wide enough to allow egress to two mounted men side by side. Spacing was the same on the middle and inner circles, with the wider spaces offset, so that there was nowhere a straight path from outside of the camp to its center. One hut, larger and more elaborately decorated than the others, was on the inner ring.
Haft thought the camp was laid out for defense, and suspected that the thatch of the huts was stronger than any grass thatch he had seen elsewhere in his travels as a Frangerian Marine.
But the shocking thing was at each of the wide spots between outer ring huts: Cages made of ropes and cords woven from the tough grass that dotted the desert, the same grass that made up the thatch of the huts, hung from wooden frameworks on each side of the entry space. Haft estimated that there were more than four score of the cages around the camp. The cages were just the size to hold a man. Each held a body; some were rotted down to skeletons, a few were still very much alive. Most of them wore remnants of the furs and skins of the High Desert Nomads; some wore the clothing of men from other countries, adventurers or explorers. The live ones wore the pale blue tabards of the Zobran Royal Lancers. A couple of the lancers were conscious and looked at the Bloody Axes with haunted eyes.
“Steady, lads,” Lieutenant Balta said soto voce , but loudly enough for everyone in the platoon to hear.
Soft grumbles came from within the platoon’s ranks, but the Bloody Axes held steady. They kept their weapons ready, but made no threatening motions with them.
“See that?” Haft asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“The archers?” Balta replied.
Haft nodded; inside the huts, barely visible through the narrow rear windows, he’d seen archers standing with strung bows ready to loose arrows. When they reached the passage between the outer and middle hut-circles, he saw that the inner sides also had narrow archer windows—and they were manned as well. More of the nomads stood about in random singles or groups in the central clearing. They were all armed, though none held their weapons at the ready. No women or children were in sight. Neither were the Royal Lancers except for the few who were hanging in the cages.
No shafts took flight as the small band made its way to the inner clearing. Haft reined up in front of the larger, more elaborate hut, and the Bloody Axes arrayed themselves in an arc behind him, some facing outward, others in.
Haft stood up in his stirrups and bellowed in Frangerian, “Who’s in charge of this circle jerk?”
The door flap of the main hut was flung open, and a huge man strutted out. He planted himself directly in front of Haft’s mare, and stood with richly muscular arms folded over a massive chest. He was tall enough that, even standing only a foot in front of the mare’s head, he was easily able to look over it into Haft’s eyes. The other nomads Haft could see were dressed in furs and boiled leather armor, but this warrior had metal armor, covered by a purple tabard with an ensign that Haft didn’t recognize. When the nomad chief spoke it was in a roar that made Haft’s bellow sound like he had spoken at a polite conversational level. His words were barks and growls that sounded to Haft like nothing so much as the speech of the Jokapcul whom he and Spinner and everyone with them had been striving to keep ahead of.
“So you’re the big guy here, huh?” Haft leaned to the side so he could see past his mare’s head to look up and down the obvious chief. “Yeah, you’re big, all right.” Big and scary, but Haft wasn’t about to show the slightest bit of intimidation. If he did, it could mean he and the Bloody Axes would suddenly find themselves fighting this entire nomad band—and likely all of them would die. Instead of giving in to the watery feeling in his guts,
Haft thought the camp was laid out for defense, and suspected that the thatch of the huts was stronger than any grass thatch he had seen elsewhere in his travels as a Frangerian Marine.
But the shocking thing was at each of the wide spots between outer ring huts: Cages made of ropes and cords woven from the tough grass that dotted the desert, the same grass that made up the thatch of the huts, hung from wooden frameworks on each side of the entry space. Haft estimated that there were more than four score of the cages around the camp. The cages were just the size to hold a man. Each held a body; some were rotted down to skeletons, a few were still very much alive. Most of them wore remnants of the furs and skins of the High Desert Nomads; some wore the clothing of men from other countries, adventurers or explorers. The live ones wore the pale blue tabards of the Zobran Royal Lancers. A couple of the lancers were conscious and looked at the Bloody Axes with haunted eyes.
“Steady, lads,” Lieutenant Balta said soto voce , but loudly enough for everyone in the platoon to hear.
Soft grumbles came from within the platoon’s ranks, but the Bloody Axes held steady. They kept their weapons ready, but made no threatening motions with them.
“See that?” Haft asked out of the corner of his mouth.
“The archers?” Balta replied.
Haft nodded; inside the huts, barely visible through the narrow rear windows, he’d seen archers standing with strung bows ready to loose arrows. When they reached the passage between the outer and middle hut-circles, he saw that the inner sides also had narrow archer windows—and they were manned as well. More of the nomads stood about in random singles or groups in the central clearing. They were all armed, though none held their weapons at the ready. No women or children were in sight. Neither were the Royal Lancers except for the few who were hanging in the cages.
No shafts took flight as the small band made its way to the inner clearing. Haft reined up in front of the larger, more elaborate hut, and the Bloody Axes arrayed themselves in an arc behind him, some facing outward, others in.
Haft stood up in his stirrups and bellowed in Frangerian, “Who’s in charge of this circle jerk?”
The door flap of the main hut was flung open, and a huge man strutted out. He planted himself directly in front of Haft’s mare, and stood with richly muscular arms folded over a massive chest. He was tall enough that, even standing only a foot in front of the mare’s head, he was easily able to look over it into Haft’s eyes. The other nomads Haft could see were dressed in furs and boiled leather armor, but this warrior had metal armor, covered by a purple tabard with an ensign that Haft didn’t recognize. When the nomad chief spoke it was in a roar that made Haft’s bellow sound like he had spoken at a polite conversational level. His words were barks and growls that sounded to Haft like nothing so much as the speech of the Jokapcul whom he and Spinner and everyone with them had been striving to keep ahead of.
“So you’re the big guy here, huh?” Haft leaned to the side so he could see past his mare’s head to look up and down the obvious chief. “Yeah, you’re big, all right.” Big and scary, but Haft wasn’t about to show the slightest bit of intimidation. If he did, it could mean he and the Bloody Axes would suddenly find themselves fighting this entire nomad band—and likely all of them would die. Instead of giving in to the watery feeling in his guts,
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