“Clever fellow,” smiled Silke.
The Journeyman swung himself into his saddle and gathered his reins. Digging in her heels, Silke spurred the horse forward and he followed suit.
As the trees again rushed past, their branches swiping at the mounted figures, the Journeyman felt a leaden ball settle into the pit of his stomach. Clarity dawned and he damned himself for a fool. He had played his part, danced for Thane like a marionette, and was now wedged between the old mercenary’s advancing columns and, back in Lyvys, Drysden’s wrath. The Imperium had moved against the Erstewald, striking unexpectedly, their advance covered by the misinformation he had helped disseminate. Lyvys would burn and the people of the First Forest would again be trampled beneath the boots of warring armies, their lands despoiled by the very forces that lay claim to them.
A bolt whistled past and the Journeyman ducked instinctively. He felt his heartbeat quicken. Beside him raced Silke, her hair and cloak streaming out behind her. He allowed himself a fleeting moment to wonder why the paramour had come back, why she hadn’t left him in the mud. Then the rush of the wind and the noise of pounding hooves enveloped him and all thoughts save those of survival were wiped away.
23. TREES, THE GATE
“Off the road!” Silke turned in her saddle and called over her shoulder, “Have you gone mad?”
“We can’t stay on the highway!” bellowed the Journeyman. “If they send their cavalry after us we’ll be run down!”
“We’ve a head start!” cried Silke, “We can make the gates!”
“No,” bellowed the Journeyman again, “into the forest!”
Silke ignored him.
Clinging desperately to the back of his horse, the Journeyman followed in the paramour’s wake. Her cloak billowed out behind her, flame bright curls topping the swirling mass of velour. The speckled mare she rode thundered over the muddy highway, the clods of earth kicked up by the animal’s hooves splattering the Journeyman. He ducked low to avoid the airborne muck, his eyes squinted half shut. “We can’t go back!” he shouted.
“What?”
Raising his voice he tried again to make himself heard over the pounding of hooves and the rush of the wind. “We can’t go back! We can’t risk being caught behind the gates! Those soldiers will kill every man, woman, and child in Lyvys!”
Silke again pivoted in her saddle. She fixed the Journeyman with emerald eyes that seemed to glow in the cold light that filtered through the overhanging clouds. Then abruptly she turned her horse to the right. The animal hurdled the mass of flood debris that flanked the roadway and went crashing into the woods beyond. The Journeyman spurred his mount after her.
On every side the trunks of trees rushed past. Their bark was dark with moisture; their boughs still winter bare. Each trunk, each branch, thrummed as it flew by. To the Journeyman it sounded as though the forest were singing; a chorus of solemn, discordant voices that urged him onwards. Under their horses hooves tangled clumps of hard-packed flotsam crackled and split.
A low hanging branch lashed Silke, nearly toppling her from the saddle. The Journeyman turned his horse to the left avoiding a similar blow. For his efforts he caught the jagged edge of a shattered branch across his thigh. The splintered wood tore into his woolen trousers, digging furrows in his flesh. He gritted his teeth and directed his mount back towards Silke.
Ahead lay a tangled mass of briars, their thorny bulk blocking the riders’ path for dozens of paces in either direction. Silke drew sharply on the reins, jerking her horse’s head to the side. The animal skidded in the mud and undergrowth, its hind legs nearly going out from under it. Then it sprang to the left, running parallel to the wall of thorns. Continuing to follow her lead the Journey-man veered to the left. His mount moved in time with the mare, the rhythm of its hooves unvaried. He continued to cling to the animal, letting the horse’s instincts guide their flight.
Upon reaching the end of the thicket Silke and the Journeyman crested a low rise, squeezing their horses through a narrow gap between a stand of ash and alders. Once they had attained the hillock both reined in.
“We can’t stay here,” panted the Journeyman. Beneath him he felt his horse drawing deep, rapid breaths. Sweat stained its sides and froth coated its muzzle. “We’re outlined against the horizon.”
Moving to take Silke’s reins he nudged his animal forward. The paramour turned her mount sharply away.
“We can’t ” the Journeyman began again.
“If not the city, then where?” asked Silke.
