The Deepcombers

Chapter Fourteen

Unfortunately for this re-patriot his freedom had come at a terrible price. His body had been savaged by something with sharp claws and he lay drenched in his own blood. Crude bandages proved he'd been given some attention, but it was unfinished business. Lon could see how his left arm was tied in a sling, but his right hand was free and held a big piece of Calo cake, a last mercy from the Crols.

Hastegus was a middle-aged book dealer who'd once been his greatest defender; Lon recalled how he'd stood over him and protected him from those who'd ostracized him for his buckteeth and for his terrible mistake. The Crol was smart and he'd kept-up his health aboard ship, but now he looked utterly defeated and minutes form death. Just two days ago he was Lon's only friend, but now the young lad didn't trust him, and he couldn't safely approach. He had to protect everyone he didn't want to murder outright from coming into contact with the block on his neck.

The wounded feigor looked surprised to see the four escapees enter the unguarded campsite. He moaned and called to them. "Friends," he chortled and blood oozed from his chest.

Jarl and Tharus were not moved. Lon grimaced in sympathy and wanted to comfort him but he couldn't get any closer. He simply nodded and smiled. The convalescent focused on him.

"Good work Lad." Hastegus studied the handsome youth's white curly hair and his muscular body and the queer burden he carried on his breast. After a moment's pause he asked, "Are you still Lonny Treanol from Dundae?"

"Are you Hastegus Mithusla? Rare book dealer and occultist from Crol?" Lon replied. This made the wounded Crol smile with even more pride.

Jarl and Tharus stared down at the turncoat tracker who now wore their enemy's gold trimmed gear and convalesced in a hostile supply camp; they both scowled with contempt at his treachery. Hastegus looked at them and could see they were mad and so he didn't attempt any more salutations.

Clyde came around front to study the survivor in greater detail and perhaps diagnose his present condition from a medical perspective.

"So, it's true?" Hastegus gasped when he saw that Clyde of Barobell, Minister Horne's personal valet and the wealthiest person that Lon would ever see, now traveled with the lad and helped him escape.

"What's true?" Lon asked.

"You've abandoned Crol?" Hastegus asked the noblekin directly. "You no longer serve the prophet Alocer?"

"You will understand when you meet Kluth. It won't be long now." Clyde looked up at Lon and shook his head no as if to say he was beyond any help he could attempt.

Hastegus waved him away with his good right hand. "Don't kill me. Let me find my own way."

Jarl scowled and looked around the metal-baked landscape again for hidden ambushers. Was this a trap? The swampkin turned his back on the scene to root through the Crol's supplies.

Experienced soldiers, Jarl and Tharus started by looting the cadavers. They opened the dead feigors' pockets and pouches and laid out all manner of valuable trinkets and coins. Then they stripped off armour and equipment and other items of interest; this was a grisly marketplace for frontline fighters. The lionfeigor selected bigger boots and a sturdy new sword. He smiled proudly as he hefted the well-balanced weapon, but that grin faded when Tharus picked up a wooden crutch and waved it at him politely as if to suggest it was a better choice. Jarl scowled at the swampkin, but then he took the crutch.

The reptilian pried open sealed crates with a metal tool he'd pick-up on the ground. He was on quest for victuals but found woolen coats. Two boxes later he uncrated perishable kit and filled a cloth sack with apples, dried beef and biscuits. The other box was filled with bandages and cookware. Scattered around the camp were corked yellow gourds and several empties lay in a pile. The reptile opened one and sniffed the brim before adding some to his bag with a smile.