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The gnolls came in the night. Ravaging and burning, the hyena-like monsters set fire to the outlying buildings in Breckenridge Falls so that they could play in the chaos. Except this time they didn’t just destroy, they also stole a child, a young elven girl with golden hair. She had worn a bonnet and had a doll. The rangers found both items at the edge of town, trampled and dirty.

Dusty’s pony was soapy with sweat and breathing hard. It was a hardy cob mountain pony bred for handling rocky slopes, not sprinting on the plains. Yet, that is what Dusty was making him do, riding hard across the dusty prairies of eastern Sumadea in pursuit of a gnoll warband. Lieutenant Dusty Thorngage was a halfling and the executive officer of the 2nd Rangers Regiment, 1 Squadron, Bravo Troop. It was his job to either rescue the girl or execute vengeance.

Next to Dusty rode the junior ranger he was training, Sigurd, whom the other rangers in the column called Sige, New Guy, or sometimes Elf-turd. He was half-elven with wits as sharp as his archery skills, and he rarely missed. He was still green, but he was getting better though, Dusty thought. Sige rode a painted mustang he had broken with ease, a trait common with the elven folk. What he lacked in experience he made up for with brains, and Dusty liked him.

“Still see them?” Dusty asked.

Sige concentrated his gaze, espying the horizon. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

Gnolls were better at traveling without water than the rangers. Dusty had a list of rules and the first one was that every ranger had to carry a minimum of two days’ worth of water. Having enough water was life or death when riding and fighting, for both the ranger and his mount, and it was impossible to guarantee they would find any while on patrol. It was a race against time to make sure they could retrieve the captive girl before they ran out of the precious element.

Dusty glanced at the other riders in the column. There was their stern but sturdy half-orc scout, Cletus. He was uglier than a cow patty but was reliable and could expertly read the trail. Next rode their sergeant, a dour dwarf named Thrinan Ingotson, along with his younger brother Khori Ingotson, a corporal. They were mountain dwarves and knew the canyons better than most. Then there was another junior ranger, a young human man named Jed. Jed was just happy to not be the new guy anymore.

They alone were able to form a posse on such short notice. Their captain had been on patrol elsewhere with half their troop, and Dusty knew they would join the townsfolk in helping the shire reeve deal with the aftermath when they returned. They had been riding for hours already, and Dusty was getting anxious that one of their mounts would soon falter or go lame. If so, that would be the end of the pursuit, and mean death for the little girl. It was dangerous enough to face a warband of gnolls with just seven men, let alone without anyone who had to drop out due to a lame steed.

Dusty whispered encouragement and patted his buckskin pony on the neck. “Keep it up, Amigo. Doing fine.”

The warband had evaded around a hill and was out of sight for longer than Dusty was comfortable with. When the rangers finally caught up and approached the same hill, they slowed with caution. Dusty maneuvered his column of riders around the hillside in case of ambush, but there was none. There was nothing at all, in fact, and neither Dusty, Cletus, nor Sige could see the warband’s dust cloud in the distance.

The halfling called a halt. He set the Ingotson brothers and Jed on watch while he dismounted, gesturing to Cletus and Sige to follow. They did, and together the three examined the ground. It was mostly compacted dirt and showed tracks reasonably well. But they told an odd tale.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Sige asked the others.

“Ain’t sure what I’m seein’,” replied Cletus. He plucked at a tusked canine protruding from his bottom jaw in thought. “Seems to me these here gnolls turned into horses.”

That was ridiculous, of course. Yet that was exactly what Dusty saw as well. The prints and tracks showed that a group of a dozen gnolls had come around the hill. But after that, the prints seemed to change. Instead of large hyena paws, they saw booted footprints and shoed horse hoof prints. It was as if the gnolls had disappeared altogether or become something else.

“What do you link, Lt?,” Sige asked, pronouncing each letter of Dusty’s rank as a nickname, which was common in the troop.

Dusty did not like what he saw. For one thing, it didn’t make sense. For another, if the gnolls, who always traveled on foot, somehow managed to gain fresh mounts instead of eating them, then there was no way they were going to be able to catch up. Dusty felt drained. “I don’t know,” he replied. “But if we don’t do something, and not just something, but the correct something, then that little girl is dead.”

He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to clear the tiredness from his eyes and the headache from his temples. He had to think! How could twelve gnoll raiders become twelve riders with mounts, he wondered. Dusty breathed out and put the question aside. He couldn’t deal with that riddle now. He had to prioritize and execute. After a moment he realized there was only one option.

“Mount up,” Dusty commanded, and the three of them put their feet into their mount’s stirrups and joined the others. “We ride on,” he said and led the way.