The Journeyman looked up from the twitching flanks of the horses. Silke’s eyes were wide, the irises completely surrounded by white. “Where?” she asked again.
“Not Lyvys,” said the Journeyman. He reached again for Silke’s reins, managed to grab hold, and walked the two horses from the ridge.
When they were concealed by the dark trunks of the trees he turned to the paramour. She continued to regard him, her eyes wild.
“Where?” she asked for the third time.
“The name of the man leading that contingent is Thane. He’s been winning the Hegemony’s wars for decades. If he’s sent to the Erstewald then the Hegemons intend to punish the whole region, maybe even raze Lyvys. Either way, those troops are going to run riot once they breach the gates. The Vallénci regulars don’t stand a chance…”
“‘Thane,’ ‘contingent,’ ‘breach,’” sneered Silke. “You sound just like one of those pompous Imperial hurensöhne!”
The Journeyman glared at her. “We can’t ”
“We can,” said Silke, her eyes narrowing. “I do not intend to die in this forest, raped and cut open by Hegemon lapdogs. I will go back to Lyvys and take my chances there.”
“Your chances of staying alive are far better outside that city,” growled the Journeyman.
“Why do you care?” barked Silke.
Anger flashed hotly across the Journeyman’s face. He felt his cheeks grow red. Silke saw his blush and her lips curled back from her teeth.
“And now you’re cross?” she said. “What reason do you have to be vexed? You are free; your Guildmaster is nowhere to be seen. A few minutes ago you were a prisoner, now…”
Silke’s words were cut short as the Journeyman turned his horse away. The animal managed three steps before a pair of crossbow bolts thudded into its chest just in front of his right leg. Silke cried out in surprise as the animal went over backwards, dumping the Journeyman from the saddle.
He hit the forest floor with a crash, dead branches snapping under him, sharp slivers of wood biting into his back. He did not feel them. Rolling to the side he scrambled away from the falling horse in a desperate attempt to avoid being crushed.
The animal landed half on top of him, its legs flailing. The Journeyman was shoved to the ground by the mass of writhing horse flesh. The wind was driven from his lungs and his face was forced into the mud. Pain blossomed along his side where the spear thrust that had torn him open had only partially healed. Distantly he heard Silke cursing.
Gasping for breath the Journeyman clawed at the mud and debris before him. The neck and head of his dying mount struck his back again, driving his face into the ground. He tried to draw breath, but could not. Again he tried to drag himself out from under the flailing horse before he was crushed or the men who had shot it descended upon him. Redoubling his efforts the Journeyman wrenched himself forward. Hand over hand, he clawed at the broken carpet of detritus. At last he felt the weight lift from his legs and torso. With one final burst of effort he rolled free.
No sooner had he extricated himself from the fallen horse than Silke’s delicate hand was thrust in his face. Without hesitation the Journeyman grasped it. The paramour pulled him to his feet just as a pair of bolts hissed past. The steel tipped quarrels buried themselves in the trunks of the surrounding trees.
“Up!” commanded Silke.
The Journeyman heaved himself onto the back of the paramour’s skittering horse. He managed to get his
arms around her waist a split second before she spurred the animal forward.
Bolting through the trees Silke drove her horse into a furious headlong rush. The Journeyman clung to her trim waist with all his might, his thighs clamped against the horse’s rump. Around them branches tore at their faces, lashing their shoulders and sides, threatening to sweep them to the ground.
Once, the Journeyman risked a glance over his shoulder. Through the trees he could see the shapes of men, the sallow glint of shrouded sunlight shining from polished helmets. He then turned his attention to staying astride Silke’s hurtling mount.
It wasn’t a branch that unhorsed him, but the rhythm of the animal’s gait. He had failed to situate himself properly on the mare’s back and her uneven stride eventually toppled him. With an inadvertent cry he fell backwards off the animal to land hard on his backside. His coccyx took the brunt of the impact sending a wave of nausea through his guts.
Silke, feeling him go, reined in her mount.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed the paramour.
“I fell,” was all that he could manage. His head swam. “Get up,” said Silke.
