SWNOVELS The Waste-Tracker: Chapter 2
T aruk-Sem was the first.
He was the first Urokan waste-tracker to be given permission by the High Chieftain to enter the Dothik domain of Barak Düm. He was the first to climb its peaks, ridges and slopes. And soon, he would be the first to set foot in the Dothik underground kingdom. Never before had this been done, and the reasons were many.
The terrain of Barak Düm was treacherous; waste-trackers were used to flatlands and wide-open spaces, not sheer cliffs and frequent avalanches. Also, the political fallout of such an incursion would not be pleasant. Urok did not interfere in the affairs of foreign nations. They were an isolationist people, accepting little outside commerce and preferring to preserve their ancestral tribal ways. But most of all, the Dothiks were a violent and unpredictable people that held little regard for the lives of others. Urok treasured its sons and daughters, as well as the spirits of its ancestors, investing much in their heritage and not relishing the thought of squandering the lives of their fellow tribesmen on foolish endeavors or personal vendettas.
But that all changed when moral quandaries were presented to them. Urok would stand up for what was right and decent and natural. And what the Dothiks had done to Fylonthe Glimmerglade was not. Additionally, they had the gall to do it on Urokan soil, as well as performing some sort of ritual and unearthing another magically trapped being, no doubt to torture as well. So Taruk had returned to Torgoth, the central settlement of Urok, and reported to High Chieftain Jokumbra, Sixth Son of Urok. They had listened to Fylonthe’s testimony as well, and they were incensed. Many transgressions had the Dothiks made – indeed, the world shunned them for it – and Urok would see them punished for every act.
To that end, Taruk now climbed, slowly, carefully, feeling very unsure in this foreign land. He prayed constantly that the spirit of his grandfather would follow him into Barak Düm, to watch over him and keep him safe. Many times did Taruk lose his footing, and if not for his great strength and agility, he surely would have fallen to a gruesome and painful death. The rocks were loose and jagged. They cut at his hands and legs. The sandals Taruk wore were not made for perilous cliff scaling. But as he traversed the massive mountains, climbing ever higher, the air did cool, offering him some comfort and saving him from heat exhaustion.
He stopped only once during the day to rest and eat, wanting to make the best time possible. He had a long way to go and, there not being any roads in Barak Düm, knew that he had to forge ahead and find his own path into the forbidding Dothik realm. He also did not feel comfortable lingering in any one place for too long. Though he was just one man, if the Dothiks knew their land as Taruk knew his own, they would be able to sense his presence, feel the vibrations in the earth and stone, smell the subtle changes in the wind. Taruk had heard that, with the bulk of their kingdom underground, they only rarely sent out patrols or hunting parties, but this did little to console him, for the real challenge would be in finding an entrance that led below – no doubt well camouflaged – and then avoiding being spotted until he could find the captured woman and those responsible for the previous week’s clandestine activities.
He had to know what had happened, what was going on and what the Dothiks were up to. It was his duty as a waste-tracker to protect Urok, and if any of this was putting his motherland in danger, he would make them pay for their acts of desecration. He had five days to accomplish this, for that was all of the food and water that he could fit in his leather satchel. Taruk needed to travel light and move quickly and stealthily. In Urok, he could live off the land indefinitely, knowing every root and tuber, every fruit-bearing bush and every migration pattern of the herd animals. Here, among the harsh and desolate peaks, he couldn’t be sure of what was safe to eat, where to find live food or, more importantly, water. His incredible constitution would protect him, for the most part, if he made a mistake in his choice of edibles, but he would much rather finish his task and return home before having to take that risk.
It occurred to Taruk that his trek through the Dothik lands, being the first, would be documented and studied for future use, should the need arise again for Urokans to enter Barak Düm.
Taruk had a feeling it would.
The waste-tracker was utterly amazed that, on the second day of his vertical hike, he came across a pair of Dothiks, lounging in the sun. They were fully armed and armored, so they were on duty, or at least supposed to be. But here? So far from the interior? Taruk hadn’t expected to encounter any inhabitants until he at least reached the top and the terrain leveled off. Things were very different in Barak Düm, he realized. But what were these two doing? They didn’t appear to be guarding an entrance, for Taruk saw none. They weren’t traveling to or from anywhere; they were just…sitting.
