Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)

by A. D. Green

  “Whoreface!” came from inside, the voice high pitched and shrill.

  The urak outside laughed and jostled for the window. M’rika struck as the first was half through the window’s frame. Stealing silently up behind, she thrust her blade into the back of one before whipping it out, spinning and slicing into the neck of the other. Darion had barely taken a step and it was over.

  The first urak staggered, slipping to its knees with a grunt before sinking to the mud gurgling. The other sat, slumped in the window’s frame as if fallen asleep, excepting for the blood pulsing from its wound. M’rika grabbed a fistful of coarse black hair and pulled. Its head flopped loosely in her hand but enough was attached still to the body to haul it out and onto the rain sodden ground.

  Darion turned suddenly blade raised sensing movement to his left. Was that a shape? Squinting into the darkness he found only wind and rain. Tension thrummed through his body and he forced himself to breath. Blinking the water from his eyes he moved, climbing through the window ahead of M’rika. He heard a curse of archaic from behind and allowed himself a grin.

  Inside Darion found three dead urak and a man. The side of the man’s head was crushed and bloody. Easing over to the door he glanced out and saw the dark plaits and topknot of the large urak, its back to him. A big man with a blood smeared face wrestled in one corner with an even bigger urak. Behind the man was a slender woman with a bow. She was dancing about looking to get a shot off but was blocked by the man’s body as he tussled.

  Darion turned as M’rika came up beside him. He nodded to her once then stepped through into the room. It had been mere moments and topknot’s back was still to him. He heard it chuckle as it raised a big cleaver sword. Darion thrust putting the weight of his body through his arm and punched his sword through its back. The urak grunted in pain, took a staggering step then sank to its knees. It sat like that until Darion pulled his blade free then toppled over onto its side.

  The urak’s adversary was sat, back against the wall. Pale, eyes glassy he looked in a bad way. The side of his head was matted dark red with blood and his sword arm was severed, blood pulsing from the stump.

  “Fuck head!” the woman cried, her voice hysterical. But Darion had no time for her. He knew this man.

  “Anders?” He knelt by his old friend, “It’s Darion!”

  Anders looked up, eyes unfocused. He pressed his stump into his thigh but it did no good, blood soaked his legs and pooled under his body. His eyes closed and like that he was gone.

  Darion stood shocked. M’rika had moved to guard his back and he berated himself; it was foolish to have turned away like that. He saw the urak fighting the big man was down, an arrow in its gut and a smashed face from a sword pummel or head butt by the looks.

  There were two more urak by the entrance though and M’rika moved towards them spinning her sword in a lazy circle, eyes hard. The urak closest growled, accepting her challenge and stepped to meet her.

  The other urak collapsed suddenly to the floor revealing R’ell, stood in the doorway, black bladed daggers in hand. He stepped over the dying urak and away from the entrance. The remaining urak turned briefly at the noise and died, M’rika’s sword striking out and biting into its neck.

  Darion felt something again. Some sense or instinct made him turn raising his blade. Just in time; an urak had stolen unnoticed from his bedroom, silent despite its size and swung for him. There was no finesse to the strike just raw power. Darion’s sword did just enough to deflect the heavy blade but with a loud crack snapped in the doing.

  Grunting the urak raised its sword for the killing blow. A blurred mass of fur streaked from Nihm’s bedroom and leapt, driving the urak to the ground. Jaws fastened around the neck and with a crunch bit, crushing bone and cartilage in a spray of blood. The wolf shook its head side to side a few times until the body was limp and lifeless.

  R’ell stepped past M’rika raising his sword. “Back K’raal,” he said.

  The woman in the corner had an arrow on her bow, tension on the string, ready to draw and release. The big man hefting his sword moved round, blocking her shot. She hissed, but he ignored her, eyes glancing to his Captain briefly before returning to regard the wolf.

  M’rika placed a hand on R’ell's shoulder.

  “Hold,” she commanded.

  Darion knelt surrounded by death, his eyes damp as the old dog bounded to his side. She looked thinner than she should. Her flank a matted mess where she’d fought the mastiff by the river. Grabbing her ruff Darion hugged her fiercely. She licked him, tail wagging, whining as if to ask, what kept you so long.

