Getting his rifle up, Bray slowly aimed at the man. The man’s eyes flicked from Bray, to Kirby, to William, and to the horses, farther back. His muddied face made it difficult to read his expression, or his intent.
“Hello!” Bray called, keeping his gun trained.
The man kept stock-still, judging them. Or maybe he was just as surprised to see them.
“Can you understand me?” Bray asked. Most of the people Bray had encountered spoke a language similar to Brighton’s, but he’d learned that some tribes had developed their own speak.
The man didn’t respond, or look away. Bray’s stomach tightened. He didn’t trust anyone he couldn’t see fully. Waving the tip of the rifle, he motioned the man out from his hiding place. The man hesitated, at first, before inching out from behind the tree.
Tattered pants hung around his waist; a small bag hung at his thigh. His shirt was torn, revealing patches of white skin through the mud. A few fresh scratches marred his arms, probably from navigating the landscape. Bray’s eyes riveted to the man’s clenched fist, where a long, corded rope hung from his fingers, a strange pouch attached at the end.
“What is that?” Kirby whispered to Bray.
“A sling,” Bray said quietly. “They’re almost as deadly as the guns you and I are holding, if the right people use them.”
Kirby nodded, lifting her rifle, while William stayed put.
The sling gently swayed.
“Stay back, or we’ll use our guns on you,” Bray warned.
Bray wasn’t threatening the man twice. He waved his rifle. The strange device usually gave even the most ignorant barbarian pause.
A hiss from Kirby drew his attention elsewhere.
In the time they’d stood staring, more grime-covered men had stepped from their hiding places behind the thick tree trunks below, making no effort to hide the long, rope-like weapons in their hands, or the bags at their hips. All wore thick beards, their clothing shredded and torn.
Clearly, these men weren’t here to talk.
Bray’s pulse pounded as the men wound their slings, preparing to hurl something. Guns or not, Bray, Kirby, and William were in more danger than they could handle.
Lifting his rifle, Bray fired a warning shot. Bark exploded from one of the trees.
The men cried out and ducked out of sight.
“To the horses!” he cried.
Bray backed away a few steps and fired again, splashing up water and mud, while Kirby unleashed a bullet of her own. Neither waited another moment. Turning, they made for the horses.
The restless steeds whinnied, pulling against the ropes tying them to the tree where they stood near William. They were battling steeds, used to fighting, but the sudden appearance of the men had them anxious.
“Get them loose!” Bray yelled to William.
William untied them, keeping hold of the ropes and waiting nervously for Bray and Kirby.
Bray was within steps of his horse when something screeched past him, splitting the bark of a nearby tree. More projectiles whizzed through the air, thudding into the side of the slope he and Kirby had just overlooked.
What were those high-pitched sounds? He had no time to decipher the reason for the noise.
Bray jumped on his snorting, stamping steed, while Kirby and William mounted the other. The horses spun, unnerved, awaiting direction.
Hitting his horse’s flanks, Bray shouted, “Go!”
With effort, he got his steed moving south on the trail, while Kirby and William galloped after him. Bray and Kirby each clutched their reins, ducking low on their saddles as round objects soared past their heads, slammed into the trail’s bordering trees, or disappeared far ahead down the path. Thrusting his rifle behind him, Bray fired a few defensive shots, but he heard no cries of pain. All he heard was the splash of muddy, pursuing feet.
Dammit!
“What are they flinging?” Kirby shouted, over the clop of their horses.
“I’m not sure!” Bray called back.
The horses sped faster, stamping down thick vegetation and overgrown grasses. Bray fought to stay on his jolting saddle. A projectile thudded into the ground in front of him, kicking up debris, leaving a hole the size of a coin.
That hole could just as easily have been in his head.
Bray directed his horse left and right, weaving, while Kirby and William did the same. The steeds were fast, but who knew how far the slings could reach? They rode the trail for a while, zigzagging back and forth, until the whistling noises stopped.
Seemingly out of range, Bray turned, catching sight of their attackers standing on the bank, way in the distance.
The men lowered their slings, staring menacingly after them. Their mud-slicked bodies made them look like demons.
Bray shuddered.
He, Kirby, and William kept riding, until the forest swallowed them up.
Chapter 3 - Bray
“Pig chasers,” Bray swore under his breath as his horse trotted. “That’s what they are.”
Beneath him, his steed grunted and twitched its ears. The galloping had further exhausted the horses. Hoping not to injure them, they moved at a slower pace, navigating the brush-covered trail. Bray looked over his shoulder, but all he saw was the long, empty path down which they’d ridden.
Gluing his eyes to the trail and the descending slopes, William wondered, “Are those men gone?”
Bray followed his gaze. “As dangerous as they are, I doubt they could catch up to our horses so quickly.”
“I’ve never seen a barbarian tribe quite like them,” Kirby observed.
“They’re using the mud to their advantage.” Bray looked down at his stained, brown pants. “If they want it, they can have it.”
“Hopefully there aren’t more of them,” Kirby warned.
Pensive silence followed her words.
