Get Her Back (Demontech) by David Sherman Read Free Book Online

longer and thicker than the lances carried by the Royal Lancers. They all had a long knife or sword on their belts. They wore furry cloaks that gave off faint whiffs of improperly cured skins. All had shaggy beards, and unkempt hair stuck out from under the stiff leather helmets that protected their heads, many adorned with eagle feathers or the horns of grazing animals. They weren’t riding horses, but rather were mounted on beasts that resembled the comites of the Low Desert: bulky of body, with a large hump that rode their spines. These animals were more heavily furred than the comites, and their humps rose higher. They also looked like they had a tendency to bite, or at least spit at, people who came too close to the heads on the ends of their long necks.
          One man, obviously the leader, heeled his mount forward a  couple of steps. He was accompanied by a very large man armed with a lance so big it was more properly called a spear, and a standard bearer. The standard was an eight-foot-long pole festooned with skulls; a human skull was uppermost on the pole. He barked out what were obviously words, but not in any language Guma or the others had ever heard.
          Guma bowed, and began speaking in Frangerian, the common trade language on the two continents. “Lord,” he began, “we are peaceful travelers—.”
          “Do you have a sothar player?” Alyline broke in. “I heard there was a sothar player in a nomad camp. Mine is missing. If you have him, I—”
          The Nomad chief slashed a fist across his front, a silence! command. He looked so fearsome that Alyline’s mouth involuntarily snapped shut. He spoke one word loudly in his own language, and a fourth man broke from the surrounding circle to ride to his side. The chief barked and growled without removing his eyes from Alyline and Guma. The newcomer listened attentively, then spoke when the chief was through. His words were Frangerian, but his voice was one more accustomed to the barks and growls of the language used by the chief.
          “You are interlopers in our land,” he said. “We do not welcome interlopers. If you turn around now and leave, we will grant you safe passage. If you do not, the consequences will be severe.”
          In his peripheral vision, Guma had seen the nomads closing in on his men. The Zobrans were outnumbered more than three to one and, if the nomads were any good with the weapons they were  carrying, seriously out-armed as well. He opened his mouth to order his men to begin withdrawing, but Alyline beat him to it.
          “I must see the sothar player,” she said. “We are not leaving until I do.”
          The chief made a gesture and the nomads fell upon the Zobrans.
     

 
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
          Three of the Bloody Axes were badly enough injured that they couldn’t maintain the pace—one of them was a litter case. Haft hated to reduce the size of his already small force, but he had to send them back. With an escort. Balta had lost enough blood that he should have returned with the other badly wounded, but he refused to go. Haft complained, but he was secretly glad that the Skraglander officer stayed, even though it meant they had to go a little slower than they had the day before. The Aralez, a healing demon that Tabib had brought in one of his spell chests, had done a good job of stopping the bleeding and beginning the healing process. Even wounded and somewhat faint of mind, Balta was still an excellent tracker should his skills be needed.
     
          “Lord Haft!” the voice came faintly on the westerly wind. Ahead, one of the point men was waving.
          Haft didn’t try to yell against the wind, instead he waved to the point man to let him know he’d heard. “I’ll go,” he said to Balta. “You catch up in good time.”
          Balta nodded—it was less tiring than trying to speak against the