It struck her how body and mind sometimes were two separate things. Especially at times like these. If it hadn’t been for the fact that her lungs were burning fiercely inside her chest, as she tried to escape from her assailants, she might have even mused the subject a while longer. It felt as if all of her senses had been jump-started by a raw, instinctive power. She could smell the woods, with its’ somewhat damp soil and leaf mold. For the first time, she noticed the way how the birch bark peeled away from the tree. As the landscape rushed by in a blurred, vague mist, she even found the time to recognize the Old Man’s Beard on the branch that had just lashed her cheek.

Her thoughts wandered, meandering idly, while every muscle in her body seemed to scream in agony. The cold, damp air of the moonlit forests of the Lowlands clung to her every breath and she was almost certain she could taste the metallic tang of her own blood. But giving up was not an option. Not here…not now.

She used a fallen tree to propel her forward and gain some momentum, even if it brought her dangerously close to the wild bramble bushes. The thorns rendered both leather and skin and dug in deeply, but she didn’t seem to notice. The pain gave her speed, kept her going. Somewhere behind her, she could hear how two creatures charged through the undergrowth with equal speed and noise. She could hear their growling breaths. Their loud sniffing almost made her think they could smell here and if they could, they would be on her trail.

Everything she knew about the Urg, she knew from the tales she had heard so often as a child. She would often sneak downstairs, her siblings vast asleep, to eavesdrop at the doors of the large hall as the bards and raconteurs would pick up their tale. Long shadows would dance on the surrounding walls, conjuring up the images of ghosts and nekkers. The old man, Servaes, was a walking collection of ghost and folk tales, as many lowlanders of his age would be. As long as his tankard was filled with brandy wine, Servaes would tell his stories. It always was a matter of time, and brandy wine, before the old man would tell about the Urg.

They were a primitive race and no one really knew where they came from. They walked like men, yet be it somewhat hunched, as if carrying an invisible load. Urg were muscular, with strong arms and broad shoulders. They had necks like bulls, short and thick, and their heads almost seemed to vanish into their bodies without a warning. The color of their thick, leathery skin came in a variety of dark brown, grays and green. Sometimes, it seemed an Urg had been rolling into the mud and grass, and who knows, maybe that indeed was the truth.

Their heads were flattened, with black eyes, buried deep into the bony sockets. Their jaw protruded, bearing two, boar-like tusks, with at least one often broken through the years.

The Urg were tribal nomads and dressed in almost anything they could get their hands on, from rags to skins. They didn’t seem to know the notion of metallurgy and even if they could be bothered with crafting from wood or bone, they would produce items of an inferior quality. The only iron object they are known to make is the ‘noch’, a staff with a crude chunk of metal attached to it. It served as both a weapon and a scepter for the tribe’s elder. The Urg feared the noch for both those reasons.

The Urg inhabited the barren Wastes of Andrach, a land carved out of black rock, flayed by dust storms and screaming winds. Despite the inhospitable homeland, they knew not to venture south, towards the lands of men. Throughout the ages, the Urg had learned to fear the Lowlander longbow as no other.

Yet, every age of so, a Horde would erupt from the Wastes of Andrach. No-one really knew what exactly triggered it. Maybe the different tribes had been united under a leader, or perhaps a famine forced the Urg to seek food elsewhere. The only certainty was that when a Horde was formed, the Urg would flood into the Lowlands, burning and pillaging, until finally halted or simply satisfied with their spoils. As quickly as they had come, they would retreat again, torn apart once more by tribal feuds.

When Servaes would tell about the Urg, his brows would wriggle about, like fat, hairy caterpillars. This was when the tale often halted, not only because the brandy wine had run out, but also because young Ione would giggle at the door. Her father would get up to carry her back to bed, while her mother would look for another bottle of ‘Old Worte’ to please Servaes.

All would end well…but not this time.

