Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)

by A. D. Green

  With a start Renco turned back to his task. The fish smelt burnt. He singed his fingers in his haste to remove them from the heat. He lay the skewers against a log, blew on his hands, then turned to stir the broth.

  He glanced across at Mao to find the old man with his crooked teeth, grinning at him. It was unusual enough that Renco smiled back holding his hand up in thanks. His master may not have been as subtle.

  Together they waited. After a short while Hiro stirred. Unfolding his legs he knelt, taking a long deep breath and sighed. “Chargrilled, my favourite Renco.”

  The boy nodded his thanks, a grin slipping onto his face at Maohong’s scowl. Rising, Renco removed the skewer and leaf wrap from the first of the fillets and laid it on a plate. Taking a ladle he dipped it into the pan, holding it so none of the fish bones were caught, then poured the broth into a mug. Taking both plate and mug he laid them before his master and knelt, bowing his head to the floor.

  “Thank you Renco for the gift of food,” Hiro intoned, nodding his thanks.

  Renco filled another plate and mug and handed them to Maohong who simply grunted.

  Finally taking his own plate Renco tried the fish. It was a little singed on the outside and it needed more seasoning but the flesh was succulent and tasty nevertheless. In between bites he sipped at his broth and was pleased with the result.

  After the meal Mao was the first to rise and gather the plates. It was usually Renco’s duty to clean up but a glare from Maohong kept him in his seat. The old man disappeared into the darkness heading for the river.

  Hiro rose and, fetching his staff, walked into the tall grass just outside the fire’s light. He stood still and unmoving for a time before lifting one leg and stretching it out. He held the pose a while before twisting and moving into another, his movements slow and precise. It was a familiar routine and one Renco was well accustomed to. His master’s staff blended into his moves twirling slowly, as gracefully and as controlled as his body.

  Renco rose, judging he had waited long enough, any longer and Master Hiro would berate him. Moving to his bedroll he claimed his own staff. It was steel-tipped and finely balanced. He had fashioned it himself under Master Hiro’s instruction and, over the years as his lessons progressed, had carved many intricate runes on it.

  Taking a stance Renco fell into his own routine. There was no prescribed pattern to it but each move had a purpose and blended smoothly from one form into another. He lost himself to the exercise.

  When he was finished, muscles aching in that satisfying way he loved, Renco rested the staff across his shoulders, flexing his back. Martial training always made him happy. He was aware of Master Hiro sat by the fire, dark eyes watching and assessing, his face a mask. Renco wondered at his thoughts.

  Rising Hiro stepped away from the fire and took a stance, waiting. It was a challenge. They’d travelled hard and fast and it had been four days since the last challenge. Time enough for Renco’s bruises to heal, mostly.

  He focused on his master and took the crane stance; left foot raised, right foot planted. He twirled his staff in several wide impressive circles before snapping it to his body, anchoring one end under his right armpit, point extending out towards Hiro. Renco shifted his left foot gliding forward into the mantis position. He was being overly elaborate and would receive a lecture for his flashy display, but he enjoyed teasing Master.

  Hiro stepped forward until his face was a hand away from Renco’s staff tip. He held his own staff lightly in his left hand.

  Renco exploded, extending his staff in a short sharp jab. Hiro’s face was not there. He’d moved a fraction, the staff almost grazing his cheek as it passed him by.

  There was a mighty crack as Renco twisted his staff violently towards his master’s head but struck Hiro’s staff instead. Vibrations snaked up the pole, numbing hand and arm. Renco moved, spinning to his right and away. He felt the rush of air as his master’s attack slid past.

  Renco re-centred himself, orienting on his opponent who had not moved from his original stance. Infuriatingly, he held his staff in one hand still, relaxed and ready. Renco spun his weapon and stepped in, the steel-capped end blurring towards Hiro’s face before, with a deft flick, he diverted the blow hoping to avoid Hiro’s counter and strike his knee cap.

  His staff missed, the old man moving his leg almost casually out of its path. Renco kept moving, twisting away from a possible counter and then smoothly back in sweeping his staff low. Then out again, round and in jabbing for the torso, another step in and a sweep upwards to a loud crack as their staffs met again.

