by A. D. Green
It was late, the sun had receded past the horizon and darkness settled when the trees thinned and grassland took over. They waited inside the tree line whilst Bezal flew south to check the way ahead. Darion looked to the sky, the moons were out but covered by heavy cloud and there was moisture in the air. The rain when it came was heavy and sudden.
“My homestead is an hour to the south,” Darion shouted, the rain loud as it battered the leaves and branches above them. “If it still stands we will find shelter there.”
R’ell looked at M’rika signing with his fingers. In the dark as they were Darion didn’t see the gestures. M’rika nodded at R’ell then looked to Darion.
“That would be unwise. Any urak would likely be drawn to it, for pillage or shelter. It is safer to move around it.”
“I understand. I agree with you; but I would like to at least observe it. If the cart and ponies are gone then I know Marron left as planned. If the urak have raided it then we’ll know they are at least this far south,” Darion replied.
“Bezal can scout this homestead as you want. We do not need to go near it.” R’ell said curtly.
It didn’t suit Darion. He felt a need to see his home, had entertained the notion they could rest there till first light. A foolish idea he told himself, one he would have chided Nihm over if she had suggested it in his place. “Aye, you have the right of it,” he conceded.
They awaited Bezal’s return, the rain continuing to fall steadily. Eventually, the raven flapped in, wet and miserable but happy to tell them all about it.
“Hush now,” R’ell said, stroking the bird and feeding it a rarebit he pulled from one of his pouches. Bezal gulped the treat down and shook herself spraying R’ell with water. “Caaghw, rawwk naw.”
“Let’s go,” R’ell said, satisfied it seemed with her answer.
Darion presumed that meant no urak ahead and made no argument. He was keen to move on. Hoods up, pulling their cloaks tight over their packs and weapons they stepped out of the treeline. The wind immediately assailed them from the east whipping their cloaks about and driving the rain into them.
They moved quickly south following the trail, R’ell taking point. For Darion the next hour consisted of following the dark shape of R’ell ahead of him and little else. The rain was unrelenting but he was grimly happy, every step taken was a step further south and closer to Marron and Nihm. Strangely, he’d not thought much on the Order, his mind instead entirely on his family. His heart ring warm against his skin set him at ease.
They left the trail to his homestead, veering south as the track bent to the east. R’ell reported a copse of trees ahead. Bezal was sent on her way to scout it out and only when she announced it clear did they move to its relative shelter from wind and rain.
Darion looked at Bezal preening herself on R’ell’s shoulder. She was handy to have around he thought as they moved into the densest part of the little wood.
The trees bent and swayed in the storm, creaking and groaning in protest. That, along with the sound of rain falling on leaf and branch, meant Darion had to raise his voice to be heard. “My homestead is half a league to the east,” he said.
“Okay ilf friend, I will send Bezal. Rest up whilst you can.” R'ell turned to the raven.
Bezal stared back, clearly not impressed. With a loud caw and a sullen flap of her wings she disappeared into the night.
They waited, Darion feeling sodden for the rain found them even under the canopy. Whilst their cloaks shed water easily, they could only cover so much and Darion was wet, the cold seeping into his bones again. He was grateful when M’rika passed him some honey cake to take his mind off things. He nibbled at it slowly, as much to keep himself occupied as a chance to savour it. He’d just finished it when there was a rustle and flutter of wings and Bezal flew in shrieking and cawing.
She landed on R’ell’s outstretched arm, stepping side to side in agitation. R’ell cooed to her quietly.
Suddenly, the ilf stood. “Urak near your home, men as well,” he said to Darion.
Darion’s heart beat faster. “How many?” he asked.
“Bezal does not convey numbers well; my sense is there is a small party of each,” R'ell replied.
“Do they war on each other?” M’rika asked.
R’ell turned back to Bezal who hopped up his arm to his shoulder. After a brief moment he answered, “No, the urak hunt the men. She says there will be food come daylight.”
