“Yes, but they will also be curious. Eventually, they will understand what her presence means.”
Brannign would like to have spoken more of the past, more of Santomine and his master’s feelings, but he knew that if he tried to enter his master’s mind he would be rebuffed, as he so often was. His master was still angry at the way his life had turned out, at how he had been separated from his family by death, by the war and by his decision to take the path of his ancestors.
“Once Thomas Letcher learns of her deeds he will not be so lenient. Nor will he be happy with what I have done and what I am about to do,” said the Shadow Walker.
“You think he will search for her, search for you, even in the winter?”
“He will have to, or lose face and he won’t let that happen.”
Brannigan prodded at the rabbit with a knife. “The rabbit is cooked.”
“About bloody time.”
* * *
It was late when they made camp, he had driven his men hard trying to put as many miles behind them as possible, the closer he came to Lothia’s borders the safer he would feel. “Have the patrols seen anything?”
“No, sir. Nothing at all,” replied Porta.
“It’s too bloody quiet, Porta.”
Goran paced the carpeted floor of his tent that had been hastily erected by his servants. Several braziers burned brightly in an effort to keep out the cold and dampness of the night.
“I’ve put out extra guards and I will send out patrols during the night, sir. It is all we can do.”
“You know what will happen if there’s another incident.”
“Yes, sir, we will start losing people. They’ll slink off into the night. The fear and rot will set in. Some of the civilians have already fled.”
“Let’s hope that nothing happens tonight.”
“We could move faster without the prisoners, sir.”
They had about one hundred prisoners, fit young men who would work hard under the lash. The king needed more slaves to build his fleet. Goran was reluctant to lose these men as the king would be very grateful for more free labor and to have some more positives from the campaign. He would have to tell the king that Penner was dead and that a Shadow Walker had emerged from the fields of Tursy. This news alone would anger him. “No, we will keep them, Porta, but if any falter, kill them.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was no need to follow the retreating cavalry during the day. The Shadow Walker knew where they were heading, what road they were taking and how far they would get before making camp. He also knew they would be wary, have more guards tonight and maybe even night patrols, but it would make no difference. Some of them would die tonight.
That evening he found them rather easily, all he had to do was to look for the fires. The patrols he bypassed as they rode around in a big group making far more noise than they should have, or maybe that was the idea, they hoped that their presence and superior numbers would scare off any attack.
Brannigan stayed behind in the trees where he could cover his master’s retreat if need be. He retrieved his longbow and made sure his quiver of black-feathered arrows was easily available. Then he sat quietly on a log in the darkness, waiting for his master to return.
After dispatching two guards, the Shadow Walker slipped into the camp and found two unfortunate sleeping victims lying in the centre of the camp. With one hand he clamped their mouths. The razor sharp knife in his other hand slit their throats. Then he retreated from the camp. This would unsettle the soldiers in the morning. The fear of a silent death would begin to eat away at them.
Goran was furious next morning when he heard the news. “What were the guards doing? Where were the patrols? Am I surrounded by fools?”
“I do not understand it, sir. The camp was ringed by guards. This man moves in the night as if he is part of it; no one saw or heard anything.”
“Maybe we should leave our assassin a message. Hang four of the prisoners from the nearest tree and leave them there.”
Peter Burrows had slept badly. They all had as they huddled closely together in the chill of the night, trying to generate some warmth from each other’s bodies. Peter was lucky that he had a single blanket but even this was not enough to ward off the cold. Some had two blankets but were unwilling to share with those who had none. The men were becoming selfish, only looking to themselves. Instead of sharing and uniting as a group they were slowly turning on each other. This the Lothians enjoyed, even encouraged as they gave some scraps of food, and others nothing. This split the prisoners and they were fighting among themselves. It made Peter angry, angry at the Lothians and angry at the men for being sucked in, for being weak.
Yesterday had been hard, the soldiers made them jog, made them keep up with the horses. Many had blisters on their feet; some had no shoes. Their hands were tied and in turn they were tied to each other. It was obvious to him that the general was trying to reach the sanctity of a Lothian fort across the border. Once there he would be safe.
Peter had heard about Mica’s grand entrance, about her delivering the flag of the Shadow Walker and the warning that went with it. He had also heard about the duel and that she had tried to have him released. At least she had rescued his sister. For that he would be forever grateful. The seven severed heads that had appeared in the camp yesterday morning had unsettled the soldiers. Most of the prisoners had taken much joy from the news. It gave Peter some glimpse of hope, for if he managed to escape he vowed to himself that he would not go home, would not return until he took revenge for the death of his father.
He stirred beneath his blanket, turning on the hard ground as the dawn came to the small valley. The sun was even shining. They were roused by the guards who seemed to be sullen, angry and rather jittery. Soon, the reason for their attitude became apparent. The story sped through the prisoners quickly. The Shadow Walker had visited the camp again last night. He had slain two guards and two men who were sleeping in the middle of the camp.