  Renco’s blows missed or met wood every time and still his master held the same position he’d started in. They battled in this way for some time, the speed and pace of Renco’s attacks increasing but never managing to penetrate Hiro’s defences.

  Renco didn’t get frustrated; he’d learnt patience the hard way having fought his master almost every day since becoming his ward. In the end it finished the way all their battles did, the method different but the result always the same. Tonight Renco over-extended as he sought to catch his master off balance only for Hiro to deflect his blow with a palm whilst slipping his staff between Renco’s legs and stepping in. Renco spinning away ended up on his arse, a flare of pain searing his left shin as it tangled with the wood.

  Hiro held his hand out and Renco gripped it. There was a wiry strength to the old master that belied his size as he effortlessly hoisted his student to his feet. Grunting Hiro moved off to the fire leaving Renco to dust himself down.

  Biting back on the pain Renco refused to limp, not with Maohong smirking at him. He didn’t want to give the old man the satisfaction. Sitting on a log he inspected the bruise on his shin. An angry welt was visible and he probed it gingerly with his fingers.

  “Leave leg alone. It better in morning,” Maohong said, handing across a water skin.

  Renco took it gratefully and gulped from its neck. Mao was right, he was a fast healer and the bruising would fade after a good sleep. Master Hiro told him it was because he was young and the young always healed quickly. He handed the water skin back and nodded his thanks.

  “Renco better, almost had Master.” Mao smirked. “But then Master did Renco much favour.”

  Renco glared at Mao then his leg.

  Maohong chortled, “Aye, leg nothing. Master flick staff up yes. Like so.” Maohong mimed a staff getting swept up, and then doubled over holding his crotch and cackling. “Oh yes, Master could have tickled your stones then Renco crawl back to camp, neh! So yes, Master favours Renco.” He laughed, pleased with himself, eyes twinkling with mischief.

  Renco took the teasing like he did most things in life, in silence. But he had to admit on reflection that Mao had a point. He grinned back at the realisation and nodded his agreement.

  “Bah, Renco no fun,” Maohong grumbled standing up. He wagged his head from side to side muttering under his breath as he headed for his bedroll.

  Hiro had watched the exchange from across the fire. “Mao is correct,” he said quietly. “Your skill is coming along well, not just the staff but all weapons.” He paused and Renco waited knowing there was more.

  “There is hesitancy in you. You do not fully commit to the moves. It is slight, but it is there. It will kill you one day unless you overcome it. I can try to teach you how, but make no mistake Renco; you are the one that must take the steps. I can only lead so far.” He smiled then and rising walked round the fire and held out a cup.

  Renco took it, screwing his face up, knowing from its heady aroma it was Master’s special brew. At least that was how he thought of it. He gulped the salty metallic concoction down quickly and in one go. It was the best way for it tasted terrible. His master only ever brought his flask of special brew out on rare occasions and he wondered at it now grimacing at the aftertaste in his mouth.

  “Get some sleep Renco, I’ll see to the fire. It will be an early start again.” Master Hiro said softly.

  Renco knelt and
bowed low to the floor,

  Chapter 6

  : The White Stallion

  “He’s a beauty, Sand. How can you bear to part with him?” Jacob Bouchemeax ran his hands along the horse’s shoulder marvelling at the feel.

  “Yep, he’s big and beautiful. Give you a chance to beat me at next year’s Green Fair.” Sandford Bouchemeax grinned, “Be good to have a challenge from someone other than my brothers.”

  “What’ll your Da say? I mean it’s a fine gift Sand but it’s too much.”

  “The horse is mine, bred him off my own stock, I can give him to who I like. He’ll lecture me a bit for the sake of it, but in the end though he won’t mind. You’re family.” Sandford patted the stallion’s neck.

  “Thank you, cousin. It’s a fine gift, one I’ll struggle to repay.”

  “Bah, a gift doesn’t require payment, just thanks which you have given me at least five times now.” Sand laughed, then turned serious. “He’s headstrong Jac. He’ll fight the bit to start with. Don’t be soft on him or you’ll ruin him and make a rod for your own back.”

