by Peter Kenson
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Josep said. “If you like, I can make some enquiries when we get there. What were their names?”
“They were Anders and Ruth Meissen but tread very carefully if you ask about them. High Falls is a very nervous place at the moment.”
“What about your guards? There were none to hire in Kell. You’re only three days out of the city now and on a safe road. Can you spare some of them? That is, if they’re willing to go back.”
“We can ask them,” Alfonso replied. “I’d like to keep one guard, just in case. But if the other three are willing, I can pay them off tonight. Now tell me, what’s all this about a Lyenar army?”
So over the evening meal Josep told the others what he knew of Lord Jeren and his ambition to retake Marmoros. Their eyes lit up as they discussed the city and what sort of state it would be in after so many years of occupation. But when Josep invited them to turn around and join him at High Falls, they shook their heads sadly.
“Much of our load is already spoken for in Kell. In fact, without the Meissen’s share, we may struggle to fulfil all the contracts. But when we are done there, we will certainly turn round and come back. The possibility of seeing Marmoros is too enticing to miss.”
They parted company amicably the next morning and Josep signed the three new guards under contract. The leader of the guards was Carl, a great bear of a man with a broadsword at his waist and a battle axe strapped between his shoulder blades. He was in good humour, riding alongside Seb as they set off down the road.
“First job?” he asked.
“I’ve been travelling with Josep for a while,” Seb replied. “But this is my first time as a proper guard.”
“I see you’re carrying a bow and a sword. Which of those is your weapon?”
“Oh the sword is my weapon. The bow is more for show but I might get lucky and hit someone before they get too close.”
Carl gave a great guffaw at that. “So you’re a swordsman, are you? Will you let me take a look at your blade?”
Seb looked at him, a little unsure of what to do but finally drew the sword and passed it over. Carl examined it for a minute before silently handing it back. They rode on side by side for a while until Carl broke the silence.
“That’s a fine blade, young swordsman. Care to tell me where you got it?”
“You know where I got it,” Seb replied. “You recognised the mark.”
Carl acknowledged that with a nod. “Sergio Ramirez. He doesn’t make swords for just anybody. How did you come by it?”
“My uncle, Symon Waterson, commissioned it for me. But he died before he could collect it.”
“Symon’s dead? I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.”
“You knew my uncle?” Seb asked.
“We travelled a road or two together. Shared a few jars and some good stories. So that’ll be why you’re a swordsman then. Have you used that blade in anger?”
“Why? What’s it to you?” Seb felt a flush of irritation start on his neck.
“Why? Because where we’re going, we’re likely to have to fight. And in a fight, I like to know who’s covering my back.”
Seb paused for a moment before replying. “Sorry, I should have thought. I’ve had to draw my sword twice. Second time I killed two men.”
Carl’s ears pricked up at that. “How did that come about?”
“Well the first one was kind of an accident but the second one was intentional.”
There was another great guffaw from Carl at that. “I reckon you’ll do, young Waterson,” he nodded to himself. “I reckon you’ll do.”
***
The caravanserai at the end of the highroad was a large rectangular compound about eight hundred paces on each side. It was protected by a low mound with a wooden palisade and had only the one set of gates for entry. As a defensive structure, it was more to keep wild animals out than to protect against a determined attack. However, the garrison next door was housed in a small stone-built fort with crenelated battlements and provided more than adequate protection for the whole site. Inside the caravanserai was a modest inn which doubled as the rest and recreation facility for the garrison and a surprisingly large and well equipped livery stable with a corral full of carthorses.
Josep explained that the livery was there to enable caravans to hire extra horses for a day so that caravans could double team the wagons for the climb up to High Falls. At the top, the horses were simply released and found their own way back down to the livery under the eyes of a couple of stablehands.
Their small group was the only caravan in the compound that night but the inn was still busy with several groups of off-duty soldiers. Beth and Rachel drew a few admiring comments which both girls ignored as they settled in a corner at the far end of the room. The soldiers must have just been paid because the house girls were doing a brisk trade up and down the stairs all evening and Beth and Rachel were soon forgotten. Nevertheless, when they had finished their meal, they decided against taking rooms for the night and slept with the wagons instead.
The next morning Josep negotiated the extra horses and they harnessed them to the wagons. The road began to climb as soon as they were outside the gates and it continued all day; it was only the degree of slope that varied. The town of High Falls came into view around mid-morning; away in the distance, perched on a granite crag overlooking the entire length of the valley. To one side of the town, the Savage River cascaded over the cliffs, eating into the softer limestone rock and threatening to isolate the crag from the surrounding land.
“When do you think they’ll attack,” Seb asked Carl as they looked up at the town.
“Won’t be today. Not while we’ve got the livery horses hitched up. They won’t want to upset the livery down below. Cost them too much business. Besides they’ll want to see what we’re carrying first. They’ll examine the goods, charge their tolls and then decide if it’s worth trying to take a bit extra. They don’t always do it. If the caravan isn’t carrying anything special or if it’s got too many guards, then they just take the tolls and wait for the next one.”
“How many’s too many guards?”
