Crying Havoc fk-4

by Toby Neighbors

  “See, my Prince, there was never anything to fear. Now you have a cavalry to play with. Be a good Prince and take care of them.”

  Wilam was speechless. He stood, staring as Gwendolyn descended from the gatehouse with Andomina in tow. The crowd below separated, creating a walkway from the gatehouse to the Castle, all while the men below cried out to Gwendolyn, pledging their lives for just one glance from the witch.

  Chapter 18

  The storm had blown Quinn and Olton so far out to sea that it took them two days to sail back. They finally made shore near a small village north of the Walheta Mountains, which separated Falxis from Yelsia and Baskla. Olton generously shared some of the money he made from the fish they caught while sailing back to land. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get Quinn started. He knew that Mansel had a big head start on him; his only real hope was to head north and hope that he could intercept Zollin as he traveled with Mansel back to the Castle on the Sea.

  He couldn’t afford a horse or weapons. Instead, he bought as much food as he could and wished Olton a safe journey home. Then he headed north on foot. He followed the coastal road, skirting the Rejee Desert and hoping that he would not be bothered. It was dangerous to travel alone, and even if he didn’t have anything of value, he would still be an easy target for outlaws looking for a quick score. The coastal road was a haven for brigands who could hide out in the desert canyons with little risk of being found. The establishments along the coastal road catered to outlaws and sailors, but Quinn didn’t have the coins to spend in inns or taverns. He kept to himself and stayed on the move. At night he looked for places where he could sleep concealed from view. He didn’t light a fire or try to warm his rations, which were mostly hard bread and a little smoked fish.

  He had traveled for six straight days, his feet blistered and sore, his skin burned and peeling from the sun, before he ran into trouble. Two men on horseback met him on the road and refused to let him pass.

  “Spare a coin?” asked one of the men.

  “You wouldn’t begrudge us a few coppers,” said the other, a grim-looking man with long, greasy hair and a lurid scar across one cheek. “We’d like to take a rest and perhaps have a drink at a nice inn, but unfortunately we haven’t fared well lately. I’m sure you’d like to help.”

  “I haven’t any coin,” Quinn said, in honesty.

  He tried to keep walking past the men, but they guided their horses to block his path.

  “Hey, that’s no way to treat your neighbors,” said the first man again. He had a long, curved knife stuck through his belt without a sheath. The blade was rusty and nicked.

  “I don’t want trouble,” Quinn said. “I’ve got some hard bread rations and water, and I’d be happy to share with you.”

  “Oh, come now,” said the greasy man. “Travelers here on the coastal road always have more than some moldy bread. I tell you what. We’ll split what you have three ways, if you give it up without a fight.”

  “It told you, I don’t have any coin.”

  “I don’t believe him, do you Wol?” said the greasy man.

  “No, I don’t,” Wol said, drawing his rusty knife.

  “Last chance,” said the greasy man. “Split your money or we’ll split your skull.”

  Quinn just smiled a cold, deadly grin.

  “Give it your best shot,” he said.

  The two outlaws hesitated for moment. They hadn’t expected Quinn to seem happy about a fight. Wol was the first to strike. He spurred his horse forward and slashed at Quinn with his knife. The blade almost caught Quinn’s shoulder but he dropped to his knees just in time to avoid the attack. Then, as the first outlaw passed Quinn launched himself at the other man. Quinn was sure the greasy outlaw had a weapon, but he had not drawn it yet. He jumped up and grabbed the man, who tried in vain not to fall off his horse. The horse reared up on its hind legs and both men fell. Quinn managed to land on top of the outlaw, with all of his weight driving the wind from the greasy man’s lungs. Then Quinn spotted the small knife in the outlaw’s belt. It was little more than a utility knife and probably used for everything, from cleaning his horse’s hooves to cutting his own meat for supper.

