Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)
Page 26
Is that the reason I chose this path in the vain hope of finding an old comrade. He felt a slither of guilt at the thought. If urak had taken Redford as the missive said he should’ve taken the easterly route instead of assigning it to someone else. Still what’s done was done. That was the trouble with patrols, they left too much time to think and second guess.
“Sarge, Janik’s gone. Can’t see him,”
Anders' attention snapped to the now. Kronke was looking back the way they’d come. Another of his men stood high in his stirrups searching. He followed their gaze. Janik had taken the south-eastern flank. His heart pumped faster. It was mostly flat here. The gentle rise and swell of the land, even with the tall grass wasn’t enough to hide horse and rider.
“Captain?” Kronke asked.
“Send the rest of his hand to investigate,” Anders ordered.
Kronke nodded. “Jacks, you heard the captain. Get your asses over there.”
“Yes sarge,” Jacks replied, all banter gone.
Anders watched as they checked their gear, unlimbering spear and bow, going over the same routine drilled into them.
“Oh and Jacks,” Kronke said, “Go in staggered yeah. If’n it’s a trap no point you all riding into it. Any sign ah hostiles get your butts back here, understand. No hero shit.”
“Sure thing,” Jacks said. Digging heels in his horse peeled away heading for Janik’s last position, the rest of his hand fanning out behind. The company watched on avidly, tense and on edge.
Anders looked about for the other pickets. Kronke ever mindful of his captain saw, “Stop gawping like ya did your first day in uniform. You’re no greenheads, eyes to your hand!” he bellowed.
Anders spotted the outrider to the northwest and felt a touch of relief. The north east was also accounted for.
“Sarge, can’t see Mart none,” One of his men called out. Anders spun to the southwest. There was no horse and no rider.
“When did you last see her?” Kronke asked.
“Before we looked for Janik I guess,” the man stuttered.
“You useless sacksa shit,” Kronke yelled. He turned to Anders his eyes asking the question.
“Send the rest of Mart’s hand, same instructions,” Anders said. “Let’s see what we find.”
Kronke stared at Anders a bit longer than needed, uncertainty playing across his face. The hand though heard the order and they were ready to go.
“Be careful out there, staggered formation. Any sign a trouble you get back here fast.” Kronke ordered.
“Aye sarge,” They cantered off spreading out as they went.
“Rest a you keep a beady eye on your outriders,” Kronke shouted.
Anders turned back to look for Jacks and his hand. It was perfect timing. The riders had spread out with one holding back fifty paces or more. The lead rider, Jacks he thought, suddenly fell backwards out of his saddle. A hulking shape rose from the sea of grass and made a grab for his horse. Battle trained it spun, kicking and caught the figure full and it crumpled disappearing back beneath the long grass.
Another rider suddenly fell, then another. This time the looming hulks that rose up ignored the bolting horses. Moving instead to where the riders had fallen.
Anders was frozen momentarily in shock. It was real and had happened so quickly. “Kronke get that other hand back,” he commanded his voice strident, urgent.
Kronke didn’t hesitate, his big destrier breaking into a canter at his touch. He rode hard, head down horse in full gallop.
Heart hammering Anders watched as the first of the riders to the southwest fell. They were a bit closer and he could just make out the arrow that punched into the man’s chest knocking him from his horse.
Kronke slowed his mount as a manlike figure rose from the ground sixty paces ahead. It looked huge, its arms thick and strong, its skin grey like a block of granite. In its hands was a bow. It drew the string back and released.
Kronke bent low over his horse, not easy in leather and chain mail, especially for a man his size. The arrow scudded off his helm, a glancing blow that sent a jolt of pain that he barely registered. Rising up Kronke kicked his mount urging it on as he bore down on the urak.
Dropping its bow the hulk drew a large blade from its back, then putting its head back roared defiance as Kronke charged.
There was no finesse to it in the end. The urak moved to the right away from Kronke’s sword arm. Kronke did what he trained for, what his horse was trained for. With a press of knee they veered following the urak, barrelling into it, running it down. His horse staggered at the impact but it was a large beast, had to be to carry Kronke’s mass and it recovered. Kronke bought his mount to a halt taking a moment to assess things.
The hand was down apart from one rider, the one left in the pocket behind the others. She was riding back hard at full gallop. She never made it. An arrow took her high in the back slapping her forward over the horse’s neck. Then flopping back she cartwheeled over the horse’s rump, lifeless.
Not waiting, Kronke twisted his horse about. Nervous and skittish it danced on the spot before Kronke gave it its head. Putting heels to flanks he cantered back to the captain and what was left of the company. A couple of riderless horses made their way back but no one else.
There was a howl from the field where Janik had disappeared. Looking they observed a hand of urak arrayed loosely in the long grass. Several had bloody fists held up to the sky. They started walking towards them, purposeful.
“Sir!” a warning cry from one of the men as another six urak closed in from the south west. They were out of bow range but wouldn’t be for long they needed to go.