It was easy to feel defeated. Continuing the chase against a quarry that had probably been freshly mounted was a pursuit in failure. It was feeling harder to keep riding with courage, but again, what other option did they have? This is what they existed to do: protect the citizens of the frontier from dangers like this. Feelings didn’t matter now. They wouldn’t give up.

They rode on, hours begetting hours, the morning begetting day, the day into evening, and the evening into deep night. At last, they could go no further without risking the loss of a horse. They had to rest for even just a brief moment.

Dusty called a halt and they dismounted. They didn’t unsaddle their horses, but they let the mounts loose to nibble the earth wherever they could find grass. The rangers kept a cold camp, munching on biltong and hardtack, and tried to ration their water. Dusty sent their scout Cletus and the younger Ingotson brother, Khouri, to look for water. They were to report back no longer than an hour from then, after which they would ride on.

Dusty ordered the other three to sack out if they could. Even a few minutes of sleep would help, he thought. Dusty took the watch and patrolled around the camp in a wide circle, holding his crossbow at the low ready. The night was clear, and the stars were out. Dusty kept the time by watching their position in the sky. Ten minutes turned to 15, then 30, and then 45. With no sign of the scouting team, Dusty grew anxious, constantly scanning the horizon.

He heard the sound of hoofbeats on the hard ground coming his way. That must be them, he thought. The hoof beats grew louder and Dusty could just see the dust cloud now, vague and formless in the dark.

“Eye’s out!” he called, while he took cover behind a boulder and rested his crossbow across the top, aiming at the coming riders. The others popped tall and grabbed their weapons, Jed and Sige their bows, while the sergeant drew his long-handled battleaxe from the sheath on his back.

“What is it, Lt?” Jed asked from somewhere behind Dusty.

“Riders. Unsure if they’re ours,” Dusty replied. “Make sure you identify your target before firing!” he ordered.

Out of the shadows rode three horses with riders. It was too dark to see their faces. Dusty aimed down the sights of his crossbow at the lead rider, preparing to fire if needed, but he kept his finger off the crossbow’s trigger.

The lead rider reined his horse and slowed, raising a hand to the other two behind him to slow as well. “It’s Cletus,” the lead called out and continued to approach. Dusty confirmed it was their half-orc scout followed by Corporal Ingotson. But there was also a third rider. To many, it would have been confused as a child, but Dusty recognized his own. It was a halfling.

Dusty called the others to stand down, and they relaxed. Cletus rode to the lieutenant and saluted smartly before reporting. “I found some water, Lt. Just a mile or so yonder.”

The officer looked from Cletus to the halfling. He was an elder and was slightly larger than Dusty and more square in the shoulders. He wore an expression mixed with relief and weariness.

“Then I found somethin’ else,” Cletus added. He gestured to the halfling rider. “This is Conway Stoutbelly. His clan was attacked. Said it was gnolls.”

Dusty gave the order to the others to prepare their mounts. He plucked at the elbow of the halfling and they rode a few paces from the others. Some halflings chose to live in the towns and cities of Sumadea and elsewhere, and these were typically called “Lightfoots.” Dusty was a Lightfoot. Other halflings chose the older, nomadic lifestyle of their forefathers, roaming the hills and prairies for new grass for their stock. They were called “Stouts.” This one was a Stout, and Dusty deduced from the silver on his arm that he was also the leader of a clan. Dusty addressed him respectfully in his language. <Welcome, Uncle. What happened to your people?>

In their fast, lilting tongue, the nomad told his tale, <We camped east of here, heading for greener rangeland. They came. A pack of them. Maybe twelve. They attacked us. Burned our wagons. Scattered our mules and sheep. Our men fought long enough for the women and children to escape,> he said. His voice grew weak and was almost a whisper. <But they took one of the wee boys. Most of the warriors were killed.>

Another one was taken! This was grim news. Dusty removed his big grey cavalry hat, holding it in both hands by the brim. He stood in downcast silence. Any loss of a child was a huge loss, no matter if it were Lightfoots or Stouts, elves or men. Every halfling considered another as distant cousins, and most were, so this hit him hard. Dusty cursed softly as the terrible loss settled on him. He asked the Stout elder when this took place and he told Dusty that it was but hours ago.

That means they’re close, Dusty realized. They must be the same raiders that took the elven girl the previous night. They must have gone east, ran into the clan, and then took a second captive. At least they knew the way to go now.

<Tell me, Uncle. Were they mounted?>

The stout elder nodded yes. <But the sons of the hyena do not ride mounts,> he added.

<These do,> Dusty replied.

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This is part one of “Hell’s Warband.” Click here to read the next part. If you like these free stories, please subscribe. If you REALLY liked them, please consider leaving me a tip by purchasing it on Kindle for .99 (the cost for 1/3 of a cup of coffee).