  Jacob nodded, trying to keep the exasperation from his face. He knew how to ride and didn’t need the lecture, but he didn’t want to tarnish the giving by being petty and sounding ungrateful. What a horse. He drank in the sight of him, the barely contained power and elegant lines, he was magnificent.

  Sand punched Jacob’s shoulder. “I see your mind is on your horse and not me,” he joked. “Come on, I’ll ride with you part way to Thorsten. Check you know which end is the front.”

  Laughing and needing no further encouragement Jacob pulled himself up and into the saddle, the stallion dancing beneath him at the unfamiliar weight.

  “A fine beast Lord Jacob and a mighty gift Lord Sandford,” Mahan said. Thornhill nodded his agreement. They were Jacob’s men at arms and sat astride their own mounts watching the exchange from ten paces back.

  “A beast you say. Bah can’t you see!” Jacob feigned indignation. “He’s a prince among horses.”

  “As you say, my Lord,” Mahan said, pleased to see his young charge so happy.

  Sandford leapt upon his own horse, a brown mare, tall and sleek, and together they all turned for the road to Thorsten a couple of days ride south. They were joined by Mabel, Sand’s swordarm.

  They crossed the bridge over the Oust River just outside of Redford passing the mass of boats and barges moored along its banks. There was a lot of activity on them.

  “I spoke to Lord William when I took my leave this morning. Says he’ll be ready in a few days, a week at most,” Jacob said. “And that he’ll bring a thousand men with him, but wouldn’t say if you were one of them. Are you coming on Twyford’s campaign in the spring? It’ll be a grand adventure.”

  Sand pulled a face. “Don’t know. He’s taking Bruce and Robert but wants me at home with mother,” he struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Says it doesn’t make sense to risk all his boys on a fool’s folly. It’s my mother talking, I just know it! She hates Twyford.”

  “Damn, I’m sorry Sand. It’d be good to have you with us. Want me to talk to my father? He might convince your Da otherwise. Put in a word for you at least?”

  Sand looked thoughtful before shaking his head. “Nah, I can fight my own battles, besides my father is as stubborn as yours. Once his mind’s set it’s hard to change it, impossible unless I get mother onside.”

  Jacob could feel his cousin’s disappointment. “Come on, let’s stretch their legs.” Not waiting for an answer he set his heels to the stallion’s flanks, feeling the raw power release as his mount sprang to a canter, leaving Sand to catch him.

  Chapter 7

  : Road to Thorsten

  Nihm woke early unsure what had disturbed her. It was still dark outside, there was no light framing her shutters and the morning birdsong hadn’t yet begun. Lying in bed, her thoughts drifted. She was excited. She went to Thorsten a few times each year but she’d never been to Rivercross. It was big, much bigger than Thorsten. It was the province capital and home to thousands of people.

  Cicadas chirped outside interrupting her reverie and beneath that the soft patter of feet. She sighed; it would be Ash or Snow outside her window she told herself, but a seed of doubt had crept in. Da always told her to trust her instincts, and right now something nagged at her.

  The thought of her father banished sleep and with a groan of resignation Nihm swung her legs out of bed. She knew her Da would turn up, he was as solid and dependable as the tri-moons and her faith in him was absolute. But still, she couldn’t stop worrying.

  Throwing her cloak around her shoulders Nihm fastened it as she left her bedroom. Easing the front door open she found all four dogs sat waiting. Ash and Snow greeted her enthusiastically, pressing against her legs, almost knocking her over. She pushed by them and patted the two older dogs, Thunder and Maise, as she stepped from the porch.

  A cool wind snapped at her cloak and pulled at her hair which she’d tied back into a tail. The air felt heavy and smelled of rain. The dogs followed after but Thunder stopped suddenly and turned to the north, ears erect, sniffing the air before padding off into the darkness. Maise looked after him then silently followed.

  Ignoring the dogs’ restlessness Nihm moved to check on the ponies and was half way to the barn when the door to the homestead opened and Marron stepped out, framed from inside by the soft light of a lamp.

