Avarice Desperation Valley Ch. 41

I'm going to dedicate this chapter to blackchook who has been showing me so much love. I thank you.

Those Made Wolf's head

The scattered villages dwindled to be replaced by charred ruins, or the squalid residences of the sub human ones as the two men pressed further north into the dune country. There were no eager audiences here to grace with his songs or stories and Jhary found the further they ventured into these territories the more nervous he felt, even in the capable presence of his unwitting, fierce protector.

That evening over the last of their rations Jhary was most discomforted to see Aran shedding the majority of his large quantities of gold and secreting them in his bag. He knew Aran well enough to know he would not do this without good reason. He had also noticed the warrior now carried his sword by his side ready always to be drawn swiftly, even if the heavy weapon was unwieldy and repeatedly slapped his calf as he walked.

The slight man followed suit. He had no real valuables to hide but he did bring forth from the bundles on his mule a light, sharp rapier. Aran did not miss the appearance of the weapon, watching his companion lay it next to his bed roll. So mused Aran this little, merry man of song had been armed all this time.

"Can you use that over sized knife?" Aran said smugly, a rare grin lighting his usually stern visage.

"It's not a knife, it's a rapier." Jhary corrected, adding. "I sure can, well enough. Though I'm not sure it would do any good against your sword." He chuckled somewhat uneasily. "It's a weapon that relies on speed my friend, not brute power."

"Well, lets hope you never have to use it." Aran's words had a formidable tone to them as he turned over, positioning himself that he might sleep covered in his cape. Jhary shivered, and it was not because of the cold, as he too bedded down for the night by the dying fire. Questioning his sanity for following this man so far from his comfort zone.

*****

The following morning the two men broke camp in silence, the wind was on the rise portending a miserable day of cold and stinging sand ahead. However there was little option but to continue as there was no shelter here or anywhere nearby. The usually ebullient bard was silent as he packed his scant belongings on his patient mule this day, and Aran did not offer any words either as he rubbed his gelding's ailing foreleg in a fruitless attempt to wish the horse to mend.

The only saving grace was at least the wind was to their backs, but progress was slow in these conditions the visibility being no more than a few feet in any direction. Aran pulled his furred hood over his head limiting his vision, something he was always most loathe to do in this dangerous place, but it was all he could do to relieve his eyes of the worst of the flying sand.

As they walked Jhary found his hand straying to the comfort of his rapier, it had been a very long time since he had had the cause, or motivation to use it. He preferred to make music and love as opposed to any kind of aggressive act; part of him wanted to turn about and go back to the familiar villages and towns he had always plied his trade in. To be adored by the women and girls, hear the laughter of the children, and feel the camaraderie of the menfolk as he sat drinking with them late into the night, for no one refused a bard. Yet he felt compelled to follow this man on his quest to hell knows where? To locate some mysterious woman he knew very little about.

Jhary had to admit he liked Aran, even with his taciturn manner and his brash nature there was something refreshing and honest about his companion that drew him; but mostly he guessed in the time he had traveled with this warrior he had felt indisputably safe, something he had never felt before in all his long solo wanderings.

Yes, even the affable Jhary could fight if hard pressed, but smallness of stature made him a tempting target, for he did not exude the danger his companion did. At night the bard slept well, confident his wild compatriot would hear any approach and deal with intruders easily.

Perhaps these reasons were selfish reasons Jhary ruminated, but in this violent day and age it was indeed every man for himself and he could see no better way. The bard had nowhere definite to be and as long as his companion did not take affront to his company, Jhary Brannon was along for the ride.

Late in the day the dune country dwindled, the endless rolling sands slowly giving way to small undulating hills and jutting rocky promontories that rose through the blanket of dust and wildly driven sand. Their ageless windswept shapes loomed like fantastic creatures on all sides, menacing, warning of danger. The standing stones were interspersed by the last vestige of low stunted trees, long ago divested of their leaves, their twisted, tortured branches brittle and dead like driftwood.

Jhary pushed on keeping sight of Aran's back, hoping this man who seemed as one with the elements knew where he was headed, and some form of shelter was in sight. The wind was howling and the usually talkative man did not even have the chance to utter a questioning remark, instead spending the time in uncomfortable quietude, and reflection.