Taruk wasted no time. Before they could detect him, he burst onto their ledge, uttering no battlecry, for secrecy was still necessary for his success. His sudden appearance, lightning-fast movement and imposing, muscular frame was quite enough to startle them as it was. He made a backhanded swing with his cudgel at the first unmoving target. It was a solid, heavy blow that was sufficient to knock the Dothik off the ledge and send him plunging several thousand feet down the slope. The second guard only had time to raise his axe, but not to use it. Taruk landed a powerful downward swing on the Dothik’s shoulder, causing him to crumple to the ground in pain. The waste-tracker put his knee into his victim’s back and leaned, forcing the air from the Dothik’s lungs and preventing a cry for help.
Now for the hard part, thought Taruk-Sem. The waste-tracker dug through his satchel and pulled out an odd item: a blue shell. Taruk still had no knowledge of the Dothik language and hoped that this symbolism would not be lost on his defeated foe. Of course, it was entirely possible that this particular Dothik had never seen the human woman trapped in the magical blue orb, but he had to try.
“Have you seen her?” whispered Taruk into the Dothik’s ear, “The woman in a circle of magic?”
Taruk shoved the blue shell in the Dothik’s face, since he very much doubted that this guard could understand what he was saying. He also scraped the blue shell on the ground, creating a circle in which he drew a rudimentary female form. The Dothik, his faced smashed into the ledge, strained to look with his good eye at what the waste-tracker was pointing. The guard grunted and tried to indicate that he had no clue as to what Taruk was referring.
Taruk wasn’t satisfied. “You must have seen her,” he growled. “They must have come this way. There cant be that many magical human woman brought through these cliffs!”
He must have raised his voice a little too high, or perhaps his scent had carried upwards, for it was then that Taruk saw the shadow cast from above descending upon him. Taruk tried to roll aside, but there was precious little room on the ledge. He heard the tremendous roar before he felt the weight of the beast slam into him, knocking the wind form his lungs and pinning him to the rock. The bear was covered in thick brown fur, and the only thing keeping its slobbering jaws from mauling Taruk was the Dothik rider seated astride the creature’s back.
Taruk flexed every muscle in his body, trying to twist in such a way so as to get his arms free. Luckily, the rider pulled back a little too hard on the reins, causing the bear to rear up slightly. Taruk turned onto his back, facing the beast, and with both arms and legs, wrapped himself around the bear’s ample neck.
And squeezed.
The animal, though trained and guided by his rider, went into a panic. Taruk’s grip was cutting off the bear’s air and bloodflow. It swumg it’s head left and right, the rider trying to calm it, but to no avail. It pawed at Taruk, raking his back and flank with deep cuts that caused the waste-tracker to release a primal scream. But Taruk did not let go. Part of every waste-tracker’s training in preparation for dealing with wild creatures was grappling; the utilization of all the body’s muscles, working as one for maximum effect. One might not be able to pin an opponent of greater bulk, but using this method, one could still strangle a foe or break any number of limbs simply by the application of enough pressure at critical points.
Taruk was hoping that he achieved one of these effects before the bear decided to hurl itself over the ledge; he was counting on the rider to prevent that. After what seemed an eternity, and several more vicious wounds, the bear finally lay still, collapsing onto Taruk, pinning him once again, though only partially this time. The rider was distracted and distraught over the loss of his pet, allowing Taruk to wriggle free from under the great carcass, bloodied but not beaten. Quickly, Taruk looked around for his cudgel, ready to face the Dothik beastmaster. Instead, he found only the flat side of a Dothik battleaxe slamming him in the head, sending him hurtling downward into unconsciousness.
Taruk-sem awoke to the sound of whispers, in a language he could understand. Were these his ancestors come to greet his spirit? To carry him off to the afterlife? He wanted to keep his eyes shut for a while longer, to listen in more on the conversation, but the temptation was too great, to see his grandfather again. He had to know.
Opening his eyes, however, revealed only darkness surrounding him. Perhaps he was in some state between life and death, waiting for his ancestor’s decision on whether or not he was worthy to join them. Then, the pain returned. He could feel the wounds the bear had inflicted upon his backside, and though they had closed, it seemed no one had tended to them. Luckily, Urokan hardiness was legendary, and it was unlikely that he would have bled to death. And since infection was rare in his desert home, Taruk didn’t fear that either.