  Quinn snatched up the knife. The blade was no longer than his hand. He turned and saw Wol riding quickly toward him again. He drew back his arm and threw the knife. It was a poorly made weapon, certainly not well balanced for throwing, and Quinn knew he had only a slim chance that the knife would do any real damage. The knife hit the outlaw in the breastbone handle-first, but it was thrown hard. The outlaw dropped his own weapon and fell back, one hand clutching his chest, the other grasping desperately for the saddle horn.

  Quinn hurried over and retrieved the rusty, curve-bladed knife from the ground and felt a little better now that he had something to defend himself with. The greasy outlaw was struggling to stand up, while Wol, now weaponless, rode further and further away.

  “Get on your knees,” Quinn said. “And put your hands on your head.”

  The outlaw complied without comment, which only made Quinn more wary. He approached the man slowly, from behind. He turned the curved blade around so that it arched back over his forearm in a defensive position. He was just about to search the man for hidden weapons when the outlaw spun around, falling on his back and kicking up at Quinn with a hook motion. There was a blade protruding from the outlaw’s boot. Quinn knew it before it struck, but he had no way to stop the blow. The boot tip, with its small, pointed blade, hit Quinn in the thigh. The kick alone was hard enough to cramp the muscle, but the blade gashed into the flesh, causing Quinn to cry out and stagger backward.

  His left hand dropped to the wound instinctively, and he felt warm blood welling up between his fingers. The pain was bad, but his adrenaline was pumping, fueled by anger at the outlaw. He lurched forward as quickly as he could, swinging the rusty knife in a wide swipe that caught the outlaw across his back. The man,staggered forward, his back arched in agony, his hands reaching for his back in an effort to stop the pain. Quinn lurched forward again, and this time he slammed the knife down into the base of the outlaw’s neck. The greasy man stiffened and then fell dead on the dusty road.

  Quinn looked up to find Wol, but the other outlaw had not stopped riding. As he stood, panting from exertion and pain, he knew he needed to do something about his leg. The outlaw’s horse was not far away, but it seemed nervous, probably because it could smell the blood. Quinn limped toward the animal slowly, trying his best to ignore the pain in his leg. He held out his hand and made no sudden movements to set the horse at ease. A few minutes later he was leading the horse back to the greasy outlaw’s body. Quinn patted the man down and searched his pockets. He found only a few copper coins, but it was more than Quinn had had. He pulled the curved knife out of the outlaw’s neck and wiped the blade on the man’s clothes. Then he cut the sleeve off his own shirt. It wasn’t as clean as he would have liked, but it was certainly cleaner than the greasy outlaw’s. He could feel the blood running down his leg and into his boot. The wound was painful, but he doubted that it was serious, as the blade wasn’t long enough to have reached the bone. It was painful to walk on, but he now had a horse to ride, so he could rest the leg and perhaps make even better time than walking.

  He tied the cloth around his leg, knotting it tightly, and then climbed up into the saddle. The saddle wasn’t much more than a leather strap with a saddle horn and stirrups. There were no saddle bags, and the saddle blanket was thin and worn through in more than one place. Quinn pulled his small satchel and canteen over his head and hung them from the saddle horn. He took a long drink of the lukewarm water and then nudged the horse’s flank with his boot. The animal set off, walking at a slow pace. Quinn urged it into a trot, but the heavy-footed animal’s gait was so jarring that soon he slowed the horse back down.

  It took three hours to reach the next village, and the sun was beginning to set when he arrived. He asked a man carrying buckets of water from a well if there was a healer in
the town. The man pointed at a small cottage and Quinn thanked him. He rode to the small building and climbed slowly off the horse. His leg was throbbing with pain and was too sore to hold any weight. Quinn tied the horse’s reins and hopped to the wooden door. He knocked and waited a few moments before the door opened.

  “Eh, can I help you?” the man asked.

  “I’ve got a wound here that could use some tending to,” Quinn said, pointing at his leg. “I’ve got four coppers.”

  “Well, that’s enough for me to stitch you up. Come inside.”

  The cottage was plain, just a single room with a small bed in one corner, a fireplace in the other, and a sturdy-looking table in the center of the room.

