by David Guymer
The sun sank from view behind the rise, the stooped shadow of Old Gray falling across his eyes. He looked around, the tufts of heather still damp in their late little pool of twilight. With relief, he spied a couple of grizzled sheep cropping at a bit of sedge sprouting from a cleft in the side of a boulder without a care in the world. Somehow getting his great horse to walk, he chivvied the stupid animals on ahead of him.
Kurt owned forty head, scattered over his bit of land, and their milk, wool and meat were all he had. There was normally little danger to them there except for the forest itself, and no one who had grown up in its shadow would deny the fey of the wood an animal or two from their flocks. Raiders from the Ru seldom drove this far west from the Lothan, and the bandits had never been so bold as to strike out of the forest and threaten his flock.
Until now.
Atop the next rise he spotted another dozen, strung along the outcropping in search of grass. Leading the reluctant horse in slow circles of the hilltop, he herded them up with the others. With just over a quarter of his flock accounted for, he scanned the low hills and surrounding moorland for stragglers.
A clash of what sounded like steel sounded from the direction of his home. Followed by a scream. His heart gripped tight inside his chest and he twisted in the saddle towards the sound. Even then, he hesitated.
Forced to choose between aiding his sons or eating this winter he found he did not know what to do.
Another shout rang from the other side of the hill.
He shook his head, cursing what poverty and hunger had done to his mind, and turned his horse homeward, kicking it in the ribs to which it responded with an answering neigh that might have been to snort “finally” and leapt hard into a gallop.
Circling the rises and keeping to the lower dells, Kurt thundered by a roundabout route to the cleft where Old Gray and the Ram stood on one another’s toes. Where Kurt and Katrin Stavener had once built their home. He charged headlong into the yard, exactly as he would have been taught not to ride into an unscouted enemy position had he served Baron Fredric as a cavalryman rather than a yeoman archer. Fortunately his mount was a warhorse, and thoroughly bored of chasing sheep over the downs.
He knew exactly what to do.
Iron shoes clattering on the rocky ground, he went straight into the brigands where they were thickest and scattered them. He knocked one aside on its barrel chest, trampled another under its hooves. The animal’s nostrils flared as Kurt reined it back. It stamped impatiently, eager to run down broken men. He drew his sword. It was a battered, bent and thoroughly unspectacular two feet of browned steel. He dismounted quickly. His old shield, wood with a steel rim, hung from a hook on his horse’s saddle. He took it down and slid his left wrist through the straps.
“Off with you,” he barked at the horse. The horse snorted and stamped and went nowhere. “You’ve been too long around my boys. On your own head be it then.”
He advanced on the house.
Eight or nine brigands had broken off and were running, panicked by the initial charge, falsely assuming that because no solitary rider would be so stupid as to single-handedly charge so many on that kind of ground, that they must have run into a cavalry unit dispatched from some non-existent garrison at Gwellan. Even with that stroke of good fortune, Kurt could see six more still trying to break in the front door. Another was climbing, using the water wheel and the house front to reach the sloped roof where Elben sat loosing arrows. Not from Kurt’s big flatbow, thank Kellos and his golden fire, but the short hobby bow that Kurt had reluctantly made for him to practice.
Half of the six at the door turned.
One against three were not odds that Kurt favored.
He went in quick, denying them the time to figure out amongst themselves how best to use their advantage, anchoring his left side to the stream. One of Elben’s arrows sprouted from the neck of the middle fighter and he crumpled. The distraction was enough for Kurt to drive his sword into the belly of a second. Twist and pull. The army had drilled the mantra into him so hard that he could hear his old drillmaster screaming it when he attacked his sausages at breakfast. He twisted his sword and he pulled. The third swung his axe, high and wide and strong. Kurt beat the blow aside on his shield and shouldered the brigand two steps back. The fighter backed off a few more of his own, suddenly far less keen than he had been two seconds and two friends earlier. Kurt hoped he might be sensible and run, but from the corner of his eye he saw the other three giving up on the door and turning around to see what was going on.
