Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)

by A. D. Green

  Marron took the reins. With a deft flick and a gee up the ponies pulled the cart around and headed through the gates of the yard and onto Shambler’s Way, a cobbled street leading down to North Road. Morten jumped off to draw the gates to the yard closed before running to catch them up. Nihm looked back over her shoulder as they left.

  The Broken Axe was a big two storey inn that stood alone within a walled courtyard. In stark contrast all the other buildings on Shamblers Way were piled next to each other like logs on a fire stack, tightly packed and narrow fronted. It fascinated Nihm how people could live boxed in so close together. She couldn’t imagine what living that way would be like.

  Snug though they were the homes and shop fronts were well maintained and Shambler’s Way busy with people, giving it a vitality that Nihm loved. The street was wide enough for two carts to pass but, busy as it was, it was a slow ride to North Road. Children played, dodging in amongst the adults. Morten was well known to them and a gang of them ran alongside the cart calling out.

  “What ya doin Mort?”

  “Where ya goin?”

  “I’m on guard,” he gave a stern look. “But don’t go telling folk else they’ll want to know what I’m guarding.”

  “What are ya guarding?” they shouted.

  “Treasure.” He looked from the cart to the children. “But don’t go telling folk, else they’ll want to know what sort of treasure.”

  “What sorta treasure Mort?”

  “What is it?”

  Morten hesitated, looked about to see who else might be listening, then leaned over his seat and said, “Why golden of course.”

  “He’s lying,” said a boy, bigger than most of the others. “It’s just one of ya stories again Mort.”

  “Well if’n ya don’t believe me,” Morten sniffed and turned his head away.

  “If you was guarding gold where’s ya sword?” the boy asked.

  “I didn’t say it was gold now, did I?” Morten replied. “Nah, this is much richer than gold.” He looked across at Marron who, guessing his game, had a tell-tale grin on her face.

  “What’s better than gold?” another boy challenged. The other kids all called out wanting to know.

  “Wild honey of course,” Morten said feigning exasperation as if it were the most obvious thing.

  The children groaned.

  “I told ya.” The first boy shook his head in disgust.

  Morten shrugged whilst Marron and Nihm couldn’t contain their smiles as the street kids fell away. Nihm looked on awkwardly as they waved and hollered at Morten in farewell. “You’re very good with them,” she said.

  Morten arched an eyebrow. “Those scoundrels?” he said easily. “We were their age not long past. Just give ‘em a little attention and some banter.”

  Nihm stared ahead at that feeling oddly sad. Marron glanced at her daughter but said nothing just gave her leg a pat.

  Main Road was one large thoroughfare bisecting the town from Northgate to Riversgate and in two halves east and west. North Main Road or North Road as the locals called it ran from Northgate to the town centre and market square. Marron and Nihm had travelled it the previous evening on their way to the Broken Axe. They turned the cart left onto North Road and headed towards the town centre.

  Nihm stared at the crowds of people as they trundled past fascinated, wondering what they could all be doing. They were a mix, from well-dressed shop keepers to farmers in their rustic, hardy clothes and everything in between.

  Nihm herself was dressed in her best, plain brown trousers with a red shirt just starting to fade and a brown leather jerkin on top, finishing with a pair of sturdy leather boots. She had a dirk strapped to her left hip and thigh. Being early autumn it was warm still and, since Nihm hadn’t smelt rain in the air, she’d decided to leave her cloak behind. Rain she may not have smelt, but the town had its own aroma and it wasn’t pleasant. Nihm couldn't help but screw her nose up at the stench.

  As they approached the town centre Nihm’s eyes were drawn to the black mass of the keep and its walls that towered over the town like a mountain did a hill. Looking about she could make out the church of the Red Priests, large and garish. Nihm recalled it had been built not five years ago over the foundations of the old church.

  There were other churches in town belonging to Nihmrodel the White Lady and Ankor the Holy Saint but they were smaller affairs and Nihm couldn’t see them over the tops of the market stalls despite her vantage point atop the cart.

