Things Grak Hates Page 15

  Although, Grak does realize one point of great interest. The strangers don’t appear to have spotted his people yet. He takes a quick estimate.

  Six … maybe seven hundred of them. Though I might be off by nine or so. Best to get a second opinion.

  “How many do you count?” Grak’s whisper continues to fail him.

  “Around three hundred, I’d say,” replies Frolan.

  That was an unexpected answer. Grak quickly assesses the probability of his own tally being correct. “Yes. Three hundred. My conclusion as well. Far too many for us to take, should it come to a fight.”

  Frolan furrows his brow in determination. “We could send back for the rest of the tribe,” he offers.

  Grak looks at his young pupil with understanding. “Still so much to learn, friend. No, their punishments are more important. For the betterment of the tribe’s character. Besides, even if we had our full strength, we’d still be outnumbered. No, I think the better appro—”

  A rustling off to the right grabs their attention. Frolan motions to his team, and they nock arrows. Every eye focuses on the spot. Waiting. Expecting. Antici—

  Kunthar steps through the brush, tying his trousers. He spots them an instant later and raises his hands with a start. “Wait! Wait! Don’t shoot!”

  Grak turns to Frolan and nods.

  Frolan nods in reply, then turns to his team. “Ready! Ai—”

  “Stop! Stop!” Grak’s heart is racing. “What, in all the land, are you idiots doing?”

  Frolan looks stunned. And a little hurt. “You nodded.”

  “I nodded to lower your bows, you …” Grak breathes.

  Frolan is confused now. “So you don’t want us to shoot him?”

  “No! Wh …?” Truth be told, it wouldn’t matter if they weren’t so close to the man’s encampment.

  And if we weren’t so outnumbered. Best not to provoke them before knowing their intentions.

  Frolan shrugs to his team. They relax their bows, but keep arrows nocked.

  “Could I make a request to clarify that signal?” Frolan’s suggestion elicits nods and a few voiced approvals. “Seems like it might get us into a lot of unnecessary trouble.”

  Grak agrees, but admitting it here could cast a shadow on his leadership. “If you’d like to alter a signal, you know the required procedure. And I won’t discuss the matter otherwise.”

  Kunthar catches his breath. “Whew! That was a close one, friend! Whatever didn’t come out in the bushes is certainly gone now.” Another deep breath. “Well, Frolan, I’m glad your people could make it.”

  Wh …? Frolan? His people? What would inspire the fool to address the dolt instead of me? Clearly, there’s been some confusion.

  “Yes,” replies Grak in a louder and more prestigious voice than usual. “Against better judgment, we came. Since you’re new to the area.” After an awkward and expectant pause, Grak realizes this sentence doesn’t finish itself. “Well, hospitality and all. So … consider yourself fortunate.”

  Kunthar accepts that answer willingly. “Well, I’m glad you could make it.” His eyes return to the bows. “Though, are you hunting for the feast? You really don’t have to. I meant it when I said you’d be our guests. I imagine we already have enough to share. What do you have there, one hundred or so? Yes, I’m certain. More than enough, in fact.”

  “Oh, no need. We’ve brought our own food.” Grak points to Jafra hauling a sled piled high with meat.

  Truth be told, while Grak remains suspicious toward the strangers, he’s more afraid of being indebted to them. He feels it wouldn’t be wise to give them the upper hand. Also, if they look too gracious in comparison, it could lead to unrest among Grak’s people.

  Kunthar looks at the meat in confusion, then shrugs and smiles. “Sure. If that’s what you want. All the more to eat then, right?” His smile morphs into concern. “So … then why do you have weapons at the ready?”

  Frolan speaks up. “Oh, we were just being cautious. We don’t know you yet, so we had to make sure you didn’t intend us harm.”

  The fool! It seems he needs another lesson on not divulging tribe secrets.

  “Why would we intend you harm?” asks Kunthar.

  Hmm. Seems almost too innocent. Highly suspect.

  Grak cuts in, seeking to control the conversation before it gets out of hand. “I don’t really know, I suppose. But you can’t be too sure these days.”

