by A. D. Green
“We'll need to be careful in Thorsten,” Marron said, “Tell no one I am of the Order. There are many that would use that knowledge against me. It will be dangerous,” she warned.
“I won’t.” Nihm grinned, her imagination already firing. It was like a bard’s tale come to life.
As they travelled south they encountered more traffic, mostly holders taking their wares to town or supplies home, but occasionally they would see a tradesman. Once they were passed by a patrol of rough looking guardsmen, all wearing a red tabard, the familiar emblem of a black crow over twin rivers stitched on it. Nihm being a curious child had once asked Darion about the tabard and he had explained that the red and the rivers were for the Rivers province and the black crow for Thorsten.
Nihm thought Marron would tell her warning to the guardsmen but she held her peace, moving the cart to the road side and letting them by with a wave and a hello. The riders were soon past and they were on their way again.
It was late afternoon on their second day out from the Encoma Holdstead when, as they crested a small hill, Thorsten came into view. It was a grand sight, one Nihm never tired of seeing. Thorsten was a frontier town on the edge of the wilds. It was surrounded by earthworks upon which sat a large stone curtain wall. To Nihm Thorsten looked huge with more houses than she could count tightly packed within its walls. Dirty ribbons of smoke dribbled up into the sky from all over, but the sight that drew her eye most was the castle at its centre, its large solitary keep dominating the skyline.
From the top of the hill Nihm could make out a church with its boxy bell-tower, yellow against the castle’s black. It was the church of the Red God, Kildare, the god of war and death, who in these parts was simply called the soldier.
It always felt strange to Nihm, seeing the church. She didn’t know why but she’d always been wary of it and despite her inherent curiosity had never felt compelled to explore it on any of her previous visits to Thorsten.
Nihm recalled her last trip, in spring. A red priest had stood atop the steps leading to the church whilst at the bottom a stake was planted, wood and kindling piled high about it. The priest had been filled with righteous zeal and had spoken loudly, flinging his arms about admonishing anyone and everyone as far as Nihm could tell. She hadn’t liked his tone or the restless crowd gathered to listen. Marron, who never got flustered, looked agitated and, when Nihm had asked her about it, would say nothing. They concluded their business early that trip and left for home shortly afterwards.
Marron’s warning from earlier in the day pushed itself to the front of Nihm’s mind, filling in what had been left unsaid in the spring. Thorsten didn’t seem quite so exciting now.
They followed the road down the hill and across Northfields as they approached the town. Ahead stood a large gate keep, Northgate. It was wide enough that two carts could pass beneath its maw. Its solid iron bound gates were pulled open and the portcullis retracted.
Guards stood atop the walls and gatehouse and as they approached more still were at a guard station outside the gates overseeing those coming and going. They looked bored for the most part and disinterested to Marron.
A dirty, blonde haired guard, his left eye dead and filmed over, leered at Nihm with his good eye and left his leaning spot against the gate house wall. Holding his hand up he sauntered over as Marron drew the cart to a halt.
“What be your business?”
“Goods for market,” Marron stated.
Deadeye leant on the foot board and stared at Nihm. His eye followed the curve of Nihm’s thigh and travelled up to her chest where it lingered. Colour flushed Nihm's cheeks and she stared straight ahead not knowing what to do.
“My goods are in the back, not sat here up front if you need to inspect anything,” Marron spoke, an acid edge to her voice.
Deadeye looked amused. “I be doing my inspectin just fine,” he sneered.
Thunder suddenly popped his head around the cart’s side board and gave a loud bark followed by a deep throated growl.
The man jumped and stumbled backwards almost ending on his backside. The other guards watching from the station post howled with laughter.
“I swear Zon’s only gone an pissed hisself,” shouted one.
Deadeye’s face flushed red. Putting his hand on his sword he snarled. “Call that rabid mutt away afore I teach him a lesson lady.”
Maise choose that moment to introduce herself, jumping up onto the bench seat between Nihm and Marron. The wolfdog never barked, just stared, her lip curled back showing her teeth. Deadeye looked about nervously then took another step back as Ash and Snow popped out from behind the wagon to see what the fuss was all about.
