He’d lost count of the many times he or Daol stumbled. Fell. Bruised and bloodied legs did not stop their captors from prodding the two Gaudic clansmen up with spears, or more often simply hauling them back to their feet by the ropes tied around their necks. Two loops each, rubbing painfully at the raw wounds already burned across their skins, the other ends held by one of the heavily muscled men who ran to either side. Four to keep Kern and Daol under control. Another running ahead. The last one behind.
No chance for escape. These men had known exactly what they were about from the very first moment.
Hauled them right around the bend and up the side of the steep, ledge facing, their captors did. Two men below, four higher up. Daol had not been scrabbling back, but was dragged away by a noose similar to the loop that had come down around Kern’s head, drawn tight, choking off his breathing as well as his voice. He’d clawed at his neck, then behind him for a grip on the thin, strong cord. His grasping fingers discovered what felt like a hard stick with the loop of rope splitting right out of its end. Which made little sense to Kern until he twisted about far enough to see Daol being handled near the cliff’s base by a man with blue sworls tattooed across his bared shoulders and his dark, ravenlike hair pulled up into a topknot.
Galla!
Nomadic clansmen who hunted the Snowy River territory and high plateaus of the Black Mountains. In the middle of a fight for their lives, Kern’s pack was being raided!
And the weapons they used were unfamiliar to Kern. Poles were as long as a good spear, and hollow. A loop of thin, white rope fed through from the base, where one end was tied off beneath the wrapping of a good leather grip and the other fastened round the middle of a wooden toggle. The rope looped out the far end in a simple snare. Set the loop, yank hard on the toggle to tighten it up, the pole cracked right into the back of the skull and kept the warrior far enough away to avoid hands, kicks . . . even swords, though a man’s first instinct would likely be to drop any blade and claw for breath.
As Kern watched, and labored to breathe, a second noose lowered down the face and was dropped over Daol’s head. Used to haul him up into the air.
Daol flopped himself toward the rock face and dug in with his hands and the toes of his boots, and climbed.
Which made no sense to Kern until it was his turn. Right behind Daol. The second noose was made of thicker rope, but it still nearly strangled him as it lifted him off his feet. So much deadweight, he’d have thought the warriors above would have difficulty. Then he caught on to Daol’s idea and simply kicked himself around toward the rock face. Struggling up the cliff, helping his captors by climbing fast wherever he could, beat being strangled to death.
At the top, fresh hands took up the mancatcher poles and tightened down once again, keeping the Gaudic warriors pinned against the ground though neither one had much fight left in him. No one spoke. Hand gestures and tiny whistles only, and breathy chuffs that sounded like the barking cough of a small animal. Hardly a sound was made that would have been heard below over the desperate, terrible screeching of the spiders, or the clash of weapons rising from the fight alongside the mountain trail.
Kern wanted to ask their help for his warriors, his friends. The capture would be about ransom. They’d pay it. But the clansmen showed no interest in his struggles to speak.
Then a second man knelt against Kern’s neck, pressing down hard just beneath the ear until his vision swam and a dark cloud crept in from the edges. He struggled violently again, trying to throw the clansman away, but to no avail.
The darkness collapsed over him with a heavy weight. And he knew nothing more.
Not until waking up after a time with his head splitting and the taste of old leather drying out his mouth. And a drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . of icy water splashing against his face.
Kern struggled his eyes open, and the tattooed face of a Clan Galla hunter stared down at him, hair pulled up into a thick topknot, the outline of a thunderbird inked into his face, its outstretched wings covering his eyes like a mask. He poured a splash of water into his hand from a flask, then held it over Kern to drip . . . drip . . . tiny droplets over his brow.
Seeing him stir, the warrior flicked what was left of the water into Kern’s face and hauled him up.
The winds had picked up—sharp and biting—and his neck felt as if it had been branded with a hot knife. A roll of leather had been shoved into his mouth, wedged in hard to prevent any shouts, any effort to call a warning to his friends. Not that it seemed as if they were still close to the main trail. Hands were already fastened behind his back, the ropes already in the hands of his keepers.