Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)
Page 28
Muw-Tukh stood forward with several Hurak-Hin as Grimpok entered the clearing where they waited. Grimpok saluted banging fist over heart. It was nonchalant. Had he been anyone other than Grimpok or a tribal chieftain, Mar-Dur would have had him beaten for the lack of respect shown. Grimpok though was loyal to a fault and his oldest friend, one of only a hand that he trusted with his life. It was a game they played much to Muw-Tukh’s annoyance.
Mar-Dur yawned. “Speak if you have something to say Pok.”
Grimpok smiled, it was not pretty even by urak standards. “Gromma’s dead, gutted like a boar,” he stated. Blunt and direct as ever.
“Where and when?” Mar-Dur said, blood rising. Gromma was a great warrior; brutal and savage, a strong member of the clan. More than that though, he was Mauturntak and kin. Gromma had been young and impetuous, given much to action without thought. Dumb as a dead prairie cat Grimpok called him once and Mar-Dur couldn’t disagree with the sentiment, but maybe he would’ve learnt to think like a live one. Now though he was dead and gone with it any chance to learn.
“Found him five leagues or so to the west, near the great river. Dead, maybe four turns judging by the size of the maggots,” Grimpok said.
“Gutted you say?” Mar-Dur asked.
“Like a boar. Knife I would guess, hard to be certain given he's been chewed on some but I reckon.” Grimpok drew his own knife grinning as the Hurak-Hin tensed placing hands on weapons. “It was a serrated blade looking at the wound. That likely means a knife.”
“Did he die in battle, was his sword drawn?” Mar-Dur asked.
“No, not according to the foraging team as found them,” Grimpok said.
“Fuck this Grimpok, I ain’t into chit chat, just tell me what you know and think,” Mar-Dur said.
“Gromma was a fool, we all know that,” Grimpok said.
The Hurak-Hin hissed in anger at the insult. Mar-Dur waved his hand to silence them.
Grimpok liked to tease them and he grinned, his scars pulling his face about so that it resembled a death mask. “He was a good warrior though, strong, formidable.”
The tension in the Hurak-Hin eased.
“Only way to kill a warrior like that without him drawing blade is up close. Only way to get up close is sneaky like,” Grimpok said. “The ground was messed up by the time I looked it over, impossible to tell for sure but searching the camp I found this snagged in a blanket.” Grimpok held his hand out. On it laid a thin leaf like wedge, black on one side, green on the other.
Reaching a hand for it, Mar-Dur picked it up. The green side felt soft and smooth, the black hard and rough. He flexed it between his fingers. Supple as well.
“What is it?” Mar-Dur asked.
“Ilfanum leaf scale is my guess, but that ain’t all. Gromma weren't alone. No-nose one of his scouts was dead, an arrow stickin outta him. Curious thing though,” Grimpok paused rubbing his chin, warming to his telling. “It weren’t no ilf arrow that done him in, it was human. No sign of the other two scouts and,” He paused. “No sign of the raid party neither. They ain’t come back. That's near four hundred urak.”
Mar-Dur stared at Grimpok eyes hardening; four hundred urak didn’t just disappear. “Who leads the raid party?”
“Rimtaug of the Suawamih, he sent two back to make report. They say they found one of Gromma’s party still alive but wounded. Bartuk they named him. Cunning little shit if my memory serves me right. Bartuk claims they were attacked by ilfanum and lead Rimtaug south after them,” Grimpok stated.
“The way I read it, Gromma took an ilf prisoner. Got hisself killed when the ilf came back to take what got took. Only it ain’t all stacking up. I don’t see Gromma dying like that. Smells like shit, looks like shit then it's probably shit. Gromma feels like an inside job. Won’t know for sure till I catch up with Bartuk,” he concluded. “As for No-nose, who gives a fuck, except it weren’t no ilf arrow. I don’t like what I don’t know.”
“Hmm, and they were near the great river?” Mar-Dur said. “My orders were to leave the ilf lands alone.”
Grimpok trimmed his nails with a fletch knife and made no comment.