  Darion looked up and met M’rika’s eyes. She smiled at him.

  “Look,” he said, “its Bindu.”

  Darion felt a mix of emotion. In his mind he’d put Bindu into one of his seven fold boxes. Having accepted she was gone it would allow him to grieve later; not wanting her loss to cloud his mind and affect his judgement. Having Bindu return then was a joy and he felt elation at seeing her again.

  Darion looked at Anders. His old friend sat dead, propped against the far wall. He’d not seen Anders in several years but that meant nothing, it didn’t lessen the pain. He didn’t have that many friends to speak of, his loss was hard felt.

  His friend sat in a pool of blood. It was said by some that there was peace in death but looking at Anders he saw no peace, the violence done gave lie to that. There are no gods, just life and death Darion thought, saddened.

  He gave a eulogy then, not intended, it just happened. “Anders Forstandt, you were a good friend. More than that, you were a good man. You will be missed. I can’t say better. Sleep easy old friend.”

  Bending, Darion picked up Anders' fallen sword prying it free from his amputated hand. Then, kneeling in his blood removed the sword's belt and sheath from about his friend's body.

  Standing, Darion looked across at the big sergeant. “My sword is broken. I’ll take my friends unless you claim it? You were his man.”

  “Darion huh,” Kronke grunted, “Captain mentioned you, was hoping to find you. Looks like he did,” Kronke hoicked and spat a wad of phlegm on to a dead urak, his mouth dry and sour from the fight. “Take it. But I’ll have your oath. When chance permits you return the blade to his wife. For his son,” Kronke explained.

  “You have it,” Darion replied.

  “And you my thanks. You saved our arses. The name's Kronke, that foul mouth over there is Jess,” Kronke said. He eyed M’rika, unsure that he was seeing right. He pulled absently on his long moustache ends with one hand. His hand came away red. “Lady,” he acknowledged finally, nodding his head to M’rika.

  “Sorry we didn’t get here sooner,” Darion replied, his thoughts still with his dead friend. The big sergeant had nicks and cuts on his face and hands but seemed solid, unperturbed, if not for his eyes. His eyes looked tired and haunted.

  “Darion we need to move,” M’rika said ignoring the sergeant. “There is danger here still.”

  There was a groan near the door. Spinning Jess drew and released. One of the dead urak moved and the arrow thudded with a solid smack into its back. It didn’t flinch or move at the impact.

  “Hold,” R’ell said stepping over and laying a calming hand on Jess’s forearm.

  She flinched at the touch, her eyes wild. “What the fuck are you?”

  R’ell canted his head to the side regarding the woman as he slowly removed his hand. “I am R’ell, ilfanum and umphathi of the Rohelinewaald, ward of Da’Mari.”

  Jess looked confused. Kronke walked over. “Calm lass. These are friends, ilf from the great forest.”

  R’ell snorted and turned to the twice dead urak. A groan emanated from beneath it and a hand snaked out looking for purchase on the floorboards. Kneeling and with a grunt of effort R’ell rolled the dead urak over revealing a man beneath, young not long into his manhood R’ell judged.

  The man cried in pain as the weight rolled off him and he was freed. His face was bruised under h
is helm and his eyes crazed with fear. He was covered in blood but none of it his own R’ell saw.

  The man startled at the alien figure knelt beside him. “White lady save me,” he sobbed. Then in relief, saw the big frame of the sergeant appear over him.

  “It's okay lad,” Kronke said. “You’re alive and breathing still.” Gripping the boy's forearm he pulled him to his feet. The lad hugged him like he was his mother and Kronke patted the boy briefly before prying him off.

  “Pull yourself together Morpete.”

  “Yes sarge,” Morpete muttered, eyes downcast, shoulders shaking as Kronke stood him away.

  “Come on lad, you’re a soldier,” Kronke rumbled. “You did good. Now stop arsing about and find your damn sword.”

  “Yes sarge.” Morpete dropped to the floor and found his blade lying under another body. With a grunt of effort he tugged on it sliding it free.