The smaller stone monoliths transformed into undulating valleys of displaced rock, broken, and sharp, treacherous in places; especially for Aran's lame horse, the sure footed mule fared much better. There was little sand here just the remnants of long ago volcanic activity and bald rock, still bravely bearing the occasional evidence of plant life long dead from the cold.

Jhary could reason where the warrior was leading them, for this was the entrance a large sheltered valley. The bard was relieved to be out of the worst of the wind, even if the ground underfoot was far from easy to navigate. It was then Aran's gelding fell without warning, hard, his lame leg lodged in-between the sharp stones like the teeth of a dragon.

The horse squealed and struggled to stand, his torn leg bloodied and raw, the white foam of the animal's distress and sweat flecked its black coat. Aran steadied the animal, but he was already shaking his head and his face was grave, and for once Jhary had nothing to say.

Aran managed to persuade his injured mount into the small sheltered clearing just beyond the jagged stone impasse, but the noble beast could no longer put even the slightest pressure on its torn leg. Jhary just stood watching his companion unsaddle the beast pausing to stroke the horse's white blazed forehead and muzzle one last time.

Aran drew his sword, this was the first time Jhary had witnessed the big man use it. The heavy, deadly, weapon somehow sat solidly in his hands and he swung it upward effortlessly in an arc, severing the horse's jugular and carotid artery. Blood sprayed and the animal crumpled to the ground issuing one last inhuman groan. Jhary looked away.

The mood that evening was subdued, Aran who wasted nothing and was never overly sentimental took the opportunity to eat his fill of the horse meat. Jhary however found he could not partake of the meal, and ate only a little of the last of the stale bread he had in his saddle bags. The fire burned brightly one moment, and guttered the next in the strong gusts, fortunately there was no shortage of long dead, dry, wood to feed it with.

The frozen wind still raced fiercely above, whipping between the rocks that stood on the crown of the valley. Occasionally small stones displaced by the wind from above would tumble down the valley's deep sides, crashing and echoing on their downward fall. Aran would grasp the pommel of his sword and listen intently, and Jhary's heart would race in his chest. Trouble always made him feel faint hearted.

The musician preferred conversation in moments of uncertainty and decided to try to engage his often wordless companion in some kind of dialogue. Even small talk was preferable to silence.

"So what's out here?" Jhary questioned, part of him wanted to know, yet part of him dreaded knowing.

"Not much." Aran offered. "Mostly wasteland, a few water holes if you know where to find them. This valley." He pointed up the rocky tunnel. "Heads directly north, runs past a couple of large settlements and close to where my people live."

"So you know exactly where we are at then?" Jhary sounded relieved.

Aran nodded. "More or less, though I have never traveled this valley this far south."

"Oh..." Jhary took a sip from the water bottle, washing the dust from his dry throat. "So are you going back to your people?" Trying to imagine what they might be like, fierce; judging from the little he knew of this man who sat before him gnawing on the horse flesh.

Aran did not answer, instead just slowly shaking his shaggy golden head.

"Why not?" Jhary pressed, even though he could see the sadness in the large man's proud features. Aran sat for a time staring into the fire, hand propped under his chin, seemingly very far away. Jhary did not think the man would choose to answer him, and was taken aback when he did, finally.

"I cannot...I am exiled." The words came hesitantly, painfully. "Until I find the woman I told you of, I can never return."

Jhary could hear the strain in his companion's voice. However he was most reluctant to not let the silence take hold again this evening, he needed to talk even if his need was a selfish one. He pressed the subject further even though he sensed the warrior did not wish to elaborate.

"Why is she so important? Was she someone's wife?" Jhary was easily imagining the scenario, he could see this wild man stealing someone's woman and the discord that would most certainly follow.

"No." Was all Aran said, his tone flat and final, looking directly at him green eyes wild, and Jhary did not mistake the anger in them. Nor the meaningful way the golden giant of a man placed his hand on the leather wrapped pommel of his sword. The bard sighed and unfurled his bed roll, he was weary but not content to sleep. However it was probably best he did.