  To the east stood the town hall, a large three storied building, a bell tolling nine times from its tower as they drew into the square.

  Marron rode to a corralled area filled with carts and wagons, most laden with goods and merchandise. A mass of pens stood nearby, mostly empty, but those that weren’t held a mix of livestock and even some horses. The smell of hay, mixed with cattle shit and piss, gave the air a ripe flavour. Nihm noticed Morten wrinkle his nose to it but she didn’t mind it so much. It smelt better than the rest of the town.

  It was hectic. People rushed by loading and unloading goods but Marron knew what she was about and steered to a clear space drawing the cart to a halt. At a sign from Marron, Morten and Nihm jumped down and tied the ponies to a hitching rail. Marron put the wheel brake on before climbing into the back of the cart.

  There was a routine to it all. In the past, Nihm had sometimes gone with Darion or Marron when they traded though more often than not she was left minding their goods. Since Darion was not here Nihm knew she’d be spending the next few hours sat in the cart with just the ponies for company whilst Marron took samples of their wares and haggled with the traders and stall holders. Nihm reached into the back of the cart and grabbed the water bucket.

  “Morten be a dear and carry these furs for me,” Marron directed, laying a pile of cured furs on the back of the carts flatbed. As Morten obliged she drew a leather satchel over her head and hopped down. She picked up two of the containers with wild honey in them, one in each arm, and then bade Morten to follow.

  “Okay, guess I’ll see you later Nihm,” Mort said.

  “Yeh sure, have fun. I’ll still be here,” She looked past his shoulder at Marron’s already retreating back. “You'd best hurry.”

  “Morten stop lolly gagging. There’s work to do,” Marron shouted.

  Morten coloured a little, “Coming maam.”

  After watering the ponies there was little enough to do so Nihm sat on the carts bench seat looking back over the market watching the people go by. The stock and holding pens were in the North West of the market square. From here Nihm could see various shops bordering the plaza with market stalls and traders scattered throughout its centre. There was no real order to it that Nihm could discern. She liked that, liked the thought of wandering the market and shops, exploring. It would be fascinating watching the black smith work, banging away on the forge, whether it was a horse shoe or sword; and the food smells from the score of vendors scattered about the square would no doubt make her mouth water, it always did. Marron had promised her new clothes maybe they would get to shop later.

  Nihm looked down at herself, conscious that her attire wasn’t the best. Her leather tunic was worn and dirty, her red shirt had lost its lustre and was tight across her shoulders and chest. Her leggings weren’t much better, being a finger or two shorter than they should be and her toes were tight against the leather ends of her boots. Goodness knows what Mort thinks I look like she thought, then blushed.

  Feeling self-conscious Nihm turned her attention back to the market stalls watching the hustle of activity as vendors shouted out their wares to passers-by. If someone stopped to buy something they inevitably haggled over the price. Although too distant to hear, Nihm grinned as store holders feigned disgust or horror at the offers countering with their own. She saw a customer remonstrate holding an item up, exclaiming no doubt at the poor workmanship. Surely these leather boots are only worth a half silver bit, she could hear it in her head as if she was stood
there.

  Nihm had seen guards patrolling in pairs around town and she saw a couple now walking the outside of the market square. They were not the only ones armed though. Nihm watched with interest as a group of men and a woman dressed in a disparate mismatch of armour approached on horseback. They were well armed, clearly mercenaries.

  Caravans ran all the time from Thorsten to Redford or down to Rivercross and onwards and it was not unusual for mercenaries to be hired, especially since the Grim was on their doorstep. Then again the Black Crow was marching to war soon; maybe they were looking for employment.

  Intrigued, Nihm watched their approach counting eight of them. The one at the front was tall and broad-shouldered with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. That’s the leader, thought Nihm. He was well dressed in matching black leggings, tunic and riding boots. His sword, housed in a plain scabbard, looked to be of fine quality judging from its hilt. And despite their different attire their clothes, equipment and horses all looked of fine quality. Business must be good.

