Get Her Back (Demontech) by David Sherman Page B

he’d present himself as just as arrogant and confident as the nomad chief.
          “A couple of days back,” Haft said when the chief didn’t say anything more, “we saw where some friends of ours met up with some other people. We followed their trail, and—guess what?—the trail led right here. We’re here to take our friends home. Where are they?”
          The chief rumbled at length, longer than Haft’s short speech. His words were incomprehensible to Haft or any of the Zobrans. As it was to Tabib.
          When the chief stopped, Haft looked around past his Bloody Axes at the nomads milling about and, he couldn’t help but notice, getting closer to his men.
          “Does anybody here speak a civilized tongue?” he shouted in Frangerian, and followed up with the same question in several more languages. But before he could run through all the languages he had some knowledge of, a single, sharp bark from the chief brought him back around.
          The chief was staring wide-eyed at Haft’s axe. He jabbered something at a much less threatening volume than that which he’d used before and looked through the people, Bloody Axes and nomads alike, in the clearing. Haft turned his head to look the same way. The nomad warriors were edging away from the Skraglanders, and shifting their weapons to less-ready positions. They were clearing a path for an ancient man, leaning on a walking staff, who hobbled his way out of an undecorated hut on the opposite side of the inner circle and slowly made his way toward them.
          “Let him through,” Haft ordered when the ancient reached the Skraglanders.
          The ancient man, dressed in furs but without any kind of armor, slowly approached Haft’s axe side. Leaning close, he peered with rheumy eyes at the halfmoon blade of the axe. He slowly raised his right hand and gently traced the rampant eagle engraved on the blade. After a moment he lowered his hand and shuffled around to face the chief. His voice, when he spoke, was not as reedy as Haft had expected it to be.
          The chief said something. Haft thought he was questioning the ancient. Satisfied with the answers, he nodded, then shouted to his warriors and waved an arm in a circular pattern. He faced Haft and spoke politely, even if in barks and growls.
          A younger man, unarmed or armored, came through the semi-circle of Bloody Axes to stand by the chief’s side.
          “Sir,” he said in Frangerian that was accented, but without enough bark and growl sounds to be difficult to understand, “my name is Itzuli. The Great Chief Nagusi of the Deitua Clan welcomes you to his encampment. I will have the honor of translating for you.”
          It took an effort of will for Haft to not breathe a deep sigh of relief. He said, “Tell your Great Chief that I, Sir Haft of the Frangerian Marines, happily accept his hospitality.”
          Itzuli translated Haft’s words, and Chief Nagusi grinned widely, stretching out a hand for Haft to grasp in friendship. His grip was tight, but not crushingly so.
     
         There was a flurry of activity after Haft and Nagusi grasped hands; preparations for a feast for the nomads’ guests. Haft  and Balta took advantage of those few minutes to figure out  just what was happening, and what their next steps would be.  The mage Tabib and Sergeant Korona joined them, as did Jurniaks. They still didn’t know where Alyline and the Royal Lancers were—other than the imprisoned held in the wicker cages. They sat in a tight, in-facing circle out of the way of the activity around them.
          “I want to know what happened,” Haft said. “One minute it looked like the nomads were about to attack, and the next that old man said something and all of a sudden I’m the chief’s long lost brother, or whatever.”
          Tabib made a moment’s show of hiding a grin and laugh behind a hand. “You don’t know, is that