  “Hmm, I suppose you’re right …” Kunthar trails off in thought.

  Grak reaches for a new topic. “So, Kunthar, are you the tribe’s leader? If not, I’m eager to meet whoever that might be.”

  “The tribe’s leader?” Confusion once again dances on Kunthar’s face, causing his eyelashes to respond with vigor.

  Grak resorts to slow explanations. “Yes. You know, someone to run everything. Make sure all is going smoothly.”

  Understanding slowly dawns on the man. “No, we don’t have anyone who does that for the whole tribe. Fascinating idea, though.” He thinks on it for a moment longer. “Well, come, I’ll show you around our camp. And you can tell me more about this ‘tribe leader’ thing.”

  “They’re just different. That’s all. Who wants to be exactly like everyone else?” While Grak enjoys talking about himself, he’s tired of explaining these concepts to each new stranger.

  “Hmm, good point.” Franzor thinks for a moment. “Though, if all of your people wear them, aren’t you each exactly like everyone else in the tribe?”

  Grak expects this question by now. “That’s why mine is taller.”

  “I see.” Franzor considers that. “But what’s to stop someone else from making theirs taller?”

  Also anticipated. Grak sighs. “That’s why I created a policy.”

  “Another policy? Interesting.” Franzor rubs his bald head and ponders the idea.

  Grak rolls his eyes and looks around awkwardly. He’s beginning to suspect monotony might somehow be a part of their plan.

  Is it possible to die from boredom? Perhaps. Would be a slow and tortured death, to be sure. Lulled to sleep is a possibility at the least. Then they’d have an easy kill. Ingenious. And treacherous.

  He forces himself to stay alert. Which isn’t a problem for Olive Thirteen. She seems to have an astonishing reserve of excitement to draw upon, lavishing it on every word and awkward pause.

  I really must learn how she manages such a consistent display. Would be useful when dealing with the tribe simpletons. And Doran too, if I’m being honest.

  Fortunately, Kunthar soon grows impatient as well. “Thank you, Franzor. I apologize, but we must move along now. We’ll see you at the feast in a short while.” He leads the team off.

  Curious that Kunthar’s so eager to finish introductions. Perhaps he’s planning an ambush at the cook site. Clever. Wait for the leader before launching an attack. Take him out first, and the rest will scatter. That’s what I would do.

  Kunthar rambles about his tribe as he leads the group along. But Grak isn’t listening. He stopped some time ago, in fact. Now he’s just following absentmindedly, catching up on his own thoughts.

  Olive Thirteen, on the other hand, nods with enthusiasm at every word from Kunthar. Which, of course, proves an effective distraction for the man, and is the very reason Grak is able to spend the time in reflection. So in the end, despite his initial refusal of her pleas, Grak is glad she tagged along.

  Which is more than can he say for the surrounding security team. It’s not that they’ve disappointed him in any way, but neither have they done anything to impress him.

  Though I suppose they’re doing a sufficient job of staying observant. And of keeping their circle tight. Yes, I doubt any surprise arrows could get through. At least not without first taking down several of my guards. And I imagine that would give me enough time to find cover and think of something.

  Though Grak would prefer it if the circle had greater density. He regrets sending so many of his forces with F
rolan to the strangers’ cook site to protect the food during feast preparations.

  Surely they didn’t need half the security team for such a trivial task. We could always forgo eating if we had to, but losing the leader? Morale would be squashed. My people would be directionless without me. Helpless. Like children … my helpless little children.

  Grak’s focus is snapped back to the present by a shifting breeze carrying an overpowering stench. He covers his mouth and looks about for the source. It concerns him more than a little to see the cook site nearby. But that’s downwind now. He rules it out and continues scanning the area. Nothing obvious.

  Wait. That conspicuous fellow. The tall, thin one. He looks particularly filthy. Even by this tribe’s low standards.

  And yet, against all reason, they’re actually approaching the man. Grak attempts to suppress his growing disgust.

  Though he is fascinating in a way, this human rag. So content with his filth. As though he welcomes all manner of grime. And what’s this?

