An Epic Fantasy Adventure Saga

Black River Chronicles by L.G. Surgeson

Series Excerpt

Marta scowled, her knuckles white on her bridle. Iri’s sneering words were still rattling around inside her head but she had not risen to the bait. Not because she wasn’t angry but because the imposing sight of Maran and his disapproving glare had quelled her. Even after the last twelve months, Iri’s attitude to Marta had not softened and Marta had not quite matured enough to let the deliberately provocative comments pass.

When the chieftain had announced that Marta would be accompanying him to the negotiations, small pink spots of furious envy had appeared on Iri’s pale cheeks. It had taken mere seconds for her to turn this on Marta in a low growl. If the chieftain had heard her hiss that it was obvious Marta couldn’t be trusted out of sight then he had chosen to ignore it. When you are one of the clan war-leaders, no one stands in front of you. If you choose not defend yourself from attack then it is up to you alone to deal with the consequences. Unfortunately for Marta there was nothing she could do to retaliate that would have any effect on the blatantly jealous Iri. She had turned to make a retort but Maran had been there. His disapproving gaze had silenced her. He knew, even if the younger war-leaders didn’t, that there was going to be more trouble on this day than these petty territorial squabbles and power-plays.

Reigning in her vitriolic, humiliated anger, Marta looked down on the camp they were approaching. There must have been two thousand souls living down there on the veldt. In the centre stood the gargantuan command tent of General Salamander, painted with vibrant red and orange knots and patterns, the front opening into featureless darkness. Around it, in the shimmering heat haze, spiralled about a hundred tepees and around the edge a ring of maybe two or three hundred moktis: three-poled frames build to support the weight of two soldiers’ fur and hide battle armour hung strategically to form a low lying makeshift canopy just big enough for two soldiers overnight. Bare now, as the armour was in use, the moktis made a strange frill on the edge of this giant war-like doily.

To Marta, who had never seen two thousand souls in one spot, it was more than intimidating. The year had not been kind to Clan Boar in terms of casualties and there were barely seven hundred of them left all told. It was the first time she had seen the might of Salamander displayed impressively and she could hear her words of twelve months previously.

“We fight, until our very last breath, we fight.”

It seemed like childish hubris now, to think that the Boar could stand against this. Surrender and acquiescence, these things were not of the Boar. They did not back down, they were stubborn beyond even what was usual for tartars. This could be seen as spirited or foolhardy given their smaller than usual clan but however it was seen it could not be denied that Boar were as good as their word. Marta couldn’t help but wonder if today that might change. The chieftain hadn’t said what he intended to do. He had heard them all out but had chosen not to share with them his final verdict.

There had been quite some disagreement amongst the clan council about what the Boar should do next. For once, the voices of the war-leaders had been united against capitulating to Salamander. The shaman had made a case for a more placatory approach, and the elder, whose business was the clan’s economic and materialistic welfare, had argued that dead clans held no ground. Marta admitted it was not a decision she would have wished to make. She was grateful, as she picked her way on horseback slowly down the bank to the camp, that she didn’t have to.

The pink dots on Iri’s sullen cheeks hadn’t faded - she was still hot with envy. She didn’t bellyache about it, fair wasn’t a concept that held any place in the world of the war-leaders. The chieftain had chosen Marta because had wanted to take Marta, he hadn’t wanted to take Iri and the reason was largely unimportant. Maran at least had the decency not to scorn her but Rhine on the other hand had simply screwed up his face into a horrid visage of mock sympathy and shaken his head. The conspicuous loss of Kern, another of the war-leaders, not three days earlier and his brother Valdan’s overdue return from a scouting mission had left the three of them alone and unnerved. Sitting dejectedly on the steps up to the council table at one end of the great hall they felt and looked oddly diminished. The three of them had very little to say, but that didn’t stop them from talking, trying to clarify their thoughts out loud on what might happen in the next twenty four hours. Hunched over with his swords in his lap, Maran did not look at the others as he spoke.

Of the three of them, he seemed the one least certain that the chieftain wasn’t about to surrender the clan to Salamander. This was no reflection on Maran’s opinion of the chieftain. He had always respected him as a wise and courageous leader, a man with the best interests of the Boar running through his bones. It was because of this that Maran had his doubts. Older than the others by a good five or so summers, he knew that an element of practicality would be involved. Salamander’s army numbered more than twenty thousand at the last count and to stand against them would be suicide. If they went over, some of them might survive. Maran really wasn’t sure what he would do in the chieftain’s position.

In his quiet halting manner, he was trying to find a way to articulate these thoughts to the other two when the warning bell clattering across the village interrupted him. Without a pause all three of them jumped to their feet and sprinted down the hall, their weapons drawn before they had taken three steps. They burst out of the dingy hall into the afternoon sunlight, blinking to focus. The resounding clang of the warning bell filled the air as the clan scrambled into action. Mustering around the bell, every man and woman and every child big enough to wield a dagger was ready to defend. Standing on the bell-plinth, Maran was the only one who could see the full extent of what approached. He swallowed hard, his face white as he addressed the gathered rabble.

His sudden pallor did not go unnoticed, panicked mutters filtered through the crowd as heads turned to see what Maran saw. As they did, they too felt hot lead swell in their stomachs and crash towards their abdomen. Hearts pounded and blood filled ears so that Maran’s words were a blur. Outnumbered at least three to one by the fast approaching soldiers of Salamander’s army they were starring in horror at their last few minutes.

They knew, without being told that this army were not coming to capture or contain them. This was not the next step in the chain of surrender to General Salamander. This was destruction and they had only one choice: to meet it with their heads held high. As one, a roar swept through them, drowning the last of Maran’s useless words.

With giant strides, Rhine took the plinth, elbowing Maran to one side. He was not of such sensible constitution. His eyes glowed with adrenaline, spittle glossed his lips, there was an almost palpable energy exuding from him. As his lifted his sword above his head and bellowed “Boar!” all eyes were on him and the response was staggering. Six hundred desperate voices echoed their name. “BOAR!”

Then, they turned and with few tactics and no restraint at all, sprinted into the open arms of their enemy.