The
Elven Chronicles
Episode
Three
The
Fugitive Bride
Chapter
9 Captured
Almost instinctively Honoria
drew her sword as the Grothargs rushed toward
her. Beside her she was aware
of Ralasharia raising her hand and then there was a brilliant flash and a
sound like the wind of a thunderstorm roaring by an open
doorway. A reddish-orange fireball
flashed by Honoria and burst in the middle of the attacking
thargs. Fire enveloped the screaming
brutes leaving half a dozen of the attackers writhing on the
ground. The heat from the fire
was tremendous as the thargs’ bodies burned like kindling from the unnatural
heat of the sorcerer’s fire.
The explosion of fire shattered
the Grotharg attack, the remaining thargs scattering from the shock of the
fireball. All but
one. Honoria, crouched for an
attack that seemed to have been routed, noticed that a single Grotharg
remained. He stood solidly while
the rest of the Grotharg warriors fell back, but this Grotharg was unlike
any of the others. He was no
hulking eight foot monster, but a small shrivelled creature, barely five
feet tall. Only the two finger-length
inch tusks projecting from his lower jaw, his greyish-green skin and his
inordinately large phallus revealed that he was indeed of the same race as
the other Grothargs. In his right
hand he held a strangely decorated staff.
It was about six feet long and was bent and
gnarled. Its top ended in the
skull of some sort of cat-like creature and numerous bones and feathers had
been attached to it along most of its
length. Around his waist was
tied a rope made of twisted grass from which dangled more bones and strange
metal ornaments. He made no move
toward them, but instead slowly raised his staff and pointed it at
Ralasharia.
“Uucch!”
The Elf made a choking sound and clutched at her throat, her bow dropping
from her hand.
“Ralasharia!”
Honoria cried. “What is
happening?” She realized
as she spoke that she already knew the
answer. The strange Grotharg
was casting some sort of spell on the Elf, one that she seemed unable to
counteract. Unhesitatingly Honoria
charged toward the Grotharg shaman.
But she was already too
late. Several of the Grotharg
warriors, having recovered from the shock of Ralasharia’s attack, stepped
in from of her. Honoria met them
head on, cutting and slashing in her efforts to get at the
shaman.
She had been considered
by her father to be proficient in the use of the blade, and she showed that
now, ducking under the Grothargs’ clumsy attacks and driving home with
her blade. The thargs opposing
her were armed with axes; massive weapons with hafts and blades suitable
for chopping down trees or anything slow enough not to get out of their
way. But the first lesson Honoria
had learned from her father was “don’t get
hit.” She avoided their
huge sweeping blows and in spite of her much smaller size, cut down the first
warrior opposing her, driving her sword up to the hilt in his
belly.
With a scream, the tharg
went down, almost wrenching the sword from her hands, but she jerked it free
just in time to parry a blow that would have cut her in
two. Unfortunately the force
of the axe striking her sword knocked it from her grasp and sent it spinning
end over end into the trees.
Stepping back, Honoria drew
her knife. She was almost defenceless
against the tharg that closed with her and the warrior knew it, a huge grin
splitting his face, revealing a hedge of yellow
fangs. He raised his axe and
came at her.
“Hold!”
To Honoria’s amazement the warrior stopped in his
tracks. Both she and the Tharg
looked at the wizened shaman who had issued the
command. He was sweating profusely
and shaking badly, but he still pointed his staff at Ralasharia, holding
her under the spell he had cast.
“Take dem both alive,” he
croaked. “I want
dem.”
Honoria looked at the shaman
in astonishment, as much surprised that she could understand him as she was
by his command. His accent was
thick as if he was talking with a mouthful of food, but she could clearly
understand what he said and she was having none of
it. She had seen what Grothargs
did to those they captured and she would die before she submitted to that
again. However, just as she was
considering plunging the dagger into her impressively heaving bosom she
remembered Ralasharia. She
couldn’t just leave her Elven
companion.
The hesitation resulted
in the loss of her freedom, not that it might not have happened
anyway. Another Grotharg came
in at her from the side.
Desperately she slashed at him with her knife, inflicting a nasty
wound on his arm, but he caught her wrist with the other arm and twisted
the knife out of her grasp. The
other Grotharg closed in. Together
they lifted her off her feet, one holding her legs and the other pinning
her arms to her sides. As they
picked her up Honoria caught a glimpse of
Ralasharia. She had gone blue
in the face and was clutching at her throat, still fighting against the spell
the Grotharg shaman had cast on her.
Still struggling, Honoria
was carried over to the shaman, but he was not yet interested in
her. Instead he focused all his
attention on Ralasharia, and from the strained look on his face, she was
giving him all that he could handle.
With his free hand he pulled away a chain from the rope around his
belt. “Put dis on her,”
he grunted. “Den make sure she don’t get
away.”
The tharg took the chain
and a few seconds later Honoria saw the shaman relax and heard the sound
of gasping from Ralasharia as her breathing was
restored. He staggered and leaned
on his staff and then one of the thargs came to help
him. Limping over to a large
stone he sat down and motioned to the Grotharg
warriors. “Bring dem before
me. Make sure hold der
hands.”
Honoria was allowed to stand,
her arms twisted behind her back and pushed toward the
shaman. A few seconds later,
Ralasharia, still red in the face, and gasping for air was brought alongside
her. She too had her arms tightly
held by a Grotharg warrior and the slender chain was hung around her
neck. “So,” the ancient
shaman mused, as he looked first from one to the other of his
captives. “An Elf witch
and a Human warrior. “I
can use both of dem. Bind dem
and make sure dey can’t reach the
chain.”
The thargs were quick to
do his bidding, placing a thick staff across the small of Honoria’s
back and bending her arms beneath it.
Then they tied her, both at the wrists with the ropes going across
her tight belly, and at the elbows, binding her arms to the
staff. To make doubly sure she
did not go anywhere another rope was tied to her ankles, hobbling her so
that she could walk but not run.
One end of a rope was tied about her neck and the other end was tried
about Ralasharia’s. The
Elf had been bound in the same way and for the first time since Honoria had
met the Elf she seemed completely humbled, standing with her head
down.
“Let us go,” said
the Grotharg shaman. “We
will take them with us to Iron
Hand.” A jerk on the rope
propelled them forward, Ralasharia in the lead and Honoria following just
a few steps behind. As they passed
by the bodies of the still smouldering thargs that had been struck by
Ralasharia’s fireball their captors hardly gave them a
glance. Apparently dead was dead
as far as the Grothargs were concerned.
They seemed completely
unconcerned.
“What are they going
to do with us,” Honoria whispered.
“If we are very lucky
they will only kill us,” Ralasharia
answered. “But I doubt we
will get off that easily.”
Visions of the horrific
scene in the Red Stone village came to Honoria mind and she
blanched. If she thought what
she had suffered at the hands of the bandits and the Duke was bad she realized
that she had been sorely mistaken.
She was suddenly so frightened that she could hardly stand, but the
touch of a spear to her behind reminded her that she had little
choice. She was a captive of
the Grothargs and it was they who would decide her
fate.
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