Marigold moved uncertainly beneath him as Anders considered their options. They had to get word back to Thorsten. They could ride them down. They would have to brave a gauntlet of arrows but they outnumbered any one of the two urak groups; they could win through. He was about to give the command when more urak appeared to the south. He did a quick count, another seven.
“Sir we can break them if we’re fast. Some’ll get through,” Kronke urged. A large crease marred the side of his helm and a trickle of blood ran down his face and into his moustache.
“We can’t be sure,” Anders said. “Besides, we can’t abandon our two outriders.”
“They’re arms-men; they know their duty and they’re on horse. They’ll have to ride around, find their own way back,” Kronke argued. “Might even make it if luck rides with them. More of a chance to get warning back I reckon.”
Anders was desperate. Kronke was right but he’d lost half his command in the last five minutes, he’d be damned if he’d lose any more.
“Release the bird,” Anders said. “Then we ride north, hard and fast. Once we lose them we can loop around, head east then back to Thorsten.”
Kronke was unconvinced but gave the order, not that the little band of guardsmen hadn’t heard it. They were only nine with the captain plus the two outriders. All were eager to be off. None relished facing the urak who were distant still but closing fast. They were near enough now to hear them catcalling and shouting challenges.
Kronke flicked his reins and set off at a steady league eating trot. Looking back over his shoulder he watched as they left the urak in their wake.
Chapter 35
: Intoxicated
Those same blue eyes stared at Renco, searching his face. Curious? Amused? He didn’t know which and it was disconcerting. He wasn’t sure why he found Lett so unsettling and compelling all at the same time. Admittedly, with his speech problem, he’d had little enough experience with women, though he wasn’t a complete novice. He’d spent a night with a lady before. Master Hiro had arranged it all. He coloured at his sudden turn of thought. Renco saw Lett regarding him still, a telling look on her face as if she knew where his mind had drifted. What was she doing here?
He had stolen out of the Golden Cask to the back yard, for some air. The inn had been teeming; it seemed they weren't often blessed with bards
up here in the borders and word had gotten out that one was playing. Luke Goodwill, the bard, had been performing to a raucous inn all night.
Renco didn’t like crowds at the best of times, but the noise in the common room got so loud he couldn’t bear it. Even now he could hear the hub and din of folk talking and laughing and above it all the sound of music playing. The bard was handy on the lute, he had to admit, and set a merry tune. Weaving in and out of his notes was the high pitched shrill of a flute. He couldn’t make out the words to the song but it was clearly bawdy judging by the cheering and clapping.
Lett moved and Renco’s mind snapped back to her as she approached him.
“Hello Renco,” she said, “Maohong told me your name. I hope you don’t mind my asking for it?”
She was close now, walking slowly, her eyes on his. It made him feel uncomfortable, his heart racing and his palms sweaty. She was talking to him like he was a spooked horse or something, which didn't help matters.
“Maohong said you don’t like it when it gets busy. I get like that too sometimes.”
Bloody Mao! She was stood in front of him, so close they were almost touching. Why can’t I talk he demanded, his fists clenching in frustration. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He shut it again and she laughed. It was a nice laugh, pretty. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
“Sorry, Da says I talk enough for two people. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I don’t do I?” Lett asked. Renco shook his head no and she smiled.
“Good. We travel a lot me and my Da. I get to meet lots of folk but we never stay anywhere long so I don’t have friends like regular people. Master Maohong says you’re always travelling too, so I guess we’re the same,” she said.
Renco couldn’t help but grin, Master Maohong, now that was funny.
Encouraged, she grabbed his hand. “Listen do you hear that?” she asked.
Renco listened. He heard dogs fighting in the distance, horses whickering in the stable, a man and woman shouting at each other two houses down from the inn. The noise of the inn was a constant. Which did she mean he wondered?
“I love this song. Da always sings it at the end of his performance,” Lett said. Raising his hand she twirled beneath it laughing.
“Come on let’s dance,” Lett said as if the thought had just occurred to her. She pulled on Renco’s hand drawing him in.
Renco swallowed, his throat dry, a worried frown marring his face. He could hear the lute and flute playing louder, the tempo increasing and before he realised what was happening her arm was about his waist and he was pushed and pulled in a circle, his steps awkward and clumsy.
As the crowd inside cheered and clapped and the music got faster Lett started to spin him around, her hips swaying as she danced from one foot to the other. How in the seven hells has this happened Renco groaned. But it was already too late. Lett was laughing, encouraging him and then he was moving with her, no choice really. He held her waist; she felt soft beneath his calloused hand. He picked the rhythm up from her and matched it. Lett flung an arm in the air as they looped around each other and cried out, all white teeth and freckles.
Then suddenly the music stopped. The crowd inside roared and clapped and Lett pirouetted away from him, laughing and out of breath, her dress swirling around her legs. He was caught up in her euphoria. He could still feel the warmth where her hand had held his waist. His own hand burned still from where he’d touched her. She was so… joyful. Renco laughed, he felt intoxicated.
