Storm's Clouds, page 16
part #2 of Stormfall Chronicles Series
* * *
Bruno steadied his aim, waiting for the horseman to come within range of his bow – very much aware the horseman was doing the same to him. His arms were already tired from the exertion, and he was straining to hold his hunting bow steady. He knew he had an advantage in range against the shorter, riding bows used by the northern tribesmen, but this was his last arrow – and he needed to make it count.
The onslaught had been brutal. The outlying farms had been struck first, before there had been any time to react. Coming across the freshly harvested fields, the northerners had cut down young and old alike with little to slow them down. But the cluster of trees closer to the inner ring of the settlement had slowed the horsemen’s charge. The settlers had time to arrange wagons and overturn tables into crude barriers. They had finally begun to make the northern raiders pay for their incursion.
Bruno let go of his arrow at the extreme limit of his range. The northern horseman turned his horse but was too slow. He was struck in the shoulder. The wounded northerner would not be using a bow anytime soon. Meanwhile, another two horsemen had taken advantage of the distraction to dodge between the covering trees and close within spear range of the huddled buildings. They would be upon him in seconds – a burly northerner and a lighter weight, darker-skinned boy.
Bruno could see them clearly. The narrow beard and mustache of the northern horseman. The focused look as he hefted his spear, eyes fixed on Bruno. The boy trailed a couple of horse-lengths behind, more lightly built and dressed differently from the northerners. He was already charging down, almost on top of an elderly woman who had been racing to reach the inner circle of barriers. The boy had a javelin raised back: standing, perched in his stirrups, poised to strike. There was no way Bruno could reach the old woman in time. He’d be lucky if he could save himself.
Bruno dropped his bow and reached for his axe, preparing himself for what was likely to be his final stand. He was out of arrows, but he had no intention of going down without a fight. He might be only a simple woodsman, but he had already proven his axe would severe flesh as readily as wood. He would make the northerners pay dearly.
With his eyes fixed on the two charging horsemen, Bruno had failed to see where the dark-clad figure who sprinted into view had come from. The figure leapt from the rooftop of a neighboring shop – hurling himself across the burly northerner. He grappled for the spear, plowing his knee into the northerner’s hip and throwing him off-balance. The dark-clad stranger brought the blade of a sword up and across with his other hand, slicing neatly through the northerner’s leather padding and across his throat. It was a practiced, fluid motion. Something only an experienced swordsman could have attempted, struggling for balance on the back of a horse. The broad, burly northerner tumbled out of the saddle and to the ground, while the stranger balanced himself on the edge of the saddle, seizing the reins. The swordsman struggled to gain control of the charging beast. The horse reared.
The charging boy, meanwhile, had hesitated as he approached the fleeing farm wife. Whether from inexperience or last-minute pangs of regret, he had over-ridden and failed to release his javelin, putting himself on a collision course with the newly arrived stranger.
The dark clad swordsman swung his seized horse around, nearly colliding with the boy and his charging mount. The boy’s horse reared in alarm, and the boy struggled to retain control. The confusion gave the dark-clad stranger the time he needed to grip the boy’s arm, wrenching the light-weight boy up and off his horse.
The boy rolled across the ground, losing his grip on his javelin – another two falling from his shield arm. One of the settlers seized the moment to spring forward from behind the cover of a wagon, bringing the long handle of his shovel across the boy’s upper arm. The wooden handle narrowly missed the boy’s collarbone, striking his upper arm instead. There was a sickening crack as the boy’s upper arm broke and was left dangling, still weighed-down and tied to his shield. It hung useless at his side. With the boy doubled over in pain, the villager grabbed the arm of the elderly woman who had been fleeing for cover and dragged her behind the wagon.
