Rake's Drift

Prologue

Rake gazed down the valley, his eye line picked out peaks at random. So many unclimbed, at least by humans; but why would the others want to, he wondered.

Clouds scudded across the sky, and with the temperature falling he began the slow descent back to camp. Still no further ahead, yet no sign of the Teneroi; Elaina had been true to her word.

He was still way above the tree line, careful steps taken to pick his way through the scree field, Rake scanned the makeshift fortification. Defensively set, it looked all too easy to take apart from his vantage point. Exhausted soldiers at watch, fighting fatigue; he shook his head and fixed the smile to his face with encouraging words shared with those he passed.

Tobin made his way across to him, gnawing on a piece of meat.

'When do we leave? The people are as rested as can be, yet restless, we must keep moving.'

The King was barely recognizable from the proud, arrogant lad who had inherited his duty just over six months ago. The easiest job in the kingdom people had joked, a silver spoon and a lifetime of excess were guaranteed. The Teneroi had seen to change that and brought out the man – impetuous yet a leader.

Yes, he agreed with Tobin's words, we must move on, but to where? Water was a three hour round trip to the west, and firewood and prey two hours to the east. Prey, was that what the Teneroi saw them as?

He shook his head, greasy curls flicked across his eyes, Rake studied his King.

Who was the leader here? Tobin had become increasingly reliant on Rake's judgment, a fact that both men hated.

How many groups of men, women and children were left he wondered. They were learning too late how to oppose those who killed from afar. What had Arafan, Tobin's father, discussed with the Teneroi when they first arrived?

A headless corpse held little answers.

Rake looked past Tobin to the children, ragged and dusty, little bodies still yet to echo their parents' worn faces, there had to be a way.

'Tomorrow we move.' Rake addressed his King. 'Folklore holds of a vast interconnected cave system in the next mountain range. There the children will be safe.' He hoped his words carried sincerity; to him it was just prolonging the inevitable.

Tobin set his jaw and seemed to look through Rake, was this what he imagined his kingdom would become? A peaceful people with profitable trading links through their merchant partners, borders respected by all parties. A year of extermination had put ten years onto Tobin. How had it come to this? Tobin saw the young materialistic flutes man before him once again.

Sarafar counselled him to trust Rake, with his kingdom's brigades gone and villages razed only the life in the children's eyes lifted him, they would not face the Teneroi yet.

Again he asked himself the question, what did the Teneroi want? They had the land; they had effortlessly brushed aside the best the Pantogan had to offer.

Why this, why crush his people into the dirt? Was he to finish his reign in a cave? A tiny voice welcomed and warmed to the only logical conclusion, the promise of rest and a final end to this charade – he hated himself for it. He pinched nails into his palm, bringing clarity, drawing blood – no.

Rake relaxed as he sensed a familiar realization in Tobin, what to do when there are no choices, no options.

Tobin placed a hand on Rake's shoulder.

'Tomorrow we make our last stand in the cave system, we will buy our children a little time yet.'

The King looked out at his remaining people, the Queen's Elite, shed of plate armour yet still carrying arrows and swords. The women restrung bows, sharpening arrows, talking of range and rate of fire. The men with the traditional long sword, skills acquired over generations yet until recently not tested in any meaningful combat for the last fifty years. Peace had not softened them yet how do you hit an enemy seemingly always out of reach, who transformed the very terrain you fought upon?