  Several tears in the man’s clothing reveal fabric blending casually into crusted skin. Grak shivers at the sight.

  And what’s splattered on his cheek? Clumps of mud? I hope. But how would he not feel that? And why wouldn’t he wash it off? Or does he abstain from that practice? Maybe so. After all, his hair looks like it hasn’t seen a rinse in … well, ever. If that’s even hair. Could just as easily be a bird’s nest. Though I imagine a bird would keep its dwelling cleaner than that.

  Unfortunately, wisdom doesn’t prevail, and they continue toward the man. As they near him, Grak takes a deep breath and holds it.

  “And this is Jorthar.” Somehow Kunthar not only appears interested in the fellow, but also unaffected by his stench. “He looks after the horses. Feeds them … waters them … brushes them …” He thinks for a moment. “Forgive me, Jorthar. I believe I’m leaving out important details. Please, tell them what you do. You say it much better.”

  Grak exhales, now realizing his plan to be unsustainable. He discards it in favor of short breaths aimed at only sucking in air from his immediate vicinity.

  “Well, what don’t I do?” Jorthar’s exuberance contradicts his appearance. “I do everything needed to look after the tribe’s horses. I feed them … I water them …”

  The man’s meandering pace mingles with his aroma to create a truly maddening effect. Grak considers possible exit strategies.

  Perhaps an illness of some sort. Or a meeting. That one’s easier. Just talk to Frolan for a moment. No need to keep the ruse going after th—

  Grak’s attention snags on something he hadn’t noticed before: the pony tethered to a nearby tree. He tries to fight his excitement, but the effort is futile. Thus, he abandons that idea in favor of a more direct approach.

  “You have a pony?” Grak asks, already on his way over to see it.

  Jorthar seems confused by this interest. “Oh. Yes.” He looks at the creature with indifference. “Not a very useful beast. But it can carry small loads, so we keep it around.”

  Grak is repulsed by that statement. He refuses to look at the man.

  Could probably say the same about him. And the pony undoubtedly smells better.

  Which Grak confirms upon reaching the animal.

  “What’s …” He calms his voice. “What’s its name?” Still not quite calm enough. Too much excitement in the air.

  Jorthar grows excited at this opportunity to further display his knowledge. “We call him Patyr. Please be careful, though. He’s a temperamental one. He’s been known to bite at times.”

  Grak smiles in quiet admiration. “Yes, they’re good biters, aren’t they?”

  Jorthar looks about nervously. “Um …” is all he manages in reply.

  Not that it matters what the man has to say. Grak is too engrossed with Patyr now, taking particular interest in the pony’s fur. It’s a dull, splotchy gray with small patches missing in seemingly random spots.

  But it’s not random, is it? Quite artistic if you ask me. You certainly know how to give yourself character, friend.

  Grak rubs a hand down Patyr’s mane, careful to avoid the mounds of unidentifiable goop along the way. As he passes over a rough portion, the pony flinches.

  What’s this? A wound? Goodness. They don’t treat you very well, do they? Not like I would treat you, that’s for sure. Perhaps I can take you with me. I’m sure you’d like that. Mine’s a much cleaner camp in general. And we’d give you very fine treatment. Something worthy of an animal of your calib—

  Grak’s reverie is broken by a growing commotion emanating from the cook site. Specific words are hard to make out, though. Just a general din and the occasional muddled shout.

  Treachery! I knew it! Though starting too soon, it seems. Before I’ve even arrived. They must have fuddled some aspect. All for the best, then. We’ll need to use that to our benefit.

  He ponders the defenses of his current location.

  Good, but not great. And too small a force should matters escalate while we’re trying to flee. I’ll need the remainder of Frolan’s team.

  Kunthar dons a look of concern. “Oh my. Perhaps we should see if everything’s alright over there.”

  What a feeble lure. Any fool could see through it in an instant.

  Grak turns to his nearest protector. “Seize this man! Can’t have him at our backs.” He weighs the benefits of taking Jorthar against the accompanying stench. “Leave that one. He’ll just slow us down.”

  His men move instantly to follow the commands. Jorthar is shoved aside, and Kunthar is detained without resistance.