“Are you alright?” Lett asked, “Why the frown? Tell me that wasn’t fun?” She chattered, then after a moment knowing he couldn’t, flashed her biggest smile at him. “See I told you.”
Renco grinned, her mood was infectious and he found himself affecting a bow. Then, feeling bold, he captured her hand and kissed it lightly, his lips tingling as they brushed her skin.
“Why you are most welcome my good sir,” she beamed, pleased at his gallantry.
Emboldened Renco gestured, pointing from himself to the stables, indicating he had to go and waving goodbye to her.
“That’s very forward of you,” Lett said, looping an arm through his. “Your intentions better be honourable sir.”
Bemused, Renco walked her to the stables; he liked how her arm fit in his. She sat on a hay bail and watched as he checked the horses had feed and fresh water in their buckets.
Happy, the mule, watched them both with sad eyes, chewing slowly. He was hitched on the far side of the stables away from the horses. Happy didn’t get on with others.
There was a commotion outside and raised voices. Moving to the stable door Renco looked back out into the yard. Lett hopped off the hay bale and drew up behind him.
“What is it?” she asked, clasping his arm and peering over his shoulder. Her eyes went wide. “Da!” she cried and rushed outside.
Luke Goodwill lay on the ground. Surrounding him were three men, the largest of which stood over the bard. One of the men moved to intercept Lett. Renco tensed as the man caught her, holding her back as she cried out.
“Can’t say as you wasn’t warned,” said the man standing over the bard. He was big with a worn face and a nose that was bent from one too many breaks. He looked brutish, wide as well as tall, with thick arms and a thicker waist that was just turning to fat.
The other two men looked to be brothers; same eyes, same dark lank hair and same pock-marked faces. They were almost of a height with the brute but without his girth. They all carried wooden truncheons on their hips and looks that said they enjoyed using them.
“Lett!” The bard cried at the sight of his daughter. “Don’t touch her or I’ll have you,” he yelled. He went to rise and was pushed back to the ground.
“You’re a fool and your master's a fool to accost me,” Luke Goodwill shouted from the dirt. He went to pick himself up again but the man casually pushed him down, laughing.
“You’ll not see another bard in a ten year,” Luke threatened.
“Ass-wad, ya think I give a flying fuck for you bards. Do I look like I dance?” the man shouted, spit flying from his mouth. “You was told where ya could play and it weren’t fucking ‘ere was it.”
“A bard plays where he chooses. I’ll go to Lord Chadford if you don’t let me and my daughter be,” Luke said, concerned eyes darting to Lett.
“He ain’t here. If’n you’re lucky you’ll catch his Lordship in Rivercross.” The man grinned, his eyes cruel. Unhooking his wooden club he hefted it in one hand, tapping it into the palm of his other, a promise of pain to come.
Renco felt his pulse race as he watched. Master Hiro always took the initiative when trouble beckoned. He just did as he was told. But Master wasn’t here.
Renco saw the brother holding Lett leering at her. He seemed to be enjoying her struggle against him and that settled matters. Stepping out from the stables he casually walked towards them.
“Well lookie, lookie here…” the brother started to say. Renco snapped a palm flat into his nose and with a crack it broke. The man screamed falling away, blood blossoming from beneath his hand where he clutched at his face. Lett looked shocked as Renco stepped past her.
The brute held his truncheon up and gripped the bard by his hair. “Don’t know what cunt you cra
wled out of but you better back the fuck off or I will decorate you with his brains,” he yelled, eyes glancing at the man rolling on the ground.
Renco stopped. He wasn’t sure, even if he quickened, whether he'd reach the man in time. Probably, but if not…
“Why you just staring, eh,” the man shouted. “Well? Say someat boy… answer me.” He looked to the brother still standing and the hard set to his face. It was enough to firm his resolve. They were two and his opponent not much more than a boy, an unarmed one at that.
“This weren’t none of your business. Now look what ya gone and done to Bort.” He scowled, showing teeth yellowed from chewing too much Knorcha weed. “Now there’s gotta be a price paid.” He stared meaningfully past Renco to where Lett stood, transfixed.
Renco felt his blood rising. He breathed deeply, calming himself as his master had taught him. Control, speed, power: his master’s mantra played through his mind.
Suddenly, two old men hobbled out the back door of the inn, laughing and giggling, clearly drunk. It drew the eyes of all in the courtyard as they swayed and bumped against each other. One tripped and stumbling, fell against the man holding Luke Goodwill.
“Piss off you old farts,” the man growled. Not taking his eyes off Renco, he kicked a leg back at the drunk.
“Gonna throw up,” the old timer groaned as he swayed, narrowly missing the blow aimed for him. He placed a hand in the middle of the brute’s back to steady himself before leaning over, retching.
Flinching at the sound the man let go the bard’s hair to shove the old drunk away. But he over balanced, his arm meeting no resistance as the old man spun to the side. A hand shot out gripping his own. A sudden twist and he howled in pain as his wrist was pushed back and up, all in a moment. Agony exploded up his arm from his wrist to his elbow. Dropping the cosh he collapsed to his knees with a scream.