. The ones in the center wore fine clothes: pants, shirts, and waistcoats, most in the same emerald hues as the tent. Lean, shirtless, sun-baked warriors flanked them to either side, each holding a sharp-tipped spear as tall as themselves.

“Greetings, Lath Berlun,” the gray-haired halfling in the center of the line said, a wide and easy smile creasing his chubby face. “What sort of prizes have you brought us today?”

“Larger and livelier sorts than we usually find in the plains, Baronet Walsley, although not, I’m sure, nearly so tasty.” With that, he cut Kandler’s bonds with a small knife and pushed the justicar off his mount.

Kandler landed on his feet and saw that the others managed the same. Burch hit the ground first, as he didn’t have to wait for his bonds to be severed.

“Welcome to the Wandering Inn,” Walsley said, spreading his arms wide and exposing his bulging belly. “Please enjoy your stay with us as our honored guests. I am Baronet Walsley of House Ghallanda, your humble host.”

“I am Lady Sallah of the Knights of the Silver Flame,” the red-haired knight said, her eyes flashing with anger. “I am accustomed to better treatment from those who deign to call themselves my host.”

“My apologies, my lady. Our warriors are charged with the sacred duty of ensuring the safety of all who visit the Wandering Inn and who reside here.” Walsley raised a bushy eyebrow at the one he’d called Berlun. “The lath here can be a bit overzealous at times, but I assure you it’s all in the best interests of those we serve, especially in the case of such illustrious company as we find ourselves in today.”

Burch spoke, stepping forward and flexing his claws, a steely glint in his dark eyes. “What’s your guest’s name?”

The baronet stepped backward a half step, and the warriors on either flank of the line brought their weapons to the ready. Kandler put his hand on the hilt of his blade, but Burch waved him off with a quick flick of his hand.

“Wait a minute!” a deep, gravelly voice called out from inside the tent. “Is that a no-good, yellow-bellied son of a wereskunk I hear out there?”

The baronet cleared his throat before responding, eyeing Burch’s still-popped claws as he did. “Ah, yes. A shifter has accompanied Lath Berlun back from his latest patrol, sire.”

A broad- and bare-chested halfling stepped out through the tent’s front flaps and squinted into the sunlight. He stood two hands taller than any of his fellows and looked to Kandler like he could wrestle one of the clawfoots to the ground all by himself. A few gray hairs wound through his black, rough-cut mane, and crow’s-feet clustered in the dark-tanned skin around his sparkling blue eyes, but all of the halflings took a step back out of deference when he entered their presence. He squinted up at the visitors, his sharp gaze landing on Burch.

“The lath of laths, the most powerful of our great leaders, Lathon Halpum,” the baronet said by way of introduction.

The lathon waved off the civilized halfling’s patter. “People either know who I am or don’t care.” He stepped forward and stuck his hand out toward Burch.

“You shifty old shifter,” he said with a wide, winning grin, “how in all of Khyber are you?”