  Darion, looking on saw the lad was pale and had the shakes. He’d seen it before, had them once or twice himself. It was the come down after battle and a brush with death.

  “Arsewipe,” Jess said striding up to Morpete, a fractured grin on her face and a tremor in her voice.

  “Almost stuck an arrow in you for layin’ about,” the archer said, punching his arm. He smiled back weakly before Jess clenched him in a one armed hug, not willing to put her bow down.

  R’ell watched them impassive. “We need to go,” he said, repeating M’rika’s earlier assertion. He knew Bezal circled outside, guarding against sign of urak, but it was sense that the longer they lingered the more chance of danger there would be.

  Kronke nodded agreement and issued orders. “Jess, Morpete go check we still have horses. If we do saddle them.”

  “Aye sarge,” they said eyeing each other. Neither was keen to step out into the still raging storm. Maybe it hid more of the monsters.

  Silently, R’ell eased through the door, his cloak melding and blending with the night so that he appeared to vanish into its inky depths. “Come,” he called back. Jess was the first to go followed by the white faced Morpete.

  They were soon back and arguing by the sound of it. Darion watched a vexed looking R’ell slip back through the door followed by Jess, Morpete and another man.

  “Look who I found sarge. Zon,” Jess said, supplying the answer. She shoved him angrily. “Fucking worm left us hanging by our tits whilst he hid away,” she spat.

  “Told ya, I woz sleepin in the back with the horses. Didnae hear nought but the storm I tell ya. You’re a vile hag Jess, accusing a man like that,” Pieterzon argued back.

  Darion took an instant dislike to him. A villainous looking man and not just because of his one eye. There was slyness in him, a calculating look that hinted at a nefarious past. He seemed more cutthroat than guardsman.

  Darion trusted him no more than Jess but despite this he wouldn’t leave him behind, though his instincts screamed at him to do just that. Knew, even in the five minutes he’d known Kronke that he wouldn’t have it. So the worm, as Jess called him, had joined their growing company. They were seven now, eight counting Bindu.

  Kronke turned to Darion. “I need to take care of my dead.”

  “Darion, we must go,” M’rika insisted again.

  “Hold a moment,” Darion replied, buckling Anders' sword sheath across his back in place of his own, whilst he pondered the problem. He wasn’t sure yet what to make of the big sergeant. He was competent, but surly. Then again he’d just lost most of his command, who wouldn't be? Still, there was no time to bury the dead or make a pyre to burn them on. Who knew where the urak were or how many would come next time. He certainly didn’t want to wait and find out.

  “We’ll torch my homestead. Let that be their funeral pyre.” Darion said to Kronke, resolved.

  “Madness,” R’ell exclaimed angrily. “You would announce to all where we are.”

  “They’ll know already soon enough,” Darion retorted. “If I were them I’d have sent word back and we must assume they’ve done so. Besides,” he argued, “if it draws them here when we are not, so much the better.”

  Then to Kronke and his three companions, “Sergeant, it’s up to you if you want to join us but I’m leaving now.”

  “Do you head to Thorsten?” Kronke asked.

  “To start with,” Darion replied. “We pass that way but I don’t expect to linger. My duties lie elsewhere.”

  “We should go our own way. Let them go there’s,” R’ell objected. “They will slow us down. Make too much noise. Leave too much trail to follow.”

  “R’ell is correct,” M’rika agreed.

  “I’ll not abandon them. They can join us as far as Thorsten if they have need of us. Me,” Darion clarified.

  “Aye, we’ll come if it’s not too much trouble,” Kronke said, glancing at the two ilf. Neither looked happy. He didn’t know what their connection to Darion was but they seemed to heed the woodsman and damned if he wasn’t going to take their help. He’d seen them fight. Whatever it took to get them all back to Thorsten, he’d take it.

  Matters settled, they prepared to depart; they had horses to saddle and a fire to set. Darion took the time to examine Bindu prying and prodding her injury. Bindu rumbled at his touch, the wound looking sore and a little inflamed. The river had cleansed the wound and Bindu had licked the flap of skin back into position but it was slow healing.

  M’rika joined him, assessing the wound for herself. “It will heal of its own accord in time,” she said, stroking Bindu between the ears. “But she is in pain and her injury may slow us.”