Until he remembered that he wasn’t in Urok anymore. He was in Barak Düm, the underground Dothik kingdom. He could feel the shackles that bound his wrists, and another pair that bound his ankles. Apparently, his captors were now aware of the incredible strength that ran through all of his limbs and were taking no chances.
“You alive?” came the whispered question from his right. The voice was speaking Triad, an offshoot of Urok’s traditional tongue, but it was accented in an almost regal way.
“Yes,” answered Taruk quietly. “Who are you?”
“Candecius, a D’losian. Sorry,” corrected the male voice, “former D’losian.”
“Are we in the Dothik dungeons?” asked Taruk.
“Oh, yes, most definitely,” said Candecius, “though their whole damn realm seems like a dungeon.”
“How did you come to be here?”
“I was fleeing the catastrophe that beset the empire. I headed south, not wanting to end up frozen in Kalistad. I thought it might be wiser to stick to the shelter of the mountains. I was very wrong about that!” Candecius’ voice rose in volume, a hint of bitterness to it.
“You fled Diathilos after the fall? But that was five years ago.” Taruk heard Candecius gasp slightly in the darkness.
“Oh, gods,” whimpered the D’losian, “I thought it had only been two years.” Candecius began to sob forlornly. Taruk felt bad for bringing the man to this realization, so tried to steer the conversation in a more practical direction to take his mind off his plight.
“Has anyone ever escaped these shackles?”
“No,” sniffled Candecius, “Made of mithril. Unbreakable.”
Taruk didn’t let that stop him from trying. He heaved with all his might, gritting through the pain, but his awkward position prevented him from bringing his full potential to bear.
“You may as well get used to it,” put in the D’losian, “They will feed you once a week and water twice. Once a month, we get exercise, digging in the mines. Its just enough to keep us alive, but not enough to get our strength – or our hopes – back.”
Taruk didn’t like this one’s defeated tone. He understood the prisoner’s dilemma and lack of morale, but as long as one remained alive there was hope. Perhaps the man could still help him out though.
“Have you seen a young, human female?” inquired Taruk. “She may be a recent prisoner. There was magic involved.”
“I can’t see anything in this black!” spat Candecius. “Only female prisoners I’ve seen in the mines are either old or gnomlin.”
It was not looking good. Taruk was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t be able to help the girl or his tribesmen. More importantly, the ones responsible would never be punished, and they would commit their atrocities again and again.
Torchlight began to flicker in a distant tunnel. Taruk could hear the booted feet of Dothiks approaching.
“Is this the food, water or exercise?” he asked Candecius.
“I’m not sure,” he replied nervously, “they always change it around on us. Might even be an execution.”
A group of four Dothiks entered the small chamber and Taruk finally got a look at his neighbors. Candecius was gaunt and appeared to be about sixty years old, though in reality he was probably much younger. Past him, Taruk saw two gnomlins. All three had pasty white skin, thinning hair and almost no muscle left. A Dothik jailer began to unlock their shackles, starting with the gnomlin farthest from Taruk. The lead Dothik, who carried a nasty looking whip with a lead weight on the end, barked something in his native guttural tongue.
“Oh, it appears we are being moved to another cell,” translated Candecius.
“Hmph,” grunted Taruk, “This is hardly a cell. There isnt even a door to keep us in!”
“Doesn’t matter,” dismissed the D’losian, “Gods know how many leagues we are beneath the surface. We could be totally free and never find our way—“
Taruk never heard the end of Candecius’ statement, as the Dothik leader clocked the waste-tracker over the head with a weighted metal gauntlet.
“Who say you talk, Urok-man?” The Dothik had butchered Taruk’s language, but that didn’t surprise him, since they had a tendency to butcher everything else as well. “You big man, come to fight. Not even kill one Dothik.”
“I sent one plunging to his death.”
“NO!” screamed the leader, punching Taruk solidly in the face again. “You not kill Dothik. Mountain kill Dothik!”
Candecius cringed as his jailer unlocked his shackles from the walls.
“I like leave you here to die, Urok-man,” threatened the head jailer, “but new mining come through. We move you now, so can kill later.”