As Peter rose, stretched himself and folded his blanket with his still tethered hands he saw a troop of soldiers marching towards them. He saw them take four prisoners, cut the rope that bound them together and lead them off to a big tree on the side of the road. When the soldiers began throwing ropes over one of the huge boughs of the tree that was thick with the yellow and orange leaves of autumn, he immediately understood what they meant to do. Four soldiers had died last night. Four prisoners would die this morning. All the men watched in silence as the ropes were strung around the men’s necks. There was no ceremony, no prayers and no words of endearment as they were hoisted off the ground their feet kicking wildly in the throes of death. Peter mumbled a small prayer as did some of the other prisoners.
They were all given a small handful of cold rice and were allowed to quench their thirst at a small stream. Then the torture began all over again as they moved off at an even faster pace than yesterday. Most of the prisoners were fit young men but there were those who soon began to weaken. The first man to drop was confronted by one of the soldiers on horse back with his sword in the air.
“I can’t run anymore,” said the slender, wispy looking young man as he gasped. “I need to rest.”
Peter saw that the man’s feet were bloodied and shredded. He could not walk anymore even if he had the will to go on.
“Then rest forever,” said the soldier as he swung his sword, decapitating the man. He leapt down from the horse, cut the bonds from the body and retied them again so that all the prisoners were linked up. He faced the prisoners. “Anyone else who falters will meet the same fate.”
During the day it clouded over and began to rain. Peter was glad of the rain at first as it cooled his sweating body, washed the grime from his face and hair, but as it increased in intensity he cursed it.
“I can’t take much more of this,” said the big man beside Peter.
“You have to if you want to stay alive,” he replied as his feet splashed into a puddle on the ro
ad. He was soaked right through, his blanket was sodden and an added weight across his shoulders.
“We will be stopping soon for the night, we have to escape.”
“But how, we need a knife.”
“We must find a way,” said the big man as he fell back into silence. Talking took up too much energy as they jogged along beneath the wary eyes of the surrounding soldiers.
“Cut them down,” said the Shadow Walker as he stared up at the tortured faces of the four men hanging from the tree.
Brannigan slid from his horse in the rain and cut the ropes, the bodies crashed to the ground. They had nothing to dig with so they just covered the bodies with rocks from a nearby ridge.
“Let’s hope this rain continues into the night Brannigan, it will make our task easier.”
“You plan to set the prisoners free, Master.”
“Yes, and relieve the Lothians of some of their horses. That’ll slow them down considerably.”
“Some of the prisoners will be caught, Master, the Lothians are not that stupid.”
“Yes that is true, Brannigan, but even if only some of them make it; they will then be a ready made force once they have horses and weapons. I’m sure they’ll want revenge against the Lothians.”
They climbed back up onto their horses, Brannigan was aware of the Lothian uniform he had tied to the rear of his horse. The Shadow Walker would wear it tonight to reach the prisoners.
“The men are complaining, sir,” said Porta.
“Let them complain,” answered Goran, towelling his hair beneath the shelter of his hastily erected tent that was just managing to keep the rain out. Everything was drenched. The water had seeped into their baggage. All his clothes were wet if not damp. No fires could be lit, so there would be no cooking tonight.
“It might have been better that we kept going, sir.”
“I would have, only the horses need to be rested,” he said, tossing the towel onto the back of a cane chair. “As I recall there is a town not far from here, a place where we can find shelter, dry our clothes and cook some food.”
“It’s about a day and a half ride from here, sir.”
“Tomorrow we will keep going until we reach the village. The men can walk for a while to rest the horses. I want at least a third of the men on guard during the night, no one can get through. I want no more deaths, the troops are nervous enough now.”
“They won’t be happy, sir.”
“It is better to be unhappy than dead.”
“Yes, sir,” said Porta as he left the tent to deliver the news to the troops.
There was some grumbling but they saw sense in the extra guards, it was impossible to sleep in the rain anyway.
The rain eased somewhat during the night, although it still fell as a light drizzle. The guards encircled the camp, continually moving about, it would be impossible for anyone to get past them tonight.
The prisoners were huddled together wet to the skin and shivering, sleep was nigh impossible on the soft, wet ground. Peter tossed and turned as did the big man nearest him, Stafford, from Steppland. He had joined in the fighting when it had begun and was arrested. His wife and two children were left to fend for themselves and would have to find their own way back to Darfor. He was worried about them and wanted to escape at the first opportunity, as did Peter.
Peter was relieved that Melissa was safe. He was going to fight the Lothians, how he was not quite sure yet, but he could do with some strong fighting men like Stafford. The Shadow Walker was using hit and run tactics, and it was working. The Lothians were scared shitless, they were completely on the defensive. During the night the guards usually checked the ropes, but tonight they had been a little slack, the rain, discomfort and their nervousness at being attacked again had distracted them. “Stafford,” he whispered, “were you serious about wanting to escape?”
“Of course, I want out of here.”
“It has to be tonight, we won’t get a better chance. The longer we leave it the less chance we’ll have.”
“I agree.” he said as he shuffled closer to Peter and began working on the taught wet ropes that tied them together.