Mar-Dur thought a while. The raiders were Suawamih and Naris-Dur obviously gave his own instructions to this Rimtaug.
“The ilfanum are a solitary people it is none of their concern if we war on humans but put a warband on the western flank. They’re not to cross the great river,” Mar-Dur declared. ”They will be our shield in case the ilfanum threaten us.”
Mar-Dur turned to his first. “Muw-Tukh make it so. The Bortaug can lead it. Baq-Dur is old and wily as a mountain bear, he will serve me well. Ask him to come see me.”
He turned back to Grimpok. “That cunt Krol broke agreement. The Blood Skull has taken the human settlement called Redford. Find out what they’re about. Does Krol move south or east?”
Grimpok nodded his head and gave his lazy salute. “Aye Chief.”
Chapter 38
: The Trail North
The light was fading when Erik Parstun cantered back to Anders to report sight of a building up ahead. They’d left the urak behind hours back, so Anders called a halt at the bottom of a small rise. Dismounting, he followed Parstun up the gentle slope to go take a look, Kronke following behind.
Approaching the crest of the small hillock they kept low in the long grass. Midges flitted about them as they crept by and the cicadas momentarily stopped their chorus.
“Straight ahead. Past that brook,” Erik pointed.
Kronke and Anders followed his outstretched arm. There, in the grey half-light they could definitely make out a building; two actually, maybe more. Ander’s saw no smoke nor any sign of activity.
“Keep a watch on it Erik,” Anders motioned Kronke to follow him back below the rise.
“That’s the Castells’ place. I think we should go take a look. Night’s falling and we’re going to need to rest up somewhere,” Anders said.
“You think that’s a good idea Sir?” Kronke rumbled in his deep voice.
Anders nodded to the east. “See those thunderheads? There’s a storm headed this way,” he stated, as if to make his point.
“With all due respect Captain we should turn east, screw the rain,” Kronke growled.
“The horses need rest Kronke. We’ve worked them hard. Trust me, when that storm hits there isn’t going to be anything moving anywhere,” Anders said.
“Aye sir,” Kronke muttered disgruntled.
“You got something to say?”
“Aye well I do as it happens,” Kronke said. “We don’t know what’s in them buildings. Those urak must a passed it when they came south.” He looked over at the approaching storm clouds. “Seems ta me if’n I was a urak I’d be having the same notion as you, Captain,” he finished.
“We left the urak a long way back. They can’t track us through a storm. My guess is they’ll hunker down like us,” Anders said. “If the place is clear we can rest the horses and men. I’ll decide our course from there.”
“I don’t like it Captain,” Kronke said.
“Aye, me neither,” Anders replied, slapping the big sergeant on his shoulder. “Me neither.”
They made their way back down the rise to the gathered company. “Pieterzon, Crawley,” Anders called out, “Scout out the building up ahead. There’s no way to do it discreetly, its open ground. Ride in, check it out and report back if it’s all clear. Understood?”
“Fuck that Captain, I ain’t going in no building,” Pieterzon spat. “We lost ten guys already just taking a look on your say so. No fuckin way.”
Jess Crawley looked at Pieterzon then the captain waiting to see his response. Pieterzon might be a filthy little cockbag always leering at her but she couldn’t fault him on this.
Kronke gave no warning, simply stepped in and clubbed Pieterzon in the face with a big left hand. Pieterzon didn’t see it, the blow coming from his blind side and dropping him like a stone. Kronke glared at those still standing.
Anders was shocked. His sense of responsibility for those already lost lay heavy on his mind. Pieterzon’s barb had bit deep. The man’s flagrant insubordination too spoke ill of his leadership. Then Kronke’s sudden violence; he’d known the big sergeant five years and he’d always been laid back and affable. Despite this persona he was efficient; his size intimidating enough that Kronke was never challenged when he assigned jobs for the doing.
Jess Crawley looked at Pieterzon laid out cold on the ground then gathered her reins and pulled herself up into the saddle. “Guess I’ll head out then,” she said, a knuckle of fear in her gut.
