Clanless (Nameless #2)(6)
Gryphon headed north along the rocky bank of the river, where his tracks would be harder for Zander and his mess to follow. He had tonight to put as much distance between them as possible before his brothers searched for his tracks in the morning. They would study every blade of grass, every dent in the mud, until they confirmed his direction of travel and followed.
His clothes were soaked through from the night’s rain, his nose and fingers felt like they’d fallen off long ago, and his wrists still ached from being bound. Blowing warmth into his cupped hands, he studied the wilderness around him.
The Wolf, Gabe, had told him to travel north for several days to reach the hidden Raven settlement. The chances of them finding each other in this vast stretch of mountain forest in time to warn and evacuate the Raven didn’t bode well. That was assuming Gabe survived the night.
Hours passed. The sky turned murky gray in the low light before dawn. Gryphon searched the trees for Raven scouts and tried not to think about how easily they could hide in the dense fir and broadleaf trees surrounding him on all sides. One well-placed arrow from a legendary Raven bow could end him in an instant.
It was enough to make a man want to cower. But how could hiding serve him when he needed to be found by Gabe, and what was the difference between a Raven arrow to the chest and a Ram spear to the back? His only choice was forward.
By midday the stream bent eastward with the sloping land and Gryphon left its bank to keep a northern course. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day. His legs shook. His feet tripped over rocks and brambles, but he kept moving.
After several hours of walking, the thick forest opened to a meadow of tall grass where tiny yellow and white blossoms speckled the ground. In the heart of the meadow, Gryphon spotted a leather pack tipped on its side. He scanned the trees surrounding the meadow and weighed the risk of exposure against the possibility of supplies. Food. A bedroll. In the end, potential comfort for the back and belly won out.
He darted into the meadow to retrieve the satchel, his mouth already salivating with hope of finding a hard biscuit or water skin. Wind rolled over the grass, making it bend and sway in confused directions while stirring the sweet aroma of wildflowers. Gryphon slung the abandoned pack over his shoulder and scanned the trees again. Chills crawled up his arms and along his spine. He reached for his knife and tried to look in every direction at once as he moved away from the center of the meadow, back to the protection of the trees.
An arrow struck the ground, inches from his foot.
Gryphon raised his hands behind his head. “Don’t kill me. I have a message.”
The peace of the meadow evaporated as at least fifty men stepped out from behind the trunks of trees and dropped from branches. They wore black feathers on leather strings around their necks and animal hide on their bodies. They all had raven-black hair with eyes to match, and wore wood-slatted armor on their chests.
A man with long hair and red war paint around his eyes stepped forward. As he did, fifty bows stretched to guard him in case Gryphon attacked.
“A Ram without a flock.” The red-painted man had a full string of feathers around his neck, marking him as the high-ranking leader of the group. He carried a hatchet with a rope tied to the hilt. As he approached Gryphon, he swung the hatchet around his wrist by the rope and caught it. He walked a full circle around Gryphon, swinging the blade and catching it. Swing. Catch. Swing. Catch.
Gryphon stood tall, looking over the heads of the men surrounding him.
“You are a long way from your wall, Ram,” said the leader. All the clans in this region spoke different dialects of the same language. The Raven and other lesser clans of the north dragged their tongues when they spoke, pronouncing each word with precision.
Gryphon nodded, still touching the back of his head with his fingertips in surrender. “I’ve come to warn your people of an invasion.”
A smile cracked the corner of the leader’s careful mask. “Your lies will do nothing to spare your life, Ram.”
Gryphon felt the rage of the men surrounding him, their hatred as tangible as the arrows that would soon pierce his heart. With their bows drawn, his life depended on these men not extending two fingers.
“One of your men was recently taken prisoner by my mess,” said Gryphon. “Barnabas’ interrogators broke him, and now my chief knows the location of your settlement. He’s sending at least ten units for your grain stores and he’ll kill anyone he encounters in the process.”
The men in the circle broke into nervous conversation. Ten mess units equaled about two hundred of the most deadly warriors in the region. That many Ram could easily wipe out a thousand Raven in open combat.
The leader approached Gryphon, standing so close their toes touched. His smirk diminished to a thin line. His nostrils flared and color flooded his cheeks to match the red paint around his eyes. He spoke loud enough for his entire flock to hear, his tone not matching the jovial cadence of his voice. “Thank you for the entertaining story, Ram. But I can think of a better way for you to entertain us.” He gestured to two of his men, and they stepped forward. “Why don’t we let this Ram see how far he can get before we kill him?” He put a finger to his lips, as if pondering some great puzzle. “It won’t be fun unless the Sheep has a head start.” He threw up his hands and faced his men. “What do you say?”
Through their cheers, Gryphon wondered how long they had waited for the chance to kill a Ram. For decades his clan had ruthlessly hunted the Raven in search of their grain stores. How many brothers and sons had fallen to Ram spears over the years? The number had to be staggering.