For a while, they rode without talking, keeping alert and aware. The trees in the marshes on either side of the trail had grown darker and fatter, with dense moss creeping around their bases, and thick, sprouting branches that veiled anyone who might be hiding behind.
Returning to an earlier question, Kirby asked, “Do you think those were pieces of metal they were flinging?”
Putting something together, Bray said, “They might be stones. A few settlers I met near Brighton used to bore holes in the center of them so they’d make noise.”
“Why?” Kirby asked, furrowing her brow.
“To inspire terror in the demons, or anyone else they faced.” Bray wiped some sweat from his brow. “The noise gives the settlers an advantage during a fight. It unnerves even the boldest enemies.”
“I haven’t heard of that technique,” Kirby said, looking at Bray’s sword. “Though, granted, there are many techniques in this land that I haven’t heard or seen before.”
“The settlers I’m thinking of made their slings from dogsbane, with dried pieces of animal hide to construct the pouches. These men might use something similar.” Bray scratched his stubbly chin.
Kirby said, “It bothers me that our guns didn’t frighten them.”
“We’ve been lucky enough to scare off most of the barbarian tribes we’ve seen, since leaving The Arches,” Bray said, patting his pistol. “Maybe they thought it was worth attacking us to get to them.”
“They might want the weapons for themselves, like too many others,” William chimed in, looking at the pistol at his side and his rifle, which stuck out of the back of Kirby’s bag.
“Or they’re just ignorant,” grumbled Bray, hoping his guess was true.
Bray exhaled. For a long while, they trotted down the trail, spotting nothing but the same dreariness. Here and there, bushes or fallen tree limbs poked up through the brown sludge, like skeletal hands reaching up for mercy. Rotted stumps protruded from the ground where trees had fallen, or decayed. Shaking his head, Bray realized he’d take a Brighton snowstorm over this, any day.
A while later, they saw something else.
&nbs
p; “What is that?” William asked, pointing past a slight curve.
Bray tensed. In the distance, a cluster of fallen trees lay sideways, clutching at the last of their dying, brown leaves and blocking the trail. Bray saw no stumps from where the trees might’ve fallen.
“Someone did this on purpose,” he deduced.
“What should we do?” Kirby asked, looking behind her.
The landscape was ominously silent.
“If we turn around, we’ll run into those men,” Bray warned. “And obviously it would take too much effort to remove this blockade. We’ll have to ride around.”
Kirby looked from the impasse to the sludgy marsh below, and then back again.
“If we do it quickly, we might not lose much ground,” Bray said.
With little other choice, they rode the horses down the steep bank, descending to the marshes.
Chapter 4 – The Trail Guard
The Trail Guard looked between his companions and the freshly trodden pathway. The round divots from horses’ hooves were easy enough to follow. Every so often, where the ground was soft, he caught sight of those telltale marks. Of course, he couldn’t miss the freshly trampled weeds.
The man, woman, and boy were still on the path. Whoever these people were, they must be dealt with.
The Guard had seen numerous people traveling this trail in his years, always wearing different clothing, speaking different tongues. Some carried powerful weapons, like these strangers, while others had simplistic ones. All were a threat. Strangers who knew of his people’s existence inevitably found their village and raped, pillaged, or stole the best of their meager stores.
Long ago, his forefathers had offered protection and assistance for anyone who passed through here, in exchange for a toll. Respected and widely known, they even bartered goods and supplies in several outpost buildings.
All that had ended on the Day of the Raid.
The Trail Guard would never forget the generations-old story. On a day many years ago, a pack of strangers had come through his people’s outposts. Rather than bartering, the strangers had pulled out their enormous, jagged knives and slaughtered every man, woman, and child.
But they hadn’t just massacred them.
In some twisted, barbaric message of cruelty that no one understood to this day, the strangers had strung up the dead bodies outside the buildings, leaving them to rot. Only one person had survived to tell the tale—an injured woman who’d broken free and made her way back to the settlement, where she told the tale before dying.
Every last supply had been stolen that day.
By the time the rest of the Trail Guard’s ancestors returned to the scene of decimation, the Infected Ones were all over the dead, gnawing their flesh and turning the outposts into stinking, feral nests. The Trail Guard’s ancestors had abandoned those buildings from that day forward.
They’d never trust strangers again.
The Trail Guard spit on the ground. He and his comrades moved quietly through the whipping weeds, treading close to the top of the trail and preparing to hide, should the strangers come within view. Determination painted their faces.
They were the protectors of their people and the keepers of their wet haven; they performed their duty with a swift finality that made their families proud.
The man removed the tattered rag from his head, soaking up some sweat. Several scars flecked his bearded cheeks and his nose—remnants of previous battles. Without thinking about it, he lowered his hands to his pocket, patting the circular ring of bones he kept stashed there for luck.
The horses would be of great value to his people. They would not harm them, if possible. And the strangers’ weapons would serve an even greater goal.
They’d protect his people from other pillagers. Raiders. Scavengers. Intruders.
All would give their lives as a toll.
Chapter 5 – Kirby
Kirby held tight to the horse’s reins, clutching her rifle and trotting through the water and sticky mud. She kept an eye on her surroundings as they passed the blockade. Every so often, she felt the weight of William’s body behind her as he carefully adjusted on the saddle.