“Hold Crawley,” Anders ordered. “I’ll ride with you.”
Kronke stared at his captain, surprise etched on his face.
Anders saw he wasn’t happy, but after such a practical demonstration Kronke could hardly question him on it.
“We’re all in this together. We ride together, we fight together and if the trinity demand it, we die together.” Ander’s declared. Hoisting himself up onto Marigold he pulled her head round and trotted up the rise. Jess Crawley touched heels to her mare’s flanks and followed him out.
Bloody idiot, thought Kronke. That was the trouble with Knight-captains, more honour and chivalry than common sense. Despite that Kronke grinned, begrudgingly, at least the man had some stones on him.
With darkness descending Anders and Jess cantered up and over the rise. They covered the open ground quickly and crossing the brook approached the buildings.
The Castell’s homestead and stable block resolved as they drew near. As they cleared the side of the stable a shack was revealed; a smoke shed if the stack coming from its roof was any indication. Anders reined in twenty paces from the Homestead.
“Wait here Crawley I’ll go check it out. If you don’t see me in five, ride back and tell Sergeant Kronke to take the company east. He’ll know what to do from there.”
Jess was surprised; felt maybe she should offer to go in his stead, but that knuckle of fear had built into a knot so instead she sighed in relief. “Aye sir,”
Anders trotted to the homestead, eyes and ears alert for any sound or movement. The door to the homestead was open and banged against its frame in the strengthening breeze.
Dismounting Anders drew his sword. The place looked deserted. There was a stillness that told him it was empty, but after the happenings this day he was taking no chances.
The building was dark inside, the failing light not carrying much past the entrance. He found a lantern hooked on the wall to his right. Reluctantly he sheathed his sword; he needed both hands to search for the lighting block. Feeling about he found it on a stand just below the lamp hook.
Ander’s crouched just inside the door, out of the wind but where he could see still. The lamp and block were well maintained and it took only a few strikes of the flint against the block to ignite the taper and touch it to the lamps wick. Sealing the lanterns door he lifted it high, casting a soft flickering light about the room.
It was a mess. Replacing the lighting kit on the lamp stand Anders drew his long knife, better suited he decided for inside work than his sword, and stepped into the house.
The room he was in was the kitchen and common room. It had been ransacked, cupboards opened and their contents emptied and strewn about the place. The more Anders looked though the more he found order to it. Yes it was a mess, but it wasn't wanton. It wasn’t for the sake of it. Clearly they’d been looking for something, probably food he thought, but it could be anything that might be of use to them.
There were two internal doors and both had been thrown open. The door to one was crooked, held up on a single hinge. The other too was broken where it had been kicked in but it still hung in its frame. Conscious of time he quickly looked through both rooms and found they were bedrooms and quite devoid of life.
Moving back outside Anders looked for Crawley and found her still sat upon her horse. She had unlimbered her bow and held an arrow ready on the string. Breathing easier Anders raised his hand to her as he strode across to the barn.
It was empty, raided. Hay bales lay scattered across the floor but little else. Some tack lay in a heap near one of the stalls and a few discarded wooden buckets lay on their sides but there was no sign of the tools or metal implements that one might expect to find in a barn. No doubt taken, Anders thought.
Back outside he moved to the shack. It was a smoke shed for curing meats and pelts, just as he'd guessed. Its sturdy looking door had been wrenched off and lay on the ground to the side. A brief inspection was all it took to see it was empty.
Anders slipped his knife back into his belt, satisfied the place was safe and walked to his mount. Darkness was falling, the last vestiges of sunlight faint on the western horizon. Holding the lantern up he shouted to the waiting Jess.
“Crawley, go fetch the others.”
Crawley waved back and placed her bow back into its saddle sheath. After a moment she turned her horse and disappeared into the dusk beyond.
Anders untied Marigold leading her into the barn. Cinching her reins to a wall ring he dragged a hay bale over for her. Then, picking up one of the buckets, he went back outside and filled it from the water trough that lay against the barn’s long wall. Hauling it inside, he sloshed the bucket down next to Marigold and patted her affectionately on the rump before removing her saddle.
