The Romance of Eowain

Chapter Nine, Scene Twenty-Four

    With an angry snap, Tnúthgal broke aside the branches that barred his way. He muttered curses at the rain under his breath as it seeped through his cloak and trickled down his collar.

      Five men followed him. They were all that remained from the debacle at the crossroad, the rest of the cowards having fled. They'll see. I'll make Droma great again. We'll close our borders, drive out all the Foreigners and the migrants who drive down wages and steal jobs. I'll make the Gruin-men think twice about crossing the Gasirad. And the Lord-Drymyn will get in line, or I'll make him get in line. He and his men had spent a cold night in the wild, and a wet day tracking. Tnúthgal's mood was foul and angry.

      "My lord?"

      He turned back. One of the men pointed to the south, where a thin plume of white smoke was visible through the murk of the rain. Tnúthgal looked back at the vague track they'd been following. Hmm, yes. He nodded to the men and three of them took the lead as they moved off toward the smoke. The other two brought up his rear.

      It wasn't far, and they didn't even have pickets out. Tnúthgal and his men strode in unchallenged.

      The camp was a shambles. Filthy men shivered in the rain. One feeble cook-fire struggled against the rain. Wet pine wood sizzled and popped, with more smoke than heat. Nearly a score of emaciated women and children, bound with iron collars to trees and logs, dug at roots, grass, and into wood-bark to find food. Other women were being used for a variety of vile perversions.

      The appearance of six healthy, heavily-armed men in their camp brought several to their feet, weapons drawn.

      "Easy, mates," came a smarmy voice. Out from under the only sizable, well-patched canvas, Cael the Viper slithered. "That there is our benefactor. We wouldn't want to see him meet any unfortunate accidents." Cael dropped an elaborate and mocking bow. "Your Lordship, you honor us."

      Tnúthgal made an impolite reply. "Fetch us food, you thief."

      Cael adopted a look of hurt. "You wound me, my lord."

      "I wish." Tnúthgal pushed past him. "Food. Now. And make sure my men are well-attended."

      Cael's voice changed from mocking to dangerous. "You seem to misjudge who commands whom here, sir."

      Tnúthgal turned and put his blade to Cael's throat. "Have I?" He didn't bother to look at the bandits who gathered about them. His men took up positions around him and Cael, weapons drawn and ready. "Each of my men is worth three of yours. I'm worth nine. Do you really wish to try my patience?"

      Cael considered him for a moment, then put his hands in the air. "As you like it, my lord." He snapped fingers. "Food for our guests."

      Tnúthgal turned away and continued into Cael's tent. Cael rubbed at the bloody spot on his throat and followed. "Don't speak to me that way in front of my men."

      "My men," corrected Tnúthgal. "You've just been demoted." He looked about his ramshackle new command. "I'll want to see your maps and inventory." He made himself as comfortable as he could on a cushioned pile of furs. A girl slunk into the tent with a plate of food. He took it from her. "Stay," he commanded, snapping fingers. She sank to her knees. He looked up at Cael. "Maps and inventory." He snapped again. "Go."

      "These are my men—" Cael's voice held a hint of threat.

      Tnúthgal cut him off. "They were your men. You've done damn-all but waste time and money with them. That changes now." He took some of the fatty, rare-cooked meat in his fingers. Venison, he noted. He chewed at a piece of gristle. He could see Cael trying to figure the odds in his head. "Or do we have a problem, Cael?"