  “Good, you’re up. I couldn’t sleep either. Let’s get the ponies harnessed. I want to leave as soon as we can see the trail.”

  “Why the rush? Da might not be far off,” Nihm said, waiting for her mother and embracing her.

  “No, he’s not close. I think it best we leave now. He’ll catch us up.” Marron was brusque. “Where are Thunder and Maise?”

  “The dogs are unsettled,” Nihm said. “Thunder caught a whiff of something, probably a rabbit. They went off to look.” Nihm flicked a hand in the general direction the dogs had taken. She was desperate to ask Marron how she knew Da wasn’t close but sensed that now was not the time. It was a long ride to Thorsten she’d pick her moment she decided.

  “They know something is up. Different routine, they know we're leaving,” Marron said.

  Nihm glanced sharply at her mother a sudden angst upon her. Leaving, Ma said the word with such finality. They hadn’t spoken much about their journey. They headed to Thorsten and after that Rivercross, but what then? This trip was different. Maybe they weren’t coming back. Nihm pushed the thought to the back of her mind, not sure she wanted to know the answer to her unspoken question. Not yet.

  They had the ponies harnessed to the cart ready to depart by the time the first sunrays leaked into the cloud over the eastern horizon. Marron closed the shutters and door to the homestead resting a hand on its timbers, head bowed briefly, before turning and climbing on to the cart. She took the reins from Nihm, gave them a deft flick, and with a click of her tongue they were off. Ash and Snow circled them as they steered onto the overgrown path heading south.

  “I feel sad and excited all at the same time. I feel I'm saying goodbye to an old friend I'm never going to see again,” Nihm said. “I'll miss this place."

  “It’s been a good home. I'll miss it too. Hopefully one day we'll be back but who knows what the future holds."

  "Do you think Da is alright?”

  "I'm sure he's fine. Just like him to leave us to do all the packing.” Marron jested, but her heart wasn't in it. “Give Thunder and Maise a whistle or they’ll get left behind.”

  Nihm glanced at her mother and saw a glint of moisture in her eye. Marron had voiced what she'd suspected, they were leaving for good. Nihm knew her mother was nothing if not practical; you had to be living out here in the wilds. Leaning over Nihm gave her a hug, knowing her damp eyes were not for the homestead. “Da will be alright, you’ll see. You’ll be arguing over the cooking in no time.”

  Turning, Nihm put her fingers to her lips and gave an a
lmighty whistle that echoed in the early morning half-light. Da had taught her that whistle and she was proud of it. It had taken her a ten night to master, with a lot of laughing along the way at her early attempts. “It’s not just about making noise lass, ya have to shape it. Different tone and pitch fer a different meaning.” Darion had demonstrated. The memory made her smile.

  There was a distant bark as Maise and Thunder responded to her call and as the cart forded the little brook to the south of the homestead the two dogs bounded up to join them.

  A few splashes of rain pattered down and Nihm squinted up at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering, low and heavy. She clambered back into the flatbed. Behind, the homestead appeared as a shadow hunched on the landscape and a sudden pang of sorrow struck her. Reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the only home she’d known Nihm dug under the rain sheet for their oiled skins. They had only just donned them when the heavens opened.

  The rain set in and despite their oiled skins water found a way through to their clothes chilling them. A cold wind blew adding to their misery.

  They moved steadily south through the morning and into the afternoon, passing through grasslands. Copses of elder and spruce sprouted up like sentinels guarding the way and they forded several fast-flowing brooks and streams swollen by the rain.

  Nihm was hunched over on the bench seat feeling miserable. Her chin tucked into her chest, her oil skin grasped tightly about her.

  “Encoma’s holdstead is just ahead.” Nihm looked up as Marron nudged her and pointed through the rain at the smeared outline of a building. Smoke rose from it like a stain against the leaden sky.

  Flicking the reins Marron steered the cart onto the track leading to the holding. The building slowly revealed itself as they drew closer. It was large and circular looking more like a squat tower than the house it was, rugged and uninviting except for the warm glow of light peeping through narrow shutters. It was enclosed by a thick stone wall rising to a tall gated entrance with the gates themselves pulled back wide.