“More than we got, boy. But they’ll recognise me. I lost two men when they attacked us on the way down but they lost five times that many. That might make them think. ‘Course it depends on what Master Josep is carrying in these wagons.”
“You mean you don’t know what we’re carrying?”
“None of my business. Nor yours neither, unless you own a share of the load, that is.”
“Might do,” Seb admitted. “But not a big share mind.”
Carl was silent again for a few minutes as they dismounted to walk the horses up a particularly steep section. When they remounted he continued the conversation.
“Did that myself once. Wagon master was convinced I’d fight better if I had a personal interest in the load. So I used the money I’d just been paid from my last trip and bought myself a share.”
“What happened?” Seb prompted as the tale dried up.
“Worst decision I ever made. I was so concerned about protecting my load, I took one risk too many and got myself cut up pretty bad. Lost the wagon, lost my job, nearly lost my life. Never made a single groat out of that trip.”
“So what do you do with your money now? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Been in this business quite a few years. I’m on first name terms with most of the wagon masters. If they invite me to buy a share of a load, then I do. But never in a caravan that I’m guarding.”
They finished the climb together in companionable silence as Seb considered the potential truth of Carl’s words. When they crested the last rise, they could see an open stretch of grassland, about half a league across, leading down to the town and another deserted caravanserai outside the town gates. Even at that distance they could see that the gates had already been closed against them.
They unhitched th
e livery horses and sent them back down the trail with a smack on the rump before making their way down the slope and into the caravanserai. They drew up outside the gates and Josep hailed the guards visible on top of the wall. There was no answer for several minutes and Josep was about to hail them again when the postern gate opened and a short, portly man waddled out surrounded by a dozen heavily armed guards.
The tax collector had an impressive gold chain of office around his neck but was dressed in a worn and faded velvet suit. The guardsmen were kitted out in a mismatch of leather jerkins and breeches supplemented with odd pieces of armour here and there and no attempt at uniformity.
Josep climbed down from the wagon and waited for the small man to arrive.
“Name?” he barked.
“Josep Benyahim.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Aryx,” Josep lied.
“Late in the season to be heading to Aryx. What are you carrying?”
“Mostly bales of materials; silks, satins and richly dyed cotton. Also some metal tools and utensils and a couple of boxes of exotica.”
“Weapons?”
“No, sir. We don’t carry weapons except to defend ourselves against bandits.”
“Hm, pity.” He turned to one of the guards accompanying him. “Search the wagons. See if he’s telling the truth.”
Josep had already warned the others that this would be likely to happen and stood aside as men pushed past him to clamber into the back of each wagon.
“Whose wagon is this?” the man in the back of Rachel’s wagon demanded.
Rachel turned and climbed into the wagon from the driver’s seat. “It’s mine.”
“No, I mean which of them owns this lot?”
“The wagon and the goods are mine,” Rachel repeated, trying to keep her voice even.
“In that case, where’ve you hidden all the good stuff? Not this junk.”
“This is my trading stock,” she replied. “There is nothing hidden here.”
“Oh I don’t know. I bet I know where there’s some good stuff hidden,” the man said with a lecherous grin, as he made a grab for Rachel and thrust a hand up inside her skirt.
“Let go of me,” she shouted, stamping down hard on the man’s instep.
With a howl of pain, he let go of her and staggered back holding the damaged foot in both hands. Rachel picked one of the heaviest pans from the rack alongside her and, using all her strength, delivered a beautiful uppercut straight into the man’s face. The howl abruptly cut off as the man flew out of the wagon and landed flat on his back with blood pouring from his shattered nose and cheekbone.
“You bitch,” he snarled as he tried to get up. “You’ll pay for that….” and stopped as the point of Seb’s sword pressed against his Adam’s apple.
“Be very careful what you say or do next,” Seb hissed.
“Don’t you threaten me, boy,” he said, holding one hand against his cheek to try to staunch the flow.
“Put the sword away, Seb,” Carl said, reaching down with one meaty hand to grab the man’s jerkin and haul him to his feet. “Can’t you see it’s scaring him?”
“Now you listen to me,” he said turning his attention to the guard held firmly in his grip. “He was not threatening you. He was giving you advice. I, on the other hand, am threatening you. If I ever see you within twenty paces of these wagons again, I won’t flatten your face, I’ll cut it off.”
“What’s going on here?” the taxman demanded as he and Josep arrived at a run.
“This man assaulted Rachel,” Carl replied.
“Is this true, Rachel?” Josep asked.
“He grabbed me and put his hand up my skirt. So I hit him.”
“He was only being friendly,” the official said. “But attacking one of my guards is a serious offence. Compensation will be required for this.”
“Absolutely,” Josep agreed. “Now what price should we put on a maiden’s honour? Five gold pieces? Ten gold pieces? We can deduct it from the tolls.”
“No, no,” the man spluttered. “One of my men has been injured. He should be compensated.”
“Looking at my friends here, one of your men is lucky to still be alive. I wouldn’t press this particular point, if I were you.”