“I must go. They’ll need help, warning.” Darion cinched his cloak a little tighter.
“That is foolish,” R’ell said. “We can slip south past them. Fighting urak is not our mission.”
Darion glared at R’ell, “I’m going. You two stay if you must. I’ll meet you back here or join you on the road south. You decide.”
“We don't know their number. Why go? If you're killed how does that help your wife and child? How will that help M’rika find your keeper?” R’ell snapped.
“You felt honour bound to protect your lands R’ell and you M’rika,” Darion replied. “I feel the same about helping these men. I’ll not debate it. I’m decided and time presses.”
Darion didn’t wait for a response. His mind was set. Stowing his pack he set off towards his homestead. As he cleared the little wood it was near pitch black. The rain sluiced off him as he broke into a jog. This was his land, he’d lived on it and worked it for twenty years and knew it well.
He tripped as the uneven ground rose, catching him out, before dropping away again. Grimacing he slowed his pace. It’d be easier if I could see more than a step in front of me he thought. Hearing the muted sounds of the brook running away on his right he instinctively followed it, knowing it led toward home.
M’rika was suddenly at his side, a dark shadow in the night. They said nothing and she glided ahead taking the lead. He sensed R’ell off to his left and grinned, three was always better than one when it came to a fight.
M’rika slowed to a halt before crouching down, so sudden Darion almost ran into the back of her. He couldn’t read her face in the darkness as she glanced across at him. Knelt beside her, Darion whispered an apology. His knee bumped up against something soft and unmoving, a body. On his own he wouldn’t have found it unless he’d tripped over it. He felt the body as M’rika leaned across.
“It's a man. Come,” she commanded, setting off again veering away from the brook but slowing her pace to a walk. Moving carefully they kept low to the ground despite the darkness hiding them and the wind and rain masking any sound they made.
Ahead Darion saw a faint light. At first a bleary glow in the black and rain and then as they moved gradually closer the scene resolved into windows and a doorway, backlight from inside. He was home.
Chapter 40
: A Tight Spot
Kronke sent Varsh to relieve Parstun. After fifteen minutes, with no sign of either, he woke the Captain.
Anders had a sick, sinking feeling as Kronke told him and a sense of disbelief as it dawned on him they’d been corralled here. What a fool, he cursed himself.
“Sir?” Kronke said, looking at the worried face of his Captain.
“If the urak are here we’re in trouble. Stay or run?” Anders asked.
“If we can get to the horses run. If we stay we die,” Kronke said. It was a bleak assessment. “At least their bows are useless to them in this weather.”
Anders took his meaning but it was small comfort. “Wake them. We’ll go for the horses. One of us has to get back to Lord Bouchemeax,” Anders declared. A black mood filled him, he’d failed in his duty. Thoughts turned to his wife and child in Thorsten, but he could not linger there, it tore at him, clouding his mind. He had a job to do and people here and now depended on him. If they were to have any chance he needed a clear head.
They roused everyone, though most were already awake listening. Anders gathered them together knowing time was critical. “Parstun has not returned from his relief. We suspect the worst.”
&nb
sp; He was met with silence.
“We’ll break for the horses. If we get free head east a league, then break for Thorsten. If luck holds we’ll skirt any cordon. At least one of us must get back and report to Lord Richard.”
He watched them as his words sunk in. Saw a hardy resolve in most but then little choice remained except fight or flight. “Let’s go, and may the trinity smile upon us,” Anders intoned.
Morpete was closest to the door and first to move. Sword in hand he reached out lifting the door’s latch. He was the youngest in the company and full of adrenaline and fear. It was enough to save him. As the door swung wide a large sword lunged through it. Morpete turned, the blade slicing against his hardened leather cuirass and missing his body by a hair. As he spun to the side an arrow flew past his shoulder and through the doorway. There was a thud and a grunt as it found its mark, burying itself into a hulking shape in the darkness.