The Journeyman tried, then sank back to the ground. “Get up,” said Silke again. “Get up or I will leave you.” His stomach did a somersault and he opened his mouth to
vomit. Nothing came out. Clamping his mouth shut the Journeyman levered himself painfully to his feet. Once he had his balance he attempted to wipe the mud from his rear. He stopped when he realized that he was already covered in grime from head to toe.
“We have to go,” said Silke, “now!”
“And where are we going?” asked the Journeyman. “I will not do this with you again,” snapped the paramour. “That was an advance party,” said the Journeyman. “They
were sent ahead of the main force to ”
“I know what an ‘advance party’ is,” said Silke.
“What I’m saying is that they won’t be the only ones.” “Then we had best move swiftly.”
“They’ll have other units ” began the Journeyman. “Come with me or stay in the woods with your ‘advance
party,’” said Silke. “I don’t care either way.” The Journeyman mounted behind the red-haired woman, again encircling her with his arms. The feel of her in his arms, the warmth of her pressed against him, made his heart race. He drove the sensation away, concentrating on keeping his balance as Silke urged the horse forward.
At the gates of Lyvys bedlam ruled. Silke reined up sharply, her exhausted horse stumbling to a halt. The Journeyman peered over her shoulder at the mass of humanity that crowded the threshold to the trade city. At first he could make little sense of the tangle of bodies. Then, by degrees, realization dawned.
The right side of the gate had been set alight. Flames licked at the uncured timbers, climbing towards the barbican. Below, men and women jostled with one another, some trying to enter the city while others sought desperately to flee. In their midst armored figures fought with one another, hacking away at their opponents and the citizenry alike. Panicked, the milling throng shoved and pushed one another, screamed and thrashed. Those that fell were trampled, their muddied faces barely discernable amidst the moving forest of legs.
“Hurensohn!” swore Silke.
The Journeyman inhaled sharply.
Beneath them the mare faltered. Tossing her mane, she raised
her head, ears back, dancing in place. Her nostrils were wide, filled with the smell of smoke, fear, and blood. Silke tugged on the reins trying to regain control. In response the horse stepped to the side nearly unseating the Journeyman. At the sound of bellowing warriors he again looked to the gate.
From out of the mass of thrashing humanity burst a trio of guardsmen. They wore the uniform of irregulars, men commissioned in order to augment the ranks of Vallénci that garrisoned the city. Only one of the men was armed. Together they sprinted for the edge of the forest. Behind them came four men dressed in leather and mail. They wore no uniforms or insignia. Clutched in hands already bloodied they carried axes, war-picks, and short swords. They howled as they came, blood-drunk and frenzied. They quickly overtook the three deserters.
The Journeyman watched as the four men barreled into the Lyvycite irregulars. The men struck the roadway in a mass of flailing limbs and despairing cries. Without hesitation, the four bravos set to hacking wildly at the deserters. The Journeyman saw an arm hewn half through, the hand flopping uselessly to the side. The spiked end of a war-pick was driven into another man’s cheek, its point bursting from between his lips accompanied by shards of teeth. The largest of the four attackers, his iron-gray mane and prodigious beard flecked with crimson, chopped at the third deserter as though he were felling a tree. The blade of his axe descended in rapid strokes, cleaving armor, flesh, and bone.
“We need to go,” hissed the Journeyman.
“What in the name of—” began Silke.
The last of the deserter’s screams rent the air then died away.
In its place rose the sound of shouting peasants, merchants, porters, and tradesmen. Their cries of terror and confusion mingled with the grunts of the soldiers and the clash of weapons.
“Mercenaries,” said the Journeyman. “They’ve been paid to open the gates from the inside and keep them open. When Thane’s column arrives there will be nothing to keep them from entering the city. We should have stayed in the trees.”
“Scheisse,” barked Silke. Then louder, “Scheisse!” She turned to guide her mount back towards the forest. A horn blast sounded from amongst the trees, arresting its progress. The animal made a full circle as the paramour yanked it back towards the city.
“We can’t go forward and we can’t go back!” shouted Silke. “To the side then!” cried the Journeyman. “North or south; it doesn’t matter!”