The dark-clad swordsman swung himself off the horse, seizing the bow and quiver from the slain northern tribesman. Bruno was about to warn him, remind him how the short, lightweight bows of the northerners wouldn’t have the range to be effective against the approaching horsemen. But to his surprise, the black-clad stranger sent a volley of arrows which somehow found their mark. Almost as if the arrows had been propelled by magic. They scored direct hits on two other approaching horsemen – burying themselves through their necks, where their padded armor afforded no protection. The two fell from their horses, mid-stride.
Steeling his courage, Bruno charged forward to cover the stranger’s left flank, swinging his wood-axe as another horseman approached. This horseman had been weaving between the trees from the left – while the stranger had been dealing with the horses charging from their right. Bruno narrowly dodged a thrust from the horseman’s spear. Bruno swung his axe, years of experience from wood-chopping guiding his aim. Any hesitation he might once have had about using his blade against human flesh had evaporated earlier when he saw his fellow townsmen, friends he had known for years, struck down or dying. Bruno’s stroke sliced through the arm of the horseman at the elbow. The raiding tribesman crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding limb. Another well-aimed swing of Bruno’s axe finished him off.
With the element of surprise gone, and surprised by the ferocity of the resistance, the remaining raiders pulled back and withdrew. Bruno’s chest was heaving from the exertion, his limbs heavy with fatigue. The engagement had lasted less than an hour but had been fierce. He held his axe tight, his fingers painful from the grip. The last of the raiders turned and disappeared into the northeast.
Bruno was suddenly aware of how loud his own breathing was. He could hear the stifled moans of the wounded, as he struggled to bring his breathing under control. Only when he was certain the raiders had all fled, did he lower his weapon and address the dark-clad stranger.
The black-cloaked man was tall, but shorter than Bruno, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He was not as broad as Bruno was, but there was a glimmer of chain mail beneath the stranger’s black tunic. A three-pronged lightning bolt was stitched in silver thread across his chest. A professional swordsman, no doubt trained in some military camp west or south, and who now sought employment as a bodyguard for merchants or the wealthy. Bruno had seen their like before, when he had lived further west, near the capital city of Fairhall. But he had never observed one this far into the eastern wilderness.
“Thank you, stranger. It’s not often we see a professional swordsman in these parts.” Bruno was tall, and broad. He was easily the largest man in this small settlement, with a bushy, black mustache and a square-jawed face.
The dark clad man unstrung an arrow from the captured bow, looking up at Bruno. “I heard the commotion as I was passing by. Just glad I came when I did. It looks like fortune has smiled on both of us.” He extended his hand. “I am called Garth.”
“I am Bruno,” he replied, shaking his hand heartily.
“Any idea what those northerners wanted?”
“They were here a month ago. Told us every third able-bodied man needed to join their army or risk the destruction of our village.”
“Join their army? An army for what?”
“They didn’t say.”
Garth glanced across the battlefield. The bodies of the first couple of settlers to fall could be seen at the edge of their tilled fields. They had been hacked repeatedly by the mercenaries who had followed the horsemen on foot.
“Fortunately, the trees forced them to slow their charge,” Garth said. “If this had been on the open plains, where the northerners come from, it could have been much worse.”
* * *
Waya gasped as the bindings were tightened, securing him to the chair. The old villager who had tied him down had been none too gentle. He saw the room through a cloud of pain. He was in the corner of a large meeting hall. He had failed. He had been lied to. And he was lost.
“Where are you from boy?” The tall pale westerner with the bushy moustache was standing over him, speaking to him in the common language. Waya ignored him. It would all be over soon enough anyways.
Where was he? What had he become? He had been told they would be raiding Lotaria – the kingdom of foul-smelling, pale westerners. He had expected to be facing soldiers behind stone barricades, the brutal savages who would torture and kill travelers who didn’t fit their mold for what “normal” should be. Not some pointless village of farmers with mules and chickens. He was going to be a real warrior, someone who had proven his bravery in battle. Either that, or dead on the battlefield. Not some boy who couldn’t bring himself to fling a javelin at a fleeing old woman. Either of the other alternatives would have been preferable to the reality he now faced.
