Deed of Empire, page 16
Idoyu’s eyes lit up and he spoke a single word. “Tavern.”
Egil was sure his eyes looked the same. “Yes.”
They followed the sounds and smells till they came to a large common room complete with long wooden benches and tables populated with farmers, laborers, and a few travelers, most with cups and sometimes plates in front of them. Idoyu made his way toward a long bar to their left that looked to be made out of a single block of wood, sanded smooth and oiled to a fine sheen. Egil wasn’t far behind. But as Idoyu called for two cups from the old man manning the barrels, Egil’s eye was caught by five men at a table near the back wall. They weren’t farmers or laborers or everyday travelers. They were soldiers wearing identical dark surcoats over leather armor suitable for riding. Egil knew that in their riding packs or hanging from their saddles would be a rectangular shield, a breastplate, and a single greave for the left leg.
They were Bought Company, and the sigil on their surcoat was a salmon hauriant, red against the dark cloth.
Redfish! Egil thought. Betrayers! He heard the screams of his men at Castle Bardetorre again, and remembered the panic and confusion as the Redfish decades turned and attacked the Piebald Company. Redfish. Mettins. Banes. Vengeance is at hand and the return of at least a small piece of my honor.
His hand went unwittingly toward where his sword would normally be.
Hang the gods, he thought furiously and scrabbled for the dagger Baruso had given him instead. The ringing in his ears, that had lain nearly dormant for the afternoon, suddenly rose in volume till it matched the voices in the room. He stepped toward the Redfish men like a sleepwalker, unaware of the several people he bumped into, people who took umbrage, but only for a moment before noticing his large size and crazed stare and backing swiftly away. He had the dagger to hand now and the ringing in his ears overmatched even the tavern’s noise.
He was within five feet of the Redfish men before one of their number noticed his approach. That man raised an eyebrow, curious about the giant young man stalking toward him.
He should have spent that time standing and arming himself, Egil thought. It was the last coherent thought he had for some time.
A stride, a leap, and he was on the table between the men, jamming his dagger down into the eyebrow raiser’s eye. Blood sprayed and the man screamed and the noise in Egil’s head matched it. The other four men shoved their benches back, reaching for the swords at their hip. Egil could see Idoyu charging toward them holding his plain knife in an underhand grip. And then…
He stood in the tavern that was now devoid of people except for Idoyu who was screaming his name.
“Egil!” he shouted. “Egil!”
I don’t know why he’s shouting, Egil thought, though his thoughts felt like they were pushing through deep water to reach his mind. I’m right here.
He looked down as if to confirm that he was, in fact, right here, and saw that he was covered in blood. He was also holding a sword in his right hand, Baruso’s dagger now in his left. Expanding his view, he saw that there were a number of bodies lying around the table. And not just the five Redfish, who bore a variety of wounds and were all very dead. There was also a fat farmer who looked like he might once have been a jolly fellow before he had a new smile carved in his neck. A young man with a tray of wine cups by his side was bleeding from a giant rent in his chest. A woman in peasant smock and sandals was missing her head entirely.
“Egil!” Idoyu said again. “We have to move!”
Egil nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to. But when Idoyu turned and ran from the tavern, he followed him. They skidded out onto the straw-covered tiles of the entryway.
“There!” Idoyu cried, pointed to five horses with shields bearing the Redfish sigil hanging from their saddles.
We should have seen those on the way in. But they’d been lulled by the distance they’d traveled from danger and the smell of fire and food. Fools.
“Egil!” Idoyu shouted again, and Egil realized he was standing gape-mouthed like an imbecile while Idoyu pulled one of the Redfish horses from its makeshift stall.
“Sorry,” he mumbled and stepping into another stall, freed the reins of a second horse, backing it out till he could mount. It balked at the stranger who smelled of fresh blood suddenly on its back, but it was a soldier’s horse and calmed quickly. Egil snapped the reins and kicked his heels and clopped out onto the street behind Idoyu who was just urging his horse into a gallop. Egil’s horse needed little encouragement to follow its mate, and Egil stood in the stirrups, for seated, every jolt from the horse sent a white-hot pain up his spine and into his head.
Torches suddenly flared up to his right and a group of armed men, a town watch or the like, shouted and raised crossbows. Egil leaned down close to his horse’s neck as he sped by and heard the clatter of bolts shattering on the stone buildings behind him.
They’ll not get another volley in. And they weren’t mounted. Egil’s horse pulled near even to Idoyu as they clattered onto the main road and turned their mounts north. Another kick of the heels and the horses really opened up on the wider road.
So this is what they mean by breakneck speed, Egil thought. Especially at night. For if the horses tripped over something in the dark and threw their riders, that was exactly what would happen. But there was nothing for it. That watch hadn’t been mounted, but the next one might be. Egil had an even worse thought. And those might not have been the only Redfish in town.
It was unsurprising that a small town watch made up of farmers and their sons had been unable to hit two riders galloping past; it would be surprising if trained Bought Company bowmen couldn’t. They pressed on at full speed, even as the town’s lights faded behind them and the night closed in.
