Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 8)

Here is serial 8 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. And here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

Moments later the Rogue saw a crowd appear around a bend in the canyon. It was led by the figure wearing the bone-bead necklaces. It consisted of about thirty men, all wearing furs, all with their eyes painted red. Half of them had spears. The other half wielded crudely forged short-blades that seemed to the Rogue to be very archaic. With them were two gray wolves that were obviously domesticated. But, considering their growling and aggressive demeanor, the Rogue assumed they were no less deadly than their wild cousins.

The men of the crowd were of varying ages, but there was one among them who, unlike the rest, had a long, grey beard that was braided with ornaments, and he was obviously ancient.

As they all approached it became obvious to the Rogue this ancient one was their leader. Bone-bead spoke to him feverishly as they approached in their chittering language. When the crowd arrived to where the Rogue sat guarded, the spearman who wore the wolf-cloak shielded his eyes from the old graybeard. He even knelt on the ground in a gesture of deference. The Rogue, acknowledging this telling show of respect, emulated him, and made a show of looking away and shielding his eyes.

"Oh, most honorable wise man!" the Rogue stated, altering the tone of his voice to arouse the most empathy. "I'm a member of a waylaid group of merchants from the city of Tabun-Stoh to the east. We are road-wearied and in need of your hospitality and mercy. The wound I bear was of my own doing! No violence did I suffer at the hand of your men. Nor did they suffer any at mine. I stumbled down into your canyon after I was set upon by a wild animal--a wolf, I think. I'm lost! I'm at your mercy!"

Most of the men accompanying the graybeard were intrigued by the Rogue. To some extent they understood the Rogue's pitiful whinings, for they grinned at him. The youngest of the crowd were struck by the sight of the Rogue and let their mouths hang open. These ones had eyes wide with awe.

It must be admitted at this point that the Rogue was somewhat nervous. He was not well read himself, and so he could not identify this tribe of wild folk from any other. But he had been the companion of many educated men over his many years, and so he knew that there were some tribes in this region--ancient races of long dead empires now swallowed by dust--who were worshipers of gruesome gods; who practiced weird rites under the skull-like moons; who perpetuated perverted customs, interbred with gibbering demons, and even ate quivering human flesh and drank hot, human blood.

For a moment the idea that he had put himself at the mercy of such a tribe crossed his mind. And so, he reached into the folds of his cloak and allowed his finger to caress the pommel of his bespelled blade for comfort.

But it must be said that the Rogue enjoyed (and sometimes suffered from) a strangely accurate intuition when it came to assessing humans. Using what seemed like an extra sensory apparatus, he could usually interpret accurately if this person was dangerous, or if that person was safe. Somewhere deep inside him, the Rogue knew that those first two spearmen who he had encountered were not intrinsically dangerous. He was a stranger to them, and therefore the Rogue knew he could have easily stirred them to hostility. And yet--he did not perceive in them anything in excess of the usual cruelty that was inherent in humankind.

Rarely was his intuition wrong. And yet, in spite of its accuracy, it had been in the past. When it had been, blood had been spilt. He hoped it was not one of those times.