Waya had seen Oktai brought down, his throat slit by a black-clad mercenary who had seemingly fallen from the sky. He had watched Timur’s arm chopped off by the big, pale-faced farmer with a wood axe. None of this was how Waya had expected it would be. None of this was how it was supposed to happen. And soon, he would be exposed and dead. Just like Timur. He wondered where Adsila was. Wondered how she would remember him. His vision was blurry, whether from the throbbing pain in his arm – or from memories of what might have been.
* * *
The firelight seemed incapable of penetrating the gloom of the settlement’s long meeting hall, its orange and red flickering light casting disquieting shadows across the walls and faces of the gathered men.
“This is by far the worst our settlement has endured.” Bruno spoke as the townsmen bent around the table. “We have had bandit raids before, but this was different. It was like a war.”
“Four farmers and two wives,” added another of the village’s residents. “I can’t remember when I’ve had to bury so many.”
Bruno turned to Garth, who was seated on his right. “We know you’re not one of us, but we’d appreciate your experience and advice as a soldier. How would you interpret this attack? Is it finally over? Will there be more to come?”
Garth surveyed the faces. So many of them despondent. It had been a long, somber afternoon, burying the victims. Many more had been injured. These men were farmers, bakers, blacksmiths – not fighters. It had been a lopsided battle from the beginning.
He glanced into the corner of the room, where the boy he had dislodged from horseback had been bound to a chair. His left arm was broken and dangling, his right arm bound behind his back. His ankles had been tied tightly against the legs of the chair. The townsfolk had been none too gentle in securing him. There had been several dead among the northern raiders – and a couple more heavily wounded whom they had dispatched without sympathy. The boy was trying to put on a defiant face. But he looked scared to Garth. Young, far from home, and afraid.
“You said they asked you to join their army a week ago?” Garth asked.
“They have been making similar demands across settlements throughout eastern Lotaria,” said one of the older men.
“It does not bode well,” Garth replied. He wanted to do more, but he couldn’t guarantee their safety. He wouldn’t be doing them any favors if he wasn’t honest about it. “They will likely be back, and in greater numbers. You will either need to fortify yourselves or withdraw west.”
“Where is Fairhall in all this?” asked one of the townsmen. “We sent word when the first northerners made their demands. Why have we heard nothing back? Why didn’t they sent soldiers to protect us?”
“Is there any chance you could be persuaded to stay?” pleaded another member of the community.
“Unfortunately, I have business I am already late in attending to,” replied Garth.
“Is there anything we could give you in thanks,” asked Bruno. “We don’t have much to offer, but what we can spare is yours.”
Garth looked over at the boy again. “What’s to become of the boy? The one who rode with the raiding horsemen?”
“He’s refused to talk or even acknowledge anyone,” Bruno replied. “We’ll be handing him over to officials from Fairhall, when the next magistrate arrives. They send a traveling magistrate and officers to settle disputes. They usually arrive every six months or so.”
“Ha!” replied one of the older farmers, still nursing a nasty, bloody wound across one arm. “They’ll know how to force a confession out of him! He’ll wish he had died before they’re done.”
Garth watched the boy wince as the farmer spoke. He was still staring at the floor, but his reaction had been unmistakable. The boy did know the common tongue – and had been listening all along.
Garth debated his course of action. He had already been delayed. There were doubtless other northern raiding parties in the west which needed to be tracked down. He had been diverted long enough. But could he bring himself to just leave the boy to his fate?
“I’ll take two of the horses left behind by the northern raiders,” Garth replied. “And the boy they abandoned. I could find better use for him among the southern ports.”
“Selling him to the slave traders at Fondio?” the old farmer remarked, smiling wryly. “Better than he deserves.”