“One of the guards is watching us,” said Peter as he sunk back down and pretended to be sleeping.
The Shadow Walker had found it easy to penetrate the camp disguised as a soldier. No one gave him a second glance as he joined in the patrols that were continually moving about. The horses were separated, placed in small groups around the camp. This was unfortunate as he would not be able to drive all the horses off. He had been slowly circling the prisoners, watching them, looking for someone who might lead this rabble. He knew some of these men although they did not know him, as over the years he and Brannigan had entered the camps at Tursy as pilgrims. It was then that he spotted a young man he had seen before, Peter Burrows.
He had seen some of the soldiers checking the ropes of the prisoners, this he began to do, moving closer to where Peter lay. When he reached Peter he dropped the knife next to him.
Peter had thought the game was up, the soldier would surely see the loosened ropes and when he dropped the knife he was totally surprised but not so much that he didn’t grab the knife and hide it beneath him.
“Listen to me,” whispered the Shadow Walker, “you must all escape together, it will create enough confusion for you to get away. Make for the ridge on the right. I will stop some of them chasing you.”
Peter didn’t have a chance to reply as the soldier moved on, checking more ropes.
“Who was that?” whispered Stafford.
“I have no idea, but we have a knife,” said Peter as he took it out from beneath his blanket and began cutting the ropes. When he was free he gave the knife to Stafford. “Pass it on and tell the next person the same and when all the ropes are cut we’ll make a break for it.”
“Do you have any sort of plan,” asked Stafford, sawing at the ropes.
“I intend to grab a weapon and a horse if I can. We don’t want to be on foot with the cavalry chasing us.”
Some of the other men nearby had heard the mention of a knife and were eagerly awaiting their turn. Some were not so eager; some were afraid and were questioning the wisdom of trying to escape. Peter, for a brief moment held some fear, he could be killed. His mother would have to face another death in the family. But he drove the fear from his mind and only thought of revenge as he remembered his father fighting the soldiers. Peter was worried that someone might betray them. No one did, and within the hour everyone’s bonds had been cut. It was time to make their escape.
Peter and Stafford rose quickly and took the two guards nearest them. Peter wound his arm around the first soldier’s neck, closing off his breathing. The soldier struggled against him and tried to yell out. Peter reached for the dagger at the soldier’s belt, the man’s hand clasped onto his trying to stop him reaching the dagger, but Peter was too strong for him as he unsheathed the dagger and sliced it across the soldier’s neck. The fight went out of him as he collapsed onto the ground.
Stafford merely hit the other soldier on the side of the head with his massive fist knocking him down and snatching his sword, then driving it deep into his chest.
“That’s for Tursy,” he spat as he withdrew the bloodied sword.
By this time the rest of prisoners had risen in a wave, a moving mass of fighting bodies as the yells of alarm and dying screams from the soldiers rented the air.
“Quickly, to the horses,” yelled Stafford.
Peter and Stafford managed to climb aboard a horse each, as did some of the other prisoners. Peter noticed that some of the prisoners just ran for their lives, not wishing to fight and not taking a horse, these would be the first to die when the soldiers began their chase, for to be on foot against trained cavalry was tantamount to suicide.
Peter cut the ropes on the rest of the horses, drove them off and made their way towards the ridge with some thirty or more men who were following his lead. The drizzling rain now increase
d to become a sweeping surge, a torrent, a wall of water that could only aid them in their escape.
Goran leapt from his bed at the sounds of alarm, he was still fully clothed as one should be when in enemy territory. He pushed aside the flap of the tent with his sword and immediately began issuing orders as he saw the fighting and the fleeing prisoners in the gloomy darkness. “The horses, secure the horses,” he yelled, for he knew that if they lost the horses any advantage they would have in protecting themselves would be lost.
Already he could see horses fleeing, horses with prisoners riding them. Porta was off to his right marshalling some men to give chase. Then it began to rain again, heavily, and the scene before him was blocked out. “Damn the bloody rain,” he said as he moved forward to try and find himself a horse. “Porta, find me a horse!”
“Yes, sir.”
Within minutes Goran was mounted and surrounded by some two hundred of his men who had managed to find horses. “Kill them all,” he screamed as he rode off into the darkness and the quagmire from the falling rain.
Peter and his band made it to the ridge and the forest without any difficulty. The Shadow Walker had managed to cut loose many of the horses, but not all of them and then in the confusion and darkness he joined Goran’s band. He rode along at the rear of the men where he picked off several soldiers. It was sudden and very vicious, his sword striking the necks of the men, if their heads did not leave their bodies, the injuries would suffice to see to their deaths. He could do nothing about the bloodbath that followed. The men on foot had no chance. But while the soldiers were killing these men, the others, those who had chosen a horse, would have a good chance of escape. He finally managed to slink away in the pouring rain. He knew the rain, the loss of men and horses would slow the Lothian’s down; even so they were still a formidable force with some eighteen hundred well trained soldiers.
The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Page 24