*****

By morning the wind had died down somewhat, but not completely. Jhary was awake very early but most reluctant to climb from his warm bed roll. It always amazed him to see Aran soundly asleep on the cold ground with only the fur cape for cover, and saddle for a pillow; the man was far tougher than he.

Too restless to remain sleeping or even pretending to do so, Jhary spent the early dawn hours rekindling the fire and trimming his goatee which he took particular effort to keep neat. Jhary was a stickler for his appearance even with the lack of amenities. First and foremost he was a showman and well aware physical attractiveness, combined with his quick wit and skill, all played an integral part in his trade. He combed back his shoulder length hair and tied it neatly in a short ponytail.

Aran slumbered on and the bard was not going to be the one to wake him, busying himself repacking his belongings onto the back of his mule. Aran took his time to rise, there was little to organize, the warrior had collected almost nothing since his banishment some weeks before. With the demise of his horse he had less than ever to call his own. The saddle was heavy and although it was of considerable value Aran decided to leave it behind, for now at least his riding days were over.

After the disastrous conversation of last evening Jhary felt silence today would be prudent, which was most unlike him. As he marched doggedly after the warrior picking his way between the ragged rocks, rising up at all angles, sharp and treacherous. His mule trailing behind. The bard found he was reliving the unwanted vision of Aran so effortlessly dispatching his horse. One neat stroke was all it took, the man did not pause, or show pity, and he was trying to imagine such a man turning on him?

He shivered, again recalling the way his companion of the road had looked at him last night. Was it a bluff, designed merely for show? To encourage him to desist, or could Aran have simply murdered him, leaving him without a care? Somehow Jhary already knew the answer, and he was no longer sure he had made the right decision following this fierce man.

The valley continued to narrow until it was no more than a steep sided tunnel sundered through the red rock. It was barely wide enough in places for Jhary's mule to squeeze by, almost stripping the animal of its burden.

Aran had never traversed this southerly section of the impasse before and he went slowly, hesitantly, stopping often to listen and look before continuing onward. All of this made Jhary even more nervous, the usually confident warrior before him behaving like some hunted animal at every twist and turn.

The tight passageway opened out into a larger clearing of three hundred feet or so before it narrowed again on the other side, but of most importance in its centre was a small clear body of water; run off from above. The sides were steep and sheer, some hundred and fifty feet high, stunted underbrush clung tenaciously in the crevasses between the hard stone torn by the strong winds.

Aran crouched examining the ground, Jhary stood just behind him, his mule's errant ears pricked forward scenting the water, the animals large head pulling against his halter desiring to move forward.

Jhary was about to speak but Aran silenced him with an outstretched hand, drawing his sword. The blue black steel making an audible rasp over the oiled leather scabbard. Somewhere from high above a lone pebble dropped from the heights and splashed into the clear, still pool. The warrior stood there long moments sword partially drawn, pausing like the hunted wolf who must approach carefully lest a trap be set.

Finally satisfied by signs Jhary could not detect, Aran sheathed his sword and pressed forward to the life giving water. It was fresh, clean, and cold, almost frozen. The two travelers dropped to their knees, Aran drinking on his belly directly from the pool, Jhary kneeling, plunging his hands into the frigid water and cupping it that he might drink in a slightly more civilized fashion. The mule drank as well taking long deep draughts.

"How did you know this was here?" Jhary found the courage to whisper after he had sated his burning thirst.

"I didn't." Aran replied, taking a final drink and standing upright, still scanning the clearing for danger.

Jhary was about to reply when he saw Aran turn with cat like swiftness, the mule's head flew up from the body of water, the usually placid animal jumped sliding on the half frozen stone.

"Behind me!" Aran shouted going into battle mode, weapon drawn.

Jhary ran to the huge man's back drawing his own rapier, his heart pounding as he realized running was not going to be an option for him. They were already all but surrounded by a group of desperate, ragged men, and above he could see archers poised on the cliffs arrows drawn. The man of music and song closed his eyes and prepared for his last.