Bruno glanced across at the bound boy. He had his own pangs of remorse for whatever happened to the lad. But he knew the townsfolk were too angry, too thirsty for vengeance to imagine anything otherwise. The boy would be as good as dead once the magistrate arrived. At least as a slave he might still be alive, somewhere. “We have no use for him. No point in wasting another mouthful of food. He’s yours. Do as you see fit.”
* * *
Garth secured his supplies to the saddle packs of the horse, quietly whispering words of encouragement to the animal. The horse perked up its ears, as Garth’s voice entered its thoughts. Yes, he would cooperate. Garth swung himself up and into the saddle. The northern horses were lighter than the work horses of the village – built for traveling long distances rather than plowing. The villagers would have had little use for the animals.
The raider boy with the broken arm had been bound face-down across the saddle of another horse, tied secure like so much baggage – his ankles and one good arm bound in place, anchoring him across the saddle. His broken arm had been bound against his side so as not to drag. Garth observed one of the villagers securing him. The old farmer made sure the ropes were tight and the knots firm. Garth saw the boy tighten his jaw as the ropes were pulled taut – but he didn’t cry out.
They handed Garth the lead rope for the second horse, and he secured it to his own saddle. “Thanks again,” Bruno said, coming up to shake his hand.
“Perhaps we will meet again, under kinder circumstances,” Garth replied.
“We might return in a year or two,” Bruno said. Garth knew the settlers had been talking amongst themselves late into the night – long after Garth had absented himself for the evening. He was not surprised by the outcome. “But for now, we’ve all agreed to withdraw west, further from the frontier.”
“I can understand,” Garth said. With one final wave to the somber gathering, he set out, following the rugged trade track to the south.
It was a sunny autumn day, the leaves on the trees already changing to hues of gold and bronze. The trade route wound its way between the gap separating the Western and Eastern Feideid Mountain ranges. It was a good day for travel, with the horses picking up a smooth trot.
They had traveled for nearly an hour without speaking, before Garth slowed his horse to a walk, and turned his animal off from the narrow trail. Climbing over the rough terrain he guided his mount eastward – into the forest. The second horse with the boy slung over its saddle followed. “Ne yu mengzi ma?” Garth asked. “Do you have a name?”
The boy looked around, startled to hear someone addressing him in his native tongue. “Where are you taking me?” he asked.
“East. Do you have a name?”
“Waya.”
“Tell me, Waya, why did you hesitate when you rode-down the old woman at the edge of the settlement? You could easily have speared her in your first pass. Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” the boy replied.
“That hesitation, lad, is the only reason I let you live. If you had struck the old woman, I would have left you to the villagers to be disposed of. Their magistrate could have decided in what manner you would die. Tell me, what is a boy from Tsien doing, riding with tribesmen from the northern reaches?”
“I am no boy. I ride to prove myself a man.”
“Preying on the weak does not make you a man. Or anything else you might aspire to be. Until you understand this, you will never become an adult.”
* * *
Garth rode on until noon, before he finally stopped to eat and untie his prisoner. The forests they were traversing were growing more rugged, the hills steadily steeper. The sunlight lit the forest in dazzling autumn colors, and the air was growing cooler as they climbed through the foothills.
Waya rubbed his ankles with his one good hand – his circulation returning painfully. Garth regarded the boy’s arm, considering his options. They were still a long way from Tsien, and he didn’t want the boy to seize upon any more foolish ideas. Garth searched through the surrounding undergrowth, retrieving a pair of sturdy branches, and returned with a strip of cloth from his knapsack.
“Hold still,” Garth said. “We’ll need to secure your arm, or it will never heal.” Waya grit his teeth, determined not to squeal or cry out in pain. Garth tightened the splint, then constructed a sling from another length of cloth.
He handed the boy a canteen, which Waya accepted reluctantly. After he had finished drinking, Garth offered the boy a biscuit of traveler’s bread. Waya bit down on it. It was hard, dry, and tasteless – like everything else in these strange lands. But he was hungry. He needed something to eat. Something to build his strength, until he could find a way to escape from his captor.