“You cain’t bring in no pack of wild dogs lady. You gonna have to leave em out here.”
Marron placed a calming hand on Maise and looked down at the scruffy uncouth guardsman. His tabard was dirt stained, his leathers and armour ill kept. She gathered herself but before she could reply a shout rang out.
“Pieterzon!”
Deadeye didn’t take his eye off the dogs, didn’t need to look to know his captain strode towards him.
“Cap’n sir, pack of wild dogs they's trying to bring in,” he whined, his hand still on his sword.
“Piss off.” The captain was tall and broad and walked with an easy swagger.
“That an order cap’n?” Pieterzon said, sniffing up and spitting a wad of phlegm onto the roadside. The officer stepped in front of the guard and shook his head.
“Pieterzon, you’re too stupid to know when to keep your mouth shut.” Pieterzon was not a small man but he had to look up to meet the captain’s gaze. The officer turned his head slightly and called over his shoulder, “Kronke!”
A guard hunched over playing dice near the guard house looked up. Seeing the captain he reluctantly stood and peeled himself away from his fellows.
Nihm gaped at him. He was a giant of a man, bigger even than her Da. As he strode towards them Nihm saw that despite his size he had a friendly open face. A long moustache framed his mouth and hung past his chin.
“Cap’n?” he rumbled.
“What have I said about Pieterzon?” said the captain turning to Kronke.
The giant, a hand taller than his captain, looked down at Pieterzon, then tugged on his moustache ends. “He’s sloppy, insolent, a disgrace to his uniform which is as filthy as his mouth if I recall rightly, sir.”
The captain gave a thin-lipped smile. “Do I have to sort your mess out Kronke?”
Kronke gave the only answer he could. “No sir.” Glaring at Deadeye he jerked his head to the side. A sullen looking Pieterzon turned and walked slowly back towards the guard station. Kronke, not happy with his pace, placed a massive hand on his shoulder and propelled him on muttering. “You gotta be the dumbest muthafucka I ever met. If we pull extra shift cause of you I am gonna snap your head off and stick it up your ass.”
The Captain turned smiling, “Marron Castell! I thought that was you. Sorry about that lout. It seems Lord Bouchemeax’s Black Crows are recruiting any old riffraff these days.”
Nihm glanced at the officer and then at her mother.
“Sir Anders, well met. What is it two, three years?” Marron smiled.
“Six I believe. Too long,” he stated then, looking past them, signalled to a farmer who had drawn up behind Marron to move on by. “Have to say it’s good to see you Marron,” he said, before gazing at Nihm. “And Nihm, last time I saw you… well you’ve grown, got the look of your ma, thankfully.”
Nihm blinked, trying to remember who he was. He was familiar but it was no good she couldn’t recall. There was an awkward pause and Nihm belatedly realised she was meant to respond. “Erm, thanks.”
Anders grinned. “I see you have Darion’s gift for conversation.” He laughed before addressing Marron once more. “Truth is I was hoping to catch up with Dar. Is he here already? Or maybe he follows?”
“It's good to see you Anders and fortunate. Dar will join us later
all being well. But I would have words with you if I can? Privately,” Marron said.
Anders nodded. “I’m off duty in the next hour. Where are you staying? Maybe share a glass and catch up?”
“Normally I stay at the Broken Axe if they have room. Say this evening, eighth bell?” Marron said.
“Broken Axe it is, till then. Marron, Nihm.” Anders dipped his head in salute.
Marron smiled to herself, pleased. She had one ally that would listen to her at least. Moving the cart off Marron followed the farmer through the gate and into town.
Chapter 11
: Taken
“I have to go princess,” Sand whispered, his breath disturbing a loose strand of hair over her ear.
She groaned, somehow managing to pout and smile at the same time.
“So soon my Lord? Can’t you stay a little longer?” She lay naked on her front hugging a pillow and gazing at him from the bed sheets.