He liked one against four even less.
He was backpedaling quickly towards his horse, shield up, when the front door burst wide and Sarb leapt out.
A bigger youth than Elben was going to be when the younger boy hit nineteen, he probably would have been bulkier than Kurt by now if there had been more food on his plate over the last few years. As it was he had grown sinewy and tall, more alike to his father in appearance and in character than either of them would have preferred, right the way to the prematurely receding fringe. He was carrying a Kellar infantry spear, six and a half feet long, with a wide shaft and a heavy enough blade to put down a Charg’r demon hound if you caught it right, and he drove it into the nearest brigand’s back.
Twist and pull, Kurt instinctively thought.
But of course, Sarb hadn’t served as Kurt had. There was no real army on the Downs any more and even if there had been, Kurt would have tied the boy down before letting him go. He just pulled, and the long blade became stuck.
Just then, Boxer and Whisper came bounding through the open door, falling on a second man before he could take advantage and bearing him between them to the ground. Elben then put an arrow into the leather pauldron of the third and at that point the last two men standing and the one halfway up the wall had seen more than enough. They ran. The axeman that Kurt had been facing off climbed up onto a horse and galloped for the hills.
Kurt felt a strong urge to send him on his way with some sharp words ringing in his ears, but he was afraid that if he used his breath for that he might very well faint. He was too old for hand-to-hand. Ten years too old if it was a day. He dropped his sword. His shield would have gone too had it been strapped any less snugly to his hanging wrist.
“Are you two… both… all right?”
Elben leant forward from his perch above the eaves and peered down at the man he had shot through the neck. The color fell from his face. It cut Kurt more deeply than any poison-tipped Uthuk arrow ever had that his sons had needed to see this.
“Y- Yes,” the boy managed.
Sarb didn’t answer. Instead, he wrenched his spear from the dead bandit’s back and hurried with it down the front path, splashing across the narrow stream after the escaping brigands.
“Quickly, Father,” he said. “Get the horse. If we hurry, we can catch them.”
“And do what?”
Sarb rounded on him, foot stamping in the water in frustration. His knuckles whitened around his spear. “I don’t know. Punish them.”
“Your blood’s up,” said Kurt quietly, calmly, the same voice he might use to talk Boxer or Whisper out of throwing themselves into something stupid when they were agitated. But inside, he railed just as hotly that both of his sons had been driven to become killers before they had been able to finish being boys. “You feel as though you could take on the Greyfox herself right now. Am I right? Well believe me, it’s not a feeling that’ll last when you’ve one of her arrows stuck in you.” He glanced pointedly around him, the yard strewn with bodies. Boxer barked excitedly. “It only takes one.”
“But –”
“No buts. Wash yourself off out here and then get back in the house.”
“What about Aunt Larion’s steading?” Elben called down weakly from the rooftop.
Sarb was nodding. “Who do you think looked after this place when you were
n’t here?”
Kurt grimaced. Sarb always knew how to make his words hurt. “Larion will have to look after herself this time.”
“But Father–” Elben began, before Kurt silenced him with a tired glare.
“What about the animals?” said Sarb, his voice hard and his face cold. “Are you just going to leave them out there for the Greyfox?”
Kurt said nothing.
There were too many. It would take an army or a hero to fend off the bandit queen’s attack, and Kurt certainly wasn’t a hero. There was nothing for an old soldier to do but hold fast, sit it out and see what the damage was come morning.
“And if she’s taken everything?” said Sarb.
Kurt turned to him and scowled. “Inside I said.”
Chapter Three
Trenloe the Strong
The Crimson Downs, South East Kell
Rusticar clumped heavily along the stony verge, bypassing the stalled line of wagons that filled the old road. At the head of the line, Trenloe reined in. The horse snorted, pawing at the scraggy bushes that grew thick along the roadside and raising his head in a loose jangle of tack as if that half minute of effort warranted a treat. Trenloe pushed his questing nose away, giving the amiable old beast a pat.