The jailer unlocked Taruk’s shackles from the wall as the others were ushered out. Taruk watched their pitiful forms, barely able to walk. “I cant walk unless you unlock my ankles,” informed the waste-tracker, still sitting upright against the stone wall.
“Who say you walk?” chuckled the leader, who immediately grabbed Taruk’s still-bound wrists and twisted his whole body around. The head Dothik then proceeded to drag Taruk from the room, strength evident in his short, stocky frame.
Taruk, though used to sitting and sleeping on hard stone, felt every bit of earth and rock as it scraped across his wounded back. Taruk now realized that every story he had heard about Dothik brutality was true. They knew how to torture and how to bring pain. Taruk could only imagine what less fortunate individuals, with much lower pain thresholds, had experienced at Dothik hands.
The journey seemed to take forever, but once in a while, when passing a lit area, Taruk was able to glance at his surroundings, taking note of what he saw. There were mining operations, forges pounding out weapons, torture chambers dealing pain; Taruk could not see one redeeming facet of these people. It was a wonder that the neighboring nations and empires had not wiped them out completely, for their way of life was an abomination. But perhaps the extent of their indecency was not known. Taruk swore an oath that, upon escape, he would bring this information to the surface world and insist that they take immediate action against these vile and wicked people.
Then, he saw it.
While being dragged through a large cavern, with a wet and muddy ground he looked up. There were ledges along the wall, leading to other areas of Barak Düm, and from one of them came a pale blue glow. Taruk tried to clear his vision – perhaps the pain was overcoming his senses – but he remembered what he had seen that night in the desert, all too clearly. For a moment, he thought that maybe this glow came from a strange fire or a mystical, but he knew how much the Dothiks abhorred magic. No, that light had been unique, almost ghostly. He would never forget it.
He now knew where she was, the glow indicating – hopefully – that she was still encased in her magical shell. But he had no way of reaching her, no way of escape. Even if he did, once he reached his destination, would he be able to find his way through this darkened labyrinth?
The spirits were with Taruk, though. As luck would have it, he was hauled into an antechamber just on the other side of the cavern. Taruk was roughly and unceremoniously lined up along the wall with the three other prisoners that he had shared the last cell with along with five others.
All of them Ethulin.
As Taruk’s shackles were attached to the wall, he watched the jailer that had already been in the room, tending to the poor Ethulin who may not even know that their people had been slaughtered to a man. His heart went out to them as they were humiliated, spat upon and tortured.
“You not so special, Urok-man,” said the head jailer. “They get to stay here for long time. When we through with you, you die.”
“Why do you hate them so much?” seethed Taruk.
“They bring magic,” said the leader, “Ethulin are magic. Prophecy say magic wipe out Dothiks, so we kill magic first. Then we be safe.”
“They’re just people, peaceful people. They never would have harmed you!”
“Shut!” screamed the lead Dothik, giving Taruk a heavy, backhanded slugging. “Tribemen know nothing!”
The angry Dothik stormed out of the room, leaving the torturer to his work. Taruk could only hang there, trying to work the pain out of his jaw. At first, he was forced to turn away from the horrific scene going on, as the Ethulin’s lives were beaten and drained out of them. But their screams and laments rang loudly in his ears, and he decided it would be better to witness this heinous treatment of the Ethulin, burn it into his memory, so that, when the time came, his anger towards the Dothiks would be all-comsuming, and he would be able to justly avenge the wrongs committed against these innocents without hesitation.
Taruk hung there helpless, while Candecius sobbed.
“Stop sniveling and think of a way for us to escape these bonds,” whispered Taruk.
“I told you,” insisted the D’losian, “they are mithril and unbreakable. I have been here for five years. Don’t you think I’ve considered every option?”
“No,” countered Taruk. “For I see an advantage already. My ankles are bound – yours are not. You only need to free yourself from one set of shackles, not two. You have lost much weight and can likely slip out of your bonds much easier than I.”
“And then what?” said Candecius hysterically. “We are leagues beneath the earth, surrounded by darkness and Dothiks. With what little strength I have, I could never outrun them or fend them off. It is hopeless!”
“No, you fool! Once you are free, you can help me out of my shackles. I will be able to find our way out of here. I will find us places to hide along the way and attack any pursuers. But we must do it quickly, before my strength fades as well.”