“Take that mother fucker!” Jess Crawley screeched, her voice high with fear. Tears rolled down her cheeks but her hand was steady as it reached for another arrow.
There was a sudden mad scramble to draw swords and spread out. Kronke shouted, “Stoker, take the first bedroom, Marsh and Butters the second.”
Morpete wrenched the door shut but before he could latch it, it was suddenly and violently thrown backwards as the wood splintered and the door crashed from its frame. Sprawling to the ground his sword skittered away. Scrambling madly for it Morpete looked up in terror at the bulky mass of leather and hair stood in the doorway. Clutching a large blade in its hand the urak charged. An arrow buried itself into its chest with a wet thunk. Staggering it stumbled into the room, before crashing to the floor.
“Ass wipe!” Jess screamed, spit flying from her mouth. She reached for another arrow.
There was a sudden rush as more of the hulking, squat urak crowded the doorway. The next pushed in, stepping around its fallen brethren. It grinned, flashing large blocky teeth then bellowed a war cry.
Torcash and Kronke moved to meet it. Torcash armed with sword and shield swung in low and hard, his fear lending him strength. The urak swatted his blow aside with ease but took the rim of the shield in its face. With a heavy thump it caught the brute just under the chin, blood spurting from its mouth at the impact. Grunting, it shrugged the blow off, then heaved back against the shield sending Torcash tumbling against a table.
The urak spat blood and a tooth, a large hand working its jaw. Kronke’s sword struck it in the head, carving into ear and skull. As he pulled the blade free the urak collapsed.
Another leapt through, thrusting at Kronke who deflected the blade with his sword. The shock of the blow rang up his arm numbing it and forcing him back. The urak swiftly stepped in giving Kronke no space or time.
Anders chose that moment to lunge from the side trying to punch his sword through its flank. It was quick though for all its size and bulk and bringing its blade round, managed to twist out of the way and push Anders thrust aside. An arrow buzzed past the urak's nose narrowly missing it and taking another in the neck.
“Cockfucker,” Jess yelled. The struck urak gurgled and choked, its hands clutching at the shaft. Grabbed from behind it was pulled from the entrance as another urak, eager to get through, barged past.
Kronke, still battling, was hardly able to turn to this new threat. He blocked another strike, barely, unable to feel his arm. Then Torcash was there, turning another blow with his shield.
The urak tussling Kronke was distracted and Torcash thrust his shield up at its head, only for it to grab the rim with one massive paw and pull. Torcash lurched from his feet, head snapping back as he was butted full in the face. Despite the fact he wore a helm the blow was enough to crush his nose.
Stunned, gasping in pain Torcash swallowed a mouthful of blood before grunting, as the urak swung its sword round and into his side severing his sword arm and biting deep into the chain link of his vest and leather armour. A spray of arterial blood erupted from his stump painting the urak in front of him. With a bestial shout the urak pulled its sword free, and nonchalantly pushed Torcash aside.
Kronke saw Torcash fall but could do nothing; he was fighting for his life against the other urak. He was forced back again, his sword near useless other than to deflect and block. Luckily, Anders guarded his flank and the captain was pretty handy with his blade. It flashed out cutting the urak across its arm and then back. It grunted at each cut and Kronke realised it was a female. Just as ugly he thought drawing his dirk in his left hand.
The fight had lasted bare moments but Anders found he was breathing hard. He watched as Kronke stepped into the urak he tussled against punching it in the belly then ripping his hand up before shoving the urak away. He saw the knife in Kronke’s fist as the urak fell, guts spilling.
Jess loosed another arrow and it thrummed in to the door frame missing its target. “Cuntrag,” she swore.
There was a cry from one of the rooms and in the brief respite Anders stepped back and away. Rushing to the nearest bedroom he glanced inside.
Stoker was stood, bow discarded and sword in hand. The window shutters were smashed open and three urak lay dead; two on the floor, both with arrows sticking out of them lying in a pool of spreading blood. The last was draped over the window frame.