One of the refugee wagons from Gwellan had lost a wheel and was sitting on its axle in the middle of the road. A handful of vehicles had pulled up ahead of it, their drivers leaning out to peer anxiously back. A great many more were halted behind. A number of locals in prickly woolen homespun had spilled out of their vehicles to help or to harangue, a palpable sense of urgency and fear making even the most casually intended word bite. A man and a woman were already stumbling down the side of the fell to collect the lost wheel.
“Bring up horses,” called a skeletally thin woman, her face smothered in the flaps of a woolen hat. “Haul ’em off the road and let the rest of us through.”
“No,” argued another. “We need to keep together.”
“Aye, this is the work of the Greyfox.”
“She’s a true sorceress, they say. Bremen’s wagon was just fine yesterday.”
“This lot will be the death of us,” said Dremmin, her rugged pony nosing up behind Rusticar. “If that wagon was fine at any time in the last hundred years then I’m Bran and Ordan’s heir. We’ll lose more of them before we get to Hernfar Isle, mark you.” She chewed pointedly on the stem of her pipe. “If we ever get there.”
“Were we supposed to just leave Gwellan without them?”
Dremmin took the pipe from her mouth. “Do you want me to answer that?”
With a smile, Trenloe dismounted.
As partners he and Dremmin could not have been more different, but Trenloe had not had the acumen to build the Companions up from one unlikely pairing into the force for good they had become. Money sat uneasily in his pockets, and had a tendency to slip all too readily through his fingers where he saw others with greater need. A sellsword of his reputation could always earn more. Unfortunately. In return, he kept Dremmin honest.
At least, he liked to believe that he did as well at it as anybody could.
The small crowd filling the road drew out of his way. Agitated as they were, Trenloe was still the biggest thing on the road after the horses.
“Trenloe!” an old woman in a quilted gray dress and a shawl called out from the rear of the stricken wagon. She raised her hand and waved to him. “Trenloe!”
Trenloe did not know what, exactly, the woman had been back in Gwellan, but here on the road she had become a sort of unappointed spokeswoman for the mercenaries’ new civilian contingent. Dremmin thought her an officious, know-it-all busybody, and, so far as Trenloe could gather, the old woman seemed to dislike Dremmin along largely similar lines. They were both fighting for the wellbeing of their own, and for some reason occasionally needed Trenloe to point out that what benefitted one of them more often than not benefitted them both.
He, for one, felt immediately better for seeing her on hand.
“Maeve is here,” he said.
“Oh good,” said Dremmin, sourly. “Maeve is here.”
“Come on,” said Trenloe. “Let’s see what we can do to help.”
Dremmin dismounted with a heavy thump and they both walked towards the wagon.
“We have to get this wagon fixed and moving,” said Maeve, looking over the busted axle with pursed lips and a sour eye. “Or failing that get it off the road and quick. We daren’t linger too long on the open road with the Greyfox about. I saw her pack prowling the hills over there.”
“Good eyes for an old human,” said Dremmin.
Trenloe produced a strained smile, not wanting to add fuel to another bickering match between the pair.
Maeve scowled at them both. “Women with poorer senses don’t get to grow old. Not this near the eastern border to the Ru.”
“I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger,” said Trenloe, with a glance at Dremmin who nodded her agreement. “Not while we’re here.”
“I don’t know... I worry the sight of so many well-armed warriors in her country will only attract the Greyfox’s interest. The sooner we’re across the ford at Hernfar Isle the better. Then, maybe, we’ll feel safe.”
“How far are we from Nordgard castle?”
“No more’n a day or two.”
Trenloe turned to Dremmin, eyebrows climbing towards his bald head. “We really are that close. When we saw the riders on the hill I thought someone had to be mistaken.”
Maeve shook her head sadly. “The Greyfox commands more men than the baron these days.”