Candecius tugged on his shackles half-heartedly. “I still cannot get my hands out.”
“Yes you can,” pressed a frustrated Taruk, “you just need a little help. Remember the mud you walked through to get here, out in the cavern?”
“Yes,” answered Candecius.
“It still covers your bare feet,” explained Taruk. “Reach down, wipe your hands in it and rub it on your wrists.”
Candecius stared at his dirty feet.
“Now, before it dries!”
Candecius did as Taruk suggested, while the waste-tracker kept an eye on the torturer, too involved in his vile pleasures to notice.
“Good. Now pull.”
Candecius, thin and wiry from lack of food or exercise, was indeed able – with the help of the slippery mud – to slip out of his mithril shackles. He gawked at his free hands in shock and disbelief, not sure whether to believe it or what to do next.
“Well?” asked an impatient Taruk.
“What about the guard?”
“Get me loose and I will take care of him,” said Taruk ominously. “Then I will free the others and we can leave this place.”
Candecius gathered up the remaining mud from his feet and the various places it clung to Taruk’s bleeding and bruised body. He lubricated the shackles on Taruk’s wrists – which were much more muscular than his own – then helped the Urokan to pull. Both strained until veins showed in their necks and foreheads and Taruk almost cried out as he nearly pulled his arms, muscles and bones apart. They had to stop, for the effort brought no results but pain.
“We need more mud,” reasoned Candecius.
“No, they are too close to the guard,” cautioned Taruk, seeing the D’losian looking towards the gnomlin prisoners.
“Then I will go into the cavern,” offered Candecius. “I will collect enough to free us all.”
“You will be seen,” asserted Taruk.
“I will stick to the shadows.”
Taruk started to protest, but Candecius interrupted him.
“We must escape now – all of us. This is our best chance and you are our best hope. We cannot wait for a better time.”
With that, he ducked out of the chamber, walking awkwardly, weak and dizzy from thirst, hunger and exhaustion.
Taruk knew the man had no skill at survival. He could see it in his eyes and observe it in his movements. Candecius had probably lived his entire life within city walls, until being brought here. He did not have faith that Candecius – or any of these other unfortunate souls – would survive an escape attempt, but Taruk prayed to his ancestors nonetheless, asking for their blessing, protection and assistance.
It was many minutes that seemed like an eternity before Taruk heard any sounds from the cavern: a Dothik cry, alerting his brethren; the slap of feet, running through mud and water; a scream of pain and despair. Then, a shadow was entering Taruk’s cell, torchlights behind him outlining his silhouette. It was Candecius, slowly trodding back, one step at a time.
“Hurry, you fool!” called Taruk, but the D’losian did not hear. He stopped, held up his hands full of slick mud and keeled over forward, a Dothik axe imbedded in his back.
The lead jailer stalked over to the man’s corpse, grabbed his axe and wrenched it from Candecius’ body. He looked at Taruk and the gnomlins, almost growling at them. “No escapes.” With that, he spit on the D’losian and left the cell.
Taruk regarded the poor dead man. No, he had not been a warrior or a tracker or stealthy enough to evade the guards notice, but his desperation had given him courage enough to try and escape. And his compassion had insisted that he help Taruk and the others escape as well. Candecius had been a good man, out of his element and overwrought, but in the end he tried to do the right thing. Taruk knew that the man’s ancestors would be proud of him.
As the torches of the Dothik guards receded back into the cavern, the last thing Taruk could make out was the eerie symmetry of the mud running from Candecius’ hands and the blood running from his mouth, the two mixing morbidly on the earthen floor.
The last thing Taruk expected upon waking was to be set free. He fully expected to hang upon the wall like some sort of trophy for several days – even a week – to soften him up, weaken him. Now, he felt his shackles being detached from the wall, their locks opening, his wrists and ankles suddenly relieved of the pressure of the restraints. There was a presence leaning over him – a spirit? A traitorous guard? Taruk could feel warmth and the brush of fine fabric. But the waste-tracker did not move, made no attempt to lash out and capture his potential benefactor. The room was still dark and he had no way of knowing yet whom he was dealing with. He didn’t want to raise another alarm and ruin his chances of being free.
“Sshh,” whispered a voice, barely audible.