A few miles out, the horses started to flag and they reined in to a trot.
“What happened back there?” Idoyu asked, a bit breathless from the ride.
“I…” Egil tried to remember. I saw the Redfish. Pulled my dagger and stabbed one in the eye. Then… “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember.”
“How do you not remember?” snapped Idoyu. “It just happened!”
“I don’t know!” Egil said, exasperated. The buzzing in his ears rose, and he feared if it grew louder than the horse’s hoofbeats that he would lose himself again. Will I awaken covered in Idoyu’s blood? He remembered how easily the older man had handled him when he’d been flailing uncontrollably at his own head. Perhaps I worry about the wrong one of us if it comes to that. “What did you see?”
Idoyu slowed his horse to a walk. Egil matched his pace.
“I was about to get wine when I heard cries behind me. I turned to see you standing on the table between the Redfish men, bloody dagger in hand.”
“I remember up till then.”
Idoyu glanced at him. “Then it was as if you were possessed, as before. Perhaps by a wolf spirit. But a wolf with the thirsting sickness, for you attacked with no regard for yourself or others.”
Egil was beginning to feel some examples of “no regard for himself” in wounds on his legs and abdomen. But he didn’t think them fatal, whereas if they were pursued, stopping and tending to his injuries might be.
“You killed two more men before I arrived and dispatched one of their number,” Idoyu went on. “And I was there within moments. The last you slew with his own sword. I’m not sure how you got it from him.”
Egil recalled he’d been holding a sword when he came back to himself. He didn’t have it now. I must have dropped it in our flight.
Idoyu paused, looking out into the night.
“What then?” Egil asked, though he was fair certain he didn’t want to know the answer.
“Then…” Idoyu sighed. Spoke in monotone. “Then you grabbed a man who was just trying to escape and slit his throat. Before he even fell you’d cut a serving boy from gullet to groin and swept a poor woman’s head from her shoulders, screaming and foaming at the mouth all the while. Then the tavern was clear and you stood as one asleep, though your eyes were open. I yelled your name—three times, which perhaps broke the spell. Or perhaps the wolf grew weary and retired. But I don’t think it’s left you. Do you?”
Egil listened to the hum in his ears, loud and insistent. “No. I don’t think it has.”
“Then I think it best to avoid people until it does.”
Egil nodded. They reined in their horses and turned, listening, and looking back into the dark. They spotted no sign of pursuit.
But that doesn’t mean there isn’t any. Though, in truth, if there were no other Redfish in town, Egil doubted the townsfolk would chase armed strangers this far at night. But they can send messages to whoever they owe allegiance to and he can do a lord’s duty and send men to hunt us down. Which means not only do we have Bardetorre and the Forfils clans after us, we’ll soon have an unknown Vedland lord on our heels, as well.
“Back to traveling at night, I suppose,” Egil said. “Worse still, we can’t keep on to the coast.”
“Indeed,” Idoyu agreed. “They’ll be looking for us now. West to Eidan?”
Egil nodded. It was the only choice left. North would be expected, as that was the closest path to a port and Forfils. Birds would be sent and traps laid. South led them back to Bardetorre. East led to Kole. Nobody put themselves in Kole hands voluntarily. “First road west or cross country if we don’t find one by midnight.”
“Agreed.”
They urged their tired horses back into a trot. They had a long night ahead of them.
13.
Alda — The Far Flung Road
* * *
Alda learned very quickly that staying on the back of a galloping horse wasn’t as easy as everyone made it look. She was nearly bounced off the second she set it running and had to cling desperately to its mane to keep on board. This seemed to signal the horse that it was in charge, and instead of running where Alda wanted to go, it decided to run in a different direction. That direction was, of course, straight back to camp, where its food and friends were. Alda nearly fell off a second time as she disabused the mare of this notion, screaming at it and boxing its ears until it turned back north.
The other thing she learned about galloping horses is how quickly they tire. After only a few miles, the mare, coated in foamy sweat and breathing like a bellows, came to an abrupt stop. And this time, Alda did get thrown. She rolled with it, and the Far Flung Road was overblown with sand from the Wandering Desert in this section, so she wasn’t injured. She came to her feet angry, and ready to take it out on the mare. But when she looked at it, she saw how ill-used it had been. The beast’s flanks were white with sweat, its eyes wide with fear. She could tell that if she yelled or swatted it, or moved in any way aggressively toward it, it would flee.
“Easy girl,” she said, trying to imitate the voice she’d heard stable hands and drovers use on recalcitrant beasts, or whores on angry drunken men. “You’re doing fine.”
Clearly, the horse was not. It was exhausted and terrified and all the trust Alda had built up with it over the last week was gone.
“I’m sorry, girl,” she said, and the mare shook its head and nickered quietly. I hope that’s a good sign. She took a slow step forward, hand outraised. If I can just get a hold of its lead…
She took another step forward. “I didn’t know. I know now, and it won’t happen again. I promise.”
She was nearly within reach when the mare suddenly regained a touch of energy and made a four-footed jump sideways. Alda froze. The mare looked at her and bared its teeth, as if it was grinning at her. Alda smiled back.