“Sorry, I’m late as it is.” He glanced at her, a year or two younger than his own twenty years, she was vibrant and energetic. At least she had been last night. He stretched his arms out and flexed his shoulders to shake out the aches he felt. It had been a long night.
Rolling onto her back she looked at him through thick lashes, her breasts bare and enticing. “Take me with you then. There’s nought keeping me here.”
Sand dragged his eyes from her chest, felt himself stirring at the sight of her. You’ve no time for this Sand, he told himself. Besides her breath smells, not that mine is likely any better, he conceded. The thought was enough to break his burgeoning ardour and he turned gathering his clothes from where they lay discarded on the floor.
“Sorry Sal, if I turn up with you my mother will have a fit. Maybe I could see you next time I’m through?” he offered.
“You mean next time you wanna fuck, my Lord,” Sal snapped, stressing his title like it was an insult.
“Come on Sal, you know it’s not like that. We had fun didn’t we?” Sand buttoned his shirt then leant over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you soon, promise.”
Sal pouted at him. “You better. I got my name to think of and not as your doxy neither. If’n you come back you take me with you. I hate this shit hole it’s boring as fuck.”
Sand watched her as he dressed. He found her refreshing in a strange way. Uncouth, no doubt about that, but there was a rustic honesty about her as well that drew him to her. She’d be a complete disaster if he brought her to Redford. Certainly more trouble than he needed. Still it would almost be worth it just to see the looks on everyone’s faces.
“I’ll think about it. Next time.” He pulled his jacket on, “Promise.”
He leant over in final farewell and kissed her hard on the lips, his hand absently fondling a breast. Not waiting for a reply he moved to the door and yanked it open, tugging his boots on as he went.
Mable sat just outside, perched on a chair he had appropriated from somewhere.
“By the saint Mable, you been there all night?” Sand asked heading for the stairs.
“Aye and not much fun I can tell you,” Mable groused.
“Well let me buy you breakfast.”
“Breakfast has been and gone.” Mable responded, dryly.
“Shit, what time is it?” Sand asked.
“Just afore high sun.” Mable followed his Lord as they descended the stairs to the inn’s common room.
Sand handed a silver bit to the innkeeper behind the bar.
“Thank you Lord Sandford, a pleasure as always,” the innkeeper said, pocketing the silver. It was double the room rate the extra was for his discretion although neither acknowledged this. Sand nodded back but said nothing. He was late and not in the mood for small talk.
The two men left the inn and five minutes saw them mounted and on the road. Redford was only a two hour ride north. Sand knew he could have been home last night but for his dalliance. Mable was grumpy having slept outside Sand’s room all night so they rode in silence.
They saw smoke an hour out from Redford, a smudge in the sky to the north east. As they rode on their concern grew. The smoke was thick and black; Redford burned. They spurred their mounts into a canter following the road as it cut alongside the river.
A lone barge swept around a bend, carried along by the river. Sand drew his horse to a stop and stared. It was a mess, its lone sail tattered, its oars shipped or broken. Bodies were strewn about its decking and its timbers were peppered with arrows.
A figure was at the prow just stood, not doing anything but gazing down river. Two more were at the tiller, one steering trying to keep the barge in the centre of the river, the other clasping his side, looking pale even from where they watched from the roadside.
Sand hailed them but only the injured man turned at his call. He stared back grimacing and shouted something jerking his hand but Sand could neither hear nor understand his gesture.
“What the seven hells is going on Mable?” Sand watched as the injured man turned and said something to his companion, a woman. She shook her head, no, clearly arguing against him.
“They’ve bin attacked,” Mable offered. “Fifty, sixty dead or more. Looks to me they came out the wrong side of a fight.”
“A fight with who? Not the Norlanders, we’re on good terms,” Sand said. But who else could it be? There was no one else. He watched as the barge drifted down river growing smaller. Worry and uncertainty eating at him Sand turned his horse back to the road calling out to Mable.
“Come on, let’s get to Redford. See what the hell’s going on.”
“We should have a care, Lord Sandford. If its war we ride to we need to know what we face,” Mable replied.