Riding double had taken some practice. Since they left the Arches, her horse had acclimated to the burden of an extra rider, but they still had to be careful about giving the animal mixed signals. An unintended nudge or an accidental kick could send the animal racing in a wrong direction.
The horses’ weariness worried her; if they pushed them too hard, they’d get hurt.
But they had more immediate concerns.
“Another blockade!” William said, calling her attention above.
Kirby followed his pointing finger up the slope. He was right. About two hundred feet ahead and up the incline, another cluster of branches blocked the way.
“Bloody hell,” Bray said grimly.
Meeting Bray’s eyes, Kirby said, “This feels like a trap.”
Bray glanced over from his steed. “My thoughts exactly.”
“They want us—or anyone else coming through here—to stay in the marsh, where it’s harder to travel,” Kirby said, watching the horses’ slow, drudging hooves. “They want to slow us down.”
Bray nodded cautiously.
“Who knows how long they watched us earlier before showing themselves?” Kirby asked. “For all we know, we’re headed into another ambush.”
Too many battles in foreign lands had made Kirby wary. A smart enemy always used the terrain to their advantage.
Keeping close to the slope’s bottom, they passed the second obstruction, prepared for malicious men to spring from behind the trees, or act on an unspoken cue. Nothing. A while later, they spotted a third barrier.
“Maybe we can veer west,” Bray suggested. “We might get lucky and get out of this sludgy mess.”
As if on cue, Kirby’s horse stomped its hoof, tired of the mud. They scanned the distance.
“Do you see that?” William hissed to his companions and pointed ahead. “Buildings!”
Off a ways through the trees, they could just make out several old, upright structures, constructed of cement—what William and Bray called Ancient stone. Kirby scanned the forest around them, but she saw no sign of their mud-slicked pursuers.
“Maybe we can head toward them,” William suggested. “We can rest the horses behind them.”
“Maybe we’ll find some dry land beyond,” Bray said.
“For all we know, those vile men live there,” Kirby warned.
With an intuition that still surprised her, William said, “I don’t think they would live so close to the trail, where anyone passing by might spot them. I bet they live somewhere more secluded, hidden from travelers.”
“We won’t know for sure, until we get close,” Kirby cautioned.
“Or until they brain us with one of their rocks,” Bray muttered.
“We won’t get much farther if we don’t rest the horses,” William persisted. “They’re exhausted, and they never got a chance to graze. I think it’s worth heading that way, if only for a little while.”
After a deciding glance with Bray, Kirby turned her horse. “Come on. Let’s check it out.”
Chapter 6 – The Trail Guard
The Trail Guard and his companions forged faster, avoiding fallen limbs and scraggly brush. The path just above remained frustratingly empty; still, he had faith that he and his brothers would catch up. They’d put their barriers in place for situations like this.
His men ran without complaint, neither slowing nor stumbling. They’d run this path so many times that they moved along on muscle memory.
The sight of the large beasts, and the people’s powerful weapons, felt like an answer from the mire. For weeks, the muddied man’s people had suffered a sickness that had confined dozens to bed, robbing them of strength, resorting them to prayer. The illness had afflicted several of his best hunters, forcing the crop-tending women to take care of them, instead of harvesting from the land.<
br />
Because of the illness, their resources were worn thin, and their tribe grew weak.
Were it not for the luck of the heavens, the Trail Guard might’ve missed the strangers and their magnificent beasts. Divine intervention—that’s what it was. The Trail Guard knew how fast those large, graceful horses could travel. They’d allow he and his men to extend their foraging circles farther, to the very edges of the wetland’s bounds.
The muddied man knew about the dangers that lurked outside of the mire. As perilous as the wetlands could be, they were safer than other areas, because they were unwelcoming. Most strangers stayed away from them. Living here kept them safe and apart from the nomadic bands of men and women who might raid them. Now, they had only the occasional travelers—pillagers they could effectively dispose of.
Isolation is the key to salvation. That’s what his father always said.
Keeping that mantra in mind, the Trail Guard led his brothers along a high curve. Every so often, he looked down the slope at the marshland, just in case they’d missed some critical sign.
The horses had allowed the strangers to make quick ground.
But they’d catch up.
They’d prevail.
Chapter 7 – Kirby
Kirby, Bray, and William rode through the swampland, heading farther from the elevated trail and west toward the distant buildings. The horses contended with hidden rocks and branches in the muddy water, pulling short and snorting at the obstacles.
Soon they got a better view of the structures they’d seen. Three dilapidated buildings rose to the height of several men standing on top of one another. Vines and weeds choked the walls. The roofs were mostly intact, except for the building on the far end, which had a tree growing up through the ceiling.
They pressed on, scanning a few glassless windows, even though they were too far away to see through them clearly.
“The entrances must be on the other side,” Bray guessed. “Let’s ride around.”
They clopped through the mud, keeping their distance while circling the buildings. Soon they had a view of the opposite walls. The wide, empty entrances were the width of two great doors, crumbled and overgrown. Cracks weakened the walls. Filtered light dappled the buildings’ interiors; they could detect no movement from within.
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