  “You can pull your pants off, or I can cut them off for you,” the healer said. “One way’s less painful, but if you don’t have spare clothes I suggest you pull them off. Of course, you might start a new fashion style, one sleeve, one pants leg,” he joked.

  Quinn nodded and started with his boots. It was difficult but he managed it. Then he untied the makeshift bandage, which increased the pain. His leg had swollen and the wound was still seeping blood. He had no belt, and the pants came off without too much trouble. He nodded at the healer when he was finished.

  “That’s fine, just hop up on the table there,” he instructed.

  Quinn did as he was told, and the healer stretched the injured leg out so he could inspect it. He lit a lamp and held it close to the wound. He pressed around the inflamed flesh and smelled the wound. Then he stood up.

  “It’s dirty,” he said. “You get cut with a dirty blade?”

  “A knife in the toe of an outlaw’s boot,” Quinn said.

  “Yes, I suspect that’s about as dirty as they come. I hope you repaid the bastard.”

  “In spades,” Quinn admitted.

  “Can’t fault you for that,” the man said. “My name’s Orval, but most everyone calls me Red. I used to have red hair, back before it all fell out.”

  “I’m Quinn.”

  The healer washed the wound first with water, then he poured strong alcohol over the wound. The burning was intense.

  “That’s strong stuff,” Quinn said.

  “It’s only for medicinal purposes. Pure grain alcohol. I don’t flavor it or age it. It cleans wounds and helps keep the flesh from rotting.”

  Next he mixed a poultice using oats and some other herbs to make a thick paste. Once he had it mixed, he used a curved needle to stitch the wound. Then he plastered it with the poultice and wrapped the leg with a long white bandage.

  “That should fix it up. I’d like to take another look at in the morning though, just to make sure there’s nothing more serious happening.”

  “That’s fine,” Quinn said, as he pulled his pants back on.

  He fished out the coins from his small purse and handed them to the healer.

  “Ah, well that’s kind of you,” he said. “Why don’t we take two of these to Ned over at the Seaview Inn? It’ll be enough for some supper and ale, if that suits you. You can bunk here tonight if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

  “That’s very kind,” Quinn said.

  “It’s no trouble,” the healer added. “I’ll be glad for the company and to not have to eat my own cooking for a change.”

  Quinn leaned on the older man’s shoulder as they walked to the inn. The small village was built along the coastal road. There was a small quay with several fishing boats moored to the ancient-looking pilings. The Seaview Inn was almost exactly like every other inn Quinn had seen as he traveled up the coastal road. It was a rectangular building with a lean-to stable. There was a second story with rooms for guests. The larger first floor consisted of a large common room, kitchen, and store rooms, as well as the innkeeper’s quarters.

  “Red, you’ve got a patient,” said the innkeeper happily when they entered.

  “One who paid in coin,” the healer said happily. “We’ll have supper and ale, if you don’t mind.”

  The innkeeper held out his hand, and Red dropped in two coppers. The man hurried away as Red helped Quinn onto a bench. The healer sat opposite from Quinn and chatted amiably while Quinn took in the room. There was no fire in the hearth, but the room was lit by candles in two large chandeliers that hung from the room’s high ceiling. There were several long tables with benches on either side. There were several guests in the room, mostly older fishermen from the looks of them. Across the room, slumped against the wall, was a familiar face. Wol was glaring at Quinn.

  “Do you know that man?” Quinn asked.

  Red had to turn around in his seat to see who Quinn was pointing at.

  “No, can’t say that I do, why?”

  “He’s one of the outlaws who tried to rob me.”

  “Oh,” Red said, dropping his gaze.

  “Do you have a constable in this village?” Quinn asked. “Any kind of law?”

  “Not here. The coastal road villages pretty much look after themselves.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Quinn said.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Red asked in alarm.

  “I’ve got unfinished business with that man,” Quinn said, getting up from the table.

  “But you’ll bust your stitches, and get that wound bleeding again.”

  “I doubt it,” Quinn said, as he hobbled away.

  The room grew quiet as Quinn approached the man. He was still leaning against the wall, and he didn’t move when Quinn drew close.