He looked from Josep to where Carl still holding the unfortunate guard by the jerkin. “Get him out of here,” he fumed.
As Josep and the tax collector turned away to resume their negotiations, Carl whispered to Seb.
“You asked when the attack would come. It’ll be tomorrow. It doesn’t matter what we’re carrying now. They have lost too much face.”
Once they had handed over the extortionate amount of toll demanded, they moved the wagons down to the far end of the caravanserai and set up camp as normal. Josep had asked about the Meissens and got a flat denial of any knowledge. He was fairly certain the official was lying but there was nothing to be done.
An hour before dusk a large patrol of twenty men left the town and both Carl and Seb noted that the guard with the injured face was riding with them. He glared at the camp as he rode past but Rachel was busy inside one of the wagons and did not see him. Half a league from the caravanserai, the road forked with one trail leading towards Aryx and the other fording the River Savage in the direction of Yarford. The patrol turned towards Aryx and disappeared from view.
“That’s tomorrow’s ambush riding out,” Carl remarked. “Thanks to Josep they’re heading in the wrong direction. By the time they work out that we’re not actually going to Aryx, we’ll have quite a head start towards this army of yours. Then they’ll have to come all the way back before they can start to chase us. The question is whether we can get to the army before that lot catch up with us.”
As soon as it got dark, Carl and Josep had them greasing the axles of the wagons and binding cloths around the horses’ hooves to muffle the sound. The outer gates of the caravanserai were unguarded and so, an hour after full dark, they broke camp and left as quietly as they could, leading the horses all the way to the edge of the ford. The river was over a hundred paces across at this point and everybody moved slowly to minimise the sound of splashing. It seemed to take an age to reach the far side but no alarm was raised behind them. Once they were safely across, they removed the cloths from the hooves and set off at the best pace they thought the horses could maintain over what was likely to be a long morning.
***
Ash had calculated that they should reach the Savage River by nightfall, so Jeren and Baltur had pleaded to ride up front with the scouts to try to catch the first glimpse of High Falls. David had insisted that they had to capture the town and neutralise the garrison before they could move on to challenge Marmoros. The council had argued the point for hours but eventually had to concede the danger of leaving a hostile force behind them that could potentially threaten the women and children.
It was Ash who first caught sight of the dust cloud in the distance and immediately sent a rider back to warn the main column. He attempted to persuade Jeren to go back as well but was met with a fierce refusal. They tried to make out the details of the oncoming riders but the distance was too great. Cautiously they spurred on a way to close the gap and it was the keen eyes of Jerome that separated the dust cloud into two distinct groups.
“There’s wagons in the first group with a few outriders and the second group is much larger and all horsemen. They appear to be chasing the wagons and closing quite fast.”
“Can you make out if the wagons are Lyenar?” Jeren asked.
“Not at this distance. They’re throwing up too must dust.”
“If they’re being attacked, I doubt Lord Held would want us to sit on our arses and watch, whether they’re Lyenar or not,” Ash growled. “Let’s move in closer but don’t get involved unless I say so.”
The gap was closing rapidly now and the pursuing force was less than a hundred paces behind the rearmost wagon when the four
outriders wheeled their horses to face the onrushing horsemen.
“They’re brave,” Ash said. “Suicidal but brave. Okay, let’s go help out.”
The bulk of the pursuers hit the defensive screen and circled around to attack the outriders from all sides. In the midst of the melee, Ash could see a giant of a man, clearing the space around him with a battle axe and several of the attackers were already down as the scouts let out a yell and charged in. The attackers looked round in surprise and some of them turned to face this new threat but three took advantage of the distraction to break free on the far side of the melee and continue their pursuit of the wagons.
Jeren slashed through the defence of the man he was facing and was turning to follow the three even as the body crashed to the ground behind him. The riders were now drawing alongside the rearmost wagon. One of the riders caught hold of the rear strut and swung himself aboard whilst another raced alongside the carthorse and grabbed the reins, dragging it to a halt. Jeren changed direction as the wagon driver jumped down and tried to run, but the third rider reached down, caught her by the belt and threw her across the saddlebow of his horse.
The one who had grabbed the reins of the wagon, tried to intercept Jeren as he raced past only to be cut from the saddle by a sweeping blow. The other rider put the spurs to his horse but, under a double load, he was never going to outrun Jeren. He caught the man with a slash across the back and both the rider and the wagon mistress fell to the ground with varying cries of pain. Jeren pulled his horse to a halt, rearing up on its hind legs as he wheeled round to face them.
The man was already on his feet with his sword in hand but obviously in some pain from the slash across his back. He was an ugly looking brute, Jeren thought, with a badly damaged face. To Jeren’s great surprise he turned his back on him and raised his sword to strike the woman who was cowering on the ground in front of him. Without a moments further thought, Jeren spurred his horse and swept his sword across in a blow that took the man’s head cleanly from his shoulders.
He leapt down and ran across to where the woman was lying, staring in horror at her attacker’s head which was resting against her foot. Gently he put an arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her head, brushing away an errant strand of hair that had fallen across her face. He felt her body shudder as she kicked the head away.