“My whole family is at Redford. My brothers, my sisters everyone,” Sand replied, his voice catching.
“I know boy, I have a wife and child too. But we ain’t no use to ‘em if’n we just blunder in not knowing what’s what.”
Mable's calmness had a settling effect on Sand. Of course he had family, he knew that, had supped with them many times. He took a deep breath, thinking.
“You’re right. We’ll go in slow. Any advice?”
“Well there’s a first,” Mable muttered. “You’ll not like it.”
“Spit it out Mable.”
“Smart thing is you ride south, to your uncle,” Mable said.
“No way,” Sand snapped. Mable held his hand up forestalling him.
“If its war we face the Black Crow needs to know. Worst case is Redford is lost and Thorsten is next. If your father holds Redford then he will have sent a bird and you will meet your uncle on the road.”
“And my uncle will see me running away. I’m no coward Mable, I’ll not be seen as one. You ride south if you want to.”
“Aye, well I said you wouldn’t like it.”
They rode north the smoke growing thicker. The land gave little chance for cover stretching away flat and wide before rising to low hills. Most was farmland with crops ripe and ready for harvest. Orchards interspersed the fields and on the distant hills orderly rows of grapevines could be seen. No one worked them where normally they would be busy gathering the harvest. Sand’s trepidation grew.
They found their first body around the next kink of the river. A wagon had run off the road and into the long grass. A man lay sprawled in the flatbed, his eyes open and staring at the sky. A thick shafted arrow stood out of his chest and blood pooled beneath him to drip through the boards of the wagon and on to the grass below.
Sand handed the reins of his mare to Mable whilst he examined the dead man. To Sand it looked as if he’d been driving at the time. The force of the arrow strike knocking him back into the wagon. The horses were gone as was the cargo of wheat. He picked up a kernel and rubbed it between his fingers. Stepping around the pooled blood he examined the arrow. It was red and the shaft longer and thicker than expected. He turned at the hiss of steel as Mable drew his sword.
“My Lord!”
Sand heard the fear and st
ood following Mable’s eyes. Up the road a ways were a score of men unlike any he’d seen before, running in loping easy strides that seemed to eat up the ground. They were big, bigger than any man he knew. They were dressed simply, in heavy tunics with thick leather strapping across their torsos. Their heads seemed dipped in blood, everything above the mouth painted red. A cry went up, a loud beast like roar.
“They’re not Norlanders,” Sand said.
Mable didn’t reply, pulling his horse round and dragging Sand’s destrier with him. Sand leapt from the wagon into his saddle gathering the reins in one smooth motion. The horse skittered to the side, nostril’s flaring. He cracked his heels into her flanks and like a coiled spring they were away; Mable a horse length back.
Quickly outpacing the savages, they rounded the bend in the river they’d just passed. On the road ahead more of the giant men appeared, stepping out of the wheat fields where they’d hidden. In unison the two men turned east into the fields, fear taking over from reason, knowing they had to get away.
The arrow struck Sand’s horse just behind his right leg. His mare screamed in pain, mis-stepped mid canter and tumbled to the ground throwing him clear.
Sand crashed hard, tucking his shoulder and rolling at the last minute. The wheat cushioned his fall. Stunned and bruised he staggered back to his feet.
“Sand, take my hand,” Mable shouted.
Sand blinked his eyes trying to clear them and saw Mable riding back for him. Sand’s horse, his beautiful mare lay hidden in the tall wheat whickering softly, breathing her life out.
Sand extended his hand as Mable reached for him. Dazed as he was it seemed time itself slowed as Mable’s hand stretched out. But Mable didn’t stop reaching, rolling out of his saddle and under the hooves of his horse.
Mable’s destrier didn’t stop her canter. Skipping away and kicking her heels she turned from the noise and cries of pursuit back out across the wheat fields and away.
Mable was dead. Sand knew it instantly. His body had come to rest a pace away. His right arm snapped and bent at an obtuse angle away from his body, his right knee crushed by a hoof. An arrow, red and thick shafted, snapped off in the fall, protruded from his back.