Silke made to turn her horse yet again, but a paw-like hand on its bridal held it in place. The Journeyman caught a glimpse of the gray-bearded mercenary a moment before he was thrown to the ground. For the third time that day he tumbled from the back of a horse to land awkwardly in the mud. Immediately he was beset, a dark shape throwing itself over him. He heard the whistle of steel as it passed just overhead. Instinctively he rolled forward, under the guard of his attacker.
The man above him grunted as the Journeyman rolled over his legs. Off balance, the mercenary fell. As soon as he felt the man topple the Journeyman was up, throwing himself to the side. The bravo landed upon his shoulder with a cry of surprise. The Journeyman did not give him a chance to rise. Driving forward he grasped the man’s throat in one hand, pinching his windpipe between thumb and fingers. He squeezed sharply and pulled. He felt cartilage snap. The mercenary’s eyes went wide as his trachea collapsed. He gasped, but could not draw breath. The Journeyman left him clutching his throat with both hands, his feet thrashing.
Two of the three remaining mercenaries had Silke by the hair and the back of her cloak. Unceremoniously, they dragged her back in the direction of the burning gate. She screamed and writhed, trying desperately to gain her feet. The Journeyman made to spring in her direction but pulled up short. He spun to the side, tripping and going over backwards as a swipe from the bearded mercenary’s axe clove the air where he had been a split second before.
Off-balance and tangled in his cloak the Journeyman attemptted to right himself. He could not. The mercenary hove suddenly into view and the Journeyman ceased his struggling. The bravo raised his weapon, his eyes bulging from their sockets, his cheeks a deep shade of carmine. The Journeyman rammed the heel of his boot into the man’s groin. The mercenary toppled.
Staggering to his feet the Journeyman stepped over the huddled form, slipping the man’s dagger from its sheath as he did so. With twenty centimeters of steel clutched in his hand he made for the men still hauling Silke towards the stockade. Ignoring the throbbing in his side and the ache in his back he pounded forward, his cloak billowing out behind him. Ducking low, he sprinted several steps towards the two men
before again pulling up short.
From out of the gate to his right burst a team of oxen. The massive beasts, a duel-headed juggernaut of rumbling flesh and bone, crashed through the mass of milling humanity. Soldiers and civilians alike were thrown to the side or ground under their hooves. Those that had escaped the thundering pair of bullocks were pulped beneath the wagon that clattered behind them. The flames that billowed from the wagon bed urged the animals on, driving them over or through any barrier that stood in their way; driving them straight for Silke.
The Journeyman raised his hand, a wordless cry forming on his lips. Then the team of oxen had barreled into the two mercenaries. One of the men went under the wheels of the cart, his legs twisting over one another. The sound of his bones snapping carried even over the roar of the fire and the bellowing of the oxen.
Then they were past. Silke and the remaining mercenary lay crumpled together on the sodden ground.
Rushing forward the Journeyman kicked the fallen soldier from atop the paramour. The man flopped to one side with a grunt. Without thinking he drove his newly acquired dagger to the hilt in the man’s throat. Withdrawing the length of reddened steel he turned to Silke.
“You’re kneeling on my stomach,” she said.
The Journeyman looked down at the offending knee, then back to Silke. He adjusted his weight and she reached for him. Taking her by the hand he pulled the paramour to her feet.
“Run,” said the Journeyman.
The pair sprinted into the scattered throng. They hurtled the dead and dying, dodged around those combatants still on their feet. Ducking low and pulling their cloaks over their heads they burst through the wall of flames that had spread to the barbican and along the wall of the stockade. Accompanied by a shower of sparks, Silke and the Journeyman emerged to a scene of even greater tumult than the one from which they had just been delivered.
24. THE TAILOR SHOP
A cadre of four men, each laden with an armload of loot, went clattering past. The Journeyman could hear the sounds of their labored breathing and the clank of the pilferage they carried. One had a tapestry slung over his back, the delicately embroidered cloth bulging with pewter flatware, candlesticks, and ceramics. This man lagged behind his fellows, his burden of metal and fabric weighing him down. He didn’t seem to mind. On his face was plastered an idiot grin.
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