The wind was picking up outside, gusting and starting to howl. A trembling of hooves rose above it as the remains of his depleted command rode in. Anders walked outside seeing Kronke at their head, their swords and spears drawn and at the ready.
“Hooo, Kronke,” Anders called out, “place is clear.”
The big sergeant grinned. “Good, I’ll get the horses settled,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Left Parstun on the rise to the south. Not that I expect it’ll do much good. It'll be pitch black out here soon with just the rain for company I expect.”
Anders didn’t press him on it. If Kronke wanted to deploy a watch back on the rise he wouldn’t argue it. “Very good sergeant, there’s hay in the barn for the horses at least and water in the trough. I’ll see if I can find another lantern or two.”
“Crawley, Varsh with the Captain,” Kronke growled. “The rest of you lot get the horses settled.”
The sergeant clambered off his horse and tied it up in front of the house. Pieterzon’s mare was roped to Kronke’s big piebald, his still lifeless body lashed across the saddle. Kronke untied him before roughly dragging the man off. Lifting Pieterzon he flipped the body over his shoulder with barely a grunt of effort before straightening up and sauntering into the house.
Just as the last ray of light ebbed away the wind gusted strongly and the heavens opened. Rain lashed down and any still outside ran for shelter. Anders, Crawley and Varsh found several lanterns and lit them. One was left in the barn high on one of the walls the others were taken to the homestead.
The rest of the company went quietly and efficiently about their work. The horses were stabled in the barn, crammed into the available space. It was at least dry for them and all were fed and watered.
They billeted in the house, straightening up the mess where needed and finding somewhere comfortable to lay and take their rest. They ate dry fare of hard cakes and jerky washed down with water. There were no complaints this night. It had been a long exhausting day and most were too tired and wrung out for that.
Anders moved among his command, checking everyone was okay and offering words of encouragement where needed. Pieterzon had woken shortly after they had settled for the night and stared sullenly at him as he moved past. Anders could sense the fear and hate emanating from him.
Kronke, missing nothing ,dragged Pieterzon to his feet. “Thanks Zon for volunteering.” The man flinched in his grip scared. “You get to mind th
e horses.” Kronke helped him to the door where Pieterzon suddenly found voice.
“Agh come on Sarge,” he cried, “don’t send me out there.”
“You’re a guard of the Black Crow, you need to grow a pair,” Kronke replied, shoving him out into the rain and pulling the door shut with a bang.
Anders watched silently, a bad taste in his mouth but discipline was Kronke’s job, he’d not interfere. He turned back to his task, taking inventory of their weapons. They all carried swords, shields and spears but only a few had bows. He ordered them strung.
Kronke was taking first watch so Anders found a clear space to lie down and take his rest, using his cloak as a pillow. The trouble started soon after.
Chapter 39
: The Trail South
Darion and his companions travelled quickly once they’d forded the river. A parting gift from D’ukastille had been an ilf cloak. It was light but durable, the outer layer resembling overlapping leaves that shifted and changed colour depending on his surroundings, blending with the background.
“You'll find it warm in the cold of the bite and cool in the warmth of the green,” D’ukastille had stated. It was a precious gift.
Darion knew the way home from the Ford. This part of the old forest he knew well; he hunted and gathered here so he took the lead. They followed animal trails through the undergrowth, Bezal flying ahead of them.
They stopped briefly as the sun fell and the gloom of the forest grew, sharing some of the honey cakes the ilf carried. They spoke little for sound carried in the forest. Living in and around it for almost twenty years Darion had a way of moving quickly and quietly through the wood. Even so, he felt cumbersome next to the ilf who naturally avoided leaf and twig, seeming to glide and skip as they moved. It was alien to see but Darion found it strangely graceful.
R’ell took point as the gloom deepened. He stopped not long after, bending to examine the trail. Worryingly he found sign of recent passage. R’ell looked at the bruised brush and bent leaf, before declaring a score of urak had passed that way, maybe a turn past. Bezal saw no sign of them but they proceeded more carefully nevertheless.