“Impossible, surely! Fredric’s armies are famous in the south. There are none better armed but the knights of Archault they say, and none larger in all of Terrinoth.”
“Might’ve been true. Once. But we’ve seen some hard years in case you’ve not noticed. Sickness in the flocks and famine. Some call it sorcery, sent over the river from the Darklands. Others blame it on the Greyfox. I don’t know, but now we have her banditry as well. The baron released most of his soldiers to work their own lands, supposedly to raise crops that are needed in the city and to better protect the countryside from outlaws, but…” She shrugged.
“A mistake,” Dremmin grunted.
Maeve frowned, agreeing, but not wanting to give the dwarf the satisfaction of hearing her say it.
Trenloe offered no opinion.
He left the management of the Companions to Dremmin and he knew even less about running a country. Baron Fredric was a respected figure in Artrast and surely knew the needs of this country best.
“Dame Ragthorn of Hernfar wouldn’t have sent agents as far afield as Trast looking for mercenaries if she had every sword-hand she needed,” said Dremmin. “Kell’s loss is our gain, though it irks me that we seem to be cheaper to hire than the barony’s own soldiers.” She grinned at Trenloe. “We should be charging more.”
“Something you can argue over later,” said Maeve, nodding pointedly towards the listed wagon. “Once you get there.”
“Don’t tempt us into riding on around and leaving you here,” said Dremmin.
“That’s enough,” said Trenloe, finally running out of patience. “We aren’t leaving anyone.”
As he spoke, the pair who had gone to fetch the lost wheel were returning with it. Trenloe was heartened to note that one of the Companions had run down to help them drag it back to the road and into place. A half dozen of Gwellan’s strongest men ranked up along the wagon’s side, grunting and cursing to heave the thing a half inch off the ground. Trenloe watched them with a frown. There was not a single man or woman amongst the Gwellan folk who looked properly nourished, or fit for physical work. Spent already, they let the wagon drop back onto its axle. A few amongst them started shouting for chisels and hammers to start pulling the wagon apart, others for more hands to start throwing
out the wagon’s cargo. “No,” argued the gaunt woman from before. “Get some horses up there and pull from the other side.” The wagon’s driver, a thin, frantic man named Bremen, argued with all of them.
Dremmin sighed. “We’re going to be here until dinner.”
Trenloe gave her a companionable pat on the top of the head, which made the dwarf scowl but which, as usual, stopped her from complaining for a while. “You worry about dinner. I’ll handle this.”
Leaving Dremmin and a confused-looking Maeve, Trenloe walked a slow circle around the hobbled wagon. He looked for where the ground it lay upon was soft and where it was hard, where it was uneven and where it was flat. Satisfied with his survey, he joined the group of men on its broken side. Broader of back than any two of them together he dislodged three, leaving just one man to either side, both of whom he then dismissed with a smile and a nod.
He squatted down, the steel hinges of his armor grinding, and slid his fingers under the wagon’s bed.
“Ready?” he called over his shoulder to the three with the wheel.
The two locals nodded uncertainly.
The Companion behind them grinned. She knew what was coming.
“You can’t be serious,” Maeve called. “That wagon weighs as much as my house.”
“They don’t call him Trenloe the Strong for his wit or his looks,” said Dremmin. “Now shut up and let him lift.”
Trenloe flexed. His shoulders tightened, bulging until his harness creaked. His biceps swelled to the size of roc alerion eggs. And then he lifted, taking the weight across his shoulders with a grunt of effort. The axle came slightly off the road.
Breathing out, he let it back down.
The axle dug into the dirt, and Trenloe backed off from it, rolling the strain from his shoulders and massaging his neck.
By now, Trenloe had drawn a considerable crowd and his first attempt drew a chorus of good-natured “ooooohs” from the watching Companions.
“We don’t have time for your circus,” said Maeve.
Trenloe wiped his hands on his armor and then sank back to his haunches, slid his hands back under the wagon, and set himself again. He grinned back over his shoulder. “Ready?”
