Get Her Back (Demontech) Read Free

Lieutenant Balta, commander of the platoon of Skraglander Bloody Axes. He had a firm grip on the arm of the seaman who had told Alyline about the sothar player he’d heard in the nomads’ camp. The “guide” looked distinctly  unhappy.
          Haft took his leave of Spinner with a mock bow, and strode to Balta and the guide.
          “I can’t just call you ‘hey you’,“ he said. “What’s your name?”
          “I-It’s Jurnieks, Lord.” To Jurnieks, Haft looked, as did Spinner,  to be far too young and junior to be in command, but the two obviously were running things—as near as Jurnieks could tell—as equals. They must be nobles of some sort, although he’d heard the fierce-looking soldiers with the bearskin trim on their maroon-striped cloaks call Haft “Sir.” And he’d never heard of the Frangerian Marines deferring to people because of their birth rank.
          “It’s time we were off,” Haft said. “Too much time has passed since the Golden Girl and her escort left. We need to move fast if we hope to catch them before they reach the nomads’ camp. Can you ride a horse?”
          “Y-Yes, Lord,” Jurnieks said, bobbing his head. But he didn’t sound very positive about it, which was fine with Haft as he’d rather walk himself.
          But time... Yes , Haft thought, we can’t take the time to go on foot. At least he wouldn’t be the only one uncomfortable on horseback.
          “Lieutenant Balta,” Haft said, “are your men ready?”
          “They’ve been ready for some time, Sir Haft.”
          Haft gave Spinner a cocked-eyebrow look as though saying, “See how you’ve made people wait?” Out loud he said to Balta, “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer.”
     
          An hour later Haft and a thirty-man platoon of Skraglander Bloody Axes, with Jurnieks as their reluctant guide, were atop the plateau of the High Desert, which rose some two hundred yards above the narrow strip of coastal plain that the refugee train was  following.
          Haft rose in his stirrups to look over the landscape. He squinted to protect his eyes from the wind, which was gusting from the west. The High Desert looked very different from the Low Desert into which everybody in his party, except for their guide who hadn’t been with them at the time, had made a foray.
          The High Desert didn’t undulate as gently as the Low, which had given the quick-glance impression of being table-flat. Instead it looked jagged, even though no single place appeared to be much higher than any other. The ground did seem, however, to rise slowly into the distance. Nor did this desert appear to have numerous rills and small streams wending their way through it, flowing into or out of ponds and small lakes. What little green met the eye looked sparse and malnourished, with none of it even ankle high. He looked down at the nearby vegetation, expecting to see it all bent to the east by the west wind that buffeted him. But it wasn’t. While the leaves pointed to the east, the twigs and branches went every which way, twisted by time and variable wind direction. A sharp blast unexpectedly struck him from the north, rocking him in his saddle. That was another reason for him to prefer being on his feet instead of on a horse; he’d be lower to the ground, and the wind wouldn’t hit him so hard.
          But he knew he had to be on horseback, and tried to banish thoughts of walking.
          As he settled back in the saddle, he adjusted the axe hanging on his belt. The axe had a two and a half foot handle, with a half moon blade projecting a foot beyond the handle’s end, and an equal length down its length. A thick spike opposite the blade tapered to a sharp point. The face of the blade bore a rampant eagle. He got his name because when he used the axe, it was as though he became its  handle, its haft. Man and weapon seemed to function as one.