Taruk remained perfectly still, using his non-visual senses, stretching them to their limit, searching for clues as to the identity of this intruder, waiting to see what would happen next. He heard the gnomlins being freed as well, though they were a little less reserved. Then, the footsteps went to the entrance of the cell and stopped. Silence for a moment, followed by a SPLAT! One of the torches in the cavern, about 10 yards to the right of the entrance, had been doused, most likely with mud. The footsteps came near Taruk again, very light and soft.
“We go now,” said the whisper. “Join hands and follow me. Stay in the dark.”
The message was repeated, in D’losian, gnomlin and a language Taruk didn’t understand. It certainly wasn’t Dothik. Suddenly, a hand gripped his firmly. It was slender and feminine, though not uncalloused. Taruk was tugged towards the entrance, and he moved to step over Candecius’ body, but it was apparently no longer there. It caused him to remember something though.
“The Ethulin,” he said quietly, “we should take them with us.”
“We cannot,” came the answer.
“They deserve burial.”
“They are buried,” and Taruk knew that was the final word.
Very slowly, they entered the cavern, which was mostly dark. Few Dothiks were present, and Taruk could only hear the sounds of mining and other work echoing down distant tunnels. He looked up but saw no blue glow from the ledge above. It caused him to stop and blanch, the hairs on his neck and arms standing up.
Was this her? he thought, excitedly. But how?
Before he could think too far into it, Taruk was pulled against the wall where the water that was dripping down from the upper levels – and most likely the rain-soaked cliffs outside – had found its own escape route: a small drainage sluice, no doubt leading down to the base of the mountain and possibly deeper. Hopefully, it would also lead to freedom.
“You first,” insisted the voice, “then I will send the others. Soften their landing if you can.”
“What of you?” questioned Taruk.
“I am last, but do not wait for me.”
Taruk felt his survival instinct cautioning him about being led in to a trap – possibly for Dothik amusement – but common sense overruled it. He slid into the tight space and began his descent, a bit faster than he would have expected or liked! The trip was short, though very muddy, a problem quickly alleviated by the shallow pool Taruk landed in at the bottom of the sluice.
The waste-tracker had only a few seconds to recover and get his bearings, as the first gnomlin was sent down almost immediately. Taruk barely caught him by the arm, having no light to work with, only the sounds of bodies sliding through wet earth. The second gnomlin had a lighter landing, Taruk being more centered on the opening this time. He waited for the last escapee to come through, but several minutes passed with no sign of their approach.
Taruk wondered, then worried. In the end, he took the advice given to him and did not wait. He focused on his surroundings, soon noting the chill feel of a breeze to his left.
“Come, take my hands,” he said to the gnomlins, “We go this way.” They did not question or hesitate, and within minutes, Taruk-sem had led them to a rocky ledge on the face of the mountain. It was dark out, but the stars gave them infinitely more light than the pitch blackness of the Dothik tunnels. The night was cold, and they were still hundreds of feet from the base of the mountain. Remembering his last encounter in such an area, Taruk quickly scanned around him, searching for signs of Dothik guards or bears. He saw none and reasoned that many were either asleep or on duty in some other part of Barak Düm.
“Let us be off,” Taruk commanded, “With luck, we can reach the ground and be away from here before daybreak.”
Taruk stooped down and the gnomlins, notoriously small, each climbed onto one of his massive shoulders. Taruk, though his strength had waned a bit, felt that he could support them best this way and quicken the climb downward.
He had barely lowered himself over the ledge when someone stepped out of the darkness of the tunnel and stood over him. It was a woman, a human woman.
It was her.
Taruk froze, still not sure of her loyalties, but ready for either fight or flight.
“I sorry,” she said without preamble or introduction, “There was something I had to do. We may leave now.”
Her calm was impressive and Taruk was anxious to hear her entire tale, which was rare, as most Urokans found little interesting outside their own culture and borders. But it would have to wait, for their climb would be a long one, over sharp rocks and slippery stones, through chilly temperatures and dizzying heights. It would be several hours before they found themselves on horizontal ground again, just enough time to escape from the Dothik search parties.
And these Dothiks were incensed, beyond anger. For not only had these supposedly weaker races escaped from the impenetrable fortress that was Barak Düm, but one of the Dothik officers – their head jailer – had been found dead, face down in the mud, his own axe buried deep in his back.