  “What’s going on, Grak?” asks Kunthar in bewilderment.

  Grak assumes his hands-on-hips leader stance, relishing the chance to flaunt his superior wit. “Nice try, Kunthar.” He adjusts his voice to something bolder and more appropriate. “We’re wise to your scheme. So I suggest you keep silent lest I do it for you.” He considers rephrasing that, but decides it’s best to let the sentence be.

  Somehow, Kunthar understands the threat. He closes his mouth and averts his eyes.

  Satisfied, Grak signals to his team and starts toward the cook site. They pick up on the command and creep forward with an impressive combination of speed and stealth. Even Olive Thirteen is doing a decent job of it. In fact, they’re all doing so well, Grak finds no need to correct them. Instead, he diverts his attention toward reviewing possible scenarios.

  If I could stay back in the shadows and call for Frolan, perhaps that would suffice. He could just fight his way free and join up with us. I doubt it would take long. Then we’d be off. Yes, I like that plan.

  Still, a backup would be nice. Just so we have it. I could have my guards launch a volley of arrows into the crowd. No, might hit some of our own. Although, it would also create confusion among the strangers, which would give our people a chance to escape.

  Grak categorizes that one as “Plan 2.” Still, one more would be ideal. After all, “Three plans are better than two,” he’s said a few times recently.

  Of course! Kunthar makes for a great plan! No need to fight unless we’re forced to.

  Grak moves that idea into “Plan 1” and reorganizes the others accordingly. Just in time too. He motions for a halt as they reach the cook site.

  “Maintain a healthy distance until I say otherwise.” Grak laments having to whisper this point instead of signaling it.

  Nonetheless, he shakes off that thought and looks around for the source of the commotion he heard.

  “But how can this be?” shouts Kando. “How do we even know you mapped it accurately?” He shakes his head and looks at the map stone in Franzor’s hands.

  Grak shakes his head as well, adding an exaggerated eye roll for good measure.

  A quaint peoples. Still using rock? I remember a time when we were so primitive.

  “I can assure you, its accuracy is certain,” Franzor replies with indignation. “We pay great attention to detail in our mapping procedures. And, as you ca
n see, we’ve traveled extensively. Especially in recent days. And much of it has been near the shore.”

  “I’ll tell you how it can be!” Ruch’s interruption is aimed at Kando. “Because you were wrong! All of you. Doran too.” He’s growing more aggressive as he speaks. “With your vast ocean theories. I told you it was nonsense!”

  Shaken by Ruch’s animosity, Franzor calms down a bit. “Look, this doesn’t need to cause strife. I apologize for my part in it. Why don’t we put our minds together? Let’s see if we can figure out where the discrepancies are coming from.”

  Grak looks around for any other signs of danger. Surely this couldn’t have been the entirety of the commotion he heard. And yet, nothing else of importance presents itself. Then it occurs to him.

  This could easily be skewed in a way that makes me look bad. If Kunthar gets a chance to have his way with the telling, that is. A simple misunderstanding, really, but I’m sure that’s not how he’d put it. And people might believe him.

  Grak regrets not having prepared for such an eventuality. Still, all is not yet lost. An idea begins to take shape.

  My children only need to know what I tell them. And the danger isn’t any less real. Just more subtle than I originally thought. The strangers are simply lying in wait. Until we’re relaxed. Vulnerable.

  For his plan to work, though, he’ll need Frolan and the entire security team. He looks about for the man, and quickly spots him nearby.

  Talking to Jafra, of all things! And laughing with her! What’s she up to? Attempting to subvert him, no doubt. Devious beyond devious! And he’s just as guilty here. He should know better.

  Grak sends his nearest man to fetch the brute and waits in anxious frustration for them to return. But rage washes over him a moment later when he spots Jafra coming back with them.

  No! Why can’t anyone follow orders? I don’t want her involved. She’ll just get in the way. Try to talk me out of my anger. Just like she always does!

  Unless … yes! If I prepare my words properly, she’ll have nothing to refute. Alright, Grak, think. How would that sound?