Too late, Ione realized her right foot hooked behind the gnarly root of an old oak. The little, giggling girl was torn from her reverie all of a sudden and had turned into the young woman running for her life once more. As she slammed into the damp forest floor, she would have sworn she could hear a rib crack, as the breath got knocked out of her chest. The moldy, wet scent of the forest invaded her nose and she tasted the nauseating mixture of mud and blood on her lips. The world started spinning around her and every sound now seemed distant, as if she had plunged underwater. Slowly, the light started to fade.

In the end, it was the pain and fear that kept her from fainting. She screamed in pain as she pushed herself upwards again. She started to crawl through the mud erratically, looking for firm ground under her leather soles. One hand was frantically looking for a dagger she could not find, not entirely certain whether she should run or fight.

A heavy, leather boot, if you could call it that, found the lower back of her shoulders and pinned her down firmly. Mud and soil invaded her nostrils and throat as she tried to gasp for air. She tried to push herself upwards, to catch a breath of clean air, but every time again, she was pushed down again roughly. Again, she could have sworn she heard hear her ribs crack.

Eventually, she was allowed to roll to her side. Her breath seemed to gurgle and whine as she drew in air again, sending her into a painful coughing fit as she did. With what seemed just grunting, her assailant ordered his companion to remove the dagger her hands had failed to find. She could not remember how long she had been running, how far she would have got. She knew however it would end, here, on the forest floor.

A dark brown, muscular hand with thick, sausage-like fingers grabbed her by the copper hair. She screamed out in pain as she was pulled upright again. It was as if her knees had given up already and she could not stand any longer. Time and time again, she seemed to collapse, until her assailant lost his patience and pulled her up again. Eventually, she opened her eyes and stared into the black eyes of an Urg.

It is not really known whether the Urg have a language of their own. It sounded more as if they wanted to underline their gestures with a series of grunts.

“Rach-nakoghne!”

Ione had no idea what he just said to his smaller companion.

The first and clearly smaller Urg was short and stocky. His nose was crooked and had clearly healed from more than one fracture. His physical prowess became clear as he pulled her up with a single arm. A single, yellow tusk escaped past his thin lips, as he exhaled the foulest stench she had ever smelled into her face. His companion was taller, with a grey skin. Light streaks ran over his body, vaguely resembling burn marks from times long past. He moved more agile than his tribesman, almost like a hunting cat. He still showed both tusks, which indicated him as the younger one.

They were both dressed in rough, boiled leathers, riddled with fungi and mold. Mud and algae made the furs they wore cake together, to a point where it almost appeared they wore a sick and dying beast. Much stranger though was that they both wore a full metal breast plate, not worn or damaged in any way. Even the leather straps and buckles seemed in perfect condition.

The elder Urg pushed her chin to the right, then to the left, as if he was inspecting his prey for damage. Eventually, clearly content with what he saw, he grunted and nodded towards his companion. As if he had found what he was looking for, he tossed her aside again, on the forest floor. As she fell, Ione became painfully clear of her aching body. Her finger dug deep into the earth, curling up, almost instinctively, to ward off more punishment and pain. She would cry out, but her voice wouldn’t leave her throat, caught in a ball of tears, slime and blood.

The grey Urg pinned her down again, kneeling on top of her, his left knee weighing down on her chest. His rotten, yellow teeth showed as he grinned at her, his fingers playing through her hair. He sniffed it and grunted, as if he was pleased. She wondered if he could smell her fear, savor it as the scent of a blooming rose. The elder Urg grabbed his by the shoulder and brutally tossed him backwards again. The younger Urg rolled through the mud, letting out a deep hiss, but his elder didn’t seem too impressed. Its’ jet black eyes turned on Ione again, devoid of any emotion, as he drew the blackstone dagger from his belt. It was a crude weapon, made from stone and bone, and while it would never penetrate iron armor, it was suited to cut both flesh and hide. He reached down and pulled her up by the hair again, forcing her head backwards. His other hand brought the dagger to her throat.

