Engarson looked up at the heavy sky and cursed at the rain. He and his men were wet and miserable. It had been weeks and months since they had first set out to track the coalition of tribes that had stolen his bride from under his father's nose. Various other tribes had purposely delayed them and misled them, getting in the way. Did no one fear the Bloodsuns anymore?
When it had been discovered that some of the smaller tribes from the Northern Warlands had made off with the hard won compensation prize his father had managed to force out of the Velorites, his father had begun the massacre. His father was sure that the Velorites had planned this out and had no mercy. After beheading the entire royal family, his father had sent him on the trail and told him not to return if he didn't manage to take the princess back. It didn't matter whether she had been defiled or not. The princess was Bloodsun property and no one stole from the Bloodsuns. Ever. They'd figure out what to do with her and her ruined reputation when he brought her back. Most likely her father would make her a princess slave. Hopefully one bound to serve him and not his father. Surely his father had enough women in his tents. He only had three, not counting the slaves. His father already had more than ten.
Who was it that had the balls to even consider standing against the Bloodsun tribe and his father, not to mention steal from their camp? Engarson's blood stirred again and he cursed the Northern Warlands for their treachery. He'd kill them. He'd kill them all. He'd teach them to mess with the Bloodsuns.
But.
The rain.
The rain hadn't stopped for days and his men were grumbling. He'd already had to kill a handful of deserters. He'd have to let them loose at the next few tribes they came across to cheer them up again. He'd had a third of the Bloodsun army with him. A full third and he'd already lost a tenth of them. These stupid small tribesmen didn't know what was good for them. Everyone that had been a part of the coalition or who had tried to stand in their way had been utterly destroyed.
"My lord," a scout skidded in the mud at Engarson's feet, spraying mud on everyone nearby. The men all gave the scout the stinkeye, and the scout hurriedly sank to his knees in apology. Engarson glared. He hated getting mud on himself.
"All right," Engarson grunted. "What?"
"Two tribes just a half hour's march toward the sun, my lord. They said Chimcham of the Chamois Tribe passed through this area six weeks ago with the coalition. They laughed at us."
"Laughed at us? Do they realise who we are?" Engarson and his men stirred in anger.
"They said that all the tribes are united in the face of the Bloodsuns."
"So they want to stand against us," Engarson grabbed his sword and strode out from the dripping tent under the trees that had done little against the rain. "Brothers!" he called, waving his sword. "Rain or no rain, we are going to destroy every tribe we come across. They dare to laugh at us. Let us show them something we laugh at. Let us warm ourselves in their tents while their women serve us and they feel the heat of fire burn their skin. Let us laugh while their children are taken as slaves and sold to the barbarian traders."
His men roared and followed him, but before they had gone far, Engarson paused, remembering something. Pointing his sword at the scout, he said, "Kill him."
"What? My lord!" the scout shouted when two soldiers beside him caught hold of him.
Engarson didn't look back when the cry cut off and his men moved into formation around him. The scout had been with him long enough that he should know by now. He hated mud.