“Yes, let’s laugh it off,” she said. “Let it go. I’ll do better next time.”
She moved forward again and the mare matched her with a step backward. She wanted to shout at it, hit it, make it obey her, but she just knew that wouldn’t work.
Especially if I can’t even reach it.
She slowed her approach, adjusted her tone. The mare backed away, keeping tantalizingly just out of reach. It was looking calmer, though, its eyes not as wide, the sweat subsiding to salt tracks down its hide. Alda thought that if she could just get hold of the reins, she could be back on board and be off again. At a steadier pace this time.
God of weighted knucklebones, if you could just throw me a little bit of luck here…
But then the sound of a different horse neighing drifted in from the distance, and she knew her bad luck was still holding strong.
The mare spun around at the sound.
“No!” Alda cried but it was too late. The horse was already loping back the way they’d come. It was gone in the dark in seconds.
Alda wanted to scream her frustration into the night but there was no time. If she could hear their horses, then pursuit was too close. Way too close.
She ran.
Learning from her mistake with the horse, she set herself to a swift pace, but something she could maintain. The riders behind were surely more experienced than she and would be holding their mounts back to keep them fresh.
If I can outpace them long enough, perhaps they’ll turn back.
It was a fool’s hope, she knew, but it was all she had. She looked desperately for a place to hide, but there was naught but trackless desert to one side and scrub-covered mountains on the other.
I can run up the mountain and die exhausted on its slopes, she thought. Or run into the desert and die in the sand. That gave her an idea. I can bury myself in the sand!
She took two steps into the sand and realized immediately that it wouldn’t work. The sand was deep and soft and she left giant tracks in it. If she left the road, they’d have no trouble seeing where. She was pretty sure there was a way to hide your tracks, but she didn’t know it. Never had to worry about it before.
Can’t be hard can it?
But somehow she couldn’t convince herself that she’d do a good enough job to fool whoever Bontou had sent after her.
It’ll be some of his desert guides. And if there’s one thing they know, it’s sand. There was nothing for it but to keep to the road. Hope it forked up ahead, have some turnoffs she could go down. Anything to shake her pursuers or at least make them split up. All burying myself will do is save them the trouble of digging my grave themselves. She ran.
She made it to mid-morning when, disgusted by how straight and uninterrupted the road was and lathered in sweat herself, she heard a shout and turned to see three riders in white desert robes leading four riderless horses—three remounts and the traitorous mare—just kicking their horses from a leisurely trot into a gallop.
“Damn all gods,” Alda muttered and tried to kick herself into a gallop as well. But after running all night, she had nothing left and all the effort did was cause her to stumble. By the time she recovered they were upon her. She drew knives and tried to defend herself but these were no unprepared nobleman’s guards. These were caravan riders, raised in the wild lands between civilizations, bred to saddle, spear, and sword, and she wasn’t the first fugitive they had run down.
And run her down they did. Didn’t even bother to draw steel. Just used their horses for weapons. She dove out of the way of the first to reach her, but another was right behind and hit her square. The horse’s big chest sent her flying through the air and she was too stunned to roll proper. By the time she recovered, she was pinned to the ground by a long spear to her chest. She tried to wriggle free, but the rider holding the spear clicked his tongue and his horse took a single step forward, driving the point of the spear just hard enough to pierce the skin and rasp on her breastbone. She wasn’t sure whether the gash or the indignity of how easily they caught her stung more.
A single twitch and I’m skewered like a roasting pig.
The rider nodded as though he’d read her mind and sent a gap-toothed grin down the length of his spear at her. The other two riders dismounted and grabbed her up, binding her ankles to her wrists behind her back swiftly and professionally.
“Foolish girl,” the nearest rider said, pulling back his cowl and scarf.
“Isrim!” she said, recognizing the snow-touched hair and bushy white moustache of the friendly caravan guard. “There’s been a mistake!”
“Hush,” he said, though not unkindly. “There has been no mistake. You are a brave but foolish girl and now you must pay the price.”
“You have to help me, Isrim. I—”
“Hush!” There was nothing kind in his voice now and Alda saw that there’d be no help from that quarter.
“Tie her to the Eidannian beast,” he said to the gap-toothed rider who had dismounted now, still holding his spear. He nodded obsequiously and strode over to her. She didn’t know how they expected her to walk over to the mare, trussed up as she was. But he ran the spear under the rope that bound her wrists and ankles and the other rider grabbed the other end and together they lifted her up easily.
And began walking away from the horses.
Are these two fools or…
The gap-toothed rider reached out and pinched her flank, giggling like an imbecile when she yelped and squirmed.
“Isrim!” she shouted, hating the panicked squeak in her voice that made her sound like a child.
The second rider slapped her then, but she barely felt it over the fear.
I have been a very foolish girl, but this is not the price I should pay!
Isrim turned at his name and frowned. “The mare,” he said and the two other riders smiled and nodded. But they made no move to return her to her horse. Instead, they put her down. “The mare!” Isrim said again, louder this time.