  Darion mistaking her meaning was about to protest when M’rika clapped her hands, rubbing them together. Bowing her head, eyes closed as if in prayer, she leant back on her heels. After a short while she looked up. Locking eyes with Bindu she placed her hands over the dogs wound. A faint green glow emanated from beneath them, pulsating gently. When the ilf pulled her hands away, the wound looked better, the skin and fur still rough where it bonded but no longer so angry or red.

  “I am no healer. It will have to do,” she'd said simply. Bindu licked her hand once before sniffing at the wound.

  The homestead burned. Kronke and Morpete had dragged hay bales in from the barn and doused them with lamp oil. They’d lit the bales and with a whoosh the flames took hold, gradually growing to engulf the homestead. The driving rain had little enough affect as the roof thatch burnt from the inside.

  They had four spare horses and Darion loosely tied them together in a string. With a shout and a slap on the rump he set them off hoping they’d head home, back to Thorsten leaving a false trail. It was a long shot but Darion sensed approval from M’rika and found it strangely rewarding.

  “Time to go,” Darion said, unhitching his horse. The mare had belonged to Anders the big sergeant told him when Darion had chosen it.

  “Marigold,” Kronke chuckled, “What kind of name is that for a horse?”

  They left the burning homestead behind, tracking back down the brook. Its cold waters washed up against their horses' hocks as it rushed by, swollen by the storm water. They each of them huddled in their cloaks against the wind and rain, lost in their thoughts.

  After a league or so they left the brook, R’ell leading the way as they trekked to the little wood. They stayed long enough for Darion and the ilf to gather the packs they’d left behind before turning south.

  Darion stared back to the east and the smudge of fire light that tainted the horizon. The storm was easing, the rain turning to a drizzle. The night sky too was lighter. Dawn was not far away.

  R’ell took point, speaking softly to his horse to settle her nerves. It was still dark but the horses had no trouble following R’ell’s lead whilst Bindu bounded into the long grass tracking on their flank.

  Darion had seen no sign of Bezal but assumed R’ell had sent the bird scouting ahead. Damn useful that bird, he muttered, not for the first time.

  Chapter 42

  : Leaving The Broken Axe


  Nihm seemed better. She was not sweating and the colour to her cheeks had returned. The wound in her shoulder had healed leaving the skin smooth and unmarked, something that both amazed and disturbed Marron. She’d had plenty of time to think and sleep had helped clear her mind. She’d considered what she had done to Nihm, what the box contained, but had no real answers and in truth it scared her to dwell on it. It had been an act of desperation and although she wasn't entirely sure it had saved Nihm’s life, it had at least bought her time.

  Marron fed Nihm water, propping her up with her arm. She took water easily now and had even managed some cold soup although she was otherwise unresponsive.

  The decision to leave Thorsten was the right one. Her duty demanded it. Marron knew as well if Redford was lost then Thorsten could be next. The safest path was away from trouble which meant south towards Rivercross as planned. Trouble was plans never worked out the way you expected. With Nihm laying there dead to the world the best path to recovery was bed rest, not getting hauled over the countryside in a wagon.

  The decision’s made, Marron chided herself, get on with it. Ever practical, she turned her mind to the journey ahead. They didn’t have much to pack and it didn’t take her long.

  There was a knock at the door. This time it was Lucky’s great shaggy head that popped around the door frame.

  “Landlord and his bit asking ta see you my Lady,” he said. “Ouch!”

  “Bit indeed you hairy goat,” Viv’s voice sounded. “No trouble knowing my name when it’s ale you're after.”

  “Come in both of you.” Marron smiled, as Lucky stepped aside to let them past. “Thanks Lucky, I’ll call if I need you.”

  “Call me she says. What am I a handmaiden now?” he muttered, pulling the door closed behind him.

  The Stenhauses looked agitated. Marron sensed a friction between them.

  “You looked troubled. How can I help?” Marron asked.

  They glanced at each other but it was Viv who spoke. “I told Vic what you told me.” She paused. “Thing is I believe what you said,” she stuttered to a stop.