Aran quick to assess any situation no matter what the odds saw the archers too, slapping the frightened mule on the rump with the flat of his sword sending it careening into the tight knot of men who sought to surround them. The distraction bought him the precious time they needed.

Jhary felt the warrior's large hand grab the nape of his shirt, wrenching him sharply backwards beneath a small overhang, and conveniently out of the archers sights. Not a moment too soon as the ground where they had stood just moments before was peppered with arrow shafts, some of the errant missiles bringing down their own.

The remaining knot of men advanced, there were many, possibly twenty or more. Most of them older men, scarred by war, covered in the filth of the desert, and a product of a desperate order. Armed only with an assortment of knives, machetes and the occasional sword.

Aran had fought many men like these before in his time in Bennett's clan, he was a contrast to them, young, vital, and clean limbed, also better at his craft.

"Keep your back to the wall and stay close." Aran advised.

Jhary looked at him blankly and could hardly believe the relish he detected in the warriors eyes, his own sweating hand white knuckled on his sword pommel.

Aran's green eyes looked levelly at the rag tag band of outlaws who approached him as he let his cape which would hinder his movement fall to the earth, Blacksteel firmly clasped in one hand. Jhary saw him draw a deep breath and take the sword in both hands, perhaps something akin to a warriors final prayer.

The advancing line of men seemed to pause as they sighted the great blade, some of them even exchanged glances. Aran did not wait and leapt forth clipping the first row of men with the tip of the savage weapon. Some fell blood spurting, thrashing on the earth, screaming incoherent curses or prayers, some retreated.

Aran seemingly indiscriminate in his attacks, seeking any flesh in the circle of the great sword's reach. Jhary finding the nerve for the occasional thrusting parry in the wall of men who were intent on taking their possessions, and their lives.

The one sided skirmish was short lived, a loud retort rang out and the shabby wall of men fell away to reveal a short but startlingly muscular man standing behind his force with a shot gun which was now aimed squarely at Aran's chest. His ranks of archers had now joined him as well, missiles aimed likewise.

This distinctive man was almost dwarven in stature, but powerfully built, his arms resembled the branches of tightly knotted trees. He had a crown of thick black hair, the top of it pulled back in a ponytail to keep it from tumbling in to his eyes, and a great full black beard reaching to his belly. Like Aran he wore bold golden earrings in both ears, and many large rings encircled his thick fingers as he gripped the ornate gun stock, his finger caressing the trigger.

"Now what do we have ere?" He questioned in a powerful voice.

Aran did not lower his sword its tip dripping gore, nor did he move. Jhary looked to him anxiously.

"They will kill us for sure." He whispered.

"It's obvious I have met a man of superior fighting skill? T'would be a pity to waste him. What about you lower your arms, and I'll admit my mistake?"

Aran was unsure how to proceed, but he knew he was in no position not to agree to the terms that this diminutive, yet charismatic leader had set. Noting the tall white headed archer close by who seemed ready to let his arrow fly on a hair's trigger.

Jhary slowly sheathed his sword, he wanted no more trouble than they were already in and he was mentally willing Aran to do the same. Still the blond warrior did not rescind his ground or his weapon. Jhary wanted to cry, but bending Aran to his will was as futile as trying to bend stone.

"My name is Bryn Frazer." The grizzled leader continued lowering his gun and signaling his men to stand down, and his archers too. "You have my word that neither me nor my men shall harm you if you sheathe your weapon, warrior."

Reluctantly Aran slid Blacksteel into its nondescript sheath, and with this act the tension abated. The barrel chested little man strode towards him, as though he was greeting an old friend.

"Bryn Frazer, leader of this band of outcasts, and you?"

"Aran Sorensen, mercenary." Delivered in a tone that was without any trace of feeling.

Jhary could tell his companion was not convinced, yet, that this man's intentions were benign. Aran was playing the game nonetheless. Bryn arched his bushy black eyebrow at Aran's proclamation, then turned to Jhary who could smell the offending rankness of the unwashed man. He had to concentrate to bring himself to reply.

"Jhary Brannon, storyteller and bard."

At this announcement Bryn roared with a belly laugh that echoed off the cavernous canyon. The laugh was infectious and his men, even some of those injured followed suit.