  The only woman in the group drew Nihm’s eye. There were no barriers to women being guards but Nihm saw few enough of them for it to take her interest. She was tall, maybe of a height with the leader. Her dark leather cuirass had an intricately gilded sigil etched into it. Unusually her sword was belted to the right and strapped across her back she bore a cloth wrapped staff. Brown leggings with a split leather skirt over the top and riding boots completed her ensemble.

  Long dark hair, tied back in a plait, fell half way down her back. She had a stern look, helped by an angry red scar on her left cheek running from ear to jaw. Despite this, or because of it, Nihm found her quite striking. She spoke to the leader, saying something he didn’t like by the frown he wore.

  The man pulled up on his horse and the group drew to a stop behind, near enough that Nihm could overhear. He turned to the woman.

  “That isn’t my purpose Mercy. If it was then I would have ridden to the keep now wouldn’t I?”

  “Well just saying Amos, since you seem to be headin us to the White Stag,” the woman replied. “That’s hardly keeping a low profile now is it?” As she spoke her brown eyes flicked to where Nihm sat.

  “Hmm, it may be that you’re right,” Amos replied. “Being this close to the keep it’s likely a regular drinking hole for some of Richard’s men.” Looking about his eyes fastened on Nihm. “My lady,” he smiled, white teeth glinting.

  Feeling eight pairs of eyes suddenly pivot toward her Nihm reddened. Her response though was out before she thought it. “My lord,” she inclined her head as Ma had taught her.

  Brown eyes hardened and jaw clenched, the man glanced about before turning back. Nihm swallowed feeling uncomfortable; had she done something wrong.

  The moment was broken when the woman, Mercy, chuckled, making her horse shift to the right a step. Heads swivelled to look and Nihm almost sighed in relief as the attention shifted away.

  “Ha, you asked for that Lord Amos.” She spoke loudly and several townsfolk stared up at her as they walked by. “Now stop scaring the girl with that dark look of yours. Besides, it’s you attracting attention not the girl,” she sniffed.

  Nihm wasn’t sure but thought the woman had winked at her. The man, Amos, shook his head at Mercy before turning back to Nihm. He inclined his head but a fraction.

  “Please call me Amos. My friends and I are new to town and look for lodgings; away from the centre here.” He qualified. “Can you recommend an inn that might fit our needs?” He smiled amiably, flashing his teeth again.

  Nihm was a little unsure of him. Charm one minute, steel the next, then back to charm. Her instinct was not to trust him. “I’m not from Thorsten, sorry.”

  Amos shifted in his saddle, “As am I to have troubled you.”

  Mercy stared at Nihm, the crooked smile on her face pulling at her scar. She nodded in farewell and lifted her reins from where they rested on her saddle horn.

  “There’s the Broken Axe where me and my Ma are staying,” Nihm blurted, surprising herself and unsure why she had spoken. The mercenaries swung back to her as one, eight pairs of eyes settling on her again. “It’s spacious, plenty of room for your horses.”

  “Sounds promising,” Amos said, prompting her with his look.

  “Take the North Road from the market here.” Nihm waved her hand in the general direction of North Road. “Look for Shambler’s Way on your right, about a half league down I reckon. Ask for Vic or Viv.”

  “Thank you, and who should I say sent us?” he asked.

  “Nihm,” she mumbled.

  “Nihm, after Nihmrodel the White Lady?” he said, as if to himself, one eyebrow arching.

  “After the moon,” she replied, not sure why she kept on talking.

  “They’re one and the same according to the churches of the trinity,” Amos replied. His mouth lifted at one end, a hint of a grin. “Well thank you Nihm, for your help.”

  Gathering his reins he rode off his mercenaries all nodding thanks as they passed. Nihm found it all a little surreal ducking her head in response to each in turn. She felt like a bobbing Jay dipping for water. She watched avidly until they were out of sight then it was back to the monotony.

  A short time after the town bell tolled eleven Nihm spotted the red head of Morten bobbing through the market and then, as he drew closer, Marron’s smaller figure weaving through the press of people. Nihm waved as they approached. “How did you get on Ma?”