  “Looks like you found Dalson’s boot knife,” the outlaw said quietly.

  “Yes,” Quinn admitted, “and he found that curved knife of yours. I think you should leave.”

  “No, I’m staying,” said the outlaw.

  “Get out, now,” Quinn said. “Don’t look back, just keep riding. If I find you waiting on me I’ll kill you.”

  “I said I’m not leaving, and you can’t do anything about it. I haven’t done anything to you, and there are witnesses here who will back that up.”

  “I doubt it,” Quinn said coldly. “Now, get up.”

  “No,” the man said, sounding like a petulant child.

  Quinn struck so fast the outlaw didn’t even have a chance to move. Quinn hit the outlaw square in the chest. It wasn’t a powerful blow, but the outlaw screamed in pain, doubling over and cradling his chest, struggling to breathe. Quinn put his hands on the table he was standing next to and kicked Wol in the side of the head with his good leg. The outlaw was knocked senseless, and Quinn searched him for weapons. He found a small utility knife and a dagger tucked into the top of his boot. There was also a small money pouch with half a dozen copper coins. Quinn took the knives and coins, then turned to the innkeeper, who had watched the confrontation from the door of his kitchens.

  “Has he paid you?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” the innkeeper said.

  “Did he bring in any belongings?”

  “Just the clothes on his back.”

  “What about his horse?”

  “It’s in the stable.”

  “Any saddle bags?” Quinn asked.

  “No, just a saddle and blanket. My boy took care of the horse and gave it good rubdown and some oats.”

  “Three coppers be enough to cover that?”

  “Sure,” the innkeeper said.

  “Good, I’ll take the horse,” Quinn said. “Throw some water on him and send him out.”

  “What if he tries to fight me?”

  “He won’t,” Quinn said. “His breastbone is broken, or at least bruised. It’ll hurt him to breathe for a while I suspect, but that’s what happens when you assault innocent travelers.”

  “Hear, hear,” said a few of the men in the room.

  “Good riddance, then,” said the innkeeper.

  Quinn noticed the other men in the room raising their mugs of ale or nodding respectfully to him as he hobbled back to his table. The innkeeper had fresh bread, a crock of butter, and mugs of frothy ale waiting for him.


  “Well, now, you’re not a man to trifle with,” said Red. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man felled with one punch. It didn’t even look like you hit him very hard.”

  “I didn’t. When they attacked me today I threw a knife at him while he charged me on his horse. The knife butt hit him in the chest and nearly knocked him out of the saddle. He abandoned his partner after that.”

  “He’s lucky to still be alive,” Red said. “That knife could have killed him.”

  “That was the intention,” Quinn said. Then he waved for the innkeeper’s son to come over as Red took a bite of bread he had just smeared with a thick layer of butter.

  “Can you go to Red’s cottage and fetch back my horse? Give it a good rubdown and some oats. I’ll be riding out in the morning,” he said, flipping the boy a coin. If you can have them saddled and ready for me, with their hooves picked and clean, I’ll give you another.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the boy, before hurrying out of the inn.

  They spent the rest of the evening talking. Several of the local villagers joined their table, including the innkeeper, after having the outlaw dragged out of the inn. Quinn learned that the coastal villages were not doing well, since most of the shipping vessels had not been seen for weeks. He told them about the witch in Lodenhime and his journey to stop his son from being lured back there with Mansel.

  They enjoyed a meal of fish stew. There was more bread and much more ale. On the walk back to Red’s cottage the two men leaned on each other. The next morning Red unwrapped Quinn’s leg and washed off the poultice. Then he sniffed the wound again.

  “No sign of putrefaction,” he announced happily.

  Then he applied another poultice and rewrapped the wound.

  “I’m sure it’s painful, but there’s no danger of infection, I wouldn’t think,” Red explained. “Leave the bandage on for five or six more days and don’t get it wet. Then wash off the remains of the poultice and have someone remove the stitches. If you don’t have any foot races, you should be fine.”