Both Ione and the Urg were startled by the sudden, loud sound of metal on metal. The elder Urg looked down in surprise, to where an arrow had just penetrated his breastplate. He reeled back, eyes still filled with disbelief, when in rapid succession, a second and third arrow struck true. For a single moment, he stood there, petrified, as if frozen in the moment. A single moment, that seemed to last an eternity. The Urg drew a deep breath, and as he did, dark crimson blood bubbled up between his trembling lips. She could feel how his strong fingers slowly released the grip on her hair. His hand shook, the dagger now slipping from his fingers. As he fell to his knees, drawing his last, gurgling breath, he idly grabbed her clothes, his black eyes locked onto her. Almost as if in a trance, she pushed him off her and tore her gaze away from him, searching for the second Urg.

The woods had grown silent, much to the dismay of the second Urg. The fact the enemy was nowhere to be seen, made him clearly very nervous. He kept on spinning, a crude axe in his hand, as he expected to be attacked from behind. He sniffed loudly, his chest heaving under the breastplate, grunting as if to call out the enemy. The forest remained silent.

After a few moments, the suspense got the better of him and with a loud roar, he jumped past Ione and fled. Ione estimated he had ran no more than ten feet, when he was struck down by arrows, one after the other. As he crashed onto the forest floor, she could see five, long arrow shafts sticking out of his back. Each of them were fletched with black raven feathers. The body twitched in spasm once or twice, but quickly ceased to move, face-down in the mud.

Ione drew a slow, deep breath, as if she had forgotten to breathe all this time. With a single sob, she slowly collapsed against a nearby tree. She hugged her knees, slowly rocking back and forth, her eyes still on the dead Urg.

A company of five emerged from the thicket, all clad in warm, roughly spun clothing. Wearing only dark greens and greys, they were almost one with the colors of the forest. They were all armed with the infamous Lowlander longbow, made out of layers of Yfwood, known for its’ strength and pliability. Short swords or axes dangled from their belts and each of them seemed to have a hunting knife within reach somewhere. They did not speak, their faces hidden in the shadows of their hooded cloaks.

One of them wandered over to the bodies of the Urgs. Systematically, he rolled them onto their backs with his foot, driving a dagger deep into their throats. He removed his long, leather gloves and tucked them behind his belt. With a single hand, he pushed his hood back and kneeled with the Urg. He was an older man, greying around his temples and in his beard. His face wore the signs of both age and a life outdoors. He frowned as he ran his fingers over the breastplate of an Urg.

“It’s not as if they will have anything we can use…”, he informed his men in a deep, dark voice, “…leave them to the crows, yet bring the armor.”

“What about her?” One of the younger men, barely sixteen, gestured towards Ione, still sitting against the willow tree that supported her. It was as if the older man only noticed her now for the first time. With long, slow strides, he walked towards her and tossed a small water skin towards her.

“Drink.”

Ione looked at the man, while her trembling fingers fumbled with the water skin. Slowly, hesitating almost, her lips found the stinging brandy wine within, sending her into a coughing fit. She drank again though, greedier this time.

“Who are you?”

The man seemed to ignore his men as they stripped the Urgs of their armor and watched her. Ione drank again, not entirely certain if she would be able to muster her voice. “Ione. Ione Grys.”

“Where do you come from?”

He clearly was a man of few words, but his eyes examined her, searching for any lies in her responses. It was as if he could see right through her and saw things she didn’t even knew were there. “Guldenbrandt.” She took another swig. “I’m from Guldenbrandt and I…”

A single hand gesture shut her up. “Enough.” He snapped his fingers at two of the younger men. “We take her. Armored Urgs, women from the capital…we’ll let Wolf decide what this is all about.” He turned and walked away.

A young fellow, with ash blonde hair, walked up to her and offered a hand to help her up. He grinned somewhat apologetically. “Don’t you mind Greybeard; this is one of his merrier days. I’m Dermott and I’m sorry.”, he chuckled. She rose to her feet again, aided by his grip, and shook her head, not quite understanding what he was sorry for. He smiled and showed her a linen bag. “I’ll have to blindfold you, for your own safety, you know. It’s best you don’t see where we are going next.”

“Dermott!” The ageing ranger snapped at the young fellow. Before Ione could say anything, the young man whispered another apology and pulled the bag over her head swiftly, his hand guiding her on her path.

Next Chapter: 2.