  “Better than expected, I’m all done. Got more than I thought I would for this early in the season,” Marron replied. “I’ve sold most to Lord Bouchemeax’s quartermaster for a fair price. We’ll drop off our goods later today and cash these in.” Marron waved a writ in the air.

  “That’s great Ma, so what now?” Nihm said, trying to keep the expectation from her voice.

  “First we have some pickups to make with Morten.” She took in Nihm’s scowl, and grinned. “Then he’ll head back to the Broken Axe and we’ll go shopping. Get you some new clothes.”

  “I can manage the pickups on my own, it’s okay.” Morten interjected seeing Nihm’s reaction. Marron made no reply waiting for her daughter’s response.

  “It’s alright Mort; a good turn is fair trade for a good turn,” Nihm said, feeling awkward. It was Marron looking at her whilst she spoke; it was very off putting. That infuriating know-it-all look on her face. Nihm poked her tongue out at her mother who laughed.

  “Right, well if’n you’re sure,” Morten said. He went to help Marron onto the cart but she was up and in before he knew it. Climbing in after her he took the reins and released the wheel brake before expertly backing up the sturdy little ponies. Then swinging the cart about with a snap of the reins they were off.

  Chapter 17

  : Northfields

  Lord Jacob Bouchemeax rode at the head of a column of horses and troops two thousand strong. Casting a critical eye over the ranks behind he frowned, some were not as orderly as they should be. He would have words with his company captains at the next briefing.

  The town walls curved away to his left, tall and formidable. The occasional head could be seen as guards bobbed into view over the ramparts, peering out as they marched by.

  They were relocating the encampment near Oust Bridge, just outside the Riversgate, and marching to Northfields. It was an overreaction by his father in his view but it was good training, considering they’d be heading to Rivercross in the next five day. As well Northfields was better suited for drill and weapons practise, being mostly flat and not as soft under foot as the fields by Oust Bridge.

  They had broken camp at first light, the company sergeants haranguing the squads and companies eliciting much complaint and moaning from the newer recruits and indifference from the regulars. None of the grumbling was in earshot of the captains, or at least those that did hear knew well enough to leave it for their sergeants to deal with. In a little over an hour they were on the road. A good effort considering they’d had no prior n
otice. Jacob was pleased. “Not as fast or efficient as it could be. I expect better next time,” he’d told his captains.

  “Sir John, I’m riding ahead to Northgate,” Jacob announced.

  Sir John Stenson, captain of his personal guard looked across at his young Lord. “I’ll get the men settled.” He nodded agreeably.

  “I want them training after midday. Drill them hard captain.” A gentle squeeze of his knees and his white charger broke into an easy trot. “I’ll inspect the camp and men at days end,” he shouted back over his shoulder. Another squeeze and he was into a canter, his black hair whipping in the wind.

  “Aye Lord,” Stenson said, even though Jacob was out of earshot. Stenson turned in his saddle. “Mahan, Thornhill attend Lord Jacob.”

  “Aye sir,” The two arms men peeled out of the column and cantered after Jacob.

  Stenson was a serious man not oft given to smiling. Being at the head of the column though, no one would be any the wiser, so he allowed himself a small one as he considered his Lord.

  Jacob was young and impetuous; he’d just seen his twentieth name day. His men loved him, not least because he trained with them every day. And Jacob was good, great in fact, he’d not seen many better blades in his long career. Even that mean old cuss Johanus, the weapons master, agreed there were few his equal. But Jacob was more than that. He was smart like his father and shared his keen mind for battle craft untested though he was. The conflict with Westlands would be the making of him, Stenson was sure of it.

  Looking at the riders as they receded into the distance he shook his head; Jacob appeared to be racing Mahan and Thornhill.

  With a clatter of hooves on cobble the horses trotted under the Northgate portcullis. Holders, traders and residents alike cleared the road watching from the sides as the company of horsemen wearing the red tabard and black crow of Lord Bouchemeax filed past, Sir Anders Forstandt at their head.