Sliding down the wall Anders stole a look into the other bedroom. It was a similar scene. Several urak were down, sword and arrows doing the work but so was Marsh. It looked like he’d been cut almost in half. He hadn’t been wearing his chain mail and the hardened leather wasn’t enough to protect him from the ferocity of the blow that felled him.
Butters still lived but had taken a wound to her arm. Her bow lay on the floor where she’d dropped it and drawn her sword. She swung as a urak clambered through the shattered window. Her blade sliced into its leg drawing a howl. Glaring, the urak thrust. The blow caught Butters in the chest punching through her leather cuirass and out her back.
To Anders she looked like a doll on the end of a stick as he stepped into the room. He stabbed his sword into the urak’s throat as it tried to disengage its blade and it choked, blood dribbling from its mouth as it collapsed. Anders backed away to the door; they were down to four not enough to hold three rooms.
“Whoreface,” Jess Crawley swore.
Anders yelled. “Stoker fall back to the main room.”
Moving down the wall he glanced again into the bedroom. He sensed the blow at the last instant and moved his head. Not fast enough. The blade sliced his ear and the side of his face exploding in pain. Crying out Anders stumbled backward, bringing his sword up and around.
An immense urak with long knotted braids and bits of bone threaded through its forehead stepped through the door bowing to clear its mantle. It wore a topknot and twirled its big blade like it was a toy. It grinned, revealing blocky teeth stained black. It’s like a demon from hell, Anders thought, taking an involuntary step back.
He glanced about wincing at the pain in his head, trying to take stock. Things were dire. Kronke was locked in battle with a urak and backed up into Crawley who had an arrow on her bow ready for a shot. Forced into a corner, she was unable to get a clear angle to loose it.
We’re finished Anders thought. Topknot leered, moving towards him. Anders flicked his sword out high then dipped it down and in, hoping to catch the urak as it stepped in.
Laughing the urak slapped the strike aside, punching Anders in the face. The knuckle blade sliced through his cheek ripping it open.
Choking, Anders fell back and the urak brought its sword round. He tried to block the strike but the urak twisted his blow neatly slicing Anders arm off below the elbow. The arm, still clutching his sword, hit the floor and Anders dropped to his knees in shock. He looked at his stump bemused as blood pumped from it. Strange but he could still feel his arm there.
Topknot grinned and with a sneering laugh pulled its arm back for the killing blow. The urak staggered suddenly, taking a step towards him as a blade tip appeared
from out of its chest. Sinking slowly to its knees Topknot locked eyes briefly with Anders before toppling over onto his side dead.
Feeling lightheaded, Anders sat back against the wall for support, his strength leaving him. The pain now was constant, everywhere hurt but it didn’t seem important somehow. Anders jammed the stump of his arm against his leg to stem the bleeding.
“Fuck head,” Jess cried. Anders looked up, his head was growing heavy it was hard to do.
“Anders?” cried a voice. He knew it. A man stood in front of him. Why was he stood there? We’re in a fight you idiot, he wanted to say but his mouth wouldn’t work. Full of blood he choked, spraying it onto chin and chest. The hazy shape of the man knelt before him. Why can’t I see properly Anders wondered? He closed his eyes, just for a moment to clear them.
“It’s Darion!” the man said. It was the last thing Anders heard.
Chapter 41
: Bloody Reunion
A dead urak lay in the light of the door, an arrow sticking out of its chest and sounds of fighting emanated from within. Darion went to move, only to stop as M’rika placed a hand on his shoulder. He caught a glint of teeth as she leaned in to speak.
“There are urak outside. We will take the back, R’ell will cover the front.”
Darion nodded his understanding and followed behind as M’rika led them around the side of his home.
Three urak stood outside Nihm’s bedroom window. Its shutters lay smashed and discarded on the ground and the faded light from inside cast the urak in relief. The largest, with long braids and a topknot, disappeared through its portal. Darion gritted his teeth.